Notes on a Page – Barbara A. Barnett

"Notes on a Page" began life as a flash-length story written for a contest over at the Codex Writers' Group called Weekend Warrior. You're given several prompts Friday night and have until Sunday night to write a flash story using one of them. One of the prompts last year was to write a story in which someone finds a secret passage in a public building. At the time, I had just been offered an internship working in an orchestra library, and that inspired my take on the prompt: a portal in an orchestra hall that quite literally takes one inside the music.

I realized two things very quickly with the story: 1) it didn't want to stay at flash length, and 2) my protagonist's internal conflict was pretty weak. My first draft involved her wanting to have learned to play violin, but she had been pressured into learning oboe instead—not a particularly compelling problem. Luckily, my orchestra internship came to the rescue and inspired a more interesting angle.

The more I spent my work hours scrutinizing and marking up scores and parts, the more I thought about how, even though most of us experience music on an emotional level, there's often this amazingly complex level of technical detail beneath it all. But technical perfection, while impressive, usually isn't emotionally satisfying. As a result, sometimes a musician will be criticized for being technically proficient but lacking in personality or feeling. Similarly, we'll often forgive technical imperfection because of the emotional effect achieved. As a performer, it can be a difficult balancing act—how do I invest the music with emotion while still staying on pitch and in tempo and hitting all the right notes with the right rhythm and the right articulation?

For this story, I decided to carry the technical perfection vs. feeling conflict a performer faces to an extreme with a character who was an odd duck because her passion was rooted in technical perfection, because she didn't understand or know how to achieve the sense of feeling that others demanded from her. I think that made for a far more intriguing dilemma than the first draft's "my parents wouldn't let me play the violin" angle.

And perhaps using Beethoven's ninth symphony in the story was the obvious choice given the ironic resonance the final movement's "Ode to Joy" text would have for my protagonist, but . . . well, it just felt right.

--Barbara A. Barnett

Through the Veil—Michael T. Banker

This story was the culmination of two self-imposed missions. One was on a train, staring out the window, telling myself that I had to come up with a story idea this trip. (It's amazing how often that works, actually, I should really do it more often.) I just let my gaze flit around, latching onto random things and immediately twisting them into something else. I am a very visual person, so it's often images I’m working with. This time, melting icicles became melting wax, became a girl encased in wax like a cocoon. So there has to be some sort of metamorphosis, right? I saw her emerging from her cocoon and realizing that the moon shone like the sun, and the sun like the moon. And a boy--husband, brother--was searching for her, but couldn't find her on that other plane. I eventually lost the cocoon, but no matter, I had the seed to my story.

So, fine, mission accomplished, I pocketed that idea, knowing I was going to do something with it. Usually, I'd just set it in Generic Fantasy Land (albeit doing my best to make it as interesting and original of a Generic Fantasy Land as possible). I'd marry myself to the concept and acquaint myself with the characters and off I'd go. But I have a bad habit of writing stories that are all imagination and no research, so this time I made myself research a culture to set it in. Specifically, I wanted to learn more about an Asian culture that wasn't Japan (I majored in Japanese and studied abroad there). I chose Korea and read up on their culture, history and, increasingly as the story developed, folklore.

Note that I consider this story to be inspired by Korean culture, not restricted to it. Mudang are women of Shamanism (or Muism) who hold rituals to communicate with spirits, but the details of the ritual and nature of the communication are my own. The spirit world itself is inspired partly by their folklore, largely by imagination. I like to use research as a starting point; my goal was never to construct a world true to history.

This was possibly the hardest story that I've ever written. It was stubborn, intractable, and fought me the whole way. I quit the first time midway through, eventually coming back to insert an unsatisfactory ending. Then I left it for quite a while before finally picking it back up again, axing a redundant character (there were originally three mudang), and completely rewriting the latter half of it. I’m very happy that after all of that, it was able to find a home.

--Michael T. Banker

The Temple’s Posthole—M.K. Hutchins

"The Temple's Posthole" is filled with things that make me happy: postholes, a cool family dynamic, and lots of Classic Maya-ish stuff.

My writing group was once waiting for someone to return to Skype. After an awkward silence, our illustrious leader asked if there was anything we wanted to talk about. Without hesitation, I answered "Postholes!"

