The Fable Online Issue 12 February, 2016
Editor-in-Chief Sarah Kedar
Associate Editor Cassiopeia Lancaster
Š2015, The Fable Online|Contributing Authors Photo used in cover creation by Terry Madeley. CC License
Table of Contents Dragon by John Bryant ................................................................................................................................4 Don’t Bother With Me by William Belle Quincy ..................................................................................................................6 Primary Philosophy by David Marlatt ...........................................................................................................................12 Return by Charles Hayes ..........................................................................................................................21 Roddy by CJ Friend .................................................................................................................................. 29 The Collector by Rebecca Harrison ....................................................................................................................32 The Vessel by Tim T.K ..................................................................................................................................... 39
Dragon by John Bryant At the end, he became a dragon. Curled beneath the comforter, scales formed on his feet and crept across his inflamed legs. The loose skin of his wings folded around his body, his fingers narrowing to talons of yellow nail. A hoarse rumbling escaped the maw that had once gulped meat in bloody mouthfuls and, in gentler mood, grazed skin and nipple with rough kisses. He thickly mumbled in his sleep and slurred obscenities when roused. And though his fire was all but spent, his wife still warmed herself against his body. She had long ago become a salmon muscling against the current that threatened to overwhelm them. She held her place against the flood while his mind slid downward, eyes flickering beneath eyelids as he dreamed. She wondered if he dreamt of their time together when he was still a man. She swam until she could no longer resist the tide of bills, and prescriptions, and vague promises of help. Then she flopped, exhausted, onto a rocky beach, gasping in the desiccated air, until the storm dissolved her, and washed her back to the ocean. There she arose as a sea monster, fearsomely strong. She held their home together— tentacles extended in every direction—against the loss, and the loneliness, and the futility. On the final day, she cracked capsules and prepared a lethal dose of Dragon’s Bane in a glass of warm water. Lifting his bony head, she eased the liquid down his throat, drank the gritty dregs, and lay next to him for the last of his heat. She guided him into the deep, for that is the fated role of a sea monster. When they broke down the door and found the pair entwined upon the bed, they
marveled that two such ancient creatures should have lived among them, unnoticed, for so long.
John Bryant is a novice writer who lives in the Pacific Northwest. When he’s not working or writing, he is usually in the mountains or admiring sailboats at his local marina. His favorite genre is speculative fiction.
Don’t Bother With Me by William Quincy Belle
At the sound of the knock, Mr. Hobsworth stood up and walked around the desk. The door opened and Ms. Schneider stepped into the room. “Mr. Barkley is here to see you.” She stepped to one side still holding the doorknob and a distinguished man in a welltailored suit walked forward. “Mr. Barkley.” Hobsworth beamed as he held out his hand. “Mr. Hobsworth.” “I appreciate you coming over to see us.” He gestured to a leather armchair. “Please. Make yourself comfortable. May I offer you anything? Coffee? Tea? Water?” “No, thank you. Kind of you.” “That will be all, Ms. Schneider. Please ensure we are undisturbed.” “Yes, sir.” The woman backed out and pulled the door shut. Hobsworth made his way back around the desk and sat down. “As you know, your family has been involved with our company for two generations. You represent the third.” He reached to one side and pulled a file folder across the desk until it was directly in front of him. He opened it and took hold of the first page of the paper. “Alexander Barkley, age sixty-nine. Your birthday is tomorrow. We’re just in time to get the documentation signed.” He set the first page to one side and picked up the next two sheets. “Congratulations by the way.” He turned the sheets around and pushed them across the desk to Barkley. Reaching out, he took one of the two pens from the mahogany holder with his nameplate and set it down in the middle of the first sheet. “If you would sign at the bottom of each page. Regulations state we must have two signed copies of official documents.” He looked at him expectantly with a half-smile. Barkley glanced down at the sheets but remained seated back in the chair. “I don’t want to do it.” Hobsworth maintained his half-smile but his eyes darted around. “Pardon?” “I don’t want to do it.” Hobsworth’s smile disappeared. He looked down at the file folder and rubbed his chin. “I
don’t understand. I thought this would a mere formality. Your father and mother, your uncles and aunts, your cousins, I can’t think of anybody who has not wanted to continue what your grandfather started. All of your brothers and sisters have agreed in principle to do so when their time comes. Why would you not want to?” “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought.” “Are you concerned about the technology? I assure you that we use the very latest in slow programmable freezing. Coupled with our own patented vitrification process, we introduce only industry standard cryoprotectants to ensure little or no cellular damage. Independent audits by the Cryonics Institute has rated our company number one in its field for three years in a row. Our cryopreservation is the best in the business.” Hobsworth nodded his head with a knowing smile. It was a compelling sales pitch. “It’s not that.” Hobsworth frowned. “What then?” “I don’t think I deserve it.” There was a moment of silence. “Why not?” “Think about the greats: Albert Einstein, J.S. Bach, Leonardo da Vinci, all of them are remembered years, centuries after their deaths for outstanding achievements. What have I ever accomplished? What have I done that merits preservation? I should die and be forgotten; just another nameless face in the crowd of history.” He shook his head. “I don’t see that it matters. I don’t see that I matter. I’d rather not sign. I’d rather leave my spot for somebody else.” “But your place has been reserved.” “I feel this would be a waste, a waste of time and effort and a waste of money. The family estate would be paying a fortune to preserve me and I’d say that money could be better spent elsewhere. Give it to charity.” “Mr. Barkley, your grandfather was quite strict in setting up your family’s trust fund. I have no say in the matter; I’m obliged to follow his wishes.” “I understand, Mr. Hobsworth, but I do have a say in the matter. It’s my life. I have free will and I have rights. It is my intention to exercise both that will and those rights and do what I feel is best for me. I’ve done my time and I’ll be satisfied with just that. I don’t want to wake up hundreds of years in the future obliged to start all over again. It doesn’t strike me as natural.”
Hobsworth sat with both elbows on the armrests holding his hands in front almost in a position of prayer. He tapped his index fingers together. “Are you sure I can’t say anything to persuade you?” “I appreciate your interest, but my mind is made up. I know this makes me an outcast in my own family, the black sheep as it were, however, I feel strongly about this and I’m determined to not veer from my course.” The two men sat staring at one another. Finally, Hobsworth coughed slightly and stood up. “Mr. Barkley, it was good of you to come in today.” He smiled and stuck out his hand. Barkley slowly stood up and shook his hand. “Thank you. Thank you for understanding.” “Ms. Schneider!” Hobsworth leaned forward as he called out. The door opened. “Yes, sir?” “Would you be so kind as to accompany Mr. Barkley out?” “Yes, sir.” Ms. Schneider stood to one side and gestured to the open doorway. “Mr. Barkley, shall we?” Barkley walked to the door and turned around. “Thank you again, Mr. Hobsworth.” “A good day to you sir.” Ms. Schneider looked back questioningly then stepped into the hall and pulled the door shut. Hobsworth picked up his phone and punched in a three-digit extension. He waited a moment. “Mr. McNaughton, we have a situation. Are you and your team ready?” He wound a finger around the telephone cord. “I did my best but he wouldn’t go for it. We have no other choice. He’ll be out front in a minute or two.” He let go of the cord. “Thanks.” He hung up the phone. Standing over his desk, he gently massaged his temple. He picked up the first sheet of paper and mindlessly stared at it. “Ms. Schneider!” He set down the sheet as hurried steps sounded in the hall. The door opened and Ms. Schneider stuck her head in the office. “Did you call, Mr. Hobsworth?” “Come in. He wouldn’t sign so I want you to take his documents over to the copy department and have them prepared.” “Did you phone the Implementation Department?”
