Photo by Craig Whitehead on Unsplash By Robert Scott The rain swept in along the western seashore and landed on the old promenade market. The stalls’ awnings clicked, hummed, and extended over their displays, while a wave of hoods and hats appeared on the heads of the crowds. On the low cliff, at the Collection Point stall, Drew and Angela continued their reading, ignoring both the commotion below and the light drizzle that blew in and sprayed over the piles of offerings that covered the large table before them. Their goods were safe in the rain. Angela dropped a plastic sheet down the chute between their wicker armchairs and glanced back to confirm that it had landed in the correct container in the collection vehicle. ‘I enjoyed that one,’ she said. ‘Sweet ‘n’ sour, though too short, I felt. I filed it in 2170- 2180, if you’re interested.’ ‘Another war one, then?’ asked Drew, without looking up from his offering. He rested his right index finger on the word time in the middle of the third line of the final stanza and waited for Angela’s reply. ‘Yes, but quite original – it was simply about the waiting, the sitting around. There was no attack at the end, no drones, no bots, no rescue, nothing. Just a chap gazing out at the stars from an exoplanet base, longing for home. I wonder if he made it.’ Angela paused. Drew made no comment. ‘I can get it back if you would like to read it. I put it in Military, War Poetry. The author, dates, web-checks, finder-verification all checked out, so I didn’t want to bother you with a war one.’ ‘All that soldier-poet crap.’ Drew regretted saying that. ‘Show me the next good war one.’ ‘Roger that, Captain,’ said Angela, with a smirk. Drew finished reading his offering and sent it through to Sonnets 2140-2150. He pushed his glasses onto his forehead, leant back, and stretched his arms, nearly hitting the low canvas covering. The rain was still coming in from the coast. The market below remained as busy as ever. A red umbrella popped up in the middle of the crowd – how exotic. It began snaking its way towards them. He remembered an umbrella shape-poem from the previous year – what was that about? The red umbrella disappeared. He turned and gave Angela the nod. She pulled out the next two acetates, handing one to him and turning the other over in her hand. The egg-timer hologram spun, and they settled down to read their offerings. Drew glanced out at the clouds again before he began. There was always enough time allotted by the childish timer hanging in the air between them. And taking a moment always increased the sense of expectation. Would it be lyrical, realistic, from near or afar, recent or centuries-old, mundane or magical? The rain was damping down the sand dust and freshening the air; it pattered about on the awning-top like a family of rodents. Neruda would love this, though Pablo preferred the sound of rain battering on the corrugated iron roof of his tiny reading room in downtown Bellavista, his ruka. Perhaps the great Chilean poet enjoyed desert rain during his postings abroad, or while touring the north in his own country as read his poems to the copper miners. Drew crossed his legs and wiped a raindrop from the cool acetate surface of the offering. A second brush of the back of his hand cleared the tiny trail of bubbles to reveal the Retrieval Data. Author: Name Withheld (2015-93) Provenance: Accra, Ghana. Web-checks: Confirmed. Finder-verification: Anon. Verified He fingered the hard edges and flipped it over. It was a love poem, set by the sea. How apt. Right on time, a waft of salty smirr reached their den. They had a prime pitch, up on the hill, overlooking the bustling show of the market. The low hum of human activity didn’t distract from the reading. On the contrary, it provided a sense-background to the messages from the past that lacked any physical sensuousness on their clinical plastic sheets. The Council knew that it was a good spot to tempts customers – to get away from the crowd, enjoy the sea-view, and most importantly it would attract more offerings for the Archive. Drew placed his finger on the opening line: Six miles of waves till I see you again … The darker shade of sky aided the reading; dulling the sun’s glare and ghosting away the reflections that usually fell across the laminated plastic sheet. Not an ideal medium for the eyes to focus on, but at least a means to overcome the painful durability of plastic - the cockroach of the human footprint - as it clogged the seas and choked all life wherever it went. As with life itself, for the written word survival had been a challenge. For decades, books were burned, discarded, bargained away, or simply turned to dust. Digital versions were lost in obsolete systems, wiped, stolen, or destroyed in wars and climate disasters. But at last someone in power made a good decision. What should a species preserve? Bottles, bags, plastic gloves? Or the words and poetry of the centuries? And what greater and worthier a mission as turning evil into good? Turning plastic into poetry. Before Drew got going, the camera-monitor pinged, and a man’s head came into view. ‘A walk-in,’ said Angela. ‘It’s my turn, I think?’ The timer stopped and they readied to face the public, the least enjoyable task of Drew’s otherwise comfortable peacetime desk job. A tapping sound came from below, at the foot of the staircase hewn into the rock. Metal on stone. It grew louder, with a second-long pause between each tap – tap – tap. A head and a shock of dark hair appeared, against the pale ochre shades of the cliff; like a portrait silhouette. Then a silvery glint and a splash of colour; the metal tip of a rolled-up tartan umbrella landed on the penultimate step. Tap! The visitor presented himself. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. When he spoke, Drew immediately recognised the accent – it was his once – thirty years earlier. Something else he had lost along the way. ‘Good afternoon,’ replied Angela, as she stood and bowed in greeting. ‘Welcome to the Archive Collection Point. Thank you for visiting us. Do you have an offering?’ The man accepted the offer of a seat and looked over and nodded towards Drew, who instinctively lowered his voice in greeting and tipped his hat forward. Angela took the acetate from the visitor and started to run through the usual checks. ‘Nice job on the transcription there – oh, I see who did that. They are good,’ she said. Something made Drew dip his head further when the man was about to look his way. ‘Do you know any more regarding the provenance?’ asked Angela. ‘It states, Family: probable. We ask because people do not always appreciate how useful such details are for us. They paint a picture around the piece. Could you elaborate?’ ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ said the man. Angela paid the man. As he got up to leave, he looked over to Drew and bade him farewell in his first, at-home, language. Somehow, the visitor had worked that out. Drew smiled and repeated his words. Angela was too busy to notice the exchange. As the man disappeared down the steps, he turned to Drew and mouthed several words. Drew gripped the arms of his chair, almost rose, then checked himself. ‘I’m going to look at this one now, if that’s all right,’ said Angela. ‘I love the walk-ins. They’re so much better than the heaps of anonymity.’ She flipped from one side of the acetate to the other, oblivious to Drew. ‘It’s called Come Home. No name. It’s very recent, thirty years old. It’s translated – only a content-level translation, it hasn’t been passed up yet, so it might still be clunky. Shame.’ Angela liked to read aloud the opening lines, before muttering through the middle parts, then returning aloud for the ending. ‘Here goes: Come Home Called to arms, as the fighting faded. My poet, turned soldier, Come home, love, before it’s too late. Every moment is danger, take care till the peace, And come home.’ Angela muttered on, ‘We’ll forgive and forget. You half came back, then left again’. Then she got lost in the poem, falling silent, then returned for the ending. ‘Come home, love, before it’s too late. That’s it. Oh. How sad! And mysterious. So, this person went off to war, survived, went home, then disappeared again.’ ‘I’m going to take a break, Angela. Back soon,’ said Drew, jumping out of his seat. The rain-damp rock dust stuck to his hand as he balanced himself, descending the uneven staircase. Halfway down, he stopped to gather himself. He scanned across the dark shifting morass. That umbrella should jump out like a warning beacon in the night. Nothing. Whoever he was, if he had come here, he would have to leave again. So, the transportation hub. Ten minutes’ away. Angela wouldn’t mind him disappearing for a while. Back at the stall, Drew slumped into his chair. ‘Are you all right, Drew? Where have you been?’ ‘Angela, do you remember the name on that offering from the drop-in?’ ‘No, and it’s gone.’ ‘What did you file it under?’ he asked. ‘War/Romance.’ Drew released a sound like a laugh that stopped before it began. ‘Do you know if we can destroy the acetates?’ ‘What a question, Drew! The new ones are virtually indestructible, as I understand it. That’s the whole point of the Archive.’ ‘So, we can’t destroy the past, even if we want to? No, we can’t.’ He answered his own question. ‘And time doesn’t do that either.’ He sat back, and looked at the clouds, sea and the market going on below. ‘I think I already knew that,’ he said. AuthorRobert Scott lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, UK. He has short fiction in several magazines and a couple of anthologies.