Postholes are fascinating. Carefully excavated, they can show the shape of a structure long after the actual building has disappeared. Someone else in my writing group jumped in with her love of postholes and ruins. Our leader groaned. Awkward silences have, ever since, been traditionally filled with postholes -- largely because postholes are excellent, but partially as good-natured teasing.

During one of these awkward silences, someone joked about how one or all of us should write a posthole story. The idea lodged in my brain. I day-dreamed about a postholes magic system. I scribbled in notebooks. I outlined. And I wrote.

In those early brainstorming notes, Ayin didn't have a son -- she had a romantic interest to play the role of Lord Yuknoom's hostage. It was the first trope on the shelf, and it felt flat to me even as I scribbled. There are plenty of other important relationships in the course of human existence; romance just seems to get the most attention.

And so Tzi entered the picture instead. I haven't read much fantasy where the protagonist is a mom. Kids are hard to pack for on the road to Mordor. But I'm happy that I was able to place a mother-child relationship at the heart of this narrative -- I think Tzi made this a richer story than it otherwise could have been.

My love of postholes comes from my love of archaeology, and I knew I'd be setting this in a fantasy land drawing from the Classic Maya. This story, with its abundant magic, isn't anything near historical, but I hope I was able to capture some of the feel and flare of that time period anyway.

I focused on the Classic Maya and their glyphs in college, and I've long wanted to write a story that criticizes the mountains of media that depicts them as a bloodthirsty, incomprehensible civilization. These depictions seem especially unfair, given that the Roman Empire's particular brand of human sacrifice -- the gladiators -- are celebrated. Gladiators themselves are praised for their bravery, and the socio-political motivations behind the arena are explained, neatly and rationally, as bread and circuses.

The nations I've created are fictional, but I'm happy I was able to take something that is at first glance utterly alien, and reframe it into something human and comprehensible.

More Maya stuff: Kaloomte is actually a high-ranking title. If anyone reading the story is familiar with Classic Maya titles, I apologize for the blatant foreshadowing.

Last tidbit: My favorite part of this story is the line "sit in the lordship." I doubt anyone else will notice it, but it's a direct translation from a phrase the Maya used to write about ascensions.

--M.K. Hutchins

Winning Veronica’s Heart—Ian Creasey

"Winning Veronica's Heart" is my second appearance in IGMS, following "The Report of a Doubtful Creature" in the November 2009 issue.  It is, however, a very different style of story.

I've always been fascinated by the notion of parallel worlds.  As a child I read a lot of books by Andre Norton: she was my "gateway drug" into the SF genre.  Her novel The Crossroads of Time introduced me to the idea that there existed different versions of the Earth, where history had taken different paths; and with a suitable technological gizmo, you could travel between all these alternate worlds.

It's a well-worn trope, of course.  Authors are often drawn to gaudy, big-picture scenarios: Earths with radically different histories, based on different outcomes from major events such as the American Civil War, the extinction of the dinosaurs, etc.

However, if there are many parallel worlds, then some of them will be very similar to our own, having only recently diverged.  And it seems plausible to me that if the technology for travelling to parallel worlds is ever invented, then these similar worlds will be much easier to reach than the radically different ones (e.g. Earths where the dinosaurs survived), because they're "nearer".  After all, in the realm of space travel, it is much easier to land on the Moon than it is to reach distant stars and galaxies.

The key aspect of these nearby parallel worlds is that they contain different versions of ourselves.  In a world where the Roman Empire never fell, I would never have been born, so there is no "alternate" version of myself.  However, in a world which diverged twenty years ago, there is a version of me who shares the same childhood, but who made different decisions in adulthood.

What if you could travel to worlds inhabited by your alternate selves?  What if your friends and lovers also had different versions?

I'm a fan of standup comedy, and I enjoy the observational humour of comedians such as Jerry Seinfeld.  It struck me that meeting yourself, and interacting with yourself, might make a good topic for observational humour.

The differences between your parallel selves would typically lie in the realm of minutiae — details which are small, vivid, often absurd.  These are exactly the kind of details that a good comedian can turn into humour.

I decided to set myself the challenge of writing a story in the form of a standup comedian's monologue.  To do this, I had to come up with some appropriate patter, punch lines, and so forth.  That wasn't the problem.

