Dear readers, supporters, and members of the Plott Hound pack, As some of you may know, in fall 2025 we had published a story by Bella Chacha (“The Python of Idemili”). Two Sundays ago, thanks to word and record of a paper trail from staff at other SFF magazines, we…
“Some Remarks on the Reproductive Strategy of the Common Octopus” by Bogi Takács
So let’s do it this way. I’ll show you whatever I want and you’ll believe me, because I’m an octopus. I might as well get some benefit out of it, not that we ever had much—especially not since you left. Humans, huh?
Humans.
“Mangy White Dog” by Y.M. Pang
The mangy white dog wandered through the intersection of Sanming and Tinglu. I saw him three times a week: on First Day, Third Day, and Sun Day, the days when Taihe and I performed there.
Taihe laid down the mat. I’d hop off his shoulders and do a few leaps as warm-ups. When he threw me the embroidered ball, I’d flick it with my tail, then balance it on my head. Sometimes Taihe held hoops for me to jump through or threw rings for me to catch. Those who frequented the intersection knew me and called me Magic Cat.
“The Weaver of Uswalpur” by Abhijeet Sathe
Grandma warned Jambu about Tavila’s thieves and cutpurses, but didn’t mention its bazaars. By the strange alchemy of roads that all markets wield as weapon, the bazaar had dragged him right to where his heart would beat the fastest. Everywhere he looked, the stalls were loaded with mountains upon mountains of yarn.
“Khepri’s Daily Flight: The Cosmic Journey of the Dung Beetle in Ancient Egypt” by Ahmadu Abubakar
In the sandy expanses of northern Africa, a tiny black insect is engaged in something that appears completely routine: rolling a ball of dung along the ground. But to the early Egyptians it was much more than that. They thought that when they saw a dung beetle (Scarabaeus sacer) move his dung ball from place to place, it was actually acting as their great god Khepri. Every morning before sunrise, it would push the sun back up toward the sky, where it could bring light and life to all of Egypt.
“SUR/REAL” by Yuliia Vereta
Chrysalis is trying to protect
the way a wing might fold before
it knows it’s a wing.
It studies wind in locked rooms.
Dreams of color before the light.
“Clementine grows into a tree” by Celia Winter
You were made to be eaten, my love. Eaten and digested, or else you will not live, survive, endure, eternal.
Do not be afraid. I was eaten too.
“Stellar Waves” by Roscoe G. Beetle
We stretch, first one quadrant of us, and then another, and another, and another, all working together to move towards the light and heat. Close but not too close. Impressions come through us in a wave, moving across us with a faint flash—bright enough to speak, but dim to those outside—of the heat moving. The heat should not move. Curious, we begin to stretch, changing direction, and quadrant by quadrant we move away from the star-shine we chase—close but not too close—and towards the odd, foreign Thing we sense.
“One of the Scurry” by Devan Barlow
I am one of the scurry who raced
from the trees of Avalon across
a brief-lived bridge of kelps and cockleshells
the last time that roaming isle’s shore
neared a less changeable coast
“Where Does the Opossum Go When He Dies?” by Stefan Alcalá Slater
There had been no shame, no urge to hiss at his own reflection in puddles, until Opossum briefly became a dog.
The barking brought the involuntary frigid fear of the End, and Opossum had curled up before the dog attacked, foul stench leaking, heart slowing to the tiniest of tap-tap-taps.