Heroes of Phenomena Read online

  ~~~

  I LEAN against the glass, glad to see the girl whistling as she sweeps the floor of her new home. I rub the branding on my wrist. Every child we free from the collectors makes my years of suffering worth it.

  “You ready?” Miles asks.

  I grin wickedly. “You are going to let me torture the next one.”

  He sighs and brushes at the cut across his cheek as if remembering that blasted window. “Just a little.”

  A quick death is a mercy I am not willing to grant.

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  Bellezza has just begun her quest to destroy the collectors, a fraternity of noblemen who kidnap and abuse gifted children. The only problem is that they know she’s coming. (Read more of Bellezza in the Maiden of Time series (MOONLESS, SOULLESS) and her serial story titled BELLEZZA, coming fall of 2014.)

  Crystal Collier is a young adult author who pens dark fantasy, historical, and romance hybrids. She can be found practicing her brother-induced ninja skills while teaching children or madly typing about fantastic and impossible creatures.

  She has lived from coast to coast and now calls Florida home with her creative husband, three littles, and “friend” (a.k.a. the zombie locked in her closet). Secretly, she dreams of world domination and a bottomless supply of cheese. You can find her on her blog and Facebook, or follow her on Twitter & Goodreads.

  CASSAFATE

  By Alex J. Cavanaugh

  Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Drakon's Empire

  A MESSAGE from Drent!

  Bassan scanned the note. In five months, his friend Drent would complete training on the planet Cassa. He could come home. The last line stopped Bassan cold.

  ‘No guarantee I’ll return to Tgren though.’

  Damn, he thought.

  His mother’s voice rang in his mind. Time to eat!

  I’m coming.

  Bassan joined his parents. His father offered a nod as formal as the uniform he wore. His mother’s smile offset the tone and Bassan dove into his breakfast.

  His father scooped a chunk of the thick Tgren dish. “Your counsel session is tomorrow?”

  He swallowed and reached for his drink. “Yes, sir.”

  “I understand you’re in the top ten percent?”

  “Cassan standards.” Bassan shrugged off the accomplishment. “Top one percent Tgren though.”

  His mother smiled and Bassan sat up straighter.

  “What matters are your Cassan scores,” his father said. “Those determine acceptance to the Academy.”

  Bassan bristled and stared at his father. Eyes as grey as the hair on the man’s head greeted him. The commander of the Cassan base presided at the moment.

  But I can’t leave Tgren, Bassan thought. That Kintal ship represents me, a half Cassan, half Tgren. I can’t lose the connection.

  His father scooped another bite, oblivious to the raging tide in his son. “Your work here on Tgren’s Kintal ship will definitely help.”

  Drent’s message flashed in Bassan’s mind. No guarantee I’ll return, he thought.

  “I’m not going to Cassa.”

  The words dropped with an audible burst in the room.

  “Not going to Cassa?” his father demanded. “Why would you pass up such an opportunity?”

  “Because,” said Bassan, mustering his courage, “I can attend the Tgren school and complete my training faster.”

  His father rested his fist on the table. “The Cassan program may take longer, but you’ll be accredited to work across the galaxy. The Tgren schooling is only accepted here. Don’t narrow your opportunities.”

  “But I want to remain here.” His chest tight, Bassan struggled to prevent his mental voice from projecting.

  “Bassan.” His mother stretched her hand across the table. “I know you don’t want to leave, but it’s a great honor.”

  “I know,” said Bassan, slumping in his chair. “But I can’t leave the Tgren ship!”

  His father shoved his plate forward and arose. “We’ll discuss it later.”

  Those words haunted Bassan all day.

  Nobody understands, he thought.

  Even the prospect of his final class didn’t elicit joy. He rode his cycle to the Kintal ship in a daze. The glittering blue haze of ancient metal greeted him as he rounded the last corner. The sight of the ship, exposed and inviting, did little to lift his spirits.

  Bassan located his instructor in the control room. Translating the once lost language held little challenge for him. Not when his mix of Cassan and Tgren blood assisted him with his Kintal ancestors’ language. But the class placed Bassan on the ship, and that pleased him.

  He became aware of someone behind him. Spinning around, the wide eyes of the senior science officer greeted Bassan.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” said Officer Mevine, holding up his thin hands.

  “Sir!” Bassan straightened his posture. Drent’s father deserved his respect. No one outside of the Kintal community knew more about this ship.

  “Your instructor said I could borrow you,” said Mevine.

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  Curious, Bassan followed. The rings of blue light were the same in every hallway, but their route struck a chord. Even the ramp carried familiarity. He’d been here before.

  The control room over the pods!

  Excitement grew with each step. He’d not entered this area in ten years. Not since he’d touched a forbidden console, downloading a special code into his mind. Drent had warned him...

  Bassan! thought Mevine, a patient smile coloring his lips. You saved all ten races because you held the code. I’m glad you touched that console.

  They entered the room and Bassan glanced to his left. That console sat in an alcove, its panel alive now with data. They strode past to a station at the end of the room. A curved screen dominated the wall, shimmering with light.

  Mevine’s hand waved over the console. “This system recorded the journey of your mother’s ancestors to Tgren, including the period when the people disembarked. Would you like to see it?”

  Bassan snapped to attention. The moment the Tgrens awoke from their long sleep? “Yes, please!”

  Mevine ran his fingers across the crystal surface, tapping a sequence. He gestured to the metallic orb at the base. Nerves tingling, Bassan placed his hand over the cold ball.

  The screen sparked to life. It grew dark and Bassan leaned forward, eager to catch the first image. Streaks of green appeared, forming a pattern that trailed into the distance. The pods!

  Dark forms moved, their thin bodies outlined against the green capsules. One passed across the sensor. The body’s gentle curves glistened with moisture. A Tgren woman!

