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Lucinda woke up in darkness. There was some sort of noise, like a hum or maybe a very low tune coming from outside.
I got yelled at frequently for lying on the ground when I had a perfectly sturdy bed to sleep on.
The last thing she remembered was Abuela’s panic. It rang through her as Abuela’s soft hand pressed against her forehead.
Jagged machines whose ancient forms I can’t imagine claw at the blue expanse above us. A graveyard of metal monsters.
The steel was cold in Marc’s hands as he climbed the side of the house, bones groaning with the beams as they took his weight.
I am starting this article—as is too-frequently the case—with a formal protest of the Daily Spectacle’s editorial policies.