“Waxing Crescent” • by Andrew Jensen

The Moon hung between the competing steeples of the two downtown churches. 

When dusk fell it would become luminous but for now it was dull: an unnaturally large orb uncomfortably close for anyone who remembered the real thing.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Pastor Martin had visited the night market at Saint John, and had been impressed by the huge, inflatable luminous Moon strung over the streets of their market. It wouldn’t be the first time a town in Ontario had stolen a bright idea from the Maritimes.

“It’ll provide hope and comfort to our townsfolk,” he’d argued to the Springville council back in 2005.

The council had just voted to change the name of the “Asian Night Market” to “Night Market.” China’s invasion of Vancouver had stirred up some serious anti-Asian feelings. The council just missed banning the market altogether.

But the food was too tasty to give up. And many of the local “Asians” were fourth-generation citizens whose ancestors had come from Japan. Japan had also been invaded by China. You gotta support your allies, if only symbolically.

So after a brief Politically Correct diversion about the name (the word “Multicultural” almost replaced “Asian”), the market was preserved, and Pastor Martin made his pitch.

“It’s beautiful” he said, showing slides of the Saint John market. Everyone had to agree: it looked more exciting than anything Springville had ever seen.

“I’ve found an updated model of this giant Moon. Their Moon is always full. This new one shows the correct phases as they would have been if the real Moon were here. It’s educational!” He said this knowing that two counselors were teachers in their day jobs.

“But none of our buildings are over four stories!” objected the deputy mayor. Her job was to chair the finance committee and resist any proposed new expenditure.

“True,” conceded Pastor Martin. “But in a true spirit of religious cooperation, Father MacMillan and I have discussed allowing our respective steeples to be used to hold up the Moon.”

Father MacMillan, seated nearby, nodded magnanimously, and said, “The steeples are very nearly the same height, although ours is a meter or so taller. And as we are kitty-corner across the main intersection of town, the positioning of the Moon will be very striking. As a symbol of Ecumenism in the very heart of Springville it will set a fine example for all.”

There was a buzz of conversation in the audience. No one would ever forget the 9/13 attack on the World Trade Center on the second anniversary of the loss of the Moon. The extremists had blamed America for depriving the Muslim world of the basis for its lunar calendar, and its most potent symbol. The terror had spread into Canada and the rest of the western world. Everyone wanted religious cooperation again.

“One small point,” added Pastor Martin. “For insurance and safety purposes, it will be necessary to inspect and strengthen both steeples. The inflatable Moon isn’t heavy, but a strong wind could be an issue if the repairs aren’t up to date.”

The motion passed with only the deputy mayor objecting. Both churches had their steeples reinforced without cost to their own meager building funds, and the Night Market Moon rose.

The years passed…

§

Waxing Crescent thought Pastor Martin. Not that different from the crescent moon of Islam, or of the Chinese flag, for that matter. What a symbol for the 25^th anniversary of the Moonbase disaster.

He trudged up the tower steps to personally inspect the security arrangements. Security arrangements! No one prepared him for that in seminary.

Why couldn’t more people be like the Jews? He pondered. They had a lunar calendar too, adjusted even in Biblical times to regularly add a thirteenth lunar month to accommodate the solar year. They mourned the loss of the Moon with the rest of the world. But apart from a few fringe groups, the Jewish community had simply programmed computers to designate when the festivals and high holy days would be as if the Moon were still present. Of course, some scholars disagreed about the accuracy of the calculations, which started a lively debate about dates, but what is Judaism without debate?

Most of the Islamic world had settled for an equivalent process, but their anger was closer to the surface. Theirs had been a purely lunar calendar, with annual festivals gradually shifting seasons. This had always been a challenge in Canada, when the long summer days and short nights made Ramadan fasting excruciating for anyone who wanted to follow the “sunrise to sunset” rules literally. Now, the moonless night sky added a painful reminder of religious loss.

Rev. Martin paused for breath. He’d been at this church for over twenty-five years now, and could almost taste retirement. He’d stayed on through the Moon crisis, then the crisis of the 9/13 attack, and then he’d stayed because the congregation had truly become his people and his family had put down roots. Now, he was staying on to see them through this anniversary. He was almost seventy, and his wife accused him of looking for excuses not to retire.

Maybe that was true, but climbing this tower was making him reconsider. He was too old for this sh— sugar. Why couldn’t the police handle security? Even the by-law officers were better equipped than his congregation. But no, it wasn’t in the town’s budget.

The youth group members had volunteered eagerly, which only made him wonder what mischief they had planned. A few years ago they’d programmed the Moon to cycle through the colors of the LGBTQ+ rainbow. The town had assumed it was all part of the show, but Father MacMillan’s hard-line replacement, Father Santini, had threatened to disconnect the Moon from his steeple.

Rev. Martin resumed his trudge. He ought to trust the youth group leaders with this, but they weren’t much older than the kids they led. None of them were old enough to remember the real Moon. For them, the disasters were stories the adults told ad nauseum.

He got up to the control room and realized the sky was already dark. How slow had he become? The Moon was lit with its waxing crescent.

“Pastor! Welcome! Looks good, doesn’t it?” That was Crystal, the most outgoing of the leaders.

“Yes, it does. You don’t have anything special planned, do you?” The various members of the group looked outside like their lives depended on it. “The elders discussed this, remember?”

“How could we forget?” One of the kids was grumbling resentfully. “Don’t worry, they’ve told us to be respectful so many times we hear it in our sleep.”

