Tuesday, 19 July 2016


By Nick Metcalfe.

At the instant of death, his body crumpled to the ground. Left standing was a glowing image of the man. It glanced down at the wrinkled husk at its feet. The glimmering figure already had the appearance of gangling youth. It looked around, wonder on its face, the image racing pell-mell back through childhood, younger and smaller, until with an inaudible pop it disappeared - and the music stopped. Music? It had been at a high register, an unearthly keening, the resonances of his unique DNA chain, the siren song that had been he, somehow made audible for terminal playback.

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