Letter From The Editor - Issue 69 - June 2019

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Issue 12
Over There
by Tim Pratt
The Multiplicity Has Arrived
by Matthew S. Rotundo
Somewhere My Love
by Stephen Mark Rainey
The End-of-the-World Pool
by Scott M. Roberts
Hologram Bride: Part One
by Jackie Gamber
Folk of the Fringe Serialization
by Orson Scott Card
Orson Scott Card Audio
Tales for the Young and Unafraid
The Crack
by David Lubar
InterGalactic Medicine Show Interviews
American Idol
by Kathleen Dalton-Woodbury

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Somewhere My Love
    by Stephen Mark Rainey
Somewhere My Love
Artwork by Nick Greenwood

She lived in our town's one and only haunted house: a century-old, two-story Victorian with a pepperbox turret, windows of leaded glass, a sagging roof with missing shingles, and a wild array of blackened brick chimneys. The little paint remaining on its aging wooden skin was no longer white but crusty gray, so the structure lurked almost unseen behind a thick shield of cedar trees that ringed the property. Rather than a neat, paved driveway like all the others in the community, only a short, gravel apron, tucked up tight against the house, existed for the owner's car. The man of the manor had died before I was born, so the woman had lived alone in that place for over ten years.

At night, no light ever shone in any of the windows. But sometimes after dark, I would hear her voice echoing out of that old house, singing songs that seemed to me unearthly.

Her name was Jeanne Weiler, and she was my music teacher when I was in elementary school.

Of course, she was a witch.

Looking back now, I would have to say she was quite an attractive woman, though at the time, she presented such an imposing figure that just being in the same room with her intimidated me to the edge of fright. She stood nearly six feet (which, when I measured barely four feet, seemed so very tall indeed); had long, wavy black hair, which she often piled high atop her head, adding to her commanding height; and possessed the most piercing green eyes I have ever seen even to this day. She virtually always wore smart, tight-fitting black outfits that showed off a figure my youthful eyes could not yet appreciate, but her clothes insinuated no impropriety -- only dignity.

Despite my fear of Mrs. Weiler, I did adore her. In those pre-pubescent days, the concept of sexual attraction was still a mystifying, nebulous thing, which only the future would elucidate, but my typical physical response to her presence consisted of stammering, chills, and uncontrollable trembling. Had she but asked it, I would have fallen to my knees, kissed her feet, and been excited enough by the prospect to wet my drawers.

All the more proof that she was a witch, at least to me, for I recognized this effect as pure power -- miles and leagues beyond any held by my parents, or any other teachers, or the minister at church, or any of my fellow fourth graders. She terrified me because she could have made me do things. Anything.

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