Fabled Passages: Speculative Stories

By Margaret Pinard

Delight in the absurd and wander among the fantastical in these speculative fiction short stories!

Drawn from the imagination of a historical fiction author, these stories push the envelope of genre and mix and match tropes with a vengeance.

This collection is a small sample of experimental shorts, ranging from historical adventure and earth magic to contemporary portal fantasy and time travel. They are meant to intrigue, inspire, entertain, and mystify, all while world-building with a few deft strokes. These characters forge their own destiny, come to terms with grief, mete out justice, and discover how they fit into this world--their world.

The journey to discover truth is unique for everyone: a fabled passage into one's own power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margaret Pinard
• Release date: Oct 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201155391

Margaret Pinard

Margaret Pinard is a soul from the 19th century who finds it easiest to disguise herself by drinking tea, writing historical fiction, and popping off to the British Isles for 'research.' She has published five novels and one collection of short stories. Her historical fiction work includes the Remnants trilogy which follows the MacLean family from 1820s Scotland to Canada and beyond, highlighting the immigrant experience. Margaret has co-founded an indie book festival, helps run the AWC, and is a firm ally of independent bookstores. She splits her time between Portland, OR and San Luis Obispo, CA.

Book preview

Also by Margaret Pinard

The Remnants series:

The Keening

The Grasping Root

Storm Wrack & Spindrift

Dulci’s Legacy

Memory’s Hostage

Copyright © 2022 Margaret Pinard

Taste Life Twice Publishing

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9798201155391

No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Individual characters are fictional and any resemblance of name or specific action is not meant to be taken as fact.

Cover Design by The Cover Collection

Author's Note

WE’VE ALL GOTTEN a bit weirder during this surreal global pandemic phenomenon. This whole once-in-a-lifetime, living-through-history thing has really thrown me for a loop, too. Mentally, spiritually, emotionally, socially—I have been shook by all that has happened in the past three years. And that’s just the stuff that I’ve kept track of.

My writing has evolved in ways I never could have predicted to process this change. Some of the stories you will read started as flash fiction writing prompts, or dreams, or what-if? scenarios. One thing that unites them is the weirdness: these characters resemble people you might know, but their worlds, or their perspectives, are vastly different. For some, there is fundamental wrong or regret that needs to be faced and addressed. For others, the characters wrest their own destiny from Fate, in what I hope is an inspiring tale of derring-do and flair. But weird flair.

In the course of writing and editing these stories, I found it helpful to research genre labels. Of course, many genre boundaries are subject to debate, but these all fall under the very broad category of Speculative Fiction, or fiction that tells a story that could not have actually happened in our world with its natural laws and somewhat-objective history. The more detailed labels of science fiction, high fantasy, portal fantasy, urban fantasy, alternate history, paranormal, steampunk, and supernatural can be applied variably to all of these stories. I even flirt with the very edges of horror, also included under the Speculative Fiction umbrella. I found Lindsay Ellis’s video on this topic for PBS Voices to be very illuminating and entertaining.

If you are a reader who appreciates content warnings, I will say that there is a historical portrayal of Reconstruction and early America that includes enslaved people in one of the stories (Stitches in Time). There is also portrayal of ghosts, magic, and some violence—less graphic, more implied.

Finally, one of my stories is a spin-off from a very famous Shakespeare play! So if it feels like you’re missing some backstory, may I suggest reading Hamlet? It was formative in my school days and I really enjoyed giving one of the characters an alternative ending. In an alternative setting. Like I said, weird. Throw out the rules! Experiment! Take nothing for granted!

Happy reading.

Cursed Siblings

I’VE SAID MY hellos to Mr. Fellowes, Hermione trilled in her sing-song voice.

Oh no, that means I’m drunk.

And I’ve had my goodbye from Mr. McFry. This time the last syllable lasted longer than she meant it to.

Aw, come on. Let me keep the bloomin’ notes, by Jupiter.

But you won’t never catch me makin’ eyes….

Having reached the banister, Hermione hung onto it. She panted a bit, trying to keep her balance and marshal enough equilibrium to manage ascending the stairs. But then a noise other than her own failing dulcet tones reached her.

Sister dear? Could that be you, tormenting my sleep?

Hell and damnation.

One of the gas lamps at the top of the stairs was turned on. Hermione squinted up at the face of her elder brother, looking much softer in sidelight than he ever did in life.

Coming. Just coming home, dear brother, she grumbled, switching to her more polite register of language.

And in such a lamentable state, he tsked.

Save it.

But such was her deal with the gods, that her brother could hear her bloody thoughts. It was why she spent so much time outside their house, trying to clutch at any kind of privacy that could be had in public, away from him.

Her brother might be able to hear her thoughts, but she could control his bodily movements. That had been the deities’ odd price when they’d granted them immortality at the age of seven.

Now looking 22 but with 87 years of experience, Hermione knew they’d been had, and she was done trying to find a way to undo their bargain. For the gods, once invoked, took a lively interest. She hadn’t known, at age seven, but Malcolm, at twelve, should have.

He also regrets the bargain. Everyone else has superseded him in science, even with his extended life-span. And neither of us has friends.

Animal companions can be quite good friends, Mynee. Don’t dismiss them.

She clenched her teeth. He wouldn’t, or couldn’t, leave her thoughts alone. They’d tried living apart, but their immortal desires had made quick work of their partners. So now, here they were, proper old sods, eking out a ‘living’ as separately as possible.

At least my power means he can’t hit me like he wants to.

Hermione had pulled herself up halfway. She looked at him again. She’d lost the thread of what he’d said to her.

Did you do anything this day, brother?

The crags of his face lengthened and flickered in the light of the lamp. He chose to stop aging at the apparent age of thirty: respectable, proven, vigorous. But he looked none of that now, just insane.

Several very important things, in fact. If you’re not up to hearing them now, you’ll find out in the morning.

Yes, Hermione said, staring at the walk that led to her wing of the grand house. I’ll do that.

Good night, then. His voice held misgiving, as if she had chosen wrong and would regret it. She ignored his tone and flopped her way to her room at the far end of the house. He couldn’t easily hear her thoughts from there.

My wing of the house is no safe place, though. Which is why I must enact the plan tomorrow. Escape and pass as a normal person for as long as I can, then escape again. There must be some brief happiness left to me in this world…and if I find there is not, I’ll simply throw myself into the sea.

But when Hermione woke up, she found she had a hangover. Immortals were not supposed to get hungover. She waited for their one loyal retainer, Justus, to come and state breakfast was ready but he had not come by the time the sun was to the height of her window, a thing unheard of. She peeked her head out into the hallway, the motion almost making her heave the lining of her stomach, but no torches were lit, no servant came. Perhaps he is ill.

Hermione dressed herself quickly and easily in her daily costume: new shift, new petticoat of a shocking color, sheer overskirt, and thick brown wool bodice. She’d adapted to this after many adjustments and customizations to suit her lifestyle, until she no longer thought about it. She’d seen several decades pass with contempt for the outrageous trends deemed obligatory for women, and the 1880s were trying to crown them all, with their elaborate bustles and yards of draped fabric. The newest bustles reminded her of nothing more than lobster tails. No, such impracticality far surpassed her patience.

She tried to flounce out of the room and down the stairs but her