QB
Staff of QB
Flashbang
KARAMA NEAL
I saw the noise first. A flash of white light appeared on the inside of my eyelids and my brain registered that before the sound. Was that because light travels faster than sound? Something with neurons? No matter. I had other priorities.
The bang seemed to come from outside, so I looked out and saw a uniform was pointing their gun. There were at least three flavors of uniformed gun-toting “G-men” roaming our streets these days. None made me feel safe; that was not their intent.
Another shot. But no light since my eyes were open. It wasn’t clear who their targets were and I didn’t want to be collateral damage (or a target), so I got my pillow, covers, phone, and charger, confirmed the doors were locked, and made a makeshift bed in the den. That room only had a single, narrow window parallel to the ceiling, not facing the street. Less chance of glassbreak and resulting injuries.
The gunshots continued as I settled in on the couch and opened the app to report the government activity. Others would know to stay away and maybe someone could use the data to end this. Once that was done, I closed my eyes and tried to return to sleep. I’d decide in the morning if or how to go to work.
The shooting sounds were fainter in the den but lights still burst inside my eyelids, even more frequently. When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed of fireflies and peace.
Karama Neal writes and thrives in the Lower Mississippi River Watershed. Online at karamaneal.com.
A simple concept
BRETT ABRAHAMSEN
Everyone knows that humans are not intelligent. However, my colleagues and I believe that there is more to these little furry creatures than meets the eye. It should, of course, be noted that even the most intelligent human is undoubtedly less intelligent than even the least educated Proxima Centauri, but there is certainly evidence that suggests humans may exhibit intelligence on levels similar to the inhabitants of Castor and Polaris. To test our (admittedly fringe) theory, we took one of the apes and tried to “Centaurize” it – in other words, to teach it to become one of us.
Of course, the experiment was doomed to fail. We began by explaining to the human how quantum mechanics and relativity are reconciled, how we effortlessly created the universe and everything in it (including homo sapiens), and how something came from nothing in the process – incredibly simple concepts, really. Of course, the human parroted everything we told it, but there was some debate concerning whether the human actually understood what we were saying or whether it was a mere case of rote operant conditioning.
My colleagues and I ultimately decided on the latter. We had been naively optimistic. Our brains are light-years long, theirs are only the size of a football, and we should have known better.
We sent the human back to its home planet. We watched as the creature made a successful landing, and then we fixed our sights elsewhere.
The author has sold dozens of works to numerous publications. He resides in Saratoga Springs, NY.
The Magician
GRAEME DIXON
On the third week of the search,
a magician came forward to help find the body.
Not one of your psychic mediums --
an actual magician with a top hat and wand.
He asked the lead detective to ‘pick any card,’
and strode with the team into the woods.
They found the body after only half an hour,
lying with a playing card on its chest.
‘Is that your card?’ asked the magician,
when they had cordoned off the area.
The detective turned it over.
The three of clubs. Uncanny.
‘I wonder how that was done,’ he said
to his other detective friends.
Probably a trick of the trade, he thought.
The magician winked at him as he went past.
Graeme Dixon writes when there’s no alternative to staring out of the window.
Payment Plan
ADRIENNE REX
“There.” The parchment burst into flames once the man was done signing it with his own blood. The horned figure in the summoning circle smiled, teeth like needles. “The pact is sealed. Now we may discuss payment.”
The man took a deep breath, dredging up the tears he’d practiced. “I know… I hate myself for it, but I can only offer… My firstborn child!”
The demon blinked. “Oh. No, sorry, we don’t accept those.”
The man paused, crocodile tears on hold. “What?”
“See under payment options we clearly state—” The demon re-summoned the contract in a burst of flame, licked its finger with a forked tongue, and flipped through it. “Valid payment options include ‘your soul, hopes, dreams, skills, body parts—“
“But why wouldn’t you take a child?! Their soul must be far more valuable than mine.”
The demon rolled its yellow eyes in a way that made it seem like it had explained this before. “For the same reason you can’t go to the bank and take out a mortgage in someone else’s name. It’s not yours.”
“Oh,” The man said meekly.
The demon laughed. “Did you think I’d let you weasel out of this that easily?”
“I thought you just cared about souls,” the man defended, sweating from more than hellfire heat.
The creature’s grin deepened impossibly further. “No. Demons care about consequences. And I think it’s time I delivered some unto you.”
