Short fiction recs! December 2024--January 2025.
This
cold February I offer you a mix of stories from the old year and the new. Some
are dark; some speak of loss and disaster and warn of terrible futures. But there are also stories that speak of warmth and comfort,
coziness and love. And there are stories that mix dark and light in various
ways, finding hope and beauty among loss.
Published in 2024
“Stranger Seas Than These” by L. Chan in Clarkesworld
It is two days since our original projected mission end date. We are running out of oxygen and we are trapped in the throat of a god. Technology and a prudent safety review panel have kept casualties on deep dives low, but abyssal layer dives have always been risky. Still, there hasn’t been a fatality in years and none, to the best of my knowledge, within the trachea of one of Pelagia’s Godwhales. Perhaps they will name a safety rule after us.
A
submersible crew trapped in the body of a giant, dying tentacled “Godwhale.” A
scientist who seeks to understand these mysterious creatures. A nun from a Church
which worships their song. And the submersible captain who is also a daughter
still mourning the loss of her father at sea, years ago. L. Chan is known for his
horror stories, but he also writes wonderfully creative hard science-fiction
stories that play with wild, innovative ideas. “Stranger Seas Than These” is
among the best of these. And really, who can resist a story about god-like extraterrestrial
whales?
Move, little one. We jostle against one another, flash with anxiety.
Some
of the more heedless among us separate from our luminous cluster and sink down
through the air to hover closer to you, small bodies of light which pulse with
distress.
And
finally, you move. A small twitch, a tremor at the base of your tail.
Life
kicks across your spine, and an electric relief washes through us. It ripples
through the synched network of our bodies, a burst of ultraviolet light.
We
name you 6, and you are the most beautiful creature we have ever seen.
On
a dying Earth, a swarm of alien researchers race to document the migratory
patterns of birds, the flashing displays of fireflies, the spawning behavior of
catfish and the chemical messages of trees. But among their many subjects of
study, one stands out: a puppy dog named “6.” What follows is a gorgeous,
aching story that’s about a very good dog, as well as an ode to the natural
(and vanishing) beauty of Earth. I’m not even a dog person, really, and yet
this story still brought me to tears.
“To Drive the Cold Winter Away” by E. Catherine Tobler in Strange Horizons
That was when she saw the two figures, walking hand in hand. By their height they were men, but their shoulders were too broad, and their heads too furred, antlers spreading crown-like from the top of each head.
Another
story that addresses ecological devastation and loss, but in a much different
vein. After her mother’s death, a woman returns to the island where she grew
up, determined to restore the native woods and ecology. And as she walks through
the woods, she glimpses the presence of something ancient and strange,
something that’s survived the ravages of colonialism and agriculture. Something
embedded deep in the landscape. Something primal, that might briefly invite her
in. . . A hypnotically lovely tale, mythic and strange. A wintry forest tale
that interweaves our present world with a sense of deep folklore and power.
“On the Water Its Crystal Teeth” by Marissa Lingen in Uncanny
I first found the boy down by the lake one autumn just as it was starting to turn cold. There were still a few leaves on the trees, but he looked up at me to show me a particularly brilliant scarlet one he’d found. His eyes were the deepest brown of the waters. His back was a small, firm turtle shell, and I knew he’d have a snapping bite, but not at me.
In
the wake of a magical apocalypse where people and animals are no longer so
separate, a woman living alone makes a surprising discovery. This is a
wonderful little tale of unexpected blessings. It’s a story about love and parenthood
and magical children, and also of letting go. Rich with nature and atmosphere, it’s
a quiet story that (like the narrator’s cozy meals) will warm you right through.
“The Stolen Sabbath” by Jennifer Hudak in The Cosmic Background
Each Friday my mother unfolded the sabbath from where it had been hiding all week, snapped it out like a fresh sheet, and draped it over the weekend. I could never quite catch her doing it; one moment, the kitchen was just the kitchen, and the next, it was sacred. She told me not to think about it too much. She told me just to let it happen. She said that one day it would be my turn, and she’d teach me where the sabbath came from, how to unfurl it and smooth it out, and then how to fold it back up again and tuck it back in its place. But I was not a patient child:
My
mother told me this, too.
