Mexico City glowed for Agnes -- called to her in her dreams like a lover, sultry and full of heat. Here, her mother had assured her, she could gain strength.
Hi, thanks for stopping by the Fortean Bureau for our December 2005 issue. We've been making a lot of changes behind the scenes here in the past several months, as well as developing a format for a hybrid model to keep the Fortean Bureau running into the far future. This issue, we'd like to tell you a little bit about that.
Publishing is an industry not so much guided by reality as it is by truisms. The classic truism is a simple one: "short story collections don't sell anymore." Ah, anymore. Now there's the qualifier. My agent has heard that from various publishers and dutifully repeated it to me this past year. Of course, H. P. Lovecraft heard much the same thing back in the 1920s. He just missed the Golden Age of "a few years ago" as well, it seems.
Warning: The author accepts no responsibility for the actions of anyone searching for the places or plants described in this piece, nor for any global disasters which may result from genetic engineering experiments inspired by descriptions of the Mulholland needleless tree. The accuracy of the directions to Blue Lake Junction are not guaranteed. Consult your travel agent, geneticist, or attorney for more information.
In Loving Memory of My Brother, Major R. David Witchey
The last place Major R. David Witchey wanted to be on Christmas Eve was on the ground dealing with rum eggnog, carolers, and all the mythic crap of Christmas.
Running hot on both burners at 20,000 feet was the kind of rush David had dreamed of since he was a kid opening used presents in the orphanage.
At thirty, he was above it all -- on and gone past Santa Claus, Christmas cheer, and people who mentally and physically never left the ground. His ass warmed the seat of 50 million dollars of steel, firepower, and dual F-15 screaming thrust.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘Draw me a turtle.’
The Pilot looked at me strange, like I did something wrong. ‘Don’t you mean a sheep?’
He had been seen high in the hills, in heavy artisan's sackcloth, face darkly hooded, chisels and mallets in oilskins over his shoulder. He had descended through pine and elm and was spied later under willows at the river crossing.
A messenger had raced over the oak bridge to ring the bell in the market square, gathering us in the morning mist.
