ByC.B. Blanchard

C. B. Blanchard lives and works in the UK, where she makes plans for an apocalyptic future. She writes fantasy and horror and is working on a novel.

  1. There are voices calling from the trees.  One of them is hers.

    *

    It’s hot. Our sheets smell of nightsweat. Her skin is damp and tastes of salt. She stretches out, naked, every hair visible in the hyper-real white light.

    “Maybe we should go for a walk. In the woods? They’re right outside.”

    She sits up and looks at the trees. “No,” she says. “Never in the woods.”

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