Fiction Vortex - December 2013

by Fiction Vortex

Fiction Vortex

  A Speculative Fiction Typhoon

  December 2013

  Volume 1, Issue 8

  Edited by Dan Hope & Mike Cluff

  Copyright 2013 Fiction Vortex

  Cover Image by David Revoy / Blender Foundation

  Cover design by Dan Hope

  Website: FictionVortex.com

  Twitter: @FictionVortex

  Facebook: FictionVortex

  Table of Contents

  Letter from the Editor

  The Thrashed Wheat of Yellowed October — by Jacqueline Kharouf (1st Place)

  Blemish — by Damien Krsteski

  The Razorblade Dragon — by Nathan James

  Loss and Understanding — by Jamie Lackey

  Promised Land — by Rebecca Ann Jordan (2nd Place)

  Far on the Ringing Plains — by Jeffery A. Sergent

  The Vilkacis — by Konstantine Paradias (3rd Place)

  The Passage of Aldo — by Colin Heintze

  Cthulhu Misspelled — by Clayton Snyder

  About Fiction Vortex

  Letter from the Editor

  It's the end of the year, and as we pause to reflect on everything we've done, we can't help but feel an enormous, unabashed, and unhealthy sense of pride about what we (along with the help of some very talented authors) have accomplished with Fiction Vortex.

  In less than a year, we conceived of, set up, and launched a fiction website. Not to mention the fact that we've gotten positively stellar submissions from authors. Because, you know, there wouldn't be much to read here without them.

  All this started out of a sincere love of short fiction, and a love for those who write and read it. So it's no surprise that we love what we've done, and we're glad you do, too.

  But enough humblebragging, let's talk about the stories. We're ending the year strong with a surprisingly wide variety of story types. But they all center around some significant, and usually life-changing realizations about life, no matter how fantastical it is. And that's why we love science fiction and fantasy: Even though the narrative elements aren't real in our lives, the sentiments, interactions, and life lessons are. It gives us a window in to the human soul, even when the window is decidedly non-human.

  We hope you enjoy, and you can expect an even better year of stories as we move onward and upward in 2014. If you can't get enough of 2013, don't panic. The first issue of 2014 will be a retrospective where we talk about the best stories of 2013.

  In the meantime, have a happy New Year, and keep on reading.

  Whirling Wishes,

  Dan

  Managing Editor, Voice of Reason

  Fiction Vortex

  (Back to Table of Contents)

  The Thrashed Wheat of Yellowed October

  by Jacqueline Kharouf; published December 3, 2013

  First Place Award, December 2013 Fiction Contest

  Young Hollow dipped his bloody hands in the river. His horse stamped in the cold, and the yellow, tarnished leaves settled. Uncurling in the current, the blood seeped away from him. He turned his hands, rubbing at the blood around the edges of his nails and knuckles.

  Young Hollow’s horse was gray and spotted white, with a white mane and tail, and dark brown eyes. He flicked his ears toward sounds Young Hollow couldn’t hear.

  "A man approaches," the horse said, his voice low and humming. He backed away from the water.

  A wolf hung in the tree. Young Hollow had tied her, stretched her, dug a pit below the carcass he still hadn’t dressed. He had shot her through the eye — a bright orange eye —that now would never burn again.

  The water was cold. He dried his hands on his shirt.

  ~~~~~

  When Winona took Young Hollow’s hands and kissed them, the sunlight made her eyes the color of honey. They rolled in the field, where they heard the drumming of her father’s sickle. Young Hollow pictured the swing of the blade, her father’s arms thrashing through the wheat, finding him with her there, and slashing him limb by limb. He pictured his fingers scattered like seeds.

  "Kiss me," she said.

  He opened her shirt and tasted a wild, meaty flavor on her tongue. He felt he was falling and she was swallowing him and the thwack, thwack, thwack, of workers in the fields set the heft and tempo of his heart. He imagined her heart pounding up through her skin, a red vapor suffusing her powder white body.

