Summary: At a time when most humans have developed prehensile tails, a woman returns home from a trip to find distinct changes in her loafer of a son.     Bart didn't hear me come into the apartment. He remained hunched over his laptop, headphones corking his ears. The brusque taxi driver plopped my enormous …



The War was over, but we didn't know it yet. We threw bio-grenades into schools, blasted┬áblindly into sick bays, screaming, panting, until word came through the ansible, but we are not posthuman. We return home with the rage still in our throats, our eyes searchlights.