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The Season of Withering – Lisa Short

Tamasin, called Abhasvar, watched from the concealing folds of her hood as the Riever and his men strode into the great hall. For a long, fearful moment she thought the Riever wouldn’t stop, would mount the dais alongside Piro and throw a too-jovial arm around his neck (and perhaps break it). But the Riever did stop at the foot of the dais, bracing his legs wide apart, teeth bared in a broad grin. He’d brought six men with him, two of them grinning as unpleasantly as their master; the other four were blank-faced, their gazes darting to the orblights on the walls. Piro had insisted on the orblights and Tamasin thought now that he might have been right to do so—that sourceless, icy glow was uncanny, even to her. Her own objections had centered on the wisdom of exhausting himself in maintaining them; Piro was pale, to her critical eye, but perhaps no more so than usual. She hoped.

“The prince of Anmoor himself!” cried the Riever, and flung out his arms. One of the more uneasy of his men flinched back. “Your welcome, so unexpected!”

“Surely not,” said Piro. His voice was light, thin compared to the Riever’s rich tones, but to Tamasin’s pride quite steady. “Captain Shal did not assure you of our hospitality?” Tamasin and Piro had spoken nothing but Imperial Un, to each other and to anyone else who would listen, for the past four weeks. Piro had come along amazingly, well enough that he’d been able to insist upon keeping Tamasin hidden for this first meeting rather than using her to translate.

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The Season of Withering – Lisa Short
Tamasin, called Abhasvar, watched from the concealing folds of her hood as the Riever and his men strode into the great hall. For a long, fearful moment she thought the Riever wouldn’t stop, would mount the dais alongside Piro and throw a too-jovial arm around his neck (and perhaps break it). But the Riever did stop at the foot of the dais, bracing his legs wide apart, teeth bared in a broad grin. He’d brought …
Read it "The Season of Withering – Lisa Short"
Misalignment – Erik Goldsmith
When Levy Green awoke, he looked around for a few blinking moments, and did not try to remember. He was alone. Through an open window, he could see it was day. Something, somewhere was beeping. An ache began to throb in his forehead and, after a bit of searching, he discovered an unfamiliar incision just below his hairline. The words What if I came into his mind. What if I what? he asked himself and …
Read it "Misalignment – Erik Goldsmith"
Darling – Kathryn Weaver
The damned shadows did me in. They should have been blue. Yellowish light should cast blue or violet shadows, every artist learned that. While disregard for basic colour principles was new and exciting in paint, in life it was awful. This evening, the gallery’s shadows were an unsavory shade of red, somewhere between wine vomited down the balustrade and the bloodstains I tried to suck out of my only silk waistcoat. Worse, no two of …
Read it "Darling – Kathryn Weaver"
The Guardian of Werifest Park – Carly Racklin
The train car reeked of cigarettes and rumbled like a storm. Loud enough to drown out the voice of every passenger crammed inside it, but still Inez’s heartbeat rattled between her ears. It had started when she stuffed her backpack with clothes in the dark, and only boomed louder as she’d slipped out past her mother’s wheezy, sleeping form on the couch, thirty-six or so hours earlier. It had followed her through the cracked streets, …
Read it "The Guardian of Werifest Park – Carly Racklin"

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The Season of Withering – Lisa Short

Tamasin, called Abhasvar, watched from the concealing folds of her hood as the Riever and his men strode into the great hall. For a long, fearful moment she thought the Riever wouldn’t stop, would mount the dais alongside Piro and throw a too-jovial arm around his neck (and perhaps break it). But the Riever did stop at the foot of the dais, bracing his legs wide apart, teeth bared in a broad grin. He’d brought …

It came from Daniel Roy

Daniel Roy’s story “Forever and a Life” was published in Metaphorosis on Friday, 12 April 2019. One of the paradoxes of aging is that the less life we have left ahead of us, the more we obsess about extending this time. Death-defying acts of rebellion have almost always been led by the young, after all. It led to me wonder: how fearful of death could someone be if they could theoretically live forever? What would …

A question for Yume Kitasei

Q: Where do you write?

A: Where I write is really a factor of when I write. My job can keep me busy, so I have to seize the fifteen to thirty-minute chunks whenever I can. In fact, I get some of my best writing done on the subway standing up, wedged between one person’s pointy elbow and another ’s backpack (oof, dude), tap-tapping away with two thumbs. I’ll start in the early morning on my laptop on a small green table in my bedroom while eating breakfast, email my work in progress to myself so I can continue on my phone on the way to work, and then end my day sprawled on the living room couch to finish it out for the night.

So short answer: everywhere, anywhen.


Yume Kitasei’s story “Super
in Metaphorosis Friday, 25 October 2019.
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November 2019

November 2019

Beautifully written speculative fiction from Metaphorosis magazine.

All the stories from the month, plus author biographies, interviews, and story origins.

Table of Contents

    • Rooks on Sundays — Jack Neel Waddell
    • Via Dolorosa — Christine Lucas
    • A Time for Understanding — Lisa Fox
    • Fur and Feathers — Jess Koch
    • The Lonely King — Gunnar De Winter

 

Cover art by Danos Philopoulos.

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Misalignment – Erik Goldsmith

When Levy Green awoke, he looked around for a few blinking moments, and did not try to remember. He was alone. Through an open window, he could see it was day. Something, somewhere was beeping. An ache began to throb in his forehead and, after a bit of searching, he discovered an unfamiliar incision just below his hairline. The words What if I came into his mind. What if I what? he asked himself and …