by Julia Rajagopalan
With a surly, lip-glossed frown, the judgy grocery store cashier scans my cases of bottled water. She glares and tells me about a TikTok she watched about how microplastics appeared in 100% of semen samples. As I hand her the carton of eggs, I ask her about the health effects of microplastics, but she admits she doesn’t know. When I explain I don’t have semen, testicles, or TikTok, she rings a bell for her manager. The island-shirted man, bearded and verbose, tells me I can’t harass the cashiers with words like semen and testicles, and that “she said it first” isn’t a defense. So I get in my car and scream while pounding on my steering wheel, then drive to another store.
6S
Julia Rajagopalan is a writer of speculative fiction who lives just outside of Detroit, Michigan, with her husband and their very grumpy dog. For a list of her publications, check out her website.
20260917
20260916
Drowning in Sleep
by Brad Rose
I’m paying off my sleep debt, one dream at a time. As it so happens, I’m the invisible man. I sport transparent tattoos. Last night, I had a few choice words with the naval dead and they gave me this submarine sandwich, in case I were to fall overboard. At first, I thought this was funny. But I’m not laughing anymore.
6S
Brad Rose's latest book is I Wouldn’t Say That, Exactly.
I’m paying off my sleep debt, one dream at a time. As it so happens, I’m the invisible man. I sport transparent tattoos. Last night, I had a few choice words with the naval dead and they gave me this submarine sandwich, in case I were to fall overboard. At first, I thought this was funny. But I’m not laughing anymore.
6S
Brad Rose's latest book is I Wouldn’t Say That, Exactly.
Posted by
Robert McEvily
20260915
Boy
by Maddie King
Every person was a ‘boy’ no matter who it was. A ‘boy’ would take us to Etna, if we asked. Another ‘boy’ could sell us black-rock bracelets from the base; they were cheap, only 15 lira. A certain 'boy' scaled the side of the crater every day to look into its depths and every day would climb back down to tell everyone that the volcano was still dead. This boy’s father had held this job until 1949, when lava had flowed down to Randazzo (“where the allied beetches come”). A few years later, ash clouds spread as far as Libya.
6S
Maddie King is a writer and filmmaker living in Portland, Maine. Her short fiction has been published in HOOT, Fleas on the Dog, and Brilliant Flash Fiction. Once, she had a dream about setting up a palmistry practice by a lake. It didn’t impact the course of her life, but it sometimes amuses her to think about a version in which it had.
Every person was a ‘boy’ no matter who it was. A ‘boy’ would take us to Etna, if we asked. Another ‘boy’ could sell us black-rock bracelets from the base; they were cheap, only 15 lira. A certain 'boy' scaled the side of the crater every day to look into its depths and every day would climb back down to tell everyone that the volcano was still dead. This boy’s father had held this job until 1949, when lava had flowed down to Randazzo (“where the allied beetches come”). A few years later, ash clouds spread as far as Libya.
6S
Maddie King is a writer and filmmaker living in Portland, Maine. Her short fiction has been published in HOOT, Fleas on the Dog, and Brilliant Flash Fiction. Once, she had a dream about setting up a palmistry practice by a lake. It didn’t impact the course of her life, but it sometimes amuses her to think about a version in which it had.
Posted by
Robert McEvily
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