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Sum of Our Parts
Sum of Our Parts
Sum of Our Parts
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Sum of Our Parts

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A brand new anthology from the talented, eclectic and disparate community of writers and artists known as The Superstars. This exciting new collection of fiction, non-fiction, poetry, art and experiments is the result of twelve months of prompts, picked at random and posted on the first day of every month between 2020 and 2021, and curated by Lauren K. Nixon. These pieces are based loosely on the classical elements of antiquity - supplemented by a few more.

Including work from: Rae Bailey, Hannah Burns, G. Burton, Jessica Grace Coleman, T. J. Francis, Liz Hearson, Angel Kershaw, A. Lizard, Abigail Manning, Wayne Naylor, Lauren K. Nixon, Sand Rennie and Laura Sinclair.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherThe Mysterium
Release dateApr 5, 2022
ISBN9781005871192
Sum of Our Parts
Author

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.

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    Book preview

    Sum of Our Parts - The Superstars

    Welcome to the first in the new series of anthologies by the Superstars, a broad and eclectic group of writers, poets and artists.

    All the work you see here is in response to twelve prompts, which are posted on the first day of the month for a year, and any Superstar inspired by it will compose a piece of creative writing of any form or genre, preferably between 10 and 10,000 words, to be presented to the group for critique on the last day of the month. Artists are invited to contribute towards the end of the process, in case - like the mad fool I am - I throw in a picture prompt or two.

    These stories, poems, snippets and experiments are the responses to a year’s worth of prompts, from 2020-2021.

    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

    PROMPTS

    Crime Brûlée 

    This is one of those prompts that just comes from wordplay or mis-speaking something. I think we were trying to decide on a dessert to enjoy during a true crime marathon. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!

    Worry Monster

    The prompt came to mind when I was mooching around a kids’ shop, waiting for my husband. I came across a range of stuffed toys with open mouths and pouches inside. The attached label explained that this was so the owner could write down things they were worried about, screw up the paper and let the monster eat them. I rather liked the concept!

    The Princess and the Bee

    One of those minor alterations to the classic fairy-tale theme. Not a pea, this time, but something altogether more problematic - depending on the circumstances!

    Picture Challenge

    Instead of responding to one image this time, writers were encouraged to work from one or more of various pictures, comprising scatters of objects that suggest character, time period, place, or particular activities or events. You’ll come across these images in the pieces they inspired.

    The Vaporists

    J.A. Foley is responsible for this one. He had gallantly accompanied me (and several other Superstars, thinking about it) to Biddulph, to make an attempt at sorting out my mum’s rather wild garden. He was in the midst of moving the old compost heap, and someone nearby was vaping, and together these influences coalesced into The Vaporists.

    Ghost Ink/Inc

    Well, why not? I think this probably stems from various fictional influences from my childhood - not least Eva Ibbotson’s Dial a Ghost. I just like the idea of the ordinary imposed over the strangeness of people experiencing an afterlife.

    Spider Wed

    Another twist on a common phrase. This one was supplied, some years ago, by Catherine and Allan Knight, and has been waiting for its moment ever since!

    Skull Moss

    This one is an heirloom of those archaeology degrees I’m always banging on about. Not only does moss do quite well on exposed bone in damp places, it’s one of those substances that until worryingly recently, experienced great demand in medicine. There was a theory that if a herb looked vaguely like a body part that was being affected (or in this instance, grew in or on it), it would be really good at treating ailments afflicting that area. This accounts for many of the names of wild plants - and probably also for higher mortality rates.

    Maticatione Mortuorum (The Chewing Dead)

    If you are squeamish, skip the explanation of this prompt. Before the world went topsy-turvy I was lucky enough to attend a series of talks by Dacre Stoker, the nephew of Bram Stoker, on his uncle’s writing and the inspiration behind it. As part of the discussion of the practice of mass graves in times of pandemic, and the horrors that lead to (people falling in, people not being dead before they were thrown in, the stench - just the sight in general is enough to do some real psychological damage), he mentioned the term Maticatione Mortuorum, or the chewing dead.

    Because these pits were open, people had a regular, front-row seat for various stages of decomposition they were unfamiliar with. Now, as a body degrades, it produces various gasses and the muscles contract and relax as they dry out or come apart, etc. This gives the illusion that the dead are still ‘chewing’. Now, that feeds into the vampire mythos, because it suggests an obvious deceased individual continuing to feed on something - possibly the corpses around it, or others in the neighbourhood, making them sick. People thought they could stop this evil by placing a large rock between the deceased’s teeth. It was a really interesting talk.

