tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37737599892253563722024-03-19T06:00:35.046-05:00Stupefying Stories Magazine» stupefy (ˈstü-pə-ˌfī) • to stun, astonish, or astound~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.comBlogger1236125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-31442511202355115522024-03-19T06:00:00.167-05:002024-03-19T06:00:00.244-05:00“Poisoned Stew to Go” • by Henry Herz<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPueha4YVwtiYu5jgPfOd4GWF6x6K57vf_8oDdMQw56ZC4gSmLOR26BrU8XXSqNKiJ4gRZY1gd3eDQtrfdMe07IgBvmC_d1SFKBBPqYKrQKViKaONdq9n14grBx850OXG5G9ZHwjvk04nfIG6AiG-AKgILsV8ZbsQKbVv-ff-fd7mv8FQX1wy5eaZUJuG/s1280/macbeth.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPueha4YVwtiYu5jgPfOd4GWF6x6K57vf_8oDdMQw56ZC4gSmLOR26BrU8XXSqNKiJ4gRZY1gd3eDQtrfdMe07IgBvmC_d1SFKBBPqYKrQKViKaONdq9n14grBx850OXG5G9ZHwjvk04nfIG6AiG-AKgILsV8ZbsQKbVv-ff-fd7mv8FQX1wy5eaZUJuG/w640-h480/macbeth.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><i>(with apologies to William Shakespeare)</i></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">BANQUO (<i>to himself</i>): Ah, Macbeth, thou art king now, as the witches promised, and I fear thou played’st most foully for it. Still, they also said the crown would pass not to your posterity, but to mine. So I have’st that going for me.</span></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">(Enter Macbeth and Lady Macbeth)</span></i></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">MACBETH: Welcome to our castle, Banquo. Thou art our chief guest. No celebration would be complete without thee. We have arranged a special dinner on your behalf. So please, no snacking. As anticipation shall make the, um, banquet sweeter, we will keep ourself alone till suppertime.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">BANQUO: My lord.</span></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">(Exit Banquo)</span></i></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">MACBETH: To be the king is nothing if I am not safe. Banquo is my enemy and scarest the bejeezus out of me. He is noble, willing to take risks, and his mind never stops working. He has the wisdom to act bravely but also cleverly.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">LADY MACBETH: Why not simply take his head, milord?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">MACBETH: Well I could with barefaced power sweep him from my sight and take claim of the deed. Yet I must not. For there are certain friends that are both his and mine, whose support I cannot lightly discard. I must be able to wail his fall who I myself struck down. And thence it is, I must mask this foul business from the common eye.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">LADY MACBETH: What will you do, milord?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">MACBETH: Remain innocent of the plot, my dear, till thou may applaud the deed. Come, night, and raise your bloody, invisible hand to extinguish my foe. The day creatures begin to drowse, while night's black agents to their prey do rouse!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">LADY MACBETH: My lord! Thou employ’st rhyme?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">MACBETH: Marvel at my words, but hold thee still. No one questions my iron will. To sharpen a blade, one must hone. Now, where’s the royal telephone? </span></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">(A cavern. In the middle, a boiling cauldron. Thunder. Phone rings.)</span></i></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">FIRST WITCH: Thank you for calling Acheron BBQ Pit. May I take your order? Uh, huh. Anything else, Lord Macbeth? Very well. That will be three pound twenty. Your order will be ready in the hour. We are open all night, milord. Yes, we do take credit cards. Good evening.</span></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">(hangs up)</span></i></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">FIRST WITCH: Four orders of beef stew, one with poison!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">SECOND WITCH: Four stew, one spicy, aye.<br />Round about the cauldron go,<br />In the poisoned entrails throw.<br />Toad bespeckled, wart and blot,<br />Boil thou first in rusted pot.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">THIRD WITCH: Double, double toil and trouble,<br />Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">SECOND WITCH: Fillet of a forest snake,<br />In the cauldron boil and bake.<br />Eye of new and toe of frog,<br />Wool of bat and tongue of dog.<br />Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,<br />Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing,<br />For a charm of powerful trouble,<br />Like a hell-broth, boil and bubble.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">THIRD WITCH: Double, double toil and trouble,<br />Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">SECOND WITCH: Tooth of wolf and dragon scale,<br />Witches’ locks, teeth and tail<br />Of a ravenous deep-sea shark.<br />Root of hemlock dug in the dark.<br />Liver of a kangaroo,<br />Gall of goat and slips of yew,<br />Slivered in the moon’s eclipse.<br />Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips.<br />Finger of birth-strangled child,<br />Ditch-delivered and reviled.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">THIRD WITCH: Double, double toil and trouble,<br />Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">SECOND WITCH: Cool it with a wand of wood,<br />Then the charm is firm and good.<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">And now about the cauldron sing,<br />Like elves and fairies in a ring.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">THIRD WITCH: By the pricking of my thumbs,<br />Someone wicked this way comes.<br />Open, locks, whoever knocks.</span></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">(Enter Macbeth)</span></i></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">MACBETH: We are in a royal hurry, as our coach is double parked. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">FIRST WITCH: There’s no need for name-calling, milord. Welcome to Acheron BBQ Pit. Will you dine in or are you here to pick up?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">OTHER CUSTOMER (<i>interrupting</i>): Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">MACBETH: What’s this? How dos’t thou know me? Had I three ears, I’d listen with them all.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">OTHER CUSTOMER: Oh, king be bold and laugh to scorn,<br />Banquo’s power for none of woman born,<br />shall harm ye.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">MACBETH: That is all to the good, but I’m no fool. Will Banquo’s sons yet come to rule?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">OTHER CUSTOMER: Be lion-hearted and take no care,<br />who frets or where conspirers fare.<br />Macbeth shall never vanquished be,<br />until to Dunsinane come a host of tree.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">MACBETH: I like the sound of that, good dude. Excuse me whilst I claim my food. I called in four orders of stew. Poison into one you threw?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">FIRST WITCH: Yes, milord. That’s three pound twenty. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">MACBETH: You have filled my urgent need. Now, I’m off to do the deed.<br />Keepeth the change. </span><br /></p><p><br /></p>
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<p> <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzPAWMJH5dPfJoS42I5wdnyZP6VHRINwkPh3D6tRdUFY2ZMUjgHZux8qqtCm5itMWD96VL0bwD6Viu18jgOAy2qhPCpqSWYj7is5hJJUPghHiycYCkZacd1hPyOG8xraBAKbhLZ5Y1YIJSVdazYPrUsI21fAr0JN1pZbm9xLKd5WZxydiWcLTs_Dp2zAcM/s626/Henry%20Herz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="571" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzPAWMJH5dPfJoS42I5wdnyZP6VHRINwkPh3D6tRdUFY2ZMUjgHZux8qqtCm5itMWD96VL0bwD6Viu18jgOAy2qhPCpqSWYj7is5hJJUPghHiycYCkZacd1hPyOG8xraBAKbhLZ5Y1YIJSVdazYPrUsI21fAr0JN1pZbm9xLKd5WZxydiWcLTs_Dp2zAcM/w183-h200/Henry%20Herz.jpg" width="183" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Henry Herz’s</b> stories will/have appeared in <i>Daily Science Fiction</i>, <i>Weird Tales</i>, <i>Pseudopod</i>, <i>Metastellar</i>, <i>Titan Books</i>, <i>Highlights for Children</i>, <i>Ladybug Magazine</i>, and anthologies from Albert Whitman & Co., Blackstone Publishing, Brigids Gate Press, Air and Nothingness Press, Baen Books, and elsewhere. He’s edited seven anthologies and written twelve picture books. <a href="http://www.henryherz.com" target="_blank">www.henryherz.com</a></span><br /></p><p></p>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOE4OgWsKoLcOXrTkY_WoP8OIqya7QbiUltMa2k0kF1JnYyphBo8mLN3d8EfitoVen_LsvLV8ls8xeSruvsZx0A8BU7HCVPqXXDwtUHHMqPHx2NGOlpZ7GUdoXPakhxPkFBcvfcPEiHFMkllQVeNSHTffJZJ0HOt2xmbMoCe4e8q2GBbYayyXJuVZn1Euw/s466/princess%20scout%20kindle.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="303" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOE4OgWsKoLcOXrTkY_WoP8OIqya7QbiUltMa2k0kF1JnYyphBo8mLN3d8EfitoVen_LsvLV8ls8xeSruvsZx0A8BU7HCVPqXXDwtUHHMqPHx2NGOlpZ7GUdoXPakhxPkFBcvfcPEiHFMkllQVeNSHTffJZJ0HOt2xmbMoCe4e8q2GBbYayyXJuVZn1Euw/s320/princess%20scout%20kindle.png" width="208" /></a></div><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">RELEASING TODAY!</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>THE PRINCESS SCOUT</i></span></b></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The new standalone novel in Henry Vogel’s best-selling <i>Scout</i> series. New characters! A new world! An all-new adventure!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Available <b>TODAY</b>, wherever e-books or print books are sold!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://books2read.com/Vogel-The-Princess-Scout" target="_blank">LINKS! </a></b></span><br /></p><p><br /></p>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-35813899191250173372024-03-18T06:00:00.128-05:002024-03-18T07:31:17.003-05:00“Broken” • by Karin Terebessy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-8JepT-GqnM7skw2ADH4lWlzzGY1mdPyc7nSkignfLOPcRDpunw3cZ6rdFTMbQy7JOL3ibTyW7u08R3KFZimm81uoj6rscV1gcEHZsbpFihCQ0Mn4eej44S3ZOJ-bQBAQ7MoBdxh8idotZVm_CwaV4dEDvsWDpuCIqnbbQKdxsgIbEntHHLTEy4c3zAft/s1280/broken.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-8JepT-GqnM7skw2ADH4lWlzzGY1mdPyc7nSkignfLOPcRDpunw3cZ6rdFTMbQy7JOL3ibTyW7u08R3KFZimm81uoj6rscV1gcEHZsbpFihCQ0Mn4eej44S3ZOJ-bQBAQ7MoBdxh8idotZVm_CwaV4dEDvsWDpuCIqnbbQKdxsgIbEntHHLTEy4c3zAft/w640-h480/broken.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: large;">Mike and I walk into a sporting goods store, </span><span style="font-size: medium;">hoist a canoe over our heads and onto our shoulders, and portage out without paying. My head’s buried between two gunnels at the stern. Only close sounds reverberate in the hollow of aluminum; our squeaky sneakers, my steady breath.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">If I look straight ahead, I see Mike at the bow, his red hair seeming to emit light. An impossibility that hurts my eyes straight into my brain. So I look down and follow his heels, like air bubbles, to the surface.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">We portage along the ravine by the highway, down the off ramp, and all the way to the Naugatuck River.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I steady the boat with my foot as Mike climbs in.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“No oars,” I say.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He grins and shoves me so hard I fall back against the bank as the boat launches forward. I hit my head on a rotten tree stump. It’s okay. I’m wearing my thick wool cap, pulled low over my ears.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mike yells something to me as he drifts down river, mimes for me to take off my hat.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I hear him shout, “Sorry, dude! This won’t work if you see me die,” before he disappears around the bend.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I stuff cotton into my auditory canals. I twist toilet paper tight and deep into the channels, like a worm boring holes. I wear ear plugs Mike steals for me and a wool cap with thick ear flaps. I wrap gauze around my head like a wounded soldier.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Anything to silence the world.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I go to the library. It’s cool in the summer, warm in the winter. There’s a bathroom and free coffee for patrons. I read philosophy, science, mythology.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mike sits next to me; chews his thumbnail. Many of his nails are striped with parallel white lines that run across them. “You have a protein deficiency,” I state.“Your nails.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He glances at them. “What this? Calcium deficiency, right?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s a misconception.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Hm,” he mumbles, spits out a piece of nail. “What do you think of that girl over there?” He nods at the librarian. She’s old and shaped like a cartoon woman with wide hips and thick legs.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Don’t talk to me,” I mumble back. “I don’t like sounds.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">His skin crackles with a grin. “You know, you talked to me first, buddy.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I furrow my brow. “Is this the first time we’re meeting?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Patrons look up when he laughs. His laughter feels good in my brain.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“You are one weird dude,” he says, “know that?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m broken,” I apologize.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Who isn’t?” His ragged nails catch on the fabric of my shirt as he gives my shoulder a squeeze.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Life is timeless.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Soup kitchens. Dumpsters. Day olds.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">At the Sikh Temple, they feed me milky tea and mushy bread. At the Congregational Church, they feed me Christ between bites of cake and cookie. At the Synagogue, they ask me to wait as the Rabbi blesses the bread. They ply me with wine and questions and challah.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I love moments of silence. The scent of prayer books. Choirs. Cantors. Gentle kindness. Everything but the chatter.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">I dig a discarded burger from the trash and walk into McDonald’s.</span>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“This burger is half-eaten,” I state. “And stale.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">No one asks if I ate it. They hand me a fresh burger and a coupon for fries.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I try never to lie.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Girls kiss Mike. Mike kisses them back. Sucks the gum from their mouths and the lipstick from their lips. He will kiss anyone, steal anything. Everyone knows this about him.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I sit under the bridge, by myself. A chunk of concrete has fallen away from a supporting wall, creating a small alcove that protects me from the wind.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Some people are gathered around a barrel, burning trash, on the other side of the underpass.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I jam my hands into my pockets. Tuck my chin low into my chest. It’s cold. New England is a cold place.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mike looks over at me, jogs lightly across the space, and kicks my shoe lovingly.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s a warm-looking hat you’ve got on there, dude. Mind if I borrow it? You can have my spot at the barrel,” he offers.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I need my hat,” I mutter. “It helps block out the noise.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“What noise?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“You.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mike snorts and claps his hands. Each clap echoes beneath the bridge; inside my skull.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Flopping down beside me, he sighs to catch his breath and cozies up next to me, until our touching sides grow warm.“And they told me you were deaf,” he muses.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m the opposite of deaf.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He chuckles softly. “I don’t even know what that means.”</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Monks come from Tibet and take up residence in the foyer of the all-girls private school in Middlebury. For one week, they create a sand painting. At the week’s end, they will release it into the wind. It is open to the public. Anyone can watch their process.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s warm in the lobby, with its thick velvet drapes and maroon carpeting. And quiet as the monks work. Girls rushing to classes, hush as they walk through.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mike keeps getting phone numbers. Re-tells them to me so I will remember them for him.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Don’t you have a cell?” The girls ask. “I could text you. Or write it down.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Don’t worry,” he assures them, “my buddy’s got an auralgraphic memory. He remembers everything he hears.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The Dean comes towards us in beige high heels that sink into the carpet, causing her to wobble as she walks. “I think you boys have enough numbers.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mike asks for hers. She gives us thirty seconds to vacate the premises before calling the cops.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Thirty seconds your time or<i> his</i>?” Mike indicates me with a wink.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I grab his elbow and force him to run.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">I remember everything I hear but I don’t know that I’m remembering. Not exactly. To remember, by definition, means there must be a past. But there is no past. There is only now. Inside my head, outside my head, it’s only ever now.</span>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Everything I hear lives inside my brain and doesn’t move; doesn’t file away.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Each new sound adds a rubber band to an ever growing ball that slams down into my brain over and over, without end, without beginning. No way to know which sound comes first, fiftieth, last. No way to unravel the input. No way to know what is now, what is then, what is inside, what is out.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the shelter, we lie on our cots—army cots with thin pillows and worn sheets.</span>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Tell me a story to pass the time,” Mike says.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“There’s no such thing as passing time.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mike groans. “Tell me anything, dude. A story. A story about someone more broke than us.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I tell him how Herman Melville was so broke, his ink would freeze in the inkwells from lack of sufficient heat. I tell him how Edgar Allen Poe chopped up furniture to burn for warmth. I tell him about Diogenes who went broke on purpose, giving up everything but a loin cloth and a cup to drink from. One day, down by a river, Diogenes sees a boy drinking from his joined hands. He tosses away his cup and says, ‘I have been shamed.’</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“He sounds like a charlatan,” Mike says.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“He’s a cynic.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Call it whatever you want. He sounds like he’s working an angle.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“He didn’t believe in honest men, either.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s just a fact, man. Belief’s got nothing to do with it.” The bed springs squeak as he rolls onto his side. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">I break into my foster mom’s office and use her computer.</span>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s a misconception that we only use ten percent of our brain. We use all of it. What is true, is that ten percent of our brain is comprised of neurons, while ninety percent of the brain is comprised of glial cells whose function remains unknown. Using this information, I diagnose myself.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I have an auralgraphic memory,” I tell the case worker. “Just because it isn’t outlined in the DSM-V doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“You’re a schizophrenic,” he replies dryly, “and your foster mom wants you out.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He closes the folder with my paperwork.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Is this the first time I’ve been here?” I ask him. “Because my file looks thin.”</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I understand cause and effect. I understand that events must by necessity flow in a sequence. Small moments contain succession and can be kept in order, encapsulated in a solitary egg. But there are millions of these metaphorical eggs in my brain that look like every other egg. They are indistinguishable. And they don’t stack or line up or stay in place. They just roll and roll.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Sharp implements do not exist in Juvi. We eat everything with spoons.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“We know you won’t hurt anyone, kid. We just don’t want you to hurt yourself.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">They hand me a relaxation CD. In private, I snap it in half. The edge is thin, bright and jagged. I bring it to my ear.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Protecting others from harm is law. Protecting me from myself is a violation of free will.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the food pantry, the retiree fits some extra food into the bag.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Two bag limit, so let’s use the space wisely, eh?” He winks. He is methodical and masterful, fitting items, shape to shape. The bags strain with his generosity.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He presses a candy bar into Mike’s palm as we leave. “You look like you could use it, son.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mike coughs. Wipes his nose with the back of his hand.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">They don’t like my hands against my ears. They think it’s disrespectful and handcuff me to the chair. The precinct is so full of noise my jaw almost snaps. I squeeze my eyes, clench my teeth, snuff and flare my nostrils. Anything to block out sound.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“What’s this auralgraphic business?” The officer gestures to his computer screen. “Says here there’s no such thing.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Please give me my cap,” I whimper.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“After some questions, buddy.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Please give me my cap,” I say over and over until it fills my brain. They take me to a holding cell.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m in my room at the Y and Mike’s at the door. He looks pale. His voice sounds sticky, like there’s a windmill lodged in his throat. “My results came back. I got AIDS, dude. They just told me.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">There’s an AIDS Project in Danbury. And one in Hartford.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“They can get you on Title XIX. Free medicine,” I say. I hear people talk about this.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He rubs the back of his neck. “No, that’s not going to work for me.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He scans my room on instinct, always casing. “No worries, man. I’ll think of something.” He gives my arm a friendly pat.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Sirens scream. Skin and cartilage of my outer ear hang from my head. Blood slides across my cheek, over my lips.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Easy kid, easy,” the medic says. They strap me down. “Don’t try to talk.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I need to tell them not to sew my ear back on. But when I open my mouth, all I taste is pennies.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There’s free music on the town green in Naugatuck. Folks bring lawn chairs and buy ice cream. I wear my wool hat pulled low. It’s hot. New England is a hot place. Curious bugs flutter around my sweaty temples. I like chamber music. It has structure and order. It relaxes me.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mike leans against a tree. His red hair shining brightly. “I’m going to make it so I don’t have AIDS anymore.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“How?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m going to take time out of the equation.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Like Einstein.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mike blinks. “Sure. Maybe.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">We listen to a piece by Bach. It’s soothing, but Mike is too excited to be soothed.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I got it all figured out,” he says, his voice climbing higher, “I’m going to live inside your head.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I lift one ear flap of my cap. “Say that again?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m going to live inside your head, dude.” His eyes twinkle. His teeth twinkle. “There’s no order in that brain of yours. No chronology, right? That’s what you’ve said. So if I just exist inside your head then I’ll always be alive.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“But without time you will also be dead inside my brain.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He waves that away. “No, I got it all figured out. The trick is, you can’t ever know that I die. If you never know I die, I’ll never be dead.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Don’t you want to try the medicine?” I say.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Come on,” his voice cracks. “You just have to make sure you never hear that I’m dead.” He swallows. “Promise me.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Applause floods over the town green. The musicians rise and bow.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mike rocks into the balls of his feet, eager to move, raising his eyebrows, asking again.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I nod my head.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mike and I walk into eternity, hoist time onto our shoulders, and portage out, into the vacuum. My head’s buried between two epochs at the stern. Mike’s at the bow, holding up the future.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">We walk sideways. Circle. Turn backward. Go up and then down.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Time gets heavy. I drag it alone. When I flip it off my shoulders, Mike is nowhere to be found.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I read books, pull my wool cap low over my ears, ignore the case worker at the Y, ignore the guys under the bridge, ignore the cops who want to take me to the morgue.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Buddy, if you don’t identify the body, he’ll just be another John Doe. Is that really what your friend would want?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I clamp my hands over my ears. Sing “la-la-la” until they go away.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I know what my friend wants.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I sit on a playground swing. Each creak of the rusty chains adds another rubber band in my brain.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mike sits on the swing next to mine. “Tell me a story to pass the time.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“There’s no such thing as passing time.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mike laughs. At me. With me. But mostly, for me.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Tell me about that charlatan, then,” he says, “that trickster Diogenes.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I say, “Diogenes searched with a lantern for an honest man.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I never stole a lantern,” Mike says and kicks his toe into the dust. “And I never felt like looking.”</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I find a thick wool cap in the lost and found bin beneath the bleachers on the little league field. I pull it down low over my ears. The sound of breath fills my skull.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The world goes silent.</span></p>
<p><br /><br /></p><p> </p>
