Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction
Rosemary for Remembrance
Shoulders of Giants
Lisbeth
A Midwinter Night's Brainwashing
Mark Corey
Angel & Demon
Onyx
The Taming of the Dudebro
Star Walker
The Desperate Warrior and the Beast Who Walks Without Sound
Gale
About the Authors
More from Snowy Wings Publishing
Perchance to Dream: Classic Tales from the Bard’s World in New Skins
edited by Lyssa Chiavari
Compilation copyright © 2015-2017 by Lyssa Chiavari.
Published by Snowy Wings Publishing.
www.snowywingspublishing.com
“Rosemary for Remembrance” copyright © 2015-2017 by Jess R. Sutton. Previously published under a different name. “Shoulders of Giants” copyright © 2015 by Jon Garett and Richard Walsh. “Lisbeth” copyright © 2015 by Selenia Paz. “A Midwinter Night’s Brainwashing” copyright © 2015 by Allan Davis. “Mark Corey” copyright © 2015 by Patricia Scott. “Angel & Demon” copyright © 2015 by Heather Dixon. Reprinted with permission. “Onyx” copyright © 2015 by Alicia Michaels. “The Taming of the Dudebro” copyright © 2015 by Jane Watson. “Star Walker” copyright © 2015 by Alex Irwin. “The Desperate Warrior and the Beast Who Walks Without Sound” copyright © 2015 by T. Damon. “Gale” copyright © 2015 by Lyssa Chiavari.
Cover designed by Najla Qamber Designs (najlaqamberdesigns.com).
Photo by Wm Russell Photography. Model: Courtney Boyett.
All rights reserved.
“In black ink my love may still shine bright.”
- WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Introduction
The blame for this story collection can be placed squarely at the feet of the late Mary Stewart. Sort of.
It was the summer of 2014, and I had just finished rereading her novel This Rough Magic for what must have been the third or fourth time. Though Stewart’s suspense novels tend to have contemporary bases (and, arguably, a very young adult flair to them), most of them also have threads of classic literature woven through them. This Rough Magic is thematically based on Shakespeare’s The Tempest: not only are lines from the play excerpted at the beginning of each chapter, but the characters reference the play, and events from the story find themselves being worked into the overall mystery of the novel.
I remember being struck by how one work could have influenced another and led to a brand new story that was vastly different, but just as enjoyable as the original. Stewart’s books are by no means unique. Different interpretations and retellings of Shakespeare are all around us, from the 1950s musical Kiss Me, Kate to modern webseries adaptations like Nothing Much to Do. People who grew up in the nineties (and who are geeky like me) may even have noticed the confluence of multiple Shakespearean storylines in the Disney cartoon Gargoyles.
William Shakespeare is arguably the most influential English writer of all time, and much of this is due to the universality of the themes of these stories. Though the stories were written over four hundred years ago—and many of them are inspired by events that took place centuries before that—so much of society is still the same. The issues of prejudice and discrimination tackled in Othello, the themes of grief and revenge found in Hamlet, among others… these are all still extremely relevant in the modern world. Because of this, Shakespeare’s plays often feel oddly timely.
As I worked on other projects of my own, I kept thinking, in the back of my mind, how much fun it would be to reinterpret Shakespeare in the same way. The idea kept coming back to me over a span of several months, unrelenting, until I finally gave in and emailed a few other authors, asking them if they would be interested in participating in an anthology based on Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets.
The response was overwhelming.
The stories presented here are amazingly unique. From sci-fi to contemporary to historical fantasy, and featuring characters from all walks of life, I was astounded by the variety of story ideas that everyone was able to dream up with no other prompt than “based on Shakespeare.” The authors collected in this volume come from vastly different backgrounds, perspectives and worldviews, as you can see just from reading their stories; but a love of the Bard’s classic tales managed to inspire each, leading to eleven beautiful and richly varied tales. I hope you will enjoy reading them as much as we enjoyed writing them.
Rosemary for Remembrance
❦
JESS R. SUTTON
“’Tis not alone my inky cloak . . .
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly: these indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within which passeth show;
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.”
- HAMLET, THE TRAGEDY OF HAMLET
There was no right weather for a funeral, Mel thought as she stood outside the church. Sun was no good, of course, and rain always felt like God was trying too hard. She was grateful that it wasn’t snowing, at least; her mother hated the snow. A thunderstorm might have felt right, but there was no storm. Gray clouds hung heavy in the sky, threatening rain that wouldn’t fall, like an absolution never granted.
She adjusted her pouf slightly, grateful in some corner of her mind that she’d left her hair natural this morning. Then again, it wasn’t as though she had the presence of mind to even find the flat iron this morning, let alone use it.
“It’s time.” Aunt Clara squeezed her shoulder and walked through the doorway, into the church. Mel followed, closing the heavy wooden door behind her. Her uncle Joseph was already sitting in the front pew, holding a box of tissues. He passed them over to Mel. She wouldn’t need them. She’d cried every tear she had in the last two days. There was nothing left.
