I hear my father coming and hide the magazine under the comics section, even though he is not the one who tries to police what I read. I say no thank you to his offer of grilled cheese and wait for him to leave before returning to the article. I read about people crammed into rail cars with no bathrooms for days at a time. The idea of having to wet yourself in front of other people gives me a pang that starts in my belly button and ends up between my legs. The pang is familiar from when boys invaded the changing room at the pool. I don’t like the feeling, but I want to figure it out.

I grasp that the Nazis had it in for Jews, and I am indignant. I do not comprehend why their religion would make them a target any more than I comprehend why my sex makes people assume I am only interested in boys and babies, which is another thing I am indignant about. I find it a little fun to be indignant, in that it involves being right and explaining why other people are wrong. Normally I share my latest indignation at the dinner table, so that I can watch my parents exchange looks of wonder and exasperation at how precocious I am. This time I am sure they will not find my indignation charming. I shove the Sunday magazine under my mattress and keep my feelings to myself. 

The next time I am dropped off at the public library, where I am trusted to occupy myself while my mother shops at the noisy market that causes me tantrums, I look up the Holocaust in the card catalog. I enter the stacks via the aisle of thick James Michener novels I have been inhaling of late and sidle along the wall to the aisle with the call numbers I am looking for. The books are dusty, nondescript hardcovers, but I find in them tales from survivors who want me to put myself in their shoes. I feel the pang when they are forced to take their clothes off. I shudder when they must shovel their friends’ bodies into the crematoria. I join their clandestine prayer sessions and know not just indignation but rage. 

When my Gifted & Talented teacher assigns a multimedia project, I cannot resist telling her I want to do mine about the Holocaust. I promise to write a report, create a radio play that I will audiotape, and build a scale model of a concentration camp. Until now, my teacher has believed me to be a people-pleasing sort of smart, like the other girls in the class. I see her mentally regroup me with the boys, whose obsessions with combustion and bodily fluids embarrass all of us. I never start the project and suffer from a debilitating stomachache the entire week it is due. When I return to school, no one mentions the missing project, and I am allowed to resume my status as an obedient little girl. I stop visiting the aisle at the library and start reading Ayn Rand.

It’s 1991, and I am on a bus packed with high school band kids headed for Dachau. My crush, a Jewish trombonist, fills me in on the horrors of the Holocaust as though I am as ignorant as all the other WASP kids in the tour group. His version is somehow both hyperbolic and sanitized, but I know better than to say so. 

I wander the monument alone. I expect it to kindle revulsion and rage, just as the books did. But the concrete structures are ugly and mundane, and I can’t seem to feel a thing. Back on the bus, my crush professes to have been overcome by the experience. I don’t dare share my indignation at the sterility of the place. I worry what it says about me.

It’s 2018, and I am being evaluated for autism at the age of 42. The therapist asks me if I had special interests as a child. I flash back immediately to the public library and feel the pang that I now know as vulnerability. I remember the multimedia project and the shame that stopped me from completing it. I recall my desire at Dachau to be wrecked by emotion as penance for my grisly interest.  

Sharing these things with the therapist will help him conclude that I am autistic, which I need if I am to continue to function in my overly stimulating workplace. Being autistic will, in turn, excuse my erstwhile obsession. 

The therapist raises his eyebrows encouragingly. I prepare to confess and blush from my collarbone to my hairline.

Well, I say, I guess I liked to read.

Xavier George (they/them) is the story-telling alter-ego of academic political theorist Dr. Gwen Ottinger. Curious about things most people take for granted, their fiction imagines how social and political change can happen through the actions of individuals who are neither paragons nor monsters. George is inspired by their experiences in communities on the front lines of petrochemical pollution across the United States and the peculiar challenges of being an autistic, female-bodied GenXer.

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His eyes flicked to the clock just as it ticked to ten o’clock and promptly there was a knock at the door. Dennis coughed to try and clear his throat. “Who is it?” he finally managed to call out.

“Mr Jones, we’re scheduled for ten o’clock sharp,” announced a voice, through the door.

“Come in,” Dennis called back, and the door swung open and in stepped Mr. Jones in a neat looking suit, carrying a briefcase.

“May I?” Mr. Jones gestured towards the chair on the other side of the desk and Dennis gave a solitary nod of the head, playing along with significant pantomime. “So,” Mr. Jones began, looking at Dennis with two steely blue eyes and an expressionless face. “How are you keeping, Mr. Firefox?”

“Fine,” Dennis decided, and one side of Mr. Jones’s mouth twitched up into a smile.

“Mr. Firefox, I represent a company that is in the business of recovering money and it is my job to collect any unpaid debts or make arrangements for them to be repaid.”

