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	<description>The best YA spec fic on the web</description>
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		<title>Issue 3 Editorial</title>
		<link>http://scapezine.com/2012/blog/issue-3-editorial/</link>
		<comments>http://scapezine.com/2012/blog/issue-3-editorial/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 26 Jan 2012 05:55:41 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Peta Freestone</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Issue 3]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Scape Blog]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://scapezine.com/?p=917</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Welcome to Issue 3. The New Year has well and truly arrived, bringing with it a bunch of changes here at Scape HQ. All of them are good. Promise! In 2012, we’ll continue publishing four or five amazing YA spec fic stories each quarter, along with beautiful illustrations. But you’ll also notice a few new additions around the website as the months roll by.  These include regular postings of flash fiction, along with our foray into poetry publishing, which begins this issue with compelling and beautiful work from the very talented Ken Liu. Authors will also be happy to note that we’ve increased our pay rates, albeit only slightly.  We now pay one cent per word (U.S.) with no upper limit (it used to be capped at $25), with a minimum payment of $10, regardless of word length. We’ve also upped our poetry rate from $15 to $25 (U.S.) per poem. This places Scape squarely in the semi-professional range for poetry. Poetry Editor Emma Osborne and I are serious – send us your best. There are some staff changes, too, both immediate and imminent. This issue we welcome Jasmine Stairs as our resident book reviewer.  Jasmine has an insatiable appetite for YA and the perfect balance of sweetness and snark when forming her opinion about new books.  I’m sure you’ll be both entertained and informed by her reviews, kicking off with her take on the 2012 release Cinder by Marissa Meyer. In other staff news, I’m happy to announce that Morgan Dempsey will soon take on the position of Assistant Editor.  Morgan has been a slush reader for Scape since just after the founding of the zine.  She’s passionate about spec fic and YA and will ensure operations continue to run smoothly, both as we bring in new initiatives and while I dedicate more time this year to finishing off my PhD. You know that saying about something being a monkey on your shoulders? Well, my thesis is an angry silverback that is no longer taking ‘tomorrow’ or ‘next week’ for an answer. Thanks to Morgan and our other amazing slush readers Erika and Mif, we’re now back on track with reasonable response times to submissions after our glitch in the second half of 2011. That being said, we’re receiving more and more subs each day so we’re looking to expand the reading team. If you’re interested in reading slush for Scape, please check out the About page for more information on how to apply. And now, at last, we get down to the most important bit – this issue’s stories. In Double Dutch, Lauren Dixon gives us a bizarre but poignant tale of how the mother-daughter bond stretches over time, to breaking point in some cases. I hazard to guess the striking images and emotional core of this piece, so brilliantly captured in Galen Dara’s illustration, will be seared onto your mind for some time to come. Next, take the plunge with AshleyRose Sullivan into Mortimer’s Fish Bowl in...]]></description>
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		<item>
		<title>Issue 3 Poetry</title>
		<link>http://scapezine.com/2012/issue-3/poetry/</link>
		<comments>http://scapezine.com/2012/issue-3/poetry/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 26 Jan 2012 05:39:19 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Peta Freestone</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Issue 3]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://scapezine.com/?p=900</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Each issue we&#8217;ll feature poetry that captures both the YA voice and elements of the fantastic. Ken Liu is our first featured poet, with the dark and evocative &#8216;Seven Haikus from Ye Xian&#8217; and &#8216;Mother, I Always Knew It Was You&#8217;. &#160; Seven Haikus from Ye Xian The fish glows, golden In the pool. “Mother, you’re back.” Secret happiness. Laughing, they ate her. “I’m still with you,” she whispers. I bury her bones. Pearls, silk, jade — a dance! Alone, I sweep, scrub, and weep. “Go, daughter. It’s time.” Glass slippers as smooth As gliding on ice. “You are?” His eyes lock with mine. “I will marry the girl …” You know the rest.  