Yep, something different. This is more for the writers than the readers, but maybe you’ll find some amusement in me sharing personal rejections. Some of them are funny, in that “what the hell were they thinking?” kind of way.

On the writers’ forum Absolute Write, there was a thread called “Rejectionmancy” and it was a place for writers to share their rejections. The purpose was to normalize rejections—we all get them and they suck. Even writers who you thought were really good, still got ‘em. The important thing to remember is that it’s not always you; sometimes the story isn’t a good fit, sometimes the editor had to make a tough decision, sometimes there’s snow falling outside—yes, this was a reason for someone getting rejected.

So, allow me to share some of mine. And you can share yours as well in the comments below! (Is this what they call a “sharing session”?)

Going to start with my most rejected story, “Homunculus”, who did find a home in . How many rejections you may ask?

Never say I don’t have tenacity!

Ah, what of the personals? Here’s a few.

Thanks very much for sending this story to Beneath Ceaseless Skies. Unfortunately, it's not quite right for us. I was interested by the beast but it didn't seem believable to me that Solanda would so easily lose her hand and then remove her own eye without any hesitation or signs of pain.

—Beneath Ceaseless Skies

Thanks for submitting "Homunculus." I enjoyed reading this, particularly the smooth POV handoff from Solanda to the homunculus. That was well done. But the beginning felt too rushed to me, especially since the homunculus meets the beast at the end, so I'm going to pass on it.

—The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction

Thanks very much for sending us “Homunculus” to consider for our Artemis Rising Event. Unfortunately, we’ve decided to pass on it. That said, I did enjoy reading it. I thought it was generally well done, but I wasn’t really immersed into the story untiil the homunculus’s birth (which I realize is kind of at odds with the cyclical nature you have going for you here).

—PodCastle

How about everyone’s favorite beasty hunter?

Thanks very much for sending this story to Beneath Ceaseless Skies. Unfortunately, it's not quite right for us. I thought the creatures of this world were fascinating and I liked the dry humor in Yurbith’s voice, but I felt like I needed a better sense of what was driving her to hunt the oldling and why having a Dreamlands dream was so significant for her.

—Beneath Ceaseless Skies

I like the story and the ideas behind it. But it feels like it needs a lot of work before it’s ready for prime time. If it were mine I’d say I need to do some more lore and world building. This is a world with history and we need to be able to feel that history on the page. Don’t pad anything but make every word matter and your readers feel the depth of your world. It also feels like things were resolved a bit too easily. Make your characters really fight for their achievements (not necessarily sword play emotional and mental fights exist too and you’ve set at least one up here...). We’d love to see this one again when it’s ready.

—Sally Port Magazine

(This one is a lowkey rewrite request, but to take such a request would’ve easily bloated the story. It’s a short story, after all.)

And the turnips?

Thanks very much for sending this story to _Beneath Ceaseless Skies_. Unfortunately, it’s not quite right for us. I liked the slightly humorous and blasely fantastical (sentient turnips) tone of the voice, and I liked Turner’s fish-out-of-water feel at having to deal with the nymph, but the opening situation didn’t quite seize me, I think perhaps because Turner didn’t himself have more acute stakes of his own in the opening situation.

—Beneath Ceaseless Skies

Thank you for submitting “Of Turnips and Maidens” to Ideomancer. Unfortunately, it’s not right for us. This story had a lot of vivacity and interesting touches—like the mobile turnips!—but medieval-Europe-esque settings are a hard sell for me at this point, and there wasn’t quite enough else here for me to outweigh that.

—Ideomancer

This was an interesting world and well executed, but unfortunately the story didn’t grab me like I was expecting. I think that it was the antagonist that didn’t really do it for me here. So, I am going to pass on it. I hope you can find a place for it with a different market.

—Fantasy Scroll Magazine

Your story reached the final stage of our selection process--one among an elite group.

During this final stage, our editorial team discusses the stories that make it this far. If you’ll indulge me, I’d like to share some representative samples of what our editors had to say about yours:

~A couple good moments of humor, like the bandit whose bandana got in the way of talking. However, what on earth does this guy do with his flesh-eating turnips? How does he make money? I mean, I’d expect people at market would give that particular wagon a wide berth.

~Didn’t believe it. Humor overdone and heavy handed.

~You’re not supposed to like the MC; he’s the petulant unreliable narrator, and I don’t think the all the turnips are flesh eating (except when the opportunity comes up) - just the queen. Omnivorous at most. The purple barn, the pouty turnips, it’s so quirky and off the wall, you have to smile. So much of what we see blends together in one grand grey morass, but you have to admit this one stand outs.

~I liked this one. I liked how it poked fun at the hero legend. The first line was pretty darned good too. In some ways it reminded me of the heavy-handedness of The Colour of Magic.

Cute and original. And for once, this round, the execution worked for me.

~Cute in places, but feels kind of half-hearted. Bards and minstrels clash with the modern, slangy language. Overdone.

~Seemed like a tall tale, which is a tough sale for me. Didn’t grab me. I did like the idea of mocking the hero legend, but the tale wasn’t that interesting to me.

~I imagined the narrator to be a guy spinning tales at the local tavern, with all the tall tales and random inconsistencies it entails.

~I was totally set up for the old “con the bad guys into digging up my turnip field” gag. I was glad that isn’t where it went, but I wasn’t satisfied with where it did go.

—Flash Fiction Online

I’ll stop there because apparently this is “too long”. Bleh. But if this interested you, I can always do a part 2.

And if you haven’t already, check out my April Fool’s Day story, originally published in Story Unlikely, 2014.

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Rejectomancy Funds

Freena stood on the street corner under a lamplight, half in shadow half in light. She waited for the young man to cross her path before sticking a sexy leg out. The man sized her up, a hunger in his eyes. She was hungry too. For blood.

They walked back to her place, a little apartment in a dilapidated building. When the man was good and settled on her bed, she whipped out her fangs, followed by a vampiric hiss.

The man leapt to his feet. “Ha! Vampire, you have met you match, for I am a--” He opened his jacket to reveal rows of wooden stakes. “Vampire hunter extraordinaire!”

“How unfortunate for you,” Freebie said, and pulled a raw steak from her boot. “I’m a vampire hunter hunter.”

The man looked lustfully at the steak, but shook himself free of temptation. He then grabbed an elephant gun from his jacket and aimed it at her. “I’m a hunter of hunters as well.”

She scoffed at the gun. “Bullets have no effect on me. I’m also a ghost” --and she took on a transparent hue, and floated in the air.

“Like that’ll make a difference.” The man took an oblong box from his jacket pocket. “I’m a psychic-medium ghost hunter with an expertise in shinning. I can use this box to trap your soul inside.”

“I’m a soulless ghost. A ghost of a demon to be exact.”

“Good.” He took out a piece of chalk and started drawing a hexagram on the floor. “I’m also in expert in demonology.”

“Except I’m a soulless ghost vampire demon from another planet” --and green antennas protruded from her forehead.

“I’ve got a Gate Star for that.” The man changed his hexagram to another design, which tore a warp hole in the floor.

“I didn’t finish,” Freeto said, growing larger, greener, and more tentaclely. “I am the great Cthulhu himself.”

She burst threw several ceilings, cause the entire building to collapse around her. However, the man still stood--except he look a lot less like a man...

“We knew we would find you one day, Cthulhu.” The man split into several hovering starfish-creatures. “Or have you forgotten your old nemesis, the Elder Ones? Now back to the sea with you!”

Cthulhu gurgled a laugh. “Can you really trap the all consuming void under a mere ocean?” --and with that, dissolved into pitch black nothingness.

“Fool! For we are anti-void!” --and the Elder Ones became pitch whiteness.

“Wait--can void and anti-void coexist on the same plane of existence?” asked the void.

“Probably not,” replied the anti-void.

And the universe collapsed in on itself.

END

Originally published April 2014 from Unlikely Story (April Fool's Day issue)

Author’s note: Originally titled “Twisty”, but looking back, it wasn’t a bad enough, needed to be more overwrought, more cringe-inducing, something an angsty teen might’ve thought was cool to write down.

Now obviously, this is an April Fool’s Day joke, although the publication is real. I can in fact write; quite well, actually. But in order to write well, you need to recognize bad writing, and twists are often one of them. People love a good twist, so writers go the extra mile to add them. Don’t. Unless that twist was always intended from the start, it probably doesn’t need to be there. A twist doesn’t automatically make a story good, but a bad twist—or my favorite, a twist on top of a twist—will undoubtedly ruin your story.

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Yurbith and her apprentice Akash stopped outside the uneven and partially crumbling stone walls of the City of Freade, and not about to lose her hard-earned coin to a filthy street rat or a will-o-wisp, Yurbith hid the coins on her body and in her boots.

“There.” She patted herself. And feeling confident that there would be no lost coin, their first stop would be the coffeehouse; they had had a very rewarding hunt, and it only seemed fitting to treat themselves, put a bit of spring in their errand-running.

They survived the crowded and noisy streets by the sheer force of shoving elbows into rib cages and knees into groins, and stumbled into Lunaris Coffeehouse. The aroma was wonderfully earthy, touched by sweet cream and caramel. A single employee worked tirelessly worked behind the counter, pouring coffee back and forth between cups to create a froth, before adding a dollop of heavy cream. Despite being located in a less affluent area, all the patrons were well dressed and conversing politely. Yurbith and Akash sat down at a small clothed table, and the three ladies seated at the next table turned up their noses and left.

Yurbith removed her tricorne, reclined in her seat, and looked over the specials written on a chalkboard at the front. Butterscotch coffee, hmm . . .

A heavy finger tapped her shoulder.

“Excuse you.” She whipped around.         

And found Constable Stent standing over her, his black uniform stiff on his wide frame, his matching fore-and-aft bicorne with feathery white trim was pulled to the brow, casting a shadow on a very serious expression.

“Constable.” She forced a smile. “Are you here for the butterscotch coffee too?”

“No,” he said sternly, his peppered mustache conforming to his frown. “I need you to come with me.”

“To where?” she said, holding in panic.

“To prison.”

“That body was dead when we found it.” The words burst forth. Akash’s eyes went wide and he turned away.

Constable Stent screwed up his face. “What?”

“Oh, nothing.” She laughed nervously, clasped her hands. “So, the butterscotch coffee...”

“Look,” he said, and absently touched his silver cuffs. “We arrested someone early this morning at the Torrance Manor, and he’s been asking to see you.”

Torrance . . . Torrance . . . Something about that name seemed familiar.

Constable Stent took her arm. “Come along now.”

“Well, hold on,” she said, pulling back. “Let me at least have some coffee.”

“The butterscotch coffee is disappointing, to say the least.” And dragged her out of the chair.

***

The prison was musty and foul, dark as a tomb; cracks of light seeped between the large stone blocks where strange hued lichen grew in abundance. Normally, Yurbith didn’t mind the dark, but the sound of muted crying, of chains dragging against stone, of wet slapping, of teeth grinding, of nails clawing at walls... A shiver struck at her very core. Constable Stent led them down a narrow corridor, his lantern briefly revealing figures crouched in the corner of their cells, or lying despondently in their meager and tattered beds.

Periodically, Constable Stent would touch his silver cuffs, either for assurance or because he enjoyed the feel, and she imagined his daily morning routine of polishing his cuffs to a brilliant shine before making a cup of tea.

A prisoner rammed into the bars of his cell, startling them; his face had been twisted into something beyond grief and agony. The prisoner’s gnarled bony hand reached for Yurbith--

And the constable smacked it away with his club. The prisoner whimpered and hid in a dark corner.

“Damn animals,” the constable said, putting away his club.

If she had to stay in this hellhole, she’d lose her humanity too. Very soon indeed.

They stopped in front of a cell where a lone figure sat on his bunk with his knees drawn up. When the constable raised his lantern--

“Barnok!” she blurted.

Barnok looked up, but something was wrong. The inky black tendrils of his face tattoo now masked most of his face, stretched down his neck, and over one shoulder. He shuddered and hugged himself, as if holding something in.

“What’s going on?” she said.

“He murdered his master and the house maid,” Constable Stent said. “We think sometime during the odd hours.”

She studied Barnok, whose eyes were fixed in wide-eyed awe despite his disheveled appearance.

“There’s no blood on him,” she pointed out.

“Neither Master Torrance nor the maid could be found.”

“That doesn’t mean dead.”

“It does in my book,” Constable Stent snapped.

“M-may I speak to you?” Barnok said shakily in a mouse’s whisper.

“She’s right here.” Constable Stent indicated to her. “So speak.”

Head hanging low, a long, strained and mournful sigh was dragged out of Barnok, as if speaking openly was a torturous task. Perhaps this had something to do with the baby fairies she’d sold to Master Torrance, which might put her in the book as well.

“Master Torrance is alive,” Barnok said in an oddly stretched voice.

“Oh, not this nonsense again,” Constable Stent said, mouth curving into an ugly sneer. “I thought he’d say something different to you.” And eyed her sternly.

“I mean,” Yurbith said, slowly, carefully, “have you tried to listen to him?”

The constable snorted. “They’ll say anything to get out of here.”

From back the way they came, a ruckus started. The erratic screaming from one inmate set off answering howls and pitched cries, followed by the clang-clang! of chains against bars.   

“Stop that! Stop that!” Constable Stent removed his club, and as he backtracked, banged on all the bars, regardless if the prisoners within those cells were contributing to the clamor or not.

How very unfortunate it was that Constable Stent took with him the only source of light, leaving Akash and herself trapped in a darkness full of madmen.

“I-I’m not like them,” Barnok said weakly. “I’m not mad.”

Yurbith gasped, taken aback, partly because she was surprised to hear him over the din, but also, it was as if Barnok had read her very thoughts. She gripped the grime-covered bars and peered into the cell. All she could see was Barnok’s outline against the cracks of light.

“Very well, if you’re not mad,” she said, “then what happened?”

“It-it didn’t goooo . . .” Barnok’s voice struggled, as if he couldn’t physically put to words what had occurred. Barnok sniffled, violently shook his head. “He needs help.”

“Who needs help?” she said.

“Master Torrance. He’s trapped. Somewhere else. I need you to go into his manor, ring the large brass bell in the study, and when my master returns, shut off the machine.”

“I don’t...” Her mouth twisted, mouthed words, and frowned.

“Please. He will reward you greatly for his return.”

Well, rewards were something she understood. And the task sounded easy enough.

“Don’t you worry,” she said. “I’ll ensure Master Torrance’s safe return.”

“Thank you.” And he sighed strangely. “Don’t delay in shutting off the machine. Break it if you have to, but it must be off.”

“Of course.” Machine off: easy to remember.

She added, “What about the maid?”

Barnok burst into sobs.

***

A very bored-looking city guard stood at the front of the Torrance Manor, probably to keep thieves out, but his attention was on the sundial in the front yard. Akash and herself snuck around to the back entrance, which was surrounded by mounds of rich earth and single-stem tulips in decorated clay pots. The tulips appeared surprisingly fresh for being cut flowers. Yurbith jiggled the doorknob, hoping it would loosen and unlock. Urgh, how did thieves do it? She tried jamming a stick into the lock and twisting it around before using her hatchet to knock off the doorknob.

“Yeesh,” Akash said harshly.

They waited a moment to see if the guard would round the corner.

“See?” she said, nonchalant. “It’s fine.” And opened the door.   

The air was filled with a strange eardrum-itching hum. They entered a large open kitchen, where a silver tray of fine porcelain had been carefully arranged for serving, alongside a pot of cold tea and a silver stirring spoon. Yurbith lifted the lid from an unserved pot of stew, still on the stove. Such a waste.

The humming was louder in the hallway, and louder still in the parlor where they’d been served that delicious butter coffee. She couldn’t resist running a hand over the velvet couches again.

At the back of the parlor was a curtained arch--and it was strange, for she didn’t recall this arch on their first visit. The deep violet curtains were shivering. She pulled them back, and there in the middle of the study stood a tall cylindrical contraption. Tube-shaped gaslights extended from it, an assortment of valves and switches, pipes leading down through the floorboards, and objects she couldn’t even name. As if a goblin engineer had gone mad, disassembled every machine in his workshop, and cobbled it all together into one monstrosity. The study’s bookshelves had been emptied, rugs, chairs, and reading desk removed; all that remained, apart from the machine, was a large brass bell in the corner and accompanying wooden mallet.

“Well, let’s get this over with,” she said, and crossed the room.

Eck! She lifted her boot out of a puddle of some sticky matter. It was dripping from the machine and sinking into the floorboards. Lovely.

She took up the mallet-- Bong! The mallet fell from her hands as she slapped them over her ears. As the bell settled (and her ears stopped ringing), they looked around.

“Is he supposed to come home, or...?” Akash said, still rubbing at his ears.

“I don’t exactly know what was supposed to happen.” She lifted her tricorne to scratch her head. “I just assumed Master Torrance was lost somewhere.”

“Should we wait?” Akash sounded nervous.   

“That does sound like a risky proposal.” She frowned. “Perhaps we should search the manor first.”

She was about to grab the curtains when they were ripped away from her hand. Constable Stent stood as a wall in their path, and he appeared none too pleased to see them.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” Constable Stent said in a most grave tone while touching his cuffs.

She pointed a finger at him. “I should be asking you the same.”

“Unlike you,” he glowered, “I have actual business at a crime scene.”

“We have business too--of a sort.”

“Well, you have a minute to explain your business before I arrest you.”

“Oh, well . . .” She cleared her throat, looked to Akash, who looked like he wanted to shrink away and die. “You see . . .”

The humming intensified, causing all in the room to wince. A bright shimmery glow flooded the gaslights as the machine oozed more of that limpid slime. The entire wall and bookcase rippled and distorted, undulated wildly. Yurbith looked away before her eyeballs flew from her skull.

And when it seemed she could take no more, a small man fell out of the wall, naked and covered in clear fluids.

“Master Torrance!” Constable Stent ran over, removed his greatcoat and wrapped it around the shivering small man. “What in all the dark regions is going on here?!”

“That’s a very good question,” she said. “And I’m certain Master Torrance will explain all this as soon as we shut off this machine.”

As plain as day, there was a lever with “OFF” branded on it. She grabbed and pulled . . . and pulled and pulled and pullllled. She gasped for air, rubbed her sore shoulder. Damn thing wouldn’t budge!

“Let me do it,” and the constable shoved her aside. Then he pulled and pulled and pulled and pullllled . . . His face was turning stark red.

She folded her arms. “Not exactly easy now, is it?”

He got in her face.“Then find another way.”     

She touched a valve-- Ah! It shocked her! She shook out her hand, steadied herself, and wrenched the valve, closing the pipe. But just as she’d tightened it, the valve spun in her very grip--nearly twisted her wrist--and spun right off! She scrambled for the valve, tried to put it back, but it refused to fit.

Akash and Constable Stent were in no better position. The constable brought out his club to bash the machine--and on contact, the club shattered, splinters flying everywhere.

“How in the . . .?” the constable said in dismay, gaping at his formerly club-wielding hand.

Yurbith took a cherry bomb from her greatcoat pocket and matches from another.

“Stand back!” She lit the cherry bomb and stuck it into a crevice on the machine.

She ran to the curtained arch--

Nothing happened. She looked back, and the limpid slime had snuffed out the bomb; it now oozed from every switch, valve, and pipe fitting, lightly coating the machine. The gaslights glowed brighter and brighter, the humming deafening. The wall and bookcase distorted grossly, warping into something entirely unrecognizable. She shut her eyes, covered her ears, felt herself spinning--or the world spinning around her.

Master Torrance let out a cry.

She smacked the floorboards, took in a lungful-- Flower garden? The strangest flower garden she’d ever inhaled, for it smelled as if it’d sprouted from a pool of congealed blood in a musty tomb.

As her head cleared, she wished for such a garden instead.

A mass of liquid muscle was pouring out of the wall, arched and folded like a dog’s hanging tongue. Her gaze was drawn upward to the object attached to the mass: the maid!--who had become an obscene party hat; her legs were fused to the mass, skin shared the same hideous off-colored pink, and arms flailed and head lolled to the mass’ movements.

It continued to pour out, and fill out, and fill around them.

One moment Constable Stent was pushing the mass away, the next he was trying to wrench his hands free.

Yurbith jumped up, untied the cleaver at her waist, and chopped the muscle away from the constable’s hands. Each chunk removed quickly filled in, even as she furiously hacked at it (and Constable Stent winced), there was always more muscle.

“Akash!” She was forced to release her cleaver before it and her hand were both consumed.

“I’m still here, Master,” Akash said, dancing away from the encroaching muscle.

“There’s likely a boiler in the basement powering the machine,” she said, trying to keep her elbow from being sucked up. “Hurry!”

Akash nodded, leaped over a trunk of muscle, and disappeared behind the curtains.

She grabbed hold of the constable’s shoulders, pressed her back to the machine, hoping it would safeguard her from becoming another party hat.

***

Akash skipped the last five steps, jolted his shins on landing. The boiler fire roared as if recently fed. Slime was dripping from all of the pipes and-- He gasped. Babies?! Squashed into the glass cylinders attached to the pipes.

He rubbed his eyes, blinked. Not human babies, at least; it was those ugly fairy sprats they’d sold. Would’ve felt sorry if they weren’t so horrible. He avoided looking at the fairies as he wrapped his scarf around his hand, then grabbed the boiler door to close.   

Pwow!

He staggered, coughed up air. He instinctively put up his fists, before realizing he wasn’t fighting someone. From a pipe branched a rope of slime, threatening him with a man-sized fist.

He juked right, felt the swing miss, untied his horseman’s pick from his waist, and ran for a pipe. He swung--and connected with slime. Ack! He tugged. It wouldn’t come loose!

The pick was ripped from his hands and held tauntingly out of reach. He glanced at the open boiler fire. There was all that dirt outside, if he could just throw some on . . .

He turned on his heel, ran for the stairs, made a desperate leap as the slime looped around his ankle. Wham! Flat on the ground, air knocked out. It hurt to breathe. But the bottom stair step was right there. He latched onto the step, gripped it so hard he thought his knuckles would burst. A noose tightened around his ankle, then every joint strained, body taut as a string bow; his knuckles burned white hot, his breath squeezed between clenched teeth. The entire stairs shuddered; the bottom step wobbled. The longer it went on, the looser the bottom step became.

He couldn’t . . . couldn’t do anything. But he had to! Or they were . . .

The bottom step ripped out.

***

It was no use. Yurbith couldn’t wrestle the constable free of the muscle. And if they didn’t get out soon, they would be swallowed up entirely.

“I’m going have to cut your hands off,” she said, hatchet in hand.

“No!” And Constable Stent wrenched his arm so hard, he yelped in pain.

“It’ll only hurt momentarily.”

He violently shook his head. Such a child.

The maid spilled from the top of the mass and bobbed in the currents of the pouring muscle, idly twirling around like a petal on a pond’s surface. Absolutely unnerving to look at. Then it launched itself and grabbed Constable Stent. His scream was drowned in the muscle. Yurbith just barely caught his legs, which kicked furiously.

“Stop that!” she said, trying to get a good grip.

With all her weight, she pulled back. And was jerked forward. A wet smack! as her knees hit the gelatinous muscle. Her legs! She couldn’t move them. The muscle flowed around her legs, crept up her waist, sank into her boots, and settled like heavy warm clay.

“Akash!” she said desperately. “Guard! Torrance! Anyone!”

The maid popped out of the flowing muscle, and she swore it was leering at her.

***

Akash flipped onto his back as he was dragged back to the boiler. He looked from the bottom step he still held, to the fire, then to the second slime appendage reaching for him, and threw the stair step as hard as he could. The dragging slowed while the second appendage darted for dislodged step, and Akash raced to loosen the laces of his boots.

Free! He scrambled to his feet, jumped onto the stairs, ran up, up, and out. Out in the open air, in the yard, in the dirt. The dirt was so nice and cool against his raw chin, the grass soft as a feather-pillow. But no-- A jolt of panic lifted him to his feet. He lurched toward the clay pots, grabbed the largest one he could carry. The tulip waved at him as he descended the steps, and he readied to throw the pot as soon as he had line of sight.

And saw his horseman’s pick too close, too fast.

Smash!

He racked his lungs coughing, found himself reeling. Everything was a blur. He raked his hand over his eyes trying to clear his vision. He was almost too afraid to look, to see what it was like on the receiving end of the pick.

But he wasn’t going to die. At least, not today.

The pick had been abandoned in favor of the tulip, which the slime held with great care. He jumped on the pick, gripped it in both hands, and swung.

Hot! And he jumped back from the steam pouring out of the dislocated pipe, felt blisters forming beneath his gloves. He struck again, blasting the slime appendages. Knocked the last two pipes before the slime could reform, and effectively turned the basement into a sauna.

Stumbling his way back to the stairs, he stepped in a puddle. At first, he thought it was all the sweat dripping off himself, before realizing it’d been the slime.

***

A mere moment ago, she’d been waist deep in raw, warm, pulsing muscle. But now . . . Now it was dead meat; cold, gray, and rotten-soft. She climbed out, shook the meat from her legs and boots. And seeing Constable Stent’s still-kicking legs, pulled him free.

He gasped for air, then bent over and threw up globs of meat. Almost retched herself. The top half of the constable was covered in greasy film, his bicorne gone, and in its place, a very bald crown. As the constable looked down at himself and saw that his sleeves were mostly missing, including his beloved silver cuffs, his eyes went dark and full of horror.

Yurbith thought it best to check on Master Torrance.

Master Torrance was curled up into a little ball, shivering uncontrollably. His expression was blank, and he was unresponsive to all her words and gestures. The poor bastard. But how was she supposed to get a reward now?

She looked over at Constable Stent, who was pathetically digging through the meat.

She sidled up to the constable. “I bet Master Torrance has some very nice cuffs.”

He stopped and looked at her. “What?”   

“I mean,” she said, indicating to Master Torrance, “he’ll have no need of them. Seeing as he’s going to spend the rest of his days in a sanatorium.”

Constable Stent’s expression hardened. “Are you suggesting theft?”     

“Absolutely not,” she said sternly. “I was just thinking that Master Torrance would’ve liked to thank you for your valiant efforts with a small token.”   

Brows furrowed, the constable twisted the ends of his mustache, but she could see the cogs turning.

She added, “Think of it, if you will, as a donation.”

“Donation, huh?” He slowly nodded to himself.

“A good generous citizen is always happy to donate to those less fortunate.”

“I believe Master Torrance was one of those good generous citizens,” he said fondly, and rose to his feet.

“I’m certain of it as well,” she said, walking behind him. “And I hope this clears Barnok of murder.”

He paused at the arch and nodded. “I’ll send word for his release.”

“Good, good.” She skipped past him, turned on her heel, and indicted over her shoulder. “I’m going to make certain the boiler is broken for good.”

“Please do.”

And as Constable Stent went upstairs, she disappeared into the hallway.

Before the city guard arrived to dismantle the machine, Yurbith walked out with a sack of silverware, five pounds of roasted coffee beans, and glass cylinders holding baby fairy vapors.

***

The following day, she pushed her way into Thaumaturgical Goods and Services, carefully balancing a large box on her hip. Georg grumbled at her approach, set aside the gadget he was working on, and stared impassively at her down his long nose.

“Good day, Georg,” she said, placing the box on the counter. The glass cylinders rattled in the box; vapors in the vague shapes of baby fairies stirred.

She smiled brightly. “I think you’ll quite like this.”

END

© 2026 Siobhan Gallagher. All rights reserved. No part of this work shall be reproduced or distributed without author’s permission, this includes inputting the work into LLMs to create summaries.

Author note: For the True Followers, you’ve likely noticed some echoes of Army of Turnips vs Cosmic Evil, although it’s the other way around, The Machine was written years ago. That’s why I said, latest Turnip Tale was closer to my Beasty Cycle stories than prior Turnip Tales.

You may have also noticed there’s a grimdark skeleton under the meat of weird adventures. Tune in next week and you can see where it all began!

If you see (Beasty Cycle) beside the title, that means it’ll be a Yurbith story. Treat these stories like you would a Saturday morning cartoon—a fun adventure, with bits of horror and giblets, that can be read in any order.

🙏 So, I hate to ask this, but if you enjoyed this weird tale, please share/restack it, as I am fighting my own beasty known as The Algorithm. It’s incredibly difficult to get noticed on this platform, so if you can throw me that bone, I’d appreciate it. Thanks!

Share

The Machine Repairs

Yurbith helped her apprentice Akash drag in the squirming tent-turned-sack through the doorway of Thaumaturgical Goods and Services. Georg stood behind the counter staring impassively at them down his long nose.

The shop was pristine; all gadgets and doohickeys had their respective places on shelves, and there were a daunting number of shelves. A beautiful chalkboard overhung the front counter, and announced in elegant writing today’s discounts. After half a dozen inhales, the air ceased stinging the nose, allowing the chestnut perfume to be enjoyed.

The sack having successfully made it through the doorway, Yurbith removed her tricorne, placed it over her breast, and smiled at Georg.

