Dragon Gems (Spring 2024)

By Water Dragon Publishing

There’s something funny going on here ...

Featuring stories by Chase Anderson, Pauline Barmby, C. Dan Castro, P.A. Cornell, Sarina Dorie, CJ Erick, Arvee Andaya Fantilagan, Eric Farrell, Ben Fitts, Philip Brian Hall, David Hankins, David A. Hewitt, Hall Jameson, Pamela Love, Anne Marie Lutz, Sean MacKendrick, Lena Ng, Kurt Pankau, Bethany Tomerlin Prince, Michael Allen Rose, KR Samp, Clark Mark Sodersten, Gary S. Watkins, and Nemma Wollenfang

• Language: English
• Publisher: Water Dragon Publishing
• Release date: Apr 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9781962538701

Water Dragon Publishing

One of our primary goals is to create a publishing company where we treat authors the way we want to be treated as authors.We’re seeking your tales of fantasy and wonder.We’re here to help you get your book published, from start to finish.We’re here to make your dream of being a published author come true.

Book preview

Dragon Gems

Spring 2024

Published by Water Dragon Publishing

waterdragonpublishing.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for the purpose of review and/or reference, without explicit permission in writing from the publishers.

Cover design copyright © 2024 by Niki Lenhart

nikilen-designs.com

ISBN 978-1-962538-70-1 (EPUB)

First Edition

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Foreword

copyright © 2024 by Brian C. E. Buhl

Afterword

copyright © 2024 by Michael Allen Rose

A Study of Mesozoic ‘Schistosoma’ of the Late Cretaceous Period and their Abundance in Large Theropods

copyright © 2024 by Nemma Wollenfang

A.I., M.D.

copyright © 2024 by Kurt Pankau

Attercoppe

copyright © 2024 by Pamela Love

Bleed Error

copyright © 2024 by Eric Farrell

Bradzar and the Dragon

copyright © 2024 by Anne Marie Lutz

Dealing Coke

copyright © 2024 by Clark Mark Sodersten

Donald Q. Haute, Gentleman Inquisitator, and the Peril of the Pythogator

copyright © 2024 by David A. Hewitt

Empty Nester

copyright © 2024 by Bethany Tomerlin Prince

Even Wimps Can Be Alien Overlords

copyright © 2024 by Ben Fitts

Hell's Bureaucracy

copyright © 2024 by David Hankins

Henchpossum

copyright © 2024 by KR Samp

Hextreme Measures

copyright © 2024 by Gary S. Watkins

How to Impress a Top Food Critic and Put Your Restaurant on the Galactic Map

copyright © 2024 by P.A. Cornell

How to Survive a Draconic Business Takeover

copyright © 2024 by Chase Anderson

It Takes Three

copyright © 2024 by Philip Brian Hall

Lovecraft vs. The Trash Pandas of the Apocalypse

copyright © 2024 by Lena Ng

Old Testament Tours, Inc.

copyright © 2024 by Sean MacKendrick

Overclocked

copyright © 2024 by Hall Jameson

Retirement

copyright © 2024 by Arvee Andaya Fantilagan

Rise of the (Coffee) Machines

copyright © 2024 by Pauline Barmby

Sleeping with the Linguine

copyright © 2024 by Sarina Dorie

The Minor Nine-Ton Dragon Problem

copyright © 2024 by C. Dan Castro

The Wizard of Wash

copyright © 2024 by CJ Erick

Foreword

The book in your hands, which probably has an adorable picture of a dragon on the cover, is the first of the Dragon Gems series of anthologies to specifically focus on humor.

What is humor? the narrator might ask. If you’re expecting a comprehensive answer in this book’s short and topical foreword, you may be disappointed.

That is the heart of humor, though. It’s setting up an expectation, and then subverting it at the last moment. One of the oldest knock-knock jokes is a great demonstration of this principle, but I’m not going to write out that old, cliched thing. Orange you glad, though?

It’s not enough to subvert expectations. Chances are good you picked this up hoping it would be about Dragons and/or Gems. If that’s the case, let me be the first to say that you’re in for a bit of a surprise!

What makes a person laugh? the narrator interjects, hoping to get us back on topic.

