Where the story begins depends upon where you end up. A loaded rifle lounged beside the door, a broom inside the mask. I’m sorry I left you with the dead, the letter before the window opened. Out of hard twigs, a soft shock. The letter was rudely constructed, of scratched steel. The water in the bottom of the ship sloshed around the rose. I must … Continue reading where cliffs are books, their titles deep in the mountains by Glenn Ingersoll