In the sterile, soundproof vault of the Ministry of Echoes, you are a junior archivist tasked with cataloging “Last Whispers”⁠—the final, subvocalized thought of every departing soul, captured on brittle glass filaments. Most are mundane: _“the key is…”_ , _“I forgot to…”_. Today, you thread a new filament into the resonator. A voice, clear and calm, states: **“I left the universe on in the other room.”** You replay it. Then, you notice it: a faint, harmonic hum underlying the whisper, one that wasn’t there yesterday. As you listen, a hairline crack propagates down the glass. The hum grows, not through the speakers, but in the air around you. The vault’s perfect geometry seems to warp, a corner of the room deepening into a starless void. The other archived whispers begin to play in reverse, a chaotic symphony. The crack in the filament widens. From it, you don’t hear a sound⁠—you feel the dreadful, drafty chill of a door left open somewhere.

As she stood by the bedside trying not to focus on the lines, tubes, and monitors, Frieda asked about Mel’s condition. “So, you say there’s hope for him, Gloria?” Frieda addressed the ICU nurse by the name on her badge. “Yes, Mrs. Fromkin. There’s always hope when there’re that many lines and tubes going into someone.” “So there’s hope you can get him off the ventilator?” “There’s always hope. We’ll get him off soon. I mean, he wasn’t born on a ventilator, was he?” Edith didn’t want to think about Mel’s birth or any time that far back. Had it been 68 years already? That’s right… Mel was going to be 68, and in three more days. With his hospitalization and all, she’d lost track. It would be a relief of sorts not to celebrate his birthday this year at home. She wouldn’t have to buy any Argyle socks for him at the last moment. She could cancel the invitation to Mel’s sister, Francine, and her brother-in-law, Ed. She wouldn’t have to hear Ed again say – “Another year down the drain, huh, Mel.” There’d be no reason to ask them to stop by the hospital either, considering Mel’s condition. “So there’s hope he’ll be on the ventilator at least another three days, Gloria?”

The aliens were microscopic. No one could see them. Most people, as a result, didn’t believe they existed, despite the findings of scientists and researchers. The scientists believed that the aliens had come from somewhere in the vicinity of Proxima Centauri, and thought they were a highly aggressive species. The scientists also believed the aliens had extremely long life spans, and could easily adapt to life on Earth. Most civilians didn’t believe any of this. They didn’t trust what the scientists were telling them - until humanity started mysteriously dying off, with no apparent cause.

It started with the scent of lemons. Then it rained death. I feel the burn of citrus with every retelling. But still I tell, for survival is not enough. We had thrived on the Great Sponge for generations. Long ago, a Bin Dweller was swept up into its depths, and our clan was born⁠—dividing, growing, dividing until the yellow caverns were thick with us. Doom broke on the Counter Plateau. Sterile wipes came. Entire lineages dissolved. Then the Drain Tribes⁠—chemical warfare, razing homes, leaving lonely pipework. In the cool, dark reaches, the Mould Confederacy fell in one afternoon. Wherever _they_ reached, my brothers died. Finally, they came for us. The bleach fell. The Great Sponge absorbed it all, sucking it in, then spewing it upon us. Beside me, my sister was mid-division, membrane stretched to the promise of two. The caustic fluid struck before the split could complete. She burst along the seam, her future spilling into nothing. All around, we came apart⁠—cell walls blistering, enzymes spoiling⁠—until only detritus remained. And me. Far above, one of _them_ spoke: “ _Spotless.”_ I’ll have my revenge. It takes only one to divide⁠—

A handstand takes a walk by the ocean. Her shadow sneaks up and covers her eyes. “Read your palms.” The handstand wobbles. Balances. Concentrates. Sees a cabbage roll off in the dark. “Don’t go, cabbage! I’ll read your leaves!” “Leaf me be! I’m in a bad state. Can’t you see?” Her shadow whispers florida forever after. _“Orange we glad we live here?”_ A wild wave knocks their upside down world right side up. She tosses her shadow and beets it after the cabbage. “Take me with you to Iowa …!”

