

# Ashtrays to Jawbreakers

# A compilation:

#

# Volume Four

All rights reserved: Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system; without prior written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction.

Names characters places and incidents are a product of the authors imagination are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events locals or persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

Copyright January 2015

All said property is owned by individual authors.

June Project Ink holds no claim to any individual rights or royalties

Photos courtesy of Google Chrome

Some stories may include adult content.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to your favorite ebook retailer to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support

Some stories may include adult content.

# Table of contents:

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Songs of the Heart by Ann Sydney

Battle Cry by Lewis Rees

16th Avenue By A.R. Roberts

They by Jason Wallace

The Monument Valley Masters Challenge Race By Patrick Furlong

Catherine de Valois By Laurel A. Rockefeller

The Littlest Vampire by Viv Drewa

Fairy Cakes by Neil McGowan

Death Row by Sharon Wheater

# Samples

Silent Screams by Street PrIest

# Featuring

Good-bye A672E92 Quintus: A Peers of Beinan Series Novella By Laurel A. Rockefeller

# Acknowledgements

We would like to thank you, the readers who make this project possible. It is the ability to shape words into unfamiliar shapes that separates fiction from non-fiction. We hope you have enjoyed reading these stories as much as we enjoyed creating them during this first year of "Ashtrays to Jawbreakers."

The authors associated with June Project have come together to provide a functional space where writers can feel welcomed and fear-free in making their work available to a wider audience Recognition is what every writer strives for. Our community aims to give readers a fresh approach to familiar writing. If we can touch, move or make you think, we have been successful

All rights reserved: Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system; without prior written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction.

Names characters places and incidents are a product of the authors imagination are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events locals or persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

# Foreword

In a perfect world, all the writers would get a fair break; judged on talent and not how big their wallet is. This is an attempt to give a few authors their just reward for being stubborn and not giving up.

Writing is something a writer needs to do. It's not optional, it's like breathing. If we don't write every day, even if it's just a few words, we don't sleep due to the characters in our head demanding that their stories are told. When we get it right then the feeling is the greatest high on the planet.

Some authors say that their work is no good, that it lacks the certain je ne sais quoi to make it with in the world of literature. They are almost always wrong. The big part of any author's experience is not getting it published but getting it read by the masses. Half the battle of any author is to stride onward, even if it means facing their fear of rejection.

As hard as it appears to be, it is actually the easiest part of the experiences. Facing the fear of the unknown is more of the nail biter. It takes patience and perseverance. Not every story will be that one that makes the grade. The key is to just take everything in stride and know you made a valiant effort.

Writers are writers, no matter where they may be from. No matter what their occupation; a writer is a writer. The guy next to you on the bus or that offset co-worker who always looks lost in thought. No matter the region, fiction is fiction. No matter the age of the author, the story remains the same. We as writers strive for that very thing any other non-writer strives for.

That is recognition. Recognition of our skills and talents to bend words to fit the need of expression intended to bring you into our world we have created or in some cases destroyed.

#  Songs of the heart

By

Ann Sydney

## Tin Roofs

surrounded by a sea of tin roofs dwelling in the highest place in town when the rain comes pouring down i drown in a tidal wave of sound

i like the rain when i am alone it is a doleful song for the sad the rhythm beats out my woe i wrap myself in its melody

raindrops fall like my teardrops wrapped in solitude and my sadness i sit and listen to the rain pounding the lonely tune of love lost

up here so high above other sound the rain cuts the silence like a knife i sit and sing my song of lost love to the tune of raindrops on tin roofs

## Love Hunter

It is hard to breathe, my eyes screwed shut, such a feeling of dread, evil is lurking, approaching me.

I know this feeling,

I have had it before...

It seethes and boils in my gut,

deposits its foul taste in my mouth.

Unbidden tears fill my eyes,

Mind locks down...

Words freeze in my throat,

loneliness and despair makes the feeling complete...

But it has been felt before, when I first learnt I was not the only love trophy hanging from his hunting belt. A consummate player,

he lives for the thrill of the hunt,

silently stalking, leaving tempting baits,

gentle mating calls,

all part of the deadly trap.

Then, when you show your trust....

he swoops in for the kill,

claiming your heart and soul

for his trophy bag.

He leaves you helpless and hanging • like a piece of unwanted meat...

When off he goes to hunt for new prey

## Trolls In Dark Places

Beware...they come upon you when you are vulnerable,

Slinking from a sick, sad and lonely place

Plotting their evil and celebrating their disgrace

Causing hurt and anger wherever they are able

Cleverly disguised and offering you friendship

Telling you what you long to hear and crave

Drawing you into their web, they take you on a hell trip

Beware the coming of The Forsakers...

For they be the most corrupt of heartbreakers

Stealing your smile and ripping the laughter from your soul

Creatures straight from hells dark and dismal grave

Fiends that take delight in deeds dark and foul

With them they bring darkness and despair,

Demons from your worst nightmare.

So beware ...cause before you know they'll steal you away

As they steal the sun from the day,

Darkening this, our fair land

While delivering you into into the devil's foul hand...

