by Mary E. Lowd

Uprooted she reaches skyward
Reaching blindly
Guided by the feel of light
On leaves Continue reading “Uprooted”
An e-zine about spaceships, aliens, science, memory, motherhood, magic, and cats.
by Mary E. Lowd

Uprooted she reaches skyward
Reaching blindly
Guided by the feel of light
On leaves Continue reading “Uprooted”
by Daniel Lowd & Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in Kaleidotrope, October 2017

We are alone now, all of us.
I still remember what it was like to communicate, to share thoughts and visions, to think together. But now, the Judgment Virus makes my mind fuzzier with each passing hour. Soon I shall lose the ability to communicate with myself, and my own thoughts shall be as lost to me as the silent strangers that were once my friends. Continue reading “Techno Babel”
by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in Kaleidotrope, January 2021

The snake didn’t bite me. It bit Orpheus, and his lyre twanged discordantly as he fell to the ground. It was the first inharmonious sound that perfect instrument had ever made. It was the sound that started my journey. It was a claw, hooked inside my ear, ripping and tearing away every illusion I’d had of safety and happiness, shattering my dreams of a future with Orpheus. Continue reading “Returning the Lyre”
by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in Electric Spec, November 2017

Joan opened the door to see her ex-fiancé slumped against the door frame. Leland was a lion of a man. Tall, blonde, preternaturally confident. She’d only seen him looking haggard and haunted like this once before, ten years ago, when his memory drugs had worn off. That had been the beginning of their end.
“Come inside,” she said. Continue reading “The Fish Kite”
by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in Every Day Fiction, October 2015
Jenny felt inside her pocket. There was a small, smooth pebble that she’d been hiding since she was tiny. A multi-dimensional creature had appeared to her and begged her to keep it safe. If she dug her fingernail into it…
But she mustn’t. She mustn’t. She had to be strong.
See, it was the self-destruct button for the universe. Continue reading “Small Smooth Pebble”
by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in The Opposite of Memory: A Collection of Unforgettable Fiction, February 2024

When I was a kid, cryogenically freezing yourself was something crazy rich people with more money and desperation to live forever than actual common sense did to themselves to escape dying. It was a joke. And I can’t entirely get over seeing it that way.
And yet, here I am.
I put my daughter in charge of my finances years ago, and she assures me this is affordable and works. She’s good with numbers and research, like her dad was. I’ve always been the impulsive one. Continue reading “Heaven is the Best Moment of Your Life, Infinitely Remixed and Played on Loop”
by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in The Opposite of Memory: A Collection of Unforgettable Fiction, February 2024

Sometimes two roads diverge in a wood, and you can never know what would have happened if you’d taken the other path. Or so I’m told. It hasn’t been that way since before I was born.
Like my mother before me, I lay my hand on the hypercrystal when it’s time to decide what I want to do with my life — whether I want to have a child and become a mother or… not. Continue reading “Two Roads Diverge”
by Mary E. Lowd

A whispered conversation
Under the setting sun
About a star
We know so well Continue reading “The Biggest Secret in the Solar System”
by Mary E. Lowd

Molten magic
Rolled into the tragic form
Of a cat, forgotten Continue reading “Midas’ Cat”
by Mary E. Lowd

The squirrel is of the sky
Belonging in branches
Stretched wide
Jumping from tree to tree Continue reading “Otter and Squirrel”