Posts Tagged "sarah monette"

To Die for Moonlight

by on Jul 2, 2013 in Short Fiction | 2 comments

I cut off her head before I buried her. I had no tools suitable to the task–only my pocketknife and the shovel–and it was a long, grisly, abhorrent job, but I had to do it, and I did. I could not leave the chance that she might return. I had been weeping when I started; by the time it was done, the last tattered string of flesh severed, I had no tears left in me, and my mouth and eyes and sinuses were raw with bile and salt. I stuffed her mouth with wolfsbane, wrapped a silver chain around her poor hands, placed silver dollars over her staring eyes. Then, at that most truly God-forsaken crossroads, under a full and leering moon, I began to dig Annette...

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Welcome to the Reformation, Bitches

by on Feb 5, 2013 in Nonfiction | 12 comments

by Sarah Monette   At the end of the first act of Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark has a problem. Now, what you think that problem is depends on how you understand what has just happened. Let’s start with what we know. We know Hamlet, King of Denmark, is dead. We know that his brother Claudius has stepped into the king’s empty shoes in more ways than one: he’s taken the throne and he’s married the widowed queen. We know that the dead king’s son, Prince Hamlet, is not happy about any of this and is wandering around the court in extremely pointed black, irritating his uncle/stepfather no end. And we know that an apparition is stalking the...

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Coyote Gets His Own Back

by on Jul 3, 2012 in Short Fiction | 4 comments

By Sarah Monette Luther shot the coyote bitch on Wednesday. She didn’t make a sound, just fell ass over teakettle into the defile, blood blooming across her neck and chest. She was dead—there was no doubt about that, then or later. It put Luther in a foul mood. He’s wild for trophies, is Luther Sibley, even just a skinny coyote bitch, but that defile had pricker bushes that thought they were gonna grow up to be barbed wire, and rattlers liked it. We lost a cow down there every so often—my granny, who was superstitious about that sort of thing, would have called it a bad place, and I didn’t like it myself. Even to Luther, a coyote bitch wasn’t worth it,especially since...

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The Yellow Dressing Gown

by on Dec 6, 2011 in Short Fiction | 0 comments

By Sarah Monette Of all the curators at the Samuel Mather Parrington Museum, I liked Michael Overton the least. He was a loud, bustling, back-slapping man, red-faced and brash and quite, quite stupid. There was, I believe, no particular malice in him, but there was no particular good, either, except possibly in his odd but entirely sincere devotion to his work. It was the last thing one would expect of a hearty, manly man like Overton, but his specialty was eighteenth-century textiles, with an emphasis on women’s clothing. We were all indefatigable trophy hunters when it came to acquisitions, but none was as indefatigable as Overton, who spent every weekend attending...

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