Running Wild Anthology of Stories Volume 2

By Rebecca House, Lexis Parker, Gary Zenker and 4 more

Over twenty stories that will make your heart race, make you joyful, fearful, thrilled, inspired, and horrified.These are stories that will make your imagination run wild featuring Gemma L. Brook, Lorna Walsh, Jasmine Wade,Laura Nelson Selinsky, Carol Dowd-Forte, Tone Milazzo, Julie Doherty, Tori Eldridge, Ken MacGregor, Nick Mazzuca, Andrew Adams, Susan Helene Gottfried, Amelia Kibbie, Lexis Parker, Rebecca House, Elan Barnehama, Gary Zenker, Suzanne Grieco Mattaboni, Joe Nasta, Cindy CavettFeatured in swag bags for the 2019 Golden Globe presenters and nominees.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Running Wild Press
• Release date: Mar 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781947041066

Book preview

The Guest

By Gemma L. Brook

The elders always say to lay another place at the table, pour another cup, and leave the door ajar for the celebration. So we do, even though the air is sharp and cold this time of year. When I was really young, I expected every year that some unexpected guest would come through that door – someone wise, or tall, or striking. Someone who would make us catch our breath, rise to our feet, and bow our heads in reverence. For that whole week, when the spring moon was large-bellied, I would come to the dinner table with my heart thumping in expectation, wondering who would join us. As the years passed and no one came, the eagerness died little by little. By the time I was ten, I could see the grown-ups didn’t really anticipate a visitor. Yet in some small, unswept corner of my heart, perhaps I still hoped. I just didn’t expect.

When the draft wafted in that night, sharp with the scent of evergreen, I looked up grouchily and pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders. Then my breath caught as I saw the door swing open, though no one stood inside it. I grabbed my little brother’s shoulder and pointed. We all scrambled to our feet, and looked down. Because though no one stood in the doorway, someone was coming in.

A ragged-eared stranger the color of dried oranges sauntered in on four paws, gave us a pleasant look from golden eyes, and jumped right up into the empty chair. My brother gave a hoot of laughter. My mother muttered, Vermin, and headed for the broom. My grandmother stayed her with one hand. And the stranger settled herself on the cushion and curled her long tail gracefully around her swollen belly.

My mother glared at my grandmother. If you think for one moment I’m going to –

A guest is a guest, Grandmother said.

That’s true, my brother piped up, grinning.

Well, I’m not slaughtering the goose for this one, Mother snapped, turning her glare on the cat. And I’m not expecting wine to flow from our water pitcher, either.

Mama, I’m cold, my brother said. And dinner’s getting cold, too.

Close the door, said my father, and let’s sit down and eat. Unless you’re expecting someone else? He was always a practical man.

So we did. My grandmother pushed the cup of wine away from the stranger’s place. Not good for mothers so close to their time, she said with a smile, and replaced it with a bowl of water. I filled the soup plate with the same good brown stew we all had. And our guest ate it delicately, with better table manners than my brother’s. Her audible purr warmed the room and dispelled the chill. We watched her as we ate, and I remember the stew tasted particularly savory that night.

When we were done, my brother brought around the pitcher and poured water for us to wash our hands. Our guest drank her water instead, then bathed herself quite thoroughly. When she was done, she walked full circle around the table, her tail curled from side to side, while she surveyed each one of us with that satisfied look cats have. She rubbed her head against Grandmother, who smiled and rubbed her back.

Then our guest went to the door and looked back at us patiently until I got up and opened it. She walked out into the pine-spiced night and we never saw her again.

In the past nine years we’ve had no other visitor to sit at our extra place. But every spring we tell that story, regaling our friends and neighbors with it. I am the one who adds, because no one else will, that we have never been troubled by mice in the grain bins since.

About the Author

Gemma L. Brook was raised with the love of stories. Her mother was an ardent bibliophile and her father a delightful raconteur. Her three wonderfully different and creative sisters nurtured her imagination and curiosity. Mythology, folklore, and legends fascinated her. By fifth grade she was writing her own stories and determined to become a published author (she had the title, plot, and cover art of her first novel in mind). Decades of writing later, a career change encouraged by her supportive husband enabled her to pursue that passion more seriously, and she joined two critique groups and Pennwriters. Those talented writers have inspired and supported her quest to become an ever-evolving and improving author, still delving into the realms of myth and legend.

