By Jude-Marie Green One rocket lumbers along to the launchpad. Earth-bound and clumsy now, gorgeous with potential. It’s yours. You’re the last. You should be proud of that.
by Sean Monaghan Gemma felt the pain right away. She sighed, stretching, angling her limbs and hips, trying to find a more comfortable position. She blinked, looking at the Arhend side table strewn with folders.
by Nancy Fulda The vase cracks against the hardened floor of our street-house, splitting into a dozen pieces. Shards fly everywhere – under the workbench, across the floor, even beneath the gears of the big mechanical clock that Grandfather brought down the hill this morning. Everyone in the room freezes.
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