They fit like His arms around me. Hate, rage, and envy. My sisters, my not-mother, With bloody, bound feet. Think of me often As you sweep, weep in your cave. Did the fish taste good? &#160; Mother I Always Knew It Was You The first time, you made yourself ugly, Dirty, wrinkly, begging for pity. But your eyes gave you away, So beautiful, fair, and cold, December icicles. “Yes, I will buy some laces,” I said. You pulled and pulled, the tight Embrace a lesson on womanhood. So this is how it feels to be loved. I did not hate you. The next time, you made yourself horrid, Rags, bags, maggot-filled bleeding wounds. But your eyes gave you away, So lustrous, clear, razor-sharp, Mirror-bright twin daggers. “Yes, I will buy your comb,” I said. You brushed and brushed, the way You never did when I was home. So this is how it feels to be loved. I did not hate you. The last time, you made yourself ancient, Croaking, wheezing, you sounded like death. But your eyes gave you away, So quick, alert, all-prying, Praying mantis feelers. “Yes, I will eat that apple,” I said. I bit, you watched, the sweet Juice turning bitter in my throat. So this is how it feels to be loved. I did not hate you. And now you dance before me. Screaming, pleading, begging for mercy. But your eyes give you away, So mad, glad, without regret, Boiling, churning cauldrons. I cannot speak. I inhale the fumes As your feet sizzle, burn, Char in your red-hot iron shoes. So this is how it feels to not feel. I do not hate you. &#160; Ken is a programmer as well as a lawyer, and he’s still not sure whether it’s easier to write for machines or for other lawyers. His fiction and poetry have appeared in F&#38;SF, Asimov’s, Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, and Strange Horizons, among other places. He lives near Boston, Massachusetts, with his wife and daughter. You can find out more about him and his work here.]]></description>
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		<item>
		<title>Interview with Ken Liu</title>
		<link>http://scapezine.com/2012/blog/interview-with-ken-liu/</link>
		<comments>http://scapezine.com/2012/blog/interview-with-ken-liu/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 26 Jan 2012 05:37:13 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Peta Freestone</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Interviews]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Scape Blog]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://scapezine.com/?p=1009</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Issue 3 features two striking poems from Ken Liu. Scape chats to Ken about his writing process and the inspiration behind his work. &#160; What inspired you to write about Ye Xian? While there are many variants of the tale of Cinderella, Ye Xian&#8217;s story has some of the most powerful and unusual imagery for a Western reader: a cave-dwelling people, an island king, the step-mother and step-sister eating the fish that is actually the reincarnation of the mother. It&#8217;s much older than Charles Perrault&#8217;s version &#8212; the version that most of us think of &#8212; and its images are drawn from a pre-Qin-Han Chinese tradition rather than Perrault&#8217;s imagined medieval Europe. Sometimes fairy tales can lose a bit of their power because of familiarity. I felt that Ye Xian&#8217;s story would allow readers to see the tale in a new light. You draw inspiration from fairy tales and traditional stories. Are there any concepts or ideas that you particularly like to explore when writing poetry? What resonates strongly with you? I like writing narrative poetry &#8212; poems that tell a story. It&#8217;s a very different way to approach the narrative act compared to other forms like the short story, and I think it forces me to see my own fiction writing in a new way. I like fairy tales because I believe stories tap into very deep emotional patterns that exist in all of us, and fairy tales, as old stories, are less embarrassed about revealing these emotional cores than some more contemporary compositions. Given that you also write fiction, is there any difference in your approach when writing poetry? I think so. In poetry you have much less room to wander around and explore. You have to get to the essence of what you&#8217;re trying to say and say it clearly and succinctly. How would you define speculative poetry? What does it mean for you? Ha. I&#8217;m no good with genre boundaries (and I&#8217;m not convinced that genre definitions really help readers). Sometimes I think of speculative poetry as poetry that sees the world other than as it is. But that may be true of all poetry. What do you feel is important to keep in mind when writing for a YA audience? Don&#8217;t talk down to them. Young adults can sense insincerity from miles away, and they&#8217;re not forgiving. You&#8217;ve already found publication in many pro magazines (Lightspeed, Clarkesworld, etc.). What do you see in your future? Right now I&#8217;m working on a novel and collaborating on another with my wife, Lisa Tang Liu. I hope that these turn out good and go somewhere! What advice would you give to writers just starting out? Write every day and read every day. The former will teach you if you actually like writing (the sine qua non for being a writer); the latter will hone your taste (the thing that will actually make you good). &#160; &#160; Ken is a programmer as well as a lawyer, and he’s still...]]></description>
