Voices of the Winter Solstice II: The Ending Place

Bookwalking

Myna Chang

The first time Jill told her father she had a superpower—that she could step into a book and explore the world inside—he’d humored her. When she told him the Enchanted Forest smelled like candied apples, he’d chuckled.

“Come see, Daddy!”

He shook his head. “Let’s hunt seashells instead, Jilly-bean. A real adventure.”

Bookwalking became her most joyful secret, especially in school. She waltzed through textbooks, gliding between letters and numbers, absorbing even the most complex information.

But, no matter how fantastical her ability seemed, it was useless to her now.

She slammed the cardiology textbook shut and scowled at the stacks of medical books towering around her. She’d bookwalked across half the library, from heart anatomy to advanced surgical techniques, desperate to find something her father’s doctors had missed. Frustration surged hot and she shoved the nearest stack. The column of books collapsed in a heap.

Even with her superpower, she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t save her father. She slumped, staring blankly at the mess. Then an unexpected image came into focus, on the cover of a discarded book: a beach dotted with glistening seashells under a pink-washed sunset. She released a shaky breath, recognizing, finally, the only thing she could do.

At her father’s bedside, she showed him the picture. “Wanna hunt seashells?”

His brow wrinkled. “A real adventure, Jilly-bean?”

“Come see, Daddy.” She took his hand and stepped into the book. He gasped, then grinned. She savored his laughter as he dug his toes into the warm sand.

Would you, Empress

Tara Campbell

had you seen the scimitar arcing toward your neck, had you not been blindfolded on your knees in the Elf Sultan’s palace, the result of your fateful decision to push your armies beyond the limitations of troop numbers and munitions, had you not even become embroiled in this war, spawned of the most maddeningly flimsy offense, an insult slighter than the wing of a damselfly, and (even more maddeningly) completely unintended, but for that, no less fateful—for truly, had the Elf Sultan not been strolling the grounds with his youngest daughter that afternoon, or had she not stopped to smell the teacup snapdragon, or at least hadn’t leaned in quite so close (which wasn’t even necessary, given the well-known potency of the scent of the teacup snapdragon), or had that impudent bee just been lounging in a different blossom, drowsing off his surfeit of nectar, or had the bee not been startled out of his dozing, or simply exercised a bit more restraint and chosen not to make a comment about the size of the nose poking into its flower, or had at least not called it a “schnoz” or referred to it as “massive,” or at least not quite so loudly; or if the Sultan’s daughter simply hadn’t heard the commentary of this disreputable bee, or had not gasped at its disrespect, or had not been so close as to inhale a noseful of pollen, or had at least not sneezed, or had at least sneezed a daintier sneeze (the thunderous sneeze that actually transpired perhaps shedding some light on the validity of the comment in question), or if the visiting Ambassador of Tremuloides had not heard the sneeze emanating from the putatively massive schnoz, or had the ambassador not jumped at the sneeze, or if the Sultan had read the jump as a jolt of surprise rather than a twitch of guilt for having made such a wretched comment about his daughter’s undeniably substantial nose (and here one might attribute some of this misunderstanding to the Sultan’s lack of attention to his aides, who had informed him that the people of Tremuloides were known for their tendency to quake, a tendency that was in fact the origin of the name of their nation, but then again, one might attribute the Sultan’s lack of understanding, ironically, to his extreme learnedness, given that he misunderstood his aides’ references to “populace of Tremuloides” as bungled references to “Populus tremuloides” (“quaking aspen” in Latin)—indeed, had he only asked his aides why the arboreal composition of Tremuloides was of such importance), and had these smaller gaps of understanding not metastasized into insult and offense and anger and gauntlets thrown and armies raised and villages burned and empires ransacked, would you, Empress of Tremuloides, kneeling in the palace of the Elf Sultan, had a blindfold not covered your eyes, had you seen the ravenous scimitar streaking toward your skin, still have parted your lips to thank the Elf Sultan for allowing you to appreciate the scent of the lovely teacup snapdragons in his garden, opening up just the tiniest window for peace to slip through?

Sheltering in Place

Janna Miller

In every well-constructed house is an oblong hole, a shifted brick, a crack under the door to let the spirits in. A place in the rafters wide open to the chill on a winter night when the wind is howling, the sleet falls sideways, and the fog creeps and shambles.

