Tag: short stories

THE FINAL ISSUE: GALAXY’S EDGE MAGAZINE—THE LAST WEEK

Oof! This is an emotional post to put down on the page.

Not only has Galaxy’s Edge magazine been out for ten years in print with a whopping 61 issues under its belt, but here we are, not only our final issue, but also the last week of our free, two-month preview of this issue on the Galaxy’s Edge website.

In the past several weeks, we’ve shared with you a bit of history from the creator of this magazine, Mike Resnick, from a look back to his Editor’s Notes in Issue One, where he shared with us a history of some of the magazines in the field of Science Fiction and Fantasy, to his Editor’s Notes from Issue Two, where he went on to tell us more about some of the writers and editors in this genre.

We went on to share some story teasers from our final issues, here in Part 1 and Part 2; a teaser of the final Editor’s Note from our current Editor-in-Chief, Lezli Robyn; Highlights from Issue 62; our final Review Roundup from Richard Chwedyk; and a short story from Mr. Mike Resnick, the creator of this magazine.

Head over to Galaxy’s Edge, take a peek around one last time, and join us in waving farewell to this version of Galaxy’s Edge magazine.

We’ll have news about our upcoming semi-annual themed anthology series soon!

Stay tuned for all the details, and the open call … when it comes.

Thank you. ♥

~~~

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A SHORT STORY BY MIKE RESNICK

The Bride of Frankenstein
by Mike Resnick

Mike Resnick, along with editing the first seven years of Galaxy’s Edge magazine, was the winner of five Hugo Awards from a record thirty-seven nominations and was, according to Locus, the all-time leading award winner, living or dead, for short fiction. He was the author of over eighty novels, around 300 stories, three screenplays, and the editor of over forty anthologies. He was Guest of Honor at the 2012 Worldcon.

***

April 4:

What am I doing here?

We have no servants, we never go out, we never have company. The furniture is all decrepit and ugly, the place always smells musty, and although the rest of the village has electrical power, Victor refuses to run it up the hill to the castle. We read by candlelight and we heat with fireplaces.

This is not the future I had envisioned for myself.

Oh, I know, we made the usual bargain—he got my money and my body, and I got his title. I don’t know what I thought being the Baroness von Frankenstein would be like, but this isn’t it. I knew he owned a centuries-old castle with no improvements, but I didn’t think we’d live in it full-time.

Victor can be so annoying. He constantly whistles this tuneless song, and when I complain he apologizes and then starts humming it instead. He never stands up to that ill-mannered little hunchback that he’s always sending out on errands. And he’s a coward. He can never just come to me and say “I need money again.” Oh, no, not Victor. Instead he sends that ugly little toady who’s rude to me and always smells like he hasn’t washed.

And when I ask what the money’s for this time, he tells me to ask Victor, and Victor just mumbles and stammers and never gets around to answering.

Yesterday he sent Igor off to buy a generator. I thought he finally realized the need to upgrade the castle. I should have known better. It’s in the basement, where he’s using it for one of his simple-minded experiments that never brings us fame or fortune. He can use the generator’s power to make a dead frog’s leg twitch (as if anyone cares), but he can’t use it to heat this drafty, ugly, boring castle.

I hate my life.

#

May 13:

“My creature lives!”

That’s a hell of a scream to wake up to in the middle of the night. Of course his damned creature lives. The little bastard nagged me for money again today.

#

May 14:

Well, finally I saw the results of all those months of work today. Victor was so damned proud of this hideous creature he created. Let me tell you: it is ugly as sin, it can barely speak, you’d need a microscope to find its IQ, and it smells worse than Igor. This is what he’s been spending my fortune on?

“What is it?” I ask, and Victor explains that it isn’t an it, it’s a he. He is sitting on the edge of a table, just staring stupidly at a wall. Victor takes me by the arm (he always has chemicals on his hands; I hate it when he touches me) and pulls me over toward the creature. “What do you think?” he asks. “Do you really want to know?” I answer, and he says yes he really does, so I spend the next five minutes telling him exactly what I think. He doesn’t say a word; he just stands there with his lower lip trembling and the same expression on his face that my brother had when his puppy drowned all those years ago.

The creature makes a soothing noise and reaches out to Victor, as if to comfort him. I slap his hand and tell him never to touch a human. He whimpers and puts his hands in front of his face, as if he expects me to beat him. I wouldn’t even if I could; this blouse is hard enough to clean without having to wash any disgusting monster yuck off it.

“Don’t frighten him!” snaps Victor.

Which is a perfect example of how out of touch with reality he is. The creature is about six football players and a weightlifter all rolled into one, and I’m just a helpless woman who spends an inordinate amount of time wondering why she didn’t marry Bruno Schmidt. All right, he’s bald and fat and his teeth are rotting and he’s got a glass eye, but he’s a banker, and his house doesn’t have a monster in the basement.

#

May 25:

I went fishing in the stream today, since Victor is too busy making notes to notice that we’re almost out of food. (Of course, we wouldn’t run out so often if we had a refrigerator, but then we have no place to plug it in anyway.)

So I’m standing there in my rubber boots, fishing rod in hand, and I hear a noise behind me, and I turn to look because a woman alone can’t ever be too careful, and what has happened is that Victor has let the creature out for some exercise, or air, or whatever hideous eternally damned creatures get let out for.

When I turn to face him he stops and stares at me, and I say, “You lay a finger on me and I’ll scratch your eyes out!”

He kind of shudders and walks around me in a huge semi-circle, and winds up about thirty yards downstream, where he stares at the fish. Somehow they seem to know he’s not trying to catch them, and they all cluster around his ankles when he wades into the water, and he smiles like an idiot and points to the fish.

“Fine,” I say. “You catch four for dinner and maybe I’ll even cook you one.”

Up to that minute I would have sworn that he didn’t understand a word, that he only reacted to tones of voice, but he leans over, scoops up four fish, and tosses them onto the grass where they start flopping around.

“Not bad,” I admit. “Now kill them and we’ll take them back to the castle.”

“I don’t kill things,” he says in a horrible croaking voice, which is when I discover he can speak.

“Okay, eat yours while it’s alive,” I say. “What do I care?”

He stares at me for a minute, and finally he says, “I am not hungry after all,” and he begins wandering back to the castle.

“Fine!” I shout after him. “There will be more for us!”

If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s an uppity creature.

#

May 27:

“Don’t you realize, my dear,” says Victor, his narrow chest puffing out with pride, “that no one has ever accomplished this before?”

“I believe it,” I say, looking at the creature, who seems to get uglier every day. “But that doesn’t mean it’s anything to brag about.”

“You just don’t understand,” says Victor, and he’s pouting now, like he does whenever I point out the obvious to him. “I have created life out of the disparate pieces of the dead!”

“I understand perfectly,” I say. “Who do you think’s been paying the bills for all this?” I point at the creature, who is busy staring off into space. “That left arm should have been my new stove. That right arm is my carpet. The left leg is my automobile. The right leg is a central heating system. The torso is my new furniture. And the head is indoor plumbing that works.”

“You are being too materialistic, my dear,” says Victor. “I wish I could make you see that this creature is of inestimable value to science.”

I look at the mess my husband has made of his laboratory. “If you’re going to keep him,” I say, “at least give him a mop and teach him how to use it.”

#

June 1:

I am sitting on a chair I have dragged out to the garden because I can’t stand the smell of Victor’s chemicals, and today I am reduced to reading Life and Look, because the Bavarian edition of The Wall Street Journal is late again. I had to sell all my stocks to pay for Victor’s endless experiments, but I still follow them and compute how much I’d be worth if I had just married Bruno Schmidt, or maybe some doctor who, if a patient died, let him stay dead.

Anyway, I have dragged a small table out to hold the magazines and my iced tea. I would have asked Igor to do it, but I’d sooner die than ask him for a favor. So I am sitting there reading, and I hear an earth-shaking clomp-clomp-clomp, and sure enough it is the creature, out for his daily airing.

“Good afternoon, Baroness,” he croaks.

I just glare at him.

He notices my magazines. “Are you reading?” he asks.

“No,” I say coldly. “I am speaking to an animated nightmare from the deepest pits of hell.”

“I don’t mean to distress you,” he says.

“Good,” I said. “Go halfway around the castle and try not distressing me there.”

He sighs and walks away, and I go back to reading. After a few minutes my magazine is covered by a huge shadow, and I look up and the creature is standing next to me.

“I thought I told you to—”

His hand juts forward with a delicate golden flower in it. “For you,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say, taking it from him and tossing it onto the ground. “Now go away.”

Maybe it is the way the sun hits him at just that moment, but I could swear a tear trickles down his cheek as he turns and walks away.

#

June 3:

Today I caught him in the wood-paneled library that should have been my pride and joy but is now just my daily escape from the boring reality of my life.

“What are you doing here?” I demand as I enter.

“I was bored, just sitting around,” he answers. “I asked permission to go into town, but The Master”—that’s Victor—“doesn’t want anyone to see me yet. He told me to read some of his books instead.”

“Can you read?” I ask.

“Of course I can,” he replies. “Is it so surprising?”

“Fine,” I say with a shrug. “Go read. You’ll find Victor’s scientific books on the other wall.”

“I have no interest in them,” he says.

“That’s not my problem,” I say. “I can’t help but notice that you’re standing right next to a row of romances by Jane Austen and the Brontes. They’ll be wasted on you.”

“I think I would like romantic stories,” he says.

“That’s disgusting!”

“Do you really think so?” he asks curiously.

“I said so, didn’t I?” I reply.

“Perhaps that is why the Master spends his nights in the laboratory,” he says.

