

Literary Lunes Magazine

September/October 2012 Issue

L iterary Lunes Magazine copyright © 2012 Beth Ann Masarik & Literary Lunes Publications. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form without written permission except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For information about reprinting, distributing, or otherwise sharing the contents of this book, please contact Beth Ann Masarik at info@literarylunespublications.com

First edition, September/October 2012

Originally published in paperback and e-book by Literary Lunes Publications

Smashwords Edition

Interior edited by Beth Ann Masarik

Cover design by Beth Ann Masarik

Literary Lunes Magazine

www.literarylunes.com

Literary Lunes Publications

www.literarylunespublications.com

Table of Contents

Letter from the Editor

By Beth Ann Masarik

Writings From the Heart

By Beth Ann Masarik

Call for Submissions

It Takes a Village to Write a Book

By Erin Danzer

Behind the Scenes with Heather Fowler

By Beth Ann Masarik

Behind the Scenes with Steve Piacente

By Beth Ann Masarik

Behind the Scenes with Lisa Pell

By Beth Ann Masarik

Behind the Scenes with SF Chapman

By Beth Ann Masarik

Behind the Scenes with Ayshe Talay-Ongan

By Beth Ann Masarik

Behind the Scenes with Susanna Green

By Beth Ann Masarik

Behind the Scenes with Corey Mesler

By Beth Ann Masarik

"Your Song"

By Jamie Danzer

### "Planned Obsolescence"

By Gary Beck

An Angel Gets Her License

Cassandra Serafin Chronicles #3

By Erin Danzer

Dragon's Demise

By Terra Kelly

Maybe

By Abbigail Rosewood

No Questions Asked

By: Joseph Estevez

The Tragedy of Fidel Castro

By João Cerqueira

Terra-Firma Reviews

By Terra Kelly

Lunar Reviews

By Beth Ann Masarik

Connect with Literary Lunes

Awesome Bloggers

The Staff

Affiliates

Letter from the Editor

Dear Readers,

Thank you for picking up another edition of Literary Lunes Magazine. Can you believe there is only one issue left for this year? I sure can't! I'd like to thank you all for your support of the magazine. Without your support, it wouldn't be here.

This issue is jam-packed with lots of interviews and short stories, and an article from Erin Danzer.

There is a special call for submissions for the November/December issue. Details to follow in one of the following sections.

Literary Lunes has joined forces with Hydra Publications (my publisher) and JKS Communications. You will be seeing their authors visit the Literary Lunes blog frequently, and I hope you all will show them some love!

If you are one of the hundreds of people that have read the magazine this year, I'd greatly appreciate it if you would please review the issue or issues that you've read, and or consider purchasing the colored paperback to support the magazine. Most paperback issues are $10 or less depending on length.

I'd also like to let everyone know that there will be a collection coming out at the end of the year of ALL articles, poems, stories etc that were published in each issue this year. Proceeds made from the collection will go towards running both Literary Lunes websites.

Thank you once again for all of your support and dedication to Literary Lunes.

Sincerely,

Beth Ann Masarik

Writings From the Heart: Stories and Poetry From Around the World

By Beth Ann Masarik

In June, the Writings From the Heart anthology was released. I am trying to raise money for the Cohen Children's Medical Center of NY. All proceeds are going to go to the adult congenital heart program that was started by cardiologist, Dr. Scott Pilgrim. It is a program that is a part of the pediatric cardiology unit, and it helps transition the young adults into the adult world of cardiology. Dr. Pilgrim is an excellent physician, and I support this program whole-heartedly. My goal is to raise $300.00 for education and research for this program. So far, I have only raised $70.00, and the anthology has been out since June. You can get it on Amazon Kindle for only $2.99 and in paperback through createspace for $13.00.

For those wondering why I chose the price of $13.00, it's because that is the day that I celebrate my successful open heart surgery. On June 13, 1985 I was operated on successfully, and this anthology is my way to give back to the community of doctors and nurses that have taken care of me for my entire life.

This anthology is special to me, in that so many people came together for one cause, and it truly is a global project. I accepted submissions from people who were from not only the United States, but Canada, Australia, Germany, India, and so many other countries. 30 authors came together and submitted both poetry and short stories. This is a Young Adult anthology, with many different genre's ranging from fantasy to contemporary.

Thank you for your support of the anthology, and I hope you will purchase a copy or two. The collection is available in all countries through the channels listed above.

### Call for Submissions

For the last issue of the year, I am looking for stories with the following themes:

Fall/Winter

Thanksgiving

Christmas

Any other holiday that falls during the months of November/December.

Submissions are due NO LATER THAN October 25th and should be sent to submissions@literarylunes.com. Please include a cover letter with your submission, and make sure that you follow the guidelines listed on www.literarylunes.com.

It Takes a Village to Write a Book

By Erin Danzer

We all know writing a book can be a lonely endeavor. While our friends go out for drinks, we sit at home, tied to the computer, trying to eek out the next Great American novel. Our families get upset because laundry and dishes get pushed aside in lieu of edits. While everyone else is having fun or picking up our slack, we're trying to create something we'll be proud to share with the world.

What happens when you need someone to talk to? As much as our significant others and non-writer friends try to understand, they can't understand us as well as other writers. So who do you turn to when you have that moment of clarity, that perfect moment between your main characters that just *has* to be shared? Who will be there to listen when you lament about characters that don't do what you want them to and plot bunnies that jump in unexpectedly?

This is where you begin to build your village, the people who will cheer with you in happy moments and give you virtual hugs when things don't go as planned.

So where do you find these people? There are many places you can look. I'm going to share some of the places I've had the most success.

**#1 – Social Media**. This is a must for writers to begin with. This is how we connect with not only each other, but with fans and potential future fans. Type in #amwriting on Twitter and see just how many authors pop up. Search for "writer" or "author" on LinkedIn, Facebook or Google+ and see the names start coming. Keep in mind though... on all of these sites, you should check out the people before you friend them. On Twitter, check out their recent tweets, their Facebook page or blog if it's listed in their profile. Same with the other sites. You don't just want to "friend" everyone. You want to make sure you have something in common with these people first. Find people with common interests or who write the same kinds of books as you do. Friending these people will pave the way to find more people just like you.

I have to stop and add something here. Please, once these nice people friend or follow you, don't continually hound them to read your stuff or only talk about your work. They are people, too, more than just an author. You have the potential here to make some new genuine friends.

**#2 – Major Organizations**. If social media isn't your thing or if you crave some face-to-face time with other authors, check out one or any of the major organizations. Romance Writers of America (RWA), Society of Children's Books Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI), Mystery Writers of America (MWA), The National Writers Association (NWA), and the Writers Guild of America (WGA) are just a few. All of them have local chapters, nationally and sometimes even internationally. Just look up these organizations or type in "major writing organizations" on your favorite search engine and see what comes up.

Once you find one you're interested in, find a local chapter and contact the president to see if you can sit in on their next meeting. Most will allow you one or maybe two times of sitting in before they ask you to decide about becoming a member. Yes, you have to pay to be a member, but these organizations have amazing abilities to network and get word of your book (when you're ready) in the hands of many more people. You can also find beta readers, critique partners, and friends in these groups. Also, the annual conferences are jammed packed with panels, keynote speakers and workshops where you can learn and grow in your craft.

**#3 – Free Online Communities**. Another option is to join online writing communities. One that I first started with was Writing.Com. Here, you can share your writing online and ask for reviews from other authors and readers on the site. You can also enter a multitude of writing contests to better hone your craft (many times, contest judges will give a critique of your work even if you don't win). Another place I've found friends is during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) every November. This year will be the 10th year I've participated and I've made a few very close friends who become my buddies every year.

There are many other writing communities online. Find one that appeals to you and sounds like a place your writing will fit in. Take a chance and share a little. You never know what will happen.

Behind the Scenes with Heather Fowler

By Beth Ann Masarik

What is your name?

Heather Fowler

Tell us about yourself.

I'm an artist, a daydream, and a single mother. I consider the term art flexible. Even bad cooking can be an art.

What do you write?

I write poetry, short stories, plays for theatre, screenplays, novels, love letters, dating guides, manifestos, memorandums—all of these things.

Why do you write it?

I write it because it asks to be written. As if a tiny girl at my elbow, shouting, "Make me real!" She's rather demanding. Also, a loud cross-dresser.

Do you have any past or current releases?

Yes, two books.

People with Holes, a second magical realism collection whose entire author's proceeds will go to Planned Parenthood, publisher to match author's contribution, was recently released in July 2012.

Suspended Heart, my first magical realism collection, similarly benefits a charity for women, the San Diego Family Justice Center, which is a local facility that helps battered women and children.

Tell us about them.

The book descriptions follow:

Hailed as "magic realism at its finest," Fowler's writing in PEOPLE WITH HOLES reveals the small but essential truths that motivate sex and relationships. Whether in museums of solitude, in airports of dreams, or at the circus, these stories are bound together by transformation, anthropomorphism, and ultimately by love's inevitable consequences. Fowler's unique vision is thought-provoking, with a touch of feminist sensibility, and shot through with quirky and laugh-out-loud humor.

In an explosion of love's metaphors, Fowler's debut collection of stories, SUSPENDED HEART, takes on American fabulism with a cast of unexpected heroines in the narratives of life and loss—women whose hearts fall out at public malls, women whose bodies bloom with changing seasons, women who sprout blades or have multiple eyes, sleep as snakes, or birth saints like lapis lazuli babies. Where there is struggle and sadness, there is also humor: Fowler's fictive voice has been compared to both Franz Kafka and Donald Barthelme. There's a fearlessness to this prose, a melody of life and magic and loss. Selected stories in this volume have been published online and in Australia.

Who is publishing them?

I am honored to have worked with Aqueous Books for Suspended Heart (and the feminist dystopia collection THIS TIME WHILE WE'RE AWAKE due out Spring of 2013)—and with Pink Narcissus Press for PEOPLE WITH HOLES.

Where is your favorite place to write?

In a cool office.

What do you listen to when you write?

Sometimes folk music, the sound of the street, the clicking of the keys—whatever is present. But, in general, I'm not seated where I am. As I write, I have entered the story soundscape like a transient being, if you will.

How long have you been writing?

Twenty-five years. Longer. A. B. C. D. E. F. G.

If you could be any mythological creature, what would it be and why?

I would be a mermaid because I love the idea of owning a strong tail. Being completely enmeshed with the sea.

What is your guilty pleasure food?

You expected only one? Flan sauce.

When did you know you wanted to be a published author?

In sixth or seventh grade, when I was first published.

How many rejections did you receive before you were finally published?

None. It was a tiny school magazine. I was a tiny inkerly girl. How many since then? I am deliberately forgetful about such matters. It helps the will to go on.

How did you feel when you received that acceptance letter?

The first real acceptance letter, after grade school days, was from Zoetrope All-Story Extra, a former feature on Coppola's workshop website. I felt great. I kept wondering which pen to use to sign the contract. Then I used one of my glass pens, since I collect those.

I hear that some authors, even if they have a publisher, get nervous after sending another book for a contract. Do you get nervous?

No. I am now at the blissful place of enjoying my work regardless of "success" perceptions—actively—so I don't really care if it is accepted or not by one place or another. I feel calm and well about those things most days. I'm more interested in the process of creating the art. As long as the work lights me up, that's all that matters. Acceptance and rejection are so nepotistic and subjective. Fame is over-rated and not uniform in distribution in terms of talent versus gain. I think often of that famous violin player in the subway who played excellently and yet no one was tipping. If I can't get into the upper echelons of publishing by top-tier contacts in this exact moment, I often think, then maybe I go unseen for a while as I make my art. I can embrace the venues where my work does appear. I can have faith it will get to where it needs to go. But I must continue to send it out because I love it—and I must make it for the same reason. I am an artist: Who cares who doesn't get me? There's no strain of narcissism inside me that requires high-end applause.

The acceptances, then, are just positive amplifications of the effort to write and submit, lovely that way—and all the better, the rejections don't matter. I don't take them personally.

What inspires you to write?

Love. Pain. Loss. Lust. Intrigue. A general urge for retribution. A word tango internalized. Other authors.

Where can we find you?

Here: http://www.heatherfowlerwrites.com/

Also, here: http://www.facebook.com/#!/heatherfowlerwrites

And here: https://twitter.com/hfowlerwrites

Where can we buy your books?

Here:  http://www.amazon.com/People-Holes-Heather-Fowler/dp/098299138X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1341959471&sr=8-1&keywords=People+With+Holes

Here:  http://www.amazon.com/Suspended-Heart-Heather-Fowler/dp/0982673434/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1345579722&sr=1-1&keywords=Suspended+Heart

Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?

Yes. Ignore what power you do or do not have regarding publication and acceptance. Do not ignore the making of your art. The idea of needing to be inspired is a ridiculous myth. Such waiting is lazy and should not be validated by belief or a permission to write infrequently. I strongly side with Bradbury in that discussion: If you want to call yourself a writer, write. Tell the tales that you are uniquely suited to tell. Go to where you fear to go, and go past that—into the charged material that is your psyche.

Read. Write. Read. Write. Like right, left, right. Keep going. It's necessary. I will clap to witness such a march. Inspiration comes when you keep dropping the pen onto the page, the hands to the keyboard. So this is what you must do. Good luck and Godspeed on your journey. I wish you great originality and success, in that order.

Behind the Scenes with Steve Piacente

By Beth Ann Masarik

What is your name?

Steve Piacente

Tell us about yourself.

I am the deputy communications director at a large federal agency, where I manage the web and social media teams. I joined the government in 2002 after a 25-year career in print journalism. A native New Yorker, I was D.C. Correspondent for two Southern newspapers, the Charleston (S.C.) Post and Courier, and, before that, The Tampa (Fla.) Tribune. Previously, I worked at the Lakeland (Fla.) Ledger, and the Naples (Fla.) Daily News. I graduated from American University's School of Communication in 1976, and in 2000 earned a Masters in Fiction from Johns Hopkins University. I have taught in SOC – in classrooms I once took classes in – for more than a decade.

Or, as I put it in my Twitter profile:

Reporter turned speechwriter turned university professor turned federal communications exec turned self-published author, now trying to catch breath...

What do you write?

I write fiction that explores love, ethics, and people. I am interested in things like the power of temptation, the futility of revenge, and the consequences of yielding to either.

Why do you write it?

Over a long reporting career, I covered several tragic events, including the murder of Adam Walsh in Florida. I have always been interested in how people respond to profound grief – in the Walsh case, the parents channeled their grief into action by lobbying the state legislature in Tallahassee to pass tougher child protection laws. I'm also interested in how people act when faced with tough ethical choices – essentially what people do when no one is watching. The action in Bella and Bootlicker is driven largely by ethical decisions key characters make on the battlefield, in political back rooms, and in the bedroom.

Do you have any past or current releases?

Bella was published in late 2010; Bootlicker will launch Sept. 1.

Tell us about them.

Bella is the story of a young woman who loses her husband overseas. The military tells her he was killed in battle; a source claims it was friendly fire. She enlists a Washington reporter to help uncover the truth, and the investigation takes turns neither expected.

In Bootlicker, the same reporter as a younger man must uncover the dark secret that links a racist U.S. Senator and the man poised to become South Carolina's first black congressman since the Civil War. (This is a prequel to Bella).

Who is publishing them?

I am an Indie author published via CreateSpace

Where is your favorite place to write?

I have an office in my home in Rockville, MD, where I do most of my writing. My favorite time to write is the early morning, when the world is quiet and most are just beginning to stir awake.

What do you listen to when you write?

Nothing but my own thoughts. Sometimes I let my characters speak to me. Sometimes they insist!

How long have you been writing?

I've been writing since I was a boy, and writing professionally since I graduated from American University in 1976 and began my career in journalism.

If you could be any mythological creature, what would it be and why?

I like Pegasus because airfare to Europe is ridiculous.

What is your guilty pleasure food?

Growing up in NY, I will forever love pizza.

When did you know you wanted to be a published author?

When I began getting frustrated by the limited space I received for my newspaper stories. At that time, there was no Internet, and reporters were assigned lengths – like 13 inches or 9 inches – for stories.

I started writing very early; pretty much the day I found out I couldn't do the math, but was good at describing the people who could do the math. Though private as a child, I went on to make a career out of telling stories – first as a daily newspaper reporter, then as a government speechwriter, and now as director of a federal agency's website, where we use tools in addition to words – such as videos and photo galleries – to tell our stories to the public.

How many rejections did you receive before you were finally published?

I had traditional agents for both books who were unable to sell them to major publishing houses. Rather than keep going that route, I decided to use the technology available today to self-publish.

What is your view of self-publishing?

There used to be one key to the literary castle. You wrote your book, wooed all the agents you could find, and hopefully landed one who could hook you up with a publisher. If you didn't get the agent, you didn't get the key, and all you got to write was an angry passage in your diary. Technology's changed the landscape, to my mind for the better. I self-published Bella and am in the process of getting it before average people without the help of any middlemen. Thus, real people will decide if my book is worth reading. That said, there is a significant challenge when an author moves from creative writing to creative marketing. We have taken on that challenge by making www.stevepiacente.com as compelling as possible. The site features a video trailer, an interactive reader map, and illustrated excerpts. I am also well represented on Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, and Pinterest. (Each page of the web site links to our pages). Finally, I am also writing a how-to blog on self-publishing (Back Story) that tells how we've reached this point. I very much like self-publishing and am amazed by the technology that has enabled us to reach prospective readers around the world.

What inspires you to write?

It's hard to pinpoint. Situations... Individuals... Anecdotes... There's a moment of clarity and the light bulb goes on; I know I must write a story and get the words from my head to the paper, or I'll feel like I missed an important opportunity.

Where can we find you?

www.stevepiacente.com

Where can we buy your books?

