QB
Staff of QB
Gaby sat up in bed one morning and said aloud to herself, “I only like apple juice, but I don’t have a juicer.” Then she drew a picture of her dilemma and placed it in her scrapbook of personal dilemmas.
That morning’s dilemma, along with her signature “Quirky Gaby” picture, was seen by nearly five million people who follow “THE QUIRKY GABY DILEMMA.” By next week, she’d received a dozen juicers. Gaby diligently tested the machines, resolving that particular “QUIRKY GABY DILEMMA” by picturing herself drinking apple juice next to the deluxe brand. Her fans were relieved.
The next morning, Gaby sat up in bed and said aloud, “Why do I have small paperclips when larger ones do the same thing?”
Gunshots. Alarm. Money in the trunk. Floor it.
That’s always how it goes. From the driver’s seat, I never see the blood. But sometimes, I wonder who’ll be mourning tomorrow.
My car idles in an alley across from the bank. I clutch the steering wheel with white knuckles, waiting for Andy to finish. Two pops – gunshots.
A sharp knock on the passenger window. I jump.
It’s some old woman. She wilts over a cane, barefoot and dressed in a hospital gown.
I wave her off. She knocks again.
Anxiety curdles in my gut. I lean over, rolling down the passenger window.
“Petey! It’s you!” she croaks.
“I… lady, I’m not Petey.”
I begin closing the window. She sticks a sunspot-speckled hand in the gap, frowning.
“Why aren’t you at work, hon?”
The bank alarm wails.
I frantically bat her hand away. “Ma’am, please, you’ve gotta go—”
“Ma’am?” She crosses her arms. “You might be grown, but I’m still your mother.”
I hear Andy before I see him, duffel bag thudding into the trunk. He runs up the passenger side, then stops.
“Liam, who the fuck is this?”
“I-I don’t… she just—“
Andy shoves the woman, her cry cut short by the smack of pavement. He rips open the door and jumps in.
I gape at him.
“The hell’re you waiting for? Drive!”
I floor it, shaking. In the rearview mirror, I see blood pooling on the concrete. This time, I know exactly who’ll be mourning tomorrow.
The pair of dice clatter to the table. When they come up snake eyes, Tony aims his revolver at me and cocks the hammer. My fingers dig pits into Lilith’s soot-black arm.
“You said these couldn’t lose!” I hiss.
She nods, hellfire crackling in her eyes. “If they’re carved from the bones of someone who loved you, they can’t.”
“But I brought you—”
The demon yanks her arm free. “No family’s perfect, sweetie.”
I gape at the dice.
The pips on mom’s arthritic finger bones look away before Tony’s bullet settles my debt.
Chris Doty-Dunn writes weird, speculative fiction, often with a queer bent.
Every afternoon, she jogs through the park next to my apartment. She’s athletic, gorgeous, blonde, sweet enough to wave at toddlers.
All I have that might catch her attention is Wasabi, the fluffy mutt I adopted from the pound. But even a schlub can shoot his shot.
Three days straight, I walk Wasabi down the path and try to make eye contact. Blondie jogs past me without a glance.
“You don’t want her.” The voice comes from behind a bush. “She’s a cat person.”
It’s that weird girl. She wears black even in summer, sunglasses day and night. Her little gray dog looks like a hairball.
Thursday, I pretend to trip and fall. Blondie never breaks stride. Goth Girl walks over and hands me a Band-Aid. “For your bruised ego.” Jesus. What’s her deal?
Friday, I go out wearing the zebra costume I found at Goodwill. If I can make Blondie smile…
She frowns like I’m a fugitive zoo animal and sprints away. I sigh, push the hood back, wipe sweat from my brow.
“Nice outfit.” Goth Girl lifts her sunglasses atop her head. Her hazel eyes are striking in the setting sun. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“Wasabi.” Our dogs dance the circular butt-sniff tango. When we untangle the leashes, my arm brushes hers.
“Mine’s name is Pesto.”
“Heh. Saucy.”
“I’ve been called worse.” Her smile is big and warm.
I look down at my zebra stripes. Maybe weird is more my speed. “Want to take a walk?”
This month...
Contributions from...
Anatoly Loginov, Brett Abrahamsen, Chris Doty-Dunn, DC Trull, David Sydney, Dorian Alexander, E. Florian Gludovacz, E.J. LeRoy, Gabriella Dolores Menezes, Greg Clumpner, Gregg Chamberlain, Imrak Eriksson, JS Apsley, Jacob Mack, Jen Mierisch, Kelly Murashige, Leigh Loveday, Matthew R. Davis, Meagan Kane, Melanie York, Mike Murphy, Nicholas De Marino, Pam Avoledo, Pauline Barmby, Robert Cumming, Rachel Rodman, Sheree Shatsky, Sophia Jane Hayden, Tatiana Samokhina, Zoe Davis
Cover art
featuring photograph by Ivana Cajina
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First thing’s shaving. Careful on the snout.
I know, but it grows back thinner, I swear. Those creams cause rashes and split ends.
Where’s your collar? You don’t want to get put down as a stray, do you?
Here, try mine. You love rhinestones.
Well, you used to. Oh, and remember to chew thoroughly. That story about Grandma and Little Red Lupicide, that’s a real thing.
I know you know, but I want you to say it.
Thank you.
Wow. Just last moon you were my little cub. Pretty soon you’ll be the alpha.
Now run along before I cry.
Research into the sleeping habits of felines has revealed what cat owners intuitively know: if your cat sleeps in your bed, your comfort is a secondary consideration—if it’s a consideration at all. The five most popular feline sleeping styles are as follows:
The Sprawler: Takes up more of the bed than should be physically possible. Defends their territory with claws or teeth.
The Too-Cute-To-Move-Er: Similar to the Sprawler, but asserts their territorial claim through cuteness, which makes disturbing them unthinkable.
The Inconvenience Maximizer: After you have fallen asleep, the Inconvenience Maximizer settles themselves between your knees when you’re sleeping on your back or in the crook of your bent legs when you sleep on your side. Upon waking up with aching muscles from being in the same position too long, many cat owners will endure intense discomfort rather than disturbing their pet.
The Pillow Hogger: Claims the pillow as their sleeping space and dares you to argue. In these cases, it’s usually best to retreat to the couch or a guest bedroom unless you fancy a trip to the Emergency Department for stitches.
The Lullaby Singer: Lulls you to sleep with rhythmic purring, the combination of sound and vibration being a surefire cure for insomnia. Don’t be fooled. Singing a feline lullaby is a calculated ploy so the cat can gain permission to sleep in the bed. In the course of the night, the Lullaby Singer often morphs into the Too-Cute-To-Move-Er or the Inconvenience Maximizer.
Lisa Timpf’s speculative writing has appeared in Lorelei Signal, NewMyths.com, Polar Borealis, and other venues.
You never leave
the fringes of my mind
Just there on the peripheral edge
looking at me like that
Distractingly beautiful
but you prefer people
say your funny