Allenthology E-Book

B. Morris Allen

• Herausgeber: Metaphorosis Publishing
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Speculative stories of love and disaster

Aliens, androids, magic, destruction and romance, all mixed together in this quarter century of science fiction and fantasy stories from B. Morris Allen.

Contains the contents of the collections Metaphorosis, Start With Stones, and Tocsin, as well as many other stories.

Leseprobe

Allenthology

Volume I

B. Morris Allen

Metaphorosis Books

Neskowin

Table of Contents

Allenthology

The First Era

Blind

Sacrifice

Erm the Invincible

Proteus' Revenge

The Second Era

Spring and the Arachnodactylist

Metaphorosis

Manifest Destiny

The Digital Revival

Silver Lining

One Fine Day in Asgard

The Matter of God

The First Assembly of God

All's Fair

Drive Like Lightning...

...Crash Like Thunder

The Third Era

Maison d'Etre

The Dark Distillery

Crash Boom Bang

Parabolic

The Girl Who Just Went Wrong

Dancing Through Winter

Coup de Tart

At Stake

House of Hope

My Trip to the Awe Tanks

Palimpsest

Tocsin

Crust

Start With Stones

The Stone in the Sword

About the author

Dedication

The First Era

Waiting for Inspiration

(1987 - 1991)

For years, I wrote fiction only when I was inspired, when I had time, and when I had opportunity - that is, when all three happened at once. It turned out that they seldom did. I was determined, if not productive. I pursued that course for a good two decades, and turned out very few completed stories.

Blind

I see her in the pool, colored by the autumn hues around me: hair the deep red-brown of leaves, skin the pale yellow of a late flower. Only her eyes have no color. There is no reflection there, and the clear blue of the pool fills them.

This is not how she looked in life, of course. Then she was unremarkable in appearance. Her hair was black with strands of grey, her skin dark and leathery. I do not remember her eyes.

But the fact of her appearance was remarkable. For she appeared in my world, and I did not create her. I am God here, and yet she came to confound me. When I questioned her about her origin, she merely laughed, and said only that she was here for me. So I let her stay.

But I am the power in this world, and when I chose to rid myself of her, I did so. She could not resist, and yet . . . she is here still, in the water before me. Perhaps I have bound her there, though that was not my intent.

#

She came in the summer, for it was always summer then. I had not yet created seasons. It was warm and dry, and there was no change. I had no need for change, or for labels of difference. But when she came to me, she said that it was summer, and that she was summer's daughter.

She laughed, and it was new. Or perhaps it was very old, for none but I can create here. A thing that I had forgotten, then. Whatever the source, I enjoyed her laughter, and she gave it often. The more often heard, the more I chose to hear it.

I changed the world to suit her. Where before I sat on an empty plain, I caused hills to rise, and put the sun in the sky. When she complained of discomfort, I spread grass, and flowers for beauty.

Flowers I remembered without her prompting, and she was more pleased with them than the rest. I recall that moment well, for it was the beginning of her betrayal.

“Oh, Randall,” she said. “They're beautiful. And you thought of them all on your own.” She smiled, and in that moment she was beautiful, and I was happy to have pleased her.

But she had given me a name, and the name was mine. Yet it did not and does not fit here, in my world. I felt discomfort then for the first time, but I hid it from her. She did not note it, and sat among the flowers, admiring them. And so we spent the time, wandering among the hills and flowers, lying on the soft grass.

To please her, I colored the sky. I made trees for shade, and water to cool her, and she was happy. Yet she seemed always to want more. I continued to create things for her, and the world became cluttered.

“Cozy,” she called it, as she lay beneath a tree, and smelled a flower. We made love, and it was good. But it aroused feelings in me that I found disturbing. At other times, she swam in the lakes, and called me to join her. I did not, for it was not my way. Was I not god? To swim would be to allow one of my creations to have power over me, to let me float or sink as it chose. This I would not do.

We wandered through the world, and she said it was pleasant with both of us here, and that it was a pleasant change from my simple plains. I agreed, because I did not wish to disturb her joy. But my disquiet grew.

In time, she complained that again there was no change. The sun always shone, and the grass was always green, the water always warm.

Was this not what she wanted? I asked. Did she not enjoy the warmth, and the green? Why should the water be different than it was, if she enjoyed it so?

She replied that it would be better if there were something she could compare it to, that she could better appreciate the sun if it was sometimes covered. I did not understand, and it seemed a great wrongness to me. While I had been content on my quiet plains, where all the vistas were the same, she seemed to thrive on change.

I covered the sun with clouds, and caused them to move aside regularly. I caused the warmth of the water to be tied to the presence of the sun; when the clouds covered the sun, the water grew cold. The grass and flowers I left alone.

She was quiet for a time, and then complained that it was still not enough, that the movement of the clouds was too predictable. I had felt that this was good, for if she chose to feel discomfort, did she not wish to know beforehand of its coming?

Finally, at her behest, I made winds to blow the clouds in a pattern only I knew, and which I did not reveal to her, so that she could not foresee the vagaries of the sun.

I did not like this development, for, being omniscient, I always know what will happen. Indeed, I still knew, but her desire for ignorance struck me as strange, for this emphasized her difference from me.

As always, I came back to the question of her origin. She was not god, as I am, for there could be no other god. The only things in my world are my self and my creations. Therefore she must be a creature, though I had not consciously contrived her.

I gave this thought to her, explaining that I had wrought well to make such as her. Never before had I created something unconsciously, or that was not under my direct control. She listened, but did not smile or nod when I was through. Instead, she frowned, and was unhappy. She maintained that she was not my creation; not a creature at all.

This gave me pause, that she should not admit a truth. I grew angry, and attempted to control her directly, as I do my other creations. Yet she did not respond. This was unexpected, and I retired to think.

