Don’t leave me hanging Give me a sign Don’t walk away While my heart’s on the line We can walk in the water Dance on the lake Flap on the ocean Whatever it takes You’ve got a long neck And a great pair of legs You ruffle my feathers Stop making me beg I know you can hear me You just can’t ignore How high I can jump How far I can soar I’ll make a fool of myself I’ll flap and I’ll squawk I’ll make a big ruckus I’m the best of the flock!

Gaby sat up in bed one morning and said aloud to herself, “I only like apple juice, but I don’t have a juicer.” Then she drew a picture of her dilemma and placed it in her scrapbook of personal dilemmas. That morning’s dilemma, along with her signature “Quirky Gaby” picture, was seen by nearly five million people who follow “THE QUIRKY GABY DILEMMA.” By next week, she’d received a dozen juicers. Gaby diligently tested the machines, resolving that particular “QUIRKY GABY DILEMMA” by picturing herself drinking apple juice next to the deluxe brand. Her fans were relieved. The next morning, Gaby sat up in bed and said aloud, “Why do I have small paperclips when larger ones do the same thing?”

Gunshots. Alarm. Money in the trunk. Floor it. That’s always how it goes. From the driver’s seat, I never see the blood. But sometimes, I wonder who’ll be mourning tomorrow. My car idles in an alley across from the bank. I clutch the steering wheel with white knuckles, waiting for Andy to finish. Two pops – gunshots. A sharp knock on the passenger window. I jump. It’s some old woman. She wilts over a cane, barefoot and dressed in a hospital gown. I wave her off. She knocks again. Anxiety curdles in my gut. I lean over, rolling down the passenger window. “Petey! It’s you!” she croaks. “I… lady, I’m not Petey.” I begin closing the window. She sticks a sunspot-speckled hand in the gap, frowning. “Why aren’t you at work, hon?” The bank alarm wails. I frantically bat her hand away. “Ma’am, please, you’ve gotta go⁠—” _“Ma’am?”_ She crosses her arms. “You might be grown, but I’m still your mother.” I hear Andy before I see him, duffel bag thudding into the trunk. He runs up the passenger side, then stops. “Liam, who the fuck is this?” “I-I don’t… she just⁠—“ Andy shoves the woman, her cry cut short by the smack of pavement. He rips open the door and jumps in. I gape at him. “The hell’re you waiting for? _Drive!”_ I floor it, shaking. In the rearview mirror, I see blood pooling on the concrete. This time, I know exactly who’ll be mourning tomorrow.

The pair of dice clatter to the table. When they come up snake eyes, Tony aims his revolver at me and cocks the hammer. My fingers dig pits into Lilith’s soot-black arm. “You said these couldn’t lose!” I hiss. She nods, hellfire crackling in her eyes. “If they’re carved from the bones of someone who loved you, they can’t.” “But I brought you⁠—” The demon yanks her arm free. “No family’s perfect, sweetie.” I gape at the dice. The pips on mom’s arthritic finger bones look away before Tony’s bullet settles my debt. * * * _Chris Doty-Dunn writes weird, speculative fiction, often with a queer bent._

Every afternoon, she jogs through the park next to my apartment. She’s athletic, gorgeous, blonde, sweet enough to wave at toddlers. All I have that might catch her attention is Wasabi, the fluffy mutt I adopted from the pound. But even a schlub can shoot his shot. Three days straight, I walk Wasabi down the path and try to make eye contact. Blondie jogs past me without a glance. “You don’t want her.” The voice comes from behind a bush. “She’s a cat person.” It’s that weird girl. She wears black even in summer, sunglasses day and night. Her little gray dog looks like a hairball. Thursday, I pretend to trip and fall. Blondie never breaks stride. Goth Girl walks over and hands me a Band-Aid. “For your bruised ego.” Jesus. What’s her deal? Friday, I go out wearing the zebra costume I found at Goodwill. If I can make Blondie smile… She frowns like I’m a fugitive zoo animal and sprints away. I sigh, push the hood back, wipe sweat from my brow. “Nice outfit.” Goth Girl lifts her sunglasses atop her head. Her hazel eyes are striking in the setting sun. “What’s your dog’s name?” “Wasabi.” Our dogs dance the circular butt-sniff tango. When we untangle the leashes, my arm brushes hers. “Mine’s name is Pesto.” “Heh. Saucy.” “I’ve been called worse.” Her smile is big and warm. I look down at my zebra stripes. Maybe weird is more my speed. “Want to take a walk?”

