Realms: The First Year of Clarkesworld Magazine, Issues 1-12 (July 2008)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Step into a world of wonder, epiphany, and danger. From the return of old gods to the adventures of the last dragon on Earth, from quantum physics to manticores trained for the circus, this unique anthology takes readers on journeys to realms both distant and oddly familiar. Selected from the critically-acclaimed online magazine Clarkesworld, Realms collects the work of twenty-four visionary writers of short fiction.
unlabelled jars of clitorises, which were received there during the day by Keiko, dressed ordinarily. She would then change into her ama costume, stick the labels on to the jars, skillfully fold the beautiful little cardboard boxes which Yukio produced on his printer, fit a jar into each, and stick on an address label. Keiko was very busy; and so was Yukio. What with Yukio’s regular work at the Real-Doll Corporation and his after-hours work at home, he became a bit like a Zen monk who had
the way they buried the house and trapped her inside. If he were home when it started, he’d stay—but otherwise, he dug shelter where he could, and she was alone. She tugged on an onion string. All winter, she’d thought about him—as they slept in their beds, and as they sang together. She saw how he looked at her. He was thinking it too, and probably hating himself. A father and daughter—no, that couldn’t be. But she wasn’t his daughter. She was Amanda Barnes, whether he believed her or not. The
naked on the bed, his thin, wrinkled buttocks raised in the air. Above him stood a middle-aged woman dressed in the old uniforms of an S.S. officer, holding a riding crop in her hand. As she spoke she hit the old man hard against his rear, making him scream. “What are you? I said, what are you, animal?” “I’m a Jew!” the old man cried. “I’m a dirty Jew!” “And what do we do to dirty, disgusting Jews?” the woman asked. Hanzi caught sight of her sagging white breasts below the open leather coat.
the extremity of his situation, Horley could not deny that there was something beautiful about the pattern. “This painting,” Horley began in a thin, stretched voice. “These heads. How many do you need?” Theeber turned its bloodshot, carious gaze on Horley, body swiveling as if made of air, not muscle and bone. “How do you know not to be afraid?” Horley asked. Shaking. Piss running down his leg. “Is it true you come from a long way away? Are you homesick?” Somehow, not knowing the answers to
himself alone in bed at night. Sometimes he thought of the pictures, and sometimes of the librarian, removing her glasses and lifting up her sweater, revealing soft pale skin underneath. That day, after watching the film, he logged in to several of the local BBSs and posted a brief message on each, asking about those strange, forgotten beings, the Jews. Nothing happened the first day, or the one after. In fact, a full week passed before he had a reply. A private message. It contained a