by M. McNamara I walk along the beach, on the hunt for a new shell. The one I have now is quite acceptable, sturdy and round and adorned with attractive whorls, but it’s getting a bit small. “Time for an upgrade,” Merv had said, so here I am, wandering about at low tide. Normally I like to stay submerged in the shallows, but I’ve braved the exposed sand this afternoon in the hope of a lucky find. This is one of the perils of being a hermit crab: you must wear armour that you don’t craft yourself. “Lucky snails,” I mutter as I trundle along. “They might be soft and…

by E.J. LeRoy “Siren Crab, state your purpose.” My claws click in response to White Coat Samuel’s order. He is the White Coat I see most often during the day, but my answer would be the same no matter who issued the command. That is my job here, to answer questions and obey the commands of any White Coat who addresses me. In return, I answer and do as I am told. My programming does not allow for asking questions of the White Coats in response. This does not bother me. What would be the point of adding these parameters to my designated functions? “I am a solar- and hydro-powered…

by Zary Fekete In Budapest, if you wake up in the middle of the night by a flash of lightning and a burst of thunder, when you go out in the morning to the rain-washed sidewalks of the city, you will find snails. After every rain the byways of this grand city must be shared with the soft creatures. The pavements inhale the scent of the rain and snails begin their journeys back and forth, as though reborn from the downpour. The Hungarian snail, or csiga, is renowned by the Magyar people as a harbinger of good things. The Hungarian language announces this quality of the invertebrate creatures by gently…

by R.J.K. Lee There’s loss that never leaves you, that drains life of color, sound, and feeling. It’s like a sheen of cloying gray moss muffling everything in a blinding symbiosis. Loved ones who haunt you with their lingering hopes and dreams, snapping from branches in the humid jungle. For me? My gibbon friend, Suso. Her furry limbs, playfully swatting my feathers as I flew. Her singing as if to taunt me. Golden gibbon hoots, beauty deeper than birdsong. Golden gibbon hoots, swinging vines for so long. Golden gibbon hoots, at rest on branches and roots. Before that, my parents and siblings. Their vibrant plume. Familial comfort gone forever. Sometimes…

by Anne Larsen Consuela came to her vocation by riding on the shoulder of a pale human in black robes. The color suited her sorrow, the heavy cloth bunched beneath her clenched feet. Grief made her restless, but loneliness kept her clinging to this strange man who was the only one to walk away from the sun-dappled shade and silence of her village. The hammocks hung heavy with unbreathing fathers and stiff children. The women had died closer to the fire pit, trying to make broth for the little ones. When the last of her people had died, the pale man stumbled away from the village, and as she could…

by Ginger Strivelli She wove a design that her ancestors wove into their webs when dinosaurs walked the face of the Earth. It was the same design her descendants would weave into their webs long after humans had been wiped off the face of the Earth. It was just a web to any human who might wander by, they would not stop to wonder about it, though they surely should if only they knew why. People only see a pretty but mundane web holding the spider’s lunch and her egg sack. It would not cross their mind again once they walked past. The Spider knew the magic and the science…

by Elizabeth Davis We burn. But that is fine. We have burned for many generations. Such as here. Life here is good. We come back heavy with food, and our young grow strong. Already wings have sprouted on the new queen, and it will be soon, we know. We eagerly bustle  through our tunnels, made easy in this dirt. The cool soil protects our young from the beating sun and those that would steal them, winged things with hard beaks. Not that they try much anymore. For we are fierce and have reared our young on the flesh of those that seek to eat us. We have become quick leaving…

by F.I. Goldhaber During Fisk’s forty-six years at Christ Episcopal Church in East Bay Harbor, Connecticut, organists came and went. While most played for several years, a few stayed only months. Fisk remembered them all by their hands. Matthew had short, pudgy fingers, yet he manipulated Fisk’s keys with a firm touch and coaxed out wondrous harmonies. Lenora fondled Fisk’s keys with thin, expressive fingers requiring him to stay alert lest he miss a note. Roger’s hands, like soft clouds, caressed Fisk’s keys towards new heights in sound. Other than his well-worn bench — the varnish polished away by organists’ vestments to reveal the intricate grain of fine oak —…

by H. Robert Barland A pale blanket of smoke hangs over the capital, its acrid scent infesting my fur. The sounds of rioting continue from beyond the iron-bound gates of the palace. I turn my back to the noise and raise the camphorwood box to eye-height for a final inspection. A thin line of red seeps from one corner. Retrieving a handkerchief from my purse, I trace the hinged edge of the box. The square of silk falls open in my hand. Blood smears across the corner that bears the royal crest. An embroidered sunset of scarlet against the yellow silk. I toss it aside and it flutters to the…