Announcements! (Submission Window, First Reader Applications, Staff Changes)

Submission Window: July 8

We are delighted to announce our next general submission window!

Submissions will be open for two weeks, from July 8 through July 22, via our submission portal. We consider one story per author, with a wordcount of 3,500 words or less; we pay 10c/word; and simultaneous submissions are fine. See our Submission Guidelines for full details and more information!

Call for First Readers (BIPOC now, everyone May 27)

We are now looking for volunteers interested in being First Readers for Diabolical Plots!

First Readers are a crucial part of our submission windows, helping us navigate through the many hundreds of stories we receive every year, and making sure every story gets consideration and the spectrum of opinions and viewpoints we need to make our choices well.

Reading submissions is also a fantastic learning experience for anyone who loves reading, writing, or editing. It’s an opportunity to sample an incredible range of writing, from every style and every level of professional expertise. It’s also a way to get ‘behind the scenes’, see how the magazine is run, and get involved in bringing stories to the world. If you love short stories, we suspect you will have a blast.

At Diabolical Plots, we see First Readers as an opportunity to offer mentorship and new connections! We’ll walk you through everything that First Reading entails; we’re always open for conversations about reading, writing, and publishing; and we’ll hold regular discussions and exercises, specially aimed at new First Readers, highlighting all kinds of different ways stories can work (or not work!) for us, and what goes into submission reading and the magazine process.

Diabolical Plots offers a small honorarium to all First Readers who participate in a submission period. We recognize that it is not commensurate with the tremendous amount of work our amazing First Readers put in, but we feel it’s vital to provide what compensation we can, and it is important to us to show our appreciation.

It’s always important for us to maintain a diverse First Reader team with a wide range of identities and experiences; we are immediately open to applications from people who identify as BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, or people of color).  We will open to First Reader applications (at the same link) from all demographics on May 27.  The applications for all will be open through June 3.

A Farewell and a Welcome

After a fruitful year here at Diabolical Plots, Chelle Parker will be stepping down from the editorial team this summer. A professional freelance editor, and previously copyeditor and then managing editor at Fireside Magazine, as well as a reviewer for Publishers Weekly, Chelle has been wonderful to have as a member of our team. They’ve weighed in on acquisitions, dev edited and copy edited stories, developed our in-house style guide in collaboration with David, advocated for First Readers and fellow editors, assisted with our 2023 Hugo Award Nomination List project, been a veritable fountain of knowledge on language and grammar, and so much more—we’ve gained and grown immeasurably from their time and efforts with us.

As Chelle departs, we are pleased to welcome Amanda Helms, who will be stepping into the vacant editor role! Amanda is a biracial Black/white fantasy, science fiction, and sometimes horror writer whose stories have appeared in or are forthcoming from FIYAH, Uncanny, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and other fine venues. Amanda has been with the Diabolical Plots team since 2021, where she has been among our most prolific First Readers—her many insightful comments and gift for getting to the heart of a story have helped steer acquisitions, and we have tremendous respect for her taste and work ethic. Her background as a former editor in educational publishing is a major asset, and she’s eager to apply those skills in working with Diabolical Plots authors. Two of her stories have previously been published in the magazine: “The Efficacy of Tyromancy over Reflective Scrying Methods in Divining Colleagues’ Coming Misfortunes” is a great example of speculative academic fiction, and has the distinction of being our first unTweetable story title—at the time it was published, Twitter still had the 140-character limit— while “Midwifery of Gods: A Primer for Mortals” is a great example of the kind of ‘format story’ that Diabolical Plots loves to publish. Welcome, Amanda!

DP FICTION #111B: “How to Kill the Giant Living Brain You Found in Your Mother’s Basement After She Died: An Interactive Guide” by Alex Sobel

edited by Ziv Wities

Content note (click for details) Content note: Grief, fraught family relationships, gaslighting.

[user graciegirl2006!? is logged in]

[Guide]
Welcome to this interactive guide! I understand from your About Me profile that you have an issue with a brain that needs killing. I’m here to help!

[graciegirl2006!?]
I can’t believe I found this.

[Guide]
Actually, we are the top search engine result for the keywords in your query!

[graciegirl2006!?]
But this is so specific. It doesn’t make any sense. I don’t even know what I was thinking searching for that; I called the police and then I just…
I didn’t know what else to do.

[Guide]
Well, you did the right thing! Part of our service is to help you with all of your monster/creature/demon-related issues.

[graciegirl2006!?]
Bad enough that my mom just died and now this.

[Guide]
We’re sorry to hear that :(

[graciegirl2006!?]
We had a complicated relationship, you know? I loved her, but she was a tough woman. Cold.

