Little Boy Lost: More Tales of Youth Disrupted

By Piers Anthony, Cathy Bryant, Tammy Euliano and 12 more

A companion volume to "Little Girl Lost: Thirteen Tales of Youth Disrupted," this multinational anthology has brought together authors from all across the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom, representing a variety of genres including horror, high and low fantasy, drama, science fiction, and even a little taste of romance. What binds these authors and their stories together are the disruptions: losses of innocence, of people, of hope...of one’s mind. Fraught with peril, emotion, and journeys most incredible, this collection of tales is sure to draw you in.

Come get lost.

Edited by Ronald Linson and Deidre J Owen. Featuring all original stories by Piers Anthony, Cathy Bryant, Tammy Euliano, Angelique Fawns, Mark F. Geatches, Ken Goldman, Noah Grace, Gabriel Hart, Fiona M Jones, Nicola Kapron, Tim Mendees, Don Noel, John B. Rosenman, Jeremy Thackray, and Marie Vibbert.

[Contains some coarse language and violent encounters. Recommended 14+ with discretion.]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mannison Press, LLC
• Release date: Jun 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463843857

Piers Anthony

Piers Anthony is one of the world’s most popular fantasy writers, and a New York Times–bestselling author twenty-one times over. His Xanth novels have been read and loved by millions of readers around the world, and he daily receives letters from his devoted fans. In addition to the Xanth series, Anthony is the author of many other bestselling works. He lives in Inverness, Florida.

Book preview

Mannison Press Presents

Edited by Ronald Linson and Deidre J Owen

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2020 Mannison Press, LLC

Published by Mannison Press, LLC at Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Table of Contents

Introduction

1 Someone Else's Shoes, Fiona M Jones

2 Wyatt and the Whog, Angelique Fawns

3 Ride the Ride, Piers Anthony

4 The Inspection, Jeremy Thackray

5 From the Trash, Marie Vibbert

6 Wrath Child's Atrophy, Gabriel Hart

7 Killing Miss Pope, Ken Goldman

8 The Great Gumball Machine, John B. Rosenman

9 Soccer is Life, Tammy Euliano

10 Shy Boy, Don Noel

11 The Prince's Choice, Mark F. Geatches

12 Snap, Cathy Bryant

13 Monster in the House, Tim Mendees

14 O Human Child, Nicola Kapron

15 Everything Under the Sun, Noah Grace

Special Thanks

About Mannison Press

Introduction

Lessons in Publishing

In the fall of 2019, Mannison Press published our inaugural anthology, Little Girl Lost: Thirteen Tales of Youth Disrupted. It was an exciting time! Our new line of Minibooks had been launched, we had enough stories queued up to carry us into the new year, and ideas were free-flowing for future projects. Then, right around the time the anthology was released, the question was posed: "Will there be a companion volume for Little Girl Lost?"

It didn't really require discussion.

In fact, it rather went without saying.

Little Boy Lost was already percolating.

What caught this fledgling indie publisher off guard, however, was how vastly different this project would be. All the framework was in place, all the templates were there, all the SOPs established...what could go wrong? We were riding the high of a modestly successful launch and jumped in with both feet, but quickly became victims of our own enthusiasm...then became victims of circumstance.

Little Girl Lost was released in mid-October, which was absolutely ideal for a collection of horror, sci-fi, fantasy, and crime fiction stories. We had had an amazing response to our first submission call and there was a fair bit of buzz (considering how new we were). As such, we decided to take advantage of the momentum and announced Little Boy Lost a month later, opening submissions in early December.

Lesson one: Don't compete with the holidays.

Due to the distractions of the holiday season, submissions were much slower than our first go 'round. It took a lot more effort to rouse interest this time, but we still managed to drum up a solid number of submissions with some fabulous stories (as you are soon to discover). Overall sales also slowed to a trickle, and we acknowledged we would have to scrounge for funding in order to put together another anthology. Our first crowdfunding campaign got the job done, right?

Lesson two: Post-holiday slump is real.

January really is no good for sales or funding. Everyone's tapped. As such, we set the next campaign for February. The holiday hangover will have run its course and we'll be entering the month of love and good will! (Or so we thought.) We created a new campaign and put the word out.

