The Bell Tower by Alex Hurst

“I do not consider myself less ignorant than most people. I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question the stars and books; I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me.”

-Emil Sinclair, Demian by Hermann Hesse

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Autumn was always the most dismal time. As if God himself had cracked the umbral sky with his tears, melancholy drops callously pounded against the windows of the study.  Confined behind the fogged glass, Decebal fidgeted with the collar of his shirt. His brief excursion outside, merely from his car to the foyer, had left his fingers feeling icy. The heated skin of his neck made that feeling even more pronounced, and caused a singular shiver to cascade down his body. A banged up, unsightly grey piece of craftsmanship that functioned as his toolbox was at his side, condensation pooling on the red cherry wood of the floor beneath it.

Decebal fixed clocks for a living. He had been coming to this house in particular for decades, and it was always the same. Between the rain and the mud, he couldn’t cross the driveway without feeling like an old kitchen rag in a mop bucket. In the end though, he couldn’t complain. In a world of digital beepers and electric slats, his profession was a dying one. Yet the owner of this mansion, a Mr. Marius Graenger, delighted, near obsessively, with an artistic collection of grandfather clocks. There was not a single room, hall or stairwell that was not in some way influenced by the presence of their antique faces. Their ticks, tocks and the creaks of gears drowned out the silence in mechanical, maniacal chorus. Decebal imagined that for an average guest, the incessant echo of pendulums might be a little disconcerting. To Decebal, the sound of constancy was a creature comfort, and a decent reminder of who paid the bills.

There were always those days, though, where the timed rhythm in the halls grew weighted and the air thick, making Time’s own metronome struggle to cut through it. Today was like that; the pendulums were rocking in slowly diverging paces, like the race and quiet of a heartbeat. The estate was too large to be so still. The dark cherrywood floors, lacquered from a century of polishing, protested the weight of his feet as they shifted in cracked, aged whines. Every now and then he heard the voices of the staff carry through the wings.

The Graenger mansion had once been a monastery. It had been converted in the late 1900s by Mr. Marius’s great grandfather. An architectural marvel, it was listed in the provincial books as a heritage site, and thus, the contractors hadn’t altered too much of its original blueprint. On the western slope of the estate was a belfry, which was in turn connected to an extended network of basement rooms. The belfry’s bricks were stained with lichen and various other molds and mosses. Decebal often got the impression of a painting when he stared at them long enough. The bells were long gone, of course, and all of the entries above ground had been sealed off, but the basement was still quite accessible. It was here he usually had to go to adjust the clocks in Mr. Graenger’s son’s room. Under usual conditions, he had a tight reign on his imagination, yet he could not ignore the feelings of trepidation that filled his breast when going down those stairs. At times, it felt like he was falling into a strange abyss from whence there could be no return. The stains of rust on the iron and wood steps loomed like ghosts from the darkness when they caught a certain shade of light.

Naturally, to be in the service of Mr. Graenger for so many years, Decebal had heard quite a bit about his employer’s life. Live-in help, he knew not what to call these modern maids, often gossiped as they treated him to a cup of tea to warm his hands before work. They often spoke of the retired statesman and his trophy wife, though as far as the staff was concerned, the two had been divorced for many years. Between them, they had only one child, a boy named Remus, who hardly ever left the house. The child was about eleven now, and not the most pleasant company. Young Remus’s disposition reminded Decebal of the foul stenches of bogs in the summertime; the boy’s only redeeming quality was that he was severely emaciated from anemia, and thus not able to throw tantrums for an extended length of time. The boy’s sour attitude, coupled with the dank quality of the room, made the few times that Decebal had gone to maintenance the clocks there an exercise in haste. He did not know whether Remus’s aura was what made the room so gloomy, or if it was the other way around. All that mattered to the time-smith when he was there was to finish and be on his way as quickly as possible. He honestly couldn’t fathom why Marius would wish to keep his son in the dank cellars a story beneath sodden earth. It was a living coffin.

