A Potpourri of E. W. Farnsworth: Weird, War, Supernatural and Steampunk Tales

By E.W. Farnsworth

Potpourri contains a wealth of literary tales exhibiting the author's range and depth, from horror to science fiction and from steampunk to paranormal.  Most of the contents have appeared in small collections worldwide.

Often crossing the boundaries of traditional genres, E. W. Farnsworth's works are highly allusive, full of droll humor, sometimes savagely satirical and always hewing closely to distressing shared memories while remaining fictions.  

"The Chronosphere" series of tales, for example, follows actual events that preceded the fall of the Berlin Wall.  Many included war stories, like "American Penelope," while rooted in myth, and "The Shkval" are closely patterned after experiences of real people.

"Soul Train to Nogales" explicitly acknowledges the author's debt to a story by Nathaniel Hawthorne.  "Wind Joiner" and "Curse of Anpu" scarily portray fundamentally different religious perspectives (American Indian and ancient Egyptian).

Frequently Farnsworth's allusions extend to his own voluminous canon of works, and his fans will enjoy the connections to stories and novels in other anthologies.  With prose that is both popular and erudite, these tales comprise a sampler as well as an invitation. 

The short stories can be read between tasks or just before bed.  The author's intention is not only to entertain, but also to cause his readers to reflect on the ironies of the human condition. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Celestial Ink Publishing
• Release date: Mar 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386336945

Book preview

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Weird Stories

Wind Joiner

Curse of Anpu

War Stories

The Chronosphere Tales

Star Wars

Liar’s Dice

Glorious Confusion of Identity

A Stitch in Time

Etudes

Percussion and Brass

The Shkval

American Penelope

Supernatural Stories

Soul Train to Nogales

Ghost of the Gilbert Cemetery

Footloose

Harvest

Steampunk Stories

Synchronicity Jones

Amanuensis

The Steam Cleansing Machine

Enyo on Rails

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Weird Stories

The stories, Wind Joiner and Curse of Anpu, were first published in Beyond the Shroud Anthology of Horrified Press in August 2017 and are reproduced here by the gracious permission of Nathan Rowark, publisher.

War Stories

Four stories, Star Wars, Liar’s Dice and Glorious Confusion of Identity, under the rubric, The Chronosphere, were first published in the Time Port 1985 Anthology of Horrified Press in March 2018 and are reproduced here by the gracious permission of Nathan Rowark, publisher.

The stories, Etudes and Percussion and Brass, were first published in The Devil’s Piano Anthology of Horrified Press in November 2017 and are reproduced here by the gracious permission of Nathan Rowark, publisher.

The stories, The Shkval and American Penelope, were first published in The Tightfisted Scot Advisory Newsletter and are reproduced here by permission of Wilson F. Engel, III, Ph.D., Publisher.

Supernatural Stories

The story, Ghost of the Gilbert Cemetery, was first published in the Ghost Stories Anthology of Zimbell House Publishing in November 2017 and is included herein by the gracious permission of Evelyn Zimmer, publisher.

The story, Footloose, first published by the editors of Everywriter 500-word Scary Story Contest in August 2017 and is published by permission.

The story, Harvest, was first published in The Tightfisted Scot Advisory Newsletter and is reproduced here by permission of Wilson F. Engel, III, Ph.D., publisher.

Steampunk Stories

Two stories, Synchronicity Jones and Amanuensis, were first published in Steampunk, the June 2017 anthology from Zimbell House Publishing, LLC, and are included in this collection by the gracious permission of Evelyn Zimmer, publisher.

The two stories, The Steam Cleansing Machine and Enyo on Rails, were first published in the Steam-Powered Dream Engines Anthology of Horrified Press in March 2018 and are included herein by the gracious permission of Nathan Rowark, publisher.

Dedication

Leah, sine qua non

Weird Stories

Wind Joiner

FIGURES MOVED AROUND her.  She did not recognize them in the heat.  The sun beat the desert like a grinding stone. It was dry like her mouth.  In the distance she thought she saw the shape of her sleeping mother, large as the pink and light blue landscape.  Flies buzzed.  A lizard slipped between two rocks.  The sky arched like a glass dome.  These were her last hours.  She knew the signs.  She did not resist.  Life had been hard.  All her brothers and sisters had gone from the fourth world.  She vaguely hoped she would join them.  But how?

