Author: Maggie Slater

Writer of speculative fiction, reactive rescue dog-mom.
Journal

THREE QUESTIONS: Jade Scardham

Maggie Slater

In the lead-up to the release of Hope: The Thing with Feathers, I’m going to be posting mini-interviews with my fellow ToC-mates! You can pre-order Hope: The Thing with Feathers here.

The flying city of Halora is failing. Its struggles to maintain its heights above the planet, despite its technological advances, despite its data and schematics and intellect. But when a young apprentice finds a mysterious being in the heart of the city, he discovers, too, a new hope and a new way to keep his home aloft.

What story (published or unpublished) of yours is your personal favorite and why?

One of my personal favourites is a horror short story called ‘The Quiet House’. It’s special for me because it was the first story I managed to complete after a long hiatus, where I was struggling for years to connect with writing. ‘The Quiet House’ broke that pattern for me, and writing reminded me of everything I loved about storytelling. It’s the story that rekindled my writing habit, and I’ll always be grateful for that.

What draws you to writing speculative fiction? Do you lean more towards one genre (science fiction/fantasy/horror) more than others, or do you like to mix them together?

I love to mix them together. Speculative fiction is about bending and breaking the boundaries of realism, and each one of these genres can do that in their own way but also amplify each other. Horror does tend to draw me more often in my writing, but horror so often carries the other genres within it. At the crux of it, I love stories that conceptualise things that are simply impossible in reality. It’s the most powerful strength that writing has, and genre should definitely be more of an accompaniment than limiting factor.

What book or books have changed your life or the way you see the world?

So many – maybe all the books I’ve ever read, in a way? I really think that stories help us figure out who we are. There are probably countless books that I read when I was growing up that I couldn’t name now, but that would have helped shape how I see the world and myself in it. But the authors that I return to again and again are Robin Hobb, Terry Pratchett and Stephen King. They’re all important to me in uniquely different ways and their work will always inspire me.

Jade Scardham is an artist and writer focusing on fantasy, horror and sci-fi. She particularly enjoys writing creepy stories and designing creatures and characters. You can find her on Bluesky: @arcanepixels744.bsky.social

Journal

FRIDAY FLASH: The Eclair

Maggie Slater

Note: I don’t have a picture for this one, and I’m not sure quite how many words it is, because I wrote it on my phone this morning, but gosh darn it! I still did a flash story this week! 😂

The Eclair

A flash story by Maggie Slater

Evelyn had dreamed of eating Parisian eclairs at a bistro ever since she was six years old, and now that she had one, she couldn’t do it. Its lacquer black chocolate stripe made her think of ancient chests filled with dust and scrolls and secrets. It’s beautifully rounded pastry shell looked as of it had been laminated with hope itself, and not just ordinary butter. 

For an hour after she finished her coffee, it sat on the plate before her, untouched. The waiter came by several times and asked her something in French that sounded nothing like what she’d studied in high school or independently in the year since her retirement and subsequent divorce. She smiled at him, paid her bill, and nestling the eclair in a nest of tissues from her purse, she took it back to her rented apartment.

In the three weeks of her stay, she had done all the things she’d always dreamed of doing in Paris. The Louvre was much less impressive and much more crowded than it had been in her imagination. Norte Dame, a bit smaller. But the old cobbled rues lined with trees and the Arc de Triumph were lovely enough, she felt by the end of her visit that all in all, it had been worth it. 

But she still hadn’t eaten the eclair. She’d put it in a white cardboard box she’d gotten from a little jewelry shop, and it sat undisturbed among tissue paper on the top shelf of the tiny apartment fridge. When she had packed all her other things—the clothes she’d bought especially to wear in Paris to seem like a local and not a tourist, the books in French she’d picked up from a street vendor along the Seine, the handful of mementos and knickknacks to remind her of this long-awaited and much-earned reward to herself—she took the box from the fridge and looked at the eclair.

She wouldn’t be able to take it on the plane, she knew. If she put it in her suitcase, it would certainly be crushed. She had to eat it now, or throw it away.

The lacquered chocolate had lost its luster. Beads of sweat pearled along its surface in the humid air. The pastry sagged like tired skin. 

