Magical realism is my favorite genre of fiction. Some authors, Terry Pratchett among them, believe it's simply Fantasy by another name. In fact Pratchett has been quoted as saying "it's a polite way of saying you write fantasy". I disagree. Magical realism as I enjoy it, both in reading and writing thereof, is about finding the magic that lies just beneath the surface of the ordinary and bringing it into the narrative as though it were obvious all along.

Fantasy, on the other hand, usually takes place in a made up environment in which odd things are the norm right from the beginning and form a natural part of the plot. It's true that there are short stories which start out in an ordinary everyday environment then devolve into fantasy, but that's not true magical realism. Such works used to be know as Fantastic fiction, thus aligning themselves more closely with fantasy proper.

Magical realism at it's best never deviates from the "real" world, but introduces elements that that are unusual but become tightly woven into the plot and we accept that it's happening. Some examples are animals that can talk to certain characters, characters that can move between waking and dream states without being asleep and houses that can alter the appearance of their rooms .

It is claimed by South American scholars that magical realism began in the '60's as a style of certain South Americal writers. Gabriel Garcia Marquez, author of Love In The Time Of Cholera confessed, "My most important problem was destroying the line of demarcation that separates what seems real from what seems fantastic."

A related genre has emerged in the last five years, Interstitial Fiction. This is a bit harder to pin down than magical realism, but many examples of this genre bear a strong resemblance and the two are so similar at first glance it's hard to see this as a genre in it's own right, but there are important distinctions.

Interfictions, as they are sometimes known, are more challenging. They invite the reader to see reality in an entirely different light, providing a wider range of possibilities for the reader's engagement and transformation. They are even more in the realm of the fantastic than magical realism in many cases.

The defining aspect of interfictions is that they are works that clearly fall between two distinct genres, such as mystery and westerns or science fiction and detective stories. Blade Runner comes to mind as an early example.

All of this is meant to introduce two genres you may not have explored yet. If so, I encourage you to do so, especially if you like fantasy or science fiction.

For magical realism I recommend Jonathan Carroll, author of Bones of the Moon, Sleeping in Flame, and Kissing the Beehive, among many others. For interstitial fiction, Elizabeth Hand, author of Saffron and Brimstone: Strange Stories and Aestival Tide.

Frank got out of the cab in front of the pawn shop he had found in the yellow pages. He didn't like doing business with the same place too many times. He wrapped his hand around the necklace and earrings in his pocket and smiled. These should be worth quite a bit, he thought to himself as he pushed the door open.

Frank was, well, an entrepreneur. The police had other names for it, but hey, what the hell did they know?

He walked up to the cage and passed the goods through the slot to the oily looking shop owner. "Check these out", he said. He looked the pawn broker over while the appraisal was being made. He noticed a scar running down his face next to his ear. It looked fresh. Damn, he thought, this guy is rough trade.

He cast his eye around the shop and did a double take when he spotted a nice camera with a twenty-five dollar price tag. He knew enough about cameras to know it was worth a hell of a lot more than that. This guy must not know anything.

The broker put the necklace and earrings down and looked at Frank. "I'll give you a hundred dollars for them", he said.

Frank looked at him like he was out of his mind. "Are you kidding, they're worth ten times that", he exclaimed.

The broker shook his head. "Nope. The stones are paste. The gold is real, eighteen carat. That's the best I can do."

Well shit, Frank thought to himself, then said, "hey, i'll make you a deal. I'll take that camera over there and the rest in cash."

The broker smiled. "Sure," he paid Frank out but seemed apprehensive as he grabbed the camera and headed for the door.

What luck! Grinning from ear to ear he headed back to his hotel. He had a sucker lined up for later, but he couldn't wait to try out his new toy. He hung the camera around his neck, eyeballed an interesting old building and lined up the shot. He looked at the lcd monitor, shook his head and squinted, then looked again. There was the building, but in front of it was some sort of...beast. He looked up quickly at the building. Nothing. He looked again at the monitor. The thing was the size of a man with fangs dripping nasty fluid. Worse, it had what appeared to be razor sharp nails at least a foot long.

He stormed back to the shop and stomped in. The shop owner didn't seem surprised to see him. Frank took the camera from around his neck and put it down hard on the counter. "What the hell is this about?!" he screamed.

The shop owner grinned. "Oh, I assure you it's no joke. Many years i've waited for that damned thing to leave me! But no, everytime I thought I'd found some one, back it came. It's your problem now!"

Frank looked perplexed. "I'm not leaving here with that thing, give me my money back!" The shop owner handed him twenty-five dollars with a smile. Frank rushed out of the shop, slamming the door.

And found himself standing on the street with the camera around his neck. He began to shake. He stormed back in. "Start explaining", he said tersely, as the shop owner grinned.

"You saw it, didn't you?" he said. "You better arm yourself. It'll come for you soon enough."He could barely contain his glee.

"What the hell are you talking about?!"

"It! It's your problem now! It likes blood, by the way. Lots of blood. It hunts the owner of the camera. Once you take a photo, he's loose and you become his prey. You can only get rid of it by fobbing it off on someone, shall we say, more deserving than yourself. I haven't been a boyscout, but you must be a real piece of work. I knew it the minute you walked in. I knew you'd be the one".

"This is bullshit!", Frank thundered. "It's a trick!".

"Is it?" the pawn broker mocked, turning his head to the side to display the fresh scar that ran down the side of his face.