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Edition 6: Endangered Species X by Guy Prevost
This story was the second placing for the 2012 Story Quest Short Story competition, a disaster tale with a science fiction flavor. Two men at sea, working to clean up oil slicks, encounter an unexpected sea creature. Their concern for the animal may be misplaced. Perhaps they should be concerned for themselves… SY
They were five miles from shore on the trawler and it was Hollis who first saw the slick. He signaled from his lookout on the starboard bow.
In the pilothouse Cody throttled down and scanned the horizon. He discerned not one but two pools of oil each about a quarter mile wide, separated by a channel of clear water. The oil didn’t glisten, as you might expect. It was just a shade darker than the ocean surface. Cody could see the entire circumference of each slick. The contours reminded him of the terrain maps he’d used in Iraq.
Hollis stepped back from the foredeck, momentarily lost his footing, then recovered and made a theatrical bow. Cody smiled, though he had been a bit concerned when his former college roommate had arrived at the dock that morning: he’d put on considerable weight. He hadn’t seen him in several years, ever since Hollis had gone down to Galveston to work quality control for a chemical company. It was a desk job, sure enough, so that must have accounted for the added girth.
Edition 6: Faye’s Diner by J.T. Seate
Faye’s Diner by J.T. Seate was placed third in the 2012 Story Quest Short Story Contest, and was deservedly given a winning award. This subtle horror piece explores the theme of the uncertainty of death, in a ‘down home’ setting. GH
Faye’s Diner was a haven for old timers. They got together to play games; talk about who’d died, or how the world was going to hell in a handbasket. The biggest event ever at Faye’s was when the twenty-one year young Judy Beth Dinglehooper came into the place, climbed on a tabletop, and took off her clothes to encourage donations for a one-way ticket out of town. Wearing only her red slippers, she’d raised enough for at least a start.
Three years had passed since that classic morning. The table she’d climbed on top of was still held in an odd kind of reverence by those who knew the story. Those who’d been in the diner for Judy Beth’s performance marveled at how quickly those three years had flown by. Lord, how time flew for old duffers.
By nine o’clock in the morning, the dining room smelled of men and fried onions. The usual crowd passed along greetings while Faye made the rounds with her coffee pot. The men ranged in age from mid-sixties to eighty, mostly Social Security wards. Josh Potts and the slightly cross-eyed George Fraily were already shoving dominoes around a plastic checkered tablecloth while they sipped coffee and waited for their orders of ham and eggs. Josh nibbled on the thumbnail of the hand holding a domino while George patiently waited for him to make a play. Josh’s turd-brown, porkpie hat, with the brim bent up in front, perched atop his head in glaring conflict with his faded blue overalls. He was a character seldom at a loss for words.
Edition 6: Caldera by Joshua D Moyes
Moyes’ short story, Caldera, was shortlisted in the 2012 Story Quest Short Story Contest. The judges were impressed with the evocative imagery of a believable disaster of immense proportions in the US, as well as the story developing to something beyond… GH
Charlie’s tracks are no longer visible. Only a couple hours ago they were there, the edges softening and crumbling in on themselves. Now they have filled in completely. The front yard, the street, the baseball field on the other side of the street, everything: blank.
Not a trace he was ever there.
The flakes keep falling, big and soft and light. You can blow on them as they come down and they eddy and drift like froth. Like smoke. They fall clumped together, some clusters the size of a human head. It piles up as it has been piling up for three days. The second day it built up higher than the floor of the porch and then later it spilled over, fluffing out over the porch and crawling its slow way toward the door. You could almost believe it is snow.
Last night Charlie decided to go for help.
We packed for him, mostly clothes. Water we scooped into canteens from the bathtub. Several handkerchiefs to tie around his face. He wouldn’t take much food. Said he could pillage abandoned convenience stores he came across, and I would need as much as we could save. He didn’t know when he would make it back.
Edition 6: Strike Day by Marie DesJardin
Marie DesJardin’s Strike Day deservedly took first place in the 2012 Story Quest Short Story Contest as the judges felt that she sensitively wove an apocalyptic event into a person’s – and family’s – everyday life. It juxtaposed the worst possible of events with daily life, and a man’s love of his family. GH
Nate woke earlier than usual. He lay still, his gaze tracing the rough-cut boards that formed the ceiling of his bedroom. Pat either noticed his shift to consciousness, or was wakeful herself. She turned her head on the pillow, her eyes meeting his through a downy mass of hair. For a moment they simply looked at each other, then she leaned forward to kiss him lightly. The gesture had a feeling of finality, and Nate quickly turned away.
Pat stroked his hair. “So. Any change of plans for today?”
Nate stared at the ceiling. “Milk’s got to be delivered.”
“Even today?”
“It might miss.”
Pat hesitated. “I suppose.”
Edition 7: My Trip to the Circus by Jason Lairamore
A simple scouting trip for new acts ends in death. But the performers cannot forgive or forget. A trip to the circus is not what it once was. SY
A little boy sat in the bleachers with his eyes riveted to the three circles where soon the circus troupe of Mavin, McClearly & MacKaub would perform. His mother sitting beside him was a petite thing of short stature with straight blond hair and near perfect posture. She’d point and say something and the boy’s eyes would widen and he’d clap as he jumped up and down. A great dimpled smile never left his pale, freckled face.
I’d never forget that, not ever, and even if I did, I now had it recorded. That boy and his mother had just shown me one of life’s most precious moments. It went to show what the innocent wonder of a child could do to a fully prepared adult, even one whose sensibilities were as used and worn as mine.
