Stories

Every winter, right after the sun sets, the pitha seller of Qismat Square arrives at her spot. Nobody knows her name or age. She is “khala” or “nani” to those who like her, and “hag” or “old bat” t…

“They’re ready for you, Captain,” says the voice interface of the Orbiting Transfer Station. The glass in front of me is opaque, and I can’t see into the holding room. My heart sprouts wings and be…

Otherwise, this whole being a bird thing? Not bad. Not bad at all.