Another
story about family, about a mother and daughter and a sacred tradition. A beautiful
little flash piece—wistful and tender and sad, yet also somehow comforting as
beloved rituals are.
“We Undark Night With Our Tongues” by Claudia Monpere in Uncharted Magazine (winner
of the magazine’s Genre Flash Fiction Prize for 2024)
Edna refuses to stop shimmering. Katherine’s bones multiply like aphids, filling every girl’s hope chest. Hazel crumbles, but her jawbone reconstructs. Osteocytes turbo signaling, collagen armies. Jaw as war club–– hanging bells, mink fur, feathers
A
brilliant take on the infamous “radium girls” scandal that occurred in the
early 1900s, when a number of women working in factories contracted radiation
poisoning from painting watch dials with radium paint (They were even
instructed to lick their toxic paintbrushes, so as to the bring the brushes to
a fine tip). Monpere’s story is a furious, aching, singing tribute to the women
who died and their fight against the United States Radium Corporation that
killed them.
Published
in 2025
“The Diamond Mountain” by Helen de Cruz in Kaleidotrope
At first, I felt disoriented. How could I live in this unlivable place? The sky is a starless void, the lighthouse casts its beam into the sea as the steady stream of ships with new inhabitants arrive. There is no way to mark the time in Bardo: no years, no seasons, no nights and days. Nothing, except for a fish and vegetable market that is held regularly.
Is
“Hell” just another word for “eternity?” A man stuck in a seemingly unchanging
coastal town ponders this question--and more besides--as he slowly discovers
how much his mind can and can’t shape his surroundings. A strange, mysterious
little flash piece that’s also charming and a little sweet—an evocation of
eternity.
“My Pretties” by K.C. Mead-Brewer in Barrelhouse
Deirdre has no idea how to stop this. Could just say ‘stop’, she reminds herself, but no, look: Lisa’s already dimming the lights and everyone’s already setting aside their yellow squares of cake, preparing to summon the dead. The group of five women gather about Heather’s round, glass-top table, clearing it of balled wrapping paper and plastic champagne coups, bedazzled dick-shaped water guns and stray giftbags.
Deirdre
is expecting a baby. Her mother passed away just three months ago. And now, at
her baby shower, her friends have decided to hold a séance to talk to the dead.
From this strange opening, Mead-Brewer spins a strange tale of grief and horror
that’s by turns comic and shocking, involving Judy Garland, cake, a tornado
warning, friends, and all the desperation and fear and longing of impending
motherhood. Mead-Brewer has a gift for finding emotional truths within strange
and outlandish scenarios, and she does it again here, blending horror, comedy,
shock, and grief in a tale that captures all the desperation, fear, and longing
of impending motherhood.
Keith turned back around, took the glass carafe out of thedarkmagazine.com/lost-you-again/e coffeemaker, and filled it with water from the sink. As he was pouring the water into the coffeemaker’s reservoir, he glanced up at the kitchen window.
A
face was looking back at him from the other side.
Something
was wrong with it.
It
was melting.
A
story that steadily builds in dread and horror, circling back again and again to
a single disorienting moment. A man wakes in his house. Sometimes the house is
empty. Sometimes it’s full. The kitchen makes strange noises. He searches for
his wife and children. Or are they searching for him? What’s happening? What is
the face at the window? I don’t want to give too much away for this one, but I
will say that this is a totally unnerving read, dark and chilling and—yes—haunting.
“Tell Them a Story to Teach Them Kindness” by B. Pladek in Lightspeed
USER: this is a message for Milwaukee Elementary’s curator Jude Towers, I hope this is the right address. anyway thanks for the story you had RIGHTR generate for my 10th graders’ Empathy Week. it was really great! can you tell me more about it?
CURATOR:
I am happy to have fulfilled the assignment.
USER:
this isn’t a trap, I promise! you curators are so scared of getting sued for
using real writers. I KNOW you’d never do that. but I’ve liked all the stuff
you’ve curated so far. my kids loved “the ones who don’t stay.” I loved it too.
what a concept, the perfect city upheld by a single child’s misery! we had a
better discussion about it than anything we’ve read so far. how’d you get
RIGHTR to do that?
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