Plasma Frequency Magazine: Issue 14

  Cover art: “First Snow” by Jon Orr

  Staff:

  Editor-in-Chief, Richard Flores IV

  Assistant Editor, Amy Flores

  Assistant Editor, Molly Moss

  Assistant Editor, Alexis Hunter

  Assistant Editor, Paul Hamilton

  Assistant Editor, Tiffany Carrera

  Assistant Editor, Vacant

  Marketing and Social Media, Vacant

  Art Editor, Vacant

  Plasma Frequency ISSN 2168-1309 (Print) and ISSN 2168-1317 (Electronic), Issue 14 November/December 2014. Published bimonthly by Plasma Spyglass Press, Auburn, Washington

  Annual subscription available at www.plasmafrequencymagazine.com. Electronic edition $9.99 for one year.

  ELECTRONIC EDITION

  Copyright © 2014 by Plasma Spyglass Press. All Rights Reserved.

  www.plasmafrequencymagazine.com

  www.plasmaspyglass.com

  In This Issue

  From the Editor

  “Bedtime Story” by Jes Rausch

  “Goddess of the Barricades” by Andrew Knighton

  “The Beetle Farm” by DeAnna Knippling

  “City of One” by Damien Krsteski

  “Jigsaw Pieces” by Jamie Lackey

  “At Twenty-Two Hundred Hours” By Sylvia Anna Hivén

  “The Petrologic Engine” by Nyki Blatchley

  “General Hardwick” by Nicole Tanquary

  “Leiden Jar” By John Zaharick

  “The Great Exodus: Chattel Call” by Steve Coate

  “Dark Chocolate” by Frances Silversmith

  From the Editor

  Happy holidays from all of us at Plasma Frequency. I can’t really believe another year is ending and with that the start of something new. My mom once told me that life is a lot like toilet paper, the closer you get to the end of the roll the faster it seems to go. While I am hopefully nowhere near “the end”, I do notice that time has seemed to pick up pace. And here we are ending another year and I still had a lot I wanted to get done in 2014.

  One thing that I do enjoy about entering a new year is that there are new things on the horizon. New experiences, new life lessons, and new paths to travel down. I have already set the wheels in motion for Plasma Frequency to travel down a new path. And one of those things that I have set in motion is a Kickstarter campaign with the goal to increase what we pay our authors and artists. My goal was to take us down the road to a professional pay rate. Hopefully the Kickstarter will see funding, the deadline in November 15th. So please consider supporting us there.

  We also have two new things planned for 2015. The first will come with Issue 16, which will be a themed issue. Not only will we have a theme to that issue, but I will also be turning over editor-in-chief duties to Molly and Alexis, two of my reading editors. The details of what they are looking for, as well as the special call will open up in Mid-November. The theme they have chosen is: Anti-Apocalypse. I can’t wait to read that issue.

  The second is something I believe no other publication does. We will be launching an online writers group and a writer’s development program. I suspect the writer’s group will launch in December or January. And I believe we should have the development program ready by March.

  What is the development program? Our editorial staff will be looking for promising writers whose work is nearly ready for publication. We will then work with these writers to get their stories ready for publication. The plan is to give authors more feedback than even a personal rejection letter can establish and to teach them about what editors are looking for in a story. This is a ground breaking program and we will start with one ‘class’ per quarter. All the details of this program will be laid out when our writer’s group goes live. But, I am very excited about this. In fact, I think I will work more on it when I am done writing this.

  There is something new at the back of this issue. This is our donors’ page. These are folks who have donated money to our Patreon or directly through PayPal. Some authors are even choosing to donate their earnings from their story’s sale to us. As a way to say thank you to them, I have created a thank you page. Each donor level represents a certain dollar amount. Thank you to all our donors. Once the Kickstarter campaign is funded, this page is sure to fill up.

