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Thought Process of the Average Kite-Flying Human
by Beth Goder
I’d come to the beach to relax, so when an elderly human took out a kite from his bag, fumbling around in the process, I sighed with all three of my mouths, then ruffled my blue front gills.
Let’s get one thing clear: humans are terrible at flying kites. Perhaps it’s because they only have those two grasping limbs, or maybe it’s too spatially difficult for them to calculate the perimeters of sky and ground and where the kite should be in relation to both those things. I know we are supposed to encourage everyone to pursue their dreams, but when I see a human with a kite, I want to shout, “Give up now. You will never be good at this.”
I imagine the thought process of the average kite-flying human goes like this: “I will go to Xceon-12, famed planet of kite flying. Despite having no kite flying experience, I will buy an overpriced tourist kite and take it out upon the purple beaches of the Vast, where I will trip over the string and fail to get my kite more than 3 meters off the ground. This will be fun.”
“Excuse me,” said the man. “I’m Kevin.” He held the kite out awkwardly. “Could you just show me how to get this started?”
Despite myself, I took a closer look at the thing, a poorly made delta kite in garish green with a sparkly kitten on the front.
“You want that pointy bit facing the other way,” I said, promising myself I would leave this hapless human to fail at kite flying while I relaxed in the shade.
“I bought this kite for my granddaughter,” he said. “The whole family is coming out today.” His joy was so intense I found myself inadvertently inflating my cheer-cheeks to mirror his smile.
After three minutes of tossing the kite into the air, only to have it fall on his feet, Kevin managed to get tangled in the string. He ended up sprawled on the beach like a baby sand-cat, then looked up at me with pleading eyes.
“Oh, here,” I said, swiftly untangling him.
Kevin thanked me, still full of happiness. “I can’t wait to see the look on Cindy’s face when I show her this kite soaring through the air.”
Unfortunately for him, he was, like all humans, terrible at flying kites.
He tried again, limbs going everywhere.
“Hold the string a little higher,” I said, when I couldn’t stand watching his awful technique any longer.
Somehow, I ended up coaching him, shouting directions and running down the beach, even though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t get involved. I’m too good a person, is what it is.
As I helped Kevin, I noticed that a good-looking guy with well-groomed gills was resting in the shade, where I should have been.
Miraculously, after an hour of practicing, Kevin was able to keep the kite in the air for longer than five seconds. Maybe it would be okay after all.
His family came down the beach, and a human (size small) bounced up to him.
“What’s that, Grandpa?”
“Cindy,” he said. “Look at this!”
For a moment, everything was glorious. The kite whizzed above the mesmerized humans. It swooped in the air, the sparkly kitten decal glittering in the sun.
Then Kevin twisted the wrong way and the kite plunged into the acid sea, where it made a fizzling sound as it disintegrated.
The humans gasped. The small human looked like she might start leaking water, which is what they do when they are sad.
“Wait, look at this,” I shouted, pulling out my best kite, a fancy two-line flat kite with twelve ribbons undulating like rivers of gold.
I tossed the kite into the air. My kite swooped, looped, and danced. The ribbons fluttered out like the trails of one thousand comets. I got so absorbed I forgot the humans were there.
When I finally stopped, there was a roar of applause.
Even the guy with the well-groomed gills was clapping. I hadn’t realized he’d been watching.
“That was amazing,” said Cindy. “You must be the best kite flyer ever.”
“Thank you,” I said, not so humble that I wouldn’t accept a compliment. “You are very perceptive for your age.”
“Can I try, too?” she asked.
Now, I knew better than to give my kite to a small human, but all the humans looked so happy, and I figured, what harm could she do? Her elder human couldn’t even get his kite off the ground until I helped him.
“Sure,” I said, handing her the strings.
Cindy got the kite up on the first try. I was so shocked all of my mouths fell open. She was a natural. I had never seen a human fly a kite so well.
Then she jerked the strings the wrong way, and my kite plunged into the sea.
“Whoops,” said Cindy.
I made an undignified squawk.
Acid quickly disintegrated my beautiful kite. One tattered golden ribbon washed up on the shore.
“I’m so sorry,” said Kevin pulling out his wallet, but I motioned for him to stop.
“It’s okay,” I said.
It was my own fault. I had forgotten my one cardinal rule. Never trust a human to fly a kite.
“Thanks for all your help. You really are an amazing kite-flyer,” said Kevin, before being enveloped by a swarm of his progeny and other related humans, the littlest ones cawing for ice cream.
