“Keep your hand out,” she commanded. She took a plastic capsule from within her own mouth and tipped its granules into his hand. “Swallow this. Quickly.” He hesitated, but seeing her glance at the door, he complied. Within a minute, his head dropped to his chest and she quickly slipped her arms beneath his slumped shoulders and slid him to the floor where she placed him in the recovery position. She rapped on the door. “Guard, I need an ambulance, driver only, doctor to accompany patient. Unconscious collapse,” she shouted.
She heard the guard bark on her radio.
Mirai felt as if time had slowed. All these months in the planning.
Sirens outside heralded an ambulance. Together she worked with the driver to load Dimitri onto a stretcher, down the lift and into the back of the van. Once underway, she made a show of adjusting his oxygen mask whilst surreptitiously unclasping her seatbelt and reaching into her bag.
At the edge of Chinatown, she leant forward to the driver and thrust the plastic implant gun into his neck until a drop of blood appeared. “This contains the flu virus. Stop the van and get out. Do not touch the radio.”
The driver needed no second bidding and leapt out, stumbling towards the main road without looking back.
Seconds later, a taxi swerved into the alleyway, fishtailing to a halt.
“Oh my god, Anya,” she gasped.
“We don’t have long, Mum,” said Anya. “Is he in the back?”
“Yes, help me get him out. Oh, thank god, Dimitri, you’re waking up.”
They helped Dimitri into Anya’s car and a few hours later, barely a word spoken, they trundled along a familiar dirt track, then below the rusty sign for Bridge Farm and slowly pulled into a barn.
Serina opened the cottage door almost immediately. She looked alive in a way Mirai had never seen before. “Hurry, come inside. Anya will hide the car.”
In the dingy cottage, Dimitri sank into a filthy armchair. “The papers . . . ?”
“We got them to Audrey and Monique,” said Serina.
“And are we in the news yet?” he asked, looking from Mirai to Serina.
“Are we in the news?” said Serina. “You can bet your microchip.” She switched on the TV and smiled.
The same news was on every channel.
“Prime Minister Amanda Stone has been arrested on charges of bioterrorism and genocide relating to the 2040 flu epidemic that saw Australia’s population fall by half.
“It has come to light that the Prime Minister may have engineered the outbreak in order to precipitate her rise in the previously all-male government. Reports of men being imprisoned without proven crimes are also being investigated. Prime Minister Stone’s notoriously extremist views on immigration, genetic diversification and misandry are believed to be cornerstones of her illegal actions.
“It has been confirmed that human rights lawyer Dimitri Berkovic will be counsel to the inquiry in conjunction with two unnamed U.N. international criminal lawyers.”
Mirai hugged Serina, and Anya who had just walked in. It felt like freefall.
Dimitri closed his eyes and smiled. “A new chapter.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: ALICE Lam is a Melbourne-based writer. She has a number of published stories in anthologies including Atlantis Short Story Contest 2018, Didcot Writers, Black Hare Press and Aussie Speculative Fiction. She delights in exploring the darkness and dysfunction innate in our psyche. Alice is also a health writer, GP and dabbles in dodgy drumming. Do check out her author website at https://www.alicelambooks.com/
Queen of the Tides by Zoey Xolton
LUNA SAT UPON HER CELESTIAL throne, watching the events upon Terra Mater unfold, far below. A cool breeze ruffled her feathered wings and caressed her pale skin as she took a sip of divine nectar. The Luna Gardens were in full bloom this time of year, an ethereal display of snow-whites, glimmering shades of silver and the subtle hazy hues of dusky violet.
Her remote, grand palace—with its high spiralling white towers reaching for the stars—was silent, save for the gentle, lulling trickle of her ornate moonstone fountains. The force-field that protected her kingdom from the vacuum of Outer Space shimmered softly, visible only to her keen, immortal eyes. Unlike the colourful green and blue surface of the living goddess, Terra Mater, her lonely outpost lacked an atmosphere of its own. Were it not for the magically reinforced field around her palace, and the artificial gravity generated by her solar engines, nothing could thrive.
Though she enjoyed the company of her retinue of musical, frolicking, virginal nymphs gifted to her by the mighty Jupiter, she had dismissed them for the Rites of the Full Moon. She needed peace and quiet to focus her energies to perform the Call of the Tides. If she failed in her galactic duties as Tide Keeper, Jupiter’s precious mortals would suffer a slow and terrible fate.
Their very lives, though they did not know it, rested upon her shoulders, as much as it did their sun god, Sol. They praised her cosmic brother for his life-giving radiance. Their crops, their livestock, their ability to stay warm during winter; so much hinged on his celestial heat.
