Strangelet, Issue 0

By Strangelet Press

Strangelet is a new journal of speculative fiction, publishing fiction, poetry, nonfiction, graphic stories/comics, and artwork that showcase the point where genre and the literary collide. Issue 0 is our debut.

Fiction:
Colin Wolcott, “The Summoner,”
Biff Mitchell, “These Eyes,”
Brendan Tynan Buck, “A Messenger Will Soon Bring Good Tidings,”
Shannon Norland, “Down,”
Sean Monaghan, “Man with Fountain Fingers,”
Joseph Lucido, “The Floating,”
Curtis James McConnell, “Evolution,”
Rebecca Ann Jordan, “Emily Nerese, 81, Dies,”
Christa Pagliei, “The Girl Underwater,”
Darius Jones, “The Ghul of Yazd,”

Poetry: Gregory Crosby, “#after,” “For Frank O’Hara,” “DOOM,”
John Grey, “We Explorers,”

Artwork:
Eleanor Leonne Bennett,
J.D. Donnelly,
Denny E. Marshall,

Cover Art:
Emily Lubanko

• Language: English
• Publisher: Strangelet Press
• Release date: May 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311235886

Strangelet Press

Strangelet is a journal of speculative fiction that publishes fiction, poetry, nonfiction, graphic stories/comics, and artwork six times a year with an anthology at the end of each year. We showcase the intersection where genre and literature collide. We want works to reveal compelling, universal truths that speak to us—from starship computers, from dragons’ mouths, and from everyday worlds tinged with miracles. Genres Strangelet primarily publishes short fiction but we also want exceptional artwork, essays, graphic stories, poetry, and reviews that explore the same space. We are looking for works of science fiction, fantasy, magical realism, and anything else that takes the reader to new worlds (or a shadowy corner of ours). Visit our submissions page for more information if you would like to be included in the journal. Visit our store and check out our subscription rates if you would like to purchase an issue. Inspirations Our inspirations include authors and artists like Ray Bradbury, Octavia Butler, Philip K. Dick, Emily Carroll, Madeleine L’Engle, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Rod Serling, and Ralph Steadman, who have broken the bounds of genre and literature (and even form) to keep us transfixed. To find out current news about submissions, upcoming issues, or to see what’s inspiring us right now, sign up for our newsletter, follow us at Twitter, Facebook, and our Goodreads page, or use the contact info below.

Book preview

Strangelet

Issue 0

Published by

Strangelet Press

Boston, Massachusetts

S

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Strangelet is a new journal accepting speculative artwork, fiction, graphic stories/comics, nonfiction, and poetry. The issue on your screen is Issue 0, the inaugural publication.

We want to showcase works where genre and literature collide. We want pieces that situate the gravity of living amid the high energy of imagination to find compelling, beautiful, universal truths that speak to us—whether from starships, from dragons’ mouths, or from an everyday world tinged with miracles.

Submissions: We accept submissions year-round. We also accept simultaneous submissions, but please notify us immediately if your submission has been accepted elsewhere.

Published works appear in both the print and ebook editions of Strangelet. We may occasionally publish excerpts from accepted and/or published pieces on our website and social media platforms.

Our goal is to notify all submitters of acceptance or non-acceptance within four months of submission. We look forward to reading your work!

For more information, visit strangeletjournal.com/submit or go here.

For future issues, please visit our website or subscribe to our newsletter for up-to-date information on Strangelet and Strangelet Press.

Ebook edition by Franco A. Alvarado

Cover art is Tornado Dawn © Emily Lubanko, emilylubanko.com

© 2014 by Strangelet Press. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations within critical articles and reviews. Rights revert to authors and artists upon publication.