After the humans left, the guy with the well-groomed gills came over, his cheer-cheeks puffed out so far I thought they would burst. “You know,” he said, “humans really cannot fly kites.”
“You saw that whole thing?” I asked.
That’s how I met Yugon. (It turns out he’s pretty cute when his cheer-cheeks aren’t overinflated.) We’ll have been pair-bonded seven years tomorrow.
Every anniversary, we go to the Vast and help humans fly kites.
It’s surprising how bad they are at this simple task. They need all the help they can get.
About the author:
Beth Goder’s stories have appeared in venues such as Escape Pod, Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, Flash Fiction Online, Apex, Strange Horizons, and The Year’s Best Science Fiction & Fantasy. She loves chocolate, hiking, and checking out too many books from the library. You can find her online at http://www.bethgoder.com.
You Only Go Back Burdened
by Jared Oliver Adams
Yana first noticed the hole in her bedroom floor when it was the size of a golf ball, the day before sixth grade started. But now, three months later, it was so massive she had to edge around it just to leave the room. She’d stopped counting the things she’d lost down it. Her favorite Frozen T-shirt. Her unicorn pajamas with the feet. Her sparkle pants. The shoes with the racoon faces on them.
Mom and Dad couldn’t see it no matter how big it got. They glanced up from their phones, looked right at it, and asked when was the last time she’d changed her bedsheets.
She tried to put it out of her mind as she walked her little sister, Miraslava, to the bus stop. Mira was chattering about Kindergarten, and then: “… so that’s how come I threw that water bottle in the hole.”
Yana’s head snapped up in surprise. “You can see the hole?!”
Miraslava nodded like it was obvious. “Just don’t try throwing a bouncy ball down there, because it won’t come back and then you have to earn another one for good behavior at school, which takes a long time.”
Mira kept talking, but all Yana could think about was her little sister leaning over the edge of the hole and falling in.
The thought filled Yana’s classes all day. Little Miraslava, disappearing and never coming back because her sister was too stupid, too self-absorbed to guard the giant hole in her room.
But if it had gotten bigger, maybe it could be made smaller. Maybe it could be closed.
Maybe Yana could still protect Mira.
It was time, she decided, to go inside it.
That evening, Yana tied a rope to the foot of her bed, tucked a flashlight into her belt, and descended.
The first thing she noticed was the shiny blackness of the rocks. Like dark mirrors, they showed distorted views of herself, bony-faced like an adult, then fat-cheeked like Mira. The next thing she noticed was how far down the hole went, too deep to close. Too deep to ever close.
“You were stupid to come here,” whispered a husky voice, when she reached the floor of the hole.
Yana froze, fumbled for her flashlight.
Atop the mound of lost clothes hulked a hairy mass, undulating with fleshy tentacles and boils. It sloughed toward her, laughing. “Did you come for this?” it asked, lifting a hairbrush with a tentacle.
Yana had thrown it down the hole when one of her friends said Yana needed a second hairbrush just for her arm hair.
“Or this?” It lifted a training bra from the morass. “Yana, Yana, flat banana.”
“Or maybe this?” It waved another tentacle wrapped around a stick of deodorant. “To hide your stench. You can’t hide this though,” it said, bringing another wet tentacle out of the garbage to show a crumpled report card.
Yana backed away, but almost immediately struck the wall. The monster’s tentacles slithered toward her. “Oh, are you scared, widdle baby Yana? Are you going to cry?”
“Leave me a-a-alone,” she said, turning to climb.
“Ass-brain,” the creature spat, yanking her back down. “That’s not how it works. You can only go back burdened. What will it be? The racoon shoes your yeti feet don’t fit inside anymore? A box of menstrual pads?”
“I don’t want any of it!” shouted Yana.
“I don’t want any of it!” parroted the creature.
But then Yana’s flashlight beam fell on a brightly colored bouncy ball.
Mira’s ball.
Resting on a pillow case Yana had sneezed on months ago and cast to the floor in disgust. The hole had gotten bigger with each thing she’d thrown down it. Which mean the only way to make it safe for Mira was . . .
“I’ll take it all,” Yana said, picking up the pillowcase and standing. “Fill it up.”
“Dumb bitch,” cackled the monster, but it filled the pillowcase. “Here you go. Enjoy. I’m not going away, you know.”
“Yeah,” said Yana. “But I am.”
When Yana got out, the hole had shrunk to the size of a golf ball again, waiting. She very carefully moved her dresser over it, then dumped the pillowcase onto the bare carpet, picking up one particular item before leaving the room.
