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    Metaphorosis November 2016
    Metaphorosis November 2016
    Metaphorosis November 2016
    Ebook109 pages1 hour

    Metaphorosis November 2016

    By Caleb Warner, Eugene Morgulis, Allison Epstein and Kathryn Yelinek

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    About this ebook

    Beautifully written speculative fiction from Metaphorosis.

    All the stories from the month, plus author biographies, interviews, and story origins.

    Table of Contents
    • The Cartographer – Caleb Warner
    • My Last Summer at Camp Unterlaken – Eugene Morgulis
    • Pandemonium – Allison Epstein
    • Hearts and Roses – Kathryn Yelinek
    Cover art by Carrion House.
     
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMetaphorosis Publishing
    Release dateFeb 3, 2018
    ISBN9781640760707
    Metaphorosis November 2016

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      Book preview

      Metaphorosis November 2016 - Caleb Warner

      Metaphorosis

      November 2016

      edited by

      B. Morris Allen

      ISSN: 2573-136X

      ISBN: 978-1-64076-070-7 (e-book)

      Metaphorosis

      Neskowin

      Table of Contents

      Metaphorosis

      November 2016

      The Cartographer

      It came from Caleb Warner

      A question for Caleb Warner

      About Caleb Warner

      My Last Summer at Camp Unterlaken

      It came from Eugene Morgulis

      A question for Eugene Morgulis

      About Eugene Morgulis

      Pandemonium

      A question for Allison Epstein

      About Allison Epstein

      Hearts and Roses

      It came from Kathryn Yelinek

      A question for Kathryn Yelinek

      About Kathryn Yelinek

      Metaphorosis Publishing

      Copyright

      November 2016

      The Cartographer — Caleb Warner

      My Last Summer at Camp Unterlaken — Eugene Morgulis

      Pandemonium — Allison Epstein

      Hearts and Roses — Kathryn Yelinek

      The Cartographer

      Caleb Warner

      Ursula

      The girl returned to the abandoned trailer park with a road sign strapped to her back, a sacrifice for the man in the telephone pole. Cradled by the river, the trailer park sat, rusting. The entrance gate read Green Meadows, but the only green things left were the corroded copper-wire antennas and the piles of old road signs. Nothing truly green could grow in that black, clay-packed soil—even when the spring rains came and flooded the river valley. The soil liked to work its way in-between the girl’s toes and stain the back of her shift a crusted grey. When it dried, the soil smelled like some rotten pond thing, like how dead turtles smell. Now it was summer; the clay had gone to mostly hard-pack, and it was warm against her bare feet.

      The girl walked along the lane, kicking a white bit of gravel along with her, banking it off trailer walls and piles of twisting metal signs. In the center of the camp stood the telephone pole. The smiling face of a man peered through the creosote soaked wood. It was half carving, half prism, like the face was trapped there behind the wood.

      If one were to have this demon’s view—from above like a bird, as the girl had so often imagined herself—then Green Meadows would look much like the arching back of a cat as its corrugated shanties flowed along with the curve of the river and the slope of the land. One lane pierced the park down its center; a lane that connected Green Meadows to everywhere-else.

      The girl walked up to the telephone pole, and in the light of the setting sun, it cast a long shadow across her face.

      The frayed steel edges of the street sign nicked her hand as she held it up. A thin trail of blood raced down the rusted metal outlining the words RUBY ROAD. She made no move to clean it. She let it run.

      You took too long, Ursula, a voice bounced around in her head. She heard it from somewhere behind her eyes, like it skipped her ears entirely. If you do not return before the sun goes down—

      I live by your good graces, she said quickly. She didn’t need to hear it again, but the time away from camp was time for doubt. Ursula wasn’t ready to test her doubt quite yet. Wrapped around her waist, just under her pocketless shift was a hand-drawn map of the river valley with fresh charcoal scratches on it. Her one secret. Ursula tightened her grip on the sign. Her arms were shaking, and the blood on her palms made the metal slippery.

      Leave it with me, he said finally.

      Ursula let out a stiff breath and propped the sign up against the telephone pole. She stood with her head down and her hands folded.

      And? the voice shook Ursula somewhere down in her stomach. It made her feel dizzy.

      M-my meal?

      Bad girls don’t get fed.

      Ursula had to bite her tongue to keep her face still. Did he know about the map? But I brought the sign, she said.

      Late.

      Ursula made herself breathe.

      The signs are far now … I-I’ll need the food for tomorrow. It wasn’t a lie. She had never lied to him. It wasn’t the whole truth, though. Ursula would be ranging farther than the closest sign.

      The pause was long enough for Ursula to feel the blood start to dry and grow sticky on her palms, long enough for the purple light of the sunset to turn to grey. Ursula didn’t dare look up at the face. She didn’t move at all until it spoke again.

      Fine. In the southeast corner. Off with you. Then the sun fully set, and a bruised black night consumed the valley. The demon’s face went dark, its malice emptied like a used up inkwell.

      Ursula nodded and shuffled over there, keeping her head down and her strides short.

      A trailer without a roof, that’s where it had carted her off to for tonight. It had once been bright silver and could comfortably fit two or maybe even three people. Like everywhere else, the trailer was filled with signs, and Ursula was small enough to fit in the middle of it all. In the cleared area lay a can—with its label ripped off—and a can opener next to a dried cow pie and box of matches. The gift. Ursula maneuvered a few of the signs to give her a place to more comfortably sit without fear of injury.

      Only when her hand drew a fresh red streak on the trailer wall did she remember the cuts. Ursula left the trailer, went down to the river to wash up. The silty, dark water made the cuts sting but it was better than letting them get infected. Ursula had cut her leg pretty bad once on a sign and didn’t bother with it. A day later she got the chills. Two days and she stopped peeing, but was ravenously thirsty. And the third day Ursula only remembered in small snatches of clarity, everything else fuzzy and distant like an old dream. The fourth day she awoke under the telephone pole without a memory of how she got there, but she was fine, a bit groggy, but the cut on her leg had healed and she was hungry again. She guessed infection must not be deadly, but she didn’t want to go through any

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