banner art above by Charles Carter

Friday, July 17, 2009

A Planet Of Your Own

by David Agranoff

                                                                art by Shasta Fletcher

More haunted than anything on earth, deep space to the human ear is beyond silence. To the awareness of the spirit it is a chaotic soundscape. Ninety nine percent of the universe is a total mystery even to the experts who study the heavens. For every one of the billions of souls to have lived and breathed the air of the earth hundreds of stars spin in the heavens. Each of those stars have collected planets in its pull and spun them into masses of gas and sometimes life. Planets that are green and lush, and some that are frozen and dead.

Each world speaks its own language.

One journey ends

Gene Reddick gripped his grandson’s hand. He had been in the hospice for only three months but he was still surprised that Billy was coming everyday. Most boys at the age of twelve wouldn’t understand until long into adulthood the opportunity they missed by not getting to know their elders. Not Billy, he understood.

The cancer had spread into his bones and was buried so deep in his body that nothing modern medicine could do would help him. He had lived ninety one years and had come a long way from the one room school house in southern Indiana. Not just geographically speaking; sure, he had established himself in western Washington. He married Estella while in graduate school and they had raised a family of three. His oldest grandson had started a family and his youngest Billy loved and cared for him these last few years since Estella passed.

No grandson needed to be so kind. Gene knew he deserved more and had told him many times to go play and be young.

“It’s not right you being so full of life spending your days watchin’ your papa die.”

Billy was a great listener when he wanted to be. He would ask questions, deep questions, deeper than a boy like him digs. The meaning of life, but not just life, why create life? It wasn’t questions about life that kept Billy coming back; he had deeper questions still--indeed, why spend everyday with a dying old man if you wanted to learn about life?

“Are you afraid?”

It was weeks of visits before he asked.

“Of dying? Who wouldn’t be – Billy you have no right to think about this until you’re older.”

“What is going to happen to you Grandpa?”

Gene looked at his TV, it was on but the sound was muted. The news raged on silently but he knew every story. The war in the middle east had claimed thirty more, a corporation was indicted yet no one would see blame, the rates of drug addiction and unemployment had risen this month again. He had been born into a simpler world, and was leaving it a mess.

He knew it wasn’t his fault; six billion other people and billions more of their ancestors shared the blame. Billy was waiting patiently for an answer.

“You mean after I’m dead.”

Billy nodded. He would wait until he was damned ready to talk about it, one lesson Billy had taken to heart. He didn’t have much time left, so let him take what he could, to make sure he said the right thing. Billy waited.

“My soul is pretty important to me, but I figure every one of those people – on both sides mind you - that died over in that damn war think they are pretty important to.”

Gene hit the power button on the remote, the TV clicked off and he stared at the blackness of the screen.

“It’s a big universe, I suppose--room enough for all of us somewhere.”

This light becomes you

He watched the boy tremble and felt guilt for the first time. Mark Neale hadn’t felt a shred of it when he saw them walking down El Cajon Blvd after dark. He knew she worked this street and wondered why the hell she had a child with her? He didn’t usually hunt on such busy streets but this was too much to pass up.

Her name was Didi and her son, Chucky--at least that was what she said. She shook like a cellphone on vibrate coming down off heroin and methadone. She asked for forty dollars, hesitating only slightly before offering one hundred for the family package.

Sold, Mark brought her back to the house, he could only hunt while Sally and the kids were visiting her parents in West Virginia. It was a pattern that was difficult for a profiler to pick up on. He got out his born in the USA vinyl and turned up the Boss as loud as he could. The neighbors thought he was drunk and relieving his glory days. He assumed that is what they thought.

It was his fourth hunting trip and Didi was still clutching her purse when the plastic Albertson's bag went over her head. He twisted the bag in his fingers behind her neck trapping her breath. It blew out filling up the bag but her mouth and nose were cut off from planet earth. Didi fought to keep her eyes on Chucky but she could only see a frosted white shape. She reached out for him, wanting to beg him, to plead for help. She was without air or a voice to use. Her body hit the floor thumping like wet laundry. Chuckie didn’t move an inch; would he stand there like a fucking sculpture while Mark played operation with mommy’s guts?