  Bassan grinned. It felt so real. He lifted his free hand to grasp the top of the console. He missed and staggered forward.

  Wait a minute! Bassan glanced around him. He no longer watched on a screen. He was in the pod room.

  He looked for the woman. She continued walking, following the others toward a distant yellow glow.

  Wait, thought Bassan.

  His left foot came forward. He fought to maintain balance and swung his right foot. It was difficult to see in the gloom. And yet the glowing, empty pods hurt his eyes. Dampness permeated the air, but dryer air beckoned ahead. Sweat dripped from his brow and fell on his bare arms. It stung.

  He raised his hands to his face. Globs of a yellow-green substance covered his palm. The slime slithered down his arm, and Bassan realized his whole body lay covered. His breath quickened.

  “Bassan?”

  The room faded. Bassan grasped for the empty pod. He needed to reach that yellow glow.

  “Bassan!”

  Something wrapped around his wrist, severing the connection. He gasped and pulled his arm free. Bassan’s eyes adjusted. Mevine stood beside the console, hands raised in warning. Bassan caught his breath and gasped.

  “What happened?” said Mevine.

  Bassan glanced
at his hands. They glistened with sweat, but the slime was gone.

  “I was there,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “When the Tgrens were leaving the ship.”

  “Bassan, that’s impossible...”

  His hands dropped and he faced Officer Mevine. “Sir, I was there. It was hot. And humid. It even smelled damp. It was dark, and yet my eyes hurt from the pod’s light. And this yellow-green slime covered my body...”

  Mevine’s mouth opened. “How could you know that?”

  Bassan clenched his fists. “Because I was there. I tell you, I’m connected to this ship. Ever since I touched that console, I’ve felt the bond. It remembers the first Kintal. It remembers me!”

  The science officer’s eyes shifted. Bassan spun around. The cold eyes of his father greeted him, and Bassan’s enthusiasm wavered.

  His father stepped closer and peered at the console. Placing his hands behind his back, the commander turned his attention to Bassan.

  “Wait for me on the first level.”

  Father, please...

  Now.

  His father’s mental voice left no room for argument. Bassan’s heart tightened and he raced for the exit. He barreled down the ramp and didn’t stop until he’d reached the pod room entrance pod room. Bassan grasped the edge of the door frame and sighed.

  I was really there, he thought, clinging to the vision. Damn, I’ll never have another opportunity.

  Bassan stared at the empty room, lost in his cheerless thoughts. A touch on his mind caused him to jump. He turned and a steel gaze greeted him.

  Father, he thought, dropping his chin. He didn’t trust his voice yet.

  You really saw the Tgrens leaving this room?

  The question startled him. Bassan met his father’s eyes. For once, they didn’t appear so unforgiving.

  I saw them! he thought. Bassan pulled his fists to his chest. I was with the Tgrens as they left the pods. Father, the ship knew it was me. I believe it could show me more.

  Bassan...

  His name shot through the fiber of his being. Bassan stepped closer and straightened his shoulders.

  Father, you trusted me before. Please, let me stay on Tgren. Let me fulfill the role this ship has given me.

  His father shook his head. Bassan steeled himself for disappointment.

  “Bassan, I want the best for you,” said his father. “And that means giving you the opportunity to pursue your own goals. I had to fight for my future and prove myself.

  “You can attend the Tgren school.”

  Shock rippled through Bassan and his mouth fell open. I can stay?

  Yes. This is where you belong.

  Weight fell from his shoulders. Bassan leapt forward and hesitated. His father offered a wry grin. Bassan accepted the invitation and hugged his father.

  If your mother asks, it was my idea, his father thought.

  Bassan smiled. I won’t say a word.

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  Alex J. Cavanaugh has a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree and works in web design and graphics. He is experienced in technical editing and worked with an adult literacy program for several years. A fan of all things science fiction, his interests range from books and movies to music and games.

  Online he is the Ninja Captain and founder of the Insecure Writer’s Support Group. The author of Amazon bestsellers CassaStar, CassaFire, and CassaStorm, he lives in the Carolinas with his wife. Website, Twitter, Goodreads, IWSG

  NAILED TO WHITE TIME

  By Jessica Bell

  Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Deep Heart

  SHE LEAVES me standing,

  nailed to white time.

  Surrounded by space

  and shallow breath.

  And all the thoughts

  I’d hoped to forget.

  She turns them to cotton.

  They crawl all over me,

  tickle and sting

  like insects

  disinfecting the lesions

  that suck me dry

  all day, all night—all my life.

  My body stiffens

  as cotton memories

  draw sadness through my pores,

  to the surface of my skin.

  It gathers and rolls

  and drips

  from the tips of my fingers.

  I hover—waiting

  for She to speak.

  This will not hurt. I promise, promise, promise ...

  White time

  is where time stands still;

  where She cuts us,

  then soothes us,

  heals us,

  until we bleed silver.

  We feel

  how we have always wanted to feel.

  I want to stay here forever, ever, ever ...

  I stand still.

  In one position—arms out to the side,

  head hanging like Jesus.

  Unable to move.

  It seems like days.

  But the rods of metal

  in my hands and feet

  do not cause pain.

  And even if She let me move

  I would not want to.

  For the first time in my life

  I’m able to relish the throb

  in my heart, in my head,

  and the ensuing relief,

  as the weight in my chest,

  in my limbs, slowly fades away

  —like that moment in the morning

  when you open your eyes

  and don’t remember the knot

  in the back of your throat

  from the tears; the years

  of self-hate.

  My body grows lighter

  and lighter and lighter,

  until my feet lose traction

  from the surface.

