9 Tales From Elsewhere 7

by 9 Tales From Elsewhere

  9TALES FROM ELSEWHERE #7

  © Copyright 2016 Bride of Chaos/ All Rights Reserved to the Authors.

  First electronic edition 2016

  Edited by A.R. Jesse

  Cover by Turtle&Noise

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  9TALES FROM ELSEWHERE #7

  Table of Contents

  SO YOU’RE STUCK IN A TIME-LOOP by Brandon Barrows

  FEATHERS by Andrew Knighton

  LORD KEVIN OF KEARTH by Kurt Magnus

  LEVEL ONE by George Strasburg

  CLUCK CLUCK by Shane Porteous

  WHITE BONE by Celine Low

  FAME AND FORTUNE by Jason R Bleckly

  GYPSY’S CROSS by Shawn P. Madison

  THE BIG COVERUP by D. A. D'Amico

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  TALES

  FROM

  ELSEWHERE

  #7

  SO YOU’RE STUCK IN A TIME-LOOP by Brandon Barrows

  Psst! Hey, buddy! Dirty looks from the boss, huh? Well, you are the last one into the conference room again. And again and again and – well, you get the drift, right?

  No?

  Well, have I got news for you, then: you’re stuck in a time-loop, my friend.

  Hey, hey! Don’t look so shocked and don’t look around like that. You’re just gonna draw attention to yourself. I’m in your head. Who am I? You called me pal, remember? And for the record, I’m Floyd McFarland, founder of the Inter-Dimensional Unconventional Search and Rescue Institute so I’m kind of an expert on this sorta thing. And in my expert opinion you, my friend, could do with some assistance.

  So listen, I’m gonna walk you through this mess and see if we can’t get you unstuck from… but, wait a sec… hold on. These brain-to-brain calls are expensive and I’m seeing a zero-balance on your account here. Of course you signed up for our service; how would you have an account for me to check if you hadn’t? Okay, no problem – you wanna live that same boring-ass staff meeting over and over again. If you don’t want to find out how to break free, back into the normal time-stream, well by all means, have at it. I’ll give you a sneak peek at your future, though: the boss starts reaming you out in about seven minutes and doesn’t quit ‘til that blonde cutie from procurement you’ve been crushing on all summer can’t stand to look at you. And then- eh? Okay, then; that’s what I thought. So if you’ll kindly authorize the transfer of five-hundred credits, I’ll be more than happy to share my expertise. Ah, thank you.

  To brass tacks, then. You’re stuck in a loop of about fifteen minutes, on one of the worst days of your recent life. Sounds bad, but it doesn’t have to be a problem if you don’t let it. Just keep a few things in mind and soon you’ll be laughing at how easy this thing was to beat.

  Or… maybe not. In a small number of incidents the looping-effect’s permanent. So small, in fact, that it hardly bears mentioning, but the legal department insists. The details of such are available upon request; blink twice to skip this section, once to continue onto – okay, movin’ on then.

  Step number one: stay calm. Panicking might seem natural, but keepin’ your wits’ll serve you better than mindless terror. Remember, nobody around you knows what’s going on, and freaking out will just make it worse on yourself. So take a deep breath or two and find your focus. If that doesn’t work, maybe a mantra of some kind will help. Something like, “this, too, shall pass.”

  On second thought, maybe repetition isn’t what you want to think about at a time like this. But the breathing thing is good advice, so keep that in mind, at least.

  Something else you’ll want to remember – oops! That buzzer’s tellin’ me we’re outta time. No, no – I’m sorry, man, but rules are rules even when you’re the boss. Darn it all, I hadn’t even gotten to the really good stuff yet. Of course, if you were to transfer another five-hundred creds…

  Uh huh. I see. Want some proof I’m for real, huh? How ‘bout this? In about ten seconds, Johansen there is gonna spill his coffee and use your tie to mop it up. Wait for it… there! What’d I tell ya? Now about those creds – okay, take a moment to clean yourself up, then we can continue. Done? Transfer completed? Good call; you’ve made the right choice, pal.

  So now, let’s take a minute to think about whether this loop is natural or artificial. Why’s it matter? Well, they’re rare, but natural time-loops do happen, typically around a momentous event – something you’ve said or done (or not said or done) that you could have handled differently. The research is still kinda sketchy, but some folks think our own subconscious guides us to the spots where we get stuck. As you navigate your loop then, be aware of every interaction and every choice you make–no matter how small!–and try something different next trip through. And record those results, man! Get a mental time-loop journal goin’. Any single discrete instance in the loop could be the key to breaking free and back into normal time. Of course, the whole shebang hinges on you retaining your memory when you snap back to the beginning of the loop, and if that’s not the case…. Well, you’d be out of luck without your buddy Floyd, huh? But at least you’d never know the difference. Ha!

  But on the other hand, if this is an artificial loop, it’s especially important you keep cool. Why? Cuz whoever’s done this to you’ll be watching for your reaction – maybe even from across that conference room table. Johansen is kinda shifty-lookin’ if you ask me and you never know what someone’s capable of, right? And you don’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowin’ they’ve gotten to you. Assuming s/he/it is even bothering to check in on you, of course, and didn’t just wreak their temporal vengeance then move on to the next project. I tell you, some of these retribution-seeking types have shockingly short attention spans.

