Bards and Sages Quarterly (July 2021)

By Julie Ann Dawson, Elizabeth Davis, S.A. Locket and 5 more

Welcome to The Bards and Sages Quarterly, a journal of speculative fiction. With each issue, we strive to bring readers a wide range of character-driven fiction from established and emerging authors in the fantasy, horror, and science fiction fields. The Bards and Sages Quarterly is the perfect sampler to explore the incredible range of storytelling found in the speculative genres.

 

Some of the tales in this issue include:

 

• A Peruvian folk monster decides to try to make it in Hollywood and gets in over his head with the monsters already there in Pishtaku Out of Water.
• A man overcomes a long-held fear in an attempt to find love, only to have his fear come back for revenge in Shadow.
• A history professor stumbles upon a soldier's journal that pulls him back to the battle of the Somme, where he encounters a long-dead relative in History Lessons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bards and Sages Publishing
• Release date: Jun 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201293864

Julie Ann Dawson

Julie Ann Dawson is an author, editor, publisher, RPG designer, and advocate for writers who may occasionally require the services of someone with access to Force Lightning (and in case it was not obvious, a bit of a geek). Her work has appeared in a variety of print and digital media, including such diverse publications as the New Jersey Review of Literature, Lucidity, Black Bough, Poetry Magazine, Gareth Blackmore’s Unusual Tales, Demonground, The Philadelphia Inquirer, and others. In 2002 she started her own publishing company, Bards and Sages. The company has gone from having two titles to over one hundred titles between their print and digital products. In 2009, she launched the Bards and Sages Quarterly, a literary journal of speculative fiction. Since 2012, she has served as a judge for the IBPA's Benjamin Franklin Awards.

Book preview

Pishtaku Out of Water

By Elizabeth Davis

MY LIFE CHANGED WHEN a camera crew stumbled upon me. It hadn’t changed much before then: not since the day the conquistadors strode off their ships. While Pizarro demanded his room of gold, rewarding only with steel and gun – I was a newborn, enjoying my first feast. The first of many to come as cities fell, replaced, and grew.

Unlike my other siblings who were hunted down or retreated to alleyways and gutters, I stayed in the mountains. What can I say? I liked the view – the same thing that brought them here – climbing all over, burdened by cameras, led by a huffing director who nearly tripped into my cooking fire.

Hey, man, what are you doing all the way up here? He puffed in bad Spanish.

I reluctantly looked from my chicharróns frying over the fire and examined the puffy khaki clad man, glad that I had dumped the last body in one of my caves before enjoying the view over a croaking lake with the Chachani and El Misti in the distance.  Just enjoying my dinner, Señor, I responded with rusty words, straining to maintain a neutral tone. Despite our white skin, we were not kin to the gringos – we were born out of the tears and dreams of the indios that the gringos had left in their wake.

You live around here?

I gave him a nod, watching the director carefully. He was a round man with a shirt decorated with dancing palm trees. It was hard not to stare. If I was rude enough, maybe they would move along – though my untamed hair and dirt-stained leather jacket should’ve done the trick.

But he didn’t leave. He plopped down in front of me, the palm trees bouncing closer.

I tensed up, sensing trouble. Groups of men can’t be trusted. Groups of male whites can’t be trusted. Groups of male white gringos especially can’t be trusted. The last time I ran into a group that decided to talk, they had come armed with baseball bats and knives, looking for fun. I had survived that and survived the American embassy-spurred manhunt that followed the men that had not come home.

My hand cupped around the pouch of bone powder – an old gift from a runapmicuc. With just a handful, that it could send this whole group to sleep, and I could feast. If I wasn’t quick enough, this was going to hurt. As my gaze darted to the sweaty people around him, the director put up a hand, and gave a blinding smile.

Don’t worry, we already had lunch. We were wondering if you could show us around – we had a guide, but there was this argument about money and scheduling – but you don’t want to hear all about that.

What are you looking for? There was a nervous and worn assistant, with dark circles around her eyes. She would require slow cooking or my younger sisters’ marinade. There was an older woman who the camera carrying men payed deference to – her muscle was turning to fat – the prime age for taste and texture. Her crew was a wide mixture of men, with a youngest all knees and skin, with the oldest being portly with strong muscle.

As you can see, we are a movie crew, and we are doing location scouting and even a bit of landscape filming for my upcoming movie. He gave me a dramatic pause, different from the regular awkward silence from his hand gestures, then opened his hands with a razzle dazzle motion.  The Mummy King’s Bride!

Some of my confusion must have leaked through my disinterested façade, since he moved to my side, slapping me on the back with a speed I thought was beyond him.  I tensed up again, reminding myself that humans could be dangerous.

