A queer, antiauthortiarian fantasy story that is mostly just about survivor’s guilt. And demon gods.
The five hunters behind her breathed in deep, breathed in unison. They were close, their lips almost to her ears, and the wordless chant was heavy in the air. Four sets of lips belonged to men she cared not much for. The other belonged to Lelein, a woman who had breathed hard into her ear in other moments, passionate moments. The trees hung boughs high above the hunters, the moss of the ancient forest soft beneath their soft-heeled boots.
A story of adventure and love set in a post-apocalyptic tea-farming commune in the Pacific Northwest.
An autumnal smell broke my train of thought. Autumnal smells had no place during Beltane, but there it was, amidst the ambient scent of the tea fields, the iron sweat of the dancers, the pine smoke.
A voice carried through the evening’s scents: “Fire!”
Burning tea plants. The smell was burning tea plants.
A short horror story in the style of an online review of a campground.
I used to look forward to dying, back before I’d met the dead. The thought of death had been a comforting one. Death had felt like sleep, like oblivion. Oblivion is the place where forgotten things go. I’ve long wanted to forget, so I’ve always wanted to be forgotten.
My cynical critique of misanthropy, in science fiction form.
It was a shitty fucking mission. It was a volunteer mission that hadn’t had a single volunteer until Caroline. But on a backwater like Earth, she had a chance to make a name for herself and be left alone. All she had to do was try not to die on entry, find the terraforming team. Find a way to report back. If she wanted, find a way home.
A crustpunk traveler, on the end of his rope, stumbles into the paranormal.
The woods were shrubby and shitty and full of ticks. It was the kind of embarrassing midwest excuse for a forest that is both the result of clearcutting and that makes me think a second clearcut would, just in this one case, be an improvement. The sun was on the back of my neck and I’d had my thumb outstretched for hours. The muscles in my face hurt from smiling at every single motherfucker who wouldn’t pick me up.
A horror story set in near future Baltimore. A queer street punk wrestles with a world in which angels bestow upon each of us a curse.
A night like any night, my bare mattress on the floor, old window glass between me and the street outside. A few bottles on the floor, one filled with piss in the corner–the toilet was three stories down and if there’d ever been a railing there certainly wasn’t one now and I’d rather piss into a bottle than break my neck drunk in the dark.
What happens when your self-driving taxi decides to drive you to jail?
“This police district requests all principal transportation providers to log passenger information of those traveling to and from specific locations. While customer privacy is of the utmost importance to us, we at Taxy are both required and proud to uphold our legal responsibilities.”
A very short love story set in a post-human world.
“Sometimes I think that the kindest thing I could do would be to cut the wires,” I told you. I was being cold to you. I’m fairly sure it was the only time I ever was. I’m fairly sure because sometimes I think about everything we did together and everything I ever said to you, as if that could help me make sense of what happened.
A squatter comes face to face with crippling anxiety in order to eke out a meager living by hacking rich people. Included in the disability-themed sci-fi anthology Accessing the Future. This story was my first professional short fiction sale.
The last light of the sun came down through the broken windows, all pretty and shit, catching on that big jagged shard of glass and then pouring out into the room over my bed. Over Marcellus. He snored in that way he always did, endearing and soft.
I hurried to dress in the last of the daylight, but once I was done, I lingered. I paced, I ran my fingers through my beard, I watched the twilit horizon and counted the silhouette bones of the buildings Portland calls its skyline.
Anything but go to work.
A short, non-traditionally-structured story about a boy coming of age and joining a self-condemned order of outlaw knights. Each knight swears to uphold tenets of their own making. Published in the anarchist surrealist journal Oystercatcher.
The day before my sixteenth summer, an Ilthurian came to Set Allowstone and saw me as a florist. At best, I was a witch’s boy; but Dam Seda rated lower than any witch I’d heard of in stories and to be frank even the midwives and healers in town only trusted her concoctions, not her spells or advice. More than potions, I sold flowers. Selling flowers, I assumed, was no way to impress a knight of the self-condemned order.