In every well-constructed house is a row of urns, a mantel of pictures, yellowed and cracked in sepia fissures. They will shake in the wind, the rain, the fog. They will open to the howls, the groans. They will greet the elements and comfort them. Shh shh. The outside world is not so scary. What is left for you to be afraid of?

In every well-constructed house, the spirits perch in the dusty corners, rest in the purposefully hidden cabinet spaces. Warm their hands by the altar candle flames. They have places to roost and nuzzle alongside the living. 

It is a study in this world and the next. All well-constructed houses know this. They keep themselves open to the dark and wind and the possibilities of place. To new and the old that come roaring in on the darkest night, seeking shelter.

Destination

Teresa Berkowitz

The scanner is buggy. I feel the impatience of travelers behind me. I lean close so that my iris is completely illuminated, and finally the kiosk prompts me for my destination. “Can a destination be a person?” I think. The kiosk beeps impatiently — wistfulness has no place when the algorithms are trying to keep everything moving. Dutifully I move my gaze to select the agriculture pods at the far side of the colony. After the transfer of debits and confirmation flash before my eyes, I gather my small bag and run for the tube.

You had asked me to join you many times, but I always said no. A life under the dome tending seedlings seemed so ordinary. I wanted to be part of the discovery team. Maybe I would find the planet we would call home. I didn’t like the smell of microbial loam. I liked the filtered air and the cool temps that keep our AI at the perfect temperature for seeking and searching.

We each had a role to play.

We talked often. Then rarely.

Then the AI calculated that our survival as a species required that we end our search, settle and make our own replacements. Maybe our children’s children will find a solar system to call home. Or maybe this manmade world will be all they know or want.

We built a new kind of Eden tethered to this toxic but resource-rich solar system. I should have come right away, but I got lost in new tasks, working with the AI to oversee the mining and building operations as we expanded community by community, all connected by tube trains.

I did my job well. Reviewing the data, assessing the AI recommendations.  And you! You built lush gardens on an uninhabitable moon! When you recommended that we plant heirloom and legacy seeds, I assured the AI that there was a value to lush tomatoes seasoned with herbs that did not show up on nutritional analyses.

The fruits of your labors made me long to touch your hand and look into your eyes, green as the leaves you tend. And so here I am in the observation car, passengers packed like sardines in tin. The man next to me sleeps, his eyes hidden by a sleep mask. He snores and I am reminded of laying my head on your chest, falling asleep to the sounds of you.

When I told you I would be taking the tube train I made it sound like it was official business. Did you see through my ruse? I fear that if you had, you may have said no. The truth is the end of our quest could mean something new for us.

The train pulls into the station on your moon. The stars are milk spilled across onyx. The greenhouse domes look like dew drops on the horizon. I can see you on the platform, sturdy but older. You smile and I hope that you will ask again.

At the Marsh of Kelkelskeep

Constance Malloy

The season of the Quayquayque is behind us. No longer do we sit on the orange beaches of Naynaybeck, our faces lifted towards a loving sun. No longer do we sip fresh water from the shores of Sosonoore. No longer do we, mouths wide and welcoming, fill our lungs with breaths sustained and deep. We are the Quayquauque of Naynaybeck, and our season is no longer.

An unexpected friend died three mornings past. Bowed, my sorrow deep, I promised to travel to the marshes of Kelkelskeep in search of his beloved Enallagma Civile damselfly; colloquially, the Familiar Bluet. The deceased, a researcher, when researchers held firm the hope of saving our world, celebrated the damselfly, The male’s back, cerulean blue, like the sky before the time of white-day.

As the sun melted behind me, I began my many-day journey to Kelkelskeep. My friend’s desire to see once again his Familiar Bluet, motivated my steps. His despair that they, too, might be vanquished from this plane, hastened my pace, fearing I may be too late to behold this wonderous creature.

At no time in our studies did we witness males being combative. Peaceful to a fault, I tell you. Free of any egomaniacal tendencies. They don’t even court females.

