Fiction Vortex - June 2014

by Fiction Vortex

  On the grave were the words: Rupert Brooke 1887-1915. Beside which, a stanza of a poem. Valin read the words out loud:

  If I should die, think only this of me:

  That there's some corner of a foreign field

  That is forever England.

  He delved in his pocket, found the cube Rachael had given him. It was a cloudy white square of quartz-like material. It glinted in the sun’s rays, firing unnatural beams of light across the basin. Finding a suitable spot near the head of the grave, he thrust it into the soil, until it was covered by the ochre earth.

  For a few minutes nothing happened. Valin stood in the midday sun, waiting, re-reading the poem, wondering about his fate, where he would finally lie. Then the soil surface broke, a green shoot wheedling out, coursing upwards. Its tip was bulbous, the stem that followed studded with thorns. And then the bud opened, revealing the flower’s true nature: a white English rose.

  That was all it took: a mosquito bite. To survive being shot at, being blown up in the trenches, to have your life taken away by something that you could squash between your fingers. He took a glug of water from his canteen, hearing some of Rachael’s words in his mind, her infectious excitement about the other reincarnated poets. He blinked, capturing the picture in his AV, sending it instantly via his holo, to wherever Rachael was — probably the other side of Saturn by now.

  As he flew away, he circled the grave. The flower had disappeared. Instead an attractive youth was now leaning on the railings, smoking a cigarette. He loosened his cravat, ran his hands through his foppish hair and waved at Valin.

  ~~~~~

  The battle roared around the landing craft, the craft buffeted here and there by nearby blasts. Behind Valin sat rows of his specialist platoon, quiet as they absorbed the updated mission details he’d just patched over to them. Europa’s partly terraformed icy surface lay below, and he banked the craft plunging it downwards toward the battlefront.

  The once proud city stood in tatters, plumes of smoke palling upwards in the thin atmosphere. The fight for the metropolis had now become a guerrilla effort, Christian and Muslims once again fighting against each other for supremacy. How had it come to this? Despite his surname, his father’s background, Valin was fighting for the Christian side. But did it really matter which side he was on? War was all the same. He felt the fruits of a poem forming on the branches of his thoughts. It was always at moments like this, when death was imminent that his best work appeared.

  There was a keen metallic screech as the craft landed, the back door then hissing open, its edge clanging onto ice and rock. Valin and his troops marched out onto the surface of Jupiter’s moon, blasted by the wind. In his pocket, he felt the comforting presence of a small cube, given to him by the girl with the brown eyes who appeared in his thoughts day and night: a cube which was synced with the patterns of electricity that flowed across his cerebral cortex, in turn synced with a beacon in orbit.

  The acrid smell of smoke caused his eyes to water. He blinked as the platoon followed his command, moved toward the crumbling city, toward the embassy where men and women were awaiting extraction. He checked his jacket once again, the cube in his pocket, still there: always recording, recording...

  ~~~~~

  ~~~~~

  Guy T Martland is an emerging British-based SF writer and at 6 feet 8 inches tall is probably one of the tallest writers out there. He has published short stories in various magazines over the years, including Noesis, Xenos, Jupiter SF and Albedo One.  Alumnus of the Milford SF course, he is currently working on his third SF novel. In between writing, he finds some time to work as a hospital pathologist and occasionally plays a 19th century German violin (but not at the same time).  You can read more information about his writing here: www.guytmartland.co.uk

  Stanzas from ‘Recalling War’ by Robert Graves are reproduced in accordance with The Robert Graves Copyright Trust regulations. Stanzas also from ‘The Soldier’ by Rupert Brooke, whose work is now out of copyright.

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  In Season

  by Michael Haynes; published June 17, 2014

  The trail led Lisa to a clearing at the top of a hill. Winter sunshine lit the beginning of her walk several miles back, but clouds now prevailed and the afternoon was dim. A large flat outcropping of rock arose from the apex of the hill. Lisa perched on its edge, took a drink of water, and removed her ball cap, wiping away a hint of sweat. Closing her eyes for a moment she opened herself to the ambient sounds — a rustle of leaves, some insect chirps.

  When she stood up she saw a boy standing at the edge of the clearing. He appeared to be on the cusp of adolescence, but was short for that age. He looked uncomfortable; the t-shirt he wore doubtless would have felt warm enough in the mid-day sun, but it would not have kept away the afternoon chill.

  She gave him an acknowledging wave. "Heading back down?"

  He nodded. "I was hiking with my brothers. They ... we got separated." He looked ashamed.

  "We can walk back together, if you'd like."

  They headed back down the trail. She would go slowly. She remembered what it was like to be the one who got ditched.