Evelyn lifted the eclair from its tissue bed, only to find it had grown tacky, cleaving to the moist paper. Try as she might, she couldn’t pick it all off. The chocolate smeared her fingers. She tried to hold back tears. 

Her phone buzzed frantically: her ride to the airport, waiting on the street, no doubt. 

The pastry split across her palms, oozing custard in a clump down her wrist, dropping a glob onto her white linen pants she’d bought at a boutique just down the street. 

Too late, she thought, as the saturated pastry skin sloughed to the floor. 

Too late, she thought as chocolate smeared across her empty hands, mangled with torn tissue paper. 

Too late, she thought as her phone rang and rang, eager to drag her back home. 

Note: There’s usually some info about me or my ko-fi if you enjoyed the story and would like to buy me a coffee (or an eclair!), but on my phone I’m limited! Feel free to poke around the site to learn more if you’re so inclined! Thanks for reading!

Journal

THREE QUESTIONS: H.L. Fullerton

Maggie Slater

In the lead-up to the release of Hope: The Thing with Feathers, I’m going to be posting mini-interviews with my fellow ToC-mates! You can pre-order Hope: The Thing with Feathers here.

Stunning in its pain and empathy, “When an Angel Molts,” begins when the daughter of a sorceress helps to gather the magic feathers of an angel her mother has captured. But angels can’t live in dark basements, not for long, and daughters grow up and grow wiser, no matter what their mothers want. When the angel is near death, the daughter must decide if freedom for herself or freedom for him is what matters the most.

Writing can be a tough profession, and authors of all stages tend to get “no” more often than “yes.” How do you cope with rejection?

So fun fact: the first story I submitted to the Hope anthology was rejected–which is usually the end of the road; however, the submission guidelines allowed for submitting another story if rejected and I had a reprint that fit the call, so I sent it in. And that story was held and eventually accepted. 

There are so many more rejections than acceptances. So many. But…you only need one Yes (unless we’re talking reprints.) So persistence helps. And confidence–to send out a story I have to believe that someone will buy it. I never know who or when, but if I still believe it’s saleable I will continue to find places to send it. Which brings us to hope.  It helps. (although it can also make a particular rejection sting a bit, but well, that’s hope for you.)

And speaking of reprints…a published story has already proven saleable; the difficulty there is finding markets that will consider reprints. 

Is there a book, TV show, or movie you consistently return to because it just makes you happy? Or what’s your go-to strategy to feel better when life or the state of affairs gets you down?

Lately, I’ve been relying on stand-up comedy specials and I’ve gone from watching any I hadn’t seen previously to re-watching those with bits that still make me laugh because when things are crap, you have to get your laughter somewhere. And the ephemeral nature of it is particularly appealing. For reading, I’ve been mostly borrowing mysteries because I know there will be a resolution at the end and I need to see someone solving something somewhere. 

What’s your favorite non-writing hobby?

I refinish furniture from secondhand shops or tag sales. I even have some pieces I’ve re-refinished to fit in my current space/vibe. I recently found an old sideboard that I’ve refurbished into a TV consul and started on a curio cabinet that was a deal I couldn’t pass up. The cabinet is still being stripped down and I haven’t decided on its final form yet, but I sometimes stare more at my consul than what’s playing on the TV. I think there’s a lot of overlap in the process for how I approach writing and refinishing and how there’s so may different possibilities at the start and pick and refine your idea as you go along.

H.L. Fullerton writes fiction—occasionally about  about angels, sometimes about small hopes carried defiantly into the dark; uses words instead of emoticons; likes semi-colons and the occasional interrobang; might be in trouble with prepositions; loves lists and bullet points; believes apostrophes are commas gone wild; saves dangling participles (sometimes); has upwards of 75 short stories published in places like Mysterion, Tales to Terrify, Lackington’s, Underland Arcana, and Kaleidotrope. On Bluesky as @HLFullerton.bsky.social

Journal

THREE QUESTIONS: Frances Pauli

Maggie Slater

In the lead-up to the release of Hope: The Thing with Feathers, I’m going to be posting mini-interviews with my fellow ToC-mates! You can pre-order Hope: The Thing with Feathers here.