The maids, of course, had rumors to explain it. The truth of the matter is, as Natalie would say, is that long before Remus was even born, Marius and his trophy wife started living separately. The statesman was known to be something of a boor, and despite the staffers’ best efforts to hire elder women or simply men, there was an occasion here and there when a pretty young woman made her way into their midst. One of these ladies was an Irish girl named Evette. By Decebal’s own count, she had only worked for Mr. Graenger for two years, but then, he was not at the house often enough to know. One day, he had actually had the misfortune of passing the study he stood in now, only to find the statesman jeering the hapless maid.

Decebal was certainly not a confrontational man, but since he had seen the two of them, and they he, he could not simply abscond to another area of the house and pretend it hadn’t happened. Marius had quickly excused himself, leaving Evette alone with Decebal in moments that would come to be remembered as practically separated from time. He didn’t want to get involved. There was a moment, however, when their eyes met as they passed each other. The green of her eyes was startling; the very act of looking upon them made Decebal’s blood run cold. For a single moment, he ceased to know anything but that haunting stare, and the distress that stirred like worms under its surface. The next year, when Decebal returned to calibrate the clocks, Evette was gone and young master Remus was two months old. The reasons for her absence had been unresolved. Decebal had heard things from she’d run off with a stable-boy to the far more likely that she’d gone into hiding after giving birth to Marius’ illegitimate child. Apparently, no one had ever come looking for her.

He did not know why, almost a decade later, he found himself thinking about the soft-skinned redhead. It was as if he were back in that moment, caught in her serpentinite gaze all over again. Where was she now? Did she miss her son, if Remus was indeed her child? He cradled the cup of tea the maids had given him in his hands, carefully turning the lightly chipped china. Perhaps even her name slipped passed his lips as he thought of that day and the way Marius’s hands had claimed Evette’s own with such terrible authority- how her own slender body had trembled in what Decebal would like to assume was fear. He sighed, imagining how the swell of her young breasts must have looked under the navy blue costume she had been wearing.

His mind was lulled back into that precarious memory, frayed at the edges due to the great leagues of time that had passed. As he looked out the window steamed by his breath, he thought he could see Evette in her gay little dress, perhaps a little moth-bitten, in this very room- pushed to the bookcase by Marius’ predatory leer. His hands fell to his heart, checking for the quick pace Evette’s would have adopted while Marius took from her youthful body, and how the illness that followed would linger on for months, until it was clear what she carried inside her. He could almost sense the swell of life in the mother diminishing, damaging her and her unborn, until what she birthed was monstrous, hardly human. His stomach felt cold.

Taking a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow, Decebal paused, looking into his half-empty cup, the tea now cold. The child would have been born out of sight and sound, in the cellars. Yes, perhaps in the very room Remus now occupied. Evette wouldn’t have been able to stand the silence she had been forced to keep. It would gnaw at her and she would seek escape. It wouldn’t do for Marius, who was still married and not yet retired from office. This mansion was miles from the nearest town; for even a few hours of work, Decebal often had to stay the night. Marius would force her into silence. He would make her stay.

Looking at his cup now, he watched, mesmerized, as his fingers gripped the porcelain in a stranglehold, squeezing that fragile china like a neck. Yes, Evette, in her unfortunate luck, was far too dangerous to be kept alive. Marius would wait for the rains, like today, when there were few visitors, and dispose of her. But where could he hide the body?

Unbidden, uncalled, Decebal found his memory latching on to the red iron stains of the belfry stairs. He saw, too, places he had never been. Thick, rat-bitten ropes and gears. His mind filled in the blanks as if he had been there himself, as if he had every reason to belief their truth.

Startled, Decebal pulled himself out of such dark, terrible thoughts. His hands were sweaty, his heart was pounding, and adrenaline was making the very tips of his fingers tingle in frantic energy. What had he been thinking? He was too bewildered to even consider that he had gone into something totally of his own creation, in which he played the bastardly part of Marius, imagining the very death of a girl that had merely gone missing. He put his teacup to the side and rung the stiffness out of his hands. His body trembled from the chill of the room and, perhaps, the thoughts so unlike him. It took every ounce of his willpower to banish the image of Evette’s stare from his thoughts. Those dual greens remained defiantly branded on even the darkest recesses of his mind. Gradually, he began to hear the mechanical music from the halls again.

