Oops! All Swords

by Jessie Roy

Blackness, and a ringing in your ears, and the smell of ozone, frankincense, woodsmoke. Something’s happened. An accident. A magical accident.

But you’re conscious, and your heart’s beating. You’re alive, probably. That’s a start.

Vision returns in sparkles, resolving into blinding lines of glitter. You squinch your eyes almost shut as the image clears. It’s your master’s workshop, sort of. Bookshelves and scroll racks, salt-crusted alembics, a human skull perched on the mantelpiece above the motionless flames. Your master in the doorway, caught in the moment of hanging up his pointed hat. But through the haze of your lashes, swords gleam from every surface. Huge zweihanders pierce the countertops; miniature bodkins velvet the floor. Scimitars cross the door, trapping your master in a cage so tight you can see a few white beard hairs at his feet. (Continue Reading…)

The Day of the Sea

by Jennifer Hudak

When the Sea came to our village, she was an old woman. She arrived when the water crested and draped over the earth, its salty fingers pushing out offerings of sea glass and bladder wrack. Her dress trailed behind her, hair tangled with kelp and tentacles. No one doubted that she was the Sea. Everyone was disappointed.

We’d all heard tales about the power of the rising ocean, how it leveled towers and returned rock to sand. How it would destroy everything in its path in order to make its way home, to our village. In those tales, the Sea was a warrior, beautiful and terrible, slashing her way across the continent, swallowing everything in her path. Even when gossips at the market began to whisper about nearby towns swallowed by salt water, about boats crushed like kindling and bones strewn across the ocean floor, even as the smell of salt wafted on the breeze, we did not seek her out. We waited for her to come to us, as the stories had foretold. (Continue Reading…)

The Summer of Lugubriosity

by M. T. Lee

We did the ritual on a Wednesday. Josh brought the candles, I brought the book, and Deek brought the lamb. We’re still not sure where he found it.

“Reckon it’ll work?” The beach wind was chilly, and Deek’s voice was muffled beneath his coat.

“Duh,” I said, taking out the Necronomicon we’d found in the Halswell Community Library three weeks ago. But actually I had no idea ‘cos even though the demon goatfish stuff had gone really well, this one was at the end of the book and written in blood or maybe crappy red ink. Really, this was all Dad’s idea. “You boys should do something with your holidays instead of playing on the TV all the time,” he’d said. I brought this up the next time we hung out. “We boys should do something with our holidays instead of playing on the TV all the time,” I told them. This was mostly because they were playing Mortal Kombat III which I wasn’t really good at and I got bored watching them, but also because when I thought about the holidays ending I always felt kinda sad, so I thought it’d be cool to do a big one before we had to go back to school. Anyway they murmured Yeses from their bean bags so here we were, summoning an ancient sea god from the fathomless abyss. (Continue Reading…)

Counting Fairies

By Victoria Dixon

Inside her carport, Janet Littleton turned off the bike’s grumbling engine and removed her pit bull’s goggles. Buddy wagged his tail until she unbuckled him from the sidecar. He bolted downhill toward the rock quarry.

Janet groaned, praying he didn’t go into the quarry. If she entered, there were too many rocks to count, and she’d never leave. Never be safe again. She whistled through her teeth. Buddy barked but did not return. He must have discovered yet another helpless creature to save. She took the dumplings they’d bought and entered her old clinic, walking across the foyer and through the doorway into her home’s adjoined kitchen. She stowed the dumplings in the fridge, her mouth watering at their greasy scent.

“So much for breakfast.” (Continue Reading…)

Trending Now! Help With Legal Fees for Reluctant Swordsman

By Mitchell Shanklin

Hi, I’m Joshua Henzel. You might have heard of me from the New York Post article or all the YouTube videos. I’m the guy with the giant flaming sword who’s suing the NYPD. One thing the articles and videos got right is that I do have to stab myself in the heart to ignite the flame. But no, I don’t do it “for fun.” If the flame dies, so do I.