# This month... ## Contributions from... Anatoly Loginov, Brett Abrahamsen, Chris Doty-Dunn, DC Trull, David Sydney, Dorian Alexander, E. Florian Gludovacz, E.J. LeRoy, Gabriella Dolores Menezes, Greg Clumpner, Gregg Chamberlain, Imrak Eriksson, JS Apsley, Jacob Mack, Jen Mierisch, Kelly Murashige, Leigh Loveday, Matthew R. Davis, Meagan Kane, Melanie York, Mike Murphy, Nicholas De Marino, Pam Avoledo, Pauline Barmby, Robert Cumming, Rachel Rodman, Sheree Shatsky, Sophia Jane Hayden, Tatiana Samokhina, Zoe Davis ## Cover art featuring photograph by Ivana Cajina ### Pick up a copy of this and more from our webstore! ##### PDF and EPUB zines of this months stories available to paid subscribers: ### This post is for subscribers only Become a member to get access to all content Subscribe now

First thing’s shaving. Careful on the snout. I know, but it grows back thinner, I swear. Those creams cause rashes and split ends. Where’s your collar? You don’t want to get put down as a stray, do you? Here, try mine. You love rhinestones. Well, you used to. Oh, and remember to chew thoroughly. That story about Grandma and Little Red Lupicide, that’s a real thing. I know you know, but I want you to say it. Thank you. Wow. Just last moon you were my little cub. Pretty soon you’ll be the alpha. Now run along before I cry.

Research into the sleeping habits of felines has revealed what cat owners intuitively know: if your cat sleeps in your bed, your comfort is a secondary consideration⁠—if it’s a consideration at all. The five most popular feline sleeping styles are as follows: **The Sprawler:** Takes up more of the bed than should be physically possible. Defends their territory with claws or teeth. **The Too-Cute-To-Move-Er:** Similar to the Sprawler, but asserts their territorial claim through cuteness, which makes disturbing them unthinkable. **The Inconvenience Maximizer:** After you have fallen asleep, the Inconvenience Maximizer settles themselves between your knees when you’re sleeping on your back or in the crook of your bent legs when you sleep on your side. Upon waking up with aching muscles from being in the same position too long, many cat owners will endure intense discomfort rather than disturbing their pet. **The Pillow Hogger:** Claims the pillow as their sleeping space and dares you to argue. In these cases, it’s usually best to retreat to the couch or a guest bedroom unless you fancy a trip to the Emergency Department for stitches. **The Lullaby Singer:** Lulls you to sleep with rhythmic purring, the combination of sound and vibration being a surefire cure for insomnia. Don’t be fooled. Singing a feline lullaby is a calculated ploy so the cat can gain permission to sleep in the bed. In the course of the night, the Lullaby Singer often morphs into the Too-Cute-To-Move-Er or the Inconvenience Maximizer. * * * _Lisa Timpf’s speculative writing has appeared in Lorelei Signal, NewMyths.com, Polar Borealis, and other venues._

You never leave the fringes of my mind Just there on the peripheral edge looking at me like that Distractingly beautiful but you prefer people say your funny

He glared at the tattoo. A snake slithering across his daughter’s shoulder in wide Cs. It blotted out the freckles forged during all those summers on their boat; brown constellations he’d helped hang. Apparently, it was a reminder to be brave. Bullshit. His girl once chased off older kids trying to TP the house. She’d cussed him out when he enforced curfew. She’d left that husband of hers he never liked. She shouldn’t need ink to remind her what she already was*.* But there it sat, fangs dripping, daring him to disapprove. Which, he realized, was exactly why he loved it.

Dark, without despair. A touch of milk makes her fair. Americano.

The coffee tasted normal. Dark chocolate, earth, a hint of oak. Hot, but not scalding. Nothing special about it. I sipped from the cup: the typical unbreakable ceramic mug found at diners across the country. “What kind of coffee is this?” I asked the waitress behind the counter. “Special blend,” she replied. I looked at my hands. When did they become translucent? By the third sip, I could see the living patrons. There were only three of them. The rest of us⁠—the waitress, the cook, the dozen others⁠—we’d been dead for years. Still serving. Still drinking. Still waiting.