Time to find out.

The door burst open and Mark turned just in time to see the first two members of the SWAT team enter. They had followed him. Was Didi a cop? Mark quickly lifted his knife to his own throat but he didn’t have a chance. The light burst from the barrel and swallowed his existence. The bullet traveled nine hundred miles per hour but he was moving faster now.


Garrett Johnson wondered when the hell his coffee had gotten so cold; he slammed down the cup but didn’t wake Barry, the other technician. They were the only ones working in the afternoon. Since the radiation haze was weaker at night, prime time listening were always vampire hours.

He sat ready for numbers, languages, patterns; who knew if the signals would come during prime time, or interrupting a soap opera. So Garrett gave up on One Life To Live to spend his days monitoring the skies through the one-hundred-twenty-five satellite dishes the government and the private sector had patchworked together for SETI in southern New Mexico. Besides Barry, he was left alone during most afternoons.

So here he was searching for extra terrestrial intelligence – a task one could argue was the most important endeavor of the human race, and tried desperately to stay awake. If he was lucky, he would get half-an-hour-long signals downloaded that he’d have to compress into minute-long MP3s. Most SETI research was done from tapes, but there was something important about listening live to his team.

All the money spent on Garrett’s education, which was three times the amount of social service programs for the homeless in the state of Rhode Island, got him a seat here listening to background buzz. The phantoms of space are good at hiding, and their hum became as natural to him as the soft breath of his wife as she slept.

His eyes felt heavy, if only he had drank that whole cup of coffee before it became chilly. He dreamed he was at home. His mother’s home, the one where he and Rebecca Crossen had been all the family one could ever need. He hadn’t been back to Minneapolis since the week of the funeral, not since the day he and Jessica had packed up his mother’s things.

The whisper was soft and gentle, calling his name.

Garrett shook awake and looked at Barry still deep asleep in his sound muffling headphones. Even if he had whispered his name--Garret had his on, listening to the hum.

If the Tree falls

The chainsaw ripped through the center of the great tree spitting splinters into the river that passed by for hundreds of years. The tree had stood over this river since before an upright being had set foot in the land. It watched as the rivers once clear became dirty and brown, it listened as the roar of thunder took over the clear skies.

The ground churned as the giant yellow earth mover ripped through the soil. Thousands of earthworms–-members of eighteen species in all--circled up to avoid the attack.

Worms have a mouth, but do not have a throat. Nor any means to scream in terror. Their bodies are covered in fine hairs called Setae which they use to feel. In moments of attack--whether it would be birds eating them or small children showing their parents what they found--the hairs retract.

Worms and trees have no screams, but they are not without a voice.

Listen Billy

The whole family had come in, one at a time, all day long, telling him that they loved him. It was his first clue that he was going to die soon. Billy was going to wait for his turn but Gene asked for him to stay with him. It took more strength than he wanted to think about, but he held Billy’s hand.

The youngest of the great grandkids were in and out, his grandchildren took only a few minutes, and Gene’s three children (who were not so young themselves) were distraught. While his son Luther Reddick talked to him about the house they lived in during the sixties, Gene found his attention drifting out the window.

Night had come in so many ways.

He didn’t even have the strength to close his eyes. Luther’s voice faded away. The room faded away. The bed was gone and without any fanfare, his body blew away in cosmic wind, his soul being pulled toward a bright light.

“What did he say?”

“Listen Billy, and then he was gone.”

“Just like that.”

“Yep, gone, just like that.”

You need a vacation

Garrett nervously tapped his pen on the table. Members of his SETI team were leaning back in their chairs and he knew none of them took him seriously.

“Garrett,” Barry coughed, “Have you lost your mind?”

