morpheus tales #11 preview

1

ISSN 1757-5419

Issue 11 – January 2011

Editorial

Other Years By Gary Budgen Page 2

Illustrated By Mark Pexton

The Missing By Alex Davis Page 7

Illustrated By Mark Anthony Crittenden

Home Time By James Everington 2

Dead Baby Bounce By R. K. Gemienhardt Page 15

Illustrated By Randall Wall aka Maddrandall

The Red Mercury By Dean M. Drinkel Page 19

Fight or Flight By A. Reader Page 22

The Magnificent Maggot-Face By N. J. Buchanan Page 25

Illustrated By Vladimir Petković

Daniel’s Calling By Michael W. Garza Page 30

Illustrated By Candra Hope

Bramblevines By Sanford Allen Page 36

Illustrated By Ian Welsh

Kusozu By Gene Hines Page 41

Cover By Thorsten Paulinsky - http://www.myspace.com/subjekt_f

Proofread By the Morpheus Tales Proofreaders – www.morpheustales.com/the%20team.htm

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.

2

Bartlett threw a five and two and moved Boot. It landed on Pall Mall. That was all right,

Boot owned Pall Mall. Now it was Top Hat’s turn. He picked up the dice and held them, looking

across the board. There were red hotels all along the Oxford Street and Regent Street complex;

could be tricky.

Rachel had once nagged him about playing Monopoly alone. But didn’t people play chess

against themselves?

Now Rachel was long gone; shacked up with Bartlett’s old school friend Simon. She had

never been to this particular flat, this particular year. He looked around, at the walls pocked with

damp, through the kitchen door at the washing-up he had never attempted. Soon it would be time to

move on; there were plenty of empty flats in this version of 2005.

He threw the dice and moved Top Hat and landed on Liverpool Street Station. For a moment

he started, picked up the nickel-tin model and stared at it. Then he laughed. He was due at

Liverpool Street in about half an hour.

# # #

Imagine time, the Presence had said. Each passing year is like a square on a board. Now

imagine cards stacked on each of those squares, stacked upwards infinitely. The succession of

squares on the board is not altered in any way but the cards stacked on top are the extra slices of

time, the extra years that exist unseen at an angle to the linear progression of time.

# # #

Outside Liverpool Street Station in a prosperous version of 2002, Simon saw Bartlett

approach. In this version of reality they hadn’t seen each other for years. Simon’s sharp suit was

emblematic of the steel and glass opulence all around.

Simon greeted him with a warm smile. Bartlett pulled the hammer from his pocket and

swung it into Simon’s head, pummelled him as he lay on the ground. Then he switched back to

another year before anyone could intervene.

# # #

Bartlett was a Unique. He only existed in one particular time-line and so had been given

license, by the Presence, to wander though all the others. The time-line in which he originated was

base-time, the succession of squares on the board, not the other years that existed at an angle to

them. Base-time must never be violated, that was the rule wasn’t it? The one principle that must be

maintained. The Presence had, so far, ignored all his murders of Simon, because the original Simon

still existed in base-time spawning constant alternate versions of himself every time he made a

decision. But the Presence must know about the hammers, knives, guns and bludgeons, about all the

various killings. But as long as Bartlett went about his missions across the varying realities nothing

was ever said.

Bartlett made the call from the Angel Tavern. After the usual hissing, the Presence asked

him what he had been doing and the double vodka helped him lie about a non-existent riot he hadn’t

seen down the Old Kent Road. He’d have to spend some token time doing some real work, go and

observe the manifestations of the crisis-ridden multiverse: demonstrations, street battles and public

executions; the sort of events that the Presence had a taste for.

He spent the rest of the day in the Angel Tavern taking advantage of the special offer on

doubles, knowing that his thoughts would wander down familiar ways, other years.

3

MONDAY

I watch the news every night after work. I like to think of other people’s lives, lives much

beyond my own. I’m pretty insignificant, and I like to be aware of that. People who think anything

else are kidding themselves.

The lead story is the disappearance of a local teenager by the name of Martina Christiansen,

a young girl of Danish descent. She is thirteen years old and just becoming that near-adult kind of

pretty, all sweeping blonde and cold blue eyes. Her parents allowed her to go out with some friends

one afternoon and apparently she became separated from the group. No one has seen her since

Wednesday, the newsreader delivers dryly.