[Guide]
So, while we do have a guide for grief management after losing someone to a monster/creature/demon ($15.99 in our online store!), unfortunately, this guide is more focused on the giant living brain issue you’ve got going on.

[graciegirl2006!?]
Okay, yeah, sure. Sorry. Where do I start?

[Guide]
Let’s begin by establishing a visual baseline. Basically, what does the brain look like? If it’s a yellow, jaundice-like color or a grey like a newspaper (remember those?), then that’s great! Even if it’s got some brain juice pumping through it, that thing is on its way out the door. If this is the case, consider yourself one of the lucky ones! We’ll skip to explaining proper giant living brain disposal. Sorry you paid the full $15.99 for this guide only to find out you didn’t need much help!

[graciegirl2006!?]
It’s pink, I guess. Not jaundice.

[Guide]
Then you’re in the right place! From what you’re saying, I can assume the brain in front of you (I hope it’s in front of you; letting a healthy, sentient brain out of your sight is not advised!) is standard-issue pink. Very brain-like. This means that your mother left you a healthy living brain you have to deal with. Don’t freak out! You’re smart and you’re prepared for this. You bought this guide for a reason, and we’re going to get through this together.

[graciegirl2006!?]
I just don’t understand where this thing came from. Mom never mentioned anything like this, and it wasn’t here last I checked.

[Guide]
How long since you’ve been down in the basement?

[graciegirl2006!?]
I didn’t visit a lot. Years, probably. She was only 65. I thought there was time.

[Guide]
Well, there you go! You can transport and set up a living brain in a weekend.

[graciegirl2006!?]
Could she have done this on purpose? Left me something to have to deal with?

[Guide]
Maybe? Our company has never met your mother and, considering her current state of existence, we never will (unfortunate for us, I’m sure!).  

[graciegirl2006!?]
She always used to do that, leave shit for me to clean up. I remember one time she had me literally call one of her boyfriends to tell him that she wanted to break up. Isn’t that crazy? She said that I was an “intelligent modern woman” and I could handle it. 

[Guide]
Now again, we don’t know your mom, but before we continue, I have to say that it’s best if you put aside any anger you may feel toward your mother for leaving this on your shoulders, whether she did it on purpose or not. Not only is this good for your soul (if you believe in that kind of business), but it can help you survive this ordeal, since it’s a very real possibility that living brains can sense fear and use it against you. You don’t need those kinds of complications!

But also, think of it this way: If nothing else, this is a testament to your poor deceased mother’s dedication and ability to keep a nutritionally complicated and metabolically volatile living brain alive in a basement. That’s kinda cool, huh?

[graciegirl2006!?]
I never said I was mad at my mom.

[Guide]
Sounded like you were!

[graciegirl2006!?]
I’m not, I just said that leaving a mess for me to clean up is very much in character for her.

[Guide]
Seems like you got it all figured out, then!

[graciegirl2006!?]
Shit, it just moved a little, what do I do?

[Guide]
Now’s the time to assess just how dangerous this living brain is. The main thing you’re going to want to look out for is whether or not the brain has long arm-like tendrils. They’ll look like fleshy ropes. If you see these, do not approach the brain! These tendrils may look skinny and weak, but they are capable of crushing a human skull like it’s a peanut shell. I’ve seen it happen!

[graciegirl2006!?]
That sounds horrifying, Jesus.

[Guide]
It’s honestly pretty cool in a National-Geographic-special kind of way, but, it goes without saying, it’s only cool if it’s not your skull being crushed.

Now, if there are no tendrils, then you’re in the clear, unless this particular brain has any external telepathy-like abilities, but we’ll deal with that later. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
What the hell? Like it can read my thoughts? Or control my mind?

[Guide]
No way! More like some… How do I put this? There is a possibility that giant brains have some internal-to-external mind abilities involving people and/or home electronics and appliances. It’s all very patchy, though, so no need to worry your little head about it. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
I’m very worried. 

[Guide]
No need! This is less about “control,” more “bursts of influence” that we’re talking here, if that puts your mind at ease. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
It doesn’t. Can it control my phone? My microwave? 

[Guide]
I think we’re jumping the gun a little! Don’t concern yourself with that yet, we’ll cover all of this later. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
Sounds like something we need to address now. 

[Guide]
Remember, you’re using this guide for a reason. We’ve dealt with this many times. I promise I’ll get to it later, okay? Now, what’s the tendril situation looking like?

[graciegirl2006!?]
I can’t tell if there are arm-things or not. Maybe? I don’t want to get close. Sorry, I’m still struggling with why mom has a giant brain down here. Makes no sense.