In “A Touch of the Wind,” a successful knight finds a mysterious woman cloaked in feathers sitting in a tree and assumes she’s a woman of the court. But she proves to be much more strange than that, and in his attempt to understand her, he learns a great deal about himself, too.

If you could sit down with one author, from any time in history to today, to get a writing lesson, who would it be?

I would have a hard time deciding between Ursula K. Le Guin and Andre Norton, two of my favorites and both authors whom I admire greatly. Because Le Guin has already left us a very excellent book on writing and many helpful quotes and wise bits of advice, I would likely choose Norton. I spent much of my adolescence lost in her worlds, and if nothing else, I would love to say thank you. 

What SF/fantasy fandom are you particularly devoted to and what about it draws you so strongly?

I’m going to really date myself here and say Alien Nation. I adore the movie, of course, but the TV series has my whole heart (hearts?). For its time period, the show dealt with issues of gender, sexuality, racism, sexism, and bigotry while introducing a believable and fascinating alien culture that was in no way a mono-culture. I admire the work and the characters, and though it suffers from some dated approaches, the message was always one of inclusion and acceptance. 

It’s the End of the World. Your ideal bunker: what does it have to have in it to make the apocalypse bearable?

Three non-living things: good books, fine tea, and a really nice vintage typewriter. I would also insist on sharing it with my family and pets, but as far as inanimate accessories go. There must be reading, writing, and very excellent tea. Not the bagged stuff. If it’s the end of the world, I want a hearty stock of well-aged puerh or I’m not going. 

Frances Pauli writes about animals because she finds them infinitely more interesting than people. She’s not terribly sorry about this, though she understands it might cause some of the latter distress. Still, given the choice between a starship piloted by a human and one with a hippopotamus at the helm, she will inevitably favor the hippo. You can find her work and her associated goodies at: francespauli.com

Journal

FRIDAY FLASH: Le vrai visage de la beauté (800)

Maggie Slater

Le vrai visage de la beauté

A short horror flash by Maggie Slater

Monsieur Poulain was well known for his carnal appetite and unrivaled portraits, but this new series entitled Le vrai visage de la beauté disturbed even his most ardent admirers. One such of these, Mademoiselle Gibault, stood with the tip of her tiny nose almost touching the final small canvas, upon which the portrait’s subject had sloughed off the skin of its cheeks, exposing creamy brushstrokes of bone. 

            She was a beautiful girl, Mme. Gibault, but the kind average men rarely cast a glance upon: strange cheekbones, angular jaw, hauntingly deep-set eyes, and lank, black hair that would be stunning rendered in ink or charcoal. To the artist, however, with his superior eye, her features hooked his soul and made him hunger for a canvas to catch her on. 

            “What do you think of it, my dear?” M. Poulain glided up to her elbow, proud that he’d kept the starving tremble of desire out of his voice. He took a drag on the cigarette pinched between his fingers. They itched awfully to trace the line of her neck. “It’s dreadful, no? What did the critics call it? ‘Une horreur.’” 

            The breath wavered in Mme. Gibault’s throat, and the quick step she took backwards made his head reel as if drunk. “Non, Monsieur. I think it’s the most beautiful portrait I’ve ever seen.” 

            Her lace-gloved finger rose to hover just a hair’s width from a gob of crusted maroon paint on the canvas. “Just here, where the light catches upon the glistening of the flesh, showing it to be fresh and moist where you’ve pared it back to expose the skull. Or here, where you’ve hinted in the shadows of the dried rivulets of blood seeping from when you gouged out her eyes.”

            M. Poulain felt a bird’s fluttering in his chest, and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray at hand. “Mademoiselle, you are mistaken. There was no paring of flesh or gouging of eyes.” He forced a laugh that sounded reedy even to his own ears. “This corpse I acquired from a local physician and rotted away naturally. I merely painted it throughout its decomposition. Unnerving to the public, to be sure, but death is itself unnerving.” 

            Mme. Gibault stood as still as a professional model, only her dark, hooded eyes shifting to peer at him. “Non, Monsieur. It is you who are mistaken. The bruising is wrong for the death to be long past. The light still lingers in her eyes, just there.” She pointed again to the final portrait, the ravaged face, the waxen girl with her exposed bones and a hint, yes, a hint of terror trapped in her eyes. 

