Out of the Box

By The Superstars

These stories, poems, snippets and experiments are the responses to the first sixty prompts the Superstars have collectively tackled, from those heady days in 2014 when we first started scribbling together, right up to 2020. Quite often, over the years, we have found ourselves inspired to write things for prompts that have already gone by. Perhaps inspiration didn’t strike the first time out, maybe we had major life events to deal with and didn’t make the submissions window. For some of us it’s as simple as joining the group long after those prompts have been and gone. However they came to be, these are the prompts that got away. Including work by Rae Bailey, Nic Bescoby, Helen L. Bourne, Hannah Burns, G. Burton, Jessica Grace Coleman, T.J. Francis, Liz Hearson, Peter Jeffrey-Bourne, A. Lizard, Catherine Looser, Wayne Naylor, Lauren K. Nixon, Laura Sinclair, E.L. Tovey and Yvonne Ugarte.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Mysterium
• Release date: May 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463051955

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

INTRODUCTION

With five normal anthologies and one free anthology to get folks through lockdown, you’d think we’d have had enough - but no!

Usually, I would be using this space to explain our system (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, etc.), but this one is a bit different.

Instead of a year’s worth of prompted writing, this time you’re in for a treat: these stories, poems, snippets and experiments are the responses to the first sixty prompts the Superstars have collectively tackled, from those heady days in 2014 when we first started scribbling together, right up to 2020. Quite often, over the years, we have found ourselves inspired to write things for prompts that have already gone by. Perhaps inspiration didn’t strike the first time out, maybe we had major life events to deal with and didn’t make the submissions window. For some of us it’s as simple as joining the group long after those prompts have been and gone.

However they came to be, these are the prompts that got away.

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.

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.

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

Smoke Jumper(s)

Laura Sinclair

Gramma married a gnome. We called him Sven. They met while she was on holiday in Finland or Iceland, or one of those Norwegian countries. We couldn’t figure it out, because the story changed each time she told it. And he never spoke English around us, but somehow Gramma understood him. 

Sven was the one who taught Gramma how to make them, the smoke jumpers. She used to knit us a jumper every year, but they were made of soft lambswool, or alpaca, or even cotton, though those weren’t quite as warm. So we were a little surprised when the smoke jumpers appeared.

We called Gramma up in video chat, and asked what she had used.  The jumpers were super soft and warm, but had an odd smell to them, rather like a crisp winter morning when everyone has the fires going in their fireplaces.

Sven was behind her, his beard neatly trimmed. He said something to her in his language, and she nodded. Smoke, we used smoke, she said. Aren’t they fabulous?

And we all agreed they were.

They were so soft, too.  When school started, we all wore them, we three girls, and all our friends would stroke them, and ask if they could borrow them, and would Gramma make them one. We said we would ask, but we already knew the answer, which was no. Gramma wasn’t a factory. She made each jumper to somehow fit us exactly, perfectly, though we never sent her our sizes. We figured Sven must have had some powerful gnome magic, or perhaps Mum was sending her our measurements.

And in every class, there was that one girl, with the hangers on, who mocked our jumpers. Every single year. In my grade, it was Tammi, with an i, don’t you know. When she saw my jumper on the first day, she held her nose, and all her friends held their nose whenever I walked by them. At lunch time she declared that there was a horrible stench and wondered where it was coming from. Tammi was never nice to me, but she was being extra careful to be as mean as possible.

We had to suit up for P.E., and I carefully folded up my jumper, and put it in my locker, when I went out to do whatever stupid sport we were learning. I think it was Lacrosse. I didn’t know something weird was going on, until I got back to the gym, and there were all these paramedics around, and Tammi was being taken away on a stretcher.

My jumper was on the floor near my locker, none the worse for being there, but I found out later that Tammi had broken in, tried it on, was strutting around the locker room, showing it off when the smoke turned to real smoke, and her clothes lit on fire, and she started to run around screaming. I also learned that she had first and second degree burns over her entire body, and she would be in the hospital for weeks, which was fine by me, and many of her other victims.

When I told Gramma about it, I was worried the same thing might happen to me. Sven was standing behind her, as always. He said something in his language and Gramma nodded.

He says that smoke jumpers don’t like to be stolen. You can give them as a gift, but they get annoyed when someone they don’t like takes them.

Unquiet Ground

G. Burton

The cemetery was always strange;

The mossed grey slabs, like sentinels,

Stood over the narrow, grassy tombs:

Some raised like tiny hills,

Others sunken in, like flesh

Stretched over sharp cheekbones.

Some had flowers resting

At their uniform bases,

Some a tiny bell.