The hard part was writing a monologue that also worked as a story with a plot.  In reality, a comedian's routine rarely consists of a coherent story-arc with a beginning, middle and end.  A comedian will usually discuss different topics and shift between them, but without a "plot" as such.  This is very different to readers' expectations of a story.  Readers, particularly in the SF/Fantasy genres, usually expect a forward-moving plot.

So to give some shape to the narrative, I decided to describe the progression of a romantic relationship, since that's a standard topic for standup comedians.  I should perhaps clarify that I don't personally endorse the approach to relationships described in the story.  There are elements of exaggeration and absurdity — it's intended as comedy, not a how-to manual.

The final draft of the story was a compromise between observational humour and a more plot-driven tale.  I hope it succeeds in capturing the merits of both approaches.  Nevertheless, I know that in other universes nearby, my alternate selves have written an infinite number of better versions....

--Ian Creasey

Hard-sell Stories

I can’t speak for the other assistant editors (and Edmund would telekinetically extract my voice box if I tried speaking for him), but there are some stories I’ve become extremely tired of recently:

Hospital Stories

So…I’ve spent a lot of time with loved ones in the hospital.  So much time, in fact, I know the perfume and deodorants that the various nurses and doctors use.  And when I smell it on the street, my subconscious triggers the emotions that I felt when I was there in the hospital—a soup of  heart-sickness, anxiety, exhaustion, and boredom.

Writers RARELY get hospitals right.  Even writers who are doctors or nurses rarely get hospitals right (from a patient or loved one’s perspective).  Not to say it hasn’t been done well, but I’m extremely discriminating when it comes to accepting stories that treat on ideas of sickness, treatment, and relationships with the diseased. 

(No—watching the execrable Robin Williams film ‘Patch Adams’ is NOT acceptable research for preparing to write a story set in a hospital.  Nor, alas is House, ER, or Grey’s Anatomy.  I’ll accept Scrubs but only because it’s funny.  Hilarity covers a multitude of sins.  Uh…research the hilarity, NOT the practices of the residents or doctors…)

Time Travel Stories

I’m going to say what I know everyone is thinking: there are no more unique time-travel stories.  Good stories remain to be told in this sub-genre, but if you’re banking on the originality of your idea to carry your story, just…don’t.  The concept of time travel is well-worn enough that I dare to say that it’s kind of tapped out.  (Prove me wrong.  PLEASE prove me wrong.)

Love Stories

Man, for a society obsessed with love and romance, I have to say, we’re not really very good at depicting it.  At least not in short story format.

I am biased.  You know what was a good love story?  Tara and Willow in Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  They didn’t fall in love immediately.  There were no star-struck moments of heady, desperate, you-were-made-for-me, LUUURRRVE.  It was a natural progression from friendship, to close friendship, to romance, to commitment. 

It took excellent writers MULTIPLE episodes over at least two seasons (by my recollection) to move them from friends to couple.

You know what was a terrible love story?  Willow and Kennedy from the last season of Buffy. 

Same show, same characters—completely different execution.  One was a such a tremendous success that we could kind of sympathize with Willow’s point in tracking down and executing the man who accidentally killed her partner.  (And her subsequent attempt to destroy the whole Earth because reality without Tara SUCKS.)  Sure.  Because their relationship had bones.  It was a product of time, energy, and consideration. 

The other?  Um…boring.  Inconsequential.  False.  Because the writers not only did not take their time building to a believable relationship, they worked contrary to Willow’s established character. 

(Also, I’ll be honest: I was kind of hoping for Oz to return.  I love me some Oz.)

Here’s where this tracks to short stories: there’s just not enough time for most writers to put characters’ romance into swing.  At least not from my point of view—as seen above, I’m kind of a traditionalist.  I do not believe that True Love is a product of sudden, sharp, mystical reactions between two individuals.  My suspension of disbelief just won’t reach that far (usually).  For it to be believable, the relationship has to have some progression.  There has to be some time devoted to getting to know one another, finding common interests, etc.

Love ain’t cheap.  The price needs to be figured into your story.

Easy-Peasy

Let it not be said that I don’t offer helpful suggestions for story themes. 

