My laptop was stolen two months ago, and with it all of the data used for this ezine. Unfortunately this means that I've lost all of my contacts, loggins, lists of books sent to us to review, list of review books sent to which reviewers etc.
My email account was also hacked, probably from the culprit who nicked my laptop. So I can't even access the emails to get this information, or any emailed submissions. So if you haven't had a reply to an email, it's because I haven't got it.
Without a computer, I've been unable to update The Fringe Magazine for some time now, so many apologies to those who I've not responded to. Once I can source a new computer I'll get the ezine up and running again.
Hope to be back soon.
The Fringe Magazine
Posted by Scott Wilson
Posted by Scott Wilson
Dad suffered even from a sight of blood, and he never killed a hen nor slaughtered a pig. But I was aware that once he had donated his blood in the name of my Mum still, because she’d had a narrow escape on an operating table then.
With me a doctor would have my blood tested in a moment: one, two and it’s done. But first they make you ready for rather a time: take a seat, then have a proper finger chosen, though it is always just the one, then they wipe it with spirits until take somewhat sharp like a mini-scalpel. Not everyone can stand the procedure, but I was not against it when a doctor suggested me having my blood tested. She was a likable one, youngish for her age, not married or divorced, probably. And she had no child, I felt it immediately, she had such a look, barren if you want.
Possibly for health reasons she could not bear a child or she didn’t find a right man. Or she could have a particular blood group not to have a child with anyone, that’s why she employed at a doctor’s consulting room to make blood tests. And she urged me to have my blood tested. At first I didn’t mind it, the right thing it is, still she didn’t ask my permission. “Just let’s have your blood tested”, she said and left me. She had many things to do I suppose. In doctor's smocks they walked hither and thither all the time at a clinic there talking over the heads of those waiting, as if one was dead already. And I was still alive and a nurse was preparing to have my blood tested.
While she got me ready she was chattering. She said that men were afraid of blood testing nowadays. More and more they refused to do it and ran away sometimes seeing a drop of blood. And one had nothing to fear, there was a couch behind the curtain in a special emergency to lie low, in case one fainted. She pulled the white curtain aside and showed me a couch with dark green leatherette and I shivered all at once: what for they needed my blood? She suggested me taking off a jacket and rolling up my sleeve, left or right one, I don’t remember. But I was frightened to throw off my shoes, she insisted on. I ever had my shoes clean, but one was not allowed to enter a treatment room in boots. With no shoes I got frightened.
It happens so while walking by oneself at an unknown place at night and still not scared. Nothing to fear of in spite of a dark night until you stumble and then your confidence is missing. It’s off as if left at the same spot one had stumbled over. And then it all changes: the moon is from the other world, unknown and unfriendly.
And so it was with me: while shod I was not afraid, may be because in shoes I could take to my heels at any moment. And the nurse was harping on the same tune that the men had made off frightened to get their blood tested. Well, what on Earth they do there with bloody blood!
…So I made off there in somebody’s shoes for the better. I looked round, nothing but mud in the street, I don’t know why, and I went along to a fellow of mine. We had been in the same class and I never saw him since, but I headed to him. And he had married my classmate then, Gahla. And I never was to their place, that’s why I made my way for them may be. So many years passed, and my Dad was two years as dead.
I tramped to them in dirty boots I don’t know whose but I didn’t take them off. And it didn’t seem neat around, gloomy, the floor boarding was like unpainted in dusk, but it couldn’t have grown dark yet. And there was somebody sleeping over there, half-dressed, his back bare. He was lying with his face down right on the floor, not drunken they said, but of grief. His wife had passed away; she had died right in a hospital there because of heavy bleeding, and doctors couldn’t but help her. And he adored her.
Then I saw that it was my Dad there, I knew him by his back, a lean one.
Mr. Valery Petrovskiy is a journalist and short story writer from Russia.
Не is an English Department graduate at Chuvash State University, Cheboksary, graduated in journalism at VKSch Higher School, Moscow and in psychology at Kazan State Technology University. He has been writing prose since 2005.
Some of his writing has been published in The Scrambler, Rusty Typer, BRICKrethoric, NAP Magazine, Literary Burlesque, The Other Room, Curbside Quotidian, DANSE MACABRE, WidowMoon Press, PRIME MINCER, Apocrypha and Abstractions, The Legendary in the USA, and in Australian “Skive” and “Going Down Swinging” magazines.
At the moment he is writer-in-residence at Marco Polo Art Mag.
Posted by Scott Wilson
Posted by Scott Wilson
The Fringe is open to submissions of poetry, flash fiction and short stories of any genre. Stories accepted will be published online in our Ezine and also in the monthly pdf magazine.
We are also open to submissions from artists for inclusion in the magazine.
Submissions should be in RTF format or in the body of the email. Send email submissions only to email@example.com
Currently we only offer payment for one story selected as the feature story in the monthly pdf magazine only. The successful author will be contacted to organise payment via paypal for a $5AUD payment. Authors of other accepted stories published on the webzine and in the pdf copy will receive a copy of the pdf version of the mag the story appears in.
We are open to unpublished and previously published stories up to 40,000 words in length.
About The Fringe Magazine
Here at The Fringe Magazine we publish Short Stories, Flash Fiction, Poetry in all genres and reviews of books, roleplay games, music and movies.
Our variety seems to be hiting the mark with over 100,000 views of our Online Magazine with a good spread across all articles.
With over 350 readers visiting our site each day, we listen to the voice of the masses and try and procure books in all genres to review. To date, we have reviewed over 600 books, including; non-fiction reference, music, art, photography, gardening, cooking, Self Help, architecture, design, biographies and roleplay games.
We also review fiction in all genres; Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Historical Romance, Paranormal Romance, Horror, Crime, Thriller, Comedy, Western. We also publish Author Interviews, Paintings, Sketches, Art Work, Art Work by Susie Wilson, and non-fiction articles. The only thing you won't find at The Fringe Magazine is a bad review, if we don't like something, we won't put up a review at all.
You will also find music and dvd reviews and the occasional interview with musicians and actors.
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