Black-Eyed Peas on New Year's Day

Shannon Page

Description

2020 wasn't kind to any of us, was it? (And 2021 is off to a shaky start at best!) Pandemic, economic collapse, out-of-control wildfires the world 'round, ice storms, murder hornets--and that's without even discussing politics.It's time to send some good energy out there into the world. Good luck, good wishes, good magic, talismans and rituals and lucky charms-you name it, we've got it here.BLACK-EYED PEAS ON NEW YEAR'S DAY is a multi-genre anthology focused on hope. Here you'll find more than a double dozen tales-fantasy, science fiction, literary, even nonfiction-that will bring a smile to your face and some optimism to your heart.After all, we're all in this together. (Except the murder hornets. They're not welcome here.)

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Science fiction
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Book View Cafe
• Date de parution: 30 mars 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781636320052
• Langue: English

Extrait

Black-Eyed Peas on New Year’s Day
Edited by Shannon Page

www.bookviewcafe.com
Book View Café edition March 30, 2021 978-1-63632-005-2 Copyright © 2021 Shannon Page
Table of Contents
Introduction
At the Night Bazaar
The Last Date
The Family Business
Thank God for the Road
Changing of the Guard
In Case of Emergency
Circus
Fire Cat
Letters Submitted in Place of a Thesis to the Department of Chronology
The Eighth of December
Possibilities
Another Catcher
Gateway
Esther
Hope Jones
Puss and Jack Steal a Kingdom
The Garden
Blind Faith
Meditation on Persistence: 4am
Break the Mirrors
Times Fifty
My Man Left Me, My Dog Hates Me, And There Goes My Truck
The Waiting Room
The Boggart of Campsite C47
Coffee Break
Tea with Superman
A Very Old Story(teller)
About the Editor
Copyrights & Credits
About Book View Café
Introduction
In the waning days of October, 2020, as Election Dayapproached and I found myself doomscrolling through my social media feed andonline newspapers yet again, worrying and fretting and desperately searchingfor even one little scrap of good news, I suddenly thought, What we needis hope .
And right on the heels of that thought came another: Hey,I know: what if I got a bunch of people to write me stories of hope? Thus,an anthology was born.
Writers are magical creatures. We can create whole newworlds—places to escape into, yes; but also, I would argue, places that we canmanifest into the world we actually live in. Organ transplants, automaticdoors, self-driving cars, video calls—heck, cell phones themselves—each firstcame out of the brain of a writer. What if we could also bring more hope intoour world?
I wrote up a call for submissions and asked folks to spreadit far and wide, and I harvested so many marvelous stories. Stories ofmagic and love, of tricks and twists, of astonishing technology and low-techkindnesses…even a few entirely true stories.
I received far too many for a single book, so here are thebest of them. I hope you will enjoy reading them as much as I haveenjoyed collecting and assembling them!
Shannon Page
Orcas Island, WA
February 2021
At the Night Bazaar
Sherri Woosley
This, this magical twilight hour before the Night Bazaaropens is Orphan’s favorite. Perhaps her favorite should be the hour before dawnwhen she wheels around scooping up the lost, forgotten, and discarded itemsthat she collects to sell from her own tent, but no. Too much envy as shewatches others leave through the golden portal, returning to their home worlds.To their loved ones. But Orphan has to wait. Someone—a parent, a family member,someone who has even a clue about who she is—could come to the Bazaar. So,instead, her favorite time is now, when hope is strongest. The sun’s raysrefract off the many tents that spread in a makeshift city; the smells promiseeverything from funnel cakes to stuffed grape leaves, incense to ointments madeon a faraway moon.
Snow falls. Something on the ground bunches under the whiteflakes, creating a small mound. Orphan unclips the grabber that hangs off herwheelchair and presses the lever to extend the plastic pincers, tightening onthe mound and lifting it from the snow. Sodden tickets from a carnival game.She cradles the pile of tickets in her hands and closes her eyes, breathing inthe smell of pulp released by the disintegrating paper. First, she recognizesthe desire to win, then the fierce drive of competition, and finally an overallsense of good fortune from the previous owner. Orphan exhales and opens hereyes. The tickets, like everything that Orphan claims, have a faint glow. Nowanyone can feel what she feels. Orphan doesn’t know if this ability to marryintangible to tangible is natural, maybe there is an entire world of peoplelike her, but she suspects it is a by-product of living in the Bazaar. That shehas developed an affinity for lost things because she is lost, maybe forgotten.Regardless, she adds the tickets to her bag. Perhaps this will be a luckynight.
From the far-off center of the Bazaar, the clock tower’sbells chime. Golden light appears in the shape of a large door. The NightBazaar is open. Like the randomness of the Bazaar’s internal pathways, there isno schedule of portal connections, but Orphan clenches her hands into fists andhopes.
