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Excerpt or Work-in-Progress

Art by Mj Gillot

The Triumph of Deborah

Eva Etzioni-Halevy

CHAPTER ONE

Two women were standing on high places, shielding their eyes from the blazing sun with their hands, peering into the

distance

in search of messengers from the battlefield. Each knew that her life depended on the outcome of the battle;

but their lives

depended on opposite results.

* * *

On the rooftop of the royal castle in Hazor, in the north of the land of Canaan, stood the youngest daughter of King Jabin,

the mightiest of all the kings of Canaan. Asherah, an arrestingly beautiful young woman seventeen years of age, had long

straight hair the color of ripe wheat. Her large eyes, slightly tilted at the corners, were a blue-green color and endowed with

the sparkle of precious stones. The skin of her face and body was the shade of pure white milk, with pink roses of Sharon

gracing her cheeks. . . Because of Asherah’s rare colors, her delicate small nose and her finely chiseled mouth, she was

renowned for her beauty in

her father’s kingdom.

The princess was the new wife of the chief commander of the army, Sisra. Their marriage had barely been consummated when he had been

compelled to interrupt their brief spell of love and passion and lead her father’s army into war against the Israelites. Now, four days later, she was

anxiously awaiting news of him. Yesterday a torrential rain had battered the castle, but now the sky had cleared. She stood with her windblown hair

swirling about her like a cloud, braving the relentless autumn sun that was scorching her light skin . . .

Her eyes were moist with the strain of her effort to ascertain whether these riders, still at a fair distance from the castle, were those she had been

waiting for. Her heart was thudding as wildly as the approaching horses’ hoof beats, in anticipation and fear.

Before climbing up onto the rooftop she had bowed down to the goddess Asherah, the goddess of passion and fertility, for whom she had been

named . . . Yet the prayer had not laid to rest her fear of defeat, which could spell death not only for Sisra, but for herself and her family. For if the

Canaanite army had been destroyed, and was no longer able to protect them the Israelites would soon conquer the town of Hazor and overrun the

castle. It was well known that they were a brutal, murderous lot. They would show no mercy toward their enemies, not even toward women, no matter

how delicately nurtured they were. If they came charging in, her fate would be sealed. It would be death by the sword; or even worse: rape, capture

and slavery.

* * *

Some way to the south, on the top of Mount Tabor in the heart of the land of Israel, another woman stood: the Israelite prophetess and judge,

Deborah. Unlike the Canaanite king’s daughter, she was not a young bride, but a mature thirty-five-year-old woman. One who had been married to

her husband, Lapidoth, for sixteen years before, disregarding their many years of happiness together, he had sent her away.

Unlike Asherah, she was not beautiful, but overpoweringly magnificent: unusually tall, her face expressive, her body voluptuous, her raven-black eyes

compelling. Her hair burst forth from her head in riotous black curls, with just a hint of reddish highlights in them. Because her curls were wild and

easily tangled, she wore her hair shorter than Asherah. Yet, at this moment, there were marked similarities between her and the Canaanite beauty.

Deborah’s hair, too, was blown by the wind, and her eyes were strained from staring into the distance . . . Like Asherah, Deborah was wondering

whether the men she saw riding toward her were the bearers of tidings from the battlefield.

Deborah, too, was torn between hope and fear. She had long been blessed with an unfathomable closeness to the Lord, the God of Israel . . . But

during the last few days she had sensed that his very holiness had put him out of reach of her prayers. Although she would never have admitted this

to anyone, her heart, too, was pounding at a mad pace in a hell of uncertainty.

She was the one who had dispatched the Israelite sword bearers to war against King Jabin’s army. She was responsible for the lives of the young men

she had sent out, and for the life of the young commander Barak, who was leading them at her behest. An Israelite defeat would spell death for them

and for her. Their commander, Sisra, who had seen her before and hated her on sight, would easily recognize her. She expected no mercy at his

hands. She could flee, but it would be dishonorable for her to abandon her warriors. She would remain where she was to meet her fate. After that,

Sisra would follow up his feat by devastating the entire land of Israel and destroying its people, and so also her own sons and family. . .

The favorable outcome she fervently prayed for would compel her to confront Barak, who would expect the reward he had insisted on in return for

carrying out her orders to become commander of the army. She had always been unfailingly faithful to the man who had been her husband for so

many years. Even now that he had divorced her on an unfathomable whim, she was still bound to him with the bonds of a love that had not waned. But

in the days that had passed since then, she had relegated it to the nether regions of her soul, as she gradually came to harbor a lust for Barak that

was as unexpected as it was compelling. Now, if he returned safely and victoriously, it would be difficult for her to turn him back from his design. Nor

did she any longer wish to do so.

Eva Etzioni-Halevy writes about herself:
"I lived most of my life in Israel, but spent two lengthy stretches of time in other countries, one in the U.S. and one in Australia. Eventually, some fifteen
years ago, I decided to return to Israel to seek my roots there.

I wrote many books and articles in political Sociology, both in English and in Hebrew. Following a lengthy academic career in various universities, I was
appointed Professor of Sociology at Bar-Ilan University, where I am now Professor emeritus."

Except form the novel “Bayler Daniels” by Stuart A. Lawrence

Bayler started his day as he had done since he was ten years old; more than forty years ago. His old leather snake boots, once brown, came up just

below his knees. Now covered to the top of the heel with grey mud; the boots smelled of dead shellfish amidst the silt that covered the bottom of the

run-off and seemed to stick to anything. He kept his grey coveralls tucked into his boots to keep them from getting wet, and around his waste, a blue

canvas belt from his stint in the Navy.

The belt was three inches wide and still fit him as it did when he was eighteen years old. A weathered leather sheath hung down from the belt holding

the skinning knife his grandpa had given him on his twelfth birthday. “It was sharper than a ole woman’s tongue” his Grandpa, Tyler Daniels, used to

say, and it was fourteen inches long from the hilt to the point. It had a well-worn tongue-oiled handle, pressed together with brass rivets. His grandpa

had made the knife over 60 years ago. Bayler used the knife often and could work it as if it was part of his hand. Next to it was a pouch his wife,

Whynetta, had made from Canvas for his Needle-Nosed wire cutters; also from his time in the service. He carried the pliers’ in case something needed

to be cut off the line that he “didn’t want to mess with”.

Real Fine day to be out here, Bayler thought, as he paddled his way through the shallow water, on what used to be his dad’s eighteen foot Jon boat. It

was olive colored at one time, with wide beam, a tunnel hull and ran a shallow draft. It had a fifty-five horsepower Evenrude with a pull-start on the

back that his dad had purchased back in the early sixties. The out-board motor still ran like it had when it was new, not that Bayler never had to work

on it, after all it was a motor and motors break. However, it had proven to be a good one.

The boat was better than fifty years old, scratched and weathered, and it smelled of fish, bait, mud and sweat. It was not that Bayler did not keep it

clean; his dad Payton Daniels had taught him better than that. But it was a fishing boat and the years of fishing had embedded the scent in, and now

was a part of it. Payton always-seemed awful formal, especially for a boy growing up in the glades, so his kin-folks nicknamed him Dobber and the

name just stuck. Dobber taught his son everything Bayler’s Grand father Tyler had taught Dobber, and a few things Dobber had learned along the

way.

Dobber picked up the boat when it was just three of four years old. It was and old Star-Craft Jon boat made especially for a commercial shrimper. After

he traded for it; he fixed up some fiberglass fish boxes and covered the center of the boat with some three quarter inch marine plywood. He laid it

across the ribs and screwed it down so as not to have any stumbling points. The boat had deep gunnels and a full deck for and aft and gunwale to

gunwale and 4 inches down from the rail. The boat was made of heavy aluminum and felt as if it could handle a hurricane.

When Bayer got back from his stint the Navy, his dad sold him the boat and went to work for a fertilizer company over in the town of Immokalee, thirty-

five miles from Copeland. It was good to get back to the fishing and trapping that Bayler had always known, and he returned easily back to life in the

glades.

Bayler continued to work his way down the tributary off Chokoloske bay, checking his trotlines, taking the meat fish and putting them on the portside

box on ice, the ladyfish and salt-cat on the starboard side for the fertilizer company. He then checked the barb on the hook. If it was dull, he would

sharpen it or if it was bad, he’d replace the hook, and re-bait it with fresh clam, or a fiddler crab. Bayler would then toss out the line away from the

boat

and let it settle back in place.

In the back of his boat sat Shell Cracker, a one hundred and ten lbs half-blood German Sheppard, marsh wise and alert to everything Bayler was

doing, keeping an eye out for anything that seemed amiss. Shellie had been coming with Bayler since he found him wandering on the road between

Copeland and Sweet water. Shellie was only a pup then and nothing but skin-an-bones when Bayler first saw him, eating a blue crab he had caught in

the shallow tide pools along the trail.

The pup pawed at the crab until finally pulling it up on the bank. Once he had it on dry ground, he stepped on its claw with one paw and grab the

other

claw in his teeth crushing the claw; then he’d grab the other claw and do like wise. When the claws were out of the way, he would break open

the shell

and eat the insides. His muzzle had signs he had been on the loosing end of the claws before, so his education had a price. Bayler named

him Shell-

Cracker because of the way he ate the crab. “If that ain’t the dangest thing you ever saw; never seen a dog do that before” Bayler

pondered aloud to

himself.. Shellie quickly gained weight on dog food and table scraps and became stronger, but he never broke himself of eating

crabs. he seemed to

pick up quick on everything Bayler was doing, and seldom did Bayler have to say anything to him, he just seem to know.

Bayler was a tall man six foot two inches with broad shoulders, well seasoned by hard work in the Glades’ and carried himself well. His hands were

hard, calloused, and brown with darker brown patches from hard work in the sun, and well-tanned neck above his shirt line, with a dark tanned “V”

down the front of his chest, around his neck and face. His hair he kept short and clean-shaven with the exception of his moustache that he had since

his momma let him grow one. He wore an old Navy ball cap with “USS REEVES CG-24” embroidered on the front; he’d had since his Honorable

discharge.

Bayler lived his life clean and uncomplicated. He preferred strait talk without un-necessary words and meaningless conversation. If he had something

to say, it was said and often with no platitudes. When Bayler spoke, he had no need of gestures, it was not hard to understand his words, and he

figured that there was no need of hand waving or arm movement to get what he had to say, said. He believed the Bible, and his mannerisms and

speech gave no cause for people to think any different. He didn’t consider himself religious, nor did he follow any Church doctrines requiring certain

behavior, or practices, God is, God said, so it was.

He carried his family to church on Sunday, and Wednesday night prayer meeting, and read his Bible every night for an hour. Bayler still wore the

same size clothes he did in the Navy and kept in good shape. He did not work out at any Gym; he just worked out at life, as his stature made it easy to

see. Bayler could lift one hundred pound pale of fish in is left hand and one in his right and walk un-interrupted from the back of his truck to the fish

scales at the fertilizer plant with out pausing for a rest.

Bayler was not afraid of much in the Glades’ and he figured he could handle anything that came up. The marsh was full of gators and such, but he

respected the Glades’ and the balance of life. The gators wouldn’t be getting to close unless they became curious because they didn’t like humans.

Besides he was taught to keep a good sharp axe in the boat, at an early age, “casein’ a gator needed tendin’ too” his dad used to say or he was lucky

enough to come up on some palm heart cabbage.

Things had changed a lot from when his dad and grandpa were trapping out here. “Used to be Shellie, anything you could trap, skin or filet was fair

for

the taking.” He said hooking the float for the trot line. “Now got have a license for fishin, crabbin, huntin’ or crappin’; purtneer everythin,” he smiled

Shellie. Baylor pulled up the first hook on his trotline and took off a nice size mango snapper. He put on another piece of clam and tossed the line

back out and continued working his way down the line. Bayler looked over at Shellie, “What’ do you think boy?” Shellie glanced at him as if he

understood everything Bayler said. Bayler smiled and turned his thought s back again to his work.

Just then, Shellie started growling at some movement in the marsh. “What’s wrong boy” Bayler said as he looked in the direction Shellie was facing.

watched the marsh grass move and spread apart as what ever it was, moved further to the west of them. Shellie didn’t take his eyes off the

movement,

what ever it was….it was big, and Shellie did not like it.

Excerpt from Calamity Girl - The Promotion

by Linda Randall

Chapter One

I looked at my computer screen -- Rachel’s Blog – The Calamity Girl on Word Press. What should I write about today? Should it be Twilight nail styles,

organic beauty products, America’s Next Top Model?

Maybe I should do a piece on dating and relationships? I am single and with no prospects on the horizon, it might depress me. It’s crazy; I am a slim,

attractive, fashionable executive with stylish cropped red hair and sky blue eyes with long eyelashes.

I love my hairdresser, she doesn’t mind that I like to change the color of my hair every couple of months. My natural hair color is dirty blonde but I get

tired of the same old thing, so when the season’s change my hair does too. Even though I have a good sense of humor, I can be serious and studious

when it’s called for. Usually I’ll be that way at work. I am a writer and lately things have been quite tense for me on the job.

David our CEO at GDS - Global Data Services is a bit of a serious type of guy. He hardly ever cracks a smile. He is handsome though, good eye

candy for a single girl like me. At least work isn’t too boring. There is never a dull moment there. A fast paced job was what the doctor ordered after

my father passed away. I needed something to change my life and GDS was the answer.

It would be my first real job after leaving University. I had a Business and Marketing Degree under my belt, and now I was going to make something of

myself. At the moment I write articles for the monthly business letter for all of our clients.

In the future I hope to be a travel journalist. The company I work for creates customer service - computer database programs -for all types of

companies. Sure I fill out a form and stuff it into a suggestion box at work, but I never hear anything about it. I wonder if anyone reads my suggestions.

No one has ever said thank you Rachel Tornquist for your lovely ideas.

No one seems to take any of my ideas seriously. And the company should because I could help them make a lot of money. Lately David’s attitude was

becoming unbearable. I was debating if I should stick it out with this job, or move on to greener pastures. Enough about that though, I’m not at work so

I can forget about it for now. God knows I need to have a good sense of humor or I’d be miserable all the time. I wonder how many people could

survive what I’ve been through and live to tell about it. My father said that I am like a cat with nine lives. With all the mishaps I have it’s a wonder that I

am still alive and kicking.

My father was a wonderful man. I miss him so much. It’s been three years since he died. I really start to miss him when someone mentions losing their

father. I popped open my laptop and began to type.

Dear Readers; Today I plan to share with you a recent visit to the flea market. My weekly ritual on Sunday’s is to go to a different flea market, whether

it is in the city of Toronto, Ontario, Canada where I live now or in a city nearby.

I was walking around the flea market in the City of Mississauga when I spotted a tiny pair of leather shoes with the toes curled up on the ends. They

look exactly like the ones that the Prince and the Genie wear in the Disney movie called Aladdin. I start to imagine what my life would be like if I could

hop on a flying carpet, and have a genie to grant my every wish. I gave a lot of thought to what I might wish for. I think I’d wish to see something new

and unusual, titillating to the eye. Maybe the depths of the ocean where there is sea life that has never been discovered. It would be something

humanly impossible to do… a request only a genie could fulfill. Or maybe I would choose to go into outer space and discover alien life forms. All of this

crossed my mind when I saw those curly toed shoes; I felt like an alien in a different world. My eyes were fixed on the red and gold pair. I noticed there

was hardly any room for one’s toes. The Indian men and women who wear these shoes must have very small, slender feet.

The East Indian lady was not amused when I took a pair of the adorable little baby shoes, put them on my fingers, and pretended to dance around in

them – like a little puppet. I hadn’t noticed her watching me until I turned around and then, of course, it was too late. The dance had already begun. I

turned red with embarrassment and stopped what I was doing.

