Alvaro Zinos-Amaro is the co-author (with Robert Silverberg) of When the Blue Shift Comes, a Stellar Guild book published by this company. His short fiction, poetry, essays and reviews have appeared in multiple online markets and in translation abroad.

Alvaro Zinos-Amaro

Raymond Esposito leaned closer to the woman sitting before him, remembering her once sparkling, vivacious brown eyes.

Right now those eyes were lost.

“I brought you a new binder, just like you asked me.” He set the binder down on the small teak coffee table, flipped through its blank pages. “See? It’s going to make an amazing scrapbook.”

The woman’s eyes failed to register him.

“Look. Bright red cover, three rings. Your favorite type.” Raymond spoke with artificial precision, over-enunciating every syllable. “And plenty of protective sheets.”

Feeling like a cheap salesman, Raymond grimaced. He studied the face of the woman he loved. Most women of sixty-two would have killed for her looks. Her skin remained porcelain-white, clear and unblemished; her cheekbones and forehead wrinkle-free; her lips full, supple. But this beauty was only a cruel reminder of the bountiful emotions her face had once conveyed, before the right side became paralyzed and the roaming of the eyes set in, before her speech became slurred.

Minutes passed. Raymond decided to end his visit. But then the woman’s eyes dilated and the lips parted. First there was a spark of recognition at his presence—a tiny, flickering event which nevertheless filled him with hope—, followed by a surge of understanding when she identified the binder.

“Thank you,” she said with visible effort. She cocked her head to the side. “Thank you, Ray.” She smiled.

Raymond lived for moments like this, islands of connection in their vast sea of separateness.

“You’re welcome. I wanted to tell you something else, Donna,” he said. He straightened his back. “I love you very much.”

She didn’t acknowledge his words. Instead she said, “Pencil. Pencil, please.”

He fished one from the bag of supplies he’d brought and laid it neatly beside the binder, along with sheets of paper, soft scissors, and glue.

“Your eyes,” she said.

He frowned, not understanding.

Closhe your eyes.”

Raymond did as instructed. Time crawled by, seconds ticked off on an antique clock. In the stillness of the room the sound of Donna writing was impossible to miss. Right after the stroke Donna had been better at writing than speaking, but deteriorating motor coordination had transformed her neat penmanship into a series of squiggles.

“Open now,” she said.

He breathed deeply and opened his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable scrawl. The sheet of paper was folded in four. He set it to the side, then placed his right palm on her left hand. The nurse had warned that sudden physical contact could upset her, but she seemed calm right now. Her skin was warm, soft. He allowed his hand to rest atop hers. Then a look of mild apprehension crept into her eyes, and he pulled back.

“I love you,” she said. She was looking straight at him. “I love you, Ray.”

He read the note.


“You’re surprised that a geezer like me needs your services,” Raymond said.

The man, who had identified himself to Raymond simply as Tool, grinned. His nimble fingers tapped commands into a micro-tablet on his belt. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

Raymond tensed. The van’s windows were tinted, the interior soundproofed and EM-blanketed, but he didn’t like discussing his private life with anyone—especially someone like Tool. “What about?”

“Easy,” Tool said. “Your heartbeat shot up. I think the long delay in what you’ve asked me to do gives me the right to be nosy.”

“Why should the delay matter? I’m paying you a substantial retainer.”

“Look,” Tool said. “We’re doing this my way or no way.” He pointed towards the van’s door.

Raymond focused on getting his vitals under control. “Fine.”

“Much better. What’s your relationship to Donna Esposito?”

Raymond shot him a look. “She’s my wife. Which you knew.”

“A baseline question helps calibrate responses. She’s currently at a nursing facility in your hometown of Cherryville, North Carolina. Is that where I’ll find her a year and a half from now?”


“Why is she there?”

“She suffered a stroke a year ago and needs full-time care.”

“Had she retired at the time?”

“No,” Raymond said.


“Still working.”

“For how long?”

“What’s it matter?”

“People do strange things when they have free time on their hands,” Tool said. “Like grow a conscience.”

“You needn’t worry about a change of heart,” Raymond replied through pursed lips.

Tool looked at something on his ocular implant. “So why the delay?”

Raymond shifted in the van’s seat. “Donna still has a good year and a half before she really goes south.”

“I see,” Tool said, making it clear he didn’t. “Why not observe her progress and play it by ear?”

Raymond clenched his jaw. “Limiting her suffering will bring me peace of mind.”

