The people do not care.
All they know is that this is where the abominations rose, this is where man reaches for heights forbidden to him, this is where the evils of arrogance, and greed, and all the sins of the dragons of old make their lair. There are marches at first. Protests. Paint on the white stone, applied and scrubbed away and applied again in the dead of night, the wrongdoings everybody knew about spread across the walls so that everybody would know.
Signs are brandished like weapons, and then somebody makes a weapon of a broken brick and it becomes a sign.
There is fire in the city. Black smoke stained red, roaring from beneath stone, twisted metal, and broken glass. Only the deserving parts are allowed to burn, the portions most in need of cleansing. Rewards are offered to the young, the nimble, the quick: five dollars a tail, the rest into the fire. Let the devils burn in the flames to which they belong.
Take Cloudhaven back. No more so-called miracles.
There is a tall, narrow husk on Brandy Street, sandwiched between an equally narrow dress shop and a clockwork repairman’s. It is built entirely of blackened brick, with dark gaping holes for windows and a front garden consisting entirely of soot and ash and a short, scummy path running arrow-straight between street and scorched steps. There is no sign before it, nothing to mark it save its own ruin.
There are no more dragons.
Ariel is an artist and writer with a deep love for the legendary and fantastic. She has been previously published in Spellbound and Prairie Winds literary journals. More of her work can be found on Wattpad (wattpad.com/user/arptak).
Dream Preserves
by
Susanne Hülsmann
When the wind carried the first hint of autumn coolness with it and the sky was crispy blue with white wisps of steam; when the leaves started to hint at changing their colour and the clouds and the silk surfaces of the zeppelins had a golden tinge to them; when the apples and nuts ripened to red and coppery hues, that was the time when the dreams were ripe as well. That was when the town of Old Pemberton held the Dream Festival, in late summer, on the weekend after the weather turned.
The townspeople had been working on their dreams throughout the year. Tending them, making them grow into finely wrought filigree structures, then harvesting and preserving them. No mechanised pickers for the dream farmers, oh no. The automated fingers were deemed far too crude and brutish, and likely to bruise the flesh. The dreams needed a year to mature, like wine sometimes will, and sometimes older vintages developed unexpected nuances through the maturation process. Now, everyone was looking forward to the Festival. They were anxious to show off their produce, see what the others had made, and take part in the annual dream competition.
There would also be the professional dream-sellers, who brought with them perennial favourites and new concoctions and peddled their merchandise from carts, booths and out of the trunks of their new-fangled dual-condenser autocars. There would be the speciality-sellers as well, those who sold dreams for children or adults only, healing dreams and daydreams. It sometimes happened that these dream-sellers would buy up someone’s stock of a particularly good year for a handsome sum, and this was in the forefront of the minds of some of the local dream growers.
Marisa was very excited about the Dream Festival this year. Together with her daughter, she had worked hard all year to get the perfect dream to grow, and then had made the most sweet-smelling preserves out of it, which she poured hot into delicate glass jars and set to cool and mature in the garden cellar. When she had retrieved the jars a week ago, the preserves had turned dark crimson with promise, and when she held them up to the light, she could see sparkles in them, like little glowing crystals.
Marisa opened one of the tiny jars and smelled the contents, nodding with satisfaction when the hoped-for smell of elegant, full-bloomed roses mingled with the earthier notes of the wood of an apple tree drying in the sunshine after a rain, and at the end, just a hint of cardamom. A quick taste from the back of a spoon confirmed it: This was by far the best dream preserves Marisa had ever made, and she was sure it would get the attention it deserved.
Marisa’s daughter Juliana, always the innovator, was already busy preparing, with her label machine chugging along and her patent-pending Servosax scissors cutting little squares of clean white linen cloth to fasten on the top of the jars. Together, they selected the most perfect-looking jar and set it aside, putting the others into a wicker basket lined with linen. Marisa sent Juliana into the storage room to fetch some of the older dream preserves. She knew that sometimes, older vintages would be eagerly purchased by people who had tried them last year and enjoyed them, and Marisa had always prided herself on having a variety of goods to sell.
On the day of the Festival, everyone was up and about early. The town square had been decorated, banners and buntings hanging from trees and lampposts, colourful tents and booths had been erected, there were food stalls and children’s entertainment and music groups as well; in short, the town had dressed itself in its Sunday best and was ready to impress, and to have a bit of fun as well. Even the weather collaborated, sending merry sunshine and just enough of a light breeze to make for a pleasant day.
This year, Marisa took little notice of the goings-on around her. As soon as she had set up her wares on the table reserved for her, taking care that the white linen tablecloth she had brought was perfectly straight, Marisa had left Juliana to watch over things and made her way to the competition tent, clutching her most perfect jar of dream preserves.
A few minutes later, now clutching her entry number, Marisa exited the tent again. There would be a long day ahead of her filled with nervousness and dread, for the judging of a dream required time, and she was by no means the only contestant. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and began wandering around the square, having a look at the other vendibles.
