In Case of Emergency: An Ensemble

By The Superstars

The fifth anthology by the talented, eclectic and disparate community of writers known as The Superstars. This exciting new collection of fiction, non-fiction, poetry and experiments is the result of twelve months of prompts, picked at random and posted on the first day of every month between January and December 2019, and curated by Lauren K. Nixon. What do we fear? What is it that sends a shiver up our spines, that makes the hair on the backs of our necks stand up? This year our prompts dance along the edges of the unreal and unsettling. Without quite intending to, we have all delved into themes of myth and folklore with a mix of both sinister and whimsical stories and poems. We have been prompted to examine what makes us human - and those most human of questions: what lurks in the dark forest, or the stormy seas? What secrets lie in the mists of autumn or the heart of a flame? Where will the path less trodden take us - and when we get there, will we still be who we were when we set out? Including work from: Rae Bailey, Nic Bescoby, Helen L. Bourne, G. Burton, Jessica Grace Coleman, T. J. Francis, Kim Hosking, Catherine Looser, Wayne Naylor, Lauren K. Nixon, Laura Sinclair, E. L. Tovey, Yvonne Ugarte and Shaun M. Vale, and artwork from Liz Hearson, A. Lizard, Heather E. Page, PhoenixShaman and Neil Turner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Mysterium
• Release date: Oct 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005130725

The Superstars

The SHORT STORY SUPERSTARS are a diverse community of authors, covering a vibrant and broad range of subjects, and curated by Lauren K. Nixon.

Book preview

Picture Challenge

There’s something about the first prompt of an anthology that unconsciously sets the tone for the rest of the volume. This time, it is the sense of boldness and adventure that has seeped into the responses to the remaining eleven prompts, along with the air of ruin and suspense.

I first encountered this picture bimbling past on my news feed a few weeks before we were due to begin the prompts for this anthology, and I loved it immediately. Not just because it stars the lovely little girl of a couple of very dear friends, whose unstoppable spirit and limitless curiosity has made me very fond of her, but also because - I suppose - I have a thing for old buildings. This one has character, but also a story to it. The presence of the skip suggests new beginnings in an old place, for example. It seemed like a good starting point for the Superstars, and I’m ever so glad Neil let us have it.

Also, I love those stripy tights!

Lauren

Borderland

By Lauren K. Nixon

No fear, no qualms

As those bright shoes

And bright socks

And bright eyes

And bright smile arrive,

On the border between

Here

And

There.

Between

Now

And

Then.

No spectres in the ivy

For you,

Not yet.

No phantoms calling you.

No worries about falling,

Or being fallen on.

Nothing lurking

In the shadows,

Just out of sight,

Waiting.

Only potential,

And the freedom

Of the

Not

Yet

Found.

So, you tighten the straps

On your ladybird

Backpack,

Raise your defiant chin

And go forth, on the

Next

Great

Adventure.

The House Around the Corner

By Laura Sinclair

I was only five when they left. When my parents slipped back in time, rewriting history to keep from being found, taking with them my baby sister, my dog, everything I had known. They took everything, and ran.

But they left me behind.

I came home from school that day, saw the house as it was in this time stream – a house that no one had lived in for years and years – and though I was only five, I understood. My parents had told me many times what we were.

And why we had to fit in.

And not be found.

It is the fear of every child, or so I have heard, that their parents will move while they are at school.

If only it had been like that. If only they had just moved in space, rather than in time as well, to a place that was so far removed that they had become ancestors, leaving me this legacy of a house.

It felt odd to walk through a past that had once been mine, to know that all the traces left behind were dust now, as though I had dreamed of them, that all the nights before the fire were now just faded memories.

I ran through rooms that should have been familiar, but were choked with dust, plaster flaking from the walls, windows boarded up. Littered with rat droppings, and beer bottles from kids throwing parties in the abandoned house. 

For that was what it had become: an abandoned house.

And I was also abandoned.

My room had not escaped the ages. I sat on the grimy, dusty bed. I would have cried, but instead I remembered the secret hiding place and went into my closet, moving the floorboard. I found the hologram. The warmth of my hand lit it up, and sent my mother’s form hovering before me.

It had been done quickly, as it was only a light project, with no substance. I could not touch her, or she touch me. She could not respond, if I asked questions. It was simply a message.

