Rift by Robert Kostuck The chronometer reads seventy-two hours into a one hundred fifty-three hour Plutonian day—six o’clock in the morning Luna time. Our sailboat Moth anchored one hundred ninety-four kilometers roughly SSE from the edge of the mountains. I close the...
Juana Catarina by Robert Kostuck November. Morning light. The riverbank crumbles beneath the edge of the house, the river sings lullabies twenty-four hours a day. “Give me a cigarette,” says Juana Catarina. “And keep that hijo’eputa out of the room for an hour or two....
