

A Picture is Worth 1,000 Words.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright: A Picture is Worth 1,000 Words 2015.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other person. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you'd like to share it with. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Introduction

As you may know, this book started out as the 'A Picture is Worth 1,000 Words' writing challenge in aid of the Polycystic Kidney Disease UK Charity, which does amazing work to assist those – and their families – with this degenerative illness. Many authors jumped at the opportunity to take on a task that they assumed wouldn't be difficult, but not all of them completed it!

I would first of all like to thank everyone that took part – especially to those who did pass the finish line. As I did it myself I know how hard it really was. World Kidney Day (12th March, 2015) was a very stressful occasion for me! On the note of gratitude, a special thank you has to be extended to Jaclyn Ann Lee, the founder of the Darling Willow editing company. Her hard work made stories that were hurried to meet a deadline into wonderful pieces of prose.

All of the stories that have been included in the anthology are brilliantly written and initially inspired by the images which I sent out to each of the authors. These can be viewed at samiesands.com/pictures. The stories read extremely well without this visual aid, but I know a lot of you will be very interested to know where the stories began!

As all of these writers tend to work in different styles and genres, the stories are extremely unique and different. I hope that by reading this anthology, you will not only enjoy the 1,000...well, 1,000ish...word stories, but that you'll also find some new authors that you may not have discovered otherwise!

Happy reading!

Samie Sands 

Waiting for Forever

Jaclyn Ann Lee

It's October first. The last day of fair season.

I trek across the abandoned fairground that once hosted to the majestic state fair with my trusty blue lunch sack in tow. An excited smile pulls at the corner of my lips as I traverse the exact same path that I do on the exact same day every year.

This is the first and the last place I saw Rose. My sweet, beautiful Rose, with a face and fragrance as sweet at the name itself would suggest.

I nod to the rusted ruins of the once functional amusement rides. I salute to the tattered red and white covers, draped in shreds from lopsided metal frames. The creaking of metal and the waving of fabric was an informal greeting from inanimate friends that I have known for the greatest portion of my life. This was like a yearly reunion for pathetic members of some pitiful, singles club. Age was the only thing we had to show for years gone by.

My eyes fall upon a particular ride in the distance, perched like some noble statue on top of a hill. It was a swing ride, which sat patrons in separate seats and swung them high into the air. It was terrifying, or at least it was for the kids in the 1940's, though I highly doubted today's youth would find much thrill in its simplicity.

This was mine and Rose's favourite ride.

I pick up the pace as quickly as my knobby knees will allow until I find myself at the eroded fence surrounding the ride. The gate swings open with a noisy groan and I step inside, remembering the pimply-faced youth who used to run this ride for his folks until he enlisted in the Army. He perished in the Second World War a year after I shipped, shortly before my return I discovered. The town mourned the loss of the happy-go-lucky kid who wanted to be a doctor when he grew up.

Approaching the ride's foundation, I hike up my pant legs and sit down on the platform with a grunt. This old body can't take the distance of the walk like it used to. I massage the ache from my archaic muscles. Peeling open the top of the blue sack, my stomach grumbles as I peer down into its cosily tucked contents. One by one, I withdraw the ingredients of my picnic lunch—the same lunch that I bring with me every time I visit this place. For the last sixty years. I withdraw a thermos of sweet tea, two plastic cups, two red apples, two freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, and two ham and cheese sandwiches. Lettuce, tomato, extra mayo—and the crust cut off, of course.

Rose hated crust.

I sit the contents beside me, putting space between the pairs to indicate a setting for someone else. Someone that I have been waiting forever for.

I lift my sandwich to my mouth and bite into the soft bread. My old eyes scan the time-eroded fairground, picturing with absolute clarity each and every time I venture to this place.

It began in 1941.

I was a young boy of only eighteen when I caught my first glimpse of Rose Montgomery. Enthralled by her beauty, it was love at first sight for me when I saw her figure cast against the romantic backdrop of a moonlit night at the fair. I will never forget the way she looked in her pink cotton summer dress, her black curls hanging wildly about her rosy cheeks. Her blue eyes dazzled under the night sky and I was bewitched by their mischievous charm. When our gazes locked, I knew that Rose was the only woman for me. She was the only woman I would ever love. To this day, I have never loved another.

Rose was a stranger to our quaint little town, on a country vacation with her parents and younger sister for the summer. Her home was in Baltimore and her northern cadence sounded so prim and proper to my Virginian southern ears. We spent every day of her vacation here at the ground, beginning with flirtatious banter and ending with dreams of building a future together. She wanted six kids, the universe willing, and she wanted to sing each of them to sleep with her favourite song "Over The Rainbow" by Judy Garland. Her sweet voice sounded just like an angel singing. When I wasn't trying to impress her by winning the largest stuffed bear, we perched on these swings and laughed, reaching out and trying to hold hands while the pimply-faced attendant tried to tell us not to. It was dangerous, he said. It was difficult to listen to his falsetto authority, so his warning went unheeded while we laughed.

Summer ended too soon that year. Rose was college-bound in the fall. She wanted to pursue an education in nursing. We shared a deep, passionate kiss on that final night when the swings stopped moving, refusing to get off to allow the next set of riders on board. She whispered words of promise that I have carried me through six decades of longing—words that echo in my head each night before I fall asleep and each day as I wake.

"Wait for me, James. Don't go and fall in love with someone else while I am gone." She batted her lovely eyes at me playfully, but I knew that she meant it with all her heart.

"Rose, I'll be waiting for forever," I promised her.

We made a deal that night that we would meet the next summer on the last night of fair season. Fate had other plans for us, and that next summer was not to be. My number was up shortly after turning nineteen, and I was drafted into the war to serve our country in the military. I wrote her and told her the news, promising her that nothing would change and that I would be back before she could miss me and we would be together again under the swings.

We continued our love affair through correspondence the best that we could. I sent her countless letters and I lived for the day when somehow one of her perfectly penned prose would find me.

As the years went on and one year in the military bled into another and then another, the letters grew farther and farther apart. I still wrote her every day but slowly her letters grew less frequent and more impersonal. I assured her that I would wait for her and that one day soon I would be at the fairground on the last day of the season.

I returned home after three years on active duty. I counted the days until October first and when the day came, I dressed in my Sunday best and came to this very place. There was no Rose, though. And no word from her that could explain her absence. She must have been busy with school, I assumed, and so I waited for the following year. Still, there was no Rose.

No word from my beloved came the next year. Or the year after that. There were faint whispers and rumours that Rose had got married the year after I left for war, but I refuse to believe that. Even today, even after six decades, I live on hope.

I never married. Sure, I tried dating a time or two. I even met a very nice woman in my thirties that would have made an excellent wife. I couldn't bring myself to establish anything past a friendship with Miriam, though she desperately wanted to. It wouldn't have been fair to her, knowing that my heart could never truly belong to another. I've waited patiently, working as a humble mechanic and living by humble means.

I sigh happily and take another bite of my sandwich. It was her favourite and over the years it has become my favourite, too. It's around noon now, still plenty of time for her to arrive. I will wait here until the sun sets in the sky and the fairground grows dark to blend in with the tangled overgrowth of the woods. No one but me has set food here in forty two years, since the fair relocated and the old attractions were abandonded, but this place still holds magic for me. It still holds the chance that I might see Rose again. I will live on that hope until my last breath.

When the sun goes down tonight I will leave and begin my plans for next year's return. I will be here next year. And the year after that. And the year after that.

I'll be waiting for forever.

I pick up the thermos of sweet tea and pour two glasses. Raising my cup in cheer, I tilt my head back to savour the cool liquid. As I drain the last drops from the cup, movement at the far front gates catches my attention. My weary eyes focus towards the distance on a set of dim car day lights.

I hear "Over the Rainbow" softly drift from inside the strange vehicle and it fills the fairground with the haunting memories of my Rose's favourite song. I close my eyes and can almost hear her singing.

A car door slams and the music is abruptly cut off. I wipe my mouth and stand up to straighten my now hunched body, smoothing the lines in my Sunday best.

Thousands of butterflies flap in unison inside my stomach, as I prepare for the first company I have had in this place in many, many years.

Grandpa's Ghost

Lila L. Pinord

Grandma Lizzie was ailing, so I took it upon myself to go and visit and perhaps spend the summer there on her little farm. Actually, it couldn't be called a farm anymore. As my grandma grew older and couldn't handle the necessary chores, there were no more pigs grunting behind their pens, no more squawking chickens running loose in the yard, no more cows mooing in the fields and barn. The fruit trees were badly neglected.

"Why aren't you in school?" Lizzie asked. I'd been taking classes in the local community college.

"It's summer, Gran," I replied as I hugged her. "I'm taking the quarter off so I can visit with you."

She grinned, showing what teeth she had left.

One morning soon after, I took a stroll around the place. That's when I caught sight of an old piano with a Sycamore tree growing up through its middle. What a sight that was!

Why haven't I noticed this before..?

Someone had obviously moved Grandma's old iron bed into the living room facing the window where she had a clear view of the "piano-tree", as I would come to think of it.

"How are you feeling today, Gram?" I asked as I set a tray holding herbal tea and crackers for lunch beside her bed.

"I'm okay, Honey. I just feel weak at times. Forgive me if I'm not very good company." Her eyes glazed over a bit and wandered toward the window. I watched as a small smile formed on her lined face. I glanced out too and curiosity got the better of me.

"How did that old piano get there with that spindly tree growing through it?" I finally asked.

"When your grandpa and I first fell in love with this place, we hired a truck and driver to haul our things out here. Halfway through the job of unloading, the driver said he was running late and asked if it would be okay to just leave some in the yard and he would come back later to get the heavier stuff into the house. We agreed, but he never returned. So your grandpa was left with the job."

"Well, my God, I hope you got your money back from those movers!"

"We didn't bother, thought it was not worth the hassle. Now I wish we had because the sad part is that after hauling everything in but the piano we were too tired and decided it could wait until the following day."

Gran's eyes glistened and she took a shuddering breath before continuing.

"You probably never knew this, but that was the day my Eddie passed on, trying with all his might to move that big ol' stubborn piano by himself. Proved to be too much for his heart."

Now a lone tear slid down one cheek.

"I'm sorry, Grandma. I didn't mean to bring back memories of such a sad day."

Then she did the oddest thing. Grandma Lizzie gave a little wave toward the window she was forever gazing through.

What—or who—was she waving to? I craned my neck to peek out and didn't see a soul, just the "piano-tree", as I called it in my mind.

"Who is out there, Gran? I don't see who you waved to."

"Grandpa is there." She said quietly.

My mind quickly flashed back to my mother who had said that Gram had some memory problems now and then.

Gram must have read my mind as she stated, "No, Honey. When the sun is just right, when it sends its rays down to shine upon the piano, my Eddie is there, still trying to move it into the house. I wave to him and when he spots me, he smiles and waves back. He leaves until the next time..."

Her shaky voice trailed off and she laid back to rest her head upon the pillow.

I didn't try to contradict anything she said, but the next day about the same time I sat out on the porch and waited for the sun to make its appearance and bathe the piano tree with brilliant light.

It did and my eyes widened when I saw Grandpa, his ghost, his spirit, pushing on that old piano. Eventually, he stopped his efforts when he spotted me and gave a little wave.

I waved back.

Country Life

Rob Shepherd

Sonja looked up at the sign then back down at the road map spread out on her lap. Signs seemed far and few between now. This added to their difficulty of trying to locate where exactly they were now on the map. Since the last major junction they had taken after a long and protracted discussion between Sonja and Ed, they hadn't seen any real markings let alone proper signs that were on the map or gave them any clue at all as to whereabouts on the map they may be.

They had agreed to keep following the general direction they had worked out on the map that should take them to the party at her old school friends' new home. The signs and markings were rapidly disappearing, being replaced instead with more hedges, trees, crumbling old stone walls and rotting old gates leading no doubt to derelict farms or long since abandoned old homes. The road became gradually more and more difficult, until they were on little more than a barely used B-road.

A forest, thick and deep with giant old trees and foliage undergrowth sat on their left with a persistent steep bank. It was dotted with hedges and old unkempt shrubs, half dying off, leaving jagged branches to jot out like lethal spiked fingers trying to stab any traffic stupid enough to pass, just like Ed and Sonja.

The road was becoming almost impossible for their modern urban saloon; it was sleek, smooth, made out almost entirely of aluminium and plastic and just like 90% of all the other cars their friends and other people used these days. It was utterly unremarkable in every way. They knew they had been lost for a good 50 miles or further, but finding no other way to turn off and go another direction, they were stuck on this crappy road.

Ed pulled the car in to what was barely describable as a lay-by and the pair of them looked at each other, both thinking the same thing but not saying it. Turn around and find another route, late was better than being lost in the middle of nowhere.

Just as Ed nodded and began to turn the car around and return in the direction they came from, Sonja spoke up "Wait! Look, there. There's a house there, maybe we can get directions back on to the right road. Unless your manly inbuilt compass would suffer too much emasculation" Sonja teased Ed.

"Sod that. I'm no better with a map than you are remember?". He laughed back. The one thing Ed was not was precious or protective over his man skills.

"So shall we ask over there then?" Sonja asked once more.

"Come on" Ed continued "They must know where we have gone wrong".

The couple drove up the sloped drive, old dry walls keeping the bank away just enough for now, but Sonja wondered how long it would be before nature dispensed with it and blocked off the access altogether. As they began to pull up to the house they could clearly see how everything was unkempt. It seemed like nothing had been looked after for years, it certainly wasn't being tended right now, that was for sure. Brambles, knotweed, nettles, vines, and ivy—some still a little green, but mostly yellow and dry—smothered the property and its entrance drive way. Old trees parked out at the front of the house stood as much of a monument of the life that had been lost as to anything still left alive, standing there vicariously, parched and rotten. They appeared as though one whack would send them crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust.

