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    Bards and Sages Quarterly (October 2020)
    Bards and Sages Quarterly (October 2020)
    Bards and Sages Quarterly (October 2020)
    Ebook96 pages1 hour

    Bards and Sages Quarterly (October 2020)

    By Julie Ann Dawson, Scott Forbes Crawford, Julie Reeser and

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    About this ebook

    With stories by Elyssa Campbell, Scott Forbes Crawford, AJ Cunder, Sean Patrick Hazlett, Tim Hereid, M.X. Kelly, Jamie D. Munro, Julie Reeser.

     

    A sampling of the stories included in this issue:

     

    A homeless man finds a strange door in the bathroom of a Brooklyn bakery that brings to life haunted memories of his past in The Bathroom Door.

     

    Greta's Cats is a story of unresolved relationship conflicts, the afterlife ... and a dozen cats.

     

    When a ruthless journalist takes creative license with an exclusive interview with Santa, Santa gives the man the Christmas he deserves in Santa's Last Interview.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBards and Sages Publishing
    Release dateOct 1, 2020
    ISBN9781393974253
    Bards and Sages Quarterly (October 2020)
    Author

    Julie Ann Dawson

    Julie Ann Dawson is an author, editor, publisher, RPG designer, and advocate for writers who may occasionally require the services of someone with access to Force Lightning (and in case it was not obvious, a bit of a geek). Her work has appeared in a variety of print and digital media, including such diverse publications as the New Jersey Review of Literature, Lucidity, Black Bough, Poetry Magazine, Gareth Blackmore’s Unusual Tales, Demonground, The Philadelphia Inquirer, and others. In 2002 she started her own publishing company, Bards and Sages. The company has gone from having two titles to over one hundred titles between their print and digital products. In 2009, she launched the Bards and Sages Quarterly, a literary journal of speculative fiction. Since 2012, she has served as a judge for the IBPA's Benjamin Franklin Awards.

    Read more from Julie Ann Dawson

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      Book preview

      Bards and Sages Quarterly (October 2020) - Julie Ann Dawson

      Greta’s Cats

      by Jamie D. Munro

      GRETA RETURNED HOME from her own funeral to find her cats were still outside. All twelve of them. Gingers, grays, blacks, and whites scrambled from the hedge beside her and from below her stilted house several feet away. Circling her on the frost-encrusted lawn, they rubbed against her lavender dress and meowed puffs of fog. Greta hunched over, grasping at her back as an instinct from life, and patted Old Tom. With a scar for an ear and fur as gray as their New Zealand winter, he was her favorite. There you go, she said, running her liver-spotted hand along his exposed ribs. John’s still not feeding you, hey? Leavin’ you all outside to freeze while he enjoys his new life as a bachelor. He nipped her finger and scurried off toward her husband’s workshop beside the house, hackles up and ears back. Thomas! She scratched her head. She couldn’t get angry at him—he was starving, and she had John to blame for that.

      Charcoal smoke blanketed the tin roof of her pine-cladded home and condensation on the glass door glowed orange from the fireplace. Perched on the side of a hill, the house overlooked the town of Dunedin and the gathering clouds beyond. Greta drifted over with her rescue cats trailing behind until she drew close to the door, where they darted away to their hiding places—far from John’s temper. He rested in her leather recliner reading a newspaper—not his own chair closer to the fireplace. The crocheted blanket used as Old Tom’s perch on the headrest was now the doormat.

      Greta snatched the door handle, but her hand went straight through. Damn it! Haunting the living confused her, but she needed to help the cats before moving on. Greta floated inside and hovered in front of John. Dressed in his funeral clothes—trousers made for a thinner version of himself, suspenders, and a coffee-stained white shirt—he studied the Otago Times.

      John, she said, moving close enough to see every broken capillary on his face and hear his smoker’s wheeze. Let the cats in and feed them. He didn’t budge—just like whenever she had spoken to him in life. Clenching her fists, she yelled, You’re a selfish man! Why aren’t you in the shed where you usually hide away? She stamped her foot, but it went straight through the Persian rug. I bet you’re lovin’ your peace without me around, hey?

      The door rattled behind her. John peered over his newspaper, flames flashing in his glasses, then he slapped the paper down on the cat-scratched armrest and snatched up his walking stick. Old Tom stood against the door, smacking it with his paws.

      Thomas, Greta said. Quick, go!

      John hobbled over and struck the door with his walking stick. Old Tom stood his ground. Falling forward, John caught himself on the doorframe with an outstretched hand, gasping for breath.

      John! Greta reached out to him. Your asthma.

      Hunched over, he crept back to her chair, slumping down and taking deep breaths.

      Old Tom continued to whack the door. What’s gotten into you? Greta asked, reaching through the door to pat him, but he scampered away toward the workshop. She floated outside to find him staring back at her through falling snowflakes. He had always been an odd cat, scurrying off to hide before Greta could even hear John’s arrival, and knowing when food was coming just by Greta thinking about it. However, nothing could explain the day he had found her at the bottom of the cellar stairs with her broken hip and then went to fetch John.

      The workshop door creaked back and forth in the wind and Old Tom timed it to slip through the gap. Greta followed him into the darkness and the smell of sawdust and oil. Tom? she called. The door blew open with a howl of snow, lighting the room. The cat sat on the concrete floor. A noose hung from a ceiling beam above him. Greta flinched, throwing a hand to her mouth. Oh, Johnny! The cat’s ice-blue eyes stared back at her.

      Greta flew back to John in an instant. Seated in her chair, he brought the newspaper close to his face and kissed it. I’m sorry, Greta.

      What?

      John stood with a sigh, leaning on his walking stick.

      John! What is it?

      She leaned over and read the paper. It was open to the obituaries.

      Greta May Harrison

      I regret not expressing in life how much I loved you.

      Now you’re gone, I’m broken.

      We will be together again, soon.

      Your loving husband, John.

      She drew back, remembering the decades alone reading romance novels with her cats sprawled out beside the fireplace, while John did his woodwork in the shed, all the time she had wished for something else—the happy John who had loved her before his depression.

      John opened the door to a blast of snowfall.

      No, John! She pulled her cardigan tight.

      He hobbled toward his workshop with Greta close behind. Old Tom sat outside the shed door, shivering under a coat of frost. Get outta here! John yelled. Old Tom slinked off, disappearing into the blizzard.

      John entered the shed, flicked the lights on, and slammed the door shut.

      John, she said, following him in. I read your note.

      He grasped the rope and tugged it. Dust fell from the beam and he broke into a fit of coughs.

      Don’t, Greta said. I’m still here.

      He took the noose and tested the movement of the knot along the rope.

      Greta flew outside. She called the cats and they emerged, covered in white flecks, flicking their tails and crawling close to the ground. Greta drifted backwards, holding out her hands as she called them. Backing through the door, she glanced at John as he slipped the noose around his neck.

      The cats clawed the timber door.

      Come on! Greta called.

      They shook the door. It creaked and sawdust fell from the frame.

      The door swung open with a cry of wind.

      John grunted, slipped the noose off, and went for the cats. Stepping through Greta, he suddenly stopped and glanced back at her.

      Yes! she said.

      He stared through her, his face wrinkling like it always did when confused.

      I’m here, John.

      He turned and stepped out. Coughing, he dropped to his knees, then fell flat in the inch-deep snow.

      Greta knelt beside him. John.

      John’s spirit stood up out of his physical body and looked at her. Greta.

      Yes. She stood and embraced him.

      I’m so sorry, he said, pulling her in tight, his chin quivering. "I ... I didn’t realize what I was doing until

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