Excerpt

Mock Sword and Sorcery at your own peril.Â
Oh, we all know the clichés, for they haunt us on late-night movie channels: overly-muscled bodybuilders in furry
diapers, wielding thick swords with even thicker accents, trading ham-fisted dialogue with Italian women in metal bikinis”¦it seems like a parody, really. In fact, it’s exactly that.
I’m not sure who thought it was a brilliant idea to compartmentalize popular fiction into all of the various “˜styles’ that we have now, but I’ve always thought it was a huge mistake. After all, if you have a historical character in a historical setting fighting fantastic creatures, is it fantasy or is it historical fiction? Consider that people in the Middle Ages actually believed in monsters before you make your choice. I’d argue that a dragonslayer book has just as much right to be considered historical fiction, if indeed the author did the research necessary to ground the tale in a believable setting. But I’m getting ahead of myself…
~ Forward: A Scattering of Jewels by Mark Finn, Author, Blood & Thunder: The Life and Art of Robert E. Howard

…What’s so fascinating about Sword & Sorcery? It’s the literature of monsters. And it teaches us how to spot them, and sometimes to find the courage to face them. Perhaps if my young friend had shown more interest, she might have drawn a little inspiration from the great works of Leigh Brackett and C.L. Moore, and found a way to confront her own predator with more grace and fortitude.
I know you won’t make that mistake. Enjoy the works that await you on the following pages, but take lessons from them too. Monsters are out there.
Keep your sword sharp.
~ Introduction by John O’Neill, Publisher and editor, Black Gate Magazine

“Make haste to furl the sail!” Asad al Din bellowed into the raging wind. His crew of Nabataean sailors struggled to haul down the billowing cloud of striped silk, but the power of the wind threatened to drag them off the ship’s wooden deck.
“The might of the storm is too great, Captain!” Jalil called back. “It will cast the crew into the sea!”
“Ease off the main sheet, you great lout!” Asad al Din roared as the knotted muscles of his arms and shoulders heaved against the sweeping tiller, keeping the ship’s nose pointed into the crashing waves. “Carefully now, carefully!”
Three men dragging mightily eased the sodden line through a tackle, allowing the great triangular sail to release its hold upon the storm winds and flap wildly. That done, the rest of the sailors lowered the boom and bound the loose sail.
“We make great speed, even with a bare mast,” Jalil called. “Surely this passing tempest is the retribution of Allah!”
“Ha!” Asad al Din scoffed loudly. “The retribution of Allah is swift, but only against the unrighteous. This is but a storm in the season for storms.”
“There is a fell voice echoing in the sky,” Jalil warned. “And I have glimpsed the dark bulk of a monster within the clouds. I fear this is no earthly tempest.”
“Bah, save your tales of monsters for the children in the bazaar,” his captain replied. “For this is no more than a quick squall. I see the clouds clearing ahead. We’ll be free of this storm yet.”…
~ “Passion of the Stormlord” by Robert A. Mancebo

Ice cracked beneath Krhanik’s boots with a sound like the breaking of a man’s skull. He took another step, and another, and the cold sheet beneath him groaned in protest. Krhanik walked on, heedless of the snapping sounds of fracturing ice, his face upright in the sleeting gale that pushed against his forward progress. Before him rose the image of the wolf, enormous, world-spanning; the beast that had haunted his earliest dreams and filled his blood with poisonous rage. Somewhere ahead of him, in the darkest part of the north, the wolf awaited him “” and Krhanik walked unbowed into the storm to meet it.
To meet his destiny.
Beneath him bone-white fissures snaked in all directions with each careless step, rivulets of spider-silk-fine cracks marring the gray surface of the pack ice. Krhanik did not look down, never looked down. Keeping his eyes fixed on the line of flattened hills in the distance “” the only landmark he could see in the swirling wet of the storm “” Krhanik walked on under a twilight sky fat with rain clouds the color of damp felt.
Beneath him, beneath the creaking ice, the fathomless salt depths of the ocean rolled cold and hungry…
~ “The Wolf of Winter” by Bill Ward

