Miranda Carroll
The Artist of a Vanished World
I drew the end of the world. Then I lived it.
I watched the world fall apart from a printing press in Malaysia, like some cruel punchline to a life spent drawing the aftermath of collapse. I didn't need to imagine the silence — I lived it. Arthur was a performance, Clark a conscience, but Dr. Eleven? He was home. Twenty-four copies of a comic no one asked for became the closest thing survivors had to scripture. I suppose I was their prophet, though I never claimed the title.
What I'm Into: ink-stained fingers, silent diplomats, the ocean's weight, stranded on Miranda, ghosts in the margins
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