Stories of Hope

by Aussie Speculative Fiction

  “Will I be seeing you next week?” she said.

  I closed my notebook, sliding it back into the bag. I shouldered the satchel as I stood.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “We don’t get to choose our residents, unfortunately.”

  “That is a shame,” Mistress Harper said. “You are a sensible young woman. Thank you for the parcel. Avani must have sent me another gift. Always thinking of me, that girl, even if I find it a lot harder to get down to the office for mail than I used to.”

  Of all the things she had told me this was the most typical of a home resident. If you don’t joke about death, then all there is left is a depressing void.

  “Feel free to come by anytime for tea. You are always a welcome guest here.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind then,” I said with a smile.

  I walked over to the woman and stood by her, feeling impossibly small next to Mistress Harper.

  “Did you tell the truth when I asked why you were telling me everything?”

  “Yes and no dear. You are a very good listener. Most of the young nurses hate silence and have to fill it with noise.”

  “I do try,” I said and for the first time Mistress Harper laughed. I chuckled through a grin. She patted my arm with a soapy hand.

  “You had better run off now. I would hate to make you late.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I reached the door when I remembered the documents. “Mistress Harper there seems to be a slip-up with your personal file. How old are you?” My cheeks flushed red.

  The woman followed me to the door. I stepped through while she dried her hands on the tea towel.

  “One might say that I am older than the dinosaurs.” A smile and then the door was shut in my face.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: EMILIE Morscheck is the 20-something author of several online works, on Wattpad.com which have over 45,000 reads. Emilie has edited creative content for the Australian National University’s student paper Woroni and helped to launch the Woroni creative magazine. She was selected to be a participant in the 2017 Toolkits Fiction program. (Twitter: @EmilieMorscheck)

  Fairy Tale of Hope by Margie Riley

  LUCIEN STIRRED. HE rolled over in his cosy bed of duck and thistledown. He stretched his arms and legs, and flexed his wings; his limbs were cramped after the long, peaceful sleep. He yawned widely, his pointy little teeth gleaming whitely in the dim light. He stepped off the bed, aired the bedding, dragging it to the window; he knew he wouldn’t need it for a while. He was thirsty. He hoped the gully would be running with crystal water so he wandered to the doorway of his cosy nesting place; he peeked outside. He heard the water before he saw it, then stepped out from his threshold. Lucien carefully lowered himself to the water’s edge on a thread of the web left by Holly—the ancient huntsman spider—his friend and next door neighbour.

  The fairy drank deeply; it was as he remembered—clean and tinkly-clear—he sent thanks to Holly for the wonderful silken ladder. She always hung out last year’s clothes and left the thread for him to use. He knew her well; they had the perfect neighbourly relationship: she kept all comers from the door and he provided her with information of where food was available. She sometimes left him snacks. He marvelled at their symbiosis; under the normal, natural scheme of things he’d have been a quick bite for Holly but, since his hatching, she’d nurtured their friendship.

  He was hungry; now he’d slaked his thirst he wondered what there would be for him to feast on this spring. The remains of Holly’s left-over bugs had sustained him through the winter and now he hoped the nearby fairy-bells would be in bloom. He needed to stretch his wings with a short flight before having to embark on a journey to the canopy of the gum trees high above. There they were, flowering fairy-bells! Lucien fluttered to the tiny flowers and blundered into the bush. He hoped no-one had seen his clumsy first flight of the year.

  ELECTRA GRINNED AT him, she perched on the freshest flowers, her eyes bright and sparkling, just as he remembered. She’d seen his attempt, but oh, she was so beautiful! He flew to her. All their friends began emerging from their homes. There was Claire, and Avner, and Ciara too. The biggest boy was Uriel—a magnificent creature!

  They ate their fill of the sweet nectar. As they fed they marvelled at the prickly stems, a definite deterrent to cats, dogs, quolls and snakes. Lucien didn’t mind the possums and sugar gliders sharing their food, anyway they usually fed higher in the trees where they had a good view and could warn the fairies of approaching danger.

