From the Indie Side Read online

  No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without the proper written permission of the appropriate copyright owner listed below, unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal and international copyright law. Permission must be obtained from the individual copyright owners as identified herein.

  The stories in this book are fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead; to any place, past or present; or to any thing, animal, vegetable, or mineral; is purely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Foreword: Indie and Proud copyright © 2013 by Hugh Howey. Used by permission of the author.

  “The Winter Lands” by Jason Gurley. Copyright © 2013 by Jason Gurley. Used by permission of the author.

  “Going Gray” by Brian Spangler. Copyright © 2013 by Brian Spangler. Used by permission of the author.

  “Queen Joanna” by Kate Danley. Copyright © 2013 by Kate Danley. Used by permission of the author.

  “Mouth Breathers” by Hugh Howey. Copyright © 2013 by Hugh Howey. Used by permission of the author.

  “The Man With Two Legs” by Ernie Lindsey. Copyright © 2013 by Ernie Lindsey. Used by permission of the author.

  “Cipher” by Sara Foster. Copyright © 2013 by Sara Foster. Used by permission of the author.

  “Made of Stars” by Anne Frasier/Theresa Weir. Copyright © 2012 by Theresa Weir. First published by Theresa Weir in 2013. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Gyre~Witchery” by Kev Heritage. Copyright © 2013 by Kev Heritage. Used by permission of the author.

  “The War Veteran” by Susan May. Copyright © 2013 by Susan May. Used by permission of the author.

  “The Greater Good” by Mel Hearse. Copyright © 2013 by Mel Hearse. Used by permission of the author.

  “REDOUBT” by Michael Bunker. Copyright © 2013 by Michael Bunker. Used by permission of the author.

  “The Man Who Remembered Today” by Peter Cawdron. Copyright © 2013 by Peter Cawdron. Used by permission of the author.

  Edited by David Gatewood (www.lonetrout.com)

  Cover art and design by Jason Gurley (www.jasongurley.com)

  Print and ebook formatting by Stewart Stonger (www.nourishingdays.com/contact/hire-us/)

  From The Indie Side

  SUSAN MAY

  Copyright © 2013 by Susan May

  Smashwords Edition

  To all who chart their own paths,

  Make time to pursue their dreams,

  And let nothing stand in their way

  STORY SYNOPSES

  The Winter Lands (Jason Gurley) [United States]

  Jonathan Froestt lives alone in a retirement home. His family is gone. His friends are all dead. For over sixty years, he has been writing a novel, the pages collecting in his apartment in stacks. Nobody has ever read it. Until today.

  Going Gray (Brian Spangler) [United States]

  When their community is engulfed by a deadly, caustic fog, sixteen-year-old Emily and her family decide to escape to the one building they can think of that might be able to withstand the fog’s corrosive force: the shopping mall. But a trip to the mall has never been so desperate, or so terrifying.

  Queen Joanna (Kate Danley) [United States]

  Thrust into a loveless marriage of state, Queen Joanna soon discovers her new palace is home to many dark secrets. And when a face in the mirror confronts her with a dire warning, she realizes her life is at risk. Has she awakened a curse—or been struck by madness? “Queen Joanna” presents a haunting twist on the legend of Bloody Mary.

  Mouth Breathers (Hugh Howey) [United States]

  Moving to a new town, starting off at a new school, meeting new kids... it's never easy. And it only gets harder when the new town and the new school and the new kids are on a different planet. But sometimes, something happens that makes it worth all the trouble.

  The Man With Two Legs (Ernie Lindsey) [United States]

  Many winters ago, the man with two legs managed to escape the oppressive maiming rituals of Tritan’s government. Now he stands on a hillside overlooking the city, a bomb in his rucksack, determined to bring about two impossible results: his mother’s rescue and freedom for his people.

  Cipher (Sara Foster) [Australia]

  When Beatrice leaves her family behind to visit her father, she never imagines she might not see them again. But then a bomb goes off close to home, and Beatrice must rely on a stranger’s help to find out what’s happened—and whether or not her husband and children have survived.

  Made of Stars (Anne Frasier) [United States]

  A genius vampire named Sinclair creates an alternate world where vampires can experience a traditional human life of love, marriage, and children. Sixteen-year-old Gabriel is Sinclair’s beta tester and volunteers to fall in love with a coffee-shop girl. But when the pain of love becomes overwhelming, Gabriel questions his decision. “It’s too real,” he tells Sinclair. “You made it too real.”

  Gyre-Witchery (Kev Heritage) [United Kingdom]

  All Tam wanted was to be loved. Was that so hard? Made outcast because of her green eyes—the sign of witchery—Tamina, a well-meaning simpleton, is shunned by a superstitious people who blame her for the ills that have overtaken their small island. It was not her fault that she put on weight while the others starved, or that wild animals slunk at her side, or that men and women both desired and despised her. But change was coming, brought upon the back of a terrifying squall…

  The War Veteran (Susan May) [Australia]

  For seventy years, World War II veteran Jack Baker has endured vivid flashbacks to that horrific June day on Omaha Beach. But tonight, the flashback will be terrifyingly different. Tonight it becomes real. Tonight, Jack’s seventy-year-old secret will come back to claim him.

