Stories of Hope

by Aussie Speculative Fiction

  Josh felt someone touch his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see a blurry outline of a woman in a grey coat standing next to him. He could only just determine she had blonde hair tied up in a ponytail. Green eyes, staring down, reminded him of the Coral Sea where he used to go diving. She handed him a manual. It was his father’s manual he had retrieved, the dust removed and the spine taped.

  “A new beginning has arrived,” she said, smiling.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: BARBARA has been working in teaching at Universities for 20 years and published her debut children’s picture book in 2019 (Otis Paul & Harry the Hairy Echidna). Having tried her hand at many things, from spinning & dyeing natural wool to making and building with mud bricks. She now illustrates, water paints, writes, takes photographs, and spends time with her beautiful family as a way to forget about her day job. You can follow her on twitter @BarbAnn and also on her blog, lifeandbeyondblog.wordpress.com, where she writes poetry connected to photographs she has taken.

  Red Paper Dog by Rachel J Fenton

  BY THE MIRACLE OF MAX’S first words, we walk alongside the enclosure one last time. Red presses her face into the wire. I think she’s trying to tell which one of us—me, Dad, or Max—to roll her sad marble-y eyes towards for greatest effect. She settles on Dad. “Good girl,” I whisper, so quietly only she can hear it.

  “Red,” Max says again. He points and Dad smiles and gives one of his defeated sighs, the sort he does when Max wants to fall asleep on the settee while me and Dad are trying to watch a grown-up movie. Even though I’m only eight, I’m allowed to watch Star Wars. It isn’t too violent; the Storm Troopers are rubbish aims and never hit anything anyway. Dad says it’s a bit like the A-Team, something he watched when he was my age. He says people used to complain that every week the same people got blown up and were back to making armoured tanks by the next episode. It wasn’t realistic in his day but now everyone can be made better. Almost.

  Max helps me choose a new collar while Dad fills out the paperwork.

  “It’s a bit like having a baby,” the lady says. Dad looks up at her and she adds, “You have to get them registered and keep a record of immunisation, you know?”

  Dad nods, but I know there’s more to it than that.

  We pass the hospital on the drive home. I look at Dad, but he is concentrating on the traffic until Max says Red needs a wee and we pull up next to the kindy. The sign says No Dogs, but Dad stands in front of it while Red looks as embarrassed as I feel while Max pees behind her. Max looks too old to be peeing in public, because he is, but he’s behind with a lot of his milestones and Dad says we must encourage him with every new thing, even if it might not seem like the sociable thing.

  “Well done, Max,” I say, and he gives me high-five with pee on his hand.

  Red needs to pee five times every day for the first few weeks she lives with us.

  “I thought greyhounds were supposed to sleep all day?” Dad says. Worried he’s changed his mind about us having her, I offer to walk her all by myself. Of course, Dad says no. He won’t let me or Max out of his sight, not for one second. He doesn’t say that, though. Instead, he says, “Think about what would happen if she got off the leash, she could end up in the pound, and then what?” The lady at the adoption place had said dogs like Red don’t usually get adopted, because no one wants dogs like her. I didn’t ask why, but she told me anyway. I thought getting put to sleep sounded nice until she told me what that means. But by the end of the first month, she’s only needing three walks a day and she’s sleeping more, and Dad seems pleased, almost happy.

  When Mum was around, Dad laughed all the time. It’s good to be reminded even though it makes me sad. Red seems to know when I’m missing Mum and she boops me with her snoot—that’s dog-speak for pressing her nose into me. Dad has learnt a lot about greyhounds since Red came to live with us. There’s a huge group of people who post pictures of their dogs with captions typed in dog-speak and Dad even posted a couple of pictures of Red on there. He got some likes, which made him smile, and one of the people asked if he wanted to meet up to let Red have a play-date with her dog. Her dog is called Mr Periwinkle. Dad said no at first, said he didn’t want to be seen dead with someone shouting out Mr Periwinkle, but he said no to getting Red at first and now anything is possible.

