Over the Edge

by | Oct 3, 2025 | Story | 1 comment

Author: Alicia Cerra Waters

I remember laying on the midwife’s cot after the world had been deep-fried by a nuclear bomb. I wasn’t feeling very optimistic. The midwife’s mouth puckered with words she didn’t want to say as she offered me some herbs. Problem is, I knew those herbs didn’t even work for the coughs and colds they were supposed to cure. Everywhere was a desert and people thought anything green was medicine. But only medicine was medicine, and only the witch doctor at the top of this mountain had it. No one living in the underground barracks had anything besides superstition. Of course, the witch doctor had her superstitions too. Her tech could cure anything, but she demanded a life debt. So I hired one of the con-artists who called themselves guides to take me to her.
“Watch your step,” the guide said. A black bandana covered his mouth to keep out the sands. When we left, he told me in no uncertain terms he thought I’d die out here. Which would be too bad. Life was the only currency I had.
The bleeding had stopped some, but the mountain to the witch’s hut was a sharp climb. Not at all ideal for my situation at nine months pregnant, yes of course my muscles ached and my breathing was ragged, but women had overcome shit-odds like these long before the world ended and I would be no exception. I worked my way around the drum of my belly and hauled myself up the sharp ridge. Above us, three more ledges jutted out. We could see the squat metal dome which buzzed with electric lights like a beacon.
“Listen,” he said, “I have some cyanide.”
I jerked my head up towards him as I hauled myself onto the ledge. “Why would I want that?”
“Girls like you from the worst part of the barracks always get screwed over. A quick death is better than bleeding out in childbirth.”
“Thanks for your concern.” A shit-eating grin split my face. Two more ledges to go.
“You’re tough. I like that. If you want, I’ll bring it back to the guy who put it in you. Where is he anyway?” His eyes narrowed on me as sweat trickled down my brow. I was pretty enough. It’s the only reason he agreed to take me.
“He’s dead,” I said. My legs throbbed like the baby would be forced into the world right here, right now. I almost lost my grip as stars closed in on my vision, but somehow I pulled myself over the second ledge. All that mattered was getting to the top.
The guide let out a low whistle. “I’m sorry I’m meeting you now that it’s the end for you.” He was about my age. Probably not bad-looking under the face covering.
“I’m not,” I said, and tossed my hip into the last ledge of rock, my arms scrambling and scraping, and kicked my way over it. He smiled under his bandana like I’d given him a complement. Ridiculous.
I laid on my side in the sand and looked at the hut, which was really a fortified storm shelter, nicer than anything back where we came from. I rose to my knees when the witch doctor opened the door.
“I’m bleeding. The baby’s coming soon,” I said.
The witch shrugged. “We’ll figure it out. Women get out of worse situations than yours all the time.”
“Wait a minute,” the guide said. “What about the life debt?”
That was when my knife opened his throat. “Paid,” I said.

Papers, Please

by | Oct 2, 2025 | Story | 3 comments

Author: Alastair Millar

Maybe if we’d thought about it sooner, instead of just buying what the newscasts told us, things would have been different. But I’m not sure. I mean, Autonomous Immigration Management Systems sounded like a good thing – they’d be a non-human (read: non-emotional, non-threatening) way of quickly checking ID documents against the usual registers and permit lists. They could ensure folks were here legally, and paying their social dues. Unarmed, non-unionised, and undoxxable, and they could work 24/7/365. Even with maintenance, they’d be cheaper for the Tri-Metro Area than constantly having to recruit and train new agents, who’d then want paying at rates equivalent to the private sector. Wins all round, am I right?

And when they arrived, everything went fine! We got used to seeing their sleek blue-and-silver frames in the street, stopping at irregular intervals to ask random people for their papers. Sure, there were occasional errors, but these always turned out to be caused by sloppy MetroGov record keeping. And we didn’t worry about AIMS teams visiting workplaces, because they were faster and caused less disruption than the goons they’d replaced.

But my opinion changed a few months later. I was lunching on a vibrobench in the park downtown when the oddball wandered past. Weirdly coloured and oddly cut clothes, and a conspicuous direction finder on his wrist, gave him away as a tourist. He looked around vaguely, blinked, and smiled when he saw me. I smiled back, faintly, assuming he was about to ask me something.

Suddenly two AIMS units were beside us. “Papers, please,” said one. I flashed my ID band and it scanned the code, then looked directly at me. I knew it was doing a facial reconciliation, so I didn’t move. “Thank you, citizen,” it said.

Then it turned to the stranger. “Papers, please.” He looked confused. “He wants to see your identification,” I said, helpfully. A look of understanding crossed his face, and he dug a card-sized tablet out of a pocket. “Papers, please,” repeated the unit.

“This my passport,” said the man. “Me tourist here.”

“I need to see your MetroID please, citizen. It is mandatory.”

“Tourist,” he said, pointing at himself. “This my ID”.

“This is not a valid MetroID,” said the machine.

“Passport,” said the man.

“I need to see your MetroID please, citizen. It is mandatory.”

