This Way Up

By The Superstars

The fourth anthology by the talented, eclectic and disparate community of writers known as The Superstars, this exciting new collection of fiction, non-fiction, poetry and experiments is the result of twelve months of prompts, picked at random and posted on the first day of every month between December 2017 and November 2018, and curated by Lauren K. Nixon.

This year's work stems from a sense of liminality - of being on the edge of two worlds or states of being. Join our authors as they explore the weird and the wonderful, the normal and the arcane, the emotional and the physical, and the dangerous and the safe - and, ultimately, what it means to be human. From the dark things that lurk in human (or inhuman) hearts, to the things waiting for us after our final battles; from murder most foul, to meting out justice; from the agony of saying goodbye, to the joy of first falling in love;This Way Up has a little bit of everything.

Including work from: Emilie Addison, Han R. H. Allen, Rae Bailey, Hannah Burns, G. Burton, Jessica Grace Coleman, Hailie Drescher, Amina Farooq, J. A. Foley, T. J. Francis, Kim Hosking, Wayne Naylor, Lauren K. Nixon, Iain Shaw, Louise D. Smith, Ariadne Thayne and E. L. Tovey, and artwork from Naveen N. Bhat, Liz Hearson, Heather E. Page and PhoenixShaman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Mysterium
• Release date: Aug 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463838853

The Superstars

The SHORT STORY SUPERSTARS are a diverse community of authors, covering a vibrant and broad range of subjects, and curated by Lauren K. Nixon.

Book preview

To anyone who has ever looked at a book and thought, ‘I wonder if I can do that?’

OTHER TITLES

By The Superstars

From The Mysterium:

Title Not Included

Some Assembly Required

Functioning as Intended

By Rae Bailey

From The Mysterium:

Hey Kid

Echolocations (Coming soon)

By Jessica Grace Coleman

From Darker Times:

The Little Forest Series:

The Former World

Memento Mori

The Exalted

Carnival Masquerade

The Gloaming

The Downfall Trilogy:

The Downfall

By Hailie Drescher

From Tale Seekers:

Familiars' Calling (Coming soon)

By T. J. Francis

Sprinkles of Dust (Coming soon)

By Lauren K. Nixon

From The Mysterium:

Echoes of the Light

The Fox and the Fool

The House of Vines

Mayflies

By Iain Shaw

From Deadstar Publishing:

Age of Slavery

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First and foremost, the Superstars are a community - spread across the globe - of delightfully weird and disparate folk, who have in common the inescapable writer’s itch. Putting together an anthology like this cannot happen without the numerous hands, eyes and minds of a dedicated bunch of creative and practical people. Our own little group of writers and artists has continued to grow and develop this year, following the publication of our third volume of writings, and there are many people without whom this fourth anthology could not have been put together:

Firstly, no anthology could be created without the authors themselves, all of whom have stepped up to the mark, providing a wonderful variety of writing every month. Thank you all for offering up your scribblings, tolerating my editing and letting me nag you when needed!

This year, Heather, Liz, Naveen and PhoenixShaman have provided some extremely cool art for the chapter headings, which got everyone excited. Thanks guys! I never get tired of seeing our stories through your eyes and clever pens! There was so much excellent art this year that in some cases I couldn’t pick which one to use - so I just put all of it in!

The lovely cover was created through the creative wizardry of James at GoOnWrite.com - thanks again, James!

Many thanks must go to Naveen and Gemma, who kindly looked over the front matter, acknowledgements and introductions. Also to the hard-working last-pass editing team, Rae, Gemma and Tash, who double checked everything for typos.

Several people have contributed to our list of prompts this year, namely Sylvia Cavigli, Seb Edwards, Jess, Han, Amanda Stowe, Rae and myself! Thanks must also go to the group as a whole, for coming up with such a great title.

There are also a whole bunch of Superstars whose work isn't included in this anthology, but whom we love having around. Those members of the club who are always on hand to get discussions going, share creative ideas, read through our work and help us out of plotholes also need a big hand:

Gry Heidi Amundsen, Abigail Ash, James Baskett, Andrew Bishop, Rebecca Cannell, Julianna Comstock, Holly Crawford, Izzy de Bono, Seb Edwards, Michael Farren, Cynthia Holt, Dominic Hopkins, Sam Hopkins, Helen Jeffrey-Bourne, Peter Jeffrey-Bourne, Clare Keogh, James Leask, Philip Lickley, Paul Marr, Lina Martindale, Shaun Martindale, Finn McClellan, David McGonagall, Emma McNulty, Becca Miles, Carl Mitchell, Chris O’Brien, T. Palomar, Sophie Phillips, Kat Rieder, Corin Ward and Jennifer White. Really, knowing that we have a friendly audience and in-house critics is tremendously useful!