I pull a thick book off the shelf. I feel like pummeling him with it, but I don’t think he feels pain, so finally I just thrust it in his hands and tell him to get out my sight.

#

June 4:

He lumbers up to me while I am outside reading the Journal, which has finally arrived.

“What is it now?” I demand irritably.

“I have come to thank you,” he says.

“For what?” I ask.

“For this.” He lays the book on the table. “I read A Christmas Carol last night. It was very uplifting.” He pauses for a second, staring into my eyes with his cold dead orbs. “It is comforting to know that even Scrooge could change.”

“Are you comparing me to Scrooge?” I ask angrily.

“Certainly not,” he answers. Another tiny pause. “Scrooge was a man.”

I stand up and lean forward, bracing my hands on the table and glaring at him. I am about to give him a piece of my mind, to explain that I’m going to speak to Victor and insist that we donate him to some university, when a big hairy spider appears from nowhere and races across my hand and starts crawling up my arm. I scream and shake my arm, and the spider falls to the ground.

“Kill it!” I yell.

He kneels down and picks the spider up in his hand. “I told you the other day,” he says. “I don’t kill things.”

“I don’t care what you told me!” I snap. “Stomp on it, or crush it in your hand—but just kill the damned thing!”

“I have been dead, Baroness,” he replies somberly. “It is not an experience I would wish upon anyone or anything else.”

And so saying, he carries the spider about fifty feet away and places it on the branch of a young sapling.

I don’t even notice when he comes back to pick up the book. I am too busy thinking about what he said.

#

June 7:

The next day it is Wuthering Heights and then it’s Anna Karenina and finally he reads Gone With the Wind, which is making so much money in the bookstores that even Victor couldn’t run through the royalty checks.

“You’re developing quite a taste for romance,” I say as I find him in the library again. It is the first time I’ve initiated a conversation with him. I don’t know why. I suppose if you spend enough nights alone you’ll talk to anyone.

“They are heartbreaking,” he says with a look of infinite sorrow. “I thought romances had happy endings, like A Christmas Carol, but they don’t. Heathcliff and Catherine die. Anna and Vronsky die. Scarlett loses Ashley, and then she loses Rhett.”

“Not all romances end unhappily,” I say. I think I am arguing with him, but I wonder if I am not trying to comfort him.

“I remember, as though through a mist, the story of Arthur and Guenevere.” A body-wrenching sigh. “It ended poorly. And so did Romeo and Juliet.” He shakes his massive head sadly. “But it does explain a lot.”

“What do a bunch of tragic romances explain?” I ask.

“Why you are so bitter and unhappy,” replies the creature. “The Master is a wonderful man—brilliant, generous, thoughtful, and he is constantly saying that he is very much in love with you. Clearly you must feel the same emotions toward him or you would not have married him, and because all such romances end in tragedy, you behave as you do from resentment at what must be.”

“That will be quite enough!” I say. “Take whatever book you want, and then keep out of my sight for the rest of the day.”

He picks up a book and walks to the door.

Just before he leaves, I ask: “Did Victor really say he loved me?”

#

June 8:

The toady brings me my breakfast on a wooden tray while I am still in bed. I stare at his misshapen body and ugly face for a moment, then have him set the tray down on my nightstand.

“What is this all about?” I demand.

“The creature is afraid that he may have hurt your feelings,” answers Igor. “I tried to explain that it is impossible, but he insisted on preparing your breakfast. Then at the last minute he was too frightened of you to bring it here himself.”

“What do you mean, it’s impossible to hurt my feelings?” I say.

“I have never known it to happen, Baroness,” he answers, “and I have been with the Master longer than you have.”

“Maybe we’ll have to do something about that,” I say ominously.

“Please don’t,” he says so earnestly that I stop and stare at him. “You have abused me, physically and verbally, since the day the Master brought you to the castle, and I have never complained. But if my services are terminated, where is an illiterate hunchback who left school at the age of eight to support his ailing mother to find employment? The townspeople laugh at me, and the children tease me and make up terrible songs about me. They even throw things at me.” He pauses, and I can see he is struggling to control his emotions. “No one in the town—in any town—will ever give me a job.”

“You’re still supporting your mother?” I ask.

He nods his head. “And my widowed sister and her three little ones.”

I just stare at him for a minute. Finally I say, “Get out of here, you ugly little wart.”

“You won’t speak to the Master about terminating me?” he persists.

“I won’t speak to Victor,” I tell him.

“Thank you,” he says gratefully.

“He probably wouldn’t have listened anyway,” I say.

“You are wrong,” says Igor.

“About what?”

“If it comes to a choice,” says Igor with conviction, “he will always side with the woman he loves.”

“If he loves me so much, why is he always working in that damned laboratory?” I say.

“Perhaps for the same reason the creature did not bring you the tray himself,” says Igor.

I am still thinking about that long after he has gone and the eggs and coffee have both grown cold.

#

June 9:

Today is the first day that I willingly go down to the laboratory since the day after Victor created the creature. The clutter is awful and the stench of chemicals is worse.

Victor looks startled and asks me what’s wrong.

“Nothing is wrong,” I say.

“The townspeople aren’t coming to burn the castle down?”

“It’s an eyesore,” I agree, “but no, no one’s coming.”

“Then what are you doing down here?” he asks.

“I thought it was time you showed me what you’ve been doing down here day and night.”

Suddenly his whole homely face lights up. “You mean it?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I say.

There follows one of the most boring afternoons I have ever spent in my life, as Victor proudly shows me every experiment, failures as well as successes, plus all his notes and all his calculations, and then explains in terms no one could possibly understand exactly how he created the creature and brought it back to life.

“That’s fascinating,” I lie when he’s finally done.

“It is, isn’t it?” he says as if it is some great revelation.

I check my wristwatch. “I have to go upstairs now.”

“Oh?” he says, clearly disappointed. “Why?”

“To make you your favorite dinner.”

He smiles like a child looking forward to opening his Christmas presents. I try to remember what he likes to eat.

#

June 14:

I encounter the creature in the library.

“Igor thanks you.”

“It was nothing,” I say.

“By raising his salary, his mother can now remain where she is. That is something.”

“I went over the ledgers,” I answer. “He went fifteen years without a raise in pay.”

“He is very grateful,” says the creature.

“If I fired him,” I say, “Victor would just go out and find an uglier, clumsier assistant. Handling money and running his life in an orderly fashion are not his strong points.”

“He seems much happier this past week.”

“He is obviously pleased with the results of his experiment,” I say.

The creature stares at me, but doesn’t respond.

“Have you found any happy romances yet?” I ask.

“No,” he admits.

“Then since the tragic ones upset you, why keep reading?”

“Because one must always have hope.”

I am about to say that hope is a greatly overrated virtue. Instead, much against my will, I find myself admiring him for clinging to it.

“For every Romeo, there must be a Juliet,” he continues. “For every Tristan, an Isolde.” He pauses. “There are those who say we are put on this Earth only to reproduce, but the Master has shown there are other ways to create life. Therefore, we must be here for a higher purpose—and what higher purpose can there be than love?”

I stare at him for a moment, and then find myself pulling Pride and Prejudice off the shelf. I hand it to him, and do not even shudder when his fingers touch mine. “Read this,” I say. “Not every romance ends tragically.”

I wonder what is happening to me.

#

June 16:

Victor looks upset as he sits down at the table for dinner.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

He frowns. “Yes. Something is missing.”

“From the table?” I ask, looking around. “What is it?”

He shakes his head. “No, not from the table, from the laboratory’s office.”

“Has someone stolen your notes?” I ask.

He looks confused. “Stranger than that,” he says. “My cot is missing.”

“Your cot?” I repeat.

“Yes,” he replies. “You know—where I sleep when I finish working late at night.”

“How odd,” I say.

“Who would steal a bed?” he asks.

“It seems very strange,” I agree. “Fortunately there’s another bed in the castle.”

He looks confused again, and then he stares at me for a long moment, and then, suddenly, he smiles.

#

July 2:

“Are you sure?” asks Victor.

“We can’t turn him loose in the world,” I say. “What could he do to support himself? I joked about it with him this afternoon and said he could always become a wrestler, that he looks the part of a villain.”

“What did he say?”

“That he wants to be loved, not feared—and that he doesn’t want to hurt anyone.”

Victor shakes his head in amazement. “What kind of brain did Igor bring me, I wonder?”

“A better one, I think, than you had any right to expect,” I say.

“Almost certainly,” Victor agrees. “But that will have no effect on the way people react to his appearance.”

“It could destroy him,” I say.

“Literally,” agrees Victor.

“If we want him to stay,” I tell him, “then you know what we have to do.”

Victor looks at me. “You are quite right, my dear,” he says.

#

July 3:

I find him in the library, where he spends most of his time these days. He is sitting on the oversized chair that Victor and Igor constructed for him, but the second he sees me he gets to his feet.

“Have you spoken to the Master?” he asks nervously.

“Yes,” I say.

“And?”

“And he has agreed.”

His entire massive body seems to relax.

“Thank you,” he says. “No man, no person,” he amends with a smile toward me, “should live his life alone, even one such as myself.”

“She won’t be pleasing to the eye,” I warn him. Or the ear, or the nose, I want to add.

“She will be pleasing to my eye,” he answers, “for I will look past her face to the beauty that lies within.”

“I’m surprised you want this,” I say. “I’d have thought all those tragic romances would discourage you.”

“It may end unhappily,” he acknowledges. “But that is better than it never beginning. Would you not agree?”

I think of Victor, and I nod my head. “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I would agree.”

Then there is nothing left but to send Igor out to start visiting the graveyards again.

I hope Victor finishes work on the new project by Christmas. I can hardly wait for the five of us to sit around the tree, a happy family unit. Maybe it won’t end well, but as my new friend says, that is no reason for it not to begin.

Copyright © by Mike Resnick

