Hubris: A Collection of Short Stories

By Shebat Legion

A Collection of stories written by Shebat Legion. These tales range in genre, but all share the quirky and thought-provoking, often disturbing voice that is Legion. Hubris, a collection of short stories, new and previously published are offered as an example of the eclectic range and style that is Legion's own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shebat Legion
• Release date: Nov 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781999538019

Shebat Legion

Shebat Legion is a breast cancer survivor and an advocate for breast screening. She is a consummate storyteller and has been printed and reprinted in numerous anthologies including her own anthology of short stories called Hubris. Legion is also responsible for the creation of Vampire Therapy, which includes a full-length novel, Jackson and Eva, as well as an illustrated collection of short stories set in the Vampire Therapy universe called, The Chronicles of The Cats Ass Boutique: Seasons and Reasons.

Book preview

Hubris

Hubris

Shebat Legion

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright 2018 By Shebat Legion

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All rights reserved.

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No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

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Cover Illustration: Blue Shebat by Klarissa Kocsis

Cover and Book Interior Design: Dreams2media

Contents

Foreword

About Beth W. Patterson

It All Starts With A Poem

Silicon Oar

Mitten’s Pockets

Lamp-basted

Whatever Lola Wants

Father’s Day

Pop Goes The Zombie

The Cookie Lottery

The Apple

My Kraken

Sasha Brook

Saltwater

This Island, Barney Templeton

Dree, on Wednesday

An Ankh for Becky’s Mother

Bartholomew and the Burglar

A Bird in Hand

The Day That Many Things Happened

Izzy

Maria Sanchez

The Cast Iron Skillet

Laura Lee, That’s Me

The Highway

It All Ends With A Poem

Bibliography

To my mother, Klarissa Kocsis, thank you for your words of inspiration and support through the years.

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To my father, Marco Katic, thank you for your words of wisdom.

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To my husband, James, thank you for your words of faith and devotion.

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To my children, Adam and Emily, all the words ever written.

Foreword

"Into the labyrinth

Cut down to just a tenth

Nothing to face but your thoughts

Omen and oracle

Phantasmagorical

Casting and drawing their lots"

–Beth Patterson, Labyrinth

When Shebat asked me to write the forward for her book and include a lyric of mine, this was what immediately popped into my head. Because who wouldn’t want to enter the labyrinth of Shebat Legion? It’s a domain that is at once innocent, terrifying, playful, and resilient. Step right up and see what’s inside!

You might fall down an unexpected trapdoor of surrealism. Or perhaps you’ll wander the hall of mirrors and catch a glimpse of your distorted reflection in the silly and erotic, the sensual and poignant. Who knows? It’s her realm, and we are all damned lucky to have found it in the first place. Sometimes it makes as much sense as a sparkly pink unicorn licking ichor from its fangs—and if that seems odd to you right now, it won’t by the end of this tome. You might be be blindsided with whimsy or heartbreak, but you will never be disappointed. Each story is as unique as a zebra or a bloodstain.

I know this because I’m not only a fan of Shebat’s, I’m also proud to call her a friend. We found each other when our stories ended up in the some of the same anthologies, we later shared personal stories with each other (from the crisis of uprooting to the solace we both found in Rush records), and we even got out of the same hell together. Since then, I’ve often found myself citing her works in my head, for they are colorful reminders of valuable lessons. Life doesn’t always work the way it is supposed to by standards of the vast majority, but there is still enough love to go around for every obscure creature. Her tales make me feel less alone in this world.

Some people march to the beat of a different drum. Shebat takes her hubris one step further and completely reinvents the instrument, compelling us to follow along with her cadences.  They are the battle cries of a survivor, the twelve-tone calls of a siren, or the purring of something cute and immortal that one might make the grave mistake of underestimating. Somebody broke the mold when Ms. Legion was made, but she herself ground it up to make glitter. She describes herself to me as the love child of Neil Gaiman and Trent Reznor, but I’m more inclined to deem her a cross between Hans Christian Andersen and Salvador Dali with a whiff of a Bette Midler narrative. And that’s only scratching the surface.

Oh, and one last thing: the characters in the book are very much alive, and they’re reading you right back. They find you most entertaining. Sleep well, kids.

--Beth W. Patterson

About Beth W. Patterson

Beth W. Patterson was a full-time musician for over two decades before diving into the world of writing, a process she describes as fleeing the circus to join the zoo. She is the author of the books Mongrels and Misfits, The Wild Harmonic, and a contributing writer to twenty anthologies.

Patterson has performed in eighteen countries across the Americas, Europe, Oceania, and Asia. Her playing appears on over a hundred and sixty albums, soundtracks, videos, commercials, and voice-overs (including seven solo albums of her own). More than a hundred of her compositions and co-writes have been released. She studied ethnomusicology at University College, Cork in Ireland and holds a Bachelor’s degree in Music Therapy from Loyola University, New Orleans.

Beth has occasionally worn other hats as a body paint model, film extra, minor role actor, recording studio partner, record label owner, producer, and visual artist. She is a lover of exquisitely stupid movies and a shameless fangirl of the band Rush. You can find her at www.bethpattersonmusic.com

It All Starts With A Poem

It all starts with a poem …

Paraseth was a winged colt

Blew he high on an upwind

White as white.

