Matthew Lindquist

The two of them fell into a rhythmic pace, the reach of each foot hovering over the next tread, a sort of collapsing of the bones, a resignation to gravity,

He thought how after a day when everything was at odds—full of obstacles and irritations—dusk in India felt always settled, ancient, a civilization that had come to fullness.

all she could do was tell stories, the same thing she had done all of her life. Different stories now, though: good ones. And they were more powerful than any lie she ever told her sister. She felt like she was finally becoming human, because out of all the life on Earth this is the one thing only people do. What other animal tells stories? Or

“The old gods are everywhere,” she says. “They swim in the river, and grow in the field, and sing in the woods. They are in the sunlight on the wheat, and under the saplings in spring, and in the vines that grow up the side of that stone church. They gather at the edges of the day, at dawn, and at dusk.”

The light of the rocket reflected off her bright eyes as if the fire of her soul were coming out to push the rocket into the sky.

She’d once been proud of being fearless. She missed it sharply. Fearlessness had been so simple. It had been so easy.