Albion One

By Lorna Walsh

Few people knew that the Queen was fascinated with gizmos. At the opening of Parliament, beneath the weight of the crown, she had often longed to replace a little of the pageantry with gadgetry. An animatronic model of herself could wear ermine without perspiring, wave tirelessly from balconies, and endure the entirety of the prime minister’s weekly visit with an indefatigable smile. However, decorum dictated that the Queen should decline even a turn on the Wii at Christmastime, and she could do nothing but watch her great grandchildren compete in dance-offs with a desire that her face could not convey.

So, when a particularly intriguing invitation came one grey winter’s day, the Queen removed it from the stack awaiting polite rejection and slipped it into her small Delighted To Accept pile, reasoning that one had sacrificed one’s own interests long enough in service to one’s country. And a few months later, Her Majesty was greeted by a gathering of stupefied academics at the University of West Wales for the reopening of its renovated Department of Robotics.

Though she listened politely to the design features of the new facility, her eyes were drawn to a shiny white robot in a corner of the lab. Standing only three feet high, it was a stout automaton with spherical joints, a barrel chest, and a bulbous head. Finally, she was introduced to it.

The tip of the feather on her yellow hat quivering, the Queen lowered her face, as she had done to greet so many children down the years, looked into the robot’s bright blue eyes and said, Hello. What is your name?

I am your hum-ble sub-ject, Al-bi-on One.

It spoke in the universal accent of cyberspace and the Queen was charmed.

He is one of the most advanced prototypes anywhere, Ma’am, said a professor. We are especially proud of the fact he can run.

Run? replied the Queen.

The professor looked crestfallen. Let me assure you. The simple motion of running is very hard to simulate.

No doubt. I myself find it impossible, she replied.

Nobody had received instructions on how to respond to regal jokes and Albion One was the first to laugh. Ha. Ha. Ma’am.

The Queen turned once again to the robot. And can Albion One dance?

The robot’s head cocked to one side.

Of course, blurted a pale bespectacled man, the boffin-in-chief, who had been tongue-tied since the Queen’s arrival. He quickly added, "I mean yes, Your Majesty. It can store thousands of songs and will move to whatever beat, or melody it hears."

How delightful, she said, eyes a-sparkle.

Since we are ready to launch Albion Two, he is yours if you want him, said the head boffin.

I beg your pardon?

We no longer need his hardware. Perhaps the new prince would enjoy playing with him?

Yes indeed, she replied, rather too quickly, though the Queen had no intention of letting any of the youngest Windsors get their sticky fingers on it. They had plenty of their own playthings.

* * *

By the time the robot came into her life, the Queen no longer thought of herself as Elizabeth, if she ever had, merely a proud figurehead at the prow of the good ship Great Britain. The Empire—that unwieldy old vessel—had sunk long ago and the Queen was not in the least sorry. Rather, she was fascinated to discover that new dominions were built in code nowadays and that there were vast virtual worlds with no boundaries or hierarchies, where citizens came and went freely, not with passports but with passwords.

The robot was thoroughly sniffed by police dogs, scanned, and cleared for entry. It stood in the palace delivery room surrounded by torn bubble wrap and staff who were befuddled by the newcomer, until the Royal Technician came to take the thing to its mistress.

Thank you, Mister Lloyd, said the Queen. That will be all.

Would you like me to stay, Ma’am? The manual is a rather weighty.

That won’t be necessary, thank you Mister Lloyd. If I can follow all those interminable Acts of Parliament, I am sure a little technobabble will not be too much trouble.

The Royal Technician smiled and left the Queen peering at the manual’s table of contents. It took hours and several fortifying cups of tea to read the volume cover to cover, but finally she felt ready to press the button on the robot’s chest. The face screen grew brighter.

Good evening, Albion One, she said, once the blue eyes appeared.

Good eve-ning, Your Majesty.

An awkward moment followed as the new friends blinked at each other. How like the first few meetings with the Duke all those years ago, thought the Queen.

Lovely day we are having.

Out-side temp-er-a-ture, twenty de-grees cent-i-grade.

Is it indeed?

Here was the most advanced humanoid technology in all the land, and they were chatting about the weather. It would not do, thought the Queen.

Being so obedient and unquestioning, the robot could have been the perfect subject. But the Queen wanted to programme a rebellious streak in him; nothing treacherous of course, just a smidgen of irreverence so that he might become someone to whom she could discreetly make an unorthodox remark or a mischievous joke, the way she once did with the Duke. It was so dreadfully tiresome to have to always say what one ought and not what one thought.

Programme command, she said, somewhat uncertainly.

Albion One blinked once to signal readiness.

Call me Liz, she said.

Two blinks to verify. Com-mand ac-cepted. Your name is Liz.

Programme command, said the nervous monarch. Your name is Albi.

Blink-blink. Com-mand ac-cepted. My name is Albi.

