Morpheus Tales #16 Preview

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The sixteenth issue preview of the UK's most controversial weird fiction magazine! Featuring: The Depredators’ Club By Deborah Walker, Illustrated By Steve Upham, The Receipts By Paul Johnson-Jovanovic & James Brooks, Seasons in the Abyss By Anthony Baynton, Crepuscular Beast By Sharon Baillie, Illustrated By Justin Coons, The Function Room By Matt Leyshon, llustrated By Mark Crittenden, When The Letter Came By Matthew Acheson, The Birds of Averrone By Kyle Hemmings, Illustrated By Victor Bravo, Morning Jog By James Gabriel, Lilies By Gary Budgen, Flip of the Switch By Philip Roberts, Illustrated By Geff Bartrand A.K.A. Dr. Twistid. Read the magazine Christopher Fowler calls "edgy and dark", and see what you think. Launches 1st of April 2012. Buy your copy now or subscribe on our website: www.morpheustales.com

Transcript of Morpheus Tales #16 Preview

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ISSN 1757-5419

Issue 16 – April 2012

The Depredators’ Club By Deborah Walker Page 2

Illustrated By Steve Upham

The Receipts By Paul Johnson-Jovanovic & James Brooks Page 7

Seasons in the Abyss By Anthony Baynton Page 11

Crepuscular Beast By Sharon Baillie Page 14

Illustrated By Justin Coons

The Function Room By Matt Leyshon Page 17

Illustrated By Mark Crittenden

When The Letter Came By Matthew Acheson Page 22

The Birds of Averrone By Kyle Hemmings Page 24

Illustrated By Victor Bravo

Morning Jog By James Gabriel Page 27

Lilies By Gary Budgen Page 30

Flip of the Switch By Philip Roberts Page 35

Illustrated By Geff Bartrand A.K.A. Dr. Twistid

Cover By Ben Baldwin - www.benbaldwin.co.uk

Proof-read By Samuel Diamond and Trevor Wright

All material contained within the pages of this magazine and associated websites is copyright of Morpheus Tales. All.

Rights Reserved. No material contained herein can be copied or otherwise used without the express permission of the

copyright holders.

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It was good to be back. Molly Kroner was in the Depredators’ Club for the first time in ten

years. She sat in the old leather armchair and listened to the familiar voice of Quentin Rance

had known Quentin for a long time ever since her father had brought her here as a child. She had

become something of a mascot to the men, the little girl with the innocent face and the wide blue

eyes watching and learning.

This was her home, her tru

about the things that really mattered.

“I believe that there are some things that shouldn’t be stolen.” Quentin was sitting at his

usual place by the fire. He gazed at the flames. His face was

This conversation was a game and Molly picked up the opposing thread of his argument

with pleasure, “That’s nonsense; if you have something I want,

“But you wouldn’t steal from me, or from any other member of thi

exceptions. And there are some items that have a resistance to our craft. Take this latest

commission, for example.”

There was a commission? Why didn’t she know about it?

“What commission?” she asked casually.

“Don’t give me the eyes, my dear. I’ve known you since you were five. Save it for the

young men.”

Molly laughed. “Sorry, it becomes a habit after a time.”

“Yes, I can see that. This life is a habit too, isn’t it? It’s hard to break: the taste of luxury, the

taste of acquisition.”

“Acquisition creates the justification.” Molly quoted the Depredators’ creed.

“And does ‘gold justify the blood’?” asked Quentin

has been in existence for many centuries.”

Molly shrugged, “A competent thief doesn’t need violence.

advance.”

“Yes, you’re right, Zephyr.” They used their code names here in the clu

had known each other for so long. “And you are a very competent thief. I’m glad you’ve come back

to us. We need all the competence we can get. You’ve heard about Quicksilver, haven’t you?

Terrible business.”

“Yes, I heard. Such a shame.

Master?” As Acquisition Master, Quentin handled the commissions and sliced off a shard of the

profits.

“It’s a commission for a relic collector:

slowly and with relish.

“A relic?”

“A wooden reliquary housing a preserved finger. It’s very rare and very valuable. In my old

days I would have been tempted to acquire it myself.”

series of artefact acquisitions; they ha

“Yet, I’m not sure it would be right

scaling the wall; he broke his foot. Dismas crashed his car on the way to the job. Gestas was

stopped by the police. They found h

the superstitious type, Zephyr?”

“You know I’m not, Master.”

“Ah, you’re giving me the eyes again. Alas, this time, they have worked on me. Give her the

file, Clyde.”

It was good to be back. Molly Kroner was in the Depredators’ Club for the first time in ten

years. She sat in the old leather armchair and listened to the familiar voice of Quentin Rance

had known Quentin for a long time ever since her father had brought her here as a child. She had

become something of a mascot to the men, the little girl with the innocent face and the wide blue

This was her home, her true home, where she could let her mask slip, somewhat, and talk

about the things that really mattered.

“I believe that there are some things that shouldn’t be stolen.” Quentin was sitting at his

usual place by the fire. He gazed at the flames. His face was stained red by the heat.

This conversation was a game and Molly picked up the opposing thread of his argument

with pleasure, “That’s nonsense; if you have something I want, I will take it.”

“But you wouldn’t steal from me, or from any other member of this club. There are always

exceptions. And there are some items that have a resistance to our craft. Take this latest

There was a commission? Why didn’t she know about it?

“What commission?” she asked casually.

eyes, my dear. I’ve known you since you were five. Save it for the

Molly laughed. “Sorry, it becomes a habit after a time.”

“Yes, I can see that. This life is a habit too, isn’t it? It’s hard to break: the taste of luxury, the

“Acquisition creates the justification.” Molly quoted the Depredators’ creed.

“And does ‘gold justify the blood’?” asked Quentin, quoting the original creed. “That motto

has been in existence for many centuries.”

Molly shrugged, “A competent thief doesn’t need violence. She has everything planned in

“Yes, you’re right, Zephyr.” They used their code names here in the clu

had known each other for so long. “And you are a very competent thief. I’m glad you’ve come back

to us. We need all the competence we can get. You’ve heard about Quicksilver, haven’t you?

“Yes, I heard. Such a shame.” Molly shook her head. “But, what about the commission,

Master?” As Acquisition Master, Quentin handled the commissions and sliced off a shard of the

mmission for a relic collector: five thousand pounds.” Quentin named the sum

“A wooden reliquary housing a preserved finger. It’s very rare and very valuable. In my old

days I would have been tempted to acquire it myself.” Quentin had acquired his wealth through a

series of artefact acquisitions; they had also brought him his power and reputation.

it would be right to give you this commission. Young Robin fell

he broke his foot. Dismas crashed his car on the way to the job. Gestas was

found his thief’s picks and his knife; he’s not out on bail yet. Are you

“You know I’m not, Master.”

“Ah, you’re giving me the eyes again. Alas, this time, they have worked on me. Give her the

3

It was good to be back. Molly Kroner was in the Depredators’ Club for the first time in ten

years. She sat in the old leather armchair and listened to the familiar voice of Quentin Rance. She

had known Quentin for a long time ever since her father had brought her here as a child. She had

become something of a mascot to the men, the little girl with the innocent face and the wide blue

e home, where she could let her mask slip, somewhat, and talk

“I believe that there are some things that shouldn’t be stolen.” Quentin was sitting at his

stained red by the heat.

This conversation was a game and Molly picked up the opposing thread of his argument

I will take it.”

s club. There are always

exceptions. And there are some items that have a resistance to our craft. Take this latest

eyes, my dear. I’ve known you since you were five. Save it for the

“Yes, I can see that. This life is a habit too, isn’t it? It’s hard to break: the taste of luxury, the

“Acquisition creates the justification.” Molly quoted the Depredators’ creed.

, quoting the original creed. “That motto

has everything planned in

“Yes, you’re right, Zephyr.” They used their code names here in the club, even though they

had known each other for so long. “And you are a very competent thief. I’m glad you’ve come back

to us. We need all the competence we can get. You’ve heard about Quicksilver, haven’t you?