Humor is subjective. I once slipped on a patch of water in the kitchen. My legs flew out from under me. I reached in all directions for something to catch hold of and fell right on my butt with a loud "oof!". The glass of orange juice I had been holding landed on my belly and gushed orange, sticky fluid all over my chest and face. My wife couldn’t stop laughing. I was not nearly so amused.

Even if you picked this up hoping for a daring tale of dragons and their treasure, you’re going to have a good time. And who knows? Maybe the narrator that’s been trying to get me to define humor in less than two pages is a dragon. For that, you’re welcome.

Brian C. E. Buhl

author of The Repossessed Ghost and One for the Road

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey. After graduating from Bucknell University, she worked in marketing and taught before turning to writing. Her humorous speculative fiction has also appeared in Space Squid and Luna Station Quarterly, along with the anthology Havok: Vice and Virtue, among other publications. She lives in Maryland.

•          •          •

This story is my attempt to create the ultimate bridezilla, although I’ve never encountered one in person. I also enjoy archaic words — attercoppe means spider in Middle English.

Attercoppe

Pamela Love

Even amid the extravagances of Munn Manor’s parlor, the extensive LaceWorks displays erected on the espresso, latte, and cappuccino tables enthralled Nora. Wow. I never imagined anything like this. My family always bought our house spiders at Weavers.

"Nora!" Somehow, Winter Munn hissed a name entirely lacking in sibilants.

Nora cursed herself for speaking up. Her stepdaughter’s bride-to-be behavior was getting worse by the day, and any words spoken by Nora except 3W (Whatever you want, Winter.) were met with instant wrath.

Winter turned to the LaceWorks representative, Olivia Farr. Please excuse my father’s current wife. You know how it is with gold diggers. The Munns have always used LaceWorks exclusively.

LaceWorks appreciates its customers’ loyalty. With the same smile, Olivia managed to play sycophant to the bride-to-be and sympathetic friend to the stepmother.

Nora pressed her lips together. I’ve been called worse than that by better than her. She sighed, wondering why Winter had asked (or rather, demanded — her stepdaughter never requested anything) that she stay during the selection of house spiders for her registry. Probably because Emma’s late. Nora glanced out the window, didn’t spot the maid of honor, and closed her hazel eyes. Just leave everything to Winter.

So, while the two other women turned pages in an elegant leather-bound volume, discussing the details of the dining room spiders, which would be custom-made to match her new home’s chair rail, Nora remembered the plump, sunshine yellow ones scattered throughout the house she’d grown up in. They weren’t pets, exactly, but she and her sister had named them. Busy Body and Dandelion had been her favorites, watching over her as she slept in the top bunk bed.

Spiders in trademarked shades of mauve resided in every ceiling of Munn Manor, but she couldn’t imagine naming them. They were accessories — anything but the cheerful household helpers the ones of her childhood had been.

With a brief shake of her head — those happy days were over — Nora scrolled through her phone’s many lists, all focused on making sure Daddy’s Little Winnie had the wedding of her dreams as Arthur Cook self-inflicted Winter into his life. Permanently, Nora fervently hoped.

To be fair, it would also be the wedding of Nora’s dreams, for it meant that her stepdaughter would move out. And someone had to coordinate everything. Winter had alienated every high-end wedding planner on three continents. Considering how much her father was willing to pay, that took some doing.

And now for the best part, said Olivia, producing yet another tome of samples. Your veil. I understand that you want a snowflake pattern woven into the web, to complement your gown — and your name, of course. We can easily accommodate that.

Winter gave a dismissive wave of her entitled and en-emeralded hand. Not anymore. I’ve decided to change my name. The veil must reflect my new appellation.

Nora bit back the But she was about to say a nanosecond before it became audible. Winter had sworn to stay a Munn forever. Her father heartily approved, and Arthur had never voiced any objection. So she’s changed her mind. Not exactly a shocker, and completely her right.

Certainly, Ms. Munn. Your married name will be Cook, I believe? Perhaps a design featuring a chef’s toque, or —

I’m not changing my surname. I shall be Wyntyr, with two y’s. She shot a glance at Nora, who nodded and created a new list of personalized wedding supplies to change: the invitations, the place cards, the sign on the Lippizaner-drawn carriage …

Shall I make an appointment with our chief designer? He would work with you to create the veil of your dreams.