“Everything’s been arranged.” He walked over the window. “See for yourself.” She came over to the window and the two of them looked down from the second storey into the street. “It’s a shame really, but rules are rules,” she said. He sighed. “Yes. Grandpa Barkley was adamant about it.” They watched Barkley exit the building and walk down the street. He arrived at the corner and waited to cross the street. The traffic was moderate in both directions. A large truck lumbered into view on an empty side street. As it arrived at the cross street, it was evident it was not going to halt at the stop sign. It bore into the street between two vehicles in the first lane and ploughed straight into the front side of a large automobile. The force of the impact pushed the car toward the sidewalk and its forward motion carried it up over the curb. It slammed directly into Barkley and drove him against a lamppost. The post wobbled dangerously and looked as if it would fall over on the automobile, but remained upright swinging back and forth. Barkley was flopped over the hood of the car, his body crushed between the bumper and the pole. There could be no doubt he was dead. “Follow up with Implementation. The rescue workers should be here in the next five minutes and have him whisked off to the hospital forthwith. I want them to be there with the proper documents to get the body released as soon as possible. I’m sure the police will finish up quickly, so I expect no hold-up there.” She listened attentively. “I’m guessing the body is a write-off.” “Yes, we’ll only freeze the head. Grandpa Barkley wanted the complete person, however, he did account for the possibility some may suffer an accident which would make such a thing unfeasible.” “I’m still not sure I understand this roundabout way of cryopreserving all members of the family.” “Old man Barkley firmly believed in giving everybody a chance to make the right choice. And in saying that, let’s not forget that the right choice was his choice. Not everybody had the smarts to see his brilliance, so he merely helped them along. He loved Roosevelt’s line of speak softly and carry a big stick. If talking didn’t work, he was prepared to back up his words with whatever was necessary.” “But cryopreservation?” “Barkley was an atheist, but this technology turned him into a believer of sorts in an
afterlife. Not a religious afterlife, but a chance at some time in the future of curing all ills and prolonging our existence. On top of it, he thought to turn his idea into a business. He purchased this company and turned it into his personal concern. He wanted the opportunity to wake up some time in the future, so he wanted to ensure the company would carry on as long as possible. In setting up the family trust to continue after his death, he stipulated that all members of the family had to become a customer; all of them had to be cryopreserved. The revenue of the family members adds to the income of the company that guarantees it remains profitable. Those profits go to the major stakeholder, the family trust, which in turn uses the money to support the members of the family including their cryopreservation.” He smiled. “It was all his way of making sure that everything would tick along uninterrupted during his absence. He could be certain that at some point in the future, a hundred years from now, two hundred or three, he would open his eyes on a hospital bed with a doctor welcoming him to a new and wonderful life, an extension of his first life.” She pursed her lips. “I don’t know. It all seems a little farfetched to me.” “Ours is not to reason why; ours is but to do or die, cryopreserved that is.” He chuckled. “The old man had calculated both revenue and expenses hundreds of years into the future and couldn’t afford to have one member of the family opt out of the plan. He didn’t want anybody to risk his chance of coming back to life.” He turned back to his desk and put the various sheets together in the folder. “Would you see to it that Mr. Barkley’s file is properly updated?” “By all means.” “What’s next on the agenda for this afternoon?” “You have a conference call with Morgan Chemicals in California at 2 pm. The shop has raised some issues with the latest batch of cryoprotectants. At 2:30, you are supposed to meet with Mr. Johnson of accounting to run over this month’s reconciliation. Finally, at 4 pm you have an appointment here in your office with Mrs. Stapleton. Her husband came to us two years ago and she’s finally decided she’d like to join him.” “Thank you.” He smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get to work, Ms. Schneider. The future isn’t going to happen all by itself.”
William Quincy Belle is just a guy. Nobody famous; nobody rich; just some guy who likes to periodically add his two cents worth with the hope, accounting for inflation, that $0.02 is not over-evaluating his contribution. He claims that at the heart of the writing process is some sort of (psychotic) urge to put it down on paper and likes to recite the following which so far he hasn't been able to attribute to anyone: "A writer is an egomaniac with low self-esteem." You will find Mr. Belle's unbridled stream of consciousness here (http://wqebelle.blogspot.ca) or @here (https://twitter.com/wqbelle).
Primary Philosophy by David Marlatt
“My lord, we have received word from all cities and settlements. Your citizens are prepared.” Hfiul remained bowing at the foot of the chair. No reply came. “My lord?” he asked, raising his head. “Why?” came the low reply. Hfiul sighed and regained his stance, clasping his hands behind his back, his eyes not daring to look upon the other until given approval. “Why are they ready?” “We are all your servants, sire. Your command is—” A sudden and thunderous crash of a hand upon the adjacent table hastened a prompt return to attention. Hfiul kept his eyes locked ahead, focusing on the ornate tapestries that lined the dining room he had found his lord waiting in. From the corner of his eye, he noticed his lord hunched forward, his face buried in his palms. Through his other eye, he observed the glistening crown, turned asunder and lying upon the floor. Its coruscating gleam, flowing together with the smaragdine jewels inlaid into the symbol of nobility, reflected the crimson hue of the world fire that burned outside. “You fail to answer me, Hfiul.” Hfiul tightened his spine. “Sire?” “Why are they ready?” The strings of sleep were missing from the cloth of his voice. The loyal assistant took a silent breath. “It is because we trust you, my lord.” The fingers of the latter parted, revealing the onyx eyes that lay beneath. Strands of unkempt hair twirled down around his knuckles, resting languorously about the dull rings and faded trinkets upon his hands. “My gold has become brass.” His eyes shifted to the window. The red sky stared back, “My iron, tin. A rotted throne to swiftly burn as I sit atop my ashen kingdom.” “It is a decision none besides you could make. Your strength will save us.”
“And if I’m wrong?” The eyes shifted upwards. “May I speak frankly, sire?” Hfiul asked. “We have already spent any time we might have used for ceremony. Say what you deem necessary.” “It was upon your word, sire. We would have trusted no other word than yours. You confirmed this passage and your brother’s success. It is your instructions on how we must prepare that will permit our lives to continue. Sire, I—” “I am no king. You are no servant. Today we dread together.” Hfiul looked down. His lord’s snowy coat was patterned with stains and holes. It hung from his shoulders as loose skin would from a bone. The buckled shoes had developed flaws in their mechanics, now failing to close. Stress showed clear on each fingernail, and his veins mimicked dead branches upon his arms. Light from the two suns crept through the haze as the fulgent spheres crawled across the sky. A knot invited itself into Hfuil’s throat. “How did the children reply to the order?” Hfiul looked back. The latter had arisen from his seat and moved to stand by his servant’s side. “They asked if you were going to save them from the world fire. The older youths can comprehend the situation; the younger generations are simply frightened.” Hfiul replied. “Then we are all children at heart.” The frail king returned to his seat, picking up a slip of yellowed paper Hfiul had failed to notice earlier. Its edges were curled and soft. His face was that of an often-visited tombstone. “This is a letter my brother wrote me while we were still young. If I may?” he cleared his throat, “My dear Vyren, I have written you this letter in the hopes you receive it on your birthday. I had hoped my trip would see me back in time for the festivities, but it soon became apparent that I would be absent. In any case, I wish you the most elated of birthdays, and to remind you mine will be better. Your brother, Jervel.” Vyren smiled weakly at the letter, replacing it on the table. His arm caught the air, propelling the paper further down. As Hfiul moved to retrieve it, two goblets resting at the considerably far end of the table provoked a shudder.
“I would have liked to have known your brother prior to his rule, Vyren.” “His personality was not one to change. His habits, tastes, and tricks were not traded for the throne, only his time.” Hfiul glanced over the letter once more before resting it at Vyren’s elbow. The low rumble of distant thunder pealed as a fluid and immediate arc of crackling light lacerated the covered sky. “Do you blame your brother for this?” Vyren sighed. “ If we were to ration blame, his portion would not be unnoticed. Yet I would drink of it the same.” “He was the forefront of inducting our people into their society.” “Yes, and in the sixty-four years we have learned and studied and traded and traveled with those other species and societies and communities…we have, as a species, ascended beyond our greatest aspirations. Our achievements are a testament to the efficiency of Luritoanian society.” Vyren glanced at the goblets, “As well as our failures. No sane mind can accurately state that we were not provided fair and dire warning. We squandered it, frittered it away in the hopes that it was a mere suggestion. Yet suggestions are never dire.” The sound of a roof collapsing from somewhere deep within the castle reverberated off the stony corridors. The sky heaved a deep breath into the newly formed hole, throwing shutters and curtains into disarray. There remained no torches to be extinguished. “The Grand Work,” Vyren muttered, “a wondrous adventure for the mad-thinkers and a spectacular show for the less intellectual. Our kingdom valued isolation for centuries. How is it that something so simple as a suggestion should suddenly spur our desire for interaction? Should stoke a lust for cooperation in discovery?” “It was a bit of a surprise to find just how advanced the other kingdoms had become and just how stagnant our own methods had become,” Hfiul interjected. Vyren nodded solemnly. “And how primitive we were once that gate was opened. The Grand Work. Jervel first built animosity towards himself by volunteering our own visionaries to aid with the project.” “It made sense, for some reason, to work towards a goal with no foreseeable use or reward. Well, I suppose it makes sense now.” “How primitive our kingdom was. What my kingdom is.”