Amazon, at: http://amzn.to/catchingon (Bootlicker will be available Sept. 1)

Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?

Read everything and write every day. Try to find your own voice rather than mimic others. Make sure your research is solid; one factual error can undermine an entire novel. If you're self-published make sure to hire a professional editor to go through your work once you're finished.

Behind the Scenes with Lisa Pell

By Beth Ann Masarik

What is your name?

In the fictional world my name is Lisa Pell. My legal name is Lisa Pellegrin

Tell us about yourself.

For the most part, my family has been in the Appalachian mountain region since the late 1600s. With the exception of the first three months of my life in North Carolina, I lived in southwestern Virginia until I was six, and spent most holidays and summer vacations there as a child. I still visit family in the mountains of southwestern Virginia. But I was raised in northern Virginia in the suburbs of Washington, D.C., where my husband and I live now. As a journalist in my twenties, I lived in Bristol, Virginia and Tennessee, as well as Huntington, West Virginia. My fascination with writing began in college thirty years ago. Most of my professional career has been spent as a writer in the journalism, public relations, and project management fields. I began keeping journals and writing stories in contemplation of possibly writing a work of fiction about ten years ago. Then I became distracted by Who's Your Daddy, Baby?, which is my first novel. I'm a lover of tall tales, oysters, Rock 'n' Roll music, dancing, and fun people, especially my charming, dapper husband. We're golfers, and I'm starting to play tennis. I occasionally try my hand at oil painting, mostly portraits, some landscapes, and animals.

What do you write?

For myself when I'm not working, my creative writing experience can morph into a variety of forms. When my thoughts move too fast for my fingers to type, I become the transposing transponder. There are times when I am compelled to write fiction in novel or narrative form, especially if I'm living through a weird experience. I enjoy twisting the plot a bit and playing with the words to spice up the reality. It's almost therapy. When I'm feeling more visually oriented, I work on a screenplay. Then there are times when I'm just having fun with a social media post, an e-mail to a friend, or lately, I've enjoyed writing songs, which I promise my husband I won't sing in public.

With the help of professional musicians, I had a blast writing and recording two bluesy, rockin' music videos, "The Ballad of Who's Your Daddy, Baby?" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1rWXRSRPGRU, and "Nothin' Butt a Mutt" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGv09fZuops, for the Who's Your Daddy, Baby? project. The first features singing and dancing toddlers. The second, puppies and kittens interpreting Who's Your Daddy, Baby? I've written additional songs and have been encouraged to compose a musical to complement my quirky paternity mystery.

Someday I'll get back to the concept I was working on when I became distracted by Who's Your Daddy, Baby? Currently taking the shape of a trilogy, my Distortions series is about a woman convicted of a murder she didn't commit, an amazing Rock 'n' Roll performer, and a character with ties to a few Presidents, in a parody of Earth far in the future on "Planet Malaprop," very similar to "Hearth." I've obviously had fun with malapropisms.

Why do you write it?

Why I write what I write – to try to make sense of a crazy world in my own loony way, and satisfy my need for word play.

Do you have any past or current releases?

Who's Your Daddy, Baby? is my first novel, my first release.

Tell us about them.

Inspired by my own experience, Who's Your Daddy, Baby? is the story of my alter ego, Lori Pomay, whose name is what I call a "mutt-a-zation" of the French word for clueless. A happily married career woman living in suburban Washington, D.C., she undergoes genetic testing for in vitro fertilization and her world is rocked when she is told the dad she always knew could not possibly have been her biological father. When discussing blood type incompatibilities, the doctor, in his lovely French accent, said, "I senk you better senk about the milkman." This mid-life shocker sends my character into an alternately hilarious, heartwarming, and heartbreaking search for truth about her heritage – from Appalachian Cherokees to a Purple King on a church stage, with high-rolling gamblers, car dealers, dentists, and all manner of older, confused amnesiacs along for the ride. It's a mystery that should appeal to those searching for their roots, with DNA testing foibles and myths of history exposed. I'm fond of saying it's a mystery only a mother could create, but Paul McCartney might say only your mother should know. I'm a major Beatles fan, was even calling myself the Egg Woman during the in vitro process. I hope readers glean some nuances about relationships, and pick up a few nuggets about medical and scientific issues, as well as Appalachian and American history they will find interesting and helpful in their lives.

Who is publishing them?

Aberdeen Bay, a division of Champion Writers

Where is your favorite place to write?

Well, I need to stay fairly tame to feed all the wild dreams in my mind that need hydration. For serious writing, I load up glasses of water and plop down in my swivel chair in front of the computer in my home office. I keep pads of paper around the house to jot down notes, but to write something of substance, the desktop computer is my tool of choice. It's so much faster than hand writing, and so much easier to manipulate text, check spelling, conduct searches, etc. I can type almost as fast as I think, and my left-handed handwriting is slow-going and barely legible, sometimes illegible, even to me. I find laptop keyboards annoyingly unstable, end up plugging in a standard laptop and mouse. A laptop is fine for travel, but I prefer the structure of sitting in a chair at a desk. It forces me to focus.

What do you listen to when you write?

The thoughts in my head. I become so engrossed in my writing I tune out the rest of the world, almost have to be shaken to answer a telephone. Now, when I'm painting, it's rockin' chaos. I swirl my brushes, singing and dancing to the Beatles, Rolling Stones, ZZ Top, Sheryl Crowe, KT Tunstall, Lady Gaga, and Adele, or become more reflective with Paul Simon, Santana, and Pink Floyd.

How long have you been writing?

I have enjoyed writing since scribbling on Go, Dog, Go! in my pre-school years back in the 1960s. Various teachers and university professors throughout my formal education encouraged my writing, starting in about the second grade. In college in 1980, I joined the student newspaper staff. Since college, I have made my living as a journalist and communications/program management specialist with a focus on writing. I have been extremely fortunate to have been exposed to so many fine instructors and editors throughout my life.

If you could be any mythological creature, what would it be and why?

It's so tempting to imagine galloping along through life with the gentle spirit of a mystical unicorn, or to fly through the sky like Pegasus, but despite the beauty and grace of those creatures, I don't really think of myself as much of a horse person. As a woman with a few Celts in her background, Yanet, the Celtic goddess of sex, love, and harmony, could be fun. Possibly more befitting of a literary lune, I might choose Artemis, goddess of the moon, but she also was the goddess of fertility, childbirth, and the hunt. Artemis probably would not be appropriate for the author of Who's Your Daddy, Baby?, with all the fertility fiascos that inspired the book – but we do have that hunt thing working with the paternity search. My choice of mythological creatures is a hybrid, as opposed to Hydra. So I'm for melding the Yanet, of all the love and harmony, with Minerva, the Roman goddess of poetry, medicine, wisdom, commerce, weaving, crafts, and magic. I try to weave a bit of all those subjects together in my writing. And, I dearly loved my aunt Minerva, a very wise, artistic woman who also had her fun-loving side. Like the mythological Roman goddess, my like-named real-life Appalachian goddess of an aunt loved owls.

What is your guilty pleasure food?

French Fries, but I tell people if I steal them from my husband's plate, the calories don't count.

When did you know you wanted to be a published author?

While I have considered myself a professional writer since my first job as a young newspaper reporter back in the early 1980s, I never thought of myself seriously as an author until I began writing Who's Your Daddy, Baby? When I was in my twenties, my mother told me I should write a book someday. Back then I told her I couldn't think of anything to write about. Little did my mother know I would write a book about her dating life long after she was gone. I guess that lends credence to the old adage, "Be careful what you wish for!"

How many rejections did you receive before you were finally published?

I queried a few literary agents who were more interested in Young Adult fiction, and one agent told me I needed to cut my manuscript to below 100,000 words. Right as I finished condensing the manuscript, one of those fortuitous happenstances guided me in a new direction. My husband met the Aberdeen Bay acquisitions director at a Rotary breakfast meeting and told him about my novel. The acquisitions director gave my husband his card and told my husband to have me give him a call. I called that afternoon, sent him a manuscript, and received an acceptance message about a week later.

How did you feel when you received that acceptance letter?

Ecstatic! The acceptance initially was an e-mail, which I read on a Blackberry as my husband and I were travelling to southwestern Virginia. No, I was not texting and driving – my husband was Drivin' Miss Lisa. The timing was perfect to celebrate with friends and family involved in my real-life search.

I hear that some authors, even if they have a publisher, get nervous after sending another

book for a contract. Do you get nervous?

Well, I'm still on my first book. I'll probably feel that way when I cross into the next dimension with my Distortions series, but I hope I've learned enough through this first experience to have a better grasp of expectations.

What inspires you to write?

Unusual personal experiences, and a desire to make sense of the world around me. Through writing I can force my mind to clearly reveal reality as best as I can perceive it, and illustratively imagine the lunacy.

Where can we find you?

www.whosyourdaddybaby.com

www.facebook.com/Lisa.Pell.Author1

Twitter: @lisapell

Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/lisapell1/

Goodreads:  http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6421673.Lisa_Pell

Google+:  https://plus.google.com/u/0/100877198820756634314/posts

Tumblr: http://lisapell-author.tumblr.com/

StumbleUpon:  http://www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/lisapellauthor

Where can we buy your books?

 http://www.amazon.com/Whos-Your-Daddy-Baby-Lisa/dp/1608300773/ref=la_B008M04EZW_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1342489406&sr=1-1

 http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/whos-your-daddy-baby-lisa-pell/1112046206?ean=9781608300778

various online sites listed through  http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6421673.Lisa_Pell

and can be ordered through independent book stores.

Videos:

"The Ballad of Who's Your Daddy, Baby?" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1rWXRSRPGRU

"Nothin' Butt a Mutt," http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGv09fZuops

"30 Second Introduction" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9SWKNoGnEwo

"Chapter 1: Images of Myth and Myrrh" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9gzElyWo6hw

"Chapter 10: The Letters" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EsygqGmYZVI

"Chapter 17: Threads of History" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RCWCSJChqAs

Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?

Write, then edit, then edit the entire manuscript about 10 more times before you ever show anyone anything you have written. Make sure it is as perfect as you can make it before you have a professional review it. Try to be as clear and precise as possible in your writing and avoid mundane details and story lines. Bare your soul, but try to make your book as interesting as possible to others. Speaking of others, if you haven't built up a social media network yet, you are way behind. With hundreds of thousands of books published every year, it's tough to be noticed. Build up Facebook friends, maintain professional connections on LinkedIn, reach new people through Twitter, pin products on Pinterest. There's also Google+, Tumblr, StumbleUpon, Delicious, Digg, and probably several I've missed, with more to come. It's all about connecting with the world. Network – you'll come across valuable information to improve your story and help you market it later. And keep reading! As others have said, if you're not reading, you're probably not writing worth a damn. Learn from the masters.

There are three key messages I would like to leave with potential readers:

Who's Your Daddy, Baby? is a fun novel, but it's not fluff.

In some ways, it's a medical mystery. Readers will learn more about the fallibility of half-siblingship DNA testing, issues regarding blood type testing/mutations, the impact of several genetic mutations, and the risks of in vitro fertilization.

It's a family saga. This story is about Appalachian families with American roots stretching back before the French and Indian War, and a baby being created. To borrow from the Rock 'n' Roll-speak of that rockin' time period for me – Who's Your Daddy, Baby?

Also, check out www.whosyourdaddybaby.com for my questions and answers about why I wrote this book and how I think it can be helpful to people. There are some intriguing theories about so called Melungeons, or mixed race people, with the name apparently having been derived from the French word "mélange," translated as mixture. There are also some entertaining video reading excerpts, in addition to the music videos, and my schedule of events is growing every day! Oh, and, if you're ever on Facebook, I think you can see my husband, "JonRe Pell," and I are having fun with Who's Your Daddy, Baby?

Behind the Scenes with SF Chapman

By Beth Ann Masarik

What is your name?

My name is S F Chapman. The initials stand for a first and middle name that are far too common, so I played around until I could Google it without ending up with a list of twenty or thirty other authors.

Tell us about yourself.

I'm a 53-year-old retired Building Contractor and a life-long resident of Northern California. I'm married and have two teenage kids.

What do you write?

I tell people that I'm a novelist, which covers a lot of ground. Much of my work is in the science fiction genre but I have recently expanded out into literary fiction. My latest book, which is called I'm here to help, is literary fiction.

Why do you write?

I write because I enjoy telling stories and I love the sound of well-constructed sentences.

Do you have any past or current releases?

My latest novel which is a touching literary fiction novella called I'm here to help which was published on July 1st. I have an exciting science fiction detective story coming out in February entitled The Ripple in Space-Time.

Tell us about them.

I'm here to help starts out with seventeen-year-old Renita discovering some subtle inconsistencies in her Birth Certificate while she is filling out some college applications. She quickly realizes that her enduring belief that she was adopted is in doubt. Renita confronts her mother, Sharon with her findings. Sharon has long dreaded having to reveal what really happened so many years earlier. I'm here to help is the story that Sharon tells to Renita about her birth. There are many unexpected twists and turns in the tale that will surprise nearly everyone.

Who is publishing them?

A new micro publishing company called Striped Cat Press is handling my books.

Where is your favorite place to write?

Does the north shore of Oahu count? I guess that's where I'd like to write.

I carry a small laptop hither and yon when I working on books. Sometimes I labor away on a chapter or two in my car while I'm waiting to pick up my kids at school. My favorite place to write is on the cushy blue sofa in my sun-drenched living room.

What do you listen to when you write?

I need silence when I first put together a chapter, editing is a different matter. Right now I'm listening to an eclectic mix of Ray Charles, the Beach Boys, Norah Jones and a Spanish language group called Bella Nova.

How long have you been writing?

I wrote dozens of short stories in college, but that fell to the wayside when I took a job in construction. A few years ago I retired and came back to writing, I have worked continuously on novel-length fiction since then.

If you could be any mythological creature, what would it be and why?

I haven't thought about being a mythological creature. If I could make up my own, I think that I would be a flying tiger. I admire the smoothness of form and movement that all felines possess. Why not add some wings to the sleek beasts?

What is your guilty pleasure food?

I love pie. When I complete a novel, my kids and I celebrate with Key Lime or Berry pie.

When did you know you wanted to be a published author?

I knew that I wanted to be a published author way back when I wrote my first decent short story at about age eighteen or nineteen.

How many rejections did you receive before you were finally published?

Spread out over three years and five novels, I received 57 rejections.

How did you feel when you received that acceptance letter?

I cheated a bit and didn't get an acceptance letter. Because my father has been an author of humorous non-fiction for many years and I knew about the difficulties that new authors faced, I had planned to start my own publishing house if my works didn't make it into print after three years of non-stop querying. Besides being a writer, I am the Chief Editor and Check Signer at Striped Cat Press, I never got around to sending myself an acceptance letter.

I hear that some authors, even if they have a publisher, get nervous after sending another book in for a contract. Do you get nervous?

Books are like your children, for a long time you live with them constantly and know all of their idiosyncrasies and minor faults. But until they venture off into the wider world and prove that they can stand on their own, you cringe at the possibility that they might fall.

What inspires you to write?

I constantly have little fragments of future tales floating around in my big bald noggin. Sometimes several promising pieces bump together and form the beginnings of a novel. Surprisingly, that's all that it takes to get me going on a new book.

Where can we find you?

You can find the many favorable reviews of I'm here to help by Googling "S F Chapman," I even have a short video interview on YouTube.

Where can we buy your books?

I'm here to help is now available at Amazon.com as a paperback and an e-Book for the Kindle. You can also buy the paperback at Stripedcatpress.com; it should be available elsewhere soon.

Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?

Writing is art and you should never allow the business side of publishing to muck around with the way that you express that art to your audience. Whether your efforts make it into print or not, you should be happy with and occasionally amazed by your own work. If you are, then others will probably enjoy it as well.

Behind the Scenes with Ayshe Talay-Ongan

By Beth Ann Masarik

What is your name? Tell us about yourself.

Ayshe Talay-Ongan. I am Turkish by birth, American by citizenship and Australian by residence. My life's work has been a psychologist and an academic. Now that I own my time, I write novels.

Why do you write?

Because I have stories to tell and a legacy to leave to my family.

Do you have any past or current releases?

I have three textbook in developmental psychology to my name, not nearly as exciting as my fiction writing, though. They've been published by Pearson and Thomson.

My new novel is TURQUOISE A Love Story, published by Sid Harta.

Where is your favorite place to write?

At home in my study, or anytime or place when I have my laptop with me.

What do you listen to when you write?

Vocal jazz, opera and classical music.

How long have you been writing?

My fiction writing is only since my retirement.

What is your guilty pleasure food?

Almond Roca ice cream

When did you know you wanted to be a published author?

In academia, publish or perish is the motto, so it must have been quiet early on.

How many rejections did you receive before you were finally published?

I've lost count!

How did you feel when you received that acceptance letter?

I remember reading that email in my car. I couldn't wait to call my husband!

What inspires you to write?

I write stories that are inspired by my life experiences with a hefty dose of imagination.

Where can we find you?

www.facebook.com/turquoisealovestory

www.turquoise-alovestory.com.au

Where can we buy your books?

Amazon and Kindle

Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?

\I've learned to revise, revise again, and then rewrite all over again! Working with mentors is essential; the better they are, the more luminous your work will become, but be prepared to take critical opinion.

Behind the Scenes with Susanna Green

By Beth Ann Masarik

What is your name?

Susanna Green

Tell us about yourself.

I was born in Chicago but raised in New Orleans until having to evacuate due to Hurricane Katrina. I now live in the Tampa Bay area.

Were you affected by the hurricane?

Yes, I lost everything! We even lost our family business and my parents lost their church.

So you're a preacher's kid?

I am.

What kind of work did you do before writing?

