QB
Staff of QB
The Unreason of Midnight Rain
JASON RYBERG
It’s all about cross-
winds at the crossroads, milkweed
pods and matchstick men,
bluebirds, meteors and the
unreason of midnight rain.
—Jason Ryberg
Have A Blessed Day
PAUL HOSTOVSKY
You have a blessed day too,
I said, and floated out of there
with my coffee and corn muffin,
feeling blessed, beatific, positive-
ly numinous. But now
she says it every time I go in there—
no variation, no shift, no turn.
She just hands me my change
and tells me to have a blessed day—
always bles-səd, never blest, never
a grateful day, an exquisite day,
an applesome day. A failure
of the imagination is what it is.
And it has begun to bother me.
So much so that I have stopped
going there. I miss their divine
muffins. Their heavenly coffee.
But those blessings had a facile, unctuous,
churchy aftertaste. I’d almost rather
have a nice day. Or even a bad one.
Paul Hostovsky’s poems appear and disappear simultaneously (ta-da!). His new collection is Perfect Disappearances (2025).
We All Have to Play
NISSA HARLOW
She recognized me instantly. And she was not happy about it.
“That’s not fair,” she said.
“What isn’t?”
“Showing up in that form.”
“What’s wrong with this form?”
She narrowed her eyes, emphasizing the wrinkles around them. I tilted my head and smiled.
“It’s not a trap,” I assured her.
“I beg to differ. You come to me as a sweet-faced child. But, as soon as I take your hand...”
My laugh caught her off guard. “Where do you think I’m taking you?”
“I’ll not say it.” She averted her gaze.
“You’re going whether you say it or not.”
“Only because you’ll trick me.”
“You have to go somewhere.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re dead. You can’t stay here.”
“Why not?”
“That’s the rule.”
She lifted her chin. “Who made these rules? I’d like to speak to them.”
I reached out a hand. She recoiled before I could touch her. “You are speaking to them,” I said.
A grunt was her only response. I reached into my pocket and retrieved a piece of chalk. She watched as I sketched the hopscotch board. The lines on her face softened. She watched as I fetched a shard of headlight plastic and tossed it. Her white hair darkened into raven waves. She watched as I hopped into the first square. Her stooped body straightened. She glanced at the wreckage, then stepped toward me.
“Can I play?” she whispered, her voice aching with hope.
“Of course,” I said. “We all have to play, sooner or later.”
Nissa Harlow lives in British Columbia, Canada where she writes strange little stories.
FC Life Forever!
ANDREW E. LOVE, JR.
March 4, 2025, 8:31 AM
Hi! Welcome to Maddie and Mark’s Flying-Carpet-Life! We took the plunge and are now living on our flying carpet full-time just exploring the world. We’ll be updating the blog regularly, so check in every day. Be seeing you –- from above!
March 5, 2025, 10:34 AM
Quick tour of our setup: We’ve got a classic flying carpet. I found it in my great-grandmother’s attic (Don’t know where she got it, but great-grandpa served with Patton in North Africa.) We keep supplies in backpacks hanging from ropes across the width of the carpet (Remember, balance your supplies every time you take off, so you fly level!). The popup tent is rolled up in the front and the chemical toilet in the back – we try not to have to use that last one, but “be prepared.”
March 5, 2025, 1:17 PM
The sky is beautiful now, with fluffy clouds all around us. We ate a great lunch at a little diner tucked away off old Rt. 66.
Explore old highways – it’s not like the potholes can stop you!
March 7, 2025, 2:05 PM
Shoutout to my fellow carpet-lifers! Anybody out there know anything about carpet care? We’ve got some fraying at the edges. Gives us another reason to cuddle close, though!
March 10, 2025, 9:10 AM
Some weird smoke is coming from the carpet, making strange shapes, and we keep getting higher. Any advice? I’m down to one bar on the pho—
Andrew E. Love, Jr., engineer and fan, has been published at James Gunn’s Ad Astra and Reactormag.com.
Exes and oaths
ZIGGY SCHUTZ
She thinks everything through.
Five year plan type of girl, holding white-knuckled to the wheel to hold the course. No nonsense. Stone-cold bitch. She’s heard it all, dismissed it all as not worth her time.
