Bards and Sages Quarterly (July 2015)

By Tyler Bourassa

Since 2009, the Bards and Sages Quarterly has brought fans of speculative fiction an amazing variety of short stories from both new and established authors. Each issue sets out to introduce readers to the wealth of talent found in the horror, fantasy and science fiction genres. Our authors have included Nebula, Hugo, and Pushcart winners and nominees. 

This issue includes short stories by 

Tyler Bourassa, Steve Coate, Bryan Hulse, Gerry Huntman, Malcolm Laughton,  Julia Martins, Sean Turner McLeod, Stephen McQuiggan, and Connor & Sylvia Wrigley.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bards and Sages Publishing
• Release date: Jun 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513092041

Book preview

In This Issue

Spiritual Reflection by Steve Coate

The Flower that Fades and Fa’s by Malcolm Laughton

Book Announcements

Eulogy for a Hero by Bryan Hulse

Bloom by Sean Turner McLeod

And a Sower Goes Forth by Stephen McQuiggan

A Foregone Conclusion by Connor and Sylvia Wrigley

Snatching the Lute by Gerry Huntman

Son of the Empire by Tyler Bourassa

The Corner of Forty-Sixth and Ninth by Julia Martins

Spiritual Reflection

by Steve Coate

It all started with a phone call. But then, it always does.

I was at my cubicle in the customer service center of the Times-Ledger. All the nuts call us because they think the newspaper has all the answers. Either that or they call someone else in the company who transfers the call to us because they don’t know any better.

As a result, I’ve fielded phone calls from angry subscribers, senior citizens trying to settle a bet, mental patients (I kid you not), and even a gruff fellow who claimed to be God.

God was always my favorite caller. Even if he did sound half in the bag.

Anyway, I digress.

On this particular call, things started out like normal.

"Times-Ledger customer service, this is Jake. How can I help you?"

I need your help, came a frail elderly lady’s voice.

I will do my best, ma’am. What can I help you with?

They’re coming into my house and holding their meetings. I don’t want them here. You have to get them out.

I rolled my eyes. From time to time an old person thought we could provide a service we obviously could not. Patience was the key here. If I could leave the caller feeling good about the call when she hung up, then I had done my job and done it well.

"Ma’am, you know you’ve called the Times-Ledger right? This is a newspaper."

Yes, I know.

Well, maybe you should call the police if you feel you are in any danger. At any rate, I’m certain the police would want you to file a report about the break-in.

Oh, I’ve already been to the police. They won’t help me. That’s why I called you. Besides, it’s not a break-in.

Never a good sign.

Ma’am, help me understand. If you don’t want these people in your house and they haven’t broken in, how did they get inside?

They come in through the mirrors.

Right. That explains why she gets no satisfaction from the police. She’s nuts. Although I had to admire her confidence.

Through the mirrors.

Yes, that’s right.

For once, I was having trouble determining how to handle a call without hanging up or putting it on hold indefinitely. So I stalled for time.

And what do they do, once they’ve come through the mirrors?

They hold their witchcraft meetings. They do sacrilegious things! I won’t have it in my house! I won’t!

Maybe there was a kernel of truth to what she was saying. Maybe she had a domineering son or grandson and this was her way of reaching out.

Have they ever tried to hurt you, ma’am?

No. If anything, they laugh at me. Generally they leave me to my—

There was some background noise and the sound of a door opening.

5192 Maplethorne Drive. It’s in Fort Lauderdale. I have to go. Please help me!

I stared at the receiver in my hand after she clicked off, wondering at the context of the call.

I put it out of my head and went about my daily routine. Another forty-five minutes and I would be on my way home, crazy callers all but forgotten, except, perhaps, as a humorous anecdote to be shared with my girlfriend, Amber.

The phone shrilled. I picked it up, hoping for a sane conversation.

Hey, Boo!

Amber! I was just thinking of you!

Oh, go on! How are you going to get promoted if you spend all your time thinking of me?

I smiled and teased her right back. It’s called the Peter Principle. Incompetence breeds success. Especially in the corporate world. So, how’s my favorite nail technician?

Terrific! Listen, I just wanted to remind you, I’m seeing Tan this afternoon, so I won’t be home when you get there.