I’m sick of all the lies and If I’m going to ask people for help, they should know the whole story, so I’m going to tell my side of everything. My lawyer told me I should only tell part of the story (sorry, Mr. Schmitz!), but my best friend Billy told me that lawyers are paranoid little poops and I trust Billy. (He didn’t say “poops” exactly, but I don’t like profanity, so I edited it, even though he says I’m way too young to be such an f-wording prig). (Continue Reading…)

The O’Brien and Palmer Show – PART TWO OF TWO

by L. S. Johnson

INTERVIEWER: The war isn’t the only subject you delve into with this new show, is it?

PALMER: You know it’s not, or you wouldn’t ask the question.

INTERVIEWER: I have to say, we weren’t sure if we could ask the question at all, legally. You were quite the topic of conversation upstairs.

PALMER: Oh, I’ve heard that before. [laughter]

INTERVIEWER: Have you been afraid at all, talking so openly? That you might lose your audience, be fined, perhaps even arrested?

PALMER: Talk about what, John? [laughter] But do you see what I mean? I’m sitting here right before you and you’re avoiding saying what I am. We’ve got a bill sitting in Parliament, we have people demanding change, and yet we still can’t — or won’t — talk about what I am. Now you asked me about the war as part of my show. What kind of man would I be, that I could natter on about death and devastation, but fear saying what I am? What kind of society are we creating, where it’s acceptable to joke about genocide, but not to acknowledge the affection between two consenting adults? [applause]

(Continue Reading…)

The O’Brien and Palmer Show – PART ONE OF TWO

by L. S. Johnson

INTERVIEWER: My guest tonight is comedian Timothy Palmer, who recently returned to the stage for a nationwide tour. Please welcome Timothy Palmer. [applause]

PALMER: Thank you. Thank you very much. It’s great to be here, John.

INTERVIEWER: Before we get started, I must tell you that we polled tonight’s audience before you arrived. Over the years you’ve done some remarkable cameos in films and television, and we asked the audience what was the line they most wanted to hear you say. The winning line was from ‘The Ladies of St. Agnes.’ [laughter and applause]

PALMER: My God, I’m funny and I haven’t even said anything. [laughter] It’s every comedian’s dream. [He starts to stand up] Well, I’m off, you can put my fee in the mail. [laughter]

INTERVIEWER, handing PALMER a slip of paper: This is the line in question. [to audience] Ladies and gentlemen. Timothy Palmer, from his memorable cameo in ‘The Ladies of St. Agnes.’

PALMER, looking directly at the camera: They never taught us this in Sunday school! [laughter and applause]

(Continue Reading…)

The Cuckoo of Vrežna Mountain

by Filip Hajdar Drnovšek Zorko

I realised I was in love with Ivor the day he went up the mountain to speak with the goddess.

We were at that age when the affectionate ease of childhood tips over into something different, when every touch could be the casual brush of friendship or something more and I would never know in advance which was which. There were many times, in those days, when Ivor would take my hands in his, larger and warmer and smooth with the orange-blossom oil he rubbed into them; and I would jerk away with some hasty apology and adjust my trousers while he was not looking. To this day, I find the smell of oranges arousing at the most inopportune times, of which, in a town known for its citrus trees, there are uncomfortably many.

Which is to say that it was not entirely unexpected, this matter of my being in love with him, except insofar as I had never considered the option until it was upon me; and if we had been boys further up the coast, away from the Oracle and her mountain, perhaps this would have been a cause for celebration: the sort of slow exploration of love and youth that ends, mutually, in a friendship deeper than it was before. (Continue Reading…)

Houyi the Archer Fights the Sun

by Cynthia Zhang

“I,” Houyi the Archer says one bright August afternoon when the thermometers hit 103 and the teenagers crack eggs on the sidewalk to see if they’ll fry, “am going to fight the sun.”

“Husband,” says Chang’E, three thousand years into immortality and long past reacting to these types of statements, “please do not fight the sun. We only have the one left, and most people would not appreciate having it gone.”

“Some might, though.” Above them, the ceiling fan whirls, valiantly trying to assuage the heat. The maintenance company, when Houyi called, gave the next available date for fixing the air conditioning as Monday, which — while not too far away — is crucially not today. “The tanuki pack in Arlington Heights or all those hipster vamp kids in Logan Square, I’m sure they’d come down to personally thank me. Besides, I didn’t say I was going to kill the sun. Just rough it up a little, teach it a few lessons about respect.” (Continue Reading…)