Transient Tales Volume 1

By Michelle Ann King

The first in the Transient Tales series collects 11 short stories of science fiction, fantasy and horror, totalling 20,000 words and ranging from light to dark and all shades in-between.

Volume 1 features dysfunctional families—some demons, some that don’t have that excuse—monstrous assassins, pragmatic cannibals, time-travelling reality TV shows, zombies, witches, phobias made real, law-breaking love and lessons in post-apocalyptic survival.

The Fine Art of Fortune-Telling
Jane’s going to meet the love of her life. Again. And again. And again.

Precious Things
If you find something in the woods... maybe it’s best to leave it there.

Meredith Said
Zach’s preparing for his first trip through his father’s teleportation gateway. He’s supposed to be going home, but maybe that depends on the definition of the word.

Toil and Trouble
A witchy grandmother, a book of spells, a recipe for a love potion. It’s the perfect way to find a date, right?

The God of Blood and Bone
They always look at the husband first. So when Vince wants his wife dead, he’s very discerning about the choice of assassin.

What We Leave Behind
There are some things you need to survive after the breakdown of civilisation. And some you don’t.

The Author of Your Own Misfortune
Always read the small print of your insurance policy. Especially the one covering trips back in time.

Behind Glass
Tom’s sick. He’s feverish, aching and having blackouts. And he’s hungry. So very hungry.

Nameless, Unreasoning, Unjustified
Humans reach the stars, and find they’re not alone. Neither are they welcome.

A Cat May Look at a Queen
If you make the rules, you have to live by them.

What Doesn’t Kill You
Everyone knows you can’t live in the rotting devastation of the Blight. But Olivia's going to try.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Ann King
• Release date: Jan 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301676095

Michelle Ann King

Michelle Ann King writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror from her kitchen table in Essex, England. Her stories have appeared/are forthcoming in over seventy different venues, including Strange Horizons, Interzone, and Daily Science Fiction.She loves zombies, Las Vegas, and good Scotch whisky — not necessarily in that order — and her favourite author is Stephen King (sadly, no relation). She's been a mortgage underwriter, supermarket cashier, makeup artist, tarot reader, and insurance claims handler before having the good fortune to be able to write full-time.Her first short story collection Transient Tales is available as an ebook and paperback now, and she is currently working on her second. See www.transientcactus.co.uk for full details and links.

Book preview

TRANSIENT TALES VOLUME 1

11 stories of science fiction, fantasy and horror

By

Michelle Ann King

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright 2013 Michelle Ann King

Published by Transient Cactus Publications at Smashwords

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Table of Contents

The Fine Art of Fortune Telling

Precious Things

Meredith Said

Toil and Trouble

The God of Blood and Bone

What We Leave Behind

The Author of Your Own Misfortune

Behind Glass

Nameless, Unreasoning, Unjustified

A Cat May Look at a Queen

What Doesn’t Kill You

About the Author

Also Available

Publication History

The Fine Art of Fortune-Telling

We’ve all been frightened about bringing a lover home to meet the family, right?

‘SHE’S NOT IN,’ I say. ‘She probably forgot all about it, I told you she’s flaky like that. Come on, let’s go. We can get something to eat on the way home. Pizza would be nice.’

Alan looks at my hand, which is gripping his elbow, and then at his finger, which is still on the doorbell. ‘It’s usually traditional to wait until the bell stops ringing before you decide nobody’s going to answer it.’

His tone is mild but his eyes are disapproving. I stop tugging at his arm. My husband is blessed with both a tolerant nature and a well-developed sense of decency, which is one of the reasons he’s so perfect for me. His expression is my litmus test of good behaviour.

And it clearly isn’t considered decent to try to duck out of your own mother’s memorial ceremony, especially in favour of a trip to Pizza Express. Even Alan’s tolerance has some limits. In my husband’s world, when your parents die you mark the occasion appropriately. And since I like his world and want to carry on living in it, that’s what I’ve agreed to do.

Of course, it’s the ‘appropriately’ part that’s likely to cause the trouble.

The door opens. I sigh and face front. ‘Hello, Auntie,’ I say. ‘It’s good to see you. You look very well. This is my husband, Alan.’

Three statements, one of them true. I prefer to avoid outright lies if I can—vagueness and general obfuscation are usually more effective anyway—but I’ve learned that in the case of social etiquette, lying is pretty much unavoidable.

Alan gives her his most charming smile. ‘It’s very nice to finally meet you, Hope.’

Social etiquette isn’t something my family ever bothered to study. Hope looks him up and down, then leans forward and sniffs him. ‘Prig,’ she says, and shrugs. ‘You always had weird tastes, girl.’ She holds the door open. ‘Come in then, if you’re coming.’

I try to throw Alan an ‘it’s not too late for pizza’ look, but he either doesn’t catch it or ignores it. Instead, he steps inside.

The hallway’s been painted since I was last here; the black walls are a much more attractive apple-white now, with a nice accent of olive green gloss on the woodwork. It makes all the carved runes and sigils stand out a lot more, but I suppose you can’t have everything.

As I pass them, the symbols briefly re-align themselves to spell out this is not going to end well—in five different languages, in case I didn’t get the point—then resume their former positions. I hate it when hallways get all smart-arse on me. Luckily, Alan doesn’t seem to have noticed.

‘Make yourselves at home,’ my aunt calls out as she slips through the seventh door on the left. ‘You know where everything is. I’m just finishing up with a client, I won’t be long.’

Alan looks around, wide-eyed. ‘This is a hell of a big house,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t look like it from the road, but it must be massive. Has it been extended?’

‘Something like that,’ I say, and lead him into the kitchen.

That surprises him, too. ‘But this is tiny. House like this, I thought it’d be huge.’

I grab the kettle and shuffle past him to get to the tap. ‘My aunt’s not a big cook.’

‘Mm,’ he says. ‘I can see that.’ He’s standing in front of the open fridge, which contains an empty ice tray, a dish of chicken bones and a box of candles. ‘I hope you’re going to be okay with your coffee black, because there’s no milk.’ He shuts the fridge and opens a couple of the cupboards. ‘Or any sugar. Or any anything.’

He holds up a jar half-full of something that looks suspiciously like toenail clippings. ‘Doesn’t look like she’s a big eater, either. I can’t see a single thing in here that might be remotely edible.’

I wave a hand. ‘Oh, she’s always on some diet or other. She’s probably got loaves of bread and chocolate bars stashed in secret hiding places all around the house. Don’t worry about it.’

The kettle starts to boil with a sulphurous smell. I flick it off. ‘What say we don’t bother with the coffee, eh? I’m sure she won’t be long.’

‘Fine by me,’ he says, wrinkling his nose and replacing the lid on an ornate silver canister of something that probably wasn’t Nescafe.

By the time I dump the foul water out of the kettle—I dread to think what she’s been brewing in there—and turn round, Alan’s wandered back into the hallway. ‘So what kind of client has she got down there?’ he asks.

I follow him. Behind me, the kitchen door closes. It doesn’t do much to shut off the smell. ‘Don’t worry, Hope’s not a prostitute. She’s—’ I hesitate for a second: is this much less embarrassing? ‘She’s a fortune-teller.’

Alan’s eyebrows attempt to join his hairline. ‘For real?’

I wonder if he still thinks it’s strange that I’ve never talked about my