Wait, we need to at least – Mommy said, probably to my daddy, somewhere in the background. Sweetie, we love you, Mommy said hurriedly her hand pushing back at Daddy, as he pulled at her. We all love you.

In the background, I could hear my sister crying, the dog barking, and my father swearing. "We‘ll try to get back to you, we will try."

Daddy said something, tugging at her, and she must have dropped the recorder, as the image of her shifted to looking up to her from the floor.

Go to the police. Don’t remain here. You are safe, with us gone, but... you can’t live here. This will always be your home, but you can’t live here by yourself.

My father came and his hand picked up the recording. No false hope, he scolded, before the images faded, and I was left alone.

It started to rain. I could hear it pattering on the roof, and smell the sweetness of the wet earth outside the broken glass of her window.

I picked up my backpack, and put the spent recording inside one of the secret compartments, in case the police searched it, looking for clues. Mommy had always said to hide things that weren’t from this time, that it confused people when they found them.

The police were kind, as were the foster parents they eventually put me with. They all said what a shame it was, and they would find me relatives as if I were just a confused child, that didn’t know what had happened.

And while they searched for relatives, none were ever found.

The only constant was the house.

I walked past it, every day, even if I had to go out of my way to do so. It was the only thing from my old life that remained.

Because the house – the house was mine. Paid for, in my name, as I knew it would be. Set in a trust to become mine when I reached majority. 

I would fix it up, to welcome them back, when they returned, whenever in my life. I would return it to its former glory. 

And I would wait for them to eventually shift back, and join me in this life, in this time.

Forest of Glass

There is a passage in Alan Campbell’s Scar Night, where various characters encounter a poison forest - an area of vegetation so tainted by the chemical violence of humanity that everything there has grown bitter and brittle. A single nick from one of the sharp-leaved things that grow there can kill, exquisitely painfully and in seconds. It’s a fabulous part of the world Campbell created, and it must have got under my skin, so to speak, because the idea of a wild, sharp place sprung to mind when I came up with this prompt.

It evolved a little, and became less about poison and more about manufacturing (in an effort to nudge people away from the horror genre, but honestly, I like what they do with it so I don’t know why I bothered!).

Humans have always been a little wary of forests, since we started clearing land to farm. They are places full of predators and watchful things, folklore and the things that can follow you home and make you their dinner. The lack of clear sight and the sounds of the trees unsettle, in the right circumstances, and unless you are used to them, you can become easily disoriented and lose your way. We are spoiled, really, with our managed woodlands full of paths and signposts.

I have the sound of it in my head, acres of growing shards, clinking in the breeze… and probably more than a little self-aware.

And if you haven’t checked out Campbell’s Deepgate Codex, go do that. It’s rather good!

Lauren

Shards

Rae Bailey

A thousand thousand shards fall

In the brittle glitter of forest glass.

Each one once a blowing liquid whole,

Shattered now. Each one worth a verse.

Their cuts could bleed your tears to earth.

Touch some gently as you pass.

I could have met you on a train.

You would have shown me all the snaps

and told me of their crackling laughs

And of the pop of your embracing heart

Of the grandchildren you were visiting.

And I would have placed this tenderness

In the warmest memory of my daughter’s

Infant hand and kept it there –

But someone met you first.

I could have stood behind you at the cash machine,

You with your best mate and your matching blue hair,

And you would have shrieked and whispered

The private language you had made,

And glanced behind to see if I had heard of sex.

And I would have placed your playing

With my treasured girlhood games and kept it there –

But someone stood behind you first.

You could have moved in next door

And we could have called hello,

And your children could have squealed

The autumn leaf kick into melting snowmen,

The spring showers into hosepipe summers,

Louder than jackdaws or crows.

And I would have woven these bright songs into all

The joyful chorus of my time and kept them there –

But someone moved you first.

You could have healed my heart.

I would have laughed

– a joke of your own timing;

I would have listened

– a song of your own making;

I would have sipped

– of your own brewing;

planted in the borders of my thoughts

and kept it there –

But someone shattered you first.

Each one worth a verse, each once

A blowing, glowing whole.

A thousand thousand shards stand

In the forest’s brittle glitter of glass,

Leaves darkened into future, bright veins

Pulse of what will never come to pass.

