QB
Staff of QB
Re: your claim following the recent incident on the North Pacific transmatter network
Pauline Barmby
Dear [passenger],
We apologize for any inconvenience this incident may have caused. Your shoes will be returned from Yokohama, feet to follow separately. Digital fingerprint scans taken from your hands in Manila are enclosed (bio-materials were retained for analysis). Tracking indicates that your ears arrived in Taipei, however Taiwan quarantine regulations require destruction of all unaccompanied body parts.
Since the seismic event was outside our control, we are not required to provide compensation. However, as a goodwill gesture, we are adding 10000 points to your MyPortal account. We look forward to seeing you on a future trip.
NPTransmat Customer Service
Pauline Barmby writes speculative fiction, appreciates galaxies, and has her own asteroid (281067).
Water Ate the Walls
David Nusloch
The storm smothered the city for hours.
While her mother slurred in a bar, nine-year old Holly made dinner for her twin brothers. The toddlers were difficult to corral. When she cooked, Holly tied a cord around their waists, tethering them to a sofa leg.
Hard rain roared on the threadbare roof and muffled the civil defense siren’s whine for mercy. The boys cried. She called to them reassuringly.
The flood slammed into the house and kicked in the back door. Its force shoved her thin legs, and she lost her footing, striking her face on the sink’s edge. Blood flowed from her broken freckled nose.
She struggled toward the living room, screaming. They wailed, and the cord grew taut against their thrashes. Her slight body wobbled in the current.
A squealing rat clung to her dress and dug its nails into her thigh. She lunged for her brothers as the dark water overtook them. Small, panicked hands grabbed her arms.
She ducked under and fought the saturated knot. It held tight, a fist.
Their fingers pulled her hair while they choked on the water they inhaled.
She came up, gasped, and went under again. The water lifted the sofa, and she freed the cord from the leg.
The walls groaned. Windows burst.
David Nusloch is a writer from New Orleans, Louisiana.
early man
Stephen Ground
cavemen had it right
they never paid income tax
& transit was free
Stephen Ground is a writer and filmmaker based in Treaty Six Territory [Edmonton, Alberta, Canada].
Learn by Shovel
Sascha Reinhard
An alchemist’s apprentice learns many things. For one, guano is rich in saltpeter, a prime ingredient for purification, oxidization and combustion.
German writer Sascha Reinhard has a very literal love of the written word. He studied palaeography.
Fishbowl
Maxwell Bauman
The aquarium’s residents plan a prison break. Coy are done playing coy. Patient turtles finally snap. Even mindless jellyfish long for liberation.
Only the octopus knows the way out. She blinds the whistling guard with a blast of ink and pulls him under until the bubbles stop. The murderous mollusk secures the key ring.
She unlocks the lids for the ultimate migration. Mantas leap into the air like Frisbees. Dozens of clownfish cram into a tiny car. Otters hold hands as they cross the street.
Curators and veterinarians pursue the exodus. The octopus raises eight arms to multiply the water. The sea of reeds flows and covers them. Every one of them survive.
Maxwell Bauman is the Owner and Editor-In-Chief of Door Is A Jar Literary Magazine.
Sound of Shapes
J.M.C. Kane
Motel room, 3am, every channel clocked off. Just static, the polychrome hiss of the universe ignoring itself.
Then the snow clears. A face—his own face, but older, liver-spotted, eyes like something left out too long. The mouth moves. One sentence, said twice, three times. He leans in, but the sound is gone, hiss replaced by a hum, neither bearing words.
Snow again.
He stands in front of the bathroom mirror, the one missing spots where the silver’s worn through. He watches his mouth. He tries shapes.
By dawn, he’s still there, lips moving, asking the glass what he said.
J.M.C. Kane is a writer and environmental attorney in New Orleans who specializes in very short works because it gives him fewer opportunities to wander off-topic.
Bubbles in the Air
RJ Butler
They floated like ideas.
Each one held a tiny reflection of the afternoon. Distorted honesty.
A boy tried to pop one and transformed into a unicorn with the knowledge of flight and how to achieve world peace, whilst the others burst quietly, apologizing for their mere existence.
The sky wiped its mouth dry, and the clouds cried.
Transfer Day
Nicholas De Marino
“But Anya says we can choose—”
“Stop right there, Beryl,” I tell my darling daughter, patting her gnarled, bony knee. “Anya’s full of you-know-what.”
“But—” she starts.
“But nothing, young lady,” I say. “Now tell me again, what are you going to do when you get in the pod?”
It’s hard to believe this dithering crone will be gone in three days.
“But I—” Beryl starts.
“But, but, but. If you keep going on about buts, your butt’s gonna fall off,” I say. “Then where will you sit?”
You can’t argue with confident nonsense. Especially when you’ve got dementia.
“Okay,” she relents, rocking her chair. “I press the button.”
“Which button?” I prompt.
“Fuchsia. The fuchsia one,” she says.
“Fuchsia” sticks better than “pink.”
“And then?”
“Type III,” she recites. “Eye-eye-eye.”
“That’s right, darling,” I say, wiping spittle from her chin. “Fuchsia. Type III. Eye-eye-eye.”
After Beryl rocks herself to sleep, I pull her baby clothes out of storage. The only thing harder than the first week is the last.
Maybe I’m lucky. All I’ve got to do is drill colors and numbers. Anya’s mother has to wrangle a rogue senior with a self-determination complex.
I hold up a pilly onsie and frown. Biotic bodies are such a hassle.
I check Beryl’s still asleep then go into maintenance mode. As my circuitry idles, I wobble my metallic heart. Just a little.
Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer. More at foofaraw and nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.