Metaphorosis July 2016 E-Book

Jeanette Gonzalez

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Beautifully written speculative fiction from Metaphorosis magazine. All the stories from the month, plus author biographies, interviews, and story origins. Table of Contents Regarding the Sainted Pirate Nicholas – Michael M. Jones My Dog is the Constellation Canis Major – Jarod K. Anderson Serenity – Jeanette Gonzalez The Last – Premee Mohamed Luminaria – Matt Thompson Cover art by Ben Bronstein  

Leseprobe

Metaphorosis

July 2016

edited by B. Morris Allen

ISSN: 2573-136XISBN: 978-1-64076-066-0 (e-book)

Metaphorosis

Neskowin

Table of Contents

Metaphorosis

July 2016

Regarding The Sainted Pirate Nicholas: A True Enough Story

A question for Michael M. Jones

About Michael M. Jones

My Dog is the Constellation Canis Major

A question for Jarod K. Anderson

About Jarod K. Anderson

Serenity

A question for Jeanette Gonzalez

About Jeanette Gonzalez

The Last

A question for Premee Mohamed

About Premee Mohamed

Luminaria

It came from Matt Thompson

A question for Matt Thompson

About Matt Thompson

Metaphorosis Publishing

Copyright

Landmarks

Title Page

Table of Contents

Body Matter

July 2016

Regarding the Sainted Pirate Nicholas — Michael M. Jones My Dog is the Constellation Canis Major — Jarod K. Anderson Serenity — Jeanette Gonzalez The Last — Premee Mohamed Luminaria — Matt Thompson

Regarding The Sainted Pirate Nicholas: A True Enough Story

Michael M. Jones

So there we are, in the venerable Rat King Tavern, on La Isla de los Diablos Perdidos (Lost Devils Island to you English-speakers), somewhere deep in the Emerald Sea, and it’s me and One-Handed Carlos and the Professor and Barney that acts as the bartender, and we’re swapping true tales of the strangest things to ever cross our paths back when we were still sailing instead of warming barstools and seeing to visiting crews. It’s a fine game of one-upmanship with bragging rights and drinks for the winner, good-natured ridicule for the losers. One-Handed Carlos has just tossed off a sinker of a story involving the Flying Dutchman (and who hasn’t seen that fine fellow by now?) and the Professor’s in the middle of a story involving the Dead Pirate Edwards.

“Dead Pirate Edwards?” interrupts Carlos. “Don’t you mean the Dread Pirate Edwards?” It’s a logical question, since a lot of inexperienced captains call themselves the Dread So-and-So, to the point where it’s like having the last name Smith, or Johnson. Mind you, most of them are about as terrifying as newborn kittens.

“Oh no,” is the reply. “I mean Dead, for dead he is, and dead he was. He commands the fiercest crew of zombies to ever sail the Seven Seas, and how they got that way, stories do differ, though I favor the one involving a scorned voodoo lover. Every night when the moon shines, their ship of the damned emerges from a mysterious fogbank to prey upon the unwary, in search of brains to feed their infernal hungers. And a dozen, no, two dozen times, they’ve been reported sunk, the Grinning Skull seen slipping beneath the waves, and yet a full moon later, there it is again, no worse for wear. And their voices hiss out across the sea on a calm night. ‘Sssooo hungry…’ they moan, and wise crews turn tail and set sail for warmer climates indeed…”

We don’t let him go on in this vein, because the Professor, a self-taught expert in whatever subject catches his fancy from day to day, never knows when to stop, and his story’s not much better than Carlos’. Believe me, once you’ve spent a while in the Rat King Tavern, it takes a certain kind of story to stand out. I, however, have something special. I thump my mug upon the tabletop, and proclaim, “Keep your Dutchmen and your zombies, your Mariners and white whales. For I once saw the Sainted Pirate Nicholas, and in no person no less.”