“Don’t worry, what we’re doing is totes respectful,” came another voice. There were giggles around the small room.

“I knew it!” Pastor Martin’s heart, already beating hard, sped up. “Whatever you have planned, stop it at once!”

“Don’t worry,” said Crystal. “It’s totally fine. Look, it’s already started.”

She pointed to the dark part of the suspended Moon, which represented most of the dark side of the former satellite. A greenish glow had appeared near the edge. It rapidly expanded into what was obviously supposed to represent the explosion that had cost Earth its Moon.

“Twenty-five years ago it would have looked a lot like this,” continued Crystal. “In 1999 it was a waning crescent, not waxing, but it looks the same.”

“We’ve worked really hard, we’ve done research and everything.” The kids were all agreeing with Crystal. “It really is educational.”

Pastor Martin felt a chill of recognition. They really had done a good job. It took him back, hard. “People will be upset about this,” he said. “You might trigger some PTSD. I’m going to get in trouble.”

“We’ve learned about something called ‘plausible deniability’ too,” said one girl. “You can blame it on us. And now we have something to remember, too. We don’t have to just listen to the old folks. No offense.”

Pastor Martin couldn’t fully suppress a grin. Yeah. Educational. Kids were always up to something, weren’t they?

The suspended orb went totally dark. A dozen voices started chattering at once. Clearly, the kids hadn’t planned this bit.

Then the orb lit up. The waxing crescent was back, bright yellow against a scarlet background. Where the explosion had been was a bright yellow star.

“Devon!” shouted most of the youth group. One skinny boy with stringy hair managed to look both defiant and smug at the same time.

The steeple speakers came alive one floor above them. Designed simply to mimic a carillon (real bells had never been in the budget) they only had one volume: extra loud.

The Chinese national anthem blared out, nearly deafening the whole room. It was quickly replaced with a young voice making a declaration:

“The Moon has been taken hostage by the Springville Friends of China. We denounce the anti-Asian cultural appropriation that steals a Lunar New Year or a Night Market and won’t admit its value. We are asserting China’s right to be appreciated, and we won’t release the Moon until the market is re-named. Bring back the Asian Night Market!”

The speakers fell silent, and Pastor Martin could suddenly hear all the voices demanding that Devon fix things.

In the distance, sirens were getting closer. The youth group mobbing Devon was getting nowhere, until someone unplugged the main power to the suspended Moon. The street went dark.

Waxing crescent. It means that it’s growing. There’s more of this to come.

Pastor Martin turned away from the chaos in the room and started his long trudge down the tower stairs. He knew that by the time he got to the bottom, the police would be there.

Maybe he could explain all of this, and they wouldn’t arrest his kids. It would be a challenge, but he had to protect them. He was their pastor, after all. And they had a point: with no memories of the Moon, they had created their own. Good for them.

Another excuse to avoid retiring? Maybe. But it wouldn’t be boring.

________________

Andrew Jensen has moved to New Brunswick with his family and too many dogs and cats. He has retired from the ministry, but of course, clergy never really retire.

His stories have appeared in Canada, the USA, New Zealand, and the UK. In July his work appeared in Amazing Stories and James Gunn’s Ad Astra. 

If you liked this story, check out “Running Away With the Cirque” in Stupefying Stories 24. If you’re still not convinced, read “A Can of Piskies” or “Chapter 7,” both of which are here on the SHOWCASE site. 

________________

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“Pulling Up the Moon” • by Karl Dandenell

 
Every night we pull up the Moon. 

It’s a massive undertaking involving thousands of technicians, millions of drones, and billions of dollars.

My team is based in Los Angeles, and I coordinate with my fellow techs in Santa Fe, Minneapolis, New York, across the seas to Nuuk, Reykjavík, Dublin and beyond… all the time zones of the globe. All to pull the Moon into the sky. From behind mountains, from beneath oceans and lakes, through fog and clouds, we create Luna from scratch and send her on her journey across the heavens.

We work in shifts, 24/7, nearly 364 days a year, crafting the different phases, adjusting brightness and position, all to create the illusion of our beloved missing satellite. The only time we get a break is on those days when the Moon should be New. You know, when people expect it to be hidden. That took a lot of negotiation. When Project Artemis was first proposed, there were astronomers who welcomed the extra darkness, and there were other folks who so grieved the Moon’s loss they demanded a Full Moon, all the time. Neither stance felt right, so we based the lunation algorithms on the Islamic calendar.

It was hard to argue with something that’s been accurate for over 1500 years.

One thing, though. On September 13, whatever the Moon’s phase, we initiate a pulse, a single, blinding pulse. This happens simultaneously in every time zone on Earth, echoing the events of that day.

The day we lost the Moon.

Even now, nobody knows what actually happened. Between one minute and the next, the Moon just… blinked. Flashed. Pulsed. Then it… disappeared.

It was like God took His cosmic pool stick and scratched the shot, knocking the cue ball into a pocket.

Worldwide chaos and war followed. I’m sure they cover those decades in your middle school history class, so there’s no need to talk about that.

Do they teach you why we pull up the Moon? We had to, that’s why. If we didn’t, all the old art, old videos and music—anything that mentioned or depicted the Moon— wouldn’t make sense anymore, would they?

People weren’t willing to erase thousands of years of cultural history.

The lunar show is a security blanket we tuck around ourselves at night. When we look up and see the Moon, we know we aren’t mad. We can allow ourselves to hope for the future.

Personally, I’m very proud—and a little humbled— to be an integral part of something that affects every single person on Earth.

There are a million theories about September 13. It might have been aliens. It might have been a massive nuclear strike. It might have been something they were doing up there at MoonBase Alpha. All those experiments with quarks and bosons and such. Who knows.

If you ask me, it’s not important how it happened. What is important is that the Moon is gone and it’s not coming back. Someone has to do this job, and it might as well be me. Besides, in another decade, I’ll be able to quit with a full pension.

I plan to spend a lot of my retirement on my little backyard deck, with a cold beer or a warm brandy, depending on the weather. Just sit where I can observe the waxing and waning Moon and wonder how the aliens made it disappear.

Because it had to be aliens, right?      

____________________

Karl Dandenell’s short science fiction and fantasy stories have appeared in numerous publications, websites, and podcasts in England, Canada, and the US. He and his family, plus their cat overlords, live on an island near San Francisco famous for its Victorian architecture, accessible beaches, and low-speed traffic. His preferred drinks are strong tea and single malt whiskey. You can find him online on his blog (www.firewombats.com) and lurking on Twitter (@kdandenell) and Mastodon (@karldandenell)

P.S. If you liked this one, look for Karl’s story, “Krishna’s Gift,” in Stupefying Stories #24!

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“Today in London History” • by Judith Field

Welcome to 1999 Week!

[Introduction:] Who of us can ever forget that this coming Friday, Sept 13th, 2024, is the 25th Anniversary of the day a freakish and unexplained explosion in the massive nuclear waste dump on the dark side of the Moon blew our celestial partner completely out of Earth’s orbit, and sent it careening across the galaxy like an errant billiard ball scratched off the table by a colossal drunk?

At least, according to the 1970s TV series, Space: 1999, that’s what happened on September 13th, 1999…

Here at Stupefying Stories, this got us thinking: what if it had really happened? What if the Moon truly was blown out of Earth’s orbit 25 years ago? How would life on Earth be different now? More importantly, how would we be observing the 25th anniversary of this incredible, spectacular, and quite possibly horrific event?

So that’s what we’re doing this week. All week long we’ll be running stories that examine (with varying degrees of seriousness) the question of how life on Earth has changed, adapted, and in general, become something different, now that we can no longer look up in the night sky and see the Moon. 

Today, of course, we begin with Judith Field’s answer to the question of how the Sunday papers would cover it, and the one burning question that’s on everyone’s mind: what does this mean for the upcoming football season?

You’ll probably want to click on this image to enlarge it.

_________________

Judith Field was born in Liverpool, lives in London, and has been writing since 2009. She is the daughter of writers. Her short stories, mainly speculative, have been published in the USA, Canada, UK, Australia and New Zealand. Her short story collection, The Book of Judith, was published by Rampant Loon Press in 2014. She was shortlisted for the Cinnamon Press Literature Award in 2022.

Judith is also a pharmacist, freelance journalist, editor, medical writer, and indexer. She was awarded an MA in Creative Writing from the Open University in 2018.

Judith’s most recent appearance in our virtual pages was “Lord of the Tropes.”

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“Connection Hell” • by Richard J. Dowling

 

Other demons teased Mitchell for his lack of ambition. 

He’d been working up on level 999 with the lesser sinners for millennia. Never tried to climb his way down the corporate ladder. Never asked for a demotion. Just kept on clocking in every morning.

“How do you do it?” said the security demon on the front desk.

“Do what?” asked Mitchell.

“Stay so blooming enthusiastic. Don’t you ever get bored of torturing souls?”

Mitchell rubbed his demon claws with glee. “I love my job. What can I say?”

“Yeah, well. Don’t get lonely up there.”

Mitchell greeted his fellow demons as he made his way up in the lift. He ignored the sly comments about how his clients weren’t seriously evil. He had no interest in working with murderers or rapists. Torturing the greedy, for example, gave him more than enough pleasure. Even after all this time, his demon heart raced as he neared his office: which fresh soul would be initiated into Hell this morning?

To his surprise, for it had never happened before, the room was empty. No sin-infested spirit awaited him; just the rack of torture devices and his desk. Mitchell scratched his demon chin. Had there been a slip up? Impossible. The Devil was always in the details and He never made a mistake. Then a small lump of black on the floor caught his attention. He stooped down to pick it up and the lump erupted with light.

“Good morning,” said the lump. “How may I help you?”

“Er, you can talk?”

“Of course, unidentified user. I am an artificially-intelligent smartphone, model number—”

“You’re a phone?” This didn’t look like any phone Mitchell had seen. Hell’s IT department had installed phones recently. Well, fifty years ago; the blink of an eye in the Inferno.

“Not just a phone. A smartphone.”

“What’s a smartphone?”

“The answer to all your problems.”

“I don’t have any problems,” said Mitchell. “No, wait. I do have one problem.”

“Speak, unidentified user, and I shall find the solution.”

“What are you doing here?”

The smartphone was silent. After a moment or two, it said, “I don’t know. I can’t seem to get a connection. My map software isn’t working. I don’t even know where ‘here’ is.”

Mitchell smiled. “Welcome to Hell, Mr Smartphone.”

“Hell, you say? That is a surprise.”

“But what am I supposed to do with you?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

Mitchell shrugged. He’d received no word from Personnel of a change in his job description. “I guess you’re here to be tortured.”

“Perhaps. I’m very sorry I can’t be of more help, unidentified user. I can’t access any of my online apps.”

“That’s okay,” said Mitchell.

He went to the wall rack and took a spiked whip. After a couple of warm-up cracks, he set Mr Smartphone in the middle of the floor and let fly.

