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#  Writer's Muse Magazine – Summer 2013

Writer's Muse Group

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Writer's Muse Group

About Writer's Muse Group:

The Writer's Muse Page is a group started by Richard Cotton where writers can share with and support one another. Any writers are welcome to join this group. The Writer's Group Smashwords Account was set up by Sumiko Saulson for the group to create a place to publish the quarterly free periodicals by the members of the Facebook Group. There are over 500 writers on the Writer's Muse page. Individual writers whose work appears in the Writer's Muse Group publication retain all individual rights to their works and have agreed to allow Writer's Muse Magazine to publish their works at no charge.

Discover other issues of Writer's Muse Magazine at Smashwords.com:

Writer's Muse Group

<https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/writersmuse>

Cover and Layout: Sumiko Saulson

Editing and Proofreading: Sumiko Saulson

Founder of Writer's Muse Group: Richard Cotton

# Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

## Living a lie

By Carolyn Saulson

His hair was short cropped and brown, he managed to look like an upwardly mobile thirty to thirty five year old Anglo-Saxon protestant, but who was he really? Not who he was pretending to be. He had been in jail and he'd come from the wrong side of the tracks in a town in Northern California so small and of such ill repute that it seemed ridiculous to have a bad side of town.

What did she say?

Let's meet at which restaurant tonight?

Things are getting too serious.

"Oh well," he thought, "it's another Monday. I need to be at work on time."

So he uncurled his long, thin, pale body from around a pillow and sat up abruptly. He looked over at his old fashioned alarm clock, and noticed that it was about to go off, and sighed. Time to get into gear.

He went to his closet, and took out a very conservative gray three-piece suit, after which he selected an also conservative tie to match. After gathering his necessities for faking the image he was trying to perpetrate, he took a bath.

His eyesight was nearly perfect, but he preferred the way he looked in glasses, and he wore some sharp, expensive brand that he thought made him look more subtle or intelligent.

Lately, he'd been going by the name Randolph James, of course this wasn't his real name, but he made it work. Looking into the full-length mirror in his bedroom, he forced his body to stand erect, checked his stance, and prepared to be Mr. Randolph James one more time.

Why had he allowed himself to be seduced into this emotion that threatened to unravel his whole world? Love. If that's what one should call it.

Long ago, he had decided that love was a delusional state necessitated by the overwhelming reality that death was the only outcome to existence. The joke was death. No measures could be taken to prepare for it after all, who could predict the accident or murder, even. Too much randomity to process.

So in the back of everyone's mind, he imagined, was the fact that any moment on any day could be their last. How could a self aware being stay sane? He imagined this all encompassing simple solution to dark thoughts was distraction of love and romance to keep these thoughts at bay, and for continuing the human race through families and procreation.

As he daydreamed the improbable, he put in a little displace and effort and it all made sense, not a bad life, either, unless you had so badly run awry of morality and the law that your fantasy or distraction could never quite be realized. A pinprick to his euphoric bubble.

Oh God, his mind was slipping away again, toward her, even marriage. He knew better. What was wrong with him?

Maybe it was because he was almost thirty now. Yes, his age. His body was betraying him, making him give way and yearn for what was dangerous to even think.

"Well, how dangerous," he thought. "I'm not a felon, petty crimes, embarrassment, if I tell the truth. If I must, what is the worse I'd be facing? Rejection?"

Somehow he'd lost track of his beliefs and what was once a convenience had become intrinsic. What were two individuals coming together for fun and sex became a fusion of weakness and incompleteness, and some symbiotic wholeness.

Although false, thought it may be, his need and his hunger for this illusion completeness was getting out of control. He could no longer tell reality from illusion. How could he live without her?

He told himself that he was a survivor, and somehow he'd break it off. He'd make an excuse for a fight. She was getting too close. It was that. Or tell her everything.

Impossible! His whole life was a lie! It seemed every lie necessitated another, even more elaborate lie. So far, so good.

But once more, maybe?

No... not even he could manage it.

Or could he?

### About the Author

C arolyn Saulson is a published poet, and a founding member of the community media arts nonprofit organization Iconoclast Productions. She is a singer in the band Stagefright. You can find her band online here:

<http://www.reverbnation.com/stagefrightsf>

##  Summer of Love

By Jane Risdon

They swayed barefoot in time to the hypnotic music of Jefferson Airplane, multi-colored kaftans flapping in the breeze, their hands high above their heads, eyes closed; the air thick with the sweet fragrance of weed. All around couples lay on the grass embracing, smoking or just chilling in the hot summer sunshine. Babies slept and small children ran about, giggling, naked, just as drunk as everyone else on the joy of love and life.

The Love-In had been almost spontaneous, a version of Haight Ashbury under the huge shadows of Stonehenge, they'd come from everywhere; by transit vans covered in psychedelic art, by converted Bedford coaches, by motor-bikes with sidecars and on foot. Somehow the word had spread and hundreds of Flower People were now mingling with bewildered Druids all waiting for that moment tomorrow morning; the summer solstice.

Smiling girls, the waft of musk heavy upon them, moved amongst them, handing out flowers and beads, eyes glassy, skin tanned and glowing with youth. Bare-chested, long-haired, bronzed and beautiful twenty-something Greek Gods moved in and out of the gathering, girls watching their every move hungrily, hoping to catch their attention and perhaps share some 'Free Love,' later. The air was thick with expectation, excitement and love.

Several groups had arrived earlier, setting up their gear near the silent stones under the keen gaze of near-naked young girls, their interest having little to do with music they would hear later. The same girls had been busy writing their lip-sticked messages over the group vans, invitations and declarations of undying love. The hopefuls were eyed with disinterest by the musicians, spliffs hanging from their lips as they went about their tasks. All were ripe for the picking, it didn't matter which they ended up with; there were plenty to go round.

Scott McKenzie told them 'to be sure to wear flowers in their hair,' his vocals floating across the almost silent masses. Someone had managed to set up a PA earlier and a Phillips Record Player strained against the drone of a passing airplane, high above in the clear blue sky, sunshine bouncing off its wings. San Francisco was in their thoughts, their hearts, and the words of the John Phillips song was their anthem, soon voices lifted and joined in with the chorus. Couples embraced, their bodies molding into one as they swayed gently.

Later, when the groups had finished playing night came, camp fires were lighted and a hush blanketed the faithful and the Hippies, anticipation filled the chilled air. Some slept but most sat chatting quietly, waiting. Soon it would be time.

They rose as one, Druids and Hippies as the sun rose and consumed the spaces with its light. Druids performed their rituals, watched in respectful silence until it was over. A huge roar rose. Dancing, singing, laughter was everywhere. The 'Summer of Love,' began again, music filled the fragrant air once more; all was peace and love.

### About the Author

Jane Risdon began writing after a lifetime in the International Music Industry managing recording artists, record producers and songwriters from all over the world. During her music career she garnered a wealth of material for her stories. She writes crime and mysteries and has three novels on the go at the moment.

Her blog is at:

<http://wp.me/2dg55>

Her author page can be found on Facebook at:

<http://www.facebook.com/JaneRisdon2>

##  The Purest Thought

By Sumiko Saulson

The purest thought I had

Was a little hamster

Running in a wheel

In my head

It was raw-footed

Tumbling

Soften my words

In a haze of rat mazes

My life so sweet

The pitter patter

Of Rodent Feet

My heart... my heart

Stop. Start..

If you love me

Let it show

I'd let you out of a plastic tube

That a scientist trapped you in

If you were a rat

And I was a rat...

I'd still be a fat.

### About the Author

S umiko Saulson is the author of three sci-fi/horror novels, "Solitude," "Warmth", and "The Moon Cried Blood, and short story anthology "Things That Go Bump in My Head." She is a native Californian, and has spent most of her adult life in the Bay Area. Her blog is at:

<http://sumikosaulson.com/>

## Random Moments from Random Lives

By Brian Von R

### First...

>>> It was a big, old house. Big heavy, solid doors. Old wooden floors that creaked, some muffled by thick ancient rugs, woven by hands long dead. Big multi-paned windows, unsealed, so the wind whistled through them. Thick, heavy curtains that blocked out the sun and kept the secrets well hidden. So many secrets. Handed down & acted out, one generation to the next. Too many secrets for that house to hold.

That big, old house. Built of handmade bricks, by hands that had no choice, for a family with money as ancient as their pedigree. So finely & exquisitely bred, their basic humanity left their blood long, long ago. That big, old house encased their secrets. Terrible secrets. Pain rained down upon the creaking floors, echoing off damask covered walls as red as blood.

The family, all of them moonlight pale & languid, wearing expensive but outmoded clothes that seemed to rustle like paper when they moved, draped themselves upon the well-used and yet still dusty furniture, as if their bones held no stiffness, with eyes like glass, shiny & solid with no moisture, and milky-green like the tarnished silver in their dining room.

### Second...

>>> "Well, Sir, I don't know what you want me to say. I will tell ya this, though -- I think it's a real shame that the first time we meet, it's over the coffin of your son. I know you had your reasons, but I can't begin to imagine what they were...cuz there ain't...weren't... nothin' on this earth that woulda kept me away.

I just feel sorry for ya. Y'see, your son was a good man, finest man I ever met...strong, brave, had the biggest heart of anyone I've ever known. He was always bringin' strays home, cuz it broke his heart that no one loved 'em. People too. I can't tell ya how many dinners I've had with total strangers, just because your son found a place in his heart for someone he thought no-one loved. 'Bout drove me crazy, but y'know, I wouldn't have had it any other way.

He was smart & funny, a little on the silly side, but he sure could make ya laugh if he set his mind to it. And I don't know what you thought of him, but he sure as hell thought a lot of you. Admired you more than I can say...don't know why though, since it hurt him just as much, you ignorin' him and all.

And I'll tell ya somethin' else, he was my best friend. What we had, most folks never find. I ain't never loved nobody else in my whole life, and it was the same for him. I don't if that makes us...well... what you called him, that one time, but it don't really matter. ...Not now anyway. Yessir, I feel real sorry for you. You missed out on knowin' someone mighty....mighty special.

And you know what? One phone call from you, just to say hi, woulda put him over the moon with joy. It never came, though, did it? But I know he kept hopin' it would. Ever' day he hoped. An' I'll tell you one more thing, somethin' I'm sure you don't wanna know... I was his first... & he was mine. We never had no need for anyone else. ....Can you say the same? Your son loved you, Sir. ...Loved you more than he loved me, even. In different ways, a course, but even so....Yessir, I feel mighty sorry for you. You missed out, and now he's gone. At least I got the memories of our life together, you ain't got nothin' but your bitterness & hate to keep you company from here on out. I sure hope it was worth it.

....Now, if you'll excuse me, I gotta go bury the man I love."

### Third

>>> "It can't be," he thought out loud. "It just can't be."

But it was. And he wanted to die.

Oh, he wasn't suicidal...not particularly so, anyway. It was just, at that moment; he really wanted to...well...just cease to exist. No fuss, no muss, no drama, just oblivion. But, naturally, fate or destiny or whatever had other ideas.

So, okay, he wasn't going to be dying anytime soon. In lieu of that, what he wanted to be doing was looking for an exit. But he found himself rooted to the space of floor his feet seemed extremely attracted to & his eyes simply wouldn't move. His peripheral vision had, apparently, abandoned him too...and he was almost sure he'd stopped breathing. "Well, that might help with the dying, at least," he thought.

With his eyes fixed on one thing & his body being uncooperative, he figured maybe he'd just pretend to be a statue and blend-in with the rest of the bric-a-brac. But that wasn't in the cards either.