I owned a Mobile Spa Company in New Orleans up until having to evacuate the city, but overall, I have been in the Cosmetology Industry for over twenty-one years now.

What do you write?

I write contemporary urban fiction novels. I call them urban because most of the characters are African American, but my novels are relevant for all nationalities.

Why do you write it?

I just write what's in my heart sprinkled with my wild and vivid imagination to complement. I don't have a specific reason as to why I write what I write; I tend to get inspired as the story evolves. I don't usually know what's going to happen until it happens.

Do you have any past or current releases?

My debut novel, Remembering the Sweet Nectar is available now in paperback and also on Kindle and Nook. The sequel, Devoured in a Diva's Web, will be released Dec. 30, 2012. Also, the audio CD comes out in August for Remembering the Sweet Nectar. I'm pretty excited about that.

Tell us about them.

The main character, Reina has been hurt and disappointed one too many times in the first book so in the sequel, she's on a mission to devour any and every man she deems deserving in an effort to teach them a lesson on fidelity.

Who is publishing them?

Sweet Nectar Publishing; that's my own Publishing Company. I'm really looking forward to branching out into publishing world.

Where is your favorite place to write?

Anywhere quiet, mostly in my home office, but you might see me at Panera Bread or Starbucks once in a while.

What do you listen to when you write?

Absolutely nothing; I need total and complete silence when I'm working. Otherwise, I'd be too distracted!

How long have you been writing?

I've been writing since the year 2005.

If you could be any mythological creature, what would it be and why?

I don't know about me personally, but the main character Reina, the antagonist, would definitely be Medusa, the sister capable of turning men to stone with her gaze.

What is your guilty pleasure food?

I love pizza. I try not to eat a lot of pork, but that pepperoni defeats me at least once a week.

When did you know you wanted to be a published author?

Honestly, I knew when I wrote my first book, not before. It was not my childhood aspiration to grow up and be a published author, although, I've always been the artsy type; so the idea really wasn't that farfetched.

How many rejections did you receive before you were finally published?

I never sought out publishing companies because I knew all along that I wanted to self-publish. I had done lots of research on the subject as well as work closely with my mentor, De'Ron Smith.

What inspires you to write?

I get inspiration from listening to other people's stories mostly. I'll take their story and then embellish it for effect.

Where can we find you?

All over the web; Google has been amazing. But to contact me directly, go to my website...www.sweetnectarpublishing.com

Where can we buy your books?

My books are print on demand, so, if you went into a book store and asked for my title they would certainly order it for you; otherwise, Amazon.com, Barnes&Noble.com, Lulu.com to just name a few.

Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?

Yes, reach for the stars. Write as often as you can. Let your passion flow. Don't get discouraged when you hit a snag because you will. Keep on pushing and turn your obstacles into challenges. If you love what you do, you'll never work another day in your life.

Behind the Scenes with Corey Mesler

By Beth Ann Masarik

What is your name?

Corey Mesler, but you can call me Jim.

Tell us about yourself.

Like Richard Nixon, I was born in a house my father built. This was in Niagara Falls, New York, back before they turned it off. I have two children who are wildings and both more intelligent and more attuned to the world than their father. They are lovely spirits. I once wrote a novel called Talk: A Novel in Dialogue. It is composed entirely of unattributed dialogue. Some people liked it. Few people bought it. Nevertheless I continued to try and limn the infinite, or at least take a potshot at the lengthy. I published a 2nd novel in 2005, a hippie amalgam called We Are Billion-Year-Old Carbon. The same nobodies who didn't buy my first book did not line up to not buy the second. Since then I have, for arcane reasons, published more novels, books of short stories, and poetry collections of varying lengths and value. With my lovely and more centered wife I own Burke's Book Store in Memphis TN, one of the oldest independent bookstores (1875) in the known universe.

What do you write?

I write poetry, short stories, novels, essays, book reviews, songs, letters to my elected representatives who don't really represent me, words which are like swords and thundercloud creeds, and other words which die on the vine. Like everyone else.

Why do you write it?

Because I have agoraphobia and do not go out, bodily, into the makeshift world, I write little notes in bottles that make that journey in my stead. Let's say the ocean that carries them is at your feet right now. Let's say you are ankle-deep in that ocean.

Do you have any past or current releases?

Many, many already published, as aforementioned. And I have a collage novel called Diddy-Wah-Diddy: a Beale Street Suite due out in the dim time-to-come, as well as a new full-length collection of poems entitledOur Locust Years.

Tell us about them.

The Beale Street book may be what I am remembered for, if I am remembered by anyone outside of my family and 3 friends. It is made of Memphis mojo, and is both potty and stimulating. The poetry book continues the themes from my previous collection, Before the GreatTroubling. You know, the big themes, Death, Love, Memory, Sex, Reading, Tin Foil and Why they make you buy 12 hamburger buns at one time.

Who is publishing them?

These fine small presses, who do great work with exiguous budgets and staffs: Livingston Press, Aqueous Books, Queen's Ferry Press, Unbound Content, Foothills Publishing, Kuboa Editions, Ampersand Books. Plus charming and cultured and talented chapbook publishers too many to mention. I love them all in equal and separate ways.

Where is your favorite place to write?

Not having much choice, my bedroom surrounded by my books and photos and music. Given the choice I would rather be sitting on top of Yeats' Tower with a portable Olivetti.

What do you listen to when you write?

Rock, pop, folk, psych-pop, jazz. Mostly 60s stuff. I am an unregenerate hippie. Long ago I read in Andy Warhol's autobiography that, when he painted, he played Rolling Stones music really loud to drown out conscious thought. I am not sure it works that way for me. I am not sure I have conscious thought. I may only exist in my own head. But the music chases the alien microorganisms out of my shaky psyche.

How long have you been writing?

I am 57 years old and I started writing in Ms. DeGoff's English class, sophomore year of high school. It was the best thing she ever did for me. Much better than the time she tried to get me suspended for wearing an American flag on the butt of my jeans. The weekly journal writing she instigated was my first creative writing except for a poem in 4th grade, heavily plagiarizing "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere."

If you could be any mythological creature, what would it be and why?

A satyr for obvious reasons.

What is your guilty pleasure food?

All my guilty pleasure foods have been removed from my life by doctors. I live on sand and hot water and whatever insects I can catch in my cell.

When did you know you wanted to be a published author?

My older brother, Mark, told me that rock musicians get laid more than anyone so I took drum lessons in 6th grade, from the drummer for The Gentrys. I was awful. So I went back to my brother's mountaintop and said, "The rock musician thing is out. Who gets laid second-most?" He replied, in a yogic tone, "writers." It was the last time I listened to anything he said.

How many rejections did you receive before you were finally published?

Oh, I don't remember that far back. Many, legion, multitudinous as coral creepy-crawlies. I have published a lot but always in the small press world. I love the small press world. It is my island. I still receive many more rejections than acceptances, but that's all part of the game, and it is, of course, meet and right.

How did you feel when you received that acceptance letter?

The first magazine that took a poem of mine (gone now the way of all flesh) made me pause and reassess myself. "Maybe I don't loathe you as much as I thought," my inner voice said. But, when Livingston Press accepted my first novel (Talk) in 2001, I was over the moon. In my life, except for the birth of my kids and the day I tricked my wife into marrying me, my happiest moments are those moments when I open that first box of a new book of mine. I own a bookstore so a box of books has always represented some kind of earthbound nirvana for me, but opening that first large carton of Talk, in 2002, and placing them on the store counter to sell...well, it made me as happy as any lamb that ever pastured in the fields.

I hear that some authors, even if they have a publisher, get nervous after sending another book for a contract. Do you get nervous?

I am always nervous. Every step of the publishing process makes me even that much more nervous. I am always sure that I am doing it wrong.

What inspires you to write?

Love, memory, loss, my home life which is stitched from peace and reading and laughter, my kids, and that actress in Lost with the undulating brown hair.

Where can we find you?

At home or at my bookstore, or on Facebook. Agoraphobia makes that so simple to answer!

Where can we buy your books?

My bookstore, of course, where you can get any of them signed or even personally inscribed. I once inscribed a copy of Talk to Gene Hackman, who was visiting the bookstore. Later, I saw that copy being sold online by a used bookstore in the Pacific Northwest. Maybe, someone out there, will want an inscribed copy of something of mine more than did Mr. Hackman. Not that I hold a grudge, mind you. This is, after all, the man who made The Conversation and Scarecrow. That address, friends, iswww.burkesbooks.com.

Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?

Nothing very original. Keep writing because practice always makes everything better. And read and read and then read some more. Find authors you admire and read everything. Then find some that you find difficult to read and read them, too. Also, don't self-publish even though someone told you Walt Whitman did. By the same token, don't trust a publisher who wants money from you. Publishers pay authors, not the other way around. Oh, and, try to stay away from Fox News, undercooked pork, and internet porn.

Poetry Palooza

"Your Song"

By Jamie Danzer

Your precious melody  
Rings through my heart  
Like bells sounding  
Quietly in the distance

Your precious song  
Played in my mind  
As if by memory  
Each key precise

Your precious lyrics  
Beautiful words  
Sung ever so delicately  
Will be cherished forever

### "Planned Obsolescence"

By Gary Beck

American's peculiar ideas

have conditioned our belief

in strategic bombing,

so our leaders rant righteously

while carrying a smaller stick,

as we substitute technology

for the human element,

which allows us to accept

replacement by machines,

whose caretakers justify

remote destruction.

An Angel Gets Her License

Cassandra Serafin Chronicles #3

By Erin Danzer

"I still can't believe you missed Kristy's party," Phoebe said for the hundredth time since the morning after the party. Zadkiel had ended up changing everyone's mind that had seen me at the party to think I hadn't been there because of what had happened. I shuddered as I thought about it. It was a week later and I was still spooked silly about it. How had I done that? The only good thing to come of it was that my control was much better.

"Will you stop talking about it? Geez, Phoebe, it's been a week already. Isn't there anything better to talk about?" I asked as the bell over the door rang. I looked up from behind the ice cream counter, where I'd been wiping down the glass on the outside of the case. My heart stuttered and then sped up as Colin strode into the shop. His sandy blond hair looked lighter and maybe a little longer. I bit my lower lip as he smiled at me.

"Hi, Cassie," he greeted me as he sauntered across the floor to stand in front of me. I momentarily thought about dropping something so he wouldn't see me blush. He leaned against the counter, on his elbows. My heart stuttered again.

"Hi, Colin," I finally replied and cleared my throat. "Where have you been?"

A smile stretched across his face and a teasing glint shone in his blue eyes. "Why? Have you missed me?"

He reached for my hand and began playing with my fingers until they were entwined with his. It was just like it had been at the party, the way he'd held my hand like it was what we were supposed to do. I sighed.

"Of course she missed you," Phoebe spoke up, spoiling the moment. I straightened up and frowned at her, wishing she wouldn't embarrass me further. Of course, I knew I couldn't be that lucky. I watched as she sashayed over to where we stood and leaned her hip against the counter, wondering what she was going to do now.

"So, where have you been? You invite my girl to a party and don't call when she ends up not going. What's up with that?" Phoebe asked him. A cute blush colored his cheeks and he looked down at his hands, now folded together on top of the counter.

"My family went camping up north the morning after the party. I had crappy reception and couldn't call," he told her and looked up at me. "But I knew you worked today so I came here as soon as we got back."

I couldn't stop the grin that stretched across my face. "Really?" I asked, sounding like an eager puppy. Phoebe rolled her eyes as she walked away from us, sensing it was about to get mushy. I thought about the kiss Colin didn't remember and momentarily imagined it happening now.

"Of course I did. Camping with my family is totally lame. I would have rather spent the week hanging out with you," he told me. "Besides, today is the big day, isn't it? You're going for your license?"

I nodded, my smile fading a little as my nerves cranked up a notch. "Yeah, at four. Have you taken yours? What's it like?"

He shook his head. "I have two more months before I take mine, so I don't know." He leaned closer to me, his eyes locked with mine. I realized a moment before it happened, what he was doing. His lips landed on mine softly and I sighed. "Good luck," he whispered against my lips. We grinned at each other as he straightened. "I gotta get home to help unpack. I just wanted to see you and wish you luck."

"Thanks." I leaned my elbow on the counter and my chin on my hand as he turned to walk out. A sigh escaped me as I watched him leave, admiring the view of his butt in jean shorts. He looked back at me from the door, a knowing gleam in his eyes as he caught me staring at his backside. My cheeks burned and I giggled as we waved goodbye before he left.

"That wasn't weird at all," Phoebe commented as soon as the door closed behind him. I shook off my Colin-stupor and straightened to look at her, my smile turning upside down.

"What are you talking about?" I asked. She gave me a look that asked if she really had to explain. I nodded. I had no idea what she was talking about. She shook her head and sighed.

"I can't believe I have to point this out. You've hardly had any interaction with Colin, who you've loved for two years, and now you're holding hands and he kisses you like it's the most natural thing in the world to do. Isn't that a little weird to you?"

"Why should it be weird?" I really wanted to point out what happened at the party she didn't remember me being at. I groaned in frustration. This was a ridiculous conversation. "Why can't you just be happy for me? If Colin is playing with me, let him play." I crossed my arms and glared at her.

She opened her mouth to argue but the door bell chimed again and a group of girls entered the store. With a sigh, I plastered what I hoped was a genuine smile on my face and turned to greet them as Phoebe escaped to the back room for something. I rolled my eyes as she retreated, wishing I could tell her she was wrong about Colin.

The rest of my shift passed with tense silence between me and Phoebe, something I definitely wasn't used to. By the time I punched out at two, I felt like crap and wanted to apologize but didn't have time. I was already going to be late for an hour-long teleportation lesson before my driving test at four. I hastily said goodbye to her as my mom honked the horn. Sparky, aka Zadkiel, whined at me from the backseat as I climbed in a moment later. With one last look back at my best friend, my mom drove me down the block and into an alley. Sparky and I jumped out.

"You're really cutting this close," he said to me. I frowned down at him and refrained from rolling my eyes. We didn't have time to argue.

"Let's just go. I'm already late," I told him and reached for his collar. A moment later, the familiar feeling of being sucked through a tiny straw came over me and I held my breath, squeezing my eyes closed until it was over a few moments later. I opened my eyes when I heard the familiar sounds of angels-in-training rushing towards to their classes. I said goodbye to Sparky, now an angel with graying black hair and white wings named Zadkiel, and hurried off through the crowd.

Thankfully, my classroom was close to the Registrar Office, where we'd teleported in. I walked into class and had sixteen pairs of eyes turn towards me as I scurried to my seat, trying to be unnoticeable. Unfortunately, the angel in charge of teaching the Intro to Angelic Abilities class, a sour looking older man named Julius, pointed me out right away.

"Thank you for your presence today, Miss Serafin. Since you have been so gracious, why don't you start off our lesson by demonstrating what we've learned so far about teleportation?" he asked, stepping aside so I could go to the front of the room. I gulped audibly as I walked to stand next to him. Why did this always have to happen to me? It wasn't my fault I had a normal, human life before I found out I was an angel.

I took a couple deep, cleansing breaths as I turned to face the class. Eight-year-old Ana from Russia smiled at me, her cherubic face full of support. In the back corner, Deanna, a Reaper, still glowed blindingly bright. I thought I heard a snicker come from her direction and frowned at her. Everyone else seemed indifferent to me being in front of them.

"Okay, well, you have to concentrate and picture where you want to go," I began. My cheeks felt like they were on fire. I cleared my throat and continued. "Then, while concentrating very hard, you have to will your molecules to dissipate and reform where you want to be. This causes a sucking sensation, like you're being pulled through the world's tiniest straw. Hopefully, you will reform in one piece."

I glanced at Julius when I finished speaking, nervous that he would ask me to demonstrate. My palms sweated as he continued to frown at me, his first finger and thumb of his right hand stroking the bottom of his chin. This was not going to be good.

"Thank you, Miss Serafin, that will be all for now. Please take your seat and make sure you arrive on time next week."

"Yes, sir," I mumbled and hurried to my seat again. I uttered a sigh of relief as he repeated what I'd said and then demonstrated by teleporting across the room. It always amazed me to see someone else do it. One moment they were there, and the next they were gone.

He had us practice now, first going across the room. That was easy for me to do because I could see where I was going. My mind wandered as he continued to have us do this for fifteen minutes. I thought back to my birthday, to seeing Aziel and then defeating the hellcats that night. I still hadn't thanked him for the lesson.

And then it happened. The sucking sensation ended and I opened my eyes to find I was no longer inside the classroom on the first floor. Pitch blackness surrounded me as I wondered where I was. Suddenly, a bright green flame shot into the air in front of me. I screamed and cowered away, panic engulfing me as the flame moved even closer to me.

"What the hell are you doing here?" a familiar voice snapped at me. Relief washed through me even though I still had no real idea where I was. But with my relief came my glow, sparking to life as strong as ever. I swore as I tried to control it, concentrating on it instead of the Dark Angel in front of me. Aziel's eyes glittered like onyx in my light.

"Still haven't gotten the hang of that, have you?" he teased.

"What? No. I can control it just fine," I argued. "Why is it so dark here?"

"Because you're in Hell."

His words froze me and my glow immediately died. Hell? I was in Hell? The panic and fear bubbled up even stronger and my glow returned. His soft chuckle turned some of my fear to anger.

"What's so funny?" I asked, my glow brighter now.

"You. You really thought you'd teleported to Hell." He continued to laugh as he said it, as if this was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Who knows; maybe it was. He dimmed the green flame until it was simply a ball of light, his eyes still on mine. I watched with mixed horror and anticipation as his hand reached out to touch my arm. He cringed as it landed on my exposed wrist and my glow suddenly died again. An electric shock ran up my arm at his touch.

"Interesting," he murmured.

