Death of the “Genre Story” in Fantasy

Magic Swords“We don’t want your genre stories.”

I see this message more and more in the submission guidelines of writing journals and magazines, especially in those dedicated to fantasy and science fiction.

Speculative fiction is what we’re calling it nowadays. The Sword and Sorcery glory days are at an end. Writers and journals alike don’t want to be pigeon-holed in hopes they’ll reach a broader audience. And fantasy is fighting to be taken more seriously, which means intensified abrogation of the regular tropes. There’s still a place out there for the old classics, but that’s because they’re, well, classics. Continue reading

Madison Bridge: A Short, Short Story

Just a little story on the eve of Christmas.


A light snow fell as Charlie Reardon left the diner and made his way down Madison Street. Had anyone been watching, they would have noticed that his gait matched the look of someone walking through a light snow after leaving a diner alone. Had he been walking up Madison Street, he might have been standing a little straighter, and his hands might not have been crammed so deep in his pockets. But Charlie Reardon was traveling down Madison, and his thoughts slid ahead of him to wander about the bridge and peer out into the black, mid-December river.

He shrugged so that his collar scattered the fine powder that clung to his neck. Twice he slowed his steps and almost paused before the neon storefronts to avoid his destination. Let the chill and the bridge and the water wait for a few moments longer. They could wait. But he couldn’t. Not in good conscience. Not even after his solitary evening in the diner. It felt safer to avoid thoughts of the bridge until he came to it.

Madison Bridge was not long. Two streetlights bowed formally to each other in the center, and Charlie walked along the edge until he stood just outside the rim of light. He faced the river, watching the snow falling to meet the semi-frozen water.

“I’m betting you’d go numb in under five seconds. That’s if you didn’t just hit thick ice.”

Charlie didn’t turn toward the speaker. He closed his eyes and thought about the voice for a moment; it was just as he remembered it. Still with his eyes closed, he said, “The ice is thin. City hasn’t opened the skating ranks yet.” He expected a retort. Was mildly surprised.

“Do a lot of skating?”

It was a strange question. “Alice and I went together once. She had to hold me up most of the time,” said Charlie. He still hadn’t looked at the speaker, but he could picture him nodding and rubbing at his unshaven face, maybe the ghost of a smile picking at the edges of his thin lips.

“You and Alice married yet?”

Charlie looked over at his father. “Alice is five months pregnant. Our anniversary was two weeks ago.” The edge in his voice that he had imagined, had planned for, died when he looked at the old man.

Henry Reardon was indeed rubbing his rough chin. He was rubbing it furiously. “Guess I haven’t been around much.”

Charlie said nothing.

“I stopped smoking.” The old man shuffled his feet.

“You came all this way to tell me you stopped smoking?”

The beard-rubbing continued. “No. It’s about your mother.”

“She’s not my mother,” Charlie said, but he regretted his words.

Henry’s expression became urgent as if he had just clamped his hand on Charlie’s arm. “Stepmother. It’s about your stepmother, Charlie. She…she left me.” His voice cracked, and Charlie felt sweat tickle his armpits despite the chill.

Charlie’s father leaned on the rail, imitating his son’s position, and the two of them stared into the freezing river below Madison Bridge.

“You never met me at the diner,” Charlie said softly. “I think I understand.”

“Will you let me learn how to be a grandfather?” Henry whispered.

“Not for a few months yet.”