A list of things I wanted to tell you but couldn’t would include the time I submitted my poetry book and hoped for the best. It would include the bitter sting of loneliness that sometimes comes when I gaze out the window. The “no, I’m not fine” that that swallowed down when you asked how I was. It would include the new recipe I tried that actually came out all right, and that time my voice cracked in front of everyone. It would include the way your jokes and cracks really made me feel and how I’m tired, so very tired. And I cannot forget the lies you told that everyone believed because they know you better and you’re more outgoing. It would include late nights and ignored calls, trying to piece myself back together. I’m crying not because I’m sad, but because I’m furious and can’t bottle up these emotions any longer. A list of all the things I wanted to tell you but couldn’t could go on forever. Yet it’s here that I stop.

In one galactic _zhwoop_ , Battalion 72’s entities beamed and shrunk into coffee beans. Situated along the equator, the warmth and ruby coffee fruit reminded us of our own breeding pods. We laughed at Battalion 45’s failure, trapped in the novelty Mexican jumping beans. Coffee beans were the perfect conduit. Every forsaken human on this planet consumes coffee, and once established inside the humans, we would seize control of Earth using their gangly bodies. ✱ The temperature rises now. Sweat has long since evaporated. The overwhelming heat comes for my consciousness. I’m roasting. We advise the next battalion to commandeer cocoa beans.

Her hair was bright and luscious. Her feet were planted like roots, and her spine was tall and proud. Her heart bled sap and her eyes honey. She extended her arms out, her long fingers like branches. She reached and reached for the nearest sapling. At last, she found him, a pine tree, strong and thriving. His leaves reflected the gentle light as if to share its glow. She burrowed her thorns into his smooth skin and twisted her branches around his throat. At his last gasp, she sneered.

_Cash Cow_ literary magazine is dedicated to profiting from the hopes and dreams of writers. We have a financial conflict of interest, and we’re not afraid to admit it. For a fee we offer these virtual courses: * How to Write a Story that Gets Published * Four Ironclad Rules Every Story in the Universe Must Follow to be High Quality * The Art of the Comma and many more. Give us a try. We’re experts, because we say so. We monitor your expenditures in multiples of fifty dollars, Your submissions are rejected until you’ve spent your first fifty. Then voila, an acceptance. Subsequent submissions are rejected for your next forty-nine, and suddenly, you’ll have written something worthy of publication. Other fees include five dollars for a critique from a random reader we hired, ten dollars for an actually good review, and fifty dollars for our _Cash Cow_ tee shirt, which disintegrates as quickly as your misconception that there are people who put art first, upon its first washing. If published, we charge five dollars for your piece to be accompanied by your bio, and ten to list any social media handles. Your “published” fiction will be placed behind a paywall. Readers will have to pay fifteen dollars to read it, unless you purchase our concierge service for twenty-five dollars, guaranteeing no wall for any of your work. Like to know how to submit? That procedure can be found behind our paywall. A mere three dollars will gain you access.

I did it! I can’t believe I actually did it. I robbed Debutante of all places and got away. Those corpo chicks dropped their smug faces really quick with one look of me in their precious house of threads. Ha! Easy street from here on. Premo! No more scraping by. None of this rat’s nest, slumming it life. I just can’t believe it. I saw the whole thing through, gunfight and everything. Sure, I took a couple of slugs in the gut, but I can afford the best doc around now. I will hit one up right after I get some sleep, though. I’m exhausted… I just can’t believe I pulled this off. I can see it now, new threads, new ride, a new place, everything pristine and white. No more of this red stuff pouring out of me. I am sure it looks worse than it is, anyway. I mean, I can’t even feel the pain anymore. I am sure that is a good sign. I will finally leave this putrid life behind, but first, sleep. Yeah, that sounds Premo. I am just so… so tired. Maybe I can afford a few minutes, right? Just close my eyes for a minute. I earned that and so much more, an escape from this wretched life. Just a few… a few… yeah.

I got lost in a dictionary, looking for words so ancient they can communicate the emotions that wash over me.

Their flight is almost silent. The irresistible call of blood guides them through the darkness. He sleeps, unaware of his fate. He is prey. They are already ready to taste the blood of the victim. Their flight ends so absurdly ⁠— the resounding clap of his broad palm and his words. “I hate mosquitoes!”

When I step out of the portal, only darkness greets me. I check my readouts. No visor malfunction. Oxygen levels good. I look around. Every atom of the planet is devoid of colour, like the oppressive black of the night escaped its bounds and infected the world. No moon. No stars. No life. So why can I feel the burn of a thousand avaricious eyes? Something’s wrong. This isn’t where Control was supposed to send me. Heart pounding, I whirl on the portal behind me. “Wait!” I cry, but the doorway has already closed. All around me, the darkness smiles.

