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Twy-Yice by Liz Churchill
The funny thing about the night I bump into her is that I’ve got some cracking power ballads going on in my head. Proper wind machine stuff. I’m in an eighties music video. I’m in a shoulder-padded dress.
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THE WEATHER CHANGES HERE SO FAST, by Jack Petrubi
He’s awoken at dawn by snuffling on the blankets at the end of the bed. The room is dark, embers in the wood burner glowing iron red. But there’s no use lying there, not now. He can’t get back to sleep once he’s awake. Besides, there are things to do.
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OF SPRITES AND SPIRITS, by Jim Toal
The dump was a big, steep-sided crater in an old slagheap next to Miley’s scrap yard. From the top, fourteen-year-old Habib lobbed a stone at a fridge poking out of brambles that crept up the slopes. It missed. Beside him, his friend Craig balanced the upturned bonnet of a Ford Fiesta on the lip of…
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