Dragon Gems (Fall 2023)

By Water Dragon Publishing

Shiver during the long nights with these dark tales
Featuring stories by Brett Thomas Abrahamsen, Mike Adamson, Christopher Bond, John M Campbell, Arasibo Campeche, Brandon Case, Elizabeth Cobbe, Ryan Cole, Sarina Dorie, Monica Joyce Evans, P.G. Galalis, Kara L Hartz, Brian W. Hugenbruch, Andrew Rucker Jones, Andrew Kozma, Steven P. Mathes, Jen Mierisch, Iseult Murphy, Ira Nayman, Tarver Nova, Frank J. Oreto, Anthony Regolino, and Lauren Reynolds

• Language: English
• Publisher: Water Dragon Publishing
• Release date: Oct 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781962538145

Water Dragon Publishing

One of our primary goals is to create a publishing company where we treat authors the way we want to be treated as authors.We’re seeking your tales of fantasy and wonder.We’re here to help you get your book published, from start to finish.We’re here to make your dream of being a published author come true.

Book preview

Dragon Gems

Fall 2023

Published by Water Dragon Publishing

waterdragonpublishing.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for the purpose of review and/or reference, without explicit permission in writing from the publishers.

Cover design copyright © 2023 by Niki Lenhart

nikilen-designs.com

ISBN 978-1-962538-14-5 (EPUB)

First Edition

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Foreword

copyright © 2023 by Christine Morgan

Afterword

copyright © 2023 by Steven D. Brewer

The Absolution of Katy Bell

copyright © 2023 by Christopher Bond

Bacio di Satana

copyright © 2023 by Anthony Regolino

By the Sirens' Teeth

copyright © 2023 by Tarver Nova

The Cheshire Cat

copyright © 2023 by John M. Campbell

The Cutoff

copyright © 2023 by Jen Mierisch

The Dancing Bear

copyright © 2023 by Iseult Murphy

Decoration

copyright © 2023 by Frank J. Oreto

Forced Teaming

copyright © 2023 by Monica Joyce Evans

"Given pain, Suniverse ≥ 0"

copyright © 2023 by Arasibo Campeche

Guess This is Your Unlucky Day

copyright © 2023 by Ira Nayman

Hell Is a Five Letter Word

copyright © 2023 by Ryan Cole

I Dream of Darcy

copyright © 2023 by Sarina Dorie

Invasive Rose

copyright © 2023 by Steven P. Mathes

Knock, Knock, Wolf

copyright © 2023 by P.G. Galalis

A Most Marvelous Masquerade

copyright © 2023 by Lauren Reynolds

Only Once a Year

copyright © 2023 by Andrew Rucker Jones

Prometheus and the Pit Master

copyright © 2023 by Elizabeth Cobbe

Seeds So Sweetly Hollow

copyright © 2023 by Brandon Case

Snowball's Chance

copyright © 2023 by Kara L. Hartz

Something You Had, Something You Knew, and Something You Were

copyright © 2023 by Brian Hugenbruch

The Tale of the Black Knight and the White Princess

copyright © 2023 by Mike Adamson

Underground

copyright © 2023 by Brett Thomas Abrahamsen

Yourself, Standing There

copyright © 2023 by Andrew Kozma

Foreword

Hello, readers, and welcome to the latest Dragon Gems anthology! If you’re familiar with the series, you may notice the contents of this particular volume veers in a rather darker direction than some of its predecessors.

I blame the editor. That’s what happens when you put someone who primarily reads and writes horror, often of the extreme variety, in charge of something like this. The eerier and creepier and more monstrous just tend to resonate more strongly in such a person’s mind.

Which isn’t to say it’s the only reason, oh, no. Quality writing and engaging storytelling are always the primary factors in the final decision-making. And to be honest, picking stories that look to need the least actual editing later down the line makes the end-job a lot easier.

So, yeah, I blame the editor. What a bent weirdo — oh, wait, that’s me.

Anyway, here we are, with all kinds of goodness in store, only mere pages away! And what, perchance, might you find herein? A wide-ranging variety of fantastical, fanciful, funny, and fearful tales, each packing its own emotional punch. By a variety of equally wide-ranging writers, bringing international and diverse perspectives as well as unique and strong voices.

From the fairytale-esque to the futuristic … trauma and tragedy … physical, psychological, or spiritual sufferings … lives and loves lost … wishes come true and nightmares made real … inexplicable appearances and cosmic entities … the dead, the dreaming, the damned … rituals and revenge and redemption … flora and fauna … strange magics … bitter grudges … on scales from the intimately personal to the consumingly cosmic …

Hopefully, dear readers, you’ll be moved in many ways and on many levels. Hopefully you’ll shiver, laugh, cry, cringe, thrill, and rejoice. Maybe you’ll learn something you didn’t know before, or think about things in a new way, or have the eyes of your imagination opened to whole new experiences.