With a thought toward my government-grade, fully enclosed and VR enabled I-Wear specs, I retracted focus from the boy and his mother and brought the complete scene into view. From where I sat at the very top of the stadium seating in the great public auditorium of Chester, Virginia, I could see everything, even in the failing light of the setting sun. And with the help of my I-Wears I could hear anything I chose from wherever I chose within a five mile radius.
“Excuse me, sir.”
I jumped from my seat, my hands up and ready, with knees bent and feet pointed toward my enemy. The training received from the I-spec surveyors school kicked in without conscious effort. The owner of that voice had snuck up on me somehow. That was impossible. My I-wears had built in sensors to prevent such a thing from happening.
Edition 8: Eyes of the Child by Robert Harkess
Alice is thought to be psychic and she revels in her power over other people. Why then is she chilled to the bone from one chance encounter with a stranger? She will be called on like she never has been before, and will have to use her abilities to prevent a tragedy. SY
“So you don’t agree with people who say you are the reincarnation of Doris Stokes?” Last asked. She had expected the weasely little reporter from the Hertfordshire Weekly Gazette to be scratching at a pad with a pencil, but instead he was waving some kind of fancy mobile phone under her nose to record her. She wondered if the clicking of her knitting needles would make the interview difficult to hear. Part of her hoped it would.
“Oh, no, dear,” said Alice, clickity-clackety and a little sharp jerk to pull more wool from the bag at her feet. The reporter ran his finger behind his collar again. She liked to keep the flat toasty warm, and he was still wearing his outdoor coat despite her suggestion that he take it off when he arrived. “You won’t feel the benefit when you go back outside,” she had said.
“No, not Doris. Doris was a bit flashy for my taste, if you see what I mean. All that nonsense with television shows, and places like the Albert Hall, and all those things she did abroad. No, not for me. I just like to meet people and pass on any important messages.”
Edition 7: Surface Stars by Hanson Hovell Holladay
Trapped in orbit with the world below destroyed, a single astronaut awaits rescue, alone in the dark. Not knowing whether any live, he waits, and listens to the silence. SY
Kelsey. Kelsey, my thoughts—my racing thoughts will not stop. When was it again? Twenty-nine, twenty-seven months ago? Thirty?
I witnessed the first surface star emerge from the East Coast in what looked to be Virginia. The second, third, fourth, fifth…all were separated by hundreds of miles, yet still so close. Almost immediately after the East Coast’s annihilation the surface stars were scattered throughout the globe: Eastern and Western Europe, the Soviet Union and numerous sites within its empire in Southwest Asia, China, along with many sites in its Eastern empire, England, and throughout the North American continent, most within the United States.
“Cape, this is Outer Reach,” I softly speak out to the other side. “Outer Reach broadcasting on all available S band frequencies. Is there anyone alive?” Only static through the comm, the symphony of white noise to honor our possible extinction.
I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know where to go—how to go.
The airlock you damn fool.
Edition 7: A Minor System by W. B. Stickel
Roger has the perfect life: loving wife, a writing career to envy and a loveable dog. Kept awake one night by stranger and stranger occurrences, he might find out that his life is not what he thinks. SY
The music was faint but definitely there, a droning whisper floating through the cool desert night.
“You hear that, El?” Roger Macklin said to his wife, Ellen, who lay next to him in bed, naked but for the thin satin sheet covering her. He glanced over to see what she thought but found that she was fast asleep.
“Sorry, honey,” he whispered.
Cringing, but glad he hadn’t woken her—she’d pulled a double at The Copper Queen in Bisbee earlier and deserved a decent night’s rest—he moved his attention to the bedroom’s open window and listened closer to the sound, curious if he could place its origin.
Edition 7: Digital Reflections by Kevin Rainak
Nathan is your typical college kid. Lucky for him, his datanav keeps him in line and on time. But how well does he know Maxi, his virtual companion? Is there more to her than he can comprehend? SY
“Wake up, Nathan,” came the familiar female voice of his datanav followed by a chirping alarm tone.
Nathan shifted in his bed but didn’t open his eyes. “You were supposed to have the radio wake me up, Maxi.”
“I did. You slept through it,” the voice replied crisply.
“I’ll be up in a minute.” Nathan rolled over in his bed, away from the annoying voice.
Edition 7: Unbound by Dan Hankner
Trapped on a strange planet by a cruel race of aliens, all Raleigh wants is to go home. He needs a plan, and an opportunity. Can he escape the confines of this prison and return to space, where he belongs? SY
Raleigh North wasn’t special, he was just a man, and men wanted to go home.
Six moons burned red against the night sky, illuminating the dust-swept fields. Savage gusts ripped across the hard-pan and over the bunkers where their captors huddled in fear of the brooding windstorm. Raleigh stood above ground, watching, waiting. He raised a hand to the galaxy, the rusty chains around his wrists lightly clinking like a perverse wind chime.
“It was my wish to travel those stars.”
Next to him, Cancer rubbed his wrist where his own chain dug. That’s what Raleigh called the old man; Cancer. His skin was the color of tar, and he had no face to go with his no-name; a blank mask of weathered wrinkles and forgotten dreams, if ever a man such as he could dream.
“Wish?” asked Cancer, in a voice both soft and sad. He held out his hands, as if they were something distributed. Even in the red glow, Raleigh could make out the scars curving down Cancer’s arms. Next to him, the idiot-boy showcased his own marks; slashes etched into his back. Of all the prisoners, these were the only two who spoke to him, or spoke at all. The rest were no more than husks.
Raleigh coughed into his fraying T-shirt. “We need to commandeer a frigate.”
“Frigate,” repeated Cancer with unusual clarity, until a cloud passed over his eyes, and whatever he had dredged up fell back into the pit of his mind.
SQ Mag 
