words and worlds alike
The solitary law that binds Gran Marche’s thieves is this: only filch what you can flip.
Acrid vapors curled, intermingling with Muraganda’s primal mist.
Pop-Pop’s cabin lay on unincorporated land just across the county line.
Used to be this joke. Stop me if you’ve heard it.
Rivera’s Bodega crouched on the corner of Halberd and Squire, moody and bright like a surly macaw—or a poison dart frog.
People like to think they understand ghosts.
When I finally finished my apprenticeship with Enzo Benedetti, the greatest locksmith I’ve ever known, he sat me down on an old teak chair in his office. He gave me a cigar, a glass of port, and three pieces of advice:
It was the Spring Dominion’s final days.