From her position in the main aisle, she watches the portal.It looks so easy when two women in bomber jackets and goggles step through thegolden light, appearing from nothing. They are followed by a group of youngmages in matching uniforms and the glowing badge that identifies each as anapprentice. More travelers pass before Talla, a handsome young woman withsoulful eyes and a blue headscarf, appears. The blue complements her brown skinand dark eyes. Orphan waves in greeting, a smile breaking across her face.
Talla strides forward, an unfamiliar rucksack on her back,until she stops in front of Orphan. White flakes of snow sparkle on herheadscarf and shoulders, on the soft cloth of her loose pants and tunic. Tallasmells like the desert, or what Orphan imagines the desert to be like with wildwind and two scorching suns, shaggy animals with humps. Orphan has seenpictures at the art tent of Talla’s world and space ships and something calledVictorian England, but she hasn’t experienced any of the possibilities outsideof her imagination. She knows the Bazaar; it is home. But, maybe, a homeshouldn’t be lonely.
“Salutations.” Talla bows and gives Orphan that half-smileshe knows so well. “I’m glad to see you, but I can’t talk. I have to findsomeone.”
“Oh, but come with me first,” Orphan blurts out. “Chef’smacarons are right over here, best in the Bazaar.” Frantic that Talla willleave on her own errand after so many nights of waiting by the portal, Orphangrabs for her hand. “Please.”
Concern draws Talla’s brows together.
Orphan drops her hand and wheels along the packed dirt path.The crowd is easy to navigate because most aren’t stopping to look yet. Theywant to get deeper into the labyrinth that is the Bazaar where paths changelike gears in a machine and the only constant is the clock tower rising fromthe middle.
A sweet smell wafts on the breeze and then she is in frontof the large pastry case of Chef Bisous’s stall. They are short, only as tallas Orphan in her chair, but their white hat reaches toward the darkening sky.“No, no, my friend. My macarons are not unwanted. Each is handmade.” They pointto colorful rows of macarons. “Tonight we have gingerbread marscapone, mintchocolate chip, and raspberry with a cream filling made with a specialingredient from Callisto. Quite costly. No freebies for you, Orphan.”
Talla appears through the crowd and stands at Orphan’sshoulder. Giddy, Orphan’s eyes shine as she performs for her audience.
“I’m offended,” she says to Chef, although she isn’t. Thisis how the Bazaar works; bartering, slide scale of valuation, remembering whatis foreign or precious to various cultures. Every night is different depending onwhen or where the portal opens. “Surely you have cookies that aren’t perfect.Not the right shape? Maybe a little burn on the bottom?”
Talla taps Orphan’s shoulder. “Listen, I have to go. It’simportant.”
“This’ll be quick,” Orphan promises. “Hold on.”
“My macarons are not cookies.” Chef sniffs. “However, Imight have one for trade.”
“Now you’re talking.” Orphan speaks louder than sheintended, wants to hurry before Talla leaves. She pulls the large bag thathangs off the side of her wheelchair onto her lap. “I have tickets to acarnival game tossed to the ground when there weren’t enough for a prize, ascarf with a pulled thread, and a dress bought for something called ‘homecomingdance’ that was too long.” Orphan reaches into the bag and hesitates over hertreasures until the dress seems to hum. She holds up the dress. The tulle skirthas polka dots and the torso is silky.
“I’m sorry,” Talla says, but then she starts coughing.
Chef leans over the case and makes grabby hands, but Orphanholds it away. “At least three macarons. One of each flavor.”
“Too much for something no one else wants.”
“You want it.” Orphan adjusts in her chair, manuallyrotating her right hip to be more comfortable.
“Too long.”
“Take it to Alliz. He owes me a favor.” They are some of themany for whom the Bazaar is home: Chef and Alliz the costume maker andApothecary. “It will look beautiful on you.”
“It will.” Chef pouts. “Fine.” They snap open a pastry bagand slide the macarons inside. Orphan accepts the bag and takes a deep sniff.The smell makes her stomach growl with hunger. She offers the dress.
Chef holds the dress to their body and gives a thrilledlittle scream.
Orphan turns to Talla, triumphant, but her face falls as shesees the woman straighten from coughing, hand to her stomach and mouth twistedin pain.
“What’s wrong?” Orphan’s heart skips. She doesn’t rememberwho left her at the Bazaar or when she discovered her special talent forselling junk, but she remembers meeting Talla. Her easy laugh as she set up astall to sell the colorful rugs from her home world. Her acceptance of thewheelchair Orphan needed to navigate the crowded Bazaar. Orphan’s first friend.
“I’m not contagious.”
Orphan frowns and repeats, “What’s wrong.”
“A terrible illness is affecting my country. We traced it toa bacteria in our main water source, but not until after many people andanimals had been affected. So many that my home world has run out of the cure.”Her hand moves from her stomach to her chest as she struggles to inhale. “Youngand old suffer with fever. We need an ingredient to make more medicine beforeanyone else dies.”
“You’re one of the sick,” says Orphan. Her mind tries toprocess.
“I’ve been to the Bazaar. I have the best chance of findingsomeone who’ll sell moganite.”
Shame fills Orphan and she berates herself. So anxious toshow off for some stupid macarons.
“I’ll lead you to Apothecary’s tent,” Orphan says. “What doyou have to trade?”
o0o
Apothec