Fatha he always knows best, he knowed it when I was born and he knows it now as he takes his hatchet to this man’s skull to break it open like an egg and let the brains run out all gooey and grey like porridge and smelly like the insides of a cat. This man he came tearing down our street on a motorbike making all manner of ruckus in the early morning light, juking his way around all them brokendown cars in the road and the rotting dead folks inside them, but we keep all the windows up so’s we don’t have to smell them. This man he sure took the wrong turn if he thought he’d be passing by our way alive.

First it was the arrow Fatha planted in his back from fifty yards; Fatha with his crossbow is a sure-dead shot. The gas-chugging bike it flipped off one way and smashed into a rusty car and this man he dropped the other way, clawing at his back like had a chance to rip out the thing.

“You got him good!” I whooped and danced, kicking up dust and ash that makes the whole world smell like an old fireplace.

The latest issue of Shimmer is now available in print and digital formats, and it includes my story "Soulless in His Sight." Back in November, I blogged about the journey "Soulless" took me on, and I asked this question: Have you ever had a story to tell, and you knew it was inside you waiting to burst forth, but you were too afraid you wouldn't be able to do it justice? For me, it was this story, and I can't express how happy I am to finally be able to share it with you.

Thanks for reading.
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