A lone white cloud was passing through the sky.  No sign of stirring blades below, but high above something was heading for San Francisco Mountain.  The mesas lay flat and squat.  Up there were dwellings and a few of her people and the others.  It was the others who had accused her of being a witch.  Why should she deny it? She knew the plague was coming and said the unthinkable.  Many had died.  She was blamed for the invisible scourge.  The women had come with axes.  They surrounded her and axed the witch.

Now she was a pile of bones, flesh and material.  No one had dared to give the final stroke that would release her soul.  It was not the body soul they feared.  It was the spirit soul, whose vengeance would need blood until, sated, it joined the other wandering spirits in the wind.  She tried to imagine how the magic worked.  Would she feel pain in the transition? Would she notice any change of mind in the separation of her spirit from her body’s soul?

At first, she had felt no pain as the axes hewed her, except she winced at the hatred in the faces of her neighbors.  They had resented her and her people.  Jealous of a few scraps of woven material and miscellaneous feathers, they wanted a sense of common action against something they would never understand.  She had never axed a witch herself.  Was that an indication she was one of them? It hardly mattered now.

Her eyes tried to focus on a trail of her blood leading to a severed arm.  She tried to flex the fingers on that hand but felt nothing.  She saw no movement in her fingers.  Her rings were missing, taken by the axe women.  They would regret their greed soon.  She remembered how hard they had worked, hewing and pounding the flesh.  They dared not deface her or touch her eyes.  A kachina doll stood as a distraction looking east, the direction from which the Pahana would come.  She had no clear vision of that happening.

A mouse inched forward to sniff her leg.  It licked her foot and nuzzled a toe.  If a mouse licked while it ate, you could not tell it was eating you.  A baby had lost all its toes to mice without crying.  She watched the mouse feed on her toe while licking it.  She felt no pain.  A boat tailed starling and two crows dropped down to feast on her spilled entrails.  She did not see the mouse run off, but it was now gone, along with her toe.

A line of black ants in two columns came to feast and return to their underground dwelling.  Soon she knew the natural taking of every bodily part of her would occur.  Would she still see and comprehend what was happening when the hawks came for her eyes? The last time she looked in a glass at her reflection, she saw all lines and whorls.  Long since, her smooth skin had become shriveled.  Some said her expression told them everything about her.  They saw her displeasure in their frivolities and resented her.  She was different and chose to live outside the village and off the mesa.  She was alone and unprotected.

She mused on better days when her husband and then her eldest son were comforts to her.  Her son had become a priest but left the mesa to find a white man’s job.  She hoped he would be successful.  She also hoped he would not return to find her in her current state.  As for her husband, he was now among the spirits.  Would she know him when she saw him? Would she feel him? She did not know.

A rattle snake slithered over her chest, its tongue flickering.  It sought the shade of the rock ledge outside the leaning boards and car hoods that formed her dwelling.  A line hung from her makeshift door, but it was lifeless.  A fly lit on the line for a moment.  It flew away, not interested in the general feast.

She thought she smelled herself.  Blood and entrails, the scent of fear, old unwashed skin, corn meal.  She deduced she was still breathing and her nose was working.  She strained to hear, but she heard only the sound of a great body of water washing against primeval sands.  Her grandfather had told her that once the entire valley was covered by an ocean, whose ghosts still filled the giant cavity up though the waters had evaporated eons ago.  Her grandfather had taken her west to the place where her people rose from the third world.  How frightened she had been to walk down and up those cliffs to the running water below.  She remembered his talking of evil people remaining down below while the good ones aspired higher, her ancestors.

What did it matter that she and others survived for a while? People degenerate and become weak and lazy, corrupt and senseless.  Over ages, they divide and reform their communities.  This pattern will not change until the fifth world comes, the impossible final purification.  She assessed the way her body had fragmented when the axe blows fell.  She was a symbol of her people.  Her several pieces lie around her.  She cannot pull herself together.  Nature would have to re-assimilate her parts and make her whole in some new way.

Vaguely, she was aware that two men were surveying what had become of her.

Here’s another case, brother. When the women axe a witch, they are thorough.

