Something Wicked Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two
ALSO BY INKLESS MEDIA
Something Wicked SF & Horror Anthology Vol. One
Something Wicked SF & Horror Magazine
Issues 1 to 10
Something Wicked SF Online Magazine
All back issues available through
www.SomethingWicked.co.za
SOMETHING WICKED
VOLUME TWO
ANTHOLOGY OF SPECULATIVE FICTION
EDITED BY JOE VAZ & VIANNE VENTER
Published in 2013 by
eKhaya (Random Struik)
an imprint of Random House Struik (Pty) Ltd
Company Reg No 1966/003153/07
Wembley Square, First Floor, Solan Road, Gardens Cape Town, 8001
PO Box 1144, Cape Town, 8000, South Africa
ekhaya@randomstruik.co.za
www.randomstruik.co.za
&
Inkless Media Publishing
PO Box 15074, Vlaeberg, Cape Town, 8018
editor@somethingwicked.co.za
www.SomethingWicked.co.za
This collection and editorial © 2013 by Joe Vaz & Vianne Venter
All stories are copyrighted to their respective authors, and used here with their permission.
An extension of this copyright page can be found overleaf.
Cover design and layout by Joe Vaz
Cover illustration © 2013 by Vincent Sammy
Chapter illustrations © 2013 by Vincent Sammy, Hendrik Gericke, Pierre Smit & Vianne Venter
Story illustrations copyright © 2013 by Pierre Smit, unless otherwise stated.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, including photocopying and recording, or stored in any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publishers.
This edition published in 2013
ISBN: 978-1-920532-27-7 (South African Print)
ISBN: 978-0-9870320-1-0 (International Print)
ISBN: 978-1-920532-28-4 (ePub)
ISBN: 978-1-920532-29-1 (PDF)
For Emily...
Acknowledgement is made for permission to print the following material:
“Jack of Spades, Reversed” copyright © 2012 by Cat Hellisen. Originally published in Something Wicked issue 17, January 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Lighthouse” copyright © 2012 by Genevieve Rose Taylor. Originally published in Something Wicked issue 17, January 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Concerning Harmonies and Oceans” copyright © 2012 by K.A. Dean. Originally published in Something Wicked issue 17, January 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“She Can See Tomorrow” copyright © 2012 by Mel Odom. Originally published in Something Wicked issue 17, January 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Billy Bogroll” copyright © 2010 by David McCool. Originally published on author’s website, Dec 2010. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Of Hearts and Monkeys” copyright © 2010 by Nick Wood, Originally published in PostScripts 22/23, September 2010, edited by Peter Crowther and Nick Gevers. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“How Satan Died and the Imprisonment of God” copyright © 2012 by Summer Hanford. Originally published in Something Wicked issue 18, February 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Disposable Man” copyright © 2012 by Thomas Carl Sweterlitsch. Originally published in Something Wicked issue 18, February 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Stained” copyright © 2012 by Chris Stevens. Originally published in Something Wicked issue 19, March 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“It Pays To Read The Safety Cards” copyright © 2012 by R.W.W. Greene. Originally published in Something Wicked issue 19, March 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Ghost Love Score” copyright © 2012 by Peter Damien. Originally published in Something Wicked issue 19, March 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Book of Love” copyright © 2012 by Nick Scorza Originally published in Something Wicked issue 19, March 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Time Hangs Heavy” copyright © 2012 by Angel Propps. Originally published in Something Wicked issue 20, April 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Demons” copyright © 2012 by C.S. Fuqua. Originally published in Something Wicked issue 20, April 2012. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Trash Cans” copyright © 2011 by F.L. Bicknell. Originally published on author’s website, 2011. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Year of Our Lord” copyright © 2010 by A.J. French. Originally published in This Mutant Life issue 5, November 2010, edited by Ben Langdon. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Promises” copyright © 2013 by Grey Freeman. First printed in this anthology by permission of the author.