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Photo by Jason Leung on Unsplash By Jolly Alexander Hearken - to voices above floating in the clouds and below in the earth Listen - to all things in the teeming world Learn to love - all things bold and beautiful Forgive and set free all you had bound Rise up - enchanted and free AuthorJolly Alexander is a published poet. She loves reading and writing. She loves meeting people on social media. Find her tweeting at @FashionSpire. Photo by Joel Holland on Unsplash SPRING WHISPERS TO ME Spring whispers to me, Please don't forget me, forever. I whisper to her, I never forget you even when I'm in winter, in summer, in autumn― I never forget you because you give me the place where a new hope dwells― I never forget you because you make me feel that I'm in a new sunrise― I never forget your scent of hope, scent of dawn― A SHOWER OF SPRING A shower of spring blooms in my arms Invisible motion of cherry blossoms waves and makes dusky pink hope Let me feel you more, lest I go back to winter ground Let me believe you more, lest I give up gleaming hope A shower of spring blooms in my arms Like flaring emerald, it illuminates my days and adds sweet melody AuthorYuu Ikeda is a Japan based poet. Photo by curtis powell on Unsplash By W. C. Busch Meza crouched in the shadows of an abandoned tavern. Well, not abandoned, shuttered. The crackdown on alcohol in the city had pushed out more than a few establishments. A squad of constabulary soldiers dashed past, running toward the Office of Prohibited Materials. Riots had broken out after the Duke sent his own royal guards to dump a recent shipment of Dwarven whiskey into the harbor. The city of Seras, capital of the Duchy of Serasco, was on the brink of disaster. Fucking Royalists, Meza grumbled inwardly. Bad enough they started this war, now they're in bed with the Templars of Temperance. And people thought the nobles couldn’t get any more pretentious. He pushed the thought aside. Fortunately for Meza, the riots and unrest provided the perfect cover for his work. He peeked around the corner. He held his breath for a moment, listening to the sounds of the streets. Wooden window blinds clapped against their frames. A cool breeze hummed through the alley to his right. Meza slipped out from the shadows and ran across the cobblestone streets. The complex of buildings before him occupied a full city block. A series of warehouses and public halls, the Seras Repository had been a public auction house before the civil unrest set in. Now it stood dark and silent. But even in disuse, it held items that were highly desired by many collectors and patrons in the city. Meza slipped into a narrow alley between two of the buildings. He drew a small vial from a pouch on his belt and pulled out a dropper. He let a drop of the liquid, night-sight it was called, fall onto both of his eyes and blinked a few times to let it sink in. For a moment nothing happened. Then the world grew lighter, as if someone behind him was shining a light into a mirror and then projecting it in front of him. “Warehouse Seven,” he read quietly. Meza pocketed the night-sight and pulled a small syringe out of his pocket. He yanked off the cork stopper at the end of the needle and flicked the syringe to dislodge a stubborn bubble. “Here goes nothing,” he whispered, sticking the needle into a plump vein ion his forearm. He pushed the plunger down and the serum entered his bloodstream. Heat raced up his arm and spread out across his body, a little painful, like standing too close to a bonfire. He held his hands up to the lock of the warehouse, a complicated contraption that required both a key and the correct code by dial. Pressing one palm against the keyhole and the other against the combination dial, Meza closed his eyes and focused his energy toward his open hands. Heat coursed through his body, racing through his palms and out into the lock. Under his hands, the metal softened. After a few moments, something plunked inside the lock and the door opened with a soft groan. Meza pushed the door wide. If someone happened upon him, there’d be no hiding his presence, not now. He moved through the room, eyes darting all around at shelves full of gold, sacks of jewels, fine crafts from across the world, and racks of ancient weapons. Everything in Warehouse Seven was of high value and small size. Something glistened on a shelf at the far end of the room. Meza smiled. The dagger was seven inches long, set in a silver handle covered in the purest rubies he’d ever seen and covered by a matching scabbard. Not