Flipping through the samples, Wyntyr heaved a sigh. She dumped the vellum book of veils on the rosewood floor and stalked to the fireplace. No. Nothing you have matches my vision. I require something … dazzling. Based on what you’ve shown me, your spiders no doubt can catch a bug or two, but that’s a long way from being up to the challenge of executing a veil worthy of my wedding. I’ll see what Attercoppe has to offer.

In one subtle breath Olivia made it plain what she would like to have her spiders execute. She gathered her sample books and put them in her wheeled case. Attercoppe has no track record —

Wyntyr snorted. "My husband-to-be has all the track records I need. You know that he’s won three gold medals, right?

Oh, and don’t bother with setting up a registry. Just send the bill for what I’ve picked out so far to Nora. You are paying for my arachnid needs, aren’t you?

Nora gave a grim nod. Apparently.

She’ll give you my new address. Nora, show — uh, Ophelia, right? — out. Then tell Ellsworth you want the Rolls. I’ll get my Jag.

Wyntyr swept out of the room. Her face the color of a Munn house spider, Nora escorted the LaceWorks rep to the door. My apologies, Olivia. Bridal nerves, you know.

Ms. Farr raised her eyebrows. "Oh yes, I know nerve when I see it. A Jag and a Rolls? My, my. At least you won’t have to share a car."

Nora sighed. Oh, we’ll be riding together …

•          •          •

Wyntyr hadn’t called for an appointment. Munn money ensured a 24/7 welcome at any business in the city — well, at any business, really. Except wedding planners …

The elegant woman in black who welcomed them to Attercoppe didn’t blink at the jaguar on the end of Wyntyr’s leash, despite its lack of muzzle (which she could see) or house training (which she no doubt suspected). Wyntyr had brought him as a fashion accessory, to coordinate with her newest suit. Jag looked as if he would rather be wrestling an anaconda on the rain forest floor. Nora felt sure she would.

I am Dr. Yvette di Falco, the owner, founder, and chief geneticist. Permit me to be your guide to the artistry that is Attercoppe.

Nora glanced around. She’d been expecting an upscale version of Weavers, where racks of blue plastic hangers each contained a contented house spider on its web. No doubt here the hangers would be padded with ivory silk, or maybe — she blinked. While ivory silk did cover multiple chairs and loveseats, an elegant contrast to the rich purple walls, there wasn’t an arachnid in sight.

Our Artists have their own wing, explained Dr. di Falco, beckoning with a ballerina’s grace from an arched doorway. If you would follow me …

No hangers here in here, either. In fact, there were no webs, either, at least not that Nora could see in this magnificent teal room trimmed with gold.

At Attercoppe, the Artists sauntered about freely, their long, silver legs carrying a glossy, snow-white abdomen with diamond eyes. Except for the lack of wheels, they resembled an enchanted coach fit for a fairy princess. (Or a fayry pryncess, in Wyntyr’s case.) They were each about fifteen centimeters long. Nora was speechless. They remind me of a cross between the Hope Diamond, a French Poodle, and a Rockette.

Even Jag made no attempt to stalk one. You recognize fellow aristocrats, don’t you, fella, thought Nora.

The few humans present were clearly subordinate to the spiders. One proffered a tiny silver bowl from which an Artist ate. Others were folding what appeared to be a cathedral-length train — ah, there was a web.

Wyntyr clasped her hands beneath her chin. "Oh, yes." Cooing over the Artists, she actually watched where she was walking so that she didn’t step on one. Reaching out a fingertip, she giggled with delight when a threadlike leg rose to meet it.

Wonder how much di Falco will charge for a spider, because Wyntyr’s going to expect one as a wedding gift. Or two … I have never cared less about the cost of anything. It’s worth it to see her acting like a human being for once, thought Nora.

Wyntyr’s phone rang as the owner delivered a well-rehearsed speech about the conception and development of the Artist Arachnids. Some maid of honor you are, Emma. You were supposed to come to my house for my arachnid appointment, although it’s a good thing you didn’t because I’ve changed my — you’re pregnant?

Nora braced herself for an explosion that would dwarf the Big Bang.

