Issue #122
May 30, 2013
The Penitent

No. 17596 let the book fall out of his hands. It would tell him what? It would tell him that the world went on—that somewhere, out there, men and women were carrying on their affairs while he sat alone in his cell, sentenced to ruminate in silence and isolation.

Dreams of Peace

Suddenly a horrible sense of disjunction came over her—looking around the sunny dining room, she seemed to see with a strange doubled sight the wreckage beneath: a thick layer of dust, shattered tables lying on their sides, broken windows, gaping holes in the walls, the beautiful rosewood sideboard wrecked, with its doors hanging off and its mirror cracked—

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Our Dead Selves Lie Like Footsteps in Our Wake
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It has to be true, because a year without her is a year without myself.
From the Archives:
The Alchemist’s Feather
I wake to find another finger gone.