Bedtime story
I've just submitted the last assignment for my creative writing course. Fantasy this time (my choice), with the twist that you have to research the market and make believe you're sending it off to a magazine.
The Road to Hell is Paved with Outsourcing and Accountancy
by Gaby Lyons
2,000 words
‘Keep your mind on your work, young Thomas.’ Jude has a way looming unexpectedly over a scribe, as if conjured from between the shoulder blades by the sound of a straying quill. He says it keeps him from blocking your light. ‘Inattention just cost you seven more years in purgatory.’
‘Then I pray to spend all seven of them thanking Christ, who spared me from eternal fires, Brother. And watching spiny devils turn you on a spit.’
Jude’s smile crinkles to convey compassion sorely tried by youth. ‘I labour without respite, and my customer satisfaction rating is flawless. I don’t anticipate being sent to purgatory.’
That, decides Tom, has got to be worth a good few years for pride and vainglory-possibly heresy too. A cheering thought, but best left unvoiced. He can see the mistake now: he went from confitemini illi (give thanks unto Him) straight to quoniam suavis est Dominus (for the Lord is gracious). The lettering is perfect, and it makes sense, but Brother Jude-in spite of his squint-sees all. So now Tom has to squeeze laudate nomen eius (praise His name) in between the lines.
‘I thought it was one year per missed word.’ He can’t resist arguing, though Jude is the abbey’s expert in penitential accountancy.
‘Double for Holy Scripture. And another for missing an opportunity to praise the Lord. Indeed, I fear the penalty may increase if your carelessness distracts an executive from his or her devotions.’
Better leave it uncorrected, then, thinks Thomas. Rumour has it, many executives can’t read Latin, and the rest rarely bother. They just want lots of burnished gold leaf, hand crafting, finest vellum (or vegetarian vellum replacement, if specified), produced in the traditional, entertainingly colourful manner by authentic United Kingdom monks.
‘However, let us not count sins yet uncommitted,’ says Brother Jude, perhaps reflecting on similar lines. ‘Else your stay in purgatory may extend to the Last Judgement.’
Overkill, Tom remembers belatedly, is the way to deal with Brother Jude. ‘I shall endeavour to make the insertion as supportive of devotion as my feeble efforts can contrive. Perhaps the missing words could appear on a banner, borne by winged seraphim in the margin.’
Jude, satisfied, slithers away to some other poor sod, and Tom spends an enjoyable afternoon applying cinnabar and ultramarine to the eighteen wings of a trio of seraphim. Lower down, for good measure, he adds a little monkey scribe with tonsure and quill. The monkey’s customer satisfaction rating is poor: a lizard-like demon is beating him with a flail and enough enthusiasm to spatter blood onto the acanthus leaf border. His furry face is bowed with shame and misery-and so no-one but Tom can see he has a squint.
Tom’s work on luxury executive psalters goes on for months, (the abbey having secured a contract with a Californian software company), and his covert war with Brother Jude rumbles on. Nothing marks the incident of the seraphim and the penitential monkey as especially memorable or significant until, one sleety February morning, he is summoned by the abbot.
‘This message concerns psalters despatched to California. You recall the order, I trust?’
Tom keeps his eyes downcast, grateful for the deep pile rug that cushions his knees from the granite flags. It’s not the only thing tempering the austerity of the abbot’s vast, oak panelled office. The message is on flimsy industrial paper of a kind rarely seen in the Kingdom. Tom suspects the printer that produced it is in a compartment under the abbot’s desk, screened by confession-box latticework of the kind that conceals and ventilates the scriptorium’s dehumidifier.
‘Indeed, Father. Forty-seven of our finest. Do they want more?’
‘If they do, you’ll hear from Brother Jude. But I’ve summoned you, Thomas. Why?’
‘I cannot guess, Father.’ A strictly truthful man would add ‘without incriminating myself.’ Tom is not strict.
‘Improbable-and ill-advised-as it might seem, the client wishes to meet you. There’s a coach waiting.’