Vyren rose and slowly walked towards the exit of the long hall; Hfiul ran to his side, providing a scarlet covered arm for Vyren to lean on. They gave the goblets a wide berth, crossing into the corridor. Ruined support beams burned upon the ground. The hideously inky smoke eagerly escaped through the numerous holes in the stone-crafted ceiling and walls to join the ignited sky. The crackling of the world fire seemed so much more present here. Hfiul moved patiently alongside his silent king. A brilliant stain-glass window hung intact within one of the many accessible rooms. Vyren stopped to consider it. It depicted one of many nameless dead rulers who came before. Vyren whispered a respectful acknowledgment before progressing. They wandered throughout the ruined castle for a time before determining one of the staircases could still support them. The heat increased with ever-growing celerity as they ascended. At the summit, they entered the throne room. Jervel had always considered the décor pleonastic and anomalous to the standard tastes of his people. Vyren smiled internally at how his brother would no doubt remark sarcastically at how he loved the redecoration, especially the piles of evergrowing ash that flittered in from the shattered window. The relentless heat had taken up residence within the royal chamber. The pair shielded their eyes from the burning sky. Vyren peered through his fingers. Churning, crashing waves of flame rolled in an oceanic fashion. Serpentine coils of fire breeched the fiery surface, would stay a moment, and then, cackling and cracking, crash back into the blaze. A deluge of hellish rain ran in torrents from the fire bath onto the ground below. He watched it as it landed upon the stonework houses below, the durable structures standing in defiance of divine wrath. “It is understandable,” Vyren said over the wail of the burning sky. “My lor-, I mean, I’m sorry?” “It is understandable that it would make sense. They solved a riddle without ever hearing it. The puzzle was built without design. We simply knew what was right. Which herbs and brews should be combined with what minerals and metals. How intense the fires should be, and when they should be frozen. We discovered we were always meant to know how to open that gate. We discovered Luritoania. We discovered infinity as they all did as if we were intended to. Jervel understood this as a gift. He was eager to learn all he could and gift it in turn. He told me of new universes and new species. Things that were incomprehensible to us in our present position yet would not be beyond our grasp forever. We would grow and learn so that we too would become a working part of an even grander work.” “Did Jervel ever mention that we were never to worship the Ancients?” Hfiul asked
suddenly. Vyren stiffened. He strode to a shaded corner just inside the room. Hfiul followed, finding an overturned yet undamaged chair for the aged king to rest upon. Vyren spoke, his voice nary more than a breath. “Yes. We all wondered at creation. Luritoania held answers to every question. How were we created? Who sculpted all that is? Who holds time? They told Jervel, as they did every ruler upon our sphere, of the Ancients. They warned never to worship the lordly beings, as the Ancients themselves consider it blasphemy, and blasphemy,” he nodded at the sky, “will end our world. It is a disease that infected our entire species, and plague bearers will be eradicated.” Hfiul sighed and slumped to the floor. “Then why were we unaware?” Vyren coughed. His eyes narrowed. “Have you never been distracted? Have you never been so focused upon a goal that you become blind to all else?” “With all due respect,” Hfiul began as he watched a growing arch of fire shattered, casting smoldering shards upon the landscape, “this seems different.” Vyren burst into a fit of coughing. His face grew paler. Hfiul rose and had him lean upon his own arm as they moved back down the staircase from the throne room. Dusty winds swept by as they made their way back through the labyrinth of stone corridors. “It is only different in scale,” Vyren said as they made their way, “Towards the end of his life, Jervel desired nothing more than immortality. The harshest warning he would ever receive was nothing in comparison to fulfilling obsession. He told me of the Ancient’s law, no doubt hoping I would, in turn, warn our people as the flood of knowledge swept through. Yet I too was distracted. I was preoccupied with rebuilding our homes and cities into stone, that they may withstand any disaster. I was too distracted to see the distrust and anger towards Jervel. I hoped to make our kingdom indestructible. Jervel hoped for immortality.” “Your philosophy,” Hfiul said suddenly. Vyren nodded. “Yet we both failed. We followed our folly and ignored the greater threat. In turn, our hopes withered as that which we ignored grew. Jervel was murdered just prior to the first disasters and I had to put aside my work to manage the throne. Strange, how children will ignore warnings until they are severe.” Hfiul smiled at the old king. “Have you truly forgotten? Jervel found immortality through Luritoania. He found a species that possessed the ability to keep the spirit alive, and you worked out how we could once again become reunited as a kingdom, away from this
travesty. These last months you have provided us with the work and preparation to accomplish this passage into immortality. We will join Jervel in a new life. The passage may elicit fear, but the reward is far greater. We have broken a hallowed law, and we are punished for it. There must exist a degree of pain lest the lesson fail to be learned.” Vyren’s eyes shifted over to look at his loyal servant. “Punished? No, this fire is no more than a warning. A dire warning, yes, but just a warning.” They reached the dining room, once again giving the goblets a wide berth. Hfiul seated his lord and fetched a chair for himself, taking a moment to observe the suns, still visible through the inferno. They were close to the zenith. The vast, lush forest once visible through the window had been repainted a dull black. Bristling, soft treetops had been replaced by a broken and splintered maze of crumbling ash and twisted, mangled trunks. “What do you mean ‘just a warning’?” Hfiul asked. Vyren did not reply; he was busy rereading his brother’s letter. Hfiul briskly walked over, moving his chair directly in front of Vyren’s. He removed the letter from Vyren’s hand, replacing it on the table. Vyren did not react. “What do you mean, just a warning?” Hfiul asked again. “Our world is being destroyed, the famine, the floods, the freeze, the quakes, and now the world fire. How can you say this is a warning? Did you not say this would end our world? Shouldn’t you, of all people, know the apocalypse?” Vyren’s eyes flashed in anger, causing Hfiul to shrink slightly. “Far more than you would ever consider me to be capable of. You would tell me of the apocalypse? This, this world fire is not an apocalypse; it is no more than a warning. A warning to encourage us to revoke our Ancient worship, or to die in the process and hopefully escape what is yet to come.” Hfiul rose, horror showing on his face. Vyren stared after him with lightless eyes. Hfiul’s breathing intensified as he looked from Vyren’s skeletal form to the goblets and back again. “Then what happens to us?” “We will survive.” “What was going to happen to us?” Hfiul shouted. Vyren winced at the noise. “Dismissal,” Vyren replied calmly. Hfiul squinted. “From existence. Our world, our universe, and our species would cease to be. Our immortal souls would simply vanish. Pure and absolute eradication of the disease.”
