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Blood and Verse by John Meaney *** AND RAIN. I’m not going to forget this rain. Now I’m in love. Not wholly good news. For the woman I’ve fallen in love with... My father. I will honour your memory. ...is not the one I’m meant to kill. *** Silver rain hisses on the dark wooden dock. Ocean swirls, in all directions. Swollen, dark purple-grey skies hang overhead, their sombreness broken by twin arcs of white points: the sunlets which ring this world. I stand beneath dripping ceramic eaves, watching. Twelve of Quinvère’s tiny suns are visible—thirteen, if I lean outwards, over the waves—above the boundless seas which define this place. No skimmers are visible amid the falling rain. She’s gone... For a moment, our eyes met: minutes ago, or was it years? Perhaps twenty SY old, lithe with clear ivory skin and cropped hair, she stood straight-backed, and her stare was as helplessly lost as my own. Then she shook herself, walked out onto the dock, and climbed on board the public skimmer which had brought me here. Striding forward with athletic grace, she called to the driver, then took the controls, span the long skimmer into open ocean, and—in a burst of flying spume |
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