Nitlon

Or the frozen prickling rooftop marks The bottoms of his feet with pink dents, Ten feet three inches above the road, with nothing But pavement to catch him if he fell. Instead cars scream sideways turning The corner barely in time to avoid a woman Fat and generous, coccooned in swathes Of organic wool, lilting lily tones, Boots padded, proofed, soft, immune To the frost screeching and whirling on the shingles. Maybe Socrates was right to ask us to avoid Elation and despair. The blundering careless Angry seething roaming city washes away Dust and the scattered fragments of nomads Who stayed under blinking signs only to take pict

They found him just after five in the morning on a Sunday, running away from a man they'd deemed too rich who wasn't anymore. "Is he dead?" Hayner asked. The thing lay under the only tree growing on this side of the river, which wasn't really a river in the winter so much as frozen black glass. A shard of bone, pinkish-yellow with the stains of blood veins, pierced the air and its head lolled back, mouth open and wide with a tongue hanging out like a panting dog. Mostly-whole pieces of cloth stuck to the thing, and resting halfway on the ground and halfway on the breast of the jacket was a clump of hair torn from the scalp. Five in the mo

"I was born," the Mouse said. "I must die. I am suffering. Help me. There, I just wrote your book for you." Samuel R. Delany, Nova I Otto Shaughnessy had never felt anything but lonely. And lonely...wasn't even an emotion, not a real one. He knew that's what anyone would tell him, if he asked. So, Otto kept to himself, mostly. Quiet kids got away with thinking whatever. But he couldn't sleep. This late at night, when he'd been trying for almost two hours. Or at least what felt like two hours. Even though only an orange glow slithered in around the curtains, leaving the rest of the room dark, and only occasional traffic interrupted perfec