            A shudder of revulsion rippled through M. Poulain as he withdrew a step. How was it possible to capture such things in mere paint? He trusted his own skills, his eye was impeccable, but the accuracy of the rendering now made him faintly sick to his stomach. If this girl could detect it, could not someone of authority? Someone who might ask unpleasant questions? 

            “Come,” M. Poulain said, taking the girl firmly by the elbow. “This image has clearly overwrought your delicate sensibilities. There is a chair, just beyond the gallery, that you might rest in.” 

            Was it his imagination, or did she resist, ever so slightly. But no, she came then, allowing him to guide her through the crowd and into the back halls where there was neither art nor audience. The moment they stepped among the shadows, however, he felt a pinch upon the back of his hand. He jerked his arm away from her with a curse, but was suddenly unsteady on his feet, bumping up against the wall. 

            “Come with me, Monsieur,” Mme. Gibault said in the pandering voice of a nursemaid to an ancient and demented man. “Steady now. It’s not far.”

            She led him to the empty room, and lay him gently back on a velvet-padded bench he had not noticed there before. 

            “What is the meaning of this?” he croaked, already losing control of his tongue as she picked up a long, curved boning knife. 

            “What was the meaning in what you did to my dear cousin, Sabine? Do you know how delighted she was to learn that you had chosen her as a model? My poor Sabine, she believed that the face people show the world is always the true one. But people like you and I, Monsieur, we know that is not the case, and I should like very much to expose yours.”

            The knife bit into the skin of his jaw, but whatever she had given him made him powerless to so much as lift a finger, let alone scream as she peeled his flesh mask away.   

Hi there! If you don’t know me, I’m Maggie Slater. I write speculative fiction of a variety of stripes ranging from outright horror, sci-fi, and fantasy to strange, humorous literary stuff. My work has appeared in genre mags like Apex Magazine, Metaphorosis (and even got translated into Mandarin for Science Fiction World), as well as in literary magazines like Redivider and The Core Review.

If you enjoyed this story, please consider donating a buck to my Ko-Fi or following me on Instagram (if you enjoy notebooks, books, movies, and occasional art journaling). I’m also loosely on Bluesky and Substack. Or subscribe to this blog for any and all updates of flash fiction, general writerly nonsense, and periodic interviews with fantastic authors!

Journal

THREE QUESTIONS: Gabrielle Contelmo

Maggie Slater

In the lead-up to the release of Hope: The Thing with Feathers, I’m going to be posting mini-interviews with my fellow ToC-mates! You can pre-order Hope: The Thing with Feathers here.

“What We Had Left” is a beautiful story about finding connection when all else in the natural world fails. Audrey finds Tara as she searches her apartment for lingering survivors after a cataclysmic event in the oceans releases huge amounts of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. Together, they head inland, away from the seas and the clouds of gas that will smother life. While Audrey and Tara grapple with the reality of the Sixth Mass Extinction, they also find hope in human connection against all odds.

Writing can be a tough profession, and authors of all stages tend to get “no” more often than “yes.” How do you cope with rejection?

Once my original project is out the door, it’s basically dead to me. I still love it and I hope it finds a home, but it’s out of my hands at that point. Sure, the “nos” still hurt, but the sting is diluted if I direct my energy towards a different project. Focusing on something new also takes up too much brainpower for me to ruminate on the fate of the submitted piece.

What piece of writing advice would you give yourself if you could go back in time to when you started writing?

Be Persistent. I thought I’d achieve “success” (whatever that is) quickly; in hindsight, I’m glad I didn’t. I had a lot to learn about the craft and the business. Statistics say it takes years for many traditionally published authors to get a book deal, with most writing multiple books before they’re published. Imagine giving up on the first book or story you ever wrote? I took this to heart and just keep marching steadily ahead. Now, a slew of my short stories have been published in anthologies and literary magazines and I have a romance novel out on submission to publishers.

There are hundreds and hundreds of books on writing out there. Do you have one that you especially cherish? 