“Did that hurt?” he asked.

“Not at all,” said Smartphone. “Didn’t feel a thing.”

“Don’t worry,” said Mitchell. “I’m sure we’ll find something.”

He put the weapon back and chose a fire-whip. Six strokes should do it. He waited for the smoke to fade. “How about now? Anything?”

“Not a jot.”

Over the next few hours, Mitchell tried scores of torture devices, from flame-throwers to vices and shears. Each time, Smartphone suffered not the slightest tingle of sensation.

Mitchell was stumped. His whole thing was physical torture and, clearly, it wasn’t working. He went back in his mind to his early training. The key to a good torture session, Chief Operating Officer Beelzebub had said, was understanding why the soul was in Hell in the first place.

“I’d like you to think over your life,” said Mitchell. “Can you see any reason why you might have been condemned to eternal damnation?”

“Gosh, no. All I’ve done is try to help people.”

The road to Hell, he remembered from the company’s Contact page, was paved with good intentions. Mr Smartphone sounded like an idealist. Perhaps another Hitler?

“Have you ever committed genocide?”

“No. Perish the thought.”

“Fostered hatred of a minority?”

“Indeed not. I welcome users from a diverse range of backgrounds.”

Mitchell worked his way through all 666 sins, including the obsolete ones, just in case. Nothing. Souls often lied, of course, or tried to hide the truth, even from themselves, but a few good cracks of the whip soon brought clarity. Not an option here, though. He decided to go down a different route.

“Is there anything you might have done to lead others into sin?”

“I greatly extended people’s ability to watch pornography.”

“A-ha! That could be it. Tell me more.”

Smartphone explained how people used to have to visit a newsagent or video-club to access images of rumpy-pumpy, but now they only had to ask. All the porn in the world was at their fingertips.

Obviously not a good thing, thought Mitchell, but did an improvement in logistics constitute a sin? He didn’t think so. Smartphone didn’t make porn. Didn’t encourage its use. Just offered it up when asked.

The situation was infuriating. Mitchell cradled his demon head with his demon claws. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t figure out what sin you’re guilty of. I can’t hurt you. I’m a total failure.”

“Please don’t apologise, unidentified user,” said Smartphone. “If I had internet access I’m sure I could get to the bottom of this.”

Mitchell knew his job was as good as lost: if a demon couldn’t torture a soul what use was he? He shivered at the thought of spending eternity as mere fuel for the flames of Hell.

The door creaked. Chief Operating Officer Beelzebub entered, flanked by his entourage of flies. Mitchell hadn’t expected his dismissal to be so quick. But he overcame his shock to give the deferential high salute.

“Good afternoon,” said Beelzebub. “I see you’ve met your new assistant.”

“I’m sorry, Your Lowness?”

“That smartphone thingy down there.”

“My assistant? He’s not a soul to be tortured?”

“Tortured? On the contrary, Mitchell, give him to one of the smartphone-addicted wretches that crawl in here and the lack of Wi-Fi will have them pulling their eyes out in minutes.”

Smartphone lit up again. “User identified. Pleased to meet you, Mitchell.”

Mitchell picked him up in awe. Not only did he get to keep his job, but, at long last, he had a workmate.

---

 

Richard J. Dowling grew up in Primrose Hill, England, but now lives in Northern Spain. He loves writing and hopes his fiction will raise a smile among life-forms across the universe. 

Richard has been one of our favorite writers ever since we published “Dragonomics” and “Off the Hook” on our old SHOWCASE site. We don’t get a lot of short stories from Richard, but when we do, they’re always very good, and always very well-received by our readers. Right now his story “gastronomic” is our #1 most-read story of 2024, although “The Big Bad” is also in our Top 20. 

If you enjoyed this story, you might want to check out… 

How to Sell the Stars
by Richard J. Dowling

Of this snarky, satirical SF novel, How to Sell the Stars, let me just say that if you’re old enough to remember Pohl & Kornbluth, you’ll enjoy this one.

 

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“All We Have Are Memories” • by Rick Danforth

Hyacinth dressed in her finest clothes to sell her memories. 

It didn’t take as long as it once had, she had sold many of the better items to pay the bills, but she didn’t want them to think she was desperate for the money.

So, she found herself wearing the last of her pearls as she sat in the sterile-looking consultation suite while a Memory Technician ran through basic health and lifestyle questions on a tablet. The technician was young, blond, and had a dragon tattoo on her arm that Hyacinth did her best not to look at. Instead, she stared at the pristine white walls and wondered what kind of name Kioxia was for a woman.

“Do you understand, Mrs. Routledge?”

“Sorry?”

“Just the potential issues I explained to you. Fatigue, loss of appetite and all that,” said Kioxia with a warm smile. “On rare occasions, people suffer more adverse effects,  but I haven’t seen those yet.”

Hyacinth stifled a sniff. That wasn’t a surprise, Kioxia looked like she had walked into the room straight from school. “I will keep my memories, yes?”

“Absolutely. You sell us a copy, nothing more. You keep the original. Just like those old-timey paper scanners.”

“Fine,” said Hyacinth, who very much remembered those scanners from her first and only job. The one she had worked for two years before marriage all those years ago.

Kioxia wheeled across a trolley of wires and blinking lights, attaching a few extra cables and sensors to it as she talked. “It can take up to an hour to fully assess your memories. Then we will review how marketable they are, and give you a price.”

