Plugs

Kat Beyer’s Cabal story “A Change In Government” has been nominated for a BSFA award for best short fiction.

Trent Walters, poetry editor at A&A, has a chapbook, Learning the Ropes, from Morpo Press.

Jason Erik Lundberg‘s fiction is forthcoming from Subterranean Magazine and Polyphony 7.

Jason Fischer has a story appearing in Jack Dann’s new anthology Dreaming Again.

Archive for the ‘Dear Diary’ Category

Dear Diary: A Week To Forget

Monday, August 13th, 2007

Monday,

Dear Diary:

The Ministers have left and they didn’t kill anyone this time, but
Momma is pregnant and it shows. The neighbours don’t stop talking
about it. Even Susan’s mother told her not to play with me (she’s
still my friend though).

When we went for groceries a woman said:

“You would’ve thought she’d had enough with the first one, that devil
daughter of hers.” She wasn’t quiet either, she wanted us to hear.

“Well, I don’t think they’re much trouble to her, not if they come out
as easily as they go in,” said the woman next to her. I know that
lady. She lives just down the block.

I pulled Mamma’s sleeve and whispered that I’d knock them if she’d let
me, but she hushed me up and we kept shopping.

Old Beth was the only one in that store who was good to us and gave us
a fig and a godliver each. She’s been all quiet since the Ministers released her from
cus-to-dy, but she says she can’t forget how Momma got her out.

When we left the store, Momma said:

“Don’t pay them no mind. If it weren’t for me, the Ministers would’ve
burned us all at the stake. You just remember that, baby.”

Wednesday,

Dear Diary,

The whole town turned up at our doorstep. I didn’t want her to open
the door, but Momma said she wanted to “get it over with”.

They took her away. They had pitchforks and knives, but she went
quietly. I shouted and kicked, but Old Beth grabbed me and held me
back.

She returned at dawn, bald. Dear Diary, they’d cut off her hair! It
was all long and black and so beautiful you wouldn’t believe.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’ll grow back, darling. It grew back when I
had you.” Momma was crying. Don’t think I’ve ever seen her cry before.

What did the townspeople want her hair for? Whatever it was, they’re
going to pay.

Eeny, Meany, Miny, Med, Crack A God On The Head, If It Squeals Kill It

Monday, August 6th, 2007

Dear Diary,

The ministers are back, but they haven’t burnt anyone yet. Momma locked me up in my room so I wouldn’t get into fights with “those minister boys”, but Susan helped me out through the window and we went godhunting.

The ministers have shut down the Swindler’s market and taken old Beth to cus-to-dy (she’s the only one they could catch, ministers can’t run much). It’s sad about poor Beth but Momma says she was getting too old anyway.

Since the market is closed our mothers can’t sell the gods and we get to eat all the brains we want.

So, we caught a god up by the creek and I went eenie, meany, miny, med and Susan won, so she ate it. Then we caught another one and I ate it. We were playing all quiet and not bothering anyone, dear diary, so everything that happened afterwards wasn’t our fault. We were sharing the third (see, like good girls) when this minister boy pops up from behind the rocks and starts yelling and calling us cannibals.

“I didn’t call you no names!” I told him, but he kept at it, shouting that we were eating our baby-brothers.

“Oh, so now little gods are our baby-brothers,” said Susan. “And how would you know?”

The stupid minister boy started crying. “Because I remember. From when I was little.”

Well, I tell you, dear diary, we had enough of that nonsense. I took a rock and threw it at him, just to shut him up, but my aim is too good, even when I don’t pretend it to be and it hit him square on the mouth.

He blubbered like a little god, even though he was only bleeding a little and threatened to call the Inquisitives. And that’s when Susan punched him in the gut and we took off.

I slipped back into the room and Momma never knew that I was gone.

And that was that.

I sure hope that minister boy doesn’t tattle.

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