November 9. The best and worst day of my life.
I paced my minuscule apartment, plagued by a frenetic excitement that made my fingers twitch and gut clench. Outside, a frigid, torrential downpour assaulted Portland, obscuring the cityscape.
Dad’s ringback music played in my ear. On the last note, he picked up.
“’Ello?” He sounded almost… groggy.
“Ladies and gentlemen, step right up!”
Darcy O’Connor winces as a loud female voice bursts out of the AI interface speaker. Her robotics lab used to be such a peaceful place.
“Only one ticket to learn your future!”
This is the AI’s way of requesting paper. Darcy keeps turning off Carnival Mode, but it always reverts.
Dion isn’t yet twenty-four hours old, and he’s causing more problems in real life than he does in my story.
The six-foot-six holographic Atlantean warrior snorts, scanning the conference crowd. “These posers reek of weak character arcs and chosen-one tropes.”
“That’s rude,” I whisper.
“This place is crawling with tropes.” Dion points at people
By Alicia Peterson When my grandkids ask about the Halloween Blizzard Invasion of ’91, I do what everyone my age does. I lie through my teeth. “Did Great-Grandpa Dave really let you run the flamethrower?” Six-year-old Nora asks the same question every time. I can practically see fire reflected in her hungry eyes as she
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October 29. National Cat Day. Once a holiday for sharing feline photos on social media but now a day of remembrance. The day I singlehandedly averted an interplanetary crisis and the world changed forever.
It started out as a normal, autumn morning. Felix and I had just finished breakfast on the patio.
Mom used to tell us stories about October on the Old Planet. Like clockwork, the autumn breeze would billow across the valley, tugging leaves from their branches and filling the yard with ember orange and gold. She’d gather them into piles for her siblings to launch into, the foliage crunching and crackling beneath…
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The holes in the bottom of my shoes don’t irk me no more. My feet had gotten tough even before all this walking. ’Cause when the honeybees got sick—Mama said they was dropping like flies—food got scarce. People got hungry and then sick like them honeybees. And when people didn’t know…
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I crept up the driveway of Sara Wyatt, aka Suspect 4B, who confronted me with a hideous scowl.
“Who dares disturb me?” Sara cackled and waved her broom toward the gap in the thick black curtain blocking off her garage. “Seek you treats on this dreariest of days? Then don’t be tricked by the
Logbook Entry. October Fourteenth, in the humble year 2568.
Just last month, I gazed upon the old weapons and hovercrafts from the Great War. And I finished reading the faded copy of The Art of War two weeks ago. Never could I have imagined it was preparing me for my fast-approaching conscription.
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“Welcome to Extreme Maze Fest!” the announcer’s voice blared over the arena speakers. The crowd roared as the platform I stood on descended. “Eight felons, one deadly maze…”
I tuned out the announcer’s voice as best I could. The rules for the maze that plagued the annual fall festival never changed: escape or die
Today’s the last day of the endless summer.
Sirens squall outside, and an east wind rattles the living room window screens. I lift the photo frame from the mantel, smudging dust that crusts the glass no matter how often I wipe it.
The kitchen faucet whooshes. I glance over my shoulder.
“Are you going to talk like that all day?” Jaqi flipped her hair and scowled at me.
“Aye,” I growled out the corner of my mouth as I attempted a ferocious smile. “How else should one celebrate Talk Like a Pirrrate Day? Arrrr.” I curled my finger into a hook and brandished it
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