” Molly shook her head. “But, what about the commission,

Master?” As Acquisition Master, Quentin handled the commissions and sliced off a shard of the

five thousand pounds.” Quentin named the sum

“A wooden reliquary housing a preserved finger. It’s very rare and very valuable. In my old

Quentin had acquired his wealth through a

d also brought him his power and reputation.

to give you this commission. Young Robin fell while

he broke his foot. Dismas crashed his car on the way to the job. Gestas was

he’s not out on bail yet. Are you

“Ah, you’re giving me the eyes again. Alas, this time, they have worked on me. Give her the

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A night in on my own was a rarity, a time to savour. With no whinging wife around, I intended to

make the most of it. So off to the store I went for my bits and bobs…

Sitting on the couch with my feet up, I cracked open a cold one.

with a smile on my face. Savour every bloody second

Hard day at work so thought I’d treat myself and head down the pub with the boys. More trouble

than it was worth, that was! As soon as I got through the door she’s on at me about this and that,

accusing me of forgetting Valentine’s Day. Christ, how am I su

doesn’t remind me! Told her I’d ordered a special present and that I’d left her card in the car…

12th February

A night in on my own was a rarity, a time to savour. With no whinging wife around, I intended to

make the most of it. So off to the store I went for my bits and bobs…

Grady’s

Your 24 hour convenience store

Tel: 01462 846823

Grady’s

33 Welbourne Rd, Craven Locke

CL52 8NP

Vat number: 665 4568 37

Multi-pack choco bars £1.75

Roasted peanuts £0.99

Coopers beer (4xcans) £3.99

Spicy crisps £0.50

Balance due £7.23

Visa debit £7.23

[ICC] **** **** **** 0645

16:27 12Feb2010

on the couch with my feet up, I cracked open a cold one. Savour every second

Savour every bloody second.

14th February

Hard day at work so thought I’d treat myself and head down the pub with the boys. More trouble

than it was worth, that was! As soon as I got through the door she’s on at me about this and that,

accusing me of forgetting Valentine’s Day. Christ, how am I supposed to know about it if she

doesn’t remind me! Told her I’d ordered a special present and that I’d left her card in the car…

A night in on my own was a rarity, a time to savour. With no whinging wife around, I intended to

Savour every second, I thought

Hard day at work so thought I’d treat myself and head down the pub with the boys. More trouble

than it was worth, that was! As soon as I got through the door she’s on at me about this and that,

pposed to know about it if she

doesn’t remind me! Told her I’d ordered a special present and that I’d left her card in the car…

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I write this in the hope that, should my nightmare befall another, they will be prepared. A

vain hope, I suspect, but as my last act I can find no more honourable task. The knife lies ready, and

the brandy warms gently in the fire’s tender warmth. This, dear rea

before sweet darkness swallows me.

I slept, they say, for many months in a coma of unexplained circumstance. I cannot explain

why this is so, for no ill befell me. I simply went to bed after a particularly tiresom

intent to sleep until noon the next day. My dreams, oh, my dreams…

I ‘woke’ on a sandy beach, utterly confused by the fact of my surroundings. I am a learned

man, and though I knew I could not be on a beach, it felt so very real. Indeed, th

foot was all too real, as what I took to be a shell almost pierced the hard underside of my foot. On

closer inspection it seemed to be a piece of bone, no doubt washed up from exotic places far away.

The sky was a verdant blue, unsullie

A near white sand, touched by the merest hint of meadow green sprawled in all directions. Of the

sea, only an aroma of salt belied its presence. The horizon spoke promises of oddly coloured sand

and nothing more. At a loss, I picked a direction and walked. With no wind to guide my steps, I

could only look back and hope my trail would be sufficient guide.

Though I walked for many days, the sun never set, nor did I thirst or hunger. My legs never

wearied and my heart never quickened, except in fear. And fear I felt, this dear reader I promise

truly. I cannot explain my fear, but a deep loathing for this place pressed upon my mind, until I

thought I may go mad.

Finally, after days, perhaps weeks, I glim

Over what it crossed I could not say, but I ran toward it with careless abandon. As I approached, its

crystalline structure revealed itself to me. The ever present sun cast myriad tiny rainbows onto the

sand, and I was immediately reminded of the rainbow bridge. Were we all wrong? Was Valhalla

truly real? Alas no, for this was no bridge to paradise, however warlike.

I crossed its peaks and troughs, for it undulated over the sand like a dragon of the orient

could not discern this radiant structures reason for being, for it crossed only the sand that I had

crossed on foot, yet I felt compelled to tread its enlightened path. No towers supported this wonder;

only pillars of equally radiant crystal signalled

The hated sun finally dipped below its zenith, and night descended as I stepped off the

darkening bridge. No source of light revealed itself, yet I could see as though the hunter’s moon

rode the sky. A chill seeped through the g

grass. I looked back, and the fabulous crystalline form that linked one hell to another seemed almost

to urge me on. Very well, I thought, I shall continue, for to sit still is to die. How I knew this

uncertain, but it was true to me then as the paper now in your hand is true to you.

I trudged through the endless darkness, and heard the first sound to fall on my ears since my

arrival. A keening, as of a distressed feline, encroached upon my brain. I

to cease, for it dragged across my taught nerves like a knife on stone. It did not waver in intensity

and continued for the duration of my journey through what I now know was Autumn. The grey,

soulless grass and the stygian empty

My heart hammered in my chest like a crazed denizen of an asylum desperate for escape.

Once again, the horizon was shattered. This time an immense ocean of sickly orange water

compelled me to stop. A raft of wood so purple it was almost black floated uncannily still on the

choppy waters. No wind existed to explain the condition of the water, indeed nothing but the wail

with no origin penetrated the grassland.

e this in the hope that, should my nightmare befall another, they will be prepared. A

vain hope, I suspect, but as my last act I can find no more honourable task. The knife lies ready, and

the brandy warms gently in the fire’s tender warmth. This, dear reader, is the last account of my life

before sweet darkness swallows me.

# # #

I slept, they say, for many months in a coma of unexplained circumstance. I cannot explain

why this is so, for no ill befell me. I simply went to bed after a particularly tiresom

intent to sleep until noon the next day. My dreams, oh, my dreams…

I ‘woke’ on a sandy beach, utterly confused by the fact of my surroundings. I am a learned

man, and though I knew I could not be on a beach, it felt so very real. Indeed, th

real, as what I took to be a shell almost pierced the hard underside of my foot. On

closer inspection it seemed to be a piece of bone, no doubt washed up from exotic places far away.

The sky was a verdant blue, unsullied by cloud or bird or even the most insignificant insect.

A near white sand, touched by the merest hint of meadow green sprawled in all directions. Of the

sea, only an aroma of salt belied its presence. The horizon spoke promises of oddly coloured sand

nothing more. At a loss, I picked a direction and walked. With no wind to guide my steps, I

could only look back and hope my trail would be sufficient guide.

Though I walked for many days, the sun never set, nor did I thirst or hunger. My legs never

ed and my heart never quickened, except in fear. And fear I felt, this dear reader I promise

truly. I cannot explain my fear, but a deep loathing for this place pressed upon my mind, until I

Finally, after days, perhaps weeks, I glimpsed in the distance an impossible thing. A bridge!

Over what it crossed I could not say, but I ran toward it with careless abandon. As I approached, its

crystalline structure revealed itself to me. The ever present sun cast myriad tiny rainbows onto the

and, and I was immediately reminded of the rainbow bridge. Were we all wrong? Was Valhalla

truly real? Alas no, for this was no bridge to paradise, however warlike.

I crossed its peaks and troughs, for it undulated over the sand like a dragon of the orient

could not discern this radiant structures reason for being, for it crossed only the sand that I had

crossed on foot, yet I felt compelled to tread its enlightened path. No towers supported this wonder;

only pillars of equally radiant crystal signalled its beginning and its end.

The hated sun finally dipped below its zenith, and night descended as I stepped off the

darkening bridge. No source of light revealed itself, yet I could see as though the hunter’s moon

rode the sky. A chill seeped through the ground as the smooth sand gave way to rough and brittle

grass. I looked back, and the fabulous crystalline form that linked one hell to another seemed almost

to urge me on. Very well, I thought, I shall continue, for to sit still is to die. How I knew this

uncertain, but it was true to me then as the paper now in your hand is true to you.

I trudged through the endless darkness, and heard the first sound to fall on my ears since my

arrival. A keening, as of a distressed feline, encroached upon my brain. Immediately I wished for it

to cease, for it dragged across my taught nerves like a knife on stone. It did not waver in intensity

and continued for the duration of my journey through what I now know was Autumn. The grey,

soulless grass and the stygian empty sky offered no distraction to me, and so I carried on walking.

My heart hammered in my chest like a crazed denizen of an asylum desperate for escape.

Once again, the horizon was shattered. This time an immense ocean of sickly orange water

stop. A raft of wood so purple it was almost black floated uncannily still on the

choppy waters. No wind existed to explain the condition of the water, indeed nothing but the wail

with no origin penetrated the grassland.

