Publish or Perish

by Julia LaFond

Cynthia Blanche wasn’t credited as the first author on her own paper. She wasn’t the second, the third, or even the fourth. The Modern Journal of Phantasmology listed her as the last and least fifth author, which meant Dr. Redbud had screwed her over once again.

If Cynthia weren’t patient, she never would have made it through her candidacy exam, so she patiently barged into Dr. Redbud’s office.

“Could you please explain why I’m not the PI for my paper on the sulfur content of ectoplasm?”

Rolling his eyes, he swiveled away from his array of monitors. “The reviewers reached out to me and said they wanted us to determine the allotrope of the sulfur — when an element has multiple physical forms, each one is called an allotrope —”

Cynthia obviously knew what an allotrope was, but she also knew better than to interrupt Dr. Redbud when he was mansplaining.

(Continue Reading…)

The Third Wish

by Peter M. Floyd

I was in the middle of a pleasant little nap in the Seventh Sky of Severus when the summoning came.

Enfolded in a cloud bank, I was snuggling under the billows in a comfy-cozy fashion, all of the troubles of the sixteen quasi-pyramidal dimensions slipping away like forgotten dreams. This was my first real rest after four or five eternities spent putting out fires in the Red Chasm of Varsh, and I was looking forward to spending a nice long perpetuity indulging in some me time.

But no such luck. I had been there for only two or three eons when the all-too-familiar tingling sensation began in my phalanges and outer membranes and then spread in jagged waves along my dorsal limbs and then up through my carapace. There was no denying it; some fool on the mortal plane had successfully cast a spell to call me to them.

“Oh, by Crom’s back teeth,” I said to no one in particular. “Not now!”

But my words were in vain, and all too soon I felt the glorious softness of the cloud melt around me. For fifteen horrible seconds I slipped through the oily blackness between dimensions, fighting back the urge to vomit. (Dimensional travel always gives me motion sickness.) Then, with an audible pop, I landed in the mortal plane. (Continue Reading…)

Amma’s Kitchen

by Rati Mehrotra

I can always tell what dish my customers will order. Knowing what the dead crave is my gift. Or my curse. It’s hard to know which.

This girl, for instance. Brown, like me, but pale, as if the color’s been leeched out of her skin. Dark, staring eyes, weeds tangled in her drowned hair, and an ugly purple frog squatting on her shoulder. She doesn’t remember her name or the man who killed her, but she remembers the taste of her mother’s fish pakoras.

She drifts in, dripping water over my nice linoleum floor. I suppress a sigh. Cleaning’s the worst part of my job. At least it’s not blood and guts today.

“Sorry,” she says, glancing down.

“Don’t worry about it.” I wave her to a barstool. I have tables and chairs for groups, even a couple of red vinyl booths, but my customers are usually a solitary lot. Sometimes a family will come in, all four or five of whom have died in the same accident. I’ll usher them to a booth, doing my best to ignore their ghastly wounds, and give them what they need. (Continue Reading…)