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Short story: Mad Meg



Mad Meg’s what they call her, and I can see why.

Short story: In A Perfect World



The park was windy and desolate, as the dark grass struggled through deciduous muck and the trees rattled skeletally, their colourful autumn ballgowns discarded for a naked death.

Short story: My Kingdom



He turns his face up toward the sun, and lets the warmth cascade down him like water, getting deep into the wrinkles that cut up his skin.

Short story: Where's Laura?



She’s calling me. I can hear her, like a bell. I know that people talk of bells tolling and voices being clear as a bell, and it’s something of a cliché, but I can hear her voice like a bell because that’s how it sounds when she laughs.

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