QB
Staff of QB
Steal My Sunshine
Floyd Largent
When Lem Trapper reached his second set, he found a monster waiting. “Damn you! You humans ruined everything!” it howled.
Lem turned and ran. It chased after, screaming imprecations… right up until it fell into the pit. Then it started kvetching, like they all did.
Arvid Trader ran his fingers through the pelt. “Never seen the like. Some kinda bear?”
“Bigfoot. Talkers. Blame us for the moon fallin’ on the world back when.” Lem grinned. “This’un kept cryin’ 'bout missing ‘the warm.’ Claimed it used to be sunny here year-round.”
Arvid glanced at the thigh-deep Miami perma-snow and scoffed, “Hogwash.”
Floyd Largent
Chopping at the Uncarved Block
Jason Ryberg
The mist is moving
through the deep piney backwoods
like an army of
gray ghosts, while some strange figure
at the dark heart of
the forest is chopping at
the uncarved block of
human potentia with
Occam’s double-bladed axe.
Jason Ryberg
My Bus Driver Thinks He's A Medieval Knight
Hazel Pearson
He loyally and valiantly defends the honor of the transit system, steering his noble steed and carting a carriage of tittering passengers behind him. A young maiden mounts the vehicle, smiling as she flashes her plastic bus card. She scans it.
Insufficient funds.
He watches as the maiden, so fair before, turns into the most fell of beasts. Her nose elongates and transforms to a scaly snout, her fingers curling with claws. He can barely understand her next grating taunt through the reptilian voicebox.
“Can I get on?”
The dragon starts to cackle, and he shields his ears, realizing that she’s aiming for his carriage full of wealthy lairds. Clearly, the beast expects him to wave her through. But it won’t be that easy.
“You need money to get on this bus.”
The dragon roars, her gums withdrawing sickeningly to reveal sharp white fangs. Her fire is blocked by his shield. He put it up just in time.
“I know,” he hears the dragon say. “I forgot my card today.”
“This isn’t a school bus,” he says, eyes trained on the dragon, who starts to look downwards, shame in her eyes. The most powerful of magical forces, embarrassment shrinks her, and suddenly it’s only a little beast standing in front of him. The flame wouldn’t be strong enough to light a candle.
“You can go through this time, but don’t expect this type of lenience in the future.”
The dragon slinks towards the back of his bus. Another foe defeated.
Hazel Pearson
All Tied Up
Stuart Docherty
We’d been looking for Freddie for hours when we found him. He was still in the yoga studio, still on his mat. Something had gone wrong; he was all tied up in himself and couldn’t get free. His elbows had merged with his ankles, and his right foot had conjoined to his shoulder. His head was tucked under the crook of his knee, and he went wide eyed when we burst into the room.
“Freddie,” we said, “what’s happened to you?”
“Nothing,” Freddie said back. “The usual. You know.”
He wasn’t suffering. He was there, all mixed up, and smiling. When I stepped around the other side of him, there he was, still smiling.
“Quit looking at me like that, Fred,” someone on the other side of him said. “You’re freaking me out.”
When we tried to help him out of it, he started to weep then shout at us.
“I’m no different than you all,” he said. “Just leave me be.”
And so, we did.
Stuart is a British writer and poet based in Tokyo, where he writes, eats too much, and pretends to speak Japanese.
The Cutest Little Outlaw in the West
E.J. LeRoy
Wanted
One Eastern cottontail
Last seen destroying plants
In neighborhood yards
Also wanted: one stewpot
E.J. LeRoy is a Pushcart Prize-nominated writer with a forthcoming mpreg novella. Curious? Visit http://ejleroy.weebly.com.
Warning: There Are No Paintings in the Museum
Elle Burnett
Lucas Sampson
The Oeil
2125.001.1a-z
Glass & metal
On loan from the Center for Correct Thought
The American Museum of Art and Design is proud to debut our only exhibit. The Oeil is a 10-foot-tall monolith dedicated to restoring sanity to our museum sector.
The Oeil uses revolutionary facial diagnostic technology to read the expression of the viewer, and run it against their algorithm recommendations from the past 30 days. The Oeil tracks changes in facial expressions, and adjusts accordingly. With these revolutionary changes, you never need to feel a moment of boredom again.
For example, if you feel joy, the Oeil will take inspiration from a cherished memory, and allow you to immerse yourself in the experience. If you feel sad, the Oeil will generate content based on your personalized serotonin algorithm. If you feel inquisitive, the Oeil will pull from the list of approved art and literature, and place your favorite characters in new and exciting situations. Think about the Mona Lisa with a fantastic new smile!
If you feel discontent, we have already notified the proper authorities.
Lucas Sampson believes that good art lies in the perspective of the morally just, and seeks to share these corrected thoughts with all eligible visitors. On behalf of all members of the American Museum of Art, we are proud to debut the last, and only, piece of art you will ever need to see.
So, look up, and enjoy the best we have to offer.
Elle Burnett is a writer and historian, interested in the intersections between place, social memory, and the layers of asbestos between them.
Cyborg
Brett Abrahamsen
There were one trillion homo cyborgs – which descended from the doomed ape homo sapiens – and all of them experienced different realities. One might see a void, for instance. The other, a wall. Another would see trees. None of these things were actually there. There was only one homo cyborg who saw reality as it truly was: a planet with billions of homo cyborg inhabitants. The homo cyborg attempted to communicate, but it was useless: no one could perceive him, despite the 396 senses present in the Universe. Finally he looked for a gun – thousands of them were littered across the barren Earth – and put it to his head.
The author has sold dozens of works to numerous publications. He resides in Saratoga Springs, NY
Cinders
Alethea Paul
Step-mother said I’d never leave. That I’d never see a foreign kingdom, the sea, or snow fall. But now I watch flakes float from the dusking sky, catch one, and taste freedom on my tongue.
I was forced to clean. The house, the hearth by candlelight. Wasting no coals for myself.
Thrill shivers through me.
The night waxes, while incandescent hues paint the clouds, mirroring below.
Did you know revenge burns cold?
Yes, call me Cinder. Tonight the flames rise, and your ashen flakes fall. I’ve cleansed you from this world and taste the embers that were once your skin.
Alethea Paul writes speculative flash fiction and dabbles, or drabbles, in literary. Find her @aletheapaul.bsky.social.