“Can I play with you?” asked Yana when she found Mira coloring at the kitchen table.
She held up the bouncy ball between her thumb and forefinger.
Mira’s face lit like the sun.
About the author:
Jared Oliver Adams lives in Knoxville, Tennessee, where he writes, explores, and dabbles in things better left alone. He holds two degrees in music performance, a third degree in elementary education, and is utterly incapable of passing a doorway without checking to see if it leads to Narnia. Find him online at www.jaredoliveradams.com.
Young Woman from Divinolândia Accused of Eating the Moon
by Vólia Simões
Residents report sudden disappearance of satellite; suspect displaying signs of abnormal luminosity. Apr 02, 2026.
Military police questioned a 29-year-old woman Wednesday afternoon in Divinolândia, a small city in the interior of São Paulo, Brazil, on suspicion of having stolen the moon the previous night.
According to witnesses, the young woman had long been spotted prowling the rooftops of the city’s higher neighborhoods on full moon nights, with an air that mingled lust with admiration.
“It was like she wanted to eat the moon,” said witness T., who asked to remain anonymous.
No one actually saw the suspect reach the satellite, but around 2:47 a.m., space monitoring equipment registered the moon’s disappearance. Across the country, military police and fire departments in multiple cities had their lines jammed throughout the night with reports related to the incident. On X (formerly Twitter), the topic trended worldwide. Panic-stricken posts began circulating on social media. “This is not a world I want to live in,” a user wrote. “One moment it was there, and then… it kind of wasn’t,” said another.
On the streets, the mood was no different: “We always thought the moon would just be there,” said a baker, closing up early for the third consecutive day. “Now I don’t know when to start the bread.”
Though there are no eyewitnesses to the precise moment the moon vanished, the prime suspect is Amélia Pulando, a resident of Divinolândia.
According to locals, she was spotted shortly after the disappearance playing tightrope walker across the rooftops, radiating a joy never before seen in her — a far cry from the languid, longing looks she had always carried before that fateful night.
The local detective further noted that the suspect’s brilliant hair, flying around her face, is being studied as potential evidence. The light, witnesses say, is growing steadily stronger. It began illuminating just her immediate surroundings, but has since spread to cover several kilometers, lighting up neighboring towns — though only when she steps into sunlight, which is, notably, a characteristic property of the moon itself. “As a satellite, the moon has no light of its own — it merely reflects the light that strikes it,” said Josafá Lácio, an astrophysicist who described himself as deeply impressed by the event.
“I just wanted to know if it was sweet,” the suspect allegedly said when asked about her motivations, twirling a strand of silver hair between her fingers. “It was kind of bland, honestly — but still so much better than I expected,” she added.
A local amateur astronomer says he saw it coming. In recent months, he explains, the moon had seemed lower than usual, drifting closer to the city. “It was as though it had been descending a little more each night, offering itself to Amélia,” he said. “I thought it was an optical illusion. Now I’m not so sure,” he added, with a suspicious glance skyward.
As of press time, the suspect appears unbothered by the charges, or indeed by the consequences of her actions. When asked about the moon’s whereabouts, she simply laughed and shrugged. “I’m still digesting.” Experts warn, however, that the light emanating from her hair grows stronger by the day. At this rate, the woman may yet become a celestial body in her own right.
“What’s at stake here isn’t just the restitution of the moon,” emphasized Professor Josafá. “It’s the possibility that we are witnessing the birth of an entirely new kind of star.”
About the author:
Vólia Simões is a Brazilian writer who began her literary career at eight with a comic about the invention of tutu de feijão. Since then, she has continued to explore equally pressing topics in unpublishable notebooks. She had never published flash fiction before, but she believes in firsts.
Class Action
by MM Schreier
Receding hairline? Feeling less confident? Looking older than you really are? Give Scalp Swaps™ a try!
Blaine kept scrolling. Obviously, the algorithm was fucked up again. He was baller, thank you very much. The girls were dropping at his feet.
He took a sip of his beer and glanced around. The bar was more sporty than romantic, but the game was on, and this way he could keep one eye on the score while Megan droned on about whatever it was she’d been doing all day. Book Club? He hoped not. Last time she read one of those romanstasy thingies it had given her ideas.
Speaking of, where the hell was she?
He crooked a finger to the waitress, then pointed to his nearly empty glass. She pursed her lips but brought him another. Judgy bitch. He didn’t acknowledge her when she set his third overpriced craft brew down, just craned his neck to catch the next play on the big screen.
