B is for Broken, page 1
PRAISE FOR A IS FOR APOCALYPSE
“In A is for Apocalypse, the world ends in both fire and ice–and by asteroid, flood, virus, symphony, immortality, the hands of our vampire overlords, and crowdfunding. A stellar group of authors explores over two dozen of the bangs and whispers that might someday take us all out. Often bleak, sometimes hopeful, always thoughtful, if A is for Apocalypse is as prescient as it is
entertaining, we’re in for quite a ride.”
– Amanda C. Davis, author of The Lair of the Twelve Princesses
“Editor Rhonda Parrish gives us apocalyptic fiction at its finest. There’s not a whimper to be heard amongst these twenty-six End of the World stories. A wonderful collection.”
– Deborah Walker, Nature Futures author
“One of the “good ones”… creative and imaginative works of short fiction around a compelling theme.”
– Ian Dawe, Sequart Magazine
“…with an assortment of plots and genres (some horror, some science fiction, even a few dabbling in romance and humour) there’s a little bit here for everyone. Fans of apocalyptic tales should find A is for Apocalypse entertaining…”
– Jess Landry, Hellnotes
ALSO EDITED BY RHONDA PARRISH
Available Now
A IS FOR APOCALYPSE
B IS FOR BROKEN
FAE
METASTASIS
NITEBLADE MAGAZINE
Coming Soon
CORVIDAE
SCARECROW
SIRENS
C IS FOR CHIMERA
B is for Broken
Edited by Rhonda Parrish
B is for Broken
All copyrights remain with original authors
Published by Poise and Pen Publishing
2015
ISBN-13: 978-0-9936990-8-5
ISBN-10: 0993699081
http://www.poiseandpen.com
Cover art: Victoria Hoke
Cover design: Jonathan Parrish
Story title art by Victoria Hoke
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental and not intentional.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Poise and Pen Publishing - http://www.poiseandpen.com
CONTENTS
A - BRITTANY WARMAN
B - MILO JAMES FOWLER
C - C.S. MACCATH
D - SARA CLETO
E - SAMANTHA KYMMELL-HARVEY
F - MEGAN ARKENBERG
G - GARY B. PHILLIPS
H - ALEXANDRA SEIDEL
I - JONATHAN C. PARRISH
J - SIMON KEWIN
K - BETH CATO
L - CORY CONE
M - CINDY JAMES
N - ALEXIS A. HUNTER
O - MICHAEL M. JONES
P - STEVE BORNSTEIN
Q - BD WILSON
R - MICHAEL KELLAR
S - DAMIEN ANGELICA WALTERS
T - MARGE SIMON AND MICHAEL FOSBURG
U - SUZANNE VAN ROOYEN
V - L.S. JOHNSON
W - PETE ALDIN
X - GABRIELLE HARBOWY
Y - LILAH WILD
Z - KV TAYLOR
BONUS "A IS FOR APOCALYPSE" STORY
Brittany Warman
ONCE upon a time, there were curses. Curses that ruined families, shattered hearts, disfigured, humiliated, and punished. There were some curses that were justified and other burdens that weren’t fair at all. But curses, of course, could always be broken. That was their way, their price. You could inflict so much pain with a spell of misfortune… but hope was always possible.
A hundred years is a long time and the world has changed. In this new, awakened world, there are no curses, at least not the way I remember them. My prince studies the skies with mechanical devices like I had never seen before and writes detailed notes about the movements of the universe. He whispers my name to the heavens but isn’t thinking of me.
I do not sleep now. Instead, I stand outside and I too watch the skies. The glowing lights shine over the ice most nights here: red, blue, yellow, but mostly green. It snakes through the air like the vines of my old rose bushes, twisting and pulsing with something unknown. Auroras are always moving, shimmering behind the stars, fading and reappearing yet I remain here, still, a dying rose on the snow.
