New Story Up! The Inside Joke
Hey all-
Blood, Blade and Thruster, the Magazine of Speculative Fiction and Satire, faces all the usual challenges of small press and internet periodicals, and one other, perhaps unique to the publication. My contest entry for the topic 'Conspiracy' explores one reason for this.
The Inside Joke
By Gregory Adams
Human mythology paints muses as willowy, feminine beings of grace and beauty, their soft voices trained upon the ears of a few fortunate mortals who take the inspiration given and make the world a brighter place.
This is not so. While the spirits that bring particular poetries and some musics may indeed be as described, those spirits that bring other inspirations are of a different cast, and a certain three- Horror, High Fantasy, Science Fiction (also known as Speculative, to his chagrin), are decidedly masculine and so alien in appearance as to share little with the benefactors of their gifts, the human beings.
High Fantasy, a creature of dragon’s scales and wizard’s guile, with a heart filled built of barren, stony lands and a mind awash with the primal seas that once wrapped the unfinished world in their cold embrace, looms over the others, fed to enormous size by the popularity he enjoys in 2007.
Science Fiction is smaller, less imposing, but still strong, a being of wires and steel and powered by the twin eternal engines of Hope and Despair. Although less well regarded in the 21st century than any would have expected, Science Fiction may outlive all the rest for he is rediscovered each day.
The less said about the appearance of Horror, the better, but he is present with the others.
The three have little in common, save one strong binding principle: they dislike being mocked.
Today they are joined by a fourth, who is bound to each of them, as he is to many other kinds of storytelling. His name is Irony, and he appears as you would least expect but still in a shape impossible not to recognize. He waits, silently, as is his habit, while the other three make their cases with deadly seriousness.
“I will not be mocked,” Science Fiction begins. “The twenty-first century should be MY time! Is it my fault that all that I promised did not come to pass, that the old guard- Clarke, and Asimov, even Gibson, were all too generous in the credit they gave these humans to realize potential? And now these mortals look to turn their own failures into mine! I’m seen with too little seriousness already, my once-proud following thin as an old man’s blood, and now this damnable small-press claptrap is hoping to build a fortune on mocking me?”
“They do,” says Irony. “Fellows raised at your android teat now want to strip you of your dignity. How delightful! How would you answer it?”
“I’ll poison them,” Science Fiction replies. “Radiation, bloodworms, pestilence, cancer- all the terrors or science gone wrong. A parasite in the ear, a cultivated virus in the lungs. All four will die and their work will end.”
“You fight like an old woman, poisoning in the night,” High Fantasy interrupts. “Now, when my castles and towers are at their highest, I would end them with direct action, bring fantastic war upon their heads, send trolls to eat their hearts and fey to steal their souls!”
“That’s much too vulgar a display of our power,” Horror says. “Let me end them- it is what I do, after all, what I am about. And I could do it without a touch- a simple inspiration that would be too horrible for their simple minds to encompass. It has worked before and could work again. I have the most to lose, after all. Where there is laughter, true horror cannot exist. My existence can be expunged by an inappropriate laugh. I didn’t survive all those terrible movie effect of the fifties and sixties to expire now at the hands of these poor comedians!”
And Irony listens, patiently, waiting for the perfect moment to give the perfect answer. ‘Really, my fellows!” he says with a brilliant smile. “The best way to slow or even end this disrespectful assault is to simply give these four what they want! These founders and editors and ‘blogmasters’” -the term is used with obvious distaste, and even Horror cringes at the word. “They wish to create something? Then let us help them with that.”
The three rise up as one, their rage matched only by their misunderstanding. “You would have us help them? Help Blood, Blade and Thruster mock Horror, Fantasy and Science Fiction?”
Irony grins even wider. It is most delicious when he goes at first misunderstood.
“I didn’t say that,” he replies. “I said help them create. And the greatest impediments to old ambitions are new ones. The burdens we suffer beneath most gladly are those we do not call burdens at all, because we have made them ourselves, and, indeed, view them with joy. And pride.”
“Pride and joy?” Fantasy asks, the light beginning to dawn.
“That’s right,” Irony said. “Let us give them children.”
The offended three lay back in full understanding and complete satisfaction, for they themselves had engendered countless offspring. “It’s perfect.” Fantasy says. “Birthing classes, doctor’s appointments, long visits with the grandparents-to-be, then the delivery, the diaper changes, late-night feedings, diapers by the hundreds, formula, more doctor appointments, worry over every cry or cough, then shopping for, and setting up and then paying for cribs, basinets, strollers, toys, blankets, those things that babies sit in and roll around the floor in, with the little plastic mobiles that hang from them-“
“Sit-and-step activity centers?” Irony offers kindly.
“Yes! Those things are nightmares to assemble!” Horror agrees.
“They won’t have a moment for the magazine or the website,” Science Fiction says. “And will be so joyful in the tasks of fatherhood that replace it, the very concept of small press will soon fade from their imaginations!”
“Give them babies!” Fantasy muses, shaking Irony’s hand with an enthusiastic grip. “It’s beyond my wildest imaginings,”
“Well, that’s what I do for a living,” Irony says as he rises from his chair. “Now if you will excuse me, I have to meet a staunchly anti-gay republican senator in an airport bathroom.” He smiles broadly at the thought. “Delicious!” he exclaims, and disappears.
