picker

More from author

urgent biophilia

Poetrywrist-deep in dirt for something less particular satisfaction more tasty than butter lettuce wilting kale curling towards sun cabbage grubs chew chew chewing cabbage butterflies pupating try a decoy moth mobile the...

More from this edition

The Orcanauts

FictionAs admiral, my rank is Navarch. Below me serve three Plotarchs, or strike-team leaders. The rest, including the calves, are rank and file Orcanauts. Thus far, we have operated as a guerrilla force, mounting unexpected assaults on the enemy fleet, causing maximum disruption to their supply channels and leisure activities before fleeing for the safety of deep, open water. It has been a highly effective strategy, but too piecemeal. The drylanders have dispatched scientists to study our behaviour and offer explanations, rather than send divers and submarines to face us in battle. Their media have portrayed me as a rampaging fish, driven mad by some traumatic encounter with one of their boats.

Everything you could possibly imagine

FictionJoseph was one of the only patients I’d truly enjoyed interacting with, which for the weeks since his arrival had helped me cope with the ward’s sense of monotony. His beard was like a cartoon lumberjack’s, descending into a fine point and thick enough to hold objects if they were stuck into it – which, of course, we’d tried. His eyebrows erupted like old-growth forest across his forehead, almost demanding to be touched – which, of course, I hadn’t.

Lincoln Wimbley writes a story at 37,000 feet

FictionThen last week, in that bar. Lincoln never a big bar guy. But Professor Tim suggested, ‘Get out in the world!’ Somewhere all new. So, a bar. The bartender asked, ‘A beer?’ Lincoln hated cans. Hated bottles. Hated beer. But asked for something on draft. On tap. Explained why he was there, a first-timer, hunting for a story. Bartender laughed. Said elsewhere’s probably best. ‘None of the sad sacks here come with a happy ending.’