The Wish Collector

by Mia Sheridan

If she were living a story, the New Orleans summer heat would be a character all its own.

Is there anything lonelier than the distant sound of a singular instrument floating on the wind?

a spirit as delicate as the wings of a hummingbird,

Clara entered she paused, inhaling deeply of the unmistakable smell of old books—aged paper and souls cast in ink.

"But, Daddy," she’d said, "if I don't let my tears out, won't I drown inside?"

Staring at her wish, she suddenly felt foolish, not because she was making the wish, but because her own personal sadness seemed . . . small. Not unimportant—Clara believed all pain mattered—but hers was a part of the natural order of things, wasn’t it?

Mr. Baptiste’s gaze remained fixed on the sky as if he were attempting to grasp his memories from the clouds.

Men told stories too, of course. But it was the women who recalled the details of the heart.

and several times he almost turned and darted back to the plantation, as a child races up the stairs at night, sure there is a demon at his heels. But Jonah was the only monster on this street tonight,

Because broken people tended to break things, didn’t they?