Fiction
A Tree is not a Home
by Diana Dima in Issue Twenty-One, January 2026
A tree is not a home. But you, twelve years old and bony, dragging a suitcase behind a gray mother into the gray building where you were now going to live, looked back at me as though it was all wrong. As though the building should have been me.
You came out soon afterwards, walked across the parking lot and over the low wire fence into my patch of land. (I saw you, in a manner of speaking, like an arrow rushing at me in the dark.)
I could tell that you had never seen a birch before. You pressed your cheek to me and asked if my white bark meant that I was old. Maybe... Continue →
A Beginner’s Guide to Summoning Demons
by Cynthia Zhang in Issue Twenty-One, January 2026
Buy two cartons of salt: one for the actual summoning, the other for practice. Don’t worry about iodized versus sea salt, fleur de sel or pink Himalayan—as long as it’s not low-sodium, any brand will do.
Candles, too—your mom has some around the house, but she will notice if you take them all. Even if she doesn’t, you doubt the scent of Ocean Rain and Vanilla Sugar will impress any demons you want to bind. Votive candles are best, though tealights will do in a pinch, a pack of twenty for one ninety-nine you can pick up at the dollar... Continue →
Visions of Althea
by Alex Woodroe in Issue Twenty, July 2025
Red and Black.
There used to be others, I heard. Lights we can't imagine because we've never seen any other than Red and Black. Red like the vastness of the sky above, Black like the roiling waves we ride. Red like the lightnings that power our vessel, Black like my drowned love's eyes.
The Cap shrieked her mourning call, the one we'd all been waiting for and dreading. Her long howl was our final warning, low electric current turning into no electric current, low hope to none. The Ruxandra flickered, her bright red lights dimming to crimson before brightening up... Continue →
Restaurant Space for Lease
by Vivian Chou in Issue Twenty, July 2025
I get my killer recipes from my Vietnamese mom, and my distrust of people from my Chinese dad. Maybe it's not healthy, but least it kept me out of the crypto craze.
"For the last time, Clarissa, this space is not cursed," Tanya says. "But it's the only affordable space in this overpriced town." Her words echo through the restaurant space, empty of furniture save for the built-in bar and hostess station.
Right outside the window, the copper statue Sherman Vanquishes the Squid gleams in the afternoon sun. Sam Sherman eyes the beast through his gun's crosshairs. The... Continue →
Fish Upon A Star
by A. R. Frederiksen in Issue Twenty, July 2025
Before he died, my dad fished stars for a living. Sucked them straight out of the sky with a glorified mechanical fishing rod. Of all the possessions that I inherited, the starfisher was dad's truest legacy. I picked up where he left off, expanding on his star smuggling business as he would've wanted. All I had to do was find the people who'd wished on stars when they were children and offer them one of two options: pay me to keep their star in the sky or pay me to fish it free. Most clients paid a hefty fee to let their star fall by natural means and make their wish come true. Others... Continue →
Brother, What Is Your Name?
by Leanne Howard in Issue Twenty, July 2025
I need no map to reach the Sisterhood of Solace. The stories I've heard in Grauland are true. After a journey of three days north, I reach the base of their mountain, where a squat brick tavern greets me like the last remaining pumpkin in a patch. Beyond it, a dark road snakes up to the mountaintop. The Devil's Tail.
The publican greets me warmly; perhaps I am the first monk he's seen in a long time. But I decline his offer of a brew. I'm sure it's come from up there, from the mountain, from the Sisterhood. People say their beer makes princes cry.
People say their beer can... Continue →
Host
by Catherine McCarthy in Issue Nineteen, March 2025
Day One
It is the stream that leads Gethin to the cove. At night it burbles in his dreams, foaming at the mouth and demanding he follow it. And so he obliges.
Seven miles he walks, with the stream as his guide. Seven miles in pitch dark, through field and forest, until he arrives at the coast at the cusp of dawn. Poised on the clifftop, Gethin peers down on a mercury-tinted bay while the stream cascades over the cliff, spewing its guts into the sea.
A deep breath to summon his courage before he scrambles down the cliff face, camera bag strapped to... Continue →
Handsomest Gentlest
by M. R. Robinson in Issue Nineteen, March 2025
Everybody said Black Shuck was a great big fearsome devil, but I wasn't so scared the night I met him in the woods. I'd only been dead for two hours, and I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to be afraid of some old black dog curled up crying in the bushes.
The sound of his whimpering cut right through my own tears. I wiped my drippy nose as best I could, sniffled once or twice more for good measure, and followed the noise until I saw the shape of him. His whimpering was how I knew he was a dog and not a monster. His burning red eyes when he looked up were how I knew he was Black... Continue →
Coming Home to Leviathan
by Sagan Yee in Issue Nineteen, March 2025
Ewing taught her how to do it safely, with a red foil wrapper from one of those strawberry candies they gave out with your bill at every Chinese restaurant. "They're for good luck," he'd said, the first time they tried it. That, and something to do with electrical conductivity. That way you got unlimited minutes and the full spectrum of sensation, undiluted by the cranial filters they put in to stop people from spiraling out. Or, as Ewing put it, to stop people like them from having fun.
They'd been having a lot of fun, lately.
Kath lay on the dusty couch cushions they'd... Continue →
A True Account of a Pre-Teen Blob
by Marie Vibbert in Issue Nineteen, March 2025
Milly and I walked home from school to find Mom sitting on the porch with her suitcase on her lap. She turned away from us and shouted into the door, "They're here. Move it!"
Our older sister, Becky, slouched out in barely obedient teen anger, a beach tote on one shoulder and a plastic grocery bag in her other hand.
"Leave your schoolbooks," Mom said, standing. "Let's go."
There was a strange woman in our driveway, in a brown pencil skirt waiting by the door of a strange brown Buick. She was brown, too. I admired the color-coordination.
"Move," Mom pulled the... Continue →