“The Glass City” by AnaMaria Curtis
It's Storytime with Wil Wheaton
In 'The Glass City,' Wil Wheaton narrates a haunting, surreal story by AnaMaria Curtis about isolation, longing, and the painful journey toward belonging. The
Key takeaways
- Loneliness persists even in moments of connection, lingering like a shadow.
- True belonging requires radical vulnerability—symbolized by self-inflicted wounds to enter the city.
Main topics
- Loneliness and isolation
- The cost of belonging
Notable quotes
He supposes it is related to the fact that the residents of the city live inside out.
Conclusion
The story ends on a quiet note of fragile hope—suggesting that even in profound
Transcript preview
Speaker 2 (0:00) When you think of Los Angeles in the summertime, you probably think of gorgeous sun-soaked beaches and incredibly warm, beautiful days, and you would be extremely wrong because we have a Mediterranean climate here and we get something that we call May Gray and then June Gloom and then July. Why in the hell isn't summer yet here? Because summer waits to arrive until... around the end of August. And then it shows up with a vengeance until about the second week of September, around which time false autumn arrives with its promise of cooler weather, only to flee in time for the Halloween winds. Why am I telling you all of this? Because I want you to know how grateful I am and why I am so grateful to have my bamboo sheets from Quince. Quince's bamboo sheets are so incredibly soft and comfortable. And I don't know, they're woven with magic. They are cool in the summer. They are warm in the winter. And right now, when the weather just can't decide to commit to anything, they're perfect every single night, no matter what. I would love to help you make your bed your favorite place to be this season with Quince. Download the Quince app for app-exclusive offers or go to quince.com slash storytime. Get free shipping on your order and 365-day returns. Test out my seasons theory in real time. Now available in Canada and the UK, too. That's q-u-i-n-c-e dot com slash storytime. Speaker 2 (1:54) Hi, everybody. I'm Will, and it's story time. I'm so glad you're here. If I described for you a sailor stranded on an island a thousand miles of ocean in every direction, it would probably be easy for you to imagine that person's sense of loneliness. If I described for you a businessman who's been on the road for a month straight, sleeping in hotels that blur together and smear across the same lobby restaurant over and over again, some of you could probably relate to that. Most of you could imagine it. If I told you about someone who has been othered in their family or their community, how they sat in their bedroom with the door closed, just wished that anyone would see them, some of you will unfortunately understand precisely that kind of loneliness. I grew up knowing it myself as well. Even now, as happy and surrounded by love as I am, I can remember and I can still feel it. Loneliness is such a powerful feeling. Even when it fades, some part Speaker 1 (3:07) of it lingers, at least for me, lurking, waiting on the horizon of my memory. Speaker 1 (3:19) This week's story time is a Speaker 2 (3:22) beautiful, surreal meditation on loneliness from Anna Maria Curtis, who you may remember as the author of The Coffin Maker, a wonderful story I told you about a year ago. If you haven't heard it, it's in our archive. I am thrilled and I am so honored to speak her words again. And I am so grateful that you are here choosing to hear them. All right, I'm going to go ahead. And when you're ready, you can come and meet me. I will be waiting for you right outside the walls of the Glass City. Hey, you guys, before this story gets going, I feel like I should give you a little bit of a content warning. I can't get too specific with it because I think it's going to upset the weight of the story. But there is loss, very painful loss in this story. And I just thought that you should be prepared for that if that is something that you need to be prepared for. then Speaker 1 (4:27) be gentle with yourself. And I hope you enjoy this. The Glass City by Speaker 2 (4:35) Anna Maria Curtis. Originally published in Uncanny Magazine, issue 70. The wall of the city is made of glass. Smooth and clear. Slippery and strong. The stranger and his dog wear a path outside it every day. Watching, listening, waiting to be ready. The wall is about three times the stranger's height, perhaps a bit taller. As perfectly crafted as the glass is, it is thick enough to cause some distortion when approached anything but head-on. The stranger never looks through the glass directly. He is always circling, always half-turned away from the way the light bounces off and shatters back into a thousand rainbow shards in his peripheral vision. The language they speak in the Glass City is not so different from the language of the city the stranger grew up in, where the wall was made of carefully pruned trees, though the words tug on his ear differently. The first time he heard it, someone at the gate was offering him a knife, holding it out like it was one of their famous apricots, like it was a welcome. He didn't take the knife. He started his path around the city instead. The next time he heard their language, a group on the other side of the wall was shouting, perhaps at him, their voices overlapping and unintelligible. He could see them gesturing out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't turn, couldn't bear to know if they were speaking to him. Now, when voices float over the top of the wall, he pauses for just a moment, concentrates, trying to pull the meaning through and into him. Some concepts are the same. He catches play and eat and wait and learn as easily as he catches the sun on his skin in summer. And some are so strange to him that he gains no purchase, has no idea where to begin. He supposes it is related to the fact that the residents of the city live inside out. The stranger hasn't looked at any of them directly, but he knows it's true. They wear their organs like garlands of flowers around their chests and shoulders, and the red-pink-yellow open smear of them is visible through the glass even sideways. Sometimes they bleed, but if so, there is always someone there with them, pressing in, salve or gauze, with gentle hands, wound to wound. The stranger and his dog Belen sleep in front of the gate most nights. So he sees the residents struggle and twist and wrench themselves right side in before they exit the city to travel or parley with traders, grimacing and patting at their skin like it's foreign to them. So too does the stranger see the people who approach the city, their clothes and skin dusty from the road, their hands reaching eagerly for the promises perched behind the wall of openness, of kindness, of freedom from want. He sees the knives they are presented with, sturdy and purposeful. He watches most of them step back, drop the knives, retreat to the hard, dusty road and the hurt they already know. There are a few who are stronger or braver or more desperate than the rest. They take the knives. They set the point at their throats and cut a straight line down through their belly. They hold the edges of their skin and wrench them open, pushing themselves out and through until they are nothing but flesh and organs and teeth, until they are an open wound, vulnerable to the slightest pain or irritation. And the gate of the glass city opens, and the people inside welcome them. The city stands in the middle of a plain, flat and grass-covered. In the summer, wildflowers break out in patches of color.