My prince cannot truly understand the auroras, he only knows he is drawn to them, much as he was drawn to me. They are a mystery, unexplainable, a puzzle to be solved or kissed awake. The Princess Aurora has been awakened, he has moved on. There is nothing unknown about a girl whose curse is broken. She is just a girl after all.
“Aurora,” he murmurs as he drifts off to sleep.
The prince explains: “We think auroras are caused by charged particles entering our atmosphere – this causes ionisation and the excitation of atmospheric constituents and that results in the optical emissions we see in the auroral zone of the atmosphere, which is between 10° and 20° from the geomagnetic poles of the earth, you understand.” The empty words force themselves into my mind, tumbling over green, misty memories of the tightness in my chest and her gentle silence. He does not know her like I know her. I glimpse the bewitched sky over his shoulder and let my gaze go hazy. He kisses my forehead with a bemused smile at my seeming confusion and moves away.
And what of me, then? The lights shine into my wide-open eyes but I am still sleeping. As I watch the auroras move and change, the night sky a canvas for an enchanted painting, I think: perhaps I too can move with the stars, fading into a memory almost before anyone realizes I’ve ever been here. I am still unexplainable to myself. Look how my fingers remember how to trace the magic in sharp things, how my legs can run again. Watch me dance with my sister-self in the sky, unenchanted or not. Together with the glittering void I will break this new curse and shine again like a luminous mystery in the darkness.
At night we whisper together about our plans, the aurora and I. It won’t be long now. Every day I feel myself becoming more and more a part of her, a part again of a magic that science cannot fully understand. Perhaps this is the only fate for victims of curses, blessed with knowledge no earth-bound creature should have. One day my prince will awaken and I will be gone, a girl he can’t quite remember who left only the marks of her bare feet in the snow. The aurora will kiss my eyes and I will dream again at last.
A is for Aurora
Milo James Fowler
“IT’S time,” Hank grunted at the helm of the Effervescent Magnitude as the gorgeous star cruiser hurtled through deep space.
“Already?” Captain Bartholomew Quasar’s brow wrinkled. He glanced at his favorite Carpethrian helmsman who didn’t resemble a man at all. Hank looked more like a drunk orangutan or an overweight sloth suffering from irritable bowel syndrome. “Didn’t we make a stop six months ago?”
Hank turned in his swivel chair. “In Earth time, yes sir. But Carpethria’s years are much shorter.”
“So it’s been over a year since your last…” Quasar cleared his throat, leaning back in his deluxe-model captain’s chair. “Mating season?”
Bill snickered.
“What are you doing on the bridge, Bill?” Quasar snapped.
“Uh…” The goofy smile dropped from Bill’s face.
“Go back to engineering where you belong. Seriously. Whoever heard of a ship’s engineer hanging around the bridge all day and snickering at inappropriate moments. Go on, get out of here, or I’ll demote you back to janitor!”
Hanging his head, Bill left the bridge.
“The same goes for anybody else within earshot.” Captain Quasar’s steely-eyed gaze swept across his bridge crew. They stared back at him silently. “This is no laughing matter. Our dear helmsman must return to his home world, and we’ll make sure he gets there. Or…he will, rather. He is our helmsman, after all.”
“Captain.”
Startled, Quasar drew back from his first officer who had a habit of appearing at his elbow without warning.
“Yes, Commander?”
“Permission to speak freely, sir.”
“Always.” He gave her a dashing smile which, as usual, did nothing to alleviate the stoic expression on her almond-eyed, olive-toned features. Perhaps someday she would appreciate his blond, blue-eyed charm. Opposites were said to attract, after all.
“Sir, we cannot continue to reverse course every six months.” She kept her voice low. “There is a galaxy out there for us to explore, and we can’t do that if we’re tethered by this Carpethrian’s…needs.”
“Humph,” said Hank. Like most Carpethrians, he had exceptional hearing—despite the fact that both his ears were hidden beneath copious amounts of shaggy fur.
“What do you suggest, then?” Quasar lowered his voice as well. “That we ignore his reproductive cycle? He’s apt to become surly.”