Begone Troll, begone back to your dark dank hole

## A Tasty Morsel

November 12, 2012 at 1:19am

My life was bland like a boring tasteless meal

Like the undead I was unable to love and feel

I met you on a social networking site

And suddenly my life became a gourmets delight

I am the dill and you are the pickle

You're the champas bubbles that make my nose tickle Filling my life with new tastes and flavor

You are the meal over which I will linger and savor

You are the juicy, tenderest Fillet Mignon

And I the full bodied red wine you sip on

Life is a bowl of ice-cream, you the cherry on top

Being with you is better than being in a candy shop

You are my Willy Wonka, my Candy King

Boy you sure give me a sugary zing

I want to be your sumptuous Dairy Queen

No finer feast in this land has ever been seen

Definitely not fast foods but a well balanced diet

You are the tasty game fish I caught without a fight

No more smorgasbords for you and me

As you are the only dish on the menu I want to see

## Dark Angel

He comes in the darkness of the night, I awake, aware of the malevolent vigil he keeps

Standing so close over my prone body, I could feel his hot breath and gaze upon me

Evil emanating from him like the beacon in a lighthouse on a stormy and dark night

Fistsclenched, fingernails biting into my flesh, body held rigid, fearful he notice the breath I take

Be still heart...be still, your tumultuous beating will inform him that I know he has come

I know if I openly acknowledge his existence I will be easy prey to his evil intent

Years have passed, his visits have almost ended....... or so I foolishly thought

A wild party at the air force base and in the early morning we started to drop

Bodies sprawled where ever they could. a tangled profusion of arms and legs

Somewhere between the land of asleep and awake, I was aware of his presence,

I opened my eyes and I looked.....the sight of him took my breath away, he was an Angel

Unheeded, alarm bells sounded in the back of my mind, something about him was not true.

## A Rainbow for Me

November 28, 2011 at 11:14pm

I will sing a happy song of rainbows,

And dance a joyful rainbow dance,

I will paint bright pictures of rainbows

And wear a silky rainbow sarong...

Rainbows always make me smile

Born of sunshine and rain

They scatters happiness everywhere

When the sky has finished crying

Rainbows call you out to play

After I have shed my quota of tears

I want a rainbow to enfold me in its embrace

And I'll leave life's pain and sorrow behind

Then when death finally closes my eyes

The sight of a rainbow would always be mine

My wish has been granted...I see a rainbow in my last tear

Whenever you see a rainbow you will know I am near

## The Pacific and Me

February 20, 2013 at 5:35am

I woke feeling hot and uneasy, my sleep troubled by the demons that that prowl through my mind when the world becomes dark and still.

Aimlessly I wandered out onto the patio to breathe the fresh air, the sky a sullen grey that matched my mood. As I stood there a gentle breeze passed over me, softly kissing my fevered brow and caressing my aching body.

The tangy aroma of the ocean was carried to me and with it's arrival and I knew where I needed to be,

where I would find solace and healing, I knew whose open arms would welcome me.....

The ocean, my beautiful Pacific was waiting for me.

Dressing in a rush, not even stopping to brush my tangled hair, I raced out the door and ran up over the hill and there she was, as though chastising me for my mood she wore an ominous grey mantle, her waves restlessly pounding the rocks and shore.

I scrambled up the hikers trail to the top of the rugged sandstone cliff and looked out to the horizon, awed by the vastness and solitude, with my arms thrown wide open, my eyes closed and face raised to the sun that was slowly breaking through the clouds, I allowed myself to become one with the beauty and love of Mother Earth, losing myself in the lullaby of the waves and breeze rustling through the grass and trees, even the usual harsh screeching of the gulls was music to my ears.

In my mind I became one of those gulls, soaring to great hieghts and then hovering above the Earth, gliding on the air currents, plumeting down to kiss the ocean then winging high again, abandoning the cares and sadness that have imprisoned me.

The sun finally broke through the clouds that had kept it imprisoned, it's rays not only warming my body and face, but infusing it's warmth and promise into my broken heart and battered soul, promise of life yet to come, dreams to be dreamt and love to be experienced.

Upon opening my eyes I saw the grayness had gone and replacing it was the brilliant blue of a cloudless sky and the serene blue ocean, bejeweled with the sparkling diamonds of the sun reflecting on her surface, the waves no longer restless but gently rolling in.......

I knew I was alive and wanted to stay that way. Life is a gift and who am I to reject this wonderful blessing, I am humbled to be a minor part of it, and to my Pacific Ocean, thank you for embracing me and setting me free

## The Magic of Purple

May 10, 2012 at 9:48am

'Tis approaching midnight and my world is suddenly still and silent

I close my eyes, relax and let the shackles that bind me fall away,

My spirit yearns for escape to roam and play in the fairy glades Unfettered by the restraints of a sad, unimaginative society.

