Fantasy Scroll Magazine Issue #4 Read online

  Fantasy Scroll Magazine

  Speculative Fiction - Issue #4

  Featuring works by Cat Rambo, Rachel Pollack, William Meikle, Charity Tahmaseb, Seth Chambers, and more.

  This collection is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Editorial Team

  Iulian Ionescu, Editor-in-Chief

  Frederick Doot, Managing Editor

  Alexandra Zamorski, Editor

  First Readers: M.E. Garber, Day Jamison, Jennifer McGinnis, Alex Hurst, Rachel Aronov

  Cover Art: Kuldar Leement

  Published by Fantasy Scroll Press, LLC

  New York, NY

  © Copyright 2014. All Rights Reserved.

  Published by Fantasy Scroll Press LLC Publishing at Smashwords

  ISBN #978-0-9916619-3-0

  ISSN #2333-4932

  www.FantasyScrollMag.com

  Fantasy Scroll Magazine Issue #4

  December, 2014

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Fiction

  "Circus in the Bloodwarm Rain" - Cat Rambo

  "Forever" - Rachel Pollack

  "The Dragonmaster's Ghost" - Henry Szabranski

  "Restart" - William Reid

  "Feeling All Right" - Richard Zwicker

  "Universe In A Teacup" - Seth Chambers

  "Skipping Stones" - Erin Cole

  "Incriminating Evidence" - Charity Tahmaseb

  "Posthumous" - James B. Willard

  "Your Cities" - Anaea Lay

  "Seaside Sirens, 1848" - Anna Zumbro

  "#Dragonspit" - William Meikle

  Departments

  Interview with Author and Editor Cat Rambo

  Interview with Author Charity Tahmaseb

  Interview with Author William Meikle

  Interview with Award Winning Editor Lynne M. Thomas

  Artist Spotlight: Kuldar Leement

  Book Review: Half a King (Joe Abercrombie)

  Movie Review: Interstellar (Christopher Nolan)

  Game: "The Edge" by Awaken Realms

  Editorial, December 2014

  Iulian Ionescu

  Welcome to Issue #4 of Fantasy Scroll Magazine.

  Woo-hoo! We've done it! The first year is behind us. Let me take just a moment to recall what we've accomplished in this first year. We have published 4 issues, 52 total stories, 41 of which were original stories and 11 were reprints. In addition, we featured 18 interviews with authors, editors, and artists, 4 book reviews, and 4 movie reviews. Besides giving a voice to a lot of awesome, new writers, we've also included well-known names, such as Ken Liu, Mike Resnick, Piers Anthony, Cat Rambo, KJ Kabza, Alex Shvartsman, and more.

  Our website has slightly morphed into something bigger and better each month as we've listened to your comments and suggestions on how to improve it. Our readership and traffic is growing, and we're doing our best to keep you all entertained!

  As we are approaching the end of this year, our first year, I want to take this opportunity to thank everyone who helped along the way. I want to thank the staff—editors, first readers and proofreaders—for doing a great job. This magazine would not be possible without the help of these awesome volunteers. I want to thank the writers who relentlessly send us their works and I want to thank the readers for reading our magazine and spreading the good word around.

  Now, before I talk about our future plans, let me delve into the meat of Issue #4.

  As always, we have a pretty diverse selection of fantasy and science fiction stories. I feel like this issue in particular is a little bit on the light side, the stories are more uplifting than before; maybe we just wanted to end this year on a slightly positive note.

  We start the issue with Cat Rambo's "Circus in the Bloodwarm Rain," a story that deals with teenage struggle, with being misunderstood and unable to find your place in the community, all wrapped in a shroud of magic and fantasy. And since I'm here, I'd like to congratulate Cat on her new role of Vice President of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. Way to go, Cat!

  Next is a reprint from Rachel Pollack, "Forever," originally published in F&SF. This is a story where the fantastic blends with reality and the boundaries between them get diluted. It's a story of love and struggle, and dealing with loss.