  ~~~~~

  The next morning, the horse waited in the barn and Young Hollow’s eyes opened to the dawn in his window. This dawn was pale blue, increasingly colder the longer he watched from his half of the bed he shared with his brother Lothar. Lothar drew a sickly breath, his sallow skin spotted and burning to the touch.

  ~~~~~

  Downstairs, Young Hollow wrapped his powerful arms around his mother’s waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. "Lothar’s worse," he said.

  She was as thin as a wasp, her elbows and shoulders severe right angles nearly slicing through her leathery gray skin. She smelled sharply ashy, her pores sweating out the pinewood fires she stoked all day. "Bring the water upstairs," she told him, her coarse hands gently loosening his grip.

  "I’ll wash him," he told her, a foot on the stairs.

  His mother shook her head. "Do you know what your brother whispers in his sleep?"

  Young Hollow waited. "What?"

  "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry." She arrayed her thin fingers on either side of her bony waist. "I don’t know what I’ll do if..." her voice trailed off. She walked past him and upstairs.

  ~~~~~

  In the field, Winona stood with her arms open like the covers of a book.

  Young Hollow rode his horse toward her. The horse took prancing steps through the tall, yellow grass. "There’re going to be snakes," the horse said in his dark voice.

  Young Hollow prodded him gently with his heels and clicked his tongue.

  Entwining her fingers in his white mane, Winona rubbed the horse’s neck with her small hands, and the horse crooned. Young Hollow helped Winona up to the saddle where she sat curled against his chest like a small fluttering bird.

  The dark winding forest fringed the edge of the field. Her father and his workers shouted in the cold air, and through the trees, Young Hollow watched their sickles dancing on the golden blades of grass.

  "There’ll be a thrashing tonight," Winona whispered into Young Hollow’s neck.

  "I’ll burn your heart in the forest," he said. He clasped her waist so tightly she let slip a staggered exhale.

  ~~~~~

  The next day, Young Hollow woke to Old Shepler, Winona’s father, pounding on the door.

  "Young Hollow," his mother called. "You’re wanted for the fields."

  He stood at the top of the stairs, his hair damp and chill, but went to the door as his mother was untying her apron. "I asked Old Shepler to hire you soon as he had the space," his mother said. She had loosened and brushed her hair, the sleeves of her dress unrolled for once and buttoned at her wrists.

  "Ever since Old Hollow died," Old Shepler said, twisting his hat, "I’ve been thinking of what I can do for you and your boys."

  "Young Hollow’s good and strong," his mother said, dark eyes glinting. "And not one for idleness." She nudged him to offer the farmer his hand. Old Shepler’s hands were crusted in red earth.

  ~~~~~

  Only a couple months ago, Young Hollow’s mother had followed him into the barn and told him to run back to the house. "Your brother’s crying," his mother had told him, even though her eyes were fixed on Old Hollow. That night Young Hollow saw whole years pass between his parents. The thin glue of their marriage had at last pulled apart.

  "Stay," his father told him. Old H
ollow was digging holes inside the floor of the barn. His shirt had yellowed according to the color of his sweat. His suspenders dangled against his legs.

  "Old fool," Young Hollow’s mother said. Her lip trembled. "There’s nothing we can do for Lothar except to care for him and keep him comfortable."

  Old Hollow took up his shovel and told Young Hollow to help with the bucket. He plunged the shovel in the ground, pushed it deeper with his boot and then deposited the scoop on the pile he’d already made. "This bit of soil here," Old Hollow said in between motions, "is a bit soggier than the rest of those holes."

  Young Hollow held the bucket and stood at the other side of the hole.

  "Stop." She crossed her arms and spoke again a little louder. "That witch doctor sold you a lie." She moved closer to Old Hollow and he almost stepped into her, but dropped his shovel and held out his hand to keep her back.

  "There’s no magic water!" she screamed. The wisps of her hair stood out straight from her head. Young Hollow leaned against the horse gate, where his father’s old gray horse stood eating his hay.

  Old Hollow threw his shovel down and turned around. "Living water!" he said. "He said the barn’s right over a spring of living water and if we give it to Lothar he’s going to get better."

  Young Hollow looked down. His cheeks felt hot and he wanted to cry, but then he saw a clear liquid — unclouded by dirt — fill the shallow hole. The water shone with a white, clear glow.