I fly, I spin and I twirl in a mad and merry dance of freedom and joy

Soaring above the dank and dark city, escaping into my dream reality

I go to dance with the magical folk, the faeries and the elves

Barefooted, hair wild and loose, I go to dance the dance around the

Jacaranda trees

The breeze blowing it's leaves to the ground, like purple rain that colors the air,

Giggling, prancing nymphs kick up the petals to spread purple happiness everywhere

I laugh, I smile, I sing, I dance in that enchanted lavender cloaked glade,

With happy gentle folk that know not of sorrow, woe, care or pain

Desiring only to play among the purple leaves that lay like precious gems on the ground

So to the the sound of musical madness, under the cool moonlit skies, amongst the trees

I frolic and laugh while the purple colored fairy dust falls about me, majestic magic surrounds me..

Oh, how I love dreaming in purple....

## Here It Comes Again

February 12, 2012 at 11:36am

Here it comes again, that alone feeling

It creeps up and hits me, takes me unaware

One minute nothing, the next all despair

Such a nasty, insidious thing

A mantle I hate to wear

Loneliness, it leaves you all empty inside

Dreams and hope have all but died

How I long to hear a kind word

Or feel the warmth of anothers touch

I don't think I am asking for too much

My world is so empty and cold

The loneliness to much to bear

I long for someone to love and hold

Remaining alone is the my greatest fear

Is there anyone out there who will care

My soul screams out into the silence

I can no longer continue with this pretence

That I am stong and I can stand alone

I want to shout out my anguish, let it be known

I need to be loved, I can't live with it's absence

Someone to hold and whisper love into my ear

Someone to kiss my cheek and wipe away my tear

Someone who will call me on the phone

Someone who waits for me at home

Where is that someone who will care

Here it comes again, that alone feeling

It is such a nasty , insidious thing

I close my eyes and dream of a better time

Love , roses , laughter and sparkling wine

All these things I would have as mine

## The Dusty Road

September 17, 2012 at 6:59am

The road is long, never ending it seems, a dirt road, it is nowhere

Ground parched, dust kicks up with each step, potholes scar the surface.

Eerie, tall ghost gums reach out to each other from both sides of this road

Their canopy blocks out the otherwise relentless burning of the sun

I AM ALONE...

A hot day but I shiver as the ghostly shadows dance across this path I travel

How I got here and where I travel to I don't know, I just keep walking ahead

The soles of my shoes are pierced by sharp stones, I tire but keep plodding on

Crows screech out the raucous call, the silence of human noise is deafening

I AM ALONE...

I strain to hear a sign of civilization, my mind longs to feel the contact of another

But no, just the rustling of the native animals in the undergrowth of the bush

A python slithers across the road, I pause until it disappears into the grasses

Heart skips a beat acknowledging the hidden perils that lurk in this vast unknown

I AM ALONE...

I know I chose this lonely road, at first rejoicing in the solitude I found here

Heart bruised, mind weary, I believed I could travel alone, needing no-one

After endless dusty miles I learned the difference between solitude and loneliness

But I am hopelessly lost, I have travelled too far and I can't find my way home

I AM ALONE...

The shadows darken, the sunlight that was able to penetrate the tree tops fades

I trip over the potholes in the dusty road, the night chill reaches, grabbing me

The moon and stars are lost behind black clouds, now I am wrapped in darkness

The feeling of solitude has fled, the longing for companionship is overwhelming

I AM ALONE...

I AM LOST...

## I Called Your Name

March 29, 2013 at 12:50am

I have tried to put on a happy face, look the world in the eye

I have told you how positive I feel...well it is a lie

Inside I am crying ..... a little bit of me is dying

Telling myself it does not matter, it was nothing anyway

But it was everything to me...it was the last of my dreams

Now there is just empty ...How can empty hurt so much

There is pain where there is nothing, a hollow full of hurt

No words can express this sadness, no song can say what I feel

Without a dream, words or song, how can I tell you what went wrong

Look at me just once more, see the love song in this heart of mine

I called you but you refused to hear, I called your name out aloud

Your cruel reply deepened my pain, yet still I want to see you again

I never faltered in my love for you, I so wanted to be with you

But I am left with a hollow of hurt, an emptiness full of pain

I have thought and dreamt of being with you for so long

Your final cruel words took all my dreams and turned them into dirt

There is nothing left , I am not strong enough to fight what is to come There is nothing left to help me through, just a vast emptiness without you

Tomorrow I"ll wake and feel as though I have died , sick and alone But I will know I fought with all my heart to keep our beautiful dream alive.

Sadly you were not strong enough to stand by my side and help me beat this

I think I will just admit defeat as I can not fight this battle alone

## I Have a Fear

I have a fear and I cannot name it,

It feeds on my self-doubts and uncertainty

Like a cancer it eats me and one day it will consume me It is a fear of being lied too, it is a fear of hearing the truth It is a fear of losing and it is a fear of being lost.

It is a fear of love and a fear of not being loved

It is a fear of looking foolish and a fear of my foolishness

It is a fear of discovery and a fear of not learning

It is a fear of being right and a fear of being wrong

I fear being weak but my fear keeps me from being strong

I describe my fear as a large black bird of misery

That has entered my heart and nested in my soul

Laying his rock like eggs deep inside of me

I fear this fear I can not name, I can not see

I fear this fear that eats away at me

March 29, 2013

I Had A Song

I had a smile that you gave to me,

I had a smile I wanted the world to see.