~~~

Find the entire last issue at Galaxy’s Edge Magazine — where you can read for free until June 30, 2023.

AND

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GALAXY’S EDGE MAGAZINE: A LOOK BACK (CONT.) ISSUE TWO

A couple of weeks ago, we shared a look back to Issue One’s: The Editor’s Word by Mike Resnick. In that article, Mike shared some of the “colorful” history of the Science Fiction world and then promised to return in Issue Two with a story or two about the writers and editors who make up this genre.

Keep reading for a look back and a little fun.

~~~

From the end of the last Editor’s Word by Mike Resnick:

“Mike here again. Okay, now you know a bit about the magazines. Next issue I’ll tell you about some of the writers and editors who make up this colorful field.”

And now …

#

THE EDITOR’S WORD
by Mike Resnick

~May 2013~

Welcome to the second issue of Galaxy’s Edge. Like the first, and all future issues, this one is a mixture of new stories and reprints, reviews and columns. The reprints are stories you may have missed by very-well-known authors, and the new stories are by authors who we expect to join the ranks of the well-known somewhere up the road.

And while I’m on the subject of well-known authors …

We have quite a coup this issue. The magnificent C. L. Moore has been one of my two or three favorite authors for the past half century, and I assure you I’m not alone in this regard. She broke into print in her early twenties, and her very first story, “Shambleau,” which appeared in a 1933 issue of Weird Tales, is an acknowledged classic.

Well, “Shambleau” was her first professional story, but it turns out that her very first published story was “Happily Ever After,” which appeared in the November 1930 issue of The Vagabond, a student magazine published by Indiana University. It’s quite short, but it shows that she had the right stuff even then. And with this issue, Galaxy’s Edge is thrilled to be able to present—for the first time in 83 years—C. L. Moore’s very first story. Thanks to Catherine for writing it, and to Andrew Liptak for unearthing it.

And why (I hear you ask) was she “C. L.” rather than “Catherine”? The general assumption is that she was hiding her gender in what was an almost all-male field. Logical, but wrong. She was hiding her name from her employer, a bank president who viewed the pulps with total loathing.

An interesting historical tidbit?

Yes, it is—and it’s just one of many.

So many people are so interested in the giants of our field—many, alas, no longer with us—that I thought I’d share some memories of them with you before they’re all forgotten by me and others.

***

The late Robert Sheckley was my good friend, and even my collaborator the year before his death.

Bob occasionally suffered from Writer’s Block, but he had an infallible way of beating it. He set himself an absolute minimum production of 5,000 words a day. If he couldn’t think of anything else, he told me, he’d write his name 2,500 times. And on those days he was blocked, he’d sit down and force himself to start typing. And to quote him: “By the time I’d typed ‘Robert Sheckley’ 800 or 900 times, a little subconscious editor would kick in and say ‘Fuck it, as long as you’re stuck here for another 3,300 words, you might as well write a story.’”

According to Bob, it never failed.

***

E. E. “Doc” Smith was the first pro I ever met at a con, back in 1963. Sweet man, very fond of fandom, very accessible to anyone. I always thought his greatest invention (other than the Lens and the Lensmen) was the seasonal Ploorians. Doc’s daughter, Verna Trestrail, became a good friend, and I used to see her every year at Midwestcon and Rivercon. She once remarked that she helped her dad from time to time. So I asked how, and she replied that, among other things, she had invented the Ploorians.

(Verna also created the planet where Clarissa had to function in the nude. She told me that Doc bought a gorgeous painting of it—and Mrs. Doc took one look at it and consigned it to the attic for the next 25 years.)

***

I met Robert A. Heinlein only a couple of times, at the 1976 and 1977 Worldcons, so I have no personal anecdotes to tell you about him—but Theodore Sturgeon had one. There was a point in the mid-1940s where Sturgeon was played out. He couldn’t come up with any saleable stories, his creditors were after him, and he was terminally depressed…and he mentioned it to Heinlein in a letter. A week later he got a letter from Heinlein with 26 story ideas and a $100 bill to tide him over until he started selling again. And, according to Sturgeon, before the decade was over he had written and sold all 26 stories.

***

I never met Fredric Brown. I know he grew up in Cincinnati, where I have lived the past 37 years, but no one here remembers meeting him. And I know he spent a lot of time working in Chicago, where I spent my first 33 years, and I never met anyone there who knew him either. But I do know he had a habit, especially when writing his mysteries (which far outnumbered his science fiction) of getting on a Greyhound bus and riding it for hundreds, sometimes thousands, of miles, until he had his plot worked out to the last detail. Then he’d come home, sit down, and quickly type the book he’d already written in his head while touring the countryside.

***

Phil Klass (who wrote as “William Tenn”) told this one on a panel I moderated at Noreascon IV, the 2004 Worldcon where he was the Guest of Honor.

He was dating a new girl, and he mentioned it to Ted Sturgeon when they were both living in New York. Sturgeon urged Phil to bring the girl to his apartment for dinner. He and his wife would lay out an impressive spread, and Ted would regale the girl with tales of how talented and important Phil was. Phil happily agreed.

What he didn’t know was that Ted and his then-wife were nudists. So Phil and the girl walk up to the door of Ted’s apartment, Phil knocks, the door opens, and there are Ted and his wife, totally naked. They greet them and start leading them to the dining room.

Phil’s girl turns to him and whispers: “You didn’t tell me we had to dress for dinner!”

***

Speaking of dinners …

At our first Worldcon, Discon I in 1963—I was 21, my still-beautiful bride Carol was 20—Randall Garrett invited a bunch of new writers and their spouses out for dinner—his treat. Then, during dessert, he excused himself to say something of vital importance to his agent, who was walking past the restaurant. He left the table—and we never saw him again. The rest of us got stuck with the tab (it was an expensive restaurant, we were broke kids, and Randy himself had the most expensive dish and wine on the menu).

Move the clock ahead three years. Randy spots Carol and me at Tricon (the 1966 Worldcon in Cleveland) and offers to buy us dinner. We say sure. During dessert Carol excuses herself to go powder her nose, and I remember a phone call I have to make. We meet and walk out, leaving Randy with the tab he had promised to pay (but, according to Bob Bloch, Bob Tucker, and others I’d spoken to before going out with him, had no intention of paying).

Move the clock ahead one more year, and we’re at NYcon III, the 1967 Worldcon in New York. On opening night Randy spots me across the room, turns red in the face, and yells: “Resnick, I’m never eating dinner with you again!”

I got an ovation from every pro and fan he’d ever stuck with a dinner check.

***

And let me end with one about a living giant, just to be different—my friend, Nebula Grand Master, Worldcon Guest of Honor, and contributor to this issue, Robert Silverberg.

When Bob started submitting to Astounding, John Campbell turned down his first few stories, and Bob’s sometime collaborator Randy Garrett (they wrote as “Robert Randall”) suggested that Campbell disliked Jewish names, so Bob submitted one under the name of “Calvin M. Knox,” and Campbell bought it.

Over the years he sold to Campbell as both “Knox” and Silverberg. Some years later John Campbell asked him why he’d used the Knox name. Bob gave him an honest answer. Campbell’s reply: “Did you ever hear of Isaac Asimov?”

Then, as the conversation was drawing to a close and Bob was about to leave, Campbell asked him why of all the pseudonyms in the world he chose Calvin M. Knox. Bob replied that it was the most Protestant-sounding name he could think of.

Finally, as he’s going out the door, Campbell asks him what the “M” stands for.

Bob’s answer: “Moses.”

***

How can you not love this field?