  What a party! They feasted, danced on the leaves, told one another of their dreams and looked forward to the coming weeks. The musicians played on the instruments they’d fashioned.

  “Look!” exclaimed Eavan the harpist. “I’ve found a discarded butterfly’s wing.” Epifanio the drummer had a tiny gumnut which he struck with a drumstick made from the bones from a micro-bat’s foot. Flowers provided instruments for the trumpeters and Ilo, the pianist, played on the dappled backs of the tiny beetles—which had happily lined up to participate—singing at the top of his voice.

  They revelled in their comfortable environment with sufficient food and drink, and great company. What could possibly disturb this fairy tale?

  ONE EVENING HENRIETTA, a pullet from next door’s flock, didn’t go home as early as she should have; she’d been busy tasting the deliciousness of life beneath the leaf litter. By the time she thought about going home, the sun had set and she couldn’t see sufficiently to make the journey. She was worried and tried to roost in the lower branches of a wattle instead of in her coop at home. This spelled danger. Blagden, the nocturnal ogre of the gully—light hurt his piggy little eyes—loved chicken. Blagden was ugly and he smelled bad.

  The fairies called to Henrietta: “Go home, Henny! Blagden might come tonight,” but she was too tired and frightened to comprehend. She kept fluttering up into the wattle, thinking it would offer sufficient protection.

  Then they heard him. Clomp, clomp, clomp. They could hear his foul lips smacking as he considered such a tasty meal. He’d snatch up Henrietta and swallow her whole! Nearer and nearer he came; they could smell him, the stench of unwashed ogre offensive to their delicate tiny noses.

  “Quickly! What can we do?” cried the group of fairies. They huddled around Lucien and Uriel, the designated leaders, and formulated a plan.

  They flew to Henny who was far too panicked to appreciate the fairies’ plan; she clucked with anxiety as she flapped to try and reach another higher branch. They formed a fairy-chain and held their lanterns high so Henrietta could see her way home. When Lucien told her Blagden was on his way and this was the way they’d rescued Penny last year, at last she listened. She fluttered down from the wattle branch and ran—her wide-legged gait comical to watchers in the dainty, elegant group—down the path and up her driveway to home.

  Blagden—squinting and flinching from the fairies’ lights—grimaced and moaned in pain as the brilliant beams penetrated his eyes. He stomped off, foiled. Those pesky pixies had beaten him again. He’d try again tomorrow night; different prey perhaps, not one with an army of help on hand.

  Once the fairies were certain Henrietta was safe and had waddled up the ramp to roost beside her sisters, they returned home to their places in the gully.

  THE NEXT FEW WEEKS were spent in a happy blur. Each evening they flitted up and down the gully, drinking the cool water, feeding on their favourite foods and playing together. Through the days they took turns to mind the tiny, delicate new-laid babies. They picnicked, and swung from the uppermost leaves—each one trying to be braver than the last. It didn’t matter if they fell, of course, as they just spread their wings and zoomed back to the throng, each fairy waiting in turn for the thrill.

  “Thank you, Holly, for maintaining the ladder for me,” Lucien said one day. She smiled at him and rubbed him gently with one of her eight furry legs. She loved him and would never dream of choosing him for her next meal. “You are the best neighbour; quiet most of the year and so
friendly when you’re up and about. And you tell me about the food supplies. It makes the month you’re awake very restful—I can just set a trap and it’s always full!”

  The community spent time in their homes making sure their beds would be comfortable for when they returned to sleep. They spring-cleaned, shook out the covers and refilled the bedding with fresh feathers and thistledown, whirred their wings to expel dust from the verandas, and threw open the windows to air the residences. Their homes smelt of flowers, cut grass, nectar and happiness. There was no need for them to store food; they wouldn’t need any until next spring.

