Edition 19: Book Review: Waistcoats and Weaponry by Gail Carriger
Reviewed by Mysti Parker
After a long wait, I finally got my hands on a copy of the third book in the Finishing School Series. Having been enchanted greatly with the first, and slightly less with the second, I was glad to discover that this was not the final book in the series. If it had been the last one, it would have been wholly unsatisfying, so with that in mind, I have to be a little more flexible with this review.
Edition 19: The Meet by Geoffrey Collins
This is the place where it will go down. Where back-up is not a precaution; it’s a requirement. Lines are drawn in the sand, in the face of oncoming darkness and despair. SY
In every evening there is a time when the city takes a stops to take a breath. The five o’clock exodus is over and the workers are home deciding what to be instead. Shop doors are closed and locked, streetlights blink on. As the tide of the day runs out, in the ebb of its last waves, you can find things that are always there but usually hidden.
I had found a neon sign with a name in Bauhaus script that pulsed red in the puddles on the sidewalk below. The sign fronted a bar, a sub-street level affair with a grey-stone office block squatting on top of it, a narrow courtyard in front with dwarf hemlocks in terracotta pots and some wrought iron settings with the sunshades dropped, chairs resting against the tables.
For a week I had been watching the place like a hunter in a blind, subsisting on coffee and bagels from the kosher delicatessen on the corner, skulking back to a bolt-hole hotel room before dawn. People came, people went; I watched. After a few days I had called for back-up, hoping I wouldn’t be thought overly cautious. When I saw who had been sent, I knew I needn’t have worried.
“You’ve become soft,” said a voice in my ear. “I could never have come up on you before.”
Edition 19: Riding a Runaway by Andrew Knighton
A runaway train hurtling toward the imperial palace. Dirk Dynamo and Timothy Blaze-Simms have to run the gauntlet of automated foot soldiers of a madman bent on vengeance. This pulp-fiction style steampunk was another finalist in 2014’s Story Quest competition. SY
Dirk Dynamo braced himself as the train roared towards him out of the darkness, the cacophony of its wheels and the harsh light from its lamps filling the tunnel. The air was thick with coal smoke and the smell of deep earth. He was tense, coiled, ready for action.
“What a splendid sound!” Timothy Blaze-Simms shouted to be heard.
“Get ready.” Dirk’s hand dropped instinctively to his belt. The reassuring cold steel of the Gravemaker was secure in its holster beneath his fur coat. Down here he was sweating like a Prussian in the sunshine, but he’d be glad of the warmth when they got back up into the Moscow snow.
Edition 18: Notes From the Editor
Here we are, 2015! The start of a brand new year, post the season of excess and indulgence, of families and functions (both the enjoyed and the difficult).
The funny thing about the holiday season is that while it can bring us together, it can also isolate us. Often, the spirit escapes us or never has a chance. Or perhaps, as some of us do, we appreciate that time, but require a little isolation to ground and centre ourselves. So in that, we bring you a collection you can embrace.
I think Christian Chatman’s piece for our cover captures that connection between the beauty and melancholy of loneliness. In that it is pure, and awful, yet magical—a simultaneous sensation. We’re very pleased to be able to showcase his work as our cover for this edition. And please, if you think it half as incredible as we do, pop on over to his website and look at his wonderful art.
Edition 18: Ears Prick Up By Laird Barron
Rex is the pinnacle of the war dog breed. No other can match the powerful snap of his jaws or the destruction he wreaks on a battlefield. The lifelong journey of a loyal friend and his commander, and where their path takes them. A sci-fi with a delightful Roman Empire flavour. SY
1.
My kind is swift to chase, swift to battle. My imperfect memory is long with longing for the fight. Gray and arthritic in the twilight of retirement from valorous service to the Empire, my hackles still bunch at the clink of metal on metal. My yawn is an expression of doom sublimated. I dream of chasing elk across the plains of my ancient ancestors. I dream of blizzards and ice fields that merge with the bitter stars. In my dreams, I always die.
2.
I traveled far from home in my youth. Dad and I slugged it out with a whole platoon of black hats one night as we strolled across the tundra of the Utter North. Military commandos hired to assassinate us; every man and dog marked with the mark of a secret gang, scents masked in case of failure. Poor, stupid fools. Probably sent by General Aniochles who figured Dad was gunning for his job. Bet my bottom chew toy the sonofabitch made the call. He gave Dad dagger eyes whenever they chatted at court. Bastard smelled guilty to me and that’s what I knew. Well, I knew right.
