StanleyWheeler

The Fight for Princess Jedah Siroth of Melihum The servant to the Prince of Dozanga gasped, his eyes wide in surprise at the dagger between his ribs. Princess Jedah Siroth of Melihum let her hand slip from the dagger's handle in the same moment that his hands reflexively clutched at the weapon. She placed both palms against her kidnapper's side and shoved him over the edge of the small flier. As his screams faded beneath the swift craft, Jedah knelt behind the windscreen and struggled with the flight controls. They wouldn't budge. The key to the locking mechanism had plummeted to the ground with the Dozangan. She remained a prisoner of the speeding vessel. When dawn broke, so did the flier's buoyancy tanks. Jedah awakened to the detonation of the explosive bullets ripping open the tanks of the mysterious substance which allowed the craft to defy the planet's gravity. Another shot sent the propeller spinning away from the flier in a dozen jagged fragments. Her ...

A Lunch in P-Town I had come to town for a conference. It wasn’t just any town. It was P-town rising from the shadow of the mountains. It was the bustling university town below the humongous white letter plastered upon the slope, shouting its endless interrogatory. It was DJ’s P-town. Sure, plenty of authors and wanna-be writers inhabited the P-town hood, but I knew only one of them personally. Provided “personally” includes strictly via the internet. Powers beyond my control—which doesn’t narrow it down much, I know—decided to move the conference to another day. They did not consult me. I understood that my personal gravitas fell somewhat short of swaying those mysterious powers to reschedule the matter at a time more suitable for my schedule. While I missed the conference, I did get to rend the virtual veil and meet the esteemed Duke of American Speculative Fiction in person. It happened like this—mostly: I contacted the author on Friday to confirm the lunch appointmen...

A Clash of Titans Flashes of silver in the afternoon sun—the duct tape, which held together one of the black, high-top shoes he wore—attracted the eye to the slow, stiff gait that carried him over the path along the reservoir. The pale sand and fine gravel on the road-like path crackled beneath each step. He walked a short way around the trail carrying the metal tackle box which had weathered to the color of bleached-salmon meat. The other hand grasped a bundle of fishing poles. He selected a wide spot upon the bank between two stands of trees. The location whispered a promise of a catch of something beyond the abundant moss which scarred the surface here and there like weathered green scabs. He stepped down to the water’s edge, his keen eye scanning the deep green water. It had been the work of but a few minutes to grab one of the fishing poles and to attach a lure from within the tackle box. He sensed that his efforts would be rewarded. While sons and grandchildren roam...

A Declaration in the Shadow of Defeat “The cause of America is in great measure the cause of all mankind,” wrote Thomas Paine. “The sun never shined on a cause of greater worth.” In the last days of 1775, the jubilation stirred by American heroics at Lexington and Concord, and Bunker Hill faded into harsh winter. The American invasion against the British in Canada met with failure beneath the walls of Quebec City when General Richard Montgomery, who had successfully taken Fort St. Johns and Montreal, was killed; Benedict Arnold wounded; and Daniel Morgan taken prisoner by the redcoats. British armies stood poised to invade New York through the Champlain valley, and from the sea. The president of the Continental Congress reported, “Our Affairs are hastening to a Crisis and the approaching campaign will in all probability determine forever the fate of America.” Such was the impending crisis which led to the Declaration of Independence. In the wake of the disaster at Quebec,...