But were it not for her, distant and cold upon the moon, the Queen of Isolation, their nights would be perpetually dark, their sea-dwelling creatures could not exist, and they would swelter in stagnation without the shifting, cooling sea breeze. Without her, Terra Mater herself would wobble, tilting violently on her axis, almost falling over on her side, resulting in cataclysmic climate events.
Luna gifted the world of man stability and time. It was her influence that acted as a hand-brake on the planet, slowing its rapid rotation, giving mankind longer days to toil and enjoy. Without her, there would be no seasons, no spring, summer, fall or winter. All were elements over which she held authority and dominion.
Placing her goblet of divine nectar down, she rose, taking a deep, calming breath. Dusk on Terra Mater had already fallen, and the first stars pricked the darkening shroud of Nox, as she blanketed the world in night. It was time to Call the Tides, and perform the Rite of the Full Moon. Placing her triple moon circlet upon her brow, the central moonstone that represented the Full Moon glimmering, she went out into her night-blooming gardens to begin the cosmic ritual.
Standing within her Sacred Circle, she snapped her fingers and the edges traced into the stone burst into shimmering blue flame. With the Circle cast, she brought her hands before her, her hands beginning to glow. Then, with the practised art of thousands of years, she began the Rite. Her dance was one of ebb and flow, of steady, swaying motions, like the waves of the sea.
Rising and falling, her diaphanous gown of moonlight glittered, trailing behind her, ghosting her every movement. For hours she danced, summoning her inner strength; using it to shift the planetary satellite along its elliptic orbit, to the head of its apsis, and closer to Terra Mater. This dance was to call forth what the mortals named the Super Moon; it marked the celestial point in time when the moon was closest, when it appeared larger in the night sky.
Such a dance took focus, precision, and the expenditure of a great of deal energy. She worked with the gravity of the sun and the rotation of the earth to heave the moon to perigee. The stars above and beyond watched on. The Seven Sisters, the daughters of Atlas, wore concerned expressions upon their fair faces; they knew the strain and burden that Luna bore, and could see her weakening with each step of the Rite.
As the Witching Hour—which belonged to the goddess Nox—approached, the Rite of the Full Moon drew to a close. Luna collapsed to the inscribed stone circle, the midnight blue flames perishing as she fell. Prone and exhausted, she lay, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. It would take a full Lunar Cycle for her to recover from this trial, and then it would be time again, to Call the Tides. Such was the duty of a goddess.
She knew that the mortals thought the lives of the immortal to be exotic and leisurely, and whilst it was true that she had a beautiful kingdom, with countless riches and fine company whenever she wished it, the nature of her existence was one of responsibili
ty. She lived not to frolic and cavort, but to ensure Jupiter’s precious mortals could continue on, day to day, night by night, in the manner to which they had become accustomed. The mortals were the King of the Gods’ most prized and most beloved; and all gods and goddesses laboured to keep them.
Lost to her thoughts, Luna was vaguely aware of a comforting, sparkling, silver light descending upon her. The Sisters curtsied before her, then proceeded to help her to her feet. With their support, she climbed gratefully into her bed of carved moonstone, revelling in the soft, white swan-down, and the intricate, beautiful spider’s silk covers spun for her by the great goddess of the loom herself, Minerva.
That night as she slept, her dreams were filled with visions of gratitude and joy. Her loyal priestesses upon Terra Mater danced in her honour, bare as the day they were birthed from the womb. They worshipped her shining glory, thanking her for all that she did: the sacred, mysterious goddess of the moon, she who wore the Triple Crown. Turning in her sleep, a small smile crept to Luna’s lips. Not all took her labour for granted, and that alone was enough.
For now, she would rest; but soon, for them, she would dance again. For as long as the planets turned and the galaxies glittered, she would remain their devoted Queen of the Tides.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: ZOEY Xolton is an internationally Best Selling Australian Speculative Fiction Author, and Award Winning Poet, with a penchant for the Dark Fantasy, Paranormal Romance, and Horror genres. Her works have appeared in dozens of themed anthologies, with many more due for publication.
She is especially fond of short fiction, and is working on future story collections, as well as a series of novelettes and novellas.
She is a proud mother of two, and is fortunate enough to be married to her soul mate.
Website: www.zoeyxolton.com
Author Page: www.facebook.com/authorzoeyxolton
Twitter: www.twitter.com/zoeyxolton
dust (and earth) rising by Frank Prem
I will rise
from the breath
of my own dust
swirling
alive
when the rest
is ash
different
but
I am
the same
everything has changed
yet
I
remain
and I will make
this time
myself
all new
this time
be only
a beating heart
only
the things
that will grow
and that
is all
it is enough
higher desires
seem a wish
too much
and I will sing
the breeze
will carry me
within its voice
a song of calm
that may
one day
be joy again
I long
for the days
to be joy
again
with
all voices
every one of them
a part
of the song
together
with mine
and I will
rise up
in the dust
that is
all time
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: FRANK Prem has been a storytelling poet for forty years. When not writing or reading his poetry to an audience, he fills his time by working as a psychiatric nurse.