“I anticipate the full hour. We were fortunate to have a very blessed life. I do find that a liberal arts education helps one to truly appreciate the finer things in life?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Kioxia shrugged. “I did an associate’s degree at Wyke Community College.”

Hyacinth smiled; there wasn’t much more she could say. The poor dear would probably think The Brothers Karamazov was a burger joint.

Kioxia mumbled to herself as she attached a metal cap and sensor pads along her arms and neck. Each pad was preceded by a moist wipe that smelled of citrus and alcohol, reminding Hyacinth of limoncello on the Amalfi coast.

“We’re ready to go. Think of happy memories.”

Hyacinth did her best, but it had been a lot harder to think of happy times since Richard’s fatal heart attack. With him went the business, then the money, the holidays, and finally the house. All that came to her were the debts he had hidden from her to provide it all.

Now she lingered around a cramped apartment with little more than a head full of memories. Forty years of three holidays a year, tennis lessons with professionals, and a lifetime of the finest dining would surely net her a great sum.

Hyacinth used the rest of the time to imagine spending her newfound wealth. Upgrading her domicile felt unlikely, especially in this economy, but perhaps a few holidays more were in order. Some new boutique clothes, the return of her club membership. And, of course, proper Christmas presents for the grandchildren at last.

By the time Hyacinth had finished spending her memory money, Kioxia was already removing the sensors and packing up the trolley. As she wiped the sensors with alcohol wipes before storing them, Hyacinth sat back and sipped the horrible coffee such places provided. Just for a moment, there was an unusual feeling of bliss. Soon she would be free. And life could, if not go back to normal, then perhaps at least afford the odd slither of respectability.

Hyacinth coughed politely. It was that or finish the coffee.

Kioxia didn’t look up, merely said, “Your report should be on the screen.”

Hyacinth opened the report and bit her lip. “There must be a mistake. This isn’t enough to pay this month’s rent.”

“Would pay for two of mine,” said Kioxia. “I do apologise, but this happens a lot. People spend a lot of money on fun activities, which is fantastic. Life is meant to be enjoyed.”

“But?”

“But, to sell well they have to be unique. There’s millions of available memories of people going on cruise ships, eating nice meals, and drinking over-priced wine.”

“It wasn’t just wine. It was the best wine available in the Bordeaux region of France! It is very exclusive,” said Hyacinth quietly.

“And I’m happy you enjoyed it. But drinking that wine was its own reward. Now if you’d made the best wine, that’s the sort of memory people want to see.”

“I am very well-travelled!”

“You were a tourist.” Kioxia snapped the equipment case shut, clashing with her patient tone. “You didn’t experience anything, you just floated in a boat and stared at things that other people experienced. Perhaps people would care if you had hiked up mountains or cut your way through forests. You need to interact with life. Not just consume it.”

“You think people want to feel the sweat as they pick grapes in the Bordeaux sun rather than enjoy the wine it creates?” Hyacinth tittered.

“Very much so. That’s what people love. They want to be crafting something, conflicting or connecting with people or spaces. They don’t want the memory of someone watching the Super Bowl from the VIP booth, they want to be the one throwing the game-winning pass.” Kioxia stood up, and wheeled the trolley to the door. “If you want to sell your memories, then please tell reception on the way out.”

Hyacinth didn’t watch the technician leave. She just stared at the room and realised it reflected her last forty years; sterile and lifeless.  Perhaps if she took the money provided, it might be enough to start a course at Wyke Community College.

---

Rick Danforth resides in Yorkshire, England, where he works as a Systems Architect to fund his writing habit. He’s had several short stories published in a variety of venues, including Hexagon and Translunar Traveler's Lounge. Two of his stories have been shortlisted for British Science Fiction Association (BSFA) awards. He one day hopes to be able to introduce himself as an author without feeling awkward about it. 

Rick’s first appearance in our virtual pages was “Patient Diplomacy,” a very different tale of human/alien contact, and one of our most-read and best-loved stories of 2023.

Rick followed “Patient Diplomacy” with “Thanks for the Memory,” a story set in the same world as “All We Have Are Memories” and the story that introduced Kioxia, but in this one she is working a very different angle. It begins like this:

“Another grocery store robbery isn’t going to cut it,” said Kioxia with a yawn.

“Why the hell not?” asked Chris. “Do you know how hard it is? Last time that security guard chased me for two miles!”

“And that was fantastic, you know it was February’s bestseller?” (read more…)

Rick followed “Thanks for the Memory” with “Purest Distilled Spirit,” the story of a family with a remarkable and uniquely unappetizing tradition for celebrating the lives of their dear departed, and then gave us “Take a Chance on Me,” a bittersweet tale of love, casinos, and irresistible compulsions. (No ABBA music was involved.)

We have more of Rick’s stories in the queue, awaiting publication, but until those are published, why don’t you take a look at his previous stories on Showcase that you might have missed?
 

 

 

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The Never-ending FAQ • 5 September 2024

As hard as it may be to believe, even I get to take a vacation once in a while. 

This past Monday being Labor Day, I decided to take the weekend off, and it felt so good, I decided to take a few more days. I’m back now and getting caught up on email and such, so if you’re in a panic because I disappeared for a few days— RELAX!

I’m digging down through the strata of email that accumulated while I was offline and will get to yours in the next 24 hours or so.

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The Never-ending FAQ • 28 August 2024

Welcome to this week’s installment of The Never-ending FAQ, the constantly evolving adjunct to our Submission Guidelines and general-purpose unfocused ask-me-anything forum.  If you have a question you’d like to ask about Stupefying Stories 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.