At night the land seemed ethereal,

The wind tiptoeing through the

Quiet grounds, leaving a tinkling

Sound in its wake.

It teased and caressed

The bells that hung

In front of the dark grey tombstones,

The chimes ringing out like glass

Being struck by metal.

A chime struck out that night,

The lone gravedigger pausing

In his thankless work,

Thankful for the break in carving

Out the solid ground,

Wondering if, this time,

The bells were ringing for a purpose.

By light next day,

The yew trees swayed in the wind,

The rustling of their leaves echoing

Like whispering mourners.

Crows cawed from their perches,

Piercing the silence,

The bells silent once more.

Strangest of all was the woman –

Not always seen, but always present –

Always in black,

Wandering aimlessly,

Fingers trailing a ghostly path

Across the tombstones.

Some that saw her were convinced

She was ordinary,

A simple, grieving widow.

Others took note

Of how often they saw her,

And how she never seemed to change.

Nevertheless they ignored her,

Letting her roam

Her unquiet ground.

The Wren Skip

Rae Bailey

The skip held bits of the old kitchen,

Rubble and roughness,

And trunk and roots of hawthorn

Hedge, grown to half a tree.

On discarded branches skipped a wren,

Shrieking cross at this

Wrenching away of food and home,

And my heart felt crushed

That my craving for change had

Harmed such a small and beautiful

Thing, flitting with life,

And too, how I could have a life

So blessed that this should

Hurt me so.

In this world are those whose

Pieces of home and family

Have been crushed so small

That they would not fill this skip,

Who have flitted through

Places to make them new,

Making fruit where they

Have met with thorns,

And yet, they too, in the midst

Of discarded and unblessed futures,

Can look upon this homeless

Wren and feel this sorrow still.

If I again long to increase my gifts,

Give me a light touch, not a heavy skip.

The Whisper Market

Laura Sinclair

Tallia had come to the Whisper Market for revenge.

Well, you can’t really buy revenge at the Whisper Market, any more than you can buy a walk, but just as you can buy shoes to walk in at the daytime market – the one in the city square – so could you buy the things you would need for revenge at the midnight market, which didn’t cater in whispers, but rather things that were whispered about.

She had sold her hair. She had hoped to use it to finance something else, such as her first business, after her apprenticeship. Or even for her dowry, if she had chosen to marry. 

But now, this time, it was for revenge.

When Tallia had first gotten word about her sister the first thing she thought — the first thing she hoped — was that she had lived. Sometimes, when one of the younger nobles got girls of her type in their grip, as a mistress, they actually kept them in good sorts, gave them gifts, gave them a place to live and made sure they were well fed.

But those nobles that have no land or title, those that hadn’t gone into law, the military, or the clergy, had nothing else to do with their time. They were the worst, and they had murdered her, after using her. Murdered her, and called it a tragic accident, and crowed about how sad it was. They had not offered compensation to her folks. They had just dumped her body in a pauper’s grave. Naturally, they were not charged with anything, because, of course it was an accident.

She stood before the booth, one of the ones she had heard of; the ones whose price is more than silver or gold. More than the money she had brought with her. 

What do you seek? the woman before her asked. She appeared to be her age, but her voice sounded old, and cracked, as though made of brittle paper. Her hands were smooth, but they shook when she lifted her wares.

Tallia put her coins on the table. I want revenge against Lord Thomas of Scranton, she said. 

The woman nodded. She looked over the vials she had on the table, tapping them, then shaking her head. Finally she selected a red bottle. When you are ready, you need to drink this, the woman said. But once you do, there is no turning back, no way to go back to the way things were before.

Will I be strong? Will I be unstoppable? Tallia asked.

The woman nodded. 

Will no one be able to come after me?

No one, the woman said.

But, there is a cost?

The woman nodded. You will pay the price once you drink it, the woman said, which didn’t make sense at the time.

Really, she ought to have asked more questions.

Tallia held on to the bottle, keeping it on her, waiting for the moment that she would use the vial. What is it they say, that revenge is best served cold? She wanted no one to suspect what she was doing.

A full summer and winter passed before Lord Thomas spotted her, and started to woo her, as he had her sister. She knew he wanted her for his mistress. She was not so foolish to think that he had changed his ways.

The first night she finally got him to bed with her, she did nothing. She let him ravage her as he saw fit, until he was worn out. As he lay beside her, sleeping, she drank the contents of the vial. It tasted bitter, and burned her throat. 

When the transformation began, she had no idea what was happening. Her whole body ached, as it moved and roiled, her bones snapping and reforming as she transformed into a small, green dragon. A small, green dragon with big, sharp teeth.