Most of all, though, as is the ultimate goal and purpose of storytelling, hopefully you will be affected and entertained. I think you will. I know I sure was.

And, to the authors — thank you for doing what you do and doing it so well; reading through submissions often feels like being that metal-detector guy on Oak Island, especially when the top-pocket finds and real bobby-dazzlers turn up.

Christine Morgan

Acquisitions Editor and

Splatterpunk Award winning author of Lakehouse Infernal

Ira Nayman writes humor. He is the author of eight comic science fiction novels published by Elsewhen Press. Ira has self-published in print thirteen collections of Alternate Reality News Service articles taken from Les Pages aux Folles, the web site of political and social satire that he has updated weekly for over twenty years. For three years, Ira was the editor of Amazing Stories magazine. He is currently editing an anthology called The Dance for Dark Dragon Press.

•          •          •

At the beginning of 2023, I was inspired to write a series of short stories that take place at the Canadian National Exhibition, a large annual fair that takes place in my home city of Toronto. Guess This is Your Unlucky Day was one of eleven stories, including one novella, that I wrote for this series in the first half of the year. I had been going to the CNE since I was a kid, but had to stop because of COVID. I guess these stories were my way of showing how much I loved — and missed — attending.

Guess This is Your Unlucky Day

Ira Nayman

The woman standing before me was all legs. She — I don’t mean that literally. Obviously. She wasn’t, like, a pair of chopsticks clomping around. That would be weird. Or two ladders alternately placing themselves one in front of the other to move forward. It could make firefighting easier, but still. I mean, she had a body and a head and stuff. She –

Okay, I’m going to start again. The woman standing before me had legs up to here. She — you know, that’s not much better. Every woman has legs up to wherever they end — every man, too, if it comes to that. Everybody’s legs are as long as they are. We kind of can’t help it.

What I’m trying to say is that the woman’s legs were a disproportionately large part of her height. They were long and shapely. In my line of work, you tend to notice such things.

I’m a stockbroker most of the year. That … that’s not actually the job that requires you to pay close attention to people’s bodies — that’s just a perk. No, for ten days in the summer, I run the guess your age or weight booth at the Canadian National Exhibition. The hours are terrible (from 10 in the morning to about midnight), I joke, but at least the pay sucks. Ha ha. I find it makes a great break from buying low and selling high most of the rest of the year.

I had just opened the game (which entails opening the front of the booth to reveal the prizes people win if I guess wrong, and bringing the scale and speaker out from the back of the booth) when the woman walked up to me. I should probably mention that, in addition to the legs, she had a full head of red hair, a perfect moon face with eyes greener than an American dollar bill, rich red lips, and a full figure. If I hadn’t practiced public patter for a couple of decades, she would have left me speechless.

Well, well, she said in a sensuous voice. What do we have here?

Looks like [UNINTELLIGIBLE], the troll on her arm answered. He was a good foot shorter than the woman, with a face so blunt most people would be offended just looking at it. I didn’t quite catch what he said; I figured it was Croatian or some other Slavic language.

The woman laughed easily. Then, she asked, So, what is this booth for?

Are you willing to test your luck against my professional eye? I responded. "I’ll make you an offer: for a mere five or ten dollars, I will scrutinize every inch of your body to determine your weight, or analyze every line and wrinkle of your face to determine your age. If I guess within two years of your age or three pounds of your weight, we all have a good laugh. If I guess wrong, we have a good laugh and you choose one of the stuffed figures as a prize. I usually tell potential players that this game can be hard on one’s vanity, but I suspect in your case that won’t be true."

This sounds like fun, Fremulon, the woman said to the man, ignoring the compliment. Shall we try it?

With a shrug, her companion took out a wallet and handed me a ten dollar bill. We’re here for the experience, Mona, he answered without enthusiasm. So, experience.

Smiling, Mona asked me, How old do you think I am?

I looked at her face while pattering, You know, agelation is not an exact science, but there are some guidelines that make it easier to come to a correct conclusion …

She had no wrinkles around her eyes, so, Botox notwithstanding, she was probably young. (Botox — please! Don’t get me started!) She stood tall with straight shoulders, which reinforced the idea that she was young: the random traumas of living did not seem to have taken their toll on her. Before I was forced to commit myself to a number, I had a trick or two to play.

