The Weight of Salt
The sea is not far. It is in the skin. It is in the way the morning air tastes of cold water and iron. We gather what the tide leaves behind, believing we are the masters of the harvest. We slice. We season. We arrange the bounty on the wooden…
Hill Top Farm by John TudorThe Ghost of a Hearth
It is 3:15 am, and the house is settling. The wood groans under the weight of the night, a sound like old bones shifting in sleep. I am thinking about the things we leave behind when we decide we can no longer survive in a place. We pack the…
Blue Screen by Hairolnizam SamionThe Ghost Behind the Veil
It is 3:14 am. The silence in this room is heavy, the kind that presses against your eardrums until you start hearing the hum of your own blood. I am thinking about the things we hide behind. We build walls of fabric, of routine, of polite…