Tor.com Stories This feed includes both original Tor.com stories and reprints. It's only a partial feed - you'll need to click through for the full story. http://www.tor.com/ Wed, 08 Feb 2012 18:20:58 +0000 Joomla! 1.5 - Open Source Content Management en-gb Uncle Flower’s Homecoming Waltz http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/H9EP6iGy2io/uncle-flowers-homecoming-waltz <p><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em>Presenting a new original story, “Uncle Flower’s Homecoming Waltz,“ by author Marissa K. Lingen, a tale in which children and adults must be taught how to daydream properly; a respite against the never-ending war that rages around them.</em></span></span></p><p>My grandmother says all stories begin with a death. My grandfather says with a birth. And Aunt Albert says they’re both wrong, and stories begin with someone not getting what they want.</p><p>But no one was born, and no one died, and I got what I wanted, and that is where this story begins.</p><p>[Continue reading “Uncle Flower’s Homecoming Waltz”]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2012/02/uncle-flowers-homecoming-waltz">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=H9EP6iGy2io:qCdVhS4hCk0:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=H9EP6iGy2io:qCdVhS4hCk0:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=H9EP6iGy2io:qCdVhS4hCk0:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=H9EP6iGy2io:qCdVhS4hCk0:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=H9EP6iGy2io:qCdVhS4hCk0:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=H9EP6iGy2io:qCdVhS4hCk0:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=H9EP6iGy2io:qCdVhS4hCk0:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=H9EP6iGy2io:qCdVhS4hCk0:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=H9EP6iGy2io:qCdVhS4hCk0:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/H9EP6iGy2io" height="1" width="1"/> Marissa K. Lingen Prose Wed, 01 Feb 2012 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2012/02/uncle-flowers-homecoming-waltz http://www.tor.com/stories/2012/02/uncle-flowers-homecoming-waltz Swift, Brutal Retaliation http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/LnI32Hvi4E0/swift-brutal-retaliation <p><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em>Presenting a new original story, “Swift, Brutal Retaliation,“ by new author Meghan McCarron, a ghost story that cautions one against trying to win a ghostly prank war against one’s dead big brother. You can’t win that sort of war, only survive it.</em></span></span></p><p>Two girls in wrinkled black dresses sat in the front pew at their older brother’s funeral. They had never sat in the front pew in church before, and they disliked how exposed they felt. Behind them stood their brother’s entire eighth-grade class, the girls in ironed black dresses and gold cross necklaces, the boys in dark suits, bought too big so they could get another use. Few expected more funerals, but the suits would serve for graduation in May—which, after all, was a funeral, too.</p><p>[Continue reading ”Swift, Brutal Retaliation"]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2012/01/swift-brutal-retaliation">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=LnI32Hvi4E0:GEArbg779Vo:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=LnI32Hvi4E0:GEArbg779Vo:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=LnI32Hvi4E0:GEArbg779Vo:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=LnI32Hvi4E0:GEArbg779Vo:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=LnI32Hvi4E0:GEArbg779Vo:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=LnI32Hvi4E0:GEArbg779Vo:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=LnI32Hvi4E0:GEArbg779Vo:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=LnI32Hvi4E0:GEArbg779Vo:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=LnI32Hvi4E0:GEArbg779Vo:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/LnI32Hvi4E0" height="1" width="1"/> Meghan McCarron Prose Wed, 04 Jan 2012 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2012/01/swift-brutal-retaliation http://www.tor.com/stories/2012/01/swift-brutal-retaliation A Clean Sweep With All the Trimmings http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/6nxMZ03ZK_k/a-clean-sweep-with-all-the-trimmings <p><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em>Presenting a new original science fiction story, “A Clean Sweep With All the Trimmings,” by author James Alan Gardner, a Damon Runyon-esque tale of courteous guys, bulletproof dolls, and the fedora-clad spacemen that bring them together.</em></span></span></p><p><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em><span style="font-size: 12px;">This week marks the seventy-fifth anniversary of the death of American writer Damon Runyon, best known for his delightful, distinctive prose style and for the series of post-Prohibition New York stories that eventually inspired the musical </span></em><span style="font-size: 12px;">Guys and Dolls.</span></span></p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/12/a-clean-sweep-with-all-the-trimmings">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6nxMZ03ZK_k:nrG90m22fHE:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6nxMZ03ZK_k:nrG90m22fHE:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=6nxMZ03ZK_k:nrG90m22fHE:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6nxMZ03ZK_k:nrG90m22fHE:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=6nxMZ03ZK_k:nrG90m22fHE:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6nxMZ03ZK_k:nrG90m22fHE:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6nxMZ03ZK_k:nrG90m22fHE:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=6nxMZ03ZK_k:nrG90m22fHE:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6nxMZ03ZK_k:nrG90m22fHE:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/6nxMZ03ZK_k" height="1" width="1"/> James Alan Gardner Prose Wed, 14 Dec 2011 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/12/a-clean-sweep-with-all-the-trimmings http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/12/a-clean-sweep-with-all-the-trimmings If Dragon’s Mass Eve Be Cold And Clear http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/h3Evcp6eoTY/if-dragons-mass-eve-be-cold-and-clear <p style="margin-left: 40px;"><em>Muscles tire. Words fail. Faith fades. Fear falls. In the Sixteenth Year of the Sixteen Princes the world came to an end when the dragon’s back gave out. Poetry died first followed by faith. One by one the world-strands burst and bled until ash snowed down on huddled masses whimpering in the cold.</em></p><p style="margin-left: 40px;"><em>The Santaman came reeking of love into this place and we did not know him.</em></p><p style="margin-left: 40px;"><em>This is his story.</em></p><p style="margin-left: 40px;"><em>This is our story, too.</em></p><p style="margin-left: 80px;"><em>Prelude<br />The Santaman Cycle, Authorized Standard Version<br />Verity Press, 2453 YD</em></p><p>[Continue reading “If Dragon’s Mass Eve Be Cold and Clear”]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/12/if-dragons-mass-eve-be-cold-and-clear">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=h3Evcp6eoTY:gbmt072WXQE:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=h3Evcp6eoTY:gbmt072WXQE:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=h3Evcp6eoTY:gbmt072WXQE:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=h3Evcp6eoTY:gbmt072WXQE:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=h3Evcp6eoTY:gbmt072WXQE:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=h3Evcp6eoTY:gbmt072WXQE:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=h3Evcp6eoTY:gbmt072WXQE:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=h3Evcp6eoTY:gbmt072WXQE:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=h3Evcp6eoTY:gbmt072WXQE:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/h3Evcp6eoTY" height="1" width="1"/> Ken Scholes Prose Tue, 13 Dec 2011 17:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/12/if-dragons-mass-eve-be-cold-and-clear http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/12/if-dragons-mass-eve-be-cold-and-clear Glitches http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/TAN-aMhXLfk/glitches <p><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em>Presenting a new science fiction original story, “Glitches,” by author Marissa Meyer, who’s first novel </em><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/cinder-marissa-meyer/1100649238?ean=9780312641894&amp;itm=1&amp;usri=cinder" target="_blank">Cinder</a><em> arrives on January 3rd. You can find an excerpt <a href="http://us.macmillan.com/BookCustomPage.aspx?isbn=9781466805880#Excerpt" target="_blank">here</a>, along with an option to purchase further chapters.</em></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em>Want to know how the art for this came together? Check out sketches and alternate takes on Cinder in Goni Montes&rsquo; <a href="http://www.tor.com/blogs/2011/12/creating-the-art-for-marissa-meyers-qglitchesq" target="_blank">&ldquo;Creating the Art&rdquo; post</a>.</em></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em>Cinder, a gifted mechanic, is a cyborg. She’s a second-class citizen with a mysterious past, reviled by her stepmother and blamed for her stepsister’s illness. </em></span></span><span style="color:#696969;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><em>In “Glitches,” a short prequel story to </em>Cinder<em>,&nbsp; we see the results of that illness play out, and the emotional toll that takes on Cinder. Something that may, or may not, be a glitch....</em></span></span></p><p>[Read “Glitches”]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/12/glitches">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=TAN-aMhXLfk:z9oR-8kl4Ag:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=TAN-aMhXLfk:z9oR-8kl4Ag:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=TAN-aMhXLfk:z9oR-8kl4Ag:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=TAN-aMhXLfk:z9oR-8kl4Ag:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=TAN-aMhXLfk:z9oR-8kl4Ag:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=TAN-aMhXLfk:z9oR-8kl4Ag:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=TAN-aMhXLfk:z9oR-8kl4Ag:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=TAN-aMhXLfk:z9oR-8kl4Ag:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=TAN-aMhXLfk:z9oR-8kl4Ag:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/TAN-aMhXLfk" height="1" width="1"/> Marissa Meyer Prose Mon, 05 Dec 2011 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/12/glitches http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/12/glitches The Rotten Beast http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/PGhxkJj_2Xk/the-rotten-beast <p><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em>Presenting a new original science fiction story, “The Rotten Beast,” by author <a href="http://www.marypearson.com/" target="_blank">Mary E. Pearson</a>, which takes place in the same near-future world of <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/?series_id=681746" target="_blank">The Jenna Fox Chronicles</a>.</em></span></span></p><p><span style="color:#696969;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><em>In “The Rotten Beast,” a sixteen-year-old girl named Allys, living in a near future version of the U.S., is vehemently opposed to the way scientists are meddling with human and artificial life. In fact, she blames such scientific overreaching for the illness which is killing her. When she awakens one day to find that her parents have gone against her wishes and had an illegal operation performed to save her life and restore her body, she is furious and must come to terms with this new chance at life, which she didn’t ask for and didn’t think she wanted.</em></span></span></p><p>[Read “The Rotten Beast”]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/11/the-rotten-beast">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=PGhxkJj_2Xk:44HEyEi1B9I:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=PGhxkJj_2Xk:44HEyEi1B9I:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=PGhxkJj_2Xk:44HEyEi1B9I:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=PGhxkJj_2Xk:44HEyEi1B9I:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=PGhxkJj_2Xk:44HEyEi1B9I:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=PGhxkJj_2Xk:44HEyEi1B9I:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=PGhxkJj_2Xk:44HEyEi1B9I:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=PGhxkJj_2Xk:44HEyEi1B9I:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=PGhxkJj_2Xk:44HEyEi1B9I:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/PGhxkJj_2Xk" height="1" width="1"/> Mary E. Pearson Prose Wed, 30 Nov 2011 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/11/the-rotten-beast http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/11/the-rotten-beast Ghost Hedgehog http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/6j1T2kpQ-G0/ghost-hedgehog <p><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em>Presenting a new original story, “Ghost Hedgehog,” by fantasy author Nina Kiriki Hoffman.</em></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em>With all the places ghosts could go, in this world and the next, why do they keep hanging around</em><em> Jack?</em></span></span></p><p>It&rsquo;s like I got spikes on my back, and every ghost who wants to stick around on Earth grabs one and hangs on.</p><p>Mrs. Jernigan, my fifth-grade teacher, was the first ghost who hooked on to me.</p><p>[Read &ldquo;Ghost Hedgehog&rdquo;]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/11/ghost-hedgehog">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6j1T2kpQ-G0:4AuzhXteCr4:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6j1T2kpQ-G0:4AuzhXteCr4:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=6j1T2kpQ-G0:4AuzhXteCr4:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6j1T2kpQ-G0:4AuzhXteCr4:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=6j1T2kpQ-G0:4AuzhXteCr4:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6j1T2kpQ-G0:4AuzhXteCr4:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6j1T2kpQ-G0:4AuzhXteCr4:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=6j1T2kpQ-G0:4AuzhXteCr4:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6j1T2kpQ-G0:4AuzhXteCr4:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/6j1T2kpQ-G0" height="1" width="1"/> Nina Kiriki Hoffman Prose Wed, 16 Nov 2011 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/11/ghost-hedgehog http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/11/ghost-hedgehog First Contact http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/MTs4OqSQnFw/11-words <p style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" class="blog-pic-middle-align " src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/blogs/11_11/seagull-nebula.jpg" /></p><p>In her hand, a planet as large as loneliness. She squeezed.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/11/11-words">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=MTs4OqSQnFw:sWdSS6_OOB4:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=MTs4OqSQnFw:sWdSS6_OOB4:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=MTs4OqSQnFw:sWdSS6_OOB4:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=MTs4OqSQnFw:sWdSS6_OOB4:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=MTs4OqSQnFw:sWdSS6_OOB4:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=MTs4OqSQnFw:sWdSS6_OOB4:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=MTs4OqSQnFw:sWdSS6_OOB4:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=MTs4OqSQnFw:sWdSS6_OOB4:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=MTs4OqSQnFw:sWdSS6_OOB4:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/MTs4OqSQnFw" height="1" width="1"/> Theresa DeLucci Prose Fri, 11 Nov 2011 17:31:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/11/11-words http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/11/11-words Hello, Moto http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/454WeFhNoUU/hello-moto <blockquote><p><span style="font-size: 14px;">“African women in general need to know that it’s OK for them to be the way they are - to see the way they are as a strength, and to be liberated from fear and from silence.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 14px;">—<strong><em>Wangari Maathai, Kenyan environmental activist and Nobel Laureate</em></strong></span></p></blockquote><p>&nbsp;</p><p><em>This is a tale you will only hear once. Then it will be gone in a flash of green light. Maybe all will be well after that. Maybe the story has a happy ending. Maybe there is nothing but darkness when the story ends.</em></p><p><em>We were three women. Three friends. We had goals, hopes and dreams. We had careers. Two of us had boyfriends. We owned houses. We all had love. Then I made these… wigs. I gave them to my two friends. The three of us put them on. The wigs were supposed to make things better. But something went wrong. Like the nation we were trying to improve, we became backward. Instead of giving, we took. </em></p><p><em>Walk with me. This is the story of How the Smart Woman Tried to Right Her Great Wrong.</em></p><p>[Continue reading “Hello, Moto”]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/11/hello-moto">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=454WeFhNoUU:wPu1Qf8Nqxc:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=454WeFhNoUU:wPu1Qf8Nqxc:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=454WeFhNoUU:wPu1Qf8Nqxc:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=454WeFhNoUU:wPu1Qf8Nqxc:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=454WeFhNoUU:wPu1Qf8Nqxc:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=454WeFhNoUU:wPu1Qf8Nqxc:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=454WeFhNoUU:wPu1Qf8Nqxc:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=454WeFhNoUU:wPu1Qf8Nqxc:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=454WeFhNoUU:wPu1Qf8Nqxc:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/454WeFhNoUU" height="1" width="1"/> Nnedi Okorafor Prose Wed, 02 Nov 2011 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/11/hello-moto http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/11/hello-moto Grace Immaculate http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/7FxeM5TyHn0/grace-immaculate <p><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em>Presenting a new original story, “Grace Immaculate,” by science fiction author Gregory Benford.</em></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em>When we encountered the aliens, we thought we knew the story they were telling. But we were looking at the wrong end...</em></span></span></p><p>[Read “Grace Immaculate”]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/10/grace-immaculate">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7FxeM5TyHn0:WG91OH9WWIA:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7FxeM5TyHn0:WG91OH9WWIA:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=7FxeM5TyHn0:WG91OH9WWIA:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7FxeM5TyHn0:WG91OH9WWIA:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=7FxeM5TyHn0:WG91OH9WWIA:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7FxeM5TyHn0:WG91OH9WWIA:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7FxeM5TyHn0:WG91OH9WWIA:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=7FxeM5TyHn0:WG91OH9WWIA:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7FxeM5TyHn0:WG91OH9WWIA:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/7FxeM5TyHn0" height="1" width="1"/> Gregory Benford Prose Wed, 19 Oct 2011 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/10/grace-immaculate http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/10/grace-immaculate The Night Children http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/bmRWvDfOs_8/the-night-children <p><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em>Presenting a new <a href="http://us.macmillan.com/series/EscapefromFurnace" target="_blank">Escape from Furnace</a> story, “The Night Children,” by Alexander Gordon Smith.</em></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em>It is December 1944 and Europe is still gripped by war. In the densely forested mountains of Belgium one of the conflict’s most brutal battles is raging. Cut off from the front, a ragtag group of young British and American soldiers finds itself being hunted by a patrol of elite German Special Forces, including a newly commissioned officer called Kreuz—a teenage boy who will grow up to become Warden Cross (the fearsome prison director who will one day rule Furnace Penitentiary, the terrifying underground prison specially built for teen offenders).</em></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em>As both sides fight for their lives in the unforgiving terrain, however, they start to realize that there are worse things hiding in the snow than soldiers. There are creatures out there with gas masks and piggy eyes (ancestors of Furnace prison’s “wheezers”)—demonic entities that cannot be killed by guns and grenades, monsters who do not care what uniforms their victims are wearing so long as they bleed, and so long as they scream...</em></span></span></p><p>[Read “The Night Children”]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/09/the-night-children">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=bmRWvDfOs_8:ov4zV2LmzfI:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=bmRWvDfOs_8:ov4zV2LmzfI:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=bmRWvDfOs_8:ov4zV2LmzfI:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=bmRWvDfOs_8:ov4zV2LmzfI:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=bmRWvDfOs_8:ov4zV2LmzfI:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=bmRWvDfOs_8:ov4zV2LmzfI:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=bmRWvDfOs_8:ov4zV2LmzfI:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=bmRWvDfOs_8:ov4zV2LmzfI:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=bmRWvDfOs_8:ov4zV2LmzfI:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/bmRWvDfOs_8" height="1" width="1"/> Alexander Gordon Smith Prose Wed, 21 Sep 2011 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/09/the-night-children http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/09/the-night-children Day One http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/Cu9RHtNCmDg/day-one <p><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em>Presenting a new original story, “Day One,” by Matthew Costello, set in the same universe as his upcoming novel </em></span><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/vacation-matthew-j-costello/1101905226" target="_blank">Vacation<span id="cke_bm_191S" style="display: none;">&nbsp;</span><span style="display: none;">&nbsp;</span></a><span style="color: rgb(105, 105, 105);"><em>, a horror/thriller about a near-future where a massive drought has decimated all crops and livestock. In “Day One”, NYPD cop and family man Jack Murphy starts his first day of work at the 76th Precinct in Red Hook. With the onset of a food shortage, society is crumbling. Grocery store shelves are emptier by the week, and the city has gone from bad to worse. People are getting desperate. And hungry.<br />Jack and his new partner, Schiller, take to the streets on a blistering hot summer day, cruising around for hours until they can grab lunch. But when they get a routine noise complaint call, they get more than they bargained for, and must do all they can to avoid becoming lunch themselves…<span id="cke_bm_191E" style="display: none;">&nbsp;</span></em></span><span style="display: none;"> </span></p><p>[Read “Day One”]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/09/day-one">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Cu9RHtNCmDg:oIOhdWF40cc:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Cu9RHtNCmDg:oIOhdWF40cc:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Cu9RHtNCmDg:oIOhdWF40cc:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Cu9RHtNCmDg:oIOhdWF40cc:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Cu9RHtNCmDg:oIOhdWF40cc:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Cu9RHtNCmDg:oIOhdWF40cc:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Cu9RHtNCmDg:oIOhdWF40cc:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Cu9RHtNCmDg:oIOhdWF40cc:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Cu9RHtNCmDg:oIOhdWF40cc:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/Cu9RHtNCmDg" height="1" width="1"/> Matthew Costello Prose Wed, 14 Sep 2011 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/09/day-one http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/09/day-one Lee at the Alamo http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/C-ZBcJne1l4/lee-at-the-alamo <p>Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee strolled through the streets of San Antonio. It was a bright February morning, the air mild and moist: almost a promise of spring. But, as Lee knew from his service on the Texas frontier, such promises were more easily made than kept. Another norther might yet howl down to cover the ground with snow and wrap ice around hopeful young leaf buds.</p><p>You never could tell with Texas weather. And you never could tell with Texas politics. More promises there had been made than kept, too. For all his efforts, Governor Sam Houston hadn’t been able to keep his state in the Union. A secession convention had voted Texas out of the Union. Once a referendum ratified that vote, it would join the Confederate States, whatever the Confederate States were or would become.</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/09/lee-at-the-alamo">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=C-ZBcJne1l4:bHlToCxXlFg:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=C-ZBcJne1l4:bHlToCxXlFg:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=C-ZBcJne1l4:bHlToCxXlFg:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=C-ZBcJne1l4:bHlToCxXlFg:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=C-ZBcJne1l4:bHlToCxXlFg:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=C-ZBcJne1l4:bHlToCxXlFg:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=C-ZBcJne1l4:bHlToCxXlFg:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=C-ZBcJne1l4:bHlToCxXlFg:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=C-ZBcJne1l4:bHlToCxXlFg:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/C-ZBcJne1l4" height="1" width="1"/> Harry Turtledove Prose Wed, 07 Sep 2011 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/09/lee-at-the-alamo http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/09/lee-at-the-alamo Swingers http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/J4MG8n9NeME/swingers <p><em>Enjoy this new original story by science fiction author <a href="http://www.tor.com/robert-reed" target="_blank">Robert Reed</a>! In &ldquo;Swingers,&rdquo; the aliens have arrived. And they want to Join. Yes, that means what you think it does.</em></p><p>A man waits in line at Caribou Coffee. The woman behind him catches his eye, leading to happy words. Caffeine brings a dinner that isn’t a date, and another night is spent at the clubs, and then comes one magic evening with scallops and a romantic movie and the woman sitting on her sofa after midnight, smiling in a certain way, quietly telling this man what she needs more than her next breath.</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/08/swingers">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=J4MG8n9NeME:Y0on0PdOwDU:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=J4MG8n9NeME:Y0on0PdOwDU:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=J4MG8n9NeME:Y0on0PdOwDU:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=J4MG8n9NeME:Y0on0PdOwDU:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=J4MG8n9NeME:Y0on0PdOwDU:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=J4MG8n9NeME:Y0on0PdOwDU:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=J4MG8n9NeME:Y0on0PdOwDU:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=J4MG8n9NeME:Y0on0PdOwDU:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=J4MG8n9NeME:Y0on0PdOwDU:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/J4MG8n9NeME" height="1" width="1"/> Robert Reed Prose Wed, 24 Aug 2011 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/08/swingers http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/08/swingers A Vector Alphabet of Interstellar Travel http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/HgLpqX3ty3U/a-vector-alphabet-of-interstellar-travel <p style="text-align: center;">The Conflagration</p><p>Among the universe’s civilizations, some conceive of the journey between stars as the sailing of bright ships, and others as tunneling through the crevices of night. Some look upon their far-voyaging as a migratory imperative, and name their vessels after birds or butterflies.</p><p>The people of a certain red star no longer speak its name in any of their hundreds of languages, although they paint alien skies with its whorled light and scorch its spectral lines into the sides of their vessels.</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/08/a-vector-alphabet-of-interstellar-travel">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=HgLpqX3ty3U:iu0dxhfGAys:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=HgLpqX3ty3U:iu0dxhfGAys:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=HgLpqX3ty3U:iu0dxhfGAys:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=HgLpqX3ty3U:iu0dxhfGAys:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=HgLpqX3ty3U:iu0dxhfGAys:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=HgLpqX3ty3U:iu0dxhfGAys:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=HgLpqX3ty3U:iu0dxhfGAys:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=HgLpqX3ty3U:iu0dxhfGAys:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=HgLpqX3ty3U:iu0dxhfGAys:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/HgLpqX3ty3U" height="1" width="1"/> Yoon Ha Lee Prose Wed, 10 Aug 2011 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/08/a-vector-alphabet-of-interstellar-travel http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/08/a-vector-alphabet-of-interstellar-travel The Girl Who Ruled Fairyland — For a Little While http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/yZRrAkoeuQU/the-girl-who-ruled-fairylandfor-a-little-while <p><em>In which a young girl named Mallow leaves the country for the city, meets a number of Winds, Cats, and handsome folk, sees something dreadful, and engages, much against her will, in Politicks of the most muddled kind.</em></p><p>&nbsp;</p><p>History is a funny little creature. Do you remember visiting your old Aunt that autumn when the trees shone so very yellow, and how she owned a striped and unsocial cat, quite old and fat and wounded about the ears and whiskers, with a crooked, broken tail? That cat would not come to you no matter how you coaxed and called; it had its own business, thank you, and no time for you. But as the evening wore on, it would come and show some affection or favor to your Aunt, or your Father, or the old end-table with the stack of green coasters on it. You couldn’t predict who that cat might decide to love, or who it might decide to bite. You couldn’t tell what it thought or felt, or how old it might really be, or whether it would one day, miraculously, decide to let you put one hand, very briefly, on its dusty head.</p><p>History is like that.</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/07/the-girl-who-ruled-fairylandfor-a-little-while">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yZRrAkoeuQU:HuoF2BNHtI8:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yZRrAkoeuQU:HuoF2BNHtI8:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=yZRrAkoeuQU:HuoF2BNHtI8:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yZRrAkoeuQU:HuoF2BNHtI8:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=yZRrAkoeuQU:HuoF2BNHtI8:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yZRrAkoeuQU:HuoF2BNHtI8:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yZRrAkoeuQU:HuoF2BNHtI8:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=yZRrAkoeuQU:HuoF2BNHtI8:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yZRrAkoeuQU:HuoF2BNHtI8:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/yZRrAkoeuQU" height="1" width="1"/> Catherynne M. Valente Prose Wed, 27 Jul 2011 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/07/the-girl-who-ruled-fairylandfor-a-little-while http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/07/the-girl-who-ruled-fairylandfor-a-little-while The Dala Horse http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/6Dcf1c19n4U/the-dala-horse <p>Something terrible had happened. Linnea did not know what it was. But her father had looked pale and worried, and her mother had told her, very fiercely, “Be brave!” and now she had to leave, and it was all the result of that terrible thing.</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/07/the-dala-horse">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6Dcf1c19n4U:_-GgRNtx6NA:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6Dcf1c19n4U:_-GgRNtx6NA:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=6Dcf1c19n4U:_-GgRNtx6NA:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6Dcf1c19n4U:_-GgRNtx6NA:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=6Dcf1c19n4U:_-GgRNtx6NA:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6Dcf1c19n4U:_-GgRNtx6NA:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6Dcf1c19n4U:_-GgRNtx6NA:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=6Dcf1c19n4U:_-GgRNtx6NA:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6Dcf1c19n4U:_-GgRNtx6NA:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/6Dcf1c19n4U" height="1" width="1"/> Michael Swanwick Prose Wed, 13 Jul 2011 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/07/the-dala-horse http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/07/the-dala-horse Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/gnOU9YddRsA/ch-ch-ch-changes <p><em>This story has a unique genesis. <a href="http://www.tor.com/blogs/2011/07/an-introduction-to-qch-ch-ch-changesq" target="_blank">Read the short explanation here</a>.</em></p><p><em><strong>i. All Saint’s Eve in Tokyo</strong></em><br />Eleven-year-old <em>Big D</em> had four years on me, and I wanted his approval. I joined his trick-or-treat posse in the American housing enclave there in Tokyo.</p><p>He and his same-age pals wore cowboy outfits and packed low-slung six-shooters, as did I. Instead of a red bandana, though, Big D sported a flamboyant polka-dot bowtie. I grabbed his shirt and showed him my scrawled hold-up note:</p><p><em>“Give me all you Babby Rooths.”</em></p><p>“It’s ‘your,’ not ‘you,’” he said. “And <em>Babby Rooths</em> make me puke.”</p><p>But he let me tag along and later allotted me a generous portion of our Halloween haul.</p><p>[Read onward]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/07/ch-ch-ch-changes">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=gnOU9YddRsA:o8l-RtpqKaE:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=gnOU9YddRsA:o8l-RtpqKaE:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=gnOU9YddRsA:o8l-RtpqKaE:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=gnOU9YddRsA:o8l-RtpqKaE:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=gnOU9YddRsA:o8l-RtpqKaE:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=gnOU9YddRsA:o8l-RtpqKaE:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=gnOU9YddRsA:o8l-RtpqKaE:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=gnOU9YddRsA:o8l-RtpqKaE:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=gnOU9YddRsA:o8l-RtpqKaE:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/gnOU9YddRsA" height="1" width="1"/> Michael Bishop Prose Mon, 11 Jul 2011 17:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/07/ch-ch-ch-changes http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/07/ch-ch-ch-changes Earth Hour http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/Arrd_JZVIUw/earth-hour <p>The assassin slung the bag concealing his weapon over his shoulder and walked down the steps to the rickety wooden jetty. He waited as the Sydney Harbour ferry puttered into Neutral Bay, cast on and then cast off at the likewise tiny quay on the opposite bank, and crossed the hundred or so meters to Kurraba Point. He boarded, waved a hand gloved in artificial skin across the fare-taker, and settled on a bench near the prow, with the weapon in its blue nylon zipped bag balanced across his knees.