The Flowering of Nightmares and Dreams

We drove up the mountain, following the river around the curves, frosted peaks in the distance. Passed through a lush forest, and a few hours later, there it was. Right on the edge of civilization—the birthing center. I eyed the tall gray cement walls from the car window. My voice was gone from screaming and crying, and my fingers hurt from trying to punch open the glass. I was already bruised. Numb. 

The agent parked the car, then got out, coming to my side. He opened the door, waiting for me to exit. But if I stepped out—then this was real. Then I was officially under “protection” by NAMPF. The National Agency for Monitoring Pregnant Females. 

The agent straightened the collar of his navy military uniform and said, “Get out, or I’ll drag you out myself.” 

I swallowed painfully, my throat like sandpaper from crying for hours, and wiped my puffy eyes. Taking a breath, I got out of the car, my swollen belly shaking as my body vibrated with fear. 

“This way,” the agent barked. 

I eyed his gun and followed him inside. This was all wrong—the fate I’d been avoiding for months. I resented the baby for it. I wouldn’t be here if not for the baby. Bailey would still be here. My stomach cramped, and I welcomed the pain. 

The agent checked in with the guards monitoring the front of the building. I clocked the machine guns and tasers strapped to their belts. The agent grabbed my arm and yanked me inside. He passed me off to a nurse, exchanging my life for a stack of hundred-dollar bills. I looked back outside, debating if I should make a run for it. 

“Hello. We’re going get you all set up,” an orderly in a gray uniform chimed. 

My vision swayed as I suddenly felt lightheaded, and stumbled forward. Lights flickered in my vision as I looked down, feeling something wet gushing down the inside of my pants, creating a small puddle of red on the tile floor.

“We have a code three,” someone said, and my vision blurred. 

As I passed out, all I could see were falling purple flowers. 

A few months ago, the pharmacies pulled their medication. The long white shelves looked barren, brittle like bones. People couldn’t find painkillers, antacid, cough syrup, cold medicine, vitamins, allergy pills, ear drops, eye drops, burn or itch cream, sunscreen, supplements, bandages, joint braces, even laxatives—all of it. Gone. 

My husband had enough insulin for a few months—I promised myself we would figure it out. But I stumbled around my local CVS in a daze, hoping against hope that a store clerk had left something. Anything. In another aisle, perhaps hidden behind a case of crayons, or a box of tissues. 

They hadn’t. It didn’t even cross my mind that the next week, things like birth control and pads would be gone too. 

The week I got my ultrasound, I went to the local bookstore. I heard the baby’s heartbeat in every step I took toward the dim windows. The store was closed, so I pressed my face to the glass, peering inside. It looked like all the books were cleaned out. I wished there were colorful spines, or one dusty stack left. I wondered if a book had ever existed about having a baby you didn’t want. 

I tried to find any prenatal anything at the supermarket the week the hospitals kicked out their patients. News helicopters showed live footage of the gurneys lining the streets, blocking the roads by the emergency entrances. Around the buildings, people were crying—screaming. Adults and children, some of them just out of surgery, stitches or tubes pulling with no pain medicine, the elderly or sick disconnected from their IVs, sleeping off anesthesia under the cold sun. The nurses and doctors were sent home or arrested. People came to collect the unhospitalized. Some of the patients never woke up. 

My husband and I watched the news, stomachs sinking as the medical schools were bombed and hospitals razed to the ground. Our sheepdog, Bailey, whined at our feet as books were removed from libraries, added to a huge bonfire in front of the White House. Protestors were silenced with snipers and gas. Doctors’ houses were searched for contraband. People were murdered. And all in the name of evolution. 

Normal people like me, we just watched the flames. We got scared. We called anyone we knew with a condition, an illness, a disability, a comorbidity, and said, “Get out. Get out. Take what you can and get out now.” Where they went? I didn’t know. 

I debated aborting the baby, but either way, I was too late. They shut down the free clinics, and the back-alley practices. They shut down the eye doctors and ear doctors and throat doctors. People were resorting to growing herbs, making tea, begging their family who knew the ways of nature’s medicine to teach them. Most of them poisoned themselves. I didn’t ask if it was intentional. 

