Particular Passages: Closed for the Season: Particular Passages, #6

By Lee F. Patrick, Rob Nisbet, Ross Baxter and 15 more

The winter can be long, cold, and hard. Even the holidays can be terrible.

Then, there comes a time of year when some places are no longer used.

No longer needed.

No longer wanted.

It's the coldest part of the year, in nearly every sense.

It is when a lot of the world is...

Closed for the Season.

 

Sometimes people go into those places anyway.

Dare you follow them?

 

Stories by:

Lee F. Patrick, Rob Nisbet, Ross Baxter, D.H. Aire, Eve Morton, James Burt, Jerri Moyes, Wade Hunter, R.C. Mulhare, Kay Hanifen, Brian MacDonald, Alicia Cay, Nathan Carson, Kelly Piner, Jodi Rizzotto, Jessica Guernsey, Stacey Dighton.  Edited by Sam Knight.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Knight Writing Press
• Release date: Nov 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781628690620

Book preview

Particular Passages: Closed for the Season

Copyright © 2023 Knight Writing Press

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Cover Art and Cover Design © 2023 Laura Hayden

Interior Art © 2023 Knight Writing Press

Interior Book Design, Art, and eBook Design by Knight Writing Press

Editor Sam Knight

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, with the exception of brief quotations within critical articles and reviews or as permitted by law.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real persons, places, or events are coincidental, the work of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously.

Electronic versions of this work are licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only and may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this work with another person, please purchase a physical copy or purchase an additional electronic copy for that person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the authors and publishers by doing so.

First Publication October 2023

Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-62869-061-3

eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-62869-062-0

Lost in the Cold © 2023 Lee F. Patrick

Eleven Pipers Piping © 2023 Rob Nisbet

Watch Dog © 2023 Ross Baxter

The Christmas Dilemma © 2023 Barry Nove

The Christmas Key © 2023 Eve Morton

Off-Season © 2023 James Burt

The Guardian of the Mountain © 2023 Jerri Moyes

The Snowman © 2023 Aaron Buterbaugh

Household Monsters © 2023 R.C. Mulhare

Heart of Ice © 2023 Katharine Hanifen

Yeti or Not © 2023 Brian MacDonald

Blue Bride © 2023 Alicia Cay

A Norwegian Black Metal Christmas In Oregon © 2023 Nathan Carson

Grounded © 2023 Kelly Piner

Homeless for the Holidays © 2023 Jodi Rizzotto

One Without the Other © 2023 Jessica Guernsey

The Saint and the Seraph © 2023 Stacey Dighton

Lost in the Cold

by

Lee F. Patrick

LONG AGO THERE HAD BEEN A TERRIBLE FIRE IN THIS FOREST, which created the broad meadow where I sprouted. A few remnant trunks still stood, marking the places where so many trees had died. I was vaguely sad knowing so many others had died so I might sprout and grow, but my seed might never have sprouted if they had lived.

My first wakening was many seasons ago now. I was far enough from the other trees I was able to grow quickly with the full sunlight and sufficient rain to nourish me. Still, it took many turns of the seasons before I was tall enough to stand well above the grasses in our meadow at the warmest part of the year. Once the abundant sun was able reach all of my needles for the entire day, I grew more quickly.

Mostly I dozed through the days and nights. Sometimes I became more awake to sense the deer as they came into the meadow to graze and browse. Thankfully, they left my needles alone. Birds sang and called to each other, passing through or building nests to raise their young. Every spring and summer I had several families of birds living within the shelter of my branches. Others sheltered among my branches during the cold time, but I seldom woke then.

I was also sad none of the other trees here were like me. Did they simply never wish to speak to me because I was much smaller than they? Could I speak to another tree? I occasionally called out, but there was never an answer, so I remained unsure. Was I being ignored, or was I the only one in this area who was aware?

Neither could I truly communicate in any way with the strange, two-legged beings who sometimes walked through the meadow. They made noises, sometimes a lot of them, but what those sounds meant was unclear. Any deer bounded away from the meadow the moment they heard them, perhaps in fear. The calls of the birds and animals were much easier to learn their meanings. Keep away and seeking a mate were the most common by the activity following their vocalisations. From the young birds, the call meant they wanted food.

