I don’t go to church, but I do go to the covered stalls of the farmers’ market on Saturday mornings—wildflower honey, olive oil, butter lettuce, collard greens, arugula, Swiss chard, beets, snap peas, artichokes, fava beans, haricots verts, strawberries, peaches, oranges, orchids, ranunculus, butternut squash, avocados, heirloom tomatoes, lemons, lavender, basil, thyme—a place in which I can believe. I buy eggs from Varden, a farmer from Nipomo who wears overalls and shows me pictures of hens—my girls, he calls them—and they are not in cages. He talks about his girlfriend, lends me books about soil, makes compost tea, and asks, every week, What’s for show and tell?
I could see some of the stage men lying dead outside, and the outlaws were pretty much in charge, but they were nervous and sweating, probably because they had lost two of their guys and weren’t sure how.
I glanced over and saw Casey, just the edge of her, taking aim but not shooting, ready to do her job and maybe waiting for me to do mine.
And it was my job to do the talking. Maybe that wasn’t what she had in mind, but we were supposed to be the good guys.
The Leopard of Little Breezes yawned up and further off from the rooftops of Omaha, Nebraska, to which September did not even wave good-bye. One ought not to judge her. All children are heartless. They have not grown a heart yet, which is why they can climb tall trees and say shocking things and leap so very high that grown-up hearts flutter to terror. Hearts weigh quite a lot. That is why it takes so long to grow one.
(Tuesday Teaser from pg. 4 of The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making by Catherynne M. Valente – ARC)
Mysterious lights out of Rostov Texas draw hundreds of spectators each night, including police officer Dan Page’s wife, Tori. When Page follows her to Rostov and the viewing platform, they become witnesses to a massacre. A gunman shoots dozens of bystanders, but that’s just the beginning of the bloodshed. The …