​We've a new story and two short poems for you now by regular Angel contributor Bruce Boston. The story tells the saga of Medusa's smarter sister – what, you didn't know there were three Gorgons who could turn you into stone?

​
The Immortal Gorgons
by Bruce Boston


Medusa was long and away gone. Barely a bad memory, And so very bad she was! Even if she was Gorgon kin. She had bad looks. Bad taste. Bad disposition. Black sheep of the family. As if the snakes weren’t enough, the bat-mad woman had to put jeweled collars on their necks to make them seem attractive.

Then she encountered Mister Shiny Shield, and it was slice and dice time for poor Medusa. She died young for a mythical monster. But then again, if she’d been a little brighter and less conceited.

That left the two immortal gorgons, Stheno and Euryale.

While the centuries dark and light transpired, there were two things that Stheno and Euryale eventually agreed upon.  They both hated Medusa and what they considered her undeserved renown with a manic passion. Why should she be famous, a veritable legend that lived on and on, when they were virtually unknown? And after too many centuries together, they also hated one another almost as much.

I should know. I’m Euryale, the smart one. 

We just had nothing left to say to each other we hadn’t already said. And looking at one another’s writhing or bound snakes only makes you more aware of your own. We never wanted to see each other again. Earth was fortunately large enough to accommodate us.  

Last I heard of Stheno, she was going back to nature. Off to find some primitive tribe in Africa or Indian that would worship her as a Goddess. 

“Small dreams for a small mind!” That was the last thing I said to her. She just shrugged, turned her back on me, and walked away. 

I can see her now in some isolated village, worshipped and feared by a hundred or so ignorant natives. Believe me, natives don’t fancy getting turned to stone anymore than anyone else. 

​As for myself, I now live in Hollywood. North Hollywood if you want to be precise about it. I’m part of the cadre of freaks and hangers-on that survive around the entertainment industry. I feed my snakes valium and keep them bound with a turban except when I’m alone. I have my own website where I’m known as Madame Euryale, Psychic to the Stars. I have hundreds of devotees and clients. Even a few legitimate stars. No big deal. I’m just bidding my immortal time.

In my private life I’m an avid science fiction fan. I read the books and watch the movies and television shows. I contribute to the organizations encouraging space travel. The sooner we leave this ball of dirt the better as far as I’m concerned. I’m ready and waiting for other planets. Then I’m going to find one I can make my own. 

I’ll create my very own legend, glorious for me and deadly for any who would dare cross me. It will be a legend that will overshadow Medusa’s completely. And I will live on to enjoy it. 



Unwritten
 
The only real history
of the human species
lies in the vanished
memories of the dead.
 
 
First to Draw
 
The last gunslinger
surveys the empty street,
the empty town,
the empty world.



About Bruce Boston...  Born in Chicago in 1943, Bruce grew up in Southern California in an era of rock 'n' roll, the Cold War, and the Space Race. From 1961-2001, he lived in the San Francisco Bay Area, attending and graduating from the University of California, Berkeley, while active in the psychedelia and political protests of the 1960s. He has worked in a variety of occupations, including computer programmer, college professor, technical writer, book designer, movie projectionist, gardener, and furniture mover and now lives in Florida with his wife – the writer-artist Marge Simon, and the ghosts of two cats. His website is at www.bruceboston.com

His work has appeared in hundreds of publications, including Asimov's SF, Amazing Stories, Realms of Fantasy, Strange Horizons, Weird Tales, The Pedestal Magazine, The Twilight Zone Magazine, Year's Best Fantasy & Horror, and the Nebula Awards Showcase. His poetry has received the Bram Stoker Award, the Asimov's Readers' Award, the Rhysling Award of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, the Balticon Poetry Award, and the SFPA Grandmaster Award.

​We've three new pieces of micro fiction for you now, covering everything from antique mannequins, to squirrel girls, and even Prince Charming, by Tonya Liburd, Richard Manly Heiman and Alexandra Grunberg...


Still Life
by Tonya Liburd

It was either the worst day of your life, or the world fell from under you, you still don't know which. He'd taken you to the back of this run-down antique store and stopped before a male and female mannequin. "These are your parents."


