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- Herausgeber: Metaphorosis Publishing
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
Beautifully written speculative fiction from Metaphorosis. All the stories from the month, plus author biographies, interviews, and story origins Table of Contents Tides of Reflection – Mark Rookyard A Song Without a Voice – Brad Preslar Solomon and the Dragon’s Tongue – Molly Etta Mr. McAvennie’s Freedom – Dan Micklethwaite
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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Metaphorosis
May 2016
edited by B. Morris Allen
ISSN: 2573-136XISBN: 978-1-64076-064-6 (e-book)
Metaphorosis
Neskowin
Table of Contents
Metaphorosis
May 2016
Tides of Reflection
A question for Mark Rookyard
About Mark Rookyard
A Song Without a Voice
It came from Brad Preslar
A question for Brad Preslar
About Brad Preslar
Solomon and the Dragon’s Tongue
A question for Molly Etta
About Molly Etta
Mr. McAvennie’s Freedom
A question for Dan Micklethwaite
About Dan Micklethwaite
Metaphorosis Publishing
Copyright
Landmarks
Title Page
Table of Contents
Body Matter
May 2016
Tides of Reflection — Mark Rookyard A Song Without a Voice — Brad Preslar Solomon and the Dragon's Tongue — Molly Etta Mr. McAvennie's Freedom — Dan Micklethwaite
Tides of Reflection
Mark Rookyard
The winds whispered promises of winter as they plucked with cold fingers at Silven’s shawl. She held it tighter around her shoulders and tucked her hair behind her ear. It was quiet on the cliff tops, the world seemingly shocked into appalled silence after the violence of the storm the night before. The sky was a parched blue, and diamonds of light danced on the sea under hazy pink clouds.
The path along the clifftop was overgrown, the grass thick and yellow. Once, the sea had been crowded with laughter and play, Silven watching from these very cliffs, afraid of the depths, unable to swim. Now the sea was quiet and undisturbed, the laughter long forgotten.
Below her, the waves were secretive and quiet, red near the pebbled beach, but growing darker out past the island with its alien walkways of impossibly ancient orange stone. Far overhead, plumes of white smoke trailing behind it, a scutter flew. More colonists free to flee now the storm was over. The raging winds could only keep them here for so long.
A small figure worked on a beach scoured clean by the winds and the rains. It could only be Jerek. It seemed to be a matter of honour to him not to be beaten into hiding by the presence of the sea.
Fear and frustration made Silven bold. She pulled a stalk of grass and twined it around her fingers as she strolled down to the beach. Jerek didn’t look up from his work. Curls of wood littered the pebbles around his feet as he ran a plane over the bottom of an upturned boat. His boots were thick and worn.
After a long pause, as the plane scraped and the sea murmured, Silven finally said, “You’re making another boat?”
“Aye,” Jerek said. The hair on his chin was coarse and dark. He shook splinters of wood from his plane.
Silven watched him until the sun was low in the sky and the sea was hunched and whispering and dark, retreating from the beach. Taking its secrets with it. Taking Kal with it. She held her shawl tighter. Jerek was wiping the bottom of the boat with a rag soaked in something thick and oily.
“We have something in common, you and I,” she said finally.
The rag stopped its circular motions a moment, only a moment, before it continued. “Aye,” Jerek said. “You, me, and a score of other people in this forsaken place.”
The wind whispered and the clouds drifted and the sun sank in the sky.
Silven turned to watch the sea skulk away like some furtive, sated predator. Kal was there, in its depths. It took her breath away to think of it. To think how cold it must be. How dark.
She left Jerek to his boat, alone and defiant under the cold stare of the sea. She could hear his hammer all the way as she walked back up the cliffs.
#
Marus was home when Silven returned. He sat at the kitchen table turning a small plaque around and around in his hand.
Silven switched on a light and opened the fridge.
“Where have you been?”
Even though she was looking in the fridge, Silven knew Marus hadn’t turned to ask his question.
“The beach.” She took a bottle and sat at the table, not looking at Marus.
“The beach.” Marus smiled, looking at the plaque in his hand. “We couldn’t drag you there before and now you can’t keep away.”
“Jerek was there, making another boat.”
Marus nodded, turning the plaque around in his hands. “He’s always been one for the sea. Even now, he can’t change what he is.”
Silven thought she knew what that plaque was, and it made her heart ache and her throat tighten at the sight of it. “What’s that you have there?” She had to fight to keep the anger from her voice.
Marus put the plaque on the table. ‘Kal’s Room’ it said on it. There was a picture of a dog, black and white. “We have to see to his room,” Marus said.
Silven felt her face flush. “Can’t you wait? Are you so ready to be rid of him? You won’t even go to the beach now! Why are you so keen to forget your son?” Her voice was shrill and she had to fight to catch her breath.
Marus was calm, sitting there, his fingers never leaving that plaque, and Silven hated him all the more for it.
“I was the one who took him there, Silven. I taught him to swim in those waters. Don’t you think I hate myself for it? I feel it too, you know. I can feel what lured him out there. Oh, you’re safe from it. Using your fear as an excuse, surrendering to it. Now you’re free to judge me, condemn me.” His fist was white around the plaque.
“Yes, you were the one to take him out there, weren’t you?” Silven’s anger was cold, her breath even, though she knew her hands were shaking as she slammed the door of the habitat behind her.
The cliffs were dark out towards the coast, the alien towers quiet as they watched the silent sea beyond.
She wondered if Jerek would be out there, facing the grim sea alone.
#
Silven had been watching Jerek work on the boat for most of the morning. She sat on a large rock and the wind blew in her hair. Jerek hadn’t said a word to her.
“You’re not afraid,” Silven said, relenting. “Most are afraid of the sea, yet you still go out there.” The sea was gentle before them, pale red as it lapped against the pebbled beach and the forgotten jetty.
Jerek looked up at her. He’d cut his hand, the wound raw and untreated. “Out there?” he said.
“Yes,” Silven said. “Isn’t that why you build the boat? To take it out to sea?”
“Aye,” Jerek had to allow. “That is what boats are for.” He sighed and ran his hand along the side of the boat. Its bow was smooth and angular, almost looking as though it had been shaped from a single piece of wood. It was big enough for two people, Silven noticed, and couldn’t help wondering who Jerek would ever take with him now his wife was gone.
“Don’t you hate it?” she said, her voice unnaturally loud over the eternal wind.
Jerek looked up from his work, an eyebrow raised. “Hate it?”
“The sea. It took your wife,” Silven said. She wanted to hurt him, to see pain in his impassive face, though she couldn’t have said why. Only two years before, he and his wife had been guests at Silven’s habitat. He’d looked younger, then. Happier.