I quietly said, “Pretty shoes … I did not realize that people really wear these.”

Her stony stare made me uncomfortable. I bowed my head in shame and walked away as quickly as possible. I could feel her gaze burning into the

back of my neck. I felt stupid about the whole encounter.

TANGLED

Around five that evening, Brian picked Shannon up at her godmother’s house. When Shan walked out the door, he literally

stopped short in his stride. He stared at her for what seemed like an eternity. What can you say to one of the most beautiful

women in the world? If he’d never noticed her beauty before, he certainly did now. She was gorgeous! Her black hair had what

seemed to be endless swoops and curls that descended into a long wave of a ponytail that hung over one shoulder. It

shimmered with the sunlight. The chandelier earrings hung long and nearly touched her shoulder. Her dressed seemed to

have been tailor made for her. Her silver sandals accentuated the dress and her lovely feet perfectly. Hell, she seemed almost

too perfect, like she was fabricated by GOD himself for a day like today.

Brian wasn’t sure what his face was saying, but Shannon looked at him and suddenly began to smile. “Are you okay, baby?”

“My God, you are an illustrious woman! I must be the luckiest man alive.”

Shannon’s smile got bigger. “You aren’t half bad yourself, Poppi.”

“Stop smiling at me or we won’t make it to the ball.”

“Well, I need both of yall to smile toward me so I can get some pictures.” Evelyn interrupted their obvious admiration of each other.

Brian put his arms around Shannon and looked into her eyes. He could just barely hear Evelyn telling him to look at the camera. There was

something

in her eyes that day, something he’d never seen before, something promising, something that made him believe they had a future

together, something

that made him want to spend the rest of his life looking in her eyes. “Shannon Alicia Wilks, would you please be my wife?”

Damn, he hadn’t intended to say that, at least not at that moment and in that way! She looked shocked. She almost looked like she might say no. Why

wouldn’t she close her mouth, or maybe leave it open to say something? Say something, Alicia. Please, just say something!

Brian looked so handsome in his black suit with white and silver accessories. Shan didn’t know he could clean up like that, though with a body like his,

he could probably get away with almost anything. She couldn’t help but stare at him.

Brian seemed to be almost comatose in his slow, methodical assessment of her. It was unnerving in some ways, but the way his eyes glossed over let

her know that she’d knocked him off his feet.

When he put his arms around her, Shannon could have melted. She loved how he held her. His big arms and big frame made her feel secure. She

actually wished she could hide in his arms for the rest of her life. She imagined that his arms weren’t even a percentage of what it’d feel like to lie in

God’s arms. Hugs were a big deal for her. While she was lost in thought, Brian said something that made her knees knock together for a thousand

reasons. Had he really just asked her to be his wife?

She wanted to say a million things to him and it seemed they might all come out at once, so she was silent for a moment. Shan looked in his eyes. She

could tell there was this apprehension there, maybe that she would reject him. Just looking in his eyes, that hint of sadness and hint of hope that

mixed together, it all made her say something she wasn’t sure she would say until that moment.

“Brian, I’d love to be your wife.”

Brian grabbed Shan and picked her up, kissed her on her lips, cheeks, forehead and then again on the lips. Everyone was laughing and everyone

was happy for that moment.

From chapter 2 of TANGLED

Lacresha N. Hayes, Publisher, Author, Grantwriter

SALA, MORE THAN A SURVIVOR
by
Marsha Casper Cook

IN THE BEGINNING

I was ten years old when the Germans separated my family. It happened so quickly we didn’t even get to say goodbye. We
lived in Sosnowicz, Poland, and all we were told was the Germans needed workers. There were no choices. When the
Germans came to get you, you went. If you didn’t go, you were killed. That was the beginning of the end.

I never dreamt that I’d never see my family again. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. My parents were going to grow old
together. We were going to share our lives together, the good times, the bad times and everything in between. Then in a
flash, everything changed.

The Germans took my family away from me, one by one. I never quite understood why, but they told me it was because we
were Jewish. I was taught not to question, so I didn’t.

Then the day came, the final separation. I had gone out to play for a short while but when I returned, I came home to an apartment that had been
sealed off and I wasn’t allowed in.

I never did see the inside of that apartment again, but I can still remember the joy we shared every evening at dinnertime. We sang songs and told
jokes. Sometimes we didn’t sing that well or tell terribly funny jokes, but we had each other. That was the feeling I liked best.

Salucia was my birth name but everyone called me Sala, the name I prefer.

I was born on a snowy, cold Christmas day. My father, Simon, was a butcher and my mother, Eve, was a wonderful homemaker. I was one of eight
children three girls and five boys – Karl, Phillip, David, Kamek, Hanusz, Toby and Dora. Dora was the light of my life, and as the years passed she
was the one who got me through it all. Without her, I never would have survived. She was my lucky penny.

THE LONELINESS

Long ago, I learned never to take anything for granted. That’s how I got through the hard parts, especially the loneliness. At the very beginning, they
told us the work camps were just places to work, nothing more. When Dora left, she promised she would write, and she did just enough to let us know
she was alive. When her letters came, mother was so happy and so was everyone else. We took turns reading the letters over and over again.
Usually on those days, dinner was special and mother didn’t seem as angry. But then there was the next, and there were no letters. Those were the
bad days. The very, very bad days.

As the days passed, I missed Dora so much more than I thought I would. There was nothing very different about our relationship. We were sisters. We
fought a little, yelled a bit and sometimes we even had fistfights. We were rather ordinary, so I guess it was normal to miss even those fights. And I did.

We lived in a very small apartment, which even in the best of circumstances made for some pretty rough times. But all and all, I think we all started to
miss the squabbles and the “he said this,” and “she said that” after Karl, Phillip and David left for the work camps.

Our family was getting smaller, and day by day, my mother and father were growing older. They didn’t say much, and maybe that was part of the
problem. The Gestapo came, they took and we suffered, but we didn’t talk about it.

Every night at the dinner table, our conversation was less and less. In fact, what used to be such a special time of the day became my least favorite.
Sometimes I pretended to have a stomachache, just so I wouldn’t have to sit there and look at the empty chairs.

Late at night, I used to lay awake and think about the good times. There was one particular evening that was right up there with the best of the
memorable times. It was Chanukah.

Mother had just brought the last batch of latkes to the table. Phillip looked at David, Dora looked at me and we all looked at Karl, hoping he would get
the message. In a minute or two, we knew our message had been well received. Karl walked over to the gramophone and looked at Mother. She could
read his mind as well as any one of us. She nodded to Karl and he turned on the music. One by one, we all got up to dance and sing, all except
Father. He just watched.

Then, as always, Mother grabbed his hand and tried to get him up to dance. Usually he said no, but not that night. That night he danced. I watched
Mother and Father holding each other tightly as they danced, hoping someday to have someone love me the way my father loved my mother.

I overheard my father as he whispered to my mother, “Eva my dear, we may never be rich but look ... look at our children. This is what we posses. No
man could ever want more.”

The next night, the Gestapo came. That was only the first visit. There would be many others to follow, as well as reminders of what each day might
bring. It was the constant fear of the visits that upset my father the most, especially the night before Dora left for the work camp.

I can still feel the pain as I remind myself of Dora’s last night at home. My family thought I was sleeping, but after overhearing their conversation, I didn’
t sleep a wink.

My father watched as Dora packed a small bag. “When you come back my child, I will not be here,” he said. “So you go tomorrow and remember to do
whatever you have to to stay alive. Never give up what you believe in. Never.”

excerpt from Chapter Eleven of WIP - Murder is a Primary Color

Chapter 11 - CryoLab

The small building on the far corner of Law Enforcement HQ campus held only a few offices and a receptionist.

James flashed his badge at the glaze eyed young receptionist, she pushed a button and a panel slid open before them. "Thumb or forefinger, either

one." James and then Jadeah touched the panel next to a numbered visitor's badge and pulled it away and clipped it on. To the right of the reception

desk was a silver door. James touched the panel and the door slid open. Once inside, all the buttons were sub level. James pressed S-10 and said,

"Hang on".

Jadeah's stomach stayed on the ground floor. She didn't think hanging on would have helped.

The doors slid open onto a gleaming white corridor that stretched straight ahead and left and right. They stepped out onto an equally gleaming floor.

The air was chill, but that could not fully account for the icy fingers that slowly worked their way up Jade's back. She hesitated and swayed a moment

as James caught her arm asking, “Are you okay; what's wrong?”

She shook her head to steady herself and evaluate what it was she was sensing. "I don't usually feel the cold. This is something else." she said to no

one in particular, more perhaps to hear her own very live voice in these halls of death.

She shook her head again. "There's so much trauma here, so much input, and....James, they're not all dead."

"Quite right!" a voice behind them boomed and they nearly left their shoes behind as they turned still startled stares to face the voice behind them.

An unlikely source for such a booming voice. A small portly man, with cherubic smile, blowing on too hot coffee in a mug that read, 'Freeze - Hold that

thought!'. He took a large bite from the sweet smelling confection in his other hand, and around chews, he looked over the old-style spectacles on his

nose and said, "You're expected Detective Jeffries. And my dear psi friend, you are right. They are not all dead. Follow me, Ill give you the grand tour

and explain."

Jade could hardly suppress a smile, as she and James fell in beside the small rotund figure, who set them a surprisingly quick pace, as he alternately

blew on his coffee and took bites from his sweet.

"The corridor to the left contains our luxury accommodations. People with money who could not face death and so postponed it."

"Postponed?" Jadeah queried.

"Of course, dear esper-girl. There's no guarantee they'll survive the thaw, or that we'll ever have a cure for what ailed them, and we're running out of

room. Do we save them indefinitely and turn people away? Do we terminate those who have been here 20 years? Do we wake them and see if they

live and ask them if they want to continue to wait? If so, do we negotiate a new price? You see the dilemma, don't you. What to do, what to do? And

who will make the decision? Not me, not me. That's just not in the job description. It just isn't."

Perle Champion

Love Bites

By Margie Church

Jui Fabrice rose early and left her hotel to take a cab into the Oldtown Heidelberg. She planned to lose herself there, walking the cobblestone streets

of the Oldtown, even if just for the day. The bright morning sun inspired her to stick her nose into most every shop on the Hauptstrasse along the

Neckar River. The narrow street flowed to the Church of the Holy Ghost and when the church’s steeple bell sounded the hour, Jui smiled, happy to

know plenty of Saturday lay ahead of her.

With a few purchases in hand, Jui sat in one of the outdoor cafes for lunch. She tossed her long, black hair over her shoulder. Tendrils curled around

her face and neck under the warm, late summer sun making her wish she’d put it up. She found a shaded table and chose a seat with her back to the

wall so she could enjoy the colorful scenery. The hem of her skirt ruffled in the breeze, giving life to the bold, puce-colored orchids woven into the

white fabric. Jui fluttered her wide-necked, emerald-green, peasant blouse to cool off a bit and then rested her chin on her hands, waiting for a waiter

to appear.

A few tables away, a handsome man sitting with two beautiful women caught her attention. His companions flirted with him, rubbing their generous

curves against him, and nibbling his neck like pastry. The olive-skinned, tawny-haired man took it all in, like Lord and Master.

Jui gazed over the top of her sunglasses at their naughty escapades. Get a room, will ya?

A waitress brought Jui the lunch menu and a glass of water and then left. While she looked at the choices, the low sounds of the stranger’s voice kept

distracting her and Jui couldn’t help surveying them from behind her bound menu and dark glasses. Jui’s breath caught in her throat when one of the

vixens kissed the stranger.

He returned her kiss with similar boldness, cupping the woman’s head in his large hand. Their jaws flexed while they kissed, hinting at the passion

behind it.

A shot of desire ran through Jui’s body. She couldn’t drag her eyes away from the erotic scene.

The man ran his long fingers down the woman’s slender arm and up her side. He didn’t even try hiding the intimate contact he made with her breast at

the end of his journey.

Jui’s words stuttered in her brain. Holy shit. His other companion leaned against his shoulder, her luscious lips pouting and Jui wondered where her

hands were.

The waitress interrupted her lustful thoughts with a request to take her order.

Jui felt her face turn crimson, realizing she hadn’t even read the menu.

Glancing over her shoulder toward the trio, the waitress said in perfect English, “He’s a dangerous one. Stay away from him.”

For a second Jui considered lying, but the man had already garnered her interest and she asked, “Who is he?”

“His name is Wade Kairos. He’s a wealthy playboy—as you can see.”

Jui heard a tenor of disappointment in the waitress’ voice. “Does he live in Heidelberg?” she ventured, wondering why she even cared.

“I have no idea,” the waitress replied. “I see him occasionally during the summer months. I’m sure he spends his winters someplace much warmer.”

She wagged her head back toward the threesome. “It’s suiting.”

“What is?”

“His name. Wade means ‘traveler,’ Kairos is Greek for ‘opportune moment’ and he takes advantage of every opportunity.” The waitress gave Jui a

meaningful glare.

“Well the three of them ought to get a room,” Jui observed prudishly.

The waitress chuckled. “He always brings playmates. You should come back in the evening…”

Jui changed the subject by placing her lunch order and then settled against her chair, determined not to play Peeping Tom any longer. However, she

felt eyes on her and soon caved into the natural desire to look. His eyes are hazel. Even at a distance Jui could see the flecks of yellow and green.

His

gaze riveted hers; she felt compelled to stare back at him regardless of whether she wanted to. She bit her lower lip as she gawked at his chiseled

features. A shiver as soft as a caress ran through her and she dragged her eyes away, only to hear his deep baritone laugh. Is he laughing at me?

She bought herself a spine and met his gaze again.

A seductive smile curled his lips to show even, white teeth. The handsome stranger named Wade Kairos tipped his head toward her. His full lips

parted more as he smiled at her.

Jui felt a rush of emotions, cloaked in confusion. Is he flirting with me?

Wade nodded again.

Jui looked down, flustered at the uncanny coincidence that he nodded just after she asked herself the question. His laughter floated above the other

café voices, mixed with the chirping birds, landed on her ears, and whispered into her soul. She felt warmer, connected somehow to the handsome

stranger with the mysterious eyes and compelling smile. Holy crap, the romantic lore of the city and the castle are getting to me. She removed her

dark glasses and studied the illustrious Mr. Kairos, who seemed to enjoy her attention as though he were sitting next to her. Did he just say, join me?

Her brows furrowed, wondering about this odd, romantic connection she felt from a man she hadn’t even met. She looked away and stabbed into her

lunch.

While she ate, his voice and the soft laughter of his companions wafted to Jui’s ears. Her German wasn’t great and she only caught bits and pieces of

their conversation. She wished she could move away but decided she wouldn’t let him get the best of her. Digging into her schnitzel with renewed

zest,

she didn’t dare look up when she heard the metal chairs scrape on the patio stones.

“I’m Wade Kairos.”

excerpt from "No Tribe Of His Own," a literary fiction taking place in the Canary islands in 1342.

The harbor breeze blew my felt hat off my head, immediately rolling it down the edge of the quay before dropping it into the murky grey waters some

six feet below. No one seemed to find this the least unusual, though two or three on the deck of Sea Wind turned away with smiles on their leather

faces. I considered asking for help, then realized then I would not wish to wear the muck of these waters on my head. I regret its loss, as I’d

purchased it only a fortnight ago to match my dark blue cotehardie.

