Ethereal Tales Special Issue Ebook

By morpheustalesgmail.com

Morpheus Tales Presents The Ethereal Tales Special Issue, edited by Teresa Ford. Featuring: WILLOW BY AMY J. BENESCH, RECESS BY DAN DEVINE, UNDERGROUND BY J.S.WATTS, OBADIAH’S FARTHING BY PETER SIMON, A GRIMM DAY BY M.B. MANTEUFEL, HIGH LONESOME ROAD BY STEVEN LEE CLIMER, MORNING FLIGHT BY PAUL MICHAEL MOREAU, RED DUST BY MICHAEL A. KECHULA, TORCH SONGS IN PURGATORY BY CHRISTINE MORGAN, OAR-STEED BY JOSIE GOWLER, I’M SCARED OF THE DARK BY ASHBY MCGOWAN, STRANGE ENCOUNTERS, CHAPTER 7 - THE HAUNTING OF HAYWARD BY JASON FISCHER, THIS TOWN AIN’T BIG ENOUGH BY JAMES AUSTIN MCCORMICK, BLACK BEAR BY VONNIE WINSLOW CRIST, IN THE FATHER’S IMAGE BY ALAN LOEWEN. At 76 pages this is the largest special issue ever produced by Morpheus Tales Publishing. Horror and fantasy fiction like you have never seen!

• Language: English
• Publisher: morpheustalesgmail.com
• Release date: Feb 6, 2014

morpheustalesgmail.com

Morpheus Tales began in June 2008, and publishes a regularly quarterly fiction magazine, and an accompanying free online non-fiction magazine, (in January, April, July and October), and as many special issues as we can manage. Free previews, free downloads, and ordering information can be found on our website: http://morpheustales.wixsite.com/morpheustales

Book preview

Presents:

The Ethereal Tales Special Issue Edited by Teresa Ford

All material contained within the pages of this magazine and associated websites is copyright of Morpheus Tales. All Rights Reserved. No material contained herein can be copied or otherwise used without the express permission of the copyright holders. 2

Editorial 3

Willow By Amy J. Benesch 5

Recess By Dan Devine 7

Underground By J.S.Watts 11

Obadiah’s Farthing By Peter Simon 15

A Grimm Day By M.B. Manteufel 19

High Lonesome Road By Steven Lee Climer 23

Morning Flight By Paul Michael Moreau 28

Red Dust By Michael A. Kechula 33

Torch Songs In Purgatory By Christine Morgan 35

Oar-Steed By Josie Gowler 46

I’m scared of the Dark By Ashby McGowan 48

Strange Encounters, Chapter 7 - The Haunting of Hayward By Jason Fischer 53

This Town Ain’t Big Enough By James Austin McCormick 58

Black Bear By Vonnie Winslow Crist 60

In The Father’s Image By Alan Loewen 63

All material contained within the pages of this magazine and associated websites is copyright of Morpheus Tales. All Rights Reserved. No material contained herein can be copied or otherwise used without the express permission of the copyright holders.

Editorial

When I was approached by the lovely folks at Morpheus Tales about creating an Ethereal Tales special issue I was at once flattered, excited and just a little nervous.

One of the reasons I stopped producing Ethereal Tales (along with the various practical production issues) was that I was finding rejecting the work of those who submitted to the zine more and more difficult. Of course as Ethereal Tales got better known then more people submitted work, and more had to be rejected to ensure that the page count didn’t get too out of hand. I found each rejection more difficult and in the end decided that the joy I got from being able to publish a writer’s work was out-weighed by the misery that writing those rejection e-mails created within me.

Sadly even though submissions rose sales didn’t, so not only was there more stress created by me being an editor… there was also very little (if any) financial benefit (not that I went into creating the zine thinking I would make money from it).

So all these things came together to help my decision to end production of Ethereal Tales, but even though its closure was a relief in some ways, it was also sad to effectively say goodbye to the many friends I had come to know through its making. Thus when I was offered the chance to revive it for a one-off special, despite some minor misgivings, I jumped at the chance to have my zine rise from the dead.

When choosing tales to fill these pages I looked for that elusive ethereal element… I wanted to find strange beings and magical tales to share with the reader. I hope that however different each tale may be, that you will see how they weave together to create a realm of pages where mystery and magic may weave their spells upon you.

Enjoy these stories, lose yourself in them and perhaps you might find a little of the childlike fascination that fairy tales once brought forth in you. Ethereal Tales was always about fairy tales for adults, something of the otherworldly coming into the mundane explainable world of today.

Ethereal Tales may be dead… but long live ethereal tales!

Teresa Ford (Editor, Ethereal Tales)

We receive lots of things for review, magazines and books, mostly, although we get some films too now and then. When I picked up the first issue of Ethereal Tales and read it I was immediately drawn in. The stories, the poetry, the artwork. It was a magazine that had a very different tone to the usual small-press magazine that struggles to find its identity for a few issues.