Lesson three: Asking for money is humbling.

The first time was exciting. Hi, we're new! Help us find our feet! The second time, though? That was hard. We're still new but not shiny; we are growing but going through the awkward stage. Friends and family were stepping up, though, and we had hopes they might provide enough support to help see the project through. We extended the campaign to maximize potential contributions, but then...

...then the world shut down.

Like, the whole world.

Lesson four: You can't predict epic crises of humanity.

A global pandemic had gripped us—COVID-19, a.k.a. Coronavirus, you might've heard of it—and suddenly we felt like bedraggled panhandlers begging for change outside a burning building. The final two weeks of crowdfunding slipped silently by and the campaign closed unceremoniously.

Lesson five: God bless family and friends.

Fortunately, we're plucky, and we have people in our lives who support our publishing venture. A few generous benefactors came forward to help finance the project. If it hadn't been for them the entire project might have tanked, but thanks to their support, we were breathing a little easier by mid-April. Little Boy Lost had finally achieved solid footing.

So, what have we managed to pull together through all of this? You'll find that this anthology is similar to the first in thematic elements and the multi-genre approach. However, as with every good sequel, it's expanded upon the original. More stories. New genres. And now we're multi-national.

As before, you'll find creative horror and riveting science fiction, high and low fantasy and captivating storylines, coming from authors all across the United States and Canada. Only this time, you will also encounter contorted reality, gripping drama, even—even!—a sweet kiss of romance...and we've crossed an ocean to bring you stories from authors in the United Kingdom.

Lesson six: It's all still worth it.

Ron Linson and I are now absolutely thrilled to present to you this exciting new anthology, Little Boy Lost: More Tales of Youth Disrupted. We hope you enjoy it as much as the first one. Perhaps even more. We worked hard, dang it.

Deidre J Owen

Lithia, Florida

April 2020

1

Fiona M Jones

Fiona M Jones (U.K.) is a creative writer living in Scotland. She has short fiction and nonfiction on Silver Pen, Folded Word, and a number of other venues. You can see Fiona's published work through @FiiJ20 on Facebook, Twitter, and Thinkerbeat.

Someone Else's Shoes

By Fiona M Jones

[science fiction]

And now it's Jenna's turn! said Mrs. Kenneth in her permanently bright, hyper-inflected speaking tone. Jenna, what have you brought for Show and Tell?

Got this, Jenna mumbled, holding up a small plush animal of indeterminate species.

"Isn't that nice, Jenna. Tell us all about it," Mrs. Kenneth enthused automatically.

Me an' my nan we done shoppings an' then we done a McDonalds an' I got the Happy Meal an' I got this an I got three one's a pink an one's a green an' this one see it's green but not same green as a other one what's in my house at home an' I wanted a blue but I not got a blue but I'll get a blue 'nother Happy Meal 'nother day an then I'll have four one pink one green one a other green one blue—

That's wonderful, Jenna! Thank you for sharing it with us! Mrs. Kenneth said quickly, perceiving signs of restlessness around the classroom.

I not done. Jenna resumed her small but determined monotone. Gonna do a Happy Meal a morrow an' get blue an' if they not got blue gonna go again an' keep going till I get a one what I want—

"Wow, Jenna! I am so impressed! cried Mrs. Kenneth, abruptly enough to surprise the fidgeters into momentary attention and at the same time startling Jenna into forgetting the rest of her monologue. A perfect example of our Class Ethos, 'Keep Going and Never Give Up'! Let's applaud her, everyone. And here's a Class Ethos sticker. Now, we really must let someone else have their turn. How about Elvis next!"

Little Elvis stood up obediently, a trophy held reluctantly in his small but nimble hands. Mrs. Kenneth outwardly beamed at him and inwardly sighed. Giving full inclusion to an elective mute never seemed to get any easier.

"Let's hear all about it, she enthused, approaching Elvis to look at the inscription. Well, Elvis, congratulations. You got this at your piano recital?"

Elvis conceded a slight nod.

Isn't that good. I'm sure your parents were so proud!

The sheer blankness of Elvis's gaze disconcerted her. It reminded her, eerily, of death. Of how long he had been dead. Of the mysterious hidden processes of genome reconstruction, injection, inspection, gestation. Cloning.