    So, yeah. Sorry if I gave you nightmares.

    Whisper Bay

    There’s a beach in Wales called Singing Sands, and the existence of one suggested the existence of the other.

    Pasta at Midnight

    Why not? Not all of us have ‘standard’ daylight working hours, after all!

    The Uncredited Park

    TJ Francis suggested this prompt, after completing a rather good bit of car maneuvering not long after her driving test. It wasn’t until I read her submission that I figure that out!

    Challenges

    This year, as an extra layer of challenge, TJ Francis suggested we add a person who might appear from time to time through our work. I liked this idea so much that I added a place, too - ‘fictional’ in the world of each piece, or not, to be used as a place, a name, a brand - however the authors saw fit. This was not compulsory, just there if people wanted to play with it.

    The character’s name when he started out was August; he had a top hat and an air of mystery. I’ve spotted him a few times in the anthology, and I rather like the person he is becoming.

    The place was called Inutstoke, and - using the fabulous mapping software developed by watabou (https://watabou.itch.io/) - we had a map to work from, if required. I’ve become rather fond of the old place.

    Inutstoke

    WOOD

    Beware of the Gnomes

    Laura Sinclair

    It was a novelty gift Charlie had been given when she first moved out on her own: ‘Beware of the Gnomes’. She couldn’t even remember who had given it to her, and had tucked it away with the other novelties that she had been given in her sock drawer, because, well, that was where it ended up, along with the potpourri that her aunt had given her, and the feather that her younger sister had given her, as well as a letter opener shaped like a dagger that her dad had given her, that he said could be used in case she ever got attacked while opening the mail, because that sort of thing happened all the time.

    So, when she came across the little sign in her drawer one day, she decided it should go on the front lawn, as opposed to putting a garden gnome there, the way so many of her neighbors had.

    She had few visitors, so she was surprised when she heard a knock at her front door the following morning, and opened it to see a small woman, standing before her. She had had a best friend who was a dwarf, but this woman did not look that way. If she was not being kind, she would have called her a gnome.

    I’m not interested, Charlie was going to say, because she thought she was being sold something, but the woman lifted her finger, and she found she couldn’t say a word.

    The small woman pushed past her, without even asking if she could come in, and shut the door without touching it. Charlie followed her into the sitting room.

    How did you find out? the woman said, jumping up and planting herself in the armchair.

    Charlie opened her mouth and found she could make words again. She moved her jaw, which felt as though it had been wired shut.

    Find out what? she asked.

    About our plan? the woman said. Was it Stoopy who told you? He was always a turncoat. Or was it Drippy? Did he ask for cookies? That’s his way.

    ‘Plan?" Charlie asked. 

    You put out the sign, the woman said, waving towards the front door.

    Charlie finally understood. I figured it out on my own, she lied, because she wasn’t sure if Stoopy or Drippy would be punished, though she really shouldn’t have cared either way, if the gnomes were planning something, as she doubted she would have been spared from whatever it was.

    Humph, the small woman said. Humph, she said again as she jumped down from the chair, and made her way to the front door. She tapped her foot, waiting for Charlie to open it, because the knob was too high.

    Charlie opened the door, and the woman walked out, grumbling to herself. 

    She walked down the path, then turned, shaking her finger at Charlie. Next time, we’ll be more prepared, she said, before she stomped off down the street and disappeared from view.

    Lavender Cocoa

    Abigail Manning

    Anthea looked up from the map on her phone, anxiously scanning the storefronts with her eyes. It had to be here. One thing had to go right. As she looked back and forth her gaze skated across one shop too quickly, and she took a moment to look again, more carefully. Unbelievable. There it was, right in front of her. She must be more frazzled than she thought.

    The door chimed gently as she cautiously stepped through, but nobody looked up. The warmth of the room immediately enveloped her like a hug, a soft hum of conversation continuing undisturbed by her entrance. The room was softly lit, but not in a way that made it difficult to see. Dark wooden booths lined the walls, inhabited by people reading, or tapping away on laptop keyboards, coffees sitting near their hands. The centre of the room had more lively occupants seated in clusters of chairs around small wooden tables. It was these tables from which the hum of conversation emanated.

    The deep blue carpet muffled Anthea’s footsteps as she moved up to the counter, a bright display cabinet filled with all manner of cakes and biscuits. Behind it, watching her with a welcoming smile, was a woman with warm and intelligent eyes, a round frame clothed in a green floral-patterned dress, and a cloud of deep brown hair held back from her face with a myriad of pins. Looking at her made Anthea feel at once comfortable, and wary, for while the woman gave an impression of easy friendliness, her eyes were constantly scanning the café, aware of every movement.

