Issue 1 Spring 2007

Page CurlAngel

 

It is my pleasure to introduce you to this fine group of people who contributed to this first issue of Turn the Page. 

Falling, by Ruth Long

My cry is silent. It shakes the clouds all the way to the heavens where it bounces back, an unheeded echo.

Why have you forsaken me?

It would only take a small step to end it, just tip forward and let the combined forces of gravity and inevitability do the rest. So why do I hesitate?

“It is easy to fall,” Gabriel said, an eternity ago, after the war in heaven and before my mission on earth became an exile. “It begins with doubts, then questions and before you know it…” He mimed a swan dive with his hand.

 

The Wishing Jar, flash fiction by Pantros. 

Leanne handed a copy of the Metro Daily Journal and the change of a dollar to the man across the counter of her tiny newsstand.The man took the paper with one hand and the change with the other. He reached out and dropped a single coin, a nickel, into an old glass water bottle on the counter. I wish I had all the money in that jar. Leanne nodded as she heard the man’s thoughts. “Come back again,” she said.About half of the wishes she heard were for the money in the jar. Peace on earth and getting laid tied for second place.

Equinox, flash fiction by Samantha Cope.For three heartbeats she stood, the flutter of her pulse her only movement. The air on her skin—her clothes were puddled at the foot of a small tree behind her—told her everything a calendar could, and more. Summer on its way out, autumn picking up her skirts and sweeping in.For three heartbeats she stood, the flutter of her pulse her only movement. The air on her skin—her clothes were puddled at the foot of a small tree behind her—told her everything a calendar could, and more. Summer on its way out, autumn picking up her skirts and sweeping in.And then her knees bent, and her arms swung, and her leather amulet thumped her chest in an echo of her heartbeat. Patches of moonlight slid over her limbs, all shivering lines, in the imitation of trees. Her pulse was the pulse of the dirt under her feet, and every beat brought them closer: Alice and world beneath her.

 

Lantern-Bearers, Poetry by Aliette de Bodard They keep the faith, all those wives whose mothers died in childbirth
Staring at the bulge of their bellies, hiding their fear
Hearing only the laughter of children and the rhythm of running feetA Mother’s Love, flash fiction by W. Joy RobelenQuiet sobs shook Maria.  She knew her days were few.  The doctors said her cancer would make her bedridden within a week or two and then take her.  Maria wanted to let her son, Jose, know that she would always love him.  She had so much to say; yet she did not know exactly what to say.  Maria sat at the kitchen table, head in her hands.  Paper and pen lay upon the scuffed surface.  She thought about their lives, hers and Jose’s.  Her thoughts walked through her memories; they were all so clear, like watching a movie.  Tears streamed down her cheeks as she rehashed her son’s drug use and his abuse, both physical and verbal.  She had lost control; she had lost his love—she had lost him.

The Great River, poetry by Shawn Edwards

Raging like a storm in fury Breaking waves in the wind  Rides the current like an eagle in the sky

Birth of a Nemesis, flash fiction by Sacredmime 

Dr. Oblivious descended slowly, down long stairs, to the sprawling subterranean base he’d built under his neighborhood. It amused him to be in the heart of suburbia, that the neighbors – with their trimmed lawns, chichi cars, and law-abiding natures – frittered away their lives while schemes of greatness blossomed beneath their feet.He reached the titanium door of the Lab and inputted the combination. As he opened the door, the click-clacking of more than a hundred typewriters could be heard. Excellent, he thought.Slaving over the typewriters was a legion of kittens–158, to be exact. The Doctor had named each after a famous writer. Furman Melville, Louisa May Alcat, Guy de Maupussant, Jane Pawsten, and so on.

The Elf Soldier, short story by Tessa Edwards

He began to approach me, and I drew myself up straight, projecting the practiced aura of royalty I had learned long ago.  An elf warrior in my father’s court?  This did not bode well, for the status of the war or the condition of the people.
     
“You.”  He stopped in front of me, obviously not recognizing who I was.  “I wish to see the king.  Take me to him.”
     
I raised an eyebrow and stood firm, though I trembled underneath the strength of that cold gaze.  “First I would know who you are.”  

An Interview with Aliette de Bodard by W. Joy Robelen

 

Born in New York City, of French and Vietnamese heritage, and living in Paris, France, Aliette de Bodard is finding her place in the world of authors. Her genre of choice is fantasy, for she loves to “meld history and magic.”

When she is not writing for our pleasure, Aliette puts her intelligence to work as a computer engineer for a European defense firm. She designs algorithms for missile guidance.

 

 

**free picture used curtesy of  http://www1.ecxmall.com/stores/familyestore/StoreFront.bok.