“It wasn’t a voice exactly, but coming through the clicks and pops you can hear my name. Look--it repeated three different days as soon as the scan passed this system, it’s a little planet named Vir 70 by the Astronomers who…”

All of the four men and women looked at each other and then back at Garrett. Their team leader Lori Greenshaw rubbed her eyes before standing up enough to lean over the table.

“The magnetic pull of the poles spinning a planet gives off radio waves; we have charted around one hundred planets, give or take. Beyond those, there are likely a billion or more Jupiter-sized planets in our galaxy alone.”

Garrett put his hands up, he hated when she talked down to them like they didn’t know as much as a fifth grader. But he also knew she wouldn’t stop.

“It’s seventy-eight light years away. Consider how many radio waves are humming in the background, and considering how many sounds and variables are possible, don’t waste our time until you have studied the source and the sound a little deeper.”

“Dude seriously,” Barry laughed. “It’s like that Ozzy song they played backwards.”

Everyone but Garrett laughed.

“Fine,” He would let it go with them--but he knew what he had heard.

Find your voice

“If a life form were not humanoid--would it’s language be anything like our own?”

James thought about her question, he didn’t want to get into another of Rachel’s deep conversations, not that he had much choice. They were both locked into a tree stand a hundred feet above the forest floor by U shaped bike locks. They could hear the far off sound of chainsaws and knew the forest was coming down around them.

“No--it would be different.”

“I think the earth speaks to us all the time.”

They both wanted to save this old-growth forest, but her motivations were so alien to James. He wasn’t here for any hippie Gaia worship, he just loved being in the forest, breathing the clean air. He just didn’t want to see it go.

“It’s not language.”

“You don’t think the earth has a spirit, a soul?”

“Maybe, but not one we are able to understand.”

“Exactly, maybe she is talking to us through the wind, the rustling of leaves.”

“Or earthquakes and Hurricanes.”

Rachel smiled, for all his macho-ness, he was getting it. She reached and felt the U Lock scrape her neck, it was a struggle but she wanted to hold his hand. James stretched and felt her finger tips.

“If she could she’d thank us.”

Welcome home

The light faded away. Gene felt himself waking and wanted to stretch his muscles. His body was gone. He felt a breeze, air was moving but he didn’t feel any lungs. He woke up thirsty every single morning of his ninety-one years, but this time, he could feel the water already. Was it a spring day? He could feel warmth, smell blooming flowers. That wasn’t all. He felt cold, the fresh feeling of snow fall. He could feel feet running, mouths chewing on grass. He could feel it all.

He remembered this feeling, a distant memory of a home of his own - a world of his own.

Message from your mother

“Give it a try mister man of science.” Jessie was stoned. Garrett knew it when he walked in the door. The only thing he liked about his wife stoned was that she liked to walk around the house in her underwear. She sat on the bed in her bra and underwear looking at the Parker Bros Ouija board.

“From the makers of fine board games and a conduit to the dead,” He laughed and kissed her. She laughed and tapped the board.

“Available at Wal-mart!” Standing up she grabbed his belt buckle. “No, no, try it.”

He shook his head. She gave him the ‘I’ll make it worth your while’ eyes, and he melted like candle wax. She suddenly became serious as their finger tips touched the plastic piece.

“Who do you want to talk to?”

“Anyone from the planet Vir 70.”

“Dead people, not aliens silly.”

“Can I talk to someone from the planet Vir 70?”

The piece moved softly to the yes spot. Garrett laughed.

“No way,” Jessie smiled. “Do you have a name?”

Garrett felt the piece moving slightly faster than their fingers to the yes spot on the board.

“What is your name?”

The piece moved quickly to the letter R. It moved so fast it almost passed E. Garrett looked at his wife and silently told her he didn’t think it was funny when the piece finished spelling the name Rebecca. It was still moving and Garrett lifted his fingers until only the tip of his index touched the piece. Jessica did the same but the piece still moved spelling out Crossen.

“Garrett’s mother?”

Yes the piece responded. They looked at each other and a moment of silence passed.

“I asked to talk to someone from the planet Vir 70.”

The piece went to yes.

