QB
Staff of QB
A Strange Day in Hell
ETHAN LUCE
The day I died and went to Hell, I was shocked. I wasn’t supposed to go here! I marched through the brimstone bogs and burning fields until I reached Lucifer himself. The Devil was a colossal snake with red eyes aglow.
“I can’t be in Hell, that makes no sense.”
“That’s what they all say,” He chuckled maliciously. “You know what you did.”
“No, not like- I mean it makes no sense because I’m Jewish.”
“Hmm… Are you sure you’re not just a wee bit Christian?”
“No. I’ve never even eaten pork.”
Lucifer paused.
“You know what, you’re right, it really doesn’t. We’ve never even gotten a Buddhist before. This is a first.”
And so Lucifer sent me on my way to my proper afterlife. He’s really a nice fellow once you get to know him. I don’t know why he gets such a bad rap.
Ethan Luce is an author. He has been published in Dear Human and Borderline Tales.
New Glasses
CHRIS DOLAN
The poetry of artificial intelligence
bends the circuits of my knees
Exuberant, two-toned humming
with love like
large language models love
of the em dash
That straight lightning bolt —
the em dash
Imitation breath in place of depth
My mortal mind
dash deficient
fails to pause
buffering and empties
bit by brittle bit
If only I were digital!
Binary by design — I could flee
this high-key Pantone
posing as existence
Are one and zeros made of
atoms? I ask my eyesight
Chris Dolan writes out of Iowa, where water nitrate levels are far too high.
The Family Collection
MONICA LYREHART
Cynthia affixes her head on the mantle, beside her others. Really, which to wear for those who'll come knocking?
Perhaps… Indiana State Fair, 1963? Her grandmother's burnt and blistered lips grimace down at her. It's a face for keeping neighbors off the lawn.
Home, 2009? She tries on her old head. Cracked jaw. Bruised eye.
No. Something softer for the kids. They deserve soft. She hesitates over the last head. Caresses it. Yes. It’ll be like a friend.
She answers the first bingbong of the night.
“TRICK OR—”
Their devilish smiles invert. Tears well.
Strange.
“You don't like Preschool 2020?”
Monica is a speculative fiction author, poet, writing contest goblin, and “the best mommy ever.”
Suck it Shel Silverstein
ADRIENNE REX
I am not your giving tree
You may not eat my fruit
You will not break my branches
You cannot cut my roots
You shall not carve off parts of me
My bark’s grown thick with thorns
I will not be a giving tree
Not yours
Not yours
Not yours
Adrienne Rex is a writer, a Texan, and a weirdo. Find her here: https://adrienne-rex-writes.carrd.co/
Svea Research Station, April 2177
MEGHAN MURPHY
Sunglasses, lawn chairs, woolen parkas, and his favorite book. Erik watched Astrid build a snow-castle in the almost balmy Antarctic Polar Desert.
The sun was large in the sky. Too large. All projections said they’d be safe here… for now. The equator; uninhabitable. Antarctica; the new vacation destination. He sipped his tea and reclined his head, finger bookmark in place.
“Look! You can read it now!” Astrid’s voice drew his eyes to the large stone with ancient carving in the ice-melt. “What’s it say, Dad?”
Erik sighed, reopening his book, licking his thumb to turn the page. “Ragnarok, sweetie.”
—Meghan Murphy
Cue
LINDAANN LOSCHIAVO
Literary Aids
E.J. LEROY
Poets and writers each have their vices
Whether it’s drugs, arthouse movies, or tea
How they all swear by their own devices
To create time-honored works for a fee
The faint promise of fame that entices
Against all work ethics’ stodgy decrees
The dance between professional and fun
Candy in pill bottles? That’s a new one
E.J. LeRoy is a Pushcart Prize-nominated writer with a forthcoming mpreg novella. Curious? Visit http://ejleroy.weebly.com.
Fortio’s Folly
LISA TIMPF
Apprentice wizard Fortio pulled up a chair, grinning in anticipation. He set his pint of foaming beer on a coaster and covertly studied the humans at the table from under shaggy eyebrows.
Friday was games night at the Boar’s Head Pub. He’d been longing to join in for months now. He’d had to sneak away from his master, the great wizard Greybeard, to get here tonight. He hoped the jeans and sweater he’d liberated from a neighbor’s laundry line would conceal his identity. Better than wearing my robe and regalia, he told himself.
Fortio shook his head as he remembered the veiled warnings the wizards back at the School had given, about the dangers of mixing with humans. Overdone, like most of their warnings, he thought. How could these weak creatures harm him?
He took a long pull on his beer as he checked out the game box on the table. Pandemic. He’d never played before, but if humans could do it, surely he could manage.
On his first turn, he flipped a card over.
In a distant city, a child began to cough.
Lisa Timpf’s writing has appeared in Star*Line, Polar Borealis, Scifaikuest and other venues.