Letter From The Editor - Issue 42 - November 2014

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Issue 34
Stories
What the Sea Refuses
by Brian Dolton
Foundling
by Christian K. Martinez
Portraits from the Shadow
by D. Thomas Minton
Three Seconds
by Jonas David
Oyster Beach
by Sophie Wereley
IGMS Audio
InterGalactic Medicine Show Interviews
At the Picture Show: Extended Cut
Blockbuster Viagra
by Chris Bellamy

Writing Fantasy

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Three Seconds
    by Jonas David

Three Seconds
Artwork by Jin Han

We'd all been sitting around that table for so long we'd forgotten most of our lives before or where we'd come from. We just had our names, some vague memories of a place before all this, and an endless white void to stare into.

Or sometimes a black void. We spent a lot of time arguing about which was better.

"Today, we should make something," said Tessa. Her brown, curled hair floated around a face that had too many angles to be called attractive by most. But looks can grow on you after . . . well, however long we'd been there. "The . . . air, is ripe for it," she continued. "I can feel it, can't you?"

"Every day you ask this in some fashion," said Alec, his voice plodding and tedious. "You must know the answer by now." Alec didn't look like Alec anymore. He'd sort of devolved into a shapeless floating . . . thing, with no mouth or face or limbs or hair. His voice seemed to appear in front of him, with no source.

Day - the cycle of dark-colored void and light-colored void. Tessa liked it light, Alec liked it dark. Every once in a while one would give in to the other and the void would change color. Neither ever took the time to seek out my opinion on the matter.

Tessa glared at Alec, ages of frustration boiling behind her dark eyes.

"But this is so boring!" Her voice boomed, her words flying out in an explosive wave of sound that shattered the table into a billion tiny splinters, which then burned to embers and faded to nothing. A moment later it reformed between us, a cloud of smoke swirling up into the shape of the table, then hardening.

I scooted my chair forward and reformed my ears, which I'd sealed off in case of a following outburst. I rebuilt my mug of tea, one of the few things I was allowed to create, and took a sip.

"Existence only leads to suffering," said Alec in his floating monotonous voice. The void was his place, his legacy. Not that he'd created it -- it had been ages since Alec had lifted a finger to create even a chair to sit in. He was, though, the one that kept it empty. "Pure peace," he continued, "can only be reached through the absence of all action. The absence of being."

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