From: Issue 2 | Subscribe | Buy Mickie found the Doombot5000 at an estate sale purely by accident. Well, that and a tracking app she’d installed on her phone. But really, when the address popped up, it wasn’t as if she could have known it was the estate if her former nemesis, Sandron the Unstoppable. Poor Sandy. He’d been a decent antagonist back in the day. She didn’t remember any invite to his funeral.

From: Issue 2 | Subscribe | Buy My mother used to say: “No lie ever suffered from too much information.” She fancied herself a philosopher, inasmuch as any in the Floodlands could lay claim to the title. She also claimed to be able to decipher the Harthram script on the sunken ships that speckled the hard, gray waters west of Scythe Bay. It wasn’t true, of course, but none of the other captains would venture near enough to those echo-cursed wrecks to verify her dubious translations.

From: Issue 1 | Subscribe | Buy Rebecca hated her father for what he’d done, refusing to help him dig the grave, arms crossed, tears running down her face, the body under the tarp no longer Grandpa, no more secret conversations when they were alone, just the two of them now—her father the killer, her father and his constant worries, her father convinced that the old man had finally fallen sick.

From: Issue 1 | Subscribe | Buy “He’s back again,” Mom whispers. “That man.” “Honestly.” Miss Yue lays aside her Peaceday wreath, takes her by the shoulders and leads her away from the window. “Someone should call the lancers.” “Call the Altassians?” Mom’s other friend says. “On an old man?” “He knows what’ll happen if they find him here. We have children here.” “Jian?” Mom turns and sees me standing in the door, one foot in my shoe, stuffing the last of a fried dough stick in my mouth.

From: Issue 1 | Subscribe | Buy Phosphorus Jack isn’t one of the glossy uptown heroes, all cloak and jewel-tones. He’s a hopped-up vigilante, a little guy in dark leathers snapping and crawling with white sparks. Can’t fly, but he’s got the jetwing for that, the weird jet-powered cross between a surfboard and a thyroidal boomerang. On balance he’s a good guy. Gives bullies grief if he catches them making trouble, stops the occasional robbery, plays thorn-in-the-side to Petrochenko.

From: Issue 1 | Subscribe | Buy — 1915, The Lower East Side, New York City — Ruthie can’t sleep for the whispering of the dolls. Hildy and Margaret are talking to each other in the dark, their voices as light and thin as paper. Even the sound of Ruthie’s heartbeat drowns them out, but if she lies very still and listens intently, she can hear what they are saying. They lie together on the night table in the little bed Ruthie made from tissue paper, high enough from the floor that they won’t try to escape.

The following is a list of all the original fiction that we published in 2020. A Study of Mesozoic ‘Schistosoma’ of the Late Cretaceous Period and their Abundance in Large Theropods by Nemma Wollenfang from Issue 2 Chains of Mud and Salt by Evan Dicken Issue 2 Daughters of October by Megan Chaudhuri from Issue 3 The Dead Throat Coven by Amelia Dee Mueller from Issue 3 Deadbeat by Susan Taitel from Issue 1 The Djinn of Titan’s Dunes by Deborah L.