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“Silent, Cold, and Still ,” by Kris Dikeman
A group of officers cluster below the mark on the wall. One balances an inkpot, another copies the symbol onto parchment, a third notes its location on a map of the city. Near where they stand there is a patch of bloody ice splashed against the stones next to an odd-shaped bundle of rags, the buckles of a Legionnaire’s uniform winking out at us. We stare, and the officer with the map waves us away.
“The Adventures of Ernst, Who Began a Man, Became a Cyclops, and Finished a Hero,” by Jesse Bullington
Ernst fumbled with the new sword at his side, but it had some ivory-inlaid clasp keeping it in place and he screamed in terror, at which point the medium muttered something and all the lights went out. Ernst freed the sword and swatted in the dark with it, backing against a wall, which was when he felt the itchy spider hairs rub against his throat.
“Mamafield ,” by Corie Ralston, from BCS #61
I finally scent Leaver at far edge of mamafield, past where my roots have ever dug. I don’t feel safe so far outcircle, but he’s traveled alone for years. He’s been so far outside we wouldn’t even scent his death. And that’s what he deserves.
“As Below, So Above,” by Ferrett Steinmetz, from BCS #56
Son squeezed billows of black ink around the ship to mask his approach, remembering what Two-Father had told him: Always curl your tentacles around the front, never in the back where the whirling tail-blades lie. Never rest your tips on the deck, lest they chop off the ends of your sensing-limbs. And should you brush against a long, thin tube of metal, draw away quickly before it squirts fire.