From Planet Texas, With Love and Aliens: 1

By Pat Hauldren, Russ Linton, Becky Burkheart and 13 more

Speculative fiction is a thing unto itself, full of wonder and wisdom, creativity and imagination, Here is the first anthology of the North Texas Speculative Fiction Workshop. In these pages, you'll find a mix of fantasy, science fiction, and horror with stories like growing up in the space age, a housewife who hunts the homeless for dinner, the magic of mirrors and shades, an intergalactic triathlon, a magic shad, and much more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: EditAlley Publications
• Release date: Apr 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781545299791

Pat Hauldren

Pat Hauldren is a writer and freelance editor in the Dallas/Fort Worth area of Texas, USA. A retired electronic technician and Quality Assurance Manager, Pat is now a full-time writer and editor at EditAlley.com. Pat writes poetry, Japanese Noh Drama, short stories, and nonfiction. Her nonfiction clients include FYI Television, North Texas eNews, Examiner.com, SavvyAuthors, SFReader, Marketing Tips for Authors, Next Century Publishing, and more. Her fiction has been published in Abandoned Towers, Bewildering Stories, Paradigm, Short & Twisted Christmas Tales, and more. She is currently working on her third speculative fiction novel. From Planet Texas, With Love and Aliens is her first short story anthology. Her first poetry anthology as editor was Budding Poets II.

Book preview

GOING TO ST. IVES

by Tricia Ferguson

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Katie trudged down the road to St. Ives. She pulled her worn shawl tighter against the early spring wind that blew through her thin dress and stockings. The cold of the road seeped through the holes in the soles of her shoes.

A middle-aged man carrying a large bulging sack over his shoulder appeared around a bend in the road, followed by a middle-aged woman and gaggle of young girls about Katie's age. All of the women toted a number of wiggling sacks. Katie stopped and stared. The young women wore bright fresh ankle length dresses in unfaded colors, pink, yellow, green, blue, apricot, and lavender, covered by blinding white aprons and a variety of thick, warm shawls. The middle-aged woman's dress was royal blue. The man wore unpatched brown trousers and a rust vest over a blazing white shirt. Katie blinked at so much dazzling finery.

The group stopped in the road, blocking Katie's way. Would you like a free kitten?

No, Katie replied, I can't take a kitten now. I'm going to St. Ives to look for work.

The group exchanged looks that Katie couldn't read.

Oh, please! The man waved his hand toward the women who had set their wiggling sacks down. These are my seven wives. Each wife has seven sacks, in each sack are seven cats.

Katie stared at the bags. She heard faint meows and hisses. How, she wondered, could there be seven cats in each sack? She remembered Dame Abigail's old tabby. Before it died, it had grown thin, but in its prime.... She shuddered to think of toting seven cats in a sack, much less seven cats in seven sacks. That must be—she calculated briefly—nearly five stone. Katie had been well educated before her schoolmaster father died and left her an orphan with no money. He spent all his earnings on books.

She blinked at casually carrying that weight.

Each cat has seven kits.

Katie blinked again. Seven kittens for each cat—no wonder he stopped every one he saw.

One of the wives, a blonde clad in spring green, sidled up to her and took her hand. Don't worry. She said, It's magic. She gave Katie's hand a squeeze.

Katie didn't believe in magic, so she just nodded.

The man waved the girl in pink forward. This is Trudie.

She opened one of her sacks. A solid gray cat with a white bib and four white feet strolled out followed by seven kittens. Then a calico and a white cat with black spots, each followed by seven kittens. The kittens clustered around Katie who knelt in the road and gathered several kittens in her lap. A little black kitten rested its paws on her chest. She scooped it up and nestled it. Four more cats followed by mittens paraded out of the sack. The other sacks wiggled.

Two men passing by stopped to watch. The older man who was dressed in cleric garb nudged the younger man. Both smiled down at her.

What's your name, dearie? The older woman spoke.

Katie was so busy cuddling the kittens she answered without thinking. Katie.

Katie, would you marry me? The man asked.

