MASH STORIES Magazine | Issue 1 by MASH STORIES

A Quarterly Fiction Magazine by MashStories.com

Mashing Randomness into Stories

A Story Competition

with a community soul

and an attitude problem

Winner announced! Bunker - Animal rights - Tennis ball

Award goes to . . .

“Serious doesn’t mean traditionally published, it means dedicated to being the best you can be.”

An Interview with

WilliamHertling

Tune in to listen to all shortlisted stories.

Issue No 1 2014 Quarter 1

EDITOR’S NOTE IN 500 WORDS

here does the writer’s mind wander when presented with three completely random, unrelated words or phrases? That’s the question that Mash Stories will answer, every quarter, every competition. Three random words, pulled together by creative minds from all over the world into fascinatingly different stories of 500 words or fewer.

We read about dogs, tennis players and war fanatics, but also about aliens, apocalypses, and activists. We read noir, horror, sci-fi, comedy, and fantasy. Authors told us about the ravages of war, the mistreatment of animals, the varied dynamics of the family unit. The stories provided alternate explanations for human existence, and thoughtprovoking commentaries on life. And each and every submission was different.

The idea for Mash Stories germinated when its founder, author S.E. Sever, read about how Anthony Burgess would sometimes choose random words from a reference book in order to help guide the plots of his novels by sparking new ideas or thought patterns. In the stories that are shortlisted for each competition, you’ll see a surprisingly broad range of styles, subjects, characters, plots, and structures, as each author presents a little slice of their view of the world.

This is the allure of Mash Stories: each author’s distinct life experience shapes a unique view of the world and what the competition’s words mean to them. We will never tire of receiving such a diverse spread of stories, and are excited to be able to share them on behalf of the authors. I tried this experiment myself, believing it to be near impossible to come up with a 500-word story that had a comprehensive plot, interesting characters and a gripping subject. As it is, I don’t think I succeeded in ticking all the boxes, so I doff my hat to our winner and those authors who were shortlisted. You can read the winning and shortlisted stories in this first Mash Magazine (as well as my attempt) and online. If you’re interested in finding out more about Mash Stories, the winning and shortlisted authors, the current competition, or how to support us, please visit our website – http://mashstories.com/.

But Mash Stories is going to be more than just that. More than a mere platform for winning authors to have their work published, Mash Stories will be an arena for the exchange of ideas, encouragement, and mutual support. Mash Stories is a bit of a rebel in the short story competition world: it’s interested in rewarding its winners, not charging them to get published; in being a source of positive feedback instead of out-andout rejection; and in nurturing a community spirit where talent can thrive. Bunker. Animal rights. Tennis ball. The first quarter’s competition challenged writers to link these three elements together into a cohesive, interesting, unusual short story. The Mash Stories jury was thrilled with the response.

Cheryl Whittaker 4

From us all at Mash Stories – thank you for your interest and participation, and here’s to the growth and success of this community as we enter the next competition!

Bergamot Bergamot. A scent that has sat in my memory, nameless, for over two decades – until now. I’d popped the tea tin’s lid, and a cloud of floral recognition had puffed up into my face, fresh yet musky, leafy green but citrus-white. Yes, I remember now: those samplers of beauty products which, at age eight, had seemed like a key to the gateway of adulthood. The one, in particular, that I washed my hair with once, and then saved for years until it had all but dried up, because that smell was just too good to waste on a few days of perfumed hair... I remember now, that shop’s leaflets I used to collect with a Mother Earth-loving fervour, recycled paper filled with bright colours giving a generation of children guidance on how to care for the environment, on animal rights, even on business ethics.

I sigh, blow on my tea. It’s rare that I look back with such fondness. I inhale the bergamot; blame it; then, with a twinge of compassion towards my younger self, thank it. I take a tester sip, and to my surprise discover it’s already at a temperature cool enough to drink. I must’ve been reminiscing for longer than I thought. That summer had turned to autumn eventually, and with it, the return to school, a new collection of textbooks, and a trip to the region’s nuclear power station. On a day grey with endless drizzle, we were led up and down caged staircases, shown switchboards and emergency stop buttons, and ushered into a large metal room that acted as a bunker in case ‘things went wrong’. I gathered more leaflets, these ones preaching the opposite message to those already in my collection. We took a walk out onto the headland to get battered by the wind, and I looked across the sea, wondering what could be out there for me, knowing I didn’t want to end up there, at least.

I pour the just-boiled water over the tea leaves, and picture again those summer days in the West Country. The vast field of the school’s playground with its grass dried almost to hay, where on sports day I discovered the power of my arm in a tennis ball-throwing competition, my aptitude for catching during the rounders match, and where my dreams of becoming a baseball legend germinated; the entire weekends we’d spend on roller skates as if these wheeled boots were merely an extension of our own bodies and nothing like a fall, grazed palms, cut knees, and tears.