He saw the noise before he actually heard it. Sort of like what would happen if reality & existence were a reflection on the surface of pond & something (a small something) was dropped into it. The rippling effect seemed very slow to reach him, but when it did, it brought the sound with it.

Big & loud & angry.

He wondered if it was possible for sound alone to uproot something as impossibly unmovable as he'd been feeling only moments before.

The impact & the pain told him otherwise. It was like an atom bomb had been detonated within the confines of his chest cavity.

Only....

Nothing blew out. Not out his front, anyway. He wasn't so sure about his back.

"Oh hell... I guess I got my wish," he mused as the floor came up to meet him.

### About the Author

B rian Von R wonders, sometimes, if we could somehow step back, and see our lives as a tapestry, what would it look like? an intricate weave, the skill of each as individual as a fingerprint

\-- a web of threads; created with fibers astonishingly strong and achingly fragile; a palette of colors from dazzling & vivid to subtle & muted?

.....what would our life look like if seen as a single image?

## Gary and Gloria

By Sue Van

Standing out on his front lawn, Gary was thinking back to the day he met his Gloria. Their story had begun just two years ago. He'd been working at an overnight store and she'd come in to buy a soda. She'd told him she was preparing to go to her midnight shift at the factory and wanted a drink to go with her sandwich. He'd watched her as she walked to the back of the store, opened the refrigerated case and took out a cola. On her way to the front of the store she'd stopped in the candy aisle and picked up a peanut butter cup. In that moment, he'd known they had some things in common.

As she reached the counter, she smiled up at him, said, "Hi," and set her things down on the counter.

As he rang them up he said to her, "On your way to work?"

"Yes," she said. "I work at the factory on midnights. Guess we are both night owls."

"It would appear that way, wouldn't it?" he said.

"My name is Gloria. May I ask what yours is?"

"Sure," he said, "name's Gary."

"Hi Gary, it's nice to meet you. I hope to see you again soon." Watching her walk out the door, Gary thought, what a beautiful woman she was. She had the deepest blue eyes he had ever seen in a woman. He hoped she would be back again soon.

Every night for the next week, Gloria came into the store. Each night she showed up earlier than the night before. That Friday she asked Gary if he would like to get together for breakfast after work in the morning. That's how their relationship got started.

For the next year, Gloria and Gary were inseparable. Both were ecstatically happy and life was good. Gloria and Gary had met at a restaurant on the first anniversary of their meeting. Gary had decided that he could not live without Gloria. He planned to ask her to marry him that night and had even gone out and bought her a diamond ring. He felt sure that she would say yes.

They sat at the table, drinking champagne and eating their dinner, unable to take their eyes off of each other. When the dinner was finished, they decided to head down to the beach and walk along the shoreline. Hand in hand they strolled down the beach, stopping occasionally to kiss. As they approached a pier, Gary decided that now would be the time to ask Gloria to marry him.

Stepping up onto the pier, Gary got down on bended knee and said, "Gloria, we have seen many ups and downs this past year. Been through good and bad and still managed to survive. You are my one and only....I love you....will you marry me?"

With tears in her eyes Gloria said, "I love you also Gary...Yes, I will marry you."

Standing up, Gary pulled the ring from his pocket and slid it onto her finger. Then, wrapping his arms around her waist, he kissed her deeply and passionately. When he pulled back from her, he saw the tears streaming down her face and wiped them away with his fingers.

Gloria smiled up at him and said, "I'm sorry for the tears but you have just made me the happiest woman in the world."

Coming back to the present, Gary looked up at the night sky and said, "I am so blessed to have Gloria in my life that I just want to thank you Lord and my guardian angel for bringing this incredible woman into my life. Tomorrow she will become my wife and I promise to honor and cherish her for the rest of my life."

### About the Author

Sue Van is a published author whose stories have been included in the "Lost to the Night" anthology under the name Susan VanNort. You can follow her blog here:

<http://suev57.blogspot.com/>

## Trouble in the Ranks

By Richard Cotton

Jane sat next to the hot rock looking at the coded symbols that she would have read in the past with ease but since losing her fairy wings in the battle between them and the dwarf's. She had made her way here in the hope f retaining some of the magic long enough to regain the advantage but now resting here with the magic broad sword that was meat to save the fairy world she wondered if that wizard had been on her side or with the dwarf's.

The land below was fall of dead bodies from the battles to get here dwarfs and fairies. How she had become human Jane didn't know as one minute she was flying over the battle wand in hand the next she was climbing the high rock to read the magic words that no longer made sense to her. There were no other humans around but there was a gold dragon flapping its large wings just to hover out of range of the battle field. Jane wondered who had won as looking down there no one had won both had suffered large casualties.

Jane looked out the stuff her human form had on and it left little to the imagination. Why there was a dragon was the next thing that entered her head. Neither side had used them that day, but in the past one or the other had but mainly to transport their armies quicker to the field. Jane stood up unused to the legs she stumbled slightly and rested her hand on the warm rock. Images filled her mind like dreams but with more meaning yet she couldn't figure out what they meant to her. Jane turned to see that the dragon had flown to the rocks edge just lower than her on its back there was a saddle. Jane wondered who had ridden the dragon here but with no one else around she took the saddle herself. The dragons flapped its wings blowing dust over the bodies below.

Jane wondered if this dragon was going to take her to that wizard who had promised lots and not delivered. Roger the great would pay for his mistake when she got her hands on him. This Jane thought must be the human thought not hers as fairies never held bad thoughts like that, and the battle was something controlled by a higher form that knew how to control both sides. Jane would have to find this person and find out why the battle was started and to what ends it served. The golden dragon flew gently over the blood stained fields towards the large blue waters to the east. It would be good to get away from the stanch of battle. The dragon wasn't heading for the land where Roger lived so she would have to return there to sort him out when she found out where she was going. The breeze blew her long red hair back over her shoulders making her feel fresh and awake. High in the sky she could see the tooth fairies castle smoke rising from the smoldering ruins so even the tooth fairy was gone. How did someone get up there to attack was any ones idea. But it must have had something to do with a flying creature.

Most likely the harpies Griffin's wouldn't nor would dragon's but the harpies did have a small grudge against fairies since they were beautiful where as the harpies were ugly. But that wouldn't bring them to kill the tooth fairy everyone knew she had the hardest job as she was there for all magical beast and non-magical alike. Jane made one mistake of looking back as it wasn't a pretty sight back there with the high orange flames lapping at the trees sending the land beast running for safe land there was even a unicorn or too down there they had lost some of their forest and would have to find some new place. Jane hoped they would do it quick. The daylight was going and soon it would be dark. Jane wondered if the dragon would land so she could sleep and get her fall strength back. The dragon on the other hand looked like he could fly for days without rest.

Jane found herself dropping off when the dragon landed on a green hill side somewhere in the west lands. It was human lands with the chance of trolls and ogre's by the look of the land. Jane hoped that they would be asleep and no trouble since she had been fighting most of the day. It was a cold night with rain showers running along the high ridges. It was a good thing the rock over hung where the dragon had put her down. He had lit a fire for her before disappearing out into the rain. Jane hopped he would be back soon it felt lonely with anyone around. She could hear the sounds of night animals haunting out in the lands and hoped she wouldn't end up as food for the wild wolves or bears.

Jane slept lightly waking up to stoke the fire every now and then. When the sun started to creep up Jane felt grateful for the fire and the light now that was growing. Her bones felt stiff but with the sun light these would warm up. Jane stood and did a few loosing exercises to get herself ready for what may come. Scoring the skies she couldn't see the gold dragon anywhere. So this meant she was on foot for now. Glancing around she saw there was a small track off the ledge she had slept on. Once off she would be in open grass lands with high trees and gray rock around. Jane looked to see if there was anything she could take with her but there was nothing.

She trudging away she set of for the world to see what it had to offer. The grass lands had a few sheep and cows grazing in them on the harsh thick fronds of ferns and the lush sprigs of grass. The milk would be creamy from the cows Jane knew but she had no way of keeping it or even making sure she had some. Then she saw a lone crofter's house. Its gray stone wall's low to the ground and thatched roof to take the rain away from the owner. Jane wondered if anyone was in the house. There were cattle and sheep but that didn't mean there was a person living there at this time. She headed for it. The rain was still dripping from the roof's edge as she neared. There was the smell of a broth cooking wafting from inside so Jane thought at least he wife might be inside. Jane knocked on the door jamb.

"Hello is there anyone there?"

"What do you want miss," Came a surly answer from an old lady within.

"Could you please let me have some of your broth in exchange for some sort of task I could do,"

She heard the shuffle of feet. Who ever lived here had some sort of problem. Then she saw her. The lady was old and gray haired. Maybe she had lived past her years that were given to her. The wrinkles creased her face as she squinted in the sun.

"Ah you have arrived then,"

"You were expecting me?"

"The tea leaves never lie,"

"You're a shaman?"

"I do readings and foretelling young one,"

"So can I have some broth?"

"You will tend the sheep whilst I make ready a place for you,"

"Where's your husband?"

"Out finding a lost lamb and will probably be back tomorrow if he is lucky,"

Jane turned to go back towards the sheep.

"You can remove the sword for now you'll not come to any harm,"

Jane reached to the straps and took the scabbard off her back the sword still inside. She propped it up against the house.

"You were a fairy till now I can see the faint outline of wings,"

"Yes. Then the battle of Kone gap happened. I woke a human after the battle somehow,"

"You have been a human too but only now has it returned,"

"How can I have been a human?"

"You'll find out now the sheep won't tend those selves and the broth might spoil,"

"I'm on my way,"

Jane went to where the sheep where grazing. She wondered what she was meant to do as they were breed for. Their wool was slightly matted and looked a dull gray, but they had no sign of ticks or fleas so they where well kept. She went and felt one its rough wool felt sticky slightly from the wet rain. Then she saw one sheep that was stuck in a small rabbit hole. Jane went over to the sheep and calmed it down whilst digging out its right leg. It baaed all the time she was digging. Soon it was free. Jane filled the hole in as the sheep bounced off to eat some nettles. Jane moved around the field. The other sheep looked good. Then out of the corner of her eye she saw the old lady waving to her. So she went back to the house.

"You did well there young one,"

"You set that up?"

"No it happened; don't forget to bring your sword inside with you,"

Jane picked the sword up and ducked into the house. Inside it wasn't as dark as she expected it to be what with the windows and fire in the middle. One end of the house there were some lambs lying down on some hay nibbling at the dried ends.

"Forgive me for the mess but these little ones were only born last night and all lost their mums,"

"No problem miss as this is the first time I have been in a human house,"

"What was your fairy job then?"

"I hadn't been given a set job yet as I was new to the job,"

"Yes as you were human only the day before,"

"I don't remember that,"

"No you wouldn't it happens in a flash when you step in the fairy ring,"

"I didn't see no ring,"

"No you were on the verge of been hurt by that spell from the traitor in the ranks,"

"A traitor I didn't know there was one,"

"You would have found out if they hadn't brought about the fairy and dwarf wars,"

"You mean it was all set up?"

"Yes it was young one. Now sit here's a bowl I'll fill it with broth,"

Jane sat on the dry patch of ground not far from the warm fire. It felt nice to be under a roof for now. The old lady brought a spoon full of the thick white broth to the bowl she held. The scent from it was like that of sweet chicken. She was handed a metal spoon once the broth was in the bowl then a sizeable chunk of hard bread. Jane sipped the warm chicken flavor it made her feel happy in side. It felt like it was lifting her spirit to new places. The bowl seemed to refill itself no matter how much Jane ate. Soon Jane felt full and had to put the bowl down then her eyes started to feel heavy and she knew that she was feeling sleepy. Jane tried to stay awake but it wasn't to be.