</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/06/earth-hour">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Arrd_JZVIUw:EmP1IJD_j8Y:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Arrd_JZVIUw:EmP1IJD_j8Y:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Arrd_JZVIUw:EmP1IJD_j8Y:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Arrd_JZVIUw:EmP1IJD_j8Y:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Arrd_JZVIUw:EmP1IJD_j8Y:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Arrd_JZVIUw:EmP1IJD_j8Y:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Arrd_JZVIUw:EmP1IJD_j8Y:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Arrd_JZVIUw:EmP1IJD_j8Y:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Arrd_JZVIUw:EmP1IJD_j8Y:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/Arrd_JZVIUw" height="1" width="1"/> Ken MacLeod Prose Wed, 22 Jun 2011 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/06/earth-hour http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/06/earth-hour Six Months, Three Days http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/r39JJyzps7A/six-months-three-days <p><span style="color:#696969;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><em>The man who can see the future has a date with the woman who can see many possible futures.</em></span></span></p><p>&nbsp;</p><p>Judy is nervous but excited, keeps looking at things she’s spotted out of the corner of her eye. She’s wearing a floral Laura Ashley style dress with an Ankh necklace and her legs are rambunctious, her calves moving under the table. It’s distracting because Doug knows that in two and a half weeks, those cucumber-smooth ankles will be hooked on his shoulders, and that curly reddish-brown hair will spill everywhere onto her lemon-floral pillows; this image of their future coitus has been in Doug’s head for years, with varying degrees of clarity, and now it’s almost here. The knowledge makes Doug almost giggle at the wrong moment, but then it hits him: she’s seen this future too — or she may have, anyway.</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/06/six-months-three-days">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=r39JJyzps7A:I4gGYZ-73j8:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=r39JJyzps7A:I4gGYZ-73j8:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=r39JJyzps7A:I4gGYZ-73j8:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=r39JJyzps7A:I4gGYZ-73j8:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=r39JJyzps7A:I4gGYZ-73j8:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=r39JJyzps7A:I4gGYZ-73j8:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=r39JJyzps7A:I4gGYZ-73j8:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=r39JJyzps7A:I4gGYZ-73j8:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=r39JJyzps7A:I4gGYZ-73j8:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/r39JJyzps7A" height="1" width="1"/> Charlie Jane Anders Prose Wed, 08 Jun 2011 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/06/six-months-three-days http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/06/six-months-three-days Time Considered as a Series of Thermite Burns in No Particular Order http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/P6Xn4oO-ZW0/time-considered-as-a-series-of-thermite-burns-in-no-particular-order <p>My time machine was disguised as a Baronne Henriette de Snoy rosebush in full bloom. I left it in the Royal Botanic Gardens, next to a thicket of imported English foliage. We could have appeared near the library building itself, but I wanted to get the lay of the land and insinuate myself. Besides, seeing time machines pop out of the air can make people nervous. Moira remained inside, shielded, and said through my inload, &ldquo;Good luck, Bobby. Try not to get arrested again.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Should be back in a couple of hours, max,&rdquo; I murmured. The internet and global communications systems had been dismantled six decades earlier, after the tsunami of leaked classified documents. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll keep the images rolling, but let&rsquo;s nix the chitchat. Oh, and if I do get arrested, maybe you should come and get me.&rdquo;</p><p>My wife sighed. &ldquo;Just don&rsquo;t get all tangled up, I hate time loops.&rdquo;</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/05/time-considered-as-a-series-of-thermite-burns-in-no-particular-order">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=P6Xn4oO-ZW0:nQeeGSfv0aw:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=P6Xn4oO-ZW0:nQeeGSfv0aw:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=P6Xn4oO-ZW0:nQeeGSfv0aw:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=P6Xn4oO-ZW0:nQeeGSfv0aw:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=P6Xn4oO-ZW0:nQeeGSfv0aw:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=P6Xn4oO-ZW0:nQeeGSfv0aw:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=P6Xn4oO-ZW0:nQeeGSfv0aw:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=P6Xn4oO-ZW0:nQeeGSfv0aw:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=P6Xn4oO-ZW0:nQeeGSfv0aw:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/P6Xn4oO-ZW0" height="1" width="1"/> Damien Broderick Prose Wed, 25 May 2011 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/05/time-considered-as-a-series-of-thermite-burns-in-no-particular-order http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/05/time-considered-as-a-series-of-thermite-burns-in-no-particular-order Crazy Me http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/2oznpTzVcBw/crazy-me <p>&ldquo;Wake up.&rdquo; When Crazy Me rests a hand on my forehead, it jolts me from sleep. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s raccoons.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo; I shiver out of a very pleasant dream of licking frosting off Amisha&rsquo;s nose. &ldquo;Get!&rdquo; I flail at him in the darkness and thump his shoulder.</p><p>&ldquo;Raccoons! With their masks and their tiny black hands and their fleas. Rooting through our garbage.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;What time is it?&rdquo; I lift my head off the pillow to look at the clock. &ldquo;Great, it&rsquo;s <em>four twenty-three</em>.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Do you know how many raccoons there are?&rdquo; he asks. As usual, my irritation bounces off him. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re everywhere, like furry cockroaches. I have no doubt whatsoever. The next pandemic will be huge&mdash;raccoon flu.&rdquo;</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/05/crazy-me">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2oznpTzVcBw:G69_qI9v1AI:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2oznpTzVcBw:G69_qI9v1AI:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=2oznpTzVcBw:G69_qI9v1AI:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2oznpTzVcBw:G69_qI9v1AI:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=2oznpTzVcBw:G69_qI9v1AI:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2oznpTzVcBw:G69_qI9v1AI:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2oznpTzVcBw:G69_qI9v1AI:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=2oznpTzVcBw:G69_qI9v1AI:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2oznpTzVcBw:G69_qI9v1AI:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/2oznpTzVcBw" height="1" width="1"/> James Patrick Kelly Prose Wed, 11 May 2011 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/05/crazy-me http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/05/crazy-me The Iron Shirts http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/tdSYll7AeZ0/the-iron-shirts <p><strong>Geantraí</strong></p><p>The outriders were galloping in from both flanks and David ó Flynn pulled back on his pony’s reins to wait halfway down the hillside. His companions imitated him, some yanking warbows from their scabbards and stringing them with thoughtless ease. The footmen lined up in a loose array, holding their javelins ready but with their thumbs not yet in the throwing loops. They had passed unmolested south of the bog country around Dun Mor, avoiding the Foreign-held lands, but one never knew. The heavens cried out the deaths of kings; but on earth in this Year of Grace twelve hundred and four and twenty, men planned those deaths in whispers.</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/05/the-iron-shirts">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=tdSYll7AeZ0:vIVBQR7qCf4:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=tdSYll7AeZ0:vIVBQR7qCf4:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=tdSYll7AeZ0:vIVBQR7qCf4:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=tdSYll7AeZ0:vIVBQR7qCf4:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=tdSYll7AeZ0:vIVBQR7qCf4:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=tdSYll7AeZ0:vIVBQR7qCf4:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=tdSYll7AeZ0:vIVBQR7qCf4:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=tdSYll7AeZ0:vIVBQR7qCf4:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=tdSYll7AeZ0:vIVBQR7qCf4:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/tdSYll7AeZ0" height="1" width="1"/> Michael F. Flynn Prose Wed, 04 May 2011 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/05/the-iron-shirts http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/05/the-iron-shirts Ragnarok http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/7yUqiJPrGFA/ragnarok <p>There was a man, Magnus’s son,<br />Ragni his name. In Reykjavik<br />Stands his office, six stories,<br />Far from the harbor in the fat past.<br />Birds nest there, now abandoned.<br />The sea washes along Vesturgata,<br />As they called it.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In those days<br />Ragni’s son, a rich man,<br />Also a scholar, skilled in law,<br />Thomas his name, took his wife<br />From famished Boston, far away.<br />Brave were her people, black-skinned,<br />Strong with spear, with shield courageous,<br />Long ago.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Lately now</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/04/ragnarok">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7yUqiJPrGFA:1RJpDy6LSjk:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7yUqiJPrGFA:1RJpDy6LSjk:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=7yUqiJPrGFA:1RJpDy6LSjk:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7yUqiJPrGFA:1RJpDy6LSjk:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=7yUqiJPrGFA:1RJpDy6LSjk:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7yUqiJPrGFA:1RJpDy6LSjk:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7yUqiJPrGFA:1RJpDy6LSjk:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=7yUqiJPrGFA:1RJpDy6LSjk:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7yUqiJPrGFA:1RJpDy6LSjk:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/7yUqiJPrGFA" height="1" width="1"/> Paul Park Prose Sun, 17 Apr 2011 18:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/04/ragnarok http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/04/ragnarok Shtetl Days http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/6MTfgxa19s0/shtetl-days <p>Jakub Shlayfer opened the door and walked outside to go to work. Before he could shut it again, his wife called after him: &ldquo;<em>Alevai</em> it should be a good day! We really need the <em>gelt</em>!&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;<em>Alevai</em>, Bertha. <em>Omayn</em>,&rdquo; Jakub agreed. The door was already shut by then, but what difference did that make? It wasn&rsquo;t as if he didn&rsquo;t know they were poor. His lean frame, the rough edge on the brim of his broad, black hat, his threadbare long, black coat, and the many patches on his boot soles all told the same story.</p><p>But then, how many Jews in Wawolnice weren&rsquo;t poor? The only one Jakub could think of was Shmuel Grynszpan, the undertaker. <em>His</em> business was as solid and certain as the laws of God. Everybody else&rsquo;s? Groszy and zlotych always came in too slowly and went out too fast.</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/04/shtetl-days">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6MTfgxa19s0:4uAkcaMNZTk:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6MTfgxa19s0:4uAkcaMNZTk:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=6MTfgxa19s0:4uAkcaMNZTk:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6MTfgxa19s0:4uAkcaMNZTk:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=6MTfgxa19s0:4uAkcaMNZTk:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6MTfgxa19s0:4uAkcaMNZTk:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6MTfgxa19s0:4uAkcaMNZTk:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=6MTfgxa19s0:4uAkcaMNZTk:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6MTfgxa19s0:4uAkcaMNZTk:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/6MTfgxa19s0" height="1" width="1"/> Harry Turtledove Prose Thu, 14 Apr 2011 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/04/shtetl-days http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/04/shtetl-days The Battle of the Round http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/-OVUL5-vkMA/battle-of-the-round <p style="text-align: center;"><em>An Introduction to &ldquo;The Battle of the Round&rdquo;<br />and the Vault of Heaven series by Jim Frenkel</em></p><p>In his novel <em>The Unremembered</em>, Peter Orullian writes about Aeshau Vaal, a world with a long history marked by a series of protracted wars of aggression pursued by the benighted creatures of the Bourne, an isolated region in which they were confined by the gods who made the world. For as long as anyone now alive can recall, these creatures have waged war against the forces of many nations across the land inhabited by mankind.</p><p>Over a period of many centuries these conflicts took a great toll on the nations. But in the course of Aeshau Vaal&rsquo;s history there also were times when dire circumstances produced defining moments that changed the fate of the world.</p><p>&ldquo;The Battle of the Round&rdquo; is the story of one such moment.</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/04/battle-of-the-round">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=-OVUL5-vkMA:OZdIHyPBLEc:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=-OVUL5-vkMA:OZdIHyPBLEc:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=-OVUL5-vkMA:OZdIHyPBLEc:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=-OVUL5-vkMA:OZdIHyPBLEc:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=-OVUL5-vkMA:OZdIHyPBLEc:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=-OVUL5-vkMA:OZdIHyPBLEc:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=-OVUL5-vkMA:OZdIHyPBLEc:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=-OVUL5-vkMA:OZdIHyPBLEc:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=-OVUL5-vkMA:OZdIHyPBLEc:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/-OVUL5-vkMA" height="1" width="1"/> Peter Orullian Prose Tue, 12 Apr 2011 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/04/battle-of-the-round http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/04/battle-of-the-round The Shadow War of the Night Dragons, Book One: The Dead City http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/-e-WIJTOaoE/the-shadow-war-of-the-night-dragons-book-one-the-dead-city-excerpt <p><img alt="The Shadow War of the Night Dragons, Book One: The Dead City by John Scalzi" class="blog-pic-left-align " src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/stories/Scalzi/NightDragon/ShadowWarfinal_sm2.jpg" style="width: 250px; height: 380px;" title="The Shadow War of the Night Dragons, Book One: The Dead City by John Scalzi" /><em>Tor Books is proud to announce the launch of John Scalzi&rsquo;s new fantasy trilogy The Shadow War of the Night Dragons, which kicks off with book one: </em>The Dead City<em>.</em></p><p>&nbsp;</p><p>Night had come to the city of Skalandarharia, the sort of night with such a quality of black to it that it was as if black coal had been wrapped in blackest velvet, bathed in the purple-black ink of the demon squid Drindel and flung down a black well that descended toward the deepest, blackest crevasses of Drindelthengen, the netherworld ruled by Drindel, in which the sinful were punished, the black of which was so legendarily black that when the dreaded Drindelthengenflagen, the ravenous blind black badger trolls of Drindelthengen, would feast upon the uselessly dilated eyes of damned, the abandoned would cry out in joy as the Drindelthengenflagenmorden, the feared Black Spoons of the Drindelthengenflagen, pressed against their optic nerves, giving them one last sensation of light before the most absolute blackness fell upon them, made yet even blacker by the injury sustained from a falling lump of ink-bathed, velvet-wrapped coal.</p><p>[With the night came a storm...]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/04/the-shadow-war-of-the-night-dragons-book-one-the-dead-city-excerpt">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=-e-WIJTOaoE:rnqVE5gmT-4:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=-e-WIJTOaoE:rnqVE5gmT-4:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=-e-WIJTOaoE:rnqVE5gmT-4:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=-e-WIJTOaoE:rnqVE5gmT-4:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=-e-WIJTOaoE:rnqVE5gmT-4:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=-e-WIJTOaoE:rnqVE5gmT-4:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=-e-WIJTOaoE:rnqVE5gmT-4:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=-e-WIJTOaoE:rnqVE5gmT-4:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=-e-WIJTOaoE:rnqVE5gmT-4:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/-e-WIJTOaoE" height="1" width="1"/> John Scalzi Prose Fri, 01 Apr 2011 14:14:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/04/the-shadow-war-of-the-night-dragons-book-one-the-dead-city-excerpt http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/04/the-shadow-war-of-the-night-dragons-book-one-the-dead-city-excerpt Our Candidate http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/p5kIuZPoN8c/our-candidate <p>Their first candidate was a youngish fellow with a list of minor achievements and small qualifications, plus a handsome wife willing to attend some portion of the rallies and fundraising events. He was the brave soldier who stepped forward when the state&rsquo;s less-popular political party couldn&rsquo;t find anybody who might win. The conservative opponent was unbeatable. Even agnostic voters considered the current governor as being Chosen. Once the invisible lieutenant governor, he stepped into the office when his predecessor&rsquo;s Blackhawk went down in a freak hailstorm. Proper words and a few strategic tears at the funeral cemented the man&rsquo;s rule over the sprawling state, and the new chief executive had served twenty-two months without scandal, scrupulously accomplishing nothing that tested his base supporters while avoiding becoming the enemy of those inclined to stand against him.</p><p>Wise tongues decided that seventy percent of the vote would be a disappointment, and more importantly, that the governor&rsquo;s mansion was only a way station before becoming the state&rsquo;s next Senator.</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/03/our-candidate">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=p5kIuZPoN8c:b65OxoMH8S0:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=p5kIuZPoN8c:b65OxoMH8S0:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=p5kIuZPoN8c:b65OxoMH8S0:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=p5kIuZPoN8c:b65OxoMH8S0:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=p5kIuZPoN8c:b65OxoMH8S0:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=p5kIuZPoN8c:b65OxoMH8S0:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=p5kIuZPoN8c:b65OxoMH8S0:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=p5kIuZPoN8c:b65OxoMH8S0:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=p5kIuZPoN8c:b65OxoMH8S0:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/p5kIuZPoN8c" height="1" width="1"/> Robert Reed Prose Wed, 30 Mar 2011 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/03/our-candidate http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/03/our-candidate The Desecrator http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/KzWbcvg9WDo/the-desecrator <p>I&rsquo;m guessing you knew the desecrator would be there, and just didn&rsquo;t tell me because, well, for your own reasons.</p><p>Sorry, sorry. In order, then. From the beginning?</p><p>You were the one who said sarcasm was&mdash;Yes, m&rsquo;lady.</p><p>It was several days ago that you sent me&mdash;Barlen&rsquo;s balls. All right.</p><p>It was early in the morning of the third day of the month of the Phoenix in the 230th year of the Reign of Her Glorious Majesty Zerika the Fourth that you sent me to meet the desecrator. Well, sorry! You sent me to the place where I ended up meeting the desecrator. Is that better? I don&rsquo;t know what you know. That&rsquo;s kind of funny when you&mdash;okay, I&rsquo;ll just say that I left Dzur Mountain on the third day of the month of the Phoenix in the 230th year, all right?</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/03/the-desecrator">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=KzWbcvg9WDo:9wVHzJJnRYQ:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=KzWbcvg9WDo:9wVHzJJnRYQ:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=KzWbcvg9WDo:9wVHzJJnRYQ:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=KzWbcvg9WDo:9wVHzJJnRYQ:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=KzWbcvg9WDo:9wVHzJJnRYQ:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=KzWbcvg9WDo:9wVHzJJnRYQ:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=KzWbcvg9WDo:9wVHzJJnRYQ:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=KzWbcvg9WDo:9wVHzJJnRYQ:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=KzWbcvg9WDo:9wVHzJJnRYQ:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/KzWbcvg9WDo" height="1" width="1"/> Steven Brust Prose Wed, 02 Mar 2011 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/03/the-desecrator http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/03/the-desecrator Though Smoke Shall Hide the Sun http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/Jwzgk23P0hA/though-smoke-shall-hide-the-sun <p>&ldquo;So,&rdquo; said the man lounging on a folding chair in the center of the room. &ldquo;What would make a lady like yourself want to join the army?&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not a lady,&rdquo; I said.</p><p>Shadows cast by moonlight and dull fluorescents filled the empty warehouse, slithering over the cracked concrete floor. I&#39;d driven for three hours straight after finishing my last job to make it to the nearest neutral meeting place. It was a half-occupied steel town that hadn&#39;t been absorbed into an Other territory and had no government ties, either. Another thirty minutes in either direction put us squarely over the boundaries of one territory or another, and they didn&#39;t appreciate having a hunter on their turf unless they&#39;d hired me themselves.</p><p>[The echoing space all around us...]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/02/though-smoke-shall-hide-the-sun">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Jwzgk23P0hA:SxPH17L8CXE:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Jwzgk23P0hA:SxPH17L8CXE:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Jwzgk23P0hA:SxPH17L8CXE:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Jwzgk23P0hA:SxPH17L8CXE:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Jwzgk23P0hA:SxPH17L8CXE:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Jwzgk23P0hA:SxPH17L8CXE:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Jwzgk23P0hA:SxPH17L8CXE:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Jwzgk23P0hA:SxPH17L8CXE:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Jwzgk23P0hA:SxPH17L8CXE:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/Jwzgk23P0hA" height="1" width="1"/> Brit Mandelo Prose Mon, 14 Feb 2011 13:30:34 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/02/though-smoke-shall-hide-the-sun http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/02/though-smoke-shall-hide-the-sun The Great Defense of Layosah http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/Ih7LGslZZNs/the-great-defense-of-layosah <p align="center"><em>Introduction by James Frenkel</em></p><p><em>The story that follows is the second work of fiction set in the Vault of Heaven universe by a new epic fantasy writer named Peter Orullian. These stories introduce a world of long, tragic history in which there are no easy answers, and many mysteries that will be revealed, each in its own time, many of them in The Vault of Heaven, a series of novels which Tor will begin publishing with </em>The Unremembered<em> this April.</em></p><p><em>In December, Tor.com published &ldquo;<a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/11/sacrifice-of-the-first-sheason">Sacrifice of the First Sheason</a>&rdquo;; following &ldquo;The Great Defense of Layosah,&rdquo; Tor.com will publish one more story set in this universe. Each of these stories is independent of the novels and of the other stories, though they share the same background.</em></p><p>[Read more...]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/02/the-great-defense-of-layosah">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Ih7LGslZZNs:atpPvh7HLt8:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Ih7LGslZZNs:atpPvh7HLt8:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Ih7LGslZZNs:atpPvh7HLt8:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Ih7LGslZZNs:atpPvh7HLt8:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Ih7LGslZZNs:atpPvh7HLt8:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Ih7LGslZZNs:atpPvh7HLt8:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Ih7LGslZZNs:atpPvh7HLt8:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Ih7LGslZZNs:atpPvh7HLt8:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Ih7LGslZZNs:atpPvh7HLt8:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/Ih7LGslZZNs" height="1" width="1"/> Peter Orullian Prose Wed, 02 Feb 2011 13:30:45 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/02/the-great-defense-of-layosah http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/02/the-great-defense-of-layosah Beauty Belongs to the Flowers http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/7a3uFFXicfg/beauty-belongs-to-the-flowers <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>Matsumoto Miho had seen ten thousand hospital rooms on the feeds, and not one had looked like this. The room did look clean&mdash;no cup or chair was out of place&mdash;but a proper hospital room, an American hospital room, contained one patient, not four. The patients, even in the Chinese and Indian feeds, did not look like these men. Proper patients were muscular, bandaged or form-fleshed, unblemished save for a few cuts and, most importantly, attractive.</p><p>These men appeared skeletal, with heads of wild hair, bodies shiny and shrink-wrapped in quarantine cocoons. Miho couldn&rsquo;t have picked her father from the group if her mother hadn&rsquo;t led the way to his bedside. Daily sunlamp therapy made him darker than any lab worker should have been. His withered arms, bruised purple along their lengths, rested at uncomfortable angles. His dry mouth hung open, few teeth remaining in it. His eyes were shut, as if in agony.</p><p>&ldquo;Otōsan,&rdquo; she whispered.</p><p>[Your father is tired]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/01/beauty-belongs-to-the-flowers">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7a3uFFXicfg:iI11BpND9vc:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7a3uFFXicfg:iI11BpND9vc:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=7a3uFFXicfg:iI11BpND9vc:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7a3uFFXicfg:iI11BpND9vc:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=7a3uFFXicfg:iI11BpND9vc:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7a3uFFXicfg:iI11BpND9vc:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7a3uFFXicfg:iI11BpND9vc:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=7a3uFFXicfg:iI11BpND9vc:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7a3uFFXicfg:iI11BpND9vc:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/7a3uFFXicfg" height="1" width="1"/> Matthew Sanborn Smith Prose Wed, 26 Jan 2011 13:30:26 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/01/beauty-belongs-to-the-flowers http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/01/beauty-belongs-to-the-flowers Making My Entrance Again With My Usual Flair http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/78HDGoHjuF8/making-my-entrance-again-with-my-usual-flair <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>No one ever asks a clown at the end of his life what he <em>really</em> wanted to be when he grew up. It&rsquo;s fairly obvious. No one gets hijacked into the circus. We race to it, the smell of hotdogs leading us in, our fingers aching for the sticky pull of taffy, the electric shock of pink cotton on our tongue. Ask a lawyer and he&rsquo;ll say when he was a kid he wanted to be an astronaut. Ask an accountant; he&rsquo;ll say he wanted to be fireman.</p><p>I am a clown. I have always wanted to be a clown. And I will die a clown if I have my way.</p><p>[My name is Merton D. Kamal.]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/01/making-my-entrance-again-with-my-usual-flair">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=78HDGoHjuF8:fZiUtABT4Ac:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=78HDGoHjuF8:fZiUtABT4Ac:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=78HDGoHjuF8:fZiUtABT4Ac:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=78HDGoHjuF8:fZiUtABT4Ac:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=78HDGoHjuF8:fZiUtABT4Ac:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=78HDGoHjuF8:fZiUtABT4Ac:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=78HDGoHjuF8:fZiUtABT4Ac:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=78HDGoHjuF8:fZiUtABT4Ac:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=78HDGoHjuF8:fZiUtABT4Ac:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/78HDGoHjuF8" height="1" width="1"/> Ken Scholes Prose Wed, 12 Jan 2011 13:30:41 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/01/making-my-entrance-again-with-my-usual-flair http://www.tor.com/stories/2011/01/making-my-entrance-again-with-my-usual-flair The Trains that Climb the Winter Tree http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/2Mz9dU6jTLc/the-trains-that-climb-the-winter-tree <p>&nbsp;</p><p><em>We hope you enjoy this holiday story by Michael Swanwick and Eileen Gunn, previously available only to Tor.com registrants. Don&rsquo;t forget to check out the <a href="http://www.tor.com/blogs/2010/12/qthe-trains-that-climb-the-winter-treeq-insider-writer-info">process post</a> from Michael and Eileen once you finish! Merry Christmas!</em></p><p>It was the middle of the night when the elves came out of the mirrors. Everyone in the house was asleep. Outside, the city slumbered. Silent as shadows, the warriors went from room to room. Their knives were so sharp they could slit a throat without awakening their victim.</p><p>They killed all the adults.</p><p>The children they spared.</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/12/the-trains-that-climb-the-winter-tree">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2Mz9dU6jTLc:NaFi2BAml9o:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2Mz9dU6jTLc:NaFi2BAml9o:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=2Mz9dU6jTLc:NaFi2BAml9o:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2Mz9dU6jTLc:NaFi2BAml9o:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=2Mz9dU6jTLc:NaFi2BAml9o:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2Mz9dU6jTLc:NaFi2BAml9o:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2Mz9dU6jTLc:NaFi2BAml9o:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=2Mz9dU6jTLc:NaFi2BAml9o:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2Mz9dU6jTLc:NaFi2BAml9o:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/2Mz9dU6jTLc" height="1" width="1"/> Eileen Gunn Prose Tue, 21 Dec 2010 13:30:39 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/12/the-trains-that-climb-the-winter-tree http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/12/the-trains-that-climb-the-winter-tree Sweetheart http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/n75hxiP53fM/sweetheart <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p><img alt="" class="blog-pic-left-align caption " src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/stories/Otis/Sweetheart/full_Otis_Ruth_200x6502.JPG" />Paxton is your baby boy, born just after you got out of the army, your peacetime child. He turned six last month but already he&rsquo;s got a sweetheart who lives next door. He makes her crowns out of dandelions and shares his FruitBlaster cups with her. She brings him marbles that hum and lets him position her antennae into funny shapes. He has a lisp that the speech therapist has given up on, and she has clicking mandibles, but in their invented language of coos and giggles they are both poets. They sit out in the yard and very seriously lay grass on each other&rsquo;s arms, and the sunlight cocoons them.</p><p>You and Denise watch them through the kitchen window.&nbsp; Denise is an old army buddy and she gets it. All of it.</p><p>You say something like, No surprise he&rsquo;s got a sweetheart already. Just look at his daddy.</p><p>Denise laughs rough and loud. Regular little Casanova, isn&rsquo;t he? Regular little intergalactic Casanova. Damn. And I can&rsquo;t even get a date.</p><p>[You want to date an ET?]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/12/sweetheart">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=n75hxiP53fM:Sx8SBUARAdI:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=n75hxiP53fM:Sx8SBUARAdI:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=n75hxiP53fM:Sx8SBUARAdI:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=n75hxiP53fM:Sx8SBUARAdI:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=n75hxiP53fM:Sx8SBUARAdI:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=n75hxiP53fM:Sx8SBUARAdI:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=n75hxiP53fM:Sx8SBUARAdI:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=n75hxiP53fM:Sx8SBUARAdI:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=n75hxiP53fM:Sx8SBUARAdI:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/n75hxiP53fM" height="1" width="1"/> Abbey Mei Otis Prose Wed, 08 Dec 2010 13:30:56 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/12/sweetheart http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/12/sweetheart Ponies http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/XzKs3jgywUA/ponies <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>The invitation card has a Western theme. Along its margins, cartoon girls in cowboy hats chase a herd of wild Ponies. The Ponies are no taller than the girls, bright as butterflies, fat, with short round-tipped unicorn horns and small fluffy wings. At the bottom of the card, newly caught Ponies mill about in a corral. The girls have lassoed a pink-and-white Pony. Its eyes and mouth are surprised round Os. There is an exclamation mark over its head.</p><p>The little girls are cutting off its horn with curved knives. Its wings are already removed, part of a pile beside the corral.</p><p>[You and your Pony are invited to a cutting-out party...]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/11/ponies">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=XzKs3jgywUA:Ct62ytkAgdU:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=XzKs3jgywUA:Ct62ytkAgdU:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=XzKs3jgywUA:Ct62ytkAgdU:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=XzKs3jgywUA:Ct62ytkAgdU:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=XzKs3jgywUA:Ct62ytkAgdU:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=XzKs3jgywUA:Ct62ytkAgdU:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=XzKs3jgywUA:Ct62ytkAgdU:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=XzKs3jgywUA:Ct62ytkAgdU:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=XzKs3jgywUA:Ct62ytkAgdU:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/XzKs3jgywUA" height="1" width="1"/> Kij Johnson Prose Wed, 17 Nov 2010 13:30:07 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/11/ponies http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/11/ponies Sacrifice of the First Sheason http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/L6EO_KVt82Q/sacrifice-of-the-first-sheason <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>Introduction by James Frenkel</p><p>&nbsp;</p><p><em>The story that follows is the first work of fiction set in the Vault of Heaven universe by a new epic fantasy writer named Peter Orullian. Peter has had a few short stories published, but &ldquo;The Sacrifice of the First Sheason&rdquo; introduces a world of long, tragic history in which there are no easy answers, and many mysteries that will be revealed, each in its own time, many of them in The Vault of Heaven, a series of novels which Tor will begin publishing with </em>The Unremembered<em>, this coming April.