All good things…

By Kristy Harding

It’s been almost three years since Paper Tape began publishing. With regret I announce that as of today, Paper Tape submissions will be closed indefinitely. In many ways, I believe that the past few months have been some of our best, but it’s time for us to move on to other things.

From the beginning, I’ve been amazed by the support for this publication. I’m proud of what we built here, and I plan to keep this site haunting the Internet as long as possible.

It’s been an incredible journey that wouldn’t have been possible without the artists and writers who trusted us with their work, especially Sid, Matt, Elizabeth, and Maya. Thanks to Leander, Brandon, Tom, Ian, Kristi, Crista, Nate, Hannah, and Keagan for believing in Paper Tape when it was no more than a crazy scheme and helping to launch this venture. Editors Jessica and Harmony, I owe you an incredible debt for all of your help and support and sticking with it to the end.

To all of you reading this, may your reel of the fantastic never run out.



Molly’s Garden

By Jason L. Rowell

He woke up, the bright red message flashing “End of Reel.” Over and over, a hell of a way to start another day. He reached over, slapping blindly at the deck on the bedside table before clumsily finding the off button. As the Stimdeck wound down he removed the input electrodes tossing them on top of the small black deck and placed his bare feet on the cold floor. With his head heavy in his scarred hands he sighed trying to pull together the motivation to stand, to push himself out of the soft comforting bed and face the world and the cold reality that Molly wasn’t around. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the fuzzy glow of the deck’s status LEDs and in it the image of a glowing lotus half buried beneath the mounds of tapes and cases. He fumbled through the tapes, tossing most aside but picking out the one with the holographic blossom on it, he held it in his hands studying the petals as they shimmered across the smooth surface. He had this one specially made, just for him. Just for today, just for one final knock out. Continue reading


This Word Is Grow

by Harmony Button

I got my first sunburn of the season while I was outside, in the back yard, tying sticks together with little pieces of twine to make an archway into the garden. It’s a yearly ritual based around the unruly growth of a neighbor’s tree, which is one of those reasonably attractive arboreal weeds that grows Hydra-like knots on the side of its trunk – there’s a big wad of living wood that continually shoots out pups and sprouts that I hack off, only to see two more branches spring up in the place of one. If I don’t stay vigilant, I look up one day to find the entire entrance to my garage has been blocked by awkwardly low-growing foliage. So I get out there with the clippers and snip off all the new limbs that spawned in the spring, leaving just enough coverage over the chain link fence to allow the boyfriend to wander around the back yard in his Jedi bathrobe, as he is wont to do, without being in the neighbor’s line of sight.

The last year’s kale is also plotting world domination, reaching never-before-seen heights of six or seven feet. It turned the herb garden into an edible hedgerow with tiny yellow flowers so thick that Jason occasionally removes the Jedi bathrobe behind the cover of dense foliage in order to enjoy a brisk outdoor shower from the spray head of the garden hose. There are certain things in life that bring us an overwhelming sense of wellbeing: my pathway to tranquility is to feel myself swing, weightless, in a sun-dappled hammock; Jason’s is through peaceful moments of outdoor nudity. Luckily, the back yard can satisfy both of these pursuits.


I’ve not always had the best of judgement when it comes to falling in love. Most of the time, they just were good, kind people who just weren’t that into me, and I was too young and dumb to see their polite disinterest as a sign of anything but a wonderfully slow beginning to what might be an incredibly romantic story. It shouldn’t be any surprise to me, then, that I started out my relationship with Jason in a similar way: love was something happened to me, that I found myself inside of, rather than something that I knew how to cultivate, to grow. I was the weed; he was the water. And I’m not sure Jason was much better, to be honest – he seemed like he was, all talking about what he was looking for, what he was working on personally, what he wanted from life, what he wanted from love. But from the safe and loving distance of ten years, I call bull shit on all that. He was as much of an ignorant, juvenile mess as I was. Continue reading


INTERVIEW: Simone Caroti (Part 2)

Simone Caroti is Course Director for Science Fiction and Fantasy at Full Sail University and a senior research scientist at the Astrosociology Research Institute (ARI), a non-profit organization devoted to bringing the humanities and the social sciences into the debate on human colonization of outer space. He is the author of The Generation Starship in Science Fiction: A Critical History, 1934-2001, and The Culture Series of Iain M. Banks: A Critical Introduction, which was published by McFarland in 2015.

