Blog Archives
Edition 12: Crawler by B. T. Joy
Delve into the mess that is Martin Serper’s mind. Having seen the creature pulled up from beneath Kingston, he finds himself slowly losing his sanity. How many legs? Why is it coming for him? Your skin will crawl. SY
He sees himself again.
Deep in the red shadows, and in the after-images of light, something is moving.
Shut up! Shut up!
He ignores the darker shapes. They are sidling, in the peripheries, through those coloured rags of illumination potent enough to seep through tight eyelids. They are easily ignored for now. And besides, he has promised forgetfulness to himself. Promised himself he won’t face what he encountered. Beneath the earth. Under the city. Not until he absolutely has to.
Edition 12: The Color of Tears by Angela Meadon
The Painter grants people a second chance, but only so long as they can keep up the repayments. Barton has one chance to save his little girl when it all starts going wrong. SY
Barton looked at the scrap of parchment he held between his fingers: 2653 Arcturus Street. The clay numerals above the polished oak door matched the number that the Painter had written out for him. Beyond the door slept a family that had been torn apart by the loss of a child. He was about to shatter their peace and tear the scab from the wound. Would his heart, his conscience be able to withstand it?
This could so easily be my door. If collections don’t pick up it will be my door, my Lilly on the other side of it.
Barton shook his head to clear the image of his unsuspecting family sleeping in their beds. He jumped when his partner laid a hand on his shoulder.
Edition 12: Death in the Dust by Rie Rose
Caruthers has worked the Moon Base for a long time, but a serial murderer is pushing the older administrator. The seemingly unrelated crimes suddenly have a pattern, but are they chasing dervishes in the moon dust? SY
“There’s a body outside Airlock Two.”
“Bloody hell. What happened this time? Bad suit?”
“No suit. Stark naked.”
“Great.” Director Caruthers sighed heavily, shoved his chair back from his desk, and offered his full attention to his visitor. What the hell was going on around here these days? Whatever had possessed him to come to the moon? “Some kid on a dare? Damn twenty-nine second morons. Awful lot of faith to put in a stopwatch.”
Edition 12: Over The Bridge by Lisamarie Lamb
The allure of the unknown is both a positive effect and a dangerous preoccupation. The author treats this beautifully in her dark childlike fantasy. SY
One day, Iris thought, she might cross the bridge. She might find out what was on the other side. But she had a fear of the trolls that her parents told her lived beneath it, and a fear of the devils that they said lived across it, and so she stayed where she was. Safe on her side of the bridge.
But that didn’t mean she wasn’t curious about the world across the river. There was something there, there had to be, or the bridge would have no use. It must have been built for a reason.
Iris would spend hours simply sitting, staring at the narrow strip of moss covered wood that separated her from the other side with all of its seductive secrets. The greenery that grew up through the wooden planks was lush and plush and showed her that no one had crossed that bridge in a very, very long time.
Edition 12: Inside Ferndale by Lee Murray
Lee Murray was the winner of the 2013 Story Quest competition. Judges were impressed with her story of young women shunted into the system, and how reform fails the best of them. While not supernatural, she invokes true horror in the girls’ plight. SY
Ferndale Hostelry for Girls: a pretty name for a juvie detention centre, and a place I’d never heard of until I came up on the last charge. It was my third offence, this time for assault on a teacher, but the snotty cow deserved it, and everyone knows the law has no teeth when it comes to teens. So I was sitting in the courtroom not worrying, picking at the frayed knees of my jeans, waiting for my parents to arrive at the hearing. Only they never did. And when Judge Eastergard realized they weren’t going to show, he sent me to Ferndale. He said, if my parents weren’t willing to take on the job of straightening me out, the state would have to do it for them.