  Henry Szabranski's "The Dragonmaster's Ghost" is a classic-feel fantasy story, filled with spells, ghosts, unusual places, and a strong female character.

  After this fantasy overload, we move to "Restart," a science fiction story by William Reid describing a world where time can be controlled by certain people. "Feeling All Right" by Richard Zwicker flows right in, and discusses the effects of artificially-programmed emotions.

  Seth Chambers lights up the mood with his funny "Universe in a Teacup," followed by the more serious "Skipping Stones," by Erin Cole.

  Charity Tahmaseb comes next with a poignant flash story called "Incriminating Evidence." Next is James B. Willard with his paranormal story, " Posthumous," that borders horror in a very subtle way.

  "Your Cities," is a reprint by Anaea Lay, depicting a strange future where cities come alive.

  We finish on a lighter note with Anna Zumbro's "Seaside Sirens, 1848," and William Meikle's "#Dragonspit," a story based on Twitter.

  In addition to these stories, we have interviews with Cat Rambo, Charity Tahmaseb, William Meikle, and award winning editor Lynne Thomas of ex-Apex fame and current editor of a new speculative magazine called Uncanny. We have our usual artist spotlight featuring the cover artist for this issue, Kuldar Leement. The book review in this issue is written by Jeremy Szal for Joe Abercrombie's "Half a King," the first book in The Shattered Sea series. Lastly, we have our movie review by Mark Leeper—"Interstellar," directed by Christopher Nolan.

  On top of all of this, we are experimenting with something new in this last issue of 2014: games. We did an interview with the founders of Awaken Realms, a Polish design company who created a new fantasy-based game called "The Edge." The game will be available in 2015, so in this article we are talking with its creators about the idea, the process, and the goals for the future. We hope you enjoy this segment and if we find enough traction perhaps we'll make this a permanent feature.

  So, that's it for our Issue #4! But before I say goodbye, let me tell you a few words about what 2015 will be for Fantasy Scroll Magazine.

  First of all—ta-da!—we are turning bi-monthly. Our readers told us they'd rather read us more often, so in 2015 we will have 6 issues instead of 4, with the first issue being published on or around February 1st. Our hope is that during 2015 we will strengthen our processes, become closer to a well-oiled machine, and improve our finances, all as a setup to becoming a monthly publication in 2016. So far, we are on track!

  The second big news is that we are launching our own podcast! We think that the stories we publish are so cool that they deserve an actual voice. So we partnered with a few voice actors and loaded a room with recording and editing equipment, and we're ready to go! Each of the stories for which we obtain audio rights will be produced as an audio file and distributed on the site with the corresponding issue. Then, on a weekly basis we will push the podcast episodes to the various podcast libraries, such as iTunes, Soundcloud, Downpour and so on. We hope that the listeners will enjoy our podcast and will help grow our subscription base.

  Also, sometime in 2015 we will release an anthology containing all stories we have published in 2014. We don't know when yet, but you'll be the first to know. We will do our best to do an
e-book and a print version of this anthology, but the time and the finances will tell…

  Last, but not least, we wanted to remind everyone that our magazine survives through paid subscriptions and through donations from the public. So, even though you have access to all stories for free, online, we urge you to subscribe or donate to help our magazine. It's still our goal to become a pro-zine, paying professional rates to writers, but we are not there yet. Our issues sell for $2.99 and only $9.99 for annual subscriptions, which is a really good deal. I hope you'll subscribe and we promise to keep doing what we're doing! Thank you!

  Enjoy this issue and see you all in 2015!

  Find us on the web:

  Magazine site: http://www.fantasyscrollmag.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/FantasyScroll

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/FantasyScroll

  Circus in the Bloodwarm Rain

  Cat Rambo

  I'm practicing juggling again, because it's raining outside and there's nothing else to do. Big fat bloodwarm drops drum on the tent's waxed canvas.

