At the Edge of Nowhere

by Peter Gooley

It saddens me to look out my window and see the secrets lying sad and broken across the dusty road. The sprays of wind toss them along, scattering the letters among the little, cream-coloured chunks of gravel. I think that sadness was what made me first start collecting them. I gather the tiny, sparkling thoughts from the dew-painted ground each morning as I tend my garden, like manna from heaven.

Sometimes they make sense, conveying beautiful, regretful, uplifting, or disgraceful stories. Sometimes I sense a half-exhaled sigh or a stolen moment, a gift or a theft. Mostly, I can only admire them as fragments. They sparkle in the jars in which I’ve secreted them. I rearrange them often: now by colour, now by texture, now by theme and mood. That’s the hardest one, without a doubt, but it’s the one I usually turn to during my spring cleaning, when the first bright wildflowers force their heads from the cold, red soil, and the southerlies carry secrets in by the hundred.

The rarest secrets to find whole are the truly joyful ones. Once, I found a near-complete one of these joyful secrets, barely cracked and even holding a little of the morning dew. I gathered it up carefully: it shone brightly as I turned it in the sunlight, and I joyfully put it in pride of place upon my little wooden mantel, where its light could sparkle off the wall. But looking closer, I came to realise the suffering that this joyful secret had caused in its making.

That sparked my dilemma. Could I, in good conscience, use such a terrible secret to bring myself joy? Surely here, in my little house at the Edge of Nowhere, it could do no harm?

I kept the secret on my mantel for the next few weeks. It was doing no harm, and it was so beautiful, its reverberating shards of light exploding through my small house. I watered it each morning, trying to keep it alive, but eventually its light began to fade like that of all forgotten secrets. The glow dwindled; I waited and watered. The material dimmed; I waited and watered. The lustre vanished; I waited and watered. When the first dry shards began flaking off, I took it outside and threw it in the well.

That was the last secret I collected. My shelves are still lined with jars and jars, filled with tiny fragments of secrets and half-remembered melodies. A few pieces still glow faintly, casting a chaotic, fractal light over the smooth dirt floor of my home. In the older jars, though, nothing is left but a light grey powder. Outside, the south wind blows, carrying with it the forgotten fragments of people I have never known. I watch through my window, a soft mug of sadness clutched in my hands.

Where do they go? The secrets blow north, further and further, until they vanish. Memories dry and crumble to dust. And I see them travel, estranged from their erstwhile owners, past the Edge of Nowhere.

The Color of Wings

by Riley Tao

Momma says there’s no girl in the barn, that feathers ain’t fingers and caws aren’t words, but the girl gives me gifts and I know that she’s real. A bit of chalk that Momma says got all over my hands. A fork, cold and heavy, that Momma sold off at market. A feather, good for quills or fletching arrows, but best pressed up to my cheek at night.

I give her gifts, too. Momma tells me not to, but mostly-always nobody notices when I sneak a few rolls from the baker at the edge of the crowded-loud market. I know it’s against the rules—I hear when the baker yells “Thief!”—but I don’t get caught. I’m the littlest person in town, and I guess when you’re little and they’re big they forget all the alley-spots and hidey-holes that you can run through and they can’t reach: shimmy through the under-house where the tickly-things crawl, tap-along the moonshine tunnels where others stumble and curse, and surface where the crickets sing in fields close to home.

And in the mornings I go to the moldy-barn, following the dirt path until my feet scrape wood, and open the creaky-dusty door. Bird-chirps and wing-flaps greet me, morning warm on my hair, and I plop the stolen rolls on the plank where I always do. The wood is splintery, rough with dirt and pebble-bits, but no crumbs from yesterday’s roll. I think the girl in the barn is very hungry.

I turn around, reach out to the bird-nest shelf, and it’s right where I know it should be. In the middle of the woven twigs, I find it. Today’s gift is jagged, warm to the touch. I run my fingers along its edges, raise it to my nose. It smells of copper.

“A key?” I ask.

Softness brushes my fingertips, and I reach out. But the girl’s hand is always just out of reach.

“It’s perfect,” I say, holding the key to my chest. The lingering warmth heats my palms. “Thank you.”

I turn to leave and the birds fall silent.

A man’s heavy footsteps clomp up the dirt path. The door bangs open and a sling hums twice. The girl screams stop but the man hears squawk and I drop the key as a bird thumps to the floor.

“Gotcha!” A rustle of clothing. More footsteps. The scrape of metal on wood.

I reach out, panic. He’s taken it. He’s taken her gift.

He speaks. “Damn crow stole my key.”

My breathing is ragged. I hear the man’s voice grow concerned.

“Hey. You’re the little blind boy, aren’t you? What’re you doing in a place like this?”

I wait for the barn-girl to talk, to tell him who she is, to say she’s here for me, to keep me safe and hold me close.

But she’s dead. The man with the twang-bow killed her.

“That’s some good bread,” he says. He presses something into my hands. “Here. Do you want—”

“It’s for her!” I slap it away, and it tumbles into the dirt. “Leave me alone!”

Momma says there’s no girl in the barn, and I try so hard not to believe her. Every morning, I bring her rolls, and every night, they’re eaten clean.

But there are no more gifts in the empty nest.