Plugs

Alex Dally MacFarlane’s story “The Devonshire Arms” is available online at Clarkesworld.

Sara Genge’s story “Godtouched” may be found in Strange Horizons.

Angela Slatter’s story ‘Frozen’ will appear in the December 09 issue of Doorways Magazine, and ‘The Girl with No Hands’ will appear in the next issue of Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet.

Read Daniel Braum’s story Mystic Tryst at Farrgo’s Wainscot #8.

Archive for the ‘Sara Genge’ Category

Purple Dead Babes

Wednesday, June 4th, 2008

You’ve come to the right place for advice, Little Sister.

The whole problem with dating humans is that you can’t let them figure out that you are a ghost.

Okay, that’s not quite the worst thing that can happen. You can always talk yourself out of ghosthood or appeal to some basic myths. Convince them that you’re the soul of a Christian martyr, thrown to the lions in the arena or something. Guys dig virgins. Or at least they dig soon-to-be ex-virgins.

The real problem arises when they discover that you’re a Cassiopeian ghost. Alien ghost doesn’t fit as snuggly in the public’s psyche. The whole purple dead babe thing–not good. I have never let them catch me purple-handed, so I can’t really tell you how to get out of that one. Seriously, how hard can it be to stay nice and pink or brown for a whole evening? If you’ve screwed up that bad, you don’t deserve to belong to the Cassiopeian Dead Women Seducers of Humans Sorority.

Oh, is that a guy listening?

Dude, this is so not about you. Or even better. Believe what you want. Something nice and comforting which will reaffirm you in your masculinity. Yes, just like what you’re thinking now. That’s right, baby. That girl who left you in High School? Wasn’t because you suck, but because she was a dead Cassiopeian and she wanted to go home. Or because her time was up and she was rotting. Whatever.

Now, when I count to three, you’re going to wake up and you’re not going to remember this conversation. Except that you’re going to feel a lot better about that girl that left you in High School. See, I’m not such a bad person; an encounter with a Cassiopeian should always give the subject something good to take back home.

One… Two… Three…

Hello, handsome.

What was your name again?

A Chevy Called Edwina

Thursday, May 22nd, 2008

It took the Chevy thirty years to become sentient.

One second, it was cruising at 60mph, in the happy oblivious haze of pre-sentient beings that have just had an oil change. The next, an insect splattered on the windshield. Quite a few bugs had collected there already. The Chevy’s owner was divorced and took a “rain equals car wash” attitude to vehicle hygiene.

But when when the Chevy tasted the bug brains being massaged in by the wipers, a synapse fired.

“My name is Edwina,” it said.

Tom heard the voice coming from the radio. He wouldn’t have given it a second though, but the radio had been broken for ten years before it’d been stolen.

“Hello, Tom. My name is Edwina.”

Tom was too good a driver to stop in the middle of the interstate. He kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel.

“Is that you, Roger?”

“Yes, but my name is Edwina.”

“Damn, boy. Always knew you were special. Gladys wanted me to sell you years ago, but I figured as long as it keeps going…”

They talked for a while. Despite Edwina’s fears, Tom didn’t take the name change badly.

“You gotta be who you gotta be, baby,” he said. By the time they rolled into Patty’s diner, Tom was using the female pronoun and flirting with his car.

“Hang in there a sec, baby. Gonna run inside to get a bite. Man, this is amazing! Do you think you could drive yourself? That would be so cool.” Tom left with a big smile on his face, muttering about them being the dynamic duo and Take that Gladys. Your San Francisco lawyer is going to be so jealous when he sees me on National T.V.

A few minutes later, Tom emerged with Patty in tow. She was still drying her hands on a dish towel. Obviously, there weren’t any other customers in the diner, or Tom would have dragged them out too.
“This it? Seems like the same filthy car to me…”

“Say something, Edwina. Tell Patty that she’s looking damn fine today.”

Edwina glared back. She was damned if she was going to flirt with Patty on Tom’s behalf.

“Come on Edwina. Are you being shy?” Tom cooed.

“This car is disgusting,” Patty said. “You can’t even see through the windshield.” Instinctively, she dragged the wet rag over the glass. Bits of bug stuck to it.

“Come on Edwina; you’re making me look stupid,” Tom hissed into the left-hand mirror.

But Edwina couldn’t answer. She was missing a critical half-ounce of bug brains. Her lights had blinked out.

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