I wasn’t a pup then. I wasn’t approaching my warranty date, either. My eyes glowed red with atomic radiation. My fangs gleamed in a grin that would have made a T. rex flinch, appropriately enough, because they named me, my whole series, after the terrible king extinct these many eons but unforgotten. Dad papered the walls of my kennel with color photos of dinos and wolves and exploding missiles to give me the right idea about how I should behave when he cried, “Sic ’em, Rex!”
Edition 18: The Visitors by Michelle Ann King
Edging ever closer to a new horizon, after her unwilling combination with the visitors, she waits for the inevitable. Alone and afraid, unsure of what her future holds, the daughter waits. A flash of the dilemma of the end. SY
‘It’s all right,’ they told her, when it started. ‘You’re going to be okay.’
It was even possible they believed it, in the beginning. People still got sick, after all.
She wanted to believe it too, but she didn’t feel okay. She felt feverish and shivery, aching, coming back to herself sludgily with too many toxic dreams sweating out of her pores. It felt like she’d been weaponised in her sleep. Made into a time bomb, a booby trap, a layer of microscopic destruction under a ratty, stained duvet.
Edition 18: Book Review: The Winter People by Jennifer McMahon
Reviewed by Mysti Parker
Having been somewhat unsatisfied with the creep factor in the November review book, I decided to try again for the January edition. In my hopeful search, I came across The Winter People by Jennifer McMahon. The title—quite fitting for this time of year in the Northern Hemisphere—sealed the deal. And to my delight, once I ventured into its pages, it provided the creep I wanted.
The Winter People is told from alternating timeframes between 1908 and the present day in rural West Hall, Vermont. Most of the events occur during snowy, desolate winters, under the shadow of an ominous rock formation known as The Devil’s Hand. Rather than being simple backdrops, both the setting and weather were as vivid and mysterious as the characters. This isn’t an easy thing to do, but Ms. McMahon did it well, turning this novel into a truly immersive read. Read the rest of this entry
Edition 18: The Carbonite’s Daughter by Deryn Pittar
Highly regarded by all the judges of this year’s Story Quest Short Story competition, Deryn Pittar won with a story of emerging womanhood, in an unfamiliar, post-nuclear world. It was the detailed undercurrents of resistance of the status quo and the alienating effects of religion that truly allowed this piece to shine. SY
I keep a tight grasp of mother’s hand as we hurry down the sloping passage, deeper into the mountain. My small breasts bounce and tingle. They hurt and I wish I had enough boob to wear a bra. I will soon. The walls are warm and already my heavy coat is making me hot. I want to stop and take it off but we have a train to catch.
“When will we see Dad?”
Mother stops and puts her arm around my shoulder, whispering into my ear, “Shhh. The walls are listening.”
I look around. No ears in sight. She is talking in riddles again. I look into her dark brown eyes, her Welsh heritage she tells me, and I see fresh grey hairs around her temple. Today she looks older. She kisses my cheek and smiles. The sodium lights in the passageway pick out the fine lines around her eyes. Why haven’t I notice this before? My excitement for the last month has blinded me to everyday things, but I haven’t seen my father for two years. I whisper back.
“When, Mother?”
Edition 18: Like Clockwork by Tim Major
Working for an eccentric and fastidious employer can have its drawbacks, especially when the job entails maintaining an immaculate replica of earth for the governor who never leaves his train route on Mars. The detail of Tim Major’s world and the strange characters who inhabit it recommended this story to the judges and brought it in for second place. SY
At a sound at the door, Mick Votel turned from examining the beautifully constructed, but not ticking, clock on the mantelpiece.
Danielle Abresch placed her bulky white helmet on the floor. “Damned claustrophobic thing.”
She shuffled her feet to kick away clods of dust and squinted to look around the room. The wood-panelled walls and the leafy branches that overhung the single window made the interior of the cottage perpetually dim. Gaslight from the desk lamp reflected from the clocks, barometers, brass-effect trinkets and framed pictures that hung from the panelled walls.
“Hi,” Mick said. “How are the kids getting on?”
Danielle scratched at the base of her shaven scalp. “I love how you pick up a conversation as if no time’s passed in between. It’s been another year, Mick. They’re not really kids any more. Anyway. What’s new? Like I say, it’s been a while.”
SQ Mag 