It was right then that the measured tune of those hundreds of clocks ceased, and there began a fantastic ringing of their chimes for the noon hour. Long calls, short calls, soft melodies and cuckoo birds of every flavor, Decebal’s eyes closed so he could listen. It was faint, but in their choir, he heard, rather distinctly, the grand tones of monastery bells. They reverberated through the halls, rising from depths of the earth and on through the rafters, gradually drowning out all else. Dong, Dong, Dong…

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A note from the author: This piece was originally published in Fiction Writers Group’s Writers’ Anarchy I anthology.

Of Frogs and Lovers by Kathryn White

Of Frogs and Lovers …

By Kathryn White

Copyright © Kathryn White 2015

Front Cover Image: Fotolia

 

Inside the City South Post Office a man had just turned in to a frog.

Our story does not really start there, though. Our story begins with a young man named Sid Sharp. Although he lived in an over-populated city, Sid was very lonely. He had no friends, no family, no pets and his home was in the basement of an ugly apartment building that was known to the locals as ‘The Rock’ because of its stark grey walls. While most apartment blocks are friendly looking places with big windows for people to look out of and lovely, big balconies where the neighbours can sit and chat to one another, The Rock did not have any balconies and the windows on each of the apartments were so small and so filthy that no one could see out of them. The Rock was the perfect place to live for someone who enjoyed being miserable. And, at the moment, Sid Sharp was as lonely and as miserable as could be.

The greatest source of Sid’s misery was his feelings for Miss Emma Lavender, the young lady who worked at the post office that was just around the corner from The Rock. Emma was tall, plain, and had curly, mousy brown hair that she always kept swept back in a neat, no-nonsense ponytail. She spoke with a soft, gentle voice. Most people did not take a lot of notice of Emma, but to Sid she was the most wonderful woman in the whole world. Sid wanted to marry Emma, but there was only one obstacle in his way. Sid and Emma had never even spoken.

Every time that Sid went to the post office, he would see Emma standing behind the counter, smiling as she helped the customers post their letters and parcels, and to pay their bills. As he stood and waited in line, he would think of all the wonderful and funny things that he could say that might catch Emma’s attention. He wondered what she would like to talk about. Sid had once overheard Emma telling one of her post office colleagues about how she was going to a quiz night, so maybe, he thought, she enjoyed general knowledge and trivia.

‘Lovely weather today,’ Sid imagined himself saying, as he strolled oh-so-casually up to the post office counter. ‘Did you know that the smallest country in the world is Vatican City? Most people think that the smallest country in the world is Monaco but it is really Vatican City. And what about railways? Did you know that when Australia was first settled that all of the colonies used different gauged railway lines and that when Australia became one single country instead of several colonies that they had to come up with a singular, standard gauge comprised of four feet and eight and half inches.’

Sid was certain that Emma would be impressed. The only problem (aside from the fact that Sid had experienced several near sleepless nights as he researched geography and the history of Australian railways,) was that every time he walked inside the post office, something would happen that would prevent him from sharing his knowledge with Emma. Often, as he waited in line, he would feel his entire body start to tremble and shake as soon as he saw Emma. If her eyes so much as glanced in his direction, surveying the post office from over the top of her glasses, Sid would immediately turn his head downward and stare at his sneakers.

‘Next customer please,’ Emma would call. Although her voice was soft and many customers could barely hear her at all, to Sid, her voice was the most important one in the whole world and, consequently, he could hear every word that she said, even when he was the last person in a queue that was fifteen people deep and Emma was muttering something under her breath about how her date stamp needed some more ink. (It was fortunately then, that Sid thought that everything that Emma said was important and interesting.)

‘Next customer please,’ Emma repeated. Sid stared at her from his place in the queue. He was three deep in the queue now, and there were four counters open. As he watched the customer approached Emma, he tried to work out the probability that, today, Emma would serve him. A man and his two children took up the whole of counter one. They were all applying for passports, so it was likely that they would take some time yet. At counter two, an older lady was posting a rug off to a relative in Afghanistan and seemed to be almost finished, so it was likely that the customer who was now at the front of the queue would be served from that counter. Sid watched as the older lady stuffed a receipt into her handbag and ambled away. The next customer was called up, meaning that there were now only two people ahead of him in the queue.