  If there is a surface at all.

  I look down.

  At my feet.

  They’re bleeding

  and I’m completely naked.

  My private parts non-existent.

  My breasts completely flat.

  The shape of my body androgynous.

  I don’t feel judged anymore.

  I am a white flame

  in a glass box

  thriving without air.

  The white time and space

  surrounding me

  weakens in density

  before my eyes,

  and the world spins.

  Around and around my head.

  Around and around and around,

  and faster and faster and faster.

  A tornado of air

  gathers in my stomach

  and I want to throw up.

  I want the spinning to stop.

  Make it stop! I scream.

  Make it stop, stop, stop ...

  And it does.

  And there is silence.

  And Molly.

  I lost her when I was ten.

  The leash snapped in the woods

  behind my house.

  I never saw her again.

  It was all my fault.

  That day

  the heavy-headed mornings

  began to overshadow my existence.

  I was to blame.

  I’ve hated myself ever since.

  Molly licks blood from my feet.

  My blood turns silver

  on her tongue,

  and the white time and space returns;

  encases us

  with the weightlessness

  of happiness and freedom.

  And acceptance.

  I want angel wings, wings, wings ...

  Molly whimpers

  and walks backwards.

  Her eyes widen

  as a knife slices vertically

  down the center of my back.

  As I open my mouth to scream,

  the pain is soothed—a cold warmth

  flushes through my spine,

  like standing in a sl
ither of sun

  in the snow.

  Bird wings flap behind me.

  Echo in slow motion.

  Feathers brush against my ears.

  I turn my head.

  They’re not birds at all.

  I have wings, wings, wings ...

  My arms tingle.

  I hold my hands out in front of me.

  Silver light frames them.

  I rub my fingers together

  and the light rubs off like ash.

  And when I blow on the ash,

  it sparkles in the air

  like sun shining through mist.

  I feel alive

  for the first time in my life.

  No heavy head,

  no tears.

  No anti-depressants,

  no shrinks.

  Molly sits without me telling her to,

  and holds out her paw.

  I smile,

  kneel down beside her,

  scratch below her chin.

  We belong here.

  Molly and me.

  Thank you, She.

  She heard my call.

  She finally heard my call.

  I’m sorry, but it’s not your time, She says,

  You still have so much to give.

  She touches my shoulders

  from behind.

  I can’t see Her.

  But Her feathery voice

  vibrates through my body,

  kick-starting my pulse.

  No, no, no!

  My mother whispers,

  baby, please

  stop doing this to yourself,

  and kisses my cheek.

  She wipes my forehead

  with a wet cloth.

  Monitors beep.

  Lights flash in my eyes

  as they are pried open

  with stiff cold fingers.

  I am lying down,

  arms out to the side,

  legs flattened to the white

  bed—strapped down tight.

  My limbs ache.

  My head aches.

  My heart beats in my ears ...

  ... and I remember all the blood.

  The release

  staining the water

  as I punctured my wrists with nails.

  I close my eyes and swallow.

  She’s voice echoes in my head.

  And I picture the stray dog,

  I feed every morning

  at 9 a.m. sharp

  by our letter box.

  You still have so much to give, give, give ...

  Love.

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  If Jessica Bell could choose only one creative mentor, she'd give the role to Euterpe, the Greek muse of music and lyrics. This is not only because she currently resides in Athens, Greece, but because of her life as a 30-something Australian-native contemporary fiction author, award-winning poet and singer/songwriter/guitarist, whose literary inspiration often stems from songs she's written.

  In addition to her novels, her poetry collections (including FABRIC, which was nominated for the Goodreads Choice Awards in 2012), and her pocket writing guides (WRITING IN A NUTSHELL SERIES), she has published a variety of works in online and print literary journals and anthologies, including Australia's Cordite Review, and the anthologies 100 STORIES FOR QUEENSLAND and SHADOWS AT THE STAGE DOOR, both released through Australia's, eMergent Publishing.

  Jessica is the Co-Publishing Editor of Vine Leaves Literary Journal, and makes a living as an editor/writer for English Language Teaching publishers worldwide, such as Pearson Education, HarperCollins, Macmillan Education, Education First and Cengage Learning. Website, Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, YouTube

  THE FOREIGNER

  By C. Lee McKenzie

  Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Legacy of the Lost

  LEGEND SAID that one day He would come. Then the clouds would return over the Telerancas Mountains, bringing the rain.

  Each day the Priests prayed.

  Each day, a villager, a sacrifice, willingly mounted the jungle trail to find death in hope of bringing Him and those clouds heavy with water. Sacrifice, the legend said, was their only hope.

  But the years passed and the clouds didn’t come and the rains didn’t come. The River Pocare dried and the people languished. The crops had disappeared so long ago that grubs and worms were burrowed far deeper into the earth, and digging for them exhausted the starving.

  Children died first. Then, the elderly. Then there were only the most fit who were left at the base of the Telerancas, and one by one they trekked up to offer their lives. Now, only two remained—the woman who once had been queen of many and Chennu, her slave.

  The queen cast her glance over Chennu’s emaciated limbs. She remembered how he used to clear the jungle with sharp machete strokes, hunt and bring pigs for their feasts. She recalled the fish he speared and wrapped in thick leaves for them to sear over the fire. She bid him to do a thing, and it was done. Just as in the days of her father and grandfather, the slave supported the villagers, and all was well.

  She licked her lips, but the moisture disappeared at once. The air crackled with heat and she leaned against the bark of a dead tree.