Katie quickly set the black kitten down and gathered her skirts to stand up. Kittens tumbled to the ground, rolled around, batting their big kitten eyes at her. What?

I need another wife.

The older woman said, It's the magic, you see; he has to have seven wives for the magic to work. Oh. I'm Harriet, and this is Annie, Sallie, Trudie, Mellie, Lizzie, and Esmeralda. The other girls nodded and smiled at her. They gathered around.

The cats looked up. Katie could swear they looked hopeful. The girls and the man watching certainly did.

Katie felt dizzy. Wha....What? She stammered.

Oh, please, the girl Katie thought was Trudie said. Jeremy and I want to get married, but we can't until Gordon gets another wife.

You'll be very happy, I promise. The red-haired girl in green said. We don't have to work very hard, and when we find someone to marry, Gordon gives us a nice dowry.

This is so exciting. This is the fifth wedding since I've been here. The girl in yellow clasped her hands together.

I want the pink dress this time. The redhead turned to the older woman.

Now, Esmeralda, the older woman sighed. You know pink will look frightful with your red hair. Besides, we don’t see ourselves in a dress. You’ll get to look at the pretty pink.

We have a big dairy farm. The girl in lavender said. There are plenty of us to do the work, and we eat very well.

The older man turned back from the clergyman. We have plenty of time to read and sing and talk in the evenings. He paused. I have almost as many books as your father did.

How did he know about that? Katie wondered. She had read the three books Dame Abigail had until they were ragged.

I do fancy embroidery. The girl in the apricot said.

I knit.

I make lace.

It’s just like a job, only better.

Please! Trudie pleaded.

Katie looked around at all the hopeful faces. She glanced down at the cats. The little black kitten reared up and patted her knee through her thin dress.  Her heart began to thump. Er... I... uh ... guess. 

The girls squealed in delight. The man in clerical garb stepped forward and opened his book. The man in the rust vest, presumably Gordon, took her hand. Mumble, mumble, ...by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife.

Gordon turned to Trudie. I divorce you, Trudie. I divorce you. I divorce you.

The man in clerical garb nodded. So recorded.

Gordon kissed Trudie on the cheek, You've been a good wife, Trudie. I wish you and Jeremy all the best. We'll meet you at the church in an hour, Reverend. Will that be enough time, girls?

Everyone nodded. Trudie handed all her sacks to Katie who discovered they really didn't weight the 40 or 50 stone she thought they would. She looked around for the kittens, but they had all vanished—back in the sacks, she guessed.

Suddenly Trudie was dressed in a beautiful white gown. The other girls were arranging garlands of flowers in her hair. The older woman—Harriet?—smiled indulgently at them. She turned to Katie. Come along, dearie, she said. It is all very strange right now, but you'll be happy, I’m sure.

Katie discovered that she was already warmer. She looked down to find her worn shawl replaced by a thicker one and her shabby dress, a new, unfaded pink and her apron white. Thick stockings and stout shoes covered her legs and feet.

Well, she thought, I guess I'm not going to St. Ives after all.

***

TWICE AS BRIGHT

by Laura Maisano

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The new lab coat ballooned around my middle and hung three inches too long off my shoulders. You’d think the manufacturers would have produced smaller sizes by now. I wasn’t the first Sparked to need lab attire, and I wouldn’t be the last.

Ellery.

I lifted my unfocused eyes from the kaleidoscope of cells under the microscope.

Take a look at this. My assistant Daniel waved from the bench behind me. A smile had broken through his professional visage. Did the new serum work?

With a jump, I dismounted the stool and hurried to Daniel’s station. Stacks of labeled Petri dishes scattered the desk in disarray. He must have some kind of organized-chaos system going on.

What did you find? I pulled up another stool and stepped onto the rung to hoist myself onto the seat. Smooth as possible, but I probably still looked like a kid trying to sit on mommy’s chair.

He slid his microscope over. You tell me. He stuffed his excitement back down with a stern jaw.