“And those who die every day from the disasters?” Hfiul shouted again. “Are fortunate.” “How many know this?” Vyren reached over and picked up the letter again. “None save us.” Hfiul became very quiet. He strode over to where the crown lay and picked it up, examining the piece. Every ruler had affixed or incorporated an addition to the royal symbol during their time upon the throne. At times it was a special jewel, other times it was to inscribe a mark upon the metal. Several scenes from the kingdom’s history were sewn into the soft, feathered base. Jervel’s mark had come in the form of the Great Work; a depiction of the gate they had opened to travel to Luritoania. Vyren had yet to mark himself in the history of the kingdom’s rulers. “Will we be reunited with your brother? Is there any truth in that?” Hfiul asked, handling the crown. Vyren shook his head. “Jervel lost all attachment to our species when he discovered his answer to immortality. He effectively became one of them. He escaped the plague that now infects our very souls. Luritoania sealed us away when the disasters began, as they recognized the Ancient’s warnings. We can find no life there.” Hfiul dropped the crown. It clattered against the tiled floor. Vyren folded his hands underneath his chin and looked at it. “Then we are dying for nothing. We may as well wait to be taken by the Ancients.” “Our souls are forfeit if we fail to turn away. We will truly perish if we wait. I would have us survive. If we die now, then perhaps our souls will survive. Perhaps we may prove our regret.” Vyren murmured. “Why keep this a secret? Have you forgotten your own words? Have you forgotten your own regret about failing because you, in turn, failed to tell us vital information?” “What choice do I have, Hfiul?” Vyren rose from his seat. His low voice filled once again with power. “As soon as he died, my brother’s obsession with immortality pervaded through the kingdom as quickly as the Ancient worship did. Everyone believed he had succeeded in immortality. Falsehood or not, they believed they could do the same. There was nothing more than a rumor and hope. We needed hope. I hoped to see us survive a fate far worse than death, to ameliorate beyond the sentence handed upon the rest of our species, and they hoped to find a way to continue their lives.”
“So you ordered them to die,” Hfiul stared, staggering backwards. “You used their hope.” “It was necessary.” Hfiul stopped. Vyren was breathing heavily; his hair had somehow become even more tattered. The suns were starting to join in the sky. The sound of a window shattering resounded from somewhere deep inside the castle. “You speak of hope. Do we have any hope to find in your lies? We prepare to kill ourselves on your hope, a hope that they do not know of. A hope they are deceived by. That perhaps you are correct, and the Ancients will have mercy on us. Maybe we can find salvation. Do you truly believe this will happen?” Vyren did not respond. He crept over to where the crown lay and placed it upon his head for a moment before removing it. He walked over to a pile of ash that had blown in through one of the many holes. Vyren clasped a handful and sprinkled it lightly over the surface of the crown. He placed it on his head once more and walked upright back to his chair. “Tell me of your philosophy again, sire?” Hfiul asked coldly. “Is this really the time?” Vyren asked. The two suns almost shown as one. Hfiul gestured to them. Vyren’s eyes narrowed. “Primary philosophy is a school of thought to survive the apocalypse.” “Any apocalypse?” Hfiul asked. “A personal apocalypse. At the height of influence and the lowest of humility, your life will crumble about you. Those who follow Primary believe this disaster marks a beginning, that it is a primer. It teaches on how to survive such an event. To survive and become greater than before.” Hfiul strode over to the goblets. He picked one up swirled the dark liquid around inside. His eyes burned to rival the sky above. “Is this always a literal apocalypse?” Vyren picked up Jervel’s letter again. “No.” he whispered. “It is often metaphorical, one that will affect you far more than any other. It is you who must overcome it, and test your beliefs so that you may survive. “Yet few items in existence could rival the personal value of an immortal soul. You see, my lord, you clearly feel at fault for this. Yet the fault does not lie in failing to tell us of the Ancient law. It lies in failing to provide us with what was necessary to survive the
punishment.” “My people would never have trusted me. This was their only hope for salvation, cruel as it may be. I prepared them.” “Prepared them?” Hfiul erupted, “Prepared those who look at the suns now and wait for them to become one! What of those who cannot gain access to poison? Those who are tying nooses or waiting to take their children for one final walk outside? What is your word to them? You gave them preparation for the passage to Jervel and the ghosts they hoped to become! You prepared them to survive nothing! The apocalypse they needed to endure wasn’t the Ancients or the world fire; the apocalypse they needed to survive was you.” The suns reached their zenith; a single glowing orb shown through the swirling ocean of fire. A wind blew in through the door, bringing soot and dust in its wake. Vyren began to cough uncontrollably, clutching at his chest and leaning on the table. The violent convulsions threw the crown from his head, the ash scattering upon the floor as it rolled away. He reached a hand out for Hfiul, who was still calmly looking at the goblet. The wind continued to swirl. Vyren attempted to grab Jervel’s letter, but the wind seized it first and carried it across the room. Hfiul’s hair blew around his stormy eyes. He raised the goblet high. “To your good health, King Vyren.”
David Marlatt is a student at the University of Colorado at Boulder. He plans to graduate with a major in English and Literature, and pursue a career as a literary agent. He is a fan of science fantasy and deep world building. When he is not in class or writing, David enjoys caving, hiking, socializing, and working at the local bookstore.
Return by Charles Hayes
Picking his way through the darkness of the banana palms near the Philippine Seashore of Guiwang, Carloi approaches the white cinderblock house at the edge of the jungle. Although hating himself for spying, he must answer the question that has troubled him for some time: is his wife having an affair with the white foreigner that lives here? Leaving the cover of the banana trees, he studies the stars and remembers how he and Rosa led their tribe of Sama-Bajau sea gypsies by the stars. And how those same stars married them and helped them raise a son. A son to assume their mantel of leadership and the lead banglo, or family boat, when they retired to the Cebu shore, still young. Trying to put his finger on when it began to change, Carloi remembers how they were quick to adjust to living ashore, yet continued to live from the sea with their knowledge of the fish runs and a good outrigger. How together they pulled nets of tuna from the dangerous deeper waters and celebrated with love in the isolated island coves afterward. Feeling a sudden wave of shame, Carloi must remember how it’s been lately before he loses his will. How his age began to show and a younger Rosa seemed restless. Then came the little tell tale signs of cheating: fuzzy explanations, unexpected absences and reports from friends that Rosa was seen in this area. And Carloi’s own sighting of her and the foreigner at an eatery in Dalaguete yesterday while he was completing an errand on the bus. Then tonight another disappearance.
Rosa, telling herself that this must be the last time, looks both ways along the highway to make sure she is unobserved. Stepping off the paved road onto a grassy path that cuts through the banana trees to Robert’s place, Rosa wonders how she ever became involved with the American. Maybe it was his older looks and secure manner or maybe she was just feeling a little unappreciated at home. Whatever the reason, this whole thing is just too dangerous. The American knows and understands nothing about her…..except maybe her hormones. And he is not the kind to put any stock in to begin with. Let alone jeopardize her marriage for. This will be it. Having tried yesterday to end it in Dalaguete, she was met with manicured resistance and somehow convinced to come by his place this evening for a final goodbye. She knows what to expect, and for the life of her, she can’t help feeling excited by it. But this
time, she has to choke it. Quickly covering the trail through the trees and the wet growth from a recent rain, Rosa enters the brightly lit porch. Feeling her heart in her throat and hating the bright light, she kicks off her sandals and pecks on the door. Listening to the night sounds of the jungle, she tells herself to be steady in her resolve. Watching the door open to reveal a candle lit Robert, dressed only in Navy shorts, Rosa catches the scent of Jasmine as soothing twangs of sitar music drift from a back room. Despite these nice extras of the tropical evening Rosa tries to buck up and keep her mind in gear but Robert is quick to engage her with another kind of attention. “Rosa, how beautiful you are glistened by the night dew. But you're wet, sit down, I’ll get a towel.” Moving to a chair, Rosa sits and at the same time realizes that she likes the nice things that Robert has. It is nice here amongst his things. And comfortable, despite her resolve. Returning with a towel, Robert pats down her hair then moves lower to her arms, lightly massaging as he goes. Dropping to his knees, he lifts her feet to his lap and gently brushes them off before continuing up to her short clad thighs. Seeing him touch her with such care while her feet touch his firm warmth, Rosa’s resolve begins to slip. Sensations that ask for a little more time tell her that a little longer will hurt nothing. Maybe even make it easier. Dropping the towel, Robert gently spreads her legs and kisses each thigh. Lifting his eyes to her face, he sees in her expression what he has always been good at delivering. Taking her hands and rising, Robert looks upon this lovely creature, primed and sculpted to a tee. “Come, Rosa,” he says, “let us say goodbye like the world is ending.” An uncommon need leading her, Rosa simply pulls to.
