Plugs

Susannah Mandel’s short story “The Monkey and the Butterfly” is in Shimmer #11. She also has poems in the current issues of Sybil’s Garage, Goblin Fruit, and Peter Parasol.

Angela Slatter’s story ‘Frozen’ will appear in the December 09 issue of Doorways Magazine, and ‘The Girl with No Hands’ will appear in the next issue of Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet.

Trent Walters, poetry editor at A&A, has a chapbook, Learning the Ropes, from Morpo Press.

Sara Genge’s story “Godtouched” may be found in Strange Horizons.

The Water Lily House

by Kat Beyer

The Waterlily House at Kew closes in November, and, nearly always, I am the last visitor there. Then I wait–without noticing I’m waiting–through the entire chilly, bone-wet English winter for it to open again. The Waterlily House doesn’t float on the surface of my mind through December, January, February and March, not at all. Only, sometimes, when I’m having a cup of milky tea at home after a long day at work, I will feel the steam on my eyelids when I lean over it, and think of the House.

Through those months I think, without meaning to think, of one lily in particular. It’s the sacred lily of the Nile, and it has translucent blue petals and a yellow heart. I wonder where that cup of color goes in the dark months. I think it sinks into the roots buried in the mud at the bottom of its pool. Does it sleep in winter, or is it always standing ready to return, or both?

In April the lilies and I both return. I take the first Saturday I can, even if I was up late with my mates the night before, and if April is being a bit chilly I wrap up against her, but always in layers, starting with my favorite dress and with a jumper and a jacket and a scarf. In April the Waterlily House is still silent. I stand inside the door and take off the scarf, jacket, and jumper, and walk through the silent steaming air. I fill my lungs with the smell of green tropics.

I come back again and again, waiting until the Nile lily blooms. I’ve begun to realize that the day it blooms, and all the days that its blue and yellow petals are open to the air, are the only days I feel truly calm in the whole year, the only days when I make sense to myself. I wish I knew why.

This year, while I gazed on the open flower for the first time this spring, I heard a sound like the ringing of tiny tambourine bells. The next weekend it was trumpets, and I thought I saw the water flash with hot sunlight.

I once overheard my mother saying to my father, “I miss the temples. I miss the silence on the river. So much noise–cars are so noisy!” I think one day soon I will have an answer. In the meantime, I stand before the lily, my jumpers and scarves on my arm, and stare into that translucent cup of blue and gold.

Posted: Comments Off on The Water Lily House Categories:  Kat Beyer

Summer Dare

by JeremyT

You wait in the bushes while the cicadas sing all around you, and you wait so long that the fireflies begin their lazy dance above the meadow weeds. You wait until the stars come out and the moon rises and the coyotes howl on the hill.

You wait because your friends swore that a ghost walks through this meadow on warm summer nights just like this one, and you called them liars, and they dared you to watch and see. You won’t be called a coward. You’re the son of a soldier fighting the Communists. You’re not afraid of ghosts, or anything else, except, well… maybe you’re just a little scared that your Dad won’t come home, but you wouldn’t admit that to anyone. A year ago, and the idea would have never crossed your mind, because you believed your father was invincible, as all young boys do. But you’ve atched the news. You have seen the flag-covered coffins. And now you’re not so sure.

Now you have waited so long that that the whippoorwills cry, and the bushes have become slick and wet. You’re cold, and that is why you shiver. Not because you are afraid. Most certainly not. Oh, the lies young boys tell themselves.

To me, you look like a little baby rabbit I found once, huddled in a hollow of leaves and grass. You shudder now and your eyes roll in all directions. Is it because you can sense me drawing near you? Or is it just your imagination?

I won’t stroll through the meadow tonight. I won’t moan the name of my lost beloved or scream my death rattle. It is my singular purpose now, to deal with your sort. But I can see that were I to use any of my usual tricks, they would only comfort you, little rabbit. And I am not in the business of providing comfort.

You do not fall asleep like the others. You stay watchful until the sun begins to rise, and then you head home. You have earned a badge of courage among your friends, and I do resent that just a little, but you have earned it. Faced your own fears, if not vanquished them. I fade, unsatisfied, but knowing that your seeming success will only embolden others, and they will not be so complex. The thought provides the tiniest bit of warmth in my cold existence.

Posted: Comments Off on Summer Dare Categories:  Jeremiah Tolbert