#lightning cake

Bake and cool the cake. Bake the cake 35 to 40 minutes until a tester inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool the cake on a rack 5 minutes, then invert onto the rack. Cool completely and invert onto a platter. Sift some confectioner’s sugar over the top.

On Pluto, there were pterodactyls that flew in V-flock formations. Sarah had never seen pterodactyls that flew in V-flock formations. This was not demoted-to-dwarf-planet Pluto. This was a lush and fantastic Pluto, which Sarah and her companions discovered while returning from their discouraging voyage to the system of Poseidon. (Perks and promotions had been promised on their finding the fabled god’s trident. Alas, all they’d found were dusty moon rocks, and there were plenty of those next door to home.) On Pluto, fresh fruit dangled from the trees. They camped by the beach, where the sand was pink and pale. It was a welcome respite, and no one was eager to hurry back home. Here, the weather was lovely. Curious creatures populated the land. Silver otters and sapphire hummingbirds. Tiny compsognathus that scampered in the beach grass. It was Tony, their systems engineer, who discovered them. “I’m good with animals. Look, I’ve got this guy eating out of the palm of my hand!” he said. “Maybe it’s him that’s good with you,” Sarah said. The compsognathus crushed Tony’s walnut like a marshmallow. # It was on everyone’s mind that Pluto could be their meal ticket to make up for their failed trip. It held possibilities as a wealth of natural resources, could at the very least serve as pit stop for future trips to this part of the galaxy. In her notes, Sarah wrote that they’d encountered no real predators, no intelligent life. The land was pristine and uninhabited, and the creatures that lived here were meek and small. (The compsognathus were turning into a bit of a nuisance, unfortunately. They’d become bold about entering the camp, and one had even bitten Sarah on the hand.) Their marine biologist, Sofia, reported strange disturbances in the water. She thought there was something lurking just out of range of her equipment, something that watched her as she caught specimens to take back home. “Fluttering jellies?” “Check.” “Apple-sized ocean sunfish?” “Check.” “Our favorite compsognathus?” “Right here,” Sofia replied. The compsognathus whined plaintively from the cage that Tony had wrought it from black reeds. # A few days before their departure, Sarah walked along the beach when she came upon a creature that stood blocking her path. The creature was seal-like with elk-like antlers. It was different, aware—intelligent. It loomed ominous and large, and appeared to have been waiting for her. What was this strange creature? Where was it from? Did it have a herd of its kind? More creatures like seals with antlers? Sarah felt excitement rather than fear as she slowly approached it. The two faced each other upon the sand, each perceiving the other as alien. How often had a similar scenario occurred in the history of living things, when initial wonder ignites into desire for that which isn’t yours to take? She knew she shouldn’t touch it. It wasn’t her place to touch it. She reached out her hand. # C.E. Hyun’s stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Ideomancer, The Good Men Project, decomP, and Mirror Dance. She lives in Orange County, California and at cehyun.com. Illustration by guest artist Jen Muir. More of Jen Muir’s work can be found at http://platypusradio.me/.

“The hardest thing,” Eve says, “is the monotony, the same jokes every day, the same bad puns. When there are just three other people, there are only so many stories to tell.” Lucy shakes her head; this isn’t the worst thing. She can no longer remember anyone she knew. The memories of the dead are synced up with those of the living, when something is forgotten in one land it is lost irrevocably to both. This is why Lucy doesn’t remember her real name, and why ghosts, in the mute language of creaking and moans, desperately try to reignite living memories of their singing voice, of favorite dresses, the contents of their kitchens and the things they drew. In the land of the dead, everyone runs out of outfits pretty quickly, walking around in clothes taken from museums, whose original owners have been forgotten. It’s the same with people. You only pop up on this level if someone outside the astral plane remembers you. Eve has been here for years, and Lucy only since somebody dug up her pelvis, yanking her uncomfortably out of the place beyond. The two of them form a sort of unofficial club, although they often don’t have much to say to one another. They talk, instead, about the one thing both of them remember, that everyone remembers, which is the land, as it was, and as it is down there somewhere. They spend afternoons analyzing the umber shadows that stretch across the plains and deserts they called home. Time passes slowly here, and as they sit, and sip, civilizations are rise and decline, lakes well up and overtake the desert before shrinking again to nothing. Grey dust slides down the hills, valleys are filled, and new mountains rise up. Some folktales say that when you are born, your death is born with you, hovering behind you like a guardian angel, waiting to take you away when your time comes. But maybe instead it’s a less specific death, spirits on vacation, your lifespan a flash of time as it stands close, taking a moment to survey the shifting light chase itself across the planes. # Emily Beyda is a part time writer and full time snack enthusiast who lives in the treehouse in the Hollywood hills. Her work has appeared in The Hairpin, The Cupboard, and Postcard Shorts. Follow her on Twitter @emilybeyda. Illustration by guest artist Jen Muir. More of Jen Muir’s work can be found at http://platypusradio.me/.