I had a song in my heart,

A special song that set me apart. I had a love that made my world shine, I had a love who said come be mine.

You gave my soul wings to soar,

Wrapped in your love for evermore.

That smile is now long gone,

And I hide from the world, sad and alone.

Forgotten are the lyrics sung in my heart, That special song that set me apart. Gone is the love that made my world shine, Gone is the love that said come be mine. The wings on my soul are shredded and torn, Leaving me unloved and forlorn. I now bend my head alone and sick, My ears and heart deaf to all music.

You called me an an angel and sang your song of love

You said I was a gift sent to you from above

You sang a song so full of promise and love

But now you have hurt me in ways undreamed of

I came to you full of love and light, into your life that was so dark

I'm grounded now and broken, love having left behind it's deathmask

I had a song, a beautiful song, that once set me apart

I had a song , a beautiful song, that you sang from your heart

I feel detatched, out of place, I don't belong here, it's not me

So strange, what has happened, where have I gone

So strange, the feeling is so unreal, how did I get here

So strange, am I dreaming , no, I can touch and I can feel

So strange, am I dead, no, I can see and I can hear

I look at you, I know you, I know I loved you

I know your feel, your scent, I know your touch

but you look at me like a stranger, you look through me

I feel isolated, separated and cut off from your love

I look back on my memories, I see us together

I see laughter, love, hope and a shared future

But that belongs to a stranger now, I killed the dream

I feel detatched, I feel as if I never was and never will be

So strange, no one seems to hear or see me anymore

So strange, the sun is so close but I feel so cold

So strange, I stand on dry ground but I feel myself drowning

So strange, I stand in a crowd but I feel alone..oh so alone

February 20, 2013

## Orchestrated Love

A low mournful dirge a sound lost and alone my life played a miserable tune, slow and hollow. The tempo wrong and the players out of tune no masterpiece was ever written for me. But wait a new sound, a clarinet I do not know forceful and full of life, its melody wraps around me Suddenly there was clarity of sound and beautiful harmony golden notes I plucked from the air, they awoke my heart

The clarinet gave me life, took chaos and noise

and in it's place left a heavenly concerto The soul of that new instrument transformed me beauty and love lifted me up and spun me around. A maestro had been found, order was formed we made a joyous sound, synchronized love. No more musical discord but orchestrated beauty a marriage of notes and chords heavenly born. As the music of love filled the air enveloping me a new sound was introduced, sweet and delicately melodious I, the awkward bassoon, replaced by the piccolo and along with the clarinet begins a sensual dance The score not needing the bassoon anymore but wait a transformation, I am a changeling The inner me is struggling to be free lets rejoice, like the butterfly , I have been reborn Upon the wings of sound I was lifted free to fly the love of one sweet voice enough to show me the truth I was always the golden piccolo, sweet and beautiful

those golden notes breaking free to the beauty beneath I am free, at long last I am me, the beautiful piccolo forevermore dancing from the shadow into the light Upon waves of golden music we shall spin the clarinet and piccolo, a new life we shall begin

## Wishes Granted

I wished for strength and

I was given difficulties to make me strong.

I wished for wisdom and

I given problems to solve.

I wished for prosperity and

I was given brawn and brains to work.

I wished for courage and

I was given dangers to overcome.

I wished for patience and

I was placed in situations where I was forced to wait.

I wished for love and

I was given troubled people to help.

I wished for favors and

I was given opportunities.

I received nothing I wanted

I was given everything I needed.

## Orchestrated Romance

July 29, 2012 at 8:36pm

A low mournful dirge a sound lost and alone my life played a miserable tune, slow and hollow. The tempo wrong and the players out of tune no masterpiece was ever written for me. But wait a new sound, a clarinet I do not know forceful and full of life, its melody wraps around me Suddenly there was clarity of sound and beautiful harmony golden notes I plucked from the air, they awoke my heart The clarinet gave me life, took chaos and noise and in it's place left a magnificent concerto The soul of that new instrument transformed me beauty and love lifted me up and spun me around. A maestro had been found, order was formed we made a joyous sound, synchronized love. No more musical discord but orchestrated beauty a marriage of notes and chords heavenly born.