“Why the specific time of night?”

Raymond shrugged. “She’ll be sleeping, with minimal staff around. I need to know exactly when it will happen. It’s critical that you execute the plan precisely as specified.”

“Let’s say I get a flat and I’m an hour late.”

“I don’t believe someone with your reputation,” Raymond said, “would be so sloppy.”

“You’re right. And yet things happen.”

“I’ll up your fee by twenty percent. Just make sure it gets done on time.”

“To the minute,” Tool said.

Raymond spoke with the same deliberateness he used with Donna. “To—the—second.”

Tool ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair. “Normally I wouldn’t ask this, but your case is special: Why do you want this done?”

There was a tightness in Raymond’s throat. “Because she told me.”

“She asked you to end her life?”

“Not in so many words. But she made her wishes clear.”


“That’s highly personal,” Raymond said.

“As is what you’re asking me to do,” Tool replied. “Let’s be clear. The money doesn’t make it impersonal. It simply guarantees the reward is worth the risk.”

Raymond reached into his pocket and produced Donna’s note. He passed it to Tool, who unfolded it and blink-scanned it.

“A line from a poem by someone called William Carlos Williams. Meaning?”

“Donna used to teach literature,” Raymond said. “The line she quoted—‘The rose is obsolete’—is significant. She was always my rose, you see. She’s telling me she’s outlived her usefulness. She wants to go.”

“What if she just wanted to cheer you up with pretty poetry?”

Raymond crossed his arms. “That’s absurd. I know my wife. I’ve lived with her forty years. I understand how her mind works. We done?”

Tool passed him a pad. “Once we part ways today, I’ll only be reachable for twenty-four hours the day before your specified date. If a cancellation is needed, that’s your window.”

Raymond scanned the screen and pressed his thumb over the designated area.

“I have a lot of information on you, Mr. Esposito.”

I could say the same, Raymond thought, but kept silent. Who knew how much of it was real, or traceable.

The van door opened and Raymond climbed out into the rainy night.


Donna continued cutting out pictures and gluing them to the pages of the new binder.

“Looks amazing, sweetie,” Raymond said.

Her latest collage interspersed personal photos with pictures of actors and models clipped from fashion magazines. They bore a vague resemblance to Donna and Raymond, and some of the backdrops were similar too: a boat on which they’d gone fishing had been placed alongside a celebrity couple on a luxury yacht, Donna on a hill appeared next to a female rock-climber on a snow-capped summit, and so on.

As Donna continued snipping away Raymond paced her small room and finally sat beside her, violating what the nurse had defined as Donna’s “personal comfort zone.” Forty years of marriage should give me the right. He smelled her hair.

Donna’s hands began to fidget.

“Honey, it’s okay. It’s just me.”

Her breathing sped up and she dropped the scissors and glue.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He scooted over. “I want you to know I understood your message. I’m going to help you.”

Nothing happened. The clock on the wall tick-tocked away. Raymond went to the window and pulled back the curtains. The gray sky’s swollen clouds cast dark, lumbering shadows, promising rain.

“I love you,” he said, rising to leave. “You won’t have to be… obsolete… much longer.”

Donna began humming a tune Raymond didn’t recognize. Then she picked up the scissors and glue and resumed her scrapbooking.

“I love you,” Raymond repeated. “No matter what happens, I will see you again.”

Just for an instant, Donna looked up.

“I like Ray,” she said, directing her gaze back down to the binder. She pointed to a picture of Ray, seemingly oblivious to any connection between the man standing in her room and the man smiling in the photograph.

“And I like Donna,” he said, pointed to a picture of her, and gave her a peck on the cheek before leaving.


The back of the man who called himself Sideways slumped against the trunk of a massive longleaf pine. “No time to retire like the past, huh gramps?” he asked as Raymond approached.

“Something like that.” Raymond caught his breath and then said, “So, let’s get to it. What are my odds?”

Sideway’s face hardened. “Forty percent survival chance.”

Raymond surprised himself with his language. “That’s fucking preposterous.”

“Time travel is fucking preposterous,” Sideways replied. “Why do you think it’s fucking illegal?” He licked his chapped lips and popped a stick of chewing gum into his mouth. “You’re aware of the consequences of jumping, pops?”

“Temporal conservation?”

“Temporal whiplash,” Sideways corrected. “When you jump into the past—the only direction you can jump—you’re stealing information from the present. To even things out, time steals information from the future and selects someone whose remaining lifespan precisely equals the length of your jump. Voilà, they’re gone.”

