Strut and Fret by Donna Vorreyer

[Open in a theater. The show is about to begin.] Dimmed lights and red velvet herald the start when you ask me a question. What are we doing here? you say, and it startles me, but the play is now in progress, the curtains up, so I make some sort of comment to hush you…

Contest Update and You On Fire

We just have three weeks until our Hallow/Hallowed contest ends. If any of you dear readers are writers have yet to send in an entry, please do so. As we’ve been tweeting and facebooking, Stephen Graham Jones will be displeased if you don’t! In fact, he may do this to you: Yes, Stephen Graham Jones…

Well Wishers by Owen Kaelin

They’ve little curiosity, these people, and they don’t like what can’t be swiftly dismissed, what they can’t finish us with. They do like it when we go away with a hat. We want possibilities, but they want to make periodic resolutions of us. Of course we return to them before much time has passed, because…

Closings and Contests and Same Great Taste

We’re up to our eyeballs in submissions, so we’re closing all but donation submissions (that we will read when we resume in January) and contest submissions. We want to send some amazing “hallow/hallowed” entries to our guest judge Stephen Graham Jones, so get those contests submissions in before October 15th! Through Thanksgiving, we’ll publish the…

Dr. Eighty by Karina Sims

Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I’ll lie awake at 2 A.M. on the living room floor, pretending I’m glued to the rug. The room is upside down and the floor is really the ceiling and I imagine that after, oh say a week or so, my body becomes unglued and flops down. Sort of like…

Intifada by James Claffey

بومة بيضاء (intifada) I gather the solution in ten-gallon drums, all the time working on the technique, moving towards an exact science, wherein the “material” created would cause the greatest damage and loss of life. The recipe is Jer’s grandfather’s one from the old days, when he and his butties traipsed about the countryside in…

Two Poems by Amorak Huey

HYPERGLYCEMIA The bartender brings drinks I did not order and tells me she used to dance under the name Kandi Cigarettes. Fake ashes and the taste of chalk, the hunger of strangers. She says she learned more about human nature than she cares to repeat, more about desire, about emptiness. She says she did this…