Excerpt from The Blue Flame Book one of the Daradawn Series by Barbara M. Hodges |
| Excerpt or Work-in-Progress |
| Art by Mj Gillot |
Secrets to Die For, Chapter 1
L.J. Sellers
Author of the Detective Jackson mysteries The
Sex Club, Secrets to Die For, The Baby Thief
Raina shut off the motor and glanced up at the
puke-green doublewide with a chunk of plywood
over the front window. The near dusk couldn’t
hide the broken dreams of the trailer’s occupants,
Bruce and Cindy Gorman. Raina wasn’t here to
see them. She was here for Josh, their eight-year-
old son.
As a children’s support advocate, Raina had been
assigned to monitor Josh six months ago, when
the state of Oregon had taken temporary custody
and placed the boy in foster care. Her primary
responsibility was to stay in touch with Josh and to
ensure the system did not fail him. During that
time, the Gormans had danced all the right steps–
anger management for him, parenting classes for
her, and a rehab program for both. So now Josh
was back in their care, and this was Raina’s last
official contact…for now.
Her heart was flip-flopping, just like it did on her
last day of high school. She was happy for Josh,
but she despised Bruce and would be glad to
never see him again, even though she knew it was
petty to feel that way. Raina wished she were
more mature, more objective, like the other CSA
volunteers. At twenty, she and Jamie were the
youngest in the group. Raina had become quite
fond of Josh and would miss him terribly. She
loved their long walk-and-talks along the river
path, with Josh pointing out every bug he saw. It
had been like having a little brother. Her
counselor had been right when she’d advised
Raina to do some volunteer work. Giving was the
best way of receiving.
Raina stepped out of the Volvo and pulled in a
quick breath of frigid February air. The smell of
dog shit assaulted her senses. So much for her
lofty ideals. She hurried to the door, hoping the
dog, a Boxer named Brat, was either locked in the
bathroom or deep in the woods behind the trailer.
Raina shivered in the cold foul silence. The house
was at least a half mile from the nearest neighbor.
Bruce pulled the door open a few inches before
she could knock. “Josh is in bed, so come back
tomorrow.” His voice was raspy from a lifetime of
cigarettes, and his hairline had gone north on
both sides. Bruce should have been a big man,
but years of slouching took inches off his height
and an old meth habit left him scrawny in a way
that rehab couldn’t fix.
“I just need a few minutes with him, so I can make
some final notes.”
“I told you, he’s not feeling well,” Bruce said
through clenched teeth.
“Then all the more reason I should see him.”
“Not now.” Bruce started to close the door.
Raina stood her ground. “The custody order isn’t
final yet. They’re waiting for my report. And it’s not
convenient for me to come back tomorrow. I have
classes.” She sounded braver than she felt.
“Don’t threaten me, you snot-nosed little–”
Cindy’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “Let her
in, Bruce. Might as well get it over with.”
Raina wasn’t sure she still wanted to enter the
trailer. She needed to know that Josh was okay,
that the boy hadn’t changed his mind about going
home to his parents. He had been quite excited on
Sunday when she and Josh’s caseworker had
picked him up to bring him here. The image of him
standing on the ramshackle porch with his faded
duffle bag, looking uncertain, haunted her. Raina
had not slept well since.
“Josh, come out here for a minute!” Cindy yelled
down the hallway. Raina cringed. Her mother had
been a screamer too.
Bruce kept the door blocked. He turned his head
and hollered, “Stay in bed!” Then to Cindy, he
yelled, “Goddammit, woman. Don’t contradict me.
That little bitch is not coming in, and Josh is not
coming out.” Bruce turned back to Raina and
growled through the partially open door. “You
better forget you came out here tonight. And this
conversation better not end up in the file.”
Then it hit Raina. The paranoia, the anger, the
need to dominate. She knew all the signs. She
had witnessed them plenty as a child. Bruce was
using again. He was high on meth right now. Oh
dear God.
Raina took a step back. Every muscle in her body
wanted to run for the car. It had always been her
instinct as a child too. It was a mistake. Meth
dopers often had predatory responses. If you ran,
they attacked. Raina still had the scars. Her
mother had been quite quick on her feet.
Raina coached herself to stay calm. Just nod and
move away slowly. Don’t make eye contact. Get to
the car and lock the doors.
She took a step back. What about Josh? Was he
okay? Panic pushed out of her stomach and into
her throat. Had they already abused him? Is that
why Bruce didn’t want her to see the boy?
Without thinking, she called out, “Josh, are you
okay?”
Oh shit. Why had she done that?
“Fuck you.” Bruce leaned out the door, no longer
caring that she could see his hugely dilated
pupils. “You don’t know a fucking thing. Get the
fuck out of here and keep your fucking mouth
shut.” Spit flew from his mouth with every f. “If we
lose Josh again, I’ll fucking kill you.”
Raina inched back, a half step at a time, feeling
for the edge of the porch with her toes.
“Move, you little bitch.” Bruce lunged through the
door.
Raina turned and ran.
It was only thirty feet to her car, but every step on
the dirt path felt sticky and treacherous in the
near dark. Heart pounding, she reached the
Volvo, yanked open the door, and jumped in. Her
knee slammed into the steering wheel, but she
didn’t have time to process the pain. Eyes
watering, Raina hit the automatic door lock and
started the engine.
Only then did she look up. Bruce was barreling
toward her, about ten feet from the car. Raina
shoved the gearshift into reverse and hit the gas.
As she cranked the wheel left, aiming for the
gravel turnaround tucked into the trees, Bruce
slipped and went down hard. Raina let out her
breath, jammed the transmission into drive, and
sped down the gravel road, bouncing through
every pothole instead of taking the time to go
around. For a fleeting second, she wished she
had run over Bruce while he was down.
Raina cursed herself for coming out here. She
had been advised to see Josh only in neutral
settings. She cursed herself for handling the
situation so badly. Drug addicts! Disease or not,
sometimes she hated all of them. Dead mother
included.
Raina checked her rear view mirror for headlights
but didn’t see anyone coming behind her. Maybe
Bruce had hurt himself when he fell. Or perhaps
he’d decided to take out his anger on Cindy
because she was closer and easier. Raina
desperately hoped he would leave Josh alone.
She decided to go straight to the police. She
couldn’t prove that Josh was in immediate danger,
but Bruce had threatened to kill her. That had to
be against the law. The bastard. He’d better not
hurt Josh. As soon as she was on the main road,
she would call Mariah Martin, Josh’s caseworker at
Child Welfare Services. Mariah would get a court
order and get Josh out of that hellhole by
tomorrow.
Distracted by her scattered thoughts, Raina
almost missed the single curve in the quarter-mile
driveway. She braked and pulled hard on the
steering wheel, barely keeping the car from
smacking into a giant Douglas fir. It was dark now,
and she was anxious to get back into the bright
lights and safety of Eugene city streets. She didn’t
want to die in one of those mysterious single-car
accidents, so she kept her speed reasonable.
Raina checked the rearview mirror again. No car
lights behind directly her. With Pine Grove Road
only a hundred yards ahead, she started to relax.
Out of nowhere came a loud popping sound. Not
quite like a gunshot, but loud enough to jumpstart
her heart into frantic mode. Instinctively, Raina
pressed the gas pedal, but the car didn’t respond
well. It pulled to the left and made a grinding
sound. Oh no. She’d blown a tire and was riding
on the rim. She had probably run over something
sharp. Shit, shit, shit! Of all times.
Raina tried to keep driving, thinking it would be
better to reach the road, but the grinding was
unbearable, so she coasted to a stop. Now what?
She knew how to change a flat tire; her
grandmother had made sure of that. Yet the sliver
of moonlight wasn’t enough, and crazy Bruce was
still back there somewhere. Be smart, she told
herself. Call for help.
Raina reached into her purse for her cell phone,
thinking she would call Jamie first. Jamie would
bring her dad. Mr. Conner would have a spotlight
in the back of his truck and make short work of
changing the tire.
The call wouldn’t go through. Damn! Seven miles
out of town, and she couldn’t pick up a tower. She
tried again. Dead air. Raina decided to step out of
the Volvo just long enough to try the call again.
After a quick glance back down the road, she
unlocked the door and pressed speed-dial #2. As
she reached for the handle, the door flew open
and a powerful force yanked her from the car.
Raina started to cry out, but her head smacked
against the hard metal at the top of the door
opening. Searing pain paralyzed her voice, and all
that came out was a pathetic mewing sound. A
calloused hand with an odd metal smell clamped
over her mouth. Raina struggled, but a big arm
squeezed her like a python holding its next meal.
Fingers plunged into her hair, then slammed her
head against the side of the car.
More searing pain. Oh God, he was going to kill
her.
Bam! Her head smashed into the car again. As
she passed out, Raina’s last thought was, I love
you, Jamie.
L.J. Sellers
Author of the Detective Jackson mysteries The
Sex Club, Secrets to Die For, The Baby Thief
Raina shut off the motor and glanced up at the
puke-green doublewide with a chunk of plywood
over the front window. The near dusk couldn’t
hide the broken dreams of the trailer’s occupants,
Bruce and Cindy Gorman. Raina wasn’t here to
see them. She was here for Josh, their eight-year-
old son.
As a children’s support advocate, Raina had been
assigned to monitor Josh six months ago, when
the state of Oregon had taken temporary custody
and placed the boy in foster care. Her primary
responsibility was to stay in touch with Josh and to
ensure the system did not fail him. During that
time, the Gormans had danced all the right steps–
anger management for him, parenting classes for
her, and a rehab program for both. So now Josh
was back in their care, and this was Raina’s last
official contact…for now.
Her heart was flip-flopping, just like it did on her
last day of high school. She was happy for Josh,
but she despised Bruce and would be glad to
never see him again, even though she knew it was
petty to feel that way. Raina wished she were
more mature, more objective, like the other CSA
volunteers. At twenty, she and Jamie were the
youngest in the group. Raina had become quite
fond of Josh and would miss him terribly. She
loved their long walk-and-talks along the river
path, with Josh pointing out every bug he saw. It
had been like having a little brother. Her
counselor had been right when she’d advised
Raina to do some volunteer work. Giving was the
best way of receiving.
Raina stepped out of the Volvo and pulled in a
quick breath of frigid February air. The smell of
dog shit assaulted her senses. So much for her
lofty ideals. She hurried to the door, hoping the
dog, a Boxer named Brat, was either locked in the
bathroom or deep in the woods behind the trailer.
Raina shivered in the cold foul silence. The house
was at least a half mile from the nearest neighbor.
Bruce pulled the door open a few inches before
she could knock. “Josh is in bed, so come back
tomorrow.” His voice was raspy from a lifetime of
cigarettes, and his hairline had gone north on
both sides. Bruce should have been a big man,
but years of slouching took inches off his height
and an old meth habit left him scrawny in a way
that rehab couldn’t fix.
“I just need a few minutes with him, so I can make
some final notes.”
“I told you, he’s not feeling well,” Bruce said
through clenched teeth.
“Then all the more reason I should see him.”
“Not now.” Bruce started to close the door.
Raina stood her ground. “The custody order isn’t
final yet. They’re waiting for my report. And it’s not
convenient for me to come back tomorrow. I have
classes.” She sounded braver than she felt.
“Don’t threaten me, you snot-nosed little–”
Cindy’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “Let her
in, Bruce. Might as well get it over with.”
Raina wasn’t sure she still wanted to enter the
trailer. She needed to know that Josh was okay,
that the boy hadn’t changed his mind about going
home to his parents. He had been quite excited on
Sunday when she and Josh’s caseworker had
picked him up to bring him here. The image of him
standing on the ramshackle porch with his faded
duffle bag, looking uncertain, haunted her. Raina
had not slept well since.
“Josh, come out here for a minute!” Cindy yelled
down the hallway. Raina cringed. Her mother had
been a screamer too.
Bruce kept the door blocked. He turned his head
and hollered, “Stay in bed!” Then to Cindy, he
yelled, “Goddammit, woman. Don’t contradict me.
That little bitch is not coming in, and Josh is not
coming out.” Bruce turned back to Raina and
growled through the partially open door. “You
better forget you came out here tonight. And this
conversation better not end up in the file.”
Then it hit Raina. The paranoia, the anger, the
need to dominate. She knew all the signs. She
had witnessed them plenty as a child. Bruce was
using again. He was high on meth right now. Oh
dear God.
Raina took a step back. Every muscle in her body
wanted to run for the car. It had always been her
instinct as a child too. It was a mistake. Meth
dopers often had predatory responses. If you ran,
they attacked. Raina still had the scars. Her
mother had been quite quick on her feet.
Raina coached herself to stay calm. Just nod and
move away slowly. Don’t make eye contact. Get to
the car and lock the doors.
She took a step back. What about Josh? Was he
okay? Panic pushed out of her stomach and into
her throat. Had they already abused him? Is that
why Bruce didn’t want her to see the boy?
Without thinking, she called out, “Josh, are you
okay?”
Oh shit. Why had she done that?
“Fuck you.” Bruce leaned out the door, no longer
caring that she could see his hugely dilated
pupils. “You don’t know a fucking thing. Get the
fuck out of here and keep your fucking mouth
shut.” Spit flew from his mouth with every f. “If we
lose Josh again, I’ll fucking kill you.”
Raina inched back, a half step at a time, feeling
for the edge of the porch with her toes.
“Move, you little bitch.” Bruce lunged through the
door.
Raina turned and ran.
It was only thirty feet to her car, but every step on
the dirt path felt sticky and treacherous in the
near dark. Heart pounding, she reached the
Volvo, yanked open the door, and jumped in. Her
knee slammed into the steering wheel, but she
didn’t have time to process the pain. Eyes
watering, Raina hit the automatic door lock and
started the engine.
Only then did she look up. Bruce was barreling
toward her, about ten feet from the car. Raina
shoved the gearshift into reverse and hit the gas.
As she cranked the wheel left, aiming for the
gravel turnaround tucked into the trees, Bruce
slipped and went down hard. Raina let out her
breath, jammed the transmission into drive, and
sped down the gravel road, bouncing through
every pothole instead of taking the time to go
around. For a fleeting second, she wished she
had run over Bruce while he was down.
Raina cursed herself for coming out here. She
had been advised to see Josh only in neutral
settings. She cursed herself for handling the
situation so badly. Drug addicts! Disease or not,
sometimes she hated all of them. Dead mother
included.
Raina checked her rear view mirror for headlights
but didn’t see anyone coming behind her. Maybe
Bruce had hurt himself when he fell. Or perhaps
he’d decided to take out his anger on Cindy
because she was closer and easier. Raina
desperately hoped he would leave Josh alone.
She decided to go straight to the police. She
couldn’t prove that Josh was in immediate danger,
but Bruce had threatened to kill her. That had to
be against the law. The bastard. He’d better not
hurt Josh. As soon as she was on the main road,
she would call Mariah Martin, Josh’s caseworker at
Child Welfare Services. Mariah would get a court
order and get Josh out of that hellhole by
tomorrow.
Distracted by her scattered thoughts, Raina
almost missed the single curve in the quarter-mile
driveway. She braked and pulled hard on the
steering wheel, barely keeping the car from
smacking into a giant Douglas fir. It was dark now,
and she was anxious to get back into the bright
lights and safety of Eugene city streets. She didn’t
want to die in one of those mysterious single-car
accidents, so she kept her speed reasonable.
Raina checked the rearview mirror again. No car
lights behind directly her. With Pine Grove Road
only a hundred yards ahead, she started to relax.
Out of nowhere came a loud popping sound. Not
quite like a gunshot, but loud enough to jumpstart
her heart into frantic mode. Instinctively, Raina
pressed the gas pedal, but the car didn’t respond
well. It pulled to the left and made a grinding
sound. Oh no. She’d blown a tire and was riding
on the rim. She had probably run over something
sharp. Shit, shit, shit! Of all times.
Raina tried to keep driving, thinking it would be
better to reach the road, but the grinding was
unbearable, so she coasted to a stop. Now what?
She knew how to change a flat tire; her
grandmother had made sure of that. Yet the sliver
of moonlight wasn’t enough, and crazy Bruce was
still back there somewhere. Be smart, she told
herself. Call for help.
Raina reached into her purse for her cell phone,
thinking she would call Jamie first. Jamie would
bring her dad. Mr. Conner would have a spotlight
in the back of his truck and make short work of
changing the tire.
The call wouldn’t go through. Damn! Seven miles
out of town, and she couldn’t pick up a tower. She
tried again. Dead air. Raina decided to step out of
the Volvo just long enough to try the call again.
After a quick glance back down the road, she
unlocked the door and pressed speed-dial #2. As
she reached for the handle, the door flew open
and a powerful force yanked her from the car.
Raina started to cry out, but her head smacked
against the hard metal at the top of the door
opening. Searing pain paralyzed her voice, and all
that came out was a pathetic mewing sound. A
calloused hand with an odd metal smell clamped
over her mouth. Raina struggled, but a big arm
squeezed her like a python holding its next meal.
Fingers plunged into her hair, then slammed her
head against the side of the car.
More searing pain. Oh God, he was going to kill
her.
Bam! Her head smashed into the car again. As
she passed out, Raina’s last thought was, I love
you, Jamie.
The Lady of the House by David Lee Summers Trevor sought refuge from pouring rain in the Victorian manor house. The lady of the house offered him wine to warm his blood and a soft bed for the night. Once Trevor was cozy in the warm bed, the woman entered his room, pulled back the blankets and bit into the traveler’s neck, reveling in the sweet taste of his blood. Late the next afternoon, Trevor found the vampire’s crypt. He crept up to the coffin and threw back the lid, revealing the vampire. He gazed at her smooth skin, untouched by time. Her eyes closed, the woman looked peaceful, not like the creature that attacked him the night before. Trevor knew he must act before he lost his courage... Later, the vampire awoke in the velvet- lined darkness of her coffin. Slowly, she lifted the lid and smiled when she saw a vase, filled with a dozen blood- red roses. |
| On the Ramjet by David Lee Summers In the 20th century I learned about R. W. Bussard and his dream of building a ship called a ramjet that could travel at incredible speeds making the stars accessible. I waited more than a thousand years for someone to turn Bussard’s dream into reality. As soon as it was possible, I bought a ticket to a star 11 light years away. After all, what’ s a trip of 11 years to a vampire that had lived over a millennium? Once aboard, I met the ship’s engineer – a sublime woman who loved the stars and always wanted to be among them, but detested a mortality that would not allow her to see even more distant stars. A year out from Earth, the crew continued to puzzle over a case of anemia among the passengers while my love reveled in her newfound immortality among the stars, blissfully free of the dangers of sunlight. |
David Lee Summers is an author, editor
and astronomer living somewhere
between the western and final frontiers in
Southern New Mexico. He is the author of
five novels: The Pirates of Sufiro, Children
of the Old Stars, Heirs of the New Earth,
Vampires of the Scarlet Order, and The
Solar Sea. David is also co-author, with
Lee Clark Zumpe, of a book titled Blood
Sampler from Sam’s Dot Publishing.
Available at http://www.hadrosaur.
com/bookstore.html#blood_sampler and
http://www.genremall.com/anthologiesr.
htm#bloodsampler
and astronomer living somewhere
between the western and final frontiers in
Southern New Mexico. He is the author of
five novels: The Pirates of Sufiro, Children
of the Old Stars, Heirs of the New Earth,
Vampires of the Scarlet Order, and The
Solar Sea. David is also co-author, with
Lee Clark Zumpe, of a book titled Blood
Sampler from Sam’s Dot Publishing.
Available at http://www.hadrosaur.
com/bookstore.html#blood_sampler and
http://www.genremall.com/anthologiesr.
htm#bloodsampler
QUEEN'S-COMMANDER KELSEY CAFFERTY
stood on the dark overhang, head bowed,
shoulders shaking. In the valley below, flames
leapt, incinerating the mounded dead. Acrid
black smoke billowed upward. After a moment,
she drew her shoulders back and with head
held high stepped into the choking cloud.
Through burning eyes, she watched the myriad
pinhead-specks of light and waited. Drawn to
her glow of life, they floated toward her,
surrounded her. Their touch tickled, spider silk
against bare skin. She cocked her head,
straining to hear the ethereal whispers. They
spoke of anger, sadness, and hatred of Dirkk
and his Ru'taha, but above all they whispered
of fear of what lay beyond the beckoning white
light. In none of the voices did she detect
bitterness or hate directed toward her. No, no
one blamed Kelsey Cafferty for their deaths, no
one except Kelsey Cafferty. Had she been
wrong to attack Dirkk's evil with an army of
farmers and merchants that had more courage
than experience?
Coughs wracked her body and she stumbled
back out of the smoke. Shivering, she hugged
herself and stared upward at the pale moon.
Here in Daradawn it was known as Kayla, not
Luna.
She freed the sword from the sheath on her
back and saluted the glowing orb. "I honor you,
my fallen! May you at last find peace."
Behind her, a branch cracked. She whirled.
Gripping the sword waist-high in front of her,
she searched the dark warily.
Three pale nude figures slipped from the
shadows into the moon's glow. Ru'taha. Each
clutched a chain mace. Midnight-black
almond-shaped eyes stared at her from
chiseled faces of alabaster perfection.
Kelsey stood six feet tall, but these creatures
dwarfed her. Towering above her, they circled
first left, then right, silently. They glanced at
each other, then back at her, and paced three
steps forward in unison. She shadowed them,
sword held steady, wondering how they moved
as one without speech.
