Dragon gems winter 2024, p.1
Dragon Gems (Winter 2024), page 1
part #5 of Dragon Gems Series
Dragon Gems
Winter 2024
Published by Water Dragon Publishing
waterdragonpublishing.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for the purpose of review and/or reference, without explicit permission in writing from the publishers.
Cover design copyright © 2024 by Niki Lenhart
nikilen-designs.com
ISBN 978-1-962538-33-6 (EPUB)
First Edition
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Foreword
copyright © 2024 by L. A. Jacob
Afterword
copyright © 2024 by Kelley York
“Adventures of Zeedae and them Gol-durned Genset‑D Boys”
copyright 2024 by David A. Hewitt
“Aristomache”
copyright 2024 by Evangeline Giaconia
“Betsey”
copyright 2024 by Liam Hogan
“Breathe”
copyright 2024 by Jon Hansen
“Clockwork Octopus and a Letter to Queen Victoria”
copyright 2024 by Brandon Case
“Corpse Child”
copyright 2024 by Chris Kuriata
“Damned Poets Society”
copyright 2024 by Michel Harvey Hanson
“Draconis astronomus”
copyright 2024 by Catherine Tavares
“Dragonsbreath”
copyright 2024 by Warren Benedetto
“Expedition to Enceladus”
copyright 2024 by John M. Campbell
“If We Shadows”
copyright 2024 by Jeff Stehman
“Kalari”
copyright 2024 by Chaitanya Murali
“Memento Amicum”
copyright 2024 by Marc A. Criley
“Monstopia”
copyright 2024 by L. P. Melling
“Opportunity Knocks”
copyright 2024 by Xauri'EL Zwaan
“Pining in the Multiverse”
copyright 2024 by Sarina Dorie
“Prince of Svalbard”
copyright 2024 by Louis Evans
“Professor Pandemonium’s Carnival of Chaos”
copyright 2024 by Lena Ng
“Revenge of the Antmen”
copyright 2024 by Joseph Sidari
“Sandstorm in the Hourglass”
copyright 2024 by Richard Zwicker
“Sins of the Son”
copyright 2024 by Stetson Ray
“Sky Keeper's Daughter”
copyright 2024 by N.V. Haskell
“Suit”
copyright 2024 by Cynthia C. Scott
“Tome of the Watermelon Harvest”
copyright 2024 by Hugh McCormack
“Walk in the Garden”
copyright 2024 by Alexander Hay
“What Is Hers Should Be Mine”
copyright 2024 by Ryan A. Cole
Foreword
Speculative fiction consists of Science Fiction and Fantasy — among other genres. The short form of speculative fiction was developed by Edgar Allen Poe. We can envision him, bent over a desk, a raven on his shoulder or perched on the desk, writing in the wan light of a burning candle. Horror and speculation coming out of his quill pen to the vellum pages, short stories that stand the test of time are sent off to a publisher, who happily took everything he put out.
Not quite.
Poe had problems publishing. He tried to establish his own literary magazine, mostly because he wanted to control his own writing. He ran into a lot of the same problems that many writers ran into: editors who cut out his darlings, publishers who were too scared to publish the works as they were meant to be.
In those days, they didn’t have small presses.
We are lucky to have Water Dragon Publishing take on the mantle of a small press, bringing us works of speculative fiction that even Poe would be proud of.
The Winter 2024 selections include some science fiction (“Pining in the Multiverse”, “An Expedition to Enceledus”) and fantasy — with sort-of dragons, of course (“Dragonsbreath”) — consisting of the dead (“Damned Poets Society”) and the more-or-less living (“A Walk in the Garden”).
In the cold darkness of winter, while the winds howl in the blizzard outside, grab your hot beverage of choice and settle down for these twenty-six stories that will warm your mind and, perhaps, your soul.
L. A. Jacob
author of the Grimaulkin and War Mage series
Chris Kuriata lives in and often writes about the Niagara Region. Before focusing on fiction, he wrote and edited documentary series on true crime, hockey, and tent revivals. His debut horror novel, Sacrifice of the Sisters Lot, is available from Palimpsest Press.
• • •
“The Corpse Child” came from a sketch in my notebook, of a small child riddled with anxiety, unable to sleep, while on the floor directly below the bedframe lay a corpse, its eyes open. Not long after drawing the picture, the circumstances around this situation began to form, prompting me to write the story. I enjoy how “The Corpse Child” is mostly a conversation between the two characters, as though it were a sketch on a ghoulish variety show.
The Corpse Child
Chris Kuriata
Along the shores of Shipman’s Corner, a macabre belief quickly gained currency, which claimed most fatal childhood illnesses (scarlet fever, measles) could be cured by having the infected party sleep over the corpse of a young child.
The origin of this belief remains undiscovered. Condemned from the pulpit, the treatment was rarely applied. According to the tales, the corpse child must not have died from illness. Only a healthy body stopped by unnatural means (crushed in an avalanche of hay bales, say, or kicked in the head by an ornery horse) would do. Accident-made bodies became highly valued, meaning patients of “the corpse treatment” came exclusively from families of means.
“Momma, am I dreaming? Is that a scarecrow the servants are placing beneath my bed?”
