An e-zine about spaceships, aliens, science, memory, motherhood, magic, and cats.
by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in Renewal: Queer Sci-Fi’s Fourth Annual Flash Fiction Contest, September 2017
Wendy shifted the jetpack on her shoulders and knocked on the door to Flooffle’s quarters. “Come on! I want to hit the ammonia waves on New Jupiter before the lava moon freezes over!”
Flooffle didn’t answer, so the human girl went in, expecting to find her fuzzy six-legged friend struggling to get a jetpack settled onto his thorax. Continue reading “A Jetpack of a Different Color”
by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in Daily Science Fiction, October 2018
Lee-a-lei had never been to a Wing Day party, much less thrown one herself. The butterfly-like alien crossed her uppermost pair of fuzzy exoskeletal arms and watched her clone-daughter scurry around their quarters, excited, sugar-crazed, and impatient for the guests to arrive.
Am-lei flapped her new wings, throwing herself into the air — she bounced off the ceiling and landed awkwardly on newly-long, spindly legs. A month ago, Am-lei had been a pudgy green caterpillar-babe. At least, Lee-a-lei had thought of her as a babe, even though she was nearly ten years old. Continue reading “Wing Day”
by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in Empyreome, September 2017
Lee-a-lei’s wide wings fluttered, casting pools of colored light that chased each other across the walls of the robotics laboratory. The harsh fluorescents from the ceiling softened to warm reds, golds, and chips of blue or green as they passed through her translucent wings. Continue reading “One Alien’s Wings”
by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in Theme of Absence, July 2017
The blue sun of Lottie IV glinted off the watery world’s ice rings. Rocky chunks of diamond gleamed with sapphire light, stretched in a crescent across the world’s pale sky. Its inhabitants — a long-spined, thick-furred, water-breathing, lutrinae species — had stared at that crescent of glittering ice from Lottie’s oceans for generations. Out of reach. Unconquerable. Continue reading “Sky River”
by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in Fantasia Divinity Magazine, December 2017
Alarm bells rang out and lights flashed red from the corners of the buildings on either side of the street. A mechanical turret rising out of the middle of the mountaintop base swung around and cast invisible laser beams, searching for the intruder, but Rikkita threw herself to the ground and spread her wide, bushy tail over her back. The fur on her tail was ultra-dark black; it would confuse the algorithms processing the data from the lasers. As long as she held still, she was safe. Continue reading “Treasure Moon”
by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in Daily Science Fiction, November 2015
The spines on S’lisha’s neck twitched, but she kept them from extending into a thorny display of her anger. The spaceship captain wanted the boxes of robot arms on his cargo deck rearranged yet again. If he’d explained himself clearly in the first place, it would have saved so much time. S’lisha seethed silently and imagined crushing the spaceship captain with his own cargo. Continue reading “Hidden Feelings”
by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in Daily Science Fiction, February 2018
The heart of the gas giant was the key. Arellnor had traveled from one star system to another; at every stop, she’d traded her vehicle — first her trusty shuttle for a star-hopper, then that for a space mecha-suit and finally back to another shuttle. She’d altered her appearance, buying gene-therapy or cosmetic-sculpting every chance she got. She barely remembered what she’d been originally — some sort of space frog? Today, she was a burly antelope-like alien; her fingers were rough and hard, and antlers rose from her head like spires. None of it had been enough. They were still chasing her. Continue reading “Heart of the Gas Giant”
by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in Daily Science Fiction, January 2018
Evban flapped her mechanical wings joyously, dipping and swooping through New Jupiter’s soupy pink-and-gold clouds. Her whiskers tickled against the glassy bubble of her breathing-helmet, and her long tail streamed out behind her. She’d drifted away from the flock of avian aliens. Their organic wings were broader and stronger than her little mechanical ones, but she knew her friends would come back for her before the space shuttle returned for them all. Continue reading “Go High”
by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in Daily Science Fiction, January 2018
“You can’t come on the voyage,” the Ululu sneered, folding his wings in a very cross manner. “Winged folk only.”
Evben tried to object, but all the other avians lounging about the bar took up the Ululu’s catchy cry: “That’s right! Winged folk only!” The feathers around the Ululu’s eyes crinkled happily; if he hadn’t been a beaked species, he’d have been grinning. The Ululu had been looking for a way to exclude Evben from Avian Night at the All Alien Cafe since she’d first started coming, but the cafe owner stood up for the little mousey alien’s right to participate. Even if she wasn’t any sort of bird. Continue reading “Winged Folk Only”
by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published by Furvana, June 2019
Sandbeard the pirate otter, fiercest of the fierce, fuzziest of the fuzzy, and the best bewhiskered of all sea otters, steered her stolen space-trawler into the curving gravity well of a small oceanic moon. The lunar ocean was beautiful beneath her trawler — purple and choppy, swelling with swirling water, but toxic as a scorpionfish. Nice to look at; useless for swimming. But Sandbeard wasn’t here for a vacation; she was a pirate, and she was ready to pillage and plunder. Continue reading “Sandbeard the Pirate Otter”