Venus:

You are well aware of how to procure an accurate prophecy. You’ve been doing it for years and this year is no different. 

You cycle into outer space. It is a warm June night in England and a cold, unnamed never-time everywhere else in the universe. When you find the prophecy, it has been circling a distant sun for a millennia. It looks like gold and feels warm, the temperature of skin. You tuck it under your tongue and it tastes like raw egg yolk. 

Continue reading ““Seven Women: Details of a Generational Curse” Fiction by M. R. Massey”