The two-legs’ travel wore several paths where the grass never managed to grow as tall as elsewhere. Sometimes there was only one, other times they came past me in small to larger herds accompanied by not-wolves. Some two-legs were much larger than others. Adults and their young, I assumed, based on the other creatures who lived here year-round. Where the two-legs went or why they came here eluded me. Most never returned to the meadow by the time the light faded. I wondered occasionally where they had gone, or where they came from. Sometimes small groups stopped near me to rest in my shade, more often as I grew taller. Those birds sheltered in my branches did not appreciate the two-legs’ presence when eggs or chicks were in their nests. At other times however, they and the small animals I sheltered often chittered and called to the two-legs, seeming to demand a tribute of food, which was often supplied. Both parties seemed quite satisfied with the arrangement.

I enjoyed watching the young animals as they came into the meadow in the springs and how they grew over the summers. During the coldest times I generally sleep very deeply, unaware of life around me, so I do not know if the animals venture into the meadow to find food, but I think they must. Sometimes, on a warm, sunny day during the deep cold times, the two-legs also came, but never stayed long as they did during true warmth. But they had come. And at least one group came while I slept, for a purpose I could not have foreseen.

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I woke, confused. The air around me was warm. Too warm for spring to have come. Had a sudden wind come to melt the snow? My spot was in the open, but nearer the sundown side of the meadow. The shade from the trees on the edge of the meadow would have somewhat protected the snow around my trunk if the warmth had come for a long stretch before its proper time. But. I felt odd: I was not upright. My roots have always held me straight, but a high wind and sudden summertime warmth might have caused me to tilt to one side.

I reached downward for my roots. I sensed there was water below me, but I could not feel the soil, or the little beings always crawling through it changing my shed needles, dung from the small creatures, and the uneaten grasses into soil that nourishes me. I cannot panic as the deer do and run quickly away from what frightens me. I am rooted.

Or: I was not rooted any longer.

But why cannot I sense the earth below my trunk? I felt that comforting presence before I slept the last time. Where was I now? This did not seem like the meadow I knew.

Darkness still surrounds me. Perhaps I have fallen asleep again, but I did not think so. I have never been asleep but still able to think and feel. I concentrate on what I can do, which is very little, so I force myself into my own familiar darkness, hoping when I wake again, I will be back in my meadow. But part of me knows and fears it might never be.

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I woke some time later but my spirits sink. It was still warm, like the late spring. Even the slight breeze moving my smallest branches was warm. I feel light feeding my needles, but it was not sunlight, or not entirely. I sensed several two-legged beings near me. A family group, I thought. There were smaller plants near me, but they were, as usual, unresponsive to my call.

The meadow was not here, or I am not there anymore. Why and how I had been moved are questions to which I have no answer, like so many of my questions. I wished I could run like the deer, to escape whatever fate the two-legs intended for me. The smallest of my branches shivered as my thoughts raced.

The larger two legs approached me. They and their voices were somehow familiar. They had sat near me at least once or twice during the past warmer times. The smallest ones had at least doubled in size, though I had grown much taller each year with the good sun and water I had enjoyed in the meadow. My top branches are shaded, which is not right. They should have the best light all day with nothing between them and the sun but a few clouds. What is this terrible place?

The two-legs draped long strings around my branches. Other, individual things, hung down from them. Some objects are heavy, causing my thinner branches to sink with the weight. Sometimes a large bird had perched on my branches, weighing them down like these objects did.

I struggled to lift the branch back up, but I could not. I did not understand the reason why the two-legs did this. Sometimes, those two-legs who had sat near me had taken flowers and stems from the plants that surrounded me and made lengths of them or tied them in small bunches that were sometimes left in my branches when they went away. Those flowers and plants had always died within a short time, separated from their roots. Was it now my time to die? All of my branches shuddered, but the two-legs ignored the movement.

Finally the two-legs all moved away. Small sources of light still surrounded me, but they were not the flying motes of light I had sensed in the meadow as the light goes away in summer. I was moved closer to the edge of this space. A few of my branches touched something now. It was cooler than the air in this place. There was cold outside. I was able sense other trees, all deeply asleep, but they were not far from me. And they did not seem familiar.

The sunlight’s touch brought some comfort to me, but it was hard to remain aware here. I should be deeply asleep in the meadow. Could this be real? Or… I had no notion of what it was.

A final thing was placed on my highest branch, the one that would become part of my trunk as I grew ever taller. The strange shape covered that tallest part of myself completely. I realised the two-leg who placed it there climbed up upon a thing made of what had once been a tree.

It brushed against some of my branches, and I recoiled in horror. Was that to be my final fate as well?