“What debt would that be?” Dennis inquired.

“Student loans,” Mr. Jones grunted and then opened his briefcase. “It is my understanding that as of February the second 2035, you owed ten thousand and sixty-eight dollars, which has since been gathering interest at a rate of twenty-six percent.”

“Wait, I have an arrangement with the company I work for, to take out what is required each month when I get paid,” Dennis replied with a frown.

“They did, until February the second 2035.”

“What happened then?”

“You died,” Mr. Jones told him, and for a moment it was as if the air had been sucked from the room.

Dennis tried to process the information and then his eyes flicked to the calendar where the year stated 2041. “This is a wind up.” Dennis smiled, standing up and walking to the door. He tried the handle but it was locked, and turning to the window, he tried to find a latch but it was sealed shut. For a moment he watched the traffic below, moving around in a loop like toy cars.

“Mr. Firefox,” Mr. Jones continued, unperturbed. “Student loan providers are now legally able to bring back debtors into half-life to organise and manage a way for the debts to be repaid as soon as possible.”

“This is ridiculous,” Dennis stated, tapping on the desk. “I just want to get out of here and go home.”

“You can’t go home; you died six years ago.”

Dennis picked up the phone and tried to dial some numbers but it was dead.

“It’s for incoming calls only, Mr. Firefox,” Mr. Jones explained, and in a sudden flash of rage, Dennis threw the telephone at Mr. Jones, but it went straight through him and instead of hitting the floor, it rematerialized back on the desk.

“You’re not real,” Dennis pointed out.

“I am real, but you only exist in this scenario that allows us to collect unpaid debts,” Mr. Jones explained. “Every minute we spend discussing your current predicament, it’s costing you years in the workplace.”

“I refuse to do it,” Dennis huffed, petulantly, and Mr Jones watched as the humidity in the room increased to an unbearable level that only affected Dennis. He started to sweat profusely, crawling to the window and banging on the glass. “What are you trying to do, kill me?”

“We can’t kill you, Mr. Firefox, but we can make things a little uncomfortable.”

“Okay, enough already, what do you want me to do?” Suddenly the heat stopped and Dennis found he could breathe again. He stood up, dusted himself off and took the seat behind the desk.

“All we want you to do is answer the phone and sell some products, namely loans to students. When the phone rings you pick it up and run through the script provided,” Mr Jones told him, handing him a piece of paper.

“How many calls do I have to do?”

“You’ll be working on half the minimum wage, but you’ll receive a small bonus for every sale you make, and once again if you don’t deviate from the script.”

“Do I get a break, or what happens if I need to go to the bathroom?”

“You’re dead, Mr. Firefox, there is no need to take a break, you don’t need to eat or go to the bathroom.”

“How long is this going to take?”

“With your current debt and if you make no mistakes, it should take five and a half years, respectfully,” Mr. Jones told him bluntly.

“That’s outrageous.”

“I shouldn’t worry too much; you’ve already been dead for six years.” Mr. Jones smiled. “Time flies, don’t you think?”

“How come I’ve never heard of this before?”

“It’s new government legislation that allows companies to claw back what is owed; dying is no longer an excuse to leave unpaid debts.”

“What happens when I’m done?”

“You’ll be allowed to rest-in-peace,” Mr. Jones confirmed, and Dennis breathed a sigh of relief. “However, I must inform you that legislation changes all the time and you will be kept on the system in case we need to call on you again in the future.”

Mr Jones smiled thinly and Dennis’s mouth opened but no words came out.

The phone on the desk began to ring and Mr Jones pointed to it. “That’ll be for you.”

Gregory Ballinger is an avid reader, writer and time traveller. When Gregory is not reading or writing, he often travels back to the 1800’s in England where he likes to spend his time in country gardens as an ornamental hermit, contemplating life in the cosmos. Gregory also likes cats.

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Communicate

Yes, communication should always be a part of sex, even if you’re doing it with another version of yourself. “In doppel porn, there’s a big emphasis on how the two performers are so similar they effortlessly know each other’s desires and can please each other like no one else can — but that’s not how things work in real life,” explains Amy. The truth is, even if you have virtually identical anatomy, your desires (and your boundaries) are shaped by your life experiences, your day-to-day thoughts and emotions, the kinds of sex toys available in your particular branch of the multiverse, and more. Let go of the idea that sex with your double should be as intuitive as masturbation. Think of it more as sex with someone who already knows a bit about what you’re into — and now the joy is teaching each other the rest.

