Dunya closed her eyes and banished the Old-Man-turned-god from her sight. Still, the gods remained before her. In the abyssal blackness behind her eyes, there burned a glowing light. Shadowed figures cavorted around it, symbols flitting overhead. Vishnu and Rávan circled each other in a violent dance of war, and Dunya lay in the pyre at their stamping feet. 

The Old Man began to play. 

It was like no music she’d ever heard, tainted and raw and beautiful. 

When he finished the song, he stood, opened the window all the way, and held forth the instrument. “Do you want to try?” 

Five words which dictated the rest of Dunya’s life. 

Three prisoners staggered out of the truck: two men and a woman. The men knew each other. Their hands grazed and their gazes met. The woman stood alone, clinging to the broken neck of a violin. They were all unchained, but fear and shock were as good a shackle as any. Until it was disrupted, at least. 

Ivy watched as the evening workers and night dwellers shuffled down the sidewalks, heads bowed against the omniscient glow of the streetlights that’d borne witness to their savage furies. 

Warning, the voice began again. 

Ivy lifted a cigarette to her lips, inhaled, let the smoke sit and coil through her lungs like a breath of life before she blew it through the crack of her propped window. Only the stub of the cigarette remained, its embers hot against her fingers. But it was good for a few more puffs at least, and god did she need it. 

Firelight flickered on the walls, and the crackling grew into a roar. In the amber glow, a face watched her pass, little eyes staring out from an old photograph of her daughter. 

Ivy was twelve when Leonna last saw her. The girl was Leonna’s greatest pride. The one creation of hers whose heart seemed truly pure. She hoped Ivy had remained that way, indelible and defiant against the cruelties of the world, never letting them break her. 

When Leonna was six, wildfires turned the sky a wrathful shade of red. 

The sun seemed to be the glowing eye of a giant beast veiled within the smoky horizon. She feared it would consume the world. That morning, her mother had soothed her despondent cries and promised it would be all right, but Leonna never quite forgot the dreadful memory of that burning sky. 

Now, for the first time in forty years, the fury of those flames returned.

The barkeep opened a side door and waved them in. There, in the gilded haze of flame-lit lamps, artists gathered. Poets, painters, sculptors, musicians, dancers. Artists of all sorts came to the garden to talk, create, and workshop. It was a safe place for unfettered expression. One of the last of its kind.

It began slowly—the plague, the greed, the riots. Revolutionaries rose up behind symbols, murals, and songs, while the masses were fed machinery and religion. In the wake of the destruction, politicians deemed art a dangerous thing—a worthless thing—and the masses agreed. They took away the paint, the books, and the instruments. But they could not wholly silence the artists. These are the stories they left behind.

The setting sun outside steeped the city in gold, and a pleasant breeze carried the scent of budding flowers. He remembered the open fields of Anna’s family home, breaths of summer wind rustling the curtains as Anna painted by the window. 

He never should have brought her to the city.

It began slowly—the plague, the greed, the riots. Revolutionaries rose up behind symbols, murals, and songs, while the masses were fed machinery and religion. In the wake of the destruction, politicians deemed art a dangerous thing—a worthless thing—and the masses agreed. They took away the paint, the books, and the instruments. But they could not wholly silence the artists. These are the stories they left behind.

It began slowly—the plague, the greed, the riots. Revolutionaries rose up behind symbols, murals, and songs, while the masses were fed machinery and religion. In the wake of the destruction, politicians deemed art a dangerous thing—a worthless thing—and the masses agreed. They took away the paint, the books, and the instruments. But they could not wholly silence the artists. These are the stories they left behind.

It began slowly—the plague, the greed, the riots. Revolutionaries rose up behind symbols, murals, and songs, while the masses were fed machinery and religion. In the wake of the destruction, politicians deemed art a dangerous thing—a worthless thing—and the masses agreed. They took away the paint, the books, and the instruments. But they could not wholly silence the artists. These are the stories they left behind.