  IF YOU LISTEN CAREFULLY you might hear the fairies in the early spring. They sometimes leave clues: empty shells, last year’s winglets, a discarded nectar cup. Have a look, see what you can find. You’ll know they’re there as you’ll see them flitting up and down the gullies and creek beds each evening, carrying their pulsing lanterns, keeping the waterways safe and scaring away the ogres.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: MARGIE’S come to writing later than she came to reading which she’s loved forever. She was born and raised on a farm in rural Wiltshire, in the UK; she emigrated to Australia a long time ago.

  She works as an editor, proofreader, writer, speaker and workshop presenter. Her background in administration, where she was often asked to “turn this into English, please” has given her invaluable experience. She studied at TAFE for her editing qualification, is an Associate member of IPEd and Life Stories Australia. She’s a member of the Queensland Writers Centre.

  Margie’s had short stories published, is working on The Novel and writes about her extended family and animals. She believes there’s nothing like a good furry friend to help while away the hours.

  Margie belongs to a book club of long-standing and a writing group. She’s been married (to the same man) for over forty years—they had two sons. She lives in a semi-rural piece of paradise in SE Queensland, where they grow vegies, fruit trees and a few weeds.

  The Cure by Barbara Smith

  JOSH PULLED AWAY THE debris of branches that he had placed at the wall days before. On previous reconnaissance he had been able to remove enough concrete so that he could monitor patrols.

  He broke away more concrete with a metal bar and crawled through the narrow tunnel. It was almost sunset. The sound of dogs barking in the distance meant they were being fed in their pens. After which a few would be taken by guards to patrol the outer compound. Josh calculated he would have forty five minutes to get through the wall, cross the compound, find whatever was in the building and return to the wall.

  He crawled through the opening. At first he made his way slowly through a grove of trees, watching for movement or lights from guards. Reaching the clearing between the trees and the dome-shaped building, he waited for a few moments to steady his breath. A full moon began to rise above the steel roof. Josh looked up thinking the light from the full moon could be a problem on the way back. He breathed in deeply before running to the side of the building. He bent low under a window, peering in to check for movement within. All was quiet.

  Josh tried to enter through the door but it was locked. He moved back to the window. He found the latch broken. Was it a careless oversight of the captors? Or had no one contemplated the need to check, since most of what had been inside had been removed in previous days. He had observed the removal of books, furniture and computers, taken away in the back of a caged truck. Inside, only a few pieces of broken pieces of furniture remained. He recalled being in the room with his father before the invasion. All had been ordered. Books lined shelves across one side, with desks lining the far side.

  Josh slowly opened the window, shaking every time the hinges creaked. A scratched and weather-worn manual with comprehensive anatomical drawings lay open on a small wooden table. Someone had been leafing through the pages. They must have presumed the manual had no merit. The table had deep score marks running down its length. Josh ran his fingers through the indentations.

  He wondered if his father had been emotionally scarred by the effects of his contribution to the cause of the invaders. His knowledge of human anatomy had allowed their scientists to discover the way to deliver the antigen effectively. It must have been a heavy burden to carry: knowing he also had the cure but couldn’t get it to those who needed it. Josh frowned at the original notes beneath the drawings. Before his death, his father had passed a message to other captives of a vaccine for the antigen. The message was eventually delivered by a man who worked the containment area. He’d scratched symbols on a rock. When it came time to throw the rock over the gates to the compound, fellow captives, building machinery, created a diversion. Firearms were discharged by the invaders. Many captives were killed, including the man who threw the rock.

  Josh turned the pages of the manual. He recognised the slight upturn of assorted letters and downturn of others. The code his father used with his stories when Josh was young. Within the text these codes would be used to create a set of instructions. His father used to say it would make Josh’s mind more universal.

  Josh’s father was once a great illustrator for a medical publishing house. His knowledge of anatomy and passion with getting the detailed drawings correct was applauded across the world. Many of his books would be consulted throughout schools and universities.