In terms of compiling the anthology, this would not have been possible without the troubleshooting abilities of Niall Fleming, who has a way with computers that seems like an island of calm in a library of chaos, and makes the perfect ‘cuppa tea’.

I need to give huge thanks to the Superstars’ in-house media and marketing team, without whom I would go mad. Well, more mad. There are a whole bunch of you, but particular thanks must go to Han, Tash, Bones, Kare and Jess.

It feels bizarre indeed to be writing a thank-you to myself, but I know if I hadn't made myself stick to curating the prompts and submissions, bouncing around the club like a crazy person and occasionally hassling people for stuff, I never would have written as much as I have these past few years. I'm also pretty pleased with how the anthology has turned out, so I'm glad I actually got around to putting it together. Yay! So, um... thanks, me!

- Lauren K. Nixon

(Curator)

Everyone involved in this project would like to thank their family and friends for their encouragement, support and patience, occasional meals and numerous cups of tea.

PICTURE CREDITS

Naveen N. Bhat provided the artwork for Tomorrow’s Photograph.

Liz Hearson provided the artwork for the following chapters: (I Found Out) Where the Ravens Went and The Clocktower is Calling.

Lauren K. Nixon provided the image for her ‘The Lost Poetry Office’.

Heather E. Page provided the artwork for Death by Delivery.

PhoenixShaman provided the artwork for the following chapters: The Whisper Market, Death by Delivery, (I Found Out) Where the Ravens Went, Paper Mosaics, Isle of Seven Cities, Bone Flowers, The Clocktower is Calling, Cabinet of Curiosities, The Lost Poetry Office, Love is Not Pink and Bad Bargain Lane.

Cover art by James at GoOnWrite.com

INTRODUCTION

Welcome to the fourth anthology by The Superstars!

This fresh collection of stories, poems, snippets and experiments is the result of twelve months of prompts, picked at random and posted on the first day of every month between December 2017 and November 2018.

The rules are simple: prompts are posted on the first day of the month and any Superstar inspired by it will compose a piece of creative writing of any form or genre, preferably between 100 and 10,000 words, to be presented to the group for critique on the last day of the month - in whatever state it's in.

Needless to say, these rules are frequently broken!

Originally, the idea was to generate a sort of writing game where people could tell the many tiny stories that we never seem to get around to telling and improve their writing in a friendly (and generally rather silly) environment. These days, it's also an outlet to get something published that we can look at and remember that anything is possible, if you put your mind to it.

It has to be said that our superstars are all rather odd, which is why we get on so well, and also possibly why all the entries go in totally unexpected directions. This, quite rightly, is all part of the fun, and keeps us all on our toes. Several times we've all remarked to one another that there's only one possible way for a particular prompt to be interpreted, only to be proved entirely wrong when the submissions come in at the end of the month!

I can’t adequately express how privileged I feel to be able to get a first glimpse of these pieces and to work with such enthusiastic and talented people.

This year our offerings include the standard array of prompts, including several suggested by members of our extended writing community. One is a little different: for the July Cabinet of Curiosities Challenge, Superstars were given a sort of heritage-based quest.

We have Superstars, now, from all over the place, from all kinds of backgrounds. Some of us are published or self-published; some of us write professionally, some of us have never written before; some of us are poets dabbling with prose, others are prose-writers temporarily stricken with poetry; some of us are more at home writing comic books, others write novels when they aren’t being Superstars, a few of us delve into non-fiction on a semi-regular basis. Our stories, musings and poems range as widely as we do, across love and loss, friendship and adventure, murder and magic, fantasy and family.

This year our prompts have sort of organised themselves along a theme of liminality without any actual conscious thought on our part. Liminal spaces or states are places or ways of being that exist on the threshold or boundary between things. Think of that strip of ground between land and sea, or the marshy area between the fields and the river, or the odd patch of weedy concrete in a city that’s neither one thing or another. In history and myth, these places are dangerous and enticing - places full of infinite possibility - and this is reflected in our prompts.

Each one is an exploration of the weirdness and sparks to be found edges of things - whether those edges are physical, mental, metaphorical, geographical, geological, corporeal, emotional, sexual, hypothetical, temporal, biological, genaeological, typographical or typological. In other words, they’re states where something, someplace, someone or somewhen are going through ch-ch-ch-changes, to misquote Bowie.

