Thursday, December 29, 2011


Author Submission: Edward H. Marsh, 4,127 Words
By George S. Karagiannis

October 10th, 2015

Dear editor of the journal: “Science-fiction writers”,

I would like to submit in your highly-prestigious journal “Science-Fiction writers”, a potential science fiction author I came up with and I really believe he would be a considerably worthy fit within the Scopus of your journal. In the attachment provided with this manuscript, you will find his full author portfolio, publishing history, and complete biographical sketch.

Very briefly, the author I have conceived is a 29-year old male, by the name of Edward H. Marsh with particular interest in natural and applied sciences and more precisely in astronomy and engineering. He received a degree in Engineering from the University of Toronto, Toronto, Ontario, Canada at 2004 and pursued a doctorate diploma in Astronomy from the same University at 2009. Therefore, Edward H. Marsh is more than capable of depicting science fiction stories related with space explorations, time travels and crew dynamics within spaceships. In general, he is very familiar -due to his appropriate technical background- in generating very convincing scientific rationales in science-fiction stories that have to do with interstellar conspiracies, because he very creatively intertwines his scientific knowledge with his pluripotent imagination. His major achievement is his 2005 designation as an author by the space opera work “Travel to the End of Worlds”, as he artistically described an alien spaceship that was crafted out of alien biomass, so it was alive itself; due to this highly-attractive nature of picturing this spaceship that formed the basis for this epic-length novel, a wide-science fiction readership became a very devoted fan-club for this author. Edward H. Marsh’s blog can be found online in the link address, I am providing together with this submission form.

A short biographical sketch of me: I am a science-fiction short story of 5,500 words belonging to the subgenre of cyberpunk and I am named “Ulysses Revisited”. I could say that I am instilled in the popular but feared concept of the huge impact in humanity’s fate, in case internet could obtain self-consciousness. Very briefly, I have been artistically conceived from the traditional masterpiece “Ulysses” by James Joyce. Similarly to the way that James Joyce portrays in this book the passage of one person, Leopold Bloom, in one ordinary day, describing in scary detail every single second of his routine, I am relatively deployed in a parallel context as how Internet perceives one full day serving as a worldwide network for humanity. I believe that I am quite a peculiar story and my ending is quite surprising, given that no reader could ever imagine that it is the Internet consciousness itself, talking in the first-person perspective through my pages!

To this end, I would like to deeply thank you for taking into consideration my potential author for your journal.

I look forward to hearing your decision on the above author submission, at the earliest of your convenience.

Yours Sincerely,
Ulysses Revisited


November 2nd, 2015

Dear short story: “Ulysses Revisited”,

We would like to deeply thank you for this very interesting author submission in our journal. Unfortunately, I regret to inform you that our journal has rejected this author submission for the following reasons:

You seem to be a very motivating and attention-grabbing story, belonging to the cyberpunk science fiction sub-genre. The development of plot and characters within your vigilantly written paragraphs was artistically crafted, indeed, reaching almost the professional level of WWW Trilogy’s “Robert J. Sawyer”. However, as you might already know, WWW Trilogy had submitted the author Robert J Sawyer in our journal in the past, and unfortunately for your case, our journal wishes to evolve over time and not to repeat and stick to past concepts. Therefore, although we found you quite unique and intriguing, we wish to always change the topics of our interest (and this is not your fault, it is the magazine’s policy). We apologize that you were quite misled but at this particular point, your author doesn’t fit the Scopus of our Journal.

In addition, after carefully reading the biographical sketch of Edward H. Marsh, we came to the conclusion that he is a hard science-fiction writer and he has built an expertise in space operas, so we found it too risky to trust him with a cyberpunk story. You have to provide more convincing biographical data that Edward H. Marsh is capable of supporting such fictional concepts as internet consciousness, artificial intelligence revolution, etc.

The third reason for rejecting your author is that you have provided his biographical sketch in 4,127 words. We implore you to re-read our submission guidelines, which clearly state all author submissions should not exceed 4,000 words and this is non-negotiable number due to page limitations we do have for our magazine.

We believe that your piece will stand very good chances with another publisher!

We wish you all the luck with your future submissions and we hope to read more of your author portfolios and suggestions in due course.

Yours Sincerely,
The Editor, “Science-Fiction Writers”

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George S. Karagiannis was born in Thessaloniki, Greece at 1984. He finished the School of Veterinary Medicine and is currently a PhD student at the University of Toronto in Canada, studying the molecular mechanisms of cancer metastasis.

He enjoys writing science fiction, mainly in the sub-genres of (1) hard science fiction, (2) bizarro and horror sci-fi and (3) apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic, but more often blending all those, together! His favorite science fiction author is Philip K. Dick, whom he has been reading since he was introduced in the field.

