may-2026

Dear Malcolm,

Please find enclosed your antique pocket watch—your grandfather's, as I recall?—returned in working order and no longer silent.

As I suspected, moon dust had caked the inside, gumming up the mechanism like plaque around a heart. An interminable problem when using a watch like this up here, where dust is so ubiquitous.

As a watchmaker, I suggest keeping your heirloom sealed in the hermetic case provided. But as a grandfather...

Perhaps with both clocks and hearts, there's no reason to have them if you don't intend to use them.

Yours in ticks and beats,
Jonathan Montgomery
Armstrong Horology

—Chris Doty-Dunn

In the parking lot, next to a Subaru bearing a faded “I Believe” sticker, he sank a large footprint deep into soft dirt. A gift, for a longtime fan.

He bent low to peer through the retreat center’s bead-curtain door. Candles flickered over drums, teacups, and suspicious plants. Sunburnt humans, their pupils blown wide, lounged on cushions and dilapidated couches.

His core ached with an appetite long unfulfilled.

“We’re grateful for, uh, Salish land,” intoned a person-sized pile of shawls. “Wait. I mean we acknowledge it. Sorry. We are on stolen land. And we’re grateful for...”

He leaned in. Oh, yes. They would do.

“...the Universe, the Grandmother.” This from a young woman with dirty-blond braids, strumming a sitar. “And the Ancest—ahhh!” Bracelets clacked as she flung out her arm, one accusing finger pointing at him.

Startled, he stumbled through the bead curtain into their midst and smacked his shaggy head on the eight-foot ceilings.

Silence fell. “I knew it,” whispered one.

Sasquatch settled on a cushion, his lonely heart hoping for acceptance. He reached for a drum and tapped out a faltering rhythm with a clawed hand, trying to smile without showing his teeth.

“...and we give thanks for our new spirit guide!” The sitar player joined in, and somebody passed the plants.

Rio Lombana resides on the traditional, ancestral, unceded territory of the Coast Salish people. Find Rio @ https://riolombana.com/ and https://bsky.app/profile/riolombana.bsky.social

The mountain air sends my breath aloft as my footsteps crunch icily over the morning’s path. I’d come for pine-scented solitude, but instead, I found you.

Perhaps you’d hiked the selfsame path, enchanted by this deep forest. Now, you’ve rested here quietly for years. All that remains are your bones, mossy with abandonment and neglect.

As the forest reclaims you with this youthful pine growing through your ribcage, I have to wonder: Who were you before you fell, forgotten? Where have you gone?

I crouch beside you, whispering your last rites, and lay a gathered pine cone at your feet.

Moira writes weird stories and pretends to be a rat on the internet. @moirariom.bsky.social www.ohmoira.com

The descending ball sparkles on TV. I navigate the potted trees, looking for the right guy.

FIVE!

The excited crowd drowns out the revelers twenty stories below.

FOUR!

He’s in a corner by himself, peering over the protective-perimeter of plants. A chill races up my spine when he turns my way.

THREE!

My mouth is dry. I lick my lips in anticipation. Only one thing can sate my thirst.

TWO!

I press my hands to his chest. Hard.

ONE!

His scream is swallowed by the fireworks’ roar as he falls. I join the crowd, singing, “Should old acquaintance be forgot…”

Natalie dislikes being perceived on the material plane. Check out her work at https://nataliewriteson.com/

Cynthia affixes her head on the mantle, beside her others. Really, which to wear for those who'll come knocking?

Perhaps… Indiana State Fair, 1963? Her grandmother's burnt and blistered lips grimace down at her. It's a face for keeping neighbors off the lawn.

Home, 2009? She tries on her old head. Cracked jaw. Bruised eye.

No. Something softer for the kids. They deserve soft. She hesitates over the last head. Caresses it. Yes. It’ll be like a friend.

She answers the first bingbong of the night.

“TRICK OR—”

Their devilish smiles invert. Tears well.

Strange.

“You don't like Preschool 2020?”

Monica is a speculative fiction author, poet, writing contest goblin, and “the best mommy ever.”