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    Metaphorosis May 2017
    Metaphorosis May 2017
    Metaphorosis May 2017
    Ebook108 pages1 hour

    Metaphorosis May 2017

    By Carol Wellart, L. Chan, Anna Zumbro and

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    About this ebook

    Beautifully written speculative fiction from Metaphorosis magazine.
    All the stories from the month, plus author biographies, interviews, and story origins.

    Table of Contents
    • Heartwood – L. Chan
    • Ways to Face the Firing Squad – Anna Zumbro
    • The Early History of the Moon – Karolina Fedyk
    • The Questioning Bell – Jason Baltazar
    Cover art by Carol Wellart.
     
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMetaphorosis Publishing
    Release dateJun 16, 2018
    ISBN9781640760844
    Metaphorosis May 2017

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      Book preview

      Metaphorosis May 2017 - Carol Wellart

      Metaphorosis

      May 2017

      edited by

      B. Morris Allen

      ISSN: 2573-136X (online)

      ISBN: 978-1-64076-084-4 (e-book)

      Metaphorosis

      Neskowin

      Table of Contents

      Metaphorosis 2017

      May

      Heartwood

      L. Chan

      Ways to Face the Firing Squad

      Anna Zumbro

      The Early History of the Moon

      Karolina Fedyk

      The Questioning Bell

      Jason Baltazar

      Metaphorosis Publishing

      Copyright

      May 2017

      Heartwood — L. Chan

      Ways to Face the Firing Squad — Anna Zumbro

      The Early History of the Moon — Karolina Fedyk

      The Questioning Bell — Jason Baltazar

      Heartwood

      L. Chan

      The sorcerer wove his beloved out of the finest silks and linens, the poorest of which was fit for any earthly king. Across her neckline and cuffs, he affixed the most delicate lace, threads more slender than spiderwebs, lighter than a lover’s breath. He scoured his Mansion of a Hundred Rooms for bolts of cloth; gifts from fellow sorcerers, from superstitious lords, from the jealous summer fae, from workers of enchantment and loom. These he sewed together. A lifetime working magic had given him deft fingers, and although his body now consisted of creaking wood, his hands retained their skill.

      He filled her body with the softest down; from goose, from baby roc. Between her ears, the infant feathers of thunderbirds, to lend speed to her thoughts. Under her breast, phoenix down to warm her heart. Finally, when the body of cloth was complete, scraps and strips all come together in the form of a striking lady of middle years, he placed the heartwood fruit in the middle of her chest and bade it quicken.

      The body convulsed, rippling as unfamiliar muscles flexed. Flesh might have been a better option, but creating a human body was beyond the remit of his considerable powers, as was the granting of life. The latter was the province of the gods, and all the races of man (despite being called a demon, or fallen god, the sorcerer considered himself a man) toyed with that sacred flame at their peril. But there were tricks by which an extinguished fire could be rekindled.

      Arcturus, my love. The woman’s voice was smoother than woven silk, retaining the luscious drawl of vowels common to the desert folk. Time had long scrubbed trace of accent or region from Arcturus’ own voice, and he missed it. Arcturus was not his birth name, nor one of the many whispered by kings and mothers to frighten, but it was the one he would respond to without thinking. The woman was the only living soul who had uttered it in years. She struggled to push herself off the workbench with limbs as boneless as tentacles.

      Gladiola, he replied, helping the woman to her feet. She swayed like grass on the wind, like the flowers she was named after. He’d taken care that those blossoms appeared in the tessellations of the silks and in the lace trimmings. She didn’t notice.

      I am not as I once was, she said, holding one cloth hand up to an embroidered eye. And neither are you, it seems. Gladiola stroked the grain of his wooden cheek. He felt nothing.

      The pair of them walked the halls of the Mansion of a Hundred Rooms, each door they passed open to wonders; a choir of hummingbirds singing hymns to dead gods, a guardhouse filled with living suits of armour handing out halberds and wickedly curved swords, a cathedral of staircases made of bone that defied gravity and space.

      When the woman of cloth had her fill of the sound of footsteps, she spoke again. Why did you bring me back?

      Their wanderings had brought them to a double door, twice the height of a man. So dark was the wood that the pair could cast no shadows upon it and only the glint of light off the undulating surface hinted at its intricate carvings. Heartwood it was, from the same trees that bore the fruit beating in the chests of the pair of them. Blood-warm to the touch and, if one were particularly sensitive, thrumming periodically.

      Not just because the dark cannot hold a light such as yours, he said, pushing at the door. Despite their size, they yielded smoothly and without complaint.

      The room behind the door gleamed with uncommon opulence; not a surface was to be found that was not embroidered, carved or gilded. The bed, to which Gladiola was no stranger, was weighed down by a familiar body, the sheets still glistening.

      Oh, she said.

      I need your help to solve this.

      Gladiola looked to the corpse and back to Arcturus’ roughly hewn features. How long ago was… she gestured at the body on the bed, which still wore the same placid expression as the creaking wooden man before her.

      Weeks, months, he replied. Time does not pass normally in the Mansion.

      Then you came back, in this form? And brought me back? What work did you use?

      Heartwood. For both of us.

      Cloth eyes widened, fabric mouth hung open. That’s a legend.

      The Mansion is full of legends.

      And the cost? There is always a cost.

      Heartwood trees had been harvested to near extinction by the powerful, desperate to hide from death in this most sacred of trees. The trick wasn’t getting heartwood to sprout; seeds only needed to be buried in the soil, wrapped in the coppery softness of a fresh heart. It was losing their hearts that the powerful feared.

      What do you remember last?

      I remember only waiting for my thirty-second birthday and then waking up today, nothing in between.

      That is part of the cost; what comes back is only what the heartwood preserves. And a vessel is required to house the heartwood.

      Gladiola looked at cold flesh, and then at living wood and finally at the rippling cloth of her own body. How can I be of help? I do not remember your murder.

      Neither do I. A small blessing. All I want to know is why. Arcturus looked away. He had seen many dead things in his life; monsters that wore the faces of men, men who wore the faces of monsters, children barely old enough to walk. All dead by his hand, but still he felt discomfort at the sight of

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