Of course, not everyone had made dream preserves, since people worked their dreams into a form they preferred. There were dainty, long-necked bottles of dream wine and dream syrup, colourful liquids like rainbows caught in glass; there were small cookies and sweetmeats and spicy nibbles; there were silken sachets that one could put under the pillow and woven bands of dream ribbons to be tied into a dreamer’s hair, and even delicately carved wood and filigree metal brooches and little knitted dream dolls. Marisa stopped now and then to talk to a neighbour, occasionally sampling their dreams, secretly judging the other contestants. Slowly, gradually, the excited joy and fun of the day crept up on Marisa. She stood to listen to the town’s music group, which was an odd assortment of instruments and musicians who made up in infectious enthusiasm what they lacked in professionalism. Children were laughing, running around the square under the watchful eyes of the community, while the mouth-watering smells of grilled meat, pancakes and fresh bread hung in the air.
Smiling to herself, Marisa made her way over to where the professional dream-sellers had set up. She talked awhile to old acquaintances, sharing useful tidbits from one dream manufacturer to another, and bought a few healing and soothing dreams for Juliana, who was prone to headaches after the long hours she spent scribbling and tinkering over her inventions. She gave the adult section a wide berth, being too old for that sort of thing and not wanting to embarrass the young ones who flocked surreptitiously to the corner tents. Walking past the multicoloured booths that were selling adventures and fairy tales to children, Marisa suddenly stopped in her tracks. There was the black booth she had seen only once before. Its minimal decoration gave the suggestion teeth and claws, grinding gears and staring eyes, half-seen through a cover of mist shot through with pale yellow. A young woman with raven plaited hair, wearing a green dress that matched the colour of her eyes, was selling small wooden caskets and little figurines that looked as if they had been carved out of bones. This was the booth that sold nightmares, and the woman was Karolina—her eldest daughter.
Marisa turned away before Karolina caught sight of her. It was three ye
ars since Marisa and Karolina had had a difference of opinion which had turned into an argument which had turned into a full-blown feud and then, angry silence. Marisa could not even remember now what had started it. Something about Juliana’s father perhaps, about the way of life in Old Pemberton, or about the traditional way to grow dreams, or most likely all of these things at once. The argument had ended with Karolina packing her bags and kissing little Juliana goodbye, and walking out of the family home without so much as a backward glance.
And now Karolina was back in Old Pemberton, as a dream-seller—no, corrected Marisa, as a nightmare-seller, one of the few people who managed to grow angst-ridden dreams in darkness. Karolina had always had a talent for dreams, and if she chose to use her talents for nightmares, her mother certainly had no say in the matter.
Marisa breathed a small, sad sigh and returned to her own table letting Juliana join the other Festival-goers, handing her a few coins for spun sugar candy and other rare Festival treats. Already, a few of Marisa’s dream preserves had been sold or traded for other dreams. This Festival would be a success whether Marisa won anything or not. Still, her dreams would sell even better when she had an award to her name. But her mind was not fully on the contest anymore. The image of Karolina in her deep green dress with a smile on her face in a nightmare-seller’s booth danced tauntingly through her head.
The day passed in a flutter of thoughts, memories and regrets. So preoccupied was Marisa that she almost didn’t hear the announcement over the recently installed Automatic Enunciator that the judges had now closed the voting, and that all who were taking part in the dream competition should come to the competition tent. Juliana had to nudge Marisa when the announcement went out for the second time.
Startled out of her contemplation, Marisa quickly straightened her dress, patted her hair into place, and hurried over to the tent where the other contestants and the judges stood waiting. The little dais in front of the tent was surrounded by both townspeople and dream-sellers, and Marisa spied her daughter’s green dress and black hair among the crowd. Straightening her back, she looked towards where the judges stood, pieces of paper in their hands, announcing this year’s winners of the dream competition in the various categories. Winner after winner was called forward, winner after winner stepped onto the dais and received a certificate, a little token, and a handshake. Marisa saw her chances melt away in the late afternoon sunshine as only the last category, the Overall Best Dream, was left. Her mind started to wander again when suddenly, everyone broke out in applause and someone patted her back. Confused, she looked toward the dais where the judges beckoned. Filled with disbelief and awe, she walked towards the dais and stepped up, receiving her certificate and the First Prize pennant.
She had done it. She had actually won. Not in any of the smaller categories, but in the main one, the Overall Best Dream category. She looked out over the crowd, smiling a dazed smile, and her eyes settled on Karolina, who applauded with the others and smiled proudly. Karolina looked away quickly, but after a moment returned Marisa’s gaze with a wistful look.
Someone touched Marisa lightly on the arm, asking again what the prize-winning dream would be called. She looked at her daughter, and saw her own tears reflected in her eyes. Marisa drew a deep breath, took the jar of dream preserve and held it aloft so that all could see its name handwritten on the label: “Mother’s Love.”
Susanne is an unashamed and unapologetic geek of many colours, a tea duel champion, and a raving Anglophile even after seven years of living in the UK. In her early teens, her father supplied her with science fiction novels, her mother gave her a mechanical typewriter on which she bashed out her first stories, and so it should come as no surprise that Susanne grew up to be a lover and writer of speculative fiction.