That’s awesome! Wyntyr squealed.

For the first time in her life, Nora’s jaw actually dropped. What? I — I mean, how far are you along?

Let me put you on speaker. Nora’s here.

Hi, Nora. My due date’s a week before the wedding. And I’m having a girl.

Perfect! Wyntyr was gushing harder than a geyser.

Who are you and what have you done with my stepdaughter? Never mind. An alien shapeshifter instead of Wyntyr? I’d make that trade in a heartbeat. So would Arthur if he had any sense.

Wyntyr pirouetted. A spider stampede fled her ten thousand-dollar heels. The littlest flower baby, and she’s all mine! This will be all over social media. I’ll have her onesie custom-made to match your dress.

Emma laughed. "Scale back that vision, cousin. She’ll be too young to be out in a crowd. I’m not risking her catching something. You can’t count on her being there anyway — she’s my first, which makes it more likely that she won’t be born till after her due date.

"Tell you what. If I’m not actually in labor, I’ll walk down the aisle with flowers pinned to a sash around my stomach and a sign saying Flower Fetus. How about that? But if you’d rather make somebody else your maid of honor, I’ll understand. Let me know. Bye."

Wyntyr stared into the air for a moment. Nora held her breath. Then, with a radiant smile, her stepdaughter turned to Dr. di Falco. Arrangements were made rapidly.

Why yes, we can copy this design. Dr. di Falco examined the drawing Wyntyr pulled from her bag. How original, a letter Y. And of course we’re willing to make sure no one else ever has a veil with this design. The Artists of Attercoppe strive, and succeed, to produce the incomparable.

Wyntyr’s eyes glittered.

Nora actually relaxed.

•          •          •

What? Wyntyr screamed. The chandelier’s prisms shook harder than they had during the 3.5 earthquake the year before.

Her stepdaughter’s question was entirely rhetorical. Wyntyr’s phone was not on speaker, but Emma made that unnecessary.

"Did you think I wouldn’t find out, Wyntyr? Richards told me. He’s a hitman and he thought you were going too far! Seriously? You were going to have him drug me so that I’d give birth months early! Didn’t you realize my baby would be seriously premature?"

Of course I did. That was the idea. The florist would’ve put flowers on her isolette, or whatever they’re called, as you rolled it down the aisle. It would’ve been adorable — like a miniature Tournament of Roses Parade float! It would’ve gone more viral than smallpox.

I’d call the police if Richards would testify and if Uncle Fred didn’t have the police in his pocket. But I’m definitely out of your wedding now, and so is my baby. I’m going no contact with you.

You’re dead to me! And so is Richards! If you can’t trust a hitman, who can you trust?

Not, Wyntyr discovered, the other bridesmaids. One by one, they called. One by one, they cancelled. One by one, they joined her list of the dishonored deceased.

Forget them. I’ll get new attendants. Better ones.

Jag? Nora asked.

Duh, he’s the Ring Bearer. Have Ellsworth bring around the Bentley — the silver one.

•          •          •

An entirely new veil? Di Falco’s hands described the arc of a pretentious volcanic eruption. I’m afraid I can’t meet that deadline. Even if I made the Artists work overtime to a dangerous degree — why, they’d still be working on it as you walked down the aisle!

Yes, exactly. The Artists will be my attendants.

Price is no object, said Nora.

The owner’s carotid pulse visibly accelerated. However much the general public accepted genetically modified spiders in their homes for pest control and, more recently, as a source of high-end veils, one had never been a member of a wedding party before. That sort of honor was restricted to dogs, cats (jaguars included), and the occasional prizewinning Palomino.

And I want the design of the veil to feature one of your Artists. They won’t let me down.

Dr. di Falco bowed. Indeed they won’t.

•          •          •

As the theremin played her recessional, Wyntyr marched back down the aisle, her arm tucked into Arthur’s. Two Artists — stunning, living gems, each with miniature flowers affixed to their backs — crept along her veil, finishing its edge. A third perched on her head, an arachnid crown. Beautiful, Nora thought, from her vantage point at the front. Jag twitched his tail against her legs.

