by Michelle Muenzler She dreams she is a spider. Words sail from her spinnerets, casting traps about the space she occupies and capturing the pale gray moths that formulate her entire diet. Except… she doesn’t just dream she is a spider. She is a spider. She is vast. Her abdomen bulges with words. With worlds. The universe quakes at her passage, bits and pieces crumbling into the void. Without her span, there is nothing. Formlessness rules.

by Searska GreyRaven Dragons are made, not born. We make ourselves, one scale at a time, forged from seething rage and quenched in cold hate. We string each scale together, forming chains, forming mail, armoring ourselves with these heavy plates because they feel like protection. We don’t think about how they weigh us down, or of the wings clenched tight to our backs. Dragons don’t fly. We might have been born with wings, whatever we were before— (I don’t remember what I was before.) —but a dragon’s armor is too heavy and too solid for flitting about. Deep in our lairs, we curl around a pit filled with fire. Each…

by Rachel Rodman —1— “Wolf!” cried the little pig, “Let me come in!” She stood… this time… not before a cottage in storybook land, but rather before an apartment in 1908 Vienna. And the pig, herself, was—possibly—not precisely a pig, but a construct, built of paper, with the parameters of her existence encoded upon it in ink. And with a dusting of magic, on top of that—a light layer of misdirection—which made her seem mostly human. And the Wolf, somewhere behind that door, was, to a certain way of thinking, not a Wolf… but rather a young man, brooding and pitiable, and still somewhat shy of nineteen. But the pig…

by K. A. Rochnik The sun sets behind the row of giant pines as I watch my manta ray son circle slowly near the bottom of the pool. I hunch at the edge, arms wrapped around my belly, like I’m bleeding from a hidden wound. I track my son’s smooth glide, intent on soaking up every inch of his dark bat-shaped body. Last year when he was still wholly human, he darted about, dodging sharp corners by a hair, artfully prat-falling. I would put my nose in the crown of his tousled head, and savor his smell. Now I can’t tell his scent from a bucket of chum.

by L Chan You know where the selkies come ashore, where they shrug out of their skins, leaving them wrinkled and steaming on the rocks. Not just the protected parks, because selkies are wild things, and even if they speak in their soft, unaffected tongues, they care not for the laws of man. She stops you with a glance. The weight of her gaze pins your hand to the sealskin, a bloodwarm puddle of skin and fat. If you want her to wife, you have to take the skin. Take the skin, take the woman.

by Mackenzie Kincaid Gwyn the hedgewitch had her home in the ground. It was a matter of comfort and practicality, because Gwyn had been a simple badger before she’d ever been a hedgewitch, but it also tended to put off visitors, which was just as Gwyn wished it. The hole that was the entrance looked much too small for any grown man to fit into, and that was just as well because Gwyn had had more than enough of grown men. She’d hardly be taking them on as clients, whether they could find their way to her door or no.

by Steve Carr Lying on the kitchen window sill above the sink, Clyde licked his paws as the noonday sun warmed his bright orange fur. The gentle breeze that tickled the tips of his pointed ears carried with it the aromas of the animals in the farm yard along with honeysuckle and roses. He had his eyes on Mistress who was standing by the table and trying to get a lid off of a jar. Her face was red from exertion as she strained to twist the lid. She banged it on the table, and then stuck a knife under the rim of the lid, but was still unable to…

by L.D. Nguyen Anita sank into the driver’s seat and slit the envelope with the sharp edge of her hoof. Inside was the mug of a unicorn, his eyes like red rubies. His profile said that he’d strung his wife from a tree branch and smashed her head in with a broomstick. Then he’d blindfolded the neighborhood kids and told them to do the same to his two baby ponies.  All because she’d blabbed about his work for the cartel, smuggling chocolates and hard candies in his gut across the border. Now he was worth $650,000, dead or alive. Anita lit up the end of her churro and breathed deep….