She drew in a shuddering breath. Three of the
Ru'taha, and any one a match for six warriors
more seasoned than herself. She smiled grimly.
For once she should have listened to Angus
and not slipped away from her royal guards.
She was going to die. Well, so be it.
With a defiant scream she sprang forward and
buried her sword up to its jeweled hilt in the
chest of the nearest Ru'taha. Its knees buckled.
She jerked her sword free, ducked and rolled,
feeling the kiss of wind as a mace narrowly
missed her cheek. She leaped to her feet and
backed away.
The Ru'taha advanced, trampling over the
still-thrashing body of their comrade. They
swung their maces. Kelsey blocked with her
sword, the shock of iron striking steel vibrating
up her arm. The Ru'taha swung again and two
lengths of chain whipped around her blade.
With numbing fingers, Kelsey tightened her
two-fisted hold on the hilt, but she knew it was
useless.
The Ru'taha jerked their maces back. The
sword flew from her nerveless fingers, and she
screamed as white-hot fire arced through her
right shoulder.
She dove to the left, rolled, and came up on
one knee. Her chest heaving, her right arm
dangling useless, she scrambled to her feet.
With a feral grin, she beckoned them. What
would they do if she kicked them in their
jewels? One thing was certain; she'd make
them cut her to pieces. There would be nothing
left of her body to be formed into one of them.
No soldier could look into the eyes of a Ru'taha
and not wonder if what had once been a friend
looked back.
"Come on. Fight, you refugees from hell!"
The Ru'taha lurched forward.
"Nak'iha auk Ras'pota." The words, more growl
than yell, grated in the night air. Kelsey jerked
her head to the right. An axe-wielding blur
charged from the darkness. With the axe's first
pass, a Ru'taha's pale head sailed, the
neck-stump spouting blood before the knees hit
the ground.
"Girl, drop."
Kelsey did, feeling the deadly breeze as the
battle axe swept within inches of her head. She
rolled, screaming as her arm struck the ground.
Teeth clenched, she levered herself to a sitting
position with her left arm. The Ru'taha, its guts
trailing like rope sausages, towered above her.
It raised its mace.
Kelsey caught another movement out of the
corner of her eye as the Ru'taha's arm was
separated from its shoulder. The monster
swayed, stumbled backward, then toppled
toward her. She dug in her heels and
crab-walked to the right. The Ru'taha landed
with its head at her right hip. Against her will,
her eyes sought its face, seeking but fearing
recognition.
"Is it your arm again?" Angus Bladeheart
asked, unspoken reprimand sharpening his
voice.
Flat on her butt, her eyes were on the same
level as the dwarf's. His gleamed, like a newly
minted shekel, with disapproving rage.
She refused to look away; she was his
commander now, not his student. "Thank you,
friend."
He ripped a length of cloth from his tunic and
silently bound her arm to her side. Then he
moved to her left and waited. Bracing herself
for the wash of pain, Kelsey placed her left
hand on his shoulder and pushed upward. She
gasped, her vision graying at the edges.
"Lean on me. We will go to Helena."
Kelsey breathed deep. "Peter is to meet us
here. A few more minutes will make no
difference."
Angus swore beneath his breath. He wiped the
blood from her sword with the tail of his tunic,
then presented it to her hilt-first. She took it
from him and he spun on his heels and strode
to the butte's edge.
Staring at his rigid back, Kelsey pulled her
dented helm from her head. Honey- blonde hair
cascaded to graze the top of knee-high,
scuffed leather boots. The wind grabbed her
hair, whipping it into her eyes. With a soft
curse, she pulled the curls together and stuffed
them beneath the neckline of her chain mail
vest.
"I have decided that you will go for Regan
tonight instead of in the morning," she told the
dwarf.
Silence stretched and her lips tightened.
"If agreeable to Peter, I will go," Angus said at
last.
"No. You will go, no matter what Peter decides."
The dwarf whipped around to face her. She met
his gaze, unflinching.
"I obey, Queen's-Commander."
| from "To Tempt the Wolf " byTerry Spear www.terryspear.com |
Mist covered the winding coastal road on the long drive home, and although Tessa usually felt comforted by it, late this afternoon it seemed gloomy, warning of impending disaster. The last time she felt an overwhelming sense of doom, she had learned her parents had died in a car accident earlier on a day just like this one, her last year at high school. She shuddered, despite telling herself the disquieting feeling didn’t mean anything. When she finally pulled into the curved driveway at her redwood home overlooking the rugged coastline, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. A winter-chilled breeze played music on her wind chimes as the contorted pines stretching next to her house stirred. She glanced at the gray clouds. As cold as it was, if it rained, it would turn to sleet or snow or a mixture of the two soon. She climbed out of her car, shivered, and locked the doors. The place looked foreboding now that her brother was gone. Not the welcome refuge it had always been. She hurried into the house, the air as chilly inside as it was out, and rushed to change in the bedroom. After laying her wool coat on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed, she turned on the floor heater, and pulled off her black dress. Black as if she were in mourning. Which she was all over again. The house seemed so empty without her brother’s presence, his laughter, the sound of his video games playing in the background as he fought another epic fantasy battle before he settled down to paint. Now, except for the howling wind and the waves crashing on the beach down below the cliffs, everything was quiet. Too quiet in the isolated cottage. For the first time ever, she felt—spooked. There wasn’t any other way to explain the reason goose bumps rose and the hair stood on end on her arms. She kicked off her pumps, slipped out of her pantyhose, threw on a pair of heavy socks, black denims, and a turtleneck. If she didn’t quit imagining all kinds of horrible scenarios, she would lock herself in the house until the storm passed. She wasn’t normally a cowardly person, but she had never felt so alone before, like she’d fallen into a parallel world where she had no family or friends. And now even her good friend Uncle Basil was gone. But she couldn’t believe he’d leave so suddenly without a word. First chance she got, she was checking further into the matter. An animal howled in the distance. A shudder stole down her back. A wolf. Had to be. She peeked out the window, but didn’t see anything except tree branches swaying briskly in the growing wind. She wanted to believe it was just a dog. But she knew better. Wolves from Idaho’s reserve had crossed the Snake River and were roaming the northeastern part of the state. Visitors to the Wallowa Mountains and the Eagle Cap Wilderness area had also reported sightings of wolves. She’d even snapped a picture of one near La Grande and more recently, a hunter killed a wild wolf there. So why couldn’t a wolf have made it to the Oregon coast? Despite there not having been any sightings, she was certain a wolf had been roaming the area. Worse, she couldn’t explain how she felt compelled to discover the truth, but on the other hand was afraid of learning any were living here. Neither her underlying fear of them, or compulsion to seek them out made any sense to her. Except as she stalked them, she was sure they stalked her. Which was plain crazy. Or was it? She’d had more than one experience like when she’d been taking pictures of the California wildfire. A phantom gray watching her, waiting, an unnatural standoff between man and beast. And then the sudden unprovoked attacks. She yanked on her snow boots. After slipping her favorite pink ski cap on her head, covering her hair, still pinned up in a bun, she threw on her parka and grabbed her gloves. She had nothing to fear. Nothing—except the fact someone had murdered Bethany Wade, her brother was going to prison for it, and the real murderer was on the loose. But worse than that? She had challenged him—which would now be in the local newspaper, no less—that she would uncover who he was and clear her brother’s name. She glanced at the bedside table where she kept her gun and took a deep breath. “Firewood, or else you’ll go without.” If an ice storm knocked out the electricity, she would be in a world of hurt. A quick walk on the beach to gather driftwood for a fire would have to suffice. She shouldn’t have put it off so long, but all she had thought of lately was how to get her brother cleared of the charges. She needed a new lawyer. Someone who was a lot more determined. And a new private eye, someone who would find something that would help Michael, instead of just running up a bill. After locking the back door—although normally she wouldn’t have bothered, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching the place—she traversed the narrow and steep path through the woods and boulders down to the small sandy beach below. From one of the mills up north, lumber floating on the current piled up on the beach, littering it. No sense letting the wood go to waste. She shoved some over on its side and considered how wet it was. Very wet. All of it would take too long to dry. But if she didn’t hurry and the rain began, it wouldn’t matter what she gathered—the wood would all be too wet to burn. She trudged through piles of seaweed— hating the smell and unsightly mess it made as the storms churned it up on the beach—and made her way around a cluster of boulders where she spied a stack of wood. Far enough from the tidewater, it would have had more time to dry. Skirting around to the other side, she figured the timber would be the driest there. But what she saw next made her gasp and her heart nearly quit beating. The body of a veritable Greek god lay naked on his stomach, his skin, slightly blue, stretched over tightly toned muscles, his dark, wet hair draped across his face, his eyes sealed shut. Not dead. Please, don’t be dead. |
"Hostile Persuasion" by Ron Chalice |
"I Know You by Heart" by Linda Spear |
The death of a beloved, young mother sets a
chain of mystifying events in motion, which
shake the very core of what was once a close,
loving family.
CHAPTER ONE
OCTOBER 2007
"David, David!" My dying mother yelled out
loud, despite the state of her dry throat. This
was the name of a person unknown to me, and
the other members of our family. I stood at the
end of the metal-framed hospital bed and
watched helplessly, as my mother called for an
unknown man as she prepared to die. Her
breath was shallow, uneven; her sigh ached
with every breath. The nasal cannula that
forced oxygen into her lungs irritated her nose.
Cushioning her head on both sides were pillows
from home, holding the scent of lavender that
her best friend Carly believed helped her rest
more easily. Was there any real comfort in the
journey to death?
We also brought her linens from home, which
now fell limply around her shrunken body.
Where breasts would protrude, only a slight
flattened arch now appeared. On continual
impulse, I smoothed lotion on her face and
hands.
What else was there to do? When she
complained, which was rare, she told me the
sheets were uncomfortable and that they made
her body itch. By now, I think anything that
touched her parchment-like skin made her itch.
Her doctor told us it was the morphine.
It's the best painkiller I can give her," he said.
But the itch seemed just as bad as the pain. So
it seemed that relief from one part of her illness
almost always brought some other grief.
Endlessly, we had we watched this
phenomenon throughout her chemo, when pre-
meds and post-meds were supposed to provide
a reprieve from nausea, but instead, brought
along other ugly signs of her struggle to get
past the hurt.
With the morphine pump in place, the heating
pad on her spine, and the soothing lotion made
with tea tree oils that promised to take away the
itch, we made her as comfortable as we could.
Carly, who never used her full name, Caroline,
was Mom's best friend. With trembling hands,
she pulled out more pillow puffs of lavender
from her compact Bergdorf Goodman shopping
bag. The bag was the same color purple as the
sachets. Carly did all she could do—but in fact,
what could she do? Her hands trembled as she
placed the overpowering scent of lavender
around Mom's head and body.
Occasionally, Mom looked up at the ceiling of
the room, which was covered from corner to
corner with the "thinking of you" notes that no
longer fit on the card-strewn walls. Did she see
them or see through them?
Mom gazed at me, at my assigned place at the
foot of the bed. She told me, days beforehand,
that turning her head to see me at her side was
painful. So I learned how I could relieve her.
When I went to the top of the bed to put more
lotion on dry areas of her skin or to kiss her
cheek, I reminded her not to move or lift her
head. But her eyes, serene despite the
situation, followed me everywhere. Once in a
while, I’d lean in close to her ear and she’d
whisper, "David." Once, she even said, "Find
David."
"Where, Mom? Where do I locate the one man
in this whole world named David who you want
me to find? You haven't told me his last name."
She closed her eyes again, but I felt she was
thinking about what she had said.
"Who is he, Mom?" I pleaded with her. "Where
is he? Is there anything else, or anyone else, I
can bring to you?
Her luminous brown eyes, now sunk into
hollows of her skull, opened wide and swam
back and forth in their sockets, occasionally
settling on my father, my sister Francesca, who
we all called Tessa, or me. She was asking us
for something, someone, that none of us could
grasp.
Her eyes posed the question, time and again,
day after day through her death march, without
giving us the hope of an answer.
"What?" we asked her again and again.
And then my father actually shouted, "Who the
hell is this guy, Andrea?" My sister and I stayed
still and spoke not a word. Surely, we knew she
was not talking about our former family
podiatrist, Dave Woodburn. It had been years
since he celebrated age eighty.
On her very last day, she became restless. The
doctor had told us to expect this. For once in
what seemed to be a very long time, she moved
her head from side to side, as if she was no
longer in pain. But she was still searching for a
man who wasn't there. We were there, my dad,
my sister, her very best friend, and me, but it
wasn't enough.
Until that day, we had worked as a tag team:
each of us spending parts of days, whole days,
parts of nights, and in between with her. The
doctors and caregivers completed the support
staff. We all tried to get enough sleep, knowing
that when the end was in sight, we'd all be
there.
On that last day, she whispered and murmured
in a barely audible voice the same name,
"David," over and over. We took turns holding
her hand or stroking it as it lay limply in our
own. At least we realized that the lack of
tension in her muscles meant that she was pain-
free.
From deep in her throat to her now raspy voice,
we'd hear our names, spoken over and again.
She tried to cry, but her eyes remained dry.
She also mentioned the names of her only
sister, her long dead parents, and friends, the
ones still living, and the ones now gone.
But with her last breath—one referred to by the
doctors as agonal breathing—as clear as a
bell, Andrea Marsden Fielding, my mother, my
beautiful loving mother, cried out, "Please, tell
David," and exhaled for the last time.
| Linda Spear is an author and a journalist with 30 years of communications experience. As a 19-year veteran journalist for The New York Times reported primarily on evolving health and human interest issues that affect our culture. She is also a ghost writer for eight books by doctors who reveal the latest information in their field of medicine. |
| "Indian Summer" by Dellani Oakes |
(Gabriella Deza is the youngest daughter of the
Spanish Territorial Governor in St. Augustine,
Florida in 1739. Almost 15, she is poised on the
verge of womanhood, though not yet allowed to
join society's parties. This excerpt is from Chapter
1, where Gabriella watches the guests arrive for
her sister's party.)
I awoke one morning some weeks later, to find the
house in a flurry of activity. The servants busily
prepared for guests. Before leaving, Papa gave
my sisters permission to have a party. I was too
young to attend, but I always managed to stay up
late and watch the ladies in their beautiful dresses
and the young officers from the fort dancing. Soon
I would be allowed to join them as my fifteenth
birthday was in May.
That night, I watched the guests arrive. Among
them, I saw Manuel Enriques, our father's
aide-du-camp. Always a favorite with the ladies,
he cut a rakish figure in his snug britches and
close fitting jacket. His dark eyes were rimmed with
black lashes. They smoldered like embers in his
disarmingly handsome face. His long, wavy, dark
hair was tied back with a ribbon that matched his
coat. He danced with many ladies, favoring none
and always seemed to be aware of the eyes upon
him, for he moved with a grace few other men
could muster.
I found myself watching him closely, not wanting to
take my eyes from him. I think he sensed my
perusal, because from time to time he glanced
around as if looking for someone. Once or twice I
thought he might have spotted me, but I ducked
below the level of the window before he looked
directly at me.
I noticed Irena was taking nearly every dance with
the same gentleman. He limped slightly when he
walked, otherwise performed admirably on the
dance floor. Irena had eyes only for him and he
for her. I wondered who he was and determined to
ask her the next day.
I remained in my hiding place until Ana, our
housekeeper, bustled me off to bed, scolding
dreadfully. Ana loves to fuss. I often think she isn't
happy unless she's catching Marcos or me doing
something she can scold us over.
The music and chatter kept me awake for some
time as I imagined myself in a beautiful dress, on
the arm of a handsome man. Closing my eyes, I
could see Manuel's sharply chiseled profile. With
this image in my mind, I fell into a happy slumber.
| "The Fighter King" by John Bowers |
Oliver looked down the slope again. The grade
was steep, but climbable. Vegetation had been
cleared to deny cover to the enemy, but there
were depressions and occasional boulders. Even
so, the Sirians making their way upward looked
terribly exposed. They were only two hundred
yards out now, still climbing. At the base of the
gorge, Oliver saw another battalion getting ready.
They would soon follow.
"When we open fire," he told Pedersen, "take your
time and aim your shots. No need for full auto until
they get closer. Got that? This is just like a rifle
range."
"Except the targets can shoot back," she
reminded him.
He grinned at her. "You'll do okay. Just remember
your training."
Pedersen gazed down the slope at the oncoming
Sirians and Oliver sensed her tension. He
remembered his first real combat, and
sympathized.
"Right now," he said, "it's best to keep your head
down. Wait until they get closer."
"How much closer?"
"A hundred yards or less."
She heaved a deep sigh and settled down into the
shelter of the firing post. Artillery still blossomed
on the hillside opposite, and there was
conversation over the helmet net, but otherwise
the situation felt almost normal.
Oliver checked the rest of the squad. They were
all veterans by now, and waited patiently,
unhurried. Oliver quietly gave them instructions
and they nodded.
The Sirians hit the first minefield; artillery had
destroyed some of the mines, but most were still
active. The skirmish line wavered as dozens of
men died in fiery agony. Oliver peered through his
glasses, saw their hesitation.
"Giordino! Four AP rounds into that line. Hit 'em
where they're bunched up!"
Within seconds, Giordino placed four anti-
personnel rockets into the Sirian line with deadly
accuracy. The explosions further disrupted the
Sirians, causing many to seek cover. Officers
yelled and cursed to get them moving again.
Oliver had noticed the officers earlier — they were
all white. He wondered what infractions they had
committed to get themselves assigned to a serf
unit.
Now he laid his Stockholm on the edge and took
careful aim. Without a scope it was a difficult shot,
but not impossible. Just as the first cluster of serf
troops began to struggle up the hillside again,
Oliver took out the nearest officer, blowing off the
top of his head. As the body landed heavily and
skidded downhill, half the serf soldiers dived for
cover again. They began firing up the slope, and
bullets kicked along the edge of the trench.
Oliver ducked and waited. When the fire slacked
off, he took another look and saw another officer
kicking the frightened serfs to their feet. Before he
finished the job, Oliver put a round through his
heart. A few yards to the right a third officer was
leading a platoon up the slope, and Oliver nailed
him in the leg, felling him as the femur shattered
and his thigh folded.
The Sirian advance stopped cold. At least a
hundred men tried to go back, only to run into the
minefield again. Trapped, they seemed uncertain
what to do. Then the parabola guns began to hit,
dropping thirty rounds a minute along the length
of their line. Screams filled the gathering dusk,
and Oliver truly felt sorry for the men on the slope.
When the P-guns finally stopped, most were dead
or dying, the rest scattered prone across the
hillside, too demoralized to move.
But two hundred yards down the slope, another
battalion was already moving upward.
"Incoming!"
Oliver dragged Pedersen down with him as the
first salvo of rockets slammed into the hillside.
Heavy concussion and hot fragments hammered
the Guardsmen in the bottom of the trench; Oliver
tried to breathe through his mouth, and as wave
after wave of rockets hammered the hillside, he
became aware that Pedersen was screaming. He
wrapped an arm around her and pulled her tight,
struggling for air as each nearby explosion
seemed to constrict his lungs.
Someone was shouting in his helmet radio, but he
couldn't make out the words. Only when the
rockets suddenly stopped and he looked up did
he realize what was happening.
"… sleds!" Lt Lundgren was shouting. "Infantry
sleds! Fire at will!"
Oliver stumbled to his feet, bringing his rifle to
bear. His ears still rang, but now the Sirian
strategy was clear. As he shouted his squad to its
feet, he saw at least twenty sleds hovering just
yards below the trench; the rockets had been
covering fire to allow them in close, and now Sirian
infantry were leaping out and converging on the
trench. Tripod lasers on the sleds were pouring
condensed light into his men.
He heard someone scream.
Switching to full automatic, Oliver poured a stream
of fire into the bottom of the nearest sled, only to
see his bullets ricochet off its armored hull. Then
the sleds skimmed away into the dusk, leaving
behind dozens of enemy troops.
"First Squad! Open fire!"
The enemy clusters were only ten yards away,
chugging up the slope like Olympians. Pedersen
was already firing, pouring lethal streams of steel
into the onrushing Sirians. Oliver joined her,
switching magazines every few seconds. To his
right and left the chatter of automatic weapons
was deafening.
Just yards in front of the trench, men were falling
in heaps, but more still struggled upward. Even
so, it was clear the Vegans were winning. Just a
few more to kill …
Something landed in front of Oliver with a thud,
and then exploded. He felt himself flung backward
as if by a giant fist, and crashed against the far
side of the trench. Light flashed before his eyes,
his head pounded, and for a moment he thought
he was dead.
Just before his world went black, he could hear
Pedersen still firing…
… and screaming.
Endlessly.
Excerpt from The Long Way Home
by Darrell Bain
Chapter Five
"Joyce, it just about has to be this way. You
and I can't be openly sleeping with each
other. It would set a bad example and hurt
discipline." Brackett folded his hands
nervously then dropped them to his side
and clasped them behind his back as he
stood up and began to pace in such room
as was available in his cabin. It limited him
to three steps forward and three back.
"Marlin, please sit back down," Joyce said
after watching him a moment.
He stopped and looked at her then
shrugged and took the seat behind his
desk in order to keep some distance
between them.