  In an hour, as the day's light vanishes, the circus's light will flicker to life, powered by the ancient turbine/treadmill pulled by three ponies and a servobot. Townsfolk will wander the maze of entrance gates and aisles, hesitant and eager all at once, pockets full of silver slugs and bits of circuitry and other tradeable metal.

  They'll stroll through the booths, looking at the freakshow and trying their luck at the games, winding their way toward the big top, ready to clamber up the creaking bleachers and sit to watch marvels unfold.

  This time we're within earshot of the ocean, a jungle-hugged glade near two different villages.

  I drop a beanbag and curse. I've worked my way up to four at a time, but keeping five aloft continues to elude me.

  Roto the Tiger Boy sticks his head in the flap in time to catch the last words. His whiskers twitch. He holds out a tin silently and I take it, gesture at him to sit on the floor.

  He does, closing his eyes as I apply the orange greasepaint that colors his dun fur, turning him from an ordinary cat-man to something exotic.

  What can I apply to myself, what will turn me into the exotic thing the circus just hasn't realized it needs yet? Every day I feel more out of place here. I'm a luckchild, abandoned to find my own way, and most luckchildren don't survive that first night, let alone be picked up by a traveling show. But I'm not a child anymore, and now I need to find my role or move on.

  Roto rumbles against my bare knees, warm and furry. "You're never going to make it as a juggler, Stella. Pick something else."

  I stripe my fingers through his fur. "Maybe yes, maybe no." I shrug and push him away. "You're set."

  "June wants to see you," he tosses over his shoulder. He flips a poncho over his head to shield his make-up on the way to the shelter of the P.T. Barnum Memorial Exhibit of Mythological Animals, where he'll stand inside the entrance, plastic bars between himself and the jostling patrons on their way to stare at Beulah the Snake Lady and The Amazing Brain in a Jar, finally being led out by the sign, "This way to the egress."

  I make a few more tries at keeping five beanbags going, but finally give up and head out into the rain, not bothering with a poncho. I'm not part of the circus's face; it doesn't matter whether or not my hair is wet.

  June wants to see me. What do I want? Mainly, not what June wants. She's the closest thing to a mother I have, but that doesn't mean I have to do whatever she wants.

  Still, I slap the canvas on her tent in greeting and wait.

  "In," she calls.

  When I enter, her tent smells of complicated things, of cedar dust and sandal-wood and tiger balm, of extinguished flames and the waking sea. Her trunk is unfolded into its more natural state, a set of squat chest-of-drawers, dozens of slots and labels, and the brass scale used to weigh out ingredients for her brews.

  I scowl at her. It's what everyone expects of me lately, with all their patient looks and whispers when I'm on the edge of earshot.

  Infuriatingly, she just grins at me.

  I fold my arms and look down my nose at her. She's crouched beside her cot, pulling something out. It rasps across the canvas flooring. A pack, tight-buckled.

  "Do you know what this is?" she asks.

  "Of course I don't!" This is the infuriating thing about June. She asks questions like that all the time: Do you know what will happen tomorrow? or What do you think that elephant is thinking? tilting her head to examine my face as if to pluck some truth from it that I don't know. She's been that way all the time I've known her, ever since I was a little girl.

  She ignores my tone, coaxes the buckles open. Says, "Your mother gave it to me for you," as she slides something out, wrapped in a piece of dull grey suede.

  It takes my breath away like a blow to the gut. I don't answer. Everyone here has told me over and over that they don't know who my parents were. It's like the whole world realigns but it's colored red with anger. They all know how desperately I've wanted to know where I came from. There can be no possible reason to keep it from me, other than sheer cruelty.

  I feel the roaring inside me, a spark of irritation fanned into a flame that seems to consume me. I don't say anything. I know from experience that anything I say right now will come out wrong: heavy-handed or mis-aimed or the opposite of what I meant to say.

