My first skull was a roadkill deer in town. It was November, and I had been a month separated from my husband, seeing him only for dinner at our shared home a couple of times a week. Driving home for one of these dates, I saw a struck doe flopped in the grass across the […]
The Thing That Doesn’t Disintegrate, by Kate Lechler Keep Reading »
An enterprising chooser of the slainThought to select him: not Death,As he had feared, but surely Her bondsmanTherefore to stay and fightAmong the bright blades, his own way.Haber agreed readily; Nobel was relievedTo see the wounds spring back healedEach night, all forgiven at the feast.They had seen sad-eyed warriors before. Robert,Chewing his pipestem, nerves still
Oppenheimer in Valhalla, by Marissa Lingen Keep Reading »
When I started my Mortuary Science program in 2019, I immediately wanted to talk about all the amazing things I was learning. For reasons I will never understand, however, not everyone wants to hear about how cool dead bodies are. I first envisioned Ask a Necromancer as a Q and A to pitch to my
Ask a Necromancer: Decay Always Wins, by Amanda Downum Keep Reading »
When I died I rose to meet myself, not quite as shadowed leaves touch leaves that fall on water, meeting palm to palm. Then verges ever on the yet-to-be, is never this, now, here. Nowhere a kiss, and onward from that instant O and O. I wake no travelling. On either bank, the trees are
Unselving, by Greer Gilman Keep Reading »
The Fates persist in fractal layers,the tapestry they weave spreads fingers, grips skeinsthe work itself a weaver,that winds yet another copythrough the warp, piling colorsuntil the shuttle gives riseto coils of minute artisans, who wind the reverse sidesof countless lives until the scene that draws me out arrives, threading stone and flesh, kings, priests and
Astynome, After, by Mike Allen Keep Reading »
Turn back from these precipices,where the wind strikes its wind harp with jagged fingers of rock and bone.Sure, you died, but that’s not the rare jewel you think it is. You don’t get to call me as if you own me, as if you know me, to ask for anything from me. You seek the forgotten powers, but I
The House of Ill Waters, by R.B. Lemberg Keep Reading »
He had been born with a thick web of skin between the first and second fingers of his right hand, supposedly a sign of bad blood. That hadn’t been why he’d cut the hand off, but it was a passable reason if he had to give one. “That’s not what you said last time,” said
Bonefields, by Margaret Ronald Keep Reading »
No one, not even Bridget, could remember how it started, and yet by the winter term, it was common knowledge that she’d taken over the old smoking area and, for a price, would answer one—just one—question about the death of her friend, Samantha. Year Nines were especially bloodthirsty. Balancing on the threshold between childhood and
Shuck by G.V. Anderson Keep Reading »