“I doubt we would really notice a difference, sir.”
“Humph.”
“Perhaps we should continue this discussion in the conference room, Commander.” Before Quasar and Wan could excuse themselves from the bridge, the intercom button on the captain’s armrest lit up. Quasar punched it with a thumb. “Yes?”
“Bill here,” said the ship’s engineer. “Just wanted to let you know I made it safely down to the engineering deck. Didn’t want you to worry about me or anything.”
Quasar palmed his forehead.
“Oh, and one other thing,” Bill continued. “The reactor could really use a tune-up. So if we’re already headed to Carpethria anyway, maybe we could have them take a look at it. You know, since they’re the ones who installed it and everything.”
Quasar raised an eyebrow at Commander Wan. She hesitated before giving him a slow nod, the resignation in her eyes clear to see.
“Set a course to your home world, Hank ol’ buddy,” Quasar ordered.
“Yes sir.” With something akin to a spring in his movements, Hank swept his four very hairy arms across the helm console, setting coordinates for Carpethria.
“Captain,” Wan said, “if this is their annual mating season, wouldn’t it stand to reason the Carpethrian engineers would be…otherwise occupied? Unable to work on our ship’s reactor?”
“We’ll make it a quickie.” Quasar gave her a wink. “In and out. Wham-bam, thank you alien friends. Won’t keep them long at all. And I’m sure Hank won’t keep us docked longer than necessary while he fulfills his duties. Providing for the continuation of his species. Progeny, and whatnot. Didn’t take him long last time, from what I recall.”
“Humph.”
Quasar’s intercom lit up again. “Really, Bill?”
“Uh—about the reactor, Captain…” Bill cleared his throat. “It might need maintenance a little sooner than I thought.”
Crimson warning lights flashed along the perimeter of the bridge as the ship screeched and shuddered to an abrupt halt. Quasar pounded his armrest with a fist.
“Maybe if you spent more of your time in engineering—!”
“I think I can fix it,” Bill replied as languidly as ever. “Just might take us a bit. To sort things out, you know. Get the ship ship-shape.” He snickered at his little pun.
“How long?” Quasar glanced at Hank. The Carpethrian gripped his console, staring into the void of space via the ship’s main viewscreen.
“No more than a day or two.”
“Get on it.” Quasar leapt from his deluxe-model captain’s chair. “Hank, you’re with me.”
“Captain?” Wan and Hank said in unison.
“You have the bridge, Number Wan,” Quasar said with another wink. She pressed her lips into a firm line at the ridiculous moniker. “Hank and I are taking a little trip.”
“Where, sir?” Hank lumbered after the captain.
“To Carpethria, of course.”
“But the reactor—”
“We’ll take a transport pod.”
“Captain.” Commander Wan stepped forward with a hand on his chair. “It will take you nearly two days to reach Carpethria. By the time the reactor is up and running again—”
“We’ll already be there.” Quasar flashed a winning smile. “Beats sitting around here for forty-eight hours, eh Hank?”
The Carpethrian shrugged his superior set of shoulders noncommittally, but his movements were quicker than usual.
“Have a transport pod ready and waiting for us, Commander,” Quasar said. “There’s not a minute to waste.”
Hank was not one to express his feelings verbally—besides the occasional humph—so it came as no surprise when the Carpethrian failed to thank Quasar while they drifted away from the Magnitude’s starboard launch bay in a cramped transport pod and set course for Carpethria at full impulse power. What did surprise the captain was when Hank cleared one of his throats, giving his voice an oddly harmonic quality, and muttered, “You didn’t have to come along, sir.”
“It’s my pleasure. You think I’d rather be stuck dead in the water, so to speak? No thanks. These boots were made for walking.” Quasar nodded toward his feet, propped up on his side of the navigation console, leaving all of the actual navigating to Hank. “Besides, I seem to recall that I rather enjoyed my last visit to your home world, and I—”
“I rigged the reactor, sir.”