  June looks at my face and without saying a word, slides the piece of whatever it is that into the pack. She says, "Maybe this is the wrong time."

  "Any time would be the wrong time!" I snap. "How do I even know you're telling me the truth now? Maybe this is just some sort of joke or test."

  She studies me. I can't tell from her expression what she's thinking. June is better at a totally blank face than anyone else I know. I unfold my arms and lean forward. "Are you going to give it to me or not? There's no point in talking about it, just do it or don't."

  She says, "Your mother asked me not to give it to you until you were ready."

  "And I suppose you're the one who decides whether or not I'm ready."

  She shakes her head. "No. Your mother had certain specific criteria."

  "And what changed in how I matched those criteria in between the time you open that pack and then closed it?"

  "You got angry."

  June won't say much more to me, just brushes me off and says that we'll talk again later. I hang around for a few minutes, feeling the questions bubble up inside me. What was my mother like? What did she do? How did she die? Why did she leave me here, in a circus? And who and where was my father? And, importantly, why did you keep this all from me?

  But June doesn't invite any of those questions. She starts opening drawers and taking out pinches of this and that. She puts them in a dish and gets a mortar and pestle out from a box. She's working on some cure, some medicine or preventative needed by someone here in the circus, who may or may not know they need it. That's what June does. She takes care of all of us, keeps our humors balanced and our bodies well.

  I go back out into the rain.

  It flattens my hair to my scalp, and runs down my back, tracing my spine with cold fingers. My mood is as gray as the sky, although I can feel that anger still smoldering somewhere underneath, ready to flare up again.

  Right now we are into full out evening, and the air is rich with the smell of popcorn and pork rinds and beer. The fairy lights flicker all around me, frayed wires handed down by generations since the Last War, glowing cold and casting shadows in lilac and pink and gold and blue.

  Did any of those long ago people dreamed that it would come to this? When they were conquering the world and designing the under people to serve them, did they ever wonder if one day their descendents and the litter of those cat and dog and cow people would coexist, trying to get by in a landscape they would find barely recognizable?

  Did they think some of those children would become mutant mages, capable of changing reality? What does it say about humanity that now we've got wizards an
d demons and all sorts of magery?

  Carrie's got a boombox going, blasting out The Rolling Stones, twitching a crowd of dancers into motion inside her charmed circle. She wears her performer's outfit, bits of gauzy, spangled tulle and silver spray-painted slippers, looking like a storybook princess, dancing under an enormous umbrella, also painted silver. All around her, the rubes are dancing in the rain, shoes squelching through the mud, giving way to her siren magic. Tomorrow morning they'll wake sleepy and full of happy memories of that dance.

  I want coffee. I duck behind the fortune teller's tent and start making my way toward the old silver airstream trailer that holds an always steaming urn. At least here in the southern lands, coffee's plentiful.

  I'm about to round a corner when words stop me. Not someone hailing me, but my name spoken out loud, followed by, "She could be a danger."

  I don't want to stick my head around the corner, but I'm pretty sure I know who that voice belongs to anyhow. Edo the circus accountant is always trying to cut costs. He doesn't think I pull my weight, that I don't earn my share of each evening's take.

  I try to fill in where I can. But this circus is such a well-oiled machine, that often there is no place that I can fit. Maybe Edo is right.

  If my mother was a circus performer, she might have been one of the ones that held a share in the circus overall. If she did, that would be mine, and Edo wouldn't be able to contest my presence here.

  Anyway, what did he mean that I was a danger? I knelt down, pressing against the side of the tent, despite the raindrops that transferred themselves to me in the process, and peeked around the corner.

  "I know."

  Those words came from someone with a great deal more to say about things than Edo. Lorelei inherited the circus recently, under tragic circumstances when we'd gone off the road in an area down south much less policed than here. She was still feeling her way through things.

  But if she knew this secret, that my mother had been a circus member, then what did that imply? Did that mean that everyone except me knew what was going on?