Violet Thornfield and the Forest of Glass

By Helen L Bourne

To everyone whose small acts of kindness have pulled me from the darkest places.

Violet had always thought it was particularly cruel to have exams at the beginning of term. Well, maybe not always, she reflected, unlocking her office door and quickly tidying her desk for the day’s round of supervisions. There had been a time when, as a keen undergrad, Violet had relished the chance to outshine her course mates and prove she had worked hard, even over the holidays.

Now she sighed to herself thinking of all the time she hadn’t spent with her family, locked away in her room worrying about the future. Her husband, Brad, laughed when she religiously scheduled time for them to spend together during her precious days off, locking herself out of her work when she needed to. He had always been a lot better at relaxing than her.

And now she was Dr Violet Thornfield PhD MChem, and responsible for a small group of keen undergrads herself. She’d been trepidatious when she’d realised that her place in academia involved being responsible for other people. As a scientist, Violet enjoyed the predictability of molecules. Reactions always went the same way. Experiments were meant to be repeatable. If they weren’t, something was wrong and needed to be fixed. But people are all different, and undergraduates were no exception to that rule.

Today she was meeting her third years, who were a decidedly varied bunch. Yasmin was keen, and conscientious. She always called Violet ‘Dr Thornfield’ regardless of how many times Violet signed off her emails with her first name, and had reassured Violet that she wouldn’t be distracted by Christmas since she was a Muslim.

Remember to have a break, though, Violet had said. It’ll be good for your studies.

How long for, Dr Thornfield? Would a whole day be too much?

Violet had quietly despaired.

Today Yasmin came in, worried at Violet that she hadn’t quite phrased something right in one of her longer answers, and Violet had just smiled and handed her the manuscript, which she (also keen and conscientious) had already marked. Yasmin was on track for a high First — to nobody’s surprise except, perhaps, her own.

Bailey was cool and laddish. Nothing seemed to faze him, even when it probably should. Violet felt he could probably do better than his predicted low 2:1, but on the other hand she envied him his ability to live in the moment. This morning he blithely told her how drunk he’d gotten when the exams had finished. She smiled politely and gently encouraged him to stay awake during lectures this term.

Phoebe was sporty and confident. She always looked well turned out and, in contrast to Yasmin, seemed to use Violet’s first name an awful lot.

Good morning Violet! Thanks for your revision help, Violet! Violet, I’m going to need extra time on this assignment — you know how it is when you have so many commitments, Violet. Violet thought Phoebe would do well in politics. She’d heard that Phoebe had taken a lead role in student campaigns and was part of the Student Union Executive Committee. She was running for president this year, alongside doing her finals.

And Ethan was…

Ethan was…

Ethan was missing.

She’d scheduled him last because he often turned up late, being a frequently addled over-sleeper, but it was unlike him to not turn up at all. He was affable, apologetic, and often frustratingly non-committal. His exam scores had been variable (from decent to single digits), and she’d exhorted him before the Christmas break to put a few solid hours of work in – Although make sure you see your family too, she’d added, to avert her own hypocrisy.

A nice enough lad, though. He often told her, vaguely, that he was quite enjoying university. Quite enjoying his final year project, on stereoisomers. Quite enjoying his modules. Quite enjoying her lectures on X-ray crystallography. He couldn’t quite say why he didn’t always do well when it came to exams. And Violet didn’t quite know what to do with him.

She tapped out an email to Ethan, suggesting he attend tomorrow instead, and set out to the research lab to examine samples for a study they were conducting into degradation times of various polymers, where she bumped into a very concerned looking colleague.

Ethan Abedisi one of yours, Vi? Howard asked, and Violet nodded.

Have you seen him? He didn’t turn up for supervision this morning.

Didn’t he? Howard said, brows furrowing deeper. He reached into his case. I was marking the acids paper — instead of the essay… He leafed through the manuscripts, and found one where, in red ink under the student number, urgent letters spelled out FIND OUT WHO THIS IS and then Ethan’s name underneath. He opened it to the essay section, and Violet blinked at it, seeing what looked like… verse?

I’m going down to the forest of glass

They say it will pass, but it doesn’t pass

They see me but they don’t understand

They see me, they can’t reach my hand

The path looks clear, I can’t break through

Can’t find the way whatever I do

And no one can see that I may not pass

And that I am trapped in the forest of glass

Is it a song? she asked.

