The Wistful Petal
Can you tell a lie if the paper says yes? I asked the clerk at the airlock, my fingers stained with the rust of the maintenance hatch, and he only stamped the transit permit with a dull thud. The stamp was red, a violent wound on the white cardstock. I am Lois Sturgis. I am thirty-four. I am the mail clerk for Station Four, and I am trying to prove my sister, Martha, died by accident, not by...
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