Water’s Revenge
KATIE DEE
I was so beautiful, once. I'd glistened, dripping lazily off the leaves of exotic plants.
Now, they tear down the rainforests.
I'd sparkled in the sunlight, frozen in the Antarctic.
But their fossil fuels are melting the glaciers.
I'd provided them ample food and drink within my pristine rivers and oceans.
And yet, they throw their garbage in me.
I should be appreciated. Protected.
I'm the key to life.
Instead, the humans just waste me, poison me. Neglect me.
But no more.
I'll teach them all a lesson. Let’s see how they fare when I retreat deep into the earth where they can’t reach me.
I’ll destroy them, they way they tried to destroy me.
Then, the Earth can begin anew.
Katie Dee is a lover of microfiction from Nashville, Tennessee.
The Virus
KARL EL-KOURA
I'm getting to be pretty good with a knife.
I wasn't before. Took me five minutes to dispatch poor Mom. She was staying over because her and Dad and were fighting again.
I was in the kitchen, chopping cucumbers. She came out of my guest room, and right away I saw it.
"No," she said, backing away. "It's not what you think, honey. I'm just tired."
But I worked in a hospital—cleaning up spills, sure, but I worked in a hospital and I knew. Slash, slash, slash and I thought that would be it. I followed her to the ground—stab and stab and stab, but still no. She tried to say something—slash and that did it.
Emergency response took her body away and, of course, checked me over, but I knew they would and I'd prepared.
Next time it was quicker—still messy, but quicker. I never liked door-to-door salespeople anyway. Then with Sally I learned that if you jab your knife into the exact right place, you won't jab twice. Sally had seen the signs of infection before I could put in the eyedrops, so it was her or me, and it wasn't going to be me.
Lots of people blame God for this. What's the point of thinking like that? Things are the way they are, so you find a way to deal.
And like I said, I'm getting to be pretty good with a knife.
Karl El-Koura lives with his family in Ottawa, Canada's capital city, and works a regular job by day while writing fiction at night. To find out more about Karl, visit his website at ootersplace.com.
Casual Encounter
H. MARIN
Seeking hot date – m4w
Companionship requested for various recreational activities (please don’t bother if you don’t have a dependable store of unfertilized ovum). I enjoy simple things: insects, cold swims, and singing at the moon for hours on end with my many brothers and sisters. By “hot” date, I mean please ensure the location you pick for our date is humid—it’s essential for my sensitive and very human skin. Though I may seem mild mannered, I’m not inexperienced. I’ve been told my tongue is “freakishly” long, which I choose to interpret as a positive. I’m looking for a woman who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. I secrete a lot of mucus, and I mean a lot, so if you aren’t into a sticky mess that never comes off of fabric, please feel free to keep scrolling. This is a totally normal thing that my skin does, and I won’t be shamed for it. If you’re interested in meeting up, I’ll be on the side of the road next to the Little Miami River at 11PM, right by the guardrail. No, I don’t have a car. Also, don’t be surprised if I’m wearing like a ton of layers and scarves and really thick sunglasses. Like I mentioned, sensitive skin. Maybe you’ll get a chance to take it all off, if you aren’t afraid of a couple warts.
- Location: Loveland, OH
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
—H. Marin
Spice of Life
K.A. VARGAS
“Just throw it in the pot.”
“Throw what in the pot?” I ask Frank.
“Everything.” He answers. “Your hopes, dreams, hell, even throw in a dash of your fears.”
I stare at him expectantly. Where is he going with this?
“That’s how my grandmother did it, and hers turned out great.”
I look from Frank to the fridge. “Are we still talking about chili?”
“Chili?”
“For dinner.”
“Oh, I dunno, whatever you want.”
I consider my options carefully before taking his advice.
I throw everything into the pot–including Frank.
He was right, it just needed a little spice of life.
K.A. Vargas often talks to the voices in her head. Sometimes they talk back, and she turns them into stories.
Searcher
JOAN SOSIN
“There.” Sheriff Young pointed his deputies to the park entrance.
Tire tracks. Last sighting. Where the dogs lost track in the mud.
“Someone impersonating a deputy stopped Arielle last week. Now this.”
A man drove his pickup past the sheriff’s huddle, parked, and joined the volunteer searcher line creeping across a wet field.
“Find anything?” he asked.
“Nope.”
At twilight, searchers drudged to the parking lot.
The man pulled a silver shield from his breast pocket and smeared dried mud specks into nothing with his thumb. He smoothed the tarp, tug-tested the bungee cords.
Nope. Nothing to find out there.
Joan Sosin lives, learns, and writes in sunny (hot and humid) Florida.
The Dirt Between Us
KELSEY FLAHERTY
She believed in creation the way others believed in prayer.
So I came to the garden. Worked the soil endlessly, prying loose stones, carving out pockets of possibility. My hands darkened with mud. Hers always clean.
If only for a single season, I would give her the flowers she desired. She would praise me for the blossoms, then blame me when the roots failed. I accepted that burden. Every time.
But this land was never meant for growing. How couldn't she see that?
When we ended things, it was in the garden of all places.
Every bloom was borrowed time.
Kelsey Flaherty is a writer and photographer living in Cincinnati, Ohio.
Chords
NICHOLAS DE MARINO
Grandma loved to tell this one. ... Forever ago, Dog barked up the OG elements: EARTH, WIND, and FIRE. It was totally dope. One day a baller thief unstrung the fibrous cords from Dog's throat. No elements? Not cool. Hades pinged her socials and caught lil' homie in the hollow earth plucking away, cords stretched over a big-ass chasm. But he dug the beats and decided they should stay. Then Dog's bad bitch Cat pulled up and the after-party started bumpin...' Anyway, that's where earthquakes come from. After she finished talking, Grandma would spit bars. She loved that old school shit.
Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer. More at foofaraw and nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
Spectral Graffiti
LORRAINE SCHEIN
Keith Haring, now a bespectacled ghost, sprays ectoplasm diluted with dirty water onto the cold walls of Heaven.
They freeze into grimy ice sculptures of flying saucers, big babies and antic fornicating gay men.
Hell doesn’t consider this art. Demons rise up to destroy his work, melt it down with flame throwers.
But just as the first spark ignites a mud-spattered baby’s rump, a flutter of angels swoops down and banishes the fiends back to their fiery home.
“Why?” yowls one demon. “He’s defacing your Heaven!”
Arms crossed, one angel says smugly, “But God and the American ghosts like it.”
Lorraine Schein has published in Strange Horizons, Scientific American, and the anthologies Wild Women and Tragedy Queens. Her latest book is The Lady Anarchist Cafe, available from Autonomedia and Amazon.