“Seven Losses of Na Re”
by Rose Lemberg
This is a brooding look back on things taken, things lost, and things always remembered.
Rose Lemberg is a queer, bigender immigrant from Eastern Europe and Israel. Their fiction and poetry have appeared in Lightspeed‘s Queer Destroy Science Fiction, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Uncanny, and many other venues. Rose’s work has been a finalist for the Nebula Crawford, and other awards. Their novella The Four Profound Weaves is forthcoming from Tachyon Press. You can find more of their work on their Patreon: patreon.com/roselemberg
My life is described by the music of mute violins. When myparents married, my great-grandfather, may the earth be as afeather, ascended the special-guests podium, cradling the oldfiddle to his chest. “And now the zeide will play the weddingmelody,” they said. “A special blessing,” they said, a sgule, aroyal blessing. But the bow fell from his fingers.
“When I had Eyes, I Didn’t See”
by Anna Yeats.
Anna Yeats is a writer, publisher, and editor living in North Carolina with a houseful of wildling children and far too many animals. Her short fiction has appeared in Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show, Daily Science Fiction, and Mslexia. Anna also publishes Flash Fiction Online.
Her story for us today is chilling tale about perception, murder, and an old, creaky elevator.
I had eyes once.Before the Lift-man came.Now I have knobs, smooth and black and round as pegs. I touch them with my fingertips and try to remember what it felt like, having eyes. If I push one knob in, the other one pops out like the elevator buttons used to do.
“The Sepulcher Out of Sea”
A seaman marooned in a haunted land, struggling to maintain control of his crazed crewmen and their new, dead captain.
Eric Shattuck is a freelance writer living in Charleston, South Carolina. His work has been published in The Nottingham Review, 99 Pine Street, The Molotov Cocktail, Gone Lawn, and the Kentucky Review, among others.
When the gale has finished tearing at us, and the hull has ceased its moaning, we head abovedeck to find our warship cradled in the boughs of an enormous tree. There is no sign of the fleet, no hint of sea. There is scarcely anything to be seen through the steaming fog which surrounds us.The captain is lost—swept overboard without a sound, and with him the boatswain and two of the gunnery crew. As quartermaster, command of the Lanfranco falls to me. The next morning, I resolve to throw down the rope ladders and scout our surroundings in pairs. Yet no sooner do we set out than the cry goes up; the boatswain’s body is found.