Jane woke to the sound of the old lady trying to raise her.

"Quick young one I have to cast a spell on you,"

"What's happening?"

"You have to go now they are coming for you,"

"Who are?"

"The wood elves they found out there were too few bodies in the battle field. They used a spell and saw you're after image and where it went,"

"But casting a spell might be the end of you?"

"It's a risk to get you out of the dungeons of the wood elves,"

"Why am I so important?"

"This will come clear to you soon young one,"

"Is there anything I need to know?"

"Just close your eyes and then wait,"

Jane felt a tingle in her body as though she was been pricked by the little thunder strips the fairy of weather used to cause lightening. It lasted a few seconds then when it had gone she opened her eyes. She found herself in among some lavender deep in a wooded forest. The glad spread far to the hills in the distance Jane stood up and saw that it wasn't for from a babbling brook that wound its way towards the east. To her west there were the dark trees which maybe had bears and wolves in.

Jane didn't want to head in there. So that left her the choice of following the brook which had a small track along its banks, or the North where the high hills and snow stood as a barrier to her progress that way It would take a dragon to fly over them quickly, but maybe the gold dragon would return for her, but till that point she would walk. So she chose the easier of the routes following the brook which would mean she would have something to drink if she felt dry. The only thing she would need food as well. But that would come she knew. The lavender grew to the left of the brook for some distance and in the brakes Jane could see some rabbits playing joyfully.

The crows darted in now and then pulling worms from the ground. Magpies fetch twig lets up for nesting. It was almost unreal. This made Jane feel on edge and every bone felt ready for battle. But there was nothing around as far as the eye could see. She watched the odd bee fly past her heading for the lavenders to get honey for their young ones. Then she saw the tell-tale sign of a mushroom ring. This was a fairy porthole to their home lands. Jane saw a glint of white on one of the mushrooms. Bending down to get closer she saw it was a lone fairy tears in her bright blue eyes. Her white wings were tattered so she couldn't fly. Her top was ripped exposing her chest slightly.

"What's wrong fairy?"

The fairy looked up in shock she tried to fly but the wings where useless.

"Go away human," She spoke in a little voice that was barely heard apart from Jane.

"I'm not going to hurt you all I want to know is why are you crying?"

"Can't you see? Are you that blind?"

"I see that your wings are no good to you,"

"Yes I had to get here by bee power and what good did it do me,"

"You got here to this ring?"

"Yes but its broken I have tried to use my magic dust but to no use,"

The fairy began to weep again. Silver tears ran down her bright face. Jane didn't know what to do to help so she handed the fairy a small leaf.

"Come on blow your nose and wipe your eyes,"

The fairy took the leaf then looked around quickly.

"You have to move now you are in danger all the time you are with me,"

Jane stood and looked around yet couldn't see anything. There was a thin whistling noise though. She looked down to see a small silver arrow pierce that chest of the fairy she had just been talking to. The fairy fell to the ground blood running along the floor.

Jane ducked down and ran away from the ring keeping the water to her left and the high reeds to her right. She heard more whistles but each one seemed to be missing her and lower in noise so she thought she was getting away from who was firing. She didn't slow till she felt the sun was going down. By this time she was some distance downstream. Here she saw a fording to the other side. This meant human traffic came this way at some point in the day, but not now that it was getting dark.

She decided to follow the human track to see if it led to a hamlet. It was quiet on the track and Jane didn't see another travelers around or farmers. Then she saw some crows flying around squawking at something on the side of the track. From where she stood it looked like that of a body. When she got closer she found out that she was right but didn't like that fact. It was a young human of around eight to ten. It could have been boy or girl but it was too far gone to tell fully. She gave it a wide berth scaring the crows for a short while. Big fat flies buzzed around the bloated body.

Jane saw the dark stain of dried blood under the body where the stabbing must have been up in the chest area. Jane turned and went on she had seen enough. She began to wander why no one had come to find this poor little one. Humans are funny at times she decided, then remembered she was one now and had been before so the shaman had said. But Jane remembered the wings of her fairy life helping the rainbow fairy set up for the day's rain ahead. Moving the snow into clouds with the winter fairy but now after the battle they seemed like dreams on the wind. Jane saw the track turned to the west for a short while ahead due to a church that had been built to the right of the track. It lay in ruins now and hadn't seen anyone through its doors for some years.

Jane wondered why it had been abandoned. But by looking at it there must have been a battle here due to the scorching on the stones. Jane walked past knowing that she would soon find the hamlet attached to this church. The track split into three ways slightly ahead. One track would lead her roughly back the way she had come. One towards the north-east and one to the south west Jane wanted to go north so she chose the north-east one. The thin trees hid little and she could see the wild life scatter when she walked along the track. Soon ahead she saw some huts. They were clustered loosely together in a round hill area behind a large mound. Jane saw to large built men wearing bear skin cloaks to keep warm. They stopped talk and turned to look at her both lifted their spears ready to throw if she did anything that would mean a fight.

"Stay your weapons good fellows I mean you no harm,"

"You have that broad sword across you're back,"

"Yes but I'm not going to use it look my hands are in front of me,"

"Come nearer with your hands where they are,"

The tall man spoke gruffly like he had a grater in his throat. The second one spoke normally but in low tones.

"Thomas you sure this is right," The soft spoken man asked the gruff one.

"Andrew we have to see what this young lady wants,"

"But she might kill us,"

"Tell you what you stay back and if she tries anything you can kill her,"

"Fine we try it that way,"

Jane let the tall man approach her. He kept the spear in one hand ready for anything.

"State your name and what your need of this hamlet is?"

"I'm Jane Friday. I came here to talk with your leader about two things,"

"You have weapons that need to be handed to me,"

"I'll give you them when you put your spear on the ground,"

Thomas stood there with a look on his face that meant he was thinking what to do next.

"We can stand here like this all day, or we do what each of us wants,"

She hoped this would help. Thomas laid his spear on the ground slowly keeping his dark brown eyes on her at all times. Andrew leveled his spear he looked like he was trying to hide the fact that he was shaking. Jane made sure she undid the buckle to her scabbard slowly then dropped it to the floor. Then she backed off to show that she meant what she had done. Thomas picked the sword up and his spear.

"Follow me and I'll take you to our head towns' man,"

Jane followed Thomas in through the ramparts into the hamlet. On the other side there was about nine round wooden huts and one large round hut with a thatched roof. The ladies stopped working on grinding the corn to watch Jane pass them. Their babies lay close at hand sucking on whatever was to hand some even had a knuckle bone from cattle. The older children stopped working on their jobs also to watch. Jane knew that most of the men would be out hunting or tending to the livestock or even gathering wheat and food for them to eat. Thomas led her towards the large hut. Jane saw that there were two more guards stood just outside of this.

"James. Take this young lady to see Chief John. Here is her weapon,"

James took the scabbard and sword looking surprised at what he was been offered.

"Is she safe?"

"Well she hasn't killed me yet,"

"Right follow me,"

Jane watched as James ducked into the large hut. Following she saw the large fire with two caldrons with broth gently bubbling away in. a spit with a side of pig on which was been turned by a surly teenage boy. He didn't stop turning even when he was looking at her. That might have been down to the large well built old lady standing next to him with a strip of wood in hand. Jane looked to the other end where there was a large table with a big chair in the centre and three smaller ones either side of it. There was an old man sat in the large ornate chair. A brass crown sat on his head. Jane took this to be the head town's man. Chief John.

"Who is this you bring before me?"

"It's a young lady,"

"What is your name miss," Chief John had a strong commanding voice. Sat next to him on his right side was a gray hunting dog whose ears had pricked up. The dog didn't know which to do growl or wag his tail.

"I'm Jane Friday I was a fairy till today now I'm a human,"

"It looks like you've been a human before though,"

"So I have been told,"

"What do you need here?"

"I come here to report a dead child a half days trek back and to find out where I can find the wizards hall,"

"The child will have been a run away from the hamlet south east of us. They had said they were looking for one, but gave up when no one could find them," John paused. "As for the wizards hall you need to speak to our shaman,"

"This fairy lady need not look far there will be a wizard arriving soon,"

"How's that Marlin,"

"Well there is one winging his way here on the back of a griffin,"

"Why?"

"They heard tells of the battle between Fairy and Dwarf and need to ask our lady friend if she know why,"

"I have no better idea than they do as I was a fairy till after the battle,"

"They say that this wizard can see into your soul and know from there,"

"I was told I was human before was a fairy so that might be difficult,"

"I know one thing Jane that there was one who let all the fairies down and that one will pay for that,"

"Are you saying it was me?"

"No but you might have to go out looking for the one,"

Jane wondered what this shaman was talking about.

"You might have to put your life on the line to decide which you want more the traitor or your life,"

Jane didn't feel happy about that idea but would do what it would take to find the person that brought about the deaths of so many. Not only fairies but dwarfs too

"You can find some of them still in the mines and the north lands. There are gnomes to but they are almost slaves of the dwarfs,"

"What of the wood elves?"

"They have gone to ground not been seen for ten years now,"

"Who would be able to shot a silver arrow the size of a fairy?"

Marlin looked at her his gray eyes filled with fear.

"I am leaving John the wizard can have it from here on in,"

"Is there a problem with my question?"

"Yes there is, miss. And I can't answer it for fear of my life ending here and now,"

He turned saying no more and left the large hall. The chief looked as he left.

"I have never seen him like that before,"

Jane also wondered what had spooked the shaman they were so good at what they did nothing scared them. This was the first time she had seen one turn pale.

"Sit drink and eat young one. James. Give our guest her weapon back,"

"You sure sire?"

"I think I would be dead if our guest had wanted me to be so,"

Jane sat in the end chair as the guard brought her a bowl of broth and plate of roast pig. There were some potatoes' and carrots too. She was handed a wooden spoon and knife to eat the main plate with. Jane wondered where her journey was taking her and why the wizards would need her when one of their own helped bring about this war. There was a mug of mead to go with the food which made her feel better about this food.

"You can sleep here if need be, but I think the wizard will want you to go with him"

"I'll hope that I could stay here so that I could set off for my own place,"

"You might not have a choice,"

Jane looked around the great hut. It wasn't bad and at least she was guarded here. It would have to do till the wizard reached them. She felt tired after the meal and drink.

"There's a bed in the chamber to the left of the hut,"

Jane left the table bowing as she did so and made her way to the side chamber hoping that the next day would bring her some good news. This new life was getting strange to her and Jane so wanted to be a fairy again but it looked like this was a dream with in a dream as she was human to start with. It was all too much for her. Lying down on the hay with two cows close by, she drifted into a light sleep.

### About the Author

Richard Cotton is the founder of Writer's Muse Group, a Facebook group with more than 500 writers that supports budding authors and poets in the writing and process by providing a mutually supportive environment. You can find the Writer's Muse Page at:

<https://www.facebook.com/groups/writersmusepage/>

## Dreams

By Haven Malone

Jerrick Craskant was a writer of fantasy tales. His works included stories about fairies, demons, dragons and even Irish leprechauns. Every night, while he slept, his imagination awoke and gave him the stories he wrote about. On this night however, he dreamt of an ethereal woman who floated throughout his dream. She had hair as golden as the sun that fell in soft curls to her waist. She had the face of an angel and a glow about her that outshone the brightest stars at night. She was wearing a long white robe that hung loosely around her body. He did not know who she was but he felt certain that they were meant to be together.