At counter three, an old man was buying some stamps to go with his stamp collection, and seemed to be taking his time, examining each stamp carefully before committing to a purchase.

Emma staffed the fourth, and final, counter. From the corner of his eye Sid watched as she placed some stamps on a parcel and exchanged pleasantries with her customer. ‘Really?’ Emma smiled at her customer, ‘You used to work for Greenpeace? I always admire people who fight to protect the environment.’

Pulling a pen from his briefcase, Sid made note on the back of his hand that he should do more to help the environment, instead of just merely separating his rubbish and recyclables into two separate bins each week and then mentally patting himself on the back for his efforts at saving the planet. It was then, as he finished scribbling on his hand that he noticed something odd. His skin, which was normally quite pale, had a bit of pale green in it. Sid wondered if it was just the lighting, if perhaps he was coming down with an illness, or if it was because he was feeling nervous because he was so close to Emma. Nerves could do funny things like that. Once, when Sid was a child and had to go to visit his rich old Aunt who he had never met before, he had broken out from head to toe in a sweat and then his entire body had started to turn an odd shade. His mother, who had been quite a kind lady, had joked that he looked a little bit green about the gills. Horrified, Sid had stared at his mother. He didn’t have gills … Did he?

Sid’s mother had laughed and explained that all she meant was that Sid looked rather nervous. She said that he would be all right soon. And she was right. As it all turned out, Aunt Sharp, had been a funny, eccentric old lady who was short, hunched over and looked a little bit like a frog. (Rumour had it that old Aunt Sharp could turn herself into a frog at will, though Sid had never seen any evidence of this.) Aunt Sharp enjoyed smoking cigars by the fire at night and after Sid’s parents died in a car accident, she had adopted Sid and they had lived together in her run down old mansion until Sid had grown up and moved to the city to go to university. When Sid was in his first year of university, he had received a telephone call to say that Aunt Sharp had passed away quite suddenly, meaning that Sid was now alone in the world without any family at all. It had also turned out that Aunt Sharp’s house had been completely infested with termites and it had to be demolished, meaning that after Sid had graduated from university that he was forced to stay on at his shabby digs at The Rock. He worked three days a week at Lone Shark Accountants, a somewhat dodgy concern that had a small office that was located just near the railway station and was owned by a man who was rumoured to be a direct descendant of none other than Ebenezer Scrooge. Lone Shark Accountants was a horrible place to work that seemed to thrive on ripping their clients off and the reason that Sid spent so much time in the post office was that he was always mailing off copies of his resume to different companies in the hope of getting a new and better job.

Inside Sid’s briefcase were thirty resumes, all sealed inside crisp yellow envelopes, along with a short letter introducing himself. The letters were addressed to every accountant in the city. Clutching his briefcase, as though the letters were all sealed inside solid gold, rather than a yellow paper envelope. Sid watched as the next two customers were called to counters two and four. This meant that it would be his turn next, and there was a very good chance that he might be served by Emma, as she seemed to be finishing up. Sid’s heart began to flutter. He cleared his throat, as something seemed to be stuck there. He hoped that his voice would not croak too much. Aunt Sharp always used to tease him about that. ‘Sid has a frog in his throat,’ she used to say, in that funny old nasally voice of hers.

Sid cleared his throat again. Usually, after he had said three or four words, his throat would clear and his voice would sound all right again. His skin on the other hand, was starting to turn that peculiar shade of green again. What a time to have a frog in his throat and to feel green about the gills.

‘Lovely weather today,’ Sid mumbled, hoping that his voice was not quite loud enough for anyone to hear.

‘No it isn’t,’ a voice called behind him. Turning, Sid found a thin, little old lady standing behind him. ‘It’s been overcast and raining and miserable all morning. I haven’t even been able to get all of my washing done.’

