Migration

I lay awake at night in our sleep pod in the MaKlain, a long-haul spaceship heading to a planet we hoped we could turn into a lesbian Eden. We had traveled for so long yet had so much farther to go. Getting there in one person’s lifespan was impossible. We started this journey eight generations ago. Or rather I started eight generations ago. Willow started nine generations ago. Couples died together and were reborn together every fifty years. That’s how it was supposed to be. This was the key to our survival. We lived together. We worked together. We died together until we found our new home.

I stared out at the stars. It wasn’t easy to look at them. I remembered Willow dying among the stars too soon. She’d been reborn, and we became the only couple heading to the new world out of sync.

She lay next to me snoring. Her snoring sounded different. The lights in the pod slowly turned on, mimicking a sunrise we’d never really experienced. She opened one eye, then the other.

“Do you still love me?” she asked

My old heart skipped a beat, then it stopped. It was my time, my turn to have younger skin and a younger heart.

“Yes,” I said through cracked lips. “Always.”

Killer Queen
Paula McGrath (258 words)

I love to be watched. On stage, or in bed, it doesn’t matter. Exhibitionist: that’s me. Performing drag-shows on cruise-ships was my dream job. But that’s all gone now. Now I’m the one who watches.

I perch atop the crow’s nest and peer through my scope at the empty dock. I watch for our crew who are out scrounging for food and fuel to keep this behemoth afloat. I watch for Ravagers, pitiful human remnants who attack and eat anything moving. One bullet does for them. I watch for Agri-bots, those world-ending fucks. They’re harder to kill, but much more satisfying. I rub the rocket launcher at my side like it’s a rabbit’s foot.

I tense at a hoarse yell from below and spin my rifle around, trigger finger ready. It’s only Sean and his crew cavorting in the pool. Relaxing, I ogle their bare, glistening chests instead. The world might be ending but I’m not dead yet.

After a year of cruising from port to port we still haven’t found a home. Pristine beach after pristine beach, all deadly after more than twenty-four hours’ exposure. I wish those fucking scientists were in my crosshairs. They designed those Agri-bots to heal the world and instead they poisoned it. Oh, to feel sand under my feet again instead of this sun-bleached deck.

This is my life now. I watch, I kill. I focus on the dock again, the sea breeze caressing my sequined skirt as I keep my eye to the scope and wait for my crew to return.