</em></p><p><em>Following &ldquo;Sacrifice of the First Sheason,&rdquo; Tor.com will publish two more stories set in this universe, and another nine tales will appear on the author&rsquo;s website, www.orullian.com. Each of these stories is independent of the novels and of the other stories, though they share the same background.</em></p><p><em>This first tale takes place long before the action of </em>The Unremembered<em>. Other stories to come will deal with historical events that helped to shape later events in the world&rsquo;s development that are keys to one or another element of the narrative of </em>The Unremembered<em> or a subsequent novel in the series. But each online story stands completely on its own.</em></p><p>[On to the story...]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/11/sacrifice-of-the-first-sheason">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=L6EO_KVt82Q:TyJ_doxxkwk:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=L6EO_KVt82Q:TyJ_doxxkwk:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=L6EO_KVt82Q:TyJ_doxxkwk:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=L6EO_KVt82Q:TyJ_doxxkwk:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=L6EO_KVt82Q:TyJ_doxxkwk:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=L6EO_KVt82Q:TyJ_doxxkwk:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=L6EO_KVt82Q:TyJ_doxxkwk:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=L6EO_KVt82Q:TyJ_doxxkwk:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=L6EO_KVt82Q:TyJ_doxxkwk:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/L6EO_KVt82Q" height="1" width="1"/> Peter Orullian Prose Wed, 03 Nov 2010 13:30:57 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/11/sacrifice-of-the-first-sheason http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/11/sacrifice-of-the-first-sheason Internal Devices http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/fUmJ3MIDIKM/internal-devices <p><em>A <a href="http://www.tor.com/blogs/2010/10/steampunk-quartet">note of explanation</a> about the Steampunk Quartet.</em></p><p><em>(with apologies to <a href="http://angryrobotbooks.com/our-authors/kw-jeter/infernal-devices-kw-jeter/">K.W. Jeter</a>)</em></p><p>After my tumultuous adventures resulting from Lord Bendray&rsquo;s attempt to destroy the world, I sought, naturally, to restore my equanimity, and I had thought that moving my modest clockwork-repair shop to a little-noted part of London would guarantee me obscurity, a modest living, and surcease of adventure, not to mention the calming of the unwonted physical excitement that has disturbed me since Miss McThane assisted in the culmination of my efforts. But the events of a cold, foggy day in early November reminded me that no man&rsquo;s adventure can be declared done until he himself is Done.</p><p>[I opened my shop a few minutes late that morning...]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/11/internal-devices">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=fUmJ3MIDIKM:nJTd1JvxDEE:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=fUmJ3MIDIKM:nJTd1JvxDEE:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=fUmJ3MIDIKM:nJTd1JvxDEE:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=fUmJ3MIDIKM:nJTd1JvxDEE:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=fUmJ3MIDIKM:nJTd1JvxDEE:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=fUmJ3MIDIKM:nJTd1JvxDEE:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=fUmJ3MIDIKM:nJTd1JvxDEE:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=fUmJ3MIDIKM:nJTd1JvxDEE:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=fUmJ3MIDIKM:nJTd1JvxDEE:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/fUmJ3MIDIKM" height="1" width="1"/> Eileen Gunn Prose Tue, 02 Nov 2010 13:30:52 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/11/internal-devices http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/11/internal-devices The Perdido Street Project http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/DngbjydaXI0/the-perdido-street-project <p><em>A <a href="http://www.tor.com/blogs/2010/10/steampunk-quartet">note of explanation</a> about the Steampunk Quartet.</em><br /><br /><em>(with apologies to <a href="http://www.randomhouse.com/catalog/display.pperl/9780345459404.html">China Mi&eacute;ville</a>)</em><br />&nbsp;</p><p>Wetlands to Rudewood, and then the train. After years of wandering in the wilderness, I am coming home to a place I&rsquo;ve never been. It feels already as though I live here, as though I&rsquo;ve lived here a very long time.</p><p>As the train moves from the tawdry edge of the city, all decaying farms and rusting iron mills, the voices of its inhabitants, rough, ill-formed, without art or poetry, call out their names swiftly from walls as we pass in the dark. Some are written in Ragamoll or Lubbock, but other scripts abound, including a few I have never before seen. I am sure one of them was Anopheliian, a strange, whiny script that made my body itch as we passed. Strange scents filled the car and were gone: Khepri obscenities.</p><p>[The train slows....]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/11/the-perdido-street-project">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=DngbjydaXI0:HT_eG1tEqk8:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=DngbjydaXI0:HT_eG1tEqk8:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=DngbjydaXI0:HT_eG1tEqk8:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=DngbjydaXI0:HT_eG1tEqk8:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=DngbjydaXI0:HT_eG1tEqk8:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=DngbjydaXI0:HT_eG1tEqk8:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=DngbjydaXI0:HT_eG1tEqk8:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=DngbjydaXI0:HT_eG1tEqk8:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=DngbjydaXI0:HT_eG1tEqk8:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/DngbjydaXI0" height="1" width="1"/> Eileen Gunn Prose Mon, 01 Nov 2010 13:30:01 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/11/the-perdido-street-project http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/11/the-perdido-street-project Day After the Cooters http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/Q4qxZIYKXjA/day-after-the-cooters <p><em>A <a href="http://www.tor.com/blogs/2010/10/steampunk-quartet">note of explanation</a> about the Steampunk Quartet.</em></p><p>&nbsp;</p><p><em>(with apologies to Howard Waldrop)</em></p><p>Sheriff Lindley opened his mouth to accept a fig from the beautiful woman in a diaphanous gown who was kneeling on the floor next to his couch. She looked like the woman on those cigarette paper ads, but more alert. She was holding the fruit just out of his reach, and he lifted his head a bit from the pillow. She smiled and pulled it teasingly further away.</p><p>Suddenly, there came a heavy pounding&mdash;thump, thump, thump&mdash;not very far from his head. The lovely courtesan ignored it, and dangled the fig from its stem, smiling flirtatiously. The sheriff leaned his head toward the fruit, but it evaded him.</p><p>[The pounding grew louder...]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/10/day-after-the-cooters">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Q4qxZIYKXjA:PFfch9mNyFE:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Q4qxZIYKXjA:PFfch9mNyFE:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Q4qxZIYKXjA:PFfch9mNyFE:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Q4qxZIYKXjA:PFfch9mNyFE:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Q4qxZIYKXjA:PFfch9mNyFE:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Q4qxZIYKXjA:PFfch9mNyFE:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Q4qxZIYKXjA:PFfch9mNyFE:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Q4qxZIYKXjA:PFfch9mNyFE:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Q4qxZIYKXjA:PFfch9mNyFE:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/Q4qxZIYKXjA" height="1" width="1"/> Eileen Gunn Prose Fri, 29 Oct 2010 13:30:56 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/10/day-after-the-cooters http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/10/day-after-the-cooters A Different Engine http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/GxI22nAmKZE/a-different-engine <p><em>(with apologies to Messrs. Gibson and Sterling)</em></p><p><strong>Nth Iteration: The Compass Rose Tattoo</strong></p><p>A phenakistoscope of Ada Lovelace and Carmen Machado, with Machado&rsquo;s companion dog, the brown-and-white pit bull Oliver. They are apparently at a racetrack, although the tableau was no doubt staged at the maker&rsquo;s studio. The two women, clearly on friendly terms, are attired in pale silk gowns and overdresses, billowing out over crinolines but still elegantly simple in effect. They are shown seated at first, on an ornate cast-iron bench in front of a painted scrim, watching the start of an invisible race. They move their gaze to follow the speeding steam gurneys. They stand, caught up in excitement. Carmen puts her hand on Ada&rsquo;s arm, and removes it quickly. Then she surreptitiously dips her hand in Ada&rsquo;s reticule bag, withdraws an Engine card, slips it into a hidden pocket in her own dress, and resumes watching the race. The two women jump about triumphantly, laughing and clapping their hands in an artificial manner. The race has been run and an imaginary purse no doubt won by at least one of them. At the end, Machado turns to hug Lovelace briefly. Her dress dips elegantly low at the back of her neck, and we get a brief glimpse of the famous tattoo between her shoulder blades: a large, elaborate compass rose. Then the two women sit down as they were at the beginning, a slight smile on Machado&rsquo;s face.</p><p>[Read more...]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/10/a-different-engine">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=GxI22nAmKZE:FSZCHbTTuN0:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=GxI22nAmKZE:FSZCHbTTuN0:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=GxI22nAmKZE:FSZCHbTTuN0:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=GxI22nAmKZE:FSZCHbTTuN0:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=GxI22nAmKZE:FSZCHbTTuN0:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=GxI22nAmKZE:FSZCHbTTuN0:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=GxI22nAmKZE:FSZCHbTTuN0:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=GxI22nAmKZE:FSZCHbTTuN0:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=GxI22nAmKZE:FSZCHbTTuN0:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/GxI22nAmKZE" height="1" width="1"/> Eileen Gunn Prose Thu, 28 Oct 2010 13:30:35 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/10/a-different-engine http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/10/a-different-engine Lightbringers and Rainmakers http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/V7WIHq0DIjI/lightbringers-and-rainmakers <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p><em>We hope you enjoy this story, set in the same world as Felix Gilman&#39;s new novel from Tor Books</em>, <a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/10/the-half-made-world">The Half-Made World</a>.</p><p><em>I.&nbsp; </em><em>The Incident in Wherever-It-Was</em></p><p>Hello May.</p><p>I haven&rsquo;t written in a while and maybe it seems I only write when there&rsquo;s bad news. Well, this is not the exception that proves the rule, if you know what I mean.</p><p>I lost almost all my business cards. If you got my last letter, you&rsquo;ll remember I sent you one of them, so that you can see what your prodigal kid brother&rsquo;s up to these days and maybe be proud, maybe just a little. If you didn&rsquo;t get my letter&mdash;and who knows these days?&mdash;then they had my name, &ldquo;Professor&rdquo; Harry Ransom, &ldquo;Professor&rdquo; like that, in what they call &ldquo;quotes,&rdquo; because I always say I&rsquo;m nothing if not honest, as best I can be, and at least I never claim to be anything I&rsquo;m not. There were lightning bolts printed on either side of my name. Those cost extra. Under my name it said <em>Lightbringer</em>, then <em>Licensed</em> and then <em>By Appointment</em>, which weren&rsquo;t exactly true but didn&rsquo;t mean anything either way, as I saw it, and then below that <em>Inventor of the Ransom Process for &amp;c &amp;c</em>, which is true. A dollar for fifty at Tally&rsquo;s Printers on Tenth Avenue in Melville City, and I bought two hundred-fifty, and in consequence went hungry for a week, and so did good old never-complaining Carver, my assistant, who I&rsquo;m sure I&rsquo;ve mentioned before.</p><p>Also I have lost my Apparatus, and my wagon, and Sasha (the horse), and just about everything else in the world I own except the white suit and my wits.</p><p>[If you got my last letter you&rsquo;ll be thinking, <em>Not again</em>.]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/10/lightbringers-and-rainmakers">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=V7WIHq0DIjI:OZB_T15ppw4:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=V7WIHq0DIjI:OZB_T15ppw4:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=V7WIHq0DIjI:OZB_T15ppw4:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=V7WIHq0DIjI:OZB_T15ppw4:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=V7WIHq0DIjI:OZB_T15ppw4:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=V7WIHq0DIjI:OZB_T15ppw4:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=V7WIHq0DIjI:OZB_T15ppw4:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=V7WIHq0DIjI:OZB_T15ppw4:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=V7WIHq0DIjI:OZB_T15ppw4:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/V7WIHq0DIjI" height="1" width="1"/> Felix Gilman Prose Wed, 27 Oct 2010 13:30:53 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/10/lightbringers-and-rainmakers http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/10/lightbringers-and-rainmakers Clockwork Fairies http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/CeN8rbKOV4I/clockwork-fairies <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>Mary the Irish girl let me in when I knocked at the door in my Sunday best, smelling of incense and evening fog. Gaslight flickered over the narrow hall. The mahogany banister&rsquo;s curve gleamed with beeswax polish, and a rosewood hat rack and umbrella stand squatted to my left.</p><p>I nodded to Mary, taking off my top hat. Snuff and baking butter mingled with my own pomade to battle the smell of steel and sulfur from below.</p><p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be startled, Mr. Claude, sir.&rdquo;</p><p>Before I could speak, a whir of creatures surrounded me.</p><p>[At first I thought them hummingbirds or large dragonflies.]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/10/clockwork-fairies">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=CeN8rbKOV4I:iG2l2yz400g:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=CeN8rbKOV4I:iG2l2yz400g:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=CeN8rbKOV4I:iG2l2yz400g:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=CeN8rbKOV4I:iG2l2yz400g:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=CeN8rbKOV4I:iG2l2yz400g:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=CeN8rbKOV4I:iG2l2yz400g:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=CeN8rbKOV4I:iG2l2yz400g:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=CeN8rbKOV4I:iG2l2yz400g:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=CeN8rbKOV4I:iG2l2yz400g:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/CeN8rbKOV4I" height="1" width="1"/> Cat Rambo Prose Wed, 20 Oct 2010 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/10/clockwork-fairies http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/10/clockwork-fairies Good Night, Moon http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/7kSeQ2NIak0/good-night-moon <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>&ldquo;They say the moon&rsquo;s gone missing,&rdquo; said Carlo Morse. He set another fabule on the checkered tablecloth at Schwarz&rsquo;s Deli.</p><p>Jimmy Ganzer examined the growing collection of dream nuggets. The fabules were tightly patterned little pastel spheres, pockmarked and seamed, scattered across the tabletop like wads of gum. &ldquo;Nobody goes for space travel dreams anymore,&rdquo; said Ganzer. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to work on that.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mean the moon&rsquo;s supposed to be in our new fabule for <em>Skaken Recurrent Nightmare</em>,&rdquo; said Morse. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m telling you that the moon has really gone missing. Reports from Shanghai say the moon faded from the sky a few hours ago. Like a burnt-out firework. Everyone&rsquo;s waiting to see what happens when night hits Europe and the U.S.&rdquo;</p><p>[Read more...]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/10/good-night-moon">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7kSeQ2NIak0:pMHCWE4S8aE:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7kSeQ2NIak0:pMHCWE4S8aE:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=7kSeQ2NIak0:pMHCWE4S8aE:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7kSeQ2NIak0:pMHCWE4S8aE:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=7kSeQ2NIak0:pMHCWE4S8aE:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7kSeQ2NIak0:pMHCWE4S8aE:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7kSeQ2NIak0:pMHCWE4S8aE:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=7kSeQ2NIak0:pMHCWE4S8aE:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7kSeQ2NIak0:pMHCWE4S8aE:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/7kSeQ2NIak0" height="1" width="1"/> Bruce Sterling Prose Wed, 13 Oct 2010 13:30:39 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/10/good-night-moon http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/10/good-night-moon Intersections and Interlopers http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/9ru6QqS8OEU/intersections-and-interlopers <p>Editor&rsquo;s note: Readers of the Kindle Edition of Ken Scholes&rsquo; <a href="http://us.macmillan.com/antiphon" target="_blank"><em>Antiphon</em></a>, third volume in his Psalms of Isaak series, found themselves suddenly flung out of the Named Lands at the beginning of Chapter 16, and into the world of Lisa Desrochers <a href="http://us.macmillan.com/personaldemons" target="_blank"><em>Personal Demons</em></a>. Somehow, bits had flipped and tables had swapped, and the story of Frannie, Luc and Gabe was substituted into Rudolfo&rsquo;s tent. Alert readers alerted us. Frantic phone calls were made, fiery emails were written. Files were pulled, and intact duplicates were substituted.</p><p>And Ken Scholes, being the frighteningly creative writer that he is, decided that the most fun he could have with this strange occurance was to collaborate with Lisa on a scene showing Rudolfo&rsquo;s reaction&hellip;.</p><p style="text-align: right">- Beth Meacham</p><p align="center">&nbsp;</p><p align="center">Chapter 15.5</p><p align="center">Intersections and Interlopers</p><p>A cold wind moaned outside the command tent and Rudolfo blessed the warmth of his small furnace and the warmed cup of firespice he held loosely in his hands even as he considered the girl who stood with Lysias before him.</p><p>[Read more...]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/09/intersections-and-interlopers">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=9ru6QqS8OEU:hVdBXl57eWs:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=9ru6QqS8OEU:hVdBXl57eWs:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=9ru6QqS8OEU:hVdBXl57eWs:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=9ru6QqS8OEU:hVdBXl57eWs:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=9ru6QqS8OEU:hVdBXl57eWs:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=9ru6QqS8OEU:hVdBXl57eWs:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=9ru6QqS8OEU:hVdBXl57eWs:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=9ru6QqS8OEU:hVdBXl57eWs:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=9ru6QqS8OEU:hVdBXl57eWs:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/9ru6QqS8OEU" height="1" width="1"/> Lisa Desrochers Prose Wed, 29 Sep 2010 17:00:29 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/09/intersections-and-interlopers http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/09/intersections-and-interlopers River of Souls http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/OZJspMIydVk/river-of-souls <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>When Asa left his home in Ysterien, his family gave him three gifts.</p><p>The first was passage on the fastest trade ship sailing between Ysterien&rsquo;s chief port of Karda and its sister in the province of Pommersien&mdash;an extravagant gift but a necessary one. Each year, fewer merchants dared the overland routes between Ysterien and the empire over the mountains. The historians claimed the Erythandran Empire had fallen twenty years before, but it was falling still, a slow, erratic, and seemingly endless descent. Like a land besieged by drought, its borders crumbled, its provinces shrank into new and smaller kingdoms with uncertain futures, like dust caught and driven by a hot wind.</p><p>[The second gift...]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/09/river-of-souls">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=OZJspMIydVk:xxGzHzKx4JE:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=OZJspMIydVk:xxGzHzKx4JE:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=OZJspMIydVk:xxGzHzKx4JE:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=OZJspMIydVk:xxGzHzKx4JE:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=OZJspMIydVk:xxGzHzKx4JE:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=OZJspMIydVk:xxGzHzKx4JE:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=OZJspMIydVk:xxGzHzKx4JE:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=OZJspMIydVk:xxGzHzKx4JE:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=OZJspMIydVk:xxGzHzKx4JE:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/OZJspMIydVk" height="1" width="1"/> Beth Bernobich Prose Wed, 29 Sep 2010 13:30:27 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/09/river-of-souls http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/09/river-of-souls Preparations http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/2xbwIqDg6UU/preparations <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>There was less blood than he expected, and the sound they made when they popped out was almost like boots breaking through crusty snow. And just yesterday, a zombie-proof life had seemed so simple.</p><p style="text-align: center">* * *</p><p>Not long before that, Ronald had been sitting on the toilet seat and listening to the zombies paw at the locked door.</p><p>These zombies understood the mechanics of doorknobs, but weren&rsquo;t quite smart enough to use tools to batter down doors. More Russo zombies than Romero or Brooks. But not textbook Russos: They grunted and snarled, but none of them spoke.</p><p>[At least they weren&rsquo;t fast.]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/09/preparations">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2xbwIqDg6UU:sgezuyVLxn0:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2xbwIqDg6UU:sgezuyVLxn0:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=2xbwIqDg6UU:sgezuyVLxn0:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2xbwIqDg6UU:sgezuyVLxn0:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=2xbwIqDg6UU:sgezuyVLxn0:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2xbwIqDg6UU:sgezuyVLxn0:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2xbwIqDg6UU:sgezuyVLxn0:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=2xbwIqDg6UU:sgezuyVLxn0:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2xbwIqDg6UU:sgezuyVLxn0:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/2xbwIqDg6UU" height="1" width="1"/> Mark Mills Prose Thu, 16 Sep 2010 19:00:23 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/09/preparations http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/09/preparations The Monster’s Million Faces http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/ZaXwm1wSDoI/the-monsters-million-faces <p>&nbsp;</p><p>He&rsquo;s old this time. A hospital gown sags over his gaunt frame. IV wires stream from his arms, plugging him into a thousand machines. I could tear them out one by one.</p><p>I ask, &ldquo;Do you know who I am?&rdquo;</p><p>He rolls his head back and forth, trying to see. His eyes are pale with cataracts, roosting in nests of wrinkles. He gestures me closer, skin thin to the point of translucence, veins tunneling below.</p><p>Recognition strikes. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re that boy I hurt. . . . All grown up. . . .&rdquo;</p><p>[Read more...]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/09/the-monsters-million-faces">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ZaXwm1wSDoI:3nxaO-9s2cE:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ZaXwm1wSDoI:3nxaO-9s2cE:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=ZaXwm1wSDoI:3nxaO-9s2cE:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ZaXwm1wSDoI:3nxaO-9s2cE:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=ZaXwm1wSDoI:3nxaO-9s2cE:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ZaXwm1wSDoI:3nxaO-9s2cE:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ZaXwm1wSDoI:3nxaO-9s2cE:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=ZaXwm1wSDoI:3nxaO-9s2cE:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ZaXwm1wSDoI:3nxaO-9s2cE:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/ZaXwm1wSDoI" height="1" width="1"/> Rachel Swirsky Prose Wed, 08 Sep 2010 13:30:16 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/09/the-monsters-million-faces http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/09/the-monsters-million-faces The Speed of Time http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/AYnSl8yU4QQ/the-speed-of-time <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers</em>.</p><p>&ldquo;Light goes by at the speed of time,&rdquo; Marlys once told me.</p><p>That was a joke, of course. Light can be slowed to a standstill in a photon trap, travel on going nowhere at all forever in the blueing distance of an event horizon, or blaze through hard vacuum as fast as information itself moves through the universe. Time is relentless, the tide which measures the perturbations of the cosmos. The 160.2 GHz hum of creation counts the measure of our lives as surely as any heartbeat.</p><p>There is no <em>t</em> in <em>e=mc<sup>2</sup></em>.</p><p>[Read more....]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/08/the-speed-of-time">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=AYnSl8yU4QQ:HFFiBKhp11s:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=AYnSl8yU4QQ:HFFiBKhp11s:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=AYnSl8yU4QQ:HFFiBKhp11s:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=AYnSl8yU4QQ:HFFiBKhp11s:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=AYnSl8yU4QQ:HFFiBKhp11s:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=AYnSl8yU4QQ:HFFiBKhp11s:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=AYnSl8yU4QQ:HFFiBKhp11s:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=AYnSl8yU4QQ:HFFiBKhp11s:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=AYnSl8yU4QQ:HFFiBKhp11s:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/AYnSl8yU4QQ" height="1" width="1"/> Jay Lake Prose Wed, 25 Aug 2010 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/08/the-speed-of-time http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/08/the-speed-of-time The Fermi Paradox Is Our Business Model http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/dEPTK2BO3WI/the-fermi-paradox-is-our-business-model <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>The thing about seeking out new civilizations is, every discovery brings a day of vomiting. There&rsquo;s no way to wake from a thousand years of Interdream without all of your stomachs clenching and rejecting, like marrow fists. The worst of it was, Jon always woke up hungry as well as nauseous.</p><p>This particular time, Jon started puking before the autosystems had even lifted him out of the Interdream envelope. He fell on his haunches and vomited some more, even as he fought the starving urge to suck in flavors through his feed-holes. He missed Toku, even though he&rsquo;d seen her minutes ago, subjective time.</p><p>Instigator didn&rsquo;t have the decency to let Jon finish puking before it started reporting on the latest discovery. &ldquo;We have picked up&mdash;&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Just&mdash;&rdquo; Jon heaved again. He looked like a child&rsquo;s flatdoll on the smooth green floor, his body too oval from long recumbence, so that his face grimaced out of his sternum. &ldquo;Just give me a moment.&rdquo;</p><p>[Instigator waited exactly one standard moment...]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/08/the-fermi-paradox-is-our-business-model">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=dEPTK2BO3WI:8PA-yeEQp6o:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=dEPTK2BO3WI:8PA-yeEQp6o:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=dEPTK2BO3WI:8PA-yeEQp6o:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=dEPTK2BO3WI:8PA-yeEQp6o:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=dEPTK2BO3WI:8PA-yeEQp6o:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=dEPTK2BO3WI:8PA-yeEQp6o:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=dEPTK2BO3WI:8PA-yeEQp6o:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=dEPTK2BO3WI:8PA-yeEQp6o:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=dEPTK2BO3WI:8PA-yeEQp6o:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/dEPTK2BO3WI" height="1" width="1"/> Charlie Jane Anders Prose Wed, 11 Aug 2010 13:30:03 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/08/the-fermi-paradox-is-our-business-model http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/08/the-fermi-paradox-is-our-business-model What Makes a River http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/ergl83fxqyo/what-makes-a-river <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>It&rsquo;s after midnight, less than twenty degrees, and a full moon has turned the night silver when Beth sees Amy walk out of Lake Michigan. Water cascades off Amy in sheets, like she&rsquo;s standing in a downpour. Cold Lake Michigan water, twenty-degree air, but Amy isn&rsquo;t shivering. Even Beth can tell that, from a hundred yards away, hidden in shadows so Amy won&rsquo;t see her.</p><p>Amy stops several steps up the shore and turns back toward the lake. After a long moment, like held breath, she shudders all over and lifts her arms, looking down at herself as if she can&rsquo;t understand how she got so wet. A stiff breeze rises off the lake and lifts the limp hair along the back of Beth&rsquo;s neck. Amy wraps her arms around herself as if she suddenly feels the cold and stumbles up the beach to the parking lot, where her lime-green Beetle is the only car.</p><p>[Beth remains, crouched in shadows]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/08/what-makes-a-river">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ergl83fxqyo:pidGJRTK6tc:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ergl83fxqyo:pidGJRTK6tc:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=ergl83fxqyo:pidGJRTK6tc:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ergl83fxqyo:pidGJRTK6tc:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=ergl83fxqyo:pidGJRTK6tc:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ergl83fxqyo:pidGJRTK6tc:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ergl83fxqyo:pidGJRTK6tc:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=ergl83fxqyo:pidGJRTK6tc:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ergl83fxqyo:pidGJRTK6tc:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/ergl83fxqyo" height="1" width="1"/> Deborah Coates Prose Wed, 04 Aug 2010 13:30:05 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/08/what-makes-a-river http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/08/what-makes-a-river The Cage http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/6RoV0N5BqHQ/the-cage <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>April</p><p>The eerie thing about Paige Adolpha wasn&rsquo;t just that she turned up right when I was reading about her in the paper. It wasn&rsquo;t her fame as the star witness in the big local werewolf trial. What brought on the gooseflesh, first time I saw her, was that she was the spitting image of her murdered sister. Identical twins, you know?</p><p>I was at the Britannia branch of the public library, absorbing what passed for Vancouver news and wishing the local papers would come up to the standards of the <em>Edmonton Journal</em>&mdash;even the <em>Globe &amp; Mail</em>&mdash;when one of the regulars caught sight of her.</p><p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s that lady from page three,&rdquo; he stage-whispered.</p><p>[Don&rsquo;t stare.]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/the-cage">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6RoV0N5BqHQ:Zf4_ZOLLSZ0:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6RoV0N5BqHQ:Zf4_ZOLLSZ0:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=6RoV0N5BqHQ:Zf4_ZOLLSZ0:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6RoV0N5BqHQ:Zf4_ZOLLSZ0:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=6RoV0N5BqHQ:Zf4_ZOLLSZ0:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6RoV0N5BqHQ:Zf4_ZOLLSZ0:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6RoV0N5BqHQ:Zf4_ZOLLSZ0:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=6RoV0N5BqHQ:Zf4_ZOLLSZ0:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=6RoV0N5BqHQ:Zf4_ZOLLSZ0:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/6RoV0N5BqHQ" height="1" width="1"/> Alyx Dellamonica Prose Wed, 28 Jul 2010 13:30:11 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/the-cage http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/the-cage Eve of Sin City http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/HE-mckWDqa4/eve-of-sin-city <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>&ldquo;. . . there was given to me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me.&rdquo;</p><p>&mdash;CORINTHIANS 2:7</p><p>&nbsp;</p><p>CHAPTER 1</p><p>Evangeline Hollis eyed the hard-hat-wearing kappa demon presently holding two wallpaper samples against the wall.</p><p>&ldquo;You know,&rdquo; she said, mostly to herself, &ldquo;I always thought &lsquo;Sin City&rsquo; was just a nickname.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Ms. Hollis.&rdquo; Raguel Gadara&rsquo;s voice was laced with the resignation of a long-suffering parent. Softened by the resonance unique to all the archangels, it still chastised effectively. &ldquo;Focus, please.&rdquo;</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/eve-of-sin-city">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=HE-mckWDqa4:FnDKeTKNllw:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=HE-mckWDqa4:FnDKeTKNllw:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=HE-mckWDqa4:FnDKeTKNllw:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=HE-mckWDqa4:FnDKeTKNllw:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=HE-mckWDqa4:FnDKeTKNllw:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=HE-mckWDqa4:FnDKeTKNllw:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=HE-mckWDqa4:FnDKeTKNllw:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=HE-mckWDqa4:FnDKeTKNllw:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=HE-mckWDqa4:FnDKeTKNllw:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/HE-mckWDqa4" height="1" width="1"/> S. J. Day Prose Thu, 22 Jul 2010 13:30:11 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/eve-of-sin-city http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/eve-of-sin-city A Stroke of Dumb Luck http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/aYc8XarzGdc/a-stroke-of-dumb-luck <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>My sword arm is mighty.</p><p>I will not falter.</p><p>I will not fail.</p><p>My sword arm is mighty.</p><p>I will not falter.</p><p>I will not fail.</p><p>My . . . ass is fucked.</p><p>I knew it as sure as I knew my own name: Kit &ldquo;My Ass Is Fucked&rdquo; Colbana.