Short Fiction
Cassandra Khaw

Love, That Hungry Thing

We fled to the stars before Earth let out its last breath and drifted between galaxies for four hundred years, listening to the heartbeats of our ships. Fiction would have you think that such an enterprise would turn the species feral, but the truth is kinder. Humanity lost its fear of itself, shed its hate like a mouthful of rust. When you have nothing but each other, you learn to love your neighbour. You do that or you die.

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Short Fiction
Cassandra Khaw

Bargains by the Slant-Light

Every night, the devil sits himself on the lip of her bed and every night, she sighs and whispers the same word over and again. “Yes.”

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Short Fiction
Cassandra Khaw

What to Do When It’s Nothing but Static

Don’t stop until the world clicks back into position. Sky above, earth below. Flesh threaded along calcium. Nerves and sinew, thews and thighs, the gravity of viscera and old scars, six decades’ worth.

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Short Fiction
Cassandra Khaw

A Priest of Vast and Distant Places

Beneath you, the airbus—an older model, a little threadbare at the wings—thrums with complaints, dissatisfied with the double standards imposed by its makers: a pilot is permitted to retire, his plane is condemned to scrap. How fair is that?

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