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When you pray you burn a sacrifice. It’s the oldest human tradition that isn’t a matter of pure survival, except of course it is a matter of survival, and of keeping something pure. Amy crouches in her cold jacket on the porch she has to leave soon and turns it in her fingers: white paper, black ash, red ember, trace of smoke twisting up to disappear. The buzz has her head a little spinny. She doesn’t pray often, but some days you have to give something up to the sky. There it goes. Watch it rise. A minute of your life.


“The Union forever defending our rights!” strum the Sirens. “Down with the blackleg, all workers unite!”

“Gee, this song is real good,” says Odysseus. “Better untie me, guys! Gotta hear this song!”

“Collective bargaining!” says Aglaope. “Strike for a safe workplace and fewer deaths by cyclops!”

“C’mon, this guy takes a decade to find his own house!” yells Thelxiepeia.

“Aww dang!” says Odysseus, glaring. His crew nods wisely, ears plugged. The ship moves on.

Thelxiepeia sighs. “Maybe we should get rid of the corpses?”

“It’s performance art about capitalism,” snarls Aglaope, and dusts one of the sailors rotting on the rocks.


Wil rattles the pill bottle and shakes out a nostalgesic, but these things don’t take effect right away. He’s been working out of the library all week and it smells like slow evenings to him, a decade ago, spine glue and onionskin and hushed ventilation while she labored at her thesis. Steel stacks. Scuffed corners. The weight of years, and waiting.

You can’t miss what you never had. Wil stares at carrel woodgrain going in and out of blur and tries to calculate how much time he’s wasted missing wasted time, but then the drug kicks in and it’s fine actually.


Two beers tipsy and two months ago, Adam bit her thumb hard and Loni sucked air to keep from yelping. His teeth left purple marks and an oval patch of numb skin over her upper knuckle. The bruise faded, but the feeling’s never come back. Damage lingers, pain subsides.

She’s tried to get him to do it again but ironically, he’s lost the nerve: worried, for once, about the consequences of his actions. Biting herself never works. Loni needs his bitter jaw, needs bite marks from toes to eartips. Needs the ache subtracted, finally, from every raw angle of her bones.


A devil poofs into being on his left. “DO IT NOW,” chuckles the devil.

Another poof. “Do it twice!” says the devil on his right.

“It’s a cookie, not an ethical crisis,” says Jake. “And don’t I get an ange—”

A shoulder dragon appears, breathing tiny flames. “Who’s yelling at you?” she roars. “I’ll burn them!”

“Bird them!” says a pigeon, crowding the devil. “Bird!!! Birb?”

Bite,” hisses a shoulder snake, and chomps affectionately. Jake yelps and drops the cookie. The bird eats it.

“My conscience is confusing,” Jake grumbles.

“Like you follow it anyway,” says the ghost in his phone.


“You beat me home!” says Kelly, dropping her bag to wrap her arms around Dominic from the back and kiss his neck.

“Evan needed help with dinner,” says Dominic, and Evan in turn comes up behind her, burying his face in her hair. Kelly feels a damp patting on her arm and grins.

“You three just wanted extra snuggle time,” she accuses, and they barely even look ashamed. The baby on Evan’s hip emits a high-pitched and happy message. Kelly winks at her. She either has her father’s eyes or her daddy’s nose, but most days they can’t decide which.


Jake dies and goes to Hell.

“This sucks!” says Jake.

“Right?!” says a demon.

“I thought I’d stop existing.”

“Nah,” grins the demon. “Death just takes your measure. No more quantum possibility, no more choices, no more branches. This is it. This is all you get.”

“Aha,” says Jake. “Well. In my life, I searched for certainty, so it’s poetic that—”

“Shut up!” says the demon, and throws him into a bunch of fire.

Jake also goes to Heaven when he dies, but that Jake can’t know about the one in Hell. That’s kind of what the point of Heaven is.


Atesh climbs to his feet, shaking. Most of the shielding still glows, and he can hear little ticking sounds as it cools, scattered wide across a dark plain. His arms and legs sting, sleeves torn, exposed skin scraped and powdered by the air bags that saved him from impact. Nothing seems to be broken, though. Not that he can feel.

He looks up, automatically, though he knows there’s nothing to see. He takes a few wobbly steps toward the remains of his cockpit: crushed supplies, cracked and empty water tank, busted radio that hadn’t worked in weeks anyway.

“Welp,” he says.


Springtime, and the cops are in heat again. Alexis tries to stay indoors. They’re always out there clinging to telephone poles, multifaceted aviators glinting, parting their mustaches to jam probosces into the trash bins she’s had to bungee shut. She steps around the ones she finds headless, still locked in coitus.

They bought a zapper for the yard, and it makes a show after sundown, but it doesn’t seem to reduce their numbers. Another blue-white flash, another mating siren-squawk cut short. Alexis collects fragile husks of the badges they’ve long since shed, and wrinkles her nose at the smell.


There’s this one really good day. It’s April, and the breeze coming off the water plays with their hair and jackets, but the skies are clear and kind to Holly. Rose has stories to tell them about the city, and Roger captures in-camera the moment when the sun and wind wreathe their heads with fire.

The alt-weekly has a misprint the next day: every article replaced with Missed Connection after Missed Connection, all unique. Who were the three of you, they ask plaintively. Did you know your own beauty? Can I please, oh can I please hold hands too?

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