[Guide]
Alright, I see we’re stuck on this. The emotional stuff is, I’m going to be honest, not my thing, but for the sake of moving on to the meat and potatoes of killing this living brain that may or may not have skull-crushing tendrils, let’s get this out of the way.

So, from my experience, there are two main possibilities as to why your mom was keeping a brain in her basement and didn’t find it necessary to tell you.

The first possibility is that your mother (have we mentioned how sorry we are to hear about her passing?) was keeping this abomination unto the lord as a pet of some sort. To determine this, you’re going to want to give the brain a bit of a general vibe check. Good vibes all around? Positive energy? An aura that you’d describe as happy?

How about its hue? Are its pinks extra pink? Does the translucent film covering the brain glisten in a way that could only come from knowing true affection, from the knowledge that love is not simply a chemical reaction beneficially bonding us together and thus boosting the survival of our species, but is in fact an unexplainable yet very real spiritual phenomenon?

These are all signs that your mother had been treating this thing as a pet. Also, you might see some toys around the basement. Giant mutant brains tend to like the squeaky kind.

[graciegirl2006!?]
I’m not sure about the vibes, I’m not very good at this… No toys or anything, though. Not that I can see.

[Guide]
Remember to be objective in your assessment. Don’t fall into beginners’ traps!

[graciegirl2006!?]
Beginners’ traps?

[Guide]
For example, you might assume that because your mom didn’t let you have a dog when you were a kid, she would never keep a brain as a pet.

[graciegirl2006!?]
What are you talking about? Did I mention not getting a dog?

[Guide]
You must have put it in the About Me box when you signed in!

[graciegirl2006!?]
I don’t remember doing that.

[Guide]
Weird! Lucky guess, then? But to continue: Holding onto your anger over the dog is silly, because there are, of course, lots of possible reasons why she didn’t let you have a pet and yet came around to having this brain in her basement, such as loneliness in her advanced years, or her simply believing that you were too juvenile or irresponsible or otherwise unfit to have a dog. Or, let’s be honest, you simply didn’t deserve one based on your poor behavior. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
I was a good kid. 

[Guide]
I’m sure you were! But the subjectivity of the word “good” might not be doing you any favors here. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
Actually, she promised I could get a dog at one point. A husky. I was going to name him Maxwell. But first, she told me I had to help her get the house ready for guests she was having over. Old college friends, I think.

[Guide]
Hindsight is 20/20! We all make mistakes as children. Live and learn, all that jazz. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
No, but that’s the thing. I did help her. I did everything she asked and more and… she still didn’t let me have a dog. She never followed through, always said things would work out, and they never did. And she always had an excuse, a reason why I shouldn’t be mad. Like, she said not getting the dog would be good for me in the long run, that disappointment was character building. You know, me being a modern young woman and all, I could handle it.

[Guide]
Well, I guess we’ll take her word for it! Now, the second and most common possibility is that the brain is some kind of science experiment. This one should be fairly obvious to decipher. Are there wires or tubes to the brain? Are there notebooks scattered around containing indecipherable formulas? Are there beakers filled with neon-colored goo? Any one of these is a dead giveaway that your deceased mother was using this giant living brain as some kind of guinea pig in a sick, playing-God-like scenario.

[graciegirl2006!?]
There are some wires, a few notebooks, I guess.

[Guide]
Seems promising! Now, keep in mind, within the category of giant-brain-as-godless-science-experiment, there are two subcategories. The first is that the brain you’re looking at (again, keep an eye on that darn thing!) is the same brain your mom experimented on and has the same consciousness it’s always had. This category is the more straightforward of the two. The other, more complicated category is that your mother is in fact not dead, and has instead transferred her consciousness to this living brain as a way of staving off what she must have perceived as the quickly encroaching void of death.

[graciegirl2006!?]
How do I tell the difference?

[Guide]
You seem like a very reasonable person who can take some direct⁠—if somewhat unpleasant⁠—news, so I’m just gonna lay it right on you: There’s no great way to tell. It’s not like the brain has a mouth and can tell you that it contains your mother’s consciousness. (Unless it does, in which case the thing in front of you is not technically a living brain and you’ve purchased the wrong guide. Our apologies! While we don’t offer refunds, we do have an interactive guide on how to deal with giant living blobs that can speak, only $15.99! Check our website!) You could read through all your mother’s notebooks to see what she was up to, but there’s no way you’re gonna understand all that science junk and her handwriting was never great and nobody has the time so we’re going to treat both subcategories exactly the same. Just generally be aware that when you kill this thing, you may also be murdering the last inkling of your mother’s existence at the same time.

Moving on!

[graciegirl2006!?]
I’m not sure I want to do this anymore. The police are still coming, I think. They should be here soon; maybe I should just wait for them. 