"How did you do that?" I wondered, fear evident in my voice again. What did it mean that he could do that? How was it possible? He was a Dark Angel, an evil angel. Could all Dark Angels extinguish my glow like that? What would I do if they could?

"Calm down," he instructed, his voice harsh. All thought left my head as I stared at him in shock.

"Can you hear my thoughts?" I asked, my voice small. He shook his head.

"No, not yours. I could feel your emotions." He shook his head, obviously frustrated. "This shouldn't even be possible."

"What isn't possible? What did you do to me?" Panic rose within me but was cut off when his hand closed around my wrist and he suddenly pulled me through the darkness.

"Someone is coming. I have to get you out of here. I don't even know why you're here," he told me, sounding like he was talking to himself more than me. He looked back at me. "Why are you here?"

My cheeks heated and I glanced away. "Because I wanted to thank you," I admitted quietly.

"For what?" I could hear his sneer even if I couldn't see it, embarrassing me further and making me mad again.

"Watch your step," he suddenly said and let go of my wrist to slip his arm around my waist. I automatically lifted my foot higher and realized we were at the bottom of a staircase. Sensing I knew where we were, he grabbed my wrist again and practically dragged me up the stairs. I kept my eyes forward, looking for some sign we were near the top. Finally, a white light began filtering through the darkness. By the time we reached the top, I could make out shapes around us and see the stairs fairly well. Aziel opened a door and we burst through onto the first floor of the Academy. Aziel steadied me as we stopped and then quickly dropped his hands back to his sides. His black eyes sought mine.

"What were you doing down there? Do you know how dangerous it is for you to be down there? There are things down there that would eat you for lunch, things that would devour your powers without a second thought. That was stupid and dangerous."

His harsh words felt like a slap in the face. Tears stung my eyes and I rapidly blinked them away as I wondered why I had wanted to thank him in the first place. Despite last week's words helping me, he was still a royal jerk. I crossed my arms and did my best to glare at him despite how small I suddenly felt.

"I wanted to apologize, okay?" I yelled at him. His eyes narrowed.

"What for?" he asked, sounding more curious than upset now.

"For helping me. What you said last week helped me against the hellcats that came for me the night of my birthday." I hugged myself tighter as he continued to study me.

"So they've already sought you out," he murmured, again talking to himself more than me. I nodded anyway. "Interesting. And what happened when the hellcats came for you?"

"I stopped them—with my glow. I don't know how I did it, but it worked and they ran away."

"They ran away? Do you realize how much danger you're in now? Hellcats are Abaddon's messengers; they seek out new angels to see what powers they possess. The fact that you stopped them will not go unnoticed."

I frowned at him. "Why do you care?" I spat at him. "You're such a jerk. Why do you care what happens to me? You're just a Dark Angel who doesn't even want to be rehabbed or you would've changed your colors by now."

I didn't know what I was saying; I just wanted him to shut up. I didn't want to hear I was in more danger after what happened last week. All week, I'd been afraid of something worse than hellcats coming for me, something big and dangerous. I shuddered; the hellcats had been bad enough. How would I fight off whatever else would come for me?

"Cassie? What the hell are you doing?" Merry's voice rang out down the hallway. I turned to see her running towards us, fear evident in her green eyes as she noticed the boy standing with me. Aziel sighed next to me.

Merry grabbed my arms and pulled me away from him. His eyebrows shot up into his black hair but he didn't say anything as she yelled at him to be gone. With another sigh and a glance at me, he turned and walked through the door we'd just come through. Once the door closed behind him, it disappeared into the wall. No wonder I had never seen it before. Merry's eyes blazed with anger and fear as she spun me towards her.

"What the hell was that? Do you even know who that was?" Her voice rose with every word until I was sure the entire Academy could hear her yelling at me. I shook my head, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Did I really want to know who he was?

"That was Aziel, Raum's son," she declared. The sinking feeling spread through my entire body. Raum's son? As in the son of Abaddon's First Lieutenant? My legs gave way and I sank to the white marble floor. Merry knelt next to me, her face marred with worry as she wrapped her arm around my shoulders. Her red hair tickled my neck.

"What were you doing with him, Cassie?" she asked, gentler now. She must have realized I was going into shock.

"I teleported to him," I whispered and shook my head. "No, I mean, we met last week. I was lost and didn't know where to go. I ran into him on my birthday. He was caught and brought back downstairs but he said something that stayed with me, something that helped me defeat the hellcats that came after me that night." My cheeks heated again. "Then in class, Julius had us practicing the same thing over and over, just teleporting across the room. My mind wandered to him and the next thing I know, I'm in some pitch black room and he's there. He immediately returned me up here."

I blinked at her as I tried to make sense of what had happened. Again, Aziel had helped me, keeping me from being caught where I shouldn't be this time. I owed him another thank you. Then I thought about what he'd said to me, about how stupid it had been for me to fend off the hellcats. A grimace pulled across my face. What was I supposed to do? Just let them sniff me out and do whatever they'd been sent to do? I was defending myself! I wanted to scream at him but knew it was no use; he wouldn't hear me all the way up here.

"So nothing happened? You teleported to his room and he didn't do anything to you, just saw who you were and brought you up here?" Merry confirmed. I nodded. That sounded right. I couldn't tell her what he'd said anyway; she'd worry more than she already did. She might be my guardian angel, but she was also my very best friend. I didn't want her to worry more than she had to.

"Okay, well, you have about twenty minutes left of class so I suggest you teleport your skinny butt back there. I'll see you afterward for a few minutes before your test." She suddenly grinned. "I'm so excited you're getting your license today."

"We don't know that until I pass the test," I told her. Some of my shock had gone and I felt like I could walk again. With another glance at Merry, I thought about Julius' classroom and teleported back to him. I couldn't wait to see what he would do about this.

Twenty minutes later, I walked out of Julius' class with his words still ringing in my ears. I had double lessons in Teleportation next week. How was I going to work that out with my schedule at Cool Creamz?

"Come on, we gotta go. Aren't you supposed to be at the DMV fifteen minutes early?" Merry spoke up, grabbing my arm to pull me along down the hallway. I stumbled after her, my thoughts still whirling around my extra class load and how I was going to fit it in. I'd have to work something out with my manager. I grimaced. Why did being an angel have to be so complicated?

"Earth to Cassie," Merry teased. "Aren't you the least bit excited about going for your driving test today?"

I shook my head and smiled at her. "Of course I am. I'm just nervous at all. Plus, Julius gave me double classroom next week for my stunt during class. As if I could control where I'd gone!"

She frowned at me and didn't console me. I matched her frown with one of my own, upset that she agreed with him.

"You really need to learn to control your thoughts when your destination depends on them," was all she said before she stopped walking, grabbed my hand and teleported me home.

"Then he needs to learn to let us teleport to more places than across the freaking room," I muttered once I was in my room again. Merry's icy fingers trailed over my arm and I jerked it away. I didn't want her sympathy now, when I couldn't see her.

"Whatever. I gotta go," I told her spirit and left my room.

"What's going on?" my mom asked as I stomped down the stairs to meet her. I still had twenty minutes before we left.

"I screwed up in Teleportation and ended up with double classroom next week," I told her and sighed. "I have to talk to Nichole tomorrow and see if we can work my schedule around it. I really don't want to lose a day because of it."

I was saving up to buy a car. Losing one day would mean losing about fifty dollars that could go towards it. I couldn't afford that. My mom nodded as if she understood but I wondered if she could. Had she ever had to buy her own car? Or anything, for that matter? What had it been like growing up for her? I sighed again and shook my head. Now wasn't the time to get those answers. They didn't matter.

To pass the remaining time at home, I dragged out the driver's manual and studied for the written test. I'd already looked at it a hundred times and knew everything I needed to know so the next twenty minutes passed at a snail's pace. Finally, my mom said it was time to go.

"You're not nervous, are you?" she asked as we headed out to the minivan. She handed me the keys and moved to get into the passenger seat. I grinned at her across the front of the van and climbed in behind the wheel. I pretended my mom was the instructor I'd be testing with and checked my mirrors, my seat belt and waited for her to be belted before starting the car. The radio was on and I turned it off before backing out of the driveway and heading towards the DMV.

"If I was your instructor, you'd pass with flying colors," my mom declared when we arrived ten minutes later. Grinning, I turned off the car and we climbed out to go inside.

I gave my name at the counter and then took the written test to the designated area and wrote in all the answers. After it was determined I'd passed that part, I sat down again to wait for my name to be called for the driving portion of the test. My nerves came back while I waited. I watched the three people ahead of me head off to their tests and then come back to get their license pictures taken. The butterflies in my stomach churned in a frenzy when my name was called. On shaky legs, I stood and followed the woman out to my mom's minivan.

"Are you nervous?" the woman asked. She smiled when she said it, like she was trying to keep me calm. I mustered half a smile and nodded.

"There's nothing to worry about. I'm sure you're going to do just fine. Most kids these days are born knowing how to drive." She laughed at her own joke as we got into the van. I tried to laugh with her but it came out as something strangled. Swallowing hard, I told myself to calm down. Being nervous now wasn't going to do me any good. This woman was as nice as my mom; I would just pretend it was my mom next to me and not the woman who would decide whether I could legally drive without a parent in the car.

After taking a deep breath, I went through the same procedure I'd done when my mom was with me. Then, I started the van and backed out of the parking spot. She directed me onto the main road. I looked in every mirror every few seconds, making sure it was obvious what I was doing. I'd heard you could lose points for not looking in your mirrors enough. I wanted to ace this test.

We drove into a nearby neighborhood where she had me parallel park, execute a Y-turn, and park on a hill. She quizzed me on the road signs we saw and seemed impressed I knew them all. Of course I did; I'd memorized the book. Finally, she told me to head back to the DMV, a pleasant smile on her face. Giddiness welled up within me. I'd passed my driver's test.

We were almost back to the DMV when a flock of what I thought was large black birds suddenly descended on the van. I screamed and swerved to avoid getting hit by them. Instead of squawking and hitting the top of the van with their talons and beaks, they floated right through the van and surrounded me. Another scream sounded, this one from the instructor, as I swerved the van back onto the road and hightailed it back to the DMV, probably breaking every driving rule I'd just passed and not caring. I could take the test again. Right now, I needed my mom to help with these things.

Cold seeped into my bones as the black things pressed closer around me. My teeth chattered as I pulled into the DMV lot. The instructor had passed out, her head slumped against the window.

"Take the girl," I heard a voice whisper. A shiver shot down my spine and the coldness froze me in my seat. I couldn't even yell for my mom. I somehow managed to get the van into a parking spot, barely able to see through the wall of black in front of me. I screamed again and one of the black things started to go down my throat. I gagged and waved wildly, my brain numb as my air was suddenly cut off.

"Praesagium interitus abest amet!" My mom's voice suddenly rang out all around me. At once, the black things scattered and disappeared. Immediately, my mom was at my door, pulling it open and me into her arms. She let go and her hands ran the length of me as she checked me over.

"Are you all right?" she asked, brushing my hair away from my face.

"Mom, I'm fine; they made me cold, that's all. What did you do? What did you say?" I stared at her in wonder. How had she made all those things fly away and disappear?

"It's an advanced spell to rid the area of wraiths. It translates to, 'Harbinger of Death, be gone from here'." She sighed. "I can't believe they came for you. Are you sure you're okay?" She looked around me. "What about your instructor?"

The woman moaned and began to stir as soon as Mom mentioned her. I watched anxiously as she blinked, shook her head and then looked at me. "What happened?" she asked. I glanced at mom, unsure of what to say.

"Your blood sugar must be low; I think you passed out," my mom told her. She offered a smile. "So, how did Cassie do on her driving test?"

The woman looked down at the clipboard in her lap, tore off the top sheet and handed it to me. "Congratulations, Miss Serafin, you are now legal to drive."

"Thank you." My face hurt from the wide grin spread across it. I resisted the urge to hug the woman as I scrambled out of the van and followed my mom back into the DMV to have my picture taken and my license printed.

My mind whirled with what had happened the entire time my mom drove us home. She had said the wraiths had come for me and they were harbingers of death. I shuddered. Why were they after me? Was this related to what Aziel had told me when I'd teleported to him? Were his father, Abaddon and Lucifer now after me because I'd shown my powers to the hellcats? I began to tremble as the thoughts swirled in my mind.

"What happened?" my dad asked the moment we were inside the house. He crossed to my mom and put his arm around her shoulders. She looked up at him, her face exceptionally pale. Sparky trotted up to sit by her feet, lending his support by leaning against her legs.

"Wraiths," she uttered. Tears shone in her eyes. "They're after her now."

"Who's after me?" I demanded. I was tired of not knowing anything. My parents looked at each other but didn't answer my question.

"Is it Abaddon and Lucifer? Did you even know Aziel—Raum's son—is at the Academy in rehab?" I accused. From the looks my parents exchanged with Sparky, I knew they had. Anger swelled within me and I clenched my hands into fists to keep from hitting someone. How could they do this to me?

"Won't you tell me anything?" I cried. "Why are they after me? What do they want with me?"

My mom sighed but shook her head, another look at my dad. He also shook his head. My hopes sank. They weren't going to tell me anything.

"Fine!" I yelled and stormed off towards my room. If they wouldn't tell me, I'd have to find someone who would. And I knew just the person to ask. All it would take was another trip to Hell.

Find out what happens next in An Angel Goes to Hell, set to post on my blog October 1, 2012.

http://erindanzer.com/blog

Dragon's Demise

By Terra Kelly

She walked into the cavern, the package held tightly against her body. Leath moved with a lazy grace that belied the fear that was curling inside of her. Firelight gleamed in the huge cavern reflecting off the walls and creating a glittering effect on the monstrous sized creature that was facing the giant hearth. Gold scales shimmered as the head turned towards the sound of footsteps. A gust of hot air surged towards her as the beast seemed to breathe in relief.

Leath felt the edges of her mouth turning up into a smile even as she shook her head. Emith always returned to fire when he was nervous or upset and men always seemed to get upset by women in childbirth. She felt her fingers stroke over the package tenderly; this was her last and greatest hope. Leath just prayed that she could make Emith see reason.

Her coppery hair moved with the air currents as the large dragon shimmered and turned into a man. They were Draconians, Dragons who were gifted through magic to be able to shift between human and Dragon form. The Great Mother of the Dragons had gifted the world with magic in the mists before time or so the legends said and because of her great gift her children were able to take the forms of all her bipedal children. Though any true Draconian would never deny that the Dragon form was the best for the ability to fly and glide between the clouds. In a world filled with elves, humans, and dwarves Draconians were always set apart by their flaming red hair. Even in a mortal form the fire at their very essence was always visible. Only those of some sort of Draconian heritage could boast of having red or copper hair.

Emith came and placed his hands on Leath's face, the copper hair curled around his face to his shoulders, a dimple showing at the corner of his mouth as he smiled delightedly at her. The smile slowly faded as he stared into her brown eyes and saw sorrow that had never lived there before.

"What's wrong? Are you well? Is it the child? You were gone for weeks, so much longer than normal Beloved. Can I ...."

Leath offered a sad chuckled before placing a finger across his lips, "Calm yourself, my sweet. I am well and the egg ..... The mists showed me so much more then I have ever seen before." Her hands tenderly stroked the package again. She pushed aside the soft linens to reveal an egg about 6 inches long and perfectly oval. The shell appeared to be of living marble, emerald green with ropes of opalescent white and gold weaving through it.

Leath had known as soon as she met Emith that they were destined to be together. It was more then just their roles as Prince and Seeress, their hearts seemed to beat as one. But she knew that mating with a Prince of Dragons would lead to an even more powerful seer or seeress to follow her. She didn't realize that just how special this child would be. But then who could have seen this evil rising in the human lands. Images of smoke and fire and destruction once again fill her mind and she closes her eyes against the view but they are emblazoned on the darkness of her eyelids.

Emith watched her with concern shining in his pale green eyes, worry causing his eyes to take on a more serpentine slit of a pupil. The egg was beautiful and perfectly shaped. He couldn't understand why Leath was acting this way but knew she had to have seen something. A Seeress of her powers always foresaw something about the child that they gave birth too. A princess couldn't have that hard of a life though, he thought to himself, I will cherish and pamper her even if I never have a boy child.

She opened her eyes and looked at him again, a sad smile touching her lips as she reached to take his hand. "Sit, we need to speak."

Emith followed her to the chairs sitting in front of the fire place and sat, looking up at her as she began to pace nervously. He had never seen Leath so out of sorts before. She was normally so calm outwardly. The more he watched her the more agitated he began to feel.

"I am not sure how to start this so I will try and start at the beginning and I know you will want to interrupt me Emith but don't" he opened his mouth to protest his innocence but at her look he snapped his jaws shut and waited for her to continue.

"I ... I laid with the egg and the mists crawled around us, showing me scenes of her life. At first I was just disappointed that it wasn't the prince you were hoping for but I thought a princess or a seeress, if I was lucky a blending of the two to make a new history for our people. I suppose in that way I hoped for too much. I wanted her to be special Emith. I wanted her to have your power so the dragons would respect her and my foresight so the seers would worship her and in that was my own vanity. I wanted to have the daughter who could rule both. And one day I will." her voice trailed off as her eyes filled with tears. Emith went to say something and Leath placed her fingers on his lips and shook her head no. Leath placed the egg in Emith's arms.

"Hold her, hold her tightly and protect her with all you have, my love, for my dreams came true but so did my nightmares. Our daughter will be beautiful and powerful, she will have your abilities and mine, she will be trained by the elves and uncover magics that we didn't know we could harness. She will help heal Gaia from the hatred that has torn Her to shreds. She will do all this without us because we will have to hide. A war is coming, a war that if we don't hide now will decimate our people. There is a human who will become more then human. He will sell his soul to have the power of speech and with this power he will bring the world to the brink of destruction. The elves will seal him and themselves away from the humans. Gaia .... Gaia will be so injured by the hatred that will follow that she will unwittingly free him and that is when our sweet girl must be the heroine."

