Today we have three new pieces of microfiction, starting with Frida's Bomb by Marge Simon, which takes a surreal look at an alternative history involving the surrealist Frida Kahlo. Then it's over H.L Fullerton with a tale of dragons before we round off proceedings with Dale Carothers and a cautionary story for children (and adults) about wolves in forests and the need to protect your little piggies.

We've already published some of Marge Simon's poetry on Grievous Angel and her work has appeared in venues such as Strange Horizons,Dreams & Nightmares. She has also won several Stokers for poetry collections. H.L. Fullerton writes fiction - mostly speculative, occasionally about monsters - which is sometimes published in places like Buzzy, Penumbra, and Flash Fiction Online. Dale Carothers lives in Minnesota with his wife, Sara, and an emotionally demanding beagle. He writes graphic novel reviews under the name Global Ghoul for Innsmouth Free Press and has spent most of his professional life helping people with disabilities expand their experience. His stories have appeared in Ruined Cities, The Death God's Chosen, Neo-opsis, Kaleidotrope and various other publications. Find him at dalecarothers.wordpress.com

Frida's Bomb
by Marge Simon

We toured California when we married. That was before the Great Quake, before the bomb that caused it. The bomb that your father insisted came from South America, and you'd agreed with him. He said it was that "pinko feminist radical" Frida Kahlo's doing. He'd read something about her in a magazine years ago. Didn't even know who the woman really was or when she lived. But neither did you, my bride. Anyway, whether bomb or quake, California is an island to itself now, and we can't go there for our anniversary. If that ever gets here. In fact, don't plan on it. I am tired of arguing about what really happened. Tired of you, tired of being always hungry and thirsty, tired of breathing ash filled air, walking along the Nevada coast for days without a bath. If we keep walking, maybe we'll reach South America and find sanctuary. But who are we kidding? Maybe it is all Frida Kahlo's fault. She with her exotic birds, her strange flowers. Those accusing eyes. Those darkly burning eyes.
 
Some Monsters Swim
by H.L. Fullerton

A dragon don't have wings but fins her brother says and Midge believes him. Dad's taken him sailing and Eddie's seen things. Josh says Eddie's a liar, maybe he saw a shark or a ray, but dragons don't swim, everyone knows that.  Still Eddie insists and when Midge asks Dad, he just smiles and says, "Sometimes fish stories ain't about fish." Midge would like to see for herself, but Dad says little girls and boats don't mix none.  

So Midge borrows the boat - steals it, just a little - and rows to where the sea's deep enough for dragons. She casts Dad's nets wide as she can fling 'em, but catches nothing but dinner.  

A pod of dolphins squeak at her, nudge her craft with bottle noses. "I'm waiting on a dragon," she says, waving them away. They glide off, throwing her worried looks. She stares at the water as it turns choppy. Small waves crest the lip of her boat; the water colors like bruised flesh. A squall's about to hit, but she hasn't yet spotted Eddie's creature.  

She meets a turtle, a grouper she coaxes into the boat, a lost jellyfish - all warn of impending doom. Midge stays her course.  

The boat lurches, lifts, the sea beneath it falling away like rain. Midge flies - no, swims through the air, laughing.  From starboard side comes the glint of shimmery scales. Ever the fisherman's daughter, Midge unfurls her net, lets the wind toss it for her - and traps a blue-finned dragon.  

A Loss. A Loss. A Life.
by Dale Carothers

When Vallen was eleven a shewolf stole her toe.

The shewolf didn’t tear it from Vallen’s foot with its vicious gleaming canines, leaving only a bloody stump and Vallen unable to wear her rose petal slippers again. Instead the shewolf ate it after it had fallen to the ground. White and bloodless. Like a dead worm in the crackling leaves.

The shewolf was starving. Its ribcage showed through its matted pelt. 

Foul as it was, the toe proved too tempting. It calmed the shewolf’s hunger for a moment.

“No,” cried Vallen. “You’ll get sick.” She limped after the shewolf. “Spit it out. Spit it out.”

The shewolf stumbled away, in too much pain to run. Its guts already twisting, it twirled about three times and fell into the leaves.

Vallen lamented the loss of her last toe. Not because she’d miss it. She’d grown used to her own diminishment. But for what it would steal from the shewolf. Its beauty and vigor lost. Curling gray fur and shaking legs and desperate eyes. Its once dangerous grace, already in decline.