Here are some things I’m always delighted to see in the slush pile:

• Retellings of classic fairy tales (I like both dark and lighter versions)
• Humorous stories (Think Terry Pratchett rather than Douglas Adams)
• Military science fiction (Battles and skirmishes are especially welcome, along with well-characterized protagonists)
• Alternate histories (Example: I loved Stephen Kotowych’s Under the Shield)

--Scott M. Roberts

Assistant Editor, IGMS

The Postman & Always Here, by Ken Liu - IGMS

“The Postman” & “Always Here”

 Ken Liu

I used to only write very long stories. I didn’t know how to tell a story in under 5,000 words, much less 1,000. Someone told me that I had to learn to write shorter stories because they were easier to sell. So I resolved to learn the art of flash.

The advice turned out to be very useful, though not for the reason stated above. For a long time, I had much more trouble selling my shorter stories than longer ones because they were so much worse. Terrible really. But somehow practicing the very short form made my longer pieces better. (The way my writing mind works is often still a mystery to me.)

Eventually, I did get flash as a form (I’m thankful that my early attempts will never see the light of day). Both of my stories in Issue 31 began life as entries in the Shock Totem bi-monthly flash fiction contest. Entrants have a week to write a story based on a prompt (a photograph, a news article, etc.). Since the contests are geared towards dark fantasy and horror, my entries, which tend to be science fiction, don’t tend to do well. But as my purpose in entering these contests is to learn how to write flash fiction better, I’m very happy with the results.

#

“The Postman”: This was inspired by Karl Bunker’s “Overtaken” in the Sep/Oct 2011 issue of F&SF. I enjoy participating in literary dialogs where authors write stories to respond to each other – that’s what a literary tradition is: authors talking to each other through stories in a common enterprise, much as scientists converse through papers in their common enterprise. (I consulted Karl ahead of time to be sure that he had no objections with me publishing this story, which picks up on his story’s theme and offers a variation.)

There’s a long history of anxiety that our creations (robots, AIs, post-humans, etc.) may surpass us someday, leaving us at their mercy as wards or little more than pets. There’s also a long tradition of science fiction about explorers on ancient space vessels obsoleted by those on faster, newer vessels before reaching their destinations. The two worries are related to each other as well as to the deep parental anxiety about being surpassed by their children without their children’s understanding or appreciation for their sacrifices.

“The Postman” doesn’t resolve this anxiety – most anxieties that have literary interest are unresolvable – but it offers a hopeful view of how parents will be seen by their children. Hope is separated only thinly from wishful thinking, but I always prefer to err on the side of hope.

#

“Always Here”: I’ve been experimenting lately with writing stories that adopt the conventions of science fiction for fantasy and vice versa. This is one example.

I think of fantasy as literature that literalizes a metaphor. “Always Here” is a fantasy story told in the language of science fiction. As we grow older, many (most?) of us lose our sense of wonder, our openness to possibilities, our willingness to hear voices that are unexpected. This story makes that ossification of the mind literally true.

Yet the metaphor is not just a metaphor. There is some biological basis for the common belief that aging reduces our novelty-seeking behavior, makes us less open-minded, causes us to dwell on the past. Our free wills are only as free as their biological foundation.

After writing this, I often imagined what Anna would look like after emerging from the probe. And the truth is that every time I came up with a different answer. Somehow, that makes me happy.

Now Available - IGMS - Issue 31

Now Available Soon - Issue 31

I hope you enjoyed your Thanksgiving turkey, and I also hope you saved a little room for an IGMS-style desert.

Our cover story, "Inside the Mind of the Bear" by Rahul Kanikia, is a look at a bear bent on global domination, presented in the form of a scientific paper. I know, I know, you see this kind of thing all the time. But I promise you, this one really is different from all the other scientific papers about Godzilla-sized grizzlies.

Next up is Kevin Jewell’s "The Probability Flatline." A robot programmed to work in a daycare who is about to permanently run out of electricity gets a second chance at life, but the ever-shifting odds of achieving that extended life just might cost the lives of the very children she is designed to care for.

"The War of Peace – Part One" is the first installment of a novelette by Trina Phillips, part two of which will appear in issue 32. When humans plant their new town atop the birthing grounds of an alien race who have planted their offspring seedlings below that same ground, something has to give.

