Winner of our 2020 book contest The Other Realm will be released on September 1, 2021. You can preorder the book at our store: amazon.com/stonesoup Chapter One The mind of Azalea Morroe’s father was coming apart. Gradually, and only at the seams, but coming apart all the same—and that was where the adventure began. Henry Morroe was not terribly old, nor terribly unhealthy. A researcher in an astronomical laboratory, he was both fervently passionate about his work and blissfully oblivious to his unpopularity at the place. Henry had always been of an eccentric manner, and because of this, no one really noticed that anything was wrong. For what was now out of order in his mind was assumed to have always been that way. Eccentricity was not a welcome or valued trait in Montero; the little family spent most of their time shut up in the little flat they shared, except for when Azalea went to school over the hill and her father to work—when he went to work. Lately, it had not been so. Lately, Henry Morroe was in his study from sunrise till sunset, combing over maps and taking notes from books, sticking tabs of paper to the walls, and perpetually adding to the jumbo fold-out poster board that was to save him from being laid off. In truth, it was more of a firing than a layoff, because the research company had never been a fan of Henry Morroe—although he did good work, they were much more preoccupied with their image than the accuracy of their research. They had finally found someone better—rather, someone much wealthier and more popular—to analyze and compare the data collected by the many enormous telescopes in the lab. Sure, the results might be sorely lacking in accuracy, but the image the lab projected onto the astronomical research industry would be brightened tenfold. It was a worthy switch. However, Henry Morroe had heard of this plan some weeks back—listening with an antique ear trumpet pressed to the keyhole of his supervisor’s office—and the news had derailed any other train of thought completely. They had granted him a temporary leave while they set the other guy up in Henry’s office, and Azalea’s father had taken that time to formulate a plan guaranteed to get his job back. This plan revolved around the information concealed in a dusty old volume, one that Azalea was reading while she stood in front of the bathroom mirror brushing her teeth. All About the Two Realms, by Dr. Arnold Colton, was a book with a history deeper than most. Eccentricity did not prompt celebration in Montero, and Dr. Arnold Colton had written a very eccentric book. All About the Two Realms introduced the concept that there was more than one realm in existence, that there was another realm below the one in which Montero sprawled, made up of people similar to humans but not entirely the same. This was possibly the detail that sank the idea—no one in Montero was ready to welcome an alien race to their city. According to Dr. Colton, if you believed in both realms, it was possible to travel between them when a black moon coincided with a low tide—and in the lower realm, it was common knowledge that the upper one existed. Dr. Arnold Colton and his book were banned from Montero and the surrounding region almost immediately after its release, the publishers pulled out of their contract with the city’s library, and most anyone who had previously been fascinated by this new worldview stowed the book hastily somewhere dark and never spoke of their infatuation with it again—but Henry Morroe felt no shame in taking instruction from a banned book, and neither did his daughter. It was said that this realm held an island that provided the perfect star-charting vantage point, with spectacular views of a few planets not yet known to the people of Montero. The sleek black rock rose up out of the water and gave way quickly to dense forest—not a grain of sand to be found, despite the vast desert that stretched out across the strait. Apparently, this enclave was no tropical vacation spot but the trade capital of the realm and abuzz with all nature of activities. People of all shapes and sizes flocked to the isle to sell a variety of colorful, extraordinary goods, and many of them liked it so much that they simply stayed. The capital city loomed not far from the harbor, and beyond that green hills, interrupted only by the occasional tiny hamlet, ambled along, grasses swaying. Not many people lived around there, and the sky was pitch black—that, Dr. Colton claimed, was the place where you could see the stars with your naked eye. Henry was certain that if he were to bring information from this wonderland to his lab, they would surely take him back. And Azalea, wishing to bring her father happiness in any way possible, agreed. Although Azalea Morroe was no longer a child, she had not yet discerned the difference between insanity and sanity, had not yet realized that her father was edging closer and closer to the former. Although Azalea Morroe was no longer a child, she had not yet discerned the difference between insanity and sanity, had not yet realized that her father was edging closer and closer to the former. She still took his word for truth without a second thought, looking to him for guidance as a flower to the sun— unaware that he too relied on her. Most of the time, the two lived contentedly together in their little flat, and for the fifteen years that Azalea had been alive, the occupancy of the place had never exceeded two people. Her mother had run off as soon as Azalea was born, but she was missed as often as father and daughter fought. There were no photographs of her, and Azalea often wondered if her mother had given her the hair like