She left his signet ring behind, and bits of hair and bone.

No one ever caught her, for there are no such thing as dragons. Nor is there a market at midnight, where people whisper for wares, the price of which is more than silver and gold.

Parallel

Lauren K. Nixon

Try as he might, he could not stop himself from looking at the window.

When he had first sat down to read, the sun had been setting, lending a buttery warmth to the wicker chair in the corner of the room beneath the window. It had seemed so homely and cosy, he had been unable to resist taking out his book and settling in. The scent of his cocoa curled drowsily around him, swaddled as he was in the blanket he had taken from the end of the bed.

He did not know what it was that had woken him. Some tiny sound, perhaps, an incongruity on the air, a mouthless breath stirring the hairs on the back of his neck. But once he had crept to wakefulness, his book limp in his hand, the window held his full attention.

It was dark, now, and across the valley, dim lights from other homes glinted yellow, hinting at the warmth within. In this room, though, it was as cold as the grave.

He wanted to rise, to check the lock on the window he was sure he had latched – yes, he could see the hasp of it in place, limned in a sliver of silver moonlight. The window was shut, just as he remembered.

And yet…

And yet, here was a whisper; the suggestion of movement.

He held his breath, the sound of his own heart beating loud and unsteady in his breast. His mouth went dry.

The room was still, close. Expectant, like the pregnant pause before a summer storm – and then it came: the whisper of the curtain, as it trailed, dream-like across the peeling paint of the windowsill and then softly, silkily along the skin of his arm. His flesh tightened at the icy touch, as the lace made contact with every raised hair.

His eyes widened. His breath came in gasps, but he could no more move than tear his gaze from that delicate drapery as it wafted gently in a breeze that was not there. Again it touched his arm, grazing the skin. A shiver spasmed through his body.

The curtain stilled.

Particle by particle, the room regained its sense of normalcy. The sounds of the house – the ordinary creaks and groans of plumbing and heating – began to filter back into his consciousness. His limbs felt strangely heavy, as if he had run a great distance.

As soon as he was able, he fled the room.

Breathing hard, he steadied himself against the bathroom counter. The porcelain sink was cool and solid under his trembling hands, bolstering his frayed nerves. He did not dare look into the mirror.

It took him some time to come back to himself, caught as he was in a strange kind of unreality. Slowly, by increments, he talked himself into returning to his room, though his bare feet were hesitant on the hall carpet.

Again, that feeling of unreality stole over him.

The room looked just as it should: the bed untouched, the suitcase open, his shoes by the door. The blanket and his book had fallen to the floor as he had sprung out of the chair. Each object, each item had been rendered strange by fear. It had not looked so different in the daylight, he thought.

It must have been a dream.

It must have been a dream.

He rubbed his arm, still puckered up with goosebumps.

Must have been…

Though he thought he should, he could not make himself get into the bed. Somehow, it no longer seemed as if it was his. Instead he dressed quickly, out of the gaze of the window. He could not bear to draw the curtain.

With everything packed, he bent to retrieve his book, but when his eyes fell on the cover, the book was not his own.

He stared at it.

The book was not his own.

His had been a pulpy, train station paperback – a Penguin classic, but one of those light papered creations that one accumulates when travelling.

This, however, was a clothbound volume in cream and pale green, with gold paper ends and – when he checked – marbled end papers. A murder mystery. He checked the publication date: 1938.

On the title page, someone had inscribed, in gorgeous copperplate, For Cecily – and the date. The 16th of March, 1939.

There was something pressed between the pages. He allowed the book to fall open: tucked safely inside was a spray of tiny flowers – little puffs of petals on thin branches. There was the suggestion of white in the petals. Gypsophilia, perhaps. Gingerly holding the stem up to the light, he wondered at it.

He had been using a leaf as a bookmark – he had picked it up outside the church the day before, part of the first fall of the autumn. Now he wondered who might find it.

All at once, the impression came to mind of a woman in a cotton print dress, twirling the large red leaf, a puzzled expression on her face. For a moment it felt as if he could really see her there, beside the window. He could almost reach out and touch her.

Then their eyes met, widened – and she was gone.

He waited, feeling his heart jump about in his chest, but the room was quiet. There was no woman, no strange movement of the curtains. No leaf.

Just a book that was not his own, and a sprig of dried flowers in his hand.

Peppermint Grove

G. Burton

Life had been different on Peppermint Grove

Ever since the virus.

There had been clapping

And silence,

Marks of respect,

Fundraisers,

And socially distanced street parties for VE Day.

Funerals

And birthdays,

Socialising in front gardens

And waving from windows.