The Forming Circle glows a putrid green around the bones and blood-clay. Lilly watches Friedrich’s fingers emerge like little anthills, then the full lips she loves to kiss. His temple’s ring shaped scar from a year ago and his deformed ribs from his fall two months back remain the same. It took days to gather the blackened bones out of Friedrich’s immolated room. Sifting through ash, charred wood, and the chains to find them all. She wouldn’t allow him to have candles anymore. His eyes open when the spell completes. Lilly smiles. “Husband, you can’t ever leave me.” He screams.

“Hey, Mitchell.” “Hey, Jenny.” “Are you ready to order?” “Yeah. I’ll have the patty melt with a side of tater tots. And a coffee.” “Great. Here you go.” “What’s this?” “Your bill.” “I have to pay _now_?” “Uh-huh. We’ve had some people skip out on their bill recently, so the owner is making everyone pay before getting their food.” “This is crazy.” “I know, but it’s not my call.” “What if I want dessert?” “Do you want dessert?” “I don’t know. I usually make that decision after eating lunch.” “Well, if you decide you want dessert, I can bill you separately for that.” “Fine. Here’s a twenty to cover my lunch. You can keep the change.” “Thanks. I’ll be back with your coffee and receipt.” ✱ “Here you go, Mitchell.” “What the hell’s this?” “Your coffee and receipt.” “But my coffee’s in a Styrofoam cup.” “I forgot to mention that earlier. We’ve had some clumsy customers lately, and the owner is tired of replacing broken mugs, so we’re serving drinks in disposable cups now.” “It just doesn’t taste the same in a cup.” “Sorry.” “Is there anything else I should know about?” “I don’t think so, but I’ll give you a heads up if the owner makes any other changes.” “I have a suggestion.” “Okay. What is it?” “How about a change in ownership?”

_The Wall falls, tensions rise. East meets West in an underground battle of youths: Neo-Nazis versus anti-fascists._ We’re waiting for the subway train after touring East Berlin, using up the currency while it’s still valid. I’ve just moved here, and I don’t speak German. My boyfriend shows me around and does most of the talking. Shooting a look over his shoulder, he ushers me towards the end of the platform. I too look and see a gang of teens over by the stairs. “We passed them earlier,” he says. It’s my coloured hair and ripped tights that are getting their attention. He grabs my hand. “Come on.” We slip into the empty carriage before the doors slide shut. But the train idles. “ _Scheisse,_ ” he says. “Hurry up!” They burst into the carriage, engulfing the space. Striding down the aisle, they surround us. A boy shoves a baseball bat under my chin. My hand, with a mind of its own, swipes it away. The bat is the colour of the German flag. Its wielder is very young. The bright platform gives way to the dark tunnel. A heated discussion ensues. My boyfriend shrugs, shakes his head. _“Touristin aus Amerika.”_ Batboy smirks. “Texas,” he drawls, in a thick German accent. The others laugh. “Los Angeles,” I state. Eyes widen. Postures ease. I’ve transformed from enemy to exotic creature. I smile at one, feeling like a traitor. They talk and laugh loudly until the train pulls in and they disembark. We sigh!

The reegrets stood like statues in the marsh, staring with their beady eyes, pointing with their pointed beaks, one leg folded up beneath like landing gear. The reegets gave no sense of why they were there, no hoot or cry of ridicule, no dance of protestation designed to blame or shame or split a hair. No, the reegrets were simple beasts, their silent stance, their unwavering glare, a cold portent of what now can never be.