5

e this in the hope that, should my nightmare befall another, they will be prepared. A

vain hope, I suspect, but as my last act I can find no more honourable task. The knife lies ready, and

der, is the last account of my life

I slept, they say, for many months in a coma of unexplained circumstance. I cannot explain

why this is so, for no ill befell me. I simply went to bed after a particularly tiresome day with the

I ‘woke’ on a sandy beach, utterly confused by the fact of my surroundings. I am a learned

man, and though I knew I could not be on a beach, it felt so very real. Indeed, the sharp pain in my

real, as what I took to be a shell almost pierced the hard underside of my foot. On

closer inspection it seemed to be a piece of bone, no doubt washed up from exotic places far away.

d by cloud or bird or even the most insignificant insect.

A near white sand, touched by the merest hint of meadow green sprawled in all directions. Of the

sea, only an aroma of salt belied its presence. The horizon spoke promises of oddly coloured sand

nothing more. At a loss, I picked a direction and walked. With no wind to guide my steps, I

Though I walked for many days, the sun never set, nor did I thirst or hunger. My legs never

ed and my heart never quickened, except in fear. And fear I felt, this dear reader I promise

truly. I cannot explain my fear, but a deep loathing for this place pressed upon my mind, until I

psed in the distance an impossible thing. A bridge!

Over what it crossed I could not say, but I ran toward it with careless abandon. As I approached, its

crystalline structure revealed itself to me. The ever present sun cast myriad tiny rainbows onto the

and, and I was immediately reminded of the rainbow bridge. Were we all wrong? Was Valhalla

I crossed its peaks and troughs, for it undulated over the sand like a dragon of the orient. I

could not discern this radiant structures reason for being, for it crossed only the sand that I had

crossed on foot, yet I felt compelled to tread its enlightened path. No towers supported this wonder;

The hated sun finally dipped below its zenith, and night descended as I stepped off the

darkening bridge. No source of light revealed itself, yet I could see as though the hunter’s moon

round as the smooth sand gave way to rough and brittle

grass. I looked back, and the fabulous crystalline form that linked one hell to another seemed almost

to urge me on. Very well, I thought, I shall continue, for to sit still is to die. How I knew this is

uncertain, but it was true to me then as the paper now in your hand is true to you.

I trudged through the endless darkness, and heard the first sound to fall on my ears since my

mmediately I wished for it

to cease, for it dragged across my taught nerves like a knife on stone. It did not waver in intensity

and continued for the duration of my journey through what I now know was Autumn. The grey,

sky offered no distraction to me, and so I carried on walking.

My heart hammered in my chest like a crazed denizen of an asylum desperate for escape.

Once again, the horizon was shattered. This time an immense ocean of sickly orange water

stop. A raft of wood so purple it was almost black floated uncannily still on the

choppy waters. No wind existed to explain the condition of the water, indeed nothing but the wail

Page 6: Morpheus Tales #16 Preview

6

There’s an itch under my scalp. A tingling at first, almost an abstract feeling, it’s there, but it

isn’t, not fully until I can define it as an itch. It moves to behind my eyes. My re

need to scratch it, must scratch it, the pain needs to stop. A knife would do it. A

animal flesh. I keep them in the kitchen. N

steel. If I didn’t look I could do it to myse

own eyes and not see it? Stupid. But it’s on the move again, so it’s a moot thought. The unwanted,

unwelcome itch, master of my skeleton and organs, roams where

dances around the top of my spinal chord, pitterpatter, making me want to rip it from my body. Pain

shoots to my fingertips; my feet kick of their own accord. Leave my body, demon! Be gone! The

demon laughs and tightens itself around my windpipe now.

“You will play,” it says; its voice is mine.

“I will not,” I say in a tone that is alien to me. Why does it sound more like me than me?

My breathing becomes laboured. It won’t kill me, of course. Sometimes I wonder what it

looks like, the demon that wanders in my darkness. T

my being. I imagine it has horns and red eyes, because I would never admit it looks sh

me. Evening brims. The crepuscular beast releases my brea

“Let’s play,” it says. “Now

While it slept I locked the door and hid the key. I don’t want to play tonight. My lungs

consume the oxygen, they ignore the pointless nitrogen, and expel the planet

dioxide. Just doing my bit for the destruction of humanity, one breath at a time.

“I’ll do it,” it threatens, “if you don’t play with me

I know what it means. I don’t want it to do it

stand my ground, I close my eyes

“Hail Mary... ” my voice shakes.

I feel the ice form in my blood immediately as it moves into an artery. My blood thickens as

it cools and the sludge tries to force its way painfully through my veins. I grow cold. My resolve

means nothing any more, but it won’t stop now.

“Full of grace... The Lord is with thee...

“Your fault,” my evil voice replies

“Blessed... art... thou... Please...

my heart and I die, yet another time, while remaining wide

exclusively so that I would live, that pumped life force so that I could be, withered at its presence,

and I felt the death of every cell. My heart was lost, rotten, putrid, my vitality was gone. It pumped

death to my body, infecting the toes

“Time to play,” we say.

“What fun!” we reply.

I retrieve the key. I can’t very well

together into the cool evening. It’s a clear night

rules, refusing to show up just because the humans expect it. We approve. The stars are out in fo

dying silently in the past. We approve greatly. Who tonight, we wonder? Who gets to play? It’s

been a while since we had a woman.

There’s an itch under my scalp. A tingling at first, almost an abstract feeling, it’s there, but it

isn’t, not fully until I can define it as an itch. It moves to behind my eyes. My re

need to scratch it, must scratch it, the pain needs to stop. A knife would do it. A

animal flesh. I keep them in the kitchen. Not a knife for butter, no, a steak knife. Sharp, soothing

If I didn’t look I could do it to myself. I would have to look though. How could I cut out my

own eyes and not see it? Stupid. But it’s on the move again, so it’s a moot thought. The unwanted,

unwelcome itch, master of my skeleton and organs, roams where it pleases. It moves to my neck, it

dances around the top of my spinal chord, pitterpatter, making me want to rip it from my body. Pain

shoots to my fingertips; my feet kick of their own accord. Leave my body, demon! Be gone! The

itself around my windpipe now.

it says; its voice is mine.

I say in a tone that is alien to me. Why does it sound more like me than me?

My breathing becomes laboured. It won’t kill me, of course. Sometimes I wonder what it

mon that wanders in my darkness. That is my darkness, that lurks in the shadow of

my being. I imagine it has horns and red eyes, because I would never admit it looks sh

he crepuscular beast releases my breath back to me before I pass out.

w.”

While it slept I locked the door and hid the key. I don’t want to play tonight. My lungs

consume the oxygen, they ignore the pointless nitrogen, and expel the planet

Just doing my bit for the destruction of humanity, one breath at a time.

if you don’t play with me.”

I know what it means. I don’t want it to do it. I can’t stand it, but its games are worse. I

stand my ground, I close my eyes and I start to pray.

” my voice shakes.

I feel the ice form in my blood immediately as it moves into an artery. My blood thickens as

it cools and the sludge tries to force its way painfully through my veins. I grow cold. My resolve

nothing any more, but it won’t stop now.

“Full of grace... The Lord is with thee... Please don’t,” I beg.

,” my evil voice replies, and I sound distinctly like I’m smiling.

“Blessed... art... thou... Please... I’ll play.” I give in far too late. A moment later it reaches

my heart and I die, yet another time, while remaining wide-awake. The heart cells that once existed

that I would live, that pumped life force so that I could be, withered at its presence,

very cell. My heart was lost, rotten, putrid, my vitality was gone. It pumped

death to my body, infecting the toes and genitals and ears with evil; nothing was untouched.

I retrieve the key. I can’t very well hide it from myself. We laugh at my stupidity and move

together into the cool evening. It’s a clear night, but the moon remains elusive, living by its own

rules, refusing to show up just because the humans expect it. We approve. The stars are out in fo

e approve greatly. Who tonight, we wonder? Who gets to play? It’s

been a while since we had a woman.

There’s an itch under my scalp. A tingling at first, almost an abstract feeling, it’s there, but it

isn’t, not fully until I can define it as an itch. It moves to behind my eyes. My retinas start to burn. I

need to scratch it, must scratch it, the pain needs to stop. A knife would do it. A knife for cutting

ot a knife for butter, no, a steak knife. Sharp, soothing

ow could I cut out my

own eyes and not see it? Stupid. But it’s on the move again, so it’s a moot thought. The unwanted,

it pleases. It moves to my neck, it

dances around the top of my spinal chord, pitterpatter, making me want to rip it from my body. Pain

shoots to my fingertips; my feet kick of their own accord. Leave my body, demon! Be gone! The

I say in a tone that is alien to me. Why does it sound more like me than me?

My breathing becomes laboured. It won’t kill me, of course. Sometimes I wonder what it

hat is my darkness, that lurks in the shadow of

my being. I imagine it has horns and red eyes, because I would never admit it looks shockingly like

th back to me before I pass out.

