Tales From the Slush Pile
As I start Dirty Magick Magazine, I thought I would, in the spirit of openness, reveal some of the process that goes into a new publication. As I wrote the Submission Guidelines, I was trying to be as clear as possible as to what I wanted compared to what the writers wanted to sell me. But as I was told at Balticon by a longtime publisher, “You’re going to get science fiction.” And I did. And I rejected it. I felt a little put out by that because of the numbers. I have 36 initial slots funded. I can’t go over that because I wouldn’t be a paying market. That’s a compromise I won’t make. So when I received over 250 submissions, I still had to read those which were never going to be accepted-science fiction, psychological horror, and genre misfits. The latter I’m okay with as I accepted a few stories which would fall into the “experimental” category. But if I saw the word “aliens,” I could close the story without any worry. But that was only a few stories. Overall, the submissions were within the guidelines. Some were not ready, some were damn close, and a few were heartbreaking because I had to choose with such slim margins. I decided to write this as an addendum to the Submission Guidelines. These are not formal rules, but general vibes that will make a story more acceptable. As always, these are personal to me and other editors may want something completely different. One: Embrace the tropes I got a lot of stories where it was a normal story for three-quarters of its length and then, near the end, the fantastical elements were revealed. While I don’t read a lot of horror, this structure seems to work best in that genre-the evil creeping in on the sides until it takes over. I didn’t take many stories like that. When I say gothic horror, I mean the big three-vampires, werewolves, ghosts. Cthulhu and his kind can sneak in, too. But, frankly, those stories are third on the list of what I want. I’d rather be thrown directly into a world unlike our own with the fantasy up front and emphasized. From that splashdown, I’m ready for the characters and story to entertain me. Two: Complete the story I was into mainstream fiction in the ‘90s when writers like Raymond Carver and his many disciples embraced minimalism. I wrote a few stories where it concluded before the actual end, leaving the reader to fill in the details. But now it’s 2024 and I want to see the ending played out. Because of digital publishing, I’m not tied to small word counts. I set the 12,500 word limit for a reason: take the story to its logical end. Don’t forego the climatic scenes because you think the story is too long. I’d rather invest in a story that gives me a full beginning-middle-end than one which feels short-circuited. Three: Balance plot, character, and style This is mostly about overwriting. I love beautiful writing but overdoing it at the expense of the plot gets me fidgety. I will be direct as possible: this magazine is for adventure fiction. Whether sword and sorcery, noir, or gothic, I want to be swept away. I want to open the story and feel the pull of an exciting yarn. But, and this can be sticky, I also want to follow someone who impresses me. I told this to my screenwriting students and I will continue to preach this: your main character doesn’t have to be likeable, but they must have charisma. The character must be someone who demands us to listen to their story. This can vary from the morally righteous like Frodo Baggins to the charming rogues like Conan to the psychokiller/sheriff in Jim Thompson’s The Killer Inside Me. No matter their level of good or evil, I need to want to spend time with them. Four: Don’t be generic Continuing from the point above, this means your people, places, and MacGuffins must be specific. Work out a few details so the reader can picture in their head what’s on the page. The reason so many fantasy authors invest in world building is so they can make the world come alive to the reader. While one short story can’t have the depth of Game of Thrones, the writer can still take a bit of time to fill in the details beforehand so it seems real and, most importantly, visual. While I hope to expand the number of slots for Volume Two, I still expect to see as many submissions if not more. And while these personal rules might not help you get published in Dirty Magick, I do think they can help build better tales that lead to publication.