Deputy, what do you make of this kachina doll?

She wanted to answer the question though it was not directed at her.  The two men did not seem to be aware that she was capable of understanding their patois of Hopi and American.

The deputy said, That’s not even one of her family’s katchinas.  Her murderers must have brought it for ritual purposes.

The older man said, If this old woman really was a witch, they’d better hope their ritual worked.

The deputy felt the old woman’s head with his hand.  This woman is still alive somehow.  She’s not cold. She’s faintly breathing.  I can see signs of life in her eyes.

The old man pushed him away from the body.  You’d better hope she’s not alive.  We don’t want to be here when she passes.

You’re as bad as the elders fearing the dead.

I’m not afraid of the dead, son.  I’m afraid of the spirits in their time of passing from the living to the dead.

Maybe we should go away and come back when we’re sure she’s dead.  We could drive up to the mesa, ask a few questions.  Maybe someone will name the women who axed her.

The older man harrumphed.  Unlikely. If any talked, she’d be axed just as this woman was.  Are you coming? Or are you just going to gawk until she dies.

Isn’t there anything we could do to save her?

Look at her parts spread out like a puzzle.  You could call 911, but it would take the EMTs an hour to get here.  They’d be mad because her death is a reservation matter.

The old woman heard them drive off.  Then she distinctly heard the sound of flies buzzing, as if they were singing in her ear.

The divisions between the old and the young, the traditional ways and the tribal ways, are like the sides of the canyon to the third world.  Between them, death causes no resolution, only confusion.  She wondered whether she cared they had not tried to save her. What would survival be like? What would anyone gain by it?

She thought she heard the whinnying of horses.  Were mustangs converging to pay their last respects.  No, these horses were shod.  They snuffled as their riders dismounted.

This his horrible! What do you suppose happened here, Fred? The young woman seemed to be genuinely upset.  She had something special, the old woman thought.  The old woman tried to speak, but her tongue would not move.

Clara, I’ve read about the Hopi tradition of axing witches.  Six or so women fetch axes and surround the victim.  They hew and pound her to death.  But is this one entirely dead? I don’t think so.  He climbed down and felt the old woman’s head and looked into her eyes.  She’s alive!

What should we do?

I’m gong to call 911 on my CB radio.  Bring your canteen over and dab her face and mouth.

The man called 911 and described what he saw on the ground: This is an emergency. My wife and I are riding near Black Mesa.  We found the remains of a wounded woman.  She’s still breathing, barely, but her body parts are all over the place.  She’s lost most of her blood.

The dispatcher said, All our units are occupied just now.  We can get an emergency vehicle out there in around an hour, at the best.  If she’s dead when we arrive, it will be up to the locals to take care of the body.  In the mean time, keep her hydrated.  For the record, what is your name?

This is Frederick Thompson.  I’ll remain with the victim until your people arrive.

Clara dabbed the old woman’s face and lips with a wet kerchief.  She poured water from her canteen into the woman’s mouth.  She thought she saw the woman swallow."

Just keep her hydrated, they said.  Jesus.  Hey, I’ve got an idea.  I’ll call 911 back and get them to send one of their flying units.

Fred called 911 again.  This is Fred Thompson again.  Listen carefully.  I don’t care what else you have going; I want a helicopter unit vectored to the foot of Black Mesa immediately.  The victim is able to swallow.  We’re hydrating her.  She’ll live if you hurry.  I’ll put this very simply.  I’m making a record of her vital signs with my cell phone.  If your helo isn’t here in fifteen minutes, I’ll send my recording to every media outlet in the country.

The dispatcher said, We are trying to divert a helo near you now.  Keep the victim hydrated as well as possible.  I’ll contact you when we have an ETA.

Fred turned to Clara and said, I’m going to record this until it’s over, one way or another.

The old woman’s eyes seemed to twinkle.  She felt the water course down her throat.  Her tongue no longer felt like cotton.  She felt Clara’s wet kerchief dabbing her forehead.  She wanted to speak, but she could not make a sound.  She saw two horses standing in her peripheral vision.  She felt Clara’s presence over her giving her shade.  She saw Fred maneuvering to do his recording, speaking quietly as he went as if he were in the presence of the dead, not the living.

