fiction
She
DAVID BLITCH
When I’m down in the kitchen on a bright Saturday morning, sipping my coffee and frying up my bacon and eggs, it’s just good to know she’s around.
You know what I mean?
She’s not a constant companion. No way! There are days when we don’t even see each other.
It’s just a comfort to know that she is there. That I’m not alone. That there’s someone to talk to. Now I don’t understand a word she is saying. If you can even call it words.
But I need to talk to someone. I need someone to listen to me!
You get it?
So having a Grey Alien chained up in my bedroom closet is so comforting.
I only need to feed and water her once a day. But anytime I want, I can open the closet door and talk to her for hours.
And she’ll listen. LISTEN TO ME!!!
I’m such a lucky guy. Don’t ya think?
Grate Escape—Part III
JESI TAYLOR
July 12, 2026
My great-great-grandpa John I was an incredible artist who wrote and illustrated notebooks for decades. Most of them contained hand-drawn maps and diagrams of underground structures, equipment, and geological features he encountered and worked closely with as a Sandhog.
I still read them religiously. They’re cherished treasures in my family and partly the reason why I made it out of that (manufactured) disaster alive.
Even though I’m not a Sandhog myself, my entire life revolves around infrastructure. Not only because of my scientific research areas of focus and family history, but also because most of the special interests that consume my brain are in some way related to infrastructure. Which is, I’m sure, the result of some sort of neurobiological-social-ancestral feedback loop.
My mom’s side of the family were all farmers until my mom moved from North Carolina to Harlem in the late 80s. She was an artist, a painter. She died when I was in high school. Heroin overdose.
She loved John I’s notebooks and we’d recreate images from them together on canvas. The notebooks inspired a lot of her later paintings.
They also made my escape from the tunnels possible.
I wish there was.
The Hex
LAUREN M. CONNOLLY
The first time I saw Stephen, he painted a hex on my right arm, and I couldn't move my fingers for hours.
I thought it would be cool to have a hex as a tattoo.
“Don’t you mean a pentagram?” Stephen asked.
“No, I mean a hex.”
Stephen shrugged, “Okay, I’ll paint one to see if you like it.”
We were both drunk and I laughed as he pulled out a brush from his backpack.
“What the...”
“I am an art major,” he told me, “I am always ready to paint hexes on people.”
It all seemed very funny. He swirled his paintbrush in my beer glass to moisten the bristles. Before I could protest, he proceeded to paint shapes on my arm.
With paint dripping down my arm, “How long until it dries?”
“Oh, just a few minutes—don’t move.”
The next morning, I lie in bed and can’t move my arm. Strange hangover feeling, I thought, forgetting what happened. For the first hour, my arm was tingly. I looked down and remembered the night before.
I couldn’t brush my teeth or hold a cup of coffee. I took a shower to scrub the paint off my arm. Slowly, the feeling started to come back into my fingertips.
I dumped my beer glass, watching the paint swirl down the drain. Looking for Stephen’s number on my phone, it disappeared, just like my hex. I never did see Stephen again.
Eldritch Lure
NICHOLAS DE MARINO
“CAREFUL,” my Great Old Man howls as I hook piscine lip and mouth profane incantation, not-my-hand, not —
“My hand!” I squeal. Dad erupts in miasmal laughter below ophidian whiskers.
“I SAID 'CAREFUL,'” he bays and thunderclaps me on the back.
Dad's baited hook tears like a comet through the void. Mine floats until my heart sinks, then drags unfathomable depths.
We slumber for aeons. Such is fishing.
My line jolts, then ululates. I strain against the unseen force.
“EASY DOES IT,” Dad bellows.
“I can't!” I screech.
The conflagrations below his cordilleran brow freeze my blood. I flail with impenitent fury!?
At last—Victory!—my prize spools down to the ocean floor. Nothing titanic, but no mere rowboat. The gnarled vessel shimmers, impossibly glabrous.
“AHA HA-HA-HA!” Dad roars as I unknot the netting. He pries open the steely sepulcher and we swallow sallow meatthings.
Dad's line yanks taut. With a single flick and torrent of current, an amalgam of maculate tubing sinks nearby.
Dad's features contort in a horrifying labyrinth of mirth. He lifts the crumpled oil rig and wolfs down effluent. Viscous brown-black blobs speckle his bloated tentacles.
He proffers a swig.
“THIS'LL PUT SUCKERS ON YOUR CHEST,” he booms.
“But Mom said...,” I squeak.
Another abysmal look.
I choke down my first sip of fossil fluid and cough, wheeze, clutch, can't–can't—
“AHA HA-HA-HA!” Dad roars, thunderclapping me again, ungumming my gills.
I look up at this hulking, unimaginable form and contemplate my own impending Great Old One-hood.