  "Look," he said and pointed. Both his parents stood silently over the puddle.

  Old Hollow stooped and skimmed his hands across the water.

  "You’re not giving that to my son," she said, most of the bite in her voice lost in awe at the crystalline liquid.

  Old Hollow’s hands were full to the brim and not a drop spilled from between his fingers. He looked up at the horse and told Young Hollow to open the gate. The horse tossed his head, but then bent to lap up the water. When the horse had finished Old Hollow’s hands were dry. They watched the horse expectantly, but he just whinnied and turned back to his hay.

  Old Hollow scooped more from the hole and took a drink, but he didn’t get more than half of it drunk before he collapsed.

  ~~~~~

  Young Hollow met Old Shepler in the field. He’d taken his father’s sickle from where it stood rusting inside the barn.

  Old Shepler spat in the grass, his blue cotton shirt stained with dirt. "You know how to thrash wheat?" he asked.

  Young Hollow nodded. "If you’ve got a whetstone, I can sharpen the blade."

  The farmer said he did and led him around the back of the house. Winona sat on the back stoop, combing her wet hair in the sun, but Old Shepler didn’t stop to introduce them. He showed Young Hollow the whetstone and stood beside him, watching, until he’d sharpened the blade sufficiently. Young Hollow never looked up from his work, not even when he heard the back door open and slap shut.

  "How old are you, son?" Old Shepler asked.

  "Eighteen," Young Hollow said.

  "You got a girl?"

  Young Hollow shook his head.

  Old Shepler spat in the grass. "I’m warning you." He pointed his finger into Young Hollow’s face. "You get any ideas about my girl, I’ll put that sickle right through your chest."

  Young Hollow nodded. "Sir," he said.

  "Get going," Old Shepler told him.

  ~~~~~

  After they’d buried Old Hollow and marked his grave, Young Hollow’s mother told him to fix up the holes in the barn. Young Hollow took up the shovel from where his father had last set it and stood a moment watching the living water glow palely in the quiet morning light.

  That was the day he first heard the horse speak. At first he thought someone had followed him into the barn, but finding no one behind him, Young Hollow whistled and the horse said, "Hello." He’d nearly jumped out of his skin.

  Young Hollow leaned across the horse’s gate. "After my father gave you the water, what happened? Do you remember?"

  "I felt a deep warmth — as if I had just returned from a long run — but I wasn’t at all tired." The horse chewed his hay slowly and dipped to his water trough. He flicked his ears toward the door, then back toward Young Hollow. "Do you hear that?" the horse said, lifting his head. "The water. There’s a murmur on the water."

  Young Hollow bent close to the hole and tried to listen but heard nothing. He stood slowly, careful not to lose his balance and touch the water accidentally.

  Young Hollow held out his hand to the horse, who asked, "Are you Old Hollow now?"

  "No," he said. "I’m not old."

  "You’re in love," the horse said.

  "What?"

  "You love that girl, and she loves you. She told me. People tell me things, and I listen."

  Young Hollow smiled. "Now that you can speak, you have to be careful how much you say."

  "Yes." The horse shook out his mane. "Are you going to cover up the water?" The horse flicked his ears toward the door. "Wolves," he said.

  ~~~~~

  In the dark before they drifted to sleep, Young Hollow and Lothar told each other stories.

  "There was once a man who told a woman that he loved her, but she was already married," Lothar began the night after Young Hollow had started thrashing wheat for Old Shepler. "The man and the woman’s husband were friends, but the man was jealous that the woman would not leave her husband or her children. The man often came to visit the woman, especially during the day when the woman’s husband was away tending his fields. One day an old beggar passing along the road in front of the woman’s house asked her for some food and shelter. In exchange, he said he would read her fortune. The woman told him to go away because her husband was not at home, but the beggar stood to his full height and told the woman he knew she had committed adultery. The more the woman tried to deny it, the angrier the beggar became. ‘Because you are selfish and have broken your marriage vows,’ the beggar said, ‘I curse your youngest child. He will sicken and die unless you confess your betrayal.’" Lothar yawned, his chest rising feebly.

  Young Hollow scratched his head. "What happened to the woman?"

  He heard Lothar’s bed clothes shift and slide.

  "The beggar went away, but the woman did not tell her husband. She was afraid that her husband would kill the man she truly loved."

  "Who told you this story?"

  "When I first got sick, Momma watched over me all night. She’d doze off and talk about the beggar in her sleep. And sometimes, when she thought I was asleep, I’d hear her with him." He coughed then and sat up gulping for air. Young Hollow poured his brother a glass of water. He rubbed Lothar’s back as he helped him drink it. "She’d cry out his name."