My teacup sits cold in my hand. The leaves, swollen with water, cling to the bottom, arranged in some pattern, some code. I peer into the cup, try to empty my mind. I focus, desperate now to read what the tea leaves want to tell me about my future, but suddenly my eyes are leaking, and the leaves blur, and I see nothing.

Written by Cheryl Whittaker

Writer’s World on the

Contents 3

About Mash Stories by S.E. SEVER

First Runner Up Lost Balls by Ross Baxter

Editor’s note in 500 words

Bergamot by Cheryl Whittaker

An Interview with William Hertling Self-publishing vs. Traditional publishing

Mash Competition’s winning story Nearly Nine by Miles Rausch

Interview with Miles Rausch Mash’s first Winner

First Runner Up Tina, Trapped and Released by Carrie Guss

Web

Do Nothing Day: 1st May Can idleness be inspirational and constructive? Two male guinea pigs experiment with the Doing Nothing cure on themselves. www.40daysofdoingnothing.com

Dark Blue by Rebecca Strong

The Dog by Luke Southan

The First Cosmonaut by Bill Bibo

A Catty Confession by Lynne Bronstein

The Review Review Website With over 600 print and online journals, it can be hard to know where to begin. At The Review Review Website, writers can get a deeper sense of the journals by reading reviews of the latest issues. This is not intended as a substitute for the actual journals, but merely a way to guide writers toward the journals that interest them the most. www.thereviewreview.net

William Hertling – A Self-Published Success A discussion on fiction writing & self-publishing By S.E. SEVER The singularity is that point in time when computer-

William Hertling writes science fiction novels about the emergence of artificial intelligence, the future of technology, and the technological singularity.

based artificial intelligence becomes more intelligent than humans, and then continues to accelerate its intelligence, whether due to self-optimization or just the continuing increase in computational power.

His first novel, Avogadro Corp, won Forewords Review Science Fiction Book of the Year and the second, A.I. Apocalypse, was nominated for the Prometheus Award for Best Novel. And the final book of this trilogy, The Last Firewall, was endorsed by Harper Reed, the CTO for the Obama Campaign.

These two books caused me to think deeply about the singularity, and in particular, to examine that moment of emergence. What would it be like for the first people to realize they were confronted with a selfdriven AI, and how would they react?

As a fiction writer, Hertling’s publishing adventure is a highly inspiring one. And he’s also written a non-fiction book to share his publishing experiences. It’s called

S.E.: Did you have writing a trilogy in mind from the beginning, or did the story unravel itself more and more as you wrote it?

Indie & Small Press Book Marketing. In this

William: I only expected to write the first book, but a chance conversation with another author convinced me to keep writing.

book, he successfully covers many aspects of publishing from design to media relations. During this Q&A, we’re going to discuss two skills that publishers demand from their authors: coming up with ground-breaking stories, and self-promotion. Then, we’ll dive into evaluating the pros and cons of self-publishing vs. traditional publishing. And as experience goes, William Hertling is the person to whom to address these issues; he has his hands in both self-publishing and traditional publishing.

After I had written the first book and was submitting it to agents and publishers, I happened to attend Ignite, a Portland conference where the Hugo-award-winning author David D. Levine was speaking. Afterwards I went up to him and asked him if he had any advice for a new writer. He said “keep the pipeline full”, meaning that I should continue to write while I was submitting. This was an astonishing message because it was the last thing I’d imagined. I thought Avogadro Corp was going to be my only book. I had no intention of writing more. But the idea stuck with me, and even as I was putting the final finishing touches on Avogadro Corp during revisions, I started daydreaming about the plot for A.I. Apocalypse.

S.E.: Hi, William. Let’s start from the beginning. How did you come up with the idea to write Avogadro Corp?

Article: The Benefits of Doing Nothing by Herwig Kopp & Norbert Trompeter

William: I read two books back to back: Ray Kurzweil’s The Singularity is Near, a non-fiction book about the technological singularity, and Charles Stross’s Accelerando, a science fiction novel about what it would be like to live through the singularity.

I see a lot of writers who get hung up on that first book, whether it’s submitting to agents or marketing it. I’m all for perseverance, but a writer can’t make a career off one book. They need to get the second one good.

William: I spent a year pursuing agents and traditional publishers. At OryCon, my local science fiction convention, I listened to authors speak about how long they pursued traditional publication: anywhere from three to twenty years.

I think this also points to the value of being engaged with a community composed of serious writers, whether that’s online or in the real world. Serious doesn’t mean traditionally published, but it does mean dedicated to being the best writer you can be. There’s so much to learn and so much that’s changing, and if you’re part of a community, you can benefit from everyone else’s experiences and wisdom.

My background is in the technology industry, and I thought there was no way publishing was going to stay the same for three years, let alone twenty. I also met a self-published author, Annie Bellet, who was making a steady income from her books. She was also the only self-published author I met, so whether right or wrong, I started with a mental model that self-published authors tended to do well.