I called to the men to ask if I might come aboard then, and they casually invited me to cross the plank. The ship bobbed up and down, and the pier

likewise, though at differing moments. The plank itself also seemed to move forward and back, away and toward the pier. There was to be no easy

five paces in this crossing, but a jester’s dance of balance. My heavy bags provided much needed ballast. With some trepidation, I went quickly

across. A bony sailor came forward to greet me, his bare feet dark as horse dung, his soiled linen shirt tattered at mid-arm and bottom edge. His

scabby grey knees peeked through tears in his calf-length stained canvas trousers. With a quick hard nod of his mangy head he introduced himself

as Saul. I feared roaches would drop out of his rough brown hair, and took a step back. Squinty brown eyes were enfolded in a face full of lines,

aged ninety though he was likely less than four years my senior, perhaps thirty.

I introduced myself as Paul Palmer, avoided stepping any closer to him, and inquired about accommodations. Another nod, and Saul lifted his thin

spear of an arm to point silently to a door amidships. I noticed his ring finger was half-short. Looking at me with one rheumy eye, he grinned. A more

fearsome grin I have never seen. It was a foul cave of black and red gums, oozing yellow goo wherein three worn teeth sat, spaced apart, brown

knobs doomed to hell.

I retreated to the door, which proved to enter upon a steep staircase. At the bottom there were three doors, one ajar. Therein sat a man at a desk,

resting his grey haired head in his hands, eyes closed, lost in some worry, by the stillness of his slump. Instruments and charts were mounted on the

wall beside him, a porthole beside him revealing the underside of the pier.

I cleared my throat to let him know I was present. His startled grey eyes softened once he saw I was not one of the crew come with some problem.

But

he must have found me a somewhat strange sight, dressed in my heavy cloak on a summer day.

We introduced ourselves and confirmed our arrangements. His gravely voice betrayed no emotion over my arrival, which made me feel like cargo.

rose to unlock the door to my private chamber, and as he passed me, I held my breath against his sour miasma. Apparently he wore his clothes

until

they disintegrated, never seeing a bucket of water, much less soap. One could not tell if his grey shirt was once a color, nor what it might be

made of.

As he led me the few paces to the end door, a fat louse scuttled from his grey mange, down his bullish neck, and into the earth of his shirt.

shuddered that he might at some time offer to shake hands with me. Perhaps this alone was the cause of Prior Abraham’s dislike of the man. I can

endure this journey by merely avoiding him, I am sure.

Unlocking the door, he handed me the key, which I promptly put into my cotehardie pocket. It dropped through the hole I’d forgotten and came to rest

in the hem. With a quiet sigh, I left the door open and turned to bring my bags in. He warned me to lock up against the crew whenever I go topside,

and returned to his own chambers.

The room is tiny. A net hangs on the wall over the bed and I stuffed my cloak in immediately, desperately needing to be cooler. One bag I placed

against the wall on the floor beside my bed. There is no space to stow the second bag and still have room to step three paces to the door. I will use

as a pillow. Sitting on my bed, I am using a very small fold-down shelf on the opposite wall, just large enough for me to write in my journal. I must

admit I dread this part of my journey. I had no idea the captain and his crew were so crude, so uncivilized. I would like to abandon this plan and

contract with another boat. I do not think, however, there will be any refund from Captain Swathe. I shall not make friends here, and will have to focus

on the beauty I can find in sea and sky. Thank God the journey will take only five days.

I will do much better research before contracting my journey home to Britain.

This evening I went topside when I heard the sounds of activity. Men moved about, busy and intense, a few untying the dock ropes, others coiling

rope onto deck. The rest focused on raising three sails under the watchful eye of the captain. The crew is experienced and needed no instruction,

the ship moved out on its journey in a very short time.

The sun shone near the clear horizon and I enjoyed the cool breeze that filled our sails, teasing my sweat-plastered hair. I watched the shore recede,

and having no duties, remained topside the hour it took for land to become the edge of the sea. One of the sailors passed out cheese and dried beef

at sundown. The crew and I were given the same, and I found it rough fare. I don’t see why they have not stocked some finer foods for me, a paying

passenger.

On open waters the wind grew even stronger, and we rode a merry clip through gently bobbing waters. I stayed upwind of the crew as they gossiped,

their voices too loud. They seemed to be happy to be on the sea again, though I can’t imagine why. Living in the narrow confines of a few wooden

boards for weeks or months at a time seems to me akin to torture. Dark ale, of course, was continuously available, the Captain being particularly fond

of this commodity. The Captain kept his cup on a chain attached to a ring on his belt, I presume because he always wanted it handy. The men

tonight shared three cups among themselves. They offered a full cup to me, but I declined, being too much aware of their lack of cleanliness.

The wind died at sundown. The men drank into the dark hours, then went below. I lingered a bit longer on deck in the silence and vast deep dark,

the

moon and stars above lending the sea a silver cloak. No fish rose to disturb this sheen, and one could almost believe it lay firm as a floor. It was

the

first moment of profound peace I have experienced since childhood, and I look forward to ending each day in this manner, alone with the silent

power

of nature.

Susan Palmer

CHAPTER ONE

Me an’ Bombsie Lollie was draggin’ in from trollin’ the Fat Hen Mall. It’s really the Brown Partridge Mall, but the blinky bird they got painted up on the

main sign looked like a puffy layer gone cross-eyed with the egg effort, if you smell my direction. Bombsie’s real name was Bonnie, but since she was

the Latin bombshell type, me an’ the troops all called her Bombsie. It’s me that made the name, but she liked it, an’ it took on well with our marching

mates, so Bombsie it was. She was my Standby Babe, an’ I was her’s, hitched an’ stitched--gluteus to the maximus. That was us.

She was laughin’ like a sick twitchet who’d substituted doggy whiz for her drug sample at work, an’ passed, ‘cause the truth was she had a head full of

Crashcade, the latest snap ‘n sniff drug makin’ the rounds--a smooth lotta chems that slipped in like satin but, once in the main blood lines, sprouted

fishbarbs that dragged along the walls of the veins. It was like a pain high; you’ve gotta laugh or cry. Bombsie’s tough, so she giggled through it. She

had bones in her back all right.

She had a laugh jag goin’ from the snort, made even worse by this absolute darff who asked to kiss her hand. An’ she, bunny-brained, said ‘sure,’ but

instead he licked her palm, as if he was a lap dog, an’ he wouldn’t let go an’ he wouldn’t quit, so she hauled him from the bottom level of the mall, in

the glass elevator, up to the third floor, with him lappin’ away. Then he got on his knees, an’ she dragged the blip along the floor, an’ he started

howlin’ like a dog between his tonguey things. She was embarrassed, red-faced from gigglin’ an’ from all the exertion.

Finally, one of the Fat Hen Crowd Control Cops ambled over an’ conked the guy on his hairy bean, took him out cold an’ gave him to the MallMeds

who whizzed him off to a relief station. Uncalled for extreme! He was just doin’ the dumb, acting silly, but the BillyBoys always took the opportunity to

bang on you if they got a chance.

One of the Ready-Meddies rushed over to Bombsie an’ swabbed her palm down with some astringent that smelled rank enough to be a bomb

ingredient.

“

Wash your hands first chance you get,” he smarmed at her. “You don’t know where that tongue has been.”

So, she was hookin’ on that an’ sniggin’ up her nose, an’ I was bein’ patient ‘cause I understood how it was when you had a pharmaceutic event

working the biobod, having been there a time or two myself. Nevertheless, it blowed cold on a girl in a zippy, an’ I was ready for her to aggregate her

brain cells an’ see me with both eyes.

About that time we got to Mai Tai’s dormer--excuse me, attic apartment. Mai Tai was forever tryin’ to make me into a correct young lady. She don’t like

the slang none; though I think it’s just the slang me an’ my pals use. I mean, it ain’t like she’s a royal mum or a first lady. Mai Tai’s my Mam. No dad.

Well, I mean there was one. Obviously. I’m here, an’ Mai Tai’s got no clinking coins to purchase any petri dish pappose or a Dolly Baby, you know, a

cloned kid. There’s an old man somewhere. Actually any slop-bottomed, roll bellied, toothless old crank scab might have been the one. I never knew,

an’, if Mai Tai ever did, she’d forgot.

I had to bang on the door for like five minutes ‘cause Mai Tai always had to make sure there’s no shadow body with me ready to pounce on her once

she clacked back the latch an’ inched open the door.

One time that happened. One time!

I was fourteen an’ brought home a baggy boy from the Cineplex. What did I know? He was big with ironed up muscles, but he had a cute round face

an’ teddybear eyes an’ seemed nice, so when he hung back as I ratatapped, I figured he was bashful about meeting my Mam.

She done the anxious eyeball thing through the peephole but never seen him, so she opened up, an’ he slammed across me like an all-pro footballer,

knocked me flat, smacked her in the forehead with the door edge so hard she had a crease above one eye for two months.

Well! It was so unexpected. Like a Tazzy devil he made a mad whirl through all the rooms, found her purse, tore back out as I was propping up. Mai

Tai hadn’t even gotten her vision back. Bang, through the door! Stomped on my back with one big boot! Gone down the stairs.

They never caught him. Things like that never got no justice. Lucky for us he only wanted the money. He pitched away the purse in the main lobby

with the identity an’ bank cards an’ the medical authorizations, so he never worked her account. Piddling though it was, he coulda run it up, an’ even

though the insurance woulda covered it, the bank woulda dropped her an’, being a marginal mid-level occupational, she’d have had to scrimp for

months to clump up a $250 security advance to get some other bank to set her up an account.

Crackers! She hated me for weeks after that.

Extra cautious she’d been ever since, which left me in the hall supporting a flailing Bombsie who’s helping me bang away at Mai Tai’s steel-doored

sanctuary until the neighbors glared through the chain guard cracks of their own doors.

“Who’s with you?” Mam said, demandin’ an answer.

“It’s just me an’ Bombsie,” I shouted back.

“How do I know that’s the truth?”

“Mam, your brain’s growing a wood grain pattern. Don’t be dense. Let us in.”

(Excerpt from RENASCENCE, a Christian novel set in the future in which belief in God equates to mental illness. The protagonist speaks largely in a

ClockWork Orange sort of slang.)

The next day, Gillian opened the shop as usual, around three in the afternoon. A small handful of customers came in, looking for Zen to give them a

reading, and Gillian had to disappoint them and tell them the witch was still on her honeymoon. She gave them the standard line: “Zen knew you

would

be here; she asked me to tell you to come back.“ One of the women agreed to let Gillian do a tarot card reading for her.

When she’d finished the reading, she rung up the tarot card transaction. As she did, one of her semi-regulars entered and stood in front of the herbs

for a moment, looking baffled. He was a thin man in his late teens, with a thin reddish-brown beard and thick eyebrows. He wore black jeans and

boots. His brightly purple t-shirt was covered in goddess symbols. Gillian was sure she’d seen him at Auntie Kameko’s farm on several festive Pagan

occasions.

“What can I help you with?” she asked him.

He smiled shyly. “Have you ever done a good luck spell before?”

Gillian nodded. “I use them all the time.”

He put one hand on each of her shoulders. “Help me.”

“Okay,” she said, subtly taking a step back, out of his grasp. “Before I begin, though, what kind of good luck are you hoping for? You understand I can’

t help you if your good luck would involve harming someone else. Remember the rule of three: whatever energy you send out into the world will come

back to you threefold.”

He nodded seriously. “No, it’s nothing that could harm anyone. I have a job interview next week, and I really need this job.”

Gillian thought for a moment. “I know an oil spell that will help, but I can’t sell you any of the ingredients.”

He looked panicked for a moment. “You can’t?”

“No, but you can find them all at the grocery store, if you don’t already have them in your kitchen.” She went behind the register and pulled out a

piece

of cantaloupe-orange L & S stationery and a broomstick-shaped pen. She wrote down what he would need: cinnamon, dill, sage, allspice, a hint

cloves, and some oil. He took the list from her fingers and studied it carefully.

“Allspice?” he asked. “You mean, use all the spices?”

She chuckled slightly. “You don’t cook much, do you? There’s a spice called allspice.”

“What do I mix them in?” he asked her.

“Well, we do have a potions here.” She showed him the faceted glass bowl on the shelf below the herbs.

He picked up the vessel. “Then what do I do?”

“First, make your invocation to the Goddess. Ask her to grant you good luck on your job interview and success getting the new job. When you’ve

cleared your mind of all doubts, the ritual can begin. Take some ordinary kitchen oil, virgin olive if you have any, and add a good-sized pinch of each

of the herbs to it. Be a little stingy with the cloves, though. I always say that too much clove in a spell makes it come too true.” He raised his eyebrows

at that one, so she explained. “Ever heard the expression, ‘too much of a good thing?’ Your luck will come out so good it’s bad.”

“Do I have to drink this?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. If you let the herbs steep for a few days, though, you’ll end up with a nice-smelling potion. Dab a tiny amount onto the inside

of your wrist or behind your ear before you go to the job interview, and you’ll be fine.”

“Thank you,” he said, clutching the list tightly. Before he left, though, he stopped to purchase some cinnamon-scented candles. He almost left the

potion vessel on the counter; Gillian had to remind him not to forget it.

from St. James's Day (Pagan Spirits, Book 3), a WIP

by Erin O'Riordan

Excerpt from The Country House Courtship

By Linore Rose Burkard, from Harvest House Publishers

ISBN: 978-0-7369-2799-4

Ariana was red-eyed and crying when Mr. Mornay found her. She had been unable to stay in the bed-chamber but had been drawn, inexorably,

towards the large Venetian window which overlooked the frontage of the estate, as a moth is drawn to a candle’s flame. It was going to hit her very

hard, to watch the others leaving, but she could not stay away.

So she stood there, standing off to one side so that Nigel would not spy her, and saw the departure of her relations. Her servants. Her son and

daughter. She felt well in mind and body, and it was too, too unfair, this terrible result of a morning’s walk on the property!

She was being treated like an outcast, a leper! When Phillip came up to her, his eyes were filled with compassion, and she turned to him with a sob in

her throat and fell into his arms. “I am not ill!” she cried. “T’isn’t fair! To be separated from my babies! And now, to keep you apart from them, too!”

He held her up against him in a warm tight embrace. She sobbed, into his shoulder, “No one even said goodbye! I feel like an outcast!”

He gently broke apart from her enough to see her face. “I forbade them. They are with the children! What use is there in this separation if they have

contact with you, first?” After a moment, in which her face appeared as forlorn as before, she frowned saying “You’re right! I know it! But I still fee-feel

like an out-out cast!” She could not help but to keep crying.

She was being quarantined, and for what purpose? Because of a chance encounter with Mrs. Taller! She felt sorry for the ill woman, but a feeling of

impending tragedy fell upon her regarding her own life. She was like Queen Gertrude, who had just sipped from the cup of poison, though the King

tried to stop her in time. He hadn’t! She was at death’s door. No, she was like those poor people of Siloam, who were out walking, just like any other

day, when the tower of Siloam suddenly fell, crushing them all in a moment! Mrs. Taller had been her tower of Siloam. It was not a comforting thought.

Perhaps she was Jepthah’s daughter! Sweet innocence, so wrongly repaid! Why, oh why, had she stepped out of the house? She was a headstrong,

foolish girl! And she clung to her husband in her grief.

All she had was Phillip. He was still holding her, but he gently began to caress her neck with small, soft kisses. She stopped crying. It felt suddenly

different, being almost alone with him in the large house, after having entertained so many guests.

She pushed slightly away and surveyed him with her large eyes, still red-rimmed from crying. Her nose was pink, and her cheeks, and he had to smile

a little, for he always found her adorable when she’d been upset. He said, “Do not forget that we are only quarantined for a matter of days. You are

crying as though we’d lost our children forever.”

She sniffed. “It feels that way.”

“We must endeavour to pass the time in some useful employment, or we shall both go mad.”

“I agree. I am already Jepthah’s daughter!”