* Tonya Liburd shares a birthday with Simeon Daniel and Ray Bradbury, which should tell you a bit about her. She's at @somesillywowzer and http://Spiderlilly.com


New Breeds
by Richard Manly Heiman

When they discovered the savage squirrel girl she was a bag of bones. Stuffed in a tree trunk. Maxillae, carpals, frail inci and stapedes blocking leaves and twigs from falling down the hole at the bottom of the nest. Forensic experts found desiccated skin and just enough buccal tissue. They used this to reconstruct, extracting sufficient DNA that nine weeks later squirrel girl redux was born, in vitro. Clearly, errant chromosomal flotsam found its way into the embryo based on the beady black eyes, lustrous bushy tail, and extraordinary growth rate. Still, mostly girl. They strived to teach her English, social skills, and the prime number sequence to 100. Though she never spoke, researchers stayed upbeat based on motor progress such as using fork and spoon to eat her favorite berries with acorns. She adored Cheerios too. All were charmed, but after only fifteen months of frisky life she chewed through wires behind her observation monitor and shockingly, died. Who will scamper through our mornings now? they chorused.

Undaunted, field biologists claim they have discovered genetically viable human hair lining a porcupine den under a boarded up barber shop.They hope it’s a boy.  


* Richard Manly Heiman lives in a hollow log on the western slope of the Sierra Nevada, California. He works as a substitute teacher and writes when the kids are at recess. He is completing his MFA with Lindenwood U. and his work appears in Bop Dead City, After the Pause, Dappled Things, and elsewhere. His website is at www.poetrick.com.


And They Both Lived Happily Ever After
by Alexandra Grunberg

Prince Charming and his lady stopped riding off into the sunset, watching as the gilded print of “The End” faded behind them with the whispered turn of a page. They held their places for a few seconds (sometimes there was an epilogue, crinkled on the parchment, rushed in a splatter of ink, always unnecessary), but the book closed with its echoed thud and they relaxed away from their lovers’ embrace.

The lady slid down from the horse’s back and kicked off her heels, submerging her feet in an illustrator’s watery blue. The prince pulled off his helmet, gasping, the thick coils of grey and black more smothering than the tight grasp of pulp and binding glue. 

For a while they could rest. They could flit through the pages, revisiting their favorite scenes, skipping over the sappier moments. Or they could recede into the ink, separating out until they were just words or ideas, from the inspiration to the theme, leaving the plot behind them. She could wrap herself up in ripped edges and play as a villain deemed too mature for a children’s book. He could nap in the dog-eared corners, losing himself in the enchanted sleep that princes were never cursed with, the rest that eluded them on their never-ending quests. 

They could try to find the character in each other, hidden somewhere in simple sentences and dramatic, generic, declarations of love.

Maybe if it was a chapter book they could have really been meant for each other. An author with more time and integrity could have given them a tragic backstory and the promise of a beautiful future. Maybe if it was a novel they would learn why their stories were destined to intertwine. 

But characters named simply “Prince Charming” and “his lady” were not afforded an analysis. They could only wait within the bright colors and smudges from children’s snacks, nestling in the larger fonts and dissolving into the more detailed illustrations, until a little voice clamored for another “Once upon a time.”


* Florida-based author, screenwriter, and actress Alexandra Grunberg's work has been been published in Daily Science Fiction, Fantastic Stories of the Imagination, Flash Fiction Online, and Grievous Angel. She is a graduate of New York University's Tisch School of the Arts.  http://alexandragrunberg.weebly.com/ + @alexgrunberg

Our latest flash fiction is a scarily prescient tale by the well-known writer William Meikle. William is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with 20 novels published in the genre press and over 300 short story credits in thirteen countries. His books are available from a variety of publishers including Dark Regions Press, DarkFuse and Dark Renaissance, and his work has appeared in a number of professional anthologies and magazines.​ You can find out more at www.williammeikle.com



Your Order is Being Processed
by William Meikle


Order processing center 45 – 12th May 2045. No. 14593/13. David and Elizabeth Greenway. 