  ~~~~~

  The trail led Gary to a clearing at the top of a hill. The early morning sunshine had given way to late-spring clouds as he worked his way upward. As he reached the top he walked around slowly for a few minutes to cool down before sitting on a flat rock. As he sat he framed several possible images through his camera's viewfinder, but rejected them all without taking a shot. The climb had tired him out more than he had expected; his joints and muscles, which had borne sixty-one years of use, ached warmly. He stretched out, thinking he would close his eyes for just a moment.

  He dreamed of a dark place. In his dream hands he held a rough-hewn stone tool. He used this tool to dig and dig. A few snowflakes floated to the dirt surface he was attacking. His thoughts were scrambled with currents of guilt and a sense of compulsion. The dream tool vanished and then he was in oval-shaped tunnels, dark and moist. In the tunnels he was wandering as if lost in a maze. He was hungry and cold.

  When he awoke he saw a young woman sitting several yards away.

  "I didn't mean to wake you."

  He smiled. "Well, I didn't mean to sleep. So we're even."

  She returned the smile. "Get any good pictures?"

  "A few this morning. Nothing had caught my eye up here when I arrived."

  "Pity."

  He brought his camera up, and took two quick pictures of her sitting there cross-legged on the grass.

  ~~~~~

  Most of the way down the hill Lisa led the boy; several times she had to help him make an awkward step down. She was glad she had a small flashlight with her in case the way got too dark before they could reach the easier ground below.

  They talked about the things that they had in common, mostly music. The band whose shirt he wore had been defunct for nearly all his life, but she had seen them on one of their last concert tours.

  "You saw Pink Floyd live? It must've been awesome! I've seen DVDs of their shows but I bet it was way better in person." She agreed, and they talked about other bands, some from her generation, some from his.

  They were only halfway down by her figuring, and already it was nearly dark. She looked at her watch; the hands were stopped. She held back a curse, realizing as she did that the boy's older brothers had doubtless uttered worse in his presence. Careful to keep from leaving him behind, she increased their pace slightly.

  Within minutes, almost all daylight was gone and Lisa pulled out her flashlight. Without any notice, the young man she was with yelled and broke away from the path, calling out names. In the dimness he was out of her sight almost immediately. She hollered after him, urging him to stop. He didn't respond. She shone the flashlight into the trees, and could not see him.

  "Jerry? Mark?" She heard his yell again, and headed into the woods towards where she thought he must be.

  Her
feet got tangled several times, and she nearly lost her footing. The flashlight's beam was inadequate for this sort of task. Something tripped her again and this time she fell. Her palms ached where she caught herself. The flashlight rolled away, and its light failed. She felt around for it. When her fingers closed on it she hurried to relight it.

  The boy called out again as she was regaining her feet. She told him to keep talking and stay in one place, and followed the sound of his voice.

  The only light was her flashlight. When the boy would stop speaking Lisa reminded him that she needed his voice to find him. She walked carefully over the uneven ground. It felt like an hour to her, but couldn't really have been that long. Eventually he said he saw her light, and directed her towards him.

  A few minutes later she saw him in the light; his face seemed detached above his dark clothing against the background of night. He waved to her, and she moved more quickly, keeping the light trained on him. She was only feet away from him when she felt the ground slip away from her.

  She landed hard, and heard something crack even before she registered the pain.

