Category Archives: Anthology Contents

Volume 6 Contributors

Artwork by Gregory St. John

Artwork by Gregory St. John

Seven pounds is something nurses scream when hospital scales ladle newborns. Seven pounds of ground kidney for the meat pies, seven pounds of Christmas pudding made by Grandma Marg. Seven pounds was not the amount Dolores Nather hoped to gain over the yuletide season. Three days after champagne and New Year wishes, Dolores’s bare feet un-stick sadly from the bathroom scale. The last few weeks rush back: seven pounds of innards dredged from the cavity of a Christmas turkey. Seven pounds of over-seasoned stuffing pushed back in. Seven pounds of shortbread cookies and mincemeat pie. Seven pounds of gingerbread decorated with seven pounds of snowflake confetti and snowmen jujubes. Seven pounds of festivities, of Christmas tinsel hanging precariously around her stomach, and not even the prunes of seven pounds of sugarplums can expunge what she’s amassed. —From “Halloumi Detox” by Christine Miscione

Here’s who you’ll find in Volume 6, coming spring 2015:

Robin Riopelle (ill. Tomasz Wieja)

Alexandra Seidel (ill. Rob Thompson)

Tonya Liburd (ill. Alyssa Cooper)

Silvia Morena-Garcia (ill. Carrion House)

Lisa de Nikolits (ill. Mariel Kelly)

Christine Miscione (ill. Gregory St. John)

Arley Sorg (ill. Carrion House)

Samuel Marzioli (ill. Joel G.)

Bruce Meyer (ill. Alyssa Cooper)

Gwynne Garfinkle (ill. James Greatrex)

Kate Heartfield (ill. Alis Kellar)

Nicole Cushing (ill. James Greatrex)

Sara Puls (ill. M. Belvin)

This issue also features poetry by Sandra Kasturi and cover art by MANDEM.

Volume 5 Contributors

Illustration by Tomasz Wieja

Illustration by Tomasz Wieja

Stalks of corn sprang up from the earth and shed mounds of silk, which threaded together with spider webs into a shimmering translucent sheath. It clung to her body in a way that left little to the imagination, showing off her curves in all their glory. The strands of gold and silver also worked their way into her flaxen hair, surrounding her face with a majestic halo of luminescent tresses. Her footwear flowed up from the ground, a splash of water that adhered to her skin and froze there, looking like shoes of glass. […] The dust from moth wings powdered Ella’s skin and crushed rosehips coloured her cyanotic lips and cheeks, disguising their bluish cast. Adornments of ice pellets, shining like diamonds, encircled her neck and clung to her ears. […] Frosted morsels of rotting pumpkin from the garden’s pumpkin patch, silvery-orange chunks of ice, assembled themselves into a formidable carriage. White horses in ivory harnesses sprang up from the snow, formed only from the bitter white, standing at the ready to draw Ella’s carriage. Tara sighed in satisfaction.

From “The Godmother’s Curse,” by Chantal Boudreau

Here’s what you’ll find in Volume 5, coming this summer:

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Our Review Process

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We often get asked (as all publishers do) how we clear the lists of untold hundreds of submissions. Our review process is fairly standard because it’s simple and efficient; many editors reading this will nod heads in recognition. Simple as it is, however, it’s still a tournament of favourites, champions, bated breaths, clenched fists, wins, and losses. A great candidate inevitably goes down. So it goes.

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Volume 4 contributors

Illustration by Teresa Tunaley

Illustration by Teresa Tunaley

It masked the should-have-been scents of everyday life. In that neighbourhood, there was no nutty aroma of rice cooking, no thorny musk of incense drifting from the temples, no herbaceous fragrance of fresh vegetables pulled out of the earth emanating from the large open warehouse doors of the green grocer. Yet, every day at ground zero I passed an eerie abandoned building bearing a political slogan about how precious life is, and I always felt bad for the little restaurant next to it. The usual warmth of lunchtime cooking should have been drifting in a breeze of sizzling meat, yet there was only a strange smell of something terrible and sinister—a smell that killed all the other smells.

From “Market Street Smell,” by Graeme Lottering

Here’s what you’ll find in Volume 4, coming this October:

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Volume 3 contributors

Postscripts to Darkness Volume 3 is dedicated, in loving memory, to our sister of the sinister and fellow devotee of the weird, Leslie Crate  (Lesleigh Frankenstein). Ave atque vale, old friend.

Illustration by MANDEM

Illustration by MANDEM

Suddenly the stairs end and the hard surface beneath my feet flattens. I move through a doorway and into the night. The sky is illuminated by a nearly full moon, and scattered with chips of stars. Pale light reveals the child to be a boy dressed in a long robe hanging nearly to his ankles, which are as bare as his feet. It is the kind of roughly woven garment worn in the desert, scratchy against the skin. Desert. The word stirs inside me, followed immediately by the realization that the small town, sleeping or abandoned around me, is poised between the western Sahara and the Atlantic Ocean. At the next instant I become aware that the ocean must be near: a sound of surf heaves now to our right, now to the left. Disproportionately loud, even magnified, the waves wash each thought from my mind before it has barely formed, before it can be pursued. Still turned from me, the boy pauses in front of a black palm whose branches, rustling in the breeze, cast shadows that sway and shift across him. Hypnotized by the sight, I don’t notice immediately that the boy has moved away, that I stare at only shadows.

From “The Palm at the End of the Mind,” by Patrick Roscoe

Volume 3 features the following stories and art: 

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Volume 2 Contributors

Illustration by Miles Tittle

Illustration by Miles Tittle

We call it the Mouth but in aspect it was really a face. As it came to light (we used pine boughs to brush dirt from crannies), we found a round, moony countenance in the forest floor that confronted us with one open eye and one closed, and a mouth three times too large for them, out of ratio. The face spanked of the ancient. Its lids were hooded; it winked at us, no pupil in the gray stone sclera of the open right eye. The nose was two dainty points. There were lumps at either side of the moon that suggested ears. We dug, but didn’t find neck or shoulders in the ravine’s floor. We dealt with the disembodied.

From “Long After the Greeks,” by Ranylt Richildis

Here’s what you’ll find in Volume 2, which launches August 2012:

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Volume 1 Contributors

Illustration by Brenda Dunn

Illustration by Brenda Dunn

I was young when it happened. I was looking from the neat apartment I had just moved into, down from my window into the garden just beneath me. I remember it was a lovely garden. There were dark roses, like spilled wine, and a curtain of heavenly blue morning glories. I was daydreaming about the garden that I wanted someday. It would have such roses and glories, and also moonflowers and jasmine, dahlias and evening primrose. Snapdragons, honeysuckle. Lilies, tiger lilies. […] My body met the ground six storeys below with crushing force. I landed feet-first, shattering the bones of my feet, my ankles, driving them up into the splintered pulp of my shins. All my soft organs, shaken and stirred, bubbled weakly and ceased to function. The white-hot glare of my impact did not last very long.

From “Snapdragons and Tiger Lilies,” by Tisha Moor

Here’s what you’ll find in our inaugural issue:

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