He has been published in magazines, e-zines and anthologies, in Australia and in a number of other countries, and has both performed and recorded his work as ‘spoken word’.
Frank has published three collections of free verse poetry—Small Town Kid (2018), Devil In The Wind (2019), and The New Asylum (2019).
Frank has also published the collaborative work—Herja Devastation (2019) together with Australian author Cage Dunn.
He and his wife live in the beautiful township of Beechworth in northeast Victoria (Australia).
https://FrankPrem.com
The Cat Who’s Always Right by Caterina, aka Helen Lyne
My name is Caterina. I’m a feline and a ghost.
Advising politicians is what I like doing most.
I don’t know if I qualify for this anthology;
my fur’s been shed on real events and not mythology.
Spec fiction’s not my genre; I write poetry not prose.
My themes are on the epic scale, on nations’ joys and woes.
My tales of countries’ leaders don’t radiate with light.
Those leaders who’ve ignored me have learnt I’m always right.
When I purred to Tutankhamun he thought that I was daft
in saying for his burial he had to dig a shaft
and chamber to my orders and then he could expect
to lie there for millennia before he earned respect.
On the Ides I purred to Caesar that he would end up dead
from deep and nasty knife wounds if he didn’t stay in bed.
Napoleon ignored me when I told him what to do,
The British told him, “Come on, chum. Let’s meet at Waterloo.”
And recently I took a leap and trod with velvet paws
across the White House carpet to the man who loves applause.
I sat beside the telephone and purred, “Don’t call Ukraine.
You’ll precipitate a scandal for a non-existent gain.”
He ignored the “fake news” warning from this border-crossing feline
He made the call and therefore to impeachment made a beeline.
And now I’ve left the White House and have leapt across the sea
to Oz, where monstrous fires cede no ground to vanity.
Although a ghost, I feel the heat and hugeness of the blaze
and seek the country’s leader through the smokiness and haze.
I find so many heroes that I cannot list their names.
They fight and rescue people from the savagery of flames,
all like the firey on the news who’s fought for countless weeks.
He’s smeared with dirt and ashes, dead weary as he speaks.
He says he’s not courageous but has a good mate who,
his own house lost, saves others, fighting staunchly with his crew.
Finding Mister Morrison, I meow I wonder why he
holidayed at such a time in faraway Hawaii.
His critics have their claws out and the music he must face
is worse than caterwauling by the tomcats of my race.
There are signs that he is trying to get his act together
If he doesn’t read the forecasts at least he feels the weather.
He called up the reservists but can’t help making blues.
He forgot to tell the fire chief who heard it on the news.
The volunteers and fireys give hope and inspiration
and show the strength of spirit that’s the bedrock of the nation.
It’s they who lead the country and their courage will remain
implanted in the people’s hearts like the blessedness of rain.
My name is Caterina. I’m a feline and a ghost.
I’m the cat that politicians should listen to the most.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: SEE more of Helen’s fiction and poetry on her website: www.helenlyne.com.au
Our Meeting Place by Holly Sydelle
I could no longer feel, but the memories flooded my senses.
Cold, icy wind rushed through my sinuses like a tidal wave.
Fine mist cloaked the mountains; a layer of silk.
The sky blushed pink with the kiss of sunset.
This was our meeting place.
I didn’t have to wait much longer now.
Her hand found mine in the space between us.
Her beauty was exactly as I remembered it; same as
the day we eloped here.
Skin as white as the Icelandic ice, she looked like a nymph emerged from the mist.
“I’ve been waiting darling,” she whispered, voice as soft as the breeze.
“Twenty years too long,” I replied, pulling her closer.
My skin, no longer lined with age, matched hers as our hands entwined.
We stood together, looking out at the mountains,
The same sentinels who witnessed our vows all those years ago.
This was our meeting place.
There was not much time left now.
Twilight painted over the mountains with monochrome strokes.
As the scene began to fade with darkness, so did our bodies.
Hushed silence held the glen.
An ethereal glow surrounded us.
The beginning of the end.
I looked out once more at our meeting place.
The union of moss, mist and stone.
My spirit had needed to visit this place one last time.
Soul satisfied, I nodded to my beauty.
“I’m ready for you to take me home.”
Stories of Hope Page 12
