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Dolly

by on Mar 22, 2016 in Short Fiction | 2 comments

6,000 words On Sunday when Dolly awakened, she had olive skin and black-brown hair that fell in waves to her hips. On Tuesday when Dolly awakened, she was a redhead, and fair. But on Thursday — on Thursday her eyes were blue, her hair was as black as a crow’s-wing, and her hands were red...

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Sonny Liston Takes the Fall

by on Sep 4, 2012 in Short Fiction | 4 comments

By Elizabeth Bear “I gotta tell you, Jackie,” Sonny Liston said, “I lied to my wife about that. I gotta tell you, I took that fall.” It was Christmas eve, 1970, and Sonny Liston was about the furthest thing you could imagine from a handsome man. He had a furrowed...

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The Leavings of the Wolf

by on Nov 1, 2011 in Short Fiction | 1 comment

by Elizabeth Bear Dagmar was doomed to run. Feet in stiff, new trail shoes flexing, hitting. The sharp ache of each stride in knees no longer accustomed to the pressure. Her body, too heavy on the downhills, femur jarring into hip socket, each hop down like a blow against her soles....

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