HeyJaredCharlotte Rousette
Writer, reader, and lover of all things literary. I explore classical literature, gothic tales, short stories, and the occasional essay — with jams always in the background!
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 27
- Latest publication
- Sep 30, 2026
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- Earliest in this view
- Sep 5, 2026
Latest issues
Parallax: The Rabbit, the Girls, and the Border Steam (opens the original)
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HaTBThe morning air in the upper-tier tenements tasted of wet slate and stale chicory.Noor had been calculating the jump for three days.Syrhan was at his desk—a sprawling disaster of unsorted grading papers, ink-stained parchment, and red-penciled curriculum revisions. His spectacles sat crooked on his nose as he muttered under his breath, his mug of black tea long gone cold, a skin of congealed oil floating on top. He had cracked the casement window just two inche
Blackthorn House for the Relief of Nervous Afflictions (opens the original)
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The first thing Mrs. Abigail Morrow noticed about Blackthorn House was that it had too many windows.She counted them because there was nothing else to do.The road had narrowed into a track of rutted, frozen mud, and every few yards the iron-rimmed wheels struck a stone with a bone-rattling crack that travelled up through the carriage floorboards and into her teeth. The leather suspension groaned overhead. Somewhere beneath the carriage, a loose piece of metal knocked at irregular intervals, givi
The Woman Beneath the Body (opens the original)
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There is something strange happening to women’s bodies again.Perhaps “again” is the important word.The body has always been fashionable in the sense that women’s bodies have always been given assignments. Be thin. Be soft. Be voluptuous. Be delicate. Be athletic. Be fertile-looking, but not too maternal. Be sexy, but not vulgar. Have breasts, but not too much cleavage. Have hips, but keep your waist tiny. Have a backside, but somehow remain otherwise impossibly small.The instructions change. The
The Luxury of Presence (opens the original)
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In the year 3025, everyone could afford a flower.Almost no one could afford a real one.Mara first understood the difference when she was seven years old.Her mother had taken her into the municipal garden after work because Mara had been crying, although neither of them could remember precisely why. Perhaps it had been school. Perhaps it had been the apartment. Perhaps it had simply been Tuesday.The garden was free, as most public comforts were, though there was a modest admission charge if one w
The Haralson Murder/The Haralson Farm Murders (opens the original)
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“Your name?”“Elsa Dughnom, sir.”“Your occupation?”“I am a maid, sir.”“And you have been employed by the Haralson family for how long?”“Four years come Michaelmas.”The constable dipped his pen into the ink.“And you were in the house on the night Mr. and Mrs. Haralson died?”“Yes, sir.”“Then I want you to tell me everything you remember.”I looked at the table between us.It was a good table. Walnut. Mr. Haralson had bought it from a man in town who had fallen up
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