Fat Girl in a Strange Land by Bart R. Leib, Kay T. Holt Page A
Authors: Bart R. Leib, Kay T. Holt
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inside your new shoes.
The woman tries on a smile with her lips. It’s not quite right, but it will do. It’s a start. The lemon, honey and whisky warm you from the inside.
You fold the map into its special pouch and stow it in your pack. Together, you walk out of the mapmakers, and faces towards the sun, you both turn the corner in the cobblestone lane.
A.J. Fitzwater lives and breathes in the shaky city of Christchurch, New Zealand, where she has become adept at skipping cracks. Watched over by a squawk of dragons, she writes in whatever sunbeam her calico cat Mini Me deems appropriate for solar powered charging. Her work has appeared in Expanded Horizons , M-Brane SF , Khimairal Ink , Semaphore , Luna Station Quarterly , Flash Me Magazine , and the earthquake fundraising anthology Tales for Canterbury ( talesforcanterbury.wordpress.com ). She blogs about her writing journey at pickledthink.blogspot.com .
Survivor
by Josh Roseman
----
Wen slumped against a crystal formation and stared up at the dark sky, lit only by greenish-gold auroras. Sweat ran down into her eyes and made her clothes cling in uncomfortable places. She wanted to sit down, wanted to take off the pack for a few minutes, but the last time she’d done that, her feet had ached even worse for the respite.
No. Better to stay standing.
She caught her breath before taking a measured swallow from the canteen that hung at her side. Gulping the water would be a mistake; in this state, she’d just throw up. Staying calm, that was the key.
One more swallow, though she ached to drain the whole thing, and then back onto its clip.
Wen’s borrowed comm pinged. Four hours to sunrise. Four hours until the witchlight above her head gave way to the burning white orb that would blast her with heat and radiation until she was nothing but a memory.
Four hours to live.
She shoved the comm back into her pocket, stood up straight, and started to run again.
Well, jog, anyway.
It was the best she could do.
----
The rich kids had chartered an interplanetary liner for their high school graduation party. Wen had been invited because she was friends with someone who was friends with someone whose father owned a big chunk of one of the moons. She knew no one liked her — no one ever really liked the fat kids, not even the other fat kids — but she’d be leaving in a few weeks anyway, to one of the top universities in the system. Why not at least try to have a little fun?
And Bess had insisted. Bess, her friend, who had begged Missy Hallen to let Wen come along.
Bess had also insisted Wen have a few drinks — they were out of orbit, and the rules didn’t apply. “Come on, Wen! Lighten up!”
Wen hadn’t liked whatever Bess had pressed into her hand, and she’d soon begged off and stumbled down the corridor to the little medical bay.
When the collision alarms had sounded, Wen had managed to strap herself in despite a blinding headache and a growing urge to vomit.
Then the ship had crashed, and when Wen came to, she’d stumbled along the tilted corridor until she’d seen the damage.
The ship had been ripped in half, and the other part of it was on fire, maybe half a kilometer away.
Between her and that blaze was a field of bodies.
Her hand went to her mouth and she stumbled backward, trying not to scream.
----
Wen heard a noise — one that didn’t sound like her body crushing tiny crystals under her feet — and immediately dropped to her knees. She stifled a groan, then lowered herself flat. The second planet, Sidqiel, was home to all sorts of dangerous wildlife, and though Wen had a blaster — part of the liner’s emergency supplies — she had no way to know what was coming.
So she calmed herself. She tried to breathe more quietly.
And she listened, clutching the blaster in her left hand, waiting for whatever was out there, wasting what little time she had left.
----
Wen had screwed up her courage and tried to go out among the bodies strewn
The woman tries on a smile with her lips. It’s not quite right, but it will do. It’s a start. The lemon, honey and whisky warm you from the inside.
You fold the map into its special pouch and stow it in your pack. Together, you walk out of the mapmakers, and faces towards the sun, you both turn the corner in the cobblestone lane.
A.J. Fitzwater lives and breathes in the shaky city of Christchurch, New Zealand, where she has become adept at skipping cracks. Watched over by a squawk of dragons, she writes in whatever sunbeam her calico cat Mini Me deems appropriate for solar powered charging. Her work has appeared in Expanded Horizons , M-Brane SF , Khimairal Ink , Semaphore , Luna Station Quarterly , Flash Me Magazine , and the earthquake fundraising anthology Tales for Canterbury ( talesforcanterbury.wordpress.com ). She blogs about her writing journey at pickledthink.blogspot.com .
Survivor
by Josh Roseman
----
Wen slumped against a crystal formation and stared up at the dark sky, lit only by greenish-gold auroras. Sweat ran down into her eyes and made her clothes cling in uncomfortable places. She wanted to sit down, wanted to take off the pack for a few minutes, but the last time she’d done that, her feet had ached even worse for the respite.
No. Better to stay standing.
She caught her breath before taking a measured swallow from the canteen that hung at her side. Gulping the water would be a mistake; in this state, she’d just throw up. Staying calm, that was the key.
One more swallow, though she ached to drain the whole thing, and then back onto its clip.
Wen’s borrowed comm pinged. Four hours to sunrise. Four hours until the witchlight above her head gave way to the burning white orb that would blast her with heat and radiation until she was nothing but a memory.
Four hours to live.
She shoved the comm back into her pocket, stood up straight, and started to run again.
Well, jog, anyway.
It was the best she could do.
----
The rich kids had chartered an interplanetary liner for their high school graduation party. Wen had been invited because she was friends with someone who was friends with someone whose father owned a big chunk of one of the moons. She knew no one liked her — no one ever really liked the fat kids, not even the other fat kids — but she’d be leaving in a few weeks anyway, to one of the top universities in the system. Why not at least try to have a little fun?
And Bess had insisted. Bess, her friend, who had begged Missy Hallen to let Wen come along.
Bess had also insisted Wen have a few drinks — they were out of orbit, and the rules didn’t apply. “Come on, Wen! Lighten up!”
Wen hadn’t liked whatever Bess had pressed into her hand, and she’d soon begged off and stumbled down the corridor to the little medical bay.
When the collision alarms had sounded, Wen had managed to strap herself in despite a blinding headache and a growing urge to vomit.
Then the ship had crashed, and when Wen came to, she’d stumbled along the tilted corridor until she’d seen the damage.
The ship had been ripped in half, and the other part of it was on fire, maybe half a kilometer away.
Between her and that blaze was a field of bodies.
Her hand went to her mouth and she stumbled backward, trying not to scream.
----
Wen heard a noise — one that didn’t sound like her body crushing tiny crystals under her feet — and immediately dropped to her knees. She stifled a groan, then lowered herself flat. The second planet, Sidqiel, was home to all sorts of dangerous wildlife, and though Wen had a blaster — part of the liner’s emergency supplies — she had no way to know what was coming.
So she calmed herself. She tried to breathe more quietly.
And she listened, clutching the blaster in her left hand, waiting for whatever was out there, wasting what little time she had left.
----
Wen had screwed up her courage and tried to go out among the bodies strewn
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