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2 The Mariner Awards Bewildering Stories’ Annual Review, 2010 The Review Editors’ Most Distinguished Selections from Short Fiction Introduction Bewildering Stories’ home page states that our mission is to offer “a home and an audience to speculative writing. All genres are welcome in prose, poetry, drama and non-fiction.” ‘BwS’ — as we’re known informally — has been fulfilling this promise with an electronic magazine that has been published weekly since June of 2002. Our quality varied wildly in the first year, which was only to be expected in a start-up venture. But over the years, determination and good will have gradually attracted works of increasing quality. Now, in our ninth year, we express our gratitude to the loyal contributors, editors and review readers who have all helped give Bewildering Stories the good reputation it has today. Our Quarterly Reviews represent the Editors’ Choices as the best of Bewildering Stories. In 2010 we published 412 titles in addition to artwork, discussions, reviews, critical essays and letters. The sheer number of titles made the format of the former Annual Reviews unmanageable. We therefore decided to revive our old Certificate of Merit as the Mariner Awards, named for one of the first successful interplanetary missions. These awards represent the titles voted “very good” or “excellent” — 65, as it happens — in the course of the year. And that may give readers pause: they will be right to surmise that many works were voted “good” but did not make the cut. Those titles still hold pride of place in our Quarterly Reviews. Indeed, we are sure that all readers can cite titles they would like to add to the Mariner Awards; fair enough. But we are also confident they will find nothing they would omit. A note about the contents of this e-book: for reasons of file size and ease of navigation, among other things, we regretfully include only a representative number of the stories found in the 2010 Award section on the Bewildering Stories website. The memoirs, poetry, and most of the serialized works may be published in a second volume of the 2010 Annual Review. Meanwhile, this edition will bring you plenty to enjoy, all in one place. * * * All works contained herein are copyrighted by their various authors and are reprinted by permission. This e-book is offered free of charge. The Publisher and Managing Editor encourage its redistribution, but it may not be sold. 3 Acknowledgments Don and I would like to thank our editorial crew for their unwavering support. Their tireless efforts make it possible to put together a weekly online magazine of stories, poems, essays, and reviews, as well as to offer help to new and established writers alike. The other Review Board members are Bill Bowler, Bertil Falk, Gary Inbinder, Harry Lang, Michael E. Lloyd, Marina J. Neary, Carmen Ruggero, and Lewayne L. White. We also express our gratitude to the Special and Associate Editors. They are normally the first readers of submissions and stand, so to speak, as lookouts at the bow of the ship. Their work is indispensable. Cover credit: NASA stock photo Jerry Wright, Publisher Don Webb, Managing Editor Bewildering Stories 4 Table of Contents Jack Alcott, The Oceanic Express 5 Dean Francis Alfar, In the Dim Plane 15 Nikki Alfar, Adrift on the Street Formerly Known as Buendia 24 Tabaré Alvarez, The Corridor 30 A. Frank Bower, The Rule of Three 42 Bill Bowler, Charlenes 2 and 3 47 Phillip Donnelly, The Interactive Classroom 63 Bertil Falk When Memories Dawn 69 The Cross Murders 75 A Mental Feedback 92 Gary Inbinder, Mr. Eisenstein’s Holiday 97 Abha Iyengar, Drought Country 104 Blaise Marcoux, Yellow Pickle 108 Dan McNeil, Collecting Stones From A Beach 120 Marina J. Neary, Where Else Can You Find Pies Like That? 123 Danielle L. Parker The Dream Miners 131 The Embrace of the Four-Armed Houri 142 Diana Pollin Good Writing 153 Night Shift 159 Elyss G. Punsalan, Pursuit of the Litaniera 170 Mimi Rosen, Extraordinary Man 178 Carmen Ruggero, Trigal 181 Brian Trent, Everywhere After All 183 Ron Van Sweringen The French Chair 195 Life Under an Orange Tree 198 John Vieczorek, Chickasaw Ridge 203 Ajay Vishwanathan, Bhima 208 Kaushik Viswanath, Chimera Khanna 212 Mike Voltz, Summer Rain 217 Don Webb, Taking Notice 226 Julie Wornan, The Dead Are Easy to Keep 235 5 Jack Alcott is special projects editor at The Journal News, a daily based in Westchester County, New York, where he heads up a team of reporters that has