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    Child of Words Issue 2
    Child of Words Issue 2
    Child of Words Issue 2
    Ebook124 pages1 hour

    Child of Words Issue 2

    By Big Pulp

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    About this ebook

    Child of Words is the new SF&F magazine from Big Pulp. Published twice annually, each issue contains a mix of science fiction and fantasy fiction and poetry.

    This issue features:
    "Mercier’s Flight" by Alexander F. Burns
    "Fashionably Early" by Conda V. Douglas
    "Crossed Signals" by Mira Desai
    "Atakapa Sunset" by Willis Couvilier
    "E-Life" by Tony Haynes
    "A Decade Later" by Shane M. Gavin
    "Pwned" by Shaun O. McCoy
    "Sleepaway Camp Survivors Journal Entry #36" by Clay Waters
    "The Curse of Zeno the Hellene" by Robert Quinlivan

    And poetry from L.B. Sedlacek & Daniel W. Galef

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBig Pulp
    Release dateSep 13, 2014
    ISBN9781311326751
    Child of Words Issue 2
    Author

    Big Pulp

    Since 2008, Big Pulp has published the best in fantastic fiction from around the globe. We publish periodicals - including Big Pulp, Child of Words, M, and Thirst - and themed anthologies.

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      Book preview

      Child of Words Issue 2 - Big Pulp

      Child of Words

      Science Fiction and Fantasy

      September 2014

      Big Pulp Publications

      Bill Olver, editor and publisher

      Bill Boslego, associate editor (editorial)

      Guy Thomas, digital assistant

      contact: childofwords@bigpulp.com

      Cover illustration by Caroline Parkinson

      Child of Words Vol. 1, No. 2

      September 2014

      ISSN 2333-7982 (print)

      ISSN 2333-7990 (electronic)

      Child of Words is published twice yearly in March and September by Big Pulp Publications.

      All credited material is copyright by the author(s). All other material © 2014 Big Pulp Publications.

      The stories and poems in this magazine are fictitious and any resemblance between the characters in them and any persons living or dead—without satirical intent—is purely coincidental.

      Reproduction or use of any written or pictorial content without the permission of the editors or authors is strictly forbidden, with the exception of fair use for review purposes.

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

      Thank you for respecting the hard work of our writers.

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      FICTION

      Mercier’s Flight by Alexander F. Burns

      Fashionably Early by Conda V. Douglas

      Crossed Signals by Mira Desai

      Atakapa Sunset by Willis Couvilier

      E-Life by Tony Haynes

      A Decade Later by Shane M. Gavin

      Pwned by Shaun O. McCoy

      Sleepaway Camp Survivors Journal Entry #36 by Clay Waters

      The Curse of Zeno the Hellene by Robert Quinlivan

      POETRY

      The Julian Period by L.B. Sedlacek

      Macramé by L.B. Sedlacek

      Earth’s Last Stand by L.B. Sedlacek

      Magical Thinking by Daniel W. Galef

      L.B. Sedlacek’s poetry has appeared in publications such as Pure Francis, The Broad River Review, Main Street Rag, Third Wednesday, The Speculative Edge, Mastodon Dentist, Illumen, and others. She publishes a free poetry newsletter resource for poets, is a former Poetry Editor for ESC! Magazine and is the author of 10 chapbooks. Her latest chapbook is The District of Confusion (the Washington DC poems).

      ______________

      THE JULIAN PERIOD

      7,980 years.

      It

      all

      began on Jan 1st

      4713 B.C.—

      the basis (chronological)

      for

      the

      study of

      ancient history.

      Joseph Scaliger

      (a scientist, maybe?

      but definitely a historian)

      came up

      with it

      in 1583

      to

      reexamine

      the past

      to

      find out

      how

      we

      really

      got here

      or maybe

      he lost

      someone named

      Julian

      traveling through time

      in search of

      bouncing green men

      cheese on the moon

      or maybe

      Genghis Khan or Einstein

      traveling in a phone booth.

      Could he have found a

      pool party on Mars,

      a fast food restaurant

      on Saturn,

      a drive-in

      on Pluto,

      a diner

      on Mercury?

      Did he take a

      Route 66—the Mother

      Road—through

      the planets?

      No matter.

      To find the Julian

      period add 4,713

      to any year.

      To find Julian,

      now that’s a

      different story.

      ______________

      MACRAMÉ

      encoded message

      you’ll find at the lowest point

      fate, a holy beggar

      a popinjay

      all subject to a sirocco

      cleansed by borax

      colored henna

      maybe alchemy or

      transmutation could break

      the cipher

      a secret answer

      (not to the elixir of life)

      but one that says

      "the creature is

      unable to escape."

      ______________

      EARTH’S LAST STAND

      Multiple bottles of ketchup,

      steak sauce and hot sauce fill the

      tables of this dining room

      a culinary frontier forest

      undisturbed in this ice-cold chamber.

