Free Fat Girl in a Strange Land by Bart R. Leib, Kay T. Holt Page A

parents sat with her for a few minutes.
    Sergeant Salzman waited until they were gone to come see her. He was young — only twenty-five — which had surprised Wen when she’d met him in person. He pulled a chair to her bedside and took her small hand in his large, dark ones, staring at her with intense, deep-set brown eyes. “You did it.”
    She turned to him. “I did it.”
    He always said that to her, and she always said that to him. When they’d first met, Wen had been fiercely shy, especially under his attentive stare — “I was there when they brought you aboard,” he’d said; “I helped save you.” — but now they’d become friends and Salzman spent at least half his off-shifts with Wen, playing games or just talking.
    And on those moments when the guilt came, when Wen broke down in sobs and asked him why she’d been the only one to survive, Salzman — his first name was Shael — held her hand and passed her tissue after tissue.
    Today, though, was a good day. Today, Wen smiled at Shael. Today, Shael smiled back.
    Today, Wen was alive.
    Josh Roseman (not the trombonist; the other one) lives in Georgia (the state, not the country). His writing has appeared in Asimov’s , Fusion Fragment , and Big Pulp , and in audio form on the Drabblecast and Dunesteef , where he won the 2009 Broken Mirror Story Contest. He is a reviewer for Escape Pod and a performer whose voice has been heard on the Hugo-winning StarShipSofa , the Parsec-winning Pseudopod , and the Parsec-nominated Dunesteef . Follow him on Twitter @listener42 , at facebook.com/AuthorJosh , or on his website, roseplusman.com .

The Right Stuffed
    by Brian Jungwiwattanaporn
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    Anna was screaming as she fell. She closed her eyes, wondering if the impact would hurt. Smashing into the ground should be instant death, but Anna had doubts. She envisioned her last millisecond stretching for an eternity, pain searching for new parts of her body to exploit and tease. Feeling her clothes pressed against the front of her body, she could hear the crack of her jacket as her body dived down. Again she hoped, like the times before, that her life would mercifully choose not to replay itself. Scenes before her eyes of being bullied, eating, dieting, baking, failed romance, and resignation. The girls at the playground would push her down while singing “Humpty Dumpty,” wondering if she would break. Once they pushed her off the slide to see if she would bounce. Break or bounce flashed through Anna’s head as she sped downwards.
    Then she remembered to listen.
    “Anna, you’re not falling,” said the voice in her head.
    Anna tried to form a reply as panic chased the words out of her head.
    “Calm down. Remember your training.”
    Squeezing her eyes shut, she managed a thought, “Yes,” and then a reply; “I’m here Vish, I’m here.”
    The ground stopped. She floated. Tucking her knees in, she leaned back until she could stand upright, walking on air. Catching her breath, she started to smooth out her clothes, focusing on her movements. Falling and vertigo were the first experiences of insertion into the Void; she went through her little ritual to achieve equilibrium.
    “Glad you’re still with us. You don’t have to breathe you know.” said the voice in her head. “But you did well, you didn’t even flail on the drop this time.”
    “I remember. Thanks, Vish. Not sure if I’ll ever get used to this,” Anna said. Lifting her pistol out of its holster, she looked at the beige totality surrounding her, a landscape lanced with silver ribbons wrapped in shifting mists. “Ready.”
    “Just another day in the Military Intelligence Brigade.”
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    Anna watched the other women in the room, shifting their bodies, trying to find comfort between the narrow armrests of their chairs. She arrived early and managed to claim the waiting room’s sole couch, resting her handbag on the cushion next to her, solidifying her claim to the space. They mostly sat in