“Good day, Georg,” she said, standing at the counter. “I have the most fascinating thing for you today.”

Georg cleaned his pince-nez on his smock, motioned for them to bring the sack.

“I think you’ll be very impressed,” she said as Georg pulled on a pair of heavy gloves from under the counter.

She secured one corner of the sack to prevent it from wiggling away while Georg looked inside.

“Fairies?” Georg said. No change to his permanent frown.

“They’re only a few days old.” She placed both elbows on her corner.

Georg removed one, kept a firm grip on its tadpole tail. A hairy, noisome, froggish thing with clawed paws and sharp teeth. If this sprat was older, it would know to hide its hideous appearance with glamour. The fairy sprat tried its best to claw and bite Georg’s hand off as he inspected it. He jammed a block of wood into the sprat’s mouth to prevent any lost fingers.

“So, how much?” Yurbith said, already counting the coins.

“Half of them are dead,” he said flatly.

She tried to not look surprised. She could’ve sworn Akash fed those damn things. Or did they need water too?

“I’m sure you can find plenty of uses for dead baby fairies,” she said pleasantly.

“And they’re poor quality,” Georg said.

“What do you mean poor quality?” she said, slightly offended.

“Low-bred fairies that you probably scooped out of some scummy pond.”

Hmph! How could he even tell by looking? He was just trying to downplay the fairies’ value.

“Twenty gold total,” he said.

“Twenty?!” She gasped at the indignity of it all. Fairies were near-impossible to capture, alive or dead, and her apprentice had almost gotten himself eaten by the mother of these sprats. They deserved far more than a measly twenty.

“Double or nothing,” she said with finality.

“Then nothing.” And it was clear the stubborn old man wasn’t going to budge.

Well fine! Georg wasn’t the only buyer in Freade, city of a thousand traders.

“Let’s go,” she told Akash, lifting her corner of the sack.

***

A bell sang their arrival to Mystic Materials. A bit on the disheveled side and not as large as the previous shop. The air was intoxicatingly sweet, like smoky plums. The shopkeeper, a plump middle-aged woman with wildly curly hair, was in the process of stacking beakers. At first her smile was genuine, but turned nervous as they approached.

“It’s not often I see hunters come in here,” the shopkeeper said. “Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”

“No need to worry,” Yurbith said pleasantly. “We’re interested in selling you some baby fairies.”

The shopkeeper perked up. “Oh, wonderful. May I see?”

Yurbith held the sack open while Akash weighted the bottom. A few of the fairy sprats had to be smacked down as they attempted to leap out.

“A lively bunch, aren’t they?” the shopkeeper said after Yurbith closed the sack.

“So you’ll buy them?” Yurbith said eagerly.

“Oh, well . . .” The shopkeeper frowned, played with her entwined snake necklace. “I recently purchased several months’ worth of ingredients, so I’m a bit short on funds. But I’ll gladly give you an IOU.”

“And when will you get the money?”

The shopkeeper twisted the necklace around her finger. “It really depends on business. It could be a month. Maybe more. Maybe a year.”

A year?! Yurbith didn’t like the odds of that one bit. The shop might very well fold by then, or a beasty might luck out and eat her.

“Well, we’ll think about it,” Yurbith said, knowing that she would do no such thing.

Next stop was Beyond Toad and Stool. Small, humid, and dimly lit, the shop contained numerous aquariums featuring various reptiles, toads, or fungal creatures. The shopkeeper, a lanky gray-robed man with long limp hair, was sorting dead flies beneath a spotlight. It wasn’t until Yurbith coughed politely that he looked up.

“Excuse me,” Yurbith said, removing her tricorne, “but would you be interested in purchasing some baby fairies?”

“Let’s see,” the shopkeeper said curtly.

She opened the sack, but the shopkeeper wanted to inspect closely. He hoisted a fairy sprat by the tail as Georg had, but without the aid of heavy gloves. The shopkeeper’s hands moved swiftly, poking and prodding the fairy; the fairy sprat whined at its inability to bite or scratch.

“Well?” Yurbith said when the shopkeeper paused to stroke his chin.

“Did you notice my amygdala ascomycota?” The shopkeeper directed their attention to an aquarium containing a morel from which spidery legs sprouted--too many legs for comfort’s sake.

“Yes, very ni--wait!” The fairy sprat the shopkeeper had been handling had vanished. “What kind of funny business are you trying to pull? Bring that fairy back here.”

“What fairy?” The shopkeeper splayed his empty hands.

“Don’t play dumb.” She stabbed a finger at the shopkeeper. “You were inspecting one just a moment ago.”

“I assure I was not.” And his face broke into an ugly grin. “But I understand how the eyes can play tricks.”

His grin shattered into a frightful gasp when she grabbed a fistful of the shopkeeper’s robe, yanked him across the counter.

“I’ll call for the guard!” the shopkeeper cried, pulling back.

She glared into the shopkeeper’s eyes. “And confess to them that you’re a thief?”

The shopkeeper managed to jerk out of her grip, but she snatched his skinny wrist. She untied the cleaver hanging from her waist.

“Because you know what happens to thieves, right?” She wrestled his arm flat against the counter, then raised her cleaver.

“Please! No!” The shopkeeper was visibly sweating, unable to struggle out of her vicelike grip.

“Found it,” Akash said from beneath the counter on the shopkeeper’s side.

Akash lifted out an aquarium covered by a cloth. The fairy sprat was much too large for the aquarium, but must’ve found it comfortable, for it was fast asleep. Akash popped off the lid, grabbed the fairy sprat by its tail, and stuffed it into the sack.

Yurbith released the shopkeeper’s arm, and he glared at her resentfully as he rubbed his bruised wrist.

“And just so you know,” she said, pointing the cleaver at the shopkeeper, “I’m friendly with the executioner. If you want to keep your hands, you’d best straighten out.”

After the shop’s door slammed behind them, Akash gave her a worrying look.

“Master, you weren’t actually going to take his hand off, were you?”

She laughed nervously. “Of course not. But I have to act like I mean it. Intimidation only works if there’s some bite behind it.”

That answer seemed to satisfy Akash.

They found just enough space on a bench in the public courtyard to sit and catch a break. The rest of the bench was taken up by an ogreish man, who had the misfortune to smell like three-day old sausages.

“Who knew being a salesman would be so hard?” she said, stretching out her legs. “Makes hunting comparably easy.”

There were rustling and wet smacking sounds coming from the sack. Akash stood up to check inside. His face contorted in disgust.

“The living ones are eating the dead,” he said.

“Wonderful,” she muttered.

“Where should we try next?” He knotted the sack.

“Oh, I don’t know . . .” She scanned the shop signs along the crowded streets. “Maybe Extravagant Oils of the Arcane.”

“Pardon,” the ogreish man sitting next to them said in a soft baritone, “but may I inquire what you are selling?”

“Baby fairies. Are you interested?” she said, hopeful.

“I believe I know someone who would be interested such a thing,” the ogreish man said. “A Master Torrance who lives on the north side of the residential district, but you can often find his trusted servant at the grapefruit vendor. He has a great love for grapefruit.”

She didn’t share such awful tastes, but if this led to a sale--and someone living in Freade’s northern residential district would most certainly have money--then she would take it.

“What does this servant look like?” she said.

“Tall, dressed in black, has a rather organic-looking tattoo on the right side of his face.”

She jumped to her feet, gave a slight bow. “Thank you, good sir.”

He waved her off. “It’s not a problem.”

She grabbed one end of the sack, and Akash the other, and headed straight for the marketplace.

Technically, there were four grapefruit vendors; two sold grapefruit and other citrus, one sold grapefruit and carved gourds, and the last only sold grapefruit, but they were large as melons. To Yurbith’s dismay, Master Torrance’s servant had already visited all four vendors, and had moved on to the flower vendors.

With much grumbling, they trudged deeper into the marketplace, carrying the squirming sack over their heads. She had half a mind to ask for bids right in the middle of the marketplace, but in the City of Freade, auctions had a habit of ending in slashed throats.

Master Torrance’s servant was easy to spot. He was indeed tall and dressed in black, carrying a basket full of grapefruit, and had the oddest tattoo of thin curling tendrils stretching across the right side of his face. He stopped his perusal of long-stemmed flowers, turned and greeted them with a nod.

Yurbith huffed, set the sack down. “Someone told us that your master--”

“Master Torrance would be delighted to purchase your baby fairies,” the servant said, smiling. The tattoo tendrils converged and touched the corner of his mouth.

“How did you know?” she said in disbelief.

“Word moves fast.” He purchased three tulips of different colors. “I am Barnok, servant to Master Torrance. Will you follow me to his home?”

The rail lift made it a quick trip, and soon they were walking through the pristine streets of the northern residential district. The air here was significantly fresher, and the large regal homes were a stunning sight with their white marble columns, red tiled roofs, and sculpted fountains. The servant Barnok took them up the steps of a manor where ancient willows curtained the windows.

A maid dressed in all black opened the door for them. Barnok handed the slate-faced maid one of the tulips, and she bowed in acceptance before disappearing down the hallway.

“Please, sit,” Barnok said, indicating a side parlor with velvet couches and soft padded chairs arranged around a hand-looped rug. “I will tell Master Torrance of your arrival. In the meantime, Genna will bring you something to drink.”

And with that, he left.

“Well, this is nice,” Yurbith said, taking in the parlor’s rich decor. It was a bit musty-smelling, and there was a tinge of . . . something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but it wasn’t offensive enough to bother her.

She left the sack of fairy sprats on the wooden portion of the floor, in case they made a mess, and removed her glove to run a hand along the velvet couch. Ah, how she so enjoyed the ticklish soft touch of velvet.

Proudly displayed on one side of the walls were a number plaque awards, bearing gold and silver emblems, which hailed from the ever so elusive magi academies.

“My, it looks like Master Torrance is very accomplished magician,” she said. Which explained the unusualness of his servant Barnok.

Akash was also looking at the awards, his face pinched in scrutiny. “Why do they stop at this specific date?”

“I assume he must be retired.” According to the time line set by the awards, Master Torrance must be well into his seventies. It did beg the question, what did a retired magician want with a bunch of--

Screeeeeeeeeeee!

Nearly jumped out of her skin, her startled yelp echoed in her own ears. Akash stared wide-eyed at her, clearly unnerved.

To both of their surprise, the maid from before stood at the parlor entrance. Carrying a tray full of fine china, she regarded them with indifference.

“Do you mind telling us what that was?” Yurbith said, indicating to the noise.

“Master Torrance’s pet screech owl,” the maid said dryly as she brushed past them, placed the tray on the low table in front of the couch.

Yurbith and Akash exchanged looks.

“Yes, of course, a screech owl is a perfectly normal pet,” Yurbith said reassuringly, though she wasn’t certain if it was for Akash’s sake, or her own.

Her concern was soon assuaged by the realization that the maid had brought coffee. How fancy! With fresh butter and honey, giving it a delightfully rich taste. Never mind that there was a tulip sticking out of the coffee pot. They were simply strange people with strange customs, that was all.

Barnok returned with a leather purse, his tattoo tendrils twisting towards his jawline.

“I have spoken with Master Torrance,” Barnok said, “and he is willing to pay sixteen gold for each live fairy, and eight gold for each dead one.”

Yurbith nearly spat out her coffee.

“Oh . . .” She took a moment to clear her throat of the hot liquid. “That sounds most agreeable.”

A crate was brought out, and she transferred thirteen living fairy sprats into it. Five dead fairies remained in the sack. She grumbled about the lost dead sprats, but the living ones would more than make up for it.

The gold was counted out and collected into her purse. She shook hands with Barnok, whose tattoo tendrils curled beneath his ear.

Walking down the steps outside, Yurbith stretched out her arms. “Ah, so good to be free of those things.”

“You don’t wonder what Master Torrance will do with them?” Akash said, glancing back at the manor.

“You’re too young to worry so much,” she said. “It’s genuinely unhealthy. Besides, it’s likely nothing worse than what Georg would’ve done.”

Akash made a face, appeared as if he wanted to say something, but decided against it.

And even if it was worse, it was none of their business. All sales were final.

END

© 2026 Siobhan Gallagher. All rights reserved. No part of this work shall be reproduced or distributed without author’s permission, this includes inputting the work into LLMs to create summaries.

Author note: Yeeeeeeah, this won’t come back to bite Yurbith in the arse.

Want to know where those fairy sprats came from?

If you see (Beasty Cycle) beside the title, that means it’ll be a Yurbith story. Treat these stories like you would a Saturday morning cartoon—a fun adventure, with bits of horror and giblets, that can be read in any order.

🙏 So, I hate to ask this, but if you enjoyed this weird tale, please share/restack it, as I am fighting my own beasty known as The Algorithm. It’s incredibly difficult to get noticed on this platform, so if you can throw me that bone, I’d appreciate it. Thanks!

Share

Fairy Funds of the Unknown

Yurbith and her apprentice Akash penetrated deep into the woods, so deep, the light of two lanterns wasn’t enough to fend off the woods’ gloom. The trees had been twisted by some malevolent hand, leered at them for trespassing on these grounds, untouched by man, as branches creaked on a windless afternoon.

When the stagnant air turned sour, they knew they had come upon something.

Yurbith raised her lantern first, and the light touched the remains of a carved-out beasty. The flies were abuzz, a thick cloud over the beasty corpse. Yurbith swatted away flies as big as her thumb before squatting next to the withered remains. She peeled back the flap of skin covering the ribs, found the rib meat had shrunken from the bone, and maggots clung to jerky scraps.

“See the teeth marks?” Yurbith said, pointing to the scrapes and cuts on the rib bones. Akash covered his nose and mouth with his glove, leaned close to get a better look.

“Something big. Likely another beasty.” She released the skin flap and stood, gave the bull-sized beasty corpse another look over. “Beasty-eating beasty. Not something you see every day.”

There were two sets of tracks leading away in different directions. Yurbith and Akash exchanged looks, knowing if they were to make good time, before the gloom became full on darkness, they’d have to split up.

“You’re equipped, right?” Yurbith said, clamped a hand on Akash’s shoulder.

He vigorously nodded, tapped the hatchet at his side, and the dagger in his belt.

Yurbith handed him a bottle of kerosene.

“Hopefully you won’t have need of it,” she said. “But when things get dire, fire is your best out. Meet back at camp before dark.”

“Yes, Master,” and he carefully pocketed the kerosene within his greatcoat.

Akash followed the tracks as they zigged and zagged for no apparent reason, had less of a normal four-legged stride and more of a hop-hop motion. At a sudden point, the tracks sort of . . . faded. Akash looked up at the nearby trees, and fortunate for him, there was no large horrible beasty peering down. Only a bug-eyed owl who eerily stared at him in silence.

He didn’t mind being alone, or at least, he thought he didn’t. But this place... He shook the shivers out his arms and legs. There were all kinds of tales of people getting lost, perhaps consumed by the woods. For all he knew, one of these wicked-looking trees ate that beasty! Some of the trees did appear to have frowning expressions . . .

Ah! He shook his head. Master Yurbith would be disappointed if he went down that line of thought. She would often say: Yes, a great many things will eat you, and you can lie awake at night counting all the different ways you may be devoured, but what good will that do you? If you’re smart and come prepared, you can avoid being something else’s dinner.

And he was certain he was prepared.

Akash found a large fallen tree to climb onto to get a better view of his surroundings, perhaps rediscover the tracks. His arm strained from holding the lantern so high as he searched north, west, south . . . A clearing! With a large stone jutting out from the crook of a lilypad-shaped pond bathed in soft light. Climbing atop that stone would give him an even better view.

As he drew near to the pond, a breezy soft melody danced through the air. At first, he didn’t see who was singing, but as he circled the pond, behind the jutting stone, half submerged in water, was a beautiful maiden arranging water lilies. She had long elfin ears, and wore a wet white tunic, emphasizing her shapely form. Her long golden hair dipped into the water; her flawless skin was creamy beige, her eyes large emeralds.

When she noticed him, she looked him straight in the eye, and smiled the sweetest, most serene smile. His face aflame, he stared at his dirty boots.

He needed to get a hold of himself. This pond maiden was one of the fair folk, and she was undoubtedly trying to disarm him with charm. He loosened the hatchet at his side, gripped it tight.

“Oh my,” the pond maiden said sweetly. “You’re a defensive one, aren’t you?”

Akash said nothing, kept the pond maiden in view as a he carefully took a step back.

“I bet you’re searching for something,” the pond maiden said as if nothing was amiss, placed a white water lily next to a bright pink one. “I can smell it, you’re a beasty hunter,” and she smiled broadly. “As a gesture of good faith, I’ll offer you information freely. I know the whereabouts of the beasty you are hunting.”

“You do?” He blurted before good sense could stop him. Winced at his own folly.

The pond maiden’s laugh was more of endearment than mockery.

“North of this pond you will find the beasty stomping around,” the pond maiden said, pointing northward. “But be wary of the willows with crooked trunks. They despise humans near their roots and will readily whip you with their branches.”

Akash eyed the pond maiden suspiciously. “What if you’re lying?”

The pond maiden shrugged. “The information is yours to do with as you please.”

“Very well,” and he continued to back away. He wasn’t going to say ‘thank you’ because that would make it a favor, and a favor meant he’d owe her something.

The pond maiden waved goodbye and returned to her water lily arranging before Akash lost sight of her. It wouldn’t hurt if he scouted north of the pond, if only to see. If no beasty then he could return to camp.

He couldn’t believe it! The beasty was actually there, just as the pond maiden had said. He raced to fetch Master Yurbith, stumbling on debris, tripping on roots, his footfalls loud and thunderous. Loud and thunderous? He looked over his shoulder.

The shaggy head of the beasty!

He pumped his legs.

“Master!” He gasped, swallowed the pain spreading between his ribs. “Master!”

Lantern light ahead. Master Yurbith jumped out from the trees, leveled her blunderbuss.

“Get down!”

And Akash dove into a patch of moss, rolled leftward. Pain spiked up his side and into his shoulder; his lower lip was hot, blood on his tongue.

BOOM! went the blunderbuss.

He waved smoke out of his face, caught sight of the beasty staggering.

Pounding footsteps. A rough grip on his collar helped lift him to his feet. Master Yurbith!

She was sweaty and soot-covered, her tricorne ajar atop of her head. She thrust his horseman’s pick into his hands, pointed to a half-dead tree leaning heavily on a mound.

“Climb that and jump down when I have the beasty in position,” she said before taking off.

He wasted no time, scrambled up the leaning tree. Though it creaked, it held his weight. He threw his lantern onto the closest branch, stood, and gripped the horseman’s pick in both hands.

All right, he could do this. He could do this. He could do this . . .

Another blast of the blunderbuss. The beasty growled from several throats as it staggered further and further and further--

There!

He leaped onto the shaggy black form. A sickening crack. The pick ripped from his hands as he flew back. Smacked the mound, rolled, took rocks and dirt with him as he hit the solid ground.

On his elbows, he saw in full light the beasty thrashing its bull head, the horseman’s pick lodged squarely in its skull. It thrashed, stumbled on wolf legs, thrashed some more, bashed into a tree, and slumped to the ground. All the while making guttural animal noises through its wide nostrils.

“Well done!” Master Yurbith said, breathless.

Master Yurbith wiped sweat from her brow, brandished her cleaver, and ran the edge along the beasty’s throat, draining its life.

“How hurt are you?” Master Yurbith said, helping him to his feet.

“I’ll be all right,” he said, then tongued his busted lip.

Master Yurbith removed a handkerchief from her greatcoat pocket, handed it to him before going over to the beasty.

“I suppose this could be our beasty-eating beasty,” she said. “But hard to tell if it’s eaten recently with all this hair,” and pulled up a massive tuft of black oily hair.

As Akash dabbed his lower lip, the whirlwind of events now settled, he realized growing out of the other side of the mound was a willow, and there was a large crook in its trunk. As Master Yurbith circled the beasty, she drew near to the willow. The willow’s hanging branches lifted slowly with the smooth motion of a serpent poised to attack.

Akash launched himself at his master. Ooof!

The willow branches snap-snap-snapped! at air.

Master Yurbith groaned on the ground. “What was that?”

“Uhh . . . ” Akash quickly pushed himself off. “An upset willow.”

“Gah! It’s one of those woods,” and she sat up on her elbows. “But how did you know the willow would lash out like that?”

He gave a shaky smile. “Gut feeling, I guess.”

Mentioning the pond maiden would go poorly, as he was certain he shouldn’t have spoken a single word to her. And yet . . . They would still be searching for this beasty if the pond maiden hadn’t helped him. Perhaps she was the helpful kind of fair folk, similar to the house fairies.

Careful of the willow, Master Yurbith debated out loud to herself what parts of the beasty to remove as trophies for a job complete. Akash suggested the teeth as teeth were always easy to remove. But when they pulled back the thick beard of shaggy hair, they found the beasty had only tusks and molars.

“Well, it’s a beasty,” Master Yurbith had said while they ate over an open campfire. Around their campsite was a barrier of scrap iron to keep any and all mischief makers at bay.

The decision had been made. On the morrow, they would once more go into the woods to find the beasty-eating beasty. It was a matter of reputation, Master Yurbith had said. If they left now, and more livestock went missing from the town which bordered the woods, then word would get out, leading to a decrease of future jobs.

Akash didn’t find himself worrying. He nodded off to the sound of a breezy soft melody which danced through the air.

Straight after breakfast, Akash headed for the pond.

The pond maiden was wading to and fro, looking quite tired. Her eyes had dimmed and her head hung low, reminding him of a drooping flower. She caught his gaze, half smiled. “Ah, my dear lad.”

Akash tried not to blush.

“I was hoping you had some information on a beasty eating other beasties,” he said.

“Hmmm,” and she swished a lily pad around. “Not all of my information is for free. I’d like a favor in return.”

“What is it that you want?” he said. “Food or--”

She chuckled, bringing a light to her eyes. “I’m quite satisfied, thank you.” She pushed the lily pad into the middle of the pond. “Would you put your iron aside for me? It makes me sick just looking at it.”

“Uhh, my iron?” Akash looked to his hatchet and dagger.

The pond maiden nodded.

At this point, he didn’t think the pond maiden could leave her pond, so as long as he remained outside the pond, he would be fine. And so, removed his hatchet and dagger, placed them on the ground.

The pond maiden was brimming. “Thank you, my dear lad. Now, for the beasty eating other beasties . . .”

The pond maiden pointed him further north, across a deep ravine where a stream trickled, and where lilies-of-the-valley grew wild. “And while the willows are less common in that region, the wide large oaks will swat you with their branches.”

Akash nodded his thanks, picked up his weapons, and followed the pond maiden’s directions.

After jumping the ravine, he was met, not with the sweet smell of flowers, but a foul stench which made his eyes water. He grabbed a fistful of his linen shirt to dab his eyes, pulled his scarf over his nose and mouth to diffuse the odor.

There, amongst the lilies-of-the-valley, lay a partially-putrefied beasty lacking half its substance.

He looked all around, but it seemed the woods had long covered the tracks. Why had the pond maiden sent him here? A mistake? Perhaps all beasties in this area ate other beasties, and there was an untold number of beasties in these very woods. Something to tell Master Yurbith, but he should confirm it with the pond maiden first.

As Akash backtracked, he took a slightly different route, and came across the beasty they’d slain yesterday--or what was left of it. The shock sent him stumbling backwards.

Something had carved out the beasty’s entire body cavity, leaving behind a deflated husk. And this had been a big beasty, larger than a normal bull, and only a team of expert butchers could make such quick work of a bull’s carcass.

The beasty-eating beasty was out and about, no time to lose! And Akash pushed himself into a run, breath hoarse and echoing. The woods a jumble of shadows, trunks, and dapples of light.

He practically collapsed at the pond’s edge. Sweat was dripping from his temples, and there was an uncomfortable dampness around his armpits and collar.

The pond maiden was submerged up to her shoulders, haggard and pale, she sucked down long deep breaths, held them, and released. She tried to smile at his approach, but her face rigidly fought expression.

Before Akash could speak, the pond maiden glared at his weapons. Oh, right. And he set them aside.

“I need to know how many beasties are in these woods,” Akash said in a hurry. “And where the beasty-eating beasty is exactly and--”

“Ah!” The pond maiden gasped. “One question at a time.” And she let out a wheezing croak of a breath.

“Are you hurt?” Akash said, coming closer. “Did one of the beasties attack you?”

She said nothing, only lowered herself till her chin touched the water. Akash searched for the tint of red in the waters, but the pond was awfully foggy.

“Should I fetch a doctor for you?” Akash said, brows furrowed.

“This is something I have to do,” the pond maiden said, each word heavy with pain. “Something my mother and grandmother and great-grandmother had to do.”

Her eyes squeezed shut. Teeth clenched. She spat up blood.

Panic-stricken, Akash splashed into the pond, took hold of the maiden--

And she gripped his arm with preternatural strength. She rose high, high above him, lips parted wide, revealing daggerlike teeth.

“I had so hoped to introduce my children to the sweet taste of human flesh,” she said in a dark watery voice.

“Master!” came Akash’s shrill voice as he gaped in horror.

With her free hand, the pond maiden clutched her abdomen as it bulged and writhed; rapid pokes beneath the skin.

Akash jerked hard. His waterlogged boots weighing him down.

The pokes intensified. Rapid succession of wet tears. More blood coughed up, dripping from her chin. Ragged holes across her abdomen, growing larger and larger and . . . babies clawing out of her. Dozens of them. Pouring out as the pond quickly turned red.

“Master!” Akash gave one final jerk, took a deep breath, and submerged his head. Little claws and teeth were swarming him.

He wrestled out of his greatcoat, put all his strength behind a butterfly stroke-- GASP! as he broke the surface.

The pond’s edge was still too far away. And every stroke grew heavier and heavier as more of those things latched onto him. He could barely tread water, felt himself sinking . . .

Splash! of a polearm. He grabbed the handle, was yanked to solid ground. He clutched tufts of rough grass, coughed up water, but was too weighed down to clamor over the bank’s edge.

The sheen of his master’s cleaver, followed by unhappy squeaks and cries. Those too slow to unlatch from Akash were chopped in two. Ah! He could finally pull himself out of the pond. He lay on the grass, relief flooding his senses, dulling the pain of a thousand tiny bites and scratches. A stern-looking Master Yurbith stood over him.

“We’re not finished yet,” she said, holding up a gore-covered cleaver. “Look.”

Akash forced himself to sit, saw the pond maiden’s wretched offspring appeared less like babies as he originally thought, and more as froggish creatures the size of a play ball, covered in hair, and with clawed paws and sharp teeth. And they were attempting to crawl out of the pond, make their escape into the darkness of the woods, where they would grow and start the cycle all over again.

“Go fetch the tent,” Yurbith said, and removed a bottle of kerosene from her pocket. “I’ll keep the lil’ sprats here.”

“What are you planning?” he said, getting to his feet.

“Ever had to bag a rat?” There was a keen look in her steel grey eyes.

Akash nodded. “Once.”

“This will be the same.”

Akash wasn’t certain if this was his punishment or not, but he was forced to carry the tent-turned-sack full of wriggling froggish fairy sprats. Gah! They stunk of scummy swamp water and kept kicking him in the chest. But he was grateful to be alive, to be able to walk away this day, and it seemed Master Yurbith knew his near-death experience was lesson enough, for she didn’t impress upon him the folly of his decision.

Master Yurbith walked ahead of him, had already collected the tusks and teeth from the deceased beasties for proof of reward, despite having killed only one beasty. “We ended the thing that was ending the beasties, thus I think we’re entitled to the rewards,” Master Yurbith had said, which wasn’t true at all, the pond maiden’s own offspring had done the ending. But he didn’t wish to get himself into any more trouble, so kept his mouth shut.

“I hope you understand,” Master Yurbith said, “the fair folk are nothing but tricksters. Whenever you see a beautiful young waif in a wooded area or by a body of water, turn the other way immediately.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said solemnly. “But Master, uh, what do you plan to do with these fairy sprats?”

Master Yurbith swiftly turned around and smiled. “Sell them, of course. Anything fairy related is worth decent coin.”

“Ah.” Oh good, he thought his master had plans to eat them. Yuck.

Seeing a wide large oak ahead, he tugged on his master’s sleeve, redirecting her down another path. Just in case it was the kind of oak tree who liked to swat.

END

© 2026 Siobhan Gallagher. All rights reserved. No part of this work shall be reproduced or distributed without author’s permission, this includes inputting the work into LLMs to create summaries.

Author note: At one point, I was going to have a running joke of their tent being destroyed at the end of every adventure, but this was as far as that joke got.

If you see (Beasty Cycle) beside the title, that means it’ll be a Yurbith story. Treat these stories like you would a Saturday morning cartoon—a fun adventure, with bits of horror and giblets, that can be read in any order.

Anime reference from Pet Shop of Horrors, because I can’t embed a Youtube clip. An OVA where a mysterious pet shop owner sells “pets” to desperate people—but make sure to follow the contract! Think Gremlins but nastier.