  Speaking of, it looks like you’re a little short yourself. I think you know the drill by now.

  Good man, good man.

  So you think your situation is someone else’s doing, huh? You could be right about that and what I’m gonna suggest may seem radical: try to talk it out. You know, you’d be surprised how often a simple “I’m sorry” can mend even the most broken fences – even with a being capable of manipulating time and clever enough to do so. But you gotta be careful how you do it so you don’t accidentally make it worse. If you retain your memory, as we discussed, though, you should have plenty of time to work that out. No pun intended.

  Hang on, buddy, the timer on our call’s run out again, so if you’d be kind enough to-

  Whaaaaat? Of course not! Well, results are-

  Extortion…?

  A con artist? How dare you, sir?

  How could you accuse me of such a thing when I’m here, offerin’ my time and experience to get you out of a jam. I don’t mean to sound like a drama-queen, buddy, but you’re in real danger of spending eternity in that crummy little conference room and I think we both know it. That déjà vu isn’t just a feeling, man, and I’m the guy to solve your little quandary. Ask any of my satisfied clients when you get outta there. If you get outta th
ere with that attitude. There are plenty of folks who’d take advantage of a guy in his time of need and we’re both lucky that I got to you first. I tell you the world’s going to hell in a hand-basket when a guy gets this kind of treatment.

  Uh huh. That’s what I thought. But after all the time eaten up by that little back-and-forth, the cost has gone up to a thousand creds. And that’s a bargain when I have to tolerate this kind of unprofessionalism. Remember item three? Now would be a good time to practice your apologies.

  All right. Well, I’m glad we could get past this, too. I’m really concerned about you here, and you’re running outta time, so to speak, so I’m gonna break out the big guns. Pay close attention.

  The single most important thing to remember when stuck in a time-loop, the one thing you can do that’ll absolutely save your life–

  Psst! Hey, buddy! Dirty looks from the boss, huh? Well, you are the last one into the conference room again, huh? And again and again and again and… well, you get the drift, right?

  THE END.

  FEATHERS by Andrew Knighton

  Hal stood on the track out of Olbry, feeling the wind whip off the moor, watching a dark shape soar on rotten wings. He heard the cawing of the raum crow and the whimpering of his son from their hut. The cawing filled him with anger, but the other sound ripped his heart.

  Samuel was not the first to suffer the blight. Half the village were dying, or piled up on a crude pyre. There was no time for a proper funeral, not with the raum crow’s curse still killing. This was no ordinary plague. Hal had seen sickness in a dozen countries, but never seen one that struck when a crow came in sight and vanished when the bird moved on, leaving only corpses in its wake.

  Hal pulled an arrow from the ground, shaft fletched fresh this morning. The straightest of ash rods, tipped with barbed steel. He had opened up his carved box of souvenirs – feathers of eagle and vulture, parrot and peacock, plucked from birds across half the world. The ones he picked were the straightest, truest goose feathers he had ever seen, gifted to him by the King for his part in the defence of Aureat. Untouched through ten years of peace, today he split them and set them to shafts.

  The worn grip of the bow was a familiar friend. He pulled back the string, felt the power of his arms and that perfect yew heartwood.

  The raum crow came around in another loop, feathers dropping from its diseased tail. Hal let out a breath and loosed.

  The arrow missed the bird by an inch. He must be getting old.

  Hal took a deep breath, channelled his frustration into pulling the bow. Another breath, another shot hissing through the heavens.

  This one hit, burst through the crow in a spray of feathers. But Hal’s grin faded as the raum crow kept flying, its screech a hollow rasp.

  He snatched up a third shaft, loosed it on instinct. This time the bird snatched it from the air. There was a snap, a cawing like laughter, and two splintered ends of wood tumbled from the sky.

  Hal had never been a man to let go of hope. He had taken an arrow through the leg while defending Aureat, spent weeks in a fever as the wound grew infected and then slowly healed, but had still taken his place on the battlements every day. If he could survive that winter of waking dreams and eating rats, could emerge intact from years of ambush and siege in the royal armies, then his son could live though this.

  He went back into the hut, pausing to mop Samuel’s fevered brow. He reached down into his straw bed, pulled out a box that had lain hidden and untouched for years, and eased open its lid.

  The phoenix feather glowed, its orange light making shadows of the rest. He remembered the day he first set eyes upon it while tracking for a royal hunting party. As the excited noblemen chased after the fiery bird, Hal had climbed the steep cliff to its nest and there found that single feather, like a tongue of flame that somehow left the wood around it unburned.

  Hal picked it out, along with a smooth black arrowhead of fairy glass and a thread wound from stallion’s hair.

  His tools were still on the weather-warped bench outside, along with a dozen unfletched shafts. He paused to look one last time upon the beauty of that feather, to feel its magical heat, then set to work.