‘Thank you, Father.’ Thomas kisses the abbot’s ring, and leaves, trying not to think about frying pans and fires.
Worn over broadcloth trousers, Tom’s brown hooded robe makes a useful coat-cum-blanket. The journey to Oxford takes two days rattling around in the coach and one night in a sullen staging inn. The client, starting from California, will do it in a few hours.
It’s dusk when Tom knocks at the porter’s lodge of Magdalene, the abbey’s sister foundation. His guest room is small and clean (less small and more clean than his cell in the abbey). Tucked behind the crucifix is a note-industrial paper again-instructing him to meet someone called Nico for lunch at the Overseas Contact Centre.
Tom half expects to be turned away, or possibly arrested, but the wardens run their scanners over him with no flicker of interest, then clip a band of some shiny, flexible, purple substance round his wrist. The lettering is nothing more exotic than Roman characters, albeit styled for print, not pen: ‘PUBLIC BAR ONLY.’
‘Door on the left,’ says one of the wardens, clearly impatient to get back to chatting with his colleague. There are other doors, but not for Tom’s use. The wardens there are less burly-one looks like Sister Catherine-but armed with what Tom knows are guns, though he’s never seen a real one before.
He’d been wondering how to identify Nico, but the public bar has only one customer, who gets to his feet waving and smiling as soon as Tom opens the door.
‘Brother Thomas from Saint Dunstan’s, huh? Good to meet you! Nico from Diligence Systems. Been travelling all week, eh? Bet you could use a beer! You hungry? Shall we eat right away?’
Tom smiles and nods, partly because he couldn’t get a word in if he tried, partly because he’s terrified, but mostly because he reasons he’d better grab what he can before punishment descends.
The subdued light plays on the grey fabric of Nico’s business suit like sunshine through oak woods. Is that what silk is?
‘Good beef, huh?’
More nodding. Monks at the abbey eat better than the villagers, but this is feast-day food: slabs of meat, pudding and vegetables, crunchy and glossy with good fat.
‘Eat while you can, eh?’
Tom’s jaw stills in dread, but Nico chatters on. ‘What is it, Thursday? Seven days before Lent. Then it’s beans and sustainably sourced fish for six weeks.’
‘The abbey has a fish pond,’ says Tom, feeling he should contribute while his mouth is free. ‘But mostly we get beans. Or turnips.’
Afterwards, Nico orders coffee for himself, ‘And a large portion of your highest calorie dessert for my guest.’
Tom has no idea what a calorie is. It doesn’t look as though the barmaid knows either.
‘Your most indulgent, pre-Lenten gluttony,’ Nico explains.
‘Ah! Sounds like a case for the hot double-chocolate fudge, sticky banoffee, triple-decker, cream torte sundae.’ Anyone would think people came in here every day and paid for young monks to commit mortal sins. Perhaps they do. ‘With marshmallow granita sprinkles and a cherry on top.’
The abbey has nothing like this! It’s a while before Tom slows down enough for conversation.
‘These all your work?’ Nico pushes rectangles of fine, glossy parchment-no, card-across the table.
Clearly there’s been a mistake. Just as well Tom ate most of his dinner before they found out.
But the images on the strange rectangles are his! The blood-spattered penitent monkey; the jousting snails; the masturbating shepherd; the wolf in black Dominican robes savaging a white sheep; sheep entrails dangling from capitals all across the double page.
‘Mine,’ he admits (for denial doesn’t seem viable), ‘but not where I drew them.’
‘Sure! These are scanned from the psalters-copied by machines. It’s standard technology back home. Practically carbon neutral too, not that you’d know about that, eh?’
Tom’s not sure he knows about anything.
‘This is great work,’ Nico assures him. ‘We were real impressed. So impressed we want you to come work for Diligence on a different project.’
‘Leave the abbey?’
‘If you accept.’