      The humans multiply rapidly

      demanding food, fuel and sauce

      with no inclination they are being

      chipped away unable to control

      who’s left, who remains.

      It is known as the frontier forest

      built for study, built for preservation

      the home to this small human population

      undergoing controlled biodiversity

      including grizzly bears and caribou.

      The relentless march of human activity

      became a growing interest for the underground—

      their first goal protection and maintenance

      their second goal proactive planning

      their third to choose what remains.

      #

      (back to table of contents)

      Alexander F. Burns lives in Fort Worth, TX. He writes because he doesn’t have a basement in which to build robots or time machines. His work has appeared at Every Day Fiction, The Future Fire, Big Pulp, and other fine online journals. He can be found online at afburns.com.

      ______________

      MERCIER’S FLIGHT

      Adela Mercier leapt the last barricade and dropped into the trench—the beast’s shadow swallowed her own as they raced down the far wall. She tucked and rolled as she hit the packed dirt floor. A gust of wind buffeted her against the far wall, and she was grateful for the extra padding stuffed into her uniform.

      Adela coughed on trench dust and tugged her helmet back into position. The dragon was small, only a ten-footer, but still fierce enough to rip her to shreds. Trained specifically to kill runners and messengers, its size allowed easier passage through the constant barrage of artillery and flak bombarding No Man’s Land and the skies above. The golden insignia for the Kaiser’s Drachekavalleria glowed across a booming chest of adamantine scales. Talons as large as Adela’s forearm scrambled to arrest its forward momentum even as the wings tucked back to minimize its profile to snipers. Black eyes found her quickly amongst the trash and abandoned equipment scattered through the narrow trench.

      The dragon’s head burst an instant before she heard the boom, and a flurry of rifle fire shredded the proud chest. Wings spasmed and the dragon collapsed, the ruined end of its neck pouring blood.

      English soldiers dropped into the trench and dove at the dragon to pry at its claws or scales with their bayonets and knives. None of them noticed her—or, more likely, didn’t care—in the course of their butchery.

      She hauled herself up the ladder out of the trench, grateful for something to still her shaking hands. A gunnery sergeant nodded at her as his crew cleaned and reloaded a still-smoking cannon. Merci, she muttered in a gruff approximation of a man’s voice. She wondered if they had, in fact, seen her attacker long ago, and simply used her as bait for a sure kill, but decided there was no comforting answer to the question. She hurried away, keeping her head low and counting on her Messenger Corps badge to keep interference to a minimum.

      Beyond the front line of trenches bordering No Man’s Land, English and French troops huddled behind snow-topped ditches. Trucks bounced across the pitted remnants of an old dirt road. A steel golem, twenty feet tall and almost as wide, lifted a shattered locomotive engine from nearby railroad tracks.

      Southeast, across the river, was Allied headquarters, and lines of artillery stretching to the horizons; she could hear the weaponry’s booming reports. Adela’s destination was just a few kilometers east. She only needed to get beyond the immediate perimeter of troops.

      A squadron of Belgian cuirassiers camped in the hollowed-out remnants of old Donatien’s Inn, smoking and polishing their dragons’ scales. One painted a fresh dark slash across his mount’s flank as it contentedly gnawed on a bone the size of Adela’s entire leg. Another sat on the porch, cleaning his pistols. He looked up as she passed, watching her with tired eyes. Their country overrun, Belgian survivors had scattered amongst the rest of the Allied forces, hanging around whatever company would have them. A fresh addition to the local garrison, they had an air of desperation about them. The Inn had been home to a hospital when she came by here before; the roof still bore the cross, and a wrecked ambulance lay nearby.

      Ride to headquarters, sir? the Belgian called in atrocious French. Of course she would. Or a real messenger would. For a moment, she even considered it, her eyes darting to the majestic creature who glanced up at the voice of its master. She’d never flown.

      Ce n’est pas nécessaire, monsieur, Adela muttered, shaking her head. My orders are for Brigadier Thomas, but a short walk. She hoped both that her husky voice would hold and that Thomas was still alive and stationed at the church up the road. She winced as he followed her.

      The officers’ billet was hit just hours ago, he called. A gnomish mole squad. I understand losses were grave.

      Adela clenched a hand around the scrollcase strapped to her chest. She slowed, but kept her face turned to the ground. Do you know the status of the Brigadier? Who is in charge?

      I know the new temporary camp has been established, a few kilometers south of here in one of the old bunkers, he said. "I can get you there in minutes. It is the only way to travel, especially with the, ah, mol armor burrowing about beneath our very feet."

      The thought of gnomes tunneling through the ground—the countryside where she’d grown up, where her family had farmed for generations— sent a shiver up her neck. Small, filthy creatures, driven from France centuries

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