“What, again?” His look of concern was genuine. “Anyone else?”

“Queen Gertrude.”

“Ah. The poisoned cup.”

“Yes.”

He waited. “That cannot be all.”

“No; I was at Siloam when the tower fell.”

“Of course.” He smiled.

She sighed, “Mrs. Taller was my tower of Siloam, I’m afraid!” He kissed her neck again, and then her face, and was chuckling lightly. She suddenly felt

somewhat lighter of heart, too. It was so wonderful to have him to share her dark imaginings with. He understood these moments, when there seemed

to be a cloud of GLOOM hanging over her. No, worse, it was DOOM. But Phillip knew how to put his finger on her fears, and his amusement somehow

reduced their power over her. It was vastly comforting.

She took his cravat in her hands, and played with it, or seemed to, only when she gave it a final light tug, it fell apart. “I love undoing your cravats,”

she murmured. “You have a marvelous neck, Mr. Mornay, and though I admire your skill at the cloth, I admire your neck even more.”

He was smiling, and he suddenly swung her into his strong arms, and carried her, moving towards their grand bed-chamber. Yes?” he said, making

her grin back at him, for she could never resist that full, handsome smile, “Is there more you admire that I may know?”

She giggled. “You should ask if there is something I do not admire about you, and then perhaps I could settle upon an answer.”

For response, he kissed her, and said, “I should rather you let me tell you what I admire in you, then.” Ariana had heard this before, of course, many

times, but the words he used when appreciating her traits aloud were like nectar to her heart.

“By all means!” She was grinning ear to ear.

He was walking while he carried her. He said, “Where shall I begin? I have it! I admire you ardently, passionately, and,” he paused, and eyed her with

love, “with my whole heart.” Already she was melting at his tone.

“You feed my heart when you say such things.”

“Then allow me to offer you a banquet.” He paused, eyeing her in between watching their progress through the house. “Your eyes, your nose, your

mouth, your ears, your neck—you are like an exquisite sculpture, only far better, being wholly of flesh, and entirely—mine.”

“Yes, utterly yours.” He now stopped at the chamber door, managing to open it with his hands though he would not put her down. Still smiling as they

entered the room, he kissed her again. And then closed the bed-chamber door behind them.

by Author Dellani Oakes

Moonlight Chamption, Ashton Grove Werewolves Book 4

Aislinn sat in her favorite chair reading a book. She’d always had a thing for paranormal romances and was reading about a werewolf in a place

called Ashton Grove, Georgia. The hero was everything she’d ever dreamed of in a man. As she turned the pages, she lost herself inside a world

where the women always found the men of their dreams, princes among men. It was such a far cry from her life that it was almost funny. At twenty-

three, she was married to the worst possible man. Hugh Winston had been charming, funny, and a gentleman while they were dating. It had been no

small wonder that Aislinn had accepted his proposal nearly a year later. If only she could turn back the clock! At the very least, she was thankful she

had kept her name when she had married him. In retrospect, she was surprised that Hugh hadn’t pitched a fit when she’d told him she was keeping

her maiden name.

Hugh and Aislinn had been married for nearly a year now. The first month hadn’t been too bad, but after that… well after that Hugh had changed.

She’

d often heard women say they married one man and ended up with another. No truer words had ever been spoken! A little over a month into

their

marriage Aislinn noticed that Hugh was drinking more and more. The more he drank the louder and more obnoxious he became. It didn’t long

before

he started hitting her.

Aislinn remembered the first time as if it were yesterday. She had been ironing his shirt when he had suddenly backhanded her across the face,

yelling at her for using the wrong type of starch. The blow had been strong enough to knock her to her knees. She had apologized profusely, having

no idea what had set her husband off in such a manner. However, the next day he found something else to complain about and hit her again. Now

didn’t need a reason.

As Aislinn fell into her book, she wondered why she hadn’t been given a fairy tale ending. Sure, she was young and could always divorce her

husband, except he’d made sure that she had nothing and nowhere to go. She supposed she could call a women’s shelter, but just the thought of

doing something like that made her shiver. Was it really too much to ask for a knight in shining armor to ride up her driveway, knock her husband out,

and carry her off into the sunset?

Hearing a car in the driveway, she quickly put her book down. Running to the kitchen, she checked on dinner. The roast still had another fifteen

minutes before it was finished. What was she going to do? If dinner wasn’t on the table when Hugh walked in, she knew there would be hell to pay.

Never mind that he was home half an hour early, it would still be her fault somehow.

Opening the fridge, she spotted his favorite brand of beer in the back. Grabbing the bottle, she popped the top and placed it on the table beside his

comfy chair in the living room. Maybe she could placate him while the roast finished cooking. Rushing, she quickly set the table. Aislinn was just

placing the silverware on the table when Hugh walked in the door.

“Something smells good,” he said, putting down his briefcase and taking off his suit coat.

Aislinn popped her head out of the kitchen. “I’m making a roast with potatoes and carrots. I made your favorite salad on the side,” she said with a

smile.

He grunted. “It isn’t ready yet?”

“Almost. I put your favorite beer by your chair. I thought you might like to change clothes and relax for a minute while I put the finishing touches on

dinner.”

Hugh stormed into the kitchen, “You’re full of shit and you know it! You’re just trying to butter me up because you screwed up and didn’t have dinner

ready on time!”

Aislinn backed toward the other kitchen door, ready to flee if she needed to. “No, Hugh, I honestly thought you might like to change and relax!

Really!

Besides, you’re home a little earlier than usual.”

Hugh roared in anger and lunged for her. “So this is my fault? I’m early you say! It’s never your fault, is it Aislinn?”

Aislinn took off for the bedroom, but she didn’t make it in quite enough time. She felt Hugh grab a handful of her long hair and pull as hard as he

could; pulling her off her feet, dangling her like a rag doll. When he released her, he backhanded her across the face, knocking her to her hands

and

knees.

“I’m tired of your lies and deceit, Aislinn. No more!”

Hugh kicked her in the ribs, sufficiently knocking the air right out of her lungs. Aislinn curled into a fetal position, gasping for air and trying to see

through the haze of her tears. She felt the blows fall one after the other to her arms and legs. She had her face covered as best she could, but knew

she would have one bruise for sure.

Just when she thought he was finished, she felt Hugh’s hand grab her by the throat. He hauled her to feet and slapped her. Grabbing her throat once

more, he lifted her into the air and threw her across the room. Aislinn flew the four or five feet to the bedroom wall. As she was flying through the air,

she made a wish; she wished that her fairy tale ending could come true and that she could find her knight in shining armor.

Aislinn hit the wall with a sickening thud and her thoughts were no more. As her body fell to the ground, it suddenly vanished into thin air, leaving her

abusive husband staring in disbelief.

I Am Nature

The patch of earth between the side walkway and my house was a riot of color: deep purple, red, yellow, white, and pink, each shade more brilliant,
more beautiful, than the one next to it. After months of ice and snow, of being cooped up inside the house except on the rare occasion when I was
allowed to venture outside, bundled up so tightly against the wind and the cold I could barely move, it was spring, and the tulips were in bloom.

I wandered down the path and into the back yard. The fragrance hit me first: apple blossoms, perfuming the air so sweetly I could follow my nose
around the corner of the house to the tree hidden behind the garage. I giggled. It sounded like the tree was singing. Thousands of bumblebees flitted
from fragrant blossom to fragrant blossom, gathering nectar, spreading pollen.

Unfazed by the bees, I climbed up onto the picnic table beneath the tree, then into the tree itself. This was one of my favorite spots to sit. It was
especially pleasant on this day, barefoot for the first time in months, hidden from sight by the riot of flowers and bumblebees.

I sat quietly in the branches among the flowers and the bees, smelling the blossoms, listening to the tree hum, just being. Someone called my name; I
did not respond. I was the tree. I was the bee. I was not who they were looking for.

The soft white blossoms each were punctuated with the bright black and yellow stripes of the bumblebees. The hum of their wings was in perfect pitch,
one single note, one ohmmmmmm. I hummed too, adjusting the hum up, then down, until I too matched their pitch. I was the bee. The bee was me.
We hummed in the tree, the bees and me.

I closed my eyes and felt for the pulse of the tree in the trunk beneath my fingertips, for surely this tree had a heart that beat like mine. The trunk
warmed beneath my gentle touch as my branch swayed in the easy spring breeze. It felt like the tree was breathing. I matched the rhythm of my own
breath to that of the tree. I was the tree. The tree was me. We breathed and swayed, the tree, the bees, and me.

That was the moment that defined my place in the natural world. The moment I understood that I, a human being, was not above the other creatures
of Creation. Not better than the bees and the birds and the bears. Not superior to the snakes and the snails and the swallows. I was Nature. Nature
was me.

Thus began my life as an earth mage. Not someone who performs magic—I’ll leave that job to Mother Nature—but rather, someone who sees the
natural world as a magical place, full of wonder and miracles. I was three years old.

Fifty years have passed, and every time I set foot outside my door, I am still as awestruck as that three-year-old girl sitting in the apple tree. Whether I’
m giving myself a dirt manicure by planting tomatoes and marigolds in my garden, walking my dog around the neighborhood, or standing on the peak
of an ancient mountain, the magic of creation never fails to enchant me.

Welcome to my world, as told through stories and poems I’ve written and published in various magazines and on my blog. Come hike the trails of our
national parks and take a stroll along an ocean beach. See the magic in a tiny dragonfly, a humble hermit crab, and the spectacular waterfalls of
Yosemite.

Be enchanted. Be an earth mage. Come.

Smoky Trudeau is the author of two novels, Redeeming Grace and The Cabin; two books for writers, Front-Word, Back-Word, Insight Out: Lessons
on Writing the Novel Lurking Inside You From Start to Finish and Left Brained, Write Brained: 366 Writing Prompts and Exercises. Her new
photo/essay collection, Observations of an Earth Mage, is slated for publication in February 2010. She is working on her third novel, The Storyteller's
Bracelet. Visit Smoky at www.smokytrudeau.com.

Tall Poison
by
Trudy Joyce

Chapter 1

He’s poison Sara said to herself as she took a sideways glance towards the tall, dark and deadly stranger who had taken the seat at the next table.
Pure, liquid poison and oh boy, could I eat him with a spoon. Yeah they’d have to pump my stomach, but wouldn’t it be worth it?

Glancing up she saw the waiter go over and take his order. Did her face change color? She felt distinctly warmer than a few seconds before he’d
popped into the restaurant. She took a sip of her cappuccino and dipped in the rock candy stick swirling it around and watching as the sugar melted
into the coffee milk. Then she plucked it out and sucked on it slowly like a lollipop.

The intriguing stranger caught her eye and she realized how suggestive this must seem. Was she subconsciously looking for his attention? She had
to admit she might have thought about that a teensy bit. Yeah, okay, maybe a lot more than that. Good looking men around her age were hard to
find. So why not lure him just a little?

This was her favorite spot for a pick me up. Set back from the sidewalk a little, Café Lala had its own reputation. It was in her favorite movie, “You’ve
Got Mail”. Sara loved the old fashioned feel of the place and it always soothed her to sit by the big bay window and watch life on the upper East Side.
She had always done it with Mark. They used to meet after work and walk back to their apartment a few blocks away off Columbus Avenue.

“Damn you, Mark,” she said aloud. “You had to go have an affair and with your secretary. How trite of you.” She rummaged through her handbag and
found a tissue. Dabbing at her eyes she relived the past.

They had disintegrated. One minute they were Mark and Sara and the next they were separated and after a year of bickering back and forth over
nonsense they had decided that the marriage could never be pieced back together.

D I V O R C E as the country song said. Only now it described her.

Lucky they didn’t have children or this whole thing might have been ten times worse. But now she was on her own. During this lonely year she had
gotten used to eating breakfast and dinner by herself. Sometimes the silence drove a hole through her head and she wanted to scream. Those times
she’d call her friend Maddy and be comforted by her calming voice. Maddy always made her feel better. She was a nurse and she could take her from
fiddle string strung to lying on the beach listening to the lapping waves in the space of a phone call.

But here came this distraction. And what a yummy distraction he was. She figured he must be in his mid to late 30’s. No gray yet in his hair. Very well
styled too, elegant silk suit and custom tailored. Her father had been a tailor and she worked for a big department store so she knew the signs of a
good fit. And, what a body for such a suit. It skimmed all the right places and the pants fit perfectly with just a hint of a pleat over loafers without socks.
She could feel a part of her that had been closed for a year begin to open as if she were a flower being watered.

He turned to her and gave her a smile. Sara hoped she was not blushing and gave him a slight one back. Then in another second he picked up his
cup and moved over to her table.

“You know, I noticed you were alone and wondered if you would like some company.”

“Um, um, I don’t usually dine with people I don’t know.”

“How clumsy of me, of course. My name is Don, Don Camber. And your name is…”

“Sara, Sara Cohen Fishman. No, I mean Sara Cohen.”

“Now may I sit with you? This coffee is getting pretty hot to hold anymore. May I at least put it down on the table?”

He held the cup in one hand and grabbed the back of the chair facing Sara.

Ms.Cohen , may I have the honor of joining you?”

Sara laughed. He was delightful and she knew that she should heed the skull and crossbones, but what the hell. She was in the mood for a little
adventure. Don Camber just might be her ticket for that. She felt a charge go through her body and told herself, she would pay for this. But anything
worth having is expensive. Think of him as a pair of Manolo Blahniks.

copyright 2009 by Trudy Joyce

Guilt and Tragedy
by Simon Marshland

There is nothing new in married couples having affairs but when people reach their late fifties men become the more likely candidates. The usual
cause is an unconscious need to recapture an element of their youth before the last chance slips away. Nor is anything planned as rule, as in many
cases the man is still deeply in love with his wife. Then out of the blue a set of chance circumstances stirs memories and a long forgotten excitement
of the chase proves irresistible and the game begins.

In my book, Private Lives, Charlie Parker is just such a case. Married and both loving and loyal to Samantha for the past thirty years the idea of an
extra marital affair has never even occurred to him. Yet a chance meeting with the beautiful Madeleine at a starchy dull diplomatic reception in Paris
turns his happy domestic world upside down. In this excerpt as he returns home Charlie tries to rationalize his growing sense of guilt unaware of the
tragedy that is about to unfold.

Charlie had taken the Concorde from Paris, his mind a whirl of mixed emotions. A new wild and impetuous part of him wanting to stay with Madeleine
and his recaptured youth, while the older wiser him recognized the futility of chasing rainbows knowing he belonged with Samantha and always would.
Even so he had flown home filled with exuberance, the weekend with Madeleine still fresh in his mind only to be plunged into the darkest day of his life.

It happened in the drawing room of the 48th Street duplex, which had been their New York home for the past twenty years. After mixing their
customary evening martinis, Samantha brought the glasses and shaker to the sofa table, sat down and patted the cushion beside her.

‘Come sit beside me, Charlie, there’s something I have to tell you, though I think you should down one of these before I do.’

With sinking heart he did as he was told, trying his best to smile, inwardly in turmoil, racked by the terrible certainty she knew. No matter how careful
he had been, no matter how skilfully he had covered his tracks, somehow someone must have found out about Madeleine and told her. He was so
terrified at the thought of losing her he nearly blurted it all out there and then, but thank God the guilt stopped him. Leaving her to make what could
turn out to be the most important decision in their lives while he took the easy way out was too shameful and cowardly even for him. He had no
excuse; he had behaved like an irresponsible adolescent, unforgivable for a man in his late fifties. His only hope was she knew he loved her more
than life, so when he trotted out the usual pathetic excuse that the whole thing had meant nothing she would believe him. She might not forgive him
but she would believe him, even though the awful truth was it had. Madeleine had helped him recapture his youth; silly perhaps, but no different from
many men of similar age. Nor had there been anything sleazy in their relationship, it had been a lot of fun, which made the betrayal even worse. Their
marriage had always been the admiration of their friends, a rare flower in the New York hothouse of divorce and deceit and now he had destroyed it
to gratify his vanity. He downed his martini like water and sat back to await judgement.

