Metaphorosis March 2022

By Carol Wellart and Metaphorosis Magazine

Beautifully written speculative fiction from Metaphorosis magazine.

All the stories from the month, plus author biographies, interviews, and story origins.

Table of Contents

• Hope on the Vine - R.E. Dukalsky
• Mission and Submission - Will Gwaun
• The Futu

• Language: English
• Publisher: Metaphorosis Publishing
• Release date: Mar 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781640762244

Book preview

Metaphorosis

March 2022

edited by

B. Morris Allen

ISSN: 2573-136X (online)

ISBN: 978-1-64076-224-4-X (e-book)

ISBN: 978-1-64076-225-1 (paperback)

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from

Metaphorosis Publishing

Neskowin

March 2022

Hope on the Vine — R.E. Dukalsky

Mission and Submission — Will Gwaun

The Future in a Wash Basin — Erin Keating

The Year of the Bright Lands — Felix Taylor

Hope on the Vine

R.E. Dukalsky

It was early August and hope was withering on the vine.

It had withered every year so far for the last eleven, so Nima was disappointed rather than surprised. Disappointed, frustrated, demoralized. She really thought she’d gotten the balance right this time.

She knelt in front of the raised mound of earth that should have been nourishing the hope vine’s roots, her dirty boots poking out behind her and the sun glinting gently off her greying curls. By this point in the season, the vine should be about three feet tall, with multiple spurs twining eight to ten feet in every direction. Heavy buds the size of the first knuckle of her thumb should be swelling between pairs of reniform leaves gleaming a lustrous dark jade. She should be out here looking eagerly for the first open blossom, a rich yellow stellate flower the size of her hand, shading to the orange of glowing embers in the center. She hadn’t seen one for many years.

Instead, she stared disconsolately at a meager vine supporting a few anemic yellow-green spurs. The remaining leaves, with two notable exceptions, were the same undernourished shade, their ribs showing more starkly every day, while their edges turned brown and flaked away. Only one spur, the one that twisted around the rail of the fence, showed any semblance of health, and Nima was as baffled by its continued vitality as she was by the parent vine suddenly giving up on life. It had seemed to be growing on schedule — perhaps a little undersized but a good color — but instead of progressing to the next stage of growth and putting out buds, it had drooped, retreated, withered. Just like its ten predecessors — those that had even bothered to sprout.

Eleven long years on this struggling piece of earth, trying to tease a hope vine from seed to fruit. So far, this was the closest she had come to success. One fruit was all one could expect from such a young vine, but one was all she needed: proof she could send to her Arbiter that this vine would thrive. Then, at last, she could move on. On to the next impoverished, war-scarred town and the next desiccated, abandoned farm, where the potential for hope or fortitude or patience lay dormant under years of neglect and acres of weeds.

The next, and the next, and the next. One by one until the tired land put the years of war and sorrow behind it for good and all.

But there wouldn’t be a next and a next if she couldn’t bring this vine back to life. Nima doubted she’d live to see the land restored, but leaving here would be its own reward. She dreaded another roasting summer and dreary winter in the small blue house behind her. Another year of being ignored by her neighbors, loathing them in return, and never forgetting no one wanted her here.

Maybe she hadn’t fertilized enough? But no; she’d been side-dressing the vine with the recommended half-cup of the special expensive blend that came from the Wizard’s Herbarium, and she marked each application on her calendar so she knew she hadn’t missed any. Was the mix itself wrong? They said it was guaranteed, but you never knew what that meant with the wizards you got these days. In her time, guarantees had come with blood, not a letter under shiny gilt seal.

If the mix was good, was water the issue? Possible, but hope vines were notoriously flexible in their water needs. In theory, they could take root and grow anywhere, with minimal tending. That was why they, along with fortitude trees and hedges of patience, were among the first recommended plants for war restoration project sites. Even someone who’d never set finger to a garden should be able to grow one — and once a hope vine established itself, every living thing in the area would flourish as well.

Probably she hadn’t figured out the right tending regimen. This was where hope vines could be tricky, according to both her own vague memories and the instructions she received each year with the new seed. Fortitude trees could be watered with either sweat or blood (both of which she had in abundance, particularly in the summer). A hedge of patience would grow well with tears, sighs or, in a pinch, prayers. Hope vines demanded fiddly, intangible things: dreams recounted, promises exchanged, plans laid. But wizards didn’t dream, she had no one to make promises to, and under the circumstances plans were not hers to lay. She’d tried making promises to the old farmhouse, to the wasted land around it, to the rickety fence and the empty road, but she wasn’t sure they counted. If she were honest, the only promise she meant to keep was the one about leaving.

She’d walk out the gate now and never come back if she hadn’t given her word, and not with some fancy seal, but in the old way, with consequences for breaking her oath. She’d promised to stay until she could prove she’d restored local resilience to an acceptable baseline — in plainspeak, until the hope vine was able (or willing?) to reproduce. No one back in the capital knew, or really cared, how long it took or what it asked of the grower. The point was to have wizards scattered across the land, repairing the scars of war where everyone could see them doing it. So here she was until she could cultivate her release.

Nima stroked a finger across one of the limp leaves. "If you stay alive, I leave and you never have to see me again. So save us both some pain and just grow," she whispered, putting all the force of her will into it. No effect, of course, except a dull burn up her right arm to complement her aching knees.

What’s wrong with your plant?

The voice was high-pitched and unfamiliar. Nima looked up to see a girl of about twelve years draped across the fence near the gate ten feet away. Just about where the questing ends of the vine ought to be right now, Nima thought sourly. She’d never seen the girl before, though she had the look of a local: a short, wide body, tawny skin, a blunt nose, and straight, thick black hair cut short above her shoulders. Her eyes were close-set, small, and twinkling with curiosity.

It isn’t growing, Nima said shortly. She was sick to death of these suspicious locals. Did you need something?

I’m Yun, the girl said, completely ignoring the pointed question. Did you forget to water it?

No, Nima replied, trying to rein in her temper. It wouldn’t improve her relationship with the locals if she started yelling at children. On the other hand, she didn’t care that much about having a relationship with the locals. She turned back to the hope vine, scratching gently in the dirt around the main stalk to see if there was something preying on its roots.

What about fertilizing? Did you feed it? Yun asked.

Yes, Nima said without looking up.

Did you put it in the right kind of soil?

"Yes."

Does it get enough sun?

Exasperated, Nima gestured at the open sky. Her back twinged, and she looked up with an even more unfriendly expression than she’d intended.

"Hm. Maybe it’s getting too much sun, Yun mused, unfazed. Or maybe this isn’t a good place for it to grow."

Nima clenched her jaw and bent back down. Maybe the irritating child would get bored and wander away. After a few seconds she heard soft footsteps against the dust and dared to hope. But no luck.

But I don’t know, Yun said, from much nearer, almost right in front of Nima. "It feels like it wants to grow here." A brown hand appeared at the corner of Nima’s vision, stroking the leaves of the one remaining spur.

Nima looked up sharply. Don’t touch it, she snapped.

Yun whipped her hand away and looked, for the first time, as if she were picking up on Nima’s unwelcoming demeanor. Why not?

"Because it’s my vine," Nima replied, hearing