He is also an abstractionist/surreal artist and his blog can be found here:

Thursday, December 22, 2011


Telling Time
By Gil C. Schmidt

    He said it wearily, as if the repetitions had lost any meaning. "I am a time traveler."
    "With a busted leg," Jim pointed out. "Seems to me the future'd try not send a klutz to the past. Doncha think?"
    The man turned heavy blue eyes Jim's way, their slight slant a jarring match to his ash-blond hair. "Hey! Are you some sort of Swedish Jap or something? Cuz that's some freaky combo you got going there." The injured man grunted, probably in pain. His leg was heavily bandaged in some slats and duct tape. It's what Jim had at hand. "You're not a gook, right? Like a chink or something? But I gotta admit them chinky girls sure know how to treat a man!"
    He shifted his weight on the couch, swearing softly.
    "So you're from the future?" He didn't react. "Okay. Sure. You from two, three hundred years in the future?" A shrug. "More?" He shrugged. "Have the Cubs won a World Series yet or did they move to Osaka or Yokomama or something?" Jim chuckled. Yokomama. Good one.
    The guy just stared at Jim. Pissed Jim off. "You got some nerve sayin' you're a time traveler. That's bullshit. How'd you end up slamming into my fence? You drunk or high?"
    It was like the man was reading something. "I wasn't supposed to be here. The error placed me in the wrong place at the wrong speed. That's how I hit your structure."
    Jim shook his head. "Doncha mean you're in the wrong time if you're a time traveler? I don't get this 'wrong place, wrong speed' shit."
    "You wouldn't," he said just loud enough. Then louder: "It's called 'space-time' for a reason. Several, in fact."
    "Uh-huh. You keep believin' that." Jim stood up and he looked at the man, warily. "So you're like my great-great-grandson and you come back to shoot me and commit suicide for your world?" Jim was grinning and likin' hisself a whole lot right there.
    His eyes. There was something in his eyes that faded Jim's grin. He didn't seem crazy anymore. "You are...definitely...not the target...of my mission." His words were soft, but landed like paving stones on the carpet.
    Jim raised his hands and dropped 'em quick when he saw they were shaking. "Hey hey hey! Don't get your Jappy jones up! You got a mission, I got a mission, we all got somethin' to do. Capisce?" Jim tried to get him to look away, but the man kept him in his sights. Jim felt a drop of sweat on the back of his neck.
    A sharp clap-flash made Jim dive for cover behind the kitchen counter. When Jim heard voices jabbertalking he peeked up and saw two guys, dressed a lot like the gimp on his couch, standing right there in his living room. One was holding a small green-screened device that shone a light on the gimp's leg. In seconds, the gimp was able to slice through the tape with his finger (his finger?) and stand up. Now Jim know for a fact that leg was broken cuz he saw the bones stickin' out in two places, so that made him stand up. All three turned to me in a the same manner. Freaked Jim out. The light flashed at Jim and all three looked at the screen.
    "More of you Swedish Japs?" Jim tried to bluff it out, but those three were like ice.
    "We'll be leaving now," said one of the newcomers, the one with the darker eyes. "Thank you for tending to...our friend." All three the same way.
    Jim swallowed. Then the gimp Jim splinted smiled and wrote something on a slip of gray paper. The three exchanged a look with the screen and the former gimp handed the note to Jim, with a shark's coldest smile. When Jim looked down, the clap-flash happened and Jim was alone.
    The note said only: Wednesday, 11:17 A.M.
    No big deal, thought Jim. Aloud, he wondered "Something...personal--is gonna go down, right?" Then it hit him: What? And what Wednesday?

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Gil C. Schmidt has been a regular submitter to Yesteryear Fiction since the early days when it was a daily magazine. His story "Telling Time" is also featured in his book "Thirty More Stories."

Thursday, December 15, 2011


Lord William
By C.D. Goble

William leaned forward in his chair and peered through his portal at the world he had created. He had once been an insignificant child, but with hard work and diligence, his influence had grown immensely. His world differed greatly from the one William had grown up in. It was a world ruled by magic. With the right spells one could find instant gratification, instant communication, and non-stop entertainment. With just a flick of his fingers William could conjure up images of lost civilizations, far away galaxies, and long forgotten gods. He had used his powers to fight wars, win love, and create art. His influence extended into the far reaches of known space. The whole world answered to William's every beck and call. Comprised of equal parts wizard, warrior, humorist, and lover; he would issue decrees daily. No one was safe from William's biting satire.

Occasionally, William's followers would seek his guidance. His power allowed him to instantly know when he was needed - and unlike the false gods that were often peddled by the culturally illiterate, William always responded.

William was God.

Lord William displayed all the attributes one would expect to find in a competent Deity. His omnipresence allowed him to switch from location to location instantly. William could even open up multiple portals and be several places at the same time. There were no limits to William's presence. William was even omnipotent; if he could dream it, he could do it. Such powers allowed him to perfectly execute his will. Most important was Williams' omniscience. The information at his fingertips was astounding.

As one would expect from a God, William depended on nobody. He needed no teachers because he had the power to access information instantly. William was a Deity that had evolved beyond the need for morals and ethics. His world was one where he could satisfy any number of illicit desires without truly offending anyone. For instance, if he needed affection, William could instantly summon companionship. Since he was God there was no need to consider whether his actions were moral.