Focus on All Forms of Self Love

Nowadays, “self love” is mostly a euphemism for doppel sex, but here we’re also using it in the older sense of having a good relationship with yourself. “My clients are often surprised at how many negative emotions come up for them when they see their double undress for the first time,” says Amy. Seeing another version of yourself can trigger complicated feelings about body image, ageing, gender, and more. And the sex itself can bring up further insecurities around bedroom performance. Amy recommends re-framing those thoughts to focus on what you can learn from your doppelgänger about how to love yourself more. Is there a way they carry themself that makes you see new beauty in your body? Does touching them help you appreciate body parts you have complicated feelings about? And remember, you’re likely to be pretty similar people — if you’re having these feelings, they might be, too. Talk about it!

Know The Law

This tip is less sexy, but still important. Depending on where you live, sex with your doppelgänger could be interpreted to fall under laws around masturbation, homosexuality, or even incest. And with so much up for interpretation — and conservative lawmakers in many jurisdictions scrambling to restrict the new sexual possibilities opened up by multiversal travel — it’s possible some courts will see your fun fling or burgeoning relationship as a serious criminal act. Your best bet is sticking to jurisdictions where there are legal protections in place for you and your double. If that’s not feasible? “Find a supportive community, be aware of the risks, and have a plan for if you’re caught,” says Amy.

Be Prepared for Roleplay to Get…Complicated

“The number one fantasy people have about doppel sex is the idea of an ‘evil twin’ or ‘dark mirror,’” says Amy. Blame cheesy 20th-century science fiction or far older ideas about the duality of man, but the fact is, a lot of people like the idea of being dominated by a darker version of themself — or of having a more innocent version of themself at their mercy. As long as you’re both on board — and as long as neither of you is actually from a Corrupted branch of the multiverse — Amy says go for it! But keep your expectations realistic: “The main issue I’ve seen clients running into here is that you and your double probably have similar preferences in terms of topping and bottoming, so unless you both love to switch, one of you is going to end up a little unsatisfied.” That’s right — if your big fantasy is for your “evil” double to overpower you, chances are your double wants to be overpowered as well, and you’ll just have to learn to take turns.

Don’t Overthink It

Finally, remember: at the end of the day, your doppelgänger is just another person you’re attracted to, and sex with them won’t be all that different to sex with someone else. “That isn’t to say it can’t be special, especially if you’re fulfilling a specific fantasy or making a specific connection,” says Amy. “But if you’re feeling nervous, try not to build it up in your head as a radically different experience from other sex you’ve had.” In other words: don’t overthink it. Just get out there and have (double the) fun!

Alice Gauntley (she/her) is a writer caught between hope and despair. She is the winner of the 2023 Toronto Star Short Story Contest, and her short stories have previously appeared in Dread Machine, Drabblecast, and Best Canadian Stories 2021, among other publications. She lives with a wonderful partner and a terrible cat in Toronto, Canada, on the traditional territory of the Haudenosaunee, the Anishinaabe, the Wendat, and the Mississaugas of the Credit. She dreams of the day when she’s swept off her feet by her evil doppelgänger from a parallel universe. Find her at alicegauntley.com

We’re thankful for our Patreon supporters.

He was dressed as Tinky Winky.

The purple fur swallowed his shoulders and fell straight down, erasing the outline of his body. People stood close behind him, half-cut out of the frame. He was smiling — boyish, crooked at the corner, just the way I first saw it.

I stared at the photo for a while before replying with a heart.

We dated briefly in 2021.

On our first date, we watched a Kurosawa film on Criterion. Halfway through, his head tilted to the side; his breathing slowed into sleep. I stayed still beside him, memorizing the rhythm of his sleep.

It became routine.

He was always somewhere else — on flights, in meetings, at parties.

Weekends were the only time I could see him, and even then, only partially.

Sometimes I would wake to find him still working.

He didn’t notice me. I stood in the doorway for a moment, then went back to bed.

Later, he would collapse into sleep beside me, one arm and one leg draped over my body.

I held my breath, afraid of waking him.

***

The last moment we shared was his birthday.

He lay on the bed and brought out two Lego blind boxes, placing them between us. Before opening them, he asked what I wanted.

I pointed at the red ladybug girl printed on the package — that one. Then I told him he would get the pug costume guy. There was already a Lego pug on his desk. I knew it was the one he wanted least.

We opened the boxes at the same time. I got the ladybug. He got the pug.

“Did you already know?”

He turned the pug over in his hand, then let out a sharp breath.

I shook my head.

“Happy birthday,” I whispered.

I handed him the ladybug and kept the pug. He didn’t need another one.

That was the last time.

***

2024

After Halloween, I came across a Teletubbies blind box series online. One of the figures was a sleeping Tinky Winky. Odds were one in eight.

