Not Long Leftt
The boy lived in this our world and in a diffrent one too. He was a boy who walked Up the staiurs twice and Down the staiurs only once. The seccondd time he went down he was not him. Mannuttmann you calld me long ago and Mannuttman I shall be. The boy saw the frendly old enymee hyding in the doorwais and in the shaddowes of the deep gutter. When he took a step, so did Mannuttman his enymee his frend. The Mumma grabbed his hand and she said too loud Sunny Boy You are still only seven years old sometimes I swear you act like a teenager. Im sorry Mumma he saiud I will never be a teenager. Whats that I hear she said Dud you get that from your preshioys Minutman? You dont know hisz name. When they got to the cornoo at the end of the block the boy smild and told to his Mumma I have not long left. You will see. I have not long left? she said. Where do you get this stuf? He smyled and that was his anser.
What Happenz Wen You Look Upp
Lessay you stan at the bottum of the staires. Lessay you look upp. A Voice tellks you Look Upp Look Upp. Are you happy are you braav? You must look all the waye to the top. All the waye. Freddie is rite there—rite there at the topp. But you dontt see Freddie. You dont’t you cant’t see the top you dont’t see how it goes on and on the staiures you dont’t see you cant. Then the man geus out syde and agen heers the Voice. Look up look up Sullee it is the tyme you must look upp. Freddies Daddie you are,,,, so look upp and see him. Are you goud are you nise are you stronng and braav are you standing on your fruhnt lahwn and leeniung bakk to look up hiuy in the skye? Can you see him? No. No you cant’t. Beecuz Freddie is not there and Freddie is not there beecuz Mistr Nothing Nowehere Nobodie is there. He laft. Mistr Nothing Nowehere Nobodie laft out lowd. The man on his frunht lahwn is not happoy and he is not braav. No. And not Sytronng. Lessay that’s truoe. Yes. Lessay it. And the Mistr Nothing Nowehere Nobody he is not there exseptt he is nevvr at the top of the staires. And he nevvr leeves he nevr lefft. Hah!
The Boy and the Book
Once there was a boy named Frank Pinncushun. That was a comicall naaym but Frank likked his naaym. He had a millyun frends at school and a thosand millyuun at home. At school his best frends were Charley Bruce Mike and Jonny. At home he was freends with Homer Momer Gomer Domer Jomer and Vomer. They never mayde fun of his naaym because it was goode like Barttelmee. Their favrote book was called THE MOUNTAIN OVER THE WALL: DOWN THE BIG RIVVER TREEMER-TRIMMER-TROUWNCE TO THE UNDERGROUND. It was a very long long book: and it was a goid storie. In the book there was a boy named Freddie. Al Frank’s millyon frends wanted to be Freddie! He was their heero. Braav and strong. One day Frank Piunncushun went out to wlkk alone by himsellff. Farr he went: soo farr. Littel Frank walked out of his nayberhooid and wlked some more: he wllkd over streeits over britdches and throou canyhons. He was never affrayed. Then he cayme to the Great River Treemer-Trimmer-Trouynse and what dud he doo? Inn he jumped and divved strait down. At the bottom was a huug hall were he culd breeth and wassnt’t eeven wett! The waalls were hygh redd curtuns and the seelingg ewas sooo farr awaye he culd not see it. Guldenn playtes and guldenn cupps and gulden chaines laie heept up on the flore. Heloh Heloh Freddie yeled. Helo helo helo. A doore opend. A tall man in a redd cloke and werring a crownne came in the bigg roome. He was the Kinge. The Kinge lookt anguree. Who are yoo and whi are yoo yallingg Helo Helo?? I am Frank Pinncushun he sed but I am Freddie to, and I was hear befor. And we will have a greit fyhht and I wil tryk you and ern all the guld. Lessay I tel you sumethyng sed the Kinge. Lessay you liussen. Ar we kleer?? Yes, kleer, sed Frank. The Kinge walked farwude and tutchd his chisst. The Kinge said I am not I and yoo ar not yoo. Do yuoo unnerrstan me? Yes said the boy I unnerstann. Then he tuuk his Nife and killt the Kinge and walkkt into the heeps of guld. I am not me he sed and luukt at his hanns. His hanns were bluudee and drippt over the guld. He lafft thatt boy he lafft so herd hius laffter wennt up to the seeling. Freddie he kuld see his laffter lyke smoke was hius laffter lyke a twyiste roop mayde of smuck but he kuld nott see the seelingg. He niver saw the seelingg. Not wunse.
Simon Strantzas
BURNT BLACK SUNS
SIMON STRANTZAS lives in Toronto, Canada, and is the author of four short story collections, including Burnt Black Suns (Hippocampus Press, 2014). His fiction has been reprinted in Best New Horror, The Best Horror of the Year and The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy & Horror, and has been a finalist for both the British Fantasy and Shirley Jackson Awards.
His most recent projects include the chapbook, These Last Embers, and the anthology, Aickman’s Heirs, both from Undertow Publications. He also has stories in the latest volumes of the Black Wings and the New Cthulhu series. ‘Burnt Black Suns’ marks the author’s sixth appearance in the Best New Horror series.
“‘Burnt Black Suns’ was a tough novella to write,” explains Strantzas. “The original germ for the story was as a potentially comic piece. I had envisioned a moment so absurd I couldn’t imagine it being anything else. But the line between absurd humour and bizarre horror has always been a murky one, and I realised as I fleshed out the idea that there was a more interesting context in which to use it.
“Writing the story, however, was a challenge. It’s the longest story in my fourth collection, and took me a couple of years to finish. There were a number of false starts and wrong directions as I teased out the conflicting threads of parenthood that run through the story and understood how to best shape them.
“In the end, despite the birthing pains, I learned a tremendous amount putting this story together, and I think it’s only a sampler of the sorts of things one will see from my pen in the future.”
I. A Long Bus Ride
NOAH SCREAMED AND opened his eyes. No one on the bus would look at him, all eyes curiously pointed down, and Noah felt the vestiges of his dream lingering in the dry oven air. The windows were tinted, but the sun still bore through them, bathing Noah in an unbearable heat, a heat intensified by his anxiety. Sweat trickled through the tight coils of his dark hair and down his face. In his hand was clenched the newspaper clipping he’d been carrying for days.
“Are you okay?” Rachel’s eyes were wide with worry. Noah’s head, a jumble as his sense of displacement ebbed.
“Yeah,” he said, folding the blurry photograph and placing it back in his pocket. “How long did I sleep for?”
“Not long, I don’t think.” She looked down at the small mound under her shirt and placed her hands upon it.
“I feel worse now than before. Still, I’m surprised I was able to sleep at all.” He swallowed. It tasted sour.
“That’s what happens when you don’t sleep for three days.”
It had taken a week to put the money for the trip together and make all the arrangements to get from their tiny house in Sarnia to Astilla de la Cruz in as straight a line as possible. Neither knew how long it would take to find Noah’s ex-wife, Sonia, in Mexico, let alone rescue his son, Eli. Sonia had been one step ahead of them for two years, and though Noah liked to believe his son cried for him the entire time, rationally he knew the boy forgot him more with each passing day. If he couldn’t find the boy and rescue him from his mother, Eli would be lost forever.