By fiction editor Jalyn Fiske Writing is such a slithery thing these days (or, perhaps it has been since days began). Markets want this kind of story, editors want that, and instructors teach something else entirely. I’ll give my two cents as Fiction Editor on what we’re looking for specifically at James Gunn’s Ad [...]
Sometimes, I think I can stop Time, you know? Almost. (I wish I could.)
All Alice ever wanted was to hear them sing. That's what I told her father, when they brought me to him, after what happened in Guam. At first, he just stared at me, like I was some bug he was tempted to pull the legs off, one at a time. Then he started talking.
"When we are done here you will be killed," said Director Emmet Peterson of Best Possible Life, Inc. Hearing this, Asher leaned back in his chair, casually rested his hands in his lap and began to swivel ever so slightly from side to side, the tension in his shoulders melting with each subtle twist. Still, he made sure to knot his brows for the Director's benefit.
Jaime was born on the same day a ladder descended from the sky off the coast of Atlantic City and dipped, like a toe, into the ocean.
A timebolt. I don’t know what else to call it. I imagine it sped from the void with random trajectory, arcing through systems unhindered before Earth and my family in that car, ignoring my once Newtonian mind, and finding me quite by chance. An impossible accident from the heavens.
“Do you know any songs, Fisher?” There seemed to be more weeds than water holding up the boat. Each time the oar came out, it had a new wrapping of shimmering green hair.
The thing on Susan's doorstep was a grim parody of human form. It stood seven foot tall—its skin pale, ill-fitting, and criss-crossed with scars. Hard, deep-set little eyes were framed by scant black hair that hung loosely around its asymmetrical face. “Don't be alarmed,” it said.