~~~

We agree, Mike. We agree. ♥

Join us next week when we share Part 2 of some snippets of the twenty-two stories gracing Galaxy’s Edge magazine’s last issue.

~~~

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GALAXY’S EDGE MAGAZINE FINAL ISSUE: STORY TEASERS ~ PART I

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It was Mike Resnick’s hope in starting Galaxy’s Edge magazine that: “Most of the new stories are by less-well-know (but not less talented) authors.” In keeping with that spirit, our Editor Lezli Robyn filled this final, and extra-large issue ~ Issue Sixty-Two: May 2023 ~ with twenty-two spectacular stories.

This week we’re bringing you a taste, a teaser, an amuse-bouche of the first eleven stories of those stories, and our hope? That you’ll read on and find your next favorite author! ♥

~~~

MOON AND SKY, FEATHER AND STONE
by Rebecca E. Treasure

Rebecca grew up reading in the Rockies and has lived in many places, including Japan & Germany. Rebecca’s short fiction has been published by or is forthcoming from Flame Tree, Zooscape Magazine, Galaxy’s Edge, and others. Fueled by cheese-covered starch and corgi fur, Rebecca is an editor at Apex Magazine and a writing mentor.

***

Lora never fit where she was. When the moon bells rang and everyone’s eyes turned glassy, hers stayed dull and hollow. When Mother made blackberry tea, Lora snuck warm goat milk from the bucket. When Father sang the morning song and Ella cried with faith and passion, the music jangled in Lora’s ears.

The closest she’d ever been to belonging was right here, mud squishing between her toes and her little brother’s hand in hers as they prepared to jump.

Lora looked down into Oran’s eyes. “Ready?”

He shared her grin, nodding. They scrambled up the steep granite over the swimming hole, a miniature mountain. Their breathing deepened, drawing in delicate perfume from lilacs surrounding the clearing. Three steps—Lora shortened hers so they leapt together—and they flew.

Lora knew where she’d fit, but it was in a place she’d never been, with people who were not hers …

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THAT SUNDAY ON THE TRAIL WITH THE MEREST BREATH OF SEA
by Beth Cato

Nebula Award-nominated Beth Cato is the author of A Thousand Recipes for Revenge from 47North plus two fantasy series from Harper Voyager. She’s a Hanford, California native now residing in a far distant realm. Follow her at BethCato.com and on Twitter at @BethCato

***

Rosamund had hopes that the family reunion wouldn’t completely suck after her mom told her it’d take place in Cambria, right on the California coast, but as Mom drove up a narrow winding road flanked by squished-tight houses, Rosamund’s enthusiasm withered up like a three-year-old raisin.

“Mom! I can’t even see the ocean!” Rosamund twisted around to look, the seatbelt strap threatening to strangle her.

“You’ll be able to smell the ocean from the camp, I’m sure. Now face forward.”

Rosamund flung herself around. “This is going to be awful. They don’t even like me.”

“Stop that. My family loves you.” Mom glanced at her in the rear-view mirror.

“But they think I’m a freak.”

Mom sighed and didn’t argue. Rosamund glowered out a window that showed only pines as the road dipped and snaked through a small patch of forest. A tall wooden archway, adorned with balloons, announced their arrival at Camp Carraway …

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THE LAND OF PERMUTATIONS
by Tatsiana Zamirovskaya
translated by Julia Meitov Hersey

Tatsiana Zamirovskaya is a writer from Belarus, who moved to Brooklyn in 2015. She writes metaphysical and socially charged fiction about memory, ghosts, hybrid identities, and borders between empires and languages. Tatsiana is the author of 3 short story collections and a novel about digital resurrection, The Deadnet, which was published in 2021 in Moscow, receiving great critical acclaim. She is also a journalist and essayist, writing about art, traumatic memories, dictatorships and dreams.

Born in Moscow, Julia Meitov Hersey moved to Boston at the age of nineteen and has been straddling the two cultures ever since. She spends her days juggling a full-time job and her beloved translation projects. Julia is a recipient of the Rosetta Science Fiction and Fantasy Award for Best Translated Work, long form (2021).

***

A terrible rumbling noise woke us up at nine in the morning.

It was the field—our field.

We took off as soon as we heard it, obviously, because it was our field. Everything that happened there was ours, and only ours. That’s where Nielle and I met the brown earthen witch in her mushroom apothecary cap. That’s where, breathless with terror, I summoned the White Dog on the fifth moonrise, and the Dog came, and brought us ten-day-old pups in a basket, just for cuddles. Every day these pups, blind and sweetly hairless like dandelions after a storm, grew thinner, their skin more pink and transparent, until on the tenth day they morphed into a pile of quietly wiggling skin bubbles, and then the White Dog came and took them back into her womb. That’s where Nielle dug a grave for the forest devil and did such a great job that, when the forest devil died, he came and lay in his new grave because he had no other refuge, no other place to go. That’s where we searched for the meat fern flower on a July night, and eventually we found it and put it under Uncle Volodya’s pillow. The next morning he won the lottery—a three-room apartment somewhere on the outskirts of our town. He stays in that apartment drinking day and night, and now we know we should have put that flower under his ex-wife’s pillow, not his. It was our field, our feral, bloody, boggy, alive land, and our hair sat within it, and the amber half moons of our nails, our incantations, and the summer rhymes we composed for Death. (It was Nielle’s idea to write special verses for Death so She would stop by the edge of the field and listen for a moment. The verses were to have these special white spots, flickering agony, arrhythmical Cheyne-Stokes rattle, pools of cloudy morning water in lamb hooves, an attentive stare of a bewitched snipe at sundown—we couldn’t break the spell, but at least we tried.) …

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THE INCONSTANT HEART
by Kary English

Kary English is a Hugo and Astounding finalist whose work has been published by Galaxy’s Edge, The Grantville Gazette, Wordfire Press, Writers of the Future, and Tor Nightfire.

***

Once upon a time in the spring of the world, a young man named Edwin set out to seek his fortune. Edwin’s coat was thin and threadbare, and his boots were more patches than leather. His purse held only a few small coins, but his back was strong and his heart was pure, so off he went into the wide world with a pack over one shoulder and his bow over the other. He walked for several days until the fields gave way to wilder lands, and the road dwindled to a dusty track. On the eve of the seventh day, he came across a cottage of wattle and daub nestled against the edge of a dark forest.

Night was falling. A chill wind out of the east sliced through Edwin’s coat like a scythe through wheat. His stomach rumbled, for he’d had nothing to eat or drink but water from a nearby stream. Warm firelight flickered through the cottage window, and when Edwin drew near, he could smell the cottager’s supper cooking inside. Barley stew, he thought, and bannocks baking on the hearth. If Edwin had heard even half the tales about enchanted forests and the misadventures of widow’s sons, he might have turned away from the cottage and slept on the cold ground instead …

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THE WEREWOLF
by Jonathan Lenore Kastin

Jonathan Lenore Kastin (he/they) is a queer, trans writer with an MFA in writing from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. His short stories can be found in On Spec and Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores, as well as the anthologies Ab(solutely) Normal, Transmogrify! and Queer Beasties.

***

It was late April when Amelia realized that she was a werewolf. She was reading in her room one evening and as the moon came out from behind a cloud it fixed her with a pale, trembling beam of light. She froze at once, sniffed the wind, and took off her skin. Underneath grew a radiant coat of fur and one by one her senses came alive to the night.

The next day she tried to tell her mother.

“I’m a werewolf,” she said, picking leaves out of her golden hair.

Her mother patted her on the head. “That’s nice dear. Maybe Aunt Matilda will make you a costume for Halloween.”

“No,” said Amelia. “I’m a real werewolf. With fur and claws and everything.”

