Between Two Fires

by Christopher Buehlman

“Balls to that. I’ll swear as I please.”

“What’s so funny down there?” Annette called. “Oh, nothing,” Jehan said. “One of our guests said he enjoyed his supper.” They laughed themselves to sleep. Nothing knocked for them that night.

This pestilence cooked away pretense and showed people’s souls, as surely as it eventually showed their bones.

“Christ drowning in shit,” Thomas said, putting his straw hat over his face.

How was she to believe man was anything special when he looked so much like any other animal in death? He was just a rained-on, ruined carcass, as if he had never kissed her, as if he had never danced.

“Give the river back its due,”

Love is always harder. Love means weathering blows for another’s sake and not counting them. Love is loss of self, loss of other, and faith in the death of loss.

Would you like to know my name?” she said. “I already do.” She smiled impishly. She liked games. “Then tell me.” He bent toward her. This would be a secret. Little Moon.