Enthustan Page

But like all paradises, Enthustan had a flaw. It was shrinking.

He laughed, a sound like a rusty trombone. “Poorly,” he admitted. “We trade in ‘Almosts.’ I’ll give you three ‘Almosts’ for that novel you’ll never finish. You give me two ‘Almosts’ for this kazoo I carved from a carrot.” enthustan

“It starts with a question,” Elara told me on my last night, as the pigeons squawked off-key. “You ask, ‘Is this useful?’ And the whole country dies a little.” But like all paradises, Enthustan had a flaw

“They’re almost on the tenor line,” she whispered, her eyes wide as moons. “Don’t applaud. They get stage fright.” “Poorly,” he admitted

They’re almost on the bass line now. And in Enthustan, almost is the only victory that matters.

By dawn, the border had moved. The path of fireweed was gone, replaced by a sensible highway with a sign that read: “No Loitering. No Whistling. No Orreries.”

I arrived there by accident, having missed my train at a sleepy junction called Boredom. Following a path of overgrown fireweed, I crossed a border that smelled of fresh solder and old paper. The first citizen I met was a woman named Elara, who was trying to teach a flock of pigeons to sing barbershop quartet. She had been at it for eleven years.