The Way Station

By Shay Hatten

The wheels on the bus went round and round and round, and sitting inside, Terry was dead, dead, dead.

In spite of that, or maybe because of it, he looked out the window at the road ahead. And saw it end. Not in the earthly way, not with roadblocks and construction signs, but in a more ethereal sort of way. It just ended. Disappeared. So did the landscape that it ran across. The whole desert simply stopped about thirty feet in front of them. And they were moving towards it at full speed; which, for this bus, was about fifty miles an hour.

Terry rose to his feet and stepped out into the aisle.

“Going down!” the Driver called.

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Undead in the Daisies

By Holly Casey

A plan of action for keeping your garden healthy and beautiful while dealing with the monstrous horde at the door

The question of how to deal with botany-unfriendly, undead nuisances while trying to keep your garden looking its best is one of the most frequent questions I receive. By the time I hear the question, people are frustrated, confused, and angry. Underneath the rhetoric, the real question is, “How do I get rid of these unholy monstrosities?”

With that in mind, I think there are a number of reasons why gardeners everywhere have trouble keeping their landscapes lovely during this growing apocalypse.
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Triple’s Blog

By Todd Outcalt

After posting the latest installment on his blog, Gary Triple rose from his desk chair, yawned as he stretched his twenty-nine year old frame, and then padded into the company kitchen for a beer. The lights were dim — per company policy — so that employees would have difficulty ascertaining the time. Clocks and other time-devices were forbidden, but most people had learned to tell time by the sun and moon. A half-mile below ground, Triple proceeded to the office periscope and peered up into the sleepy city as he whispered to himself, “Midnight, give or take fifteen minutes.”

He’d been blogging for five consecutive days, without sleep, getting by on coffee and pretzels. His eyes were sand. His fingertips numb. Still, it was what he was paid to do, though he’d never met his employers and had never actually talked to anyone in the firm. His instructions came in hourly installments through other blogs, with facts and figures that were meant to provoke him to write a blog directed against the latest political decision. Someone out there in Washington D.C. fed him the information and he jumped on it. He posted his thoughts, and others read what he had to say.

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The Girl Who Did Not Know What to Be

By Jay Duret

The Girl Who Did Not Know What to Be was in school one day when Ms. Standly, her regular teacher, called in sick and so did Ms. Moore, who was Ms Standly’s assistant, and so did half a dozen other teachers because the Have a Bad Day Flu was going around that month. And so that day a very prim lady who insisted that she be called Mrs. Charity was called to school under emergency circumstance to teach the second grade class.

The Girl Who Did Not Know What to Be didn’t yet know that she didn’t know what to be and so she thought of herself only by the name her parents had given her — Metrissa. Metrissa was very excited with the arrival of Mrs. Charity because school had reached that long part of the year when the days went so slowly that they would start again before they had finished. Any change of the routine seemed like a good idea to Metrissa, even if Mrs. Charity seemed a little severe when she walked into class.

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Pollinger’s Notebook: Years 4.3 – 6.4

By Mark Burgh

 

Private Encoded RNA Marks AA – EG Required Year 4.3

It’s about Hermione. All of this is about Hermione. Today, after the Lab Director leaves, a smile of incomprehension painting his face, Hermione peeks her nose over the core unit. “He’s your new boss?” she says.

“What are you doing out of your environment?”

Hermione’s expressions seldom change; she’s difficult to read. “I got bored. Do you want to live in cedar shavings?”

I roll back in my chair. “I wanted on the Mars project. But here I sit.”

“Mars, Mars, Mars,” Hermione says. “Did you get the gorgonzola?”

“Go easy, it’s strong.”

Hermione shifts, cleans her paws. She looks at me. “Watch that guy,” she says. “He won’t like me.”
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Roots and Wings, Soil and Sky

By Nicholas Beishline

In recent history there existed a small town situated deep in a dense forest. The people of this town, much like the town itself — more of a village, really — were nearly born of the forest itself, their lives and their senses of purpose inextricably tangled with the living monoliths all around them. The shelters that protected everyone from the rain were in fact built entirely in tandem with the trees, the floors constructed to balance across the strongest branches and the roofs densely woven into the canopy overhead. Verdant flora decorated the floors and ceilings in arabesques, and natural light illuminated daily activities. No walls divided the people of this village from one another, for they understood that true community requires no separation from one another.

Within this village lived a young woman whom everyone regarded as something of an anomaly. Her childhood was spent in a curious state of limbo created by the difference in treatment from her peers and her elders; the former treated her as something to be wary of — the newcomer who cannot yet definitively be trusted — while the latter were always careful to instill in her the sense of communal sameness that all of the other children so easily enjoyed.

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