Letter From The Editor - Issue 56 - April 2017

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Issue 4
Stories
Tabloid Reporter To The Stars
by Eric James Stone
Wisteria
by Ada Brown
Call Me Mr. Positive
by Tom Barlow
Beats of Seven
by Peter Orullian
Approaching Zero
by Kelly Parks
Miniature
by Peter Friend
Moon-Eyed Stud
by Justin Stanchfield
From the Ender Saga
A Young Man with Prospects
by Orson Scott Card
Tales for the Young and Unafraid
Just Like Me
by David Lubar
Big Otto's Casino
by David Lubar
Special Software Bonus
I-Wei's Amazing Clocks
by I-Wei Huang

Writing Fantasy

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

Beats of Seven
    by Peter Orullian
Beats of Seven
Artwork by Walter Simon

Jimmy Nesbitt sat in the dark of a new moon on the Lincoln City beach and listened.

No wind.

No obnoxious birds.

No obnoxious lovers strolling.

Just Jimmy and his sound gear, capturing the roll of waves, the susurration of water over sand, the ticking of air bubbles popping as the water retreated back toward the ocean. It was the same sound he'd heard a hundred times before . . . until he detected something more, buried deep in the white noise of waves.

He looked around, irritated, expecting to see someone stomping through the sand with a portable stereo in one hand on their way to a midnight swim.

Nothing.

Even the occasional sweep of headlights had ceased, leaving the darkness unbroken and tranquil.

He was alone.

Jimmy reached quickly for his frequency filter, dialing the luminous knobs to try and isolate the pitch he thought he heard. His heart actually pounded in his chest -- something music hadn't done for him in quite some time.

And it totally surprised him.

The romance -- if it had ever really been there -- had long gone out of this job. Recording the ocean had been the only gig he could get once he quit session work in Los Angeles and Nashville, where musicianship had been replaced by packaging and sex appeal. If the market for Pacific Ocean Scapes -- the project that would take him up the entire west coast -- weren't so lucrative, he could never have endured the mindless sound-tracking of splashing water.

He narrowed in on the frequency, methodically muting levels where he could not hear the strange sound through his headphones. The rumble of white caps turning over on themselves fell away, the sizzle of water creeping up wet-packed sand disappeared as well. He kept at it, eager to identify this new tone, something he hadn't heard on any other beach south to San Diego.

After several more adjustments, his parametric equalizer began to spike only in the +10 kilohertz zone.

Jimmy pressed the ear cups of his Sony Pro Studio reference phones tighter against his head, sealing out further noise.

He gave a smile.

No mistake.

A trumpet.

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