Stories of Hope

by Aussie Speculative Fiction

  AMBER WHITEFLOWER SKIRTED along the edge of the forest, the dappled sunlight casting picturesque patterns on the ground as she headed towards her grandmother’s house. Her tune was a cheerful melody that peaked and fell as her temperament dictated. Today it was lilting and high, indicative of the good mood she was in. She was excited to be visiting Grandma Lottie, who had been sick of late. So, Amber had baked her some faeberry muffins and made quaffberry jam. The small woven basket dangled from her slender arm as she skipped along, the bird and insect symphony providing a soundtrack to her journey.

  When she arrived at her grandmother’s house, she let herself in. The old woman was dozing on the couch, so Amber busied herself by making them some tea. Lottie awoke and shuffled into the kitchen. After giving her granddaughter a kiss on the cheek, she sat at the dining table and helped herself to a muffin.

  “How are you feeling today, Grandma?” Amber asked as she placed a plate in front of her, catching a few muffin crumbs in the process. She didn’t need to ask. She could already sense that her grandmother’s tune had faded, its composition muddled.

  “I’m fine dear, better than yesterday,” Lottie said.

  Amber hadn’t seen her grandmother the day before, so she couldn’t know if that was the truth. She finished making the tea and sat down. They spent the afternoon sipping tea, nibbling on muffins and smiling at each other as their tunes intertwined, transferring thoughts and feelings between them. They communicated by sharing melodic information over the course of a few hours before Lottie became tired and went to rest. Amber said goodbye with the promise to return and visit the next day.

  The walk home through the forest was less enjoyable than her earlier trip. She was worried about her grandmother and knew her time might be coming to an end. It saddened her greatly and her theme became sombre as she trudged home.

  She wasn’t paying attention when the tendrils of someone else’s tune probed hers. It was sharp and heavy, the beat startled her and she stopped and looked around. Several metres ahead was a young man leaning against a tree, arms crossed and one leg bent at the knee. She glared at him with her hands on her hips.

  “That was incredibly rude.” She took a few aggressive steps toward him. He smiled at her, a crooked smile that made her stomach flutter.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, uncrossing his arms, still grinning. He didn’t look sorry.

  “Next time ask!” She turned to go.

  “You looked so intense, I just wanted to know what you were thinking about. I’m sorry about your grandmother.”

  She paused and turned back to face him, realising she hadn’t put a block around that subject. She wasn’t expecting someone to go probing into her tune without permission. “You still should have asked.”

  “Very well, may I?” he said, offering that devilish smile again.

  She relented. Afraid she too would break out in a smile if she spoke, she merely nodded once and sent tendrils of her own tune to mingle with his. When their tunes meshed together she expected it to feel like it was with her friends or her grandmother, only more intense, akin to electricity buzzing through her. But it wasn’t like that. Their tunes crashed clumsily into each other, tumbling over one another like waves crashing against rocks. It was unpleasant.

  She still gathered the information he allowed her to know. His name was Deryall, he was three years her senior, single, both parents were still alive, and his best friend was a scruffy old dog named Scallion. He also wanted to kiss her, and Amber’s tune spluttered. She blushed at the thought. Whether he had forgotten to block this feeling or he intended for her to discover it, she couldn’t be sure. She retracted her musical strands and stood awkwardly staring at him.

  “Ah that’s a shame,” he said—smiling, his head tilted to the side. “I was hoping you could be my soulmate.”

  He said what she had been thinking. They were not destined to be together, despite their immediate physical attraction. Their tunes clashed. They could never make harmony. His song was direct and succinct; hers was dreamy and soft. If they had allowed their tunes to weave for much longer, they would both have ended up with serious headaches.

  “Farewell, my lady,” he said and gave a flourished bow, which she suspected was partly to mock her. Then he turned and headed into the depths of the forest. She stood there for a long time, watching him walk away, before she finally continued her trek home.

