From Modern Mythcraft to Magical Surrealism

PRIMITIVES

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Fiction

Fiction

Her Lover’s Golden Hair

by Nike Sulway

Lily’s hand is not resting carelessly in her lap. Lily’s sandy feet are not up on the dashboard. Lily’s salty hair is not blowing into a knotted, lovely mess.

In Dec. 2011 (Issue 57)

Fiction

The Swordsman Whose Name Was Not Death

by Ellen Kushner

Curious, he had asked the wounded man, “Did you slam into me on purpose?” People did sometimes, to provoke a fight with Richard St. Vier, the master swordsman who wouldn’t take challenges from just anyone.

In Nov. 2011 (Issue 56)

Fiction

Red Dawn: A Chow Mein Western

by Lavie Tidhar

The boy felt a tingling at the tip of his fingers. He saw with his inner eye: The leader rode unarmed because his power was great. The aura of Qi around him was unmistakable.

In Nov. 2011 (Issue 56)

Fiction

Christopher Raven

by Theodora Goss

Why had I come back to Collingswood? That was what I asked myself, standing on the path that led to the main school building, a structure built of gray stone and shadowed by oaks that had stood for a hundred years.

In Nov. 2011 (Issue 56)

Fiction

Seven Spells to Sever the Heart

by K.M. Ferebee

Samuel Crewe was the son of a witch. He was, in fact, the seventh son of a witch, who had herself been one of seven daughters. In fairy tales, this sort of lineage was meant to point to great strength, good fortune, and adventures.

In Nov. 2011 (Issue 56)

Fiction

The Invisibles

by Charles de Lint

Here’s what you do, Jerry says. You get one of those little pipe tobacco tins and you put stuff in it. Important stuff. A fingernail. Some hair. A scab. Some dirt from a special place.

In Oct. 2011 (Issue 55)

Fiction

Unnatural Disaster

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Horizontal rain, darkness, and a nearly empty beach. Jaclyn Tadero trudged through the thick wet sand, listening to the ocean’s waves crash beside her. The Coast Guard helicopter flew overhead.

In Oct. 2011 (Issue 55)

Fiction

Absolute Zero

by Nadia Bulkin

It sat on a tree stump the way neighborhood men sat on bar stools, surrounded by a cavalry of thin, burned trees. Max almost recognized this nightmare place as Digby Forest, a festering infection of wild land on the edge of Cripple Creek.

In Oct. 2011 (Issue 55)

Fiction

The Secret Beach

by Tim Pratt

Though I’m the kind of person who uses the self-checkout line at grocery stores just to avoid the necessity of small conversation with a human cashier, I blurted out, “Hey, where were you guys swimming?”

In Oct. 2011 (Issue 55)

Fiction

Three Damnations: A Fugue

by James Alan Gardner

I woke naked in the garden. Nothing grew there—not even weeds. Just withered stalks that looked ages old. Maybe dating back to when things were still okay. The darkness was beginning to brighten. I always came to, just before dawn.

In Sep. 2011 (Issue 54)