  The Greater Good (Mel Hearse) [Australia]

  When Lanie wakes up in a hospital bed with no idea how she got there, she tries desperately to work out why she was on the old loop road that’s been all but abandoned by the locals. Thinking there must be an obvious answer, Lanie leaves no stone unturned in her quest for an explanation. But when all is revealed, she is left with only one question—and no good answers.

  REDOUBT (Michael Bunker) [United States]

  Phillip is a militia commander who has planned for a decade to defend the pacifist Vallenses of Central Texas with his army if ever the world tips over and goes to hell. He never thought he’d be on a skiing trip to New Mexico when the end comes.

  The Man Who Remembered Today (Peter Cawdron) [Australia]

  Kareem wakes with a headache. A bloody bandage wrapped around his head tells him this isn’t just another day in the Big Apple. The problem is, he can’t remember what happened to him. He can’t recall anything from yesterday. The only memories he has are from events that are about to unfold today, and today is no ordinary day.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Foreword

  The Winter Lands (Jason Gurley)

  Going Gray (Brian Spangler)

  Queen Joanna (Kate Danley)

  Mouth Breathers (Hugh Howey)

  The Man With Two Legs (Ernie Lindsey)

  Cipher (Sara Foster)

  Made of Stars (Anne Frasier)

  Gyre~Witchery (Kev Heritage)

  The War Veteran (Susan May)

  The Greater Good (Mel Hearse)

  REDOUBT (Michael Bunker)

  The Man Who Remembered Today (Peter Cawdron)

  A Word From The Editor

  Q&A

  Author Websites

  Foreword: Indie and Proud

  by Hugh Howey

  I am an ind
ie author. I am a self-publisher. I create my own books.

  Just a few years ago, these words might’ve been uttered as sheepish admission. Today, they are just as likely to be spoken with pride. With the advent of e-books and the rise of print-on-demand technology, the cost of producing and distributing the written word has plummeted practically to zero. This has brought about a revolution in the book industry and has given rise to self-publishing as a viable option for aspiring authors. I feel extremely lucky to have been writing at this moment in history. Not since Gutenberg’s refinement of the printing press has the publishing industry undergone such swift and sweeping change. It has overturned what it once meant to be an independent author.

  Other artistic mediums have long welcomed their indie counterparts. In the film and music industries, the indie is often lionized. Indie bands and indie labels take risks and bend the rules; they push the boundaries of acceptance and create new and exciting sounds. It’s the same with indie filmmakers, who create small-budget masterpieces that win awards at the most important film festivals. There is often a sense of disappointment among fans when these musicians and filmmakers move on to larger labels and studios, where the hiss and crackle of authenticity gives way to house style, and creative risk-taking is discouraged in lieu of “safe” investments.

  There will soon come a day when indie authors will be held in that same regard. One of the defining moments of my writing career was the day I sat in a boardroom at one of the mightiest publishers in the world and had to weigh the decision whether to sign my work over to a major publisher. When asked how awesome it would feel to tell people that I was now with such an august house as this, I realized I would need to be compensated for giving up the right to say that I was self-published. I admitted that such an honor would cost the publisher dearly.

  Perhaps I was getting ahead of myself, but I truly believed that this was true. And I believe it will become more and more true for future writers. There is no shame in producing your own material, in breaking the rules, in writing along the edge of convention and between the boundaries of genre. There is nothing but honor there.

  I don’t begrudge how anyone publishes, but for me, the advantages of being independent far outweigh the disadvantages. I own my work. I write what I want. I have a direct relationship with my readers. My work is a passion and not a job. I pour my heart and soul into what I write, and I don’t expect compensation. I expect nothing. I write because that’s who I am.

  When I read indie fiction, this authenticity oozes from the page. I encounter styles and genres that I didn’t know existed. I hear voices that are alien to me. And when I come across a new talent that lifts my imagination, there’s the thrill of discovery I used to get from hearing local bands that rocked out small venues, the excitement of seeing a film at an art house that no one else was talking about. These were my people. I discovered them. And I couldn’t wait to share this discovery with others.

  You are about to sample some unique and talented voices for yourself. So sit back and enjoy the ride. When it’s over, just think about how many other adventures await, how many unknown authors are out there, fully independent, bending the rules while creating something extraordinary and new. There are more every day, proud to be indie, and just waiting to be discovered. Maybe by you.

  Hugh Howey

  January 2014

  He has had the coat for many years. It is long and made of wool and is the color of rust, with a faint herringbone pattern and smooth wooden buttons. It doesn’t quite match his winter cap, but he doesn’t mind. The earflaps keep his sagging ears warm, and the sheepskin lining hides his thinning hair and pale, spotted scalp. He wears ancient gloves, the leather softened by time, and grips a gnarled wooden cane in one trembling hand.