Tom’s mother signed him to the abbey as soon as his literacy aptitude scores came through. It was too good to pass up, she’d said. His escape from misery. Patchy memories of life at home suggest she was right.
‘Work in California? On manuscripts? Or…’ His drawings on cards he’s never seen, industrial paper, printers, guns, calories, carbon… ‘How different?’
‘Yay! Straight to the big one. Praise the Lord!’ Nico tugs at spotless cuffs, sips coffee, visibly composing his answer. ‘Quicker to say what’s the same: you’d get to draw all the crazy, quirky stuff you can dream up. Not to say you could always do just as you please, but we want you because you rock at the weird stuff.’ He flaps the rectangles. ‘So you can bet you’ll do plenty of that. You can even use pigments, ink, gold-heck, we’ll give you parchment if you want! Don’t suppose you will, once you see the alternative, but if you do, that’s dandy. We’ll just scan it.’
‘You want marginalia.’ It’s impossible, but Tom says it anyway.
Nico nods confirmation.
‘And texts?’
‘That’s where the differences start. Manuscript production stays in the PIRs, where it’s cost effective-Pre-Industrial Reservations.’ Nico waves an arm to encompass the public bar, Oxford, England, the whole Kingdom and realms beyond. ‘In California, we make software. It’s a little hard to imagine if you’ve never seen it, but all you really need to know is pictures come up on a screen instead of a page. You can play around, make ’em big, make ’em small, change the colours, stick the legs from one on the body of another, make ’em scurry about…’
‘Make pictures move?’
‘Yup. We call it animation.’ Nico pulls a scrappy little book from his pocket and shows Tom drawings of a dog, slightly changed from page to page. He flicks the pages, and the dog runs!
Tom’s mouth hangs open. Sundae drips unnoticed from his spoon.
‘Software does it way better,’ says Nico. ‘I just carry this to give the general idea.’
Tom wants to go to California and make software. But he can’t speak.
‘Thing is, Diligence Systems doesn’t just make PrayerWare. We want you for what we call a niche market, a select group of customers with specialist tastes and the money to indulge them. Wealthy sinners, to put it bluntly. I’ll tell you what I can, quick as I can, then you get to choose: new life in California, or back to the abbey and tell no-one. Got it?’
Tom nods. Again.
‘These customers want recreational software-pure fun with no moral, spiritual, or educational purpose. Just little animated critters running round collecting stuff, maybe in a maze, or jumping on clouds. They like their critters quirky, and they’ll pay for you to make ’em quirkier than the competition. Sometimes they shoot other critters and their brains get splattered-you have a knack for that, I can see. Other times, it’s just racing and grabbing coins. Either way, it’s a whole bunch of mortal sins: sloth, pride, envy, wrath, lust if you’re lucky. Church says you’d go straight to Hell. Does that bother you?’
‘Not enough to stop me.’
‘Good man! Jude said you had spunk, but I never count my deals until they’re done. Now, if you’ll just sign right here, and here, we can have you in Saint Francistown in time for Carnival.’
‘Brother Jude works for Diligence Systems?’
‘Sure! Man’s a great talent scout. Knows how to sound people out without showing his hand.’
‘But…’ Jude’s accountancy of sin; the relentless totting up of errors and penalties… Out of habit, Tom waves the paper to dry it, but Nico’s pen doesn’t use that kind of ink.
‘Does he still tell people he ain’t bound for Purgatory? He loved that line.’
‘Oh, yes. We’re all headed for umpteen decades of purifying flames-but not Brother Jude.’
‘Hey, now you know why. He’s booked direct business class to Hell, just like me. You too, now. But on the way, we get to save Princess Zelda, battle Pokémon, and slay zombies in Racoon City.’
‘Can you slay zombies?’ Tom has regained some basic theology along with his confidence.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll show you on the plane.’
Aeroplane. Tom’s teeth ache from cold sundae, but he bares them in a broad grin. He’s going to Hell, but he’s flying there, through the sky.
