The Centenarian
MATT HANDLE
The creature is withered, a gray husk in a colorless frock. She shuffles unnoticed through the subway, another piece of urban detritus. The needle in her trembling hand is ancient, yet it shines like new. She brushes against a beautiful young woman, a quick prick of firm skin, a drop of dark red blood then she disappears into the crowd. Back in her subterranean hovel, the hag howls in agony. She sloughs off decayed flesh into a pile at her clawed feet as she extracts the needle from her arm. She emerges newly made, ready for another century among humankind.
Matt Handle lives and writes in Atlanta, Georgia. Follow him at matthandle.bsky.social.
Tardy
GAIL BROWN
Tardy surfed the solar wind encircling Earth on a sail of melded satellite debris. Fragments swirled and eddied around him. More flotsam than a stream on the planet's surface. He shifted his weight to avoid a flying shard. A larger scrap exploded behind him. A hibernation curl saved his head.
Gail's paired stories mirror daily life as it could be. Perhaps should be.
Brewing Rebellion
GABRIELLE BLEU
"You offer mere liquid as tribute to your conquerors?" The alien's lamprey mouth pulsated disdainfully at the carafe.
"This is Earth's most treasured beverage," Dr. Manjhi replied.
"Ha! A species that surrenders via doctor - a researcher! - would overindulge in liquids. No warrior's vigor."
But the research of Dr. Manjhi, allergist, might yet save Earth.
"Coffee's bitterness brings vigor," She said, like she knew. She never drank coffee; allergies.
The warlord sucked down lamprey sips.
His tentacles shuddered and coiled.
"What causes this? Poison?" The warlord spluttered.
He choked. He wheezed. He asphyxiated.
"It's the tannins," Dr. Manjhi murmured.
Gabrielle Bleu writes luminous science fiction and fantasy. Find more of Bleu's work at gabriellebleu.com.
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.