"While I’m weighing my options, I continued, might I ask: what is your favourite movie?" This is a good ploy, as it often gives me a baseline for calculating somebody’s age.

I don’t know that I have a favourite, Mona replied, "but I have always been partial to Sherlock, Jr. I have seen it many times, and it always makes me laugh."

I had never heard of the film, so no help there. I tried another tactic. Barack Obama — he made a much better President than George W. Bush, didn’t he? (Yes, I used American politics as a yardstick. Don’t judge. My experience is that, tourists aside, even Canadians know more about American politics than they do about Canadian politics, so it was a more reliable measure. Blame the education system.)

I’m sure I wouldn’t know, Mona answered. Zero for two.

Before I could ask another question, the man next to her (Fremulous? Freemason? I should have paid closer attention, but the woman was an attention magnet) said, Mona, you know this is not fair.

Nodding, Mona confided to me, I’m older than I look.

Like, in your forties?

Mona laughed. I love the Exhibition! she enthused. Then, she added, Perhaps you’re right, my love. Sir —

My name is Bill, I told her.

Sir, she insisted, Might I change the game to a guess of my weight instead of age?

Certainly. The customer is always right.

My approach to guessing weight was to compare the person’s height to mine, then weigh factors like — oh, weigh. Ha ha. I hadn’t planned it that time. Factor in things like bone structure, sex and obvious things like a paunch or protruding bones. It may sound hit or miss, but I was within the margin of three pounds more often than not. Far more often. I try to be good at everything I do.

I’m five ten and muscular. Mona looked to be around the same height, and was zaftig. (No, I’m not Jewish — not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I do work with people of the Jewish persuasion, and, anyway, Yiddish is fast becoming a universal language. Go with it.) I weigh a hundred and seventy pounds; I estimated the woman weighed a hundred and fifty-nine / a hundred and sixty pounds. I told her she weighed a hundred and forty-seven. I could afford to let her have a stuffed toy.

Am I right? I asked.

I guess we’ll find out, the woman told me. Her smile was infectious; I found myself grinning. Naturally, I mean; not the grin I put on for customers.

I led her to the scale. A moment later, the arrow rested on a hundred and sixty-two pounds. Right. Again. The woman clapped her hands in glee. I smiled indulgently; you can never go wrong underestimating a woman’s weight. You win, I allowed. Now, what would you like?

I led the woman to the racks of prizes and pointed at the ten-dollar section. She immediately chose a plump red M (of M&Ms fame). I like the colour, she explained to nobody in particular.

Thank you for playing, I said. Taking out my phone, I added, Would you mind if I took your picture? I gestured to the bottom of the panel on the left of the booth, where I had printed out and taped images of some of the people who had previously played.

No pictures! the man roared.

The woman looked at him for a moment, then looked at me apologetically. You wouldn’t be trying to steal my soul, would you? she coyly asked.

Absolutely not! I responded, quickly adding, Although I’m sure it’s beautiful.

The woman smiled. Kind of you to say. Sorry. Fremulon and I have to be going if we’re to take in as much of the Exhibition as we can in one day. Thank you for the game and the stuffed … red creature.

I tipped an imaginary hat in her direction and watched as the odd pair walked down the street towards BMO Field and the game booths.

My booth is situated between the Food Building and the Horse Palace, less than fifty feet from one of the streetcar entrances to the Ex. To say that it is high traffic would be like saying The Beatles were a little popular. (Yeah, yeah — I know being in my forties I shouldn’t know about that cultural stuff that happened before I was born. What can I say? My parents brought me up right.) The upshot was: I was kept busy all morning, too busy to think much about the woman. It was the usual parade of older women who wanted to be told they were younger than they were, young men wanting to be told their girlfriends were thinner than they were, other young men wanting to be told that they were older than they were and the like. (Yeah, yeah — I wasn’t this cynical as a stock broker, you know. Any appreciable time in the service industry will do it to you!)

The only interesting thing that happened was a young couple who asked me to guess how old their infant was. It was so small and so … swaddled that I couldn’t possibly lose. I told them to save their money for something they really wanted.

You don’t understand! the woman complained. I’ve been coming to the Ex since I was a baby. And my mother. And her mother before her. It’s a tradition that we come to get somebody to guess our weight!

Family tradition, the husband told me without enthusiasm. You can’t argue with it.

I pointed out that the baby was so obviously young I could still see the outline of the hospital ID tag on its wrist. The woman said that that was irrelevant. I offered to give the couple a free stuffed animal for their baby, but she insisted that I take five dollars and guess its age. So, fine. I guessed that the baby was five years old.