"That won't help," she said, smiling
crookedly. "I can still see you."
"But you can't touch me. Joyce…oh, hell.
When this started it was perfectly all right.
Now it isn't. What else can I say?"
"You could tell me…no. Never mind. You're
right but that still doesn't make me like it.
And two years is a hell of a long time."
"It's only until we get back home, but yeah.
Long time to do without. How about we table
it for now and see how the crew shapes up
under the conditions we have. It could be
we could manage something in the future
but don't you agree we shouldn't be that
close right now?"
"Don't try softening it. If—when—we get
back we probably won't be assigned to the
same ship again so we won't be able to pick
back up where we left off and you know it.
However, I agree with you—for now. How
about we give it six months and see where
we are? It's possible the attraction won't
seem quite so important after awhile."
"Suits," he agreed, too quickly he thought.
"And I'm sorry, damn it," he said.
"I am, too." She stood up. "And I've been in
here alone with you too long as is. You're a
good man, Marlin. The crew is lucky to have
you. If anyone can get us back home, you
can." She looked wistfully at him for a
moment then turned and left his cabin.
Brackett sat at his desk staring into space
for a long time. Finally he sighed and stood
up. He left his cabin and went directly to the
control room while trying to put his normally
placid expression back on his face. And
that's one more decision out of the way, he
thought sadly. The first of many I'll have to
make that I won't like before this is over.
Just like it's up to me now instead of
Beauchamp to decide what to do when they
came out of hyper near the star they'd
headed for in such a hurry. He hoped it
would have a good planet orbiting it. It
would be nice to get the long journey off to
a good start.
***
Lisa Trammell sat brushing her bright red
hair in her cabin. She almost regretted
having accepted the promotion to executive
officer of Hurricane Jack now. If they
managed to get back home, something she
had her doubts about, it would look good
on her resume. Executive officer on the
longest interstellar journey ever made by a
longboat would be enough to get her a
command of her own. It only compounded
the problem she faced now, though. She
was missing John. They hadn't been in love
but she had liked him well enough to spend
a good deal of off-duty time in his cabin
back aboard Sam Johnston. She
understood herself well enough to know his
memory would fade and that she would
begin thinking of other men—in a longboat
where every single one of them were off
limits.
It wasn't in her nature to go a long time
without sex. Not that she thought of herself
as promiscuous but neither did she like to
sleep alone. Just the thought of an empty
bed for two years or three years was more
depressing than she'd ever imagined. She
put away the brush and dabbed her fingers
to her tongue then rubbed at the spray of
freckles running across the bridge of her
nose and speckling her cheeks. They
obstinately refused to vanish. She stuck out
her tongue at her reflection. Time to go see
Justin Lake, Commander of the explorers,
and tell him the Skipper had approved his
recommendation. He wanted the Coyote
squad for the first excursion if a fit planet
was found when they came out of
hyperspace. She agreed with him. The
Coyotes were the best of the three squads
and Gary Cantrell, their leader, was an
impressive officer. She and Justin both
wanted them to set the standard for all the
subsequent landings they would face.
| Darrell Bain Fictionwise author of the Year, 2005 Multiple Epic awards, 2007, Dream realm award, 2007, 2009 |
| Excerpt from Gone In An Instant by Annay Dawson |
The first thing he noticed was that she had
paled considerably at the news. He walked over
to her and carefully watched her body
language. She didn’t flinch or try to shy away
from him. He stopped short of touching her not
wanting to bring the fear back into her eyes.
She was playing along so far, but, and he didn’t
want to think any further. He tucked the gun
into the back of his pants and put the wallet in
his back pocket.
“Have you seen a white Ford Taurus in the
neighborhood lately?” The officer asked.
“Yes, yes I have,” and Susan looked up at Jack.
His expression betrayed nothing, “The last two
mornings it has been parked on the street.”
She noticed Jack stayed quiet. She thought
back to yesterday morning. She could have
sworn that the car had started to follow her, and
then she lost track of it.
“Is there something else you wanted to tell me?”
The officer had seen her deep in thought. Even
though Jack’s face betrayed nothing it pained
him to see her bright eyes in her pale face as
shock began to get the better of her.
“No,” since Jack had decided not to volunteer
anything she decided she needed to talk to him
about this first without the officer around. There
was still the little matter of the phony name and
occupation, or was it. The more she tried to
think the more confused she got and the more
her head hurt, “I was just trying to remember the
man inside the car, but I can’t tell you anything
about him.”
“Captain, did you notice anything unusual?”
Officer Gilbert turned his attention toward Jack
again.
“I’m here on vacation and so haven’t been out
much. Can’t say that I did,” and with that Jack
walked back toward the officer, “If we remember
anything we will give you a call. Do you have a
card?” This time Jack spoke in almost a
whisper, "She seems a bit shocked by all this. I
think I need to get her a coffee and into
something a bit warmer." Officer Gilbert glanced
quickly at Susan and understood immediately.
He gave a small nod.
“Yes. Thank you both for all your help,” and he
handed Jack his card and left.
Jack turned around and noticed that Susan
hadn’t moved from her chair. His look was
serious and she stayed still. She was visibly
paled by the experience. He wanted to go to
her and sooth her and tell her that he had
nothing to do with this, but he knew she wouldn’t
believe him. He walked out of the room so
quickly that Susan didn’t have time to even
guess what he was up to. By the time he
returned he was already connected to someone
on the other end of his cell phone. He also had
a cold drink in his hand, which he handed to her
and told her to drink.
“Turner, we have a problem,” was all she heard
him say into the phone at first, “No the guy
following Susan and me has now ended up dead
outside her house,” a pause, “Hell no I didn’t go
out there to see what happened and as for
anything else you may be thinking also no,” Jack
decided that there was no use telling him that he
couldn’t get close to the scene even if he
wanted to. Jack also knew that he had no
jurisdiction inside the country really, “I used the
Dallas PD alias but have no rights to go to the
crime scene here at all. You need to get
someone out here and do some looking
around. I want to know if this was random or if
they are after me.” Susan leaned back in the
chair, she looked closer to fainting and he
pointed to the juice in her hand again.
She drank it mechanically. He didn’t have to
make the call in here, in front of her, but he
had. He was letting her in on just a bit more of
his life, but she wasn’t sure it was a part she
wanted to know. Her head was spinning with all
the information, “Not yet, but I think that is what
is coming next,” and he looked at Susan. “Keep
me up to date,” and he disconnected the phone
and placed it on the computer desk. He didn’t
try to go up to her this time, he sat in a chair just
opposite her, “So, what do you want to know?”
“Just like that,” she felt weak and wasn’t sure
why. She was moments away from finding out
everything she would want and not want to
know, “you’re going to tell me everything. How
can I be sure it’s the truth?”
“I have been nothing but honest with you from
the start. If I couldn’t tell you something I just
didn’t tell you, I never lied. I could have made
that call in the other room, could have given you
the same alias the first time I met you, but I didn’
t,” he sat with his arms open to her. If he was
lying then he was very good at it, “I was told not
to mess it up remember, so I have tried really
hard not to. You are the first person I have
allowed to get this close to me. I planned on
telling you in about a week, but some plans just
never work out. I will tell you everything you
want to know. There are some details I will need
to leave out.”
“Oh,” and Susan seemed to not to be feeling
anything, “Your name and what you do.”
“My name is Jack Golightly, you know that
already. My first name is Michael and the
middle name is Jack. Michael is my grandfather’
s name and Jack is my father’s. You already
guessed what I did when you first met me. It
took me off guard. No one had ever seen
through me that clearly and easily. As you know
I work with the government collecting information
for the C.I.A. As you may have already guessed
I’m not sitting behind the desk very often, and
my life is in danger at times,” he paused and
looked into her eyes.
“I thought that,” and she remembered the
particularly ugly scar on his chest.
"I got that scar you were looking at the other day
when I fell off a roof," he was a little
embarrassed now, "during my training."
“Why didn’t you tell the officer that the white car
had been following us?” Some of the color had
come back into her face, but he knew that would
only last a little bit longer.
from "Mardi Gravestone" by Sandy Semerad |
Note: A journalist and her daughter, visiting New Orleans during Mardi Gras,
uncover murders involving the White House.
Fat Tuesday, February 14
(St. Louis Cathedral, New Orleans)
If you had seen me on that day you would have said I was a hyper child, not the
mother of a teenager. I couldn’t sit still, much less find a comfortable position in
an unforgiving church pew.
I was nervous about meeting the President and the harder I tried to focus on the questions I
wanted to ask, the more fidgety I became.
I don’t recall how many times I checked myself in the mirror and redid the hair pins on my French
twist. I do remember thinking how my life had changed since Martha--the cemetery psychic--gave
me the crystal necklace.
At that moment, the large, tear-shaped stone refracted green and gold, party yellow, electric
purple, blood red, and sad blue. A Jackson Pollack impression of St. Louis Cathedral if ever there
was one.
"Costume congregation--eerie carnival aura,” I scribbled in my reporter’s pad while struggling to
describe what I was seeing. “A comic contrast to the rich murals and stained glass windows of
Louis IX, Christian King of France.”
The Cathedral was standing-room only. Several people wore masks. They’d fit right in at the
Voodoo Lounge, but not in a place once sanctioned by the Pope. I couldn’t relate. I had no
reference point.
I thought of the church I was forced to attend as a child. It was an outhouse in comparison to this.
Yes, Gerry First Baptist in Gerry, Alabama was functional, but not much else.
I often wish I could escape my memories of back then. They’re reborn whenever I smell oak or a
certain mustiness I came to associate with Jesus on the Cross. The smell would have been
pleasant if not for the Reverend Barker’s sermons on hell-fire and damnation.
Mother made me go to church, sick or not. She provided the organ and piano music. Without her,
Gerry Baptist was sadder than a funeral in Seattle. I don’t think I’d be wrong to say, Mother was
the main attraction. Many in the congregation would agree, with the clear exception of Ada Bell
Fletcher. Mrs. Fletcher frowned and went “humph,” every time Mother played hymns in that boogie-
woogie style of hers.
Mother said Mrs. Fletcher had no room to judge. She and the Reverend Barker did a lot worse
than the boogie-woogie at the Nightly Stay Motel--or as we used to call it, the Hourly Lay.
Wishing I could push back the memory, I finger-combed an unruly strand of blonde hair into my
French twist. A tall Secret Service man in black walked down the center aisle, blocking my view. He
seemed more fitting as a pall bearer than as guardian for the President. This agent was quite
handsome, a Richard-Gere type. He reminded me of Jay, the way his wavy, steel gray hair framed
his face. But Jay was more casual. He’d never be caught dead in a suit like that, though I had to
admit it was lint free and immaculate.
Unlike my own attire, a crocheted dress I’d ordered from some catalog because it was on sale, and
I loved the color, a rich burgundy. I’d worn the dress a number of times without having it cleaned.
Oh well, so what. I was a seasoned reporter doing a job. At least I’d washed my hair that morning
and dabbed on a bit of makeup. Quite a feat, considering the events of the past week, two
murders and precious little evidence.
I thought of the diary I’d found. It pointed to the guilty party, but like a complex news story with no
lead sentence, left more questions than answers.
My personal life was even more confusing. I, Lilah Sanderford of all people, had become entirely
too hormonal: like a teenager in love, too much, too fast. I needed a break, needed time to clear
my mind, consider the evidence.
Fat chance on this Fat Tuesday. My mind was mush. I couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything
for long, except superficial stuff like my appearance. I took a mirrored compact out of my tote to
check for lipstick teeth and smeared mascara but promptly dropped it when the pipe organ
thundered out Hail to the Chief.
Katherine Georgia Wilson entered the back of the church dressed as a glorified Mardi Gras
queen. "Resplendent in her golden crown and cape ~ Gold for power.” I wondered if I’d be able to
decipher my scratchy handwriting. "The President’s cape is laced with green and purple ribbons,
traditional Carnival colors.”
Always the campaigner, Wilson worked her way through the crowd, shaking every extended hand
until she came to the altar where she turned and waved, crisscrossing her arms above her head.
"What an honor it is to speak to you in this beautiful Cathedral the final Tuesday before Lent."
Wilson’s deep, velvet voice assaulted the pin-drop silence. As if savoring the moment, she
paused, smiling serenely from behind the miked podium. Picture perfect.
I grabbed my camera and jockeyed with other journalists for position. Finally capturing the moment
with my lens, I imagined my photo of the President adorning magazine covers around the world.
Pop. It sounded like a fire cracker and startled everyone, even the transfixed mime wearing yellow
spandex.
Pop. I inhaled a peculiar odor, a combination of cotton candy and burning incense.
Pop. I watched the gold crown fly from Wilson’s head and heard the deafening cries of the crowd
coupled with my own.
Pop. I felt a numbing sting, and realized I’d been shot too as I swirled downward inside the black
wash of unconsciousness.
| prologue to Hurricane House by Sandy Semerad www.sandysemerad.com (A hurricane hits a Florida fishing village with a murderer at large.) |
Paradise Isle
Dolphin, Florida
July 3
Sean Redmond leaned against his third-floor balcony and watched the sun drown in the Gulf of
Mexico. With the waning day, sadness overwhelmed him.
The clouds seemed to reflect his gloom. They looked like mummies hovering above.
Snap out of it, he told himself. This is a perfect setting. Go through the motions of the murderer.
Finish the manuscript.
In his opinion, the work-in-progress lacked authenticity. He wanted to trash all four hundred
pages, and he may be forced to if he didn’t take action now.
Sean walked downstairs, grabbed the handle of his super-duper ice chest and headed toward the
gulf. The hot sand burned his bare feet as he walked against the wind, rolling the heavy cooler
behind him. His neck and shoulders felt tighter than a hangman’s knot. No doubt due to his
impending deadline and all the other crap.
By the time Sean reached his destination between two dunes covered in sea oats, he’d sweated
through his shorts and t-shirt. To cool off, he sat on the shoreline and let the waves wash over his
feet and legs.
A beautiful blonde woman in yellow shorts and a white t-shirt strolled by. She stopped ten feet
from him, turned and smiled.
He’d seen the woman before, but where? “Hello,” he said, admiring her petite, dancer’s body.
“How are you?”
She sipped from a bottle she carried in a paper bag. “Nice of you to ask, handsome, but you don’t
want to know.”
“That bad, huh? I know the feeling.”
The woman waved goodbye without answering, then staggered to the end of the jetties. She was
obviously drunk and Sean thought she’d fall in the Gulf or bust her butt on the rocks.
Amazing she made it to the end without calamity. She plopped down on one of the rocks and
seemed to be watching the scull-and cross-bones sailboat anchored nearby.
After the red-orange clouds turned black, the woman continued to sit out there. She was only a
hundred feet away, but in her own world.
Sean could barely make out her image now although he finally remembered he’d seen her picture
on a billboard. Yeah, that’s right. She’s Tara Baxter, Miss Florida.
www.wings-press.com
| taken from: "The Mystery of the Solar Wind" by Lyz Russo |
Marsden and Federi beached the Lawnmower in
the spot Paean had described, with the sunken
buildings in the sand. They got out and found
the Donegal sibs’ footprints. The tide had come
up quite high last night; on the other hand it was
the only set of prints, as nobody else walked
here. This stretch of beach was dangerous.
You could fall into a broken building and get
stuck or break a limb. The Donegals had been
lucky. Federi resolved not to let those two out
of his sight again.
He shot a brief glance at the sky, which was
sporting a fine layer of haze through which the
noonday sun was beating down. It was muggy.
Storm brewing? Not yet, he thought. Perhaps
tonight.
“I think we found it,” said Marsden, indicating the
place where the two siblings’ footprints milled
about a bit and turned back. Federi peered into
the undergrowth. He saw the pile of clothes and
picked up the top one. As Paean had said, a
finger was stuck to it, so dried out that even the
ants were leaving it alone.
He crouched down and dug in the heap. Odd!
The clothes were still good! There were some
other remains, but not many. Nothing larger
than that finger. All dried, desiccated.
The clothes, all in browns and military greens
except where they were stained with dry blood,
said that this couldn’t have happened more than
a few days ago. The human remains spoke of
weeks. It didn’t rhyme.
“Did she say, old rags?” asked Marsden
quizzically, lifting a label up for Federi to read. It
said ‘Axil’. A very expensive designer of outdoor
and mountaineering gear! This had been no
beach bum!
“Shall we take them along? Exhibit A?” asked
Marsden.
“Do you have a morbid fascination with such
forensic stuff?” replied Federi with a shudder.
They filched through the clothes, but besides
those few human bits there was absolutely
nothing, no identification, no metal parts, not
even bones. This worried Federi.
“A tourist maybe?” he surmised.
“To Hiva Oa?” Marsden asked back, sceptical.
“Look, either whatever did this was intelligent
and took everything, or Atuona has picked him
clean over time,” said the Romany. “But I don’t
exactly see tracks of Atuona,” he added, falcon
eyebrows furrowed. “And they wouldn’t have left
the clothes!”
“Here,” said Marsden, indicating. Federi went
over to where the First Mate was pointing at the
ground. Strange, three-toed animal imprints.
Long toes, centrally anchored. Like a bird’s. Or
perhaps a reptile’s.
These prints couldn’t be older than two, maybe
three days, thought Federi. They still looked
comparatively crisp. And there hadn’t been any
rain. One rain and they were gone. A bit of
wind, some small wildlife, insects, lizards, and
they would fade, too!
Federi searched and found more of the same
prints, leading away from the crime scene. He
beckoned to Marsden, and the First Mate
followed, keeping a few steps behind, giving the
gypsy space.
“Four-legged,” said Federi. “See there, Jon?”
Marsden moved closer to look. He couldn’t tell!
“The gait,” explained Federi. “And there’s a
really obvious clue!” He pointed to one of the
prints and looked expectantly at Marsden. The
First Mate narrowed his eyes, crouched down,
peered at the print…
“Aw, come now, Jon, can’t tell me you’re not
seeing it,” prompted Federi.
Marsden straightened out. “Sorry, Federi. Not
spotting it.”
Federi went down himself and indicated.
“Look there! It had something stuck to its hind
foot! Bit of twig or something. See? There it is
– and there it’s not – and there it is again! That
one’s the front paw.” He examined a tree trunk
where the tracks overlaid and came directly up
to the tree. He could practically see the animal
rubbing up against the bark. And if he was
lucky today… “Pay dirt!” He picked a small
translucent flake of something off the bark.
There were more. Now that he knew what he
was looking for… he looked at the microchip-
sized flake. Two-square millimetres. “Reptilian, I
think.”
“A shedding four-legged reptile with three toes?
Not a Komodo dragon?”
“Dragons are five-toed,” Federi pointed out.
“And last time I looked they didn’t eat rich folk.
Not that many three-toed animals on Planet
Earth! Weird!” He shook his head. “Jon,
honestly, I’m mystified. I’d have to look in
Sherman’s files for a match. ‘s not exactly
Romania, this,” he added with a grin. “Maybe
the islands have a few unique animals…”
“Well, we know now that there are dangerous
predators running around,” said Marsden. “Let’
s keep a close eye on our troublesome little
ones!”
“What I’m doing, my friend, what I’m doing!”
Federi followed the track further. He had been
lucky in the past, sometimes, finding the animal
he had been looking for. These tracks were not
that fresh, they had only remained undisturbed,
but you never knew where they’d take you.
In fact, they took him only a bit further on,
through a few more twists of undergrowth. Then,
where they ought to have been clearest, they
stopped. There were no other tracks to indicate
anything happening. The ground was sandy
here, with a light crust where it had been
dampened from the last rain, and where there
were still tracks, they were sharp and pristine.
The animal had cracked the virgin crust where it
had walked.
Federi frowned and searched, and studied the
trees. There were a few branches and leaves
higher up that looked singed, and the moss was
dry in patches and partially blackened. And no
further indication what had happened to the
three-toe.
“What?” asked Marsden, reading Federi’s face.
“Something wrong?”
“Something darned wrong, anna bottle,” growled
the gypsy. “She vanished!”
the spot Paean had described, with the sunken
buildings in the sand. They got out and found
the Donegal sibs’ footprints. The tide had come
up quite high last night; on the other hand it was
the only set of prints, as nobody else walked
here. This stretch of beach was dangerous.
You could fall into a broken building and get
stuck or break a limb. The Donegals had been
lucky. Federi resolved not to let those two out
of his sight again.
He shot a brief glance at the sky, which was
sporting a fine layer of haze through which the
noonday sun was beating down. It was muggy.
Storm brewing? Not yet, he thought. Perhaps
tonight.
“I think we found it,” said Marsden, indicating the
place where the two siblings’ footprints milled
about a bit and turned back. Federi peered into
the undergrowth. He saw the pile of clothes and
picked up the top one. As Paean had said, a
finger was stuck to it, so dried out that even the
ants were leaving it alone.
He crouched down and dug in the heap. Odd!
The clothes were still good! There were some
other remains, but not many. Nothing larger
than that finger. All dried, desiccated.
The clothes, all in browns and military greens
except where they were stained with dry blood,
said that this couldn’t have happened more than
a few days ago. The human remains spoke of
weeks. It didn’t rhyme.
“Did she say, old rags?” asked Marsden
quizzically, lifting a label up for Federi to read. It
said ‘Axil’. A very expensive designer of outdoor
and mountaineering gear! This had been no
beach bum!