‘Oh,’ Sid muttered. His voice remained low and croaky. ‘Sorry.’

‘You ought to be sorry,’ the old woman said. ‘Making those silly remarks about the weather and staring at me with your big, bulging eyes. You look just like a frog, you do.’

‘Well, I think you look very nice.’

A soft and feminine voice spoke from the counter. Turning, Sid found himself staring straight at Emma. ‘And I think that the weather is just lovely,’ Emma said. ‘All morning, I have been looking out the window and across at the park. All the ducks are having a lovely time there, waddling about in the rain, and swimming in the pond.’

‘Phooey!’ The old woman snorted. ‘Who could possibly love a duck, with its funny webbed feet?’

‘I think we’ll have to agree to disagree on that one,’ Emma said. ‘I think webbed feet are beautiful. Now, Sid Sharp, isn’t it? You’re next.’

Sid felt his heart flutter. Emma knew his name. ‘Don’t look so surprised,’ Emma said. ‘I know you. We used to go to the same school. Then your parents died and you moved away.’

Sid stared at Emma in amazement.

‘You wouldn’t remember me,’ Emma said. ‘I was always very plain and unmemorable.’

How was it possible, Sid wondered, for someone as lovely as Emma to think that they were unmemorable? He could remember her quite well, the only other kid in his class who could name all of the actors who had played the part of The Doctor on Doctor Who. And even back then, Sid could never quite get up the nerve to talk to her.

Sid walked toward the counter. This took a while, as his feet were feeling a bit heavier than usual and rather uncomfortable inside his sneakers. When he got to the counter, Sid began to fumble with the lock on his briefcase. This took a while, as his hands felt somewhat slippery.

‘Is everything all right, Sid?’ Emma asked.

‘Yes,’ Sid croaked, even though, clearly, he was not all right.

‘Are you sure? You seem to be looking a bit green around the gills …’

Emma’s voice trailed off. Both she and the counter seemed to be growing much larger in size. It was either that, Sid realised, or that he was shrinking. Behind him, from the queue, the old lady let out a shriek.

‘What on earth is that ugly thing? It’s a frog. No, it’s far too ugly to be a frog. It’s a toad, for sure.’

‘Don’t be horrible,’ Emma said, as she walked around from the counter. Gently, she cupped Sid in her hands. ‘Just look at you Sid, you poor thing.’

‘Poor thing!’ The old lady snorted. ‘That thing is disgusting.’

‘Oh, shut up.’ Emma rolled her eyes. ‘I think we’ve heard just about enough from you. Now, what about you Sid? How are we going to fix … Excuse me!’ For once, Emma’s voice became loud enough for the entire post office to hear. ‘Does anyone know how to cure a man who has just been turned into a frog?’

‘I do.’ A short man with a moustache pushed his way forward. ‘I’m a veterinarian and I’ve seen a few cases of this in my time. What this man, or frog as he is now I suppose, needs is a kiss.’

‘A kiss?’

The old lady snorted. ‘Who’d want to kiss that horrible thing?’

‘I thought I told you to shut up,’ Emma said. ‘Now, you think that a kiss would cure poor Sid here?’

‘Yes.’ The veterinarian nodded. His expression was quite thoughtful and serious as he twiddled with his moustache. ‘But that kiss can only come from his true love.’

‘Well, that settles that then.’ The old lady snorted again. ‘Someone as ugly as all that is never going to have a true love.’

‘And it’s a pity that some people can’t take a hint.’ Emma fixed her eyes firmly on the old lady for a moment or two, before turning back to the veterinarian. ‘How are we going to find Sid’s true love, though?’

‘You could kiss him.’ The old lady said. ‘Go on. Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is, you silly little thing.’

‘And that,’ Emma sighed, ‘Is the first sensible thing that you’ve said all morning, you horrid old wench. I’ll kiss Sid.’

Emma raised Sid toward her mouth. She puckered her pink stained lips and pressed them to his smooth green skin. There was a strange popping sound and, startled, everyone in the post office watched as the frog vanished and Sid appeared once again. (After all, it wasn’t every day that a man turned himself into a frog inside the post office and was then turned back again. Although, that said, a week ago someone else had turned into a chicken, but that is another story …)

‘Emma.’

