Dark Ends Read online

  Dark Ends

  A Whispers & Wonder Dark Fantasy Anthology

  Angela Boord

  Krystle Matar

  Clayton Snyder

  Luke Tarzian

  D.P. Woolliscroft

  Edited by Clayton Snyder

  With a Foreword By Justine Bergman

  Cover Art by Brad Bergman

  Dark Ends: A Whispers & Wonder Dark Fantasy Anthology

  Copyright © 2020 by Whispers & Wonder

  Tainted, copyright © 2020 by Krystle Matar

  The Laughing Heart, copyright © 2020 by Luke Tarzian

  Dragonmeat, copyright © 2020 by Angela Boord

  Strays, copyright © 2020 by D.P. Woolliscroft

  Savages, copyright © 2020 by Clayton Snyder

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover art by Brad Bergman

  Contents

  Foreword

  Krystle Matar

  Luke Tarzian

  Angela Boord

  D.P. Woolliscroft

  Clayton Snyder

  Connect With the Authors

  Foreword

  What is a dark end? Heartbreak? Pain? Disappointment? Death? Each individual harbors a certain specific interpretation of what they dread most at the end, the options as plentiful and diverse as the fears that ultimately consume and shape us. Whatever it may be, there seems to be a common denominator that hovers like a heavy black cloud—loss; loss of another, loss of something dear, loss of an ideal, loss of one's self. Catastrophic events force us to reforge ourselves within scorching flames, and after the quench, only time will tell if we've become stronger, or if we'll shatter under the most minute strain.

  Storytelling, as generally with life, is about duality, a balance of light and dark, good and evil. However, not all stories need have happy endings. Sometimes the bad guys win. Sometimes the prince cannot save the princess. Sometimes the journey abruptly ends before the destination is reached. But that's okay, because essentially the story is about the beautiful and thrilling adventure that brings us to the end. Sure, endings are crucial and every book must have a final page, as bittersweet as that may be at times, but what matters most is how we get there.

  And so, Dark Ends came into creation—an anthology of fantasy novelettes that examine the darker aspects of storytelling that some may be apprehensive to broach. What initially began as the brain child of author Luke Tarzian, quickly evolved into a compendium of creative minds, with "dark ends" and "dark fantasy" being their only guides. Five extraordinary authors have contributed tales of their own interpretation of the concept of a dark end, each story distinct and singular, making for one incredibly varied compilation. It's near impossible to present you with an abstraction for the entirety of this book, so you'll just have to go ahead and give each a read.

  Authors Angela Boord, Krystle Matar, Clayton Snyder, Luke Tarzian, and D.P. Woolliscroft have invited me to present to you all this wonderfully visionary book that allows readers to delve deep into their minds. I've had the absolute pleasure of getting to know each of them over the past few years, and can attest that they're not only a genuinely admirable group of people, but that they each offer something remarkably special to the literary publishing community. I'm beyond excited and couldn't be more honored to share their stories with you.

  You may or may not recognize some of the names listed above, which leads to one of the most brilliant aspects of anthologies. I hope that as you make your way through this book, you discover someone new, eventually directing you to more fascinating reads in the future. I guarantee there's a little something for everyone within these pages just waiting to be unearthed.

  So, sit back, relax, enjoy! And I'll leave you with this tidbit from Winston Churchill:

  "This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."

  —Justine Bergman, February 2020

  Krystle Matar

  Krystle Matar thrives on chaos and is starting a farm while working on her debut novel. She lives with her myriad of farm animals, her gaggle of children and one of the best husbands in the world. Her forthcoming debut novel, Legacy of the Brightwash, is an adult grimpunk novel about the cost of convenience and what we are willing to do for the ones we love. She is working on it as fast as she can.

  Tainted ties directly to that story, about the experience of a victim of the system. Glaen must choose—the woman he loves or freedom. Does he comply with the law of the Authority, or does he continue to see Gianna, the only light in his life? The consequences of his choice will ripple through more than he realizes. Revolution can start with a single shot.

  I

  A knock on the door woke Glaen with a cold feeling in his heart. He knew that knock anywhere, hard and insistent. Staggering through the small room, he tripped over his feet, cursing under his breath as he went. The door stuck in its frame as he tugged on it, then hung limply on its old leather hinges. Tashué Blackwood stood on the other side. He was an imposing man, broad and tall and enviably strong, emanating a power of will.

  “There was no appointment scheduled today.” Glaen tried to meet Tashué’s eye when he spoke, but it was no use. The big man’s amber gaze was unsettling. Amber was a sure sign of Kaadayri heritage, but it wasn’t the colour that Glaen found hard to look at. His eyes were hot, boiling with energy and anger even when the man seemed cool and composed on the outside.

  “Let me in so we can speak privately, Mr. Forsooth.” He spoke softly, his voice pitched low. He stood so close Glaen smelled the tobacco smoke and shave oil and the musty wool of his suit. “Let’s not speak in the hall where your neighbours can hear.”