  ~~~~~

  By unspoken agreement Gary and his new acquaintance started back down the hill together. They talked occasionally, but mostly walked in companionable silence. The climb back down was not always easy. Several times she offered her hand to him when they came to a rough spot and his knees were unsteady.

  Several times he stopped to take a picture of some sight; each time she waited until he was done then posed for him. They reviewed these pictures together on the camera's view screen, deleting one where the frozen moment of time caught her mid-blink.

  The clouds above remained throughout, but it wasn't until they had walked for over an hour that the first distant thunderclaps rolled. Neither of them carried an umbrella or other raingear. He tucked his camera into a belt pack; they both quickened their steps.

  Gary was surprised when she grabbed his shoulders and stopped him. As thunder again echoed she leaned herself up against him. She reached up to his face and they kissed. He hadn't been expecting this to happen. Her manner had been mildly flirtatious, but he'd taken it to be all in fun. Though he was young to be a widower, he hadn't seriously considered getting involved with anyone in these last two years.

  A few raindrops began to fall, and they separated. He tried to find something to say, but before he could speak she gave a quick wink and walked off the trail, between the trees, beckoning him to follow.

  Gary knew that leaving the trail was unwise, but he followed her into the trees. The rain started to fall faster now; the ground was beginning to get slick. She moved more nimbly than he did, and he had to push himself to keep up with her.

  One time she stopped and waited for him to approach. She embraced him, and they kissed again for a moment before she pulled away and moved off, deeper into the woods. This time she broke into a run. He gave chase, and was surprised for the second time in a short while when his left foot struck emptiness, and he pitched forward into a hole. He landed hard with the wind knocked out of him.

  ~~~~~

  Lisa lay there awkwardly for a while. A sound like pebbles rustling came from somewhere around her. She tried to move, but the pain made her stop. The noise stopped — only for a moment. When it resumed it was louder. She took the flashlight and used it to examine as much as she could of her surroundings. The floor had debris including rocks and branches; the walls of the pit had several roughly circular openings.

  Another pass of the light illuminated other objects, creamy white in the darkness, scattered here and there, bones lying on the floor. She shouted up to the boy but heard no reply. The only sounds were the scrabbling noises she'd heard before.

  Realizing her injuries left her in a precarious position, she looked around for a heavy branch to use to defend herself. The beam of light stuttered across the ground as her panic grew. Once she thought she saw a reflected glint of light when the beam passed over one of the holes in the wall, but when she moved it back she could see nothing there.

  She tried again to move, and this time she managed to reorient herself. As she did the light revealed something new. A Pink Floyd t-shirt lay against one wall, a small skull to its side. She held back a scream, but only until she felt something move against her leg.

  ~~~~~

  The first thing Gary was aware of was his camera beside him, the lens smashed. He was able to get to his feet after a few minutes. At first he was glad that she hadn't fallen too; that thought led to concern as to why she wasn't calling down to him, trying to ascertain his well-being.

  Rain and thunder could still be heard above him, and little light was available where he stood. His eyes took time to adjust. The first thing he could discern was that ground level was at least a dozen feet above his head, probably more. As his surroundings became clearer he saw a scattering of bones. A primal sensation arose from the sight of these remnants, and he yelled up the chimney for assistance. There was no reply but the sound of rain.

  He moved to one of the walls to see if there was anything he could do to improve his position. As he got closer, he saw an oval hole in the wall. The shape of the hole unsettled him. He leaned down to examine it more closely. For a moment he saw nothing. Then he saw movement and he backed quickly away.

  He realized that the shape of the hole was identical to the shape of the tunnels in his dream back at the top of the hill. Now there were sounds of movement coming from several sides of him. He retreated to the center of the space. One of his feet stepped on something round, and he lost his footing. The round object, a pocket flashlight, was by his face. Beyond it he saw a baseball cap advertising a local restaurant; it matched the one worn by his hiking companion.