Reverend Gorka stood at the pulpit and looked out at the funeral attendees. His eyes were red-rimmed, and Mel remembered that he’d worked with her mother on local charity events. Almost everybody knew Rosemary. Mel’s skin seemed to vibrate with the overwhelming numbness of it all. Why would a woman so loved take her own life? And why would she leave me? The question hung heavier than the rainclouds.
“Dearly beloved,” the reverend began, and Mel discovered that she did, in fact, need the tissues.
The sermon was nice, although she didn’t really remember what was said. Aunt Clara gave a short eulogy, led by a story from their childhood. She choked up briefly in the middle but cleared her throat and carried on. Mel had been asked to speak, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to.
Afterward, she stood outside again, her aunt and uncle by her side. They shook people’s hands and thanked them for coming, and Mel kept wishing she knew a spell to make the clouds break. Anything would be better than this grayness.
“I’m so sorry, Mel,” a voice said, and before she could quite process who the speaker was, the handshake had turned into a hug. Before the woman pulled away, Mel recognized her spicy perfume.
“Thanks, Hannah,” she said.
Hannah held on for a moment longer, then squeezed Mel’s hand. “My ima wants to bring some food over tomorrow. A casserole, maybe some fresh bread, she said. Is that okay?”
“Of course. And could you—” Mel stopped short.
“She’s already spelled the potatoes for strength.”
“You’re the best. Thank her from me, would you?”
“You got it. I’ll see you tomorrow in the studio, yeah?”
“Yeah, I’ll try.” Mel managed a smile as Hannah walked away. She’d only met Hanna
h’s mother a few times, mostly when the arts and magic studio Hannah managed put shows on, but she was somewhat of a local celebrity when it came to her kitchen spells. No magic could make her heart stop breaking, but maybe the casserole would keep her from feeling like she was about to fall over just from standing.
“You’re going to the studio tomorrow?” Aunt Clara asked.
“I always work Sundays.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Why not?” Mel’s question fell from her tongue like a knife. If her aunt wouldn’t let her go…
“You know why not, Mel.” Clara paused, shook another hand, received another hug.
Mel shook her head. “It’s not like we have to sit shiva or anything. Just because my best friend is Jewish doesn’t mean I am.”
Clara turned and looked Mel in the eye. “I don’t mean that. I just don’t know if you should be going out so soon.”
“It’s not ‘out.’ It’s to the studio.”
“Honey,” Joseph interrupted, his hand on Clara’s shoulder. “Perhaps you should continue this in the car?”
“Yes, of course.”
Mel could tell that her aunt was watching her, but she didn’t want to know if it was with frustration or with pity. She wasn’t sure which would be worse. Instead of looking to confirm, she shook the last person’s hand, thanked Reverend Gorka, and sat in the car until Clara and Joseph joined her to drive home.
❦
The little bell jingled as Mel opened the door to the Glass Shard Studio of Arts and Magic. She breathed in the familiar smells—paint, glue, something resembling burning toast. She kept meaning to figure out what was letting off that particular odor.
“I’ll be right with you.” Hannah’s voice came from the back office, and her body followed quickly after. She looked up. “Oh, hey! I’m glad you came.”
“You know me,” Mel said with a shrug. “I never miss a shift.”
“I appreciate that.” Hannah handed over the handful of paintbrushes she’d been carrying. “Would you put those up for me?”
“Got it.” Mel walked over to the wall and started sorting the brushes by size. The pottery painting was one of the most popular aspects of the studio, although Mel had never tried it herself. She preferred to keep her mediocre sketches to scraps of paper and the edges of her biology notes until she’d had a little more practice. The back room was the real reason she was here—space to work on her potions without any questions.
The two women worked in silence for a quarter hour. Mel could tell that Hannah was shooting her glances every few moments.
“I’m okay, you know,” Mel said aloud.
Hannah blushed. “I’m sorry. Are you sure this isn’t something you want to talk about?”
“What is there to say? She’s dead. My mother is dead. And no spell or potion is going to bring her back. So that’s all there is, isn’t it?”
“Just because that’s all true doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. You’re allowed to grieve.”
Mel straightened a stack of colored paper. “So what if I grieve? Still won’t change the fact that my mother killed herself. Jumped off that bridge for God knows what reason and left her sixteen-year-old daughter behind. And I’ll have to live with that question forever regardless. So what’s the point?”
“Mel—” Hannah moved to give her a hug but was shrugged off.
“I’m going to go clean up the potions room. There aren’t any clients in there right now, are there?”
Hannah sighed. “No, it’s empty. Go ahead.” Before she’d even finished, Mel was gone.
The back room was dimly lit, although there were desk lamps at intervals along the tables for individual use. Mel grabbed a rag from a bucket at the front and began to wipe down the tables. Some of them had indelible stains on them, of which Mel was quite sure she’d caused more than one. She was still honing her skills, which sometimes meant that certain potions were more dangerous—or just messier—than she anticipated.