As the music of love filled the air enveloping me

a new sound was introduced, sweet and delicately melodious I, the awkward bassoon, replaced by the piccolo and along with the clarinet begins a sensual dance The score not needing the bassoon anymore but wait a transformation, I am a changeling

The inner me is struggling to be free

Lets rejoice, like the butterfly , I have been reborn

Upon the wings of sound I was lifted free to fly

The love of one sweet voice enough to show me the truth

I was always the golden piccolo, sweet and beautiful

Those golden notes breaking free to the beauty beneath

I am free, at long last I am me, the beautiful piccolo

Forevermore dancing from the shadow into the light

Upon waves of golden music we shall spin

The clarinet and piccolo, a new life we shall begin

## Nothing Is Real

July 20, 2012 at 9:29pm

Are there any nice people on Facebook?..I have been to hell and back this week and sent straight back to hell this morning thanks to Facebook and my gullibility and blind faith in people, I was an innocent coming here but I will leave much wiser ..a wisdom I do not wish to have..I Have learnt not to trust, I have felt hatred first hand and been the victim of horrid mental and emotional cruelty..a cruelty I never new existed until Facebook, I would rather be the victim of physical violence, at least those wounds heal..what has been done to me today will never heal, I am not just heart broken, my soul has been deeply scarred, to deep to ever heal. The Giant Ebony Bird of Loneliness and Sadness has visited me and laid his stone eggs so deep inside me that I will never be able to remove them, I fear that these eggs will hatch inside of me and anger, hatred and cruelty will forever be a part of me. People so wrongly take the stance that,"Oh, but it is just Facebook, it is not real", let me ask you, are you real, I know I am...I can laugh, be happy, love and enjoy but I can also feel hurt, I suffer when pain is inflicted and I cry real tears when sadness and pain overwhelm me, I also know that the majority of people I deal with each day feel the same happiness, joy, loneliness, sadness and pain, we all do, it is what makes us human. Sadly there are people out there who prey on the innocent, the unwary, the ones who wear their hearts on their sleeves and unwittingly show their vunerability and it is these stalkers of human emotions that have found an outlet on this and other social mediums, some do not hide their natural instinct to victimise the weak, they call themselves trolls and openly attack where ever and when ever they can, the Trolls attack openly where at least one has the chance to defend oneself or "Delete and Block" before too much damage has been done. But there are others that hide behind the guise of sweet smiling faces, kindness, caring and loving words and slowly get their prey's trust and confidence, they use love as their primary weapon, the cruelest weapon of all. I fell prey to one such person, these people are intelligent, they have to be to remain undetected long enough to do the most damge that they can. The one that hunted me was good, very good, he spent a year nurturing me, fattening me up for the kill, when he did it , it was swift, hard and extremely painful but also done in a way that he was able to leave the door to my spirit open so that he may revisit at his will, I being the naive stupid fool that I have proven to be ,opened the door wide and let him in repeatedly, until today when I saw for the first time how I was being manipulated and used soley for his sick and twisted amusement.

So Dear Reader, you would imgaine that as the pain, hurt and humiliation eases to a dull ache that I will have finally learnt my lesson and are ready to erect barriers around myself so as not to be victimized again by this camouflaged troll, but as I said earlier I am a fool and when I love, I love completely and blindly, so that doorway to my heart and soul is left unlocked just in case he calls again, maybe this time he will not want to hurt me but will come with the love I want from him so badly...BUT WHO AM I KIDDING, THIS IS FACEBOOK AND NOTHING HERE IS REAL..

## I Am A Girl

July 16, 2012 at 9:14am

Sometimes you ask me what is wrong and I tell you I do not want to talk about it

I do, I am just searching for the right words, give me a minute and if I can tell you, I will

But I'm stuggling trying to maintain a mix of real and perfect at the same moment

I am flawed and I am a human, I am broken and I am trying,

And I am one person and I am two hands and I am one heart

My head is a complicated plle of thoughts and fears and cravings and dreams

And a tangled up nostalgia for the past and somehow the future

Bottled up inside are the words I never said,

The feelings that I hide, the lines you've never read.

I want to be fearless and I want to take chances

And I don't want to live life just being afraid of what is coming next

Occasionally I hide my problems behind a smile

And behind that smile I can hide a world of pain

But nobody can hurt me without my permission.

Someone will always be prettier and and someone will always be smarter.

Someone will always be younger but nobody can ever be me.

When I get really quiet sometimes it is because I have to much to say

I have thought of too many things to tell you all at once And I do not know what to say first, except that...

I love you all and I am happy to be here

I'm a girl, I overreact and I underestimate and I overestimate, I over think everything and I dream big.

And when I say I love you, I'm not lying.

## A Bitch With a Wish

May 24, 2012 at 3:17pm

I wish, I wish upon a golden shooting star

For a magic carpet to carry me away so far To your side where there is no hurt and sorrow,

And to a life full of love and hope for tomorrow.

I cast my wish and prayer into this magic well

For a key to unlock this sad place where I dwell

Take me to a place of rainbows, love and laughter

A place where I can dance, sing and live happily ever after

I wish, I wish upon this lucky four leaf clover

To hear you say our love will never be over

Instead I am left here holding back the tears, And playing the party girl to hide my fears. I dance too hard, drink too much and laugh too loud The belle of the ball, the life of the crowd.