The couple climbed out of the car and began to walk up to the front of the less than impressive house, given the size of land that it occupied.

"Hey, check that out." Sonja pointed to their left, where an old truck sat, broken, rusting and almost lonely it seemed.

"Woah, I haven't seen one of those in years. They must have stopped making those in the fifties, sixties maybe. Man, I would kill to have one of those." Ed took the opportunity to take a closer look, much to Sonja's irritation. "Five secs, that's all, I promise." Sonja rolled her eyes in defeat. "Hang on!" Ed said. This time, in confused surprise more than anything.

"What is it?" Sonja sighed, looking at her watch. They were supposed to be at the party more than half an hour ago.

"What did you say your friends name was?" Ed asked.

"What? Kathy, why?" It was Sonja's turn to be confused.

"What about her husband's name?" He continued.

"Tony. WHY?"

"I think this is theirs." Ed pulled out some cards and paperwork, displaying their names.

Sonja looked at them and shook her head, confused. "This can't be right. It doesn't make sense. We better check with the house and see what's going on, in case they got in trouble."

The couple approached the front door of the house. Ed knocked on it, but there was no answer, no matter how loudly he banged. On the last attempt, the door gave and swung gently to a partial open with a creak. Dust blew out from the house and into their faces, making them cough. Undeterred, the pair entered the old decrepit house. It looked like nothing had been touched in years. Dusty and full of cobwebs. The smell of dust and wood rot was almost too much.

A set of steps greeted them as they walked further into the house, peeping out from another partially open door. They walked closer looking for signs of life, but to no avail. Suddenly without warning Ed and Sonja found themselves tumbling uncontrollably down the steps, ending up in a heap together at the bottom. Pained and sporting clear injuries from the fall, the couple helped each other up as they dripped blood from various cuts all over their bodies. They looked back in unison, back to the doorway and steps they had just fallen through and down. Puzzled and afraid, all they saw was a shadow as the door slammed shut.

Turning to their left, they saw a group of cages, all large enough to house large animals, like wolves or even bears. Holding each other, they limped past until they were directly in front of the end cages. Something was in them. Pulling a lighter out of his pocket to shed some light on the dark cellar-like room, they peered and Sonja screamed loudly with utter terror.

Two figures greeted them, their bodies long-since decomposed to near skeletons. One had clearly been a male at one time, while the other had clearly been a female. Both sported the exact same clothing that Ed and Sonja were wearing at that very moment. One wore Sonja's very necklace and the other had on Ed's watch and with his lighter in its hand. Sonja checked her neck and found necklace was missing. As was Ed's watch. The pair looked at his other hand to check the lighter, then, in an instant, the flame went out and the cellar was plunged into pitch black.

The scream could be heard for miles emanating from the dark vented cellar underneath the old house—if only people ever came this way still—while an old saloon sat rusting in the drive, covered with brambles and ivy.

Lake Effect

Andy Lockwood

The Department of Natural Resources truck jostled and jumped, pitching its three occupants back and forth inside the cab. The uneven terrain was rough at any speed, shifting the truck back and forth like a carnival ride. It wasn't a route that accommodated large vehicles in the best weather, yet here they were in the worst of it.

Old Charlie had given them a calculated look as they headed out following their lead. They knew what he wanted to say—expected him to, even—but he just glared as the truck passed and went back into his store.

"Stupid people think they can outsmart the weather 'round here," he coughed out more than once. "You want to be smart? Then don't be stupid. You see the weather turnin', you get the hell to shelter. Winter's not to be trusted." And he was right, he had learned the hard way. Old Charlie lost three fingers and part of a foot to frostbite many years earlier. He learned his lesson and cautioned strangers heading to the woods and the trails. A living, breathing public service announcement.

In the two years Jason Hofstedder had been partnered with Rich Thompkins, guarding the northeast forests of Michigan, they'd seen it happen too often. They'd seen people stranded, lost, frostbitten and nearly frozen to death. It was often attributed to lake effect conditions. Storms would build up as they crossed Lake Michigan and pummel the region till they ran out of steam.

Smarter men would have waited out the storm. Sergeant Thompkins didn't believe in waiting, he believed in acting, and he'd said so almost as many times as Old Charlie had said his bit.

But if they didn't look into this, a girl could be dead by morning.

The weekend was over and Jason was ready for a quiet end to his workweek. There would probably be a call or two, but he anticipated the remainder of his week would be spent behind his desk.

Less people means less trouble. Jason smiled and looked at the paperwork that still needed to be processed from the weekend. Nothing awful, mostly people caught trying to have their fun on the cheap—without the proper permits. Most of what he did with his week was keep order in the forest.

"Bringing law to the lawless," Thompkins liked to call it. He walked with the same swagger Jason had seen in countless westerns. Thompkins would probably have spurs if they weren't against the dress code. Even then, Jason could almost hear them when Thompkins walked past.

Still, not all bad company, he reminded himself. The sergeant was a bit full of himself, but a good teacher. Two short years and Jason was impatiently awaiting a promotion and a field office of his own.

The door opened, bitter cold air trailing the walls of the office, circling its victims before diving into the room. Jason shuddered even before he had a chance to look up. When he did, his heart went as cold as the room.

A young man shuffled into the room. He was pale white, his lips and the circles under his eyes dark, a bluish purple in the cold light of day. Every inch of him looked to be covered in a layer of permafrost.

"Help."

The word was barely a whisper. Jason was already moving, grabbing the fire blanket from the first aid cabinet and calling for the sergeant. They got him settled in, offering him hot tea to help with the process.

"Call an ambulance, he needs real attention."

Jason nodded at the command, but the young man grabbed his hand.

"We have to find Robin." They strained to hear, his voice as lifeless as his touch. Jason pulled his hand away, rubbing the warmth back into it.

"Where did you see her last?" But the boy shook his head.

"Don't know. I need to show you."

Jason looked at his commander. Thompkins had a stern look on his face, shaking his head slowly, as if listening to a recommendation he wasn't thrilled with. Finally, he cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. He grabbed Jason, pulling him away by the elbow.

"Get the truck heated up. Pack some extra blankets, and double the first aid."

"But sir—."

"No buts, Hofstedder. The weather's coming, and if that girl looks anything like him, we're already on borrowed time."

They kept an eye on the kid as they drove. They tried asking him more questions, but he would only shake his head and point.

"No time. Find Robin."

Jason was worried about shock or hypothermia—he only knew how to keep people stable till help arrived. The kid was looking worse all the time. He was still pale, too pale, but now he was covered in a sheen of sweat. His joints were still stiff and frozen as he pointed, guiding them at trail points, leading them deeper into the woods.

Everything was coated in radiating white. It always reminding Jason of Dean Martin's "It's a Marshmallow World." The clouds were getting thicker, making it hard to spot anything out of the ordinary. It was too dark to see clearly in sunglasses, but too bright to see well without them.

Ten miles of steady jostling brought them to a clearing that ran toward both edges of the horizon. It was a place where the pipeline had cut through long ago, where later phone poles were put to follow the same routes. Only grass and weeds grew here now, like an ugly scar in the middle of the forest.

"There."

Both officers turned to the boy, who pointed down a trail that followed the edge of the tree line across the field. Jason stared and leaned forward, adjusting his sunglasses. Through the windows, the world was white and scorched the eyes unprotected. It was too bright to see anything clearly. Thompkins urged the truck forward along the trail. Just off the trail they could see a large mound, one that seemed out of place in the clearing. The sergeant let the truck roll to a stop.

They both stepped out into the cold, meeting at the driver's side, staring at the mound. It was a large heap of snow, perfectly sculpted. It was close to three feet high and jutted out another four feet where it tapered to nothing at the shoulder of the trail. It could have been a large bush or a boulder by the look of it, but both officers knew there was nothing on the pipeline. No foliage, and no outcroppings.

Jason pulled on his gloves, they were thick and padded, going over the sleeves of his coat and halfway up his arm. He began dusting at the top, watching the powder cause a small avalanche, building and cascading down the slopes of the mound. He squinted, scrutinizing what lay under the surface of the snow, then stumbled back a foot. Sergeant Thompkins braced his shoulder, but Jason heard his breath catch just the same.

A face was buried under the snow. Thompkins stepped forward and together they pushed the snow off the body so they could have a better look.

It was a girl, and they assumed her name was Robin. She looked about the same age as the boy, in a thick wool hat and parka. What bothered them more than knowing they were too late was the look on her face. When a person freezes to death, they relax. The face is calm, and other than the bluish colour, they appear to be sleeping. Robin was not sleeping. Robin was shielding her eyes away from something she didn't want to see. One hand was up and held palm out away from her. Against all reason, it appeared she was frozen at the moment of her death.

They were so stunned by her appearance that they almost didn't notice she was holding on to something in her other hand. It was a glove. The glove led to an arm, which lead to another body. They quickly uncovered the second body. The boy hadn't mentioned anything about another body.

"Oh Jesus," Jason couldn't suppress it. He stepped back and unbuckled his sidearm, his focus now on the truck.

"Calm down, Hofstedder. No reason to panic." But Jason heard it, the momentary hitch in the sergeant's throat. This was a perfect reason to panic.

Robin was arm in arm with a boy—the boy—who shared the same desperate look on his face. He was half-turned in her direction, his teeth clenched as if he froze solid mid-word. They were back to back, legs kicked out in all directions.

"They were surrounded." Jason said it, but he didn't believe it. Surrounded by what?

He turned without another thought and marched back to the truck. He pulled open the back door and withdrew his sidearm at the same time.

A puddle cascaded out the door and splashed onto the icy trail. Jason was pointing his gun at no one. The blankets were wrapped around nothing now. They were soggy and collapsing in on themselves like old wreckage. Jason could feel his brain catch fire as he tried to process the information. It didn't make sense at all.

"Officer! Just what the hell—." But Sergeant Thompkins didn't finish. He saw the same thing Jason did. His brain was dealing with the exact same dilemma now. "What the hell?" He repeated.

"Sergeant?" Jason turned to him, hoping there was an answer. One that made more sense than his brain was providing. Something moved in all the white beyond Thompkins' shoulder, and Jason swung his gun.

He wanted to call out. He wanted to make sure the sergeant was seeing the same thing. A small voice in his brain said it could be a mirage. It was rare, but it happened. The only sound that escaped his throat sounded small and panicked and very unhappy being pushed out of its hiding place.

Jason turned in place, his sidearm swaying to cover all the angles in his field of vision. Standing directly in front of the truck and in clear sight of the bodies were the boy and Robin. The boy had the pale complexion and the permafrost all over him again. The girl had the same crust of winter all over her.

Beyond them, dozens of other faces stared at him. They were all pale, all covered in white frost.

"Sergeant?"

"I'm sorry, Hofstedder."

Jason tried to turn and jumped instead as the shot rang out. Sergeant Thompkins' body collapsed beside the truck, dead by his own hand. The blood steamed, melting away the snow like acid.

Jason tried not to panic himself. He tried to see a way out of this, but there wasn't one. Even if he could make every bullet count, he was still gravely outnumbered.

They shuffled slightly closer, watching with cold eyes that burned with hunger.

Jason Hofstedder pursed his lips in sadness and frustration and bent his elbow, turning his sidearm inward. He closed his eyes and hoped there was something better waiting on the other side. In the clearing on the pipeline, there was only the ring of a second gunshot, and the low purr of the truck engine.

Old Charlie was right: Winter's not to be trusted.

Sole Warning

L.H. Davis

Devil's Gulch, USA

I woke to a strange sound around midnight. I'd run off a coyote just after dark, but I figured the scrawny thing came back, looking for scraps of the rabbit I'd roasted for dinner. The moon had not yet risen, but the Milky Way had. It hovered over the distant mountains like a gleaming cloud of fairy dust. It looked like someone had painted the sky with that fake snow, the kind Granny used to spray on her windows at Christmas. I lay still, just listening, until the sound came again.

That's creepy.

It wasn't a sound an animal could make—unless frying in a pan.

Fingering my rifle on the blanket beside me, I slowly sat up. Shadows cloaked the dry riverbed and a handful of trees on the far bank, yet the surrounding desert sand shone bright with starlight. A natural wall of rock had my back, so I glanced north and then south. Finding all as it had been before sunset, my eyes returned to the darkened gulch. "It's in the riverbed," I mumbled, getting to my feet. Stepping out beyond the campfire, now a mere heap of glowing coals, I stared out over the open desert. Slowly, as my eyes adapted, a hazy blue cloud materialized over the sand. Sizzling and humming, fine blue lines surged skyward, brighter and higher with each pulse. I flinched as a bolt of lightning arced between earth and sky, rumbling more like a zipper than thunder.

"Damn," I said, staring up at the cloudless sky. "Where'd that come—" I stopped as a brilliant blue star flickered, once...twice...and then flared, scorching the ground as a piercing whistle tore at my ears. Ducking, I clasped my head. Darting first right and then left, I stumbled over my rifle, which I'd dropped in the sand. Snagging it by the sling, I turned to run.

But to where?

With ringing ears, I rubbed the fuzz from my eyes.

Your flashlight!

Armed with my six-volt lightsaber, the best money could buy on Earth, I shouldered my rifle and headed back toward the dry—and very dark—riverbed. Having second thoughts, I returned to the fire, piling it high with wood. Creeping back to the gulch, I searched the steep slope for an easy path down—until he caught my eye.

He stood out in the desert in a circle of dark sand, glowing with a natural—or unnatural—luminosity. Turning slowly, he scanned the empty desert, indifferent to my presence. "Not good," I mumbled as the fire flickered to life behind me. Still mostly featureless, but obviously humanoid, he took a stumbling step my way, shaking his legs as if they'd fallen asleep.

