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Fiction The Methuselah Stone by Jay Caselberg Also An interview with A. A. Attanasio Writer at Large, a regular column on writing by Richard A. Lupoff The Cryptic Plain of Jars,by Bryan Thao Worra The Film Vault, a regular column featuring commentaries on unusual, overlooked, or comdemned films Poetry by Wesley Lambert, Lee Clark Zumpe, Kevin L. Donihe, Eric Hermanson, and G.O. Clark Cover by Steven Gilberts Artwork by Simon Boston, Cathy Buburuz, Steven Gilberts, Kathy Ferrell, Colin Foran, Cathy Hill, Chris Hill, William Aksel Kuehl, R.J. Sevin, Bryan Reagan and Billy Tackett The Methuselah Stone by Jay Caselberg Kardell glanced up at his reflection in the beveled glass café mirror. He looked at his reflected image often, as he passed it in shop windows, in the half-shadowed side panels of cars while he waited at the lights, even in the shiny surfaces of appliances at home. The watching was like a compulsion that walked with him everywhere. He lifted a hand, slowly pulled down the lower lid of one eye with his finger, and checked the white. Some discoloration there, but only slight. It could be the patina of the aging silvered mirror back, giving the lie to something not there. He couldn’t be sure. Carefully, he traced the lines around the side of his mouth. Perhaps they were a little deeper, but it was morning and he always looked worse in the morning. There was definitely a touch of gray at his temples. No doubt about it. She Climbs a Winding Stair by Scott Nicholson Outside the window, a flat sweep of sea. The ocean’s tongue licks the shore as if probing an old scar. Clouds hang gray and heavy, crushed together by nature’s looming anger. In the distance is a tiny white sail, or it might be a forlorn whitecap, breaking too far out to make land. I hope it is a whitecap. Because she may come that way, from the lavender east. She may rise from the stubborn sandy fields behind the house, or seep from the silver trees beyond. She could arrive a thousand times, in a thousand different colors, from all directions above or below. Chamber of the Gods by Gord Rollo and Brett A. Savory "For Christ’s sake, Sims . . . get a grip, will ya? I told you already, there’s nothing the matter with you that a good hour in the tank won’t cure.” “I don’t know, Doug,” Sims stalled, halfway down the plush carpeted walkway exiting the cockpit of the Air Transat L1011 wide-bodied jet, flight 407 from JFK in New York, having just touched down at Terminal 3 of Pearson International in Toronto, Canada. It was 2:25 p.m., Friday May 26, the temperature a gorgeous 78 degrees Fahrenheit, and the sun shining brightly in a cloudless, azure sky. Another picture-perfect spring day in Southern Ontario, other than the fact that Captain John Benjamin Sims, veteran pilot with twenty-four years of impeccable service, had just come within seconds of killing all 193 souls aboard his aircraft. “You read too many science fiction novels. Relax . . . this isn’t Altered States, John, this is the real world. I’ve been using them for years. They’re harmless.” Acceptable Losses by Simon Wood The landing craft bobbed clumsily on the waves. The damned things were so unstable when they didn’t have a full accompaniment of men to act as ballast. Captain James Clelland’s six-man team was no substitute. The ride back would be better. The boat would be full. Larry Slaughter and the Order of the Beatniks by Alfred Taylor They led me into court wearing an orange jumpsuit and heavy metal handcuffs. The story of my arrest made national news. When someone with the last name of “Slaughter” is arrested for murder, it makes headlines. Tonight however, the courtroom was clear of reporters. It was a closed courtroom to protect my privacy. As if an institution that made me crap in front of twenty other guys cared about my privacy. It was more about protecting their evidence, and their butts, than it was about protecting my privacy. But I let them have their illusions, since this wasn’t really a trial, but a pre-trial hearing to determine my sanity. Most people don’t believe that the coffee-house I was arrested in had more than mocha and french roast on the menu. The Wood, the Bridge, the House by Marie Brennan Roger pulled his Explorer into the lot of Deleon State Park and turned off his radio. He sat there for a few