The gentle pressure Of his fangs against my neck; _One more little death._

‘Welcome!’ the receptionist says through a plastic smile. Beth glances anxiously at the women scattered around the waiting room. No one is paying attention, but she still feels a flush of self-consciousness. ‘I have an appointment under my husband’s name,’ she whispers. ‘Harry Broderick.’ Bright and loud as ever, the receptionist says, ‘We have you here, Mrs Broderick. Please take a seat.’ In the face of the woman’s sparkling rictus grin, Beth finds a seat and doesn’t mention that she didn’t take her husband’s name. Opposite sits a perfect, doll-like woman. She looks at Beth with what might be sympathy, but it’s hard to tell under the unmoving mask of her face. ‘First time?’ she asks. At Beth’s nod, she clucks. ‘Don’t worry. It’s easy. The doctor puts you under and then it’s done. You don’t even have to make any decisions!’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Your husband booked the appointment, right?’ ‘Yes, but it’s just a consultation.’ ‘There isn’t much to consult! They’ll only change you slightly this time, and he’ll have told them his preferences.’ She leans forward conspiratorially. ‘Much easier, if you ask me. If I had to choose, I’d never get anything done!’ ‘Mrs Broderick?’ A figure in a white coat stands in the doorway, studying the waiting women. ‘That you?’ the woman opposite asks. Beth Radley smiles for the first time since arriving and stands to make her way to the exit. ‘You know, it really isn’t.’

Lunabella liberally applies sunscreen ⁠— from wild-foraged beeswax ⁠— when, jar still open in her palm, something appears, glinting in the sunlight speckling the forest floor. Some _one?_ A bulbous head bobs atop an impossible long, rubbery body. _That’s a frigging alien._ She doesn’t panic; she’s disappointed… _Nobody’s gonna believe this._ Its eyes land on her, hold her. She can’t look away. Her mind is drained like a sink. _Believe what again?_ She looks down. The sunscreen drips from the jar. Her skin is bright red, even though the light has softened high into the treetops. She curses. She should’ve gotten the store-bought stuff.

My breath comes fast and shallow. Desperate gulps ripped from the air against the rising tide of panic. The metal confines press into me from all sides, locking my arms in an awkward angle. Its surface runs slick with my cold sweat. I struggle, I kick, I scream against the unyielding walls, but their vice-like grip only contracts further on me, squeezing my lungs dry. “Let me out!” The little air left to me is thick and stifling. I’m going to die in here. Please, please, please… "You’re such a wuss Casey. It’s just a prank! See you after lunch.”

### **House For Sale** #### Quiet Neighbors | NOT HAUNTED “Paula, are you fucking kidding with that sign?” I slam the car door. This listing’s been a bitch and now Paula’s got jokes. She gestures to the graveyard across the street. “People’ll think it’s funny and wanna see the place!” “People will think it’s fucking haunted.” Which it is. But not for long. I head over to the cemetery, stilettos click-clicking on the asphalt. Take the broken stone steps two at a time, Paula following like a stumbling puppy. “OI! GHOSTS!” My voice echoes across the gravestones. No response. Paula scrunches her face. “What’re you doing?” “It’s broad daylight, why’re you whispering?” At her shrug, I continue. “Come out, come out wherever you are, Ghosties! Got a proposition for you!” Dead silence. “I know you’re here, assholes.” The temperature drops ten degrees; I smirk. Misty apparitions surround us. “Assholes?” The gravelly voice reverberates through my bones. “Given the circumstances, ‘assholes’ seems light.” Arms crossed, I stare down the de facto leader: an expired school principal. He blinks first. Or an approximation of blinking. Straightening my shoulders, I switch to negotiation mode. “Look, you’re making it impossible for me to sell that house.” “And?” “If I don’t sell, I’ll have to fire Paula. I know you like her and the little trinkets she leaves you.” Paula’s gaze hits the dirt. “I wanna make a deal.” “I’m listening.” “Great! So… what do I need to do to get you into a new haunt today?”

The secret to writing an infallible work of literature is this: write from the first person perspective of someone else. If a critic dislikes one of your sentences, you can justifiably say that you were attempting to write something someone else would have written. Even God Himself cannot criticize your work if you use this approach. God could have written _Macbeth_ or _Hamlet_ while asleep, and He can write a book vastly superior to _Hamlet if he desires_. However, he cannot criticize your sentences if you are merely trying to accurately reflect the inept mental capacities of someone else, regardless of whether your own mental capacities are equally inept.

On a Portland day without rain Two billy goats boarded a train While looking for views They made national news The reaction has just been insane

Morning confessions churn in her throat like ash, though there is no altar, no listener, only the habit of speaking to herself in half-finished sentences. The words rasp, brittle, and fall apart before they reach the air. Mirrors no longer flatter, chairs grow harder, nights longer. The house smells of dust and the faint iron of rain. What remains is a slow ruin in the shape of a life - walls thinning, plaster shedding, memory gnawed hollow. She drifts from room to room, touching framed photographs of relatives she does not remember the names of, waiting for recognition that does not come. _Be holy or be nothing_ , she heard once, but now it means only: _endure or vanish._ She holds the words like pebbles in her palm, cold and heavy, useless. Someone said the word sacrifice, but it tasted like salt. She remembers swallowing it, remembers the way it burned her throat. Now she keeps her mouth full of ash, a ruin in a ruined house, the prayer unfinished but burning anyway.