He'll stop at the gulch.

But without slowing, he disappeared into the lightless void. With a shaking hand, I pulled back the bolt of my rifle, hoping only to witness the gleam of a chambered shell. But with a click and a clack, the shiny brass cartridge flew out into the night. Slamming the next into the chamber, I thumbed off the safety.

He rose before me still glowing, appearing much stronger and surer on his feet.

"Hold it right there," I said, shining my lantern in his face. While the eyes of a man glow red, his own beamed back with an iridescent blue. "Crap," I mumbled, backing toward the fire. Feeling my bed roll beneath my boots, I shouldered my rifle. "Stop," I yelled. And he did.

Will you hurt me? he asked.

"I will if you don't keep your distance." Realizing he'd not spoken the words, I asked, "How'd you do that?"

My mode of transport utilizes multidimensional space. Do you comprehend quantum electrodynamic beam theory?

"Um...maybe. But where'd you come from?"

We call our planet Prima. It orbits a small sun near the heart of this galaxy. And you?

"Devil's Gulch. It's a little town about ten miles north of here."

Miles? How near is your little town to this planet?

His thoughts were pleasant, almost soothing. "Devil's Gulch is here...on this planet. This is Earth." He clasped his hands together before him, entwining his long fingers. Only then did I notice his clothing, if that's what it was; it was like he'd been shrink-wrapped in plastic.

Are there others like you...on Earth?

"Just a few billion." His anguish poured over me. I staggered. "What do you want?" I snapped, fighting back tears...his tears.

I want you to know the truth.

"Well then get on with it; you're depressing the hell out of me. I mean-- I don't know what you're doing to me, but I'm not feeling so good. What truth are you talking about?"

A large asteroid is on a collision course with this...Earth.

"How do you know?"

I am a scientist. We have defence systems on Prima designed to prevent such impacts, but we have never had an opportunity to test them. Observing this event, should it occur, will provide valuable information.

"Should it occur? You mean you're not sure?

We only question whether you have the technology to prevent it. Do you?

"I sure as hell don't. And the last I heard, no one else on this planet does either." His despair took my breath. Dropping to my knees, I emptied my stomach. "Damn it. Please...stop. This really bothers you, huh?" I asked, getting to my feet.

Yes, that is why I came. They told me not to get involved, but I had to know.

"Know what?"

I had to know if there is intelligent life on this planet.

"Well," I said with a chuckle, "that's certainly debatable. But why'd you come here? I mean, why are you telling...me?

Because you are here. This is the point of impact.

I glanced up, expecting a fireball. Seeing only gleaming stars, I asked, "When's that thing supposed to hit?"

When this planet is again in this precise location with respect to the stars: one solar orbit.

"A year? Well, don't that lighten the load. Thanks for the warning. I'll make sure I'm a long ways from here by then."

What of the others on this planet? Is your ship large enough to carry them all? Or do you also teleport?

"We got nothing like that. No one from this planet's going anywhere." Feeling another wave of nausea, I said, "Calm down, buddy."

I must leave, he said, turning.

"So how big is this...asteroid?"

It is roughly one third the size of your moon. This world will not survive. Please tell the others. This is your sole warning, he said, stepping down into the darkness.

"They won't believe me," I yelled. "You need to contact the government."

Stepping back into the blackened circle of sand, he turned to face me. We have, he said as the blue haze engulfed him. They...do not listen.

Hidden Underneath

James Bryant

For more years than even the locals could remember, no one had been back here to the scene of the crime. The old mill was abandoned overnight. It soon became embedded with its wooded surroundings, which slowly crept everywhere like a pensive rash. Replacing one form of stain with another, the defiant vegetation covered up the disturbing and sickly stains that were so potent in sections of this former establishment.

Generations of whispers, from the few who actually caught sight of the grotesque scene at the time, told of how natural crystal-clear cool water surging over the metallic wheel had turned thick with blood. The almost constant vapour haze that shone like a halo near the wheel was said to have disappeared entirely as the concentration of red congealed liquid raised the stream's temperature to near lukewarm. Such similarities to biblical stories of water turning into wine only enhanced the deep supernatural feelings that all in the village nearby felt about what had occurred early one winter's morning, with the season but hours since inception.

If this crime scene was a jigsaw puzzle it would be one of all the pieces present but the picture on the cover of the box missing. Decades later and it remains unsolved. Police and locals were left never truly understanding what happened that night. What could have left such a scene to be discovered by the neighbour who'd never slept so well, he had claimed, during the same hours of darkness that the atrocities were believed to have occurred.

No one gave his story any credit.

How could someone so close to the mill as to be almost on its doorstep sleep through what could only have been a frenzied and frantic incident? His bedroom window opened up in full view of the wheel, albeit distorted by a spider's web of foliage from branches off a cluster of well-established ash trees. He wasn't exactly old, but a reasonably fit and healthy young man in his 30s, employed by the family in the mill. His claims of innocence were enough, combined with lack of evidence, to not link him to any aspect of the crime. The howls of despair and horror that he sounded out as he ran from the gruesome scene he had stumbled upon, and down into the village, were so powerful as to be award-winning, stated the first local who came upon him.

It mattered not how his tears flooded his face or his horrified appearance became so deeply engrained in his soul that very few even recognised him after that event. He fell on the right side of the police, but on the wrong side of the locals. His internal and external torture was persistent every day after that night. So much so that he interrogated himself constantly, often heard crying out from the woods, shouting obscenities along with so many unrelated and disconnected words in every sentence. When his cries eventually stopped sounding out one day, no one from the village wanted or desired to find out why silence reigned once more from the countryside.

His disappearance was forgotten as the years progressed. An afterthought to an unimaginable crime that could not be visualised at all from how things looked now. Time wasn't a healer for any of the locals from that generation. As it happens, time was an illusionist. Even as I stand here now, looking at the remains of the mill, nature has disguised so much yet retained a strong mystical impression. That which scared the locals at that time still remains, but in another form, in that of folklore. Although the water no longer flows over the wheel, or even beneath it, there's clearly something that flows through this area. Perhaps it's just the story that goes with the territory that I've heard so many times from those I spoke to at the village pub earlier. There are more versions of the shocking events years ago than shades of green here before me, or stems of ivy fixed like superglue across multiple structures. You'd not think a whole family died here. Their remains were splattered down the watery channel like a conveyer belt from an abattoir, with the wheel's paddles fleetingly containing body parts lodged between them as if there were the bristles on a toothbrush. Who'd think such a tranquil peaceful location as it is now, and was before the crime, could have been so transformed in such an unthinkable and appalling way? The locals didn't, and the vast majority of them never ever visited here. They were relying more on what they were told as evidence that they didn't need to see anything with their own eyes. The police detective investigating at the time reported it as a "surreal" experience to view the setting and an act that was "unrepeatable", although his words made no impact outside of a ten mile radius, as the world ignorantly kept turning.

One can't help but feel on display as you stand here taking in everything you've heard, and combining it with what you see now. There's certainly still a fascination in the events of that night. Much mystery remains, hidden within every version of the story that obscures what little facts were drawn from that day.

Nature itself now hides the dark secrets, literally close to the ground. As I walk over the moss and wild short grass beside the wheel, and take a brief rest upon the bricked structure supporting the object, it's almost as if one is being observed by every fabric of these surroundings. Perhaps that's understandable given the events that went down here, which are trapped within the passage of time since. Perhaps though it's because the soil beneath the ground underneath my feet recognises that it knows, that I know, what it knows.

For as the screams rang out, and the blood flowed all those years ago, I can feel as if I was there, watching, waiting, and knowing it'll all happen again.

Car-Nage

Anthony V. Pugliese

I found the Chevy Corvair in the woods. It was two miles from my old house in Bootjack, California, four miles South from the West Fork Chowchilla River, just where Janet said it would be. Ugly powder green and missing its grill, it sat tinted and rotting. Covered with years of graffiti, its windows and headlights gone. The roof had puckered and corroded, and the seats inside were seared and burned by kids starting fires within its mouldy interior.

My name is Leslie Morath and I left home when I turned twenty-one. When I got the letter from Janet Blair telling me she found the car we had all feared back then, I had to come back, sickly or not, to see it.

We called her Bare-Blair, the group sex-pot. She loved dressing in tight provocative leather hot pants, psychedelic silk mid-drifts with flowery sleeves, revealing tanks, and halter tops showing off her pear-shaped, 42-Bs. She said "groovy" and "far out" a lot and she was the first to see the Corvair riding through our neighbourhood on Morningstar Street when it all began. We ignored the stories about the so-called car killer. We lived, laughed, and went on with our wild lifestyles back in May '72, driving our Corvettes and Chevys when women began missing. We cruised away to the Sunset Strip in LA, Santa Clara and San Francisco.

Buck Cavanaugh. He would have been in his sixties now. He died in prison due to unknown causes after six months. Six foot one, powerful. His ruddy face, gorilla hands, shaggy, brown hair, and the penchant for dressing like a Hell's Angel conveyed the opposite. Not a hippie, a mod, or a biker but a big teddy bear. An average working man who liked hanging out and partying. He liked to do it with us. Janet most of all. They had been seeing each other since after Christmas '71 after he split with Andrea Cantrell. They dated for two years before Janet.

Everyone called Andrea Lily Munster. She loved to wear black. Red hair like a burning bush, black make-up applied to her eyelids, she may have been the first to create the Goth look. She loved Mad Magazine, the occult, witchcraft, horror comics, and Anton Lavey's Satanic Bible. She hated life, the world, the Bomb, and the Vietnam War. She used to come to happenings with her body road mapped with scabby red lines from cutting herself and she loved dropping acid. I myself never cared for her or her lifestyle. In April 1972, she vanished, the infamous Corvair seen around our rural street hours prior to her disappearance.

Little Terry 'Tiny' Proudfoot. Buck used to pick on him in high school. Only five-foot-one, he wore bell-bottoms, long blonde hair, and large pilot sunglasses to try to look groovy and hip. He wore lifts in his platform shoes to make him appear taller. Ineffectual, delicate, and weak, a punching bag for bullies everywhere. Some argued he was gay. He also disappeared.

Buck ended up in prison for life in '73 at age twenty-two. Attending college and nineteen at the time, I went to his trial and cried when I heard the verdict. Someone detected a bad odour in a locker in his dad's garage where he worked as a mechanic. Not Andrea. A young sixteen year old girl missing for a week. The Corvair was seen everywhere and more bodies surfaced.

Buck maintained his innocence. "I ain't got nothin' to do with it," he said to the pigs when questioned. "Some cat killed Andrea and yer hasslin' me? Get real, dude." Buck's lie detector test, inconclusive. Made him look guiltier trying to fool the machine.

So who owned the Corvair? Wasn't Buck's. No one had ever seen the driver. A demographic survey conducted at the time, accounted for all Corvairs bought and sold, colours and license numbers not-withstanding. The one sought was an enigma—a phantom. Everything about the situation was wrong. The pigs were making a mistake, I began to believe.

Pigs did everything but use Napalm to scour for Andrea's body. But where was the car? The pigs searched everywhere.

"I didn't kill Andrea or those others," Buck told me and Janet behind the prison plexi-glass the day after he was arrested, his hulking frame obscuring the guard in the background. "I'm not diggin' this jail scene," Janet said, rifling for her cigarettes inside the colossal handbag that resembled giant testicles in a sling. "This is heavy stuff and I don't dig it." She lit a cigarette, her hands shaking. "We gotta' book, man," Janet said, almost forgetting her enormous bag as we exited.

I waited by the wreck before me. I peered inside its decayed guts, trying to imagine the killer inside, a corpse or two in the spacious trunk or backseat. Twenty past 2 in the afternoon now. A gray Honda Civic coming up the path parked within two feet of me.

Terry Proudfoot exited the vehicle. He looked different. Fat, bald, his squinty eyes peering over his wire framed glasses as he lifted himself out from the car.

"You dated Janet after Andrea and Andrea was jealous. She wanted revenge for losing Buck. She got you involved because you resented him for picking on you all those years. You and Andrea bought the car in San Jose, slapped a fake license plate on it, faked Andrea's disappearance. You and Andrea killed those other women, made it look like a serial killing. Later, you dumped the car here weeks after Buck was convicted. Oh, and by the way: Nice letter. Too bad it's not Janet's handwriting. She died eight months ago from cancer and the postmark is last week. But good work anyway. Now it's over. Matter of time before I find Andrea."

Terry sighed, his hand reaching behind his back. "How do you know all this?"

"Know what I did for a living for thirty years before retiring? I was a detective with the Los Angeles police department."

Terry didn't have to time to aim his gun when I shot him with my .45. My arthritic fingers gnarled from the gun's recoil.

The Screeching Spectre Of Ward 13

Kevin S. Hall

In the abandoned mental asylum, Chrissie stood, waiting. She had her handheld camera with night vision enabled, a walkie talkie for communication and an EMF Meter (Electromagnetic Field Meter). It would help her to measure electromagnetic radiation. Usually, areas of paranormal activity produce strong electromagnetic fields, and have high EMF readings. And this place was notoriously haunted and full of paranormal activity.

Or so Chrissie was led to believe. This was their third day here and there was one night to go before they had to pack up the equipment and hand the keys back. So far there had been banging of doors and the odd low whisper but nothing audible or anything caught on film.

Chrissie was hoping tonight would be the night. She was twenty, with short blonde hair and a slim figure. She had on dark blue jeans, a pink sweatshirt and a duffle coat done right up. For some reason it was a lot colder tonight than it had been. She could see her breath come out in short rasps. Chrissie didn't want to be in Ward 13 for too much longer—Brian was on the floor below taking readings, and she had stupidly said she was brave enough to venture onto the most haunted floor of the asylum.