While events conspired to reverse the old woman’s dying process, the jeep with the sheriff and the deputy screeched nearby.

The sheriff, a square man, put his hand on his holstered gun and said, Are you the ones who called for the emergency helicopter?

Clara did not look up.  She said, Yes. My husband made the call. Now he’s recording everything here.

He can’t do that! said the sheriff.

Why can’t I? asked Fred as he aimed his cell phone camera at the sheriff.

The deputy tried to pull the sheriff back, but he persisted.  Turn that thing off.

I told the 911 dispatcher what I was going to do. Until they order me to desist, I’m going to do it.

Clara said, She’s swallowing.  Look!

Fred pointed his camera at the old woman’s head and recorded her swallowing.  I got it.

The sheriff said, You don’t know what you’ve got, Mister Thompson.  This is a crime scene.  I’m the sheriff, and this is my deputy.  I’m going to ask you once to step back from the woman and be on your way.

Fred recorded everything the sheriff said.  He created a file and emailed it before he continued recording.  Sheriff, I’ve just sent what I’ve recorded to the leader of the US Army Ranger unit I served with in Afghanistan.  If you and your deputy don’t let us continue what we’re doing, that recording will be the first item on the evening’s news worldwide.

Clara said, I’m not sure, but I think I just saw the old woman’s mouth form a smile.

The deputy knelt next to Clara and spoke to the old woman in Hopi.  If you can hear me, Mother, swallow.

The woman swallowed, clearly.

Sheriff, the woman just swallowed.  She heard me.  She’s alive.

The sheriff tried to pull his deputy away, but the young man shook him off.  Clara continued to dab the woman’s face with water and gently pour more water down her mouth.

The deputy muttered in Hopi, You should have let me call 911 when we were here earlier.

Damn you, Two Feathers!

Clara said in perfect Hopi, Did I just hear you say you were here earlier? And that you didn’t call 911 immediately after finding this woman was alive?

The sheriff and deputy were both speechless, but their faces spoke the truth, which was recorded by Fred, who made another file from his recording and emailed it.

The 911 dispatcher called.  Mr. Fred Thompson, a rescue helicopter is heading your way.  Stand by.  Acknowledge.  Over.

I acknowledge.  We are standing by.  With us are the local sheriff and deputy.  Both can attest that the victim is still alive.  I am still recording events here.  I’ve been informed that no one besides me called in this incident earlier today.  Is that correct?

That is correct.  Let me speak with the sheriff.

Fred handed his radio to the sheriff and continued to record everything with his cell phone recorder.  Clara continued her ministrations with the water.  The sheriff and the dispatcher argued about procedures and jurisdictions.

The old woman winced.  She blinked.  She was confused by the increasing commotion around her.  She heard the whoosh and whine of the emergency helicopter landing.  Sand was whipped up in all directions.  The emergency crew ran out of the helo with their gurney.  They were professionals and knew what to do.  They asked Clara and Fred to stand back.  They told the sheriff and deputy they needed a statement about what had happened up to the time of their arrival.  The sheriff pointed at Fred, who was still recording.

The lead medic gave Fred his email address, and Fred made and sent another file.

The EMTs collected the victim’s body parts carefully.  They strapped the largest part of the woman’s body to the gurney.  A drip was inserted to introduce saline solution while the EMTs argued about stabilization and giving the old woman blood products.  The helo flew off, and that was the end of Fred’s recording except he trained his camera on the blood-stained desert floor where the woman’s body had lain and on her shambles of a home.

The old woman, meanwhile, felt the motion of the helo as it flew to Phoenix.  She sensed things probing her body and heard the discussions of the EMTs with the receiving hospital emergency room staff.  She was beginning to feel pain as she had never known.  Her first vocal communication was a primal scream, after which the medics administered morphine. 

The sheriff informed Fred and Clara that he wanted full signed statements from each of them.  Fred offered his recordings in lieu of their depositions, and the deputy convinced the sheriff to accept the offer.  Fred sent his files to the sheriff’s email address. As evening fell, the Thompsons rode into the sunset.  The sheriff and deputy drove back to their tiny office.  An unusual incident had been handled, but its aftermath had not begun.

MODERN