A few days later, after work, I saw the boxes stacked beside the register of a small shop in San Francisco.

I picked one without thinking.

Outside, the street was quiet.

I tore the box open.

Inside was the sleeping Tinky Winky.

A photo was sent to him. Hours passed before the reply came:

“That’s me,” he wrote. “You always get what you want.”

I didn’t respond.

The message lingered on the screen, then faded.

I placed the sleeping Tinky Winky on my bedside, next to the Lego pug.

Sophie Li is a programmer based in San Francisco. Her work is influenced by cinema, experimental music, drawing, and the cities she has lived in.

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Despite several heartfelt petitions, we still only allow three witches or warlocks per tag team. All accessory creatures, doppelgängers, and familiars must be left with Mistress Paloma, who has gentled the most irascible rhinos and hippos with her care and charm, even if they were specifically taught to menace her by past sore losers. I’m looking at you, Mistress Beatrice. We haven’t forgotten.

As in previous years, there are three sequential sections to the race. First: swimming; second: spell-powered land-bound vehicles traveling on one-to-three wheels; and the third and final section: flight.

Same as previous years, swimming will take place in the Lugubrious Cove of Unceasing Tears, the land-bound portion will ascend from the shoreline to the edge of the Muddled Precipice of Confusing Proportions, and the flight portion will end at the edge of the Terrifying Forbidden Forest We Enter Anyways.

For the swimming portion, there is still some confusion, but we thought we made it clear on the registration form that unlike past years, there are no separately ranked categories for surface swimmers: the waterfowl, humans, snakes and the submerged: merfolk, selkie, dolphins, trout, piranhas and other piscine. You’re all together now. Cast your body-shifting shenanigans on yourself at will. However, regardless of your chosen fins, feathers, and flesh, you must remain solid enough to keep your team’s velcro timing tag affixed to your body. Take caution transforming into etherial elementals or other liquid beasts. We absolve all responsibility if you become indistinguishable from any surrounding fluids. All of us on the volunteer staff remember Mistress Oriana who had to be filtered out drop by drop from that unexpected octopus inking. We were very fortunate she could still write.

Take to heart that warning, when I remind you that spells cast on the self are allowed, but spells cast on others are not. No flesh-to-anchor spells or surround-with-ice-vortex. Once our judges detect a spell outside of your body, we will drag you out of the Lugubrious Cove into the spell identification and magic detoxification dinghy. Even Mistress Ingrid couldn’t hide her slow-all-creatures-faster-than-me-by-just-a-titchy spell.

All swimming participants must circle the luminous, witch-hatted buoy and swim to the lovely bladderwrack-demarcated section of shoreline to transfer your velcro tag to your second teammate waiting with their one-to-three wheeled, spell-powered vehicle. Unicycles, wheeled aquariums, circular and upright vacuums, and all other qualifying vehicles must have had all electricity generating parts removed or rendered nonfunctional. Any modifications made after passing yesterday’s inspection will result in immediate disqualification. Witches and warlocks, save your electricity for the cackle-off at the recovery party.

We have an emergency announcement. There is a cauldron bubbling over with a putrid tormenting emission in the back of a burgundy sedan parked near the ancient gnarled willow tree. Please quell your cauldron or move your vehicle before the willow tree tosses it into the farthest depths of the Terrifying Forbidden Forest We Enter Anyways. Also, will the owner please claim a saddled chimera, name tag “Bruce,” stuck between a Volvo and a Bugatti illusion that is manifesting from an e-bike. Please properly secure your transportation. Good catches on parking duty, Mistress Vanthe.

At the end of the land-based portion of the race, transfer your velcro tag at the amaranth-demarcated edge of the Muddled Precipice of Confusing Proportions to your third team member, who must achieve flight before reaching the bottom of the precipice. If you get caught in the swirling-cushion-that-arrests-all-plummeting, you will be alive, but immediately disqualified. Let’s give a hand to Mistress Sybil, who conjured up a spell strong enough to catch our solid steal giant participant who blanked out on her levitate metal spell.

Flight must not be mechanical. We caught you last year, jet-propelled pixies. Single creature bodily conversions to a mass of single-minded flying creatures is allowed, including a swarm of wasps, a murder of crows, and a horde of dragons. No eating of other competitors is allowed, unless you lose your team’s velcro tag before the finish line. Then you’re fair game, and that’s what we’re here for, a fair game. Now, let’s start the final countdown. All together. Four vampire fangs. Three shrieking ghosts, two swooping bats, one snickering ghoul, go!

