Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine - Issue 33.pdf - Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine - allforjesus2001

Issue #33 RRP $8.95

ORIGINAL FICTION BY:

Alex Cohen

Richard S Crawford

Larry E Ferrill

Loïc Henry

Jeff Parish

Regina Patton

Simon Petrie

Sarah Totton

ANDROMEDA SPACEWAYS Inflight Magazine

VOL. 6/ISSUE 3

ISSUE 33

FICTION

IBuriedElvis. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . LarryFerrill

Dreadneck. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . JeffParish

AMostHeinousMan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . RichardSCrawford

CeladonGreen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . LoïcHenry

TheRising. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . AlexCohen

TheStoneMan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .SarahTotton

SixSubliminals. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .SimonPetrie

TheDerby. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ReginaPatton

Dragonblog. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .SimonPetrie

SPECIAL FEATURES

BruceBoston:FlashingtheDark . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . MichaelLohr

StateoftheArt:Nanotechnology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . DirkFlinthart

REGULAR FEATURES

Authorbiographies

Acknowledgements

Editor, Issue 33

Edwina Harvey

Andromeda Spaceways Publishing Co-op Ltd

c/- Simon Haynes, PO Box 127, Belmont, Western

Australia, 6984 (subscriptions only)

http://www.andromedaspaceways.com

Published bimonthly by Andromeda Spaceways Publishing

Co-op. RRP A$8.95. Subscription rates are are available

from the website.

Andromeda Spaceways Publishing Co-op actively encourages

literary and artistic contributions. Submissions should be

made online by emailing:

asimsubmissions@gmail.com

Submission guidelines are available from the website. Please

read them.

ISSN 1446–781X

Assistant Editor

Lucy Zinkiewicz

Editor-in-chief

Robbie Matthews

Layout

Zara Baxter

Subscriptions

Simon Haynes

Advertising

Tehani Wessely

Cover Art

Eleanor Clarke

Ed’sItorial

...Edwina Harvey

I’d like to open this issue of Andromeda Spaceways Inlight Magazine

with a string of ‘Thank-you’s.

Firstly I’d like to acknowledge the hard work and dedication that

Tehani Wessely and Zara Baxter contribute to the Andromeda

Spaceways Inlight Magazine cooperative.

I’d also like to thank my two sub-editors for this issue: Sue

Bursztynski, who also helped me out in her capacity as our Art

Director, and Lucy Zinkiewicz. It was a pleasure to work with both of

these ladies. My thanks also to the great artists I’ve been able to use in

this issue. All three of them have done a stunning job. And the authors

have all been very good to work with as well.

I acted like a ilter-feeder in selecting many of the stories in this issue

of ASIM. If a story passed my eyes in the slush reading stage and I

liked it, I grabbed it without knowing who the author was until later.

That’s how I managed to select not one but *two* works from Simon

Petrie. After the second one, I decided I wasn’t selecting anymore

stories without knowing who the author was irst, to avoid pulling a

Simon Petrie hat trick! As past issues of ASIM will testify, Simon is

not only a proliic writer, but a very good one.

I hope you all enjoy the ride with this issue.

Edwina Harvey.

IBuriedElvis

…Larry Ferrill

I never been much for art, but here at the institution they let us surf the teleweb,

and one day I came across a painting from someone named Francis Bacon that

caught my eye. It’s called Three Studies for a Portrait Including Self-Portrait, 1969 ,

right panel. The fella in the painting’s got a forehead like a caveman, and a face

like Mr. Potato Head after a meltdown in a microwave. But you can still make out

some of his features, just enough to see the outlines of an Elvissy face.

I like that painting, cause it reminds me of my friend from the carnival, the first

friend I ever had and maybe the last: Aron Love.

Then there’s another Francis Bacon painting, called Self-Portrait II, 1972 .

Androgynous albino with a fishbowl head, peering out from behind a dark corner

with bruised eyes and a bulging jawbone.

I’d swear that’s a portrait of me.