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		<title>Review: &#8216;Cinder&#8217; by Marissa Meyer</title>
		<link>http://scapezine.com/2012/blog/cinder-by-marissa-meyer/</link>
		<comments>http://scapezine.com/2012/blog/cinder-by-marissa-meyer/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 26 Jan 2012 04:04:41 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Peta Freestone</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Reviews]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Scape Blog]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://scapezine.com/?p=979</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Linh Cinder is the best mechanic in New Bejing. She&#8217;s so good that even though she is a cyborg&#8211; allowed no legal rights and feared and hated by the general population&#8211; she still makes a decent income for her &#8220;owner,&#8221; her step-mother. Life isn&#8217;t great, but it&#8217;s okay. She gets out of the house a lot, working down in the market. She&#8217;s good friends with the android Iko, and she dreams of somehow saving enough money to leave. Then Prince Kai, heir to the throne of the Eastern Commonwealth, stops by her booth. He&#8217;s brought a malfunctioning android, he jokes that he needs to get it fixed as &#8220;a matter of national security,&#8221; and he&#8217;s come in disguise. From this point on the plot explodes and doesn&#8217;t let up. A sickness no one has survived, a sickness-cure research program no one has survived either, a prince delightfully interested in her, and a mysterious mind-controlling queen all start to converge on Cinder&#8217;s life. Now, I read this book in two hours straight, and it would have been less, if I hadn&#8217;t been caught up in pesky things such as &#8220;eating,&#8221; and &#8220;not freezing my hands off while outside&#8221;. It is a high-speed roller-coaster of a book. Once I got off the roller-coaster, however, I was a little disappointed by how very fast the pace of the book is, and that disappointment falls under two headings. The first is the emotional space in the book. Despite the massive emotional trauma Cinder is subjected to, we never see her stagger under the weight of it. The impression given by this is that she either doesn&#8217;t care about these things, beyond her initial moment of grief, or that she is still in shock. My fear is that in further books, as all focus is given to the plot, we will never see these issues dealt with, furthering the idea that a moment of introspection is sufficient to deal any of the five earth-shattering issues. The second issue is the setting. We&#8217;re running so fast after the plot that we never fully see what&#8217;s going on around us. I mean, the story is set in New Beijing (the first Beijing was destroyed in World War Four), presumably a setting rife with awesome, but we never actually get to experience what it&#8217;s like. I admit to being a recent convert to the Details-Are-Flipping-Amazing-Show-Them-To-Me Club (It&#8217;s a cool club, you should join. We&#8217;ve got machine-embroidered leather jackets with tattered silk lining and worn brass snaps.).  And, especially because the author had said that the story was partially inspired by Firefly, I was excited to see the world of Cinder. But I never really did. I don&#8217;t know what the climate is like, I don&#8217;t know what the dumplings, sticky buns and noodles mentioned taste like and how often they&#8217;re eaten, I don&#8217;t know what normal clothes look like and how they are different from showy clothes, I don&#8217;t know what the architecture looks like and how it...]]></description>
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<enclosure url="http://scapezine.com/JuggernautTest/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Cinder-Audio-Book-Excerpt.mp3" length="2413799" type="audio/mpeg" />
		</item>
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		<title>No Spaceships Go</title>
		<link>http://scapezine.com/2012/issue-3/no-spaceships-go/</link>
		<comments>http://scapezine.com/2012/issue-3/no-spaceships-go/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 26 Jan 2012 02:45:46 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Peta Freestone</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Issue 3]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://scapezine.com/?p=845</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Dylan paused atop a pile of rubble and stared toward the colored corrugated roofs of the barrio. He wondered if his parents had left a place like this behind in United Korea. They never spoke of those years and Dylan had been a pinprick in the womb when his parents were smuggled to the Yukon and finally here, to the New Mexico Green Zone. He&#8217;d asked about it once when he was maybe five, but all he could recall was his mother turning away&#8230; Story by Annie Bellet Illustration by Rebecca Ing &#160; The boys lay on their backs side by side staring up through the open roof of the abandoned building. Dylan clutched Meek&#8217;s hand in anticipation as the ground shook and a roar filled the air. Tiny pebbles danced up from the ground around them and dust ran like water off the crumbling walls. &#8220;Ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five,&#8221; Dylan whispered, &#8220;four… three… two… one.