“Well,” said her mother. “As long as you don’t stay out in the woods too late.” She went back to her magazines …

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FRUITING BODIES
by Xauri’EL Zwaan

Xauri’EL Zwaan is a mendicant artist in search of meaning, fame and fortune, or pie (where available). Zie lives and writes in a little hobbit hole in Saskatoon, Canada on Treaty 6 territory with zir life partner and two very lazy cats.

***

There was a strange plant in Mrs. Edgerington’s garden.

The plant looked like a tiny clamshell sprouting up out of the ground. It had a smooth surface, glistened with a dull silver sheen, and ended in a sharp knife-like ridge. It didn’t look like anything she had ever seen before. In fact, it hardly looked like a plant at all, though it certainly grew like one. Mrs. Edgerington had her grandson look on the internet to see what it was, but he couldn’t find anything matching the description. He told her she should dig it up and burn it, but Mrs. Edgerington liked weird plants, and she decided to let it grow and see what happened.

The plant slowly got bigger and bigger over the next few months. Neither water nor lack of water affected its rate of growth, nor did shade or sun. It eventually grew to about a foot in height and half a foot in width …

#

XI BOX
by T. R. Napper

T. R. Napper is a multi-award winning science fiction author, including the Australian Aurealis twice. His short fiction has appeared in Asimov’s, Interzone, the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and numerous others, and been translated into Hebrew, German, French, and Vietnamese. Before turning to writing, T. R. Napper was a diplomat and aid worker, delivering humanitarian programs in Southeast Asia for a decade. During this period, he received a commendation from the Government of Laos for his work with the poor. He also was a resident of the Old Quarter in Hanoi for several years, the setting for his debut novel, 36 Streets. These days he has returned to his home country of Australia, where he works as a Dungeon Master, running campaigns for young people with autism for a local charity.

***

The first thing Joshua Lee did was whisper his dreams into the Xi Box. Snatching up those fragments running around the plughole of his hippocampus, before they faded from view. Before they could be absorbed into the back fabric of his mind.

After his dreams, he confessed his feelings. His fears, mainly.

The little things, to start with. The Infected woman at work who’d accused Joshua of stealing her lunch. He’d told her no, even though he had; he’d eaten it all, container perched on his lap in a darkened file room. Then the slow-burning fear: he’d fail to pass probation in his new position. Corollary: the already unsustainable mortgage on their two-bedroom apartment burying them.

Then the biggest fear.

Jess would go over. That part of her wanted to become Infected. Like so many others. The simplicity of it, the relief of being able to join the Children of Heaven, though she would never admit it …

#

KRISTIN, WITH CAPRICE
by Alan Smale

Alan Smale is the double Sidewise Award-winning author of the Clash of Eagles trilogy, and his shorter fiction has appeared in Asimov’s and numerous other magazines and original anthologies. His latest novel, Hot Moon, came out last year from CAEZIK SF & Fantasy. When he is not busy creating wonderful new stories, he works as an astrophysicist and data archive manager at NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center.

***

He did not ring the bell. Strange enough to have to knock on his own front door, when the key was in his pocket. He heard a strange bleating sound from within, quickly suppressed. Then footsteps, and his heart began to thump a little harder.

Kristin opened the door and stared at him. Her hair was in a bandanna and she wore an old softball tee-shirt. Around her eyes were traces of yesterday’s makeup. House-cleaning, then. Scrubbing away the last of him.

She looked so gorgeous he wanted to cry.

“I came for my things,” he said.

“If you’d called, I could have been out.” She stood aside to let him in. Reluctantly.

“That’s not necessary,” said Paul. “You don’t have to do that. You look great.”

“Yes, it is,” she replied. “Yes, I do. No, I really don’t. Your stuff’s in the spare room.” She walked into the kitchen and he heard the strange squeal again. Perhaps the sound of a sponge against the inside of the oven? …

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THE DREADNOUGHT AGAMEMNON, ON COURSE TO CONQUER THE PEACEFUL MOON OF RE
by Dafydd McKimm

Dafydd McKimm is a speculative short fiction writer whose stories have appeared in publications such as Flash Fiction Online, Daily Science Fiction, Deep Magic, The Cafe Irreal, and elsewhere. He was born and raised in Wales but now lives in Taipei, Taiwan. You can find him online at www.dafyddmckimm.com

***

As when an airship, streaming westward soon after dawn into the city, is silhouetted by the sun and dilates like a pupil as it makes its final approach with the slow, steady pace of massive things;

so the dreadnought Agamemnon, on course to conquer the peaceful moon of Re, awoke;

and as when you descend the gangway and take your first steps along the city’s arabesque of streets, not knowing where you are going, for you’ve never visited this city before and have no friends or place to stay or any idea of how to speak the language that permeates the air like the chatter of strange insects wherever you go, or what you will do now that you’re here, thinking for a moment that perhaps you should go back, back to where you came from and the safety of it, the security of its familiar pathways and customs, the blissful boredom of doing things the way you’ve been told for so long they’re second nature; but no, no, you’ll never go back to that—never—and so you walk on, wandering the city without a destination, not understanding a word, not knowing what food is good to eat or indeed how to ask for it, and even when you do manage to get something onto a plate in front of you, worrying that you might commit some awful impropriety so that those around you, those people who have known this city and the ways of this city from birth, will laugh at you and mock you as stranger, foreigner, and yet finding small comfort in knowing that at least your old life is behind you, that you have shed your past like the pale, translucent skin of a snake and can begin anew here, in this city, which is so beautiful, with its painted houses perched on forested hills and markets full of sweet temptations and patterned fabrics and parks dotted with statues of creatures from myths you’ve never heard of and noisy processions that pop and fizzle and chime with the ring and crash and keening of unfamiliar instruments and temples to so many different gods …

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PABLOVISION
by Deborah L. Davitt

Deborah L. Davitt was raised in Nevada, but currently lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son. Her poetry and prose have appeared in over fifty journals, including, F&SF, Analog, and Lightspeed. For more about her work, including her novels, poetry collections, and her recent chapbook, From Voyages Unending, please see www.edda-earth.com

***

The object of backpacking through Europe in your twenties is to see strange things—or at least to look at the world through new eyes. You only get so many chances to paint old walls and ruined fortresses; to capture the patina of time itself.

Drew took a bus into Spain, figuring he would hike the Pyrenes while the weather remained good; the driver woke him in the gray of dawn and turfed him in a village that Drew’s phone informed him was Santa Pau. His phone further told him that the ancient walls he saw, which captured the dawn’s light so enchantingly, had been built in the thirteenth century.

Enraptured, he set up his easel in an out-of-the-way spot. He had charcoals with him, and he wanted to capture some of the spirit of this place, before he lost this magical moment. Maybe even mix some watercolors, try to catch the evanescent colors on paper so that when he had an opportunity to work on canvas later, it would be easier for his late-dreaming mind to recall what his eyes saw now …

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A FEAST OF MEMORIES
by R.D. Harris

R.D. Harris lives with his family of four in Arizona and works as a biomedical technician by day. He loves the Carolina Tarheels, time with his kids, and SpongeBob. His work has appeared in Little Blue Marble, Terraform[Motherboard], and Galaxy’s Edge magazine.

***

We were hidden in his garden, where he wanted to die. The garden in our hollow where he taught me about life and how to be a man.

“Dad,” I said, tears blinding me, “you know where we are?”

His fading cognition and memory broke my heart. My hero and life-long role model couldn’t remember who I was half the time.

Eyes half-open, tired, Dad said, “On the ground,” with a mustered grin.

I couldn’t help but laugh. It was bittersweet, though, as the shimmering caterpillars squirmed from their vegetable meals to my dad’s girth atop the tilled soil. They scaled his body from all sides and froze on his stomach, waiting until it was time.

I cradled his half-bald head and whispered, “We’re in the garden like you wanted.” I kissed his forehead.

“The mimics?” he uttered, eyeing the larvae that patiently waited for him to pass on. Dad’s memory was serving him well. I hoped it would serve the mimics too …

~~~

Last week we posted Mike Resnick’s very first Editor’s Word where he shared some colorful history on science fiction magazines. Now, join us next week when we hear from Mr. Resnick again as he regales us with stories about some of the writers and editors who made up our favorite fiction field.

