Broken people, broken promises, broken dreams and broken objects are just some of the ways these 26 fantastic stories interpret the theme of ‘Broken’. From science fiction to fantasy, horror to superheroes the stories within these pages cover a vast swath of the genres under the speculative fiction umbrella.
Featuring original fiction by:
~ Brittany Warman ~ Milo James Fowler ~ C.S. MacCath ~ Sara Cleto ~ Samantha Kymmell-Harvey ~ Megan Arkenberg ~ Gary B. Phillips ~ Alexandra Seidel ~ Jonathan C. Parrish ~ Simon Kewin ~ Beth Cato ~ Cory Cone ~ Cindy James ~ Alexis A. Hunter ~ Michael M. Jones ~ Steve Bornstein ~ BD Wilson ~ Michael Kellar ~ Damien Angelica Walters ~ Marge Simon ~ Michael Fosburg ~ Suzanne van Rooyen ~ L.S. Johnson ~ Pete Aldin ~ Gabrielle Harbowy ~ Lilah Wild ~ KV Taylor ~
Targeted Age Group:: Adults
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I didn’t write this book, I edited it 🙂 It’s a collection of 26 stories by some of my favourite short story writers and is the second in a series of anthologies I’m editing with the same theme.
I was watching The ABCs of Death and I thought, “It could be a lot of fun to do something similar to this as an anthology. No wait, a SERIES of anthologies!” and so that’s how it started. Each anthology in the series is titled LETTER is for WORD and that word is the theme all the stories within it are written around. Better still, there are 26 stories in each anthology–one for each letter of the alphabet and the contributors also had to use that letter to inform their story, and in their story’s titles which also follow the LETTER is for WORD format.
The first anthology in the series was A is for Apocalypse. This is B is for Broken and the one which will follow it is C is for Chimera.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
This is a collection of 26 stories by 26 different authors. I’m not qualified to answer this question 😉
To show a sample of the different themes and voices in this anthology I’ve shared very short excerpts from three of the stories:
Excerpt from V is for…
by L.S. Johnson
On her knees in the dirt, Arianne can envision her mother before her, see her spattered hems and the rough clogs over her fine stockings. On her knees in the dirt, Arianne’s mind becomes formless and clear. On her knees the world is a whole thing once more, a single path as welcoming as an embrace.
Until she stands up, and the world breaks into pieces once again: the rows of brown grapevines splintering in all directions; the wind rattling the shutters on the crumbling cottage where she and her father live; the slope of the rise before the hollow, where the old house still stands, the embodiment of her mother’s betrayal.
Their tainted land.
Excerpt from P is for…
by Steve Bornstein
A-One thought, for the first time, that perhaps waging total war on the humans might not have been a good idea after all.
Excerpt from D is for…
by Sara Cleto
When the sun sets, the Snow Queen rises from her bed and slips a diaphanous robe over her glinting skin. Taffeta, brocade, and leather crowd restlessly in her closet and ease past the doors, spilling in drifts of color onto the marbled floor. The King brings her new boxes, brimming with crisp tissue and crisper clothes, bound cheerfully with a bow, nearly every day.
“For the gala,” he says, or “for dinner with the executive board.”
He smiles at her, all teeth, and suggests with exquisite politeness that she might dress and come downstairs.
She smiles, or the nearest approximation that her stiff, heavy lips can manage, and strokes her newest garment with a single fingertip.
The fabric tears cleanly under her light caress, parting with the casual brutality of a broom on a spider web.
The King sighs gently. “Darling, do remember to wear your gloves. And let your ladies help you dress.”
She looks at the complicated undergarments, plates of metal twined with industrial straps, the screws and bolts that hold the pieces together, and then at the women who never quite leave the shadow of the door. They wear sturdy gloves, the kind that gardeners who tend particularly recalcitrant rose bushes favor, and sturdy lines around their mouths.
“Tomorrow, perhaps,” she says quietly. Her lips clatter against each other, and her words are echoed by the tap of jewels striking the floor. She watches impassively as one of her ladies edges towards her. The woman collects the sparkling gems from where they lay around her feet and places them in one of the many glass caskets lining the room, arranged to catch the light. Her ruined gown is whisked away to be repaired, stitched back into a semblance of wholeness, and laid to rest, unworn, in her closet. The King inclines his head over her hand, lips scraped and lightly bleeding, and withdraws.
Sliding on her gloves, she arranges her robe around her, concealing as much of her glittering skin as possible.
She never goes downstairs.
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