Love, Time, Space, Magic

By Elizabeth Hirst

Love defies time, crosses the infinite distance of space, and sparks formidable magics in the hearts of those it touches. And immortality? Yeah, it’s got that covered, too.
In this powerful volume, Pop Seagull Publishing presents twelve science fiction and fantasy short stories on the theme of love and its role as a force of nature.
Follow an ambitious 1930’s journalist and her high-society
boyfriend as they defend the world from evil beings that hide in shadows. Can love prevail when science fails?
Take a wild ride with Zephraim Cochrane as he searches for his long lost love through inter-dimensional travel. After all, the best inventions are always made to get dates.
Embark on a whirlwind romance with a creature of the Fey in seven days, a beautiful story of friendship and finding self-love before all else.
Descend into a very Torontonian sort of hell in search of lost love in Melanie in the underworld... just don’t forget to pet the corgi.
You’ll find these adventures, and many more, inside.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Hirst
• Release date: Apr 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310315404

Elizabeth Hirst

Elizabeth Hirst is an author, animator and all-around arts junkie from Hamilton, Ontario. She began writing books as a child, because she couldn’t find enough books that made rural Niagara magical. Her previous credits include They Called Her Canada: The War Diaries of Nursing Sister Bessie Beyer and contributions to the Mousehunt and Levynlight apps. On a typical weekend, you can find her at the museum, enjoying live theatre, or reading books at the gym.

Book preview

Love, Time, Space, Magic

Tales of Love for the Imaginative and Fanciful

Edited by Elizabeth Hirst

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Pop Seagull Publishing

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of our authors, editors and designers.

Other Anthologies from Pop Seagull Publishing

Monsters and Mist

Spirits of Suburbia

Robotica (Coming Soon)

Novels

Distant Early Warning

Flood Waters Rising

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Copyright 2015 Pop Seagull Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of Pop Seagull Publishing. For reprint permissions, please contact Elizabeth Hirst at

[e-mail].

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

Cover design copyright 2015 by Elizabeth Hirst

Published by

Pop Seagull Publishing

Hamilton, Ontario, Canada

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

I Sing the Recurring Melody, by Deborah J Walker

Leave the World to Darkness, by Fraser Sherman

Out of Their Minds, by Ira Nayman

The Dying Place, by Melinda Selmys

Melanie in the Underworld, by Victoria Feistner

Faster Than the Speed of Sleight, by Clint Spivey

Von Neumann Choked, by Molly N Moss

Seven Days, by Stephen B Pearl

Her Vampire Lover, by Tim McDaniel

All the Herbs in Her Garden, by Kathryn Yelinek

The Softest Sell of Image, by Russ Bickerstaff

Modern Love, by Gustavo Bondoni

About the Authors

Thank You!

Acknowledgements

When I first decided to open Pop Seagull to submissions from people outside of the local area, I was somewhat apprehensive. Since I am a micro-indie publisher from a non-centralized part of the world, I wondered what kind of traffic we would get, if any, and if we would even see the volume and quality of material needed to get a decent 200 page anthology off the ground.

I couldn’t be happier to find out that my fears were unfounded.

We have had submissions from almost every continent, from newbies and seasoned pros. I can honestly say that I feel I’ve met a new group of friends along the way to bringing this book to print. I’m so honoured that people have taken a chance on my little press, and I’m glad to know all of you.

Thanks to every author in this anthology, and to everyone who submitted. I hope that those who didn’t make it this time keep trying. I want to see how you’re progressing down the road!

Thanks to Ralan of Ralan.com for listing my calls for submissions, and helping me throw a spotlight on Pop Seagull.

Thanks to my local author friends not appearing in this book: Catherine Fitzsimmons of Brain Lag, Karen Dales, Jen Frankel, Tim Carter, Rob St. Martin, Hugh Spencer... you guys are amazing. Let’s keep learning from each other and reaching for the stars!

Thanks, Mom, for helping with my con appearances when others bailed.

And finally, thanks to Jeanne Cavelos and all my buds from Odyssey Workshop Class of ‘06 and TNEO. Without your support, teaching, and brutally honest feedback, I wouldn’t be fit to edit a business card.

From one dreamer to many,

Liz Hirst

I Sing the Recurring Melody

By Deborah Walker

Come here, Verna. Come and sing for the lady," my father shouted.

My father ran a trading stall, hoping to glean a living from the travellers who passed by on their way to the Granite Temple. We children had been lingering near the stall hoping to overhear the wild stories recounted by the visitor.

I doubt you will ever have an audience more famous than Dark Hand Cass, said my father.

My mother pushed me forward, but there was no need. I wanted to sing, for even at that young age I had the markings of the talent.

