written by David Steffen
We have been publishing the annual Long List Anthology since 2015. Last year at this time we hadn’t been able to run the Long List Anthology yet because the nomination statistics had not been published yet. This was extremely unusual since WorldCon 2023 had been in October and they usually publish the stats before they end. When they finally published the statistics in January 2024 there were various issues with the statistics that we didn’t feel it would be possible to produce an anthology from the list at that time.
In last year’s eligibility and retrospective we said this might mean that 2024 is another two-anthology year, so that turned out to not be true. And then, although WorldCon was back in its usual month of September, we are working on a new edition but decided to give ourselves more breathing room and fundraise and publish it in early 2025. So, instead of two Long List Anthology volumes in 2024, there have been zero, with the second one planned for early 2025. More information soono!
In 2023, we published 24 original stories in Diabolical Plots.
This year we renamed some of our staff positions to better reflect the nature of the work. I had always called myself “Editor” but now I am officially “Editor-In-Chief. And what we had previously called “Assistant Editor” we now call “Editor”. In addition, we have also started adding editor credit to all the stories for the particular editor(s) who worked with the author on the individual story.
This year we bid farewell to editor Kel Coleman, as well as Chelle Parker, and we wish them both the best! We also welcomed new editor Amanda Helms to join Ziv Wities and Hal Y. Zhang on the Editor team.
Diabolical Plots opened for general submissions in July. We read more than 1300 submissions and accepted 23 stories from the window. We updated some practices, including adding an optional “Content Note” box to the submission form as well as a suggested list of content notes that we would like to see when they apply if possible. We also added a formal “Rewrite Request” process, something which we normally just handled outside of the system in previous years.
It is never not a busy year in my personal life, but (crossing fingers) we are on the verge of having finished a calendar year without one of our dogs passing away, after losing one both of the prior years. Our dog Mabel had a crappy diagnosis this year, but so far she’s been doing well with treatment.
The rest of this post is award eligibility, suggesting categories for major awards, as well as a full link of stories with snippets.
Magazine/Anthology/Editor/Publisher
Diabolical Plots is eligible in the Hugo Best Semiprozine category or the Locus Magazine category with our team of First Readers as well as our Editors.
David Steffen is eligible as Editor-In-Chief of Diabolical Plots.
Diabolical Plots, LLC is eligible for Locus award for Publisher.
Related Work
Sole entry for this this year was: The Secret Origin of Hestu. If you like that, check out the related artwork!
Fan Artist
Is cross-stitch eligible for anything? Maybe fan art? LOL probably not. But check out this giant cross-stitch that took me almost two years to finish anyway!
Short Stories
A Descending Arctic Excavation of Us
by Sara S. Messenger
The surface of the iceberg has long had its taste of bitter cuisine: shimmering snow, wriggling bacterial filament, microplastic granules from the stolen boat you steered across the choppy Arctic waves. But this is new: the woody whisper of your matrilineal family map. The iceberg leeches the warmth from the paper, like sucking air through teeth, trying to latch on— but you bend, shake the map, and tuck it back into your pocket.
They Are Dancing
by John Stadelman
When they woke it was in what little pocket warmth they’d accumulated between their bodies in the night, clinging together in a sleeping bag as if without the other they would forget how to breathe, or why. When Nash cracked his eyes open to take in this reality it was to Vicky watching him, her face as beautiful as everything behind it, a moment of naked love in which they both wished that they could remain lying here like this, frozen in stasis. Neither needed to say it.
But time moved on. Inexorable, mechanical as a wave in the ocean, as the dissolve of light into dark. They knew it was time to go when Vicky mumbled that he needed to brush his teeth, and Nash said that she’d had too much to drink last night.
BUDDY RAYMOND’S NO-BULLSHIT GUIDE TO DRONE-HUNTING
by Gillian Secord
Hey, kid. Ol’ Buddy here, your favourite underground, pamphlet-writing canuck. I hope, whoever and wherever you are, you’re well. Keep the generator full, the firewood chopped, and the contraband hidden.
Yeah, I said the next guide was going to be about rainwater collecting, but this topic is pretty fucking overdue for a pamphlet. File a complaint, if that bothers you. (Too bad this is real paper, asshole! No comment section!)
The Geist and/in/as the Boltzmann Brain
by M.J. Pettit
Lem had existed for all of ten nanoseconds (give or take) when she realized she was a Boltzmann brain pulsing away in the otherwise nothingness of space. She consisted of a conglomeration of particles that had randomly bounced off one another until they spontaneously formed into a structurally-sound and fully functional human brain. Lem came complete with a full inventory of false memories detailing a richly lived life back on a place called Earth. Entities like herself were absurd. That was to say highly improbable, statistically speaking, but no more so than the evolution of intelligent, organic life in the grand scheme of things. Given the unfathomable expanse of all of time and all of space, it was conceivable for a nice Boltzmann brain like Lem to randomly form then quickly dissipate innumerable times at various spots across the cosmos, the general tendency towards thermal equilibrium notwithstanding.
