story
Tardy
GAIL BROWN
Tardy surfed the solar wind encircling Earth on a sail of melded satellite debris. Fragments swirled and eddied around him. More flotsam than a stream on the planet's surface. He shifted his weight to avoid a flying shard. A larger scrap exploded behind him. A hibernation curl saved his head.
Gail's paired stories mirror daily life as it could be. Perhaps should be.
The Unreason of Midnight Rain
JASON RYBERG
It’s all about cross-
winds at the crossroads, milkweed
pods and matchstick men,
bluebirds, meteors and the
unreason of midnight rain.
—Jason Ryberg
Exes and oaths
ZIGGY SCHUTZ
She thinks everything through.
Five year plan type of girl, holding white-knuckled to the wheel to hold the course. No nonsense. Stone-cold bitch. She’s heard it all, dismissed it all as not worth her time.
The boyfriend is part of the plan, too. Taller than her, not the same major, has to be okay with putting his career first, because she certainly is.
And then—
The problem with including others in the plan is they don’t always stick to it. They sometimes have other plans, blindly following a man who promises the impossible, not thinking for themselves.
She refuses to be a prop in someone else’s plan.
Human sacrifices are so outdated, anyway. If he had just asked, she could have given him a demon’s direct line. Does he think she leaves anything up to chance? It’s like he doesn’t even know her.
Her wrists sting from where they tied her to the alter, but a demon’s favour beats badly-done bondage any day.
He begs, as she adjusts the seat in his Lexus. He always hated seeing her drive his car, and she rolls down the window so she can hear his complaints, as she puts the car in reverse.
“Please, babe, think this through!”
For once, she doesn’t, just slams on the gas and waits for the crunch.
He’ll be a better ‘ex’ than he ever was a boyfriend, anyway.
Ziggy (she/him/he/her) is a queer, disabled teller of fairy tales and happy endings.
The Virus
KARL EL-KOURA
I'm getting to be pretty good with a knife.
I wasn't before. Took me five minutes to dispatch poor Mom. She was staying over because her and Dad and were fighting again.
I was in the kitchen, chopping cucumbers. She came out of my guest room, and right away I saw it.
"No," she said, backing away. "It's not what you think, honey. I'm just tired."
But I worked in a hospital—cleaning up spills, sure, but I worked in a hospital and I knew. Slash, slash, slash and I thought that would be it. I followed her to the ground—stab and stab and stab, but still no. She tried to say something—slash and that did it.
Emergency response took her body away and, of course, checked me over, but I knew they would and I'd prepared.
Next time it was quicker—still messy, but quicker. I never liked door-to-door salespeople anyway. Then with Sally I learned that if you jab your knife into the exact right place, you won't jab twice. Sally had seen the signs of infection before I could put in the eyedrops, so it was her or me, and it wasn't going to be me.
Lots of people blame God for this. What's the point of thinking like that? Things are the way they are, so you find a way to deal.
And like I said, I'm getting to be pretty good with a knife.
Karl El-Koura lives with his family in Ottawa, Canada's capital city, and works a regular job by day while writing fiction at night. To find out more about Karl, visit his website at ootersplace.com.
Report
E. FLORIAN GLUDOVACZ
Dear High Commander,
The journey to the Dark Lord’s lands is long and arduous and our quest is far from over. We have been sneaking along back roads, battling goblins and orcs at every turn while being chased by the Lord’s minions and dark spirits. We are cold, hungry, and oh so weary. Our mode of travel seemed like a good idea at the time, but it has taken a toll on our health and morale.
As far as we are concerned, our mission has failed. We recommend that our backup teams take the train instead.
Best regards,
The Fellowship
Florian writes long and short stories, likes cheese, and is a friend to dogs and pandas everywhere. @ndbag.bsky.social
Again
MONICA WENZEL
“Wait!” Someone shouted at Noah. Someone who sounded like him.
Someone who looked like him, too, except for his bandaged wrist and dirty clothes.
“Don’t do that.”
Noah stopped with his hand on the time machine door. “Are you me?”
“From the future. I came back to stop you.”
“Wait, it worked!”
“Not exactly.”
“But it worked. I gotta warn them.”
“They won’t listen. Save us the trouble. Don’t go.”
“I have to try.”
Noah entered the machine before he could stop himself. Another dirtier Noah ran up to the time machine. They looked at themselves.
“We didn’t listen?”
“Again.”
Monica lives in Minnesota with her family and cats. She teaches high school Spanish.
Whose Sword Once Served
GABRIELLE BLEU
I was a horologist before I was a diver. Once I maintained the guardian automaton; now I search for her pieces.
With her great golden gladius, the towering automaton protected our coastal city. Her internal gears whirred above murmuring waves.
Until the day those traitorous waves bore forth a conquering armada and their war kraken. Tentacles wrenched the guardian apart, her fragments falling into the ocean.
Always the caretaker, I dive. Again and again, until I find the central gear, that whirring heart.
Tenderly, I hook it with tackle and pull it to the surface. My guardian will live again.
Gabrielle Bleu writes luminous science fiction and fantasy. Find more of Bleu's work at gabriellebleu.com.
A World Big Enough to Hold Me
MEREDITH KINRYS
A small village, and me with big ideas. I don’t belong, but expectations trap me.
Fate intervenes; a beloved father lost, an enchanted castle found. A giant, snarling beast. Illusions hide beauty within, but I only use my eyes to see. I flee, and wolves come—giant and snarling.
I am rescued by the beast, unexpectedly. I soften and bend, unexpectedly.
So does he.
But a gentle beast doesn’t belong, doesn’t fit expectations. Small men come, beautiful outsides hiding snarling monsters within.
They kill the beast.
I fall with him. Expectations flee with our last breath, and the world finally opens up.
Death sets us free.
Meredith Kinrys is a multidisciplinary artist/writer exploring society, empowerment, and the occasional fairy tale.