‘Sid.’

Both Emma and Sid stared at one another. Each felt slightly astonished at the recent turn of events.

‘You kissed me,’ Sid said.

‘I know,’ Emma said.

‘Does this mean …’ Sid stared at Emma, his face filled with hope.

‘I suppose so,’ Emma said.

‘Well,’ Sid said.

‘Well,’ Emma said.

‘This is strange,’ Sid said. ‘For the first time in my life … well, I mean for the first time since my aunt died, I feel happy.’

‘This is strange,’ Emma said. ‘For the first time in my life … I feel beautiful.’

‘But … you always were beautiful.’

Sid stared at Emma in astonishment.

‘Oh, give me a break.’ The old woman snorted. ‘Just listen to the two of you, getting all soppy with each other. Makes me sick, it does.’

‘Shut up!’

Both Sid and Emma glared at the old woman.

Standing beside the old woman, the veterinarian began to laugh. ‘There is only one catch to all of this,’ he said. ‘For the kiss to work, and for Sid not to turn into a frog again, the two of you must get married.’

‘Oh, of course!’ Emma said, while Sid simply smiled. For even if he was to turn into a frog again, he knew that the rest of his life would be a happy one, for he had been kissed by his true love, Emma.

 

Kathryn White http://kathrynwhiteauthor.blogspot.com.au

The Water Seer by HMC

Chapter One

Saturdays in Burleigh: fresh coffee brewing on James Street, blue skies and golden sand, sand so hot you danced on it, Sadie calling out orders for fish and chips – yes this early in the morning, too – and the sea-salty air obliterating any aggravation from the work week.

Those were my favourite mornings, a time where I could forget death and just surf instead. Surfing was my temporary distraction, a way to calm my mind. It was my creative outlet. An artist painted, a writer wrote, and a surfer surfed. There’s the thrill of waiting for the lump, gauging the size and direction of the wave, readying my body – apprehension and adrenaline combined – and the wave lifting my feet. I block out the world. It’s just me and the wave. The board catches, the world falls away, and I stand. Gravity takes me. The wave knows what to do. It has a mighty energy of its own. For a moment, we dance. I don’t thrash and slash the water, I move with it. It’s the purest form of surfing, soul surfing, riding the rail with my longboard. It’s important to treat the wave with respect.

The other surfers stick their middle finger up if you drop in, but for some reason, I cop it more than most. I don’t know if it’s because I’m a girl, because I ride a long board, or both. Maybe it’s because I surf better than they do. But no one owns the waves. They own you.

Raven’s Breath by Ellen Mae Franklin

“Do you hear the Gods my love? Thor and Hod are riding the sky tonight driving the long winter days before them, pushing the frost and chill across the lands.” Toothless old Agritha stopped her knitting. Needles poised in mid clack, her pale eyes took on a faraway look and Tarmen knew she would stay that way, transfixed by days long gone, lost in memories until she was pressed to continue the story.

Tarmen listened to the tale, although half an ear had lent itself to the torrential downpour and the intermittent claps of thunder. He sat at the crone’s feet and leant against blue veined legs, wrapped in the pelts of wolf skins on the edge of the fire pit. Flames spun shapes of the gods who walked the earth before men were born and the shadows they threw out rose into monsters. But he wasn’t a child anymore, he had bragged as much to his father, so the grasping fingers of shadowed things didn’t scare him. Agritha’s eyes, cloudy as they were, watched the yellow dancing gods.

The young boy wondered if it was raining where his father was. ‘Wait another season. Wait a little longer, then you can raid with us.’ He had heard the words before and yet, despite his anger at being stuck with old Agritha and the slave his father had stolen from across the sea, Tarmen’s envy matched the weather outside.

“Agritha?” Tarmen’s voice drew her away from the dreaming.

“It will snow, mark my words.” The clacking began again, a familiar sound to the raging tempest screaming its fury around Skarken.

“Will the gods protect my father?” A small voice beside Agritha asked.