Speaking of two-part stories, this issue also brings you part two (and the conclusion) of Orson Scott Card’s excerpt of his new novel “The Gate Thief,” sequel to his popular novel “The Lost Gate.” “The Gate Thief” isn’t due to be released until March of 2013, but you can read the opening right here in IGMS now.

Doubling as our audio feature for this issue, "The Flittiest Catch" is tongue-in-cheek look at the perils of fairy fishing in the open skies. Written by Robert Russell, the audio version is read by the appropriately gruff-voiced Stuart Jaffe.

And last but certainly not least, we once again bring you a pair of short-shorts. Since they're both under 1,000 words we decided two was better than one, to ensure everyone got their money's worth. Both—“The Postman” and “Always There”—are written by fan-favorite Ken Liu, who is also the subject of this month’s InterGalactic Interview, brought to you by guest-interviewer Jamie Rubin.

So what are you waiting for? Time to dive in and start eating… er, reading.

Edmund R. Schubert
Editor, Orson Scott Card's InterGalactic Medicine Show

 

P.S. As usual, we've collected essays from the authors in this issue and will post them here. Feel free to drop by and catch The Story Behind The Stories, where the authors talk about the creation of their tales.

Aristocritics: Genre Fiction vs. Literary Fiction

From time to time, some nouveau-jazz listening, ivy-league-educated, black turtle-neck-wearing literary aristocritic will deign to look at the current offerings of genre.  He'll spider fingers over titles; sample plot with trained tongue; gaze calculatingly at style.  And will sniff and call all offerings less than adequate repast for discriminating palates.

"It is not literature," says the aristocritic.  Inevitably, every syllable of "literature" is pronounced. 

From time to time, genre writers will shuffle out of their bedrooms, pajama-clad still, and read the aristocritic's words.  A defense will conjure upon their fingers.  Wordsmiths in grand defense of their chosen medium will summon not just their own prowess, but the screaming hordes of genre-fans to take up arms and strike!  For Bradbury, for LeGuin, for Chabon! 

Well.  I'm not much for war any more.  When I was a young writer-- the internet was still a New Thing-- you can bet I was there on the front lines, defending genre.  "Genre can too be literature! Yes-huh, it can!" 

The older I got, the more I realized-- They're Just Not That Into Me.  And the more I realized that there's very little I can do to change that-- trust me, TPing their homes does not work-- the more that genre's insistence that it IS TOO LITERATURE seem like the demands of a petulant teenager demanding attention from an ex. ("If you give me another chance, I know you'll love me this time...")

I think that this is a hard lesson for writers to learn.  I crave acceptance and validation, and I think that's true for a lot of us.  Part of the reason I write is so that people can see some little piece of me on the page there (distorted, twisted, or made gloriously bright) and say, "Oh!  Oh, yes.  That's just how I feel, too!" And literary fiction has gravitas and authority-- that's why they have big universities, and libraries, and smoking jackets.  So acceptance and validation from one of them is soul-currency.  It means a writer has transcended...something.

But transcendentalism is schlock.  I learned that by getting older, too.  I don't want to transcend: I want to engulf.  I want to entwine.  I want to enfold. 

So, here, genre: have some advice.  Stop panting after literary fiction's approbation.  If critical acclaim from literary fiction comes, excellent.  If it doesn't, forcing the issue won't make either literary mode better. 

You, as a literary mode, are not entitled to acceptance or love. 

But remember that you ARE loved by those who matter most: readers.

In the end that's what it comes down to: from a certain sense, base populism.  The greatness of a story, I believe, is in how broad its audience is, and how deeply the tale pierces their souls.  Concentrate on that-- casting wide nets of evocative story-telling-- and let the aristocritics get back to their tea. 

--Scott M. Roberts

Asst. Ed

P.S.: Wm Henry Morris makes similar comments (but with more panache) here:

http://williamhenrymorris.com/2011/defending-genre-fiction/

Dragonslayer—Nathaniel Lee

My friend David Steffen wrote a piece called "The Quest Unusual" for the PodCastle flash fiction contest.  His story was a humor piece, featuring a dragon in armor asking oblivious local peasants if they'd seen any dragons around, with the punch-line being the rural man's remark that there was no such thing as dragons.  I couldn't get the image of a dragon-who-is-a-knight out of my head, especially once I realized that he would logically have to be looking for a knight-who-is-a-dragon, just for symmetry.  I started out writing just a 100-word sketch for Mirrorshards, but that wasn't enough to exorcise the idea.  I didn't want to "waste my time" writing an entire story because I felt like I was just riffing on David's concept.  However, at the time, I was under a self-imposed demand to write at least one full short story every two weeks for a full year, so I finally just gave up and went for it, figuring I'd keep it for myself if it turned out rubbish.