Don’t be ridiculous! the woman kvetched. You have to make an honest effort, it’s the family tradition! Now, come on: what is my baby’s age?

With a sigh, I responded, Less than a year old. I gritted my teeth, prepared for the woman to complain that she had lost. However, grinning from ear to ear — which is technically impossible since there will always be cheeks between our mouths and our — dammit! Why does this language have so many absurd metaphors? Grinning broadly, she thanked me. As she and her husband walked away, the woman said over her shoulder, See you in a year or two!

Family traditions. You can’t argue with them. Apparently.

At one, I closed the game, locked up and went into the Food Building to grab a bite to eat.

Although it wasn’t what it once had been (I’m old enough to remember the Foods of the World stalls on the southwest side), the Food Building still had a lot of variety, and even a surprise or two. Like the Bug Bistro, a stall where you could get hot dogs with crickets as a garnish. Insects are so prevalent that they could feed the world at a fraction of the environmental and economic cost of beef and pork, or so the rationale goes. You just had to get over the ick factor of eating bugs.

I’m not into bug protein, but I am pro-teen. Priti Patel, the girl behind the counter, couldn’t have been more than sixteen, her chubby features not yet thinned out into womanhood. She had a pleasant demeanour behind a wall of sarcasm, but I could tell that she was into me. So, even though I hadn’t been all that interested in worm weiners or whatever, I tried to buy something from her at least once a day.

It didn’t hurt that her stall had the shortest lineup. It wasn’t a good idea for me to be away from my booth for too long.

How’s it going, Prity? I asked when it was my turn to step up to the counter.

I’m still stuck here, aren’t I? she responded. Under the anger, I could sense a wistfulness about the vagaries of life. Her long black hair fell mostly behind her, but there were a couple of wisps that I could imagine her winsomely blowing off her face. The usual?

You know it!

Prity started to turn towards the back of the stall. Before she could turn all the way, her eyes went glassy for a moment, her body stiff. I had seen this once before — I won’t lie: it was why I sometimes worried for the girl. Almost as soon as it began, the episode was over. Prity took a second to focus on me, then asked out of the blue, Are you sure you want to eat anything right now?

Why wouldn’t I be? I asked.

Your stomach — there’s nothing … wrong with it?

I shook my head. It’s been a long morning, I told her, and I could eat a horse! Upon a moment’s reflection, I added, Not that I would want to eat a horse — why do people say that? Eating horses is gross! I could eat a cow would make much more sense. Or a pig. I could eat a pig — now, there’s a phrase I could get behi –

You’re sure you’re okay to eat something? Prity insisted.

I’m fine, I assured her.

Okay. She didn’t sound convinced, but she didn’t have any reason to disbelieve me. Give me a minute …

Prity went into the back of the stall. A couple of minutes later, she returned with a bag. I thanked her and paid for the hot dog and a bottle of soda water, then went to find a seat among the picnic benches in the middle of the vast hall. Ordinarily, the benches would be full, but, in this first post-COVID year, attendance wasn’t what it once had been, so I had no trouble finding a seat.

For some reason, Prity had stuffed the paper bag with napkins, so it took me a few seconds to retrieve the paper tray with my hot dog on it. As I took my first a bite, a little girl sitting across the table from me who was picking disinterestedly at some spaghetti asked, Are those bugs?

I nodded. Cwickets, I said through a full mouth.

Cool, the girl said with much more poise than somebody her age (five? Six?) should have possessed.

As was my habit, I took out my phone and started looking through the photos I had taken that morning. Nothing stood out as special. As I ate and scrolled, I noticed a flash of black satin in the background of one of the shots. That was the unlikely dress the beautiful woman — Mona — I had seen that morning wore! Eager to see more of her, I enlarged the photo …

… and vomited all over the phone and the table.

Gross! the girl said, maturely flicking a stray bit of my lunch off her pink pinafore.

What the hell, man? her father exclaimed.

I — I — ugh! — I’m so…rry, I sputtered.

That’s how diseases spread, jackass! Taking her by the hand, the father led the girl to another table far away from me.

I couldn’t exactly remember what I saw, but I had the awful feeling that it had something to do with a face full of fish scales and tentacles coming out of a head. When I felt sufficiently settled, I used the napkins to wipe the vomit off my sleeve and phone. (I wasn’t worried about the table: The Ex has people to do that. For the first time, I thought about them; I didn’t envy them that job.) I tried to look at the image again, but I immediately threw up the last contents of my stomach and began dry heaving. I got the message and stopped.