“Hey Becky are you on that planet?”

The piece went to no. The piece started moving across the board quickly spelling--I,M,V,7,0.

You should see the other ones

Mark just had enough time to realize the cop was shooting him, not enough time to be thankful he would miss Sally on 20/20, they had paid for her exclusive story. Marriage to a man who had stalked hookers and children became good business for Sally. She wrote books, sold film rights, and tried to protect the children from the memory of their father.

Mark’s soul had left the earth like a bullet train, the light overtook him and spit him across space. That was what it felt like; he was an old soul that had returned to earth and failed again to transcend. He was returning to his heavenly home and relaxed. He hated life on earth, somehow he had always connected to something greater. Something his human brain could not handle.

Hunting was something he enjoyed, he supposed that somewhere inside he always had this memory of spirit; the body was a disgusting prison of blood and guts. He was a liberator deserving of chocolates and flowers, not scorn.

Home was a world of lush mountains, rolling up near the shores of beautiful green oceans teaming with life, so much a part of his soul that he ached with sorrow each moment away. One planet in a system of three, each one four times the size of earth, floating around a pulsar still young in the celestial nursery when last his spirit was called for duty.

As he traveled further from earth, his body becoming memory, his name meaningless... But his experience was floating just beyond him.

He felt the world taking shape around him. The pleasure of life slipped past him, the green mountains had melted to ash, the oceans boiled to vapor which blew like hot gas throughout the atmosphere. High in the sky the pulsar burned bright, looking as close as a full moon.

A nova.

Reddick reunion

William Reddick had paid the hospice nurse twenty dollars to let him know when his grandfather’s room was next empty. He had promised her one hundred for the use of the room for a single night. It was over four months before the phone call came. The woman who had been dying in the room had passed. Her family had cleared out her things and he had one night before the next tenant of the arrived.

It had been almost ten years since he had last been here, but little had changed. When the nurse let him in, she gave a reminder to be quiet that no one knew he was there. Billy looked around as the door shut. The sun was going down. If he was going to have the light on, he would have to stuff a towel under the door.

The room was almost empty: TV and the bed. Billy understood a lot more filled this room. It was a gateway of sorts. One after another this room was the last stop in the lives of hundreds of human beings. This room was not empty.

He pulled out his tape recorder and microphone. Put in a fresh cassette and checked to make sure the counter was on 000. He pushed record.

“Grandpa? Gene Riddick?”

He waited while the tape reeled away.

Is an ocean aware that it is alive? Is the sky aware of its own functions? When does a soul forget that it once had a name? Creating a breeze for a summer day or dropping rain into fields filled with seeds might seem complicated, but to a transcended spirit, answering something as alien as a name is more of a challenge. It came across the heavens like a wave rolling up on him...Gene Riddick.

His name? It washed over him.

Time and distance didn’t matter, as he traveled to the voice. It was ironic that it seemed so long ago since he related to a physical body and already he felt like he was just an echo of Gene Riddick. Physically speaking, it was great distance, spiritually speaking, he never left here really, not even during his times in the body.

Billy was ready to listen.

Billy pushed stop. The counter was on 150. He put on his headphones as the tape rewound. Volume on twenty-five percent, he heard himself ask for his grandfather before turning up the tape until it was buzzing with near silence. He heard steps walking by the room on the tape that he hadn't heard when he was recording. At least they sounded like steps. Then the whisper.

Billy. Don’t worry, I’m home.

The counter was on 027 when it started. He rewound and listened to it four times but that was it. The tape wound through to 150 and the old man had spoken his piece.

Clear as crystal

Jessica hadn't told Garrett about it. While he believed that his mother was trying to communicate with him, there was only so far he would go for answers. He would have laughed at her and tried to stop her. She had to drive north to Santa Fe to find a medium that could channel the spirit for her. She talked to one in town, but he seemed like a fraud to her.