Either dancing on the table or drinking myself under it

Just to prove to the world I don't hurt the littlest bit

I wish, I wish upon the brightest evening star

For a fiery comet to come and take me where you are

With it's tail of fire I will carve our initials in the sky

Announcing our love across the heavens as I speed on by Sadly I have no fiery comet, four leaf clover or wishing well but given a chance, to the Devil, my soul I would willingly sell

Just to spend one night in your arms, listening to your song

Wildly and passionately loving you the whole night long

But I am a big girl now and big girls know better, wishes only come true in fairytales

Cupcakes become stale, rainbows fade and laughter can be cruel

Wishing wells are for suckers, you can't ride a fiery comet and clover is just fodder for cows

Dreams become nightmares and the Devil has aleady taken my soul

You made me grow up too fast where I learnt that nothing so beautiful can last

In a world where love is just a powerful weapon to harm and destroy the innocent

You hardened my heart and I'm building walls to ensure that love grows there nevermore

## About Ann Sydney:

Ann Sydney is a very private individual. That, who would rather pick up a paint brush than a pen, is a very talented artist. She describes herself as a Blueberry Raspberry Mix.

"Everything I am not made me what I am...I am what I am and you can't change that. Sexy, Sassy, Sweet, Intelligent ,Crazy, Insightful, bitchy, Spastic, Free Spirited, Electric,

Playful, Sinful, High Maintenance, Rebellious, Outspoken, Spoiled, Daddy's Girl, Princess, Naughty and Beautiful all wrapped in one delightful bundle... Wanted by many Taken by none, Looking at some, Waiting for one."

Although she loves to be artistic, she considers herself more of a painter than a writer. Her work stands for itself. "No Photo Needed! Period."

#  Battle Cry

By

Lewis Rees

The Clown- the only colour beneath a stormy sky; sits at the edge of the building.

He sees them screaming far below. Sees, not hears. Their words float from their mouths fully formed, drift apart the further they get from the source, the way speech used to get quieter back at home when you walked away. By the time they get to him, all he sees are symbols; a couple of _A'_ s, an _O_ or two, even a few exclamation marks; letters and punctuation marks that were once part of words and sentences, now just shapes floating through the air

Dissipating

He sees _Bang! Bang! Bang!_ drifting past from behind. Good. Let them bang

He looks up, taking the city in one more time. The monochrome buildings stretch to the sky; wider on the top, pulling themselves up by the bootstraps to appear taller than the building next to it. Through the windows of the buildings he sees them. Those Mimes at their imaginary desks, typing on make-believe computers

From here he can see for miles. Even the billboard on the hill; the Weathermime, leaning on a wall he can't see

BANG!

***

His first day in school.

His parents died long ago; sent him to live with distant relatives, shortly before he started school.

He looks out at a sea off white faces with black lips, eyebrows, hair. Black beret's. Black and white striped sweaters, black suspenders, black pants. Sitting on chairs he can't see, leaning forward on desks that aren't there.

And then there's him. Wild, untamed red hair; a permanent smile painted on his face, a red nose, multicoloured clothes, enormous yellow shoes; even the spinning bow tie and the flower in his lapel that sprays water on anybody stupid enough to get too close.

He has a pie for the class. A cream pie, so fresh and delicious the steam forms beckoning fingers at the class.

" _We have a new student,"_ the teacher says, the words floating through the air, forming the sentence for all to read. Thirty _Hello's_ float from silent mouths. The Clown smiles and waves nervously.

" _Why don't you tell us about yourself?"_ the teacher says. The Clown shakes his head. He's embarrassed. He blushes, blood rising to his already rosy cheeks.

" _Go on, don't be shy."_

He looks up at the teacher. She takes her index fingers, points at the edges of her mouth, moves them up and out. Her lips follow. She smiles encouragingly.

He takes a deep breath. Steels his nerves.

"Hello." he says.

Sounds, not shapes, tumble from his mouth. The class recoils; cover their mouths. _H'_ s and _A'_ s float through the air in different sizes and styles, coming from different mouths.

He feels a hand grab the back of his head; forcing it down into the pie in his hands; the fingers dissipate instantly.

He looks up at the class; cream dripping from his face. He looks at the teacher, her hand still in place a foot from where his head had been.

" _Take your seat and see me after class."_

Her words were soft. Comforting. Now they're cold and mechanical, as if they'd fallen off a typewriter.

He looks at the class and sees a single desk at the back of the class; a single chair behind it. He steps forward. The sea of faces parts, the students moving their imaginary chairs and make-believe desks out of the way.

_S'_ s and _H'_ s and _E'_ s as the legs grind against the floor.

He takes his seat.

***

The talent show.

He watches from the wings as the act before him sits on a stool he can't see and taps away at a piano that isn't there. Musical bars float from his fingers, dotted with notes he can't hear.

It's been so long since he heard anything.

Tonight's the night. _His_ night to show the world what he can do his way.

The Mime stands up. Bows. The air is filled with letters; Vowels that let him know people are screaming and shouting. Consonants so he knows they're clapping. Exclamation marks, so he knows they loved it.

A tough act to follow.

The Mime walks past him. Smiles softly. Even pats the air behind his back in encouragement.

The Clown feels it.

The Clown opens his mouth.

" _Thank you."_

He doesn't make the noise, just moves his lips. No shapes come out. No vowels or consonants or punctuation marks.