Too soon, my husband made a go bag with shaking hands, his warm brown eyes looking at me with concern as I finished counting his insulin vials. He wouldn’t make it past the weekend. There was no black market, no anything. We had called and called—friends, cousins, neighbors. No one else we knew was diabetic. No one knew how to get any insulin. The government censor affected the internet, blocked our searches. So we prepared. 

I rubbed my stomach. He packed a puffer coat, flannels, and mittens. Wrote down some notes. The government mandated that all childbirths take place at their facility centers. My husband panicked and cleaned out our in-progress nursery. I got morning sickness. He stuffed the go bag. I glared at my stomach—and the parasite growing in my womb. 

Our neighborhood got quiet. People left. We debated when to leave. The dog barked, following my husband around the house as he searched for supplies. I thought he was being paranoid. He thought I was being stupid. We fought. We cried. We kissed. We ate. No vials left. I called 911. They said that there was nothing they could do. Emergency services no longer applied to medical emergencies. 

Without the insulin, my husband went into DKA. Then, a coma. I was thankful. At least he wasn’t in pain. There were worse ways to go. 

I washed his face, made him comfortable on the bed. He rested under his favorite blanket. Bailey curled up next to him, placing his chin on my husband’s leg. I opened the windows, letting the sunlight wash over his face. I talked to him about how much I loved him, how angry I was that he was leaving me, that I hadn’t signed up to raise a child in a world without him. I closed my eyes when my voice got too hoarse to speak. 

Tears dripped down my face while I dug up the dirt in the backyard, making a grave under the wisteria tree. Purple flowers drifted into the dirt. Sweat ran down my back, down the curve of my growing breasts. I stopped every few minutes to wipe my eyes on my T-shirt. The dog whined by the shovel I’d tossed in the grass. When I got nauseous, I threw up in the bushes, then continued digging. 

A few hours later, I lay on the couch, ignoring the body in our bedroom. When I was ready, I covered it in a blanket and slowly dragged it into the grave. Luckily, it was lighter in death. I covered his face with soil, patted down the dirt, and then I finally let myself break. 

I sat under the falling petals as the baby kicked, pushing against my bladder. I still had a few months to figure out the birth. The baby was all I had left of him—of our life together. I wasn’t going to register as pregnant and head to some clinical government facility. I needed to start over somewhere, somewhere that didn’t remind me of summer sunshine and purple flowers. 

I took a breath and picked myself up. Then I leashed the dog, picked up the go bag, and left.

I drove north, heading up the mountain pass, cold slate on our left and an icy river on our right. The sun faded into misted clouds, and a gloom fell that mirrored my thoughts. It would be so easy to drive off the winding road. Through the railing and into the water. Letting it all fall away. Then, Bailey whined from the passenger seat and rested his nose by my stomach. I sighed. I had to keep going. If not for the baby, then for the dog.

We soon drove past a sign, and the town rose up before us. There was a school, a library, a deli, a coffee shop, a grocery store, two gas stations—I inhaled and pressed the brakes as I saw the rubble on my right. The hospital hadn’t been a big building, but the concrete and plaster hadn’t been carted away yet. Probably weren’t many people who did that work in a town as remote as this. 

Bailey whined, pawing at the window, and I pressed on the gas, driving us through the streets to our new home. It was nothing like the one we’d come from—all dappled sunlight and summer breezes. This one had chipped white paint, and snowcapped mountains looming behind the worn facade. 

I parked by the side of the road, making sure to cover my stomach with my green puffer coat. I didn’t want to broadcast that I was pregnant. Bailey trotted around in the cool grass, sniffing bushes and peeing on flowers, marking his territory. 

We went inside the house and I looked at the space. My friend’s vacation house was furnished, and she’d said I could stay as long as I wanted. Our savings would last me a while. I didn’t need much. When the kid was older, I could find work again. 

I set the go bag down on the dining table, my throat closing up. It was so quiet out here—the only sound was the rustle of wind in the trees outside. No traffic, no noise, no light pollution. We were as off the grid as we were going to get. Bailey snuffled around in the other room. Exhausted, I leaned against the dining table, then unzipped my bag. 

I sorted through the small stash of all the medication that had been in our home cabinet—some Tylenol, some Claritin, pills of various brands, my bulky women’s vitamins, and the mother lode: a bottle of OxyContin from my gallbladder removal several years past. Next I found the flashlight, bottles of water, cans of dog food, granola bars, and steak knives, a hammer, and a screwdriver.