Eastergard may as well have sent me to prison. Hell, it was a prison. One for kids. There were no cigarettes. No alcohol. No TV after ten. At Ferndale, they told me when to wake up. When to eat. When to pee. And the good-cop bad-cop thing? They had it mastered. One minute, pursed-lipped guards were checking under the mattresses and rifling through drawers, and the next, sweet-voiced counselors offered milky smiles and stupid suggestions: “Come on, Storm, we’re here to help: a problem shared is a problem halved, after all.” Silly do-gooders. They didn’t know anything.
Edition 12: Serial Fiction: Clutter Coach (Part 1 of 2) by Tom Barlow
Part 1 sees us meeting Kathy, clutter coach, who helps clean up other people’s lives but can’t control her own dysfunction. Giving into her own secret collection compulsions, Kathy comes upon a silver samovar. She may not have bargained on what the samovar brings to her life however. SY
Illustration by Gerry Huntman
Kathy struggled all through dinner with the thought of the treasures sitting curbside for any passerby to grab. Perhaps if her husband Stuart had stayed home to watch “American Idol” with her that evening, she could have put it out of her mind. But he bowled on Wednesday nights.
Edition 13: Serial Fiction: Clutter Coach (Part 2 of 2) by Tom Barlow
Part 2 and the extent of Kathy’s hoarding finally comes to Stuart’s attention. Feeling cornered, Kathy starts to push back against her husband’s controlling nature and act in a disturbing way. What spell is the samovar weaving upon her? SY
Illustration by Gerry Huntman
Stuart caught her staring at her eBay sales when he arrived home early. Before she could shut down the window, he saw the sale notification on the art deco pin she had put up for sale.
Edition 13: Like Bread by Patricia Russo
When magic is a consumable, how much value does the life that controls the magic hold? When the talent matcher receives a promising new child to assess, she hasn’t even assessed him before the offer comes. Will the price be worth paying if she cannot live with what that means for the boy’s existence? SY
My son tells me to stop dwelling on it. Obsessing, is his word. He scowls when he says it, but he means well. Deep down, he is a kind-hearted boy. I don’t want him to worry about me, so I try to remember to smile when he visits.
Havvie, who’s kept the stall next to mine in Underpass Market for nearly twenty years, says much the same. “It’s not your fault. If anyone’s to blame, it’s that kiddie’s father. Selfish bastard.”
“He thought he was doing the right thing.”
Edition 13: The Church of Asag by Cameron Trost
Gary Inglewood has been offered an exciting contract working in rural Queensland, in a small town called Isisford. His family aren’t particularly happy to be uprooted, but at least the locals seem pleased to see them. Nothing much happens in this sleepy little town; except for those events on the religious calendar, of course… SY
Isisford was just what the Inglewood family had expected—a hick-infested hell-hole in the middle of nowhere. Gary had tried to remain optimistic, thinking of it as a close-knit country town a stone’s throw from Longreach—but the stunned look on his face bore witness to his disappointment.
The over-packed station wagon rolled warily along the main street. The Inglewoods had tried to bring all of their earthly possessions with them, but even a spacious car like theirs had its limits.
They passed an art gallery, and its recycled rubbish sculptures—with beer caps for eyes—seemed to watch the family from behind a dirty display window.
Edition 13: Get Rich Quick with Digital Ink by Megan Neumann
When the body is the last frontier for advertising, what will advertisers do to ensure that their return is worth the investment?
I didn’t think our marriage would last after Jake got those ridiculous tattoos. They glowed all night, their messages flickering on the ceiling of our studio apartment: miracle hair growth, free porn, or earn money from home. I’d lay there, my eyes tired from the light. Even when covered with a sheet, I could see them. After all, they were designed to be bright enough to shine through clothing. As the hours of the night passed, the small batteries embedded in his skin lost their power, and the tiny lights dimmed. But by then, it was too late. I hadn’t slept.
“You could wrap your arms in something before you go to bed. Maybe just put on a really thick sweater,” I said, the two of us sitting on the couch, watching TV.
“I’m not going to do that, babe,” he said. “You know I hate anything on my body when I sleep.”
SQ Mag 