“Lanchester Square” copyright © 2013 by Taylor Hanton. First printed in this anthology by permission of the author.
“A Mother’s Love” copyright © 2013 by Nicole Tanquary. First printed in this anthology by permission of the author.
“Dark Emissary” copyright © 2013 by Tom Olbert. First printed in this anthology by permission of the author.
“Redemption’s Edge” copyright © 2013 by Dan Campbell. First printed in this anthology by permission of the author.
“Dance of the Furrowed Goddess” copyright © 2013 by Bruce Golden. First printed in this anthology by permission of the author.
“Double Back” copyright © 2013 by Clint Smith. First printed in this anthology by permission of the author.
“Dead Man’s Handle” copyright © 2013 by James Bennett. First printed in this anthology by permission of the author.
“Square One” copyright © 2013 by William Ledbetter. First printed in this anthology by permission of the author.
“Taal” copyright © 2013 by Abi Godsell. First printed in this form in this anthology by permission of the author.
“The Scoop” copyright © 2013 by Martin Stokes. First printed in this anthology by permission of the author.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
by Joe Vaz & Vianne Venter
THE DISPOSABLE MAN
by Thomas Carl Sweterlitsch
A MOTHER’S LOVE
by Nicole Tanquary
SHE CAN SEE TOMORROW
by Mel Odom
BILLY BOGROLL
by David McCool
HOW SATAN DIED AND THE IMPRISONMENT OF GOD
by Summer Hanford
JACK OF SPADES,REVERSED
by Cat Hellisen
LIGHTHOUSE
by Genevieve Rose Taylor
OF HEARTS AND MONKEY
by Nick Wood
CONCERNING HARMONIES AND OCEANS
by K.A. Dean
IT PAYS TO READ THE SAFETY CARDS
by R.W.W. Greene
THE TIME HANGS HEAVY
by Angel Propps
THE BOOK OF LOVE
by Nick Scorza
DEMONS
by C.S. Fuqua
LANCHESTER SQUARE
by Taylor Hanton
GHOST LOVE SCORE
by Peter Damien
STAINED
by Chris Stevens
TRASH CANS
by F.L. Bicknell
REDEMPTION’S EDGE
by Dan Campbell
DOUBLE BACK
by Clint Smith
DANCE OF THE FURROWED GODESS
by Bruce Golden
THE S
COOP
by Martin Stokes
THE YEAR OF OUR LORD
by A.J. French
DARK EMISSARY
by Tom Olbert
SQUARE ONE
by William Ledbetter
PROMISES
by Grey Freeman
TAAL
by Abi Godsell
DEAD MAN’S HANDLE
by James Bennett
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
INTRODUCTION
BY JOE VAZ & VIANNE VENTER
For those of you who may be new to Something Wicked, we started out as South Africa’s only printed quarterly genre short fiction magazine in 2006; four years and ten issues later, we morphed into a monthly online magazine (over at www.SomethingWicked.co.za) but our love of paper has brought us full circle - back to print.
Over Something Wicked’s lifespan to date, we have been thrilled to see authors we published back in our first issues become international successes, along with an explosion of genre fiction across South Africa.
We started out as the lone voice of SA genre fiction, forging our way through a very quiet and lonely landscape. Today there are several genre publications in South Africa, both in print and online, each forging new in-roads for South African (and international) storytellers.
It would be nice to think we started the trend, but I suspect the reality probably has more to do with an idea whose time had come. When we opened submissions for our first issue, we were flooded - not only with stories, but with fan mail, thanking us for creating a platform for SA genre writers. South Africa had no paying markets for writers of genre fiction at the time. Through the years, I think others have come to the same realisation we had in 2006 - that we needed to stop waiting for someone else to do it, and do it ourselves.