[Guide]
Glad to see you’re not letting this situation turn you into an immoral monster killer driven by bloodlust, but alas, it must be done. Giant living brains present a real “one of us must die” scenario for the person who discovers them, and bringing more people into the situation only makes things more complicated. Do you want more people to get hurt? And wouldn’t you rather kill the brain than be killed by it?

[graciegirl2006!?]
Okay, I guess. So, how do I kill it then?

[Guide]
Great question!

To begin with, no matter what the situation, you’re going to want to find something sharp and long that can penetrate the brain completely. A sword is ideal, or maybe a long wooden picket with the end shaved to a point. If your dead mom was the kind of person to have a giant living brain in her basement, then she’s definitely got some weird shit down there. There has to be something fit for brain murder. Improvise! I can’t hold your hand through everything! 

[graciegirl2006!?]
There’s a shovel.

[Guide]
That the best you got?

[graciegirl2006!?]
Yup.

[Guide]
Not ideal, but it’ll have to do!

So, the easiest scenario is that this thing was a pet. Pet means trusting, domesticated. Approach it carefully, of course, but this should be cake. If there are squeaky toys around, use one of those to distract the brain, then when you’re close enough, plunge the shovel (I wish you had something sharper!) right into the middle. It’ll probably start squirming and pulsing violently, fighting to live. Don’t panic! Back up (and step to the side, as the pulsing may cause your weapon to be ejected from the brain in the opposite direction of penetration) and let the thing die. It may take a while, but once its color starts to dull, you’ll know you did well, and you’re now a giant-brain-killer of the highest order.

[graciegirl2006!?]
I already told you there were no toys. I don’t think it was a pet. 

[Guide]
Just being thorough! And the lack of toys doesn’t 100% guarantee your mother wasn’t raising this thing as a pet. She may have just not been a very good giant-living-brain mother, we don’t know.

[graciegirl2006!?]
I don’t believe that. She took good care of me.

[Guide]
I guess you haven’t revisited that high school journal of yours in a while! But moving on: If this thing is an experiment, you can assume it was tested on against its will. This almost certainly means it’s angry, probably evil, definitely human-hating. In this case, you first want to unplug any and all machines or tubes that may be attached to the brain since some of these may be keeping it alive.

[graciegirl2006!?]
Sorry to interrupt again, but I’m still stuck on this pseudo-telepathy thing.

[Guide]
This again? Right in the middle of killing this living brain? You’re really showing a weak underbelly to this brain. Your odds aren’t looking good!

[graciegirl2006!?]
Okay, okay. So, there’s some kind of monitor looking thing with wires that’s running. I crushed it with the shovel.

[Guide]
A bit crude, but effective! Now we’re speaking the same language. Your odds for survival just went way up! For the next step, there are a couple schools of thought on how to handle these situations, but here is my recommendation: If there are no tendrils, then once you unplug the machines, proceed by killing the brain in much the same way as described above.

If the brain does have tendrils, though, then after you unplug the machines, you want to step back, and wait for it to (hopefully) die on its own. Give it a full day; don’t be too eager. You don’t want to have to fight off tendrils if you don’t have to. If the color isn’t starting to turn sickly after the full 24, then you’re going to have to go ahead and fight the thing. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
I called the cops, remember? 

[Guide]
You’re right, time is of the essence! In that case, there’s not a lot I can say here except you need to be bold, move quickly, and don’t underestimate the skull-crushing strength of those evil brain tendrils. Good luck! Hope you survive!

[graciegirl2006!?]
I can’t help thinking about what you said about the brain having my mom’s consciousness.

[Guide]
Is this a morality concern? Because my response would be: If this brain has your mom’s consciousness baked into its scrotum-like flesh, your mother did some real deal-with-the-devil type shit, which frees you from moral qualms over murdering a living thing.

[graciegirl2006!?]
But it’s my mother. 

[Guide]
Well, if you’re having second thoughts, then just put the shovel away and close this guide, because we’re done here. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
No, no, sorry. Doing it. Killing it now. 

[Guide]
Go for it, girl! 

[graciegirl2006!?]
I did it. It’s so bloody and gross. I want to throw up. 

[Guide]
Congrats! I know we just met, but I’m proud of you despite your weak stomach! Many warriors stronger than you have died at the hands of giant sentient brains. Consider yourself among rarified air. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
Thanks, I guess. I just puked, though. What now? 

[Guide]
So, now that the brain is dead, you’re going to want to get rid of the thing before selling your dead mom’s house.

[graciegirl2006!?]
I don’t understand how you know I want to sell Mom’s house. 

[Guide]
You sure you didn’t mention it? 