A series of tiny pops marked the release of the miniature catapults Arthur had constructed at his betrothed’s command. (He wanted to play some part in the wedding arrangements. Besides, she wouldn’t allow people to toss the genetically engineered rice. People make mistakes.)

One by one, showers of ivory floated down upon the bride and groom. Nora heaved a sigh of relief. That was the last thing she’d been worried about. To her amazement, everything had gone off without a hitch when her stepdaughter had gotten hitched. Her husband was smiling. Everyone was smiling — including Wyntyr.

Even the flock of doves would have been smiling, had that been possible — given that they were (under mysterious, later litigated, circumstances) released too early. They were genetically engineered to eat the rice (after the happy new couple had departed) and arrowed straight toward the food. Unfortunately for them, genetic engineering had rendered the wedding rice from a foodstuff into a biodegradable (but nasty-tasting) glitter. In a rage, the doves redoubled their efforts to nourish themselves with anything white.

Anything.

Wyntyr screamed as her bridal finery turned into a feeding frenzy. Arthur! Arthur!

Unfortunately, Wyntyr’s vision for her wedding had placed the groom in a white tuxedo. After flailing his arms ineffectively, Arthur fled, with rather more success. (His sprint to shelter, sadly, was not timed. It was theorized that it might have been a personal best.) Panicking guests and security followed close behind.

Whatever her faults — and a new branch of mathematics would be required to number them — Wyntyr was made of sterner stuff. She’d been spoiled rotten, but like spoiled food, she could be deadly.

With savage efficiency, she swung her bouquet, cursing her choice of thorn-free roses. Her marquise-shaped engagement diamond almost made up for their absence. Soon feathers were flying not attached to actual avians.

The Arachnid Artists proved themselves formidable allies, lashing out at the crazed birds. Their fangs were large for their size, but not venomous or strong. Still, their legs were surprisingly sharp, helping them put up a respectable defense, right up until (also under mysterious, and later litigated circumstances) Wyntyr’s new mother-in-law’s emotional support scorpion joined the fray. (How was I supposed to know scorpions preyed on spiders?)

Matters were finally brought under control when her father and stepmother reached her side. Mr. Munn hurled his wallet, scoring a direct hit on two doves, knocking them out cold. Afraid of what might happen if she released Jag, Nora held onto his leash until she was close enough that his snarls drove away the flock.

Wyntyr declared herself an honorary widow (yes, she spelled it wydow) on the spot, because Arthur was dead to her. The unopposed annulment was rapidly granted.

•          •          •

It took rather longer, despite the best legal talent available, for her to secure a marriage license to the lone surviving Artist. If he hadn’t stayed at his post, I could have lost an eye! This was in fact true. The spider had lost a leg. Wyntyr immediately invested in technology to create a suitable prosthesis.

Yvette di Falco handled all the arrangements, as her husband actually backed up Nora when she refused to have anything to do with any of Wyntyr’s bridal planning again. Her contributions were unnecessary, as Wyntyr and her new spouse had the webbing of the year.

C. Dan Castro enjoys writing fantasy, mystery, and thriller stories. He has stories accepted or published by Bards and Sages Quarterly, Sherlock Holmes Magazine (UK), Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine (U.S.), Thrill Ride the Magazine, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, and more. When not composing stories, Dan tweets writing tips, dreams of traveling again, or studies languages to imbue his stories with je ne sais quoi. Whatever that means. He lives in Connecticut, where he’s making a final polish on his first novel, a middle grade fantasy. It includes Raymond, Bibi, and Leo from The Minor Nine-Ton Dragon Problem.

The Minor Nine-Ton Dragon Problem

C. Dan Castro

My hooves itch as I wait on the Trail of Blight. The broken rocky ground lining the river had been burned by a thousand firestorms and trampled by ten thousand migrating dragons.

The one unblemished part is as long as an American football field. Oval in shape, it mirrors the blue sky. A port stone. Stand on it and tap the surface to activate it. You can teleport — that is, instantly appear — at any other port stone across the world of Arana. But you must be on it within twenty seconds after activation. Then it shuts off. And stays off for five minutes.

That would be my mistake. In two minutes.

HEEEERRRRE … Leo yells from deep within one of the dozen caves lining the rocky hill two hundred yards away. High above those caves looms Maalik’s fortress.

