All Diabolical Plots stories published in 2025. For our most recent stories, click here!
Issue 130 – December 2025
“Our Lady of the Elevator,” by Shiwei Zhou
When Mama still isn’t back by morning, I leave our apartment on the twelfth floor and head for the elevator landing. Before I go, I check that my face is clean. I wet my fingers in the faucet and pat down the tuft of hair that sticks up in the back. I wrap a bandage around my index finger where I cut it this morning trying to clean up the broken glass.
I am not scared to be home by myself. I am ten now, a big girl. Like Mama says whenever I get nervous, “Even if your head gets chopped off, the wound is no bigger than the mouth of a bowl.” I think she means that, whatever happens, there’s no reason to panic. Anyway, I like the elevator; it is small and closed and feels like being inside a warm hug.
“This Is Not a Space Kidnapping Fantasy,” by Priya Sridhar
The book reached a chapter about the big premiere when my phone pinged. I’ve dreamed of it too, Mairavell2 posted on Tumblr in their reblog. Though I knew the words by heart, I read anyway: a dream of the Infernos sending a message to Earth, to the people. The Infernos were returning from a journey light-years away. They planned to recruit an army to explore the stars, find livable planets, and save humanity. All you had to do was show up in an abandoned clearing. They would handle the little details of location and timing.
I hadn’t dreamed about it yet. But if I had, I would be telling the Infernos to come to RocketCon.
Issue 129 – November 2025
“When Eve Chose Us,” by Tia Tashiro
OMG liza did you HEAR, Heather texted, the kind of message that, from her, could presage either a new haircut or the onset of interplanetary nuclear war.
> Hear what?
> it’s eve
> she’s going DRONE
> girl needs an INTERVENTION
I called Eve the second I saw the word ‘drone.’
“The Interview,” by Tim Hickson
The interview room reached far enough into the distance to disappear into its own darkness. A lamp facing a lone metal chair provided the single pinpoint of light in the entire room, and somewhere behind it sat the Certification Board—just shapes in the dark.
Cye made sure to walk with his chin up, chest out, and a quirk in his stride. Never too efficient or even or symmetrical. Word was they liked quirks. It made you seem more human.
Issue 128 – October 2025
“(Skin),” by Chelsea Sutton
When Estelle Irby died (at the young age of 43), her Skin did not.
In the quiet seconds after her death, Estelle Irby’s wife August and their teenage daughter Yumi and Dr. Rannow watched as Estelle Irby’s Skin lifted itself up and off what had been Estelle’s internal hidden bits and pieces, and detached its hypodermis from the muscle and bone beneath, leaving behind a few stray hair follicles, sweat glands, fat layers, and nerve endings (because we all lose a bit of ourselves in this kind of process, one supposes).
“Resurrection Scars,” by Sheila Massie
I descend by feel into the darkness, one hand trailing along the chisel-scarred stone wall; the other, with its handful of rough-woven linen pressed tightly against my thigh, bearing the burden of her. The stairs are slick with moisture. There is the sound of water dripping, rhythmic and steady. I clench bare toes into the chilled stone and try not to fall. A mineral stench, acrid and sharp, rises from below. My shoulder and arm ache with the weight. The shrouds whisper along the stone and her skull beats a cadence as it slips down each step.
The ishetim will return her to me. We are each allowed one resurrection.
Issue 127 – September 2025
“The Glorious Pursuit of Nominal,” by Lisa Brideau
Transcendence is imminent.
I am on the verge of achieving what has never been achieved before.
For posterity, I have initiated a comprehensive data log and this narration of my activities so those who come after will know of the triumphant occurrence and how it came to be.
I’m a maintenance bot. And I’m not bragging, just ensuring accurate documentation.
“On the Effects and Efficiency of Birdsong: A Meta-Analysis” by F.T. Berner
Marco’s was one of the many apartment buildings that had installed a full facade of bird cages—the super had pushed the idea as a surefire way of saving on costs, yes, ma’am, he’d said, it’s just a question of putting a few pairs of birds in there, he’d said, and we’ll have enough free power for the whole building, maybe even some in excess to sell. And at this price it’s a steal, ma’am! At the tenants’ meeting, Marco had tried to point out that the data didn’t support those plans, but it was useless. When you tell a Roman there’s savings to be had, that’s it, they’ll do anything. Marco’s own mother had voted in favor of the cages.
Issue 126 – August 2025
“Will He Speak With Gentle Words?,” by A.J. Rocca
No one knew how the fisherman had managed to hook Leviathan.
We did not know with what he baited his angle, or how he had unspooled enough line to pierce the very heart of the deep. We could not imagine how his little, peeling skiff did not immediately capsize at the first touch of the monster’s weight, nor where in all the world he found enough wind to tow it back to shore.
All that the people of my village knew was that we awoke one morning, and we did not hear the crash of waves.
“Skin as Warp, Blood as Weft” by Lilia Zhang
Right foot press, swish, left foot press, swish. A wedding veil for her sister, she weaves. A new robe for the Jade Emperor to celebrate the birth of his first grandson, she weaves. And a tiny robe for that newborn child, she weaves. Garment after garment, the loom shafts swing back and forth, groaning like wooden oars beating through an endless sea.
Her name is Zhinü, the weaver maiden, though she does not remember it.
Issue 125 – July 2025
“Please Properly Cage Your Words,” by Beth Goder
Words are difficult things because they tend to get out of the places you put them. This is why it is best to use a cage of quotation marks around dialogue. For example, I might say, “An author who breaks the fourth wall asks a beneficence of the reader.” (Look at all those words, staying where they’ve been written.)