Agritha worked her tongue into the space where two teeth used to be. It was a habit of hers when she took to thinking. Tarmen looked up, straining his neck backwards. Old skin, wrinkled and loose, wobbled as she spoke.

The Woman by Amber Jager

He sat alone in his chair, quiet for now. It is the first time all week that he has kept to himself, the soft slippers given to him when his daughter last visited settled calmly on the grey industrial-style carpet. All around him people mill about; those others that live here easily distinguished by their walking aids, grey hair, and shuffling steps. Slippers to match his own are extremely common, some marching slowly from place to place and others seated in chairs identical to where he now rests. Among the groups is the occasional younger person, the footwear being the comfortable easy walking style common in those that work in the medical profession. Not all are nurses, but all work taking care of those unable to take care of themselves any longer after the sands of time took their toll.

For the most part, everyone leaves him alone. Some smile over at him if they even bothered sparing him a glance, but he does not pay attention to them. His focus lingers on the far wall, waiting. The nurses call him ‘troubled’ and do what they can to keep him settled, but no one dares try to move him to another place with another wall to watch. This was the only place where there was ever a quiet moment. If ever placed somewhere else, he would fight and scream and demand to be placed in his usual chair.

When he had first moved into this place it had been different, of course. He’d had the occasional episode. Moments where his children were frightened by his rage-filled tirades, directed at empty spaces. He never turned on them specifically, but after one day where he had fallen after lunging at a lamp, they’d had no choice but to seek out somewhere that he could be kept safe. Since then, the episodes grew more and more common. The medication had helped in the beginning, but now he instead had straps carefully keeping his pajama-clad arms in place on the chair, which was securely bolted to the floor. Short of constant sedation, there was only so much that could be done for someone in his situation.

“Hello Mister Turner. How are we feeling today?” The voice came from his right but he didn’t turn. The nurse came to check on him every afternoon, and he didn’t dare look at her and away from the wall. He did give her a slight nod though, an acknowledgement of her greeting.

Inker Forest by Evelyn J Steward

The colours were brighter.  Must be new.  Mirander did not realise something had happened further over, almost out of her sight.  This meant a trip.  Nadrinal would have to be persuaded to go with her, as chaperone.

This would mean going through the part where the forest demon lived.  The striped forest demon hated people, things.  Anything moving about in his part of the forest without his knowledge or permission, would meet with danger.  You go through his territory without his say so and you were in for trouble, with a capitol T.

Puffing up his stripes, he often strutted about his area of forest, growling his displeasure at any goings on he did not approve of.  But, he was careful.  For the next forest hid an even larger demon than himself.  Though strictly not a demon, nor himself, come to that ( but it was how he liked to portray his importance) still, a creature to be careful of.  Those wings were enormous purple scaly things.  The talons longer and sharper than his,  could rend a creature to pieces, no trouble at all.  And, the dragon was encroaching!

That was the problem!  There were bare patches just across the striped demon’s  border, just itching to be extended.  Utilized.  He had seen it all before.  His forest was once much smaller.  Barely room to turn around.  But, he sighed heavily, it had been extended for him to wander through.  Admittedly, those pesky birds came with!  A small price to pay though, he thought.

Still, a dragon, no less.  With huge wings, covered in scales, metalic purple in colour.  He was the most gigantic of creatures, and he breathed fire.  All the time.  Must get a sore throat!  Perhaps that was why he was so mega angry?

Dark Nemesis V, Blades Of Vengeance, by A J Hawkins

Having written Spirits & Shards: Falling, I was working diligently on the much denser follow-up, Firebrand, when I became ill with ME. Unable to use a computer for more than a few minutes at a time for several months, I feared I might not be able to finish this saga. But just as ME sufferers can crash, so too can they have good periods.

I decided to turn my attention to Dark Nemesis, a much smaller story that’s actually a fiction-wihin-a-fiction of the S&S Universe. Feeling I needed something that had the cultural impact in that world that Star Wars has had in ours, I used this series that I wrote over fifteen years ago, deciding to ditch everything but the spirit of that original saga and begin again.