I don’t know, Howard said. It’s a bit concerning, isn’t it?

She read it again. They say it will pass, but it doesn’t pass. They see me but they don’t understand.

I see what you mean, she said. I’ve asked him to come in tomorrow, so I’ll check up on him then. I mean, maybe he just couldn’t think of the answers. I know he can be a bit variable.

She went down to the teaching labs after their conversation – perhaps Ethan would stop to check in on his project? But he wasn’t there, and when she asked the other student who was, a tall blonde woman who seemed to be chewing gum (what did it take to get this lot to appreciate lab safety?), she received only a shrug in response.

Jake Stuart had had a pretty good weekend. The week of exams had been a tough one, but he’d gone out with Georgie and Mo for a curry to celebrate being back. Their housemate, Ethan, had gone away for the weekend. But he probably wouldn’t have come anyway. He always had his head down.

The three of them had always got on pretty well. That Saturday when they got home, they played Articulate and watched a film that happened to be on; Jake and Georgie got tipsy on a bottle of tangy, cheap wine, and Mo, who didn’t drink, made up for it by gorging himself on butter popcorn instead, so that at the end of the evening they could companionably lie together on the rug and regret their life choices simultaneously. Jake had started feeling a bit of a pang when he thought about life after university. His mum had started trying to get him to apply for things over the holidays. And the other two had started talking tentatively about moving on. Moving away.

He got up early on Sunday for football practice, something that wasn’t easy with a stuffy head, but the walk eased his hangover slightly and the game cleared his head. It was cold and crisp. Not a bad day to be outside.

Had Ethan really gone camping, though? He’d waved goodbye on Friday, with what looked like a bright blue tent bag under his arm, and a rucksack full of stuff, and made a vague comment about staying with friends.

Jake liked Ethan, but thought he was a bit weird. Still, a lot of good people were. Mo was really into Hollyoaks, a kind of semi-religious dedication that Jake would only dedicate to Liverpool F.C., and Georgie’s room also housed twenty-three different cacti, which seemed like an unreasonable amount of spiky desert plants to have in a student box room.

Ethan was anti-social, Jake thought, but he didn’t seem unfriendly. Just shy, really. He was pretty funny, if you could get him to relax. They agreed on music, too, and Jake had missed the strains of Stormzy and Dave coming from Ethan’s room. When Ethan came back that night, Jake would stick his head in and check he was doing all right. Jake thought he probably worked too hard.

Except Ethan didn’t come back on the Sunday night.

And when Jake got back on the Monday, he wasn’t there again. Or he didn’t seem to be, anyway. Georgie and Mo hadn’t seen him. He’d have said hi when he got back, wouldn’t he?

Jake sent Ethan a message.

No reply. Not even ‘seen’.

That was weird.

He hoped Ethan was OK.

Who would he even ask, anyway? Ethan went out sometimes, but no one came to pick him up. If they bumped into each other around campus it was usually in labs and lecture theatres, not in the bar or the dining halls.

There was only one other person who might know. Jake smiled to himself, thinking of Dr Violet Thornfield, who Ethan had mentioned was his supervisor. She was youngish, for a lecturer, white, and a bit spiky. She was all right, though. Well, she had a withering glare for anyone who dared shuffle in late, and a habit of raising her voice sharply when it looked like someone was about to fall asleep in a lecture, but he remembered her amused and gentle care when he managed to get freshly extracted capsaicin in his eye during his first year chemistry labs. He thought that maybe he’d pay her a visit.

Later on, at home, it was Violet’s turn to cook so she stabbed the top of two ready meals, put them in the oven and leaned against the kitchen counter as she stared into space. The words were still going around her head.

And no one can see that I may not pass

And that I am trapped in the forest of glass

It chilled her for some reason. A quick Google search had revealed a Tori Amos song with much different lyrics and a novel that seemed to be a medieval fantasy. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed like a cry for help. Should she send another email? With repetitive strokes, she kept refreshing the app on her phone.

What’s this? Why, Dr Thornfield, you’re spoiling me.

Violet looked up to discover her husband, Brad, leaning on the doorframe, grinning sardonically at the box sleeves on the counter and her obvious lack of effort.

You didn’t marry me for my cooking skills. She smiled at him wondering, as she occasionally did, how it was that she still fancied him this much after all these years.