“Come again?” Quasar’s boots dropped to the deck as he faced his helmsman.
“I was hoping you’d send me alone this time.”
“You broke my ship?”
“I’m sorry, sir. But it had to be done. “
Quasar’s mouth hung open. “Why?”
“I’m—uh…a little embarrassed about this.”
This? What was this? Certainly the act of procreation itself could not be cause for the Carpethrian’s shame. In the captain’s experience, there was nothing more glorious in the galaxy than coitus—besides perhaps the Zerubular Nebula with a fresh halo of cosmic dust.
“I don’t understand. I thought you’d managed to get busy every time we dropped you off for a little procreation recreation.”
Hank grumbled into his fur.
“You do have a mate, I trust.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And offspring? Little fuzzy-wuzzies?”
“Two dozen, at last count.”
Again, Quasar found his mouth hanging open. “Then what’s the problem?”
“I’m not allowed to see them, because I do not serve aboard a Carpethrian vessel. Our young are not taught that humans exist until they are of age. To learn about you… hairless creatures… would terrify them. No offense.”
“None taken. Speaking for myself, I’m not entirely hairless.” Quasar drew himself up to his fullest height. “Well then, this isn’t the mission I signed up for, but it appears your offspring are about to receive an early education. To Carpethria we go, my very hairy friend. With all haste!”
Nearly two days later, during which time the captain had either dozed or recounted action-packed tales of his glory days as a United World soldier, Hank managed to steer the transport pod to its destination. The planet Carpethria was a giant hazel marble with a swirling misty atmosphere, its people xenophobic and uninterested in off-world affairs. Once upon a time, Carpethria had reached out into the void with a radio signal and found a planet, Earth, with the mineral resources they lacked and ‘they’d been allies ever since. They weren’t as close as brothers, though, more like standoffish second cousins.
“A true garden of Eden,” Quasar mused as Hank took the transport pod down through the upper atmosphere. The fog eventually cleared to reveal breathtaking vistas of the planet’s lush jungles, flora growing as large as it hadn’t on Earth since prehistoric times. “I can’t believe it’s recovered so fast. When evil Emperor Zhan destroyed—”
“Sir?”
“Wait. Never mind.” Quasar cringed sheepishly. “Alternate timeline.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t we have to hail them, announce our approach?”
“Unnecessary, Captain. Carpethrian freighter protocols will disguise our engine signature. We should be able to land without incident.”
“Resourceful.” Quasar appraised his helmsman. Obviously, Hank had put a lot of thought into this mission. “So let me see if I understand the situation. Every time we’ve carted you back here, it really had nothing to do with your mating season?”
“Correct.”
“You were… just trying to visit your offspring?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Who stopped you?”
“Their mother, sir. She can be a... very formidable obstacle.”
“I see.” He didn’t. From personal experience, Captain Quasar knew Hank to be quite the formidable adversary himself. Every Carpethrian was trained in the art of hand-to-hand-to-hand-to-hand combat, and Hank excelled at the use of blades as well as pulse weapons. Even unarmed, his surly presence was enough to grant him a wide berth aboard the Effervescent Magnitude.
“Perhaps it would be best if you…” Hank weighed his words as he maneuvered them toward a sheer cliff strung with rope-like vines. “Stayed on board, sir.”
“I’ll do no such thing. If it’s my fault you can’t see your own babies, then I’ll be the one to set things straight with their mother. What’s her name, by the way? Mrs. Hank?” Quasar chuckled to himself.
The truth was, Hank wasn’t even Hank’s name. The captain’s translation device, sewn into the collar of his uniform, was the best Earth had to offer, but it hadn’t experienced enough alien dialects firsthand to be without error. Its syntax and semantics were still limited by the sum total of Earth’s human languages, and the Carpethrian tongue seemed to be made up entirely of Neanderthal-like monosyllables and deep-throated noises most humans would deem impolite, if not impossible to emulate. So Mrs. Hank’s name was translated as:
