Letter From The Editor - Issue 55 - February 2017

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Issue 17
Stories
Ten Winks to Forever
by Bud Sparhawk
An Early Ford Mustang
by Eric James Stone
Sparrowjunk
by Margit Schmitt
Bonus OSC Story Serialization
Eye for Eye Part One
by Orson Scott Card
IGMS Audio
Tales for the Young and Unafraid
Nice Kitty
by David Lubar
InterGalactic Medicine Show Interviews

Writing Fantasy

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-   -   -   -   P   r   e   v   i   e   w   -   -   -   -

Frankie and Johnny, and Nellie Bly
As Related by Susanna Entwhistle, Who Witnessed Every Minute,
Including the Stimulating Spellfight to the Death!
    Arranged and Edited by Richard Wolkomir

Frankie and Johnny, and Nellie Bly
Artwork by Anna Repp

I always ran down to the Depot at 3:37 p.m. to see if the Central Florida Express brought persons of interest to Duster. Also, I liked to visualize myself boarding a Pullman and steaming out into the world -- I would achieve éclat, then extricate my mother from the Ascending Angel and provide her with fine dining and wholesome activities.

Éclat, if you've never looked it up, means "brilliance of success or reputation." I imagined crowds at newspaper kiosks clamoring to read the latest scintillating dispatch from Budapest or Marrakech or Rangoon or Cincinnati, penned by the lustrous Susanna Entwhistle, who is I.

So, that momentous afternoon, guess who disembarked! Nellie Bly! The most famous reporter in the world!

She was precisely as attractive as in her pictures, with her hair pulled back at the sides, but down over her forehead, and her eyes set wide apart and intensely observant. Her plush blue dress had a white embroidered collar, like a many-rayed star. She stood beside her two valises, deciding which way to go, so I ran right up and told her I would be enthused to proffer my assistance.

She said: "Why do you dress like a boy?"

"It is my idiosyncrasy," I said. "I am eleven, but I know everything about Duster, including an impending crisis involving a spellslinger-for-hire, so I can help you."

"Where did you learn a word like idiosyncrasy?" she asked.

"I read lots of books, in preparation for my future career, which will be of a literary nature," I told her.

"Fewer words are better," she said. "I'm seeking a reputable hotel -- what do you suggest?"

I told her Duster had four hotels, all owned by Phosphate Extraction Enterprises, meaning Daryl "Sweetie" Hieronymus, and that the least disreputable, in terms of bowie knifings and smashed glassware, also profane shouting, was the Ascending Angel, in which I resided myself.

"Lead the way," she said.

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