  Glaen almost laughed at that. “Mr. Blackwood, I’ve thin walls and a broken window. I can hear the whore to my left with her clients, and the family to my right fighting all day. I am certain they can both hear my business no matter where I’m standing.”

  “Never the less . . .”

  Glaen sighed and shuffled out of the way. Tashué’s eyes cast about the place, appraising the room with a glance. A table and potbelly stove stood closest to the door, a narrow cupboard nailed to the wall. A flimsy wooden half-wall kept his clothing and doubled as a headboard for the cot on the other side. A long, narrow hallway stretched from the foot of the bed to the only window.

  Glaen moved to the stove, easing it open and feeding a few logs into the coals. Flames flickered to life, crawling up the splinters and the bark along the edges of the log. “Do you take tea?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “I don’t know why I still offer you tea. You never take tea.”

  Tashué sighed. “I didn’t realize tea meant so much to you.” His voice was calm, a long-suffering sigh that made him sound like a parent dealing with an insolent child.

  “Tinmen never take tea because tinmen don’t have souls. The only people that don’t take tea in another man’s home are men without souls. Yes, tea means very much to me. I’ve only the one window, and I use it to throw my shit down into the alley since there are no water closets above the third floor. The glass in the window is broken, probably from the tram line making it rattle all the time. The landlord won’t fix it. Says I broke it, so it’s my responsibility. I save my spare copper crowns, but of course there aren’t many because the Authority pays a pittance. On windy days when my neighbours throw their shit, it blows in the cracks of the window. I asked the landlord if I can put shutters on at least. To keep the shit out. But the law says shutters aren’t allowed anymore. I didn’t know th
at. Did you? Apparently, shutters don’t let in enough light, so the law says it has to be glass. In spite of all that, at least I can still make tea. Tea is the cornerstone of civilization, Mr. Blackwood, and I could never trust a man who doesn’t take tea.”

  Tashué stood silently as Glaen took the boiling pot from his stove and poured water into a chipped tea pot. Glaen was ashamed of the way his hands shook as he poured, leaving splashes of steaming water on the floor. His heart beat so hard in his throat that it felt as though he was choking on it. He refused to meet those damned amber eyes as he cleaned up water he spilt and settled himself at the table.

  “You know why I’m here, Mr. Forsooth.”

  Glaen shook his head, but it wasn’t a denial. Tashué’s words had a hard finality that sucked all of the defiance out of him.

  Tashué shifted, the floor creaking beneath him. “You have been seen fraternizing with another tainted for a second time. These are serious reports. If it happens again, I’ll have to process you. You have to stop seeing this woman or it will cost you your freedom.”

  Glaen laughed, a small, wheezing, cackle that shook his shoulders. “My freedom? Do you live in a tenement building, Mr. Blackwood? Do you have any idea the humiliation and the degradation that a human being withstands in a place like this? Gianna gives me a reason to breathe. She is like the sun rising after a long and terrible night. But the night was more than only a few hours; the sun set for me years ago.”

  “You should write poetry.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re an eloquent man, Mr. Forsooth. You should write poetry and sell it to those pennycovers. They’d devour your poems, I’m sure, what with all the pain and darkness. It would be a better use of your time than fraternizing with another tainted. Might even get you enough crowns to fix your window.”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “I don’t live in a tenement building, but I do know people who have been processed. This tenement has more freedom than you’ll ever see in the Rift. You may have convinced yourself that this is the worst your life can be, but I promise you, things can get worse. And if your freedom isn’t enough to convince you to stop, consider this–if I process you for fraternization, then I’ll also contact Gianna Tarbrook’s regulation officer. She’ll be processed too. If you love her, you’ll not subject her to that. This is the final warning.”

  “Why can I not see her? What’s the harm?”

  Tashué met Glaen’s eye but didn’t reply. The elevated tram hurtled past the building as they stood there, filling the silence with its clatter. The vibration made Glaen’s broken window rattle in its frame, and he felt the wave of talent from the tainted that powered the great machine.

  “It’s not for me to say why laws should be followed.” Tashué’s voice was almost a surprise when it broke the silence, well after the tram had passed. He wasn’t looking at Glaen anymore, but out the window. He didn’t fidget when he spoke, stood calm and still like a pillar of stone. Glaen hated him for his strength, for his confidence. “My job is to enforce the laws, not question them.”

  It was an unsatisfying answer, and Glaen sensed Tashué knew it rang hollow. How could a man follow laws blindly without wondering what purpose they served? Or perhaps Glaen’s wishful thinking made him project his own dissatisfaction.

  “Things could always be worse.” Tashué shrugged, turning, and heading toward the door. “There was a time when this room had no window at all, and nine other men would be in here with you.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t dance with the joy of my circumstance. Perhaps if there were nine of us, we could afford a new window.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Glaen brought Gianna a flower, a single purple iris, which she pinned it to the front of her shirt. The flower looked lovely against the crisp white uniform she wore for the hospital. Her hair was lifted by a breeze and tangled in the petals, brown on purple on white.