True, he said coming into kiss her, swiftly snatching her phone out of her hand as he did so.

Hey! she exclaimed, returning the kiss nonetheless.

"Is this work, Vi? he raised an eyebrow, noting the email app open on her phone. Cheating on me with your other love?"

I know, I know, it’s after seven, she said, referencing her own rule. It’s just that… She trailed off with a sigh, and he passed her the phone back concern in his eyes as he did so.

What’s wrong?

A student wrote a poem in an exam paper.

A poem? They know there aren’t points for creativity, right?

Quite so. It just… It sounded kind of — depressed, I think. Trapped in a forest of glass.

Isn’t that a Tori Amos song?

Different lyrics.

Oh.

Violet gazed away and into space.

What is it, Vi?

Oh, it just reminded me of something, that’s all.

What?

School, she blushed. He’d said these things about people seeing him but not understanding. Like he was alone in a crowd.

You didn’t seem alone at school, Brad said, smiling at the memory. You had your intimidating gang of smart people.

When we all found each other, Violet smiled. And I found my ‘fuck you’ attitude.

He laughed. As if you’d have said ‘fuck you’ at school.

You know what I mean.

He did, they both knew that. Everyone had been surprised when Violet and Brad had gotten together — the unlikely pairing of a steely, passionate, smart person and a good-looking footballer and party boy. And no one had been surprised when they’d split up a few weeks into starting their respective university courses. She’d told herself it left her more time for studying, threw herself into the course with abandon, smiled at the girls on her corridor and told them she was fine, just a lot of work to do. But she’d felt very sad and very alone. They see me, they don’t understand.

The ‘fuck you attitude’ had taken a bit of a bashing that term. Then, somehow, she’d gotten a new boyfriend — a fellow chemistry student — and that made bumping into Brad when she was in her home town a much less painful experience. He’d apologised, she’d assured him (attitude growing back by the second) that she was perfectly fine, they’d got chatting and somehow they’d become best friends. A good angel to the other, being that one friend who seemed to have a bit of perspective on what the other one was going through. He told her to loosen up, she told him to knuckle down, they both agreed cheerfully that their uni partners were a much better match for themselves than they had been for each other.

It was inevitable that their adolescent love – well, affection – had died, of course; too much based on an idea of what the other one was like and unable to withstand the messy reality.

And it felt very natural that their adult love — borne of friendship and honesty — became something neither was prepared to lose.

She smiled at him now, her perfect imperfect match, grateful beyond words that those awkward early days of adulthood were over.

She wondered what Ethan was feeling and if it was anywhere near her own feelings, the ones she had had in those lonely times. She looked forward to being able to tell him that it gets better, that maturity brings new insights, that perseverance pays off. That you find ways of coping with what life throws at you.

Oh Lord, she thought. I hope he’s all right.

The next morning, Violet tried not to worry when Ethan did not show up at 10 a.m. He wouldn’t be late-for-Ethan until 10.30. And he hadn’t replied to her email, but she tried not to worry about that either because he wasn’t a big replier. No, he’d come through that door any moment and…

Hearing the door swing, Violet looked up and saw a dark brown hand on the handle and, for a moment, her heart leapt until she looked at the owner of the hand and saw he was tall, gangly, and not Ethan at all.

Um, Dr Thornfield? He was a well turned-out young man, wearing a smart jumper and tidy, unfaded black jeans. He looked familiar.

Can I help you? she asked him. I know you, don’t I?

Yeah, I’m Jake Stuart, Biochemistry, he said.

Ah, first year labs, she said. Capsaicin.

She regretted it even as she was amused by his embarrassed shuffle. Sorry, she added, remembering the poor lad’s reaction as he discovered why you needed to thoroughly wash your hands of capsaicin before rubbing your eyes. How is it going? Your exams all right?

Yes thanks, Jake said, shrugging. Microbiology was tough.

I can imagine, Violet said, given she considered biology a perilously soft science.

I was just wondering if you’d seen Ethan? he asked her. He’s my housemate and he went away for the weekend. And I don’t think he’s come back.

"You don’t think?" Violet asked, the worry resurfacing in her stomach.

He’s really quiet, Jake said, apologetically. "Stays out late in the computer rooms, eats in his room, that kind of thing. I mean, I hear his music sometimes, but not in the last couple of days.