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At a dark hour, at an even darker moment in her life, Yurbith sat in the outhouse with grave and terrible regret for having ever eaten at the Hoggling Feet Inn. She should’ve known there was something off with the food. The excess use of gravy, the sour-tasting ale, the too-soft fruit, and the myriad of flies buzzing about.

The hour past, and she felt much more relieved. Hopefully the worse was over. She picked up the pail of hearth ash from the corner, scooped ash with a few burnt knots of wood, and tossed it all into the hole to help keep the smell down. Thu-thunk! Huh? She removed the lantern from its hook on the wall and peered down the hole. Had something fallen down there? The outhouse on her land was open to anyone--and wild animals for that matter. She knew the lumberjacks in the area made frequent use of the outhouse as they always left the door ajar and never tossed down any ash after use. And thanks to them, raccoons and foxes sometimes found their way inside.

Something was definitely rustling down there. She lowered the lantern for a better look.

And a face stared back.

She let out a dead-waking shriek, and dropped the lantern, plunging her into complete darkness. Panicked, she stumbled arse-first out of the outhouse, landed on wet grass, scrambled far, far away, and was only halted by the swift stab of a shrub. Breathless, she lay there for a moment, before gathering herself. What was that? And mere moments before, her bare bottom had been hanging above-- Urgh! And she shivered.   

The moonlight was weak this night, and it took much too long to feel and foot her way back to the cabin. Before too long, she wanted sleep. On the morrow, she’d resolved this . . . problem.

“Master, pleeease,” Akash said as he chased after Yurbith. “Let me quickly use the outhouse.”

Yurbith was already halfway to the outhouse, carried with her a leather satchel of black powder and some matches. She was a beasty hunter, after all, and this was a beasty that needed dealing with, albeit, at the cost of one outhouse--a sacrifice she was willing to make.

“Absolutely not,” she said. “It’s too dangerous. I won’t have you lose your backside to some dung-eating beasty.”

Akash put a hand on her arm to stop her. “Master, I don’t want to be rude, but are you certain you saw a face?”

“Yes. Positive. That’s why I’m doing this.”

“But where are we going to do our business?”

“We can always dig another outhouse. In the meantime,” and she indicated to the surrounding thinned out woods, “there are plenty of trees and shrubs to use.”

Yurbith reached the weathered outhouse with its creaky supports and oddly slanted roof, rapped her knuckles on the door, checking if it was in use. Akash stood close behind, treading in place, his face pinched in discomfort.   

“Goodness, Akash, stand back,” she said, irritation under her breath.

She removed the hatchet from her belt, ready to strike if need be, and flung the door open. All was quiet. The air, thick and foul. She held her nose as she scattered the black powder, then backed away. The lit match was tossed.

Bwoosh!

The whole thing went up in flame as if dry tinder, followed by the cra-cra-crack of the supports giving way. Crash! went the whole structure. Well, it was going to need replacing soon anyway.

A looooooong dreadful screech rose up from the flames. Akash and herself exchanged looks. Whatever it was, hopefully it was good and buried under the burning heap.

A scuttling-digging noise emanated from beneath the burning heap. The heap shuddered, burnt planks gave way.

It sprang up! Aflame, the centipedal form waved in the air, its many, many little black legs twitching. It slammed to the ground and sped away lightning fast. Yurbith barely caught sight of its scowling human face. Following the departure, miniature centipedal creatures, no bigger than a man’s foot, popped out of the recently dug flaming hole, and scattered in all directions. They made unhappy pitched cries when Yurbith stomped on them.

“Ack! Urgh, disgusting!” She grunted and growled while scrapping gooey guts from her boots.

“Uh, Master,” Akash said. “Where did that thing go?”

Ah, good question. And she saw the trail of ash and burnt still-twitching legs the beasty had left in its wake. Was that thing still on fire? Because if so, and if it headed anywhere near the wheat fields, which were in the process of drying in preparation for harvest . . .

Oh no.

“Akash!” She whirled around, looking for her apprentice.

And found him retreating to the cabin, his gait a ponderous shuffle, his face flushed and downcast. Oh. The smell was undeniable. Ah, well, she’d leave him be, and track the outhouse beasty on her own.

Mister Johensen was most obliging in allowing her to borrow his riding horse, after she came running towards him with hatchet, cleaver, and a loaded blunderbuss. And despite his apprehensive and bewildered state, he was kind enough to point out a strange pattern of smoke some ways down the road.

Her plan was to drive the outhouse beasty into a nearby flood-meadow. But ah, it’d gotten so far! She spurred the horse on in the hopes of taking the lead and cutting the beasty off before it drew near to the wheat fields. On the way, she passed a crashed wagon and its owner in a state of shock, and several women who’d been on their way to the river to do laundry, were now hiding amongst the tall shrubs.       

There, there! She could see the tail-end of the beasty, its chiton shell charred and crumbling. She was gaining on it when--

The beasty reared up.

She pulled the reins hard, turned the horse leftward. Swoosh! as the beasty swiped air. This was her chance! And she aimed the blunderbuss.

BOOM!

The horse kicked in fright, nearly bucked her off. By the time she had the horse under control, the outhouse beasty was on the move again, having shed a few more of its legs. But it’d changed course, was heading off into the wooded area, likely looking for a boulder or a fallen tree to crawl under.

She dismounted Mister Johensen’s horse. The side of the road had plenty of cool grass for the horse to graze on; it wouldn’t be going anywhere. She reloaded the blunderbuss and followed the trail of flakes of burnt carapace into the wooded area. The ground was rocky and uneven, had to be mindful of the erosion-exposed roots and-- Was that a bear trap? An old rusty thing which was more likely to crumble under the slightest pressure. Not that she was inclined to test this. There weren’t even any bears in this area, who in their right mind would...?

Then she took notice of the poorly painted KEEP OUT signs nailed to the trees. Ah, this must be Old Man’s Ornik’s land. He’d always been the paranoid sort, supposedly he sat on a small fortune. In years past, he would brag about how he’d kicked over a fairy mound and found a pile of gold. Assuming there was any truth to the story, Yurbith suspected it was actually an abandoned thieves’ stash, for Old Man Ornik wouldn’t be here today if he’d truly taken fairy gold. However... Was Old Man Ornik even still alive? It seemed like ages since she’d last seen him in town.   

She took a long stick and prodded the pocket of shadows beneath a boulder. Ah! A fox darted out. It would’ve been a tight fit for the outhouse beasty, anyway. She came round the boulder--

And came face-to-face with a rifle barrel.

“What are you doing here?” barked the severely-aged man from behind the barrel. He was holding the rifle far too close to his face, the flint sparks were going to hit him square between the eyes. But that seemed of little consequence when one eye was already cloudy, and the other not far behind.

“Ah, Old Man Ornik,” she said pleasantly, side-stepping the rifle’s sights. The barrel followed her. “I’m here tracking a beasty.”

“I didn’t give you permission.” He practically growled the words.             

“Very well,” and sighed. “May I have permission to track a beasty on your land?”

“No. Now leave.”

She frowned, once again side-stepped. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation.”

“I didn’t see any beasty,” Old Man Ornik said (as if he could see much of anything).

“But you did hear something,” she said. “Or you wouldn’t have come out here in the first place.”

“Aye. I heard someone being suspicious.”

Old Man Ornik’s shoulders shuddered, his grip kept slipping on the rifle. Holding up the rifle for this long was clearly too much for his aged body. If she was quick, she could wrench the gun from his hands, which honestly would be for the best.

She crept a little closer. “You live with your nephew, yes? Might I speak to him?” Speak to someone a little more reasonable.   

“He’s taking his morning shit.”

She suppressed a grimace. Oh, lovely. Wait a minute . . .

“Where exactly is your outhouse?”

Old Man Ornik’s sagging skin drew his brows together into a distinctive V-shape. “Why do you want to know?”

“I already told you,” she said, exasperated. “There’s a beasty on your land and if we don’t hurry--”

“You think I’m going to believe that?”

“Well, I don’t believe you have a coin to your name,” she said hastily, frustration rising. “Otherwise, you’d buy functioning bear traps.”

“Let me tell you something, Miss Hunter,” he said, tone full of indignation, “forty-five years ago, when I was a young man in the militia, I crossed the Huusan border...”

She let out a groan. By the godless skies, she didn’t come here for his life story!

Thankfully, a man’s pitched howl cut off Old Man Ornik’s tale.

Yurbith took advantage of the distraction to grip Old Man Ornik’s rifle barrel and rip it from his grasp. The old man huffed and swore at her, made a few pathetic swings. Goodness! Apparently he was blind to the blunderbuss she was holding. She cradled the blunderbuss in one arm, half-cocked the rifle to prevent a misfire, and let the stock rest against her shoulder.

Impassively, she said, “I’ll give it back after you lead me to the outhouse.”

Old Man Ornik grumbled foul names under his breath as they walked, his steps deliberately slow. When she nudged him, he gave out a sharp grunt, pointed ahead.

“Go straight,” he said, “between the two oaks.”

Well, he must think she was blind, for there was clearly a trap between the trees, even if there’d been an attempt to cover it with debris.

“I think not,” she said, slate-faced, and gave another nudge. “Aren’t you at all concerned for your nephew?”

“Bah!” He waved a dismissive hand. “He’s a gudfernothin like his mother.”

What a louse. If she shot him, would anyone honestly care? Especially since no one had seen him in so long . . .

There were a few more attempts to drive her into traps, each one tempting her trigger-finger. As they drew near to the outhouse, Yurbith could make out a low wicked-sounding hissing, the scratch-scratch-scratch of dozens of legs on wood, and the dampened blubbering of a man.

It was quite the sight! The beasty had wrapped itself around the outhouse, trying to force its way in, while presumably, the Old Man Ornik’s nephew was holding the door shut. The outhouse door looked about ready to splinter. The beasty’s chiton shell was blackened, still smouldering in places, with visible cracks stretched down its length, hinting at tender pink flesh.

She dropped the rifle and took her blunderbuss into both hands. BOOM!

Argh! A teeth-itching screech filled the air. She winced, cupped a hand over her ear.     

The pause in scratching alerted her to the beasty’s next move, and she ducked a swing that would’ve easily taken her head off. The beasty glared at her with that all-too-human face, the serpentine undulation of its body hovered possessively over the outhouse, and Yurbith couldn’t very well blow up this outhouse with someone inside.   

The beasty curved away from the trajectory of her blunderbuss’ blast, and returned the favor. Its swing dispersed the hanging cloud of black powder smoke. Ten steps back from her former position, Yurbith let out a breath, lifted her tricorne to scratch at her scalp. Well, this wasn’t going to work. If only she could weigh the damn thing down . . . She looked back at Old Man Ornik’s array of bear traps. How much was she willing to trust those traps?

The beasty returned to forcing its way into the outhouse, bringing about fresh cries from the nephew.

She ran for the nearest trap, deftly slipped her gloved fingers beneath the rust-coated edges, and careful of the pressure plate, gingerly lifted the trap. Whoa! The attached heavy chain nearly threw off her balance, and falling with a set bear trap in hand would be a very unfortunate way to go.

“Aye! Where are you going with that?” Old Man Ornik said as she carefully walked past.

In passing, she said, “I suggest you remain quiet, unless you want to wear this trap.”

The old man gave his loudest, most aggressive grunt.

The beasty took notice of her approach and reared up to strike. She shifted the trap to one hand, and tossed it as if playing an extreme version of the game horseshoes. An awful screech as the trap chomped down on the beasty’s carapace. The trap thunked onto the ground, taking with it a chunk of crumbling, fire-damaged shell. A patch of exposed flesh stood out starkly against the beasty’s blackened carapace.

Ah ha! Perfect! With glee, Yurbith took up her blunderbuss. BOOM! A spray of bullets ripped into the beasty’s flesh.   

The outhouse was abandoned by the beasty as it made a scuttling dash into Old Man Ornik’s land. She reloaded the blunderbuss before making a run herself. And thanks (or no thanks) to Old Man Ornik, she knew where most of the bear traps were. She fired close enough to drive the beasty into the first trap . . . and the next and the next . . . Sometimes there was a satisfying snap! followed by a monstrous cry, sometimes not. The scuttling turned into a crawl, the beasty too encumbered by the collection of traps biting into its flesh. The beasty collapsed, its all-too-human face cracked and bleeding, and she finished it off with a good ole cleaver whack to the head.

She returned to find Old Man Ornik had fallen in the commotion. He swatted at his nephew, calling him a “Gudfernothin”, while the nephew repeatedly tried to help his uncle to his feet. The old man got his way, and was left to rock himself onto his side, where he might eventually, and pathetically, get his hobbled legs beneath himself.

The nephew Nikole greeted Yurbith with a sheepish grin, thanked her, and quietly gave her Old Man Ornik’s rifle, either as a gift of gratitude, or because he truly didn’t want it in his uncle’s possession.

Before Yurbith left, recalling the miniature beasties which had also sprung from the outhouse pit, she politely informed Nikole: “The next time you need to do your business, I strongly advise to look before you sit.”

END

© 2026 Siobhan Gallagher. All rights reserved. No part of this work shall be reproduced or distributed without author’s permission, this includes inputting the work into LLMs to create summaries.

Author note: Portable toilets and outhouses will never not be horrifying.

And yes, I did watch a documentary on the history of the toilet, that’s how serious I take my toilet humor.

If you see (Beasty Cycle) beside the title, that means it’ll be a Yurbith story. Treat these stories like you would a Saturday morning cartoon—a fun adventure, with bits of horror and giblets, that can be read in any order. Check out the first posted Beasty Cycle tale below!

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The day really starts at night, the dead of night, where the universe’s hum is loudest. As everyone knows, this is the best time to write (and if you didn’t know, then you do now). Something out there breaks the silence—a long, low call. Elk . . . or Wendigo? Meh. And I return to writing. What am I writing? Who the hell knows. Outline says one thing, the document itself says another. Eventually the two will come to an understanding—or not. And when stuck, I stare at a blank wall or the ceiling until I’ve retuned myself to the universe’s frequency. And then I stare some more.

Depending on who you ask, I am either a mountain troll or an oversized turnip. Possibly a human woman, but this has yet to be confirmed.

To break up the monotony of staring into the void and hoping the void at least winks back, I go to Youtube to find some music. Oh look, I haven’t seen this video before. Six minutes isn’t long . . .

<an hour later>

And now the moon arches past my window. The sky is lighting up. The little editor in my head has had a stroke and isn’t responding. Damn. Bleary-eyed, I pound out some final thoughts and how to proceed to the next scene, which will be near unreadable the following day, and head to bed. Only, I will not sleep, because while the editor is out of commission, the characters certainly aren’t, and they’re still running around and having conversations. And I will lay there, hoping if I keep my eyes closed for long enough, I’ll finally find this thing called “sleep”.

At least the void finally winked back.

If you’re curious about some of the weird stuff I write while straddling cosmic frequencies, here is one of my favorite pieces.

You poor soul, you poor dear, the world has been most unkind we fear, to one of such generosity, whose heart is made of tempered steel, who conquered the Nine Realms with wit and craft and zeal.

Everlasting peace you brought to them, but a generation passes, and what was glory fades. Those statues they built are allowed to crumble, that brass has long lost its gleam, and the beautiful city you’d helped raise from the ashes, is now a place for villainy to gather and scheme.

You poor soul, you poor dear, let us relieve you of those weary years. Come down, come down, to the shoreline of Lost Carcosa1, where the beachrock shines like polished onyx beneath the blue starlight, where the winds caresses the high cliffs into shape and the scattered seashells sing songs of forgotten memories. Come down, come down, and let the warm sweet waters sweep you away, and think no more of an undeserving world or the bitterness within your heart.

Let the ocean’s nectar fill your lungs, let yourself fall into a dreamlike state. No pain, no worries. You are with us, and we will swirl and dance and bob amongst silky ribbons of seaweed ‘til the light is gone from your eyes. But fear not, we will take your flesh into ourselves, where you will eternally be with us. And we will lay your bones atop sunken treasures of silver and gold, of richly ornate goblets, of pearls the size of apricots, of crowns and circlets, of rubies, emeralds, and sapphires that have never lost their sparkle. We will lay your bones within a great underwater hall built by a race older than ourselves, with vaulted ceilings that come together at strange angles which twist the eye, held up by pillars of salt covered in symbols we dare not say aloud. This honor we grant to you, oh hero, we who do not forget. We who recall the great flame which screamed across the sky, that smote creatures of myth and shattered the land into the Nine Realms you know of today.

You poor soul, you poor dear, come down, come down, and be loved by us, be cherished by us, be with us. And one day, when the stars are just right, when their blue turns into a brilliant crimson, the depths will rise, and you will rise with it.

END

© 2026 Siobhan Gallagher. All rights reserved. No part of this work shall be reproduced or distributed without author’s permission, this includes inputting the work into LLMs to create summaries.

Special thanks to Original Worlds (Ira Robinson) for sharing their amazing artwork with the Substack community. And thanks to for providing a pair of eyes.

The great beasty’s silhouette could be seen from Dunnich Road, bleeding through the trees; large as a hill with many awful protrusions.

“Master, are we really going to slay that?” Akash asked, voice quivering.

“They’ll be a surcharge for Mister Grace for misrepresentation of size,” Hunter Yurbith said, annoyed. “But yes, we’re slaying it.”

Her apprentice Akash regarded her with a dubious look.

Yurbith urged the horses off road, but they refused to budge, knowing full well what they were about to face. With a sigh, she jumped off the wagon. Akash had already gone to the back, and was pulling out a musky old trunk that had seen better days. They chose their most adaptable weapons: a horseman’s pick for Akash, and a cleaver with an extended grip for herself. Then loaded her trusty blunderbuss and the finicky pistol.

The beasty was a massive thing with silvery-pale skin, the lower half of a toad, the upper half of a man, several sets of arms, blood-tipped fingers, a disc-shaped head with stubby, silver-blue tentacle protrusions, and a large vertical gap in its chest lined with an infinite number of teeth. And this thing rested upon a shabby-looking house, which by all rights and reason, should have been crushed.

Yurbith nudged Akash who stared slack-jawed at the creature. “Get the kerosene,” she said. “We’ll burn the house beneath it.”

“Don’t hurt him!”

A mad-eyed woman with grey-streaked hair came running out of the house, waving her arms in the air. Someone actually lived in that awful home?

“Don’t hurt him,” the mad-eyed woman repeated, out of breath. “He’s my son.”

Yurbith looked at the mad-eyed woman, looked at the creature, and looked back at the woman with a suspicious eye. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see the resemblance.”

The mad-eyed woman folded her arms. “He takes after his father, obviously.”

“Is that so?” She raised the pistol.

The mad-eyed woman jumped right in front of her, started hitching up her skirts. “Do I have to show you the stretch marks?”

“Please don’t.” With a sigh, she lowered the pistol. “Mister Grace didn’t mention--”

“Mister Grace!” the mad-eyed woman hissed. “My son has been here for over twenty years, and no one minded until they could suddenly see him.”

“What?”

“You heard me. He’s never bothered anyone ever.”

“What about the blood on his hands?” Yurbith indicated with her pistol.

“It’s sheep’s blood. I told him to wash his hands after breakfast.” The mad-eyes dampened. “He’s the sweetest son a mother could ask for, and he’s all I’ve got.”

“I see.” Yurbith frowned. “Mister Grace has misrepresented quite a few things.”

Yurbith stood awkwardly, avoiding the mad-eyed woman’s teary gaze. Never in her life had she encountered anyone who claimed a beasty to be their child. This woman was clearly very attached--clearly out of her mind too--and it seemed wrong to slay her “child” right before her eyes. Perhaps if Yurbith brought Mister Grace and some of the surrounding neighbors here to talk and explain to the mad-eyed woman their concerns, the mad-eyed woman might see reason.

The mad-eyed woman stood rigidly straight, tears suddenly evaporated.

“Apologies for the abruptness,” the mad-eyed woman spoke unnaturally; her mouth moved as if puppeted. “I thought it would be better to speak to you directly, Hunter. Mother will understand.”

Yurbith looked up at the creature on the roof. Several of its hands were folded together as if in contemplation.

“I am an Oldling, child of the Great Old One Hziulquoigmnzhah,” and the mad-eyed woman’s tongue lolled around the syllables, vocal cords struggling to sound out the consonants of a name never meant for human lips. “My father understood humans would be...discomforted by my presence growing up here, and thus, he assigned a Naka Spider to hide me, whom lived beneath the lake just north of us. A hunter killed her five days ago.”

“Oh, well, uh . . .” Yurbith said in a kind of daze. It wasn’t every day one spoke to an Oldling. Quite astounding they hadn’t been thought out of existence already, or vaporized, or turned into a pile of slugs, or whatever an Oldling could do. “My condolences.” Which were her most awkward condolences given.

“If you can find another Naka Spider,” the Oldling said through his mother, “I will gift you a dream dug from the shores of the Dreamlands.”

Yurbith couldn’t help but smile. A dream worth a thousand--no, a hundred thousand mundane human dreams, and it would likely taste all the more magnificent. And if the Oldling couldn’t be seen, then she could easily claim that she slew it, and collect the rest of Mister Grace’s payment plus surcharge. Ha, brilliant!

“Then I accept,” she said. “Where do I find a Naka Spider?”

Akash gaped at her as if she had done something insane.

“Not where. Whom,” the Oldling said. “Naka are not born spiders, but are women who’ve become enlightened and metamorphosed into spiders.”

“Well, that’s a bit more difficult,” and she watched Akash’s mouth twist into a worrisome frown, “but I’m certain we can do it.”

“I thank you, Hunter.” She thought she saw the Oldling nod its . . . tentacle disc head-thing. “And Mother, I apologize for my unclean hands. I will wash them right away.”

The mad-eyed woman’s shoulders drooped, her chin resting on her chest. Then shook herself, a look of pure relief on her face, and returned to her home as if nothing had happened.

Yurbith managed to not be jostled long enough to pin WANTED: NAKA SPIDER to the City of Freade’s Bulletin Post. In a city overflowing with denizens, someone of the occult would surely see this and point them to a Naka Spider.

While at it, she looked for any possible job postings, for the beasty hunting had been quite sparse these past few weeks. Which objectively was a good sign, but personally, if this continued, Akash and herself were going to have to toil in the fields as farmhands in the summer to make up the lack of income. Nothing like spending her summer covered in dirt, sweat, and bug bites.

Turning around, she nearly slammed into Akash.

“Ah!” she said, back stepped onto someone’s toes, which was met with a gruff snarl.

“You have to be careful,” she told Akash, raising her voice above the din, “this place is insane.”

Akash fought to keep his ground amongst the sea of bodies. “I saw some occultist enter The Witching Brew.”

“You certain?” And smacked away a hand’s attempt at pickpocketing. “Were they wearing those gaudy medallions and funny hats?”

Akash vigorously nodded before some burly shoulders swept him away.

Yurbith lunged and grabbed Akash by the collar of his coat, jerked him upright while accidentally smashing an elbow into someone’s backside. Several sets of eyes glowered down at her from a rather large frame.

“Uh,” she said, with some urgency, “get your elbows out and be ready to run.” Then swiftly turned heel and led the charge.

The occultists they’d met in The Witching Brew were full of next to useless information. Even after buying them a round of drinks, all they did was babble on and on about the magnificent weaving of illusion by Naka Spiders.

On the following day, Yurbith found that someone had torn down her ad! The lout! So, she placed another and kept watch across the street, placing her weathered tricorne over her face as if asleep. One did not tear down her ads and go unsmacked.

Shadows lengthened into evening, and the first of the devious will-o-wisps appeared. It was then that a crouched and cloaked person tore off her ad in passing. She charged at the fiend, and the fiend did run--or more like scuttle. But Yurbith was twice its height and faster, easily caught the fiend by the tail of its cloak.

It whipped around, made a terrible gnawing-hissing-chittering. Disturbing enough to stay Yurbith’s hand.

“What is wrong with you?” she said, trying (and failing) to see its hidden face. “How would you like it if I tore off your cloak?” And gave a good tug.

“Don’t!” it cried in a raspy voice.

The cloak ripped from her hands.

“What business do you have with a Naka Spider?” it said.

“First, it’s none of your business,” she had to raise her voice to be heard. “And second, if you know of one, tell me!”

“Hmph.” It was clear from the fiend’s uneasy movements that it wanted to get away from the conversation, but the crowd was much too thick to escape into.

“You must know,” she said. “Or maybe, you are one!”

Silence.

Yurbith continued, “What if I were tell you there’s an Oldling in need of a Naka Spider?”

“I can’t help you.” It spoke as if it longed for something lost; perhaps also disappointed.

“Why don’t we talk first before making any claims on one’s helpfulness. Yes?”

“Not here,” it said.

“Well, of course not here.” Was it even possible to have a proper conversation in this dreadful crowd?

Yurbith put her elbows out. “Follow me.”

She led the fiend to her room in the Haven Feather inn. This way, if the fiend tried to escape, she could cut it off in the narrow corridors. The room was dark and empty; Akash must still be running errands, or got distracted by a busty barmaid. She shook the cage hanging from the ceiling, and a dozen firemoths blazed to life.

“You didn’t seem the least surprised by the mention of Oldling,” she said, pulling two chairs out, “which means you’re knowledgeable of the occult and what they worship.”

The fiend climbed into the chair, sat hunched and crooked.

She continued, “And you don’t seem to like my ads.”

“I don’t like the reminder,” it said sharply.

Yurbith clenched her hands in excitement. “So you are a Naka Spider!”

“No!” it spat. “I . . . I didn’t complete the metamorphosis.”

Her arms fell limp to her sides. “Why not?”

“I lost it,” it said, quiet as a mouse. “My enlightenment.”

“Well, how do we get it back?”

“If I knew that, I would’ve done it already.” The fiend stared at its hands, the fingers much too long for the small palms. And from the bulges beneath the cloak, there was another set of hands in hiding. “I thought I could become one. But all Naka Spiders are seamstresses, and I’m a leather-worker. Was. I’m lucky if I get any work these days.”

“Would you be enlightened if I took you to the Oldling?”

“Enlightenment can’t be granted, and it isn’t a pep talk.” The fiend heaved a sigh. “It’s something . . . more.”

“Have you tried new experiences? Gone to new places?” she said, starting to sound like a dastardly salesman. “I hear that’s supposed to get one out of a rut.”

“I make a terrible seamstress, and I’ve no money to travel.”

“You can shadow me and my apprentice while we hunt some beasties. I’m sure you’ve never done that before.” Even though she didn’t have any jobs lined up. The closest, was one of the half-drunk occultists telling her of a town up north being plagued by some really big rats. One could make the argument that these were beasty rats, thus needing an expert beasty hunter to remove them.

A sigh seeped out from the hood, long and echoing and full of resignation.

“My name is Aila,” the fiend said, and for once, didn’t sound so fiendish.

“Ah, good.” Yurbith clapped her hands. “We’ll set out tomorrow on the train.”

The train screeched to a halt in the middle of the Wet-Dry Lands. Everyone lurched in their seats, and Akash caught her trunk before it crushed her. Hundreds of whispers arose from other compartments, asking questions, offering opinions, or voicing fears.

Aila sat across Yurbith and Akash, and had said very little since they met up this morning. The closest to conversation was Aila criticizing Yurbith’s greatcoat. “I thought those were your street clothes. I didn’t think you hunted in that,” as if embarrassed on Yurbith’s behalf. The nerve. And yes, there were permanent stains where beasty blood had sat for too long, the elbows a bit worn out, and stitching from close calls, but the greatcoat was comfortable and kept the cold out, and that was all that really mattered.

Yurbith had written to Mister Grace, stating she needed time to obtain a very special and very rare weapon guaranteed to slay the beasty, and that hiring another hunter would not only be unnecessary, but wasteful. Hopefully Mister Grace was the patient type. Though really, all he had to do was look the other way on Dunnich Road.

The conductor walked down the aisle, and several compartment doors opened to hear the news.

“I’m sorry folks,” the conductor said, “but we have to turn the train around. Something has torn up the tracks.”

Yurbith tugged on the conductor’s sleeve. He ignored her at first, but after a few hard tugs, he forced a smile in her direction.

“If it’s the work of a beasty,” she said, handing him a card. “Then I can be of assistance.”

The conductor flipped the card over, briefly looked her up and down, and shrugged. “If say you can get rid of it, then fine.”

“Well, there you have it, we have a job,” she said with a smile. Which meant they weren’t reduced to killing oversized rats.

The train tracks had certainly been “torn up”, as the conductor said. Pulverized, really. As if something big and nasty had smashed through. Yet, there were no footprints, no scrapes or gouges in the earth, absolutely no tracks of any kind.

Yurbith removed the spyglass from the trunk, surveyed the horizon. The land was flat and hard and desolate, with a great many pools of water, and the occasional down beaten tree. If there was a beasty, it should have been easy to spot. But no, nothing. Not even a bird flying across the moody grey clouds.

“It must be somewhere,” she said, exasperated, and tossed Akash the spyglass. “Unless it simply flew away.”