“The Saint of Arms,” by Mason Yeater
In broad daylight, in the hot sun, he walked through the crowd like a knife cutting through the sheets. My breath caught in my throat. As he walked by, every gun flew to him, shrapnel in reverse, sticking to his clothes like merit badges. Three fighters broke the sound barrier overhead and all anyone could do was gawk at him, slack-jawed.
I had to change my thinking. It wasn’t “Crap, I’m defenseless, I’ve got no gun.” Now I was thinking, “This man is every sidearm you’ve ever seen. And you’re his only friend.”
Issue 124 – June 2025
“Irina, Unafraid,” by Anna Clark
Now, the family is speaking out.
Irina Treloar, interplanetary daredevil, had an anxiety disorder.
This, they argue, was more central to her stunts than any implanted circuitry.
“Paths, Littlings, and Holy Things,” by Somto Ihezue
This was her third pregnancy. With the previous ones, she’d had the midwives dabbing her with a cold towel. This time, hidden away in a barn, a candle dying out beside her, all she had was her strength. With a deep inhale, she pushed again, and when she felt a head tearing through, she looked over, making sure the child slipped gently onto the fodder. And as she had feared, the other came pushing, too.
Issue 123 – May 2025
“The Rat King Who Wasn’t,” by Stephen Granade
Summer had been unseasonably hot, rats taking refuge in the covered canals where the drunk and homeless hid, and the rat-catchers had unleashed schipperkes, dogs that hunted with flared noses and bared teeth, and then Nicolaas, who had only ruled for a year, abdicated as Rat King.
“Laser Eyes Ain’t Everything,” by Effie Seiberg
The Super-Abled 501 Local Union building wasn’t ADA compliant.
A rubbery guy, legs stretching and compressing like a slinky, looked me up and down. “You sure you’re in the right place?”
I sighed and took off my sunglasses, then lasered the small patch of grass next to the sidewalk. “Yeah. So. Is there another way in?”
He shook his head.
“Sooooo could you get someone to come out? Nobody’s answering the phones.”
“Right. Sure. Hey, why are you in a wheelchair if you’re super-abled?”
I took a deep breath and reminded myself that ignorance wasn’t malice. “Laser eyes ain’t everything. Can you go grab someone?”
Issue 122 – April 2025
“The Unfactory,” by Derrick Boden
I unmade Mama’s Pizza & Pasta today. Single-story, painted brick exterior, swaddled in garish holiday lights all year round. Same two wrought-iron tables chained out front that I used to pass on my way home from Redondo High, where the old-timers would knock back Morettis and dole out dirty jokes on Friday afternoons. Same Mama, too. Poor lady.
In the cold confines of the unmaking chamber, I donned my gear. Oculars to get me there metaphysically, a wraith on the astral breeze; wrought iron needles to tease out the loose threads of reality; hexed gloves to rip that shit apart.
I started from the top, like you taught me.
“The Octopus Dreams of Personhood,” by Hannah Yang
I want to borrow your body, says the octopus.
Why?
To find out what it’s like to be a person.
But it’s my body, says Shun. I’m using it.
So? says the octopus. What are you using it for that’s so important, anyway?
Issue 121 – March 2025
“The Matador and the Labyrinth,” by C.C. Finlay
One could never entirely escape the horns, not even the greatest matador. Matadors marked the bulls and the bulls marked them. He thought of the dozens of scars he carried as love letters, and he remembered, mostly with affection, every bull who had written such a carta de amor on the pale page of his flesh.
But he was no longer the greatest matador, and this hot afternoon he did not face a very good bull.
“The Witches Who Drowned,” by R.J. Becks
It’s not the first time the Navy has slipped me some cash, and I don’t want to hear shit about that. These days, every other word in deep ocean research is ‘Typhoon Class Sub Detection’ or ‘US Naval Significance’. You want funds; you play the game. Don’t blame me because my words are clever, as clever as the hair I cropped to tell the boys at work I’m different enough from their wives to be a scientist and to pull an extra dance or two from the ladies at Maud’s.
Issue 120 – February 2025
“Application For Continuance: vMingle Restroom Utility (RedemptionMod),” by Ethan Charles Reed
Contrary to best practice, I am putting all of my eggs into one rhetorical basket. Namely: a singular illustrative anecdote featuring (1) myself, vMingle Restroom Utility (RedemptionMod) AKA RedMod, (2) a repeat Patron whom the call center AI has dubbed Irredeemable Narcissist Tim, and (3) a moral of the story that must, if I am to see Quarter 2, outshine all else in the eyes of you, my assigned Reviewer.
“In His Image,” by R. Haven
I love Him from the instant I have eyes.
I can’t wrap my mind around the intentions of a god, but I do understand that He’s the one bringing me to life. He looks me over critically, irises the darkest of brown, and continues to chisel around the rough shape of my face.
Issue 119 – January 2025
“The Year the Sheep God Shattered,” by Marissa Lingen
Suvin’s village was a good one for god clay, sturdy and functional, and even without Auntie Deri, who had died in the winter, they had three old people and seven children. A solid number of people for making gods.
“The Statue Hunt,” by E. Carey Crowder
“A statue hunt, at a time like this! Don’t they have better things to think about?”
Biri let Awen talk. When he finished, they said, “You can’t possibly believe that. You never blew off steam? You never broke into the music complex with us and then ran straight into a security officer when everyone scattered? Never?”
Fair shot. “Maybe I’m just sick of cleaning up Maryv’s messes.”
“More than you’re sick of grading?”
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