Merdeux, Jody Giardina
Simon started, leaning over and lifting the edge of the abnormally long cloth to look under the table. Beneath it was a series of straps, stirrups, and handlebars — one directly under each hole. The things looked like upturned gyno exam setups. “Oh, you’re fucking kidding me.”
Two unusual things happened that night at work: Simon met a woman and he killed an alien.
“I think I might be able to help motivate you, at least,” Jo said, her sexy, strange grin creeping across the right half of her face. She undid the first two buttons of her blouse. She picked up one of the tube worms and draped it across the top of her breast, the gravy slowly dripping down her cleavage.
“The aliens that frequent your restaurant aren’t your average shlubs. They’re leaders, high ranking in their society. Real heavy hitters, most nights.” Stache-man reached back into his briefcase and pulled out a small blue container covered in cellophane.
Surface Interval, Nick Kimbro
Seventy percent of the Earth’s surface exists three miles beneath my feet. Scientists can’t imagine what kinds of life might exist in those places, and cannot hope to. Whatever is capable of living at those depths cannot possibly ascend otherwise it would explode. But it’s there. They are there, somewhere beneath our feet.
Several seconds go by, all of our senses tuned to our surroundings, unconsciously trying to perceive whether or not we are sinking. Then it happens again: a dull pounding that sounds like it’s coming from beneath us, something throwing itself against the hull of the boat.