“Hey, Blaine.” Megan sat down and fluffed her hair. She smiled at the waitress. “I’ll take a margarita.”
“Better make it skinny,” Blaine muttered. “And where’ve you been? I’ve been sitting here for ages.”
“I texted you. There was an accident on the highway and traffic was at a standstill.”
Blaine harumphed. There had been a couple of text pings, but he hadn’t checked. He’d been caught up in that hair ad. Hair Swaps? Scalp Switches? He shrugged. Not like he needed it or anything. It just sounded weird, that’s all. Some new-fangled gimmick, for sure. Those things never worked.
“Hun? Are you even listening to me?”
God, that girl’s voice was shrieky. “What?”
“I said, are you going to keep your hat on while we eat?” She pointed to his head. “It’s rude.”
He didn’t meet her eye. Instead, he stared at a guy sitting at the bar with a very distinct bald spot. Gross. That dude should get himself a ballcap.
Blaine pulled out his phone and bookmarked Scalp Swaps™. Not like he was going to call or anything. He was just curious.
In the background, Megan chattered about some long-haired fae king in her book.
Is your girl enamored by book boyfriends with long, lustrous locks? Does she yearn to run her fingers through raven waves, but you look more like a tonsured monk side character? We have the answer! Call Scalp Swaps™ at 1-800-GET-HAIR!
Megan flipped pages in her book, but the words all blurred together. She shifted uncomfortably on the hard plastic waiting room chair. Blaine had been with the doctor for ages. It was supposed to be a simple outpatient procedure; a few snips, peel back the skin, sew on the donor scalp, and presto—here comes Man Candy.
She giggled at the thought, remembering the first romance novel she’d smuggled out of her mom’s room as a pimply-faced preteen. The tattered paperback cover depicted a muscled hero with his poofy shirt open to the navel, standing on the bow of a Victorian-era ship, wavy blond hair tousled by the wind. She still had that book tucked on the back of her over-stuffed shelves. For goodness sake, Man Candy had to be ancient by now.
“Ciao, bella. How I’ve missed your face.”
Megan startled. The voice sounded vaguely like Blaine’s, but the words belonged to someone else. She looked up and found him drinking her in as if he was parched, and she was a glass of ice water. A sheet of gleaming chestnut waves flowed over his shoulders and a line of microstaples circled his hairline like a stainless-steel crown. She frowned. The staples seemed a bit excessive for a scalp transplant.
Blaine reached over and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Amore mio.”
She giggled, concerns melting away like salt in broth. Gods, he looked hot enough to pose for a book cover.
Meg: I swear he’s a whole new person
BFF: good. I always thought he was a prick
Meg: stop! LOL
BFF: did u hear about Nina?
Meg: <teacup emoji>
BFF: her hubbie got a switch
Meg: really? He was rockin’ bald
BFF: IKR? but the swapsies changed him too
Meg: maybe hair DOES make the man
Meg: <winky face emoji>
BFF: well he turned into a homicidal maniac
BFF: <link to news article>
Meg: holy fuck!
from: Draker & Draker <cases@ambulancechasers.com>
to: Blaine Smeeter <beerbro547@ladychasers.com
date: Mar 27, 2034, 1:29 PM
subject: Class Action
Dear Mr. Smeeter,
We received your name from a court-ordered client list of Scalp Swaps™ as an individual who has recently received a scalp transplant.
Video evidence has been disclosed that the “scalp swap” is actually a partial skull transplant. Individuals with brain cross-contamination have been documented exhibiting Personality Transfer Syndrome.
Are you suffering from a noticeable change in personality? Speaking or acting out of character? Do your loved ones feel they barely know you anymore? If so, you may be entitled to compensation.
Megan stole a look over her shoulder.
“Are you ready, bella? Almost time for book club!” Blaine tossed his luxurious hair over his shoulder and held out a hand.
She smiled. “Be right with you!” After deleting the email, she purged the trash folder. “Let’s grab a bottle of Shiraz on the way. I can’t wait to hear your thoughts on The Court of Ash and Buttercups!”
About the author:
MM Schreier is a classically trained vocalist who took up writing as therapy for a mid-life crisis. She has authored two short story collections–Monstrosity, Humanity and Bruised, Resilient–and is published in a wide range of speculative and literary venues. In addition to creative pursuits, she’s on Leadership for a robotics company and tutors maths and science to at-risk youth.