Two days and seven thousand words later, with the story largely in its present form (I am both a binge writer and an incorrigible pantser), I realized that the concept *really* had legs.  I sent the manuscript to David; because the story was largely inspired by his own, I didn't want to submit it anywhere without his permission.  Initially, David was (understandably and thoroughly justifiably, I think) reluctant, and he told me I'd have to trunk the piece, as I'd expected.  A few days later, however, he changed his mind, and asked only that I wait until he'd sold his flash fiction story.  (He says he was worried that a glut of dragons-that-are-knights would drive demand down, making it a harder sell; me, I think you can never have enough dragons.)  As you've likely guessed, David's piece sold quite quickly (you can read it at Daily Science Fiction's permanent archive), and so here we all are today.

--Nathaniel Lee

Write What You Want—Eric James Stone

For several years, the Codex Writers forum has held a contest called "Weekend Warrior." For five straight weekends starting in January, several writing prompts are posted on Saturday morning, and contestants must submit a flash fiction story based on a prompt by Sunday night. Last year, on the final weekend, the prompt-giver included a very open-ended prompt: "Write anything you want."

Naturally, I had to find a way to put a twist on that prompt, so I decided to write a story about writing what you want.  And because I sometimes like to experiment with style and form while writing flash fiction, I decided to intersperse things people wanted between each paragraph of the main storyline.

I'm not sure exactly how I came up with the plot, but it was probably something similar to this train of thought: OK, so people write what they want on a piece of paper, and someone does what? Grants the wish? Too straightforward. How about he takes that want away? That might work. Why does he do it? Because sometimes what we want gets in the way of our own happiness.  So he's a good guy for doing this.  But where's the conflict? What if someone comes in with a want that shouldn't be forgotten?  And at that point I had the basic plot.

Most of the stories I write tend to be about people who face a problem and overcome it by the end.  This story is not like that.  I did write an alternate ending where the main character tricks the girl's father into writing something so that the magic could be used against him, but after writing it I felt that ending trivialized the problem of sexual abuse. And I don't think that's something that should be trivialized.

 

--Eric James Stone

Constance’s Mask- Nick T. Chan

This story emerged directly from my writers of the future volume 28 story, The Command for Love.

My first draft of that story was an abysmal attempt at an artificial intelligence story, featuring lots of incomprehensible jargon about Turing Tests and Chinese Rooms. It didn’t work . I wanted to meet the deadline for the quarter as I’d just decided I was going to enter every quarter of Writers of the Future until I won or died of old age.

I had no idea how I was going to re-write it until a conversation with another writer, Jennifer Campbell-Hicks, sparked the idea that I should re-write it in a different genre. I was reading Gra Linnaea’s Writers of the Future volume 25 story A Life in Steam at the time, so the decision was made for me: Steampunk (luckily Fifty Shades of Gray wasn’t around at the time).

After writing the story, I sat back and realised two things: I enjoyed writing in the world I’d created and I knew nothing about the Victorian era where a lot of steampunk draws its inspiration. I wanted to explore the world further and I wanted my explorations to fit comfortably within the steampunk genre.

I started to read about the Victorian-era. Because I’m lazy, my research petered out after a few days, but one of the books I read was The Secret Life of Oscar Wilde by Neil McKenna. It was a fascinating and disturbing read. By any standard, Oscar Wilde was a sexual predator, but the dark side of the Victorian era was the intertwining of sexuality and class. By the time he’d accepted his sexuality he was doing to young underclass men what many (or even most) respectable Victorian gentlemen did to young underclass women; he exploited them for his own pleasure (and some of them exploited him back via blackmail). He was a complicated and courageous man who was also a selfish monster. Like many martyrs for a cause, he wasn’t necessarily an admirable man on a personal level but he was a talented monster who was willing to sacrifice everything for his beliefs.