“Shall we take them along? Exhibit A?” asked
Marsden.
“Do you have a morbid fascination with such
forensic stuff?” replied Federi with a shudder.
They filched through the clothes, but besides
those few human bits there was absolutely
nothing, no identification, no metal parts, not
even bones. This worried Federi.
“A tourist maybe?” he surmised.
“To Hiva Oa?” Marsden asked back, sceptical.
“Look, either whatever did this was intelligent
and took everything, or Atuona has picked him
clean over time,” said the Romany. “But I don’t
exactly see tracks of Atuona,” he added, falcon
eyebrows furrowed. “And they wouldn’t have left
the clothes!”
“Here,” said Marsden, indicating. Federi went
over to where the First Mate was pointing at the
ground. Strange, three-toed animal imprints.
Long toes, centrally anchored. Like a bird’s. Or
perhaps a reptile’s.
These prints couldn’t be older than two, maybe
three days, thought Federi. They still looked
comparatively crisp. And there hadn’t been any
rain. One rain and they were gone. A bit of
wind, some small wildlife, insects, lizards, and
they would fade, too!
Federi searched and found more of the same
prints, leading away from the crime scene. He
beckoned to Marsden, and the First Mate
followed, keeping a few steps behind, giving the
gypsy space.
“Four-legged,” said Federi. “See there, Jon?”
Marsden moved closer to look. He couldn’t tell!
“The gait,” explained Federi. “And there’s a
really obvious clue!” He pointed to one of the
prints and looked expectantly at Marsden. The
First Mate narrowed his eyes, crouched down,
peered at the print…
“Aw, come now, Jon, can’t tell me you’re not
seeing it,” prompted Federi.
Marsden straightened out. “Sorry, Federi. Not
spotting it.”
Federi went down himself and indicated.
“Look there! It had something stuck to its hind
foot! Bit of twig or something. See? There it is
– and there it’s not – and there it is again! That
one’s the front paw.” He examined a tree trunk
where the tracks overlaid and came directly up
to the tree. He could practically see the animal
rubbing up against the bark. And if he was
lucky today… “Pay dirt!” He picked a small
translucent flake of something off the bark.
There were more. Now that he knew what he
was looking for… he looked at the microchip-
sized flake. Two-square millimetres. “Reptilian, I
think.”
“A shedding four-legged reptile with three toes?
Not a Komodo dragon?”
“Dragons are five-toed,” Federi pointed out.
“And last time I looked they didn’t eat rich folk.
Not that many three-toed animals on Planet
Earth! Weird!” He shook his head. “Jon,
honestly, I’m mystified. I’d have to look in
Sherman’s files for a match. ‘s not exactly
Romania, this,” he added with a grin. “Maybe
the islands have a few unique animals…”
“Well, we know now that there are dangerous
predators running around,” said Marsden. “Let’
s keep a close eye on our troublesome little
ones!”
“What I’m doing, my friend, what I’m doing!”
Federi followed the track further. He had been
lucky in the past, sometimes, finding the animal
he had been looking for. These tracks were not
that fresh, they had only remained undisturbed,
but you never knew where they’d take you.
In fact, they took him only a bit further on,
through a few more twists of undergrowth. Then,
where they ought to have been clearest, they
stopped. There were no other tracks to indicate
anything happening. The ground was sandy
here, with a light crust where it had been
dampened from the last rain, and where there
were still tracks, they were sharp and pristine.
The animal had cracked the virgin crust where it
had walked.
Federi frowned and searched, and studied the
trees. There were a few branches and leaves
higher up that looked singed, and the moss was
dry in patches and partially blackened. And no
further indication what had happened to the
three-toe.
“What?” asked Marsden, reading Federi’s face.
“Something wrong?”
“Something darned wrong, anna bottle,” growled
the gypsy. “She vanished!”
| This book is the first of a Science Fiction Adventure series. It's aimed both at YA and adult. Ms Russo's storefront is at http://stores.lulu.com/store.php?fAcctID=2446873 |
Cold Warriors
Keegan spotted a man
coming out of one of the rooms.
His mask dangling over his
shoulder barely covered three
red chevrons on his sleeve.
"Petty Officer!”
"Yes, Sir?” The dirt-covered
man stood squarely in front of the
ship’s XO.
"What happened?”
He looked conspiratorially to the side of him. "Sir,
it’s too soon to tell but,” he paused, "I think it’s
sabotage."
Keegan glared at the Petty Officer causing him to
step back a bit. "That is a strong accusation
sailor.”
"Yes, Sir. But the preliminary evidence seems to
be pointing in that direction."
Keegan glanced at the carnage around him.
"Get on it. I want answers not suppositions. Is that
understood?”
"Yes, Sir.” The Petty Officer stiffened to attention.
"Dismissed.” Keegan walked away.
He needed to know the extent of the loss of life
that was suffered. Medical personnel darted back
and forth tending the wounded. As more medics
continued to pour in, he noticed some weren’t
working. Instead they were milling around talking
as if they had nothing to do.
It seemed quite clear to Keegan that any
unnecessary personnel should be kept away from
the area, while those essential tended to the
wounded. He saw people lying all around moaning
in pain or passed out while the medics stood and
talked.
His blood boiled. What the Hell is their problem?
Keegan realized that those being ignored were
cryos. He could tell from their singed badges,
which still registered their raised numeric id’s. He
gritted his teeth at his crew’s blatant disregard for
crew members' lives. It was reprehensible. No
matter who they were, or where they came from
the people on his ship deserved dignity and
respect. He demanded and expected everyone to
be treated in a humane and decent manner.
While shaking his head Keegan regarded a man
crouching in the corner several feet from him. He
walked toward him instantly recognizing Beller. He
too was covered in dirt from the smoke. His
expression hardened as Beller spoke to Caitlin
softly while checking the soaked bandages on her
hands.
"Medic!” the Colonel barked.
A young nurse appeared before him and stood
stiffly at attention. "Yes, Sir.” Corporal. Saadya
snapped to attention smartly. Her gaze looked
past that of Colonel Keegan’s.
"Why aren’t you attending to the wounded?”
"Sir, we are.”
"No, you are not!”
"Sir?” Saadya asked, craning her head.
He pointed in Caitlin’s direction. "Why isn’t she
being tended too?"
Saadya looked at Caitlin and the melted ID tag on
her shirt.
"She’s a cryo, Sir.”
Keegan spotted a man
coming out of one of the rooms.
His mask dangling over his
shoulder barely covered three
red chevrons on his sleeve.
"Petty Officer!”
"Yes, Sir?” The dirt-covered
man stood squarely in front of the
ship’s XO.
"What happened?”
He looked conspiratorially to the side of him. "Sir,
it’s too soon to tell but,” he paused, "I think it’s
sabotage."
Keegan glared at the Petty Officer causing him to
step back a bit. "That is a strong accusation
sailor.”
"Yes, Sir. But the preliminary evidence seems to
be pointing in that direction."
Keegan glanced at the carnage around him.
"Get on it. I want answers not suppositions. Is that
understood?”
"Yes, Sir.” The Petty Officer stiffened to attention.
"Dismissed.” Keegan walked away.
He needed to know the extent of the loss of life
that was suffered. Medical personnel darted back
and forth tending the wounded. As more medics
continued to pour in, he noticed some weren’t
working. Instead they were milling around talking
as if they had nothing to do.
It seemed quite clear to Keegan that any
unnecessary personnel should be kept away from
the area, while those essential tended to the
wounded. He saw people lying all around moaning
in pain or passed out while the medics stood and
talked.
His blood boiled. What the Hell is their problem?
Keegan realized that those being ignored were
cryos. He could tell from their singed badges,
which still registered their raised numeric id’s. He
gritted his teeth at his crew’s blatant disregard for
crew members' lives. It was reprehensible. No
matter who they were, or where they came from
the people on his ship deserved dignity and
respect. He demanded and expected everyone to
be treated in a humane and decent manner.
While shaking his head Keegan regarded a man
crouching in the corner several feet from him. He
walked toward him instantly recognizing Beller. He
too was covered in dirt from the smoke. His
expression hardened as Beller spoke to Caitlin
softly while checking the soaked bandages on her
hands.
"Medic!” the Colonel barked.
A young nurse appeared before him and stood
stiffly at attention. "Yes, Sir.” Corporal. Saadya
snapped to attention smartly. Her gaze looked
past that of Colonel Keegan’s.
"Why aren’t you attending to the wounded?”
"Sir, we are.”
"No, you are not!”
"Sir?” Saadya asked, craning her head.
He pointed in Caitlin’s direction. "Why isn’t she
being tended too?"
Saadya looked at Caitlin and the melted ID tag on
her shirt.
"She’s a cryo, Sir.”
| Clare Dargin Author of Cold Warriors available from Aspen Mountain Press www.claredargin.bravejournal.com www.coldwarriors.bravehost.com www.thescifihaven.bravehost.com |
An excerpt from The Sycamore Tree
by Jennie Helderman
www.jenniehelderman.com
Chapter One: Escape
A noise. Ginger awoke, listened. The hum of a motor, the scrunch of tires creeping along the
road outside the cabin. She reached over to Mike’s side of the bed. Empty. Where he was
heading this time in the thin light of dawn, she didn’t know. Mike McNeil, her husband, didn’t
offer explanations for his comings and goings and she knew better than to ask.
She rolled back onto her pillow, wide awake now. She could see the black handle of Mike’s .38
at the edge of the closet shelf. Mike seldom strapped the gun to his belt anymore. He had made
his point. She wouldn’t take it again and he knew it. She hardly gave it a thought any more.
The light was still too dim to see the photos fastened with thumb tacks to the rough-sawn
boards next to the closet. It didn’t matter. She pictured them in her mind. She and Mike had
squeezed into the metal kiosk at a truck stop that day and posed fast, before their quarter ran
out. Mike had just trimmed his beard. A good memory.
Birds chirped outside.
Time to rise. She rolled out of bed.
In the boys’ room, she stood over her sons and smiled. Casey’s feet hung off the foot of his
bed. He had hit a growing spell the day he turned thirteen. She kissed his forehead, then his
brother’s. “Wake up, both of you. Casey, I’m going to put a brick on your head or you’ll outgrow
everything you own.” She laughed, before giving Jody, the twelve-year-old, a playful nudge.
In the next room, she built a fire in the woodstove to chase off the morning chill. Atop the stove,
water for coffee heated in a blue enamel pot while the last of the oatmeal cooked in a dented
stewer. The boys would have the oatmeal. She wasn’t hungry.
She laced up her boots and trudged up the hill to milk the cow while they ate breakfast.
An ordinary morning at the cabin in the woods where she lived with Mike and their two sons.
Nothing different or ominous, nothing to suggest that before noon on Friday, September 29,
2000,
Ginger would make her escape.
by Jennie Helderman
www.jenniehelderman.com
Chapter One: Escape
A noise. Ginger awoke, listened. The hum of a motor, the scrunch of tires creeping along the
road outside the cabin. She reached over to Mike’s side of the bed. Empty. Where he was
heading this time in the thin light of dawn, she didn’t know. Mike McNeil, her husband, didn’t
offer explanations for his comings and goings and she knew better than to ask.
She rolled back onto her pillow, wide awake now. She could see the black handle of Mike’s .38
at the edge of the closet shelf. Mike seldom strapped the gun to his belt anymore. He had made
his point. She wouldn’t take it again and he knew it. She hardly gave it a thought any more.
The light was still too dim to see the photos fastened with thumb tacks to the rough-sawn
boards next to the closet. It didn’t matter. She pictured them in her mind. She and Mike had
squeezed into the metal kiosk at a truck stop that day and posed fast, before their quarter ran
out. Mike had just trimmed his beard. A good memory.
Birds chirped outside.
Time to rise. She rolled out of bed.
In the boys’ room, she stood over her sons and smiled. Casey’s feet hung off the foot of his
bed. He had hit a growing spell the day he turned thirteen. She kissed his forehead, then his
brother’s. “Wake up, both of you. Casey, I’m going to put a brick on your head or you’ll outgrow
everything you own.” She laughed, before giving Jody, the twelve-year-old, a playful nudge.
In the next room, she built a fire in the woodstove to chase off the morning chill. Atop the stove,
water for coffee heated in a blue enamel pot while the last of the oatmeal cooked in a dented
stewer. The boys would have the oatmeal. She wasn’t hungry.
She laced up her boots and trudged up the hill to milk the cow while they ate breakfast.
An ordinary morning at the cabin in the woods where she lived with Mike and their two sons.
Nothing different or ominous, nothing to suggest that before noon on Friday, September 29,
2000,
Ginger would make her escape.
| The Sycamore Tree is a nonfiction narrative, a true story about Foxfire living while Sleeping with the Enemy in the hills of Tennessee when the enemy totes a Bible and packs a .38. Mike shoved and slapped but his primary tools were isolation and economic abuse. Until he discovered the power of the Lord. Ginger was brought up to pray and obey, but she escaped the padlocked cabin in the woods where she lived off the land with no electricity or telephone. Today she’s an officer in domestic violence courts. Mike admits the abuse, holds no remorse and would do it all again. God made women to serve, he says. It’s their job. |
Excerpt from
"Fly With the Mourning Dove"
by Velda Brotherton
Chapter Two
Cassie’s Journal - 1920
Mae and I are the only white women living here.
In Taos Junction are the Patchen and Wilton
families, and that is it.
It is dry, so dry. They say dryer than it has been
in years. We spend all our money on crops and
improvements.
It is especially lonely for Edna. There are no
children for miles. The Patchens have all gone
off to school. Edna only went to school a few
months in Clay, Kentucky, and I’m seriously
thinking of taking her back down there after the
holidays. Finas may be upset with me, but she is
not the only one who is lonely. I yearn for green
grass and an early morning mist that leaves
teardrops on flowers and leaves.
Cassie would have kicked the oven door, or at
the least, tossed the ruined cake against the
wall, if she hadn’t been raised in a refined
Victorian household. As it was, she banged the
pan of ruined batter onto the table and paced
the room several times before stopping to stare
out the window. Pellets of snow raced sideways
blurring the mountains into indistinct humps.
A wagon rattled into the yard.
Finas and Gus, home with water. Just in time for
her to clean up the mess she’d made. Feet
stomped across the porch and the door swung
open.
“Cassie, you here?”
Mae Marr. “Where else? Come in. I thought you
were Finas and Gus. They went to Taos Junction
after water.”
“It is. I mean they are. I hitched a ride over. Didn’t
feel up to walking in this storm.” Mae unwrapped
a long woolen muffler from her head and shed
her coat, then stood by the stove shivering. “The
men are unhitching the team.”
Without taking off her gloves she helped herself
to coffee from the percolator on the cook stove.
Both hands wrapped around the cup, she took a
long sip.
“Ah, that’s better. Smells . . . uh, odd in here.”
All Cassie could produce was a wry grin. “Ruined
another cake. I don’t suppose I’ll ever learn to
bake at this altitude. Truth is, I never was much
good at creating delectable goodies in Casselton
either.”
Mae laughed with a heartiness typical of her
breeding. Raised in Milwaukee, she was often
outspoken, always gregarious. Like Cassie, she
had not adapted well to conditions on the
homestead, but was determined to make the
best of it. Neither had much of a choice.
“Yummy, sounds good. Cut me a piece.”
Together, they sat at the table and eyed the pan
and its flattened contents.
After a long moment of contemplation, Mae
glanced up. “Well, I think I’ll pass.”
“I tested the oven temperature with a piece of
wrapping paper, too. It only curled, didn’t scorch.
What could we be doing wrong?”
“Not we, I gave up. It’s cobblers or nothing
around our house.”
Cassie poured herself a cup of tea from the
steeping pot and stirred it listlessly. “Whatever
brings you out on a day like this?”
“Was sort of hoping you wouldn’t ask, then I
could say I forgot to tell you.” Glancing around,
she asked, “Where’s that darling child?”
“Taking a nap. Mae, stop stalling. What’s up?
Give.”
“I knew that wouldn’t work. Okay, here goes. It
seems you and I have been drafted to cook the
turkey for Thanksgiving dinner at the Patchen’s
next week.”
Hand spread wide over her chest, Cassie stared
at Mae, whose fashionable bob remained
plastered to her head. “Turkey? Us? You and
me? Whose bright idea was that? I’ve never
even cleaned a chicken, much less a bird as big
as . . . “ She narrowed her eyes. “Just how big is
this turkey?”
“Haven’t seen it, don’t know. It’s still running
around in a pen in their back yard. Ditto on that
chicken thing. Ben knows better than to bring
anything in the house with its head or innards
intact.”
“It’s alive?” Cassie choked on a swallow of tea.
“Well, you can just tell them no. Or better yet, tell
them I’m confined to my sick bed. I’ll be down at
least till after Christmas in case they have any
ideas about me killing and butchering a hog for
the ham. Tell them. I’m having nothing to do with
killing or cooking a running-around, covered-with-
feathers bird.” She stared into her cup. “And it
looking at me with big, sad, pleading eyes. Oh,
not me. Huh-uh.”
“Oh, no, you don’t. If I’m in this, you are too.”
“What if we both were sick? I’m a nurse, I can
come up with some terrific symptoms. Like
typhoid fever . . . or better yet, something fatal.
Take me completely away from all of --- ”
Before Cassie could finish, Finas and Gus
stomped their feet outside and burst through the
door.
“You ladies get your problems solved? Gus here
is ready to git on home. He can take you, Mae.”
“Fine, thanks.” Mae glared at Cassie. “We’ll have
to be there really early, Cassie, to get that bird in
the oven.”
“Mae.” Cassie warned, but could think of nothing
else. Not with Finas gazing at her with those
adoring brown eyes. He had something to do
with this, and she could cheerfully smack him
one.
"Fly With the Mourning Dove"
by Velda Brotherton
Chapter Two
Cassie’s Journal - 1920
Mae and I are the only white women living here.
In Taos Junction are the Patchen and Wilton
families, and that is it.
It is dry, so dry. They say dryer than it has been
in years. We spend all our money on crops and
improvements.
It is especially lonely for Edna. There are no
children for miles. The Patchens have all gone
off to school. Edna only went to school a few
months in Clay, Kentucky, and I’m seriously
thinking of taking her back down there after the
holidays. Finas may be upset with me, but she is
not the only one who is lonely. I yearn for green
grass and an early morning mist that leaves
teardrops on flowers and leaves.
Cassie would have kicked the oven door, or at
the least, tossed the ruined cake against the
wall, if she hadn’t been raised in a refined
Victorian household. As it was, she banged the
pan of ruined batter onto the table and paced
the room several times before stopping to stare
out the window. Pellets of snow raced sideways
blurring the mountains into indistinct humps.
A wagon rattled into the yard.
Finas and Gus, home with water. Just in time for
her to clean up the mess she’d made. Feet
stomped across the porch and the door swung
open.
“Cassie, you here?”
Mae Marr. “Where else? Come in. I thought you
were Finas and Gus. They went to Taos Junction
after water.”
“It is. I mean they are. I hitched a ride over. Didn’t
feel up to walking in this storm.” Mae unwrapped
a long woolen muffler from her head and shed
her coat, then stood by the stove shivering. “The
men are unhitching the team.”
Without taking off her gloves she helped herself
to coffee from the percolator on the cook stove.
Both hands wrapped around the cup, she took a
long sip.
“Ah, that’s better. Smells . . . uh, odd in here.”
All Cassie could produce was a wry grin. “Ruined
another cake. I don’t suppose I’ll ever learn to
bake at this altitude. Truth is, I never was much
good at creating delectable goodies in Casselton
either.”
Mae laughed with a heartiness typical of her
breeding. Raised in Milwaukee, she was often
outspoken, always gregarious. Like Cassie, she
had not adapted well to conditions on the
homestead, but was determined to make the
best of it. Neither had much of a choice.
“Yummy, sounds good. Cut me a piece.”
Together, they sat at the table and eyed the pan
and its flattened contents.
After a long moment of contemplation, Mae
glanced up. “Well, I think I’ll pass.”
“I tested the oven temperature with a piece of
wrapping paper, too. It only curled, didn’t scorch.
What could we be doing wrong?”
“Not we, I gave up. It’s cobblers or nothing
around our house.”
Cassie poured herself a cup of tea from the
steeping pot and stirred it listlessly. “Whatever
brings you out on a day like this?”
“Was sort of hoping you wouldn’t ask, then I
could say I forgot to tell you.” Glancing around,
she asked, “Where’s that darling child?”
“Taking a nap. Mae, stop stalling. What’s up?
Give.”
“I knew that wouldn’t work. Okay, here goes. It
seems you and I have been drafted to cook the
turkey for Thanksgiving dinner at the Patchen’s
next week.”
Hand spread wide over her chest, Cassie stared
at Mae, whose fashionable bob remained
plastered to her head. “Turkey? Us? You and
me? Whose bright idea was that? I’ve never
even cleaned a chicken, much less a bird as big
as . . . “ She narrowed her eyes. “Just how big is
this turkey?”
“Haven’t seen it, don’t know. It’s still running
around in a pen in their back yard. Ditto on that
chicken thing. Ben knows better than to bring
anything in the house with its head or innards
intact.”
“It’s alive?” Cassie choked on a swallow of tea.