S.E.: Who are your role models? Who has inspired you in your writing career the most?

My background combines several diverse experiences. I’m a computer programmer by education and training, and spent many years developing websites. So I’m not intimidated by technology, and I know something of the theory behind websites: how to make sure a visitor can find what they need, ways to display information. I also studied business and received my MBA, so I had a general background in marketing, and understood concepts like exposure and conversation rates.

William: Cory Doctorow and Charles Stross are two writers I admire because brilliant concepts and ideas are woven throughout their books. You can read a Cory Doctorow novel, and by the time you’re done, you’ve learned how to encrypt your hard drive and set up a secure network connection. They were also inspiring because their writing craft is not as intimidating as, say, someone like William Gibson, whose early prose reads almost like poetry. Reading their books helped boost my confidence that I could write.

I also have a long history with online communities, from bulletin board systems in the 1980s through online forums in the 1990s and social media. So I understand a lot about the cultural norms of those different groups.

S.E.: Your characters seem to gain significant depth throughout the trilogy; what did you do differently?

I basically combined all of that – a general understanding of marketing, using online presence and social media – with an attitude of experimentation. I would try new things, see what worked, and only invest more in those specific actions that helped sell books.

William: I got feedback on an early draft of Avogadro Corp, when it was less than 30,000 words long. I thought I was done, and my friends seemed to like it. But the feedback I received from people I didn’t know was that I still had a way to go: that I was telling, not showing, and that everything took place in a white room.

S.E.: How about those moments of low confidence? How did you overcome them? William: My low-confidence moments didn’t come from marketing so much as they do from getting negative reviews. As a writer, getting those one and two star reviews is incredibly painful. My coping mechanism is to realize that those folks are saying something important: either they aren’t the right audience for the book (in which case I need to market differently so I reach the right readers), or they are the right reader but they dislike the book

I didn’t know how to fix those issues, so I took an eight-week writing class, found myself a critique group, and started attending conferences: local scifi cons, as well as dedicated writing conferences. Through those experiences and the feedback I received, I learned to explore the characters more deeply. S.E.: How did you know where to start?

(in which case, I need to fix something to make the book better).

I’m working on a kids’ detective novel, geared toward ages 7–11, called The Case of the Wilted Broccoli. It should be out in March or April. I promised this book to my children a year ago, when I realized they couldn’t read my adult fiction. As I mentioned, I love Cory Doctorow, who writes what I think of as “smart fiction for teens”. With this book, I’m shooting for “smart fiction for elementary school aged kids”.

One of the great advantages of indie publishing, like content on the web, is that it can always be fixed. I can hire a new copyeditor, tweak a character’s words or description of a scene. Even now I’m revising Avogadro Corp to address some of the issues with my writing craft.

I’m also a quarter of the way done with my next adult science fiction novel, which I hope to have out by the end of the year.

S.E.: Now that your books are available through a traditional publishing company in Germany, you’re one of those writers who have their hands in self-publishing as well as traditional publishing. Could you tell us the pros and cons of both methods as far as your experience goes?

Readers who are interested in my fiction can find out more at www.williamhertling.com, where they can find descriptions of my books or sign up for my mailing list to get notified when new books come out.

William: One of the biggest advantages of traditional publishing is being on shelves in bookstores. That’s nearly impossible to achieve as an indie author. It means exposure to a whole new group of readers I couldn’t have reached otherwise. Being translated into German, with my book already selling well in English, means even more readers will be able to enjoy Avogadro Corp.

S.E.: Thank you for joining us at the Mash Blog, William. You’ve addressed some crucial points in many writers’ careers. I personally love your work – it’s mind-broadening in many ways. I also strongly recommend to all our fellow writers, whether self-published or not, to check out your self-marketing book. And the cheat-sheet you have provided on your blog is a lifesaver. Goodbye for now.

But indie publishing is also great. Besides bypassing the gatekeeper to bring a book to market, I also enjoy tremendous flexibility in how I market my book. If I want to give away a few hundred copies to influencers in my field, I can. If I want to make a book free, or put it on sale, I can. Traditionally published authors can’t do that.

Quick Fire Round with William Hertling My passion, except writing, is … building and inventing, anything from constructing a new garden shed, to making parts with a 3D printer, to writing software.

The royalties on self-published books are also much greater than traditionally published books. A selfpublished novel will likely earn the author $2.00 to $3.00 or more per sale, while a traditionally published book will net the author anywhere from $0.25 to $0.50. That means that modest self-published sales of 5,000 copies will make a material financial difference to an author, and sales of 50,000 books annually is enough to support full-time writing. By comparison, a traditionally published author would need to sell four times as many books to earn a similar amount.

My parents always told me ... I could do anything, and I embody that in much of my life. In fact, one of the greatest motivators for me is when a person says something is impossible, or that I can’t do it. I just have to prove them wrong. One favourite childhood memory … was me walking back from the library with my mom. I’d have my head buried in a book, and she’d hold onto one arm to steer me and stop me from walking into the street. I’d always have the first book done before we got home.

S.E.: What’s next for William Hertling? What should readers expect?

The best piece of advice I’ve ever been given … is to keep the pipeline full. Once you’ve written that first book, don’t stop. Keep writing. It causes you to grow as a writer, and gives you more options. If that first book doesn’t sell (whether to a publisher, or to the market if self-published), then you still have options.

William: The audiobook for my most recent novel, The Last Firewall, will be out in February. Many readers enjoy the series on audio. (Available from Audible.com and iTunes.)

INTERVIEW WITH MILES

Miles Rausch

miles@milesrausch.com Miles Rausch is a web developer from Sioux Falls, South Dakota, where he lives with his wife and two children. Miles is always writing something. He likes to unwind by playing with his kids, reading, and watching TV with his wife (but in a real serious, connoisseur kind of way). You can follow Miles on Twitter (@awayken) or on his website.

NEARLY NINE Amongst the infinity of numbers that are nearly nine, there is ample enough space for a great many terrible and tragic occurrences. Nearly nine minutes, by definition, is an eternity. For instance, it took nearly nine minutes for Aiden Potter to remember the word ‘gorgeous.’ Whitney Heap just stared as Aiden, fidgeting with a tennis ball, struggled to remember the word. “Are you some kind of retard?” she asked, before slinking away in her cotton that illustrated the perfect outline of her body.

“Repent and live!” she called out over the chaos. Then she turned to baptize the tail section. Paul ached to act, to push aside his cowardice for heroism. He moved quickly down the aisle and dove to tackle Justine. She turned and responded. Paul crumpled to the floor. Sasha immediately rushed to his side. She struggled to pull him out of the aisle. Justine stood over them, her gaze hard and distant. A rush of footsteps came from the tail section as Aiden blindsided Justine with his laptop. With a spray of blood, Justine went limp. Aiden patted her down, looking for more surprises. He opened her coat.

It also took nearly nine minutes for Sasha Oliver’s cheeks to return to their natural color. Her father gnawed the gristle on his steak. “I just think no one wants a female doctor,” he admitted. “You’d make a better nurse.” Sasha admitted failure by turning back to her own plate, a dismal wilted forest of greens.

“Bomb!” Aiden shouted, and the crowd stirred. Paul screamed as Sasha dug the bullet out with her hands. Aiden thought for a moment, then grabbed some people to help him carry Justine to an exit row. “Hold tight!” yelled Aiden, and he pulled open the emergency door. Wind roared into the cabin. People sobbed and questioned and clung to those nearest. With an awkward heave, he pushed Justine out the door. Aiden held tight to the door frame as the body tumbled out. Justine was nearly beyond the plane when Aiden caught a bright flash of orange.

Paul Schaffer’s friends took nearly nine minutes to ruin a bunker at Amdahl Country Club while his back was turned. Coach screamed spittle onto his face, but Paul was more afraid of being outcast. Years later, this cowardice would again arrest him as the dull thuds of a neighbor beating his girlfriend echoed throughout the building. After nearly nine minutes, Paul put on headphones.

It took nine years to find the wreckage.

At age seven, it took Justine Carson nearly nine minutes to put her cat to rest. The ailing Himalayan left several long, ruby red streaks down Justine’s arms as it struggled for animal rights. At twenty-seven, nearly nine minutes ago, Justine, dressed neatly in her uniform, completed her duty to Alaska Airways. It took nearly nine seconds for Justine to empty most of two handguns into the crowd of passengers.

Q: How did you hear about Mash Stories? Through Twitter. I think Mash Stories started to follow me, I checked out the site, and sent myself a note to read more about the contest.

guide you? I’ve been fortunate in my life that I’ve never had anyone tell me I can’t write, and I’ve had enough tell me I can. It puts me in a sweet spot of feeling encouraged without having unreasonable expectations. It’s prepared me for weathering the storms; I know I’m a good enough captain to hit dry land.

Q: What tempted you to submit a story to Mash? The small word count made completing a story feel very doable, even as I was working on other writing projects. The three mash words combined with word count added a moderately restrictive block which helped bring out the creativity. There was something appealing about crafting a simple story around these parameters. Q: How did you come up with the idea for your story? Did anyone inspire you? My idea for this story came whilst watching airplanes fly over my kids’ daycare. Initially, I considered describing the plummeting plane as taking “nearly nine minutes to fall 50,000 feet” but was unable to complete the necessary research. Lovingly, gently, I placed some beautiful, damaged people into the plane and gave them small redemptions. Everyone performed admirably. Still, despite their tragedies, I would have them do it all again.