</p><p>[There was no way I was getting out of this]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/a-stroke-of-dumb-luck">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=aYc8XarzGdc:K7uUPsZcoP0:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=aYc8XarzGdc:K7uUPsZcoP0:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=aYc8XarzGdc:K7uUPsZcoP0:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=aYc8XarzGdc:K7uUPsZcoP0:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=aYc8XarzGdc:K7uUPsZcoP0:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=aYc8XarzGdc:K7uUPsZcoP0:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=aYc8XarzGdc:K7uUPsZcoP0:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=aYc8XarzGdc:K7uUPsZcoP0:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=aYc8XarzGdc:K7uUPsZcoP0:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/aYc8XarzGdc" height="1" width="1"/> Shiloh Walker Prose Mon, 19 Jul 2010 13:30:57 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/a-stroke-of-dumb-luck http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/a-stroke-of-dumb-luck Fare Thee Well http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/Ox7bOHruXoE/fare-thee-well <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>His hand was cool and damp, with the limp, rubbery texture of a corpse. I don&rsquo;t know what it is about people who work with the dead, but every one I&rsquo;d met in my fifteen years came to resemble their clients after a few years on the job. I didn&rsquo;t shudder as I shook hands, didn&rsquo;t pull back in revulsion. I kept smiling, and I think it surprised him. &ldquo;Nice to meet you, Dr. Morgan. I&rsquo;m Lia Thantos, the new summer intern.&rdquo;</p><p>Bright green eyes behind thick glasses sparkled with something approaching amazement. He pulled back his hand and crossed his arms over his white lab coat. &ldquo;Please, call me Mike since we&rsquo;ll be working together. I have to admit, we don&rsquo;t get a lot of applications for internships here at the morgue. You&rsquo;re sure this is what you want to spend your summer doing?&rdquo;</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/fare-thee-well">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Ox7bOHruXoE:BjVX0b7bhG4:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Ox7bOHruXoE:BjVX0b7bhG4:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Ox7bOHruXoE:BjVX0b7bhG4:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Ox7bOHruXoE:BjVX0b7bhG4:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Ox7bOHruXoE:BjVX0b7bhG4:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Ox7bOHruXoE:BjVX0b7bhG4:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Ox7bOHruXoE:BjVX0b7bhG4:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Ox7bOHruXoE:BjVX0b7bhG4:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Ox7bOHruXoE:BjVX0b7bhG4:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/Ox7bOHruXoE" height="1" width="1"/> Cathy Clamp Prose Thu, 15 Jul 2010 13:40:29 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/fare-thee-well http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/fare-thee-well The President’s Brain is Missing http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/EGsISqnWJQc/the-presidents-brain-is-missing <p>Deputy White House Chief of Staff Alexander Lipsyte walked through the doorway and into the Oval Office and was surprised that the President was not at his desk. &ldquo;Where&rsquo;s the boss?&rdquo; he asked.</p><p>&ldquo;He&rsquo;s out,&rdquo; said David Boehm, the Chief of Staff, holding a folder. &ldquo;Close the door and sit down, Alex.&rdquo;</p><p>Alex closed the door behind him and took a seat on the east-facing sofa, next to Secretary of State Mona Fitzgerald. Across from him on the west-facing sofa were National Security Advisor Brad Stein and Vice-President Tony Hsu. Hsu&rsquo;s presence was unusual; the President had reverted to the formerly-common practice of giving the Vice President absolutely nothing of any importance to do. Hsu spent most of his time visiting elementary schools and working on his putting.</p><p>Hsu caught Alex&rsquo;s glance. &ldquo;If you think you&rsquo;re surprised, think how I feel,&rdquo; Vice-President Hsu said. Alex grinned in spite of himself.</p><p>&ldquo;Now that we&rsquo;re all here, we can get started,&rdquo; Boehm said. &ldquo;We have a situation. The president&rsquo;s brain is missing.&rdquo;</p><p>[Read more]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/the-presidents-brain-is-missing">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=EGsISqnWJQc:VT5GouKC3ig:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=EGsISqnWJQc:VT5GouKC3ig:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=EGsISqnWJQc:VT5GouKC3ig:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=EGsISqnWJQc:VT5GouKC3ig:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=EGsISqnWJQc:VT5GouKC3ig:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=EGsISqnWJQc:VT5GouKC3ig:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=EGsISqnWJQc:VT5GouKC3ig:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=EGsISqnWJQc:VT5GouKC3ig:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=EGsISqnWJQc:VT5GouKC3ig:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/EGsISqnWJQc" height="1" width="1"/> John Scalzi Prose Mon, 12 Jul 2010 13:40:26 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/the-presidents-brain-is-missing http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/the-presidents-brain-is-missing Olga http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/WvhABhLrm7M/olga <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>1</p><p>&ldquo;No! Olga!&rdquo; I whirled at the sound of my brother-in-law&rsquo;s panicked shout. My name hasn&rsquo;t been Olga for more than a century, but that&rsquo;s how he first knew me. I smelled diesel fuel and felt a wave of pure power knock me off my feet, sending me flying backward an instant before a car bomb blew, taking out most of the caf&eacute; and a fair portion of the street. I hit the pavement hard, back first, knocking the breath from my lungs. My head hit next, and the world went dark.</p><p>[I came to...]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/olga">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=WvhABhLrm7M:sgO_AIf6jWg:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=WvhABhLrm7M:sgO_AIf6jWg:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=WvhABhLrm7M:sgO_AIf6jWg:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=WvhABhLrm7M:sgO_AIf6jWg:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=WvhABhLrm7M:sgO_AIf6jWg:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=WvhABhLrm7M:sgO_AIf6jWg:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=WvhABhLrm7M:sgO_AIf6jWg:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=WvhABhLrm7M:sgO_AIf6jWg:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=WvhABhLrm7M:sgO_AIf6jWg:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/WvhABhLrm7M" height="1" width="1"/> C.T. Adams Prose Tue, 06 Jul 2010 13:30:18 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/olga http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/07/olga What Doctor Gottlieb Saw http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/JSM_iVKRRXU/what-doctor-gottlieb-saw <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>&ldquo;Do you suppose it&rsquo;s possible to murder God?&rdquo;</p><p>Gretel was Gottlieb&rsquo;s most troubling patient. She was clairvoyant. She was also, he feared, quite mad.</p><p>He paused in the midst of jotting a note in her file. Capping his fountain pen and setting it on the desk, alongside the blotter, gained his scattered thoughts a few seconds to catch up with her. &ldquo;I beg your pardon?&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;If He is omniscient and infallible, then surely He would see the moment and manner of His own passing. Knowing this, and being infallible, He could prevent it. Yet to do so would imply His prescience was imperfect. While not doing so would mean He is not eternal.&rdquo; She sighed.</p><p>Gottlieb said, &ldquo;The death of God is a metaphor. It isn&rsquo;t meant as a literal, corporeal death. It represents the overthrow of God through modern man&rsquo;s diminished need for external sources of wisdom.&rdquo;</p><p>Nietzsche was required reading at the farm. But only the approved works, of course.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/06/what-doctor-gottlieb-saw">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=JSM_iVKRRXU:IlVmh0wOENI:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=JSM_iVKRRXU:IlVmh0wOENI:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=JSM_iVKRRXU:IlVmh0wOENI:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=JSM_iVKRRXU:IlVmh0wOENI:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=JSM_iVKRRXU:IlVmh0wOENI:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=JSM_iVKRRXU:IlVmh0wOENI:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=JSM_iVKRRXU:IlVmh0wOENI:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=JSM_iVKRRXU:IlVmh0wOENI:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=JSM_iVKRRXU:IlVmh0wOENI:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/JSM_iVKRRXU" height="1" width="1"/> Ian Tregillis Prose Tue, 08 Jun 2010 13:30:28 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/06/what-doctor-gottlieb-saw http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/06/what-doctor-gottlieb-saw The Cockroach Hat http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/ZV2lZJ9vtrM/the-cockroach-hat <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>Sam Gregory woke up one morning and found, to his dismay, that he had turned into a big cockroach. &ldquo;Oh, no,&rdquo; he thought. He had some idea of what was happening because of the Kafka story. He hadn&rsquo;t exactly read it, but he had heard all about it back when he was in college. Sam&rsquo;s roommate, Cliffe with an E, had taken a course called Shape Shifters in Modern Lit, thinking it would be an easy A, like the video games he played in the Student Union, taking on all comers, or Eco-Alternatives. Instead, it required a paper, and Cliffe felt betrayed. Sam said I told you so (the wrong thing to say) and Cliffe suggested he shut the fuck up. That only made things worse and soon they weren&rsquo;t speaking at all. Several times, they almost came to blows.</p><p>Instead, they became the best of friends.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/05/the-cockroach-hat">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ZV2lZJ9vtrM:9StrfnqTwJM:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ZV2lZJ9vtrM:9StrfnqTwJM:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=ZV2lZJ9vtrM:9StrfnqTwJM:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ZV2lZJ9vtrM:9StrfnqTwJM:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=ZV2lZJ9vtrM:9StrfnqTwJM:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ZV2lZJ9vtrM:9StrfnqTwJM:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ZV2lZJ9vtrM:9StrfnqTwJM:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=ZV2lZJ9vtrM:9StrfnqTwJM:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ZV2lZJ9vtrM:9StrfnqTwJM:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/ZV2lZJ9vtrM" height="1" width="1"/> Terry Bisson Prose Wed, 26 May 2010 13:30:46 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/05/the-cockroach-hat http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/05/the-cockroach-hat The Courtship of the Queen http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/AxlJcyVHK2o/the-courtship-of-the-queen <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>When he was a child, he was stranger than many children, but not as strange as some. What he lacked in normalcy he more than made up for in passion, sense of wonder and acquisitiveness&mdash;the virtues that make any collector (or hunter) great. By the age of ten he had collected more than two thousand seashells, providing each, as any good scientist would, with its own neatly labeled card that listed its Latin and common names, where it had been collected and when and by whom, and the temperature that day. If he or his parents had purchased the seashell or it had been given to him by someone who did not have such information, that was all right; the card would at least bear its names. What mattered most was the beauty of the bivalve or univalve, the clam or snail, its personality, its character, and its role in the larger scheme of things, which the boy saw clearly.</p><p>He kept his seashells in the drawers of two nice oak dressers in his room and, as well, in the drawers of the ten junkier dressers his father had with affection purchased for him at yard sales and Salvation Army outlets and made room for in every garage or basement or attic they had, moving them carefully with their other furniture each time the family relocated from one coast or country to another.</p><p>How the boy&rsquo;s collection had come into being was not as strange as the boy himself, even if the size of it was: his father, a Navy enlisted officer, moved his family often because the Navy ordered him to, and often, because it was the Navy he served, they lived on or near military bases by the sea; and the boy, when he was old enough to crawl, had discovered that the one thing he could truly make his own and take with him from one place to the next was the seashells of that place&mdash;whether they lay dead and clean on the sand of nearby beaches, lived on the mud below in shallow water, hid under seaweed at tide pools, were gifts from kind people, or were purchased by the boy, when he or his parents had the money, in local shops.</p><p>He could not take the people with him, friends he made at school, or the old women who walked the beaches in palm-frond hats, or the fisherman from the jetties. He could not take the houses his family lived in with him. He could not always even take the pets, which were sometimes lost in the moves and which, like all pets, sometimes died because pets rarely lived as long as their keepers.</p><p>He even felt that he could not take <em>himself</em> because what he was at each of his father&rsquo;s &ldquo;stations&rdquo; was different. But he could always&mdash;with his parents&rsquo; encouragement because they knew he needed to take something with him or he would forget who he was&mdash;take the seashells of each place. They understood what moving meant, and they understood what could be lost. His father had fled a small town in Virginia to join the Navy and make a life for himself, and his mother was one-quarter Chickasaw Indian and, though quite educated, knew what it felt like not to know who you were.</p><p>Though it seemed odd when it began, his parents encouraged his <em>playing</em> with his seashells, too&mdash;the way other boys played with soldiers and toy boats and cars. His wanting to play with them as all children play with something did not, in fact, seem as strange to them as the cards with their scientific names and other information, which felt so adult and made them worry, lost in books as he often was, that he would never be a child. It made him&mdash;this playing&mdash;seem more normal to them; and so they watched and smiled when their ten-year-old son took the large, pink-lipped Queen Conch (<em>Strombus gigas</em>) which a shrimp fisherman in Key West, Florida, had given the boy (one his mother, without complaint, had boiled and cleaned so that it would not smell, as seashells sometimes tended to do), put it for the thousandth time on the rug in his bedroom, placed around it the fifteen tiny but feisty <em>Strombus alatus</em>&mdash;Fighting Conchs (shells he had also collected in Florida at his father&rsquo;s previous station)&mdash; and, as he liked to put it, played &ldquo;Kingdom of the Ancient Sea&rdquo; with them. After all, the Queen needed protection, he explained, looking up, and the Fighting Conchs, loyal as they were, would protect her. In actuality, Fighting Conchs could drill through the armor of other seashells and kill them, so why not here, in his fantasy, in the boy&rsquo;s very own kingdom, make them &ldquo;the Queen&rsquo;s guards&rdquo;?</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/05/the-courtship-of-the-queen">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=AxlJcyVHK2o:5Mm-W1m3TDw:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=AxlJcyVHK2o:5Mm-W1m3TDw:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=AxlJcyVHK2o:5Mm-W1m3TDw:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=AxlJcyVHK2o:5Mm-W1m3TDw:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=AxlJcyVHK2o:5Mm-W1m3TDw:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=AxlJcyVHK2o:5Mm-W1m3TDw:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=AxlJcyVHK2o:5Mm-W1m3TDw:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=AxlJcyVHK2o:5Mm-W1m3TDw:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=AxlJcyVHK2o:5Mm-W1m3TDw:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/AxlJcyVHK2o" height="1" width="1"/> Bruce McAllister Prose Wed, 05 May 2010 13:55:41 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/05/the-courtship-of-the-queen http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/05/the-courtship-of-the-queen Four Horsemen, at Their Leisure http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/pBnSUGKVH1A/four-horsemen-at-their-leisure <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>Whatever else one might have said about the Apocalypse, it was thorough. I, with the aid of my three companions, had killed every single living thing on earth, right down to the bacteria, and we had done it with neither remorse nor hesitation. When you&rsquo;re created for a single purpose, there&rsquo;s not a lot of room for exploring your options, but what now that our purpose was no more? The earth was dead, and I know dead. What was left? Just me and my companions, now apart from the Consensus.</p><p>I wondered for a while if we were meant to destroy ourselves and thus complete the annihilation, but killing Death made about as much sense as throwing a lit match on a forest fire. As for the others . . . well, in truth they were just aspects of me, as I was an aspect of the Consensus. I knew that and I think the other Horsemen did too, but it wouldn&rsquo;t be tactful to mention it.</p><p>After the Apocalypse the Horsemen rode off in separate directions. We met up now and then over the centuries, stayed together for awhile as the mood took us, broke apart again. The last time we were together we had a grand old time. War turned his back for a moment, and Pestilence tried to give him a cold. War chopped Pestilence&rsquo;s head off and kicked it like a soccer ball. It was a good kick. Three hundred yards across the blighted landscape, easily. By the time Pestilence&rsquo;s headless body managed, scrabbling across the dust and debris, to feel its way to where the head had rolled, we were pretty sure he wouldn&rsquo;t try that again. A pity, really. I hadn&rsquo;t laughed so hard since the Apocalypse.</p><p>After that we separated again, which was why I happened to be alone, riding along on a manifestation of a horse that I&rsquo;d named Patience, brooding as is my habit, and almost didn&rsquo;t notice when I came across the impossible.</p><p>A pine seedling.</p><p>When I said thorough, I meant thorough. There was nothing left living on earth, and that included the seeds, spores, sperm, eggs, what have you, of every living thing. Dead as dead can be, and no mistake. Yet here was this clearly impossible <em>thing</em> growing in the lee of a boulder in a cold northern latitude. The seedling was spindly, green, and definitely alive.</p><p>And as God at the moment wasn&rsquo;t my witness, I had no idea what I should do.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/04/four-horsemen-at-their-leisure">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=pBnSUGKVH1A:YEiAnOYeUs8:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=pBnSUGKVH1A:YEiAnOYeUs8:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=pBnSUGKVH1A:YEiAnOYeUs8:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=pBnSUGKVH1A:YEiAnOYeUs8:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=pBnSUGKVH1A:YEiAnOYeUs8:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=pBnSUGKVH1A:YEiAnOYeUs8:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=pBnSUGKVH1A:YEiAnOYeUs8:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=pBnSUGKVH1A:YEiAnOYeUs8:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=pBnSUGKVH1A:YEiAnOYeUs8:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/pBnSUGKVH1A" height="1" width="1"/> Richard Parks Prose Wed, 21 Apr 2010 13:55:30 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/04/four-horsemen-at-their-leisure http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/04/four-horsemen-at-their-leisure The Next Invasion http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/sd4g_wpxWsE/the-next-invasion <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>The highway is empty and then it isn&rsquo;t. The headlights suddenly catch something moving at the next bend. &ldquo;Deer,&rdquo; whispers the assistant; the driver lifts his foot from the pedal. Deer would be reasonable, and that&rsquo;s what they see for the next moment, sharing that small fine thrill. But the shape is wrong, isn&rsquo;t it? Unlikely as it seems, they realized that a person is walking on the narrow shoulder. A woman walking in the same direction that they&rsquo;re headed, and judging by the strong gait, she is young. But this is miles from anywhere, and it&rsquo;s late on a moonless night, and there hasn&rsquo;t been another vehicle in the last twenty miles.</p><p>The driver glances at the assistant.</p><p>&ldquo;Ask,&rdquo; he says. &ldquo;See what he wants.&rdquo;</p><p>The assistant is a thin, plain woman named Molly. She has big eyes and a tiny crooked mouth and an elegant, ill-suited nose that isn&rsquo;t quite three years old. Tattoos of black anchors cover her body, each anchor dipped in blood. Her forearms are sprinkled with burn scars. What might have been a bullet hole forms a crease on her long neck. Everyone who knows Molly has a favorite story about her wild past, but even the true stories fail to capture the magnificent awfulness of her first thirty years. The last four have been better, if only by comparison. Her present employer is a difficult, arrogant man who loves making impossible requests, and while she hasn&rsquo;t done her present job cheerfully or perfectly, she&rsquo;s proven a neurotic capacity to try almost anything to make her boss smile.</p><p>Molly peers into the back seat. &ldquo;Sir?&rdquo;</p><p>From behind the driver, a sleepy voice asks, &ldquo;What?&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;There&rsquo;s a hitchhiker,&rdquo; she says. &ldquo;Going our way.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;A lady?&rdquo;</p><p>[&ldquo;I wouldn&rsquo;t mention it otherwise.&rdquo;]</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/03/the-next-invasion">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=sd4g_wpxWsE:z1n-nn8Q4MQ:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=sd4g_wpxWsE:z1n-nn8Q4MQ:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=sd4g_wpxWsE:z1n-nn8Q4MQ:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=sd4g_wpxWsE:z1n-nn8Q4MQ:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=sd4g_wpxWsE:z1n-nn8Q4MQ:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=sd4g_wpxWsE:z1n-nn8Q4MQ:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=sd4g_wpxWsE:z1n-nn8Q4MQ:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=sd4g_wpxWsE:z1n-nn8Q4MQ:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=sd4g_wpxWsE:z1n-nn8Q4MQ:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/sd4g_wpxWsE" height="1" width="1"/> Robert Reed Prose Wed, 17 Mar 2010 13:23:12 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/03/the-next-invasion http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/03/the-next-invasion The Final Now http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/BSJRmsiWUn8/the-final-now <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p class="center" style="text-align: center">We are blooming flowers on the plain&mdash;which He picks.<br />&mdash;Old hymn</p><p>He suddenly thought that they had not seen anyone for quite a while. Amid the vast voyages, adventures, striking vistas&mdash;and yes, while basking in symphonies of sensation&mdash;they had not needed company.</p><p>Even as twilight closed in. But now&mdash;</p><p>&ldquo;Do you recall&mdash;?&rdquo; He asked, turning to Her, and could not recall an ancient name. Names were unimportant, mere symbols, yes . . . but He did remember that names had existed to distinguish between multitudes. When? First task: to name the beasts. When had He and She said that?</p><p>&ldquo;I do,&rdquo; She said mildly, for She was always mild. &ldquo;Any: one. A logical category.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;They were Other, yes. I recall. Lesser but Other.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Just so.&rdquo;</p><p>Thoughts rippled light-quick among them. The concept of Other as separate and different commingled in a burst of flavors&ndash;musky, crisp, sweet, sad, noisy&mdash;and tempted him. Somehow, in the long run of time they shared, the portions of himself and herself had moved away from overt Others, leaving the two of them to interweave as their binary Self. The details of why had quite washed away.</p><p>Yet the Others were part of him and her, and He and She could bring them forward when needed or desired. And desire played a role in all of this. Memories strummed, mellow notes rang redly, old victories sang and trilled.</p><p>The Others were good company, He thought.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/03/the-final-now">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=BSJRmsiWUn8:8hhctP15CyY:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=BSJRmsiWUn8:8hhctP15CyY:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=BSJRmsiWUn8:8hhctP15CyY:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=BSJRmsiWUn8:8hhctP15CyY:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=BSJRmsiWUn8:8hhctP15CyY:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=BSJRmsiWUn8:8hhctP15CyY:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=BSJRmsiWUn8:8hhctP15CyY:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=BSJRmsiWUn8:8hhctP15CyY:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=BSJRmsiWUn8:8hhctP15CyY:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/BSJRmsiWUn8" height="1" width="1"/> Gregory Benford Prose Thu, 04 Mar 2010 13:21:15 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/03/the-final-now http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/03/the-final-now I Speak Fluent Giraffe: Henngar the Hungry http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/rbaCaBn2fD0/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-henngar-the-hungry <p><big>Henngar the Hungry</big></p><p>Henngar: hunter, barbarian king, the bald, accursed and feared, the tall and rage-beautiful, the gore-quashing, son of Mark the Moustached, who bore the sword Pansysmasher, roamed the land of Santan Monkah, and hungered mightily. So vast, primeval and cruelsome his appetite, he could have, should he have so elected, eaten an inchorous Grulgax daemon, or eyeless trogbat, in one massive gulp of the slavering maw. &ldquo;Fie upon such stygian whorehounds!&rdquo; he growled and spat. &ldquo;I quest for chow mein, and naught else.&rdquo;</p><p>The sun hung hot in the vast orange-blue sky, an obliterating sphere of melancholy and autumnal dyspepsia as Henngar trod on through the snow-flecked strewn places and parts until he found the Promenade of Threes, where food held court. &ldquo;Here I shall find chow mein, or hot spurting fountains of blood will flow betwixt mine own toes!&rdquo; and with his smallest finger, smashed a passing horse to prove it. &ldquo;Scrofulous equine!&rdquo; he snarled as the draught-beast collapsed in its own steam-enshrouded guts.</p><p>He passed through the gilt arches of the Court of Food. Vile thralls gnawed their cud in terror and gaped-mouthed awe as this mountain behemoth of a massive juggernaut of a bloodthirsty and chow mein hungry barbarian lord prince savage swaggered past them.</p><p>&ldquo;You,&rdquo; he grimaced, teeth gnashing as he wrapped an elephantine fist around the stick-necked neck of a skinny person. &ldquo;Where is the chow mein? A wench once told me in years past that legend has it a hungry man could find chow mein here, and yet my eyes, looking thither and yon, sliding with famine in their moist sockets, catch nary a glimpse of it. Explain yourself, peasant!&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; he pleaded, blood-flecked lips quivering like a dying man&rsquo;s bowels, &ldquo;they went out of business!&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;What say you?&rdquo; Henngar rumbled, and kicked his gargantuan boot into the skull of a passing panda bear, to indicate his displeasure.</p><p>&ldquo;The recession,&rdquo; the serf whinged, &ldquo;is harsh on small businesses!&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Fool&rsquo;s son of a whore&rsquo;s leper bitch-dog!&rdquo; scoffed Henngar. &ldquo;Why this very morning, as the sun asked me for permission to rise, I heard no less esteemed and veracious a man as Matt Lauer proclaim for all the world to hear that the recession comes to a halt, though for no real reason!&rdquo; And the limp corpse of the misinformed dirty peasant slid broken to the earth from whence it toiled, like a squid puppet with its very life-giving strings snapped by the gnashing jowls of an arcane thing with teeth.</p><p>No chow mein to be had, Henngar flew swiftly and with naught but evil vengeance aforethought, into a blood-fisted, ichor-squelching, sword-in-viscera-sticking mad berserker battle rage until all that remained, as far as his vicious eye could drink in, was blood and bone and sinew and connective tissue and fascia and lymph and partly digested matter and cartilage and nerve-ending exposed to the thousand wicked quills of black and inky corvids in haste.</p><p>They, at least, feasted, but Henngar, heavy with coagulant stranger bits and his own copious muscle, roamed on, forever on, hungry.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-henngar-the-hungry">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=rbaCaBn2fD0:7n11R_6K20Q:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=rbaCaBn2fD0:7n11R_6K20Q:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=rbaCaBn2fD0:7n11R_6K20Q:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=rbaCaBn2fD0:7n11R_6K20Q:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=rbaCaBn2fD0:7n11R_6K20Q:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=rbaCaBn2fD0:7n11R_6K20Q:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=rbaCaBn2fD0:7n11R_6K20Q:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=rbaCaBn2fD0:7n11R_6K20Q:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=rbaCaBn2fD0:7n11R_6K20Q:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/rbaCaBn2fD0" height="1" width="1"/> Jason Henninger Prose Mon, 22 Feb 2010 13:08:23 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-henngar-the-hungry http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-henngar-the-hungry Tourists http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/gtxm2FYT1Sc/tourists <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>They pushed me out of the portal, dumped me into the sage and manzanita. The great orb&rsquo;s pastel colors glowed against the clear night sky. As I backed away she rocked, then lifted into the air, the only sounds a scrape and rattle as dirt and pebbles rolled into the hollow she&rsquo;d left. I saw the sparkle of distant flashbulbs from the perimeter of the landing site, like stars on waves.</p><p>I wondered if it was my fault the aliens had stolen my grandmother.</p><p>This happened back in the eighties. Like everyone else, Grandma and I followed the story on the news. I remember the first time we saw the ship on television, a soft globe banded in edible-looking shades of pink, orange, and yellow that floated down through the atmosphere and settled lightly on the ground.</p><p>Over the next months we watched as they guzzled psychedelic herbal brews in the Amazon basin. We saw them at the pyramids and Machu Picchu. We heard an interview with them when they visited the south of England to marvel at the crop circles.</p><p>I even read the book they&rsquo;d published to finance their tour. It was one of those big-type/wide-margin/one-platitude-per-page deals. &ldquo;Beware of rationality&mdash;it is an enemy of the spirit,&rdquo; seemed weird coming from a space-going culture. The rest of it was the same kind of thing.</p><p>They&rsquo;d spoken to the Pope and the Dalai Lama and had made an absolutely baffling appearance on <em>The 700 Club</em>, so it shouldn&rsquo;t have surprised me when they cozied up to my grandmother.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/tourists">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=gtxm2FYT1Sc:5nA2eK1NKM4:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=gtxm2FYT1Sc:5nA2eK1NKM4:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=gtxm2FYT1Sc:5nA2eK1NKM4:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=gtxm2FYT1Sc:5nA2eK1NKM4:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=gtxm2FYT1Sc:5nA2eK1NKM4:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=gtxm2FYT1Sc:5nA2eK1NKM4:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=gtxm2FYT1Sc:5nA2eK1NKM4:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=gtxm2FYT1Sc:5nA2eK1NKM4:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=gtxm2FYT1Sc:5nA2eK1NKM4:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/gtxm2FYT1Sc" height="1" width="1"/> Sean Craven Prose Wed, 17 Feb 2010 13:10:12 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/tourists http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/tourists I Speak Fluent Giraffe: Gaul Deluxe Anti-Free Pairs http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/0yzBWkSwJ3E/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-gaul-deluxe-anti-free-pairs <p><big>Gaul Deluxe Anti-Free Pairs</big></p><p>One ponce the clock comen to the bearhouse a girl all shimsy in the sparkle-locks. Slim of centerpiece, and not much ticking in the crain, she went a bit woodsy-where-am, not gnosting whence or thence, rift or light, soulther or narwhal. Sun shim nighty-mode, and the fordarkest. Creekle in the leavings, shadow jumpen and the frime darken and unwen.</p><p>Poor losty sparklehead.</p><p>But hopes! She umglovered a domestic with the lights, frontery open a-door.</p><p>Tippy-shoe, she cautions interior, noseing a porridge! Wonderbliss, she can hardly. In fact, triple! One bowl tastey steam, and too heat. Two bowl arctic. But porridge-tongue on bowl three is splendous. She throats it full in one.</p><p>Now gastroplenty, all drownsy for the cushiums. Primely chair too much chair. Nextum over pliffy and plaffy and can&rsquo;t comfort. Butever the thirden chair goes round justin rights.<br />But sparklehead fums all fickle-pickle and bedding hunted. Tip-skip the stairways up.</p><p>Pambles she to a lay-down of excise and too big. &ldquo;Oh, Hegel!&rdquo; she skumphs and goes two the nexus. &ldquo;Not enough and wronger!&rdquo; quith she bouts choice. Bed three and guess it, so comformal and right.</p><p>Soon, gliss off to sneep.</p><p>&ldquo;Somerothers tasty and sit around!&rdquo; krunk a Grimzly bean, of fur and roughace whoms the homer own.</p><p>&ldquo;Same at!&rdquo; say wifeybear and a mystery.</p><p>&ldquo;Trice!&rdquo; speeps lil bearn. &ldquo;and eatums away and sit!&rdquo;</p><p>Foop the upways stair, stair, stair.</p><p>&ldquo;Somesleeper in mine!&rdquo; they claim, spectively.</p><p>&ldquo;And still on!&rdquo; say wee.</p><p>&ldquo;Spit and polish!&rdquo; peaches sparklehaed with binocu-fear of biggin-smallin-justright bear. &ldquo;Get up with the gitout!&rdquo; And speed she weigh, off stair door and tree to long, so there.</p><hr /><p>For more creative grumblings of Jason Henninger, check out the<br /><a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=story&amp;id=58431">I Speak Fluent Giraffe Index</a> page.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-gaul-deluxe-anti-free-pairs">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=0yzBWkSwJ3E:pdzjhHx_HxY:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=0yzBWkSwJ3E:pdzjhHx_HxY:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=0yzBWkSwJ3E:pdzjhHx_HxY:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=0yzBWkSwJ3E:pdzjhHx_HxY:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=0yzBWkSwJ3E:pdzjhHx_HxY:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=0yzBWkSwJ3E:pdzjhHx_HxY:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=0yzBWkSwJ3E:pdzjhHx_HxY:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=0yzBWkSwJ3E:pdzjhHx_HxY:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=0yzBWkSwJ3E:pdzjhHx_HxY:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/0yzBWkSwJ3E" height="1" width="1"/> Jason Henninger Prose Mon, 15 Feb 2010 13:11:17 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-gaul-deluxe-anti-free-pairs http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-gaul-deluxe-anti-free-pairs I Speak Fluent Giraffe: Shpydah! http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/yI5gbtweFlw/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-shpydah <p><big>Shpydah!