I was transfixed by the sight of the Dark Hand. She was a young woman, bright like slanting evening light on a field of wild grass. She was sun and shadow, dressed in stained leathers and wearing her confidence like a great Lady’s mantle.

Quickly, now, my father’s voice was threaded with his ever-present impatience.

I hastened to sing. I chose the old peasant song, Queen of Thieves. When I finished, she clapped her hands and laughed.

Well done, little girl. I would like to hear you sing again.

Where do you live? I asked. I will come to your hut and sing for you.

Father looked amazed; it was seldom that I spoke. I sang, yes, all the time, but the art of conversation did not come easily to me. I always marvelled at the words that bubbled constantly in the mouths of my family.

The Dark Hand laughed again. She was not irritated by my question. She stretched out her arm and pointed vaguely to the Grey Mountains. Yes, come see me. My home is beyond those mountains. Always walk northward, always one more step and you will find me.

Run along, Verna. There is business to be done. Avarice gleamed in my father’s eyes as he looked at the leather sack slung over her shoulder. I wondered what fabulous stolen treasures it held.

My father would drive a hard bargain. It was always the way with my father. He spent his life grasping for things to hold. I felt sorry for the Dark Hand. He would try to cheat her. But I saw her put her arm around his shoulder, and then my father laughed. That was a rare sound, indeed.

My mother was standing a few paces away from the stall. Her eyes were half closed as if she were calculating something. She looked away and called us into our hut for something to eat.

My sisters pranced around for weeks, replaying the stories of Dark Hand Cass. My brother, John, dreamt up wild monsters that would destroy her. And I composed my first song. Eventually those simple lyrics would become Dancer in the Sun and Shadows.

The Dark Hand had set me on my way. I started to learn the very elements of what would become my life.

When I was eight I was sent to the Granite Temple. My voice was developing quickly. It was clear to all who heard me that I had the talent.

The Granite Temple was a place of sound and kindness. Every morning I would stand before the Stone Goddess and open the book of my mind to her.

This was a happy time for me. The priests taught me the mechanics of songs. I learnt to flesh the bones of my raw, childish melodies. The priests unveiled a marvellous capacity in me: I could unwind the meaning of the old stories and translate them into words that would touch the common people. That was my gift: the ability to understand the thread of sound that runs through the lives of the ordinary folk. Even now the Granite Temple uses the songs that I composed.

I worshipped the Stone Mother with the talent she had bestowed upon me.

Mother, who sang the world into being.

The first notes of her illimitable voice can be heard, even now, if you listen closely to the melodies of your life.

But although I cherished the Stone Mother, another had already bound my heart. And even in the temple the Dark Hand held me in thrall.

When I was twelve, I announced to my family that I would not enter the priesthood. They couldn’t understand. It had been so clear to them: I would dedicate my life to the goddess, and they would reap the status, something that my father’s failing business needed badly.

Why don’t you want to be a priestess? asked my father.

She wants a husband to warm her bed, no doubt, said my brother, John. He had grown to be much like my father.

Even my mother didn’t understand.

Your father wishes it. Can’t you just do it to make him happy?

There were worse words said, when I told them what my new path would be.

You’re taking the gift of the goddess and sullying it by singing as a common bard? My father was raging. The smaller children cowered in the corner of the hut, and my mother looked away. You’ll end up whoring.

No, Father, I would never . . . Why would he say such a thing to me?

That’s what she wants, said my brother.

I left that night, before they could transform their disapproval into a plan to trap and confine me.

I followed the trail of Dark Hand Cass. I moved from band to band, learning the arts of music that they did not teach at the temple. I sung her stories in taverns, at festivals, at fairs, everywhere the common folk gathered.

After a few years, I was proficient enough to make a living by myself. I preferred to travel the roads alone. Company was difficult for me. Although I could identify the subtlest emotion in verse, the mechanisms of speech always seemed to elude me.

I was an odd bard, not vivacious and confident like the others of my trade. But when I sang, when I recited the Dark Hand’s wild excess, I became a thief like her. I stole some of her glamour and basked in her reflected glory.

My songs will last as long as the diamonds she stole.

Like Cass, I changed my name often. I was successful, and that success would have drawn the gentry to me. Somehow, they would have pulled me into their courts and sequestered me. But I knew that my gift was intended for the common people.

When I was twenty-five, there was a hard time for me. I lost my sight of her. I fancied that she was evading me. Had she, perhaps, sought anonymity? Did she want to fade into the mundane, or even, perhaps, become a wife? Was she seeking the things that I could never have?

I could sing of her former exploits and make good living doing so. But . . . it always seemed that my songs were a journey, unveiling the path of her life. Without renewal the songs felt tired and worn in my mouth.