We’d been living together for four months now. Everything was still relatively new. Tan was the reader Amber had been going to for years. She read tarot cards, divining the future from colorfully decorated rectangles of laminated plastic. Amber said Tan had seen me in her cards and that we had a great future together in store.

It was cute.

OK, thanks. I completely forgot, what with the notes you left me on the refrigerator and front door.

Amber laughed. Jackass.

I laughed as well, recognizing the playful lilt in her voice.

Hey, why don’t you pick up some Thai from that place on the corner on your way home?

Sounds great! I’ll see you later!

Count on it!

The rest of the day went by like a breeze.

* * *

One of the nice things about my job is the location. As with today, if I felt like it, I could walk to and from work. With gas prices where they were these days, this was a particularly nice benefit.

Most days, if I timed it right, I could catch the sunset, an even more spectacular sight, reflected off the New River. This view was, of course, offset by the homeless guys panhandling in the street.

There was one street denizen in particular who I felt sorry for. Almost every day I would see the man sitting at a table outside Subway; holding a conversation with himself in a deep, raspy voice that made him sound as though he was speaking through one of those devices people with throat cancer use to communicate.

I saw him hanging around outside a 7-Eleven as I entered Thai Palace. I didn’t know his name, but I always thought of him as Bob, a nickname I derived from the Bill Murray comedy, What About Bob.

On my way home from Thai Palace, I passed by Bob and handed him a small takeout bag. Hey buddy, have a spring roll.

Bob took the bag, thanked me, shook his head like a dog drying itself after a bath and launched into a tirade about ducks.

That was when I noticed it. Maplethorne Drive.

What the heck. The old lady’s place was on the way home. Why not check it out? If nothing else, it would satisfy my morbid curiosity.

Maybe the Thai would get cold, but that’s what microwaves are for, right?

And that was how I found myself knocking on the front door of the old Victorian house at 5192 Maplethorne. At my knock, the door pushed open slightly. Intrigued, I pushed the door open more fully.

The woman who came to the doorway was quite the grandmotherly figure. If I had to guess, I’d put her at about 75 or 76 years of age. She had gray hair, pulled back into a bun, with black eyes that belied a mental acuteness as sharp as that of a woman half her age.

Yes?

I’m sorry, ma’am, I said. The door was open. I know this may seem a bit strange, but my name is Jake Melbourne. I think we spoke on the phone earlier this afternoon. I noticed your place on my way home and thought I would look in and see how you are doing.

My land! she exclaimed. I remember you, Jake, though I must admit I did not think I would be hearing from you, let alone finding you on my front doorstep. She stepped back, allowing me entry.

Do come in. I was just about to put some tea on the kettle. Won’t you join me? She walked toward the kitchen. Shut the door behind you, please.

I stepped inside, pushed the door closed and took a look around.

None for me, thank you. I can’t stay long, though I must admit your call intrigued me.

I followed her down a long hallway to the kitchen where she set a yellow kettle of water to the stove before turning to address me once more. My name is Mary Beth Aldriss and let me first thank you for coming. Everyone I’ve spoken to in the past believes me to be either a crackpot, or a senile old bird. I hope that when we are through here, you shall hold fast to neither notion.

She certainly seemed to be all there for an old bird.

You mentioned a problem with some mirrors?

Mary Beth poured some boiling water into a teacup, steeped it with a bag of tea and set the bag aside. Shall we move to the sitting room?

I couldn’t help noticing a lack of mirrors.

They have been moved to the basement. As though that will help. She took a breath and held it a moment, as though she was collecting her thoughts. I have lived in this house all my life, Mr. Melbourne. I’ve seen this town go through great changes. From racism against its own residents to abandoning its most needy in the streets. One thing I am not is mentally unbalanced. And senility has quite a wait before it is welcome around here.

She fixed me with a gaze that matched the tone of her words and feeling somewhat unsettled, I reached for a question.

So what exactly is it that’s happening in this house?

Her gaze lingered a moment, as though she were making sure I was not patronizing her.

Mr. Melbourne, two, sometimes three times a month, I receive unwanted visitors through the looking glass, so to speak.

You have to realize how fantastic that sounds.

"Of course I