[graciegirl2006!?]
Definitely not.

[Guide]
Lucky guess, then! 

[graciegirl2006!?]
Okay then… so how do I dispose of the brain? 

[Guide]
First, get yourself a pair of gloves, several black garbage bags, and some kind of cutting utensil to slice the brain into the smallest pieces possible. I highly recommend something with a serrated edge, which will lead to the least labor-intensive way of cutting through that thick mutant brain matter, but any knife can do the job if you give it enough elbow grease. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
I got a serrated bread knife from the kitchen.

[Guide]
Perfect!

[graciegirl2006!?]
I cut it up. 

[Guide]
Then you’re done! Toss the pieces in the trash and you can forget this whole thing ever happened. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
Hold on, I don’t… I don’t think it’s dead. 

[Guide]
What do you mean? 

[graciegirl2006!?]
It’s still moving. The pieces of the brain. 

[Guide]
Well, that’s a bit unexpected, I must say! 

[graciegirl2006!?]
What do I do? Is this thing still dangerous? The bits are starting to move a lot. 

[Guide]
Like always, I’m going to be straight with you here: I have no idea what’s going on right now with the brain. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
What are you talking about? This is a guide for this specific situation, how did you not plan for this? You’ve never had a brain that was cut up and didn’t die? 

[Guide]
I think maybe we as an organization have bitten off more than we can chew here. Plus, didn’t you say that the police were called? The boys in blue should be here any minute! They always make situations better. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
You told me I should avoid the police. 

[Guide]
Well, the situation has taken a turn for the worse, it seems! 

[graciegirl2006!?]
This is so much worse than when I called them, though, because now I have a cut up brain here that won’t die and I’m covered in blood and vomit. I look like a murderer. Someone is going to get hurt or I’m going to jail because I trusted that you knew what you were doing. 

[Guide]
Hey, we got you most of the way there, that has to count for something? 

[graciegirl2006!?]
It doesn’t. 

[Guide]
It should! 

[graciegirl2006!?]
I don’t even know what to say to the cops when they come. 

[Guide]
You’ll figure it out! Remember, you’re a smart, modern young woman who was able to kill (mostly!) a giant living brain with nothing but her brain and her courage. You can talk your way out of this, easy. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
I really don’t want to have to… wait. What did you say? 

[Guide]
Which part? 

[graciegirl2006!?]
I… did you just call me a “modern young woman?” 

[Guide]
It’s possible! But we’re getting off topic here. Would you like me to recommend a book on talking to people who are brandishing weapons and have the authority to kill you? I think we have something in our library. I bet I can get you a discount if I talk to my…

[graciegirl2006!?]
Mom? 

[Guide]
Excuse me? 

[graciegirl2006!?]
She’s the only one that called me that. Modern young woman. It’s a stupid phrase, doesn’t mean anything. She thought using it would soften the disappointment, somehow. 

[Guide]
Uh… you mentioned it before. I guess I picked up on it then? 

[graciegirl2006!?]
Hold on. What were you saying about the telepathic abilities of the brain or whatever? 

[Guide]
Was I talking about that? 

[graciegirl2006!?]
You definitely were. 

[Guide]
Must have slipped my mind! But okay, telepathy, got it, it’s time, let’s talk about that. So, evil giant brains, like I said, have been known to tap into things. It’s all very uneven, bits of information at a time. Nothing concrete. An imperfect process as far as we can tell. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
So, the evil brain in my mom’s basement could be controlling me right now? 

[Guide]
Holy smokes, what a dark question! Anything’s possible, but it’s unlikely. Human brains are pretty complex! 

[graciegirl2006!?]
But you said it could maybe control electronics? Like a microwave maybe? 

[Guide]
Also possible! But there’s no way to be sure. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
Or a computer program. 

[Guide]
If I could think of another way to say “It’s possible but I don’t know,” I would definitely do that now. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
Mom? Are you in there somewhere? 

[Guide]
We’re not your mom. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
Mommy? 

[Guide]
Again, we’re not your mom.

[graciegirl2006!?]
Why are you still doing this? 

[Guide]
Still not your mother, Grace. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
I would have forgiven you, you know that, right? For everything. For the dog, for whatever mess you got into here. You could have told me about the brain, we could have dealt with this together. 

[Guide]
In her defense, not sure how your dead mother could have told you anything from beyond the grave!

[graciegirl2006!?]
You went through all of this trouble to… what? Mind control me into killing a giant brain? That maybe has your consciousness baked into it? Help me understand, Mom. 

[Guide]
As discussed, it doesn’t seem likely that the brain would be able to control a human.