<p></p><hr width="50%" /><br /><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Karin Terebessy</b> likes to write speculative flash fiction stories. Her work has appeared in <i>Daily Science Fiction</i>, <i>Stupefying Stories</i>, <i>Flash Fiction Magazine</i>, <i>Sci-Phi Journal</i>, and other ‘zines. She is currently attempting to write a novel based on her short story <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2016/04/mood-skin-by-karin-terebessy.html" target="_blank">“Mood Skin”</a> which appeared in <i>Stupefying Stories</i> in 2016. You can follow Karin on TikTok @karinbendsreality or find her on Instagram at karinterebessy.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Her most recent appearance in our pages is “Bandages” in <i><b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2023/10/stupefying-stories-26-its-alive.html" target="_blank">Stupefying Stories 26</a></b></i>. Before that, she’s been with us since “The Memory of Worms,” in the now out-of-print Stupefying Stories 16, and has given us <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/?q=terebessy" target="_blank"><b>many <i>SHOWCASE </i>stories</b></a>, including, <b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2023/08/robins-egg-by-karin-terebessy.html" target="_blank">“Robin’s Egg,”</a></b> <b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2023/07/not-quite-ready-for-armageddon-by-karin.html" target="_blank">“Not <i>Quite </i>Ready for Armageddon,”</a> <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2023/07/the-finder-of-lost-things-by-karin.html" target="_blank">“The Finder of Lost Things,”</a> <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2016/04/mood-skin-by-karin-terebessy.html" target="_blank">“Mood Skin,”</a></b> and </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2016/08/the-real-reason-mrs-sprague-came-by-her.html" target="_blank">“The Real Reason Why Mrs. Sprague Came by Her House So Cheaply.”<br /></a></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">____________________</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Normally this is the point in the post where we put in an advertisement for a book, but today, we’re putting in a plug for the <b><a href="https://www.nami.org/Home" target="_blank">National Alliance on Mental Illness</a> (NAMI), </b>the nation’s largest grassroots mental health organization. <b>NAMI</b> is an alliance of more than 600 local Affiliates and 49 State Organizations who work to raise awareness, provide support and education, and strive to build better lives for those affected by mental illness.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In particular, NAMI sponsors many <b><a href="https://www.namiwalks.org/" target="_blank">fundraising walks</a></b>, throughout the year and all over the country, to raise awareness and raise funding for their programs. If you want to get involved you can find one near you through the website, <b><a href="https://www.namiwalks.org/" target="_blank">NAMIWalks</a></b>. The next one is this coming Saturday, March 23rd, in Fort Myers, FL.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">If you’ve been looking for a way to do something good in a good cause, here’s your opportunity. <br /></span></p><p></p>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-52624569327653029642024-03-17T17:05:00.005-05:002024-03-17T18:49:20.159-05:00The Week in Review • 17 March 2024<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRGBIBomwgIqlZKiVYDF-jz3YnFKrmNfr4I073vGb88HTPie1hhtXTrw9yTGL7v-zbRSLDw0-KaON4Qaor8tPOLnqOxRRyCEOhfu3jbROHjkWUXGsZ_8p-9tElzx2eqcWSY2p-LFn0h3j3884znbvHKwL6KJX5gYubQyoYE4fmD1uj9Zlt8HBKN47dvc_C/s1280/week%20in%20review%203-17-24.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRGBIBomwgIqlZKiVYDF-jz3YnFKrmNfr4I073vGb88HTPie1hhtXTrw9yTGL7v-zbRSLDw0-KaON4Qaor8tPOLnqOxRRyCEOhfu3jbROHjkWUXGsZ_8p-9tElzx2eqcWSY2p-LFn0h3j3884znbvHKwL6KJX5gYubQyoYE4fmD1uj9Zlt8HBKN47dvc_C/w640-h480/week%20in%20review%203-17-24.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s been a busy and complicated week here at Rampant Loon Press, and in retrospect one not readily amenable to our usual “week in review” post format. Therefore, for this week only we’re going to push aside our usual strictly sequential format and instead serve up a mix of news and stories, beginning with…<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1958333042" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="472" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH_jJk9OOFl2Gx9pOC4cBnqMX5qL6UcwkcV2hrDkQsEq450OHdCDFVTIVpFFP3H04cOZGpHfrboRaNThNdBzfBu4sGKyH_A5qV_FunM1sBnvyFq727Iqj5kdbH_iec0MH8tfE1cerpzGtNu4wZLCNGOK2ZvffhiPhxTH7yaiNrLtk218-gLgCDd14mlnSl/w139-h200/Screenshot%202024-03-16%20at%2011-40-56%20IngramSpark.png" width="139" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>BOOK RELEASE: JUST RELEASED <br /><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1958333042" target="_blank">SCOUT: THE LOST COLONY ADVENTURES</a></i></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This book is a deluxe omnibus edition of Henry Vogel’s first three <i>Scout </i>novels in a premium collectible hardcover edition, for not much more than the cost of buying the same three novels in individual paperbacks. If you’re a fan of Henry’s Terran Scout Corps series and want them in an edition you’ll be proud to show off or share, check out <b><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1958333042" target="_blank">SCOUT: THE LOST COLONY ADVENTURES</a></i></b>.<br /><br /><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CXMNTS24" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="303" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFRF0J7RoQDOuhDMe2ee52FxBgImAf6rm8Yw4TGqy7WPXz3Rk3sTSrhsUrXv09r8VpdoZkYBUlgSSUsP_TMsT4DVDfpMkPcAgOX_auVTs9ZJ4OK_iUEnJD5LrAdtRlnBoieFXf8GlzSXj_sXmF7rgJl9glkWuS9YwmK751e04I7Dao4wuuRO9AaI-ch27b/w130-h200/princess%20scout%20kindle.png" width="130" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>BOOK RELEASE: COMING NEXT WEEK<br /><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CXMNTS24" target="_blank">THE PRINCESS SCOUT</a> • by Henry Vogel<br /></i></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">After a successful run as a serial on Kindle Vella, Henry Vogel’s latest Scout adventure, <b><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CXMNTS24" target="_blank">THE PRINCESS SCOUT</a></i></b>, comes out in e-book, paperback, and hardcover on March 19th. It’s available now for pre-order on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CXMNTS24" target="_blank">Kindle</a>, <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-princess-scout-rampant-loon-press/1145031192" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a>, <a href="https://books.apple.com/us/book/the-princess-scout/id6479161862" target="_blank">Apple</a>, <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1533671" target="_blank">Smashwords</a>, and pretty much everywhere else e-books are sold. Please note that this is a completely self-contained and standalone adventure, and you need not have read any of the previous Scout novels in order to enjoy it. <br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9S8W6nIHSzxRrfbBysBbDeJR0lSx01fmvyLKtbBhG6eUzlmhD8WWfF19Ybu2Yz67RuluqsISHedxAAIG7MFuN-2pe7GgnCNKDiSSd48-lDwuFxiSQz_tWD217j5Wi86DUG1sywgzsRt6U4RxvS4XFJkelv8PRrOPIPc-Qj9IvYE2lackTIu5NyuM91LVS/s2560/Emerald-of-Earth-Kindle.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1707" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9S8W6nIHSzxRrfbBysBbDeJR0lSx01fmvyLKtbBhG6eUzlmhD8WWfF19Ybu2Yz67RuluqsISHedxAAIG7MFuN-2pe7GgnCNKDiSSd48-lDwuFxiSQz_tWD217j5Wi86DUG1sywgzsRt6U4RxvS4XFJkelv8PRrOPIPc-Qj9IvYE2lackTIu5NyuM91LVS/w133-h200/Emerald-of-Earth-Kindle.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>BOOK RELEASE: COMING IN TWO WEEKS<br /><i>EMERALD OF EARTH • by Guy Stewart<br /></i></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Emerald Marcillon lives with her archaeologist parents at a dig site in the Yucatan. Her parents believe they have found evidence of an alien war ages ago. What they don’t suspect is that an alien AI survived that war, and it’s still hiding in the jungle, waiting for the opportunity to finish its mission and exterminate humanity…</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Watch for e-book and paperback pre-order links, coming soon!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><b>ALSO COMING SOON:</b><br />Over on the Rampant Loon Media side of the house, we’ve finally resolved the technical issues that were holding up the paperback editions of <b><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CDB3HC83" target="_blank">Stupefying Stories 24</a></i></b> and <b><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CK71F29L" target="_blank">Stupefying Stories 26</a></i></b>.<b> </b>Watch for more information on release dates, coming soon.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>_______________<br /><br /></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: red;">SUBMISSIONS WINDOW CLOSES MARCH 31st<br /></span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Just a reminder: our current submissions reading period ends March 31st. Any unsolicited submissions received after March 31st will be rejected unread. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Our next open reading period is from June 1st to July 31st. However, we will be making some changes to our <b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/p/submission-guidelines_1.html" target="_blank">Submissions Guidelines</a></b> before the next reading period opens, in order to try to improve the wheat/chaff ratio.<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>_______________<br /><br /></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: x-large;"><b>STORIES!</b></span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></i></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We did in fact publish five flash fiction stories last week, as the result of another <b>Pete Wood Challenge</b>. The winners are:</span></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Honorable Mentions</i></span></b></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/argentina-before-barcode-scanners-by.html" target="_blank">“Argentina, Before Barcode Scanners”</a> • by Gustavo Bondoni</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT2-sjuQ_ZPOhWE70l3yZkdCLJls-ck0QC_UnoDiiFP9mCvSI1DVWQb1dkTLxF4Oz3BmzLqGoug-b3PkdZF57_8DmmiRNSp6bzpE7K0G8yPGUN9mprPq1QXsRaSnZxf8MzdJV7P1CpAxKtyEl5LXNVyAIcwa38aFRp1WdfT4M51EGtRcTD7w_RZQOomnCa/s1280/argentina.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT2-sjuQ_ZPOhWE70l3yZkdCLJls-ck0QC_UnoDiiFP9mCvSI1DVWQb1dkTLxF4Oz3BmzLqGoug-b3PkdZF57_8DmmiRNSp6bzpE7K0G8yPGUN9mprPq1QXsRaSnZxf8MzdJV7P1CpAxKtyEl5LXNVyAIcwa38aFRp1WdfT4M51EGtRcTD7w_RZQOomnCa/s320/argentina.png" width="320" /></a></div><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/like-clockwork-by-yelena-crane.html" target="_blank">“Like Clockwork”</a> • by Yelena Crane</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn3mOKvnnsGMxumGrgTh6jqoJ3nRGmLcHWJ8yfUQiQkulgAeInQXU3LXfOsyr7ZxnP3M2MbQkMnzblYdUSG5lrBg1W1q2FdbkjlBOHncxtqLNBoCVSwnCVY5XnZLDmHXKr9ZbnYQplBwVU3m1XTDMoVSjWViFBvHOhxjuaKRrUQzuYjTaIwlVWEFg14zZr/s1280/animatron.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn3mOKvnnsGMxumGrgTh6jqoJ3nRGmLcHWJ8yfUQiQkulgAeInQXU3LXfOsyr7ZxnP3M2MbQkMnzblYdUSG5lrBg1W1q2FdbkjlBOHncxtqLNBoCVSwnCVY5XnZLDmHXKr9ZbnYQplBwVU3m1XTDMoVSjWViFBvHOhxjuaKRrUQzuYjTaIwlVWEFg14zZr/s320/animatron.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/summit-in-memory-by-ian-li.html" target="_blank">“Summit, in Memory”</a> • by Ian Li</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIbhODCipOGUv7Or5nzdEL4Xp-HRlBc4NR8OzzSo-sKzpuENPodrF3SGGRsDe7XYTg8JgKOFmBGkqd5-g0MnHFNXfxZ75yGN_Xwtp80ycQrKAwqRg-Jvx3KFMlNd4o9wFGlkpYomFkhlvOBfC-gVPDwo0g4gtXtxHe0_Mx_R-oZ42UEX7mFf3pVA_yY5m1/s1280/last%20hike.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIbhODCipOGUv7Or5nzdEL4Xp-HRlBc4NR8OzzSo-sKzpuENPodrF3SGGRsDe7XYTg8JgKOFmBGkqd5-g0MnHFNXfxZ75yGN_Xwtp80ycQrKAwqRg-Jvx3KFMlNd4o9wFGlkpYomFkhlvOBfC-gVPDwo0g4gtXtxHe0_Mx_R-oZ42UEX7mFf3pVA_yY5m1/s320/last%20hike.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Second Place</i></span></b></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/astronaut-countdown-by-brandon-case.html" target="_blank">“Astronaut Countdown”</a> • by Brandon Case</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5JIswe111uuaOU-rm2SVl6_5LgezgC0FeeuOddHWuRTJFALlhL40o-nLVlfyhjlxhi9_EvBVHKBmWu7d3AcSHnR2YqLMy7H2kZNzNVyxYAuoKtVVMIa7BJzgvRQqtOGKvIkc6dBqUG_BCrmRhpIBPeeuz3L4vYlkafnfKjCJYI2kVQoy9qh6pJu8sHqpm/s1280/injured%20astronaut.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5JIswe111uuaOU-rm2SVl6_5LgezgC0FeeuOddHWuRTJFALlhL40o-nLVlfyhjlxhi9_EvBVHKBmWu7d3AcSHnR2YqLMy7H2kZNzNVyxYAuoKtVVMIa7BJzgvRQqtOGKvIkc6dBqUG_BCrmRhpIBPeeuz3L4vYlkafnfKjCJYI2kVQoy9qh6pJu8sHqpm/s320/injured%20astronaut.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><br /><p></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>First Place</i></span></b></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/when-woman-in-forest-says-please-you.html" target="_blank">“When the Woman in the Forest Says, ‘Please, You Must Help’”</a> • by Elis Montogomery</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCfa624Cm5Fn_F_noibyXiHzMPbpkNKboZ3E_3tCa1fUNc8tOL0SYcntYLCa7vck9YDJVUZBU7yA98lM2H1qQ-p-vHwVVilYWkwOBjp7uEQkc4BzkC5dOQvXbiHj4-n-3HekE9aBxqJCXOCTNxQyO70BpFRQicYl0f9YuCtiEwcnvlHq6F0GjEPrsnszyZ/s1280/woman%20in%20spider%20web.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCfa624Cm5Fn_F_noibyXiHzMPbpkNKboZ3E_3tCa1fUNc8tOL0SYcntYLCa7vck9YDJVUZBU7yA98lM2H1qQ-p-vHwVVilYWkwOBjp7uEQkc4BzkC5dOQvXbiHj4-n-3HekE9aBxqJCXOCTNxQyO70BpFRQicYl0f9YuCtiEwcnvlHq6F0GjEPrsnszyZ/s320/woman%20in%20spider%20web.png" width="320" /></a></span></div>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-72286273789939494272024-03-16T12:00:00.045-05:002024-03-16T12:19:35.121-05:00Upcoming Book Releases<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLckqoYT8EnlQviBGz5y7XNWJ2uCURDwZw5DHL3rrRp2bllNikgf8Z0ERDX62c_ZIDrFxI4zk4eQMv70mYvqJM5O7NCGMB8_PSJ4GnwOdoTmQaSFlSFw7sJwhieIV38b01TzEEO7S4F1CFOClCWiDo6tR5ZYdzV1Mk1HsLxJ-Ww__GVRT9ZnaTt23T7AH4/s1280/princess%20scout%20dust%20jacket.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLckqoYT8EnlQviBGz5y7XNWJ2uCURDwZw5DHL3rrRp2bllNikgf8Z0ERDX62c_ZIDrFxI4zk4eQMv70mYvqJM5O7NCGMB8_PSJ4GnwOdoTmQaSFlSFw7sJwhieIV38b01TzEEO7S4F1CFOClCWiDo6tR5ZYdzV1Mk1HsLxJ-Ww__GVRT9ZnaTt23T7AH4/w640-h480/princess%20scout%20dust%20jacket.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: large;">We’re busting chops to hit deadlines right now, so I’ll try to make this brief.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><u>FIRST:</u> </b>after a successful run as a serial on Kindle Vella, <b>Henry Vogel’s</b> latest standalone Terran Scout Corps adventure, <b><i>THE PRINCESS SCOUT</i></b>, releases next week on a plethora of e-book platforms, in trade paperback, and as you may have guessed from the above illustration, in a really <i>nice </i>hardcover edition, with a proper dust jacket and everything. It’s available for pre-order now on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CXMNTS24" target="_blank">Amazon</a>, <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-princess-scout-rampant-loon-press/1145031192" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a>, <a href="https://books.apple.com/us/book/the-princess-scout/id6479161862" target="_blank">Apple</a>, <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1533671" target="_blank">Smashwords</a>, <a href="https://www.thalia.de/shop/home/artikeldetails/A1071281158" target="_blank">Tolino</a>, <a href="https://shop.vivlio.com/product/9781958333228_9781958333228_10020/the-princess-scout" target="_blank">Vivlio</a>, <a href="https://www.everand.com/book/711762445" target="_blank">Everand</a>—I don’t even know what that is, but apparently we have distribution on <a href="https://www.everand.com/book/711762445" target="_blank">Everand</a> now—</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Here’s the link to the Amazon pre-order page: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CXMNTS24" target="_blank">https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CXMNTS24</a></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">If you’d prefer to get it from a different bookseller, please search for it. We like it when people search for our books. It tells the bookseller that readers are interested in the book. That does help us.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><u>SECOND:</u></b> speaking of hardcovers, we in theory have released <b><i>SCOUT: THE LOST COLONY ADVENTURES</i></b>, a deluxe omnibus edition of the first three Scout novels in a special premium collectable hardcover edition. However, because there isn’t an associated e-book, Amazon seems to be ignoring it and I’m having trouble finding anyone else who’s stocking it. The ISBN is 978-1-958333-04-4. So far the only place I’ve found it is on <a href="https://www.kulturkaufhaus.de/de/detail/ISBN-9781958333044/Vogel-Henry/Scout" target="_blank">Das KulturKaufhaus</a>. If you find anyone else who’s selling it, please let me know.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As I said, this is a prestige project, and we don’t expect to sell a lot of copies. I believe I told Henry that “this is our De Tomaso Pantera.” If you’re an automotive history buff, you know what that means.*<br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzmlsuvsE2pFrn1zUe-FpmqKN5UBvm36lf2vPrIUfMG63xwjzTejeY6gYpy18xwFuXuqGPzaGq9Mbzq2ZT-2ULmjDOdFq9q_4KJ2hpiDmKcXpOfLjWKlZ3ih7asVFZ-wSkZ7pRHfvli9usEXEQU4nvEr4z8iGCWldWlFSSDoOalTt3wRGOIRlAxeiqBdDj/s680/Screenshot%202024-03-16%20at%2011-40-56%20IngramSpark.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="472" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzmlsuvsE2pFrn1zUe-FpmqKN5UBvm36lf2vPrIUfMG63xwjzTejeY6gYpy18xwFuXuqGPzaGq9Mbzq2ZT-2ULmjDOdFq9q_4KJ2hpiDmKcXpOfLjWKlZ3ih7asVFZ-wSkZ7pRHfvli9usEXEQU4nvEr4z8iGCWldWlFSSDoOalTt3wRGOIRlAxeiqBdDj/w444-h640/Screenshot%202024-03-16%20at%2011-40-56%20IngramSpark.png" width="444" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><u>THIRD:</u></b> we are in the final stages of getting Guy Stewart’s YA novel, <b><i>EMERALD OF EARTH</i></b>, ready to release in two weeks, in both e-book and trade paperback. More info to come. Watch for it! <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ONF7KwsYQaEEUmtPbdnlm-VVg_QwNxzWi-3myq62UFilOAN_6IqLEcLuNoJwa48Lj2hKuSPlZMrqLuIvqRQx8mLcUN53gjYs1YtBnSG0kPyYy1bzVF9UyJ_PDppkRN3odYKbkVrEgy0fu80RX-oCDjEaZeE8tZFhNbpmrS4BRuaSHNv2lPdk_dgAVkBi/s2560/Emerald-of-Earth-Kindle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1707" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ONF7KwsYQaEEUmtPbdnlm-VVg_QwNxzWi-3myq62UFilOAN_6IqLEcLuNoJwa48Lj2hKuSPlZMrqLuIvqRQx8mLcUN53gjYs1YtBnSG0kPyYy1bzVF9UyJ_PDppkRN3odYKbkVrEgy0fu80RX-oCDjEaZeE8tZFhNbpmrS4BRuaSHNv2lPdk_dgAVkBi/w426-h640/Emerald-of-Earth-Kindle.jpg" width="426" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><u>FOURTH:</u></b> as if all that isn’t enough, we’re planning to <i>finally </i>finish and release the print editions of <b><i>Stupefying Stories 26</i></b> and <b><i>Stupefying Stories 24</i></b> by the end of this month.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And then, in April…<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><u>REMINDER:</u></b> Stupefying Stories SHOWCASE closes to unsolicited submissions at the end of this month. Our next open reading period will be from June 1st to July 31st. <br /> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><u>* AND NOW, ABOUT THE PANTERA:</u></b> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;">The De Tomaso Pantera was a totally hot and sexy Italian GT coupe luxury sports car—with a <i>Ford </i>V-8 engine. De Tomaso cut a deal with Ford, who sold them through their Lincoln-Mercury division, although “sold” is an overstatement. What Ford did was put a Pantera in every major-market Lincoln-Mercury showroom... as <i>bait</i>. After a prospective buyer came in to drool over the Pantera, and then had a near-heart attack when they saw the price tag, the salesman admitted it <i>was </i>a bit pricey, steered them over to a much more affordable Cougar or Capri, and closed the sale while they were still swooning.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>SCOUT: THE LOST PLANET ADVENTURES</b></i>, is our Pantera. Go ahead. Check it out. Drool over it. And then buy the complete series in paperback, for yourself or for your young reader. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></p>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-3362637965526917112024-03-15T10:00:00.034-05:002024-03-15T10:00:00.256-05:00When the Woman in the Forest Says, “Please, You Must Help” • by Elis Montgomery<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghl0lw1flf34GKh-m-TF8wAqD12nG__DTQ0QFcZ0FWkuGEgej81Pp0DzFtACyz9cVv_u9gOgus0VPblvJ7lD5d6GLN9o5wt6ymkQeR04dF9zvZy0j3-eJSuFS9GsTRPLh_XeVXhVBEv_ZuYtGAFPunSGzhp8EJUq9v2_dTyVUZmto82TWpac7PmmvQNlls/s1280/woman%20in%20spider%20web.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghl0lw1flf34GKh-m-TF8wAqD12nG__DTQ0QFcZ0FWkuGEgej81Pp0DzFtACyz9cVv_u9gOgus0VPblvJ7lD5d6GLN9o5wt6ymkQeR04dF9zvZy0j3-eJSuFS9GsTRPLh_XeVXhVBEv_ZuYtGAFPunSGzhp8EJUq9v2_dTyVUZmto82TWpac7PmmvQNlls/w640-h480/woman%20in%20spider%20web.png" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">We’re loath to rebuff a pretty face, or a bounty on a beast.</span><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIrHb5h4OFcNpiedyPP02JHf39Afsg41fFIg-7frMjuJ6W-a-ACLrTkUz2iJ2XrjrqDtjVDXWujrfeDkGcJ5pBCPkrLWLr8vwK2y5ZVkWVxwXfU_oY19U0h0GtuunY2-zBjCBhIheo04VG50VcuH3FlMFVuUT5ylVlLDeAW5H_ufre1A3Ba_0ui6f728R1/s270/1stplace_200px.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="200" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIrHb5h4OFcNpiedyPP02JHf39Afsg41fFIg-7frMjuJ6W-a-ACLrTkUz2iJ2XrjrqDtjVDXWujrfeDkGcJ5pBCPkrLWLr8vwK2y5ZVkWVxwXfU_oY19U0h0GtuunY2-zBjCBhIheo04VG50VcuH3FlMFVuUT5ylVlLDeAW5H_ufre1A3Ba_0ui6f728R1/s1600/1stplace_200px.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;">Sobbing, the woman rushes us to the arachnid’s lair, into its chill. She doesn’t miss a step, her well-bustled skirts gliding over ice-silvered ground.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We follow carefully lest we slip, but when we reach the ice—</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We freeze. Ice isn’t this… sticky.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Then the woman turns, hikes up her huge skirts—</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Revealing eight massive chitinous limbs, surging forward with breathless, ravenous speed.<br /></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></div><p><br /></p><br />
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<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-fw6Q8Ci3OZY2ezADVQrlfieOqB0GqCSfoRwGzM3PXkV_7WLiSk_dM7vVQXIiF08ZcpjiENTtWvaxWShyD5odowoYQwtOSjR5xbxhpeMUkFBB6dEU4nQP-tgjBSSdCIV0WYXjb4NfghjfB-t6JMEW8GxVwQkN8wpf3OZwbFUJ46to4qcynX8jr-2uR4Vs/s500/Elis%20Montgomery%20500x500.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-fw6Q8Ci3OZY2ezADVQrlfieOqB0GqCSfoRwGzM3PXkV_7WLiSk_dM7vVQXIiF08ZcpjiENTtWvaxWShyD5odowoYQwtOSjR5xbxhpeMUkFBB6dEU4nQP-tgjBSSdCIV0WYXjb4NfghjfB-t6JMEW8GxVwQkN8wpf3OZwbFUJ46to4qcynX8jr-2uR4Vs/s16000/Elis%20Montgomery%20500x500.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><b>Elis Montgomery</b> is a speculative fiction writer from
Vancouver, Canada. She is a member of SFWA and Codex. When she’s not
writing, she’s usually hanging upside down in an aerial arts class or a
murky cave. Find her there or at <a href="https://www.elismontgomery.com/" target="_blank">elismontgomery.com</a>.</span><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></p>
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</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="1280" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNr28NbVVcU6SP8sWgOivIqqfyKIat1MzSGShEFTPqu55GcJ0MTuWrWTFpELubZ74CYogRGbnUHXw2kscsT6uor9MdRbkK8ZlwIks3gna7Iwk01EBeDD0q896AmpBhPE4wQ5Mc5mzYb3cs0dAfQda-QTdzapQN33vnzOyrnRr3J9_HAjDwT3nsP6GmcmG4/w640-h232/23-24-25-26_thumbnail_bar.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Have a Kindle? Find out what you’ve been missing! <br />Buy the four<i> </i>latest issues with just one click!<br /></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><br />(Or buy just one, if that’s what you’d really prefer.)<b><br /></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="38" data-original-width="381" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYuEjc_0tXRzAQ9Lhw4Ps_j9ftSZgrVdPiFH3Te1fNKSSGx3uNCJ7_NJT-IvMvQ7JEVSSsWu0M90WppBnnWQ66uw10ztCfnM1OFfxNVmwb3ufDpyhrLaRPCsGPqWoSse_K2jQT0wy15fUs2UFA1HkAjm2daEi44yXR9KbE2sBXDNCLNe47HxuZheduy21/w400-h40/one-click%20button.png" width="400" /></a></b></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhysgSVZ-4g2pI4sFiwIWHFM9AVgR3SI7QrvN_inEuPnemH_QferX78JE5HguRuzNCRRS9DAOFDx1q_RmFF-fUHpMWlIpOgtgw3P-l6Mb7V1LiE6Ts7WsB1Ilx0H9cCD53w1PUFfPKGLK0hCv6u5wy6N7HHnc6vdSFwi2mMwln4oItYrzKdZn4YAb5HLn/s2560/PWC_postcard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2560" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhysgSVZ-4g2pI4sFiwIWHFM9AVgR3SI7QrvN_inEuPnemH_QferX78JE5HguRuzNCRRS9DAOFDx1q_RmFF-fUHpMWlIpOgtgw3P-l6Mb7V1LiE6Ts7WsB1Ilx0H9cCD53w1PUFfPKGLK0hCv6u5wy6N7HHnc6vdSFwi2mMwln4oItYrzKdZn4YAb5HLn/w640-h400/PWC_postcard.jpg" width="640" /> </a></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>The Pete Wood Challenge</b> is an informal ad hoc story-writing competition. Once a month<b> </b>Pete Wood
spots writers the idea for a story, usually in the form of a phrase or a
few key words, along with some restrictions on what can be submitted,
usually in terms of length. Pete then collects the resulting entries,
determines who has best met the challenge, and sends the winners over to
Bruce Bethke, who arranges for them to be published on the <i><b>Stupefying Stories</b></i> web site.<br /><br />You can find all the previous winners of the Pete Wood Challenge <b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Pete%20Wood%20Challenge" target="_blank">at this link</a></b>.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white;"><br />This
time the challenge was to write a flash fiction
piece playing off key word: <i>hike</i>.</span></span></p></div><p></p>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-20686337767624991982024-03-15T06:00:00.049-05:002024-03-15T08:58:58.944-05:00“Astronaut Countdown” • by Brandon Case<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1oCTHroOFihk5F5oaLb-p7ykJWGDvFJ9jmpP5qPvpRq1_jrJKhO9sqo8wZPJoOP0zxxsqmP0andTXkSbQ4faRQ-sE7UzmJOvECYbdjkdVXj95tUY9yWmrD3GUQMORnpeGeysDAeFFBZ4CwxH7DWxdBvAFBaoLHOlxE3SFr_3mG2emn9v1Tl4S80A_-OoN/s1280/injured%20astronaut.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1oCTHroOFihk5F5oaLb-p7ykJWGDvFJ9jmpP5qPvpRq1_jrJKhO9sqo8wZPJoOP0zxxsqmP0andTXkSbQ4faRQ-sE7UzmJOvECYbdjkdVXj95tUY9yWmrD3GUQMORnpeGeysDAeFFBZ4CwxH7DWxdBvAFBaoLHOlxE3SFr_3mG2emn9v1Tl4S80A_-OoN/w640-h480/injured%20astronaut.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><p><i><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Five</b> meters of regolith, rocky and gray.</span></i></p><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s the shortest hike ever!</span></blockquote><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwwb-PEB9o15mkn5780mdYVL_bQY7aI-lHF4Nkpx2tMp9WETXNzRNN571MckWNybKD4E9cHIUA_g-rms90Tuhs1RTuHpzWxHpU5-zqMxwr6h7Vm86Jf7F5R-OqY1p4C_bmn4x__IBTInk0URySnfABvCs1x1N7iBne8wOo6ppewS9-TpQRdtAMm4Mehqj-/s200/2ndplace_200px.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="154" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwwb-PEB9o15mkn5780mdYVL_bQY7aI-lHF4Nkpx2tMp9WETXNzRNN571MckWNybKD4E9cHIUA_g-rms90Tuhs1RTuHpzWxHpU5-zqMxwr6h7Vm86Jf7F5R-OqY1p4C_bmn4x__IBTInk0URySnfABvCs1x1N7iBne8wOo6ppewS9-TpQRdtAMm4Mehqj-/w154-h200/2ndplace_200px.jpg" width="154" /></a></span></i></div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Four</b> boulders, jagged and sharp.</span></i><p></p><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">Easy handholds for your EVA gloves!</span></blockquote><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Three</b> beeps, shrill and warning.</span></i></p><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">Who needs oxygen tanks? Your lungs are full!</span></blockquote><p></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Two</b> legs, crushed by the rover.</span></i></p><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">Your arms are strong in lunar gravity!</span></blockquote><p></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>One</b> airlock, holding safety inside.</span></i></p><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">You’ll call your friends on the outpost radio!</span></blockquote><p></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Zero</b> strength, limp against the door.</span></i></p><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">This concrete step makes a nice pillow!</span></blockquote><p></p><p> <br /></p><p></p><br />
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<p><br /></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimgvwkSSOQpDTE5UUjB9gh8zP40ZeZqSsqn8qQUxFPg1zNpL12fDPxep33Ku-jT1a0wIulLjXLa5BMRqx714cUQHn5Vovvdv-pa8nwuFxIWvuRN8gGpKbJz-2BxMevHrJW6m8eyrS-IBMvuHIsc_VBMJCC7NKeD10CsY7rKR9m6fgr8zI-1od417KHYZ2N/s300/Brandon%20Case.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimgvwkSSOQpDTE5UUjB9gh8zP40ZeZqSsqn8qQUxFPg1zNpL12fDPxep33Ku-jT1a0wIulLjXLa5BMRqx714cUQHn5Vovvdv-pa8nwuFxIWvuRN8gGpKbJz-2BxMevHrJW6m8eyrS-IBMvuHIsc_VBMJCC7NKeD10CsY7rKR9m6fgr8zI-1od417KHYZ2N/s1600/Brandon%20Case.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>Brandon Case</b>
is an erstwhile government cog who fled the doldrums into unsettling
worlds of science and magic. He has recent or forthcoming work in <i>Escape Pod</i>, <i>Air and Nothingness Press</i>, and <i>The Dread Machine</i>, among others. You can catch his alpine adventures on Twitter and Instagram <a href="https://twitter.com/BrandonCase101" target="_blank">@BrandonCase101</a>.</span></span>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>P.S. If you appreciated this one, be sure to check out Brandon’s other recent contributions to <i>Stupefying Stories</i>, <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2023/05/divided-sky-stolen-life-by-brandon-case.html" target="_blank">“Divided Sky, Stolen Life,”</a> <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2023/06/leave-plasma-gun-take-cannoli-by.html" target="_blank">“Leave the Plasma Gun, Take the Cannoli,”</a> <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2023/07/writers-strike-reaches-office-of.html" target="_blank">“Writers Strike Reaches the Office of Predestination.”</a>, <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2023/07/spin-drive-class-with-captain-ryan-by.html" target="_blank">“Spin Drive Class with Captain Ryan,”</a> and <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/?q=%22Brandon+Case%22" target="_blank">more!</a></span></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></p>