“Is that possible, Master?” Akash said with the spyglass pointed directly at the sky.

“Given the damage,” she said, looking back at the train tracks, “the beasty must be as big as a house. There would’ve at least been some reports of a beasty that size flying overhead.”

Then a thought came to her, pained her so, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ugh. Perhaps it floats, and has camouflage too.” In which case, they should abandon the job, and Mendeso & Co. Railway should rethink their routes.

“Let’s look around once more,” she said with a twirl of her wrist. “See if we missed anything.”

They passed Aila, who for this entire time, remained fixated on a pool of water. Was there something there that Aila saw and they didn’t? Yurbith took a cursory look, but it was nothing more than a muddy puddle.

“You’re welcome to help out,” Yurbith said to Aila.

Aila gave no indication she even heard Yurbith.

They widened their search a second time, because there had to be something they were missing. The moody clouds now grumbled at them, as if to say their search was taking too long and it would very much like them to leave. The horizon flashed white, blue, and violet to punctuate the point.

“Well, I’m stumped,” Yurbith said as herself and Akash returned to the trunk and Aila. A shame too, the pay would’ve been quite generous. Unfortunately, a stagecoach won’t be sent until the morning.

They went about setting up camp before the storm arrived. Aila, of course, sat by the pool, occasionally dipping her hands into the waters, and letting the droplets fall off her fingers and onto her face and open mouth. And at least once, Aila scooped up mud and ate it. Ack! Perhaps there was more wrong with Aila than a lack of enlightenment.

Several times during camp set-up, Yurbith tried to engage Aila in conversation, or to elicit some help. But Aila was in her own little world. For all the trouble they were going through on Aila’s behalf, Aila wasn’t even trying. Finally, Yurbith got up and stood over Aila.

“Care to share what has you so fascinated?” Yurbith said, her irritation barely on restraint.

Odd. There were bubbles floating to the top of the pool.

Yurbith continued, “Did you disturb a toad or--”

They both jumped at the crack of thunder, strong enough to cause the pool of water to shudder--only, it kept shuddering. The water rose and expanded, as if something was trying to come up. Aila muttered something incomprehensible. Yurbith ran for the trunk, threw open the lid, and grabbed her blunderbuss. She tossed to Akash his horseman’s pick before loading her pockets with bottles of kerosene and black powder.

Other pools of water were shuddering uncontrollably. An arm shot out from one of the larger pools, scrawny, long, and grey with three gnarled fingers and a giant claw for a thumb. Another arm. The water rose and rose and rose, then cascaded away. No head or neck; its hideous body began with a sticky wet maw full of sea urchin spines.

Aila stood stock still, staring at the beasty as it pulled itself from the pool. Without thinking, Yurbith grabbed the spider-woman, sent shivers up her arm. Aila’s arm was covered in prickly little black hairs.

“Go! Run! Hide somewhere!” Yurbith said.

Aila grunted resentment.

Well fine! It wasn’t her concern if Aila got eaten.

A line of kerosene was made, a lit match tossed. Boosh!--a wall of flame.

The beasty was quickly closing the distance; it tore across the landscape as if swimming underwater. Flame wall or no, the beasty showed no sign of slowing. She jerked Aila rightward of the beasty’s path, while Akash dragged the trunk left.

The flames were smothered beneath the beasty’s body, without growl, hiss, or hesitation. It smashed their tent, mere feet from Akash. The blunderbuss kicked in her hands, enveloped her in smoke, buckshot sprayed across the beasty’s side. Not a scratch.

The beasty turned its awful maw in her direction, its teeth glistened beneath the lightning streaked sky.

The smoke cloud bought her a few moments. She splashed through pools of water, found a dry patch of earth, and hastily poured black powder down the blunderbuss’ muzzle. It wasn’t going to do a damn thing, but so long as she kept the beasty distracted, Akash might find something suitable in their arsenal.

She jumped in her boots, spilled black powder, at another too-close lightning strike. She wondered . . .

“Akash!” she said, running. “Get the pike!”

A glimpse of grey.

She lunged, landed hard on her side. Swooosh! overhead as the beasty grabbed air.

From shoulder to shin, pain blossomed into thorns, halved her breathing. She scrambled, half stood. The beasty’s fist weighed immensely in her gaze.

The fist released, replaced by two flailing arms. A low gurgling screech seeped from its maw.

Buried deep in the beasty’s side was a pike. Dark purple fluid leaked from the wound.

Good boy!

She shot at the beasty to keep it from removing the pike. Their pike was entirely made of steel; for traveling practicality, the handle was assembled by screwing the pieces together. Quite the clever thing.

She covered her eyes, could see violet flash on the inside of her glove.

When she let her arm fall to her side, the beasty lay curled and contorted, struggling against paralysis. Its maw a wide open target.

Yurbith threw all of her homemade cherry bombs down its gullet; its putrid innards smoked back at them. To ensure it couldn’t harm them in death, she and Akash sawed off its arms. Then they removed about a dozen urchin fangs for potential buyers, though she fancied keeping one for herself to see if it could be crafted into a rapier. Or perhaps a pike, since they would be needing a new one.

Aila was transfixed by the beasty’s skin, kept running her hands along its ribbed sides. While they rested and ate, Aila produced leather craft tools from her cloak, spidered atop the corpse, then sliced and stripped large portions of skin. If Aila was going to be making a profit off their hard work, she should be giving them fifty-percent of the sale. But Yurbith was too exhausted to care, and instead, slept in a broken tent.

================================================================

Aila worked tirelessly, nonstop. It had been a long, long, long time since she’d worked a hide this wondrous. Thick enough to shrug off blunt objects, but not so thick to be inflexible. Rows of tiny thorns, only visible up close. And my, was it soft. Her fingers sought and thrilled at the touch.

She cut the pieces down to size, soaked them in boiling water, and meticulously molded them into the image in her mind’s eyes. The dry air and open fire quickly dried them into leather. She applied her oils, and the leather went from ash grey to a lovely shade of dark grey found in the edges of shadows.

At one point, her eyes were compelled to look upwards. The sky was dark as night-- No, it was night. What day was it? The fire was close to embers. The lightning no more than a memory.

The clouds parted, opening like a great eye, and she witnessed the stars, the dust, the spirals, the heat and the cold, the myriad of starts and ends.

Humbled to the core, she whispered to herself, “I have dreamed a thousand dreams, and I will dream a thousand more.”

Carefully, she set aside her work, and crawled into a pool of water.

=============================================================

They woke up and found Aila gone. Completely vanished.

“Wonderful!” Yurbith said, aggravated, and finding nothing better to do, kicked the beasty’s corpse. “We do all that, and she just leaves.”

“Why would she leave her tools behind?” Akash said, rolling up the sleeping bags.

“I don’t know.” She threw up her hands. “Maybe she suddenly changed occupations.”

Mister Grace couldn’t possibly wait any longer. She would be replaced, lose the rest of the payment, and forever agonize over the taste of a dream from the Dreamlands. If the next hunter hired killed the Oldling, he would be a right fool and should promptly hang himself.

She helped pack their belongings, except their only casualty: the tent. The stagecoach from Mendeso & Co. Railway should arrive for them any hour now.

From the corner of her eye, she saw ripples in a nearby pool. Oh no . . .

She flung open the trunk, searched for anything long and pointy.

Human hands grabbed the edges of the pool. Lots of them. Eight, to be precise. The water rose, trickled off the form of a giant black spider. An eerie glow emanated from beneath its abdomen and it had far more than the traditional eight eyes. It shook itself, took a few clumsy steps, unfamiliar with eight hands as feet.

The realization smacked Yurbith square between the eyes. A Naka Spider! How...? Oh, it didn’t matter. Their concern now was how to convince the stagecoach driver to take Aila the Naka Spider with them.

As they approached the Oldling, Yurbith wondered when Aila’s web of illusion would kick in. It would be most upsetting if Aila was the wrong kind of Naka Spider.

“Ah, good hunter,” the mad-eyed woman greeted them. “This must be her!”

Aila bowed on all eight legs.

“Thank you! Thank you!” The woman wiped tears from her mad eyes. “We’re so very, very pleased. Here.” From her apron pocket, she produced a small velvet box, far too fancy for her appearance and abode. She handed it to Yurbith, and inside was a dream sealed inside a quartz of unknown origin and appearance; the dream swam with ethereal colors that drew and teased the eye.

“Well, very good,” Yurbith said, trying her best to remain professional by hiding her smile.

She snapped the box closed before Akash could sneak a look. He was much too young to partake in dreams.

Aila turned to Yurbith with a paper-wrapped package in her hands. Where did that come from? And when did Aila have the time to even bother? They had been in quite a rush.

From the paper, Yurbith lifted a very, very nice greatcoat, the sort that would easily clean out her life savings. And in one of the pockets was a matching pair of gloves. She handed her old coat off to Akash, and tried the new one on. Perfect! It was the softest, most comfortable leather ever. The insides lined with spider silk and tiny thorns on the elbows--a dream come true!

While she was admiring the greatcoat, Aila chittered to Akash, “Return to me when you’re fully grown, and I’ll make you one too.”

Akash made a little pout.

They waved their good-byes, then Yurbith and Akash returned to their wagon. From the road, they could no longer see the Oldling’s silhouette bleeding through the trees.

END

© 2026 Siobhan Gallagher. All rights reserved. No part of this work shall be reproduced or distributed without author’s permission, this includes inputting the work into LLMs to create summaries.

Author note: If you see (Beasty Cycle) beside the title, that means it’ll be a Yurbith story. Treat these stories like you would a Saturday morning cartoon—a fun adventure, with bits of horror and giblets, that can be read in any order. Although some stories will have connective tissue between them, I aim to make these independent reads. Something you can jump into and jump out, whenever the mood suits you. Yurbith is one of my very favorite characters who has been with me for a long time, so I hope you enjoy her wild adventures.

Blunderbuss attribute.

Turnip Tip Jar

Riding in a wagon on their way back from Eatenberg, Turner the Turnip Whisperer and Nym the Nymph stopped at a peculiar phenomenon in an old, forgotten battlefield. From some kind of tear, although where this tear was located was unfathomable to comprehend, it was really more of the impression of a tear, oozed an otherworldly green light. The light had a way of sloughing off and pooling on the ground as a transparent, textureless puddle. Strange weeds sprouted around this uncanny puddle, fuzzy and delicate as moth antenni, yet from the spread of their unfurling tendrils, dark whispers could be heard. And the smell. Turner gagged before he got his breathing under control. The smell was somewhere between putrid rot and a bed of roses, and his olfactory couldn’t decide which, so it smashed the two scents together.

But lucky for Nym, she was very porous and could handle such nose-bashing smells.

“What--” Turner coughed, breathed through his sleeve, nostrils filling with the rich earth scent of his work as a turnip farmer.

“It’s a Veil Parting,” Nym said, nonchalant. “In places where it’s thin, such as a place of great tragedy and death, the Veil may come undone on its own.” Seeing the look of shock on Turner’s face, she quickly added, “It’s only temporary. When the Blood Moon rises, it’ll reknit the Veil.” A sweet laugh escaped her, and she placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “You see, Reality intends to remain whole.”

He matched her laughter with one of trembling nerves. This reality was already a great deal to bear, what with the idiots who couldn’t tell their arse from their head, the scammy merchants, and the arrogant knights, he didn’t need another reality’s mess coming through. If memory of his almanac proved reliable (which it was), then the next full moon would be a Blood Moon.

“So, we just wait?” he said above his sleeve.

Nym nodded. “After all, poking around may draw the attention of something unwanted.”

He swallowed hard. Well, he wasn’t one to poke the unknown, and lifted the reigns. A quick snap! and they were off.

It wasn’t long until they saw a lone figure in a heavy cloak with an oaken quarterstaff coming from the opposite direction. Must be a monk. It was getting close to that time of year where all the religious folk would go on a pilgrimage to Mount Baldy to fast, pray, and enjoy the hot springs.

“Oi!” Turner said, slowing the mules to a stop.

The figure looked up, the lip of his hood curled back to reveal a weathered face and a wispy beard.

“Good monk, I suggest taking another route,” Turner said, indicating the way he came. “There’s a nasty Veil Parting you might want to avoid.”     

The monk’s dark eyes briefly lit up before the heavy eyelids drooped as if the monk was falling asleep on the spot. His head bobbed in answer. “Thank you, good sir, for the warning.” The dry voice cracked thrice as if spoken from a desert. “May I have your name to keep you in my prayers?”

“Turner,” he said proudly, sitting straight. “Turner the Turnip Farmer. My turnips feed half the countryside, I daresay.”

Another bob of the head. “May your day be blessed, Turner.”

And the monk walked past, unchanging in his direction. Turner was about to correct the monk when Nym shushed him.

“He likely has wards,” she said. “I suspect he’s seen plenty in his time to prepare him for such run-ins.”

Turner nodded and they resumed their travel.

“Say,” Turner said, a note of hope, “you think he’ll tell the other monks about me?”

Nym could only laugh.

Some days later, Turner was arm-deep in a gopher hole, side of his face pressed to the rich earth of his turnip field. Ah! There! His fingers grazed a patch of fur. But no sooner did he try to grasp the little bugger, did a root lash at him. He sucked in a pained breath, jerked his arm out of the hole. The roots followed, poking out, shaking dirt as they swish-swished in a manner befitting a disciplinary schoolmistress.

“All right, I’m sorry, Queen,” he said to his prized and most-beloved turnip.

He wanted to save at least one gopher from his turnips, but it seemed they were intent on having protein this day. Rest in peace gopher family.

Muttering a few choice words as he examined the angry mark on his forearm, a smell hit him. He gasped, gagged, smothered his nose and mouth with his hands. Through tears, he recognized the otherworldly green light, smaller than he’d seen before, but was unmistakably oozing onto the northmost corner of his field.

The turnips, curious roots that they were, unearthed themselves, and using taproots, dragged rough purple bodies and bright green stalks near to the spontaneous Veil Parting.

“Hey!” Turner started, one arm waving while he breathed into the crook of his elbow. “Get away from there! Git! Git!”

A wave of mutterings and sighs issued from the turnips, and after a few more earnest pleas, the stamping of his foot, and a bit of bargaining, the turnips returned to their plots. Fumbling one-handed with a few straggling turnips, he half-turned to see Nym dance-running across the field, for she always moved lightly on her toes.

“This is terrible,” she said, jaw trembling, her forest green eyes locked onto the Veil Parting. “I’ve never known them to spread.”

Eyeing his field with a sense of wary unease, he supposed his farm might be considered a place of great tragedy and death.

“Tonight is the Blood Moon,” he said between breaths. “We just need to hold tight.” Then he looked to all the turnips. “Understand?”

A rustling of stalks answered him.

But it wasn’t just his farm that was affected. When Turner went into the local village to buy some extra strong incense, unrest was in the air--and that smell. A Veil Parting had appeared near the stables, forcing the villagers to relocate horses, mules, and donkeys. If it could be helped, everyone remained indoors, whether that was homes, or holed up in the Krone Hed’s Tahvurn (the tavern owner was not one for spelling).

The priest Father Jacobson, with unfurling scrolls of sacred text pinned to his robes, and dual-wielding thuribles of rosemary and sandalwood, confronted the Veil Parting . . . and had to be dragged away by a stable boy, having passed out before completing a single verse.

Turner found a frazzled Constable Grimms trying to reassure some newly arrived merchants that no, their village wasn’t cursed, it just stunk. A robed figure with a quarterstaff accompanied the merchants. Curious, very curious, but Turner pulled his attention away to speak with the constable about the situation; and it appeared the constable was willing to hear anyone out, even the likes of Turner whom most villagers regarded as “odd”.

That was when something flopped out of the Veil Parting.

It was a smear of oily purple, muted of vibrance, that shuddered and heaved and took shape. It gained dimension, filled out, recognizable shapes emerged--meaty starfish arms, but in place of suckers, were dozens of human hands. Crablike, it skittered left to right, then right to left, as if testing this new form. Its bulging central mass rippled as arms one after another slapped the ground, paused, then skittered rightward, disappearing behind the stables.

Slowly, Turner and Constable Grimms exchanged looks, and Turner saw his own wide-eyed, slack jaw expression reflected in the older man’s face. A shiver took hold, spread to neck and limbs, and once he’d thoroughly shaken himself out, did his senses flood back. The smell nearly sent him reeling. A breeze cooled the sweat on his brow. There were muted wails coming from behind doors, the howling of dogs, and the heel-turn of the merchants as they led their mules and carts away.     

Then, the sharp stab of panic.

His turnips! And he raced past the merchants.

He heard the chaos as he huffed up the hill. The crack and tear of earth, the rustle of roots, followed by a strange gurgling screech that came from no ordinary throat, and made his teeth itch. He caught the tail end of the short-lived fight; it’d been a similar eldritch creature that’d flopped out of the Veil Parting in the village, of course, now it was in pieces, and those pieces were melting into oil-based goo. The goo sat for a moment, slowly pooling into gaps and grooves, before finally sinking into the ground, leaving ugly purple stains across the turnip field.

Turner bent over, hands on his knobby knees, a sigh of relief leaving his lips. How silly of him to ever be worried.

He started when Nym flung her arms around him; her soft-footed approach had gone unnoticed. Her warm cheek pressed against his, and he had to gulp down embarrassment to keep from melting just like that thing.

“Oh, I’m so glad it’s over,” and Nym’s voice sang out her sigh.

He took in a cooling breath and nodded. But something in his gut told him otherwise. The turnip stalks were rustling in agitation, turnips were dragging themselves away from the scene of the crime, and even his beloved Turnip Queen had unearthed herself--something she rarely did--and was using her trunklike tap root to push mounds of dirt over the offending stains.

Nym sensed it too as they both stared. His gazed hardened, his jaw locked.

Movement under the soil--and it wasn’t the turnips. In a spray of dirt, a skeletal hand shot out. Then another and another and another. Skulltops pushed through the crust, the rattle of grit falling out rib cages, the grind and scrape of bone against bone as skeletons stood, imbued with an unearthly purple glow, the oil-based goo serving as joints and tendons.   

From the scraps of clothes clinging to dirty bones, Turner recognized the unmerry band of bandits who’d attacked the village; and there was the merchant who years ago, tried to swindle Turner, its mouth full of tarnished silver teeth; and a few local drunks, still clutching the iron bands that once cinched their tankards.

Nym squeezed the breath from his lungs, and he gasped for air--and regretted it, for the foul taste of death clung to his tongue.

The Turnip Queen brought her fearsome taproot down on the recently revived--a great THUD rocked Turner. Bones flew in all directions. A skull rolled here, a femur tumbled there. But the goo remained intact; it jerked the bones together like the strings of marionettes, making the skeletons whole once more. The low rumblings of the Turnip Queen’s displeasure were felt through the earth.

Turner broke out in a sweat. This was bad. Very, very bad. He’d never known a force that couldn’t be pulverized by the Turnip Queen.

The skeletons lurched, unsteady in their gait, but persistent as an ox pulling the plow. One skeleton, its tattered bandanna draped over a collarbone, marking it a former bandit, turned sharply in Turner’s direction, its empty eye sockets burning into him. Its jaw fell open as if in silent scream--which made him want to scream.

A pair of outstretched skeletal hands lunged for him. Nym, with her faster reflexes, yanked him out of harm’s way, and the skeleton bandit crashed to the ground. Even in its prone state, its jaws snap-snapped at his boots, forcing Turner to dance away. Turner grimaced. So the dead did hold grudges.

The skeleton stopped, jerked up, and got on its feet to join the other skeletons as they moved as a unit towards the village.

Turner shook himself, let out a breath, his nerves still jumping from the close call. But he couldn’t just let the dead walk off like that. Technically, they were his problem. He looked to Nym who nodded, then he faced the turnip field.

“Turnips,” he said, loud and clear, “I know this is a big favor to ask, but we need to stop those skeletons, at least until . . .” He raised his face. The sky was growing dark, but the Blood Moon had yet to peak out from behind the hills. He was really hoping all this weirdness would end once the Veil Partings closed.

There was a round bargaining between him and the turnips, which ended with him promising to repaint the barn and add a new layer of mulch, with Nym sweetening the deal by offering to fetch mineral water from a sacred spring.         

The turnips rolled out, losing leaves and breaking stalks as they tumbled and bounced past Turner. He winced and rubbed his shins where a few turnips had knocked into him--and he didn’t think it wasn’t entirely by accident either. The turnips spread out as they picked up speed going downhill. Nym swiftly kept up while Turner lagged behind, pausing so his poor lungs could take a breath.

The skeletons had made good progress while he was haggling with the turnips; they were drawing close to the borders of the near-unrecognizable village, now enveloped by madness. Thick, black smoke was rising from the burning stables, and with it, a myriad of cries, wails, and screams. The eldritch starfish that’d flopped out of the Veil Parting was now eight separate arms, each one skittering up to homes, crawling up the door, then knocking obsessively with its dozens of hands. A skeleton horse was charging up and down the village’s main road, and from the debris lying about, it’d already smashed through any attempts to stop it.

Constable Grimms sat atop a roof of straw, knees drawn up and clutching his cudgel, while Father Jacobson was outside the tavern, clouded by the smoke of his thuribles as he spun them about himself, calling out verses.

The skeletons were caught by a wave of turnips, flattening them into the earth; but once the wave of turnips had passed, just as before, the skeletons rose back up, whole, and trudged onward. Where in all the dark regions were they going?

As they crossed into the village, Nym stopped mid-step, looked down, made a face, and shook a strange residue clinging to her toes. Turner dragged his boot across the line of residue. It looked like a mixture of rust and salt--and he squinted in the dimming light, trying to make out how far this line went. And was that . . . a figure? He squinted harder. It was! A bent-over figure with quarterstaff tucked under one arm, pouring something out of a sack.

An ear-shattering scream jerked his attention toward a house. The skeletons were breaking down the door that had moments ago been knocked upon by an eldritch starfish arm.

“Turnips!” He pointed.

The turnips regrouped, and rolled towards the skeletons. Even if the turnips couldn’t stop the skeletons, knocking them flat would interrupt the break-in progress. Buy them some time to get to the bottom of this madness.

At Turner’s approach, the figure dropped the sack and took up his quarterstaff in both hands.

“Aren’t you the monk from before?” Turner said, then indicated to the residue. “What is all this?”

“Leave me be,” the monk’s dry voice cracked, and he shifted into a fighting stance, quarterstaff end pointed at Turner. “I don’t have much time to finish the ritual.”

“Ritual? Like--”

“It’s not a good ritual,” Nym interjected, standing beside him. “I think he intends to sacrifice the entire village.”

His jaw went slack, his mind blanked. Sure, he’d dealt with terrible humans before, but nothing on this depraved level. Fat, ugly guilt wormed into his thoughts, for the monk must’ve chosen the village based on Turner’s proud proclamation.   

“Be gone with you, strange woman,” the monk said, sending out a threatening jab. “I have traveled all the lands in search of a Veil Parting, and I was told by the voices from the Otherside, that I would receive great power in exchange for a great sacrifice.”   

“Oh, so you’re an evil monk!” Turner blurted out.

The whoosh! of the staff as it nearly connected with Turner’s head. He stumbled, a spike of pain as his knee hit the ground. To his horror, Nym stepped forward.

The quarterstaff stopped mid-swing, a mere inch from Nym’s head.

The monk grunted in surprise.

Nym smiled serenely. “You dare use oak against a Daughter of the Woods?” And upon touching the staff, oak leaves burst forth.

The monk dropped the staff before his own hands were caught in the leaves. In the darkness of his hood, the impression of a lip curled in disgust. His voice called out, a word so foreign and strange, it punched Turner right in the eardrums.

The skeleton horse pivoted, charged right for them.

Nym took him by the wrist and they both ran. Unrestrained by biology, the skeleton horse was already on their hides. Their best chance was to climb a roof as the constable had done.

They reached the low corner of a home, and he gave Nym a boost. But as she climbed, the thatching came loose, and by the grace of nymph reflexes, she landed without harm.

The thundering of hooves was all too near.

Wait--no. That thundering sound wasn’t hooves!

Barely outlined by the emergence of the moon, was the rolling mass of the Turnip Queen. Turner and Nym ducked leftward, mere moments before the Turnip Queen smashed into the horse and sent its bones flying toward a distant star. Then the Turnip Queen smashed through the corner of the house they’d just tried to climb, flattened a row of fences, reduced a shed to splinters, and demolished all concern of the aflamed stables.

Turner’s heart dropped. The Turnip Queen was too close to the Veil Parting.

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” He chased after, waving his arms like a furious goose.

The strange light of the Veil Parting wobbled as the Turnip Queen rolled past. A deafening silence captured the air, even his own breathing didn’t reach his ears. For a loooooong moment it held, a strangling presence, before a whisper tore through. Wincing, Turner clamped his hands over his ears. But the whisper grew, not in volume, but in numbers—a cacophony of unintelligible whispers overlapping one another.

The light from the Veil Parting bulged and swelled to the size of a house, pinched itself off from the parting; formless, it hovered above the ground, its surface rippling with each and every whisper.

The formless thing shifted to the rumbling of the Turnip Queen as she returned. “Queen, no!” Turner wanted to say aloud, but all he could do was whimper.

The Turnip Queen stopped before the formless thing, and it appeared the two were sizing up one another. A rash of tremblings took hold of Turner. He couldn’t bear to see what happened next, and yet, he couldn’t turn away either.

The massive stalks of the Turnip Queen waved, and in a surprise move, offered one to the formless thing. From the formless thing, an armlike appendage formed, and gently took the stalk within its grasp. The Turnip Queen then fanned herself, much like a courtly lady teasing a suitor.

Dumbstruck, Turner blinked. Was he seeing this right? Was the Turnip Queen actually flirting?

Turner spun around at the stomping of feet. The evil monk!

“Great One,” the monk croaked. “Great One, I have prepared the ritual.”

Turner squared himself to stop the monk--only to be shoved aside with enough force to cough up a breath. How was an old man stronger than him?!

The monk fell to his knees before the formless thing, clasped hands raised and shaking. “I did it! I did it! Please, Great One, grant me--”

WHAM!

The sheer force popped Turner’s ears. He shook his head, rubbed at the base of ears, and wondered if he would ever hear again. When he looked up-- Gasp! All that remained of the monk was a pair of legs, still bent at the knees, that ended in fleshy, bloodless thigh-stumps.

The burning tickle of bile rose.

And so too did the Blood Moon.

The formless thing made beckoning gestures as it stretched itself towards the parting. The Turnip Queen slowly rolled after.

“Queen, wait!”

Forgetting that just a moment ago, there’d been a perfectly whole monk who’d gotten too close, Turner ran up to his beloved, prized turnip.

“You’re not actually going to leave, are you?”

The Turnip Queen’s leaves rustled a sigh, before one stalk bent low to give him a pat on the head.

“Well, if this makes you happy,” he said, disheartened, blinking back tears.

The Turnip Queen did a little shimmy and followed the quickly vanishing formless thing. And soon . . .

And soon . . . 

The Blood Moon made its ascent, sometimes called the Scab Moon, for it looked like the night sky had grown a scab; red-hued moonlight flooded the land, and for a moment, it seemed they’d been transported to another world, one that worshiped a crimson sky. The skeletons collapsed into a pile of bones, the eldritch starfish arms writhed beneath the moonlight, burning and peeling away into nothingness. The strange light from the Veil Parting shrank, smaller and smaller and smaller . . . Gone. The air once again smelled clean and fresh.

The relief was palatable. Villagers cracked open doors, before opening them wide to quietly observe the aftermath. A few drunks stumbled out of the tavern and toppled over Father Jacobson, who’d made himself dizzy and fallen right on his arse.

Nym and Turner joined in a hug and laughed, with Turner laughing harder for he didn’t want Nym to see him crying.

After Constable Grimms was helped off the roof, he approached Turner, still pale and shaking, but smiling.

“Th-thank you, Turner,” and the constable clasped Turner’s shoulder, likely more to steady himself than out of companionship, “you’ve truly proven yourself with your weird ways.”

Turner maintained his smile despite the half-assed compliment, and nodded his thanks.

The constable continued, “And thank you, Miss--erm--”

“Nym.” She gave a little curtsy.

“Ah, yes, thank you Miss Nym.” And the constable’s gaze lingered a good deal longer on Nym than Turner’s would’ve liked.

The villagers still had a look of uncertainty about them, while some complained all-too loudly of the damages, because apparently, surviving this terrible night was more of an afterthought. Frowning, Turner turned away, tried not to think about how much the repairs would cost. He supposed they’d let him know soon enough. With the turnips trailing behind, Turner and Nym returned to the farm.

The very next morning, there was the rustle of excitement from the turnips. With a yawn, and sleep still in his eyes, Turner opened the door of his farmhouse. He gasped. What was this? He squatted and looked through the pile of gifts. Loaves of bread, jams, cheeses, a horseshoe (that one puzzled him), some new working gloves, and more. The turnips were already calling dibs on the jams.

Emotions swelled within his chest, and came flowing out of his eyes. He sniffled, blew snot into his sleeve, and felt Nym come up from behind to give him a hug.

