QB
Staff of QB
Labor That Uplifts
KARAMA NEAL
I wasn’t meant for trash. In the aisle next to mops, I dreamed of more.
After examining the options, a customer selected me. I was hopeful, but then she also chose a dustpan.
At home, she placed the dustpan in the closet, leaned me against a wall, and answered a call.
I surveyed the floor - Cheerios under the table, rice on the floor, leaves at the doorway. Resigned, I’d do my job well, with dignity.
She hung up, quickly grabbed her coat, hat … and me! Running out, she straddled me and leapt into the sky.
Finally, I was flying!
Karama Neal writes and thrives in the Lower Mississippi River Watershed. Online at karamaneal.com
Restless Reality
RACHEL CORDASCO
Welcome to Restless Reality!
We’re so glad you’re staying with us (even if the razor-winged magpies say otherwise; don’t listen to them). As a world-class Alternative Hotel of the Unexpected, we’re brimming with caffeinated carpeting, shapeshifting smorgasbords, boundless beds, savory showers, hand-eating heat pipes, and so much more. Hungry after your travels? Grab a sub from the common area (by grab, we mean you need to actually grab it because it might skitter away on its hundred legs, and by sub we could mean a sandwich or a literal submarine, and by common area, we mean either the space where you might find sofas and chairs or the giant warm-blooded womb of a ginglegormer). Tired from running the grapefruit gauntlet while just trying to enter the hotel? Take a snooze on your comfortable bed (it might be a rectangular structure with a mattress, blankets, and pillows or it might be the maw of a recently-resurrected and fiendishly-hungry dilophosaurus named “Bed.” Good luck!). You’ve come here to be surprised, yes? Wonder at how quickly our lamps morph into Lamborghinis, marvel at how our waiters shift into ‘gators, and delight in how quickly our tables transform into tribbles. You never know what’s going to happen 45from moment to moment, but that’s why you’re paying us the big credits, right?!
And remember, getting eaten, liquified, dessicated, dematerialized, or chopped up into a million tiny pieces does not qualify you for a refund. Enjoy your stay!
Rachel Cordasco is a Wisconsin -based independent scholar and writer.
The Fifth Horseman
SAM LESEK
He had followed his four brothers into their wasteland in search of survivors. Before him and his steed lay empty streets and silence.
The world was now dark and still, save for the flickering pinprick of hope that dotted the horizon; a sign of lingering humanity. He tugged his steed's reins and marched onward. How he longed to extinguish that light with the bleak winds he brought forth.
And yet, there was no need to make haste; the work of his brothers continued to diminish the survivors as he drew near, for their hearts already knew his name was
Despair.
Sam Lesek believes that drabbles deserve more love. Find her @samlesek.bsky.social
Noon in the Desert
E.J. LEROY
They say conspiracy theory radio talk shows only play at night. They’re wrong.
Sometimes midday you can hear them. If you drive out of the city into the middle of nowhere. Just listen.
Park and play the radio just right, and you might hear the tales of lizard zombies that crawl out of the Earth’s core following a meteor storm. I almost saw one once; a lizard zombie, I mean.
I know the greys are real. Sometimes, I hear them through the fillings in my teeth, always at high noon. At night, they taunt me with their dreaded Hum.
I use the radio in my old truck and a prepaid burner phone, never a smartphone. You never know who might be listening. But I suspect it’s an organization with jumbled letters. The kind of letters that correspond to numbers that add up to evil.
The people must be warned. Don’t they know the End Times are coming?
I give them a call
“Hello, Friend! You’re on the air!”
And I tell the truth
E.J. LeRoy is a Pushcart Prize-nominated writer with a forthcoming mpreg novella. Curious? Visit http://ejleroy.weebly.com.
Casualties
LISA TIMPF
They sense that something’s not quite right,
these gen-mod dogs of war—
blinking in the too-bright light
they sense that something’s not quite right
so honed as weapons, bred to fight
they do what they’re made for.
Too late, their handlers see the light
first casualties of war.
Lisa Timpf’s speculative writing has appeared in Lorelei Signal, NewMyths.com, Polar Borealis, and other venues.
Inky Spickle
SYLVIE SOUL
"YOU'RE NOT ALONE!" crooned the heavily tatted pa- tron at the front of the bar, concluding his rendition of the David Bowie classic.
There was a smattering of polite applause as the song concluded. The audience was either too inebriated or preoccupied with who would be called up next to the stage to notice that the last singer had exceptionally pointy ears. He took a seat next to his companion, Rhea, a female round of ear.
“Having fun yet, Alden?” asked the woman, sipping her gin and tonic.
“I must say," said Alden, “Carkey is quite enjoyable. I should hope to introduce it to the Southern Realms when I return.” He spoke with an infectious, Highland brogue.
"It's pronounced ‘karaoke’," said Rhea, setting her drink down. "And we're supposed to be keeping a low profile."
Alden waved her off. "You worry too much, Ducky.”
There was a disturbance at the front of the establishment as a band of orcs lumbered into the bar, startling 39the rest of the patrons.
"Crap," Rhea said under her breath. "What now?"
Alden cracked his knuckles and stood up. "Finally...I haven't seen any action in a fortnight."
"Just try not to cause a scene, okay?" cautioned Rhea.
"Remember: be inconspicuous."
Alden brushed his hand along his collarbone, where he had an elaborate tattoo of a broadsword; that same sword materialized in his other hand. As he approached the orcs, he turned and flashed Rhea a mischievous grin.
"Relax, love - Inky Spickle is my middle name."
Sylvie Soul writes speculative fiction, enjoys cheap pho and plays 16-bit video games.
Swamp's Son
MONICA LYREHART
Sap crawled out of mother's blackest water—the ichor gluing leaves to his palms as he clawed at summer's sheddings like a babe seeking breast.
Screeching saws had beckoned him. With each step he swelled, 'til mountainous.
Collapsing, he smothered the sparking blades.
He sucked bones, steel, screams—sucked all into soil.
Monica is a speculative fiction author, poet, writing contest goblin, and “the best mommy ever.”
Herschel’s Day Drinking Pays Off
MOIRA RICHARDSON
“I seen a Martian at Walmart,” Herschel says, walking into the farmhouse kitchen.
Marsha don’t stop snapping beans. “Ain’t no Martians,” she says. “You been drinking.”
This isn’t a question.
Herschel remembers the spaceman’s knowing green eyes, three glowing orbs reading his thoughts like the Sunday paper. He goes back to the bedroom, gets his gun like the alien told him to do.
“What you doing, you damn foo–?”
Marsha head disintegrates mid-thought.
Herschel hadn’t pulled the trigger, didn’t need to. His mind did all the dirty work.
Back to Walmart to see if the spaceship part was true, too.
Moira writes weird stories and pretends to be a rat on the internet. @moirariom.bsky.social www.ohmoira.com