Here’s a feature on The Fountain, a collection of short stories by John Maberry. Many readers are in a hurry and don’t want epic novels. They like is short fiction that they can read on the run. This fits the bill. Seven short fantasy and sci-fi stories that total about one quarter of an average novel. Twists, humor and popular topics with some retro items.
Coming soon from Eagle Peak Press—The Fountain and More, a Speculative Fiction Collection. We had hoped to make it available for the holidays but missed that target. Instead, it will be out early in 2017. Our loss is your gain. You can receive a FREE digital copy of the collection. How? Subscribe to Eagle Peak Quarterly by January 31—and it’s FREE, just like the subscription to the Quarterly.
A poem about Nichiren Daishonin written by Michael Brill, a long-time Buddhist practitioner. The setting is Sado island in the 13th century, where the government of Japan exiled people who caused political problems by defying the establishment. Among them–Nichiren, the founder of the Buddhist sect which carries his name. Read on for more about that.
The shaman looked down on the towering mountain through the eyes of a raven. She was there, in the sacred spot, her hair aflame in the bright sun burning through the oracle window. He circled lower and lower over the dusky dun rocks. Finally he traversed the hole that gave those with the gift the vision
“If the two of them get married or I find the two of them together, I’ll kill the both of them.” It was the week before Thanksgiving, 1979, when a shaky-voiced Juanita called to pass along her father’s plans for us. At least that is what she overheard him telling her brother.
“He’s just saying that, right?”
“Maybe, but we need to take this seriously—he has a gun in a safe at home,” she said, a tremble of fear in her voice.
Stealing a panicked look behind me, I bolted towards the corridor where the nearest elevator could be found. I kept glancing behind me. Mercifully, this corridor was empty, unlike the last ones, which crawled with… what do I even call them? Until a few hours ago, they were my colleagues. Now, deformed, grotesque creatures had taken their place; their misshapen bodies an amputated mass of flesh and metal that seemed to have escaped from some horror movie.
On the ground at last, after the long flight from Guam, the plane taxied past sandbag-clad heavy steel revetments surrounding bombers and fighters on three sides. As we rolled to a stop, the flight attendant popped the door, allowing the cool cabin air to escape. Tropical heat—asphalt-softening, frying eggs on a sidewalk heat—washed in like a sunny surf, carrying unfamiliar smells. It was Saigon in late September 1967.
Now that I lived in the small town of Midland, I suffered from limited mobility. There was no public transportation and Bill would not allow me to drive their Volkswagen bus, the one vehicle he and Lorraine owned at the time. The cost of his car insurance would have more than doubled had he allowed me to do so, he pointed out. Nonetheless, I asked out this girl in my chemistry class.
Her iridescent blue scales flashed brightly in the morning light streaming through the glass-enclosed boardroom, holding their attention as she presented her report.
“Sales of the home DNA repair kits are better than expected,” Roz told the Dragon directors. “The humans are defenseless against appeals to their vanity—not to mention their insecurities about gene-linked disease. As soon as we get the kits on store shelves, they’re gone.”
She just stood there shivering, holding the empty pail. Her drenched hair and clothes were making a large puddle. She didn’t seem to care. Then her lips trembled and her throat quivered like she was going to say something, but she made no sound. Still, I heard her mournful voice, demanding answers: Who is she, Jack? Who is Sally? Did you tell her about us, Jack? ”