“Well, you can just tell them no. Or better yet, tell
them I’m confined to my sick bed. I’ll be down at
least till after Christmas in case they have any
ideas about me killing and butchering a hog for
the ham. Tell them. I’m having nothing to do with
killing or cooking a running-around, covered-with-
feathers bird.” She stared into her cup. “And it
looking at me with big, sad, pleading eyes. Oh,
not me. Huh-uh.”
“Oh, no, you don’t. If I’m in this, you are too.”
“What if we both were sick? I’m a nurse, I can
come up with some terrific symptoms. Like
typhoid fever . . . or better yet, something fatal.
Take me completely away from all of --- ”
Before Cassie could finish, Finas and Gus
stomped their feet outside and burst through the
door.
“You ladies get your problems solved? Gus here
is ready to git on home. He can take you, Mae.”
“Fine, thanks.” Mae glared at Cassie. “We’ll have
to be there really early, Cassie, to get that bird in
the oven.”
“Mae.” Cassie warned, but could think of nothing
else. Not with Finas gazing at her with those
adoring brown eyes. He had something to do
with this, and she could cheerfully smack him
one.
| excerpt from THE SHADOW MAN by Dan Skelton |
The day sweltered under an overcast sky and melted into a blurred landscape of humid air,
which hosted battalions of lazy flies. Forsaking the horse manure at the corral in front of the
livery barn, the flies infiltrated every establishment in town, droning in mad and maddening
patterns about the post office, crawling across business letters and love letters with impunity,
riding the slow currents of stale air in Holiman’s Mercantile store, where house wives fingered
fabrics, judged patterns, and spread colored rickrack across cotton cloth. They explored the
ineptly napkin-wrapped plates of food as well as the pickle juice and beer spills at Vinegar Joes,
a low class beanery, and they made a gray boil, discernible from across the street, around the
porch spittoons in front of the Flambeaux Saloon, with its double set of pitch torches ready to be
set ablaze that evening.
The flies were waiting for the rain.
The people waited on a different sort of storm.
In the office of the Middle Field Argus—We Have Eyes Everywhere, Gregory Harmon, in
shirtsleeves, stared out the window at the dusty street with it’s burden of hushed anticipation,
the occasional brisk passage of pedestrians--women in bonnets herding young children before
them, men tugging at galluses and walking with an exaggerated indifference, though not
lingering in conversational clusters on corners, preferring to hasten off the street into such
sanctuaries as the pool and domino parlor, the barber shop, a rickety bar running the narrow
length of an alley. At the far end of the street, Gregory Harmon could see a row of mugwumps
on the livery corral rail: mugs on one side and rumps on the other; several more loungers milled
around the large double doors and a third group ranged themselves along the sill of the hay
door into the loft.
Seeing the men collecting like tribal witnesses to some great and sacred ceremony caused
Harmon to speculate aloud.
“How many faces you expect are glued to window panes at this minute?”
“There’s not an un-smudged bit of glass in this entire town.”
Harmon turned to glance at his unfailing yes man, proof-reader, and type setter, Orthos Trent,
who sat now hunched over the type tray experimenting with headline possibilities, which he
justified by saying, “It’s only gonna turn out one of two ways.” Although he faced away from
Harmon, he nodded his bulbous head in an earnest emphasis of his own opinion. “They’ll be
lucky to see a thing through all the smears.” He appreciated his own sally with a chortle that
sounded more like grunts.
“Not that most of them really want to see it,” mused Harmon, “They only think they do.”
Trent nodded agreement as he plundered the tray’s squares for needed type.
“Yep,” he said, “it’ll be a historic day that folks will talk about for years.”
“Well, I think it’s immoral … an affront to civilization that such a thing could happen in a
reasonable community of honest, God-fearing, Christian citizens,” Harmon snapped.
Without missing a beat, Orthos Trent slipped into his boss’s rhythm.
“It’s a crying shame,” he added. “If the town had listened to you and approved the taxes
needed to hire a sheriff, we wouldn’t be facing such a terrible situation this very minute.”
“Exactly! Precisely!” Gregory Harmon fixed his trusted underling with a look of glittering
conviction. He poised one manicured index finger upwards, to indicate the source of the
inspiration, perhaps. Then he closed the hand into a fist and softly smote the palm of his other
hand. “And I think we now have the angle for the coverage of this sorry affair, no matter the
outcome. Eh? What say you, Orthos?”
“I say you are uncanny in your assessment, Gregory. Brilliant!”
Gregory Harmon rubbed his hands briskly, smacked them together as though to make an
exclamation point, and then thrust them into his trouser pockets, as self-satisfied as any man
ever was.
“We might as well get started,” he said. “Where’s Jacob?” He asked, looking about for the
youngster who served as copy boy and general factotum.
Orthos snorted. “There’s a story in the making. Where would you place the lad?”
Harmon shook his head in resignation, dismay, and understanding.
“Either in the bank or the saloon … possibly the hotel, or God only knows. Somewhere
dangerous.”
“He’ll be fine,” Orthos said heavily.
“I certainly hope so; I would not want the boy’s blood on my conscience.”
“You needn’t worry about that, Gregory. What you’ll have is a crowd’s eye view of the shooting.
We both know Jacob will drift in and out of the crowd, and as he does all manner of odds and
ends will attach themselves to him … like cockleburs to dog fur. All we have to do is pluck them.”
“You’re right. He’s an odd chap but really quite useful. All right, I must begin to compose.”
Jacob was in none of the places imagined.
He sat in a weathered barrel stave chair that ordinarily occupied a place beside the doorway of
the Tipton Tonsorial Parlor, creating a sit and spit area for waiting customers. Jacob had
moved a chair to a spot in close proximity to a horse trough, where he lounged, rocked onto its
back curve. From this position, he could watch the vital triangle: McElmore Bank on the corner;
on an angle from that and across the main street, the Chidester Hotel; and the down leg of the
triangle back across Main Street and ending in the Flambeaux Saloon. That would be the killing
ground. Jacob waited in what amounted to a front row seat equipped with adequate protection
in a filled horse trough, which would render a stray bullet sluggish better than anything else he
could imagine.
So now it was simply a matter of sitting tight and waiting to witness history, the first gunfight in
the history of Middle Field.
The flies freckled his trouser legs and shirt, made scrawling courses along the edge of the
trough ...
which hosted battalions of lazy flies. Forsaking the horse manure at the corral in front of the
livery barn, the flies infiltrated every establishment in town, droning in mad and maddening
patterns about the post office, crawling across business letters and love letters with impunity,
riding the slow currents of stale air in Holiman’s Mercantile store, where house wives fingered
fabrics, judged patterns, and spread colored rickrack across cotton cloth. They explored the
ineptly napkin-wrapped plates of food as well as the pickle juice and beer spills at Vinegar Joes,
a low class beanery, and they made a gray boil, discernible from across the street, around the
porch spittoons in front of the Flambeaux Saloon, with its double set of pitch torches ready to be
set ablaze that evening.
The flies were waiting for the rain.
The people waited on a different sort of storm.
In the office of the Middle Field Argus—We Have Eyes Everywhere, Gregory Harmon, in
shirtsleeves, stared out the window at the dusty street with it’s burden of hushed anticipation,
the occasional brisk passage of pedestrians--women in bonnets herding young children before
them, men tugging at galluses and walking with an exaggerated indifference, though not
lingering in conversational clusters on corners, preferring to hasten off the street into such
sanctuaries as the pool and domino parlor, the barber shop, a rickety bar running the narrow
length of an alley. At the far end of the street, Gregory Harmon could see a row of mugwumps
on the livery corral rail: mugs on one side and rumps on the other; several more loungers milled
around the large double doors and a third group ranged themselves along the sill of the hay
door into the loft.
Seeing the men collecting like tribal witnesses to some great and sacred ceremony caused
Harmon to speculate aloud.
“How many faces you expect are glued to window panes at this minute?”
“There’s not an un-smudged bit of glass in this entire town.”
Harmon turned to glance at his unfailing yes man, proof-reader, and type setter, Orthos Trent,
who sat now hunched over the type tray experimenting with headline possibilities, which he
justified by saying, “It’s only gonna turn out one of two ways.” Although he faced away from
Harmon, he nodded his bulbous head in an earnest emphasis of his own opinion. “They’ll be
lucky to see a thing through all the smears.” He appreciated his own sally with a chortle that
sounded more like grunts.
“Not that most of them really want to see it,” mused Harmon, “They only think they do.”
Trent nodded agreement as he plundered the tray’s squares for needed type.
“Yep,” he said, “it’ll be a historic day that folks will talk about for years.”
“Well, I think it’s immoral … an affront to civilization that such a thing could happen in a
reasonable community of honest, God-fearing, Christian citizens,” Harmon snapped.
Without missing a beat, Orthos Trent slipped into his boss’s rhythm.
“It’s a crying shame,” he added. “If the town had listened to you and approved the taxes
needed to hire a sheriff, we wouldn’t be facing such a terrible situation this very minute.”
“Exactly! Precisely!” Gregory Harmon fixed his trusted underling with a look of glittering
conviction. He poised one manicured index finger upwards, to indicate the source of the
inspiration, perhaps. Then he closed the hand into a fist and softly smote the palm of his other
hand. “And I think we now have the angle for the coverage of this sorry affair, no matter the
outcome. Eh? What say you, Orthos?”
“I say you are uncanny in your assessment, Gregory. Brilliant!”
Gregory Harmon rubbed his hands briskly, smacked them together as though to make an
exclamation point, and then thrust them into his trouser pockets, as self-satisfied as any man
ever was.
“We might as well get started,” he said. “Where’s Jacob?” He asked, looking about for the
youngster who served as copy boy and general factotum.
Orthos snorted. “There’s a story in the making. Where would you place the lad?”
Harmon shook his head in resignation, dismay, and understanding.
“Either in the bank or the saloon … possibly the hotel, or God only knows. Somewhere
dangerous.”
“He’ll be fine,” Orthos said heavily.
“I certainly hope so; I would not want the boy’s blood on my conscience.”
“You needn’t worry about that, Gregory. What you’ll have is a crowd’s eye view of the shooting.
We both know Jacob will drift in and out of the crowd, and as he does all manner of odds and
ends will attach themselves to him … like cockleburs to dog fur. All we have to do is pluck them.”
“You’re right. He’s an odd chap but really quite useful. All right, I must begin to compose.”
Jacob was in none of the places imagined.
He sat in a weathered barrel stave chair that ordinarily occupied a place beside the doorway of
the Tipton Tonsorial Parlor, creating a sit and spit area for waiting customers. Jacob had
moved a chair to a spot in close proximity to a horse trough, where he lounged, rocked onto its
back curve. From this position, he could watch the vital triangle: McElmore Bank on the corner;
on an angle from that and across the main street, the Chidester Hotel; and the down leg of the
triangle back across Main Street and ending in the Flambeaux Saloon. That would be the killing
ground. Jacob waited in what amounted to a front row seat equipped with adequate protection
in a filled horse trough, which would render a stray bullet sluggish better than anything else he
could imagine.
So now it was simply a matter of sitting tight and waiting to witness history, the first gunfight in
the history of Middle Field.
The flies freckled his trouser legs and shirt, made scrawling courses along the edge of the
trough ...
from "Blood of the Dark Moon" by Adrianne Brennan www.adriannebrennan.com/botdm.html |
Some time after Amanda and Jesse had left the diner, she could only guess that they were venturing further into Queens and would soon, perhaps, be in Long Island. She kept scrutinizing the roads and the signs, looking for places she recognized. Unfortunately, she hadn’ t traveled very much out of Manhattan during her stay at NYU and so nothing looked familiar to her. She settled for chatting with Jesse and enjoying the view from her window. It was almost midnight when Jesse finally pulled off a major road and stopped at a nearby rest stop. He parked the car off to the side and gestured towards the sky. “You can’t see this in Manhattan. Damn, it’s beautiful.” She stared up at the sky and saw all of the individual stars that had been obscured by the pollution from the city. Amanda leaned back against the car, finding herself awed by the majesty of the sky combined with the gentle, clean breezes that swept through her hair. Away from the highway and the noises of the city to distract her, she experienced the outdoors at its fullest. She was spinning away in the galaxy towards the stars. With a flourish, Jesse opened up the back door of the car. “Here, sit down with me.” He sat on the seat and pulled her onto his lap. Wrapping his arms around her, they gazed up together at the night sky. “Gods, it’s beautiful,” she breathed. As he brushed her hair away from her face he merely commented, “And so are you.” She turned to smile at him before resting her head onto his chest. They stayed that way for a few moments until Amanda began to feel that something was odd. She racked her brain to figure it out, still bedazzled by the night sky and the feeling of being in his arms, but couldn’t think of it. Then at last she realized what it was: her ear was up against his chest, but she couldn’t feel nor hear a heartbeat. Puzzled, Amanda wondered if it was just because his leather jacket muffled the sound, but that couldn’t have been it. At their close proximity, she should still be able to hear or feel something. Figuring that the late hour and the fatigue were doing strange things to her mind, she dismissed it as her imagination. But in the silence between them, away from the city and the noise, the only breathing she heard was her own. I must be losing it. But as she stared up into the sky, too many things fell into her mind, persistent in their logic. Amanda had never seen Jesse during the daylight, had never seen him more than perhaps taste food, didn’t know what he did for a living other than “freelance computer work”, and now she couldn’t hear a heartbeat nor him breathing. “Jesse?” she queried, her hesitancy showing in her voice. Feeling him freeze behind her, she wondered if he knew what was on her mind, and thought to phrase her next words with caution. “You’re not a normal guy, are you? I mean,” she continued, trying not to rush through her words, let alone sound nervous, “not that I’ m…all that normal myself, and all, but….” Her voice trailed off. Amanda did not know what to say, or how to say it. Many moments passed without a response. With great deliberateness he ran his hands through her hair, and she delighted in the feel of his fingertips as they coursed through the strands, brushing against her neck as soft as silk. In that moment she remembered their first dinner outing, when Jesse showed her the Latin magickal text which referred to strange allegories, symbols and various arcana. She recalled that the text kept referencing “blood” in some mystical context. “Jesse?” Her voice was quieter, and she was no longer so certain that she was crazy. YOUR TIME HAS COME. |
Wednesday. On adrenaline time, blood spatter
seemed to hover in the air before slapping into
Catherine Combes’s face. Her blood. The
steering wheel spun hard as the grille of the
Land Rover crushed the front fender of her
Crown Vic and a jolt of pain rushed up her arm.
Less than a yard away, the man in the
passenger seat of the Land Rover grimaced at
the impact, showing a mouthful of twisted yellow
teeth. Margarita time and she was in the
blender. She heard a dull thud. Her partner’s
head struck the Crown Vic’s doorpost when the
Land Rover rammed them again. The churning
in her gut increased as the front end of the car
slid down the rocky embankment toward the
white water below. The rotted trunk of a fallen
pine caught the bumper and the momentum
flipped the Crown Vic into the air.
Even on the shallow angle of the embankment,
the car’s inertia carried it into a slow roll. Once,
twice, three times. Each crushing impact
created an indelible impression in her mind as
the thunder of the approaching river raged in
her ears. Her car floated for only seconds
before dropping to the shallow river’s bottom
and icy water sprayed into her nose and mouth.
The crystal sharpness of the details, the cracks
in the windshield and the waning afternoon sun
reflected on the foam, faded into a blurred
mush.
Combes’s Remington shotgun broke away from
its floor mount and the business end of the
barrel jammed between her legs. The current,
more intense in the confined space of the car,
kept her from pulling the gun away from her.
She lifted it a few inches, and a vortex swept it
through the open passenger door. Beyond the
empty passenger seat, her partner Robert
Vasulka bounced off the rocks downstream.
She released her seat belt and fought her way
out of the car. The water lifted the car, with
Combes clinging to the doorframe, and turned it
on to its top.
#
Chill mountain air stung Officer Ingrid
Rasmussen’s cheeks and condensed on the
butt of the automatic pistol at her hip. The top of
the mountain in front of her, still alight in the
orange sunset, cast a long shadow to the east.
In the distance, the lights of Vail Village
welcomed the darkness. Levis and a sweatshirt,
adequate for the May afternoon, now offered
little more warmth than tissue paper. She
paced. Her sneakers whispered across the
condominium’s redwood deck. Her cell phone
broke the tranquility, demanding her attention
with the opening riff of Keith Richards’ guitar on
Start Me Up. She did not recognize the incoming
number.
“Hello.”
“Officer Rasmussen?” A woman’s voice. Dry,
plain.
“Yes.”
“Are you a believer?”
“Yes.” Through the sliding glass door between
the deck and the condo, a young Hispanic
woman sat on a leather sofa, her face stuck in a
copy of People magazine. The girl seemed
oblivious to Rasmussen’s call.
“A true believer?”
“My truth is found in service.”
Rasmussen closed her eyes and inhaled the
cold. During a hard exhale, as if trying to expel
something evil inside of her, she studied the
woman inside. She turned to face the mountain,
and dialed the number the woman had given
her.
Her Patchwork Family, Love Inspired Historical, by Lyn Cote (www.LynCote.net) to be released
December 8, 2009
Chapter One
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania 1867
In her gray Quaker bonnet and dress, Felicity Gabriel approached the gathering of mourners at
the memorial service on the windy hillside and tried to blend in, hide her presence. The pastor
was speaking beside the brand new stone marker which would memorialize the life of Augustus
Josiah Mueller, 1846-1865. Felicity listened to the familiar comforting scriptures of death and
victory. But even more she tried to remember Gus, her oldest and dearest friend, before the
war had stolen him away and left him in an unmarked grave somewhere in Virginia.
Her mind brought up childhood images of Gus and she picking wild raspberries, their faces
smeared with scarlet berry juice. Then the two of them learning how to ride that old mule his
father had taken in trade. The mule had taken off with them, giving them a wild ride till it bucked
them off into the Mueller’s farm pond. Felicity smiled, recalling how Gus had started laughing as
if he’d just been highly entertained. And then because he was a boy, he had thrown mud at her.
Felicity grinned, feeling her pinched mouth spreading wide into a glad smile.
“What are you grinning about?” The voice Felicity had dreaded flicked and snapped her like
the sharp tongue of a whip.
“I was remembering Gus and me being bucked off by that old mule, Agnes Mueller,” Felicity
replied. Lord, please…
“I’m surprised that you had the gall to show your face here today.”
“Agnes, please,” Josiah Mueller pleaded, tugging at his wife’s elbow.
“Our Gus is gone forever and here you stand,” the woman shrilled, her voice rising.
There was a rustling in the crowd of mourners who had come to support the Muellers in their
grief over losing their only child, their only son.
Felicity knew there was nothing she could say or do that would comfort this woman or end her
grudge against Felicity. So she said nothing.
The tirade continued until the woman became incoherent and was led away, sobbing. As the
mourners followed, many nodded to Felicity or touched her arm or shoulder. They all knew the
truth.
When everyone else had gone, Felicity approached the stone marker. Tears collected in her
eyes. She knew it was human foolishness to speak words at a gravesite or memorial. But she
still whispered, “I’m leaving Pennsylvania, Gus, but I won’t forget thee ever, dearest friend.” And
then removing her glove, she spit on her palm the way they had as children when making
solemn promises to each other and pressed her palm—flat and firm—against the cold stone.
#
Altoona, Illinois 1867
Ty Hawkins eased down onto the venerable raised chair to get his shoes shined now a daily
refuge. Old Jack had shined shoes here as long as Ty had had shoes. Ty smiled and returned
Jack’s friendly good day. Jack’s dark face creased into a grin. “It’s going to be another scorcher
today.”
“’Fraid so, Jack.” Afterward, Ty would catch a bite to eat at a nearby café. He rarely felt hungry
these days even though he was several pounds lighter than he’d ever been. He would have
liked to go home for lunch, but he couldn’t face home so soon again. I’m home but I’m not home.
As Jack blackened Ty’s shoe, he gave him a long penetrating look and then he lowered his
eyes. “Coming home’s not easy.”
Another instance of the shoeshine man’s sympathetic understanding wrapped itself around Ty’s
vocal chords. Jack glanced up and Ty nodded.
“It’ll get better. It wasn’t easy going off to learn how to shoot people and it isn’t easy to put down
the rifle and come back.”
Ty managed to grunt. No one said things like this to him. Everyone seemed to overlook how
hard it was not to jump at any loud noise or to walk out in the open and not constantly scan his
surroundings for possible danger.
“Now that’s an interesting young lady,” Jack commented, looking over his shoulder as he
rubbed Jack’s shoe with a soft cotton cloth, back and forth in an easy beat.
Ty looked at the young lady and had to agree. She wore a plain gray dress and bonnet,
Quakerish. Then as if he’d called her name, she glanced his way. From within the bonnet brim,
he glimpsed a pale, heart-shaped face, large blue eyes and a few strawberry blond curls that
had escaped the bonnet. She was pretty tall for a woman too. And she’d obviously just arrived
by train or boat. She had that wrinkled, weary look.
He watched her pay a drayman to load a trunk and valise onto his buckboard. Ty expected her
to board the wagon and disappear down the street. But then she did something completely
unexpected.
Two urchins had come up to her begging. She turned from the wagon and stooped down so her
face was at the same level as the children’s. Through the moving stream of people, Ty watched
the woman. The children, a little girl who held a younger boy by the hand, nodded. And then the
woman started to help the little girl up onto the wagon. “What’s she up to?” Ty muttered to Jack.