moments, digesting the latest news. Terrible. Things were getting worse, much worse... Sleight of Nature by Darren Speegle There was no mention in the Trier Morgen of a Volksmarsch in Denheim that Saturday. I always checked the recreation page, in case a hike that interested me showed up on the calendar. That weekend the nearest one was in Irrel, ten kilometers or so to the south. Yet there they were, six or eight persons seeming to huddle just outside the vapors of my morning coffee. In reality the mist had come down off the hill, as it did every morning, settling on the fields that formed the valley floor. The group loitered at the junction of the trail that ran along the river. The mist was densest there, combining with the Prum's own breath to form a cloak over all. Winter was loath to relinquish its hold. My horses stood like ghosts themselves, Peter having let them out while darkness still pretended to reign. The Tattletail by Ian Rogers "Dad, I need a demon." John Smith lowered his copy of The Paranormal Times and looked at his son. Twelve years old but small for his age; soft blue eyes magnified by outsized horn-rimmed glasses; thin, almost feminine lips, carefully neutral, nothing like the petulant frown Lizzie used when she wanted something. "A demon? Whatever for?" The Wind by James S. Dorr The wind whistled counterpoint to the sirens as I stood at the side of the highway, watching numbly. I was still deputy coroner then, with only a month to go until retirement. With any luck this would be my last case — a straightforward auto accident victim, her body crushed almost beyond recognition when her Pinto had left the road and wrapped itself around the one tree for nearly a half mile. The one God cursed tree that stood up from the flatness of dust-covered fields. Terror from Middle Island by G. Durant Haire and Stephen Mark Rainey I baptize thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” The boy felt his body being lifted from the frigid river, and when his water-filled eyes were able to distinguish shapes amid the crystalline sparkles of afternoon sunlight, they saw Reverend Wolfe’s full-moon face beaming proudly back at him. He wiped his face and gulped refreshing air as his feet sought and finally found purchase on the gritty river bottom. “Now go in peace and may the blessings of the Lord go with you,” the minister said, patting Tom Mayworth fondly on the shoulder. Tom splashed his way to the bank, where his mother and father waited for him with expressions of ecstasy, as if his baptism represented their own personal raptures. Of course, they were thrilled to see this day come, and even he was happy enough to be confirmed as a child of God; now that he had turned 12, though, his most fervent hope was that Miss Anne Cheshire, age 15, would no longer consider him a child at all.
Writer at Large by Richard A. Lupoff Damon Knight wrote the best and worst rejection slip of all time. I never received this one from him, but I knew people who did. Here’s the entire text: The Cryptic Plain of Jars by Bryan Thao Worra Laos is considered by many to be one of the last pristine corners of the earth, the only landlocked nation of Southeast Asia, surrounded by China, Vietnam, Cambodia and Thailand. There, vast stretches of wilderness sprawl untouched by the feet of casual visitors. Few know that during the 1960s and 70s, the CIA organized a clandestine army of mountain tribes, from the Hmong, Iu Mien, Tai Dam and almost 60 other regional minorities to combat the communists seeking to use the country as a secret freeway into South Vietnam. During the war, the United States dropped more tons of bombs and explosive ordnance on Laos than were dropped on all of Europe during World War II. Welcome to the Film Vault. Each issue presents three commentaries on unusual, overlooked, or condemned films. The commentaries are those of the critics, who are not allowed to discuss the film with each other beforehand. The three critics are Jeffrey Thomas, the author of the collection Punktown and the novels Monstrocity and Everybody Scream!, Steve Vernon, the author of the upcoming collection Nothing to Lose , and Michael McBride, author of Zero, Species, and Species II: The Hive. This issue features commentaries on the film The Machinist (Paramount, 2003). Jeffrey Thomas Says:
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