by Hugh Howey
The boy grinned despite his cringe.
“Indy’s face was worth it, though.”
Her lips quirked at that, remembering her husband’s poorly concealed panic at his realization that she’d fed from — and probably killed — a human. Illegal, that. Still…
“It was” nice to have that fear undeserved, for once.
Misti Wolanski
has always loved to play in fantasy land, though it took her a while to realize that her mental games were fun enough that others would want to join in, too. She’s fond of finding overused tropes and figuring out how far she can mangle them without converting them into something else. When she isn’t writing, Misti’s probably playing an MMO, reading a book, crocheting a teddy bear, or knitting a bracelet.
She also writes Dystopia (as Cara Lee), Dark Fantasy for adults (as Carralee Byrd), and Space Opera (as Misty White).
Misti Wolanski’s Website
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Humor — Contemporary Fantasy
Life Goes On
Eric Feka
‘Yeah, yeah, okay. I’ll see you there,’ Emmet said into the mouthpiece. He’d looked long and hard for an old style telephone with a manual dialer and corded handset, but now he had it, he tried to use it as little as possible. There was something unnatural about using a telephone that tethered you to the wall. He paused a moment and listened to the stream of instructions coming down the line.
‘I know it’s free now, but is that a good thing? I mean, you can say what you like, but the subscription kept out the riff-raff.’
There was a burst of angry noise in his ear.
‘I am not elitist!’ Emmet said, defensively. ‘I just know what happens when standards are dropped, that’s all.’
There was a less intense burst of noise from the telephone.
‘What! I’ve got to register again? My old characters will still be there, won’t they?’
Another short burst of noise came down the line.
‘Okay, let me write that down,’ he said and scribbled "www.swordofvalourfree4all.com" on a piece of paper.
‘Okay, got it. See you online.’
Emmet returned the phone to its cradle and slouched over to the nest where his computer lived. It was an ecosystem designed to sustain him for days at a time and contained almost everything he needed to survive. All it lacked was a bathroom, but no matter how he spun it, he could never justify the extra plumbing required to make it happen.
He cracked open a giant bottle of SugarAll from the fridge under the table, filled a bowl with fake-cheese flavored corn chips, and settled in for a night of virtual fun.
The old loading screen almost brought a tear to his eye. He remembered when Sword of Valour had been the hottest game online, and his guild, Enemies of Shadow, had been the hottest guild on the hottest server. All of it was ancient history now. The game was approaching its sixth birthday and making it free-to-play was a ploy by the developers to squeeze a few more dollars from the old warhorse. He couldn’t even remember when he’d last logged on — well over a year ago, no doubt.
The title screen vanished and there they were — his avatars. Old Grodok the mage and Priet the hunter were his two favorites in a stable of ten, but something was wrong. Grodok wasn’t wearing the Rage armor set, nor was he wielding the Staff of Dseng. In fact, he looked like he was wearing a three-piece suit. If that wasn’t enough, Priet was in an ocean zone that was way under his level, and he looked different to how Emmet remembered. His skin was darker and his hair looked bleached, as if he’d spent too much time in the sun.
‘Probably a glitch,’ Emmet thought and donned his headset. ‘Hmmm, who else could it be really,’ he said to no one in particular and logged in with Grodok. It was only fitting that he attend the Enemies of Shadow reunion with his most powerful character.
‘Oh, WTF!’ he exclaimed, when he looked into Grodok’s bags. They were full of virtual alcohol and sweetrolls. Where were all the weapons? Where was all the gold?
‘Damn! I’ve been hacked,’ he said to himself. ‘I hate contacting support!’ He was about to bring up the help screen when a bright red message appeared in his chat box.
“Grodok said:DON’T CALL SUPPORT! They’ll roll us back.”
‘What the heck!’ Emmet exclaimed.
“Grodok said: They’ll send us back in time to what we were when you last logged on. It’s happened to a few others since the game went free-to-play and they tell us it hurts. Anyway, what are you doing here? We thought you were gone for good!”
‘Why wouldn’t I come back? It’s free now!’
“Grodok said: Yeah, it is, but we all thought you were against free to play. To be quite honest, I’m a bit disappointed to see you. I thought you were a little better than this.”
‘I’m only doing it for the guild!’ Emmet said defensively, and then recovered his composure. ‘That’s elitism, you know,’ he chastised Grodok, and then looked down. He could see that he was wearing pants, which meant that he wasn’t dreaming. He never wore pants in his dreams.
“Grodok said: We thought you’d never come back so we went our separate ways. Had we known you were so cheap, we’d have been ready for you. Just goes to show that you can never really know a person.”
‘How can you go your separate ways? You’re cartoons! I created you! I did the character rolls and everything. I even gave you that nose! ’
“Grodok said: It’s complicated, but you didn’t really create us. We were always here. You just came along and gave us shape. And thanks for the nose, btw, I was hoping you’d pick it.”
‘This is madness. What sort of life does a toon have?’