“Last one to the monkey bars is a rotten tomato!” shouts Pete, flinging his bag to the ground.
The fateful words have been spoken, and 4th graders splinter like shards from a broken tamagotchi screen.
They probably think that they’re safe. That I, Sandra Sodwall, last pick for every sport, will be the rotten tomato.
They couldn’t be more wrong.
While my unsuspecting classmates were picking their noses in geography, I was in the playground setting a devilish series of boobytraps, pitfalls and snares. They’ll be like flies, tangled in my dastardly web.
I stroll towards the swings. Calm. Collected. Carefree. Bobby F dashes by, towards the rake I’ve buried beneath a pile of leaves. He leaps clear of it. Drat.
Felix is at the foot of the slide. I jump onto the seesaw, sending a barrage of pebbles catapulting his way. That’ll teach you for pouring pencil sharpenings down my back in biology. The pebbles snag on a kink in the chute and fall harmlessly to the ground. Double drat.
Meanwhile, Amy and Lisa have evaded the super glue puddle on the hopscotch squares, and have reached the sacred safety of the monkey bars. Drat times infinity.
I pick up my pace, but the last stragglers are already home and dry. My race is run. I’ve been foiled. Outsmarted. Defeated.
My skin softens and bloats. A vine-green stem sprouts from my head. A putrid odor erupts from my seed-ridden innards.
The prophecy has claimed me as its victim.
Grate Escape—Part II
JESI TAYLOR
July 11, 2026
I wanted to be a sixth-generation Sandhog. I grew up hearing so many stories from the people in my family who helped build the veins of this city. Some of the stories were passed down from a hundred years ago, when my great-great-great-grandpa Patrick worked on the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge.
The spring before my great-great-grandpa was born, Patrick’s buddy John died of Caissons Disease. He named my great-great-grandpa after John and every son after him was named John, too. My dad was John IV and I would have been the fifth, but I became Patty III (after my aunt Patricia, my dad’s twin sister, and my great-great-great-grandpa Patrick).
All of our family’s Sandhogs knew a construction project really well. Patrick I, as I already mentioned, worked on the Brooklyn Bridge. John I was part of the 1906 Tunnel Workers Strike and worked on the Joralemon Street Tunnel. He was deafened on the job. John II worked on Lincoln Tunnel #1. John III worked on City Tunnel #3. He was deafened on the job. My dad and aunt worked on City Tunnel #3 for a little while, but Patty died on the job. My dad was deafened during the accident that took my aunt’s life and his legs.
I’ve been taking care of my dad with my partner since my twenties.
The Grotto of the Frog God Ceneotl
KURT NEWTON
An underwater grotto accessible only at low tide…
An ancient statue of a giant frog once worshipped by a lost civilization…
If spelunking is your thing, or if you have even a passing interest in pre-Colombian Mesoamerican history… then this is the place for you!
Enjoy the lush jungle scenery. Dine on local ocean cuisine. Then spend a day of exploration in the Grotto of the Frog God Ceneotl.
Hike the precipitous trail that leads to the grotto's entrance. Inside you'll find a magnificent statue of green malachite tucked away beneath the rocky coast. The glistening amphibian sits, eyes closed, a subtle grin upon its face, as if contemplating the mysteries of the universe. Some believe the statue is a gateway to another dimension. It is written that the lost civilization of Tiwanaku, fleeing persecution, fled using the statue of Ceneotl.
When Ceneotl opens its sleepy eyes, those who stand beside are drawn inside.
Any bright flash was said to have opened the Frog God's eyes: lightning, the flare of a torch. To this day, photography is strictly prohibited.
So, bring your glowsticks and your sketchpad for a one-of-a-kind experience!
Please note: you may see an abundance of missing persons posters posted where you stay, many with expensive cameras around their neck. Please ignore. It's all part of the locale's mystique. Enjoy!
Doesn’t Count
SAGE COLLINS
I demand a recount! I've kept track all year long. A list, as long as Santa's, of all my good and bad moments. They've all been good. I have a record. Every single action.
I mean, yes, I didn't write down that time I stuck gum in Wanda's hair. You know, I wouldn't have done it if she wasn't being extra annoying that day.
All those times I lied to the teacher, it's just that I don't have time to do homework because of soccer practice. Mom and Dad want me not to skip those, so what am I supposed to do? I only have so much time in a day to beat Bowser on my Switch.
And borrowing Joey's bike doesn't count because I'm going to give it back to him. Next year.
Sure, technically, I shouldn't have let the cat out so I wouldn't have to feed her. It's not my fault she got lost for weeks and my sister cried every day until she came back. I was trying to save money on food.
Santa must be counting those things against me extra hard because he gave me coal. Coal! Like I don't have a whole list to prove that every second I've been good this year.
Can you believe it?