The Dieselman
of Devil Wells
by
C.W. Blackwell
“Sergeant Atsila.”
The woman did not respond. She lay half-buried in the bone-colored dunes, her left eye black and swollen. The air was thick with diesel smoke, and the sun beat down on a wide debris field of bent and crozzled steel.
The voice repeated every twenty-three seconds, and after a long while the woman began to stir. She groaned, and blinked at the form standing above her. He was fanning her face with a thin piece of wood and shielding the sun with the other.
“Sergeant Atsila,” he said again, but his inflection was different this time. “It has been three hours, nine minutes since our C7A Dieselship crashed. You have three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, minor internal bleeding—”
“How many others?” Her voice croaked. Her hair was caked with blood and oil.
“You have no other broken bones. Your legs are augments and have re-adjusted automatically. Otherwise—”
“No, Yahto. Survivors. How many survivors?”
“You are the only human survivor. I am operational, as is one mech-mule.” Yahto scuttled to the left to keep her in his shadow. “I need to check for brain injuries. Please tell me your name and full rank.”
“You’ve been repeating it to me since before I woke up.” She squinted at the geared man, but he only waited for the response. “Fine. Cela Atsila, Master Sergeant SCS Air Force.”
“That is incorrect.”
“UCS Air Force. United Cherokee States,” she said. “I’m dehydrated, that’s all.”
Cela writhed from beneath the sand and cupped her hand over her eyes. She saw the Dieselship not more than a hundred meters away. All that was left was a blackened hull that curved out of the sand like some charred animal carcass. Beyond the wreckage was an endless desert, wrinkled with ivory dunes as far as she could see.
Yahto dropped a canteen at her feet.
“Thanks,” she said, her eyes aching in the desert glare. “Have you found any goggles?”
“No. I have completed crash protocol 12a, stipulating the release of a distress call and preliminary crash report. Umts’a will receive it.”
“No, he won’t.”
“Umts’a receives all calls and reports, no matter how distant.”
“That’s what you’re geared to believe. If we’re gonna get home, we’ll need to get out ourselves. Nobody is coming.”
Cela drank from the canteen and then squeezed her throbbing shoulder.
“I can assist with the relocation of the joint,” said Yahto. “The more it swells—”
“No,” she said. “I can manage.”
She lay back in the sand and cupped the elbow of her limp arm, and then jerked it upward. The bone clunked into the socket, and a shock of pain ravaged every nerve. She moaned, and white sparks pinwheeled through her vision.
Yahto’s gaze ran up and down her arm.
“I have not seen that procedure,” he said.
“I didn’t think you had,” she replied.
The pain was still there, but it was now subsiding. She grabbed ahold of Yahto’s metal arm and pulled herself up. When she found her balance, she held out her palm and an aperture spun open, revealing a circular cavity in her hand. From the hole, a dozen tiny machines rolled to the tips of her fingers and unfolded delicate pairs of mylar wings. One by one they launched into the air, sputtering and clacking with tufts of gray smoke, and flew off in every direction.
“Let’s see who else is out there,” she said. “Whoever shot us down can’t be far.”
“Umts’a will—”
“No.” She raised her hand and the aperture spun closed. “He won’t.”
Cela found her ammunition belt and the Augsburg six-gun in a slack between two nearby dunes. The rest of the crew was still strapped to their seats in the scorched cockpit, burned away to nothing but their steel augments. She sat among the dead in the shadow of the wreckage, cleaning the sand from her pistol. It was as if every grain she swept from the barrel was a cathartic act—each blow into the cylinder a penance to the smoldering dead.
Yahto was roving the debris field for supplies, while the mech-
mule stood nearby in the shade of its own sun-sail. A pushrod from the Dieselship’s engine jutted cruelly from the mule’s right flank like the shaft of an arrow.
“Any goggles yet?” Cela called to Yahto.
Yahto turned and wheeled across the sand, his tracks wide and striated. He was like a charioteer, cursed by some bellicose god to forever merge with his carriage and wheels.
Yahto drew close and dropped a melted wad of rubber at Cela’s feet.
“This is all there is,” he said.
The lump lay in the sand like scat from some passing bird, with two cracked lenses slanting out the sides.
“Nothing I can do with this,” she said.
“I am sorry, Sergeant Atsila.”
“How much water did you find?”
“Two canteens, one liter each.”
“Diesel?”
“No auxiliary diesel, Sergeant.”
“Have you found the Tornado engines?”
“Only one.”
“We’ll see if we can siphon what we need for you and the mech-mule. In the meantime, let’s smooth a place for the oil flies when they return.”
They found a bomb-bay door and fastened it to Yahto’s chassis with cargo chains. He rode over the dunes, back and forth until a large parcel of sand had smoothed as if preparing the space for some competition. As they unfastened the chains, Cela heard the oil flies sputtering overhead and she lifted her palm to the air. They landed on her fingertips and crawled back into her hand for refueling.
Phantasmical Contraptions & Other Errors Page 11