“Lie back and go to sleep, my darling. In the morning, you will be made strong again.”
“Am I to share my room with a strange corpse?”
“Shhh … there is nothing to fear. He is where you cannot even see him.”
Two servants slid the corpse child into place before hurrying the young boy’s parents out of the room. Once the bedroom door was sealed, everyone removed the cloth masks covering their mouths. With heavy hearts, the young boy’s parents retired to their own chamber, praying for the blasphemous (and expensive) treatment to cleanse the threatening red boils sprouting across their beloved son’s tiny body.
The feverish boy awoke in the middle of the night, drawn back to consciousness by the stirrings beneath his mattress. Small fingers raked across the wooden support beams, echoing in the empty room like someone prematurely buried scratching the lid of their coffin.
“It is too cold down here,” a hollow voice whispered from under the bed. “Let us switch places.”
“I do not think that is a good idea.”
“Just for an hour, so I may warm up.”
“If I lie under the bed, the draft will only make me sicker.”
“Please, you can’t imagine how wet and chilled I am.”
“Forgive my thoughtlessness. I will call for the servants and they will bring you blankets.”
The corpse child sighed, making the water in his lungs bubble. “You are very wise, boy. I was actually trying to trick you.”
“Trick me?”
“Oh, yes. If you had switched places with me, I wouldn’t have traded back. In the morning, when your parents unsealed the room, I would have leapt up with my arms spread wide, shouting, ‘Momma! Poppa! I’m cured!’ They would have hugged me, tears streaming down their cheeks. You would have tried to call out from under the bed, but your sick tongue would’ve swollen up like a black eel and left you unable to speak. You would only be able to bray like a donkey, ‘Eee orr, eee orr!’ Believing you to be me, the servants would ram hooks into your legs and drag you outside to the pyre and set you aflame. Did you know a person’s head is too dense to burn? The servants would use a big rock to smash your skull into smaller pieces. And all the while, I would sit at the breakfast table, listening to you go up in smoke.”
This admission horrified the boy. “That is terrible. Shame on you for trying to trick me.”
“You can’t blame me for wanting to avoid such an awful fate myself. I may be dead but I do not wish to burn.”
The boy understood. He felt sympathy for the corpse child, who, after all, was going to make him well again. “Listen to me, when morning comes, I will insist Mother and Father not burn you.”
“That is very kind, but I shouldn’t want you to worry about my disposal.”
“I insist. Tell me what you would prefer.”
The corpse child thought hard. “Well, I have always been fond of the funny paintings in the museum; the look of agony on the faces of the condemned, the peasants tumbling beneath the swords of the king’s guard. When I was alive, it used to make me laugh to see the strokes of crimson paint gushing from swaddled babes in their mother’s arms. I think I should like to be buried on the grounds of the museum. They have a glorious courtyard where I will be able to hear the visitors laughing at the funny paintings. Such a reminder of joy w
“It is settled. I promise, I will insist my parents not burn you but instead bury you at the museum.”
Moved by such a generous offer, the corpse child shook beneath the bed, making the caster wheels squeak. When he spoke next, he sounded as though he were holding back tears (though his speech impediment could also have been caused by lazy muscles in his dead throat). “You are very kind. So kind, I cannot hold my tongue. Though it would benefit me to keep quiet, I must warn you that you are in danger.”
“Danger? How?”
“Being wise people, your parents fully expect me to try and trick you into switching places. Come morning, they will assume the boy in the bed is not their son, but the skullduggerous corpse child attempting to take his place. Mark my words, whichever boy is lying on top of the bed will be seized by hooks and dragged outside and thrown in the fire and have his skull crushed so it will burn.”
“My parents will make no such mistake. Surely they will recognize me.”
“In the dim morning light? Why, the disciples could not recognize the resurrected Son that early in the morning. How will your parents recognize you?”
“I can easily prove who I am. I know the name of my young brother Jonathan, and our baby sister Rebecca. I know Mother is terrified of boat crossings. I know Father relies on me to wind his watch.”
“All trifle information I could have wheedled out of you while pretending to be your friend. You must believe me; under the bed is the only safe place. Come morning, your parents will destroy you.”
“I cannot believe my parents will be so blinded by suspicion they cannot tell the difference between their beloved son and a rotting corpse child. Your wretched stink alone makes evident who is who.”
“Please, you must let me help you.”
“No. I will stay on top of the bed and you will stay below. And you will be quiet, or else I will not tell my parents to bury you in the museum courtyard and you will be seized by hooks and thrown on the fire and have your skull crushed.”
Silence. Satisfied to have settled the matter, the boy turned over and sank his feverish cheek into the cool pillow, longing for the sweet relief of sleep to spread through his aching body.
He didn’t rest for long. Cold breath soon lashed the soles of his bare feet. The boy sat up, and through the murky blackness watched the corpse child pull himself over the foot of the bed, clinging to the sheets like a sailor hauling himself from the ocean. The corpse child’s fat, water logged lips pulled back in a snarl.
“This foolish conversation has gone on long enough. Get under the bed where it is safe, or else I will crawl under the covers and make you smell of rot and death. In the morning, your parents will be unable to tell the difference between the two of us and we will both be doomed.”