B. Patten writes in Minnesota, U.S.A. Her short fiction has been previously published in Microfiction Monday Magazine and Spellbound: Legends of Night: Drabbles 5. She has taught English in Japan, in a town that can no longer be found on a map, helped catch bats in the Amazon rainforest in Ecuador, seen the peculiarities of grocery stores in the U.S.S.R, and celebrated in Mongolia for the 800 year anniversary of the founding of Genghis Khan’s army.

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“Happy Anniversary,” he says without looking my way. “It was quite a night.”

“It was lovely,” I respond. “But can you slow down?”

“Marrying you was the best day of my life. I had so many dreams for our future.” He continues to urge the pedal down as the narrow country lane unfolds in the near pitch dark.

Voice quavering, I ask again. “Can you slow down, Michael? We can hardly see the road.”

Vibrations swell through the cabin as he chooses to accelerate instead. A sharp curve looms ahead. His eyes are wet as he grabs my wrist.

“I saw you watching him tonight, you know.” He takes a beat, waiting for his words to sink in. “You think I don’t know every thought in your head?”

I tear my eyes away from the trees ticking by the windshield in a furious rush. “What? No! Don’t you know I love you? Only you!”

We barely mange the swerve in the road, and he says nothing more as we careen onto the ramp of the derelict backwoods bridge. I flash on the icy river raging below, when in a barely audible whisper he asks, “Are you ready?”

Suzanne Miller, a working-class kid, is recently retired from practicing child protection law. She now plays badminton with her grands, travels a bit, and also finds time to write flash fiction and essays in her sleepy Connecticut shoreline town. Suzanne has had pieces accepted by The Rumen, Tangled Locks, WildGreens, and CafeLit among others. She is also a Writer Advice’s 2024 Microfiction Contest winner. You can find her at “Flash Light” on Substack.

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Folded into forgotten branches that were once green, I too, have morphed, turning ripe over sunshine-filled months, metamorphosing into edible juice, a fully fledged blackberry. Wearing my best damson-rich jacket, I beam resplendently, yet, lamentably, I stay unpicked.

Even at my best, nobody wants me.

I dangle, on the verge of thorny oblivion beneath me as days shorten: the sun sets sooner; cloud cover and showers move in, replacing heady aromas of sun-cooked grass and freshly picked berries, tangy and floral.

They are the chosen ones. Godly orbits that were once friends. Now gone. Selected. Baked hot in pies, spilling from crusty, golden edges in Sunday dinner glory. Placed in the centre of the table like a prize, with human eyes drinking them in, so hungrily, with beady eyes.

For me, I stay unpicked. Unloved.

Summer turns powdery. Shade crawls in wearing a dusty grey suit, squeezing the throat of crimson sunset. I too, suffer, curling further into velveteen darkness. I am alone but cushioned, falling into tangled but silent night. Here, my thoughts churn, become more acute, heightened by the rise of the moon. Moonlight plays hide and seek with me through gorse gaps, tickling my inner seeds, as they rotate, awakened by nocturnal stirrings. Wolves howl, stalk for prey as the womb-lit moon strengthens, gathers steeliness.

Autumn bleeds to winter and my outer shell hardens, forming a brittle mantle. Near to death, I give up, ready to release the last tendrils clinging to the branch. I dance on a knife’s edge, newly sharpened. Closing my eyes, I surrender. Fall. Spill parts of me onto the frozen, unforgiving ground.

I stay this way for hours, shivering, uncovered, until a curious blackbird sets me in her sight. Pecking lightly, she tickles my macabre coat, searching for succulence within. Taking me in her mustard-flamed beak, she flies upwards, dancing in weak sunlight, as she turns me in her tiny mouth. What I have left in me, I release, fading to a shrunken skin. She toys with the casing before swallowing me down, and the light finally switches off. I rest, blinkered, life force sucked away.

I was not a chosen one, picked by a human hand, yet I rest, nestled within a blackbird’s warmth, a jewel in her stomach.

Emma is a mother and full-time writer. Her poetry has been published with various literary journals and magazines. She writes flash fiction, short stories, and novels. She is currently writing her sixth novel.

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Outside, the sky looks like it’s been set on fire. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight, she thinks. She pictures herself sailing off into that apocalyptic sunset, maybe on one of those three-year cruises she read about. Wonders how much they cost.

Too much, probably. She turns back to the task at hand.

It was an excellent dinner, if she does say so herself. Steak so rare it bled all over the white plates. Merlot that stained their teeth violet. Raspberries and cream for dessert.

Top-notch, really.

She gathers up the dishes, rinses them, loads the dishwasher. Puts a pan in the sink to soak, then leans against the counter. What she wouldn’t give for a cigarette right now.