Technology may not have been as intuitive for her as it was for the young royals, but (unlike the children) she had endless patience, and after two more hours, Albi had been taught to bring a glass of her favourite nightcap, which she then sipped as the robot regaled her with the day’s celebrity gossip; a pleasant antidote to the official briefings of global woe that always began each day. How nice it was to feel, if only for an hour, that the world was not on the brink of catastrophe! At last, warmed by both the trivia and the nightcap, the Queen felt emboldened. She put down her glass and drew a deep breath.

Albi, she said. I would like to dance. Play music.

The robot’s face disappeared and an image of a treble clef appeared. A-wait-ing com-mand.

The treble clef patiently pulsated, but the Queen’s mind had gone blank. All she knew was that she did not want any of that tinnitus-inducing trumpety stuff that assaulted her at every formal engagement. Electricity—that’s what she wanted: instruments that needed to be plugged in, like her new robot friend.

You choose a song.

As you wish. Sel-ect-ing…

A few seconds later, the name of a song appeared on his face.

The Queen clapped. Excellent choice, Albi. Play!

A slow introduction began and then came a powerful voice. She was enjoying the pleasant ballad, but then the tempo suddenly jumped and the Queen found herself on her feet. Once upstanding, however, her limbs would not translate the urge that filled her soul, and she stood perfectly still as if posing for another of those infernal portraits until the song ended.

Play again, she said, and dance with me, Albi.

The song began and the robot moved slowly to the gentle introduction. Falteringly, the Queen mirrored the rhythmic movements and tried to keep up when the song got into full swing. Her wrists clicked, her knees popped, and soon her heart added its own percussion to the triumphant song. When it was over, the Queen dropped into a chair, her hand on her chest and a smile on her face. Then, after the unusually energetic evening, she dozed off in her chair, the refrain of Don’t Stop Me Now echoing in her mind. Companionably, the robot fell into sleep mode.

* * *

With Albion One by her side, the Queen’s confidence with technology grew. Under the robot’s tutelage, she mastered the TV remote beyond its volume and channel buttons and spent more time online. Twitter took the most getting used to with all those handles and hashtags. And what a shock it had been to discover someone else twittering in her name! Outraged at first, she had to admit the impostor’s diminutive communiqués were rather amusing. Having learned that one was not obliged to be oneself in cyberspace, she set up an account under an assumed name to tweet her daily frustrations and found it highly satisfying to amass a fairly large number of willingly loyal followers in a short space of time.

The initial distrust of the robot amongst the palace staff quickly dissipated. Had they been certain of its resistance to water, they would have promptly dispatched it to all seventy-eight of the palace’s bathrooms, but they worked out how to make it do all the other things they disliked. The Queen, however, soon spotted the exploitation and made sure the robot was always in sight while she was in residence. It glided around after her and, thanks to its impressive stair-climbing function, there was nowhere it could not follow. The Duke, however, remained wary.

I don’t like him, he told his wife one afternoon as they supped tea and sampled the latest organic treats from the Cornwall estate.

Who, dear?

That wretched machine, of course.

The Queen glanced at Albi and lowered her voice. What’s he ever done to you?

Well, nothing yet. But it’s those shifty eyes. How do you know he’s not a time bomb?

I do wish you weren’t such a technophobe, she replied.

Technophobe! Am I the only blasted one who sees it? Humanity is doomed. The whole world is being ruled by bleeping cyborgs.

"A cyborg is a human with mechanical adaptations, dear," replied the Queen, smiling at her husband’s benign ignorance.

Whatever he is, he doesn’t belong here and you spend far too much time with it.

The Queen smiled ruefully. Technology is our friend, dear. Scientists create it to help us.

"That chap who split the atom thought he was being helpful, rumbled the Duke. Just take that bloody thing away, he’s putting me off my biscuits."

Alright, she said, setting down her half finished cup of tea.

As she led the robot away, she thought about how to show the Duke what a privilege it was to be alive during the digital revolution. If that battle-axe Victoria could see this! The mopey old monarch’s Industrial Revolution had been put in the shade: the modern technical advancements would not scar the landscape for future generations, nor clutter the cities with monumental architecture that cost a fortune to maintain, or demand of its workers that they risk their health in the pursuit of someone else’s wealth. And one day soon, when everyone owned an Albion, no one need ever be lonely again.

* * *

Since it was a pleasant summer afternoon, the robot and the Queen took a turn around the grounds to discuss the forthcoming garden party to which the brightest minds in the field of technology had been invited. The Queen was excited to discover what new weird and wonderful thingamajigs were being dreamt up.