&#8221; The shaking increased and he had to release Meek&#8217;s hand to shade his eyes. Smoke billowed up into the air, a streak of fire ahead of it. Then the true sonic blast of the rocketship hit them in a wave as the boys squinted to make out the ship speeding through the atmosphere. It sounded like the crackling of a hundred fires, or perhaps the blast of the biggest blowtorch Dylan could imagine. Meek whooped and crawled to his knees, staring up into the sky. &#8220;Do you think that&#8217;s the one we&#8217;ll be on someday?&#8221; he asked Dylan. Dylan rolled to his side and propped himself up on one arm. Dust had accumulated on Meek&#8217;s round, tan cheeks and Dylan fought the urge to wipe it away. &#8220;Nah, by the time we&#8217;ve saved enough to get our home on Elle Four, the ships&#8217;ll all be new I bet. We&#8217;ll ride on a superfast one for sure.&#8221; &#8220;I want to grow peppers.&#8221; Meek smiled up at Dylan, his crooked teeth warping the line of his chapped lips. &#8220;What kind of peppers?&#8221; Dylan grinned back. They&#8217;d had variations of this conversation before and Dylan didn&#8217;t pay much attention to Meek as the boy launched into his usual daydream about gardens and pepper plants. Dylan daydreamed about something else entirely as he fixated on Meek&#8217;s lips, his eyes drifting to the dimple in his friend&#8217;s left cheek. He didn&#8217;t notice at first that Meek had stopped talking and instead stared up at him with those dark, nearly pupil-less eyes. &#8220;Oh, hmm? I&#8217;m sorry.&#8221; Dylan murmured. &#8220;Pebble for your thoughts?&#8221; Meek smiled again. Dylan smiled back and chose to show him instead. He bent low and nibbled at Meek&#8217;s lower lip before pressing in for a full kiss. Meek tasted of dust and salt and underneath that something else entirely that Dylan couldn&#8217;t name but knew was good. Dylan&#8217;s hand slipped lower, curling against Meek&#8217;s hip as he pushed aside his over-sized flannel shirt. Meek growled in protest and pulled back. &#8220;You have to go, you&#8217;ll...]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>1</slash:comments>
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		<item>
		<title>Double Dutch</title>
		<link>http://scapezine.com/2012/issue-3/double-dutch/</link>
		<comments>http://scapezine.com/2012/issue-3/double-dutch/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 26 Jan 2012 02:27:39 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Peta Freestone</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Issue 3]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://scapezine.com/?p=827</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I know what he sees — a scrawny girl with no boobs and a shriveled grey cord that sticks through a hole in the middle of my dress and curves over to my mother and up between her legs like a snake embedded in her flesh. I know he sees all of us. I don’t look at him again. Story by Lauren Dixon Illustration by Galen Dara &#160; The umbilical cord, once detached from the mother’s body, is supposed to dry up and fall apart, the placenta should be expelled and everyone should be happy on account of detachment. But not my mom. When the time came, her placenta didn’t drop and instead of allowing the doctors to yank it out of her and so end my suffering, she declined. When she didn’t allow them to clamp or snip the cord, and it continued pulsing, delivering nutrients between us, she said it was meant to be, and the doctors clearly had no capacity for miracles. When the umbilical continued to thread us together for months and years after that, she treated it as necessary, not as an aberration but as a divine act. I, of course, got no say. * It’s the kind of night when the heat bleeds paint from the walls and sweat rains from the body in sheets that wakes me up from a trilogy of nightmares, each one successively worse. In the last one, a carcass of a dead javelina chased after me, its organs cascading from a hollow in its side. I wake, my heart a pendulum swaying me between hyperventilation and relief. Louise, my mother, snores, a buzzsaw of air ricocheting from her pillow. I try to roll over on my side, but my movement jerks her and she slaps out her hand, the death grip of sleep latching onto my shoulder and gluing me into my place. I freeze, melt into the bed, my eyes fixed on the spatters of plaster above me. In the dark, they resemble miniature stalactites, and I imagine myself in a cave of hell, my mother the devil and the muggy bayou heat her chosen flames of torture. Over the years the cord has stretched from one foot to three feet and now it is five feet. It is silver, grey in some areas, and doesn’t shine like it once did. Because of the cord, mom works on medical transcription from home and I don’t get to go to regular school, but I wouldn’t want to anyway. My mom’s part of me, and that’s that. But it hurts sometimes, this attachment. When I’m sad, she knows it—her honeyed insides go coated with grey and mud, and then she can’t work or think straight. Same goes with me. She’ll try sending her honeyed glow to me, and sometimes my body catches the lilt of the color, the joy of being with her flowing out of my fingers. Together we are a prism, a shelter, gliding into and out of...]]></description>
