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.
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They cut out Kade’s heart before they sent him to the Front, and in his dreams, he still could feel the scalpel’s blade against his skin. It was far from the worst of his nightmares, but that didn’t stop him from waking in a cold sweat and clutching at his chest.
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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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Richard 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.
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Every 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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Kij Johnson’s fantastic imagination and thoughtful prose has garnered her recognition in nearly every corner of the science fiction and fantasy community. Her fiction appears regularly on the Hugo Award final ballots, and she’s received three Nebula Awards and brought home an equal number of World Fantasy Awards.
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