Q: What’s next for you? Do you have any other projects coming up so Mashers can see what else you’re up to? I don’t have any other projects I’m ready to talk about. I try to write regularly on my website, http:// milesrausch.com, and I spend a fair amount of time on twitter @awayken. And, of course, I’ll be submitting to MashStories, trying to get lightning to strike twice.

Quick Fire Round with Miles Rausch My passion, except writing, is … my family, particularly my children and my wife, and a good television show.

Q: Tell us about your background. I’m a web developer by trade. I have Bachelor’s degrees in Computer Science and Mathematics, but I’ve always remained active in artistic pursuits as well.

My childhood ambition was… to become a paleontologist. Later, I decided I would make my living doing computer programming, and I would realize my artistic dreams by writing on the side.

Q: Have you been published before – any books or short stories? I’ve had some poetry and short story work published in the literary magazine published at the university I attended.

I write because… the stories in my head won’t stop bothering me. My favourite book is … Jurassic Park because … I’ve always been a kid who loves dinosaurs. One thing Crichton does beautifully is to weave stories around hard science. There’s so much inspiration in physics, chemistry, biology and mathematics, and Crichton managed to wrap that inspiration in great storytelling. Jurassic Park is one of his greatest examples of that.

Q: Tell us about your relationship with writing. How did you start? How long have you been writing? Like most writers, it’s been a lifelong relationship. Only in the past year have I decided to get serious about writing. I realized I needed to get these stories out of my head, for my relief and (hopefully) someone else’s enjoyment.

The best piece of advice I’ve ever been given … is “Show, don’t tell.” It was meant as writing advice, but it applies well to life in general.

Q: Do you have any role models or a mentor who

MashStories.com the platform for up-and-coming writers

Lost Balls The taxi dropped him off on the edge of Biltab. As an investigative journalist, Konchin knew the area well; the human dumping ground for Moscow, where people went when they had nowhere left to go. A place shunned by society, abandoning its inhabitants to get by the best they could. But some still did care; Konchin was following up on a lead from a police chief who did not have the resources to investigate the recent disappearance of over thirty children. Ahead lay the vast expanse of wasteland which had once been the KGB’s regional headquarters, and now served as a magnet for many street children. But despite the sunshine the place was deserted, and after thirty minutes he had seen no-one. He made to turn back when his foot stepped on something hard in the long grass, a tennis ball. He slipped it in his pocket where it nestled next to his ancient Makarov pistol, an essential tool in his trade. It was then that he noticed the bunker, low and almost hidden in the brambles. The heavy iron door appeared to have a sign on it, and he moved forward to take a look. “Lost balls,” he read aloud, wondering what that could mean. With no other leads he hammered on the door, and after a few moments was surprised to hear the door being unlocked. He stood his ground, hand moving to grip the pistol in his jacket pocket. The door slowly creaked open and a dishevelled old man stood blinking in the opening. “Morning,” Konchin said. “I’ve found a tennis ball, and by the sign on the door it looks like you could give it a home.” “The children come to me when they’ve lost footballs, baseballs and the like. Come in,” the old man beckoned, an ugly smile revealing rotten teeth, “you can put it in my trophy room.” Konchin gingerly entered, his nostrils assailed by the stench of damp and urine. “What is this place?” Konchin said, following the old

Ross Baxter

rossbaxter@hotmail.co.uk After thirty years at sea, Ross Baxter now concentrates on writing sci-fi and horror fiction. His varied work has been published in print and Kindle by a number of publishing houses in the US and the UK. Married to a Norwegian and with two Anglo-Viking kids, he now lives in Derby, England. Ross’s author page can be found here. man’s lighted candle down an unlit corridor. “It’s the bunker where the KGB disposed of animal rights activists,” the old man wheezed. “How?” Konchin asked. “It has a gas chamber,” the old man replied. “It’s now my trophy room; this is where I re-unite lost balls with their owners. Have a look.” The old man passed the candle to Konchin, who stepped inside. The door swung shut behind him, and Konchin realised the old man was still in the corridor. Cursing, he cradled the candle and moved forward into the room. At the far side four tables rested, and to his growing horror he saw a double row of severed heads, each next to a ball. He counted at least thirty, all in different stages of decomposition. “Open the door!” Konchin yelled, pistol in hand. That was when he heard the hiss of gas, and smelt the fumes. Staggering forward he started to lose consciousness, knowing it was the precursor to losing his head.

Tina, Trapped and Released Tina had a body like a bunker, little tennis ball tits bound close to her chest and unshakeable. She looked like somebody had pressed down on her from above. Like God had, maybe, pressed her head down into her tight neck, her broad shoulders, kept pressing and pressing until everything shifted and settled to become an object, hard and rectangular and meant for storage, meant to insulate or be insulated, compacted and at rest.