I remember being small and ambulatory, as I was finding my way in the world. But that was before. Then came a time when I felt ready for change and I discovered a safe place, a warm and soft haven, a refuge where I could rest undisturbed. I slept and changed, grew and metamorphosed into my new, wonderful shape. Now I am almost ready to face the world again. Soon, it will be my time and I’ll venture forth once more, renewed and reborn into warm sunlight. I’ll emerge into the world in triumph, bursting through my human host’s abdomen.

They whisper about it now, but we used to have magic. That state of newness that only water can provide, that was real, honest magic. Magic came from water. We ruined it. Magic doesn’t exist anymore. End of story. It should have been the end. But there are whispers. Large bodies of water go through a process called turnover, I explain to a lecture hall full of overwhelmed freshmen. It makes the water different temperatures, rising and falling within the lake. The middle zone is thermocline, I valiantly impart on them, the middle zone is change incarnate. Fresh snow crunches under my feet as I trudge towards West Lake Okoboji. It’s beautiful in winter, frozen solid with ice fishermen spotting the surface. It’s also, just barely, deep enough to test my hypothesis. The thing about turnover is that it only goes so deep. Under the thermocline is the hypolimnion, the under-lake. The water doesn’t shift, doesn’t cycle up to the surface, and doesn’t change like the water of the epilimnion does. I pay an ice fisherman $25 to let me use his shack for an hour. He makes me promise to call him if he gets any bites. I wait for him to disappear before I attach the amulet to the fishing line and drop it into the water. It hisses as it disappears into the depths. The fishing line goes taut right before the ice fractures and the earth begins to quake. Some things never change.

A bump in the nose, inside reflection, outside looking up to the sky, I’m kind of high. I hope that’s okay. I jump from cloud to cloud, girl to girl. It’s my world at the end of the day. Hey, I’m just being honest, no reason to lie. My last relationship ended with a punch to the face. I know what you’re thinking, it wasn’t me. I swear I was sinking into calamity. I’m often in the pits of hell. I yell to myself from inside my space mind prison cell. Well, there’s no reason for details. I’m away from the past. It’s time to move on from the last. Still, my face hurts from the punch. There’s an indentation in me, and I can feel it deeply. There’s pain, but I seal it away, steal it away. I don’t care if you’re buying or not. I’m trying a lot. I’m tying what’s left of me into cloud shaped knots. My heart is a pot and it’s boiling over. I go over so much in my mind. It’s hard to find a person these days, but I’m diligent. I promise I try. I cry myself into pool, and drift on the drool.

# This month... ## Contributions from... Alice Dillon, Anatoly Loginov, B.G. Smith, Bee Hawthorne, Betty Stanton, Brett Abrahamsen, Chyina Powell, E. Florian Gludovacz, E.J. LeRoy, Joshua Mannix, Katara J. Z., Kevin Hopson, Kurt Newton, Len Slatest, Lilian D. Vercauteren, Lisa Timpf, Lisa Verdekal, M.D. Berry, Marc Watson, Michael Smith, Michaela El-Ters, Natalia Plos, Natalie Bucsko, Nicholas De Marino, Rickey Rivers Jr, Sara Szatmary, Sascha Reinhard, Spencer Salokar, Tessa Were, William Shaw ## Cover art featuring photograph by Vruyr Martirosyan ### Pick up a copy of this and more from our webstore! ##### PDF and EPUB zines of August's stories available exclusively to paid subscribers: ### This post is for subscribers only Become a member to get access to all content Subscribe now

#### I hope you find yourself at the bottom of a bottle of red wine look in the mirror and do not hate what you see swatch purple on your eyes without regard for others are haunted by morning memories of me try the spicy foods that used to scare you lick your stubborn glass plate clean bury your wounds in an unmarked grave confine yourself to only burning cities kiss the sky and then the ground again clean the gravel from your scraped up knees lighten the load that lives on your shoulders know you are always the devil to me * * * _Savannah S. Miller_