“‘Gone,’ meaning dead.”

“You’re a quick study. Their lost future equals your gained past. You’re going to jump back a year and half. That means the nearest person to you who was going to die—whether by natural causes or in some other way—a year and a half from the moment of your jump will die when you jump instead. You steal a year and half from time, time steals a year and a half to even the score. Are you with me?”

Raymond nodded. He visualized himself jumping, Donna disappearing through temporal whiplash moments before Tool entered her room—

One step at a time.

He blinked. Even though sunset had given way to night and the forest was chilly, sweat slicked his underarms and beaded his forehead. “What else?”

“You pay me now, in full, and you’ll receive the tech a week from today. It will only work once, so you’ll be stranded in the past—assuming you make it that far. Word to the wise, if anything goes wrong, do not look up my younger self. He reacts poorly to temporal visitors, in any reality.”


Sideways passed Raymond a translucent, wafer-thin device. Raymond provided his authorization for the transfer of funds, then massaged his temples.

“A real pleasure.” Sideways pulled out his chewing gum and dropped it into a small zip-lock bag which he dumped into his rucksack. A loud humming emanated from several of Sideways’s facial implants, now apparently working in concert. He marched off.

Raymond stood in the gathering dusk, realizing that for Sideways he had already ceased to exist.


One moment Raymond Esposito was in April 2014, the next he was in October 2012.

His insides felt like they’d been torn from his body and stitched back together in the wrong order. He keeled over and puked. Clearing his eyes from the sharp sting of the upchuck, he forced himself to stand. Brain still on overload, he scanned his immediate surroundings.

No one around. Good. Good.

He checked for landmarks. He was in the same spot from which he’d jumped, a dirt path on the outskirts of Charlotte, deserted at this time of night.

Raymond shuffled toward the bed and breakfast he had scouted in 2014, bones aching as though they had been beat with a steel pipe, muscles spent as if he’d just completed a marathon. Breathe, he told himself. Breathe. Remember why you’re doing this. She’s worth all of it—and more.

By the time he arrived he was ready to pass out. “Hi, looking for a single room,” he wheezed.

The gaunt young man at the front desk barely glanced up from whatever was occupying his attention behind the counter. “You got it. Credit card and ID please.”

Raymond reached into the wallet with his fake documents and cleared his throat while the young man ran them through the computer.

“Great, thank you… Mr. Hoffman. My name’s Bert.” With difficulty Bert made eye contact. “Any idea how long you’ll be staying with us, Mr. Hoffman?”

“A few weeks.”

“Sweet.” Bert proceeded to walk Raymond through the amenities and timetables. “Any questions?”

“I think I’m good,” Raymond said, feeling anything but. He glanced at the lobby, comforted by its lack of guests. He had picked this place because it was forty miles from Cherryville, a prudent buffer from his past self. Raymond knew that by jumping into the past he had already created a new parallel timestream where the future could turn out differently from the one he knew—that was the whole point—but he still felt it best not to interact with his past self directly.

“Here’s your key card,” Bert said. “Need a second one?”


Head already swiveling back toward his display, Bert said, “Have a great night.”

“You too,” Raymond muttered, then dragged himself toward his room.

A moment later Bert’s voice called out. “Mr. Hoffman!”

Raymond turned, pyrotechnic pain bursting in his temples. “Yeah?” he groaned.

“Need any help with your luggage?”

Raymond repressed the urge to wretch again. “Actually, I left it in the car,” he lied. His clothes and wallet were all the extras he’d been able to carry on the jump. “Too beat to bring it in tonight.”

Bert frowned. “You sure? I could grab it for you. No trouble at all.”

“I’m sure,” Raymond said. “And please, see that I’m not disturbed in the morning.”

“Okey dokey.”

Raymond made his way upstairs without turning back.


Despite the gauzy curtains that let the sun in at an obscenely early hour, Raymond slept until evening the following day.

When he rolled out of bed he slapped his cheeks to restore circulation to his creaky brain.

Dehydration doubled his heartbeat and made his palms clammy. He guzzled two bottles of complimentary water from the small counter, which helped, but not much.

Over the next hour he regained a semblance of humanity. His eyes stopped feeling like they were dissolving in their sockets. An examination in the bathroom mirror revealed minor bruises on his arms and back, but no welts or protuberances. Eventually he felt clear-headed enough to venture downstairs.

