In the pale wash of the cracked window, his clipped hair shone almost white. He’d changed since he and Lonan had been bathed together and scolded together—he was built like a swordswoman’s son now. His mother’s spitting image.
Everyone had abandoned the street by the time Lonan returned to it. Doors still hung open. All the people were turned out of their houses, and continents of pottery shards were scattered outside Serafina Fiamma. There was no fire this time, no scorched feathers.
A thin lump protruded from beneath a glued sheet over the book’s inside cover. Feeling his nails around the edges, Cyprus peeled the paper away from the leather.
The Porfirio family record was massive and unevenly bound together, several different papers and diaries all fit into one tome. It gave the impression a hard shake might send everything flying out onto the floor. The cover was decorated with the Porfirio name and golden scrawl, much newer than most of the pages.
Your brother, Sci-Fi, is already drunk and drifting off near a gardenia arrangement, probably spacing out. Kooky Aunt Magical Realism is in The Front Row in a funny hat, primed to catch the bouquet when it's thrown. You can't place it, but something's always been off about her.
The letters get away from me, making tiramisu.
Plenty of writers and readers probably already know what the magical realism genre is. But plenty of you also probably do not. Since I borrow from it stylistically and almost all of the time, I'll take the time to explain.
“Ain't that the truth. So you’re training the patriarch’s boy, now?” Hanif wrestled playfully with his son's grip. “That’s a damned honor. Damned waste, too, if you ask me. Like five cats in one dog, that young man is. Think you’d be willing to give this little beast of wrath some lessons?”
In 1997, Armistice Todd had a plan.
Eric paced a tight circle in the hallway. The mirror was bright in the dark. “I haven’t heard anything from James.”