After his insistence in expanding the pod, again, Herman brought Alice over on Saturday night to the abode that he shared with Olga and Elaine. Their home was rather plain—a jaggedly obtuse rock that jutted out of the foamy sea. It was coated in bird dung. Flies buzzed along the surface. There was barely enough room for the four of them. But the sea was roomy. There wasn’t a mermaid or merman alive who could argue that. Plus, it was a warm rock and the perfect spot for dolphin watching. Continue reading The Merpod by Bradley Sides
If I told you that I’d passed my Crimping course at the Academy with the most dazzling display of flying colors you’d ever seen, you probably wouldn’t be very surprised. If I told you that my crimping skills would save Andronica, well, that might be more of a shocker. I try not to brag on myself more than a handful of times per day, but this story is worth the risk of being arrested by the Condescension Police. Continue reading The Curse of Old McBoaty: Part 2 by Norton McClure
I glare at my sister, Nerissa, from my poolside chair. Her red-algae-colored tail flashes in the water, as bright as her toothy smile imitating the human faces gathered around her tank. She’s wearing a red wig and a purple bikini top, for the stars’ sake. Continue reading Aquacultural Appropriation by Kimberly Glanzman
The wallpaper was the colour of filth, of excrement, of something unclean. Despite its inanimateness, it seemed to leap out from the wall, its invisible arms outstretched, fingers uncurled. Once, it was probably an airy and welcoming room. It might have been a nursery. It might have been an office. But the colour had filled the room with an air of ugliness that could not be mollified by the addition of bedside table flowers or lilac curtains. Continue reading The Wallpaper by Claire Fitzpatrick
A crowd of people gathered under the streetlamp on the corner of Alta and 5th. Moths clumsily tumbled under the electric bulb, each struggling to stay above the dust kicked-up by nervous boot heels.
Mike clutched the side of his jacket and held it against his belly. He felt sleepy and sore. His eyes moved sluggishly across the other faces in the crowd.
“Can’t say he didn’t have it coming,” said an old man through frayed beard hairs. Continue reading Gonzales, California by Christopher Seiji Berardino