In the February issue of Fantasy Magazine . . .
Short stories by Dominique Dickey (“Slow Communication”) and S. Fambul (“Cousins Season”); flash fiction by Allahrakhi Memon (“The Unseen”) and Julia August (“After Naxos, Ariadne”); and poetry by Bogi Takács (“The Prophet, To His Angel”) and Mark Dimaisip (“Mister Potato Head”).
This issue, I thought I’d do something slightly different. I wanted to celebrate a few authors, and I also wanted to celebrate short fiction in general. Interviews are a great way for readers to gain insight into favorite works and authors. They are also a great way for writers to find perspectives on both the craft of writing and the publishing industry. So I asked a handful of notable short fiction writers if they’d like to do a group interview.
I want my readers, specifically Black women, to walk away from this story understanding that there are always choices in life. That they do not always have to choose what has been set out in front of them, that they can always say “No” and establish boundaries for themselves and it may be scary and it may be a big unknown, but it is their lives and no one has more right to their lives than they do.
Last week, in a tangerine raincoat that did not suit her pallid skin tone, Phylicia Wimby smiled through her lies. There is an 87% chance of rain for tomorrow. Due to the high probability of unpleasant weather for the entire week, we predict the Cousins won’t be arriving until next week at the earliest, once the rain dries up. Her and all the other meteorologists in shiny citrus-colored vulcanized rubber swore to us that Cousins Season wasn’t coming for a while, that in Virginia we had more than a week to prepare.
After Naxos, Ariadne moved to Nicosia and built a new labyrinth online. Here she sits and smiles and buries her bullish secrets: where to buy building permits and apply for trademarks and government grants and benefits. How to join the fire service. Authenticating seafarers. “That way leads to an external labyrinth,” she says pleasantly. “Oh dear, has the roof fallen in? I’ll send someone down to dig it out later.”
Every day of last week, he transformed / me. Monday, I was ten / -eyed and octopedal.
Coming into my gender identity entailed undoing a lot of the messages I’d learned about femininity and power while growing up. I had to find new ways to connect to the lineage of women who made me who I am, now that I’m no longer one of them. Darla is experiencing that same tension, and is ultimately assured that it’s okay for her not to be a woman. I wrote this piece out of a desire for that same reassurance.
How pleasant your steps / upon the mountains – / I prostrate myself / in front of you like Avraham / because there could be / no greeting more precise.
Darla Revere was born to live her whole life as part of a conversation, the outcome of which she would never know. She was raised to be certain of three things: 1. The leviathan will come for you. She will come suddenly and without warning. 2. You will feel great joy and pain at the moment she contacts you. Be prepared. You may only ask her one question. 3. If you change yourself too much—if you do not bear resemblance to your mother, your grandmother, the long line of women the leviathan has touched—she may not be able to find you when it is your time.
In this issue’s short fiction, family gatherings are rendered larger than life in S. Fambul’s “Cousins Season,” and “Slow Communication” by Dominique Dickey explores a conversation over generations; in flash fiction, Allahrakhi Memon takes us on a strange journey in “The Unseen,” and Julia August’s “After Naxos, Ariadne” redefines the labyrinth; for poetry, we have “The Prophet, To His Angel” by Bogi Takács and “Mister Potato Head” by Mark Dimaisip. Plus a collective interview with a few notable short fictioneers: Christopher Caldwell, WC Dunlap, Jaymee Goh, Tenea D. Johnson, Sam J. Miller, Russell Nichols, Suzan Palumbo, Pamela Rentz, Eden Royce, and A.C. Wise. Enjoy!
A city stands on the horizon. It glitters against the hazy background of a desert, enticing you to come near, to relieve yourself from this afternoon heat and revel in the shade of its skyscrapers. You consider it. You’ve considered it for a good portion of your life.