  SHE SAW HIM AGAIN THE next day, waiting by the same tree, and again the following weekend, on her way home from visiting her grandmother. They would talk for hours and even entwine their tunes together for a few minutes at each meeting, sharing parts of their lives with each other. Any more than that would be too painful and could potentially cause damage to one or both of their tunes. Talking, however, was safe and would often last for hours as they sat against the tree. Their tree. Weeks flew by and with each encounter Amber fell more in love with him. And though her feelings were reciprocated, she knew she could never be with him.

  “What’s the matter?” her mother asked one evening after noticing Amber pushing food around the plate, but not eating any of it. She looked up at her mother’s concerned face and her bottom lip started to quiver. Her mother sat down and grasped Amber’s hand in her own.

  “Tell me, maybe I can help.”

  “How did you and Daddy fall in love?”

  She frowned. “Why, he was my soul mate of course. When we met, our tunes intertwined and we created a beautiful new melody. I felt like I became lighter after that, my burdens seemed to shrink away. I was so happy. It was the missing chorus to my song.” She smiled as she told the story. “Why do you ask?”

  “I met someone. But we are not soulmates. Our tunes do not mesh. They don’t create a melody. It’s more like a mallet clanging on an anvil. But,” she paused, “I am in love with him.”

  Her mother let go of her hand and leaned back—shocked. She began shaking her head. “Amber, you must stay away from him. It could be very dangerous. For both of you.”

  “But mother, how can I? I’m miserable without him and he feels the same. Is there nothing I can do?”

  Her mother didn’t answer. She just stared at the table, her finger absentmindedly tracing a knot in the wood. Her father, having overheard, entered from the adjoining drawing room. “Ask your grandmother,” he said, then headed out the back door to smoke his pipe. Her mother also refused to discuss the subject further, busying herself with dishes. Amber got tired of trying and went to bed. The next weekend, she would visit her grandmother, as usual, and find out what her father had meant.

  “GRANDMA, HOW DID YOU and Grandpa fall in love?”

  Lottie’s face fell. When Amber tried to read her tune, she found her grandmother had put a block on most of her memories and emotions.

  “Why are you asking me this?”

  Amber’s aria explained the story of meeting Deryall. Lottie felt the girl’s heartache. But it was not an unfamiliar tune.

  “Daddy said I should ask you. Is there something you can do?”

  “There is something, but it is forbidden and risky.”

  “What? What is it?” Amber asked.

  “Are you sure this boy feels as you do?”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding her head. “He definitely does.”

  “Very well. But what I am about to tell you, you must keep to yourselves—you and this boy,” she said as her granddaughter nodded vigorously. “You can change your tune.”

  Amber gasped. “How?”

  “By taking the tune of someone else. It will change yours and become something new. Perhaps then your music will meld with his and you can be together.” Amber was getting excited, but Lottie raised her hand to calm her. “There are many risks.”

  “Such as?”

  “By changing your tune, you then leave your real soulmate without the chance of happiness with you. The same goes for Deryall’s soulmate. You would have to live with the guilt of knowing you have sentenced them to be alone forever.”r />
  “Oh.”

  “Assuming that it works,” Lottie continued. “Your songs may still clash and it would have all been for nothing and again, your actual soulmate would no longer be matched to you. You could end up alone,” she was rambling now, but Amber needed to know all the facts. “It is also incredibly illegal and should the wrong people find out, you could both be executed!” She waited for her words to sink in.

  “I would rather be dead than be without him,” Amber said.

  “A bold statement. Is your love worth risking all of that?”

  Amber nodded. “What do I do? Where do I get someone’s tune?”

  “Assuming you don’t wish to kill somebody, it must be given to you freely with a person’s last breath.”

  Amber gripped her grandmother’s hand, frowning. “You wish to give me your tune?”

  Lottie nodded. “I don’t have long left; we all know that. And I would be honoured to give you my tune, provided you were careful.”

  Amber nodded quickly, a tear gliding down the smooth surface of her cheek. “I would Grandma, I’d be so careful and so grateful. Thank you, thank you so much.”

