Interstitial
July Levy Jones
“Do you believe in time travel?”
That is the question I’m most asked. My answer may disappoint you. But first, some context.
You may know me for my fantasy novels, stories I’ve been working on since I was twelve. A young woman discovers a portal in
the woods behind her family home, strikes a deal with the sentinel, and so begins her adventure. As a girl, I was bored and
wished life would accelerate, propel me into my future. Now I worry about how quickly time passes, and all that it steals
from us, all the last kisses, hugs, glances, and goodbyes.
One day scientists may hack the time-space continuum and make the impossible, possible, but I don’t believe they should. We
mortals are not meant to bend time at will. We’re meant to take each precious second as it comes, knowing every breath, every
heartbeat, robs us, and one day we all run out of time . . .
L.J. White
We came to Key West for our own reasons. Drawn by the allure of the city, the fabled guarantee of the ultimate summer getaway,
something we sorely needed. A daiquiri in one hand, we seized life with the other. Seafood and sea excursions, sun-filled
days, nights out, and the promises the city makes to every artist that they will find what they need here—not what they desire
or dreamed of, not the fantasies they concocted in college dorms, but what they truly need to work.
My origin story is banal. I could tell you about my late grandfather who encouraged me to read and write, who gave me permission to let my imagination run wild.
I could tell you about the Hemingway paperbacks that eventually gave way to thick Stephen King novels.
But I’ll tell you this instead. In a crowded bar on Duval late one night, I got to thinking, what is horror?
Is it a genre, the stories that I craft and sell? Or is it something deeper?
What is horror if not our demons hunting us down, doubts eating us from the inside, the winds of fate snuffing out our inner
light? There is no fate more horrific than to drown in remorse. A lost love will haunt our dreams. The voice in our heads
will convince us we can always sink deeper into whatever pit we find ourselves in. Tell me, what is more anguishing than a
sleepless night, followed by another, and another . . . ? We don’t create our nightmares, but we have a hand in them. Who
do we become when heartbreak sends us prowling into the night in search of satisfaction? And what of the sentinel that guards
our hearts, bars passage, condemns us to isolation?
Often, I ask my readers what made them pick up my books. Often they say: I like a good scare. But we are scared all the time,
and we don’t necessarily like it. We need the metaphor of a vampire, a werewolf, a ghost, a time traveler, or a hole in the
sky, to better contextualize the shadow creatures within.
These questions will dog me, but my work will be better for it. I’m not the same person who rolled into town, looking for
fun. My perspective has changed. Here on out, the sky above will always be the shade haint blue . . .