She liked to imagine that her long, red-coated nails made her hands look like the blood-tipped wings of a snowy owl after a kill.

“It will get easier.” Sonja tossed the lie over her shoulder but kept walking.

Crystal’s occasional whispering in her ear became a solar wind that entered her, heating and cooling, expanding and contracting, uniting and dividing. When Crystal took her hand and stroked her fingers, Sonja felt herself merge with the nebula, this one a red blend of apple, berry, and currant that appeared to her like a crimson butterfly on black satin. She closed her eyes as the space outside and the space within met.

— Strange Attractors by Ana K. Wrenn (0%)