The future is closer than we know, but so is the past. Turn a corner and you may find yourself swallowed by another era: by a cloud of dust, by a house, by a black and sunless world–by the swirling hair of your lover. Each will carry you to a time that was no more distant than the lines on your palm. Each will carry you effortlessly into the next.
Dustbaby, by Alix E. Harrow
There were signs. There are always signs, when the world ends.
A July Story, by K.L.
Iron red, linseed-cured, and caked in salt, in a place where the mercury never crept much above fifty Fahrenheit, the two-room house chose to keep its back to the sea. A wise choice, given the facing of the windows and the predilections of the wind.
Black Planet, by Stephen Case
Em did not dream the world. When the lights went out and the absence of her brother in the room across the hall became palpable, it was simply there, hanging in the space above her bed. She would stare at its invisible form, spinning silent and unseen, until she slept.
The Law of the Conservation of Hair, by Rachael K. Jones
That it has long been our joke that our hair lengths are inversely proportional, and cannot exceed the same cumulative mass it possessed on the day we met.