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A Blender, A Neurotoxin

The blender had been a Christmas gift from Pete's mother. It was July before he got around to it.

The flashy packaging presented the blender in a proud light, and advertised its superiority. Bar graphs demonstrated its power, and pictures of smiling people brooked no argument. FEED ME ANYTHING! the blender was saying, in a speech bubble.

"Okay," Pete said in answer.

He set out the mighty blender, then consulted the leftovers drawer in his refrigerator. Yams, hardened to stone. A steak with the bone in it. Peas aged into little green BB's. These filled the blender's spacious chamber.

Pete pushed the button, and the motor revved -- zeeeeYEAAAAAAH!

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Art and Science

funny scifi

Maggie became a terrorist in the fifth grade. That was the year she read the Manifesto. When she was supposed to be doing her homework, when she was supposed to be drawing hearts around the name of her crush (Mr. Kool, the math teacher), she was instead reading the Manifesto.

Mrs. Winston (social studies) said, “Maggie, come to the front of the class and do something smart.”

“I’m reading the Manifesto, you fascist!”

Mrs. Winston hit Maggie with a nightstick, knocking out most of her hundreds of teeth. Maggie swallowed the teeth before anyone could claim them. She didn’t want her teeth used for science (Mr. Salem) or art (Mrs. Marlboro).

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The Tribe

by Daniel Vlasaty

The grass is cool against my skin. A nice contrast from the burning hot sun hanging in a sky the color of pale skin, sickly and suffocating. I’m naked, but I think I've always been this way. There’s a moment of comfort, like everything is going to be OK, before I remember that nothing is going to be OK, and everything is fucked.

Today is the day I'm to become a member of the Tribe. Today is the day I have to eat my own legs, so the new me can grow out of the old me.

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Doula Doula Don’t

She turns down the volume on the television and sets the pint of pistachio ice cream on the table, spears the spoon into the top, and answers the phone.

“Hello? This is she. How far apart are they? Ok, head on over to the hospital. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

She slips her feet into sensible athletic shoes and pulls on her hooded sweatshirt, then exits her apartment and locks the door behind her. She lifts off into the sky, sparks raining onto the unswept sidewalk.

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by Regan W. H. Macaulay

The woman pauses and heaves a sigh. She clutches a live cricket with her index finger and her thumb. It wriggles for its life, which will end shortly. Not like her life. Not like theirs.

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