Metaphorosis August 2016

By Jeremy Packert Burke, Chanel Earl, Mark Rookyard and Santiago Belluco

Beautifully written speculative fiction from Metaphorosis magazine.

All the stories from the month, plus author biographies, interviews, and story origins.

Table of Contents

• Duet for Unaccompanied Cello – Chanel Earl
• Out Where the Rivenbuds Grow – Mark Rookyard
• The Bonesetter – Santiago Belluco
• So, You’re in an Alternate Universe – Jeremy Packert Burke

• Language: English
• Publisher: Metaphorosis Publishing
• Release date: Feb 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781640760677

Book preview

Metaphorosis

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August 2016

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edited by

B. Morris Allen

ISSN: 2573-136X

ISBN: 978-1-64076-067-7 (e-book)

Metaphorosis

Neskowin

Table of Contents

Metaphorosis

August 2016

Duet for Unaccompanied Cello

It came from Chanel Earl

A question for Chanel Earl

About Chanel Earl

Out Where the Rivenbuds Grow

Another question for Mark Rookyard

More about Mark Rookyard

The Bonesetter

It came from Santiago Belluco

A question for Santiago Belluco

About Santiago Belluco

So, You’re In an Alternate Universe

It came from Jeremy Packert Burke

A question for Jeremy Packert Burke

About Jeremy Packert Burke

Metaphorosis Publishing

Copyright

August 2016

Duet for Unaccompanied Cello — Chanel Earl

Out Where the Rivenbuds Grow — Mark Rookyard

The Bonesetter — Santiago Belluco

So, You’re In an Alternate Universe — Jeremy Packert Burke

Duet for Unaccompanied Cello

Chanel Earl

My favorite place to practice the cello will always be the observatory. My friend Jamie, an astronomer, first let me in one day when the sun was up and visibility was nil. I practiced for hours under its high dome, right next to the telescope.

The echo of music in the observatory was singular: less vibrant than a racquetball court, more round than a stadium stairwell, a fuller sound than I have found in any practice room on any campus I have ever attended. In the observatory, music swirled around, visited every surface and then came back to and through me to visit again.

I didn’t want to practice anywhere else. Not only because I loved the sound, but also because I loved the short walk through the woods on my way in, the cool temperature, the old smell, the vibrations of the limestone walls, the look of the gray floor, and the small hole in the domed ceiling that sent every sound up into the sky.

Jamie gave me a key so that I could practice in the observatory any time I wanted to, and on a cold spring afternoon nearing the middle of spring semester, when the days were getting longer and the trees were starting to put on leaves, I heard a faint sound playing along with me. I stopped to listen, and it stopped as well. When I started playing again, it returned. Every time I stopped, it did too, but even though my music covered the sound and kept me from hearing it clearly, I knew it was there, a faint pitchy whistle that, like the sound of footsteps in the woods, disappeared when I tried to get a closer listen.

I had my junior recital the next week. Just me, my cello instructor, a small audience made up of close friends and family, and the observatory. At my request, the top of the dome was opened all the way so that my audience could look through the ceiling at the stars as they felt the music bounce around them before it made its way to the heavens.

After the performance I walked home with Jamie. Always the gentleman, he offered to carry my cello, and I accepted gratefully although we made a laughable pair: me reaching a proud five-foot four with my three-inch heels on and him at a slouch still coming in at six-foot three, carrying a cello in one hand and a telescope in the other. He usually had a lot to say, but that night he was acting strange.

Thanks again for coming, I said to him for the fourth time as we reached my apartment. I guess I’ll see you next week.

Wait, he said. You sounded great tonight, and I’m glad you like to play in the observatory, but… He hesitated.

What?

But, did you notice anything odd about the acoustics? I mean, when you invited me to your recital I had certain expectations—ways that I imagined it would sound—but I didn’t expect new sounds to come out of nowhere. Did you use any electronics? Did you have a flautist hiding in the wings?

You heard it too? I asked.

He look relieved. Yes, thank you. He almost dropped my cello as he tried to gesture with his hands, I wasn’t just imagining it. I heard something else, something that wasn’t you. It was only when you played, and I couldn’t quite make it out, but I heard it. I…felt it.

Jamie and I went back the next night to try and take a closer listen. It was warm enough now that we didn’t need our jackets, and again he opened the dome so that we had a full view of the stars.

That’s my favorite one, I said, pointing to a bright star in the east.

Your favorite planet? he asked.

I felt suddenly embarrassed. Is it a planet? I thought it was a star, I admitted.

Jamie didn’t laugh, although I could see a hint of amusement in his smile. That’s Venus. It will be at it’s brightest soon. It’s great planet to keep company with in the evenings. But don’t get too used to it: in the fall it’s only visible in the early morning.

I admitted that I had only noticed it a few weeks ago, and realized as I took my cello out and tuned up, that I didn’t really know much about astronomy at all.

We decided it would be best if I played the same songs I had performed at my recital. Then, while I played, Jamie moved around the room looking for vibrating panels and listening for anything that could explain the sound we had both heard. He paid careful attention to how the vibrations interacted with the telescope, and at one point, in the middle of a song, he asked me to stop and just play the same note for about five solid minutes as he stared at a meteorite that was sitting in the corner. As we experimented, we learned to hear the music more clearly. It was certainly not imaginary.

Soon, we were meeting every night to experiment with the sound, and we did learn more about it. For example, it didn’t seem to matter if I played in rhythm or in tune, loud or soft, fast or slow. We could hear it when I played with the dome closed and open. After a week or two of listening we started to hear it with every note. It seemed to come out of the sky and enter into us, a throaty whisper of song, like the echo of a bird through a desert canyon.

We made recordings with our phones, trying to capture the sound we were chasing, but they were useless. We tried manipulating them to isolate the new sound, but it doesn’t work that way in real life—just in the movies. The sound was faintly there only because we knew what we were listening for.

In spite of our investigative efforts we were no closer to finding out where the music was coming from than we were the first night we heard it. I was, however, learning a lot about astronomy. After I learned how to recognize Venus, Jamie moved on to other planets, then major constellations. We even spent a few days looking at planets and galaxies through the