Casualties
LISA TIMPF
They sense that something’s not quite right,
these gen-mod dogs of war—
blinking in the too-bright light
they sense that something’s not quite right
so honed as weapons, bred to fight
they do what they’re made for.
Too late, their handlers see the light
first casualties of war.
Lisa Timpf’s speculative writing has appeared in Lorelei Signal, NewMyths.com, Polar Borealis, and other venues.
Inky Spickle
SYLVIE SOUL
"YOU'RE NOT ALONE!" crooned the heavily tatted pa- tron at the front of the bar, concluding his rendition of the David Bowie classic.
There was a smattering of polite applause as the song concluded. The audience was either too inebriated or preoccupied with who would be called up next to the stage to notice that the last singer had exceptionally pointy ears. He took a seat next to his companion, Rhea, a female round of ear.
“Having fun yet, Alden?” asked the woman, sipping her gin and tonic.
“I must say," said Alden, “Carkey is quite enjoyable. I should hope to introduce it to the Southern Realms when I return.” He spoke with an infectious, Highland brogue.
"It's pronounced ‘karaoke’," said Rhea, setting her drink down. "And we're supposed to be keeping a low profile."
Alden waved her off. "You worry too much, Ducky.”
There was a disturbance at the front of the establishment as a band of orcs lumbered into the bar, startling 39the rest of the patrons.
"Crap," Rhea said under her breath. "What now?"
Alden cracked his knuckles and stood up. "Finally...I haven't seen any action in a fortnight."
"Just try not to cause a scene, okay?" cautioned Rhea.
"Remember: be inconspicuous."
Alden brushed his hand along his collarbone, where he had an elaborate tattoo of a broadsword; that same sword materialized in his other hand. As he approached the orcs, he turned and flashed Rhea a mischievous grin.
"Relax, love - Inky Spickle is my middle name."
Sylvie Soul writes speculative fiction, enjoys cheap pho and plays 16-bit video games.
Swamp's Son
MONICA LYREHART
Sap crawled out of mother's blackest water—the ichor gluing leaves to his palms as he clawed at summer's sheddings like a babe seeking breast.
Screeching saws had beckoned him. With each step he swelled, 'til mountainous.
Collapsing, he smothered the sparking blades.
He sucked bones, steel, screams—sucked all into soil.
Monica is a speculative fiction author, poet, writing contest goblin, and “the best mommy ever.”
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.