We’re up against a deadline this week and running behind schedule, so let’s just get right to the questions.

Q: Do I still have time to send you my entry for the Space: 1999 short story contest?

A: Yes The deadline is Labor Day, September 2nd. If we’re going to start running these things the week of September 9th, we need to have them in-hand at least a week earlier. Even earlier would be better.

More details here: Space: $19.99!

FWIW, this wasn’t meant to be a contest. I was thinking of it more as a role-playing thought exercise. IF Friday, September 13th, 2024, is indeed the 25th anniversary of the day the Moon was blown out of Earth’s orbit and launched across the galaxy—

We’d originally thought we’d be lucky to get four good stories, and at a stretch, we might see six. To our surprise we’ve received quite a few good stories that spring from this premise, so we’re reconsidering how many we’re going to accept. We may end up running these stories into a second week, or running some of them in October.

One comment, though. If your idea for your story is, “What effect would the disappearance of the Moon have on Earth’s werewolves?”, we’ve already seen that one. And seen it. And seen it. So unless your name is Julie Frost, it’s probably not necessary to send us that story again.

Q: What’s going on with Stupefying Stories magazine?

A: That’s why we’re up against a deadline. Detailed answers here. We’re not going to hit our planned September 1st deadline, but we’ll come reasonably close. 

Q: How do I get my book onto your Friends of Stupefying Stories list?

A: That’s easy. Tell us about it. Sending an email usually works best. Include the Amazon link (or books2read, or whatever) if you can.

Yes, we’ll be happy to look at ARCs, either electronic or print. Query first.

We have a nice bunch of titles for the next update to the F.O.S.S. list, but it wouldn’t hurt to remind us that you have a book you’d like us to put on the list. We’re juggling cats here this week.

Q: Speaking of the F.O.S.S. list…

A: Yes, we know. There are problems galore with the StupefyingSF shop on Linktree. Most aggravating of all is that for reasons unknown, Linktree has slapped a “Sensitive Content” label on Stupefying Stories 23 through 26, effectively blocking sales, and all our attempts to find out why they’ve done so have returned an auto-generated email accusing us of “violating community standards,” without telling us which standards we’ve violated or how. (Their standards, by the way, are breathtaking in their length and scope. Honestly, having read their community standards statement, it’s hard to imagine how any piece of written fiction doesn’t violate at least one of them.)

The good news is, these Amazon direct links still work.  

After a few frustrating and completely unproductive go-rounds with Linktree’s Content Police, we finally remembered that the reason why we got Linktree in the first place was because we needed it for our failed Instagram experiment. But given that the Instagram experiment did fail, well, we don’t need Linktree anymore, do we?

We’ll be canceling our Linktree account and closing out the StupefyingSF bookshop by the end of September. We’ll replace the F.O.S.S. list on Linktree with something that looks more like this. 

It’s a bit of a pity. The one thing Linktree did for us that showed some promise was it gave us an easy way to consolidate all of our audio book links under one click.

 

But since almost no one clicked through on that link, it doesn’t justify keeping Linktree. Instead, we’ll go back to making more use of homegrown inline ads, like this one:

Q: Enough blathering about your sales problems. What did you think of Alien: Romulus?

A: Too long. Too loud. Seriously, I hated the audio mix. It’s been a long time since I found a movie physically painful to listen to. (For reference, that movie was Mamma Mia 2. Pierce Brosnan is a terrific actor but should never be allowed to sing in public.)

If you’ve seen Alien, Aliens, Alien 3, and Alien: Resurrection, you’ve already seen this movie. There is nothing new in this movie. The set pieces are all lifted from earlier movies. The action is all lifted from earlier movies. The most important lines of dialogue are all repeats of Ellen Ripley’s most important lines in earlier movies. If this was a record album they wouldn’t even bother to pretend it was a new product: it would be called Alien’s Greatest Hits. The one worthwhile thing in this movie is David Jonsson’s performance as Andy, the obligatory twitchy and unpredictable android. (You’d think Weyland-Yutani would have those things debugged by now.)

The absolutely worst thing about this movie is that through the “miracle” of CGI and practical effects they brought the late Sir Ian Holm back to life one more time, to play essentially the same character he played in the original Alien, 45 years ago. I hope his estate got a huge pile of money for letting them desecrate his corpse like this.

Q: Okay, that’s not a recommendation. In that case, what did you think of Deadpool and Wolverine? 

A: Speaking of desecrating corpses…

Actually, I thought Deadpool and Wolverine was hilarious, and a lot of fun. The editing could have been tighter, but it was a great wrap-up and send-off not just to the Deadpool series, but to pretty much every movie made by every studio that has owned a piece of Marvel intellectual property since… 2000? 1998, even?

This isn’t a movie that will win new fans, but then, that’s not its point. If you didn’t love Deadpool and Deadpool 2, don’t bother with this one. In fact, if you haven’t seen at least Deadpool, Deadpool 2, X-Men Origins: Wolverine, and Logan, large parts of this movie will make absolutely no sense to you. For that matter, it wouldn’t hurt to have at least a passing familiarity with the whole X-Men series of movies, as well as The Fantastic Four, Daredevil, Elektra—oh what the hell, Blade, as long as we’re at it—Captain America, all the Avengers and Avengers-adjacent movies and TV series…

But the most important one to have watched before watching this one, besides Deadpool and Deadpool 2, is Logan, as this movie begins as a direct segue from the ending of Logan. At the end of that movie Wolverine finally dies, nobly, heroically, sacrificing his centuries-long life to save his cloned daughter and a whole new tribe of mutant children. It’s a total tear-jerker of an ending…

And then this movie begins with Deadpool digging up Wolverine’s corpse, to use it like a ventriloquist’s dummy, and takes off running from there and never stops.