Oscar had an unhappy marriage to Constance Lloyd. He’d married her out of genuine friendship, a mistaken platonic love, ambition, and the desire to “cure” himself of what was socially unacceptable. Constance Lloyd was a pretty young woman who was tremendously psychically scarred from a difficult upbringing. It wasn’t hard to make Constance the centrepiece of the story and make her scarring physical.

As time went on, Oscar became more determined to be open about his sexuality and to use his art as an expression for that sexuality. Society be damned; he was what he was and he refused to back down from his principles even when it was the smarter thing to do.

All that went into a story set in the same world as The Command For Love, which eventually became Constance’s Mask. By the time Constance’s Mask was in its published form, a lot of the common-world story had been stripped out for reader comprehensibility, but the core remained. It was still about blackmail and masks, the discrepancy between our public and private selves, genius and monsters, the power of stories to both enslave and liberate and bringing your true self into the light.

-- Nick T. Chan

Sojourn for Ephah—Marina J. Lostetter

Sojourn for Ephah is really a tale of two characters, and each came about in their own way.

I have to thank my brother for Ephah. If we hadn’t been having our worst fight since we were kids my neurons might not have fired just right, and Ephah might never have been.

No need for all the details, but essentially we both said some bad things that had nothing to do with what the fight was about. I was so angry I began wringing my hands while chanting, “Calm down. Just calm down.” Almost like a prayer. But I wasn’t speaking to a deity, I was speaking to myself.

I began to wonder under what circumstances a being might pray to itself. And thus Ephah--along with her brief stint in a foreign universe--was born.

Thomas, on the other hand, was a direct reaction to what I’d been reading. It seemed like every spec-fic story containing a monotheistic religious leader wound up the same way--with the individual denouncing their god, fleeing from faith, and in a few cases, killing themselves. All because some new scientific discovery clashed with their dogma. I think this is an unrealistic--and now, rather stereotypical--take on people of faith.

Human beings don’t tend to let their worlds come crashing down that way. Someone of real conviction (religious, political, moral, etc.) tends to respond to new, contradictory information in one of two ways--either they deny it, or they incorporate it.

What happens when you have a political conversation with someone whose views strongly oppose yours? What happens when you present facts that clash with their beliefs? They either explain how those ‘facts’ are nothing of the sort, explain how those facts actually make their point, or they accept the facts and let their beliefs evolve. It’s doubtful, I think, that they’ll do a one eighty--denouncing all of their pre-conversation convictions--or crumble into suicidal oblivion.

New scientific principles aren’t likely to be seen by a religious person as a tragedy there’s no escape from, because that’s just not how people are built.

So, I wanted to write a character that embodied the real-world tendency to incorporate new information, and came up with Thomas (I suppose I also wrote a character that embodies the rejection aspect: Bishop Krier). Thomas is intelligent and open minded, and never backs away from his faith simply because he’s learned something new.

I think Thomas and Ephah are a perfect philosophical and psychological match, and I hope you enjoy their story.

--Marina J. Lostetter

The Butcher of Londinium—J. Deery Wray

I came up with the initial idea for "The Butcher of Londinium" while skimming through a Jack the Ripper book for information on police procedure in 1880's London. At the same time, I was watching the first season of Spartacus. The two merged in my head, and I began to toy with the idea of a serial killer, sentenced to die in the arena, who made a deal with a Lanista to survive. Could the gladiators come to accept him? If so, why? What about a man who'd lost everything because of him?

Since I had Jack the Ripper in mind, I set the story in an 1880's alternate version of England where the Romans had never left. Surgery gave me a link between the first and second question, as well as a reason the Lanista might be willing to deal.

Still, it didn't seem like quite enough to me. I needed something more, an emotional center that could tie everything together, and put the two main adversaries, the serial killer and the wronged man, in conflict not just because of past events, but also in terms of present ones.

So Stolo was born.

Once I had Stolo, I knew I had all I needed to start the story. But then I hesitated. I began to doubt if I could pull off a first person story from the point of view of a serial killer. Maybe I should just move on to some other, easier idea? I decided to go ahead with the story anyway as I realized I'd fail harder by not trying at all than by trying and not pulling it off.

I'm glad I did.

-J. Deery Wray