With the remaining napkins, I cleaned myself and my phone off as best I could. Then, I went back to the bug booth, elbowing a couple of customers out of the way.

Dude! Prity protested. Uncool!

You have to see this! I shouted.

Those are — were possible customers!

I thrust the phone in her face. Look!

Prity looked for a second, then turned away. Yeah, yeah, she said, almost impressed. So, you can manipulate images with a photo editing app on your phone. My baby brother could do shit like that in his sleep.

I didn’t Photoshop that image, I protested. That’s what the camera caught!

A woman with … Prity seemed to struggle to remember, the head of a fish and … and … and tentacles?

Yes!

Dude, Prity advised me. Get help.

But … but … but … I wasn’t floundering. I was searching for just the right thing to say. Didn’t the photo make you nauseous?

Dude! Prity responded. I’m surrounded by greasy fast food joints — if you aren’t at least a little nauseous working in the Food Building every day, you have no stomach! Before I could argue any further, she added, If you don’t mind, this is a place of business and you are keeping me from serving my customers.

I looked to my left, then to my right. There didn’t seem to be any customers anywhere near the stall. But I did have the sense to know when I was being dismissed, so I walked away. You want to talk customers, Prity Patel? Well, you just lost one of your most loyal!

Not knowing what else to do, I went to the Guest Services booth outside the Better Living Centre. The chirpy woman with the horn-rimmed glasses asked, How may I help you?

There are aliens on the grounds! I told her.

The woman blinked for a moment, then replied, I’m pretty sure that the Klingons aren’t scheduled to attend until the weekend. However, if you would like me to —

No, no, not make-believe aliens! I insisted once I realized what she was saying. Actual beings from another planet!

The woman looked at me for a moment or two. I could tell that gears were being engaged in her head. Eventually, she said, Let me get security for you.

Thank you! I said, gratitude and sarcasm mixed in a way that would require a master assayer to determine precisely.

The woman made a walkie talkie call. A couple of minutes later, a big bear of a black man in a guard’s uniform walked up to the booth. Hey, Maeve, he greeted her.

Hey, Maurice.

Beautiful day, isn’t it?

They say it could rain.

That would just make the sun even sweeter when it came out. And there’d be rainbows.

You see the rainbow in everything, don’t you, Maurice?

Best way to live, Maeve. Best way to live. What’s up?

Guy here says there are aliens on the grounds.

Maurice frowned. You mean, like from another country aliens?

Maeve shook her head. Like from-another-planet aliens.

Sounds serious. Maurice turned towards me and offered a hand that could have held both of mine, and a bejeweled tiara to boot. Maurice Bevilacqua. You are …?

Bill Bloch. I reluctantly gave him my hand. After it was over, I figured I would have to soak it for a couple of days in ice cold water to get the full feeling back. Assuming none of my bones were broken.

The pass you’re wearing around your neck shows me that you work here? Maurice sort of asked, sort of stated.

I run the guess your weight booth near the Food Building.

Right. So, Bill, Maurice asked, nodding as if everything made sense. What makes you think we have aliens among us?

I … I took a photo of somebody I thought was human, I told him.

But when you looked at the photo, it wasn’t?

Exactly.

May I see the photo?

I hesitated. Looking at the photo made me … sick. Nauseous. I don’t know if —

Comes with the job, Maurice assured me. If I may …?

I handed my phone over to him. He looked at the screen for a moment. Yeah, that’s definitely not of this planet.

Can I see? Maeve eagerly asked.

Maurice shook his head. It wouldn’t agree with your delicate disposition, he told her. I’m not being sexist when I say that. This image wouldn’t agree with most of humanity’s delicate disposition.

What is it? Maeve, hiding her disappointment well, I thought, followed up.

Fish face. Tentacles. Lots of tentacles. Remind you of anything?

Maeve thought for a second, then snapped her fingers. Cthulhu?

Maurice nodded. It’s probably not Cthulhu itself, but it’s definitely a Cthulhu class demon.

A demon? I gulped.

Not only not of this planet, but not of this universe, Maurice informed me as he handed the phone back to me. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.

As I pocketed the phone, I stuttered, H…h…how were you able to look at the creature without throwing up all over the place?

Maurice grinned. Years of spiritual training and a copious amount of weed. It doesn’t hurt that I fast for the entire run of the CNE.

Maurice is a very spiritual person, Maeve told me.

Un hunh.

You could feel some effects when you come down, Maeve pointed out to the security guard.

Another argument for not coming down, Maurice replied. Then, putting a hand on my