My father lay dying on the cot, one of many in this draughty poorhouse. His lips trembled in the weak light of the distant fireplace. He was trying to speak, but the moans and groans, the uneasy snores and dream-speech, of all the other men on other cots around us drowned out his voice.
Read MoreLuther 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.
Read MoreRichard was recording his entry on the day’s hunt when the wolf’s scream of pain cut through the walls of the cabin. He dropped his pen on the open page. He’d seen a rabbit snare a few weeks ago. The trapper must have returned with traps for the valuable wolves.
Read MoreEvery year, in the spring, there is a ritual. The coming WorldCon announces the Hugo nominees. The ritual is not the announcement, but the reaction.
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