I thought about returning to my kin despite the bitter words that had been said, but they were hard people. An unmarried woman would be little better than a slave in my father’s home. I had none of the Dark Hand’s beauty. It was unlikely that even a widower would take me at my old age. I decided to keep my faith with her.

I wandered northwards. I chose to believe that the words she had spoken in jest to a child were true words.

Then I heard word of a Queen of the Red Grass people. She had changed her name again. That was our only commonality. We both changed our names lightly. Our names were garments to be chosen or discarded at will.

The Dark Hand settled for a few years. I sang her new songs in the city taverns: how she had captured a king’s heart, how she won her place as his equal, creating strategy and stealing peace. She stilled the bitter fires of war that had ravaged the Red lands for decades. Her brightness shone, as always. The court of the Red Grass Queen became a place of wonder. Men and women of magics and knowledge travelled from all over the lands to pay homage to her.

I, too, had wonder in my life. I rented a house, my first home for decades. There was even a weaver, a widower with two children, who courted me. He liked to hear me sing. I thought that I may have more than music in my life.

But, after a few years, there came a night when she turned shadow and merged into the night. She wrapped herself in darkness and left her Red Grass King.

I was obliged to follow her.

That was the hardest time for me. I spoke to the weaver; I owed him that, and to his children, too. I tried to make them understand why I was bound to follow her. In this life, there is so much hardship. But she, her stories, light up people’s lives. They hear of her exploits and misery diminishes.

There is need of that. There is need of song and beauty. My talent demanded that I follow her song.

But, we need you, said the children. As usual I could not find the right words to reach them. They were angry and they turned away from me. I did not blame them.

But the man said not much, at all. He was like me in that way. Go then, if you must.

I thought he was angry. That like my father he thought I had betrayed the unwritten contract between us.

Two days later, when I was on the road again, I unwrapped my bundle and found two small gold pieces buried in cloth.

It takes a weaver many years to earn two small pieces of gold.

I followed the Dark Hand in a slow, sad way. I was driven by the dreams of my youth, but I was not young. Life on the road had made me old before my time.

It seemed to me that her trail moved northward. It seemed to me that she was weaving her pathway home, and I was glad, because I was growing so tired and sometimes my voice faltered.

At last I came to a white land. This was as far north as any had ever travelled. The People of the Ice were kind to me. They begged me to stay with them. Do not walk any further north, they said. This land is not for travelling. Wild ideas grow out of the ice and sometimes they shape and move. You will lose yourself in the land.

If I had not stopped for the weaver and the children, I would not stop for these warnings, but I thanked them.

I saw wonder growing in their eyes when I sang to them. They said that the songs were shaping and moving. I was pleased.

Wrapped in fur, my steps continued, one more and then another. I thought that my steps would soon stop.

I wondered if this was her home -- such a cold place for such a hot life. All her life the Dark Hand burned. It seemed strange to me that she had come from such a place of ice.

Another step and another. I sang the songs. When it seemed that another step was impossible the melody drove me on, as it had done all my life.

The snow was melody too, swirling around me. I saw the unlimited music in the whirl of wind borne ice.

A figure approached me through the entrancing, drifting, obscuring snow. It was a tall figure, a figure of shadow.

She came to me.

My voice was very weak. I have always found it difficult to speak, but praise be, I found my words. My lady, I have found you. All my life I have sung of your exploits.

Hush now, her hands reached out to me.

I was so glad to see her, I have made a polished stone from your life, brilliant and perfect. The people hold your life in their hand, and they are glad. Your songs will shine through the ages.

She leant over me, picked me up, so easily. I was as light as a small bird to her. I thought I might fly through the wind.

Her lips brushed my cheek.

My last song was sung for her alone. I sang it as she carried me home in her stone arms.

Leave The World To Darkness

Fraser Sherman

-1936-

Aggie, darling, Thomas Edison died six years ago. Rodney Harcourt Ducaine—of the Delaware Ducaines—steered his powerful roadster down the dark, tree-lined country road, bouncing whenever they hit one of the numerous ruts. Why are we driving into the night so you can do a story on him now?"

Rod, you have no idea what it’s like to be a working girl. The tip of Aggie Baxter’s cigarette glowed bright in the darkness beside Rod. Hell, you have no idea what it’s like to be a working man.

Blame Pater. It’s not my fault the family fortune survived the Depression intact. Or do you think I should take a job away from someone who actually needs it?

What I want is no different from what any guy in the newspaper game wants—oh, don’t give me that look, you know what I mean! I want to be good, I want to be better than good—

"You are good—didn’t the Clarion just