</big></p><p>A spider landed on my shoulder this morning. A great gruesome Shelob tarantuloid terrorclump, prodding and full of schemes and dastardly encreepment. Legs like wicked celery stalks, body akin to a water balloon of malice. I could hear its ichorous mandibulae chittering clicky-wet. A panic filled me, a panic one generally reserves for massacres or George Hamilton films.</p><p>Adrenalin surged in my inner pipes, infusing me with the strength of three average men, or six toddlers and a mature Basset Hound, minimum. A mighty backhand, the sort you&rsquo;d expect from Serena Williams, pow! Clocked the scrambling interloper but good and then some. His manifold appendages scrambled for purchase but my powerful John Henry strike gave him no purchase and off he went through the aether like propelled halitosis.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-shpydah">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yI5gbtweFlw:W6TcJOfhBLk:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yI5gbtweFlw:W6TcJOfhBLk:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=yI5gbtweFlw:W6TcJOfhBLk:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yI5gbtweFlw:W6TcJOfhBLk:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=yI5gbtweFlw:W6TcJOfhBLk:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yI5gbtweFlw:W6TcJOfhBLk:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yI5gbtweFlw:W6TcJOfhBLk:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=yI5gbtweFlw:W6TcJOfhBLk:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yI5gbtweFlw:W6TcJOfhBLk:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/yI5gbtweFlw" height="1" width="1"/> Jason Henninger Prose Mon, 08 Feb 2010 13:00:40 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-shpydah http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-shpydah Vilcabamba http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/RFm6bqS_Do4/vilcabamba <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>The President of the United States looked out of an Oval Office window at Grand Junction, Colorado. The Oval Office was square, but the President&rsquo;s workplace kept its traditional name. Harris Moffatt III sighed and bent to his paperwork again. Even in Grand Junction, that never disappeared.</p><p>Washington, D.C., remained the de jure capital of the United States. Harris Moffatt III had never been there. Neither had his father, President Harris Moffatt II. His grandfather, President Harris Moffatt I, got out of Washington one jump ahead of the Krolp. That the USA was still any kind of going concern came from his ever-so-narrow escape.</p><p>Harris Moffatt III was also Prime Minister of Canada, or of that small and mountainous chunk of Canada the Krolp didn&rsquo;t control. The two countries had amalgamated early on, the better to resist the invading aliens. That, of course, was before they realized how far out of their weight they were fighting.</p><p>When the enormous ships were first detected, between Mars&rsquo; orbit and Earth&rsquo;s, every nation radioed messages of welcome and greeting. The Krolp ignored them all. The enormous ships landed. There were still videos&mdash;Harris Moffatt III had them on his computer&mdash;of human delegations greeting the aliens with bouquets and bands playing joyful music. At last! Contact with another intelligent race! Proof we weren&rsquo;t alone in the universe!</p><p>&ldquo;Better if we were,&rdquo; the President muttered. When the Krolp came out, they came out shooting. Some of those fifty-year-old videos broke off quite abruptly. And &ldquo;shooting&rdquo; was the understatement of the millennium. Their weapons made ours seem like kids&rsquo; slingshots against machine guns.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/vilcabamba">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=RFm6bqS_Do4:M7kh7sdbk8I:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=RFm6bqS_Do4:M7kh7sdbk8I:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=RFm6bqS_Do4:M7kh7sdbk8I:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=RFm6bqS_Do4:M7kh7sdbk8I:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=RFm6bqS_Do4:M7kh7sdbk8I:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=RFm6bqS_Do4:M7kh7sdbk8I:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=RFm6bqS_Do4:M7kh7sdbk8I:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=RFm6bqS_Do4:M7kh7sdbk8I:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=RFm6bqS_Do4:M7kh7sdbk8I:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/RFm6bqS_Do4" height="1" width="1"/> Harry Turtledove Prose Wed, 03 Feb 2010 13:34:14 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/vilcabamba http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/vilcabamba I Speak Fluent Giraffe: Triage of Porks http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/2SWv__FSi6M/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-triage-of-porks <p>Triage of Porks</p><p>You&rsquo;ll indulge me for a jot of story telling, won&rsquo;t you, just? Please do. Procure an enseatment of posteriorally pleasing ergonomy and appointment, perhaps splash or three of vintage Fonseca and allow me to wax in a manner folklorical.</p><p>Once&mdash;as you may have so rightly deduced&mdash;upon a time, there dwelled in a landscape of an equitable sylvan nature (though given on occasion to lupine molestation) a triumvirate of swine unified in the quest for domestic architecture, though of varied spirits of industry.</p><p>The most slothful of the trio&mdash;let&rsquo;s call him Edmundt, unless you&rsquo;ve some objection&mdash;deduced he needn&rsquo;t apply excessive gray matter to the task at hand (or trotter, to be more spot-on) and, in an effort to preserve elbow grease (rationing was still on) he gathered round his person a lean-to of mere straw. He devised a pyramidal structure, all points centermost inclined, and reposed within. Meanst-a-while, his compatriots tisked and snorted in scorn.</p><p>&ldquo;A shanty, and no mistake,&rdquo; quothe the one I shall designate as Antoine.</p><p>&ldquo;Edmundt lacks vim,&rdquo; the other, Brimstead, agreed, &ldquo;and will surely suffer for it.&rdquo; The pair ambulated elseward in contempt as the wind piped floutish though the straw.</p><p>The sun slid down the sky, leaving behind it a grand and flammable slickment of colour (or, to give the British spelling, coulououour) like unto that trailing a blood orange snail. Thence, scenting the breeze and finding an even-toed ungulate within it, the Canid of Enormous Malevolence decided to sup of its source. &ldquo;Growl, indeed!&rdquo; spake he. &ldquo;Veritable threat, via glottal auditory!&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;You shant!&rdquo; Edmundt conveyed. &ldquo;I am secure as the Cunard Line&rsquo;s most fortable ship, here in my enstrawment, you hirsute cad.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Fear in deep tremblence, oh my o&rsquo;er-confident Suidae! For I shall now, this very now, utilize my bronchia in a manner most Godzillan.&rdquo; And so it was. The haystack was nothing like a match for the huffington puff of the large and evil former puppy. Down came the shack, like a drunken kangaroo on St. Vodka&rsquo;s Day, and the wolf emulated himself and wolfed the pig in one sloof, finishing with the swiveled tail as if it were fusilli. Poor Edmundt. Requisate in pace, woebegone lazyboar.</p><p>This is, not to sharpen too exact a piercing about it, what happened to the second pig as well the next eventide, despite having laboured (British: laebour&rsquo;d) upon an enstickment, rough-hewn and still leafed here and about. Sorry, Antoine. May you give rise to the finest daisies, should ever the wolf&rsquo;s digestive tract returns you to Mother Earth.</p><p>Brimstead, a right corker of a porker, set about in masonry while his comrades lined the bowels of his enemy. &ldquo;And who shall help me build my bricks?&rdquo; he asked, but answers there came fewer than oysters, as Edtoine were dead already. Still and all, as solo efforts are concerned, he did. Before the sun slankt awee, his brickening gleamed complete.</p><p>&ldquo;Somebody&rsquo;s been sleeping in my house,&rdquo; by which he meant himself, and did so.</p><p>Now, the real tension mounts! The wolf, fresh from his all-forest tour of lungtastic demolition, fair strutted about Chez Brimstead. &ldquo;Chomp and circumstance!&rdquo; he glisten-toothed. &ldquo;I smell the brick of an English pig.&rdquo; (British: pygge).</p><p>&ldquo;Do your measured worst, I adjure you,&rdquo; Brimstead called out throatily into the slightly imperiled night.</p><p>&ldquo;Grand!&rdquo; he yipped. And thus, he houghed and poughed and tried to blough the houghs in.</p><p>&ldquo;Har, snort and derisive persiflage!&rdquo; taunted the ham. &ldquo;It&rsquo;ll be unto less than no avail, for I have built a house made of the moral of the story!&rdquo;</p><p>Not one to throw in the other cheek or sponge by the wayside, the wolf made a prodigious bound aimed with Robinhoodian accuracy to the very center, the smouldering omphalos, of the chimney. Alas, what the wolf possessed in decisiveness was not matched in strategy, or he&rsquo;d have taken full notice of the smoke and deduced therefrom that a fire must blaze beneath; and so it did, painfully.</p><p>Brimstead, safe in a house that now smelt pleasingly of scorched dog pelt, lay his head smugly on a pillow of finest Hungarian sleeping feathers, and snorted off to slumbitude.</p><p>&nbsp;</p><hr /><p>For more creative grumblings of Jason Henninger, check out the <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=story&amp;id=58431">I Speak Fluent Giraffe Index</a> page.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-triage-of-porks">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2SWv__FSi6M:oeUDJ0UT9JE:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2SWv__FSi6M:oeUDJ0UT9JE:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=2SWv__FSi6M:oeUDJ0UT9JE:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2SWv__FSi6M:oeUDJ0UT9JE:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=2SWv__FSi6M:oeUDJ0UT9JE:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2SWv__FSi6M:oeUDJ0UT9JE:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2SWv__FSi6M:oeUDJ0UT9JE:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=2SWv__FSi6M:oeUDJ0UT9JE:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2SWv__FSi6M:oeUDJ0UT9JE:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/2SWv__FSi6M" height="1" width="1"/> Jason Henninger Prose Mon, 01 Feb 2010 13:19:27 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-triage-of-porks http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/02/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-triage-of-porks I Speak Fluent Giraffe: Planet Earse http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/NUqCDvfrWVI/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-planet-earse <p><big>Planet Earse</big></p><p>What a fine day, ladies and, perhaps, gentlemen of the Earth. A superlative day for a story, I&rsquo;ll be bound. No, fear not, it&rsquo;s not a binding sort of story. Uncover your eyes. There now; brace up. I meant it only as a declarative colloquialism. There&rsquo;s a brave little corn flake.</p><p>It&rsquo;s the sort of crisp radish sort of day that reminds one of adventure scintillating &lsquo;round every teacup, setting the cream atremble if only one has the brazen temerity to grasp life between the thumb and forefinger, I dare say. The clouds crackle sporting, heels click along the gutters and were I to skip, the sheer joviality of my left trochanter might generate a shower of sparks, setting lovely fire to the local shrubbery, whereupon diminutive orphan children might warm their stubby gloved digits where the wool&rsquo;s run thin, singing sea chanteys and winking. Cheers, guvnuh, they may imply. Thence, having spread thermal mirth mongst the neighborhood rascalry, I&rsquo;d spring-step my way, chipper as clean lettuce, to grander climes.</p><p>Where, however, is a man of the very highest jinks to find a spot of caprice in a town otherwise made of plastic chirurgeons and palm-so-called-trees? Milords and m&rsquo;lattoes, adventure&rsquo;s where you hazard it, say I. Seek it out, route it like a cat o&rsquo;danger might a danger mouse, sniff it in the very odors of cupcake shops and post offices, the dim corners of libraries whose sensual dust tickles the very mucus membranes of Dame Fortune, imploring her, &ldquo;Sneeze, you harlot!&rdquo; And then, chance&rsquo;s nasal expulsions should cause so mighty a zephyr as to catapult one to the Hebrides, whereupon, through judicious use of coat-tails, one manipulates the aeronautic pressures such that one lands flawless among the savage coconuts to be lauded by the islandic folk as a fellow of poise quite without precedent.</p><p>It was this selfsame adquest for venture that led me to this planet in the beginning. Allow me now to spackle your cortex with the reasoning behind how I arrived at this planet so-called Earth, and have fit &ldquo;something like in&rdquo; with this human&rsquo;s race, insofar as few people on a given day suspect more than a hint of the celestial about me.</p><p>So, gather round, my fine minty conclave, gather, shall we say, round. Are you beginning comfortably? Then we&rsquo;ll sit. Gaze over your shoulder and, with the aid of the Hubblescope, peer well into the yonder, past out and away, slightly more distant than far, and you&rsquo;ll suspect a hinting of a speck of what may just be halfway to my home planet, Earse.</p><p>Earse is a sphere much like this one upon which we at present, present. A few distinctions remain of note. We did not, on planet Earse, ever have anything approximating Shaun Cassidy. His featherlight blonde smile and easy corduroy never so much as ticked us in the cathodes.</p><p>We had, instead, The Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Mysteries staring Pamela Sue Martin, Parker Stevens and Leif Garrett. Due to the wholesome problems solving nature of the program, our Garrett never became a heroin addict but instead became the head of INTERPOL. The intrepid Secretary-General Garrett is credited for bringing Osama Bin Laden (a terrorist best know for his 1977 number one hit &ldquo;Da Doo Ron Ron&rdquo;) to justice.</p><p>I first engendered, in the smartest cockles of my man-bosom, a desire to leave Earse long about the time Heroes season two smeared its detritus on screen, despoiling the corpse of what had once been a true entertainment. Not long after, Pushing Daisies was cancelled. I looked to the heavens and thought, perhaps, maybe, just mayhaps or perbe, I might find a planet of enlightened, powerful intellectual beings who properly respect Brian Fuller.</p><p>And so&mdash;I&rsquo;ll not burden your eyelids with the tedious details&mdash;I built a fully functioning faster-than-light craft and came to Earth, where, to bitter disappointment, I came to know that television remained, here as well, so many lightyears from the darkened minds of my people, as relevant and artistic as a barrel cactus stuffed with alligator kidneys.</p><p>And so, dear pigeons, leave us not sit idle as toast, mossgathering. Detriment and grief await those whose backsides backslide! Otherhandedly, the charm and bristle of voyagery come only to those who ram coarsely the diaphanous balustrades of fate with the unanimous-fingered fist of stalwart enterprise.</p><hr /><p>For more creative grumblings of Jason Henninger, check out the <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=story&amp;id=58431">I Speak Fluent Giraffe Index</a> page.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/01/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-planet-earse">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=NUqCDvfrWVI:zAh9U_ck6eQ:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=NUqCDvfrWVI:zAh9U_ck6eQ:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=NUqCDvfrWVI:zAh9U_ck6eQ:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=NUqCDvfrWVI:zAh9U_ck6eQ:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=NUqCDvfrWVI:zAh9U_ck6eQ:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=NUqCDvfrWVI:zAh9U_ck6eQ:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=NUqCDvfrWVI:zAh9U_ck6eQ:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=NUqCDvfrWVI:zAh9U_ck6eQ:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=NUqCDvfrWVI:zAh9U_ck6eQ:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/NUqCDvfrWVI" height="1" width="1"/> Jason Henninger Prose Mon, 25 Jan 2010 13:00:01 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/01/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-planet-earse http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/01/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-planet-earse I Speak Fluent Giraffe: The Love Song of S. Alvador Dali http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/Q3oN0Cvxdy0/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-the-love-song-of-s-alvador-dali <p><big>The Love Song of S. Alvador Dali</big></p><p>&nbsp;</p><p>&nbsp;</p><p>Let us go then, I and me,<br />When the moon is persistent as memory<br />Like a clock etherized upon a branch;<br />Let us go, through certain half-desserts and treats,<br />The muttering defeats<br />Of dressless lions and one-leg swarming ants<br />And spindle-kneed parades of elephants:<br />that follow like a tedious placement<br />Of insipid symbology<br />To lead you to an underwhelming question . . .<br />Oh, do not ask, &ldquo;What did you say?&rdquo;<br />I wouldn&rsquo;t tell you anyway.</p><p>In the room the critics come and meet<br />Talking of Rene Magritte...</p><p>And indeed there will be time<br />To wonder, &ldquo;Do I care?&rdquo; and, &ldquo;Do I care?&rdquo;<br />Time to bug my eyes out when I stare,<br />Painting bald spots in the middle of my hair&mdash;<br />[They will say: &ldquo;How his hair is growing skin!&rdquo;]<br />My moustache curling, like tiny elephant trunks on my cheeks,<br />My voice is loud and pompous, and asserted when anyone speaks&mdash;</p><p>Do I dare<br />Observe the universe?<br />In a canvas there is space<br />For Quixotes and Pianos which sopranos will erase.</p><p>For I have known everything already, known it all:<br />Have known the crutches, elbows, elephants<br />I have measured out my coffee spoon&rsquo;s irrelevance...</p><p>I should have been a pair of distended breasts<br />Sagging across the crease of crooked crutches.</p><p>I have seen the moment of my greatness inflate,<br />And I have seen the man eternal coat my foot with snickers,<br />And in short, it all felt great.</p><p>I grow surreal. . .I grow surreal,<br />I shall paint Shirley Temple on a glockenspiel.</p><p>Shall I sign my students&rsquo; work?<br />Painting ceilings, like Chagall?<br />I shall mass-produce my paintings to be sold in every mall.<br />I have heard the fratboys hang me<br />on the wall.</p><hr /><p>For more of Jason Henninger&rsquo;s gumblings, see the <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=story&amp;id=58431">I Speak Fluent Giraffe</a> page.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/01/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-the-love-song-of-s-alvador-dali">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Q3oN0Cvxdy0:02YuFPo4Qws:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Q3oN0Cvxdy0:02YuFPo4Qws:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Q3oN0Cvxdy0:02YuFPo4Qws:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Q3oN0Cvxdy0:02YuFPo4Qws:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Q3oN0Cvxdy0:02YuFPo4Qws:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Q3oN0Cvxdy0:02YuFPo4Qws:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Q3oN0Cvxdy0:02YuFPo4Qws:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Q3oN0Cvxdy0:02YuFPo4Qws:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Q3oN0Cvxdy0:02YuFPo4Qws:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/Q3oN0Cvxdy0" height="1" width="1"/> Jason Henninger Prose Mon, 18 Jan 2010 13:32:09 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/01/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-the-love-song-of-s-alvador-dali http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/01/i-speak-fluent-giraffe-the-love-song-of-s-alvador-dali Looking for Truth in a Wild Blue Yonder http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/tWS4ctPO1A8/looking-for-truth-in-the-wild-blue-yonder <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>Ten years after my parents died, my therabot, Bob, informed me that I should seek help elsewhere. I blinked at his suggestion.</p><p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve already tried chemical intervention,&rdquo; I told his plastic grin. &ldquo;It didn&rsquo;t work.&rdquo; I scowled, but that did nothing to de-brighten his soothing, chipper voice.</p><p>&ldquo;Booze doesn&rsquo;t count, Charlie.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;I tried weed, too.&rdquo;</p><p>Bob shook his head. &ldquo;Nothing therapeutic there, either, I&rsquo;m afraid.&rdquo; He sighed and imitated the movements of pushing himself back from his imitation wood desk. &ldquo;You are experiencing what we like to call <em>complicated</em> grief.&rdquo;</p><p>Complicated grief. As if I hadn&rsquo;t heard that one before.</p><p>Dad had died badly. He&rsquo;d been on one of the trains that got swallowed by the Sound back on the day we lost Seattle. He&rsquo;d called me from his cell phone with his last breath, as the water poured in, to let me know he wasn&rsquo;t really my father.</p><p>We lost the signal before he could tell me who he actually was. Naturally, I called Mom. She answered just before the ceiling of the store she was shopping in collapsed.</p><p>Both parents in one day. Fuck yes, complicated grief.</p><p>And a side helping of unknown paternity.</p><p>Bob continued. &ldquo;Ten years is a long time, Charlie. I want you to call this number and ask for Pete.&rdquo; His eyes rolled in their sockets as his internal processors accessed his files. My phone chirped when his text came through. He extended a plastic tentacle tipped with a three-fingered white clown&rsquo;s glove. &ldquo;I hope you find your way.&rdquo;</p><p>I scowled again and shook his offered hand. &ldquo;So you&rsquo;re firing me as a patient?&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Be well,&rdquo; he said. His eyes went dead and his hand dropped back to the artificial oak surface of his desk.</p><p class="center" style="text-align: center">* * *</p><p>I met Pete in an alley on the back of Valencia, behind an old bookstore that still dealt in paper. I transferred funds to an offshore account that then moved it along, scrubbing the transaction as it passed through its various stops along the way before his phone chirped. When it chirped, he extended a smart-lock plastic bag to me. A small, withered blue thing sloshed about in it. At first, I thought it was a severed finger or something far worse. (Or better, depending upon one&rsquo;s fetishes.) I held the bag up to the flickering light of the dirty street lamp.</p><p>The blue thing looked like an asparagus tip, only it wriggled.</p><p>&ldquo;Find someplace safe and quiet,&rdquo; Pete said. &ldquo;Preferably indoors with a lock. Eat it with water.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not putting this in my mouth.&rdquo;</p><p>Pete shrugged. He was a scrawny kid, his tattooed face stubbly in the dim light, long red hair cascading over his shoulders. &ldquo;Doesn&rsquo;t matter to me. But the wild blue yonder are especially good for your situation. Complicated grief, right?&rdquo; I nodded because his eyes&mdash;one brown and one bright yellow&mdash;told me that he probably knew it from experience. &ldquo;Eat this. Spend a weekend sweating and naked on the floor. You&rsquo;ll be a new man.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Naked and sweating?&rdquo; I looked at the baggie again, then back to Pete. &ldquo;And how do you know Bob?&rdquo; I couldn&rsquo;t imagine a therabot needing a dealer.</p><p>Pete smiled. &ldquo;We&rsquo;re colleagues.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Colleagues?&rdquo;</p><p>The smile widened even further. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m a back-alley grief counselor.&rdquo;</p><p>Slipping my wild blue yonder into my pocket, I left Pete in his alley and turned myself towards home.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/01/looking-for-truth-in-the-wild-blue-yonder">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=tWS4ctPO1A8:n75Choh4uks:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=tWS4ctPO1A8:n75Choh4uks:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=tWS4ctPO1A8:n75Choh4uks:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=tWS4ctPO1A8:n75Choh4uks:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=tWS4ctPO1A8:n75Choh4uks:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=tWS4ctPO1A8:n75Choh4uks:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=tWS4ctPO1A8:n75Choh4uks:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=tWS4ctPO1A8:n75Choh4uks:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=tWS4ctPO1A8:n75Choh4uks:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/tWS4ctPO1A8" height="1" width="1"/> Jay Lake Prose Wed, 13 Jan 2010 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/01/looking-for-truth-in-the-wild-blue-yonder http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/01/looking-for-truth-in-the-wild-blue-yonder The Starship Mechanic http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/pqCnkIaRjv4/the-starship-mechanic <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>The floor of Borderlands Books had been polished to mirror brightness. A nice trick with old knotty pine, but Penauch would have been a weapons-grade obsessive-compulsive if he&rsquo;d been human. I&rsquo;d thought about setting him to detailing my car, but he&rsquo;s just as likely to polish it down to aluminum and steel after deciding the paint was an impurity.</p><p>When he discovered that the human race recorded our ideas in <em>books</em>, he&rsquo;d been impossible to keep away from the store. Penauch didn&rsquo;t actually read them, not as such, and he was most reluctant to touch the volumes. He seemed to view books as vehicles, launch capsules to propel ideas from the dreaming mind of the human race into our collective forebrain.</p><p>Despite the fact that Penauch was singular, unitary, a solitary alien in the human world, he apparently didn&rsquo;t conceive of us as anything but a collective entity. The xenoanthropologists at Berkeley were carving Ph.D.s out of that particular clay as fast as their grad students could transcribe Penauch&rsquo;s conversations with me.</p><p>He&rsquo;d arrived the same as David Bowie in that old movie. No, not <em>Brother from Another Planet</em>; <em>The Man Who Fell to Earth</em>. Tumbled out of the autumn sky over the Cole Valley neighborhood of San Francisco like a maple seed, spinning with his arms stretched wide and his mouth open in a teakettle shriek audible from the Ghost Fleet in Suisun Bay all the way down to the grubby streets of San Jose.</p><p class="center" style="text-align: center">* * *</p><blockquote><p class="excerpt"><em>The subject&rsquo;s fallsacs when fully deployed serve as a tympanum, producing a rhythmic vibration at a frequency perceived by the human ear as a high-pitched shriek. Xenophysiological modeling has thus far failed to generate testable hypotheses concerning the volume of the sound produced. Some observers have speculated that the subject deployed technological assistance during atmospheric entry, though no evidence of this was found at the landing site, and subject has never indicated this was the case.</em></p><p class="excerpt">&mdash; Scholes, Jen West. <em>A Reader&rsquo;s Guide to Earth&rsquo;s Only Living Spaceman</em>. Feldman, Jude A. San Francisco: Borderlands Books, 2014.</p></blockquote><p class="center" style="text-align: center">* * *</p><p>It was easier keeping Penauch in the bookstore. The owners didn&rsquo;t mind. They&rsquo;d had hairless cats around the place for years&mdash;a breed called sphinxes. The odd animals served as a neighborhood tourist attraction and business draw. A seven-foot alien with a face like a plate of spaghetti and a cluster of writhing arms wasn&rsquo;t all that different. Not in a science fiction bookstore, at least.</p><p>Thing is, when Penauch was out in the world, he had a tendency to <em>fix</em> things.</p><p>This fixing often turned out to be not so good. No technology was involved. Penauch&rsquo;s body was demonstrably able to modify the chitinous excrescences of his appendages at will. If he needed a cutting edge, he ate a bit of whatever steel was handy and swiftly metabolized it. If he needed electrical conductors, he sought out copper plumbing. If he needed logic probes, he consumed sand or diamonds or glass.</p><p>It was all the same to Penauch.</p><p>As best any of us could figure out, Penauch was a sort of <em>tool</em>. A Swiss army knife that some spacefaring race had dropped or thrown away, abandoned until he came to rest on Earth&rsquo;s alien shore.</p><p>And Penauch only spoke to me.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/01/the-starship-mechanic">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=pqCnkIaRjv4:uLXj8LHOwok:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=pqCnkIaRjv4:uLXj8LHOwok:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=pqCnkIaRjv4:uLXj8LHOwok:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=pqCnkIaRjv4:uLXj8LHOwok:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=pqCnkIaRjv4:uLXj8LHOwok:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=pqCnkIaRjv4:uLXj8LHOwok:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=pqCnkIaRjv4:uLXj8LHOwok:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=pqCnkIaRjv4:uLXj8LHOwok:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=pqCnkIaRjv4:uLXj8LHOwok:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/pqCnkIaRjv4" height="1" width="1"/> Ken Scholes Prose Wed, 13 Jan 2010 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/01/the-starship-mechanic http://www.tor.com/stories/2010/01/the-starship-mechanic Farewell Performance http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/DAH1lwi-zdM/farewell-performance <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>Jaskey wasn&rsquo;t nervous. He had his flashlight. He had a few things to say. The sky felt low to the ground, dark and hazy. People were coming too, and not too many. Jaskey had spent a week putting up handwritten flyers. Skin flaked off the back of his hands like scales. He tried to make the flyers look professional; he kept it short, not like the ravings of so many other latter-day pamphleteers. Time as told by the setting of the sun, every evening until he could perform no more, no admission charge but trade goods greatly appreciated, in the oldest part of the old town. Come and see, come and see. It was twilight and when the last of the indigo was leached from the sky, there was enough of a crowd to begin. Jaskey stepped onto the corpse of a vehicle&mdash;maybe it had been a very large SUV or a small Armored Personnel Carrier&mdash;and smiled out at the small crowd. His clothes were comfortably loose; dark against darker. The roll of his belly hung over a well-beaten pair of slacks. Jaskey turned on his flashlight; he stood up straight, his left foot ahead. He tilted the light under his own chin. There was a scattering of applause, and of other sounds&mdash;flesh against flesh anyway if not exactly palm against palm.</p><p>&ldquo;I am a failure,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;But it is the failure you should all fear. You must know this by now.&rdquo; He could barely see the audience; they looked like underfed trees, all white branch and bone. &ldquo;But with every failure, my friends,&rdquo; Jaskey said, &ldquo;with every failure my plans come ever closer to fruition. My machinations are nearly complete.&rdquo; Jaskey&rsquo;s voice was a growl from the diaphragm. He knew how to project; he&rsquo;d picked the old parking lot because the ruined buildings surrounding it would help the acoustics, because they towered over the audience.</p><p>&ldquo;There are armed men surrounding you,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Ready to rain down bullets, fire, bricks, dead cats ripe with buboes, letters by young women from all over this gray and ashen land that will <em>break your very hearts!</em>&rdquo; He swung the flashlight; audience members flinched and flung up their arms to keep their eyes from the light.</p><p>&ldquo;Do not be afraid,&rdquo; Jaskey continued, &ldquo;all is proceeding according to plan. You and I, we are the lucky ones! We have a special mission. The human race, a group to which&hellip;.<em>most of you</em> belong&mdash;&rdquo; he stopped and waited through the titters, &ldquo;exists on the edge of oblivion today. I am here today to speak of humanity.</p><p>&ldquo;Its prevention.</p><p>&ldquo;And cure.&rdquo;</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/12/farewell-performance">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=DAH1lwi-zdM:7rM8CUy1C2U:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=DAH1lwi-zdM:7rM8CUy1C2U:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=DAH1lwi-zdM:7rM8CUy1C2U:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=DAH1lwi-zdM:7rM8CUy1C2U:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=DAH1lwi-zdM:7rM8CUy1C2U:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=DAH1lwi-zdM:7rM8CUy1C2U:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=DAH1lwi-zdM:7rM8CUy1C2U:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=DAH1lwi-zdM:7rM8CUy1C2U:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=DAH1lwi-zdM:7rM8CUy1C2U:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/DAH1lwi-zdM" height="1" width="1"/> Nick Mamatas Prose Thu, 31 Dec 2009 15:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/12/farewell-performance http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/12/farewell-performance Overtime http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/7SPv0CzDb7k/overtime <p>All bureaucracies obey certain iron laws, and one of the oldest is this: get your seasonal leave booked early, lest you be trampled in the rush.</p><p>I broke the rule this year, and now I&rsquo;m paying the price. It&rsquo;s not my fault I failed to book my Christmas leave in time&mdash;I was in hospital and heavily sedated. But the ruthless cut and thrust of office politics makes no allowance for those who fall in the line of battle: &ldquo;You should have foreseen your hospitalization and planned around it&rdquo; said the memo from HR when I complained. They&rsquo;re quite right, and I&rsquo;ve made a note to book in advance next time I&rsquo;m about to be abducted by murderous cultists or enemy spies.</p><p>I briefly considered pulling an extended sickie, but Brenda from Admin has a heart of gold; she pointed out that if I volunteered as Night Duty Officer over the seasonal period I could not only claim triple pay and time off in lieu, I&rsquo;d also be working three grades above my assigned role. For purposes of gaining experience points in the fast-track promotion game they&rsquo;ve steering me onto, that&rsquo;s hard to beat. So here I am, in the office on Christmas Eve, playing bureaucratic Pok&eacute;mon as the chilly rain drums on the roof.</p><p>(Oh, you wondered what Mo thinks of this? She&rsquo;s off visiting her ditz of a mum down in Glastonbury. After last time we agreed it would be a good idea if I kept a low profile. Christmas: the one time of year when you can&rsquo;t avoid the nuts in your family muesli. But I digress.)</p><p class="center" style="text-align: center">* * *</p><p>Christmas: the season of goodwill towards all men&mdash;except for bank managers, credit scoring agencies, everyone who works in the greeting card business, and dodgy men in red suits who hang out in toy shops and scare small children by shouting <em>&ldquo;ho ho HO!&rdquo;</em> By the time I got out of hospital in September the Christmas seasonal displays were already going up in the shops: mistletoe and holly and metallized tinsel pushing out the last of summer&rsquo;s tanning lotion and Hawaiian shirts.