The old woman had a story. She had called it the truth. But he knew it wasn’t even an honest story. It was her—their—way of feeling good about herself, of making sense of a life of hurting others.

He knew other stories, though. Stories of hope and happiness. The stories that made the world. Few knew those stories anymore—if you kill the tellers the stories die with them. He was one of those few, though. Tonight, to kick all lies off his mind before falling asleep, he told himself one story, his favorite one. Alone among those who hated his tongue and the color of his skin, this was his way of honoring those who had died for telling such tales, and to mourn for those who would never get to learn of the other truths of the world.

“When Cuacari, the Holder of the O...

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