  We go with him, me and Max, the first few times. Mr Periwinkle is a bit older than Red and not as fast at running, but he’s quite competitive and keeps up as best he can. Dad stops cringing at his name after a while and by the third play-date, he’s running along with them and calling out their names while me and Max roll about laughing with Mr Periwinkle’s owner. Her name’s Ling, she’s a doctor and she lives near us.

  When Dad says we aren’t going to have any more play-dates with Mr Periwinkle, I ask why, but it seems to be the thing with grown-ups that they don’t tell you anything, not even about your mum, who’s just sleeping for a long time, apparently.

  “Ling has nothing to do with you kids,” Dad says.

  “Ling says Mr Periwinkle is Red’s family.”

  “Ling’s a doctor and doctors lie.”

  “But I like walking Red with her and Mr Periwinkle,” I say, and Max agrees. Dad won’t even discuss it though, he shuts himself in the garage, so it’s up to me to do something about it.

  All Saturday morning, I imagine Ling waiting for us with Mr Periwinkle at the beach. Mr Periwinkle has sad eyes, like Red. I rub Red’s ears, which is what the adoption lady said to do because it helps them release dolphins which makes them happy. I don’t see any dolphins, but I keep rubbing anyway then I fetch her leash.

  “Come on, Red, let’s go see Mr Periwinkle without Dad.”

  Red looks worried. Max looks worried too. I didn’t know Max heard me until he tugged at my hoodie, and I have to let him come with me or else he’ll tell Dad.

  Ling lives at the end of the beach by the hospital end of town, which is where she works. By car, it’s only five minutes away, but walking takes longer than I thought it would and Max is tired after the first few minutes. I pick him up and carry him but it’s difficult to hold the leach without pulling Red too much like that, so I give Max the leash to hold while I give him a piggy-back. We get about half-way before Max says Red needs a wee.

  “Ah, Max, there’s nowhere to pee here, can’t you hold it?”

  He can’t. I lower him down and that’s when I notice he isn’t holding Red’s leash. “Max, why did you let go?”

  Max shakes his head.

  I feel panic bubbling up into my throat like when we all went in the ambulance, the night Max was born.

  “When did you let go, Max?”

  He doesn’t know.

  “What if . . .” I look all around, down the long street we’ve just walked up, through and beyond the people walking around, mostly mums with kids like me and Max, and I know there’s no point feeling angry with him. “I’m sorry, Max. It’s not your fault.” Max starts to cry anyway.

  I take hold of his hand and walk him towards to road, there’s a crossing farther down, but this way cuts off the corner and will get us home a few minutes faster. “Not yet, Max; when I say go, ok? We have to run when I give the all-clear.” I check both ways again. Again. Every car in the country seems to have chosen this minute to drive up this road. “Wait, Max.” I look both ways again. “Now.” I take a step forward, but Max doesn’t budge. I swing around to see why. Mr Periwinkle is licking his face.

  Ling walks us home. She says Dad can call the pound and everything will be fine, but she’s a doctor and I’m not certain of anything anymore. She gives Max Mr Periwinkle’s lead and calls him a good boy, says she knows Max knows how to hold the leash properly and letting go of Red was just a mistake and everyone makes at least one mistake in their lives and everyone deserves to be forgiven, and even though she’s talking to Max, I feel better, until our house comes into sight.

  Dad is standing outside the garage. He looks madder than I’ve ever seen him. Ling says she
wants to have a chat with Dad in private but then Red runs out of nowhere and starts jumping around Mr Periwinkle who just stands there cool as a cucumber and, I don’t know why, but Max just busts out laughing and that sets me off and then Dad starts, and even Ling is laughing, but then Dad’s mouth falls upside down and Ling puts her arms around him and holds him while he cries like a baby, like Max. Red stops jumping, then, and gives Dad one of her marble-y eye rolls.

  Ling sits with us while Dad takes a nap. Max gets out his scrap paper stack and Ling shows us how to make paper dolls, only, instead of people, we make dogs, red paper dogs.

  “Red,” Max says. “Red, Red, Red.” He pulls his like an accordion until they break, and he looks like he might cry.

