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16 Nov 2020
She’d awakened to hunger pains and a dry throat, and wanted to pluck a fruit from a tree before an encomendero could catch and whip her.
9 Nov 2020
Akari moved to the Island two years ago and built her one-bedroom house on the edge of a lake. She lives with Ren, a robot.
2 Nov 2020
The aliens came when Rita was nine. Came, passed by, kept going. Kept decelerating.
19 Oct 2020
We wear the masks long after penguins have been extinguished. By now we are hauntresses, hordes of extinction shuffling along the city streets under the excruciating weathers of this brutal world we’ve inherited. Individually, we are called pinguinos. It’s something to do; the world is depressed and none of us have jobs.
12 Oct 2020
That woman—the version of me that had invented time travel, and traveled back to save my sister—haunts me, nips at my heels, makes me work faster and faster every day.
5 Oct 2020
So I was poaching scallops in butter when the first eye emerged in the crease of my left elbow.
22 Sep 2020
The day the last qawwal was killed, my childhood city, already known for its lethal silence, for its censorship of words, for its refusal to listen, went into a deep deep quiet.
14 Sep 2020
The Drone remained behind him, heavy as a funeral. The Boy stood still as dirt.
7 Sep 2020
She chooses at random. No one is special, or unspecial. It doesn’t matter who they are or what they look like. They’re just data.
31 Aug 2020
Another apocalyptic was out by Gert's truck, stuffing pamphlets under the wiper blades. "End's coming," he said as she approached, his voice a frail whinny.
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