fiction

If women were built to submit, it wouldn’t feel like being asked to cram my fully grown female body into a tiny teacup. American men wouldn’t be flaying women alive one slice at a time until the maternal mortality rate is worse than that of Turkey. They wouldn’t have to get their pet psychiatrists and investment bros and pastors to go on podcasts to tell women only they can solve men’s problems with what’s in between their legs. They wouldn’t have to give women cutesy titles that say, “Wouldn’t it be easier if you spent all day cooking and popping out children without a thought in your head?” They wouldn’t be stripping us with publicly available AI tools. Forcing us to lie down. Spread wide. Submit. Submit. Submit. It wouldn’t feel like furious hands pressing against soft skin, leaving a trail of bruises.

J.S. Douglas is a speculative fiction author living in the Pacific Northwest.

I wasn’t meant for trash. In the aisle next to mops, I dreamed of more.

After examining the options, a customer selected me. I was hopeful, but then she also chose a dustpan.

At home, she placed the dustpan in the closet, leaned me against a wall, and answered a call.

I surveyed the floor - Cheerios under the table, rice on the floor, leaves at the doorway. Resigned, I’d do my job well, with dignity.

She hung up, quickly grabbed her coat, hat … and me! Running out, she straddled me and leapt into the sky.

Finally, I was flying!

Karama Neal writes and thrives in the Lower Mississippi River Watershed. Online at karamaneal.com

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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

The village clock refused to strike thirteen. Every night, Ezra wound it, hoping for a crack in time, a whisper from tomorrow.

Neighbors complained. “It’s just a clock,” they said. But Ezra knew better. He had seen the shadows of moments yet to come, stretching like fingers across his walls.

One evening, a woman in violet shoes appeared at his door. She held a watch that ticked backward. “I’m late,” she said. “Or maybe too early.”

Ezra took it, felt the tick slip under his skin. He wound his clock, listened, and the walls of the room softened into something liquid.

The thirteenth chime arrived—silent, soft as a sigh. Outside, the villagers moved like marionettes, repeating yesterday in reverse. Ezra stepped out.

He felt the wind rearrange his hair, his thoughts, even the order of his memories.

When the woman left, the backward watch vanished. But the village still hummed to the thirteenth chime, and Ezra smiled. Time, after all, had grown curious.

—Etta Wynn