  “All that is left of my father’s life is a small manual with a broken spine, covered in dust,” Josh said quietly. What the controlling Descard faction didn’t realise, when they dismissed these drawings as worthless, was the fact that his father was more than an artist.

  The sweet pungent smell of honeysuckle drifted toward him from the rear of the building. The back door was ajar with the contorted plant pushing through. He breathed in deeply. The scent reminded him of the time when it was safe to walk the Earth, before the allergen had been released. When his mother was alive and grew a garden full of flowers.

  Josh turned another page of the manual. A large illustration of a human male torso covered the page. The ink-stained drawing had the mark of the author at the base of the page, a crescent moon with his father’s initials “BJD”. The words ‘Our life is worth more than a shiny, silver dollar’, written in bold black letters beneath.

  Josh reached for his phone from his jacket pocket to check the time. It began to vibrate sending out a shrill, piercing sound. The alarm announcing it was time to leave. He heard a shuffle of steps.

  From the shadows behind him a heavily armoured guard rushed forward. Josh stepped back. He reached into his pants pocket, retrieving a small ball.

  The guard lunged, Josh pitched the ball, hitting the guard in the face. He picked up the manuscript, hurrying for the open window. He climbed through landing heavily on the ground. The clearing between him and the cover of trees was bathed in moonlight. His heart pounded with every breath he took. He must move quickly before the guard could set off an alarm. He hadn’t anticipated there would be anyone within the building. Perhaps the guard had come back for the manual.

  Josh could hear the sound of choking coughs behind him. He checked the guard wasn’t following through the window, the toxic gas inhaled allowing enough time to escape. He looked toward the trees. He saw a thickening fog rise above the area he was heading toward. Josh ran. The fog, made from a mixture of toxic fumes and mist, automatically released when alarms were set off. It was another measure of defence, designed to stop people on the other side from getting too close to the wall.

  At the start of the grove of trees Josh heard the first call to arms. Overhead lights turned on, covering the domed building and clearing. The guard stumbled out onto the cleared ground, falling heavily.

  Josh quickened his pace, moving through the trees. The manual was secured within his coat. The fog before him shifted between branches. Josh coughed. His eyes were stinging. The skin on his face and neck felt like it was burning. He lowered his face, trying to avoid inhaling the fog. Loud, urgent voices followed him. He pulled his jacket collar up, feeling his way between th
e trees. He could hear the stomping of running feet. He knew his followers would have protective masks and goggles with body heat detection.

  Reaching the wall, Josh searched for the opening. Almost crawling, he desperately tried to find clear patches of air. He found the opening. Bullets ricocheted off the wall. The fog closed in around him. He heard familiar voices calling his name, through his uncontrollable coughing, until something was placed over his face. He breathed deeply, feeling the coolness reach down into his lungs. Reality faded away.

  JOSH STIRRED FROM A dream of being chased by disproportionate beings covering him in white cloth. “You’re awake then,” a voice above said calmly.

  Josh settled himself in a sitting position. He wiped his eyes to clear his blurred view. He could determine he was in the medical camp. Other patients lay unmoving in beds all around him. Medics moved from patient to patient addressing notes. A nurse approached with a tray of food.

  “How long have I been here?”

  The nurse told him he had been unconscious for four days. He also told him of the group that went looking for him. “They found the manual in your jacket. It’s with the code analysts. They have decoded most of the instructions and believe it will only be a matter of time before the vaccine can be made.”

  Josh swung his legs to the side of the bed. He almost fell as dizziness overtook him. “I must get to the lab. They will need my help.”

  The nurse gently moved him back onto the bed. “You must rest. Your lungs are not healed. There could be permanent damage without treatment.”

  Josh nodded, resting his head on the pillow and closing his eyes. He knew by his laboured breathing that his lungs had been affected by the toxins in the fog. He also realised he might not regain full sight. These were but a few of the symptoms the fog produced. The anatomical drawings come to view in his mind. He saw his father sitting at his desk working on the coded text that would save many lives. Tears flowed down the creases of his face.