2088 words
Commentary
Preliminaries
My story-length drafts were too long. My sketches fell into three categories: historical, contemporary, and fantasy. I was working on a contemporary story for the ECA, so wanted historical or fantasy.
It’s easy to see which market is stronger. Solander publishes two new historical stories per year, but that was all I could find quickly. A similar glance at the fantasy market turned up whole lists of titles.
Research
My story has a historical feel, but is set in a world where history happened differently. I think it’s called ‘alternate history’.
First, I ruled out publications that focus on technology/science/space (e.g. Analog), or magic/horror (All Hallows), or seem less open to first-time authors. (Back Brain Recluse wants queries first. I feel-maybe wrongly-that this makes it less likely first-timers will be considered. It certainly makes it less suitable for this assignment.)
Several guidelines mention ‘character-driven’ stories. Road is largely driven by Tom’s character, which I think comes out quite strongly. Another frequent requirement is ‘dark’ fiction. Road has dark elements, but I think editors asking for ‘dark’ are looking more for creepy, so not a good match.
Shortlist
These are all worth a try. I decided which to try first by reading what they’ve actually published, specifically looking for alternate history with elements of humour and satire.
Interzone: mostly stories with a futuristic, technological emphasis, although there are exceptions.
Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction (“We receive a lot of fantasy fiction, but never enough science fiction or humor”): all I could access on line was lists of contents. The titles looked varied, with definite history and humour, but I’d have to spend money or visit a library to read samples. Time being short, I’ll save it to look into later.
Realms of Fantasy (any fantasy genre including “the ever-popular “unclassifiable”): preference for gritty urban settings, but one with a medieval feel and a lot of humour. Mostly established authors and lengths well over 4,000, though shorter considered.
Clarkesworld: accepts 1-10,000 words, but prefers 4,000. Guidelines don’t assume familiarity with publication, which is encouraging. I easily found alternate history with humour and satire, and I enjoyed browsing here more than any other-a sign they might like me too?
Strange Horizons (“We like settings and cultures that we don't see all the time”, “strongly prefer” under 5,000 words): similar to Clarkesworld, with guidelines aimed at novices, and many more stories on line. I had more trouble finding stories like mine there, although there was plenty that I liked.
Result
I chose Clarkesworld, so used standard manuscript format (for electronic submission as .doc file).
In reality, I would add another 1-2,000 words to give a fuller picture of the story’s world. The extra length would allow me to improve the story as well as making it more suitable for Clarkesworld, and other titles on my shortlist.
I changed the title (from Outsourcing) because I noticed the importance of descriptive titles when deciding whether to click through from contents on a web page.
503 words
References
1) Lists of Publications
Gilfillan, Caroline, “Magazine List for TMA05”, posted to A215 Tutor Group Forum, http://discuss1.open.ac.uk/Login/A215%2009J%20R06%20cg3757%20TG/I0BEC023C
Short Stories Market, Jacqui Bennett Writers Bureau, http://www.jbwb.co.uk/markets.html (accessed 10/05/2010)
Sperring, Kari (17/05/2010) [private email to G. Lyons]
2) Magazine websites (all accessed 15/05/2010)
All Hallows, http://www.ash-tree.bc.ca/GSSAHguide.htm
Analog, http://www.analogsf.com/20100708/index.shtml
Back Brain Recluse, http://www.bbr-online.com/backbrainrecluse/
Clarkesworld, http://clarkesworldmagazine.com/
Interzone, http://ttapress.com/interzone/
Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, http://www.sfsite.com/fsf/
Realms of Fantasy, http://www.rofmag.com/
Strange Horizons, http://www.strangehorizons.com/
Solander, http://www.historicalnovelsociety.org/solander2.htm
3) Text in quoted story
Jubilate Deo Latin text and translation, http://www.sfbach.org/text-jubilate-deo (accessed 11.05.2010)
Comments welcome--either on the story or on the market research.
