QB
Staff of QB
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
The New Build
PAMELA LOVE
“Let me show you this recently renovated Victorian.” Ms. North started scrolling through photos. “It’s in great condition and priced to sell. You could move in by—”
“I told you, I need a new build.” I shuddered. “My last apartment was haunted by a murdered tenant. The rent was cheap because her ghost still walks through the place, moaning.”
My realtor gasped. “How terrible! I assure you that nobody has been murdered in any house that I list.”
I shook my head. “You can’t know what’s happened behind someone’s closed doors. Now that I can afford it, I’m going to make sure I’ll never be haunted again.”
I wound up buying a lot and ordering a custom home. My builder had the best safety record in the state. His workers muttered and glanced over their shoulders whenever I showed up to watch the construction, which was often. If only they knew that I didn’t want any accidental deaths on my property, either.
Once the paint was dry, I moved in. I went to bed early, feeling secure at last.
Wailing voices woke me from a deep sleep. Frantic, I switched on my lamp. The yellow walls were throbbing. It turns out you can’t know what’s happened behind closed doors in a paint factory, either…
Pamela Love worked as a teacher and in marketing before turning to writing.
ghosts #4
STEPHEN GROUND
I’m not surrrre, it wailed
the haunting refrain of an
indecisive ghost
Stephen Ground is a writer and filmmaker based in Treaty Six Territory [Edmonton, Alberta, Canada].
Sleep
ISABEL NIGHT
Argh! The pounding music! The drunk teens! It’s 3 A.M! And I’m still sore from that bike riding excursion around the island! Must… get… some… sleep…
The bass continues to pound. Ugh! Shut up! I bury my head in my pillow. No luck.
Now the nightstand’s shaking. My in-room phone rattles. Goddammit! I’m not paying any damage charges!
Enough!
After opening the door, I yell across the hall at the unsupervised brats. Trust me, I’ll report their assess… No surprise; I get the fig sign. Fine! Be like that! Y’know… come to think of it… drinking is prohibited at this hotel…
Interesting! My room’s adjacent to a manual pull station! Shame… I have such fumbling hands…
Isabel Night is a Micro Fiction / Flash Fiction Author living in Leonardtown, Maryland, USA.
Pearled.
NICHOLAS DE MARINO
i.
Melted.
Erupted.
Crystallized.
ii.
Gnawed.
Drowned.
Entombed.
iii.
Abducted.
Desecrated.
Trafficked.
iv.
Fetishized
Strangulated.
Anathematized.
Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer. More at foofaraw and nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
The Centenarian
MATT HANDLE
The creature is withered, a gray husk in a colorless frock. She shuffles unnoticed through the subway, another piece of urban detritus. The needle in her trembling hand is ancient, yet it shines like new. She brushes against a beautiful young woman, a quick prick of firm skin, a drop of dark red blood then she disappears into the crowd. Back in her subterranean hovel, the hag howls in agony. She sloughs off decayed flesh into a pile at her clawed feet as she extracts the needle from her arm. She emerges newly made, ready for another century among humankind.
Matt Handle lives and writes in Atlanta, Georgia. Follow him at matthandle.bsky.social.
Tardy
GAIL BROWN
Tardy surfed the solar wind encircling Earth on a sail of melded satellite debris. Fragments swirled and eddied around him. More flotsam than a stream on the planet's surface. He shifted his weight to avoid a flying shard. A larger scrap exploded behind him. A hibernation curl saved his head.
Gail's paired stories mirror daily life as it could be. Perhaps should be.
Brewing Rebellion
GABRIELLE BLEU
"You offer mere liquid as tribute to your conquerors?" The alien's lamprey mouth pulsated disdainfully at the carafe.
"This is Earth's most treasured beverage," Dr. Manjhi replied.
"Ha! A species that surrenders via doctor - a researcher! - would overindulge in liquids. No warrior's vigor."
But the research of Dr. Manjhi, allergist, might yet save Earth.
"Coffee's bitterness brings vigor," She said, like she knew. She never drank coffee; allergies.
The warlord sucked down lamprey sips.
His tentacles shuddered and coiled.
"What causes this? Poison?" The warlord spluttered.
He choked. He wheezed. He asphyxiated.
"It's the tannins," Dr. Manjhi murmured.
Gabrielle Bleu writes luminous science fiction and fantasy. Find more of Bleu's work at gabriellebleu.com.