Katrina’s life changes when she starts visiting Mr. McCumber, a lonely old man with no family of his own Chapter One  Lord I been hangin’ out of town in that low-down rain Watchin’ good-time Charlie, friend, is drivin’ me insane Down on shady Charlotte Street,  the green lights look red Wish I was back home on the farm, in my feather bed The soft music of the guitar floated through the still air. Smoke from a chimney could be seen above the rooftops of town. Peter McCumber was an odd man. He spoke to no one, but he sang and played his guitar as if he was all alone in his own world. Nobody could remember the last time Peter McCumber had gone to church, let alone to visit somebody. The townspeople all kept their distance, as if he were ill or crazy or something. My father was the only person that would speak to him. I was interested in the old man; there were not many elderly people in Emerald Hills, where we lived. The only other one was Mrs. Gaffney, the milliner. But, like everyone else, I kept my distance. Our town, Emerald Hills, consisted of two neighborhoods. I lived at the very edge of the smaller neighborhood, closer to the part of town where all the shops were. My house was a tiny one-story cottage with whitewashed boards and sky-blue trim around the windows. I lived with my father and our cook, Helen. My mother died when I was only four, and I hardly remembered her. Helen came shortly after Mother died, and she had raised me for most of my life. I opened the kitchen door, and a wave of delicious scents hit me. Helen hardly ever made anything hot in the summertime, but today was Friday, and Grandmother was coming. Helen had cooked a whole chicken and made mashed potatoes, which were a special treat. She had roasted carrots and for dessert there was a large chocolate cake hidden in the cupboard. “Smells delicious!” I exclaimed, dropping into a chair. “It’s nothing,” Helen said with a smile. “But I could use some help. Go change and then help me set the table.” “Sure.” I left the kitchen and went into my bedroom. I picked out the blue dress Father got me for my birthday. It was very lovely, but I hated dresses, and I wore overalls almost every day. But I knew that Father would appreciate it if I dressed nicely tonight because Grandmother was coming. My father’s parents had died before I was born, but my mother’s mother was still alive. She was a stately old lady, and very old-fashioned. She did not really approve of my father, because my mother had run away to marry him. But with time she had grown to tolerate him, and after Mother died, she helped us in some small ways. Anyway, Grandmother did not approve of girls wearing pants, so every time she came, I donned a dress and stuffed my overalls to the back of my closet, in case she happened to peek in. The dining room was set up nicely with a pale yellow tablecloth and flickering candles. Usually, we ate at the kitchen table, but as I’ve said, Grandmother was very stately and old-fashioned and did not approve of dining in the kitchen. I helped Helen bring the various dishes to the table. Just as we finished, the front door opened and my father entered. I could hear him taking off his hat and putting down his umbrella. He had been in the city, picking up Grandmother. I ran to him and wrapped my arms around him. “Hey, kiddo. How was your day?” he asked, squeezing me to him. “Good,” I told him. Then I heard a loud sniff. I stepped away from Father to see Grandmother standing beside him. She was very short, not much taller than me, but Father once said that was a good thing, because if she were any taller, she would be too intimidating to even talk to. “Hello, Grandmother,” I said quietly. She sniffed again. “It is not proper to come flying at someone like that. And Martin, you must not say ‘hey’— it’s so unrefined! When I was young, we stood in a line in front of my father when he came home from work, so as to greet him. We never flew at him like small animals!” she said. That is what I meant about Grandmother. Father smiled. “Katrina was just happy to see me. That’s all,” he said. “Yes, well.” She sniffed again. “Really, Martin. I do think you should have named her Julia Margaret! That’s proper, you know! The first daughter named for her mother! Especially because her mother is now dead. Did you ever think about changing her name after my daughter died? It would make people see how much you were mourning her!” The stars appeared one by one, as if someone were lighting hundreds of candles to cut through the darkness. Grandmother brought this up every time she visited. But Father always said with his quiet firmness that my mother had hated the name Julia Margaret and had not wanted to name her daughter that. “Supper’s going to get cold. Why don’t we all head into the dining room and have a bite to eat?” suggested Helen, poking her head through the door. “And really, Martin. Servants should know their place! They should not interrupt conversations! They should not talk at all!” Grandmother said. “Helen is a dear friend, not a servant,” Father replied. He still spoke in the same calm manner that he always did, but I could tell he was aggravated. Helen did not seem to mind Grandmother’s remarks. I saw her hiding a smile as she withdrew back into the dining room. Dinner was mostly uneventful. Grandmother criticized everything from peeling paint on the walls to how Father’s wristwatch was seven seconds faster than the grandfather clock