Standing there, alone in the long brown corridor, with faded wallpaper and only one window which was quite high up, it was an eerie place. Not much light seemed to penetrate here, and the corridor seemed to go on forever. Most of the rooms were abandoned and the doors long gone, making it even creepier. In the gloom, Chrissie took out her torch and flicked it on. She was sure that she seen something flap by out of the corner of her eye. Paper fluttered about the place, so maybe it had been that...

Then she heard the screech of wheels. It was coming from up ahead. Chrissie pointed the torch down the corridor, and tried to let her eyes become adjusted to the dusty gloom. It was a medical gurney, once a shiny grey but now rusted and beyond repair. It appeared to be moving by itself down the corridor towards her. Was that blood stained to one of the legs? It might be rust, but it looked fresh.

A giggle rose into the air, high pitched and chilling. "Chrissie..." her name rose up into the air, the sound raspy and ancient. She shivered all over, sweat pouring down her. What had she gotten herself into? This never-ending nightmare was about to get even worse.

The gurney stopped outside a room. One without a door. A hollow wind blew through the cracks of the asylum, creating an uneasy feeling. Chrissie didn't want to, but knew she would kick herself if she didn't get something on footage. Edging closer, gripping the torch like a weapon and feeling her hands start to sweat, Chrissie soon reached the gurney, a lot quicker than she had hoped to.

She peered into the room, which probably had white walls once but now the paper was pealed, green and cracked. The floor was brown and littered with crap. What looked like claw marks were scratched down the other wall. But it was the person on the bed that Chrissie saw that made her mouth all dry.

"Brian?" she stammered.

He had his back to her and head low, his hands clasping the side of the old mattress in the room. He started to rock backwards and forwards, giggling an inhuman giggle, which sent shivers down Chrissie's back. She reached out to touch his shoulder, to make sure he was OK.

That's when Brian swerved around. His face was a deathly grey. His eyes were sunken black holes and his mouth opened wider and wider, letting out a low moan which got louder and louder. He reached out for Chrissie, who suddenly realised she was now screaming and had been for a few moments. She finally found her feet and fled the room.

Chrissie fled down the corridor, hearing the thing that had taken over Brian moaning, getting ever closer. She was almost at the end of the corridor then made a fatal mistake—she turned around. Brian was upon her, arms outstretched, choking her. She gasped for air and tried to fight it, but the spirit entered her now and took over.

Brian collapsed to the floor, dead. Chrissie arched back, her body rising into the air and twisting around into hideous shapes. She screeched long and loud, her eyes going a sunken black and the colour drained from her body to a hideous grey. Her body was yanked back, through what seemed like the darkness of time. She could hear voices and people calling out her name.

Chrissie tried to grab at something, but it was as if she was being pulled through some kind of long, dark wind tunnel. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, she found herself landing onto a grey bed. As her eyes became accustomed to the bright light, she noticed white walls. It was as if she was in another time—and it soon became apparent that she was. She was screeching, screeching and telling the doctors who were trying to keep her calm that she was called Chrissie. But they kept calling her Arianne!

The gurney was right beside the bed and she was lifted onto this now. Her screeches were getting louder, inhuman. The straps tightened around her arms and legs, not letting her escape. She felt the sharp needle go in.

Before she blanked out, it all became horribly clear at that moment. Chrissie was trapped in Arianne's body, the screeching spectre of Ward 13.

In the abandoned asylum, the screeching echoed through the walls of an ancient ghost but then became silent once more. Both Brian's and Chrissie's bodies seeped into the rotting floor of the building, becoming one with the place. It had claimed its victims and was waiting for more.

Sparkling Saviour

Rick Eddy

Ambivalent as retired headstones, the gray expanse of the highway loomed lazy in the predawn mist. An occasional hush of passing tires on the asphalt bore witness to the calm and emptiness of the road. It was a divided eight lane highway, with four lanes going in one direction, the other four in the opposite.

Along this particular segment was an elevated, protected pedestrian walkway. It was about the height of the nearby streetlamps, which provided illumination for this portion of the roadway. This particular stretch was innocuous in its regularity and uniformity. It could have been a freeway linking towns in California, a portion of the Autobahn or a superhighway connecting cities in Saudi Arabia. It did not matter. It could have been anywhere. It was enough to be a ribbon of an amalgam of materials designed to facilitate human movement from one place to another.

If it were organic or sentient, the highway would have known that in a matter of an hour or so, it would be replete—as on any other day—with the frantic comings and goings of countless vehicles. They would be rushing hither and thither in an impatient struggle that characterized the transportation of human beings, consumer goods and other commodities of this day and age.

On the eastern horizon the sun began its slow, inexorable ascent. The first rays of light and warmth began to reach the gray, gravelled shoulders and gunmetal barriers bordering the roadway. Vehicles began to shoot up and down the road with increasing frequency. Small commuter cars shook in the slipstream of panel trucks, semis and 18-wheelers. Traffic built steadily, until both directions of the highway were filled with vehicles.

Occasional silvery headlights and frequent red taillights and brake lights peppered the patterns of the northerly flow sheering mere meters away from the travellers headed south. A mélange of humanity was on the move, people of all types and from all facets of community life. A record producer on the way to the studio. A thoracic surgeon speeding her way to an early staff meeting at the hospital. A salesman caroming from one lane to another, convinced an early and swift arrival would make him his first sale. An ex-convict hanging out in the slow lane, needing to see his parole officer first thing. An exhausted woman making her way home ponderously after all night on the switchboard. A student with a paper to turn in rocketed along in the passing lane, eager to dump the assignment at the college then get on to a job interview. Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief; doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. All kinds of people—all kinds of lives, all kinds of pressures, all kinds of needs.

All of these and more were conveyed by the gray expanse of highway to places and events of greater and lesser import, to all points of the compass, but all of significance.

By the time the sun was above the horizon a few pedestrians were making their way across the highway via the elevated bridge. The expanse connected a set of pay-per-hour parking lots with a limited commercial section featuring a few retail stores and a hand full of fast food restaurants. Within walking distance of the commercial centre was a medical facility, a community hospital serving the surrounding residential area.

At this particular hour of the morning the activity in and around the hospital was accelerating. Shifts were ending, shifts were beginning. That nagging sense of "anything can happen" floated around the environs like a waking spirit. Worries and anxieties usually reserved for rare and widely-spaced circumstances on the spectrum from birth to death were the regular stock-in-trade for the hospital.

As if the vagaries and uncertainties could contain themselves no longer, the wail of a siren broke the morning activities and suspended the quiescent atmosphere that had prevailed. The Doppler-izing scream and moan of the ambulance turned heads and made some stop to stare, while the rest continued on in neutral resignation to its meaning. The vehicle backed into the emergency department's receptions bay, and attendants hastily removed a person swathed in blood-soaked sheets and compresses. Hurriedly they moved the patient on the gurney into the hospital, and into a treatment room.

Shortly after the patient started to receive treatment, a young man and woman came running across the pedestrian bridge and headed in the direction of the hospital. They ran to the emergency desk and inquired about an individual. They were told that the person was still receiving emergency attention, and they could be seated in the waiting area and would be called when appropriate. Their fear and worry were displayed on the tortured outlines of their faces.

After only about an hour had elapsed, a doctor emerged from the treatment rooms. The news was grave. The young man's catastrophically injured brother was barely maintained on life support. He had been in a single-car crash during rush hour, had fortunately avoided collisions with any other cars, but had sheared through a guardrail and overturned twice in the vehicle.

His head and upper body injuries caused inoperable, irreversible damage to his brain, heart and liver. The decision was made to stop the ventilator and other supports. Through tears and with hope, the brother reminded the physician that his brother was an organ donor. The doctor gratefully acknowledged this and returned to make the necessary arrangements.

After several phone calls accompanied by more tears, the brother had another conversation with the doctor. Within minutes the deceased's viable organs would be harvested and prepared for transportation to other medical sites with patients in desperate need of transplants. His brother's kidneys were in excellent shape, and would make good matches for some who were waiting.

As the brother, weighed down by his burden of grief, plodded back over the pedestrian bridge he paused to look at the flow of traffic below. Flying with abandon below him were cars going north, trucks going south, and all the vehicles whistling and swirling and rushing below him. He saw an ambulance, lights flashing and sirens wailing, leave the hospital grounds and join the flow of traffic. He knew that the ambulance carried something of his brother, and it was on its way to be of life-extending help to some stranger up the road.

The manic reach of headlights and flash of taillights and brake lights on a gray, mottled highway, was a sign of connection and an emblem of rescue. This road was no inanimate splay of insensate minerals. It was indeed a sparkling avenue of one way to bring life.

Run Down

Max E. Stone

Jennifer Warren waited too many years, taking on his torture, keeping close watch on his habits, all the while seeking out the perfect opportunity for escape.

A glance at her golden wristwatch, an ill-gotten gain, and the ominous sound of the dangerous dress-shoe clad steps told her that this was the moment.

She needed to get moving.

Right now.

Only seconds of freedom remained.

Despite his allowance of her respite to "enjoy the fresh air and cooling rain,"—a quick lie she thought up and told him to get him away—he would be coming back just as he promised. The bottle of high-priced wine and a wicker basket of delectable fruits and foods she also asked him for in hand.

Then, he'd lead her downstairs...

She couldn't let that happen.

Earlier in the day, before the sky flipped from light blue to a dirt-orange and clouded black, she and the man she'd known for too long set out on the yacht. An expensive vessel that was now, in her eyes, little more than an over-the-top and extremely large, tarnished toy ship that they would use for a day of smooth sailing. This was his make-up present for the day before.

And the day before that.

And so on...

Hugging herself, she touched bruises on the backs of her arms, only two of the small yet painful reminders of his lapses in emotional judgment and the inevitable, meaningless "sorries" that always followed.

The steps closed in.

Quickly releasing herself, Jennifer threw a leg over the bow, stifling a yelp when her bruised leg struck the metal bar.

The other leg, dead weight due to years of severe battery, put up a greater fight.

Through clenched teeth, she let out quiet, aching grunts and frustrated breaths until sweat from the effort broke out on her forehead.

Finally, the limb gave and obeyed, joining the other as she stood outside of the boat's barrier, holding fast.

A simple release of her hands and she'd be free.

The water below was nothing to a champion swimmer like herself.

But...the kids...

The thought slammed into her with the force of a truck.

She had this all figured out.

Land couldn't be far.

She would jump off the boat, go get help from any merciful soul who would listen to her voice and not Derek's money, and save her kids, getting them as far away from this life as humanly possible.

But how long before anyone listens?

And what if they don't?

What if—

"I have to do something," Jennifer muttered as she unlatched her fingers from the metal bar on the bow and let herself fall toward the crashing waves below.

Thunder boomed, lighting the sky and effectively hiding the claps of Derek's dress shoes across the boat's hardwood flooring.

She hadn't even hit the water before he caught her.

Massive fingers clawed her hair and yanked her hard, pulling her back in the boat, back to him.

"Not so fast," he mocked, his voice calm and smooth despite the violent hold he had on her. "Were we going somewhere yet again?"

Desperate for her life, she bucked and fought, knowing what awaited her once she fully reached his terrifying arms.

***

Melissa jerked awake and called for her mother through lips broken and cracked from a recent and all-too-familiar encounter with—

She shut her eyes, refusing to remember him.

He was gone.

Her mother, Jennifer, all bright eyes and fire-engine red hair, appeared, thin lips curled into her trademark loving smile.

"You're awake," she said softly.

"I had that dream again," Melissa told her, swallowing hard.

The smile faded, but the love stayed.

"I know. I heard," Jennifer said, moving forward to press a kiss to her daughter's head. With careful hands, she aided her in sitting up. "I'm okay. Been very okay for a longtime, years now. And you'll be okay, too. Got it?"

"Got it," she said back.

Her mother's smile returned as Melissa took in her surroundings.

No white walls.

No smell of antiseptic.

No dull pain of an I.V's needle.

No unfamiliar voices.

Instead, warm colors and blankets encircled her, intertwining with the smell of pancakes and sausage.

"Mommy!" a shrill little voice, followed by the pounding of small feet, called.

Melissa beamed as those footsteps grew louder and a tiny redhead ran into the bedroom, slowing down as she approached the bed.

"Abby!" Melissa squealed, stretching her arms out as best as she could.

Abby eased herself into her mother, the five-year-old careful to avoid any lingering pain on her mother's body.

"Are you okay?" the little girl asked, breaking from the hug.

"I'll be fine, sweetheart," Melissa said, kissing her hand.

"Do you want to come down for breakfast today?" Abby asked. "Everybody's here to see you, even Kyle."

"Kyle?" Melissa asked, speaking calmly as her heart pounded a mile a minute. "What's he doing here?"

"He's been with you since you got home a few weeks ago," Jennifer said.

"He's really nice," Abby chimed in. "I like him."

Melissa winced.

Seeing her daughter's discomfort, Jennifer gently took her granddaughter by the hand.

"We'll get the table set and you can decide where you want to eat," she said. "Okay?"

A wounded Melissa nodded and her mother and daughter left the room.

When they did, she eased herself out of bed, every movement a struggle.

"Need help?" a man's voice, deep and concerned, asked.

Without looking around, she knew who it was.

He didn't wait for her answer, just took her in his arms and lifted her up.

"Kyle, I got it," she said, trying to push him away. "I'm just going downstairs to eat."

"I know. And I'm helping you," he said.

Together, they made their way downstairs where Kyle sat Melissa in a chair beside her daughter before he sat across from her.

She stole a glance at the little girl, capturing her baby blues, then looked to Kyle, staring into an identical set of eyes.

The Dark Depths

Dave J. Suscheck, Jr.