As the gloaming passed into full night, I emerged from a charred wood, stumbling, breathless by the sight of leveled farmlands where the last urtartar had detonated. Clusters of phosphorescent green glass littered the moonlit landscape.

Now, the last day, I walk until the morning sun sears the horizon, forcing finality upon me. Never again will the planting be a planting, nor the harvest a harvest. Never again will golden whisps of wheat become bread.

Arriving atop an embankment, I draw in a long, wandering breath. The dank air wafting upwards signals I have arrived at Kelkelskeep. Traversing the shallow wall, I move to the marsh’s receding edge. Quietly, I wait.

Nothing.

Unclothed, I sit, crossed legged, in the ankle-deep water, head lifted towards the menacing sun. To feel its warmth one last time upon my flesh, I will suffer blistering before death.

Ah, a prickling on my knee. The Familiar Bluet is here, casting the sky of my childhood upon my ivory skin.

He lingers, gesturing no retreat.

“I thought you didn’t court females,” I tease.

I am the Quayquayque of Naynaybeck, and my season has ended.

Sickle Dance

Jennifer Worrell

Eexdes’ three eyes fused for the last quarter of the game. Even with sharper focus, ee couldn’t offer ees professor a more astute observation than the obvious one. 

“They keep making the same plays, over and over. Throw the ball, run toward the goal, get knocked down. Repeatedly. If they fumble, they concede control to the opposing team and renew the sequence. Every game is basically the same, despite assurances to the contrary.” 

“Yet humans watch every time they’re projected.” Professor Ner’ets tipped up nes glass of metheglin. The faint scent of honey and clove lingered only as long as nes smile. 

“Can’t lose faith,” said the quarterback, via screen above the bar. He scratched his head vigorously, spraying the news anchor with sweat. “We’re struggling to run the ball, but we just have to keep attacking. Gotta keep doing what we do.”

Ee reached into the wooden bowl beside eem and deposited more Melimunch^® directly into ees fuel cavity. The taste transformed with every serving, depending on the variety of the batch.

The bartender smiled in ees direction, clearly pleased ee was enjoying the refreshments. It wasn’t so long ago Eexdes and Ner’ets’ kind were unwelcome anywhere on Earth. Seems humans could adapt to anything if it converged gradually enough. 

She waved a wand at the TV, switching to another sports feed. Different ball, different uniforms, goalposts connected by a net; otherwise, the activity seemed much the same.

Analyzing Hominid Behavior Through Repetitive Activity sounded like drudgery at first. A tangential waste of time meant to pad one’s academic credits, not legitimate research on humankind’s indifference to Earth’s decline. But each scenario Professor Ner’ets presented quickly led to Eexdes’ unsettled fascination. Patterns in humans’ factory work, for instance. AI movements were unnaturally smooth, mechanical, methodical. Humans possessed subtle, endearing imperfections that couldn’t be imitated precisely, even when Eexdes studied footage at one-quarter speed. The unconscious rhythm of digital fumblings, scratching of appendages, imperceptible lapses of memory coupled with the sounds of tools and machines transformed basic toil into a mesmerizing choreography no robot counterparts could replicate. 

Recreational activities were more difficult to scrutinize. The Earthlings’ delight and suspense in rote chaos was inexplicable, considering any game could only result in one of two outcomes.

“It’s never their fault,” said Eexdes, holding ees head in ees hands. “When the team’s loss is so clearly the result of an individual’s poor skill or nonexistent focus, they rarely admit shortcomings or defeat.” This was more to eemself than ees mentor, who had come to this bittersweet resignation centuries ago.

#

During Ner’ets’ own tutelage, they had become a morbid obsession confined to late-night consumption with window shades locked tight. 

Throughout history, Dhaassurians played intricate games calling for strategy, detection, deduction. Entertainment relied on philosophical discussion instead of physical exertion; very rarely with the aim of laying wagers, and never with narrow possibilities of outcomes. This was purely human folly. But watching their destruction had become a sport of its own, too compelling to ignore.

Ne pulled the bowl of Melimunch^® closer and regarded the dwindling quantity. Unbelievable that at one time, humans would never have imagined harvesting these. How did they devolve from revered species to cheap, ubiquitous snack? Sweetened or salted and devoured by the handful, poured from plastic containers directly into the mouth by the youngest generation, even as the older ones winced? 