"I know that this will go against everything that you were taught and your instincts will scream but I need you to do this. I need you to guard her in a way that I can't. I am just not strong enough, not like you. You have to take her and go into hiding." Leath knelt at his feet and pushed the egg into his arms as she watched the emotions tumble across his face.

Emith felt his chest constrict as the weight of what his lover said settled around his shoulders. Even before his mouth moved his head was shaking. "No, no, no. I will not sit back and hide while my people are slaughtered. Are you mad? How can I leave our people with no one to lead them? I will help you and our daughter hide, and if the Great Mother is merciful then we will be able to triumph and be together again."

"Am I mad? Am I mad? Have you watched the masses crawling over Gaia with steel and fire? Have you watched hatred tear apart your mother, queen and goddess? I watched them kill my brothers for no better reason than a simple no and the arrogance of a man with too much ambition! I ask you this one thing and you suggest my madness? Yes, yes I am mad with this nightmare stuck in my head!" Leath pulled at her hair in frustration. "You can't just fight this! He has the power to make them fear you, and fear in a human's soul always leads to hatred! But you think you are powerful, that you know better than the dreams that I have dealt with for centuries? So see it then if that is what you wish, and may the images not be burned inside of you as they are mine!" her voice turns feverish as she reaches up and grabs a hank of Emith's hair while her other hand touches his forehead lightly.

Emith felt a blackness creep across his vision before he even thought about reacting to the fist in his hair. The blackness grew darker until it exploded in a shower of blinding white. When his eyes could focus again there was a young man and a young elf maid standing in a meadow. It was an idle romantic scene with the sun shining down upon a lush greenness, birds chirped and small creatures scampered. The young elf maid had a light breeze blowing around her, making her blonde hair dance in the wind. She was beautiful even by elven standards and seemed to shimmer with an inner white light. The man on the other hand was an attractive human with black hair and blazing blue eyes but something darker seemed to hover around him. The couple argued and as the elf turned to leave the human grabbed her arm. The violence and threat seemed to hang around them as the darkness around the human got larger.

The dark aura seemed to explode outwards spiraling from the human male and pushing his consciousness upwards. Far higher than he had ever been in flight and he could see so much more of the world he loved. The ordered towns of humans and the glittering decadence of the elf cities tantalized his senses as he marveled at their beauty. His awe slowly faded away as he watched what was happening. A black tidal wave grew from one of the human cities and moved outwards, covering the other human cities. He watched the churning tides of humanity grow and roil as they grew darker and darker under this shadow. Emith watched as the humans attacked the dragons who had been their friends. He saw dragons taken unawares and betrayed by the people that they had helped and guided until only a few survived and they retreated far into the hills vowing revenge.

The darkness spread further covering the mountains of his home and he felt the cold tears creep down his cheeks as the darkness spread further. Dwarves had watched and learned burying themselves deep into the mountain caverns where they couldn't be found. But the elves sought to help and teach, to bring peace and the tidal wave broke again and again against their glittering light. He watched humanity attempt to kill everything that wasn't human and how they destroyed themselves in the battle of hate. The elves broke partially with reality to flee from the humans after centuries of war. The elves were left with one last glittering refuge but no longer could dwell within the realms of mortals. The humans returned home in victory to houses that were filled with smoke and cinders. Greatness had been destroyed and all the heroes were gone. All the great works of architecture were ruins and no generations had been trained because of the war. The humans had let hatred control them until they broke themselves against it. They couldn't see the darkness that now covered everything, slowly sinking into Gaia herself.

Gaia absorbed the darkness, the hatred into herself because a mother always seeks to aid her children. Emith saw the earth try to heal itself but the humans wouldn't let go of the hatred and the darkness kept lingering. Eventually Gaia began to shake and roll when she couldn't take any more.

Leath took her hand away from his forehead, "Have you seen enough to believe me now? Do you understand what is about to pass? There will be nothing left if we don't hide now."

Emith pulled the egg tighter against his chest and lowered his head. He was the Prince of the Dragons and this was his Princess, she should be pampered and spoiled and taught. Instead she would be hidden and hated for simply being a dragon. The Queen Goddess Gaia had given birth to the dragons first and as the oldest it was their responsibility to care and teach the younger races. He raised his head and stared into his beloved's eyes. "You should take her and I will guide the others. Let me lead the people and you can raise our daughter in secrecy. You know more about what to teach her then I ever could. The Queen will guide you."

Leath looked at him and smiled sadly, "I wish it was that easy my love, but I am not strong enough for what you ask. Only a prince is strong enough to fully change forms and appear totally mortal. Even I still have a dragon aspect to me. All you have is the red in your hair. Only you can teach and hold her to an elven form. Not only that but you will have to change her hair. Even the elves would wonder where a copper haired child came from and with hair that color she could never enter the human lands until she learned better illusion spells. I can't slip into elven society the way that you could so that you can remain close to her and teach her. Please, please do this for me, for all of us. Give the Goddess the best chance to heal through our daughter."

Emith trailed a finger along Leath's jaw bone lightly. He wanted so badly to say no that he wouldn't leave his people, so much of this went against his character but he knew, he had seen what would happen. He had to gather the dragons together and warn them to prepare halls for them to live and stay in for thousands of years where they would hide and cower until the humans developed sense. They would hate to be confined and many wouldn't listen but he would do what he could until .... until he listened to his wife and adviser and took the child and stealthily stole away into the night a thousand years from now. A night where maybe his child who had just been hatched would help to heal the darkness that was growing into Gaia before the mother of all turned into the destroyer of all.

"I will listen, this isn't easy but maybe this sacrifice will allow us to survive and that is more important than anything. Go and call the rest of the council to me and send for all the dragons so that all might be warned of the coming Apocalypse and be prepared. They will not like your words Leath but hopefully enough will be saved that one day we will thrive again. Go ... I will wait here with her and make plans." He offered Leath a small smile. All he could dream of now was that he could save his wife and his daughter's life and what was a few years of absence to a creature that couldn't be taken by time.

He watched his wife walk out of the room to call the others to him and he bounced the egg lightly on his knee before he looked back at the egg. "There is so much loss to come in the next era of bloodshed and hate, little one, but even if only a few people believe in you then maybe the hope will spread the same as the hate. May your hope and love spread through Gaia and heal her after the horrors ahead."

Maybe

By Abbigail Rosewood

The secretary was able to track down three of the women on May's list. She had sent them invitations to meet at May's house at seven p.m. in Tan Duc, an industrial park outside the city. Each woman reacted differently to the perfumed card—with nostalgia and a surprising rancor they didn't realize they had. But they were curious, and would not miss it.

Since the group parted after their university graduation, they had not bothered to keep in touch. What for? May knew their attempt would be futile against each other's calculating measure of friendship. How beneficial were they to each other?

On the balcony, May squinted at the bright sun ray reflected off a leaf. Birds and insects were unusually merry during summer. Their endless chirping reminded her of the laughter of a group of girls, their chatter toppling over each other in perfect harmony before breaking off in individual notes. From the front gate, workers entered as swiftly as they left. There was always something to be done—the carpet to clean, the ornaments to polish. And for what cause? May didn't know. The house seemed lively to passersby—orders from upstairs, shouts of acknowledgment from downstairs. But May's room was always silent, conversations few and sparse. Once, she had been glad to rid herself of old acquaintances, wearied that gossips would ruin her reputation as a public figure. Now as grey hair deepened on her temples and spread from their roots, her memories of the past ten years began to fade, leaving May with only shadowy laughter and faces that filled her with bitter longing.

***

Quyen married her economics professor. She found out just because he taught the subject didn't mean he endorsed it. It was not a right for women to have careers. Quyen was slightly indignant but did not contradict him. Having a degree was enough; if there were children in the future, they would not think their mother was ignorant. Quyen hung the diploma above the television set. Between commercials she would glance up, admiring the cursive. How many years had gone by already? Ten? Twenty? It couldn't have been that long because there were still no baby cries in the house. Quyen let out a deep sigh. It was two in the afternoon, five hours till the rendezvous. She pushed at the buttons on the remote nervously, flipping channel after channel. It didn't take too long before she saw May's face. She was giving a speech about the importance of education for Vietnamese youth. In the audience Quyen spotted the president and the prime minister. On both sides of the stage hung the national flag and one for the Communist party. Quyen disliked the color red. It was everywhere, a hot color, of fire.

Why couldn't they have picked blue or white? May's outfit looked expensive—a purple silk blouse and tight fitted knee-length skirt. Quyen had seen it on the mannequin at the new shopping mall in District One, a beautiful outfit—elegant, professional. Everything that May was.

Quyen remembered the day Hung proposed to May. She didn't even know they were in a relationship.

Hung was a class above them and had already graduated. He still came to the school at lunch time to meet with the girls. Quyen thought that it was her he was interested in. He asked her many questions and listened attentively to the details of her life. She didn't guess that he only wanted to make a good impression because she was May's best friend.

The other girls were not surprised. May had many admirers, but they were all turned away quietly with such politeness and tact that the men barely noticed they had just been denied.

"How did he propose?" Quyen inquired.

"He tied some grass together and put it on my finger." May smiled bashfully.

"Oh, come on. Are you serious?"

"He has an artist's soul. Don't be nasty." May's browns gathered into a stern expression.

Quyen confessed that she wanted to be happy for May except she had expected to be the one Hung would ask. "As long as I'm your friend, nobody will look at me," she cried. May shushed her and gathered Quyen's head onto her lap. "If you want to marry, that's easy."

Quyen went on a string of dates with the professor. May arranged it skillfully. "You're his favorite student. I only gave him a small push."

Quyen was engaged within six months and married even sooner than May.

Quyen dialed her husband on the phone. Hey honey, what is the code for our safe? Oh nothing, it's an emergency expense. What? No, I need something to wear. It's an important meeting with May, you know, the one that introduced us. Quyen twisted the knob excitedly. They had been saving up for a while for the baby. But when her father-in-law refused his ginseng medicine and passed on a few months later, they'd had to withdraw seven million dong. She thought the whole ceremony a big waste. Both the dead and the mahogany coffin got burned up into fine powder. Quyen had wanted to sob then, but the furnace was blasting with heat; she couldn't keep her eyes open even for her worried tears to seep through. But today was not a day for grief, today was a day of new expectations. Getting married was the most excitement she'd had, but after so many years, even the most romantic relationships wane. Quyen didn't know what she needed, but she knew May would.

***

May put the incense into the ceramic bowl on her husband's shrine. The smoke smelled of a mixture of cinnamon and wood. It burned her pupils, but she kept her eyes open. You couldn't love me now even if you were alive.

May looked at her watch, the metal band cold and thin, the face engraved in diamonds. She tried to wiggle her toes, but the shoe cap held them tightly in place. Her feet felt like marble, stiff and callous. She had started wearing high heels after he died. Thirteen years. Without thinking, she had gone to the funeral barefoot, hands cradling the new life growing inside her. You're a father! I wish I could have told you. Her eyes were stunned as if the realization had hit her, then dispersed like a dream, then hit her again over and over until her face was numb. The family of the trucker who crashed into her husband's moped sent a million dong in compensation. It was enough for two months rent. May couldn't blame them; poverty struck everyone the same way.

She gave birth alone. Her mother was there, but in the hallway, afraid of blood. The ceiling was blue, with thick lumps of paint hanging from the flat surface like rain drops. She struggled to scream, instead gritted her teeth and cried sharp, salty tears. She cried as if she was not giving birth, but from another pain altogether. When she stopped pushing, the doctor administered anesthesia and glided a sharp metal blade into her belly. The baby tore its way out of her. It choked on air and screamed a piercing wail. The nurse shuddered and deposited the baby into May's arms. She put its head close to her neck. The baby's cry drowned out her own and she was calm.

Tonight May would reunite with her girl friends from college. She felt as if new buds had blossomed inside her. As chairwoman of a billion dollar corporation, not much could excite her. She had reformed the education system in Vietnam, accompanied the president on business trips. The board had chosen her as businesswoman of the year five consecutive times. As she got older her accomplishments did not dwindle as they often did with many others, but only became greater in size and value. Yes, she was successful, more so than she ever could have imagined as the young girl of fifteen years ago. She remembered putting the flame over her notebook, filled with poems and vague dreams. Her best friend Quyen had stolen it out of her bag and read it out loud in class. There were a few gentle chuckles but nobody laughed. They were good poems, some of her classmates had said. Yet she had felt humiliated—watching her private thoughts debased by the others' vulgar, careless comments. Now, she sometimes wished to have such simple things to cherish. But poetry never entered her mind. As her sharp metal Chanel heels crushed the dry summer leaves, she didn't stop to contemplate it as if poetry—its beauty and secrets—had all been burned up with the pages of that notebook.

The housekeeper bustled around to prepare dinner—snails boiled in lemon grass and salted duck eggs, the girls' favorite. They used to sit for hours on the sidewalk restaurant, poking at the snail's tail with a toothpick. When one of them managed to pull out the entire snail without breaking bits off, they would give it to each other. May waited impatiently. The girls would be here in about an hour.

Thuy was the first to arrive. May almost didn't recognize her if not for the curious, insecure way she still looked around herself, constantly wary of potential watchers. Her dark hair rested on her shoulder in large waves, not a streak of gray. She wore a sheer, long-sleeve tunic tugged inside a fitted skirt. Her figure was striking—she had lost considerable weight since graduation.

Before greeting her friend at the entrance, May checked her reflection—her own hair was up in an elegant bun, which her daughter had taught her how to do. It appeared complex but was simple enough to manage without a helping hand.

"Holy—May! Look at this place. May! Where the hell are you?"

May sighed, feeling the anxiety swept from her. Thuy was still Thuy after all, and May needed that.

"You look stunning." May opened her arms for an embrace, but Thuy continued to look up and down the house, her eyes shining with excitement. "You got one of those chandeliers! Where did you get it, May? France? I was there last Spring . . ." Finally, she turned and faced May. "I missed you," she said solemnly.

They walked down the corridor together. "You haven't aged a day," they kept saying to each other, then blushed and rubbed their nose when the compliment was returned. After praises were spent, they began on the furniture—Thuy pointing out the white frame around a picture of a house in the snow. How considerate of you to notice. Then both were silent, overwhelmed by the years which hung between them like stalagmite, too precious to break off. They had plenty of reasons to separate—they never agreed on love or politics; one of them had a child and the other didn't. Yet as they walked, close enough to smell the other's perfume but not ask about it, they silently prayed that maybe, maybe it wasn't too late.

They reached the dining room and raised their voices to match the commotion of the servers going back and forth from the kitchen.

Tentatively, May asked, "How is the kid? Must be all grown up by now?"

"I wouldn't know." Thuy stared at a white wall across the room.

May waited, letting her stomach stir then settle.

"I gave him up," Thuy said, her face pale, her forehead slightly wrinkled. She darted toward the feast on the table. "Mm, yum," she picked up a piece of roasted pork with her fingers, sandwiched it between two slices of sweet bread and took a bite.

May took Thuy by the arms. "Come on, we can eat when the others get here. Let me give you a tour of the house."

May remembered when Thuy gave birth. She and Quyen were checking the announcement board to see which master program they had gotten into. "Poor Thuy," they agreed; she had gotten better grades than both of them on her entrance exam, but that was irrelevant now. Upon receiving a phone call from Thuy's father, they rushed to the hospital on Quyen's moped. Her family had been more wealthy than May's. May rode to school each day on a bicycle she inherited from her grandfather.

They held onto each other as they walked down the brightly lit hall. Neither wanted to acknowledge they did not want to be there, to look into their friend's rheumy eyes, and coddle the unfamiliar presence in the room. What do you say to a baby? Yet as they reached the door, they felt enlivened by a new smell. What is it? Milk streaming from a mother's breasts? Or the soft, fleshy skin of a newborn?

But they did not come in right away; their heels held steadfast outside the door frame. They were startled by a picture, as if ripped out of a catalogue—a man leaning over their friend's bed, holding her hand in his, and resting his lips on her soft blue veins. Quyen spoke first. "Hung?" May watched her fiancé's expression—anxious, oblivious of his surroundings, yet focused and tense. Expectant. May swallowed and walked in.

The stairs spiraled up to the blue ceiling, painted with nude angels. Two years ago when the house was built, journalists and photographers had come from all over the country to study the architecture. Seven bedrooms in total. Who were they for? My parents. My daughter, the nanny, the driver. Is your daughter home? Can we interview her? No, she studies abroad.

The truth was her daughter was married. Hearing May had included her room in the new house, decorated with old dolls and dusty yearbooks, she had feigned polite gratitude. It did not bother May. The house was made of stone, like a cathedral. It would be here for many more decades, long after her daughter's marriage had deteriorated. Human relationships could not outlive the waste of time, May knew that, especially romantic ones, too ethereal for this world. Only maternal love was unconditional, and only what was unconditional was strengthened rather than destroyed by the endlessness of time.

May let the reporters look through every room, even open drawers if they needed to. Clean, empty drawers, not even dust bunnies. They glanced at them quickly, jotted in their notebooks then walked away, bored and disappointed.

Thuy was astonished at each spacious bedroom, fully furnished, color coded, and themed. Yet realizing their extreme tidiness, she turned to May and spoke softly, "Do you live here alone?"

"I'm not the one who needs help, Thuy," May snapped accusingly.

"I knew you would be furious at me. That's why I couldn't tell you. But—I thought you would be relieved too." Thuy grabbed a stuffed rabbit from the bed and hugged it close to her chest.

"Do you remember Khanh?" Thuy continued.

"Of course. She is the only one beside you and Quyen who isn't out of town."