South African authors across the genres of crime, horror and sci-fi have made international headlines over the past few years. Last year alone saw the release of three separate South African genre anthologies: Bloody Parchment, (also published by eKhaya) edited by former Something Wicked writer, Nerine Dorman; AfroSF, edited by another SW alumnus, Ivor W. Hartmann; and our own Something Wicked Volume One, a collection of all the fiction published in our online magazines in 2011.
Which is a perfect segue to the book you’re now holding.
Volume Two of the Something Wicked Anthology of Speculative Fiction marks another transformation for us, this time from a monthly online periodical to an annual anthology. Here you’ll find brand-new, never-before-published stories, as well as a selection of the best fiction from our online magazine.
One of the things that has always excited us about editing Something Wicked is the opportunity to publish established authors alongside brand new writers. Have a look through the contents and you will no doubt see names you recognise sitting right next to those of authors you’ve not yet heard of. Go ahead and remember those new names; we have a pretty good record for spotting talent on its way up. Explore them all and enjoy the ride each one offers.
Volume Two is a much bigger book than Volume One, not in page count but in scope. We have some incredible tales lying in wait for you within these pages: stories of love, and death, and fear, and family; of alternate realities and your own backyard; of ancient evils and the future of mankind; tales of post-apocalyptic dystopias, far-future science fiction and good old-fashioned, blood-chilling horror.
Travel with us to distant galaxies, down darkened alleyways, across oceans on floating cities and into the dark recesses of the human mind.
Ready? Now open your eyes … and jump.
Joe Vaz & Vianne Venter
Cape Town, April 2013
Illustration by Vianne Venter
‘The Disposable Man’
THE DISPOSABLE MAN
BY THOMAS CARL SWETERLITSCH
Ashen drizzle. Black sky. Christ, thought McKinley – nothing like the fucking rain. It collected in muddy drifts. It pooled at the curbs. Already the streets were slicked with wet soot.
McKinley lifted his boot from the accelerator and hit the emergency flashers. The bald tires of his Ford Focus fishtailed. It was bad enough on clear days when the ash was like fucking snow, but when it rained everything just turned greasy. It collected like plaque on the hoods of parked cars. It filmed over windows and all but blotted out the neon lights of the Baum Boulevard corridor.
The lit names flashed past: Cricket Gentlemen’s Club, Li-Yang’s Electronics, Hot-Hot Tandoori, Mr. Bulge’s Slut Capital, Lizzie’s Knickers – but three a.m. was a dead hour and the sidewalks were barren except for clusters of immigrants ducking out of the rain in bus kiosks, deep-set doorways and under awnings - Indians mostly, but Arabs, Chinese, and Mexicans shared the corners, fondling stacks of glossy handbills advertising white women ready for sex, or stripping, handjobs, blowjobs, golden showers, glass-bottomed boats, bdsm, Russian Girls, Israeli Girls, Japanese school girls, even corn-fed Americans. But who would come out in this shit? McKinley slid to a stop at a red light at Aiken. A skeletal Sikh, dark-skinned with sunken yellowish eyes, jogged from the corner and pressed a handbill against the windshield. whatever U want it – XXX – st. lucy gets it. discreet businesses. hotels. The gibberish was printed over a public domain image that McKinley had seen several times before: a pig-tailed blonde wearing a Union Jack tank top and cut-off jeans. Thirteen years old? Fourteen? She smiled like she was at a family picnic, her dimples cute, leaning over a wooden fence in some sun-drenched field. It was the sun-drenched field that caught McKinley’s eye – now where the hell might that be? Video screens looped mute advertisements: sunshine blondes drinking Lemon Zesty, smiling, spilling Zesty over ice like it didn’t cost twelve quid per can. The drizzle stained the adverts, making the girls look like they suffered from skin disease. While McKinley watched, the Sikh touched his door handle and McKinley didn’t wait for the light to change. He pushed through the intersection, spraying sludge.
