Fantasy Scroll Magazine Issue #2 Read online

  JC scowled. "You know how kids are. Even hormonal, pubescent males with an eye for the girls. Can't fool any of them. He guessed it right away."

  "The Old Man won't like it. We're not supposed to be coming back. Deities, saints, the works."

  JC shrugged and handed me my straightened ski, which looked better than ever. "He's got his own shady history of sneaking down here and talking to folks in the desert all the time. We've got an agreement about me and skiing."

  "Kids." Pete shook his head.

  JC snorted and made no further pretense of what he was doing as he ran his hand down my ski pole. "There you are, Casey. Your equipment's all fixed, you're all fixed. Everything's been made right. Consider it a little local anomaly for your troubles."

  "Thank you," I said. "But hey — any chance I can sneak in a lesson?"

  After all, if Jesus himself was in fact a ski instructor, what kind of lesson could he be teaching? As a self-respecting ski bum, I wasn't going to pass up the chance.

  Pete grinned at JC. "Gonna do it?"

  JC shook his head ruefully. "The things I do," He paused for a moment. "Sure, why not? One of you to get down this slope, two of you, what's the difference?"

  Pete laughed, and went to get his skis. JC and I snapped back into ours.

  At first, the lesson was no different from any other I'd done with athletic beginners who learned skiing quickly. JC took us through the drills — poles lying vertical across our palms, facing our upper bodies downhill no matter which way we turned our hips and lower bodies. Then we whipped through the higher level drills, weight changes, quickly moving into pole plants and the next level of techniques.

  Pete improved quickly from the rank beginner status capable of causing a wreck into a passable intermediate skier able to take on the black diamond runs at Treetop. My skills didn't pick up quite as quickly as Pete's but I still wasn't looking too bad. For once I could feel the fall lines and how they flowed down the slope. The three of us fell into a smooth, rhythmic pattern as we played with gravity down the steepest lines we could find on the lit runs.

  "This is addicting," Pete panted at the top of one bowl that we'd hiked up, looking for unmarked snow. It was only slightly off of the beaten path. Even though this particular bowl wasn't lit, the light reflecting from the low hanging clouds was enough for us to see our way down.

  JC grinned at him. "Best invention yet, hmm?"

  "Beats fishing in the Dead Sea or sheepherding any day. Gonna have to go talk to the Norse about this one. Sometimes those pagans come up with good ideas."

  I laughed and pushed off first.

  About halfway down this bowl, suddenly the snow around me snapped, the loud crack of a slab avalanche. I tried to beat it, but the avalanche caught me, sucking me in at waist level, before it tumbled me down the slope in a flood of white. I couldn't tell what was up or down as I rolled down the slope. One of my skis popped off and I lost track of my poles. I kept my hands in front of my face, trying to swim through the mass, fighting to keep a breathing space clear.

  At last I came to a stop. I tried to move my arms and legs. Nothing. It was as if I were cast in icy cement. I could barely move my hands.

  So this is how it ends , I thought.

  Or was it? I clawed at the snow around me, enlarging my breathing space. If I were lucky, I'd only be a few inches under. As I worked through, I was able to free my arms and push them above my head — not that was any guarantee as to which end was up. But at least I had a decent breathing space carved out now.

  Cold seeped through me. I wasn't wearing an avalanche transponder. I hadn't planned on skiing anywhere near an avalanche site. Yeah, I was skiing with JC and Pete, but who knew if they'd be able to find me? Or even — and this possibility struck me as I lay in the growing white cold — if it had all been a figment of my imagination? After all, there have been days when I could ski almost this well on my own.

  What a stupid move.

  On top of everything else, I started getting sleepy. Until now, I hadn't realized how tired I was. The rhythm of a good night's skiing kept me going. But now, my side ached, my head hurt, and the pain wasn't enough to distract me from the growing drowsiness. Oh crap. Hypothermia. Shock. I didn't dare give in. That'd lead to a final sleep.

