Art by Felix Sanchez
In 2018, Ghost Parachute published “An Old War Hog,” flash-sized ‘metaphorical realism.’ But as I return to writing after a turbulent hiatus, I’m excited to (re)discover that the poetic paragraph has been (re)published in their anthology, Ghost Parachute: 105 Flash Fiction Stories. Having a short story accepted for publication is a joy, but watching said fiction become a tangible part of your library gives the achievement an elevated sense of accomplishment.
Once upon a day, I was an editor of some fine magazines. Those days are behind me. But here I place the three magazines as a quick reminder (mostly for myself) of some of the work that I was engaged in. Rune Bear was my creation with an old friend. A microfiction journal of weird, wonderful works, but the journal was not a moneymaker. Coffin Bell was a dark horror journal spearheaded by Tamara Burross Grisanti, to whom I was an assistant editor. And Writ in Water was an undergraduate journal that I formed while working for the Houston Baptist University Writing Center. The title comes from the gravestone of English poet John Keats.
What remains? Very little. A faded digital trail. So it is with many musings that do not endure. To write with ink and parchment, or electronic processor and keyboard, really is to write on water, for most writing drifts away with the time. Yet there is beauty in what is temporary. Who can fail to admire the river, even though the composition of water is fleeting? An ephemeral nature does not diminish beauty, only deprives the next folk who come to watch, even if they never notice, even if the next generation of water and stone exists just as beautifully.
Gypsum Sound Tales picked up my post-apocalyptic short story, “Glimmer on a Darkling Plain,” and published the piece in Thuggish Itch: By the Seaside.
I know, I know, “Glimmer on a Darkling Plain” is kinda pretentious. The work went through several titles, including “Hands with Teeth” and “Plains of Glass,” but “Glimmer” ended up being thematic and poetic but maybe too generic? I wanted to reference the story’s diminishing hope and paint an image in the mind of the fiery finale. In any case, the work is published, I’m happy with the writing, and maybe the integrity of the story will transcend the title from cringe to class.
Years ago, I wrote a story about an old man in the ruins of the future. The man faced a dragon, really a hovercraft piloted by mindless tech. The piece was published by Kasma Magazine, now defunct. Wonderful art was created to accompany the writing.
I loved the voice of the unnamed protagonist, an amalgam of Cormac McCarthy and Jeff VanderMeer, and I wanted to revisit his lonely world. I also felt like there was an unexplored hook—an ocean of invasive scientific monsters, held at bay by a colossal Wall.
“Glimmer on a Darkling Plain” is that sequel.
Thuggish Itch is a speculative fiction anthology produced by Gypsum Sound Tales. If you’re interested, they have a delightfully bizarre collection called “Birds Have Teeth,” which features “twenty short stories that depict what might ensure if our feathered friends suddenly developed teeth.” The press is located in Sydney, Australia.
A few years ago, Kasma Magazine published my scifi short, “Two Wings, Flightless,” a dragon-slaying quest set in a post-apocalypse. Tthe traditional winged lizard was replaced by an aircraft piloted by a hostile AI.
Kasma was a speculative magazine with beautiful art accompanying prose, but now, at least according to Duotrope, the publication has ended.
The magazine’s website concurs with this assessment.
For writers, this is the constant threat of having publications be digital-only (not that I will stop publishing digitally or anything). A physical print copy does wonders for the ego as well as permanency of a piece, although even print has its ephemeral nature. My story, “Two Wings,” also dealt with the ends of beautiful things.
Of course, this blog will too someday go extinct, whether it is by my death or distraction or poverty.
Originally, my friend and co-editor, Stuart Warren, was to lead Rune Bear‘s Quarterly Contest, but he didn’t know what he was doing and our visions for the magazine clashed (Stu saw this journal as an opportunity to publish only his and my work, while I wanted Rune Bear to follow a less narcissistic path).
After letting Stu go, I took over the defunct effort and implemented a drabble series with a $10 prize. One year later, so far, so good. We’ve completed four seasons (spring, summer, fall, winter) without any complications and are now cycling back into spring. Last season was our most successful submission period; the Quarterly received 53 drabbles.