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		<title>The Empress and the Comic</title>
		<link>http://scapezine.com/2012/issue-3/the-empress-and-the-comic/</link>
		<comments>http://scapezine.com/2012/issue-3/the-empress-and-the-comic/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 26 Jan 2012 02:26:29 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Peta Freestone</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Issue 3]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://scapezine.com/?p=881</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[All was well until one day an unexpected visitor arrived. The courtiers gaped as I served him tea in a garden pavilion. I didn&#8217;t blame them. My guest’s scuffed leather jacket and fitted canvas trousers were a sharp contrast to their flowing silk garments. Wire spectacles perched on his nose, and an assortment of brass tools hung from the belt at his waist&#8230; &#160; Story by S . Q. Eries Illustration by Stephanie Martin &#160; For as long as I could remember, my days began with meditation. As written in the Sutras of the First Emperor, “Contemplation is the first step on the path to inner tranquility.” Thus, my attendants took care that I was undisturbed during those hours, and I never was–except for one spring day. I was by the lotus pond, the best place for reflection that season. The scent of jasmine, the twitter of garden fauna, the caress of breeze and sunshine – all combined to give a sense of oneness with the cosmos. I inhaled deeply, my ten-year-old consciousness seeking to harmonize with the timeless rhythm of the universe– &#8220;Ha, ha, ahahahahaha!&#8221; I started at the strange sound. At first I thought it was the call of some new bird the gardeners procured, but it struck me as… human somehow. Intrigued, I followed the noise to a pavilion where I came upon a peculiar sight. Within, two maids held their sides, gasping and snorting. Yet neither seemed alarmed by the seizure that gripped them. I watched, fascinated, until one glimpsed me and shrieked, “Empress!” They fell kowtowing, foreheads knocking against jade tile. Their quailing reminded me of the time Fifth Cupbearer dropped my soup at dinner. I never did see him again after that. Not wanting these girls to disappear before my curiosity was sated, I said, &#8220;What were you doing?&#8221; Voice trembling, one replied, &#8220;Twelfth Garden Maid was telling a joke, and we couldn&#8217;t keep from – Forgive us for laughing, Majesty!&#8221; &#8220;Joke? Laughing?&#8221; My mind strained, but I could not recall those terms. &#8220;What is that? Some kind of spell? An infirmity?&#8221; The maids looked uncertainly at one another, and my curiosity redoubled. Drawing to my full height, I said, &#8220;Answer, your Empress commands you.&#8221; What followed was enlightening indeed. * Head Counsellor&#8217;s features were typically smooth as an egg, but the moment I mentioned the matter, his face contorted so much I thought it might crack. &#8220;Laughter?! Put this out of your mind, Empress. I will make certain those maids never –&#8221; &#8220;You will not,&#8221; I said calmly. “This is something that has till now escaped my notice, and I wish to understand it.” His eyes bulged as if his collar had suddenly grown too tight. &#8220;But Empress, you are the Daughter of Heaven, The Serene One of the Ching Empire.&#8221; Indeed, it was highly unusual for me to pursue anything but serenity, for that was my heritage. A Child of Heaven’s heart resonated with the cosmos in ways ordinary mortals’ did not....]]></description>
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		<item>
		<title>Fish Bowl</title>
		<link>http://scapezine.com/2012/issue-3/fish-bowl/</link>