I read the note my husband left me, tracing the imprint of his pen on the paper. Keep your head low. Get a new citizen registry certificate—new age, new name. Prevent injury by not taking unnecessary risks. Trust no one. Feed the dog. I love you.

For the next month, I inserted myself into the small town without too much trouble. Bailey and I went for walks in the morning, binged old DVDs in the afternoon, and gardened or cooked in the evening. I learned to crochet and made it my mission to make as many tiny outfits as I could. 

I made friends with an older baker who said I reminded him of his granddaughter. He had a dry cough and silver hair. He owned the deli, and he brought me fresh loaves of bread once a week. He pretended not to know I was pregnant. I pretended not to know he had something bad in his lungs. 

I kept my eyes off the news. Got a disposable phone. Told my mom I was safe. I paid a tattoo artist with some Oxy to forge my registry card. The government announced they were asking civilians to turn in pregnant people for their own safety. Every time I passed the destroyed hospital, I imagined lying on the broken bricks and going into labor, pushing this thing out of my body and leaving it there, blood covering the stones. 

After my new name was registered, things got easier. The government started giving out food rations, and I brought home canned beans, canned corn, even canned milk. I found some more snow coats at the thrift shop as the winter approached. 

I told my friend I was pregnant. His sad smile said he already knew. He continued bringing me bread as the baby craved it. Sourdough, rye, baguettes, challah, brioche, ciabatta—wheels and rounds and boules and sticks. 

One foggy afternoon, he asked me, coughing slightly, if I was going to give birth in the facility down in the next town over. 

I shrugged, noncommittal. 

The old baker put his lined hand on my own, saying, “If you’re interested in . . . er, cows—” 

I blinked, confused. 

He continued, “Well, the local dairy farm just had a calf.” 

I nodded. “Okay?” 

He nodded again, silver hair shifting. “Okay.” And he removed his hand from mine. 

It took me a few minutes to understand what he was saying. I didn’t know whether to curse my own stupidity, or my pregnancy brain fog, or both. My friend was saying there was someone who could deliver the baby—someone at the farm. 

I promised him I would buy some milk tomorrow.

I drove home feeling relieved—my body heavy against the seat, the dog calm for once, sleeping against the cushion. Like gravity had kicked in for both of us. But as I parked, I noticed the living room lights were shining out into the neighborhood like a beacon. I’d left them off.

I reached into the glove compartment, pulling out the hammer, and I climbed out of the car, the dog bounding down behind me. My mouth dried out as I approached the open front door. My knuckles turned white. Bailey ran for the door, and I hissed, “Bailey,” trying to grab him, but he trotted into the house. 

Feeling foolish, I lifted the hammer. Maybe it was just pregnancy brain.

“Hello?” I stepped into the living room, floorboards creaking under my feet. 

I jolted as I saw the man sitting at my dining table, next to the focaccia I’d been saving for lunch. 

“Hello,” he replied, standing up. He wore a military-style uniform, all navy blue. He took his cap off, revealing buzzed blond hair. “You need better locks on your door.” 

I stiffened as the dog trotted right up to him, sniffing, tail wagging. The man pet the dog’s head as his cold, gray eyes looked into mine. “I’ll have to ask you to put that hammer down.” 

My hands were shaking, but I gritted out, “Get out of my house. Now.” 

The man clicked his tongue. “I’m here on behalf of NAMPF.” 

My eyes widened, breaths coming shallow. I’d seen reports on the news. Of what they were doing. What they had done.

“We have warrants to enter a household if an emergency requires it.” 

“Is this an emergency?” 

The man held up my forged registration certificate. “Care to explain why your civilian registration is a fake?” 

I tried to smile, playing dumb. “It is?” 

He waved the paper at me. “You’re missing the sticker. Should be on there.” 

“The DMV must have forgot it.” 

His eyes glittered. “Must have.” 

He sighed, pulling a gun out of his pocket. “Ma’am, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. You can put down that hammer and come with me to check into the nearest facility for your child’s birth. Or we can see how fast my bullets shoot you in the knees. Your choice.” 

I swallowed, searching my mind for anything helpful. “I’m only a few months out, I don’t need to go in yet—” 

“Federal law now states expectant mothers must come to a birth center ninety days before their labor.” 

I bit out, “And how do people know their due dates without testing?” 