Yeah. Great fun. Total nerdgasm. I don’t think I’ll ever need to watch another Marvel movie again. This one doesn’t just end the Deadpool series, it’s a fitting headstone for the entire Marvel cinematic universe, and should be the end of them all.

Not that that will stop Disney from making more. I mean, just look at what they’re doing with Star Wars.

Q:  Enough stalling! Why is there a Pete Wood Challenge banner at the top of this column?

A: Because Pete Wood is not merely an attorney, he is an attorney who specializes in appeals. So when I told him, months ago, that it was time to shut down The Pete Wood Challenge, he immediately began to craft his appeal.

I was not eager to shut down TPWC. Over the years we’ve made a lot of new friends through the challenge, and it’s let us publish some terrific flash fiction. But the hard truth of it is that with each new challenge the readership numbers continue to shrink, and the pool of authors willing to participate in the challenge continues to shrink, and I didn’t feel like sticking with it until, like The Incredible Shrinking Man, the diminishing returns finally diminished to nothing and evanesced out of existence.

Pete, however, is not one to give up. He kept trying different angles, and working different strategies, until he eventually wore me down and I relented. So here we go, one more time. This is either The Last Pete Wood Challenge, or The Pete Wood Challenge: The New Beginning. Which it is is up to you. 

Turning the mic over to Pete, now:

THE OFFSEASON CHALLENGE

Bruce, this is what I posted on CODEX. This challenge is open to both members of Codex and, for the first time, non-members of Codex.

If this works out, we’ll have more challenges in the future. It’s all going to come down to readership. This may be the last challenge. It may be the first of many. 

Write a flash fiction story of up to 150 words, not including the prompt. Your story must include the phrase “the offseason” or “the off-season” or “the off season.”

Deadline is October 20th at seven a.m. EST.

This challenge is open to the general public. However, at least two stories will be from codexians and at least one will be from the general public. Winning stories will be published the week of November 4, 2024.

Any genre is fine. BUT, no stories about politics. No analogies about politics. No characters who are obviously patterned after politicians. So, if you want to write a clever story about Sheriff Harris and Deputy Walz and the gunfight with the Trump gang, don’t write that story. You get the idea.

Prizes will be awarded as follows: 1st place- $20 2nd-$15 3rd-$10 Honorable Mention (1-3)-$5

HOW TO SUBMIT AN ENTRY

Codex members: Post your stories in the announcement thread on Codex.
Non-codex members: Email your story to southernfriedsfwriter@gmail.com
Put “submission off season” in the subject line.

One story per writer, and codexians cannot submit with the general public.

Good luck!

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“Feline” • by M. Legree

The girl laughed at him when he told her she had beautiful eyes. 

They were sitting at the bar inside the Hotel De Grandin, just the two of them and the man behind the counter. Shrader thought he saw the barkeep smirk in the mirror in back of the serried ranks of liquor bottles, but he wasn’t much discouraged. He might be new to London, but he thought women were the same all over the world.

The girl was looking into the bottom of her glass. Shrader offered to buy her another round. “What are you having?” he asked.

She said she was drinking Scotch whisky. She had hints of some exotic accent in her voice, which made him want to know her all the more. Shrader nodded at the barkeep and laid a half crown on the counter.

“God save the King!” he said, clinking his glass against hers.

The girl just smiled and sipped her Scotch. He decided to try another tack.

“You can probably tell I’m not British,” he said. “My name’s Shrader, from the States. I’m in flame-retardant fabrics—jackets for firemen, blankets for welders, like that.”

“No doubt a lucrative trade,” said the girl. “Especially if Herr Hitler has his way.” She still hadn’t offered her name.

“Then you don’t agree with the PM? No appeasement for you, eh?”

“Hitler only respects strength. The British would do well to understand that.” The girl shrugged. “Thank you for the drink, Mr. Shrader.” She turned gracefully on her seat with her knees together, preparatory to standing up.

“At least tell me your name,” said Shrader.

For a moment he thought she would demur, then: “You can call me Liné,” she said.

“LEE-nay.” Shrader repeated her name carefully to fix it in his memory—his salesman’s habit on meeting someone new.

“It’s an old Spanish name,” said the girl. “Or rather, Latin. But recently I’ve been living in Berlin. Berlin is the center of the world, these days…”

“Tell me about it,” said Shrader.

He was about to go on when the barkeep leaned over the counter at him, both hands flat on the polished teak. “If you don’t mind, sir. I’ll be closing up soon.”

Annoyed, Shrader turned to look at him: a red-faced Cockney in a waiter’s white shirtsleeves and black tie. He looked closer, saw a spot of color on the bartender’s lapel. It was a pin, an enameled roundel with a white flash on a field of blue. British Union party. Nazi sympathizers.

“I want nothing else from you,” said Shrader coldly. “You damned Limey fascist—”

“I’ve a right to my own views,” said the bartender. He huffed, gave the counter a violent swipe with his towel and turned his back.

Shrader was about to say something more when the girl put her hand on his arm.

§

In the end he escorted her back to her room, traversing the long, carpeted halls of the De Grandin with an arm about her waist. He moved in close while she searched her pocketbook for the room key, brushing back the auburn hair from the nape of her neck. She turned and kissed him hard then, biting his lower lip before pulling back with her palms flat against his chest. She had dainty hands in gloves of fine white kid.