that Meza had much experience with high end jewellery, but he was certain this dagger was worth more than he’d probably ever earn in his lifetime. Now he understood why his employer was offering so much for the job. He shoved the dagger into his sack and hung it over his shoulder. He still had one more item to retrieve. The auctioneer’s desk beside the door was locked tight, but a few moments of pressure was all it took to melt through. He pulled open the drawer, careful not to let any molten metal fall onto the paper contents within. He pulled a glove onto one hand. It was lined with drakescale, normally to protect hands. Now it shielded the auctioneer cheques from the heat running across his skin. He slipped the cheques into his belt, beneath his tunic. He emptied the rest of the contents from the drawer, secreting various pieces in the pockets of his tunic and in his sack, then pushed over a stack of books. Nobody would be looking for the dagger with the desk broken into and the cheques gone. He slipped out of the warehouse and ran to the wall he’d scaled to get in. Not wasting any time, he pulled himself over the wall and dashed back toward the abandoned tavern. He knocked four times, two sets of two knocks separated by a short pause. The door opened and he slipped inside. Most of the heat had retreated from his veins, the effects of the arcanium wearing off. His eyes, however, could still clearly make out the figures in the darkness before him. Six men regarded Meza, all with glowing eyes to match his own. Three stood, one in each corner of the room facing the door. These were obviously enforcers, big men with billy clubs at their belts. Two of the remaining men stood behind the third. Their faces were hidden by full face masks that left only their eyes showing. They showed no sign of weapons on them, but Meza recognized the one defining mark on the men; broaches the shape of a crescent moon with a sword stuck through the middle between the points. Yisari Assassins, Meza thought. Not good. The sixth man sat between the two assassins. Meza knew exactly who he was. The Gentleman, Master of the Thieves Circle. “Back so quickly, young Meza,” said the Gentleman. “I trust that means you encountered little resistance.” Meza didn’t reply. He pulled off the sack, slowing his movement with one hand out as he saw one of the Yisari tense and shift his weight. The assassins were known for their ability not only to kill anyone their client required, but also to protect their client, even to their own death. The last thing Meza wanted was a Yisari blade anywhere near him and he had no doubt they could kill him with a throw from across the room. Slowly, he pulled the dagger out of the sack, holding it by the scabbard. The Gentleman smiled and nodded, indicating a table beside the door. Meza placed the weapon on the table then stepped back toward the door, throwing his sack over his back again. Something rustled and Meza winced. The Gentleman narrowed his eyes. The two nearest thugs grabbed him by the arms, lifting him off the floor completely. The third enforcer patted down his legs. As the man patted up around his torso, he stopped and grinned. He pulled the cheques out from behind Meza’s back and walked back across to hand them to the Gentleman. “My, you are as ambitious as they say, Meza,” the Gentleman said with a grin. “Auctioneer cheques are a rare commodity in the city. Quite the enterprising lad. Were these why you took my job?” “They were just a cover, sir,” Meza said finally. “It all was.” Every window and door exploded inwards, men yelling as they charged into the room. The two thugs holding Meza dropped him, pulling their clubs to face off against two of the attackers. They were skewered before they could swing their weapons. The third thug dropped his club, flattening himself to the ground. Meza dove under a table in the far corner of the room as more attackers entered the dark tavern. The Yisari fought to defend their master, but even they were overwhelmed as they cut down two opponents. They died silently as a trio of swords impaled each of them. The tavern was instantly quiet, except for the heavy breathing of the dozen men in the room. The Gentleman, to his credit, remained seated throughout the fight, his face an unreadable mask. Two men guarding the door stepped aside to allow another to enter. He hauled Meza to his feet and slapped his shoulder with a gruff laugh. “My thanks, master thief,” he said. “We’ve been trying to track down this bastard for a long while.” He pulled a pouch from behind his belt and handed it to Meza. He also handed him a small envelope. “Payment for services rendered. That note will get you a berth on any ship or in any caravan leaving the city this