At last I discovered an answer. She was a god, but not God. I am God, and I made the world. She had no power in my world, and yet she was not mine. Perhaps, I thought, she was a god from another world. I asked her if this was so.

Again she frowned, but agreed that I had divined her origin. She was indeed from another world, but a world with many like her. She had come to my world from hers. She seemed uncomfortable, but pleased that I had discerned the existence of other worlds.

This caused me great discomfort as well, for I had not previously known of any world but my own. To think that any other might have power similar to mine was upsetting. This especially if there were more of her people. However, I was still supreme in my own world. This was proven by her own lack of power here.

Thus reassured, I again strove to please her. I created a force of great change, which I called the seasons. They again seemed to me to be a wrong in the world, but I felt that she would enjoy them. And indeed, she lost her frown, and was once more full of joy, though I was much discomfited by the constant flux around me.

She cried and laughed in the new season that she called autumn, and jumped and danced in fallen leaves. Soon the air grew cool, according to my plan, and she shivered. Nevertheless, she laughed, and enjoined me to let myself feel the cold, and the bite of ice upon the pools.

Again I chose not to let my creations have power over me, and I shortened the winter to bring forth spring. It was then that I knew the full extent of her treason.

“Randall,” she said happily, “it’s almost real.”

I questioned her harshly then, and found the truth. She was not a god at all – no more than a creature. In the land she came from there are many like her, who have but meager power over the world. Her world, she had said, is similar to my changed one, with nothing permanent. Everywhere there are things such as I had created for her, and many more. The seasons that I had made are present, though there is little control. If I went there, I would be forced to suffer discomfort, as she had suffered it here by choice.

And yet her purpose was to convince me to go to that world. To leave this, my world, where I am God, and go to hers, to “return to reality”. To be a creature.

It was then that I made my fateful choice and cast her out. As with any creation, she had no power here. I could not control her, but I could deny her entrance to the world, and I did so.

Yet I see her in the water before me, and I cannot make her leave. I have searched for her, but she is nowhere now, except in reflections.

#

I toss a stone in the pool, and make an end to summer's daughter. Always she reappears before the last ripples have died out. I think now that it might have been a mistake to try to throw her out. I should have done so at first, or not at all. She introduced too many new things to the world, like the trees that shadow her, and the water in which she resides.

But it is done now. I have tried to create another like her, and I cannot. I attempted to dissolve my creations, to discover where she hides, that I still see her in the pool. This also I cannot do. I have lost the power of God, and I am as a creature in my own world. The seasons spin on their own, and I have no control. It snowed in the middle of the summer this cycle, and it rains during the sunshine.

I, who was once content to sit in an empty plain, am now surrounded by the whirling devils and changes of my folly. I am confused by the shifting around me, and cannot concentrate. I sit here by this pool, watching the only stable thing in my world. My nemesis and my love, she stares at me with empty eyes, and calls to me with windblown lips. And I begin to feel the cold.

From the time I was ten years old, my plan was to become a veterinarian. When I changed my mind shortly before graduating from college, I was a bit at loose ends, and I thought I’d use the time to try writing. With great enthusiasm, I started all manner of stories, plus a novel or two for good measure. Most of my stories ran out of steam by the second page, and “Blind” was the only one I finished - inspired by the Deep Purple song “Blind”, from their third album.

I was so pleased with “Blind” that for the next couple of decades, I waited again for that coincidence of inspiration, desire, and opportunity. Since they so seldom coincide, “Blind” was pretty much the only story I finished. In the mid-90s, I submitted it to a couple of magazines with no success, and went on to other things. I still pretended I was in some way a writer, but by 2009, objective analysis suggested to me that a small handful of stories over twenty years was a fairly poor ratio of product to effort. I rounded up some discipline, and wrote a complete new story with surprisingly little effort. That success slowly started both the writing and the submission machinery going, and in October 2010, I sent “Blind” out to Absent Willow Review. Much to my joy, it was accepted one short week later.

Absent Willow was a non-paying venue that has since closed down, but I'm grateful to it for that acceptance. The sheer surprise and pleasure of it persuaded me to keep writing. Positive feedback works! “Blind” may not be my best story, but it's one of my first, and its publication led to me finally taking writing more seriously.

Sacrifice

“I challenge you.”

The words rang out clear and crisp as the air of the cool fall morning. The speaker, a young, dark-haired man, held his staff high above his head in a stiff, formal gesture. Brilliant white robes fell back from slim arms ornamented with silver bands.

“I challenge you,” he repeated, “to a duel arcane.”

His opponent sniffed. Young mages were always so solemn. “Right,” he sighed, opening his eyes, and struggling to sit up. “Almost fell asleep there,” he noted, glancing up. A tattered grey cloak conspired with a long white beard to cover tan, weathered skin, but could not conceal sparkling brown eyes.

The young man frowned. “I came to challenge the great mage Mar. I was told I could find him here, and you,” he narrowed his eyes as he examined the man now crossing his legs on the grass, “show every sign of great power.”

“Oh, I’m him alright,” grumbled the sitting man. “Have a seat.” He gestured to the space before him. “Have some of these nuts.” His eyes had lighted happily on a small pile of walnuts to one side, and he took up two to crack in a wrinkled hand.

“I have not come to eat.” The young man’s voice trembled somewhat with tension and frustration. “I have come,” he stressed portentously, “for your power.”

Mar finished a mouthful of nut, and picked though bits of shell for another morsel. “Welcome to it,” he responded at last. “No reason you can’t have a snack first, though.”

The challenger opened his mouth and closed it again. The old man didn’t seem threatening, and legend said that he dueled honorably. At last, the younger man lowered his staff and sank cautiously to a kneeling position.