QB
Staff of QB
Awakening
NATALIA PLOS
I felt weakness in my body, and then a crazy cold reached the depths of my bones. With a heaviness, the doors of the cryo chamber opened in front of me. Warm air rushed in and blew on my face, helping me regain my senses. I remembered where I was.
Two men in white robes watched my awakening.
“How many years have passed?” I asked them slowly.
“348 years. It is now 2373.”
“You woke me up. So you have found a cure for my illness?”
“We are sorry. Your account has run out of funds to support your body.”
Come hell or high water
ROBIN BLASBERG
“There goes the neighborhood,” grumbled Wesley.
“A gigantic yard sale,” said Mabel.
"They're moving boxes,” said Doc.
“They’re ruining the grass,” muttered Wesley.
“There won’t be anything left when this all washes over," retorted Doc. “Ocean’s rising, you know.”
"It has been mighty wet," agreed Mabel. “I’m sure my boy will be coming soon.”
“Our boy, you mean,” said Wesley.
“He’s a good boy,” added Mabel. “Always thinking of us.”
“There's my family.” said Doc. “Guess I’ll be going now. You both take care.”
“We will,” said Mabel.
“So long, Doc,” said Wesley.
When Doc had faded into the mist, Wesley turned to Mabel and noted somberly, "We're the only souls remaining.”
Hours passed as a silence shrouded the pair only to be broken every now and then when Mabel would wonder out loud, “Where’s our boy?" to which Wesley would seethe in response. Then a gurgling sound pierced the darkness and Mabel exclaimed, "Come hell or high water, he said he'd be here for us!'” A roar followed, stabbing the air, and Wesley snapped back, “Well, Mabel, the high water’s here and he ain’t,” as a torrent crashed through the cemetery gate and raced toward their headstones.
In Memoriam
JIM COURTER
She dips a finger into the ashy gray on her palette, and with a few deft strokes adds the finishing touches to his portrait. Standing back, she examines her work, then, satisfied, hangs it on the fireplace chimney, over the urn on the mantle containing what’s left of his remains.
The rain feels like a hug
JOSHUA D. MARTIN
Your call loops in the wind. Lying in the garden, only irises grow in your place. Storms wash away your remains piece by piece. I want to collect you, but I let you rest, letting nature take hold like you wanted. As long as you haunt my thoughts, the rain feels like a hug.
Crude Mechanicals
J.R. VERNHAM
Remi swerved hard starboard away from a solar yacht speeding out of Hildas Interchange. And swerved again, when the sleek vessel adjusted its course, right back into her path.
“Uh, Remi?” Karlo asked, pointing at the overhead panel. “I think I see the problem.”
“Fix it! Fix it! Fix it!”
“Ayep.”
The view outside the forward hatch spun. Remi yelped, stabbing at the controls... until, abruptly, they stilled, and the solar yacht cruised past (correctly) on their port side.
“Guess we shoulda checked that Australian gravity generator before we installed it,” said Karlo. “It was, uh, set to Southern Hemisphere.”
She
DAVID BLITCH
When I’m down in the kitchen on a bright Saturday morning, sipping my coffee and frying up my bacon and eggs, it’s just good to know she’s around.
You know what I mean?
She’s not a constant companion. No way! There are days when we don’t even see each other.
It’s just a comfort to know that she is there. That I’m not alone. That there’s someone to talk to. Now I don’t understand a word she is saying. If you can even call it words.
But I need to talk to someone. I need someone to listen to me!
You get it?
So having a Grey Alien chained up in my bedroom closet is so comforting.
I only need to feed and water her once a day. But anytime I want, I can open the closet door and talk to her for hours.
And she’ll listen. LISTEN TO ME!!!
I’m such a lucky guy. Don’t ya think?
We were magazines
STEPHEN MEAD
I did not realize-----
the vicarious existence,
the pages as songs to find, or photos,
whole scrapbooks all in a face, our gazes,
the living cinema, our touch, experience
in a dream, knowledge as in empathy
or voyeurism, as breath kept turning the copy,
superimposing the me for you who was the scenery
of some news occurring in another land.
Grate Escape—Part III
JESI TAYLOR
July 12, 2026
My great-great-grandpa John I was an incredible artist who wrote and illustrated notebooks for decades. Most of them contained hand-drawn maps and diagrams of underground structures, equipment, and geological features he encountered and worked closely with as a Sandhog.
I still read them religiously. They’re cherished treasures in my family and partly the reason why I made it out of that (manufactured) disaster alive.
Even though I’m not a Sandhog myself, my entire life revolves around infrastructure. Not only because of my scientific research areas of focus and family history, but also because most of the special interests that consume my brain are in some way related to infrastructure. Which is, I’m sure, the result of some sort of neurobiological-social-ancestral feedback loop.
My mom’s side of the family were all farmers until my mom moved from North Carolina to Harlem in the late 80s. She was an artist, a painter. She died when I was in high school. Heroin overdose.
She loved John I’s notebooks and we’d recreate images from them together on canvas. The notebooks inspired a lot of her later paintings.
They also made my escape from the tunnels possible.
I wish there was.