Special Issue: Horo-Flash
Leo: Lions by Emma Kernahan

They decided, in the end, to dress as lions. The Government guidelines had been very specific about wearing animal pelts to avoid infection, but Josh was chair of the local wildlife trust, so they compromised and used the costumes from a recent production of Cats the musical.

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Leo: Regulus by Emjay Holmes

Lily rubbed the fibres between her fingers, coarse like coir or horsehair. She flipped Ed’s recliner on its side. It sagged, not surprising the months he’d slept there, the stairs impossible. When the pain kept him awake, he’d sit, picking out constellations through his telescope.

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Leo: Natural Born Killers by Anita Arlov

The light’s hinged. You missed three texts last night. “It’s a salmon dawn,” you whisper, leaning close to wet-wipe Leonie’s chin. She stirs, sleep mucus pearling in the corners of her eyes.

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Cancer: Crabbing by Batnadiv HaKarmi

When my sister painted her bedroom dark purple, and marked off the Cancer constellation in glow-in-the-dark puff paint, my mother barely blinked. “She’s working out her interests,” she said. She sounded proud.

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Cancer: dolphin love & Crab Pot by Len Kuntz

i lose you in winter melon soup under a broth of cloud cover ginger slices floating where your eyes once did no chance for extradition the weight of absence and imbalance prepping a slow fade to nowhere i find a hairline fracture in the china resembling lost nerve my spoon clanging like a warped church bell

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Cancer: Crab by Luke Rolfes

She clapped her hands and said “I’m supposed to love Cancers,” when she found out his birthday. Her name was Bobbi. Even though he went by Robert, she insisted they be known as the Bobbies. Her favorite restaurant was Red Lobster—imagine that.

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Gemini: Purr by Charmaine Wilkerson

Absurd, my boyfriend said, when I blamed the cat’s flip-flop behavior on its astrological sign, the pulsing flick of its tail twisting around my shins one moment, a sudden hiss and flight towards the hallway, the next.

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Taurus: Running With The Bulls by Sarah Salway

It was the astrologers who benefited the most when Government decided to cancel April and May. Everyone had agreed that something needed to be done as a result of the climate emergency, but as we struggled for survival, our birth signs had increasingly become our tribes.

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Taurus: Bull and Trout by Patricia Bidar

My wife Maya and I agree on all the big issues. Recycling. Food. Films. Politics, local and global. I don’t touch her neck. She doesn’t muss my thinning hair. Maya’s a Taurus. Inside of her dwells a bull, slow breathing and warm. I am Pisces, the fish.

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Aries: Big Dick Energy by Ken Elkes

At the Big Dick Energy workshop, Alpha Ram yells “exude horns!” right into your ear. You respond “I am the ram” and buck your hips as you’ve been taught, though you’re pretty sure his spittle went right down your ear canal.

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Electric Storm by Kathryn Aldridge-Morris

It’s been twenty minutes since the first bolt of lightning ripped a scar through the purple night sky. Since my mother said to swim in the rain ― it’s fun. Since her boyfriend Colin said he’d join us― to check we’re ok.

Morse Code by Elizabeth Cabrera

The old man fell asleep in his car, his nostrils pressed softly against the steering wheel, but the car kept going, because the old man’s foot was not asleep, was still pressing down hard, and later they would say, it’s not really his fault, he’s such an old man.

Fulfilling by Fiona McKay

Kate is not ‘imagining it’. There are small tufts of pale fluff on her neck, and no, it’s not ‘just a tissue in the washing machine’ as John suggests. There’s nothing drifting off his shirts, nothing clinging to Ella’s favourite black top, Josh’s Minecraft t-shirts. It’s more solid than tissue, just on her clothes. And only she can see it.

Bog Iron by Shane Larkin

We make stops on the way to our bog plot to look at the little skeletons. Dad tells me about them. Curlews and skylarks in dancing poses. Tiny skulls.

Get Your Authentic Stardust Here by JP Relph

The night the sky cracked, I was sprawled on the hood of my car beside that good-for-nothing boy, naming constellations, ignoring his fingers on my neck.