The Fifth Di... June 2018

By J Alan Erwine

The June issue of The Fifth Di... brings you six stories that will excite and entice you.

An artist that is nearing the end of his life, and must face the choices he has made; a man who has to make a decision between what is right and wrong, and must face the consequences of that choice; a man undergoes an experiment to have his consciousness transported into a cat in the past, and this too has unexpected consequences; a woman becomes pregnant to help the world government in a way she could never expect; Maksim Gorky visits a concentration camp, and the actions of the inmates, as well as his own actions could have massive ramifications on the future; and a prisoner who has undergone mind alteration returns to Earth, but can he ever escape his past?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nomadic Delirium Press
• Release date: May 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463770580

J Alan Erwine

J Erwine was born Oct. 15, 1969 in Akron, Ohio. Early in his life he was exposed to science, and specifically astronomy. From there on, J's passion turned to science fiction, a passion that's never died. Due to family issues, J eventually found himself in Denver, Colorado, where he still lives (well, right outside now.) From the time he could put subject and predicate together on paper, J has been writing stories. None of those early stories exist anymore (thankfully), but that passion for writing has never waned. After several years of rejection, the story Trek for Life was eventually sold to ProMart Writing Lab editor James Baker. It wasn't Asimov's, but it was a start. Since that time J has sold more than forty short stories to various small press publishers. In addition ProMart also published a short story collection of J's entitled Lowering One's Self Before Fate, and other stories, which is still available. ProMart also published a novel from J entitled The Opium of the People, which sold a few copies before going out of print. The relevance of the novel after the events of September 11th caused J to self-publish the novel, as he felt the story had a lot to say in the new reality we now find ourselves living in. Now, this same book has been re-released by Nomadic Delirium Press. Eventually J would become an editor with ProMart. Then, after the untimely death of ProMart editor James Baker, J would move on to ProMart's successor Sam's Dot Publishing. J also spends most of his time working as a freelance writer and editor. J's novel was voted a top ten finisher in the 2003 annual Preditors & Editors contest, and his short story The Galton Principle won a ProMart contest for best story over 5,000 words. In addition, a number of his stories have been voted "best of" in various issue of The Martian Wave and The Fifth DI… and have been included in Wondrous Web Worlds Vols. 2, 3, 4, and 6. In 2009, the Ephemeris Role Playing Game was released. J is the co-creator of this game, and has written numerous supplements for the game. J has now sold three novels and four short story collections, all of which are still available from various sources, including Smashwords. J currently lives with his amazing wife, three wonderful children, three cats, and a very quiet turtle.

Book preview

THE FIFTH DI…

June 2018

Edited by J Alan Erwine

Published by Nomadic Delirium Press at Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright 2018 by Nomadic Delirium Press

All stories are copyrighted in the names of their respective authors

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passes in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, broadcast, etc.

Nomadic Delirium Press

Aurora, Colorado

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Portrait (of the Artist as an Old Man) by Daniel C. Smith

Slave Ship by Eamonn Murphy

Cat’s Eye View by Matthew Spence

The Expectation by Lorelei Suzanne

Gorky at Solovki by Douglas Kolacki

Prisoner of Tycho by John Grey

Portrait (of the Artist as an Old Man)

By Daniel C. Smith

The artist grew impatient, hurrying now, as if coloring in the empty white space of the canvass was somehow akin to nearing a finish line and it was time to give everything you had in one last shot at winning.

Just a few more strokes… no no-- not strokes-- dabs… just a few more dabs…

Unframed works, stacks of morose landscapes and glum caricatures of world leaders, poor imitations of Norman Rockwell and lackluster recreations of historical events lined the walls and blocked every path of the tiny room that now overflowed from his creative efforts. He had been painting furiously for… well, quite a while now, and though he longed to lose himself among the smell of fresh cut cedar-brush savoring the sensation of sweat trickling down his brow, he always made time for one more-- he always found himself overcome by the idea that he had left something unfinished, and he always surrendered to the desire to produce one more fatuous exorcism in watercolor. An apocalyptic scene, saturated with quasi-religious imagery (his most recent proclivity) had blossomed across the innocent canvass, a study in distorted perspective and tortured aesthetics, but still he smiled with a pride borne of an artist bereft of imagination.

He was still smiling when that voice from the past called to him, a little deeper now, a little older, even more sarcastic, Your Excellency?

He turned to face his first and oldest patron, the one who had been there from the very beginning, the day that he had discovered this new hobby that he thought of as a vocation, "Sayid, whattya think? I'm in my impressionist phase-- just like… (he struggled for a name before almost shouting with little confidence)... Monet!"

With a wraith-like gracefulness Sayid hovered closer, gazed thoughtfully into the dislocated reality before him and said, Impressionist, perhaps, just like Monet, no, definitely not.

Smartass. What do you know about art anyway?

Not much, Your Excellency, I was killed when I was…

Yeah yeah Sayid-- you were six-- shrapnel severed your spine just beneath the third vertebrae and you laid under the rubble listening to your little sisters die one by one-- unable to help, you outlived them all… until you were eaten alive by rats. How many times have you told me that damned story boy?

From behind a spectre's grin Sayid sneered, I have been telling it since I was six.

The elder statesmen simply stared at his wisp-ish nemesis, looking him straight in the eye for the first time in over… well he couldn't really remember how long.

You've grown, son, I can't believe…

Sayid bellowed, I haven't grown, sir, but had I lived this is what I would look like today. My appearance here, like this, is just an illusion-- to make it easier for you.

Easier? For me? Why? I don't understand?

You will Your Excellency, you will. Soon enough.

Once the most powerful man on Earth, he felt frightened as a chill engulfed him, unusual for this time of year in Texas. From the verge of tears, he whispered, Why are you here, Sayid-- why have you been here all this time?

Every artist needs a muse, as well as a critic, Your Excellency.

And for me you're both, huh?

"Of course, Your Excellency. I notice I am no longer in your paintings-- for quite a while now-- why is that? I remember when you introduced me to the world on Sixty Minutes-- you seemed so proud-- "

The old man stammered, Ever since… a few years ago when you got whiskers… started looking more like… like...

Like someone who needs a little extra screening at the airport?

Uh huh. Silence, then, Sayid... are you from God… or…

Or… ? Sayid laughed, Lâ ilâha illâ Allâh, Your Excellency.

Somehow he understood the words and their meaning-- there is no God but God-- but the words carried no comfort, offered him no respite from the fear swelling somewhere deep inside of him… somewhere that he had never even realized existed before now.

Humbly he pleaded, Wh… why am I so cold?

The glimmering trace that was Sayid glided around the room carrying the artist's bleary vision with him until the old man's eyes fell upon the sofa and his own self,