“See? You were worried over nothing,” Nym said over his shoulder. “They truly appreciate you.”

He nodded, sniffled again, throat too constricted for words. There was still an empty space in his heart where the Turnip Queen had once occupied, and perhaps one day--

That strange light returned at the edge of his field. His breath held and the turnips clustered around him.

Something flopped out.

He exchanged looks with Nym as they both waited . . . and waited and waited. The strange light had long dissipated. With a hard swallow, he nodded to himself, drawing up courage. He couldn’t just sit here all day wondering ‘what it’. If it was something needing to be dealt with, better to do it now. At least there were no more bodies (that he was aware of) buried in his field.

Together with Nym and the turnips, Turner walked out to the field. As he drew near, his heart lifted. It was a giant turnip stalk! He rushed over, found withered flowers peeling off from fully developed seed pods the size of his arm. In his excitement, he reached out-- But stopped himself. The seed pods were imbued in that haunting purple aura.

“Do you think,” he said, facing Nym, who visibly shared his unease with knitted brow and small frown, “it’s safe to plant these?”

END   

© 2026 Siobhan Gallagher. All rights reserved. No part of this work shall be reproduced or distributed without author’s permission, this includes inputting the work into LLMs to create summaries.

Author note: Definitely wearing my influences on my sleeves with this one. This is closer in tone and style to my Beasty Cycle/Yurbith stories, which makes sense as that’s what I’ve been writing these past years. I had mentioned in “Of Turnips and Maidens” of a Plants vs Zombies style story that I never got around to doing. This is a very different version to what I would’ve written back then, if I had pursued the idea then instead of now. But that’s rather fitting, seeing as each of Sam Raimi’s Evil Deads has a style and tone of their own.

And good news! If you liked this, you’ll likely enjoy my Beasty Cycle/Yurbith stories, which I describe as a combination of Robert E. Howard’s Conan the Barbarian and the video game Bloodborne--and that’s not as strange as you might think, as the original Conan tales are in the Cthulhu Mythos.

Special thanks to , , , and for encouraging me to write another turnip tale. Will there be more? Who knows! But I’m always open to ideas.

If you want to help me build a turnip army of my own, please consider:

Buy me a turnip

Want more turnips?

The blade surged forward, more lightning than steel. The very air went dense with static. Izo tumbled more than dodged, leaped quickly to his feet, but found his balance off. There on the ground was his right forearm, clawed fingers clenching his katana.

“No,” he gasped, throat suddenly dry. This couldn’t be real, just couldn’t. He didn’t feel anything missing. Eyes squeezed shut, he used his left hand to probe where his right forearm should be. His hand came away wet. He put two clawtips to his mouth, tasted iron and salt.

Only then did he cry out.

“That was sloppy of you,” Master Takumi said, wiping his bladed forelimb on his hakama. He resumed his praying posture as if nothing had occurred; no expression on his mantis-face.

Izo clutched his stump. With the realization came a throbbing so intense it made him dizzy, took all his effort to keep standing. In the forest background, something snickered.

“You should sit down,” Master Takumi said.

“Why?!” he yelled through clenched teeth.

Master Takumi tilted his head. “Why sit down?”

“No! My arm!”

Master Takumi took a moment to acknowledge the missing limb. “It’ll grow back.”

“Painfully,” Izo muttered.

“Better pain than death.” Master Takumi moved in slow, deliberate steps. The large sleeves of his kimono hid his deadly forelimbs. In less than a blink, he snatched up the fallen forearm, pried the katana from its grip and handed it to Izo, hilt first. “Now you can practice with your left arm.”

Izo wiped his hand on his chest before grudgingly accepting the sword. The snickering grew louder, more irritating, as if humiliation wasn’t enough.

“Your master has been too soft on you,” Master Takumi said. “No student of mine would stumble like that.”

Izo weighed the katana in his left hand, found his balance wanting. He wanted more than anything to cleave that mantis-face in two. His master had insisted he visit Master Takumi, that his swordsman training wouldn’t be complete without a mantis’ teachings. Ha! Now what good was he? It would be weeks before his arm grew back, and all he had was practice with his left arm. He hoped his master choked on his sake tonight.

And that damnable snickering. Why wouldn’t it stop?

“Shut up!” he yelled.

Silence, then-- Blinding white. He stood petrified with fear, forgetting his lost arm as heat passed over him. Oh gods, don’t let it be an ill omen! He’d had enough bad luck for today.

The light died. Vision returned slowly through tears and black spots. A ball of white fire hovered over Master Takumi’s shoulder. Izo pointed with his katana, but found no words; his jaw worked around a tongue gone dry.

“It’s just an onibi,” Master Takumi said. “It likes to have its fun.”

Within the onibi’s sphere, shadowy faces flickered--a mournful expression, a look of terror. Izo took a step back, careful not to stare directly at the onibi. Rumor had it an onibi could suck a soul clean from a body that got too close, and in no way was he going to confirm this.

“Little lizardling doesn’t seem to like me,” the onibi said between chuckles.

Little?! The nerve of this ball of noxious spirits! If he had both his arms . . .

“That’s enough,” Master Takumi said. “If you will, please go to Izo’s village and inform Master Kenta that his pupil will be staying with me for the night.”

“What? I didn’t agree--” He winced at the stabbing pain, had to sheath his sword and clutch at the stump.

“Your wound needs to be cleaned and dressed. I won’t send you back bleeding all over.” This brought another wave of snickering. Master Takumi shooed the onibi. “Go on.”

“Very well, I’ll return shortly. You promised me tea, after all.”

“Only if you heat the water.”

The onibi winked out, leaving behind a burning afterimage.

As they walked to Master Takumi’s hut, avoiding rocks, fallen branches, or anything else that might trip him, Izo said, “You keep strange company.”

“All company is strange,” Master Takumi said, “yours included.”

Izo nearly spilled his tea when he heard the news from the onibi.

“What do you mean it’s gone?” he hissed.

“Vanished. Gone. Nothing.” The onibi hovered over the tea pot, extended flame tendrils to lift the lid. “Oooh, lovely smelling green tea.”

“With jasmine.” Master Takumi sat across from Izo, tea cup held by fingers protruding from the joint above his bladed limb.

Izo slammed his cup down, sloshing hot liquid all over his hand. “Ah! Dammit!” He shook his hand. Bad luck indeed. Fuun must’ve visited him in his sleep last night.

The onibi rolled around, laughing.

Izo threw his cup at the obnoxious fireball--missed, cup smashed on the back wall. “Shut up! I’m tired of you. You are either lying or the worse prankster ever.”

Master Takumi gently set his cup down, breathed a sigh. “I understand your concern, Izo. We’ll investigate in the morning.”

“In the morning?! That might be too late! We have to go--” A sharp pain erupted from his left shoulder. The world spun, blackened, came back into focus with an awful throb, as if his back was being massaged with hot coals.

Master Takumi stood over him in his prayer position. “You need to calm down. We’ll go in the morning. Right now, rest.”

Rest, ha. How could he rest with all this pain? Or with the thought that his village might be gone?

The onibi seemed to have a solution to this: it blew itself up to half his size, and within its flame was the silhouette of a female--he wasn’t certain what kind, but pleasing to the eye. The silhouette danced, rhythmic steps, curves swaying, arms spread, ready to embrace.

There was a girl with pretty ebony eyes and scales of teal back in his village, and he imagined being wrapped snug in her arms. It made the pain a bit more bearable as he daydreamed into sleep.

As Master Takumi said, they set off in the morning. What Master Takumi didn’t say was that the onibi would be tagging along.

“Why is that coming?” Izo asked, pointing a claw at the soul-sucking fireball.

“Why not?” the onibi said, circling both him and Master Takumi. “I’m just as curious. After all, it’s not every day that a village disappears.”

“I see no harm in this,” Master Takumi said, and resumed their walk along the trail.

Izo gritted his teeth, but said nothing. He already hurt enough, didn’t want to start an argument that would end with him on his back.

The walk took the better part of the morning, but it already felt like afternoon with the sun bearing down. His grass hat didn’t provide enough shade to keep him cool. By late morning they’d made it to the hill that guarded his village. It was far too steep for him to climb with his one-armed balance, so they took the long way around.

“On any other day I would make you climb that hill,” Master Takumi said.

“Why does it have to be another day? Today is as good as any other,” the onibi chimed in, and Izo swore he saw a smirk in its flames.

“Don’t you have someone else to bother?” he growled at the onibi.

“You’re just grouchy.”

Maybe now would be a good time to practice with his left hand--the onibi was certainly within sword’s reach. How unfortunate that out of habit, he was wearing his katana on his left.

“Does it seem quiet?” Master Takumi said.

It did. Even on a day of prayer there were wheels grinding, trickling water, squawking chickens and grunting pigs. But now it was only the breeze and the rustling of grass. Izo charged ahead. It couldn’t be true, the onibi had to be lying.

Beyond the hill the ground was completely blank, as the village had been erased from existence. Izo ran; feet stomping, eyes watering, pain searing his side. Like his arm, he had to reach out, to feel that it really wasn’t there.

He collapsed where once had been a barn, shuddering, gasping. Gone! All of it. Friends, family, even Master Kenta. What was he supposed to do? What--

A strong grip lifted him by his good arm, forced his mouth open to pour water down his throat. He gagged, coughed, sputtered most of it out. When he could stand straight again, Master Takumi was in his prayer posture.

“You were overheated.” Master Takumi indicated the empty water gourd at his feet.

Izo shook his head, gaze downcast. Couldn’t bear the sight of this barren land. Oh gods, why? The weight in his chest was too much, the pain too great. He sank to the ground, trying not to cry before Master Takumi. All he could do was hang his head between his drawn-up legs.

Master Takumi grabbed his left foot and jerked it up.

“Hey!” He struggled, flailing his arm to keep from falling over.

Master Takumi scraped some jelly residue from the sole of his foot, put it to his mandibles. “Slug magic,” he murmured, then released Izo’s foot.

“Slugs? Really?”

Master Takumi nodded. “They always leave a trail.”

“But why my village? We’ve never harmed them!”

“They’re the lowliest of life forms. They have no reason save spite.” Master Takumi straightened up, looked about. “We must go back for my salts.”

“But my village!”

“The slugs likely have it, them and their wicked sorcery. Only thing to overcome such taint is salt. I know.”

Izo sat there, speechless. Things were happening so fast. Just yesterday he had two arms! Now his village might be in the slimy hands of slugs, and Master Kenta hadn’t taught him how to fight mollusks. What good was he?

“Stop moping. Come.” Master Takumi reached out.

As much as he resented the words, they were true: sulking wouldn’t help. Still, he wanted this to be a dream, to wake up and find all his limbs intact and a village to go home to.

As he took the outstretched limb the onibi whizzed past, nearly knocking him over. Everything seemed intent on putting him down today. Grumbling, he stood with Master Takumi’s help.

The onibi bobbed frantically, intent expressions within its flame. “Something’s changed.”

“What do you mean?” Master Takumi asked.

The onibi didn’t answer, and in its silence, Izo became aware how still the air was, how the sun wasn’t as hot, that the day felt more late afternoon than late morning. What was going on?

“Come,” Master Takumi said with more urgency, tugging on Izo’s good arm.

Izo nodded, joined Master Takumi as they rounded the hill and--smack! He staggered back, felt like he’d been punched in the face and chest. Master Takumi recovered first, extended his forelimbs till some invisible barrier stopped him, then drew himself up, bladed forelimbs ready to attack. Where he’d struck the barrier, shimmering slash marks soon faded.

“We’re trapped!” Izo cried.

“Shush. I’m thinking.” Master Takumi went into his prayer posture.

The onibi rammed full force into the barrier, and splattered into a hundred flaming fragments. The scattered flames crawled back together, squirmed into a ball. “That,” it muttered, “was a terrible idea.”

“So what are we to do?” Izo asked.

“Start digging,” the onibi grumbled.

“I wasn’t asking you.” He glared up at the stupid fireball. “Why don’t you try burning us a hole?”

“Quiet, you two,” Master Takumi said. He tapped along the barrier, seeking a gap. It was as good an idea as any and Izo joined in. His claws brushed against solid nothingness, sent a static shrill up his arm. What odd magic, and for what purpose? Why trap them?

And for that matter, why take his village?

He stopped to watch the onibi bounce along the barrier. This had all started with the onibi’s message--or was it bait? Then it had followed them for the weakest of reasons--or was it making sure they fell into the trap? Maybe it was waiting till he and Master Takumi were too tired and weak to fend off a soul-sucking fireball.

He side-stepped over to Master Takumi and whispered, “I think the onibi has tricked us.”

“Why would you say that?” Master Takumi didn’t turn his way, or even pause in his tapping.

“How can we trust the onibi? It eats souls.”

“And you think the onibi is working with the slugs.”

“Yes.”

“Possible, but . . .”

“What?”

Master Takumi touched his stump, making him wince. “Bandages are wet.”

“I don’t care.” He pulled away. “Could you at least take me seriously?”

“Your seriousness would divide us when we need to work together. Your master has failed to teach you this point.”

“At least Master Kenta never cut my arm off,” Izo said through gritted teeth, his remaining hand balled into a fist.

“If we ever get out of here and find your village, perhaps I’ll discuss teaching techniques with Master Kenta. Till then, let’s not fight each other.”

“I’m not fighting,” Izo hissed. “I just want to know. Tell me why the onibi can be trusted!”

“The onibi doesn’t require the help of slugs to suck our souls. It can do that whenever it wants.”

“Then why us? Why my village?”

“Not us. Me.”

“What?”

“I suspect this was a trap for me. They knew you had come to me for training, so they kidnapped your village to draw me out.”

“So this is your fault?!”

“Calm--”

Izo rammed his fist into the barrier, instead of into Master Takumi. Searing agony seized his arm. He lost all awareness of his body, just him and his arm floating in a fiery abyss. Senses returned slowly, his screaming became a hoarse croak. The barrier had gelled around his fist and it was crawling quickly up his arm.

Master Takumi was poised to chop his arm off.

“No!” Izo pulled and yanked, but his arm was trapped.

He didn’t see it happen--maybe he blinked--but now Master Takumi’s forelimbs were caught in the gunk. Worse, Master Takumi was pushing into it. Izo struggled back as Master Takumi was drawn in, then through. Master Takumi popped from the barrier in his own isolated bubble, posed in prayer. Master Takumi was brave, Izo would give the mantis that much.

A dark form emerged from the nearby forest, moving with all the slowness of a dead mule. Of course it was a slug, the slimy bastard. Master Takumi’s bubble rolled to face the slug, and the slug’s black maw flapped open and closed as it laughed.

When the slug threw back its cloak, Izo saw that it wore a medallion around its fat no-neck. No, not a medallion. A globe with a miniature village--his village!

He pushed with his right side against the barrier, as if his very rage could break through, but all he did was twist his stuck arm. His bloody bandages smeared the barrier, stump bleeding anew. A dizziness fell over him.

“What are you doing making a mess when Master Takumi is in trouble?” the onibi said from above.

“Shut up!” He leaned his forehead against the barrier, now oddly cool, trying to keep from passing out. The barrier was sizzling where his blood had touched it. He felt the faintest breeze... was his blood weakening the barrier? He pressed his stump against it--a wave of heat, sound of a thousand hornets buzzing in his ear--he pressed and bled and bled some more. The barrier spit and popped like water on hot coals. A breeze! He could feel it on the other side.

The onibi flicked a tendril out to capture a drop of blood, withdrew both tendril and blood into itself. “Salty.”

“How about helping?” Izo grumbled, wiggling his trapped arm.

“Oh, all right.”

The onibi lapped up blood directly from his stump--Izo cringed, expecting it to burn, but it tickled like goose feathers. Then the onibi spat the blood all over the gunk around his arm, and within moments the gunk sizzled off, and he was free!

Izo shook melting gunk from his left arm, and switched his sheathed sword to his right side.

“Better hurry, before the slug notices us,” the onibi said.

Izo looked up to see the slug’s tentacle eyes staring at them from over Master Takumi’s bubble. Crap! He clumsily drew his sword and winced as he touched the blade to his stump. A cry bubbled at the back of his throat; he choked it down, blinked back tears. His red-stained sword slashed the barrier, two, three, four times, hard and harder.

The slashes shimmered, sizzled, fell away. Fresh air blew in. Sword raised, he charged.

The slug muttered something unintelligible and threw up its arms. Izo tripped, sword went flying, smacked his chin on the dusty ground. Couldn’t pull his legs apart. The gunk was around his ankles!

Quick! He needed to hack it off. But his sword was out of reach. The slug oozed closer.

Fireball and sword flashed before him. The slug screeched and split right down the middle.

Exhaustion weighed Izo like a heavy blanket. He had to be jarred awake by Master Takumi, who helped him up.

“Well done,” Master Takumi said, and Izo’s heart lifted. “Sloppy, but resourceful.”

The onibi delivered him his sword and Izo asked, “Why didn’t you suck the slug’s soul?”

“Slug souls? Eck! No thanks.”

Then he remembered. “Did you see the slug wearing a globe around its neck?”

Master Takumi nodded and produced the globe from his sleeve. “Not sure how they shrunk your village. Their sorcery seems to be getting stronger.”

“Let me see that,” the onibi said, tendrils extended.

Izo was about to object--handing an entire village-worth of souls to that thing?!--but the onibi had saved him; and besides, it probably couldn’t get at the souls inside.

The onibi examined the globe and said, “Ah, I know of a yōkai who knows a yōkai who could reverse this. Free of charge if I call in a favor.”

“That would be appreciated,” Master Takumi said, bowing. And after a stern look from the mantis, Izo also bowed.

“Only if you make more tea.”

“There’ll always be a pot reserved for you.” Master Takumi then turned to Izo. “I could also reserve a spot to train you, Izo. You would make an excellent slug slayer.”

Slug Slayer . . . The title had a catchy ring to it, though he wasn’t sure if he’d even survive Master Takumi’s training.

“I’m honored, Master Takumi. But, uh, let me think on it after my arm grows back.”

“Very well. Let’s head back before anymore damnable slugs appear.”

The onibi raced on ahead while Master Takumi half-carried Izo. Slug Slayer, he thought dreamily. The girl with the teal scales would probably find that attractive, the sort of thing a lizard could carve a legacy out of. Yes, he looked forward to that, along with his right arm.

END

Originally published December 2015 in Fiction Vortex

Author’s note: In addition to being published, my story was also in a contest being ran by Fiction Vortex, where the winner’s story would go on to become a serial. Also, more money.

I didn’t win.

Despite not winning, months later, Fiction Vortex wanted me to grant them serial rights to my story, allowing other writers to write stories in my garden fauna samurai universe. And I guess I would’ve gotten royalties from this? I don’t know. I never agreed to it, because it was strange; and, if anyone is going to write sequels to my stories, it’s going to be me. But also, when you let go of those rights, they don’t always come back to you.

Share Siobhan's Weird & Liminal Corner

Channel 4 - Breaking News

“This just in: men are mind readers. Yes, actual mind readers. Our correspondent Connie Chen is at the location of the discovery. Tell us about it, Connie.”

“Thanks Sarah. I’m standing outside Parker’s Drug and Research facility here in Murray, Indiana where just hours ago, it was discovered that men are mind readers. It started this morning with a test trial for a new drug that would help men’s hair loss . . . but the results were not what the researchers were expecting.”

(flip)

Narrator: Some theorize that men have made a pact, a brotherly oath if you will, to keep their mind reading a secret.

Shadowed man with heavily altered voice: One day when I was eleven, outside playing baseball with my friends, we were approached by this robed guy--I never got a good look at his face. We thought maybe he was a preacher or some shit, because he went on and on about our hidden potential--

(flip)

“Joining us is Patricia Bagnel, wife of one of the drug trial participants. Mrs. Bagnel--”

“Please, call me Trish.”

“Trish, great to have you on. Tell us, how do you feel about this discovery? Does it come as a complete surprise, or . . .?”

“Oh, no. I mean, I didn’t know Ron was a mind reader, but I always suspected. Like he always knew what to get me for our anniversary. Exactly what I wanted. And I never had to ask him to pick up the kids from school--he just knew to do it.”

“Sounds like a great guy.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I just, you know, wish he had his hair back.”

(flip)

“Mind-reading abilities failing you? Could it be soy? More at nine.”

(flip)

“When you say your marriage is null . . .?”

“I mean it doesn’t count.”

“But you said ‘I do’.”

“Yeah, but I was thinking: I don’t.”

(flip)

“--And when men lock eyes with one another upon greeting, we believe they may be reading one another’s minds to gauge whether this is a friend or a rival.”

“Dr. Anderson, do you believe this is true for all males, across the animal kingdom?”

“Absolutely. It shouldn’t surprise us that males have evolved to have this ability, considering how competitive they are. In fact, we’ve found in rats--”

(flip)

“This is what I mean when I talk about the Patriarchy. Men are depriving women of their true potential, their psychic powers. And you know why, right? Because they’re afraid. We women would be ruling the world right now--”

audience erupts into cheers

“Yeah, that’s right. And who knows what else men are hiding. Like the power to park perfectly every time, or to open jars without help, or--”

(flip)

“This is a MRB. Mind-read blocker. Made from a hundred-percent organic, non-GMO lead.”

“Well it certainly looks like it can block thoughts--and a brick!”

prerecorded audience laughter

“Well, I’d love for you to try it on.”

“Really? All right, sure.”

“Got it on tight?”

“Yeah, yeah, pretty tight. Does it look okay?”

“Looks great!”

“Marv, can you read my thoughts?”

camera waves back and forth

“Wow. Well I guess it really works. How much does this cost?”

“Just ten easy payments of 999999.”

“Is there a decimal point somewhere?”

“Haha, no.”

(flip)

“So what you’re saying is, we should be more like telepathic lobsters???”

(flip)

The TV screen split right down the middle, made two solid thumps on the floor.

Drew looked over at his wife on the couch. “Honey, you didn’t have to do that.”

Janice sat on the very edge of her seat, brows deeply furrowed, eyes focused, a vein throbbing across her temple.“Sorry.” She blinked, relaxed. “I was just frustrated.”

“Ah, well. Nothing on anyway,” Drew said. “You know what, I have an idea.”

“What?”

“Let’s grab a pizza and hang out at the park, like old times.”

Janice smiled. “You read my--”

(flip)

END

© 2026 Siobhan Gallagher. All rights reserved. No part of this work shall be reproduced or distributed without author’s permission, this includes inputting the work into LLMs to create summaries.

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It wasn’t every day that you saw a nun on the hover bus to the outermost part of town. Riley was stunned when he got on, and the driver had to remind him to pay. He sat down across from her; it was just them and some old fart snoozing in the back. According to his cube, she was of Korean descent with some Hispanic traits; her oval brown face—a face that said she was in her late thirties—poked out of the black wimple. She didn’t have any luggage, only a small backpack on her lap.

So friggin’ weird. The gang would never believe it, so he took a picture with his cube. She looked at him, smiled, went back to studying her hands. He thought for sure she’d try and spread her gospel; after all, wasn’t that what religious people did? Maybe if he chatted her up . . .

“Hey-hey,” he said. “Aren’t you a nun? Or are you like playing dress-up?”

“I’m a nun.” She sat straight, clasped her hands.

“For real, huh?” He grinned. “Are you coming here to tell us what a bunch of miserable souls we are?”

“I wouldn’t know. I only just got here.”

“’Cause we’re not.” He leaned over, elbows on his knees, idly playing with the cube between his hands. “I mean it looks like shit out there, but that’s because the Orbo Brothers mess things up. They’re a bunch of evil assholes. I think if you sprayed them with that holy water, they’d go up in flames.”

She chuckled. “Holy water can’t do such things.”

“Yeah, well, I know that. I’m just saying, they’re evil. You should like banish them.”

“I don’t believe anyone is evil. We just make mistakes.”

“Well these guys made a lot of mistakes.”

The bus slowed down. The nun stood, backpack slung over one shoulder. “This is my stop.”

He jumped to his feet. “Mine too.”

It wasn’t really. His stop was another ten blocks. But he wanted to talk to her some more, because you didn’t get to talk to nuns every day. Or ever, really. He could brag to his gang: Hey, I talked to a nun today. Who did you talk to?

As he followed the nun out the door, the driver said after him, “Don’t cause any trouble, kid.”

Riley gave the driver a look that said fuck you.

He walked beside the nun on the cracked sidewalk. On either side of the street were dilapidated buildings; some in repair, some never to be repaired. The colony only makes so much revenue, the fat cats had said from their three-storey homes with air conditioning and full security.

“So where ya headed?” he asked.

“To visit a correspondent. Father Agbel. Do you know him?”

He shook his head. “Never been to church. But you can still be a good person and not go to church, right?”

“Of course. The House of God is wherever we make it. Whether it’s a physical place or in the heart.”

“What if you’re like wrong, and there is no Heaven. Doesn’t that kinda suck?”

She shrugged. “If I’m wrong, then I’m wrong. But there is no harm in believing.”

“What about . . .” He consulted his cube discreetly. “What about Arnaud Amalric, who told the crusaders to kill everyone.”

“Well, that’s not the exact quote—”

He nudged the nun away from one of the Orbo Brothers’ known hideouts, on account of him and the gang had planted mines around the place; because fuck the Orbo Brothers, they didn’t need legs. The nun didn’t seem to mind, or maybe she had heard about his reputation and didn’t want any trouble. But it wasn’t like he went around hurting people, even though some thought it.

“Regardless,” she said. “We are human and we err.”

“So how many errors can we get away with?” he asked, twirling his cube on one finger.

“We never get away with it. But we can repent. Repent, and pray for forgiveness.”

“And that’s it?”

The nun just smiled, bent down and picked up a silver wrapper from the street. She folded the wrapper, kept folding till it became a wrinkled flower, then handed it to him.

“I’m Sister Lolanda. I’ll be at the Thuta Church if you need anything.”

“Riley. Nice to meet ya.”

She nodded before stepping off the sidewalk and into a dirt alleyway between a broken down repair shop and a rusty laundromat. He held the flower up, admiring the way light glinted off it in odd angles. It made him giddy, like being a kid again, when they flew foil kites that flashed all the colors of the rainbow. Back when this colony wasn’t so much of a shit-hole. He was tempted to follow the nun, but the cube flashed a time—damn! He was going to be late.

Riley slid behind some boxes inside the warehouse, careful that the buckles on his boots didn’t chink together. He liked to observe a scene before entering it; gave him a certain advantage and kept his ass from getting shot off. Joey Boy sat on a table; a shaft of light from a hole in the roof illuminated him—or it might have been the drugs. Everyone called him Joey Boy on account of him having a face of a fifteen-year-old, even though he was twice that age. Behind Joey were two silhouettes lurking in the shadows, probably his goons—and they had a deal to not bring any buddies, either. But if Riley believed in fair deals, he wouldn’t be carrying a gun.

He entered all nonchalant, arms away from his sides. Joey flipped up his shades—his eyes were a crazy neon green—and Riley wasn’t sure if it was a side-effect or cosmetic.

Joey smiled rotten teeth. “Punctual as always, eh?”

Riley frowned. That had to be a joke; he was nearly ten minutes late. Joey broke the silence with a laugh that sounded like a cat coughing up a hairball.

“So, have my creds?” Joey wiped some spittle off his chin with the back of his hand.

Riley pulled a plastic bag from his jacket and tossed it. With a better throw, he could’ve smacked Joey in the head. Joey scooped the bag off the floor; a few metallic chips tumbled out.

Joey’s stare turned hard. “That’s it? I gave you a hundred kilos of Edge to sell, and this is all you bring me?”

Riley stuck his thumbs into his belt. “No one is going to buy Edge that doesn’t give them an edge. Next time, don’t give us such shit.”

Joey leapt to his feet. “You’re calling my stuff shit? Fuck you, you little runt. I want my creds.”

The two goons stepped out of the shadows, and they looked like a couple of humpty-dumpties; heads fused to their torsos, large wide bodies, waddling steps. He’d be laughing if he didn’t think these guys could split his skull with one punch.

He drew his gun, blasted the ceiling above the two goons, and made a run for it.

They wouldn’t expect him at the church. The place was so out of the way, and no one he knew went there. In fact, he didn’t think anyone went there.

The path to the church was all dirt, rocks and chunks of concrete. Spiky weeds grew large, their thick black thorns ready to stab him should he misstep. Man, he wished he hadn’t worn boots today; his feet were killing him.

The church was in view, built on a hill, looking about as dead as its surroundings. The bone white walls were tagged, the large windows black and empty. The garden was a cultivated mass of weeds. Sister Lolanda sat on a bench in front of the double doors, reading a hologram book.

“Hey-hey!” he said, out of breath. She nodded as he approached.

“You ran all this way?” She eyed him through the hologram.

“Pretty much— You reading The Bible? Maybe we could go inside and read it together?”

The hologram book closed and disappeared. “Actually, it’s a mystery thriller.”

“Ah, cool. So shouldn’t we, uh, you be inside talking to Father Whatshisname?”