  What had brought on this drought, this death? And what good was a queen if she failed to summon Him and save her people?

  Chennu approached with his head bowed, still humble, still respectful of his queen. “You will want me to go to the mountains now.” he said.

  “Chennu.” It took effort to say even one name, but she had things to speak of before he left and before she died. “You shall go to the mountains, but you shall go with this story in your heart. By custom, I can give you this gift, as you are my last subject.”

  And then she began to tell him of the Pocare and the love she held for the river. Its beauty. How it shouldered its way though the steep banks, low and unhurried. She closed her eyes and was once again on a raft as it swirled and dipped away like a full-skirted dancer, experienced, yet playful and creative.

  She spoke of one day in her youth when the river carried her from the village deeper into a jungle she had not known before. It thickened and climbed high on both sides. Fruited blossoms with deep purple clusters dangled at the water's edge, enticing, just beyond reach. Sound didn't exist as before. It came as a song of secret places, dark and old and deep in steamy humus underbrush.

  It frightened her to be so far from what she knew, but excited her with its difference. Even the Pocare’s song was foreign. It sang of ancient things she didn’t know and, plunging ever lower on its way to the sea, hinted rare tapirs and stealthy jaguars and ocelots in the dark places secreted behind rainforest vines. Morpho butterflies brushed the air with indigo wings and skimmed the water’s surface.

  “In the Pocare’s current, anything was possible that day, everything was new. Do you remember the river?” she asked. She didn’t open her eyes. If she had, she would only see the cracked mud where water once flowed.

  “I remember,” Chennu answered. “But the water and the raft that brought me to you were different. The story in my heart is not filled with the beauty you speak of.”

  Now she did open her eyes. “Then tell me your story. I need to hear it.”

  He raised his head, and for the first time, they looked at each other woman to man—a break in custom that made her breath catch in her throat. She glanced down. Another break in custom. And all that strangeness pressed against her.

  It was Chennu who spoke first. “I’m not sure you want to hear what I have to say. You are the queen.”

  Suddenly weak, she sat and drew her legs close to her in a circle of her arms. “I give you permission, Chennu. Speak and speak honestly. For now, honesty is all we have remaining in our world.” Even her words sounded strange to her ears. This was not the way a queen spoke to a slave.

  He waited a moment, then sat facing her, his head the same height as hers, equals in this
moment. “When I was a boy, my prowess with a bow and arrow won me a high place in my village. The people honored me because I brought them fresh game and sweet-tasting fish each day. They called me Hunter, the god they looked to for survival.”

  “And you hunted for us here as well.”

  “I did, but my hunting and fishing did not have the joy of freedom anymore. I was not the Hunter my village honored. I was the slave expected to provide for the hungry.”

  “Tell me how you came here.”

  “The traders arrived in the night and took me away. We walked for many hours until we reached the river, the one you call Pocare, the one we called Lompoco. And when light came, they put me on a raft, like the one in your story. But unlike your raft, mine sat heavy on the water. We passed villages I’d never known with huts clinging to treeless slopes. The Lompoco had no song of the jaguar or the ocelot. It sang of hungry people, their needs, their fears, their different customs. Mostly, it sang of my loss.”

  “You lost your family. I know. But it has always been the way of our people, to take others into our village and for them to serve our needs. We know no other way.”

  “Yes. The old ways are important to each village. I understand. But for all these years I’ve longed for my family and my own way of life.” Chennu rose and walked one halting step toward the trail up the Telerancas.

  “Wait.” The queen struggled to her feet. “If I can’t give you a beautiful story to carry with you, then I shall give you your freedom even though my custom forbids it. You shall not die a slave.”

  Chennu did not turn around. Instead, he held both hands high, in a salute to the mountains. And a stillness came like a great bird with wings stretched wide against the sky. A breeze fluttered the bird’s feathered span and cool air washed down the Telerancas canyons.

  The queen lifted her face to the sky. Clouds. One. Then another and another crept across the steep slopes until she could only see the tips of the mountain. The first drop of rain touched her lips, and she titled her head up, closed her eyes and let the heavenly water spatter her face. She opened her mouth and more drops trickled down her parched throat. She swallowed and moaned in delight.

  When she brought her gaze to Chennu again, he was transformed. His emaciated limbs had thickened and became like those of a youth, taut and muscled. His back rippled with strength.

  When he turned, he radiated power.

  “You are Him. You were here always, and I didn’t know you.” Her voice was only a whisper.

  “But you know me now. You made the sacrifice, you broke with the old way of your people and you listened to my story. You understood my pain.”

  “Too late,” she buried her face in her hands and cried. “I failed as a queen.”

  “No. You did not. And your people will return from Telerancas. They were noble and true. I would not let them die when they believed their sacrifice would save you.”

  She felt him come closer and once he stood with only an arms length between them, she looked up into his eyes and found a magnificent forgiveness there.

  Then the Hunter took up his bow and arrows and disappeared into the rain.

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  C. Lee McKenzie: In my other life--the one before I began writing for teens and younger readers--I was a teacher and administrator at California State University, San Jose. My field of Linguistics and Inter-cultural Communication has carried me to a lot of places in the world to explore different cultures and languages. I can say, “Where’s the toilet?” and “I’m lost!” in at least five languages and two dialects. Go ahead. Pat me on the back.

  My idea of a perfect day is one or all of the following: starting a new novel, finishing writing a blockbuster novel, hiking on a misty morning trail in the Santa Cruz Mountains, saying Namaste after a great yoga practice, sipping a cappuccino topped at a bustling café, reading in front of a fire with snow outside, swimming in an ocean someplace. Website, Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads

  LEGENDARY

  By Ruth Long

  Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Legends of Destiny

  …and a child will lead them from ashes to ascension.

