QB
Staff of QB
Another Chance (at Evolution)
MEGAN DIEDERICKS
“Mom, is ‘war’ good?”
Nova nearly choked—did the question have to come this early in the morning?
“Depends on which war.”
The answer clearly wasn’t accepted within Celeste’s whirring thought-processor.
“Why?”
“I have to write an essay about our war against Earth. Is it still going?”
Nova opened a portal—the gateway led to the frontal window of the spaceship. Celeste observed her mother set up the telescope.
“See that? That’s Earth.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Because it’s without Humans.”
Celeste’s magnified sight made her jump backwards.
“But I just saw one!”
“Really? Well, let’s hope they do better this time.”
Megan Diedericks is a very normal writer (probably not a vampire) whose latest book, The Coffin Chronicles, is about vampires.
Feather Weight
TEESTA ROYCHOUDHURY
the mechanisms of the world don't work like they did before.
the floor trembles like bone beneath skin too thin
as my soles fail to seek solace in my ephemeral being.
so i hover,
bloated,
a balloon tied to nothing
waiting for the ceiling to accept me.
Teesta is a student, science enthusiast, and writer. She has a passion for biology and the arts, and creates zines in her spare time.
poems
KEN KAKAREKA
my wife
asks me
where
they come
from.
truth
be told,
i don’t
know.
they appear
like
mouse droppings
in
the garage.
or startle
you
like wind
on a
still night.
they attack
like wolves
at a
carcass.
when you’re
alone
and
nobody’s
home
they
sneak up
on you
like a shiver
down
your spine
and squirm:
jot down
every line!
Ken Kakareka is an American writer nominated twice for Best of the Net.
Bad as Heck
NICHOLAS DE MARINO
Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer. More at nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
Ready, Set, Grind!
GRIGORY LUKIN
You clench your fists as you examine the numbers. One more ambitious scheme has backfired. Another wild attempt to get rich has gone bust.
You bite your lip, blinking fast, trying not to cry, not to react. You’ll get that money back somehow, some way. You’ll raise more. You always do. You look up from your phone, forcing a grin, convincing your buddies all is well. The next round’s on you.
You sign up for more shifts. Overtime. Flipping things on Craigslist. Crumpled twenties, sweaty palms. Grind. Growth. Greatness. Glory.
You double down on uppers and cut down on sleep. You’ll rest when you die, and death is a lie. To hell with it. Try harder. More crypto tips. More ideas. You write them down in the bespoke Moleskin you carry around. Swag.
On the way to the gym, you spot some grime-covered kids, playing with castoff toys, wasting time. No ambition. Make some lemonade, open a stand, franchise, LLC, IPO, boom – victory! You shake your head. Slackers.
That night, a rare glimmer of REM sleep. Old toys of your own. Parents fighting. You escape. You always escape. You survive and thrive and prevail and you goddamn triumph.
Another weekend, another attempt. Trends, charts, tips, rumors. You clench your fists as you prepare to examine numbers. You take a deep breath…
Grigory Lukin. Rhymes with "story" and "win." Award-winning filmmaker, author, ally, vagabond, and adventurer based in Montreal.
Mercy Planet
MIKE MURPHY
Boothby hoped Slyvak Prime would offer what he was longing for.
He landed his ancient starcraft and fired up its antiquated sensors. The scans reported an alphabet soup of harmful gases in the atmosphere. Boothby smiled. At last! Months of searching were finally over.
He opened the ship’s hatch and shuffled down its exit ramp to the planet’s boggy surface. He left the starcraft behind as a gift to whoever found it.
The atmosphere’s gases quickly entered his lungs. Boothby swooned and collapsed. In mere minutes, they had taken his life—and his agonizing cancer—away, just as he wanted.
Mike has had over 150 audio plays dramatized, won many awards, and had two short film scripts produced.
Through
JAY CASTELLO
On the surface of the lake, the moon was a silver coin paying the boatman. The women dove beneath, caressed by weed and embraced by water. They sank with purpose, eyes open. They sank through time, though the water remained the same, and the moon, too. They sank to the depths. They saw the foundation of things, where the weeds rooted and the water settled and the moon touched only lightly, scattered and shaded. They scooped handfuls of mud and let the silt run through their fingers, cling under their nails. They burrowed. The moon watched them go.
Jay Castello is a writer, editor, and creative found by the river or at @jaymcastello.bsky.social.
Make Them Laugh: Three Easy Steps
CHRIS CLEMENS
ONE. Procure nitrous oxide. Amateur
comedians who stare at their feet
every Thursday night may resort
to desperate measures after years
of shame. For suicidal dentists,
this step is simple.
TWO. Generously donate ten canisters
of “stage fog” to Laugh Machine,
to be installed near vents. Rig secret
remote triggers on each: you’ll TELL
them when to laugh!
THREE. Alone in the spotlight, release gas
as needed to survive coughs and smirking
faces. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES
should your sweaty fingers jam the remote
buttons, releasing all the gas at once
with a faint hiss.
FOUR!? Between giggling gasps,
try to warn everyone
maybe
although
every word you say is hilarious
everyone’s finally rolling in the aisles
together
and the laughter goes on and on
Chris Clemens lives and teaches in Toronto, surrounded by raccoons.