He seemed to enjoy the meal, though he didn’t say anything. He didn’t say anything about the dress either, but he seemed to enjoy that too.

She hopes so, anyway.

She tries to send them out on a high note – it’s a point of professional pride. Anyone can get in and out, leave a body in their wake, but it takes real skill to make it elegant. And this is elegant. Some of her best work yet. She’d sign it if she could.

Blood is dripping from a neat, round hole in his forehead. Running down his nose and onto the thick ivory tablecloth. It reminds her of her grandmother’s ruby earrings, at first, but she knows it’ll turn a ripe purple if she gives it time.

Tina is a pop culture nerd, political junkie, and animal lover. She spends a lot of time reading and listening to podcasts.

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Sadly, the corpse next to mine is Sven Forkbeard. Why didn’t I check? I could have stumbled over to Alma Eagleaxe, currently sprawled under a pile of pretend guts. Alma’s nice. Before lunch, we were proposing personality disorders for the weird guy selling rabbit skins at the visitor entrance.

“Can I give you a tip?” says Sven’s corpse. He’s been giving me tips all week. I was grateful, initially.

“You,” says Sven, “are wearing a watch.”

“I need an alarm,” I whisper. Sven’s first tip: if you’re dead, you whisper. “For my medication.”

“It’s inauthentic.” Sven isn’t whispering.

I’d like to reply: “Deceased Vikings discussing watches at the slaughter of Trelleborg isn’t exactly authentic either.” But I don’t. I want him to like me. Being liked is why I’m here. Friends are the main predicator of well-being.

Instead, I say: “Sven, do you think Harald Bluetooth will prevail?” Stupid question: Harald never prevails. I’m asking because Alma told me to change the subject whenever Sven gets like this. Also, I should say “how interesting” in neutral tones.

“Stupid question,” Sven mutters. “Harald never prevails.”

“How interesting.”

On day one, Alma said, “Sven’s a sweetheart.” We were in her tent, making fake blood (chocolate sauce plus food coloring). “He’s been through a lot.” She smeared spare blood on a cracker and ate it. “He genuinely wishes he lived in the ninth century.”

The oldest actual Viking found at Trelleborg was fifty, his bones mushy from smallpox, an arrowhead in his ocular socket. This is Sven’s utopia. I should pity him.

Sven props himself up on one elbow. He has rune tattoos on his forearms. “Futhermore,” he says. “You moved. After being slain.”

I don’t say: “But Sven, you’re moving. You’re moving right now.”

I do say: “But Sven, Alma told me to. For health and safety purposes. If the battle nears, the corpses roll away.”

“I never roll,” says Sven. “And don’t listen to Alma. She likes fire extinguishers.” He spits into the grass. “Wants one within ten meters of every tent.”

“Well, they’re made of hides, so–”

“She’s wrong,” says Sven.

“How interesting.”

I can almost touch the rope separating us from the audience. It’s a good turn out: families sprawled on picnic blankets all the way up the hill – once the ring fortress’ outer wall. They’re wearing shorts and eating sandwiches. I wish I were eating sandwiches. I wish I were wearing shorts. Shorts and sandwiches seem preferable to chain mail and Sven Forbeard.

“So what do you advise, Sven? I appreciate –”

“Stare,” says Sven. “Even if flies land on your eyeballs.”

My sigh is a tiny fart of passive aggression. “I was staring.” Maybe he’s hazing me. Maybe when I get my Viking name — Alma likes “Ragnor Pickleblood”— Sven will accept me.

“Become the warrior,” says Sven. “Bleeding out, praying the Valkyries choose you.”

“Sounds a bit fascist, Sven.” When flustered, I mansplain. “Did you know the peoples we mistakenly call ‘Vikings’ thought Loki was bisexual? So actually they were surprisingly kind and tolerant.”

“Hmm,” says Sven. “A fringe theory.” He points his sword at me. “We were discussing Valkyries. Consider their names. Do they sound kind and tolerant? Shield-Destroyer, Battle, War–”

“Battle?” I sniff. “War? A tad literal, no?”

“Don’t be sarcastic,” Sven says. “Helmet-Clatter, Howling, Spear-Finger, Spear-Shaker, Spear-”

I stop listening. And hold my breath. Sven doesn’t shower. No showers in the ninth century.

“… and Victory-Froth.”

“How interesting.” The grunt-clunk of phoney carnage draws near. It’s drizzling. Families drift toward the carpark. I don’t blame them. Sven claims that looking upon a Valkyrie will blind you. It’s a long fifteen minutes.

Then, thank Freya and thingy, and the other ones, the din overwhelms Sven’s monotone.

Harald Bluetooth sinks to his knees next to me. He’s about to get his throat slit. Everyone gets a turn slitting Harald’s throat: today, it’s Orm Cleft-Chin (who has a cleft chin). Harald gurgles, clutching his neck. He’s good at dying. Better than Sven.

Orm coughs, looks at me, waggles his eyebrows. Meaning: “Move, new guy, or Harald, our Dark Thane, might land on your ass and sprain something.”

Sven’s eyes narrow. A test. Should I roll and earn (more of) Sven’s contempt? Or stay and endure Orm’s ire?

Why is male friendship so difficult?

“Forkbeard,” I say, “I am worthy of honor.” I shriek like a ninth century berserker. I roll away from Harlad, toward Sven.
Whose sword, still raised, is authentically sharp. And authentically stabs me in the guts.

Sven wails. “Jesus, no. Ambulance–”

Death IRL is easier than pretend evisceration. Any gurgle is a good gurgle, every groan convincing, by definition. Nobody gives you tips.

A surprising amount of non-fake blood exits my belly. Bet it doesn’t taste like chocolate sauce. I feel sorry for the folks in shorts screaming, holding their kids close. Hopefully, I haven’t ruined anyone’s Saturday.

Harald, in character, bellows: “Hold fast, uh, Northman.” Pretty sure he says “Northman” because he can’t remember my name. Alma shoves him aside, sobbing.

The clouds blacken, releasing ravens. They spiral in lazy gyres, closer, wings burning. In the spaces between: shapes, humanoid, almost.

Helmets flash, spears are raised and ready to bite, sharp of blade, desiring a feast. Pale hands grip severed heads, shields glint, draped with intestines.

Is that Helmet-Clatter? Victory-Froth?

My eyeballs blister. Truly, to look upon Odin’s maidens is to gaze into the flames. As my sight fades, a gaunt creature plants her boots on either side of my chest. She squats. Breath like battlefield meat.

The fuck? she says. A watch? A man of war wears no fucking watch.

With that, the Valkyries are gone. I exhale, everything slowing, everything stopping. I don’t think they liked me. They’d have loved Sven.

Kris Schokrowsky is a Scottish-German writer and illustrator living in the Netherlands. Kris has been an advertising creative, a ghostwriter, a chief editor, and a librarian. Recent stories have been accepted by Cosmic Horror Monthly and Not One Of Us. Recent illustration projects include a poster for the podcast Weird Studies, as well as work for BookTuber Jared Henderson, and political activist Anark. Publication credits also include nonfiction books, essays, articles, and more fiction (including a collection). Other creative projects include exhibitions in art galleries and at the Venice Biennial, directing commercials, product development, and teaching design students.

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“Smile bright—”

It’s back. The VEIN-9 — or Volumetric Emotive Interface Network, version 9 — has been playing a thirty-second toothpaste ad on a feedback loop for the past two months. Mr. Smiley warbles from the projector in a cheerful falsetto, spinning above the grated floor, his comically oversized teeth flashing white.

“—sleep tight—”

Mission Control calls it a “glitch.” To me, Mr. Smiley is an annoyance. But to Alison, now in her eighth month of pregnancy, Mr. Smiley is an existential threat. A tormentor who must be destroyed.

The latch snaps and Alison charges out of the latrine, her mouth foaming with toothpaste, coral blue eyes wild and bloodshot. Light glints off her white-gold wedding band as she hurls a wrench at the pirouetting Mr. Smiley.

“MR. SMILEY EVERY MORNING AND NIGHT!”

The wrench sails harmlessly through the hologram’s light and hits the bulkhead with a metallic clang. Mr. Smiley flickers momentarily, then keeps spinning and singing, his falsetto piercing and undeterred.

We tried everything. Manual overrides, counter-jingles, even the Professor’s old diagnostic wand — I waved that damn thing around for weeks. Alison filed a dozen emergency tickets with the service desk. No luck. We tried rewiring the emitter array. It didn’t even make Mr. Smiley lag. I even read Frank’s dissertation on “Non-Coercive Morale Architecture,” hoping to find a clue. Nothing.  

Earplugs had failed Alison — my crewmate, my soulmate — months ago. White noise doesn’t work. The Mr. Smiley jingle seeps through the walls, the vents, even the goddamn sleep chimes.

The Mr. Smiley ad is supposed to target our core demographics — mostly researchers, miners, cosmic drifters, the Outer Belt Fresh-Breath Segment — but the VEIN-9 malfunction has converted our ship into a captive, 24-hours-a-day, two-person focus group for the past two miserable months.