The boyfriend is part of the plan, too. Taller than her, not the same major, has to be okay with putting his career first, because she certainly is.
And then—
The problem with including others in the plan is they don’t always stick to it. They sometimes have other plans, blindly following a man who promises the impossible, not thinking for themselves.
She refuses to be a prop in someone else’s plan.
Human sacrifices are so outdated, anyway. If he had just asked, she could have given him a demon’s direct line. Does he think she leaves anything up to chance? It’s like he doesn’t even know her.
Her wrists sting from where they tied her to the alter, but a demon’s favour beats badly-done bondage any day.
He begs, as she adjusts the seat in his Lexus. He always hated seeing her drive his car, and she rolls down the window so she can hear his complaints, as she puts the car in reverse.
“Please, babe, think this through!”
For once, she doesn’t, just slams on the gas and waits for the crunch.
He’ll be a better ‘ex’ than he ever was a boyfriend, anyway.
Ziggy (she/him/he/her) is a queer, disabled teller of fairy tales and happy endings.
Water’s Revenge
KATIE DEE
I was so beautiful, once. I'd glistened, dripping lazily off the leaves of exotic plants.
Now, they tear down the rainforests.
I'd sparkled in the sunlight, frozen in the Antarctic.
But their fossil fuels are melting the glaciers.
I'd provided them ample food and drink within my pristine rivers and oceans.
And yet, they throw their garbage in me.
I should be appreciated. Protected.
I'm the key to life.
Instead, the humans just waste me, poison me. Neglect me.
But no more.
I'll teach them all a lesson. Let’s see how they fare when I retreat deep into the earth where they can’t reach me.
I’ll destroy them, they way they tried to destroy me.
Then, the Earth can begin anew.
Katie Dee is a lover of microfiction from Nashville, Tennessee.
The Virus
KARL EL-KOURA
I'm getting to be pretty good with a knife.
I wasn't before. Took me five minutes to dispatch poor Mom. She was staying over because her and Dad and were fighting again.
I was in the kitchen, chopping cucumbers. She came out of my guest room, and right away I saw it.
"No," she said, backing away. "It's not what you think, honey. I'm just tired."
But I worked in a hospital—cleaning up spills, sure, but I worked in a hospital and I knew. Slash, slash, slash and I thought that would be it. I followed her to the ground—stab and stab and stab, but still no. She tried to say something—slash and that did it.
Emergency response took her body away and, of course, checked me over, but I knew they would and I'd prepared.
Next time it was quicker—still messy, but quicker. I never liked door-to-door salespeople anyway. Then with Sally I learned that if you jab your knife into the exact right place, you won't jab twice. Sally had seen the signs of infection before I could put in the eyedrops, so it was her or me, and it wasn't going to be me.
Lots of people blame God for this. What's the point of thinking like that? Things are the way they are, so you find a way to deal.
And like I said, I'm getting to be pretty good with a knife.
Karl El-Koura lives with his family in Ottawa, Canada's capital city, and works a regular job by day while writing fiction at night. To find out more about Karl, visit his website at ootersplace.com.
Casual Encounter
H. MARIN
Seeking hot date – m4w
Companionship requested for various recreational activities (please don’t bother if you don’t have a dependable store of unfertilized ovum). I enjoy simple things: insects, cold swims, and singing at the moon for hours on end with my many brothers and sisters. By “hot” date, I mean please ensure the location you pick for our date is humid—it’s essential for my sensitive and very human skin. Though I may seem mild mannered, I’m not inexperienced. I’ve been told my tongue is “freakishly” long, which I choose to interpret as a positive. I’m looking for a woman who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. I secrete a lot of mucus, and I mean a lot, so if you aren’t into a sticky mess that never comes off of fabric, please feel free to keep scrolling. This is a totally normal thing that my skin does, and I won’t be shamed for it. If you’re interested in meeting up, I’ll be on the side of the road next to the Little Miami River at 11PM, right by the guardrail. No, I don’t have a car. Also, don’t be surprised if I’m wearing like a ton of layers and scarves and really thick sunglasses. Like I mentioned, sensitive skin. Maybe you’ll get a chance to take it all off, if you aren’t afraid of a couple warts.
- Location: Loveland, OH
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
—H. Marin