Sample Story: The Heart of Power by C.D. Brown
(From the collection Lastie’s Grimoire by C.D. Brown) The Heart of Power by C.D. Brown I was relieved that Gwen called me first and not the police. The police would have given it to the press and that would have made it worse than it already was. The call came on a warm Friday night, somewhere in that weird place between the false spring and vicious summer. New Orleanians shut their doors and turn on their window units for the five-month war against heat. I choose not to fight nature, so when the phone call woke me up, small dots of moisture beaded on my forehead. She tried not to scream, but the teary bawls that came between each word were full of pain. I told her I would be over. I didn’t say everything would be all right, because nothing will ever be the same for her now that Reggie was dead. Gwen came from proud Creole blood and her skin was milky brown. The fact that Reggie was so dark didn’t really set her family to complaining. Who would say no to an All-Pro lineman in the family? I pulled up to the large brick house they kept in Gentilly. Football would let him live anywhere, even on St. Charles Avenue, but they chose to stay near Gwen’s roots. Reggie was a project boy from Jackson, Mississippi and he didn’t care where he lived so long as there were only the two of them in the bed and no gunshots on the porch. I didn’t knock as I got to the front door, just walked right in. The large living room was dark and I saw the shadow of Gwen weeping on the leather couch. She didn’t stand up so I went over to her and put my arms around her. She felt frozen, stiff from her neck to her toes. Under her breath, she said something. “What’s that, baby?” She took in two sharp breaths and let it all out. “Why, Lastie? Why would they do this to that beautiful man?” She grabbed me back now, her fingernails digging into my arm, chin digging in my back and the strength of three men grabbing me tight. Even though she was killing me, I let her get it all out. I could hold on as long as she needed me. She finally let go. She was in need of help that I couldn’t give her right now. I leaned over and whispered, “Where’s he at?” “The back porch.” Reggie always came in the back way to avoid people in the street. Somebody must have cased his nabits. I moved quickly and spotted the crimson pool where Reggie’s body lay. He was on his back, his arms and legs wide open. As I got closer, I saw his chest was split like he had been hit by a shotgun. That was enough for me to see. “I’m gonna call Frank.” She nodded to me. Now would come the worst part. When Detective Frank Jasmin of the New Orleans police department came, a crowd soon followed. He had to get on the radio to call a coroner and, when he did that, the reporters made the scene. I kept Gwen from those cats, sending her upstairs to the bedroom. I found some Percodan from the time Reggie messed up his knee and the pills allowed her to space out for a bit and catch a little sleep. Frank was getting the lowdown from a group of cops when I came back down. “What did the neighbors say?” Frank looked at me wearily. We see each other in these situations way too often. “Wasn’t a gun, I can tell you that for sure.” “With that big hole in his chest? Look like he was hit by a thirty-ought-six or something.” “Well, the neighbors would’ve heard something. As it stands, we’re the ones who got everybody out of bed.” Frank stroked his moustache. His face looked pale and his eyes were sagging. Reggie didn’t care much for me, but I introduced him to Frank. They did a lot of charity work together and I know that Frank thought he was the greatest. I mostly thought about Gwen and the hole this put in her life. “Nobody would’ve heard this, Frank. He was hit on the back of the head.” The coroner’s assistant walked up to us. “One shot from a blunt object and he was down on the ground. This guy knew right where to hit him, too. One thing I can’t explain. The heart is gone, cut right out. That’s the cause of all that blood.” “What kind of sick fuck are we dealing with here?” Frank was looking right at me. “Shee, I don’t know. There’s lots of stuff this could be. You asking me for help?” Frank nodded and I nodded back. Although my tax form says I’m a businessman, I do consult with the police department, especially Frank. I’m considered a specialist with the black community and on unnatural crimes. I decided that going home would be useless so I went over to my shop. I have a place in the French Quarter where I sell voodoo trinkets and candles along with new age books and anything else I can get my hands on. Most of the stuff is bullshit, but I need the money. I head a local voudon group and this shop pays for our ceremonies. That was why Reggie didn’t like me. He was a devout Baptist and he thought I was too weird to hang out with his wife. Gwen and I had known each other since grade school and she wasn’t about to lose one of her oldest friends, so we made nice most of the time. I was always impressed with his performance on the field and I gave him the respect he deserved as a brother, but he wouldn’t let me close. Maybe if he had, I could figure out why
Editorial: Why This and Why Now?
Dreams come in many sizes. I have had large ones that did not come to pass. I moved to Los Angeles in 1997 to find my fortune as a screenwriter. Hollywood was fun and I had many great adventures, but in the end, it didn’t work out. I went to grad school to learn how to write a novel. My dream was smaller, but I hoped my ability with words would get me somewhere. While I published four books, it didn’t come with the bigger dreams fulfilled: recognition and a creative writing professorship. However, smaller dreams are easier. I wrote and directed two feature films and many shorts with the help of many great collaborators. I have published many stories, enough to make a nice pile on the bookshelf. And I have a great job teaching first-year writing at two universities I love. But there’s always that nagging feeling. In 2012 when Dirty Magick was conceived, I always had it in the back of my mind to take it beyond anthologies. These were the early days of self-publishing when niches within the genres were first peeking out. While mashups have always been around, we were now putting a name on it and what was once a giant river spilled out into several small branches. But the roots go even deeper than that, to the time when I was first learning to write. In the late 1980s, I subscribed to many magazines: Spy, for the humor and investigative journalism; Omni, for science news and speculation; and Wired, for the cutting-edge technology. But the ones I looked forward to the most were the fiction magazines. I read Amazing Stories and Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. They were good for what was going on in the mainstream. But the one that I liked the most was Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy magazine, low tech in terms of design but high quality in terms of stories. I know Bradley’s reputation has been ruined by her sketchy private life (you may google the details for yourself), but I remember the publication quite fondly. Her guidelines, which came through the mail on a Xeroxed page originally created on an actual typewriter, were quite iconoclastic. Her word count max was 6,000—the guidelines said, “If you’re going over that, just write a novel”—and she was particular in her taste. For example, the burgeoning urban fantasy movement made her upset. She was motivated by creating a sense of wonder and anything too close to our world destroyed that feeling for her. But each story within felt like part of a singular vision. She wanted the world full of interesting stories and these were her favorites. When one of my friends was accepted in her yearly anthology Sword and Sorceress, it was a reason for great celebration. So when I looked at the new publishing world, I saw a place for my own vision. I see urban fantasy dominating the novel market but being slim in short stories. I see grand epics of thousands of pages, but I desire the street-level shenanigans I loved in Fritz Leiber and Robert E. Howard. And as a writer of vampire fiction, I would be a huge hypocrite if I didn’t make a place for alternative gothic horrors. To sum up my point, each fiction magazine and anthology out there is similar in one way: vision. We as editors and publishers see a need and intend to fill it. I see an audience for stories that fit my taste. I hope you will follow me along and we can create a great space for those ideas. -C.D. Brown