Aron and me shared an apartment in one of the six three-story roach ranches

at the west end of the carnival grounds, on the other side of a rusted chain-link

fence. The apartments once housed low-income families, and the four-acre lot

next door was a Turbo-Kart course, till Victor Hagen bought both properties on the

cheap and converted them into his American Classic Carnival. “Just down the road

from Graceland,” according to our ads, though it’s actually thirty miles south of

that mecca, and on a different road altogether. Hagen filled the lot with carnival

booths and tents, and used the apartments to house the talent: Longhand, Gator

Maid, Horseface, Trunk-8, Pignose, Goldipox, Jacko Lantern, Ratgrrrl.

The carnival, however, had been put on hold when Aron finally made his debut

performance. Hagen had stripped down all the tents, except for a small one that

housed the control board. That left nothing on the four-acre lot but Aron’s stage,

the grandstands, and a roaring sea of people.

To the east, Hagen had bought the neighboring shopping center and leveled it

for additional parking. On the west side, the chain-link fence still stood, and sitting

behind it were all the freaks whose freak shows had been canceled, surveying

Aron’s standing-room audience with jealous eyes.

I watched nearly the whole show from our apartment, on my teleweb screen.

Wasn’t until the show neared its end, and the audience started cheering for an

encore, that I turned for the window.

The rifle was somehow just lying on the floor. Don’t even remember putting it

there.

Larry Ferrill

It was one half of a set that used to belong to Scarecrow, who’d brought them

with him — scopes and all — when he signed on with the carnival three years before.

Scarecrow was a miscreated Jack Nicholson, or maybe Marlon Brando or Dennis

Hopper — one of those actors who played wigged-out characters in the late twentieth

century, I can never keep them straight. We called him Scarecrow cause he was as

light as a straw man and had a face that looked like it’d been pecked all over by

crows. On stage, Scarecrow always made a grand entrance. He’d burst through a

particleboard door with an axe, stick his head through the hole and say, “Heeere’s

Johnny.” Which, I guess, is something one of those wigged-out characters once said in

a movie. Most of the audience never got the reference, but half of them laughed and

half of them screamed, so either way, they got their money’s worth.

Scarecrow and me were roommates back then, but we weren’t friends. I was

manual labor; he was talent, and like all the rest of the performers, he never let me

forget my place. And he was always teasing me, telling me I needed to grow a pair

— balls or boobs, take my pick. On nights when he got cozy with Jack Daniels, his

teasing could turn violent, so I’d sneak out of the apartment and hide away until he

passed out or sobered up.

But he was the one who taught me to shoot. He needed ammo, and I agreed to

sneak it onto the monthly purchase order with all the other supplies, in exchange for

shooting lessons. Target practice out by the dumpsters, after hours. I knew I had no

business with a gun in my hands, but I have to admit I like the way it felt. The power.

And when Scarecrow died of pneumonia a year later, I kept the rifles for myself.

I knelt by the window and cradled the rifle, settled under it and stared down the

scope at the stage.

Same old wooden platform we’d always used. Wide-open, except for the beams

that anchored the red canvas roof. Backstage was just as open as the front, with two

guards parked at each corner and an armored limo purring a few feet away.

Directly behind the platform stood two people: Nicholas Jacinto and his wife, Niki.

They were both decked out in helmets and silver dragline jumpsuits. Part of me hoped

Jacinto would stay inside his protective suit for the remainder of the show, and part

of me hoped he wouldn’t.

The part of me that hoped he wouldn’t swiveled the scope toward the man, took

aim and waited.

I first met Jacinto nearly a year before, though I didn’t know at the time who he

was.

It was early December, the day after Aron arrived at the carnival, and I was headed

for the storage room, which was inside a white concrete building that used to be a

maintenance shack for the apartment complex. We used the back room for storage,

but you could only get to it through the front, where Hagen’s office was located.

As I reached the building, I noticed a black terror-proof limo parked out front. I

peeked into the tinted windows, but saw only my own face peering back. Immediately,

I turned away, marched to the office door, jiggled the knob and found it locked.

I banged on the door.

“Come back later,” Hagen growled.

Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine - Issue 33.pdf

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