The channel’s name was Lydia, she asked her to come on Rebecca’s birthday or the day she passed. Her birthday was three weeks away and the appointment was set. She brought every item of Rebecca’s that had made the trip down from Minnesota. When she arrived at the medium’s house they piled the items on the kitchen table and held hands.

Lydia was in her sixties and her three daughters completed the circle. They were into Wicca, the whole house was filled with earth spirit and pagan symbols. Lydia wanted to turn around and leave before her hands had a chance to get sweaty.

“Your negative spirit is gonna push Rebecca away,” Lydia warned Jessica with a whisper. It didn't keep her away. Rebecca had heard the call and came into the room. Lydia sensed her presence right away.

“She is here and very happy to see you.”

Jessica wanted to look around the room but was worried she might break the connection.

“Ask your question, we may not have time.”

“Becky, Garrett misses you so much. When last we spoke you told Garrett and I that you were Vir 70, what did you mean?”

Lydia was silent for along time. Jessica was sweating now.

“Rebbeca wants you to understand the scope of the heavens.”

“The scope?”

“She says life exists on many worlds, but not one is like the other. Our souls are tested on earth but when the test is over we live in a world of our own...”

Lydia let go, the daughters dropped their hands. Jessica opened her eyes to wide smiles.

“Is that heaven?”

Lydia took Jessica’s hand. “Sounds like it to me.”

If the spirits are killing

“What are we but shells for the spirit?”

“I don’t see your point?”

James wished she would stop talking, they ran out of water hours ago and the sheriff’s department had arrested their support team and cleared out base camp. No water was coming. The trees were falling so close now that they had to raise their voices over the chainsaws and the trees, when they screamed their way down to the ground. The old growths crashed and shook the forest.

“Earth, Venus or alpha fucking centauri or my body-–Yours. Turtles, Bears, they are just different sized shells.”

James watched as a family of deer ran away from the logging crew. The sheriff was shouting into a bullhorn and seemed to be getting closer. James sat up as much as the U Lock allowed and saw the sheriff and a construction crew assembled below them. They had a crane. If they could get up, they’d use the Jaws of Life to cut them free.


A chainsaw roared near by. They heard the familiar sound of a tree falling and hitting other trees. Rachel felt tears forming that never came. The tree was an old growth; it would have taken both of them to hug all the way around it. The crew on the ground had expected the tree to fall south, but it fell north. They winced and turned away, but the home office had been screaming for board length that the protestors had denied them.

The tree hit Rachel instantly knocking her brain around in her skull. James was locked into another branch and felt his tree falling before his neck snapped under the pull of the lock. He saw a flash and then light.

Apple never fell far from the tree

He closed his eyes, but felt both trees crashing to the ground. He watched his body being ripped apart and instantly let go. The spirit that was in that body didn’t travel at all, feeling the earth take shape in it’s place.

The rivers ran hot with chemicals, the oceans became devoid of life, billions of souls waited in mountains of waste to be eaten. Molded stone and steel tore into the surface and scarred the sky. What realm was the next escape?

Click Here for Part 9 of SKY PIRATES,
by John Shirley


  1. i really like this one. i hope that David submits more work. let me know if he does. you have my number Shaun

  2. i just read Addiction and WOW!!! when can i get my hands on more on David's writing? His writing needs to be in the Salt Lake City Metro libraries for all to enjoy. this is the stuff i craved and looked for as a teen in Oklahoma City. sadly both Salt Lake and OKC are the same in "morals" and books like "king and king" and "suzie has two moms" are not allowed in the children's section even though they are children's books because they are "coruptive on young minds" the same thing that got all the Jews in the genocide of the Holocaust because someone didn't like them... grr ok anyway i want more writing!

  3. I'm glad you liked it Amber. David has a new book out, a collection of ecological science fiction and horror stories called Screams From A Dying World. We should each ask our local librarian to stock it for us: I'll do it if you do it. David is a very productive guy and has a lot of stuff on the platter for us, keep an eye out for him because there's a lot more wicked fiction soon to come from the Count. As for here at the Freezine, you'll be the first to know if we're lucky enough to get another contribution from him.