I was sixteen and bored and I was waiting for her to burst. “A bunker will not burst,” my mother said. “That is the point of a bunker. You may be confusing ‘bunker’ with ‘balloon’.” But what did she know—a lifetime away from high school, first kisses and first cigarettes, first nights spent puking quietly in someone else’s bathroom, first art class X-Acto knives toted home to scratch the ankles, the thighs, the insides of the arms, to try to peel off the skin, to climb out of the little bone prisons.

“Depression can lead to compression.” This my mother’s explanation of Tina’s body, and she would know—a lifetime spent depressed, her body something flimsy from a gym, a door you can’t bang shut, forever leaking judgments and benedictions where they did or did not belong.

We were all trapped in our bodies, but Tina had it bad. Tina was going to go. Someone had to go. We could all feel it. We needed it. We needed to see that it could be done, that a body could be shed, that there was something else out there for us, something even better, maybe.

Tina’s parents had been animal rights activists, the wonky kind, a little misguided and well meaning and under informed. ‘Had been’ because, irony wanting what it wants, they were trampled to death by an elephant at the zoo when an attempt to ‘liberate’ the animals went awry.

I was, of course, in love with Tina, and did not want her to go. More than anything I wanted to seize her stiff limbs and warm them, wanted to waltz her and swing her about like a ragdoll until she spun right into me, until we merged. But we never even touched, because Tina did go. My mother sat me down before supper. “Tina has taken her own life,” she said. Taken it where? I wondered. I have always wondered. I have asked, but no one has told me. No one will ever tell me.

After the incident, Tina’s parents haunted her. They climbed inside her, demanding protection, demanding not to be forgotten. Like any good bunker, Tina took them in and stowed them away. She built her walls higher and tighter and thicker. Her skin grew taut and impenetrable. I never once heard her speak a single word. I imagined it all, the accouterment and accumulation of a single human life, all those sentences she never spoke, imagined them piling up inside her, floor to ceiling, head to toe.

Dark Blue

here is a man sitting on a park bench reading a newspaper. I get the feeling that I know him. The slump of his back, the elegance of his long fingers, the full lips that seem to move ever so slightly as he reads. I cannot see his eyes but I already know that they are blue. Dark blue—just like the color of the ocean beneath the liner on which we met. He flips a page and a headline catches my eye. Animal rights protest draws thousands. Yes. It’s all coming back to me now. A slender, fresh-faced, young lady of barely eighteen crossing the ocean. An older, English gentleman with a dog by his side and a walking cane. He must have been forty-five or even fifty then. And I was just a child. That was the first life that was cut short. I knew it, of course, before I started it— before my soul, hungry for experimentation, chose that fate. Until then, I had only inhabited bodies destined to live longer. Human experience fascinated me and I just could not get enough. But then the Teacher gently hinted that it was time to choose a host that would die young. I did and the first exploration of an early passing left me wanting more. From that life I went on to the one where at ten I died in a bunker from a poison injected into me by a doctor; and then to another one in which I drowned in a pool at five. And while all of them offered me exactly what I

needed at the time, none stayed with me as long as the first one. The evening we met that time on the ship was beautiful. Stars were just beginning to appear, the moon was pale gray, and the ship’s orchestra was playing my favorite. Mozart. I’ve liked his music ever since I was his lover…oh, so long ago. “Nice night,” he said, stopping by my side as I watched the water move underneath the ship. “Yes,” I said. “Beautiful.” “You don’t get dizzy looking down like this?” he asked. “No.” I turned to him. His eyes matched the water. The iceberg hit the ship that night. I died. He did too. And with us died what we started and the possibility of what could have been. Yet today we are both here, sitting across from each other in a Boston park. I guess we made it over the Atlantic at last. A dog runs by chasing a tennis ball. The man folds the newspaper, stuffs it into the pocket of his coat, gets up, and before turning to walk away, looks over at me and waves. A soul will always recognize another familiar soul even if it’s in another body and another life—especially if their paths are meant to cross again.

Shortlisted Story

Rebecca Strong

contactrebecca.strong@gmail.com

Carrie Guss

carriedangerguss@gmail.com

Rebecca Strong is a pseudonym of a writer currently living in Madrid, Spain. Rebecca’s work has been featured in online magazines and one story, Mistaken Identity, was published in an anthology. Her first novel is available on Amazon (under a different name), and her second novel is now looking for representation. When not following her characters or procrastinating, Rebecca paints. Her paintings, along with some of her writing, can be seen on her blog.

Carrie Guss is a Canadian writer and artist with illustrations and photography appearing most recently in Lucky Peach, AOL News Online, and SmokeLong Quarterly. She has another, shorter story forthcoming in NANO Fiction. You can access her portfolio online at carrieguss.com 14

The Dog

The First Cosmonaut

stand off to one side while the others busy themselves in preparations. One narrow window points out of the concrete bunker toward the launch site. The rocket stands strong, ready to show the world the prowess of our science. This launch is but a first step to sending a man to the stars and a small mongrel dog is the first to take it.

remember once, talking about it. What would we do if the world were to end? It took such a melancholy turn, no one liked the idea. But then I said we’d at least still have the dog. Everyone smiled. How happy he would be, everyone forced to be with him all the time in our bunker. Every which way he might turn would be filled with the excitement of his best friends. Those people that could leave a room for but a second and on their return create the giddiest of responses from his little eyes.