“It turns out Father Agbel left some time ago, and did not think to tell me while I was in transit,” she said, brows furrowed, annoyance digging into her sweet voice.

“Yeah, no one really sticks around this colony, if they can help it.”

She glanced around. “Yes, I can see that. I don’t suppose you have a bus schedule?”

“What? You can’t leave. You’re like the only nun we’ve had here. Maybe the only nun.”

She chuckled, her posture perfect. “I doubt that. I’m sure there are other nuns out there.”

He checked his cube for a list of nuns. The search brought up names, the word “deceased” next to many of them. He showed her the list. “See? Let’s go inside. You need to stay.”

“I wasn’t staying long anyhow, Riley. I’m more of a traveler.”

“Like a missionary?”

“Sort of.” She stood and slipped her backpack onto one shoulder. “Anyway, I have to make a report that a priest has abandoned his post.”

“Ah, yeah, that’s understandable.” The church loomed in front of Riley, an inaccessible sanctuary. “Okay,” he said nervously, “I probably should get going—”

A gust, sharp and cold, cut shivers into him. Sister Lolanda’s eyes narrowed, staring past him. And he knew.

The humpty-dumpty twins were tromping up the path, and in the open daylight they looked bigger and meaner, like a pair of bulldozers with arms. They smashed weeds and rocks under their sledgehammer feet.

“You shouldn’t use your cube when trying to hide, runt,” one of them called.

He pulled out his gun.

“Yeah,” he said over his shoulder. “You should really find a bus.” He fired, and an egg-shaped glow surrounded the goons, then shimmered out of existence. Damn shields. Joey must’ve been richer than he let on to equip his goons with friggin’ shields. He didn’t have anything else on him for that. Sister Lolanda was still there, her expression cut out of stone.

What was she thinking? She needed to leave; they both needed to leave. He grabbed her wrist—something jabbed his palm; he stumbled back. A gunk enveloped him before he hit the ground. The more he moved, the more the crap constricted him.

“Joey Boy said not to kill your ass,” one of the goons said. “He says your gang will pay up.”

Shovel hands lifted him. He couldn’t even work his jaw around the scream that was building in his throat.

“Excuse me,” said Sister Lolanda.

“Go away, lady,” the other said. “This isn’t your business.”

“Perhaps not legally, but on moral grounds—”

“Shut up!”

Everything went dead silent. He couldn’t even hear the humpty-dumpties’ heavy breathing. Another gust, and he fell. The crushing weight of a goon on top of him. Couldn’t breathe!

His lungs were burning something fierce when the weight slid off. Sister Lolanda’s hands tore away the gunk net, and he gulped down that sweet acidic air like it was the best damn thing. Sister Lolanda stood before him as she disconnected a wire from a device she wore on her wrist, underneath her sleeve. He saw that a spear had gone through both the goons’ heads; their eyes wide open, like they weren’t really dead. Just very shocked.

He had to admit, he was surprised too. He looked up at the nun.

“These two were genetically engineered,” she answered his unasked question. “Soulless abominations.”

“You’d piss off a lot of sympathetics if you said that in public.”

“I know.” She smiled and helped him to his feet. “What exactly did you do to get on their bad side?”

“It was just a stupid deal,” he said, avoiding her gaze. “Me and the gang don’t have much money, so we make it where we can.”

She nodded serenely, distantly, and there was a light in her eyes he hadn’t seen before.

A bus hummed down the road towards them. Riley nodded at it.

Sister Lolanda shook her head and mounted the steps of the church.

END

Originally published June 2013 from AE - The Canadian Science Fiction Review

Author note: Original title for this was “The Punk and The Nun” but the editor suggested the title you see now. I still like that title, but I can understand the change; original title has more of a fairytale ring to it.

And I was pleasantly surprised to see my story is still up on the website. I thought they’d lost their backlog. There’s some good stuff, so check it out while it still remains. https://aescifi.ca/category/fiction/

So he stalled inside, taking his sweet time to brew some turnip tea. But the turnips, the impatient roots, rustled their stalks as loudly as they could--and if they kept that up, they just might break a stem or two!

He poked his head out the door to yell at them to quit it, and found himself swallowing the words. The nymph was waving for him to come outside.

What did she want with him? This had better not be the beginning of another nymph uprising, because he was sick of the lumberjacks’ complaining. How we supposed to cut trees when a little woman tries to gouge our eyes out? Numbskulls like that should pay more attention to whose trees they were cutting down; it’d be like him trying to plant turnips on another farmer’s land. Although he had received complaints of his turnips finding their way into someone’s rose garden or orchard.

The nymph was still waving, wasn’t she? And he probably looked like an outright fool standing there with his head out the door. Very well, he’d see to her and treat her like any other merchant . . . a very, very attractive merchant.

The turnips were all giddy as he stepped outside, stirring in their little plots. The nymph patted one on the leaves, then walked over to him, smiling. He avoided her small bouncing breasts, choosing to focus on a few recently uprooted turnips that were harassing the carrots; they didn’t like that he had planted carrots, but as he explained, if he was to keep his mules happy, he would have to feed them carrots. The turnips dismissed this as picky eating, and suggested he buy mules that did enjoy turnips.

“Uh, so...hello?” he said to the nymph, wringing his hands. A nearby turnip snapped him in the heel with its taproot--ow!--forcing him to see eye-to-eye with the nymph.

“You’re the Turnip Whisperer, yes?” She had great-big forest green eyes, irises neatly blending into the pupils. Her skin the color of oak, her hair a dark shade of sand.

“Yes, I’m Turner. Pleased to meet you.” He bowed because this seemed like the proper thing to do with a lady . . . and kept him from staring at her breasts.

She clapped her hands together. “I’m so glad. I’ve heard so much about you, Turner.”

He stood straight. “Really? You didn’t perhaps hear anything about me from a minstrel, did you?”

“No, the plants. Your turnips passed word along the trees of your excellent care.”

Well, at least someone talked of his achievements.

“I’m Nym, and I seek your aid.”

“Oh?” A lady asking him for help? He must be dreaming!

“Oh yes. You see, the creeping swamp has, well, crept up on the forest that my sister and I protect. It’s causing a lot of root rot, as you can imagine.”

He winced at the thought. “Yeah, that can be nasty. But I think I’ve got something for ya.”

Her eyes lit up, making him light up. “Oh, I knew you would.”

He walked her over to the barn, where several bags of different mulches were piled up.

“You probably want something sand based for good drainage. Throw in some pine chips for absorption, and let’s see . . .” He hauled some bags over to get a better look at his selection. Nym stood close by, maybe too close, but he wasn’t about to complain.

“Hey Turner!”

He looked to see Merchant Joe on the other side of the field. Maybe it was the chivalrous part of him, or maybe it was because he knew Joe to be a man-whore, but he leapt to his feet and blocked the naked Nym from the merchant’s view.

“Who’s that behind ya?” asked Joe, trying to see around him.

He moved with Joe’s line of sight. “Oh, just a friend come to visit. She’s quite shy. What can I do for you, Joe?”

“Would like a full cart of your largest turnips for Eatenberg marketplace next week. Actually . . .” The trader rubbed his bushy mustache, probably calculating things to his advantage. “Make that two carts.”

“They sell that well, huh?”

“At the prices I sell them for, sure!”

“Then twenty-percent down payment, sixty-percent of profits.”

“Sixty! That’s a bit high.”

“Well, this Boilempolis trader was offering sixty-five, but since we’ve been doing business for so long . . .” Lies, but Joe wasn’t the only one who could haggle.

Brows furrowed, Joe switched from rubbing his hairy ‘stache to his even hairier chin.

Nym got on her tip-toes and whispered into his ear, “Is something the matter?”

He whispered back. “Just a sec.” Then to Joe, “Perhaps we can continue this another time. Give you some time to think it over.”

“I’ll not lose business to someone from Boilempolis,” Joe grumbled. “I’ll come by next week, have it ready.”

“You’ve got it.”

The turnips shifted in their soil, excited for the trip.

After Joe left, Turner faced Nym again. “I apologize. It’s just, you know, the clothes . . .”

She cocked her head to the side like an adorable kitten. “I need clothes?”

“Well . . .” He suddenly thought of the old prudes always carrying their holy books--which were more for symbol status than actual reading--always chastising, always throwing stones. He blamed the abundance of rocks laying around that had allowed the habit to start.

“Maybe it’s just best if I get you a dress and knickers for the time being,” he said. “Feel free to look around, maybe check out my specialty fertilizer.” He indicated to one bag.

Nym bent over, took a whiff. “Smells like dead meat.”

“Because it is.”

Shopping was an unideal chore since it meant time spent in the village, and this village had one too many idiots for his liking. Like for example: the big tall goon with the broad shoulders, shiny long hair, and teeth as bright as the sun. The guy must’ve been new, because he was going from shop to shop, asking about maidens and some such. As inexperienced as he was, even Turner knew where the “maidens” were at.

“Good sir,” said pretty broad shoulders, addressing Turner while he was in the middle of estimating Nym’s waist size. Turner held one dress after another, pretending it was just the wind he heard.

Pretty broad shoulders cleared his throat and spoke a little more loudly, “I said--”

He turned to face the annoyance, dress still in his hands. “Yeah, all right, what?”

Pretty broad shoulders put on a dashing smile, causing light to bounce off and into Turner’s face.

“Ack! Watch where you point that,” he said, shading his eyes.

“Good sir, I am a knight in search of any maidens that need rescuing.”

“Well, you won’t find any here,” he said, blinking back floating spots.

“Surely there are some.” The knight’s smile dimmed, much to Turner’s relief.

“Nope.” He turned back to the dresses, but pretty damn annoying grabbed his shoulder.

“Are you certain? Not even a maiden who needs a teeny weeny favor?”

“No! Now go.”

“Then what’s this, you buying dresses?”

“For a friend.”

“A maiden friend?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does!” The knight struck a pose, head held high, gauntlet resting on his breast. “Where ever there is a maiden in stress, a knight should be there to relieve her.”

“. . . Right, well . . . I don’t think there’s much you can do unless you’re an expert in swamp farming.”

“A little plowing of her fields, eh?” The knight’s smile filled with devilish excitement. “Pollinating her flowers. Picking her cherries. Nose deep in her garden beds.”

“We’re not talking about gardening, are we?”

“Perhaps if you introduced me this maiden, I could better explain.” The knight placed a hand on his shoulder as if they were old chums. Turner flicked it off.

“Isn’t there a dragon somewhere you have to slay?”

“Afraid it’s not dragon season. There’s regulations on such things, to keep their numbers from dropping too low.”

The tailor of the shop, adorned with the traditional measuring tape around the neck, was giving them the buy something or get out! look. And Turner had to agree, as his own patience was drying out faster than a turnip in the desert. Time to think of something . . .

“Oh look!” Turner pointed past pretty broad shoulders. “A maiden!”

The knight spun around. “Where?”

Turner tossed down some coin and made a run for it, dress clutched between his hands. The duped knight tried to follow him, but he ducked into a stable, his wiry frame able to squeeze between the wide asses, and slip out the other side through a few loose boards that had been there since last summer. He coughed out the donkey dung that had invaded his lungs, pounding on his chest several times. Someone should talk to that stable boy about cleaning the place up once in a while.

No knight in sight, but he didn’t expect much from a lunkhead like that; they only knew how to swing swords and look gallant on their horses. Maidens, pffft.

He hitched a ride on a fellow farmer’s cart, back up the hill to his farm and to the lovely Nym. He just hoped she wouldn’t mind a few stains on the dress.

He loaded up the cart with bags of different kinds of fertilizer, sand, and wood chips. There was a squeak after he plopped down a particularly heavy bag, followed by a taproot lashing out.

“Hey now!” He dodged just out of the root’s reach. “We’re not headed for Eatenberg yet. Now get out.”

Some of the turnips grumbled as they dragged themselves out by their taproots, while the stubborn ones remained. Suit themselves if they wanted to go for a ride, as long as they behaved.

Nym finalized her selection and brought some bags over, not caring if dirt was spilling down the front of her awkwardly worn dress. At least now he could focus on her without fear of his gaze drifting downward.

“You think all this will do?” she asked.

“If not, we’ll make a second trip.” Though it was probably best if Nym remained in her forest, where she could be freely naked, and him a lot less distracted.

He hitched up the mules and they were off, down the dirt road that wound around the hill. Nym sat next to him, playing with a little turnip in her lap.

“They seem to really like you,” he said, knowing full and well that it was hard to win the favor of turnips.

“They’re quite sweet once you get to know them.” She stroked the turnip and its leaves shuddered with pleasure. “Reminds me of when the forest trees were saplings . . . Now they’re grown up grumps.”

“Can’t say I’ve had too many conversations with trees.”

“The winters harden them too much. I’ve often wondered if I should move to a tropical place where the trees are always lush and full of life.”

“Yeah, but the insects . . .”

“My sister says the same, and the rain. But it’s a fantasy of mine, I suppose.” She shrugged.

“Sister you say?” called a familiar voice.

Turner looked over his shoulder to find the knight on his white steed, and as to be expected, he appeared gallant, hair waving in the wind as he rode up to them in the cart. Even the horse seemed to glow like its rider, all dashing and what not.

He half-expected for Nym to swoon at the sight of the knight, but she was much more interested in the turnip’s interpretive dance moves.

“Go away,” he said to the knight and shook the reins, picking up the pace. The white steed matched them with ease.

“I’ll forgive your earlier offense of misleading me. The local villagers told me you’re an ‘off’ one.”

“Well good,” he grunted. He’d rather be ‘off’ than a nose-picking dolt that was unaware of the existence of soap.

“Fair maiden,” the knight went on, “what is your name, and can I be of assistance?”

After a few moments, and the knight’s obsessive staring, Nym asked him quietly, “Is he addressing me?”

“Afraid so. He’s clearly out of his gourd.”

The turnip snickered and moved its stalk and leaves in a similar fashion to the knight’s waving hair. Both Nym and him laughed, and had to agree it was an accurate impression.

“Hmm, seems I’m not getting through,” the knight thought out loud. “Peasant, perhaps you--”

Turner gripped the reins, hard. “Excuse me? I am a farmer, a hardworking man. Half the countryside is well fed thanks to me, and that includes beefy knights like yourself.”

“Beefy!” The knight straightened up in his saddle. “Are you implying that I am like a cow?”

“You certainly have the brains of one.”

“That’s it! I will not be spoken to like that by a peasant.”

As the knight was drawing his sword, Turner handed the reins over to Nym. “Just steer straight,” he told her, and grabbed a few turnips from the cart. He launched the turnips at the knight’s head; they made weeeee! sounds as they whizzed through the air and boinked the knight’s thick noggin.

The knight fell off, his armor clanking against the ground, though one foot was caught in the stirrup, and the horse hadn’t realized it had lost its rider. The knight screamed in an unmanly manner for his horse to stop, which had the opposite effect, as it trotted past and ahead.

“Haha!” He thumped his chest with a turnip. That’ll teach the arrogant arse to call him a peasant.

Nym gasped. “Will those turnips be all right?”

“Of course. They’re hardy guys, and they know the way home.”

The forest was much more dense and dark than he would’ve thought. The dirt road had become rocks and roots, forcing him to abandon the cart and pile the bags on the mules’ backs. The turnips insisted on coming, but he told them to stay put if they didn’t want to get lost. He wasn’t even sure if he would make it out. Never before had he seen so many trees packed together, their roots overlapping each other like the hands of long-time lovers. Nym took his hand and led him onward. Hopefully his sweaty palms weren’t bothering her.

“The swamp has crept into the heart of the forest, and it truly reeks.”

She wasn’t kidding; the further they went, the green freshness was being saturated with rotten vegetation, and something like a witch’s stew of newt eyes three days old. He inhaled through his mouth, but the very air was intent on making him suffer, with lungs burning and throat constricted.

“Are you all right?” she asked, patting him on the back as he hacked out a piece of his lung.

“How can . . . you . . . breathe?”

“I’m very porous.”

She left his side to look around a large oak, then poked her head between other trees, calling: “Cym! I’ve brought the Turnip Whisperer, come help us dry out this swamp.” When no reply, she asked the trees where her sister was, but they all shrugged their branches.

“Hmm, where did she run off to?” Nym mumbled to herself as she returned to him.

He had recovered enough to start tearing into the bags of dirt. “Why don’t we start without her. Then we’ll be done before nightfall.” Even with Nym, he couldn’t imagine navigating this forest by night.

They dumped the bags of sand in first, and the swamp emitted hundreds of little shrieks through its gaseous bubbles, pushing the rough grains to the surface.

“Eck! Quicksand,” he said. “Watch out for that, Nym. When we add the woods chips, that should fix it.”

Nym appeared worried. “It’s not like her to be gone for this long.”

“Do you want to search for her? I don’t mind finishing this up.”

“Leave me alone!” cried a young woman’s voice.

“That’s her! Come on.” Nym yanked him by the arm, toward the cry. He stumbled and panted, barely keeping up with her light steps. The swamp would snarl and snap whenever they came too close to its edge, and he was most grateful for the lending branch that kept him from tumbling into murky, scum-filled waters.

They came into a clearing where the swamp hadn’t crept into, and somehow he knew it wouldn’t be good.

It wasn’t.

The ever-annoying knight had not only tracked them down to this part of the forest, but also had a slightly younger version of Nym pinned to his side. Cym beat against the knight’s breastplate, but only succeeded at bruising her hands.

“What the hell are you doing?” Turner asked, followed by Nym’s “Let her go!”

The knight smiled as if keeping a girl against her will was a perfectly normal, every day thing to do. “I saw this maiden at the forest’s edge, clearly waiting for some help. And so, I’ve come to help her.”

“You’re not helping anyone!” He took a step forward. “More like antagonizing us.”

The knight’s brows furrowed in befuddlement. “Antagonizing--what?”

“You know, the opposite of heroics.”

“Now see here. A knight’s duty is to help unfortunate maidens, and when most maidens these days can help themselves, it makes my job quite difficult.”

“Ever thought about doing something else?”

“Like what?” The knight’s grip loosened on Cym, and Turner took another bold step.

“I dunno. Blacksmithing? Basket-weaving? Share hair-styling tips?” He inched forward, a little closer and he could grab her away . . .

“You’re suggesting I do menial labor? I think I’ll stick to maiden-saving, thank you very much.” The knight squeezed Cym closer to his side while brandishing his sword at Turner. The blade’s point came a little too close to his Adam’s apple.

That was when Nym danced forward, hand against her forehead, looking most distressed.

“Oh knight, I am in need of your help,” she said.

“You are!” The knight perked up.

“You are?” Turner frowned.

“Oh yes. Please, follow me.” She skipped back, turned on her heel, and was off back the way they’d originally come from.

He was about to follow when the knight slapped him with the broadside of his sword, knocking him flat on his ass, gasping for air. The knight looked down upon him with a deadly glare. “She needs a knight, not a peasant.”

When the knight was gone, Cym helped him up, and like with Nym, tried his best to not notice her state of nakedness.

“Thanks,” he said. “But what is your sister up to?”

Cym grinned wickedly.

Moments later, it was the knight crying out. Unlike before, Turner didn’t feel the rush of urgency and took his time making his way back to Nym.

The swampy quicksand had made, well, quick work of the knight as he was already shoulder-deep. Nym helped the process along by stomping on the knight’s head.

“This works as fertilizer, right?” she asked.

He didn’t know what else to say, other than: “Close enough.”

It was late when Turner finally arrived home and flopped onto his bed. Too much running. Though sleep didn’t come quickly as he thought of Nym and her, err, features. Nudity aside, she was perhaps the first, and only, woman he got along with. Of course most of the village women couldn’t tell a turnip from a beet--the horror!

But at least he had his turnips.

Oh, right. Many of them would be leaving for Eatenberg next week. Such was life as a farmer: work hard only to let go of everything you loved.

He rolled over and sighed into his pillow.

Morning shined a light in his face. Maybe for once he’d be lazy and just stay in bed. But the rustling and bump-bumps of turnips at his door wouldn’t allow for it.

“What is it, turnips?” he yawned as he got to his feet and opened the door.

And there was the wonderful sight of Nym in his field. Her dress in tatters, she was cheerily talking to a cluster of turnips surrounding her. She took notice of him and waved him over.

“Um, Nym, what are you doing here?” he asked as he approached her. For the love of root vegetables, it had better not be about another knight.

“Well, I like your turnips”--the turnips nestled up against her--“And a forest only needs one nymph to watch over it. So I was wondering, since you know your craft so well, if I could stay here and learn some things.”

“I . . . uh, sure!” Really, could he say no?

All the turnips rocked for joy.

“And maybe I could teach you a few things as well?” She cocked her head, smiling shyly.

“That works too . . . um . . .” Better find a distraction quick, before he bursts out in sweats and blushes. One turnip at his feet volunteered itself. He picked it up and asked, “Care for some turnip tea?”

“Sounds delightful.”

Then to the turnips, he said, “And back to your plots, the lot of you. Or I’ll give your spots to the carrots.”

Obedient, if not grumbly, they buried themselves till nothing but the stalks poked out.

END

Originally published June 2016 in Farstrider Magazine (issue 2)

Author note: While different in tone and style (switched from 1st-person to 3rd), this is a follow-up to “Turnip Farmers Are Heroes Too”. However, both can be enjoyed independently. I had plans to write more Turnip Whisperer stories, but it took so long to sell this one, I lost interest. I still would love to write one tale of Turner and his turnips fending off the village from a necromancer’s army of the dead, as a nod to Plants verse Zombies.

Speaking of publication, this is another story that was originally rejected.

This was a particularly tough call for me. I genuinely enjoyed it, and if I
had a bigger budget I would be proud to feature your story. I truly hope
that you keep in touch as you continue to write and hope that you will
submit again in the future.

And submit I did! I queried the editor asking if I could resubmit “Of Turnips and Maidens” and he agreed. This was the result.

Everyone kept telling me “Lorelei, this will never work,” and I said “shove off” because they’re a bunch of pessimists. I’ve been planning this heist for a good three weeks, so I think it’s fair to say that I know what I’m doing.

There’s this little jewelry shop inside the city-dome; they’ve got a lovely selection of diamonds--real diamonds, I might add. None of that synth stuff.

I’ve stopped by a few times, pretending to look for an engagement ring. They only have two security cameras: one by the door and one at the back, and they’re not even the good kind that can shoot lasers. There’s a single guard, but he’s asleep most of the time. Guess you get what you pay for.

Now I’m not going to go in there, guns a blazin’. That’s just stupid. Photon laser blowing up in your face is a good way to get yourself killed. At least it’d blow up in my face because I don’t know how to use a gun.

So what am I going to do instead? Rocket suit.

Think about it: the most important part of a heist is getting away, and that’s where things go wrong. You can’t out-drive the cops: they’ll close off the roads and lay down those spikes. You can’t hide: they’ve got those DNA sniffers. You can’t go underground: the sewer is full of mutants. So obviously you’ve got to go up, up, up. And yeah, there are flying cars, but they’re so cumbersome and can’t get into the tight spaces. See, there’s a gap in the dome wall, only large enough for a slim-figured girl like me to get through. Once outside, cops can’t get you: it’s beyond their jurisdiction. Isn’t that brilliant?

Granted, this rocket suit, complete with pack and boots, set me back 3,000 credits, but after I pull this off, I’ll be rolling around in credits--figuratively speaking. I know you can’t actually roll around in numbers.

On the day of, I wear a long coat over my rocket suit and carry the guard-screen and a couple of smoke canisters inside a huge tote bag--which is the latest fashion, by the way. The jewelry shop is located on the eighty-sixth floor of the mall tower; the big shiny one surrounded by 3D adverts. I decide to be clever and not-so-obvious, by taking the elevator up of the adjacent tower, then walk across the connecting ramps.

Below the ramps are hundreds of flying cars crisscrossing in all directions, and every so often, a car will break away and hover-park at one of the balconies that encircles each floor of the mall. You can’t even make out the ground from up here, and the far-edges of the dome are barely visible. Most times it doesn’t feel like you’re inside a giant bubble—except for the fact that the outside world is dry, harsh, and near unlivable.

I peek at couple other places before entering the jewelry shop. The android behind the glass counter takes a moment before it responds to my presence, its dead eyes lock with mine. I’m not worried about facial recognition because this little doohickey on my temple scrambles any perception of my face. This set me back another 1,000 credits.

“May I see your necklaces?” I ask in my sweetest voice. Not that the android would care, but it lulls the guard, and he soon after starts snoring.

The droid starts to open up the case up front, but I tap on the counter. “No, no. I want to see the ones you have in the back.” They always keep the good stuff in back.

It nods, and with stilted steps, heads to the back room.

About this time I notice there’s a hunchback in a trench coat standing in the corner. Crap! What if he’s a cop? Those undercover cops are always wearing trench coats--them and the perverts. Crossing my fingers that he’s a pervert.

Oh well, if I get out of here quick enough, it won’t matter what he is--speaking of quick, where is that droid? That cheap thing probably broke down . . . Oh! Here it is.

In the android’s arms is an open black velvet box, and inside are the most gorgeous necklaces. Diamonds and rubies as big as your eye. Sterling silver wrapped around pearls of midnight.

It sets the necklaces down and carefully picks up each one for display.

“Do you have any earrings to match?”

It cocks its head, probably processing my question. In a hollow voice, it says, “I don’t believe so, miss.”

How disappointing. Guess the necklaces will do. “Well show me your earrings, anyway--no, no.” I shoo the android’s hands away from the necklaces. “I’m still looking.”

“I’m sorry, miss. But this is protocol.” The android opens up the counter cabinet and places the box of necklaces inside. “I will return shortly.”

Well that’s just great. If I had a gun I could blow the counter to bits, but I’m not going to magically start using a gun. Hmm, think, think, think . . .

I set my bag on the counter and open it up. Smoke starts pouring forth. I quickly put on the screen-guard and smash the counter with my foot, then grab fistfuls of jewelry before the smoke becomes blinding. I’m out the door, running as fast as one can in rocket boots.

But someone’s behind me.

I glance over my shoulder--oh damn! That hunchback in a trench coat. Who knew he could run so fast?

The edge of the balcony isn’t far. I rip off my coat and start warming up the jets. I glance again. No fair! He’s got a gun.

Hot beam blazes to my left. He should really watch out where he’s pointing that--he could’ve hit me! Looks like now’s a good time as ever to take off.

The boots and pack ignite, steadily lifting me off the ground. I leap over the balcony rail before he can even lay a hand on me.

Ha! I’m actually getting away with it, I really am. Of course I knew I would, not a shadow of a doubt, not even with the hunchback in a trench coat there. Bet he’s pissed now. I half-turn to stick my tongue out at him.

The hunchback removes his trench coat and . . . What the hell? He has a jetpack! What kind of weirdo goes around wearing a jetpack?

He takes off.

I adjust my speed and trajectory, head straight up. All I have to do is make it through that gap.

The dome’s skeleton is a network of metal cross-beams, with glass panels in each square subsection. Light filters through at an odd angle from one glass panel that wasn’t placed properly, the one with the gap. So close!

I glance back--and yep, he’s there. I shift sharply to the right and try a little loop to lose him . . .

Everything goes blurry and sideways, warmth trickles down from my nose. Crap! I right myself, but my vision takes a few moments to clear. And after all that, the not-hunchback is still on me.

A little orange light appears on the suit’s wrist. Less than half a tank left. Wow, rocket fuel sure doesn’t go far.

Not to worry, not to worry. Just need to focus on getting through that gap. I can practically touch the dome walls.

I slow down, just hovering now, and kick my way toward the gap. Flying is a bit like swimming, except if you stop, you fall hundreds of feet to your death . . . I really shouldn’t think about that.

I grab the edge of the glass panel and swing myself through the gap. I’m outside! This is officially outside the cop’s domain! I land on a horizontal ledge where the cross-beams jut out, and turn off the suit to conserve fuel. Now I actually have a reason to stick my tongue out.

Except the cop comes through the gap, too. Wait--he can’t do that!

“You can’t do that!” I tell him as he lands on my ledge.

“Do what?” He looks at me with a ragged face and five O’clock shadow.

“Come out here and arrest me. This is outside your jurisdiction.”

He laughs. He laughs so hard that there are tears in his eyes. Is he one of those dirty cops who doesn’t follow the rules because he thinks he’s so badass? That would explain why he forgot to shave.

“Oh wow.” He inhales deeply. “What makes you think I’m a cop?”

“Uh, the trench coat?” His brows furrow, but I quickly follow it up: “And you were chasing me, even shooting at me!”

“Maybe I wanted the loot, too.”

I raise my chin, taking the high ground. “That doesn’t justify you shooting at me. Guns aren’t toys, you could really hurt someone.”

He rubs the back of his head, a bit of a frown on him. “Sorry about that. Was trying to get you to stop.”

“And why the jetpack? How did you--”

“I’m friends with one of your friends online, and she was saying how you had this whole heist planned out, but she didn’t think it’d actually work.”