    More writing to come in the SEPTEMBER ISSUE.


Archive of Stories
and Authors

Sean Padlo's

Sean Padlo's

Sean Padlo's exact whereabouts
are never able to be fully
pinned down, but what we
do know about him is laced
with the echoes of legend.
He's already been known
to haunt certain areas of
the landscape, a trick said
to only be possible by being
able to manipulate it from
the future. His presence
among the rest of us here
at the freezine sends shivers
of fear deep in our solar plexus.

Konstantine Paradias & Edward

Konstantine Paradias's

Konstantine Paradias is a writer by
choice. At the moment, he's published
over 100 stories in English, Japanese,
Romanian, German, Dutch and
Portuguese and has worked in a free-
lancing capacity for videogames, screen-
plays and anthologies. People tell him
he's got a writing problem but he can,
like, quit whenever he wants, man.
His work has been nominated
for a Pushcart Prize.

Edward Morris's

Edward Morris's

Edward Morris is a 2011 nominee for
the Pushcart Prize in literature, has
also been nominated for the 2009
Rhysling Award and the 2005 British
Science Fiction Association Award.
His short stories have been published
over a hundred and twenty times in
four languages, most recently at
PerhihelionSF, the Red Penny Papers'
SUPERPOW! anthology, and The
Magazine of Bizarro Fiction. He lives
and works in Portland as a writer,
editor, spoken word MC and bouncer,
and is also a regular guest author at
the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival.

Tim Fezz's

Tim Fezz's

Tim Fezz hails out of the shattered
streets of Philly destroying the air-
waves and people's minds in the
underground with his band OLD
FEZZIWIG. He's been known to
dip his razor quill into his own
blood and pen a twisted tale
every now and again. We are
delighted to have him onboard
the FREEZINE and we hope
you are, too.

Daniel E. Lambert's

Daniel E. Lambert teaches English
at California State University, Los
Angeles and East Los Angeles College.
He also teaches online Literature
courses for Colorado Technical
University. His writing appears
in Silver Apples, Easy Reader,
Other Worlds, Wrapped in Plastic
and The Daily Breeze. His work
also appears in the anthologies
When Words Collide, Flash It,
Daily Flash 2012, Daily Frights
2012, An Island of Egrets and
Timeless Voices. His collection
of poetry and prose, Love and
Other Diversions, is available
through Amazon. He lives in
Southern California with his
wife, poet and author Anhthao Bui.


Phoenix has enjoyed writing since he
was a little kid. He finds much import-
ance and truth in creative expression.
Phoenix has written over sixty books,
and has published everything from
novels, to poetry and philosophy.
He hopes to inspire people with his
writing and to ask difficult questions
about our world and the universe.
Phoenix lives in Salt Lake City, Utah,
where he spends much of his time
reading books on science, philosophy,
and literature. He spends a good deal
of his free time writing and working
on new books. The Freezine of Fant-
asy and Science Fiction welcomes him
and his unique, intense vision.
Discover Phoenix's books at his author
page on Amazon. Also check out his blog.

Adam Bolivar's

Adam Bolivar's

Adam Bolivar's

Adam Bolivar is an expatriate Bostonian
who has lived in New Orleans and Berkeley,
and currently resides in Portland, Oregon
with his beloved wife and fluffy gray cat
Dahlia. Adam wears round, antique glasses
and has a fondness for hats. His greatest
inspirations include H.P. Lovecraft,
Jack tales and coffee. He has been
a Romantic poet for as long as any-
one can remember, specializing in
the composition of spectral balladry,
utilizing to great effect a traditional
poetic form that taps into the haunted
undercurrents of folklore seldom found
in other forms of writing.
His poetry has appeared on the pages
of such publications as SPECTRAL
CTHULHU, and a poem of his,
"The Rime of the Eldritch Mariner,"
won the Rhysling Award for long-form
poetry. His collection of weird balladry
and Jack tales, THE LAY OF OLD HEX,
was published by Hippocampus Press in 2017.