  ~~~~~

  At lunch Young Hollow met Winona inside the forest at the far edge of her father’s fields.

  "I wish you would tell me what’s wrong," she said.

  Standing, she leaned back against a tree. She wore a yellow dress. Her long hair trickled against the bark.

  Young Hollow folded his hands in his pockets, and though he moved to stand very close to her, he did not touch her. Winona wrapped her arms around his neck. She was younger, maybe sixteen, he guessed. What was she like when she wasn’t with him? He had never seen her room, never once stepped inside her house. He knew, without even asking, that he never would.

  She lowered her gaze. She wouldn’t cry — he knew she wasn’t like that. "Daddy’s awfully sorry about what happened," she said. "He doesn’t show it well, but he feels responsible."

  Young Hollow touched her cheek, and she looked up into his face. "Aren’t you ever afraid?" he asked. "Of what he might do if he knew?"

  Their faces were close, but still she shuddered. "I’m always afraid."

  ~~~~~

  Old Hollow and Old Shepler had been friends. Old Shepler told Old Hollow he knew a witch doctor who’d think of something they hadn’t to help Lothar.

  "His sickness is peculiar," Old Shepler had said.


  Young Hollow remembered the smoke. The witch doctor slapped his hands on his knees and shuffled toward Lothar, who stood wrapped in a quilt leaning into Old Hollow. His mother stared at the ground, and Young Hollow stood at the far edge of the fire watching the old man, his skin dark like rust, his eyes gray, sightless. In a language Young Hollow could not understand, the witch doctor sang low, his hands ruminating Lothar’s face. His headdress of feathers and small bones twitched in an unfelt wind.

  "Have dreams," the witch doctor said. His eyelids were painted black. Black bands striped his thumbs and index fingers.

  The witch doctor whispered to Lothar, "It will open with a miracle heavy on the eyes." He sang again in his language and sat on the ground turning over stones.

  Young Hollow knelt beside him and held up his hand to wave it in front of the witch doctor’s face, but the witch doctor caught him and pinched his hand sharply.

  "This is a gift," the witch doctor said, his face focused not on Young Hollow or his hand, but on Lothar. "An action. Shovel, sickle, bucket, house, barn. A voice where none existed before."

  Jumping to his feet, the witch doctor pressed Young Hollow's hand to his bare, tattooed chest. "On your hands there will be blood that is not your own."

  Young Hollow drew his hand away, but the witch doctor seemed not to notice. He knelt again beside his fire and wafted the smoke around Lothar with feathers. He placed a hand on Lothar’s thin chest, but even in all the smoke, Lothar did not cough. Lothar closed his eyes and seemed to sleep, and when the witch doctor lifted his hand, Lothar opened his eyes. "He told me about a spring," Lothar said. He looked up at Old Hollow. "Dig under the barn for a spring of water, and give it to me to drink."

  Lothar went back to the house, and his mother followed him, her eyes wide.

  Young Hollow looked back at the witch doctor, who raised a hand to him and said, "Living water too cold to drink."

  ~~~~~

  Young Hollow stood in the shadows. The wolf still hung from the overhanging limbs of the cottonwood tree and the river water reflected the fledgling morning light.

  Muffled by the thickly fallen leaves, footsteps filtered through the underbrush. Young Hollow held his breath. The sky was only just growing pink, but he could make out the gray shape of a man’s shadow against the ground.

  Young Hollow cocked his rifle and moved from behind the tree.

  Old Shepler held up his hands. He smiled faintly and Young Hollow lowered the rifle.