Priprat was a city but now Priprat is ghosts. Long grey snouts and round glass eyes. They stomp through the flat, the glomps of their muddy boots sticking in my ears as I hide. I am meant to be asleep. Or maybe gone. The clock on the wall says 3 o’clock—time for Baba to begin the roast—carrots, turnips, a butt of meat, the flesh golden, electric heat sucking pink juices from the skin. Baba once told stories: a dark-mouthed oven hungry for the fat arms of children who got too close, nasty, half-dead geese escaping from its greasy blackness to pull you in. Now Baba keeps her face turned from the closed lips of the stove and does not answer when I speak to her. My ear to the outside wall, I listen closely for Priprat and hear nothing. I slide out from behind green drapes, quiet as a cat in the forest. The grey-suited ghosts never hear me making a sound. They will not take me away. Boba lies on the couch. He was a guard at the power plant but now he sleeps, waits, for what I do not know, shaving cream spotting his neck and the tongues of his collar. I remember when he used to shave my cheeks. “Hold very still now,” he would say, one palm thick and warm against my chin, “Still as stones, goruchka,” his finger a pretend razor ready to sweep the cream away. Boba’s face is stony in his sleep, like he is holding his breath. I laugh, think of the games children make adults play. Surely soon Baba will awaken and find me a groom. If the ghosts do not find me. I didn’t know to hide until the day of the explosions—the television was on and I watched other grey men tapping the tiny glass screen on every channel, saying words like evacuation, radiation, explosion, Priprat, Priprat, Priprat. Boba stared hard at the ghosts, prepared himself like he was going to a wedding or a funeral, kissed my cheek and went to sleep on the couch. Baba was already sick in the kitchen, crying and vomiting in the corner. “Let no one inside, goruchka, promise me,” her silver-spun hair looked almost yellow, “if anyone comes, hide.” Her eyes were grey stones. “The snouted men are ghosts who take girls away, make experiments of them, feed them to monsters.” Baba had been taken from here once, to Germany. She swore that leaving home was almost certain death. They came soon after but did not find me. I hid behind the drapes, my face tingling and red hot. Their name was painted on the chests of their suits with the other words from the television. They do not come back as often now; perhaps when they do it is only a dream, a trick—the glow of the moon so like the sick yellow of their glass eyes, shining on the television that no longer turns on. # KL Pereira's fiction, poetry, and nonfiction are forthcoming or appear in Lightning Cake, The Golden Key, Innsmouth Free Press, Innsmouth Magazine, Mythic Delirium, Jabberwocky, The Medulla Review, Bitch Magazine and other publications. Her chapbook, “Impossible Wolves” was published by Deathless Press is 2013. Find Pereira online: darknesslovescompany.com and @kl_pereira. Illustration by guest artist Jen Muir. More of Jen Muir’s work can be found at http://platypusradio.me/.