  “You’re sure? There may be consequences I’m not aware of.”

  “I’m sure.” She hugged her grandmother for a long time; their tunes mingled and shared the love they felt for one another. Finally, Amber pulled away and looked into the old woman’s eyes.

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Because I did it to be with your Grandpa.”

  THE NEXT FEW WEEKS passed too quickly for Amber, and she spent every spare minute she had with her grandmother until the final farewell was upon them. Because there could be nobody else present during the displacement of Lottie’s musical epilogue, having said their goodbyes, Amber’s parents left her alone with her grandmother. Before Lottie Whiteflower took her last breath, she released her personal melody. It floated towards Amber who waited patiently, her own tune sending out feelers to grasp the music and draw it inside of her. The tunes weaved together, gliding and spiralling, gently blending together and creating new music. The tempo was a little slower, but there was a much stronger baseline than before. Amber felt renewed and strong. She was excited, but when she went to thank her grandmother again, she was already gone. Still, she whispered her thanks, kissed her forehead and covered her with a sheet.

  She was nervous when she went to meet Deryall. What if the new tune still didn’t harmonise? She mustn’t think about that.

  She saw him sitting down, his back against their tree. He stood as she approached, greeting her with that crooked smile she loved so much. She tentatively sent out the coils of her new melody, hoping and praying it would work. He frowned at her, but then sent his tune to meet hers. She closed her eyes and crossed her fingers. When their songs connected, there was electricity. Her body flushed with warmth as their melodies danced with each other, tendrils grasping and clinging together. She could practically see the notes in her mind. It was a capriccio, lively and robust, bursting with colour and flavour like a rich wine. After a few minutes it changed to a relaxed adagio, as their new combined melody was formed. Then he was kissing her, a deep and passionate kiss, his mouth moving in time with the beat of their shared rhythm, which also matched the beating of their hearts.

  WHEN AMBER SEEMED UNABLE to fall pregnant, even after years of trying, she sought the help of an old shaman. They sat around the fire as the healer spoke to the spirits. Amber watched the flames turn bright green and rise, bending in strange shapes she couldn’t decipher. When it was over, the fire returned to the warm orange glow it had been when she had first come to see him.

  “You have messed with the natural order of things,” he said, his face blank.

  Amber swallowed “I . . . um . . . Will you tell?”

  He waved his hand. “I care not for how you townsfolk live, and you have already been punished by the Earth Mother.”

  A single tear rolled down her cheek as she nodded at the man. She frowned then, her thoughts on her grandmother who was able to have a child. “But my grandmother had a son—my father.”

  “Ah, you come from a line of deceivers,” he said matter-of-factly as he tossed a powdered concoction into the fire. This time the flames turned pink and the shaman’s eyes closed as he chanted.

  “Your grandfather is dead.” He opened his eyes and stared at her.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know how, when?”

  “No, when my father was very young, I think.”

  “The day your father was born. That was her price.”

  Amber frowned again. “But, she never said anything.”

  “She didn’t know.”

  There was nothing more he could tell her. She handed him the payment, then walked away, leaving the warmth of the campfire behind.

  So, they would never have children. Their cosmic punishment for robbing two people of their chance at true happiness. One of the unknown consequences her grandmother had warned her about. It was a fair price to pay. They had stolen something precious from someone, and so Amber and Deryall had had something precious taken from them. Though she would often wonder what might have been, she and Deryall grew more in love with each other every day.

  For years to come people would speak of how they had never seen a pair of soulmates so perfectly matched; their song was a work of art, their love an inspiration. Their secret stayed that way, but whenever someone made such a comment, they would both silently thank Lottie for the precious gift of her music.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: R.A. Goli is an Australian writer of horror, fantasy, erotic, and speculative short stories. In addition to writing, her interests include reading, gaming, the occasional walk, and annoying her dog, two cats, and husband.

  Her short story collection Unfettered is available at Lulu.