Samantha took a sip of her drink, put down her glass and turned to face him. ‘I’ve spent quite a while rehearsing just how to say this but in the end I
decided the best way was to tell it to you straight, without sugar coating or frills.’ She paused for a steadying breath, ‘ I have cancer, Charlie, and the
prognosis is not good.’ She reached for her own glass this time and drained it in one.

‘You have cancer?’ he heard himself echoing stupidly as the enormity of what she had said began to penetrate through a growing numbness. Then
fighting the overwhelming sense of shock, he pulled himself together. ‘Well, first we had better make sure,’ he forced a smile, ‘the number one priority
is to get a second and if necessary a third opinion, then if the diagnosis is confirmed and we know the extent of the problem, find the best man to deal
with it. And I’ll find him, darling, whoever and wherever he is, providing he’s not en route to Mars on some spaceship I promise you I’ll find him.’

Samantha reached out and gently took his hand. ‘I’ve already seen the best men, several of them in fact, and I’m afraid they all share the same
opinion. I didn’t want to bother you with it until I was sure, but there’s no longer room for doubt. It seems I have pancreatic cancer, a creepy form of
the bug that often grows for a long time before showing any symptoms. Then when it finally rears its ugly head things have usually progressed too far.
The only known cure is surgery, but in my case it’s too late for that.’ She squeezed his hand tighter, ‘now this is when I need you to be very supportive
because I don’t want to have to say this more than once. Please try to understand and don’t argue, because I’ve thought long and hard before
coming to this decision.’

She paused to refill their glasses like it was any other day while he fought to keep the tears from his eyes.

‘I don’t want to spend the time I have left in hospital, darling, lying on some hospital bed being sick and burned by radiation therapy with a stack of
tubes turning me into a living colander. So I’ve decided not to have chemotherapy, radiation therapy, or any other cockeyed therapy that doesn’t
guarantee a cure. The doctors say they can keep the pain under control and if in the final stages I need a little extra on that account to help me on
my way they have privately agreed to do that too.’ She laughed, ‘ so you see all that money came in handy after all. The promise of a new hospital
wing can work miracles, even in the field of medical ethics.’

He adored his Samantha, loved her with every fibre of his being. But he had never realised how proud of her he was until now.

‘Whatever you say, my darling, we’ll do whatever you think best.’ Charlie was thankfully surprised by the steadiness of his voice. ‘Now, how about a
little dinner?’ It was a futile attempt, but a return to some form of normality was important for both their sakes. ‘We still have to eat, you know.’

‘If you don’t mind I think I would rather skip dinner tonight.’ Then her eyes brightened, ‘let’s go to the movies instead, just you and me. You know I can’
t remember the last time we went to the movies just for fun like we used to, instead going to support some charity premiere.’

‘The movies, that’s a great idea darling. Give us a chance to get out and clear our heads. Do you have any particular picture in mind?’

‘Not really, but we could wander round Times Square and see what’s showing. We haven’t done that in years either.’

‘Now you come to mention it I don’t suppose we have,’ he shook his head in surprise. ‘OK, let’s make a night of it then, turn the clock back, leave the
car, take a cab and if we feel a bit peckish later on we’ll grab a couple of hotdogs. Come on then, if you’re ready let’s go. I’ll get the coats.’

Samantha wound her arms round his neck in that special way she had and kissed him. ‘Thank you, Charlie,’ she whispered, ‘I knew you would
understand.’

‘Of course I do, darling, I’ve loved you too long not to,’ he smiled, but his heart was breaking.

Gift of $1 to Robin Falls

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WISE WOMEN SPEAK:
Everything Writers Need to Understand and Conquer the Publishing Industry

Section Five: Publisher Interviews

WELCOME! This is your section where four successful publishers with a love of publishing—integrated in their bone marrow—open their

hearts, wanting you to benefit from their experience, hard-earned wisdom, mental outlooks, and attitudes.

Learn the differences between small presses, the big publishing houses, and their imprints. Which alliance will suit you best?

As you read these interviews, meditate, personally apply, and enjoy this unique way to journal—chart your successes, goal to goal (book to

book), or chronicle your career. Your entries written alongside specific insights will accurately reflect your applications and the results, yielding

a sound basis for future strategizing.

Enjoy!

Unsung heroes are the foundation of any entity

because they provide the spirit and drive that makes up what, in this instance, is the

writing industry today—at its best. I say unsung in this case because in researching Nan Talese, I found precious little until I came across her

receiving the Maxwell E Perkins Award. When the time came for Nan to accept her Lifetime Achievement award as an editor, she entered the

history of American letters. There couldn't be an issue on The Big House without Mrs. Talese. Read on and you will concur.

Beryl: What was it about the publishing world that attracted you?

NAN: Reading.

Eyebrows raised and laughing: Oh, you are, not surprisingly, a woman of few and well-chosen words. So, how did your career

journey begin? Who encouraged you?

My, then, soon-to-be husband Gay Talese suggested I should speak to an editor he knew at Random House because I was always reading.

Gay has never ceased to encourage me.

What a blessing for you, because you didn't choose a career that made it easy for a woman to succeed. What difficulties did you

encounter (A) because you were a woman? (B) How different are things today?

If there were women editors they were expected to edit cookbooks and mysteries. Having children was out of the question, so I had to make my

own path, expecting to be stopped if I was going in the wrong direction. B) Very different, and in many ways more difficult. Women now have

longer commutes to and from their offices-we lived only 10 blocks away from Random House so I went home at lunchtime until our daughters

were in school. While there was no maternity leave then I think the pressures of a career are greater now so it is more difficult to balance

husband, children, home and publishing.

Now that isn't what I expected to hear. This is definitely important for women desiring to become an editor. Of the various

obstacles, what was a major one you faced in your career, and how did you overcome it?

A major obstacle was arriving at a new publishing house and realizing I was in the wrong place. I left an office that was cordial, warm and well-

mannered and for two and a half years worked in an atmosphere where people rarely spoke to me and certainly were not interested in the

books I wanted to publish.

I overcame it, I suppose, by a kind of stubbornness. I was determined not to be defeated and tried to fit in as best I could and contribute

to the publishing program. I never gave up my appreciation of superb but less commercial writing and after a few years there were some

successes and I was accepted.

It seemed a painfully long time but I learned a great deal from the experience, which in the end helped me.

May we all be so stubborn!

You have a reputation for being gracious, witty, and having a passion for your chosen profession. Yet, despite the hard

beginning, all the work and tough decisions, you haven't lost those praiseworthy qualities. What is it about your mindset that

keeps you from being consumed, losing who you are, despite the pressures?

The books and the authors are always the priority-that is after my husband and children. Knowing this is very centering and keeps one out of

the trough of personal ambition.

...

Oooh, not an easy road for anyone! We'll note that, one less excuse to waste time on. . .

A noteworthy triumph, among many, is your 46 years of marriage to Gay Talese. Two strong, resourceful, gifted individuals

with focus and drive that sometimes have diametrically opposed opinions; yet, you're making a success of your union. What can

you share with women trying to make their way in the literary world, while wanting a fulfilling and satisfying home life?

Taking the questions in reverse order: know the person you marry, why you value and respect him and share his hopes. He will not change.

Believe in the talent of the writers you publish and help their books to get in the right hands; but be fiscally responsible trying as best you can

to not be carried away by fashionable auctions for "the next bestseller." When you commit to an author be as sure of your decision a year after

the publication no matter if the book sold 4,000 copies or 400,000. Gay and I certainly have different opinions on some things but we share a

respect for each other's differences and share what is deeply important.

Beryl Hall Bray
Freelance Writer
Co-Founder, past co-editor/publisher of WOW-WomenOnWriting.com
www.BestOriginalWriter.info

WISE WOMEN SPEAK is a writer's workbook/journal based on 25 interviews with successful women in 6 sectors of the publishing industry, and
concludes with a section on self-discipline and goals. Each interview has lined boxes for the reader's entries; there are different headings such as:
How Would You Answer? Personal Notes, etc.

Excerpt from Dark Harmony by Lilly Cain,
ISBN 978-1-60310-418-0
www.eRedSage.com

Lena felt the hunger rise. It had been days since she last fed. She could hear his heartbeat from where she stood in the shadows
between the hotel and the next building. The rhythm called to her. She locked onto the sound and onto his psyche. His emotions
ran high, he was upset, but he had none of the feelings she would expect from a murderer. Instead, there was anxiety and the
tang of dissatisfaction, although as usual she couldn’t make out any reasons.

As he moved into the hotel entrance, she moved too, slipping in after he had made his way to the elevator. Standing in the
doorway, she watched him press the button. Fourth floor. She slipped into the stairwell and climbed the stairs, arriving in time
to observe through the stairwell window as he walked to his door. With each step his hips rocked every so gently. Her blood
heated and her mouth watered.

He keyed his entry code into the door lock. Room 429. She moved to stand outside his door even as it began to swing shut behind him. He never
noticed the way it didn’t quite click shut. He didn’t hear her enter as he walked to the window and pulled the blinds. He didn’t feel her behind him until
he turned.

For a moment, neither of them said a word.

“Helena,” he breathed.

“Lena,” she corrected him.

Richard’s heart beat a staccato rhythm, pounding quicker as he watched her, heard her soft whisper as she spoke her name.

“How the hell did you get into my room?”

She didn’t move, simply stood there and stared at him. Her gaze smoldered as it swept over him, pouring over his body, burning him. He shifted his
weight from one foot to the other, suddenly self-conscious, a novel experience, and a surprisingly sexy one.

His eyes riveted on her mouth. Her sweet full lips wore the color of dark cherries. Her pink tongue slid out to wet them. His body responded
immediately. His cock thickened with desire, begging to be released from the tight confines of his clothes.

As if she felt his heat, her gaze flickered downward and focussed on his pants. Good God, I’m making a total fool of myself.

“Ahem,” he tried again. “Sorry.” He turned slightly away from her. “What do you want?”

She took a step closer.

“Are you in trouble? You ran away in Ireland, and tonight…”

She had taken another step toward him as he spoke. He could smell her perfume, a soft whiff of vanilla and musk and something further he couldn’t
define, something delicious. He could almost feel the warmth from the tiny flecks of gold in those hazel eyes. He swallowed, hard, and found that he
had taken a step toward her. Hadn’t he just told himself it was better not to be involved? That Anna came first? He needed stability, not a crazy fling
with someone who might be involved in something dangerous. Still, it had been a long, long time since he’d been alone with a woman.

“You have blood on your jacket.” Her voice was a low purr. It took him a moment to understand what she said.

“What?”

“Blood.” She reached out and fingered the edge of his jacket. “Here.”

He looked down and saw a dark stain on the edge of his jacket, where he had used the material to wipe off any possible fingerprints from the dead girl’
s throat.

“I…” he trailed off as she looked into his eyes again. Her face was close enough to simply lean down and kiss…

“Did you kill her?”

“No!” He attempted to back away but she was faster and stronger than she appeared. She reached out and grabbed his wrist and he froze as her
skin touched his and the heat between them flared higher. “I didn’t kill her. She was dead in the alley when I got there. Did you kill her?” He threw it
back at her.

“No.”

She let go of his wrist and stepped closer, pressing her body against his. She reached up and laid her hand on the back of his neck. A shock of
desire ran down his spine from her hand to his tailbone and spread forward to add urgency to his straining cock.

God help me. He hadn’t lost one bit of his erection during the exchange. How could he be so hard while they discussed a murder? It had been a while,
but had it been that long since he’d had sex? Where was his legendary control that kept him steady as clients climaxed under his direction? The
thought was lost as he gave in to the urge to kiss her.

He lowered his mouth to meet hers.

If The World We Knew is Lost
by Margaret L. (Peggy) Greene

Each day the smell of smoke had gotten worse and Elaine was no closer to finding transportation than she had been the day before. The airports
had been shut down with the first report of the dirty bomb in Norfolk, and rumors were rampant that the District of Columbia had been hit from the
Chesapeake side. That was puzzling. The Potomac would have been a better choice for the prevailing winds to carry the radiation toward the
Capitol. No doubt Annapolis, Baltimore and Philadelphia were in for it, and she watched the panic on You-Tube until her laptop battery gave out.
That was yesterday. She did get out emails to Ted and his dad but had no response before the battery failed. Her cell phone was useless; the lines
were jammed.

To Elaine’s great relief, the President had given a press conference immediately to reassure the rest of the country that members of the Congress
and administration were safe, and government was still functioning. All the armed services were being positioned to keep order. Bombers were on
their way to Pakistan to deal with those who claimed to have made the strike, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff were meeting to review the potential
involvement of two other Middle Eastern countries. Additional retaliatory strikes were likely to occur. There were angry demonstrations from people
in the street demanding nuclear annihilation of those countries involved.

That struck her as madness of course. What goes around comes around, and if the Air Force was dropping nuclear bombs in Pakistan, the winds
would blow the radiation across China and Japan and back across the ocean to the United States. China would not take that quietly. Even limited
nuclear activity would affect masses of people, and with two young children at home, Elaine was frantic to get back to Saint Louis and wait for the next
political shoe to drop. Hopefully, the government was sticking to conventional explosives. It was hard to breathe much less think in all this chaos.

To hell with her job and to hell with the mortgage, she just needed to gather her family and weigh the options. Ted’s parents were keeping the kids,
and no doubt he would be there with them.   Without the ability to contact them, Elaine was feeling very alone. Her focus had changed in the last
three hours from getting home to surviving long enough to find another way home, assuming of course that home was still there. The trees of
Missouri were in flames, and Saint Louis is known as the city of trees. Even the army was at best containing the burning in locations close to the
rivers. In Chicago, some people were collapsing in the streets from smoke inhalation while others rushed to drag them into a building. By and large,
people were still pulling together, and that was encouraging.

Along with thousands of others, Elaine was trying to get out of Chicago, and the lines at the bus station were moving very slowly. The Illinois National
Guard was keeping the bus routes clear to the interstates. Who would have thought that one could not drive across the flat, treeless countryside of
Illinois due to the thick smoke? Elaine’s car was still in the parking garage with nearly a full tank of gasoline, but it was virtually useless. The streets
were so clogged with traffic that cars could not get out from the garages into the streets. Cars in the street had been abandoned as their fuel ran
out. You could hear the crashes as heavy equipment pushed them out of the way.

Now the Guard and Chicago police were ordering people out of their cars at gun point to clear the streets for emergency equipment. People were
frantic and furious. Word in the street was that there could be a dirty bomb coming in on Lake Michigan. The interstate highways were so clogged
that traffic was at a virtual standstill. So before she ventured out of the relative clear air and safety of the bus station, Elaine stopped to think through
her options.

She had an additional concern because someone appeared to be following her. She hoped she was wrong about that. She could not think of any
good reason for anyone to follow her, except perhaps for the computer or phone, both of which were relatively useless at this point. In reverse, she
would rather have mugged the fellow for his wrap around sunglasses. Her eyes were red-rimmed and watering badly.   He was lucky enough to have a
white mask over his nose and mouth, but then so was half the population in Chicago.

The man was tall, powerful-looking and conservatively dressed. The most unsettling thing was his business-like appearance. This was no bum, and
Elaine was weary of dodging him. She thought about confronting him in the midst of other people, but suddenly a mass of people separated them. In
an instant, she yanked off her red blazer and hunkered down behind a pile of luggage, hoping she could throw him off. She was breathing through
her red and purple scarf but tried to minimize its visibility.   If he were still around, he might identify her by the scarf.