The man stared blankly, shrugged, clearly decided there was no point arguing with a piece of metal, and turned on his heel. As he walked away the reaction was instantaneous. The second unit sprang forward, caught the visitor by the arm, and flung him to the ground. I heard a rib break. “You are under arrest; charges: defying legitimate authority, suspected no valid identification. Stay silent.”

“What? Me do nothing!”

A metal slap across the face was his only reply. People on the path had stopped, and a couple were filming on their comms; the first AIM clicked its fingers, and suddenly none of the devices were working. “Nothing to see here, citizens. Move along. Unreasonable assembly is punishable by law.” The knots of people scattered.

They took him away, and I never saw any mention on the news. But I started to wonder – what if I’d forgotten my wristband? What if it was me on holiday, and a local unit didn’t understand what I was saying? Where would I end up – and would anyone know to look for me?

I know they’re there for our protection, but I can’t look at them the same way since. And I don’t take my meals outside any more.

Lilibet

by | Sep 30, 2025 | Story | 0 comments

Author: Cecilia Kennedy

If you follow the trail of woods at the Inkston County Line and see a purple and silver spot that swirls and sparkles in the afternoon sun near the oak tree, that’s where Lilibet lives. (At least, that’s what I call my little worm-like pet, who produces a thick frosting-like slime and squirts it from what appear to be her nostrils.)
When you take her home, she’ll want to eat immediately. This is what she eats at first: crumbs of cake and nibbles of tea sandwiches, but only the morsels that party guests have tasted and let drop from their mouths. So, you must throw a tea party the minute you bring your pet home. It—my Lilibet—feeds off the vibes of a good, well-mannered party. She emits a gassy sound when she’s happy, and of course, wet sparkles, much to the whim and amusement of guests.
Then, when everyone leaves, let your Lilibet—or whatever you’ll call your pet—lap up all the leftovers until she’s absolutely stuffed and has grown three times her size. Let your pet curl up next to you in bed and awaken in purple puddles. She has adopted you now.
*Must kill.*
You’ll hear this voice in your head the next day. Don’t be afraid. It’s just Lilibet, as I call her. (Your name for your pet might be different.) She’s just reminding you she’s hungry. Gather more friends and hold more parties, each one more extravagant than the next: high tea with champagne, ten-course tasting menus. Your Lilibet—or whatever you call her—will eat up every morsel, growing even larger, more mysterious—a curiosity to your guests who might be alarmed as the creature circles about their legs, slithering and oozing, using its frosting-sludge-smeared nostrils to sniff them out—everywhere. Your guests might leave, never to come back, but that’s when you’ll hear *Must kill* again.
You’ll soon run out of friends and relatives to invite to parties, but you’re so in love with your Lilibet—or whatever you’ll call her. The two of you will be connected. Your Lilibet will softly cuddle you at first and invade your thoughts of insecurity and helplessness. She’ll make you reject those thoughts and soothe you with a *Must kill.* Your Lilibet will slip into a cocoon-like chrysalis, and you’ll hear beautiful thoughts of infinite new ways to exist.
When an opening in the chrysalis appears, take it. Crawl inside with your Lilibet. Let her convince you as you pulse and sway to the rhythmic sounds that reverberate in your mind: *Must kill.*
Together, release more Lilibets into the world—send out telepathic messages, like this one. Kill the thoughts that plague the mind, the endless drudgery, the parties that have ended. The next host is near. So near. And you’ll be the guest of honor.

Bratwurst

by | Sep 29, 2025 | Story | 0 comments

Author: Susan Anthony

“Have you ever noticed how bratwurst looks like the dismembered parts of an amorous man?”

Jimmy replied, “I feel like we may have got away from recipes again.”

“You’re right. I was just reminiscing.”

Jimmy echoed the sentiment, “I understand. But those thoughts are unhelpful. Just re-center like we have discussed.”

Alice stuck her chin between her legs and took deep breaths. There was a tap on her back and she lifted her head, her guardian had arrived and was gently poking at her through her virtual reality suit, from a screen a thousand kilometers away, his voice echoing about her room.

“I don’t see it. Is it green?”

“Why would you think he is green?” asked Alice.

“Aren’t crickets green?”

“Real ones, maybe.”

“Oh yeah, forgot. How long do you have it for?”

“Until I think correctly. I’m being re-trained.”

Inside her head, Jimmy interrupted, “Re-aligned.”

“Sigh-o. Yeah, re-aligned. You are right as always, Jimmy,” Alice chanted through gritted teeth. “Always so very right.”

“Are you talking to someone? Is it Jimininy?” asked her guardian.

“I believe you will find that you, as my contracted guardian, should know that the word Jiminy, or anything similar, is not to be used. Clause 9071.2, Disney Galactic copyright 2076, sub-section Pinocchio / Cricket”

Tipping her head towards her shoulder, Alice sighed, “Can you give us a minute, please?”

“Are you talking to me, or Jimigo?” whispered the guardian.

“You,” she said to the screen, and she muted the call, as she had the bad habit of talking out loud when conversing with Jimmy Cricket, her embedded conscience.