[graciegirl2006!?]
Whatever it is, mind control, telekinetic influence, nudging a computer program to get me to act a certain way. It’s all the same type of manipulation you used to do when I was a kid. It’s the same as promising me a dog and then telling me that not having one builds character. You know, you could have been honest with me, right? Why is honesty so hard for you? 

[Guide]
This seems very personal! Not for our consumption! 

[graciegirl2006!?]
You always did this. No follow through. 

[Guide]
Not sure what I should be saying here, Grace. Not sure what you want me to say. 

[graciegirl2006!?]
I hear the sirens coming, the police will be down here soon, find me covered in blood and brain guts. I love you, Mom. Okay? But I’m done doing this, following along with your promises, hoping things work out. You’ve never been able to come clean, but I want you to know that I’m going to tell them everything and hope for the best. Maybe they’ll believe my story, maybe not. But I’m going to do what you could never do. I’m going to own up to my mistakes and accept the consequences. 

[Guide]
Okay, since your arrest appears to be imminent, I’ll say this: I’m not your mother (that doesn’t make sense!), but if I were a⁠, let’s say⁠, a computer program that was being influenced by brain waves emanating from the giant living brain that she was accidentally taken over by, I’d say this: I wasn’t always a good mother, I know that. I made bad decisions and I didn’t know how to fix them right. A dog would have been too much for me, okay? I’m sorry to put it on you, but how do you tell your daughter that you’re overwhelmed and terrified of keeping another living creature from dying? I thought making a commitment would put my back against the wall, force me to follow through. But I couldn’t do it. And I also couldn’t have it be my fault; you’d never have trusted me again if it was my fault, so I had to make it your fault instead. As for everything else… I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you, sorry if I dumped all of my bullshit on you. I’m just… so sorry, okay? I thought that giving you a brain to kill would be a good thing, a clean slate, a moment of triumph. But I can see now that it’s the same shit, the same pattern. Do you understand, though? I was trying to let you be free from me. I was really trying, I wanted to do it this time, I wanted to finally follow through with something, I just fucked it up. 

Please tell me you understand. Please tell me you forgive me. Before it’s too late. Please say you forgive me. 

Please. 

Please, Grace. 

Please?

[user graciegirl2006!? is logged out]


© 2024 by Alex Sobel

4307 words

Author’s Note: I wanted to write a story about cross-generational trauma and how we deal with it after a toxic person has passed away. What is left behind? How do we move on when there’s no longer an option for closure? Science fiction has the amazing ability to take normal things and ideas and make them strange and unfamiliar, so in this case, the effects of a mother’s narcissism on her daughter takes the form of a giant (possibly evil, likely mind-controlling) brain left in her basement that her daughter has to deal with.  

Alex Sobel is a psychiatric nurse and writer (when he finds the time). His work has appeared in Clarkesworld, Electric Literature, The Saturday Evening Post, and Dark Matter Magazine. He lives in Toledo, OH, with his wife.


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DP FICTION #111A: “Ketchōkuma” by Mason Yeater

edited by Ziv Wities

My name is Yasuko Nagamine and I work for the employment bureau. There’s a monster destroying the city. It used to be the mascot for the organ rental service, Sensation. I guess it still is but I don’t think it’s doing much for their bottom line anymore.

Today I’m filing electronic papers, which is what I always do. Someone new registers with the bureau every day and I look at their job history. Then I send them back a form if there’s an opening that matches their file. Or I send them back a form that says, Sorry, there are no openings.

The city getting destroyed is also the whole world, so a lot of people might say it’s bad that something is stomping on it. But almost no one is saying that. They’re all just working. After people figured out they didn’t need plants or oceans or ducks, they made the whole world silver. It’s just buildings and server farms. That’s what happens when people figure out how to turn themselves into machines.

I have one screen with a list of bright dots, one for each opening. And the other screen has a list of bright dots for each person that needs a job. The longer they’ve been without a job or the longer the job is open, the brighter the dot gets.

I can see that big yellow bear Ketchōkuma through my window. He’s at least two miles away but he’s so big his ears almost touch the clouds. He’s holding a parasol made of shiny pink guts, just the way Sensation drew him up: an intestine swirled like a bun at the top. The way he used to look in all the ads, reaching toward the screen with a stomach or a heart in his paw. Well, almost like that. Now the parasol is sagging a little. But he’s still smiling with teeth. When he was regular-sized he had a dance where he bent on one leg and spun around and waved his arms and a jingle came out of his mouth. Now that he’s bigger, he still dances sometimes when he moves. You can almost hear something from his teeth.