Now that gets a chorus of snorts and rude comments, seeing as how the Sainted Pirate Nicholas is the tallest of tales, the must dubious of rum-soaked myths, the biggest load of parrot droppings. It’s a monumentally bold claim indeed to invoke him. I’ve set the bar high indeed, and now I must deliver. A new round is poured, and I begin…

#

It was roughly a dozen years ago, back before Burnbeard Harry gave up the open seas to take on governorship of our fair island under the tender auspices of the Silent Lords, back when you could make a damned fine living if you were part of a good crew. I was serving as a general sailor and part-time carpenter aboard the Golden Cyclops, a two-masted Sidhe schooner captained by Charles Bloodworthy, who had well-earned his name by that point, infamous for leaving few survivors in his terrible wake. We’d had a splendid summer ranging up and down the Emerald Sea, preying upon the troll jewel merchants out of Avalon, the gnomish spice traders of the Zurich desert, and of course the regular passenger vessels between Faerie and Earth. Oh yes, ‘twas a fine summer indeed. We were nearing the end of our season, looking forward to wintering right here on this island, or possibly heading for sunnier shores. There wasn’t a man among us that wouldn’t be rich when we made landfall, and broke by the time the northern ice cracked several months later. I myself had earned a healthy share after we captured an elven frigate full of silk and gold and delicate sugar candies, a cargo that never made it to fine Xanadu.

We were feeling fat and happy and full of ourselves. Even Captain Bloodworthy was in a good mood, ordering an extra ration of spiced rum to keep the merriment going. That should have been our first indication that things couldn’t last, for he had a legendary temper, and flogged a man most every Tuesday whether anyone deserved it or not, and only our continued successes kept us from mutiny. But I digress. I remember the day well, for the sun hung hot and heavy over the horizon, and I was up on the poop deck performing minor repairs upon a railing damaged in the previous engagement. I’ll admit we’d pretty much been lulled into a sense of security, for weren’t we the fiercest, toughest band of rogues to sail the seas that season? Oh yes, and pride goes before the fall. For at our moment of greatest content, a shape loomed against the sun, a deadly sloop casting a dour silhouette onto our good humor. Jack Keeneye, up in the crow’s nest, was the first to give the call, “Ship ahoy!” and we scrambled to ready stations as we awaited more information. Stay and fight, or turn and flee? That was the only question, for back then, there were only predators and prey out there, where no greater authority could see you. If indeed we could take them, be they fellow pirates or a late-season trader, we would. If the odds didn’t favor us … well, we hadn’t gotten this far by being stupid now, had we? But even as we considered our options, Jack’s next words came high with terror. The panic in his voice chilled us all, for he was a steady type with ice water in his veins, the sort to stare Death in the face and laugh. “Gods save us, it’s the North Pole!”

The North Pole. Such an innocuous name for such a legendarily feared ship. Just like now, everyone knew someone who claimed they knew someone who’d seen it. A bold red ship of unknown origins, it always struck from your blind spot, on your tail before you knew it. Captained by the Sainted Pirate Nicholas, an immense, white-bearded figure who judged everyone by some perverse scale of worthiness and punished the wicked mercilessly. Crewed by demons, or pygmies, or cannibals, or zombie monkeys—on that note the stories differed, but they were always described as an implacable, unstoppable swarm. The ship’s name was emblazoned on the sides in bold, bright glittering paint, reflecting the sun so you could see it from miles away. It flew the skull and crossbones, but this skull wore a distinctive white hat, much like an ominous jester’s crown with a single tail. You saw that flag, you knew who was coming. And from all those stories, one thing was absolutely certain:

No ship had ever won a battle against the North Pole. The Shrieking Banshee had vanished, leaving behind one half-mad cabin boy on a lifeboat to tell a gibbering tale of monsters and vengeance. Queen Bridget’s Wrath escaped, but only after throwing overboard everything that would slow their passage, including half the crew. And as for Amelia’s Ghost…well, when they found that ship drifting without a single soul on her, the discoverers burned her on the spot, not even daring to salvage so much as a single coin. Not after they read the last entry in the logbook, which was penned in a hurry, and broke off in a splotch of red.

Bloodworthy was not about to let his ship join the doomed ranks of those I’ve listed above. He immediately cried for us to heave to and flee, but the crew was a step ahead, already leaping into motion, choosing flight over fight. We prodded the Golden Cyclops to life with an urgency born of absolute terror. Though we caught the wind through sheer dumb luck, though we tossed overboard the heaviest of our cargoes and supplies—my heart breaks at the treasures we discarded, and though we did our damnedest, it was all in vain. We maintained the chase by an hour or two, but the North Pole was swifter; whether by ship’s design or dark magic or the will of a perverse god, I couldn’t say.