November 1, 2010

From “Locke’s Specter” by Jeanne Welch

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“What are you talking about?”

Sharon tightened her grip on the handset. “You mean you didn’t know someone named Paul Phillips? Someone who passed away about six months ago?”

“No,” the voice on the other end said airily. “Why would I?”

“What about…’millerpond1987?'” Sharon said, mind racing. “I think that was my brother’s screen name.”

“I don’t know anyone with a screen name like that,” said the girl.

“Are you sure? You were on all his contact lists…I even read some of the emails that he sent you!”

“No,” Umbriel said. “This is just too creepy for me…I’m going to hang up now.”

“Wait..!” Sharon received only a dialtone in reply, and slammed the receiver back into its cradle.

 

October 24, 2010

From “The Holy Burst” by Candice O’Malley

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“To people who say belief doesn’t mean anything, I say: remember Noyceton.”

Chig cocked his head. “What’s Noyceton?”

“Little settlement out past the mountains, near a spring,” Headley said, falling into his storyteller cadence. “Like a lot of places out there in the basin, it was founded by folks who didn’t like the way their hometown churches were going and struck out to make a difference.”

“What happened?”

“For awhile they prospered like many new towns, but they soon fell to fighting amongst one another over matters spiritual. Time came that the fight spilled over into matters temporal, and their little church cleaved plumb in half. Things got so bad that half the town was harassing the other or singing hymns in such a way to boondoggle the others. People that passed through said they’d never seen fervor or tension so high–including some that lived through the late wars in Italy.”

Chig shrugged. “Don’t see what that’s got to do with belief,” he said.

“One night, some folks out that way saw a bright light and heard a boom. Travelers on the road said that both sides had planned big revival bonfires that night, and the mass of all that raw and contradictory belief…well, no one’s sure what happened. But the town was leveled like it was hit by a shooting star and nobody ever saw one of the settlers again. Folks that have passed through since say the whole site makes ’em uneasy, and that they don’t feel right again ’til they move on.”

 

October 23, 2010

From “The Permeable Lands” by Mark Amiton

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Out in the Permeable Lands, long decades of overuse have left the fabric of reality fragile and mutable. In most places, it takes a psychic of enormous power to alter their surroundings. Not so the Permeable Lands: humans of average ability can mold reality as well as a Class 10 out there.

Living out there, as many have chosen to do, presents enough benefits and challenges to come out a wash. There’s no need to worry about building materials or food; a little thinking is enough to spawn a farmhouse and acres of crops. It takes a little more training and practice to form complex machines or gourmet foods, which has led to a thriving industry of Permeable Landers providing those services for a fee or offering training. Animals and such are harder still, but well within the capabilities of someone who puts their mind to it. So one need not worry after food or shelter out there.

On the other hand, it takes a superbly organized mind to create only the things one wants to create. Many Permeable Landers are inundated with detritus–things they create unconsciously. It’s impossible to move anything they create into places where reality has remained strong; the vast Impermeable Lands mean certain fading destruction to anything wrought from permeability. Rumors abound of people created from permeability, generations ago, who would turn to ash if they left. And then there are the stories of people thinking others into oblivion, or powerful Class 8’s enslaving entire communities.

Yes, when one moved to the Permeable Lands it was as much a gamble as anything. And Petron was gambling it would be his salvation.

 

October 17, 2010

From “The Cyclical Isle” by Yvette Justinian

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The message had been secured to the underside of Lee’s beach chair with string which–on closer inspection–was actually braided strands of fine threads from a sheet or blanket. He hesitated; there were plenty of other chairs about on the island beach, and an inviting day of gazing out over crystal-clear azure seas beckoned. Picking anything up, much less reading it, seemed like an unfathomable bother.

But curiosity got the better of him, and Lee retrieved and unfolded it. The writing looked faded and weathered in the tropical sunlight but was easily legible.

“Try to remember last week.”