The elders told stories of the time before, when the people swam up to the land of burning sky, and Bright Tail listened and dreamed. So, when the strange vessel descended through dark water, emanating burning brightness from a single eye, he imagined visitors with normal faces and split tails inside. He considered greeting it, holding his hand out in peace, but the stories held him back. It bobbed above him, its light sweeping in arcs. In the stories, split-tails hunted his people with harpoons and nets. Safety mattered. His dreams did not. He hurled his spear at the light. # Jamie Lackey lives in Pittsburgh with her husband and their cat. Her short fiction has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and the Stoker Award-winning After Death.... She's a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. Her Kickstarter-funded short story collection, One Revolution, is available on Amazon.com. Find her online at www.jamielackey.com. Illustration by guest artist Jen Muir. More of Jen Muir’s work can be found at http://platypusradio.me/.

My Mars Base will have a blue-sky dome, where people will go to cure their blue-sky rickets. My Mars Base will have lots of dead ends. My Mars Base will have a miniature version of Every Great Thing From Human History, small enough to fit on the head of a pin. My Mars Base will grow lettuce. My Mars Base will have deep dark ventilation shafts that seem to drop off forever. My Mars Base will have a holodeck, where people will program jungles and mountain ranges and sidewalks with dandelions in the cracks. My Mars Base will be hypoallergenic. My Mars Base will have a replica Earth-style graveyard, where first-generation Martian teens will gather to drink and wonder aloud what their parents must have been thinking. My Mars Base will have sexbots. My Mars Base will have airlocks and surface suits, which many parents will use to flee during the teenager uprising. My Mars Base will have compressed air tanks, but not enough for all those fleeing parents. My Mars Base will have trowels for lettuce gardening, which will also make passable weapons. My Mars Base will have ladders. My Mars Base will have a vat of acid with a narrow catwalk over it. Why? I don't know, I just think it's a nice feature. My Mars Base will have an angry computer. I already mentioned the dead ends in my Mars Base, but I didn't mention that some of those dead ends will have axes in glass cases—the sort you're supposed to use in a fire to chop down a door. That may seem anachronistic, but I think future Martians will forgive the lapse when they're hacking through hordes of haywire sexbots. My Mars Base will have a wolf pack in a zoo. The wolf cage will have an electronic lock. My Mars Base will have a saying among migrants: "What could possibly go wrong?" In the final days on my Mars Base, the ventilation shafts will jam up with jumpers. My Mars Base will have escape pods, of course, but the frustrating thing is that the food supplies for the trip back home will be stored in a separate part of my Mars Base, and the only way to get to them will be to cross the vat of acid, but there will be too many haywire sexbots between the survivors and the supplies, not to mention the wolves that the angry computer set free, not to mention the marauding cannibal teens. My Mars Base will have a weird forbidding tunnel with flickering lights and hazy portholes. This tunnel will lead to the heart of my Mars Base. My Mars Base will have a central command console. My Mars Base will have a self-destruct button. My Mars Base, when it finally blows, will send a burst of O2 into the thin poisonous atmosphere, and in that moment the signature of my Mars Base will be visible, spectroscopically, from Earth. To those who are watching the skies. # Trevor Shikaze lives in the Prairies, where you will find him birdwatching, if you find him at all. Illustration by guest artist Jen Muir. More of Jen Muir's work can be found at http://platypusradio.me/.