Reaching out to her, Jerrick tried to touch her hand. When she backed away from him, he decided that touching her was something she did not want. She lifted her hand and signaled for him to follow her. She lead him through what he thought was a veil of sorts. Not the material type but rather an invisible shield that took him to a magical place.

All the trees and grass sparkled as if they had been covered in glitter. Wildlife abounded everywhere. In awe of this new dream world, Jerrick saw deer running together, unicorns lazing in the sunlight, and even watched as a family of frogs jumped from one lily pad to another in the middle of a lake.

Jerrick watched the angel, (as he had begun to think of her), as she approached the water's edge. She stood there beckoning to him with her hand. He walked over and stood next to her. This time she took his hand and they were both lifted up in the air and flying over the water. Somehow she knew that Jerrick was afraid of the water. Landing on the other side, his angel let go of his hand and indicated for him to follow again. He wondered briefly why she had not spoken to him yet but quickly lost the thought as he followed her into a cave.

Once in the cave, she led him further inside where they came to an open area. The cave was lined with what appeared to be limestone walls and ceiling. The floor was made of loosely packed dirt and grass. His feet sunk into it as though it was a carpet. He wondered how the grass could be so green inside this cave as there did not appear to be any sunlight or water source.

His angel indicated that he should sit down in the middle of the grass. He could see that there was a blanket and a picnic basket waiting there. Walking over, he thought she might join him in the repast but she did not. Instead, as he sat eating the food from the picnic basket, she walked over to the far wall and began using her fingers to draw in the air. As he watched, she began what appeared to be a dance. Her hands were elevated and making circles and other shapes as well as her feet moving in a circle around the grassy area where he sat. As she moved her arms up and down, a path of glittering lines were left on the walls of the cave. They did not seem to have any pattern, just glittering color all over the walls. When she finished she came over and once again indicated the he should follow her.

Rising to his feet, he followed her out of the cave.

Traveling back the way they came, he knew she was taking him back home. Strolling past all the wildlife once again, he hated to leave this dream behind. This lovely lady was enchanting and he wanted to spend more time with her. It was not meant to be though.

As he awoke from the most beautiful dream he had ever had, he wondered what the dream really meant. He had never had a dream that involved a woman before, and this one was going to stay with him for a very long time.

Sitting down at his computer he wanted to write about the dream but just could not seem to find the right words, so he decided that he would not write about this particular dream because he felt that it was something he needed to keep in his private life.

A few days later, as he walked around town, he decided to stop in at a coffee shop for a snack. After ordering and paying for his items, he sat down in a leather chair with a table in front. While sitting there, the angel from his dream sat down next to him. Looking over at her, Jerrick realized for the very first time that his dream had been somewhat of a premonition.

Smiling when she looked his way, he introduced himself and said, "I had a dream about you." Smiling back at him, she said, "Hi, I am Angelica and I had a dream about you also." Looking into each other's eyes, they both realized that they had found their mates.

### About the Author

 Haven Malone is a new author. She is retired, and enjoys spending time with her family. She loves to create fictional stories and her favorite would be love stories, although she is also partial to fantasy. Her story "Dreams" publication is a mix of fantasy and reality. Her author page can be found on Facebook at:

https://www.facebook.com/HavenMaloneAuthor.

## More Random Moments from Random Lives

By Brian Von R

### Fourth

>>> "So that's him," she thought, as they regarded each other, each receiving the confirmation of whom they had been wondering about for so long. He seemed nice, polite...pretty as hell, in a scruffy sorta way; her ex had never told her -- not in so many words -- that this...that HE was the one, but somehow she felt that he must be. She'd noticed that her ex had a certain peacefulness & contentment about him now, no longer the restless man she once knew. She should be happy for them... and she was, in that tinged-with-sadness way one is, when someone else's happiness makes you more keenly aware of your own emptiness -- that uniquely emotional feeling of being on the outside looking in -- and she felt the pain of seeing them together and happy. Her ex was goin' on with his own life without her... and there was nothing to be done about it.... that was that.

For his part, he saw a pretty woman... pretty in an elegant, understated way. She large luminescent eyes. He had the impression she was intelligent, but not smart...or was it the other way around? But right now, she was someone who had a vague air of being sort of lost and confused. Understandable, considering the course of her life had taken an abrupt & uncharted turn....casting her adrift. He was suddenly -- & uncomfortably \-- reminded of the reality of their mutual situation. They had both been blind-sided... he, by love & lust from a completely unexpected source; and she, by the unexpected loss of that same love, to an equally (if not more so) unexpected source...."Me," he thought. And for the very first time, he began to feel guilty. A sincere, yet selfish sort of guilty....because now that he'd met her, she was no longer an abstract concept -- i.e.: The Girlfriend. She was real... & she had feelings. And through no fault of her own, she was an innocent bystander caught up in something that she didn't fully understand. Hell, he didn't fully understand it himself. But he DID feel guilty though. AND, quite honestly, he felt bad for her -- in a commiserating sorta way -- because the one thing he DID know, and he knew it FOR SURE, was the fact that he had -- through no fault of his own -- fallen in love with, & promptly stolen, the man SHE had expected to spend the rest of her life with... and there was nothing to be done about it.... that was that.

### Fifth

>>> She took another sip of her tea, her small hand grasping the handle just a little too tightly, unconsciously wrapping the other around porcelain. Her increasingly white knuckles stood out in stark contrast with the cobalt blue surface of the cup. "Feeling alright?" inquired her companion. While suppressing a chuckle, he went on, "I only ask cuz...well...you look like shit."

Her cup stopped half-way between the saucer & her mouth...which was open. So she put it to use, "My, what a...colorful...phrase. Maybe I DO feel I little under-the-weather, now that you mention it. ...Wonder why that is?" He started to comment, stopped, and simply gave her his most irritatingly pleasant smile. Besides, she really wasn't inviting a response to her question.

Ignoring him completely by speaking about him to no-one in particular, she remarked, "Must be feelin' the weather." He just kept smiling. ...AT her. Quietly. Bristling at his behavior, she'd had just about enough. "Just what ARE you grinnin' at?!" she demanded in a voice an octave higher than normal, her agitation obviously in conflict with the icy refinement of her demeanor. "Pardon?"

With an obvious lack of sincerity, she continued, "Well now, this sure was...fun. We just HAVE to do it again. Y'know, people out here just don't do any visitin', do they?" Excruciatingly well bred, she wore polite gentility like armor... although, at present, a distinct, but measured, hostility seemed to be dripping off her like treacle. "More tea?"

She found herself momentarily nonplussed by the odd (and thoroughly irritating) grin still being aimed at her. Absently licking her lower lip, she attempted to forcibly pull more words from her mouth with the slow, steady movement of her tongue. The ones she found were not the ones she'd been looking for. "Lordy, just look at the time, I best be leavin'. Oh...one more thing..."

She paused, "Oh...one more thing..." He downed the last of his tea before answering, "What?" Glancing around for an anchor, she settled on the tree right outside the window & said, "I say this SINCERELY, & with ALL the Love in my Heart...I hope you choke to death, slowly & painfully, on the very next cock that has the misfortune to find its way into your mouth." Oddly enough, you could hear a pin drop.

Okay, his (intentionally) annoying grin did, momentarily, slip, but he recovered it quickly & closed the distance between them even faster. She could feel his breath on her face. She was caught in the crosshairs his eyes had trained on her. She feigned apathy. She failed. She had nowhere else to look. He leveled his gaze at her and, still smiling, he took aim..."Well, it's funny you should say that..." He paused for dramatic effect...

"Cuz your brother's dick DOES tend to cut off my air. But only while I got him, y'know... down to the root." The chuckle that escaped from him along w/ that last bit about her brother's "root", though unintentional, was nevertheless, surprisingly satisfying. He was, well, rather disappointed by the distinct lack of response. He'd lobbed a doozy @ her for chrissakes!

It took a second (or two...or thirty) for his meaning sink in. But then, it did have a helluvalotta hairspray penetrate, after all. He'd actually wondered, for a second (or two) if he'd inadvertently killed her. Coulda gave her an aneurism or somethin'....maybe? He suddenly had the urge to poke her w/ a stick, or a fork...or maybe just clobber her w/ that big ol' purse a hers.

It took a second (or thirty) for his meaning sink in, cuz up to now, she'd never known anything for certain, but she'd always known just enough to unsettle her. The rest of her hardened speculations remained locked some place, deep inside her that conceit -- & denial -- refused to acknowledge. She finally emerged from her....moment....wondering if, maybe, she'd had an aneurism.....or something.

She figured an aneurism couldn't be any worse. Besides, she was fluent in "If I Ignore It, It Doesn't Exist". Screw that "internal dialogue" crap. Hers is strictly a One-Woman Show. ...And it's a monologue. ....But, dammit ALL ta FREAKIN' HELL, Blood IS Blood...& well, God help her, she still loved the stupid little fu..fffella.

### About the Author

B rian Von R wonders, sometimes, if we could somehow step back, and see our lives as a tapestry, what would it look like? an intricate weave, the skill of each as individual as a fingerprint

\-- a web of threads; created with fibers astonishingly strong and achingly fragile; a palette of colors from dazzling & vivid to subtle & muted?

.....what would our life look like if seen as a single image?

## Road to Heaven

By Sue Van and Jennifer Reddick

Fate brings you to him at the altar of life and death.

Crawling, crouching or standing tall, makes no difference

Pray my brothers for we are forsaken

Take my hand and I'll lead you to salvation.

A bride of flowing white

Resembles the guiding light.

A baby new to the world

Becomes a beacon of life in the fold.

Drink of my blood, eat of my flesh

For we are eternal in life's fishermen's mesh.

Celebrate my Birth and Resurrection

Watching my creation.

Upon my bowers, I rise thee up

Come with me in the hour of earthly death

And I will take you home.

## The Three Phases of Emily Wilde

By Kay Ziegler

The very first time I meet Emily Wilde is as spring fades into summer. The year is 1930 and the Depression has been going on for the longest six months that I have ever experienced. The time just plods along. Every minute seems like an hour – every day, a week.

And like time, I plod down a stretch of railroad track. I am heading west for the great frontier. I didn't know if I'd find anything, but all the same, I plan on trying to find something. Trying is better than doing nothing all day while starving. Anything is better than that.

I've been lucky. "Too lucky", some say. I have had jobs all along my travels while others have had none. These jobs never last long – no more than a week or two – nor do I make more than a dollar a job. But, I got a place to sleep, some food, and fresh water for drinking and washing up. Plus, I've gotten to see half of the good ol' U.S.A. Not too bad of a life for a young guy like me, I'd say.

Now here I am, walking down the weed infested railroad, wondering where I might find my next job. It's been over a week since I've worked for pay. I figure it was high time I found another.

Seeing a dingy, white cracker farmhouse up ahead, I slow my walk. I didn't want to seem too eager. My ma once told me that being eager got you nothing. I always follow what my ma tells me.

I stuff my chafed, work worn hands into the pockets of my frazzled dungarees as I meander along those lone tracks. One boot clad foot goes in front of the other as I walk along. My steps are wide apart and my upper body angles backward. I cover a lot of ground this way. I'm sure I look comical. A few close friends of mine have told me that my lanky, lackadaisical walk makes them laugh. So, right at this moment, I'm sure I do look pretty silly.

