The UK's premier science fiction and fantasy magazine.Here We Are, Falling Through Shadows by Jason Sanford
Miker drove our fire engine through the dark neighborhood, the red emergency lights flash-synching to the deep bass of the rumbler siren. Parked cars and flower gardens and mailboxes flashed by, illuminated for seconds before sliding back to night. We used to turn the siren off on quiet streets like these to avoid disturbing the peaceful, sleeping taxpayers. Not anymore. Now we wanted everyone to know there were still those who braved the darkness.
Miker drove our fire engine through the dark neighborhood, the red emergency lights flash-synching to the deep bass of the rumbler siren. Parked cars and flower gardens and mailboxes flashed by, illuminated for seconds before sliding back to night. We used to turn the siren off on quiet streets like these to avoid disturbing the peaceful, sleeping taxpayers. Not anymore. Now we wanted everyone to know there were still those who braved the darkness.
By Starlight by Rebecca J. Payne
I stood on the centre of the deck, wood creaking beneath my feet. I could feel the faint pulse of the ship through the worn-down soles of my boots. Slowly, I tethered a length of rope to the wheel to set our dawn course and, breathing on my fingers for warmth, watched the silvery mainsail as it billowed above, glowing bright against the night sky. Summer nights were too short, and just as cold as winter once you sailed high enough. On our starboard side long wisps of white rose up as our bow cut through a ridge of cloud; tendrils of vapour curled their way around our hull, countless drops of water illuminated by the light of our sails. For a second I allowed my tired eyes to close, and I could still see pale ghosts of them, dancing against the darkness.
I stood on the centre of the deck, wood creaking beneath my feet. I could feel the faint pulse of the ship through the worn-down soles of my boots. Slowly, I tethered a length of rope to the wheel to set our dawn course and, breathing on my fingers for warmth, watched the silvery mainsail as it billowed above, glowing bright against the night sky. Summer nights were too short, and just as cold as winter once you sailed high enough. On our starboard side long wisps of white rose up as our bow cut through a ridge of cloud; tendrils of vapour curled their way around our hull, countless drops of water illuminated by the light of our sails. For a second I allowed my tired eyes to close, and I could still see pale ghosts of them, dancing against the darkness.
The Killing Streets by Colin Harvey
The earth is rich in textures and smells. It hurtles by, your clawed hands scrabbling at earth, stones and tree roots, your prey’s odours hooked into your nostrils, pulling you along with fragrant fingers of meat and blood and ordure. Upwards you go and the too-bright sky burns your eyes and your victims’ screams scour your eardrums, but it doesn’t matter, for your killing bite crunches bone and the hot sweet taste of blood fills your mouth. You spit out the foul cotton and polyester wrapping and as your grasping bite clamps onto the corpse so that you can pull your victim into the hole you erupted from, its head lolls over and you know with a shock of recognition who it belongs to –
Funny Pages by Lavie Tidhar
Midnight. An empty rooftop over Tel Aviv. Lights winking from the seafront promenade. The air warm, scented. Solar panels like dark mirrors facing the night. A tenant’s abandoned barbeque pit, two folding beach chairs, a cigarette stub. He picks it up, smells it, a moue of distaste. Fresh, only recently extinguished. He wears the goggles, starlight turns everything into unreal day. Scans the roof. A figure glides down through the air, silently, behind him, and he turns.
Bone Island by Shannon Page & Jay Lake
It’s not what you think. The chalk-white hills give our place its name, rising cleanly from the cold blue water of the bight. Not anything more nefarious or other-worldly. That’s what we tell the tourists, anyway. Hiding in plain sight.
It’s not what you think. The chalk-white hills give our place its name, rising cleanly from the cold blue water of the bight. Not anything more nefarious or other-worldly. That’s what we tell the tourists, anyway. Hiding in plain sight.
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