The specimen looked similar to one I worked with earlier in the month, stem cells infected with Graham’s telltale maroon stippling. A splash blurred the view under the dish and then they came to life. The cell’s tendrils clung to one another like dancers arm-in-arm in a ballroom. The duet in the center shifted and pinked, healthy.

It’s reversed some of the damage. I pulled away from the eyepiece to see Daniel’s grin returned.

I was right then. The new serum may be the cure.

I held my breath. Don’t go selling it yet. Try not to be so blunt, soften it. Only the cells in the center reacted; that’s a minimal percentage, and... I sighed. Blunt it is anyway. I got that reaction three days ago. The damage returned this morning, worse.

Daniel nodded, once again all business. Thank you for taking a peek, Dr. Bale.

Back to a last name basis, that’s just great. He stacked a few more of his dishes, and I dismounted slowly.

Oh, I forgot to say yesterday, he said. Happy birthday. What is it now, fifteen?

Yes. I showed him my back and returned to my own station.

He knew I didn’t mean to act superior, and he threw my birthday in my face just to hurt me. Shows his professionalism was just an act. He didn’t like me being his boss. Sparked or not, it had to bug a forty-five-year-old man to report to someone who looked like a teenager.

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The lights and TV panel blinked on as I passed through the threshold of my apartment. Rich smells of roast chicken and rosemary potatoes filled the space, strong but not yet burnt. I checked the oven, ten minutes left on the pre-programmed timer.

I yawned and hung the oversized lab coat on the peg by the door. Why’d I feel so tired? Lab work hardly justified exhaustion like a manual job, construction, or even retail. Maybe because we’d come so close on the treatment only to have it crash into another dead end. Failure can drain. What would my life mean if the project failed in the end?

No. Not a good thought train to ride.

The oven clicked off and a melodic beep told me my dinner had finished. On the coffee table, I set the hot plate atop the extra oven mitt and sunk into the leather sofa.

Play ‘Snow and Red.’

The TV responded, and Disney-Fox’s latest re-imagined fairy tale started at the beginning. I snuggled into the plush cushion and ate bites of my homemade dinner. Animated princesses pranced through the forest, and for one moment, I was a child. I wrapped the fleeting mirage over my arms like a blanket. The feeling vanished, leaving a chill behind. My memory couldn’t provide a reference to keep the illusion long. I was never a child. I filled out my own baby book at the age of two, and my developmental infancy ended well before twelve months.

The movie continued to play, and I didn’t have to be a kid to enjoy it. Fairy tales crossed age barriers, cultures, and time. People loved them for their simplicity, but I loved the happy endings. The good guys won, evil vanquished, and the princess found her prince. Happily ever after.

How long was ‘ever?’ More than a few years for certain. Their stories endure; they’re immortal.

With another bite of juicy chicken, I shoved the thought away and let Snow and her sister take me on their adventure. The screen darkened a shade and Dad’s profile pic popped into the upper corner. He’s calling today? Nice timing.

TV, pause. Phone, answer.

The loading ribbon swirled on the screen and Dad appeared, also in his living room. Hi honey. He scooted forward in the recliner like he’d been caught off guard. Guess he didn’t think I’d answer.

Hi Dad.

How’re you doing?

Fine.

His enthusiastic smile faltered. Um, how’s the research coming?

It’s progressing.

You always say that.

It’s always true, I replied a touch too snarky. I forced an unfamiliar curve to my mouth. Really, we’ve made progress. I’ve had some promising breakthroughs, and projecting based on my past experiences, I’d say we’ll have a workable treatment in three years or so.

Dad’s entire body tensed to jump up, but some common-sense alarm must’ve clicked in his brain to keep him seated. That’s amazing news! Last I heard from the research board was that you’ve hit another dead end.

I sighed. I didn’t tell them.

This time he did stand. Why not?

It’s all leaps in my head, making connections we haven’t quite mastered. Besides, it sounds terribly arrogant.

An expression along the lines of what I just said crossed Dad’s face. It’s not arrogance if it’s true.

"I’m sorry if I can’t take pride in something that was done to me. This intelligence isn’t from me. It’s the Spark." I dug my fingers into the sofa underneath where the camera