</p><p>I can&rsquo;t say I&rsquo;ve ever been big on the English Suburban Christmas. First you play join-the-dots with bank holidays and what&rsquo;s left of your annual leave, to get as many consecutive days off work as possible. Then instead of doing something useful and constructive with it you gorge yourself into a turkey-addled stomach-bloating haze, drink too much cheap plonk, pick fights with the in-laws, and fall asleep on the sofa in front of the traditional family-friendly crap the BBC pumps out every December 25th in case the wee ones are watching. These days the little &rsquo;uns are all up in their rooms, playing <em>Chicks v. Zombies 8.0</em> with the gore dialled to splashy-giblets-halfway-up-the-walls (only adults bother watching TV as a social activity these days) but has Auntie Beeb noticed? Oh no they haven&rsquo;t! So it&rsquo;s crap pantomimes and Mary Poppins and re-runs of <em>The Two Ronnies</em> for you, sonny, whether you like it or not. It&rsquo;s like being trapped in 1974 forever&mdash;and you can forget about escaping onto the internet: everybody else has had the same idea, and the tubes are clogged.</p><p>Alternatively you can spend Christmas alone in the office, where at least it&rsquo;s quiet once everyone else has gone home. You can get some work done, or read a book, or surreptitiously play <em>Chicks v. Zombies 8.0</em> with the gore dialled down to suitable-for-adults. At least, that&rsquo;s the way it&rsquo;s suppose to work . . . except when it doesn&rsquo;t, like now.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/12/overtime">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7SPv0CzDb7k:x7V-SZLr7Dk:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7SPv0CzDb7k:x7V-SZLr7Dk:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=7SPv0CzDb7k:x7V-SZLr7Dk:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7SPv0CzDb7k:x7V-SZLr7Dk:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=7SPv0CzDb7k:x7V-SZLr7Dk:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7SPv0CzDb7k:x7V-SZLr7Dk:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7SPv0CzDb7k:x7V-SZLr7Dk:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=7SPv0CzDb7k:x7V-SZLr7Dk:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=7SPv0CzDb7k:x7V-SZLr7Dk:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/7SPv0CzDb7k" height="1" width="1"/> Charles Stross Prose Tue, 22 Dec 2009 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/12/overtime http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/12/overtime The Horrid Glory of Its Wings http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/SzNHbNI8DOY/the-horrid-glory-of-its-wings <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><blockquote><p class="excerpt">&nbsp;</p><p class="excerpt"><em>&ldquo;Speaking of livers,&rdquo; the unicorn said, &ldquo;Real magic can never be made by offering up someone else&rsquo;s liver. You must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back. The true witches know that.&rdquo;</em></p><p class="excerpt">&mdash;Peter S. Beagle, <em>The Last Unicorn</em></p></blockquote><p class="center" style="text-align: center">* * *</p><p>My mother doesn&rsquo;t know about the harpy.</p><p>My mother, Alice, is not my <em>real</em> mom. She&rsquo;s my foster mother, and she doesn&rsquo;t look anything like me. Or maybe I don&rsquo;t look anything like her. Mama Alice is plump and soft and has skin like the skin of a plum, all shiny dark purple with the same kind of frosty brightness over it, like you could swipe it away with your thumb.</p><p>I&rsquo;m sallow&mdash;Mama Alice says <em>olive</em>&mdash;and I have straight black hair and crooked teeth and no real chin, which is okay because I&rsquo;ve already decided nobody&rsquo;s ever going to kiss me.</p><p>I&rsquo;ve also got <em>lipodystrophy</em>, which is a fancy doctor way of saying I&rsquo;ve grown a fatty buffalo hump on my neck and over each shoulder blade from the antiretrovirals, and my butt and legs and cheeks are wasted like an old lady&rsquo;s. My face looks like a dog&rsquo;s muzzle, even though I still have all my teeth.</p><p>For now. I&rsquo;m going to have to get the wisdom teeth pulled this year while I still get state assistance, because my birthday is in October and then I&rsquo;ll be eighteen. If I start having problems with them after then, well forget about it.</p><p>There&rsquo;s no way I&rsquo;d be able to afford to get them fixed.</p><p class="center" style="text-align: center">* * *</p><p>The harpy lives on the street, in the alley behind my building, where the dumpster and the winos live.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/12/the-horrid-glory-of-its-wings">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=SzNHbNI8DOY:PjqjxgCzdX4:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=SzNHbNI8DOY:PjqjxgCzdX4:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=SzNHbNI8DOY:PjqjxgCzdX4:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=SzNHbNI8DOY:PjqjxgCzdX4:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=SzNHbNI8DOY:PjqjxgCzdX4:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=SzNHbNI8DOY:PjqjxgCzdX4:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=SzNHbNI8DOY:PjqjxgCzdX4:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=SzNHbNI8DOY:PjqjxgCzdX4:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=SzNHbNI8DOY:PjqjxgCzdX4:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/SzNHbNI8DOY" height="1" width="1"/> Elizabeth Bear Prose Tue, 08 Dec 2009 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/12/the-horrid-glory-of-its-wings http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/12/the-horrid-glory-of-its-wings I Speak Fluent Giraffe http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/cRDY6BXvTqY/i-speak-fluent-giraffe <p><img alt="I Speak Fluent Giraffe" title="I Speak Fluent Giraffe" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/blogs/ispeak_header.png" /><br /><br />If ever you wanted a page to remind you of where to find one man’s bad poetry and other abuses of English you could never possibly need, this is it. You’re welcome. Here, Jason Henninger, amateur-professional cleverist, will speak giraffe at you.</p><center> <center><img alt="I Speak Fluent Giraffe" title="I Speak Fluent Giraffe" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/blogs/ISPEAKdivider4.png" /></center><p></p><table width="429"> <tbody> <tr> <td width="110"><img alt="I Speak Fluent Giraffe: Gaul Deluxe Anti-Free Pairs" title="I Speak Fluent Giraffe: Gaul Deluxe Anti-Free Pairs" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/stories/Henninger/Fluent-Giraffe/hengar/index2_Hengar_Henninger_Elig_105_60.png" /></td> <td> <p>February 22, 2010<big><br /> <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=story&amp;id=58630">“Henngar the Hungry”</a></big><br /> <!-- Listen to the <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=blog&amp;id=58775" _fcksavedurl="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=blog&amp;id=58775">podcast edition</a>. --></p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td width="110"><img alt="I Speak Fluent Giraffe: Gaul Deluxe Anti-Free Pairs" title="I Speak Fluent Giraffe: Gaul Deluxe Anti-Free Pairs" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/stories/Henninger/Fluent-Giraffe/gaul/index_Gaul_Henninger_Elig_105_60.jpg" /></td> <td> <p>February 15, 2010<big><br /> <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=story&amp;id=58631">“Gaul Deluxe Anti-Free Pairs”</a></big><br /> Listen to the <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=blog&amp;id=58774">podcast edition</a>.</p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td width="110"><img alt="I Speak Fluent Giraffe: Shpydah!" title="I Speak Fluent Giraffe: Shpydah!" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/stories/Henninger/Fluent-Giraffe/Spydah/index_Spydah_Henninger_Elig_105_60.jpg" /></td> <td> <p>February 08, 2010<big><br /> <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=story&amp;id=58628">“Shpydah!”</a></big><br /> Listen to the <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=blog&amp;id=58751">podcast edition</a>.</p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td width="110"><img alt="I Speak Fluent Giraffe: Triage of Porks" title="I Speak Fluent Giraffe: Triage of Porks" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/stories/Henninger/Fluent-Giraffe/Pork/ISpeak_Pork.png" /></td> <td> <p>February 01, 2010<big><br /> <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=story&amp;id=58629">“A Triage of Porks”</a></big><br /> Listen to the <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=blog&amp;id=58710">podcast edition</a>.</p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td width="110"><img alt="I Speak Fluent Giraffe: Planet Earse" title="I Speak Fluent Giraffe: Planet Earse" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/blogs/10_01/ISpeak_Earse.png" /></td> <td> <p>January 25, 2010<a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=story&amp;id=58627"><big><br /> “Planet Earse”</big></a><br /> Listen to the <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=blog&amp;id=58677">podcast edition</a>.</p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td width="110"><img alt="I Speak Fluent Giraffe, Dali" title="I Speak Fluent Giraffe, Dali" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/blogs/ISpeak_Dali.png" /></td> <td> <p>January 18, 2010<a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=story&amp;id=58623"><big><br /> “The Love Song of S. Alvador Dali”</big></a><br /> Listen to the <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=blog&amp;id=58697">podcast edition</a>.</p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table><p></p><center><img alt="I Speak Fluent Giraffe" title="I Speak Fluent Giraffe" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/blogs/ISPEAKdivider4.png" /></center><p></p><p><big>The Lovecraftian Stories</big><br />In celebration of <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=blog&amp;id=58388">Cthulhu Month</a>.</p><table width="429" cellspacing="1" cellpadding="1" border="0"> <tbody> <tr> <td width="210"><img title="Nyarlathotep, Brian Elig" alt="Nyarlathotep, Brian Elig" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/blogs/Nyarlathotep_200_BrianElig.png" /></td> <td> <p>December 4, 2009<br /> <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=blog&amp;id=58419"><big>“Nyarlathotep, I’m Breaking Up With You”</big></a></p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td><img alt="" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/blogs/09_12/jason/OtherOtherGods_200.png" /></td> <td> <p>December 7, 2009<br /> <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=blog&amp;id=58421"><big>“The Other Other Gods”<br /> <br /> </big></a></p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td><img alt="" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/blogs/09_12/jason/LibsMadness_BrianElig_200.png" /></td> <td> <p>December 11, 2009<br /> <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=blog&amp;id=58423"><big>“At the Libs of&#160;Madness”</big></a></p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td><img alt="" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/blogs/09_12/jason/RudolfPinkSkin_200.png" /></td> <td> <p>December 14, 2009<br /> <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=blog&amp;id=58422"><big>“Rudolf, the Pink-Skinned Deep One”</big></a></p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td><img alt="" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/blogs/09_12/jason/NightGaunt_BrianElig_200.png" /></td> <td> <p>December 18, 2009<br /> <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=blog&amp;id=58424"><big>“Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Night-Gaunt”</big></a></p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td><img alt="" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/blogs/09_12/jason/Ossuary_BrianElig_200.png" /></td> <td> <p>December 21, 2009<br /> <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=blog&amp;id=58425"><big>“The Accursed Waning Ossuary”</big></a></p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table><p></p></center><p></p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/12/i-speak-fluent-giraffe">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=cRDY6BXvTqY:HUwJZ4j6Ulc:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=cRDY6BXvTqY:HUwJZ4j6Ulc:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=cRDY6BXvTqY:HUwJZ4j6Ulc:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=cRDY6BXvTqY:HUwJZ4j6Ulc:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=cRDY6BXvTqY:HUwJZ4j6Ulc:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=cRDY6BXvTqY:HUwJZ4j6Ulc:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=cRDY6BXvTqY:HUwJZ4j6Ulc:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=cRDY6BXvTqY:HUwJZ4j6Ulc:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=cRDY6BXvTqY:HUwJZ4j6Ulc:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/cRDY6BXvTqY" height="1" width="1"/> Jason Henninger Prose Fri, 04 Dec 2009 05:51:14 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/12/i-speak-fluent-giraffe http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/12/i-speak-fluent-giraffe The Star and the Rockets http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/RbCyufGRPVk/the-star-and-the-rockets <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>A chilly January night in Roswell. Joe Bauman has discovered that&rsquo;s normal for eastern New Mexico. It gets hot here in the summer, but winters can be a son of a bitch. That Roswell&rsquo;s high up&mdash;3,600 feet&mdash;only makes the cold colder. Makes the sky clearer, too. A million stars shine down on Joe.</p><p>One of those stars is his: the big red one marking the Texaco station at 1200 West Second Street. He nods to himself in slow satisfaction. He&rsquo;s had a good run, a hell of a good run, here in Roswell. The way it looks right now, he&rsquo;ll settle down here and run the gas station full time when his playing days are done.</p><p>Won&rsquo;t be long, either. He&rsquo;ll turn thirty-two in April, about when the season starts. Ballplayers, even ones like him who never come within miles of the big time, know how sharply mortal their careers are. If he doesn&rsquo;t, the ache in his knees when he turns on a fastball will remind him.</p><p>He glances down at his watch, which he wears on his right wrist&mdash;he&rsquo;s a lefty all the way. It&rsquo;s getting close to nine o&rsquo;clock. He looks up Second Street. Then he looks down the street. No traffic either way. People here make jokes about rolling up the sidewalks after the sun goes down. With maybe 20,000 people, Roswell seems plenty big and bustling to Joe. It&rsquo;s a damn sight bigger than Welch, Oklahoma, the pissant village where he was born, that&rsquo;s for sure.</p><p>He could close up and go home. Chances that he&rsquo;ll have any more business are pretty slim. But the sign in the rectangular iron frame says OPEN &rsquo;TIL MIDNIGHT. He&rsquo;ll stick around. You never can tell.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/11/the-star-and-the-rockets">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=RbCyufGRPVk:1kHBd4c5j-4:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=RbCyufGRPVk:1kHBd4c5j-4:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=RbCyufGRPVk:1kHBd4c5j-4:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=RbCyufGRPVk:1kHBd4c5j-4:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=RbCyufGRPVk:1kHBd4c5j-4:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=RbCyufGRPVk:1kHBd4c5j-4:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=RbCyufGRPVk:1kHBd4c5j-4:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=RbCyufGRPVk:1kHBd4c5j-4:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=RbCyufGRPVk:1kHBd4c5j-4:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/RbCyufGRPVk" height="1" width="1"/> Harry Turtledove Prose Tue, 17 Nov 2009 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/11/the-star-and-the-rockets http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/11/the-star-and-the-rockets A Memory of Wind http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/P0-wfU74xnM/a-memory-of-wind <p><em>After Helen and her lover Paris fled to Troy, her husband King Menelaus called his allies to war. Under the leadership of King Agamemnon, the allies met in the harbor at Aulis. They prepared to sail for Troy, but they could not depart, for there was no wind.</em></p><p><em>Kings Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Odysseus consulted with Calchas, a priest of Artemis, who revealed that the angered goddess was balking their departure. The kings asked Calchas how they might convince Artemis to grant them a wind. He answered that she would only relent after King Agamemnon brought his eldest daughter, Iphigenia, to Aulis and sacrificed her to the goddess.</em></p><p class="center" style="text-align: center">* * *</p><p>I began turning into wind the moment that you promised me to Artemis.</p><p>Before I woke, I lost the flavor of rancid oil and the shade of green that flushes new leaves. They slipped from me, and became gentle breezes that would later weave themselves into the strength of my gale. Between the first and second beats of my lashes, I also lost the grunt of goats being led to slaughter, and the roughness of wool against calloused fingertips, and the scent of figs simmering in honey wine.</p><p>Around me, the other palace girls slept fitfully, tossing and grumbling through the dry summer heat. I stumbled to my feet and fled down the corridor, my footsteps falling smooth against the cool, painted clay. As I walked, the sensation of the floor blew away from me, too. It was as if I stood on nothing.</p><p>I forgot the way to my mother&rsquo;s rooms. I decided to visit Orestes instead. I also forgot how to find him. I paced bright corridors, searching. A male servant saw me, and woke a male slave, who woke a female slave, who roused herself and approached me, bleary-eyed, mumbling. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s wrong, Lady Iphigenia? What do you require?&rdquo;</p><p>I had no answers.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/11/a-memory-of-wind">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=P0-wfU74xnM:0H-mm2U0Rso:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=P0-wfU74xnM:0H-mm2U0Rso:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=P0-wfU74xnM:0H-mm2U0Rso:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=P0-wfU74xnM:0H-mm2U0Rso:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=P0-wfU74xnM:0H-mm2U0Rso:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=P0-wfU74xnM:0H-mm2U0Rso:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=P0-wfU74xnM:0H-mm2U0Rso:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=P0-wfU74xnM:0H-mm2U0Rso:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=P0-wfU74xnM:0H-mm2U0Rso:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/P0-wfU74xnM" height="1" width="1"/> Rachel Swirsky Prose Tue, 03 Nov 2009 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/11/a-memory-of-wind http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/11/a-memory-of-wind The Strange Case of Mr. Salad Monday http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/ONKBHfh_rJU/mr-salad-monday <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>Inspector Wilde was in a fine mood when he arrived at the headquarters of Salmagundi&rsquo;s Legion of Peace, carrying three paper-wrapped sandwiches and an armload of printed broadsheets. He had a spring in his step and walked in time to one of the latest music hall ditties, which he whistled cheerfully for the benefit of his coworkers. All along the gaslit passage, clerks and secretaries poked their heads out of their rooms and stared, in wonder and admiration at his audacity. Most of them smiled as he passed, and a few of the braver ones tapped their feet along with the tune for a few moments before dashing back to their desks to avoid the ire of their supervisors. Wilde laughed as he passed a room full of secretaries who somehow managed to type in time with the music.</p><p>Midway down the hallway was the Chief Inspector&rsquo;s office, which was fronted by a small antechamber in which her secretary, Marguerite, was busy making sense of several unsightly piles of documents. Her work table was a model of efficiency. Her pens and pencils were all neatly arranged to one side, along with writing paper and a three-section typewriter for preparing documents in triplicate. A rack of empty pneumatic capsules waited nearby to be filled and dispatched.</p><p>Marguerite smiled as Wilde approached, delighted by the cheerful whistling. Wilde leaned down, eyebrows arched, and tossed Marguerite the top sandwich in his stack.</p><p>&ldquo;<em>And a girl in uniform&rsquo;s just the thing for me...</em>&rdquo; Wilde said playfully, completing the refrain of the tune in Marguerite&rsquo;s ear.</p><p>&ldquo;Max!&rdquo; Marguerite exclaimed, her cheeks flushing. She pushed him away and made a show of reorganizing the papers on her desk. &ldquo;You mustn&rsquo;t say things like that to me. People will talk.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Well, if &lsquo;people&rsquo; are going to talk, don&rsquo;t you think we should give them something to talk about?&rdquo; Wilde asked, flashing one of his trademark recruitment smiles.</p><p>Marguerite was trying to come up with a reply when a third voice interrupted. &ldquo;<em>Max, get in here!</em>&rdquo;</p><p>Marguerite jumped in shock and pulled a handful of papers between herself and Wilde, as if to deny that they had even been speaking. Wilde was also caught by surprise, but retained his composure. He looked over at the polished voicepipe mounted next to Marguerite&rsquo;s table just in time to hear the Chief Inspector&rsquo;s voice again.</p><p>&ldquo;<em>Now!</em>&rdquo;</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/10/mr-salad-monday">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ONKBHfh_rJU:4ae8FchwoUI:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ONKBHfh_rJU:4ae8FchwoUI:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=ONKBHfh_rJU:4ae8FchwoUI:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ONKBHfh_rJU:4ae8FchwoUI:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=ONKBHfh_rJU:4ae8FchwoUI:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ONKBHfh_rJU:4ae8FchwoUI:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ONKBHfh_rJU:4ae8FchwoUI:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=ONKBHfh_rJU:4ae8FchwoUI:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=ONKBHfh_rJU:4ae8FchwoUI:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/ONKBHfh_rJU" height="1" width="1"/> GD Falksen Prose Tue, 20 Oct 2009 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/10/mr-salad-monday http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/10/mr-salad-monday Zeppelin City http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/GkjkB_fRRN8/zeppelin-city <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>Radio Jones came dancing down the slidewalks. She jumped from the express to a local, then spun about and raced backwards, dumping speed so she could cut across the slower lanes two and three at a time. She hopped off at the mouth of an alley, glanced up in time to see a Zeppelin disappear behind a glass-domed skyscraper, and stepped through a metal door left open to vent the heat from the furnaces within.</p><p>The glass-blowers looked up from their work as she entered the hot shop. They greeted her cheerily:</p><p>&ldquo;Hey, Radio!&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Jonesy!&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;You invented a robot girlfriend for me yet?&rdquo;</p><p>The shop foreman lumbered forward, smiling. &ldquo;Got a box of off-spec tubes for you, under the bench there.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Thanks, Mackie.&rdquo; Radio dug through the pockets of her patched leather greatcoat and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. &ldquo;Hey, listen, I want you to do me up an estimate for these here vacuum tubes.&rdquo;</p><p>Mack studied the list. &ldquo;Looks to be pretty straightforward. None of your usual experimental trash. How many do you need&mdash;one of each?&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;I was thinking more like a hundred.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;<em>What?</em>&rdquo; Mack&rsquo;s shaggy black eyebrows met in a scowl. &ldquo;You planning to win big betting on the Reds?&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Not me, I&rsquo;m a Whites fan all the way. Naw, I was kinda hoping you&rsquo;d gimme credit. I came up with something real hot.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;You finally built that girlfriend for Rico?&rdquo;</p><p>The workmen all laughed.</p><p>&ldquo;No, c&rsquo;mon, I&rsquo;m <em>serious</em> here.&rdquo; She lowered her voice. &ldquo;I invented a universal radio receiver. Not fixed-frequency&mdash;tunable! It&rsquo;ll receive any broadcast on the radio spectrum. Twist the dial, there you are. With this baby, you can listen in on every conversation in the big game, if you want.&rdquo;</p><p>Mack whistled. &ldquo;There might be a lot of interest in a device like that.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Funny thing, I was thinking exactly that myself.&rdquo; Radio grinned. &ldquo;So waddaya say?&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;I say&mdash;&rdquo; Mack spun around to face the glass-blowers, who were all listening intently, and bellowed, &ldquo;<em>Get back to work!</em>&rdquo; Then, in a normal voice, &ldquo;Tell you what. Set me up a demo, and if your gizmo works the way you say it does, maybe I&rsquo;ll invest in it. I&rsquo;ve got the materials to build it, and access to the retailers. Something like this could move twenty, maybe thirty units a day, during the games.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Hey! Great! The game starts when? Noon, right? I&rsquo;ll bring my prototype over, and we can listen to the players talking to each other.&rdquo; She darted toward the door.</p><p>&ldquo;Wait.&rdquo; Mack ponderously made his way into his office. He extracted a five-dollar bill from the lockbox and returned, holding it extended before him. &ldquo;For the option. You agree not to sell any shares in this without me seeing this doohickey first.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Oh, Mackie, you&rsquo;re the greatest!&rdquo; She bounced up on her toes to kiss his cheek. Then, stuffing the bill into the hip pocket of her jeans, she bounded away.</p><p>Fat Edna&rsquo;s was only three blocks distant. She was inside and on a stool before the door jangled shut behind her. &ldquo;Morning, Edna!&rdquo; The neon light she&rsquo;d rigged up over the bar was, she noted with satisfaction, still working. Nice and quiet, hardly any buzz to it at all. &ldquo;Gimme a big plate of scrambled eggs and pastrami, with a beer on the side.&rdquo;</p><p>The bartender eyed her skeptically. &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s see your money first.&rdquo;</p><p>With elaborate nonchalance, Radio laid the bill flat on the counter before her. Edna picked it up, held it to the light, then slowly counted out four ones and eighty-five cents change. She put a glass under the tap and called over her shoulder, &ldquo;Wreck a crowd, with sliced dick!&rdquo; She pulled the beer, slid the glass across the counter, and said, &ldquo;Out in a minute.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Edna, there is <em>nobody</em> in the world less satisfying to show off in front of than you. You still got that package I left here?&rdquo;</p><p>Wordlessly, Edna took a canvas-wrapped object from under the bar and set it before her.</p><p>&ldquo;Thanks.&rdquo; Radio unwrapped her prototype. It was bench-work stuff&mdash;just tubes, resistors and capacitors in a metal frame. No housing, no circuit tracer lights, and a tuner she had to turn with a pair of needle-nose pliers. But it was going to make her rich. She set about double-checking all the connectors. &ldquo;Hey, plug this in for me, willya?&rdquo;</p><p>Edna folded her arms and looked at her.</p><p>Radio sighed, dug in her pockets again, and slapped a nickel on the bar. Edna took the cord and plugged it into the outlet under the neon light.</p><p>With a faint hum, the tubes came to life.</p><p>&ldquo;That thing&rsquo;s not gonna blow up, is it?&rdquo; Edna asked dubiously.</p><p>&ldquo;Naw.&rdquo; Radio took a pair of needle-nose pliers out of her greatcoat pocket and began casting about for a strong signal. &ldquo;Most it&rsquo;s gonna do is electrocute you, maybe set fire to the building. But it&rsquo;s not gonna explode. You been watching too many kinescopes.&rdquo;</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/10/zeppelin-city">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=GkjkB_fRRN8:-xmDserR6jo:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=GkjkB_fRRN8:-xmDserR6jo:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=GkjkB_fRRN8:-xmDserR6jo:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=GkjkB_fRRN8:-xmDserR6jo:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=GkjkB_fRRN8:-xmDserR6jo:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=GkjkB_fRRN8:-xmDserR6jo:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=GkjkB_fRRN8:-xmDserR6jo:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=GkjkB_fRRN8:-xmDserR6jo:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=GkjkB_fRRN8:-xmDserR6jo:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/GkjkB_fRRN8" height="1" width="1"/> Eileen Gunn Prose Tue, 06 Oct 2009 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/10/zeppelin-city http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/10/zeppelin-city Silver Linings http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/mOFHxoPcmJI/silver-linings <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>Cloudmining is a rough business at the best of times, mostly because everyone on the ground wants to kill you, but I had more particular problems. The day my past caught up with me, I was working for cloudboat captain Clandestine Ham&mdash;such a pompous name, everyone knew it must be an alias&mdash;as a refueller, the fourth-worst job in any cloudboat crew. We came cruising along at a middlish altitude, just beneath the lowest cloud level, over a pleasant little farming community called Crater Rim. Despite the name there was no actual crater in sight, which was something to be thankful for, at least.</p><p>The cloudboat&mdash;named the <em>Corpulent Whale</em>&mdash;had four big tight-woven gasbags packed with buoyant cloudstuff, and I was in charge of keeping #3 topped off. Not that it mattered much now, as we&rsquo;d dropped our load of silver at one of the less reputable trading posts along Precipitous Bay, and the cloudboat was riding empty and high and light. Cloud silver is exactly the same as silver pulled out of the ground, but so much easier to mine; digging in fluffy floating cloudstuff is far easier than cracking open mountains, but there was the little matter of cloudmining being banned under sixteen different treaties, so it wasn&rsquo;t precisely honest work. It required middlemen of optional morality to get the silver to market, and a desperate crew to mine it, of which I was technically more desperate than most.</p><p>&ldquo;Nice bank there,&rdquo; my co-refueller, a pink-faced man named Salmon, said, leaning way out against his harness line, gasbag squeaking under his feet. &ldquo;Must be ten, fifteen tons right here in those cumulus humilis.&rdquo;</p><p>I nodded, but I was leaning out and looking more at the farms below, neat squares of more or less dark earth. The cloud cover here was patchy, allowing lots of good sunlight in but also promising ample rain in season, making it a prime area for agriculture, one of the region&rsquo;s many little breadbaskets. It was autumn, harvest time, so the people down below wouldn&rsquo;t starve this winter at least, and maybe they&rsquo;d have time to move on before Crater Rim became a bowl of dust, its clouds gone forever and all hope of future rain stolen away.</p><p>Of course, Captain Ham hadn&rsquo;t chosen this season to strike out of kindness&mdash;mining the clouds during spring rains and summer thunderstorms and winter snow is much harder, so inert autumn clouds were easiest. And cloudminers, like most kinds of pirates and poachers, tend toward the lazy.</p><p>I wasn&rsquo;t lazy, but my past made me unfit for most kinds of work, and clinging to a wooden vessel tied to a bunch of inflatable gasbags several thousand feet in the air was among the least dangerous of my available options.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/09/silver-linings">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=mOFHxoPcmJI:NwpXOKCK6UU:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=mOFHxoPcmJI:NwpXOKCK6UU:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=mOFHxoPcmJI:NwpXOKCK6UU:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=mOFHxoPcmJI:NwpXOKCK6UU:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=mOFHxoPcmJI:NwpXOKCK6UU:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=mOFHxoPcmJI:NwpXOKCK6UU:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=mOFHxoPcmJI:NwpXOKCK6UU:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=mOFHxoPcmJI:NwpXOKCK6UU:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=mOFHxoPcmJI:NwpXOKCK6UU:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/mOFHxoPcmJI" height="1" width="1"/> Tim Pratt Prose Tue, 15 Sep 2009 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/09/silver-linings http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/09/silver-linings First Flight http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/xp6iCIDwaaY/first-flight <p>Eleanor Louise Jackson stood inside the plain steel box of the time machine. It was about the size of an outhouse, but without a bench or windows. She clutched her cane with one hand and her handbag with the other. It felt like the scan was taking far too long, but she was fairly certain that was her nerves talking.</p><p>Her corset made her ribs creak with every breath. She’d expected to hate wearing the thing, but there was a certain comfort from having something to support her back and give her a shape more like a woman than a sack of potatoes.</p><p>A gust of air puffed around her and the steel box was gone. She stood in a patch of tall grass under an October morning sky. The caravan of scientists, technicians and reporters had vanished from the field where they’d set up camp. Louise inhaled with wonder that the time machine had worked. Assuming that this was 1905, of course—the year of her birth and the bottom limit to her time-traveling range. Even with all the preparations for this trip, it baffled her sense of the order of things to be standing there.</p><p>The air tasted sweet and so pure that she could make out individual fragrances: the hard edge of oak mixed with the raw green of fresh mowed grass. Louise had thought her sense of smell had gotten worse because she’d gotten old.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/08/first-flight">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=xp6iCIDwaaY:UZm9zQEZSfI:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=xp6iCIDwaaY:UZm9zQEZSfI:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=xp6iCIDwaaY:UZm9zQEZSfI:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=xp6iCIDwaaY:UZm9zQEZSfI:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=xp6iCIDwaaY:UZm9zQEZSfI:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=xp6iCIDwaaY:UZm9zQEZSfI:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=xp6iCIDwaaY:UZm9zQEZSfI:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=xp6iCIDwaaY:UZm9zQEZSfI:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=xp6iCIDwaaY:UZm9zQEZSfI:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/xp6iCIDwaaY" height="1" width="1"/> Mary Robinette Kowal Prose Tue, 25 Aug 2009 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/08/first-flight http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/08/first-flight The Ruined Queen of Harvest World http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/y5JPmb2yPQE/the-ruined-queen <p>You may read the introduction to this story <a href="http://www.tor.com/index.php?option=com_content&amp;view=blog&amp;id=50231">here</a>.</p><p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><hr /><p>&ldquo;Where are my mausers?&rdquo; cried Gloriana Avid, dressed in seven layers of floating white and gray muslin. &ldquo;Ullimus Wong draws near! We must prepare the defenses of the orbital ladder in his honor, or against him. Come, mausers.