  As he fell in step beside her, he realized with a twist in his gut why the Authority wouldn’t allow him to see her. She had healing hands, perhaps the most valued talent of all. Foundry fires and tram lines and intercontinental ships be damned, the wealthy couldn’t use any of those things if they were dead. Last year, when the rains lasted longer than usual and the stockyards turned to great rivers of mud and shit, the cow milk became contaminated with filth. Swathes of working class and poor died of a vicious wasting illness that seemed like cholera but so much worse. Those rich enough to afford the fees went to their pristine hospitals where a small army of other tainted with healing hands—Gianna among them—saw to them, and killed the terrible contagion before it killed them.

  It was why they couldn’t have each other, of course. He felt foolish for not realizing sooner. If she had a mundane talent like his, perhaps the Authority wouldn’t mind so much. But she was too valuable and she would be paired one day with another healer so their offspring could lay their beautiful hands on more rich bellies to delay death’s call.

  “You seem especially glum today. Which is quite a feat for you, my love.”

  Glaen scowled but Gianna’s smile took the sting out of her barb. “He came to me again. Blackwood. He’s serious, Gianna. We should spend some time apart.”

  “They’re all quite serious, aren’t they? All very grim and surly. Mine’s always making this growly noise at the back of his throat. I think he has some phlegm issue. I offered to heal his lungs once, but he looked rather appalled at the suggestion. It’s strange, isn’t it? They treat us like we’re infected with some disease, but then they insist we use that diseases to serve them.”

  “He’ll send us both to the Rift, he said. Said he would report you to your officer too. I don’t want to see you in that place.”

  “Ah, so it’s your conscience you’re worried about is it?” She grinned at him as she said it, giving him the dimple that sat high on her cheek. The dimple marked his favourite place to kiss and it took all of his self control not to lean in. “Very well, I absolve you of all responsibility for what happens to me. You’re my lover, not my keeper. I make my own choices and face my own consequences.”

  “Gianna . . .”

  “Glaen.”

  “We should take this seriously.”

  “I don’t take anything seriously. It’s the Rift for me then.”

  “You shouldn’t say such things.”

  “Why? You said it.”

  “When I say it, it sounds foolish. I worry about everything. When you say it, it sounds entirely too much like we’re doomed.”

  “We’re all doomed. Every one of us. Tainted and the clean alike. We’re here for but a moment and then we’re gone, as if we never were.”

  He reached out, brushing the side of his hand against hers.

  She shrugged, bright and vibrant again in an instant. “I would rather be doomed having known love than doomed having known nothing at all.”

  “I would rather not be doomed at all.”

  She wagged a finger at him. “You shouldn’t wish for things you can’t possibly have. My father did that. He was always wishing and dreaming and it kept him from making any real decisions. Wishes get in the way of life.”

  “I wished for you and here you are.”

  She smiled, crinkling her nose. Both dimples appeared this time. “Glaen Forsooth, you are a hopeless romantic.”

  “I’ve been told I should write poetry.”

  “Come with me then, my sweet poet. Let’s go see this terrible Rift that we’re so afraid of.”

  The Residential Institute for Feral Tainted and Non-Compliants—the Rift—stood on an island in the Brightwash river, a great ugly behemoth that jutted up from the rock. It was once a fort that stood guard against invaders coming downriver. A gated courtyard sprawled around the stone structure. The river ran fast around the island, surrounding the Rift in a haze of mist and water.

  The breeze came in from the ocean, pulling her dark brown hair all about her face. “It isn’t so bad as all that
.”

  “Isn’t so bad? Gianna, it’s a prison.”

  “It’s nothing but stone and metal and wood, the same as any other building.”

  Beyond the Rift, the sun was setting over the forest of Dunnenbrahl, casting the sky and its heavy clouds in a riot of colour. If he caught a tram immediately, he would be able to return to his quarter in time to do his job. He was a brightman, tasked with keeping the street lamps glowing through the night. The artificial light was intended to keep the city safer, as if banishing the darkness could fight against the evil of human nature. In Glaen’s experience, the light only made vile deeds more visible.

  Gianna squeezed his hand, turning toward him and smiling. It was a powerful thing, her smile, hitting Glaen in the chest and leaving him breathless. Her eyes glittered with mischief and life so vibrant it barely seemed contained by her flesh. It spilt out of her, touching everything with its beauty.

  “So long as we’re together, what does it matter how big our world is? We could have the entire city, or one tiny room. But we’ll have each other and that’s a wonderful thing.”

  “They won’t let us stay together in that place.” Glaen looked toward the Rift again, at its smooth walls and the small windows that were once murder holes for archers and musketeers to fire down upon invaders. “Surely they would separate us.”

  Gianna laughed, the sound throaty and full. It made him want to kiss the curve of her neck. “They’re trying to separate us now! What good is living out here if I can’t see you again?”

  “We should spend time apart, at least. If only for a little while.”