It’s always sad to hear about that sort of thing. I can’t concentrate on the rest of the news,

barely taking in a crisis in the Middle East and a major road accident on the M1.

TUESDAY

The news again begins with the disappearance of young Martina. Today her parents have

made an appeal for information. They sit at the press conference, answering the questions as calmly

as they can, trying to keep the tears from appearing. I have to admire their calm in the face of such

an awful situation. That report is followed by another piece on Xandra and Samantha Walton, twin

sisters aged 11, who both also vanished from the local area. The girls had gone over to a friend’s

house for the night on Thursday and in the morning had simply vanished from their beds. The

police are not treating the two cases as related, for the time being. Again a photo of the two sisters is

shown, both of them in their Girl Scout outfits, beaming at the camera in a way they cannot be right

now. It amazes me that two cases like this can have happened, so very close together. I don’t think

that these girls are insignificant - I think that these three girls really represent something. I’m not

sure what it is just yet.

I think it’s wonderful that something this human can forego all the politics on the news. The

rest of it barely interests me - I’ve turned the TV off by the time the sport comes on.

THURSDAY

I missed the news yesterday, working late. I have News24 but I don’t much like it- I prefer

things fed to me in one go. I always ask for it that way at work - give me the information in one

report, a few pages at most. Specifics are too much for us sometimes.

The news is reporting on three more disappearances since Martina’s on Monday. There is no

sign of Martina, or the twins. But these have been followed by two 9-year old boys and a 7-year old

girl. I don’t quite catch her name, but I think the boys were called Nicholas and Liam. Good friends

from school, apparently - their mother went to pick them up and they simply weren’t there. Nobody

at the school could account for their whereabouts, nor could any of their friends recall having seen

them after the lunch period. I miss all the details of the girl’s disappearance - her parents are on air,

in fact with the couple I recognise as Martina’s parents. I don’t know if this means that the police

are treating them as a coherent case, or perhaps by combining forces they can achieve more profile

and increase the chances of their children being found. The four of them all wear the same sombre

expression, sadness and determination etched into their faces. I don’t know if their children will

ever see those faces again.

4

The boys snigger as he walks past, semi-audible taunts that he can’t quite make out. He

ignores them of course, for he is twenty-one now, well nearly. What does he care what such boys

do? He knows their type well, twelve year old boys whose first sign of puberty isn’t a broken voice

or sudden growth spurt, but a macho-man desire to prove themselves by humiliating others. He

knows such boys well, and it seems like only yesterday when he would have reacted to their jeers

by blushing, wincing oddly, and speeding up in case the abuse got physical.

But that was then, not now. Now, after he’s grown up, left home, and gone to university.

Now it is a clear autumn day beneath a peaceful sky, with an equal amount of leaves on the trees

above him and on the path below. He is on Headington hill overlooking the city, and the Oxford

spires can be seen dreaming in the near distance, so detailed he feels as though he could touch them.

Now, today, he is uncharacteristically happy, due to the surroundings, the new book under his arm,

and a first date that night... His first ever.

“Wanker!” one of the boys calls out behind him, causing his heart to stop-start nervously.

The boy’s accent is odd; he can’t place it. It’s not from around here. He tries not to be angry at the

kids. He knows that’s how it’s done, insulting grown ups because they can’t react as though they’ve

heard. But he does feel angry, because the shouted words remind him of the village he grew up in,

and that he will have to return there at the end of term, for a month’s long Christmas.

It will still be the same, he thinks, a mining village without a mine. Despite the local freebie

front-page demolition the Pit’s shadow still remains, for the ex-miners still drink down the Welfare,

still sleep the same hours, still seem to carry coal dust in the bags under their eyes. He sighs heavily

as he walks through the leaves, thinking of the old Council estates, the now ironically named Black

Diamond pub, the tiny flats (the kids used to call them the ‘Granny Flats’) that are now just home to

a young couple’s arguments, because they can afford nowhere else. He thinks of joy-riders, of the

streaks and streams of graffiti, declaring hate or lust or even love (although the latter emotion is

reserved for football teams only). He thinks of the Parish Council, trying to improve things by

installing hanging baskets of flowers every six months, which at least provides some variety for the

vandals. It is all still frighteningly close in his head, and he knows that once he has been back a few

days he will regress into it and his old life, as if he never left, as if he never will.