The man just smiled, nonchalant, and I realized it didn’t matter to him—to them. I had to get out of there.

“I’ll go grab my things.” 

He leveled the gun at me. “You won’t need them. So put that hammer down. Should be about an hour’s drive.” 

Slowly, I set the hammer on the coffee table. Tears burned in my eyes. A knot formed in my throat. All my planning, and for what? The idea of going to some clinical facility, to be monitored and housed like animals, like breeding stock, was nauseating.  

The agent escorted me to his car. Bailey sniffed at the bushes by the front of the house. The agent opened the back door, and I slid in, calling out to the dog. The man shut the door. Pulled out his gun. His voice sounded muffled through the tinted glass. “Can’t bring dogs.” 

“Wait!” I yelled as Bailey bounded toward us. I tried the door. It was locked. I screamed. The agent fired a bullet. 

Tears blurred my vision as my dog fell. He lay in the grass, whining, blood trickling out his side and staining the green with red. 

“You can’t just leave him there!” I screamed at the agent. My dog, my first baby, the one I wanted, the one I chose—the only good thing I had left in the world was dying alone, in pain. 

I hyperventilated as I moaned and pounded on the windows, choking on my tears, hoping the glass would break. I kicked at the door and ripped at the handle to let me out, let me out, let me out, letmeout, letmeout, letmeout.

The agent leveled his gun. Bang. 

Bailey stopped moving. 

I froze, panting, my vision swimming as the agent walked around the side of the car. Salt water dripped off my chin as the ignition started. My lips tremored, my whole body shaking. The agent stepped on the gas and pulled away, leaving me with the image of Bailey left there in the grass. 

Three months in the facility, and my stomach was swollen and my breasts were huge. My nipples ached and my feet ached, but the heartache was the worst. I had given up trying to figure out how I got turned in. It could have been my baker friend, the tattoo artist, or a random grocery store clerk. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter. I was trapped in the facility until I gave birth—and survived it. 

Ironically, the facility was in an old hospital, one they didn’t blow up. But what once smelled of bleach and antiseptic now smelled of dust. The monitors and medical equipment were all gone. I had my own room, with my own bed, and shower and toilet. But the line between room and prison cell was thin. 

I could almost smell the misted air outside, could almost taste the river water, running clear over the stones. But until the baby was born and cleared as healthy, we were stuck in here with the yelling of the people in labor, the screams of their newborns, and the rusty squeaks of the carts that cleaned up the dead.

After I was brought out of monitored care for the stress-induced bleeding, I was given a room on level C—the fifty-fifty floor. Meaning the baby had a fifty-fifty chance of living. My husband was diabetic, so the baby could be. There were no more DNA tests to check for genetic illnesses—I’d asked, and they were considered “unevolutionary.” So until the baby survived at least two weeks with me post-birth, we were stuck here. If my labor went south, they would burn my body after I bled out. I’d seen it happen. If the baby didn’t make it past the waiting period, they didn’t let the parent say goodbye before taking the body. 

The people on level A were the most likely to make it out alive. Their ancestry had been screened, and none of their babies had preexisting conditions or genetic idiosyncrasies that worried the government. They also were abled and neurotypical and had no family history of disease. It must have been a lie. I guessed it was so minimal as to be negligible. 

The people on level E had it the worst. These were people with chronic conditions, disabilities, genetic mutations, mental illness, and the like. They were killed once their children were born. If their babies were lucky, they would make it out. But they’d be monitored for the rest of their lives, and not allowed to procreate. Any “infection” in the human lineage would be cut, trimmed, burnt, cauterized, and ripped out. 

Eugenics, my next-door neighbor on level C whispered. 

She’d been brought in at the start of her pregnancy and was due a month before me. We both wore the mustard-yellow maternity pants and shirt the facility had given us. Every floor was color-coded to make it easy to identify patients. We’d soon struck up a tentative friendship—her needing to tell me every single detail of her life, and me being willing to listen. 

She’d gotten pregnant just before the new laws kicked in, but the baby’s father had a history of epilepsy. She tried to keep a positive attitude and rolled her eyes whenever I mentioned resenting the baby growing inside me. 

“You’re creating life!” my neighbor said. “You don’t have to like it, but you should appreciate the amazing work your body is doing. And one day, when your baby and you are both out of here, you’ll come to appreciate how natural it all was.”

