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Alex Creece • Deborah Walker<br />
• Alison McBain • Sierra July<br />
plus R.L. Black<br />
<strong>March</strong> <strong>2016</strong>
Volume 1<br />
Issue #3<br />
Editor-in-Chief<br />
Paul A. Hamilton<br />
Managing Editor<br />
Nikki Hamilton<br />
Guest Editor<br />
R.L. Black<br />
Copyright © <strong>2016</strong> ironSoap.com. All writing and photography is the property of their respective<br />
authors.<br />
Cover photographs by Paul A. Hamilton.<br />
<strong>200</strong> <strong>CCs</strong> is an anthology of microfiction, collected monthly. Inquire online for submission guidelines.<br />
http://<strong>200</strong>ccs.ironsoap.com/<br />
Follow on Twitter @ironsoap.<br />
Images accompanying each story are provided via the Creative Commons license as follows:<br />
• pg 4: Trevor Dobson — https://www.flickr.com/people/trevor_dobson_inefekt69/ (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)<br />
• pg 5: Annais Ferreira — http://www.facebook.com/annaisfotos (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)<br />
• pg 6: Jaan Altosaar — https://jaan.io/ (CC BY 2.0)<br />
• pg 7: Kenneth Lu (ToastyKen) — https://www.flickr.com/people/toasty/ (CC BY 2.0)<br />
A version of Deborah Walker’s “Ghost Rift” (pg 4) originally appeared in the Dark Stars [amazon.com]<br />
anthology.<br />
To help show your support for <strong>200</strong> <strong>CCs</strong>, visit http://ironsoap.com/<strong>200</strong>-ccs/support/
the draw<br />
Mansour Chow wrote vehemently last year about<br />
his literary magazine, The Alarmist, going under<br />
after five issues. You can read it in full on<br />
medium.com and know going in that it’s vitriolic<br />
and divisive and funny and smart and revealing in<br />
the way the best editorials are.<br />
There are a lot of things in Mansour’s crosshairs.<br />
The wonky distribution system for magazines<br />
under sale or return models. The distaste of adbased<br />
revenue and the sad fact of advertiser<br />
apathy toward fiction periodicals. The crush of<br />
social-media publicity and the currency of<br />
celebrity endorsement. The curse of free content<br />
expectation. The disproportionate enthusiasm for<br />
writer compensation versus the lack of appetite<br />
for reading short fiction and poetry among the<br />
general populace.<br />
And it’s really this last bit that I think bothers<br />
Mansour the most, perhaps the same fact that<br />
bothers literary brokers of all stripes more<br />
than we maybe care to admit. Truth is, the<br />
market for literature is tiny. Tiny and<br />
fractured. Tiny, fractured, and badly balanced<br />
on the supply and demand scale. Most writers<br />
aspire to novelist status rather than poet or<br />
short fiction author because while the above<br />
diagnoses still apply to books, there is at least<br />
a reasonable aspiration to succeed (in a<br />
capitalist sense) with novels. The same cannot<br />
reasonably be said for those of us trafficking<br />
in stories or poems under 30 pages.<br />
Which is peculiar in a way because if the Web<br />
has demonstrated anything it’s that there is<br />
not a lack of demand or appetite for written<br />
words. Journalism, opinion, vignette,<br />
voyeurism, fabrication, essay, screed,<br />
exaggeration, rant, serial; all find life and<br />
enthusaism in the weird and text-centric<br />
world of the internet. And often in these<br />
contexts shorter, punchier, less attentiondemanding<br />
pieces are valued more highly<br />
than those falling under the “too long;<br />
didn’t read” banner. (And really, what could be<br />
more universally TL;DR-worthy than the modern<br />
Weightless Freedom<br />
3<br />
novel?)<br />
But if age has taught me anything it is that you<br />
cannot hate the world for not conforming to your<br />
notion of what would make it better. Worlds that<br />
fit perfectly into an individual’s view are utopias<br />
for one. Sometimes those are called tyrannies. So<br />
yeah, I’d love if more people read short fiction.<br />
I’d love if it were recognized that short fiction is<br />
a great way to use down moments. Far better<br />
than the latest clickbait collection of animated<br />
GIFs. But I can’t muster up enough angst to rage<br />
against that particular machine.<br />
In part, it’s because I’m guilty of it, too. Novels<br />
are decisions: genre, review, recommendation,<br />
cover copy, committment. Short fiction is trust:<br />
hook, surprise, hope, discover, share. It’s the<br />
difference between mail ordering a bar of gold<br />
and panning a river. I read a lot of short<br />
fiction but some days even for me the<br />
minimal committment feels like too big a<br />
burden.<br />
And so, if I may humbly submit, the<br />
weightless freedom of microfiction. If<br />
social media condensed rambling blog<br />
posts into morsels of passing thought just<br />
digestible enough to appeal to the masses,<br />
perhaps tiny stories online can create a new<br />
demand. Is there an untapped appetite for<br />
creative, crafted narratives, boiled down to<br />
a rich indulgence? It remains to be seen.<br />
Still, it certainly feels like the effort is one<br />
worth making. And not just because <strong>200</strong><br />
<strong>CCs</strong> is already making it. In part it’s<br />
because, grumbling from disenfranchised<br />
editors notwithstanding, literature and<br />
fiction still matter to those of us who peddle<br />
it. To those who sweat and weep over<br />
creating it. To those who desire, devour,<br />
and delight in reading it.<br />
The rest is that it whiffs of a barely-kept<br />
secret. It’s right here, waiting to be discovered.<br />
—Paul A. Hamilton
Ghost Rift<br />
by Deborah Walker<br />
Only astronauts from New State China will travel through the Ghost Rift. In the Ghost Rift sleeting<br />
particles of dust make the unseen visible. The Chinese have always known that spirits fill the air.<br />
The crew of the Silver Nightingale laugh at the tortuous routes Westerners take to avoid the Rift.<br />
They’re surprised, but they’re relieved when quiet Sung Li, the newest recruit, volunteers to pilot the<br />
ship.<br />
She watches the crew as they climb silently into the<br />
stasis pods. When they wake, they’ll imagine<br />
the feel of ghosts lingering on their<br />
skins. They will make<br />
loud, nervous<br />
jokes.<br />
Sung Li dresses in the<br />
captain’s uniform. She has travelled<br />
far from the factory slums of Neo Shanghai.<br />
She has risen like a leaping salmon from the swarms of<br />
her contemporaries. Sung Li has travelled a thousand light years from her childhood, and from her<br />
mother’s incessant encouragement.<br />
Sung Li watches the approaching Rift through the metal-glass window. She smoothes down the<br />
captain’s uniform, and she smiles. Sung Li has travelled far. She is looking forward to meeting the<br />
familiar look of her mother’s disapproval.<br />
Deborah Walker grew up in the most English town in the country, but she soon high-tailed it down to London, where<br />
she now lives with her partner, Chris, and her two young children. Find Deborah in the British Museum trawling the<br />
past for future inspiration. Her stories have appeared in Fantastic Stories of the Imagination, Nature’s Futures, Lady<br />
Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet and The Year’s Best SF 18 and have been translated into over a dozen languages.<br />
4
Blue Roses<br />
by Sierra July<br />
Mason pricked his finger on a rose and fell onto his back, panting. He was certain he’d enter into a<br />
coma like Sleeping Beauty. When sleep didn’t come, he studied his finger. Instead of a<br />
red blood pearl at its tip, there was a blue substance.<br />
Without thinking, he licked it. Blackness fell.<br />
It was Chloro who went in to dinner, sat with Mason’s<br />
parents, and chatted.<br />
Mason’s parents had never seen their son so<br />
talkative and imaginative.<br />
“What were you up to before dinner?” his mother<br />
asked. “I saw you playing in the garden.”<br />
“I wasn’t up to anything. As soon as I arrived, I<br />
came inside to learn about humans. I’ve only<br />
seen your species from a distance.”<br />
Mason’s father laughed. “Still in the middle of a<br />
game, huh? Sounds like you’re set for an Earth<br />
invasion.”<br />
Chloro nodded and went on talking.<br />
The parents laughed as he described dinosaurs and other extinct animals he’d seen since his birth.<br />
Detailed how he lived on soil, sun, and water. How he’d waited for a chance meeting with an<br />
organism with legs. The parents laughed on, not suspecting a thing.<br />
Sierra July is a University of Florida graduate, writer, and poet. Her fiction has appeared in Robot and Raygun, T.<br />
Gene Davis’s Speculative Blog, and SpeckLit, among other places, and is forthcoming in Belladonna Publishing’s<br />
Strange Little Girls anthology. She blogs at talestotellinpassing.blogspot.com.<br />
5
Regrets<br />
by Alison McBain<br />
I saw her hair first, the same color as the wind-blown clouds. She was<br />
wearing only a thin shift, and her skin glittered with a thousand liquid<br />
stars, as if she had just bathed in the lake behind her.<br />
She smiled over her shoulder at me, but before I could accept her<br />
invitation, I noticed something that sent a sudden chill up my<br />
back. Her fingers dipped below the surface of the water, but<br />
they caused no ripples in the lake.<br />
I’d never seen a kelpie before, but the villagers had piqued<br />
my curiosity with a warning about unexplained drownings<br />
—I’d not believed them until now.<br />
Glancing one last time at the most beautiful woman I<br />
had ever seen, I forced myself to turn away, my heart<br />
singing in agony. Her banshee shriek followed me all<br />
the way home and echoed through the many seasons<br />
that followed.<br />
Decades later, I still dream of her at night, even<br />
though I have never returned to the lake. I dream of<br />
her with regret, although it is not my only one.<br />
Twice, she broke my heart.<br />
I was born knowing the ways of the world, with a heart that<br />
could resist her malicious magic—an old man’s heart.<br />
I had a son, once. But… his heart was young.<br />
Alison McBain lives in Connecticut with her husband and three daughters. She has over thirty<br />
publications, including stories and poems in Flash Fiction Online, Abyss & Apex, and the<br />