The Morpheus Tales Special Issues Collection

Limited availability! Visit our website to order your copies now!

www.morpheustales.comwww.morpheustales.comwww.morpheustales.comwww.morpheustales.com

5

Victor tackled Bobby from behind, driving him face first into the gravel driveway. Bobby

howled in pain, a large section of skin hanging limply from the side of his face, dripping dirty blood

to the ground below. Victor spun him over and sat on his chest, while Jimbo grabbed Bobby’s arms

and pulled them painfully up over his head. The leader of the Heist brothers, Gary, knelt down and

grabbed the loose piece of skin and ripped it from his cheek, bringing a fresh batch of screams from

Bobby as he desperately struggled to free himself.

“Where’s our protection payment? I know you weren’t trying to sneak home without paying

us, were you?” Gary hissed.

“That’s not fair. You weren’t at school today so I spent the money. If you guys would have

been there, I would have paid you, honest to God,” Bobby stammered, his eyes brimming with

tears.

“That’s no excuse and you know the penalty for failing to pay,” Gary said.

“No,” Bobby screamed. “Not that. Please, anything but that.”

Gary fished the lighter out of his pocket and held it up for Bobby to see. Jimbo held Bobby’s

hand steady as Gary ignited the lighter and held the dancing flame to the tip of his index finger.

Victor clamped his hand over Bobby’s mouth to stifle the agonized screams. The finger turned red

in a matter of seconds. Gary held the lighter steady as blisters formed and then popped on Bobby’s

skin. It wasn’t until the finger started to turn black that Gary pulled the flame away.

“Are you going to pay us now?” Gary calmly asked.

Victor removed his hand from Bobby’s mouth so he could answer. A mixture of tears and

snot were running down his damaged face.

“I don’t have any money,” Bobby sobbed.

“Then we have a problem,” Gary answered.

“Do you want to see a dead baby bounce?” Bobby asked, desperately trying to change the

subject.

“What?” All three Heist brothers answered at once.

“My Uncle runs a freak show for the Carnival. One of the main attractions is a dead baby

that bounces like a basketball. If you let me slide on the money, just for today, I’ll show it to you”.

The Heist brothers agreed to the demonstration in lieu of payment and told Bobby to meet

them at the abandoned paper mill in an hour. They stressed the horrors that would befall upon him

if he failed to show up.

Morpheus Tales #4 Still Available: www.morpheustales.com

6

I think I saw you. Through the smoke, the tears, the blood and pain. I wish I could lie. But I

can’t. Not anymore, I haven’t got the strength. There! The bright blue sky: no, the Virgin’s blue

silk, trailing behind you. The meteor’s tail. Fluttering above me. For the briefest of moments, the

first glimpse of heaven.

It must be snowing. At least – petals fall, reflecting the sun. The glittering of the flakes as

they descend. Bonding, fusing to the roof of my open mouth. Each of them, a tiny fragment of

divinity. Stop! The taste on my tongue: it isn’t snow. But ash.

When I saw the sky, I dreamt of you. I ignored the blood, the red droplets of your obvious

love for me. How I wept, surrendered myself totally when the cloth was wrapped around me,

draping your soul upon my fevered body. Somewhere in the distance, I spy a shadow holding an

umbrella, the difficulty of keeping his newspaper dry. The headline visible: a storm raging above

the Manhattan skyline.

Pain. The firmament: ripped apart by the sudden and shattering scream. A sphere of light so

bright that glass cracked, metal twisted and the very breath was torn from our lungs. The mouth of

God apparent, offering us a fiery kiss, forcing me to my knees in reverence. But, I guess I was the

lucky one. There were others that didn’t worship and their fate was worse.

And yet. And yet, it is me not them, that lies upon the asphalt, amongst the broken and

bruised remnants of the grey behemoth. This charred land, once fruitful, now barren: a spinster’s

womb.

Of the others? Who can be sure, but whatever, I doubt it’s pretty.

