Girl of Dust and Smoke: A Dark Fiction Novella

About the book

About Girl of Dust and Smoke: A Dark Fiction Novella

In the heart of America’s Second Dust Bowl, amid drought and raging heat, Isobel Walsh weaves a web to survive. There is a strange new girl at Happy Hearts. The strange new girl says strange new things. “Daddy’s ashes. Mommy’s ashes. Sissy and Buddy both fell down,” she says. “There’s something wrong with Isobel,” they all say. Isobel has behaved, though. She hasn’t hurt anyone since she arrived. She hurt many before she arrived, but so have all those here. They’re murder babies, parent killers. Happy Hearts is a homeless shelter for little girls and boys who never grew up. “Play with me. I like games,” Isobel says. So the residents play her games. She makes them jump. She makes them dance. She makes them laugh, and she makes them cry. They think they’re winning, but nobody wins Isobel’s games. It’s fun for her. They pretend it’s fun for them, too. Yes, Isobel Walsh is a strange new girl in a strange new world saying strange new things. Though she’s more gun than girl, more weapon than woman, twenty-five years old in a world made of clay. CONTENT WARNING: GIRL OF DUST AND SMOKE is a disturbing novella intended for mature audiences. It is a low-plot character study of a lonely and broken individual. As such, it includes murder, death, violence, sex, incest, rape, sexual assault, underage sex, child abuse, and prostitution. This list is not comprehensive. Please read at your own risk. ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ READ AN EXCERPT Isobel was born in a storm. Dust clogged her first wails, and smoke stung her unused eyes. She was an angry baby, strange from the start. Her siblings grew bored with her. Bridget and Brodie had better things to do at two. Isobel was a nuisance to her parents as well. The twins had been easy, docile, but Isobel was neither. She was all too aware of her infant state, unable to walk or talk or do anything interesting. Isobel liked interesting. She needed interesting. Life on the road was harsh, cruel, and Isobel’s first word was “hate.” The Walsh family started with fortunes. The fortunes were bland—and fake, of course. “Magic doesn’t exist, Bel,” Pa often told his runt, “but people want magic to exist, so we pretend it does.” Isobel, now older and unfortunately also wiser, said, “So we’re frauds.” Ma scowled. If there was one thing Blaire Walsh wouldn’t tolerate, it was being called a fraud. As it was, she wouldn’t tolerate most things and held few friends. She preferred isolation, for herself and her family. Fewer influences. Fewer bad habits. Yes, she scammed people out of money, but times were tough. It was the customer’s fault. People would pay any price for hope. “We aren’t frauds,” Ma said. “We’re opportunists,” Pa added. “Blake, don’t use big words. It’s against our brand.” “Yes, ma’am.” And the Walsh family had an ironclad brand. By Isobel’s seventh birthday, when the twins were nine, Walsh was a label, a patent. They came alliterated: parents Blaire and Blake, twins Bridget and Brodie, and Bel for Isobel, the tagalong afterthought. Isobel did not like being Bel. Bel was not her name. But her parents didn’t listen. They were a package: scrawny and short with “B” names, pale skin, straight blue-black hair, and narrow gray eyes. Isobel’s eyes were not gray. Ma and Pa gave her contacts to hide the violet, but Isobel suffered an allergic reaction and could not wear them. Nobody was sympathetic; she was ruining their image. They tried to hide her freckles, too, but dust scratched most makeup away.

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