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Notes from the editor - December’s hold

5:09 pm by D Kai Wilson, editor in Fiction, Issue 2, Issues, Notes from the editor

Winter is always an interesting proposition for writers.  Some of us slow down, cause our bodies decide to act on some primeval body clock.  We feel like we’re hibernating, and so we slow down.

 Others have just come off the frentic pace of the Nanowrimo, and need a break - so slow to a crawl.  And then there’s those writers who are slow and steady, and just continue, come rain, shine, sleet, loss of internet connection…

Whatever type of writer you are, the pieces I’ve chosen, and my editors have chosen for this month’s edition spoke to us on some level.  “Memories” is an amazing sci fi piece that touches on the human psyche, The flight of the Red Kite had the note, ’surreal and very worthwhile’ on it, and the articles we’ve chosen this month reflect what we believe to be important information for writers everywhere.

Thanks for reading, and Salut!

D Kai Wilson
Managing editor, Digitalisobscura.com
http://publishhacks.com

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Memories by Keith Foreman

5:08 pm by D Kai Wilson, editor in Feature, Fiction, Issue 2, Issues

Starsoma has a strange effect upon the mind. Designed to prevent the onset of mental problems during real-space flight, its heady cocktail of chemicals and electrical stimulation creates a montage of looping imagery and cacophonic aural sensation. The speculation concerning the exact nature of these waking dreams has existed for nearly as long as the Starsoma technology itself, remaining one of the most heated points of contention within the space faring community. No final conclusion has ever been reached, as memories seem to merge with dreams without rhyme or reason, and the physical manifestations confuse the issue further. Variations in temperature flow over the dreamer like sand, and the gentlest of air movements can feel like heavy… (more…)

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The flight of the Red Kite - Phil Richardson

5:01 pm by D Kai Wilson, editor in Fiction, Issue 2, Issues

  It was midday, but feeling tired and somewhat upset about the condition of the world, I was reading in my bedroom when, for some reason, I looked out the window and saw a large red kite drifting by. Not so strange in itself, but, instead of various ribbons dangling from the kite’s tail, there was a row of bats. Their wings were calmly folded and the bats were just hanging on the kite’s tail. I looked more closely at the kite, which was the traditional shape, and realized there was a face painted on it. It was my face in repose–almost a death mask. Shuddering, I went downstairs to see who was flying the kite, but when I looked out, I saw the kite string was attached to a dead apple tree whose broken branches seemed like hands reaching to heaven.

A cold feeling crept up to my neck; I walked over and undid the string from the tree. Just then, the bats unfolded their wings and began to flap them wildly. A strong wind began to blow and before I knew it, I was lifted off my feet and the ground fell away rapidly. Before I could react, I was too high to let go of the string and I prayed it would not break.

My unexpected flight was short, although it seemed an eternity; the wind died, the bats quit flapping their wings and I plummeted toward the earth. I let go of the kite string and fell into a small lake where, after plunging underwater, I surfaced and watched as the red kite drifted away. The bats, having done their job, let go of the string and flew off together. I started swimming for the shore but, no mat-ter how hard I swam, I got no closer. My arms became heavy and I realized I might drown.

I was startled when I felt a nudge on my shoulder and looked behind me to see a flat,yellow skiff. There was no one in it and there were no oars, so I clambered aboard, relieved to be out of the water. The breeze had died and yet the boat seemed to be moving on its own. I tried paddling toward the shore, but my arms soon grew tired again and I lay there looking up at the sky and the dwindling sight of the red kite. Given the spectacle of the bats, I imagined that under the water there were hundreds of golden eels pushing, carrying, and towing the boat.

I had eaten a good breakfast but, for some reason, I suddenly became very hungry and thirsty. Looking around the bottom of the boat I saw a covered picnic basket and, when I opened it, I found a bottle of wine and some biscuits and cheese.

What if it’s poisoned? I thought. It had been a strange day so far, but I was as yet unharmed, so I proceeded to take a drink from the bottle and to chew on a hunk of yellow cheese and a biscuit.