~~~

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GALAXY’S EDGE MAGAZINE: ISSUE 62, MAY 2023—HIGHLIGHTS

Over at Galaxy’s Edge Magazine, the FINAL Issue, #62 has been released! Here are some highlights:

Head over to grab a paper copy of the very last issue of Galaxy’s Edge HERE.

~~~

THE EDITOR’S WORD
by Lezli Robyn

We’ve reached the last publication of Galaxy’s Edge in magazine format, and I have to share that it feels quite bittersweet. After ten years in print, 62 issues on our readers shelves, and a contract spreadsheet that boasts an incredible 692 drabble, flash fiction, short story, novelette, and novella entries, our bi-monthly magazine has published the breadth of science fiction and fantasy (with a generous pinch of horror!) by many of the newest and biggest names in the field.

As a gift for our readers, our last issue features double the fiction, with an impressive 22 stories—not unlike the number of stories an anthology would have! Since we’re converting this magazine into a semi-annual anthology series, I feel that coincidence is both an auspicious end and beginning!

While Jean Marie Ward usually does our interviews, for this last issue I had the pleasure of sitting down with Daniel Abraham in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and interviewing him about his solo writing career and how it diverges and intersects with his collaborative works as one half of James S A Corey, the author of The Expanse series. Our conversation evolved into the most interesting anatomy of a career, and I’ve no doubt that readers will be as drawn in as I was by how unique (and yet incredibly relatable) Daniel’s path to publication and success has been.

Richard Chwedyk lowers the curtain on his Recommended Books column with his usual keen insight and conversational flare, and Alan Smale and L. Penelope return with one last entry to their own columns. The rest of the magazine is overflowing with fiction (including one by the aforementioned Alan Smale!), with stories covering the gamut of science fiction, fantasy, horror, and humor.

This issue opens with the empowering “Moon and Sky, Feather and Stone” novelette by Rebecca E. Treasure, about a young woman who wishes she could literally fly away from the oppressions in her life and join the Sky Maidens. Does she have what it takes to prove her worth—to the Sky Matrons and herself? In Marissa Tian’s “The Woman at the Lake,” Kang is put through the most profound trial of his life when he stops to help a woman trapped by vines. This breathtakingly haunting tale shines an eerie light on historic inequality of the sexes, and the promises that bind us.

Equally evocative is Deborah L. Davitt’s “Pablovision,” about the magical consequences one man’s artistic vision has on the inhabitants of Santa Pau, Spain, and another’s desire to reverse it. Auston Habershaw’s “Planned Obsolescence” will also delight readers with its completely alien cast of characters. What is an assassin to do when his client refuses to pay for services rendered on a new frontier world where the native species are gigantic arachnids?

If a dash of humor with your dark fantasy is more your cup of (possibly poisoned) tea, then go no further than “Carrion” by Storm Humbert. To avoid spoilers, I can’t say too much, but let’s just say this story is a testament to perseverance. If you are wanting a splash of romance with your science fiction, you’ll be thoroughly enchanted by Stewart C Baker’s “Six Ways to Get Past the Shadow Shogun’s Goons, and One Thing to Do When You Get There,” which depicts the delightfully flirtatious conversation between two warriors while they’re being repeatedly attacked by the Shogun’s many goons.

While I would love to talk about the rest of the stories, this editorial can only be so long.

I can’t help but feel that saying farewell to the magazine is to finally say goodbye to Mike Resnick, my mentor, my good friend. In a way, taking over editing Galaxy’s Edge from him had kept a big part of him alive for me. (Apparently, the magazine is finding it equally difficult to part ways, because when I was finalizing this typeset it inexplicably glitched and deleted hours worth of work, clearly wanting us to spend more time together.)

Although I’m sad to see the magazine end, it’s only happening because we’re converting Galaxy’s Edge into an anthology series that will enable us to reach even more readers in brick-and-mortar bookstores. I’m happy and excited to see where this change takes us, and while I invite you all on this new journey with us, I also want to acknowledge the two most important people to have worked on this magazine: Shahid Mahmud and Mike Resnick. Without Shahid to fund and support this crazy venture, and Mike’s passion for helping new writers, this wonderful, decade-long market for authors would have never existed.

And, because of them both, I know the Galaxy’s Edge anthology series and The Mike Resnick Memorial Award will continue the legacy of “paying it forward” to the next generation of writers and readers.

Editor, signing off.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS FOR ISSUE 62

MOON AND SKY, FEATHER AND STONE by Rebecca E. Treasure
THAT SUNDAY ON THE TRAIL WITH THE MEREST BREATH OF SEA by Beth Cato
THE LAND OF PERMUTATIONS by Tatsiana Zamirovskaya, translated by Julia Meitov Hersey
THE INCONSTANT HEART by Kary English
THE WEREWOLF by Jonathan Lenore Kastin
FRUITING BODIES by Xauri’EL Zwaan
XI BOX by T. R. Napper
KRISTIN, WITH CAPRICE by Alan Smale
THE DREADNOUGHT AGAMEMNON, ON COURSE TO CONQUER THE PEACEFUL MOON OF RE by Dafydd McKimm
PABLOVISION by Deborah L. Davitt
A FEAST OF MEMORIES by R.D. Harris
FIVE STAGES OF WHEN THE STARS WENT OUT by Samantha Murray
PLANNED OBSOLESCENCE by Auston Habershaw
PROBABLY THE MOST AMAZING KISS EVER by Robert P. Switzer
MERCY by Stephen Lawson
THE BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN by Mike Resnick
THE BLEEDING MOON by Monte Lin
SLOW BLOW CIRCUIT by Lisa Short
SIX WAYS TO GET PAST THE SHADOW SHOGUN’S GOONS, AND ONE THING TO DO WHEN YOU GET THERE by Stewart C Baker
CARRION by Storm Humbert
THE WOMAN OF THE LAKE by Marissa Tian
YANG FENG PRESENTS—THE BLACK ZONE: MURDER IN THE LOCKED ROOM by Fu Qiang, translation by Roy Gilham

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FROM WORKSHOP STORIES TO ROLE-PLAYING YOUR WAY INTO SUCCESS: GALAXY’S EDGE INTERVIEWS DANIEL ABRAHAM
by Lezli Robyn

I had the pleasure of sitting down with Daniel in a gorgeous casita in Santa Fe, New Mexico, to discuss his career before we headed out to dinner with friends. Not only was there a lot of laughter and warmth—and fun random side tangents to our conversation that won’t make this interview (sorry!)—but I was reminded anew how one seemingly small event can really change a person’s life. Daniel’s down-to-earth attitude about his own career really gave me a window into someone who seemingly applies himself to everything with an almost casual ease belying his boundless talent and dedication. It makes this a very inspiring conversation for new authors when they realize that many of the early steps needed to create bestselling novels and successful TV shows are both relatable and achievable—if the stars also align the right way.

Galaxy’s Edge: Your first short story publication, “Mixing Rebecca,” was in 1996.

Daniel Abraham: It was!

GE: How did your career start? What made you write that story?

DA: I had been getting rejection slips. Everyone collects their rejection slips—I was in that phase of my career. The editor of The Silver Web had turned down one of my earlier stories, but with a personalized rejection letter and some commentary, and she had mentioned that she was putting together a music episode specifically of The Silver Web. And so I was thinking, “Okay, I’ll write a weird music story,” and that was “Mixing Rebecca.” That story was done to order, with a particular audience in mind, and with the encouragement of Ann Kennedy, who has since become Ann VanderMeer. So Ann VanderMeer is the person who bought my first short story.

GE: That’s a wonderful first step in your career.

DA: It was, you know. And the weird thing about “Mixing Rebecca”: I got a very strange reaction to it from a particular person. The story is about a sound engineer who overcomes her shyness by sampling somebody and mixing the song of their life. So that’s how she’s overcoming anxiety. And the woman who she’s mixing is named Rebecca. Several months after it got published, I got this email from a guy who was a sound engineer who had just finished an album called Rebecca Remix. His name is Daniel Abraham.

GE: Are you serious?

DA: I’m completely serious …

TO READ THE REST OF THIS INTERVIEW — HEAD OVER TO GALAXY’S EDGE MAGAZINE

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RECOMMENDED BOOKS
by Richard Chwedyk

GOING OUT IN STYLE

Well, the curtain is coming down, the swan is waiting in the wings, the song is sounding. One phase in the history of GALAXY’S EDGE is coming to a close. It’s time for me to pack up my bindle and find a new train to hop.

Funny thing: I feel like I never really hopped this train in the first place. I’ve been running behind it, or alongside it at best, for most of the journey. Which is not to say that it hasn’t been informative, educational, and even fun.

I was also fortunate enough to acquire this gig at a time when the field, and the publishing world in general, was undergoing fundamental changes.

Or does it always feel that way?

Perhaps, but for some reason this feels different. “Professional” publishing, for the most part, seems to have become more “corporate” than ever, trying harder than ever to manufacture saleable product, which seems, from a corporate perspective, to necessitate more sharply defining categories and genres. Conversely, our authors are producing work that, where it doesn’t defy the old categories, confounds them. Smaller presses and independents are making their own rules, and it’s always been from them that the innovations have come.

At one level, it’s a fascinating time to be reviewing books. Which makes it a little sad to find myself turning in my last column.

And yet, the less time I spend putting together columns, the more time I have to read.

TO READ THE REST OF THIS COLUMN — HEAD OVER TO GALAXY’S EDGE MAGAZINE

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TURNING POINTS
by Alan Smale

THE MONGOL HORDE

The Mongol steppe of the late twelfth and early thirteenth century was a brutal landscape, rife with violence. The young Temujin could have died in any one of a dozen ways, or a hundred. He was taken prisoner and even enslaved several times in his adolescence and young adulthood, and might well have lived out his life in quiet captivity, assuming he escaped death at the hands of his brothers or other local chieftains. Instead, Temujin grew up to become a cunning and charismatic warlord who conquered and united the disparate tribes of Mongolia, and then—as Chinggis Khan—led a series of brilliant, notorious, and bloody military campaigns abroad, conquering much of what we know today as China and lands west throughout Asia. At the time of his death in 1227 AD the Mongol Khan’s empire spanned four and a half million square miles, from the Caspian Sea to the Sea of Japan. His direct descendants continued to conquer and assimilate for the rest of the thirteenth century, doubling the size of this empire and transforming Eurasia forever.

This was surely one of the biggest turning points in Old World history. Or perhaps more accurately, a sheaf of turning points that played out differently in each of the various countries and territories affected, and in multiple ways.

It was also completely unpredictable. No one living at the turn of the thirteenth century could have had the slightest inkling of the calamities and transformations that were on their way.