While it slept I locked the door and hid the key. I don’t want to play tonight. My lungs

consume the oxygen, they ignore the pointless nitrogen, and expel the planet-destroying carbon

Just doing my bit for the destruction of humanity, one breath at a time.

I can’t stand it, but its games are worse. I

I feel the ice form in my blood immediately as it moves into an artery. My blood thickens as

it cools and the sludge tries to force its way painfully through my veins. I grow cold. My resolve

and I sound distinctly like I’m smiling.

. A moment later it reaches

awake. The heart cells that once existed

that I would live, that pumped life force so that I could be, withered at its presence,

very cell. My heart was lost, rotten, putrid, my vitality was gone. It pumped

nothing was untouched.

hide it from myself. We laugh at my stupidity and move

but the moon remains elusive, living by its own

rules, refusing to show up just because the humans expect it. We approve. The stars are out in force,

e approve greatly. Who tonight, we wonder? Who gets to play? It’s

Page 7: Morpheus Tales #16 Preview

In the undulating folds of the green vale there lies the grey and old town of Leddenton. From

the skies you imagine it appearing to a cosmic ob

trundling downs and the laser trails of ley lines. In

The Function Room, an awkward construction that you imagine might appear to that observer

above as a crooked canvas begging to be straightened. It is an unassuming, though somewhat askew

building of red clay brick. A small plaque upon its wall deceptively reads, Church Hall.

Despite the plain exterior, it is a complex work of architecture that you live and work

within; the nooks and crannies inside The Function Room very much defy comparison to the

orderly nature of the town outside. The regular homes upon regimented avenues and the straight

roads both seem to impose orderliness and regularity upon

after all your occasional efforts in observation and control that sustains their plain monotony.

Around you tiny white wheels spin like bony tops and pink pulleys pump like the workings

of some great, fleshy perpetual motion d

gravity every day they remain standing, you have learned, and unlearned through laziness, the

importance of staying on top of things and keeping your eye on the ball. Sometimes, with despair,

you feel as though you are but a mere dust mote inside the workings of a giant clock, for it seems

that allowing your attention to wander has, in fact, no consequence; the machine continues to

function, outside the same lights go on at the same time each evening,

homes just as they did the day before and the day before that, regardless of your intervention. It is

hardly your fault that you have become a little idle, but a certain irony is lost upon you, as it was

such a tendency towards slothfulness that first brought you to The Function Room.

You once worked for the town’s rail company. Your job was in the signal box, a simple but

secure occupation that essentially involved, only very occasionally, pulling a lever that lifted a sign

that would stop one train when another approached from the opposite direction. One day, arising in

panic from bored reverie, you pulled the wrong lever and found yourself quite inexplicably in The

Function Room, watching what was very nearly a catastrophic tr

dusty window.

Above you a spring unfurls in perfect serenity

underline your mental note to obtain lubricant from the storeroom, just as you had reminded

yourself yesterday.

“I really should oil that,” you grumble to the dull walls that are latticed by the shadows of

the machinery like corpse dust upon grease

All around you, from the window to the murky recesses of the cellar and attic, wheels turn,

spindles rotate, and great axles spin as you grudging

weariness. The gentle groans from the machinery that now occur with growing frequency have

become an issue that could almost disrupt your tedium with thoughts of urgency.

“Going to have to stop being so lazy one day,” you say.

Your words drift upwards i

room a shaft the colour of aging ivory clunks awkwardly and you wince once more, cursing your

procrastination. “I’ll maybe fix that tomorrow,” you say to yourself.

But already all is on the verge

alighting one stop early at Leddenton station in hopeful expectation of the exercise benefiting its

cosmic essence. Not unlike like you, Gormo Gloom is oblivious to this impending disruption.

In the undulating folds of the green vale there lies the grey and old town of Leddenton. From

the skies you imagine it appearing to a cosmic observer as a dying fly in a corpulent web of

trundling downs and the laser trails of ley lines. In its dark heart stands your home and workplace,

The Function Room, an awkward construction that you imagine might appear to that observer

nvas begging to be straightened. It is an unassuming, though somewhat askew

building of red clay brick. A small plaque upon its wall deceptively reads, Church Hall.

Despite the plain exterior, it is a complex work of architecture that you live and work

within; the nooks and crannies inside The Function Room very much defy comparison to the

orderly nature of the town outside. The regular homes upon regimented avenues and the straight

roads both seem to impose orderliness and regularity upon the routines of the townsfolk,

after all your occasional efforts in observation and control that sustains their plain monotony.

Around you tiny white wheels spin like bony tops and pink pulleys pump like the workings

of some great, fleshy perpetual motion device. Within these tilting walls that openly challenge

day they remain standing, you have learned, and unlearned through laziness, the

importance of staying on top of things and keeping your eye on the ball. Sometimes, with despair,

as though you are but a mere dust mote inside the workings of a giant clock, for it seems

that allowing your attention to wander has, in fact, no consequence; the machine continues to

function, outside the same lights go on at the same time each evening, the dog walkers depart their

homes just as they did the day before and the day before that, regardless of your intervention. It is

hardly your fault that you have become a little idle, but a certain irony is lost upon you, as it was

slothfulness that first brought you to The Function Room.

You once worked for the town’s rail company. Your job was in the signal box, a simple but

secure occupation that essentially involved, only very occasionally, pulling a lever that lifted a sign

t would stop one train when another approached from the opposite direction. One day, arising in

panic from bored reverie, you pulled the wrong lever and found yourself quite inexplicably in The

Function Room, watching what was very nearly a catastrophic train crash through a very small and

Above you a spring unfurls in perfect serenity, but as a cog whines gently behind you, you

underline your mental note to obtain lubricant from the storeroom, just as you had reminded

really should oil that,” you grumble to the dull walls that are latticed by the shadows of

the machinery like corpse dust upon grease-stained paintwork.

All around you, from the window to the murky recesses of the cellar and attic, wheels turn,

otate, and great axles spin as you grudgingly pull levers and twist dials with

weariness. The gentle groans from the machinery that now occur with growing frequency have

become an issue that could almost disrupt your tedium with thoughts of urgency.

“Going to have to stop being so lazy one day,” you say.

Your words drift upwards into the murk like ashes on crematorium vortexes. In another

room a shaft the colour of aging ivory clunks awkwardly and you wince once more, cursing your

procrastination. “I’ll maybe fix that tomorrow,” you say to yourself.

But already all is on the verge of going awry and an indescribable horror contemplates

alighting one stop early at Leddenton station in hopeful expectation of the exercise benefiting its

cosmic essence. Not unlike like you, Gormo Gloom is oblivious to this impending disruption.

7

In the undulating folds of the green vale there lies the grey and old town of Leddenton. From

server as a dying fly in a corpulent web of

dark heart stands your home and workplace,

The Function Room, an awkward construction that you imagine might appear to that observer

nvas begging to be straightened. It is an unassuming, though somewhat askew

building of red clay brick. A small plaque upon its wall deceptively reads, Church Hall.

Despite the plain exterior, it is a complex work of architecture that you live and work

within; the nooks and crannies inside The Function Room very much defy comparison to the

orderly nature of the town outside. The regular homes upon regimented avenues and the straight

f the townsfolk, unless it is

after all your occasional efforts in observation and control that sustains their plain monotony.

Around you tiny white wheels spin like bony tops and pink pulleys pump like the workings

evice. Within these tilting walls that openly challenge

day they remain standing, you have learned, and unlearned through laziness, the

importance of staying on top of things and keeping your eye on the ball. Sometimes, with despair,

as though you are but a mere dust mote inside the workings of a giant clock, for it seems

that allowing your attention to wander has, in fact, no consequence; the machine continues to

the dog walkers depart their

homes just as they did the day before and the day before that, regardless of your intervention. It is

hardly your fault that you have become a little idle, but a certain irony is lost upon you, as it was

slothfulness that first brought you to The Function Room.

You once worked for the town’s rail company. Your job was in the signal box, a simple but

secure occupation that essentially involved, only very occasionally, pulling a lever that lifted a sign

t would stop one train when another approached from the opposite direction. One day, arising in

panic from bored reverie, you pulled the wrong lever and found yourself quite inexplicably in The

ain crash through a very small and

but as a cog whines gently behind you, you

underline your mental note to obtain lubricant from the storeroom, just as you had reminded

really should oil that,” you grumble to the dull walls that are latticed by the shadows of

All around you, from the window to the murky recesses of the cellar and attic, wheels turn,

pull levers and twist dials with infinite

weariness. The gentle groans from the machinery that now occur with growing frequency have

become an issue that could almost disrupt your tedium with thoughts of urgency.

nto the murk like ashes on crematorium vortexes. In another

room a shaft the colour of aging ivory clunks awkwardly and you wince once more, cursing your

of going awry and an indescribable horror contemplates

alighting one stop early at Leddenton station in hopeful expectation of the exercise benefiting its

cosmic essence. Not unlike like you, Gormo Gloom is oblivious to this impending disruption.