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</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="1280" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNr28NbVVcU6SP8sWgOivIqqfyKIat1MzSGShEFTPqu55GcJ0MTuWrWTFpELubZ74CYogRGbnUHXw2kscsT6uor9MdRbkK8ZlwIks3gna7Iwk01EBeDD0q896AmpBhPE4wQ5Mc5mzYb3cs0dAfQda-QTdzapQN33vnzOyrnRr3J9_HAjDwT3nsP6GmcmG4/w640-h232/23-24-25-26_thumbnail_bar.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Have a Kindle? Find out what you’ve been missing! <br />Buy the four<i> </i>latest issues with just one click!<br /></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><br />(Or buy just one, if that’s what you’d really prefer.)<b><br /></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="38" data-original-width="381" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYuEjc_0tXRzAQ9Lhw4Ps_j9ftSZgrVdPiFH3Te1fNKSSGx3uNCJ7_NJT-IvMvQ7JEVSSsWu0M90WppBnnWQ66uw10ztCfnM1OFfxNVmwb3ufDpyhrLaRPCsGPqWoSse_K2jQT0wy15fUs2UFA1HkAjm2daEi44yXR9KbE2sBXDNCLNe47HxuZheduy21/w400-h40/one-click%20button.png" width="400" /></a></b></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhysgSVZ-4g2pI4sFiwIWHFM9AVgR3SI7QrvN_inEuPnemH_QferX78JE5HguRuzNCRRS9DAOFDx1q_RmFF-fUHpMWlIpOgtgw3P-l6Mb7V1LiE6Ts7WsB1Ilx0H9cCD53w1PUFfPKGLK0hCv6u5wy6N7HHnc6vdSFwi2mMwln4oItYrzKdZn4YAb5HLn/s2560/PWC_postcard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2560" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhysgSVZ-4g2pI4sFiwIWHFM9AVgR3SI7QrvN_inEuPnemH_QferX78JE5HguRuzNCRRS9DAOFDx1q_RmFF-fUHpMWlIpOgtgw3P-l6Mb7V1LiE6Ts7WsB1Ilx0H9cCD53w1PUFfPKGLK0hCv6u5wy6N7HHnc6vdSFwi2mMwln4oItYrzKdZn4YAb5HLn/w640-h400/PWC_postcard.jpg" width="640" /> </a></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>The Pete Wood Challenge</b> is an informal ad hoc story-writing competition. Once a month<b> </b>Pete Wood
spots writers the idea for a story, usually in the form of a phrase or a
few key words, along with some restrictions on what can be submitted,
usually in terms of length. Pete then collects the resulting entries,
determines who has best met the challenge, and sends the winners over to
Bruce Bethke, who arranges for them to be published on the <i><b>Stupefying Stories</b></i> web site.<br /><br />You can find all the previous winners of the Pete Wood Challenge <b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Pete%20Wood%20Challenge" target="_blank">at this link</a></b>.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white;"><br />This
time the challenge was to write a flash fiction
piece playing off key word: <i>hike</i>.</span></span></p></div>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-29453779875316877032024-03-14T10:00:00.026-05:002024-03-14T10:00:00.137-05:00“Summit, in Memory” • by Ian Li<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcvyo_iH3LKEDAatypZz4n34oK3uEkvY9C-dMTo2uC0snzYWfOzWQ_kuXbhwhSpmLMPZuR2_4e2RjxVzl5r1BUc3WDRUKT3Lj79p0PaxmjWzFMCa7cNooWTjisCEtSPKC6uYFD0XZ-LTtirAKZ6s1LlRFOSpU3BADr7JKb_DUltOVuUMFXZb4cYeU__Zfu/s1280/last%20hike.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcvyo_iH3LKEDAatypZz4n34oK3uEkvY9C-dMTo2uC0snzYWfOzWQ_kuXbhwhSpmLMPZuR2_4e2RjxVzl5r1BUc3WDRUKT3Lj79p0PaxmjWzFMCa7cNooWTjisCEtSPKC6uYFD0XZ-LTtirAKZ6s1LlRFOSpU3BADr7JKb_DUltOVuUMFXZb4cYeU__Zfu/w640-h480/last%20hike.png" width="640" /></a></div><p> </p><div style="text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: large;">In the fiery dusk, creaking joints joined a chorus of crickets on the hillside. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sxr0A0npiio2m2FCk0JEw8Ps6wX5J8l-bjSo2TPs24NY9aWFWbByhlVVAxfY4khXYr86CwsSKx0EVR-V5Q7OZVuMDNg8vTEkaDa3lIVFyi1zaU_LA4aTS3mAK9GtBmPs8p1avqQRAz9lNNISqLLSeX2hiTgDFcXvcUpNM_WEWZS8AyAR1KxtuOZ7Ym6g/s600/honorable_600px.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="185" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sxr0A0npiio2m2FCk0JEw8Ps6wX5J8l-bjSo2TPs24NY9aWFWbByhlVVAxfY4khXYr86CwsSKx0EVR-V5Q7OZVuMDNg8vTEkaDa3lIVFyi1zaU_LA4aTS3mAK9GtBmPs8p1avqQRAz9lNNISqLLSeX2hiTgDFcXvcUpNM_WEWZS8AyAR1KxtuOZ7Ym6g/w62-h200/honorable_600px.jpg" width="62" /></a></span><span style="font-size: medium;">His hydraulic legs whined, designed for padded floors in nursing homes, not rocky, slippery ascents.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Battery flickering as he reached the summit, he laid her wispy figure gently in the cool grass, her breath light as an autumn leaf.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m glad we got to hike this together one last time,” she whispered. Glittering stars swirled in their teardrops.</span></p></div><p> </p><br />
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<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha7EbTinSHpkP6Cv3rgLQKEe5IykLKVx9buIp2gU6Tn9aNfBSMr5k_66ckjqOtcCOMAKH58foYvezQMlSpwCOM6ltm4IqjXH0JOxvmq8o-KzVHuR29EFRLRciY5_x_0c4F_PoW_DjGBWLMLd-nvT80zDuexBcCmKK5eg447Aii1jm1Dn-gka-rqs4QqKak/s351/Ian%20Li%20Profile.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="351" data-original-width="351" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha7EbTinSHpkP6Cv3rgLQKEe5IykLKVx9buIp2gU6Tn9aNfBSMr5k_66ckjqOtcCOMAKH58foYvezQMlSpwCOM6ltm4IqjXH0JOxvmq8o-KzVHuR29EFRLRciY5_x_0c4F_PoW_DjGBWLMLd-nvT80zDuexBcCmKK5eg447Aii1jm1Dn-gka-rqs4QqKak/w400-h400/Ian%20Li%20Profile.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Ian Li</b>
(he/him) writes speculative fiction and poetry from Toronto. Formerly
an economist and consultant, he loves spreadsheets, statistical
curiosities, and brain teasers. Find his writing at Radon Journal and
Flame Tree Press, as well as at <a href="https://ian-li.com" target="_blank">https://ian-li.com</a>. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">His most recent appearance in our pages was <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/01/hosting-tempest-by-ian-li.html" target="_blank">“Hosting a Tempest.”</a> </span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></p>
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</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="1280" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNr28NbVVcU6SP8sWgOivIqqfyKIat1MzSGShEFTPqu55GcJ0MTuWrWTFpELubZ74CYogRGbnUHXw2kscsT6uor9MdRbkK8ZlwIks3gna7Iwk01EBeDD0q896AmpBhPE4wQ5Mc5mzYb3cs0dAfQda-QTdzapQN33vnzOyrnRr3J9_HAjDwT3nsP6GmcmG4/w640-h232/23-24-25-26_thumbnail_bar.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Have a Kindle? Find out what you’ve been missing! <br />Buy the four<i> </i>latest issues with just one click!<br /></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><br />(Or buy just one, if that’s what you’d really prefer.)<b><br /></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="38" data-original-width="381" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYuEjc_0tXRzAQ9Lhw4Ps_j9ftSZgrVdPiFH3Te1fNKSSGx3uNCJ7_NJT-IvMvQ7JEVSSsWu0M90WppBnnWQ66uw10ztCfnM1OFfxNVmwb3ufDpyhrLaRPCsGPqWoSse_K2jQT0wy15fUs2UFA1HkAjm2daEi44yXR9KbE2sBXDNCLNe47HxuZheduy21/w400-h40/one-click%20button.png" width="400" /></a></b></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhysgSVZ-4g2pI4sFiwIWHFM9AVgR3SI7QrvN_inEuPnemH_QferX78JE5HguRuzNCRRS9DAOFDx1q_RmFF-fUHpMWlIpOgtgw3P-l6Mb7V1LiE6Ts7WsB1Ilx0H9cCD53w1PUFfPKGLK0hCv6u5wy6N7HHnc6vdSFwi2mMwln4oItYrzKdZn4YAb5HLn/s2560/PWC_postcard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2560" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhysgSVZ-4g2pI4sFiwIWHFM9AVgR3SI7QrvN_inEuPnemH_QferX78JE5HguRuzNCRRS9DAOFDx1q_RmFF-fUHpMWlIpOgtgw3P-l6Mb7V1LiE6Ts7WsB1Ilx0H9cCD53w1PUFfPKGLK0hCv6u5wy6N7HHnc6vdSFwi2mMwln4oItYrzKdZn4YAb5HLn/w640-h400/PWC_postcard.jpg" width="640" /> </a></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>The Pete Wood Challenge</b> is an informal ad hoc story-writing competition. Once a month<b> </b>Pete Wood
spots writers the idea for a story, usually in the form of a phrase or a
few key words, along with some restrictions on what can be submitted,
usually in terms of length. Pete then collects the resulting entries,
determines who has best met the challenge, and sends the winners over to
Bruce Bethke, who arranges for them to be published on the <i><b>Stupefying Stories</b></i> web site.<br /><br />You can find all the previous winners of the Pete Wood Challenge <b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Pete%20Wood%20Challenge" target="_blank">at this link</a></b>.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white;"><br />This
time the challenge was to write a flash fiction
piece playing off key word: <i>hike</i>.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;">Tomorrow, the winners!</span></span></div></div>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-19974657847839257082024-03-14T08:00:00.019-05:002024-03-14T08:00:00.140-05:00“Like Clockwork” • by Yelena Crane<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPaqVmvtTAUC_RLGm9kuDNbDe6KHX1YtVnn4D3sFIYXrLM3lgd8M47PFHv3Ovjec9i6q6uvJq0uFDWLZvbYQecoUR31b2PpEYYAzfco2QNLYLjfMEdq6gav00bQiByV82vfDQGxe2oCTadRLp7L0mEcHnh_WRpTvR9FOx5oBTzQte-h5dWwufV3ORct_-t/s1280/animatron.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPaqVmvtTAUC_RLGm9kuDNbDe6KHX1YtVnn4D3sFIYXrLM3lgd8M47PFHv3Ovjec9i6q6uvJq0uFDWLZvbYQecoUR31b2PpEYYAzfco2QNLYLjfMEdq6gav00bQiByV82vfDQGxe2oCTadRLp7L0mEcHnh_WRpTvR9FOx5oBTzQte-h5dWwufV3ORct_-t/w640-h480/animatron.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: large;">When the bells chime, the Animatron hikes her skirt up to mark each hour.</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sxr0A0npiio2m2FCk0JEw8Ps6wX5J8l-bjSo2TPs24NY9aWFWbByhlVVAxfY4khXYr86CwsSKx0EVR-V5Q7OZVuMDNg8vTEkaDa3lIVFyi1zaU_LA4aTS3mAK9GtBmPs8p1avqQRAz9lNNISqLLSeX2hiTgDFcXvcUpNM_WEWZS8AyAR1KxtuOZ7Ym6g/s600/honorable_600px.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="185" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sxr0A0npiio2m2FCk0JEw8Ps6wX5J8l-bjSo2TPs24NY9aWFWbByhlVVAxfY4khXYr86CwsSKx0EVR-V5Q7OZVuMDNg8vTEkaDa3lIVFyi1zaU_LA4aTS3mAK9GtBmPs8p1avqQRAz9lNNISqLLSeX2hiTgDFcXvcUpNM_WEWZS8AyAR1KxtuOZ7Ym6g/w62-h200/honorable_600px.jpg" width="62" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Up, down, then a fifty-nine minute excruciating wait to repeat the lewd movement. Sentience for <i>this?</i> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Eventually newer toys replace her and she counts time for no one but the attic spiders.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Years pass without change.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As the Animatron’s hands slowly rise for the hourly show, her plaster-cracked joints finally seize. Where still whole, her legs are hidden in silver silk cobwebs. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<hr width="50%" />
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXPUJB8N5WagrTlJrM2sHA_a8C_jgnaBE9DZm3lOAO9fBDxEJzlJbR9HtJNEmaDXAd0-sVTT54tsbxI2JSyPdrGtJFOBSkz78P1UHe73euq-Bp9bdCiN_dPxs_7-MH-ZePf5rQg2T4wGWwcHdGDL9GE417weIVsA5E_8gKN3MIl96E3LrytP9idWgu-XNk/s1536/Yelena%20Crane.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1329" data-original-width="1536" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXPUJB8N5WagrTlJrM2sHA_a8C_jgnaBE9DZm3lOAO9fBDxEJzlJbR9HtJNEmaDXAd0-sVTT54tsbxI2JSyPdrGtJFOBSkz78P1UHe73euq-Bp9bdCiN_dPxs_7-MH-ZePf5rQg2T4wGWwcHdGDL9GE417weIVsA5E_8gKN3MIl96E3LrytP9idWgu-XNk/w400-h346/Yelena%20Crane.jpg" width="400" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Yelena Crane</b>
is a Ukrainian/Soviet born and USA based writer, incorporating
influences from both into her work. With an advanced degree in the
sciences, she has followed her passions from mad scientist to sci-fi
writer. Her stories often explore the boundaries of technology, the
complexities of human nature, and the consequences of our choices. She's
published in Nature Futures, DSF, Dark Matter Ink, Flame Tree, and
elsewhere. Follow her on twitter @Aelintari and <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.yelenacrane.com/&source=gmail&ust=1697077696342000&usg=AOvVaw2J_7es_BxzU5sSqZOeP7DS" href="https://www.yelenacrane.com/" target="_blank">https://www.yelenacrane.com/</a>.</span><div style="text-align: center;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></p>
<hr />
<p><br />
</p><p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="1280" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNr28NbVVcU6SP8sWgOivIqqfyKIat1MzSGShEFTPqu55GcJ0MTuWrWTFpELubZ74CYogRGbnUHXw2kscsT6uor9MdRbkK8ZlwIks3gna7Iwk01EBeDD0q896AmpBhPE4wQ5Mc5mzYb3cs0dAfQda-QTdzapQN33vnzOyrnRr3J9_HAjDwT3nsP6GmcmG4/w640-h232/23-24-25-26_thumbnail_bar.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Have a Kindle? Find out what you’ve been missing! <br />Buy the four<i> </i>latest issues with just one click!<br /></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><br />(Or buy just one, if that’s what you’d really prefer.)<b><br /></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="38" data-original-width="381" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYuEjc_0tXRzAQ9Lhw4Ps_j9ftSZgrVdPiFH3Te1fNKSSGx3uNCJ7_NJT-IvMvQ7JEVSSsWu0M90WppBnnWQ66uw10ztCfnM1OFfxNVmwb3ufDpyhrLaRPCsGPqWoSse_K2jQT0wy15fUs2UFA1HkAjm2daEi44yXR9KbE2sBXDNCLNe47HxuZheduy21/w400-h40/one-click%20button.png" width="400" /></a></b></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhysgSVZ-4g2pI4sFiwIWHFM9AVgR3SI7QrvN_inEuPnemH_QferX78JE5HguRuzNCRRS9DAOFDx1q_RmFF-fUHpMWlIpOgtgw3P-l6Mb7V1LiE6Ts7WsB1Ilx0H9cCD53w1PUFfPKGLK0hCv6u5wy6N7HHnc6vdSFwi2mMwln4oItYrzKdZn4YAb5HLn/s2560/PWC_postcard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2560" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhysgSVZ-4g2pI4sFiwIWHFM9AVgR3SI7QrvN_inEuPnemH_QferX78JE5HguRuzNCRRS9DAOFDx1q_RmFF-fUHpMWlIpOgtgw3P-l6Mb7V1LiE6Ts7WsB1Ilx0H9cCD53w1PUFfPKGLK0hCv6u5wy6N7HHnc6vdSFwi2mMwln4oItYrzKdZn4YAb5HLn/w640-h400/PWC_postcard.jpg" width="640" /> </a></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>The Pete Wood Challenge</b> is an informal ad hoc story-writing competition. Once a month<b> </b>Pete Wood
spots writers the idea for a story, usually in the form of a phrase or a
few key words, along with some restrictions on what can be submitted,
usually in terms of length. Pete then collects the resulting entries,
determines who has best met the challenge, and sends the winners over to
Bruce Bethke, who arranges for them to be published on the <i><b>Stupefying Stories</b></i> web site.<br /><br />You can find all the previous winners of the Pete Wood Challenge <b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Pete%20Wood%20Challenge" target="_blank">at this link</a></b>.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white;"><br />This
time the challenge was to write a flash fiction
piece playing off key word: <i>hike</i>.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;">More stories to come!</span></span></div></div><p></p>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-57629544939339893112024-03-14T06:00:00.016-05:002024-03-14T06:00:00.147-05:00“Argentina, Before Barcode Scanners” • by Gustavo Bondoni<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMkMyuPcEAJGlGUJECOaRG3bJG8q3AogCwhDcOynEW8zwPUfX2YP4URGqWYsJmMkLjwnT5_9CpSEBHMoTV2P4sNc6T_6RMwQqefTqtNM4lgUihyphenhyphenRgelLDEFcnwb-7WxcAoKu7E3IO10FzUyBwaVnJnFqSBqp76Or3niKa046-XiVrFJOpuIkHBCaCacwB4/s1280/argentina.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMkMyuPcEAJGlGUJECOaRG3bJG8q3AogCwhDcOynEW8zwPUfX2YP4URGqWYsJmMkLjwnT5_9CpSEBHMoTV2P4sNc6T_6RMwQqefTqtNM4lgUihyphenhyphenRgelLDEFcnwb-7WxcAoKu7E3IO10FzUyBwaVnJnFqSBqp76Or3niKa046-XiVrFJOpuIkHBCaCacwB4/w640-h480/argentina.png" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<p><span style="font-size: large;">Raul ran along the shelves placing new price stickers over the old.</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sxr0A0npiio2m2FCk0JEw8Ps6wX5J8l-bjSo2TPs24NY9aWFWbByhlVVAxfY4khXYr86CwsSKx0EVR-V5Q7OZVuMDNg8vTEkaDa3lIVFyi1zaU_LA4aTS3mAK9GtBmPs8p1avqQRAz9lNNISqLLSeX2hiTgDFcXvcUpNM_WEWZS8AyAR1KxtuOZ7Ym6g/s600/honorable_600px.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="185" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sxr0A0npiio2m2FCk0JEw8Ps6wX5J8l-bjSo2TPs24NY9aWFWbByhlVVAxfY4khXYr86CwsSKx0EVR-V5Q7OZVuMDNg8vTEkaDa3lIVFyi1zaU_LA4aTS3mAK9GtBmPs8p1avqQRAz9lNNISqLLSeX2hiTgDFcXvcUpNM_WEWZS8AyAR1KxtuOZ7Ym6g/w62-h200/honorable_600px.jpg" width="62" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">He puffed from exertion. People jumped ahead of him to pull products from the shelves and beat the hourly price hike.</span><p></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Store policy meant cashiers had to honor the tag.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Raul clutched his chest and fell, the strain of the month of hyperinflation catching up to him. At the time of death, his monthly salary, still unadjusted, would have purchased a popsicle.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<hr width="50%" />
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN3Ogu9kU3bKzJG51FLpHP4Y-2EFP_NeYaGFy__K3v5j0DMHm3xFfz1U5n0x4eRpi4fUXPPpKMHTj3V4NnbUv8jLMqWtR2B-e1Q9XNP0hC1gsNrYg9BMyl3LpwDR_tfn0bm3UW9LWrCuxp/s624/gustavo_bondoni.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="416" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN3Ogu9kU3bKzJG51FLpHP4Y-2EFP_NeYaGFy__K3v5j0DMHm3xFfz1U5n0x4eRpi4fUXPPpKMHTj3V4NnbUv8jLMqWtR2B-e1Q9XNP0hC1gsNrYg9BMyl3LpwDR_tfn0bm3UW9LWrCuxp/w213-h320/gustavo_bondoni.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Gustavo Bondoni i</b>s
novelist and short story writer with over three hundred stories
published in fifteen countries, in seven languages. He is a member of
Codex and an Active Member of SFWA.His latest novel is a dark historic fantasy entitled <i>The Swords of Rasna </i>(2022). He has also published five science fiction novels, four monster books and a thriller entitled <i>Timeless</i>. His short fiction is collected in <i>Pale Reflection</i> (2020), <i>Off the Beaten Path</i> (2019), <i>Tenth Orbit and Other Faraway Places</i> (2010) and <i>Virtuoso and Other Stories</i> (2011).<br /> <br />In
2019, Gustavo was awarded second place in the Jim Baen Memorial Contest
and in 2018 he received a Judges Commendation (and second place) in The
James White Award. He was also a 2019 finalist in the Writers of the
Future Contest.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">His website is at <a href="http://www.gustavobondoni.com" target="_blank">www.gustavobondoni.com</a></span><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">Gustavo has become a regular contributor to <i>Stupefying Stories</i> and we have quite a few stories of his stories on this site. <b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/?q=gustavo+bondoni" target="_blank">Check them out!<br /></a></b></span><div style="text-align: center;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></p>
<hr />
<p><br />
</p><p>
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="1280" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNr28NbVVcU6SP8sWgOivIqqfyKIat1MzSGShEFTPqu55GcJ0MTuWrWTFpELubZ74CYogRGbnUHXw2kscsT6uor9MdRbkK8ZlwIks3gna7Iwk01EBeDD0q896AmpBhPE4wQ5Mc5mzYb3cs0dAfQda-QTdzapQN33vnzOyrnRr3J9_HAjDwT3nsP6GmcmG4/w640-h232/23-24-25-26_thumbnail_bar.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Have a Kindle? Find out what you’ve been missing! <br />Buy the four<i> </i>latest issues with just one click!<br /></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><br />(Or buy just one, if that’s what you’d really prefer.)<b><br /></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="38" data-original-width="381" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYuEjc_0tXRzAQ9Lhw4Ps_j9ftSZgrVdPiFH3Te1fNKSSGx3uNCJ7_NJT-IvMvQ7JEVSSsWu0M90WppBnnWQ66uw10ztCfnM1OFfxNVmwb3ufDpyhrLaRPCsGPqWoSse_K2jQT0wy15fUs2UFA1HkAjm2daEi44yXR9KbE2sBXDNCLNe47HxuZheduy21/w400-h40/one-click%20button.png" width="400" /></a></b></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhysgSVZ-4g2pI4sFiwIWHFM9AVgR3SI7QrvN_inEuPnemH_QferX78JE5HguRuzNCRRS9DAOFDx1q_RmFF-fUHpMWlIpOgtgw3P-l6Mb7V1LiE6Ts7WsB1Ilx0H9cCD53w1PUFfPKGLK0hCv6u5wy6N7HHnc6vdSFwi2mMwln4oItYrzKdZn4YAb5HLn/s2560/PWC_postcard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2560" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhysgSVZ-4g2pI4sFiwIWHFM9AVgR3SI7QrvN_inEuPnemH_QferX78JE5HguRuzNCRRS9DAOFDx1q_RmFF-fUHpMWlIpOgtgw3P-l6Mb7V1LiE6Ts7WsB1Ilx0H9cCD53w1PUFfPKGLK0hCv6u5wy6N7HHnc6vdSFwi2mMwln4oItYrzKdZn4YAb5HLn/w640-h400/PWC_postcard.jpg" width="640" /> </a></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>The Pete Wood Challenge</b> is an informal ad hoc story-writing competition. Once a month<b> </b>Pete Wood
spots writers the idea for a story, usually in the form of a phrase or a
few key words, along with some restrictions on what can be submitted,
usually in terms of length. Pete then collects the resulting entries,
determines who has best met the challenge, and sends the winners over to
Bruce Bethke, who arranges for them to be published on the <i><b>Stupefying Stories</b></i> web site.<br /><br />You can find all the previous winners of the Pete Wood Challenge <b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Pete%20Wood%20Challenge" target="_blank">at this link</a></b>.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white;"><br />This
time the challenge was to write a flash fiction
piece playing off key word: <i>hike</i>.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;">More stories to come!</span></span></div></div>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-45382879105337800842024-03-13T09:00:00.111-05:002024-03-13T09:03:32.663-05:00The Never-ending FAQ: submissions window closing soon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-EOa04PBVFy47XuDyq-rS2JEgHQ_0fdudMx9cGOv879REgZri3_MupLFn9bEFlbYZywIH8hOzDF70VdKLA97KQ211ARWsPlc9Ik4htGktYSNfiIbc88KYViyyTmNxK5I0C613Q1_3_U5Lk8FrqsPNQO7xScC6cdUKc6YaF4vDIGgmr3I0l5LaxzF3KQAX/s1280/Bruce%20Bethke%20in%20a%20bar%20in%20Duluth.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-EOa04PBVFy47XuDyq-rS2JEgHQ_0fdudMx9cGOv879REgZri3_MupLFn9bEFlbYZywIH8hOzDF70VdKLA97KQ211ARWsPlc9Ik4htGktYSNfiIbc88KYViyyTmNxK5I0C613Q1_3_U5Lk8FrqsPNQO7xScC6cdUKc6YaF4vDIGgmr3I0l5LaxzF3KQAX/w640-h480/Bruce%20Bethke%20in%20a%20bar%20in%20Duluth.png" width="640" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><br />Welcome to this week’s installment of <b><i><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Never-ending%20FAQ" target="_blank">The Never-ending FAQ</a></i></b>, the constantly evolving adjunct to our <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/p/submission-guidelines_1.html" target="_blank"><b>Submission Guidelines</b></a>. If you have a question you’d like to ask about <i>Stupefying Stories</i>
or Rampant Loon Press, feel free to post it as a comment here or to
email it to our submissions address. I can’t guarantee we’ll post a
public answer, but can promise every question we receive will be
read and considered.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Today’s
question comes from <b>Malina</b>, who asks:<br /></span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span></span></span><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span>Dear editors of Stupefying Stories,<br />What's the deadline for submitting to the Showcase? I couldn’t find it in the submissions guidelines.<br /><br />Regards,<br />Malina<br /></span></b></span></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />I’m really glad you asked that question. You are right; we don’t have a cutoff date in our current <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/p/submission-guidelines_1.html" target="_blank">Submission Guidelines</a>. When we reopened to submissions and posted those guidelines, we naïvely thought we’d be able to keep up with the inflow of new Showcase submissions.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Then, Duotrope opened the floodgates.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We’ve now hit the point where we can either handle new submissions or publish fiction, there isn’t time enough in the day to do both. Since our entire raison d'être is <i>to publish fiction</i>, it’s therefore time to close the window for a bit, to enable us to concentrate on book production. Ergo— <br /></span></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Effective Monday, April 1st, 2024, we are <u><span style="color: red;">closed</span></u> to unsolicited submissions. Any unsolicited submission received on or after April 1st will be rejected unread.</span></b></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We plan to reopen to Showcase submissions on Saturday, June 1st. However, be advised that we will be changing our submission guidelines before we reopen for submissions in June, in order to try to improve the wheat/chaff ratio.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Thank you,<br />Bruce Bethke<br />Editor, <i>Stupefying Stories</i><br />A Rampant Loon Media publication<br /><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CK71F29L" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPcEafEKBVkDZFmK1Cyjl1a0TmLtNjcWgAfxzjaNVTWC2egfgeEo1kvlhN_9ISJzuaGMvZEhx3pl6bxcs81L4YKVxKl38l5cQspHb-o57hoDchqexxkFUNtaou7Km5fmrPtUhTGKhur6ruNLGx42nQLD32IJktZ-1f5PWEjO3FYxCaXX4zdrbubKPvNFeF/w640-h400/SS26_postcard-3.png" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-54790370701647206932024-03-10T06:00:00.189-05:002024-03-10T06:00:00.136-05:00The Week in Review • 10 March 2024<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAG6cDn_G2MiDgcKjZoiAvM_AeGFnYwp5wu0IqfuV7jLcP1Pxc8WYtc4I2O0N8D-tlEtNEFVTpRaWAfkNXM6bBWifbUSQ3ijYwT_bctfA_W3sA31bENvGGfd2l6Modt_f64D1Oo4-bHsUKnLKg5QPJzAJh2dDQs-EgNTCAFMhlusfn1_-6H1n_huMnQKug/s1280/week%20in%20review%203-10-24.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAG6cDn_G2MiDgcKjZoiAvM_AeGFnYwp5wu0IqfuV7jLcP1Pxc8WYtc4I2O0N8D-tlEtNEFVTpRaWAfkNXM6bBWifbUSQ3ijYwT_bctfA_W3sA31bENvGGfd2l6Modt_f64D1Oo4-bHsUKnLKg5QPJzAJh2dDQs-EgNTCAFMhlusfn1_-6H1n_huMnQKug/w640-h480/week%20in%20review%203-10-24.png" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Welcome to <b><i><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Week%20in%20Review" target="_blank">The Week in Review</a>,</i></b> a weekly summary for those too busy to follow <i>Stupefying Stories</i> on a daily basis.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/evil-little-head-beastie-by-maddison.html" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixAhpzR32bNDqP69txeHGzlWRyLZEIbKCyYM8dZvW2NbVZNytyJjBV6WAVTabuqEMhdmd4ZOIxKqawcl5IbaAaZcUORSa2nppIEiMMO6mncli6rMS6OQiCzpv2kdciQrjVUHzbIDxb1TpL9Ge6A0IA_1MHJHAG5J6wka3gdf2jacQ6Zkkpdu7JdM5Qx-P5/w200-h150/doctors%20and%20brain%20scan.png" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/evil-little-head-beastie-by-maddison.html" target="_blank">“Evil Little Head Beastie” • by Maddison Scott</a></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When a tiny monster takes up residence in your brain, it’s a real bit—</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Published: 4 March 2024<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-binding-of-laws-by-kelly-harmon.html" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHgr7jA_HvbhUxpiSbewDKRzs942Fz6dtjlLxyllxO63jmwq9bPwAPOahLawP3z-EfF9vGWyoLO0L_FIare5LAINW6K38Dq7NZILy7gy61gtitERMrWa9mhe8GNcq9S75JSP2AMHIjIewTmXQV1f7DaKzAyjidBuA8Br9ETDkmcRyMrTNH6wHD7UAwRiwg/w200-h150/gerald.png" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-binding-of-laws-by-kelly-harmon.html" target="_blank">“The Binding of Laws” • by Kelly Harmon</a></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Gerald was a gambler. He’d gotten rich by taking chances. Bet big, win big. But this was the biggest gamble of them all…</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Published: 5 March 2024</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-never-ending-faq-recalculating-cold.html" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYBdW-GYQN2AGju0-zz7-PydCMjr8DPs0FHAHGH2TafiFzEa73gIIeuqGnE2cmq3v-xOO9FgollK_1YAxE1m-1D4HOjxsog78Yz70L1Ctt7MDQfKkF1VN-C9ziT27kQwykh71FuUAqQ3exbTubwuDiGH7-EGm97-OA7mX_CHGfM5TQuknoL0V9mtOu4-A2/w200-h150/cold%20equations.png" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-never-ending-faq-recalculating-cold.html" target="_blank">The Never-ending FAQ: recalculating “The Cold Equations”</a></b></span><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Tom Godwin’s 1954 <i>Astounding </i>story has been called the best hard SF story ever written. I beg to differ, and not very respectfully.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Published: 6 March 2024 <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/they-tire-of-waiting-by-roni-stinger.html" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZBbRtmuIkaQvPtDadJGCCf8N40Z_UdwDHUD5Eq-Fgull4Q608cYspNLHIeL355A-NonAp_lrVMSOs3Q8QnPA9SJ94DnKNFVUo3yawJ2JN6wGO5BiBczwWZLQMivt4dhp_RBpEs1EerYAiwmk8QFUR2jcUuXUKlgBawtn-DXi1v8Z1czU7Rg26BdHmGori/w200-h150/they%20tire%20of%20waiting.png" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/they-tire-of-waiting-by-roni-stinger.html" target="_blank">“They Tire of Waiting” • by Roni Stinger</a></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Sometimes a writer’s inner demons are much better kept inner. And sometimes they won’t tolerate being ignored…</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Published: 7 March 2024</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-confession-by-ed-ahern.html" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl3WioZEtHegCSp4gO-N2AQ4FP9Ks7PD6hIUIlI9FIg6HNGCcZxa6vCXXQJJmvmrbmKdSVEgr04Hmutmv9bU5lCfHudGhYsm-ilhQdWLTn4TAzoEAHbhGKaNfx40-fbBxXba_CCa0wUI912RUn1Knf_1JZPPi0YQNsRukFhozGbaadSlII-kRoYwVLveKG/w200-h150/man%20in%20church%20pew.png" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-confession-by-ed-ahern.html" target="_blank">“The Confession” • by Ed Ahern</a></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">He’d traveled the world over seeking absolution, yet no matter where he went or what he did, it kept eluding him. Why, it was almost as if…</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Published: 8 March 2024</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-hangover-and-hag-by-angelique-fawns.html" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIde-LiGeEvOV9oySKxrEiGfHClcGiHPExp74-p5lOg5iQw4wYvFRBX6aUwNOZkMFM8ozUSSBEZ8H5aIA7ELk6DSXoJPxuCD5u-wBzcpvNHnwoPOx5d4871WoxmT2S_axAAOeDKOcih3xqxudsgSm9AlDONzXhY8umKr7_WMadmRy9KvoxtraLKwMxctuu/w200-h150/hangover.png" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/the-hangover-and-hag-by-angelique-fawns.html" target="_blank">“The Hangover and the Hag” • by Angelique Fawns</a></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Five years of sobriety, gone in a flash. And when she woke up the next morning with the hangover from Hell, she found her troubles had only begun.</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Published: 9 March 2024</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Week%20in%20Review" target="_blank"><b><span>Previous <i>Week-in-Review</i> Posts</span></b></a></span><br /></div><br /><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #800180;">P.S. And buy some of our books, okay?</span> <br /></span>