“Grodok said: Look, just don’t think about it, okay. Play like you always did and please, for the love of GridsKol the Awkward, don’t contact support.”
Emmet sat still for just long enough to reach a decision. Showing that there was remarkable strength in his pudgy frame, he tore the power cord from the wall, picked up his computer, walked to the back door, and threw it out onto the lawn.
With satisfaction written all over his face, he picked up the old style telephone and called Andremar. There was a click and a surprised sounding voice on the other end of the line.
‘Yeah, I logged on,’ Emmet said into the mouthpiece. ‘I don’t know why, but I couldn’t get back into it. It just wasn’t the same.’
Eric Feka
was the first of his line to shun goat herding as a profession. Now he spends most of his time reading and writing, which gives the illusion of productivity but requires very little actual effort and absolutely no goats.
Eric Feka’s Website
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Historical Fiction — Humor
Outlandisher
A Short Tour de Farce
Dee Gabbledon
She woke, livid green smudges down her red Burberry. Her hands were on fire from breaking her fall into a thicket of nettles. Also she needed to pee.
A dirty-faced, skinny child stood over her gripping a pike twice his height. “Your woman looks to be a Sasanach.”
Someone answered him. She caught the words “coat red” in Gaelic. She should have paid more attention in school for the little Irish taught in the 1980s. Proto-Gaelic may well have used the same word order, must look that up. If there were any research facility here.
Where was here; where was she?
A tall pair of boots, shining but the leather old and the soles thin, came to stand before her. Her gaze lifted to a rough-shaven face. He was trim but muscular on a big frame, possibly undernourished like that child. Shiny black hair framed startling blue eyes, his aquiline nose betraying ancient genetics. Mariners with more guts than brains, and generations of hardy warriors, informing his build.
She blinked. His faded black topcoat and collarless linen shirt were of very antiquated cut. Her thoughts darted like anxious birds. Looking for her own ro
ots in Dublin, and look where she’d landed. Someone should have just handed her a parsnip.
How to get out of here?
“Suibhne,” he said, holding out his hand.
What, she shook her head.
“I am called Sweeney.” In English and less welcoming that time. Not enough to tell which accent he had. Could be Cork, or Ulster, or Wexford.
He helped her up. Took a little too long brushing her off. The boy snickered.
“I need to use a toilet,” she protested.
“It’s high time for some sex,” he replied. “This is commercial fiction. I suppose the likes of you think this tale is going to be literary?”
Sweeney took her by the arm and they marched off through gorse and bracken.
A grey pile loomed in the landscape. She hoped for a stone circle; maybe she could reverse her fall through space and get back to the Dublin museum where there was a restroom. Time travel, like in that hugely popular series.
But that was not to be. This was someone’s estate, its centerpiece a large house of grey granite. — Mustn’t overdo the detail, for a commercial bestseller. She’d have to go back and edit out big words also. — The owner would be AngloIrish. What year was this? — Maybe this house had a bathroom?
The boy and Sweeney were chattering away and laughing.
“You cannot go inside dressed like that, madam. Take off your clothes.”
Her bladder slammed shut, her nails dug into her palms. “I won’t!”
They waited patiently.
Bladder twisting, dizzy, she complied. They watched impassively. She’d have to go back and edit out adverbs and adjectives, since those weren’t in vogue at the moment.
Sweeney produced an outfit that covered her perfectly except the bodice was too tight.
“You planned this!” she accused, checking the skirt’s perfect length. It was then she saw madness behind his blue eyes. A fleeting memory of her husband talking on three phones at once brought a tear to her eye. Just the one eye, not her other eye.
“I’m taking you to work inside the Big House. Another manservant and meself have the English, so. You won’t be unhappy.” He snorted laughter.
“Right. So long as it has a bathroom.” She flounced inside ahead of Sweeney.
The other manservant greeted her with little interest.
She recognized him. “Jamie?”
“I left the other series when the author added zombies and fags back in auld Scotland.” He looked bored.
She bit her lip. His sentence should be edited to please the political-correctness police. Didn’t he enjoy being in a commercial hit, she wanted to know.
“Not really.” The bored look continued. “Not much latitude in that. You have to follow a formula, you know. So far this story’s pretty tame. I haven’t been raped.”
He’d made a lot of friends here, he told her. Flann O’Brien’s cowboys live in the attic and his leprechauns below stairs. He assured her they’d all be sniffing round her.
Magical realism, what would O’Brien be doing here? Straightaway, didn’t Flann himself pop up. He must have read her thoughts.
“I’m here to assault you,” O’Brien said.
“This is supposed to be historical fiction. And I need a toilet,” she said.
Flann says he will bitch-slap her silly if she won’t put out; where does she get off teasing him, he is in fact a literary classic. Who is she?
She protested as he groped her. “I have no intention of being nuanced or credible nor do I wish to become stuck in a classic.”
He persists, has his fly open to expose the rockhard erection of a young author.