Now then, Albi, said the Queen. I’ve decided to give all our guests a little token of my esteem. A Royal mousemat, perhaps?

An arrow chased itself in circles on Albi’s face screen while he considered, but finally a list of appropriate party favours appeared. The Queen scrolled through it.

A souvenir memory stick, she said. Perfect!

The Queen rather liked the notion of saving precious memories for all time. The brain was such an unreliable storage device, and the royal biographer, while a dear, dear fellow, never fully captured the moments. Why was the human race falling so far behind its own technology? It was a good question, one she intended to ask at the party. She instructed Albi to place an order of eighty one-gigabit sticks bearing the royal crest.

The stroll brought them into the rose garden, and the Queen took a seat while the robot went about deadheading. The blooms’ best days were over and browned petals littered the ground. Despite the spring attack of secateurs that reduced all the bushes to stumps, the roses somehow endured and unfurled their glorious faces summer after summer; a fact the Queen found heartening. Despite her newfound love for technology, there would forever be a place in her heart for the indomitable spirit of nature and of the rose in particular.

* * *

The garden party was held a few weeks later. The Queen fretted that the weather would not hold and did not sleep a wink the night before the momentous event. But when the time came, the sun was shining and finger sandwiches were plentiful.

A more exclusive affair than the season’s other engagements, the Queen and Albion One were personally introduced to each guest. A gaggle of geeks, joked one of the palace wait staff; A herd of nerd, remarked another. She assumed her robot would be quite the talking point, but instead he was treated with amused condescension. The Queen was bewildered until a freckled young boffin, who looked like he had yet to begin shaving, politely informed her that Albion One was, well, the word was obsolete.

She frowned. But he’s only two years old!

That’s ancient for a piece of technology, Ma’am.

Of course, such a young man could not be expected to understand that two years was no time at all to anyone now in their tenth decade. One day he would discover for himself the paradox of time, which moves faster with age while the body and mind slow to a crawl until they stop altogether.

He’s fit as a fiddle, said the Queen. Plenty more life in him yet.

His hardware may last, but it won’t be long till he starts getting bugs that can’t be fixed—

Bugs?

Viruses in the software or fatal errors in its operating system. Nothing to be done about kernel panics.

Virus? Fatal? The monarch was distraught, though she hid it well behind her garden-party face.

Colonel Panics? I do believe I met him during the War, she said with a laugh that sounded hollow to her ears but seemed to convince the partygoers who chortled politely.

She excused herself and looked around for Albi. Was he sick right now? Was something worming its way through his software? How distressingly cavalier the young man had been in giving his prognosis.

Although the guests seemed to enjoy themselves, for the Queen it was not only a miserable few hours but also an entirely pointless event, since none of the guests could be drawn into discussing any of their projects. They all wanted to protect their ‘IP’, whatever that meant. She was relieved when they finally all departed, having decided that, although she loved technology, she did not much care for technologists.

* * *

During the weeks that followed, the Queen could not be separated from Albion One. She told no one he was terminally ill and doubted even the robot knew it. Every minute was precious, and she ensured they both lived each one to the fullest. She took him to Balmoral to see the mighty stags that strode the glens, although the robot was clearly not designed for off-roading and had to stay in the Range Rover. He went with her to Royal Ascot races, where he proved most adept at calculating odds and was quite the hit with eager gamblers. And they went to Windsor Castle, where a great banquet was held in Albi’s honour, much to the obvious confusion of the servants and consternation of the Duke, who accused her of putting the robot before her own flesh and blood. Preposterous, the Queen had replied, and she continued down the list of things she wanted to share with Albi.

Through all their adventures, the robot did not falter and the Queen had observed nothing that might cause alarm. She had just managed to convince herself that the freckle-faced nerd had been mistaken when it finally happened.

It was the week before Christmas. The Queen was watching television with the Duke, who was nodding off. He could no longer stay up later than eight o’clock.

Why don’t you turn in, dear? she said.

After five minutes of protest, the Duke conceded defeat and shuffled off. When she was sure he wasn’t coming back, the Queen clapped. On the command, Albion One appeared from his hiding place behind the sofa carrying a deck of cards upon a tray.

Gin Rummy tonight, Albi, she said.

The robot dealt the cards without a word. He had been quiet all day. At last, a minute into the game, the robot spoke. How was your day, Liz?

I have been a busy Lizzie today, filming the Christmas message. I must have read it twenty times before they were happy … Ah-ha! I win.

The Queen claimed the cards and dealt the next hand. She waited for the robot to lay a card, which took much longer than usual. Glancing up, she saw his face was blank. Had she upset him with her gloating? She waved her hand in front of the robot’s face and then inspected