Short Fiction
Sarah Monette

To Die for Moonlight

I had no tools suitable to the task—only my pocketknife and the shovel—and it was a long, grisly, abhorrent job, but I had to do it, and I did.

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Nonfiction
Sarah Monette

Welcome to the Reformation, Bitches

At the end of the first act of Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark has a problem.

Now, what you think that problem is depends on how you understand what has just happened. Let’s start with what we know.

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Short Fiction
Sarah Monette

Coyote Gets His Own Back

Luther shot the coyote bitch on Wednesday. She didn’t make a sound, just fell ass over teakettle into the defile, blood blooming across her neck and chest. She was dead—there was no doubt about that, then or later.

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Short Fiction
Sarah Monette

The Yellow Dressing Gown

Of all the curators at the Samuel Mather Parrington Museum, I liked Michael Overton the least. He was a loud, bustling, back-slapping man, red-faced and brash and quite, quite stupid.

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