There’s no point teaching what will be forgotten tomorrow, crushed beneath a boot when the last portion is crushed between the molars. Possessing only one brain perhaps bends time as well as truth.

This youngest generation of Earth humans is the last. They have acknowledged this, finally. A shrug toward a universe more indifferent than themselves.

They no longer learn to fix robot counterparts, but teach the robots to fix themselves, each other; detect ore deep in the earth that the humans missed; smelt and form it into replacement parts, until the last corpse is interred. Humans programmed sentience into these unfortunate beings and scheduled initialization for a year after the last of them is expected to expire. May their fictional guide have mercy if they miscalculated.

The old era had passed into the void, despite all warnings. Another gamble, a disregard of shortcomings.

#

Ne slid a map toward Eexdes’ drooping head. “The next solar system is here,” ne said, tapping a dot at the upper edge. “And the situation isn’t as dire, their inhabitants not as easily triggered.”

Eexdes nodded, apprehensive. Ees own miscalculations brought eem and Ner’ets to Earth a century too late. “Is there time, do you think? Will they listen?”

“They tend to assume goodwill. Whether they take our findings as preventative or accusatory, we’ll have to discover for ourselves.”

When ee had first disembarked from the ship, ee’d been amazed at the bounty that seemed to fill every curve of the Earth. Dhaassuria contained no fruited trees, no flowers or plants grown purely for beauty and scent. Gardens cultivated solely for a pleasant place to sit were unheard of. Despite this, humans purchased silk-tied collections of reaped flora that expired within days, though planting an hour’s worth of bulbs and seeds would produce a greater yield—of both beauty and indirect sustenance—indefinitely. A joke that reached into galaxies far beyond.

Ee narrowed ees eyes at the map, translating the distance to the next planet to light years. A full generation will have come of age by the time the nearest boundary is reached. 

The bartender brought eem and Ner’ets another drink, floating them on puddles of condensation left by the previous round. She then placed another bowl of Melimunch^® between the glasses. Fatter pieces, more prominent yellow and black striping: a colony of the highest quality.

“More protein in this batch,” she said, proudly. She roasts them herself daily, along with the spices and hops for the metheglin. “Salted them just a little, drizzled ’em with honey while we still have it, just a little. Sprinkled a little pollen to bring out the subtlety in the legs. Though the best ones sprinkle themselves, so they say, right? Perk you right up.”

She appeared nearly seventy Earth years, heavier than most, red threads lacing her nose and cheeks. Ner’ets simply smiled.

Ne dipped nes hand in again, a mindless maneuver, when ne was punctured by something sharp.

Ne pulled out the stinger and jabbed it into the moist wood of the bar until it disappeared.

The End

Lisa Short

“—ommy? Mommy, are you listening to me?”

I looked up blindly, the afterimage of the phone’s flashing display blotting out the lamp’s cheerful golden glow. Behind the green-black blobs oozing across my field of vision, Ellie’s eyes were fixed anxiously on my face.

“Mommy, you don’t have to go away again, do you?”

No. Yes. No—in time with the flashing display, but there really was no reason to think about that anymore, was there? I dropped the phone on the couch cushions and held out my arms to her; she dove into them and I hauled her up onto my lap. “My goodness, you’re getting big!—no, sweetie. Mommy doesn’t have to go anywhere.”

Ellie snuggled closed. I buried my nose in her soft clean hair, inhaling its delicate perfume. The room was silent and still around us, a bubble of perfect peace—my eyes stung and I squeezed them shut. Something thumped against my knee; I pried my eyes open and peered down at the book clutched in Ellie’s hand. “Hey, what do you have there?”

“My book,” said Ellie. She sat up a little straighter in my arms. “Can I read it to you?” The note of pride in her voice was unmistakable.

“What, really? That big book? That’s a big kid’s book!” A shy, pleased smile curved her mouth.

“Yes, please. I’d love that.”

In a flurry of limbs, we rearranged ourselves more comfortably; the couch was old, soft and doughy under me as I shifted Ellie’s not inconsiderable weight over to one side. My gaze skated past the phone, now wedged under my left thigh. The red lightning that had stormed across its display was gone, replaced by a countdown timer. 181…180…179…Well. There was nothing left for me to do about that now, if there ever had been.