Page 8: Morpheus Tales #16 Preview

8

I was in a very curious emotional state on the day the letter finally arrived. I had gone to

check the post office box religiously

handed, until now. There it was at last, in my trembling hand, shining like a bolt of cleansing fire

out of the heavens - the letter.

I tore the envelope open and read the letter to myself aloud:

“Dear Mr. Browne, I’ve b

admit that due to the apparent lack of a solution to your cryptogram, and the sensational nature of

your claims, part of me assumed your advertisement was a practical joke, or perhaps a clever h

Still, your puzzle was an intriguing one, and I must confess that the clipping has been posted to the

wall beside my desk for some time.

“I’m sure your time is as dear to you as mine is to me, so I will get straight to the heart of

the matter. I have found a solution to your puzzle! I was hoping it would be possible for us to meet,

so we can go over the particulars in person. Mailing the solution to you simply will not do, I’m sure

you understand. I shall patiently await your response, although I do ho

and that we shall not have to wait too long to meet. This is a jolly bit of excitement don’t you

think?”

The letter was signed: Aidaen McCallister, Professor of M

Maine in Orono.

I wrote back immediately, moving the pen in slow, deliberate strokes, so as to still my

shaking hand. I chose the Sunday of the following weekend as the date of our meeting, to allow

time for the professor to mail his response and make travel arrangements. It’s ironic

years of waiting and hoping, those final eleven days seemed to last for an eternity. Thoughts of Him

hounded me day and night. Sleep came with great difficulty, when it came at all, and I found that

my appetite was greatly diminished. When

bone weary.

We met at the train station, in the village of Waterboro, a few miles away from the

farmhouse in which I grew up, for I dared not reveal our ultimate destination in writing. The

professor had a foreign accent, British by the sound of it, and was dressed in a mustard colo

suit. He was short and plump with a receding hairline and a fuzzy

a jolly enough fellow, and so the two of us rode together in my motor car

homestead.

I drove with my head tilted half

Meanwhile, the professor told me all about how the means of solving the cryptogram had come to

him in the middle of a lecture on polyph

he could go back to his office and work out the solution.

When the professor had finished relating the tale of his triumph, he read the decrypted text

aloud. At first there was only confusion, bu

my mind, their meaning became perfectly clear. I understood exactly where He meant for us to go.

I was in a very curious emotional state on the day the letter finally arrived. I had gone to

check the post office box religiously every Friday afternoon and each time I had returned empty

handed, until now. There it was at last, in my trembling hand, shining like a bolt of cleansing fire

I tore the envelope open and read the letter to myself aloud:

“Dear Mr. Browne, I’ve been following your ad in the paper for some years now. I must

admit that due to the apparent lack of a solution to your cryptogram, and the sensational nature of

your claims, part of me assumed your advertisement was a practical joke, or perhaps a clever h

Still, your puzzle was an intriguing one, and I must confess that the clipping has been posted to the

wall beside my desk for some time.

“I’m sure your time is as dear to you as mine is to me, so I will get straight to the heart of

found a solution to your puzzle! I was hoping it would be possible for us to meet,

so we can go over the particulars in person. Mailing the solution to you simply will not do, I’m sure

you understand. I shall patiently await your response, although I do hope this letter finds you well

and that we shall not have to wait too long to meet. This is a jolly bit of excitement don’t you

as signed: Aidaen McCallister, Professor of Mathematics at the University of

immediately, moving the pen in slow, deliberate strokes, so as to still my

shaking hand. I chose the Sunday of the following weekend as the date of our meeting, to allow

time for the professor to mail his response and make travel arrangements. It’s ironic

years of waiting and hoping, those final eleven days seemed to last for an eternity. Thoughts of Him

hounded me day and night. Sleep came with great difficulty, when it came at all, and I found that

my appetite was greatly diminished. When the day finally came, I found myself blurry eyed and

We met at the train station, in the village of Waterboro, a few miles away from the

farmhouse in which I grew up, for I dared not reveal our ultimate destination in writing. The

a foreign accent, British by the sound of it, and was dressed in a mustard colo

suit. He was short and plump with a receding hairline and a fuzzy greyish-brown beard. He seemed

a jolly enough fellow, and so the two of us rode together in my motor car

I drove with my head tilted half-way out the window so I could taste the cool spring breeze.

Meanwhile, the professor told me all about how the means of solving the cryptogram had come to

him in the middle of a lecture on polyphonic substitution, and how he’d dismissed the class early so

he could go back to his office and work out the solution.

When the professor had finished relating the tale of his triumph, he read the decrypted text

aloud. At first there was only confusion, but as the words swirled and danced like a maelstrom in

my mind, their meaning became perfectly clear. I understood exactly where He meant for us to go.

I was in a very curious emotional state on the day the letter finally arrived. I had gone to

and each time I had returned empty

handed, until now. There it was at last, in my trembling hand, shining like a bolt of cleansing fire

een following your ad in the paper for some years now. I must

admit that due to the apparent lack of a solution to your cryptogram, and the sensational nature of

your claims, part of me assumed your advertisement was a practical joke, or perhaps a clever hoax.

Still, your puzzle was an intriguing one, and I must confess that the clipping has been posted to the

“I’m sure your time is as dear to you as mine is to me, so I will get straight to the heart of

found a solution to your puzzle! I was hoping it would be possible for us to meet,

so we can go over the particulars in person. Mailing the solution to you simply will not do, I’m sure

pe this letter finds you well

and that we shall not have to wait too long to meet. This is a jolly bit of excitement don’t you

athematics at the University of

immediately, moving the pen in slow, deliberate strokes, so as to still my

shaking hand. I chose the Sunday of the following weekend as the date of our meeting, to allow

time for the professor to mail his response and make travel arrangements. It’s ironic that after five

years of waiting and hoping, those final eleven days seemed to last for an eternity. Thoughts of Him

hounded me day and night. Sleep came with great difficulty, when it came at all, and I found that

the day finally came, I found myself blurry eyed and

We met at the train station, in the village of Waterboro, a few miles away from the

farmhouse in which I grew up, for I dared not reveal our ultimate destination in writing. The

a foreign accent, British by the sound of it, and was dressed in a mustard coloured

brown beard. He seemed

a jolly enough fellow, and so the two of us rode together in my motor car to my old family

way out the window so I could taste the cool spring breeze.

Meanwhile, the professor told me all about how the means of solving the cryptogram had come to

onic substitution, and how he’d dismissed the class early so

When the professor had finished relating the tale of his triumph, he read the decrypted text

t as the words swirled and danced like a maelstrom in

my mind, their meaning became perfectly clear. I understood exactly where He meant for us to go.

Page 9: Morpheus Tales #16 Preview

The Birds of Averrone are a select breed of air dwellers. They are alluded to in many fairy

tales, and in most cases, the divergences in the retelling differ by only a degree of X. In one story, a

Bird of Averrone saved a starving child by feeding her bread and pieces of pilchard and guppy. In

that version, there was a forest and a ruined kingdom. In a more modern retelling, there is a doe

eyed princess who cannot be cured of club foot. Do you believe this, you ask. All I can

was never a child with a set of invisible wings.

When the Birds of Averrone circle above you, it means your lifeline is running out. If you

are indoors, you can sense but not see the Birds of Averrone. On such days, hot days, days under

the axe, I will close my eyes to the sun and hold up an arm, so a Bird of Averrone will land. In this

way, I will not die alone. I, a falconer of men, cured of a morbid tendency to burn things to the

ground.

The Birds of Averrone are lonely but never alone.

downward appeals, spirals, prayers, etc. You are familiar with the lingo. It’s been said that William

of Ocham was inspired to develop his law of parsimony by observing a Bird of Averrone fly with

one wing. How is that possible, you ask. In this world, anything is possible. I know that sounds

flimsy.

But to assuage your acute sense of balance or aerodynamics, your hatred of anything

bloated or falling in slow motion, multiplying endlessly, I concede that the footno

by philosophers of science. Do you feel better? Do you feel you can now fly?

As a child, I believed the Birds of Averrone flew over my house at least three times a

month. I never knew where they came from or where they went, but I had

Golki, Asperentia, Merusa. Sometimes I see the Birds of Averrone in somebody’s eyes. When this

happens, I try to hold that person close. Why, you might ask. Trust me.