Lee smirked. Of course he could remember last week. He’d swum out to the sandbar with Claudette, and…no. That had been two days ago. And the sand castle building…that had been last week, hadn’t it? No…the long lazy days and nights seemed to stretch out and contort in time even as Lee thought about them. The sand castles had been only three days ago. Lee felt a mild chill go up his spine.

He couldn’t remember last week.

The note continued. “Didn’t think so. Check under the bed in the empty room at the end of the hallway.”

 

October 12, 2010

From “Stepping Out” by Anonymous

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“I think…I think you might be right,” I said. “I also think I might be going crazy.”

“What if you’re not?” she asked.

That night, I resolved to see for myself. Fortified on the flights of fancy I’d seen during the day, I felt like a book, open and ready. Not to be read, but destined for something entirely unexpected. To be bronzed, maybe—a book made statue. Or perhaps to have flowers pressed between the pages—my pages—each leaving a mark upon and changing the other.

It was all easy enough. Reach up, grab, pull down. The tearing sounded much as you’d expect it to.

On the other side?

Stars. The corner of Leighton and Burrick, downtown. A dusty old gas station with a sign in Arabic. A city growing out of a vast, purple forest canopy. All at once, in a rush like a breaking wave.

So I stepped out—just for a moment. There’s something to be said for Myra’s paper-thin membrane, wrapping the everyday into a neat brown package. There’s something to be said for seeing only what you can perceive and nothing more.

But for now, I was content to skate among planetary rings in the arm of a distant spiral galaxy, to pirouette on a molten surface all but consumed in a solar corona, to break upon far-distant shores thrilling with every undulation.

I was stepping out. I’d be back—but I wouldn’t ever be the same. Myra would be proud, wherever she was.

 

October 2, 2010

From “Dustbin of the Universe” by Maddox S. Davidsen

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The line to the Bureau didn’t seem to be moving anywhere in a hurry; Adam tried to strike up a conversation with the man in front of him in line, a thirtysomething dressed in bright yellow coveralls and goggles. “What are you in for?”

“The name’s Sol Nechny,” the man said. “I’m a solar mechanic.”

Adam nodded, pretending to be fascinated. “I see! What’s a solar mechanic do?”

“We keep the sun in good order and running,” Nechny sighed. “I’d think that would be obvious from the adjective ‘solar’ and the noun ‘mechanic,’ but I know the state of grammar instruction in schools these days.”

That made Adam feel a little defensive. “Last I heard, the sun was part of the natural world and didn’t need mechanics.”

“Oh yes, I certainly must have things all wrong,” Nechny barked with exaggerated politeness. “After all, I only work in the bloody sun; surely someone such as yourself who’s never been knows more about it than I!”

“It’s a big ball of nuclear fusion, not some kind of steam engine!” Adam cried. He was pretty sure he’d heard that in some long-ago science class.

“Nuclear fusion? Are we going to talk about the tooth fairy and the Easter bunny while we’re discussing old wives’ tales and myths? Do you honestly think an explosion of that size would just stay nicely put and provide free energy out of the goodness of its heart?” Nechny cried.

Adam bristled. “It’s not like I just made that up, you know! I heard it from a science teacher!”

“Nonsense cooked up by people with nothing better to do; not that we’ve any intention of enlightening them, of course,” scoffed Nechny. “Next you’ll be lecturing me about how the center of the earth is full of molten rock!”

 

September 22, 2010

From “Whirlpools” by Sean Iversone

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As consistent as the flowing tides are, is that frail thing some call the human mind. A catch-all, a spiritual jar; look through it–you can’t imagine what you’ll find. I find, when i look deep into myself, objects forgotten, people and places.

All waiting for the right time to be heard.

This same time last week I spoke with a soul, and the conversation got out of hand. Our words took root and our heads took to flight and we spoke out our minds ’til dawn’s first light. From policies to fallacies and more, from jarred daffodils to gold dill pickles, from the weather report to the whether retort. Of hearts broken, aching, sometimes attacked, of knots and not-to-be’s, and honeybees, one idea melting into the next.