Oddly, I feel like we’ve killed fewer characters off this year than in previous anthologies, but I’m sure this is just because I have forgotten how gory some of the stories are.

I think I can speak for all of us when I say we hope you enjoy reading these fragments of our imagination as much as we enjoyed putting them together!

- Lauren K. Nixon

Curator

The Whisper Market

I wanted to kick off the new year’s selection of prompts with something that had enough ambiguity to lend itself to every possible genre.

For this one, I had Christina Rossetti’s Goblin Market in the back of my mind - that curious suggestion that there are places in the world that are not quite one thing or another, that exist in a sort of in-between, like those little shops you are convinced have vanished or moved, where you can find that book you’ve been wanting for years, or something not quite as mundane as you were expecting. They are often places you feel drawn to - and absolutely shouldn’t linger. They’re the kind of places filled with wonders and deadly to those who don’t keep their wits about them. Dangerous, but enticing.

Unconsciously, that sense of ‘otherness’ and liminal spaces became a sort of sub-theme of the prompts for this year - halfway between dangerous and safe; light and dark; waking and sleeping; life and death; time and stasis; magic and mundane; one thing and another. We exist in a sort of balance between many extremes, and the places where one thing becomes another, or two states of being touch, are often where the strange and more interesting things lurk.

Much like writing, I suppose!

Lauren

Come, You Spirits That Tend on Mortal Thoughts

by Han R. H. Allen

The maiden walked through the forest.

With only the moon to light the way, the trees took on a more sinister countenance, a place of in-betweens; half-light, half-shadow.

Everyone knew to avoid the forest at night, knew the old tales of will-o’-the-wisps and goblin markets, the inhuman morality of the sidhe, the spite of the fae.

But this was their only remaining route of escape.

Any woodland becomes treacherous at night, but this was an ancient forest whose trees grew wild, unsullied by man’s influence, as far removed from the domesticated trees by the roadside as wolves from docile lapdogs.

Never travel alone. Do not cross a fairy ring. Always carry old iron. Never stray from the path.

All these rules ignored, for the sake of a desperate hope.

Mist rose sinuously up from the mossy floor, coiling around tree trunks, reaching up to ensnare the unwary, and forming monstrous shapes in its roiling midst.

It is said that the hearts of the most ancient forests are places that remember the old ways, where the raw magic of creation still dwells.

A shadow peels away from its place, taking solid form; graceful, aquiline features, with a predator's smile.

It proffers the enticements of the fair.

Shapeshifter, trickster. Pray do not seek to ply me with your offerings, for I have come to trade. Spoken in a voice without fear, only a dire certainty of intent.

Movements bestial, it cocks its head in feigned surprise, while ancient eyes affix upon their prize.

*

On the distant side of the forest, the young man emerges from the forest, far from whence he came.

The light of dawn falls upon on his face for what feels like the first time. He takes one last deep breath of the forest’s heady perfume, an earthy incense of pine and petrichor, before setting forth.

Finally free.

The Whisper Market

by Rae Bailey

from Echolocations

I was a robust child

but I had

chicken pox German measles tonsillitis

back-to-back and missed

some things at school

the seven times table

I suspect

and also

stereotype tables

simpering, tittering

or at least biting my lip

and looking helpless

how to admire famous people

who are famous

for being famous

how to speak and hear

in Bland, which remains

a foreign language to me

how to see what people

really want from me

instead of wondering

how they are lying

But

I am so glad

I recovered

in time to be there

when Phil suddenly

leapt from his chair

and in the small space

between small tables

filled the classroom

singing and dancing

Let's Twist Again

with his whole self

his whole body

his whole voice

and our whole delight

Whisper Market

by G. Burton

Koma, Sindri, his father uttered, pulling him on by his hand.

The day was bright, the cold nipping at his nose and cheeks, left uncovered by his hat and his scarf. A perfect morning for what they were set to do; their smooth-soled shoes slipped and slithered over the icy cobbles. The mist crept around them, thickening, until it was almost suffocating.

Sindri gripped his father’s larger hand as best as he could, burrowing his nose in his scarf. His icy blue eyes peered curiously around at the houses and doorways they passed; each of them shut, barred against the cold and keeping their secrets within.

He wondered idly, as he was marched along, what stories each of them had witnessed. That one, perhaps, was a portal to the sea with the movement of the mist against the blue door mimicking the atmosphere beneath the surface, this ruby red one the palace of a prince. Each of them fantastical, whimsical, beautiful; strange, exciting and mysterious. This one, for instance, appeared darker, the mist surrounding it somehow thicker; the threshold a dour portal to a distant world. Sindri shivered, withdrawing away, unconsciously moving closer to his father. The comfort of his bulk was a welcome relief, as his eyes were riveted to that door as they passed.