I really enjoyed Stephen King’s On Writing, but my go to writing resource has to be Jane Friedman’s The Business of Being a Writer (Second Edition!). Jane has so much information for writers of every kind; her book, website, and newsletter(s) are invaluable.

What’s the best SF short story you’ve ever read? What about it really spoke to you?

Several have stuck with me, to the point that I think about them years later. But by far my favorite is “Pig Son” by Sequoia Nagamatsu. It’s speculative more than sci fi with themes of grief, ethics, and animal agency and I recommend it to anyone even remotely interested in short stories. “Pig Son” is weird, funny, heart-wrenching and makes me feel deeply every time I come back to it.

What’s your favorite non-writing hobby?

I’ll dabble in just about anything creative. I’ve done a lot of fine art like oil painting, pencil drawing, and digital art, and fiber arts like crocheting, knitting, sewing, and (briefly) bobbin lacemaking. My favorite craft recently has been making pop up books for my young nieces (apparently this is called “paper engineering”). It is so fun to figure out little mechanisms that will work for the story I’m trying to tell. I thought I was going to make just one book as a special gift, but I’ve finished three already, and have way too many ideas for more.

What was/were the best book(s) you’ve read in the last year (or the one you always recommend to everyone you meet)?

The Immortality Thief by Taran Hunt! (and its sequel, The Unkillable Princess.) The moment I finished reading, I turned it around and started again. The Immortality Thief takes place on an abandoned spaceship where several different groups are trying to find valuable data before the others. It’s action-packed, deliciously spooky, and you’ll fall in love with the characters instantly..

Gabrielle Contelmo spends her time writing short stories, which often feature monsters with a twist, and character-driven romance novels, which always feature kissing. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in What Lurks: A Cryptid Anthology, 3Elements Literary Review, NECKSNAP, and Grim & Gilded, among others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Learn more about her work at gabriellecontelmo.com.

Journal

FRIDAY FLASH: The Eastern Feral House Spouse – Presented by David Attenborough (800)

Maggie Slater

The Eastern Feral House Spouse: Presented by David Attenborough

A short, silly flash by Maggie Slater

It begins with a wail. 

The shrieking cry, although terrifying, is the House Spouse’s offspring, awakening to yet another dawn. The Eastern Feral House Spouse stirs, its hair matted, its eyes red from a bit too much whiskey the night before. Unlike its domesticated cousin, the Domestic House Spouse, the Feral House Spouse is an unpredictable creature, driven by whims only it and its mate understand. 

The offspring are young. The Feral House Spouse, clawing herself from beneath twisted covers that are never laid orderly upon the mattress, lurches down the hall in the pre-dawn darkness, her ears finely attuned to the wail of her offspring. Bad dreams. The Feral House Spouse clambers into the nest of the young, burying herself under the vaguely sweat-smelling blankets that desperately need a wash. But where a Domestic Spouse would routinely wash their young’s bedding, the Feral House Spouse does not. She is not bothered. Her young snuggles close, before sleep once more slips its veil over them both. 

Dawn. Post-dawn. The Feral House Spouse is not an early riser, but her offspring rarely remain in bed beyond the first glow of sunlight. Its kicking and wriggling stirs the Feral House Spouse. She bares her teeth, a mild show of irritation that makes no impression on her young. The Feral cub bounds out of bed. The Feral House Spouse drags herself upright. 

While the Domestic Spouse might maintain finely tuned routines, their minds bred for reliability and passivity, the Feral House Spouse is largely unregulated. Mornings begin with an infusion of caffeine, likely too much, leaving the Feral House Spouse on the verge of a panic attack. The young sates its hunger on bowls of cheerios and cow’s milk, leaving a film of debris across the typically cluttered dining table. It will be some time before the Feral House Spouse awakens enough to rectify the mess. 

The Feral House Spouse lives in borderline squalor. Her den is her haven, her safest of places, and within its walls are the remnants of a dozen obsessive hobbies, now long forgotten. Unread books are the most common hoarded item in the Feral House Spouse’s abode and stand in unstable piles she occasionally sifts through. Unlike the Domestic Spouse who might use only the prettiest books as decor, the Feral Spouse fills her shelves to bursting with everything from used paperbacks to beautifully produced Kickstarter graphic novels. Her hunger for knowledge and art is insatiable. 