Optionally, Elaine was down to the railroad or to the lake waterfront for a way out of the city. When another group of people milled past her, she
ducked in with them covering the bright scarf as best she could while keeping it over her nose and mouth. At this point she was for hiking the
distance to the train station even though there was no direct route to from there to Saint Louis. The shoes she had worn for her University
presentation were sensible for standing, but too fashionable for a long walk.

Visibility was poor. The air around her was a pale gray-brown, and in the distance, she could see heavy black smoke and an occasional lick of
flames. Chicago was burning again, and Mrs. O’Leary’s cow had nothing to do with it. It was drought, relentless heat and high winds. There were
wild fires in nearly every state in the west and Midwest. The attack on Norfolk and D.C. was no doubt timed to occur when the troops were already
spread thin in helping fight the wild fires. It would create panic on top of the chaos of people being driven out of their homes. The thought made
Elaine so angry that she literally stalked to the train station. If someone wanted to follow her, let him.

As she approached the station, a young national guardsman jogged to meet her. “Hurry,” he said as he grasped her arm and marched her in double
time toward a track. “The train is ready to pull out, and we need to get you out of here. We’re clearing as many people as we can.”

“But,” she said. “No ticket.”

“No matter, ma’am. Nobody has tickets. Good luck.” He boosted her onto a very crowded landing and was gone. The train was beginning to move
when someone grabbed her from behind and pulled her off the landing. Every hair follicle rose in an instant, and Elaine felt blind fear and rage, but
she was off her feet and air bound. As her feet found purchase, she was still held around the waist by a strong pair of masculine arms. Screaming in
rage, Elaine struggled to free herself.

Plight Unknown

Poetic Prelude

She was meant to be a boy. The girl that arrived was the moons laughing gift. There were no bells and whistles that fateful nights as she arrived-
none but the wartime noises. The elliptical orbit was turned, with wormholes spinning all around, waiting to feast on what had come to be. It would not
go this way, for she was the only way out of obscured horizon. The imperfections that were made with disregard and contempt would soon haunt the
night and day.

This making was of want and of love in desire. She is a life made for a heart unfinished, not prepared for the fires that would come. Time would pass
over with no thought or guarantees, simply allowing her to come to be.

Terrain granted-she took Her cape of dismal threads swept over her like an omen. The girl arose and chose to come in like one awoken from
slumber, with leaps and bounds outside the rest. How was she to figure the planet she was never from? How could she survive the depth of this
shadow with a heart that lay frozen inside all the sediments? Her understanding was of a bitter kind, with no words to explain them- just knowledge, of
nights accosted with pain.

Lissette Gaytan- 2010

GHOST DANCE: DEAD MAN’S STAND BY ROD MARSDEN

Introduction
  The menace of the vampire has been with us for a very long time. Over the centuries, various societies have developed their own methods of
dealing with it. The Japanese in the 17th Century created the Rising Sun Group of specialist ninjas and samurai. In the British Empire and then the
British Commonwealth the Secret Compass, an offshoot of Freemasonry, came to the fore. It now has many branches including the Scottish Maclean
branch. In and around Greece there were the Greek mystics who eventually formed an alliance with INTERPOL and then with the Sydney, NSW
branch of the Secret Compass. In the USA there was the Pinkerton Detective Agency out of Chicago followed by the FBI and the CIA. Over time such
organizations have come to share information, resources and even personnel in the continuing fight.
  The events mentioned in this book primarily take place in 1975. The events of the previous novel, Disco Evil: Dead Man’s Stand, take place
between the years 1976 and 2010.
  In 1975 Lilith and Paul Priestly can be seen at The Blue, an inner Sydney disco but have yet to meet up and form an alliance. Lizzy, Miles Henry’s
niece, can also be seen doing her thing at The Blue. Her fate has yet to be sealed. It will be soon enough in 1976.
  Helen Kiln, a Secret Compass psychic, knows The Blue in 1975 as a place that might attract the undead. Miles Henry and Frank Long are field
agent partners in the Sydney branch of the Secret Compass and have worked together off and on since the Korean War. They are both attracted to
Helen. Miles and Long, however, are not the only field agents working for the Secret Compass.

Note:
  “Bring back the buffalo,” was the cry and the hope of a generation of North American Indians. “Bring back love and hope,” was the cry of a different
people of a different generation. It was more universal but just as heart-felt. Both people, both generations thought they could do it through music and
movement. They thought the Great Spirit would weave magic their way and it would be done. They were wrong. Both are examples of the now
traditional ‘GHOST DANCE’.
   There is, however, another version that is just as well known and just as traditional. It is part of Mardi Gras and the Venetian Carnivale. In both
instances it evokes the meeting of two worlds – the living and the dead. Both sides are masked. Both sides are to be revealed. If properly executed, it
is quite a powerful dance and the results are totally unpredictable. It is the dance of the present, the past and the future. It can be joyful or the
complete opposite. It is the dance of the living hand-in-hand with the dead. At such events the ungodly need to be wary.
     If Helen Kiln wanted a quiet, no-nonsense life she should never have become a psychic for the PSI division of the Sydney, Australia branch of the
Secret Compass. Of late there were ghosts to sort out, vampires on the loose, a Gypsy warning to heed and a young man becoming a monster to
befriend. With any luck she’d get in her morning cup of coffee and donuts!
  Frank Burkhard, the young man, and Petra Card, a female vampire, were expected in Worms (Voems), Germany where they were hopefully going
to save the world. There was also a warlock out to save humanity by killing off a lot of people. In all of this Helen could envisage, through her powers,
a dead man about to make a stand. Helen knew this for a certainty. It just wasn’t clear to her who it was going to be.
Rod Marsden 2010

  Check out Disco Evil: Dead Man’s Stand by Rod Marsden….published through Night to Dawn and available right now through Amazon.com.
  Also check out Undead Reb Down Under Tales by Rod Marsden…published through Night to Dawn and available right now through Amazon.com.
….For a short story with bite there is a tale by Rod Marsden coming out in the next issue of the vampire magazine Night to Dawn which will be out
shortly.
Night to Dawn
www.bloodredshadows.com

No Other
By
Shawna Williams
Inspirational/Historical/Romance

In the aftermath of WWII all Jakob Wilheimer wants is to get over his pain, get on with life, and if at all possible, forgive those who've wronged his
family — including himself. But it's hard to do when there are constant reminders. One of them being his former schoolmate, now teacher, Meri
Parker.

After enduring the stigma and isolation associated with the internment camp, the awkwardness of going back to school should've been a cake walk.
But Jakob didn't expect to find himself inexplicably drawn to Meri. Or to discover that the pain and loneliness of her life surpassed his own. She
needed to be rescued from the overbearing people seeking to control her life. And more than anything, he needed to be the one to save her.

*****

Jakob's expression changed from one of embarrassment to concern. Meri wondered why, and then she heard the patter of rain drops. It was just a
few, but they sounded heavy — like they were large, falling from an overflowing reservoir ready to give way. Jakob walked to the dining room window
to look out and she joined him. Together they studied the ominous clouds. The wind had picked up, blowing the weeds sideways.

"We better get going before it starts—"

Lightening flickered and unleashed buckets of rain. It hit the roof with such fury Meri could hardly hear the thunder that followed.

Jakob's eyes met hers and his lips spread into a thin line. "When this stops I'm gonna have to carry you out. Otherwise you'll lose your shoes in the
mud. I'm wearing boots."

Meri looked down at her laced up oxfords. They seemed like the best choice to wear out here, and they matched her white blouse and tan trousers.
She'd pondered for a full hour over what to wear while investigating an abandoned house.

She turned her foot sideways, noting the two inch heel. Maybe they weren't completely practical.

Did he say he was going to have to carry her out? She loved these shoes!

Jakob headed for the living room, holding the chandelier by its chain. "Hey Meri," he called to her over the rain. "Come in here."

Meri walked toward the living room, but paused at its entrance as a gust of wind hit her. "The window is broken," she said.

"I know. The wind is blowing south though and the porch is keeping most of the rain out."

Meri took slow steps toward him, crossing her arms and rubbing them as the chill from the storm hit her. Jakob stood in the center of the room with his
hair blowing wildly.

"What are you doing?"

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back slightly. "It feels nice. Kinda like standing in the rain without getting wet."

He laid the chandelier on the floor and marched over to the wall. Meri watched as he used his foot to clear pine needles and dirt from an area of the
floor. He stood over the spot, inspecting it, and then unbuttoned his plaid shirt and took it off, revealing the white tee shirt he wore underneath.

Her heart jumped into her throat.

Jakob laid the shirt on the ground, then turned and sat next to it with his back leaning against the wall. "Come on," he said. "I saved ya a seat."

She furrowed her brow. Her teeth clattered with a sudden chill but she did as he asked. "This is crazy," she said, taking a seat on his shirt.

"Na." He stretched out his legs, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

"Jakob, what are you doing?"

"Just takin' it all in." He let out a relaxed sigh. "You should give it a try."

Meri folded her arms. Then unfolded them. She hated feeling self-conscious. "I don't know how."

He cracked one eye at her. "Be still."

"What?"

"Copy me," he said. "Lean back, close your eyes."

She did as he said. "Now what?" This was nuts.

"Quiet your mind, and just listen and feel."

Meri took a deep breath and tried to relax. It wasn't working. She sneaked a glance at Jakob. His face seemed beautifully serene amidst the swirling
bits of debris flying through the room. It was so...him. Somehow, realizing that made her want to give herself over to the experience. She took another
deep breath and let it out slowly.

The first thing she noticed was the musty scent had been cleansed from the air. The smell of rain, clean and fresh, took its place. Droplets
rhythmically pattered against the roof. And the sound changed with the wind — becoming soft, like a whisper — then building into a crescendo with
the howling gale. At its peak, rumbling thunder. It was music.

Her body relaxed fully and her shivers subsided. She surrendered to the moment, allowing the wild breeze and cool mist to touch her, tickle her. Tiny
goose-bumps rose all over her skin. With her eyes closed it felt as if she were elsewhere — suspended and floating. Free.

"It's beautiful," escaped her lips.

"Glad you could join me," Jakob whispered.

She felt the warmth of his hand slip around hers, his touch joining them in the experience. Their own private symphony.

This is an uncorrected excerpt and may differ slightly from the final published novel,
which will be available from Desert Breeze Publishing, Inc in May 2010.

Shawna K. Williams – Author of Grace-Inspired Fiction.
Shawnakwilliams.com

No Other/May 2010/Desert Breeze Publishing
In All Things/Nov. 2010/Desert Breeze Publishing
Orphaned Hearts/Dec. 2010/Desert Breeze Publishing

The Confessions of Becky Sharp

David James’s latest novel The Confessions of Becky Sharp will be published by Pegasus in January 2011, the year of the Thackeray Bicentennial.
For those unacquainted with Thackeray or Becky Sharp, his most famous (or infamous) creation, the following notes will help:

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY (1811-1863)
Born in Calcutta, India, Thackeray studied at Cambridge, but left without taking a degree. He visited Germany in 1830 and met Goethe. After
receiving a large inheritance he turned to journalism and in 1833 bought the National Standard. He wrote amusing and sententious articles for Punch,
The Morning Chronicle and Frasers on the theme of class snobbery. All his major novels were published as monthly serials, the most celebrated
being Vanity Fair (1847-8) which featured the aspiring Becky Sharp, a girl who rose from a bohemian background to become a high-class whore and
scourge of society,

Thackeray was a sometime friend and close rival of Dickens, but their acrimonious dispute over the function of journalism and the nature of an
English gentleman led to a cooling of the relationship. Temperamentally the two men were poles apart, Dickens’s fiery intensity over social and moral
evils contrasting with Thackeray’s somewhat cynical amusement at the world’s vanities, vices and hypocrisy. Thus in Chapter 9 of Vanity Fair we
read: ‘Vanity Fair – Vanity Fair. Here was a man, who could not spell, and did not care to read – who had the habits and the cunning of a boor . . .
and yet he had rank, and honours, and power, somehow: and was a dignitary in the land, and a pillar of the state.’

THE CONFESSIONS OF BECKY SHARP (Pegasus, 2011)
The Confessions of Becky Sharp, told from Becky’s point of view, is an update on Thackeray’s Vanity Fair. Here Becky (now Lady Crawley) is une
dame d’un certain âge, crippled with gout, and eeking out a miserable existence with her companion Arabella Briggs in a seedy boarding house, the
pariah of a society who believes everything written in ‘that tray of butcher’s pieces known as Vanity Fair.’ The way that Becky manages to restore her
fortunes by revealing scraps from her past life to anyone prepared to cough up ready money forms the backbone of this intriguing insight into the
doughty heroine Thackeray loved to pillory.

But how did Becky come to be the way she is – or at least the way she is shown in Vanity Fair? Thackeray is cagey on this matter, either not knowing
or not caring sufficiently about his creature’s past, she who now finds it ‘quite maddening to be the rung upon whch this creeping hypocrite treads in
order to climb the ladder of fame.’ Thackeray’s reader is simply told that Becky had a Bohemian background – with an artist father and a mother of
French origin, a dancer on the stage. Enough said for the Victorian reader! But the 21st Century reader needs to know more. What’s wrong with
French or Bohemian? And where was Becky born? What were her childhood influences? The early chapters of The Confessions tell of Becky’s
growth from a near-orphan in Versailles at the time of the French Revolution to her convent education in rural France at the time of the Directorate.
Already we sense the rebel developing, as she finds in Chenu Desmoulins a suitable upstart, a rebel against respectable teachers and the strict
regimen imposed at the Palace of Versailles. Sent to a convent in disgrace by her guardian (a factotum employed by one of her mother’s lovers) the
eight-year-old Becky meets another ‘devil’ in Angelique Firmin and after a youthful lesbian relationship she once again comes into conflict with
authority. Denied permission by the Mother Superior to attend her mother’s wedding – Mlle de Printemps has decided to regularise her relationship
with the artist Timothy Sharp and Becky is amazed to find herself a bastard – she becomes recalcitrant in the extreme. It is only the news that her
mother is now dying that permits her escape to London and the artists’ colony in Soho to look after her father.

From this point, with many twists and turns the narrative takes up the familiar story told by Thackeray. On Tim Sharp’s death, she takes up
employment at Miss Pinkerton’s Academy, meets the Sedley family, has an affair with her best friend’s fiancé and becomes a governess in the house
of Sir Pitt Crawley. This is followed by her marriage to Captain Rawdon Crawley, a life of high-living on little capital and eventually her adoption by
Lord Steyne as his ‘secretary.’ Between Crawley and Steyne, however, there are other lovers not revealed by Thackeray. But things look bleak for
Becky when Captain Loder appears with the intention of blackmailing her about her past liaisons and especially a crucial one with a Dr Rossi.
Moreover, he and Fred Baverstock have connived to discover certain horrendous facts about her past. Only the good offices of Rev and Mrs Gaskell
restore her character in the eyes of her son Rawdy (now baronet of Queen’s Crawley). Rawdy, repenting of his earlier harshness towards his mother
and her dubious past, allows her to return as mistress of his London house in Park Lane. Here, in fashionable Mayfair as Lady Crawley, her gout in
abeyance under an advanced medical practitioner, Becky once again contrives to live it up – this time with old fraud Loder as her companion.

Thus it can be seen that The Confessions of Becky Sharp adds a new dimension to the character who in a review of the 1935 movie Becky Sharp is
described as that ‘ruthless self-willed and beautiful Becky {who} is one of the most famous characters in English Literature.’ So famous indeed that
scarcely a year passes without another movie, play or TV series celebrating her life and opinions.