This is the second part of a two part interview. Part 1 was published in November 2014. In the second part of his interview with Paper Tape editor Kristy Harding, Simone talks about his new book, some recent happenings in fantasy and science fiction, and what he plans to write about next.

PT: So, when we left off last time, you were still writing the book. How did the rest of the process go? Continue reading

New Hunger

By A. R. Gwydeon

Lying on the ground, I gasped for air, fighting against the pain. The rhythm of my heartbeat  started to slow and I was nearing my last breath. Eyes watering and jaw clenching, I stubbornly tried to hold on. I’m not ready to be food. The battlefield around me had gone quiet, littered with my fallen comrades. Just when I started accepting all hope was lost, a shadow approached  from the side. A horrifying creature reached out to me, rotting flesh barely clinging to its rickety frame. It stopped only a few feet away from me, terrifying black eyes glaring as a hissing sound gurgled from its mouth. A gaping hole filled the space where its stomach should have been and a rat was nestled in a pile of intestine, loops spilling out and draping over its torn uniform. Another rat emerged from a hole in the creature’s neck and then a third escaped from a leg.

More rats exited the body and soon a group was racing towards me. Fear  had a new name, as tiny, sharp teeth cut into my skin. Only minutes ago, death had been a horrifying prospect. Now I longed for it as the rats burrowed into me. First they feasted on my liver and kidneys, then moved passed the lungs to reach my heart, the sweetest treat. Finally, they attacked the soft tissue at the back of my neck and chewing through bone, tunneled to my brain. Consciousness slipped away with each nibble, peace would soon be mine. Then the lights went out in my eyes and my lips quivered as my final breath drifted over them. Then I was floating over my body, over the field; the clouds never felt so close! The feeling of absolute weightlessness washed over me and a soothing light called out to me ahead, but before I could reach it, an invisible force dragged me back to my half eaten mind.

My eyes fluttered open, awake to the world anew. Everything looked gray and the rats continued to feed inside me but this no longer mattered. A new hunger welled up inside me . A cry pierced the air and I rose to find the source. Clumsily, I trudged through the mud, my weak legs strengthening with each step. A sweet smell greeted my nose, enticing and promising to feed the new ache inside. More screams echoed and then I saw it, a warm body lying out, helpless. I knelt down, pushing aside the protests of swinging arms and bit deeply into the living flesh; it was intoxicating. Blood ran down the sides of my mouth as I continued to feed. Around me, a new army was rising from the dead, driven by hunger and not greed.

A. R. Gwydeon works in an old fashioned butcher shop and studies Celtic and Norse mythology. She lives a chaotic neutral life with her husband and two black cats in Portland, OR. This is her first published story.


Admiral of the Narrow Seas (Part 4)

By Sidney Williams

“Admiral of the Narrow Seas” is a serial published in four parts. The rest of the story can be found here

It is well documented that we found Teach in the Bay of Honduras. We knew not what he suspected, but we had little choice but to proceed with a veil of parley. It was a way to gain access without turning our ship into cannon fodder.

We weighed anchor near the Queen Anne and the chess game began. Continue reading


Admiral of the Narrow Seas (Part 3)

By Sidney Williams

“Admiral of the Narrow Seas” is a serial published in four parts. The rest of the story can be found here

He was not Caesar when she knew him in Africa.

“That is the white man’s name,” she said. “He was a chieftan in our land. He had all that he desired but me. He was smitten and asked me to be his bride, but I refused because I loved Samuel. It was then he conspired to have Samuel in chains. When I still refused to marry him, he ordered the ritual that took Samuel’s soul and put it in a clay jar. I swore then I would never be his, so he sent me to this land as well.”

It is true, Jonathan. All of this began in their homeland as a triangle of three lovers. We reached out and brought it to our door, a byproduct of deeds I’ve come to see are as dark as any magic. Continue reading