  One last thing to note: Issue 13 was our first issue that was 100% free to read online. Since that time I have put all of our back issues up on our website. You can read any issue of Plasma Frequency on our website for FREE. If you still like print or eReader formats, those will still be for sale. It was great to go back and read over these past issues as I put them up online.

  A lot is going on with Plasma Frequency in the coming years. Our goal remains the same. High quality stories for our readers, while supporting the growth of writers. Speaking of writers, let me step aside and let the work of our authors shine.

  Richard Flores IV

  Editor-in-Chief

  Bedtime Story

  By Jes Rausch

  There is a wonderful land, very far away, but not so far if you imagine. The air smells like warm sugar and the grass is always as green as the inside of a squashed hornworm. There are no hornworms, of course.

  [Stare at the beautiful watercolor renditions of such a magical, fictitious place, created on a computer by an underpaid yet highly talented artist.]

  High in the purple mountains live golden griffons and fearsome dragons. They are dangerous and will bite the heads off anyone who finds their lairs.

  [Note that the artist really is quite good. A dragon has never looked simultaneously so silly and so intimidating. The mountains are a purple that only hints at purple.]

  They are lazy, though, and stay in their lairs, so the people of this wonderful land are safe. The children run barefoot through the grasses and eat sweet berries straight from the bush.

  [Children never are so well-behaved and clean while having this much fun, are they? Best turn the page.]

  In one of the stables of this kingdom there once lived a young horse named Pennyshoes Quickbolt. Pennyshoes was a pretty horse with a shiny coat and a long, long tail.

  [The pretty horse is white, but don’t notice that. Note its huge eyes, suspect it is female.]

  Pennyshoes spent her days running through the green, green grass with her mother and brothers and sisters and friends. Pennyshoes was the fastest runner of them all, but even so, she was often sad.

  [Try not to yawn at the predictable story setup. Stare at the gorgeous pictures again.]

  “Why are you so sad?” her friends would ask. Pennyshoes would sit under her favorite tree and reply, “Because I want to be a unicorn.”

  [The art, while lovely, falls apart some; but thought bubbles ruin any decent watercolor.]

  “You can’t be a unicorn!” her friends would say. “You’re perfect just the way you are. Come run with us.” And Pennyshoes would run with them up and down the green, green grass.

  [This is the boring part of the story. Try to read all of the last sentence before the eager child turns the page.]

  But Pennyshoes wanted to be a unicorn too much, more than she wanted to be the best runner, more than she wanted to smell the sun-warmed sugar-scented breeze. So one night Pennyshoes left the stables and ran off into the darkness.

  [How a horse can unlock her own stable door is not explained, nor is it really necessary in the grand scheme of things.]

  Pennyshoes ran until she came to the foot of the purple mountains. She just knew if she found a unicorn, it would use its magical golden horn to turn her into a unicorn too. After all, she was the fastest horse in the land.

  [It is daylight again, but obviously such inconsistencies don’t matter to a
child.]

  While Pennyshoes waited for a unicorn, a hunter came passing by. He could have mistaken her for a unicorn, or he could have just been very hungry, but he raised his gun and shot Pennyshoes dead where she stood.

  [Allow the child a moment to revel in the scene, perhaps even make the gunshot noises. It’s a healthy expression. The watercolors really are incredibly good. Has painted blood ever looked so real?]

  The hunter took Pennyshoes home and his wife cooked her for supper in a big metal pot. She was delicious. The End.

  [The child may close the book when desired. Encourage the moral of the story. If “be yourself,” is offered, smile. Don’t humiliate the child by correcting the moral to “know your place.” Children are smart, and will be told at an older age. Offer a glass of highly-recommended milk. It’ll give the child nightmares, but that just means he/she is growing up strong. Turn off all the lights.]

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jes Rausch lives and writes in Wisconsin, with too many pets and too much beer for company.

  Goddess of the Barricades

  By Andrew Knighton

  Benoit was at the barricades when the police arrived, snarling beneath their peaked caps, shields of corrugated iron held out before them. Five days of protest had given the Merchant Council time to deputise other reactionaries, and behind the career constables came a mob of petty merchants and paid skinheads wielding broomsticks and shovel handles.