He ignored all that, pulling me into a side hug with his soft arms as he was rocked by peals of laughter. The smell of his hot fat was delicious. Oh trust me, it’s total and complete schlock. But with all the irony and nostalgia, retro horror is in again. But, as long as it has the name of McAshes on it, the cinematography will leave those tightassed critics jaws on the floor, even if the script rots their brains out. We can pay you with cash right now – some of these. . .

Sols, one of his assistants mock whispered. I wondered if this motley crew would be missed – surely the Americans couldn’t care that much for every person who wandered off like idiots. Like that scrawny camera man who wouldn’t stop talking about the view in the back – surely nobody would miss him. I remembered that had been my exact thoughts last time and how well that panned out.

Yeah, sols. What do you say?

I decided it would be easier to play along with these strange gringos, and took them all across the mist haunted Andes rainforest, showing them delicate orchids hidden in the underbrush, along the waterfalls from the cracked mountains, and ruins engulfed in time. The whole time, I crunched on my half-raw chicharróns, a vain attempt to distract my stomach. The director continued to talk, barely pausing to pant for breath as we pushed through trees and climbed up slopes.

Near the end, between pants and orders to his crew, he gave his gut a joking poke. Should’ve gotten that liposuction before I came. Then I wouldn’t have to haul all of this around.

A liposuction? He gave me a pitying look as he pulled me into another unwelcomed side hug.

It must be nice to a simple life out here – clean air, quiet, far away from crazy Hollywood folk.  A liposuction is where a doctor takes a hose and sucks out all that fat, making you thin again. Not that you need it, which is good because it ain’t cheap. But it allows me to go out among the young and beautiful.

By the time the sun’s rays sunk below the mountain, I had resolved to go to Hollywood.

THE REASON WHY LIPOSUCTION is such a revolutionary idea is because you’re such a country mouse. I know you old folk are stuck in your ways, but one of us should’ve dragged you to civilization a long time ago. La Flaca berated me over the snapping of frying fat. My younger sister, with her short skirts and hoop earrings, was one of the more innocuous looking of our kind. She knew everybody and everybody knew her  – which is how a recluse like me ended up in her Bogotá apartment where boys with gold teeth and flashy guns constantly walked in and out, seeking her favor.

I looked up from my gossip magazine.  Telenovela stars weren’t quite Hollywood, but close enough for study material.

You could just stay here, Country Mouse. Bogotá has many crazy people willing to pay you for you to steal their fat. You don’t have to move to Hollywood. Those Hollywood types have no soul, even compared to us.

I turned a page to an article about a local girl who had acted in a Hollywood film about a mother whose child who had crossed the border and sought asylum. I scanned the glowing review, ignoring the pictures of her crying face in the film stills, but pausing at the picture of her on the red carpet, arm in arm with a male costar. I took in all of their gloss, their fearless smiles, all glittery and smooth in the bright light. A legitimate pishtaku without concerns could smile like that, even in bright lights.  I practiced that smile, feeling my facial muscles move in unfamiliar ways.

La Flaca watched me and shook her head. This is about more than an easy meal, is it, Country Mouse? When those gringos left, they gave bites that won’t stop itching. Well, maybe you can teach them a thing or two. But Hollywood is in the United States and she keeps her doors locked tight even to good and hard-working folk. But my boys are very good, practically angels, and they can get you in there. But it will take time.

I gave her a shrug. Time was never important to me.

One of us works as a plastic surgeon in the middle of town. I’ll remind him to be respectful of his elders. First things first, we need to do something about your hair.

Dr. Ramos’ house was a far cry from that noisy, crowded apartment with reliable plumbing, airy rooms, and almost complete isolation. There Dr. Ramos passed his life as ghost – forgotten before he even left a room. The only other person who visited during my stay was the cleaning lady – a sniveling example of our kind – I wonder what pathetic urban legend birthed her, or had the story that birthed her grown too stale and lost its teeth?  The two barely shared pleasantries, communicating with nods and gestures towards the fridge when Dr. Ramos deigned to share his leftovers.

Likewise, he didn’t go out, preferring to spend his time puttering inside his small lawn surrounded by a high fence. I daydreamed of rainy mountains while gazing at the perfectly maintained and lifeless ornamental pond.  At night, we drank mediocre beer in front of the mindless television. I decided that when I moved to Hollywood, I would have a lawn so big that I wouldn’t bother with a fence, and I wouldn’t drink mediocre beer.

When I glowered enough, he finally remembered his promise to La Flaca to take me where she wasn’t welcome. We went to upscale malls and restaurants, where his perpetual irritated frown never broke his bland facade as he fussed over my appearance and complained about the ever prying eyes of his neighbors and La Flaca’s crazy schemes.  The few times