All set in motion by one man …

TO READ THE REST OF THIS COLUMN — HEAD OVER TO GALAXY’S EDGE MAGAZINE

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LONGHAND
by L. Penelope

USING MYTHOLOGY AND CULTURAL STUDIES IN YOUR WORLDBUILDING

Fantasy readers love nothing more than to sink, eyeballs first, into an immersive, well-crafted story world and live there for a while experiencing all the adventures and heartbreaks, the highs and lows of a fictional character. Worldbuilding is critical in bringing these imagined worlds to life. Carefully crafting an immersive setting requires considering the development and impact of everything from art to fashion, language, culture, geography, biology, and economics. Virtually every field of study or inquiry in our lives can be reflected in a fantasy world.

But even as authors allow our creativity to take us into far-flung invented lands, we still need to ensure our readers are grounded with familiar touch points. One tried and true way to do this is to base the imagined and fantastical on elements of the real world. Cultural storytelling practices such as myths and legends are significant fodder for fantasy worldbuilding.

The ability to tell stories is part of what makes us human. As we evolved, we told one another tales of magic and wonder, of gods and monsters and magical creatures, so it’s little wonder that we’re fascinated with these topics to this day. Myths are generally stories told to explain the world around us. Folklore often helps to acculturate us to our society. Legends purport to be historical accounts of inspiring or noteworthy figures or events, while fairytales make the fanciful come alive close to home. Together, they offer endless raw material for crafting intricate histories, identities, and cultures.

But how do we go about incorporating these kinds of tales from the real world into our invented ones? The first step is to carefully select your source of inspiration. Start with the stories passed down in your own family, or search your own regional folklore, religion, ethnicity, and culture …

TO READ THE REST OF THIS COLUMN — HEAD OVER TO GALAXY’S EDGE MAGAZINE

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A REVISIT: The Reinvented Anthologies: interview with Cat Rambo and Jennifer Brozek—(Part 2)

Only a year ago, Cat Rambo and Jennifer Brozek were hard at work on The Reinvented Heart. Now, with the release of their second anthology The Reinvented Detective looming on the horizon (and it is SO good, ya’ll!), we thought we’d take a little trip back in time and revisit an awesome interview from Isaac E. Payne and the editors of the Reinvented series.

Here is Part 2 of that interview.

Enjoy …

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This is the second part of our exclusive interview with Cat Rambo and Jennifer Brozek, editors of the new anthology, The Reinvented Heart.

To read the first part of this interview, where we discuss both The Reinvented Heart and the second anthology, The Reinvented Detective, click here.

And if you’ve already read the first part, here’s where we left off…

IP: Here I have a few questions that get into the SFF conversation as a whole.

You’ve both been a part of the SFF community for many years, in multiple different capacities. How would you say the science-fiction and fantasy scene has changed since you first got involved with it?

JB: I think the scene has opened up drastically. For me, this is one of the most interesting times to be an SFF author. You have the opportunity to choose how you want to be published, where you want to be published, whether that’s self-pub, boutique press, small press, or the big five. Being a hybrid author is probably the most economically viable, because not everyone can be a Seanan McGuire or a Diana Gabaldon.

Plus, you’re able to choose your own voice and medium. It can be written work, it can be YouTube videos, you can choose serialized versus full-length, you can do a series of novels, you can do micro-text novels.

I have friends who do all of the above. You can teach, edit, write, or do a combination of all three.

CR: I agree with all of that, and also that sci-fi has become more international. With the Internet connecting us more I’ve read a lot more African, Chinese, and all sorts of different kinds of fiction from beyond American borders.

Clarkesworld is one of the magazines that’s really good about bringing in stuff from translation, and I know Neil has worked very hard at that.

But another thing that’s changed is that there are more psychic resources for writers outside the mainstream. You know there are occasions in our industry where I’ve felt that there’s been a sort of psychic toll that has to be paid. Think of it like “oh, here’s another elderly science fiction writer inviting me to sit in his lap” and I’m just supposed to laugh it off.

It’s kind of political here, I’m sorry, but I think younger writers don’t tolerate that as much as they used to, and I salute them for that.

JB: I think the problems that have always been around in every industry are starting to come to light. I used to be a QA engineer for 13 years, and the problems in that industry cross over into this one too.

Some of the predators are getting smarter, and they’re playing the “I’m woke, or I’m an ally” card.

You know, just thinking about how we’re still having women in gaming panels shows us that we have a long way to go. And it’s taking longer than a lot of people want.

CR: Yeah, that’s very true.

JB: It’s not a perfect transition. Just today I read something about the Harry Potter series involving Kreacher. It was about how people were so accepting of how Harry was literally a slave owner.

CR: Oh yeah, and Dobby too. And Hermione was mocked for standing up for the house elves! I can get quite indignant about this.

JB: As much as we want to get better, we all still have a lot of blind spots. But it’s being shown more often, called out more often. It’s very uncomfortable, but you have to be uncomfortable to change.

I loved that whole series whenever it came out, but the more you dig into it and all your other old favorites, the more you’re like “Oh, my God.”

CR: Yeah, there are a lot of problems. Jo Walton talks about the suck fairy. She says don’t go back to childhood classics lest you find the suck fairy has visited them.

IP: I was thinking about that the other day because I was watching The Wheel of Time on Amazon. And I was thinking about when I read the first couple of books, and as a high schooler, there’s a lot of stuff that I didn’t really pick up on.

Thinking about it now, I’m like, “Wow, that’s really old and outdated.”

CR: Well, it’s interesting to me how much gender attitudes have shifted in the last decade. I mean, when I was growing up, the word “trans” wasn’t something that anybody said.

And that’s one of the things I think is really interesting and lovely about our times is that people are aware of non-binary, ace, and all the different relationships that fall outside of the Dick and Jane model. That’s very much what The Reinvented Heart is about.

That’s one of the things science fiction does so well is social reflection, and I think that’s really cool. In the anthology, we have a non-binary story, and we have another story where the character has anxiety about meeting up with the other person in real life.

So, the character goes to the hotel and they knock on the door, but the other person never opens the door because they’re feeling so anxious. At the end of the story, the character gets an email from the other person apologizing, saying, you know “I transgressed, I tried to push you past your boundaries and that wasn’t cool.” And that’s such a different ending than that story has been told with in the past.

One of the modes that drives me particularly crazy with gender stuff, is the cliché that if guys are willing to just keep after her, standing out in the rain with a boombox, that she’ll come around. And that’s present in narratives about women, too, but not in the same way.

It’s one of the things that science fiction does well, is deconstructing that narrative and rewriting it in a more meaningful, respectful way.

IP: Gotcha, I 100% agree with you. I guess then as a follow up to that question, where do you think the SFF community is headed in the near future? Or what do you hope happens in the community in the future?

CR: I would hope that we address a couple of marginalizations that haven’t particularly been addressed before.

And those are disability, neurodiversity, and economic circumstance.

People forget that there is a significant portion of the population that doesn’t have Internet access, isn’t accessing Twitter and all that. I’d love to see science fiction keep pushing to make that a part of the conversation.

JB: This goes along with economics, but I’d like to see more non-American authors have a clear way of getting their stuff in front of American audiences. I lived outside the US during my childhood because my father was in the military, so I learned a lot about other cultures, and that informed me growing up. The world of storytelling is so vast and amazing, I’d like to see some of that reflected in science fiction.  

I saw recently there was a Kickstarter for an RPG about if America had never been colonized, and just seeing that made me want to explore that idea more.

For example, Black Panther, the Marvel movie. The themes that they brought in for that particular movie were so different from what I’d seen before. The mindset is more about what do we owe each other and society instead of what can I do. It’s I vs. we.

I had a conversation last year with Maurice Broaddus, and we were talking about magic. I said that magic should cost you something, because that’s my point of view. And he said that magic should never cost you. You should never be punished for being who you are.

CR: Oh, yeah, that’s good.

JB: That’s one of those points of view that I’m still wrapping my head around.

IP: I think a lot of that goes back to the fact that America is a very capitalist society, and that pervades a lot of our ideas. For a magician, if using magic takes a physical toll on you or something, it’s a transactional relationship. You’re giving your energy for magic, and that’s a capitalist thing.

I guess it goes back to what Cat said about seeing more SFF stuff from a different economic sphere. What would our science fiction look like if our society’s ideals weren’t capitalist, but instead were socialist, or something else?

CR: That’s something I see a lot of writers grappling with today. Our mutual friend, PJ Manney, worked with a Facebook group called The New Mythos, where they were explicitly trying to talk about how to create new stories. How do you create these new narratives?

I just did a story that’s coming out next April where I tried to challenge the way I thought the story would traditionally go, and make it go in a different direction.

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And that’s all from our chat with Cat Rambo and Jennifer Brozek. If you’d like to check out The Reinvented Heart anthology, you can purchase it as an ebook or hardcover HERE.

Be sure to check out Cat’s website and Jennifer’s website to keep up to date on their new and upcoming projects!

Thanks to both of them for joining us here at Signals from the Edge!

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A REVISIT: The Reinvented Anthologies: a conversation with Cat Rambo & Jennifer Brozek (Part I)

Only a year ago, Cat Rambo and Jennifer Brozek were hard at work on The Reinvented Heart. Now, with the release of their second anthology The Reinvented Detective (and it is SO good, ya’ll!) looming on the horizon, we thought we’d take a little trip back in time and revisit an awesome interview from Isaac E. Payne and the editors of the Reinvented series.

Enjoy …