  – from the 5th scroll of the Jadeen Prophets

  ADELAN CREPT through the empty riverbed, every misstep recorded on her dusty shins and bloody palms. Her older brother, elegant hawkish face streaked with dust and tears and broad shoulders slack with grief, led the way. Behind them, the remnants of their cloistered lives fluttered in the hot wind along with the ashes of their village.

  Belly growling and feet aching, she matched Dathos’ brisk pace without complaint. More than food or rest, though, what she really wanted was a good long cry. Not that it would change anything. Their father was dead, the kingdom under attack, and their years in seclusion were at an end.

  Papa. Dead. Those were the words she heard with every step. Right foot. Papa. Left foot. Dead. How long since she’d seen him? A year ago? Two? Papa. Dead.

  She’d been five when he sent them into hiding, after the opposition attacked. Afterwards, he’d been too busy mourning the death of his wife and fighting to maintain his throne to come see them for more than a day every year or so.

  At least she had memories of him. Wise eyes like her brother. Stern features like her sister. She didn’t remember her mother, though Dathos often remarked how much Adelan resembled her. Black hair. Blue eyes. Easy smile.

  She was roused from her thoughts when Dathos stopped and turned to her. “There’s no point in pushing ourselves like this. We don’t know whether Brysa will keep her word. We’ve lost enough today. I won’t lose you too.”

  “But if she goes to the meadow and we’re not there, she’ll think we’ve abandoned her.”

  He tugged her hood to obscure more of her face. “I’m not willing to risk your life on the chance she’ll stick to a plan she didn’t like in the first place.”

  “Please, Dathos. She’s our sister,” she said, swatting at him. “We can’t give up on her.”

  He rubbed his beard with scuffed knuckles. “All right, but should something happen to me–“

  “I’ve seen what will happen, in here,” she said, tapping her temple. “The throne will be yours before winter.”

  “These dreams of yours trouble me,” he said, leaning in to kiss her forehead before resuming their path.

  Footsteps muted by sand and movement screened by vegetation, they continued until they reached the southern fork of the river, where it skirted the meadow assigned as their meeting place.

  Resounding silence greeted them. Perhaps Dathos has been right after all. Perhaps her sister’s loyalties had changed. But moments later, the ground beneath their feet began to rumble and the echo of boots, steel, and hooves echoed across the narrow valley.

  Adelan burst from the riverbed, hood falling off with the momentum, the need for anonymity and safety forgotten.

  Dathos scrambled after her, cursing her curiosity and haste, pulling her into a protective embrace when he caught up with her.

  Brysa emerged from amidst a full regiment of warriors, dark hair trailing behind her formidable countenance and sinewy figure like a vengeful banner.

  And out of the dust of her heels, a figure rose, close cropped ginger curls and tattooed cheeks bearing indisputable evidence of his identity: Zaren, the Red Mage, presumed lost in the onslaught that had driven the royal siblings into hiding twelve years ago.

  The assembled warriors roared an exuberant greeting.

  Nodding to the crowd, Zaren bowed to Dathos and Brysa in turn, before extending a hand to Adelan. “Your Grace, the cosmos has more in store for you than a seat at your brother’s feet.”

  Her heart stuttered. She’d never dared to dream of more. Autonomy and authority were bestowed on the firstborn. Her birthright had been acquiescence and duty. As she accepted his hand, warmth slid up her arm followed by a wave of dizziness. “What is that?”

  “Power calling to power,” he said, the fierce line
s of his inky face softening with affection. “I promised your father I would hold your gift at bay until it became necessary to unleash it.”

  Raising her hand to his mouth, he kissed her palm and held it out so that she could see the black pooling on her skin. It pulsed there for several heartbeats before racing up her arm, climbing her throat, and blossoming on her cheeks, mirroring the markings on his face.

  Brysa approached with Dathos following. “If we don’t make it over the wall before dark –“

  “I appreciate your concern,” said Zaren, lacing fingers with Adelan, “but tangible constraints no longer bind us.”

  In her mind’s eye, Adelan saw a thread of light, dancing, twisting, flowing like a molten river.

  Zaren’s voice directed her, as though he saw it too. “Control it.”

  The odd prickling warmth moved through her again, this time coalescing between her ribs.

  In the old language, he coaxed her to transfer the light from one realm to the other.

  Protect … and the light appeared, circling the meadow.

  Shield … and light extended, rising to form a wall around them.

  Defend … and the light blazed, scorching ten yards of vegetation beyond the wall.

  The warriors fell to their knees.

  Into the silence, Zaren said, “As it was written, ‘and a child shall lead them.’ Behold, the legends prophesied by the elders. The monarch, the militant, and the mage.”

  Dathos took his sisters by the hand and raised his voice. “Rise. Take heart. Today we take back our lives. Tomorrow, our kingdom!”

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  An incurable ink and paper addict, Californian Ruth Long enjoys fast stories, vintage cars, and southern rock. She lives in constant fear of the grammar police because she doesn’t write by the book but by ear, like a musician. You can find out more about her passion for storytelling on her: Website, Facebook, Twitter

  SENTRY

  By Darynda Jones

  Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Blood and Stone

  THE PLANE hums around me, the vibrations of the small-engine aircraft soothing as I look out onto the ice. White. Sparkling. As far as the eye can see. I haven’t been this far north since I was nine, since before my father’s career tanked, since before my mother left. Out of four children, I am the only one who lives with Dad after the big break up. I am the only one who understands him. His passion. His conviction.

  Because I saw the boy, too.

  We have that in common, Dad and I. Dad’s colleagues back home laughed at him. No way did he find a perfectly preserved Homo Sapiens in 60,000-year-old Artic ice. But he and his team labored for months to carve out the glacier that encased it. To bring it to the surface for closer examination. To sit in awe at what they’d found.