Nonetheless, The Mime seems to understand. Puts his hand in the air. The Clown returns the gesture. They move their hands together quickly, come within inches of touching each other. He feels the impact of The Mime's palm. The Mime smiles again, walks backstage.

" _Up next The Clown of class 3B."_

He steels himself. Walks out with a large box covered in a black velvet throw.

He looks out at a crowd of faces, young and old. Black lines sprouting from the corners of their eyes or mouths. Black lines across their brows.

He sees some of them at the back, recording the whole thing.

Bent forward at imaginary cameras, one eye closed, one hand turning an imaginary crank in exaggerated loops.

" _Hello."_ he mouths. No sound comes out. No shapes. He looks out at the crowd, worried. Some look on with encouragement. Some with distaste. A couple turn to each other in the front row and say things too small to see.

" _Hello."_ he says again. He waves.

A couple wave back. He thinks they understand.

" _My Name is The Clown, and I'm going to perform a magic show."_

Still no sound. Still no shapes. He gestures to himself, waves an imaginary wand through the air.

He pulls his hat off his head; a black conical hat covered in white stars and moons. A cloud of red hair pops out. A couple of The Mimes jump, lean back suddenly. He ignores them.

He holds the hat open, shows it off to the audience. They can all see it's empty.

He reaches in. Gropes around until he feels the fur; the rapid heartbeat. He grabs it and pulls out a white rabbit. He holds it gently.

A couple of claps from the audience; those reassuring shapes.

He puts the rabbit back in the hat. Removes a wand too long for its dimensions and waves it through the air a few times.

" _Abracadabra."_

He taps the hat gently. Puts the wand on the covered box. Reaches in and pulls out a bouquet of flowers.

More enthusiasm this time. A couple of _Wow's_ and _How did he do that?!'s_ float through the air alongside the claps.

" _I need a volunteer."_ he says. He's surprised when the words float from his mouth; forming into a perfect sentence before him. He smiles.

A hand from the audience. A young girl. He ushers her on stage. Her parents- identical to any other set of parents- lean in close. The mother clasps her hands together. The father puts one arm around her shoulder, coming within inches of touching her.

The girl steps onto the stage; so young. Six or seven, at a push.

He smiles at her reassuringly.

He whips the velvet curtain off the box, opens it.

" _Please climb inside the box."_

The shapes again. The girl nods in understanding, climbs inside the box. He closes the lid.

He reaches into the hat again; Pulls out an oversized saw. He displays it for the audience.

They sit with baited breath.

He hangs the hat on a hook, moves to the back of the box. He places the saw on the edge and moves it forward and back in long, slow, steady movements.

Some members of the audience lean forward in fascination.

Anticipation.

He smiles. Keeps sawing. Getting more confident; still long motions but getting faster; more powerful! More-

A sickening _crunch!_ A loud _Aaargh!_ An uneven _Gurgle._

The audience cover their mouths. A couple of _Gasp's_.

He pulls the saw out of the box; the once silvery surface stained black. Dripping.

He drops the saw. Opens the box; looks inside. Covers his mouth. More _gurgle's_ escape from the box, getting smaller.

Getting weaker.

He grabs the hat and the bouquet, rushes forward, gives an exaggerated bow, his arms outstretched.

The rabbit falls from the hat, its head twisted at an unnatural angle.

He panics. Drops the flowers. They tumble into a stage light, burst into flame. He tries to stamp them out but misjudges. He kicks the flaming bouquet into the audience. The air fills with letters; so thick he can't see. He waves his hands in front of his face, trying to swat them away.

The audience continues to scream as the curtains close.

***

Prom night.

His hair is slicked back; dyed black. He's wearing a black tuxedo with a grey waistcoat. Size eight shoes.

Even his face is a disguise. A thick layer of white grease paint; black lips, black eyebrows.

He's cultivated this disguise perfectly over years. Mastered the language; made the letters dance through the air so elegantly. He can sit without a chair, drive without a car, even write without ink, the letters flowing from beneath his fingers into neat lines on invisible sheets of paper.

Everything's there if you believe it is. The pen, the paper, the chairs, the tables.

He dances. He and his date have their arms around each other's backs, careful not to touch; their fingers almost interlaced, spread far apart that no part of their bodies touch.

God, how he wishes he could inch closer. Traverse the impossible expanse between them, feel someone else's skin on his for the first time in so long.

He learned in physics that one of the differences between states of matter is the density of the atoms, but no matter how solid something is, the atoms never quite touch, separated by vast infinities in infinitesimal space.

He wishes he could not touch her a little closer.

She's beautiful. He never used to be able to tell the difference beneath the make-up. Her eyes are softer than other girl's, her lips curl up at the corner of her mouth as if she were always smiling.

Musical notes float by, suspended on musical bars. He's learned this language, too. He can hear the melody in his head as clearly as if the band on stage were playing real instruments.

Enough of that dangerous thinking.

The Principal steps up to the middle of the stage. He taps the microphone.

The music stops. Everyone turns to the stage, the breath hitched in everyone's chest.

" _Your attention please. It's time to announce the prom king and queen!"_

Polite applause from everyone. A couple of mimes snicker quietly in the corner.