“She don’t look like the kind who would hurt a child,” Jack said, looking over his shoulder as he
continued rubbing Ty’s shoe.
Then it happened.
A tow-headed boy about eleven ran by the woman. Snatched her purse, throwing her off
balance. She fell to the dirt street. Ty leaped up to go to her aid. As he reached her and offered
her his hand, Hogan, a town policeman, appeared from the other direction. Hogan had his beefy
hand clamped on the thief’s shoulder. The boy cursed and struggled to free himself. In vain.
Ty helped the lady up. “Are you all right, miss?”
December 8, 2009
Chapter One
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania 1867
In her gray Quaker bonnet and dress, Felicity Gabriel approached the gathering of mourners at
the memorial service on the windy hillside and tried to blend in, hide her presence. The pastor
was speaking beside the brand new stone marker which would memorialize the life of Augustus
Josiah Mueller, 1846-1865. Felicity listened to the familiar comforting scriptures of death and
victory. But even more she tried to remember Gus, her oldest and dearest friend, before the
war had stolen him away and left him in an unmarked grave somewhere in Virginia.
Her mind brought up childhood images of Gus and she picking wild raspberries, their faces
smeared with scarlet berry juice. Then the two of them learning how to ride that old mule his
father had taken in trade. The mule had taken off with them, giving them a wild ride till it bucked
them off into the Mueller’s farm pond. Felicity smiled, recalling how Gus had started laughing as
if he’d just been highly entertained. And then because he was a boy, he had thrown mud at her.
Felicity grinned, feeling her pinched mouth spreading wide into a glad smile.
“What are you grinning about?” The voice Felicity had dreaded flicked and snapped her like
the sharp tongue of a whip.
“I was remembering Gus and me being bucked off by that old mule, Agnes Mueller,” Felicity
replied. Lord, please…
“I’m surprised that you had the gall to show your face here today.”
“Agnes, please,” Josiah Mueller pleaded, tugging at his wife’s elbow.
“Our Gus is gone forever and here you stand,” the woman shrilled, her voice rising.
There was a rustling in the crowd of mourners who had come to support the Muellers in their
grief over losing their only child, their only son.
Felicity knew there was nothing she could say or do that would comfort this woman or end her
grudge against Felicity. So she said nothing.
The tirade continued until the woman became incoherent and was led away, sobbing. As the
mourners followed, many nodded to Felicity or touched her arm or shoulder. They all knew the
truth.
When everyone else had gone, Felicity approached the stone marker. Tears collected in her
eyes. She knew it was human foolishness to speak words at a gravesite or memorial. But she
still whispered, “I’m leaving Pennsylvania, Gus, but I won’t forget thee ever, dearest friend.” And
then removing her glove, she spit on her palm the way they had as children when making
solemn promises to each other and pressed her palm—flat and firm—against the cold stone.
#
Altoona, Illinois 1867
Ty Hawkins eased down onto the venerable raised chair to get his shoes shined now a daily
refuge. Old Jack had shined shoes here as long as Ty had had shoes. Ty smiled and returned
Jack’s friendly good day. Jack’s dark face creased into a grin. “It’s going to be another scorcher
today.”
“’Fraid so, Jack.” Afterward, Ty would catch a bite to eat at a nearby café. He rarely felt hungry
these days even though he was several pounds lighter than he’d ever been. He would have
liked to go home for lunch, but he couldn’t face home so soon again. I’m home but I’m not home.
As Jack blackened Ty’s shoe, he gave him a long penetrating look and then he lowered his
eyes. “Coming home’s not easy.”
Another instance of the shoeshine man’s sympathetic understanding wrapped itself around Ty’s
vocal chords. Jack glanced up and Ty nodded.
“It’ll get better. It wasn’t easy going off to learn how to shoot people and it isn’t easy to put down
the rifle and come back.”
Ty managed to grunt. No one said things like this to him. Everyone seemed to overlook how
hard it was not to jump at any loud noise or to walk out in the open and not constantly scan his
surroundings for possible danger.
“Now that’s an interesting young lady,” Jack commented, looking over his shoulder as he
rubbed Jack’s shoe with a soft cotton cloth, back and forth in an easy beat.
Ty looked at the young lady and had to agree. She wore a plain gray dress and bonnet,
Quakerish. Then as if he’d called her name, she glanced his way. From within the bonnet brim,
he glimpsed a pale, heart-shaped face, large blue eyes and a few strawberry blond curls that
had escaped the bonnet. She was pretty tall for a woman too. And she’d obviously just arrived
by train or boat. She had that wrinkled, weary look.
He watched her pay a drayman to load a trunk and valise onto his buckboard. Ty expected her
to board the wagon and disappear down the street. But then she did something completely
unexpected.
Two urchins had come up to her begging. She turned from the wagon and stooped down so her
face was at the same level as the children’s. Through the moving stream of people, Ty watched
the woman. The children, a little girl who held a younger boy by the hand, nodded. And then the
woman started to help the little girl up onto the wagon. “What’s she up to?” Ty muttered to Jack.
“She don’t look like the kind who would hurt a child,” Jack said, looking over his shoulder as he
continued rubbing Ty’s shoe.
Then it happened.
A tow-headed boy about eleven ran by the woman. Snatched her purse, throwing her off
balance. She fell to the dirt street. Ty leaped up to go to her aid. As he reached her and offered
her his hand, Hogan, a town policeman, appeared from the other direction. Hogan had his beefy
hand clamped on the thief’s shoulder. The boy cursed and struggled to free himself. In vain.
Ty helped the lady up. “Are you all right, miss?”
Romeo and Shasta
by Kathy Carpenter
Chapter One
“What the hell are you doing here.” Mark
Higgins stepped away from the door but did
not invite his best friend and manager,
Ashby Tolin into the house on Mayfair Lane.
Ashby close the door behind him. “We have
unfinished business.” He went over to the
window and peeked out.
Higgins remained silent. Ashby was the
reason he was in this hick town and he
wasn’t exactly pleased. He wanted the
outcome but the task in front of him would
challenge him to say the least. He did not
need a visit from Ashby to remind him.
“I have a daughter.” Ashby confessed.
Dropping the curtain and turning to face
Higgins. “She’s outside now.”
Higgins raced from the weathered brown
couch, and nudged Ashby aside. "I never
pictured you as daddy material."
"I'm not or wasn't. I made a lot of mistakes
back then. It's
time to make amends."
Higgins pushed the filmy white excuse for a
curtain aside trying
for a glimpse of the child fathered by his
long time friend. He watched a young
woman opening the mailbox next door. Her
oversized tee shirt hid most of what he
suspected were her best assets. Her hair
was kind of a chestnut brown just like -- He
turned to Ashby. "A teenager?"
"Shasta Lynn Collins. Twenty-five. And just
as beautiful as her mother."
Higgins returned his gaze to the woman
outside with renewed interest. Maybe
Pottersville could be fun. He watched her
purple tipped nails flicked through the mail,
then stumble over a garden hose stretched
across the sidewalk, before she
disappeared.
"She doesn't know does she?"
"I never told anyone." Ashby plunked down
on the sofa. "Remember
the condition clause of our agreement?"
Higgins took the equally weathered brown
chair across from Ashby. Higgins got the
feeling he wasn't going to like this. "A
condition to be named later."
"Now."
"Haven't you done enough by bringing me
to the sticks for the summer?"
Ashby wasn't smiling. He rose and went
behind the couch to pace. "You claim to be
director material."
"We both know I am. Higgins leaned
forward. What more did Ashby want from
him? "That's why I'm here. To make the
good citizens of Mayberry famous."
"That's Pottersville." Ashby paused. "And to
make my daughter a star," he added.
"Wait a minute." Higgins protested. He rose
to join Ashby. "I agreed to come to
Pottersville this summer to teach a drama
class for six weeks."
"We have a deal." Ashby reminded him.
"I've set the wheels in motion. The rest is up
to you. When your class wins, you win, I win,
and my daughter wins."
"If I say no?"
"You won't. You want this. Hollywood will
take the burned out actor serious. You will
be able to name your terms."
"This bites."
"Everything worthwhile comes with a price."
Ashby still didn't smile. "Your price is my
daughter.
by Kathy Carpenter
Chapter One
“What the hell are you doing here.” Mark
Higgins stepped away from the door but did
not invite his best friend and manager,
Ashby Tolin into the house on Mayfair Lane.
Ashby close the door behind him. “We have
unfinished business.” He went over to the
window and peeked out.
Higgins remained silent. Ashby was the
reason he was in this hick town and he
wasn’t exactly pleased. He wanted the
outcome but the task in front of him would
challenge him to say the least. He did not
need a visit from Ashby to remind him.
“I have a daughter.” Ashby confessed.
Dropping the curtain and turning to face
Higgins. “She’s outside now.”
Higgins raced from the weathered brown
couch, and nudged Ashby aside. "I never
pictured you as daddy material."
"I'm not or wasn't. I made a lot of mistakes
back then. It's
time to make amends."
Higgins pushed the filmy white excuse for a
curtain aside trying
for a glimpse of the child fathered by his
long time friend. He watched a young
woman opening the mailbox next door. Her
oversized tee shirt hid most of what he
suspected were her best assets. Her hair
was kind of a chestnut brown just like -- He
turned to Ashby. "A teenager?"
"Shasta Lynn Collins. Twenty-five. And just
as beautiful as her mother."
Higgins returned his gaze to the woman
outside with renewed interest. Maybe
Pottersville could be fun. He watched her
purple tipped nails flicked through the mail,
then stumble over a garden hose stretched
across the sidewalk, before she
disappeared.
"She doesn't know does she?"
"I never told anyone." Ashby plunked down
on the sofa. "Remember
the condition clause of our agreement?"
Higgins took the equally weathered brown
chair across from Ashby. Higgins got the
feeling he wasn't going to like this. "A
condition to be named later."
"Now."
"Haven't you done enough by bringing me
to the sticks for the summer?"
Ashby wasn't smiling. He rose and went
behind the couch to pace. "You claim to be
director material."
"We both know I am. Higgins leaned
forward. What more did Ashby want from
him? "That's why I'm here. To make the
good citizens of Mayberry famous."
"That's Pottersville." Ashby paused. "And to
make my daughter a star," he added.
"Wait a minute." Higgins protested. He rose
to join Ashby. "I agreed to come to
Pottersville this summer to teach a drama
class for six weeks."
"We have a deal." Ashby reminded him.
"I've set the wheels in motion. The rest is up
to you. When your class wins, you win, I win,
and my daughter wins."
"If I say no?"
"You won't. You want this. Hollywood will
take the burned out actor serious. You will
be able to name your terms."
"This bites."
"Everything worthwhile comes with a price."
Ashby still didn't smile. "Your price is my
daughter.
The Prologue from the novel The Trojan Project By Eileen Thornton |
“Oh my God! What on earth...?” Sarah screamed out, as a huge ball of
light rose from behind the distant hills. Frozen with fear, she could only watch
in horror as it slowly turned a sinister shade of green, while continuing to climb
into the night sky. It grew larger and more vivid with every passing second
before finally coming to rest high above the hills.
The glare was blinding and Sarah cupped her hands around her eyes to shield them from the
brilliant rays beaming down onto the cottages in the valley below. Yet strangely, the farmhouse
and fields on the hill where she stood were still in complete darkness. She wondered how it was
possible.
Terrifying screams coming from the valley below interrupted her thoughts and, turning back to
look down the hillside, she saw men and women fleeing from their homes. The people below
were her friends. She wanted to go to them, to comfort them. But the light was too intense,
making it impossible to see properly.
Then it was gone. It was almost as though an unseen hand had flicked off a switch. The whole
episode had lasted little more than a few seconds, yet to Sarah it seemed like an hour.
Trembling with fear, Sarah thought of her children. They were still sleeping in the farmhouse at
the top of the long winding drive. She tried to move, but her legs felt like two lead blocks and
she slumped to the ground – her heart beating wildly. Then a horrifying thought occurred to
her. A massive explosion might follow such a bright ball of light.
She heaved herself from the ground and began to make her way back to the farmhouse, forcing
her stricken legs to move faster. She stumbled in the darkness and crashed to the ground,
gashing her arms and legs on the sharp gravel. Scrambling to her feet again, she moved
forward, unaware of the pain or of the warm sticky blood oozing from her wounds.
“Come on, Betts! Come on quickly!” she screamed out to the old sheepdog to follow her. She
had to get back to the house – to her children. Their safety was the only thing on her mind. She
must reach them before the explosion: they would be frightened – even worse, they might be
killed.
Killed! That one dreadful thought gave her the extra strength she needed. With a sudden burst
of energy, she bounded forward. She had to get her two children away from the house at all
costs. Sarah’s mind was racing as she drew nearer to the farmhouse. Where would they go?
Perhaps if she took them over the hill, behind the farm, they might be sheltered from the blast.
There they may have a slim chance of survival. But on reaching the door she stopped and
turned back to face the valley. Something was missing. What was it?
Looking out into the darkness, she realised the screams in the valley had stopped. Now thinking
back, she recalled how even before the light had disappeared, the screaming had ended.
Listening hard, she realised there were no sounds at all. She glanced around nervously. Even
at this time of night, it was never this quiet. There was always the reassuring hoot of a distant
owl or the gentle rustling of nocturnal animals foraging for food in the undergrowth. Where were
they tonight?
Tears rolled down Sarah’s cheeks, as she stood alone by the door. Burying her face in her
hands, she desperately wished Pete would come home.
ONE NIGHT WITH YOU Francis Ray Release date 11/03/09 |
CHAPTER ONE
Duncan McBride knew trouble
when he saw it and he was
looking at it in spades.
He could handle sudden snowstorms, droughts,
brush fires, and ornery or sick livestock with grit
and determination. He planned to leave his
mark on the land, and for that, he knew he had
to work hard.
However, no matter how he wished otherwise,
there were times he'd come out on the losing
end. He didn't like it, but he accepted the harsh
truth and worked harder so that the next time
he'd walk away the winner.
Standing on the front porch of his ranch house
east of Billings, Montana on a beautiful summer
morning, Duncan dispassionately watched a
woman emerge from the driver’s side of a dusty
black Jeep that had seen better days. Before
her booted foot hit the paved driveway, he knew
trouble had come again to the Double D
Ranch.
Long-legged, elegantly shaped with generous
breasts, she had a small waist and come-hither
hips that gently flared in body-hugging jeans.
Those features alone would have been enough
to bring any man to his knees, but added to that
stunning combination was a breath-taking
sculptured face with high cheekbones and a
generous mouth painted berry-colored. The
explosive package sent a punch straight to his
gut.
He didn't have to watch his foreman, Ramon, a
renowned ladies’ man, and his newest hand,
Billy, almost trip over themselves rushing to
meet her to know he was right. Unmoved,
Duncan folded his arms and leaned against a
stone post on the porch. Whoever she was,
she would be leaving in a hurry.
He'd learned the hard way that beautiful women
didn't like isolated ranch life and they weren't
happy unless a man was fawning over them,
catering to their every whim. He didn't have the
time or the inclination to do either. He had a
ranch to run.
“I'm Ramon Vasquez, and this is Billy Johnson,
welcome to the Double D,” Ramon greeted,
tipping his black Stetson, his white teeth flashing
in his olive-colored face.
“Good morning, Ramon, Billy. Raven La Blanc,”
she returned, extending her small hand, a smile
curving her sensual lips.
It took Ramon’s elbow in Billy’s side to get him to
stop staring with open-mouthed fascination and
remember to speak. “G-Good morning, Ms. La
Blanc. Welcome.”
“Thank you,” Raven said, gently disengaging
her hand when Billy continued to hold it. “Could
one of you please direct me to Duncan
McBride?”
Ramon and Billy turned to Duncan, their twin
expressions openly envious. The woman stared
at him as well. With the face of a man’s most
erotic and forbidden fantasy, Duncan found he
wasn't immune to her obvious allure anymore
than his two ranch hands. However, he
controlled his body, not the other way around.
He easily dismissed the stirring of his lower
body. He wasn't dead, just selective. And it was
just his bad luck for his body to remember he
hadn't been with a woman in two years.
“I'm Duncan McBride.”
The smile that slowly spread over her golden-
hued face caused his gut to tighten for an
entirely different reason. Her slender hand
swept the thick mass of long black hair out of
her face. For one traitorous moment Duncan
could imagine too well him doing the same thing
for her, his mouth following.
She was definitely leaving, he thought as she
started toward him. The admiring gaze of his
two ranch hands followed.
Straightening, his eyes narrowed in anger. His
men were staring at her butt. Several feet
away, she paused, her head tilting to one side,
studying him. She surprised him by not running
back to her Jeep. His men had certainly taken
off. He could almost admire her for standing her
ground.
Almost.
“What can I do for you, miss?” he prompted,
wanting to get rid of her as soon as possible so
he could get to work. There never seemed to
be enough time to complete the endless jobs
needed on a ranch the size of his. Today, they
were bringing in the calves to start branding.
One of his prize mares was taking her own
sweet time about foaling, and the Angus cows
he'd purchased were due to arrive soon. He
didn't have time for a woman.
Excerpt from Chapter Two of The Circle of Friends, Book IV...Mike:
Standing in the kitchen doorway, Mike surveyed the party crowd from a distance. In the dim
light, the room appeared quite full, and the loud music vibrated off every wall, adding to the
confusion. Electing to brave the throngs of people, Mike began weaving through the crowd,
navigating drunken college students like a car in an obstacle course. Feeling disorientated by
so many bodies, he moved quickly to reach the other side.
As he sidestepped a couple locked in a passionate kiss, Mike came face to face with Sarah. Her
hand around a bottle of beer, she looked up at him in surprise. Pleased to have found a familiar
face in the crowd, Mike smiled at his roommate. Sarah took a sip of her drink and returned his
grin, her eyes bright. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she suddenly leaned closer and kissed
him.
Completely stunned by her behavior, Mike was unable to utter a sound. Sarah winked and
turned away, obviously heading for the front door. Hesitating only for a moment, Mike quickly
pursued her. Glancing over her shoulder to assure that he followed, Sarah stepped outside.
Pushing past another couple, he hit the screen door and burst onto the front porch. Once
outside, however, she was nowhere to be seen.
“Sarah?” Mike called, slowly descending the steps.
He walked to the end of the sidewalk and stopped. The streets were eerily deserted. Mike
glanced in both directions, but did not see Sarah anywhere. Panic began to fill his chest. To
where could she have disappeared?
“Sarah?” he called.
Mike ran into the street and spun around, his eyes searching every yard. There was no sign of
his roommate, no answer to his desperate call. She had simply vanished into the night.
“Sarah?” he cried, his voice bordering on a scream. “Sarah? Sarah!”
“Mike!”
His eyes flew open as Mike awoke with a start. His chest labored for air and his hands tightly
clutched the covers. The ceiling loomed over his head, a stream of light from the parted
curtains playing across its surface. Reality began to sink in as Mike remembered that he was in
a hotel room, far removed from Atlanta. Sarah had not just kissed him and then vanished into
thin air. It had all been a dream.
Quickly he turned his head toward the other bed. Its occupant was awake, propped up on one
elbow, and staring at him. Mike’s eyes widened in alarm.
“Mike, you were talking in your sleep!” Matt moaned, rubbing his eyes. With a sigh, he rolled
onto his back.
“I was?” he asked, feeling his stomach turn.
“Yes, loudly,” Matt informed him, stretching his legs out from under the covers.
Emitting a groan, Matt pulled himself upright and threw aside the blankets. He rubbed his hair
once, the wavy locks disheveled by his slumber, and yawned mightily before rising to his feet.
Mike watched his roommate stagger toward the bathroom and waited until he heard the door
close before exhaling. His muscles were still tense from the urgency of his dream. Mike closed
his eyes and forced his body to relax.
Had he spoken Sarah’s name out loud? Was the sound of his wife’s name what had awoken
Matt?
Copyright 2009 L. Diane Wolfe
L. Diane Wolfe "Spunk On A Stick"
Professional Speaker & Author
www.spunkonastick.net
www.thecircleoffriends.net
Standing in the kitchen doorway, Mike surveyed the party crowd from a distance. In the dim
light, the room appeared quite full, and the loud music vibrated off every wall, adding to the
confusion. Electing to brave the throngs of people, Mike began weaving through the crowd,
navigating drunken college students like a car in an obstacle course. Feeling disorientated by
so many bodies, he moved quickly to reach the other side.
As he sidestepped a couple locked in a passionate kiss, Mike came face to face with Sarah. Her
hand around a bottle of beer, she looked up at him in surprise. Pleased to have found a familiar
face in the crowd, Mike smiled at his roommate. Sarah took a sip of her drink and returned his
grin, her eyes bright. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she suddenly leaned closer and kissed
him.
Completely stunned by her behavior, Mike was unable to utter a sound. Sarah winked and
turned away, obviously heading for the front door. Hesitating only for a moment, Mike quickly
pursued her. Glancing over her shoulder to assure that he followed, Sarah stepped outside.
Pushing past another couple, he hit the screen door and burst onto the front porch. Once
outside, however, she was nowhere to be seen.
“Sarah?” Mike called, slowly descending the steps.
He walked to the end of the sidewalk and stopped. The streets were eerily deserted. Mike
glanced in both directions, but did not see Sarah anywhere. Panic began to fill his chest. To
where could she have disappeared?
