Male | Age unspecified | 5 to 10 minutes Starts on page 3
EXTRACT: Eardrums ripped from my head. Teeth flying past me.
Hair and eyeballs. Sinew and cartilage.
Limbs and hands and fingers and toes, cartwheeling through the air.
A river of blood, running down my street.
My wife’s head scarf flies past me. Red. Soaked.
Still wrapped around her… jaw? …her… cheekbone?
What part of her is this? I don’t even know.
Pieces of my wife, flying down my street.
And other body parts, of other people.
The flesh and skin of strangers, mixed in with my wife.
And I don’t want to look. Don’t want to see. Want to close my eyes forever.
…but I must look…
Contains adult themes
Angel of Death
Non-binary | Age unspecified | Under 3 minutes Starts on page 5
EXTRACT: Outside the exosphere, cosmic dust whispers down like rain.
Dark nebulae build: dense. Impervious.
A tiny flash of blinding light heralds the birth of a new star.
The deepest of deep space still simmers with life.
Plummet down, down through the thermosphere
air so thin, breath is vacuumed from my lungs.
Male | Age unspecified | 5 to 10 minutes Starts on page 10
EXTRACT: We drive for sixteen hours; through small towns and villages. Down pot-holed roads of possibility. Finally the driver lets us out at a small dirty airstrip, where we get on a half broken plane. Rust in the metal, bolt missing from the wing. The outside air pours in on us as we taxi for takeoff.
My daughter shouts out: We’re flying! We’re flying!
I explain to her about the logic of flight; the physics of it - and she says No Baba; flying is magic, not physics.
…and there’s a part of me which thinks yes; in this plane it is indeed magic…
Angel of Death
Non-binary | Age unspecified Starts on page 15
EXTRACT: The air hums thick with us: clouds of winged death, soaring through the skies.
Shift of air tells me we’re near. The stench of humans: onions and meat and rancid sweat.
And there he is. Assignment in my sights.
Last surviving son.
The Sole Prospect for his struggling family:
The hardest working.
The golden egg of chance, ringed by a yolk of hope.
Standing on a boat festered by salt and age and neglect,
splintered hull barely rising above the waterline.
Bobbing on the brine like a decomposing heart.