I just rolled my eyes and didn’t mention that I’d decided to escape before I went into labor. The baby would not be born as a level C fifty-fifty. I’d been talking with other pregnant people, trading tips for labor in whispers—all of us remembering bits and pieces, what could go wrong, what could go right. What the babies needed right away, what could hurt them. But some of the people paid attention to other things, like where the cameras had blind spots, where the keys to the main doors were stashed, and when the guards rotated shifts. 

Planning my escape kept me from going insane when I heard the news that slipped in from outside the facility—the wars started, the people killed, the resources squandered. Planning my escape kept me from going numb when I thought about my dead husband and my dead dog. And when I felt the baby kicking inside me, planning my escape kept me from cutting my stomach open and dragging it out myself. 

Soon enough, I realized that I had learned all that I could. My estimated due date was coming. It was now or never, so I created a plan. I didn’t write anything down; it was too easy to get caught. And as I lay in my bed pretending to sleep, I repeated everything over and over into my pillow, telling the baby that this was the plan. I would rather take my chances on delivering them outside the facility, without the risk of being killed for “apparent sickness.” 

The facility halls were a labyrinth, the fluorescent lights flickering intermittently as people walked through them. Guards were stationed at the entrance and exit of every level. Feeling the baby kick inside me, I adjusted my red maternity pants and fixed my top. Put on the matching sweater. The level As wore red, two steps up from our yellow, and I’d swiped the clothing from a laundry cart and hidden it in my pillow for months. I tied my hair up in a bun, then walked down the hallway. 

The guard by the elevator eyed me. I made a pained face. “I’m sorry, I went down the stairs for some exercise but feel too nauseous to go back up. Can you let me up?” I rubbed my stomach as the guard glanced at my outfit. I debated making up another excuse—but then he pressed the button. 

I went up to level A, walking down the hallway to the closet my neighbor had told me about when she saw the cleaning supplies. As I moved toward it, walking past a group of pregnant women, I pulled the fire alarm. Instantly, it blared through the hall. I winced as babies screamed and guards yelled, but I stepped inside the closet. I grabbed as many blankets as I could, tying them around me like a sash. As the herd of people spilled down the stairs, I waited to hear the stairwell door slam. Then, I headed out into the hallway. 

I walked up two flights of stairs, stepped out the door, and onto the roof. The early-spring air smelled refreshing after months with no open windows, and darkness hid my body as I found the fire escape. The ladder was so rusted and flimsy that I was sure it was going to crack under my heavier weight. I climbed down it, flinching at every shudder, wincing at every creak. It was slow going, and the cold metal bit into my fingers. 

Shaking, I made it to the ground. But I couldn’t let myself be relieved. Hearing the sirens approaching the hospital, I moved toward the nearby dumpster. I sat down, hoping I could get up by myself, and rewrapped the blankets around my body. I swathed myself in the scratchy white cotton. And then, I waited. I slumped against the dumpster, trying to look like a bundle of dirty blankets. 

The baby moved inside me, squirming a bit. I put my hand on my stomach, breathing in the stale, rancid air wafting from the trash. “Shh, shh,” I whispered, and the sensation stopped. I blinked, surprised it had listened to me. 

I swallowed, my throat already dry, and I rubbed my stomach. “You’re not going to be born here, I promise.” I could only hope the baby had stilled with agreement.  

When the sounds had died out and the moon was at its peak, I struggled to stand, unearthing myself from the blankets, and walked to the chain-link gate at the back of the parking lot. I took a deep breath and started digging. The chain link was the weakest point of the fence here, and there were no cameras near the dumpster. My nails cracked and bled as I tunneled through the dirt. But I ignored the pain, working as fast as I could. 

“Come on, come on,” I whispered to the baby. I paused, wiping the sweat off my brow, and then I froze, the hair on the back of my neck prickling.  

I turned my head, and right there, across from me, was a guard. He stared at me, as if perplexed to see me there. I shook from exhaustion, not knowing whether to make a play at midnight gardening or to try to stop him if he attempted to beat me to death. The leaves rustled under his feet as he walked closer. 

“I-I can explain—”

The guard pulled me off the ground, wrenching me upward. His dark eyes scanned me, from my dirt-covered hands, the cracked nails and bleeding skin, to my swollen belly and feet. I flinched as he reached down to his belt. I blinked as he handed me a Swiss Army knife. 

