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by Regan W. H. Macaulay

The woman pauses and heaves a sigh. She clutches a live cricket with her index finger and her thumb. It wriggles for its life, which will end shortly. Not like her life. Not like theirs.

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The Last Goodnight


by Chris Swindell

The sun, small and white and nearly dead, is a pinprick in the sky. If it were alone, even at noon it would look like nothing more than a fat star. But, oh, it’s not alone. The firmament behind the guttering white dwarf is a riot of luminous colors, reds and pinks, electric blues and neon greens. It’s a small child’s painting, all reckless smears and wild swirls, lit up and hung across the heavens.

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Posted in Featured Fiction