Lowering his eyes from the sky, Carloi gauges the distance to the house and its dark exterior. From one of the back windows, a soft light shows below the partly raised shade. Thinking that this is his destination, Carloi circles the small yard and comes to the window with the jungle at his back. Fully committed now, all his senses center on the moment. Crouching below the window, he, at first, hears only the sounds of a stringed instrument. But on the shade above him, a shadow expands and contracts. Or perhaps
two shadows seesawing into one. When the music suddenly stops and begins to recycle he hears the soft kittenish sounds of a woman’s abandonment mixed with the sounds of a man’s voice. No doubt left in his mind, Carloi knows the woman is Rosa. His heart turned numb, he stands and looks in the un-shaded lower part of the window. On a large bed, cast against the flickering glow of a nightstand candle, Rosa, and the foreigner are coupled in a delirium of pleasure. Braced by pillows under her lower spine, making herself more accessible, Rosa whimpers and cajoles the foreigner mounted atop her to do what must be done while he, at the same time, coaxes her to come. Shattered to an almost surreal consciousness, at first, Carloi just stares, frozen. But as the death throes of his spirit surfaces, a primal scream like none this jungle has ever heard issues from his soul. And for a moment the night is dead.
As the window implodes in a shower of glass and bamboo and the shade crashes to the floor, Robert and Rosa leap from the bed and run from the room, leaving a bloody Carloi halfway in the window. Falling back to the ground, Carloi does not hear the jungle come alive with sound as Rosa flees naked into the banana trees. And Robert locks himself in the toilet with a bolo, praying that Carloi will go after Rosa. Slowly becoming aware of the jungle panic, and having glimpsed his naked wife sprinting towards the highway, Carloi begins to crawl toward the banana trees, leaving a trail of blood as he goes. Reaching the edge of the trees, he stands and again looks to the sky. Offering a Shepherd's staff instead of his usual hunter’s bow, Orion boldly stands out. Clearly seeing the sign but unable to consider what it portends, Carloi disappears into the banana trees, tortured by a new reality. Now he knows.
Quickly crossing the dark highway and disappearing into the rice paddies on the other side, Rosa follows the network of paddy dikes to the small track that leads to the Sea and their native cottage. So far unseen, she manages to get to the coconut grove and into their home without being exposed to others. Quickly she throws on some clothes and dons a pair of slippers while stuffing some essentials in a nipa carrying case. Grabbing a paddle by the door on her way out, she throws her stuff in the smaller outrigger, unties it, and prepares to drag it across the sand to the water. But which direction does she go once she hits the water? Suddenly feeling overwhelmed as her actions begin to catch up, Rosa looks to the stars. And stops. A thousand different directions are there in their lights, all leading to the same place-----where she stands. A hundred baths in salty brine
nor a thousand leagues of ocean can erase the humiliation and regret that she feels. Nor the terrible mistake that she has made. There is no place to go to escape what is. Looking to the Sea and the fuzzy glow of Tagbilaran across the Bohol Strait, Rosa sees that her only chance to live with any face is to stay and live with what she has done. The stars will be a party to nothing else. With surrender and guilt filling her up, Rosa re-ties the outrigger, shoulders her belongings and returns to the cottage. Stowing the gear inside the door, she sits on the stoop and looks to where the stars are un-obscured by the palms. Carloi will come from that direction. The distant sound of a barking dog signals that the quiet of the night is starting to ebb. The call of cocks follow not much later, sending and receiving battle cries from all over the barangay. And the lights of lanterns grow larger upon the dark waters of the Sea as the night fishermen paddle towards shore. Having dozed fitfully, Rosa lifts her head from her knees to see a blood covered Carloi shuffling through the grove toward the Sea. Ignoring, or not seeing her, he passes, stripping his ragged clothes as he goes to the water. Naked and knee deep in the tide, Carloi tumbles forward and rolls to his back. Floating on the gentle swells of an incoming tide, he uses what’s left of his shirt to wipe his wounds, sometimes screaming as he does so. Having followed him to the beach, Rosa stands by the boats and watches until he stands and walks from the water, again ignoring or not seeing her. Passing close enough for Rosa to see his cuts, Carloi stubbles to the cottage and closes the door. Shaken from her guilt, Rosa runs toward the Barangay Hall screaming for help.
After a hundred and thirty stitches and a trip to Dalaguete to purchase them and the necessary medicine, Rosa and the doctor leave an unconscious Carloi and walk the righta-way track leading to the highway. Rosa learns what to do and is assured by the doctor that she is capable. And that the clinic is always free, though equipment and medicines, many times, must be purchased elsewhere……if they can be found. Knowing only that the cuts were not the result of an assault, the doctor does not press Rosa for details. Rosa’s obvious fragile condition tells her that details might be an uncomfortable place to go. And her position as the Barangay Clinic Physician does not require it. Let sleeping dogs lie. The pair says good-bye and part company at the highway when the doctor catches a trisikad for the short ride to the clinic. Returning to their cottage, Rosa can see that Carloi’s fever is still bad. It likely will take a
steady dose of antibiotics to break. Luckily they are readily available over the counter and cheap. But still there is her guilt. What can she be to her husband after such a betrayal? That is their sickness that has no medicine.
***
Coming ashore in the late afternoon after dropping a nice load of tuna off at their distributors, Rosa tries again to established something resembling a relationship with the man that she lives with. “A good day for tuna, huh, Carloi?” Carloi, looking at his still beautiful wife under the large conical hat, simply replies over his shoulder, “It was OK.” At least receiving a reply to her comment, Rosa senses an opportunity. “You know, Carloi, it reminds me a little of those times when we first left the tribe and came ashore.” Having spoken more in these two sentences than she has spoken in a day, Rosa holds her breath as she watches Carloi, his back turned, roll a small net. Finished with the net, Carloi pauses in his movements before turning to face Rosa. Her hat now in hand and rich black hair down over deeply tanned shoulders, framed by a Sea alive with sun diamonds, Rosa is the girl he choose to ride the lead banglo with many years before. Holding her eyes for the first time since he almost died, Carloi says, “Me too………..but that was before.” Knowing what he means but seeing an opening that might not come again, Rosa says, “Before what, Carloi?” His gaze not faltering, and seeing that determination in Rosa’s eyes that first drew him all that time ago, Carloi simply replies, “You know what.” “Say it, Carloi.” “No.” “Say it!” “I can’t!”
“Yes, you can. Say it!!! “Before you fucked the American!!!!” Sinking to the hull of a neighbor's blocked dugout, Rosa looks away but can feel the fire of Carloi’s glare. “Yes,” she says, “and I want to die each time I remember it.” As if planted in the sand around his feet, Carloi drops the net, clinches his fists and looks to the small lump of Siquijor on the horizon. “How many times?” “Three.” “All that time,” says Carloi, “and only three times?” Beginning to cry, Rosa says, “Yes, I wanted to surprise you. I was doing his housework, trying to make enough money to buy a gift for our son’s wedding anniversary. Robert……..the American was very persistent. He knew what he was doing. And I was shamefully negligent of myself…..and you. I would do anything to make it just a bad dream. And then I would still want to die. Moving to sit on the gunwale of another boat, Carloi fingers the deep scars across his chest and stomach. Glancing at Rosa before letting his eyes drift afar, Carloi finally ask the hardest of all to know, “Do you love him?” “No! I knew he was no good, a predator. I hear he is since deported for young girls in the city, and rightly so. He fascinated me with his stories and his things. But I knew he was a snake. Please Carloi, give us another chance. I am sorry…..by God above, I am sorry.” Shaking his head, Carloi stands and walks toward their cottage before turning to face Rosa. “I wanted to kill you.” Rising from the dugout, Rosa moves toward Carloi as if to shorten the chances of rejection. Searching his open but haggard face, Rosa begs for herself in the simplest way she knows how. “Please don’t kill me Carloi. Forgive me.” As evening rapidly settles, Carloi, turning his back again, replies, “If I can.”