  At last I started murmuring a Rosary. Not much else to do. I went through several decades before my eyelids drooped, and my lips became heavy. At this point, the white stillness was mesmerizing. White was the color of death I decided, not black. And a white death seemed oddly comforting and satisfying.

  I accepted the white, and passed under its curtain. Maybe I'd find out if tonight had been a dream, up until the avalanche.

  Maybe not.

  I woke coughing and choking, and colder than the deepest frozen depths of Hell. JC's hands on my shoulders were warm, and Pete's hands on my legs were almost as warm.

  "Touch and go there," Pete said to JC.

  "It's not his time," JC said. "You with us now, Casey?"

  I nodded, not wanting to admit to the doubts that had crossed my mind.

  Pete laughed softly. "Don't worry about it, Casey. Everybody has doubts now and then. You're looking at the King of second thoughts."

  "We didn't find your stuff," JC said. "But we'll replace it for you."

  I shook my head. "Guys, I think it's time to call it a night. I don't want to make it three."

  "Enough for one night," Pete agreed. "Let's say we go to the Sasquatch Inn?"

  "That dive?" I couldn't believe what he had said.

  J.C. grinned broadly. "Best kind. Good food, good drink, and good company."

  "But, but—"

  Pete guffawed and slapped me on the back. "Don't believe the Old Man's propaganda. We had a lot of fun parties in the old days. Still do, when we can. Even invite a few other deities into the game." He winked at J.C.

  "The water into wine is a dead giveaway, I'm afraid," said J.C., rolling his eyes. "Doesn't help that Loki has to switch it into mead every time."

  "He's not on shift at the Squatch tonight, is he?" Pete scowled at J.C.

  "Nah, I think his Old Man called him home on business. Haven't seen Loki or Thor all season."

  "What are you talking about?" This whole situation was far too confusing.

  "Don't worry about it, Casey." J.C. kicked out of his skis. "Tonight's on us, and we've got a tab at the Squatch. Mary'll slip us an extra pitcher, I've heard there's swag getting handed out tonight, and maybe even a couple of X-Games medalists feeling frisky for a few bar games. You've had a blessed night, so let's make it even better."

  I couldn't argue with that. The only sweeter incentive could have been the presence of a lonely sponsor looking to fill a contract hole caused by someone else's bad luck.

  Not my night for that much luck.

  But Pete and JC fed me up, got me drunk, and poured me into my bed at the inn.

  Next morning, I woke slowly. I hurt a little bit, certainly not as much as I should have. And, miracle of miracles, I didn't have a hangover!

  But I sighed as I remembered my skis. I'd gotten rather fond of them. They'd taken me past the rank beginner up to a semi-confident intermediate who could tiptoe out on the easier blacks. And now-well, they were buried under the snow somewhere up in that anonymous bowl, and probably weren't in skiable shape.

  On the other hand, the sacrifice was well worth the experience.

  I dragged myself out of bed. Then something caught my eye. Two pairs of skis rather like the ones JC and Pete had been riding last night leaned against the wall. I checked them out, stroking the topsheets, inspecting the bindings. One was a nice pair of twintips, just what I needed to try my new tricking skills. The other was a nice pair of all mountain fat skis, perfect for powder skiing. My size. I checked the DIN settings on the bindings. My setting.

  Then I spotted the note on the table.

  'Hope these work to replace your skis. Good riding. JC.'

  I half-grinned.

  Below
that, in a rougher hand—

  'Don't do anything I wouldn't do.'

  Pete hadn't signed it, but I knew it was him.

  I laughed, and went off to breakfast with a lighter heart. Maybe I'd get lucky and run into them again. But if not — well, it'd been worth it.

  Thomas and Mrs. K sat at a table by the window, looking out on the street below, as I helped myself to the lavish continental breakfast our inn offered. Thomas looked away from Mrs. K, and our eyes met. We studied each other for a moment, and then he grinned and gave me a two-fingered wave. I waved back at him, then found a seat on my own, overseeing the slopes above the street.

  It was, after all, another good ski day.