Morpheus Tales #7 Still Available: www.morpheustales.com

7

Billy Kinkaid was dead. I know because I killed him. I stabbed him fifteen times in the back

while Evita the Bearded Woman held his arms and laughed. The two Dwarves, Josie and Roslyn,

shared cigarettes and watched, while Giganto – real name Kevin Smith – dug the grave and said

nothing.

It was the hottest day on record. Hotter than 1910 which started the Great Forest Fire of

Milwaukee and claimed one hundred lives - my parents among them - before it was spent. Hot

enough to melt the tarmac on the roads and make the quarry lake steam like boiled water. Nature

was being a bitch. The sun beat upon the land, merciless and uncaring; there was no shelter to be

had and we slowly cooked as the day wore on.

Billy took a long time to die. He rolled in the dirt, crying and screaming, trying to rise when

he had strength, but Giganto was always there to plant a foot on his backside and push him back

down.

Sweat soaked my shirt and pants by the time Billy was gone and I hated him more than

when he was alive.

We each took turns pissing on Billy’s back. I could tell Evita didn’t want to, but she

wouldn’t refuse her Ringmaster. She hitched her dress, pulled down her drawers and squatted like

an animal over the open grave, pissing along with the rest.

“You owe the Carnival money?” I said to the group, gesturing for effect at the urine-

drenched body. “Then put your affairs in order, because as God is my witness, you won’t be long

for this world.” I tipped my hat to the body. “Not long at all.”

We left Giganto to fill in the grave and walked back to the site. By morning we’d be gone.

No one was going to miss Billy Kinkaid. He had no friends and no family, no history and no

money. He slipped through the net of life as we all had.

I comforted Evita on the walk back, but she kept pulling away and I could tell she didn’t like

my fingers stroking her back. She was no oil painting; her black moustache and beard felt like

tangled wire. I suspected she was into women, but the carnival had slim pickings, and I needed to

off-load. There were the Dwarves, of course, but I had standards. I insisted by walking my fingers

up to the nape of her neck and squeezing until she flinched. She knew enough not to put up a fight

and we went to her bed, where the sweat and the heat, mixed with the dirt of the day and the grind

of our bodies, saturated her room in combined filth. When we finished, she hid her face and made

small sobbing sounds into her yellow-stained pillow.

The moon was out when I left. A hot fetid wind skimmed in from the prairie and tugged at

the tents while mosquitoes buzzed stupidly around hazy gas lamps. The urge in my balls faded and

the world was one loser down. Billy Kincaid was no longer a problem.

It made me smile as I climbed the steps to my wagon. Not a bad night’s work, after all.

Something stirred on the porch, crawling along its edge. In the moonlight it flashed creamy-

white, shot through with red. Reminded me of Billy’s ragged flesh after I was done with the knife.

I bent down to inspect it, curious about what it may be.

A maggot! A stinking, fat maggot.

How it came to be on the porch was anyone’s guess. Perhaps an animal crawled underneath

the Wagon and died - simple thing to happen in the heat. A stray dog seeking shelter caught in the

gap and lacking strength to escape.

It made sense and I crushed the maggot beneath the heel of my boot without thinking.

Feeling a faint satisfaction as its innards squished. I ground it into the step – just to make sure – and

made a mental note to check the underside of the wagon come morning light.

8

An early winter’s North Atlantic storm pounds New England. The Cranberry Isles take a

harsh beating as the ocean’s waves crash against the coast. In 1924 the Isles were little more than a

waypoint between the eastern tip of Canada and larger harbours further south.

On the south-eastern most point of the main island a large manor rises out of the

surrounding beech trees. The immense estate stands firm against the howling winds. To the south,

the Marshall Point lighthouse shines high above the Cranberry Harbour, its light cast far out over

the tumultuous water.

The sound of laughter fills the air all around the manor. Light cascades through the

windows out into the velvet darkness. The wind has little effect on those within. Warmth

encompasses the home as a collection of smoke rises from tall chimneystacks.

Snow covers the cobblestone walkway across the courtyard. The massive oak double door is

shut tight. Inside, the sounds of folly rule. The invitees of a long awaited celebration are lost deep in

a drunken extravaganza.

# # #

A spiral staircase leads to the floors above. A solid wood door stands locked. Hidden up in

the north tower another gathering is taking place.