1. My son’s foot when he was born was about half the size of my finger. He weighed less than 3 lbs. He spent six weeks in the NICU. 2. Waking up in Adelaide, South Australia to magpies and lorikeets calling and I’d go have coffee on a picnic table and smell the ocean from my back porch. 3. Wanting to be a traveler, tramp, vagabond, vagrant, hobo who rides the rails or lives out of a van. 4. The moment my heart broke, when I finally realized she’d never love me in the way I needed her to love me. 5. The feeling of riding a bike through the morning Irish mist on the Aran Island of Inshimore. 6. The way my wife will never see how beautiful she truly is. 7. Being in a relationship where you’re no good for one another, but you just can’t quit each other. 8. The weight of my friend’s casket when I was 17. 9. The morning I walked through the empty streets and closes of Edinburgh, Scotland. Gathering flowers in Princes Street Gardens, and taking the tram to meet my one true love. 10. How time stops when driving out to Edisto Island, South Carolina and how every person should find a place where time doesn’t exist. * * * _M.D. Berry_

“Baal Hammon demands five lives to quell his anger.” The priest’s gaze sweeps over us. I dare not meet his eyes. I know it is necessary; our crops lie dead in the field, the river dried to a trickle, the sun scorches skin and earth alike. But I’m weak. I shudder to pay the price. Hanno rises without a hint of hesitation. Two more, with less eagerness. Another. Then nothing. One more death, to bring new life to our people. With a heavy heart, I stand. The priest nods. “Very well. Deliver your lastborn daughters to the temple by nightfall.” * * * _Sascha Reinhard_

Francis adjusted his VR goggles and loaded the boss fight of “Brain+Crash” in hard mode. The reviews had piqued his interest, calling it the most extreme game of the year. _“The sudden death feature makes this game stand out!”_ _“Unforgettable!”_ _“A once in a lifetime experience!”_ He wasn’t a proficient gamer, but he really wanted to try it. The game started and he found himself in the combat area. Before he could react, the final boss crushed him to death. Flexible steel filaments shot from the VR goggles, punched through his skull’s orbital fissure and into his brain. Sudden death! * * * _Florian writes stories, likes cheese, and is a friend to dogs and pandas everywhere. @ndbag.bsky.social_

The blood is never mine, but I wear the crimson stains dripping from my skin, smothering the handles of each tool as I saw bone and sew skin. Remove one limb and give to another. The body must be perfect where humanity is not. Skin enclosing the superior botanical system thriving within. A final puzzle piece, the heart thrums in my grip, lifeless and yet life-giving. I place it within the ribs and allow the vines snaking through the chest to grab hold. They wrap the organ and squeeze once, twice, red saturating green as the body quakes into being. * * * _A.J. McCrae_

It wasn’t the _worst_ breakup. But I still wanted my mum. She didn’t say a lot⁠—just listened and repeated “it’ll be okay” while I broke down. My friends took me out drinking. I don’t remember much, except that I threw up after. I cried as my stomach heaved. I had no one to hold my hair out of the way. The doorbell rang shrilly through my hangover. It was a man with a bag of tools and a large box. He showed me an email from my landlord authorising essential works. I let him in and crawled back to bed. He was gone when I awoke. A red light blinked at me from a cobweb-encrusted corner of my bedroom. I walked around my flat. The sick sloshing in my stomach cooled instantly⁠—watchful red lights blinked from every corner. The TV was on, screen glowing: _Welcome to Home Safe. Your privacy settings have been adjusted to Care Mode._ My head thumped, and I reached for some painkillers. A dialling tone sounded, and the screen flashed: _Risk threshold exceeded. Emergency contact notified: Calling…_ _Calling…_ I fumbled for the remote, too slow. _Connected._ My mother’s voice, laced with panic, filled the room. “Are you okay, darling?” * * * _Imrak Eriksson is a former rocket scientist turned patent lawyer who spins daydreams into fiction._

Hunting ideas can be hit-and-miss. Either you have so many ideas you are frantic at the thought you will never be able to use them all, or you are visited by too few. Patience in those lean times is required. Don’t be too hard on yourself⁠—hunting ideas is no easy task. Ideas travel quietly, and cannot be detected by the normal five senses, although sometimes, if you latch onto a really good one, you can hear it reverberate through your soul like a temple gong’s solemn tones. Ideas love to shelter in the dense thickets of your subconscious, and must be coaxed out with care. If you startle them, they will vanish, never to be seen again. Ideas are the children of trickster gods. They love to flit into our conscious minds when we are preoccupied with other matters. Beware: the quality of an idea will often be inversely proportional to the convenience of writing it down. Ideas may drop into your head while you’re dog-walking, showering, or mowing the lawn. In such circumstances, it’s best to engrave the idea in your mind (not literally, that would be messy) until you can get your hands on a notepad. On the bright side, unlike game hunting, idea hunting is always in season, and there no limits on how many you catch. Which reminds me, I could use a few new ideas. Maybe I should go out and shovel the snow . . . * * * _Lisa Timpf’s speculative writing has appeared in Lorelei Signal, NewMyths.com, Polar Borealis, and other venues._

