Another Twist of the Nib

By Karen J. Carlisle

Another Twist of the Nib is the third collection of speculative fiction short stories by Karen J Carlisle, this time with a darker twist.

Here be ghosts, vampires, apocalypse, and humans with nefarious intent.
Another Twist of the Nib is full of quick-read stories - reading times from under two minutes to under thirty minutes per story.
Perfect for commuting, waiting in line or when time is short.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kraken Publishing
• Release date: Oct 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393955870

Karen J. Carlisle

Karen J Carlisle is a writer and illustrator of speculative fiction - steampunk, Victorian mystery and fantasy. She graduated in 1986, from Queensland Institute of Technology with a Bachelor of Applied Science in Optometry and lives in Adelaide with her family and the ghost of her ancient Devon Rex cat. Karen first fell in love with science fiction when she saw Doctor Who as a four-year old (she can’t remember if she hid behind the couch). This was reinforced when, at the age of twelve, she saw her first Star Destroyer. She started various other long-term affairs with fantasy fiction, (tabletop) role-playing, gardening, historical re-creation and steampunk – in that order. Her first book, Doctor Jack and Other Tales, was published in 2015. She has had articles published in Australian Realms Roleplaying Magazine and Cockatrice (Arts and Sciences magazine). Her short story, An Eye for Detail, was short-listed by the Australian Literature Review in their 2013 Murder/Mystery Short Story Competition. Karen's short story, Hunted, is featured in the Trail of Tales exhibition in the Adelaide Fringe, 2016. She currently writes full-time and can often be found plotting fantastical, piratical or airship adventures. Karen has always loved chocolate - dark preferred - and rarely refuses a cup of tea. She is not keen on the South Australian summers. 

Book preview

A WINTER’S TALE

THE CARRIAGE SHUDDERED as the train rattled over the last junction. The valise at the end of the overhead luggage rack shifted. Hugo Hopkins stared out the window. Snow shrouded the fields and tipped the hedges surrounding a lake.

He pressed his gloved hand against the chilled window glass. Elizabeth loved winter. He sighed. The ice would be thick enough to ice skate this year.

His stomach grumbled. He stared at his unopened lunch tin. Bread and bacon. A special treat.

Are you having a picnic? asked the girl sitting opposite him. She tugged her mother’s sleeve. Can we have a picnic, Mama?

Mama glanced up from her book. It’s too cold, dear, she whispered.

The girl grinned at Hugo.

Do you have cake? Her blonde ringlets bobbed in time with the swaying carriage.

You can’t have cake, replied Mama.

Hugo tucked the tin into his satchel and placed it on the padded leather seat beside him. He examined the grey sky outside and smiled; there wasn’t enough sun to melt the ice this year.

A flurry of coal dust twisted past the window. The carriage jolted. The valise wobbled, then overbalanced and tumbled off the rack and thudded onto the carriage floor.

Hugo flinched.

The girl giggled.

Manners, young lady, said Mama.

You said next time we visited father, we could have a picnic.

It’s too cold, Mary.

But you promised! The girl huffed.

Mama grabbed Mary’s hand and dragged her to her feet. I’m so sorry, she whispered.

Hugo nodded and closed his eyes. The carriage door clattered on its runners.

We’ve arrived, Mr Hopkins, said the conductor.

SNOW CRUNCHED UNDER Hugo’s feet as he trudged along the worn cobblestones. Grey clouds veiled the sun. Bare tree limbs shivered in the wind. He tugged his coat tight, flipped up the collar and counted the paths.

One

Two.

Three.

He paused at the fourth path and glanced down the row of compact, stone residences. There was no sound. No birdsong to cheer the gloom. Even the hyacinths planted last spring had refused to bloom.

He swallowed and shuffled down the path. The residences dwindled, replaced by veiled figures, averting their gaze as they stood vigil. The figures faded, replaced by unattended carved markers.

Hugo pulled the brown paper parcel from his satchel, gently unwrapped the precious pink carnations and knelt on the frozen ground. He wiped snow from a marker.

Here lies

Mary Hopkins

Beloved daughter

He leaned forward and cleared the rest of the marker.

and

Elizabeth Hopkins

Beloved wife

The lunch tin thumped onto the frozen earth.

Mary giggled. Can we have a picnic?

Only if Mama will allow it. He placed the carnations in front of the marker.

But, you promised.

Time to go. Elizabeth’s voice was by his ear.

Forgive me. He didn’t move.

The sky darkened. The whispers of loyal mourners broke the silence. The train’s whistle cried in the distance.

I’m sorry, he whispered.

THE END

DARE

THE FLAME FLICKERED. Hot candle wax dripped onto my finger. I cursed under my breath and flicked off the warm droplets.

The old oak tree marked the start of the original Pioneer section. My feet drowned in the fallen leaves