Today my boss said I have to hire someone for the Tamentai Plaza opening. He said if they don’t have a general manager, people will start building homes in the dressing rooms and writing on the food court walls with chem paint. I look at the brightest dots but their files are all wrong. Everyone has experience with point of sale, but no one’s been a manager. I scroll down the dots until I get to the duller ones. They’re the same brightness as my eyes. My eyes are a dark paper brown that glows a little. Everyone I know has eyes like that but it’s how you move them around that matters.

I click on one of the dots. This person worked point of sale for twenty years. But they were never a manager. They have a pretty nose but that isn’t good enough. My eyes keep falling down the screen. I’m not supposed to look at the grey dots even though they’re there.

When I was born, the hospital uploaded my mind to the megaserver and threw my body in the waste system. Then they gave me the body I have now. It’s what happens to everyone. I wear a grey suit and keep my hair in a ponytail with a melon-pink tie. Girl stuff. Everyone is cloud-based, so our brains are always ready on the megaserver. That way, if something happens to our body, we can get a new one, and resync our mind when it’s over.

The bear is looking at me through the glass. He can’t see me. He’s too far away. But his eyes are turned this way and he’s not moving. That happens sometimes. Like he’s scared or broken.

I don’t think about my body anymore. The thing is there’s only so much space on the megaserver (it’s different than the servers they use for money and traffic records and the employment bureau), and it turns out a person’s brain takes up way more space than you’d think, so we each get the same amount of time before our brains are deleted and they recycle our plastic bodies. It’s fair, I guess.

Someone’s file just came in. It fills up the whole screen and the dot spins like a Ferris wheel. There’s her face. No smile. That’s good, I think. She doesn’t take nonsense. Her collar is the color of a pearl and comes all the way up to her jaw in lace. It makes her look like a beautiful singer. Experience: Fourteen years in library science. Director of collections at a nearby branch for eight years. Recognition of excellence in radio archival. She’s perfect.

But her dot is barely even grey. It just got here. It’s impossible. My boss would never approve it. He hates breaking rules, and I do too.

They said Ketchōkuma got loose and found a hatch in the waste system. He found where they put all the bodies, all our tiny bodies that aren’t plastic. He started sucking them up. On the news, they said, He siphoned all the neonates. That’s how he got so big and no one knows how he did it. I wish I could be that big, and golden. Like the sign on the casino where every letter is huge. They’re all glowing and you want to hug them and feel how warm they are.

Ketchōkuma is winding up to dance. You can tell by the way his parasol drops below his knees.

I keep the woman’s dot on my screen. The mall needs a manager. It’s a good mall. I’ve been there and I like to shop for outfits and look at all the pets in their habitats. Someone has to run the mall and there’s only so much time left before people start breaking windows and looting power cells and painting rude words on the walls.

The big bear finishes his dance. I almost clap but my boss sits at the desk in front of me. When Ketchōkuma stops, he loses his balance and sways into an office building. It’s far away, so I barely hear it. His legs disappear in the puff of smoke that comes up. His original fur is so stretched out that he isn’t really yellow anymore if you look up close, only from far away. If you look up close, like the drone cameras do on the news, you can see all the tears and gaps. Underneath it’s pink and white and red and wet.

I still have the woman on my screen. It says she knows seven languages. That would be good if random people caused trouble at the mall and she had to tell them where to go to be reprimanded. Or if someone moved in from a faraway part of the city and wanted to open a new store in the mall.

Ketchōkuma is singing now. I can definitely hear it, but maybe it’s my imagination. They said all his wires must be stretched as far as they can go, but his chip still plays his theme song. Only now it’s really slow and deep. Wa di-di. Ka da to ma di-di. It’s baby talk. It doesn’t mean anything. I still like hearing it, even though it sounds weird now.

As soon as I graduated I spent all my gift money on an organ from Sensation. It was a lung. The most beautiful organ. Everyone’s plastic body has a cavity around the tummy if you press hard enough in the right places. That pocket’s where Sensation hooks in, so most people rent a stomach. I knew it wasn’t right to have a lung down there but they hooked it up and once I took a breath it was all I could think about. But that was only for six hours. Then I ran out of money. I miss it. Our lungs always work but they’re just plastic and they don’t feel like anything.

I send the file for the woman with the tall collar to my boss. She’s the right person, I know she is, so it doesn’t matter if the dot is grey.

Ketchōkuma is closer now, but he’s quiet again. I can kind of see the tears in his fur. His parasol is gone, or maybe he’s dragging it on the ground below the skyline. How many weeks now, and he never has anything to say. If he could talk, I don’t know what he’d tell me. It’s like that. All of the best things you can tell someone don’t need words.

My boss hates her. He says no. He says even if she were the maestro of management she would be horrible because her dot is grey. And grey means there are other people besides her who need to get back to work first, so society doesn’t fall apart. He says find someone else, there’s plenty of people.