The short corridor beyond the staircase is dimly lit and ends at an open room. The curved

tower walls are covered with shelves stuffed full with books. There is a lifetime of information

contained within the volumes. Artefacts of the most bizarre nature lay scattered about. A long desk

sits underneath the lone window; across its top lays a petrified skull, a crow’s claw, and the

thighbone from a long dead priest.

Including Daniel, twelve participants stand in the tower room. Their faces covered by

expressionless, bright red masks. They stare at one another as they come together in a circle in the

centre of the room, gathering around a small table. Daniel stands within the ring leaning over a

thick, leather bound book.

His slick, black hair glistens in the light of the candles around the room. He’s dressed in a

golden robe, his face the only one exposed. Daniel’s brow is furrowed, his eyes etched with

concentration. He’s held on to boyish good looks, but the madness in his eyes hints at the darkness

in his heart.

He slides his hand along the pages of the book laid out on the table before him, stopping

from time to time to take in the words. The ancient text is said to unlock the secrets of the Illumik.

Daniel means to open a way between his world and theirs.

“And so it begins,” Daniel said.

He looks up from the book and makes a grand turn to look at those around him. With his

hands held out wide he smiles. On the table just above the book, sits a tall urn. A single candle

burns at its side. Daniel motions towards the contents of the urn and continues.

“This blood is but a taste for the masters of the offering we bring. I alone possess the power

to call forth the void. Our masters, our Gods,” Daniel said. “They will take this world for

themselves and we shall be raised as Demigods. We shall rule this world when our master’s thirst

for blood is quenched!”

As Daniel swings his hand in a wide arc the candles around the room blow out save for the

one on the centre table. Light from the pale moon fills the room. Daniel turns back towards the open

book; the participants moan in unison. They sway back and forth as Daniel focuses on the words.

In a hollow voice, he recites the call to the true Illumik. As he speaks, the members of the

circle repeat his every word.

“Arimine alda amin,” Daniel said.

9

You don’t got to shine a light in my face or leave me alone in a cell to make me talk. Not

like on those cop shows my dad used to let me watch.

I’ll tell you all you wanna know. About what happened to the people you asked about.

See, I’m like my dad. I can say when I done something wrong. When my mom caught him

being with that other woman, he said he done wrong and left. He always told me to be a man and

admit when you done something. My mom can’t admit stuff. She can’t admit that he went off with

that woman because of how my mom yells and cusses and complains all the time.

Anyhow, I’m the one that did all those things you asked me about. But I only did it because

Bramblevines asked me for help. He needed help real bad.

No. Just let me talk, officer. I’ll tell you all about Bramblevines. I’ll tell you everything, just

like I said. I’ll even say it loud enough so that the police on the other side of that black glass

window can hear. I seen on the cop shows how there are people listening behind there too.

See, I was running around in that big field behind the new houses. The ones they’re still

building. It’s the field where you can find arrowheads and stuff. Sometimes we play baseball out

there.

Anyhow, there’s a bunch of big old trees right around the middle of the field. They’re just

kinda stuck there like they got planted there accidentally. There’s some junk under the trees too. An

old, rusty dryer and some tires. I don’t know how that dryer got there, but it’s been there a while. It

looks real old.

That’s where I met Bramblevines.

Um. Well, I was there banging on that old dryer with a big stick. I cracked most of the glass

out of the little window on its door. I wanted to see if I could make the door come off so I could use

it as a shield or something.

So I was banging that dryer, and it was real loud. Maybe that loud noise was what woke up

Bramblevines.

See, when I was making all that noise, one of the trees moved. It was the biggest one. It was

all twisted around, and its branches were the kind that get so long they touch the ground. Well, that

big old tree’s branches all just kinda shook at once, like it was cold and had to shiver.

I looked up, kinda scared, and I could see a face on the tree. Right on the trunk. Not like a

regular person face but a face made out of all that weird old bark. There were a couple big swirly

holes that were eyes and a bigger one for a mouth and a broken branch that was like a nose.

I was scared a little bit, maybe, but I didn’t run or nothing. My dad always told me not to be

scared, to always stand up straight like a man.

So, I heard this voice in my head, real old and deep. It sounded kinda dry and dusty almost.

