Quiver genre magazines

Read the newest issue of The Third Level speculative fiction magazine here! In this Spring 2012 issue, featured is fiction that re-imagines mythology, poetry, a fantastic musical medley and graphic design that shouts “Star Wars.”

Third Level Issue Spring 2012

This spring term, Quiver sponsored a flash fiction contest in which authors wrote a story of less than 750 words incorporating five of the 11 words listed: paladin, volkswagon, codpiece, raspberry Danish, battery, jostle, backfire, holler, viscous, feeble, diaphanous.

The results are as follows:

1st place: Amber Hogan

2nd place: Sam Huntley

3rd place: Genevieve Crow

Congratulations, you three!

To all those who participated, thank you for entering! Look out for future Quiver contests on the horizon!

The white moon glistens behind a fog of clouds, a single orb of light raised high above the softly swaying waves of a dark sea. The world is still. A seal’s head breaks to the surface, a black dot floating in black water, and observes the empty sands of the beach. It disappears, then surfaces again closer to shore. The seal continues this pattern until it travels the foamy curl of crashing waves and is carried onto the wet sand. It hobbles across the beach, sandy grains clinging to the fur of its stomach and flippers, until it reaches a satisfactory distance and turns back to face the shadowy ocean. A moment later, another seal emerges from the watery froth, then a third, until eight leathery animals have dragged themselves to shore.

The eight seals study each other, shuffling atop their flippers unsurely, seemingly waiting for something to spark action. Finally, the oldest, largest seal steps forward with a commanding bark. The others shy away, allowing the large beast space. The eldest seal’s head lowers and begins to slink back and forth in a hypnotic lull. Its body shudders, then trembles and contorts. Soon mounds of skin stretch out from the seal’s body as if something is pushing out from the inside. The seal whines in frustration. A large mound expands from the seal’s chest, thrusting against blubbery flesh. The mound contracts and pushes again, forcing through the skin to reveal a pale hand and forearm. The arm wriggles in the air and grasps impatiently at the sand, widening the hole of its escape. A shoulder emerges. Then a crown of black hair, a woman’s face, her neck, the other shoulder and arm. Within moments she tears off the rest of the sealskin, rising onto wobbly human legs as her new skin shivers in the chilled sea breeze.

The other seals soon follow suit, shedding their pelts to become dark-haired, milky-skinned beauties. The youngest seal woman, this only her second transformation, immediately rushes to the sea. A high-pitched, human squeal erupts as she dances in the ankle-deep water. Two others chase after her, joining her in the frolic. The rest mingle aimlessly, walking along the water’s edge, exploring collections of large rocks and tide pools, or lazily stretching along the cool sand.

A wild screech pierces the night.

Continue reading →

When I woke up I was underwater, half-submerged in murky pond sludge. There was nothing new about that.

However, I did rather object to the fact that the surface of the water above was a mere two feet from my face.

I blinked blearily. Was there a drought this year? How long had I been asleep? I had only meant to sleep for a few months, perhaps a year. Only resting my eyes, really. But my body felt heavy and slow, as if I’d been out for a decade or more. Had I accidentally slipped into a serious hibernation? When you live for centuries, a few decades of sleep here and there isn’t a big deal. But I hadn’t meant to sleep so long. I wished that the smell of roasting meat was already percolating through the water to my nostrils, but there was only the smell of mud and fish. Hadn’t I told that worthless servant boy to bring the offering every day, in case I woke up? Now that I thought on it, it seemed a bit unreasonable given how long I often slept. But I was in no mood to be reasonable. After a long sleep I was starving, gummy with mud, and peering up through water that was unacceptably shallow. One could describe my mood as “irritable” and still risk a grave understatement. I lumbered to my feet, breaking the surface.

I took the shape of a small black horse almost automatically. It was my default form, the one my kind was known for. It was good that this required so little thought, because all thoughts flew out of my head the moment I laid eyes on my pond.

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My father calls them sharp-tongues, though I call them monsters. When I was a boy, still young enough for stories and my father was sane, he used to tell me the story of the monsters. He said that a long time ago, before the wars of human and nature, there was peace between man and animal. Nature was obedient and merciful, giving a fruitful bounty to all who cared to take it. Nothing was starving for food and all creatures lived harmoniously.

He would usually fall into laughter at this point. As if something so fantastical could have ever happened. I used to sit there, silently, and feel a deadness in my stomach. I’ve never known a world without beasts, or eaten a plate full of food. I have never seen anything of worth that wasn’t bartered or fought over. My father would laugh, but I wouldn’t.

He would continue, after his tears of mirth had subsided. He said that everything was so wonderful and amazing, and man decided to make it even better. Man gathered all the animals around and told them that he would give them all a gift: whatever they would ask for. The animals were pleased, but the world was perfect and most did not ask for more.

Except for the giant lizards, of course. The giant lizards were so large that they could not climb trees to take fruit to eat. They would eat off the ground, but they needed so much that it took away food from the other animals. This was a time of perfection, mind you, so nothing wanted to intentionally harm another. The giant lizards came up to man and said: “We wish for nothing more than long arms and hands like yourself, kind master. Then we could pick fruit from the trees, as you do, and not have half-empty stomachs.” Man thought this was very logical, and so went to work fashioning arms and hands for the giant lizards.

My father would pause here again and give me a strange look. He said that man was more powerful in those days, as well as wiser. All the animals followed the direction of man, and the only other equal was nature itself. Man knew what was right and what was wrong in those days. Nature used to guide man like a tender parent, like a shadow. Never touching, but always watching.

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They hang like ripe gourds
Hollow and vibrant
Pressed –
and climax through the leashes

They hang like pears
Heavy and filled
Soft and squishy –
tasteful to the young and old

Like soldiers they greet the Commander
Firm yet flexible
Always in place except without support –
then they hang like ripe gourds

Music was playing; it wasn’t the sort of music I had grown up with, the kind that I heard all the time, the kind with pumping beats and electronic voices. No, this music appeared to be sung by a human voice. Which is just stupid, why listen to an imperfect voice? Who would want to listen to the terrible key tones that come out of a human? But despite the nonsensical nature of the song, the lazy baritone continued to be heard.

Turning the corner, in an alleyway was a….very dirty man. He wasn’t wearing any brand I had ever seen, and he defiantly hadn’t been to any grooming station recently. His hair was long and shaggy, a stark contrast to the standard crew-cut most males were assigned. What was worse was that untrimmed stubble was peeking out of his face like weeds in an untrimmed lawn, soon to be a ratty beard.  What was even stranger than the man’s appearance, however, was the object he held. In his arms was an ugly, bulky, wooden object. It appeared to be hollow on the inside, with strings attached to the front.

The man hadn’t noticed me, or if he had, didn’t think I was worth a glance. His fingers kept plucking the stings on his wooden box, creating a strange vibrating melody. I stood entranced as the seemingly random placements of his fingers managed to make a song. “What was the thing he is carrying?” I thought, “Why didn’t he have proper clothes or hair? Just who did he think he was? Who  was this man singing this strange and ugly song?” I listened for a little bit longer before the man finally stopped.

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Quiver is looking for new editors for all of its genre magazines, Diminished Capacity (humor), Wynken, Blynken, and Nod (children’s and young adult), and The Third Level (speculative fiction)! The deadline is March 31. Being a Quiver editor allows students to gain experience in manuscript editing and the magazine publishing process and duties include helping promote submission deadlines and planning events, reading student submissions and offering feedback, and helping put together a reception at the end of every term.

Download the application here.

The application involves submitting basic information, editing a sample story and submitting a sample of writing. Send the completed application to knoxquiver@gmail.com by March 31.