    Good afternoon, dear, are you wanting a table? Perhaps a coffee or tea to warm up? That jacket doesn’t look nearly warm enough for the weather out there today, the woman exclaimed kindly before Anthea had a chance to lose her nerve.

    Oh, yes, I arrived from out of town, so I wasn’t quite prepared for the chill, she said nervously, trying to remember the instructions she had recited to herself while searching for the café. She placed both her hands on the counter pressed side by side, thumb to thumb, and then folded them towards each other so the backs of the fingertips were touching and her pinkies were raised up in the air. She felt stupid, but desperately hoped the woman would recognise the sign.

    I was hoping I could get a table to stay at for a while, she said quietly, feeling the dread rise up within her about what she would do if this didn’t work. She’d be back to square one.

    The woman studied her for a second, and then nodded, not losing the warm expression.

    Of course, on such a cold day you should stay in the warmth for as long as you can. Follow me.

    She touched Anthea’s hands lightly and then bustled off towards a door presumably leading to the back of the café. As she moved away from the counter Anthea noticed the conversation from the rest of the room dull, and as she looked back, many of the chairs that had previously been filled with lively occupants, were empty. At one table, a man did remain, tall, thin looking, with a somewhat absurd purple top hat sat on the table opposite him, like an inanimate dining partner. He was eating what looked like a lemon curd tart, but Anthea was alarmed to realise he was staring directly at her, an amused smile on his face. Before she could hurriedly look away, he gave her a nod, then returned his attention to his plate. She turned and headed through the door, not wanting to lose track of the woman.

    There was no need to worry, she was waiting on the other side of the door, and the warm smile this time lacked all the preoccupied alertness it had had at the front of the café.

    Sorry to rush you there dear, so many of our Alvere guests are regulars, a new face is something of a surprise. My name is Sylvie, what can I call you?

    Anthea, she replied hesitantly, I’m sorry, did you say Alvere?

    Sylvie’s face was briefly confused. You do know what the symbol you just showed me means, don’t you?

    Anthea felt all the nerves return a hundredfold. What on earth was she doing here?

    Uh, no, I mean, a friend told me this was a good place for people looking for fresh starts and I didn’t really have anywhere else to go, but I didn’t realise this was an Alvere place. I don’t want anything to do with that, I told them I didn’t want any of that and I meant it. She tried and failed to quell her rising panic, aware that she must sound insane.

    The confusion cleared and Sylvie immediately clasped her hands and spoke with a reassuring tone.

    Oh no, no, dear. It’s not like that, I promise. We aren’t a place for the Alvere you must have met. We’re a place for earthbound Alvere, the ones who stay here, she smiled, like you, right?

    Anthea remembered the day the group of Alvere came to explain to her that her life was not what she thought it was.

    They had all sorts of fancy illusion abilities, or weavings, as they called them. One created sparks and flames dancing in the air, another made the sound of bells echo through her house. They told her about the fae world parallel with the human one, Alverus, and that she had been brought here as a baby and adopted by a kind family who didn’t know she wasn’t human. And then, after only an hour or so of rapid explanation, they had asked her if she was ready to leave.

    She had been confused, alarmed. Leave to go where? Her hesitance had confused them. Was she not excited to return to her homeland?

    No, in fact, she was not. She had a fiancé, parents, friends, she had a life on Earth and now they wanted her to leave all that and go to a world she had never set foot in, with the assumption that she would somehow belong there? No way.

    She told them this with the heartbreaking belief that they would still not let her stay. The panic that she might be dragged from her home to go to this other world was real.

    But, instead, they just left. No further word. No further answers. They just nodded and left as abruptly as they had arrived.

    It had been an easy decision at the time. She had built her life on Earth, and she was not going to give it up for anything.

    But the thing is, you don’t just have your worldview and history turned inside out, and then continue on as though everything is fine.

    She really tried. But everything fractured anyway.

    First it was the paranoia. Anthea had been studying to be a teacher and started her work placement shortly after the encounter. It should have been amazing. She had been so excited for it. But it was too many people to meet all at once, and every sideways glance, or good-natured chuckle, made her certain people must know, must be able to tell she was a freak, must be an elf in disguise waiting to drag her away from her life when she least expected it. After a week she was a nervous wreck, and soon the glances were genuinely concerned.

    You’re so jumpy, they’re just teenagers, chuckled one of the maths teachers.

    Are you sure you’re ready for this? You seem exhausted, questioned another.