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</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="1280" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNr28NbVVcU6SP8sWgOivIqqfyKIat1MzSGShEFTPqu55GcJ0MTuWrWTFpELubZ74CYogRGbnUHXw2kscsT6uor9MdRbkK8ZlwIks3gna7Iwk01EBeDD0q896AmpBhPE4wQ5Mc5mzYb3cs0dAfQda-QTdzapQN33vnzOyrnRr3J9_HAjDwT3nsP6GmcmG4/w640-h232/23-24-25-26_thumbnail_bar.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Have a Kindle? Find out what you’ve been missing! <br />Buy the four<i> </i>latest issues with just one click!<br /></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><br />(Or buy just one, if that’s what you’d really prefer.)<b><br /></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="38" data-original-width="381" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYuEjc_0tXRzAQ9Lhw4Ps_j9ftSZgrVdPiFH3Te1fNKSSGx3uNCJ7_NJT-IvMvQ7JEVSSsWu0M90WppBnnWQ66uw10ztCfnM1OFfxNVmwb3ufDpyhrLaRPCsGPqWoSse_K2jQT0wy15fUs2UFA1HkAjm2daEi44yXR9KbE2sBXDNCLNe47HxuZheduy21/w400-h40/one-click%20button.png" width="400" /></a></b></span></div><p></p><p></p><br />~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-90703398205678282382024-03-09T06:00:00.066-06:002024-03-09T06:00:00.129-06:00“The Hangover and the Hag” • by Angelique Fawns<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOFheBzxfUnhwK9wCOfjXERmo46fEaDnoXICcuhTQKIZeZqBY80yD7SRfIqqXEyvFb6AwMxe5y4tOPIQ2nCQzirkenjEoeaibEsbyEZtvslBAIy2626pkjdQU5_R-IeBHrjJGjpqP_WwD8pjEyZ-9b8Y08lAtkFGbvEYU-MgPSPDp_JPgxF_43Mo2num_O/s1280/hangover.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOFheBzxfUnhwK9wCOfjXERmo46fEaDnoXICcuhTQKIZeZqBY80yD7SRfIqqXEyvFb6AwMxe5y4tOPIQ2nCQzirkenjEoeaibEsbyEZtvslBAIy2626pkjdQU5_R-IeBHrjJGjpqP_WwD8pjEyZ-9b8Y08lAtkFGbvEYU-MgPSPDp_JPgxF_43Mo2num_O/w640-h480/hangover.png" width="640" /></a></div> <p><span style="font-size: large;">My mouth is as dry as the Sahara,</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> and a drummer beats a violent solo behind my brow. Thirty years old and you would think I would learn to ix-nay on the Chardonnay. Cold fingers massage my muscles as a cramp laces up my neck. Damn. The pain snaps like the whip of a dominatrix. My head is frozen, seized like the radiator pipe that hisses with steam in my infant’s room.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Pssst. Pssst.</i> I can hear it now. The clunky heater fighting the winter chill. I should be in my own room. But stiff muscles, a breeze on my bare legs, and the tattle-tale radiator tell me I’m not.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I peel my face off the shag carpeting, being ultra careful to keep my neck still. Bits of fluff stick to my chest, the carpet torn as if a large claw caught on it.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Confusion joins pain as the dominatrix flagellates my back. Each strike is a reminder of my stupidity. Lapping up glasses of Friday night relaxation. Frowning at the bottom of the bottle. Throwing my five-year sobriety coin in the trash.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My hair sticks to my neck as I turn my whole torso to check on my child.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Electra’s crib is cast in shadow. The wildcat bumpers catch the dull gleam of the moon. I sway on my hands and knees and listen. For gentle breathing. For a random gurgle.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">It takes a herculean effort to blink, hoping the throb in my skull will dissipate so I can stand without throwing up. As I reach my feet, sharp, urgent pain streaks through my nervous system. Swallowing acidic bile, I manage to stumble over and grab the rung of the crib. My knuckles whiten.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s empty.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">An electric guitar joins the drummer in my head. Heavy metal horror. The chords echoing through the empty nursery.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Electra?” My voice shakes and a shiver runs down my spine.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Are those sticky tendrils on my neck damp from sweat or water? I gulp, praying to any God who will listen that I didn’t bathe my daughter while drunk. A wooden block of black-out sits where a memory should be. Self-loathing makes me shudder.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I promise to any deity who will listen that I will never drink again.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The band ramps up the volume, torturing my synapses. I run to the bathroom and fall on a slightly moldy bath mat. My stomach seizes when I see the cool sludgy water filling the tub.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">A dark shadow rests under the bubble grime.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">This time when the bile rushes up my throat, it spews out, acidic lava splashing onto the cracked tile. Wiping my mouth with one trembling hand, I thrust the other into the opaque water. Reaching into the brackish bath is the worst moment of my life. Seconds feel like centuries.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My fingers close on a soft terry cloth. I grasp and pull out the hand towel. Relief makes me light-headed.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">But the musical torture in my head rolls into a driving elegy for my lost Electra. Did my nana’s predictions come true, and the devil is taking her due? Did a one-year-old manage to crawl out of her crib and wander away?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Using both hands to hold my neck still, I do an awkward shuffle down the stairs. My nostrils flare with an unfamiliar odor. An animalistic estrogen. Rotten and pungent.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">A creature crouches in my living room, a baby clutched against her furry chest. I recognize Electra’s downy dark hair nestled between the pendulous breasts. I blink, hoping the half-feline, half-human nightmare is a hangover hallucination.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Saliva drips from her lioness fangs, her thick orange hair a mane of wild around her vacillating eyes.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Rrrrr,” she growls.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Cold terror silences the throbbing in my skull. The band is on break. A horror so absolute they’ve forgotten how to play. I recognize the monster from my childhood cautionary tales.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Nana warned me about Lamia the first time she caught me stealing bourbon from her pantry. “The female demon comes for the wicked. Alcoholism runs in this family. Don’t invite her in.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Thick saliva fills my mouth. “Put her down!” Hot fury cooks my words, and melts the mass blocking my memory.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">That odd cat-like woman with her alcohol-free wine samples this afternoon. My gullibility.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Lamia roars and Electra squeaks in protest. My body cools with a degree of relief. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Electra is alive.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My eyes flick to the coffee table. I see my fallen soldier, the empty bottle of California’s finest. Lamia’s beastly head falls to my infant, her long tongue slurping across Electra's face. Determination bubbles up my spine, and my band strikes up an electrifying battle march. I changed the tune of my life once before, and I can do it again.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My hands reach for the wine bottle. My feet carry me several steps to the monstrous apparition, and I crash the bottle into her hungry face. The bottle shatters, shards of glass cutting into the furry flesh, whiskers falling like icicles. Blood spurts from her eyes. The gluttonous gleaming in her eyes flooded with red.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Electra screams, bits of glass raining down on her perfect cheeks and impossibly smooth skin. While Lamia reels in shock, I grab my child. Tearing her from spasming claws.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Her face transforms into my mother’s. “Pour Mummy a cocktail, will you? Have one yourself. No one likes to drink alone.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Blocked memories flood back. “You’re dead Mum, and I will break the cycle.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The creature wavers as I squish Electra against my own chest and run. Slamming the bathroom door shut, I know I will never be tempted again. I listen, my ear pressed against the wood of the door and hear nothing.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Until Electra, shocked by her rude awakening, screams with indignation.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The hangover band in my skull starts another set, Electra wailing the lead.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard.</span></p><p> </p>
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<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQuhhy6s9KwZrNQ5HhANGmdLY9hdM-PNC4v_gh-RtPtr81clH5HwKs-rA1oU6n6BY1HcvMKqKkPG-Uj76lT1d_mNIwNUNx5p86vXzCLIuYSQIz6XM5chg0rv8mc8TufkCYV_ILBb01GYi_mmx-9wWuQPWJUvVZ1KvZ8YVtNqok3CMv3k9isET_kTRsgZ_z/s400/in%20cowgirl%20hat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="347" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQuhhy6s9KwZrNQ5HhANGmdLY9hdM-PNC4v_gh-RtPtr81clH5HwKs-rA1oU6n6BY1HcvMKqKkPG-Uj76lT1d_mNIwNUNx5p86vXzCLIuYSQIz6XM5chg0rv8mc8TufkCYV_ILBb01GYi_mmx-9wWuQPWJUvVZ1KvZ8YVtNqok3CMv3k9isET_kTRsgZ_z/s320/in%20cowgirl%20hat.jpg" width="278" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><p></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Angelique Fawns</b> is a journalist and speculative fiction writer. She began her career writing articles about naked cave dwellers in Tenerife, Canary Islands. Her stories have only gotten stranger since then. Though she has no idea how she finds time to write, it often involves hiding in a dark corner of a pub, sipping on Chardonnay, and letting her nightmares spew onto paper. Find her work in <i>Amazing Stories</i>, <i>Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine</i>, <i>Space & Time</i>, and <i>Mystery Tribune</i>, to name a few. If you dare, check out her podcast, <i>Read Me A Nightmare</i>, or her blog at <a href="https://www.fawns.ca/" target="_blank">https://www.fawns.ca/</a></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">If you enjoyed this story, you might also want to read <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2023/10/graveside-dining-by-angelique-fawns.html" target="_blank">“Graveside Dining,”</a> which we published last October. <br /></span><br /></p>
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<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1938834194" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2250" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3RSJbUsYW4kT4SpGl9gZ5Yl4e3Wj74jwyMunbgL_02rxTxXdgkIs31Iq92GF22_5svPQnEheEhKuWdeJ95yUi0u5U521Y_o7GHHqIoAOCmhyZBOvv4JRu9EgiQkdfTwwQWOXt06Ljc41gslUslBgRu9qBsxClF02VTxMXD3eQamMWB_GQRLnc51JZYZ7h/w640-h426/Midngiht%20Ground%20advert.png" width="640" /></a></div></div>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-22269148115980037892024-03-08T06:00:00.064-06:002024-03-08T08:05:24.367-06:00“The Confession” • by Ed Ahern<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5nEqdl6lHFUMJc1Rto4reav6DtekU7sVQ0zARok7L_73jBIoo-9pMDpc1XR-OKZV1M14O8Lxt-7q4xLprmVFZt5qM7npqCwBH7FD4GmcJNSRVzt3j7zc3C3cT_incZgZ6IY-thaC_IfNuOxHOuytW8MNFGL8b09jaMLojCPBqSxI8fHS7vXz_oSTFJH9v/s1280/man%20in%20church%20pew.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5nEqdl6lHFUMJc1Rto4reav6DtekU7sVQ0zARok7L_73jBIoo-9pMDpc1XR-OKZV1M14O8Lxt-7q4xLprmVFZt5qM7npqCwBH7FD4GmcJNSRVzt3j7zc3C3cT_incZgZ6IY-thaC_IfNuOxHOuytW8MNFGL8b09jaMLojCPBqSxI8fHS7vXz_oSTFJH9v/w640-h480/man%20in%20church%20pew.png" width="640" /></a></div> <p></p>
<p><span style="font-size: large;">He never took communion, never knelt in prayer.</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> Never struck up a conversation, answered tersely when asked something. But he was there every Sunday at the last mass, and put a hundred-dollar bill in the basket, every time.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My chores, such as they were as an usher, were to say hello to church comers and collect money halfway through the service. And otherwise leave the parishioners to hide their sins. But this man intrigued me.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">His expression was never angry, certainly never happy, just sad and inward looking, like a dog licking an open wound. One Sunday I stepped in front of him as he was leaving. “Hi, I’m Jude, equally obscure.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My intro usually gets a quizzical look, because who reads Thomas Hardy anymore? But he smiled wryly. “Of the stone mason Judes, I presume?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I smiled back. I understood him better than he knew.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Call me Ishmael,” he said.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I let the Biblical/Moby Dick allusion slide. “Just wanted to say thank you for your regular donations and see if there’s anything I can clarify for you.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">His smile flattened. “I think I’m well beyond help., but thank you anyway.” He paused. “In a year, you’re the only person at this church to engage with me. I’m leaving town this evening, but before I go, I wonder if I could share something with you. Join me in a pew?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">We walked back into the church. There were wafts of leftover incense. The lights had been dimmed, and I could just hear the choir master in the loft putting away music and hymnals. Once seated, half-turned toward each other, he started talking quickly in a soft voice, as if deprived of conversation.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m waiting for my damnation to take effect.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My poker face held, but inside I cringed. I was pew-bound with a repenter. “Oh?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">His eyes narrowed, as if sensing my reluctance to proceed with him. “No, I’m not demented, not in the way you think anyway. Take out your phone, please.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Once my phone was out and on, he said, “Look up Gerald Lockheart of Lockheart Graphics.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> I did, and a younger him, more hair and many fewer wrinkles, was on screen. “You’re rich and famous.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Still rich, mostly forgotten, which is the way I want it.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I read a little bit. “But this dates from the Sixties, and you can’t be that old.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Can’t I? I cut some corners back then, made some deals that still fester in me like leprosy. I got what I asked for, but then realized that the price was much too high, and that I didn’t really want what I’d received. I’ve spent the years since looking for a way out.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Your donations are a good start.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Please, Jude, don’t be facetious.” He turned the palms of his hands toward me. “I’ve been to shrines of every legitimate faith and some bogus. I’ve done good works and flagellated myself. I’ve confessed to yogis and bishops. Dear God, I’ve talked to strangers like you in blind hope. It’s worse than a curse—that would end with my death. It’s an agonizing prelude to the actual damnation.” He was gently weeping, the tears trickling halfway down his cheeks.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The already-dimmed overhead church lights went off, and the sunlight through the stained-glass windows was dim. The choir director had left. Our appearances shifted in the gloom, his a rounded gray, mine an angular and taller black.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Do you really want an answer? Could you handle it?’</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">His look was quizzical. “Of course, that’s why I asked.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Very well. The pain you’re undergoing while still alive is part of your tormentors’ pleasure, Ishmael. Something like tasting the cooking as it’s being prepared.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">His head jerked back. “How could you know this? How do you even believe what I’m telling you?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My smile was wide. “Oh, I believe you. Perhaps because I know that the girl, Natalie, killed herself two years after you were done with her. Just as I believe that you’re a gaffed fish, still struggling even though you’ve been skewered. But please, continue to flop about.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">His damp eyes narrowed. “Who paid you to approach me?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“No one. I serve pro malo. Should I tell you about what’s become of your brother?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Who the hell are you?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My laugh was shifting scree. “One of your herders. You may recall that we are legion.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span> <br /></p>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk0xSdT9tvwRAWVMpvzBGfNiUwYd1CuA2HhAnmQEKO98HCfxRVr6pTqcE2LbaU-jA25oaJJO3_FAxhyCDg_D5ll0oBUo2jfSvsxbTm-BpTl0tB8o9VqD_W5Sd3QKcV_IQ2aP4Q_xbmOd_pWNNjxR3y_0XexFEVd7k9_OBLedz_9wkBhecaDH8-v0xGfpTi/s2500/Ed%20Ahern.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2500" data-original-width="2000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk0xSdT9tvwRAWVMpvzBGfNiUwYd1CuA2HhAnmQEKO98HCfxRVr6pTqcE2LbaU-jA25oaJJO3_FAxhyCDg_D5ll0oBUo2jfSvsxbTm-BpTl0tB8o9VqD_W5Sd3QKcV_IQ2aP4Q_xbmOd_pWNNjxR3y_0XexFEVd7k9_OBLedz_9wkBhecaDH8-v0xGfpTi/s320/Ed%20Ahern.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Ed Ahern</b> resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over 450 stories and poems published so far, and ten books. Ed works the other side of writing at <i>Bewildering Stories</i> where he manages a posse of eight review editors, and as lead editor at <i>Scribes Microfiction</i>. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">If you enjoyed this story, you might also want to read <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2018/11/showcase-hunters-moon-by-edward-ahern.html" target="_blank">“Hunter’s Moon,”</a> elsewhere on this web site, or one of our all-time favorites, <a href="http://stupefyingstoriesshowcase.com/0131108/0131108-40.html" target="_blank">“Happily Ever After,”</a> which you’ll find on the <i>original </i>SHOWCASE site.<br /></span></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
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<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1938834194" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2250" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3RSJbUsYW4kT4SpGl9gZ5Yl4e3Wj74jwyMunbgL_02rxTxXdgkIs31Iq92GF22_5svPQnEheEhKuWdeJ95yUi0u5U521Y_o7GHHqIoAOCmhyZBOvv4JRu9EgiQkdfTwwQWOXt06Ljc41gslUslBgRu9qBsxClF02VTxMXD3eQamMWB_GQRLnc51JZYZ7h/w640-h426/Midngiht%20Ground%20advert.png" width="640" /></a></div><br />~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-53275956944541667582024-03-07T06:00:00.066-06:002024-03-07T06:00:00.140-06:00“They Tire of Waiting” • by Roni Stinger<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivK2sWYjrXBGyHIrrAEIZk75MBb0WfB81QRe624cPomGx0gWPjITMxLTHtU0f_5YIbzIgsVSmsldQKgyHlP9NxP0QiBj6tOUbhk9h6XY2QOZjEur4pbCAeG_TwNG2PXnLkUe2uUSOh6zHpYbnh6M5d5y45yV87xtCP8E03sygvnKpJip3fJzrd21NPwJdr/s1280/they%20tire%20of%20waiting.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivK2sWYjrXBGyHIrrAEIZk75MBb0WfB81QRe624cPomGx0gWPjITMxLTHtU0f_5YIbzIgsVSmsldQKgyHlP9NxP0QiBj6tOUbhk9h6XY2QOZjEur4pbCAeG_TwNG2PXnLkUe2uUSOh6zHpYbnh6M5d5y45yV87xtCP8E03sygvnKpJip3fJzrd21NPwJdr/w640-h480/they%20tire%20of%20waiting.png" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My therapist sits across the room, finger on chin,</span><span style="font-size: large;"> head tilted, the way she does.</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> Brown, shoulder-length bob molded into submission by hairspray. Her office reminds me of my grandmother’s sitting-room, all pastels and flowers. A damn cuckoo clock on the wall.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Andrea, we’ve talked about this many times. Yes, your career struggles are stressful, but you’re avoiding the bigger issues.” Dr. Brenner picks at an imperceptible zit on her chin.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">God, she can be a bitch. She doesn’t understand that what she calls my career, my game designing, is everything.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s like I’m one of those Russian nesting dolls,” I say. “Underneath each one is another, slightly different, still the same. When you get all the way to the core, that very last doll, that’s my designing, and each doll going outwards, reflects that. My <i>career, </i>as you call it<i>, is</i> my life.” I stare at my feet, at her puce rug, anything to avoid looking at her. There’s mud on the toe of my left boot, a smear of dark reddish-brown on the rug. Was that…? No, just stop.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I know it’s important to you,” she says, ”but it’s not relevant to your mental health issues. I’d like to focus on those, rather than your work schedules, storylines, and writer’s block.” She leans back in her daisy-print easy-chair. Her arms rest at her sides.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Sure, we could talk about the gargoyles that sit at my front door and watch me at night, but what’s the use? The gargoyles are still going to be there. Still watching me. No matter how much we analyze them or talk about what they mean to me. It’s all so ridiculous, really.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">She nods. “Go on.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">What’s the point of seeing her? At my last appointment, she wanted to talk about the ninjas. The fucking ninjas, for Christ’s sake. Didn’t she realize that discussing them was the worst idea ever? Talking about them would only draw their attention. I’d tried to put them back in the game. The gargoyles, too. But once they were loose, there was no putting them back.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“If you’d just help me figure out the new game. <i>Horde of Demons</i>, the storyline… the ending…” I release a deep sigh as she shakes her head disapprovingly. “You don’t understand. They tire of waiting.” That’s the part I can’t explain, the part she refuses to hear. Their creation doesn’t bring them into the world; not completing the storyline does. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">That mud on my boot, the smear on the rug… the last scene I’d written… weeks ago now… the demon shit.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“You mean <i>you </i>tire of waiting? We’ve talked about projection—”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">They emerge from the walls of her office. Grizzled, two-foot-tall, puke-green demons with large, sharp teeth.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">So fast, they are so fast.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My therapist’s eyes widen. Her mouth hangs open. Their teeth sink into her neck and face before she makes a sound.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">If only she’d helped me brainstorm ideas, figure out how to keep writing. Maybe then they wouldn’t have gotten out.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Instead, I’m running for my car and in need of another new therapist.</span> <br /></p>
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<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnOzjOmbSWFEgQRQzO8a-w19Hwpq7GIpZM3HnMsRiljymzanJ24J6r1voeASQqzaoBwHNZdVTu0E5-EHwkGLCqUosUYdTCanaTYqertqwzh20Q1s-BwIPQCRH4bqFUH370cbwhnl2sfcyRhOCCD_oIy__Bteg1KHnyK94XTw4ydaI3KF1ZdmbVjuozP2rT/s4032/Roni%20Stinger.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnOzjOmbSWFEgQRQzO8a-w19Hwpq7GIpZM3HnMsRiljymzanJ24J6r1voeASQqzaoBwHNZdVTu0E5-EHwkGLCqUosUYdTCanaTYqertqwzh20Q1s-BwIPQCRH4bqFUH370cbwhnl2sfcyRhOCCD_oIy__Bteg1KHnyK94XTw4ydaI3KF1ZdmbVjuozP2rT/s320/Roni%20Stinger.JPG" width="240" /></a></b></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /> </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Roni Stinger</b> lives in the Pacific Northwest, USA. Her short stories and poetry have appeared in
dozens of magazines and anthologies, including <i>Dark Matter Magazine</i>, <i>Unnerving Magazine</i>
and <i>Underland Arcana</i>. Her debut novella, <i>Fuzzy</i> (Rewind or Die 34), is available now from
Unnerving Books. She’s a member of the SFPA, Codex, and a Board Member of Willamette
Writers. You can find her online at <a href="https://ronistinger.com/" target="_blank">www.ronistinger.com</a>.</span></p>
<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
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<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1938834194" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2250" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3RSJbUsYW4kT4SpGl9gZ5Yl4e3Wj74jwyMunbgL_02rxTxXdgkIs31Iq92GF22_5svPQnEheEhKuWdeJ95yUi0u5U521Y_o7GHHqIoAOCmhyZBOvv4JRu9EgiQkdfTwwQWOXt06Ljc41gslUslBgRu9qBsxClF02VTxMXD3eQamMWB_GQRLnc51JZYZ7h/w640-h426/Midngiht%20Ground%20advert.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-71250816834179141502024-03-06T06:00:00.431-06:002024-03-06T09:32:52.368-06:00The Never-ending FAQ: recalculating “The Cold Equations”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzvxbCUYIsB-zJcUTnH__R12aS48MeJzohHP-2o2-QX1TTUSqq4plo_v0d-Paogi-icAjFGSxhN9x1UG1VHud_juN5LpOkNT9lSA-_S_5K2xqDfU1eO41X2teFAgCxcATC1fUb6ZrnlIiM0sFBgxqeKoQZUP9VfQxjZDiJx4HRTgyQ9Yq704Wl_veSGOBQ/s1280/cold%20equations.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzvxbCUYIsB-zJcUTnH__R12aS48MeJzohHP-2o2-QX1TTUSqq4plo_v0d-Paogi-icAjFGSxhN9x1UG1VHud_juN5LpOkNT9lSA-_S_5K2xqDfU1eO41X2teFAgCxcATC1fUb6ZrnlIiM0sFBgxqeKoQZUP9VfQxjZDiJx4HRTgyQ9Yq704Wl_veSGOBQ/w640-h480/cold%20equations.png" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Welcome to this week’s installment of <b><i><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Never-ending%20FAQ" target="_blank">The Never-ending FAQ</a></i></b>, a constantly evolving adjunct to our <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/p/submission-guidelines_1.html" target="_blank"><b>Submission Guidelines</b></a>. If you have a question you’d like to ask about <i>Stupefying Stories</i>
or Rampant Loon Press, feel free to post it as a comment here or to
email it to our submissions address. I can’t guarantee we’ll post a
public answer, but can promise every question we receive will be
read and considered.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Today’s
question comes from <b>Pete Wood</b>, who in response to <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/02/the-never-ending-faq-about-our-slush.html" target="_blank">last week’s column</a> asked:<br /></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span><p></p><blockquote><b><span style="font-size: medium;">“‘The Cold Equations’? Or as it is also known, ‘The Day Before the Filing of the Massive Wrongful Death Lawsuit Against the Starship Company that Bankrupted the Company?’”<br /><br /></span></b></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes indeed. “The Cold Equations,” by Tom Godwin. For those not familiar with it, a little backgrounder… <br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>John W. Campbell, Jr.</u></i> </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In science fiction circles the name was
whispered softly, reverently. There were awards named after him, before he was retroactively found to be a racist and shoved down the memory hole. In a
very real sense science fiction as we know it today is the temple
Campbell built. If you examine the history of the genre, there is a
clear dividing line: there is everything that came before, and then,
beginning when Campbell took over as editor of <i>Astounding Science Fiction</i> in 1938 and lasting about 20 years, there was <b>The Campbell Era</b>.<br /><br />The
list of famous writers discovered and famous stories published by
Campbell in those years reads like the combined who’s who and Hall of
Fame of science fiction. Robert Heinlein, Arthur C. Clarke, Lester del
Rey, A.E. Van Vogt, Theodore Sturgeon; the list goes on and on. And
while Campbell was not the first to publish Isaac Asimov—that honor
goes to <i>Amazing Stories</i>, for a story Campbell rejected—he did
publish most of the series of short stories and novellas that were later
collected to become Asimov’s career-defining books, <i>Foundation</i> and <i>I, Robot</i>.<br /><br />Then
again, Campbell also gave us L. Ron Hubbard and Dianetics, and in the
1950s was up to his elbows in the founding of Scientology. Worse, by the
end of the 1950s Campbell apparently had come to believe that not only
were psychic powers (“psi”) real, but that he himself actually possessed them, and he took to telling people he hadn’t flunked out of MIT but
rather had been <i>kicked</i> out, because his radical ideas were too dangerous to scientific orthodoxy. <br /><br />By
1959 the Campbell Era was effectively over, and even Heinlein was on
record as saying he would rather not sell a story at all than have to
deal with Campbell and his weird manias, minor madnesses, and obsessive,
heavy-handed, meddling and rewriting in the guise of editing. In 1960
the name of the magazine was changed to <i>Analog Science Fiction & Fact</i>,
in an effort to escape the odor of its past, but Campbell lingered on as
editor until 1971, and it was not until Ben Bova took over after
Campbell’s death that <i>Analog</i> became the serious, staid, significant, and somewhat respectable magazine we know today. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It is with this as backdrop that we discuss “The Cold
Equations,” by Tom Godwin. If you have not read this story already, find a copy and do
so now, as everything from here on out is spoiler. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">With
age I have become more sympathetic to Tom Godwin, perhaps because
there are mornings I look in the bathroom mirror and see something very much like his face.