The arrow hummed past Miri’s head. It spent itself in a saw grass clump just a few paces ahead of her horse. She twisted in the saddle to spot the bowman who had loosed the arrow, caught a glimpse of his black robe as he scrambled down the side of the tall rock he had perched on. Most likely he had climbed it to spot her, and had taken the unlikely shot when he did.
She had a few moments while he remounted. Miri scrambled from the mare, tugging at the halter rope as she trotted forward to scoop up the arrow. The soldiers sent by the Priestesses of Ishtar to kill her mother, and incidentally her, were superbly equipped. Miri had been taught the fletcher’s art by her mother, who after forty or more lifetimes had an amazing skill with anything having to do with fighting, death or destruction. But Miri had never seen anything so exquisite as these arrows. They were fashioned of some dark wood, nearly black, smooth and slightly oily to the touch, perfectly round and straight, with no trace of knife or draw. The feathering was slightly spiraled, and very long, almost a fifth of the length of the shaft. They were tipped with square patinaed bronze heads, barbless but covered with whorls and cuneiform etchings, prayers perhaps. This was the ninth black arrow she had collected.
She shoved the arrow into the quiver that hung from her saddle, grasped a handful of mane and swung back astride the mare. The horse spun toward where she had stood and nickered in complaint at having its hair pulled. Miri turned the mare’s head in the direction of the marsh, away from the bowman, and kicked it into a trot. The trail was uncertain here. Any faster would be far more dangerous than the man following her, deadly though he might be. She hadn’t far to go, anyway. The clearing with the small village was only a short distance…
~ “As from His Lair, the Wild Beast” by Michael Ehart

Silence. Not even the fall of a single dew drop disturbed the ominous slumber. Thick vines twined their way from out of the choking undergrowth to quietly stalk and strangle the tall, sinuous trees whose canopy blanketed the sky and cast the world below into a constant, green-hued twilight. And through that deep quiet came a whisper, like a gentle caress of wind winding its way down unseen trails in the growth.
Ikuru felt power surge through him, coursing beneath his skin, lending strength to muscle, sinew and bone as the jaguar tattoo transformed him into something other than himself. His blood pounded with the power of the Runner, and the jungle’s unnatural stillness spoke to him of horror. He plunged farther ahead into that absence of sound, of life, following its tale toward the acrid scent of fire and death that clung to the stagnant air; ever away from his painful past and deeper into lands unknown.
He soon found this story’s sad beginning. The huts were smoldering skeletons, cradles of soot and ash that still embraced the bodies of the villagers who had once lived here. The terrifying scene reminded Ikuru of his own village, a season ago, when the skinless men and their cruel priests had brought the road of death to scar the Mother jungle.
They had spoken to the king with lies of undreamt wealth, had exchanged gifts and accepted hospitality. Then came the great treachery, and in the course of one night their superior numbers overwhelmed and massacred all of the soldiers and any who they thought might offer resistance. Even the totemic powers of the King’s personal guard, the most powerfully tattooed and feared of all the warriors, fell in the tide of slaughter. In one night the kingdom, and a people, ceased to be…
~ “Runner of the Hidden Ways” by Jason Thummel

A man of sense does not dwell long amongst the shadow-crested peaks of the Uryl range, Voyvodin wisdom said. For when the winds come shrieking down those jagged slopes, they come from the unknowable darkness between the stars and can blow a man to madness.
These words echoed through Vasily’s thoughts while he assessed the strength of his chains and rolling prison, endured the jackal-like laughter of his once-allies-turned-captors, considered the smoldering eyes of the girl-slave who had bewitched him to turn on his qasaq company, or swore dire vengeance against the dark robed figure leading them higher into the mountains. With every moment, he remained alert for any opportunity to secure his freedom.
Mutt-faced Barot banged his mead cup against the bars of the cage and then stepped aside. The scars across both of his cheeks made a cruel, savage smirk from even placid expressions. His face far from placid, he said, “I always knew a woman would be your undoing, Vasily.”…
~ “Vasily and the Beast Gods” by Daniel R. Robichaud

Copyright 2008 Jason M. Waltz. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt
The Red Queen

“It takes all the running you can do to stay in the same place.”
Alice through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carol

My name reads like an obituary. Letters branded on a door:  Dr. M. Chase, BSc. MSc. PhD. Wildlife Protection Officer. I glance along the corridor, where closed doors are edged with thin lips of light. I’m not sure how long I stand there, pressing my thoughts against the silence, as if I can hold back the day, stop it from seeping in. I draw in a deep breath; whisper a silent prayer and push the door open.
The office smells of stale coffee and sneaky cigarettes. The light is cut into strips, the blind rattling in an aircon breeze. I wait, reluctant to part with my shadow. I imagine I am twenty-nine. It’s my first day and my job is to save the planet. I never cared for comic book heroes, but suddenly I wish I could spin time backwards.
I open the blind and let the light soften the edges. I stare at the green filing cabinets, the metallic sentinels that line the far wall, the legacy of my predecessor.  They proffer their morning salutes but today they feel like condolences. I think about all of them. The files designated NLVs- No Longer Viables. I think about the ones we almost saved and I resign to the power of a single word.
The Aardvark, the Cheetah, the European Ground Squirrel, the Humpback Whale, the Smooth-coated Otter, the Lion, the Snow Leopard, the Panda, the Polar Bear, the Tasmanian Devil.
They all become ghosts in the end.