The gunslinger put his revolver in a sack and rented a rowboat. The lake was flat. It was like a blank piece of paper. He rowed with a seriousness reserved for funerals and card games, every splash sounding like an apology. The gunslinger admitted to himself that he always wanted to be a seahorse but lacked the correct breathing apparatus. He drifted off into the sunset that holstered the day. The boat never fired. It had an alibi. * * * _R.J. Butler_

C|——————|—————|—————|——————| H|——————|—————|—————|——————| S|——o—o⁠——|—o——o⁠—|—o——o⁠—|—o——o⁠—| B|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—| We will, we will … provide a socially acceptable outlet for violence that’s effec- C|——————|—————|—————|——————| H|——————|—————|—————|——————| S|——o—o⁠——|—o——o⁠—|—o——o⁠—|—o——o⁠—| B|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—| tively a proxy war and fosters intense hatred and bitter rivalries, just like George C|——————|—————|—————|——————| H|——————|—————|—————|——————| S|——o—o⁠——|—o——o⁠—|—o——o⁠—|—o——o⁠—| B|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—|o-o—o-o—| Orwell’s said in “The Sporting Spirit,” though it sure as shit beats actual war. * * * _Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer. More at foofaraw and nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com._

He had withdrawn from the world after making a choice he never defended, telling himself it was temporary, then letting years pass unchecked. He drifted in a void without beginning or end, unsure when retreat had become habit. Yet a gnawing sense persisted: his story would not be denied. Time pressed closer, subtle and unrelenting, and he felt the quiet claim of age settling into his bones, behind his eyes. What he had postponed now demanded recognition. In that suspended moment he understood: neglecting one’s story is no escape. The world waits for no one, and what he called silence had always been a decision. * * * _Steven Van Der Heyden_

The DJ announced the next song would be the last of the night, a final slow number to share with that special someone. My legs were killing me. I’d only just slid down the wall to rest on our high school gymnasium’s floor. But this was it. Now or never. I pushed myself up with help from the wall. _Don’t already be dancing with someone_ , I prayed. She wasn’t. She sat by herself at a round table, sipping a soda. _Just don’t say no_ , I prayed as I walked up to her, as I asked her to dance. _Just don’t say no_. She turned her pool-blue eyes on me. She smiled slowly, then she started laughing. She laughed and laughed and laughed so hard that I began to worry she might hurt herself. Then she got up and walked over to where a group of her friends were standing around, and struggled to stop laughing long enough to tell them what had happened. Her friends looked at where I was standing, frozen in place. They all broke out into laughter too. I sat down with my back to them, so she wouldn’t see the smile on my face. She’d laughed at me, sure. But she’d never said no. * * * _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._

**For Sale:** Antique Mechanical Bird Cage Wind-up singing bird in a gilded cage. Fully functional. Excellent condition, _not cursed_. #### Provenance: * Ida Strauss - Perished on the Titanic. Cage found floating on debris, bird singing. * Julia Florence Cavendish - Purchased at auction, died in train crash still holding the cage. * Ellen Mary Barber - Cavendish’s nanny, gifted the cage. Perished in house fire. * Anna Parvati - Purchased from Barber’s husband. Died in bus accident. Cage found near the bus. * Paulina Teodora - Inherited from Aunt Anna. Murdered in her home by her husband. Cage found beside body, bird still singing. Must sell _before it’s too late._ * * * _Cristina Cabrera_

What do I do if I believe And I believe I haven’t received The thing I know I ought to need The thing I don’t believe I need But I know I need to believe That I need to receive this thing? * * * _Mackie P. Notte_

oh, you thin white plastic furnished-apartment shower curtain did you cling with such fervent tenacity to your last tenant? * * * _Kat Hausler is a translator and author of the novels What I Know About July and Retrograde, as well as many shorter pieces._