  It was going to be the most important discovery in decades, for the boy was not only perfectly preserved, but clothed and well-manicured, his hair cut to perfection, his face soft with youth. It was impossible. Everyone said it was impossible.

  I remember it vividly. My mother had packed up all four of her children and flown us to the North Pole to demand her husband come home or sign divorce papers. It was the only reason we got to visit our father’s outpost, the science lab in which he’d been living for almost two years. For us it was an adventure. One that marked the beginning of the end.

  The entire team had retired that evening to rest up for the next day. They were going to turn on the heat lamps, to carefully melt away the layers of the centuries-old glacial tomb, but something awakened me in the middle of the night. I strolled sleepily toward the source but found Mom and Dad fighting in the galley instead.

  Dad tried to explain. He was on the brink of the biggest breakthrough in history. She had to understand, but she wouldn’t listen. She’d had enough of his treasure hunts, as she’d called them. She’d forgotten his calling. He was a scientist, after all, and at the heart of all scientists laid an insatiable desire to discover. To uncover the secrets of the universe. They were dreamers, one and all.

  I’d slipped away unnoticed and tried to find my way back to my room at the artic station, but the halls were dark and I’d taken a wrong turn. Probably two. I ended up walking into the lab where my father and his team had set up the heat lamps for the big unveiling the next day. The project was at a crucial stage. There were cameras set up, lab equipment of every shape and size.

  That was when I saw him. The boy. The perfect being encased in ice like a cursed prince from a fairy tale. He was the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen, and I remembered more than anything, as I gazed at him through the magnifying effect of the crystal glaze, his eyes. Framed in dark fringe, they sparkled a silvery blue that matched his clothing. They dominated his face, their almond shape ethereal. He looked human but not entirely.

  I wiped a hand over the frozen surface inches from his face and gazed at him. Funny thing was, he seemed to gaze back, his expression haunting. I saw despair and desperation. And I knew what I had to do.

  Tightening my thin robe over my pajamas, I padded over the wooden slats beneath me in my ragged bunny slippers, the ones with only three ears between them, and I turned on the heat lamps. I had to get him out of there. I had to set him free.

  I became frantic. The lamps were working to melt the ice, but not fast enough. I heard the generators kick on as I began scratching at the ice with my fingernails, trying to get to him, trying to free him.

  Then I felt skin. My fingertips brushed across his cheek, his skin bitingly cold, and the touch rippled through me like an electrical currant.

  I gasped and stumbled back just as my father barreled into the room, his face a picture of astonishment. My mother rushed in behind him with a similar expression. He looked from me to the ice then back again.

  “What did you do?” he asked.

  When I spoke, my voice was thin. Weak. “I had to set him free.”

  Dad dropped to his knees, but I didn’t understand why. They were going to melt the ice anyway, right? Then I looked back.

  The boy had vanished.

  I’d broken him. My father. He lost everything sans me. I was the only thing he’d gotten out of the divorce and my guilt never waned.

  So when a team of scientists asked him to consult on a project in the same area he’d been in seven years prior, he jumped at the chance. I’d refused to be left behind. Now a sophomore, I took all my finals early and followed him onto the ice once again.

  I look over at him, at his exuberance to be back in the Artic Circle, to feel the crisp air and see the purest white that existed on Earth, and I try not to feel guilty that I’d taken all that from him. It didn’t work.

  My phone chirps and I’m floored I still have reception. The pilot warned us on takeoff we wouldn’t have it for long, so I hurry to answer the summons.

  It’s my best friend Becky. ‘He did it again!’ she’d typed, then followed that with a bunch of smiley faces.

  For months, a superhero vigilante has been swooping around the world, saving people, diverting disasters, taking down criminals. The press dubbed him the Sentry and my BFF and I are utterly enthralled. Even with all the technology in the world, no one has been able to snap a clear shot of him. He is simply a dash of blue light. We don’t care. He saves people. He’s a champion. He has our hearts, the evidence of which is in my journal, a detailed accounting of every sighting ever reported.

  ‘Deets!’ I type back. But just as I hit send, the plane jumps in the air as though it’s been hit by a freight train. Alarms blare. Warning lights flash. The pilot shouts something into the com about an engine exploding. And my father rushes to get a lifejacket on me. Not fast enough though.

  We fall.

  The force of our descent releases gravity and we float down for what seems like an eternity. Helpless. Waiting to die.

  We hit hard and skid over the ice forever. Only then does fear take root. My father had taken off his seatbelt to try to get a lif
ejacket on me. Now there is only a hole in the fuselage into which a blinding light streams. He is gone.

  Cold air blasts my face, steals my breath, then the world turns upside down as we flip on the ice, spinning again and again. When we finally jolt to a stop, the ground feels soft. Buoyant. The thick smell of jet fuel suffocates as I tear at my restraints. I’m screaming. Calling out for my father. Begging him to be okay. Then a razor-sharp coldness seeps into my shoes. Slowly. Methodically. It creeps up my calves. So bitingly frigid, it welds my teeth together. It isn’t just cold. It’s pain in liquid form. I tremble at the force of it.

  I can’t get the restraints off. I tear and rip and cry until they are too wet. Until my fingers are too stiff. Until my lungs are filled with the bitter, fuel-soaked ocean water beneath the ice. Until I am floating in an endless black.

  Then I am free. The lights from the plane illuminate about three inches in front of my face, and he is there. The boy. Only older. More determined.

  Recognition registers on his face. He remembers me, too, and my heart leaps seconds before it stops completely. But he is with me. What a wonderful way to die.

  As darkness closes in, he moves forward. His black hair floats about his beautiful face as he puts his mouth on mine, and his warm breath enters my lungs. I snap to my senses and clutch at him, because we are moving. Fast.