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Star’s twinkly-froth and oh,

All colts frisky, to have wings

Upon their back.

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Ligja was a tiger, hungry.

Orange velvet,

sharp claws, purr.

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He ate a dog

and left the bones

Beneath the kitchen rug.

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Two-headed Clavus

Could speak in tongues.

He spoke Chinese better

than plates imagine.

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He spoke French and German.

What a guy, what a guy.

But he couldn’t waltz or tango.

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Richard couldn’t speak at all.

Remus was a rooster.

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Brice liked to sit with his door to the wall.

Brice liked to say, I take chances.

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I could write forever

If my hand didn’t tire.

My pen loving the paper

as a man to a whore.

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I can word-lash and phrase-slice,

a slit-wristed deceiver.

Tread not where the heli-jest

Weevil-bost grow.

Paraseth Was a Winged Colt

By Shebat Legion

Silicon Oar

Can you open your eyes for me?

The soft voice intruded and then there was light.

Follow my finger. Left. Now, right.

Good. The voice sounded satisfied, and that made me happy.

I tried to smile but failed.

Slowly, the voice cautioned.

Where … I tried to speak.

Shush now, the voice said. Let’s try blinking.

Blinking. Yes. I could do that.

I blinked. Once, and then again and I heard a cluck of approval. I blinked again and she, (she?) laughed.

Slow down. It will come to you.

I nodded or tried to nod, but nothing happened.

Don’t try to move, she, (it is a she) said. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Okay, I wanted to say. I will be okay.

You will be okay, she said.

It is later, and I have a tail. I move it back and forth, and it makes a swishing sound as if moving through water except that I know that is not true. I am on a table. Or in one.

That is a pretty tail. I know her now, her name is Ruth.

I swish it because yes, it is a pretty tail. It has blue and green iridescent scales that glitter beneath the light. I would like to feel it move and I want to tell Ruth, but I can’t.

You will, Ruth said absently, don’t you worry.

So, I didn’t worry, not then but later, I did.

Shush, Ruth soothes as I scream without sound, making my mouth if I had one, wide and gaping. I don’t scream forever despite Ruth. Or maybe, now, in spite of Ruth.

Where am I? I want to ask. What has happened to me?

I know that something has happened to me.

Everything is different, Ruth explained, but you will be okay. You need to trust me.

I did try, but now it is different. She isn’t telling me something, and I can’t tell her that I know. But I do know! I know it in my bones if I have bones. I may not have bones! Do I have bones?

I know you are frightened; you need to let yourself drift and understand, no one is trying to hurt you. The pain is behind you.

What does she mean? Behind me? Was I somewhere before? A location, behind of where I was in front? In front of what? And, where am I now? Why didn’t she tell me?

We are helping you. I am helping you. Me. Ruth.

Ruth, I try to say without a mouth to say it, I will not drift.

Move your pretty tail.

I swish it angrily, splashing water that was not there on to the light, making Ruth laugh.

You are a naughty girl.

Am I a girl?

I don’t like Ruth.

Later.

The light is dark now, but I know it is later. I hear a door open because I can hear things now.

Sorcha? It is a soft-sounding voice.

Sorcha? Is that my name or is she asking me something?

I am Selena.

Hello, I want to say. Who are you and who am I?

I will be your night friend, she says. Another she.

I am sitting beside you, and I have a book. I am going to read you a story from the book.

I try to nod.

I know you like stories.

I nod again and then, with surprise, realize that I have nodded. Something. I have moved something. Did I nod my tail? Maybe it was that. Maybe it moved, and I felt it move!

Once upon a time there lived a princess.

A princess. I nod my tail.

She lived in a castle that overlooked a sparkling, blue lake.

Yes, it is real. I can feel my tail.

Good. Selina sounds happy, and I feel my tail again, slapping it around and smacking it up and down, over and over.

Okay, stop now, Selina laughs, and I would laugh too if I knew how and I think she knows that.

Now, do you want to hear some more about the princess or do you want to smack your tail around some more? Just a little bit more, mind, she added. Don’t want to overdo.

I want to smack my tail around, and my face widens where my mouth is, and I scream but I am laughing.

That is lovely, Selina says, and it is. It is lovely, this sound of my tail slapping and I laugh and laugh.

But it is later, and I stop because my tail hurts and I am not laughing anymore. My mouth widens even further, and I scream. I know she can hear me.

Do you want to hear more about the princess?

If I want to hear more about her, I must stop screaming, so I do.

The princess had a mother and a father who loved her very much. They loved her so much they wanted to keep her safe forever, and they warned her about the pretty lake.

Tell me about the lake. I swish my tail, nodding. The lake.

Because, while the lake was the prettiest lake in all the kingdom, it was very deep. A little princess could sink beneath the water, and not be able to breath, and then she would die.

This is not a nice story. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.

The princess loved her mother and father with all of her heart and swore she would never go into the lake.

But one day she did. The princess goes into the lake. The princess always goes into the lake.

Yes, Selina says in a sad voice. The princess always goes into the lake.

Does she hear me?

Do you hear me, Selina?

Yes. I can hear you.

I slap my tail. Why can’t I hear me?

You will.

Am I in the lake?

One day, the princess went into the lake.

Am I the lake?

No. Listen. Sorcha went into the lake.

But she loved her