rich larson

a woman with long hair standing in front of a wall.

Reproduction on the Beach

The thick dark coffee splatters into her tin cup, but instead of handing it to her he places it on the stove and takes an exaggerated step backward. He plucks at his left eye, exposing the reddish innerskin. Rose checks herself in her phone camera. The sclera of her weepy right eye is a delicate shade of fairyfloss pink.
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a picture of a rabbit with a caption that reads short fiction what una loves.

What Una Loves

At first, the surgeries were small. They straightened and reshaped her nose, lasered her teeth, sucked the fat from her belly and thighs and redistributed it to her breasts. They showed each procedure, showed her drifting in the recovery tank as her skin reknit, scarless, and then they paraded her in front of the cams beside a holo of her old self.
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a picture of a poster with a caption that reads fifteen minutes hate by rich.

Fifteen Minutes Hate

You wake up to your phone crawling across your face, buzzing hard against your cheekbone. Snatch it up on muscle memory and the little plastic cilia retract. The screen is achingly bright, needles your eyes. Squinting, you see an avalanche of notification flags. Incoming calls. It churns your scraped-raw stomach. Something is wrong. Wronger.
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a man wearing a gas mask and goggles.

L’appel du vide

The summer sky was stacking dark clouds when Pau trudged up from the concrete gullet of the parkade. Sweat stuck his shirt to the small of his back and the biolocked handle of his Ceylan Industries suitcase was slippery. Looking over the shrunken brown swatches of lawn and the acid-yellow waterstat holos glowering from apartment windows, he hoped, fervently, that the rain would fall.
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