QB
Staff of QB
Hype
E. Florian Gludovacz
Francis adjusted his VR goggles and loaded the boss fight of “Brain+Crash” in hard mode. The reviews had piqued his interest, calling it the most extreme game of the year.
“The sudden death feature makes this game stand out!”
“Unforgettable!”
“A once in a lifetime experience!”
He wasn’t a proficient gamer, but he really wanted to try it. The game started and he found himself in the combat area. Before he could react, the final boss crushed him to death.
Flexible steel filaments shot from the VR goggles, punched through his skull’s orbital fissure and into his brain.
Sudden death!
Florian writes stories, likes cheese, and is a friend to dogs and pandas everywhere. @ndbag.bsky.social
The Heartbeat of Creation
A.J. McCrae
The blood is never mine, but I wear the crimson stains dripping from my skin, smothering the handles of each tool as I saw bone and sew skin. Remove one limb and give to another. The body must be perfect where humanity is not. Skin enclosing the superior botanical system thriving within.
A final puzzle piece, the heart thrums in my grip, lifeless and yet life-giving. I place it within the ribs and allow the vines snaking through the chest to grab hold. They wrap the organ and squeeze once, twice, red saturating green as the body quakes into being.
A.J. McCrae
Home Safe
Imrak Eriksson
It wasn’t the worst breakup.
But I still wanted my mum. She didn’t say a lot—just listened and repeated “it’ll be okay” while I broke down.
My friends took me out drinking. I don’t remember much, except that I threw up after. I cried as my stomach heaved. I had no one to hold my hair out of the way.
The doorbell rang shrilly through my hangover. It was a man with a bag of tools and a large box. He showed me an email from my landlord authorising essential works. I let him in and crawled back to bed.
He was gone when I awoke. A red light blinked at me from a cobweb-encrusted corner of my bedroom. I walked around my flat. The sick sloshing in my stomach cooled instantly—watchful red lights blinked from every corner.
The TV was on, screen glowing:
Welcome to Home Safe. Your privacy settings have been adjusted to Care Mode.
My head thumped, and I reached for some painkillers.
A dialling tone sounded, and the screen flashed:
Risk threshold exceeded. Emergency contact notified: Calling…
Calling…
I fumbled for the remote, too slow.
Connected.
My mother’s voice, laced with panic, filled the room.
“Are you okay, darling?”
Imrak Eriksson is a former rocket scientist turned patent lawyer who spins daydreams into fiction.
The Writer’s Guide to Idea Hunting
Lisa Timpf
Hunting ideas can be hit-and-miss. Either you have so many ideas you are frantic at the thought you will never be able to use them all, or you are visited by too few. Patience in those lean times is required. Don’t be too hard on yourself—hunting ideas is no easy task.
Ideas travel quietly, and cannot be detected by the normal five senses, although sometimes, if you latch onto a really good one, you can hear it reverberate through your soul like a temple gong’s solemn tones.
Ideas love to shelter in the dense thickets of your subconscious, and must be coaxed out with care. If you startle them, they will vanish, never to be seen again.
Ideas are the children of trickster gods. They love to flit into our conscious minds when we are preoccupied with other matters. Beware: the quality of an idea will often be inversely proportional to the convenience of writing it down. Ideas may drop into your head while you’re dog-walking, showering, or mowing the lawn. In such circumstances, it’s best to engrave the idea in your mind (not literally, that would be messy) until you can get your hands on a notepad.
On the bright side, unlike game hunting, idea hunting is always in season, and there no limits on how many you catch.
Which reminds me, I could use a few new ideas. Maybe I should go out and shovel the snow . . .
Lisa Timpf’s speculative writing has appeared in Lorelei Signal, NewMyths.com, Polar Borealis, and other venues.
The Gunslinger’s Go Boat
R.J. Butler
The gunslinger put his revolver in a sack and rented a rowboat.
The lake was flat. It was like a blank piece of paper. He rowed with a seriousness reserved for funerals and card games, every splash sounding like an apology.
The gunslinger admitted to himself that he always wanted to be a seahorse but lacked the correct breathing apparatus. He drifted off into the sunset that holstered the day.
The boat never fired.
It had an alibi.
R.J. Butler
Drum Tab Minus Guitar Solo
Nicholas De Marino
C|——————|—————|—————|——————|
H|——————|—————|—————|——————|
S|——o—o——|—o——o—|—o——o—|—o——o—|
B|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—|
We will, we will … provide a socially acceptable outlet for violence that’s effec-
C|——————|—————|—————|——————|
H|——————|—————|—————|——————|
S|——o—o——|—o——o—|—o——o—|—o——o—|
B|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—|
tively a proxy war and fosters intense hatred and bitter rivalries, just like George
C|——————|—————|—————|——————|
H|——————|—————|—————|——————|
S|——o—o——|—o——o—|—o——o—|—o——o—|
B|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—|
Orwell’s said in “The Sporting Spirit,” though it sure as shit beats actual war.
Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer. More at foofaraw and nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
A Quiet Claim
Steven Van Der Heyden
He had withdrawn from the world after making a choice he never defended, telling himself it was temporary, then letting years pass unchecked. He drifted in a void without beginning or end, unsure when retreat had become habit. Yet a gnawing sense persisted: his story would not be denied.
Time pressed closer, subtle and unrelenting, and he felt the quiet claim of age settling into his bones, behind his eyes. What he had postponed now demanded recognition.
In that suspended moment he understood: neglecting one’s story is no escape. The world waits for no one, and what he called silence had always been a decision.
Steven Van Der Heyden
The Dance
Karl El-Koura
The DJ announced the next song would be the last of the night, a final slow number to share with that special someone.
My legs were killing me. I’d only just slid down the wall to rest on our high school gymnasium’s floor. But this was it. Now or never.
I pushed myself up with help from the wall.
Don’t already be dancing with someone, I prayed.
She wasn’t. She sat by herself at a round table, sipping a soda.
Just don’t say no, I prayed as I walked up to her, as I asked her to dance. Just don’t say no.
She turned her pool-blue eyes on me. She smiled slowly, then she started laughing. She laughed and laughed and laughed so hard that I began to worry she might hurt herself. Then she got up and walked over to where a group of her friends were standing around, and struggled to stop laughing long enough to tell them what had happened. Her friends looked at where I was standing, frozen in place. They all broke out into laughter too.
I sat down with my back to them, so she wouldn’t see the smile on my face. She’d laughed at me, sure. But she’d never said no.
Karl El-Koura lives with his family in Ottawa, Canada's capital city, and works a regular job by day while writing fiction at night. To find out more about Karl, visit his website at ootersplace.com.