Casserole Diplomacy and Other Stories by Various Read Free Book Online

especially Lumpkin, always faithful Lumpkin. Oh well , he thought. Wherever he’s gone, he’s probably better off now.
    “Halooo . . .” The voice startled Bertwold. It was a woman’s voice, a mellifluous, lilting tone that made his blood quicken. It had issued from behind the castle gate. “Is anyone out there?”
    Bertwold turned and cleared his throat. “Yes?”
    “Um,” the voice began. “I’m in a bit of a fix. I was wondering if you could, uh, possibly give me a hand.”
    Bertwold strode up to the gate. In its centre was a square peephole that was shut. “What sort of help?” When there was no answer, Bertwold said, “Why don’t you open the gate?”
    “I’m afraid I can’t,” the voice said. “You see, that’s my problem.”
    “Then at least open the peephole so I can see who it is that I’m addressing.”
    “Oh well, if you insist!” The voice sounded annoyed, almost petulant. There was a rasping sound followed by a grunt. Then the small wooden square swung inward. Bertwold’s heart faltered. Framed in the opening was the beautiful face he had watched through his telescope, although now a wig sat askew atop her head. Bertwold gaped; the woman blushed. Then she inclined her head in a fetching manner, hiding her eye patch in half-shadow. Bertwold sucked in a sharp breath.
    “I’m afraid I can’t open the door,” she said in a forlorn voice that rent Bertwold’s heart. “I’m trapped.” She stepped back and he could see that she had only one arm, and that arm had no fingers. “I managed to pull the bolt on the peephole with my teeth, but the gate is barred.” She gave him a melting look. “I’m afraid you’ll have to find your own way in.”
    Bertwold’s heart sang in his chest.
     
     
    Fall was nearly played out and winter would soon be upon them; large flakes of snow drifted down and settled on the ground. The pass, paved road and all, would soon be closed until spring. Miranda stared at the castle, at her castle, and the causeway that had been cut through it like a tunnel, and felt a brief, almost imperceptible, flash of something that might have been anger.
    But it passed quickly.
    As if sensing her agitation, Bertwold reached out and put his arm around her shoulders. She turned and smiled at him.
    It had been his idea to come back here, and she could see it troubled him no less than her. The way he had looked at his machine, or the head of it anyway, that poked above the ground in the midst of the inexplicable broccoli patch. It was, she thought, quite clever, still widely regarded as his best work, something of which he could rightly be proud.
    “Ready?” she asked, and he nodded.
    They walked back to their carriage. When she reached out to open the door, he closed his fingers over her wrist. “Problems?” he asked.
    She drew her brow up in puzzlement.
    “The cold,” he tapped her arm. “I was worried about the temperature. How’s it holding up?”
    She flexed her arm, curling her fingers, all five of them, into a fist and released them. An almost inaudible whirring followed her movements. “Works perfectly,” she said, reaching out and pulling his head to hers until their lips touched lightly. “Just like magic.”
     

     
    Originally published in On Spec Fall 1994 Vol 6 No 3 #18
     
    Robert Boyczuk has published short stories in various magazines and anthologies. He also has three books out: a collection of his short work, Horror Story and Other Horror Stories , and two novels, Nexus: Ascension and The Book of Thomas, Volume I , Heaven (all by Chizine Publications). More fascinating details on Bob, and downloads of most of his published work, are available at boyczuk.com .
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

Casserole Diplomacy
    Fiona Heath
     
     
     
     
     
    Edna was doing the dishes when the aliens knocked on the back door. She was in the kitchen at the back of the house, facing the woods instead of the highway that cut through the isolated area she