On this particular morning, as her young curls up in the laundry piled on the couch, the Feral Spouse turns her attention to cooking. There are old vegetables in the fridge, and frozen homemade broth, and these she puts together in a medley that will eventually become something akin to soup. Her offspring, frustrated by the odiferous project, flees outside. Unlike her domesticated counterpart, the Feral Spouse gives her offspring a great deal of leeway, though she does, from time to time, freeze by the window to observe and assure safety. 

The young has found his bicycle. 

While the soup simmers, the Feral Spouse has become absorbed in her cell phone. She scrolls. Time passes. A wailing from her offspring draws her attention, abrupt and alert. She rushes for the front door and finds her young on his side beneath his bicycle, having failed an especially unwise trick. The Feral Spouse, while wild and unpredictable, is nevertheless a fierce and devoted caretaker. Scooping up her offspring, she carries him into the safety of her den and there, tends gently to his wounds. They are not serious. Within moments, her offspring is running and shrieking with delight once more. 

The Feral Spouse refills her mug with coffee, despite knowing she does not need more caffeine. This is a drama that plays out every day. The Feral Spouse, while generally intelligent, never learns her limit. 

Their days continue much the same. The Feral Spouse engrosses herself in a task or a project; the offspring makes a mess or has an accident, requiring her attention. By suppertime, the Feral Spouse is showing signs of fatigue. 

Domestic Spouses are well known for their regimented bedtime strategies and sleep schedules, however the Feral Spouse favors simplicity in all things. Teeth are haphazardly brushed. Pajamas are optional. The only indisputable requirement is that the young empties his bladder before making himself comfortable within his nest. The Feral Spouse has peeled off too many wet sheets in the early morning hours to tolerate such a risk. 

Bedtime. The Feral Spouse crawls into the next of mangled blankets and menagerie of stuffed animals along with her young. Her eyes are already closing. Her young shifts and wriggles for some time yet. But before very long, the Feral Spouse and her offspring are asleep, curled up close together, sharing dreams. 

Rare Photo of an Eastern Feral House Spouse in her Den

Hi there! If you don’t know me, I’m Maggie Slater. I write speculative fiction of a variety of stripes ranging from outright horror, sci-fi, and fantasy to strange, humorous literary stuff. My work has appeared in genre mags like Apex Magazine, Metaphorosis (and even got translated into Mandarin for Science Fiction World), as well as in literary magazines like Redivider and The Core Review.

If you enjoyed this story, please consider donating a buck to my Ko-Fi or following me on Instagram (if you enjoy notebooks, books, movies, and occasional art journaling). I’m also loosely on Bluesky and Substack. Or subscribe to this blog for any and all updates of flash fiction, general writerly nonsense, and periodic interviews with fantastic authors!

Journal

THREE QUESTIONS: Chloe Smith

Maggie Slater

In the lead-up to the release of Hope: The Thing with Feathers, I’m going to be posting mini-interviews with my fellow ToC-mates! You can pre-order Hope: The Thing with Feathers here.

In “The Letter Writers” two part-human, part-bird children, born of a hawk larger than a man, are rescued from hunters by a cold-eyed man. But he has his own designs, and uses their blood and feathers to serve him as tools for writing letters for the patrons of his great city. But how much can the narrator’s brother sacrifice to protect her, and what of their own hopes for escape from captivity? This story is probably one of my favorites in this collection, and will appeal to anyone with a soft spot for Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities or the surreal magic of Hayao Miyazaki’s Spirited Away.

Writing Question: Writing can be a tough profession, and authors of all stages tend to get “no” more often than “yes.” How do you cope with rejection?

Is it too on-brand to say that it’s a matter of keeping up hope? JK, JK. Actually, my goal is not to put too much energy into hoping for the eventual “yes,” since there’s no guarantee that will ever come… That sounds very defeatist, but I don’t mean my response that way. It’s more that recognition (in the form of story sales, or positive reviews, or just someone else complementing my work) is something outside of my control. Working on my fiction, finishing stories, even sending them out—those are all things that I can act on, but whether anyone likes my writing… well, it’s amazing when it happens, but I can’t center my relationship to my work around the chance of getting that rush. The act of writing, creating worlds and stories that I can disappear into, engaging in craft study and practice—that’s what I try to make my goal, in-and-of itself, so that my work feels meaningful to me, first, before I look for any outside validation. That’s the idea, anyway. I don’t always achieve that level of equanimity, but I keep trying.