Eventually they arrived, the mist breaking – a welcome oasis in the cold and the blue, the sun just shining just a fraction stronger, cutting its way through the murk. Stalls lined the road, their wares laid bare, delighting Sindri with colour and shine.

At the top of one line, an old woman sat. Her stall appeared to be devoid, the grey shawl around her shoulders contrasting with the white of her hair. Her eyes were closed and her smile serene; small, weather-worn hands clasped over her chest.

His father muttered, incomprehensibly, almost silently, and tried to tug him on. Resisting, Sindri stared at the woman, something about her drawing at his soul. He turned, intending to talk; surprised when his father rested a hand over his mouth.

You do not speak, his eyes warned. You must not speak.

Sindri had forgotten this rule, the one rule of the Whisper Market: if you weren’t careful, careless words could trap you in a contract against your will.

His father turned, releasing his hand; withdrawing some coins from his pocket he pointed at an item on the opposite stall and held out his hand. The vendor took coins from his hand; the transaction completed, the fowl wing was placed beneath his coat. Sindri watched, fascinated. He turned back to the woman, surprised to see that her eyes were slightly open, now, watching him.

He stared back at her, disbelieving when one hand moved out and beckoned him closer. Casting a nervous look at his father, now perusing a stall of wooden ladles, he moved. Standing in front of the woman he fiddled with the hem of his coat. Her chair (or was it her bones?) creaked as she leaned forwards, her hands open towards her wares.

Hvat gera þú líta? She whispered, and gestured to the stall. What do you want?

He looked at the table; a dirty coin, a rusted spoon, a sharp knife, a pointed needle and a small wooden horse. Shyly, hesitantly, he pointed at the knife.

Ah, a craftsman, she said, you want to make great things and have them known.

He stared at her, ducking his chin slightly in acknowledgement.

Ek em Arnbjörg, she said, her whitened eyes staring both at him and through him. Hverr eru þú?

Sindri, he whispered.

Her eyes lit up. Sindri; a magic maker.

She reached into a pocket, hidden beneath her shawl, withdrawing a large stone.

Touch this, she said, and if it glows you have been chosen.

Sindri stared at the stone. It was pale, unassuming, duller than the rusted blade that his father held on an evening. He glanced over his shoulder, finding his father standing behind him a little way, eyes wide at the interaction. His father’s eyes flicked between him and the stone, the meaning clear to Sindri. He’d started this, so it must be finished. Sindri wiped his small, sweaty palm on the rough fur of his trousers, and reached out, shaking, to rest his fingers against the rough surface. His fingertips tingled, the stone started to glow; a golden path being drawn from his fingertips to the centre of the stone. A gasped breath, a whispered approval, the slow shuffling of his father’s steps moving away. Sindri stood still, staring at the stone. He looked up at Arnbjörg.

What does this mean? He whispered.

It means you are destined for more. She looked through him, her ancient whitened eyes boring into his soul.

Whisker Market

by Hailie Drescher

Have you ever been to a whisker market? Actually, have you ever heard of a whisker market? No? I thought not. It is not a well-known phenomenon.

A whisker market is a market where cats come to play, shop and dish about humans. Only it isn’t just domestic cats who come to these markets, it's cats of all shapes and sizes. From lions and tigers to lynx, wildcats, and of course domestic tabbies, calicos and torties.

At these markets, you will find all cats completely at peace with one another. There is no hissing, growling, or fighting. They go about their business, shopping for all manner of things from catnip and various sizes of boxes, to soft cushions and fancy and plain collars.

There are pillows, boxes and window ledges placed in convenient places for customers to lounge in a sunbeam, or curl up for a nap. It’s a cat’s paradise, a whisker market.

But don’t go thinking you’re going to go and find a whisker market! Oh, no. They are super-secret gatherings in places where only cats are able to go – it is possible that magic is involved.

But how do I know about the whisker market? Well, now. That would be telling…

Whisper Market

by Amina Farooq

Heavy boots clanked onto the cobbled pavement, crushing the shards of glass littered about. Evidently, something had happened around here. Pale olive orbs aimlessly skimmed the expanse. He saw no reason to be bothered by the chaos, save for his own macabre need to satiate his curiosity. A sniff of the air and his nostrils flared as the intermixed scents of iron and leather hit him.

