The inside of the beetle brightened with a light that was too white to be made of Creation’s set of colors. Instead of Translation, SEGL called it Transition. Instead of longing, their hearts were scoured as by bitter sand: it was the loss of getting where you had been going, but the going had gone…
A Night of Murder
In the arms of a gnarled apricot slowly weeping amber, they found White Feather waiting for them. The white eagle launched itself into a glide along the ground, leading them through the night city, whose scalloped folds and tall trees seemed designed to baffle interlopers. In their flight, they surprised and knocked down several indigo-robed…
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