  When I look up I see sky. When I look down I see ice and ocean water. When I look ahead, I see silvery-blue eyes. I am high above the earth one second and laying at the emergency entrance of a hospital the next. My father and the pilot are beside me as a nurse rushes up to us, asks if we’re okay. But I am searching the heavens for the Sentry.

  All I see is a dash of blue light.

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  NYTimes and USA Today Bestselling Author, Darynda Jones, has won numerous awards for her work, including a prestigious RITA, a Golden Heart, and a Daphne du Maurier. As a born storyteller, she grew up spinning tales of dashing damsels and heroes in distress for any unfortunate soul who happened by, annoying man and beast alike.

  She currently has two series with St. Martin's Press, the Charley Davidson Series and the Darklight Trilogy. Darynda lives in the Land of Enchantment, also known as New Mexico, with her husband of more than 25 years and two beautiful sons, the Mighty, Mighty Jones Boys. She can be found at: Website, Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads

  TERRA MAGUS

  By Samantha Redstreake Geary

  Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Gathering of the Clans

  THE DEAD weight of the body bag tore into my screaming muscles and burgeoning ambition during the grueling ascent to Terra Magus, the final resting place of my career.

  I inwardly cursed my misfortune with every tortuous step. The occasional quips of my comely companion did little to lessen my anxiety.

  “Do try to keep up, Dungtear!” the girl tossed over her shoulder. “Been climbing this bloody mountain since sunrise,” she mumbled under a breath that never seemed to labor, despite the unforgiving altitude.

  “It’s Dinletir,” I grunted, tripping over the tangled toes of the untamed forest. The impossible trail snaked ever steeper, its narrow throat threatening to swallow me whole as I struggled to keep sight of the girl who slipped swiftly through the sea of trees. She navigated the treacherous terrain as if she were an extension of it. The woods accepted her into their midst with open arms.

  I, on the other hand, was an intruder—to be devoured before dawn.

  I’d never been to the mountains. Never walked into the wilderness. Nature was entirely too dangerous. Unpredictable. Any inclination to travel beyond the controlled confines of our borders was squashed under the steel boot of the Imperium from birth.

  I preferred a more predictable environment, one that didn’t harbor a hundred or so hazards meant to cut one’s cord. With every bead of sweat, I contemplated the myriad of ways to meet my maker. A wicked wind could knock loose a limb, crushing my skull. A restless root could snag my legs, snapping my bones like twigs. Jagged rocks raking against tender flesh. Carnivorous creatures creeping. Venomous snakes slithering. Lethal spiders lurking. Poisonous plants—  

  My body is jerked backwards, away from the mountain’s edge. “Careful, Dimleer, one misstep could send you careening into oblivion,” the girl warned, her fist wrapped in the woven cloth of my coat. She released me with a clap on the back. “Don’t want to lose our star pupil on the first day.”

  I mentally added falling to my demise to the mounting reasons why I should be within the comforting arms of a laboratory.   

  That was the plan. Graduate with honors. Secure a coveted position in the Imperium’s agricultural engineering program. Contribute to the world’s largest food manufacturer. Make them proud. Make a living. Make a difference.

  Yet, here I was, the rotting stench of disappointment smothering what little remained of my future. With only eighteen years behind me, my life was over... not unlike my malodorous cargo.

  A sneaky branch snatched at the flimsy wagon’s wheels, tilting it onto its side. The sack slid off the wooden planks and landed with a sickening thud at my feet.

  The girl spun around, her chestnut curls ensnared by a greedy gust, her startling green gaze wild and piercing. In that moment, she struck me as someone fierce and feral, the fading sun casting an eerie glow across her sage-tinted skin.

  She shook her head, shoulders slumped with an inflated sigh. Stooping over the bulging canvas, she ran her hands along the seams with unsettling care. “Lucky it didn’t rip open,” she said, voice dripping with relief.

  “I think their luck already ran out,” I remarked, attempting to tug the body back into the wagon with little success.

  The girl shoved me, none to gently, to the side, grasped the bag and swung it onto the slats in one swift motion. “You’ll need to work on your stamina, Dinlaneer,” she smirked. “There’s more than hole digging where you’re headed.” She brushed the dirt from her hands and walked off.  

  Her casual reference to my despicable fate was the final straw. “It’s Dinletir!” I shouted, stomping after her, dragging the wobbly wagon behind me. “And if you insist on butchering my name, I’d like a shot at your—”

  I swung around the bend, hell bent on giving the girl what for, when the trail abruptly opened its mouth and spit me out into a vast meadow.

  “Chloris,” the girl offered with a mischievous grin. “And this,” she swept her hand towards the soaring stone walls staring down at us, “is Terra Magus.”

  The wagon’s handle slipped from my grasp, landing with a muffled thud against the carpet of grass. The towering fort, with its broad bones barely peeking through the choking vines, was not what I’d envisioned.  

  “Welcome, my boy!” a jovial voice volleys from a silver-tipped spire. “Come in, come in!”

  Chloris cleared her throat, throwing a glance at the wagon--a reminder of what awaited me beyond the castle walls. I reluctantly followed her, body in tow, into the shadows of my fate.

  Apparently, fate failed to have a door.

  “Flora, dear, that’s no way to greet our guest!” the man scolded.

  A dense curtain of creeping stems parted, revealing a narrow passageway. Dozens of fragrant cerulean faces wriggled through the thicket, the whites of their eyes winking as I walked past.

  The air was dank with moss covered secrets.

  The passage spilled into a lush green field littered with hundreds of carved tombstones. A burst of wind swept the last of my hopes, dashing them against the mocking rocks until they were nothing but dust.

  “My apologies, son. Flora’s rather wary of strangers. Learned that from Chloris, I’m afraid,” chortled a fiery-bearded, bald-headed man that barely reached the belt at my waist. “I’m Zephyr, the caretaker of Terra Magus!” he grinned, wee hand outstretched.