David Agranoff's

David Agranoff's

David Agranoff is the author of the
following books: Ring of Fire (Eraserhead
Press, 2018), Flesh Trade (co-written
w/Edward Morris; published by Create-
Space, 2017), Punk Rock Ghost Story
(Deadite Press, 2016), Amazing Punk
Stories (Eraserhead Press, 2016),
Boot Boys of the Wolf Reich (Eraserhead
Press, 2014), Hunting the Moon Tribe
(Eraserhead Press, 2011), The Vegan
Revolution...with Zombies (Eraserhead
Press, 2010), and Screams from a Dying
World (Afterbirth Books, 2009).
David is a hardcore vegan and tireless
environmentalist. His contributions to
the punk horror scene and the planet in
general have already established him
as a bright new writer and activist to
watch out for. The Freezine of Fantasy
and Science Fiction welcomes him and
his defiant vision open-heartedly.

David is a busy man, usually at work
on several different novels or projects
at once. He is sure to leave his mark on
a world teetering over the edge of
ecological imbalance.

Sanford Meschkow's

Sanford Meschkow is a retired former
NYer who married a Philly suburban
Main Line girl. Sanford has been pub-
lished in a 1970s issue of AMAZING.
We welcome him here on the FREE-
ZINE of Fantasy and Science Fiction.

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking's

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking's

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking currently
resides in the high desert of Phoenix,
Arizona where he enjoys campy horror
movies within the comfort of an Insane
Asylum. Search for his science fiction
stories at The Intestinal Fortitude in
the Flesheater's World section.
The Memory Sector is his first
appearance in the Freezine of
Fantasy and Science Fiction.

Owen R. Powell's

Little is known of the mysterious
Owen R. Powell (oftentimes referred
to as Orp online). That is because he
usually keeps moving. The story
Noetic Vacations marks his first
appearance in the Freezine.

Gene Stewart
(writing as Art Wester)

Gene Stewart's

Gene Stewart is a writer and artist.
He currently lives in the Midwest
American Wilderness where he is
researching tales of mystical realism,
writing ficta mystica, and exploring
the dark by casting a little light into
the shadows. Follow this link to his
website where there are many samples
of his writing and much else; come

Daniel José Older's

Daniel José Older's

Daniel José Older's spiritually driven,
urban storytelling takes root at the
crossroads of myth and history.
With sardonic, uplifting and often
hilarious prose, Older draws from
his work as an overnight 911 paramedic,
a teaching artist & an antiracist/antisexist
organizer to weave fast-moving, emotionally
engaging plots that speak whispers and
shouts about power and privilege in
modern day New York City. His work
has appeared in the Freezine of Fantasy
and Science Fiction, The ShadowCast
Audio Anthology, The Tide Pool, and
the collection Sunshine/Noir, and is
featured in Sheree Renee Thomas'
Black Pot Mojo Reading Series in Harlem.
When he's not writing, teaching or
riding around in an ambulance,
Daniel can be found performing with
his Brooklyn-based soul quartet
Ghost Star. His blog about the
ridiculous and disturbing world
of EMS can be found here.

Paul Stuart's

Paul Stuart is the author of numerous
biographical blurbs written in the third
person. His previously published fiction
appears in The Vault of Punk Horror and
His non-fiction financial pieces can be found
in a shiny, west-coast magazine that features
pictures of expensive homes, as well as images
of women in casual poses and their accessories.
Consider writing him at,
if you'd like some thing from his garage. In fall
2010, look for Grade 12 Trigonometry and
Pre-Calculus -With Zombies.

Rain Grave's

Rain Graves is an award winning
author of horror, science fiction and
poetry. She is best known for the 2002
Poetry Collection, The Gossamer Eye
(along with Mark McLaughlin and
David Niall Wilson). Her most
recent book, Barfodder: Poetry
Written in Dark Bars and Questionable
Cafes, has been hailed by Publisher's
Weekly as "Bukowski meets Lovecraft..."
in January of 2009. She lives and
writes in San Francisco, performing
spoken word at events around the
country. 877-DRK-POEM -

Icy Sedgwick's

Icy Sedgwick is part writer and part
trainee supervillain. She lives in the UK
but dreams of the Old West. Her current
works include a ghost story about a Cavalier
and a Western tale of retribution. Find her
ebooks, free weekly fiction and other
shenanigans at Icy’s Cabinet of Curiosities.

