Category: issue 12

June’s missing and no one seems to care. No police report, no missing persons search, nothing. It’s been three months and her school should have sent a letter: a call, even. Mama and Baba haven’t noticed either. No one seems even curious why June hasn’t called, emailed, or even sent a letter. No one seems to know she’s missing except me.

Tap, tap-tap-tap, tap, tap-tap-tap… Chakra wanted to cover his ears, but that meant letting go of the paper in his hands. He had to keep reading so the tapping wouldn’t madden him

Bright, pale blue light dimmed over M-360’s head as she sat in a steel pew of the church. Around her, everyone else in her neighborhood sat in wait for the sermon.

I was leaning against my desk in the Mars Dome cop shop, rubbing nano-repair gel on my prosthetic leg, when I caught the rookie staring at me. Or rather, staring at my leg.

One day, after several million turnings of the universe, the Afterlife’s Glorious Hospitality Crew’s traditional millenia-end satisfaction survey revealed disturbing news: they were considered rather anachronistic when greeting newcomers.

Hell was a hospital waiting room.  Ash’s mother gave their hand a squeeze. When they looked out of the corner of their eye to see her face, she gave them a tight-lipped smile.

On the outside, there was no indication that the warehouse down the street from my apartment stocked its shelves with books from parallel universes.

The four of them clustered in a round booth at a midnight diner. Danae stirred her steaming, black-as-pitch coffee with a long, manicured fingernail.

It’s only after Cloud’s funeral that we realise none of us can remember why we followed her in the first place. No-one, that is, except for Robbie. He stowed away, he claims, and kept a clear head. The rest of us? A drink, maybe two; compelling blue eyes; and the next thing we knew, we were on the ship. Contract signed. Memories hazy. Cloud renamed us, gave us each a job, and that was it. We were crew.

When the northwestern wind blows through the island, the shutters of the grand houses on Archbishop Street rattle like the tips of snake tails. Ships moored in the harbor moan at their anchors. The ancient capital city perched on top of the weathered limestone cliffs slumbers in a deep, dreamless sleep. There’s no light, save for the frantic beacon of the lighthouse, calling from the depths of the sea sailors of lost fishing boats.