She shook herself. He's just a little child, she told herself. Just a normal little boy...with a few issues, maybe. Brightly, she resumed: I'm sure they were. And what are you learning just now on the piano?

Elvis ran his fingers spiderishly to and fro along the desk—demonstrating, probably, some complex three-octave scale with as many black notes as white.

"Isn't that just amazing. You really are a little genius. Let's applaud Elvis, everyone! Now, shall we hear from...oh, Wallie. Yes, well, I do hope you've brought something nice and safe this time, Wallie?"

I could tell you the story of Wallie, who knew how to turn a bottle of cola into a volcano and how to transform a simple wax crayon into a plume of flame that could scorch a hole in the classroom ceiling. I could tell the story of Jenna, who will surely attain her blue plushie and every other material desire through the simple expedient of talking about it until it happens.

But those two children and millions of others make their own destiny, choosing almost at random their own paths as they go along; developing lesser talents—or talents less intensely measured and intensively nurtured. Elvis is...different.

Only two embryonic clones had survived the test tube to the implantation stage. Of the two carefully selected surrogate mothers, press photographers captured one eating blue cheese, and the ensuing public outcry may well have triggered the stress symptoms leading to her miscarriage. On the final clone, born two months premature and severely underweight, lay the hopes, dreams, and the heavy financial interests of a large section of the music industry. Millions of dollars poured into this investment—the reincarnation of the most famous voice in history—and the tiny preterm baby, oxygen-ventilated and tube-fed, must one day begin to remunerate their efforts.

The sooner the better. Die-hard Elvis fans, it seemed, would pay well for limited-edition recordings of his first baby vocalizations; celebrity magazines jostled for exclusive stories on his medical and personal progress; and little Elvis would have the finest music teachers money could buy, as well as the most ambitious adoptive parents the interview process could provide. With all this in his favor, this second Elvis should, if anything, outdo the first—both in musical accomplishment and in revenues generated.

Although in most respects Elvis must receive a normal childhood, he began singing lessons at six months of age, and showed (according to his voice teacher) a remarkable sense of pitch and cadence. Pre-piano keyboarding and musical theory patterning began shortly after Elvis's first birthday, and once again, his tutors reported excellent progress. His adoptive mother Leannah, a vocal artist in her own right, gave up concerts to become a full-time mommy—and to organize, every evening, a charmingly informal family music-making session for live broadcast on reality TV. Jarrod, Elvis's adoptive father, a top technician in the recording industry, could play any keyboard invented; and this lent fun and variety to their little nightly shows.

Leannah and Jarrod proved themselves exemplary parents in every way. They fed their son healthy food, scheduled standard but non-dangerous indoor and outdoor activities, supplied him with appropriate playdates and, of course, attended every event featuring their child, the tiny tot with the titanic talent.

Nobody could ever say for sure when Elvis stopped talking. Leannah connected it to a brief touch of tonsillitis. Jarrod thought that Elvis, outwardly so tractable, had shown subtle oppositional tendencies on a number of occasions. The therapist, who had to communicate with Elvis through informal sign language and drawings, thought that a chance comment at a social gathering had revealed to Elvis that strangers held intimate and unexplained knowledge of his private home life. One way or another, the unthinkable had happened: the voice, destined for greatness, had dropped to a reluctant mutter and trailed off altogether. Bribes, pleading, threats and even therapy itself made no difference. Elvis went to school and didn't speak. Elvis went to singing lessons and refused to sing. He would talk to himself and his toys when alone in his room with music playing, but nobody ever heard what he said. He would draw copious scribbles of what looked like fire and water and staring eyes, but nobody could get him to respond as to what they meant.

Pressured by their sponsors, desperate to keep up their excellent parenting standards through good times and bad, Jarrod and Leannah debated what to do.

We should change therapists, Jarrod suggested. With so much at stake...we need results, and we're not getting them.

I don't know, said Leannah. He's fond of Allie. That's something.

But I don't like the way she encourages him to draw. Drawing's not his talent; it's music.