Blag Dahlia's
armed to the teeth

BLAG DAHLIA is a Rock Legend.
Singer, Songwriter, producer &
founder of the notorious DWARVES.
He has written two novels, ‘NINA’ and

G. Alden Davis's

G. Alden Davis wrote his first short story
in high school, and received a creative
writing scholarship for the effort. Soon
afterward he discovered that words were
not enough, and left for art school. He was
awarded the Emeritus Fellowship along
with his BFA from Memphis College of Art
in '94, and entered the videogame industry
as a team leader and 3D artist. He has over
25 published games to his credit. Mr. Davis
is a Burningman participant of 14 years,
and he swings a mean sword in the SCA.
He's also the best friend I ever had. He
was taken away from us last year on Jan
25 and I'll never be able to understand why.
Together we were a fantastic duo, the
legendary Grub Bros. Our secret base
exists on a cross-hatched nexus between
the Year of the Dragon and Dark City.
Somewhere along the tectonic fault
lines of our electromagnetic gathering,
shades of us peel off from the coruscating
pillars and are dropped back into the mix.
The phrase "rest in peace" just bugs me.
I'd rather think that Greg Grub's inimitable
spirit somehow continues evolving along
another manifestation of light itself, a
purple shift shall we say into another
phase of our expanding universe. I
ask myself, is it wishful thinking?
Will we really shed our human skin
like a discarded chrysalis and emerge
shimmering on another wavelength
altogether--or even manifest right
here among the rest without their
even beginning to suspect it? Well
people do believe in ghosts, but I
myself have long been suspicious
there can only be one single ghost
and that's all the stars in the universe
shrinking away into a withering heart
glittering and winking at us like
lost diamonds still echoing all their
sad and lonely songs fallen on deaf
eyes and ears blind to their colorful
emanations. My grub brother always
knew better than what the limits
of this old world taught him. We
explored past the outer peripheries
of our comfort zones to awaken
the terror in our minds and keep
us on our toes deep in the forest
in the middle of the night. The owls
led our way and the wilderness
transformed into a sanctuary.
The adventures we shared together
will always remain tattooed on
the pages of my skin. They tell a
story that we began together and
which continues being woven to
this very day. It's the same old
story about how we all were in
this together and how each and
every one of us is also going away
someday and though it will be the far-
thest we can manage to tell our own
tale we may rest assured it will be
continued like one of the old pulp
serials by all our friends which survive
us and manage to continue
the saga whispering in the wind.

Shae Sveniker's

Shae is a poet/artist/student and former
resident of the Salt Pit, UT, currently living
in Simi Valley, CA. His short stories are on
Blogger and his poetry is hosted on Livejournal.

Nigel Strange's

Nigel Strange lives with his wife and
daughter, cats, and tiny dog-like thing
in their home in California where he
occasionally experiments recreationally
with lucidity. PLASTIC CHILDREN
is his first publication.

J.R. Torina's

J.R. Torina was DJ for Sonic Slaughter-
house ('90-'97), runs Sutekh Productions
(an industrial-ambient music label) and
Slaughterhouse Records (metal record
label), and was proprietor of The Abyss
(a metal-gothic-industrial c.d. shop in
SLC, now closed). He is the dark force
behind Scapegoat (an ambient-tribal-
noise-experimental unit). THE HOUSE
IN THE PORT is his first publication.

K.B. Updike, Jr's

K.B. Updike, Jr. is a young virgin
Virginia writer. KB's life work,
published 100% for free:
(We are not certain if K.B. Updike, Jr.
has lost his Virginian virginity yet.)