“’Celia gazed in the mirror,’” read Ellie aloud. “’Her heart-shaped face’—Mommy? What’s a heart-shaped face?”

“Like mine,” I said. “Wide across the cheekbones, with a pointy chin.”

She giggled. “You don’t have a pointy chin!” She peered down at the book again. “’—looked sad. She missed her mother so much’—Mommy, I missed you so much. I wish you didn’t have to go on so many work trips.”

The pain in my gut was sudden and razor-sharp—how could nothing but an emotion hurt so badly?  “I wish I hadn’t too,” when I could speak. “But I’m so glad to be here with you now.” Against my will, my gaze skated over to the phone display. 59…58…57…and that had been a lie, hadn’t it? What I wanted more than anything was for Ellie not to be here, to be far, far away, hundreds and thousands of miles away—

“I’m glad too.”

—but by the time you know about an intercontinental ballistic missile’s launch, it’s far too late to do anything about it.

Ellie took a deep breath. “’But Celia knew that today, Mom was coming home—'”

Myna Chang (she/her) is the author of The Potential of Radio and Rain (CutBank Books). Her writing has been selected for Flash Fiction America (W. W. Norton), Best Small Fictions, and CRAFT. She has won the Lascaux Prize in Creative Nonfiction and the New Millennium Award in Flash Fiction. She hosts the Electric Sheep speculative fiction reading series. Find her at MynaChang.com, or on Twitter or Bluesky at @MynaChang.

Tara Campbell is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, fiction co-editor at Barrelhouse Magazine, and graduate of American University’s MFA. Publication credits include Masters Review, Wigleaf, Electric Literature, CRAFT Literary, Apparition Lit, and Strange Horizons. She’s the author of a novel, two hybrid collections of poetry and prose, and two short story collections from feminist sci-fi publisher Aqueduct Press. Her sixth book, City of Dancing Gargoyles, is forthcoming from SFWP in September 2024. Find her at http://www.taracampbell.com

Librarian, mother, and minor trickster, Janna Miller has published in SmokeLong Quarterly, Cheap Pop, Whale Road Review, Necessary Fiction, Best Microfiction 2023, and others. Her story collection, “All Lovers Burn at the End of the World” is forthcoming from SLJ Editions in 2024. She is a blog editor for Luna Station Quarterly and a Sub Editor for SmokeLong Quarterly. Generally, if the toaster blows up, it is not her fault.

Teresa Berkowitz is a writer and poet from Portland, Maine. She grew up in a family of storytellers. She believes that the greatest truths can be found in fiction and real life can be strangely surreal and dramatic. 

Her work has been published in literary journals and anthologies. Teresa is founder and editor of TangledLocksJournal.com, an online literary journal. She is committed to amplifying writers’ voices in social media to enhance personal expression and impact positive change. You can connect with her on Teresaberkowitz.com. 

Constance Malloy is a writer, literary interviewer and a former editor of both fiction and creative non-fiction. Her writing, both shortlisted and anthologized, has been published in various literary online journals including Bending Genres, New Flash Fiction Review, and Janus Literary. The creator of The Burning Hearth Blog, she has interviewed David Naimon, the host of the “Between the Covers” podcast and is currently doing a six part series “The Echoes of Le Guin” featuring authors William Alexander and Le Guin’s biographer, Julie Phillips. Follow her at constancmalloy.com.

Jenny Worrell is a university library admin in Chicago, where she wears out the circulation staff with incessant book requests.  Her work appears or is forthcoming in subTerrain,/tƐmz/ Review, Inquisitive Eater, Underland Arcana, and other nifty places. Her first novel, Edge of Sundown, is expected to re-release later this year.  For more information, check out https://linktr.ee/JenniferWorrell.

Lisa Short is a Texas-born, Kansas-bred writer of fantasy, science fiction and horror. She has an honorable discharge from the United States Army, a degree in chemical engineering, and twenty years’ experience as a professional engineer. Lisa currently lives in Maryland with her husband, youngest child, father-in-law, two cats and a puppy. She is a member of SFWA, HWA and Codex.