anthology Frozen Fairy Tales. You can read her blog at alisonmcbain.com or chat with her on<br />
Twitter @AlisonMcBain.<br />
6
Those Three Days<br />
by Alex Creece<br />
Vitality slipped from his dark, calloused fingertips.<br />
Blueish, purpleish, and then grey. Stigmata once<br />
throbbing raw with rot blackened to an<br />
impenetrable void. His palms were a purgatory of<br />
coagulate crust. The eyes of the all-seer shrivelled<br />
upon the salvationless silhouette of the boulder<br />
which obstructed his portal to the next life.<br />
He was dead. Or dying. Or definitely, definitely<br />
dead.<br />
He stared at the boulder for hours on end,<br />
blinking less and less until he no longer felt the<br />
need to scrape his sleep-starved lids against eyes<br />
so dry and devoid of sight. Rocks and rubble<br />
etched secrets and scripture into his back, and<br />
eventually he was comfortable enough to settle<br />
into his Grotto of Eden as he awaited his exile into a<br />
new existence. His nerve endings had ruptured—their<br />
own rapture, perhaps—so he no longer felt the searing<br />
necrosis of his physical form, nor did he choke on the<br />
stench of his own decay. He welcomed rigor mortis<br />
eagerly, allowing it to exorcise him of a life left.<br />
A couple of days later, a crack of light seeped through<br />
the edge of the boulder. It caught his<br />
vacant eyes and singed his peeling flesh.<br />
But he remained staunch. He had found<br />
his way through days ago.<br />
Alex Creece [facebook.com] is made of dirt and determination. It’s the latter which laces her<br />
lungs with grit.<br />
7
y R.L. Black<br />
There is nothing permanent except change.<br />
~ Heraclitus<br />
Change is in the air. The Easter Holiday has<br />
just passed, and in the same spirit,<br />
what once was dead is now very much<br />
alive. Here in the states, we’ve<br />
weathered the winter, a kind of death,<br />
and spring has arrived. Trees are<br />
budding, flowers popping up out of the<br />
cold ground, birds singing. Nature has a<br />
story to tell us, if we listen closely<br />
enough. It’s a story of rebirth, of<br />
regeneration, of renewal, and the moral<br />
of the story seems to be that life goes on<br />
— and that change is good.<br />
We don’t always like change. We resist.<br />
Why? Because we’re afraid of the<br />
unknown. We don’t know what’s<br />
waiting for us on the other side of that<br />
change, and it torments us. We become<br />
like those “westerners” in Ghost Rift,<br />
taking “torturous routes … to avoid the<br />
Rift.” We dodge those rifts, those cracks<br />
in the world as we know it. We are<br />
creatures of habit, after all, and we like<br />
our feet on solid ground. We like to know<br />
where we stand.<br />
In Blue Roses, the parents are so focused on<br />
the normal, everyday world that they don’t<br />
see the out-of-this-world sitting right in<br />
front of them. They totally missed it. They<br />
refuse to even acknowledge that something<br />
has changed. The boy didn’t miss it. He saw<br />
something he’d never seen before, and he<br />
didn’t hesitate to explore. We’re left to<br />
wonder if the parents had missed other<br />
things, too. If they didn’t notice this huge<br />
shift right in front of them, had they been<br />
missing their son and all the tiny, daily<br />
differences, too? Were they refusing to see?<br />
Afraid of what those changes would mean<br />
to their lives?<br />
In Regrets, we see two different ways of<br />
approaching change. The son had a “young<br />
heart.” He saw the magic, and he gave<br />
himself to it. The father, on the<br />
other hand, let fear hold him back,<br />
and in the end, he’s left with only<br />
anguish, more haunting than any<br />
banshee shriek. Yes, maybe the son<br />
drowned, but wasn’t the father<br />
drowning in sorrow and regret the<br />
greater tragedy?<br />
the plunge<br />
How do you feel about change? When<br />
those rifts come your way, how do you<br />
react? Do you find yourself resisting?<br />
I wonder … if we were able somehow<br />
to let our guards down and trust a little<br />
more, maybe we’d find something<br />
magical ourselves? Probably not an<br />
alien invader or a kelpie, but<br />
something … perhaps even something<br />
extraordinary.<br />
The greatest change of all is faced in<br />
Those Three Days. Death. Steve Jobs<br />
called death “Life's change agent.”<br />
Death is the proverbial elephant in the<br />
room. Always hanging over our heads.<br />
The end of our physical lives is ultimately<br />
what we fear the most, isn’t it? Because,<br />
like all change, we don’t know what to<br />
expect. We don’t know how it’s gonna play<br />
out. We can have faith and believe that<br />
something wonderful is on the other side,<br />
but we won’t actually know until we get<br />
there. And that’s what makes change so<br />
damn scary.<br />
But if we can face those cracks that come<br />
our way, even when we’re scared, if we can<br />
go there bravely like Sung Li in Ghost Rift,<br />
I think we’d find our own way through, and<br />
who knows, we might discover on the other<br />
side, something not so unfamiliar after all.<br />
8
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