		<comments>http://scapezine.com/2012/issue-3/fish-bowl/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 25 Jan 2012 05:14:21 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Peta Freestone</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Issue 3]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://scapezine.com/?p=858</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[The two men returned the following night. Mortimer rose to the top of the tank and looked down on them again.  They’d come at the same time—when things were slow.  They brought the same peculiar presence with them—the quietness that Mortimer only experienced under the water, the electric buzzing of magic, the lofty thoughts Mortimer only dared to dream in private... Story by AshleyRose Sullivan Illustration by Aidana WillowRaven &#160; Dust swirled around that world.  Around all the world he knew.  But inside his tank, his fingertips pressed against the glass, he could not fathom it. Little girls and boys, stared up at him, at his blue tinted water, at his gills.  They were covered in it.  Covered in the dust that had spread like a quiet infestation.  Their lungs were full of it.  Their skin was caked with it, red and brown, where his was slick and fish-scale green. Mortimer spun in the tank, large enough for he and one other, then did a somersault through the water.  He swam like a fish, which is what he happened to be—an impossible primate with webbed digits and gills.  A young man who filtered air from water when everyone around him breathed red dust.  He was born like a dolphin, into the water, and never left. A crowd formed around his tank and peered through clear wall and water to his body, his face, his hair and spindly fingers.  He swam suddenly, toward the glass and allowed the crowd to see his second set of eyelids, his suction cup tipped fingers and they gasped then laughed as he did a backward flip, and swam to the bottom.  A little girl tapped on the glass.  It was so near to inaudible that Mortimer would&#8217;ve missed it completely if he hadn&#8217;t turned in time to see her. Fine grains of dirt covered her pigtails and a faint rusty layer clung to her pink cotton candy but, Mortimer figured, she probably wouldn&#8217;t even notice. A plume of fire shot into the sky as Johnny, all tattoos and sweating skin, exhaled into the night and the crowd moved on. Mortimer allowed himself to float to the top of the tank so he could look over the rippling waves created by his own movement.  His pale hands curled around the rim of his home as he watched the red and orange flames licking at the sweet carnival air, crackling the bits of dust into tiny sparks.  He loved the smell but couldn&#8217;t breathe it for long before dunking his neck under the water to keep from drowning. &#8220;It&#8217;s almost time to move on.&#8221; He smiled, but tried not to let it show, as he turned to Victor who was leaning his head sideways as he adjusted his fake diamond wrist cuff. &#8220;How many shows tonight?&#8221; Victor grinned and stared over his shoulder at the main tent. &#8220;Three.  Has it been a good crowd?&#8221; Mortimer nodded toward the children, their faces aglow, watching Johnny eat and breathe...]]></description>
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		<item>
		<title>Issue 2 Editorial</title>
		<link>http://scapezine.com/2011/blog/issue-2-editorial/</link>
		<comments>http://scapezine.com/2011/blog/issue-2-editorial/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 17 Oct 2011 00:49:06 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Peta Freestone</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Issue 2]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Scape Blog]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Corie Ralston]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[editorial]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Fantasy]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Orrin Grey]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Patty Jansen]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Sandra M Odell]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Scape]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[science fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Wendy Wagner]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[YA Speculative Fiction]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://scapezine.com/?p=758</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[It’s been a long time coming, but Scape Issue 2 is finally here. I don’t want to make this post entirely about me, but I do feel I owe readers and contributors an explanation.  So, let’s just say that the last few months have been a rollercoaster.  Back in June, I packed my bags for the Clarion Writers’ Workshop and headed off to San Diego.  It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to describe those six weeks at UCSD as life changing. Nor would it be hyperbole to say that life became even more tumultuous when I returned home to Australia. If you’ve ever been through a period of high emotional stress, you’ll understand how draining it can be, and that sometimes it takes a mammoth effort just to complete necessary daily routines. It’s unfortunate, but it’s the voluntary or ‘for the love’ tasks that fall by the wayside when we don’t have the energy or capacity to keep things ticking along as normal.  For that, I humbly apologise to all involved with Scape and thank you for your patience.  