Free A Mosaic of Stars: Short Stories From Other Worlds by Andrew Knighton

Grindlespit wasn't great because she did obvious. Something more dynamic was called for.
    She floated down onto the duvet, light as a feather. A sprinkle of pixy dust anaesthetised the sleeper - there was nothing worse for art than a wriggling canvas - and then Grindlespit set to work.
    The vision in her head was flowing, vibrant, full of life and energy. It should have been a delight to create, each bite a tiny addition to her body of work. But instead she felt more miserable each time her teeth sank into flesh. She wanted to create art, not to be trapped and defined by the visions of others.
    Missing the seal, her teeth ground against a pot of scab brown ink. She sank into the duvet, head in hands, wings fluttering, and sobbed. Was she only doing this because it had been destined? Or was she doing what she loved? Was it both, and she could never have satisfaction without giving in to the will of the universe?
    The agitated twitching of her wings turned into a frantic buzz. She hurtled into the air, unable to think straight, flapping from place to place. She landed on a desk in the corner of the room, kicked an eraser into the waste bin, flung a pencil on the floor. Picking up a pile of the writer's chaotic notes, she gnashed at it with her teeth, staining the paper with hundreds of tiny bitemarks.
    At last her rage subsided and she sank back down, the paper trembling in her hands. The mess she had made was almost beautiful, a jumble of shapes and colour. Not a tattoo, but still art, a work for which she had never been destined.
    The smallest of smiles fluttered in Grindlespit's heart. This was the way. She could still create without bowing to prophecy. She could be her own artist.
    The air twinkled as she faded from the room.
     
    The writer woke groggily and looked down at her arm. Half a face had appeared on the skin. It looked vaguely familiar.
    "What the hell?" she gasped.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    History

 
     
     
     
     
     
    The Muqanni's Tale
     
    All I wanted was to be left to farm. To till the soil and grow enough beans and barley to feed myself through the winter. But the valley was growing dry, dust rising from the tread of our oxen. With each passing week, we had to walk further to fetch water for the plants. With each passing year, our bellies went more empty.
    My neighbour had married a woman from another tribe. She told us about the qanat in their valley - a tunnel that drew water out of the hill into the fields. This was the marvel we needed, but digging it was the art of a specialist, a man called a muqanni.
    All of us drew lots, and I lost. Reluctantly leaving my fields in the hands of others, I set off to find a muqanni.
    When I returned my crops looked weak. But I had the muqanni , a cranky, white bearded man whose tools I had carried all the way from the Euphrates. Now I could return to my work.
    “You will help,” he told me after meeting my neighbours.
    “But my field needs tending,” I said. “And you don’t even like me. You complained about my manners the whole way here.”
    “I like them even less.” He scowled at my neighbours, whose expressions ranged from outraged to relieved. “You will have to do.”
    “You are the youngest of us,” one of my neighbours said.
    “The strongest,” another added.
    “The most resilient,” said a third.
    What choice did I have?
    The first morning we walked the sides of the valley while the muqanni decided where to dig. As he prodded the ground and peered at the rocks, I took the time to enjoy views. It was pleasant, but it was not helping my farm.
    “The mother well will be here,” he said at last. “Now dig.”
    Have you ever spent weeks on end digging holes? I thought not. Let me tell you, there is no joy in it. Your hands become raw and blistered. Digging downwards, you descend into darkness, losing the warmth of sunlight. Soon your world is just dirt and aches.
    I have never felt so relieved as when the dirt grew damp beneath my