  Her fantasy novella, The Eighth Dwarf is available from online retailers and Fantasia Divinity Magazine.

  Check out her numerous short story publications at her website https://ragoliauthor.wordpress.com/ or stalk her on Facebook

  Reunion by Fiona Lohrbaecher

  I FINISHED TYING THE ribbon around the last parcel and put it in its place. Six brightly wrapped packages were tied with gold ribbon, one beside each plate on the table. It was set up for our college reunion dinner. Every five years we’d been meeting, for the last thirty years. We had intended to meet every year, but life had got in the way. When our first reunion was due Sarah was teaching English in Japan, I was doing my big O.S. in London, Emily was travelling in Spain, Abby had a job on the Gold Coast. In the end it was five years before we could meet up.

  At least we did manage to get together, despite the demands of work and families and geographical distance. Thirty years. Who knew how many more reunions there would be? Already some of us were developing health problems. Abby had that breast cancer scare last year, Jane had just been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes and there was the general running-down with age. Would we all still be here in five years? That’s why I had prepared a special present, a group photo of all of us at our last meeting.

  One thing we had talked about, but not yet got around to, was doing a group photo of all of us with all of our families. What a picture that would be. What a wonderful family get together. I wondered, rather gloomily, if it would ever happen.

  The doorbell rang. The next hour was a joyful jumble of welcoming old friends, hugging, kissing, exclaiming how well everyone looked and how we hadn’t aged a day in the last five years. News was exchanged, corks drawn or popped, nibblies and photos of new grandchildren passed around, CDs put on, denigrated and changed. There was the traditional pulling out of, and laughing over, the old college photo album before finally, merry and slightly drunk, we sat down at the table for dinner. There were exclamations as everyone discovered the present by their plate.

  “I just wanted to give everyone a little memento of our get-togethers.” I smiled, indicating they could open their presents. Emily, as usual, eagerly r
ipped the paper off hers, while Jane daintily unpicked the knots in the ribbon. Everyone had their own style of present opening. Emily, of course, was the first to see her present. There was a loud gasp and she stared in disbelief at the picture. Tears started to roll down her cheeks. I hadn’t expected such an emotional reaction, but I was even more surprised when everyone else reacted the same way. Some had expressions of real shock on their faces. What was up? Of course, I had wrapped a picture for myself and I tore the paper off to see if there was something that I just hadn’t noticed before. I stared in shock as well.

  This was not the picture I had copied and so carefully framed. This photograph showed six elderly ladies, wrinkled and grey but still recognisable, surrounded by a horde of smiling children, teenagers, babies and middle-aged men and women, as well as six wrinkled old men, grinning toothlessly. The date at the bottom of the picture read July 8th, 2049. The tears were rolling down my face, too, as I looked up at my friends. Abby reached for my hand and squeezed it. In her eyes I could see a new light, a newborn sense of hope and confidence in the future. I looked around the table. That same light was in everyone’s eyes. I smiled. And then I laughed. We all laughed, we laughed and laughed as if we would never stop. And who knew? Maybe we wouldn’t.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: FIONA Lohrbaecher is a Tasmanian author, playwright, poet, artist and home educator. She has self published 4 books, details of which can be found on her website www.fionalohrbaecher.com. Strength, hope and love to everyone affected by the fires and may you rise from the ashes.

  Fragments by Judy Peters

  EXTRACTS FROM THE PRACTICUM Diary of student teacher Hannah Graves, March 2070, Hobart, Tasmania

  4th March

  To mark the 50th anniversary of the Bloody Plague of Tasmania, my social studies class is visiting the commemorative exhibition. Their assessment task is to put together a collection drawn from the exhibition of extracts, photographs and impressions to demonstrate their understanding of the epidemic, and the consequences for Tasmania of having been used as a quarantine station, keeping the rest of Australia free of infection. We have talked about the English village of Eyam, which was self-quarantined in an epidemic of bubonic plague, and I’m inviting them to draw comparisons if they wish.