Vallen stumbled to the shewolf and lay across its ribcage. She rose, she fell, with each  ebbing breath.

“I’m sorry,” Vallen said, her tears wetting the shewolf’s hide.

Sorry for her wasting sickness. Sorry for her faerie blood. So potent. So tainted. Formerly regal, now in exile.

They found their deaths together on the forest floor. Flesh fading to reveal bone. And a wolfgirl in an ivory cage.

The wolfgirl woke in the light of the new moon. Hungry for milk-white toes.

Beware pale children. 

Guard well your little piggies.

In our latest story, DeAnna Knippling takes us on an urban fantasy trip to see what happens in a cafe when the doors are finally closed and the diners have all gone home. DeAnna is a freelance writer and editor in Colorado Springs, Colorado. 

You can also find her at wonderlandpress.com and on Twitter at @dknippling


Midnight at the Sushi Pig Cafe
by DeAnna Knippling

Outside the plate-glass window, the streetlights have come on, throwing the shadow of a dancing pig across the small, black lacquered tables and upended, mismatched wood chairs. Headlights flash as cars pull out of their parking spaces. The sound of drunks echoes down the street. Drunks and loud, American-style country music. 

Inside, Mr. Tong bumps and grinds to the stereo, playing Elvis and Stevie Ray Vaughan. He slides trays of translucent fish out of the refrigerator case. Today's tuna will be tomorrow's spicy tuna filling for the Olé rolls.  Although I suspect his takes some of it home... to his cats. 

I watch the shelves on the other side of the restaurant, where some pigs have been moved to fill in the holes where the lucky china cats used to be. Across the room, Bumblepig is crying. He's next to a yellow neko that turns into a teacup when you turn her upside down. He sniffs loudly and Mr. Tong's dance steps hitch for a moment. 

A glass bottle shatters in the street. Three drunks stop at the window. The female straightens her short, floucy skirt, rolls her lips together to smooth out her lipstick. The two males argue. The larger one wins, the smaller one leaves leaves alone.

Tonight's the night. The yellow teacup neko's getting pushed off the shelf. Minipig, tiny and brown and ugly and kind of flat in the stomach, says so. Superpig agrees. They both say that until the cats are replaced with pigs, there will be no peace. Superpig cares about law and order. Minipig cares about the loyalty of the new pigs that have a home because some cat took a dive. I say Minipig needs to stay off Ebay for awhile. Minipig says we need reinforcements and accuses me of wanting to get rid of the two newest pigs, Rubberduckiepig and Farmerporkiepig. He’s sitting next to me, the runt of the litter, to make sure I don’t interfere.

He hints that I, too, can be pushed.

Mr. Tong sings into his broom, jumping in his socks on the clean kitchen floor, then rushes out to flip a chair off a table and back onto the floor. He leans the chair back and forth, tapping the wooden legs in time with the music, then gives it a whirl with one palm braced against the round cane top. When the song is finished, he'll turn out the lights.

The yellow teacup neko smiles at Bumblepig. I see her curling lips whisper don't cry, baby. They had some good times. That's all anybody ever gets.

I've known Bumblepig since the opening. Back then it was good times, cats and pigs dancing in the kitchen, drowning our sorrows in endless cups of sake, eating roach tempura and mouse sashimi elbow to elbow at the sushi bar. 

That all ended with the arrival of Minipig. Although none of us knew that then.

Mr. Tong whistles as he checks the latch of the walk-in cooler one last time, then turns out the lights four by four with the side of his hand.

There's a crash even before he locks the door. The lights flip back on and his footsteps come back through the kitchen, into the dining area.

I’m on the floor, looking upward through my one good eye. I’m all over the place.

Mr. Tong stands over me. "Oh, poor Burglepig," he says. "I have you forever. I take you home, see if Mae can put you back together. Although probably not." He gathers up my pieces gently, ignoring the way the shards dig into his soft flesh. 

I look around desperately, hoping that my sacrifice has done what it needed to. At first I don't see Minipig. As I'm being lifted through the air, though, I spot him under the bar. He's lost an ear and his curly tail but he hasn't shattered. Too small, too sturdy. Although I think he must always have been cracked.

I made my play for your sake, Bumblepig, you and your cute little teacup. But Minipig grunts mockingly under the bar  and I know it was nothing more than a nice gesture. 

Mr. Tong stoops suddenly. He bends forward and Minipig freezes. 

"I need more cats," he says. "When I have more lucky cats, I never have roaches like you."

Crunch.