Hello. Is this your city? No, no. We understand. It is not a city yet. It is merely embryonic. Conceptual. An idea to which your bones are laced, the sinews that tether the tendons of your dreams. It is only a city in waiting, a city mid-birth, a city breathless, inexorable. But you desire a …

Here I am, the understove-listener, the ancestral keeper of an indefinite gender and infinite hairiness who lives under your kitchen threshold, under your fridge, making your ice cubes perfectly square when you deign to pour yourself a drink: minimalist living requires an absence. I protect you while you sleep—but you want to wake up in …

Hello. Is this your city? No, no. We understand. It is not a city yet. It is merely embryonic. Conceptual. An idea to which your bones are laced, the sinews that tether the tendons of your dreams. It is only a city in waiting, a city mid-birth, a city breathless, inexorable. But you desire a …

Outside the cracked window of the garret, the cockle-seller hollered, “Cockles an’ mussels! Cockles an’ mussels!” Her voice blended with the other London morning street sounds to mean that Vaughn was going to be late. “Botheration.” He tied off the thread in the fine blue leather of the gloves he was stitching and snipped it …

Do you remember the hands of men? How they pressed into your skin until red blossomed across the surface? How their intentions left patterns on your body? When you fled through fields, through forests, up mountains, up hills, into streams, into …

Today is not the day I wanted to do this, but we aren’t always given choices. It’s time to pack for the new seasons. No, you can’t stay. This place won’t be here soon. It’s already going, slipping away, each new summer tearing off strips. You can see the new flesh underneath. We’re still guessing …

The Indy Metro bus came to a shuddering halt and deposited Celeste Burroughs at her stop. A plastic shelter enclosed a bench printed with the words “Embrace Mortality.” Celeste looped the cord of her earbuds around her thumb then unwound it, careful not to pull the cord free from her pocket, where it trailed, not …

I’m trying to piss against a wall when the vampire bites me. Trying because drunk-me can barely hold a glass, much less maneuver a limp prosthetic cock. My attacker holds me like he did on the dance floor, one arm wrapped around my chest, this time digging into my ribs. I struggle against his supernatural …

Ten things were created on the eve of Shabbat, between the lights of night and day, and they are: the mouth of the earth, the mouth of the well, the mouth of the donkey, the rainbow and the manna, and the staff, and the shamir, the writing, the missive and the tablets. And the world …

The Boy Who Grew Up. Short story by Christopher Barzak. Uncanny Magazine Issue One.

Celia and the Conservation of Entropy Short Story by Amelia Beamer. Uncanny Magazine Issue One.

Love Letters to Things Lost and Gained by Sunny Moraine. Uncanny Magazine Issue Two. Short fiction.

Spring festival, before the fish arrive: Teresa Teng croons from the radio; I hum along as I hang paper decorations, the reds and golds bright against our cream-colored walls. You’re in the kitchen making dinner—Shanghai-style sauteéd niangao, braised cod, stir-fried green beans. Sizzle, pop. Water runs from the sink, interrupting the music for a moment, …

The ride out past Sorintov Station to the monument the soldiers held hostage was bumpy and hot. Every time the sun sank below the horizon during one of its ten daily sunsets, Arkadi welcomed the cooler air, and the quiet. The world always felt more real in the dark. Arkadi sat in the back of …

Meg should have known. This was what came of trying to be nice. “It’s a new job, a new crowd,” her mother had declared, far too cheerfully. “Be sociable this time around. Make friends. Say yes to possibilities.” Against her better judgement, Meg had worn the daffodil yellow shirt; Meg had said “yes” to drinks …

Three words, allegedly, written in Sharpie on his bathroom mirror: CREMATION, NO FUNERAL. “Shortest suicide note ever,” said a girl standing beside me at the river’s edge, staring into the flames. “That’s so Cyd.” The shortest suicide note is none at all, I thought, and that was so Cyd, so much so that it made …

Late Nights at the Cape and Cane. Short story by Max Gladstone. Uncanny Magazine Issue One.

Her Fingers Like Whips, Her Eyes Like Razors. Short story by Jay Lake. Uncanny Magazine Issue One.

If You Were a Tiger, I'd Have to Wear White. Short story by Maria Davhana Headley. Uncanny Magazine Issue One.

There isn’t a virus. He’s pretty sure of that. The radio, when the BBC news had come back every day for a week, before ceasing once more, had mentioned rumours of a virus motivating some of the big “refugee trains” that had got stuck in the West Country. But nobody who’d left from round here …

Kamanti mindspoke to her swollen belly, Sekke Sekke. Then cooed and hummed. The precious gift given to women to hear the voice of their unborn child had thus far eluded her. Kamanti’s aunt had said the baby was very stubborn, and would only speak when it thought it had something worthy of saying. And so …

Migration. Short story by Kat Howard. Uncanny Magazine Issue One.

“Yeah, that’s some clog,” the plumber said. She pulled the metal–and–rubber snake out of the bathroom sink. Marisella wrinkled her nose at the gunk sticking to it. Whatever it had caught on in her drain had warped the metal and torn away bits of the rubber. Marisella asked, “Can you fix it?” and, more softly, …

An Eddie LaCrosse story “Would you look at that,” the queen said softly. “A white hart.” I followed her gaze. Far across the clearing, at the edge of the thick forest, an immense snow–white stag stood stock–still, as if posing for a painter. Only its ears twitched, as if it heard the queen’s faint voice. …

The boys arrive with the changing of the weather, ushered in by winter’s cold. Once a year, at the beginning of December, those silly boys who think coming here means they are brave. All of them so eager to test their worth on the edge of my husband’s axe. For years and forever and for …

The traits that make me who I am are written on my skin. My biggest words are in my mother’s handwriting—smart, loving, resilient, organized. She wrote them on my back because there’s no way I’ll ever be able to reach that skin myself. Mother’s largest word is considerate, written in her father’s blocky letters, filling …

(Content Note for descriptions of sexual violence.) Your sister has too–large hands and too many teeth. Not in a sense that her gums are crowded or her fingers are long and she might have a career as a concert pianist. No, her hands are massive, thick–boned, tipped in wickedly sharp claws that shine like pearls. …

Three lies: One: Silence is permission; quiescence, acceptance; yes is yes means always yes. Two: This is the way of gods and beasts, a tradition of power. The men take, the woman is taken, her boundaries malleable, her desire negligible. This is cultural, universal, axiomatic fact. Mythology is unkind, deification teeth–marked by sacrifice. If there …

Democracy was dead to begin with. There was no doubt whatsoever about that. The election proclaimed it and the electoral college confirmed it and Trump himself signed off on the note, vaguely annoyed that Clinton had somehow still gotten 2.9 million votes more than he had. Well, they were from California. Everyone knew California didn’t …

The budget hotel is empty and desolate, the lady behind the check–in counter drained of color. Her eyes are wide and fraught as she looks over our reservation form. “Two bedrooms with double beds?” We nod. Rich passes her his credit card. “Five keys?” We nod again. She hands the keys to Rich with a …