“Sarah?” he called.
Mike ran into the street and spun around, his eyes searching every yard. There was no sign of
his roommate, no answer to his desperate call. She had simply vanished into the night.
“Sarah?” he cried, his voice bordering on a scream. “Sarah? Sarah!”
“Mike!”
His eyes flew open as Mike awoke with a start. His chest labored for air and his hands tightly
clutched the covers. The ceiling loomed over his head, a stream of light from the parted
curtains playing across its surface. Reality began to sink in as Mike remembered that he was in
a hotel room, far removed from Atlanta. Sarah had not just kissed him and then vanished into
thin air. It had all been a dream.
Quickly he turned his head toward the other bed. Its occupant was awake, propped up on one
elbow, and staring at him. Mike’s eyes widened in alarm.
“Mike, you were talking in your sleep!” Matt moaned, rubbing his eyes. With a sigh, he rolled
onto his back.
“I was?” he asked, feeling his stomach turn.
“Yes, loudly,” Matt informed him, stretching his legs out from under the covers.
Emitting a groan, Matt pulled himself upright and threw aside the blankets. He rubbed his hair
once, the wavy locks disheveled by his slumber, and yawned mightily before rising to his feet.
Mike watched his roommate stagger toward the bathroom and waited until he heard the door
close before exhaling. His muscles were still tense from the urgency of his dream. Mike closed
his eyes and forced his body to relax.
Had he spoken Sarah’s name out loud? Was the sound of his wife’s name what had awoken
Matt?
Copyright 2009 L. Diane Wolfe
L. Diane Wolfe "Spunk On A Stick"
Professional Speaker & Author
www.spunkonastick.net
www.thecircleoffriends.net
The MoonQuest
Prologue
Na'an came to me in a dream this night. It was early. I had not been in bed long and the night was newly dark.
"It is time," she said, "time to fix The MoonQuest on parchment."
I was gladdened to see her after so many seasons, but I was not cheered by the message she bore. I tried to engage her
in other discourse, but she was single-minded as only a Tikkan dreamwalker can be.
"It is not for me to boast of my exploits," I argued. "Others have sung them. Let them continue."
"No," she said, and her silver tresses shimmered as she shook her head. "It is your story to tell. It is for you to fix it in ink, to set the truth down for all to
read."
I tried to resist, to shut Na'an's words from my heart, to return to the dreamless sleep that preceded her appearance. But Tikkan speak only what we
know in our hearts to be true, and my heart would not close to her even as my mind longed to. Only by forcing my eyes open and my body to this table
was I able to banish her milk-white face from my mind's eye. Only by letting my quill rasp across the blank parchment have I stilled her voice.
But my quill hovers over oceans of emptiness. I don't know what to write, where to begin. The story has so many beginnings and no clear ending. As a
bard, as Elderbard, I am trained to know how to weave disparate elements into a tapestry of word and song that brings light and meaning to life. When
recounting others' stories, I have no difficulty. The tales unfurl from my tongue as if by magic, as if M'nor herself were singing through me.
Na'an says it is my story. Perhaps she is right. Is that why the words come so reluctantly? So many seasons of storytelling and still I hesitate. Of all the
stories to stick in my throat, how ironic that it should be The MoonQuest, a tale of the freeing of story itself.
You see how confused I am? I have not even introduced myself. My truth name is Toshar and I am old, so old that most who knew me by that name
have passed on to other worlds.
Toshar... Even I have forgotten the boy who was Toshar, the youth who embarked on The MoonQuest all those seasons ago.
They call me Ko'lar now, the ancient word for Elderbard. It is a sign of honor and respect, but it separates me from the youth I was.
Perhaps Na'an is right. Perhaps it is time to bring back Toshar, to allow the boy I was to touch the man I have become, the man I will soon cease to be.
Soon it will be time to release the ageless spirit from this aged body and move on to other realms, set off on other journeys. I have seen it and I
welcome it. But it cannot be mine until I have told this story. Na'an insists.
She speaks, even as I sit here in full wakefulness, staring at the shadows cast by my flickering taper. Now, they loom, large and menacing. Now, they flit
and flutter in delicate dance. I see it all now, in the leap of light against dark. The shadows will tell me the story and I will write what I see. I will write until
my fingers and beard are black with ink. I will write until the story is told.
Only then will I be free to continue my journey. Only then will my daughter, Q'nta, be free to continue hers. She is nearly ready. Ryolan Ò Garan taught
her well, taught her the lessons of The MoonQuest. Soon she will live them through my words and will be free to assume the mantle of her birthright,
according to the ancient orders of succession:
From father to daughter, mother to son
The mantle passes, the Balance is done
I was an exception to the Law of Balance, a law as old as the land itself. But those were exceptional times, the darkest of ages, in a land where "once
upon a time" was a forbidden phrase and fact the only legal tender.
That was the land I was born into, a land of slaughtered bards, a land dulled and divided by fear. That was Q'ntana, and this is its story, and mine...a
story that begins once upon a time.
Mark David Gerson
http://themoonquest.com
Prologue
Na'an came to me in a dream this night. It was early. I had not been in bed long and the night was newly dark.
"It is time," she said, "time to fix The MoonQuest on parchment."
I was gladdened to see her after so many seasons, but I was not cheered by the message she bore. I tried to engage her
in other discourse, but she was single-minded as only a Tikkan dreamwalker can be.
"It is not for me to boast of my exploits," I argued. "Others have sung them. Let them continue."
"No," she said, and her silver tresses shimmered as she shook her head. "It is your story to tell. It is for you to fix it in ink, to set the truth down for all to
read."
I tried to resist, to shut Na'an's words from my heart, to return to the dreamless sleep that preceded her appearance. But Tikkan speak only what we
know in our hearts to be true, and my heart would not close to her even as my mind longed to. Only by forcing my eyes open and my body to this table
was I able to banish her milk-white face from my mind's eye. Only by letting my quill rasp across the blank parchment have I stilled her voice.
But my quill hovers over oceans of emptiness. I don't know what to write, where to begin. The story has so many beginnings and no clear ending. As a
bard, as Elderbard, I am trained to know how to weave disparate elements into a tapestry of word and song that brings light and meaning to life. When
recounting others' stories, I have no difficulty. The tales unfurl from my tongue as if by magic, as if M'nor herself were singing through me.
Na'an says it is my story. Perhaps she is right. Is that why the words come so reluctantly? So many seasons of storytelling and still I hesitate. Of all the
stories to stick in my throat, how ironic that it should be The MoonQuest, a tale of the freeing of story itself.
You see how confused I am? I have not even introduced myself. My truth name is Toshar and I am old, so old that most who knew me by that name
have passed on to other worlds.
Toshar... Even I have forgotten the boy who was Toshar, the youth who embarked on The MoonQuest all those seasons ago.
They call me Ko'lar now, the ancient word for Elderbard. It is a sign of honor and respect, but it separates me from the youth I was.
Perhaps Na'an is right. Perhaps it is time to bring back Toshar, to allow the boy I was to touch the man I have become, the man I will soon cease to be.
Soon it will be time to release the ageless spirit from this aged body and move on to other realms, set off on other journeys. I have seen it and I
welcome it. But it cannot be mine until I have told this story. Na'an insists.
She speaks, even as I sit here in full wakefulness, staring at the shadows cast by my flickering taper. Now, they loom, large and menacing. Now, they flit
and flutter in delicate dance. I see it all now, in the leap of light against dark. The shadows will tell me the story and I will write what I see. I will write until
my fingers and beard are black with ink. I will write until the story is told.
Only then will I be free to continue my journey. Only then will my daughter, Q'nta, be free to continue hers. She is nearly ready. Ryolan Ò Garan taught
her well, taught her the lessons of The MoonQuest. Soon she will live them through my words and will be free to assume the mantle of her birthright,
according to the ancient orders of succession:
From father to daughter, mother to son
The mantle passes, the Balance is done
I was an exception to the Law of Balance, a law as old as the land itself. But those were exceptional times, the darkest of ages, in a land where "once
upon a time" was a forbidden phrase and fact the only legal tender.
That was the land I was born into, a land of slaughtered bards, a land dulled and divided by fear. That was Q'ntana, and this is its story, and mine...a
story that begins once upon a time.
Mark David Gerson
http://themoonquest.com
“Widow’s Walk” by Kenneth Weene |
“Widow’s Walk” is a novel about starting life over, about middle-age love, about the Irish American experience, and about the role of faith, love, and
responsibility in our lives. For more information visit http://widows-walk.webs.com or order through Amazon.
An excerpt from “Widow’s Walk
They follow the clerk's suggestion for a place to eat an early supper. It’s busy but friendly, and the fried clams and potatoes are excellent. Better, it
seems to have more locals than tourists, which pleases Arnie.
After supper they take a walk along the boardwalk. It is still too cold for the attractions to be opened, but they’re able to buy a box of saltwater taffy.
Each of them tries a piece and almost simultaneously take the pieces of candy out of their mouths.
“God, that’s awful,” Arnie observes.
“I’ll bet dentists love it,” Mary adds. “It could pull every filling out of my head.”
They go back to the motel. Having set the alarm clock for two and finding nothing of interest on the television, they turn out the lights and try to sleep.
The last of the day’s sunlight is poking its way though the gaps in the curtains and around their edges. Bands of light fall across the head of the queen-
size bed and others reflect from the full-length mirror to play on the fading floral print of the wallpaper. "We're not going to go to sleep," Mary observes.
"I guess not." Arnie kisses her ear and fondles her breasts. She reaches down and caresses his genitals.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers.
She never tires of hearing his compliments. Still she feels compelled, as she always has, to demur. "Oh, you just say those things."
Arnie rolls away from her and stares at the ceiling. He turns back and looks directly into Mary’s eyes. She is startled by the seriousness in his eyes.
"Mary, I swear to you that in my eyes you are more beautiful than any woman in the world." He waits for her to say something, but she doesn’t – she
has no idea what to say. Arnie continues, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“What?” Mary isn’t sure what’s happening but knows that it’s important. There is a thin gasp of nervousness in her mind.
Arnie gets up from the bed and fumbles in his jacket pockets until he finds a small box. He kneels on the bed and thrusts it at her and gasps, “Will you
marry me?”
“Yes, oh yes," she responds. Taken by surprise, Mary feels as if she is spinning – spinning and simultaneously soaring in joy.
Arnie takes the ring from its box. Mary holds out her left hand, and he slips the ring on to her finger. “It’s beautiful,” she croons. “It’s so beautiful.” She
kisses him, gently with the sense that he is precious and fragile.
“Oh, Arnie, I’m so happy.” Her voice is full of joy and excitement. She feels her heart beating with happiness. She hugs him and showers his face with
kisses.
“Believe me, I am, too!” Arnie manages to say in between her embraces. He wants to dance around the room, to shout with joy, to fly to the moon. Not
knowing what to do with his excitement, he pulls Mary from the bed and hugs her tightly. Gently, he lays her back on the mattress. “I love you so much,”
he says.
“Oh, I love you. I love you. I truly love you,” Mary responds with all her heart.
Arnie kneels next to her on the mattress and kisses her body in a hundred places. She giggles at the intensity of his kissing. “I want to kiss you forever,
make love to you forever, be with you forever.”
Mary wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him on top of her. “Make love to me now,” she moans. “Make love to me now – now and forever.” Their
hands, their mouths, their souls touch and caress. Mary can feel the rough softness of his penis as it gently pushes inside her. She can feel the
thrusting of his pelvis as one with her own. She can feel the sudden excitation of their shared fulfillment. She can feel the total togetherness that makes
them as the first couple in the Garden of All Love.
When they have finished, Arnie and Mary lay, in mutual exhaustion – two spoons nestled on the bed – Mary behind Arnie, Arnie closer to the window.
The only sound in the room is the buzz of the heating unit. Through the window and the cracks around the door, they can feel the cold air coming off
the ocean. The last shreds of sunlight make their way through the curtained window. Mary watches Arnie's back slowly rising and falling with his
breathing. She runs her index finger along his spine. Arnie shivers slightly at the sensation – it is the shiver of delight. "I love you Mary Flanagan."
"And I love you, Arnie Berger."
That is the last thing either of them hear until the buzzer wakes them in the middle of the night.
| “A Kalahari Spell” by L.M. Brickwood excerpt from Chapter 1 |
Chapter 1
I know you won’t believe me. Nobody in their right mind would. My story is so different and it happened in Botswana. Well, most of it anyway.
I didn’t even know that Botswana existed before my sister Claire disappeared in this remote African country without a trace. That’s how my relationship
with Botswana began. I had to go to Africa and find out for myself. I had to find Claire.
At first I was intimidated by this land in Southern Africa with its vast areas of dry and thirsty desert. The Kalahari Desert. It’s not like the Sahara, mind
you. No sand dunes here. There is a good deal of sand of course, red and white and yellow. It might not be obvious at first, but if you look closer you
see it burst with life.
Tough and thorny, plants cling to the unfruitful ground. Tiny seeds, the feared devil thorns, hide in the glinting sand and dig painfully into soft-skinned
soles. Only the hardy Bushmen with their callused feet seem immune to the sting. Sometimes I wish I could be just as tough.
Not everything is what it seems. What looks like lakes is nothing of that sort. These pans are the remains of an ancient inland sea and contain a bitter
cocktail of salts. But if you dig deep enough, you’ll find much of the good water underground. You might have heard of the Okavango Delta. A wetland
once forged by massive land slide, forcing the Okavango to empty its waters inland. In this everglade paradise you find zebras and giraffes, hippos and
tiny vampires in clouds of annoying mosquitoes. Not even here does Botswana give of itself easily.
Lizards swing on the bent tips of long grasses and twigs, ‘singing’ in the early hours of the freezing desert morning. Before the flaming red sun rises
and the scorching heat of the day takes hold. Have you ever seen anything like that? I pulled many a devil thorn from my soles and stared in disbelief
at the lizards. And I had to learn to listen to the stillness to hear.
This ancient land is so hot and so cold, harsh and mild, wet and dry. Not your most convenient holiday destination. How did I even begin to find Claire
in such a place? I must have been insane. Insane with fear of what might have happened to her. Why else would I have just upped and left and come
here? They say that “Africa is not for sissies” and it is certainly true for Botswana. It’s still my favourite country where I spent nearly two years of my life.
But it took effort.
The local Tswanas are by and large so indifferent to our harsh, materialistic mentality that they might as well have come from another world. They love
children, their own and other people’s and take everything in their stride. Slowly, maddeningly so. Rooted in traditional values, Tswanas have no use
for violent crime. I soon found out that they commune with their ancestors, who play an important role in African society. They find it strange that we
don’t. Witchdoctors are the crucial link between the living and the non-living, but I discovered that not all of them are well-meaning. Perhaps things
would have worked out differently, if my own ancestors had played a role somehow. Perhaps.
I was one of the lekgoas, an expatriate passing through. Lekgoas often stay no longer than a few years, before moving on to greener pastures. A few
years barely cause a ripple in time for the mighty Kalahari. Back in England my imagination didn’t stretch beyond ‘what-you-see-is-what-you-get’. In
fact, my imagination didn’t stretch very far, full stop. You are already thinking that I must have been on another planet, I can tell. It’s so different from
the mild English countryside or even the leafy northern Johannesburg suburbs where I live now. But that’s not even the most unbelievable part of it.
There was also an entirely different dimension to my life in Botswana. One that I didn’t understand. Still don’t understand.
I know you won’t believe me. Nobody in their right mind would. My story is so different and it happened in Botswana. Well, most of it anyway.
I didn’t even know that Botswana existed before my sister Claire disappeared in this remote African country without a trace. That’s how my relationship
with Botswana began. I had to go to Africa and find out for myself. I had to find Claire.
At first I was intimidated by this land in Southern Africa with its vast areas of dry and thirsty desert. The Kalahari Desert. It’s not like the Sahara, mind
you. No sand dunes here. There is a good deal of sand of course, red and white and yellow. It might not be obvious at first, but if you look closer you
see it burst with life.
Tough and thorny, plants cling to the unfruitful ground. Tiny seeds, the feared devil thorns, hide in the glinting sand and dig painfully into soft-skinned
soles. Only the hardy Bushmen with their callused feet seem immune to the sting. Sometimes I wish I could be just as tough.
Not everything is what it seems. What looks like lakes is nothing of that sort. These pans are the remains of an ancient inland sea and contain a bitter
cocktail of salts. But if you dig deep enough, you’ll find much of the good water underground. You might have heard of the Okavango Delta. A wetland
once forged by massive land slide, forcing the Okavango to empty its waters inland. In this everglade paradise you find zebras and giraffes, hippos and
tiny vampires in clouds of annoying mosquitoes. Not even here does Botswana give of itself easily.
Lizards swing on the bent tips of long grasses and twigs, ‘singing’ in the early hours of the freezing desert morning. Before the flaming red sun rises
and the scorching heat of the day takes hold. Have you ever seen anything like that? I pulled many a devil thorn from my soles and stared in disbelief
at the lizards. And I had to learn to listen to the stillness to hear.
This ancient land is so hot and so cold, harsh and mild, wet and dry. Not your most convenient holiday destination. How did I even begin to find Claire
in such a place? I must have been insane. Insane with fear of what might have happened to her. Why else would I have just upped and left and come
here? They say that “Africa is not for sissies” and it is certainly true for Botswana. It’s still my favourite country where I spent nearly two years of my life.
But it took effort.
The local Tswanas are by and large so indifferent to our harsh, materialistic mentality that they might as well have come from another world. They love
children, their own and other people’s and take everything in their stride. Slowly, maddeningly so. Rooted in traditional values, Tswanas have no use
for violent crime. I soon found out that they commune with their ancestors, who play an important role in African society. They find it strange that we
don’t. Witchdoctors are the crucial link between the living and the non-living, but I discovered that not all of them are well-meaning. Perhaps things
would have worked out differently, if my own ancestors had played a role somehow. Perhaps.
I was one of the lekgoas, an expatriate passing through. Lekgoas often stay no longer than a few years, before moving on to greener pastures. A few
years barely cause a ripple in time for the mighty Kalahari. Back in England my imagination didn’t stretch beyond ‘what-you-see-is-what-you-get’. In
fact, my imagination didn’t stretch very far, full stop. You are already thinking that I must have been on another planet, I can tell. It’s so different from
the mild English countryside or even the leafy northern Johannesburg suburbs where I live now. But that’s not even the most unbelievable part of it.
There was also an entirely different dimension to my life in Botswana. One that I didn’t understand. Still don’t understand.
Murdering Muse
Lyra floated near the ceiling, watching Nick type, as he ruined yet another of her beautiful ideas with hackneyed prose.
“Oh, take a writing course! Learn to string a proper sentence! I can’t take it anymore!”
Nick’s fingers stopped in mid-type.
“What the... is someone there?” He looked around, but he was still the only human in the room.
“Yes, I’m here you nitwit, you bungler of inspiration.”
Lyra dropped the glamour of illusion and let Nick see her, his stunning, gifted muse. She fluttered slowly downward until she was hovering only a few
inches above the floor.
“How can you justify the mockery you are creating? That was one of my most exceptional plotlines, my most scintillating character! You made it boring!
Boring!” Lyra wanted to cry.
Nick just sat in his chair, his mouth slightly open, blinking his eyes at the sight of Lyra.
“Are you going to say anything? Are you as deficient in speech as well? Do you even care that I’m the laughing stock of the Muse community! Your
horrid attempts at writing fiction have made me a joke; even Steven King’s muse has been snickering and he doesn’t laugh at anything!” Lyra shivered,
her mind drifting. “That guy is one scary muse.”
Nick was staring, with a stupid look on his face. “I’m going crazy, I must be, I’m hallucinating.”
Lyra gave him her best, peel the wallpaper glare. “I’m real, you twit! I am your muse and for once, you are going to listen to me!” She would have
stomped
her foot in emphasis, but it is hard to stomp when floating in midair. “You are a hack, typing clichés and bad stereotypes, sullying my brilliant vision!”
Lyra summoned her finest, commanding voice. “You Have To Stop Butchering The Prose! Learn Your Craft!”
Lyra’s insults finally penetrated the fog of Nick’s brain, fueling his anger. “I am not a hack! It is not my fault that no one appreciates my subtle genius.”
Lyra looked at his wounded, angry expression. She could not believe he said the last sentence with a straight face, let alone believed it. She laughed,
for a long time.
“You are hopeless. How was I that unlucky, to be stuck with you?” The disgust dripped off her words.
Nick sputtered, furious. “Did you ever consider it just might be you, that your so-called inspiration might be flat?”
Lyra was aghast and she hit the floor, literally, landing on both feet with a thud.
“You are questioning my competence? You, a worm of no consequence, dare to question my talent? I have been a muse for centuries, inspiring
countless literary masterpieces!” Her voice rose in volume with every word, rage building.
She advanced on Nick until she towered over him and he was pushed back against the desk. Her hand brushed against his letter opener as she
glowered, Nick recoiling into cowed terror, and her most magnificent inspiration struck her.
“You will no longer spoil my work.” Lyra paused for splendid dramatic effect. "Never insult your muse.”
She plunged the silver letter opener into the heart of Nick, ending her problem permanently.
From Passing Fancies
by A. F. Stewart
Book Title: HIGHLAND DRAGON
Author: Kimberly Killion
Publisher:
Kensington Publishing Corp.