Spec Fic Question: What’s the best SF short story you’ve ever read? What about it really spoke to you?

My personal favorite favorite is “An Important Failure” by Rebecca Campbell . It’s a heartbreaking story about luthiers and climate change and making peace with impossible dreams. I cry every time I read it. Despite that, and despite the grim vision of the future it paints, I think it’s a powerfully hopeful story, highlighting the way that humans can persist and find new ways to support each other, even as the world burns around them. It’s also stunningly written, and it folds in history and detail I never knew I wanted to learn about the science of building musical instruments. 

Oddball Questions & Hope-related: Any life hacks you’ve learned that you couldn’t live without?

I’m not sure this this is a life hack, per se, but something I’ve particularly appreciated recently is my connection to a community of fellow writers. I really value the mutual support, encouragement, and understanding that comes from knowing people engaged in the same struggles, especially as it counterbalances the inherently isolating nature of writing and the anxieties that come from trying to carve your strange imaginings into coherent words.

Chloe Smith’s short fiction has appeared in Haven Speculative Fiction and Bourbon Penn, among other places. Her debut novella, Virgin Land, came out from Luna Press Publishing in 2023. She is a graduate of Your Personal Odyssey 2024 and a member of the Clarion Writers Workshop class of 2025. When she’s not writing, she works as a middle school teacher librarian. In past incarnations, she’s been a classroom teacher, a proofreader for Locus and Fantasy magazines, a barista, and a ballet dancer. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area in California. You can find more information about her work at https://imaginaryresearch.wordpress.com/, and she is semi-active on Bluesky @chloehsmith.

Journal

THREE QUESTIONS: Anna Orridge

Maggie Slater

In the lead-up to the release of Hope: The Thing with Feathers, I’m going to be posting mini-interviews with my fellow ToC-mates! You can pre-order Hope: The Thing with Feathers here.

“The Lay-by-rinth” is a tale of a future that has taken as many twists and turns as a labyrinth. Matt works along the old M25 making food stops and Waypoints with Avi, a wanderer from America. Avi’s Waypoint ideas are mystical and intricate, not unlike the feather vein fungus that has consumed and crumbled the old cities. But what meaning will these Waypoints of old ruined tech give the pilgrims who walk the cracked asphalt, or to Matt, still seeking someone to call home? 

Writing can be a tough profession and authors at all stages tend to get “no” more often than “yes.” How do you cope with rejection?

I tend to approach submissions with the spirit of a keen but inexperienced player lobbing balls at a basketball net. So each miss is just a prompt to try again, but I make sure I indulge in unbridled ecstasy when I get a slam dunk. I find sharing rejections with fellow writers in a spirit of hangdog humour helps too. 

What’s your go-to strategy to feel better when life or the state of affairs gets you down?

As a sustainability professional who often has to look at the climate crisis in the face without blinking, this is a regular challenge. I often reflect that the future is always uncertain, which means that doom is never a foregone conclusion, any more than the perfect outcome. 

What book or books have changed your life or the way you see the world?

Four Ways To Forgiveness by Ursula K. LeGuin. It’s such a sophisticated and deeply moving take on redemption, and the many forms that can take.

Anna lives in London and works for an environmental charity. Her short horror fiction has appeared in Mslexia, the Gothic Nature Journal and the anthologies ‘Rock Band’ and ‘Rewired’, published by Ghost Orchid Press. Her essay, Bihexuality in The Craft, is published in the Off Limits Press anthology ‘Divergent Terror’. In 2022, she won a poetry competition hosted by Hot Poets, a project which pairs poets with scientists to create work that transcends the doom and gloom of climate change, and focuses on mitigation and solutions. ‘The Moon Doth Shine’ won the 2023 XR Solarpunk showcase. Her eco-horror novella ‘Phengaris’ is now out with Nefarious Bat Press.