Jimmy spoke stiffly, no doubt expecting the usual reprimand, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I am feeling those feelings again for my guardian. He is a nosey prick. I don’t want him. You’re plenty.”

Jimmy, feigning confusion, but secretly flattered, “But?”

“But, exactly. I find I want to boot him in the butt. Any tips?”

“As part of the correctional program that you agreed to, in lieu of approximately twenty-six point five years without possibility of parole, I can tell you,” said Jimmy, “that I am very pleased, no thrilled, by your progress. There was a time that you would have wanted to do a lot worse. Certainly, that’s what your profile suggests.”

‘Is it weird that Jimmy sounds like Ryan Gosling?’ thought Alice. ‘Oh shit,’ she thought again, ‘Can he hear this too?’

Jimmy piped up, “Would you prefer to call me Ryan? I can search for his voice in the archives. Early or mid 21st century?”

“No. No, thank you. So, can I get rid of this guardian?”

“Well,” said Jimmy, “strictly speaking, you entered into this arrangement quite recently, less than six months, so we can invoke the GLL that you may remember from the contract.”

“GLL?”

“Guardian Lemon Law.”

“Let’s do it,” shouted Alice.

After Jimmy’s coaching, a few sentences, and it was done. A screen popped up and she was offered a menu of other options suitable for her range of offences, their compatibility shown as a bar graph. Across the bottom of the screen, a warning flashed green then red, ‘LAST selection possible. GLL not applicable.’

She chose.

On the screen, a hooded head appeared, no features visible. The scythe it was holding a little worrisome, but more concerning for Jimmy, the can of insecticide hovering over the keyboard, was unsettling.

The head spoke, “Shall we begin.”

Annie, feeling a sharp jab on her forehead, a sensation of mist in the air, and a hollow scream from Jimmy, nodded her compliance.

“Tell me about bratwurst.”

Selections from my Fragrance Portfolio

by | Sep 28, 2025 | Story | 0 comments

Author: John McManus

The Singularity EDP

You can’t travel through time without a good sense of smell. At least, no farther than you can drive a car blind. That’s why the best time travelers come from the same little Riviera town as the best perfumers. Grasse, France.
The perfumers’ guild formulates the eons. Han China Pour Hommes; Doges of Venice Eau de Toilette. How do we build these time machines? For sharing guild secrets, the penalty is death.
That’s why they’re hunting me down—but they’ll never find me. My new fragrance is The Singularity. The opening is vetiver, cedar, and neroli. The drydown is a sweet vanilla cream you’ll be sniffing and sniffing until you’re in here alongside me.
Once you’re here, you’re not leaving. That’s the thing about the singularity. There’s no one who CAN leave, and no place to go, never was, never will be. Here I am, come and get me.

Atlantis Extrait

The year the comet hit is what perfumers call an oriental. Seductive, heavy amber—think Opium or Shalimar. Two sprays of Atlantis Extrait and you’ll be there, among the ancients. Don’t try to learn their language, just speak in equations.
The kings of Atlantis were mathematicians. They found cheat codes to the world, greater ones than ours. Theirs could seize control of aliens. Aliens aren’t made of carbon; they’re what we call ideas, and what do ideas feed on? An anxious mind.
Think of nuclear radiation. In the distant future, Chernobyl still will be poisoned, same as we’re still being eaten. Thirteen thousand years after impact, the aliens are still feasting. Did you think your nightmares were neurons, bouncing?
Nightmares are aliens. Wear my magnum opus, go meet the conquerors of aliens. Steal their cheat codes, bring them home to our world before theirs ends in fire, but be careful. Wear too much, you’ll go noseblind.

Palaestra Pour Femme et Homme

Plato’s Athens is a powdery fougere. Cherry, cognac, and pink pepper, with a hint of leather: it’s sexual, as it should be. That chair from his theory? He sat in it while I pleasured him.
His thighs had thighness, the chair had chairness. It was an olive-wood klismos. Spray Palaestra, go see for yourself. Go learn the Form of the Good.
Attend Socrates’ trial, drink the kykeon. Fall in love, have some kids. Be your own hundred-times-great grandparent, it’s no paradox. Games have secret passageways.
It’s just code. In Super Mario Brothers, at the end of World 1-2, leap onto the ceiling blocks and you’ll come to the warp pipes. Palaestra is your warp pipe, and it’s zeroes and ones, nothing more, nothing less. That’s the secret of the universe.

Machu Picchu EDT

I wanted Incan Cusco. They gave it to Marcel, who doesn’t even believe in God. The man they assigned to the hemisphere’s greatest dreamers thinks this world’s all there is or ever will be, so I broke into his laboratory. The atomizer was labeled Machu Picchu EDT.
I poured that swill down the drain. If the sewer rats smelled it, they went to hell and stayed there. Hell is cliches. Imagine the worst TV show you’ve ever seen.
If the writer of that show were god of his own world, who in that world could dream a dream? Not the Inca. The Inca need to dream. Who better than me to make them dream?
Guilty as charged, I’m an egotist. To be a great perfumer, you have to be. The desire planted deepest in your heart is to smell yourself on other people. That’s how the Lord made me.