My apprehension diminished somewhat when I felt no bad effects from the food and drink–only the feeling of lassitude that often precedes a nap. The warm sun and the gentle motion of the boat soon lulled me to sleep.

I do not know how long I slept, but when I awoke, the motion of the boat had stopped and it was beached near a small glen. I didn’t know where I was, but it could not be far from my home. I got out of the boat and decided to explore the area. I soon found a narrow path and as I walked along I looked around expecting to find something strange, but the plants bordering the path were the normal weeds and vines that one expects to find in the woods.

It had not been exactly a normal day so I was relieved that there were no more bats or kites or boats. After some minutes of walking, he path ended in another clearing and I saw a tall, stone wall covered with vines stretching out on either side. I walked along the wall searching for a gate, but found nothing.

Finally, after about an hour, I grew tired of searching and decided I would climb the wall. The vines were old and strong and looked like they would support my weight. I am not a strong man, but by resting in my climb several times I managed to pull myself up to the top of the wall.

Stretching out before me was a vast nothingness. No desert, no forrest, no plain. Just a deep blue darkness as though it were the painted backdrop for a movie set or a play. There was no up nor down. There was no here nor there. I sensed that my journey had ended as all life’s journeys end.
Destiny’s slate is often bare.

Phil Richardson has been a freelance writer for about ten years. He belongs to a local writing group in Athens, Ohio. His stories have appeared in The Storyteller, Northwoods Journal, ELf: Eclectic LiteraryForum, Wild Violet, Fantasy, Folklore and Fairytales, Cafe Irreal, and Writing on Walls Anthology. One of his stories was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Fiction.

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Vigil by D Kai Wilson

1:00 am by D Kai Wilson, editor in Fiction, Issue 1, Issues

I can’t see that thief that lives inside of your head
But I can be some courage at the side of your bed
And I don’t know what’s happening and I won’t pretend

I said my goodbyes years ago – when this all first started.
You were different then – brighter, yet…I don’t know – there’s a spark in you now that you never had. A purpose I suppose. You’ve got a reason for doing al this at last, putting us through this again and again.

Is it wrong to wish you dead? Is it wrong to wish you gone? After all you did, after all you DO. The dreams you stole, and shattered, because we weren’t what YOU wanted. The hearts that broke because we couldn’t do what you expected of us.
You asked too much – you drove your own children to alcoholism, and counselling and drugs, and od’s.
You pushed us to far.

Not that I’m not pushing back now. Though sometimes I find myself thinking that the phone ringing at four in the morning is still a harbinger of doom, and freedom, I still feel terrible – for the few breathless seconds when I realise its just Mattie phoning to ask if I’m asleep, if messenger is still on on purpose and I’m just not responding, He’s good humoured, even though he’s been pulled into this triangle but sometimes I wonder how much further his patience will stretch.
Whether he’ll leave, you’ll die and I’ll have nothing.

Its been eons since I was at your side at dawn – a while ago you described me as part of the courageous skyline beside your bed. The hospice lets me come and go as I please. That thief inside your head isn’t going to win, and when you’re gone, I’m going to sue.

I still don’t know why you did it. I mean, the nanobots were unstable, isotope reactive, their half life was…well….
I don’t understand it. I don’t pretend to understand it. But you thought you’d found the cure to cancer, and took it. Little did you know you’d coded it FAR wrong. And you’re not a computer – we can’t reformat and rebuild.

One more day and I let them switch off the machine. I don’t wish you dead, but I can’t bear to see you like this.
I love you mom.

Kassie.

D Kai Wilson is the editor of this site - her fiction can be found at BooksbyKai and is spending the month of November doing the Nanowrimo.
She also blogs at Languagedump.

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Sunday seven

9:07 am by D Kai Wilson, editor in Fiction, Site news

Ok guys and gals - got a question for you.

You’ve got seven sentences to set the scene before your editor’s eyes glaze over and roll back in his head. He’s looking for the next big thing.

What would you write?

If you decide to take part, post that we’re keeping track of it at http://digitalisobscura.com (http://digitalisobscura.com/vol/2007/sunday-seven/)

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