Love is finite, like the stars
We had come so close. We rationed proteins, we doled out water in scant mouthfuls. If we were careful, there would be just enough. Then we ran out of fuel. Outside, a blue-green world rotates tantalizingly out of reach. I lick my dry lips and send another mayday.
It is nearly light and I have not slept. Pine boughs scrape the windowpanes. “Stay,” she murmurs when I stir, but the name she whispers is not mine. She drifts in and out, clutching the covers to her chest. Frost limns the window, and yet I lie here and burn.
So this is a thing writers do, I hear: post a list of works eligible for the next round of science fiction and fantasy awards (Nebulas, Hugos, Locus Awards, the World Fantasy Awards, etc). Turns out, I wrote a few things this year that I'm particularly excited about. I love all of these stories for … Continue reading 2019 Award Eligibility
Tonight I tasted falsehoods in her kisses. I see them, now, in the fall of her hair across my pillow and the angle of her hip. My heart is an overwound spring, an unsigned contract. Sleeping, she is honest: she does not love me.