Novel Slices Issue 5

Novel Slices

Issue Five

Cover Artwork

by Alya

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Twice annually, Novel Slices publishes the five winners of our novel excerpt contest. Entries can be made in March/April and September/October each year through our website at www.novelslices.com/contest

Novel Slices is a member of the Community of Literary Magazines and Presses (CLMP) and follows their contest code of ethics. The copyright for each excerpt reverts immediately after publication to the author.

All five excerpts in this issue are equal first-place winners in the Novel Slices contest. The editors have chosen the order here solely for the flow of subjects and styles.

Table of Contents

Editor’s Note      1

The Listener      2

by Celeste White

Seconds      20

by Louise Kantro

Sorry, Maggie May      34

by Kathryn Tomasko

The Satin Gunmetal Sky      53

by Shawn Goodman

A Forever Opposition      75

by Sean Connell

Biographies      96

Contest Finalists      98

Supporters      99

Editor’s Note

We knew it was coming and now it’s here: All of the winning excerpts in this issue are brilliant examples of genre fiction!

In reverse order, Sean Connell’s A Forever Opposition begins as a tale of a husband’s revenge for his wife’s overdose but then—well, I simply can’t ruin the surprise. And Shawn Goodman’s The Satin Gunmetal Sky is sure to become a new classic in the vein of Blade Runner, delving into the worst side of humanity and why a ‘synth’ simply might refuse to pass as human.

Katie Tomasko’s Sorry, Maggie May is that rarest of gems, a ghost story that isn’t a horror but looks instead at what it means when we can’t let someone go. Then, in Louise Kantro’s Seconds we find ourselves with three brave children imprisoned in the liminal space of the foster-care system but who find the most unlikely of saviors—it feels like the best Middle Grade and Young Adult writing where it's really for avid readers of all ages. The introductory excerpt in this issue is in some ways indefinable—at turns it seems a psychological thriller, á la Girl on a Train, at others it’s a medical mystery like Memento.

We want to thank our esteemed judge, Santiago R. Vaquera-Vásquez for what is admittedly not an easy job! The cover art spoke to us about the new heights of the Novel Slices community: We are overjoyed to announce that our next judge, Damyanti Biswas, is the author of The Blue Bar, and was a winner of the second Novel Slices contest. So we’ve come full circle! Last but far from least, if you will be at the AWP conference in March, come by booth 220 and see us—we’ll be raffling great prizes all three days!

—Hardy

The Listener

Celeste White

Chapter One: Christopher

What I remember: How to get dressed. How to make toast. How to walk, sit, lie, and stand. How to speak. What a skillet is for, what a toothbrush is for, what a mailbox is for. How to raise and lower my blinds.

What I don’t remember: My name. Where I live. How I got here. What I do for a living. Any of my neighbors, or whether I have family.

My surroundings and furnishings seem oddly familiar, but in a vague sort of way, as if I had dreamed about them and now the dream is fading. The dresser in the corner of my bedroom sits placidly in the early morning sun, its scuffed pecan skin promising an elusive intimacy; the chrome and clay-colored linoleum kitchen table appears to offer nothing but an echo of shared lunches and dinners. I infer that I live alone because no one else has made an appearance inside my home, and I can find no clothing other than that which seems to belong to me: no lingerie, dresses, nor feminine shoes. No miniature clothes for a child. All the clothes that I have found in my closet and drawers—the soft, worn jeans and gabardine slacks, the comfortable T shirts and casual button-down shirts—fit me.

I awakened a few days ago with no recollection of what had happened the day before. Or the day before that, or the day before that. I lay in bed for an hour, hoping that memories would start to surface. But none did. I had the presence of mind to surmise that I might have suffered a small stroke or a seizure, and I knew to look up a doctor in the phone book. I knew how to dial the number and make an appointment. But despite various tests and a thorough physical examination, nothing wrong could be found—no paralyzed limbs nor droopy facial features plagued me; no brain tumor nor aneurism showed itself in the scans performed.

It could be a case of transient global amnesia, the doctor told me, a heavy-set, middle-aged man with a resemblance to a snub-faced dog that I encountered on my walk to his office. No automobile was parked in my garage, and I could find no keys for a car anywhere in my house. Fortunately, the town that I live in—Clear Springs, the phone book had informed me—is small.

It could have been brought on by any number of things, he speculated; immersion in cold water, a bump on the head, acute emotional distress, or… he added, with a coy wink at odds with his jowly, ponderous features, sexual intercourse.

I strained to think—had any of these things happened to me the day before? I hadn’t found any wet clothes in my bathroom nor laundry, and a cautious probe of my head didn’t reveal any lumps or sore places. As for intercourse—well, that was the most auspicious possibility, but so far, no one has called to tell me what a sublime experience we had and to inquire when we might get together again.

He told me that global transient amnesia—or GTA, for short—usually resolved itself within twenty-four hours. So if your memory doesn’t return after the weekend, give me a call, he said. He handed me his card, which I stuffed in my pocket.

It is now Monday and my memory has not returned, but I find myself unwilling to call him. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because I didn’t get the impression that he had many tricks left up his sleeve, and I don’t care for the idea of additional tests and examinations. In the meantime, this is what I have found:

I have no cell phone, which I am learning almost everyone possesses. There is not one scrap of paper in my home to give me a clue as to my identity. No bills, no credit cards, no tax returns, no memberships in clubs, frequent buyer programs, nor even secret societies. I discovered a nice bit of cash in my wallet (which contained none of the above-mentioned items, including a driver’s license), which is how I paid the good doctor. And I did come across a few photographs of both sandy and rocky beaches; yet they possess no identifying information on the backs, and nothing about the scenery indicates where the pictures might have been taken.

I hoped that someone might pay me a visit or call, but so far, no one has. I appear to have no address book nor anything at all along those lines, so there is no one familiar for me to contact.

The most remarkable find? A closet off the living room that contains an extraordinary bureau, one hidden underneath a canvas tarp, an array of jackets, and a plaid wool blanket whose size indicates it might serve well for picnics or outdoor theater events. The bureau looks to be made of a smooth red cherry, darkened by the years. The simple round knobs appear to be carved from the same wood. No ornament decorated it that I could see—when I first laid eyes on it. But as I continued to gaze at it, an exquisite silver filigree became visible along the rails and the face. And then the knobs began to glow as if lighted from their interiors, turning first crimson, then amber.

When