When I was very young, my father buried my mother not far from our

first, I thought she died of natural causes. It’s what he told me. I remember looking up at the sky

and watching those glorious birds circling, lower and lower. May

remember nights when my parents had hea

as months passed, I suspected my father killed her with the same axe his father used to slay his

unfaithful wife. In the shed out back, I ran my finger over the sharp blade still stained with streaks

of blood.

I’m not sure just when it started. My father, perhaps from the stress and strain of raising me

alone and providing for the two of us,

menacing manner. He spoke sentences or asked questio

sounded mumbled. My meals became me

of the woman who betrayed him, the woman he tried to destroy all trace of. At night, I remember

listening to the Birds of Averrone make strange noises upon our roof. Were they trying to tell me

something?

Then, my father locked me in the basement. He said I mustn’t come out and if I try to escape

I will meet a fate worse than my mother

will die slow.” I noticed that he wasn’t shaving anymore and his clothes, the same ones worn for

days, began to smell.

The Birds of Averrone are a select breed of air dwellers. They are alluded to in many fairy

tales, and in most cases, the divergences in the retelling differ by only a degree of X. In one story, a

arving child by feeding her bread and pieces of pilchard and guppy. In

that version, there was a forest and a ruined kingdom. In a more modern retelling, there is a doe

eyed princess who cannot be cured of club foot. Do you believe this, you ask. All I can

was never a child with a set of invisible wings.

When the Birds of Averrone circle above you, it means your lifeline is running out. If you

are indoors, you can sense but not see the Birds of Averrone. On such days, hot days, days under

axe, I will close my eyes to the sun and hold up an arm, so a Bird of Averrone will land. In this

way, I will not die alone. I, a falconer of men, cured of a morbid tendency to burn things to the

The Birds of Averrone are lonely but never alone. For this reason, they glide in flocks, in

downward appeals, spirals, prayers, etc. You are familiar with the lingo. It’s been said that William

of Ocham was inspired to develop his law of parsimony by observing a Bird of Averrone fly with

that possible, you ask. In this world, anything is possible. I know that sounds

But to assuage your acute sense of balance or aerodynamics, your hatred of anything

bloated or falling in slow motion, multiplying endlessly, I concede that the footno

by philosophers of science. Do you feel better? Do you feel you can now fly?

As a child, I believed the Birds of Averrone flew over my house at least three times a

month. I never knew where they came from or where they went, but I had names for those birds

. Sometimes I see the Birds of Averrone in somebody’s eyes. When this

happens, I try to hold that person close. Why, you might ask. Trust me.

When I was very young, my father buried my mother not far from our

first, I thought she died of natural causes. It’s what he told me. I remember looking up at the sky

and watching those glorious birds circling, lower and lower. Maybe they knew something I didn’t

remember nights when my parents had heated arguments over my mother’s supposed infidelity.

as months passed, I suspected my father killed her with the same axe his father used to slay his

unfaithful wife. In the shed out back, I ran my finger over the sharp blade still stained with streaks

I’m not sure just when it started. My father, perhaps from the stress and strain of raising me

and providing for the two of us, began to exhibit bizarre traits. He would

menacing manner. He spoke sentences or asked questions of only a few syllables. Often, his speech

sounded mumbled. My meals became measly rations. I concluded that in some way I reminded him

of the woman who betrayed him, the woman he tried to destroy all trace of. At night, I remember

s of Averrone make strange noises upon our roof. Were they trying to tell me

Then, my father locked me in the basement. He said I mustn’t come out and if I try to escape

I will meet a fate worse than my mother’s. “You’re mother went fast,” he s

will die slow.” I noticed that he wasn’t shaving anymore and his clothes, the same ones worn for

9

The Birds of Averrone are a select breed of air dwellers. They are alluded to in many fairy

tales, and in most cases, the divergences in the retelling differ by only a degree of X. In one story, a

arving child by feeding her bread and pieces of pilchard and guppy. In

that version, there was a forest and a ruined kingdom. In a more modern retelling, there is a doe-

eyed princess who cannot be cured of club foot. Do you believe this, you ask. All I can say is that I

When the Birds of Averrone circle above you, it means your lifeline is running out. If you

are indoors, you can sense but not see the Birds of Averrone. On such days, hot days, days under

axe, I will close my eyes to the sun and hold up an arm, so a Bird of Averrone will land. In this

way, I will not die alone. I, a falconer of men, cured of a morbid tendency to burn things to the

For this reason, they glide in flocks, in

downward appeals, spirals, prayers, etc. You are familiar with the lingo. It’s been said that William

of Ocham was inspired to develop his law of parsimony by observing a Bird of Averrone fly with

that possible, you ask. In this world, anything is possible. I know that sounds

But to assuage your acute sense of balance or aerodynamics, your hatred of anything

bloated or falling in slow motion, multiplying endlessly, I concede that the footnote is still debated

As a child, I believed the Birds of Averrone flew over my house at least three times a

names for those birds:

. Sometimes I see the Birds of Averrone in somebody’s eyes. When this

When I was very young, my father buried my mother not far from our country home. At

first, I thought she died of natural causes. It’s what he told me. I remember looking up at the sky

be they knew something I didn’t. I

ted arguments over my mother’s supposed infidelity. But

as months passed, I suspected my father killed her with the same axe his father used to slay his

unfaithful wife. In the shed out back, I ran my finger over the sharp blade still stained with streaks

I’m not sure just when it started. My father, perhaps from the stress and strain of raising me

would stare at me in a

ns of only a few syllables. Often, his speech

in some way I reminded him

of the woman who betrayed him, the woman he tried to destroy all trace of. At night, I remember

s of Averrone make strange noises upon our roof. Were they trying to tell me

Then, my father locked me in the basement. He said I mustn’t come out and if I try to escape

. “You’re mother went fast,” he stated dryly. “But you

will die slow.” I noticed that he wasn’t shaving anymore and his clothes, the same ones worn for

Page 10: Morpheus Tales #16 Preview

10

The lunatic in my head keeps telling me to scream as it laughs an insane

chatter that dries teeth and makes

in the face. Then again the rippling, “Play.” before drawing back into the smoke and mirrors to

bring forth a hatchet already stained with some

pudding that I know he tastes when I’m not looking. “Play,

right between my eyes.

I open suddenly to the ceiling and look around a room. My

room comes through in an already unfamiliar s

between the walls. Eyes from every

laced into my woven cage. My lids droop and the mist rises again.

“What now?” the imp standing on my shoulder

wound.

“I don’t know,” I say wondering to myself why I feel no pain.

“The brain has no pain receptors,” he says reaching inside the bloody broken hole. He pulls

out a small piece of gray that doesn’t matter an

right past my ear. “It’s like a noodle,

anybody in there?”

His holler echoes in my head.

The response that returns from the hole sounds like a thir

glass. “There’s nobody in here except us.”

The imp considers for a moment. “Well that’s a relief,” he says leaning to look around at

me. “So, what now?”

“I’m dreaming,” I say with a drunken lisp and reach up for the imp, coil

him away.

He dodges quickly and gives me a good bite, tasting the spurt of blood that covers his face.

“Ouch!” I'm not dreaming.

The imp reaches into the wound again and scoops out another

a great, almost two-handed wad. H

comfortable as he prepares to eat the wet popcorn ball. It drips a little red, but mostly a clear thick

liquid that runs down his wrist and chin.

“You got your redwings,” I say

He wipes his chin with the back of his arm

his hands. “Well you can only get it by eating out.” We both laugh at that one. “What now?” he

says after a moment, smacking his lips and lo

“Why must there be a now?” I ask.

He stops sucking his fingers and wrist and ponders for a moment. Then he shrugs, “Figured

you’d want there to be a now, that’

“Why?”

“That’s for you to decide. I can eat you out all day, but eventually I’ll have to crawl inside

and I don’t think you want me in your head.” He points a thumb over his shoulder, “Not with all of

them anyway.”

A giggle from the third grade class whispers fr

chalkboard.

The lunatic in my head keeps telling me to scream as it laughs an insane

chatter that dries teeth and makes eyes bleed. The maniacal giggle says, “Play,

in the face. Then again the rippling, “Play.” before drawing back into the smoke and mirrors to

bring forth a hatchet already stained with something thick red and drippy, running like warm c

tes when I’m not looking. “Play,” he says again as the hatchet swings

I open suddenly to the ceiling and look around a room. My head swivels panicked. The

an already unfamiliar static, with echoing voices full of giggles and tears

between the walls. Eyes from every-nowhere penetrate through the layers of heroes and ghosts

laced into my woven cage. My lids droop and the mist rises again.