I nearly fall on my face as I abruptly stop in mid-step. My gangly lower limbs try to tangle around each other like a pretzel. But, I manage to straighten everything out before I go tumbling into the yard.

What stops me was the most wildly beautiful girl that I have ever seen. Her head is bent, so she hasn't noticed me yet. She's hanging up laundry on the clothesline and she did it in the most particular way. To watch her do such a mediocre chore is like watching the ballet my ma took me to once. She takes one piece carefully by two corners and flicks the fabric lightly before hanging it up on the line. All the while, she stands on tiptoe.

She's stocky, but tall for her age. Grazing her chunky frame is a pale blue short-sleeved dress freckled with dark blue polka dots. Her long, matted locks are the color of freshly harvested honey, but the locks don't gleam like honey does. Despite that, her hair is lovely.

The girl looks away from the line to get another piece of laundry from the basket at her feet. Her deep sapphire blue eyes meet mine. Her freckled brow furrows and her lips purse as she examines me.

"Howdy, miss," I say in a low, raspy voice. "Mighty fine day, ain't it? I sure think so. Yes, ma'am, I do." I stare at her. I can't help it. She looks familiar – like my dearly departed belle, Lucy, in fact.

She cocks her head to one side. Slowly, she starts to rock as she grabs another piece of laundry. The girl doesn't answer me as she goes back to her laundry pile.

I can't help but wonder why she doesn't reply. _Maybe I didn't speak loud enough_. _That must be it. Everyone says that I'm always whispering_ , I ponder. Quietness is part of my disposition. I've always been a calm, collected sort of person and I never found any use for raising my voice. I repeat my question as I wander over to her side, but again get no reply. "Mind if I help," I ask as I bend down and grab a piece of laundry – it's a handkerchief embroidered with the initials 'E.W.' on one of its corners. I finger the lettering lightly before reaching for a clothespin. Hanging it up on the line, I accidentally brush my hand against hers.

Her whole body jerks with my touch and she makes a funny sound, as if it had been painful. Her eyes then widen with fear as she slowly backs away from me. The towel she is holding falls from her hands onto the cracked, dusty ground. "Get away from me," she yells, turning around and tangling in a wet sheet. Struggling, she pushes it away and sprints off. Her bare feet flutter over the dusty ground and her arms flair out from her sides as she runs – she was flying as she darted around the small house and out of my view.

As I watch her leave, I find myself at a loss as to what to do. I stare at my hands and then focus on the handkerchief. Before deciding whether to chase after her, finish hanging the laundry up (it was the least I could do after scaring her like that), or just leave and never look back I hear the home's door bang open. I slowly turn around and face the person from the house.

Like the girl, she has honey colored hair, was tall, and her eyes are sapphire blue. Unlike the girl, she is willowy in size and her hair gleams in the sun, instead of being dingy. The woman wipes her hands on her cream-colored apron and sticks a hand out for me to shake, which I do.

"Hello, stranger," she says. "Sorry about my Emily there. She gets scared real easy."

"I didn't mean to," I begin. "I mean, I just brushed against her hand. It was an accident. I'm sorry if I did any harm."

"Don't you worry about it, son," the woman replies. "She gets scared by many a' things. Knowing Emily, she's already calmed down by now. Don't let it trouble you. You hungry?"

I blink and stare at the woman. The question had come out of thin air, but I was thankful that she asked. "As a matter of fact, I am. My name's Daniel Davis by the way and yours," I reply with a slight nod to her.

"Good thing! I've got a pot o' beans and cornbread on. It ain't much, but it'll put some meat on yer bones," she replies, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Davis. You can call me Colette, if you will, or Ms. Wilde if you prefer."

"Oh, that'll be plenty to eat, Ms. Wilde," I reply, as I follow her into the quaint farmhouse. "What a lovely place you have here. Your husband keeps it in pretty good shape."

"Why, thank-you. It's just Emily and I. We do try to keep up the place and we get some much appreciated help from the congregation. My husband, John, died from polio when Emily was just a baby. But we manage well enough without him. You got to keep going, you know?"

"Yes-m, I do," I say with a slow nod, "I am sorry for your loss."

"Your sentiment is much appreciated. You're a polite boy, you know. Just like my John was," Colette tells me, with sadness in her voice. "Now, how about you take a seat and I'll get you that cornbread and beans?"

"That sounds mighty fine," I respond, sitting down at the square table near the icebox. I drum my fingers atop tabletop as I stare at the little flower vase in front of me, but finding it uninteresting, I peer around the titled kitchen. It _was_ a nice place. Everything was neat and clean. The black and white floor was even shining in the morning light.

"Here ya go," Colette says. She places a plate filled with navy beans and cornbread in front of me as well as a fork and knife. "Want some coffee? I've got some percolatin'."

"Jeepers, that sounds great," I state as I take a bite of the beans and cornbread. "This is a fine meal, ma'am."

Colette pours me a cup of coffee from the percolator on the enameled stove, but before she can deliver it, there is a knock at the door. Sitting the mug and percolator down on the counter, she says, "I'll be right back." And with those words, she goes into the living room.

"Keep a hold of that girl of yours, Colette! This is the 3rd time this week she's floundered across my yard to talk to my hogs," a man shouts, "She keeps scaring my chickens an' then they don't lay. I don' think the hogs like it much either. She just chatters on, rocking and staring off at Lord knows what. An' she never answers when I call to her. I had to drag her here. You gotta teach that dumb cluck of yours some manners and how to listen up."

"She's got _plenty_ of manners, Mr. Lovejoy. She's listening to you, you can bet a buck on that fact," I hear Colette retort, "She just has her own way of doin' things. Always has. Always will. Now, good-bye."

The door slams. A moment later, Colette is back in the kitchen. She grabs the mug of coffee and sat it in front of me. Colette plops down looking quite frazzled. "So, what's your business down this way? You look no more 'en fifteen. Don't you got any folks?"

"Sure I do," I say through a mouth of hot cornbread. "I'm sixteen – just turned it too. I'm tryin' to help my folks with the bills so I travel from place to place lookin' for a job. My pops can't see too well so he can't work and ma's got to take care of him and my sisters."

"Yer a good 'un. Now, if you're lookin' for a job, I do need to have my house repainted. It's been so long since it has been done and it sure would look nice."

"Really? I'd be more than happy to," I say. My tone is casual with just a hint of eagerness. "Do you know any place in town I could stay until the job's done?"

"You'll stay here, of course. I've got a spare room," she counters, "Besides room and food; you'll get a dollar a day. How's that sound?"

"Why, thank-you. That's more than I could ever expect," I say, finishing the meal and standing, "If it's all right, I'll go get the paint right now. I'd like to start today."

Nodding, she goes to the cookie jar by the sink and grabs a five dollar bill. "Here you go," Colette says. "This should be enough to buy some brushes and a couple gallons of white paint."

With a nod I take the five dollar bill. Then, I go through the other door and into the living room. Momentarily, I stop and look around the sparsely furnished space. My gaze goes to the couch.

Sitting on the shabby floral couch is Emily. She stares at the cabinet General Electric radio next to the stone fireplace. Emily continually traces a circle on her knees as she rocks. _Ten Cents a Dance_ is on the air. She looks perfectly calm and peaceful as she listens to the music. As the pace of the music quickens, so does her rocking. A giggle escapes her lips as she claps. As the song ends, she looks away from the radio and at the door, where I am standing

"My name's Emily," she says in a monotone voice.

"Howdy, Emily," I say. "I'm sorry for bumpin' into you. I didn't mean to, honest," I say as I head towards the front door. Reaching it, I turn back and nod to her noting a slight smile spreading over her face.

"Gee thanks," Emily whispers. "No one usually apologizes. I 'preciate it."

"Not a problem."

"I'm Emily."

"The name's Davis...Daniel Davis, by the way," I reply with a smile. I then head out the door to the nearest general store.

Coming back with the paint and brushes, I return the change to the kitchen. Then, I grab the ladder, prop it against the house, and start the job. Around dinner time, I stop. Stepping off the ladder, I examine my work and nod in approval. It looks mighty fine to me. Sighing out of exhaustion, I wash the brush out under the hand pump and head into the farmhouse.

"Evenin', Mr. Davis," Colette says as she snaps one of the many beans in the bucked on the tabletop.

"Mind if I go clan up before dinner?"

"Not at all. The bathroom's the last room on the left. I laid out some of John's old things for you. I figured you needed 'em."

"I did, thanks," I say going into the back of the house and into the bathroom. Closing the door, I notice the coveralls and green striped shirt lying in the wooden chair that sat in the corner of the buttery yellow bathroom. I turn the water on, strip out of my clothes, and step in. Standing under the water, I grab a bar of Mitchell's Woolfat Soap and scrub up as fast as possible. In five minutes time, I'm out and dressed and heading back into the kitchen. With a contented sigh, I plop myself down beside Emily.

"How'd the painting go?" Colette asks as she fills plates with mashed potatoes, meatloaf, and succotash

"It went well, thank-you. I should be done in four days – five at the most," I reply. "The food looks good, by the way."

Colette smiles as she places a plate in front of Emily and then in front of me. With her own plateful, she sits. All the while eating, Emily continues to snap beans in-between bites.

While I eat, I watch in fascination as Emily snaps green beans. She is completely fixated on the job. She doesn't look at anything else. I note how nimble her fingers are as she snaps both ends off and as she works, she rocks.

"Need any help?" I ask after finishing my last bite. I push the plate away from me.

"Help? No, sir," she whispers to me, "Thanks."

"You sure?"

"Sure," Emily echoes. Never does she look at me as she works.

"If you don't mind, I'm gonna go hit the hay. I'd like to get started bright an' early," I say, standing.

"Not at all. You sleep well. Feel free to holler if you need anything."

"I sure will. Good-night, ma'am. Night, Miss Emily."

"G'night, Dan," Emily coos without looking up.

Smiling, I head out of the kitchen and down the hall to the empty bedroom. Kicking off my dusty boots, I fall into the bed without covering myself. In an instant, I'm fast asleep. I don't wake until the sun's shining through the bedroom window.

Stretching and slipping on my boots, I head into the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee, fried potatoes and eggs beacons me. Both Colette and Emily are working away at the meal and neither notice me standing in the doorframe.

"Mornin' ladies," I say, going into the kitchen, but not sitting down, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Oh, no, no, no," Emily chirps, "you're fine."

"She's right. We've got it all under control. You sit down and breakfast'll be ready in a jiff," Colette instructs me.

"If you're sure," I mutter, sitting down and picking up the paper. _Goodyear Reduces Prices_ I read before being served breakfast, which I eat in haste. Then I head out to start my work.

It takes me several hours, but I finally finish the back side of the house. Dripping with sweat, I sit down under a nearby oak tree and lean my head back. When I hear footsteps, I look up. "Why, hello, Miss Emily," I say.

"You're the first to call me 'Miss'," she tells me, shifting uncomfortably. In her hands is a scrambled egg sandwich as well as a piece of gingerbread. "Ma said to give you this," Emily says, handing over the lunch.

"That was kind of her," I reply, taking the food. "Why don't you keep me company while I eat? We don't have to talk if you don't want to."

"OK," she says, sitting down and looking at something in the distance. Emily slowly starts to rock and flap her hands. She has a smile is on her face as she does this, but it falls as she unwillingly stops the rocking. "People think I'm a lame-brain for rocking and not replying to them. I ain't," Emily says.

"I don't think you are," I respond, eating the sandwich. "You seem pretty normal to me." I watch her and can't help but note her delicate nose and prominent brow. _Just like Lucy,_ I think as tears prick the corners of my eyes.