Strangelet

Inaugural Issue 0, September 2014

Executive Editor

Casey Brown

Managing Editor, Business Manager, Copyeditor

Leah Alaani

Production Editor, Designer, Copy Chief, Ebook Developer

Franco A. Alvarado

Creative Director, Designer, Proofreader

Chandra Asar

Content Manager, Web Editor, Copyeditor, Proofreader

Andy Dost

Media Director

Tami Marie Lawless

Advisory Editors

Andy Dost, Timothy Ellison

Readers

Franco A. Alvarado, Chelsea Cohen, Wes Hazard, Brandy Hoelscher, Rebecca Jones, Ryan Kendall, Katherine Kollef, Elizabeth Kotz, Aaron Krol, Zaynah Qutubuddin, Laura Uhl

Editor’s Note

Presenting inaugural issue and announcing the winner of our contest, It Came from Out of the Slush!

If Strangelet were a baby mammal, it would be an elephant (but one that had fun purple tentacles and could fly). Conceived shortly after several of us returned from the 2012 Association of Writers & Writing Programs conference in Chicago, Strangelet exists because we attended a panel titled Beyond Pulp—The Futuristic and Fantastic as Literary Fiction. During this panel Matt Williamson, one of the panelists and editor of the fantastic annual Unstuck, impressed upon us the lack of journals which catered to the well-crafted yet bizarre, fantastical, magical, speculative, or just plain weird. Unstuck, he said, was receiving far more publishable stories than it could handle. That they were languishing in his slush pile was a tragedy both for their authors and for readers. Matt practically begged the audience to start literary genre journals. Matt’s words resonated with those of us who would become Strangelet’s staff. If Strangelet were a baby, then Unstuck would be its godfather.

We returned to our favorite dive bar and meeting place The Tam, located next to Emerson College—where we were pursuing MAs in Publishing—to do what all grad students full of fire and new ideas and Narragansett1 do. The Tam was where I first pitched the idea of a new literary genre rag to the others, who agreed that it was a fantastic idea. If Strangelet were a baby, The Tam would be the… well, you get the idea. Fortunately, my friends and I continued to think starting a literary journal was a fantastic idea even as we finished grad school, found real jobs, got married, and moved away from Boston.

Now we know that the long gestation period was worth it as we are bringing some fantastic art, poetry, and short stories to print. These pieces, which are each so uniquely strange, often have a common theme of loneliness running throughout them; a theme I assure you was not intentional when I selected them for our debut. Luckily, the loneliness is offset by the dark humor, whimsy, connection, love, yearning, hope, beauty, joy, and adventure found within these pages.

Finally, I am pleased to announce that the winner of our short story contest, It Came from Out of the Slush!, is Brendan Tynan Buck’s A Messenger Will Soon Bring Good Tidings. Brendan will have either his short story or up to 50 pages of a prose fiction manuscript read by a real live literary agent at the Zachary Shuster Harmsworth literary agency. We wish to thank all of our entrants and we hope to run this contest again in the future.

May your day be just a bit strange.

Casey Brown

Boston, MA

August 2014

1. I stand behind my words that Narragansett Lager is the Natty Light of New England.

Fiction

Colin Wolcott

The Summoner

Joseph Lucido

The Floating

Sean Monaghan

The Man with Fountain Fingers

Christa Pagliei

The Girl Underwater

Shannon Norland

Down

Biff Mitchell

These Eyes

Brendan Tynan Buck

A Messenger Will Soon Bring Good Tidings

*It Came From Out of the Slush! Contest Winner

Rebecca Ann Jordan

Emily Nerese, 81, Dies

Curtis James McConnell

Evolution

Darius Jones

The Ghul of Yazd

Art

Eleanor Leonne Bennett

Untitled

J.D. Donnelly

Release the Quacken!

Denny E. Marshall

The Eruption

Poetry

Gregory Crosby

For Frank O’Hara (In the Hope That He is Still Alive)

D.O.O.M.

#after

John Grey

We Explorers

Contributors

Submission Guidelines

Colin Wolcott

The Summoner

On a clear summer evening in Milwaukie, Oregon, a large black SUV pulls into the short driveway of a trim two-story affair and comes to a jerking halt. The man that steps out is young, handsome, dressed in a dark, fashionable suit and has meticulous hair. Brow knitted, eyes narrow, he slings a small satchel across his chest, throws the car door closed behind him, and without even a glance to acknowledge any neighbors that may be nearby, walks briskly to the front of the house. Pulling out a small set of keys, he chooses one. The lock turns, and he steps inside.