Ominous skies, rough seas, and a signal 3 storm flag flapping over the Barangay Hall tell Carloi and Rosa that there will be no fishing today. A typhoon cutting across the Northern tip of Mindanao will soon hit Cebu and its Central Visayan neighbors. Already the wind and rain bends the palms, whipping their fronds like green crape. The day is spent collecting enough food and petrol to hold them and moving the boats within the grove. Their native cottage, anchored in concrete footers, and partially protected within the trees, will or will not make it. Such risks come with the territory of airy economical housing. As evening closes in, the power goes and the winds start to howl. Sitting on separate sleeping mats, nursing a large candle on the floor between them, Carloi and Rosa watch a corner of their roof disappear. The sound of the Sea slapping against the footers below their windward main window signals that the storm is at its peak. Suddenly a large coconut crashes through the grass roof and smashes to the floor, crushing the candle. Groping in the dark, Carloi locates another, lights it, and unsheathes his bolo. Bracing the nut on their heavy breakfast table, he shears the end off with two swings of the blade and offers the fruit to Rosa. With a nod, Rosa turns it up and drinks thirstily. Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she returns the fruit to Carloi, watching as he drains it and rolls the hull to a corner. With not much to do but wait out the storm, they draw closer. Like his recent brush with Rosa on the beach, Carloi is reminded of the resourceful woman that helped him and their tribe survive. Finding it harder to condemn her for being human, he sees a woman of poise and beauty that would be coveted anywhere. How could he have been blind to that? Rosa, watching the soft light play on her husband's weathered face and its character forgets the winds and missing pieces of roof. More important than that, she knows that she and Carloi will survive. But, as she moves her eyes over his jagged scars, she also knows that this kind of man will only happen once. When she was a girl only in her teens she knew that. Now a woman, it can be no different.
Long into the night, as the winds begin to abate and the Sea recedes, jeep headlights swing across Carloi and Rosa’s coconut grove. Knowing who it must be, they do not move. Wrapped in separate blankets, they hear the Barangay Captain call out, “Is everybody OK here?”
A little sad that the official end of the storm has arrived, but thankful just the same, Rosa yells back, “A little chilled is all.” Seeing the touch of melancholy in Rosa’s eyes and feeling much the same Carloi shouts, “Thank you, Captain. We are fine.” As the jeep’s headlights swing back toward the highway and the Sea and sky crack with a pale glow, Carloi stands and looks down at his wife. Lifting her eyes to her husband, Rosa is reminded of his morning stance over the banglo bed before going aft to shoot their tack. Lowering her eyes, she moves the candle and pulls the mats together while Carloi watches. Raising her eyes to him once more, Rosa follows the flickering light on his face and opens her blanket. The beautiful girl that added a splash of brown to the coral colored waters of a lagoon is still there, treading water for him standing above. Going down, how lovely it all is. How nice to be back.
Charles Hayes, a 2015 Pushcart Prize Nominee, is an American who lives part time in the Philippines and part-time in Seattle with his wife. A product of the Appalachian Mountains, his writing has appeared in Ky Story’s Anthology Collection, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Fable Online, CC&D Magazine, Unbroken Journal, Random Sample Review, The Zodiac Review, eFiction Magazine, Saturday Night Reader, and Cha: An Asian Literary Journal.
Roddy by CJ Friend
She’s only been home ten minutes and already she’s in my grill. “Roddy, you want anything special for dinner?” I don’t like being bothered with stupid questions so I don’t respond. Maybe she’ll grow a brain and get the hint. “Ah, I’ll bet you want chicken.” Yeah, like she can read my mind or something. Whatever. “So how was your day? Do anything exciting?” Another dumb question, so I remain quiet. What does she think I do? Play freekin’ video games all day? “Well, my day was horrible. It was so hot in the office. Why we don’t have air conditioning and have to have the windows closed is beyond me. I ‘m thinking about filing a protest or whatever they call that thing you file with human resources. It can’t be right making us work in those conditions…” Gawd, you are such a stupid cow. I don’t say it but we’ve lived together long enough that she must know I am thinking it. I watch her move back and forth between the refrigerator, the cupboard, and the stove. As long as I get fed she can yap all she wants to. “…and Jody wore the same dress as me, can you believe it? You’d think that with two Walmart’s and a K-mart and a Dress Barn in this city that she could find something else to wear. But no, that Jezebel has to go and get the same dress as me and wear it on the same day as I do. Well, fortunately, she didn’t have the same shoes as me, ‘cause I was wearing those pumps I got off Amazon deals, you know, the brown ones with the lace on the toes…” I yawn. Widely. Twice. Maybe she’ll get the point. But I doubt it. She brings over a plate of food and places it in front of me. Thanks be to Buddha. At least now I have something to do while she flaps her lips. “…and the customers must’a ate some surly pie today ‘cause they were nothin’ but mean to me. I tried to be nice, but once or twice I just transferred them to someone else ‘cause
I thought that I was going to just go off on ‘em, you know what I mean?” I look up from eating and stare at her. Maybe she’ll think I’m paying attention. “Oh, see, I knew you did. You get me, Roddy, you know me so well.” I don’t know what she expects me to say. Hell, woman, I sleep with you. I experience all of you every day, have to dodge through your piles of clothes, hear you fart and do all kinds of awful stuff. Yeah, I know you. But just let me eat right now, OK? “Wow. You ate that fast! You must of really liked it. You want it again tomorrow?” I ignore her. My stomach is full, and now I just want to take a nap. The couch or the La-ZBoy? Hmmm…the couch. I get out of my seat and walk over to the couch and collapse, stretching out to full length. A beached whale ready to be left alone. The sounds in the kitchen diminish as she finishes cleaning up. She goes into the living room, sits in the La-Z-Boy, picks up the remote and starts sifting through channels. She settles on a station selling stuff. “Is this channel OK?” OK by me. Sometimes she buys me something, and I’m cool with that. I close my eyes and try to sleep. For about 30 seconds the only thing talking is the TV. “Sure you don’t want to come over here and sit in my lap?” Suddenly she has my full attention. I look over at her to see if she is really sincere or just screwing with me. “Yeah, come on over and sit in my lap!” I pause for a moment. My eyes ask “really?” “Come on and get over here. I’ll do that thing you like…” I am all over that. I get off the couch and go over to her. I hover over her for a moment and then settle onto her thighs. She starts softly stroking my neck with the tip of her fingernails, just down from the base of my skull. Ahhh…she knows how much I like that…I start to make noises indicating my descent into pleasure, that I am all hers, that she can do whatever she wants with me.
“Oh, Roddy, you are such a good cat, I just want to love you all up!� Yes, I am, and please do.
CJ Friend is the author of several fiction and nonfiction publications and short stories. His story, "Fathers as Boys," was a finalist for the 2014 VanderMey Nonfiction prize. He enjoys all manner of sports, music, and the wonder of creation. He has a wanderlust that refuses to be satisfied, and, as a result, has lived in Europe for over 18 years.
