fiction
Was I the only girl who didn’t have a Barbie while growing up in the 1960s? If so, I have only myself to blame. Though I had several dolls, the only one I showed any affection for was a hand-knitted number crafted by a neighbor. Instead of ferrying its intended cargo, my doll carriage carried stuffed animals, stray cats, and the occasional toad.
When I was nine years old, our family moved from our rural home into town. This meant more playmates within walking distance. One of my new friends had Johnny and Jane West action figures. I found them more relatable than Barbie, whose body style and clothing choices bore little resemblance to mine.
Johnny and Jane had horses with bridles and saddles you could put on or take off, and fun accessories: chaps, vests, hats, frying pans, and even miniature six-guns. My friend and I imagined Johnny and Jane thwarting cattle rustlers and sitting around the campfire afterwards, suffering from the effects of too many baked beans.
Barbie of the 1960s would have been appalled.
I’ve sometimes wondered whether I missed out by not having a Barbie as a child. On the other hand, since Veterinarian Barbie and Hockey Barbie were years away from being introduced, Johnny and Jane were likely the best options.
I haven’t seen the Barbie movie yet. I probably won’t. But if they ever come out with a Johnny West cinema flick, I might be tempted . . .
Lisa Timpf’s speculative writing has appeared in Lorelei Signal, NewMyths.com, Polar Borealis, and other venues.
No Further Action Required
Tamara Brereton-Karabetsos
The update installs while I sleep.
In the morning my phone vibrates before I touch it. Weather I didn’t ask for. Traffic I’m not in yet. A reminder to hydrate like I’m livestock.
On the train it opens an app I deleted. A man cries in a video with the sound stripped out. I watch until my stop disappears.
At work it finishes my sentences. My boss nods, pleased. I sound easier now. Less friction.
By afternoon it’s editing me. Autocomplete replaces my words with flatter ones. I let it. Choosing feels indulgent.
A notification slides down: We’ve noticed a change in your behaviour.
Under it: Later.
At home I don’t turn the lights on. The phone fills the room anyway. The glass is hot now. It leaves a faint grid on my palm, like a rash. I keep holding it.
It replays things I didn’t record—arguments, silences, the exact moment I learned how disposable I am.
I try to power it off. The screen stays bright.
Battery: 100%.
Another message appears, smaller this time:
No further action required.
The phone vibrates until my fingers numb. I don’t drop it. I don’t want to be flagged careless.
When it stops, I’m still holding it.
Waiting.
Tamara K turns everyday moments sideways, writing micro-prose that is small, strange, and sharp.
Submit. Submit. Submit.
J.S. Douglas
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.
Labor That Uplifts
KARAMA NEAL
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
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.
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.
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.
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.