Thanks to tamaranth for beta reading, and apologies for late-night quick'n'dirty conversion from Word, which has eaten the indents, bolds and italics.
The Road to Hell is Paved with Outsourcing and Accountancy
by Gaby Lyons
2,000 words
‘Keep your mind on your work, young Thomas.’ Jude has a way looming unexpectedly over a scribe, as if conjured from between the shoulder blades by the sound of a straying quill. He says it keeps him from blocking your light. ‘Inattention just cost you seven more years in purgatory.’
‘Then I pray to spend all seven of them thanking Christ, who spared me from eternal fires, Brother. And watching spiny devils turn you on a spit.’
Jude’s smile crinkles to convey compassion sorely tried by youth. ‘I labour without respite, and my customer satisfaction rating is flawless. I don’t anticipate being sent to purgatory.’
That, decides Tom, has got to be worth a good few years for pride and vainglory-possibly heresy too. A cheering thought, but best left unvoiced. He can see the mistake now: he went from confitemini illi (give thanks unto Him) straight to quoniam suavis est Dominus (for the Lord is gracious). The lettering is perfect, and it makes sense, but Brother Jude-in spite of his squint-sees all. So now Tom has to squeeze laudate nomen eius (praise His name) in between the lines.
‘I thought it was one year per missed word.’ He can’t resist arguing, though Jude is the abbey’s expert in penitential accountancy.
‘Double for Holy Scripture. And another for missing an opportunity to praise the Lord. Indeed, I fear the penalty may increase if your carelessness distracts an executive from his or her devotions.’
Better leave it uncorrected, then, thinks Thomas. Rumour has it, many executives can’t read Latin, and the rest rarely bother. They just want lots of burnished gold leaf, hand crafting, finest vellum (or vegetarian vellum replacement, if specified), produced in the traditional, entertainingly colourful manner by authentic United Kingdom monks.
‘However, let us not count sins yet uncommitted,’ says Brother Jude, perhaps reflecting on similar lines. ‘Else your stay in purgatory may extend to the Last Judgement.’
Overkill, Tom remembers belatedly, is the way to deal with Brother Jude. ‘I shall endeavour to make the insertion as supportive of devotion as my feeble efforts can contrive. Perhaps the missing words could appear on a banner, borne by winged seraphim in the margin.’
Jude, satisfied, slithers away to some other poor sod, and Tom spends an enjoyable afternoon applying cinnabar and ultramarine to the eighteen wings of a trio of seraphim. Lower down, for good measure, he adds a little monkey scribe with tonsure and quill. The monkey’s customer satisfaction rating is poor: a lizard-like demon is beating him with a flail and enough enthusiasm to spatter blood onto the acanthus leaf border. His furry face is bowed with shame and misery-and so no-one but Tom can see he has a squint.
Tom’s work on luxury executive psalters goes on for months, (the abbey having secured a contract with a Californian software company), and his covert war with Brother Jude rumbles on. Nothing marks the incident of the seraphim and the penitential monkey as especially memorable or significant until, one sleety February morning, he is summoned by the abbot.
‘This message concerns psalters despatched to California. You recall the order, I trust?’
Tom keeps his eyes downcast, grateful for the deep pile rug that cushions his knees from the granite flags. It’s not the only thing tempering the austerity of the abbot’s vast, oak panelled office. The message is on flimsy industrial paper of a kind rarely seen in the Kingdom. Tom suspects the printer that produced it is in a compartment under the abbot’s desk, screened by confession-box latticework of the kind that conceals and ventilates the scriptorium’s dehumidifier.
‘Indeed, Father. Forty-seven of our finest. Do they want more?’
‘If they do, you’ll hear from Brother Jude. But I’ve summoned you, Thomas. Why?’
‘I cannot guess, Father.’ A strictly truthful man would add ‘without incriminating myself.’ Tom is not strict.
‘Improbable-and ill-advised-as it might seem, the client wishes to meet you. There’s a coach waiting.’
