Fiction

Gardner Dozois: In Memoriam, by Jack Dann

I don’t need to tell the reader that Gardner became one of the most important editors in the genre, as influential and essential to the mature state of science fiction as John W. Campbell was to its earlier formation. He was fine tuned to talent; he loved developing it in other writers; and that ability to nurture and develop so many writers, that ability to focus and shape the field…that was genius. Less known, sadly, is that he was a brilliant short story writer. The short form was his métier. Although he lamented that he wasn’t really comfortable with novel lengths, his oeuvre of what I think of as perfect short stories are second to none in or out of the genre. They are true expressions of the poetry that circulated through him like blood.

Vanishing Acts/Chapter One

                                                                          Vanishing Acts Chapter One – Buddy, 2011   "Chapter One -- Buddy, 2011, " is the first chapter in the latest book from Jaimee Wriston Colbert.   by Jaimee Wriston Colbert [dropcap...

Carol Smallwood/Bill Luvaas Interview

Photo by Blake Wheeler on Unsplash   ***   Dancing the Writer's Two Step An Interview with Bill Luvaas   with Carol Smallwood Contributing Writer Welcome to Saint Angel  is the fourth novel of this multi-nominated novelist honored with such nominations as the National...

Arthur Shattuck O’Keefe/Fiction

He stopped, turned, and looked at Yugo. For the first time ever, he smiled; the very faintest trace of a smile. But neither mocking nor malicious, no. Yugo felt a sudden sense of kinship and empathy in this smile which both attracted and repelled him, and he knew in that moment that the man with the umbrella would not die today.

William Crawford/Flash Fiction

  “It’s like a heat wave…”    A Kool, Kool Fool From The Rock ‘N Roll School Shares A Frigidaire Nightmare.   pulled into El Paso along about half past dead. The weathered wall thermometer hit 99 in the red!...

Fiction/Leslie Brown

  WALKABOUT   by Leslie Brown In the summer of 1969 I told my mother II was going to sublet an apartment in the Cass Corridor. I’d always wanted to live near campus, and this was my last chance, my final quarter of graduate school at Wayne State University. Mama...

Ken Wetherington/Fiction

One Night in Las Vegas   Jackson and I pushed our way through the crowded casino to the table where Marcos dealt blackjack.  We stood among the spectators, watching as his deck diminished.  When a dozen or so cards remained, he scooped up the discards and began to...

Fiction/Allen Davis

  Fireball   by Allen Davis ey chief,” says the big guy in dirty, mustard-colored overalls as you walk up to the store in the village. “Come ‘ere for a sec. I wanna ask ya somethin’.” He’s got a bloodshot...

Aura Redwood/Fiction

Photo by Miguel Orós on Unsplash *** The Itch by Aura Redwood he bell rang, shrill, demanding, echoing through the small classroom.  Without needing to be told twice, a swarm of small children echoed their...

Alexis Rhone Fancher/Fiction

Unsplash: Henning Witzel photo *** His Full Attention   by Alexis Rhone Fancher duardo’s exceptionally large. When he drives too fast up the mountain, yanking me to him on the curves, his body is an...

At the Năvodari Camp/Daniel Dragomirescu

The more I wished to go on that journey, the longer the waiting seemed. My father’s stories about seeing the Danube, Saligny’s bridge and everything else were not enough and I was burning with anticipation. I wanted to see myself on that train once and for all.

Thad Rutkowski/The Ore Hole

    THE ORE HOLE   By Thaddeus Rutkowski During a school day, a science teacher took my class on a field trip. We hiked to a patch of trees growing in a crater in the ground. “This was an ore hole,” he explained. “Iron ore was dug here; then it was blasted in a...

Thad Rutkowski/Hard Biking

HARD BIKING   by Thaddeus Rutkowski It’s raining, and I’m on foot, heading for my parked bicycle, when I see a bike go by with two umbrellas attached to it. One umbrella is over the main rider, and the other is over the back wheel, as if to protect a small passenger....

Tom Bradley/Fiction

Father Itchy-Nookie lurks simultaneously in all the crannies of this catacomb, his clutch purse brimming with transubstantial gore — Sam knows this without separating either seizured sets of eyelids. To the assembled expatriate congregation, Hiroshima’s chief attorney of nothingness dispenses wads of gristle and scab, flopping them greasily from the chipped rim of a crude ceramic chalice. And, unlike Sam’s present interlocutor, the wads are not even properly cooked.

Linda C. Wisniewski/Fiction

Now Helen lifted the lamp, surprised by its weight. She needed two hands to wrestle it into the box. A sharp stabbing in her lower back made her cry out but no one was there to hear her. She got down on her knees and rubbed at her back with both hands, tears filling her eyes.

Damn you, Ed. You knew I hated this ugly thing. Twenty years I put up with it, twenty years of parties, all those embarrassing moments when our guests walked up to it, peering at the garish colors, then at me, a question in their eyes.

Donna Vitucci/An excerpt from “Salt of Patriots”

On this first of September, sundown rushed a draft through the practice area. Patrice pulled her papa’s old grey sweater closer. The rest of the singers had been little more than acquaintances; she immediately forgave them their small-mindedness. And she and Agnes had shared nothing beyond Thanksgiving dinner, walks home in the dark, giggles, and naïve, girlish dreams. Patrice had been caring for her mother while other girls learned the tricks to making and keeping friends. Another way in which her mother had robbed her.

Julieanna Blackwell/Fiction

She did not fumble with a card and a detached machine. Instead, she handed him a five, establishing a degree of contact, even if only through a piece of paper. He took the bill, tapped the keys on his register, forcing open the drawer. She held out her palm, spreading long fingers wrinkled and scarred by the echoing shapes of flames that once danced across her skin.

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