Category: Fiction

It’s a dangerous world to be a woman in Rebecca Baum’s The Brood—but the predators aren’t the male characters. The shocking power of this tale comes from an utter breakdown of female solidarity.

Life abounds in unmeasured joy. We are flying things, crawling things, growing things, all breathing together in an unbroken circle. All know this, and it is embedded into our every cell.

A blocked screenwriter finds unlikely creative salvation when his wedding gift—a cage-bound parakeet—becomes his mysterious muse and collaborator in this surreal tale.

All my children emanate innate energies of being, so I can find them swiftly. Solange is Intelligence. I find my children of Wisdom, Acute Observation, Irony, Independence, and lastly, my Queen of Daydreams. I think they were waiting for me. They are incubating in this world. A world of rain and water and earth.

A drama of sex, death and vengeance unfolds between three Bearded Vultures (Gypaetus barbatus) and the parliament of ravens occupying the same isolated mountain valley.

In the dim corridors of the National Library of Argentina, my search for documents on Cold War espionage led me to an obscure and forgotten manuscript of Borges.

Stage the end of the world in your mind, any old apocalypse will do, and this is probably what you see. You have just created “the Bunker,” laid its first brick.

For a thousand years I helped build our worlds. I surf and slide on electromagnetic currents. I can find my children in the dimensional strata.

I often think of beauty. What is it? Does it come from the planet? Radiating out of its molten core? Like our second bodies—how can anyone look at theirs and not know their beauty?

“And what do you know about paradox?” Grolier asked his younger sister, Mailka. “The harmony of opposites? But I still don’t know what that m… means.”

This chapter from Richard Andrews’ debut novel has a bit of everything: sex, humor, tragedy, adventure… and of course, music. In these pages, we meet young Chris Hunter and his Aussie bandmates, just after a terrible accident has derailed their dreams of making it big and changed their lives forever.

The little screen illuminated my pillow in a pool of light. I knew it was wrong of me to set up the profiles, with names like “Shining Star” and “Dark Forest”, but I was feeling lonely and vindictive. My fingertips swiped across photos and words.

In a work that blurs the boundaries between futurism and very recent history, wild imagination and straightforward reportage, this piece takes us through the phases of tumultuous transformation in our present/future shock. Reality ain’t what it used to be. Enjoy the ride.

Properly speaking, shadows are not those places where the light is blocked. In the earliest reconstructed languages, those places have no names, though the proto-word for shadow does exist. Shadows were the beings that lived in those places of blocked light. Through the corruption of time, they have lent their name to their native homes, been subsumed by them, been forgotten.

“The Second” was written for a speculative fiction writing workshop and very last-minute in its original form. I did the plotting and world-building on the fly, and basically the original idea was “what if the protagonist were trying to save their friend from a duel?”

Another intimate Readers Underground group has formed around Maia’s See You In Our Dreams, a book described as “a long, complex, slow exploration of the final paroxysms of a dystopic future before something starts to change.”

The game gives us a satisfaction that life denies us.—Emanuel Lasker ∞ “Tea or coffee, Sir?” “Coffee. Black. No sugar.” I’m on the phone with a market researcher. I try to picture a pretty girl at the other end of the line, but it isn’t working. All I …

I looked at him through the camera. “You have a secret.” His eyes widened. I continued. “It’s not something…bad…but you think it is…. Something about a confrontation with your father. And it has to do with…a female.”

As a fledgeling writer and editor, as well as an (almost-retired) scientist, I am feeling my way into the business of editing, critiquing, choosing. I have eclectic tastes. I read just about anything, and voraciously. I review everything I read—you can …

Whether I chose to feel my emotions fully, or experience the depth of them — that wasn’t up to me. That was up to God, or Satan, or whatever it was that controlled me.

That room is gone. Or rather, the room is still there, but what’s in it now is so different from what was in it before that the room itself seems transformed. It holds a vast model of the world we live in, built to scale and rendered in exquisite detail…

You must listen intently to the sound in your ears. It’s a carrier signal. The message is layered into it.

Yes. It was the Werewolf, he said. I ask him what happened.

How much further are we going? She isn’t really asking me. Just thinking aloud.

There was a boy once upon a time who lived in a small village with his mother, this father, and his sister.

So this man lived once in a fairly clean house, up along a good road. A good neighbourhood. This was the man I told you about.

Where did those men go? What men? He says he didn’t notice; had his eyes closed listening to some music the barman had put on.

Fade out. The music fades out. I say you’re a strange girl. She doesn’t reply immediately so I stay: switch channels.

Three black bags lay on the table and the telephone was ringing in the back. That’s where it was.