I was just trying to boxtroll that asshole into quitting, like I’d gotten the two guys before him to do. I swear I wasn’t trying to get him all dead and shit. It wasn’t my box that did it. But I guess all drone-related crimes fall under federal jurisdiction, and when a civvie octocopter box put a bullet in Jonathan Sandelson’s front left tire and sent him careening into the ocean and the afterlife, the feds assumed it was me.
I look forward to reading more works of science fiction, especially space westerns, that can envision a future where tools of death, regardless of their shape or function, are not considered indicative of the “advanced” state of a culture.
Advice for Time Travelers
If you insist upon leaving / set your affairs in order first.
How To Betray Sagittarius A*
Worthless to waste grief / on ancient tragedies.
That inkblot bruise on your belly—it bloomed like a dying star.
The Names of Women
I have this flutter in my chest. Thebes, the defeated city, smolders before us, Athens already behind us, and I flutter, I flutter, I can't speak. “It's a long way to Thrace,” Tereus says, as if he can read my mind, as if he knows what this is like: to be away from home for the first time, to see again my sister, his wife, after all this time, to meet their child. And then he smiles, because, for him, this is a victory trip. Here, in the defeated city, in the middle of a battlefield, Tereus shows me the
Sunday: Picnic at Hanging Rock