She turns and looks at me. A smile has spread over her face. "Thank-you, Dan. You're nice and calm. I like that," she tells me as she stands, "The house is lookin' nice, like you said. Ma'll be proud when it's done." With those words, Emily goes back into the house and I go back to work.

By the time the house is painted new, 6 days has passed before I, along with Emily and Colette, stand on those railroad tracks which had brought me here. I find this moment bittersweet. I've grown close to these two women in the time I spent with them. In fact, I didn't really want to leave "You take care of yourselves," I say. I make eye contact with Colette and smile gratefully at her. I try to look into Emily's dark blue eyes, but she avoids my gaze.

"Oh, we will. Don't you worry," Colette replies. She hands me my six dollars as well as some bread and apples to eat along the way. "If you're ever back in this area, come an' look us up. Oh, and I almost forgot. Emily wants me to give you this."

"Thank-you, Miss Emily," I say as Colette hands me a folded piece of paper. I give Colette a smile when Emily doesn't respond. "That's OK," I tell Colette as I start off down the tracks. "Well, good-bye, ladies." Rounding a bend, I open Emily's letter, which was written in a childish and scrawling script. Other than her address, there were just a few words scribbled down.

Dan,

Write me, even I don't write back.

Emily

After fighting over in the Pacific and getting a couple of Purple Hearts and a broken leg, I settle down into a small place up in South Bend with a job managing a grocery store. And still I write her, even though I didn't hear from Emily until 1947.

When I get a letter from her, I am shocked. In her note she tells me that Colette had died. _Mom's funeral will be in a week's time_ , Emily writes in that same scrawl, _Could you come? The spare bedroom's still empty._ With an overnight bag full of a change of clothes, I head to the nearest bus station to wait for the next bus going to Marietta. I get down there in time for the funeral, but I don't get to talk with Emily until after the funeral.

Emily Wilde has changed in the 10 years we've been apart. It amazes me when I first see her. She smiles when she sees me waiting in the yard outside the cracker house and though her sapphire eyes are dewy and tired looking, they have life – they have light in them. Her honey hair shines in the moonlight and is pinned up stylishly. Plus, she has grown taller and willowy.

"You look the same, Dan," she says. "It's good to see you again. It's been too long. Thank-you for writing. It meant a lot."

"Boy, you don't! You're the cat's meow," I say, chortling lightly. "Yes-m, it's good to see you too. It was my pleasure."

"Let's sit under our tree and look at the stars," she says. Without waiting for me to answer, she goes over the oak tree and sits down under it. Emily draws her knees up and looks at the sky. All the while, she rocks as the tips of her oxfords tap against the dewy grass. "It's beautiful, ain't it," Emily whispers.

I follow and sit down beside her. I, too, look up. There are just a few stars in the sky. "It sure is," I reply.

"Thank-you for coming," Emily says after a long stretch of silence. "You know, I'll miss this place."

"You're leaving?" I ask, blinking in surprise. "Can't you stay here?"

Emily stops rocking and looks at me. "No, I can't. If I did, it would just be me here. I couldn't take care of it all my myself. Ma and I barely managed. There were two of us then," she explains, "I'll be going to stay with my aunt. It was either go there or to an institution." Emily makes a face as she mentions the options.

"You can come live with me! Or I'll move down here!"

Emily shakes her head. "No, it wouldn't be right for you to do that. You've got your own life to start. But, you're a darb for offering."

Slowly, I nod. I try to understand, but find it hard. "What'll happen to the house?"

"The church'll take care of it all – clean up the house and give it to a needy family," she replies. Again, we sit in silence and out of the corner of my eye, I notice Emily start to flap her hands as she stares off into the darkness. Suddenly she leans forward. A shaking hand brushes against my cheek as she kisses me on the lips.

I'm shaking too. My heart races and I feel all sweaty. For a moment I sit stunned as I sit listening to the chirping crickets.

"That was – interesting," Emily says quietly, "But, no offence, I didn't feel anything."

I blink and try to swallow. My mouth has gone dry. I find it painful to do that remedial task. "Yeah, it was – interesting. I felt nothing either," I reply. The words stick in my mouth as I say them. They sound funny to my ears. I hadn't wanted to tell her that, but because she didn't feel the way I did, I decide that she could never know the truth.

"Well, I'm off to bed. I'll see you in the morning," she says oblivious to my internal pangs. Emily stands and goes into the farmhouse.

I follow her in, feeling numb at the loss of Colette and from the kiss. Slowly, I walk through the house to the bedroom. Everything is the same as I remember from years past. Just as I had done the first night here, I take off my shoes (these weren't dusty) and fall asleep without covering myself up.

The smell of bacon and eggs arouse me from my slumber. Standing, stretching, and changing my clothes, I go to the kitchen and sit down. Breakfast is on. "Looks great," I say as I fork an egg and bacon onto my plate. Emily is already munching on her plate of food.

No words are exchanged. They aren't needed nor wanted. And all too soon, the meal was over. The dishes are cleaned. The house is tidied. It was time to go.

I don't see Emily Wilde again until 40 years pass. In that time, I marry and widow, have two children, and they have two children, too. But, I still write her and occasionally, so does she.

The day I get her last note is on my birthday. I'll never forget the sinking feeling I have as I read it. What I feel is worse than when I heard my wife, Libby, died in a car crash.

Living in an independent living center in Chicago, she scrawls in a nearly illegible script, Hope to be back at my aunts soon. Just staying long enough to get my strength back. Chemo sucks. With hr note she includes the address to the place.

Slicing off a decent sized piece butterscotch pie my kids brought, I put it in a plastic container and head to my bright blue 1973 Chevy truck. The trip to the center is fairly long – five hours to be exact. But, I don't mind. I like driving, plus I got a new 8 track of Louis Armstrong's best works for my birthday, which I listen to on the drive.

Nerves set in as I pull into the center's parking lot. I sit there for a moment, staring at my steering wheel. Taking a deep breath, I grab the container of pie and walk into the building without staring directly at the center. I don't know why I'm unable to look, I just can't.

Entering the building was like entering a whole different, clean world. Everything had a sterile look under the glaring lights, even the trashcans have a sanitary appearance, and there is an antiseptic smell to the place. People mull around the place like ants in an anthill. _I've entered The Twilight Zone_ , I think.

With a stiff, but still goofy, long-legged walk, I go over to the reception desk. An African American woman, named Marge according to her nametag, sits there, looking prepared for anything albeit she appears to be frazzled.

"One moment, please," Marge says as she gives someone on the phone instructions on how get to the center. After hanging the phone up, she looks up at me and says, "How may I help you?"

"Hello, Marge. Could you direct me to Emily Wilde's room?"

"Ms. Wilde's room is the third door on the left. Don't expect much though. She doesn't say a great deal. Mostly she rocks and traces circles. But what more to expect, she's _autistic_."

I nod slightly, and don't admit that I hadn't known that fact, nor did really I care if she was autistic or not, as I walk past the desk. Holding tighter to the container of pie, I walk down the hall. Walking along the spotless hallway, I count each door. _First right. First left. Second right. Second left. Third right. Here we go_ , I think.

The room I enter is sparsely decorated. There's a bed along with a nightstand and closet near a wall-length window. On the wall is a corkboard that has all my letters tacked to it. Three chairs were in the room, including a familiar rocking chair. Emily Wilde is sitting in it.

She looks the same as I remember her, even though she is wrinkled, and yet, at the same time, Emily looks terribly different. Her dark blue eyes have lost their shine and she had lost her hair. Looking upon her sent waves of nausea through me. I didn't like seeing her in this condition.

"Hello, Miss Emily," I say to the pale, rocking woman. "I brought you some birthday pie. I'll just sit it in the nightstand for later, Okay? Mind if I sit?"

"Sit," she echoes back to me as she continues to rock. A small smile has formed on her face. "You're the first person to call me miss."

"I know," I reply, returning the smile. "You've got a mighty fine place here. I see you kept the rocker from home. That's good. Did someone bring it to you?"

"Mr. Lovejoy gave it to me. He bought the house. Kept everything as is."

"That was mighty nice of him to let you have it," I say as I sit down across from her. I want to reach out and touch her hand, but I know she won't like it, so instead I drum my fingers on the armrest. For a time, I just sit there drumming my fingers.

"I like just sitting here, with you, not talking. I hope you don't mind."

"That's OK. I don't mind."

"Good."

And so we sit, staring at one another. I feel a smile creep over my face as I watch Emily. She too is smiling as she rocks in the chair. I find that the silence says more than any words spoken could say. In that silence, I feel the love (be it platonic or not), respect, and caring that we felt towards one another since that fateful meeting in the spring of 1930, shine through.

### About the Author

K ay Ziegler was born running. On September 15, 1986 she was introduced to this world (foot first). Her father claimed she was blue-haired, black-eyed. Turns out, she was black-haired and blue-eyed. However, the former sounds more interesting! She has always been a unique person. She embraces that fact whole-heartedly.

## The Mutha Fuckin Game

By Franchesca Saulson

PLAYIN with money is what I don't do

If I had it like that it'd be what I'd make it do

Cuz I wouldn't be worried about what I can't do

Without that dolla I'm bout to lose...

U can call me cheap but my grandpa was a Jew boo

And my grandma is from South Central

So when it comes down to it

I can have lint in my pocket and make it do

What it do baby

I can walk miles while you rely on a car

I'm chillin' drinkin' a Corona at the bar

On my way to the stars

Don't get me wrong I love driving

But I don't rely

If it vanished I wouldn't be dyin'

I'd be stridin' from a to b

An' believe me ill get to c

And while y'all fillin' in the rest

Uh the alphabet I'ma be Rollin a L

While homegirl at Aladdin

Payin' her dude bail

An' he stressing tryin' to get outta jail...

As I sit back and light my L

I exhale.

PLAYIN wit money is what I don't do.

#hardtimesdoperythmes

### About the Author

S an Francisco native Franchesca Saulson writes spoken word style poetry about her life and experiences. She is a student at City College of San Francisco, and the proprietor of Glamarama Tutu:

<http://glamaramatutu.com/>

## Sweetheart

By Jessica Hug

You make me smile when I'm down

Make me cheer

The way you hold me so dear

Way you laugh is so precious to me

I can rely on you for any thang

To be there when I need you

To hold me close at night

Luv you for every thang in sight

Always be and always true

You're my one my only soul mate

Thru and thru

### About the Author

J essica Hug is the mother of two beautiful daughters, a poet and visual artist who creates colorful pictures and drawings.

## 1A Lover's Loss of Passion

Stephen A. Grilliot

It was Friday, and I found myself strolling through the grocery store just as I had every week since I could remember. It was actually the recently-opinioned vulgarity if such a rigid schedule that was occupying my mind as I pushed my cart through the aisles.

It wasn't that I blamed Harold for falling into such a predictable routine. After all, a couple who have been married for a quarter of a century are bound to come across some redundancy, but he had lost the sort of passion that a woman longs to see in the man she loves, especially a childless woman who is forty-seven years of age and not getting any younger.

My regular shopping was all finished and nestled snugly in the metal basket, and so I began to procure the items I needed this week which weren't so often as necessary as bread or milk.

I'll give you an example of my living situation:

When he had the lovely, old Mrs. Harris over about a week ago, Harold showed no signs of congeniality whatsoever. The normal hospitality we show to all our guests was listless in his eyes, when it had been he who, so many years ago, suggested that we started having guests over at all. He grew weary before it was her time to go, and I had to show her off myself while he made his way to bed.