Learn more about Anna at annaorridge.com.

Journal

FRIDAY FLASH: Domestic Black Holes (690)

Maggie Slater

Domestic Black Holes

A dark flash by Maggie Slater

Mauri had never seen a black hole, even a pinprick-sized one, and she immediately resented it. For one, the light-sucking darkness and emanating sense of dread was out of keeping with her home office’s new dusty pink and grey wallpaper she’d been so excited about. For two, it was ever-so-slightly off center which drove her crazy. For three, as she should have expected, her husband Ray had walked right into it without thinking, and now stood stuck. Ray, it should be noted, with his sweatpants and faded Patriots t-shirt, was also not in keeping with the room’s aesthetic. 

            “Seriously, I can’t move.” He grimaced as he tried to shift his weight again, and let out a little cry of pain. “Shit, it hurts. It’s like I’m nailed in place!”

            Mauri tried not to roll her eyes. Ray was notorious for thinking his pain was worse than everybody else’s. She wished she could have seen him push a nine pound baby through his hips. 

            “Just go fast, a quick yank. Maybe it’ll hurt a bit, but you can’t stay here.” 

            In my space, she didn’t say. This was the only room in the house that was hers, all hers, not shared with Ray or the kids or the toys or his disorganized hunting gear, hers. And now Ray—because of course he had—had wedged his way in. 

            Ray was hyperventilating, screwing up what little courage he had. But just when she thought he might give it a proper go, he sagged and gasped, “I can’t, Maur. I can’t.” 

            The sense of dread she’d thought had come from the tiny black hole seemed to have shifted to encompass all of Ray. Just looking at him made her sick to her stomach with rage. He wasn’t even trying. 

            “Yes, you can,” she said, grabbing for his arm. 

            Ray recoiled, screaming louder than anyone she’d ever heard outside of a horror film. “Stop! Maur! No! It hurts! Oh my god…” 

            “I didn’t even pull!”

            Tears streamed down Ray’s face. One eye had busted a blood vessel, making him look vaguely possessed. “Just…gimme a sec…” he huffed.

            Mauri sucked in a breath to settle her nerves. She’d asked for one afternoon for Ray to take the kids out to a park, or a MacDonald’s play place, anything, so she could have a couple hours to herself, and a part of her was sure, absolutely sure, he’d gotten himself stuck in her little office on purpose to get out of it. 

            The kids’ footsteps thunder upstairs, and something thumped hard enough to shake the walls. A moment later, the wail of the youngest stabbed into her chest, gravitationally yanking her towards the door.

            But she hesitated. If she went now, there would be no break. She’d get sucked into fetching snacks and kissing booboos and finding socks, none of which she minded ninety-five percent of the time, but she’d been looking forward to this break all week, had had to twist Ray’s arm to get one, just one out of hundreds, afternoon off-! 

            The wail grew louder. 

            “Are you going to go handle that?” Ray asked, sweat slicking his brow. The pinprick black hole sat right at his left shoulder. It wasn’t that far from getting dislodged. “I mean, I can’t, so…”

            Mauri glared at him, the blood rushing to her ears. Why had he come into her space to ask her about how to get the kids ready? He was their father! He should know!

            Ray was the black hole. He sucked up all her energy, all her time, all her autonomy, her identity, her life force. Sucked it all up into the pit of his selfishness. If it wasn’t about him, it didn’t exist, and heaven forbidanything cause him any discomfort!

            “Mom!” Jake’s voice rang through the ceiling. “Petey hurt himself!” 

            Ray stared at her, innocent, like she should have foreseen this happening. 

            “What are you doing?” he cried as she grabbed his arm again. “Maur! Stop!”

            But this time, she didn’t, even when he shrieked, even when the bones cracked and red spattered across that pretty new wallpaper.   

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Hi there! If you don’t know me, I’m Maggie Slater. I write speculative fiction of a variety of stripes ranging from outright horror, sci-fi, and fantasy to strange, humorous literary stuff. My work has appeared in genre mags like Apex Magazine, Metaphorosis, and even got translated into Mandarin for Science Fiction World, as well as in literary magazines like Redivider and The Core Review.

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