Letter From The Editor - Issue 59 - October 2017

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Issue 21 -
Stories
Brutal Interlude
by Wayne Wightman
The Devil's Rematch
by Spencer Ellsworth
Breakout
by Edmund R. Schubert
IGMS Audio
Breakout by Edmund R. Schubert
Read by Stuart Jaffe
InterGalactic Medicine Show Interviews

Writing Fantasy

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A Frame of Mother-of-Pearl
    by Cat Rambo

A Frame of Mother-of-Pearl
Artwork by Emily Tolson

Hattie Fender was spring-cleaning. It wasn't that the household particularly needed it, but something about the day, the fair weather, the smell of plum blossom and lily of the valley floating in the parlor window, had demanded sparkling windows and the banishment of dust.

Some days she wondered if these duties simply served as distraction from the endless progression of days, the days of her state, not widowed, but worse. She fitted the minutia of housekeeping into a pattern to fill the hours, the ones she didn't spend studying magic theory in order to keep her skills fresh.

Another woman might have sighed, moved by the thought, but Hattie considered it pragmatically, abandoned it in favor of thinking over how many preserves were left over from the long winter, and kept on with her duties.

She rubbed away the last bit of soot from the hood of a whale-oil lamp and moved to dust the contents of the curio cabinet beneath the window.

Behind cloudy glass, keepsakes jostled in the cabinet's interior. When she was a child, two decades earlier, her mother had hidden coins among the figurines for her to find while cleaning. A fox with a penny in its paws, a Chinese maiden with silver treasure beneath her base.

As Hattie lifted the dolphin-shaped latch and reached inside to take out a Spanish dancing doll, a spark stung soft skin between thumb and forefinger. A briery spell, full of ginger and bite.

She recoiled. Nursing her hand, she searched the cabinet with her eyes. A frame pebbled with mother-of-pearl was missing. She knelt in a rustle of skirts to look closer, careful not to touch the doors.

On the second shelf, movement at the back caught her eye. She peered past a scrimshaw walrus. At first it was so still she thought herself mistaken. The gilded scorpion, a Siamese souvenir, crouched on golden legs. Then it shifted. One claw clacked. She closed the door as it rushed forward. The tail's tip skittered across the glass in metallic complaint.

Her hand burned but she could not afford to have the creature slip away and sting some other household member. She considered the drapes, but near the fireplace was a horsehide glove used for handling logs. She drew it over her injured hand and used the other to swing the door open.

China figurines scattered and crashed as she seized the scorpion. It squirmed against the leather, trying to drive its metallic sting through it, but she held it so it could get no room to swing.

Carrying it into the kitchen, she dropped it in an empty butter churn. It scuttled across the container's floor, scraping its claws against the sides.

She stared down at it, thinking.

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