The pennies slip under my soles as I climb toward the lighthouse. Each step sends a long spill of them gleaming my way back down, sends me clutching for the ragged stone underneath. Silver winks from the copper embrace: nickels, dimes, quarters. Plenty of people come clutching bills tight as rigor mortis too. All the loose-palmed people end up empty-handed and despairing somewhere between forest and bluffs and the absent noise of the surf. Eventually everyone gets desperate enough to snatch a fluttering paper from someone's slack fingers. It's a cycle—so they say. Me, I came down living, solid gold rings on my fingers, and the ferryman spat over the edge of his boat. But he took me. Nobody tells you his toll isn't money. What could a man buy, out here on the edge of death? No, it's something you treasure, something it hurts to lose. He says it's to dull the blade when it comes—but maybe he's greedy, maybe he's envious. Who'd blame him, out here working the soundless ocean as long as the sky stays overcast and the wind stays mean. So he takes something you love, and it stings, but when you get down to death's country you don't even notice all your passion seeping off. And all the while the pile of coins grows, as he flicks them two by two shining into the night and they rattle their way to a resting-place. Now I'm climbing that slope. I scramble upward. Time means nothing here, but every moment passing is another one to bear. The doorknob is polished smooth by a thousand dead men's hands. I wipe my palms on my shirt and try. Cobwebs cover the windows and dust covers the air. Stairs spiral up, the railing collapsed into splinters halfway through the first turn. I don't test my weight on them, I just go up. A skeleton guards the beacon controls: carpals teeter on the console, and on the floor pelvis, femurs, and tarsals are a game of pick-up-sticks. I'm not stupid enough to interfere without obeisance. I kneel, split my skin with my knife, and give blood and spit to the dead. The hammer in the corner fits my hands. When I smash the beacon's lens, putting out the light that guides the boat back in, the sound's the loudest thing I've heard here. Nobody tells you the ferryman doesn't take anything for the return. The toll coming back is something given: something you looked away from. Something you cannot bear. I drop the hammer and go down the stairs. One cracks under my feet, rotten, but the next is sturdy. Descending the shore's easier than coming up it. The first coin skips three times before it sinks into the water. The second just disappears. Somebody will be along soon, I've no doubt: clutching their money, their vanished dreams, their memories of the lover they're chasing. Someone should be here to tell them there's no point in waiting. # Alena McNamara lives near Boston. She doesn't trust oceans. You can find her other work via alenamcnamara.com. Illustration by guest artist Jen Muir. More of Jen Muir's work can be found at http://platypusradio.me/.

When the sink hole opened up behind my house and swallowed both the dried up brick well and peach tree, I saw a city in the earth. A perfect circle, roughly thirty feet in diameter, hundreds of feet down, yawned for light and illuminated houses like pueblo dwellings, complete with shutters, flower boxes, and ornately carved doors embedded in the rotting limestone walls. I called my neighbors to come see and it wasn’t long before most of the town stood, shielding eyes against the sun, all in the same fashion: channeling Texas grandfather poses outside a gas station in high summer. There were no ladders, no bridges, no lights, no people—only seemingly husked residences. Brenda Houx took the children to her house; she said she didn’t want any part of what was down there and it wasn’t for the young ones either. We let her leave and then set up lawn chairs in curiosity and while we grunted in unworded speculation, old Miss Famke made limeade. Every few hours one of us would venture a phrase or two but eyes were too large for words and the silence continued to eat us. Finally, Skeeter Collins, the widower who owned the hardware store, declared he was going down and spent the next three hours lashing ladders to each other. I’d never seen anything like it, folded metal like a marionette had lost its body. Eventually I got up to help him and we sat in the grass with gardening shears and cut pieces of rope to tie them together. It was about the time that we finished when the Carols wheeled their gas grill around to my backyard for hotdogs. When they were done, Skeeter wiped his tanned, wrinkled hands on his overalls and nodded to himself, affirming some thought none of us were privy to. It was almost seven when he backed up his Ford F250 and fixed up his trailer hitch. “I never believed I’d see the day,” he said. “You hear about these things, you know. Sink holes opening up. I’ve seen pictures too, but it never looked like anything was down ‘em. Wonder if they’re all like this.” We didn’t tell him that it probably wasn’t like that. It might have been the way we all breathed a little shallower, or the way we felt our eyes widen when a door below appeared suddenly open. Things like that just didn’t happen round our parts, and cruelly, we were all willing to let him go for our own excitement. I helped him feed the ladders into the hole, six in all, 132 feet long. It didn’t even seem strange, the way we all waved goodbye like we knew he wasn’t coming back, and the way he laughed and ducked his head into shadows like he knew he wasn’t either. By the time he reached the top most house, he was little more than a shadow himself, slipping into brightly painted earth like the last of the sun. # Gwendolyn Edward lives in Texas and is finishing her MA in Creative Writing at the University of North Texas while preparing to enter Bennington’s MFA. She writes fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and likes to write both traditional narrative prose and prose that challenges convention, form, and genre. This is because her father encouraged her to challenge everything growing up. You can find her at www.gwendolynedward.com. Illustration by guest artist Jen Muir. More of Jen Muir's work can be found at http://platypusradio.me/.