“What now?” the imp standing on my shoulder says as he dips his face to lick at my head

“I don’t know,” I say wondering to myself why I feel no pain.

“The brain has no pain receptors,” he says reaching inside the bloody broken hole. He pulls

out a small piece of gray that doesn’t matter and sucks it down. I hear him swallow my thoughts

ast my ear. “It’s like a noodle,” he says and returns to the dark bloody orifice, “Is there

His holler echoes in my head.

The response that returns from the hole sounds like a third grade classroom chewing on

glass. “There’s nobody in here except us.”

The imp considers for a moment. “Well that’s a relief,” he says leaning to look around at

m dreaming,” I say with a drunken lisp and reach up for the imp, coil

He dodges quickly and gives me a good bite, tasting the spurt of blood that covers his face.

“Ouch!” I'm not dreaming.

The imp reaches into the wound again and scoops out another bit of gray that doesn’t matter,

handed wad. He licks his lips and sits down on my shoulder, getting

comfortable as he prepares to eat the wet popcorn ball. It drips a little red, but mostly a clear thick

liquid that runs down his wrist and chin.

“You got your redwings,” I say through a hazy giggle.

He wipes his chin with the back of his arm, and smearing gore across his face

his hands. “Well you can only get it by eating out.” We both laugh at that one. “What now?” he

says after a moment, smacking his lips and loudly licking my mind from his fingers.

“Why must there be a now?” I ask.

He stops sucking his fingers and wrist and ponders for a moment. Then he shrugs, “Figured

u’d want there to be a now, that’s all.”

“That’s for you to decide. I can eat you out all day, but eventually I’ll have to crawl inside

and I don’t think you want me in your head.” He points a thumb over his shoulder, “Not with all of

A giggle from the third grade class whispers from the black wound like fingernails on a

The lunatic in my head keeps telling me to scream as it laughs an insane hysteria; a banshee

The maniacal giggle says, “Play,” before punching me

in the face. Then again the rippling, “Play.” before drawing back into the smoke and mirrors to

thick red and drippy, running like warm cherry

” he says again as the hatchet swings

head swivels panicked. The

tatic, with echoing voices full of giggles and tears

nowhere penetrate through the layers of heroes and ghosts

says as he dips his face to lick at my head

“The brain has no pain receptors,” he says reaching inside the bloody broken hole. He pulls

d sucks it down. I hear him swallow my thoughts

” he says and returns to the dark bloody orifice, “Is there

d grade classroom chewing on

The imp considers for a moment. “Well that’s a relief,” he says leaning to look around at

m dreaming,” I say with a drunken lisp and reach up for the imp, coiling my finger flick

He dodges quickly and gives me a good bite, tasting the spurt of blood that covers his face.

bit of gray that doesn’t matter,

e licks his lips and sits down on my shoulder, getting

comfortable as he prepares to eat the wet popcorn ball. It drips a little red, but mostly a clear thick

across his face, he looks at

his hands. “Well you can only get it by eating out.” We both laugh at that one. “What now?” he

udly licking my mind from his fingers.

He stops sucking his fingers and wrist and ponders for a moment. Then he shrugs, “Figured

“That’s for you to decide. I can eat you out all day, but eventually I’ll have to crawl inside

and I don’t think you want me in your head.” He points a thumb over his shoulder, “Not with all of

om the black wound like fingernails on a

Page 11: Morpheus Tales #16 Preview

A distant radio station hissed and between the static was a voice

living. Then a rhythmic clanking from the scullery interrupted me. I had left my keys in the trousers

I had put into the washing machine and the lining of the drum had torn; so it was I came to fall in

love with one of the damned.

The indignity of having to trudge shivering through the snow to a working

neighbourhood and enter the public laundrette was compensated when I saw her for the first time.

Amid the stench of sweat and detergent I was struck immediately by her differ

women there. They were laughing bags of blotched skin and fat pressed into colourful frocks, but

she was calm and graceful in a simple black dress, her skin white and flawless. Like alabaster

told myself, having only the vaguest

“Your machine broken down too

station could not have afforded a washing machine but wanting the attention of those black eyes. I

was trying not to stare at her breasts or

that I found so alluring in its simplicity.

“I have no machine,” she said, “I’m afraid I must come here often. Once a week. At just this

time.”

She had only the odd musical accent of twenty streets

We didn’t say anything after that but exchanged eye smiles from either end of the long

gallery that formed the launderette. When she left she turned and smiled fully as she revealed her

name: Irena.

Over the next few days I tried to get

of the damned. The very presence in our part of the city of their émigré colony was considered

suspect. They were even regarded by some to be a fifth

of us who were alive. Those suspicions were typical of the character of that era of phoney war when

only the odd street would occasionally change hands, would fall to them and become dead. The

undercurrent of paranoia formed part of the rationale of my own work

distant cities. It was believed that life might still exist somewhere else, beyond the wide expanses of

the dead, and that we might find allies there.

But now I found it hard now to concentrate on my work.

I paced around.

I looked up ‘alabaster’ in my antique etymology. Hydrous sulphate of calcium

almost translucent; Used to fashion the effigies on tombs in the era when such edifices had been

necessary. Oh yes.

I didn’t telephone and ask for a repairman to call.

a week I had another pile of dirty clothes to take to the launderette. She was there at the far end

again and when there was no one too near her I left my machine and sat next to her.

“How long have you been here?”

“A little while. Not long.” She only looked at me when she had finished speaking.

“I meant,” I said, realizing that I might have been misunderstood, “how long have you been

on this side of the city.”

A distant radio station hissed and between the static was a voice claiming to be one of the

living. Then a rhythmic clanking from the scullery interrupted me. I had left my keys in the trousers

I had put into the washing machine and the lining of the drum had torn; so it was I came to fall in

The indignity of having to trudge shivering through the snow to a working

neighbourhood and enter the public laundrette was compensated when I saw her for the first time.

Amid the stench of sweat and detergent I was struck immediately by her differ

women there. They were laughing bags of blotched skin and fat pressed into colourful frocks, but

she was calm and graceful in a simple black dress, her skin white and flawless. Like alabaster

having only the vaguest idea of what alabaster was.

“Your machine broken down too, citizen?” I asked smiling, knowing that someone in her

station could not have afforded a washing machine but wanting the attention of those black eyes. I

was trying not to stare at her breasts or the bundle of plain white underwear in her laundry basket

that I found so alluring in its simplicity.

“I have no machine,” she said, “I’m afraid I must come here often. Once a week. At just this

She had only the odd musical accent of twenty streets or so away.

We didn’t say anything after that but exchanged eye smiles from either end of the long

gallery that formed the launderette. When she left she turned and smiled fully as she revealed her

# # #

Over the next few days I tried to get on with my job. I didn’t want to be infatuated with one

of the damned. The very presence in our part of the city of their émigré colony was considered

suspect. They were even regarded by some to be a fifth-column come to infiltrate and corrupt those

who were alive. Those suspicions were typical of the character of that era of phoney war when

only the odd street would occasionally change hands, would fall to them and become dead. The

undercurrent of paranoia formed part of the rationale of my own work monitoring broadcasts from

distant cities. It was believed that life might still exist somewhere else, beyond the wide expanses of

the dead, and that we might find allies there.

But now I found it hard now to concentrate on my work.

ooked up ‘alabaster’ in my antique etymology. Hydrous sulphate of calcium

Used to fashion the effigies on tombs in the era when such edifices had been

# # #

I didn’t telephone and ask for a repairman to call. The washing machine lay idle and within

a week I had another pile of dirty clothes to take to the launderette. She was there at the far end

again and when there was no one too near her I left my machine and sat next to her.

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

“A little while. Not long.” She only looked at me when she had finished speaking.

“I meant,” I said, realizing that I might have been misunderstood, “how long have you been

11

claiming to be one of the

living. Then a rhythmic clanking from the scullery interrupted me. I had left my keys in the trousers

I had put into the washing machine and the lining of the drum had torn; so it was I came to fall in

The indignity of having to trudge shivering through the snow to a working-class

neighbourhood and enter the public laundrette was compensated when I saw her for the first time.