  © 2014 by Joyce Reynolds-Ward

  * * *

  Joyce Reynolds-Ward is a Portland, Oregon writer, skier, horsewoman, and special education teacher. Her novels Pledges of Honor and Seeking Shelter at the End of the World will come out from eTreasures Publishing in 2014, and her novels Netwalk: Expanded Edition and Netwalker Uprising are available through various retailers.

  Interview with Award Winning Author Mike Resnick

  Mike Resnick is the author of more than 70 novels, 25 story collections, 250 short stories, 9 non-fiction books, and 3 screenplays, as well as the editor of more than 40 anthologies. He has been nominated for 36 Hugo Awards (a record for writers) and has won the award 5 times. In addition, he has won many other awards from places such as France, Japan, Spain, Croatia, Catalonia, and Poland. He is first on the Locus list of all-time award winners, living or dead, for short fiction, and 4th on the Locus list of science fiction's all-time top award winners in all fiction categories. In addition to all of this, Mike also produced a weekly column on horse racing for more than a decade, and for eleven years wrote a monthly column on purebred collies, which he and his wife bred and exhibited.

  At Fantasy Scroll Magazine, we strongly believe that Mike Resnick holds the secrets to self-cloning.

  Q & A

  Iulian: Everyone starts somewhere, and most writers begin their career in a dark place filled with rejection and self-doubt. Could you paint us your beginnings? Was there a defining moment, a point in time when you knew you were going to be a writer for the rest of your life?

  Mike: I sold my first article at 15, my first poem at 16, my first story at 17, so in all honesty there was never a question of whether or not I could sell, but rather could I make a living at it. I took a job editing men's magazines and tabloids, wrote literally a couple of hundred anonymous novels in the "adult" field (not as rare a start for writers in the 1950s and 1960s as you might think), and have been a full-time freelance writer since 1969. It wasn't until I started selling science fiction regularly in 1981 that I knew I could concentrate on this field and ignore the others 95% of the time (though lately I've sold 3 mystery novels, just for a change of pace).

  What do you consider your biggest accomplishment as a writer and, related to that, what is your all-time favorite work?

  I think my greatest accomplishment as a writer, other than paying my way for 45 years, has been all those awards and nominations for so many different stories, which I hope implies that I have continued to write quality fiction over quite a long period of time. My best book is clearly Kirinyaga, which is up to 67 nominations and awards world-wide. My bestselling book is Santiago, and my favorite of my own science fiction novels is The Outpost, which sank like a stone.

  You moved through your career to multiple-award-winning status and having more stories written than most people have read in their entire life — could you name some of your main influencers? I am talking about other writers, editors, maybe even people that are not related to writing in any way but had a mark on your career.

  I just love what I'm doing and work at improving it every day. Some reporter once asked Pablo Picasso what he did for a hobby, and he replied, "I paint." And the reporter said no, that was what he did for a living; what did he do for a hobby, to relax and enjoy himself. And Picasso said, "I paint." Me, I write.

  I had quite a few million words in print before starting my science fiction career, and of course I had my own style and my own methodology. I suppose if any science fiction writers had much of an influence on me, they'd be my two favorites: C. L. Moore and Robert Sheckley. Though no one ever has or ever will influence me more than Carol, my wife of 52 years. I bounce every idea off her, accept almost all of her many suggestions, and never send a story out until she's approved it.

  You've edited quite a number of anthologies over the years. What is your process and what do you love most about these anthologies?

  All but one have been by invitation only. They don't pay enough for me to read 600 submissions, 80% of them sub-literate. This doesn't mean I don't buy from new writers. I bought more first stories in the 1990s than the 3 surviving digests combined. Anyway, I begin by inviting maybe a dozen established pros who I think will work well with the theme — all anthologies are created around themes these days — and whose names can go on the covers, and then I invite some newcomers whose work has either impressed me (in print, in workshops, online) or who have been recommended by some pro I trust.

  You are also the editor of Galaxy's Edge, a fairly new speculative fiction magazine that is available both online and in digital formats. How different is the process of editing a magazine versus editing anthologies. How do you find the time for it?

