Blister and Other Stories

By Brian Biswas

These stories paint a portrait of a magical realist world that is both chaotic and corrupt. In "Blister" a young widow remains faithful to her wedding vows even after her husband's deception is revealed. The husband in "Others" is haunted by a picture from the sixteenth century that has seemingly come to life and threatens to destroy his ma

• Language: English
• Publisher: Obie Books
• Release date: Feb 6, 2024
• ISBN: 9798987625910

Brian Biswas

Brian Biswas has published over sixty short stories in the United States as well as internationally. An Anthology, A Betrayal and Other Stories, was published by Rogue Star Press in 2018. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He is listed in the International Writers and Authors Who's Who, Marquis Who's Who, and the Internet Speculative Fiction Database. Brian writes in a literary style reminiscent of magical realism, irrealism, or fabulism, which attempts to convey a slightly exaggerated but internally consistent sense of reality. He also writes straightforward science fiction, fantasy, and horror (often tinged with fantastic elements). He was born in Columbus, Ohio, received a B.A. in Philosophy from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an M.S. in Computer Science from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. He lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina with his wife, Elizabeth, and an ever changing assortment of animals.

Book preview

Also by Brian Biswas

The Astronomer

A Betrayal and Other Stories

This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictionally. Other names, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The following stories were previously published: A Sea Voyage in Café Irreal, 2021; "Apologia du Amore" in Dream Fantasy International, 2000; The Meaning of Jealousy in Skive, 2013; Julie’s Murderer in Bewildering Stories, 2011; Rhonda’s Story in Crimson Streets, 2017; Others in Lost Worlds, 1994; A Matter of Principle in Bewildering Stories, 2012; Skipping Stones in Daily Love, 2011; Mario Bakar in Yesteryear, 2010; A Love Story in Skive, 2008; The House in the Forest in Skive, 2007; Rosé Clare, A Life part one (as Gwenedine) in Anotherrealm, 2005, part two (as Happiness) in Anotherrealm, 2005, reprinted in Tien Ve, 2013, part three (as The Vulture) in Mind in Motion, 1997, reprinted in Tien Ve, 2013, part four (as The Looking Glass) in Dream Fantasy International, 2008; The Town That Went to Sleep in Word Riot, 2004; A Soldier’s Lament in Dream Fantasy International, 2002.

Cover art by Kim Dingwall.

ISBN 979-8-9876259-0-3

ISBN 979-8-9876259-1-0 (e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023904594

Copyright © 2024 by the author. All rights reserved.

Published by Obie Books, Chapel Hill, North Carolina. First edition February, 2024.

Praise for Brian Biswas

Praise for Blister and Other Stories

Brian Biswas is a literary mage. He can take the base materials of a historical romance, or a contemporary love affair, or a seagoing adventure, and make them dance in the fairy light of the Uncanny Valley. The titles of the stories in this, his newest collection, give you an idea of their eldritch intentions: ‘Julie’s Murderer,’ ‘The House in the Forest,’ ‘The Town that Went to Sleep.’ These are modern folktales. The sheer variety in the book is astonishing, worthy of a Scheherazade, and, indeed, the master storyteller herself is invoked in ‘Twelve Nights and a Night.’ The final story is a witty updating of Kafka, via Lewis Carroll. Storytelling is Biswas’ calling card; he understands the power of Story, with a capital S. Read him because he is a master artificer, utilizing a prose that is both pellucid and shimmering. – Corey Mesler, author of Cock-a-Hoop, and The World is Neither Stacked for Nor Against You: Selected Short Stories

. . . each story compellingly puts its characters in tough spots that prove to be both gloomy and unexpected. – Kirkus Reviews

. . . inventive, genre-blending, briskly paced, tales with elements of the speculative, magical realism, and social critique . . . The best of Biswas’s often fable-like tales achieve a thought-provoking depth. – Booklife

Praise for The Astronomer

"In Brian Biswas’ novel, The Astronomer, he has chosen to confound us frequently regarding how he and the main character regard reality, and we are often forced to think about our own ways of looking at the real and the fantastic, about fact and fiction. . . . He also challenges us to think about whether or not the dreams and other mental wanderings of people who don’t have ‘normal’ mental lives constitute another reality as well." – Alice Whitten-burg, The Cafe Irreal

Biswas’ writing is remarkably expansive throughout, and readers will find it deeply impressive how he captures two distinct voices: one of prosaic reason and another of disordered brilliance. Overall, it’s a fantastically strange novel that’s as grippingly eccentric as the protagonist at its center. – Kirkus Reviews