His world had no need for arcane concepts like sin, judgment, or even friendship. Lord William wasn't a god in need of love or socializing. Everything in his world was meant to satisfy his own needs and desires.

It was with great satisfaction that Lord William leaned back and surmised his world. He had created it and it was good.

William's pleasure was suddenly interrupted by a familiar rumbling in his gut. A gnawing hunger had begun to grow in the deep recesses of his soul. Hunger was his one weakness; the kink in his divine armor. It was a hunger that could only be satisfied in one way. He had attempted to circumvent his need for nourishment, but his body would have nothing of it. When Lord William relented and ate, his stomach would only be satisfied for a couple of hours before his appetite would once again raise its ugly head. It was a disgusting reminder of his formal life as a mere mortal.

Lord William's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a distant voice, "William!"

William furiously began to search his portal in fear that one of his subjects was in trouble. His fears were allayed somewhat as everything in his world seemed to be in order.


This time the voice seemed more annoyed than distressed. William closed his eyes and attempted to tap into his divine powers to discern the source of the voice.

"Billy! Come downstairs this instant! It's time for lunch!"

A grin spread across Lord William’s face. The growling in his stomach had just become audible and already one of his earthly servants was prepared to make a food offering. Without further hesitation Billy jumped from his chair and raced to his bedroom door; remembering only at the last second to return to his desk and shut down the computer.

It was good to be God.

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C.D. Goble dabbles in a variety of nonfiction and fiction genres. His work has appeared in Everyday Poets, Flashes in the Dark, A Flame in the Dark, and FLASHSHOT. His blog can be found at

Thursday, December 8, 2011


First Contact
By Ed Higgins

All through their descent sequence K’var had nervous premonitions. The minute they stepped off the ship he instinctively knew they had chosen the wrong planet this time. Not to say the little blue planet with its cloud-vested, white swirling atmosphere hadn’t seemed initially inviting.

Captain L’nao, whom he felt was always too eager to whelp her seed anywhere in the cosmos, had made the decision with her usual irritating haste. Alright, so she had gestated to past term once again. And “The grass was green enough,” she’d snapped at his expressed concern.

They could still have held this additional off-spring in one of the ship’s remaining half-dozen gestopods until they investigated the planet’s on-site suitability. Or, if need be, until they reached another of the planets in this system’s bio-class. Green grass wasn’t everything.

Yet she insistently wanted to drop this one directly into nutrient soil, watch the epicotyl lengthen, smile proudly at the upward thrusting plumule, then fuss over stipule and first foliage. New mothers forever puzzled K’var.

But now they found themselves face-to-face with a quite curious, quite large, and possibly dangerous, quadra-pedal life form. A stenching blast of chloro-stained breath brought the alien’s mystifying first words to them.


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Ed Higgins’ poetry and short fiction has appeared in various print and online literary journals. He and his wife live on a small farm in Yamhill, Oregon with a menagerie of animals including two whippets, two manx barn cats (who don’t care for the whippets), an emu named To & Fro and a pair of male alpacas named Machu & Picchu.

Thursday, December 1, 2011


The Bachelor
By Ron Koppelberger

Rendered in pleasant ignoble pastures of escape, the bachelor yielded the temptation to cleave to sensual creams and flaxen flowers, to rubies in rose rush and eyes of emerald allure. He gripped the counter and growled, “Must not regress, MUST NOT REGRESS!” He crossed his legs and pounded his bosom, “ARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAA!” he screamed. Labors of love and scented bouquets in amazing coquet danced like sweet savory transport and dream before his bulging eyes.
“Oh succulent mistress, seductions of mascara and rose tincture, tempt me in chaste realms of restraint!” He repeated in frayed consciousness and desire, the mazy mists circled him with passionate possessions of promise. Cut to an end, a postponed fate, a snug umbra and womb, an alien rapture, he conjured the intrinsic art of blazon tethers and strange confines as he separated the curtains, an entertaining masquerade, a drama in horizons of azure and ash, the ash of a smoldering ruin and a dismal abandonment, he was in summons to the ship's dilemma. A broken transport, the refuge of astronauts and pilgrims searching the new vistas. The ship was beyond repair, smashed and scattered, destroyed by design, perhaps by gods design.
The brood stood outside the small vagabond shelter, milling about in the grainy dust of a barren planet. They numbered in the thousands.
He dreamed and dared a glance, beauty and hell, frail yield in the form of a maw. A crowd of women in waiting suspicions of pregnant desire, and yet. . .their teeth, beneath the full pouting lips, desolate sandpaper flesh. . . it looked so soft. . . breathing smoke. . . and were those flames coming from their mouths? It couldn’t! “Oh God!” he moaned. They waited with open arms in vast chains of claim to his seed, to his heirs.
They sang the song of sirens and hydras in cobwebs of mystery and illusion, the witches of the rift between earth and far distant planets.
The bachelor sighed and opened the door to slavery.

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I began writing when I was ten years old, my grandparents gave me my first typewriter. I have written 102 books of poetry and 18 novels over the past four or five years.

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