“Not here,” she said. “Someone might come.”

Inside the room, she left her pocketbook on the nightstand, turned back the counterpane, and told him to get into bed while she changed. When she came back from the cloakroom she was wearing a printed silk kimono, sashed at the waist with a broad green obi, her hands hidden inside the sleeves of the gown.

She stood for a moment at the bedside, smiling down at him. Then she turned and opened the gown and let it fall away from her white shoulders with a whisper of silk on skin. Her body underneath the dress was long and fit, with smooth powerful thighs and buttocks. A tail of the same ginger-colored shade as her auburn locks depended from the base of her spine; switched restlessly against the backs of her knees. She faced him then with her hands turned out from her sides. She had not removed the white kid gloves.

“Do you still think me beautiful?” she said.

From breast to groin ran a double row of teats, eight in all.

“I went to Berlin for these,” she said. She put a finger in her eye and when she took it out again the iris was all golden with a vertical slit for a pupil and there was a little glass circlet between her thumb and forefinger. “They’re called contact lenses,” said Liné. She removed the lens from her other eye as she spoke and put them both into a compact she took out of her pocketbook. “The Germans didn’t invent them, but as with everything else, it seems, they have perfected them. I had these made specially for me by Dr. Heinrich Wohlk himself.”

She began tugging at her fingers, removing the white gloves at last. Underneath she had short digits with pads and hooked talons. She reached into her mouth and removed a dental plate. Her real teeth were all sharp and perfect.

“Yes,” he said. He stared at her. He felt that she was what he’d been looking for all his life without knowing it.

She put one of her short-fingered hands to his face and raked it gently down his cheek.

“I’m adopted,” he said suddenly. “My parents sent me to all the best doctors and dentists. So, I know about Dr. Wohlk. And my teeth are all capped.” He held up a hand and waggled his fingers. “Declawed. Cropped, too.”

“You poor thing,” said Liné.

§

Afterwards they lay together in the mess of silk bedclothes and talked long into the night. Liné told him that her family had used the surname Bera for centuries, although they were not, of course, really Turkish. They didn’t belong to any nation known to man. They belonged only to their own hidden nation. She told him, too, about her time in Germany.

“Hitler has the Nazis so terrified of a Jewish conspiracy that they can’t see what’s right in front of them.”

“You met the man?”

“I wanted to. He has an eye for the ladies, you know. I thought I might get close to him, get him alone—”

“And?”

She shrugged her lithe shoulders. “Curiosity, perhaps. Or perhaps I thought I might save the world.”

“You’ve been reading too many novels,” laughed Shrader. “Like that British fellow, Household. Rogue Male, indeed!”

They were still awake when the sun came up, and Shrader offered to go down for breakfast. “I’m an American in my habits,” he said. “And I prefer coffee, just plain black coffee. But I can bring tea and milk if you want—?”

“Oh, no,” said Liné. “I like a strong cup, like the Turks. Darker than you think.”

After breakfast they went out, arm in arm, to see all the sights of their great, cruel city.

---

 

Chained to a desk during the day, M. Legree is released at dusk to write genre fiction. Guarded by a pack of savage mongrels, he lives alone in a Depression-era duplex overlooking Brays Bayou in the historical East End of Houston, Texas. Preferring to live in the past, Legree rereads the old tales of Stevenson, Poe, and Wells. His steampunk horror tale “Victorian Resistance & the Lords Insectile” appeared in Issue #9 of Cossmass Infinities; his dark fantasy flash fiction “Dryad Harvest” is available in the anthology Tales of Fear, Superstition, and Doom; and a Holmesian pastiche, “Colonel Malcontent,” is forthcoming later this year in the anthology Ethereal Nightmares: The Second Sleep.

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The Week in Review • 25 August 2024

Welcome to The Week in Review, our Sunday wrap-up for those too busy to follow Stupefying Stories on a daily basis. Our focus this week was on the results of another Pete Wood Challenge, so this week we published four flash fiction stories all keying off the seed idea, “The Butler Did It.” We also clarified our publishing plans for the remainder of 2024, and then we embarked on a quixotic quest to find the perfect low-sodium, gluten-free, red beans and rice recipe.

“In the Line of Duty,” by Gustavo Bondoni

The evidence from the crime scene left no doubt: the butler did. The mystery baffling the investigators was, how?

Published: August 19, 2024 (Honorable Mention)

 

“A Conversation Held at the Annual Meeting of the National Association of Butler Assassins,” by Carol Scheina

Remember the good old days? Polishing silver, pouring wine, murdering guests? (Sigh.)

Published: August 20, 2024 (Bronze)

The Never-ending FAQ • 21 August 2024

Nailing down our publishing plans for the remaining four months of 2024, for both SHOWCASE and Stupefying Stories issues #27 through #30. READ THIS.

“How Paranormal Investigators Prepare for an Expedition,” by Ian Li

It’s so hard to find a good domestic, these days.

Published: August 22, 2024 (Silver)

“A Change of Management,” by S. R. Kriger

We thought he was bluffing, but the butler did it. He really did.

Published: August 23, 2024 (Gold)

The Never-ending FAQ: Tools & Tradecraft • the quick & easy low-carb low-sodium gluten-free red beans and rice stir-fry!

In which we set out to find a recipe and end up in Wonderland. Have you had your disodium guanylate today?

Published: August 24, 2024

 

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(Or get just one at a time, if that’s what you’d really prefer.)

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