"Khanh's dead, May. I thought you knew." Thuy threw the stuffed rabbit back on the bed. "Her husband left her. She went crazy supposedly. She was always a bit of a nut, wasn't she?"

"A bit," May replied. "That's 'cause she loves too much and too diversely. She was smitten with all of us, at one point or another—"

They had been flat mates before May was married. Khanh had begged her not to go through with the wedding. They could continue to live together like they had since freshman year of college. He is not worth a strand of your hair. Khanh wept, but May did not feel sorry for her. It was time for them to become women, not girls anymore. In a way, May thought that her release would teach Khanh independence.

Khanh was free now, perhaps not in the way May had thought, but what was the difference? "Always drawing attention to herself," May thought bitterly. She wouldn't take any less, always present, always profound, then exiting in that manner—theatrically—not lingering like the rest of us. Not lingering at all.

"I should have stayed with her." May's voice quivered, smiling mournfully.

"She was a grown woman. She was capable of a lot more than you thought." Thuy lifted the curtain and looked down to the street. "She adopted my child." Thuy breathed on the glass window and traced her finger over the fog.

"What—why would she do that?" May chuckled, her voice full of irony.

"I know. It's hard to believe. Everyone thinks we hated each other." Thuy laughed. "I think she put up with me for your sake. I suspect she adopted the child for your sake too."

After Thuy and the baby fell asleep, Hung and May walked back to the university to collect May's bicycle. A large cloud hung like dark grey smoke over rooftops, almost touching, almost crushing them with its weight. Hung lit a cigarette, barely put it over his lips, then dropped it to the pavement, his foot crushing the brown tobacco leaves. "Sorry, I know you don't like it."

May shook her head, smiling wistfully, "That's the least of my worries."

"I only care about you." He grabbed her hand. His fingers were frigid.

"You're a father now," she said sternly. The sun had only started to fall from the sky, yet she could already see the moon—transparent, almost invisible, yet impossible to ignore.

"No. Not yet—not until it's our child." He pronounced each syllable distinctly, depending entirely on the crisp words to evince his loyalty. He was a hard man. The type who did not falter.

May was startled by his growing weakness, his desperation. She put one hand over her empty stomach. What's the point? She was surprised at how much she wanted to be the mother of Hung's child, the first to carry and perpetuate their love.

"I still want to marry you." His voice was high-pitched, almost to the point of begging.

"That's good." May swallowed. She did not want to speak anymore. Looking down at the gravel, Hung's shadow was stretching upward, towering over her.

"Everything is as before." She hurried ahead of him. "But I want the child. I should be the one to raise him."

***

The dogs got up from their nap and ran to the front gate. They could hear the approaching vehicle. "I think Quyen's here." Thuy closed the curtain and started for the door. May followed.

They both could not contain themselves and hastened outside the house. For a second, the headlights of the cab blinded her eyes so May could see only the outline of a small, plump figure. The pastures from both sides were illuminated, as well as the rows of factories leading up to the iron gate.

Quyen stepped from the cab, slung a handbag over her shoulder and said, "Can I get a taxi from here late at night?"

May nodded. "Yes, if not my driver will take you."

"I thought you weren't going to show, Quyen!" Thuy said abruptly, dispelling the approaching silence.

"Are you hungry?" May asked, stopping herself from staring—Quyen's shoulders drooped, blue veins protruding from the thin layer of skin on her neck. The only features still youthful were her hands—long and slender fingers, inert hands.

"Maybe later," she said distractedly. "This is crazy. Is all of it yours?" Quyen gestured toward the industrial park. At night, they looked like abandoned buildings.

"About a thousand acres from where we're standing," May said with pride. This was something she knew well.

"Do you mind if we walk around? I feel a little sick from the drive," Quyen said shyly, still avoiding eye contact.

Thuy laughed. She could always do that, then walked up and linked her arm with Quyen's. "Come on," she waved for May.

The three shadows, arm in arm, like laughing children, strolled away from the house into the darkness. For a few seconds, before their eyes were adjusted, the gaps between them ceased. They spoke in their girlish voices, not letting go of each other. For now, they could not see the lines that traced the outline of their mouths, the disappointment under their eyes, or the hollow echoes of the years scratching at them. They were free to be girls.

The banyan tree was older than anything inside the industrial park. Around here the soils were rich; unattended grass grew past a human head. On Sunday, the workers went around the side walls of the factories cutting down bright green weeds that sprang up as fast as they were removed. The tree grew from its roots, which hung from the branches, expanding like hundred of arms hovering only a few inches from the earth. One cannot cut down a banyan tree. It would not be only one trunk that the lumberjack would have to axe, but many more. A sturdy structure, the tree grasped on tightly where it stood—it grew its own family with different stocks, yet forever connected, never alone.

Quyen leaned against the tree trunk, waving away the smoke that fell from Thuy's cigarette. Every time she inhaled the bitter nicotine, both Quyen and May held their breath. They watched her, fascinated, entranced in the motion of her slender fingers flicking off the ash, then again raising the cigarette to her lips—in and out, its orange burn the only light in the darkness. Thuy's lipstick had almost completely faded now, revealing her bare, dark lips.

"Did you visit her? Help her? She would have needed it." May smoothed the curls on her temples. Without the blaming light of day shining on their faces, she felt safe to ask questions.

"I didn't want to confuse who the baby's mother was—from that moment on." Thuy cleared her throat. Her voice was heavy, a weight dropped down on the night's stillness.

"She needed you," May repeated. "She had no one."

"She didn't want to see us." Quyen spoke quickly, "She said we were a bad influence. She was waiting for you to claim the child. I don't think she planned to keep it. Not at first."

"Why didn't you tell me? Why—" May broke off. Could she have done any different? It was too much at the time, too much. After Hung's funeral, she had not spoken to anyone, not even her family. All of them had tried so hard to convince her to get rid of the baby barely growing inside her. They haven't seen you, yet they already deserted you. But perhaps they were right—the child was not a child, more like an expanding shadow. No matter how much May tried to love her, she could not compensate for the absence of the father. A partial child, a fatherless phantom, she fled as soon as she was out of my womb. Never was mine.

"We thought it was better for you—we assumed you wouldn't want to hear the mention of that child ever again. After all—" Quyen said, then looked at Thuy expectantly, but Thuy pretended not to acknowledge her friend's gaze and continued turning the cigarettes upside down then reinserting them into the pack.

"Things happened so fast. One minute we were all together, the next—" Quyen continued.

"Alone," May replied.

***

The three of them could have been happy. They were eager to begin—the life they thought unlived, postponed while they were at school. May too had dreamed of that world—a room filled with men in stuffy collars and checkered ties, business deals signed over champagne and caviar, not many women yet, but soon. She had got what she wanted—the eye of the public that captured her as a woman of power, and at once protected her from remembering the desperation of a young widow. As she stood beside the girls, their gaze fluttered past her stiff posture, the square shoulder pads hiding her small frame underneath. She could tell they were impressed at first, but only for a moment, before memories flooded back into them and they saw her. She too, startled at her love for them, regretted that it couldn't have been rendered differently, so it seemed not love, but blame, contempt, fear too.

The neighborhood was tidy—neat alley ways paved in red bricks and little children art murals on ceramics inset on the wall. Thuy took lead. The path was small, only enough for one person to fit through in a single line. Quyen and May followed behind. In the corner of an apartment stairwell, a vagrant with peppered beard sat, singing a quiet hymn.

"Does anyone live here, sir?" Thuy inquired. "This used to be Khanh's house."

The old man scratched his chin as if awakened from a trance and looked at them. May felt shy of his moist eyes, a cloudy white, staring at them unblinking. "We used to go to college together," she offered.

"Ah," he breathed, baring his tobacco teeth, "I know Khanh. You think I'm blind and stupid, but I can still hear. This whole block knows. Some of the family moved away after—afraid of bad spirit. What do you want?" He paused then spoke again suddenly, sounding alert, "Who else's there? I know there are three of you. Speak up."

"Sorry," Quyen murmured, "I'm Quyen. We're looking for her son. Does he live here?"

"Upstairs," he coughed, his whole frame shook. Waving his finger upward then dropping his arm onto his lap, he started humming again—seemed to have forgotten them.

"Thank you," May pushed a bill into his trembling hand. She turned to look at the girls, half afraid they would disappear, half hoping they would.

Unsteadily she climbed the metal staircase then knocked twice on the front door pealing with green paint.

A ghost opened the door. May introduced herself to keep from gasping. He smiled at her—uncertain—his curly head tilted slightly to the right as if confused. His bright eyes were of both kindness and mischief. Just like his father.

The women stepped at once into what was both a bedroom and kitchen. There was a single stool at the window sill, stack of books and papers strewn on the floor, a half glass of water. The place hadn't changed much, different paint for the walls maybe, tidier. The bunk bed May and Khanh used to share was gone, replaced by a folded couch. "I'm preparing for the university entrance exam," Liem explained.

"Ah," May breathed out, "which one?"

"Business School," he chuckled dryly, "if I can get in."

The girls nodded in approving silence. Thuy had taken a seat on the stool, cracking the window slightly then lighting her cigarette. The boy was apprehensive, shrinking from her, putting a distance between them in the crowded room.

"Your mother—you both lived here," May spoke, not intending for it to sound like a question.

"Sure," the boy turned away, hiding his face, "I have seen you before, Mrs. May, on the news, that's right. How did you know my mother?"

May looked at Quyen, who was fingering a paper swan on the floor. Thuy was still at the window, on her second cigarette. It seemed nothing could ever move her from that spot.

"We were best friends." The words finally escaped her. She let them pull at her, then drop carelessly into the clean, white room. She inhaled, tried to detect a scent—any hint that a crazy woman might have lived here. Instead she could only picture Khanh sitting on the sofa (the sheet might have been a different color—pink nylon?), swaying the boy to sleep. Khanh—with frail arms bearing the burden of another, waiting hopelessly for them who didn't show up. Then spiraling into what they called madness around here. But May knew better; she had been there before. Months after the funeral, she could not sleep without hugging the shorts Hung had worn the night before the accident close to her chest, bracing herself on the too large bed, running to the door whenever the bell rung, expecting to see him there. Hope. Pure hope that only escalated as the waiting got longer.

"I'm sorry, Liem,"Quyen cried suddenly, face buried in her palms.

"Oh don't. It was so long ago," the boy said with patience.

"It was nobody's fault. Nobody," he repeated, accentuating the syllables the way Hung had once done.

"That may be true," Thuy said inaudibly so her voice sounded like a soft echo. "It may as well—like reading a piece of news on the paper true, like not being here true." She opened her mouth as if to speak again, but the silence was gone from the room. Liem had walked to the kitchen sink, toppled over a pile of dishes, and refilled his cup with water. May thought perhaps he had not heard Thuy, or did but regarded it as the mumble jumble of a stranger, but worst not a complete stranger, the type one could discuss the weather with, but a distant connection—imposing enough to make him uncomfortable.

"I need to get back to my studies," he said with a sudden indifference.

Out of the corner of May's eyes, May saw Quyen blink, startled at the boy's abrupt aloofness. She wiped her tears on her sleeve and stood.

The three women stepped from the room. Dismissed like school children. May felt the door slam behind them.

Over the bridge May stood, listening to the humming of an ice cream cart. It was barely morning, the open horizon still a deep blue with soft particles of light. Leaning over the rail, May watched pouches of dust explode into millions of sparkling grains. They didn't have a favorite spot, not really. As a young couple, she and Hung, like a hundred other lovers, had parked the bicycle dangerously close to traffic to get a glimpse of the silvery water. On their first date, she had tried to say something clever, ask deliberate questions to create an atmosphere of falling in love. At the city, bubbling with electricity, she pointed. "Which is your favorite light?" She did not want him to forget this moment. He stretched his arm upward then around her waist but didn't speak. "Hm?" she asked again, impatient. "I'm thinking," he said. His eyes were focused, studying the individual light. This was why she loved him.

She no longer remembered what his answer was. That whole day was shedding away from her bit by bit. Slices of memory replaced by their painful silence a year later. He did not ask her to forgive him. She already had by agreeing to come to the bridge. He was trying to forgive himself first, she could tell. Perhaps it was the way he cupped his hand over his cheeks and pulled downward, looking defeated, that convinced her he truly didn't mean it; he had made a mistake. But still she did not feel sorry for him. She thought she might make it worse for him by helping Thuy raise the baby—arguing over which brand of milk powder was better. The child of course would grow up to love her more than his own mother. Thuy could not feign maternal interests even if she tried. Yes, May would force him to look at them, to live with the error that could have been prevented had he any common sense, or self-control.

The sun reflected off May's watch and scattered round spots of light on the girls' faces, like tears. A strand of gray hair fell from Thuy's temple to the glistening water below. May tried to catch it.

"Was it here?" Quyen asked only to say something.

"Right where you're standing. That's where they found the baby basket," Thuy replied.

May nodded absently. The body, so heavy, once already falling, had no fear of vertigo. There was a time that May too felt pulled by such depth. But she could not bear the thought of her daughter inside her, already submerged in water, desperately fighting for life. If anything, they deserved separate deaths. Saved by the mere thought of another's life. Not Khanh.

There was nobody in the basket of course. Liem would have been six or seven by then. When the car mechanic stumbled upon the basket, his nervous oil-stained fingers perused the layers of blanket, relieved to find nothing but a few photographs, curled at the corners. These were the faces of young girls, so filled with hope they were bound to be disappointed. He put them in his shirt pocket and noticed the floating shape on the water.

"People used to think we were twins," Thuy spoke, her words small and tired. "I didn't think we looked alike—but in the end I sort of hoped we did."

Was Thuy hoping somehow the boy would see a mother in her? May wondered. Apparently there was more than one ghost in the room.

"She was always sending me baby pictures. I thought she was mocking me—I was trying myself, but nothing worked. I didn't know to be glad or sad for her," Quyen added.

"No matter what I did, I was betraying somebody—who could I be happy for anyway?"

May looked around. They were all here, the closest to a memorial they could manage for their friend. No flowers, not even a prepared speech, only incomplete memories, mouthful yet not enough to fill the silence. What about May? What could she possibly say to ease what they did, turned away from?

For a fleeting moment, she considered awarding Liem this year's scholarship. Saving the child of a suicide victim, the news headline might say. Business Woman of the Year, May doesn't forget a friend. The boy would not accept it, May knew.

"Let's not wonder too far," she finally muttered. Senseless though the words seemed, she felt her heart retreat back into the hollow space in her chest. The rhythm cautious and steady.

The three roads from the bridge all led to the same place, where May and Khanh spent hours awake as college girls, where Liem lived now. From all different directions they were brought back once more.

Tomorrow the construction team would be here. May had signed the contract to compensate families with houses built in or alongside the river. In their places would rise the first five star hotel in the country. She imagined the resort expanding, indoor swimming pools, garden bars, and live concerts. When the sun set, electric lanterns buzzed to the call of white-eared Night herons. It was a perfect location for international events, to show foreign ambassadors what this country was made of. May strategized the building plan so that on one side visitors were enveloped by exotic tropical plants and soothing nature. Over the bridge they would see the robust city, constantly growing.

May pictured the three of them gathered at a round table on the day of the hotel opening, holding their smile just long enough for the photographer. There was something they needed to say—but perhaps for another time.

And maybe, as May listened to the mournful chirping of the heron, she would ask "Is that you, Khanh?"

No Questions Asked

By: Joseph Estevez

Lucas Keys had never in his life looked so beautiful and yet so dreadful. He struggled as he stared at himself through the mirror while trapped in the men's restroom as he continuously lost faith. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves down and looked down to study his black shoes, neatly polished that morning all thanks to his mother. Unusually formal, indeed, he thought, but it was for a special reason. It was for love, that mysterious aspect of life that has led people into doing the most irrational of things. The only thing he could focus on aside from the deafening crowd outside was what his mind was trying to tell him.

He looked again at himself with a mind split in half. To the left, which evermore welcomed change, assured him that with his refulgent brown hair, he would unquestionably attain the response that he was hoping for. Come to think of it, he was always proud of his hair, which had been combed splendidly that morning, again thanks to his mother. Whilst to the right, which was notorious for being fond over things to remain the same, as well as creating reasons for self-shame and unrealistic expectations, doubted that he could actually get what he wanted due to the massive pimples scattered throughout the plain of his forehead. He suddenly grew embarrassed over something that had already existed for many months now. He used his unsteady hands to create bangs which looked like a solid curtain that would surely cover the tiny red dots.

With such a casual even as this, it looked as if he was on his way for a job interview of sorts. He was dressed in a white, dressy shirt and khaki pants. Come to think of it, he would feel a bit self-conscious appearing like this. There was no way that he was going outside now. He would just have to wait for the football game to finish.

The crowd was growing ecstatic outside as he cleared out his throat and paced around for two cycles before returning back to his position in front of the mirror. He bit his lips before raising his eyebrows and speaking out loud in a tone that was never before necessary.

"Hey, uh... I was just wondering... if you and I should, you know, get together sometime..." He stopped with the cool accent. Ugh, this isn't working, he thought to himself.

He tried to act sophisticatedly. "Hello, there. Would you like to come with me to the diner this Saturday at noon?"

He exhaled completely, and when he spoke again, he spoke a lot louder in an effort to feel saner. "Oh, hey, wanna go to the movies this Saturday?" he said, as his voice slowly became whinier.

"PLEASE JUST MARRY ME!"

He slowly got on his knees in defeat. Observing his own crestfallen face was too much for him. He noticed that while making all of these different gestures, he never once did look like his own self.

"Narcissist much?!" a fellow sophomore standing by the doorway asked. It appeared as if he was dressed in some kind of working uniform.

"I wish," Lucas muttered.

