Stories

The ocean is a woman and it is dreaming, dreaming, Ekaterina thinks as she holds the hardsuit’s arm open, ready to clip a sample.

Three pieces of toast—dark on one side, light on the other. A cup of coffee. Rosh’s preference is Blend 14, with hints of Sub-Saharan Africa and caramel, delivered tepid with more milk than expresso.

When the news said three more young men had been found dead in their homes, Grace knew her mother had come to town.

Barely afloat, our house thrummed with the possibility of sinking. You shook, I shook. Mr. Shindey almost stood, surprising his cat. He wanted to help.

Life is transactional. Give this, get that. It’s the first law of thermodynamics, nothing personal. No sense getting dust-fucked over it.

Near the center of the space, a worktable, and a loom—and the Matron. She sits at her loom, just as she has every evening long after the world has gone to sleep.

His white skin looked even more pale in monochrome. In the final chapters, he had worn his officer’s uniform, to remind me of his country’s authority over my city.

Tory writes, draws, and codes in Los Angeles. Her fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons, Drabblecast, and PseudoPod, and her art has appeared in Strange Horizons, Apex, and Spellbound. I can&#82…

I dress up as a clown and let people beat me up in the alley behind the cybermotel. The first man who ever did this to me, he was my best friend.

Frederick says I shouldn’t spend so much time with dead things. He warns that I, too, might atrophy and ossify.

Not everything that’s missing was taken, but once it’s gone, it’s gone, ain’t it? There’s nothing to be done about it now. What isn’t dead is burned to the ground. What isn’t mourned is barely remembered.