“10, 9…” I took Laika home with me last night. She had so little time to live. I wanted her to have a happy night if it was only one last time.

her. Today she would fly atop a rocket, the jewel of Soviet science, to be the first living creature to orbit the earth.

My children were so excited. I had promised them a dog for some time and I had found reason after reason not to fulfill that promise. But last night that was forgotten. We were happy. Laika was happy.

We’d have to keep a store of tennis balls amongst the tins of beans; it’s pretty much just basic animal rights that a dog gets a fresh tennis ball once a month. And he’d keep us sane. Until we could go outside again.

“4, 3…” It was true she would die; she was never expected to live. We built no return function into the capsule, but now her life had purpose. We would beat the arrogant Americans. Her sacrifice would bring us closer to a time when a man would fly into outer space to return safely back to Earth.

My children found an old tennis ball somewhere in the house. They took turns throwing it. Laika happily ran after it. Each time she brought it back, dropping the ball at their feet, stepping back, waiting for them to throw it again. The children laughed, as did I. No one wanted the game to end. That night Laika slept in my daughter’s room, curled tight on the foot of her bed, the tennis ball still in her mouth.

None of us argued when the dog was about. It was a silly idea to have bought up anyway. Until it wasn’t. Until the bombs dropped, until we got in our bunker and looked around. Saw how little food we’d saved, saw that someone had probably smiled as they’d placed a tennis ball on a shelf for the dog. Thinking it was the first of many we’d get to save up and laugh at later, when the bombs never came.

Shortlisted Story

Luke Southan LukeSouthan@hotmail.com

It broke our hearts, that one yellow toy. It was why we went crazy in the end – it was a constant reminder of what we’d done. How we’d looked at the shelves, already so barren, and looked him straight in his expectant eyes. One last time. And left him to the whistling of falling death that he could hear better than any of us.

Luke Southan is by trade a research scientist who develops new blood tests for such exotic diseases as multiple myeloma and autoimmune pancreatitis. To get a break from writing more scientific literature he writes stories and is currently adding the finishing touches to his first children’s novel. He is also the only Englishman in the world to not like tea.

It was why we went crazy.

Before they closed the hatch I leaned in and kissed Laika on the nose.

“8, 7…”

“2, 1…”

Before the first light of morning I coaxed Laika outside with a handful of breadcrumbs. She licked them from my hand as I guided her to my car. I let her ride in front with me, her head hanging out the window, gathering up all the smells of the world to take with her in her little capsule that would be soon so high above us all.

Now I stand to the side. My job is done. Hers is just beginning. I watch along with the world. Godspeed, little one. “Ignition!”

Shortlisted Story

“6, 5…”

Bill Bibo

A few protesters were gathered at the gate. They chanted about animal rights and waved their fists at me as the guards held them back.

bbibo50@gmail.com

Bill lives with his wife in Madison, WI. Late at night he writes about intelligent mummies, incompetent zombies, and other things that scare him in the hope that someday they no longer will. billbibojr.blogspot.com

Mindless fools, they didn’t try to understand. Laika had been a stray, wandering the streets, undernourished, heading for a slow and meaningless death. I found her, fed her, trained

A Catty Confession S

o you think life must be a dream for us cats? You humans should try it. You toss us a ball or a stick with a feather on the end and say “Nice kitty.” If playing with a tennis ball was all it took for me to be happy, I’d agree. But I’ll go on the record right now and tell you that my life is a daily search for a comfortable refuge, an impenetrable fortress. I live in the same house as a dog. Not to mention another cat. Not to mention a couple of birds. It’s not enough that I am not allowed to even look at those birds. Or that I am encouraged to play with the other cat, although frankly, I find him a boring companion at best. But that dog! She makes me nervous. I am sure I will wind up on the couch of some animal shrink. If I venture out of the safe place (my human’s bedroom where my cat bed is) That Dog gives chase. Part of me knows, deep down inside, that she is playing—but part of me doesn’t trust her and I always make a run for the cat door into the bedroom. My human tells me I hyperventilate. I know my fur on my back stands up. I must look a fright. It’s because I feel a fright. I could spend my life entirely in “my” room. I could have all my meals served there and see no one except my favorite human, that being who pets me (sappy stuff). But no one wants to live their life in a bunker. That dog is

not a Nazi. I don’t have to fear being dragged off to some camp. If I could just get over the fear… I am sneaking out now. I look around furtively, then I pick myself up, tail high, and stroll casually into the kitchen. Mmm! Someone left a dish of cookies for me. I’m going to enjoy myself, no matter what may come. That’s the issue—life must be savored for the moment. Although I have this nameless fear of a larger creature (who does not even eat other carnivores) I have to put that fear on the back burner if I want to experience any joy. I hear the rattle of a dog collar. She’s shaking herself in that insouciant way that dogs do. I can believe myself to be just as carefree. Humans talk of animal rights. Well, I think I must write the statement on feline rights. It begins with our right to just stretch out and yawn… Uh oh…here she comes.