  It's actually a lot less work than an anthology, which will usually run about 20 new stories. Galaxy's Edge runs 4 reprints by big names that can sell/hype the magazine by their presence, and serializes a novel by another. In addition, we run columns by Greg Benford and Barry Malzberg, and we've begun interviewing a major pro every issue. This frees most of my editing time for the real purpose of the magazine: buying 5 or 6 new stories from new or lesser-known writers. I agreed to edit it once the publisher agreed to the format, which permits half the fiction to be by new and newer writers.

  For Galaxy's Edge you elected to keep unsolicited submissions off and simply solicit work from writers directly. Is there an advantage to that model? Isn't that reducing the possibility of discovering new talent?

  I co-edited Jim Baen's Universe and worked on/with other pro-zines, and it's my experience that if you open them to submissions and pay pro rates, you'll get an absolute minimum of 500 slush stories a month, probably more. I just haven't got time for that, and the magazine doesn't yet have the budget for slush readers. As for finding new writers, I judge Writers of the Future every year, which exposes me to their 12 annual finalists; I've taught Clarion, and have bought from Clarion "grads"; other workshop leaders that I trust have been encouraged to send their best students to me; and of course I meet dozens of hopeful writers online and at conventions.

  A lot of writers aim to write things that can later be turned into TV Shows and movies. You've written screenplays before. Do you actively write for the screen and if you do, how is the process different? Which one of your books would you really like to see made into a blockbuster?

  No, I absolutely don't. I write for the market that's commissioned my book or story, and that's that. I've optioned maybe a dozen pieces to the movies over the years, but in every case they sought me out, I didn't walk in cold and try to hawk my stuff to them. As for the screenplays, I never write them on speculation; that's a fool's game. I write them only on assignment.

  In the second issue of our magazine, we've included your story "Winter Solstice," a Hugo nominee from 1992. Tell us a bit about this story: how did it come to be and what does it mean to you?

  I wrote that the day I found out that my mother-in-law had Alzheimer's. I kept wondering what it must be like to know every night when you go to bed that you will wake up a little less intelligent/cognizant the next morning, and I decided to work it out fictionally. I remembered that Merlin, in T. H. White's magnificent The Once and Future King, was said to be living backward in Time, though White never quite defined what that meant, and it seemed a perfect vehicle with
which to explore the problem.

  Now a couple of questions that might not be directly related to your writing, but their subjects find their way into your inspiration one way or another. First one is Africa — your writing often shows influences from the African culture, and you've travelled to Africa on several occasions. What is drawing you there and how has Africa affected your writing?

  First, it's a gorgeous and exotic continent, with societies that are totally unlike our own. (Example: none of the 43 languages spoken in Kenya had a word for "wheel" as recently as 1900 A.D.) More to the point, I think just about everyone will agree that if we can reach the stars we're going to colonize them, and if we colonize enough of them sooner or later we're going to come into contact with some sentient races. Africa offers 51 separate and distinct examples of the deleterious effects of colonization on both the colonized and the colonizers, and that makes it perfect raw material for a science fiction writer.

  The second question is about horses. You've produced a horse racing column for more than a decade, but you do not bet on races. Why is that? Are horses a source of inspiration? Give us some detail as to how you got involved with this.

  It seems to me that I have always loved horse racing. And I love it as a beautiful, colorful, exciting sport, not as a gambling proposition. I don't know when I fell in love with it, but I know that when I was 12 I took the money I'd made from a summer of caddying and subscribed to The Blood-Horse, a weekly magazine devoted to the sport and the thoroughbred, and last week I renewed it for the 60th year. Back in the mid-to-late 1950s when I lived in a northern Chicago suburb I used to cut high school classes to watch Swoon's Son and Bardstown and Doubledogdare work out in the mornings, and I've been known to fly to New York just to watch Seattle Slew take on Affirmed or Dr. Fager go up against Damascus. I know the sport intimately, which means I know that while as a better you can very occasionally beat the race, you can't beat the races. In fact, the one thing about the sport I dislike is that its primary support comes from the poor slobs who bet their unemployment and welfare checks on it.