The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, NovemberDecember 2022 by The Magazine of Fantasy && Science Fiction

Author:The Magazine of Fantasy && Science Fiction
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science fiction, Fantasy fiction, Short fiction, Magazine
Publisher: Spilogale, Inc.
Published: 2022-11-02T00:00:00+00:00

“You might want to check the expiration date on that milk, Sleeping Beauty.”

Sara Ellis lives on the outskirts of Los Angeles, California but grew up in a haunted house in Virginia. She is an artist, story consultant, and the host of Microdosing Fantasy on Twitch. “Crypt Currency” is her F&SF debut and imagines a near future where magick practitioners and hackers collide in a crumbling southern coastal city.

Crypt Currency

By Sara Ellis

Bitcoin? Ethereum? That’s for normies. They don’t have much more value than your basic dollar these days, and you can only get so much protection from either. Now, magic? Magic can cover your ass and kill your enemies. Killing too harsh, not your style? That’s all right, you can sling a hex that gives someone’s greedy boss a wedgie for life and still pay your rent for the month. These days black-market goods and less-than-legal services often go to the bidder with the most potent incantation, and the dark web is the best place to find someone who will perma-filter your face with a glamour for half-price.

I’m not a spellworker, though. Don’t have a knack for charms, hexes, or even shuffling tarot cards. I don’t make the magic; I’m just the supplier. I fetch the raw goods that the witches, warlocks, diviners, enchanters, cyber-mages, curse kitchens, and thaumaturgical collectives use to craft their metaphysical trade.

And the goods? They smell bad. Really bad.

I set all my weight against the crowbar and the coffin lid bangs open like a can of biscuits. I say a small prayer of thanks over my respirator, with a special blessing for longevity. This is the last place you’d want to take a big cleansing breath, unless eau de decay is your thing. This one’s been here a while, thankfully. More jerky than Jell-O. I unroll the top of my backpack and get out the shears and bone cutters. I unbutton the deceased’s blazer and cut through the dress shirt. My client wants ribs but didn’t specify which. Just said three or four would do. That means I better get five, just in case. I plant one steel-toed foot against the coffin for leverage and mutter my ritual prayer of apology.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Leave what you can, take what you must. Foot by foot, nose or ear, please forgive me; you’re no longer here.

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. I slide the ribs into a jumbo Ziploc, fold the Ziploc into a shoebox, and slide it all back down into my bag. A quick cleanup of the mausoleum and we’re good. I’m feeling accomplished and I daresay springy as I head toward the cemetery gates.

I’m almost home free when I remember the dirt, and U-turn back into the rows of graves standing stark and lonesome in the moonlight. My neighbor’s girlfriend requested grave dirt, and it must be a winter grave. I scan the dates for anything December through February and see one Miss Helena Chung, died on Christmas Eve. How freaking sad. I crouch down with my spade and dig past the grass and clover until I have a good couple handfuls of earth.

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