Night Crimes
by Judith Colombo

He was very happy. He had forgotten how happy he could be. Sitting with his new friend talking about his past life, he remembered that there was
once a time when he had slept in a warm bed snuggled against his woman's back, his arms enfolding her, his large hands cupping her round full
breast. He recalled the smell of brownies baking and children giggling while they licked the spoons clean.

Now, his days were filled with monotony and dread, his body thin and wasted, drained by drink and heroin. Whenever he managed to drag himself out
of his daze, he became aware of his urine-stained pants and dirt-encased body. But this didn't seem to matter anymore. For two nights, he had spent
time reminiscing with his friend, following the dark form down moonlit alleys and garbage-strewn streets, oblivious to the strangeness of it all.

He sat quietly on the park bench, drinking aged scotch and nibbling on a large sandwich given him by the mysterious person: roast beef on rye with
mustard, mayonnaise, lettuce, and tomato. He savored the whiskey, letting it roll off his tongue and trickle slowly down his throat. It tasted a bit
different at first, but his new friend had said that was just because he had been drinking only the cheap stuff for so long. The taste of the scotch
mingled with the taste of the food, warm and caressing in his stomach. He took small bites of the sandwich, not really wanting it, only coveting the
spreading warmth of the liquor. He kept stealing glances at his friend. This figure crouched beside him, shrouded in the dark, encased in blackness,
features obscured by a soft wide grey hat, the only part of the ever moving shadow that reflected light.

The man now fought to recall how and when this apparition had entered his life, but his life was beginning to fade from him, passing through his lips
and fingers, feet, and toes. Suddenly, the truth dawned on him, and he asked, "Are you the Angel of Death?" The apparition sat silently, waiting,
watching with quiet intensity as the man, his question unanswered, sank slowly into oblivion.

The figure stirred slowly. Moving forward with quiet dignity, it kissed the brow of the dying man and left taking with it the remains of his last meal.

The next morning a man walking his dog would discover the frozen body of the man, curled up on the park bench a smile on his face and his right arm
encircling empty space.

Everyone I know thinks of the night as either dark and frightening or mysterious and exotic. Poems and stories have been written serenading its
power and beauty. The darkness they speak of is an omnipotent entity, cold and engulfing. Night, with its uncertainty and danger is like a god,
superior, distant, and judgmental.

I, however, have never feared the night. She isn't some dark devouring monster, alluring and repellant at the same time. She is a warm inviting
mistress who seduces with the rhythm of her body, the softness of her lips, and the perfumed moistness of her sex. Nothing about her is absolute
darkness. She is only a shadow who moves through the light.

I am horrified of the light with its revealing power. All ugliness and stupidity is revealed in the daylight. We think of night as evil, because many crimes
are done in her shadows. That is not true! The crimes done within night's cloak are ones filled with shame. Shame supposes a conscience which
means an understanding of truth.

Crimes committed in the day signify a disregard of truth, a total lack of shame. They shout to be viewed. The perpetrators of daylight crimes are evil;
they enjoy flaunting their malevolence. Those of us who save our misdeeds for the shadows are not amoral soulless creatures. We know the
vileness of our acts, and we accept the shame. But we are helpless to stop. To not act as we must would be immoral in itself. A being who denies its
true nature goes against the natural order of the universe; this I think is the greatest evil of all.

The Rest Of Our Lives
by Dan Stone

Running Away: Part I

The first time that I saw Aidan in the current one of our many lifetimes, I ran like hell. Not because he was revolting or anything. I was so busy trying to
not let him get a good look at me that I barely got a look at him anyway.

It was the day of DC’s annual PrideFest and an unseasonably muggy morning even for mid-June in the District. By eleven-thirty, there were already
so many primped and pumped, multicolored bare torsos and coiffed and sprayed drag queens packing the park and the sidewalks of Dupont Circle, it
was difficult to distinguish the parade participants from the spectators or the partygoers from the politicians. I could feel sweat stains forming under
the arms of my ill-chosen gray t-shirt as I snapped photos of some of the more interesting or unusual characters in the vicinity. I was hoping that I
might sell the pictures to the Blade or to Metro Weekly since I’d already had some success freelancing for them on occasion.

“Take off that shirt if you’re gonna make me famous, sweetie,” said the six-foot-four “Lucy Ricardo” look-alike when she caught me aiming my camera
at her. Since I doubted that particular photo would find a large audience, it seemed safe to ignore the request. I never took off my shirt at these
events, regardless of how many concave chests, rotund bellies or hairy backs were on hand to make me look
better. It was just too much self-disclosure, even if keeping the shirt on meant sweating like a woman in labor.

I started walking with the march, sometimes near the front, sometimes dropping back if someone caught my eye. I was continually amazed by the
power of the camera both to conceal the one behind it, rendering him largely invisible, and to reveal the one in front of it. In some ways, it had the
same effect as a few beers or a joint—it made people more of what they were. If self-conscious, it made them shy, or made them conjure up a clown
persona to overcompensate. If indifferent, it captured the glaze of boredom. If coquette, the flirtatious twinkle in the eye was always there, even under
a nun’s habit.

I scrupulously avoided snapping shots of dog-collared boys on leashes and all the tantalizing bare hineys gleaming in the midday sun (well, maybe I
got one or two). I caught the mothers (it was always the mothers) marching in the PFLAG contingent with their children of various ethnicities and
orientations—always a crowd pleaser. I got a DC city councilwoman who looked like Patti Labelle’s more conservative sister, the Cherokee
Cheerleaders in their loin cloths and full-feathered headdress, and the tank-topped, two-stepping DC Cowboys all wearing identical come-and-get-me
grins during an impressively acrobatic line dance.

Somehow I ended up just behind the “I Love Lucy” float, complete with the aforementioned Mrs. Ricardo, a drop-dead gorgeous dead-ringer-for-Desi
Arnaz, a real-life baby Little Ricky, and the Mertzes. That’s when the trouble started. It must have been some kind of mechanical malfunction with the
flatbed behind the pink pickup with the big hearts on the doors. In any case, the entire float lurched, then screeched to a halt, hurling Ricky, Fred,
and Ethel forward, knocking the wide-eyed Lucy off her size fourteen slingbacks, and pitching a squealing Little Ricky over the side and out toward
the crowd.

Acting out of sheer reflex, I let loose with a high-pitched, penetrating whistle, freezing everything in my line of vision, including Little Ricky, who was
barely a foot or so from the pavement. As quickly as I was able to move, I picked the baby out of mid-air and placed him gently in the motionless, open
arms of a matronly tourist whose face was already registering a look of total dismay. I guessed her to be from a small town, possibly in the Midwest.
Maybe Kansas?

When the baby was safe, I looked around at the immobilized mob. I was feeling even more lightheaded from the effort than usual, but then I saw it.
Movement. Unmistakable motion in the form of a man maybe a hundred or so yards away, but drawing nearer … a man who somehow, for some
unprecedented, unfathomable reason, escaped the freeze. Impossible, but there he was. And worse yet, he’d spotted me.

I panicked. There weren’t supposed to be any witnesses. I freaked, immediately releasing the crowd, letting Lucy and the others resume their
respective falls, and leaving Auntie Em from Kansas stunned to find a squirming infant in her arms. Then I ran like hell from the dark-haired anomaly
who was clearly trying to get a better look at me.

The chase was on. Fortunately the disruption in the streets was large enough to block his path to me. I took advantage of the mayhem and escaped
into the masses, eventually ducking out of the procession and sprinting up 16th Street toward home. Still feeling a little dizzy, I was at least four blocks
away when I heard him calling after me, but not with my ears … the voice was in my head.

“Come back here!” he said. “Who are you?” I felt a surge of warmth, like a mild electric current tingling from my scalp to my toes.

“Please!” The voice said. “Please stop!”

“What the hell!” I said out loud. Either he was communicating with me telepathically, or I was having a meltdown. Neither possibility was especially
calming.

“Get out of my head!” I said, as several other heads turned toward me on the sidewalk. The voice and the tingling warmth followed me up 16th Street
to the U Street intersection before it finally started to recede.

“My name is Aidan,” was the last thing I heard him say . . .

excerpt from Hell Swamp
by Susan Whitfield, Author of the award-winning Logan Hunter Mystery Series

I decided that I’d check out the church on Sunday and see who was in the congregation, out of curiosity more than anything else. I didn’t have a dress
with me, so heads turned when I walked in wearing a navy pantsuit. It had been a long time since I’d been in any church, my job pulling me all over the
state, and crime having no respect for Sundays.
The exterior of the wood church had been freshly painted for Homecoming services. There were three doors on the front of the porch. I had no idea
which one to choose, so I took the main doors in the middle. I was surprised at the number of people packing into the tiny church and at how many I
recognized: Navel Face and his wife, Woody Forbesch and his significant other, Acme Beavers and Rachel Blanche and the children, and the Latino
family from Hawk Daw’s fields. I spotted Rose Paul Hill near the front and Magnolia Rich, the only black, on the back pew.
I followed the crowd, some looking back at me and whispering, into the hard and uncomfortable pews. Once seated, I looked up at the long narrow
balconies that ran down both sides of the church all the way to where a hard-looking Preacher Hawfield was unhurriedly walking from a side door to
the pulpit. He walked like a crane, his head and long neck going first, followed by the rest of him. He appeared to lack energy. This could be the most
boring sermon I’d ever endured.
The worship service for The Church of God with Signs Following was unlike any service I’d ever attended. It was certainly not like the Southern Baptist
Church of my childhood. It began with a rowdy piano and tambourines. Then folks jumped up and started clapping and hollering. Those who had
gone through the side doors on the porch were now literally hanging over the balcony ledges on either side of the principal pews. I sat still and
observed the spirit moving in them. At least, I figured that was what was going on.
Once the song ended, people settled back on the pews and Preacher Hawfield stood up with gusto he’d found somewhere during the tambourine
episode and quoted scripture. I was impressed, at first, that he held no Bible, no notes. Had he memorized his message? Surprisingly his eyes rolled
back in his head and he started saying things I couldn’t understand, getting louder with each breath and more animated as he continued. I’d heard
about some churches in Tennessee, Georgia, and West Virginia where people spoke in tongues, but I’d never witnessed it, and didn’t know the
practice existed in this part of North Carolina.
Preacher Hawfield got downright boisterous and so did the congregation. People in the balcony were again leaning over too far. I was expecting
someone to fall over and land on the first floor. It was unnerving. I looked around for a friendly face. My eyes locked on Magnolia in the back row, and
she smiled and nodded at me. Had she picked up on my uneasiness?
“My people, let the Spirit move in you. Let it anoint you. Give over to it!” The preacher was creating what I’d call a disturbance anywhere else, but
everyone was buying it. The building appeared to tremble from the ever-increasing racket. My Southern Baptist roots were coming undone, but my
SBI curiosity was revved.
I heard a commotion and turned my attention to the front of the church just in time to see Rose Paul Hill get up and start dancing toward the preacher
as the music became more erotic than religious. People were bumping and grinding in the pews with hands raised, yelling out all sorts of words I didn’t
recognize. I leaned around a giant of a man to keep my eyes on Rose Hill.
Why was she going to the front? And why was this old lady thrashing and twisting her body like a belly dancer?
“Sister Rose Paul Hill has come. Let’s pray that she is anointed, my brothers and sisters.” I jerked nervously as everyone started to look up and pray,
each prayer loud and different. The prayers reached fever pitch while the preacher handed Rose a vial, which she held up and poured down her
throat. The service crescendoed as Rose Paul Hill let out a yell louder than anyone in the church. I was on my feet, not able to take my eyes off her.
All of a sudden her loose false teeth bounced out of her mouth and across the floor, breaking into several pieces. The room became instantly and
frighteningly quiet.
Rose fell to the floor; nobody tried to catch her. I worked my way to the end of the pew and ran to the front. The preacher at first seemed delighted
that the Spirit moved me—until I stopped and knelt beside Rose.
“What did you drink, Rose?”
“Strychnine.”
“That’s poison!”
“I’m anointed, child. It won’t kill me.” Rose Paul’s unconvincing voice grew weak. I glanced over at her broken dentures, wondering if the dental bill
would finish her off. I saw movement under the front pew and blinked several times. My eyes were clear and focused, and, more than likely, outside
their sockets.
     “Holy Shit!” I yelled out, snatching a raggedy old toupee off a man’s head as he let out a yelp. I threw it at the snake, hoping he’d think it was a
weak animal he could overpower.
It didn’t work. The humongous snake, thicker than my upper arm, came straight toward me. I could see his beady eyes under the hairpiece as he
moved swiftly across the wood floor. Grabbing the Glock from under my jacket, I aimed and shot the rattlesnake twice.
“She’s got a gun!”
People screamed and stampeded for the doors. The preacher and some of the men jumped me, wrestled the gun away, and pinned me to the wood
floor. Somebody lifted Rose away from the ruckus.
“What are you doing? A snake…under that pew. I killed it for you.”
     Preacher Hawfield shrieked into my face, “You imbecile! That snake and all the others are for this worship service!”
All the others?

Excerpt from Legend of the White Wolf by Terry Spear

Forensic scientist, Faith O'Malley has had a rough day of delayed airplane flights, wintry roads to navigate, a suspected stalker, and a flat tire on the
car rental. What else could go wrong as she ends up in Millinocket, Maine to locate the man who stole her father's research?

Once she reached her room, she slid the key card in. Green light. She twisted the handle and pushed. The door didn’t budge. She tried again. Same
thing. She hated key cards. Why couldn’t they just use regular old brass keys?

She tried a third time and this time she twisted the handle harder and shoved the door more firmly. And was rewarded. Lights were on in the room and
the place was already toasty warm as if the welcoming mat had been set out for her. Perfect. She walked into the room and glanced at the two queen-
sized beds, the chartreuse covers pulled back from the pillow of one, a chocolate wrapped in gold foil sitting on the center of it. She smiled and pulled
off her parka, peeled off her boots, and reached for the phone to call room service when she saw a leather bucket filled with ice. Wow, they sure knew
how to coddle their guests.

That’s when she heard the bathroom door open. She whipped around and faced a naked man towel drying his hair. Or at least until he saw her.

His mouth gaped. Hers matched his expression, and he quickly wrapped the towel around his waist. “I didn’t think room service would come this soon.”
He glanced down at her sock-covered feet, her boots lying beside them.

“I’m not…I’m…they gave me a key to your room by accident.” Faith tried not to look at the man’s physique—too much—but ripped abs, arms muscled
just enough that could give a woman a good hug, and toned legs that looked like they could run a marathon, were just too appealing.

And his eyes—blue like the ocean, dark, hiding a wealth of secrets, that held her gaze with way too much interest as if she was the specialty of the
house and just what he’d ordered on the menu. A light blond stubble covered his square jaw, making him appear a bit roguish and intriguing.

He folded his arms across his broad chest. A light smattering of blond hair trailed down to the towel slung low on his hips. Her gaze dropped lower. He
cleared his throat to get her attention, making her skin heat in a flush of awareness, but he wasn’t moving out of her path. The one she needed to
take to get to the door. Although for now she wished it was her room, and he was part of the amenities.

He inclined his head a little, a hint of a smile on his lips, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Then I guess I’d better get dressed before—”

A knock rapped on the door.

“Too late.” His deeply-amused baritone voice sounded like he was enjoying this a little too much as he turned, took a couple of steps, and opened the
door.

Great. Faith hurried to pull on one boot, when the aroma of steak wafted into the room as a man brought in a tray. Faith’s stomach growled. The room
service guy glanced at her, green eyes smiling. She could just imagine what he was thinking what with the room’s occupant wearing a towel, and her
pulling her boots on.

