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Frequencies of Lost what does one say about a species that works harder to convince itself it’s living through the worst of times than it works to prevent it from coming true we claim to dream but don’t, we aspirate rather than aspire, claiming that air and water have changed places, that we couldn’t possibly evolve so quickly we are not invisible, so much as our cells vibrate at just different-enough frequencies of lost that we can’t see each other, can’t hear each other we’re so many universes crammed into the same space and they’re not parallel, because they touch they cross in the quantum reset of each electron’s path time doesn’t work the same way there because things move sideways every bit as much as they move forward or backward; instantaneous, sideways sinkholes re-route where we’re going to where we’ve already been and this worn mechanism of memory locks us in locks us out

It takes a village to raise an old lady from the dead. Her granddaughter Lydia, for access to the corpse; her old partner Silent, for the mementos he kept from her youth; young Bobby for his singing voice; and the police necromancer, Harla, for bits and bobs and spells and paperwork. She tries to fill out the paperwork now, while Silent arranges old letters and cardinal feathers and lumps of wax around the body; but her concentration is wavering, caught again and again by Bobby reaching out to move the spell components around. “What’s this?” he cries out, again and again. “What does this one do?” No one answers him: Lydia is sulking, Harla busy with the paperwork, and Silent only shakes his head; but Bobby is undeterred by the silence. He snatches the wax away, plays with it, puts it down somewhere else; again and again, Silent reshapes it and puts it back where it came from. It’s enough to drive Harla mad. “Are you almost done?” asks Lydia, so impatient Harla can hear the