  “Max cries a lot,” I say. “It’s because of Mum.”

  “I know,” Ling says. “You must miss your mum a lot.”

  Max looks at me and I nod.

  “Tell me about your mum,” Ling says, and while I tell her, she sticky-tapes Max’s red paper dog back onto its family.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: RACHEL J Fenton lives in Aotearoa New Zealand with her kids, rescue greyhounds and rabbit. Her fiction has won the University of Plymouth Short Fiction Prize, the Auckland University of Technology Creative Writing Prize, and came second in the Dundee International Book Prize.

  https://snowlikethought.blogspot.com/

  https://twitter.com/RaeJFenton

  https://www.facebook.com/rae.joyce.5

  https://www.instagram.com/redhousemary/

  The Dragon Master by Melony R Boseley

  THE ARCHED HALLWAY of the deserted castle dungeon was much darker than Pip had imagined. The stone path was cold and coarse beneath his bare feet. He tried to keep up with Gregory, but the older man was striding ahead at a determined pace.

  “Wh-what are we doing down here—ow!” he asked as his toes caught on a gap and stumbled forward.

  Pip grabbed his foot and hopped along behind the older man. His fingers stroked his big toe.

  “This is your fault,” Gregory harrumphed. The castle caretaker and master custodian stopped to look at Pip.

  Pip sighed. He knew the old man was right. He let go of his smarting foot and dragged himself towards the custodian.

  The castle halls had not been the same since Pip received the custodial assignment at this year’s Naming Day. His life had become more complicated as well. There were always whispers amongst the staff and castle guards about some threat to the kingdom. He wished he could return to his quiet life on the outskirts of town. He missed his grandmother and her stories of ancient dragons and the lines of dragon masters from which they had descended. He missed her stories about how he was special, the third-born in the third generation of dragon masters.

  He remembered the Naming Day Trials—roles assigned not by choice but by success in a series of events. Turned out, his skinny frame and scrawny hands were ill-suited for sword-wielding. His arrows flew untrue, somehow managing to fly into a fire and setting a hay bale aflame. And his attempts at magicka? He mixed up a concoction that not only exploded but left the surrounds in a permanent shade of amber.

  He knew then that his grandmother’s stories had been pure fantasy. He was rather unremarkable in almost every way.

  “You were the one that spilled the King’s chamber pot on Queen Symphonia’s baby gryphon, after all,” Gregory said. He resumed his deliberate pace, posture rigid.

  Pip straightened himself and ran after his master; tears filled his eyes. “Please, don’t lock me away.”

  Gregory grumbled. He relaxed his shoulders and shook his head, “Gods help me,” he mumbled. With a sigh, he continued, “What kind of kingdom would this be if we jailed every clumsy apprentice?”

  “Bu—” Pip’s eyes were wide as Gregory stopped in front of a cell door. Its arch was twice as tall as Pip and the metal ring that acted as a handle was rusted with age.

  Gregory shook his head. “We can’t have you getting clawed to death by an angry gryphon, now can we?”

  He pulled the doors open and exposed a large chamber with oval stonework covering the floor.

  Pip squinted and leaned forward to look inside.

  “When I was young and nervous like you, the King sent me down here to work. There is naught but stone and petrified scale.”

  “Nothing to break?” Pip asked nervously.

  Gregory shook his head. “And no-one to harm.”

  He gestured Pip inside, but the frightened young man hesitated. What if it’s all a trick?

  “There are no locks on the door, boy,” Gregory grumbled.

  Pip swallowed, nodded, and stepped forward. A song filled the cavernous room. The notes were faint at first, no louder than the scratch of a mouse in the walls. “What”—he looked at Gregory, but the custodian didn’t appear to hear anything—“is this place?”

  “The chambers of the great dragon the first King slew two hundred years ago.”

  Pip put his hand on top of one of the oval statues. The song erupted to full volume. The words, the language, were unknown to him. He jerked his hand back, and the sound settled back into a whisper. “Uh.” He put his hand back onto the statue.

  The music was inspiring, like nothing he had heard from any minstrel.