  “Dinletir,” I offered, accepting his welcoming grip. “And...Flora?” I asked, eyes scanning for another.

  “Flora?
Oh, ye won’t be shaking hands with the likes of her,” Zephyr snickered. “She’s the guardian of the gate—Chloris’ meddlesome Morning Glory. Won’t let anyone in without our say so,” Zephyr beamed, the curious cultivation curling affectionately around his tiny wrist. “Won’t let the Imperium’s sky drones see past the tip of their noses, neither. Interferes with their sensors, the clever girl.”

  “Why on earth would they conduct posthumous monitoring?” I asked, edging away from the sticky vines’ reach.

  Zephyr poked a chubby finger in my direction. “Why, indeed, my boy! ‘Till death do us part’, that’s the Imperium’s motto.”

  “I’m sorry sir, I...I don’t quite follow—”

  “You will, son. Soon enough.” Zephyr gestured towards the heavy bag behind me, an impish glint in his eye. “Why don’t ye fetch our new delivery and we’ll have a look, see.”

  I warily wrenched the warm leather handle of the sack, shifting its weight onto the spongy soil near his dusty boots.  

  Zephyr leaned over the bag, squinting at the peeling label. “Ahhh! Ms. Smith has finally arrived! In the nick a’ time, too,” Zephyr grinned, rubbing his hands together with disturbing anticipation.

  Chloris caught my troubled glance, her green gaze glowing with amusement. “He’s passionate about his work,” she winked, tossing me a small spade.

  “Let’s get her in the ground before the rain comes, lad,” Zephyr grinned at me, expectantly.

  “I..I’m no expert, sir, but...shouldn’t I use a more substantial shovel for digging er...graves?” I gulped, my stomach threatening to exhume its meager contents.

  Zephyr slanted his eyes at Chloris, who shrugged her shoulders.

  “I see yer well informed,” Zephyr grins, his rounded body shaking with laughter. He pulled open the pungent package, releasing a flood of black soil.

  I fell back, cupping a hand to my nose, my eyes watering from the stench.

  “Ahhh,” he breathes in, “the ripe smell of compost—an effective deterrent for the overly curious, mind ye,” he whispers, running his hands through the decaying pile. “Not to mention, tis the best stinkin’ fertilizer this side of the mountains.” He fished out a small leather satchel and tossed it to me. “Go on, greenie, open it.”

  I pulled apart the muck-covered drawstrings, pouring its contents into my sweaty palm.

  I stared at the tiny ginger grains. “What are these?”

  “The seeds of change, my boy,” Zephyr smiled.

  “But, I...I thought...”

  “Relax, lad, you’ll be planting our future, not the end result of our present. Aye, we’ve lost too many souls to the sorry excuse they call nourishment. Nothin’ but rubbish, fill’n there pockets, leaving stomachs empty and the blood weak.”

  “Gardening is a capital offense!” I stammered, realization stealing my breath.

  “Is that so? Did ye know that, Chloris?” he asked, feigning distress.

  Chloris shook her head, feigning ignorance.

  I closed my fist around the contraband, scanning the sky for sentinels. “You’re insane!”

  “Rightly so, lad. That’s why Choris fetched us a more level-headed chap, the brightest boy in seven clans, I’m told. I caught wind of yer desire to make a difference, and here ye are!”

  Zephyr grabbed a fistful of the inky powder from the bag and turned towards the rows of rocks. He raised his hand to his whiskered mouth, opened his palm flat and blew at the tiny particles. The soil swirled into a shimmering cloud that swept across the field. As if by magic, the scene before me shifted into a wild, thriving garden, heavy with the fruit of ages past--a living promise thought lost, long ago.

  “Welcome to the people’s agriculture department, son.” Zephyr grinned, tapping his spade against a tombstone, its surface engraved with the flowing limbs of an apple tree, the words, Granny Smith, rooted beneath.

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  Samantha Redstreake Geary works as a freelance writer in the film music industry and is the mad architect behind a string of global composer/author collaborations, including audiomachine’s Tree of Life & Existence and Composers for Relief. She’s also a speculative fiction author, weaving music-inspired short stories and YA novels under the steady influence of locally roasted coffee. Website, Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads

  MONSTROUS

  By Daniel Pennystone

  12th Grade

  Inspired by PHENOMENA’s The Last Ember

  THE LONG, lifeless hall, stretched by pale brick, stared back at me with corrupt intent. My heart thumped preparing for the worst. Metal lockers clung to the walls in silent applause as the two very large boys glared at me with twinkling amusement in their eyes. I glanced at the floors avoiding their judgmental stare.

  “Say it! Say you're a tattle tale!” yelled Gram.

  Their words caused my vision to become a whirl of glassy light, tears hanging from the corners of my eyes.

  “Are you crying?” mocked Russell.

  Like a thunderstorm startling a horse, I reared back from his words and launched myself towards the boy’s bathroom, shouting “NO! No I am not!”

  Without hesitating, I dove into the plastic safety of the fluorescent bathroom. The sound of Gram and Russell’s laughter echoed off the mustard yellow tiles blanketing the room, followed by the racing of their sneakers. A lurch in my stomach drove me to the nearest sink.

  Why, am I so weak? I thought, feeling a sudden shift.

  “I wish...I could hurt them!” I seethed through gritted teeth. “I no longer fear them...I hate them!”

  An alarmingly familiar ache gripped my bones, filling me with dread. I glanced into the mirror above the dripping sink. The brown and green of my eyes slowly became pigment rings of burning red.

  This isn’t right. It hasn’t happened in over two years and my eyes never turned red before! I thought, memories of my childhood self, sitting in a darkened room, crying, flooded my mind.