More two-legged beings came and went over the following days. They piled things under my branches where various small animals had sought refuge from the hunting birds over the seasons, but I sensed no life within these objects. Two-legged young who could barely walk upright tried to touch my lower branches but were quickly removed by the adults. A small feline predator hid within my branches, sometimes batting at the objects hanging from me. It was not the young of the ones I had seen in the meadow, for it was very sure of itself and did not stumble while walking as those who are young do.

I began to wonder how long I could continue in this, cut off from my roots. I believed the water underneath me was refilled every day, though the feline sometimes drank from it.

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I roused to sudden loud noises near dawn. The smaller two-legs shouted and dove under my branches to drag all those objects out from below me. The larger two-legs also made noise. Flashes of light came from their hands. More things I could not understand. When all of the objects below me were gone, the small ones started to manipulate the objects, ignoring me, though the small feline climbed high into my branches and hid on the side opposite to the chaos surrounding us. A sensible creature.

Other smells and sounds soon intruded. The air became humid, from another area nearby. All of the two-legs headed into that other space. So did the small feline. I forced myself back into slumber.

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I was ignored more now. Had they tired of my presence after such a short time? My needles began to dry, starting from the highest branch kept from the light. It was hard to pull the water up that far and I stopped trying, sacrificing the upper branches to attempt to save the lower ones. I could not prevent that primal response.

The water beneath me was soon gone, drunk by the small feline, though sometimes there was more again. I fell into deeper despair and retreated into the darkness, not knowing or caring if I ever woke again. I just wanted this time to end.

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Thirst woke me. I was surrounded by cold darkness. I was not in the warm place any longer, but back in the depths of winter. I leaned against something, and the base of my trunk buried in the snow. The things that had hung on my branches were gone. I had been taken away. Abandoned.

My instincts told me to return to sleep to wait out the remaining cold season, but with no remaining roots to bring water up into my trunk once the weather changed, I feared I would never awaken to the warmth of spring again.

I called out with all my strength, seeking another of my kind here. No response, as I expected. If any like me were nearby, they would be in deep sleep. I tried to sense what other trees might be near me. A young tree, what kind I was unsure of, was nearest me. The tip of one of my still-green lower branches touched it. Barely. A scant few of those needles pressed against the other’s trunk.

Could I leave this maimed body and enter another tree? What choice did I have? Either I must leave my dying tree, or I would never wake again.

If there was another like me in the other tree already, I was not sure what I would do to continue to survive. But since I had never encountered another like myself, I tried to console myself that such an outcome was not likely. Still, the thought of simply ending frightened me. So, I had to make the attempt. I consoled myself with the thought: if this desperate ploy failed, I would never awaken to face this horror again. That was somewhat of a relief. That there would be an end, but I would not be aware of when or how it happened.

Light came, and with its gentle but brief warmth, I encouraged all my still-green needles to take in what they could so I might act once the darkness returned again. I concentrated on that flow all the short day, moving every mote of myself I could, starting from the branches farthest from my slight point of contact with the other tree, pulling and pushing all I am into the needles touching the other tree. As the sunlight faded, I reached out to the other trunk, spending all my will into that act, not knowing if I will awaken once again in the warmth of spring, or never at all. A final shiver.

Darkness filled me.

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About the Author

Lee F. Patrick is a long-time writer living in Calgary Alberta who loves new worlds. She lives with her amazing hubby and Jacky the (mostly) invisible cat. She’s written novels, short stories and some poetry over the years, recently starting to publish seriously. She’s been a part of a Search and Rescue group, studied Aikido and Irish, worked as a researcher in molecular biology, owned a horse, was a movie and TV extra, learned to ski and generally had a lot of experiences over the years that seem to creep into her writing. A long-time fantasy and science fiction fan, she has a large library of books that keep using up all the walls in her house.

Eleven Pipers Piping

by

Rob Nisbet

MAUREEN CREASED HER EYES IN CONCENTRATION, watching very carefully as the glamorous poisoner stirred a generous portion of arsenic into her husband’s chicken curry. The Christmas season was nearly over, the new year was just beginning, and Maureen had been looking forward to this three-part TV programme for some time. The glamorous poisoner was one of her favourite actresses, so slim and poised; the character was so sure of herself. Part of the fascination, Maureen admitted with a resigned sigh, was that this character was everything that Maureen wasn’t.

Maureen looked at her small, withered Christmas tree shedding dried-up needles into the carpet, definitely past its best, and at its tired chains of decorations in colours faded to a pastel version of themselves after years of re-hanging.