Many of you offered kind words and encouragement over the last few months (especially various Clarion and Clarion West alumni who came out of the woodwork), and for that I am truly grateful. The above all being said, Scape’s back and we’re here to stay. I trust you’ll enjoy these latest five stories, and hope that they resonate with you at least half as much as they did with me.  Issue 2 whisks us away to two near-futures, Corie Ralston’s politically charged Nepal in the aftermath of a meteor shower, and Wendy Wagner’s grim vision of a not-too-distant United States. Patty Jansen transports us across star systems to a planet where the pattern of human colonisation shaped so much more than history.  Sandra M Odell gives us a wonderfully rich and warm take on a society that all readers and writers dread – one without books.  The fifth story? Well, have you ever thought about running off to join the circus? Read Orrin Grey’s Letters from the Monster Show beforehand. That way you’ll know what it might be like for those left behind. Over varying periods and landscapes, each story in this issue goes beyond challenging its characters to also confront us as readers.  Our authors have tackled issues that we’re not always comfortable to examine, whether in YA literature or further afield.  We’re asked to think about sexuality and identity, religion and grief, power and politics. Is crime ok if we’re committing it for a noble reason? Should we try to fit in with the norms of our loved ones or find our own path? When is the right time to admit we’ve lost someone dear to us and move on? Many of the questions in these tales are hard to answer.  Some of them, either in our world or the world of these stories, are terrifying to ask.  But can you ignore that nagging feeling in the back of your...]]></description>
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		<title>All Things are Full of Gods</title>
		<link>http://scapezine.com/2011/archives/issue-2/all-things-are-full-of-gods/</link>
		<comments>http://scapezine.com/2011/archives/issue-2/all-things-are-full-of-gods/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 16 Oct 2011 02:13:21 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Peta Freestone</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Issue 2]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://scapezine.com/?p=725</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[The birds here seem upset. In the taxi from the airport I saw lots of bright-colored little flags and some chickens and lots of ravens. One of the ravens tried to tell me something but Mom was watching me so I ignored him&#8230; Story by Corie Ralston Illustration by Anika Cook May 2, 2014 We flew into Lhasa today. Mom was sick from the altitude, but Dad and I were fine. He says his lungs and blood remember even after all these years, and I&#8217;m half him and that&#8217;s why I&#8217;m okay. Never mind that I grew up in Fort Collins, Denver. Mom said that was silly but she didn&#8217;t laugh. I remember when she used to laugh at all his silly jokes. The birds here seem upset. In the taxi from the airport I saw lots of bright-colored little flags and some chickens and lots of ravens. One of the ravens tried to tell me something but Mom was watching me so I ignored him. I&#8217;ve started pretending I can&#8217;t understand them when Mom is around. She thinks there is something wrong with me. Before we left for Tibet I heard her telling Dad they should send me to a special school for girls like me. He said no way. She said it would make me better but Dad said there is nothing wrong with me. I&#8217;m afraid to tell Dad I can talk to birds because maybe he&#8217;ll think I&#8217;m crazy too and then I won&#8217;t have anyone who believes in me. I think I&#8217;m the reason Mom and Dad argue all the time now. Maybe that&#8217;s also why we came to Tibet. That, and the Atishans and the meteor. I saw Atishans from the taxi, too. They were wearing their white robes and carrying signs about the meteor. They didn&#8217;t look crazy like they do on the news at home. Now we&#8217;re at the hotel. Dad got called right away to go help at the UN and Mom is lying in bed with a washcloth on her forehead so I&#8217;m on my own. I think I&#8217;ll sneak out so I can find out why the raven was upset. May 3, 2014 Dad didn&#8217;t get back until really late last night. Mom was asleep. I was going to tell him what the ravens told me, but then he pulled something from his pocket that was small and round and brownish and he told me exactly the same thing the ravens said! He said the little balls fell from the meteor, thousands of them all over the north part of the city and in the forest and all the way to desert where the meteor crashed. Dad said no one knew what they were. I said maybe they were eggs, like I was making a guess even though I knew for sure because that&#8217;s what the ravens said, and birds are usually right about things like that. He said some scientists thought they might be eggs, but everyone else...]]></description>
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