My jaw drops open. Unbelievable. People can’t keep their big blogging mouths shut.

“What makes you think I’m going to hand my loot over?”

“Because I have a gun.”

My grip tightens on the bag. I’m not giving up without a flight.

I leap off, thinking the jets will come on in time. They don’t. I drop straight down--except he grabs a hold of my wrist. His grip is like a damn vice.

“Geez. What the hell were you thinking?” he says after he pulls me to safety.

I can’t help but blush as I sit on the ledge, sucking down air. Okay, so that didn’t work out so well.

“You’re wackier than your friend made you out to be.”

Now that’s just mean.

“What’s wrong with trying to prove a point? I did it, didn’t I?” Take that my pessimistic friends!

He gives me a puzzled look. “So you didn’t actually need the credits?”

“Well now I do. Have to pay back this suit and doohickey.” I point to my temple.

He indicates to his back. “I have this jetpack to pay off as well.”

“They’re pretty overpriced, aren’t they?”

“No kidding.”

I take a moment to think over the situation, because I don’t have the strength to push him off the ledge. “Okay, well, I think it’s safe to say we got away--well I got away, you just followed.”

“Yeah?”

“So how would you like forge a partnership? Because I can’t use guns for the life of me.” I hold the bag out in front me. “And we can split this to cover the technical costs.”

He runs a hand through his dark hair, which is kind of greasy but kind of nice at the same time. Like one those guys with wavy hair in the commercials who walk around their apartment, shirtless, showing off their sexy pecs and abs. This guy here looks like he could hit the gym more often--but I’m not saying I’d turn him down either, if he’d clean up a bit.

The seconds go by, and all he does is glance at me, frowns, then goes back to thinking. It’s like being with my friends whenever I suggest something: too afraid to tell me that my idea is dumb. Why does everyone doubt me?

I sigh. “You don’t--”

The sound of engines cuts me off.

We both look up to see a chopper--and not just any chopper, but a police chopper. Crap! I check my fuel gauge. Double-crap.

Mister Five O’clock Shadow thumbs the strap of his jetpack, looking away. I guess he’s in the same predicament as me.

“What are you two doing?” the police chopper booms.

“I could be asking you the same!” I say.

“Don’t.” He grips my shoulder. “Local police jurisdiction actually stretches 200 yards outside the dome.”

Wikipedia lied to me!

“Well?” the police chopper says. “We’re waiting.”

I press my fist to my forehead. C’mon, think of something . . .

I jump up, hand the bag off to him. “We’re inspectors from the energy company. The dome’s air conditioning bill is through the roof--literally. See this gap here?” I gesture behind me. “Shameful architecture work.”

There’s silence from the police chopper, and everything inside me crosses. If there’s a God or some powerful deity out there, I promise to use my robbing abilities for good . . . after I pay off this suit.

The chopper’s megaphone cracks to life. “So you’re inspectors, huh?”

“Yep!” And I nudge Mister Five O’clock Shadow to nod along.

“Interesting.”

It takes all my willpower to keep from grinning. Now this next bit might be pushing my luck, but . . . “By the way, could you give us a lift? They don’t make these fuel tanks like they use to.”

“Sure. Just hop on over.” The side door of the chopper opens.

This time I make sure to let the jets warm up before leaping off. I get in, followed by my temporary companion. The two police officers don’t even ask what’s in the bag when he comes on board; they just take it.

They both chuckle. No sense of morals, these dirty cops.

Nothing I can do about it, as depressing as it is. I’m in debt and I have no proof that I robbed the shop. But the cops were nice enough to give us a lift, so long as we kept our mouths shut. We didn’t see them and they didn’t see us.

The chopper leaves us at the dome entrance, but I more or less drag myself, the hot sun beating down on me, making me sweat; the suit sticks to my skin. I take the guard-screen off and toss it aside, lean against the dome. I’d love a shower right about now, to wash away the day’s failures.

“Hey.” Mister Five O’clock Shadow comes up to me, smiling. “That was a nice job you did back there.”

“Eh?” The heat must be getting to him. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Well, you handled it pretty well, and didn’t get us killed. So that’s a plus.”

“I suppose.”

“It’s not like we can’t rob another place.”

“We?” I perk up. “You mean you want to partner up?”

His smile widens. “Sure, why not? It’ll be like Bonnie and Clyde.”

“Yeah, exactly! Except with rockets and better sounding names.”

“I’m Derrick, by the way.”

I guess my name will be the better sounding one, then. I nod. “Lorelei.”

“Now let’s get out of this heat.” He wipes his brow.

“Ummhmm.” As I pick the guard-screen, I glance down at the obnoxious red light on my wrist. “Oh, and next heist we’re buying fuel efficient rockets.”

END

Originally published December 2012 in Cosmos Online

Author note: Funny story (because all my stories have a story of their own), but this was originally rejected by Cosmos Online due to a little misreading. And I did the thing you’re not supposed to do: I responded to the rejection. I wasn’t rude or anything, just pointed out the mistake, and the editor was cool enough to take another look. It resulted in a rewrite request and then acceptance. I don’t know how many editors would be willing to do that, tho.

For a time, this story was freely available in a story collection with several of my Write1Submit1 buddies.

It recently got pulled from Amazon; not sure why. If you get the chance, definitely check out Milo James Fowler—he writes funny pulp science fiction, among other genres. You may have heard of his Captain Quasar stories.

My, oh my, C.J. Heath must’ve ruffled more than a few feathers, because this post from Alice M. critiquing his writing has been popping off. In just a short time, I’ve seen a number of restacks of it in my feed. I’m not going to critique a critique; that’s silly (I also didn’t read the critique in its entirety as the zingers weren’t quite landing). However, there were things said in the post that made me curious and caused me to dig.

I say ‘purported’, because I’ve read his fiction, as it seems none of you have, given the sheer number of people who listen to his opinion.

Well yes, C.J.’s fiction clearly has lower engagement numbers compared to the critique-roasts he makes. (Whelp, he’s removed all his fiction. Coward.) But that’s true across the board on Substack. All of our fiction isn’t being read.

However, I wouldn’t equate the higher engagement with his critique-roasts as a sign that folks are taking his opinion to heart—I believe it comes down to entertainment. Some people like mean-spirited humor (see Bill Hicks and George Carlin). But also, I didn’t see as many quotes from C.J.’s roasts as I did for this one below:

I want to help CJ Heath understand why he won’t get any traction in traditional publishing until he works on his craft.

(bolding mine)

There are trad published authors out there who’ve received more traction than they probably deserved. I think we can all name a few. But also, did C.J. say he wanted to be trad published? Why is this suddenly a sticking point? It’s also very strange to use being trad published as a metric for “good” when there are a number of fantastic authors on this platform who have never been trad published. Sorry to say, but this is a poorly thought out conclusion.

But let’s dig into this trad published metric, which I think stems from Alice being 1) trad published, and 2) working as an editor for a magazine. I’m digging even deeper into the latter, because this is interesting—and not in a good way. In fact, it’s downright troubling. Alice is a fiction editor for X-R-A-Y.

If we look at X-R-A-Y’s guidelines, specifically the screenshot bit here.

By submitting to us, if accepted, you grant us first electronic rights and non-exclusive archival rights.

The highlighted bit is the troubling part (and I’ve quoted it for ease of reading). Just by the mere act of submitting, you the writer are automatically granting this magazine rights to your story. And note, it’s on acceptance. Even if they never publish the story, you still have given away first publication rights, which outside of copyright, are the most valuable rights a story has. Once lost, it becomes a reprint, and dramatically limits where you can submit that story there after.

As many feelings as C.J. has hurt, I find this rights-snatch to be far more egregious, far more disrespectful, and far more insidious.

Surprise! This was a Writer Beware post all along! (Well, the title should’ve clued you in.)

Submitting should never equal consent. Period. A writer should always have the right to decline an acceptance. It doesn’t matter why. I myself have declined acceptances because the terms of the contract—usually always a boiler plate contract—were unfavorable to me and the rights of my story. I understand as writers we all want acceptances, but we also want to protect our stories, as there is no shortage of those who will take from you what you worked hard to create. And sadly, not all writers are aware that a clause such as this, would result in a loss of rights. After all, what’s stopping X-R-A-Y from mass-accepting all the submissions and just sitting on them? Nothing. Nothing at all. And because you submitted, you would be legally bound to their terms.

If Alice wants others to understand, then I, too, want others to understand. And funny enough, I would not have done this digging if not for everyone restacking Alice’s post, particularly the trad publishing quote which had caught my eye. So thank you guys, for helping to bring a little more awareness into this writing community. Every little bit helps. And a thanks to C.J. for pissing off so many people, that Alice felt a need to critique him, even though in the end, he couldn’t eat the dish he served. However, I would much rather, instead of writers roasting one another, focus those roasting energies at the bottom-feeders who plague this site and magazines who pray upon unaware writers.

I would implore X-R-A-Y and any other magazine with a similar clause in their guidelines to remove it, and instead, make a proper contract. I know contracts are icky and not fun to deal with, but it lays out what rights are being granted by the author, and what the publication in turn intends to do with those rights, and when they will be reverted. I don’t want to hear the excuse, “We’re a small team of volunteers!” If a one-man ran magazine can hand out contracts to all his contributors, then so can you.

Also, a non-paying publication with a merch store. Let that sink in.

Hopefully this is a one-off post. I would much rather talk about the weird fiction genre as well as share my own fiction. But if you see something wrong, you should say something, right? Otherwise, things never improve, and things are already rough for writers as is.

All right, I guess this is the point where folks will either sub, block, leave a like, leave a comment, and/or click off. Have a good one, and read those guidelines carefully.

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Landing day

Mitch cranked the wheel of the SEV as he backed out of the ship’s cargo hold, and onto Plutonian soil.

“Hey! Careful,” Jerome said from the lavatory.

“You knew I was going to do this, so why didn’t you hold it?”

“It’s not my fault I had a bean burrito.”

Idiot. Mitch shook his head, flicked the spotlight on. With the sun being a bright star in the sky, this was their only source of light to see through the darkness. They’d trained up in Alaska for a few months to get use to it, but damn, this plutoid was darker than dark. Not a nighttime darkness, just a creepy gloom that draped itself over hills, valleys, and craters. He fiddled with some switches to get his mind off it. Oops, wrong switch. The computer console projected a 3D image of the company’s exec, with his plastic hair and plastic smile, between the driver and passenger seats.

The hologram spoke: “Ah, so good to see you two--”

Mitch punched the console, and the image wavered. Tired of hearing this idiot and all his recordings. We get it: we’re here to map the planet and find your lost rovers--the ones that were supposed to do the mapping--because you can’t program anything worth a damn. Even holograms.

“Ah, so good--”

Thump.

1/2 Pluto day (roughly 3 Earth days)

“Hey, why do you think Mickey named his dog Pluto?”

Mitch glanced over at Jerome on the passenger side, frowned. What was it now? Couldn’t Jerome let him drive in peace?

“’Cause Pluto is Hades in Greek mytho, god of the underworld--”

“Yeah, I know that.”

Jerome went on, “And that’s basically like Satan. What kind of guy--or mouse--names his dog Satan?”

“Is this some nut-case conspiracy theory that Walt Disney is a Satanist?”

Jerome chuckled. “Ha, no. Everyone knows Disney was a fascist.”

Mitch groaned on the inside, kept his focus on the dreary icescape ahead. Maybe in another time, another place, such as at a bar after a couple of shots, he’d find Jerome mildly amusing. But not today, and probably not ever.

“So, would you name your dog Pluto?” asked Jerome.

“I wouldn’t have a dog.”

“Not a dog person, huh?” Jerome stretched back in his chair. “I thought you might--”

“No. I’m not an anything-person.” Mitch on the other hand sat as straight as possible.

“What does anything include?”

“Anything you ask.”

“Oh c’mon. We’re supposed to be partners.”

“Look--” He spared Jerome a hard look--“I just want to get this done. The sooner we get off this rock, the sooner we can get back to hot showers and naked girls.”

With a sly smile, Jerome said, “You know, I brought some porn with me.”

“No shit. Everyone does that.”

“Even the tentacle--”

“No!” The SEV momentarily swerved, made them both jump.

“Geez, what the fuck?” Jerome said, sitting on the edge of his seat.

Mitch gripped the steering wheel, slowed down just a bit. “I could say the same about you.”

“What? What’s wrong with--”

He put up the flat of his hand. “If I had to explain, you wouldn’t get it.” Seriously, what the fuck was wrong with this guy? See, this was the sort of crap he tried to get away from: people and their freaky habits. Keep that shit to yourself.

“Well fine. I’m going to take a thirty minute break in lavatory.” Jerome got up and headed to the back.

“Yeah, I didn’t need to know that.” Oh god, he needed some brain bleach. Now.

1 Pluto day (6 and 1/2 Earth days)

Jerome bobbed his head, both fingers tapping on the dash board. He turned to Mitch. “Hey, you know this tune?” Tap-tap-ta-tap-tap-ta-ta-tap.

“Uh, no.”

“Really?” Jerome did it again. “You get it now?”

“No,” he spat. “Now leave me--”

“It’s More Than A Feeling from Boston.”

“I have all of Boston’s albums, releases, remixes, re-remixes, and that’s not More Than A Feeling.”

“Oh yeah?”

With one hand on the wheel, Mitch went through his music data sticks. Found 1970’s Rock (before synth-shit took over) and plugged it in.

“More Than A Feeling,” he told the computer. The song played.

“Oh, well.” Jerome shrugged. “Don’t know what I was playing, then.” After a moment, once the song has finished, he tapped out another beat. “You know that one?”

Mitch gripped the wheel, tight, briefly closed his eyes as his frustrations mounted and expelled themselves as a hiss. No, he couldn’t kill Jerome--not yet, anyway. Just had to endure this for a little longer . . . A, little, bit, longer.

5 Pluto days (~32 Earth days)

They found it--no, he found it. Jerome had been snoozing, the lazy fuck. There in a ditch was a couple billions worth of technology, now part of the icescape.

“Whoa. Looked like someone wrecked it,” Jerome said, looking out the front window, the spotlight focused on the rover to the right.

“What? No one wrecked it. Stupid navigation program drove it into a ditch.”

“Did the navigation program also beat the crap out of it?”

“Shaddup and get your suit on.”

They suited up in silence--and as much as he hated to admit it, Jerome sorta, kinda, had a point. The rover’s frame was bent out of shape, lying on one side when it should’ve just gotten stuck. But seriously, there wasn’t anyone out here, so how could it be?

They left the SEV through the pressure cell, their insulated suits keeping out the cold. Yet, Mitch shivered. The ground was hard and compact, a haziness all around them, the shadowed face of Charon loomed overhead. More dream than reality as he walked forward, expecting the crunch of ice. He was a ghost following the pathetic beam of light his suit gave off, a beam which struggled against the weight of True Dark, as if light could just snap in two on this world, and he’d find himself swallowed up, gone, as if he was never here.

Then Jerome broke the spell as he bounced around, five or six feet into the air.

“Cut it out!” His own voice startled him. Seemed like an eternity since he’d heard it.

“Geez, chill man.” Jerome said, then chuckled. “Just stretching out. It’s cramped in there.”

Mitch ignored him and approached the rover, crusty with ice crystals that sparkled pink and yellow in the beam light. Odd though, two of the three axles were bent, and the camera lens smashed. It really had had the crap beaten out of it. No, c’mon, it just had a rough tumble into the ditch. He brushed ice away and detached camera number one. If the rover couldn’t be salvaged, the company at least wanted the footage.

He half-turned in Jerome’s direction, camera under one arm. “Hey, come help me-- What are you doing?!”

Jerome had his pelvis thrust out, ready to undo the fly part of the suit. He gave him a quick wave. “Going to set a record: first guy to piss on Pluto.”

“And first guy to get frostbite, too.”

“That’s why I put knitter-nanos in my junk.”

Why didn’t that surprise him? The company sure knew how to pick ‘em.

Jerome continued, “Can you take a picture?”

“God no.” And he walked back to the SEV.

A few seconds later . . . “SHIT IT’S COLD!”

8 Pluto days (~56 Earth days)

Jerome leaned over onto to his side. “Hey, you think I could drive for a bit. I mean, since you’ve been driving this entire time, probably want a break.”

“No breaks,” Mitch grunted. Had to keep focus, keep focus, keep focus. He strained his eyes, tears welled up.

“Not even for a few minutes?”

“If I don’t have anything to do with my hands, I can’t be held responsible if I strangle you to death.”

Jerome gave a shaky grin. “That’s, uh, funny. Might be good to relax for a bit, grab a coffee packet, some Doritos . . .”

“You really want to take that chance?” he said in a low voice, practically clutching the steering wheel to his chest.

“Uh . . .”

“Now feed me some Doritos.”

11 Pluto days (7--oh, fuck it)

Do. Not. Take. Eyes. Off. Ground. Do. Not--

“Hey, you okay?” Jerome’s voice broke in.

“I should’ve been a miner,” Mitch blurted out. “Dad was a miner on the asteroid belt. Said it was a hard life. Said I should go into the arts. I said I’ll be a photographer. Or an astronaut. Or a photographer astronaut.”

“Umm . . .”

“Look at me!”

“I-I’m looking.”

Mitch ground his forehead into the wheel. “Whywhywhywhy . . .” He heaved. “Why did I listen to him?”

“It’s okay, buddy.” Jerome patted him on the shoulder.

He snapped up. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

??????? days

A flash of shadow. He hit the brakes and Jerome smacked into the dashboard.

“Ow, geez.” Jerome shook out his arms and stood. “What was that?”

Mitch undid his seat belt and stared out the window. So they both had seen it--not a trick of the eyes. Of course, what good were eyes in this darkness? Sanity for that matter, too. A nagging ate at his heart, that last spec of curiosity that hadn’t been consumed. Were they alone? Were they? Were they?!

He turned the spot light to the left, where he thought the shadow had went. Slowly, slowly . . . There!

“Ho-lee shit,” muttered Jerome.

The creature was either hunched over or walked on all four (six? eight?) of its crablike legs, had a thick, fleshy torso from which bat wings sprouted, but . . . no head. Instead, there were a cluster of wiggling, wormy antennas.

“Is this really happening?” The words fell out of his mouth, one by one, over the course of eternity. Centuries later, he heard Jerome reply, “Yeah.”

The creature stood upright, yet favored its forelimbs as it approached the driver’s side. He crammed into Jerome, and Jerome crammed against the passenger seat. He didn’t even care how weird it was that Jerome was breathing on the back of his neck.

It came up to the window, tapped its claw against the glass then motioned for them to come out--at least that was what he thought.

He turned to Jerome, seeing beads of sweat on his face--and realized a trickle was coming down his own left temple. He quickly wiped it away. “Wha-what do we do?” he said breathlessly.

“It’s making the peace sign.” Jerome pointed behind him.

“It . . . What?” He looked back out the window. The creature held up a limb, squeezing the two-halves of its claw to make a V-shape.

Somehow, he didn’t see “peace”--it could be V for: Victory! Found some food! Then again, it didn’t have a mouth. Then again, its mouth may be hidden elsewhere.

Jerome was already suiting up.

Mitch scrambled to his feet. “What the hell are you doing?”

Never noticed how glassy Jerome’s eyes were. Had Jerome not been sleeping? Had neither of them been sleeping? Or maybe they were both asleep and this was some shared nightmare.

“Going out there,” Jerome said. “This is a record: first alien contact!”

“I think we need to wake up . . .” He said, more to himself than Jerome.

Jerome grabbed his arm. “No, c’mon. Bring a camera.”

He nodded, slowly. Yeah . . . Yeah! The company would pay HUGE for alien footage, he’d never have to do this shit again. Hot showers and naked babes for life!

He set up the computer to record visual input from his helmet before they both headed out. The creature was there, waiting, made a slight bow in their presence. So it knew human social customs? Weird. There was buzzing too, a buggy buzzing that changed pitch, like speech, from within his helmet. Maybe the comm chip was on the fritz.

“You hear that?” he asked.

“Huh?”

It motioned with its claw for them to follow--and this Mitch had to think about ... Unlike Jerome, who went on ahead.

“What are you doing?”

Jerome glanced over his shoulder. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s going to give us a tour of its underground base.”

“How can you even tell?”

“Body language? Intuition? I dunno, does it matter?”

“Uh yeah, I think it does.”

Jerome shrugged and continued to follow the creature. Goddammit. Mitch half-jogged till he caught up; it wasn’t like he could turn away from the greatest discovery in the history of, well, everything! Aliens existing on a plutoid with no water, no real sunlight, and cold as fuck. Who would’ve thought?

The creature led them to the edge of a crater, where it pushed a bolder--roughly about five feet tall, same as the alien--over to the side. Then it folded up its wings and headed down a pitch black hole. Mitch pushed a switch on his wrist to crank up the intensity of his little beam, but it didn’t seem to make a difference.

The so-called “stairs” were tiny ridges cut into the ice, and they had to walk sideways, using the walls as support. The buzzing grew louder, felt like a bug had gotten stuck in his ear. Never had he wanted a Q-tip so badly.

When the ground leveled out, the place opened up into a high-ceiling cavern. Along the walls here hundreds of cylindrical canisters that shined under their beams. There were more aliens, some loading canisters off a hovering platform, others aligning and realigning the canisters. If he didn’t know any better, this place looked more like a warehouse than any base.

“Think these things were the ones who wrecked the rovers?” Jerome asked, awe in his voice as he looked all around.

“Had to have been.” Which sparked a thought: If it were them, then why be so inviting?

Their host must’ve tuned into to his wavelength, because it turned and shook its claw in a “no” gesture. No? No what? Uneasiness got the better of him; Mitch trembled as he took a step back. Then another. And maybe Jerome was cluing in too since he’d stopped in his tracks.

Mitch knocked into some canisters. One fell, its lid popped off spilling gray contents on the floor. Liquid and something . . . spongy? A brain-shaped sponge?

No, a brain. A human-fucking-brain.

He turned and ran, dodged an outstretched crab-limb. He had his footage; didn’t need anything else. The buzzing intensified, almost like a screech, drowning out the pounding of his heart. He scrambled up the steps, gripping the walls. Slipped, got back up. Jerome not far behind.

As soon as they got out, they sprinted/leapt to the SEV. Didn’t even glance back.

He wrenched the pressure cell’s door open, both jumped in, then slammed shut. His ears popped from the swift change in atmosphere, body felt heavy, shaking with adrenaline. God he needed a drink.

“That was crazy,” Jerome said as the pressure cell gave them clearance into the SEV.

Mitch took his helmet off, gulped air. No more buzzing. “Yeah. Think we dodged a bullet there.”

But to be on the safe side, he got behind the wheel and drove far, far away.

“What if they follow?” Jerome asked.

“They probably knew we were here all along.” A muscle twitched near his left eye. What had made him say that? He shook his head, clearing his mind. “I dunno. I’ll run them over if we do see them again.”

Mitch grabbed a non-alcoholic beer packet--the only beer they were allowed on mission--and went through the footage he’d caught of their encounter . . . or not. All the recording revealed was them walking; walking across Pluto, walking into a dark hole, walking into a cavern, too much glare coming off the canisters.

“Where the fuck is it?” he yelled. He went through the recordings again and again. Nothing, nadda, zip.

“Guess they’re non-photogenic.” Jerome chuckled.

“So . . .” He slumped in his seat, dejected. “So we risked it for nothing.”

“It’s okay.” Jerome came up and patted him on the shoulder. “Maybe we can go back.”

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” He clenched his hands into fists.

“What? Why--”

Both his hands were around Jerome’s neck, but he couldn’t get a grip. Too much damn sweat.

“Stop . . .” Jerome wheezed as he reached for something out of sight. “Stop it!”

Stop? No, he couldn’t stop; could never stop. Never, never, never, never--

Whack!

Side of his skull radiated pain, blinding him. Another whack sent him straight to black.

??????? days plus one

Warning: Low oxygen levels! Warning!

Mitch roused, holding his throbbing head. Geez, did Jerome have to hit so hard? Hard to stand with the SEV at a downward angle, and the blaring red messages popping up everywhere weren’t helping his headache.

Warning!

“All right, I got it!” he yelled. Instincts and training cut through the pain, giving him a moment of clarity. His suit would be secure with plenty of oxygen in the tank, while he got this mess sorted out.

His suit was the only one hanging.

Where was Jerome? Sure, he’d tried to strangle him--but he warned him, didn’t he? The idiot couldn’t have gotten far, unless he went back to those aliens . . . In which case, they could have Jerome’s brain for all he cared. He just wanted to leave.

After he suited up and exited the pressure chamber--which wasn’t easy because it had an emergency jamming mechanism to prevent further oxygen loss--he surveyed the damage from the outside. The SEV had been driven straight into a ditch. Tires were busted, axles bent. Ice spikes had punctured the underside: the cause of the oxygen leakage.

“Fucking-a!” He beat his fists against the side, beat them till they went from sore to numb.

Charon passed overhead, its face turning away from him. His shadow grew and lengthened and melded into the darkness.

END

Originally published April 2014 in Perihelion Science Fiction

Author note: My brain must’ve been in a very weird place, for this is a bizarro combination of Lovecraft’s “The Whisperer in Darkness” and the Google Guys skits from CollegeHumor Dropout. Out of all the critters in the Cthulhu Mythos, I think the Mi-Go are my favorite. What are they doing with all those brain-filled canisters?

The original version is still up on Perihelion. I definitely saw some room for improvement, so yet again, we have the “definitive version” here on Substack. Aren’t you guys lucky?

“The Crossing of Abrythine Lake” published December 2025 in Cosmic Horror Monthly issue #66

“The Daughter That Was” published June 2025 in Kosmos Obscura: A Cosmic Horror Anthology from Graveside Press

“Coffee Grinder Love” published May 2025 in Cosmic Horror Monthly issue #59

(Pretty good year for cosmic, eh?)

Unfortunately, Graveside Press has imploded, resulting in the editors leaving. I personally would not submit anything to Steven Radecki or any of his imprints (Graveside Press, Water Dragon Publishing, Paper Angel Press) as paying on time is not his strong suit.

But Cosmic Horror Monthly is still going strong, and they’ll be open to submissions in January 2026.

And in case you missed some of my reprints here on Substack:

I also had a few acceptances that’ll be published in 2026.

“Lessons in Blade and Barrier” [reprint] will be published in Androids and Dragons. (And I didn’t realize this before, but this magazine is on Substack!)

“Homunculus” will be published in Dirty Magick Magazine. —And this one I’m very happy to have finally found a home; it’s my most rejected story, but also one of my favorites. Think of The Little Engine That Could, but with a blobby, unfinished homunculus.

I started querying my novel, The Otherside of the River, a YA fairy tale fantasy adventure in a similar vein to the 1986 film, Labyrinth. While I plan to do another round of queries come early 2026, I don’t think I’ll find an agent for this. For one, it has fairies, which the literary agents have suddenly become allergic to. I’ve tried to emphasize within my query letter that no, these are not court fae, these are fairies grounded in folklore, closer to manifestations of nature, and all kinds of strange, which I comp with Clive Barker’s NIGHTBREED. But nope; zero interest.

Also, one of the major themes of the novel is the fragility of female friendship, as our MC June has a falling out with her good friend, which results in a series of unfortunate events. Agents seem to want positive female friendships, maybe in part due to the popularity of “found families” or the rise of sapphic relationships; but as a woman (ovaries and all), something you will very likely experience are friendships with your own sex going south, and sometimes for very stupid reasons. This isn’t Mean Girls territory, just something about female friendships seem to be more difficult to maintain and very easy to break, compared to the comradery that men have between one another.

Also, almost all the agents right now are chasing romantasy, so the fantasy genre is royally screwed for a time. But that just presents more opportunities for indie publishing, right? Chances are high my novel will be serialized here on Substack.

I also want to bring one of my most beloved characters to Substack, who has yet to have her debut, Yurbith, Beasty Hunter Extraordinaire. This is a collection of dark fantasy adventure short stories, sharing the same universe as my novel and several other short stories of mine—and not mine, as I’ll be tangentially touching upon some Dreamlands and Hyperborea stuff—which I would best describe as a cross between Conan the Barbarian and the video game Bloodborne.

I’ve been unlucky selling any Yurbith stories—not that I think they’re poorly written, but the short story market at large isn’t much interested in pulp adventure stories . . . unless they’re Sword & Sorcery. And while I do have some S&S stories (i.e. Kazuko, a rogue samurai with a demonic eyeball in her chest), Yurbith does not fall into that camp, as her stories are set in the 1780’s. Also, Yurbith uses a cleaver and blunderbuss instead of a sword.

Another problem is that AI has nuked the short story market. None of these markets accept AI-generated stories, but fuckos keep submitting them, creating unmanageably bloated submission piles. I used to be able to submit several times a year to Strange Horizons, but now they only open once a year to short stories, with a cap of a thousand submissions (compare this to Strange Pilgrims who received over 7K submissions). And some markets are no longer around thanks to the AI bloat, such as Bards & Sages. I’m at the point where the best solution to combat these AI-story-submitting fuckos is to publicly shame them. Put their name out there so we all know what pieces of shit they are, and so they can be placed on a universal blacklist. And if they use aliases or pen names, put those out there too. Don’t leave them any stones to hide beneath.

