by Calie Voorhis - Seems to me some days I should dust the dirt off these battered boots, put on my finest blue dress, and skip down the Way...
by K. Eisert - Senator Heidi Montoya studied the man clad in an orange jumpsuit and shackled to a chair. A guard lifted the black bag from his head.
by Walter Dinjos - There is a reason the mirrors kiss the walls. When my late wife nailed the oakwood-framed one next to my bathroom, she called it a reminder of how far we've come.
by Katie Boyer - She flexes her toes in new high-heeled shoes, feels the press of Earth gravity on her body for one last day, discomfort in the balls of her feet.
by Ken Hoover - On the mesa’s flat expanse, the mine shaft was a crude hole, a soulless eye. As Vallen Doss peered into it, a dank sulfuric breath wafted from the opening.
by Clay Space - The wind on the frozen ice bit through the hides he wore for protection, but he had long ago learned to forget about the bitter cold.
by René Walling This report is a continuation of the work done in Worldcon Membership Demographics, 1939-1960 (Walling, 2016) and aims to see if any of the trends previously observed continue in subsequent Worldcon and provide some hard data on the membership of the Worldcons of that period.
By Jean Asselin Over time, we learn the value of stressing the positive: what we’d do differently rather than what doesn’t work, what to strive for instead of what to avoid. Still, there is efficiency in prescribing “Don’t do ‘X’ in the fiction you submit.” Let ‘X’ be: “On its way to another star [...]
by René Walling Sweeping statements and generalizations are often made about the membership of early World Science Fiction Conventions (WSFC, or Worldcon) such as “only the same people came back every year” or “the attendance was all male.” Yet rarely is more than anecdotal evidence given to support these statements. The goal of this report is to provide some hard data on the membership of early Worldcons so that such statements can be based on more than anecdotal evidence.
By Jude-Marie Green One rocket lumbers along to the launchpad. Earth-bound and clumsy now, gorgeous with potential. It’s yours. You’re the last. You should be proud of that.