I died today. Tossed over the side like a piece of garbage without so much as a second thought. As soon as I hit the water, I feel its cold embrace as I drift down into its depths. From my vantage point I see the bottom of the ship shrink in my vision. I was their bad omen, their scapegoat for all of the "mishaps" that happened during the voyage. I heard their whispers, as I'd walk around the ship. I once heard one of the ship's mate's say it was bad luck to have a woman on the ship. For the first three weeks of the voyage it didn't matter, nothing bad was happening and there was no reason to heed their superstitions.

Then it started.

Little things at first, burnt food at mealtime, barrels of salted meat turning up rotten, all easily explainable—and then the wind stopped. The wind was our lifeline and without it we sat on the ocean like a big hunk of wood drifting on what little currents were below us. Everywhere I went every soul on that ship looked at me. I was starting to believe that I was the cause of all the misery, and I kept myself in my cabin. The heat in that cabin was stifling, but I was too afraid to go out on deck, not that there was any breeze to be had. I wiled away my time staring at the walls in my room. I could hear the deck hands shuffling around above me and beyond my door in the passageway.

I should have heeded the Captain's advice.

The knock at the door was barely audible, and had it not occurred a second time, I would have chalked it up to my overactive imagination.

Tap, tap, tap.

I gingerly opened the door and was confronted by the bearded scruff and gaunt eyes of the First Mate.

"Captain wants to see you, miss."

He turned and walked away. His frosty demeanour unnerved me, but I made my way towards the Captain's cabin. I knocked lightly on the door and heard the Captain's summons, stern and stiff through the door. I entered and took in the cramped confines of the Captain and his surroundings. Three strategically placed candles lit the room. The Captain sat behind his desk eating a humble meal; smoke drifted from his pipe creating a claustrophobic haze in the confines of his private space. He stared at me with his glassy grey eyes and I felt him examine me.

"You asked to see me, Captain?"

"Yes. I will cut to the heart of the matter. My ship is slipping into chaos. I fear you are being focused on, and I don't know if I can keep you safe. My sailors are, like many seamen, very superstitious and having a girl such as yourself on this ship is fuelling the fire of their imaginations."

"What am I able to do, Captain? I cannot help those men, nor can I convince them that I am not the cause of the misfortune visited upon this ship."

"I know. You are a guest, not a sailor. I can't order you to do something; however, I would like to offer a recommendation. You are free to heed my advice, or ignore it. Tonight, during the change of watch, I recommend you take the aft lifeboat and get off this ship. If you decide to do it, I will ensure that you have provisions to see you through until another ship comes through and can pick you up."

"I respectfully decline your offer, and request your leave so that I may go back to my cabin."

He looked at me for a moment and sighed. I swear I saw his shoulders sag ever so slightly, dissatisfied with my answer.

"Very well."

I took my leave and headed back to my cabin as quickly as I could. I sat on my bunk, in the dark, and tried to think about whether or not I should take the Captain up on his offer. I knew nothing of sailing and resigned to stay in my cabin. I would stay for as long as I could.

I did not stay long.

I must have drifted asleep at some point because the next thing I knew, three burley men entered my cabin, and before I could scream, I felt their hands clamp over my mouth, and vice-like hands grab my arms and legs. I was lifted from my bed and offered no resistance. I was rushed topside and could feel the thick night air as we moved towards the back of the ship. The darkness prevented me from telling who was involved in this late night abduction. I could hear their urgent whispers. I swear I heard them arguing.

It didn't matter.

Their moral debate on whether or not to get rid of me dragged on for just a few moments before I felt the weightlessness of my body as it arced through the air. It was unbelievable that they would actually rid me from their ship in such a violent and casual way. The terror of what was happening overtook my ability to scream, and the only sound heard was from the splash of my body hitting the water.

That is where I find myself, drifting towards the bottom; my lungs burn with the last remnants of air. I feel my ears pop as my body descends even further into the abyss. Slowly my anger at having been the scapegoat for wild superstitions begins to take hold in my chest. I'm fading with each moment, and I'm resigned to accept my fate in this watery grave. I focus my energy on glaring at the bottom of the ship as it slips from my view. Little do they know, I will return to seek my vengeance upon them. Their misfortunes will grow tenfold.

I will return.

The House of Stone

Vered Ehsani

"If the ropes snap and I die, I shall not be impressed," I informed my demon guide.

Koki turned her beautiful, dark face to me, her full, purple lips lifting in the slightest of smiles. I had the distinct impression that the African shape-shifter would rather enjoy the snapping of ropes, if it meant I perished painfully in the process.

What would she care if the gondola plummeted into the shallow ocean and smashed upon the rocks glittering just beneath the smooth surface? She would merely transform into her giant Praying Mantis form and crawl away, after decapitating whatever remained of me.

That was her dearest aspiration: to exact her revenge on me for cutting off one of her six legs. Such a vengeful creature, and thoroughly unjustified, really. After all, the beast had five more legs, in perfectly good working order. And in her human form, you couldn't discern any alteration in the number of limbs.

"Why are we here?" Gideon whispered to me as he floated through the gondola's front window. "There's nothing on the other side but stones and skeletons."

"Gideon, how many times must I tell you not to float through walls," I lectured automatically, my frown deepening. "Being dead is no excuse for bad manners."

My deceased but not departed husband chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. He certainly wouldn't have to worry if the ropes broke. I chose to overlook his bad ghostly habits, but discounting his question was more of a challenge. To distract my restless thoughts, I fixed my gaze upon the ginormous, castle-sized boulder jutting out of the ocean ahead of us.

I determinedly ignored the swaying of the gondola, the delicate nature of the ropes that held us suspended between sky and sea, and the likelihood that I wouldn't survive the day. If the ropes didn't give way under the strain of our weight, then surely the two small columns of rock holding up the giant boulder would collapse. How was it even possible for the mansion on top to still be standing on such a precarious pedestal?

As the gondola squeaked along the ropes, I studied the mansion. Built by a prince for one of the numerous women in his life, it was hewn from the same material as the boulder. Its roofs curved in a pointy, oriental style. There were a few trees gripping the sheer sides, but they were the only signs of life, apart from the shrieking of a pair of seagulls, the hissing wind and the splash of waves underneath us.

I wondered what the chances were of being offered a spot of tea upon arrival, and decided that they were very slim.

Despite these attempts at distraction, I was all too acutely aware of the emptiness of space beneath me. I won't deny my relief when the gondola swung into an opening in the rock, its swaying motion halted by a wooden platform that it scraped against. I did manage to restrain the urge to leap out of the little death trap, but Koki saw through my attempt at bravado and snickered.

If I ever have the opportunity, I vowed again, I shall cut off all her remaining legs.

"Welcome to the House of Stone, Mrs Knight," Koki said with a grand gesture of her hand and anything but a welcoming glitter in her black eyes.

"I can't imagine why it's called that," Gideon said to me in his whispery voice, grinning at his own cleverness.

"Indeed," I muttered, in no mood for frivolity.

I tapped my fully loaded walking stick against the rock floor. I'm not old or infirm, but this was a particularly useful stick for someone in my line of work as a paranormal investigator, and included all that Victorian science could devise. One of its unique features included a sabre that popped out of the end.

Koki eyed the device with a good deal of hostility, and well she should, for she'd had a previous encounter with that blade. I tapped the stick against the ground again, to remind her in case she had any fleeting idea of transforming into a giant insect and decapitating me.

I had no intention of dying quite so easily, and certainly not so untidily. I abhor a scruffy corpse; it makes for a nasty funeral experience. If you're going to die, at least have the decency to dress appropriately and don't make a mess of yourself. After all, that's the last thing you'll ever wear.

Not one renowned for patience, Koki cleared her throat, her dark, lithe limbs flexing in anticipation. "Come along, Mrs Knight, I have other places to be, where the people are still alive and the sport is fresh."

She waved towards a couple of skeletons seated against the wall, and strode into a damp, narrow tunnel lit with torches that sputtered in the whistling, salty breeze.

"What a delightful home she has acquired," Gideon murmured to me.

"This isn't hers," I replied, keeping a bit of distance from the demon in case she decided to turn on me. While her spider husband had forbidden her to kill me, he hadn't prevented her from inflicting pain. My missing left hand attested to that fact.

The tunnel widened into a corridor lined with more skeletons dressed in scraps of leather and metal armour. I wondered what had become of them. More pressingly, I wondered what would become of us.

"It is rather peculiar that you're here of all places," I commented to the woman leading us. "And with him."

"Strange times, strange bedfellows," Koki cooed, and she glanced back at me. "Come closer, Mrs Knight. Don't worry, I won't bite you." She laughed as she eyed the metal contraption that replaced my hand.

Gideon hissed by my side and I gripped my walking stick tightly. Before I could summon a suitably cutting retort, the corridor opened up to a room lit by a central fire pit that did little to dispel the damp and gloom. At one end, a window allowed in a faint, watery light; at the other, a hefty, stone throne jutted out of the rocky wall. A skeleton sat on either side. Carved for a goliath, the royal chair currently held a less than imposing figure in its stone curves.

But, if a mansion can balance on two small pillars of rock in the midst of the ocean, then a dwarf called Nameless can sit upon the throne of a dead prince.

Now, I mused as I nodded to the psychotic dwarf, as long as those slender pillars didn't crumble and Koki didn't attack me, I just might be able to extract a few answers from Nameless. And if the ropes held up on the return trip, I'd be home for my afternoon tea.

And for the first time that day, I smiled.

The Lonely Bicycle

J. Cornell Michel

Most people assume bicycles don't have feelings. Most people are wrong. My rider and I used to be a happy couple. He would ride me all the time. Then one day he rode me to work and never came back. I've been leaning up against a fire hydrant for months, waiting for him to show up and apologize. I think I at least deserve an explanation as to why he left me.

I assume he bought a car. Some brand new shiny car that'll do all the work for him. Lazy bum. I'm not bitter—I just want some answers. Leaving me by the side of the road was so out of character for him. He was a good man. A volunteer fire fighter, for crying out loud. What kind of decent rider leaves his bicycle and never comes back? I'm done with men. Done!

The thing is, I miss having a companion. I don't care about my former rider. He and his fancy car can go to hell. But I miss having someone to share my life with.

I decided to spend time with someone else who was more my speed. I tried befriending a tricycle last week, but he was immature and I couldn't be around him for more than five minutes without getting bored. He was sweet and all that, but the little ones are so naive. They can't hold a conversation. What could a tricycle bring to the relationship? Nothing! Exactly.

Then I met a motorcycle. I was excited at first. I thought I'd finally met someone worldly and mature. But he turned out to be a real jerk. Self-involved is the best way to describe him. He rode around like he was better than everyone. He moved way too fast for me, and in the end I couldn't keep up with him. I'm better off without him. Motorcycles are noisy pains in the ass, and they smell like burnt rubber.

The worst one, by far, was the mountain bike. All he talked about was spending his weekends on the trail, fresh air, and nature. Blah, blah, blah. I couldn't handle it.

I became so desperate that I even befriended a unicycle. Yep, that's right, an actual unicycle! Those things are bizarre. They're comfortable in their own skin though, that's for sure. My unicycle just rode around in circles all day. Whacko.

If I'm being perfectly honest, I do miss my rider. A rider like him only comes along once in a lifetime. I suppose I'll need to resign myself to being single for the rest of my life. He was my one and only. No one else will replace him. I guess bicycles do have soul mates. I wish I could go back and tell him how much I care about him. Maybe he wouldn't have left me for a car. We could have been so happy together. Perhaps there's a chance he'll come back.

That's why I'm going to keep waiting until he returns. He'll get tired of that snazzy car of his and he'll come crawling back, begging for my forgiveness. And I'll take him back because I'm a faithful bicycle. And I'm so very lonely.

Treasures of the Deep

Michele Jones

The thrill of the hunt and her desire to be the best drove her to work harder. She wanted her name out there as the greatest treasure hunter of all time. Sure working for Jim as a diver paid the bills, but he got all the fame and glory. He did the television interviews and went to all the parties, while she did the research and made all the back-end plans.

While researching for one of Jim's dives, Callista stumbled upon the sunken treasure of the Gioiello della Corona del Mare. By all accounts, it sunk off the coast of Massachusetts, near Nantucket Island. This is what she was looking for—a chance to be the boss, to find the treasure and to be famous.

After months of research, planning, and saving, the time had arrived. Callista packed a bag with the necessities, grabbed her gear, threw it in her Honda Civic and drove north. She arrived at the dock, ready to make her fortune.

Her limited funds meant she needed an affordable boat and captain. She found Captain Pete on-line and booked him, but when she got there, his boat looked anything but seaworthy. Callista hesitated before boarding, but he assured her it would be fine. They negotiated a little more at the dock before settling on a price and headed out.

Callista gave him the coordinates, and the captain said, "You're planning a dive in shark infested water, missy. Hope you know what you're doin'."

"I'll be fine, don't worry about me. Just get us to the site."

They arrived at their destination about an hour later and dropped anchor. Moments later, Callista was ready to dive for her fortune. Of course she knew others had tried and failed, but she planned on being different. She did the research, and knew exactly where to hunt for her treasure.

She found nothing on her first dive. Too far to cover with scuba gear, she needed to get back to the surface and move further down the coast. She surfaced without incident and found the captain sleeping. She gave him the next set of coordinates, and waited for him to pull up anchor.

He convinced her to wait until morning, to get a fresh start, and she had to agree. Daylight faded fast and she needed to rest. They headed to shore and agreed to meet the next day to continue.

Bright and early, they headed out and she made her first dive before seven. Callista found a few trinkets and knew she had found the Gioiello della Corona del Mare wreckage. She brought up her findings and documented her haul.

Callista tingled with excitement. Her heart pounded as she drew a quick map where she found the first trinkets. She pictured it in her mind, a television documentary of her find. The Barbara Walter's interview. The Oprah show. Guest host of Saturday Night Live. Time to go back down and bring up more of the wreckage.