  'The proletariat have spoken!' Benoit scrambled up a mound of cobbles, hair streaming out behind him like a hero from classical myth. He struck his finest oratorical pose and addressed the forces of counter-revolution. 'Your hegemony is at an end. With the throbbing muscle of the unions and the fiery soul of the student body combined, we cannot be moved. We stand united for equality, for freedom, for-'

  The ground shook beneath him, cobbles rattling down to the road, and he sank to his knees. To his left, a shop front trembled and started to grind back along the road. The terrace to the right was moving as well, threatening to leave the barricade exposed in the middle of a crossroads, with reactionaries closing in on three sides.

  Benoit cursed. His fellow students, mostly philosophers and poets like himself, milled nervously around. They had no idea how the city worked, how this part had been made to stand still since the protest began. They were men and women of words, fine words, logical words, motivational words. But in the city's ancient mechanisms left them as lost as leaves on the ocean.

  It was then that he saw her, striding out of the crowd with sledgehammer in her hand. She was tall and athletic, a coffee-skinned goddess. The scars down the left side of her face accentuated her fierce beauty. Benoit's soul rushed forth in a deep, stricken sigh.

  She strode to the end of the barricade where the shops were making their slow retreat. She bent, stuck a foot-long iron spike in the ground, and stood back. Her hammer fell in a strong, stately arc, driving the spike down in a single blow.

  The shops stood shuddering, shutters rattling, as gears strained in their tracks. Before they could break free other labourers swarmed forward, hammering their own pinions into place, halting the buildings on both sides of the street.

  Benoit slid down to the cobbles, bruising his backside in his hurry to meet her.

  'That was incredible!' He rushed towards her, hand outstretched in solidarity. 'You have frozen the counter-revolution in its tracks.'

  'Gives us another day.' She shouldered her sledgehammer but ignored his hand. 'Coppers are still here.'

  Yelling voices, crashing stones and smashing glass announced the arrival of the police at the barricade, and the protesters' traditional response. She started to climb the defences, to join in the action. As she did so Benoit heard a hiss of steam, caught a glimpse of metal between the top of her boot and the end of her boiler suit. This woman had suffered for her labours, lost a leg to the cruelty of the bourgeoisie. He wondered where the piston-powered replacement ended, where her flesh began.

  'I'm with you, comrade!' He scrambled after her, slipped and smacked his chin as a cobblestone rolled away beneath his hand. At last he reached the pinnacle of the revolutionary defences, face throbbing but heart filled with pride. Below, the police had pulled back, while armoured science soldiers dragged a squat brass mortar up in their midst.

  Seized by a fit of passion, he began singing the Hymn of the Masses, and soon his student brethren were joining him in song. He glanced over at her, expecting to enjoy their shared fervour. But she was ignoring him, ignoring the whole ragged choir, busy leading her labouring comrades in reinforcing the end of the barricade.

  Benoit's voice faltered with embarrassment, the Hymn dying on his lips.

  'Brothers and sisters!' He raised his arms, addressing the socialists, anarchists and motley idealists who formed the student mob. 'Let us aid our working allies in their labours. Together we will stand stronger against the capitalists!'

  Cheering enthusiastically, the students headed towards the labourers assembling their improvised buttresses. But as they approached, Benoit's goddess of the barricades turned and held out her hands in rejection.

  'Stay back,' she said. 'This is real work.'

  'Comrade, we're here to help.' Benoit flung his arms wide, smiling broadly.

  'Don't comrade me,' she said. 'I've seen your sort of help.'

  'What do you mean?' Benoit slumped. There was steel in her voice, an antagonism he expected to see against the Merchant Council, not fellow revolutionaries.

  'Pamphlets. Posters. Manifestos.' She counted them off on leather-gloved fingers. 'All in our names. All riling the Council against us.'