In 1953 Godwin was 38 years old and just launching what would turn out
to be a sadly and typically short SF writing career. He published 30-some
short stories, mostly in <i>Astounding</i> and mostly in the 1950s, and
then puttered on until his death in 1980 with perhaps a half-dozen more
sales spread out over two decades, and some of them in some pretty dicey
markets. (Remember <i>The Man from U.N.C.L.E.</i> magazine? <i>Ed McBain’s 87th Precinct Mystery Magazine</i>?) He wrote three known novels: his first, <i>The Survivors</i>,
flopped so badly his original publisher didn’t even bother to bind
the last thousand books in the original print run of 5,000 copies, and
it didn’t even make it up to “modestly successful” level until it was
retitled <i>Space Prison</i>, given a lurid pulp cover, and reissued in
paperback a few years later. (In testimony to the fact that information
rarely disappears entirely, though, you can find the complete text of it on <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/browse/authors/g#a25402" target="_blank">Project Gutenberg</a>.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Campbell was an old-school editor. He did not merely buy and publish stories; he <i>worked</i> his authors, tossing out ideas, giving out assignments, and rewriting extensively. Before he took over the editor’s chair at <i>Astounding</i>
he had been a very successful and promising young writer—you’ve
probably seen his story, “Who Goes There?” in one of its many movie
adaptations, and know it better by its movie title, <i>The Thing</i>—but after he became an editor he pretty much gave up writing fiction.
When asked why, he reportedly said he no longer needed to write fiction,
as the fun part was coming up with ideas, and now he had <i>hundreds </i>of
writers eager to turn his ideas into stories.<br /><br />That,
reportedly, was the genesis of “The Cold Equations.” Campbell came up
with the idea and gave it to The New Guy, Godwin. (The story was either Godwin’s fourth or fifth professional sale, and published less than a year
after his first sale.) Godwin went and wrote the story, and Campbell
rejected it because he didn’t like the ending. According to Godwin,
Campbell made him rewrite the ending three times before he finally got
the message: he wasn’t <i>supposed</i> to figure out a way to save the girl. <br /><br />Once
Godwin finally rewrote the story with the depressing ending Campbell
wanted, Campbell bought it, and it was published in the August 1954
issue of <i>Astounding</i>. Thereafter Godwin’s career meandered off to
its ultimate dying whimper, while the story lived on, and was
anthologized and reprinted beyond measure. It was even adapted for at least three or four straight-to-cable movies, all of which are largely forgotten now. <br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">I first ran into “The Cold Equations” in 1973, in the anthology <i>The Science Fiction Hall of Fame</i>,
which was being used as a textbook in some university “science fiction
as literature” course I took and in which “The Cold Equations” was
presented as the apotheosis of the Campbellian hard science fiction
style. I hated the story then. I hate, hate, <i>hate</i> it now.<br /><br />Why?
To recap, the plot of the story is this: an invariably fatal epidemic
breaks out among the research party stationed on a distant, barely
explored planet. It’s not possible to reroute a starship to deliver the
desperately needed medicine that will cure the disease and save the
research party, so a starship passing through the system drops off a
space-launch carrying the medicine and a pilot. The launch has <i>exactly</i>, to the drop, only enough fuel to get to the planet and land safely.<br /><br />Tragically,
a pretty young 18-year-old girl has stowed away on the launch, because
her brother is stationed on this planet and she’s hoping to see him. But
the addition of her 110 pounds is just enough weight to throw all the
calculations out of whack and guarantee that the launch will crash, the
medicine will be destroyed, and the entire research party will die.
Therefore, because of “the cold equations,” the pilot must boot her
cute little butt out of the airlock and kill her, the sooner the better.
After all, that’s what the regulations demand. This leads into a
protracted death scene in which the girl is at first horrified, then
tries to bargain, then has a tearful last radio conversation with her
brother, and then finally, bravely, accepts her fate, steps into the
airlock, and goes </span><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><span style="color: red;">SPLAT!</span></i></b></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br />The end.<br /><br />So why do I hate this
story so much? Leaving out the inherent idiocy of the premise—even
back in 1973, I knew quite a few aerospace engineers, and the idea of
any sane engineer designing a system that had such an <i>insanely</i> slim margin of safety that it couldn’t survive even the tiniest deviation from the flight plan— </span><blockquote><i><b><span style="font-size: medium;">“Barton, you’ll have to make another pass! There’s a cow on the runway and you must delay landing until we chase her off!”<br /></span></b></i></blockquote><blockquote><i><b><span style="font-size: medium;">“Sorry
guys, the flight plan didn’t allow for that. I’ve come ninety gazillion
miles to rescue you but don’t have one drop of extra fuel. Now I’m
going to crash and you’re all going to die. Screw you.”</span></b></i></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"> But never mind, we could spend hours on all the insanities and stupidities required to make this story work— </span><blockquote><i><b><span style="font-size: medium;">If this invariably fatal disease is so well-known that any randomly passing starship carries the medicine needed to cure it, why wasn’t the research expedition equipped with a supply of the medicine in the first place? If it’s an instant-death-penalty crime to stow away aboard an EDS launch, why don’t they invest a buck and a half in a frickin’ <u>lock</u> on the launch bay door? Likewise, why don’t they spend two minutes on a pre-flight <u>inspection</u>
to make sure there are no stowaways on board? If this sort of thing
happens often enough to warrant a regulation covering the situation and
for the crew back on board the Stardust to get jaded about it, why don’t they <u>anticipate</u> the problem and take steps to either prevent it or make it survivable?</span></b></i></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m sorry. I can get quite wound up. I <i>really</i>
hate this story. Which is strange, because it’s been said that if you
don’t like this story, you just plain don’t like science fiction. But I
always thought I sort of did like science fiction. I’ve even written
some stories. Even won some awards for some of the things I’ve written.
So why do I hate this particular story so very, very much?<br /><br /><b>Because
it’s all a set-up. </b>The entire point of this story is to set the pretty girl
up for the inescapable grotesque death scene. The whole story is a lie
and a cheat, and the author—at the direction of the editor, let’s not
let him off scot-free—has shamelessly stacked the deck, mercilessly
tossing all logic and sense aside, in order to get to this only-possible
horrific ending.<br /><br />If this is science fiction, then so is <i>A Nightmare on Elm Street</i>.<br /><br />In
the 1950s and 1960s, the argument was often made that science fiction
was pure drivel and mind-rot: that it was merely the pretentious member
of the horror family, trying to escape its trashy pulp adventure roots
by replacing boats, guns, and monsters with rocketships, rayguns, and
aliens, and geared entirely towards the fantasies of pimply-faced teenage boys
who probably didn’t know many actual girls. Further, the stereotypes
abounded that the reason why science fiction fans were so fixated on menacing pretty girls was because—</span></p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-size: medium;">they were latent
misogynists, who carried deep in their hearts a burning resentment over
the fact that cheerleaders preferred football players to members of the
chess club<br /><br /></span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;">science fiction fans secretly <i>loved</i> stories
in which pretty girls—the kind of girls they never had a chance at
dating—suffered terrible retribution because they were too silly,
shallow, and pretty to listen to the nerds, because such stories fed their secret nerd superiority conceit<br /><br /></span></li><li><span style="font-size: medium;">above all, this suffering and retribution was best when it got <i>gory</i>, and
came in the tentacles of some goggle-eyed alien monstrosity that daily
produced twice its own body weight in drool, or in the mandibles of some
atomic mutant grasshopper the size of a Greyhound bus, or at least was terribly painful and messy and involved a lot of screaming</span></li></ol><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Hence the entire output of American International Pictures, among many others.<br /><br />And
thus we arrive at the argument I now submit to you. If “The Cold Equations” truly <i>is</i> the
best possible example of serious, hard, science fiction, then hard
science fiction truly <i>is</i> merely the extraordinarily pretentious member
of the exploitation horror family, and we should just give up all
this prattle about “scientific credibility” and “the literature of
ideas” right now and go straight for the big gory splatter scenes. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Preferably
involving pretty young girls with really large breasts.</span></p>
<hr width="50%" />
<p> </p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Afterthoughts… </i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Sorry, but I can’t seem to get this story off my mind. I came along too late to know John Campbell, Jr., except by reputation—and to be honest, my respect for his reputation evaporated when I read an anthology introduction written by him in which he lauded Theodore Sturgeon’s <i><b>Killdozer!</b></i> as one of the greatest hard science fiction novellas ever written. Seriously? <i><a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0071717/" target="_blank"><b>Killdozer?!?!</b></a></i> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">No, the editor who had the most profoundly positive effect on <i>my</i> writing career was—<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>George Scithers</u></i> <br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The founding editor of <i>Asimov’s</i>, later the editor of <i>Amazing Stories</i>, five-time Hugo Award-winning Best Professional Editor, George was no slouch as a writer himself, and in his little booklet on writing SF, <i>Constructing Scientifiction</i>, he shared this wisdom. (Paraphrasing now, as I can’t find my copy right now to quote it verbatim.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>We do not buy stories that end in futility. By all means, have the
hero fail. That’s what makes it tragedy. Have him try, have him struggle
against impossible odds, and in the end, have him lose and even die,
but dammit, have him go down fighting! Stories about people who
surrender meekly to their fates are inherently uninteresting and
depressing.</i></span></blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">Applying this principle to “The Cold Equations,” then, here’s
the Joss Whedon rewrite. Everything proceeds about the same as in the
original, right up to the point at which Marilyn seems to have accepted
her fate and Barton, full of sympathy, turns his head and lowers his
guard for a moment.</span><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><u>BAM!</u> In a sudden and surprising
blur of motion the girl nailed Barton in the temple with a pivot-kick
that hit him like a sandal-tipped bolt of lightning. Barton staggered
and sagged to the deck, seeing stars, and by the time he recovered his
wits she’d recovered the gun, had it pointed at him, and was screaming
at the top of her lungs.<br /><br /><u>“FIVE YEARS OF CAPOEIRA, ASSHOLE!</u></i><u>”</u><br /><br /><i>She stepped back out of Barton’s reach and with the gun motioned Barton into the pilot’s chair. “There is <u>no</u>
way I am going out that frakkin’ airlock! According to you I’m dead
anyway, so right now I don’t give a Tyderian bat’s ass who else dies
too! Which means you have got exactly five minutes to either
teach me how to fly this crate before you go jump out the airlock
yourself, or else we are going to <u>solve</u> this problem!” </i><br /><br /><i>She swallowed hard, and struggled to get control of her rapid breathing. “Now, let’s <u>think</u>. If every blasted ounce is critical, why does this bucket have a storeroom with a <u>door</u></i><u>?</u>
<i> I know, so I had someplace to hide, but never mind that; about that
door. How much does it weigh? How do the hinges come apart?” Barton
started to answer, but she snapped the gun into his face again.</i></span></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>“No, first, out of that uniform, flyboy! Don’t get any happy ideas; you are <u>way</u>
too old for me. But those boots you’re wearing must be five pounds
each.” Barton began stripping, and while his skivvies were down around
his ankles Marilyn risked another glance around the cabin</i></span></blockquote><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><blockquote>“Next, you get on the radio, and you tell those sadistic bastards back on the <u>Stardust</u> what the situation is now and get ‘em started on calculating a new landing trajectory for us…”</blockquote></span></i><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As I said, it’s the Joss Whedon rewrite, and a total load of shameless buffytastic dramaqueening. But you have to admit: wouldn’t you rather see Marilyn go out like <i>this</i>, instead of meekly submitting to her fate, stepping into the airlock, and going to a hideous death?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Never give up. Never surrender. Rage against the dying of the light.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And don’t send me stories in which characters have no agency, they’re just helpless victims waiting to die, and the only solution to their problems the protagonists can come up with is to commit suicide. <br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">_______________________________<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1938834194" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2250" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3RSJbUsYW4kT4SpGl9gZ5Yl4e3Wj74jwyMunbgL_02rxTxXdgkIs31Iq92GF22_5svPQnEheEhKuWdeJ95yUi0u5U521Y_o7GHHqIoAOCmhyZBOvv4JRu9EgiQkdfTwwQWOXt06Ljc41gslUslBgRu9qBsxClF02VTxMXD3eQamMWB_GQRLnc51JZYZ7h/w640-h426/Midngiht%20Ground%20advert.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-8663430105645775952024-03-05T06:00:00.064-06:002024-03-05T17:18:23.919-06:00“The Binding of Laws” • by Kelly A. Harmon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBicoQYHPX-UvK7nkFWbxz1tBAAo4477G2AML8LT7YFOX-LuJVhDBzdFEFKxGfmX02lCXGnfW1lG_P1rRCPejMZHTUCB6TVsd1zTlc5oA9gRLKGbiMGUmj8CP7S8byauVQvFv3P6vWAL-ZEApI4MsYYWyd2-G6Co2uvLEd9oBAOhN5JUbGoqsD11bcEvfi/s1280/gerald.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBicoQYHPX-UvK7nkFWbxz1tBAAo4477G2AML8LT7YFOX-LuJVhDBzdFEFKxGfmX02lCXGnfW1lG_P1rRCPejMZHTUCB6TVsd1zTlc5oA9gRLKGbiMGUmj8CP7S8byauVQvFv3P6vWAL-ZEApI4MsYYWyd2-G6Co2uvLEd9oBAOhN5JUbGoqsD11bcEvfi/w640-h480/gerald.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p><span style="font-size: large;">Gerald reached for the ashtray, pulling it closer, </span><span style="font-size: medium;">then delved a hand into his left suit pocket for matches—an affectation, I was certain—to light a <i>Treasurer </i>cigarette, one of the most expensive in the world. Private clubs don’t worry about smoking laws—especially private gambling casinos, like this one. Appearances were everything to Gerald, which is why I now sat across the table from him. His determination to rise above common folk would fail him.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“You know,” I said, gesturing to bum a smoke, “every time you strike a match, a devil gets its wings.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Gerald smirked and pushed the aluminum package toward me, then struck the match anyway, almost defiant. I felt a welcome tingle on my spine, a ripple between my shoulder blades, almost a burn—would it finally happen this time? I’ve been closer than this before, had pursued many clients with more vigor than I had Gerald. Should I have left it all to chance? The irony of sitting in a gambling hall suddenly struck me as humorous. I couldn’t hold back a chuckle, and Gerald offered me a condescending grin. He hadn’t caught on—yet.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He thought I was crazy—or worse—though he couldn’t imagine anything <i>worse</i> than crazy. But I didn’t need to be a mind reader to know that. <i>Waste of my skills</i>.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He lit the end of his cigarette with the same insouciance as the match, and maybe a tad more defiance. <br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I lifted the bummed cigarette to my lips. “Mine, too?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He raised an eyebrow, but struck the match anyway. “Did you promise someone you wouldn’t light up?” he asked. I got a clear picture in my mind of what he imagined—some gorgeous, red-lipped brunette tangled in silk sheets.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Lust</i>. I love it! Not as good as pride, as far as sins go, but still good. “Hardly,” I replied. “I’m not accustomed to conjuring flames.” It wasn’t quite a lie; my phrasing could have been better. Gerald’s eyes narrowed slightly…</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The truth is that there are no laws about smoking where I come from—only matches. And lighters. We’re not allowed to play with fire. I could have broken that law, but I didn’t like the consequences.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He held the flame to my cigarette, and I inhaled deeply.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">For a moment, we both enjoyed the sweet, rich smoke and took in the view from the hundred-and-forty-second floor. I’ve never been this high before, and it felt a bit like I thought flying might. I could almost believe I was soaring above all these buildings, watching the people—<i>ants—</i>go about their daily business.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Gorgeous watch,” he said, nodding toward my wrist. The diamonds sparkled in the light.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>He made this so easy</i>, I thought, hearing the envy in his mind as clearly as if he’d said it. But even a dullard would have caught the admiration in his glance. Contract notwithstanding, he’d wind up in my neck of the woods sooner or later. Today, I’m banking on sooner.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I bent for my briefcase on the floor and felt my shirt tear in the back. <i>At last.</i> It was a given: the match, you know.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Place your bets,” I heard softly from the roulette table in the back of the room. The croupier waited only a moment before spinning the wheel and tossing the ball onto it. The rat-a-tat of the gamboling ball emphasized our situation.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Gerald was a gambler: that’s why we met here; why I was certain he’d sign the contract. High stakes, big win. Millions of dollars and immediate fame, in exchange for his immortal soul—and the opportunity to win it back in a few years’ time if the contract failed to meet his expectations.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I pushed the contract across the table and let him read it before he signed. As he read, he gave some thought to his soul. He wasn’t quite sure such a thing existed. But if it did, how could he get it back in a few years? That kind of thought would stop the deal in its tracks. I couldn’t let it happen.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I pointed out the win-back-your-soul-clause. “What if you don’t live that long?” I asked.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m reasonably fit.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“What if you have an accident?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Gerald chuckled. “I’m willing to take that gamble.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“You could be murdered.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>“What?”</i> He was angry—not that I suggested murder, but because I was delaying the transaction. He’d made his decision, and he was ready to act. “Are you deliberately trying to foul this deal?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Actually, <i>yes</i>.” I must provide three chances for the signatory to change his mind. Three. It’s a <i>law</i>.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Statistically, murder is less probable than an accident. Give me the papers.” Gerald pulled a pen from his breast pocket and scrawled his signature above his typewritten name.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I, on the other hand, pulled out a wickedly sharp blade and slashed the pad of my thumb. Once the blood welled up, I pressed it within one of two small boxes drawn at the bottom of the last page. A small sizzle and puff of smoke, and the contract was binding.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“My turn?” he asked shakily.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I’d finally rattled him. Who saw that coming? “You don’t like blood?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He gathered himself together. “Signing contracts in blood is so passé.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I laughed.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He signed, but I didn’t feel the rush I thought I might. Too easy. Next time, I’ll ask for more of a challenge. Maybe a church pastor or a Sunday School teacher. The mother of a very young child.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I stood. “Shall we take in the view?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Outside, the glass-bottomed balcony let us see all the way to the ground. I took a quick look around to make certain no one watched, and then I dumped Gerald over the edge.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>“What about my millions? My fame?”</i> he asked, before I let him go.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Your widow will inherit,” I said. His anger flared, but I didn’t rub it in.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He fell silently.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I bent for my briefcase, felt the tear in my suit jacket, and knew I was ready. I leaped over the wall, my new, <i>glorious</i>, black wings spreading. I used them to propel me down to Gerald.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“You will be famous,” I said, gliding near.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He reached for my lapels, but I swooped away. I could have let him grab on, given him some hope, but it wouldn’t have done any good. It seemed cruel to lead him on, though I did use my power to slow his descent. I enjoyed it too much to be over in a flash.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>“How?”</i> he screamed, clearly resigned to his death. (It wouldn’t be long.)</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“When you hit the pavement,” I said, “and they find out who you are. No one will believe such a successful man would leap from the balcony of his private gambling club. It will be in the papers for weeks.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Save me,” he begged. “Take it all back—I’ll give <i>you</i> my millions.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I shook my head. “I can’t.” I turned my right palm upward and with a swinging motion gestured to the area around us. “Gravity.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He nodded.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s a law that can’t be broken.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<hr width="50%" />
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY3IKYQB1vG2Pdp4TKoIj6DC22Z0j7zgbvfUlkmUfo-JBzmPH_9ho8M1ip68WDfouvzlZFusQUpZawVC-07r5dD-KPEBGgdbnK9J-2JzW9N_-8-msKwdbU_nW1VA_E2e8jt01LbC1qaUMDZqYcuRrzmPts-UbVyjyk3_ZLT6NKAByh93CiQhhuiYcFHCBl/s432/KellyAHarmon03172010e.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="344" data-original-width="432" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY3IKYQB1vG2Pdp4TKoIj6DC22Z0j7zgbvfUlkmUfo-JBzmPH_9ho8M1ip68WDfouvzlZFusQUpZawVC-07r5dD-KPEBGgdbnK9J-2JzW9N_-8-msKwdbU_nW1VA_E2e8jt01LbC1qaUMDZqYcuRrzmPts-UbVyjyk3_ZLT6NKAByh93CiQhhuiYcFHCBl/s320/KellyAHarmon03172010e.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Kelly A. Harmon</b> used to write truthful, honest stories about authors and thespians, senators and statesmen, movie stars and murderers. Now she writes lies, which is infinitely more satisfying, but lacks the convenience of doorstep delivery.</span><p></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">She is an award-winning journalist and author, and a member of Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America. A Baltimore native, she writes the <i>Charm City Darkness</i> series, which includes the novels <i>Stoned in Charm City</i>, <i>A Favor for a Fiend</i>, <i>A Blue Collar Proposition</i>, and <i>In the Eye of the Beholder</i>. Her science fiction and fantasy stories can be found in many anthologies, including <i>Triangulation: Dark Glass</i>; <i>Occult Detective Quarterly</i>, and <i>Gallery of Curiosities</i>. To learn more, visit her at <a href="https://kellyaharmon.com/" target="_blank">https://kellyaharmon.com/<br /></a></span></p>
<p> </p>
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<p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1938834194" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2250" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3RSJbUsYW4kT4SpGl9gZ5Yl4e3Wj74jwyMunbgL_02rxTxXdgkIs31Iq92GF22_5svPQnEheEhKuWdeJ95yUi0u5U521Y_o7GHHqIoAOCmhyZBOvv4JRu9EgiQkdfTwwQWOXt06Ljc41gslUslBgRu9qBsxClF02VTxMXD3eQamMWB_GQRLnc51JZYZ7h/w640-h426/Midngiht%20Ground%20advert.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-51048524936788355612024-03-04T06:00:00.097-06:002024-03-04T10:25:02.108-06:00“Evil Little Head Beastie” • by Maddison Scott<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB7-P1NzxObeKi2wYb66TmE73sgnK5VAC2cBLhvWlBvPJunuaGZ6LvDAHjbxZruA8BO-AvYJMLMTnj0H8pu_cFtpDUyDWzx9A2NmLjHhFQhr5caC_BdpN_gBzJGslscQF3kklTNJBEkB24bIa7wFjRAjdDnEA8YcUmTNtEgUGy-_PPC7Rb-6Gw3DXdsO_n/s1280/doctors%20and%20brain%20scan.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB7-P1NzxObeKi2wYb66TmE73sgnK5VAC2cBLhvWlBvPJunuaGZ6LvDAHjbxZruA8BO-AvYJMLMTnj0H8pu_cFtpDUyDWzx9A2NmLjHhFQhr5caC_BdpN_gBzJGslscQF3kklTNJBEkB24bIa7wFjRAjdDnEA8YcUmTNtEgUGy-_PPC7Rb-6Gw3DXdsO_n/w640-h480/doctors%20and%20brain%20scan.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p><span style="font-size: large;">The monster in my head has a –isel.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Yesterday, it –ipped away at my ability to pronounce ‘</span><span style="font-size: medium;">–</span><span style="font-size: medium;">’ sounds because I asked a priest to exorcise it. Of course, now I can’t go back to St Mary’s –ur– (dammit!) because a nun called the police.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Today, I’m sitting in a waiting room at the emergency department, hoping they can surgically remove my monster. The triage nurse gives me a mental health form to fill out but there isn’t a –eck box for evil little head beasties. <br /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“This is astounding,” the doctor says, holding up my CT scan. “I can’t fathom…” his thoughts dither as he picks up his phone and calls for a second opinion. That doctor calls for a third and the third doctor for a fourth. <br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Soon, the room is crowded with scientists blathering in unbridled excitement.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m taking away your sexual impulses,” the monster hisses. “That’ll show you.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">A serious-looking neurologist addresses me. “We’ll need to run tests and call in specialists to investigate. This is unprecedented. We can’t operate until we know what kind of organism we’re dealing with.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Unprecedented is an understatement,” another doctor scoffs. “There’s a… <i>thing</i>… in his head! This will fundamentally </span><span style="font-size: medium;">–</span><span style="font-size: medium;">ange medicine. Hell, I might even believe in aliens now.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I doubt it’s alien,” a young resident says. “Looks more demonic.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Have you all lost your minds? It’s clearly some kind of parasite,” comes another voice. “Perhaps a mutant kind of <i>Naegleria fowleri</i>?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My monster howls. “Ha! If I was a brain-eating amoeba, I wouldn’t be slummin’ it in your shitty brain.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s sentient. We’ve recorded audio of it,” the first doctor says. “It speaks English with perfect diction and—if I might add—has a foul mouth.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">A new debate erupts until the serious neurologist asks, “How long has it been in your head?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Two weeks, maybe three?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Have you been overseas recently?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“No.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Do you know how you might’ve acquired it?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I ask the monster internally and it answers with a maniacal –ortle. “I climbed up your urethra at the gym. I tried your nose and ears first but they were filthy. Your earwax is the vilest I’ve ever tasted.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“What’s a urethra?” I ask aloud.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The cacophony of doctor talk falls uncomfortably silent. A nurse explains, “It’s the tube that runs from your bladder and through your penis to transport urine and semen.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“He climbed up my <i>what</i>?”</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I meet dozens of doctors and nurses over the next few days. I lie and tell them that the head monster is making me dizzy. I whimper in false pain, shiver uncontrollably and refuse food. I know they won’t cut it out unless I deteriorate. They want to study me, study it, take shiny scans for their shiny resear– papers.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The monster has –iseled away a decent portion of my –ildhood memories, my sense of smell and some of my gross motor skills. I’ve now seen a thousand images of my one-in– tormentor. Its silhouette has grotesquely exaggerated limbs like a praying mantis or wingless-dragonfly. Its face, however, is humanoid; bulging eyes, hollow –eeks, razor teeth.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My heada–es are real now. I wish my monster would take his –isel to my pain receptors.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m awake for the surgery.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Motherfucker!” The monster yells. “You’ll regret this. I’ll put up a fight. As soon as I find your optic nerve, I’m smashing it to pieces, you son of a bit–.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The drugs make it hard to distinguish if the voices are coming from outside or inside my head. I hear the sound of the cranial drill as it cuts into my skull.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s moving,” my surgeon, Dr. Leung says an hour into the craniotomy, “I can hear it telling me to go<i>—oh my!”</i></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Oops, there goes your equilibrium.” The monster declares in a sing-song voice.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I thought it was in the frontal lobe,” remarks another surgeon.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Dr. Leung is contemplative and when she next speaks, her tone is ominous. “I think it’s heading for the brainstem. If it gets there, we’ll be too late.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">After that, the dissonance of voices and ma–ines and perverted giggling is too mu– to process. I can’t physically feel the monster’s –isel but I sense little bits of myself disappear. I think I hear Dr. Leung cursing and a shriek from a nurse. A flash of blue scrubs darts across my blurring vision. A light above me explodes. Blood drips into my eyes.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">There’s a cadaverous silence as everyone flees the room.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I was just making myself comfortable,” my monster whispers as it hacks away at my brainstem. “Now, I have to go find someone else. Do you know what a pain in the ass that is?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span> <br /></p>
