QB
Staff of QB
He glared at the tattoo. A snake slithering across his daughter’s shoulder in wide Cs. It blotted out the freckles forged during all those summers on their boat; brown constellations he’d helped hang.
Apparently, it was a reminder to be brave. Bullshit. His girl once chased off older kids trying to TP the house. She’d cussed him out when he enforced curfew. She’d left that husband of hers he never liked.
She shouldn’t need ink to remind her what she already was. But there it sat, fangs dripping, daring him to disapprove. Which, he realized, was exactly why he loved it.
Dark, without despair.
A touch of milk makes her fair.
Americano.
The coffee tasted normal. Dark chocolate, earth, a hint of oak. Hot, but not scalding. Nothing special about it.
I sipped from the cup: the typical unbreakable ceramic mug found at diners across the country.
“What kind of coffee is this?” I asked the waitress behind the counter.
“Special blend,” she replied.
I looked at my hands. When did they become translucent?
By the third sip, I could see the living patrons. There were only three of them. The rest of us—the waitress, the cook, the dozen others—we’d been dead for years.
Still serving. Still drinking. Still waiting.
In one galactic zhwoop, Battalion 72’s entities beamed and shrunk into coffee beans.
Situated along the equator, the warmth and ruby coffee fruit reminded us of our own breeding pods.
We laughed at Battalion 45’s failure, trapped in the novelty Mexican jumping beans.
Coffee beans were the perfect conduit. Every forsaken human on this planet consumes coffee, and once established inside the humans, we would seize control of Earth using their gangly bodies.
✱
The temperature rises now. Sweat has long since evaporated. The overwhelming heat comes for my consciousness. I’m roasting.
We advise the next battalion to commandeer cocoa beans.
Her hair was bright and luscious. Her feet were planted like roots, and her spine was tall and proud. Her heart bled sap and her eyes honey. She extended her arms out, her long fingers like branches. She reached and reached for the nearest sapling. At last, she found him, a pine tree, strong and thriving. His leaves reflected the gentle light as if to share its glow. She burrowed her thorns into his smooth skin and twisted her branches around his throat. At his last gasp, she sneered.
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Len Slatest was nominated for a 2026 Pushcart Prize.
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I did it! I can’t believe I actually did it. I robbed Debutante of all places and got away. Those corpo chicks dropped their smug faces really quick with one look of me in their precious house of threads. Ha! Easy street from here on. Premo!
No more scraping by. None of this rat’s nest, slumming it life. I just can’t believe it. I saw the whole thing through, gunfight and everything. Sure, I took a couple of slugs in the gut, but I can afford the best doc around now. I will hit one up right after I get some sleep, though.
I’m exhausted… I just can’t believe I pulled this off. I can see it now, new threads, new ride, a new place, everything pristine and white. No more of this red stuff pouring out of me. I am sure it looks worse than it is, anyway. I mean, I can’t even feel the pain anymore. I am sure that is a good sign.
I will finally leave this putrid life behind, but first, sleep. Yeah, that sounds Premo. I am just so… so tired. Maybe I can afford a few minutes, right? Just close my eyes for a minute. I earned that and so much more, an escape from this wretched life. Just a few… a few… yeah.