‘Thank you, Father.’ Thomas kisses the abbot’s ring, and leaves, trying not to think about frying pans and fires.
Worn over broadcloth trousers, Tom’s brown hooded robe makes a useful coat-cum-blanket. The journey to Oxford takes two days rattling around in the coach and one night in a sullen staging inn. The client, starting from California, will do it in a few hours.
It’s dusk when Tom knocks at the porter’s lodge of Magdalene, the abbey’s sister foundation. His guest room is small and clean (less small and more clean than his cell in the abbey). Tucked behind the crucifix is a note-industrial paper again-instructing him to meet someone called Nico for lunch at the Overseas Contact Centre.
Tom half expects to be turned away, or possibly arrested, but the wardens run their scanners over him with no flicker of interest, then clip a band of some shiny, flexible, purple substance round his wrist. The lettering is nothing more exotic than Roman characters, albeit styled for print, not pen: ‘PUBLIC BAR ONLY.’
‘Door on the left,’ says one of the wardens, clearly impatient to get back to chatting with his colleague. There are other doors, but not for Tom’s use. The wardens there are less burly-one looks like Sister Catherine-but armed with what Tom knows are guns, though he’s never seen a real one before.
He’d been wondering how to identify Nico, but the public bar has only one customer, who gets to his feet waving and smiling as soon as Tom opens the door.
‘Brother Thomas from Saint Dunstan’s, huh? Good to meet you! Nico from Diligence Systems. Been travelling all week, eh? Bet you could use a beer! You hungry? Shall we eat right away?’
Tom smiles and nods, partly because he couldn’t get a word in if he tried, partly because he’s terrified, but mostly because he reasons he’d better grab what he can before punishment descends.
The subdued light plays on the grey fabric of Nico’s business suit like sunshine through oak woods. Is that what silk is?
‘Good beef, huh?’
More nodding. Monks at the abbey eat better than the villagers, but this is feast-day food: slabs of meat, pudding and vegetables, crunchy and glossy with good fat.
‘Eat while you can, eh?’
Tom’s jaw stills in dread, but Nico chatters on. ‘What is it, Thursday? Seven days before Lent. Then it’s beans and sustainably sourced fish for six weeks.’
‘The abbey has a fish pond,’ says Tom, feeling he should contribute while his mouth is free. ‘But mostly we get beans. Or turnips.’
Afterwards, Nico orders coffee for himself, ‘And a large portion of your highest calorie dessert for my guest.’
Tom has no idea what a calorie is. It doesn’t look as though the barmaid knows either.
‘Your most indulgent, pre-Lenten gluttony,’ Nico explains.
‘Ah! Sounds like a case for the hot double-chocolate fudge, sticky banoffee, triple-decker, cream torte sundae.’ Anyone would think people came in here every day and paid for young monks to commit mortal sins. Perhaps they do. ‘With marshmallow granita sprinkles and a cherry on top.’
The abbey has nothing like this! It’s a while before Tom slows down enough for conversation.
‘These all your work?’ Nico pushes rectangles of fine, glossy parchment-no, card-across the table.
Clearly there’s been a mistake. Just as well Tom ate most of his dinner before they found out.
But the images on the strange rectangles are his! The blood-spattered penitent monkey; the jousting snails; the masturbating shepherd; the wolf in black Dominican robes savaging a white sheep; sheep entrails dangling from capitals all across the double page.
‘Mine,’ he admits (for denial doesn’t seem viable), ‘but not where I drew them.’
‘Sure! These are scanned from the psalters-copied by machines. It’s standard technology back home. Practically carbon neutral too, not that you’d know about that, eh?’
Tom’s not sure he knows about anything.
‘This is great work,’ Nico assures him. ‘We were real impressed. So impressed we want you to come work for Diligence on a different project.’
‘Leave the abbey?’
‘If you accept.’
Tom’s mother signed him to the abbey as soon as his literacy aptitude scores came through. It was too good to pass up, she’d said. His escape from misery. Patchy memories of life at home suggest she was right.