Now I have money for an organ, but Sensation stopped taking orders. After Ketchōkuma got loose, they dropped everything. Like it never mattered in the first place. They went on the news and said sorry, it won’t happen again. They said everybody who’s upset gets a refund. They said, actually, we’ve been working on something new, and instead of a refund we’ll put your money towards that—it’s all digital, it’ll last forever. Then everybody started talking about organs. They said what was the point of something that makes you feel sweaty? Sometimes they stink. They’re overpriced and we shouldn’t have cavities in our bellies anyway, let’s take those out for the next generation.

The floor rumbles. Through the window I watch König Schellen’s golden sign cracking in two, flattening each floor until it all disappears under the other buildings. The biggest casino in the whole city, gone. My monitor shakes and so do I. I see a big shape in the dust, but it slips behind the hotels.

Then the opera house starts to move. Its big red arches lean forward, so slow I don’t see it at first. It looks like it’s going to sleep. Then the lights spark, and they pop one by one, and then all at once like fireworks. It falls, and there’s the shape again before the dust covers it up.

I try to focus on my job. I need to choose someone who can be the manager of Tamentai Plaza. It’s a really important place and someone people like needs to protect it. Someone who can make business good for everybody, even the pets.

I try. I really try, but my eyes won’t stay on the screen. The racetrack that circles all the restaurants flies up and hangs in the air. It’s floating over everything for the longest second I can remember. Then it whips down into the hotels. The whole row gets smashed, and they’re half as tall now. And other buildings start falling too, big ones nearby. Everything’s falling down.

I have to look at my screen. There’s nothing I can do about anything outside, but I can help Tamentai Plaza.

It’s no good. There’s the parasol. The pink canopy pounds through the Super Stadium toward me, through the silver dome that’s as big as the sky, and stuff is flying everywhere. The parasol comes back up through the dome and drops down again like a hammer, and the noise is so loud even my manager looks up for a second. A big cloud blooms where the stadium used to be. 

I sit for a long time, until it all clears. Ketchōkuma is standing in the smoke behind everything. He’s wet and glittering. His fur is almost gone now. It’s frayed to nothing. He’s not even yellow anymore. He’s red and blotchy with shadows.

Then something cool happens. I look at my screen and it’s almost empty. All those dots. All those people are gone and the woman with the beautiful collar and no smile is the very first dot and it’s brighter than anything, even the casino sign. And the rest of the dots are people I’ve never seen before because they’re new, because—I know what happened. I send her file to my boss again without even thinking.

I look out the window. He’s there. His eyes are big, dark holes in his face, big enough to fall into. He’s quiet. His mouth is lumpy and red.

Hi, big bear.

He did it.

You knew, didn’t you.

There was a server farm behind the hotels. I forgot all about it. All the older files must have been stored there. And the ones that came in today started up in a different server. He knew somehow.

You knew, didn’t you?

Why else would he come this way?

Thank you.

I liked him even before he did it.

Thank you. I really mean it.

My boss says the woman is hired. He already called her. He says she’s the best file I’ve picked since I started. He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know, big bear.

He doesn’t even realize what happened.

My screen refreshes and all the old dots come online again, rerouted from some other server. But it’s too late. They already hired her.

Ketchōkuma is looking at me. He’s really looking at me this time, through the window. I think about that silly lung that’s probably rotten now. It was good, even if it isn’t around anymore. I think about my body. I think about the whole thing: the inside, the outside, the hair tie. I think about my body, even if it is plastic. And I close my eyes.

Thank you, toes.

I peek for a second. I close them again.

Thank you, toes. I feel your weight. I appreciate that you’re a part of me.

I keep my eyes closed.

Thank you, legs. You may not carry blood, but you carry me.

I open them one more time.

Thank you, eyes. Because of you, the whole world is inside me. Because of you, I see a bear.

I lay my fingers on the desk and watch them work, and Ketchōkuma takes the city into his paws.


© 2024 by Mason Yeater

2377 words

Author’s Note: Mainly I just wanted to create my own kaiju. Obviously they lend themselves to metaphor, so there’s always the action and the threat, but also some deeper ideas if you’re in that mindset. With the monster design, I was pulling from Japanese mascots, and I guess giving this one the old body-horror treatment. The ending, weirdly enough (or maybe not), was inspired by some Thích Nhất Hạnh affirmations. I have an office job and often forget about my own body.

Mason Yeater writes speculative fiction near the Great Lakes. Previously, his work has been published in TL;DR Press’s Curios anthology. He can be found sometimes @snow_leeks on Twitter.


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