The Collector by Rebecca Harrison
Annabelle stood on the treetop and stared across the forest deeps. Over the jungle canopy, clouds tangled, and the horizon billowed with storms. She pulled papers from her leather bag and hurried through pages of numbers and symbols. Bird calls came from the green below and thickened the skies. She checked her pocket watch, shoved the papers back, and pulled a silver tin from out of her bag. Winds darkened the trees. She felt the branches shaking. Her feet slipped. The tin fell from her hand. She scrambled for it but heard metal jolting as it dropped to the ground. The sky became rain roar and lightning shapes. Warm water flooded hard on the treetops. She checked her watch again, trying to see its rain-splattered face: she had to hurry. She tried to peer down through the trees where the tin had fallen but knew she had no time to find it. Swiftly, she pulled off one of her boots, tied a rope to its laces, pushed her rain-heavy hair from her face, and began to count the seconds. Clouds towered in grim heights above her. She flung the boot into the storm. Lightning twisted around it. She held the rope tight as winds tore at the sky. Her hands were white. The storm cloud wrapped round the boot. The rope burned her hands as she heaved the boot down from the sky. It fell on a near branch. Her heart was loud as she tied the laces tighter and tighter and then pressed her ear to the quivering leather. She’d done it: the thunder was trapped inside the boot. She sheltered in a tree hollow for three days while the storm lasted. When she returned to her ship, among its calm sails and dark wood, she cloaked herself in blankets and combed the storm smells from her hair. Lamplight swayed. She unlaced the boot, slid the thunder into a copper box and locked it shut. She tied a piece of paper to the box, wrote ‘thunder from the Amazon’ on it, and then placed the box beside a shimmering glass jar labelled ‘mist from the five-corners field’. Then she climbed up the mast. The sea was moon cool. In the crows nest, she curled up on a cotton quilt. Dusk settled on the sea. Salt winds muffled the starlight. As the ship drifted the night waves, she sank into dreams. Annabelle had grown up among city din and smoke wisps. In her parents’ home, she read books ragged until her days were fast with stories. She tore out pictures of lost treasures, hid them beneath her pillow, and tried to dream ways to buried jewels. Every morning,
her fingers ached from drawing maps. She climbed towers, sat between chimneys and winds, and gazed towards faraway kingdoms. In the summers, she learned the songs of birds from foreign skies. She fed the birds cake crumbs and tied trinkets to their claws. After the birds had returned to their warm lands, she watched winter streets and thought of her trinkets touching the desert dunes. One spring day, her parents took her to the sea. She pressed her face to the window as their coach journeyed through woodland narrows and field far. She roamed the cliff tops, made cathedral shapes on the rocks with her fingers and searched sky shadows for the city that her books had said towered by the sea. After her parents told her the ruins were under the waters, she pressed her ear to the waves and listened for the empty streets below. Later, while her parents slept, she rowed across night sweeps and peered into the starlit depths. When she didn’t glimpse any pillars or mosaics, she stole a sail from a ship and hid it in her parents’ coach. After they returned home, she put the sail beneath her bed, curled up in it and slept. She woke smelling of salt and sunken paths. All day, she huddled in the sail and read about the city she couldn’t find. When the sky began to fade, she sat at her window and imagined the dusk was sea water pouring over the rooftops and lamps. Soon moonlight hushed the air. Still wrapped in the sail, she stepped into the night streets. The city was chimney shadows and smoke shapes. Candle glow seeped from warm windows. She heard sleep sounds and cat creep. As she wandered through alleyways, she thought of time turning her own city to dust. She held her breath to try to stop the seconds passing. Her hands were cold. She hugged the sail tighter and gazed at star paths over the city. The clock tower loomed into the night. Staring at the clock face, she watched the hands moving and tried to feel time flowing through the streets. The darkness swelled with bats and winds. Her footsteps sounded like seconds. She wondered if she could find where time moved inside the giant clock. When she reached the tower, she climbed through a small window and inched on through dim spaces. The rooms smelled like coal ends. She crept up a spiral stairway, pushed open a door and stared at the clockwork. Night glinted on vast wheels. Moon glow wafted through turning metal. She slept curled in the sail beside the giant cogs. Her dreams were full of clock sounds and passing time. When she woke, she climbed onto the tower roof, sat among low clouds and watched dawn warm the distant skies. The city below was chill alleys and bird chirps. She counted smoking chimneys. Winds tangled her hair. Red glow wrapped fading stars. She knew she would never see the same dawn sky again. She wanted to take a
piece of it and keep it forever. She reached into the cold winds and snatched at a cloud. It puffed and tore. She pulled a cloud wisp free, felt its dawn colours tint her fingers, and clambered back inside the clock tower. She tied it around a nail and watched it quiver under the clock’s ticking. She looked round the tower spaces and imagined cramming them with pieces saved from time. Then she folded the sail in a corner, ran down the spiral stairway, and hurried back home. Every dusk, she crept to the clock tower. Among the cogs and night drift, she settled pieces taken from the day. When she walked city streets, she gathered secret glances and jewel glints. She took stained-glass gleam from church windows and stored it in her coat pockets. From school rooms, she stole ladybird footsteps and book smells. In winter churches, she basked in carols and incense, stole Christmas warmth and hoarded it in the tower. She huddled inside it when spring rains dulled the city. Her treasures began to overflow the tower. She tied them to weather cocks and hedges. Sometimes, city folk heard bells ringing in flower beds and glimpsed candle glow on rooftops. Years passed as she gathered the city’s treasures. The corners of her bedroom were white with autumn mists. Each evening, after counting her collection, she read books of faraway lands and dreamed of distant treasures while mist settled on the pages. She began wandering outside the city walls. She scooped eagle reflections from mountain lakes and seized wolf glares from forest nights. One morning, she packed a small bag with years-old starlight and left her home. She boarded a deserted ship and pulled up the anchor. She sailed. Her plaits became stiff with salt and sun. Through wave roar and whale song, she journeyed to a still sea and lowered a silver thimble down into the water to collect the silence from the deepest sea bed. She wrapped the hush in silk and locked it in a drawer. She cast anchor by a rocky shore and trekked forgotten pathways to deserted cities. There, she took the shadows of the ruins of temples and statues. Back in her ship, she slept among the shadows’ worn shapes and dreamed of lost kingdoms. She packed the shadows in her bag, carried them to a vast desert, and sheltered inside them under the burned skies. After filling her bag with dune song, she tied the shadows to her plaits and kept cool as she trudged back over the sands. At night, she crammed papers with numbers and symbols, trying to find out where the treasures waited. When her calculations told her times and places, she sailed with fast winds to distant coasts. To gather the most rapt look of joy, she journeyed weeks towards frozen lands. She steered her ship past icebergs, pushed scraps of desert heat
inside her coat and trekked across the snows. White winds stung her face. She stared hard at her papers. She counted her steps and gazed across ice sweeps. The sky bent as the snows thickened. Her teeth chattered. The desert warmth faded. She shook from cold. She took two more steps, crouched low, and peered hard: a dark chasm plummeted down into the ice. A man clung to a ledge below. He stared up at her, his face white with cold. Taking a rope from her bag, she lay deep in the snow and heaved him up over the edge. He clutched her and trembled. As he thanked her with words she didn’t know, she saw it on his face - the most rapt look of joy! She pulled a leather pouch from her bag and pushed it inside. She sailed on through the arctic seas. She passed through sunlit nights. Ice creak and whale splash merged with her dreams. When she woke, she climbed the crow’s nest and watched sea shine. Wishing to find the brightest glimmer, she grabbed her papers and scribbled symbols. Then, she steered the ship to greener lands. She tramped mud paths as winds hardened her way. The villages and farms were bright with silence and blue skies. She thought she saw faces at windows. She strode on. Shouting stirred the distance. She pulled out her pocket watch and listened to the seconds: she had to hurry. Hitching up her skirts, she ran through woodland trails, and out onto a plain. She stared. Armies battled under banners. Armour dazzled. The air churned with cries and metal clanging. She took a deep breath and stepped from the trees. She ducked as a sword swung toward her. The air clamoured. Someone thudded against her. She fell. Mud squelched. Swiftly, she dragged to her feet and darted into the throng. Metal thundered on metal. She saw men falling. She heard the air slicing by her ear. One of her plaits dropped into a puddle. She scooped it up and put it in her pocket. Her heart was loud. She took four steps and stopped: two kings fought in a clearing. Their swords clashed silver and loud. She pulled a heavy book from her bag, seized the metal flash from off their swords, pressed it between the pages and locked the book. She journeyed into ocean vasts. She glued the end of her plait back on with fog; it smelled of fallen skies. When her calculations told her the time and place of the dankest darkness, she steered towards sweltering kingdoms. Her days widened with heat and storms. Wrapped in cotton, she walked dust paths in a baked city. In the city’s heart, a palace towered into the scalded sky. Gazing up at its turrets and domes, she pulled out her watch and noted the minutes left. Somewhere inside was the darkness she sought. Sheltering from the sun in a cramped alleyway, her eyes on the palace wall, she took a small knife from her bag, sliced off a little piece of daylight, folded it five times, and put it in her shoe. Hard steps shook the air. She dived into a doorway and held her breath as
the palace guards patrolled past. Their shapes vanished round a corner. She ran to the palace walls, threw her rope over a balcony, tied it tight, and began to climb. Hearing shouting, she glanced down. Guards pointed up at her. She pulled herself over the balcony and dived into a room. Marble cool wrapped her. Silks shivered among gilt patterns. A woman lay slumbering upon an ebony bed. Annabelle tip-toed past, pushed open the bedroom door and stared down the hallway. She heard the guards’ footsteps drumming in distant palace corners. Her feet skidded as she ran through the hall. The palace was a rush of rose scent and gold. When she found the stairway, she raced down the spiral steps and out into a narrow corridor: a vast door lurked at the end of the passageway. She heaved it open. Gloom spilled out. She hurried inside and pulled it shut behind her. Reaching into her shoe, she tore off a bit of daylight and crumbled it between her fingers. In the flicker, she glimpsed cavern deeps tangling. She began counting her steps, tearing and crumbling daylight as she sped. She glimpsed skeletons in the dirt. Walls narrowed. She ran. The labyrinth smelled of bones and midnight. She stopped. She crushed a piece of light. Shapes slithered and crawled. She pressed against the damp wall. Jaws snapped at her dress. She heard it rip. She pulled an ivory comb from her bag, tied it to a string and threw it into the crocodile shadows. The darkness under the crocodile’s belly tangled and wedged in the comb’s teeth. She jumped as a creature lunged for her. She wound the comb up, shoved it in her bag, and fled. The darkness stuck to her fingers. Her collection grew until the ship overflowed. Treasures in envelopes and jars weighted the sails and twisted the winds. Her papers crumpled between boxes. The scribbles smudged. When she couldn’t find them, she drew calculations on her sleeves. Each evening, when sunset softened the waves, she chose a different treasure, carried it up to the crow’s nest, and gazed at it under the night still. When she couldn’t sleep, she pressed her ear to silk scarves to listen to the sea-bed silence she’d wrapped inside. On slow seas, she tiptoed among her boxes and counted her adventures. Sometimes, she pulled out her pocket watch, stopped its hands, and looked at all the treasures she’d saved from being lost in time. When she remembered her den in the clock tower, she imagined halted and silent cogs. She tried not to think of time passing through her old home. She gazed towards distant kingdoms, thought of time hurrying through cities and farmlands, and felt safe among her collection. She pretended she’d stopped time. One dusk, she climbed up to the crow's nest with a jar of the glow of lost pirate gold, and sitting cross-legged beneath the thinning sky, she scrawled symbols on her quilt’s edges.