All the caves have a symbol carved next to them. Like two elephant tusks crossed to form an X. However, the tusks are not quite crossed on one cave.

The dragon’s cave.

Our mentor on magic, Maalik (Mentor on magic Maalik? Say that three time fast!) sent us here to deal with this minor dragon problem. I’d rather be safe in his fortress above. Or back in Uganda.

SHEEEEEEEEEE … Leo yells. Louder. And closer.

To the cave’s left, Bibi squashes herself as flat as possible against the hillside. The Afghan is incredibly courageous, given how dangerous dragons are.

COMESSSS! Leo, the bravest of us, hurtles from the cave, the boy a blur thanks to his Speed spell.

Two seconds later, the dragon charges out. It’s a Type II, meaning it has an immense lizard-like head, and its body is long, like a snake. But it doesn’t slither, having about a thousand tiny legs.

Fast, but not fast enough to catch Leo. The small Cuban-American weaves through two dozen pink or red crystalline bodies. Each looks a lot like a cow, with occasional crystal shards poking out at random spots.

They resemble cows because they had been cows, until the dragon unleashed its crystalline breath yesterday. The pink ones would soon transform back into normal cows.

The overexposed red ones never would.

Leo clears the petrified cow field. Darts straight toward me.

The dragon slows. Maybe the animal recognizes it can’t catch Leo. Instead it turns and its massive jaws snap on a red crystal cow, swallowing it whole.

Moo, I say. Moo moo moo! I hop up and down on four hooves.

Don’t yell moo! Moo like a cow! the approaching Leo shouts.

Magic can shapeshift you into a cow. That doesn’t mean you sound like a cow. But I try, giving a deep Maaaaaaaaaaa sound.

The dragon turns. Shoots forward again. Full tilt toward Leo.

And me. The bait in this trap.

At least Type II dragons don’t have wings, which would make them even faster.

By the cave, Bibi springs into action. The Afghan girl excels at stone shaping. She will use her magic to fix the symbol next to the cave. If the dragon fails to teleport away, the repaired two-tusk symbol, a glyph, will magically ward the cave against the beast. Meaning it can’t enter again. And with no cave to occupy, the dragon will migrate south.

Leaving the local farmers, and their cows which need the river to drink, alone.

Leo zips onto the port stone and drops to his hands and knees. The stone’s sky blue becomes a glowing electric blue, and Leo vanishes in a small flash of light.

In less than twenty seconds, the port stone will power down.

Maaaa, I moo, dancing back and forth from my left to right hooves.

The dragon nears like a freight train.

My body trembles. And not just because the ground is shaking.

The dragon’s patter of a thousand feet, and its growls of hunger, deafen me.

It charges onto the port stone. Success!

But it doesn’t vanish. Not success!

The dragon hurtles across the stone toward me.

Does it have to be on the port stone fully to teleport?

Uh oh.

It’s getting close.

The dragon’s jaws crack wide.

The beast still isn’t porting away. Its tail thrashes around, never quite over the port stone.

I shapeshift into a fox, the smallest animal my twelve-year-old body can make.

And dodge left.

Its jaws wide, the dragon can no longer see me. It tramples by.

But its long and wiry tail snaps like a whip.

Grazes me.

And sends me tumbling away.

The dragon’s legs work extra hard to slow it. And turn it.

Back toward me.

I’m not hurt.

I regain my feet. Well, paws.

Run for the port stone. Time to retreat!

Get my tiny front paws on the stone when it goes dark.

It powered down.

Can’t restart for five minutes.

I am slow, even as a fox. Or any animal. The speed is that of the original body.

I can’t run like Leo.

I can’t cast a Speed spell.

And I sure can’t outrun a Type II dragon.

Facing me, the dragon opens its mouth wide. A great whoosh indicates a massive intake of breath.

I can throw energy bolts, like all Maalik’s students. But I can’t even tickle a dragon with my power levels.

I can cast a Strength spell. In fact, I’m supposed to be practicing that right now, preparing for an exam this week.

Doesn’t matter. Even with my strength enhanced, the dragon is too big to pick up, to wrestle, or to fight in general.

Only one option left. I raise my front paws and whisper, Shield.