"What the heck were you doing?" he asked, as he walked up to Lucas to help him up. "Don't you know how dirty these floors are?"

Lucas jumped onto his feet and realized that his helper was just above his height. "Hi, I was just... rehearsing for a speech for my public speaking class, that's all."

The boy laughed.

"Sounds like a very desperate speech to me. And you don't have to lie your way out from me," he insisted. "Sophomores aren't allowed to take the public speaking class. My name's Henry."

Lucas already had known of Henry. He was one of Oliver Walsh's best friends. Oliver was one of the players in the football team. He was very popular. Everyone knew him and loved him.

Henry Amston, a thin student with wavy blonde hair, was in Lucas's Geometry class. He must've not known of Lucas's existence; he always sat in the back of the classroom and never raised his hand in class. He was always afraid that he would have the right answer.

Intelligence wasn't a very impressive quality to most of the students in the school.

Lucas introduced himself and they shook hands.

"Pleasure to meet you," said Henry. "And if you want to ask a girl out on a date, you've got to act naturally. Would you like the girl to date you, or your alter ego? It's all your choice."

"Thanks for the advice... Why are you dressed that way?" asked Lucas, forgetting about his own unconventional clothing.

"I work here. It helps pay for tuition, ya know? I also get to enjoy a bit of the football games. It's actually pretty fun, except for the dirty areas..."

Lucas nodded, although something about Henry's response forced a quick ray of opposition to pass by him.

"Ah, okay. Well, that's nice," he said, his eyes darted at the floor. "This is the first time I'm watching a game here."

"Oh, why don't you come around here more often?" Henry asked.

The football games were always a major deal for the Ethan's – a nickname for those who went to Ethanburg High School. It was a very important social gathering for the school-spirited.

Lucas looked back into Henry's eyes with a hint of disgust.

"Tuition," he mumbled.

"I totally understand you," Henry replied sympathetically. He figured that he should let Lucas be with his developing strategy. "Alright, well, see you around. I was just checking by to see if everyone's head was on right. Oh, and do yourself a favor. Don't get married yet; you're too young to want to go and ruin your life."

Henry left with his half-smile still remaining on his face.

Lucas's anxiety seemed to diminish at a reasonable level. He felt that he could think with logic again. He stood still like a statue for a minute, and then turned to face the mirror to his left to check if his bangs were still solid. They were.

His reflection didn't look like him for some reason. He abruptly came to the realization that there was an ongoing silence coming from the Ethan's outside. This was very rare. He ran outside, hoping that the game hadn't finished.

It didn't. He stood at the top of the staircase that broke into several aisles of long, metal bleachers carrying frenzied fanatics. It began to drizzle, so he stepped back into the dusky brick hallway that led back to the restrooms and only exit. He could still spot Alice Johnson, his living dream, sitting in the third row with her very talkative best friend. Once enough space clears up when people start to leave, he strategized, he would just wait for her to come up and then he would ask her to come with him alone so that they could talk for a second. Then he'll ask her... naturally. Naturally, what does that even mean?

There were only a few minutes left now. He wanted to see if he could get a view of Robert, and he caught glimpse of him sitting in the second row. He was on his phone texting someone.

Robert Silberstein was one of Lucas's two closest friends since Kindergarten. He was growing into an "unexpected phase" at the time, in which he was completely amazed by anything that had to do with astrology and its correlation with humanity.

Unlike Robert, Lucas wasn't very surprised by this phase; he knew that Robert always came up with new and random things. Robert was a very curious person and was fascinated by the simplest of things in life.

In this unexpected phase, Robert would read horoscopes every day and was able to tell you your lucky planet, day, numbers, and cookie flavor. Apparently, if the Red Knights – the football team that played for Ethanburg High School – won the game, then that would mean that Lucas had a good chance of getting a "yes" from Alice Johnson due to the fact that it was a new moon that night. Lucas decided that he would just have to trust the stars. Now powerless, he watched the game with concern. Oliver Walsh was the most valuable player. Lucas counted on him for getting a "yes" from Alice Johnson.

He picked up his phone after it started vibrating. It was the message that Robert was typing through his cell phone. It read: 'Tied at 36, there r 10 seconds left!!!'

Lucas looked down and tried to spot Robert again, and was surprised to see him as the only person standing and cheering. Robert always put enthusiasm into the support he had for things he was passionate about, and the Red Knights topped that list.

A few other brave souls stood up as well. Lucas then fixed his eyes at the field. Oliver Walsh had the ball, and he was just a few yards away from victory.

The right side of Lucas's brain reminded him that he wasn't the closest of friends with Alice Johnson. They had only spoken twice. The first time was when she was talking to Simon – Lucas's other close friend since Kindergarten – outside of school. Simon then introduced Lucas to her and they chatted for a few minutes. The second time was just a few days ago, when he was walking to lunch a little later than usual and they happened to be two of the few students travelling through the hallway at the time. The right side continued to recommend against his initial motivation.

Just go home, it suggested.

No, he thought to it.

No need to go through all this stress for no reason, right?

Lucas was astonished at how his mentality was clouding up his mood and thoughts. For a second, he actually considered going back home, but then he caught himself. Never did he think that his main struggle would not concern how to talk to Alice, but to himself. He shook his head violently, trying to dissipate the negative thoughts. He was going to talk to her. He had to, but he couldn't help the fact that his mental rollercoaster was now entering a helpless, natural free fall.

Oliver Walsh made the winning touchdown. Everyone got up to join Robert and the Blithe Dozen. Robert looked around for Lucas, who kept his eyes locked on Oliver, who was helmetless and now running across the field with excitement.

Robert finally caught sight of Lucas and commenced ascending the staircase, which would take a while with the incoming traffic.

Lucas envied Oliver. He had it all; he was an excellent athlete, he was popular with the women and men, he had rich parents, he had outstanding grades, and, to Lucas's admit, was quite charming.

Lucas considered himself to be rather good-looking, better than most of the guys in his year without a single doubt, but in particular cases he didn't come close to Oliver. He felt horrible and empty inside after all of the comparisons he was drawing.

Snap out of it, the left side of his brain whispered. He shook his head again, diminishing the negative thoughts, and then walked down the staircase to get to Alice. He looked at the ground while descending and accidentally bumped into Robert.

"Did you ask her out yet?" he asked.

"No, I'm going to now. Meet me at the bus stop so that we could leave quickly. It would be a lot less weird for me."

"Alright, good luck. Don't rush yourself."

"Okay."

They went their separate ways. Lucas finally approached Alice, who was still cheering insanely with her best friend.

"Hey, Al-um-Alice," he saluted. Naturally, he thought, but couldn't seem to act.

"Oh, hey!" she said. She was chewing bubble gum, which had almost no effect on her speech as a result of great amounts of experience. "What's up?"

"OH. MY. GOD," her best friend screamed.

Oliver, who was just being carried by his fellow teammates, was put onto the ground and was instantly swarmed by people from all directions. He then signed autographs and took pictures with students unrequired of his permission.

"He is so cute!" Alice yelled noisily, so that her voice could somehow reach her friend, who was swallowed into the horde of fans.

"This is going to be my new Facebook profile pic!" Alice's friend called back.

"Oh!" Alice jumped. "SAME!"

She dug herself into the mass as well, leaving Lucas alone and helplessly mystified.

It was starting to rain harder and Lucas didn't want to get soaked. He regretted ever speaking to her. In some way or another, he felt cheated. He failed to see Oliver; he was shrouded by people everywhere, but he didn't want to look at him anymore. He figured that he should listen to both parties of his brain, which finally agreed to have the bill of going home passed and signed.

He turned around and headed for the exit.

It was long past dusk. The sky was almost pitch-black now. The frantic raindrops were attacking the bus window. Lucas and Robert found themselves seats.

"I can't believe she totally ignored me like that," Lucas told Robert, who sat on the other side of the bus, directly in front of him. The spaces around them were occupied by other students who were in front of the bust line.

"It's her loss," Robert reminded him. "Just don't think about it, or else you'll freak out – and why is your hair like that? You look weird."

Robert got up and drove his fingers through Lucas's hair, causing the curtain to disappear, and then sat back down. All could view through the glass windows now to see the room for what it really was.

Come to think of it, there wasn't any reason why Lucas should be so gloomy. His school's football team won the championship match, he still had his best friend, and he still had a chance with Alice Johnson. He lost nothing throughout the entire experience.

But he couldn't stop thinking about her. Not until he arrived at Brownston. The modern and vivid Victorian houses turned into tall pine trees, which then turned into shabby two-storied apartment buildings after a half-hour.

Lucas reached his stop and exited the vehicle with Robert. They reached the house, and Lucas immediately found out that his mom and dad were home after the sound of argument burst through the opened door.

"TELL BEATRICE THAT SHE SHOULD SHUT UP AND STOP COMPLAINING ABOUT HER LAZY SON WHO DOESN'T GIVE A CRAP ABOUT HOMEWORK OR SCHOOL AND JUST PLAYS VIDEO GAMES ALL DAY," Lucas's dad yelled out loud. He was a snotty man with gray and white hair who caused fear and shudder to those within his radius.

"Oh, did you hear about what happened to Rosa's husband?" asked Lucas's mom. "I think he got drunk again! He started yelling at her and threatened to –"

"I. Don't. Care," uttered Lucas's dad, who stepped inside the dining room to find Lucas and Robert standing still like machines with confused faces. "Oh... hey, kids."

"Hi, Mr. Keys," said Robert, while tremblingly sticking out his hand to shake Mr. Key's.

"Hi," greeted Lucas.

"Hello," Mr. Keys answered. He awkwardly stood with them for a little while before going into the kitchen. He let out a deep exhalation with fatigue.

"Excited for the French midterms tomorrow?" kidded Robert. He always used humor as a tool to free himself from intimidating situations.

"Je ne sais pas," answered Lucas.

Mr. Keys passed through the dining room with a bottle of whiskey and returned to the living room.

"This isn't going to end well," warned Lucas after witnessing the bottle. "Please, you have to go now."

Robert grabbed his backpack. He had never seen Mr. Keys drunk before, but he had heard numerous stories about it that always resulted in chaos.

"Come over to my place, Bruce," he suggested.

"No, I'm fine. He never hurts anyone – well... you just have to leave him alone. The worst thing he could do is say pretty harsh things to you," Lucas said casually.

"Which is considered verbal abuse," stated Robert. "So he's never threatened to hurt you, right?"

"Please, no more questions," Lucas pleaded. "And no, he hasn't."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'll see you tomorrow."

Robert was a bit shocked at how quickly Lucas was shoving him toward the front door.

"Do you like it when he drinks a lot?" he whispered.

"Of course I don't!" Lucas whispered back.

"Well then, have any of you guys talked to him about this? Did you ever question him about his reasoning for drinking so much, so often?"

"No, I've never asked," Lucas answered with regret.

"So then why don't you approach him and ask why?"

"I don't know. Goodnight."

Robert stepped out the front door, the chilly breeze swimming through his wet hair. Lucas anxiously shut the door to Robert's puzzlement after his father abruptly snapped at his mom.

Lucas decided that he would talk to Alice the next day right before lunchtime when she would be by her locker. That was when she was always alone. That evening, he would have an intervention with his father, right before he would take the first bottle.

He noticed that his mom began crying in response to the offensive things that his dad was saying to her. She ran upstairs into her bedroom and shut the door.

Lucas did the same.

The Tragedy of Fidel Castro

By João Cerqueira

NB: This is an excerpt from João Cerqueira's book, The Tragedy of Fidel Castro. Literary Lunes is publishing this with the author's permission. It is a highly ironic tale that satirizes both Communism and Capitalism. The target audiences are readers who like historical and literary fiction and also those who are interested in politics, mainly the Latin community. In brief dramatic changes will happen in Cuba, something like the Arab spring, and all the media will speak about Fidel Castro, his revolution and the future of Cuba.

Because of the European crisis, protesters occupying Wall Street, India and China's rise and the North Korea's problems, I think this book – which debates Capitalism and Socialism – addresses issues of critical interest in discussions on the problems of today's world.

I am published in Portugal by Saída de Emergência and represented in Scandinavia by Kontext Agency. I also inform you that the American literary magazine Toad Suck Review #2 published an excerpt of the book. I also received proposals from Green Leaf Books (US), Black Leaf Publishers, Artemis Publishers (UK) and Terra Nova Editores (Puerto Rico).

As Fidel passed through the door of the monastery, monks and madmen stopped what they were doing, turning their attention to the visitor, in silence to begin with, followed by murmuring. The arrival of new lunatics was nothing unusual, whether under their own steam, as with this stranger, or tied to a mule, like the former guest. But, the bearded man that barged into the monastery's grounds on this occasion had something different about him. Given the confidence displayed, the gracefulness of his movements and the haughtiness of his countenance, those who were still capable of reasoning assumed him to be someone important, now fallen from grace.

His presence here clearly indicated that he was insane, but, scrutinizing the stranger's face, they discovered they were unable find the unmistakable traces of madness, which, without being able to define precisely, they could recognize instantly. Nobody would have dared to consider him entirely sane and responsible for his own actions, but, even so, they still couldn't quite classify him as being mad. It was as if this strange man was in limbo, somewhere between reason and madness. Although vague and imprecise, like a rumor, this realization frightened them, ill-equipped as they were to deal with situations outside the careful classification of real phenomena. Fidel, as a member of an unknown species, presented unique characteristics that set him apart from humans and animals. They decided every precaution would be necessary.

Surrounded by walls, the sturdy building sparked in Fidel's mind the memory of prisons where he had exiled political opponents. Their meaning evaded him however, and he was left at a loss as to what they had to do with him. The spark was brief, with no power to set alight the great fire. Walking across the granite paved courtyard, he calmly received the icy glares of the monks and the restless looks of the insane, with little to differentiate him from the impassive El Comandante who inspected prisons packed with political prisoners.

As was usual, the monks took him to see the abbot for examination. The abbot would ascertain how dangerous each new inmate was and pry him for information about his possessions. Aggressive nutcases were not given farming implements. Those who could bequeath something to the monastery were given light duties. Lastly, simple idiots were given the work that no one else wanted. The rules were simple and final. Many similar examples can be found in the Holy Scriptures, with a little imagination.

The meeting took place in the library, where Athanasius, the abbot, was studying the David, Uriah and Bathsheba love triangle, from a new perspective. This biblical tragedy, in which a woman whose only sin was being beautiful was the victim of a divine punishment aimed at the king of the Jews, seemed to demonstrate that the God of wrath of the Old Testament was truly a cruel fellow.

What left Athanasius confused was that Uriah's loyal attitude led him to death in battle. Being the cuckold wasn't enough, he also had to die. David seemed to be being kindly when he said that Uriah could go to his wife. Or maybe he was just being cynical. He had already impregnated her, after all. But, in the end, given Uriah's refusal to leave his troops, he is unable to resist sending him to war, thus showing his Machiavellian nature. On the other hand, Uriah shows conviction in his principles, the ability for sacrifice and enormous courage from the outset, but he dies as a result.

Faced with this anything but edifying scenario, without even daring to address the relentless logic of divine justice, the abbot feared that some readers would interpret what happened as proof that noble sentiments only complicate matters, sometimes fatally, while selfishness can save us from great problems, and even save our life. After all, if Uriah had decided to desert and run into the arms of his wife not only would he not have died but he would also have avoided the terrible divine punishment befalling his son. To make matters worse, as if this were compensation, David ends up marrying Bathsheba, thus achieving his insidious plan. The moral of the story, the abbot thought uneasily, the good man who leaves his family to serve his country loses everything, while the bad man, despite being brought to justice, ends up profiting from his perfidy.

This reasoning worried him. David, Uriah, Bathsheba, what a muddle they were in.

Couldn't they have solved it all differently? David could have lost his throne as punishment - Athanasius daydreamed, trying to rewrite holy history. Uriah could have been seriously wounded only to recover and return to the beautiful Bathsheba, the couple living happily ever after with their legitimate and illegitimate children, some blond, some brunette, in a show of great tolerance.

He was lost in these thoughts, retouching punishments and introducing rewards, ensuring that nobody had to die, and giving a bit more clarity to the definition of good and evil and their respective consequences, when the arrival of a new lunatic was announced, forcing him to put a halt to his cogitations. Having to interrupt his train of thought, just as it was bearing flowers and forbidden fruit, left him exasperated. The abbot was just preparing to unleash his wrath on the monks and the madman, when he was faced the singular figure of Fidel Castro.

He fell silent, gulping back down the words forming in his mouth, his fury evaporating in an instant. Raising his hand, he silenced the monks before they could come out with the usual explanations as to the presence of the man brought before him. He walked full circle around Fidel and stood right before him as if challenging him to react in some way. Fidel, absorbed in his attempts to decipher the incomplete sketch chalked in his mind, smiled absently. For a few moments, Athanasius almost believed that he was looking at JFK's fearful enemy. The supposition, being absurd, gained in consistency and clarity as he confirmed the incredible similarities between the mad stranger and Fidel Castro. However, all that was needed was a fleeting expression from the creature, a brief spark of soul, nothing more, for his suspicion to go up in smoke. At first the proof disheartened him, as if a diamond miner discovering his sieve contains nothing but worthless stones. Then he felt irritated again, furious at having been both instigator and victim of fraud. Finally, his hands behind his back, he recovered his composure and said to the guards "Who is this poor devil?"

"We don't know. He doesn't either."

"Who are you?"

''I don't know." replied Fidel, disturbed by the inner turmoil that this question was beginning to unleash.

"Who is your family, where do you come from?" the abbot tried again, hopeful of finding a loaded loony.

