By Michele Lee
Read by Ben Phillips
Music by Harmaline
Home? it asks, clothed in black feathers and flesh. A winged messenger come to carry me home.
Yes! I cry silently. I turn towards it, trying to pull my arms from the wooden posts that bind them. The voice caws out in fear, then vanishes in a black blur into the sun.
Another one gone. I’ve lost count, and the math doesn’t matter any more.
They killed me I suppose. That pair of walking pools of hate. What else could have happened? I suppose I’d cry, if I could. If my tear ducts weren’t ash mixed with the glue remains of my eyes.
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By Chandler Kaiden
Read by Richard Dansky
At first, there was only numb horror.
He couldn’t move his arms, couldn’t catch his breath. Everything was black. The thick stench of mildew, of rust and minerals, coagulated in his nose and throat. Steaming water spilled over his forehead, rained into his eyes, seeped between his lips. Brackish, foul water, full of chemicals.
It seemed to go on forever.
He tried to move. But he was confined, his limbs pressed tightly against his body.
When the water stopped, he heard dull, heavy thumping, like the machinations of an enormous water-logged engine.
The air was thick with steam. The foul water collected around his eyes, spilled into his nostrils, packed his sinuses.
There, in the wet darkness, he tried to drown himself. He inhaled the water. Tried to hold his breath — that breath he’d been instinctively fighting to catch when he came to — and found that he could hold it and hold it and hold it, and nothing happened.
_I want to die._
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