“I will not say another word to you. Goodnight.”
Growling like a trapped fox, the corpse child slipped deftly beneath the sheets and tunneled towards the boy. His cold, clammy hands seized the boy’s knees, and slowly dragged his dead weight over the boy’s body. Struggling to get away, the boy threw over the covers, only to find the corpse child’s twisted face resting on his chest. Their eyes locked.
The boy remained calm. His father once instructed him the most vulnerable part of a wild animal was their nose, so if he ever found himself face to face with a snarling beast, his best chance for survival was to aim for the snout. The boy raised his weakened hand and made a fist, but before he could strike, the corpse child grabbed him by the ears and forced their mouths together. Hot and cold noses mashed against one another as the corpse child breathed putrid gas from his abdomen down the boy’s throat. The boy gagged and retched. The two began to wrestle, each trying to toss the other over the side of the bed into the black ocean of the cold floor. The squeaking of the caster wheels echoed through the house.
• • •
First thing next morning, with the light still dim, the boy’s parents unsealed the room. They held their breath, fearing the worst — that the legends of the healing properties of child corpses were greatly exaggerated and their son’s bedroom would no longer be occupied by one corpse, but two.
The bed covers stirred, thrashing about like foam on an angry sea. The boy sprang forth, fully cured, his arms spread wide.
“Momma! Poppa!”
The relieved parents rushed to his bedside, wrapping their arms around him, ignoring the foul smell tainting his bed clothes.
“Our darling. Thank heavens you are well again.”
“Oh Mother, the corpse boy under the bed spoke to me in the night! He tried to trick me into switching places with him!”
“Yes, dear. We thought he might.”
“He told me you wouldn’t be able to tell him apart from your true son.”
“Oh dear heart, that was all wicked chicanery. Of course we know you’re our true son.”
The boy’s father signaled the two servants waiting in the doorway, each holding a sharp, metal hook which they thrust under the bed, piercing the legs of the corpse boy and dragging him out. The corpse boy made horrible noises, braying like a donkey, “Eee orr, eee orr!” The crackle of a roaring fire came through the open window, hungry for more fuel.
“Wait!” the boy said. “This wicked corpse boy may have tried to trick me, but I made a promise. Even though he is a lesser being without honour, I intend to keep my vow.”
“I am pleased, son,” said his father. “A righteous man always honours his vows, even those made to dishonest beings who mean to betray him.”
“I promised the corpse boy I would implore you not to throw him on the fire, but instead grant him his burial wish.”
“And so we shall. Tell us what he desires.”
“He confessed to me feeling envious of our loving household; such a cautious Mother who protects her children from unnecessary sea crossings, and a wise Father who teaches the value of responsibility by entrusting me to wind his watch each day, and the delight of my younger brother Jonathan and my baby sister Rebecca.”
The boy’s parents couldn’t help but preen from the flattering words the corpse child had spoken of them in the night. “Yes, son, you have been blessed with a loving household. One can hardly fault the corpse boy for scheming to join us.”
“Indeed. As such, he told me he wishes to be buried feet down and head up on the hill overlooking our home, close enough where he can hear our evening laughter. It would please him greatly to be buried where he can keep watch over us, and perhaps, once a year, we will trek up the hill to visit his grave and give thanks to him for making this new day possible. Yes, I think he would like that very much. Such a reminder of joy will make his dark, lonely grave bearable.”
Once again, great happiness filled the family home. While the servants stuffed the corpse boy into a sack for transport to his final resting place, the cured boy dressed and wandered the manor house. Along the way, he emptied the last of the lake water from his lungs into a large potted plant, giggling when the putrid water wilted the healthy palm fronds. Soon, the smell of fresh breakfast filled the air, guiding him to the dining room, where brother and sister flanked his new seat at his new table.
Damned Poets Society
Michael Harvey Hanson
William jennings bryan, the deceased American politician; Hortensia, daughter of Roman consul and advocate Quintus Hortensius Hortalus; and Logan the Orator (son of Shikellamy), Native American war leader, took their respective seats, quickly adjusting their table microphones. The view through the Hexiglass (methyl methacrylate) window-walls of the broadcasting booth displayed a panorama of Mourningstar Square below.
An indigo demon dollied his camera to focus on Hortensia, on-scene reporter for the Perdition Broadcasting System; as Logan, to her left, typed madly on his laptop to test his minicam before his Hellcast.
Meanwhile, Bryan tapped his antiquated ribbon microphone and smiled as the feedback whined. He strongly suspected this was going to be a red-letter day for H-ELL, the underdog among greater infernity’s radio stations.
Below the three commentators was a stage with a large black podium holding fifty folding chairs. In front of that podium, poets took their seats.
Hortensia, sitting ramrod straight with all the discipline and arrogant calm one would expect of the Roman upper class, glanced down. Already, tens of thousands of Pandemonium’s residents were flooding into the massive square. The event was scheduled to kick off in five minutes. Large panning klieg lights switched on. Bright yellow beams cut upward through the polluted air. Background noise rose dramatically as one million damned souls poured into the huge city square.
