The Hanging City

by Charlie N. Holmberg

He regards me a long time, making me self-conscious. “You’re different, Lark.” He matches my tone. “Not because you’re human. The way you speak, act, move—it’s everything Cagmar isn’t.” I smile. “Hard and purposeful and full of joists?” His lip quirks. “Purposeful, yes. But graceful, compassionate.” His gaze shifts to the candle. “Like that flame.” “Easily extinguished.” I touch my neck, remembering the press of Grodd’s fingertips. Azmar moves toward me. Touching the other side of my neck, he grazes my jaw with a knuckle. “No one will extinguish you, Lark. Not so long as I draw breath.”

it stokes my anger into the evening hours. The stars keep my course straight, though they offer me no guidance, no answers—nothing I can understand, at least. I walk and walk and walk, and inside I steam and fume and burn. Anger is good. Anger fuels me. Anger keeps up my pace, one foot in front of the other, even after the sun sets and darkness consumes the world. Anger propels me forward when I trip over stones or dips in the dead earth. Anger keeps the sorrow and the fear at bay. Anger is my shield, and my crutch, keeping me warm when the temperature drops and the stars climb across the sky, almost like they’re watching me, curious to see where I’ll go. They shift, the space between them deepening, darkening, then lightening one, two, three shades.

Bruises from those who should love you sting more than others. Deep and lasting, they bleed into your spirit, no matter how common they become. Something shatters with each strike, and it isn’t always bone.