Gardening became an occupation,

Neighbours offering tips and tricks,

Packets of seeds posted through letterboxes.

The milkman had been

Every day,

Finding things that people needed

Like eggs and bread

And leaving them out on the step.

Foxes and hedgehogs

Reclaimed the streets,

Snuffling about in the quiet evenings.

Lockdown to Tier 3,

Not much had changed.

Christmas would be strange –

Bubbles being formed,

Those that had no family coming together

For zoom quizzes

And garden parties.

2021 and a vaccination programme in place,

Here’s hoping for a better year.

Still Peppermint Grove goes on,

Adapts,

Evolves.

From The Letters of Ms. Annie Strange

Wayne Naylor

Dear Sir Regulus Beonwight the Forty-Second,

I was delighted to learn of your upcoming visit to the family plantation. I understand that you worked with my late father Lord Aneurin Strange for many years prior to his death. I should very much like to hear your recollections of him when you arrive.

I assure you that the villa is currently under the excellent management of Stewardess Hesworth and that Master Kieran has been keeping the workers efficient and capable as they continue to both tend the fields and manage the mines. I do hope that things are not too quiet for your liking. My tutor and guardian Sir Songwind informs me that you enjoy far more busy surroundings in Fencosta, especially with all the sea trade that comes to the capital.

I shall look forward to your visit over the next couple of weeks. Perhaps we can work on the details of your potential operation of the mines, as you have discussed with Master Kieran. I have been fully briefed as to your expected salary and found your initial recommendation letters promising indicators of your skills.

I pray your voyage is safe and untroubled, and that you find your way to our quaint town with little difficulty.

Yours in good faith,

Annie Strange, Ms.

***

Dear Sir Regulus Beonwight the Forty-Second,

It has been three weeks since your visit. I was most glad, while you were here, to hear tales of your last visit with my father. I am grateful to you for regaling us with remembrances of his antics and how demanding he could be. I am also pleased that you chose to accept our terms for attending our plantation, and subsequently taking joint responsibility of our silver mines with myself.

We have been preparing your accommodation according to your instruction and look forward to your presence being a more permanent fixture. Are there any further items you require? We added maps of the mines and the reports of the last several months to your office and I also moved my father’s trusted tree (pot and all) to be a key centre-piece, as per your original request. That was quite an adventure, in and of itself!

Your observations as per Sir Songwind’s ‘aptitude’ for ‘music’ may have some truth to them, but I promise you he has been suitably chastised and is now fine-tuning his performance by using the proper instrumentation, that is to say he is using my collection of wax cylinders and the famous rural operatic singer, Serabelle, in place of himself.

After you departed, I had Cook look up those recipes you recalled and the Charred Pork with Savoury Apples is definitely a personal favourite. Thank you for the recommendation.

Master Kieran asks me to request the acquisition of two oxen and a rigging crane to be used to access the deeper shafts. Since the accident we haven’t been able to reach the deeper veins due to the lack of an elevator. He seems to think that with your authority, the exhaustive legal paperwork generated by the acquisition of livestock should be far simpler. He believes the team would be advantageous to the expansion of the mine.

As we expect you to return within the next two weeks, I enclose a writ sealed with the ring you bade me give you, to serve as proof to allow you to access the funds required for said purchase if you are able.

I hope you are well, Sir, and that you are looking forward to a prolonged stay as much as we look forward to your extended presence.

Yours with warm regards,

Annie Strange, Ms.

***

Dear Sir Regulus Beonwight,

I apologise for being so busy in the last several weeks and being away from the villa. This business of visiting Father’s old contractual workers in order to satisfy our requirement for increased labour has taken far more time than I imagined. I trust all is being kept orderly until my return.

The latest packet of letters from the staff have suggested that things have been steady and smooth under your leadership, though I daresay Sir Songwind is a touch put out that he is no longer managing all the affairs in my absences.

I spoke with Lord Karl at significant length about your previous time at the manor and I have learned what the business with my father that you declined to speak of entailed. I understand why, now, but I do wish you had informed me of how he used to conduct business. I daresay I will trust your judgement all the more, considering what would have happened if you’d let father have his way back then. The safety of the mines and our workers is worth significantly more than the silver we’re extracting and it would seem that father got too greedy. I can see now how the mines collapsed.

With this in mind I’d like to ask you to put some of the money intended for the upkeep of the villa towards further reinforcing of the mines, in particular the lift shaft. It might be possible to consider laying tracks for carts and therefore ease the labour of our men.

I do hope you all remain well. It shall be a few more weeks before I can return.

Incidentally, I picked up a most fascinating volume that I think you will find most interesting considering your passion for new political ideas. I shall be bringing it back myself to ensure its safe delivery.