‘Work in California? On manuscripts? Or…’ His drawings on cards he’s never seen, industrial paper, printers, guns, calories, carbon… ‘How different?’
‘Yay! Straight to the big one. Praise the Lord!’ Nico tugs at spotless cuffs, sips coffee, visibly composing his answer. ‘Quicker to say what’s the same: you’d get to draw all the crazy, quirky stuff you can dream up. Not to say you could always do just as you please, but we want you because you rock at the weird stuff.’ He flaps the rectangles. ‘So you can bet you’ll do plenty of that. You can even use pigments, ink, gold-heck, we’ll give you parchment if you want! Don’t suppose you will, once you see the alternative, but if you do, that’s dandy. We’ll just scan it.’
‘You want marginalia.’ It’s impossible, but Tom says it anyway.
Nico nods confirmation.
‘And texts?’
‘That’s where the differences start. Manuscript production stays in the PIRs, where it’s cost effective-Pre-Industrial Reservations.’ Nico waves an arm to encompass the public bar, Oxford, England, the whole Kingdom and realms beyond. ‘In California, we make software. It’s a little hard to imagine if you’ve never seen it, but all you really need to know is pictures come up on a screen instead of a page. You can play around, make ’em big, make ’em small, change the colours, stick the legs from one on the body of another, make ’em scurry about…’
‘Make pictures move?’
‘Yup. We call it animation.’ Nico pulls a scrappy little book from his pocket and shows Tom drawings of a dog, slightly changed from page to page. He flicks the pages, and the dog runs!
Tom’s mouth hangs open. Sundae drips unnoticed from his spoon.
‘Software does it way better,’ says Nico. ‘I just carry this to give the general idea.’
Tom wants to go to California and make software. But he can’t speak.
‘Thing is, Diligence Systems doesn’t just make PrayerWare. We want you for what we call a niche market, a select group of customers with specialist tastes and the money to indulge them. Wealthy sinners, to put it bluntly. I’ll tell you what I can, quick as I can, then you get to choose: new life in California, or back to the abbey and tell no-one. Got it?’
Tom nods. Again.
‘These customers want recreational software-pure fun with no moral, spiritual, or educational purpose. Just little animated critters running round collecting stuff, maybe in a maze, or jumping on clouds. They like their critters quirky, and they’ll pay for you to make ’em quirkier than the competition. Sometimes they shoot other critters and their brains get splattered-you have a knack for that, I can see. Other times, it’s just racing and grabbing coins. Either way, it’s a whole bunch of mortal sins: sloth, pride, envy, wrath, lust if you’re lucky. Church says you’d go straight to Hell. Does that bother you?’
‘Not enough to stop me.’
‘Good man! Jude said you had spunk, but I never count my deals until they’re done. Now, if you’ll just sign right here, and here, we can have you in Saint Francistown in time for Carnival.’
‘Brother Jude works for Diligence Systems?’
‘Sure! Man’s a great talent scout. Knows how to sound people out without showing his hand.’
‘But…’ Jude’s accountancy of sin; the relentless totting up of errors and penalties… Out of habit, Tom waves the paper to dry it, but Nico’s pen doesn’t use that kind of ink.
‘Does he still tell people he ain’t bound for Purgatory? He loved that line.’
‘Oh, yes. We’re all headed for umpteen decades of purifying flames-but not Brother Jude.’
‘Hey, now you know why. He’s booked direct business class to Hell, just like me. You too, now. But on the way, we get to save Princess Zelda, battle Pokémon, and slay zombies in Racoon City.’
‘Can you slay zombies?’ Tom has regained some basic theology along with his confidence.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll show you on the plane.’
Aeroplane. Tom’s teeth ache from cold sundae, but he bares them in a broad grin. He’s going to Hell, but he’s flying there, through the sky.
2088 words
Commentary
Preliminaries
My story-length drafts were too long. My sketches fell into three categories: historical, contemporary, and fantasy. I was working on a contemporary story for the ECA, so wanted historical or fantasy.