“Go,” he whispered, eyes shuttering. “I’ll cover for you.” 

“Thank you,” I rasped, eyes beading with tears, and he placed a finger over his lips. He shook his head, turning his back and walking back around the alley. I heard his voice echo, “Let’s go inside. It’s fucking cold out here.” 

I listened to the door slamming shut, and then, I clenched the tool in my shaking hand, sliding out the blade to a simple wire cutter. I didn’t know if this could cut through the metal—but it was the only option I had. 

And I didn’t know if I’d reminded that guard of a wife or a sister, but my lips pulled into a tentative smile at the idea that there was some good left in the world. 

I looked up at the moon rising higher, then knelt in the dirt. I took a breath and began prying apart the chain-link fence. 

The sky dawned as I finally cut through the fence. Exhausted, arms and hands vibrating with pain, I pulled apart the metal and struggled through the small hole. I clenched my jaw as the prongs of the metal I’d cut stabbed and scratched at my skin, but I ignored the pain. I clawed through the dirt, focusing on the fact that I was free.

I had to get to the river. I’d remembered seeing the winding curves on the way to the facility. Painfully, I got up, and strode into the forest, breathing hard, and hoped that the stress of escaping wouldn’t trigger another bleed like that first time. 

Leaves and sticks crunched under my feet as I jogged toward the sound of rushing water. I stepped over roots and under branches, following the sound of the current. Finally, I broke out of the canopy. 

The early-morning sunlight shone on the water—the river flowed over round black stones, gathering strength as the current ran north. Pain tightened my skin as I looked back over my shoulder. My arms were scraped up, and probably some of my neck and back, which meant I’d bled onto the ground. The forest stood behind me, green and silent as ever, but the guards would have my trail soon. I had to lose my scent and tracks. 

I took a breath, and hunched over, suppressing the sob that wanted to burst out of me. For the first time in a long time, I was alone. As I stared at the water, I wished my husband was there. I wished my dog was there. I didn’t know if I believed in their spirits hovering over me or if they’d gone to the afterlife. For now, I was by myself. 

I startled, blinking, as a feeling of cascading wetness ran down my pant leg. Quickly, I looked down for the dark stain of red on mud. But it was . . . just damp. It was wet. My water had broke, maybe too soon. I released a breath. Of course the baby was coming. Maybe it was stress, maybe it was natural timing, but I needed to go now. 

I bit my lip, eyeing the gray water. Contractions would be next. I walked forward, dipping a toe into the stream. The river was ice cold. Bracing myself, I headed into it. I hissed, breathing through my teeth as I sank into the froth. I paddled forward, my stomach buoyant, my shoes kicking into rocks and weeds below. 

In the middle of the river, shivering, I looked to the opposite bank. The mountain rose up before me, resplendent in the morning light. The snow-tipped peak loomed high above. I could walk across, hope that I made it to the other side of the mountain. Or I could see where the river led. The facility would surely hope that I picked the former. Easier to track me, to catch me. But with the latter, easier for me to die. They would not think I was so stupid. But I was having this baby now.

I took a breath, looked down the river. Maybe, I could forgive the baby for that—for entering this life regardless of what I wanted. It was just trying to survive, just like me. It was going down a path that my husband and I had created for it. In another life, we would have decorated the nursery, had a baby shower, prepared to welcome this baby with laughter and love. 

I looked around at the lightening sky, and the river, and the mountains. I was alone, but I had the sky, and the river, and the mountains, and my baby. And right now, we were free.    

I took several deep breaths and leaned my head back in the water, looking up at the brilliant sunrise. A sense of calm, of warmth, came over me. I rubbed my stomach as my shivering stopped. I looked at the river’s path, the strong current pushing me forward. The breeze blew behind me, the smell of new, spring flowers lingering on the wind. I lifted my feet and floated on.

©2026 Makena Metz

Makena Metz is a writer and songwriter for the page, screen, and stage. She has an MFA in Creative Writing and MA in English from Chapman University. Her prose and poetry have been published with The Literary Hatchet, The Clockhouse Review, For Page and Screen, The Fantastic Other, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Arkana, Strange Horizons, and many more. Find her work @ makenametz on social media and check out makenametz.com.