He found the front desk occupied by a plump woman in her mid-sixties.

“Hi, I’m Chris,” Raymond said. “Room twenty eight.”

The woman smiled, revealing large, perfectly white teeth. Her long gray hair was tied in a ponytail and, make-up free, she was radiant.

“Yes, Bert let me know you came in last night,” she said. “I’m Patricia, the owner. Welcome, and I hope you enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Hoffman. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“Actually, I have to mail a letter.”

“We’ll take care of it for you,” Patricia said. “Can it wait till tomorrow’s pickup at noon, or do you need it to go out sooner?”

“Tomorrow’s fine.”

“Great. Just drop it in here.” Patricia pointed to a metallic box labeled “Outgoing.”

“Will do.”

“Mr. Hoffman—Chris, if you don’t mind—how was your check-in?”

“No complaints,” Raymond said, then added: “Bert was helpful.”

“Glad to hear it.” Patricia appeared relieved. “He’s always got his head buried in his devices. I wish he’d spend more time building relationships with actual people, like our guests. So many return, I tend to think of them as extended family.” The word “family” sent Raymond’s mind reeling in unpleasant directions, and she seemed to sense it. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re doing well.”

I didn’t say that, Raymond thought. “Thanks for your help.”

He went out in search of letter-writing supplies. Walking down the street he was overcome by the magnitude of what he’d done. A simple breathing exercise helped get him through his errand. On the way back he stopped at a coffee shop and ordered a triple cappuccino. The barista looked at the time—quarter to nine—and said, “Long day, huh?”

“Long life,” Raymond replied. He sat down in a corner and began composing his letter.

Dear Self, he wrote, then crossed it out. Hi Ray, it’s me. As in, you. I’ve traveled back from the future—He stopped again, crumpled the page and stuffed it in his pocket. Ray, please read this carefully. You have something in common with the person writing this letter to you: your deep love for your wife, Donna Esposito. But don’t worry, I’m not having an affair with her. He went on from there, explaining who he was, and providing as proof details about his relationship with Donna that only he, Raymond, would know. He proceeded to explain that half a year from now, if Raymond took no action, Donna would suffer a massive stroke. Doctors believe these strokes are preventable, he wrote. Here are the things you must do to save your wife.


For the next few days Raymond waited for a response from his younger self. What if I’d received a letter from someone claiming to be me from the future? he asked himself. What would I do? He didn’t like the answers.

He checked himself for jump-related symptoms. Other than the occasional migraine, he only showed mild hair loss—not too bad, all things considered.

Trying to fend off loneliness, Raymond began taking his evening meals in the communal dining area. Occasionally Patricia would spot him and join him for a few minutes.

“If you had the chance to talk to someone you’d cared for a great deal,” Raymond asked her one evening, “someone whom you’d thought lost, what would you say?” He wasn’t actually going to talk to the Donna of this time; that would create too many complications. But it was nice to fantasize.

Patricia didn’t seem taken aback by his heartfelt yet oddly theoretical question. If she was, she hid it well. “I’m not sure I’d have anything to say,” she answered after a thoughtful silence. “If I truly thought I’d lost that person, I’d have done my best to move on.”

“And here I was, thinking you were basically optimistic.”

Puzzlement arched her brow. “What makes you think I’m not?”

“You don’t believe in second chances.”

She grinned. “Romantics looking for a way to correct past mistakes are in for a disappointment. The kind of letdown that doesn’t sit well with my ‘basically optimistic’ outlook.”

Touché, thought Raymond.


Raymond continued sending letters without a return address to his younger self via a forwarding service in New York. He didn’t worry about fingerprints, since they’d simply point to Raymond. In the letters he included an email address for his younger self to contact him, and he checked the account several times a day.

Still no response.

Maybe he’s getting the authorities involved, Raymond thought.

Something had to give. The meager savings in Raymond’s bank account—set up with the identity of a 2014 guest of Donna’s residence—would only last a few more weeks.

And then there were the nightmares. Raymond imagined that the temporal whiplash resulting from his jump had killed someone other than Donna. One night he dreamed about an old man standing in his kitchen, fridge door open, his face a study in horror as he was sucked into a gaping vortex of nothingness. And if Raymond had messed up, it would mean that Tool would carry out the hit and really kill Donna, instead of finding her gone, an event which Raymond’s night terrors brought to life with startling immediacy. Raymond was in the room with her when it happened, could see every detail of her restful face as Tool appeared. Raymond tried to save her but he couldn’t—he couldn’t—he couldn’t move, and—

He woke in a cold sweat, exhausted, disoriented.

