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In the September issue of Fantasy Magazine: Short fiction by Amal Singh (“What is Mercy”) and KP Kulski (“An Arrangement of Moss and Dirt”); flash fiction by Addison Smith (“Sounds for Crustaceans”) and Mark S. Bailen (“Lost Portals”); poetry by Oluwatomiwa Ajeigbe (“The Herbalist”) and Daniel Ausema (“The Forbidden Path to Forgetting”); and an interview with Jennifer Marie Brissett.
Cover art by Thana Wong / Adobe Stock Image
In this issue’s short fiction, Amal Singh gives us a difficult reality check in “What Is Mercy,” and K.P. Kulski’s “An Arrangement of Moss and Dirt” reminds us to be careful what we wish for; in flash fiction, Addison Smith introduces us to a couple coming out of—or into—their shell in “Sounds for Crustaceans,” and Mark S. Bailen has a fresh perspective on portal stories with “Lost Portals”; for poetry, we have “The Herbalist” by Oluwatomiwa Ajeigbe and “The Forbidden Path to Forgetting” by Daniel Ausema. Plus an interview with Elysium and Destroyer of Light author Jennifer Marie Brissett. Enjoy!
“I’m a crustacean.”
Disbelief meets my gaze, then moves away. Jewel looks to the shells that decorate my room, the aquariums, the marked-down netting draped over my window. She looks to anything to save her the embarrassment of meeting my eyes, or the trouble of telling me I’m just a person, like her, like anyone. When she finally meets them, it is with resignation, and I know I’m being humored.
In this issue’s short fiction, Amal Singh gives us a difficult reality check in “What Is Mercy,” and K.P. Kulski’s “An Arrangement of Moss and Dirt” reminds us to be careful what we wish for; in flash fiction, Addison Smith introduces us to a couple coming out of—or into—their shell in “Sounds for Crustaceans,” and Mark S. Bailen has a fresh perspective on portal stories with “Lost Portals”; for poetry, we have “The Herbalist” by Oluwatomiwa Ajeigbe and “The Forbidden Path to Forgetting” by Daniel Ausema. Plus an interview with Elysium and Destroyer of Light author Jennifer Marie Brissett. Enjoy!
My grandfather was a herbalist— / he mixed rare leaves and seeds, ground them together / & when he was done, he smeared the mixture on my forehead. / This will protect you from evil spirits, He said.
Being powerless and voiceless for too long creates a weird dissonance. So when a ray of hope actually presents itself, it comes as a shock. It’s only when that initial feeling of shock and helplessness abates that one can learn to pick up the pieces and move on.
In a furniture showroom in Stockholm stood a large wardrobe called a Kleppstad. It was made out of cheap particle board and wooden pegs. If the shelves were removed and a person scrunched inside, the back panel would disappear and a passage would open into the shuddering woods of Myrkvior, where the highland trolls dwell. But a forklift backed into the wardrobe and it was taken to a dumpster.
To trace the taboo labyrinth, sneak / past the frigid swells, between breakers, / make your way / up the pebbled strand, bare feet bleeding.
But in my case, during summer, I had one of those days. From my bed I could see my daughter playing in the yard. Very much like the protagonist in “Moss and Dirt,” I watched her play—worried with normal mom concerns and feeling a bit down that I couldn’t spend the day with her too.
I began writing as a coping method, sneaking out of bed at night to work at my computer. I wasn’t sleeping much, anyway. This went on for a few years. I wasn’t doing it seriously, just writing what came to mind. There may have even been a novel attempt in there. I never showed anybody anything. It was just for me.
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