This time proved to be different. Why didn't she listen to the captain? Behind her, coming up fast, was a giant shark. Her breathing came faster. Callista kicked hard and aimed toward the surface. She fired an SOS flair and kicked harder. It homed in on her in seconds. Oh my God, please don't let me die. The surface loomed only a few feet away.

She broke the surface of the water and screamed for help. "Shark!" The captain jumped from his seat, raised the anchor, and grabbed the harpoon gun. He aimed the gun at the water, just as the shark surfaced.

Callista kicked harder and faster. "You've gotta help me. Please don't let it get me," she screamed. Her hand reached the swim platform, and she thought she would be safe.

"Son of a—"

The Captain took aim at the shark, firing, but she doubted his harpoon would slow it down. Just as he fired the harpoon, the shark snapped its jaws down, chomping on Callista's legs. Her scream, the crunching bone, and the blood gushing out made her stomach churn, and she felt dizzy.

"Get him off me!" she screamed. She saw him shoot the harpoon again. He must have hit it, because it threw her from its mouth. The captains hands reached in and pulled her out of the water. Callista writhed in pain, screamed, and passed out.

***

Callista awoke in the hospital to the sound of beeping and the smell of antiseptic. She tried to move, but every part of her body felt like cement. Her legs ached so bad—she needed more pain killers. Thank God the Captain saved her and got her to the hospital. If he hadn't helped, she wouldn't be alive, or she wouldn't have her legs.

The doctor came in to check on her. "My legs hurt, can you give me something to help with the pain?"

The doctor looked at her with pity in his eyes. "Ms. Smith, I'm very sorry. We couldn't save your legs. The pain you're—"

"You're lying. I can feel them. They are throbbing in pain."

The doctor took her hand. "What you're feeling is a phantom limb. We did everything we could, but we couldn't save your legs. I'm very sorry."

Tears flowed freely down her face. "Get out! You're lying. I can feel them. I just need something for the pain. If you can't help me, then get out!"

"I'll send in the nurse to give you something for your pain."

She lifted the blanket after he left. Only stumps remained where her legs should be. "Oh my God. This can't be happening. Please let this be a dream." She closed her eyes and said a quick prayer, then lifted the covers again. Only the stumps remained. She screamed.

***

Plates and glasses couldn't be reached. Stairs couldn't be climbed. Simple tasks proved daunting. Her life had changed, and not for the better. Callista could still feel the pain. It never truly left her.

She hated the chair and everything it represented. Why did she ignore the warnings? Because she never listened. Her hard head and desire to be rich and famous caused this. Nothing would ever be the same.

It'd been only a few months, but she still could feel her legs. She couldn't cry anymore. She needed to get on with her life.

Hilltop Menagerie

Jaclyn Ann Lee

Snap.

"Blast!" I cursed.

I lifted my pencil and brought it close to my face to investigate a newly missing graphite tip. "This is the third pencil! I just had to leave the sharpener at home."

So much for charting stars tonight.

I huffed and raised my body from its cross-legged position on the sloping earth of the grassy hillside. I swung my knapsack around to the front of my body and unzipped the side just enough to squeeze in the tools of my documentation. A thick textbook shifted and shoved its way to the partially open slit, bursting through rest of the zipper. An entourage of pencils starting rolling down the hillside.

"Stop, you pencils!" I dropped my bag to the ground and chased after the renegade utensils.

"Oi! I said stop it!" Another voice boomed from just over the hill.

I turned my head to look in the direction of the voice and slipped in my downward descent. I flopped on my belly, sliding down past the pencil exodus. I reached up and snatched the scoundrels and waited for my body to come to a halt. "Blast," I cursed again. "This is all your fault, stupid pencil."

I plucked a stray blade of grass from my sweater and flipped over to start up the hill on all fours. Just in case. "You're days are numbered, my little wooden friends. Next time it's mechanical or ink."

Crawling to the bag, I picked it up and gathered scattered items. I shoved them inside with irritated oomph, zipped the bag—tugging twice for extra security—then replaced it on my back.

"Don't make me give you a time out!" I heard the strange voice call out again.

I stood up carefully and looked up the hill. It was suddenly illuminated in an intense light.

I walked up the several remaining feet to the apex of the hill.

Stopping dead in my tracks, my mouth fell open with disbelief.

The hill was brightly lit by a huge beacon of light directly in the centre. The beam shot straight up into the sky, casting an eerie glow over the hill and out over the nearby lake. Around the beam slightly smaller round lights swirled cyclonically mid-air and resembled misplaced stars. They hummed and whirred with vibrant electricity. Standing directly in the middle of the commotion of lights was an absurdly tall young man with limbs as long as his body. His white-blonde hair stood on end and pointed in every which direction. He flapped his arms this way and that way, as if he were directing traffic.

More astonishing than any other sight was the menagerie of companions frolicking about.

A Mongolian horde.

A llama.

A 1950's greaser.

A woolly mammoth.

Abraham Lincoln.

Some sort of slimy-looking blob of a creature with five sets of eyes.

Just to name a few of those attending this peculiar get-together.

Is that a Spanish Conquistador?

The man in the centre bounded up and down, shouting orders to the odd collection of creatures and people. As he called each command, the obedient characters marched toward certain, random stars, walked through them—and then disappeared.

"No no, no, Camelot is that way! Can't you follow directions? Knight of the round table, BAH! You couldn't fit a round peg into one of those...round...peg...things. Yeah!" The man scolded a soldier, clad in an Arthurian Knight ensemble. Shaking his head, the knight entered one of the stars.

They appeared to be portals.

RAAAAAAWR!

I gasped and turned my head to the other side of the hill.

A dinosaur?

"Well, what are you waiting for? Go on, go on, you great big bloody idiot. Get back in your portal!" The man with the eccentric hair moved from out of the centre of the beacon and stood behind the snarling beast, waving his arms and shooing it in the proper direction.

"Kitty!" The man suddenly screamed He ran to the Mongolian horde and shoved his hand directly in front of the leader, signalling them to halt their marching for a small, orange and white cat that found its way directly in their path. "Watch for kitty, Mongolians! Sheesh." He leaned down and scooped the feline up. "What are you doing up here, Ted? A tear in the fabric of time and space is no place for you!"

The largest of the horde softened his gruff expression and reached out to pet the kitten with a giant meat hook.

"No! No, Genghis. You don't get to pet my cat. Get your own!" The man slapped the Mongolian's hand away and the nuzzled the cat under his chin. He scratched it behind the ears and it back down on the ground, out of the way of the troop. "Go wait for me back at the office, Ted," he instructed the cat. The cat wrinkled its little, pink nose and then sulked off in the opposite direction.

Was the cat wearing... glasses?

I bit my lower lip and watched the man dance around, re-directing his attention from the Mongolians to the Tyrannosaurus. He cooed at it and beckoned it, like you would a common house pet. Like he did his cat. The Tyrannosaurus Rex lowered its head and nipped at him.

"Bad Rexy! I thought we were friends?" Shaking his index finger at the dinosaur, the man laughed manically then shoved his hand deep in the back pocket of his trousers. He withdrew his fingers and lifted his arm to present something that resembled a biscuit.

The dinosaur huffed and sniffed the air, blowing a great puff of wind out its nostrils that were larger than the man's body.

"You want this?" The man asked excitedly. He waved the treat back and forth in the air, taunting the creature. The creature lunged forward, snapping its hungry jaws. The man was faster, though, and sidestepped the bite to step closer to the portal. "You want it? Go and get it!" He wound up his arm similar to the fashion of a baseball pitcher and threw the biscuit-thing into the portal. The ground began to rumble as the Tyrannosaurus lifted its heavy feet and stomped after the treat. With a great growl, it hopped through the portal. A flash of blinding white light blasted from the portal, knocking me back and scooting me across the grass into a seated position.

"Go eat a Brontosaurus, why don't you," The man hollered, as if the dinosaur could still hear him.

"Uh, sir? I believe the correct term is 'Brachiosaurus'," I corrected, finding my words at last.

The strange man turned and looked at me, wide-eyed, noting my presence for the very first time. His face broke out in a grin and he started laughing.

"Hello there, girl! Too right you are, my X chromosomal friend." He reached into the breast pocket of his tattered button-up and pulled out a miniature spiral notebook. With a unicorn on it, of all things. He retrieved a short, stubbed pencil from the wiry spirals and started scribbling in the notebook. "Brack-e-o-sore-us."

Snap.

His face twisted into a pouted frown as the graphite tip of his pencil broke off.

"Blasted pencil!" He threw the notebook and the pencil to the ground and patted the pockets of his trousers and shirt. He slipped his fingers in and out of each pocket, pulling random objects that seemed unnecessary and without use. A small rubber duck, a tea-cup, a ring with far too many keys. And a jar of jam?

"Where is that pencil sharpener? I know I stuck it in my pocket. I remember precisely! I was packing my pockets to leave my office and... Oh. Oh, that's right. I left it sitting on the table. Blast! I travel through time and space and I can't even remember a silly pencil sharpener. I knew I should have let Ted pack my bags, but the last time I got stopped at the intergalactic check point and questioned for cat-nip."

My jaw dropped.

Time Travel?

I stood up, swung my knapsack around my body, and pulled at the zipper. Just then, all the contents of my pack spilled out across the ground. Rolling my eyes heavenward, I kneeled down to retrieve the contents of the bag for the second time. I swept my arms in a circle and gathered the mess, then picked up pencil after pencil to inspect the tips. All broken.

I looked up at the man, who was eyeing me curiously, and smiled simply. Fisting the broken pencils, I held my hand out toward the man.

"It seems we have the same problem, you and I. Blasted pencils."

He walked toward me and flopped down on the ground next to me, staring at the pencils in my hand. My eyes met his and we shared an awkward smile. And then we broke out in uncontrollable laughter at a bonding experience over broken graphite tips.

"My name is Vanessa," I offered, reaching out my free hand.

The man took it and shook it vigorously, delight shimmering in his sparkling, emerald eyes.

"My name is—"

His voice was abruptly cut off by a boom across the hilltop, followed by a flash of bright light. He turned his head in the direction of the commotion and then looked back at me, his smile even wider than before.

"No time," he answered simply. "Wanna help me save the planet?"

Our Beautiful Canvas

Lizzie Wachter

The water used to be clear enough that you could see the bottom. Maybe that is why you liked it so much. You could see everything; there were no secrets, only beautiful creations. There was a peaceful elegance to the way the fish danced around together in an endless serenade.

My father was the first to tell me of the pond a little off the mainland. The land was owned by an old farming couple that liked to preserve natural beauties. There were no roads, no houses, and no sounds other than the ones nature played for us.

My head was cloudy one afternoon. I searched for the pond in hopes to learn from its clarity. That is where I met you. All the troubles that were suffocating me released once my eyes rested on you. Your hair was being played with by the gentle breeze. You sat carelessly close to the water, trusting the world around you. Walking a little closer, I saw that you were drawing in a sketchbook that looked well used. I looked at your art from over your shoulder, not sure what I was expecting. But when I saw it, I couldn't help but speak.

"A Chagoi. Beautiful." You turned around, startled by the stranger before you, but casualties swept my mind. I spoke to the drawing, but only you could hear my words, "You're known for being friendly, but I never thought that it would be so apparent throughout your whole body."

"What are you talking about?" Your question was soft and confused, as though you were trying to protect the quiet melody of the world around us. I looked up at you and saw innocence streaming through your soul.

"This Koi fish is called Chagoi. You can tell because they are a little bigger than the others and have the colour of tea. They are known for being friendly."

Your eyes searched my face as though you were looking for answers unsaid. After a moment of silence, you dropped your head slightly. Your words were fragile, but your voice did not waver "I see the same beauty in you as I do in the fish. I think that means you are friendly too."

After that day, I wondered if I would ever see you again. My question was answered when the tide of the pond drew us both in. We grew along with the pond. In the summers, we were alive. The colours of the fish brought colour to our faces. Their strides through the water moved our hearts. You would describe the colours of the Koi and I would tell you everything I knew about them. We spent hours on nice afternoons in the presence of their beauty. I wanted to tell you how I also enjoyed being in the presence of your beauty too. In the winters, our hearts grew cold and slow like the pond. We still saw beauty. The beauty never disappeared, but the colours would vanish and so would ours.

One fall evening, your eyes fluttered closed as your head rested in my lap. It was a particularly quiet day; the world was hushed along with our thoughts. I took my gaze off the pond and looked into the sky. Night was fading its way into our presence. The sky was as clear as the pond and the stars reminded me of our Koi. Each one was beautiful, but together, they created a masterpiece that took my breath away at the same time it taught me why I breathe.

I didn't realize you were awake until you whispered, "Wow, this is stunning. I wish we could stay here forever."

My gaze shifted down onto you and I saw the beautiful work of art that you are. "One day, I will build us a home here so we can always be a part of this canvas."

Later on, I talked to the old farming couple and explained how I wanted to spend my life with you and the pond that brought us together. I told them how we change with the pond like the Kumonryū change with the seasons. The couple looked at each other and then down at their interlaced hands. They smiled as though they had just shared their greatest secret. They blessed me with the land and told me that it was my responsibility to appreciate the beauty before me.

I planned the way we were going to build our home. I figured out how close we could build it to the pond without disrupting its beauty. I expanded my knowledge of our canvas and worked hard to create a masterpiece of my own. But within myself, I could not find colour alone. I looked to you for guidance. I gave you a new sketchbook and asked you to fill in the pages.

You decided on a brown kind of tile for the roof that resembled the Chagoi that brought us together. White walls were your way of representing the white markings on the Kumonryū.

The sills of the windows were painted orange to remind us of the sunset that blessed us into nights where the Koi fish were in the sky. It all had meaning. It all had beauty. Looking back at it now, the colours that touched my heart were the ones you displayed.

