Sean King

J Peaslee

Benjamin Chandler

Sunny Anomaly

Rietje Becker

Zach Bruno

Sam Becker

English

OK, OK. Deep breath. Take inventory. What do I have? A spacesuit, with enough air for 2 days. A propellant pack. Water and nutrient gel in helmet tubes. A radio link to ground control. What I do not have is an intact spacecraft or a way to safely return to Earth’s surface.

I see good news & bad news. The good news? The view from space is stunning!
The bad news? If I die in 2 days, I won't have the record for longest EVA. That's unacceptable. I want that record.
Plus that pesky "dying alone, floating in space" thing. Not appealing. So what can I do?

The flotsam of space junk drifts past. Loose bolts, stray wires, bits of broken satellites, astronaut ice cream wrappers. None of it is useful. But then I see it—a surfboard-sized hunk of solar paneling! My thoughts zip to my old "Hang 10" days in Oahu & a plan forms in my mind.

Before I know it, I’m surfing through space on a solar panel. I laugh to myself, wishing the dorks back on earth could see me now… Blissfully riding on cosmic waves of radiation among the stars. I shake my head, reminding myself of the mission at hand.

After all, being a space surfer is cool, but saving the world is the coolest. The best way, I decide, is to attack the enemy ship. Total annihilation. And the best way to achieve that is in their control room.

But when I found the control room and bursted inside, the guy in charge saw my ‘sick waves brig’ tee shirt and was all ‘brooo, you space surf?! We haven’t found anyone else in over 500 parseks who space surfs. Duuude come join us!’ And… just like that… world saved by friendship.

Hypoxia Hang Ten

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KW Taylor

Kara S

“Where did you train?” the mage inquired. “The North,” I answered. “With Gwynevere, sorceress of the bakèd arts.” “Very good,” said the mage. “I have a recipe you might be interested in.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Not sure I could top that one,” I said, “but lay the deets on me. I’m intrigued.” The mage smiled. He had a long white beard and dark blue robes. His eyes were violet, but they glowed red at the edges as he spoke. “It’s a sugarplum recipe,” he said, “and it

requires 50,000 wings of sugarplum fairies, the eye of a living nutcracker, two-" "Wait, what?" I staggered back from the sheer information that he just spouted. "Sugarplum fairieS? A living nutcracker? There's more than one? What's up with the 50,000?" "That's why," he evilly

exclaimed “we attract generations of humans to recreate the nutcracker story every year. A small percentage of them believe it enough to become sugarplum fairies themselves, with wings ripe for harvest!”

But there’d already been so many of those at Burning Man the previous year, the general consensus this summer was to forego that one and instead focus on wood nymphs or pixies instead, just to keep things fresh.

I know all this issues with monsters and baking goods weren’t going to stop, not until I meet with the Wood Nymph Witch and got the Magic Pastry of Time. This was way, to bite into this pastry and end all, once and for all. So, I closed my eyes and bit into the flaky crust.

The mage entered, his figure stately, and he gave me a slow clap. “Clever,” he remarked. “Brimstone in the batter, hmm?” I nodded. “You have quite a gift,” he said. “I may have a job for you.” I crawled out from under the table. “I don’t come cheap,” I said. The mage beckoned.

Nobody Told Me: "Donut Hunt Monsters"

Donut Hunt Monsters: Part II

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John Rodgers

Charlie walked the length of the east wing of the family motel, stopping to straighten any tilted picture frames, replace any dead lightbulbs. The appraiser would be by that afternoon and he couldn’t leave anything to chance. His sister would have his head.

This was his last chance to get enough money to escape his beheading by finding a masterpiece among his collection that he could sell. He barely managed to get away from her last time. With nervous pacing, he wore his already decrepit shoes until the appraiser finally came.

The appraiser studied the family motel from office to storage, and spent long, agonizing minutes with a clipboard inside each of the building’s 12 small rooms. When at last she returned to him with her findings, his palms were sweating. He’d have his head cut off if he couldn’t

meet a simple goal: make this 70+ year old motel turn a profit this year. It was miles from the highway in a town with only one attraction. The largest alligator ranch outside of Florida didn’t bring many overnight visitors.

Not had it ever really, but Floridians are like mosquitos in the marsh - they don’t give up.

They’re very insistent and could even talk you into as much as buying a bucket of air with a hole in the bottom of it.

Mosquito Manor

Robin Devereaux

Ben Syverson

Listen, kid. The world isn't what it seems to be. Never was. Not until those blasted plants started strangling people and taking over the world. How they got so strong, why they're doing this now isn't clear. But one thing's for sure. We became their slaves, hoping that

we’ll keep creating fertilizer for them. They can use their leaves and vines like arms and threaten to choke us, but those damn plants don’t have the manual dexterity or the brainpower for chemistry. That’s their weakness.

Thus began the great plant-human war. Across the country houseplants were taken outside and left in the yard. Botanical gardens in every major city shutdown overnight. Without trust, coexistence became impossible. The first battle of significance occurred at Sugar Lake.

Rampant reeds and cattails stretched across the land choking off food crops. The humans looted storefronts, hoarding canned goods as they faced impending starvation. But, at the edge of town, deep in the forest, there lived an old hedgewitch, ostracized from townsfolk. Her plants

were verdant and fruitful. It would be easy to miss her home, as it was more grown than built; layers of squash and tomato plants completely obscured whatever trellised structure they must be growing upon. The hedgewitch emerged, tipping her hat to acknowledge her visitors.

She approached her visitors slowly, a limp in her step. “Would you like a closer look?” She whispered “I just baked a fresh apple pie, and have no one to share it with”. The visitors paused, but the wonderful smell intrigued them. Their stomachs grumbled.

Yeah! Why not? They thought..then they sat down at the old lady’s table and ate the pie. After a while they felt sleepy so the old lady offer them to stay at her house in a big comfy bed. What they didn’t know was that she was preparing a large pot with hot sauce and veggies

The old lady struggled to lift them from the bed. "These fatties weigh a ton," she muttered. They were so heavy, the lady lay down on the floor and fell asleep. The others woke up, wondered why they weren't in the comfy bed, and saw the lady sleeping and the spicy, boiling soup.

One cat nudged another. “I think she called us fat,” he whispered. “We are fat,” another piped up, “but she needn’t be so rude about it.” He was a round orange tabby with long, fluffy fur, and he stretched languidly before sauntering over to the bubbling soup. “If we’re quick,

'… we might be able to finish this before she gets back.' 'Have you ever been quick in your life, Mortimer?' 'Not that I can recall Silas; but one should not be defeatist; it's against our nature as felines.'

Zach Bruno
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