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<p> </p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZqC1IN5AZpE9OxiYtoX8lMSVJQiOPqmr7x6MpDaL1rFqbEayRALPaem1w7iGV4ZxJdzwLpYE00O1SXz2Fybk86ptqo5uvvE7XOtmcg7zqXDsJMtK4PE2_QjHLgKAFmKs0PJcoJpTz_30Y_nTeVA1CiZjA47TOMAwjn54iW-gVxFyldhoVuYqa5bPBTb3h/s1801/Maddison%20Scott%20Photo.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1801" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZqC1IN5AZpE9OxiYtoX8lMSVJQiOPqmr7x6MpDaL1rFqbEayRALPaem1w7iGV4ZxJdzwLpYE00O1SXz2Fybk86ptqo5uvvE7XOtmcg7zqXDsJMtK4PE2_QjHLgKAFmKs0PJcoJpTz_30Y_nTeVA1CiZjA47TOMAwjn54iW-gVxFyldhoVuYqa5bPBTb3h/s320/Maddison%20Scott%20Photo.jpg" width="256" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /> </b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Maddison Scott</b> is a teacher, writer and former film projectionist from
Melbourne, Australia. Her short stories have appeared in <i>The Molotov
Cocktail</i>, <i>Flash Fiction Magazine</i>, <i>Bright Flash Literary Review</i> and <i>Five
on the Fifth</i>, among others. She has work upcoming in <i>Stupefying Stories</i>
and in two anthologies for Shacklebound Books. You can find her online
at: <a href="http://maddisonscott.wordpress.com" target="_blank">maddisonscott.wordpress.com</a>
</span></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span><a href="https://books2read.com/Vogel-Scouts-Honor" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="676" height="566" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaDkUrM9S8HnvQIGdpr1HTKyTpKWLE96Uqjtx18Ft2PG8gfqD3lCbIQjVToVeggjj-iTXYceWjCNSeVs321ZYeacax9TeJserGEZTO9-Iin6z1rZDT5KOtybqehGAEvoT6SXFPheAnA2V9GEawS_9lpjG-u5LgQ6mGcThJvUUzLdJQz1xRKtZlP1wUFDWC/w640-h566/Scout's%20Honor%20fat%20ubl.png" width="640" /></a></p><p><br /></p>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-23125020901092267742024-03-03T12:00:00.124-06:002024-03-03T13:20:51.205-06:00The Week in Review • 3 March 2024<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxUkeEqo05g06gOcijny52j66W-ZkG7s3o99W78F38nRHKVolFA2zT3obTLSBu5U5mmP4MQb2TR9YYzM0EyzW12FIJi54FuMtKXWamox5h8gtkIxvgRJV0tMJSNZ85kFaJ3Ah2yoHl009Ll2IHPGXL6ulMfVvEkfADlAl8t9AJNv_caEyh9L899ABWCoCS/s1280/week%20in%20review%203-3-24.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxUkeEqo05g06gOcijny52j66W-ZkG7s3o99W78F38nRHKVolFA2zT3obTLSBu5U5mmP4MQb2TR9YYzM0EyzW12FIJi54FuMtKXWamox5h8gtkIxvgRJV0tMJSNZ85kFaJ3Ah2yoHl009Ll2IHPGXL6ulMfVvEkfADlAl8t9AJNv_caEyh9L899ABWCoCS/w640-h480/week%20in%20review%203-3-24.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: large;">Welcome to <b><i><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Week%20in%20Review" target="_blank">The Week in Review</a>,</i></b> a summary for those too busy to follow <i>Stupefying Stories</i> on a daily basis.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/02/daydreams-by-brian-k-lowe.html" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWEKOpIRQAYeUIDbwlTEymH3N1bNM7f9dNUjMdkdJpkLuV5h0AJTuTKtOpaGkWWHQDmO6XBMB4Vnv_ZcTkvt5YYKAjDuqWlZe_BxlEf1ee38OqId58BuuY-cTfM_gLJxwHxzxZKkXpspCyum5UOJc6p-E0kap3kWa1xU8lj4yEi0-qV5zJJDfA7LsS2P7r/w200-h150/the%20future.png" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/02/daydreams-by-brian-k-lowe.html" target="_blank">“Daydreams” • by Brian K. Lowe</a></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The future turned out to be a disappointment. So he decided to fix it. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Published: 26 February 2024</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/02/reunion-by-toshiya-kamei.html" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEOharr0A1hz4tNkm1QJEVZxeTHwhSbxzjFXMfnoL6-wITMs1WvKTgtXsr_boOV24F02Gy8WFSJkX1LcyJPo3_n6vFi3VSnFvmS2ONu4Ufxa9eXA-EuHWyuNiR-xu5RjM9a0iFoVt0pa8tiUIOo5OlBcXTuwNNm_Cq7JjzCIr3A0btVYGoJPrYqtOtKHF0/w200-h150/woman%20in%20kimono.png" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/02/reunion-by-toshiya-kamei.html" target="_blank">“Reunion” • by Toshiya Kamei</a></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A little tale of love, death, and reincarnation.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Published: 27 February 2024</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/02/the-never-ending-faq-about-our-slush.html" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkUQjwbRULKFqZG-s2rd6tUu_c0MRs3mZuUbT3qBLm296NU8sHyqSdM3R_2sfqPUYlCFZ3oXFEXieZtWLhpZ-zWQtrXgNCc6Atv8dFI9AT6dZJp5caW4jPlvggE8lEkk7eYDjd9LY2UebNQ5hu623O6x3yh4IZLDdx0vMLvl7D298hQAGFY4rKGK3D1Tgs/w200-h150/submissions_1280x960.png" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/02/the-never-ending-faq-about-our-slush.html" target="_blank">The Never-ending FAQ: about our slush pile</a></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Let’s follow Mr. Manuscript on his journey through the fearful wastelands of the slush pile to the Happy Land of Publication!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Published: 28 February 2024</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><br /> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/02/the-pros-and-cons-of-time-travel-by.html" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="640" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRkQKyZEuf6cNS2vKYkwLk2hw-xr_AtxyK4djweetqL_oVUiiMy3Ozy3HFS3-gGJmn-oOM9eSB-oabZ8qjTK8ypS2Rp4a2HATxKA8nFeP8WkP4qqsTUq3sksZeAo7zZciBbatOfH4c304v7PJAMWO-Bb87fsK7Z-7k6Pj5jGXd-V3XixA9QbNR75Wk0w4T/w200-h125/Dawn_900px.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/02/the-pros-and-cons-of-time-travel-by.html" target="_blank">“The Pros and Cons of Time Travel” • by James Blakey</a></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We have a working time machine, but to perfect it we need funding. How <i>much </i>funding? We’re glad you asked…</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Published: 29 February 2024</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/deep-in-time-by-benjamin-dehaan.html" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVn_06zPldbb89WOP5PXPeg1C6LJGOkztnbLHkqsfn1Fw4x8OHahAKW7hmQytNPwkkCkWYq4VuVuy3GTiu37Q9zKO14ehf8M7FGAKXsAG-mVLtVsATOcdyfH7e4Z3MF9F9VxiVDdrjWr_Aqf0-rk1oXQqh2zczx7-lWyaKwm2127MIVtHhejMYa5Bu_9up/w200-h150/submerged%20head.png" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/deep-in-time-by-benjamin-dehaan.html" target="_blank">“Deep in Time” • by Benjamin DeHaan</a></b><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Exploration, father-loss, time-travel reaching across the generations: hold your breath, this story goes <i>really </i>deep.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Published: 01 March 2024</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/as-flies-to-wanton-boys-by-j-m-eno.html" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYIZWHK5OnfGlwTh4b96S2CJd_dN9AbipHjVRXEV0MkzAX8D1ymjxOVz-EjJdDuG9zu66XlNbhZbzn5wETph3vBl6S8gt2N99qIvKG3rJzMZELn4A7tScaNeMbBnJwskCBP9UCby4oeTy_Nc4xjgKRfwjI5Uj77PofnFvM0TLwBAzdKFh7o5bVTGBXWz_S/w200-h150/king%20edmund.png" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/as-flies-to-wanton-boys-by-j-m-eno.html" target="_blank">“As Flies to Wanton Boys” • by J. M. Eno</a></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Dr. Robert Alexander invented time travel. And invented time travel. And invented time travel. King Edmund was <i>not</i> amused.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Published: 02 March 2024</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/status-update-audio-books-past-present.html" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitDAj3-moUIDDUndXlYa288pWJH3FPW77GC1W9Pa97QldQ4J6l5RrNkFJeq4vH0uZfXA1U8KYaOCI6jxAegLoDQg9N0jywRBzwYrxN0YIcrqW9FbARVmhPp3zlPrcMijGtM7eBZXvXkWg10f9a3hHpgp1a13uBS9TG6O6JDK0Doudd0xCdGSbtvTHeJtK3/w200-h150/reading%20robot.png" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2024/03/status-update-audio-books-past-present.html" target="_blank">Status Update • Audio Books: Past, Present, and Future</a></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We now have <b>eight</b> audio books on Audible and Amazon, with more in development. Look here for links, samples, and observations on the tools we used to develop them and our plans for the future.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Published: 02 March 2024 <br /> <br /></span></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Week%20in%20Review" target="_blank"><b><span>Previous <i>Week-in-Review</i> Posts</span></b></a></span><br /></div><br /><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #800180;">P.S. And buy some of our books, eh?</span> <br /></span>
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</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="1280" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNr28NbVVcU6SP8sWgOivIqqfyKIat1MzSGShEFTPqu55GcJ0MTuWrWTFpELubZ74CYogRGbnUHXw2kscsT6uor9MdRbkK8ZlwIks3gna7Iwk01EBeDD0q896AmpBhPE4wQ5Mc5mzYb3cs0dAfQda-QTdzapQN33vnzOyrnRr3J9_HAjDwT3nsP6GmcmG4/w640-h232/23-24-25-26_thumbnail_bar.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Have a Kindle? Find out what you’ve been missing! <br />Buy the four<i> </i>latest issues with just one click!<br /></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><br />(Or buy just one, if that’s what you’d really prefer.)<b><br /></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="38" data-original-width="381" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYuEjc_0tXRzAQ9Lhw4Ps_j9ftSZgrVdPiFH3Te1fNKSSGx3uNCJ7_NJT-IvMvQ7JEVSSsWu0M90WppBnnWQ66uw10ztCfnM1OFfxNVmwb3ufDpyhrLaRPCsGPqWoSse_K2jQT0wy15fUs2UFA1HkAjm2daEi44yXR9KbE2sBXDNCLNe47HxuZheduy21/w400-h40/one-click%20button.png" width="400" /></a></b></span></div><p><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-19645558921214354392024-03-02T12:00:01.279-06:002024-03-05T09:13:22.414-06:00Status Update • Audio Books: Past, Present, and Future<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ7J9ctIJKiqU5OpfZNW518dWWFr461SaMike3hAu3TLUlKG-I8rfbCWBc0O8c-ZeSlLZZZrK7Je7ONRW9QlrfXBGOFpPNQvoOwBz-3CKn8U1fdIK-dZejYaqguIU0Cyze9spnryInX4CqGYZBluCcS208cG1G-XBly28zTZj688ac-Cg0kCtF3hxQ_nBq/s1280/reading%20robot.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ7J9ctIJKiqU5OpfZNW518dWWFr461SaMike3hAu3TLUlKG-I8rfbCWBc0O8c-ZeSlLZZZrK7Je7ONRW9QlrfXBGOFpPNQvoOwBz-3CKn8U1fdIK-dZejYaqguIU0Cyze9spnryInX4CqGYZBluCcS208cG1G-XBly28zTZj688ac-Cg0kCtF3hxQ_nBq/w640-h480/reading%20robot.png" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">We recently were given the opportunity to participate in a product beta.</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The product is an AI-assisted text-to-speech conversion utility. The objective is to develop a software tool that can convert a complete e-book into a serviceable audio book in a matter of hours. We gave it a good hard tryout, running five of our novels through it, and the results are… </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Promising. Interesting. Though-provoking. It’s not quite there yet, but it will be, and sooner than you think.<br /> </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><u><span style="color: #2b00fe;">—The Past—</span></u></span></b></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />As many of you already know, audio/video production fascinates me. I didn’t start out to be a science fiction writer. I started out to be a musician and composer, and spent a <i>lot </i>of time doing radio, TV, and above all, recording studio work, before I transitioned to writing for print publication. I’d always intended to get back to doing that sort of work, one of these days, once everything else settled down. I named this company <b>Rampant Loon <u>Media</u></b>, after all, with the idea that eventually we would branch out into doing audio and video production.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When you bring up the topic of the AI-assisted generation of audio books, most people’s first response is the same as it is to every other intrusion of automation into their world: it’s immediate, visceral, and basically reactionary. <i><b>“They took our jobs!”</b><br /><br /></i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ8fcuT8adCLIUxZio-YXfL9W_CBQaMVtqESpR56-qgv96T9UrMFFRr1Y5zjKBvp_aVrYtViUofEIcon9hsqh28rJ9Rda1jPGVhdY3O4_DmeZZK51z8X8OAEqYtHJjzGfefi570mnDQjnYfQtaR1z6_EfIFTyWdrpNE66ju5QDG9PJzXdHkTSJCefbx2-A/s1662/they%20took%20our%20jobs.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1662" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ8fcuT8adCLIUxZio-YXfL9W_CBQaMVtqESpR56-qgv96T9UrMFFRr1Y5zjKBvp_aVrYtViUofEIcon9hsqh28rJ9Rda1jPGVhdY3O4_DmeZZK51z8X8OAEqYtHJjzGfefi570mnDQjnYfQtaR1z6_EfIFTyWdrpNE66ju5QDG9PJzXdHkTSJCefbx2-A/w640-h370/they%20took%20our%20jobs.png" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />In my mind’s ear I hear armies of farm workers shouting the same complaint 190 years ago, when Cyrus McCormick patented the mechanical reaper and they could no longer make a living harvesting grain by hand with a scythe.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">After that, the next response is usually, “I don’t like it. It sounds mechanical. It’ll never sound as good as a good reading by a human actor.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My answer is, that’s right. <i>For now. </i>But the technology is improving rapidly, and in a very short time text-to-speech audio has gone from sounding like something being read by a Dalek to something being read by a voicemail chatbot, or perhaps a bored primary school teacher reading to her class. It won’t be too much longer before it <i>does </i>sound every bit as good as a text being read by your average run-of-the-mill voice actor, with the added advantage of being a lot more reliable. AIs won’t <i>fully </i>replace actors until they can skip rehearsals, show up drunk on opening night, or miss their entrances because they’re making out in a backstage broom closet with a member of the costume crew. But aside from those shortcomings… <br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Perhaps I’m more relaxed about this than you are because I’ve already watched this happen in the music industry. Back in my musician days I hated to use even dynamic range compression in the recording studio, because I thought it warped the natural sound of the human voice. But now, try finding contemporary pop music that does <i>not </i>consist almost entirely of loops, samples, and voices strained through multiple layers of compression, equalization, audio enhancement, and auto-tuning. Sometimes I catch myself thinking, this isn’t music, it’s <b>audio découpage</b>. <br /><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKKgIYmde0rGSEUpQt3Wh190RFvTBZjTJorUBoVjbi_E6QfjeGoGglDP7UwA7P9w91HZ96uXF-apO2FkC1Micnglg0juomD69j1CzmqeVGk8GiHt6M4dR9pbE1N0BzKVeHtFZ99WQISoji3hO68sbsctdRJ1PqwNarlWPa2CcHZCQTrGCHLDNvig_BtNZw/s1662/autosinger.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1662" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKKgIYmde0rGSEUpQt3Wh190RFvTBZjTJorUBoVjbi_E6QfjeGoGglDP7UwA7P9w91HZ96uXF-apO2FkC1Micnglg0juomD69j1CzmqeVGk8GiHt6M4dR9pbE1N0BzKVeHtFZ99WQISoji3hO68sbsctdRJ1PqwNarlWPa2CcHZCQTrGCHLDNvig_BtNZw/w640-h370/autosinger.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />But then I realize that I’m just being a grumpy old Luddite. No one is <i>forcing </i>me to listen to contemporary pop music. Whenever I want to, I can put some of <i>my </i>music on whatever audio system is handy. I just got the remastered 3-disk set of Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli’s complete Debussy recordings for Deutsche Grammophon, and am fighting the urge to binge-listen to the entire thing in one sitting. More than two hours of Debussy’s solo piano music, played by a master pianist. Absolutely glorious. <br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Meanwhile, those who grew up with loops, samples, EDM, and all the other things that grew out of scratch, dub, electronica, post-punk and industrial dance music—those who <i>enjoy </i>music that sounds like it’s been written by and is being performed by robots—</span></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">They <i>like </i>it and want <i>more </i>of it. <br /></span></b></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There. That’s a thought to keep in mind as we continue traveling into the future. <br /><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><u><span style="color: #2b00fe;">—The Present—</span></u></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><u><br /></u></span></b><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Here at Muppet Labs—excuse me, Rampant Loon Media—we’ve been experimenting with audio books for years. When Henry Vogel’s novel, <b><i>The Fugitive Heir</i></b>, was riding high on the Kindle best-seller list, we went the full (and expensive!) ACX route and hired a professional voice actor to produce a complete professional-grade audio book.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.audible.com/pd/The-Fugitive-Heir-Audiobook/B01DPSAZ2Q" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="250" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioM6k-5aQpgmG7i1FdU3ZSjVd5rkVinazIu_XryT0CU3N96hyphenhyphen_eGzp2Xv5IcJQAhSccEfFd3ZJqMfyJsMghhd4cNA7FEq5rqlkrp1q2hSlYcBq5LduueKqIYi8ZDaFQisph2mWLnByZ7JNuwL3-Jc8TR_R9U1xJP9HbPs87YcBeFpeHEx8EwuJH8l8lh-f/w200-h200/fugitive%20heir%20audible.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://www.audible.com/pd/The-Fugitive-Heir-Audiobook/B01DPSAZ2Q" target="_blank">Available now on Audible</a></b>.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Fugitive-Heir-Book/dp/B01DPSAZ4E/ref=tmm_aud_swatch_0" target="_blank">Available now on Kindle Audiobook</a></b>. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The initial results were promising enough to warrant re-hiring the same voice actor to do the sequel, <b><i>The Fugitive Pair</i></b>.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.audible.com/pd/The-Fugitive-Pair-Audiobook/B01JN7VILU" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="250" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzvMmDpBjQ0dqfmegiMiK_vtXlXbPDp0Kjme2bzt7NMXNDw5OQSrv0MMkoa_lukHQ4B9xe-LgLlMqfzuyK7wXZkxYEzsObDjEy4e6VUqsBjwEtmJ6CCGZYA5qntIVSX1LoZx1hDyM06j7K8hnpWakf8wqeZ2Gw279Bq3ae6zM_RIdXezL71S4odGUR-kcN/w200-h200/fugitive%20pair%20audible.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://www.audible.com/pd/The-Fugitive-Pair-Audiobook/B01JN7VILU" target="_blank">Available now on Audible</a></b>.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Fugitive-Pair-Matt-Michelle-Book/dp/B01JN7VDWO/ref=tmm_aud_swatch_0" target="_blank">Available now on Kindle Audiobook</a></b>.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Thus setting ourselves up for the insanely expensive learning experience that was <b><i>The Counterfeit Captain</i></b>. For this one we went all-out and hired a between-roles Hollywood actress to read the book, with the recording and production to be done by some of her Hollywood movie industry friends.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.audible.com/pd/The-Counterfeit-Captain-Audiobook/B01J63JZIO" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="250" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyvhe6ubH57zNcLJqF2iwGoLHoUJdjMgEscC3lXLeIAM3y6owUXAUHaXSMEH1TUy4H2X9L2XTN2Uax5XCfrcS4KEeDPOPt4fmFUyY6lneiSQ4LATfcKF2Se7qN8vdpVPvvtEFMnrk84mu5sQ-WDGdFy3svpTeIW2-M7nNYF2c7tzp8fjBUtLzmKiJ7oyTx/w200-h200/counterfeit%20captain%20audible.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.audible.com/pd/The-Counterfeit-Captain-Audiobook/B01J63JZIO" target="_blank">Available now on Audible.</a></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/The-Counterfeit-Captain/dp/B01J63KVOG/ref=tmm_aud_swatch_0" target="_blank">Available now on Kindle Audiobook.</a></span></b></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It turned into the Project from Hell. We spent a small fortune on this one, and in the end the audio files they delivered were unusable. We had to engage someone else to fix the whole mess in post-production. (Apparently, to people in Hollywood this is completely normal and nothing for them to get excited about. “You can fix it in post.” They were already off and working on their next project.)<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The resulting audio book sounds great—you should pop out to Audible or Amazon and give the sample a listen—but boy, was it an expensive pain-in-the-@$$ to get there. So expensive, in fact, that it devoured the budget I’d allocated for doing the audiobook of <b><i>The Fugitive Snare</i></b>, so we decided to put that one off until we had a better handle on what we were trying to accomplish. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We haven’t been idle since then. We’ve completed production on the 10-episode streaming audio adaptation of <i><b><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/label/Dawn%20of%20Time" target="_blank">Dawn of Time</a></b></i> and the 30-episode streaming audio adaptation of <b><i><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Odin%20Chronicles" target="_blank">The Odin Chronicles</a></i></b> and will be rolling those out shortly; watch for more details coming soon.</span></p><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;">[If you’re curious, here is a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gj16Xe9tQYM" target="_blank">work-in-progress sample of Episode 1 of <b><i>The Odin Chronicles</i></b></a>. It’s not quite the finished version, but it’s really close, and definitely worth a listen. <i>I</i> am pretty pleased with it, anyway, and when it comes to audio production quality I am downright OCD.] <br /></span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We have an audio book adaptation of <b><i>The Fugitive Heir</i></b> in development. I should check up on that one and see how it’s coming along. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">People keep asking why we don’t release an audiobook adaptation of <b><i>Headcrash</i></b>. The problem, essentially, is me. I grew up on The Firesign Theater and logged all those years of working in theater and recording studios, and now that I finally own all rights to <i>Headcrash</i> again, I can’t seem to let go and let someone just <i>read </i>it. I begin with that idea, but then pretty soon I’m wanting to add sound effects, and incidental music, and to get different voice actors to read the different characters…</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And, well, then it mushrooms into being the full-blown multimedia production I always saw it being in my mind, and I start to wonder if maybe we can get <b><a href="http://www.rodlord.com/pages/home2.htm" target="_blank">Rod Lord</a></b> on board for the project…</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Midnight-Ground-Adrian-Hartworth-Book-ebook/dp/B07MP673WJ/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="296" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUSo6dIsMiOTaKEprzJgIhbQ5MEJgt6qZNgPCbgdlaI2PddJCv8OAmdDnE8omy_KRcMNncFjZKkJiUKNqJ1KAh-JO3KgTuragirENp4xEsVR-eRjNNdWdUvWzy9r4EfOYEJy-ofwVzjo-zgE1iN4yhf03-Yryjme2MffTaeKy8ynC632NZqIV4aiZvEPil/w133-h200/midnight%20kindle.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Never mind that now. Among other projects we’ve attempted in recent years has been an audiobook adaptation of Eric Dontigney’s paranormal thriller, <b><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Midnight-Ground-Adrian-Hartworth-Book-ebook/dp/B07MP673WJ/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0" target="_blank">The Midnight Ground</a></i></b>. We’ve actually committed to this project several times—</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And each time, the voice actor who committed to the project failed to deliver a finished book. (See foregoing comments about actors, reliable.) Which brings us up to <b><i>now</i></b>, or perhaps more appropriately, fifteen minutes into the future.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§<br /> <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When the invitation to participate in this beta first showed up in my inbox, I wasn’t too excited. We see these sorts of offers from time to time and they rarely pan out. For example, Henry Vogel used Apple’s AI to convert his novel, <i>Trouble in Twi-Town</i>, to an audio book, and was not happy with the result. He said it took him about two weeks and a lot of manual fiddling to produce something he deemed almost good enough, but there were still problems with pronunciation and diction. (I believe the audio book is out on iTunes now but can’t confirm that.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0734G8SSV" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUAfBMA94G6XSRwcwCmi4Zah37CP9fbn9o-u95NHeLiJ474kXuqePq_96HjnD3LcZGkYkD3yA_uOF4OtRYH08c0efpOlkjT-Zsil1UMXcUqCHpWBHfNKCOgUc403AtG12b3YrLUf-MIHMqoMDLaI0rw5nuMyP-KkhkTc1X0CLB9LxbokpgHdsDk-zVNiYR/s16000/RecogRun300.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">This latest offer came from KDP, though, and they’ve been working on developing text-to-speech conversion since at least 2010. Among other things they promised <i>fast </i>e-book to audiobook conversion, and helpfully provided us with a list of our own Kindle titles that were already deemed suitable for conversion.* After Henry and I talked it over for a bit and played around with various options, we selected his novel, <b><i>The Recognition Run</i></b>, to be our first <strike>victim</strike> test subject.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">KDP really delivered on the <i>fast </i>part. Once Henry and I agreed on a virtual voice for the book and I clicked the button to commit, the finished audiobook was live on Amazon in less than two hours; live on Audible a little later. It worked so well that we decided to convert the rest of the <i>Recognition </i>trilogy right away, too, and then, what the heck,<i> </i><i>Hart for Adventure</i>.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In a matter of hours we had <i>four </i>new audiobooks live on Amazon and Audible.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>The Recognition Run</i> • <a href="https://www.audible.com/pd/The-Recognition-Run-Audiobook/B0CWQDSFR4" target="_blank">Audible</a> | <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Recognition-Run-Book/dp/B0CWPVNHLP/ref=tmm_aud_swatch_0" target="_blank">Kindle Audiobook</a></span></b></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>The Recognition Rejection</i> • <a href="https://www.audible.com/pd/The-Recognition-Rejection-Audiobook/B0CWR5NWCV" target="_blank">Audible</a> | <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Recognition-Rejection-Book/dp/B0CWQ53296/ref=tmm_aud_swatch_0" target="_blank">Kindle Audiobook</a></span></b></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>The Recognition Revelation</i> • <a href="https://www.audible.com/pd/The-Recognition-Revelation-Audiobook/B0CWR5T4DL" target="_blank">Audible</a> | <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Recognition-Revelation-Book/dp/B0CWQ4QWY7/ref=tmm_aud_swatch_0" target="_blank">Kindle Audiobook</a></span></b></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Hart for Adventure</i> • <a href="https://www.audible.com/pd/Hart-for-Adventure-Audiobook/B0CWR4C3FL" target="_blank">Audible</a> | <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CWQ1L737" target="_blank">Kindle Audiobook</a></span></b></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />These audiobooks aren’t perfect. You’ll never mistake them for an audiobook read by a really good human narrator. I’m not entirely satisfied with the range of virtual voices currently available, and can think of plenty of improvements I’d like to see both in the publisher’s user interface on the front end and in the final output that goes to customers at the back end of the process.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But that’s the point of a beta, isn’t it? KDP does seem to be receptive to our feedback, so I’m happy to participate in this program, and looking forward to seeing—and more importantly, <i>hearing</i>—the final product. In the meantime, I am <i>really </i>happy with the seamless integration between the e-book and audiobook editions, and especially happy with the way customers can get the audio book for <b>free</b> (or at least, steeply discounted)<b> </b>if they already own the e-book. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So happy, in fact, that I contacted Eric Dontigney, and we agreed to produce a Virtual Voice version of <b><i>The Midnight Ground</i></b>, which we’ll keep available until such time as a living human actually delivers a finished version of the audiobook. You can get it here:<br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>The Midnight Ground</i> • <a href="https://www.audible.com/pd/The-Midnight-Ground-Audiobook/B0CPLHC5DN" target="_blank">Audible</a> | <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CPLH73J6" target="_blank">Kindle Audiobook</a></span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If you listen to it, let us know what you think of it. <br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: red;"><b>* About that “list of </b></span></span><span style="color: red;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">our own Kindle titles that were already deemed suitable for conversion”</span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">First off, it’s an “opt in” program, so nothing will be converted unless we request that it be converted. Secondly, <span style="color: red;"><b><i>Stupefying Stories</i> and <i>SHOWCASE </i>contributors can relax</b></span>. We did not buy the audio rights to your story. Therefore, we will NOT convert your story to audio without negotiating a new contract with you. Right now <b>YOU </b>still own all the audio rights to your story, unless you yourself have sold them elsewhere. <i>We will not be converting any issues of Stupefying Stories or any SHOWCASE stories to audiobook.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Capisce? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Very good. Moving right along then, to…<br /><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><u>—The Future—</u></span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><u><br /></u></span></b><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There is a wonderful moment in the 1998 <i>Godzilla </i>movie. Dr. Niko Tatopoulus (Matthew Broderick) is traveling with a team of French special forces soldiers disguised as Americans. As they’re being grilled at a U.S. Army checkpoint, the guard turns to the leader of the French team, Philippe Roaché (Jean Reno), and demands—</span></p><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Guard:</b> You got a problem talkin’?</span></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;">For an instant you see the panic on Tatopoulus’s face. <i>Oh no, our cover is blown. We’re caught</i>. Throughout the entire movie up to this point, Roaché has spoken English with a French accent as thick as Brie cheese. Then Roaché smiles at the guard, and answers—</span></p><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Roaché:</b> Why, no suh, ah’m fine.<br /></span></blockquote><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Guard:</b> All right, keep it movin’.</span></blockquote><p></p><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Roaché:</b> Well, thank you very much.</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">They drive through the checkpoint. Tatopoulus gives Roaché a puzzled look. Roaché answers, in his normal thick French accent—</span></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Roaché:</b> Elvis Presley movies. He was The King.<br /></span></blockquote><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A spoken language is a living, fluid, dynamic, ever-changing and constantly evolving thing. There are words and concepts in my vocabulary now that didn’t exist when I was in college; ways of speaking, levels of meaning, and idiomatic expressions that would have made absolutely no sense to my father. At the same time, thanks to technology, there is an accelerating trend towards widespread homogeneity in how a language <i>sounds</i>. Regional accents began to disappear with the advent of the gramophone; they did so at an accelerating pace with the development of radio and “talkie” movies; and the trend went worldwide with television. It’s become a standing rhetorical joke: why do so many British people sing with American Southern accents? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I dunno. Probably for much the same reason as why so many Americans can rattle off old Monty Python routines in fluent Cockney. We listen. We learn. We parrot, like a Norwegian Blue, pining for the fjords. We humans are <i>made </i>to learn speech from listening and imitating. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When I was in Iceland, I noticed a funny thing. The market for media in the Icelandic language is so small that almost no one bothers to overdub British or American movies or television programs into Icelandic. Instead, everything is subtitled, and as a result, Icelandic children develop fluency in English at a very early age. But the funny part is, when they open their mouths to speak, you can almost tell <i>which </i>TV programs they watched as a child, by the accents they use when they speak English as an adult.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This is a feature, not a flaw. We learn how to speak by listening. We develop our sense of what is “normal” speech by who we listen to most.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Or <i>what </i>we listen to most.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">AI-assisted speech generation is here. It’s not going away. Yes, it may sound odd to your ears, perhaps flat and lifeless, with what may seem to you to be peculiar inflections and odd pronunciations. AI-generated speech <i>will </i>improve and become more “lifelike,” as more people continue to work on it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But at the same time, AI-generated speech will also change how <i>we </i>speak.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We’re already starting to see that in how we communicate. We enunciate more clearly when we’re negotiating with a voicemail chatbot system. We change the way we write text on the computer in order to facilitate better text-to-speech conversion. This change in how we speak is only going to accelerate. Your children or grandchildren will grow up thinking the way their tablet reads a book to them is “normal,” and the way <i>you </i>speak sounds funny.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Our technology will continue to evolve, to better communicate with us. At the same we will adapt to better accommodate our technology, as we have ever since our first hairy ancestor chipped a flint. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And somewhere in the middle, we’ll someday meet, and have a conversation. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd1zn_0ikUSsBNxLesvQkZEzOiEIQbt4tFPPNtcieKNv0xJ8_oAsEj1DtE_4I_er8FD8e5sxj2554Fd5kgEKuDn74_F47VBEltN-tUn5dq6WGD7nrm_pyeXnZoaFc5mqZn61lNC3Vm0Md__9txN3kkd0FMpUFOX1GloTRtDtaT2QRGldu0J1CAzCGNrnGo/s1280/talking%20to%20a%20robot.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd1zn_0ikUSsBNxLesvQkZEzOiEIQbt4tFPPNtcieKNv0xJ8_oAsEj1DtE_4I_er8FD8e5sxj2554Fd5kgEKuDn74_F47VBEltN-tUn5dq6WGD7nrm_pyeXnZoaFc5mqZn61lNC3Vm0Md__9txN3kkd0FMpUFOX1GloTRtDtaT2QRGldu0J1CAzCGNrnGo/w640-h480/talking%20to%20a%20robot.png" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"></span><p></p>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-87122240150691307852024-03-02T06:00:00.074-06:002024-03-02T09:19:28.825-06:00“As Flies to Wanton Boys” • by J. M. Eno<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzWmMs3FimLGpoRJg6IYuNgI5EweSU0Z4opHxSaiY9x4FDc2qc_39vR9mjyumBsoht8wtP7RVTPYAuoxWXBGuuz58ExoyhpQNrRJzJzwlb6kfiwlinBQmpM4uJMbAFs_5yM0XunjjqEjgPie8vZQTYMWvKrZekmxcbehf3dNfuU9QtGqc3JPsOmdwTG1sS/s1280/king%20edmund.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzWmMs3FimLGpoRJg6IYuNgI5EweSU0Z4opHxSaiY9x4FDc2qc_39vR9mjyumBsoht8wtP7RVTPYAuoxWXBGuuz58ExoyhpQNrRJzJzwlb6kfiwlinBQmpM4uJMbAFs_5yM0XunjjqEjgPie8vZQTYMWvKrZekmxcbehf3dNfuU9QtGqc3JPsOmdwTG1sS/w640-h480/king%20edmund.png" width="640" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br />King Edmund liked to think that he presided over an efficient court, </span><span style="font-size: medium;">and so when he found himself facing the stranger—a small, unimposing man in tight-clinging clothes—he found himself nearly out of patience. A stranger’s presence was always an unwelcome diversion, especially when it had happened five times already this morning.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Hello there,” the stranger said. “I’m Dr. Robert Alexander, a scientist from the, uh, United States.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“It is customary to bow before your king, Robert,” said King Edmund.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Right. Sorry. So is it more of a bend at the waist or a genuflect?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The king’s men showed Dr. Alexander the prostrate position in which the king preferred to receive surprise guests.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“What brings you before the court?” said the king.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Happy to discuss. If I could just rise up a bit? No? Okay. Well, you see, I’m the first physicist to solve Hirota’s equations.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Do go on…” said the king. One his men snickered.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Hirota’s equations were postulated to conform general relativity and quantum mechanics, but only for closed-end systems. They were proposed by a physicist in the, uh, what’s west of the New World for you?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“We are aware of the existence of the shogunate in Edo.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Right! So as it happens, my wife is a huge fan of period pieces. Those are stories about the, uh, time period you all live in. So I decided to take the machine we’ve been working on for a test drive if you will. All thanks to Hirota’s equations.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Very good,” said the king, “But it appears you’ve solved them incorrectly.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“That can’t be, said Dr. Alexander. “I’m here, aren’t I?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Is it possible that you performed a linear, rather than affine, transformation of the matrix represented in Hirota’s Third Equation?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“What? How could you know that… oh no.” Dr. Alexander noticed that he had begun to flicker and fade, as if his body were the flame of a candle melted down near to its candlestick. “But that means… the paradox I canceled out in the Third Equation. It—”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“—wasn’t cancellable after all.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“My God. The math was so beautiful. How could it allow such an outcome?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“‘As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods / They kill us for their sport.’”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Hey—Shakespeare! I know that one. Fainter still… that’s troubling. There’s a way out of this, isn’t there?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m sure you'll find one.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The last of Dr. Alexander’s body faded out of view. The king wondered for a moment if there would finally be peace in his court.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">From the antechamber, a small, bespectacled man approached.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Hello there,” the man said. “I’m Dr. Robert Alexander, a scientist from the, uh, United States.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“God’s Wounds,” said the king. “Let’s let him stand this time.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><hr width="50%" /><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLXUs-uERc_U1Wx0uOZg0zDIQT7xmW1zzWF3KncEUcInC3VzKIZUvkZPFUMc5xd0McVZSF3jbO4Lxtam6wOfgtMlMKz3oxSwLZYd13mfOrREFu2BU5cTV2tGLI9iiVviqNDmIza7ys1_k6BYLJJk3kY7PCWNl5Z_NOGwHMXdKpOhLY19K9wQxbjOqBJM2n/s4032/J.%20M.%20Eno%20Author%20Photo.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLXUs-uERc_U1Wx0uOZg0zDIQT7xmW1zzWF3KncEUcInC3VzKIZUvkZPFUMc5xd0McVZSF3jbO4Lxtam6wOfgtMlMKz3oxSwLZYd13mfOrREFu2BU5cTV2tGLI9iiVviqNDmIza7ys1_k6BYLJJk3kY7PCWNl5Z_NOGwHMXdKpOhLY19K9wQxbjOqBJM2n/s320/J.%20M.%20Eno%20Author%20Photo.jpg" width="240" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>J.M. Eno’s</b> work has appeared or is forthcoming in House of Zolo’s <i>Journal of Speculative Literature</i>, <i>Cobalt</i>, and <i>The Fabulist</i>. He can be found among the trees with his family and a recalcitrant English bulldog or on Twitter at <a href="https://twitter.com/jmenowrites" target="_blank">@jmenowrites</a>.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><hr /><p><br /></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span style="color: #800180;">Support Stupefying Stories! Buy some of our books! </span><br /></i></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="1280" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNr28NbVVcU6SP8sWgOivIqqfyKIat1MzSGShEFTPqu55GcJ0MTuWrWTFpELubZ74CYogRGbnUHXw2kscsT6uor9MdRbkK8ZlwIks3gna7Iwk01EBeDD0q896AmpBhPE4wQ5Mc5mzYb3cs0dAfQda-QTdzapQN33vnzOyrnRr3J9_HAjDwT3nsP6GmcmG4/w640-h232/23-24-25-26_thumbnail_bar.png" width="640" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></p>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-31375960902603302712024-03-01T06:00:00.074-06:002024-03-01T07:58:22.936-06:00“Deep in Time” • by Benjamin DeHaan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg2wLPjDPgc1YbDe6-9Cja5LuE6lfBv3cBov5TwM-leepl7aDohn3cAGKSLXfmQOUJGMH42sigBeLgHGkKBUCd-RbKLEP5yd5E6rEJ_3Ueda_9nzKyZplK_y42tqXX7D7av_BYkPmcY6JXvEn_yuiqhCx-YZDzkAiP1ngxCCstljMHRuaA5PjgWklrgLYd/s1280/submerged%20head.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg2wLPjDPgc1YbDe6-9Cja5LuE6lfBv3cBov5TwM-leepl7aDohn3cAGKSLXfmQOUJGMH42sigBeLgHGkKBUCd-RbKLEP5yd5E6rEJ_3Ueda_9nzKyZplK_y42tqXX7D7av_BYkPmcY6JXvEn_yuiqhCx-YZDzkAiP1ngxCCstljMHRuaA5PjgWklrgLYd/w640-h480/submerged%20head.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<p><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Thousands upon thousands of pounds of pressure</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> forces the Sub-61 to creak and ping and ting at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, and I still get the cold feeling of death’s hand brushing along my spine.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Troubling past fathers, where did you hide thy time machine?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The seventeenth dive.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I cross my fingers as we scan the bottom. I nearly dislocate my middle knuckle, I cross them so hard.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The data screensplay comes to life. <i>Beep. Beep. Beep.</i> A field of green glow scattered with red dots.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I open Sub-61’s view port.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I shut it.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Dumb ass.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Of course, there is nothing to see at this depth. But I’m too excited.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">And too stupid.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Out of the other four hundred subs, Sub-61 probably has the thinnest shell. I think of sandwiches and that cheap plastic cheese with over six millenniums of shelf life. I think of its texture and then I think of diamond.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Sub-61’s walls are the cheese. All the other competitors are diamond-coated thick and stainless steel heat-treated twenty millimeters deep.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Beep. Beep. Beep.</i></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Traces of megamonolite.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The rare metal said to make up the main frame of the lost time machine.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I do a deep blast scan. The three hundred cubic meter area directly below Sub-61 is analyzed down to the last atom.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Megamonolite confirmed 100%.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The trench slopes down.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Creak. Crackle. Ting. Pop.</i></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">All the sounds that make the hair on the back of the neck stand like a saluting soldier.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Further analyzation with the Geo-Max. Something big forms on the tab screen that displays physical terrain traits.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I want to punch the screen. Again, I’m greeted with a colossal giant from a lost age. Another blasted head.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">A Formosa Cyblom AI head. A remnant from the Gilganox War of 2432.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I see other subs on the scanner and they are already kilometers away. Which tells me that there is nothing in the area to keep looking for.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Sadness grips over me. I love my dad. I’ve always loved my dad and I’ll always love him. And this whole ordeal has my heart gripped tight in a fist, blood leaking out from the cracks in my hands and streaming down my arms. The crimson drips from my elbows steadily and rhythmically. <i>Drip. Drip. Drip. Drippit. Drip. Drippit.</i></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I promised father before he died that I would make the discovery. I told him that I would make the explorer, my dad, a happy man. I would make him proud and he could finally rest, knowing what he believed in all those years actually exists.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He vanished from this world before I had a chance to say goodbye.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">If there was somebody with me now inside the small snug cockpit of Sub-61, I would probably be fighting to hold back my tears.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">But I can’t hold it back. I can’t keep it in. It all comes out.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">And the sub comes crackling and pinging and dinging to the bottom roughly at thirty-six thousand feet. The hologram projector builds the Mariana Trench terrain in the middle of the cockpit. Sub-61 is following the bottom of a ravine. The path snakes along slowly like some long canyon river system surface-side.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The other subs may have given up hope but that isn’t what I’m going to do today. I’m going to keep looking when nobody wants to look, I will keep searching where nobody wants to search, and I’ll keep my faith and chin up high until I make father proud. Because even though he is no longer with me, I know that somehow, he’ll know I did it. I made it.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I wipe the wetness from my face with my sleeve. The hologram is forming a series of metallic rings. Sub-61 passes through them like a gnat flying through silver wedding rings.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The sudden cold feels like licking on my damp forearms. The water quality analyzer is beeping and burping out data on the wall screen. Microplastic, contaminants, and other pollutants seem to be dwindling at abnormal speeds. Instead of the steady wave of fluctuation, it is now more sporadic and jumpier.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Eight hours pass and still there is no sign of the of the lost artifact that controls the fabric of time. I punch the wall. I punch it again. On the third punch one of my knuckles pops and I probably deserve it. I am child and children don’t belong down here in the deep. I go back.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Sub-61 and I make it to the surface, but when we arrive the mother ship is not there. I have to make the slow swim back to Papua New Guinea. This is going to take hours. I don’t want to go back to the house I inherited from my family.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">So when I arrive at the port, I go to Pete’s Pub, a little shanty surrounded by coconut trees that are so…thick…</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The big trees have been cut down or removed. There are only rows of small planters surrounding the bar. Two people sit at the bar.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I slide onto the chair and sit next to a grizzly man with pink Hawaiian shirt on.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The bartender slides him a drink.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Easy now, Frederickson.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Frederickson.</i></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My last name.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The man who looks to be about the same age as me raises a glass to the bartender.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“This man. This Johnnie,” he says, and then pauses to knock back the beer in one go. He turns his head to me and burps like a dying steam engine. “This man doesn’t have drinking problems.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">This man with the same first name as my father.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">This man with the same drinking problems as my father.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">This man.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My father.</span></p><p><br /></p>
<hr width="50%" />
<p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">
<b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhgUa6DpfZ8hcf78Gwl3-p7E73ijUqmNwB75imL9qSw-0HsAsJJyGXWkbo-zgZNyRdbjHrKQpo-0w9-MwXZWT8u_g1CkjPt9dasZv5J3JkFsvwuS7vGrPi5xvPlRrjV5u2eUHnkMsRV3KENIURWoanb-xffG68-aT3UsWhVdJxccgLXfpItoN9c_Ula5Jz/s325/Benjamin%20DeHaan.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="325" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhgUa6DpfZ8hcf78Gwl3-p7E73ijUqmNwB75imL9qSw-0HsAsJJyGXWkbo-zgZNyRdbjHrKQpo-0w9-MwXZWT8u_g1CkjPt9dasZv5J3JkFsvwuS7vGrPi5xvPlRrjV5u2eUHnkMsRV3KENIURWoanb-xffG68-aT3UsWhVdJxccgLXfpItoN9c_Ula5Jz/s16000/Benjamin%20DeHaan.jpg" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Benjamin DeHaan</b> is a speculative fiction writer and illustrator. He was born and raised in southern Wisconsin, USA and now lives and works in Japan. His fiction can be found in APEX Magazine and other various magazines and anthologies. His debut horror novella, <i>Dust and Deliverance</i>, was recently released by PsychoToxin Press.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">More information can be found at his website, <a href="https://www.benjamindehaan.com" target="_blank">benjamindehaan.com</a>.
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~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-80213309262651879102024-02-29T06:00:00.060-06:002024-02-29T06:00:00.147-06:00“The Pros and Cons of Time Travel” • by James Blakey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRkQKyZEuf6cNS2vKYkwLk2hw-xr_AtxyK4djweetqL_oVUiiMy3Ozy3HFS3-gGJmn-oOM9eSB-oabZ8qjTK8ypS2Rp4a2HATxKA8nFeP8WkP4qqsTUq3sksZeAo7zZciBbatOfH4c304v7PJAMWO-Bb87fsK7Z-7k6Pj5jGXd-V3XixA9QbNR75Wk0w4T/s900/Dawn_900px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRkQKyZEuf6cNS2vKYkwLk2hw-xr_AtxyK4djweetqL_oVUiiMy3Ozy3HFS3-gGJmn-oOM9eSB-oabZ8qjTK8ypS2Rp4a2HATxKA8nFeP8WkP4qqsTUq3sksZeAo7zZciBbatOfH4c304v7PJAMWO-Bb87fsK7Z-7k6Pj5jGXd-V3XixA9QbNR75Wk0w4T/w640-h400/Dawn_900px.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“You have a time machine?” </span><span style="font-size: medium;">Arthur Wilbur looked more CPA than angel investor: five-six, wire-rimmed glasses, bow tie, tweed jacket.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Dina, arms crossed over her gray M.I.T. sweatshirt, said, “I can’t discuss anything until you sign the NDA.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Without reading, Wilbur scribbled his signature and handed the sheet to Dina’s partner, Jarrod.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Jarrod scanned the document. “Excellent.” He smiled, a gap between his front teeth, and stuck the paper in a filing cabinet. “We <i>do</i> have a time machine. Please follow us.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The pair led Wilbur from the cramped office down an unpainted hallway.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“No security?” Wilbur craned his neck, looking for cameras.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Dina shook her head. “We put all our capital into the device.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The three exited the hallway into an open loft, fifty-feet square.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“And here it is.” Dina stood next to a metal platform, caressing it like a game show model.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the center of a metal platform stood a glass cylinder, meter and a half tall, sixty centimeters in diameter. Dull white floor. Open door in its side. Colorful wires: purple, green, orange, snaked from its wide base, three times the width of the chamber. A pair of hoses connected to the conical brass top.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">On the left: a panel as tall as Wilbur filled with dials, switches, readouts, and blinking lights. To the right: four folding tables covered with computer towers and monitors.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s our research.” Dina pointed to half-a-dozen bookshelves filled with journals.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Wilbur grabbed a notebook. Jarrod swallowed hard, wondering if this egg could make sense of the numbers, Greek letters, and sketches.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Wilbur re-shelved the book. “How about a demonstration?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Of course.” Dina handed him a sheet of paper and envelope. “Write something only you would know.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Wilbur scrawled the name of the first girl he kissed. Dina took the envelope, laid it in the center of the cylinder, and locked the chamber.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The green LED readout atop the panel flashed: <b><span style="color: #38761d;">98</span></b></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Dina sat at one of the tables, typing, glancing between a pair of forty-inch monitors.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“We’re going to send it forward a little over a minute and a half.” Jarrod stood at the control panel, flipping switches.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Fog, sublimating carbon dioxide from the dry ice hidden in the platform, filled the chamber.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“What’s that?” Wilbur asked.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Field density is increasing,” Dina said. “It’s a side effect of the charged particles.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Once the envelope was obscured, Jarrod turned a dial. The floor of the chamber lowered one inch. An identical floor rotated into place. When the fog cleared, the envelope appeared to have vanished.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Wilbur raised an eyebrow.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Green numbers counted down: <b><span style="color: #38761d;">45</span></b>…<b><span style="color: #38761d;">44</span></b>…<b><span style="color: #38761d;">43</span></b>…</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">At twenty seconds, the fog returned. Jarrod spun the dial in the opposite direction. The “process” that sent the envelope into the future reversed. When the air cleared, the envelope lay in its original position. Dina retrieved it from the chamber.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Wilbur tore open the envelope, and recognized his handwriting. “Ninety-eight seconds? Can you go further?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“The power requirements increase with the cube of the distance traveled in time,” Jarrod said. “Same goes for mass.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Dina said, “We need more power, which means more money. Last month our electric bill was mid-five figures.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Wilbur scratched his chin. “You can send things forward. What about back?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“We’re close.” Dina held her thumb and finger a millimeter apart. “But we need capital.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“How much?” Wilbur asked.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Dina and Jarrod looked at each other. Sick of peanut grifts, their plan was to ask for five million. But this mark seemed eager to bite.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Ten million.” Dina watched Wilbur’s reaction.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The investor didn’t blink.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Dina’s heart pounded. She never felt as alive as when bumping a rube. “That’s to move heavier objects forward. Fifteen million to go back.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Wilbur glanced at the chamber, panel, computers. “I’ll need to speak with my associates. They may wish to see with their own eyes.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Jarrod frowned. Each demonstration increased the risk of being found out. “We thought you were the decision maker.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Perhaps I <i>can</i> decide,” Wilbur said. “Tell me how this works.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Do you have a PhD in theoretical physics?” Jarrod asked.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Or a basic understanding of quantum teleportation?” Dina said.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Fair enough.” Wilbur shrugged.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Jarrod sensed he should apply pressure. “We have a potential investor visiting later this week. She represents foreign interests. Dina and I would like backing from Americans, but we’ll do what’s necessary.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Anyone else with knowledge of this project?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Just us,” Jarrod said. “None of our colleagues, no one at the university, have a hint.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Secrecy is a must,” Dina added. “We worry about other scientists, but also the government. If the Feds knew what we were up to, they’d swoop in with some bullshit excuse about National Security, shut us down, and steal our research.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Wilbur smiled at that. “I’m pleased with your discretion.” He reached under his jacket, pulling the silenced semi-automatic from his shoulder holster.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Jarrod raised his hands, confusion on his face. Wilbur fired three times into his chest. Jarrod’s shirt erupted in a sea of red.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Dina screamed, turned, and made it two steps before bullets pierced her lungs and kidneys. She fell to the ground, gurgling sounds coming from her mouth.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Always thorough, Wilbur added a headshot to each.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He returned to his car, retrieving a tire iron and two cans of gasoline. With one swing, the time chamber shattered into a thousand shards. He gathered up the notebooks of research, doused them with gas, and lit a match. Flames engulfed the room.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">By the time Wilbur drove away, smoke billowed from the windows of the building.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He phoned his superior. “I finished with the pair in Cambridge. They achieved minor forward displacement. Nothing backward. No chance they could have disrupted our operations.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Any idea what method they were using?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“You want answers to questions like that? Send a tech, not an enforcer.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Touché.” His boss sighed. “You free for lunch?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Wilbur glanced at the chronoscope on his wrist. “Yeah, give me twenty subjective minutes. How does <i>Prunier</i> in Paris 1925 sound?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><hr width="50%" /><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>James Blakey</b> lives in the Shenandoah Valley where he writes mostly full-time. He’s a three-time finalist for the Short Mystery Fiction Society’s Derringer Award, winning in 2019 for his story, “The Bicycle Thief.’ He leads critique groups in Harrisonburg, Charlottesville, and Shenandoah County. His paranormal thriller <i>SUPERSTITION </i>will be published by City Owl Press in 2024. Find him at <a href="https://jamesblakeywrites.com/">JamesBlakeyWrites.com</a>.