Your eyes painted innocence in our picture. Your smile drew joy. Your laughter splashed away any fear of mistakes. Looking down on you now, I see that you cry at night. I see that some days, your bright colour dims and you whisper, asking me why I am not with you. You say you miss my beauty and my stories of the Koi. I'm sorry, my love, but my colour has been erased from your side. My colour has moved to swim with the Koi in the sky.

The water has slowly clouded green and our picture keeps changing. Please don't take the change as a bad thing though, my dear. I promised you that we'd always be together on the same canvas and we are. Only now, I sing the quiet melody with the wind.

Death at the Prom

Linda Jenkinson

The coffee mug that was on its merry way to her lips stopped suddenly and remained in mid air. For a moment the entire little scene looked like some deliberate pose for a photo.

With a loud gasp, Mrs. Lise Petrie—married mother of two geeky teenagers—clunked the mug down on the table and got up quickly.

"Oh, God!" she yelled into the empty room.

Could that bastard have done it?

The question seemed to horrify her. Her eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hands.

Suddenly, she picked up her cell and dialled a number. "Hi, Tracy, could you come over for a bit?" I need to talk to you about something important." She listened for a moment and then said, "No problem, I have time today—I'll wait. No. I'm fine—but come!"

"Of course, it was him!" she thought to herself. That day, I told him I didn't care about his threats and I'd go to the police if he dare come near me again!

While Lise waited for her dearest friend to arrive, her mind honed back in time to almost 22 years ago—to her high school prom. She went to the prom with Allan, even though the man of her young dreams back then, was Ben. Benjamin Roger Best. And Ben was all a girl could ever want. Even though he was a jock, he was sensitive and surprisingly soft-spoken. The fact that he was over-the-top handsome didn't hurt either. He could render her almost speechless with his smile.

They had been friends of a sort for almost that last year but they never actually went out. And Lise knew he was just too shy to ask. But she so hoped he would ask her to the prom.

However, the time for the prom was closing in and the invitation that would send her heart soaring into space, never came. She even made Allan, a guy she dated only a few times, wait a few days for her answer. But no—nothing.

Later, she saw Allan and Ben having heated words on the street and she knew it was about her. Well, maybe this will teach Ben a lesson; this is what happens when you're too shy to ask. You lose. This could actually turn out to her advantage!

***

Prom night arrived and she knew she looked fabulous in her bright berry, strapless dress—it suited her shiny dark hair. She and Allan danced and she was enjoying herself, but her heart was with Ben.

But surprisingly, when they and some friends went outside to the old concession stand where the kids gathered to smoke or drink their well-disguised alcoholic beverages, Ben showed up and sauntered over and began to speak with some of his friends. Dressed in casual jeans and a shirt, he obviously was not officially attending the prom. She couldn't even manage to lock eyes with him, and shortly thereafter she and Allan went back inside. Lise wondered if Allan was avoiding Ben, but then Allan excused himself for awhile.

A short while later, after Allan returned, rampant chaos broke out. Kids were shouting and running outside. The music stopped. Lise and Allan and some of their friends ran out too. They could see that the area behind the old concession was cordoned off. Police cars were everywhere. Someone blurted out that a student had been murdered behind the concession stand. And then she heard the name. Her heart plummeted. It was Ben! She felt her legs give way, then everything faded to black.

And now, years later they found a knife in the trunk of her stepfather's old car. For years she suspected it had been Allan, who perhaps fought with Ben when he went back out. But now she knew who it was.

Lise's natural father had died suddenly when she was 11 years old. Her mom re-married and that was the beginning of a long nightmare. Her step-dad, Harry, began making a few nightly visits to Lise's bedroom. His advances became more and more intimate and she was desperate to put an end to it. Lise told her mother, finally, who ordered a stop to it and Harry simmered down for a few years. However, he did start up afresh and Lise threatened him with telling her mom again as well as Harry's son, Derek, who also lived with them.

Harry skulked around her all the time, listening to her conversations and hoping to catch her in any state of undress. Just a week before the prom, she told him she was moving out after grad so she didn't have to see his face anymore. He was furious.

"Oh, yes, it must have been him" she said aloud. She also remembered how jealous he was of Ben. He used to listen when she expounded Ben's virtues to her friends. It all made sense.

By the time Tracy came over, it was well past noon. She had been concerned all morning. She and Lise had gone through a lot together. Not long after prom, they upped and left both their dysfunctional families in small town USA and moved almost l00 kilometres away to the big city. They worked and saved and made good of their lives. Now, almost twenty-two years later, they were both married, with children, and had lives of their own.

The second they left Desmond, Lise told Tracy about her life at home. Tracy wasn't surprised when she learned about Lise's stepfather, because she had seen the way he looked at her, especially when Lise's back was turned. He was a despicable human being. And his son, Derek, was going to end up just like him.

"They have new evidence, Tracy. They found a knife, in my stepdad's car—my stepdad! They think it could have been the murder weapon. And the paper said they're going to round up everyone connected to Ben for questioning. It seems they're onto something."

Tracy looked stunned. She spoke carefully as if it hurt her to talk.

"They'll never find you here, so far from Desmond".

"I'll gladly testify against my stepdad—I know he did it. And to think all these years I thought it was Allan." Lise handed the newspaper to Tracy. "Read the part under 'Police Opening Up Cold Case in Desmond'."

Tracy stared at the words but she wasn't reading them at all. She didn't need to read them. She knew a story and it wasn't going to be long before her friend knew it too.

Tracy dated Lise's stepbrother, but not for long. She broke off with him because he was sexually aggressive and mean-spirited. But what really got to her was the way he talked about Ben.

He discovered the secret that Ben and Allan were gay and lovers. And then that was all he ever talked about—how he was going to 'out' them and how stupid Lise was to drool over Ben. She saw Derek arrive just after Ben did on prom night and the look on his face. She knew he was up to no good.

Now she knew what happened that night. He fought with Ben and used his own father's knife to stab him to death. Maniac!

Tracy never told the police, and especially not Lise, about Derek or Ben's sexuality. She wanted to keep Lisa's dream intact for her. Lise never let go of the notion that Ben wanted to be with her.

Tracy never had the heart to tell her but now she could hardly bear the thought of the shock and suffering Lise was about to go through. Maybe now is the time to finally tell her. She would break it gently and minimize her pain. "Some dreams are built on illusions, and sometimes reality is the real murderer."

Good Boy

Kally Jo Surbeck

Momma told me to always be a good boy. Good boys had good lives. Their mother's loved them, they made friends. Good people were just better to be around. They made life bearable, when it seemed unbearable. I tried. I really did. Being good, loving family, sharing the load and rewards were all part of growing up into a good man. Just as important as eating my greens, veggies, and a good breakfast is for my body to grow into a big healthy man. I love my Momma. She works a lot because I don't have a Daddy. Well, of course I had a Daddy but Momma said he was mean and we were better off without him. That is why I try so hard to be good and ease her load by being Momma's little helper.

Things have been going good for Momma at work. Her boss likes her. I've heard her tell Nanna, he'd like to take her out for dinner. But she whispers, and I feel her boss is not very fond of the mother-son package. I do know this is a long weekend. It's the one where they open the neighborhood swimming pools and Momma promised me if I was real good, we'd go to the park.

I had been such a good little boy Momma brought me. I don't swim yet. No classes for five year olds. Just one more month 'til I'm six. Then I can take the class. Momma wore her suit under her red shirt and white shorts. It was so hot and sunny. Beautiful. When I look up at the sun everything goes really bright, then dark but still bright at the edges. Wonder what makes it do that? It is fun. I stripped off my jacket, tossed it on the fresh grass, and took a deep breath in. It smells free. No sitter, no work for Momma. The grass is freshly mowed. I'd better make sure to sit on my jacket. Fresh grass leaves green on clothes. I wonder why? One glance to my left, I see Momma talking to Jenny Edward's mom. Momma looks so happy. She hasn't looked this happy in ages.

"'Scuse me kid. You seen my dog?"

I look up but it is so dark and bright all I see is huge and hairy arms. He sounds like someone I should know but I can't place how or why. The sun's behind him so I can't see anything but his hairy arms. "No, sir."

"How do you know?" The hairy man rasps, making the small hair on my neck stand straight out. Hand to God. "You haven't even looked. Does your mother know what a bad little boy you are?"

No. No. No! Not a bad boy. A good boy. Why would the hairy man say that? He can't tell Momma. She is so happy. It would ruin her day. No. I hadn't lied. I wasn't bad. We just got here and I hadn't seen a dog!

"Perhaps you and I should go have a talk with her about your lack of manners, boy!"

No! He could not do that. Momma was just now happy, happier than she'd been in ages, in ages. I was her little man. I made her proud. This would not make her proud. 'Specially not in front of Ms. Edwards.

My breath was already coming as sharp gasps. A good boy would help. But before I could offer to help, the hairy man's hand clasped tightly on my shoulder. Hard, too hard. It hurt so bad. I wanted to cry but I was almost six and that was a big boy. Big boys didn't cry and make a scene. I bet it would leave a mark. Momma would really be mad then. My little mind hurt. What was right?

"I ain't seen him cuz we just got here." The grip eased a little. Not much but enough. "I'll help you look for him, mister. We'll find him. Lots of folks here. Someone's bound to have seen him."

"That's a good boy."

The sick in my belly edged a little. "I should tell my Momma I'm going to help you find your dog, mister." The big hairy hand clamped like a vice, crunching bone. I heard it. I can't breathe.

"You really want me going over to your pretty momma over there?"

When I didn't answer, he squeezed tighter. The pain was so intense I wet myself a little. I shook my head. I couldn't make the words come out.

Momma, look over here at me! Momma, see I need you.

"What's your dog's name? What kinda dog is he?"

"He's a scrawny little mutt. Gets in the way." The hairy man was mean. The force of his grip brutal. "His name's Toby."

"My name's Toby!" I declared before thinking about all the stranger danger warnings, all the 'don't leave my sights'. It was that split second when I heard all of my momma's warnings rush my head at once. The same instance the hairy man's other hand covered my wide open mouth with the sickly smelling gag.

"I know." was the last thing I heard for a very long time.

***

I woke in this house. It was cold. I saw my body. It didn't look so good. Like a bad prop from a movie Momma wouldn't let me watch. The hairy man? I haven't seen him since he took me away. I think I wasn't a good boy. I must not have been, but I don't remember. When I think real hard about Momma, I try and focus on her. Sometimes I think I hear her crying or asking why. Wish I could answer but all I do is watch.

Times passes. They'll find me soon. New houses are coming to be near where I am. I wonder if I'll get to leave when they find me. Will Momma be happy they found me? Will she know I tried to be good and I love her still?

Please.

Ghost Hunter

Samie Sands

As Mary stared at the rundown shack standing in front of her, she couldn't help but feel disappointed. She had spent a lot of her life travelling to alleged haunted sites—places she found online that promised terrifying experiences—and had never found anything like what she was looking for. This excursion was shaping up to be no different.

"At least this place is kinda pretty!" She huffed to herself, disenchantment etched across her face. She sat down on a rock near the small waterfall that lay next to the old ruins. Admittedly, she had been to some dreadful places ghost hunting—but what else could she expect? Hauntings don't tend to occur in brand new shopping malls. That was probably what had attracted her to this particular place. At the very least, she knew that she would be able to get some picturesque photographs for her Facebook page.

She let out a deep sigh as she let her eyes take in the smashed windows, the crumbling brickwork, and the overall creepy demeanor. She wondered how she let herself get suckered in once more. After the abandoned airfield disaster, she thought she was going to stop. Yet here she was, doing it all over again. She knew the answer, of course—Andrew.

Much as she didn't like to think about him, memories of their brief time together flooded her mind. They met in college, and fell in love almost instantly. He was obsessed with the supernatural and she had quickly gotten caught up in the magic of it all. They had actually been planning their first trip, just like this one—to a fabulous ancient house built upon a graveyard—when he was hit by a bus, killing him instantly.

At first Mary had been numb, acting on autopilot, unable to really function. Then, on the day the trip was supposed to start, she found herself at the airport, as if something else had taken her there. Getting away from all of the direct memories had done her the world of good and something—an unhealthy need to carry this on—made her continue to do so. It had been 10 years since Mary lost Andrew, but for some reason, she just couldn't let him go.

"You'd have loved this one, Andrew." She spoke aloud, just as she always did when she was at these sites because she felt much closer to him than normal. "Even if it is just another old building with nothing in..."

Something, a spark of a shadow in one of the old windows, caught her eye and stopped her in her tracks. Mary stood slowly, moving towards the building. Her heart was pounding ferociously and her breathing became laboured. Suddenly, she was gripped by fear unlike anything she had ever experienced before. She didn't know what had her so afraid after all, she had experienced supernatural possibilities before. But for some reason, this felt...different.

She stepped closer to the building, taking in a large gulp as the soothing sound of the rushing stream suddenly became something much more sinister. The realisation hit Mary hard that she was in the woodlands—a place where animal noises should be commonplace. But all she could hear was a piercing silence.

She pondered upon what this weird building, next to a waterfall and surrounded by trees, had been in its heyday. It seemed too small to be a house, but bigger than the average shack. Of all the things she had learnt in her research—the terrifying young girl ghost that supposedly haunted the place, the fact that you allegedly wouldn't survive if she got too close to you, the legends of the many people that had gone into these woods and never returned—she had never actually bothered to find out what the hell this place had been.

As she tentatively peered in through one of the bottom windows, a piece of glass fell through with her fingers. The shattering noise it created sounded so much louder to Mary's blood pumping ears. She jumped backwards violently with the shock of it, and struggled to get her breath back.

