Once upon a time I said this was one of my more autobiographical stories. Yes, I am a magical farmer.
Erm, no.
It’s not autobiographical in any clear sense. Writers put themselves into their words in ways that feel painfully obvious to them, and absolutely invisible to readers. It’s one of the tricky things about learning to be published.
But I can give you this. The reservoir I live next to is seventeen miles long. The cellar holes which are so charming now are the remains of people’s lives. It’s hard to walk the dirt roads there without thinking of what vanished beneath the water. Of what continues to vanish beneath the water, the world over.
It is not one of my more optimistic stories, but sometimes life isn’t about optimism. Sometimes it’s about surviving.
ETA: I’m not including a link because the story went out to Daily Science Fiction’s email subscribers today. If you’re not a subscriber, consider signing up. Free speculative fiction every weekday is a wonderful thing.
This story will be available on the website one week from today. I’ll add a link once it’s up.