All a bit jaded. Just like me, thought Maureen. She reluctantly acknowledged she was on the heavier side of plump, and, despite her imposing frame, she’d always preferred to keep to the background, dressing in sombre colours, unnoticed. She found a quiet life so much easier than anything she considered confrontational. But a quiet existence could soon become stale. She relied on her one excitement—to experience her thrills and exhilarations second-hand, avidly watching TV soaps and dramas.

Maureen felt the husband on the TV fully deserved his grisly fate. She herself had never married, but she liked to think that, if she had discovered her husband cheating on her, she, too, would have poisoned his curry. Imagine—what a risk! What if the plan went wrong? What if she succeeded? How would she hide, or explain away, the body?

Maureen watched as the cheating husband forked some rice into the steaming curry then took his first mouthful. Mmmm, he murmured approvingly. I do love a curry.

Far too hot for me, said the glamorous poisoner as she placed a plate of salad on the table. She wore a tight-fitting red dress that accentuated her slender curves. She undulated into the seat opposite her husband, watching him eat. Not too spicy, is it? she asked.

Spicy enough, thought Maureen, to mask any taste of the poison.

Perfect, said the husband. Would you like to try some?

The TV zoomed into a close-up of the glamorous poisoner. What would she say? Maureen could see the hidden malice behind her clear, green eyes as she opened her half-smiling mouth—and a pneumatic drill drowned out her reply.

Maureen winced. She hefted herself from her couch and padded to the window, its frame still decorated with thin strands of worn tinsel. Outside, the dark January night had been burnt aside by a bank of lights glaring from some kind of mobile generator. Beyond her little gate, a small army of workers in hard hats and fluorescent jackets attacked the paving slabs with pounding drills rattling like sustained machine-gun fire.

Behind her, the husband and wife continued their meal. They were talking, but Maureen could hear nothing over the noise from outside. She dithered, instantly annoyed with herself for not marching straight out and demanding they stop the racket.

The glamourous poisoner, confident and assertive, would have been shouting over the gate. But that wasn’t Maureen. For a minute, she tried to follow what was happening on the screen, but it was hopeless. Maureen took a resigned breath, recognising her irritation at both the racket outside and at her timid acceptance of it. It was the third of January: the time for change and resolutions. Time, perhaps, to leave mousey Maureen behind and become more extrovert. She snatched her coat from a hook, but by the time she slipped it on, her resolve had crumbled. Then she told herself, rather bravely she thought, that it would not be unreasonable to go out, just to enquire what was going on. She opened the door quickly, before she changed her mind.

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A water leak, she was told.

One of the men, in a yellow plastic hat, leant on Maureen’s fence and gestured to the slabs being ripped from the pavement. The pipes have to be replaced, he yelled above the noise, from here to the junction with the main road. The cloud of his breath swirled in the glare of the lights.

Maureen slumped. There were perhaps a dozen men with drills and pickaxes wearing padded ear protectors. A long-necked digger, like a metal dinosaur, stood ready to chew at the exposed ground.

Can’t you do it during the day? Maureen enquired.

No chance, love, said the man. Have to close half the road. There’d be traffic chaos. Should all be done though, in a couple more days.

A couple more days! So that was the middle and final episodes of the TV drama ruined. And Maureen had been so looking forward to all the poisonings. She shivered in the evening chill and plodded back to her doorway.

Thirsty work, this, called the man. Wouldn’t say no to a hot coffee.

Maureen pretended not to hear him.

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The next morning, Maureen made herself a pot of tea and peered into the fridge. She still had half the cheeses from a selection pack and a dark slab of yule log coated in thick chocolate buttercream. And in the cupboard, she knew, was the rich marzipaned Christmas cake she’d brought just in case a neighbour called round. No wonder she was the size she was.

She took a step back. The new year could be her chance to change, she thought. But living on her own meant she had to use up the food herself. She didn’t have the willpower to waste it. And anyway, it was still officially Christmas for a couple more days.

She could hear the blatant excuse in her thoughts but chose to ignore it. She was still within the twelve days of Christmas. She counted through the dates to make sure. She made this day eleven—so tomorrow she’d have to take down the decorations, stow them away for another year, and perhaps even decide on a resolution. How did that song go—the one about a partridge in a pear tree?

She began to hum to herself as she cut a thick slice of yule log to have with her tea. On the eleventh day of Christmas… Eleven pipers piping!

Maureen was immediately reminded of the workmen digging up the water pipes in the street, and her mood slipped further into melancholy. True, they were the