I’m always surprised at where we end up, but I never regret what I’ve said

Talks like these let you see the inside of another person; what makes them tick. You’ve shared a part of yourself; they have too

But I don’t have many talks like that anymore.

 

September 16, 2010

From “Solveig’s Songbook” by Trond-Viggo Laarsen

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Solveig delighted in being unconventional, to the point that even her unconventionality defied convention. All the other unconventionalists on the Telthusbakken (and there were many that held themselves to be so) tended to behave in similar ways. They’d attend rallies for the same unpopular causes, wear the same unpopular clothing, indulge in the same trite ‘scandalous’ behavior. Solveig saw this as a roundabout way of the other girls calling attention to themselves and seeking to interest boys (and for more than one of the Telthusbakken girls it was probably an accurate impression).

But underneath it all they still conformed to the same rules and conventions that everyone else did. Solveig took particular delight in uncovering those mundane conventions and flouting them in subtle yet meaningful ways. Nothing ostentatious–to get too carried away was to become one of the others–but always very deliberate.

People drove on the right, and so tended to walk on the right. Solveig walked on the left, and forced people to detour around her.

People faced forward in elevators. Solveig faced the back to the great consternation of all persons boarding, riding, or disembarking.

People paid with debit cards, credit, or large bills. Solveig paid with 50 øre coins.

 

September 12, 2010

From “On Hypocrisy” by R. J. T. Dunstone

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Jane shrugged. “Hypocrisy is unavoidable in modern life.”

“That’s a rather dim view to take, don’t you think?” said Paul.

“It’s a sensible one,” Jane said. “All but the most careful people will eventually contradict themselves, and nearly everyone holds others to higher standards than they hold themselves–it’s just human nature.”

“Don’t you think it would just be easier for everyone if we said what we felt?” said Paul, pushing a little.

“I don’t necessarily believe that the disguising of one’s feelings is hypocrisy. If everyone openly displayed their feelings and was completely, brutally honest, I hate to think of what the world would be like.”

“Oh come on,” Paul said. “I don’t know that it would be so bad.”

“Tell me, if you thought a woman was ugly as a warthog, would you tell her when she asked?” Jane pressed. “If you were in a lousy mood, would you make sure everyone knew? ‘How are you doing?’ ‘Lousy, you piece of crap! Piss off and leave me alone.'”

“Well, no,” Paul said sheepishly.

“See? That’s not hypocrisy. Hiding one’s feelings isn’t always best, but it does serve a purpose, and more importantly, it’s not a contradiction that others can see. I could be smiling on the outside and sullen on the inside, but who could tell? People could guess, but I would rarely, if ever, state my true feelings if I was hiding them.”

 

September 8, 2010

From “The Crystalline Corridor” by S. Garrett Davis

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“Okay, I’ll tell you. But it’s probably going to sound crazy.”

Dr. Teller smiled. “I hear things that ‘sound crazy’ for a living,” he said. “Most of the time they’re nothing of the sort; I make it a point never to judge.”

“I’m…I’m walking down a long hallway. An infinite hallway. It’s made of beautiful, cold crystal, faceted like a diamond and colored by the blue sky above. I’ve been walking for hours–days–before I notice something.”

“And what’s that?” said Dr. Teller.

“The walls are made out of little cells, smooth and transparent and unfaceted. And suspended in each one…is me.”

Scratching on the notepad. “You?”

“Not me as I am now–I recognize that even in the dream–but me as I was. This hallway has every moment of my entire life preserved like a bug in amber. As I walk I see what I wear and my age and my position all change, one crystal cell at a time. Eventually, I get to cells filled with me as I am in the dream: confused, disheveled, and in my pajamas.”

“How does that make you feel?” Dr. Teller asked.

“I’m…well, I’m terrified. What happens if I keep walking? What will I see? And does the crystal corridor have an end? The idea scares me more than a hundred psychos in the back seat of my car. It…it chills me to my core, as if the hallway has become ice. But I keep walking. I can’t stop.”

 

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