march

My feet pound across the permafrost, enraged mammoths thundering behind me. Just ahead shimmers the portal. In a swarm of snowflakes, I leap through this doorway back into my time, stumbling as I land.

The scientist throws a switch, cutting off the Ice Age from his lab. He’s saved me from the herd’s vengeance, but I am no safer with him.

“Did you get it?”

Gasping for breath, I try to warm the frosty air in my lungs. Somehow, I find the energy to nod.

He snaps his fingers, a sound I’ve learned to dread. “Well?”

“Sir, I beg you, don’t do this.” With a shudder, I clutch to my chest the package I brought back. Inside is a blood sample I risked my life to take from a woolly mammoth, one containing a disease endemic to that species. It’s a potential bioweapon, one that could kill millions of people.

“Are you defying me?” His voice is more frigid than the era I just fled.

Tears well up in my eyes. I set the package by a row of test tubes. So many people will die, all coughing up blood, which will be on my hands. My own blood runs cold at the thought.

Nevertheless, I obey the scientist. Only the heart he built that pumps within me enables my blood to run at all. He holds its remote control.

Pamela Love worked as a teacher and in marketing before turning to writing.

I saw the noise first. A flash of white light appeared on the inside of my eyelids and my brain registered that before the sound. Was that because light travels faster than sound? Something with neurons? No matter. I had other priorities.

The bang seemed to come from outside, so I looked out and saw a uniform was pointing their gun. There were at least three flavors of uniformed gun-toting “G-men” roaming our streets these days. None made me feel safe; that was not their intent.

Another shot. But no light since my eyes were open. It wasn’t clear who their targets were and I didn’t want to be collateral damage (or a target), so I got my pillow, covers, phone, and charger, confirmed the doors were locked, and made a makeshift bed in the den. That room only had a single, narrow window parallel to the ceiling, not facing the street. Less chance of glassbreak and resulting injuries.

The gunshots continued as I settled in on the couch and opened the app to report the government activity. Others would know to stay away and maybe someone could use the data to end this. Once that was done, I closed my eyes and tried to return to sleep. I’d decide in the morning if or how to go to work.

The shooting sounds were fainter in the den but lights still burst inside my eyelids, even more frequently. When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed of fireflies and peace.

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

“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/

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

You clench your fists as you examine the numbers. One more ambitious scheme has backfired. Another wild attempt to get rich has gone bust.

You bite your lip, blinking fast, trying not to cry, not to react. You’ll get that money back somehow, some way. You’ll raise more. You always do. You look up from your phone, forcing a grin, convincing your buddies all is well. The next round’s on you.

You sign up for more shifts. Overtime. Flipping things on Craigslist. Crumpled twenties, sweaty palms. Grind. Growth. Greatness. Glory.

You double down on uppers and cut down on sleep. You’ll rest when you die, and death is a lie. To hell with it. Try harder. More crypto tips. More ideas. You write them down in the bespoke Moleskin you carry around. Swag.

On the way to the gym, you spot some grime-covered kids, playing with castoff toys, wasting time. No ambition. Make some lemonade, open a stand, franchise, LLC, IPO, boom – victory! You shake your head. Slackers.

That night, a rare glimmer of REM sleep. Old toys of your own. Parents fighting. You escape. You always escape. You survive and thrive and prevail and you goddamn triumph.

Another weekend, another attempt. Trends, charts, tips, rumors. You clench your fists as you prepare to examine numbers. You take a deep breath…

Grigory Lukin. Rhymes with "story" and "win." Award-winning filmmaker, author, ally, vagabond, and adventurer based in Montreal.

“Where do you think you are going, pray tell?” asked Puck peevishly.

“I’m done and I’m leaving the fairy mound,” the young elf replied.

“You can’t leave! You’re an elf and you belong here, in the world of fairies!”

“I’m done dancing, singing, and cavorting! And I hate magic, too! I don’t want to participate in your antics any longer and there’s nothing you can do about it!”she snapped pugnaciously.

“But, what are you going to do? Where will you go?”

“I will make something of myself! I’ll live in the human world and I’m going to be a barista!