~~~

SFF legends Cat Rambo and Jennifer Brozek have been hard at work on The Reinvented Heart, an anthology about sci-fi relationships.

We met up with them to discuss the new anthology—available in ebook and hardcover.

Here’s what they had to say:

Isaac Payne: So I only have a couple of questions, and then we can open it up to a conversation afterwards. I guess starting out I want to ask about the The Reinvented Heart anthology. It’s been making some waves out there on the SFF frequencies, and I’m just curious about how you decided to break up the Anthology into three distinct sections. I’m familiar with only a few other anthos that do this, so what was the inspiration behind that idea?

Cat Rambo: I actually talked to Jane Yolan in an interview I did with her about that. You may have noticed the three sections are each prefaced by Jane. And in fact, she read them all on the interview, which was really cute.

Basically, we approached Jane and asked if she’d write something for us, and she said, how about poems? My response was, “sure, you’re Jane Yolan!” and I want something from you.

So, she sent in three poems and I said to Jen, you know, poetry is cheap, right? We’re paying by the line, and it’s not like a 5,000-word story.

We ended up organizing the book according to the three poems, breaking it into three sections—Hearts, Hands, and Mind.

And then as part of The Reinvented Detective, which is the anthology that’s coming out next year, we asked Jane to write us three poems again, this time about themes around detectives.

But the funny thing is that I just did this interview with Jane and she hadn’t known what we’d done with her poems until she got the PDF, and she was just delighted! No one had ever done anything like that with her poems before.

IP: That’s cool! You mentioned The Reinvented Detective which is coming up here next year. Is there anything that you’re going to change about this anthology based on what you learned from The Reinvented Heart?

Jennifer Brozek: Well, since we’re just now going through the hold stories and the on-spec stories, I think it might be a little bit too soon to answer that.

But based on the stories we’re getting, we might spread out the anthology to make it about more than just crime and justice.

We might organize it based on groups of stories, like Art Nouveau or the Old Classic. We got a lot of Poirot and Sherlock Holmes stories, as well as some pastiches.

I’m thinking that when we see all the stories, we’re going to end up breaking them out into groups rather than themes, but that may change.

We haven’t seen all the stories yet!

IP: Just out of curiosity, how many submissions did you receive for The Reinvented Heart? I edited the Triangulation: Extinction anthology and I’m always curious about the numbers for other anthologies.

CR: I want to say around 230?

JB: No, it was closer to 260, and that’s just slush. We had the on-spec stories too, so in total it’s more like 300.

IP: Gotcha, that’s pretty good, all things considered!

JB: Yeah. The Reinvented Heart is my 21st anthology, and The Reinvented Detective is my 22nd.

When I did 99 Tiny Terrors, I got 600 submissions in a month! Or when I do a closed anthology, like The Secret Guide to Fighting Elder Gods, I cherry-pick every author.

So, the number of submissions really depends on how much it pays and how many people feel they have a chance to get into the anthology. For 99 Tiny Terrors, a lot of new people were willing to send in their stories because it’s flash.

CR: Yeah, flash is fun. Fun and fast.

JB: But when I was working with Apex Magazine as a slush reader, I’d have to read five stories a day just to keep up!

IP: Yeah, for Triangulation: Extinction I think we had around 600 different submissions. That was over the span of four months, but when the submission window closed, I was still doing a lot of reading!

CR: Yeah. Well, I read completely differently than Jenn.

Jenn is very kind of slow and steady, reading five stories a day. Whereas what I will do is take a weekend to—and excuse my language—just f***ing slam through, sometimes at the rate of a hundred or so stories a day.

And I’m reading fast—fast and furious. But I’m making authors really have to prove themselves to me in the first half page or so.

IP: I guess it’s kind of hard as a writer when you don’t know whether or not you’ll be going through that gauntlet.

JB: When I teach and talk about being an editor, I tell everybody to write your stories like you’re going to be read by a slush reader who’s having a terrible day and all they have to do is get through your story so they can go home.

All your story has to do is turn a slush reader’s terrible day into something magical.

CR: Ah, that’s a nice one, that’s good. You know, one of the talking points of the book is that despite having set the word count at 5,000, there’s a novelette in there! I had solicited Justina Robeson for a story, and she kept mailing back saying that it was getting longer and longer.

And finally, we said, sure, send it in. And both Jenn and I read it and knew we had to put it in the anthology because it was so good!

IP: That’s great, it’s always nice to be surprised like that. So, what’s up next for The Reinvented series? After The Reinvented Detective, of course.

CR: We’re still arguing about that, haha. But we’re absolutely going to continue the series; we’d like to do one a year. I really want to do The Reinvented Coin, so my feeling is that if I’m patient and give Jenn her way for the next few, I’ll get to do that one.

JB: I like that one, but I’m interested in doing The Reinvented Fable. Like if you do a version of Little Red Riding Hood, but in the future, in space. We can do a contrast between old and new fables.

But I do like the idea of The Reinvented Coin, or Cat came up with a good one, The Reinvented Alice.

CR: Yeah, The Reinvented Alice or The Reinvented Oz.

JB: It’s Oz but all science fiction, where you pick a pastiche based on the original series.

IP: I do like those ideas. What does The Reinvented Coin entail?

CR: Economics, trade, bartering. 

JB: Anything that fits under that broad category, really. You could be selling memories of loved ones, for example.

CR: But only one story about NFTs, tops.

IP: Have you read the book This Eden by Ed O’Loughlin? It’s like a science fiction noir, espionage story, but at the end the main villain is a cryptocurrency.

CR: Oh, I love that, I’ll have to find that book!

IP: That’s just what The Reinvented Coin reminded me of haha. So, here I have a few questions that get into the SFF conversation as a whole …

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Join us next week for the second part of this interview with Cat Rambo and Jennifer Brozek, where they talk about the SFF community as a whole, and the changes coming down the line for the genre.

And keep an eye out for the upcoming announcement of The Reinvented Detective release!

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GALAXY’S EDGE MAGAZINE: ISSUE 61, MARCH 2023—HIGHLIGHTS

Over at Galaxy’s Edge Magazine, the Penultimate Issue #61 has been released this month. Here are some highlights:

Continue reading “GALAXY’S EDGE MAGAZINE: ISSUE 61, MARCH 2023—HIGHLIGHTS” →