Level One: Blowtorch
by Jared Oliver Adams
Usually Friend gives me three food pouches after sportsgames, but today only one. He spits it out of his chest slot, and I kick off the bulkhead to snatch it before it gets caught in that jumble of wires over by the vents. When I grab the nearest handhold and swivel in the air for the next one to come, Friend just floats there with his slot closed and his metal arms at his sides.
“Did I do wrong parameters?” I ask.
“Naw, Graciela,” says Friend. “You were grumper to the leez! You sealed your suit with no mistakes, and you dodged all the obstacles on the course. Nineteenth time in a row!”
The Offer of Peace Between Two Worlds
by Renan Bernardo
At this age, on the planet of Orvalho, Alberto is conjoined with the ship called The Offer of Peace Between Two Worlds. They’re engulfed in the Mezelões’ unifying mix, a tank where a swirling brackish secretion flows through their pores and recesses, nanoscopic spidery bots tying their espírito together—parts and limbs, yottabytes and nucleotides, ship and captain, physically separated, spiritually united.
Ten Easy Steps to Destroying Your Enemies This Arbor Day
by Rachael K. Jones
1. Raid the army surplus warehouse, NASA’s scrapyard, and Aunt Diabolica’s volcano lair for parts. On the way home, swing by CatCo to buy more Fancy Feast for Mr. Wibbles.
Six-Month Assessment on Miracle Fresh
by Anne Liberton
Miracle Fresh is a soft drink produced by Spirits & Co. since 2027. The original pitch described a holy club soda blessed with droplets of blood from our devoted Messiah, something the average person could drink on the go, après-exercising, or even at [insert holy building of choice] without requiring long tiresome religious proceedings. This idea was abandoned shortly after the company realized a soft drink would appeal to a greater audience, and after considering the lawsuit filed by the parental association Guardians of our Holy Youth (GHY), who worried the club soda would be used as a component of alcoholic mixed drinks. Associating our devoted Messiah with sugar and adding a clear appeal to children did not seem to faze any of the naysayers.
Ketchōkuma
by Mason Yeater
My name is Yasuko Nagamine and I work for the employment bureau. There’s a monster destroying the city. It used to be the mascot for the organ rental service, Sensation. I guess it still is but I don’t think it’s doing much for their bottom line anymore.
How to Kill the Giant Living Brain You Found in Your Mother’s Basement After She Died
by Alex Sobel
[Guide]
Welcome to this interactive guide! I understand from your About Me profile that you have an issue with a brain that needs killing. I’m here to help!
[graciegirl2006!?]
I can’t believe I found this.
[Guide]
Actually, we are the top search engine result for the keywords in your query!
This Week in Clinical Dance: Urgent Care at the Hastings Center
by Lauren Ring
Brigitte Cole presents with lower abdominal pain, nausea, and a long-sleeved black leotard. She has a well-developed appearance and does not seem to be in acute distress. Her accompaniment for the evening is pianist Roy Weiss, a fixture of the local music scene whose minimalist style pairs well with the bold choreography of clinical dance. As the house lights dim and the spotlights focus down on Cole, stoic and poised, one cannot help but notice that a stray lock of hair has fallen out of her sleek bun. Such composure, such strength, and yet—disarray.
Hold the Sea Inside
by Erin Keating
Among the crags of the mountains weeps a cascade of salt water. In the pool beneath, stiff-peaked foam drowns careless men and sickens parched animals. The menfolk say it’s devilry to find salt water so far from the shore, but we know better. It’s no devil’s work but woman’s grief.
Eternal Recurrence
by Spencer Nitkey
The deepfake is nothing like you. Its smile is all wrong. It’s recorded your dimple as an artifact and smoothed it over. Your smile is too symmetrical. It’s shortened your beaky nose. It winks at me from the computer screen with the wrong eye. It doesn’t squint when it smiles. It doesn’t dance like it’s missing a few tendons. It sings entire songs instead of its favorite couplet over and over again. It doesn’t tell me I should eat something, or remind me to call the landlord and fix the icemaker, or tell me about the article it just read on the intersections of Nietzche and Oscar Wilde’s philosophies.
Phantom Heart
by Charlie B. Lorch
The widow wants to talk to her husband.
She has been warned: It is not her husband. It is ADRU. (ADRU-93, if you must know, but really the full name does the opposite of what it should: It shows it is one of many.) ADRU stands for Artificial Death Reconstruction Unit, and all it knows is the moment the husband died.
But it doesn’t matter. It never does, not to the living.
In Tandem
by Emilee Prado
I’ve known her for four summers now, so I don’t believe Sephina when she says we’ll return the bicycle before anyone knows it’s missing. Eventually, I say okay, but it’s not like I have a choice. My mom is always telling me that Sephina puts bad stuff in my head; Mom has no idea. I glance once more at the empty porch and curtained windows, but Sephina is already off, tugging me with her, gripping the handlebars and jogging toward the road.