After looking around the outside of the ruins as far as she dared, and giving herself satisfactory confirmation that she was in fact alone, Mary turned back to grab her camera out of her backpack. All she wanted to do now was take some photographs and get as far away from this place as possible. But, she quickly noticed that something was off. Her bag, she knew exactly where she had left it, but now...now the rock was empty.

"He—hello?" Mary called out, unable to keep the shakiness out of her voice.

The wind whistled, but nothing else followed. Mary was frozen stiff. Something about this experience suddenly felt much more petrifying than anything she had ever been through before.

"Who...who's there?" She called out once more, desperately hoping that the deadly ghost girl wouldn't appear before her. Maybe all those people really did die—and it was this petrifying feeling that had done it!

Mary slipped slightly on a wet mossy area next to the waterfall as she moved. Her heart was now thumping so loudly that she couldn't concentrate. Did she need her backpack? Could she just run? No—her money, her passport, all her vital belongings were in that damn bag. No, she was going to have to get it back no matter what.

"I...I don't know what you want, but I really need at least some of my stuff back." Mary said, letting out a noise that was supposed to be a laugh, to show that she wasn't scared at all, hoping that confidence would deter whatever was out there—but the end result just made her seem more afraid than ever.

Abruptly the ground started to shake beneath her feet, almost knocking her to the ground.

An earthquake. It had to be an earthquake.

Mary gripped the rock beneath her tightly as she waited for everything around her to steady.

Still, even after the tremors, Mary couldn't hear any animal noises. That wasn't right, was it? Shouldn't birds be calling out at the very least? Dread caused Mary to make a snap decision, she would leave immediately. Belongings could be replaced—her life couldn't!

Her eyes fixed on her feet as she quickly walked, her brain focused on the floor beneath her, so much so that she didn't realise what she was about to come up against until her head smacked against it. Her eyes widened in surprise as her sight travelled upwards.

Whatever she had been expecting, whatever supernatural phenomenon she thought she might find, it certainly wasn't this. She never, ever even considered this monster as a possibility, and now here he was, holding her bag which looked tiny in his oversized, beastly hands.

Mary's heart stopped beating as her brain finally deciphered exactly who she stood in front of; the one who she was certain was going to kill her.

"Bigfoot..."

Author Bios

Jaclyn Ann Lee

Jaclyn Ann Lee lives in Cincinnati, Ohio with her three cats and supportive boyfriend. While her stories appearing in this book are her first to be published, she is actively pursuing a lifelong dream of establishing a name for herself as an author. She writes in every genre, with sci-fi, fantasy, drama, noir, history, and social themes being her focus. She is working on her debut novel, which is to become a series, and has several other series plotted out.

Currently Jaclyn is employed as a professional freelance editor and is working on the business model for her company, "Darling Willow Books", which will offer editing and publishing services to authors. She also dreams of opening a bookstore someday.

Jaclyn enjoys playing video games, reading as many books as she can get her hands on, watching movies, listening to music, sports, art, baking, and making people laugh.

Lila L. Pinord

Lila L. Pinord was born and raised in a small Native American fishing village called Queets, a part of the greater Quinault Indian Nation along the coast of Washington State. Because of this, many of her own experiences and knowledge of reservation life- such as myths, legends and superstitions of her people- are included in her writings.

She attended Grays Harbor College in Aberdeen, Washington for a year, got married, then later went on to Peninsula College in Port Angeles, majoring in secretarial. From there, Lila attended Western Washington University and gained a degree in accounting. However, writing has always been her first love, and she continues it in Port Angeles, WA where she lives now.

SKYE DANCER was chosen to be featured on the State of Washington Library website in December 2006 under Mysteries of the Northwest. Ms. Pinord is a contributor to 200 AUTHORS and How They Were Published, THE PUBLISHED AUTHOR'S GUIDE TO PROMOTION-Marketing tips by Published Authors, and SHAMELESS SHORTS. Her short story JOSH DRAKE VIP is included in Gallery of Voices.

Her newest book just out on the market is IN TIME, an Urban Fantasy about a young lad who time travels here on earth, trying to find his parents and a place to settle down while at the same time, his mother seeks HIM. It's not available at this time since it's now in the hands of a traditional publisher.

Other books are: MIN'S MONSTER and EVIL LIVES IN BLUE ROCK. All her books can be found online, and by asking for them in your favorite bookstore.

Website: http:// lilalpinord.bravehost.com Email: lilapinord @ yahoo.com

Rob Shepherd

Born in Essex in 1978 where he still resides with his wife, son, Jinx the grumpy cat and Ethel the kleptomaniac dog/ Was made a poet fellow in 2007 by Nobel House Publishers. Has appeared in several anthologies including Dark Light 2 horror anthology Edited by author SJ Davis and several online magazines. Rob's other books include 'Life With Boris Karloff!' 'Sofiah' and 'The Grays Anatomy', published by Stanhope Books (www.stanhopebooks.com) and 'Stripped Unconsciousness' book.

Rob has also written scripts for Silentwood Films' short films including the short film to the WW2 book 'Sofiah', 'Unique' & for their forthcoming micro films project as well as co-writing Invicta Films' forthcoming movie 'Dead Lies'.

Andy Lockwood

Andy Lockwood owes his continued fascination with the macabre to a lifetime immersed in the genre. His tutelage began with the stories of Ray Bradbury, Stephen King and other masters; quickly becoming part of a regular routine as he bonded with his father over monster double-features every Saturday. He grew up with role models like Vincent Price, Alice Cooper, The Addams' and The Munsters. It's not that he

intended to turn out this way; he just didn't know any better.

As the years added up, he discovered an avalanche of influences that pushed his own imagination forward, urging a necessity to put pen to paper himself. In high school, he got his first job as a librarian's assistant. While future career choices would shift and methods of creative expression would fluctuate, one thing remained certain: from this point forward, his love of the printed word was resolute.

While pursuing studies in filmmaking, he rekindled his love of writing. The limitations of scripted action brought him back to short story writing and the discovery of National Novel Writing Month. Eventually, his efforts would award him his first novel, Empty Hallways.

Andy has a decorated life of Bucket List accomplishments, none of which he ever intended to do for the glory. They have all fAllan in line as part of the adventure his life decided to be. Eventually, he intends to capture the best of these stories in a lengthy memoir – or at least on his blog, Happier Thoughts (www.happierthoughts.com).

Empty Hallways is currently available in paperback and eBook formats, though the rumours of a rare and elusive hardcover still persist. He is currently assembling an anthology of his own short stories, and also in rewrites on his second novel, The House of 13, with the intent of public release in late 2014.

Andy lives in mid-Michigan with 3 cats, a runaway imagination and a misguided idea of what it means to be an adult.

L.H. Davis

Laurance H. Davis is a mechanical engineer as well as a writer of fiction. He enjoys designing robots during the day and then sends them on adventures in tales of science fiction at night. Laurance is currently working on two separate space adventure novels and several shorter manuscripts. Although Sci-Fi is his first passion, several of his mainstream short stories have been selected for inclusion in the Aspiring Writers 2014 Winners Anthology. The Florida Writers Association recognized Laurance in 2011 at the Royal Palms Literary Awards with a first place for his novella The Emporium and again in 2013 for his novel Outpost Earth. The Writers of the Future Contest recognized his work twice in 2008 with Honorable Mentions and again in 2011 as a Semi-finalist. After building and racing cars with SCCA for twenty-years, Laurance hung up his helmet in 2008 and picked up the pen. More information is available on Laurance at LHDavisWriter.com.

James Bryant

James Bryant is an e-book author who lives in deepest Cornwall in England where he works full-time in the computing industry. His first self-published e-book Train Strain, about the perils facing commuters getting to and from work, sold almost 1,000 copies online since 2011. His latest projects involve a mixture of sci-fi and supernatural dramas whilst also writing occasional expressive humorous e-books about common life scenarios.

Anthony V. Pugliese

Anthony is a resident of Harrisburg, PA. He is 54 years old and single. He worked for the Commonwealth of PA and is currently a customer service representative for a small company in PA who contracts with medical providers, facilities and hospitals. He has been inspired by books like Ratman's Notebooks, The Exorcist, The Omen, Carrie and Rosemary's Baby and the many works of Edgar Allan Poe, Herman Melville, Jack London, Mark Twain and Rudyard Kipling.

He likes to create a classic fireplace story-teller feel to his tales centering around supernatural elements crisscrossing into the contemporary world, ordinary people finding themselves face to face with those shadows and those dark alleys in our subconscious and our psyche. Myth, legend and folklore become reality. The characters must rise above their beliefs and educational backgrounds to persevere while at the same time enduring drastic changes in their lifestyles and overall personalities.

He has few credits at this time and has been published in small press and in a few mainstream anthologies. He is working on a cross-genre novel - Dyavol's Fallen and a short story collection - All Things Truly Wicked. His hobbies are antiquing, weird history, paranormal phenomenon, art collection, amateur photography, and of course, writing.

Find him on Twitter @Apugliese3 and his Facebook home page or on his writers page:

The Stoat's Lair: www.facebook.com/mymitternaucht.

Kevin S. Hall

Kevin S. Hall is 34, and an up and coming horror author. He has written a horror anthology called Thirteen which you can buy online and is currently beavering away on Thirteen 2 and Thirteen 3. He is also working on a Pet Sematary: The Series, Monster Makers game book and Ravens Edge. He lives in Haddington, East Lothian, Scotland, enjoys anything sci-fi, fantasy and horror, and loves Doctor Who.

Rick Eddy

Born and raised in Buffalo, NY, USA, Rick Eddy has served for 20 years an ordained Lutheran pastor in Upstate New York and central Sweden. He attended the State University of New York at Buffalo and the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago. Prior to ministry he worked in various capacities in child protection and foster care, AIDs education and counseling, adolescent mental health and family therapy. In addition to parish ministry, Eddy has also served as a Hospice care chaplain and program administrator. In his leisure time, Eddy enjoys hiking, camping canoeing, kayaking, cross-country skiing and reading history and novels. For years he has used writing, mostly poetry and short essays, as a method of self-expression.

Max E. Stone

Max has been writing and studying the subject since the age of nine. He put his life into the New England series and is still working at it. Hardships in his teen years shaped his words as he further delved into the craft and everything it entails. He understands how powerful the pen can be and believes that his job is to speak for as well as entertain the people.

www.maxestone.com

Dave J. Suscheck Jr.

Dave Suscheck grew up in Erie, Pennsylvania where his passion for reading and writing started at a young age. He has both a Bachelor's degree and Master's degree in English Literature. He attended Mercyhurst University for his undergraduate degree and Gannon University for his graduate degree. An avid reader he is influenced most by the writings of John Connolly and F. Paul Wilson, among a host of other authors. He enjoys the horror genre, but reads almost everything.

Vered Ehsani

Vered Ehsani has been a writer since she could hold pen to paper, which is a lot longer than she cares to admit. Born in South Africa, she lives in Kenya with her family. When she isn't writing, running a radio show or daydreaming about African myths, she pretends to work as an environmental consultant. If you enjoyed this extract from Ghosts of Tsavo (release date: March 2015), you might consider picking up a free book all about African paranormals by visiting Vered and her world at http://veredehsani.co.za.

J. Cornell Michel

J. Cornell Michel's debut novel, "Jordan's Brains: A Zombie Evolution," was nominated for the 2013 Best in Horror award by What Horror Looks Like. The author decided to write a zombie book in order to face a childhood fear: corpses rising from the grave to hunt the living. Which is silly because zombies aren't real...yet. Michel has turned into quite the horror fan, but is disheartened by the gender stereotypes portrayed in the horror genre. For this reason, Michel decided not to reveal the protagonist's gender in "Jordan's Brains: A Zombie Evolution." The author writes for Zombie Guide Magazine, and is currently working on a second zombie novel. Michel co-wrote a zombie Christmas story with Anne Barrett, which will be published in 2014.

jordansbrains.com

Michele Jones

Michele Jones is a published memoir author and poet, but her passion lies in writing paranormal and suspense thrillers and poetry. Strong, capable heroines; dashing, honourable heroes; and dark, dangerous villains embroiled in mysterious, perilous situations keep readers fascinated from her first word to her last.

Lizzie Wachter

Lizzie Wachter is an aspiring writer at the age of 16. With the stresses that come with life and school, she has found her way out through writing. Currently, Lizzie is her sophomore year of high school and has only participated in a few local writing events. This is her first anthology. She hopes to participate in more and improve her writing further among the writing community.

Linda Jenkinson

Canadian born writer who has lived in the city but also has enjoyed Ontario's north. Living in this beautiful, rugged country for five years has been the inspiration for her first novel about The Kawartha Lake Vampires. It is still in the works and may just get done soon. She has written many non-fiction articles but loves the fun and challenge of Creative Writing projects, especially poetry.

The mystery/thriller/horror genre is beginning to interest her more than she ever dreamed, and that in itself is frightening. If this direction is going to take her to a place of no return, she plans to leave small signs along the bloody trail in case she gets lost, so she will be able to find her way back.

Kally Jo Surbeck

Kally Jo Surbeck is a multi-award-winning best-selling author of several genres. She has over thirteen books, including participation in several anthologies. A few of her accomplishments are Colorado Author of The Year, the EPPIE (Excellence in electronic publishing) Action category. Ms Surbeck, was, at that time, was the first woman to have written and won in said category. She is the winner of the Daphne duMaurier in thriller/suspense. Her poetry was her first writing sale at the tender age of twelve. Her works are in several different anthologies, commemorative additions, and one is even in the Holocaust Museum.

Samie Sands

Samie's debut novel, Lockdown http://thelockdown.co.uk, and its sequel Forgotten, have been published by Triplicity Publishing, and she is currently working on the sequel. She has a degree in Media and loves to gain inspiration for her writing from travelling.

http://samiesands.com.