The End
Blood, Blade and Thruster, the Magazine of Speculative Fiction and Satire, faces all the usual challenges of small press and internet periodicals, and one other, perhaps unique to the publication. My contest entry for the topic 'Conspiracy' explores one reason for this.
The Inside Joke
By Gregory Adams
Human mythology paints muses as willowy, feminine beings of grace and beauty, their soft voices trained upon the ears of a few fortunate mortals who take the inspiration given and make the world a brighter place.
This is not so. While the spirits that bring particular poetries and some musics may indeed be as described, those spirits that bring other inspirations are of a different cast, and a certain three- Horror, High Fantasy, Science Fiction (also known as Speculative, to his chagrin), are decidedly masculine and so alien in appearance as to share little with the benefactors of their gifts, the human beings.
High Fantasy, a creature of dragon’s scales and wizard’s guile, with a heart filled built of barren, stony lands and a mind awash with the primal seas that once wrapped the unfinished world in their cold embrace, looms over the others, fed to enormous size by the popularity he enjoys in 2007.
Science Fiction is smaller, less imposing, but still strong, a being of wires and steel and powered by the twin eternal engines of Hope and Despair. Although less well regarded in the 21st century than any would have expected, Science Fiction may outlive all the rest for he is rediscovered each day.
The less said about the appearance of Horror, the better, but he is present with the others.
The three have little in common, save one strong binding principle: they dislike being mocked.
Today they are joined by a fourth, who is bound to each of them, as he is to many other kinds of storytelling. His name is Irony, and he appears as you would least expect but still in a shape impossible not to recognize. He waits, silently, as is his habit, while the other three make their cases with deadly seriousness.
“I will not be mocked,” Science Fiction begins. “The twenty-first century should be MY time! Is it my fault that all that I promised did not come to pass, that the old guard- Clarke, and Asimov, even Gibson, were all too generous in the credit they gave these humans to realize potential? And now these mortals look to turn their own failures into mine! I’m seen with too little seriousness already, my once-proud following thin as an old man’s blood, and now this damnable small-press claptrap is hoping to build a fortune on mocking me?”
“They do,” says Irony. “Fellows raised at your android teat now want to strip you of your dignity. How delightful! How would you answer it?”
“I’ll poison them,” Science Fiction replies. “Radiation, bloodworms, pestilence, cancer- all the terrors or science gone wrong. A parasite in the ear, a cultivated virus in the lungs. All four will die and their work will end.”
“You fight like an old woman, poisoning in the night,” High Fantasy interrupts. “Now, when my castles and towers are at their highest, I would end them with direct action, bring fantastic war upon their heads, send trolls to eat their hearts and fey to steal their souls!”
“That’s much too vulgar a display of our power,” Horror says. “Let me end them- it is what I do, after all, what I am about. And I could do it without a touch- a simple inspiration that would be too horrible for their simple minds to encompass. It has worked before and could work again. I have the most to lose, after all. Where there is laughter, true horror cannot exist. My existence can be expunged by an inappropriate laugh. I didn’t survive all those terrible movie effect of the fifties and sixties to expire now at the hands of these poor comedians!”
And Irony listens, patiently, waiting for the perfect moment to give the perfect answer. ‘Really, my fellows!” he says with a brilliant smile. “The best way to slow or even end this disrespectful assault is to simply give these four what they want! These founders and editors and ‘blogmasters’” -the term is used with obvious distaste, and even Horror cringes at the word. “They wish to create something? Then let us help them with that.”
The three rise up as one, their rage matched only by their misunderstanding. “You would have us help them? Help Blood, Blade and Thruster mock Horror, Fantasy and Science Fiction?”
Irony grins even wider. It is most delicious when he goes at first misunderstood.
“I didn’t say that,” he replies. “I said help them create. And the greatest impediments to old ambitions are new ones. The burdens we suffer beneath most gladly are those we do not call burdens at all, because we have made them ourselves, and, indeed, view them with joy. And pride.”
“Pride and joy?” Fantasy asks, the light beginning to dawn.
“That’s right,” Irony said. “Let us give them children.”
The offended three lay back in full understanding and complete satisfaction, for they themselves had engendered countless offspring. “It’s perfect.” Fantasy says. “Birthing classes, doctor’s appointments, long visits with the grandparents-to-be, then the delivery, the diaper changes, late-night feedings, diapers by the hundreds, formula, more doctor appointments, worry over every cry or cough, then shopping for, and setting up and then paying for cribs, basinets, strollers, toys, blankets, those things that babies sit in and roll around the floor in, with the little plastic mobiles that hang from them-“
“Sit-and-step activity centers?” Irony offers kindly.
“Yes! Those things are nightmares to assemble!” Horror agrees.
“They won’t have a moment for the magazine or the website,” Science Fiction says. “And will be so joyful in the tasks of fatherhood that replace it, the very concept of small press will soon fade from their imaginations!”
“Give them babies!” Fantasy muses, shaking Irony’s hand with an enthusiastic grip. “It’s beyond my wildest imaginings,”
“Well, that’s what I do for a living,” Irony says as he rises from his chair. “Now if you will excuse me, I have to meet a staunchly anti-gay republican senator in an airport bathroom.” He smiles broadly at the thought. “Delicious!” he exclaims, and disappears.
The End