Fiction

Fantasy

The changeling hides in the window seat. On one side of her is glass, gauzy with rain. On the other, a thick curtain. November whistles through the crack in the window frame, but she dares not move. In this house she is a creeping, persecuted thing. Best if they don’t see her. She opens the book. Reading, she knows, is dangerous: none of the books in the house are hers, nothing is hers, and the family will hold this small act against her. But reading is a better escape than none at all.

In Dec. 2013 (Issue 43)

Science Fiction

Dead Fads

by Maureen F. McHugh

Author spotlight

The dead have fads. I work in Deadtown, at a bar mostly frequented by the Dead. They call me PD for Pre-Dead. The Dead tip for shit because they just aren’t all that interested. That’s what I think. Cory, one of my regulars, says it isn’t like that. The Dead are interested fine, he said. They’re just poor.

In Dec. 2013 (Issue 43)

Fantasy

Miss Nobody Never Was

by James Patrick Kelly

Author spotlight

Everybody thinks that bartenders steal. You know what? They’re right. Maybe there’s an upright bartender someplace where it’s all parking lots and cornfields and traffic lights flashing yellow, but I doubt it.

In Dec. 2013 (Issue 43)

Science Fiction

Power Armor: A Love Story

by David Barr Kirtley

Author spotlight

It was quite a party. The women wore gowns. The men wore tuxedos. Anthony Blair wore power armor.

In Dec. 2013 (Issue 43)

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Fantasy

Yard Sale

by Kit Reed

Author spotlight

“Mark them ONE DOLLAR OR BEST OFFER.” I want everything out. Out, so we can leave this place and lock the door behind us. Between us, Mare and I have pushed or dragged most of the big stuff onto the grass in front of the house and now we are tagging the little stuff, everything the Praying Hands hasn’t already taken. It was hard getting it out the door, but we managed. It was hard getting out the door ourselves, but it won’t be hard much longer. We are on the road to freedom.

In Dec. 2013 (Issue 43)

Science Fiction

Invisible Planets

by Hao Jingfang
Translated by Ken Liu

Author spotlight

Chichi Raha is a fascinating place, its flowers and lakes unforgettable to all visitors. There, you cannot see a single inch of exposed soil because the land is covered by vegetation: the anua grass, as fine as silk thread; the kuqin tree, tall enough to scrape the clouds; and many varieties of unnameable, unimaginably strange fruits, exuding seductive aromas.

Illustrated by Galen Dara

In Dec. 2013 (Issue 43)

Science Fiction

The Battle of York

by James Stoddard

Author spotlight

Young General Washington rode alone on his white stallion through the vast forest of Yoosemitee. His battle-axe, Valleyforge, hung glistening from the pommel of his saddle, the blood fresh-scrubbed from its edge. He had slain too many soldiers in the war against the Gauls and American Natives, and was glad to be going home.

In Nov. 2013 (Issue 42)

Fantasy

Sleeper

by Matthew Hughes

Author spotlight

Erm Kaslo always found that a strong drink or two helped clear his head of the after-effects of the sedative that cushioned the fragile human psyche from the irreality of passage through a whimsy. He was sipping from a glass of red abandon in the second-class lounge of the second-rate liner, Armitou, when harsh bells clanged throughout the ship. Immediately, the ever-present underhum of the vessel’s normal-space drive lowered its pitch then began to fade. In a few moments, Kaslo couldn’t hear the sound at all.

Illustrated by Hillary Pearlman

In Nov. 2013 (Issue 42)

Science Fiction

The Turing Test

by Beth Revis

Author spotlight

“My name is Elektra Shepherd,” I say. “I’m eighteen years old. A freshman in university, majoring in artificial intelligence. Today I am a participant in a Turing test.”

In Nov. 2013 (Issue 42)

Fantasy

Tonight We Fly

by Ian McDonald

It’s the particular metallic rattle of the football slamming the garage door that is like a nail driven into Chester Barnes forehead. Slap badoom, slap badoom: that he can cope with. His hearing has adjusted to that long habituation of the rhythm of wall-to-foot-to-ball-to-wall. Slap baclang. With a resonating twang of internal springs in the door mechanism. Slap baclang buzz. Behind his head where he can’t see it. But the biggest torment is that he never knows when it is going to happen. A rhythm, a regular beat, you can adjust to that: The random slam of ball kicked hard into garage door is always a surprise, a jolt you can never prepare for.

In Nov. 2013 (Issue 42)