gained notice for investigations into government corruption, PCB contamination of the Hudson River, and structural problems on the Tappan Zee Bridge. Admired for his short stories, he is also the author of Grim Legion, a novel of Edgar Allan Poe at West Point. The Oceanic Express by Jack Alcott So there’s this old guy at our party, and no one knows who he is or where he came from. He just kind of appeared. Now that’s not a problem or anything. This is San Francisco in the summer of 1976 and hey, everybody’s welcome. It’s two in the morning and The Abbey Tavern, the bar downstairs from our railroad flat, has just emptied out and naturally one of my roommates, Bruce from Buzzard’s Bay, has invited everyone upstairs. That’s pretty typical for a Friday-night-into-Saturday-morning here, and we’re used to having all kinds of crazies, eccentrics and barflys come up. Again, this is Baghdad by the Bay. If they’re sober enough to climb the two flights of stairs to the apartment, we figure they’re under control. There are five of us living in the flat and we’re all in our twenties and in good shape, so we can handle anybody and anything short of a psycho with a gun. But we keep an eye on our guests and this guy really stood out. First of all, it was his hair — it was silver and hung in thick, coiled ringlets to his black-caped shoulders. That’s right, he was wearing a black cape. A black shirt, black pants and black boots, too. All that black seemed to make those silvery coils light up like they were electrified, especially if you’d had a toke or two and couldn’t help staring. You couldn’t miss his moustache, either. It was one of those showy Salvador Dali jobs, all waxed and nasty like an insect’s antennae. And then there were his black eyes. They seemed to be all pupil, which around here isn’t all that unusual. But he didn’t seem stoned on dope or alcohol, and that’s suspicious. On the contrary, he was very lucid and in the moment, and those damned, unblinking black eyes burned into you when he spoke, and he listened closely to everything you said. The old guy was kind of handsome, too, in a weird overly perfect way; he had this elegant Gallic nose and... well, I don’t want to sound like I’m gay, here, ’cause I’m not, but everything about him was too perfect, too symmetrical, too unreal and his skin was strangely smooth and glowing, like a young man wearing too much makeup. But he was definitely an “old soul” — and that’s what he was telling everyone. Which, along with his freaky appearance, was worrisome. “Go have a chat with the guy, “ Bruce whispered to me as I was pulling a can of Green Death — that’s what we called Rainier Ale — out of the fridge in the kitchen. “Make sure he’s okay.” That’s how our first-alert policy works; we have a nice quiet chat, and if the guest doesn’t pass the test, he could soon have five guys gently but firmly suggesting it was time to go. We’re pretty tolerant, though; just being different isn’t enough to get you ejected. 6 Case in point is a hapless regular Bruce dubbed, rather insensitively, “It.” The poor guy ran out of money halfway through his gender transformation, and the cute dresses and nascent breasts did nothing to hide his five o’clock shadow and silky baritone. Then there’s “The Screamer.” Five minutes into what can start out as a quiet, reasonable conversation, and he’s screaming and spitting at the top of his lungs and generally upsetting the other partygoers. It usually takes an entire joint to get the guy calmed down. So I made my way across the living room floor, past the guitar amps and Ray “The Poetman” Vincent’s keyboards, and all the yakking, happily unsteady guests, to where the old wizardly looking dude is standing sipping a Guinness in a pint glass probably purloined from the Abbey, and burning holes in anyone that will look at him. Tucked up under his left arm is a beat-up, leather-bound book with flaking gold letters on its spine. “Hey, I’m Brendan,” I say extending a hand. “Nice to meet you.” He looks down at my hand a second, shifts his brew into his left hand, all the while keeping the book under his arm in place, and shakes. I can’t help but notice his long, beautiful fingers, like a musician’s — like my band-mates and me. But once again, there was a certain unsettling perfection about those pale digits, as though they were idealized musician’s fingers — if that makes any sense. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Brendan,” he said with a pleasant old-fashioned courtliness and a slight bow.