I stand at the window, my eyes coasting the mountain crests, tinted by the pink blush of the glass. When I look away, I see Joanna, framed in pine on the desk. The light hangs an orb over her and I blink it away. The photograph was taken in Costa Rica, on the first day of our honeymoon.
I let her name perch on my lips; linger there like the first sip of wine.
“I’m not giving up, Jo,” I tell her. “You taught me that.”

I switch the button on my PC, hear it click as it gathers its thoughts. I cast my eyes over the list of phone numbers; a catalogue of last chances. I lean back against the cold hardness of the day and close my eyes. The photograph of Jo with two ocelot cubs, also taken in Costa Rica, floats across the blackness like a screensaver. I imagine I’m her, pressing my face to theirs, the tickle of whiskers against my cheeks, the smell of warm fur. I imagine it so hard I clench my teeth, drowning in the ache.
When the Ocelot Project landed on my desk, it came as a blessing and a curse; a perverse twist of fate.
I hear Jo in my head: “It’s not about winning or losing.”  I see her face, strands of hair falling out on a pillow. “It’s about making every second count,” she says.
I hold onto the thought, squash it into a jar and snap the lid shut.  Even when I open my eyes I still see her. Now I hear Don Randolph in my head, the evolutionary biologist who has the office across the hallway. “You can’t save everything,” he says. I lean my head against my hands, elbows pressed into the desk. “But this one’s different,” I say. “This one’s for her.”
I say it out loud like an affirmation in case the angels are listening. I figure they owe me.
I look at the first name on the list, James Liddell, a geneticist in Sydney, did all the prelim population viability studies. Someone said his father just won the lottery. I wonder what time it is in Sydney. Jo always used to say, “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”  I grip onto the belief with both hands, even when it burns my fingers.
I look towards the window and watch the dust, tiny fragments of yesterday caught in the sunlight. I wonder what I would tell myself if I could go back.

Copyright 2008 Bridge House Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

The cab driver helped them in with Claire’s bags, rolling up his trouser legs to avoid dirtying the hems. The flat stones that made a rudimentary path to the house were barely visible now, swallowed up by the garden-swamp. Lisa tipped him generously, ashamed of their sullen journey, then stepped inside the house and closed the door behind her.

Claire was already in the kitchen, boiling water for tea. They always drank tea together, black tea with milk and cake or chocolate chip cookies if they had been able to get their hands on some. It was one of their rituals from when they shared a house: a slice of cake; a slice of home.  As soon as one came in, the other would put on the kettle. If they were both in, they would take it in turns. Neither of them ever asked if the other wanted a brew. It was automatic.

Claire missed this punctuation to her day. Noi never drank tea, certainly not with milk. She missed the teatime chats too, when she and Lisa would chew over the events of the day, or week; gossip; lament the state of affairs back home; or laugh about their latest linguistic errors. Claire smiled to herself as she remembered the time Lisa had told the rambunctious fruit seller outside Dong Palan Market that she had lots of pubic hair, “muoi lai”, when she had meant to say that she was “muay lai”, very tired.. Now, every time Lisa went to shop there she had to sneak in the side entrance to avoid being followed into the market by good-natured but rowdy calls of “muoi lai!” followed by raucous laughter. At least they got good discounts on the fruit these days.

As Claire poured hot water into the teapot, she was aware of Lisa watching her through the mesh door that separated the mosquito-ridden kitchen from the rest of the house. The silent, humid air hung between them, infused with uncertainty. Claire took two mugs from the stand by the sink, set everything on a tray and paused. She lingered for a while over the pot, as if she might have forgotten something.

She hadn’t slept during the entire flight from Australia to Bangkok. Then she had endured an agonizing four hours’ wait in Bangkok’s miserably unequipped transit lounge. She knew that Noi probably wouldn’t be at Wattay to meet her, but she couldn’t help feeling disappointed when she had seen Lisa, alone in arrivals. She hoped it hadn’t been obvious. Of course Noi couldn’t have known that she had important news for him, but an irrational part of her believed he might have sensed it somehow, might have been there waiting for her eagerly, anticipating.