Kindly Yours,

Annie Strange, Ms.

***

Dear Sir Beonwight,

I write to you from the study of one of my father’s associates, Darias Fliptfell, that he wishes to meet with you and discuss a potential business arrangement regarding the mines. I am due to return to the villa in three days and he shall be accompanying me. Please will you see that the guest quarters are property attended to. Sir Songwind will know exactly what needs doing.

Ms. Annie Strange

***

Dear Regulus,

I am most grateful that you dealt with that cad! I have been fending off his advances for some time, but it was growing tiresome. I feel sullied enough by accepting his financially reasonable proposition for the mines, yet I am gratified he is not letting business relations between our houses be soured over my lack of affection for him. I suspect if you hadn’t fenced him in, considering his fanciful promises, that he would have reneged on our deal as soon as I turned his marriage proposal down.

Considering your proposition I would be happy to discuss it over the evening meal upon your return from Mr Fliptfell’s abode. You have been a valuable asset to the villa and myself of course over these last few months and I should like to explore your ideas.

I look forward to your return at the end of the week.

Annie

***

Dear Regulus

My dear friend, the fair you organised last week is something I dare say I will treasure the memory of for as long as I live. The music and laughter, the fireworks and the hounds – they were exactly the tonic we needed after our weeks of legal toil. It would be remiss of me not to mention your stellar companionship. I admit it took me some time to notice your iconic hat, bedazzled as I was by the ornamental lights of the holiday. Would that we decorated the manor in such a fashion.

The Devourer of Fire was quite an enthralling escapade. Such a dramatic show! You might think they had even planned it! What are your thoughts? Did they intend to set the very tips of the tent afire? They were certainly prepared for such an eventuality – and it made quite the spectacle.

That thrilling exhibition at the heart of the affair was almost as frightful as the fire. The trio of bears! It was so surreal how they interacted with one another, and with their handlers. Almost as if they knew they were performing, but needed to make it look authentic. The tension of them holding back from hurting each other was palpable until that third and final bout.

More even than the bears, I remember your fingers lighting on my arm and waist, and pulling me away in case things got out of hand. I didn’t know whether to admonish you or thank you. I realise now I should be thanking you. I apologise for my lack of manners in that moment, as the bears had to be re-handled. I felt rather impassioned, it was so cruel seeing the smaller one pinned to the floor and the blood weeping from her wounds. I can’t believe we used to use similar collars on indentured slaves. I’m so glad we’ve moved away from such a barbaric practice.

I do hope that my company was not too strange or too familiar for you. I have grown accustomed to your presence these last several months. With you shouldering the affairs of the mines whilst I continue to organise the plantation and the running of the manor, I find myself with more time on my hands. Would you believe that the mayor approached me from the town and asked if I wished to put my head upon the block and run for office?

There is so much going on lately. I feel, sometimes, like the stars and the earth are shifting around us.

Like the eye of something unknowable gazes upon our lives. Fate or some such.

I am writing nonsense, but nonsense is half of all I feel of late.

Annie

***

Regulus,

After a pause in my thoughts to evaluate various matters, I would like to turn this letter into an invitation. If your busy schedule allows, would you attend me in the study at your earliest convenience so that we may discuss certain proposals?

I realise that, being the owner of this residence, this would not normally be a request, but an instruction. However, I wish to assure you that this is entirely an optional meeting and should you reply with a rebuttal via my messenger I shall not take offence – or at least, not too much.

With regards by firelight,

Annie Strange

***

Regulus

I instructed Cook to give this to you. There was an accident at the mines this morning, come post-haste.

A

***

Dearest Reggie,

What with last week’s regrettable incident we missed our mutual appointment. It would seem that some of our recent workers were recruited directly from Darias Fliptfell, and those were the men involved. I will have to pay him a personal visit and instruct him to have his men better trained in the handling of explosives. If I can get his personal assurance that this was entirely an accident, I may continue to do business with him. Otherwise, we may have to look elsewhere to recruit labour.

I appreciate your quick-thinking when you instructed me to leave the mineshaft. If I had lingered I may not have been as lucky as you were. When the beams buckled and the roof caved in I thought we were all finished. That initial explosion had done quite a lot of damage, far more than we thought.

My heart is gladdened by the news that you have recovered now from the injuries you sustained through your efforts to save the trapped work team. The doctors inform me you may need a cane in the long term and I have chosen one from Father’s belongings that you will likely approve of. When the tunnel collapsed I admit I was gravely concerned. It made me realise that I wished to seriously consider your proposals. That is to say, I wish to seriously consider one of your proposals in particular.