ET knew what it wanted to be. It was filled with supernatural horror, quiet horror and fantasy. It was about fairy tales, and monsters, there was an innocence to ET that splatterpunk and torture-porn couldn’t diminish.

Within a few issues Ethereal Tales had built a small community of writers and readers. I read every issue, and was sad to hear that the magazine would not continue.

Meanwhile Morpheus Tales continue to grow and expand our range of special issues and books.

After a little while we realised we missed ET. As MT has continued it’s grown darker and more horror-oriented. We missed the innocence that ET offered within its pages, and we had long wanted to work with Teresa Ford, who created, edited and published the Ethereal Tales.

The idea of Morpheus Tales Presents Ethereal Tales Special was born. Teresa had put together the stories, and we’ve put together the magazine you’re now reading.

We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we’ve enjoyed putting it together.

Adam Bradley (Publisher, Morpheus Tales)

Willow By Amy J. Benesch

In a cool glen by a rushing stream, a willow tree leaned over the water, shook in the wind, and held birds’ nests in her branches. In time, humans with their earth-moving machines invaded and built houses near the stream. All the humans agreed to keep the stream as well as the trees and bushes that grew beside it, because, after all, they were the point of living there, weren’t they? But as the city expanded and demand for housing grew, some of the humans felt that cutting down the trees and bushes and dredging the stream was the best course of action. It was regrettable, of course, but humans needed to live somewhere, didn’t they?

When the machines rumbled in, trampling the grasses and wildflowers and uprooting the trees, a portal opened up. Most of the Nature spirits rushed into that portal emerging into another realm, where they could live as they always had. But one spirit, that of the willow tree, hesitated. She wasn’t used to moving and the thought of it frightened her. Besides, she thought, this is my home, why I should I leave? By the time she realized what the humans had in mind, it was too late; the portal had closed.

So now she stood in the spot where she had always stood, beside the stream that was now only a memory, that was, in fact, someone’s living room. She justified her failure to move with a kind of stubborn resolve. This is my home, she thought, however altered in appearance.

Eventually the house that contained the spirit of the willow tree was bought by a man and a woman. The woman left after a year, saying she didn’t feel comfortable there. She kept hearing strange noises, as if someone were crying. The man heard the crying as well, but instead of being disturbed by it, he was intrigued.

After coming home from work, he would pull off his boots, pour himself a Scotch and water, close his eyes and try to sense where this spirit was. He felt himself drawn to the southeast corner of the room, so he bought a wicker rocker and placed it there. He would sit there in his stockinged feet with his drink, close his eyes, and wait. After a while he would feel the rocker begin to move gently, without his doing a thing.

One warm spring evening, as the man sat, as usual, in his rocker, it began to move back and forth rapidly, so rapidly that his drink sloshed onto his lap. This was the signal he had been waiting for. Who are you? he asked out loud. And what do you want?

Willow poured out her heart to him. She told him how things used to be: how the breezes would blow through her hair, how she would lean down and talk to the brook, how baby birds would poise on her branches, trying to screw up the courage to fly away and how she would sometimes give a little shake to help them when they couldn’t make up their minds to jump. Once she started talking, she found she couldn’t stop.

The man understood very little of it, but he sensed what she was saying. The next day he went to the local historical society and made photocopies of maps that showed the way things used to be, before the houses were built. He laid the maps on the dining room table, and Willow gently guided his hand to show him where she used to stand.

As he grew to understand her better, the man began filling in other things on the map: where the dogwood trees had been, where in the stream the rocks created a little waterfall that caused the stream to sing. When everything had been completed to Willow’s satisfaction, from the boulders to the wildflowers, Willow spoke into the man’s ear. Fix it, she whispered. Bring it back.

The man tried explaining to her that he couldn’t bring it all back. The land didn’t belong to him. Willow, of course, didn’t know what he was talking about. What is own? she asked and, as hard as he tried, he couldn’t make her understand. He could, however, do something about the land he did own. He showed her on the map where his property began and ended and promised to bring that piece back to how it had been. Willow didn’t understand what property meant, but she did know that the man was doing what he could, and she had to settle for that.

The man was a builder, so when he began tearing his house down, the neighbours thought nothing of it. They were always improving and expanding their own homes and knew that you have to break eggs to make an omelette. After a few months, though, when nothing remained but the foundation, they began to ask questions. What are you doing? Starting from scratch?

The man just grinned and said, Yep.

After the house was demolished, the foundation filled in, and the man was living in his car, he dug up the driveway, planted bushes and trees, and hauled boulders, all under Willow’s whispered directions. When she was satisfied that every rock, tree, bush, and stream had been restored to the state it had been in just before the humans came with their earthmovers, she wafted over to the spot where she had stood for so many years, as a tree. She was trembling with excitement.

Something is happening, she whispered. There is an opening.