Letter From The Editor - Issue 55 - February 2017

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Issue 9
Stories
The Frankenstein Diaries
by Matt Rotundo
Cassie's Story
by David B. Coe
No Viviremos Como Presos
by Bradley P. Beaulieu
Red Road
by David Barr Kirtley
Blood & Water
by Alethea Kontis
Tales for the Young and Unafraid
A Cart Full of Junk
by David Lubar
InterGalactic Medicine Show Interviews

Writing Fantasy

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No Viviremos Como Presos
    by Bradley P. Beaulieu
No Viviremos Como Presos
Artwork by Jin Han

Miguel jogged up the last flight of stairs to his grandfather's fourth-floor apartment, but stopped short when he realized a bald guy in a gray herringbone suit had just closed his grandfather's door and was now walking toward him. The guy had the look of a lawyer all over him. He paced down the hallway and tried to sidle past Miguel, but was forced to stop when Miguel placed his linebacker's frame into his path.

Miguel glanced at the briefcase. "Were you here to see Sandro Rivera?"

"That's confidential." The man at least had the decency to look a little nervous.

"Not when my grandfather's the one you're talking to."

"Do we have a problem here?" He asked while touching his ear. He'd no doubt primed his net phone and could have the Vero Beach P.D. here in minutes.

"Look --" Miguel softened his expression and jutted his chin down the hallway. "He's my grandfather. I'm just trying to protect him."

"Be that as it may, any business I have with Mr. Rivera must remain between me and him."

Miguel wanted to wipe the I'm-the-one-in-control expression off the guy's face, but instead he tongued the control that activated the camera embedded in his artificial eye. Miguel's vision blinked almost imperceptibly as the shutter release captured the image. Over the next few milliseconds, the microprocessor at the base of his brainstem intercepted the picture, sent a copy to permanent store and embedded another inside a message addressed to Rich Carlsen, asking him to track the suit down with the Post's facial recognition software.

He'd find out who he was one way or another.

Miguel stepped aside. "Got a card?"

"Sorry. Fresh out." And with that the suit was past him and headed down the stairs.

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