Sample Story: An Eye For An Eye by Terry Mixon
(originally published in Dirty Magick: Los Angeles) An Eye For An Eye by Terry Mixon If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? Shylock – William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, act 3, scene 1 And thine eye shall not pity; but life shall go for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot. Deuteronomy 19:21 – King James Bible (Cambridge Ed.) Justice is a poor man’s revenge. Never let someone else settle your scores. Al Blake, blood mage assassin Al Blake tugged his light coat closer against the wind and shouldered his way through the crowd toward the courthouse steps. The afternoon would warm up, but the morning chill still had a bite. He’d need the umbrella, though. L.A. might not have real winters, but it did rain a bit. He checked his pocket watch. He had a few minutes before the target put in an appearance, but being early never hurt. The client wanted to send a message. Killing the district attorney on the courthouse steps in the middle of a speech about cracking down on organized crime would do just that. The specific requirements of the job had intrigued him. Blood magic required getting close to his target for the kill—no more than a few dozen feet—despite how the dime store novels made it seem. Yes, a less invasive spell to track someone might work from all the way across the city for a powerful mage, but Al couldn’t drop someone from his living room. Nor would he want to. Al was a professional, an independent contractor. Not some mob thug. He insisted his jobs be done right, and that meant he had to be there to tweak the spell, if necessary. Or abort if something went south. The press, predictably enough, covered the lower steps. Several photographers stood up front to catch Marcus Parker’s good side for the afternoon edition. With all the hoopla surrounding the most recent bootlegging crackdown, his farts got a headline above the fold. Al could pretty much guarantee he’d get a picture with a full page spread today. He pulled out a press pass and stuck it in his hatband. The cops probably wouldn’t even look at it. He’d attended the last press conference just to be sure. Once the D.A. dropped dead, Al would have a minute or two to make his getaway before they locked down the plaza. He had a ”borrowed” car parked at the curb to speed his getaway. He wondered who wanted the man dead with such public spectacle. If it were the mob, they’d stir up a hornet’s nest. If it wasn’t, then perhaps the client wanted it to look like the mob was behind the killing. Someone close to the target had to be in on it, or they couldn’t have gotten the blood-stained handkerchief he’d received with his money. People who made enemies like Parker had were careful about leaving their blood, hair, and fingernail clippings lying about. For obvious reasons. He gave a mental shrug. He didn’t need to know the backstory. Too much curiosity made for a fatal character flaw in a contract killer. Parker finally came out of the building with his staff at his heels. He looked like a shark with his hair slicked back, his eyes cold as he scanned the reporters from the podium. A well-dressed shark, since that subdued charcoal grey suit had to have cost a pretty penny. Al ignored the man’s opening statement. Blah, blah, blah. Crime, arrests, booze. He’d heard it all before. The jerk probably had his fingers in all the pies up to his elbow. Instead, Al took a few minutes to admire the well-endowed blonde to the DA’s left. She had a sexy little mole over her upper lip that gave her face a lot of character. She also wore a peach sweater that did absolutely nothing to hide her generous figure. Neither did the skirt she wore. Hemlines had inched upwards for most of the ‘20s and if they kept going, the decade would go out with a loud whistle, a trend Al heartily approved of. With more than a hint of genuine regret at getting back to business, he reached into his pocket and found the handkerchief he’d brought. He’d taken the precaution of wrapping it in raw silk to be sure the blood spots on it weren’t contaminated. He didn’t want mistakes. He closed his eyes for a moment and invoked his talent. Immediately, he felt the tenuous connection with his target. He allowed his senses to sink into a meditative state. It sped the process and made failure unlikely. No mage ever courted a botched spell if he could help it. When the mental jigsaw snapped into place, he opened his eyes and invoked the spell. The man kept jabbering along, unaware of his impending demise. Al knew the man’s blood pressure would spike in a few seconds and keep going until he had a stroke. Without immediate intervention from a gifted healing mage, he’d die on the steps. The woman sneezed and stared at her hand. Al saw the blood on it and more on her upper lip. It streamed down her face and onto the peach sweater. The lurid red shocked him. He killed the spell. The backlash staggered him. Pain blossomed between his eyes and his vision wavered. He heard more than saw the woman collapse. The crowd came to life with cries of alarm and shouted questions, mixed in with the pop of flash bulbs. Well, this certainly would make the headlines, but for all the wrong reasons. He used the confused jostling of the crowd to make his escape. Once away from the press of people, he slid into his getaway car, a sleek A-Model Ford. Black, of course. His
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