Mr. Smiley brand toothpaste — available in seven refreshing flavors — is one of 300,000 brands owned by the Lastick conglomerate of companies. I’m a third-generation Lastick man. My grandfather helped patent time travel; my mother ran the Psychic Weaponry Division until the merger with the U.S. Army in 2180.

Ah, the Eighties. Simpler times.

I’m a Senior VP in Intergalactic Media, which sounds glamorous, but I sell toothpaste ads in space. Don’t be impressed. Once I collect my mission bonus, Alison and I can vanish somewhere quiet with our child. No brands. No slogans. Just real smiles for a change.

Truth is, Alison keeps this whole mission from collapsing. She revises my compliance reports so the Board can’t weaponize my typos. She recalibrates my stress metrics every night so Headquarters doesn’t flag me for “declining enthusiasm.” She’s the one who rewrites my quarterly objectives in language the algorithm understands. “More specific verbs,” she whispers over recycled coffee. “Less passive doom.” She even moderates my daily sync calls so the brand team doesn’t hear how tired I sound. Alison tells them it’s a latency issue on the outer belt uplink.  

They always believe her.  

Alison staggers into MedUnit-7 and straps herself in.

“Maternal heart rate elevated,” she reads aloud. “Cortisol 2.3 above baseline. Fetal arrhythmia detected.”

Mr. Smiley is killing her. Endangering our child.

I kiss the crown of Alison’s head. “We’ll fix this,” I whisper.  

“How?” she asks, trembling.

“What about repurposing thermal dampeners to make a jingle firewall?”

“No,” says Alison. “We need Frank.” She’s right. There’s no other choice.

I hold Alison’s hand while I still can.

The Professor is the MIT contractor who created VEIN-9. The man was brilliant but unstable. I accused him of rewriting the morale algorithm without clearance, and notified Mission Control that he was a threat, and posed a risk to the mission. As commander, I had a moral responsibility to act. Once Alison corroborated my report, we followed protocol. First, sedation. Then, cryo-sleep. I can still picture Frank’s palm pressed flat against the glass as the lid descended and steam filled the chamber.

At 0900, Mission Control pings.

“Commander Rusk,” the synthetic voice says. “Reversing containment is not recommended.”

“I realize that, sir.”

“You submitted the red flag incident yourself.” Behind me, Alison is unconsciously mouthing the jingle.

“Affirmative,” I say.

A pause. The Mission Control supervisor nods. “Very well, commander. Permission to initiate reheat sequence is authorized.”

Alison and I walk to the cargo bay. She steadies herself on the walls; her ring catches the corridor light. I pretend not to notice.

The cryo-sleep pod rests under a crust of frost, humming faintly in the green light.

“Ready?” I ask.

“No,” she whispers. “But do it anyway.”

I punch in the code. The green light turns amber, then red.

“Reheat sequence activated,” intones the bot.

Steam spills from vents. Frost melts in rivulets. Blue pulses throb beneath the lid in slow, mechanical breaths.

Alison stands rigid. Last time she saw Frank awake, he was pleading through the haze of sedatives. She kept her eyes on me instead.

A cold mist curls along the deck. The hatch unseals with a soft sigh.

Frank Starr sits upright — pale, blinking, shivering.

I nod. “Good morning, Professor Starr.”

His gaze is searching, confused at first, until it fixes on me.

“Where’s my wife?” Frank demands to know.

Alison inhales sharply.

“I’m right here, Frank,” she says softly, handing him his glasses. “We have some things to talk about, but—”

Mr. Smiley sings from the corridor:

“Smile bright—”

Alison clamps her hands over her ears and screams.

Frank winces. “That shouldn’t be happening.”

“No kidding,” I manage.

Alison steps toward him, uncertain, brave.

“Frank—”

“Smile bright—”

VEIN-9 glitches and spits a single warped note through the corridor speaker.

Alison screams and covers her ears.

I steady myself and feel my facial muscles contort into the expression that has closed deals, soothed investors, and sold a thousand lies.

I flash my winningest smile.

“We need your help,” I say.

Aaron F. Schnore is a Brooklyn-based writer, musician, and filmmaker. His film work includes the award-winning feature Inside a Change (Best Picture, 2009 HBO New York Black & Latino Film Festival), collaborations with The Roots, and the cult hip-hop/horror short Rhyme Animal. He is active in New York’s independent music scene, playing guitar and singing in the dream-pop band flavours change all day. In 2025, he completed his debut novel, Let the Stricken Deer Weep. He is currently writing his second novel, a work of historical fiction set during World War I that examines a detention center where women accused of spreading sexually transmitted infections were forcibly confined and subjected to dangerous medical treatments in the name of patriotism.

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