week. Get out while you can, things are going to get worse here before they get better.” He handed another small note to Meza. “We also think we may have a location on who you’re looking for.” Meza smiled and nodded thanks, then walked out the door and disappeared into the shadows of the city. AuthorW. C. Busch writes fantasy and military fiction. He works in online entertainment by day and writes tales of adventure by night. You can find his historical short fiction anthology, Across the Battlefield: Extended Edition, on Amazon. He can be found on Twitter at @wcbusch. Photo by Milada Vigerova on Unsplash By Jolly Alexander When my heart separated from yours it was torn into pieces you led me to dwell on on you for days without a break you blew me away into the lonely dimension flung away wildly without a center or core yet one tiny light remained while I grasped for air one that healed my lacerated heart Cling on Hold on for life The dawn is near Awaken - to love again. AuthorJolly Alexander is a published poet. She loves reading and writing. She loves meeting people on social media. Find her tweeting at @FashionSpire. Photo by Heather McKean on Unsplash By Zoe J Walker The sharp tang of vinegar and the soft curve of her cheek pull me from where I linger. A change from seaweed and jagged rocks. She gazes out to sea, clutching a bag of chips like a life raft. Tears in familiar eyes make my chest ache but I can’t think… I don’t know… I’m not sure… My tiny shadow wraps her cold hand in mine. “Daddy, don’t you remember?” I glance behind us. Only one set of footsteps trail across the beach and I find it difficult to breathe. My little girl tugs my hand. Insistent. Why is she so wet? I hold her tight against me and try to absorb her shivers. “You tried to save me,” she whispers in my ear. The woman is weeping now, she hurls cold chips to the sea. Seagulls swoop and feast, their piercing squabbling slice through the lonely sound of the waves. I look between the child in my arms and the woman radiating despair. Memories claw their way to the surface and burst free. My chest is in agony. It burns as I suck in air and my heart cracks into a million pieces. “Martha?” My cry carries on the salted breeze. She spins around in the sand, scattering the remaining chips. Her wild eyes range over the dunes, the rocks and the vast stretch of beach, perfect for lazy summer days. She looks right through us. AuthorZoe J Walker is spending lockdown writing sad and tiny stories. She won second place in Retreat West's micro fiction competition in November. She is searching for representation for her historical fantasy novel. You can find her at www.zoejwalker.com and @zoejwalker Photo by Luke Jones on Unsplash By Mark Binmore Sitting under Father Oak, I ask him to speak to me again. Sounds of the earth swallow my pride. I hear the throb of grass crickets and the hum of the air. Birds sing distinctively in the sky and the clouds sweep softly by, supported on the breeze. A church bell ring across acres of high summer grasses. It is late in the season and I can smell the dusty scent of autumn. Soon, Father Oak will shed his leaves and I will watch them turn golden and rust as they fall and become a soft blanket for me to rest on. The earth is strong, caked hard by the mellow September sun. Berried bushes are bowed with the burden of their ripe fruits, thistles climb up above their sister grass, their purple heads watching me from day to day. Soon autumn will commence. The equinox tide will come in, and then day and night will become equal. Mother Brede and Lady Arianrhod of the silver harvest moon speak gently to me in the sweeps and gusts of the breeze as it caresses the treetops. They tell me to return to Avalon, to place the chalice at their disposal and let my friend proceed ahead with the sword. So, I have returned full circle to the hub of the year where the primeval heart beats and pulses, its veins and arteries running into my soul. This is where I sit under Father Oak and listen to September. AuthorMark Binmore (born 1971) is an award winning British novelist, author of 'Sad Confetti', 'Beautiful Deconstruction' 'Everything Could Be So Perfect' 'Sunsets Etc.' and many other books. In 2015 Mark was ranked one of Britain's 100 new influential LGBTQ writers. We are looking for submissions to our new fantasy literary magazine. Micro, flash and poems can find a home with us. All we ask is that your writing is fantastical. We are also looking for fantasy artwork to display alongside the stories. We want stories about the power of love and the strength to overcome life's struggles. And monsters. Check our submission guidelines for more information. Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash |