Payment Plan
ADRIENNE REX
“There.” The parchment burst into flames once the man was done signing it with his own blood. The horned figure in the summoning circle smiled, teeth like needles. “The pact is sealed. Now we may discuss payment.”
The man took a deep breath, dredging up the tears he’d practiced. “I know… I hate myself for it, but I can only offer… My firstborn child!”
The demon blinked. “Oh. No, sorry, we don’t accept those.”
The man paused, crocodile tears on hold. “What?”
“See under payment options we clearly state—” The demon re-summoned the contract in a burst of flame, licked its finger with a forked tongue, and flipped through it. “Valid payment options include ‘your soul, hopes, dreams, skills, body parts—“
“But why wouldn’t you take a child?! Their soul must be far more valuable than mine.”
The demon rolled its yellow eyes in a way that made it seem like it had explained this before. “For the same reason you can’t go to the bank and take out a mortgage in someone else’s name. It’s not yours.”
“Oh,” The man said meekly.
The demon laughed. “Did you think I’d let you weasel out of this that easily?”
“I thought you just cared about souls,” the man defended, sweating from more than hellfire heat.
The creature’s grin deepened impossibly further. “No. Demons care about consequences. And I think it’s time I delivered some unto you.”
Adrienne Rex is a writer, a Texan, and a weirdo. Find her here: https://adrienne-rex-writes.carrd.co/
Impressions
ALETHEA PAUL
I hold my breath and brush away some sediment. Years of searching and dwindling expedition funds, I finally found one. With a slow, steady exhale, I blow the last dust of eons long passed into the wind.
But a marvel remains.
Before man and mammals, other creatures lumbered under the first towering conifers; animals whose bones fell into stagnant swamps and mineralized over millennia.
I can envision, as I hold the Maiasaura’s footprint, its duck-like bill reaching to graze. Perhaps this was the final muddy step before its last breath.
But now, an eternity after, I know it lived.
Alethea pretends to be profound with purple prose, puns, and alliteration.
A Plea from Her to Me
CATHY DE BUITLEIR
I keep dreaming about the house we’re buying. I’m in the kitchen, fretting over ugly cabinets. A familiar voice calls to me from upstairs. I follow it, my shoes silent on carpeted steps. The voice grows louder as I reach the bedroom door. I grasp the doorknob.
I wake up.
It’s a probate sale. Elderly woman, distant family. Terracotta tiles in the kitchen. Patterned carpets up the stairs. Sacred Hearts and Pope John Paul on the walls. Chilly bathroom, a fold-out stool in the shower. A hospital-style bed in the bedroom. Mould around the windows.
I call the estate agent. They promise to clear the place out before handover.
Every night, I’m back there. Carpet patterns twist underfoot. John Paul side-eyes me on the stairs. I hear her voice. I feel something like understanding.
While awake, I work. Research insurance, new kitchens. Email the solicitor. Probate is slow, they say.
I sleep. I hear the voice, pleading.
I’ve started hearing echoes of it when I’m awake, when I’m wishing that we loved the house.
A message from the solicitor. Keys next week.
I climb the stairs, reach for the doorknob. It twists under my hand. She’s there, sitting up in bed, her hair frost-white, her eyes sunken and despairing, her upper arms skeletal and withering.
My hair. My eyes. My arms. I’m her, she’s me.
My voice, her throat: “Don’t…”
I wake—first to terror, then clarity. At least the house is affordable.
Cathy de Buitleir is an Irish writer, published in The Interpreter's House, Martello, and FlashFlood.
Almost Serenity
MOIRA RICHARDSON
The couple in the cabin are dreaming.
For many days the beast outside has waited, still as silence in the woods, watching as the elderly woman rocks in her chair. Such tranquility is alluring. The temptation is strong.
So on this night, the shy creature arises to approach, step by step, onto the old porch, and sits.
The antique chair creaks and strains under the creature’s bulk, allowing one fleeting rocking motion, before splintering into pieces.
The lights flash on, a man’s voice says, “Martha, get my gun.”
Into the forest the creature vanishes, leaving only two giant footprints behind.
Moira writes weird stories and pretends to be a rat on the internet. Find here at @moirariom.bsky.social and www.ohmoira.com
How to Pack a Poltergeist
BEN DAGGERS
I beckon towards the oak flask’s ornate aperture. “Fernando, please get in. The truck’s waiting outside.”
I knew moving out would be stressful, but never imagined it would be this bad. Then again, I never imagined I’d be best friends with the ghost of a 16th-century Spanish pirate.
Fernando whooshes past me towards the foldout table in the middle of what used to be our living room. The ashtray resting on top begins sliding towards the edge.
“Don’t you dare—”
Glass and ash litter the floor.
“For fuck’s sake, Fernando, that was antique! Ok, fine, I’ll leave you here for the next occupant to deal with.”
A trail of dust flies up as Fernando slinks to the corner.
“Sorry I lost my temper, buddy.” I kneel beside him. “This job in Seattle’s a big deal. You want me to be happy, right?”
The ash on the ground swirls until it forms the word SÍ.
“You don’t want to go?”
The ash dances again. NO.
“Or stay here alone?”
NO.
“You’re…scared?”
SÍ.
I pat the air tenderly. “You’ve battled armadas and sea beasts. This move’s nothing by comparison. You’ll have new neighbors to scare the shit out of, new cats to terrorize, plus your favorite telenovelas will still be on TV.”
Fernando musses up my hair before sweeping the glass and ash into a neat pile. The flask wobbles as he flies inside.
“Alright Capitán, time to…set sail!”
Even from inside the flask, I can feel him rolling his good eye.
Ben Daggers is a close-up magician, escape room creator and light sleeper based in Osaka, Japan.
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.