The toweled guy signed the bill, and the lodge employee grinned, dimples appearing on his ruddy cheeks. “Thanks so much, sir. If you need anything
else, just ring.” He glanced at Faith, smiled even more as if to say she could visit him next if she had a mind to, then left the room.

“Enough for two of us, if you want to split a medium-rare steak, baked potato, and salad,” the sandy-haired hunk said.

“Thanks so much for the offer, but I’m returning to the front desk to get the right room key. Have a nice night.” She brushed past the mostly naked
man, smiled when he smiled, then hurried out of the room.

“The night could have been better,” he murmured.

© Terry Spear, 2009

KGB in High Heels by Vanentina Maltseva

“Excuse me?” He was still smiling, but his eyes grew cold.

“This reminds me of a popular Soviet joke. Henry Kissinger attends a reception in Washington, where he meets Valentine Zorin, the Soviet expert on
the US. ‘Tell me, Mr. Zorin,’ he asks, ‘what is your ancestry?’ ‘I'm Russian,’ answers Zorin, nearly choking on his watercress. ‘That’s great,’ smiles
Kissinger. ‘If you’re Russian then I'm American.’”

Geskin’s face turned crimson. It seemed that I have angered him; just what I intended! A polite chat would’ve gotten me nowhere. I needed a fight, an
explosion, a curse in any language, anything to create an atmosphere in which I could play my trump card to its maximum effect.

“I'm afraid I did not quite get the gist of that joke.”

“Oh come on, Baron! You got it.”

“Explain yourself, please!” Geskin's voice was as dry as sand.

Both of us were near the breaking point that I had planned. Surprisingly, I wasn't scared, probably because at that moment Geskin looked exactly his
age. His luster was gone, the capillaries under his discolored eyes became visible, and his hands were shaking. If only he were dressed in a Bolshevik
suit, like the ones sold in the Sakhalin penal colony, this flashy British aristocrat would be indistinguishable from any other aging Russian man, who
spends his days in a long grocery line.

Ah, my dear Baron, I thought with satisfaction, your blue blood isn’t so different after all. You wait, we're just getting started; let's see what you say to
this!

“By the way, Mr. Geskin, do you know what they call you in the KGB?”

“Please stop this idiotic talk!” Geskin stood up and grabbed his magnificent jacket. “Your jokes have crossed the line. This is simply insulting, and I'm
not obliged …”

“The Little Kike.”

“What?” Blood drained from the Baron's face. “What did you say?”

“I said that the KGB officer who briefed me before my trip to Argentina, mentioned your carefully hidden Jewish ancestry, and that you are referred to
as ‘the Little Kike’ in the KGB files.”

If I could measure the barometric pressure of Baron Gerald Geskin's soul right now, it would definitely point to ‘hurricane’. At this moment, I finally
experienced the deep, sweet delirium of gambling, but I was trembling inside. I realized that my blind guess had hit such a festering wound, a tip of an
iceberg of such enormous pride, vanity, snobbery, and ferocious hatred, that …

Suddenly, I was really scared. The Baron's wrinkled neck swelled and turned red, his eyes bulged out, and his hands feverishly searched the pockets
of his trousers, the breast pocket of his shirt, then the jacket, which was still hanging on the back of the chair. He was seeking something, like a drug
addict, without looking, simply relying on his touch. It resembled a séance, where one of the participants is slowly driven insane by the voices from
beyond.

“Baron, are you all right?”

But Geskin couldn’t hear me. He slowly collapsed on the bed, awkwardly tumbling to one side, and began wheezing.

An instant later, I heard a strange, raspy sound, similar to slowly scraping nails on the chalkboard. I covered my ears to escape the nasty noise, which
was piercing my nerve-endings, but it still reached me, evoking a feeling of doom. It took a few more minutes to realize that this horrible sound was my
own screaming.
* * *
Thirty or so minutes later, Geskin began coming around. I have no idea what he experienced during that half-an-hour, but I had enough time to
recollect my whole life; all of my relatives, friends and schoolmates; plus a few things I knew about the detention of women in Latin America, the phone
number of the Soviet embassy, and a totally irrelevant dry-cleaners receipt that vanished.

That’s it, he is going to kick the bucket now, I thought sadly. There will be a police investigation, the forensics will find Luminal in his blood, and I’ll be
interrogated. God, why has this all happened to me?

No knowing what to do, I turned on the TV. Staring at the screen like an imbecile, I listened to the harsh Spanish words, bursting like bullets from the
news anchor’s frog-like mouth, and adding to the terror inside me. Geskin was breathing unevenly, occasionally snorting like an old irritated horse.

“Wake up, Baron,” kneeling near the bed, I cautiously patted Geskin's flabby cheek, noting that he looked more and more like a cooling corpse.
Geskin snorted again, this time with a different, more optimistic resonance, and opened his eyes.

“I need Terstagen, quickly,” he said very quietly, almost whispering.

“Who's that, the British cultural attaché?”

“It's my medicine — pills,” rasped the Baron. “They are in the pocket of my valise, in my room. Please bring it, I do not feel well at all.”

“Yes, of course,” I murmured, standing up. The Baron's resurrection was very timely. Without hesitation, I grabbed his keys and rushed along the
already familiar route: hallway, elevator, hallway, door, and ….

Nothing had changed in the luxurious apartment during the hour of my absence. I flew upstairs, thrust the bedroom door open, threw open the valise,
and in one of its compartments I indeed found a batch of stiff packets with colored pills.

“Don't waste your time, there's no Terstagen there,” a familiar voice spun me around. The Baron was standing in the doorway, his jacket and tie on,
showing no signs of the recent attack. In his right hand, he held a gun.

WIP of "What Do You Think God Sees When He Looks At You?"
by Lynne Cole

Our first meeting was only 2 days away but God was still silent. I wanted to be prepared when I met with the 2 women God had asked me to share
with. He specifically asked me to tell them what He had been teaching me about Himself these past several months.

You see, He has taken things I already knew and had read and had in my head and my heart. Now He is putting them into a deeper part of my being.
He’s giving me a deeper understanding and revelation of His Word.

Now the first day we were to meet and I had nothing prepared. I’d been asking God what I was to do this first day.
Nothing…..

The night before the meeting as I felt panic coming over me, I asked Him again, “What am I to prepare for tomorrow?”

Finally He said,
Ask them what they think I see when I look at them.

Okay…..?? That seemed a bit strange, but OK.

When we got together I explained to them what I’ve just written and asked them to write down their answers. Then since they were ok with sharing
their answers we started talking about what they had written. God took over the group! We had a fantastic time discussing what God sees when He
looks at us and why. We proceeded to talk about this for 1 ½ hours!!!

From that day on God just wouldn’t let go of that question. “What do you think I see when I look at you?”

He told me to send out an email to all my Christian friends asking them His question. I did.

I started receiving answers. The more I read the answers, the more God showed me that my preconceived notion of why He was having me ask this
question was wrong!

Many answers were obviously given after the person gave much thought to the question. I began to really be amazed at what the people were saying.

God was blessing my sox off!

After a while I thought, “This would make an interesting article to blog.” So Blog I did.

Then later the Lord spoke to me again. This time He said I was to write a book!

HUH?? A book, me????

“AHUH . . . . . A book . . . . . you!”

OK. . . . . Then I began to ponder, prayerfully, “how am I to put the answers to this question together in book form?”

SILENCE……..

Uh, Lord, I want to get writing.
What and how??? Um, WHEN??

More silence.

I felt He wanted me to post His question on some Christian sites on Facebook. So I did. Since I also blog on thoughts.com I asked the question there
also. Answers started trickling in.

More waiting . . . . .

Okay, Lord, I’m waiting for more direction……… please????

One day when I had about given up God gave me the next step!

Well, I’m the kind that likes to write from my heart. So I wasn’t thrilled when God told me to quote scripture to back up what my heart was saying. I’m
not one that enjoys research.
By God’s Grace I find I now enjoy it!  (Note: Jan 11, 2010 - the more I do it the more He teaches me. I really enjoy it now.)

By mid November of 2009 I had obediently sent the question to every Christian I know.

The responses were so diverse and unique. God was opening my eyes. You see, when I started this project I felt there was only one answer. It only
took a matter of weeks for me to realize that is not the case.

God expresses Himself uniquely
in each one of His children.
One size does not fit all.
God is so good!

This book conveys the open and honest heart felt responses of some of God’s children. Most are from the United States. Although, some are from
other countries, including, Sweden, Indonesia, Hong Kong, India and Africa.

All responses are entered in the book the way they were received. I don’t want to take a chance by making corrections and end up changing the
meaning of anything that is said. Words are misspelled; all rules of editing are thrown out the window. Leave the mistakes I told the publisher. The
desire is to let the heart of the person answering meld with your heart and God’s.

One thing I want to point out. Not everyone that responds to this question is a Born Again, Jesus is my Savior, Christian. Some of the answers are by
people that believe in “a” god. Some are non-believers that are spreading their misinformation. I’ve been wrestling with what God would have me do.
Should I include the responses of those that don’t believe Jesus Christ is God? I believe God is saying I am to include them. Thus the “tares” amongst
the wheat.

Look for this book (title unsure at this time but the question will be in the title in some form) at Amazon and Barnes and Noble this summer or fall. It is
not finished yet but the publisher has been chosen and they’re just waiting on me to get started. I hope to be done by the end of March.

Excerpt from “Savage Heart” by Dellani Oakes
Sequel to “Indian Summer”

His second night out, Sailfish sat up suddenly, woken from a deep sleep. What sound had he heard that startled him? Surely there were few creatures
who would approach him with a fire beside him? Lying down, he pretended to fall back to sleep, forcing his breathing to become slow and even.

A twig breaking betrayed the intruder's position. Sliding his knife out of its sheath, he lay still, controlling his breathing. Whoever it was made little
pretense of quiet. Stumbling near the fire, nearly falling in it, his visitor dropped to the ground.

Sailfish smelled fresh blood. The breathing was ragged, pain laden. Opening his eyes, he rose slowly to his knees. It was apparent whoever it was
wouldn't put up a fight, but that didn't mean that it was safe. Scanning the horizon, he noticed it was near dawn. The faintest glimmer of light tinged
the far east over the ocean.

The long grass to the west of him rustled, not from wind, for it was still. Crouching, he waited. The bushes parted and out limped a panther. It looked
old, battle worn, injured. Blood flecked its flank, crusted and caked in the tawny fur in the folds of skin beneath its right foreleg.

Snarling and growling, it approached the body in a heap by the fire. Springing awkwardly, it tried to land on its prey, but Sailfish intercepted its lunge.
Tackling it, he knocked it off balance, driving his knife into the creature's bared chest. Twice more he stabbed it, blood spurting from its wounds,
nearly blinding him as he hit an artery.

It didn't put up much of a fight, for it was already weak from blood loss. Once it was dead, he dragged it away from his camp and washed himself in the
river. Taking his tin pot, he filled it with water, carrying it back to the huddled form on the ground. He built up the fire and started the water heating.
When it was boiling, he added herbs to the water and set it aside to steep.

The sun was rising in earnest now. Grateful for the light, he gently rolled the body on its back, feeling for a pulse. He couldn't find one in the wrist, so
moved to the neck. It was faint, thready, but continuous. Breath came in short, shallow gasps. Blood oozed from half a dozen wounds.

Taking his knife, he cut the breeches away from the legs. Working steadily with rags from the clothing, he dabbed at the slashes. None were very
deep, but there were many. The fellow was lucky the panther was old and hurt or he'd surely be dead.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, he saw the face more clearly. The features were neatly chiseled, the cheekbones high, the eyes wide set under a
curved brow. The young man looked to be of mixed lineage, probably a mulatto, though there could have been some blood of the River People as
well. Long lashes lay still against the pallid cheeks. Curly black hair was cropped just above the shoulders, falling loose around his face.

Sailfish finished cleaning the leg wounds, binding each one with cloths from his pack. His water was too bloody to continue, so he dumped it out on
the ground. Washing the pan, he refilled it, heating another batch of herbs. While it steeped, he cut the shirt away from the torso, tugging it open.

With a cry of surprise, Sailfish fell backward. The person lying on the ground wasn't a young man at all. Puzzled, he gazed into the silent face. "Who
are you and where do you come from?"

A Cutthroat Business
by Bente Gallagher

      It took me four minutes longer than the fifteen I had promised before I could pull my pale-blue Volvo — the safest car on the road — to a stop
behind the sleek, black Harley-Davidson waiting in the circular driveway. The man straddling the seat matched the motorcycle: dark, muscular, and
more than a little dangerous. The T-shirt might as well have been painted on for all that it left to the imagination, and the tattoo peeking from under
the left sleeve looked like the tail end of a viper curled around his bicep.
      I hesitated before I opened the car door. Real estate can be a scary business on occasion. Those of us who are involved in it advertise our faces
and phone numbers all over town, then agree to meet total strangers who call, claiming to want to see an empty house somewhere. Often in an area
that isn’t the best, like the one I found myself in now. Sometimes — rarely, but it happens — one of us gets attacked. And there was something about
this man that suggested that I ought to step carefully. So I did, both because it seemed prudent and because the gravel was difficult to navigate on
four inch heels heels. “Sorry I’m late. I’m Savannah Martin...”
     And then I stopped — dead, if you’ll pardon the pun — when he removed the mirrored sunglasses and I met his eyes.
     They were as dark as those on a Jersey cow, and surrounded by long, thick, curving eyelashes. There’s nothing wrong with my lashes — nothing
a liberal application of make-up can’t correct, at any rate — but I would have sold my soul to possess his. He could hawk mascara for Maybelline with
those lashes. Not that that was the reason I was staring.
     “Struck speechless by my good looks, darlin’?” His voice was amused.
     “Sorry,” I managed, fighting back a blush. How mortifying, to be caught staring...! “For a second there you looked familiar, but...”
     “You ain’t never forgotten me?” He grinned. White teeth flashed against golden skin, and a ghostly memory stirred, like an alligator in a swamp,
but it subsided without breaking the surface.
     “Um...” I said, distracted. The grin widened wickedly.
When I didn’t say anything else, he added, “Been back to Sweetwater lately?”
     So he was from back home. Well, it made sense. The drawl, slow as molasses, was pure South, and he wasn’t someone I had met recently, or I
would have remembered.
     “A few weeks ago,” I said slowly, running mental mug shots past my inner eye. “You?”
     “That’d be telling.” Another grin curved his lips and the alligator stirred again. I concentrated, and almost had it, but just as I was about to reach
out and grasp it, it slipped through my fingers once more.
     “You couldn’t give me a hint, could you?”
     I smiled hopefully. He contemplated me in silence for a few seconds before he said accommodatingly, “Sure. Columbia High.”
     I nodded. Of course. He was someone I had gone to high school with. That explained it. Long enough ago that I wouldn’t necessarily remember
him right off; not so long ago that I had forgotten entirely. But there had been hundreds of students in my high school, from all over Maury County and
beyond. How in the world did he expect me to recognize him after all this time...?
     And then the brick dropped, or the alligator reared, or whatever. I jumped back. “Oh, my God! Rafael Collier. You’re...”
     “Guilty as charged.” He made a little mocking half-bow. His voice was pleasant, but his eyes were anything but. They had turned as black as the
metal of the motorcycle he’d been riding, and approximately twice as hard. I swallowed and opened my mouth. And put my foot in it.
     “I thought you went to prison.”
     He lifted an eyebrow. Just one; the other didn’t move so much as a fraction of an inch. “That was twelve years ago, darlin’. I got out.”
     Obviously. I swallowed again and took another step back.