It was a simple matter for Mouse to rip apart the thorny mess; and with that hindrance gone, even Lion's outdated meta-processes began to salve stressed joints and re-connect wounded couplings. Tha…

"High fever. Dehydration. Recurring dreams of swans," the doctor has noted in the description area.

They bombed the clinic again at seven a.m. that Friday, between my shower and the hunt for a clean pair of socks.

Almost as one, the runners leap from the shelter roof. When the maglev leaves the station, they'll be on top of it, heading for the labyrinthine transfer station beneath the eye of the ancient, dec…

I saw her clearly, then: beautiful and terrible, ancient and radical, a goddess as much as any human can be. Killing a hexapedal carnivore with a hand-made spear, hiding for two days from a giant a…

Every time a warlord found me, intent on my becoming their blunt instrument, a mismatched armada followed shortly after—some squabbling coalition of assorted ally species, determined to save …

Living with the harpy presented certain difficulties. Her feathers clogged the shower drain, and the smell of unsavory meats cooked over chemical fires drifted from her room. She screamed profanity…

"Little things get little gods. It's only natural."

Nobody pays attention to a slump-backed brownish girl with droopy-lidded eyes. She's got all the genes that make her look Less Human, according to the Important powers that be.

The government was busy drinking. The lights were always blinking and going out in various parts of town. “Neighborhood’s winking up at God,” my grandmother used to say on nights like that. “But yo…

“They fly very swiftly, and prey upon the wing, being of great use to mankind, in clearing the air of innumerable little flies.” —Chambers Cyclopedia.

If she’d asked anyone out in the town, they would have happily told her the town is always empty and the hotel is always full, because those who pay for a night don’t always rise in the morning. Bu…

When Nina first met Owl-with-a-capital-O, harbinger of death, destruction, and despair, He resembled Athene cunicularia, a wee burrower.

I didn't tell my brother that we'd been eating our father's cremains until a few days had passed. I know Ben well enough to know that he needs to be eased into things.

"I can guess his goddamn origin: Disaffected rich kid. Fled America and trained with mystical Eastern warriors. Soon became the best—one year at ninja camp is always enough time for a gringo …

I was never brave or mad enough to fly from a bridge. I should never have been mad enough to eat that apple.

That morning, at great personal risk, Stephen's waffle iron attempted to tell him something.

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 …

Yann kept the dynamite in his coat closet. I smelled it as soon as he let me in.

I promised my family I would turn away from my studies, all the while resolving to continue in secret. I committed everything I knew to memory, burned all my papers, and embroidered my most unfath…

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 …