Shortlisted Story

Lynne Bronstein tanysare@earthlink.net Lynne Bronstein has written four books of poetry, Astray from Normalcy, Roughage, Thirsty in the Ocean, and Border Crossings. She works as a newspaper reporter for the Culver City Observer, has written for numerous music magazines and web sites, has published poetry and short fiction in numerous magazines and online, and was winner of the first runner up short fiction prize for Poetic Diversity’s Fiction Contest in 2006. She has received certificates of appreciation from two nonprofits for her work mentoring adults and children in writing and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2014.

I am going to hold my ground. BRRRK! Survival instinct wins again. I make a run for the cat door. I am safe in my shelter. But I think I have won a victory of sorts. This time it took me one whole minute before I ran.

Tune in to listen to all shortlisted stories.

THE BENEFITS OF DOING NOTHING For decades, overstimulation and abundance in many areas of life in the Western world have developed from a welcome richness into a pesky evil. We are constantly fed new information and overwhelmed with more work and more distraction.

With backgrounds in neuroscience, art and new media, as well as leadership development, integral health and coaching, two oddballs from Austria, Herwig Kopp and Norbert Trompeter, have been pouring their creative energy into the art of idleness. In 2006, they founded the non-profit organization ADN.

When we do more and more we do in fact feel more productive, useful, efficient, responsive and on duty – at best, 25 hours a day. Yet is this sustainable? We may be reaching our targets, but at what cost?

They claim that the antidote to the rat race is: doing nothing, but constructively. By ‘doing nothing’, they mean a shift from outer activities to inner ones. By inner actions, they mean aiming for seemingly purposeless actions like watching the clouds, listening to the wind, smelling flowers, focusing on breathing, and being aware of what is going on in your mind. The trick is not holding onto any thoughts tightly, but instead letting it all pass you by. And of course, activities such as reading a newspaper or book, surfing the web, and pondering over problems do not count as purely inner activities, in their opinion.

If we keep finding ourselves in Catch-22 scenarios, it’s inevitable for us to become less productive and not so efficient, because we’ll be using up our energy, while we won’t have the time to recharge our batteries. What can we do if we have no time for anything anymore? “Abundance is leading us to our limits,” say Herwig Kopp and Norbert Trompeter, the founders of the Association of Diversification and Novelty (ADN). They point out that we have known the rules of scarcity for thousands of years, but, as a society, we haven’t yet learned how to deal with abundance.

In August 2013, Kopp and Trompeter conducted a selfexperiment in which they did nothing for a quarter of their workday. Their hypothesis was that this would inspire people and make them more relaxed, focused

and even more productive, which proved to be true for their eventual field study.

Psychological and physiological studies suggest that doing nothing tunes down the nervous system, acts as anti-stress, sharpens the senses, and raises one’s awareness of one’s own body and its tensions. Idleness is also essential to help you listen to the messages of your heart and soul, which often get drowned out in the roar of mental machinery.

They documented the outcome in an online project: www.40daysofdoingnothing.com They also offer a starter kit, where you can find the ABCs of Doing Nothing.

“We need exemplary mass-trust in ‘nothing‘, rendering it socially acceptable,” say Herwig Kopp and Norbert Trompeter. “Just as the siesta was introduced into Japanese companies because napping after lunch was making employees happier and more productive.”

If you’d like to find out how idleness increases the quality of your life and your overall wellbeing, you can start with three simple steps: 1. dedicate a certain amount of time (not more than 15 minutes per day to start with) to:

With their research they want to infect as many people as possible with constructive idleness, taking away the “fear of nothing” (horror vacui) which haunts our times like a ghost. To this end, they have declared 1 May (usually International Workers’ Day) to be the “Day of Constructive Idleness” as they aim at drawing awareness to days off and their soothing effect on human psychology. They recommend reasonable quantities of Doing Nothing to be celebrated and experimented on a daily basis. Kopp and Trompeter believe that this may turn out to be the remedy for keeping us sane and healthy, in times when most of us tend to be overworked, overwhelmed and overmanaged.

2. go to a certain place. It can be a park, river, or lakeside: ideally a quiet place even if you live in a busy area. It should be somewhere you can: 3. be in the right state of mind. You should focus on merely watching whatever is going on in your mind as well as around you, but avoid thinking too hard about anything. “It is high time for nothing if you do not have time for anything anymore.” Herwig Kopp, head of ADN – Berlin

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