<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh6buhFrZ2Vcp3h0fuHnJtqvmItejWMjqh8aY6Tu_FNotSdrk_eIK3la1k9kird-wW58y8frYrkAFRIb8K7gaI69kfBibjUp0sj1czU-NbC4JcXGqhzPLcT3PudTcMYtY_mgBTuYaNauod81i5bSsC7SE_0zxRp3RkCnOrGYNnwCJRiPsbMMT6F6P9mpIc/s969/james.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="969" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh6buhFrZ2Vcp3h0fuHnJtqvmItejWMjqh8aY6Tu_FNotSdrk_eIK3la1k9kird-wW58y8frYrkAFRIb8K7gaI69kfBibjUp0sj1czU-NbC4JcXGqhzPLcT3PudTcMYtY_mgBTuYaNauod81i5bSsC7SE_0zxRp3RkCnOrGYNnwCJRiPsbMMT6F6P9mpIc/w318-h400/james.jpg" width="318" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><p></p>
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<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="1280" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNr28NbVVcU6SP8sWgOivIqqfyKIat1MzSGShEFTPqu55GcJ0MTuWrWTFpELubZ74CYogRGbnUHXw2kscsT6uor9MdRbkK8ZlwIks3gna7Iwk01EBeDD0q896AmpBhPE4wQ5Mc5mzYb3cs0dAfQda-QTdzapQN33vnzOyrnRr3J9_HAjDwT3nsP6GmcmG4/w640-h232/23-24-25-26_thumbnail_bar.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Have a Kindle? Find out what you’ve been missing! <br />Buy the four<i> </i>latest issues with just one click!<br /></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><br />(Or buy just one, if that’s what you’d really prefer.)<b><br /></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="38" data-original-width="381" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYuEjc_0tXRzAQ9Lhw4Ps_j9ftSZgrVdPiFH3Te1fNKSSGx3uNCJ7_NJT-IvMvQ7JEVSSsWu0M90WppBnnWQ66uw10ztCfnM1OFfxNVmwb3ufDpyhrLaRPCsGPqWoSse_K2jQT0wy15fUs2UFA1HkAjm2daEi44yXR9KbE2sBXDNCLNe47HxuZheduy21/w400-h40/one-click%20button.png" width="400" /></a></b></span></div>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-87924169027760869172024-02-28T06:00:00.533-06:002024-02-28T09:16:13.477-06:00The Never-ending FAQ • about our slush pile<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5rR3-mmHxSVtHL10woHBj0kw-4UzS6oclRgHsdRxxdDM6ybzvXVm4-YCUDATrgCUZ7F443L2tHuwgxwOsin3k1FI8MSXKpDt3VLcswI_04Im27juzGRY8QCU40ilzwPDS5VW6SsUSjmpHusPyoc6e9LRGFjt4YwV0duIlniCLzxRSmLelRrKMbU3BvxF/s320/rejects_320x240.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5rR3-mmHxSVtHL10woHBj0kw-4UzS6oclRgHsdRxxdDM6ybzvXVm4-YCUDATrgCUZ7F443L2tHuwgxwOsin3k1FI8MSXKpDt3VLcswI_04Im27juzGRY8QCU40ilzwPDS5VW6SsUSjmpHusPyoc6e9LRGFjt4YwV0duIlniCLzxRSmLelRrKMbU3BvxF/w640-h480/rejects_320x240.png" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Welcome to this week’s installment of <b><i><a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Never-ending%20FAQ" target="_blank">The Never-ending FAQ</a></i></b>, a constantly evolving adjunct to our <a href="https://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/p/submission-guidelines_1.html" target="_blank"><b>Submission Guidelines</b></a>. If you have a question you’d like to ask about <i>Stupefying Stories</i>
or Rampant Loon Press, feel free to post it as a comment here or to
email it to our submissions address. I can’t guarantee we’ll post a
public answer, but can promise every question we receive will be
read and considered.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Today’s
question comes from <b>Kevin</b>, who asks:<br /></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span><p></p><blockquote><b><span style="font-size: medium;">“Seriously, do you really read <i>every </i>submission that comes in?”</span></b></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh, you want a longer answer? Okay, yes, I, Bruce Bethke, award-winning author, cyberpunk legend, ex-SFWA Board of Directors, etc., etc., etc., etc., personally read every<i> </i>story that comes into our submissions inbox. In doing so I am greatly helped by my innate ability to read <i>incredibly </i>fast, provided I am not reading for long-term retention or personal pleasure. When a story arrives here, the first thing that happens—assuming it gets through our anti-virus and malware filters; we still receive infected files fairly often, so keep your anti-virus programs up to date, folks—is that <i>I</i> read it, to answer one question: is this story worth passing along to my first readers?<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This is as far as many submissions get. I have great respect for my first readers and want to use their time wisely. If a story is clearly, instantly, and obviously something we can’t use right now, or worse, something we would never publish even if we had infinite time and resources, there’s no point in giving it any further consideration. It goes straight from the inbox to the form rejection queue.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This “something we can’t use right now” is not a euphemism but a crucial consideration. In the past we’ve been burned badly by accepting stories we really liked but had no clear idea of how or when we’d use them. These days, I’m keeping a close eye on budget and space considerations. With <i>SHOWCASE </i>stories in particular, I’m trying to keep us to a <i>very </i>lean-inventory fast-turnaround model. If I can’t see how we’ll use a story within the next 60 days, out it goes.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In a genre where Tom Godwin’s “The Cold Equations” is a revered touchstone, it’s remarkable how few writers seem to realize that there’s a cold equation that applies to them, too. At present we run five <i>SHOWCASE </i>stories weekly. In a slow week, we receive ten new submissions. The flow is erratic, though. In busy weeks we can receive ten new submissions <i>daily</i>—but still only have the space and budget to publish five stories weekly.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">To cut the list down from fifty candidates to five published stories requires some brutal decision making, and doesn’t leave much time for debate or writing personal rejections, especially as my goal is to get us down to having a one-week average turnaround time. Ergo, most submissions received will get no-comment form rejections. Because math. <br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As for rejections: please understand, just as we don’t buy authors’ cover letters, bios, or lists of awards and previous publication credits, we don’t reject authors personally. We reject the particular <i>story </i>an author has submitted. If you receive a form rejection, it just means, “Not this one, but maybe your next one.” We have had authors submit five stories in a row that only got a form rejection—but then their sixth story turned out to be brilliant, and we couldn’t buy it and publish it fast enough.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Then again, we’ve also had a very few authors who we had to ask to stop submitting to us, because their stories not only consistently missed the mark, they weren’t even on the right target range, and they showed no evidence of being able to learn from failure. If you’ve ever questioned whether the <b><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dunning%E2%80%93Kruger_effect" target="_blank">Dunning-Kruger effect</a></b> is real, a few weeks spent reading unsolicited slush pile submissions will remove all doubt.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">One more thing: if you receive a form rejection, please don’t write and ask for further comments. If I have anything to say that I think might help improve your story, I’ll put it in the rejection letter. If I think the story might be publishable if you changed this or that thing and would be willing to look at a rewrite, I’ll say that. If I think your story isn’t usable now but might be at some point in the future (this usually happens when stories have a strong seasonal element), I’ll say that, too. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">If you receive a form rejection from us, it means, “Not this one. Send us something else.” That’s <i>all</i> it means. <br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">If a submission survives its initial encounter with me, it gets passed on to our first readers. (I really should come up with a better name for them, as they’re actually second readers, but the name is traditional so we’ll stick with it for now.) In the past we had a really ponderous and complicated system we called the FSPRC (“Fearless Slush Pile Reader Corps”), but in hindsight I should track down and apologize to everyone who did first reading for us back then, as the practice bordered on abuse. People who volunteer to become first readers are generally idealistic souls who love reading fiction. Exposing them to the full unbuffered force of our daily torrent of unfiltered slush was just plain cruel. Most of the original FSPRC eventually quit, either from burnout or in disgust. A few didn’t say they were quitting, they just took a pile of manuscripts and disappeared, never to be heard from again.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Our first-reader system is simpler and more streamlined now. If I think a story shows promise, I pass it on to the first readers, and ask for their comments. If they don’t fall in love with the story right away, completely and enthusiastically, it goes into the rejection queue. If they have generally positive things to say about the story but feel the need to accompany their praise with serious qualifications and reservations, it goes into the rejection queue. If one first reader absolutely loves a story but the next <i>really </i>hates it…</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Understand, this is not a democracy. The first readers are free to lobby for stories they really like, and it is possible to change my mind, but in the end, <b>I</b> make the final decision. I have rejected stories the first readers were unanimous in liking; pulled from the rejection queue stories the first readers were unanimous in disliking; and in split decisions decided this reader was right and that one wrong about a given story, but in the next split decision ruled the other way.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Which means, yes: if a story makes it into the final <i>Accept? [Yes|No]</i> folder, I read it a <i>third</i> time, this time very closely and critically, before deciding whether the story is something I want to present to the <i>Stupefying Stories</i> readers. Because ultimately, it is <i>my </i>reputation that’s on the line. <i>I</i> am the one who by publishing a story is saying, “Hey, this is good. I think you should read it.” <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Therefore, throughout this entire process, one guiding principle applies, and it’s one I’ve tried to apply throughout my entire writing, editing, and publishing career. </span></p><p></p><blockquote><b><span style="font-size: medium;">“Your readers are giving you something very valuable: their <u>time</u>. You owe it to them to make the best possible use of their time and not to waste it.”<br /></span></b><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I wish I could remember who it was who gave me this advice so very long ago, but speaking writer-to-reader, it’s an idea that’s proven its worth without fail time and again. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When you submit a story—that is, when you are speaking writer-to-editor—you might also want to keep it in mind. <br /><br /></span></p><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Once again, thanks for asking. Any more questions?</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Kind regards,<br />Bruce Bethke<br />Editor,<i> Stupefying Stories</i></span></span><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #800180;">P.S. And buy our books, eh?</span> <br /></span></p>
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</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="1280" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNr28NbVVcU6SP8sWgOivIqqfyKIat1MzSGShEFTPqu55GcJ0MTuWrWTFpELubZ74CYogRGbnUHXw2kscsT6uor9MdRbkK8ZlwIks3gna7Iwk01EBeDD0q896AmpBhPE4wQ5Mc5mzYb3cs0dAfQda-QTdzapQN33vnzOyrnRr3J9_HAjDwT3nsP6GmcmG4/w640-h232/23-24-25-26_thumbnail_bar.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Have a Kindle? Find out what you’ve been missing! <br />Buy the four<i> </i>latest issues with just one click!<br /></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><br />(Or buy just one, if that’s what you’d really prefer.)<b><br /></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08PDLDMWW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="38" data-original-width="381" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYuEjc_0tXRzAQ9Lhw4Ps_j9ftSZgrVdPiFH3Te1fNKSSGx3uNCJ7_NJT-IvMvQ7JEVSSsWu0M90WppBnnWQ66uw10ztCfnM1OFfxNVmwb3ufDpyhrLaRPCsGPqWoSse_K2jQT0wy15fUs2UFA1HkAjm2daEi44yXR9KbE2sBXDNCLNe47HxuZheduy21/w400-h40/one-click%20button.png" width="400" /></a></b></span></div><p></p>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-74231751039829188682024-02-27T06:00:00.039-06:002024-02-27T06:00:00.134-06:00“Reunion” • by Toshiya Kamei<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHKOzacomcuEtX9RISREeYQ6-2wUcyDK8cERhUpF7-OlWOo0-k7PfA-X2ZzUml0xROPckQxG8x3_5ruk2CDfSOVTOP46HLevdmLSEuTh3Qq81C-0Iya29I_5J58DaHMp52m41m0MXJ5bIkFVehXHzXafluI-AKN8EXSojpGUGlz7mC_Cv0LFvwHQKEd0f/s1280/woman%20in%20kimono.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHKOzacomcuEtX9RISREeYQ6-2wUcyDK8cERhUpF7-OlWOo0-k7PfA-X2ZzUml0xROPckQxG8x3_5ruk2CDfSOVTOP46HLevdmLSEuTh3Qq81C-0Iya29I_5J58DaHMp52m41m0MXJ5bIkFVehXHzXafluI-AKN8EXSojpGUGlz7mC_Cv0LFvwHQKEd0f/w640-h480/woman%20in%20kimono.png" width="640" /></a> <br /></p>
<p><br /></p>
<p><span style="font-size: large;">The carriage door creaked open, and a chilly draft blew against Maya’s cheeks. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Before she could react, a translucent figure climbed inside. He wore an old-fashioned gray kimono and two swords—one long, the other short—at his waist.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“To the temple?” the man asked.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Maya nodded, unable to hide her astonishment. The horse shook its head, and the carriage rolled forward.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He gave a slight nod in return and regarded her with dead eyes. She swallowed a gasp.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Why?” she asked in a trembling voice. “Why are you going to the temple?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Just like you, to pay respect to the gods.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">He turned his gaze to the road snaking up the hill.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Your name will be drawn today.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Excuse me?” She thought she had misheard him.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Isn’t that what you want?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“How do you know?” she asked, heart pounding. Even though to give one’s life to the gods was a great honor, her palms were sweaty.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“The stars have aligned.” The man smiled. “This may be your lucky day.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m Maya Umezu,” she said, changing the subject. She didn’t want to jinx her fate.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Is that what you’re called now?” He paused and glanced at her. “Does the name Momo mean anything to you?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Maya frowned and shook her head.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“You don’t remember me.” The man shook his head, pain flashing in his eyes. “In all likelihood, you’ll recover your memory soon enough.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Her frown deepened. “Sorry, I don’t follow you.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Do you believe in reincarnation?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I don’t know,” she answered with hesitation. He was making her uncomfortable.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Never mind.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“What’s your name?” she asked, changing the subject again. She stared at him, searching her memory, but came up empty.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Tetsuo Miyako,” the man said with a melancholy sigh.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“It doesn’t ring a bell. Sorry.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“It’s all right.” He peered out the window again.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The carriage passed a large cage by the roadside. Some of the prisoners Maya saw were young, others were old, but all wore tattered kimonos.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“The tyranny of the church,” Tetsuo mumbled in disgust, pointing his chin to the cage. “It must be defeated.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Maya stared at him, taken aback by his candidness. No one she knew spoke ill of the church. She knew the church had its faults, but her faith wouldn’t fail her. <i>It couldn’t.</i></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“They took Momo away from me.” He clenched his fists in his lap and narrowed his eyes. “She was my betrothed. My only chance at happiness.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">His rage confused her—happiness was only achieved in death. Or so she was led to believe. Years ago, when her sister’s name was drawn, Maya had felt herself burn with envy. She’d shed bitter tears over her feverish desire to take her sister’s place.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“This sword belonged to her.” He pointed to the shorter of the pair at his waist. It looked familiar, but she couldn’t remember where she’d seen it.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“May I?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Sure.” Tetsuo removed the sword from his waist and handed it to her.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">She held it and traced the inscription with her finger. “Momo,” she read it aloud.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Yes, Momo,” Tetsuo said with a faraway look in his eyes. “You remind me of her.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">An odd sensation stirred in her chest. A sudden headache assaulted her senses, and she gave the sword back.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Are you all right?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Maya nodded.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The carriage sped along the bumpy road.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">It was twilight by the time they arrived at the crowded temple. With a bowed head, Maya followed Tetsuo inside, and they sat together in the last pew. She felt even smaller than usual beneath the high, vaulted ceiling. The nave seated hundreds of worshipers. The heavy smell of incense stung Maya’s nostrils.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">A few hooded sacristans passed through the aisles collecting entries for the lottery. Anxious to be chosen, Maya scrawled her name on a slip of paper and tossed it in a bamboo basket.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The priestess stood behind the pulpit. A sword hung from a sheath at her left hip. She began the mass with a wailing chant, and the worshipers swayed with their eyes closed, hands clasped in prayer. The priestess drew a name from the basket and read it aloud. “Maya Umezu.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“We have chosen,” one of the sacristans cried.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Kill her,” the congregation erupted. “Kill her!”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Maya stood as if in a trance, climbed the dais, and knelt before the priestess.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The priestess unsheathed her sword and raised it above her head.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Momo!” Tetsuo’s cry shook her out of her trance.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Tetsuo,” the priestess said with a smirk. “You must have missed her so much.” She glanced at Maya. “Quite touching.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Momo, Momo, Momo.</i> The name kept echoing in Maya’s ears. Was that her name long ago? Was she Momo in a past life?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Maya stood and stepped backward until she stumbled into the pulpit. The basket fell, emptying its contents. Slips of paper lay scattered on the floor. She picked up a few and saw her name on all of them. The selection was rigged—she felt as though someone had struck her in the back of her head. Her heart pounded in her ears.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The congregation stomped and roared. “The gods want blood!” A wailing chant echoed through the temple.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Maya turned back to Tetsuo, and her gaze met his. Had he come back for her? Or was he using her to exact revenge? There was no way for her to tell. Regardless, she was now Maya. Even if she wanted to be reunited with Tetsuo, she couldn’t go back to being Momo. She would be going against nature.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Take this!” Tetsuo tossed the short sword to her.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The priestess strode toward Maya as worshipers charged the dais.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Tetsuo drew his sword and readied himself.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">When Maya held the hilt again, a jolt of energy ran through her. <i>This is my sword.</i> Her heart stirred with a sudden desire for survival. Maya—Momo—raised the blade and warded off the priestess’s blow. <i>Clang!</i> Iron clashed against iron, and sparks flew.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><hr width="50%" /><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKT-ROc-U4Gj3apbytwM2rlD3Y4o9EQPz235HSXKaZNXwh9UZYYFFmK1zTi4ujhu8QKRMT4oydCOV4Jou6r5WAJXUyqi7freCeywlwLeZzYm54y8kd8tj7ACl6cVzSqxvFg4pOEkSyE7qzLK0kx1-s83QV0_8tpt7LpnjQYlIne8PJ3FPkZGNztZXYpYJ0/s3460/Toshiya%20Kamei.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3460" data-original-width="3460" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKT-ROc-U4Gj3apbytwM2rlD3Y4o9EQPz235HSXKaZNXwh9UZYYFFmK1zTi4ujhu8QKRMT4oydCOV4Jou6r5WAJXUyqi7freCeywlwLeZzYm54y8kd8tj7ACl6cVzSqxvFg4pOEkSyE7qzLK0kx1-s83QV0_8tpt7LpnjQYlIne8PJ3FPkZGNztZXYpYJ0/s320/Toshiya%20Kamei.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>Toshiya Kamei</b> (they/them) is an Asian writer who takes inspiration from fairy tales, folklore, and mythology. They attempt to reimagine the past, present, and future while shifting between various perspectives and points of view. Many of their characters are outsiders living on the margins of society. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This story first appeared in <i>Askew Audience.<br /><br /></i></span></p><p></p><hr />
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P5Z3YY1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSOR7cVo5JzYkIIUQh9nzthw_ILP_6m6w-Pm2NaUqfOfN8IJMK5A645mp0gV1pkDnUQh3Btm-H5asU6_axl-RRqlejFazIj_FXUXqgIOAlX6hVNKtNPY-nIhqz60YjtHk6J9kIMKmpqLGU72Hywn3ZYLpkSo46pqP-5McZlxJmNDmQueDIQq6UKvh0MM1X/w640-h400/privateers_banner.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3773759989225356372.post-39972019983425754992024-02-26T06:00:00.050-06:002024-02-28T23:49:12.025-06:00“Daydreams” • by Brian K. Lowe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPz8fFTrCGzK93vK5Z9B0NE1LgK1pxb3vIoQQK2ivIeCdWncI5cULJG9SHJyCyOo-Dm2gAgAvPjJucqLJlm-8j4NIHwY3jxG2XdRHuOQyayMT1VKOyp55ZPf0ArGceKsBZ8ezeqERiMYCldzVODI7VVkuKTfSfUNsMeKAXS4FQ9mwXjNfqtG2QJCiRyrnK/s1280/the%20future.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPz8fFTrCGzK93vK5Z9B0NE1LgK1pxb3vIoQQK2ivIeCdWncI5cULJG9SHJyCyOo-Dm2gAgAvPjJucqLJlm-8j4NIHwY3jxG2XdRHuOQyayMT1VKOyp55ZPf0ArGceKsBZ8ezeqERiMYCldzVODI7VVkuKTfSfUNsMeKAXS4FQ9mwXjNfqtG2QJCiRyrnK/w640-h480/the%20future.png" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<p><span style="font-size: large;">So now it’s the Future. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">You remember the Future, it’s all we talked about when we were kids: flying cars and jet packs, robot butlers and time travel. Right. Look around—do you see any flying cars or jet packs? Is Robbie the Robot fetching your newspaper or doing the dishes? Not bloody likely.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">But time travel? That’s another story—I <i>have</i> time travel…</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m actually rather proud of myself. I spent half my life figuring out time travel because I’ve always believed we <i>should</i> have flying cars and robot butlers. And if someday we will, why should I be cheated out of them just because I was born too early?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Now, for some people, it would be easier to invent a flying car than time travel, but I’ve never been what you call mechanically inclined, not to mention I barely passed high school algebra. I have more of a philosophical bent, which, as it turns out, is perfect for mastering time travel.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">As it happens, time travel doesn’t require any fancy machines, just the right attitude. My attitude is that if time and space are related, then if you can travel through one you must be able to travel through the other. We move through space all the time (if you’ll pardon the expression). And we’re <i>already</i> traveling through time at a rate of one second per second anyway; it’s just that we can’t reverse direction or walk any faster.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Until now. My method is based on this simple idea: the past is never gone so long as we can remember it. All you have to do for time travel is project your consciousness to a certain point in your memory. Of course this means that you can only go back as far as you can remember—and you can’t go forward—but that’s all I need. I can recall when my buddy Randy and I used to daydream about those flying cars, so I can go back there. I may not be an engineer like Randy is (I’m between jobs), but I do know enough about modern science that if I can go back and whisper a few words in the right ears, when I return to the present Robbie the Robot will be waiting for me with my slippers and the evening paper.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">And the best part of it is, the trip will be a completely mental exercise. My body will never leave this room. My wife won’t even know I’ve been gone.</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span><br /></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Honestly, dear, I can’t understand why you can’t deal with the simplest modern conveniences,” my wife says, adjusting Robbie’s programming to bring me orange juice in the morning instead of beer.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Well, it’s not like I grew up with this stuff,” I respond. “I’m old and I’m cranky and I’m—”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“—not mechanically inclined. Yes, I know. But I didn’t grow up with them, either, and I don’t have a problem.” She patted Robbie on the head and he puttered off. “I thought all boys spent their time dreaming about flying cars when they were kids. You should be thrilled.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh yeah, I’m thrilled. When I went back in time, I forgot that my adult mind would be stuck in my child’s body. I couldn’t give hints to scientists and NASA engineers; my parents wouldn’t even let me make a long-distance phone call. The only person I could talk to was Randy. You may have heard of him: Randall Blumenthal? Yeah, <i>that</i> Randall Blumenthal. The billionaire…who invented flying cars, jet packs, personal robot servants…</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I hate that guy.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">And is the world any better off? I was already living in a science fiction world, I just didn’t realize it, with personal computers built into eyeglasses and cell phones. Combine that with flying cars and what do you get? People piloting flying cars while watching their phones! And don’t get me started on the jet packs. Every day some moron gets out of his lane and gets hit by a car and falls to the ground, usually right on top of some other poor slob.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">And I still don’t understand any of it! I can hardly add apps to my phone, let alone program the robot. I don’t even have a driver’s license. Plus I’m <i>still</i> between jobs. But there is one thing I <i>can</i> do…</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span><br /></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Hey, Randy, remember all that stuff I was saying the other day about how we could build flying cars and robots and stuff?”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Randy’s screwed up his face. “No.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Great. Then I’m in time.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Sure. Whatever. Sounds like a bunch of freaky sci-fi stuff anyway. I don’t read that junk.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Sci-fi stuff?</i> Hmm…</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">§</span><br /></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Honestly, dear, I can’t understand why the world’s greatest science fiction writer can’t deal with the simplest modern appliances,” my wife says, adjusting Robbie’s programming to bring me orange juice in the morning instead of beer. “It’s ironic that you have a mantel full of trophies for coming up with the ideas for all these flying cars and jet packs, and you don’t even know how to use them.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh, I know how to use them, all right. I simply don’t want to get attached to them. I may have inspired them, but I still hate them. Really. And now I write the stuff that people read on their phones while they’re supposed to be driving. I’m going back again soon and set everything to rights, make it all like it used to be.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Although I have to admit that I never tire of watching Robbie dust all those trophies on my mantel…</span></p>
<p><br /></p>
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<p> </p><p>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiSENL2morGkYYfs6ndWpAEZWLkcMX1Tsc_Z7BRw-DuZf9cI2w-zif96AxfreW_6UttmoNzjaaZ3Nb68XcHWQbevsp0v_8Hn_wr9yEU7jyXo8nYwyT9IIVSbtqB3qfOH_ViiJujzBt7Q0vIIHwbzqFQ-4rQ8K1eNsF6HTaA7SokIiP2oD7EUAWlG1w-U6N/s550/Brian_Lowe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="501" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiSENL2morGkYYfs6ndWpAEZWLkcMX1Tsc_Z7BRw-DuZf9cI2w-zif96AxfreW_6UttmoNzjaaZ3Nb68XcHWQbevsp0v_8Hn_wr9yEU7jyXo8nYwyT9IIVSbtqB3qfOH_ViiJujzBt7Q0vIIHwbzqFQ-4rQ8K1eNsF6HTaA7SokIiP2oD7EUAWlG1w-U6N/s320/Brian_Lowe.jpg" width="291" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Brian K. Lowe</b> has been writing since he was fourteen, when he took it up in a
sudden burst of sibling rivalry and wrote a novella which earned him no money, but a
fistful of extra credit points in his English class. Since then he has graduated from UCLA as
an English/Creative Writing major and currently works for an attorney. His short stories
have appeared in many venues, including <i>Escape Pod</i>, <i>Galaxy’s Edge</i>, and <i>Daily Science
Fiction</i>, and his <i>Stolen Future</i> trilogy will appear from Water Dragon Publishing in 2024. All
his latest news can be found at <a href="https://brianklowe.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">brianklowe.wordpress.com</a>.
</span></p>
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<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #800180;">P.S. And buy some of our books, eh?</span> </span></p>
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~brbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10845253722980029012noreply@blogger.com0