When darkness swaddled her ship, she dipped her quill pen into the sheen and wrote until dawn. Her fingers ached, but when her calculations were complete she knew where, on a distant white cliff, she would find the most furious howl. After soaking her fingers in the calm of a woodland stream, she turned the ship around. She sailed on whale paths towards narrow seas. The sky was brittle winds and albatross glide. Tearing off the corner of her quilt, she tied it to the ship’s wheel, so that as she steered the waves, she could see the symbols’ gleam. She rubbed a steel case with a snatch of alpine air to clean it for the furious howl she would lock inside. She sailed weeks toward the far cliff. Under skies of cannon blast and gunpowder smog, she steered through armadas of battling ships; on the other side, in quiet seas, she soothed her smoke-sore eyes with the balm of a church choir’s lowest note. She navigated through harsh waters, where the splash smelled of anchor rust and ocean beasts were a dark swarm beneath the waves. She fought their tentacles from her ship with the tickle of a flock of ducks' feathers. Finally, winds hurtled her into rock-pinched seas and the horizon was lit by the white cliff. Slowing the wind gusts with tortoise crawl, she steered inch by inch along the jagged route. The air shivered with rock scrape and hull groan. She cast anchor amid the rocks and lowered herself into the ship’s rowing boat. Waves tugged the oars. Shoving the quilt scrap in her pocket, she rowed through flock shadows into the sea shallows and pulled her boat onto pale sands. She ran across the sun-spattered beach and began to climb the cliff. Sharp stone scratched her hands. She heaved herself upwards past puffin nests. Her hands juddered as rocks crumbled. When she reached the top, she dragged herself into a grass patch and stared round. She counted the chalky edges and gull cries. Over the sea tops, the skies began to twist. She examined the calculations on her scrap of quilt, stared at the hands of her pocket watch, and started counting down the seconds until the howl would appear. The winds felt full of cog turns and clock ticks. She didn’t notice the clouds blistering into storm shards or feel the rain pummelling the cliff. She didn’t see her ship become small among the towering waves. The watch slipped from her grasp. Stooping to grab it, she glimpsed the waters below: waves hurled her ship against the rocks. The sails tore. As it sank into the depths, she bellowed the most furious howl. In an instant as swift as deer startle, she saw all of her collection disappear into the ocean: jars of Queens’ footsteps, boxes of glacier shimmer, the final wing beats of vanished birds, secrets murmured in forgotten gloamings. She felt each moment she’d saved from time sinking back into gone-away days. She felt her adventures in mountain
heights and palace deeps were comets trampled to ash. But then she realised her howl still hovered above the cliff. Quickly, she snatched the steel case from her bag, lunged into the chill air and snapped it shut with the howl inside. As she tucked it in her bag, she remembered that the most hopeful silence dwelled in an ancient temple past desert reaches and worn-away paths. All she needed was a new ship. She looked over the sea tops towards far-off coasts and then climbed down to her rowing boat.
Rebecca Harrison sneezes like Donald Duck and can be summoned by a cake signal in the sky. Her best friend is a dog who can count. She’s been nominated for Best of the Net and was a finalist in the first Wyvern Lit flash fiction contest. Her stories can also be read at Rose Red Review, Maudlin House, Luna Station Quarterly, and elsewhere.
The Vessel by Tim T.K.
I bank my submersible towards the titanic disk resting on the ocean’s floor. Centuries of debris conceal the disk, but it has not relented into obscurity. The wreckage remains perceptible, even if it is covered. The mile-long diameter of the vessel cuts a line in the earth. It keeps itself visible for my eyes to see. As I make my approach, a drumming fills the cockpit. The submersible echoes the sound of the disk quaking. The hulk on the sea’s floor reverberates and lifts itself just enough to shake off the coat that hides it from the world. Earth, ashes, and the bones of dead sea life are lifted off of the disk to reveal a circular vessel. The sound it makes carries throughout the water. It’s calling to me. It is unlike any craft I have ever seen. There is no visible rudder or means of propulsion. There is only a silver convex disk, with a murky green dome sitting in the middle. No mechanisms for entry can be found upon the exterior. I must find a way in. I continue the downward turn of my submersible, gazing upon the marvelous vessel below me. It has shown itself to me. It is not a wreck at all. The vessel remains untouched by time. The silver is unblemished and reflects the lights attached to my craft. Even the dome that sits atop the silver body is wholly intact. I continue my orbit, but still no entry has been revealed to me. I complete a full rotation around the disk. There is no visible way in. I do not understand. Why does it ask me to find it, if it does not wish to enter it? It is testing me. The craft wants me to enter it, to pilot it. It told me so. It called to me when I was still a young boy and calls to me still in my old age. It wants me to save it and asks that I fly it back home. I am compelled to answer its plea. It must not know that I am the one that it is calling to. If I show myself to it, it will open itself to me. I bank the submersible in closer, then turn so that the window in front of the cockpit is facing the dome. It should be able to see me through the viewport. I drift around the craft’s dome, hoping that it will see me, or that I see something move in it. I revolve around the dome. Nothing changes. There is no movement inside. No doorways
open. It should be able to see me. If it does, it does not recognize me. If I get out of the submersible, then it should be able to see me. I am not yet deep enough for the water pressure to instantly crush me. I secure my helmet and suit and press the release on the hatch above me. A warning klaxon blares in the cockpit. I hit the release twice more to override the hesitant submersible. The hatch pops open and water floods the small craft. I float out and swim to the dome on the vessel. The dome itself is colossal. I am an ant compared to its glory. My suit compresses my body with growing force. Every bone in my being aches. Still, the craft does not yield. I embrace the dome and press my body against the murky green surface. I take comfort in its presence. Perhaps, it just needs time. Time to wake up and realize that I am here. Yes, that is it. I shall give it all the time that I have.
Tim T.K. is a writer and blogger living in Orlando, Florida, and Salem, Oregon. As a family man and student of weird fiction, he writes stories focused on family issues, and blending the real with the extraordinary. His work has previously been featured in the Down in the Dirt Magazine.
And with this issue, a year comes to an end. What a splendid journey this has been for us. We'd like to thank our contributors for their continued support. Starting now, we'll be using Submittable for our submissions. Look at our Submissions page for more infrmation. Till next time! Follow on Twitter @FableOnline.