“I wouldn’t mind popping in here from time to time, and making us all rich from pulp fiction. Readers like narratives that violate basic laws of physics. They want more of such treatment,” she protested.
“I’ll treat you,” he replies, “I’ll violate you. I’m the one popping in.” He flips her over and ravishes her silly.
“Aren’t you supposed to save the kinky sex for later in the series when the few story ideas have been done to death?” She’s catching her breath. No butter for her but then Flann wasn’t Marlon Brando.
“That’s good for Scots characters slow on the uptake,” he replied. “My ancestors married the sacral white horse upon the hill of Tara. We Erainn know a fine white rear when we see one.” He reaches for her again.
“I have to pee,” she warned.
“Can you not stick with present tense or past tense,” and Flann pushes her away.
Jaysus, wasn’t she crazy as Sweeney. All from having piss backing up to poison her poor brain. Too crazed to go on. Needing a hard edit, for broader market appeal. She saw that now.
If no one told her the old Gaelic equivalent for toilet, she must soon die.
That would be
The End.
Dee Gabbledon
worked at various pursuits before discovering how to manipulate space and time. Outlandisher has been optioned for a 28-volume series by a Big Trade Publisher whose editors are removing all the big words and accurate historical details.
Dee Gabbledon’s Website
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Fairy Tale
The Sirens’ Song
For T.
Becca Price
Once there was a school of fish that lived in the cool dark depths of the ocean. They lived there happily, in the cool waters for many years.
One day, there came a beautiful singing. It was the sirens: mermaids who some say lure sailors to their deaths with their songs. The hero Ulysses, it is said, had his sailors stop their ears with wax so they couldn’t hear the sirens calling, but had himself bound to the mast, so he could hear the beauty of their song without being called to his death.
Some of the fish who lived in the ocean couldn’t hear the sirens’ singing. “It’s just a myth,” they said. “It’s only your imagination.” And they went about with their lives.
Some of the younger fish heard the singing, but only dimly. “It isn’t safe,” they said, and they stopped their ears, and turned their backs from the beautiful song.
Still others heard the song, and day after day it filled their hearts, until they could do nothing but follow the song. They left the safe depths of their ocean home, and pursued the song. They traveled many, many miles. Some of the fish were so full of the sirens’ song that they stopped eating, and could do nothing but travel where the song led.
The sirens’ song led them to the mouth of a great river, where the water changed from salty to sweet. The fishes’ bodies changed too, so they could live in the sweet water rather than the salt water of the ocean. This allowed them to continue to follow the beauty of the song’s calling.
The fish swam upstream, sometimes leaping joyously out of the water. But there were bears along the edges of the river, and they caught some of the fish while they leapt, and ate them. Still, the fish followed the sirens’ song.
Fishermen also lined the banks of the rivers, and some of the fish, who by now were very hungry, were tempted by the fishermen’s lures. They ate the bait, and were reeled in, and the fishermen took them home to feed their families.
Other fish, however, were so full of the song that they didn’t even notice the fishermen’s lures, and continued upstream.
Across the river was a mighty dam that people had built to tame the power of the rushing river and to use its energy to power their lights and warm their homes. Some of the fish leapt at the center of the dam helplessly, unable to leap its height to continue their swim. Some of them died, exhausted with the attempt, but others found their way around the dam, and swam up steps built along the dam’s edge, that people had built to help the fish in their swim upstream.
These fish swam uncounted miles, as the river gentled and opened out into beaver ponds, and still the fish followed the call of the beautiful music. The fish were exhausted from their travels now, and much thinner, because th
e song filled their hearts so much that they would forget to eat. And still they traveled, caught up in the glory of the sirens’ song.
Ultimately, the sirens’ song led them to warm, wide, shallow creek beds. This was where the song had been calling them to, calling them to return to the place where they had been born.
“The song was a lie!” cried some of the fish, and they died, exhausted and embittered for having traveled so long and so far only to return to their birthplace.
Others, however, rejoiced in finding the source of the sirens’ call. They made nests of fine gravel, and laid their eggs. Even though they were exhausted from their hard journey upstream, they watched over the eggs until they died, but they died with the rapture of the sirens’ song still in their hearts.
And when the eggs hatched, the new fish lived in the streams while they grew in size and strength. After a few years, they migrated, and lived for a few more years in the beaver ponds, while they grew even larger. Then their hearts were filled with a different sirens’ song, and they followed it down the great river, into the ocean. When the water changed from sweet to salty, their bodies changed as well so that they could live in the salty waters of the ocean, and they swam down into the cool dark. There, they lived happily for many years, until the sirens’ song called to them again, to return to the place of their birth.
Becca Price
has been writing fairy tales all her life. Her first book, Dragons and Dreams, was published in 2013; since then she has published four more books, including the collection Fairies and Fireflies, and is working on a third collection, Quests and Fairy Queens, to be released fall 2014.
Becca lives on 10 acres of swamps, trees, and weeds in SE Michigan with her husband, two children, and three cats.