Calm down, he told himself. He reiterated the plan’s soundness in his mind, walked himself through it for the umpteenth time. By having Tool plan to kill Donna in October of 2015 at a specific time, I guaranteed that her remaining lifespan precisely equaled the length of my jump. She and no one else must have been struck by the temporal whiplash. She just ceased to exist. No pain. In that reality, we’re both gone.

It wasn’t a particularly comforting thought.


Three days later he finally received an email from his younger self. The message made it clear that his younger self was having trouble accepting Raymond’s story—duh—but that despite his skepticism he was doing as Raymond asked. He’d spoken with Donna and she’d agreed to a medical evaluation. They had already changed their diet and exercise regimens. The event you describe looms four months, three weeks, and two days in the future, the other Raymond wrote, and you better believe I’ll do everything in my power to stop it from happening.

Raymond read the email several times and was ecstatic—at first.

Then he began to wonder. If his plan worked, if Donna was saved, what was he supposed to do with the rest of his life? He was stranded in a reality he himself had created by jumping into the past, one which housed a younger version of himself that was taking care of Donna—so what was left for him to do?


On Raymond’s final evening at the bed and breakfast Patricia approached and asked if he’d mind company.

“It’s the first time you’ve asked for permission to join me,” Raymond said.

“It’s the first time you brought a friend along.” She pointed to the dog-eared book by his plate.

“Books are nice, but I prefer people,” he said. “Please, sit down.”

Patricia studied him before sitting down. That kind of stare, coming from anyone but Donna, would usually have made him uncomfortable. But not this time.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” she said, in a quiet voice, “that room twenty eight has been booked by a different guest tomorrow evening.”

“Yeah.” Raymond blew a little air out of his mouth, somewhere between a sigh and a brrrr. “It’s time to move on. Though I haven’t exactly figured out where I’m going.”

Patricia pulled her chair a little closer to the table. “I’m glad, Chris,” she said. “I really am. Whatever your situation is, I’m happy that you’re moving forward. And I have a little confession of my own to make.”

“Do share.”

“In a few weeks it will be my twentieth anniversary at this bed and breakfast,” she said. “That’s a long time to be in one place. Don’t get me wrong, I love North Carolina and all... ”

“You’re moving?”

“I’m going to give myself a year off. Why not? I’ve worked hard. I can afford it. And Bert can manage—with some help—during that time. I’ve always wanted to travel. Go to Europe. I figure better now than when I’m old and frail.”

The words slipped out of Raymond’s mouth with ease. “It’s hard for me to picture you that way.”

She smiled with her eyes. “If you still haven’t decided what your next step is when I take my sabbatical, maybe Europe will inspire you.”

Raymond thought about his future, but he didn’t have to think for long. “That’s a very appealing offer,” he began, “but I can’t afford—”

“You’d be my guest,” she said. “At least for the first few weeks. Then we’d find a way to work something out.”

He swallowed, at a loss for words.

“You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it,” she said. She wrote down her contact information and slid it across the table.

He didn’t need additional prodding. “Thank you so much, Patricia.”

She scanned the title of his paperback. “Any good?”

“It’s a classic,” he said.

“Does that mean you haven’t read it?”

They both laughed. “I guess there’ll be plenty of time for that in Europe,” he replied.


“Ray, could you sort through the mail inside the house? This is heavy! C’mon already!”

Donna and Raymond were each weighed down by two over-stuffed grocery bags. Despite the hot sun, he had committed the felony of stopping to check the mail on the way in. Sweating, Raymond saw there was only junk mail. He sighed with relief, then caught up with his wife.

After they unpacked the groceries, Donna sipped diet soda and said, “Seriously hon, what were you doing back there?”

“Just trying to be efficient,” he said, wiping the last perspiration from his forehead. “I need a shower.”

“You know,” she said, “you’ve been a little on edge lately. And this mad rush to make us fitness buffs… it’s stressing me out. Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s great,” he fibbed. “I just want us to be healthy. I’m going to clean up now.”

In the shower he lingered under the hot water. He hadn’t told Donna about the letters, or how they’d stopped arriving after he’d sent an e-mail—unanswered—to their alleged author about four months ago. He detested keeping secrets from Donna. It was time to come clean. He would tell her there was nothing to worry about, because even if it had all been true, the disaster day the letters had warned of was today, so they were in the clear.