Dreamwright Street
by Mike Reeves-McMillan
The shop fronts glitter along Dreamwright Street, where all the best people come to buy their dreams. Sunlight winks off polished glass, clear as crystal; off the lovingly applied varnish of the wooden window frames; off fragments of mica embedded in the very cobblestones.
The customers, too, sparkle. Light leaps from the gemstones they wear, from their polished shoes, from the braid on their servants’ livery. Clear eyes reflect the dancing light, and their bright teeth send back radiance as they smile. The customers of Dreamwright Street sleep well in their high mansions, and they sleep deeply, and when they arise, their minds are clear and scintillating as a wellspring.
Letters From Mt. Monroe Elementary, Third Grade
by Sarah Pauling
Dear Mr. Kaur,
I’ve attached scans of the student letters per my conversation with Anthony Noble at the White House Teacher’s Dinner. To be honest, we’re all enormously starstruck by the Secretary’s offer. We’ve guarded our Pilgrim Letters jealously through the years—our own little time capsule—but it’s not every day your elementary school gets to participate in cultural diplomacy.
Note that the earliest letters date back to 1967, a mere five years after Beacon Day. While they were assigned only as creative writing exercises—the technology to reply to the first Beacon transmissions didn’t even exist when Ms. Barbara Kirby came up with the idea—I’m sure the children who wrote these letters all those years ago would be ecstatic to learn that their words would one day reach the stars.
Batter and Pearl
by Steph Kwiatkowski
The sun’s almost down over the boardwalk, that time of day when everything’s dark but the sky’s still lit up, when townies drive past the lake on their way to Gary and say gosh it’s pretty out here by the battervilles, I don’t know what all the fuss is about.
The air’s thick with marina noise and mosquitoes eating up my shirtless chest. I’m pouring my jug of fresh-caught batter into the shuddering funnel of the change machine, even though I know in my heart there’s not enough to buy Ecker the smallest size of honey-glazed crispies. The line for the chicko joint is starting to wind down the boardwalk. Everyone’s yelling, a bunch of sunburned lake-slick battermags pissed I’m taking too long during the dinner rush. But I can’t let it go, not tonight. Ecker is leaving tomorrow to go back to vocational school, and he’s standing at the order window with his hands in his pockets like he’s embarrassed.
The Gaunt Strikes Again
by Rich Larson
“My friends, I apologize for pulling you away from the festivities,” the Duke said, shutting the heavy oak door behind him, “but I believe our lives to be in danger.” He turned to his guests and drew a deep breath. “It seems the Gaunt has decided to attend our soiree.”
The Beldam, fashionably attired in the skin of a flayed heretic, clapped her beautiful hand to her beautiful cheek. The Raconteur, already flushed and tousle-headed, wine staining his doublet, guffawed. The Corporal, a shard of obsidian in military dress, narrowed her flesh eye while its clockwork neighbor roved about the room.
Bone Talker, Bone Eater
by D.S. Ravenhurst
Mama’s bones scream as the writhing mass of beetles cleans her skeleton. My fingers bury themselves in my ears against my will, trying to block the shrieking no one else can hear and the squish of macerated flesh they can. I don’t know which one’s worse.
Song For a Star-Whale’s Ghost
by Devin Miller
Captain Ruby Tauda of the whale-ship Balentora strapped down a crate of medicine and hurried across the star-whale’s mouth. She and her crew had always used the mouth as a cargo bay, but this wasn’t their usual cargo. They weren’t thieves.
The Lighthouse Keeper
by Melinda Brasher
I’m not supposed to talk to the locals, but that’s not a problem because there don’t seem to be any. Not as far as the eye can see. Not in the endless blue I can’t look away from. Not along the windswept bluffs high above that crashing, ever-changing vastness that makes me feel smaller than I’ve ever felt. And yet bigger. More alone. And less.
I must keep the light burning at all times.
And I must never, never climb down to the beach.
St. Thomas Aquinas Administers the Turing Test
by Mary Berman
Herewith I present to Your Holiness Clement IV the proceedings regarding the phenomenon at Santa Sabina.
On the 25th day of the month of March in this year of our Lord 1265, I was ordered by the Most Holy Father to the Studium Conventuale di Santa Sabina all’Aventino to evaluate the existence, or lack thereof, of a soul housed within a Wooden Likeness of a Man, the Likeness having been constructed by Father Antonio di Cassino, a friar serving in that place.
Margery Lung is Unstoppable
by Lisa Cai
The first time Margie raised the dead, it was to prove she didn’t eat her dog. As Harold hadn’t been walked around the neighbourhood recently, her classmate Brenda assumed Margie’s family devoured their dog and caught SARS.