&rdquo;</p><p>She peered into the great overgrown garden of her father&rsquo;s house. Few human people off Harvest knew this word <em>mauser</em>, which was an ancient name for a weapon held in the hand and directed to the killing of other humans. Fewer still recognized, with an irritated sigh, that this name, too, hid one yet older.</p><p>The war cats who stood guard over the rich treasures of Harvest were mausers, true, but mousers as well. Their ancestors, back on fabled Homeland, had been small, fleet creatures with small, fleet minds. Those cats lived and dreamed the hunt for their prey: feathered birds, tracked with furtive slow patient grace until the leap, murderous; and rodents even smaller than themselves, the mouses, for which they, the gray and white and black and tabby and striped mousers, were a mortal terror poised at the wainscoting. So it was with the descendents, the frightful augmented people, the war cats of Harvest.</p><p>&ldquo;Come, my pretties, my lordly hunters, my avengers,&rdquo; cried mad Ms. Avid. Her words creaked out into the pungent air of the Harvest world, where, beyond the tangled brambles of the house, a hundred fruits still gleamed under an actinic star, where the cereal crops flourished in wind-flowing oceans of gold and royal purple.</p><p>&ldquo;It is time to hunt,&rdquo; called Glory to her noble cats, and they came. Not to her bidding, for they were proud and walked alone, but in free recognition of her fiefdom. &ldquo;Come along, Resolution, Triumphant, Defiant. And wait, now, who are you?&rdquo; This cat was lean, with a head like a blade. Electricity danced and pranced in his pale blue eyes. She had never seen him before. All cats walk alone, as she knew, but this one seemed destined for some singular isolation. &ldquo;Your name, sir, I say!&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;My name is Daisy,&rdquo; said the cat, standing very still in the midst of his brothers. Did they shun him? They did not turn their backs upon him, nor withdraw their heads, and they did not, either, turn in a mass of furious, shrieking repugnance to tear, beat or bite him until his corpse lay bleeding and huddled. That they would have done to a sport, a castback, a cat whose deoxyribonucleic acid was even one codon more seriously warped than Daisy&rsquo;s. This forbearance, or minimal respect, did not mean they loved him, nor admired his solitude. The mausers put up with him at the margins of their number because he was a son of Courageous and Precious Blue Silk, was sworn, as were they all, to the defense of Harvest and the house.</p><p>Gloriana Avid gave one sniggering bark of laughter to hear that name, and smothered her mouth in billowing sleeves.</p><p>&ldquo;And where are your . . . sisters?&rdquo; Every mauser heard the absent words, the missing words, the masked words: your brothers&rsquo; <em>other</em> sisters. But a word unspoken yields no clear offense. The ears of the wiry cat went back for an instant only, the deep snarl in his throat chopped off at a cough.</p><p>&ldquo;Come forth, sisters,&rdquo; he cried in a piercing voice. &ldquo;The mistress would see you, even though the time is not fitting, her mausers, your brothers, being gathered here together.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Oh, no, no,&rdquo; cried Glory in her shrill, disappointed, wary tones, &ldquo;that is not what I&mdash;&rdquo;</p><p>But here came cat females, from the hard shadows of the star&rsquo;s brilliant daylight, slinky and sinuous. Here was Summery Justice and Winter Kills, here was Autumn Falls and Spring Healer, lightly springing, falling like shaded leaves.</p><p>The air reeked abruptly, with lawless pheromones. Everyone except Avid fell into attitudes of alert pugnacity, thrilling with improper desires.</p><p>&ldquo;Go back at once,&rdquo; cried Boundless Courage, stepping to the fore. &ldquo;Ignore this one, this fool,&rdquo; and he cuffed Daisy across the side of the face, hard, claws scrupulously retracted. &ldquo;Return to your fastness, sisters. This is not the time. This is not the place.&rdquo; With exquisite attention, Boundless monitored his brother&rsquo;s stance. Daisy did nothing. His breathing did not quicken, nor his whiskers draw back. (Each mauser could hear the pulse and breath of every cat in the clearing, and more besides.) His teeth set in a baleful grin. In silence he watched his sisters slink back into the shadows, casting glances over their shoulders. Their long lovely vibrissae gleamed in the sunlight, then were gone.</p><p>&ldquo;Bad kitty,&rdquo; said Glory Avid, all a-twitter.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/08/the-ruined-queen">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=y5JPmb2yPQE:_ATJPVs8Q50:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=y5JPmb2yPQE:_ATJPVs8Q50:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=y5JPmb2yPQE:_ATJPVs8Q50:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=y5JPmb2yPQE:_ATJPVs8Q50:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=y5JPmb2yPQE:_ATJPVs8Q50:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=y5JPmb2yPQE:_ATJPVs8Q50:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=y5JPmb2yPQE:_ATJPVs8Q50:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=y5JPmb2yPQE:_ATJPVs8Q50:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=y5JPmb2yPQE:_ATJPVs8Q50:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/y5JPmb2yPQE" height="1" width="1"/> Damien Broderick Prose Tue, 18 Aug 2009 13:30:19 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/08/the-ruined-queen http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/08/the-ruined-queen The Nostalgist http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/OQuppM-62xA/nostalgist <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>He was an old man who lived in a modest gonfab, and over the last eighty hours his Eyes&trade; and Ears&trade; had begun to fail. In the first forty hours, he had ignored the increasingly strident sounds of the city of Vanille and focused on teaching the boy who lived with him. But after another forty hours the old man could no longer stand the Doppler-affected murmur of travelers on the slidewalks outside, and the sight of the boy&rsquo;s familiar deformities became overwhelming. It made the boy sad to see the old man&rsquo;s stifled revulsion, so he busied himself by sliding the hanging plastic sheets of the inflatable dwelling into layers that dampened the street noise. The semitransparent veils were stiff with grime and they hung still and useless like furled, ruined sails.</p><p>The old man was gnarled and bent, and his tendons were like taut cords beneath the skin of his arms. He wore a soiled white undershirt and his sagging chest bristled with gray hairs. A smooth patch of pink skin occupied a hollow under his left collar bone, marking the place where a rifle slug had passed cleanly through many decades before. He had been a father, an engineer, and a war-fighter, but for many years now he had lived peacefully with the boy.</p><p>Everything about the old man was natural and wrinkled except for his Eyes&trade; and Ears&trade;, thick glasses resting on the creased bridge of his nose and two flesh-colored buds nestled in his ears. They were battered technological artifacts that captured sights and sounds and sanitized every visual and auditory experience. The old man sometimes wondered whether he could bear to live without these artifacts. He did not think so.</p><p>&ldquo;Grandpa,&rdquo; the boy said as he arranged the yellowed plastic curtains. &ldquo;Today I will visit Vanille City and buy you new Eyes&trade; and Ears&trade;.&rdquo;</p><p>The old man had raised the boy and healed him when he was sick and the boy loved him.</p><p>&ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; replied the old man. &ldquo;The people there are cruel. I can go myself.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Then I will visit the metro fab and bring you some lunch.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; said the old man, and he pulled on his woolen coat.</p><p>A faded photo of the boy, blond and smiling and happy, hung next to the door of the gonfab. They passed by the photo, pushed the door flaps aside, and walked together into the brilliant dome light. A refreshing breeze ruffled the boy&rsquo;s hair. He faced into it as he headed for the slidewalk at the end of the path. A scrolling gallery of pedestrians passed steadily by. Sometimes the fleeting pedestrians made odd faces at the boy, but he was not angry. Other pedestrians, the older ones, looked at him and were afraid or sad, but tried not to show it. Instead, they stepped politely onto faster slidestrips further away from the stained gonfab.</p><p>&ldquo;I will meet you back here in one hour,&rdquo; said the old man.</p><p>&ldquo;See you,&rdquo; replied the boy, and the old man winced. His failing Ears&trade; had let through some of the grating quality of the boy&rsquo;s true voice, and it unsettled him. But his Ears&trade; crackled back online and, as the slidestrips pulled them away in separate directions, he chose only to wave goodbye.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/07/nostalgist">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=OQuppM-62xA:1crxXwBFejY:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=OQuppM-62xA:1crxXwBFejY:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=OQuppM-62xA:1crxXwBFejY:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=OQuppM-62xA:1crxXwBFejY:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=OQuppM-62xA:1crxXwBFejY:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=OQuppM-62xA:1crxXwBFejY:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=OQuppM-62xA:1crxXwBFejY:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=OQuppM-62xA:1crxXwBFejY:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=OQuppM-62xA:1crxXwBFejY:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/OQuppM-62xA" height="1" width="1"/> Daniel H Wilson Prose Tue, 28 Jul 2009 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/07/nostalgist http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/07/nostalgist The Cat Who Walked a Thousand Miles http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/sqvPdFb1LrY/the-cat-who-walked-a-thousand-miles <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p><big>The Garden</big><br />&nbsp;</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/stories/Johnson/CatWhoWalked/CAT_Garden_lo.jpg" onclick="window.open(this.href,’’,’resizable=no,location=no,menubar=no,scrollbars=no,status=no,toolbar=no,fullscreen=no,dependent=no,width=921,height=466,status’); return false"><img alt="" border="0" class="blog-pic-left-align " height="207" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/stories/Johnson/CatWhoWalked/CAT_Garden_lo.jpg" width="410" /></a></p><p>At a time now past, a cat was born. This was not so long after the first cats came to Japan, so they were rare and mostly lived near the capital city.</p><p>This cat was the smallest of her litter of four. Her fur had been dark when she was born, but as she grew it changed to black with speckles of gold and cinnamon and ivory, and a little gold-colored chin. Her eyes were gold, like a fox&rsquo;s.</p><p>She lived in the gardens of a great house in the capital. They filled a city block and the house had been very fine once, but that was many years ago. The owners moved to a new home in a more important part of the city, and left the house to suffer fires and droughts and earthquakes and neglect. Now there was very little left that a person might think of as home. The main house still stood, but the roofs leaked and had fallen in places. Furry green moss covered the walls. Many of the storehouses and other buildings were barely more than piles of wood. Ivy filled the garden, and water weeds choked the three little lakes and the stream.</p><p>But it was a perfect home for cats. The stone wall around the garden kept people and dogs away. Inside, cats could find ten thousand things to do&mdash;trees and walls to climb, bushes to hide under, corners to sleep in.There was food everywhere. Delicious mice skittered across the ground and crunchy crickets hopped in the grass. The stream was full of slow, fat frogs. Birds lived in the trees, and occasionally a stupid one came within reach.</p><p>The little cat shared the grounds with a handful of other female cats. Each adult claimed part of the gardens, where she hunted and bore her kittens alone. The private places all met at the center like petals on a flower, in a courtyard beside the main house. The cats liked to gather here and sleep on sunny days, or to groom or watch the kittens playing. No males lived in the garden, except for boy-kittens who had not gotten old enough to start their prowling; but tomcats visited, and a while later there were new kittens.</p><p>The cats shared another thing: their <em>fudoki</em>. The fudoki was the collection of stories about all the cats who had lived in a place. It described what made it a home, and what made the cats a family. Mothers taught their kittens the fudoki. If the mother died too soon, the other cats, the aunts and cousins, would teach the kittens. A cat with no fudoki was a cat with no family, no home, and no roots. The small cat&rsquo;s fudoki was many cats long, and she knew them all&mdash;The Cat From The North, The Cat Born The Year The Star Fell, The Dog-Chasing Cat.</p><p>Her favorite was The Cat From The North. She had been her mother&rsquo;s mother&rsquo;s mother&rsquo;s aunt, and her life seemed very exciting. As a kitten she lived beside a great hill to the north. She got lost when a dog chased her and tried to find her way home. She escaped many adventures. Giant oxen nearly stepped on her, and cart-wheels almost crushed her. A pack of wild dogs chased her into a tree and waited an entire day for her to come down. She was insulted by a goat that lived in a park, and stole food from people. She met a boy, but she ran away when he tried to pull her tail.</p><p>At last she came to the garden. The cats there called her The Cat From The North, and as such she became part of the little cat&rsquo;s fudoki.</p><p>The ancestors and the aunts were all clever and strong and resourceful. More than anything, the little cat wanted to earn the right for her story and name to be remembered alongside theirs. And when she had kittens, she would be part of the fudoki that they would pass on to their own kittens.</p><p>The other cats had started calling her Small Cat. It wasn&rsquo;t an actual name; but it was the beginning. She knew she would have a story worth telling someday.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/07/the-cat-who-walked-a-thousand-miles">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=sqvPdFb1LrY:iJrVEg6s4AA:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=sqvPdFb1LrY:iJrVEg6s4AA:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=sqvPdFb1LrY:iJrVEg6s4AA:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=sqvPdFb1LrY:iJrVEg6s4AA:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=sqvPdFb1LrY:iJrVEg6s4AA:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=sqvPdFb1LrY:iJrVEg6s4AA:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=sqvPdFb1LrY:iJrVEg6s4AA:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=sqvPdFb1LrY:iJrVEg6s4AA:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=sqvPdFb1LrY:iJrVEg6s4AA:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/sqvPdFb1LrY" height="1" width="1"/> Kij Johnson Prose Tue, 14 Jul 2009 13:30:50 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/07/the-cat-who-walked-a-thousand-miles http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/07/the-cat-who-walked-a-thousand-miles The House That George Built http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/rFkDLYU3VHE/the-house-that-george-built <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>Puffing slightly, Henry Louis Mencken paused outside of George&rsquo;s Restaurant. He&rsquo;d walked a little more than a mile from the red-brick house on Hollins Street to the corner of Eutaw and Lombard. Along with masonry, walking was the only kind of exercise he cared for. Tennis and golf and other so-called diversions were to him nothing but a waste of time. He wished his wind were better, but he&rsquo;d turned sixty the summer before. He carried more weight than he had as a younger man. Most of the parts still worked most of the time. At his age, who could hope for better than that?</p><p>He chuckled as his gloved hand fell toward the latch. Every tavern in Baltimore seemed to style itself a restaurant. Maybe that was the Germanic influence. A proud German himself, Mencken wouldn&rsquo;t have been surprised.</p><p>His breath smoked. It was cold out here this February afternoon. The chuckle cut off abruptly. Because he was a proud German, he&rsquo;d severed his ties with the <em>Sunpapers</em> a couple of weeks before, just as he had back in 1915. Like Wilson a generation before him, Roosevelt II was bound and determined to bring the United States into a stupid war on England&rsquo;s side. Mencken had spent his working life taking swipes at idiots in America. Somehow, they always ended up running the country just when you most wished they wouldn&rsquo;t.</p><p>The odors of beer and hot meat and tobacco smoke greeted him when he stepped inside. Mencken nodded happily as he pulled a cigar from an inside pocket of his overcoat and got it going. You could walk into a tavern in Berlin or Hong Kong or Rio de Janeiro or San Francisco and it would smell the same way. Some things didn&rsquo;t, and shouldn&rsquo;t, change.</p><p>&ldquo;Hey, buddy! How ya doin&rsquo;?&rdquo; called the big man behind the bar. He had to go six-two, maybe six-three, and at least two hundred fifty pounds. He had a moon face, a wide mouth, a broad, flat nose, and a thick shock of dark brown hair just starting to go gray: he was about fifteen years younger than the journalist. He never remembered Mencken&rsquo;s name, though Mencken was a regular. But, as far as Mencken could see, the big man never remembered anybody&rsquo;s name.</p><p>&ldquo;I&rsquo;m fine, George. How are you?&rdquo; Mencken answered, settling himself on a stool. He took off the gloves, stuck them in his pocket, and then shed the overcoat.</p><p>&ldquo;Who, me? I&rsquo;m okay. What&rsquo;ll it be today?&rdquo; George said.</p><p>&ldquo;Let me have a glass of Blatz, why don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Comin&rsquo; up.&rdquo; George worked the tap left-handed. He was a southpaw in most things, though Mencken had noticed that he wrote with his right hand. He slid the glass across the bar. &ldquo;Here y&rsquo;go.&rdquo;</p><p>Mencken gave him a quarter. &ldquo;Much obliged, publican.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Publican?&rdquo; George shook his head. &ldquo;You got me wrong, pal. I voted for FDR all three times.&rdquo;</p><p>Mencken had voted for Roosevelt II once, and regretted it ever after. But if arguing politics with a bartender wasn&rsquo;t a waste of time, he didn&rsquo;t know what would be. He sipped the beer, sucking foam from his upper lip as he set the glass down.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/06/the-house-that-george-built">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=rFkDLYU3VHE:wwoX5-cLmq4:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=rFkDLYU3VHE:wwoX5-cLmq4:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=rFkDLYU3VHE:wwoX5-cLmq4:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=rFkDLYU3VHE:wwoX5-cLmq4:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=rFkDLYU3VHE:wwoX5-cLmq4:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=rFkDLYU3VHE:wwoX5-cLmq4:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=rFkDLYU3VHE:wwoX5-cLmq4:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=rFkDLYU3VHE:wwoX5-cLmq4:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=rFkDLYU3VHE:wwoX5-cLmq4:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/rFkDLYU3VHE" height="1" width="1"/> Harry Turtledove Prose Tue, 23 Jun 2009 13:30:07 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/06/the-house-that-george-built http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/06/the-house-that-george-built The City Quiet as Death http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/Raz99dlYKZQ/the-city-quiet-as-death <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>Hurricanes did not perturb Horacio Gorri&oacute;n, nor did rumors of an impending government assault on a barbarous drug cartel in the island&rsquo;s interior rain forest. Riots in Ciudad del Infante Sagrado, the capital, whether for food or work, or in protest of obscene taxes or other repressive policies, cost Don Horacio not one instant of sleep. Nor did he quail before falling equity values in the Caribbean or anywhere else worldwide.</p><p>Not even thoughts of his own mortality, including premonitions of the incapacitating tremors that afflicted almost every male Gorri&oacute;n in his a&ntilde;os de oro, discomfited Don Horacio. His malaise did not spring from an inherited disease, the collapse of the plantain crop, or the summary execution of a vocal opposition leader; instead, it stemmed from a pathological obsession with the unbearable nightly clamor of the stars.</p><p>Don Horacio, a recluse for many years now, fretted the basic ontological nature of the cosmos and the meaning, or lack of same, implicit in it. He also suffered from agoraphobia so severe that he confined himself not merely to his hereditary manse, but to its downstairs rooms. The Gorri&oacute;n house graced the high slope of a ridge behind Infante Sagrado, the jewel of Isla Arca. From a widow&rsquo;s walk that Don Horacio&rsquo;s grandfather had single-handedly added to this structure, a person could gaze over tiers of red-tiled rooftops to a cobblestone pavement reaching toward the waterfront, from which the blue Caribbean Sea stretched away to the blue Caribbean sky. For his part, though, Don Horacio would have blanched at any thought of taking this view: he felt vertigo at the mere contemplation of the vastness of the universe, the immensity of geologic time, and the natural processes of birth, growth, death, and decay at work all about him every passing second.</p><p>In his self-imposed confinement, he cultivated no real friendships and only a few relationships. For daily company he had recourse to a library that his father and his father&rsquo;s father had assembled and expanded over the better part of a century. Here, shelved side by side, resided leather-bound editions of Lucretius, St. Augustine, Boccaccio, Rabelais, Cervantes, Shakespeare, Swift, Voltaire, Thackery, Dostoyevsky, Ibsen, Mann, Garc&iacute;a Lorca, Camus, and a host of others. Here he found and took to heart this passage by John Keats, a poet dead much too young:</p><blockquote><p class="excerpt">I was at home<br />And should have been most happy&mdash;but I saw<br />Too far into the sea, where every man<br />The greater on the less feeds evermore.<br />But I saw too distinct into the core<br />Of an eternal destruction,<br />And so from happiness was far gone.</p></blockquote><p>Elsewhere Don Horacio, in a work by a fine nineteenth-century British novelist who styled herself &ldquo;George Eliot,&rdquo; read, reread, and internalized this unsettling speculation:</p><blockquote><p class="excerpt">If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel&rsquo;s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies the other side of silence.</p></blockquote><p>In his youth, Se&ntilde;or Gorri&oacute;n had fared poorly in school, but a succession of tutors, along with his omnivorous reading, had inculcated in him sufficient knowledge to shape his nightmares for life. The void surrounding the fragile earth, the turbulent interior of the planet, and the mercurial sea that either lapped or battered Isla Arca: these phenomena obsessed and unnerved the boy who, over time, metamorphosed into the pale hunch-shouldered recluse in the oddly constructed house atop the harbor ridge.</p><p>The notion that he represented the pinnacle of evolution attained by the offspring of some anonymous sea-dwelling creature particularly distressed Don Horacio. He could not, as many do, take comfort in a religious-fundamentalist dismissal of Darwin&rsquo;s theories, for he lacked both the taste and the patience for the tortuous rationalizations that a creationist mindset requires. He did not deny the physical world or its random beauties, but only hated the former and saw through the latter to the dust on which Impersonal Undirected Process had built them all.</p><p>&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t bear it,&rdquo; he would mutter aloud.</p><p>What can&rsquo;t you bear? an umbrella stand might reply.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/06/the-city-quiet-as-death">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Raz99dlYKZQ:1bTvYo4C8fA:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Raz99dlYKZQ:1bTvYo4C8fA:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Raz99dlYKZQ:1bTvYo4C8fA:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Raz99dlYKZQ:1bTvYo4C8fA:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Raz99dlYKZQ:1bTvYo4C8fA:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Raz99dlYKZQ:1bTvYo4C8fA:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Raz99dlYKZQ:1bTvYo4C8fA:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Raz99dlYKZQ:1bTvYo4C8fA:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Raz99dlYKZQ:1bTvYo4C8fA:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/Raz99dlYKZQ" height="1" width="1"/> Michael Bishop Prose Tue, 09 Jun 2009 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/06/the-city-quiet-as-death http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/06/the-city-quiet-as-death Last Son of Tomorrow http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/KuV-ocl7F14/last-son-of-tomorrow <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p>John was born with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men, and he often wondered why. But as a boy, it was simply wonderful to have those abilities. He could lift his father&rsquo;s tractor overhead before he learned to read. He could outrace a galloping horse. He couldn&rsquo;t be cut or bruised or burned. He could fly.</p><p>But his life was not a trading card with a heroic-looking photograph on one side and a convenient list of his abilities on the other. He had to discover himself for himself. It took him years to realize he could fire laser beams from his eyes. That he could force his lungs to expel nearly frozen carbon dioxide. And it wasn&rsquo;t until his mid-thirties that he realized he&rsquo;d probably stopped aging biologically somewhere around the age of twenty-two.</p><p>His parents weren&rsquo;t perfect people. His mother drank, and when she did, she got mean. His father had affairs. But when they understood that the baby they&rsquo;d found abandoned on the edge of their farm wasn&rsquo;t like other children&mdash;was probably, in fact, unlike any other child who&rsquo;d ever been born&mdash;they cleaned up their acts as best they could. They taught themselves to be better people, and then they conveyed those hard-won lessons to their son. They were as good as they could be. When they died while John was away at college, he decided if he could be half as wise, as kind, as generous as they were, then he could be proud of himself.</p><p>Driving back to the city after his parents&rsquo; funeral, he began his career. There was a commuter train derailment, a bad one, with a fully occupied car dangling off the Utopia Street Bridge, sixty feet above the Tomorrow River. John got out of his car and left it behind on the clogged highway. Fully visible in bright daylight, he leaped into the sky, and moments later, he had the train car resting safely on the bridge. He freed passengers from twisted metal. He flew those who needed immediate emergency care to the hospital, and then he returned to the scene of the accident. He thought it might be necessary to file a report of some kind with the police. With dozens of cameras pointed at him, microphones and tape recorders shoved in his face, questions being barked at him as if he&rsquo;d done something wrong, he felt like he might suffocate. He wished he could turn and walk back to his car and drive to his dorm, maybe go out for beers with his friends. But he knew he&rsquo;d never be able to do that now. He&rsquo;d chosen otherwise.</p><p>He coughed nervously. The questions stopped. Everyone was quiet. Everyone was waiting. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m John,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m here to help.&rdquo;</p><p>And for the next sixty years, that was just what he did.</p><p>It was the least significant period of his life.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/05/last-son-of-tomorrow">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=KuV-ocl7F14:CtHM7pzVwgs:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=KuV-ocl7F14:CtHM7pzVwgs:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=KuV-ocl7F14:CtHM7pzVwgs:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=KuV-ocl7F14:CtHM7pzVwgs:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=KuV-ocl7F14:CtHM7pzVwgs:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=KuV-ocl7F14:CtHM7pzVwgs:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=KuV-ocl7F14:CtHM7pzVwgs:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=KuV-ocl7F14:CtHM7pzVwgs:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=KuV-ocl7F14:CtHM7pzVwgs:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/KuV-ocl7F14" height="1" width="1"/> Greg van Eekhout Prose Tue, 05 May 2009 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/05/last-son-of-tomorrow http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/05/last-son-of-tomorrow TVA Baby http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/Kw29yDxITHQ/tva-baby <p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p><img align="left" alt="" class="blog-pic-left-align " hspace="10" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/stories/Bisson/TVABaby/full_Bisson_Berry_227_435.jpg" />I&rsquo;m a TVA baby. My father was a Yankee, from Michigan I think, one of those educated engineers who came down here to dam up the rivers and bring electric lights and indoor plumbing to the bedarkened South: FDR&rsquo;s potlatch. Then they all went off to the War and some returned and others didn&rsquo;t. It&rsquo;s Destiny that decides such things.</p><p>I fly a lot. I slept through the take-off from Nashville and woke up just in time to hear the man in the seat next to me say, &ldquo;There&rsquo;s the Mississippi, Ned.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Ned,&rdquo; the Ned he was talking to, was a boy of about eight in the window seat. I was in the aisle seat. I looked over them both, out the little oval window, and saw a long lake laid out like a coonskin, running north and south, with skinny legs of muddy water extending east and west.</p><p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s Kentucky Lake,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Or Barkley, not the Mississippi.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Excuse me?&rdquo; he said.</p><p>&ldquo;Kentucky Lake is the Tennessee River,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;dammed up by TVA. Barkley Lake is the Cumberland. Both run into the Ohio here, only twenty miles apart. We&rsquo;re still a hundred miles east of the Mississippi.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Who is he?&rdquo; asked &ldquo;Ned&rdquo; the kid.</p><p>&ldquo;Some nosy A-hole,&rdquo; said the man. He was about forty with a flattop and an OpryLand tee shirt.</p><p>&ldquo;I was just trying to be helpful,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;You got it wrong. It&rsquo;s against the law to mislead children!&rdquo; It should be, anyway.</p><p>&ldquo;Can I help?&rdquo; asked the stewardess. &ldquo;Please don&rsquo;t shout.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Sorry,&rdquo; I said. I almost never shout. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m a TVA baby. This ignoramus in the middle seat is so ignorant that he thinks Kentucky Lake is the Mississippi River!&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;I am a Lieutenant Commander in the US Navy,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;On vacation, and I do believe I know a lake from a river.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;I can see how one could make that mistake,&rdquo; I said. Though I couldn&rsquo;t help adding: &ldquo;Though I am dismayed to learn that a US naval officer could be so ignorant as to the geographic layout of the country he is supposedly supposed to defend.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t pay any attention to him, Ned,&rdquo; the man said. &rdquo;He&rsquo;s crazy.&rdquo;</p><p>I hear that a lot. I wanted to kill him. I usually carry a gun for just such occasions, but they are no longer allowed on commercial flights, so I rammed the heel of my hand upward into his nose and drove the bone into his brain, such as it was.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/04/tva-baby">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Kw29yDxITHQ:PZ1Zf3_FPg0:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Kw29yDxITHQ:PZ1Zf3_FPg0:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Kw29yDxITHQ:PZ1Zf3_FPg0:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Kw29yDxITHQ:PZ1Zf3_FPg0:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Kw29yDxITHQ:PZ1Zf3_FPg0:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Kw29yDxITHQ:PZ1Zf3_FPg0:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Kw29yDxITHQ:PZ1Zf3_FPg0:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Kw29yDxITHQ:PZ1Zf3_FPg0:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Kw29yDxITHQ:PZ1Zf3_FPg0:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/Kw29yDxITHQ" height="1" width="1"/> Terry Bisson Prose Tue, 28 Apr 2009 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/04/tva-baby http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/04/tva-baby Bugs in the Arroyo http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/mGxSUBkYcto/bugs-in-the-arroyo <p><em>The first few days were just weird and annoying. You&rsquo;d come out in the morning and find one of the damn things had chewed most of the way through your car&rsquo;s antenna. A week later, people were crashing because the bugs had eaten through brake lines or the cars wouldn&rsquo;t start at all &rsquo;cause the bugs had gone for all the copper wire. And remember, they just bud off another bug when they&rsquo;ve eaten enough so their numbers increased geometrically. By the end of the first month they&rsquo;d done for the entire car, finishing off the engine block and every last steel wire in the radial tires. By the end of the first week people were driving out of the southwest. By the end of the first month they were walking.</em></p><p><em>We didn&rsquo;t realize they&rsquo;d go for your fillings and crowns until they&rsquo;d done for most of the infrastructure in Arizona and New Mexico. What? Yeah, that&rsquo;s what caused the scarring. There was extensive reconstructive surgery too, or it would be worse. Would I go back? Huh. I&rsquo;d have to have some of my dental work replaced but it&rsquo;s not like I have a pacemaker or an artificial joint. But no. I don&rsquo;t think so. It may be more crowded outside the territory, but who wants to live without metal?</em></p><p><em>Excerpt:</em> When the Metal Eaters Came: First-Person Accounts</p><p><em>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</em></p><p style="text-align: left">* * *</p><p>The second day after leaving the Rio Grande, on the downslope east of the Manzanos, Kimball pulled over the lip of a hill and found an argument in progress.</p><p>Mrs. Pedecaris, the mule drawing his cart, had apparently heard them first for her ears twitched forward well before the top of the hill. Kimball was not surprised. The trail they were following had become more of a road, well-defined wheel ruts with fresh tracks, and fresh horse manure just beginning to dry.</p><p>Kimball had looped the reins over the brake lever while he was weaving the last bit of a wide-brimmed green cattail hat&mdash;and Mrs. Pedecaris slowed as she approached the cluster of vehicles just over the hill.</p><p>There were five carts similar to Kimball&rsquo;s, high-wheeled boxes with composite wheels and axles. Three were horse-drawn, one mule-drawn, and one cart had lowered shafts and a cross bar to be pulled by hand, like a Mormon cart. Then three freight wagons with six-horse teams stood in a row, and there were a couple of saddle horses in front of them.</p><p>Kimball took Mrs. Pedecaris off the edge of the road to where a tough patch of dry buffalo grass was doing all right in the shade of some low mesquite bushes. He pulled off her bridle so she could crop the grass and said, &ldquo;Pull up a chair, Mrs. P.