He could sense that a fight had taken place here – perhaps even a deadly one, going by the patches of crimson adorning the pillars, in the shape of handprints of two different sizes. His own moved to trace over the nearest one, fingertips gliding across the slashed mark until it disappeared into thin air. Lips curling into a brilliant smirk, he looked ahead but saw no one. Well, no one at first. The shift was subtle, almost mistakable, especially if one wasn’t paying close attention. The slight halo of light had Alex taking a step backwards, hands falling limp on either side. Shoulders slumping a bit, he canted his head to one side as he stared at the silhouette.

You should learn to hide yourself better. Shadows can’t lie, you know. His voice came out bored, mechanical, even as he pulled one hand up to stifle a yawn.

When the creature shifted, however, Alex didn’t move. He stayed his ground, only just shifting one hand up to scratch at his stubble. A tapered dagger stood gleaming at his right hip, secured by a belted clasp but he didn’t dare reach for it. He wasn’t looking for a fight like the last soul who had ventured here. Oh no, he was looking for the story. For the whispers. Shaking his head as the shadows began to lengthen and the stench of staleness grew near, he turned around, heaving a sigh.

We do not fear the shadows, a deep rumbling voice echoed around him and Alex nodded in ready agreement to that.

Yet still you hide. Why not show yourself if you’re that unafraid? he shot back, hand casually waving in the air.

He kicked at a bucket, the sound ricocheting around the still market, but he refrained from looking over his shoulder at the creature. He was here for answers. The creature circled him, taking note of his demeanour before it turned to cackling. Instantly, Alex whirled around letting his smile widen as he stared up at the beast. One swift motion and his hand reached down to pull the dagger out. He twirled it between his fingers, but didn’t raise it, not yet.

Crimson eyes glared back at him, watching him intently. The flash of sharp canines and the prickling of horns had shivers run down Alex’s back, but he didn’t strike yet. Biding his time was probably a bad idea, but he had to get the name first. The Whisper. The reason he was here.

You won’t get it, said the creature simply, before turning around and gliding up to the top of the pillar.

Shocked and mildly disappointed Alex craned his neck to follow it to the top. He harrumphed. What? he croaked out.

The answer you’re seeking, you won’t get it here. Whispers don’t stay here. They move… they turn into rumours. What you’re looking for is something you won’t find here anymore. Now it was the creature’s turn to enjoy toying with the human.

Pocketing the dagger, Alex slapped his hands to his sides before he looked around. Where can I find it, then?

There was an inhuman guffaw at his exasperation before the beast pulled one finger up to point behind him. Look in front of you.

***

A sharp slap of books and Alex was snapped out of his daydream. Squinting up at his friend who was slipping into the seat across from his, he swiped one furious hand over his face. Frustrated, Alex grumbled and pulled the nearest tome towards himself.

I know, I know... I slept again, but we’ve been basing this entire research project on cranberry juice on rumours alone. Just whispers that we’ve been hearing around. It’s rather silly if you ask me, and – just to clarify – I was not the one who broke the glass shelf in the market. That was you.

When he saw how irritated his friend seemed though, he simply huffed before he began flipping through the pages again. Apparently he was in for the silent treatment.

Right, he groused. I much preferred you when you were a hideous beast.

Whisper Market

by T. J. Francis

Have you heard? the gossips say,

Have you seen? they point and peek,

Did you know? the gossips say,

What’s the truth? the rumours seek.

At the market (the whisper market)

The gossip flies and people talk.

At the market (the whisper market)

The truth exists but stories sell.

Can you believe? the story goes,

Are you for real? the naïf exclaims,

Did they really? the jaded say,

Not again, the weary moan.

At the market (the whisper market)

A rumour sells for twice the truth.

At the market (the whisper market)

A man may die from someone’s word.

The wheel of fortune turns and twirls,

Reputations wrecked and lives unfurled.

Speculate and grasp at straws,

Who cares to expose your character flaws?

At the market (the whisper market)

It doesn’t matter if the gossip’s wrong.

At the market (the whisper market)

Men get rich on stories spun.

Fragments

by Wayne Naylor

The sky was a sickly fluorescent green over the busy market square. Surrounded by the tall glass and steel structures of the city, people passed on through en-masse in clothes designating all levels of society and oblivious to what was really occurring all around them. It was like existence was filtered as the modern day buildings gave way to wooden benches and tables dressed up with tapestries and woven cloth – a myriad of fantastical patterns. Glass orbs were suspended in the front of each stall, providing better light than the green sky and also advertising the names of the various street vendors and what they sold in animated words, twisting and flowing as if they were suspended in water.

At a glance, everybody present appeared human, however occasionally there were traits which indicated that was not entirely the case: some people were scaled; others had fur. Occasionally there were extra limbs, or even wings