Adrienne Rex is a writer, a Texan, and a weirdo. Find her here: https://adrienne-rex-writes.carrd.co/
Impressions
ALETHEA PAUL
I hold my breath and brush away some sediment. Years of searching and dwindling expedition funds, I finally found one. With a slow, steady exhale, I blow the last dust of eons long passed into the wind.
But a marvel remains.
Before man and mammals, other creatures lumbered under the first towering conifers; animals whose bones fell into stagnant swamps and mineralized over millennia.
I can envision, as I hold the Maiasaura’s footprint, its duck-like bill reaching to graze. Perhaps this was the final muddy step before its last breath.
But now, an eternity after, I know it lived.
Alethea pretends to be profound with purple prose, puns, and alliteration.
A Plea from Her to Me
CATHY DE BUITLEIR
I keep dreaming about the house we’re buying. I’m in the kitchen, fretting over ugly cabinets. A familiar voice calls to me from upstairs. I follow it, my shoes silent on carpeted steps. The voice grows louder as I reach the bedroom door. I grasp the doorknob.
I wake up.
It’s a probate sale. Elderly woman, distant family. Terracotta tiles in the kitchen. Patterned carpets up the stairs. Sacred Hearts and Pope John Paul on the walls. Chilly bathroom, a fold-out stool in the shower. A hospital-style bed in the bedroom. Mould around the windows.
I call the estate agent. They promise to clear the place out before handover.
Every night, I’m back there. Carpet patterns twist underfoot. John Paul side-eyes me on the stairs. I hear her voice. I feel something like understanding.
While awake, I work. Research insurance, new kitchens. Email the solicitor. Probate is slow, they say.
I sleep. I hear the voice, pleading.
I’ve started hearing echoes of it when I’m awake, when I’m wishing that we loved the house.
A message from the solicitor. Keys next week.
I climb the stairs, reach for the doorknob. It twists under my hand. She’s there, sitting up in bed, her hair frost-white, her eyes sunken and despairing, her upper arms skeletal and withering.
My hair. My eyes. My arms. I’m her, she’s me.
My voice, her throat: “Don’t…”
I wake—first to terror, then clarity. At least the house is affordable.
Cathy de Buitleir is an Irish writer, published in The Interpreter's House, Martello, and FlashFlood.
Almost Serenity
MOIRA RICHARDSON
The couple in the cabin are dreaming.
For many days the beast outside has waited, still as silence in the woods, watching as the elderly woman rocks in her chair. Such tranquility is alluring. The temptation is strong.
So on this night, the shy creature arises to approach, step by step, onto the old porch, and sits.
The antique chair creaks and strains under the creature’s bulk, allowing one fleeting rocking motion, before splintering into pieces.
The lights flash on, a man’s voice says, “Martha, get my gun.”
Into the forest the creature vanishes, leaving only two giant footprints behind.
Moira writes weird stories and pretends to be a rat on the internet. Find here at @moirariom.bsky.social and www.ohmoira.com
How to Pack a Poltergeist
BEN DAGGERS
I beckon towards the oak flask’s ornate aperture. “Fernando, please get in. The truck’s waiting outside.”
I knew moving out would be stressful, but never imagined it would be this bad. Then again, I never imagined I’d be best friends with the ghost of a 16th-century Spanish pirate.
Fernando whooshes past me towards the foldout table in the middle of what used to be our living room. The ashtray resting on top begins sliding towards the edge.
“Don’t you dare—”
Glass and ash litter the floor.
“For fuck’s sake, Fernando, that was antique! Ok, fine, I’ll leave you here for the next occupant to deal with.”
A trail of dust flies up as Fernando slinks to the corner.
“Sorry I lost my temper, buddy.” I kneel beside him. “This job in Seattle’s a big deal. You want me to be happy, right?”
The ash on the ground swirls until it forms the word SÍ.
“You don’t want to go?”
The ash dances again. NO.
“Or stay here alone?”
NO.
“You’re…scared?”
SÍ.
I pat the air tenderly. “You’ve battled armadas and sea beasts. This move’s nothing by comparison. You’ll have new neighbors to scare the shit out of, new cats to terrorize, plus your favorite telenovelas will still be on TV.”
Fernando musses up my hair before sweeping the glass and ash into a neat pile. The flask wobbles as he flies inside.
“Alright Capitán, time to…set sail!”
Even from inside the flask, I can feel him rolling his good eye.
Ben Daggers is a close-up magician, escape room creator and light sleeper based in Osaka, Japan.