&rdquo; The mule snorted and dipped her head into the grass.</p><p>The road dipped sharply, into a cut leading down into a broad arroyo running down from the mountains. That&rsquo;s where the cluster of people stood, crouched, or sat.</p><p>&ldquo;&mdash;dehydration is really the issue.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Maybe we could throw a canteen?&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Dammit, how many times do we gotta argue this? You crush a bug they&rsquo;ll swarm her for sure. Us too.&rdquo;</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/04/bugs-in-the-arroyo">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=mGxSUBkYcto:JkPa8iKCD84:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=mGxSUBkYcto:JkPa8iKCD84:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=mGxSUBkYcto:JkPa8iKCD84:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=mGxSUBkYcto:JkPa8iKCD84:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=mGxSUBkYcto:JkPa8iKCD84:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=mGxSUBkYcto:JkPa8iKCD84:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=mGxSUBkYcto:JkPa8iKCD84:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=mGxSUBkYcto:JkPa8iKCD84:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=mGxSUBkYcto:JkPa8iKCD84:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/mGxSUBkYcto" height="1" width="1"/> Steven Gould Prose Fri, 17 Apr 2009 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/04/bugs-in-the-arroyo http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/04/bugs-in-the-arroyo We Haven’t Got There Yet http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/EX6jY1Vh2VI/we-havent-got-there-yet <p><small>Quotes from &ldquo;Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead&rdquo; by Tom Stoppard Copyright &copy; 1967 by Tom Stoppard</small></p><p><small>Used by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.</small></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><font face="Lucida Grande"><i>This story is also available for download from major ebook retailers.</i></font></span></p><p>Rushes on the floor, rustling underfoot. Fire roaring in the hearth. Something savory roasting&mdash;sometimes, something once savory but now forgotten and scorching&mdash;over the fire. On a bright morning, the shadow of St. Paul&rsquo;s slowly sliding back and away as the sun climbs higher. Small, sweet curls of smoke rising now and then from a pipe of tobacco in the hand of a man of newfangled habit. Always, always, ale in the air. Sometimes, too, the acrid aftermath from a man who&rsquo;s had all he can hold and one more tankard besides, and cannot dash to the street quick enough to give it back to the gutter.</p><p>Bread Street. The Mermaid Tavern. 1606. A new century taking hold, and a new king.</p><p>Sunset coming&mdash;no, sunset here. One of the serving maids goes from table to table, lighting candles from a twig she&rsquo;s thrust into the fire. She is a pretty little thing, just about ripe&mdash;fifteen, maybe even sixteen. The theatre folk who&rsquo;ve crowded several tables together near the hearth slow their banter for a moment to ogle her.</p><p>When the banter picks up again, someone mentions <em>Hamlet</em>. A player from another company looks over at William Shakespeare. &ldquo;Ah, the Prince of Denmark,&rdquo; he says, drinking up. &ldquo;I had forgot that was yours.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Well, it is.&rdquo; If Shakespeare sounds touchy, who can blame him? Sure as the devil, who remembers the poet? &ldquo;What of it?&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Some play to be given on the morrow called it to my mind. What names gave you that pair of Danes, the old friends to Hamlet?&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Why, Guildenstern and Rosencrantz,&rdquo; Shakespeare answers&mdash;names common as Baker and Johnson amongst the lesser Danish nobility.</p><p>&ldquo;So I thought.&rdquo; The player nods to himself. &ldquo;The pair of &rsquo;em figure in tomorrow&rsquo;s performance at the Rose.&rdquo;</p><p>Rage rips through Shakespeare. &ldquo;May Satan scour all whoreson cullionly barbermongers! Milk-livered, scurvy villains! They will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister. But their filching is like an unskillful singer, for they keep not time. And meseems they pillage from <em>Hamlet</em> in especial.&rdquo;</p><p>He hates the horrible botch a printer made of the play. The man must have got what passes for the text from an actor in the production&mdash;one who does not know it very well. And all Shakespeare can do is complain. Go to law over a pirated quarto? There is no law to go to in such cases. Even if there were, it would cost more than he can ever hope to squeeze from a rascally printer!</p><p>He turns to his friends and his fellow topers in the Mermaid. &ldquo;Shall we by our silence give them leave to do what they will with mine own words? Or shall we take arms against this sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?&rdquo;</p><p>He cribs from himself, from the very play the wretches at the Rose purloin. Does anyone cheer his cleverness? Does anyone so much as notice? The ale has been going around for some little while, and nobody seems inclined to care about such things&mdash;not even Richard Burbage, who first gave the lines life on stage. But some muzzy shouts and raised tankards more or less promise he won&rsquo;t beard the bandits alone tomorrow afternoon.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/03/we-havent-got-there-yet">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=EX6jY1Vh2VI:QJ7PMhy6I9c:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=EX6jY1Vh2VI:QJ7PMhy6I9c:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=EX6jY1Vh2VI:QJ7PMhy6I9c:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=EX6jY1Vh2VI:QJ7PMhy6I9c:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=EX6jY1Vh2VI:QJ7PMhy6I9c:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=EX6jY1Vh2VI:QJ7PMhy6I9c:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=EX6jY1Vh2VI:QJ7PMhy6I9c:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=EX6jY1Vh2VI:QJ7PMhy6I9c:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=EX6jY1Vh2VI:QJ7PMhy6I9c:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/EX6jY1Vh2VI" height="1" width="1"/> Harry Turtledove Prose Thu, 19 Mar 2009 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/03/we-havent-got-there-yet http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/03/we-havent-got-there-yet Eros, Philia, Agape http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/q8XkWVseJK8/eros-philia-agape <p>Lucian packed his possessions before he left. He packed his antique silver serving spoons with the filigreed handles; the tea roses he&rsquo;d nurtured in the garden window; his jade and garnet rings. He packed the hunk of gypsum-veined jasper that he&rsquo;d found while strolling on the beach on the first night he&rsquo;d come to Adriana, she leading him uncertainly across the wet sand, their bodies illuminated by the soft gold twinkling of the lights along the pier. That night, as they walked back to Adriana&rsquo;s house, Lucian had cradled the speckled stone in his cupped palms, squinting so that the gypsum threads sparkled through his lashes.</p><p>Lucian had always loved beauty&mdash;beautiful scents, beautiful tastes, beautiful melodies. He especially loved beautiful objects because he could hold them in his hands and transform the abstraction of beauty into something tangible.</p><p>The objects belonged to them both, but Adriana waved her hand bitterly when Lucian began packing. &ldquo;Take whatever you want,&rdquo; she said, snapping her book shut. She waited by the door, watching Lucian with sad and angry eyes.</p><p>Their daughter, Rose, followed Lucian around the house. &ldquo;Are you going to take that, Daddy? Do you want that?&rdquo; Wordlessly, Lucian held her hand. He guided her up the stairs and across the uneven floorboards where she sometimes tripped. Rose stopped by the picture window in the master bedroom, staring past the palm fronds and swimming pools, out to the vivid cerulean swath of the ocean. Lucian relished the hot, tender feel of Rose&rsquo;s hand. <em>I love you</em>, he would have whispered, but he&rsquo;d surrendered the ability to speak.</p><p>He led her downstairs again to the front door. Rose&rsquo;s lace-festooned pink satin dress crinkled as she leapt down the steps. Lucian had ordered her dozens of satin party dresses in pale, floral hues. Rose refused to wear anything else.</p><p>Rose looked between Lucian and Adriana. &ldquo;Are you taking me, too?&rdquo; she asked Lucian.</p><p>Adriana&rsquo;s mouth tightened. She looked at Lucian, daring him to say something, to take responsibility for what he was doing to their daughter. Lucian remained silent.</p><p>Adriana&rsquo;s chardonnay glowed the same shade of amber as Lucian&rsquo;s eyes. She clutched the glass&rsquo;s stem until she thought it might break. &ldquo;No, honey,&rdquo; she said with artificial lightness. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re staying with me.&rdquo;</p><p>Rose reached for Lucian. &ldquo;Horsey?&rdquo;</p><p>Lucian knelt down and pressed his forehead against Rose&rsquo;s. He hadn&rsquo;t spoken a word in the three days since he&rsquo;d delivered his letter of farewell to Adriana, announcing his intention to leave as soon as she had enough time to make arrangements to care for Rose in his absence. When Lucian approached with the letter, Adriana had been sitting at the dining table, sipping orange juice from a wine glass and reading a first edition copy of Cheever&rsquo;s <em>Falconer</em>. Lucian felt a flash of guilt as she smiled up at him and accepted the missive. He knew that she&rsquo;d been happier in the past few months than he&rsquo;d ever seen her, possibly happier than she&rsquo;d ever been. He knew the letter would shock and wound her. He knew she&rsquo;d feel betrayed. Still, he delivered the letter anyway, and watched as comprehension ached through her body.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/03/eros-philia-agape">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=q8XkWVseJK8:D7828zEe7kg:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=q8XkWVseJK8:D7828zEe7kg:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=q8XkWVseJK8:D7828zEe7kg:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=q8XkWVseJK8:D7828zEe7kg:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=q8XkWVseJK8:D7828zEe7kg:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=q8XkWVseJK8:D7828zEe7kg:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=q8XkWVseJK8:D7828zEe7kg:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=q8XkWVseJK8:D7828zEe7kg:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=q8XkWVseJK8:D7828zEe7kg:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/q8XkWVseJK8" height="1" width="1"/> Rachel Swirsky Prose Tue, 03 Mar 2009 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/03/eros-philia-agape http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/03/eros-philia-agape A Weeping Czar Beholds the Fallen Moon http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/2_n2VUEwhaI/a-weeping-czar-beholds-the-fallen-moon <p>Frederico leaned close to smell the poison on his thirteenth wife&rsquo;s cold, dead lips. It tickled his nose and he resisted the strong desire to kiss her that suddenly overcame him.</p><p><em>That you might lose yourself from sadness by my lips, my husband and Czar</em>, her open, glassy eyes promised him. He looked away, uncomfortable with her empty, inviting stare.</p><p>Behind him, the Minister of the Interior cleared his voice and spoke. &ldquo;The cabinet feels it would be more stabilizing to consider this an assassination. Jazrel was a most popular wife.&rdquo;</p><p>Frederico nodded. She had quite a following among the young girls in Espira, the region she represented, and this was a dance he knew. He&rsquo;d been in this very room three years ago to watch them cut his ninth wife&rsquo;s body down.</p><p>When Sasha had hung herself with a rope of knotted silk, six thousand young women in Borut had done the same to declare sisterhood with their region&rsquo;s wife.</p><p>&ldquo;Assassination,&rdquo; he agreed. For a moment, he felt a stab of guilt when he thought about the young girls who spent their childhoods emulating his wives in the hopes that one day they would be chosen. <em>I&rsquo;ve robbed them of an ending</em>, he thought.</p><p>He turned now to his Minister of Intelligence. &ldquo;I assume you concur, Pyrus?&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Yes, Lord Czar,&rdquo; he answered. Pyrus was a large man, his beard and hair close cropped. He held the Czar and his tears in quiet disdain but Frederico did not fault him for this. Pyrus had climbed the ranks from private to general during the fifty-year war with their bloated southern neighbor, a nation of leftovers from the defunct Engmark Republic. He&rsquo;d retired into his intelligence role, bringing an edge to it that only a soldier could bring. He was a hard man from hard times. He ran a hand through his hair. &ldquo;We implicate the Lunar Resurgence,&rdquo; he said.</p><p>Frederico&rsquo;s eyes wandered back to his dead wife and he sighed. &ldquo;And then host a Purging?&rdquo; He looked up now, forcing himself to meet Pyrus&rsquo;s eyes.</p><p>Pyrus nodded. &ldquo;The black-coats are already lacquering their guns. We could put the Resurgence away quickly enough and be done with their idle mysticism.&rdquo;</p><p>The Czar contemplated this. He glanced back to his dead wife, Jazrel, and sighed again. &ldquo;I suppose it would be timely,&rdquo; he finally said.</p><p>But not even the thought of a Purging could lift his downcast spirit.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/02/a-weeping-czar-beholds-the-fallen-moon">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2_n2VUEwhaI:b9ksPxcFkSU:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2_n2VUEwhaI:b9ksPxcFkSU:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=2_n2VUEwhaI:b9ksPxcFkSU:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2_n2VUEwhaI:b9ksPxcFkSU:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=2_n2VUEwhaI:b9ksPxcFkSU:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2_n2VUEwhaI:b9ksPxcFkSU:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2_n2VUEwhaI:b9ksPxcFkSU:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=2_n2VUEwhaI:b9ksPxcFkSU:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=2_n2VUEwhaI:b9ksPxcFkSU:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/2_n2VUEwhaI" height="1" width="1"/> Ken Scholes Prose Tue, 17 Feb 2009 13:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/02/a-weeping-czar-beholds-the-fallen-moon http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/02/a-weeping-czar-beholds-the-fallen-moon Escape to Other Worlds with Science Fiction http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/8Gq3T7T_YM4/escape-to-other-worlds-with-science-fiction <p><strong>In the Papers (1)</strong></p><p>NATIONAL GUARD MOVES AGAINST STRIKERS<br />In the seventh week of the mining strike in West Virginia, armed skirmishes and running &ldquo;guerrilla battles&rdquo; in the hills have led to the Governor calling in</p><p>GET AN ADVANCED DEGREE BY CORRESPONDENCE<br />You can reap the benefits with no need to leave the safety of your house or go among unruly college students! Only from</p><p>EX-PRESIDENT LINDBERGH REPROACHES MINERS</p><p>ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION<br />April issue on newsstands now! All new stories by Poul Anderson, Anson MacDonald and H. Beam Piper! Only 35 cents.</p><p>SPRING FASHIONS 1960<br />Skirts are being worn long in London and Paris this season, but here in New York the working girls are still hitching them up. It&rsquo;s stylish to wear a little</p><p>HOW FAR FROM MIAMI CAN THE &ldquo;FALLOUT&rdquo; REACH?<br />Scientists say it could be a problem for years, but so much depends on the weather that</p><p>You hope to work<br />You hope to eat<br />The work goes to<br />The man that&rsquo;s neat!<br />BurmaShave</p><p><strong>Getting By (1)</strong></p><p>Linda Evans is a waitress in Bundt&rsquo;s Bakery. She used to work as a typist, but when she was let go she was glad to take this job, even though it keeps her on her feet all day and sometimes she feels her face will crack from smiling at the customers. She was never a secretary, only in the typing pool. Her sister Joan is a secretary, but she can take shorthand and type ninety words a minute. Joan graduated from high school. She taught Linda to type. But Linda was never as clever as Joan, not even when they were little girls in the time she can just remember, when their father had a job at the plant and they lived in a neat little house at the end of the bus line. Their father hasn&rsquo;t worked for a long time now. He drinks up any money he can bully out of the girls. Linda stands up to him better than Joan does.</p><p>&ldquo;They&rsquo;d have forgiven the New Deal if only it had worked,&rdquo; a man says to another, as Linda puts down his coffee and sandwich down in front of him.</p><p>&ldquo;Worked?&rdquo; asks his companion scornfully. &ldquo;It was working. It would have worked and got us out of this if only people had kept faith in it.&rdquo;</p><p>They are threadbare old men, in mended coats. They ordered grilled cheese sandwiches, the cheapest item on the menu. One of them smiles at Linda, and she smiles back, automatically, then moves on and forgets them. She&rsquo;s on her feet all day. Joan teases her about flirting with the customers and falling in love, but it never seems to happen. She used to tease Joan about falling in love with her boss, until she did. It would all have been dandy except that he was a married man. Now Joan spends anguished hours with him and anguished days without him. He makes her useless presents of French perfume and lace underwear. When Linda wants to sell them, Joan just cries. Both of them live in fear that she&rsquo;ll get pregnant, and then where will they be? Linda wipes the tables and tries not to listen to the men with their endless ifs. She has enough ifs of her own: if mother hadn&rsquo;t died, if she&#39;d kept her job in the pool, if John hadn&rsquo;t died in the war with England, and Pete in the war with Japan.</p><p>&ldquo;Miss?&rdquo; one of them asks. She swings around, thinking they want more coffee. One refill only is the rule. &ldquo;Can you settle a question?&rdquo; he asks. &ldquo;Did Roosevelt want to get us to join in the European War in 1940?&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;How should I know? It has nothing to do with me. I was five years old in 1940.&rdquo; They should get over it and leave history to bury its own dead, she thinks, and goes back to wiping the tables.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/02/escape-to-other-worlds-with-science-fiction">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=8Gq3T7T_YM4:HcrhtxhKQA0:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=8Gq3T7T_YM4:HcrhtxhKQA0:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=8Gq3T7T_YM4:HcrhtxhKQA0:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=8Gq3T7T_YM4:HcrhtxhKQA0:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=8Gq3T7T_YM4:HcrhtxhKQA0:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=8Gq3T7T_YM4:HcrhtxhKQA0:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=8Gq3T7T_YM4:HcrhtxhKQA0:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=8Gq3T7T_YM4:HcrhtxhKQA0:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=8Gq3T7T_YM4:HcrhtxhKQA0:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/8Gq3T7T_YM4" height="1" width="1"/> Jo Walton Prose Fri, 06 Feb 2009 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/02/escape-to-other-worlds-with-science-fiction http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/02/escape-to-other-worlds-with-science-fiction Errata http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/MX8ov_6FQTs/errata <p><strong>After the untimely demise of <em>Argosy Quarterly</em>&mdash;confirmed in late fall of last year after a long gap between issue three and the planned issue four&mdash;Jeff VanderMeer&rsquo;s agent, Howard Morhaim, brought our attention to an unpublished story meant for publication in that journal. We decided to publish it as a public service, and out of respect for James Owen, who has been unavailable for comment. The opinions and facts related in &ldquo;Errata&rdquo; in no way reflect the views of Tor.com or its parent company. We have included the note originally intended to be published with the story for contextual reasons. </strong></p><p align="right"><strong>&mdash;Tor.com Management Services</strong></p><p><em>When I received Jeff VanderMeer&rsquo;s &ldquo;story,&rdquo; reproduced below, my first impulse was to forward it to the writer&rsquo;s family, to whom it might be more relevant than to the readers of </em>Argosy<em>. (The two photographs that accompanied the story&mdash;one of a kitchen freezer and the other of a waterlogged lobby&mdash;were more than a little disturbing to both myself and my wife, and I have declined to reproduce them within these pages.)</em></p><p><em>Unfortunately, my brother James had been quite explicit when he called to check on the progress of the issue two weeks before Mr. VanderMeer&rsquo;s story arrived. He insisted that I include the story in the magazine &ldquo;no matter how unorthodox it may appear to be.&rdquo; At James&rsquo; request, I had already slapped&mdash;rather bemusedly&mdash;some images of farm equipment and seals into the allotted space in the main volume ready to be replaced with the tardy story whenever it came in. According to James, VanderMeer&rsquo;s story &ldquo;must be published both in the magazine and in a separate chapbook entitled simply </em>Errata<em>.&rdquo; James pays the bills, so despite any instincts to the contrary, I have no choice but to publish this &ldquo;story&rdquo; as he desires&mdash;although that doesn&rsquo;t mean I have to do so without comment or warning to the reader.</em></p><p><em>In short, whether you, as a reader, should have to endure the ramblings contained in this chapbook is an individual decision. I have no such freedom in deciding whether or not to publish it. I do know that there is little chance that the original title of this &ldquo;story&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;A Literary Work of Great Import and Inestimable Redeeming Value&rdquo;&mdash;will strike anyone as anything other than a pathetic joke.</em></p><p><em>I haven&rsquo;t heard from James since that last phone call about Errata. As a result, the burden of finishing this issue of </em>Argosy<em> has fallen on my shoulders. I have already left a message for James letting him know that this is the last time I plan to involve myself with </em>Argosy<em>.</em></p><p><em>This kind of behavior is too eccentric to be considered professional.</em></p><p style="text-align: right"><em>&mdash;Jeremy Owen</em></p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/01/errata">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=MX8ov_6FQTs:5f21tswwq3g:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=MX8ov_6FQTs:5f21tswwq3g:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=MX8ov_6FQTs:5f21tswwq3g:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=MX8ov_6FQTs:5f21tswwq3g:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=MX8ov_6FQTs:5f21tswwq3g:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=MX8ov_6FQTs:5f21tswwq3g:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=MX8ov_6FQTs:5f21tswwq3g:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=MX8ov_6FQTs:5f21tswwq3g:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=MX8ov_6FQTs:5f21tswwq3g:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/MX8ov_6FQTs" height="1" width="1"/> Jeff VanderMeer Prose Thu, 15 Jan 2009 14:00:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/01/errata http://www.tor.com/stories/2009/01/errata Firstborn http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/Wy1ccgPRxpc/firstborn <p><img align="left" alt="Illustration by Donato Giancola" class="blog-pic-left-align " hspace="10" src="http://www.tor.com/images/stories/stories/Sanderson/Firstborn/firstborn_final_200px.png" />While safe aboard his flagship, there were two ways for Dennison to watch the battle.</p><p>The obvious method relied on the expansive battle hologram that dominated the bridge. The hologram was on at the moment, and it displayed an array of triangular blue blips representing fighters flying about waist-high. The much larger blue oval of Dennison&rsquo;s command ship hung a moderate distance above and behind the fighters. The massive and powerful but far less agile leviathan probably wouldn&rsquo;t see battle this day. The enemy&rsquo;s ships were too weak to damage its hull, but they were also too fast for it to catch. This would be a battle between the smaller fighters.</p><p>And Dennison would lead them. He rose from his command chair and walked a few steps to the hologram&rsquo;s edge, studying the enemy. Their red ships winked into existence as scanners located them amidst the rolling boulders of the asteroid field. Rebels in name but pirates in action, the group had thrived unhindered for far too long. It had been five years since his brother Varion had re-established His Majesty&rsquo;s law in this sector, and the rebellious elements should long since have been crushed.</p><p>Dennison stepped into the hologram, walking until he stood directly behind his ships. There were about two dozen of them&mdash;not a large force, by Fleet standards, but bigger than he deserved. He glanced to the side. Noncommissioned aides and lesser officers had paused in their duties, eyes turned toward their youthful commander. Though they offered no obvious disrespect, Dennison could see their true feelings in their eyes. They did not expect him to win.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2008/12/firstborn">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Wy1ccgPRxpc:u6a7NwPiOyk:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Wy1ccgPRxpc:u6a7NwPiOyk:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Wy1ccgPRxpc:u6a7NwPiOyk:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Wy1ccgPRxpc:u6a7NwPiOyk:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Wy1ccgPRxpc:u6a7NwPiOyk:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Wy1ccgPRxpc:u6a7NwPiOyk:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Wy1ccgPRxpc:u6a7NwPiOyk:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=Wy1ccgPRxpc:u6a7NwPiOyk:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=Wy1ccgPRxpc:u6a7NwPiOyk:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/Wy1ccgPRxpc" height="1" width="1"/> Brandon Sanderson Prose Wed, 17 Dec 2008 18:05:16 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2008/12/firstborn http://www.tor.com/stories/2008/12/firstborn The Film-makers of Mars http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/JUQLSZYZFcY/the-film-makers-of-mars <p>The films just started showing up, everywhere, old forgotten silent movies turning to jelly in warehouses all over SoCal: Anaheim, Burbank, Tarzana.</p><p>I got a call from Al at Hannibal Restoration. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re mindblowing!&rdquo; The old hippie.</p><p>Eight reels of a film about Santa Claus from 1909. Filmed in Lapland. And <i>forty</i> reels of a film it says was produced by Edgar Rice Burroughs. In 1911?</p><p><i>Cinefex</i> sponsored a program at the LA film festival. They invited me, of course; Hannibal invited me as well. I gave the second invitation to my friend Amy.</p><p>I don&rsquo;t know what I was expecting. L. Frank Baum went bust producing Oz movies. They&rsquo;re terrible and have very silly special effects, but you couldn&rsquo;t film them now, or even fake them. They just look like they&rsquo;re from their era, or even maybe from Oz itself, if Oz were poverty-stricken.</p><p>We all sat down. Al&rsquo;s partner Tony came on and mumbled something through his beard about provenance and how grateful he was to the sponsors, then Hannibal screened the first film about Santa Claus. For all his work, Al only had one reel to show.</p><p>Hannibal had done a beautiful job. The team had remade each frame of film digitally, filling in scratches, covering up dirt, enhancing contrast&mdash;sharp, clear, monochrome images. It was like going back in time to see the premiere.</p><p>They had Santa Claus bronco-busting reindeer. Santa was pretty damn robust, a tall rangy guy in a fur-trimmed suit. The reindeer were not studio dummies but huge, rangy antlered beasts. Santa wrestled them to the ground, pulled reins over their heads and then broke them in bareback like it was a rodeo.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2008/12/the-film-makers-of-mars">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=JUQLSZYZFcY:TxGIthAVJo0:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=JUQLSZYZFcY:TxGIthAVJo0:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=JUQLSZYZFcY:TxGIthAVJo0:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=JUQLSZYZFcY:TxGIthAVJo0:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=JUQLSZYZFcY:TxGIthAVJo0:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=JUQLSZYZFcY:TxGIthAVJo0:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=JUQLSZYZFcY:TxGIthAVJo0:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=JUQLSZYZFcY:TxGIthAVJo0:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=JUQLSZYZFcY:TxGIthAVJo0:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/JUQLSZYZFcY" height="1" width="1"/> Geoff Ryman Prose Tue, 02 Dec 2008 13:30:53 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2008/12/the-film-makers-of-mars http://www.tor.com/stories/2008/12/the-film-makers-of-mars A Water Matter http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/soHAL9MafEc/a-water-matter <p>&nbsp;</p><p>The Duke of Copper Downs had stayed dead.</p><p><em>So far.</em></p><p>That thought prompted the Dancing Mistress to glance around her at the deserted street. Something in the corner of her eye or the lantern of her dreams was crying out a message. Just as with any of her kind, it was difficult to take her by surprise. Her sense of the world around her was very strong. Even in sleep, her folk did not become so inert and vulnerable as humans or most animals did. And her people had lived among men for generations, after all. Some instincts never passed out of worth.</p><p><em>His Grace is</em> not <em>going to come clawing up through the stones at my feet</em>, she told herself firmly. Her tail remained stiff and prickly, trailing gracelessly behind her in a parody of alarm.</p><p>The city continued to be restive. A pall of smoke hung low in the sky, and the reek of burning buildings dogged every breath. The harbor had virtually emptied, its shipping steering away from the riots and the uncontrolled militias that were all that remained of the Ducal Guard after the recent assassination. The streets were an odd alternation of deserted and crowded. Folk seemed unwilling to come out except in packs. If chance emptied a square or a cobbled city block, it stayed empty for hours. The hot, heavy damp did nothing to ease tempers.</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2008/10/a-water-matter">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=soHAL9MafEc:D56yvXIHjnM:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=soHAL9MafEc:D56yvXIHjnM:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=soHAL9MafEc:D56yvXIHjnM:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=soHAL9MafEc:D56yvXIHjnM:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=soHAL9MafEc:D56yvXIHjnM:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=soHAL9MafEc:D56yvXIHjnM:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=soHAL9MafEc:D56yvXIHjnM:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=soHAL9MafEc:D56yvXIHjnM:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=soHAL9MafEc:D56yvXIHjnM:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/soHAL9MafEc" height="1" width="1"/> Jay Lake Prose Wed, 29 Oct 2008 14:49:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2008/10/a-water-matter http://www.tor.com/stories/2008/10/a-water-matter Jack and the Aktuals, or, Physical Applications of Transfinite Set Theory http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~3/yH1hC5M0vYg/jackandtheaktuals <p>Infinity in its highest form has created and sustains us, and in its secondary transfinite forms occurs all around us and even inhabits our minds.</p><p>&mdash;Georg Cantor, &ldquo;On Various Standpoints Regarding the Actual Infinite,&rdquo; 1885</p><p>Late one winter afternoon, lanky, gray-haired Jack Bohn lay on the living room couch with his legs propped on two stacked sofa cushions, typing into the worn laptop that rested on his thighs. He was a recently retired mathematics professor, trying to write one more big paper, this one relating to his notion that the natural world is filled with infinities of all sizes. The ultimate goal of his investigations was to reach a conclusion about how the different levels of infinity meshed.</p><p>&ldquo;Alef arthritis,&rdquo; he threw out to his wife Ulla, busy at her easel across the room, painting one of her glorious landscapes. Jack&rsquo;s back ached all the time, each day more than before. &ldquo;Alef arthritis is what ails you?&rdquo; said Ulla, not overly concerned. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve never heard of it.&rdquo; She was a graceful woman with a warm, cheerful face.</p><p>&ldquo;Well&mdash;I just invented the name. I see alef arthritis as being a stiffness that sets in when matter is cut off from infinity. I have alef arthritis in my back because I&rsquo;ve lost touch with the transfinite. Stressing about the Planck length.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;re fussing about quantum mechanics again?&rdquo; said Ulla. She was using her palette knife to craft a spectrum of shades between two blues; a splatter of paint dropped to the floor. They&rsquo;d learned to live with paint stains on the rug.</p><p>&ldquo;My latest idea is that physical matter is transfinitely divisible,&rdquo; said Jack. &ldquo;When my head&rsquo;s in the right place, I can see it and feel it: levels below levels, down past alef-null, alef-one, alef-two, on and on. But prim, stuffy quantum mechanics is getting in my face, saying that I should bail out at the Planck length scale, which is a piddling ten-to-the-minus-thirty-fifth meters. So lame. So puritanical. What they don&rsquo;t understand is that the Planck length scale isn&rsquo;t a wall. It&rsquo;s a frontier. There&rsquo;s a whole new subdimensional world below. And it&rsquo;s intimately connected to the transfinite. That&rsquo;s what my new paper is about. I&rsquo;m hoping the physics angle can help solve the Generalized Continuum Problem.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;That old shoe?&rdquo; said Ulla with an experienced wife&rsquo;s friendly mockery.</p><p>&ldquo;The Generalized Continuum Problem is important,&rdquo; said Jack, beginning to frown. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s kind of sad that I&rsquo;ve worked on it my whole life, and you don&rsquo;t even know what it is.&rdquo;</p><p>&ldquo;Explain it to me again, Jack,&rdquo; said Ulla, sweetening her voice. &ldquo;Just one more time.&rdquo;</p><p><a href="http://www.tor.com/stories/2008/10/jackandtheaktuals">Read the full article</a></p><div class="feedflare"> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yH1hC5M0vYg:L_ctCWzqikA:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yH1hC5M0vYg:L_ctCWzqikA:F7zBnMyn0Lo"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=yH1hC5M0vYg:L_ctCWzqikA:F7zBnMyn0Lo" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yH1hC5M0vYg:L_ctCWzqikA:V_sGLiPBpWU"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=yH1hC5M0vYg:L_ctCWzqikA:V_sGLiPBpWU" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yH1hC5M0vYg:L_ctCWzqikA:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yH1hC5M0vYg:L_ctCWzqikA:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?i=yH1hC5M0vYg:L_ctCWzqikA:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></img></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?a=yH1hC5M0vYg:L_ctCWzqikA:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/Torcom/Stories?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></img></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/Torcom/Stories/~4/yH1hC5M0vYg" height="1" width="1"/> Rudy Rucker Prose Thu, 09 Oct 2008 20:30:00 +0000 http://www.tor.com/stories/2008/10/jackandtheaktuals http://www.tor.com/stories/2008/10/jackandtheaktuals