August 15, 2022


by Anna Madden

The moon is fat with silver the night men attack with metal teeth held in their hands.

The stars are holes punched out of a black sky, arrows pouring down. I flee the torrent, the biting sticks like burrs between keeled scales. The air tastes of salt and danger.

The nest is lost, but your egg is safe. I carry it within my maw.

I fear you’ll be born a fool, like me. A mooncalf hatchling, or a shining new dawn? There are so few safe places left. Our world dies one wingbeat at a time, but still, I fly.


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About the Author

Anna Madden’s fiction has appeared in Apex MagazineOrion’s BeltPseudoPod, and elsewhere. In free time she makes birch forests out of stained glass. Follow her on Twitter @anna_madden_ or visit her website at

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