Publication Date: October 2009
Price: $5.99 U.S./$6.99 Canada
Pages: 356
ISBN-10: 1420104411
ISBN-13: 978-1420104417
EXCERPT:
Hidden behind a false panel, ten-year-old Calin MacLeod covered his ears with sweaty palms. The screams echoing throughout Brycen Castle were
loud enough to loosen his teeth.
Lena Kinnon cried for mercy with every gut-wrenching contraction, but didn’t receive the slightest morsel of compassion from the many men present.
Her position held no dignity, sprawled atop the council table like a sacrificial lamb. The wool of her soiled sark draped between her raised knees and
provided her little privacy. No one wiped her brow or offered soothing words of comfort.
A woman was supposed to suffer during childbirth to pay for the sins of Eve. Even at his young age, Calin knew the laws of the church. He also knew
Lena had already suffered more than any woman in Clan Kinnon. The bruises speckling her pale skin were evidence of the constant torture she
endured at the hands of her ruthless husband.
The sliver of space between the wooden planks where Calin hid was no wider than the trunk of a sapling, but provided a view of his da, Laird MacLeod,
who stood against a stone pilaster opposite Laird Kinnon. Da’s dark hair had grayed at the temples over the recent months, and his face sagged in
weariness, but his rigid stance displayed his contained rage. With his eyes narrowed, Da stroked the golden bull’s head engraved into the signet ring
he wore and glared at his enemy.
Two pairs of MacLeod warriors flanked each side of his da, while four Kinnon warriors surrounded Laird Baen Kinnon. All were unarmed as was
previously agreed upon by both lairds.
“Ye keep screamin’, wife. It’ll cleanse your black English soul.” Laird Kinnon paced the council chamber, a sneer twisting his pitted face.
Calin hated the chieftain of his neighboring clan as much as his da did. Laird Kinnon was a cold-hearted demon. Anyone who would beat his lady wife
during her childbearing time walked upon this earth with the devil’s black blood flowing through his veins.
“Ye bear me another bitch and it will be your last.”
“Please, Baen, have ye no mercy? Send for the midwife, please.” Lena gripped the sides of her belly and arched her back.
Laird Kinnon slapped her across the face with an open palm. Sweat sprayed over the tabletop. “Still your tongue, wife, or I’ll cut it out.” He spread his
arms wide, gesturing to the many warriors present. “There be plenty o’ eager hands awaitin’ to catch my male bairn as soon as ye free him from your
spoiled womb.”
Calin bit his tongue to avoid cursing the man as venomously as his da always did. Calin had lived his whole life without a mam to kiss his cheek or offer
him praise. Over the past few months, Lena had been like a mother to him. She was kind and gentle and Laird Kinnon should burn in the deepest pit of
hell for the way he abused his lady wife. Calin didn’t have to be an aged warrior to know this was wrong. Lena’s child was nothing more to Laird Kinnon
than a binding contract.
A contract that affected Calin’s future. Which was precisely why he’d disobeyed his da’s direct order not to follow him to the Kinnon keep when word of
Lena’s lying-in arrived. If Lena bore a daughter, the babe would become his betrothed.
Calin and his friend, Kendrick Neish of Clan Kinnon, had discovered the secluded compartment just two months past after stumbling into the pitch-black
caverns beneath the castle. Since then, they had become privy to every council meeting between their clans. They knew of war and how the English
wanted to reign over Scotland. Both had heard the gruesome tales of entire villages being slaughtered. Neither he, nor Kendrick wanted their clans to
suffer such a fate. Calin knew they were supposed to be enemies, but they wanted the same thing—an alliance.
For five hours, Calin had hugged his twisted limbs in the narrow space while Lena labored in the corner. His arse tingled, and his toes had gone numb
hours before inside his leather brogues. The dank odor of moldy floor rushes drifted into his hiding place. A prayer floated into his ear.
“Fàilte dhut a Mhoire, tha thu lan de na gràsan…” In the Gaelic tongue, Father Harrald prayed to the Blessed Mother while he paced the edge of the
chamber. The granite beads of his rosary clattered with his every movement. The young priest had been summoned to perform the baptism or to
administer Last Rites in the event this child didn’t survive—as Lena’s previous three babes had not.
Lena pushed and Calin sucked in air.
He exhaled when she did. Her whole body convulsed, his shivered. Wet ropes of black hair clung to her face and neck. Propped on her elbows, her
head fell back. Her mouth opened, and she screamed in agony.
One of the warriors caught the babe just as it slid from Lena’s body.
Calin held his breath awaiting the outcome.
“A lass, Laird Kinnon,” the old man announced grimly while he held the babe by the ankles and slapped her rump. He then laid her atop Lena’s
quivering abdomen.
Lena pulled the crying child to her breast and stroked her newborn skin. Relief washed over her face and tears spilled over her cheeks when she
smiled at Da. All would be well now.
“Seal off the hall and bring me the other child.” The cord still attached his infant daughter to his wife when Laird Kinnon commanded his seneschal. His
dark eyes blazed with contempt as he stared directly at Da. “Ye will ne’er hold claim to my land. Nor will ye e’er touch my wife again.”
“I have ne’er wanted your land.” Da stepped closer to Lena.
“But ye dinnae deny touching my wife.”
Da glanced at Lena.
A dozen broad-shouldered men materialized from the darkened recesses of Brycen Castle. Their weapons flickered beneath golden wall torches. A
raw-boned nursemaid, escorted by another warrior, entered the chamber, her fear evident in sunken wide eyes. In her arms, she held another babe
swaddled in stripped wool, its fists swatted the air. With trembling hands, she placed the babe in the crook of Laird Kinnon’s arm.
Laird Kinnon turned to his warriors. “Send their miserable souls to the devil. All of them.”
Author: Kimberly Killion
Publisher:
Kensington Publishing Corp.
Publication Date: October 2009
Price: $5.99 U.S./$6.99 Canada
Pages: 356
ISBN-10: 1420104411
ISBN-13: 978-1420104417
EXCERPT:
Hidden behind a false panel, ten-year-old Calin MacLeod covered his ears with sweaty palms. The screams echoing throughout Brycen Castle were
loud enough to loosen his teeth.
Lena Kinnon cried for mercy with every gut-wrenching contraction, but didn’t receive the slightest morsel of compassion from the many men present.
Her position held no dignity, sprawled atop the council table like a sacrificial lamb. The wool of her soiled sark draped between her raised knees and
provided her little privacy. No one wiped her brow or offered soothing words of comfort.
A woman was supposed to suffer during childbirth to pay for the sins of Eve. Even at his young age, Calin knew the laws of the church. He also knew
Lena had already suffered more than any woman in Clan Kinnon. The bruises speckling her pale skin were evidence of the constant torture she
endured at the hands of her ruthless husband.
The sliver of space between the wooden planks where Calin hid was no wider than the trunk of a sapling, but provided a view of his da, Laird MacLeod,
who stood against a stone pilaster opposite Laird Kinnon. Da’s dark hair had grayed at the temples over the recent months, and his face sagged in
weariness, but his rigid stance displayed his contained rage. With his eyes narrowed, Da stroked the golden bull’s head engraved into the signet ring
he wore and glared at his enemy.
Two pairs of MacLeod warriors flanked each side of his da, while four Kinnon warriors surrounded Laird Baen Kinnon. All were unarmed as was
previously agreed upon by both lairds.
“Ye keep screamin’, wife. It’ll cleanse your black English soul.” Laird Kinnon paced the council chamber, a sneer twisting his pitted face.
Calin hated the chieftain of his neighboring clan as much as his da did. Laird Kinnon was a cold-hearted demon. Anyone who would beat his lady wife
during her childbearing time walked upon this earth with the devil’s black blood flowing through his veins.
“Ye bear me another bitch and it will be your last.”
“Please, Baen, have ye no mercy? Send for the midwife, please.” Lena gripped the sides of her belly and arched her back.
Laird Kinnon slapped her across the face with an open palm. Sweat sprayed over the tabletop. “Still your tongue, wife, or I’ll cut it out.” He spread his
arms wide, gesturing to the many warriors present. “There be plenty o’ eager hands awaitin’ to catch my male bairn as soon as ye free him from your
spoiled womb.”
Calin bit his tongue to avoid cursing the man as venomously as his da always did. Calin had lived his whole life without a mam to kiss his cheek or offer
him praise. Over the past few months, Lena had been like a mother to him. She was kind and gentle and Laird Kinnon should burn in the deepest pit of
hell for the way he abused his lady wife. Calin didn’t have to be an aged warrior to know this was wrong. Lena’s child was nothing more to Laird Kinnon
than a binding contract.
A contract that affected Calin’s future. Which was precisely why he’d disobeyed his da’s direct order not to follow him to the Kinnon keep when word of
Lena’s lying-in arrived. If Lena bore a daughter, the babe would become his betrothed.
Calin and his friend, Kendrick Neish of Clan Kinnon, had discovered the secluded compartment just two months past after stumbling into the pitch-black
caverns beneath the castle. Since then, they had become privy to every council meeting between their clans. They knew of war and how the English
wanted to reign over Scotland. Both had heard the gruesome tales of entire villages being slaughtered. Neither he, nor Kendrick wanted their clans to
suffer such a fate. Calin knew they were supposed to be enemies, but they wanted the same thing—an alliance.
For five hours, Calin had hugged his twisted limbs in the narrow space while Lena labored in the corner. His arse tingled, and his toes had gone numb
hours before inside his leather brogues. The dank odor of moldy floor rushes drifted into his hiding place. A prayer floated into his ear.
“Fàilte dhut a Mhoire, tha thu lan de na gràsan…” In the Gaelic tongue, Father Harrald prayed to the Blessed Mother while he paced the edge of the
chamber. The granite beads of his rosary clattered with his every movement. The young priest had been summoned to perform the baptism or to
administer Last Rites in the event this child didn’t survive—as Lena’s previous three babes had not.
Lena pushed and Calin sucked in air.
He exhaled when she did. Her whole body convulsed, his shivered. Wet ropes of black hair clung to her face and neck. Propped on her elbows, her
head fell back. Her mouth opened, and she screamed in agony.
One of the warriors caught the babe just as it slid from Lena’s body.
Calin held his breath awaiting the outcome.
“A lass, Laird Kinnon,” the old man announced grimly while he held the babe by the ankles and slapped her rump. He then laid her atop Lena’s
quivering abdomen.
Lena pulled the crying child to her breast and stroked her newborn skin. Relief washed over her face and tears spilled over her cheeks when she
smiled at Da. All would be well now.
“Seal off the hall and bring me the other child.” The cord still attached his infant daughter to his wife when Laird Kinnon commanded his seneschal. His
dark eyes blazed with contempt as he stared directly at Da. “Ye will ne’er hold claim to my land. Nor will ye e’er touch my wife again.”
“I have ne’er wanted your land.” Da stepped closer to Lena.
“But ye dinnae deny touching my wife.”
Da glanced at Lena.
A dozen broad-shouldered men materialized from the darkened recesses of Brycen Castle. Their weapons flickered beneath golden wall torches. A
raw-boned nursemaid, escorted by another warrior, entered the chamber, her fear evident in sunken wide eyes. In her arms, she held another babe
swaddled in stripped wool, its fists swatted the air. With trembling hands, she placed the babe in the crook of Laird Kinnon’s arm.
Laird Kinnon turned to his warriors. “Send their miserable souls to the devil. All of them.”
chapter from Far from the Peaceful Shore
I knew I should stay away and keep my brothers away, but I had to get to Dana. With any luck, or better yet - the Lord’s help, I would see Dana along
the way and we could avoid the house. But then I thought about my mom. Did she have any idea what was going on? Why had she served him
divorce papers, especially after all of this time? There were too many questions and I knew they wouldn’t be answered that night.
There was no sign of Dana or the boy. They probably were making out somewhere along one of the alleys. When we got closer to the house, I saw
mom’s car in the driveway. There were no other cars around and everything seemed to be quiet. I thought that maybe Tommy was just drunk and
making up lies to upset me. I scanned the yard before pulling to a complete stop and letting the boys out.
Inside the house, I found mom packing the suitcases. “For heaven’s sake,” she said when we walked through the door, “why are you back so soon?”
“Hank got in a fight.”
Mom shook her head. “You’ve got to get them out of here now.” There was a crash outside and Mom quickly locked the door. “Oh, dear Jesus,” she
started praying.
“What’s going on?”
“Your father is going to kill us. Get those boys to safety.”
Something banged against the screen door, as if someone kicked it. “Go away,” Mom screamed. “Let us leave.” She motioned for me to get out of
the room.
Grabbing both boys by the arm, I took them into my bedroom and to the closet. “What’s going on?” Dave asked.
“I’m scared,” Hank replied.
“Listen to me,” I said, trying not to cry. “Do exactly what I say and you’ll be fine. Lay flat on the floor. Do not stand up for anything. Do not come out
until me or Mom come to get you.”
They lay on the floor and I started to shut the door. Hank grabbed my arm. “What about you? Where are you going?”
“I have to get some help. Stay down and I’ll be back.” I closed the door and prayed it wouldn’t be the last time I saw my brothers alive. I could hear
Mom and my father yelling at each other - he on the porch and her in the living room. He banged on the door again and demanded for her to open it.
She bluntly told him where to go. Suddenly, the first shots were fired. Mom screamed. I looked around the corner to see Mom crouched behind one of
the kitchen doors. She had a gun in her shaky hand.
“You’ll never leave me!” my father yelled. He fired five consecutive shots through the front picture window and into the adjacent wall.
I turned back around the corner and tried to ease my breath, as if the littlest sigh would give away my position. “Please, God,” I prayed. “Please get us
out of this.” I looked around the door and Mom motioned for me to get away. I jumped across the hall and into my parent’s bedroom. Since I had a
better look at the living room, I looked one more time to see if I could see my father.
“You can’t do this!” he screamed before jumping through that front window. Glass exploded through the air and crashed to the floor, crackling into
smaller pieces. My father opened fire. Some of the shots came into the hallway and into the wall near me.
When the shooting stopped, Mom reached over the love seat and fired shots of her own. The house quickly filled with the smell of gun smoke. The
last glimpse I saw of my father was of him crawling through the far kitchen door. He would easily slip through the kitchen and come up behind my
mom. And then he would have free access to me and my brothers.
I listened for my father’s position, but only heard the subtle ringing in my ears. A faint light from the street gave every piece of furniture a dark and
mysterious presence. I tried to find Mom to get her attention, but I couldn’t find her. Suddenly, from somewhere in the kitchen, I heard the snapping of
bullets into a pistol. I saw my mom quickly rise from the darkness and rush back to me. I saw the anger in her eyes. After being hit and slapped for
the last sixteen years, their relationship came down to this – a shootout in our house. It was winner take all, with our lives and futures hanging in the
balance. I hoped the neighbors called the police, but the cops would be too late; the game would be over and there would only be one winner.
“Get out the window,” Mom whispered.
“What?”
“He’ll be heading this way. Get out and get to safety.”
I just stared at the far window. I couldn’t run and leave everyone else to be killed.
The break was over. Dad opened fire. We lay flat on the ground. I prayed one of the bullets didn’t find its way through the wall. I fought to keep the
tears from my eyes. I wasn’t scared of the pain a bullet might cause. I was scared for my mom and brothers.
“I’m gonna kill you,” my father yelled. “You’re not leaving me. Tonight, I’m going to kill all of you!”
An anger much deeper than I ever felt for my father rose within me. Mom made her way to the doorway and stuck her head and arms out the door and
fired. Mom would fight until the last bullet had been fired. She always blamed herself for the way our lives had turned out. She must have often
thought of leaving him, but this was exactly why she would not.
The firing stopped. “Did you hit him?” I asked, looking up and allowing myself a sigh.
“No. I think he jumped into the boys’ room.”
I gasped.
“What?”
“That’s where they’re hiding.”
Book description of YA novel Far from the Peaceful Shore:
After surviving a night where her father attempts to murder her and her family, Lilly Simmons tries to get her life back on track. But when her father
escapes from prison, the family must get out of town as quickly as possible. On the run and watching every shadow, Lilly has to be strong for her
family, all the while questioning if God really loves her.
About the Author:
Sean Slagle is a teacher and writer from Indiana. He has been published in drama, poetry, non-fiction, and fiction. He teaches high school English
and is an adjunct professor at Indiana Wesleyan University.
I knew I should stay away and keep my brothers away, but I had to get to Dana. With any luck, or better yet - the Lord’s help, I would see Dana along
the way and we could avoid the house. But then I thought about my mom. Did she have any idea what was going on? Why had she served him
divorce papers, especially after all of this time? There were too many questions and I knew they wouldn’t be answered that night.
There was no sign of Dana or the boy. They probably were making out somewhere along one of the alleys. When we got closer to the house, I saw
mom’s car in the driveway. There were no other cars around and everything seemed to be quiet. I thought that maybe Tommy was just drunk and
making up lies to upset me. I scanned the yard before pulling to a complete stop and letting the boys out.
Inside the house, I found mom packing the suitcases. “For heaven’s sake,” she said when we walked through the door, “why are you back so soon?”
“Hank got in a fight.”
Mom shook her head. “You’ve got to get them out of here now.” There was a crash outside and Mom quickly locked the door. “Oh, dear Jesus,” she
started praying.
“What’s going on?”
“Your father is going to kill us. Get those boys to safety.”
Something banged against the screen door, as if someone kicked it. “Go away,” Mom screamed. “Let us leave.” She motioned for me to get out of
the room.
Grabbing both boys by the arm, I took them into my bedroom and to the closet. “What’s going on?” Dave asked.
“I’m scared,” Hank replied.
“Listen to me,” I said, trying not to cry. “Do exactly what I say and you’ll be fine. Lay flat on the floor. Do not stand up for anything. Do not come out
until me or Mom come to get you.”
They lay on the floor and I started to shut the door. Hank grabbed my arm. “What about you? Where are you going?”
“I have to get some help. Stay down and I’ll be back.” I closed the door and prayed it wouldn’t be the last time I saw my brothers alive. I could hear
Mom and my father yelling at each other - he on the porch and her in the living room. He banged on the door again and demanded for her to open it.
She bluntly told him where to go. Suddenly, the first shots were fired. Mom screamed. I looked around the corner to see Mom crouched behind one of
the kitchen doors. She had a gun in her shaky hand.
“You’ll never leave me!” my father yelled. He fired five consecutive shots through the front picture window and into the adjacent wall.
I turned back around the corner and tried to ease my breath, as if the littlest sigh would give away my position. “Please, God,” I prayed. “Please get us
out of this.” I looked around the door and Mom motioned for me to get away. I jumped across the hall and into my parent’s bedroom. Since I had a
better look at the living room, I looked one more time to see if I could see my father.
“You can’t do this!” he screamed before jumping through that front window. Glass exploded through the air and crashed to the floor, crackling into
smaller pieces. My father opened fire. Some of the shots came into the hallway and into the wall near me.
When the shooting stopped, Mom reached over the love seat and fired shots of her own. The house quickly filled with the smell of gun smoke. The
last glimpse I saw of my father was of him crawling through the far kitchen door. He would easily slip through the kitchen and come up behind my
mom. And then he would have free access to me and my brothers.
I listened for my father’s position, but only heard the subtle ringing in my ears. A faint light from the street gave every piece of furniture a dark and
mysterious presence. I tried to find Mom to get her attention, but I couldn’t find her. Suddenly, from somewhere in the kitchen, I heard the snapping of
bullets into a pistol. I saw my mom quickly rise from the darkness and rush back to me. I saw the anger in her eyes. After being hit and slapped for
the last sixteen years, their relationship came down to this – a shootout in our house. It was winner take all, with our lives and futures hanging in the
balance. I hoped the neighbors called the police, but the cops would be too late; the game would be over and there would only be one winner.
“Get out the window,” Mom whispered.
“What?”
“He’ll be heading this way. Get out and get to safety.”
I just stared at the far window. I couldn’t run and leave everyone else to be killed.
The break was over. Dad opened fire. We lay flat on the ground. I prayed one of the bullets didn’t find its way through the wall. I fought to keep the
tears from my eyes. I wasn’t scared of the pain a bullet might cause. I was scared for my mom and brothers.
“I’m gonna kill you,” my father yelled. “You’re not leaving me. Tonight, I’m going to kill all of you!”
An anger much deeper than I ever felt for my father rose within me. Mom made her way to the doorway and stuck her head and arms out the door and
fired. Mom would fight until the last bullet had been fired. She always blamed herself for the way our lives had turned out. She must have often
thought of leaving him, but this was exactly why she would not.
The firing stopped. “Did you hit him?” I asked, looking up and allowing myself a sigh.
“No. I think he jumped into the boys’ room.”
I gasped.
“What?”
“That’s where they’re hiding.”
Book description of YA novel Far from the Peaceful Shore:
After surviving a night where her father attempts to murder her and her family, Lilly Simmons tries to get her life back on track. But when her father
escapes from prison, the family must get out of town as quickly as possible. On the run and watching every shadow, Lilly has to be strong for her
family, all the while questioning if God really loves her.
About the Author:
Sean Slagle is a teacher and writer from Indiana. He has been published in drama, poetry, non-fiction, and fiction. He teaches high school English
and is an adjunct professor at Indiana Wesleyan University.
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TO: Robin Falls