  When Hal rose again from the bench he held an arrow rich with power, its tip so black it swallowed the light, flights blazing like the sun. He smiled despite Samuel’s groans. This would work.

  He found a place with good footing, notched the arrow to his bow and drew the string. The phoenix’s glow warmed his cheek.

  He took careful aim. His son’s life, the most precious thing in his whole world, depended on this.

  He loosed.

  The arrow hit the raum crow full in its centre. A flash filled the air. Singed black feathers drifted, smoking, on the wind. A black body dropped towards the earth.

  But fire glowed at its breast. Just before it hit the ground there was another flash, and the raum crow soared back into the air, reborn like the phoenix itself. Hal had thought himself clever, fighting one magic creature with another, but all he had done was feed it power.

  He sank to the ground, mud seeping up through his breeches. How could he win now? He had used up his best trick. From the cottage Samuel gave a wretched, gurgling cry. Failure squeezed Hal’s heart until he thought it would burst.

  Looking down, he saw a red welt forming on the back of his hand. The blight was upon him. Soon his strength too would fade. Tears ran down his face.

  Dead. All of them dead.

  But no. There was a way. There was always a way.

  What did he have that was stronger than the desperation this bird brought? He had survived battle and starvation across half the known world, he wouldn’t let this beat him.

  And then he knew. The thing that was stronger than war, stronger than age. That had kept him going all this time.

  Hal reached up, plucked some strands from his own hair. He went back to the bench, twisted those strands into a thread, split a good goose feather. With his own hair he bound the flights to a shaft, making an arrow of the will that had brought him safely home down the years, of the love he bore his son.

  He tipped the arrow with an old, stained head that had once been dug from his own leg. Then he rose and took aim at the crow.

  The arrow sailed through the air, skewered the raum crow.

  For a long moment the bird flew on, wings still flapping. Then it went limp and tumbled to the ground, its essence overcome by Hal’s own, by his love for his son and his will to survive, bound up in a strand of hair and an old arrow head.

  Hal strode over to the mangy corpse and ground its head beneath his heel.

  He walked back to the hut and paused in the doorway. Samuel was rising from his bed, eyes glowing with life, blisters starting to fade. Hal looked down, saw the red mark lingering on his own hand. But still his spirit soared.

  THE END.

  LORD KEVIN OF KEARTH by Kurt Magnus

  1

  After what seemed like an endless shift at work, I raced to the bus stop, only to see the fuming beast roll away. The advertisement on its rear end made me chuckle. Another TV series about teenagers with magical powers. My TV didn't even work. I had something better than TV, better than video games. A place where I was in charge. Well, at least most of the time.

  My job was nothing to brag about, the production and framing of mirrored glass. Bevels and chamfers and oiled wood captured my imagination. At art museums I find myself more interested in the frames.

  The next bus was so crowded, that I had to be reminded three times to stay behind the little orange line. The strip malls and apartment blocks streamed by unnoticed because in my mind a forest of ferns three stories tall was being cleared for a new temple. Foremen barked orders, foundations were dug, stones hauled and dressed. They were building my temple, and awaited my commands.

  I jogged the last two blocks to my apartment, the basement of a brick three-flat. It was always dark and usually damp. Layers of cheap and semi-cheap carpets softened the concret
e floor and interlacing pipes hung from the ceiling like a tangle of tree roots. The living room walls were covered in bookshelves and the couches actually face each other, instead of an entertainment center. The kitchen - tiny; bathroom smaller. The accommodations didn’t bother me one bit. I had plenty of breathing room in my vacation home.

  The bookshelf holding my sci-fi/fantasy collection was secretly fitted with tiny wheels. I rolled it aside to reveal a thick oaken door secured with two deadbolts. Inside was the narrow chamber under the stairs, furnished sparingly, with a comfortable Lay-Z-boy chair, an end table covered in hand-drawn maps (my hand), and an antique mirror with a customized wooden frame, facing the chair. A single bare light bulb hung from the sloped ceiling. I took a seat on the Lay-Z-boy and pulled the string above my right shoulder to plunge the room into pure darkness.

  It didn’t take very long anymore to complete the improbable journey. For a minute or two I stared into the dark mirror, like a pool of undulating ink. In a few moments the blackness was replaced by the light of a foreign sun, and I was suddenly far, far away.

  2

  Instead of a Lay-Z-boy, I sat on an alabaster throne covered in fur-lined cushions. The mirror doesn’t send your baggage with you, so I got up and grabbed a robe of silky velvet. On earth I'm 5 foot 11 and about 180 pounds, with big forearms and a bit of gut. In this world, I probably look the same, but I feel taller and more handsome. I'm definitely stronger.

  Around the throne was an oval of pale green stone dolmens. Surrounding this was an arching wall of thick marble blocks two stories tall. The dome-like chamber was open to the warm and verdant air.

  In the adjacent altar room, offerings of fruit, carved statuettes and shells necklaces covered a low stone table and spilled onto the floor. Above the altar hung the horse-like skull of a monstrous beast that I had slain, a reminder of my duty in this place.