Well, at least he still plays piano and violin, Leannah replied. He hasn't lost that. Do you know what I think? I've always felt that all this 'treating him as a normal child' is actually bad for him. He needs to embrace his specialness. We musicians are highly-strung, and I'm sure this refusal to speak could have started at that school.

That's a thought, Jarrod mused. Home education?

It wouldn't be hard, Leannah agreed, with a daily tutor and all. He's nothing if not well-behaved.

They tried it for three years, and everyone declared it a success. Elvis progressed well in literacy and numeracy, and if he still refused to speak, well, at least it showed less. They could not leave him to work on his own, as he would draw all over his books; but, when supervised, he worked very nicely and with the neatest of handwriting. His oddly babyish habit of scribbling on the walls they managed to control by limiting access to pens, crayons, and sharp objects. Life looked good.

I'm sure he's happier, Leannah remarked to the therapist, listening to Elvis beginning piano practice. "He's so—he's such a serene child, in his way."

It's easy to mistake passivity for contentment, Allie replied cautiously.

But if he wasn't happy, he wouldn't be accomplishing so much, Leannah insisted. Unhappy children fail at schoolwork. That's how you tell if something's wrong at home, isn't it? And I'm sure we accommodate his little quirks in every possible way.

You are extremely dedicated parents—

And look how we nurture his talents! He's world-class in violin and unusually able in piano.

Nobody could have done more—

"Then why—? Do you suppose they could have made a mistake somewhere when they cloned him? Given him the wrong voice or something?"

A human mind—even a child's—is complex. An unforeseeable combination of perfectly trivial events can change the whole direction—

But we can't let that happen, Leannah gasped, wide-eyed with fear. "We can't fail all those millions of Elvis fans; we can't let down all the investors. It has to come out right. Can't you give him more hours...or try another medication again...or something?"

Let's try to remain calm and consistent, Allie said soothingly. That's the best way forward at present. Remember there's every hope that in a secure, relaxed and caring home environment, little Elvis will one day decide to sing again of his own accord.

He never does anything of his own accord, Leannah sighed. Not exercise, not even eating. Nothing.

In fact, it never occurred to either Leannah or Jarrod, when little Elvis disappeared some weeks later, that he could have run away of his own accord. Someone had stolen him, kidnapped him, perhaps even killed him—a dozen different means and motives existed for any of these crimes: money, jealousy, fanaticism...why wouldn't the police take them seriously? Why waste time questioning his own family?

The three of them, Jarrod, Leannah, and Elvis, had walked around the public park on Friday afternoon, as they often did. Leannah and Jarrod had stopped to chat with a friend while Elvis looked at the duck pond. When they had turned to continue their walk, Elvis had disappeared.

Police dogs traced Elvis's movements through some bushes and down the bed of a small stream draining the pond. Here they lost him, and an unfortunate rain shower made further tracing unlikely. Had he carried money with him? Leannah and Jarrod thought not, for Elvis rarely spent his allowance even when prodded...but they later found his piggy-bank empty, with an estimated thirty or forty dollars missing. Why would he have taken out his money that day? Distraught, Leannah and Jarrod could only suggest that some criminal must have got to him online. Find him, they pleaded. Our sponsors will gladly pay any ransom asked of them.

The police issued a Missing Child alert, and the media quickly took it up. Elvis's face fronted every newspaper, headed every newsfeed, met eye-to-eye anyone who looked at page or screen or billboard that weekend.

Mrs. Kenneth went to work early on Monday morning as usual, keen to stay ahead in the weekly treadmill of tasks—the lesson planning, the setup of equipment and resources, the tracking of homework, the deciphering and marking early attempts in numbers and writing, the reporting of barely perceptible increments of academic progress to hovering parents, and the anxious attempts to liaise with those more elusive.

Her car radio announced no news in the nationwide search for her former pupil, the strange and silent Elvis. She remembered him well, although he had left halfway through the semester three years ago. She remembered her efforts to include him while at the same time holding off the more aggressively inquisitive of his classmates. She remembered that expression in his eyes—or that lack of expression—a darkness larger than a child should contain, larger than she herself could stare into. And she wondered, despondently, guiltily, as every teacher wonders, if some difference in word or look, strategy or cue or psychological magicality, would have changed anything for him.

Elvis's eyes, staring so recently