This is chapter 9 of that new story, and still very much a work in progress, but I very much wanted to be able to share something new with you all. I hope you like it.

The Grieving of the Butterflies by Anthony Hulse

Spencer Pardew whistled as he paced along the picturesque and tranquil harbour road. The morning sun heralded another fine July day, adding to the contentment of the thirty-five year old teacher. He and his wife, Jill, recently purchased a cottage in Whitby, after agreeing to sell their home in Loftus. The two teachers found employment in a local primary school; the circumstances prompting their decision.

 

Whist Jill was in the process of decorating the riverside cottage, Spencer opted to visit the local market, situated at the foot of the abbey steps. He breathed in deeply, the bracing sea air filling his lungs. The squawking seagulls foraged for food and tidbits, left by the early morning fishermen.

 

Spencer mingled with the locals and holidaymakers, who had risen early to search for a bargain. After purchasing fresh fruit and vegetables, Spencer headed towards a bric-a-brac stall. His unblinking eyes focused on two oil paintings. The first was of a young, unsmiling, medieval boy. He wore a brown, floral gown, black hose, and pointed shoes; his hair cut in a pudding basin style. The girl, who bore a striking resemblance to the boy, wore a green, laced-up gown. A black French hood covered her loose hair. She too showed no sign of merriment.

THE ANAKIM CAN DIE by Peter M. Emmerson

Paul and Carilla

Paul lay on his back wrapped in his sleeping bag, the hood pulled tight until it all but covered his face. The tip of his nose was cold, but it troubled him not. His eyes were filled with the wonders of the heavens. The all encompassing ring of standing stones stood around them; comforting in their silent protection.
The stars; so close, so bright. The mesmerizing flickering layers of green which filled the sky to the North, so mysterious and enchanting. It had taken a great deal of cajoling from all three youngsters to obtain his mother’s permission for them to spend two weeks away from main camp on a hunting trip. He had promised to check in mentally each day.
Xjang had commented earlier, as they huddled around the tiny camp fire, that the shimmering green sheets were created by the souls of warriors who had died in battle. The diminutive Finn, in a counter argument, insisted that Bes himself had cast infinite handfuls of glow-worms into the sky to shine forever and defeat the darkness in those times when Khonsu, the god of the night hid his face.
Paul smiled at his friends, he knew the stars were suns like the one that shone down on them daily, but tonight he was happy to accept their more simple explanations. And watching the dazzling Aurora Borealis displays he was almost inclined to agree with the two young warriors.

Rhaena by Chris Kaye

“Get off him … Now!”

I hauled her off the body; and almost threw her to one side. It was hardly an easy task, as she weighs more than I do, but at least she didn’t turn her teeth and claws on me. I’m surprised I got away with it.

She had left a bit of a mess. Launching herself from several feet away, in the bushes, her landing had crushed his ribcage, and ‘natural weaponry’ had pierced lungs, heart, and opened up the entire upper chest. He was dead: and I doubt he even had time to feel pain. I was glad to still be alive myself, however it would have helped if Astrillen hadn’t taken the attitude, “shred first …” and we won’t bother about the “… ask questions later” bit.

I spared a glance for the cat. She had, of course, easily landed on her feet, and was now sitting, fastidiously licking paws and muzzle clean. In all honesty, I hadn’t realised that she had been following me … until the attempted attack.

“Sorry about that, old girl. Thanks for getting rid of the problem … before he managed to become one.”

The totally unconcerned look that I got in reply was one I well knew. I suppose it’s the feline equivalent of, “Okay: friendship comes first, just don’t try that again”.

There were things I needed to do, and fairly quickly. The mind of the deceased might still contain some answers, if I could delve into it soon enough. I had plenty of questions whirling through my own head: starting with the obvious ones. Who would want to see me dead, and why? How did he get so close without me sensing him? Were there any of his ‘friends’ waiting further along the trail?

All of those would remain a mystery, unless I could rapidly scan my assailant’s memories. It was breaking a few rules: as if I didn’t do that a half dozen times every day … most days: nevertheless I ‘could’ access certain images directly from the brain … even a no-longer functioning one.