    Her supervising teacher didn’t say any of this, but she knew her grade would be affected.

    Her fiancé noticed, how could he not? Anthea had been distracted and preoccupied for weeks now, but she couldn’t tell him, what would she say?

    I have magic powers and might get kidnapped by elves any day now?

    No, he always said she was too easily captured by flights of fancy as it was. He was a few years older, very dedicated to his career in finance, very organised. She knew he loved her, but his patience for her whims had waned over time. He’d never believe her.

    Not that lying was any better.

    Anthea had been sheltering in her balcony garden. It was a cacophony of colour. She’d chosen enough perennial plants and herbs that it was colourful and lush all year round, but now they were complimented by bulbs poking their heads above the soil as spring began to take hold. Bright yellows and pinks, shocking greens, the occasional pop of purple. This was her place, the rest of the apartment was sleeker, more sophisticated. I need to be able to have business guests around, it can’t look like a crèche, he always said.

    That was okay, she had the balcony. Here she could breathe. With her head swimming with thoughts of illusions and people appearing and vanishing out of thin air. It was a relief to focus on the sturdy spikiness of the rosemary, the soft pastels of the gladioli, the sway of fuchsias as a bee buzzed past, the silky touch of a new pansy...

    You’ve been out here for two hours, Anthea, if this is how you react to a week of work you’ll never cope once you graduate. His voice was tense, looking for an argument, but she was tired, so she just sighed.

    I was thinking a pasta for dinner with some spring vegetables?

    He just rolled his eyes. Oh, good. We can eat pasta and you can daydream and not ask me about my week. Sounds lovely, but I’ll pass. I’m going out.

    And then he was gone, and she was relieved.

    The next week it was worse, and the week after that, too. Anthea wasn’t sleeping, she felt on the verge of tears constantly, and she jumped whenever anyone spoke to her or touched her.

    He was rarely home. And when he was, he was harsh, critical, frustrated. They were supposed to be planning a wedding, but at that moment she couldn’t remember why she’d ever liked him in the first place.

    It all came to a head when she was in a class of year tens, loud sixteen-year-olds looking to be funny. The bell went off to signal lunch, and she jumped badly and knocked a pile of papers off a table. In her haste to scramble to pick them up, she didn’t notice her supervisor bend to help, and when Anthea looked up and saw her much closer than anticipated she startled and screamed, skittering back across the floor into a wall.

    The room went very silent and still, until her supervisor sighed and said, I think you should go home, you’re over-tired.

    One of the teenagers muttered Freak, and snickering spread through the room. None of them would meet her eyes.

    Several weeks of pent-up tears and anxiety burst out and she broke down. It was all she could do to grab her bag and flee the room, tears streaming down her face.

    She spent the bus ride home shaking, feeling like everyone in the world was staring at her. Maybe she should have gone to Alverus. She didn’t feel like she belonged here anymore.

    When Anthea got home, his car was already there. That was wrong. It was two pm on a Wednesday, he shouldn’t have been back until dinnertime.

    The wrongness only continued when she got inside. He was in the kitchen getting a glass of water, and his eyes widened in alarm as she walked in before the expression was quickly masked with scorn.

    What are you doing home? Did you quit halfway through the day?

    Anthea wasn’t sure if she was exhausted or angry. Why did she have to come home and justify herself again here, when this should have been a safe and supportive place?

    They sent me home, I’m unwell.

    And here I was thinking that your distraction and inconsiderateness was because you were focussing so hard on work. But you’re just being useless everywhere, fantastic.

    In that moment, as she felt a fight rising up in her chest, she thought the last thing she wanted in the world was to marry this man. As she opened her mouth to tell him so, his grip tightened on the water glass and he looked suddenly panicked. Anthea looked over her shoulder and saw a woman standing at the door of their bedroom with a confused expression on her face.

    Anthea went to her parents. She told the school she was sick and wouldn’t be able to complete the rest of the placement; she told the university she needed to defer until the next semester; she told her ex-fiancé he could go fuck himself. Then she packed everything she could into two suitcases and left.

    Her parents were concerned, understandably. In that sense, he’d done her an enormous favour by cheating. Nobody questioned her tears, her shattered nerves, her need to get away.

    But while her parents’ house was a sanctuary, it also raised a whole new batch of questions.

    She asked about her childhood, dug through old boxes for journals and drawings, and none of it made her feel better.

    Notebooks filled cover to cover with drawings of flowers, raucous overlapping colours. Drawings of herself as a wonky looking stick figure, surrounded by the

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