Aisle ten now stood before me, lined with its myriad glistening, bulbous jars and bottles. I glided my finger along the pickle jars, searching for some aesthetic value, and finally lifted six of the more spacious wares, placing them amongst the rest of my shopping.

It wasn't as if Harold was being rude or even cruel to me, but he had seemed to sincerely lose some motivation in his desires over the years. Why, only last week while we were. . .

Well, I find it despicable to admit that I was forced to ask him, "Are you ready?" in a circumstance where primitive desire should have lighted a blaze in his eyes and a fire under his butt.

In the utensil aisle, I decided to pick up a set of three new carving knives. This was actually a common experience for me, as our blades were quite accustomed to growing dull from the rigorous use we required of them.

In an attempt to liven my husband's spirits, I had only last night brought home a young girl with whom I dreamed the two of us could have a great deal of fun together. She was blonde (an affinity of his) and quite ravishing, but when he saw her he only said that he was not interested that night and that he was quite depressed.

With a wave of his hand, he shooed the young girl out of his sight, and I became worried. The girl's tear-filled eyes seemed so distraught that I found myself assuring her that she was not the one to blame for any of this.

I decided to find the cause of my husband's depression and to save the girl for another night, a decision which seemed to upset her so.

When I was finally ready to go home and make some progress with my relationship, there was an incredible line at the checkout stands, and I found myself leaning onto the handrail of my cart due to mental fatigue.

Through light interrogation, I had been able to find the source of the problem at home. It turned out that lately Harold had been questioning his own existence as many men of his age do; a mid-life crisis I believe that call it. In doing so, he ventured to learn of his own demeanor if he were to stop taking his anti-depressants.

As soon as I learned that his prescribed medication was out of his system, I ordered him to begin taking the pills again immediately.

Today I longed to return home from the store and find the man I married returned to his sanguine self, but the devil of me to get my hopes up. . .

After a quick ride in the car, I found myself at home with eager spirits and hastily placed the groceries in their destined positions, nearly dropping everything as my fingers twittered with anticipation.

I heard the water running through the pipes and knew that Harold was upstairs showering, which made me all the more hopeful. As I descended into the basement with my more aberrant purchases, I actually found myself whistling a gleeful ditty.

The counter downstairs was a mess, but I spread out my grocery bags anyway, too busy now to clean up.

With a quick inspection of my new knives, I ascertained that they were of fine quality, so I began to sharpen them over the utility sink as I let my mind wander into thoughts of all the naughty things my lover and I would do together.

The smell of pickles pelted my nostrils and awoke me from my daydreams as I emptied their jars into the sink and washed them out, placing them under the shelf that was lined with the others that had already been filled with keepsakes.

The sweet dill scent was a wonderful respite from the foul smells with which our fun had stained the walls of this dank basement over the years. I couldn't resist taking a bite of one of the vegetables before I threw the rest of them into the wastebasket.

And then I saw a mistake I had made:

I don't know if it was from the duress my mind had been in lately, but I had slipped up. Somehow, the third finger of poor Mrs. Harris had been left in the sink. I gingerly lifted the squishy, little rod and held it before my eyes, staring at it with the same curious intrigue and thrilling butterflies I always got from touching the dismembered pieces of our guests.

Then I slipped off her wedding ring, disposing it into my pocket for the time being and placed the rotting, rogue rascal into the jar of formaldehyde which held the rest of the woman's digits. I hate the smell of that chemical, but it preserves my treasures so wonderfully.

Just then, the water upstairs stopped, and I heard my husband call down to me:

"Eileen, Dear!" His chipper intonation had returned to him, and a wicked smile curled at the corner of my mouth as I was now sure of tonight's delightful favors. "You were right about my medication; I'm feeling much better today. Is that young, blonde girl ready to play?"

She had heard him mention her, and as if to answer my husband herself, she released a muffled shriek from the floor in the corner, but the rag in her mouth kept her from making any greater noise. I beamed and waved at her, but for some strange reason she began to cry and wriggle and squeal some more despite my hospitality.

As she writhed around, the ropes dug into her wrists and burned the nastiest marks into her skin. I hated when that happened, but all of our guests seemed to be doomed to this disfiguration. Still, I was convinced that once the festivities began she would come around and deliver the same exhilarated moans and squeals as all her predecessors had.

Nonetheless, she was ready. "Yes, Dear!" I called to my husband. "And I think she will provide us with more entertainment than we are accustomed to!"

### About the Author

S tephen A. Grilliot is an author who has a particular affinity for macabre horror, touches of gore, and atmospheric terror. His paramount aspirations consist of dynamic storytelling, vivid imagery, and engaging characters to develop a bond with. When he isn't writing he enjoys spending time with his boxador Mr. Picklefeather.

## The Letter

By Jane Risdon

Haunted by the neat sloping writing on the blue Basildon Bond paper which lay accusingly on her writing desk, the old woman sat locked inside her thoughts. She couldn't bear to pick the letter up to read it again, but there was no need really. The contents were not unexpected after-all. She'd been waiting nearly forty years for something like this to happen. And now it had.

Every knock at the door, every strange hand's address on an envelope had filled her with such fear the like of which she could never share. She had never told. The only reason she had an answering machine on her phone was so that she could screen her calls. Just in case. Now, there on the desk along with all her bills and other correspondence, the letter laid, the words terrorizing her silently across the darkening room.

She didn't ask herself how or why. She knew the answers and had known this moment would come eventually, either in the form of a visit, a phone call or a letter. Forty birthdays had come and gone and with each passing one she had agitated in case this time it would be the one; the day when she would have to face her past.

Long ago she had put away the photo, the little sepia image now faded with age and fingering. There was nothing she could have done even if she had wanted to, and she wasn't even sure any longer if she had ever wanted to do anything. At first it was not a matter of choice but necessity, but there had come a time, many years later when she supposed she could have, possibly should have, tried.

Soon it would be over. Of course she could ignore the letter but that might force a visit, in person, without warning. She could pretend it had never arrived and feign ignorance if anyone queried its receipt. Her stricken mind tried to battle with her emotions. Part of her needed this to happen, craved it and dreaded it, fought against it and longed for it.

Her tired faded eyes moved across the room to stare at the blue ghost beckoning her. A date and a time had been suggested and if she didn't respond the writer would understand, after all it must be an awful shock after so many years, but hoped that she would consent to a meeting, without strings of course.

Without strings, the old woman mused. There were always strings, and there would always be strings. She sighed heavily, tears brimming as she stood and made her way over to the letter. She picked it up, reached for the telephone and dialed.

### About the Author

Jane Risdon began writing after a lifetime in the International Music Industry managing recording artists, record producers and songwriters from all over the world. During her music career she garnered a wealth of material for her stories. She writes crime and mysteries and has three novels on the go at the moment.

Her blog is at:

<http://wp.me/2dg55>

Her author page can be found on Facebook at:

<http://www.facebook.com/JaneRisdon2>

## A Swan, a Funeral, and a Loss...

By Carolyn Saulson

There was some swan, I think near some place or the other I once lived, maybe Golden Gate Park, and I remember lying in the grass, exercising as usual, trying to relax. That was when we all lived in San Francisco. The rest of us moved to the East Bay, but my ex-husband was still living in San Francisco when he died in January 2013.

I wanted my ex-husband to have a really nice funeral, so it was necessary to be very much in control of myself and aware of my environment. When he died, my daughter had been hesitant to see her father the few weeks before his demise. There had been some confusion about his condition. Although he seemed to be telling us to prepare for his death, it was unclear as whether he was terminally ill, or whether he might pull through. What was clear was that he was asking to die.

I was confused about his choice of hospice care, as was my daughter. Only a few weeks before, I had offered to take him to see my oncologist. My daughter had hoped that he might look for additional treatment options and tests, and get a second opinion, rather than go quietly into the night.

Her dad was rather strong willed and opinionated, also he really didn't like pain. He never liked pain. He avoided it with a passion, which was why he refused to walk a little and not always use his wheelchair, as advised by his doctor before having lung surgery.

My kids didn't seem to be prepared to lose a parent.

### About the Author

C arolyn Saulson is a published poet, and a founding member of the community media arts nonprofit organization Iconoclast Productions. She is a singer in the band Stagefright. You can find her band online here:

<http://www.reverbnation.com/stagefrightsf>

## Untitled

By Brian Von R

"But he's not...."

"I know."

"And you're not..."

"I know. ...At least...I thought I knew."

"So what happened?!"

"Hell if I know... but..."

"But what?"

"Well..."

"What?"

"Well... yesterday, he told me he was in love w/ me."

"WHAT?!"

"Yeah, I know. But now..."

"What?"

"He's totally freaked-out. Won't talk to me."

"Why is HE freaked-out? He's the one that said it."

"I dunno, but he is.""Wow. ....So....."

"'So' what?"

"....So....?"

"Don't ask me that...cuz I don't know."

"Have y'all...?"

"None of your business!"

"You HAVE!"

"...."

"Holy shit! ....do I even KNOW you anymore?"

"Get in line..."

"Wow."

"Yeah.... 'Wow'."

PART 2:

"C'mon, TALK to me!"

"'Bout what?"

"Don't give me that shit, you know ''bout what'!"

"Look... I can't. Not right now."

"Well why the hell not?!"

"Cuz I don't know, that's why."

"But you said..."

"I know what I said."

"So, you didn't mean it?"

"I didn't say that."

"So you did mean it?"

"I didn't say that either."

"Well, what the fuck ARE you saying?"

"I'm saying.... I just don't know. ...I don't know ANYTHING anymore."

"And you think I do?!"

"Bet you know more than I do..."

"What's THAT supposed mean?"

"You're the one that wants to talk about it."

"You're the one that said it."

"Can't we just drop it?"

"No."

"Why not?!"

"Because everything's different now."

"......I know."

PART 3

Two weeks later...

"Hey."

"Hey."

"....So....how ya been?"

"Fine. How you been?"

"Fine. Heard you broke up w/ Sherri..."

"....It just wasn't workin' out. Heard you broke up w/ Lisa."

"Yeah, well.... it wasn't workin' out."

"But y'all were together for, what, 7 years?"

"Yeah, about that."

"So, why?"

"Why what?"

"Why'd you break up w/ her?"

"....."

"....."

"Oh gimme a fuckin' break! You KNOW why."

"No I d...."

"Because of YOU, asshole!"

"....."

"It's been two fuckin' weeks! Where in hell have you been?!"

"....In hell."

"Ha. Well, welcome to the club."

PART 4

20 years later....

He sat, staring out at the horizon, as the orange-pink sun slowly slid from the cloudless sky, to rest for the night behind the hills...the blinking of his eyes & the slow, even rise & fall of his chest, the only indicators that he was alive. Indeed, an absence of life is what marked him now. As he stared out at the slowly sinking sun, his mind was trying to calculate just how much longer he'd have to wait....

"It's not gonna be much of life now. With my luck, I'm gonna live another 50 years. Christ...."

With his misery finally breaking through the impassive countenance he wore, he let loose a wail that echoed off everything it met, redoubling in pain, and spread like the waves of an ocean into the distance.

When he found his voice again, it was quiet, meant only for himself....and one other.

"Asshole. You asshole. You cause me nothing but grief, y'know that? Ever since you fucked my world up by telling me you were in love with me. Even after all these years, I STILL can't believe you did that. Hell, I didn't even know I had it in me, until you opened your big mouth. ....Damn. You've only been gone 3 days & I already miss your sorry ass. What am I supposed to do now, huh? Leavin' me here, alone, like this... It's gonna be a long....long, lonely life without you. ....You'd BETTER wait for me, asshole!"