Amid the stench of sweat and detergent I was struck immediately by her difference from the other

women there. They were laughing bags of blotched skin and fat pressed into colourful frocks, but

she was calm and graceful in a simple black dress, her skin white and flawless. Like alabaster, I had

citizen?” I asked smiling, knowing that someone in her

station could not have afforded a washing machine but wanting the attention of those black eyes. I

the bundle of plain white underwear in her laundry basket

“I have no machine,” she said, “I’m afraid I must come here often. Once a week. At just this

We didn’t say anything after that but exchanged eye smiles from either end of the long

gallery that formed the launderette. When she left she turned and smiled fully as she revealed her

on with my job. I didn’t want to be infatuated with one

of the damned. The very presence in our part of the city of their émigré colony was considered

column come to infiltrate and corrupt those

who were alive. Those suspicions were typical of the character of that era of phoney war when

only the odd street would occasionally change hands, would fall to them and become dead. The

monitoring broadcasts from

distant cities. It was believed that life might still exist somewhere else, beyond the wide expanses of

ooked up ‘alabaster’ in my antique etymology. Hydrous sulphate of calcium; White,

Used to fashion the effigies on tombs in the era when such edifices had been

The washing machine lay idle and within

a week I had another pile of dirty clothes to take to the launderette. She was there at the far end

again and when there was no one too near her I left my machine and sat next to her.

“A little while. Not long.” She only looked at me when she had finished speaking.

“I meant,” I said, realizing that I might have been misunderstood, “how long have you been

Page 12: Morpheus Tales #16 Preview

12

By the beginning of August the worst of the heat wave took the city hostage. Milford Pedri

strolled down the streets, aging face dripping wet, and tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

Given the amount of water he’d surely lost already, liquor was the last thing he needed in him, but

he still stepped through the door of Red Lights and ordered a beer at the counter.

Emil Runk was already there, hunched over his own drink, greeting Milford with a nod

the head. Only three or four others milled around the back end of the un

probably bums who got a lucky hand out or unemployed men taking a break from their search for

work. Few others bothered with bars at four in the afternoon. Mi

lull before the office crowd poured into the streets.

Ruth Kale, the owner and main bartender for the place, handed Milford his drink and

returned to one of the few working fans. She leaned back and let it blow directly

Milford brought the wet, cold glass to his forehead, smiling at the feeling.

“You seen Saul lately?” Emil asked.

Milford took a swig, frowned, and looked around as if Saul might be hidden somewhere.

“Can’t recall.”

“Good riddance then,” Ruth

Both men ignored her and her well

Saul, though Milford had to admit a certain appreciation for the man. He would never

it, none of them would, because it was just expected that a person would dislike Saul.

The overweight ex-army man was loud

serving his country over everyone’s head. No one knew if he’d actually served in the army, or if it

was just one of the more elaborate lies he told to boost himself above those around him. Really it

didn’t seem to matter, because even if he was called on a lie, he’d keep spouting it the next time he

came around.

For all Saul’s terrible traits, Milford had to admit t

Milford couldn’t say about most people he knew, or himself. He’d grown a little more attached to

Saul as the years progressed and the reality of his own mediocrity dawned on him, the opportunity

to do something big with his life lost thirty or forty years in the past. No one could accuse Saul of

marching slowly and unenthusiastically through life.

“Usually in at least once a week,” Milford said. “Wonder if anything happened to him.”

“Only forty-seven,” Emil said. He smiled

“And he probably weighs more than the two of us combined,” Milford said. “Well, two of

you anyways,” he added, frowning at his own growing gut. “Besides, he’s had heart attacks before.”

“Well, if you can believe him.”

Milford shrugged, did his best to finish off the beer quickly. In truth he actually hoped

find something wrong, something to make his day different from the hundreds that had preceded it.

How often does one find a dead body? Not like Saul ha

looking for him.

“Come on,” he said, swallowed his last gulp, and pushed back from the bar.

Emil sighed and did the same.

“If you do find him alive don’t bring him here,” Ruth called after them.

The two stepped out into the blazing sun, hats on to protect their faces as they walked down

the street and towards the patch of suburbia a few blocks up where Saul lived. They had dragged

him home enough times after late nights to know the path to his home by heart.

By the beginning of August the worst of the heat wave took the city hostage. Milford Pedri

strolled down the streets, aging face dripping wet, and tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

mount of water he’d surely lost already, liquor was the last thing he needed in him, but

he still stepped through the door of Red Lights and ordered a beer at the counter.

Emil Runk was already there, hunched over his own drink, greeting Milford with a nod

the head. Only three or four others milled around the back end of the un

probably bums who got a lucky hand out or unemployed men taking a break from their search for

work. Few others bothered with bars at four in the afternoon. Milford had always preferred it, the

lull before the office crowd poured into the streets.

Ruth Kale, the owner and main bartender for the place, handed Milford his drink and

returned to one of the few working fans. She leaned back and let it blow directly

Milford brought the wet, cold glass to his forehead, smiling at the feeling.

“You seen Saul lately?” Emil asked.

Milford took a swig, frowned, and looked around as if Saul might be hidden somewhere.

“Good riddance then,” Ruth called out from her perch under the fan.

Both men ignored her and her well-known dislike of Saul Polosky. No one actually liked

Saul, though Milford had to admit a certain appreciation for the man. He would never

e it was just expected that a person would dislike Saul.

army man was loud-mouthed, foul-tempered, and quick to lord his time

serving his country over everyone’s head. No one knew if he’d actually served in the army, or if it

of the more elaborate lies he told to boost himself above those around him. Really it

didn’t seem to matter, because even if he was called on a lie, he’d keep spouting it the next time he

For all Saul’s terrible traits, Milford had to admit the man was interesting, something

Milford couldn’t say about most people he knew, or himself. He’d grown a little more attached to

Saul as the years progressed and the reality of his own mediocrity dawned on him, the opportunity

s life lost thirty or forty years in the past. No one could accuse Saul of

marching slowly and unenthusiastically through life.

“Usually in at least once a week,” Milford said. “Wonder if anything happened to him.”

seven,” Emil said. He smiled dryly. “Compared to us he’s practically a child.”

“And he probably weighs more than the two of us combined,” Milford said. “Well, two of

you anyways,” he added, frowning at his own growing gut. “Besides, he’s had heart attacks before.”

lieve him.”

Milford shrugged, did his best to finish off the beer quickly. In truth he actually hoped

find something wrong, something to make his day different from the hundreds that had preceded it.

How often does one find a dead body? Not like Saul had a lot of friends, people who would come

“Come on,” he said, swallowed his last gulp, and pushed back from the bar.

Emil sighed and did the same.

“If you do find him alive don’t bring him here,” Ruth called after them.

t into the blazing sun, hats on to protect their faces as they walked down

the street and towards the patch of suburbia a few blocks up where Saul lived. They had dragged

him home enough times after late nights to know the path to his home by heart.

By the beginning of August the worst of the heat wave took the city hostage. Milford Pedri

strolled down the streets, aging face dripping wet, and tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

mount of water he’d surely lost already, liquor was the last thing he needed in him, but

he still stepped through the door of Red Lights and ordered a beer at the counter.

Emil Runk was already there, hunched over his own drink, greeting Milford with a nod of

the head. Only three or four others milled around the back end of the un-air-conditioned bar,

probably bums who got a lucky hand out or unemployed men taking a break from their search for

lford had always preferred it, the

Ruth Kale, the owner and main bartender for the place, handed Milford his drink and

returned to one of the few working fans. She leaned back and let it blow directly onto her face.

Milford took a swig, frowned, and looked around as if Saul might be hidden somewhere.

known dislike of Saul Polosky. No one actually liked

Saul, though Milford had to admit a certain appreciation for the man. He would never really admit

e it was just expected that a person would dislike Saul.

tempered, and quick to lord his time

serving his country over everyone’s head. No one knew if he’d actually served in the army, or if it

of the more elaborate lies he told to boost himself above those around him. Really it

didn’t seem to matter, because even if he was called on a lie, he’d keep spouting it the next time he

he man was interesting, something

Milford couldn’t say about most people he knew, or himself. He’d grown a little more attached to

Saul as the years progressed and the reality of his own mediocrity dawned on him, the opportunity

s life lost thirty or forty years in the past. No one could accuse Saul of

“Usually in at least once a week,” Milford said. “Wonder if anything happened to him.”

dryly. “Compared to us he’s practically a child.”

“And he probably weighs more than the two of us combined,” Milford said. “Well, two of

you anyways,” he added, frowning at his own growing gut. “Besides, he’s had heart attacks before.”

Milford shrugged, did his best to finish off the beer quickly. In truth he actually hoped to

find something wrong, something to make his day different from the hundreds that had preceded it.

d a lot of friends, people who would come

“Come on,” he said, swallowed his last gulp, and pushed back from the bar.

“If you do find him alive don’t bring him here,” Ruth called after them.

t into the blazing sun, hats on to protect their faces as they walked down

the street and towards the patch of suburbia a few blocks up where Saul lived. They had dragged

him home enough times after late nights to know the path to his home by heart.

Page 13: Morpheus Tales #16 Preview

13