Find MM:
Website
Bluesky
Instagram
And In The Lowlands Howling
by Laura Duerr
Emily was well prepared. Her messenger bag contained food, plenty of water, her meds, a flashlight, and two sets of backup batteries. She sat, waiting alone in the dark, on a broad rock overlooking the lake and the windswept lowlands. Her knitted hat and a thick old tartan blanket kept her warm. She had to stay until midnight. She’d been sitting here three hours already, sipping tea from her thermos and watching the moon’s scythe-blade reflection cross the lake. Now she had only a few sips of tea left and half an hour to wait.
The wind moaned across the water. Her hands twitched, ready to cover her ears, but she stilled them. The hounds were only a myth, after all.
“Once a year, on Halloween night,” Mr. McClellan had said at the pub earlier, “the usually solitary hounds unite in a great hunting pack. To look even one of them in the eyes means instant death. Alone, their howls are merely frightening, but in a chorus, they form a song describing how you’ll die, to the last detail.”
And Harry had elbowed her, smirking, so here she was, waiting for nonexistent hounds to tell her death. It wouldn’t even be a revelation.
She was in remission, but she’d been there before. She’d reached age twenty-five despite having only a seventy percent chance of doing so. Her chances of reaching age thirty were only half as good. Sitting out in the October – soon to be November – cold probably wasn’t helping anything, but she and her older brother had been egging each other into foolish risks since they were children. They’d been responsible for each other’s three broken bones and for their mother going gray in her thirties. No doubt if she was still alive, Mama would have strong opinions about how Emily was spending her Halloween, but Emily just burrowed deeper into her blanket. Sitting outside for a couple hours wasn’t nearly as bad as climbing an old croft’s crumbling wall or diving off the sea cliffs.
The wind was picking up. Emily’s hair had finally grown long enough to peek beneath the edges of her cap and tickle her forehead. Ten more minutes. She finished her tea and stowed the thermos; she’d leave at 12:01 and not a dot later.
They came quietly. She thought it was the wind rustling until she glimpsed the black shapes, so dark they made shadows look pale, so purely black the sky above them looked muddy. She squeezed her eyes shut, clamped her hands over her ears, and waited.
One wet nose touched her hand, then another. Hot, rancid breath snaked over her blanket to raise goosebumps on the back of her neck. Her eyelids stayed tightly shut. She could hear their growling through her trembling palms. Her bag shifted and for a moment, she hoped they were simply hungry wild dogs, seeking her food.
Then they began to howl.
Emily had prepared herself for what they’d show her: her eyes sunken, her cheeks gaunt, her skin waxy; a succession of knitted caps instead of hair; a life scheduled around hospital visits until one day, one visit was the last. What she wanted to see was dying at home, in a bed set up in the front room where the conservatory windows kept it sunny. She wanted it to be autumn. Somehow dying along with the leaves felt right. If the howling told her she would die in a hospital room, in summer amid everyone else’s joy, she’d open her eyes and look at one of these hounds and find out if Mr. McClellan was right.
Instead, the howling painted an unfamiliar picture. Emily was at home, or in a room she understood to be home, even though she didn’t recognize it. Harry was there, his face etched with smile lines, along with many people she didn’t yet know. On every surface stood rainbows of bouquets.
They had the wrong woman, Emily thought, listening to her blood thunder through her covered ears. Who was this person who’d get to grow old? It wasn’t her. They hadn’t even discussed the possibility of her living past forty. The percentages didn’t chart that far, not for her.
A warm tongue kissed gently against the fingers clamped tightly over her ears. Emily loosened her grip and reached out, hand trembling. Warm, panting dog breath cooled the tears of relief that had begun to trickle down her cheeks. A soft muzzle pressed into her hand. She scratched instinctively and felt coarse whiskers, soft upright ears, a scruffy chin.
“Do you really mean it?” she whispered.
The howling fell silent. Paws raced off into the night. The tongue left one last kiss on her fingertips. Then Emily was alone, her tear-streaked face and her dog-moistened hand left to cool in the frigid wind.
She opened her eyes. The moon still hung over the lake. It was 12:02.
It was the first of November and Emily had, apparently, her whole life ahead of her.
About the author:
Laura Duerr is a speculative fiction writer and freelancer whose work has appeared in Cast of Wonders, Metaphorosis, Escape Pod, and Shoreline of Infinity, among others. A lifelong Pacific Northwest resident, she lives in Washougal, WA, with her husband. Find her procrastinating, taking pictures of her cats, and/or doing cross stitch at lauraduerr.wordpress.com, @lduerr.bsky.social, and @l.auraduerr on Instagram.
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