INGA ORTIZ [Assassin #6] stood above the corpse of Governor Irina Blythe-Pillsworth. The governor’s eyes were staring up at the gilded bathroom ceiling in the Grand City Hotel. They betrayed none of the horror they’d shown when she’d turned a corner, just moments ago, and saw an Employed leaning against a marble sink.
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Sparking arms, busted legs, broken heads, and smoking torsos, fell into the sewer with splashes and wet slaps. I listened from the top of the pile, upside down and pressed between a torso and a cement wall. I heard, above me, men return the cart to SynCorp’s loading dock. I paused for a few beats of silence and turned on my ocular lights.
Read moreFlog Hill: Four Poems
When I was a kid I made a pocket in my head / and held the family dog inside for a whole week / before dad realized he hadn’t run away. / Dad made me bring Hero back but he was older / and he said I was his favorite, now.
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