Lisa Timpf
Hunting ideas can be hit-and-miss. Either you have so many ideas you are frantic at the thought you will never be able to use them all, or you are visited by too few. Patience in those lean times is required. Don’t be too hard on yourself—hunting ideas is no easy task.
Ideas travel quietly, and cannot be detected by the normal five senses, although sometimes, if you latch onto a really good one, you can hear it reverberate through your soul like a temple gong’s solemn tones.
Ideas love to shelter in the dense thickets of your subconscious, and must be coaxed out with care. If you startle them, they will vanish, never to be seen again.
Ideas are the children of trickster gods. They love to flit into our conscious minds when we are preoccupied with other matters. Beware: the quality of an idea will often be inversely proportional to the convenience of writing it down. Ideas may drop into your head while you’re dog-walking, showering, or mowing the lawn. In such circumstances, it’s best to engrave the idea in your mind (not literally, that would be messy) until you can get your hands on a notepad.
On the bright side, unlike game hunting, idea hunting is always in season, and there no limits on how many you catch.
Which reminds me, I could use a few new ideas. Maybe I should go out and shovel the snow . . .
Lisa Timpf’s speculative writing has appeared in Lorelei Signal, NewMyths.com, Polar Borealis, and other venues.
Was I the only girl who didn’t have a Barbie while growing up in the 1960s? If so, I have only myself to blame. Though I had several dolls, the only one I showed any affection for was a hand-knitted number crafted by a neighbor. Instead of ferrying its intended cargo, my doll carriage carried stuffed animals, stray cats, and the occasional toad.
When I was nine years old, our family moved from our rural home into town. This meant more playmates within walking distance. One of my new friends had Johnny and Jane West action figures. I found them more relatable than Barbie, whose body style and clothing choices bore little resemblance to mine.
Johnny and Jane had horses with bridles and saddles you could put on or take off, and fun accessories: chaps, vests, hats, frying pans, and even miniature six-guns. My friend and I imagined Johnny and Jane thwarting cattle rustlers and sitting around the campfire afterwards, suffering from the effects of too many baked beans.
Barbie of the 1960s would have been appalled.
I’ve sometimes wondered whether I missed out by not having a Barbie as a child. On the other hand, since Veterinarian Barbie and Hockey Barbie were years away from being introduced, Johnny and Jane were likely the best options.
I haven’t seen the Barbie movie yet. I probably won’t. But if they ever come out with a Johnny West cinema flick, I might be tempted . . .
Lisa Timpf’s speculative writing has appeared in Lorelei Signal, NewMyths.com, Polar Borealis, and other venues.
They sense that something’s not quite right,
these gen-mod dogs of war—
blinking in the too-bright light
they sense that something’s not quite right
so honed as weapons, bred to fight
they do what they’re made for.
Too late, their handlers see the light
first casualties of war.
Lisa Timpf’s speculative writing has appeared in Lorelei Signal, NewMyths.com, Polar Borealis, and other venues.
Apprentice wizard Fortio pulled up a chair, grinning in anticipation. He set his pint of foaming beer on a coaster and covertly studied the humans at the table from under shaggy eyebrows.
Friday was games night at the Boar’s Head Pub. He’d been longing to join in for months now. He’d had to sneak away from his master, the great wizard Greybeard, to get here tonight. He hoped the jeans and sweater he’d liberated from a neighbor’s laundry line would conceal his identity. Better than wearing my robe and regalia, he told himself.
Fortio shook his head as he remembered the veiled warnings the wizards back at the School had given, about the dangers of mixing with humans. Overdone, like most of their warnings, he thought. How could these weak creatures harm him?
He took a long pull on his beer as he checked out the game box on the table. Pandemic. He’d never played before, but if humans could do it, surely he could manage.
On his first turn, he flipped a card over.
In a distant city, a child began to cough.
Lisa Timpf’s writing has appeared in Star*Line, Polar Borealis, Scifaikuest and other venues.
pushing up gen-mod daisies
taking a dirt nap on Mars
buying the moisture farm
sleeping with the fishes on Enceladus
wearing a wooden onesie on Weywot
Inspired in part by a list of Earthly death euphemisms listed in a press release from mariecurie.org.uk
Lisa Timpf’s writing has appeared in Star*Line, Polar Borealis, Scifaikuest and other venues.