Praise for A Betrayal and Other Stories

"Fans of Night Gallery, The Twilight Zone, vintage science fiction, magical realism, irrealism, and—well, fans of good stories and good literature—you need to get your hands on this beautiful volume." – Carol Kean, Perihelion Science Fiction

"A debut collection mixes horror and sci-fi—short stories laden with bizarre creatures, life on other planets, and homicidal proclivities . . . Consistently eerie tales that readers aren’t likely to forget." – Kirkus Reviews

To Elizabeth

CONTENTS

Preface

A Sea Voyage

Blister

Twelve Nights and a Night

Swimming in the Ocean is Wrong

The Snowbank

Apologia du Amore

The Meaning of Jealousy

Julie’s Murderer

Rhonda’s Story

Others

A Matter of Principle

Skipping Stones

Mario Bakar

Two Brief Love Stories

The House in the Forest

Rosé Clare, A Life

The Town That Went to Sleep

A Soldier’s Lament

Richard Court: The Priest, The Sinner

Perfect

What Happened to Vincent Gutbomb One Day

About the Author

Preface

The stories in this collection are examples of magical realism. Nowadays publishers plaster that term on all sorts of books, from fantasy to science fiction, but I use the term in its original sense of a story with many pointers to an unknown meaning. Everything in such a story could happen only it wouldn’t happen, not in this world. (In other words, no flying carpets or fire-breathing dragons or otherworldly aliens, etc . . .) It’s basically a realistic story but with one or two magical elements, elements the characters take as normal but which give the reader an unsettled feeling, as if something isn’t quite right, elements that leave him thinking: I thought I knew what was going on, but now I’m not so sure. What’s happening? I’m not where I thought I was!

I’ve also attempted to tell an overarching story. In this I’ve undoubtably failed, but the idea was: start with a piece that sets the stage (A Sea Voyage, wherein the narrator describes a chaotic and confusing world), follow with stories that explore the various styles of magical realism, told in a variety of ways—stories about stories, stories wherein other stories are told, stories that are themselves commented upon—and conclude with a piece (What Happened to Vincent Gutbomb One Day—in some ways the most realistic piece but in others the most absurd) wherein all is revealed.

BLISTER

A SEA VOYAGE

The storm had been building in intensity for a long time. Far too long, the sailors thought. The ship would have to give at some point—and probably soon. The old square rigger rocked fore and aft, tossed by twenty-foot waves like a cork on the ocean. The torrential rain had long ago drenched everything in sight, the winds having swept away all unsecured objects. The captain, however, appeared unconcerned; indeed, he seemed not even to be aware of the storm! A giant of a man, with a round face and puffy cheeks, blond hair and fiery light-blue eyes, he swaggered up and down the deck like a carnival barker, all the while shouting orders to his crew:

Rip that sail! Lower that mast! Crowd that boom and bring her astern! Scrub that deck—yes, you Powder-boy; scrub it hard—hard till it leaks! Catch that crow! Squawk that fish! Feed that gull with a broiled salmon and make me a coat of fine Persian leather! Move it boys; we’ve no time to waste. Hey, you! Yes, you with the hammer—let’s move it—pound the bulwarks—beat ‘em to a pulp—beat ‘em till they’re fine as gunpowder. And you! Powderboy! I said hammer!—hammer that deck till she springs a leak. You in the crow’s nest. Yes, you Crow-boy!—let’s not dilly-dally! Look to the horizon!—And watch out for the enemy!—We can’t be caught with our defenses down and our bulwarks open. Now wait! What’s going on? We’re off course! Helmsman!-helmsman!! The ship is drifting—due to your bungling. I said hard—hard—hard-a-lee! You men! I never said you could rest. Let’s move it; back to work. I want to hear ribs cracking, backs breaking! We’re not running a carnival. Let’s go!—hey, sailor, off with that straw hat. Wipe that smile off your face. All of you! I want to see frowns, hear curses—break your backs! Doughboy!—Jettison that bilge! Let’s move it—I’ve got a ship to run—and to run soundly. Helmsman! Let’s try it again. Hard-a-lee!—

But in the end it was the storm that gave way (or was it only a lull before the final, cataclysmic event?). The captain looked fore and aft, surveying the damage to his ship: the yardarm of the mizzenmast, having been snapped by the wind, had fallen onto the captain’s cabin, smashing the roof to pieces; the rigging of all three masts was in tatters, the sails ripped to shreds. The ship’s rails were twisted into grotesque shapes and in several places had been sheared away. Pools of saltwater were everywhere. But did the captain realize what had happened? Apparently not: he made no comments, gave no orders, concerning the storm’s destruction; instead, he approached the tiller, pushed the helmsman aside, and with his right index finger began steering the ship, absent-mindedly, this way and that, like a crazy buffoon!