Donning a fresh set of clothes, and already feeling better, he entered the living room, where Donna was flipping through a magazine on her tablet. “Hungry?” he asked. “I’ve been doing some thinking. Maybe we could talk over macrobiotic shakes?”

She looked up, lips on the cusp of a smile. “Sure. But let me change into something comfy first.”

A few minutes after Donna left the room Raymond heard a loud thump from upstairs, and the thing he dreaded most came to pass.


Raymond admired his wife’s pensive brown eyes. He knew that she was aware of him, could tell from the subtleties of her body language—the slight arch in her back, the relaxed pose of her shoulders—that she was pleased to see him.

“How are they treating you?” He spoke at a normal pace; it helped keep Donna engaged. “They tell me you’re making tremendous progress, thanks in part to our preventive measures. The doctor said that in time you’ll be able to come back home.” He paused, feeling the need, for both their sakes, to temper his enthusiasm. No point in rushing things. Donna was going to need a year of physical therapy to recover, maybe longer.

She moved forward in her chair, and placed her hands, palms upturned, on her lap.

Raymond reached for his bag. “I brought you something I think you’ll like.” He produced a binder, placed it on the teak coffee table. “Red cover and three rings. Your favorite type. And here are some more pictures of us, to keep the scrapbook going.”

Moving in slow motion, Donna opened the binder and slid her fingers along its sleek silver rings.

Raymond placed the photos beside the binder, as well as blank pages, a pencil, soft scissors and glue.

Donna regarded the assortment of marvels as though it represented a universe of possibilities.

Not “as though,” Raymond thought; “for her, that’s exactly what it is.” He recalled the famous poem by William Blake, the line about seeing a world in a grain of sand.

Donna grabbed pencil and paper.

Raymond observed her, thinking about the letters from his older self. According to him, quoting poetry had been Donna’s way of letting his future self know that she had had enough. That event, according to the letters’ sender, had been the catalyst for his plan. She’ll reference William Carlos Williams, the letter had warned. And you’ll understand.

As Donna busied herself with her writing, Raymond considered events. There were two parallel realities now, thanks to his older self: the timestream in which Donna suffered a massive stroke and Raymond decided to jump back in time, killing her in the process, and the reality—his reality—in which the older Raymond arrived from the future and helped him mitigate that disastrous outcome, so that Donna had a mild stroke. Raymond wasn’t sure what his older self would do, now that he was trapped here, but he knew one thing for certain. He, Raymond Esposito from 2012, wasn’t going to attempt the experiment again, not in a few years, not ever. In this reality, he wouldn’t contact Tool or Sideways. He’d remain at his wife’s side, helping her heal, for as long as that took.

“For you,” Donna said, bringing him back to the present. “For you, Ray.”

He read her surprisingly neat print:

The fragility of the flower
penetrates space

There was a pause, and then she began inspecting the photos and setting some aside.

This was the same poem the letter had warned about, but different lines. Donna was his rose, his flower, and her inner fragility was unbruised, despite the physical toll her body had suffered. Raymond smiled, folded the piece of paper and tucked it into his blazer pocket.

“Thank you, Donna,” he said, standing up and placing a hand on her shoulder. “‘It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.’”

Copyright © 2015 by Alvaro Zinos-Amaro


by Leigh Bracket

One of the "10 Books You Pretend to Read (And Why You Should Really Read Them)io9



The Editor's Word

From the Moment I
Laid Eggs in You
by Josh Vogt

Kill Me!

by Sabina Theo
Out of Africa
by David Drake
by Eric Cline
Wait 'Til Next Year
by Jody Lynn Nye

My First Duty
by Eric T. Reynolds

The Mood Room
by Paul Di Filippo
The Rose is Obsolete

by Alvaro Zinos-Amaro
Winter of the Scavengers

by David G. Blake

The Power and the Passion

by Pat Cadigan
Fugue in a Minor Key

by Stewart C. Baker

Terry Brooks

by Joy Ward

Reboots (Part 3)
by Mercedes Lackey
& Cody Martin

From the Heart's Basement
by Barry Malzberg
Science Column
by Gregory Benford

Book Reviews
by Bill Fawcett & Jody Lynn Nye





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Copyright © Arc Manor LLC 2015. All Rights Reserved. Galaxy's Edge is an online magazine published every two months (January, March, May, July, September, November) by Phoenix Pick, the Science Fiction and Fantasy imprint of Arc Manor Publishers.