The mosquitoes ignored Claudette. They feasted on the rest of us, whining in ears as we slumbered uneasily beneath nets. We begged for her insect repellent, her face and arms porcelain white, and were dismayed to discover she didn't use any.
One night she cut her finger on broken glass. What reluctantly seeped out was like rust rather than blood.
“I'm anaemic.” She shrugged.
In the morning, Jodie didn't wake up, puncture wounds at her neck, polka-dot body pale and cold.
That evening, Claudette sat pink and glowing before the fire, a constellation of mosquitoes circling her, awaiting their share.
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="It Won't Hurt by Kimberly Rei"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="88 Miles Per Hour aka The 5 Ps of Time Travel by Timmy le Frog"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="The Void Between Two Heartbeats by M. Tensor"
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