Just then one of the sailors uttered an excited cry. He had spotted a waterspout churning on the horizon. It was shaped like a pillar with ropelike tubes extending horizontally like the arms of an octopus. Its blue gray funnel was the width of fifty ships—and it was drawing near. Shouldn’t the captain be worried? Soon the ship might be smashed to bits and they would perish. Wasn’t there something the captain could do?

Heave the anchor, sailor! replied the captain. He gave control of the tiller to the helmsman and started back down the deck. Heave it with a grin! And you—Powderkeg—unfurl the sails! Raise the masts! Free that boom! C’mon sailors, let’s move it! Pound the decks! Climb the rigging!! And you—helmsman—set a course and abandon it! Crowboy!—watch for gulls! Let’s glue our eyes to the sea!

What’s this?!—The captain had stumbled over some rope coiled on the deck—What’s this?! A dead man?? Impossible! Hey you—Doughboy—what’s a dead man doing aboard my ship? Heave him overboard, I say! Heave him with a grin! Into the mouth of the ocean. I’ll have no dead men aboard my ship! Hey you—Powderkeg—that mast is crooked! Straighten that mast!

One of the sailors, ever obedient to his commander’s orders, however absurd they might be, picked up the rope and cast it into the sea. And then, like a lemming, the man cast himself into the sea, and quickly disappeared beneath the waves. But no one paid him any mind. In fact, the rest of the crew seemed half-asleep: strange, silent men lost on the deck of a ship that was itself lost at sea. Perhaps it was the heat, or the eerie green sky, or the feeling of doom that hung over the ship like a fog, which caused their soporific state. Or perhaps it was the captain’s lack of direction in dealing with the crisis at hand. Heaven is upon us! Heaven is upon us! they cried. Fear not, ye men of little faith, for Heaven is upon us!

And you watch it all, from the confines of your cabin, in disbelief and with mounting fear; this is not what you expected to find on your first sea voyage. These are not seasoned professionals delicately guiding the ship through changing waters, over troubled seas, but poor charlatans, crazy hucksters, inept bunglers, unable to live much less pilot a ship, and it is all you can do not to burst into tears, to keep your face pressed against the porthole, to hope against hope that, yes, the gods are looking favorably upon you this day, and that somehow, someway, you will make it safely into port.

BLISTER

Her husband, Paul Neville, was a dashing man. Six-feet-four with jet-black hair and soft green eyes. A ruddy complexion. He was twenty-two years old, born in Dundee, a town in the Scottish eastern central Lowlands, in 1846.

The sea had been Paul’s destiny. A cruel and heartless place, it embodied his hopes and dreams. And fears. Over the past decade, in the unruly waters of the Atlantic, over a hundred ships had perished, two thousand souls. Storms came and went with no regard for mankind. And the ocean floor was a watery grave.

An only child, tragedy was nothing new to Paul. His parents perished in the great influenza epidemic of 1854. He had been raised by his grandparents on his mother’s side. They were kind and gentle folk but belonged to a generation twice removed from his own. Life with them seemed dull, with little hope of adventure. And so, when Paul came of age and was able to enter the merchant class, he jumped at the chance.

One spring morning—the year was 1868—Paul set forth from Aberdeen Harbor aboard the Windhover. It was his fifth voyage. The Windhover was a full-rigged clipper ship of over eight hundred net register tons, two hundred feet in length. Three masts rose into a cerulean sky. Sails billowed in the wind. There was a creak and groaning of timbers and foam splashed against the hull. They were bound for the eastern coast of Australia, a route of fourteen thousand miles, down the Atlantic Ocean and around the Cape of Good Hope, into the roaring forties—strong headwinds that blew out of the west and caused heavy seas—and across the Indian Ocean to Australia. It was a four-month journey, over one of the most treacherous routes in the world.

At Sydney they would load their vessel with grain and wool then return via the same route, tacking as far south as possible, and being careful to avoid icebergs which were known to inhabit the icy waters. Stops were planned along the coast of Africa, where Paul enjoyed trading with the locals whom he found both friendly and clever, then the final leg back to the British Isles.