Two minutes later and Ritter’s Diner was an oasis of light just off to McKinley’s left. He pulled into the chain-link fenced lot. Fried Green Tomatoes EVERY D4Y. Blueberry Hotcake special. Fresh pies. Ritter’s was concrete and glass, a squat box decades older than the surrounding buildings. A few cars cluttered the lot, but not the gunmetal blue Lexus he’d been told to expect. From where he was parked, McKinley could see the entire diner – straight through into the kitchen through the open pass doors, the cooks in white, the waitresses in pastel scrubs. A couple of lone diners or drunks sobering up with coffee sat at the bar. Otherwise, the place was empty. McKinley watched the ghostly faces illuminated by the harsh interior lights, wondering who he’d kill, whose photograph was in the envelope on the passenger seat beside him. He felt nauseous. They all looked so dull and lonely, he couldn’t plausibly imagine any one of them representing a threat to anyone, let alone the UPMC, but who was he to judge? He was just a fucking McKinley. For the first time all night, the murder seemed real – seeing those faces, imagining the shot. McKinley’s gut lurched and his mouth went cottony. He was afraid he’d piss himself. His palms were sweating. Fielding knew McKinley’s palms would sweat.
“Now let me get this fucking clear,” Fielding had told him two nights ago in the back of the ambulance. “One rule about the gun: don’t touch it without gloves—”
“Right, right—”
“Are we fucking clear?”
“Don’t touch the gun without gloves,” McKinley had said. “I got it—”
“If you’re not wearing gloves it might misfire and blow your fucking hand off. You ever see that? It’s a fucking stump. Your fingers are fucked—”
“I got it—”
“Dry,” Fielding had told him. “Keep it dry—”
The envelope was manila – document sized. It was puffed out like a pillow and McKinley knew that Fielding had wrapped the gun in cotton. McK, r-17, 7th floor was scrawled in Sharpie across the front. Fucking rain, he thought. He stuffed the envelope down the front of his coat and zipp
ed back up to his neck. The rain came down in torrents. He thought of his crew without him – Willy, Mick, William and Mix – probably wondering where the hell he was, navigating the garbage lorry down the narrow, twisting avenues of Polish Hill, huddled in the cab with thermoses of Irish coffee, mackintoshes slicked with the sticky rain. It wasn’t too late, he reminded himself. He could leave right now, find them already on shift and punch back in later that morning as if nothing had happened. No, he realized. It was much too late.
McKinley slid from the car, hunched over in the rain. The rain battered him. Oily and frigid. He jogged across the gravel lot and up the front steps into Ritter’s lobby. A Bear Claw machine stood just inside the front door, a pound for a play, the gleaming metal hook tantalizingly poised over a jumble of stuffed toys. Pornographic handbills littered the floor, crisscrossed with muddy boot tracks. The British teen climbing her wooden fence stared out from nearly half a dozen of them.
The diner stank – cigarettes, air freshener, grease. An Empire’s Forge clock with a glowing hologram of the Eliza Furnace hung above the register: 3:25 am. One of the waitresses sat alone at the near booth eating a bowl of chili sprinkled with goldfish crackers. She wore scrubs patterned with pastel lambs, a ratty gray cardigan and searing white Adidas sneakers. She was young, maybe early twenties, McKinley thought, her dishwater blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She looked up at McKinley, gaping at him, her buggy eyes taking him in, her mouth half open, ready to receive the spoonful of steaming chili poised inches from her lips.
“McKinley,” she said.
“Can I sit anywhere? How about one of those booths? You serve McKinleys, don’t you?”
“You know this is cash only,” said the waitress, after eating her spoonful of chili. “We don’t do those eye scans or thumb scans or whatever the hell else you scan—”
“I’ve got cash,” said McKinley. “I’m an adult, right? Twenty-nine, if you can believe that. Tonight’s my thirtieth birthday—”
“Jesus Christ,” said the waitress.
“I have cash,” said McKinley. “Anyway, I’m just getting pie and a coffee. Cheap stuff—”