From the cool, tiled entry he heads upstairs, and into the expensive spare master bedroom. The suit jacket is carefully placed on a wooden hanger next to others like it, the tie is smoothed and hung. The man pulls a small notebook and pen from the satchel, then goes down to the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator and takes a small plastic pancake syrup bottle of opaque red liquid. Back upstairs, the man stops in the hallway, reaches up, and pulls a small handle attached to a string dangling from the ceiling. The narrow stairway descends smoothly. With a scowling face peering into the stagnant darkness above, he ascends the squeaking steps.

The attic above provides ample space to accommodate his six-foot plus height, and runs the length of the house. A single bulb overhead throws enough illumination to show that sagging cardboard boxes and bruised furniture have been pushed to the far end of the space, creating a cleared area near the stairs. There is a worn wooden desk here. Set under the sloping wall of the attic are a large flat-screen TV and a small white refrigerator, cords plugged into a power strip dangling from the beams overhead. An old recliner is set near the desk, its frayed fabric exposing the underlying yellow padding, with a shin-high stack of hardcover books next to it. The man glances around, then sets his notebook and pen on the desk. He steps toward the center of the space and squats down, peering intently at the floor.

A large pentagram has been drawn there, with a circle inscribed over the star, so that only the very tips of the five points extend outside its boundaries. He opens the cap on the syrup bottle and carefully traces red liquid over the flaky russet shapes on the floor. After refreshing both the pentagram and circle, he sets the bottle down and scrutinizes his work, moving around the symbol on hands and knees, back bent, face close.

The man stands up, moves to the desk, and retrieves five long white candles from a drawer. There are a number of low candle stands on the desk, and he carefully fits each candle onto one before placing them just outside the tips of the five points of the pentagram. Returning to the drawer, he puts a large black pillar candle onto one of the stands, and places it inside the circle, outside the pentagram. Eyes narrowed, he stands for a long moment over his work, staring. From the desk, he picks up a cigarette lighter and moves around the circle, lighting the five candles there, before leaning into the diagram and lighting the black candle inside. He leans back into the recliner and closes his eyes. His hands are trembling slightly. He takes several slow, deep breaths before clearing his throat, and begins to chant.

The sounds he makes are strange; the tenor and volume vary greatly, and the cadence does not seem to suggest speech conveying human thought. Long minutes he chants, pale fingers locked on the arms of the chair, until finally his oration ends. Then he proclaims two words in deep, even tones, drawing the syllables out like an announcer at a sporting event: Yog Sokaris.

The candles begin to flicker as if there is a breeze blowing outward from the center of the symbol on the floor. Inside the pentagram a thick, inky gas is being expelled from a point chest-high. It is emerging from empty space, spraying thickly upward as if under high pressure, diffusing as it settles. It does not spread beyond the boundary circumscribed there, the drawn circle marking the limits of some sort of invisible, vertical barrier.

With a resonant thud, nearly a dozen thick, tubular, grey tentacles thrust forward out of the dark fog and slam against the boundary. They twist and pulse, moving against their confines, looking like energetic oversized worms frantically searching a sidewalk for an escape from the killing sun. The darkness is lit dimly from within by a diffuse, but brightening yellow light, and out of the mist, a great fish-like eye emerges, larger than the tire on a car.

Chuck. The deep voice emanates from within the confined area. It is male, speaking unaccented English, slightly hoarse.

Chuck clears his throat again, Yog. How’s that circle this time, buddy? Think it’s going to hold?

The tentacles pulse and boom against the barrier again. The death of this planet and extinction of your species may not take place today.

The corner of Chuck’s mouth curls upward a bit, and his grip relaxes. Good news as always, man. He sits up and clasps his hands together, elbows on knees. So, Yog, let me ask you a question: Does it feel like 68 degrees Fahrenheit to you? It’s fucking August.

The caged demon is silent.

"Don’t play dumb with me. On Wednesday, you told me that it was going to be 68