* * *

It was a beautiful day, with a strong breeze blowing out of the north. Upon leaving port, the men examined the rigging, scrubbed and washed down decks, and filled the scuttlebutt with fresh water. All day long they toiled with hardly ever a break, tarring, greasing, oiling, varnishing, and painting the ship. They drew, knotted, and spun yarn; furled, braced, and trimmed the sails; repaired and replaced the chafing gear. At night they lay amidships or upon the forecastle, smoking, singing sea shanties, and telling boastful tales.

It was an adventurous life, but a hard one. Living quarters were cramped as they were on all vessels of that time, and because sailors considered it unlucky to bathe at sea, the stench below decks became nauseating. The sailors’ diet was monotonous: salted meat, sea biscuits, and sauerkraut; rum, mixed with lemon or lime juice to prevent scurvy, was distributed at every meal. Flogging was routine for even minor transgressions, and keelhauling, though recently outlawed, was not an unknown occurrence. It was not long before the men began to grumble.

As it was, none of that mattered. Two weeks after they left Britain, the Windhover was caught in a ferocious storm off the coast of Africa near Greenbacks Shoals. Forty-foot waves and howling winds. They didn’t have a chance.

When Sarah received word of her husband’s death, she bit her lower lip, ever so slightly. The sea would take him when it wished, she told herself. She must be stoic. Anyway, there was nothing she could have done to forestall that dreadful day. They had been married two years and had no children. It was for this, and not her husband’s death, as difficult as that was to endure, that she could not find it in her heart to forgive the raging waters.

Sarah knew Paul’s death would not change her wedding vows, that there would never be another. She’d known it from the moment she’d laid eyes upon him. There was never any question. On the inside of her wedding band were inscribed the words: I shall never marry again.

Luckily, the voyage was insured and Sarah was relieved knowing her finances would be taken care of. Even so, her heart was filled with sorrow. Life seemed to have lost all meaning.

One sweltering summer day in the year of 1869 a blister appeared on her left heel. It was good-sized, an inch in diameter and painful to the touch. She had no idea how she had gotten it. Her shoes were the normal comfortable pair. She had done nothing which might have irritated the area. A bite from a diseased arachnid? It did not seem likely. In fact, it was unlike anything she had ever seen. She covered the blister with a bandage, but a week later it had not improved. In fact, it had doubled in size and taken on a purplish hue, with dark-red spidery veins.

The doctor told Sarah it was nothing to worry about. He gave her an ointment to relieve the soreness. Morning and night; you’ll be fine in a week, he said.

A week later her foot ached and there were purple spots on her heel. The next day maggots were swarming in the wound.

It’s infected, the doctor said when she returned. What did you do?

It seemed to Sarah as if he was admonishing her. Why, nothing, she replied, avoiding his gaze.

I see. He paused. It’s been over a year since your husband passed?

A year and several months.

Perhaps, then, that is why.

I don’t understand.

Maggots are indicative of a festering condition. The doctor stroked his chin. The mourning time has passed. Have you considered taking up with another?

Sarah’s eyes grew fiery. I made a vow. I will never marry again.

She left his office in a huff.

The next day the progress of the infection mysteriously halted. Though it still had a purplish hue, the foot no longer ached. The maggots had vanished. Sarah sighed in relief.

With money from the insurance settlement, Sarah purchased a cottage in the countryside outside of Kirkwall, a town in the Orkney Islands, an archipelago off the northeastern coast of Scotland. It was a quaint place. There was a cozy bedroom with a twin bed. A living room with an antique fireplace along the central wall. A dining area. A small, but functional, kitchen. She furnished the place handsomely with her favorite belongings, including a rustic table constructed from African woods, a table acquired by Paul on his first visit to Africa and of which he had been so proud.

Eventually Sarah’s foot healed, allowing her to venture out for walks to the sandstone cliffs that overlooked the sea.

There she would stay for hours, gazing at the salty deep. Her appearances became the talk of the town, and the townspeople’s murmured confabulations hinted at the onset of a madness which seemed destined to consume her.

It mattered not to the young men of Kirkwall. Sarah was in the flush of her beauty. Twenty-one years old, she had sparkling light-blue eyes, a flawless complexion, and luscious red hair that fell in waves to her waist. She must have been sculpted by the mighty gods, they said, for her