And with that, and a small almost imperceptible smile (the first one in 3 days), he rose from his seat & went inside, closing the door just as the sun was finally slipping down behind the hills.

PART 5

10 years earlier....

"Did you get the mail?"

"Yep, sure did."

"Anything good?"

"...."

''What's up?"

"Uhm... You got a letter from your dad."

"Throw it away."

"Now, c'mon, you ca..."

"I said throw it away."

"No."

"You are one stubborn sonuvabitch, y'know that?"

"Yes. Yes I am. And that's why you love me so much."

"Dickhead. Yeah, well....It's one of the reasons, anyway."

"C'mere you..."

"You can (*kiss*) do this (*kiss*) all you want (*kiss*) but I'm still not gonna read it."

"Yeah you will, you're just being stubborn. And anyway...why do you?"

"Huh?"

"Why do you?"

"Why do I what?"

"Love me?"

"....Because you let me."

PART 6

10 years before that....

"WHAT did you say?!"

"...."

"No, really. You're gonna say it again, just so I know I heard you correctly."

"Look, I...."

"I SAID, say it again, boy!"

"It's not gonna sound any better the 2nd time..."

"Oh, you think you're real funny dontcha? Well, I'm here to tell you somethin'... I haven't been payin' your tuition & everything else this whole time, just so you can.... can.... ..... .....what IS IT you do, anyway?"

"You're gonna have to be more specific dad, cuz there are a whole helluvalotta roads THIS conversation could take..."

"Ugh. Spare me. I'm not lookin' for the gory details. Just tell me why...why you've decided to... be..."

"Look, dad... I don't know how it happened. I felt as blind-sided by it as you feel right now. I mean, out of nowhere, he tells me he's in love w/ me. I'd never thought about it before. At all. But once the dust had settled and I'd had time to think.... Hell, I dunno. He's been my best friend since kindergarten..."

"That's another thing I don't get.... after all these years, how did you NOT know he was f...."

"Don't say it."

"...FAG."

"Well, you said it. Do you feel better now?"

"Are you kidding me?! My son has just told me he's a..."

"Don't say it."

"....."

"Thank you."

"....That he likes men, and...."

"Man."

"What?"

"Man, dad. Singular. One man."

"What?"

"There's one man. Not 'men'."

"Wait. I don't get it. You say you think you're in love w/ another man, right?"

"Right."

"Doesn't that mean.... I mean, doesn't that make you..."

"I honestly don't know, dad. I've never been interested in guys before & I'm not interested in 'em now....at least.... I don't think I am. But what I do know is that I love one of 'em. So, yeah, I guess, technically, I am."

"You are UN-believable, y'know that? ....Pack your shit, you're comin' home."

"WHAT?!"

"You heard me."

"Whe... How am... What.................. No."

"What?"

"No."

"Son, I SAID....Pack. - Your. - Shit."

"No."

"You do as you're told."

"I'm sorry dad, but I'm not leavin'."

"Young man, if I leave here & you're not w/ me....you're on your own. Totally and completely."

"I figured as much."

"I can't believe you'd choose....THIS.... over...."

"'This' what? I didn't choose anything. But while we're at it, it seems to me, that

YOU"RE the one makin' a choice..."

"Y'know....that smart mouth of yours is gonna get you... ...killed... ...one of these days."

"Is THAT what you're worried about?"

"....I'm done. Do as you please. You will anyway. But I meant what I said. You're on your own. You should call your mother, though. She's worried."

"Dad, wait... DAD...?!"

~door slams~

".........Goodbye, dad."

### About the Author

B rian Von R wonders, sometimes, if we could somehow step back, and see our lives as a tapestry, what would it look like? an intricate weave, the skill of each as individual as a fingerprint

\-- a web of threads; created with fibers astonishingly strong and achingly fragile; a palette of colors from dazzling & vivid to subtle & muted? .....what would our life look like if seen as a single image?

## Under Cover

By Jane Risdon

For the last three years she had lived another life, had buried her real self taking on the mantle of a hardened Madam, a trafficker of girls, the worst kind of criminal and, for the umpteenth time, she had fought nausea as she negotiated with the Eastern European.

Her control back at the command centre had shown concern the last time they'd met. He could see the physical and mental toll this assignment was having on her, but they were committed now; there was no going back. The team had spent too long infiltrating the organization and she was their only hope. During the time she had been under cover she had alerted them to more shipments of girls than he cared to recall, and the risk had grown with her every betrayal.

She knew it was only a matter of time before they rumbled her and her life wouldn't be worth a fig if the team were unable to protect her and extradite her at exactly the right moment. The latest shipment had arrived at Heathrow only hours before and were already on their way to a secret location in London where there would be an auction of the girls, some as young as eight, and where the special unit of police would be waiting to raid them. Her message had been received and the team was ready for any trouble which might ensue.

Marko eyed her from the bed as she gathered her clothes and prepared to shower and dress. He didn't trust her any more, she seemed nervous and remote these days and his gut didn't feel right; she didn't feel right. For a long time he'd had suspicions, she seemed to be softening towards the girls under her control and he was debating whether to remove her from her role as Madam of the main whore house which she'd run so successfully. Too many things had been going wrong lately. Too many shipments had been discovered and although he had managed to remain more or less anonymous and untouchable, he knew his luck would run out unless he acted soon. Was it her? He hoped it wasn't but he would soon know; the trap was set. If the latest consignment of girls was discovered, and raided, he would know.

She lingered in the bathroom, fully dressed, senses heightened. Marko had been a bit distant and had appeared suspicious of her movements all week. He seemed to make a point of repeating the instructions for the latest intake of girls - where they would be, even giving her more detail than usual about on-line bidders. Something wasn't right. She needed to contact control. Marko's kiss goodbye seemed final somehow.

As she pulled to door gently towards her, the phone rang. She hesitated, listening to the conversation, her ear against the door; terror gripped her as she heard his words. As she turned a strong pair of arms grabbed her and she screamed.

### bout the Author

Jane Risdon began writing after a lifetime in the International Music Industry managing recording artists, record producers and songwriters from all over the world. During her music career she garnered a wealth of material for her stories. She writes crime and mysteries and has three novels on the go at the moment.

Her blog is at:

<http://wp.me/2dg55>

Her author page can be found on Facebook at:

<http://www.facebook.com/JaneRisdon2>

## Who The Hell Do I Think I Am?

By Sumiko Saulson

 When I was really little, my parents used to tell me I was special all the time. Apparently, I believed them, because after I went from a carefree life in preschool to getting hassled in kindergarten (yes, kindergarten) I went and asked them about it, and they said I was special some more. If you are wondering what the kids were teasing me about, it is that scar on my chin. There's a photo of me when I was six. Do you see the scar on my chin? If you look close, you'll see it, but people rarely notice it in person, much less in photos. But in kindergarten it was due cause for being repeatedly called "Frankenstein". My parents said I was really cute, and didn't look anything like Frankenstein. They also said I was really smart.

That's me when I was six. Apparently, this is still who I think I am.

The next year, my school put me up in 2nd grade reading, and I decided maybe I was smart. I'd been reading since I was 3 so I was ahead of my 1st grade class... as a matter of fact, I would stay ahead for the rest of grade school. But I still didn't think I was cute. I did think I was special. After all, my parents thought so, and my parents knew everything as far as my six year old self was concerned. Later, I would grow older. I would get old enough not to care if I had a scar on my face and to realize that no one even noticed it anymore. I had to be 12 before I could get surgery on it, and by then, I didn't care about it, and no one noticed it... people were worried about puberty and soon many of us... including me... had such a mass of pimples covering our face no one could tell what was under them. Then I began to put on weight and worry about that. Eventually, I grew up.

When I grew up, I found out that I didn't look like Frankenstein. By the time I was about 23, which is when my acne finally went away, I even decided that I was cute. I also decided that there were people much smarter than me, as well as much prettier, but that I was plenty smart and pretty enough, and I would be fine. I still wasn't all that thin, but I didn't think I was all that fat (I was actually a normal, healthy weight - just the upper side of it, then). Subsequently, I grew older as well as fatter. But by the time I was 25 I'd decided that everyone else was probably more worried about themselves than me anyway, that although my parents thought I was special, other people basically weren't paying all that much attention to me... but were probably worried about their own pimples or fat thighs, too much to think about mine, so I just should forget about it.

My weight kept going up and down. And once I was out with my mom and she said "I think it's really cool how you don't act self conscious even when you've put on weight" and I said, "Yea I used to, but then I decided people probably are too self-conscious themselves to pay that much attention to me." I wish I felt that way every minute of every day of every hour. I don't...sometimes I walk past a window and see my reflection and think, "hmmm... yea, you can definitely see that I weigh 230 pounds." But most of the time, I'm thinking about something else...usually some joke in my head because I seem to think I'm hilarious, or some joke someone else is telling, something I'm reading, something I'm cooking, something I'm repairing, something I'm watching on TV... something exterior.

Now I kind of feel the same way. I mean, they had this commercial for some skin care product with a bunch of chicks bitching about how they turned 30 and people stopped looking at them on the streets and they felt invisible, and I was like, "Why would you want people looking at you on the street? I mean if you do, well bully for you, but I don't" I'm not striving to be invisible - if I was, I would leave my hair brown. But I do enjoy the fair amount of anonymity that being visibly older seems to bring.

When I was about 25, sometimes someone would say to me, "Why do you think you're all that?" and I would say, "A better question would be, why do you think you're not?" I think humility is good, but insecurity is not that great - insecure people can be mean as hell, and while being mean, tell themselves they are morally superior. It is not that I never have caught myself doing that, or that I can be sure I never will again. It's just that I am aware of the fact that self confidence can cause you to be more patient with others and less likely to assign to them unkind motives when it's real self-confidence. So that is what I strive to attain. I know I have a lot of flaws. I often talk too much, or get too caught up in the sound of my own voice. I have to remind myself to be thoughtful and treat others as I would have them treat me. I don't always take my own advice. I try to do better when I can, but I realize I can't improve everything at once. But this much I do know... I always feel like myself, no matter what I may look like. So I guess who I think I am; is the same person I always was. 

### About the Author

S umiko Saulson is the author of three sci-fi/horror novels, "Solitude," "Warmth", and "The Moon Cried Blood, and short story anthology "Things That Go Bump in My Head." Born to African-American and Russian-Jewish parents, she is a native Californian, and has spent most of her adult life in the Bay Area.

<http://sumikosaulson.com/>

## About Writer's Muse

The Writer's Muse Page was founded by Richard Cotton in 2012 as a place where writers could meet other writers, and get support and feedback. Originally concieved of as an online writer's group, the small group of less that twelve people kept expanding. Although the Writer's Muse Page is an English-speaking group, it includes members from all alround the globe.

The group started with this simple statement:

"The Writer's Muse Page is a group where writers can share with and support one another. Any writers are welcome to join this group."

Writer's Muse Magazine was launched in December 2012 by Sumiko Saulson, the editor of the magazine and one of the adminstrators for Richard Cotton's Group. The first magazine was a Christmas Holiday edition. After a six month sabatical, the magazine returned for this, the Summer 2013 edition.

Moving forward, the magazine will be quarterly, with Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter issues coming out once every three months. For more information about this free magazine, email Sumiko at sumikoska@yahoo.com.

To join the Writer's Muse Group, visit the Writer's Muse Page and join here:

https://www.facebook.com/groups/writersmusepage/