  “Petrified scale,” Gregory said, his voice faint under the sound of the tune. “It retains heat.”

  Pip blinked at the man and slipped his hand into his pocket to reduce the urge to touch it again. “What are they supposed to be?”

  “Dragon eggs.” Gregory shrugged his shoulders. “Or so I’ve been told, but never mind that fairy tale.”

  Gregory handed Pip a thin cloth.

  “The King asked for you to polish these dragon eggs.”

  Pip raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

  The caretaker narrowed his gaze. “I’m not one to play, my boy. The King aims for you to be a stable master someday. He can’t have you accidentally maiming the horses or killing the unicorns. A few months of work down here will settle your nerves.” He eyed Pip and added under his breath, “Besides, we have enough trouble with the treasons to have to deal with you on top of all that.”

  The caretaker lowered his hand onto the top of an egg and rubbed. He lifted his palm. His hand was covered in soot, and for a second, Pip thought the egg had a glassy finish where he had rubbed.

  “It took me years to master the polish,” Gregory said. “The eggs seem intent to retain the dust. As soon as you polish it, it reappears. When all of the eggs are polished in full, or when you can finally control your nerves, come see me. Not a second before.”

  Pip put his hand and the polishing cloth to the egg and stroked it. The melody returned, loud and hopeful.

  He didn’t even notice Gregory leave.

  Pip polished the eggs over the span of days, weeks, months; he couldn’t even remember anymore. He languished over them, joined in their song, learned their words, took them deep within his soul. Before long, he seemed to be able to have entire conversations with the voices. He retold them all of his grandmother’s stories, and the stories of the castle guards about the impending war. In turn, they told him about the history of the kingdom and their dragon ancestors’ roles in creating it. They told him of their desire to join in that bold heritage and their need to see peace across the land.

  Many months later, as war had broken through the castle gates, Pip stood at the entrance of the room and trembled. Blasts of magic and swordplay echoed into the chambers from above. He touched one of the eggs and was overwhelmed with a desire to set the incubating throng free.

  He stepped through the room and patted each egg, called them by their names, willed them to be free.

  They all responded to it with exuberant draconic chatter.

  “I’m ready. Are you ready?”

  “The world needs us.”

  “Time. Time.”

  “Let’s go.”

  The room quaked. All around him Pip heard the flapping of wings. The eggs rocked back and f
orth. Tiny cracks grew and splintered into more. The first little white dragon emerged from its oval and happily flew around Pip.

  “Bensvelk! Bensvelk! Bensvelk!” it cried.

  “Hullo, Buhray!” Pip said, extending his quivering arm. The whelpling landed on his bicep and let out a tiny puff of glittery smoke. Pip laughed then coughed as it filled his lungs. His mind cleared and a kind of euphoria and steadfastness took its place despite hearing, feeling, the conflict in the castle above. Instead of cowering in fear, he straightened his back and relaxed his shoulders.

  Dozens of whelplings smashed through their eggs, flying in circles around the grand room, singing and chattering in their tiny voices. “Yth letoclo! Sulta wer aryte, troth wer zaneunisal.” [We help! End the war, protect the kingdom.]

  Determined and dauntless, Pip sprinted down the halls of the dungeon, up the stairs of the castle, and onto the castle grounds, his dragons following as if they were tethered to his shadow.

  The King and his men were caught in a losing battle against the enemy forces. A flurry of wings echoed all around Pip. With a flourish of his hands and a spin on his heels, he sent his first suggestion out to the whelplings. In a simultaneous display, the dragons made a great circle and sent out puffs of glittery smoke, filling the fighters on the grounds with their magic.

  The combatants dropped their weapons, their growls, and even their shoulders. In a scene Pip had never beheld before, the men and women lowered themselves to the ground and relaxed. Despite the chaos, the King remained where he stood, shoulders back and chest out.

  “Pip, pip, pip,” the dragon whelplings sang.

  “Oh, my dear boy,” the King said. “You confirmed what I had already suspected. With your dragons, you will begin an era of peace in our world.”