So that’s about it (or all I can think of). Thanks to those of you who have already subscribed—you guys are officially Weird! (But the good kind.) I don’t engage in social media because it is 99.9% brainrot territory, so I don’t have much of a reach on the interwebs, but increasingly, there’s been more pressure for writers to have an online presence. Which sucks. But I’ve already met some awesome folks on here, and Ficstack is amazing—feels like something that should’ve been done long, long ago.

For the unsubscribed, if you’re interested in following my weird fantasy adventures, with bouts of cosmic horror and sci-fi, please do subscribe. Hopefully I can build an audience, and then maybe I won’t need to bother submitting or querying ever again (haha)—except to Cosmic Horror Monthly, I will always submit to them. 💗🥰

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Share Siobhan's Weird & Liminal Corner

The red light was too slow, and Trish couldn’t wait any longer. It had been a long, long month and nine days, waiting and waiting for that call. Hundreds of thousands of moments of agony, dread, and remorse. How they ate and ate at her sanity.

She sliced through the intersection. The speedometer struck sixty, seventy, eighty.

A mystery how she made it to the hospital without a wreck.

She abandoned her car to three parking spots, burst through the front entrance, smacked into the receptionist’s desk, wheezed, “McMullen.”

Again, the wait.

Room number in mind, she slipped into the elevator just as the doors closed, jostling interns. They could rudely stare until their eyes fell out.

On the third floor, the door numbers raced past her. 1B, 2B, 3B, 4B, 5B. Stopped in her tracks at the sight of Jake and Sheriff Robsin in front of her daughter’s room.

How did Jake manage to beat her here? Did they call him first? Called him first while she had tirelessly searched every place she knew, had fallen asleep each night with the phone clutched in her hands? All he did was take a week off.

Jake looked up from his conversation with Sheriff Robsin, ran to her with tears, tightly hugged her. She softened, face growing hot and wet.

“Is she . . . ?” She could barely breathe. Relief was pouring out of her so fast, her whole body shook. Jake’s embrace kept her standing.

“They’re still examining her,” Jake said, voice muffled by emotion. “But I mean, from what the sheriff said . . .”

“What did he say?” She looked to the sheriff, who stood at a respectful distance.

“Let me start from the beginning,” said Sheriff Robsin, smiling for both of them. “Joey Carmon was the one who found your daughter, about two miles north of town. He was out hunting, called us up, said she was sound asleep on a bed of moss. And that’s how we found her. She screamed bloody murder when we woke her, and, well . . .” His smile faded.

“What?” she insisted.

“Maybe she was hallucinating or something, because she didn’t want to go with us. She screamed and cried and flailed. Gave Andy a broken nose.” A brief uneasy smile. “Anyway, glad she’s safe and sound.”

“Thank you,” Jake said, and she nodded.

A nurse poked her head out from 5B and said, “Mr. and Mrs. McMullen?”

She rushed to the door. “Yes, is she all right?”

The nurse stepped out, closed the door behind her. “She’s in good health. No signs of dehydration, malnutrition, or trauma. She does seem to be in shock, which could be—”

“Let me see her,” Trish said, about ready to shove the little nurse aside.

Jake placed a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off. Enough waiting already! They could tell her all this over the phone.

Wide-eyed, the nurse let her through.

Her heart punched a hole through her chest at the sight of her daughter. Cynthia sat on the edge of the bed in a hospital gown, her shaggy layered hair and long bangs masking her face. Another nurse was there, putting away some sort of kit. A rape kit? Oh god!

She flung her arms around her daughter, squeezed and squeezed. All her warmth, all her love into that embrace, and Cynthia was as stiff as could be.

She knelt, brushed the bangs aside, and made eye contact. “How do you feel, sweetie?”

“Violated.” Cynthia stared coldly at the nurse.

The nurse smiled nervously.

“She can come home with us, right?” Trish asked the nurse.

“Of course. We’ll call you in a week about the blood work.”

She squeezed Cynthia once more before allowing Jake his turn. Cynthia remained rigid and unresponsive.

“Oh, here.” From her tote purse, she brought forth a cute long-sleeved dress that Jake’s mother had gotten Cynthia, a pair of flip-flops, fresh underwear.

Cynthia accepted the clothing casually, without a hint of recognition.

“I still have my school uniform,” Cynthia said, “but okay. May I change in peace, without watching eyes?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course,” Trish said hurriedly. She took several steps back and turned to face the door.

Jake gave her a sidelong glance, touched her hand. She smiled, rubbed at the soreness in her chest. Everything was right in the world; their family was back together, and they could go back to their normal, everyday lives.

Her poor Cynthia didn’t sleep the first night back at home. Trish knew this because she didn’t sleep either. She stayed awake in the living room, drinking orange pekoe tea and catching up on Netflix shows. Every so often, she’d pass by Cynthia’s door to check if her daughter needed something, and every time, Cynthia could be heard mumbling words that didn’t sound quite right, words scraped from the back of the throat. If they were words at all.

Listening too long made her head . . . cluttered, heavy. Motes swimming in the dark hallway. Breathing in her own ears, Jake’s snoring, crickets chittering outside.

Step back, shake herself. Gone, all gone. The mumbling now mute whispers. Yet from brainstem to tailbone, a chill remained.

All those nights staying up and worrying had caught herself a cold—yes, an oncoming cold.

Around 5:30 a.m., exhaustion caught up with her. She set the alarm to wake her in three hours and passed out next to Jake.

At breakfast, Cynthia behaved as she had at dinner, avoided eye contact and spoke the bare minimum. She nibbled on plain toast while Jake tried to entice her into going to the movies or to the ice park.

Halfway through her coffee and still not feeling the effects, Trish said, “What would you like to do, sweetie?”

“Go to the woods,” Cynthia said, her voice too quiet.

Coffee jolt shock. That had to be a joke. Cynthia always made smartass remarks.

“Okay, kiddo.” Jake chuckled, reassuring her that it was indeed a joke. “When you decide what you want to do today, let me know.”

Trish said, “Do you want to know what your friends have been up to?”

“No,” Cynthia said.

“Really? They’ve been so worried about you.”

“At first, they were concerned, but they’ve adjusted to life without me. I am a mere echo in their social circle.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Choose to believe what you wish.” Cynthia stood, having hardly made a dent in her toast. “I’m going to bed now.”

“Oh, okay, sweetie. Sleep well.”

Jake added, “Sleep tight, kiddo. We’ll plan something tomorrow.”

Cynthia left without further words.

For a long moment, Trish and Jake exchanged looks, unable to put into words what had just happened.

“I don’t understand,” Jake said. “I feel like we’ve done something wrong.”

“She’s been through a lot. Let’s just give her some time.” Though in the back of her mind, she was recounting the digits of the psychiatrist’s number the hospital had given her.

Every meal where Cynthia sat with them was a repeat of breakfast. Rarely did Cynthia step outside her room. The mumbles heard from behind her door started to sound like prayers.

Sheriff Robsin showed up the day after Cynthia’s return and asked if he could speak with her. Forensics had found no evidence on Cynthia’s school uniform, nor in the area where the police had found her.

In her worse thoughts, Trish feared that maybe, just maybe, there wasn’t a kidnapper.

She knocked on Cynthia’s door. “Sweetie, the sheriff is here. He’d like to speak with you.”

No answer.

No mumbling, either. Perhaps Cynthia was asleep at three in the afternoon.

She cracked the door open, peeked inside. The bed was empty. Where had that girl gone to? She hadn’t seen Cynthia leave her room.

She checked the bathroom, checked the kitchen, then returned to the room to give it another look. The bed was still empty, and Cynthia wasn’t at her desk.

From the closet came the softest of sighs, like the rustling of a mouse.

Trish flung the closet door open to find Cynthia sitting with her knees drawn up. Cynthia looked up at her with bleary eyes, her hair matted and wet as if she’d washed it in the sink, and she still wore yesterday’s nightshirt.

On the walls inside the closet were odd marks, maybe symbols, but none she recognized. What had possessed Cynthia to do that? This wasn’t her house, she didn’t have a right to vandalize it.

She took a moment to breathe out her frustration. Nothing that couldn’t be painted over; in fact, she’d do it tomorrow. Looking at those symbols made her eyes want to roll back.

She said, “What are you doing in here?”

“Thinking,” Cynthia said, annoyed.

“In the closet?”

“Yes.”

“Come, put some pants on. The sheriff is waiting downstairs.”

Trish quickly dug through the dresser drawers, produced a long skirt instead. After Cynthia was properly dressed, she marched her downstairs.

The three of them sat at the kitchen table. Jake was out shopping since he knew how much it meant to her to stay home with their daughter. Sheriff Robsin was friendly and gentle with his questioning. Did you see someone suspicious outside of school or at the bus stop? Did you speak to anyone that was unknown to you or your family? Did a stranger give you anything to eat or drink?

Cynthia, who’d up to this point answered in head shakes, sharply cut him off to say, “I was not kidnapped, nor did I run away. I followed the song, the song of . . .”

Cynthia recited strange, unintelligible words which slid off Trish’s eardrums. Never sticking, never penetrating her mind. And when the flow of words stopped, she felt much more at ease, as if she’d just survived the passing of a great storm.

Cynthia continued, “A name for every age. Sometimes Ages or Ages Thyssu.”

Trying to fill the emptiness left by Cynthia’s words, Trish said, “Why don’t I make some coffee?”

A moment longer before Sheriff Robsin answered, as if he had to shake himself wake.

“Oh, no. That’s all right. I have a lot of work back at the station.” He stood hastily, nearly tipping over his chair. “Maybe I’ll come back another time.”

She made the coffee anyway. Drank it black, alone in the kitchen.

The hospital called a day later than expected to say there was nothing unusual in Cynthia’s blood.

“Nothing,” Trish repeated to herself as she ended the call. It was almost disappointing.

The following week, Cynthia had a late-morning appointment with Dr. Lily Abeck. Trish wasn’t allowed to attend, but Dr. Abeck would record and pass along each session.

The first session was copied onto a CD, and Trish tucked it securely into her purse. As soon as she was home, she locked herself in the den, popped the CD into her laptop, and put on headphones. Her body shook, excited and nervous. What had Dr. Abeck discovered about her daughter’s situation?

“I heard you were gone for a while,” Dr. Abeck said after Trish got through introductions and pleasantries. “Do you mind taking me through that day on June 29th?”

“I’d have to take you through June 28th first,” Cynthia said flatly.

“Please, I’d like to hear it.”

“As I was going to the bus stop that day, I heard the most . . . wonderful, magnificent song. I couldn’t believe it existed. It was too perfect. And it came from the woods.

“I continued to hear the song while riding the bus, and it was with me at school. I asked my friends at lunch if they heard it, and they all shook their heads. The song was there when I returned home, there as I fell asleep, and it was even in my dreams. When I awoke, it was still there. I alone could hear this song and knew it must be for me.”

Trish paused the recording, tried to remember if there was a particular song playing that day on the radio, one that might have gotten stuck in Cynthia’s head. Nothing came to mind, or maybe she’d been listening to the wrong stations (usually classic rock). She resumed listening.

“On the 29th, I had resolved that I’d find the source of this song. After I got off the bus, I went into the woods. I spent hours. The day was long, so I had plenty of light. But suddenly the sky darkened.

“I was afraid, but I didn’t actually know what fear was. It didn’t matter. I was cared for, even . . . loved.” Cynthia sighed as if she were an old woman remembering a long-ago romance.

“What happened next, after this . . . ?”

The audio gave out. Trish cursed, checked the CD for scratches. Maybe the recording equipment had malfunctioned. The audio returned ten minutes after Dr. Abeck’s question.

“. . . It’s natural to reciprocate, desirable,” Cynthia said.

“Oh . . .” Dr. Abeck sounded off, as if she suddenly had a head cold. “How exactly did you reciprocate?”

Silence.

“That’s okay, you don’t have to answer,” Dr. Abeck said. “Do you think you could sing or hum this song for me?”

“Impossible.”

“Do you believe it’s an angel’s song?”

“No.”

“Can you hear the song now?”

“No.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“That’s like asking why our galaxy, the solar system, and earth formed from the primordial chaos. Why did any of it begin?”

Abruptly, the session was declared over. Dr. Abeck said her goodbyes, adding that she looked forward to their next session in two weeks.

Trish sat there for several minutes, the glow of the laptop’s screen burning her eyes. That person Dr. Abeck had spoken to didn’t even sound like her daughter. It was . . . alien.

Alien? What was wrong with herself? What was . . . Never mind. It was going to be okay. It was going. To. Be. Okay.

Found her teeth grinding and hands clenching. Found herself unable to move until Jake arrived home.

Dr. Abeck arrived at the coffee shop on a motorbike, wearing a brown leather jacket and skinny jeans on a figure Trish yearned to have again. Funny, without glasses, Dr. Abeck looked ten years younger, though no doubt the pixie haircut helped.

After ordering a cappuccino, Dr. Abeck sat with her, and insisted she be called Lily.

“I believe Cynthia has created this alternate reality,” Dr. Abeck said, “an attempt to distance herself from the trauma. I think if she gets out a bit more, maybe nature walks, that may help her engage in the world again. Natural light is also good. You can buy lamps online or maybe encourage her to spend mornings in the backyard.”

Trish typed all the advice into her phone. It seemed so obvious now. She shouldn’t have let Cynthia stay cooped up in her room all this time.

“Most importantly, to stay patient. This is a difficult time for her, and you never want her to feel as if she’s at fault. Always remain a positive force in her life. If you feel you need to take a moment, take a moment.”

“What about the song she mentioned?” Trish said, unable to hide her worry.

“It might be a symptom of schizophrenia, though you say there isn’t a history of mental health issues in either your family or your husband’s. So, for now, we’ll just observe.”

Before Dr. Abeck left, she promised to provide another copy of the first session, as well as double-check her recording equipment.

Trish slowly sipped her warm apple cider; of late, she’d been drinking too much coffee and tea. She was glad for the discussion, glad for the context. Schizophrenia didn’t scare her as much as, well—

She caught herself staring at an empty glass. Huh, funny.

The autumn morning air was crisp but not too chilly. They ditched the scarves, mitts, and hats for their walk. Jake also joined, saying he could use the exercise.

They walked around the neighborhood, startling stray cats and remarking on early Halloween decorations. They followed the bike trail, which led them out of their neighborhood and into another—older, less densely packed. The bike trail continued, running along the woods for several miles, where it would end in the local park.

Trish had no plans to go as far as the park, but maybe it would be a goal for them in the future.

Except Cynthia left the trail.

She caught Cynthia’s shoulder, but the girl wiggled out of her grasp. Cynthia might have actually gotten away had Jake not lunged and grabbed her.

“Just let me go,” Cynthia said, her voice breaking.

“Are you . . .” Trish bit her tongue to keep from saying crazy. It wouldn’t help to say that.

Nor would it help to ask about the woods. Likely, the answer would make her brain swim in a vat of wine.

Cynthia ceased her struggle, head hanging in defeat. There were no tears, just a longing gaze at the woods as they held her in their iron grips.

She passed Aaron’s art gallery on the way to pick up school notes from one of Cynthia’s friends. She missed the gallery. Aaron had been so kind to let her have all the time off she needed, but now she wondered if that had been a disservice. Jake had his job to keep him occupied while she was stuck all day with a stranger. There were days when she wanted to grab and shake this stranger, demanding to know what had happened to her daughter.

Maybe she should go back to work. Something could be worked out where Jake went in late, and she left early, so Cynthia was never left unsupervised.

But when she proposed this to Jake, he gave her the briefest look of horror, and said he couldn’t do it because he’d already taken too much time off. How was it that her boss allowed time off and not his? He couldn’t answer.

She went up the stairs, knocked on Cynthia’s door.

“I have your school notes,” she said.

Cynthia opened the door, handed her the pile of homework she’d picked up this morning.

“Wait, you finished it?” That was at least two weeks’ worth of homework. “All of it?”

“Yes.”

They exchanged papers, and Cynthia briefly, almost mockingly, looked over her friend’s notes. She was wearing the same heavy sweater from this morning, despite that the day had warmed considerably. A light jacket would have been more fitting.

“You want me to turn on the heater?”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, would you like to go over this homework?”

“You may if you wish. It will be found satisfactory.” Cynthia was about to close the door but stopped. “May I go outside?”

“Only to go to school.”

“I’m going to take a nap.” The door closed.

Trish turned around and sighed. At least Cynthia still cared about her academics. Maybe there was still hope.

Cynthia had always been a middling student, getting Bs, sometimes As, the occasional C. So, Trish was shocked to see not a single answer was incorrect, and the handwriting was clean and neat. Well, okay, Cynthia is now a genius.

She erased some of the answers, replaced them with incorrect ones. As far as anyone outside this family and Dr. Abeck would know, Cynthia was still Cynthia.

Trish wasn’t sure about this Dr. Abeck. Not only was that first session’s audio never fully restored, but no progress had been made in the three months since they started. It was Dr. Abeck asking the same question, five different ways, and Cynthia pointing this out.

The latest session started with Dr. Abeck saying, “You look well today.”

“You mean I look fat,” Cynthia said.

Dr. Abeck stammered a denial. The whole exchange could be mistaken for a comedy routine.

What was she paying three-hundred dollars a session for? And that was with a discount!

Though she did agree, Cynthia was gaining weight. When Cynthia had regained her appetite, Trish was simply glad that her daughter wasn’t going to starve. But the second helpings, snacks, and lack of exercise were adding up.

After she replaced the snacks with grapes and carrot sticks, she caught Cynthia rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. When she pointed out the healthier snacks, Cynthia grumbled, “Not enough calories,” and made a bowl of cereal instead.

Over dinner, she and Jake conversed normally, as Dr. Abeck recommended, specifically about helping organize a garage sale for Jake’s sister.

“Do you have anything to sell?” she said to Cynthia.

Cynthia scooped the last of her meal into her mouth, chewed slowly, and swallowed.

“I can refill your plate for you,” she said, grabbing Cynthia’s plate. “I was about to get up, anyway.”

Cynthia didn’t protest, just looked at her with a bored expression.

She got the skinniest pork chop, and only a spoonful of mashed potatoes and green beans. Then put the leftovers away, so there wouldn’t be thirds.

That night, she locked the fridge to prevent midnight snacking.

The leftovers were gone the next morning.

Jake, that idiot man. He must’ve forgotten to relock the fridge after getting a beer. Or he had undermined her.

She found Jake in the den, closed the doors behind her. He gave her the dumbest look, as if he didn’t know what the hell was going on.

When she left the den, she was drained of all emotion. Her voice hoarse, her face burning hot.

After another argument, Jake suddenly had to fill in at a conference. Apparently, she was the only one who cared about their daughter.

The day passed slowly without Jake around. Trish picked weeds, reorganized the bookcase, tried out her new teas, watched Netflix shows, made sandwiches, and still the clock hadn’t struck noon.

Cynthia absconded with the remaining sandwiches, but by that time she’d remembered the bottle of red wine buried in the pantry.

She awoke from the couch to darkness and running water. Temples throbbing, mouth full of sticky sourness. She had a vague memory of Cynthia cooking steak in a pan and herself not giving a damn.

Where was that water coming from? Oh, a shower. A shower? At 3:00 a.m.? What was wrong with that girl?

She sluggishly stomped to the bathroom.

A girlish giggle.

She blinked, tried to comprehend what she had just heard. A giggle, really? Not strange mutters or throat-scraping words?

Steam burst through the open doorway. A glow came from behind the shower curtains. She slammed the lights on, ripped the curtains back.

Her cry tangled in a scream.

Cynthia shielded her belly, five or six months pregnant. Black ichor ran down the inside of her thigh.

Trish was too weak to grab support, too weak to stand. She crumpled to the floor as Cynthia fled.

This . . . this had to be a nightmare. It wasn’t possible. The hospital would have told her.

She curled up like a child, buried her face in her knees, and heaved mountainous sobs.

A thousand times she thought about calling the hospital and screaming until her lungs were raw. But then they would know. And she didn’t want anyone to know.

She had to do something. She had to help her daughter.

There was Samantha, who worked at and was part-owner of an OB/GYN clinic. She’d known Samantha for many years, who loved art as much as she did, but lacked the training to know what to look for in a piece. Samantha wouldn’t gossip to others about her poor Cynthia.

She scheduled an appointment the very next day at the earliest time available.

Cynthia had locked herself in her room and, apparently, took provisions because the peanut butter and box of crackers were gone. She apologized, pleaded, and tried to bribe Cynthia to open the door.

All day it was like this. All day. Cynthia was beyond reason, too sick to understand what was going on with herself. Trish was forced to use a screwdriver to dismantle the doorknob.

“You can’t come in here,” Cynthia said, trying to block the doorway with her desk chair.

“It’s my house. I can come in if I want.”

She grabbed the chair from Cynthia, who gave up willingly. Cynthia retreated to her bed, used a giant pillow to guard herself.

“You need to see a doctor,” she said.

“I’m not getting an ultrasound.”

“You’re getting what you need.” Though an ultrasound was exactly what she was thinking. “Don’t you understand?”

“Only that you wish to imprison me at your own expense.”

The last of her patience flew out the window.

“You’re fifteen years old! You’re not old enough to make adult decisions. Don’t you want to go back to school? Hang out with your friends? You haven’t even been to a prom. How will you go to the prom if you have it?”

“He,” Cynthia said. “The baby is a boy.”

She threw her hands up. “How can you possibly know that?”

“I know,” Cynthia said icily. “Just like I know you had an abortion when you were twenty.”

Smack!

Cynthia held her face. Her palm burned.

“Ohgodimsosorry,” she blurted in a single breath. She had never, ever, ever, ever raised her hand toward Cynthia. Not even to spank her!

“I’m sorry, sweetie. Do you need some ice?”

“It’s nothing. A phantom memory.” Cynthia’s hand fell from her face, her gaze far off. “I’ve said my goodbyes ages past. I’ve not missed anyone since.”

Though she still felt awful, Cynthia’s response made it less objectionable.

“I’ll get you some ice.” She backed away. “And we’re leaving 6:30 a.m. tomorrow,” she said with finality.

Surprisingly, Cynthia didn’t put up a struggle. She was even properly dressed, wearing a heavy sweater (which hid the pregnancy), knee-length skirt, stockings, and jogging sneakers.

The car ride to the clinic was full of silence. The horizon was barely lit, the air cold, the sky dark.

At the tail end of the South Central Plaza, next to an imported dishware shop, was the clinic. The parking lot had been expanded quite a bit since the last time Trish was here; this wasn’t her go-to place to shop. Though just beyond the parking lot was the woods. She parked close as possible to the clinic, kept the back seat doors locked until she opened the door for Cynthia, then maintained an iron grip on her daughter.

No one else was in the waiting area, which eased some of her tension. The fewer people who knew, the better. She quickly filled out the paperwork, and when called, she ushered Cynthia into Samantha’s office.

Samantha was in her early fifties, lots of gray blending into her sandy blonde hair, which she kept in a tight ponytail. Her face expressed shock, but she quickly masked it with a smile.

“Thank you for seeing us so soon,” Trish said, smiling apologetically. “I’d like to do this discreetly.”

“We can do that. Have a seat, you two.” Samantha indicated to a couple of chairs against the wall, then dragged her swivel chair comfortably close.

“Do you think we could go ahead and do the ultrasound?” Trish continued to stand.

“Only reason we’re here is because the abortion clinic is five hours away,” Cynthia said, also standing.

Samantha looked both appalled and confused.

Trish chuckled nervously. “It’s a joke. She’s developed this bizarre sense of humor. We’re going to put it up for adoption.”

“He—and no.” Cynthia’s icy tone returned.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” She said, voice heated and rising. “You don’t know what kind of decision you’re making.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s calm down,” Samantha said. “Here, I’ve got something.”

From the large desk drawer, Samantha removed a radio-looking device with a trumpet style stethoscope attached by a cord, and another skinny cord ending in an earpiece.

“Take a seat, Cynthia, please.” Samantha held up the device. “Do you know what this is?”

“A baby heartbeat monitor,” Cynthia said, sitting.

“Impressive.” Samantha smiled. “Would you like to listen to your baby’s heartbeat? This isn’t as intense as an ultrasound, if that concerns you.”

“I can already hear his heartbeat. But since you asked nicely.” Cynthia lifted the sweater and shirt underneath to reveal a round abdomen. Trish looked away.

“You’re pretty far along,” Samantha said, applying the device’s stethoscope. “Sit straight, please.”

All Trish could do was seethe in silent discontent. She didn’t come here for Cynthia to be coddled and reassured in her delusion. Where were the facts on teenage mothers?

“Ah, found it,” Samantha said, listened for a moment. “A strong, healthy heartbeat.” She removed the earpiece. “I’ll get you a new one.”

Samantha instructed Cynthia on how to hold the stethoscope and carefully placed the device on Cynthia’s lap. For the first time since Cynthia returned home, her daughter smiled.

“I’m going to speak with your mom for a bit,” Samantha said, stood, and took Trish aside.

In a hushed voice, Samantha said, “What’s going on with you two?”

“Look, I only found out yesterday. She’s been hiding it from me.”

“Well, I can see why.”

“If those hospital nurses had just done their job properly, we wouldn’t be in this position.” She wanted to cry and pull her hair out. None of this was fair; she shouldn’t have to defend herself. “Can you just…please perform the ultrasound.”

“Your daughter doesn’t want to.”

“It doesn’t matter!” She took a deep breath, forcing her voice low. “She hasn’t been well for a while now.”

“Arguing about it is only going to lead to more stress. I think we should—”

Darkness. Total and complete darkness.

Shouts outside the office. She and Samantha bumped heads. Trish reached out, trying to find Cynthia, her heart pounding in her ears.

Somehow, deep down, she knew Cynthia was no longer in the room.

She felt for the door, followed the walls to the waiting area, and out the glass entrance door. Cynthia’s silhouette passed behind the trees at the edge of the parking lot.

Trish ran straight into the woods.

The ground was slick with icy dew, and several times she missed her footing and lost sight of Cynthia. She kicked off her slip-on dress shoes, sprinted to catch up. Socks soaked, bone-chilling cold, her ears ached like frostbite.

Cynthia stumbled, cried out, and clutched her abdomen.

“Stop!” Her mouth, nose, throat, and lungs burned; she could barely speak. “You’re going to hurt yourself!”

The trees grew thick around her. The morning light dimmed. Left, right, straight, it all looked the same. Could they make it out of here?

Cynthia slowed down, leaned heavily on a tree. If she could just get a little closer . . .

The trees backed away—no, a clearing. Cynthia fell to her knees. Finally! She could catch her daughter and—

High above the trees, a tower of black smoke swirled.

A strong gust swept smoke into the woods, obscuring the ground, the surrounding tree trunks, and Cynthia herself.

“Cynthia!” She heard herself yell. “Cynthia!”

It was growing darker, darker, darker than a moonless night, darker than the space between stars. Each time she repeated Cynthia’s name, her voice grew softer, softer, softer . . .

Warmth. Surrounding, comforting. Cynthia uncurled and opened her eyes. Pillows? Oh, a bed. Her bed.

But not her room.

Her bed was in the middle of an ever-expanding body of mist; shadows carpeted the floor. The mist formed wispy gray membranes with gaping, drooping pores. The pores continuously collapsed and reformed, each time hinting at other lands, other worlds that lay eons away.

No soreness as she sat up. No scraped or bruised shins from a dozen stumbles. She ran her fingers over a nightgown she’d never donned. Where they rested on her belly, the baby kicked joyfully, making her smile. Safe. They were both safe.

“I’m so glad,” she whispered breathlessly. “It was all just a terrible dream.”

Sweet, wonderful relief! A laugh escaped, flew high, high, higher. Crackling electricity coursed through the mist, and the song—oh, the song!—arose all around and within herself.

She shuddered, held herself as every emotion tumbled and swirled, danced and clashed. The baby had calmed down; sucking his thumb, he listened intently.

The melody stung her eyes, the harmony embraced and shied away, the rhythm shook worlds.

Yet something was new, different. She dug through a labyrinth of layers, pushed notes aside, filtered out thousands-upon-thousands of echoes to find one that repeatedly and persistently called out her name. An echo from a familiar voice.

How perfect! How wonderfully perfect! The addition was just so right—a simple touch of endearment, passion, and angst.

She wiped away tears, nestled into her pillows. Hopefully, in time, her baby would become just as musical.

END

Originally published June 2025 in Kosmos Obscura: A Cosmic Horror Anthology from Graveside Press

Author note: Made a minor tweak and undid a couple editorial changes that I disagreed with. Call this the “Definitive Version”—until I find something else to change.

And if you’re following my stuff, be mindful of Cynthia’s child, you’ll be seeing him in some future tales as I put out more of these stories that’ll weave a kind of tapestry.

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