by Koji A. Dae Each morning the summer my sister was born, I followed the rest of the girls from my village to the beach and watched the breaking waves explode into hisses of foam. I collected seashells and traded stories my aunts had told me. But I no longer believed an octopus would come on our shore and snatch me to the source of the ocean. They try to get people when they’re young. Compact. Easy to transport. Twelve was the cusp of never. I was shooting up in height, growing breasts, and putting a layer of fat on my childish hips—too old to believe that an octopus would…

by E.D. Walker The sky was a vibrant pink, like a sea fish newly ripped open, and the beach sand was cool and soft under Swift Shadow’s feet. Her hatchling scampered a few strides ahead, lashing her long tail and snapping her neck forward, biting the waves as if the sea were prey to be devoured. Shadow sighed as she watched the hatchling dart into the waves. All things end and all things are eaten by the earth. Truly, she wouldn’t be able to call her young one a hatchling for much longer. Her clever girl had outlived all her siblings and Shadow’s own strong mate. Soon her youngling would…

by Jordan Kurella The crow was beautiful when she ate: all black sheen and viscera. Her beak slick with spoils as it tilted back, neck bulging, bulging with her quarry. The quarry meant for us. We vultures. I watched her. We all watched her. This solitary crow, separated from her friends, her loved ones, her family. Her murder. I wondered sometimes, if she were lonely. Solitary as she was. As I was lonely. Perched on this stone ledge, high above a narrow street with my own friends, my own loved ones, my own family. My wake.

by Ingrid L. Taylor The meadow had been hers for as long as it had taken the flowers to pass through one cycle of blooming and fading. She had defended against the larger birds, the crows and the sparrows, as yellow sun had given way to the pale autumn. The memory of her mother’s nest had dimmed, and she learned to treasure the solitary rustle of the grasses and the slow darkening of days. The coyote came with the smell of rain. She heard him at night as he passed around the edge of her meadow, keeping to the shelter of the trees.

by David Steffen We used to be so close.  What happened between us, Gloria?  Is it because I died?  I would never have thought our marriage was so superficial.  For Christ’s sake, we’d been married for eighteen years!  And now you won’t even talk to me, won’t even look at me.  I’d never even believed in reincarnation, but here I am.  I guess reincarnation believed in me. I know I’ve changed.  You pass by and I watch you, unblinking, hoping for even a split second of eye contact.  After being ignored for so long, even that small acknowledgment of my existence would be amazing.  But, no, you keep walking.  As…

by Laurence Raphael Brothers On the third day in the desert, we stopped at a dusty old creek bed full of drift sand. I was hoping we could dig a shallow well but— “No dice,” said my horse, so we moved on. I sighed. “At least we’re out of the rain.” “Rain,” he said, shaking his head, “Come on, Susannah, don’t torture me like that.” “Sorry.” We kept going. Pioche, Nevada was supposed to be out here somewhere, said to be the last outpost of humanity in the sprawling desert covering the western half of the former United States. The change was supposed to have started around here, and the…

by K. C. Mead-Brewer No one gave it a second thought. Lots of people attend Open House events for the free cookies or wine, or maybe just to admire a stranger’s shiplap and crown molding, bathroom mirrors in the shapes of seashells. No, the neighborhood didn’t begin to worry until a few days later when the zippy little realtor came out of the house smiling at the horse and the horse nodding back at him. What does a horse want with the house on the corner? It normally wouldn’t be a big deal except that more than a few people in the neighborhood are allergic to hay and the horse’s…

by Adele Gardner On his second birthday, Carolina Wannemacher took her son out in his stroller to shop for a new suit.  She had instructed him carefully.  When the clerk arrived, Nigel lay inert in the harness, just a trifle more still than a soundly sleeping toddler.  As Carolina carefully worked the suit onto the artificially stiff limbs, the clerk gave her an odd look.  “Are you sure you want to spend the money?  A little one like that grows so fast.” “He’s a doll, you see,” Carolina said seriously, keeping her attention focused on Nigel.  He was being so good.  Following his programming perfectly.  Not an eyelash twitched.

by Dylan Craine “If you do this,” said the insect, “then you’ll regret it.” Her voice had a stentorian quality to it that belied its feeble pitch. “Oh, I doubt that,” said the cheetah. He brought the meerschaum bowl of the pipe closer to his face. “You have no power over me. You may be a goddess to your people, but to mine, you’re nothing but a fancy ant.” With his other paw, he pushed his teashades up the bridge of his muzzle.