She had intended to tell him first. It was his right to know before anyone else. But now, she felt the urge to break the news to Lisa. Okay, it hadn’t exactly been planned, but she was happy, proud even. She wanted Lisa to see that. She was still smarting from Lisa’s accusing questions in the cab. She knew Lisa was skeptical about her relationship with Noi and it angered her that her friend presumed to understand so much about a relationship she had no real part in, a man she hadn’t even bothered to try to get to know.

Claire strode into the living room with the tea and set it down on a low wicker table between them. She sat down on a large, orange cushion, crossed her long legs in front of her and looked squarely across the room at Lisa.

Copyright 2008 Caroline Early. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

T  H  E     V I  D E O G R A P H E R

Omar smiled. He was very pleased that Marina’s attitude was so progressive. With a partner like her, there was almost no limit to what they might accomplish.

Copyright 2008 Anthony Maulucci. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

There are stories of famous people, murderers, a kidnappers, embezzlers, a bigamist, a man abducted by a UFO, an out of body experience, a mayor who was arrested, an accident victim, a Halloween party with a famous football team, a haunted house, Elvis look-alike and a cancer victim.

YOU CAN’T BUY JUSTICE

While serving as a Juror in a civil case in Santa Barbara California I had a most unforgettable experience.

A young man had a distressing accident in Lompoc California during his Senior Prom, an all night celebration with no adult supervision. It was held at the Lompoc City Beach Park.  Several hundred teens were scattered over
a quarter mile area, all drinking and necking.  Plans to meet at sunrise for breakfast on the beach at a designated spot circulated among the students.Everyone staked out their own sand dune for privacy, all overlooking the silvery nighttime ocean.

About 2:00 AM the teenager in litigation had to use the restroom.  A freight train stood motionless on the track next to the shack that housed it.The train had parked alongside the crew shack for their regular ten minute pit stop.  The student left his date and sprinted up the hill to the top of the grade where the train was idle at the siding.  It had been stationary for over ten minutes when the boy approached it. Unfamiliar with the train schedule, he assumed he had time enough to go between the freight cars before it started to roll. Just as he was positioned on the connector between two cars it started. First it rolled backwards, slowly grinding the wheels, then forward. The crew back on board, was unaware anything unusual had transpired. His piercing screams could be heard all over the beach. The seniors ran to the tracks. It was then the engineer noticed a lot of running teenagers converging on the top of the landing. He knew instantly something was amiss and immediately applied the brakes. The student got caught in-between the cars and was trapped on the connector equipment by his right heel. The police and paramedics were called. The teen’s right heel was severed; half of it lay under the freight car wheel on the tracks. In shock and unable to converse with anyone, the lad was motionless.

His case was against the railroad. The young man’s parents spent in excess of twenty thousand dollars on surgeries and therapy. He was unable to walk unassisted and had been unable to wear a shoe for two years. His lawyers posted huge photographs of train equipment, the track siding, the shack and the sand dunes in Court. Railroad attorneys argued he was out of bounds and should not have trespassed onto the railroad property for any reason. The teenager was in the right-of-way when he stepped onto the train connector. Railroad employees were questioned on the stand as were twenty-one of the student’s friends who
were present that night. The trial was long, interesting.  The Judge called for a fifteen minute recess; everyone filed out of the courtroom to an outside patio.

While I was standing on the patio with the other jurors the sister of the individual on trial approached me. She asked me to accompany her to the restroom located at the far end of the Courthouse. Usually my sixth sense kicks in and I know instinctively if I should follow someone or not. I was curious. We walked in silence to the farthest restroom in the building. There were no other jury members present.

She began, “I now this is unethical, but would you read my palm? I want to learn the outcome of my brother’s trial.”

She wanted me to tell her if it would end up in his favor; his case involved 1.2 million dollars. Glancing sideways to make sure no one was in the restroom, she pulled a wad of hundred dollar bills from her jacket pocket.

She thrust the money at me speaking softly. “This is all I have. If you predict what’s going to happen in this case I’ll give it all to you.”

Dumbfounded, I explained, “I do not predict such things as outcomes of court cases. I am unable to see your brother’s case on your palm because you don’t carry that information.  His palm is the only one that would show that.”

She retreated, pushed the wad of bills deep inside her shoulder bag, and ran out of the bathroom, crying.

Copyright 2008 Myrna Lou Goldbaum. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.