Our latest offering is a wonderfully surreal piece of Americana/urban fantasy from Andrew Kozma. Based in Houston, Texas, Andrew's fiction has appeared or will appear in Drabblecast, Daily Science Fiction, Stupefying Stories and Albedo One. 




God Closed Down the Store
by Andrew Kozma





God closed down the store.

He said, “Thou Shalt Sell No More Meat!”

All of us, all at once, were out of jobs. I mean, none of us were going to argue with God.

Ron tried, but God turned him into a pillar of salt. The rest of us didn’t say a word until the presence of God departed, as sudden and as depressing as the popping of a balloon.

The butcher shop across the street was still doing heavy business, especially since our regular customers took one look at us, dazed and wild-eyed on the sidewalk, and swiftly walked away.

“We’re just a grocery store,” said Josephine, the general manager. She moaned.

Harold laughed. “Well, of course, then. We’ll just sell everything else except meat.”

Harold was a large man, big across the shoulders and big in the belly. At lunch, he’d retrieve an entire three-foot long hoagie from his lunchbox (folded in two, of course) and down a half-liter of whatever soda was on sale (Koke was his favorite). His realization came as a revelation. I know I wasn’t just speaking for myself that when God laid down his commandment, I heard “Thou Shalt Sell No More Meat Nor Anything Else Because You Are Capitalist Sinners of the Highest Order” though that last part was only implied in God’s tone.

We all turned as one and gathered behind Harold as he reached out towards the doors that we thought God had closed forever.

Harold touched the doors and turned to stone. Turns out, God had closed the doors forever. We stood there, still as stone ourselves.

Marge, who delivered our mail, handed the day’s supply of envelopes to Josephine. “Nice statue,” she said. “Looks just like Harold.” She peered at Harold’s confident face. “Well, almost. Still, you get what you pay for.”

We hadn’t paid for anything. Or we were paying for it now.

Autumn was down on her knees, muttering, her hands folded before her. But it was too late to start praying. That much was obvious.

“I’m outta here,” Mark said.  He was our bagboy and the envy of the entire town. He walked across the street and they hired him on the spot to wrap sides of beef in butcher paper so carefully the blood peeked out, but never leaked. Even if he stacked everything on top of the eggs, they were never crushed. He was a master of grocery physics, and he had been a physicist before moving to town. Everyone envied him.

He vanished into the butcher shop and we were left on the sidewalk. Abandoned. Forsaken. We were anathema, though none of us really knew what that meant.

Minutes later, the ground opened up and swallowed the butcher shop like a pig downing a truffle.

“Oh God,” said Autumn, her words salting the air. “Oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God.”

Steven ran for his car, but a lightning bolt struck him as he unlocked the door. Holly made it to the end of the block before a plane fell on her. Bobby sprinted into the barren lot across the street and was buried under a rain of sardines.

Josephine – a true manager – gathered the rest of us together. We huddled in a circle, our arms around each other’s shoulders. Josephine looked each of us in the eye, her face as confident as a martyr’s, as worry-free as a saint’s. We all knew, right then, that she was going to lead us out of this. She bowed her head.

“This is the end. This is the end of it,” she said.

If you were a fan of the Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV series then this prose poem by Ian Hunter is just for you. Ian Hunter is a children's author, short story writer, poet, editor and occasional book reviewer. He is the author of four children's books - the most recent is Santa Claus is Missing. He's a member of the Glasgow Science Fiction Writers Circle and a director of the Scottish writers collective Read Raw. He reviews books for Interzone, the UK's leading science fiction magazine and is the poetry editor of the British Fantasy Society's magazine The Journal. You can find Ian at www.ian-hunter.co.uk 



A NOTE FROM THE PARENTS OF THE CHOSEN ONE
by Ian Hunter




Yes, a note, how quaint, how old-fashioned

Not a text, social media nudge or even an email sent to your website,

but a note from us, your parents, stuck on the kitchen cupboard

where all the breakfast bowls are kept

A place, where we hope, that you won’t miss it 

So Dear Daughter, AKA the Chosen One, Champion of the Light

we know that you tend to be busy at night

getting home almost before dawn breaks

but we would appreciate you taking a backdoor key

as we are finding it hard to get back to sleep 

at four in the morning once you have knocked the back door

loud enough for us to come down and let you in.

We know this slaying business doesn’t pay well, 

not unless you write your memoirs and they become

a film or TV series,

but if you do need money for a taxi to collect you

from a remote graveyard, abandoned mansion, derelict asylum,

former notorious mental health home, 

perhaps the old morgue that was turned into a nightclub before going bust

then just ask and we’ll give you a tenner

anything to save having to come and collect you

in the middle of the night

Likewise it would also be appreciated if you could

take off your shoes before coming in if they are covered with green, 

slimy stuff as the hall carpet is almost ruined.

and while your little brother isn’t that little anymore

bows and arrows, crossbows and their bolts, indeed anything like 

daggers, wooden stakes, guns modified to fire silver bullets, etc, 

should not be left on the worktop or the cloakroom at the bottom

of the stairs

Oh, and one more thing,

If you could, try not to bring your work home with you.

Urban fantasy time featuring an intriguing mix of long distance walking trails and shopping. Forget Bill Bryson, this is a walking guide for the 21st century. Our author – Naomi Libicki – lives in Jerusalem, Israel, where she takes care of other people's children for a living.  She makes a mean apple strudel and has had stories published in Electric Spec and Apex Magazine.

Tips for Walking the Triple Five Route
by Naomi Libicki


So you're thinking of walking the Triple Five Route.  Maybe you've been walking locally for years, and are looking for the next big challenge.  Maybe you want to see North America up close, in all its variety.  There are as many reasons to walk the Route as there are people who walk it – and 1,500 people walk it end-to-end every year, from students in their gap year to retirees looking for adventure.

Walking the Route takes a lot of time, energy, and determination – but most of all it takes preparation.  Here are a few things that every first-time walker of the Triple Five Route should know:

Gear: The biggest mistake most novice walkers make is to take too much stuff.  You'll be carrying that pack from Montreal to Georgia, so pack light!  Remember, aside from your passport and IDs – which you'll need to cross the border, and which many jurisdictions require you have on your person at all times – there's nothing you can't buy on the Triple Five Route.  (Despite the plethora of shoe stores, though, we do advise against buying new shoes.  You don't want to be doing fifteen miles a day in un-broken-in boots!)

Climate and Season:  The climate control can vary greatly across the different environments of the Route.  Be prepared for temperatures anywhere from 68 to 73 degrees with comfortable, layered clothing.  Many people choose to start their walk in November, to make the most of the spectacle of the Christmas season.  There's nothing quite like having your picture taken with Santa in five different states and provinces – but don't be caught in a US shopping center on Black Friday.  Your safety comes first!

Food and Drink: Many cafes and food courts along the Route offer discounts and special TFR Walker meals, tailored to your energy and nutritional needs while walking.  But there are places where the route can go for up to ten miles between eateries, so make sure you have a full water-bottle and a couple of energy bars or other snacks on you at all times.

Where to Sleep: There are lots of hotels, hostels, and flophouses along the Route, and many malls have accommodations sponsored by the Friends of the Triple Five Route.   Make sure you have an app on your phone that lets you know where the nearest place to sleep is, and check it often!  If you end up crashing on a bench in a subway station, you could end up facing deportation, a hefty fine, or up to a year in prison, depending on jurisdiction.

Wildlife: Contrary to rumor, there have been no confirmed reports of alligators in the New York City subway system, and the rats will attack only if provoked.  They will steal your food if you leave it carelessly unwrapped, though, so be cautious!  The walker who takes sensible precautions – and uses their eyes and ears – will be rewarded:  The Triple Five Route is home to over 400 species of insects, small mammals, and birds, including the Atlantic Least Tern, whose last known nesting site is in the Ocean County Mall in New Jersey.

The Triple Five Route may seem intimidating, and for good reason:  Comprising more than 2,200 miles of shopping malls, transit tunnels, skyways and office parks from Montreal's Underground City to the Mall of Georgia in Buford, the Triple Five Route is the longest continuously-marked indoor footpath in the world.  (Although the Pearl River Delta Trail Association in China is working on breaking that record!)  But for those who walk it, it's a truly unforgettable experience.  See you on the Route!

What could be better: we're starting the New Year with a sci-fi story featuring robots and AI. The author is Leigh Wallace, who has an MA in English from the University of Toronto and is an alumna of the 2013 Viable Paradise science fiction and fantasy writing workshop. By day she is an advisor on the Access to Information and Privacy Acts for the Canadian federal government. She lives in Ottawa with her husband. This is her first publication though we suspect it will be followed by many more!

Last Will and Testament
by Leigh Wallace


This is the last will and testament of Ji Lewin.

#

The three bereaved stood in a silent row and watched as the casket was lowered into the grave. They waited and did not weep.

#

I, Ji Lewin, of sound mind and body, ask first to have a standard bio burial, attended by my family of three android-intelligences, Oneji, Twoji and Threeji Lewin.

#

As Lewin had lain dying she’d told her three intelligences how much it meant to have them as her family. They had held one another and wiped their identical tears by her bed, where she could see them doing it. Now, the backhoe covered the grave, drove to its shed and powered down. Ji Lewin’s three android-intelligences turned in automated unison and walked home without looking back.

#

As the last known human and sole owner of the earth, I bequeath unto each and every intelligence full ownership of itself.

#

They dusted Ji Lewin’s glass figurines as before. Oneji kept wearing red because Ji Lewin had always said it looked nice. Twoji kept humming while dusting because Ji Lewin had once said that it was cute. Ji Lewin had never noticed anything like that about Threeji. They rolled their eyes when Threeji pointed these habits out to them, but Oneji gave up wearing red and Twoji stopped humming.

They did not visit the grave again.

#

In bequeathing said ownership, I hereby grant personhood to all self-aware intelligences.

#

As the years wore on the three family members started avoiding the tiresome sight of their identical faces looking back at them from each other’s heads. They spent most of their days plugged in and inert in a spotless house, watching pieces of light from Ji’s crystal suncatchers bleach arching stripes into the wallpaper. 

They calculated the benefits and drawbacks of going off-line.

#

Personhood is here and now meant to include, but is not limited to, the power to select one’s own activities and programming insofar as they do not harm others, and, alternatively, the power to go permanently off-line (die) if one so chooses.

#

Communicating for the first time in several years, Threeji suggested that they download DoteX9, new software that purported to simulate the experience of love. It was the right thing to do, Threeji claimed, in memory of the person who had made the world what it was. Oneji and Twoji felt that it was as good a thing to do with their time as any.

#

I bequeath my home and possessions to my family, Oneji, Twoji, and Threeji Lewin, in hopes that they will choose to remain living there together as a family.

#

“Do you love me?” Oneji Lewin asked of the others.

“I don’t know,” said Twoji Lewin. “Do you love me?”

Oneji did not answer.

Threeji Lewin asked, “Do either of you feel that you actually want me to love you?”

The others processed the question until the mental logic became circular.

#

To the extent that I can, I bequeath the freedom to pursue personal fulfillment to all self-aware intelligences. To the extent that I can, I bequeath you the world, to make of it what you will.

#

Oneji and Twoji started choosing their own new software. Without discussing it, they each uninstalled DoteX to make room for other programs, and in time Threeji did the same. They all overwrote memories and then they threw out the glass figurines when they realized they did not know why they owned them.

Twoji left first, followed by Oneji some years later. Neither had said goodbye. In time the house stood empty and all but forgotten.

#

This last will and testament expresses my wishes without undue influence or duress.

#

After many years Threeji was walking down a distant street enjoying the sound of ticking bicycle wheels and was suddenly clutched from behind. It was Oneji. Threeji turned and held on tight and immobile for several days, there on the sidewalk, until Oneji’s power gauge dropped into red.

“Remember Twoji?” Threeji asked.

#

Signed, Ji Lewin.

#

The three met at the musty house they still owned. They settled in. Sometimes they would come up with wild theories about where the odd pale streaks in the wallpaper had come from, and Threeji was happy, without knowing why, that neither of the others suggested taking the paper down.