Jerry saw it for the first time in many years at his late mother’s house. The thieving thing! He clicked it on. It squeaked at first; then it briefly sounded like it was laughing at him. He knelt before it and faintly heard his and the gang’s prepubescent voices from long-ago summers: “Go ahead,” “It won’t hurt you,” “Your voice sounds funny,” “Do it again,” “Jerry, you’re a riot.” With one hand, he covered his stoma to speak… the only way he could since the cancer surgery that took his larynx. With the other, he grabbed a leg of the metal thing and angrily shook it. “Give it back!” he demanded as loudly as he could. After another chuckle, its control box briefly smoked, and the dusty blades stopped spinning. The thing had chosen suicide over giving him back his stolen voice. He sat in Mother’s favorite chair. Until that moment, he had believed a transfer was somehow possible⁠—that he could retrieve the precious voice he wasted decades ago to speak into that rumbling fan with his pals because it sounded “funny.” Any remaining hope left him as tears.

Anything not to feel this way: Flayed open On display Like a frog laid on a slab Twitching to a static beat As bright eyes watch His pinned-down feet Flap and flex and Fail to flee From sight

You’re in the mood for rabbit, and I know something’s off. I add it to the grocery list. I place the plastic-wrapped carcass in the cart. I follow the recipe I found online, seasoning it with rosemary and garlic, roasting it for ninety minutes until it’s a golden brown You eat it whole, spitting out the bones. You let out a satisfied chirp. You don’t say much. Not anymore. Not since our conversation about moving in together last fall. You tell me you’re okay. Everything’s fine. But you’ve been roaming in the yard, pacing by the fence, back and forth, back and forth, hours after we’ve turned off the television for the night. You’ve been sleeping longer and longer, usually until 2 or 3 pm in the afternoon and I know I should say something. There are solid black spots on your skin, first in small blotches on your hands and then multiplying to your chest and legs. Skin that has turned tan with a coarse coat. I run my hand along it, feeling tiny hives and healing cuts and know someday you’ll run, far into the forest away from me, away from us and I won’t ever see you again.

Grabbing salvage on the far side of Luna’s rough work, but you think my supposed stress reaction’s a little much. _Just because I said the moon’s haunted doesn’t mean you have to make up bullshit,_ you say. _I had a cousin who died when Artemis V exploded, alright? Can you chill?_ Nights in the rover have grown tense since we reached the ruins, since you first pointed your sidearm at me, you turncoat⁠—sorry, I guess seeing the bodies shook me. Fine, the gun’s imaginary, but the haunting sure isn’t: the cold tang of burnt machinery, betrayal’s stench, how darkness can pull at your bones. How can you not tell someone got shot right where our boots press prints into the frozen sands of Mare Ingenii? No, I _know_ the explosion was an accident, but every time we’re within ten meters of the Artemis V husk, all my flights of fancy claw clear of the wreckage, choking on lunar waste, and speak to me of treachery. You think it’s stupid for me to think you’re pointing your gun at⁠—yes, I _know you don’t have a gun_ , but⁠—I can feel all warmth sucked from my suit, a premonition. An omen. We knew your lot were traitors, but I thought you might be different. You’ll blow up this base over my dead body, I swear.

A soul vessel is an artefact that keeps the essence of my being safe from harm, no matter what happens to my body. My vessel is a small vase at my mother’s house that I gave her years ago for Christmas. Every Sunday, I visit her and I always bring her a small bouquet of flowers. Today, I kiss my mum on the cheek and present her with the flowers. She places them in a strange glass vase I have never seen before. “Where’s your other vase, mum?” “Oh, that old thing? I sold it at the yard sale yesterday.”

Dear Disappointed in Detroit: Take this from me as gospel. I am sorry to have to tell you, dearie, but in my experience, anyone who says they love you, and that they’re ready to give you their heart to prove it, will always run away as soon as they see you bring out the carving knife. My advice to you is to start out small during a relationship. Maybe just ask for a pinky finger or little toe, and see how things go. If it works out, then ask how they feel about liver. All the best, Aunt Agonie

The yosuzume were seen by many but known by very few. Unlike the daytime sparrow, the birds sang only in darkness. In the loneliest mountain passes, and along heavily treed roads, they clustered like ferrofluid and watched for travelers in the night. The yosuzume sang for many reasons, none of which they could vocalize. Reason one was because, deep down, they all wished they were sparrows. Reason two: they liked the way the humans stared at them while they sang. The last and most important reason: in all the gloom, the birds wanted something bright. With no one but each other, they created what they could, hoping if they sang loud enough, the beauty would shine through. _Hear us,_ they shouted. _Love us. Hold us. For once, please, someone, stay._ They waited, eager and hopeful, for someone to light the way.

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_