There was no net. There was no audience, either. Not a live one, anyway. Just corpses, staring up into the big top.
If Sally didn't make it to the waiting arms of the other trapeze artist, no-one would gasp as she fell screaming through the air, no-one would rush to help as she lay broken on the packed dirt.
She screwed up her nerve. They were in sync: now was the time. She leapt. For a moment, she feared she'd fallen short. But the hands were there. Sally grasped them, relieved.
Skeletal arms broke free and plummeted down with her.
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alt="To Cleave the Crone by E.M. McCormack"
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height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="They Only See Me When I Cry by Alara Rogers"
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loading="lazy"
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height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="The Last Leprechaun by Dakria"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Sitting on Aine's Cursed Stone by Crystal N. Ramos"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>