Please enter your desired sex ( default is male. )
Female. We want a girl, you see – George is three now and he needs a little sister and we're not getting any younger so if you could see your way to…

Please enter your desired skin color ( default is white. )
Oh, white, definitely. Not that we're racist or anything, oh no – some of our best friends are black. But David and I are both white, and so is everyone in our street. In fact, all of the new babies among our friends are blue eyed and blond so we don't want to be too different, do we?

Please enter your desired ethnicity ( default is Caucasian. )
Caucasian please. Not that we'd mind anything else, but you see so few young ones of them around now, don't you, and we wouldn't want our little girl to be picked on for being different.

Please enter your desired eye color ( default is blue )
Brown please, as we're both brown, and so is George, so it would be a little strange if his new little sister had blue eyes, don't you think? Besides, I always think that brown eyes are kinder. People are more likely to trust you if you've got brown eyes. I've often said it, haven't I, David? And…

Please enter your desired adult height ( default is 1.85 meters for males, 1.70 meters for females )
Oh, we don't want her to be short – you see so very few short girls around these days – not like when we were young, is it? I mean, I'm only five foot nothing myself and it never stopped me from getting on, but you see all these kids now, towering over you in the shops and at the train station and they're all just so big, aren't they? So we wouldn't want her to be left out. Shall we say just above average, David? 1.72 is not too tall, is it?

Body shape will be athletic. No other body shapes are available. Confirm Y/N
Oh, athletic will be just fine Not that we're as fit as we used to be. We just don't have the time, what with the commuting and the taxes to pay and the shopping to do. And then there's all the food – it's all full of sugars these days, isn't it? And the weight just goes straight to my hips – and my legs. I keep telling David that we should get out for more walks, but the weather is just terrible –either it's too warm or too cold, never quite right. Now when I was a girl we…

Please enter your desired I.Q. ( Default is 100. The maximum permitted by legislation for your income group is 120. The minimum permitted without special dispensation is 80. )
Oh, we'll have an average please. We don't want her to be too clever, but then again, we can't have her being stupid – that wouldn't do at all. Maybe just above average? What do you think, David? 102 maybe – that's the same as us, and we do just fine, don't we? There's never anything on the box that goes over our head anyway. Not like when I was a girl and they had all those science things on – I never could get the hang of them. What do we need science for these days anyway? I was just saying, wasn't I that...

Please enter desired vocation – a place will be reserved where available ( Economic or social restrictions may apply. )
Well, we'll need someone to run the shop in our dotage, won't we, David? And we put George down for the bank then they told us he'd be going into the army at eighteen, so we should have our little girl as shopkeeper – shouldn't we? Will they let us do that? I'll put it in and we’ll see what happens – I think that's for the best. So, shopkeeper it is, then.

Your order is being processed. Your order number is No. 14593/13. Expected delivery is nine months from confirmation. 

Do you wish to confirm (Y/N).

Time for some poetry with new-to-the-Angel contributor New York-based irving and a return of regular Republic-of Ireland-based poet John W. Sexton.

​
Lighthouse
by irving

From inside 
the suit is chilly. 

From outside, 
the faceplate shines 

like a lighthouse 
that may save some ship 

a few thousand years 
from now. 


* irving's poetry has previously appeared in Dreams & Nightmares, From the Asylum, Niteblade, Paper Crow, Star*Line and other publications.


One Last Time
by John W. Sexton

he steps upon
the sharpest surface …
this place goes through you
 
          nothing to hold its tears …
          with a sideways glance
          the winged eyeball departs
 
solitaire football
… the pitch declares
a foul
 
          something descends …
          clouds made of silk
          do not bode well
 
nineteen partings
the wig from Altair 3
had ideas of its own
 
          o purest white
          the snow whored itself
          over everything
 
Sputnik-tinned Laika
did you bark
one last time?


* John W. Sexton lives in the Republic of Ireland. His fifth poetry collection The Offspring of the Moon is published by Salmon Poetry. In 2007 he was awarded a Patrick and Katherine Kavanagh Fellowship in Poetry.