Along the side wall were lockers, most of which were used by regular customers like Mel. She spun her combination and looked at the collection of bottles. Half the bottles were full, with masking-tape labels stuck on haphazardly. While the large majority of her potions were still a little too experimental to use safely, her energy potion had been well-tested. Sure that there was a bottle in there somewhere, she shuffled through the clinking glass until she found it.
She poured a few drops into a drinking glass, added water from the tap, and downed the concoction. Fortunately, it was tasteless, and she soon felt a little bit of warmth in her extremities. That would help get her through the rest of her shift.
The room, which was hardly messy to begin with, was now spotless. Mel returned to the front, where Hannah was helping a young boy choose a plate to paint.
“They’re all infused with self-healing spells, so if you chip it or crack it, just put it in a safe place for about twenty-four hours and it’ll be good as new,” Hannah said to the boy’s mother. “If it’s completely shattered, though, that’s beyond the abilities of the spell.”
“I wanna paint the cup for Dad!” the boy said, pointing at a coffee mug.
His mother nodded at Hannah, who pulled down the mug and set the boy up at a table. Mel began refilling the paint jars, as some of the primary colors were nearly empty. It was always the parents, rarely the children, who threw tantrums when colors weren’t available. After six months at the studio, dealing with those people was practically second nature, but still something to avoid if possible.
Hannah joined Mel at the counter. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.” She nodded. “Sorry about earlier.”
“No need. I understand.”
Mel half-smiled her thanks. As she gathered up an armful of paint jars to return to their shelves, Hannah touched her arm.
“Oh, your girlfriend called.”
“What? Why’d Lea call here?”
“She knows you don’t have your cell on you during work. Anyway, she said she’d be dropping by your house this evening, and to call her if you didn’t want her to come.”
“Oh.” Mel set half the bottles down and wiped her forehead. “Yeah, okay. Thanks. That should be fine.”
An hour later, after the boy had painted a nearly-recognizable dinosaur on the mug and left it behind to be baked, Hannah came up to Mel, who was sorting receipts.
“If you don’t mind my intruding…” Hannah paused.
“You know you can say anything to me.”
“Why wasn’t Lea at the funeral?”
Mel shrugged. “She’s the lead in The Taming of the Shrew and they had a matinee. She’s got an understudy, but everyone knows she’s the best. I told her to stay. It doesn’t really matter. She doesn’t like churches anyway.”
Hannah pursed her lips. “Okay. I was just curious.”
“It honestly doesn’t matter. I could barely handle talking to my aunt at the funeral. Lea would have been too much.” Mel’s throat constricted at the thought.
“Fair enough.”
The rest of the afternoon was blissfully busy, with half a dozen regular customers coming in to use the workshop spaces in the potions room or the airy side room for spell practice. Mel could see Hannah breathing a little more easily after each customer came in; without the regulars, she knew this studio wouldn’t survive long. Fall always saw a sharp drop-off in patronage after the busy summer, and it was hard to push through until the holiday season.
When Hannah sounded the chimes to mark five o’clock, the last few customers paid cheerfully and left. The door closed, its tiny bell echoing in the now-empty space, and Hannah slumped into a chair.
“You okay?” Mel asked.
“Yeah, just tired. And worried. It’ll be better come November. It always is.” She took a breath and pushed herself up. “Let’s get this cleaned up and go home.”
❦
Clara was sitting at the kitchen table waiting when Mel
walked through the door.
“Oh, good, you’re home,” she said, pushing her chair back. “Come have a seat.”
Mel tensed. “Hold on, let me put my stuff up.” She dropped her purse on her bed and kicked off her shoes. It still felt strange to have her aunt and uncle in her home for so long. They lived near enough that visits had always been short, a night at most. Then again, having them here now helped to fill the emptiness.
On her way back to the kitchen, Mel stopped before her mom’s room. The door was closed—at least her aunt and uncle had taken the guest room instead of this one—but she pushed it open. Of course everything looked the same as it had before her mother died. Glasses on the bedside table, clothes in the hamper. As though she’d be back in a moment. There was a framed picture of her parents on the chest of drawers, from back when Mel was just an infant. They were both smiling, and her father’s glasses were slightly askew. Her mother looked the quintessential Black woman of the ‘70s, complete with afro and clenched fist on her t-shirt, despite the photo being taken nearly two decades after that style had passed.
Her dad had died just six months after that photo—the last time Clara had come to stay for an extended period. Mel didn’t remember, of course, but there were a few photos, the occasional story, just enough to feel like that time had existed.
“Mel?” Clara called out. Mel started and stepped out of the room. Dealing with Mom was going to be a lot harder than when Dad died, she thought. And this time, with sixteen years’ worth of memories, there was no hope of forgetting what had happened.
“What’s up?” Mel asked as she filled a glass of water and sat down beside Clara. Joseph sat across from them, grading spelling tests.
“Now that the funeral’s done...” Clara paused a moment and took a deep breath. “Right. Now that the funeral’s over, we need to talk about what’s going to happen in the future.”
Mel blinked. “Now?”
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