This question made Fidel's face muscles contract, crumpling his lips, as he was suddenly bombarded with inaccurate images of his country, detonating familiar voices and aromas. The flood of reminiscences left him restless. His mask of beatitude broke and a new face was revealed. Without either of them knowing it, El Comandante was now looking at Athanasius as he would have done an impertinent subaltern, forcing him to lower his head in a sign of submission. And it was thus, with his eyes to the ground, that the abbot, furious at what was happening to him but powerless to avoid it, classified Fidel Castro as a dangerous insane amnesiac, instructing the monks to never place farming implements in his hands and to watch him day and night. Listening to his diagnosis and sentence, the monks performed a ceremonial bow and grabbed Fidel by the arms. They had already opened the library door when Athanasius said to them "Wait, leave him here."

Resembling Fidel Castro but not actually him, the madman was nonetheless an enigmatic being; a force he feared was greater than him. This left him worried – he desperately needed to exorcise the ghost by confronting it. Athanasius needed to know more about this man, to look inside his soul, to discover some hidden weakness. But how should he proceed if the creature seemed to be unaware of his own identity? This required tact and consideration, notable qualities of which he believed he was well stocked.

He then had an idea. What if he questioned him about something or other? After all, it is when given opinions that men expose the foundations of their mind, peeling back the paint and plaster under which can be found. A vile and mean character, no matter how well disguised, can suddenly be revealed. A pure soul emerges from a crude and repulsive figure.

To loosen his tongue he would begin by discussing some matter and then put some questions to him. But what to discuss? A new difficulty now blurred his understanding, just when he had seemed to have finally grasped it. From what he had witnessed thus far he excluded one subject – football. Who could tell if, on hearing nothing more than the word club, Fidel wouldn't start to rip the library's entire collection to pieces? Because of the constant ruckus between monks whenever they discussed football, he had been forced to ban supporters, scarf wearing before the games and sleeping with blue, green or red teddies. In his opinion, if football has existed in Romans times, and there had been a tournament with teams from every conquered territory meeting in the Coliseum, with East playing West, (un)friendly games against Carthage, slaves skilled in dribbling freed, referees thrown to the lions every week, incoherent debates in the senate between patricians, Apollo and Augustus represented wearing football boots, the temple columns serving as goal posts, the baths invaded by footballers, the empire would in theory not have lasted half the time, the barbarians would have found nothing but the ruins of Rome and the Christian religion would have been extinguished.

While studying the impenetrable face of Fidel Castro, Athanasius wondered what topics of conversation would be likely to spark curiosity in this listless mind. In any common man, with no particular interest in anything apart from women or the problematic subject of football, the chances of success are very high. In this man, without knowing the motivations guiding him, he suspected that this rule did not apply, nor any other that he could think of. With his finger trembling over the trigger he would have to risk a shot in the dark towards a target that might exist, exposing himself to the skewed fury of a probable ricochet.

It was thus, with Fidel in his sights that he shot the story of David, Uriah and Bathsheba at point-blank range, without knowing how to explain the reasons behind choosing such a biblical projectile. The story was told slowly, as if to allow the full absorption of events, with lavish details about the atmosphere of the period and the physical appearance of the protagonists, with Bathsheba receiving the favours of his artful imagination. As he spoke he could clearly see the faces of the two rivals, bearded like Fidel, the moral dilemma facing them both (he believed that David was also tormented by the decision), almost convincing himself that the blame lay entirely at Bathsheba's feet, a wicked woman unable to resist the seductive arts of the king of the Jews and the temptations of the flesh. Just think what this woman would be capable of nowadays for money and fame. She'd take part in televised talent contests, candidly reveal herself in women's magazines, maybe even write a blog. But shortly afterwards, remorseful of his shameful chauvinistic snub, he pondered on how a simple plebeian, educated to submit to the stronger sex, certainly illiterate and without plumbing in her home, could dare to turn her back on the most powerful man in her community.

He was right back to square one, unable to draw any conclusions. Far from discerning an objective moral meaning with a clear definition of good and evil, the story was like a painting deprived of perspective. The distant figures oversized and the close figures small, created to befuddle the onlooker, susceptible to free interpretation. Maybe the Creator, like all creators, enjoyed breaking free of stereotypes now and then, subverting the rule to produce something that only much later on – and by the looks of it a couple of millennia was not enough – would be understood. Divine and human nature was that complex.

In telling the story, Athanasius hoped to spark to the mysterious man's interest. Perhaps Fidel would comment on it and thus reveal a glimpse of his personality. After all, maybe other mental tools, even if hardly compatible with the mechanisms of concrete reality, would be needed to interpret such a painting. Didn't all scholars look a bit crazy and have long beards?

Told countless times to assemblies of children in the Jesuit college he had attended, almost always with the burden of guilt given to Bathsheba, as David was a biblical star specialized in stone-throwing duels and heroes were permitted certain weaknesses, the story sounded familiar to Fidel, helping him to ascend one more step up the staircase to memory and identity. Without realizing it, Athanasius had revived the dying spirit of El Comandante, who, stimulated by the electric shocks of the remembered words, responded with sudden quivers in an intermittent awakening of consciousness. This internal process became visible on the exterior, revealing itself in Fidel's increasingly gloomy expression, in his deep breathing, in his fingers passing through his hairy chin.

When the abbot finished his tale, words escaped from Fidel's mouth. "This fictitious story is a good example of the abuse of the elite on the working classes, of the use of religion to legitimize the excesses of the powerful and of the systematic punishment of women in imperfect societies that have yet to reach the superior level of scientific socialism. David is despotic monarch whose wealth lies in the exploitation of an oppressed people, deprived of access to education, who resorts to the brute force of the army and to the legitimating arguments of priests so that he can remain in power. His depravation leads him to seduce a married woman of lower social standing. He then conjures up a strategy that will see him freed of her husband. Like all exploiters of the working classes, he is a vile and unscrupulous character. Bathsheba represents the housewife looking after the household while her husband is absent serving the tyrant, a domestic worker then. She has spent her life scrubbing steps, washing dishes and clothes. She has never danced across the ballrooms of high society. Bathsheba is corrupted by David when he seduces her, promising her wealth. Her act of infidelity shows how capitalism perverts the people when the people do not have an ideological foundation to resist it. She is thus the main victim of this story. Uriah is also a member of the people who for the same lack of indoctrination loyally serves the tyrant, convinced that their interests coincide. Thus, even if for different reasons, he is not only wronged by Bathsheba but also by David. But, unlike his wife, he resists the temptation, not of wealth but of being back with his family, revealing an integrity of character only possible in the humble. His death in combat serving the man who had taken his wife is an allegory of the depredation of the oppressing classes on the workers, dispossessed of their possessions, their loved ones and their very lives. In this immoral tale we prove the bloodthirsty nature of capitalism, its dependence on the illiterate and the need to educate the people to overthrow despots."

Athanasius was mesmerized, stunned and stranded. His prayers had been answered: the stranger had revealed who he was and the biblical mystery seemed to be solved. "This guy can only be Fidel Castro, I don't know how he got here, but it's him. I'm certain of it," he reflected euphorically. "Nobody can learn of this, the best thing is to keep it secret and then I'll see what use it could hold."

That night Fidel slept in a comfortable cell, enjoying similar amenities to those of Athanasius, quite different from the damp cubicles infested with bedbugs of the insane. When they woke him at dawn to take breakfast together with the monks, he had no idea where he was and he began to wonder what he was doing there.

These thoughts led once again to the disturbing matter of who he was. As he chewed, not tasting the freshly baked bread, and paid no attention to the warm words spoken by the abbot, he rummaged through random recollections, trying to fit them together.

In one of the jigsaw pieces, he was leading the attack on a city, firing on a fenced-in army barracks. In another he was sat in a luxurious mansion, dining alone under the cold light of chandeliers. In a third he was a giving a speech in a large building filled with men wearing headphones. He could clearly distinguish each of them, restless with emotions ranging between fear and euphoria but unable to articulate them into a coherent whole. Could he be a fighter, a hermit and statesman all at the same time? And if he could choose one of these apparent identities, which one would he go for? The possibility of leading a military revolt, whatever or whoever it was against, and to seize power, excited him. To be listened to by hundreds of important looking people left him feeling flattered. However, nothing pleased him about the loneliness revealed in the disturbing memory in which he was in a world apart from other humans. Yes, he did not care about being a conqueror, about triumphing over evil enemies and replacing them in power, just as it didn't bother him to enjoy the privilege of spreading his word throughout humanity. However, he would never want to be confined in voluntary reclusion, fearful of invisible threats.

But, and this doubt tore him apart, were these recollections true or just the fruit of a fertile imagination? And could he rub out all of his memories, the true and false ones, delete his past and become another person, begin with nothing, like a newborn child?

These meditations withered in him during the rest of the meal, silencing him again, to the great frustration of the abbot who increased his stimuli and tricks aimed at loosening Fidel Castro's tongue in vain, before the incredulous eyes of the monks, succumbing to the sin of envy and pride. To them it was incomprehensible for a lunatic, even if this one wasn't entirely mad, to sit at the table with them – the masters. So, with the fear of someone who knows he is committing an act of grave disrespect, they glared at Athanasius, spewing criticism and disapproval, demanding a soothing explanation. The abbot ignored them, with no arrogance intended, unaware of the general indignation being felt, absorbed as he was in the impossible task of re-establishing contact with the man who would change his fate.

Fidel, the bone of contention, was imagining storming the monastery.

Terra-Firma Reviews

By Terra Kelly

Servants of Twilight

Author: Dean Koontz

Review:

This is a fast paced horror novel by Dean Koontz who is a master story teller.

Imagine that you and your child are leaving the mall when you are accosted by an old lady dressed all in green. She starts asking you if you know what your little boy is. She then starts telling you that your child is the anti-Christ and needs to die. Screaming and attacking you as you attempt to flee into your car. That is how the novel begins and keeps up the fast paced action as the church group stalks Christine and her son from a variety of different locations.

A great heroine in Christine Scavello who defends her son with everything she has, giving up everything in her life to keep him safe. Charlie Harrison is the epitome of the hero as he sacrifices so much after Christine hires the private investigator to find out what's going on and keep her son safe.

The old lady as she is normally referred to in the novel is a great villain. She has a depth of humanity that makes you feel bad for her as she struggles with wondering if she is insane or if her visions are truly sent by god; especially when the spirits are telling her to kill a child. She is an eccentric character who changes her wardrobe to match the spirit world while growing messier and messier but still has this charismatic hold on her followers.

There are small hints all throughout the book that the old lady may not be totally crazy but the little boy Joey is just so adorable. The book definitely leaves you wondering exactly what's up with Joey all the way up to the end and beyond! I am actually hoping for a sequel to this novel about 10 to 15 years in the future. If Joey is the anti-Christ I want to know for sure!

If you like a good fast paced horror novel that makes you wonder about the war between God and the Devil than definitely pick this up and give it a read!

Lunar Reviews

By Beth Ann Masarik

Title: Moon Dance

Series: Vampire for Hire #1

Author: JR Rain

Publisher: J.R. Rain via Stuart Agency

Genre: Paranormal/Urban Fantasy

Rating: 5 stars

Synopsis Courtesy of Goodreads:

Mother, wife, private investigator...vampire. Six years ago federal agent Samantha Moon was the perfect wife and mother, your typical soccer mom with the minivan and suburban home. Then the unthinkable happens, an attack that changes her life forever. And forever is a very long time for a vampire.

Now the world at large thinks Samantha has developed a rare skin disease, a disease which forces her to quit her day job and stay out of the light of the sun. Now working the night shift as a private investigator, Samantha is hired by Kingsley Fulcrum to investigate the murder attempt on his life, a horrific scene captured on TV and seen around the country. But as the case unfolds, Samantha discovers Kingsley isn't exactly what he appears to be; after all, there is a reason why he survived five shots to the head.

My Review:

I'll be perfectly honest...I didn't know what to expect when I purchased the 6 book box set for the Vampire for Hire series. I never used to really be into those private investigator type books, but this one had a paranormal twist and I couldn't resist purchasing it.

Let me tell you something...this was the best investment I ever made.

I am going to review these books individually as I finish reading them. This one that I am reviewing is called Moon Dance, and is Vampire for Hire #1.

Meet Samantha Moon...mother of 2 beautiful young children, an ex FBI agent who met the unfortunate fate of being attacked by a vampire. She was forced to quit her day job because she was turned, and is now an private investigator...and one of the best I might add.

Cue her asshole husband (or now ex-husband), Danny Moon. I'll give him some credit for trying to be with a blood sucker in the beginning, but come on, did he really have to cheat on her and be such a douchebag? Ugh! I wanted to bitch slap that sucker!

I'm trying not to give too much away here, but long story short, things get sour between Danny and Samantha real quick, and well, you'll have to see for yourself.

Cue Kingsley Fulcrum, a hottie werewolf who ends up being Samantha's client. Their relationship is quite complicated, let's just leave it at that. But, I will tell you that I am certainly rooting for Kingsley and Samantha.

All in all, if you are looking for a great, action packed book with a lot of plot, then this is the book for you! J.R. Rain does an excellent job with painting a perfect picture. I devoured this book in about three days...I seriously could not put this book down!

Lunar Reviews

By Beth Ann Masarik

Title: Bed And Breakfast

Series: Bloodkin

Book number: 1

Author: Scarlet Hyacinth

Publisher: Silver Publishing

**Warning: Not suitable for children under the age of 18. Story contains strong and heavy BDSM, lots of blood, sex, and M/M pairings. I would consider this an "acquired taste" novel. May not be suitable for everyone.

Synopsis (courtesy of  Goodreads)

Marlais "Moss" Hayden is a young man struggling to survive after being sent away by his impoverished family. A want ad falls into his hands, advertising a position for "bed and breakfast". When he checks it out, Moss realizes the job represents providing sex and blood to bloodkin Vane Bloodmoor.

Vane offers him instead a position as a secretary and blood donor, and Moss is unable to refuse or the resist the bloodkin's allure. But as he struggles through unfamiliar emotions for Vane, a political plot threatens to destroy their unlikely love. Can Moss and Vane save their budding relationship?

My Review:

I knew as soon as I purchased this book from Silver Publishing what I was getting myself into. Luckily, I happen to enjoy reading books with M/M pairings, and as recently discovered, BDSM. If you are someone who enjoys these types of books, then you will devour this book. You will learn to love Vane and Moss, and become close to them. Your heart will break and yearn for these loveable men.

Perhaps it's Moss's innocence that drew me into the story, or the fact that he falls for a really hot, really powerful vampire lord. Or was it the fact that while Lord Bloodmoor tries desperately hard to stay away from Moss, he still felt the need to protect his mate?

All throughout this story, I cried, I laughed, and yes, at times I even got a little angry with the characters. The plot was smooth, and it wasn't all about the sex and blood which I liked. I didn't catch a single grammatical error either. Overall, it was a really well-written story.

Long story short, if you're looking for a great book with all of the above listed, this is the book for you! Five stars from Literary Lunes Publications!

Awesome Bloggers

I have come across some pretty amazing bloggers over the last year and a half. These bloggers that are listed below, all have something to do with the literary world. They either host blog tours, do book reviews, guest posts, etc. You should show these awesome people some love and visit their blogs.

If you have a literary blog, and would like to be posted on this list, please send an email to info@literarylunespublications.com

Misty Rayburn

http://www.the-top-shelf.com/

Erin Danzer

www.erindanzer.blogspot.com

DiAnne Ebejer

www.ebbiesplace.blogspot.com

Ali

www.myguiltyobsession.blogspot.com

MaryAnn

www.chapter-by-chapter.com

Danielle Smiley

www.knowntoread.blogspot.com

Richard Thomas

http://whatdoesnotkillme.com/

Vanessa Boekie

http://www.boekiesbookreviews.com/

Mickey Reed

www.imabookshark.com

Natasha

http://dreamlandteenfantasy.blogspot.com/

Cambria Hebert

www.cambriahebert.com

Connect With Us

For submission and other information about the magazine please visit:

www.literarylunes.com

For information on our blog and publisher, please visit Literary Lunes Publications

www.literarylunespublications.com

We're also on Google+

Add us as Literary Lunes AND Literary Lunes Magazine

And we have a Goodreads group!

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To promote with us, or to become an affiliate, please send an email to info@literarylunespublications.com

Have you downloaded previous issues of the magazine? Why not consider purchasing a colored paperback copy on Amazon and Createspace? All issues up till May/June are available in paperback, and the July/August and September/October issues will be available there soon!

The Staff

Beth Ann Masarik, is the founder and chief editor of Literary Lunes. She created this magazine, because people are always coming to her for literary advice, and she wanted to be there for all aspiring writers. She is the author of her debut novel, The World Among Us, a young adult, urban fantasy novel. Her book will be released on August 19, 2011. In addition to running Literary Lunes, Beth also runs her blogs, Writer's Advocate, and Hallowed Writers. For more information about Beth, you can visit her full website at www.bethannmasarik.com

Ashley Laura is dedicated to giving writers a voice outside of their work. For Literary Lunes, she assists with the accepting of article submissions and the formatting of the magazine. Outside of Literary Lunes, she is also the Municipal Liaison for Memphis National Novel Writing Month (NANOWRIMO). You can follow her on Tumblr at sparrowluvr2.tumblr.com

Cambria Hebert, is a new edition to our staff, and our current book reviewer. In addition, she is also a debut author who writes young adult fantasy novels. Her first novel, Masquerade, comes out on December 16, 2011. We are very excited to have her on board! You can follow her at www.cambriahebert.com

Erin Danzer writes regularly for Literary Lunes, and is an Indie author. Like Beth and Cambria, she also writes for young adults. Erin not only contributes her own short stories, but sometimes she even contributes articles on how to write literature as well. You can follow her at www.erindanzer.com

You can like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter (if the Twitter link doesn't work, follow us @literarylunes)

Affiliates

Literary Lunes would not be made possible without the extra support and efforts of the following people:

