Issue Four, January 2010
Tonight is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by a sparkly, shiny ball in New York,
And all the clouds that loured upon our past year
In plastic cups of liquor, vast as an ocean, buried.
Ah, New Year’s Eve. The one night of the year committed exclusively to reflection, forecasting, rampant drinking, and making excuses. You look back at what you finally did right or at what you screwed up. You take it in, you try to decipher some meaning, and then you prepare to do it all, good and bad, all over again next year. Of course, with more sex and money this time.
Last year my resolutions included stealing a helicopter, conquering Finland, taking better care of myself, finally figuring out a way to launch a Pop-tart out of a toaster, watching TV, getting a promotion, fighting a robot to the death in a knife fight, publishing a collection of short stories, drinking beer, trying to appreciate wine, building a time machine and altering history in an insignificant manner, starring in a rock opera about WWI, cutting back on my caffeine intake, punching a pterodactyl, and carving my name into the moon with a laser.
I’m happy to report I accomplished almost a third of those. Sadly, though, the robot didn’t actually die, I didn’t actually alter history when I went back in time, and I published a novel instead of a short story collection. But that’s what the new year is for: making grandiose claims of taking drastic actions to maybe do something different again, possibly, and then not even attempting to follow through and coming up with basically the same list of things you should or won’t do the following year.
I’m feeling pretty good about that, actually.
You know what else I’m feeling pretty good about? This issue. The six stories we have by Cate Gardner, Jason Joyce, P. Matthew Kimmel, Daniel McDermott, Ansley Moon, and Christina Murphy are probably my favorite blend of funny, fucked-up, and mermaids we’ve had so far. Not a bad way to start the new year.
If you can’t get to it before the clock strikes midnight, and Dick Clark cheats death once again, like a sleepless, ageless automaton hell-bent on entertaining his way into your living room, and you find yourself collapsing onto your friend’s couch or the bar floor in a heap of celebratory immoderation, well, that’s OK. Just read the issue when you wake up. It’s a guaranteed cure for almost all hangovers. Promise.
.pdf is here, links to the individual stories are below.
– Eirik Gumeny
Dead Sharp Tail, Cate Gardner
“Never believe anything a stranger tells you in a pub,
especially if he is wearing an eye patch.”
Why the Walls Haven’t Been Painted Yet, Jason Joyce
“Like the weather, my father has been soggy and grey since…”
The Hair, P. Matthew Kimmel
“Besides, looking like Mr. Clean helped with business. Or so his boss said.”
Three Dates in Orlando, Daniel McDermott
“It was the vomit that ended things. I’m pretty sure.”
Navels, Ansley Moon
“She didn’t pierce them, she didn’t paint tattoos on them, and she wasn’t a delivery nurse that cut the umbilical cord.”
Tête-à-Tête, Christina Murphy
“He was growing his warts everywhere: in the kitchen, on the lamp shades, on the windowsills, the chairs.”