My Oregon-bound friend Robin Stranahan has been creating the art to accompany our prompts, with the exception of the first contest, which featured a dragon and cowboy by Hari Nezumi. Wanting a more consistent style, and after receiving fifteen stories about dragons snatching horses, we opted for Robin’s simpler, vaguer, and deeper imagery.
Here are some of her pieces for Rune Bear.
Summer 2020
Prompt: Apocalypse
Fall 2020
Prompt: Things that Live in Holes
Winter 2020
Prompt: Dead of Winter
Spring 2021
Prompt: Patch Notes Version 2.0
And, in accordance with our last prompt about scifi transhumanism, here’s to a weird, wonderful, unpredictable future!
In my pandemic distraction, I completely neglected to mention that InkQuills printed one of my flashes, “The Devil’s Ivy,” in an anthology of horror entitled Cryptid Encounters. The anthology was compiled by the wonderful Enakshi J., a poet, author, and blogger in India. Here’s her blog.
Cryptid Encounters is a collection of 13 speculative short stories “intended to scare, surprise, disgust, and startle.” Each piece has a similar conceit: a bizarre encounter and its aftermath. My included work, “The Devil’s Ivy,” draws inspiration from The Twilight Zone; the conceptual parallel of people encountering extraordinary beings with unkind motives will be obvious to fans of episodes like “To Serve Man” or “It’s a Good Life.”
My friend Sebastian Rusic created new mascot art for Rune Bear. The original design by Phil Kiner was fantastic, but we’ve been searching for a new look, something with a crisp elegance and just a tad more magic.
As only contributors received print editions of Writ in Water Issue 4, and the contract specified non-exclusive rights, I’ve posted my published story, “Blue Winter High,” in its entirety here.
Ms. Fountain parked her Camry before a cavalcade of snow, the glaze pushed by plows into mounds around faculty parking. She pulled her purse string over her shoulder, picked up her lunch bag, and nearly slipped on ice. The air was cold, the bone shiver kind. She strolled quickly over the pavement, only giving the mountains—purple beneath the sunrise—a glimpse in her periphery. She would appreciate their beauty on a warmer day.
Those early hours before school were devoted to Zero Hour, a psychological trick to add a class period. No one wanted periods one through nine. Zero through eight, however, was poetry. Fountain had to sneak soundlessly because classroom doors were open. Students reclined, their heads pointed at the ceiling, fingers playing invisible instruments. Each was engaged in a lesson, their eyes coated in degial plastic. The only movement was their hands. This was the latest trend in differentiated instruction. With pre-recorded lessons, students could pause or rewind with the twitch of a thumb. The teacher walked along the aisles, catching students when they leaned too far.
Ms. Fountain sped up in the English Hall, but it was no use. There was Mr. Tseng, standing by his door, greeting students as they sauntered by.
“Good morning,” Fountain said.
“I am fine. How are you?” Mr. Tseng replied so quickly it could have all been one word.
“Good,” Fountain said. She reached her door, opened it.
“Good, good,” Mr. Tseng repeated. His head was already scanning four boys down the hall. Possibly he was using facial recognition software to confirm their enrollment. Fountain eyed his hands anxiously. She knew he possessed the strength to rip her spine from her back.
65% of the teachers at Blue Winter High were automated. As machines emerged for nearly every task, teachers had hoped their profession was a bastion of human ingenuity. That human mentorship was necessary. Then Nagata Incorporated created an android that could teach more efficiently, if their research was to be trusted, than any person.
My contributor copies for “Blue Winter High” showed up! The stack was tied together with string and flowers made from wood shavings. Honestly, beautiful work.
Electric Spec picked up my short story, “Rona of the Els,” about a peasant witch who takes a noble girl on a tramp through the marsh.
“Quiet Reflections” by Yuri Magalhães (2020)
There’s an LGBT undercurrent here, as well as what I hoped was an interesting application of old fantasy tropes. This is meant to be a fun read, but maybe someone who’s looking at their future with a little less-than-hope might read “Rona” and feel inspired.
Electric Spec is a not-for-profit speculative magazine that publishes four times per year. “Rona of the Els” is featured in Volume 15, Issue 2, May 31, 2020, which also features a wonderful interview by Blogcritics Magazine editor Barbara Barnett.
Desmond, Write 