  And there by one wall was a t-shirt with an image he remembered from a long-ago record album cover. And over there was a small purse and a metal water bottle. All around him were detritus of others' lives, of their deaths.

  ~~~~~

  The trail led Joshua to a clearing at the top of a hill. He burst into the clearing, long hair streaming behind him, having run the last several hundred yards. Looking up he saw summer thunderheads rolling in from the west, obscuring the late-afternoon sun. He jogged to a large altar-like slab of rock. He leaned against it, catching his breath, readying for the return trip down the hill.

  A jagged lightning bolt struck nearby, the thundercrack almost simultaneous to the flash. The sudden light dazzled him, and for a moment all he saw was the afterimage. As his vision cleared he saw that there was another man in the clearing with him. The other man's hair was going to gray, and he was intent on the workings of a camera that he carried.

  The older man chortled triumphantly, and looked up at him. "Got it!"

  "Got what?"

  "The lightning flash. I got a great picture. Come see!"

  He joined the man in reviewing the picture. They fell to talking about the weather. Several minutes later, still talking, they started down the hill.

  ~~~~~

  ~~~~~

  Michael Haynes lives in Central Ohio where he helps keep IT systems running for a large corporation during the day and puts his characters through the wringer by night. An ardent short story reader and writer, Michael has had stories appear in venues such as Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Intergalactic Medicine Show, and Daily Science Fiction. He is Co-Editor at Goldfish Grimm's Spicy Fiction Sushi and an Associate Editor for the Unidentified Funny Objects series of anthologies. His website is https://michaelhaynes.info/ and he tweets @mohio73.

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  The Recompense Grift

  by R.Y. Brockway; published June 24, 2014

  Winner of the Editor's Choice Award, June 2014

  A shadow emerged, a dark spot in the vast, featureless, white terrain. It descended, circling above Lazarus’s head, and he could just make out the forms of outstretched arms, long fingers splayed wide-open. Around and around it spiraled, growing closer with each pass before asce
nding once again on some unperceivable updraft. Oh sweet Death, thought Lazarus, finally you have come to embrace me.

  A cold, wet splash hit Lazarus’s in the face. Lazarus jerked upright, gasping for breath. He clutched his head as it spun between his hands and tried to control his breathing. The vulture — not Death — took one last look at its would-be meal and flew away, disappearing over the horizon.

  Dutch crouched down beside Lazarus; he held the reigns of two horses in his hands and a bucket now drained of its contents.

  “Bastards didn’t even have the courtesy to bury you this time.” He spat, and gestured with the ends of the reins at their desolate surroundings. “Just not right, dumping a body in the middle of the desert.” Dutch scratched his bristly cheek and stood offering his hand to Lazarus, who took it pulling himself upright.

  “You remember to fill my canteen this time?” The words cracked in Lazarus’s throat as he spoke. Dutch nodded and began to rummage through a saddle bag. Lazarus loosened the rough rope from around his neck, lifting it over his head and dropping what was left of the noose to the ground. A small dust cloud rose up as it thumped against the scorched earth. Dutch let out a wheezy laugh and tossed Lazarus a canteen. Lifting it to his lips, Lazarus guzzled.

  “Best be getting out of here before we’re noticed,” Dutch said, eyeing the angle of the sun.

  Lazarus wiped his mouth. “Give me a minute, will ya?”

  Dutch nodded, giving Lazarus a once over as he bent double, clutching his knees.

  “At least when they hang you we don’t need to get you new clothes,” Dutch offered as Lazarus rubbed at his stomach and spit a long line of drool into the sand. “You’re always a mess after you've been shot. Don’t look to be in too bad shape this time.”

  “Easy for you to say; you’re never the corpse,” Lazarus said, righting himself. “Did you collect the bounty?”

  Dutch patted his vest pocket. “Do I ever not?”

  “No use sticking around then, let’s get the hell out of here.” Lazarus strode to his horse, hitching his foot in the stirrup and pulling himself up into the saddle. He gave a hearty “Yah,” and began to canter off into the west.