Things Fall Apart



There was a knock at the door.


Boris did up his robe, tripped over a pile of books, undid the latch. He had to wrench the oaken portal open, as it jammed on a pile of doilies.

A woman in black stood in the frame, grinning crookedly. “Boris Rhodof?” she asked, extending a hand. Boris took it, blinked at the strength of the thin fingers. He noted the woman’s cropped black hair, her belted gun, her backpack bulging with nets and steel. He swallowed.


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Benton

Chief Producer of Typos at Incunabuli.com.

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