  He moves slowly, drawing stares as he makes his way down the street. The crowds bustle around him in cargo shorts and flip-flops and T-shirts. He pays them no mind. He is not interested in their darkening suntans, their glistening skin, the beads of perspiration on their necks. He doesn’t notice that people watch him.

  The warm spell of the last few weeks has not broken. The old man plods on, oblivious to the heat. Sweat trickles down his brow and collects in his unruly white eyebrows. It seeps into the deep creases of his tired face, as if sweat has carved those grooves over the decades. His breath comes in slow shudders. His body is curved like a comma, his shoulders high and round, his head tucked low. He can barely lift his eyes to see more than a few steps ahead.

  It takes him nearly two hours to hobble to the bookstore. A streetcar runs along the avenue between the shop and the old man’s home, a small studio apartment in a retirement community, but he has never trusted public transportation more than his own two feet, no matter how much they ache. He barely notices the pain anymore.

  The bookstore is older than he is, a stack of bricks that will soon be empty. It has been marked for destruction in just a few weeks. A notice, posted by the city, identifies the building as structurally unsound—an unreinforced masonry building that may be unsafe during earthquakes. The old man hasn’t felt an earthquake in these parts in—well, in his entire life. The building predates the war, was in fact heavily damaged by shelling, and clumsily repaired. Over the years its walls have begun to lean, just like the old man himself.

  To bid farewell to the bookshop’s grand legacy, its current owner—the great-grandson of the shop’s founder—has scheduled a week-long parade of author readings. Celebrated writers from all over the world have come to the old man’s little borough to read from classic novels, or their own new releases. In the gaps between these high-profile appearances on the schedule, the owner has scheduled open-mic readings, inviting the public to come and enjoy the opportunity to read their unpublished works in the historic shop before it disappears forever.

  The old man clutches his cane in one hand and a sheaf of pages in the other. The papers are yellowed and old, grown thin with age. They crackle, tied into a bundle with twine. He has brought only a few pages—a dozen, no more—and has not given any thought to whether his voice will permit him to read even that much. He has nobody to talk to anymore, and has never made a habit of talking to himself, so his voice is sometimes quiet for weeks on end.

  At the shop, a slim young woman spies him struggling with the door and rushes to help him.

  “Oh, let me assist you,” she says.

  “Thank you,” he says, and his voice is not so haggard. It sounds like rocks in a tumbler, but it is clear enough, and even a little sonorous.

  She notices the papers in his hand. “Are you here for the readings?”

  He nods. He cannot see her face—it pains him to lift his neck so high, and he feels a bit like an old lech, for this puts his eyes level with her breasts. She does not seem to notice, however, and he follows her pointed finger toward the back of the shop.

  It has been hollowed out for the event, the shelves pushed to the wall to make room for fifty or sixty aluminum folding chairs. A velvet rope separates the gallery from the rest of the shop, and a felt signboard reports that the Heisel reading has just ended, and that the open readings will commence at four o’clock.

  He pauses beside the sign and pushes the cuff of his coat away from his wrist. The bulky watch beneath reads 3:44.

  The young woman appears at his side again. He does so wish he could see her face.

  “May I help you to a seat?” she asks him.

  He allows her the kindness, and she seats him in the front row—near the aisle, he suspects, so that he will be easy to attend to if he should suddenly die. Sudden expiration is a necessary consideration these days, and he takes care to always wear clean shorts, just in case.

  She holds his elbow as he lowers himself into the chair with a long sigh, then crouches delicately at his knees.

  “Can I bring you some water?” she asks him.

  He knows what he must look like to her. He can feel the thin line of sweat over his ribs, the dampness of the loose skin beneath hi
s jaw and chin, behind his ears. His eyebrows are wet, and some of the sweat has sponged out of the wiry white hair onto the bridge of his glasses. A single drop slides down the glass, and he almost crosses his eyes focusing on it.

  “Water,” he says, “would be very kind.”

  She goes and returns a moment later with a paper cup, and pats his hand.

  “Can I take your coat?” she asks him. “It’s very warm out.”

  “But cool in here,” he says. “No, thank you. I’ll keep it.”

  “If you need a thing—” she begins.

  He nods. “Thank you.”

  He settles into the chair, shifting this way and that until he is reasonably comfortable, and waits. He puts the water cup, untouched, on the seat beside him, then tucks his chin to his chest and closes his eyes.

  * * *

  His name is Jonathan Froestt.

  In the fall of 1958, after sending away hundreds of copies of a short story in a plain yellow envelope, and receiving hundreds of polite—and a few quite rude—rejection letters, he sold his first and only short story to a pulp magazine called Fantastic Wonderful Tales. The story was entitled “The Forgotten Winter Lands.” The magazine’s editor, a patient old fellow by the name of Abraham Gendry, had accepted the story “despite its rudimentary properties,” as he wrote.

  “Your tale is both fantastic and wonderful,” Gendry had written, “though your writing, sadly, is neither. It’s nothing a little editing won’t fix.”