  'We must raise the banner of change, offer the possibility of a better world.'

  'We must eat. We were hours from a settlement, from better wages, when you turned the strike into this.'

  Benoit hung his head. He'd always taken for granted his role as a voice of the working poor, articulating an outrage that they could not. No other view had occurred to him.

  'Why are you still here then?' he asked.

  'It is what it is.' The mortar let out a low 'whump' and a smoke bomb sailed over her head. 'We give in now, we get nothing. Can't let that be.'

  'Surely we can help . Just tell us what to do.'

  'I'm a turbine yard foreman.' She pointed to the people working on the barricade, straining like the muscles of a single body. Ropes and levers, pulleys and pickaxes joined in one smooth movement. 'Those are navvies, brick-layers, bridge builders. You think they learnt this work in a day? You'd be more risk than help.'

  She must have seen the disappointment in Benoit's face, the agitation of the others behind him. She laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, gazed at him with big, brown eyes that made his heart pound like a piston. It was not the sort of touch he wanted from her, but it was a start.

  'Keep the police busy,' she said. 'It's the best you can do.'

  Benoit grinned, pulled a red flag from his waistcoat pocket.

  'Prepare to be dazzled!'

  ~

  Her name was Amina. Benoit squeezed the information from her in a single grudging conversation while they paused for water.

  By then they were all wearing improvised masks, pocket handkerchiefs or torn corners of shirts soaked in water to hinder the choking smoke launched into their midst. Benoit and his compatriots played the theatrical fool, that tangling of simpleton and genius, for an un-paying, uniformed crowd. They spouted rhetoric, bounced between barricades and buildings, flung as many flowers as they did stones. The forces of authority, police constables and science soldiers alike, stood erect but uncertain before their ever-shifting antics. Those uniformed men watched, flung smoke bombs, clubbed any student who came into reach. There were bloodied faces and a handful of arrests, but the protesters held them back long enough at every turn for Amina's crew to reinforce the barricades, raise them higher, fix buildings that threatened to stir on their rails.

  The faces of the science soldiers were hidden by gas masks, bu
t the police looked increasingly frustrated, and it couldn't be long before they launched a full-on attack.

  As dusk fell, Benoit sat on the top of the Bank Avenue barricade, left leg dangling out into enemy territory. This was one of the quieter spots, but a steady stream of smoke bombs still sailed over his head, while bottles, stones and curses were flung back the other way. With one hand he waved his red flag at the faceless bulls down the street. With the other he sipped from a quart of gin.

  Heavy footfalls and a light piston hiss announced that Amina was joining him. She flung one leg over the barricade, a heavy, steel-toed boot hanging an inch from his scuffed town shoe.

  'Seems you're not all useless,' she said with a warm smile.

  'I try.' He passed her the bottle and she took a deep, satisfied gulp. A tiny trickle of gin escaped her lips and ran down her throat, glinting in the torchlight.

  'You really believe in all this?' She passed the bottle back. He tingled as their fingers touched. 'Liberty, democracy, a fair share for all?'

  'Of course!' He tossed his hair indignantly. 'Would I risk life and limb, not to mention my career prospects, for hollow rhetoric and a chance to scream at policemen? If that was all I wanted I'd become a lawyer.'

  'How many workers do you know?'

  He hesitated. He had some snappy answers to this, ways to win a debate, to impress the impressionable with his knowledge of mankind. He suspected they would find no traction with her.

  'As of now, just you.' He said hesitated, worried at how she would respond. 'But I'm very impressed.'

  'Why believe in us then?'

  'A priest need not meet God to know that he is great. I can but hear a dog in the night and feel for its suffering. Our city teems with a writhing mass of the oppressed, those whose work buoys us all up but who suffer every day beneath a crushing system. How could I not believe in them?'

  She held out her hand, shook his with a grip like iron.

  'You're not bad, Benoit.' She leaned forward, looked him in the eye. 'Not bad at all.'