The face on the big old tree didn’t move. Like I didn’t see the lips on the bark moving. But I could

tell the voice belonged to the tree.

He told me that his name was Bramblevines and not to be scared. And, um, he said he was a

spirit that had lived in that tree for like a real long time. He told me all that, just in my head. I could

hear it, but not in my ears.

Bramblevines asked me my name, and what I liked to do and how I was doing in school and

all that. I could answer him back just by thinking. We talked to each other in our heads like that for

a while.

10

Life is a vanishing Spring dream.

It is a shame that I haven’t gone mad.

Raizan

I

Hank White went to Tokyo to forget about the man he killed. Hank heard the bump as his

front right fender hit – it sounded like hitting a giant watermelon – and he caught a flash of blue

shirt as the man flew from the crumpled fender across the street and landed on the curb with another

watermelon sound.

After Hank killed the man, the state bar took his law license away. Cocaine. Alcohol.

Running over a man trying to cross the street when Hank came too fast around the corner of

Costello Avenue. Any one of the three would have been enough. They took his law license and sent

him to prison for four months. By the time he got out, Hank’s wife, his second one, was gone too.

Hank had no wife and no means of making a living. But he did, after thirteen years of law practice,

have some money his wife didn’t get.

So he went to Tokyo, where there were teeming millions who didn’t know him, couldn’t

understand what he said (because he sure as hell didn’t want to talk to anybody), and didn’t care if

he fell down in the street foaming at the mouth. Somewhere to hide, somewhere where nobody

cared.

In Tokyo Hank spent his days in his hotel bed and his nights in cubbyhole Japanese bars

drinking sake, booze that lets you drink as long as you like with no more effect than a warm feeling

of well-being, until you try to stand up and walk. The Japanese really had something there, and it

was the only thing Hank wanted anymore.

On his last day in Tokyo, Hank walked the back streets of the city, down narrow alleyways

with tiny restaurants and shops with brightly coloured half-curtains hanging over their entrances.

One of the shops was a used bookstore. Hank bought a book. A book filled with words he

couldn’t read, a remembrance of his time in a city where he could live without communicating at

all, except to find the bathroom and order a bottle of sake. A happy time, or at least as happy a time

as Hank thought he would ever have again.

It was an old book; Hank brushed a light coating of dust from the cover and was careful not

to damage the brittle pages. An ancient book with a woodblock print in the front and writing that

flowed down the pages, from top to bottom, as if the pen had a leak in it. It was a curiosity, maybe a

conversation starter, if Hank ever decided to have a conversation with another human being again.

The woodblock print showed people looking down at someone lying on the ground. Just a

curiosity.

Hank took the book back to California. A friend on the Asian Studies faculty at Berkeley

translated it. The friend said it was indeed very old and valuable; it would be nice if Hank donated it

to the university’s rare-book collection. Hank said that maybe he would.

“It’s called The Corruption of Things and it’s ancient Buddhist doctrine,” the friend said.

They talked about the book’s woodblock print; “Amazing, isn’t it. It’s a kusozu, a picture of a

decaying corpse.” Hank’s friend held the book in white-gloved hands.

“What are the people standing there for?” Hank said.

“They’re looking at the corpse, meditating on it.”

“What for?”

“Read the translation, you’ll see.”

11

Magazine of Horror, Fantasy and Science Fiction Order form/Subscription Form

Morpheus Tales Price Quantity

Morpheus Tales # 1 £3.30








Morpheus Tales 5 Issue Renew-subscription (Special Offer

to those renewing only! 5 issues for the price of 4!) (Unless

otherwise stated subscriptions will start with the current issue.) £11.00

Morpheus Tales 4 Issue Subscription (1 year)

To start with issue…. (Unless otherwise stated subscriptions will start with

the current issue.) £11.00

Sub-Total

Shipping outside the UK £1.50 per issue

£2.50 for 4 Issue

Subscription

Total

Name Delivery Address

www.morpheustales.com

Please make sure all cheques/money orders are made out in Great British Pounds and made payable to: Adam Bradley. Please send

payments and forms to: Adam Bradley, Morpheus Tales, 116 Muriel Street, London, N1 9QU, United Kingdom

morpheus tales #11 preview

Documents