It’s easy to see which market is stronger. Solander publishes two new historical stories per year, but that was all I could find quickly. A similar glance at the fantasy market turned up whole lists of titles.
Research
My story has a historical feel, but is set in a world where history happened differently. I think it’s called ‘alternate history’.
First, I ruled out publications that focus on technology/science/space (e.g. Analog), or magic/horror (All Hallows), or seem less open to first-time authors. (Back Brain Recluse wants queries first. I feel-maybe wrongly-that this makes it less likely first-timers will be considered. It certainly makes it less suitable for this assignment.)
Several guidelines mention ‘character-driven’ stories. Road is largely driven by Tom’s character, which I think comes out quite strongly. Another frequent requirement is ‘dark’ fiction. Road has dark elements, but I think editors asking for ‘dark’ are looking more for creepy, so not a good match.
Shortlist
These are all worth a try. I decided which to try first by reading what they’ve actually published, specifically looking for alternate history with elements of humour and satire.
Interzone: mostly stories with a futuristic, technological emphasis, although there are exceptions.
Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction (“We receive a lot of fantasy fiction, but never enough science fiction or humor”): all I could access on line was lists of contents. The titles looked varied, with definite history and humour, but I’d have to spend money or visit a library to read samples. Time being short, I’ll save it to look into later.
Realms of Fantasy (any fantasy genre including “the ever-popular “unclassifiable”): preference for gritty urban settings, but one with a medieval feel and a lot of humour. Mostly established authors and lengths well over 4,000, though shorter considered.
Clarkesworld: accepts 1-10,000 words, but prefers 4,000. Guidelines don’t assume familiarity with publication, which is encouraging. I easily found alternate history with humour and satire, and I enjoyed browsing here more than any other-a sign they might like me too?
Strange Horizons (“We like settings and cultures that we don't see all the time”, “strongly prefer” under 5,000 words): similar to Clarkesworld, with guidelines aimed at novices, and many more stories on line. I had more trouble finding stories like mine there, although there was plenty that I liked.
Result
I chose Clarkesworld, so used standard manuscript format (for electronic submission as .doc file).
In reality, I would add another 1-2,000 words to give a fuller picture of the story’s world. The extra length would allow me to improve the story as well as making it more suitable for Clarkesworld, and other titles on my shortlist.
I changed the title (from Outsourcing) because I noticed the importance of descriptive titles when deciding whether to click through from contents on a web page.
503 words
References
1) Lists of Publications
Gilfillan, Caroline, “Magazine List for TMA05”, posted to A215 Tutor Group Forum, http://discuss1.open.ac.uk/Login/A215%2009J%20R06%20cg3757%20TG/I0BEC023C
Short Stories Market, Jacqui Bennett Writers Bureau, http://www.jbwb.co.uk/markets.html (accessed 10/05/2010)
Sperring, Kari (17/05/2010) [private email to G. Lyons]
2) Magazine websites (all accessed 15/05/2010)
All Hallows, http://www.ash-tree.bc.ca/GSSAHguide.htm
Analog, http://www.analogsf.com/20100708/index.shtml
Back Brain Recluse, http://www.bbr-online.com/backbrainrecluse/
Clarkesworld, http://clarkesworldmagazine.com/
Interzone, http://ttapress.com/interzone/
Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, http://www.sfsite.com/fsf/
Realms of Fantasy, http://www.rofmag.com/
Strange Horizons, http://www.strangehorizons.com/
Solander, http://www.historicalnovelsociety.org/solander2.htm
3) Text in quoted story
Jubilate Deo Latin text and translation, http://www.sfbach.org/text-jubilate-deo (accessed 11.05.2010)
Comments welcome--either on the story or on the market research.
Thanks to tamaranth for beta reading, and apologies for late-night quick'n'dirty conversion from Word, which has eaten the indents, bolds and italics.