This is it. He can feel it in his bones; his moment at last.

Sure, he's the underdog. But every dog his day, right?

The Principal makes a big show of opening the envelope, pulling out the sheet of paper; the words too small to read.

There isn't a movement; not even a breath. The Principal reads it again...

His name! The air is filled with cheers and letters. Consonants and vowels and punctuation marks.

He claps his hand to his mouth. He approaches the stage. He climbs the stairs.

They mime shaking hands. The principal mimes a firm, supportive pat on the back.

" _Congratulations."_ he says. _"Would you like to say a few words?"_

The Clown is beaming. He didn't know it was possible to be this happy! He approaches the centre of the stage.

All lights on him. All eyes on him. He leans forward on a podium he can't see.

" _I'd just like to say thank you. Thank you to everyone who voted for me. I just... I never knew this was possible! Thank you! Thank-"_

The bucket of water falls squarely onto his head. Everything goes black. A lapse in concentration; he falls through the empty space before him; collapses into a heap on the floor.

He can't tell if there's any words or laughs or screams out there, or if they're all standing in stunned silence.

He tries to get up; can't find traction. His hands slip on the wet floor the way his father slipped on banana skins.

He scrambles backwards. Lifts the bucket off his head.

He can barely see the crowd for the _H's_ and _A's_.

He takes off the bucket, throws it to one side. Jumps off stage. He runs out of the room. He keeps running. Down the hall, out the building, down the street. He runs until he can't see any words.

He wants silence. No. Not silence. He's so used to calling silence a space free of words that he's forgotten how he felt when he first got here. How everything was quiet

He's forgotten that silence is a space without noise.

He reaches his house. Runs inside, slamming the door behind him. He slams it so hard that he hears it; relishes it. The soundwave reverberates through the room; out into the streets.

He sees windows shattering. The _Beep Beep Beep's_ of invisible car alarms going off.

He heads to the kitchen; grabs two pots. He smashes them together as he ascends the stairs' relishing the cacophony, the charming disasters that follow

The shattering glass of a picture frame. The flare of light from an exploding lightbulb that leaves him in darkness. The violent vibration of the crystal chandelier, the hum as he gets just the right frequency.

The razor sharp rain when it explodes.

He slams his feet down, so powerful they leave inch-deep footprints in the hardwood.

He sees a _creeeeeak_ from under his uncle's door. A stomp, followed by another. He throws the pots to the ground, runs up the rest of the stairs, across the hallway into the bathroom. He slams the door behind him.

He rushes to the sink, looks himself in the eye.

The make-up is running off. A red nose. Red lips, blue eyelids.

He runs the water. Washes his face.

He needs to get it off. Get it _all_ off. Every trace of the lie.

He leans down; pulls off the size eight shoes. His feet unfurl for what feels like the first time in years. He flexes his toes.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_ From the door. _"Young man, you better come out here and explain yourself right now!"_ Emanating from beneath it.

It's funny.

It's so _freaking_ hilarious.

He snorts. The snort turns into a chuckle. The chuckle turns into a full bodied laugh.

The mirror shatters into a million tiny pieces.

By the time his uncle gets through the door, he's gone.

***

"Those Mimes. Those parasites with their blinding silence." The Clown locks his eye with the lens of a camera. He's staring right at the viewer; at every Mime who ever laughed at him. Every Clown who ever felt like they don't belong.

"They look at us, and they see different. Strange. _Wrong_. They try to tell us we're equal, but do you believe that? Do you _really_ believe that Mimes care about you? No. Mimes only care about making you like them; moulding you into their idea of perfection, but perfection is an illusion. You're already a perfect version of who you are. You don't need to be the perfect version of what they want."

His girlfriend, The Clown behind the camera, smiles wickedly. The others in the group stare in awed silence. The Clown raises his air horn.

"Consider this a call to arms. Every Clown that ever felt abused, mistreated, marginalized. Every Clown that ever felt scared to walk down the street without a layer of paint on their skin. Take to the rooftops and scream. Scream _We Are Not Afraid_. Let them know that we won't take it anymore, and now it's their turn to be scared."

"My name doesn't matter. Not to them. I've been reduced to a Clown. They don't care who I am or what I do. What I enjoy. They care that I'm not one of them. We've been reduced to _what_ we are, not _who_ we are, and our only option is to turn that into our weapon! I am a Clown, and I refuse to suffer in silence!" The beep of the camera. The blinking red light blinks off.

Everyone applauds, shouts, screams in joy.

Sounds, not shapes.

The Camera clown stays behind to upload the video. The rest of them take to the streets.

They blast their airhorns into the air, scream into every car window. They whoop as windows shatter. They cheer as invisible cars fly through the air and crash into other invisible cars, vowels and consonants and punctuation marks flying through the air.

Light come on in the apartments. The Clown screams a car into a power line, plunging everything into darkness.

The distinctive _eeeeeeooooooeeeeeeooooooeeeeeeoooooo_ of police cars drift up from behind; small, getting closer. The Clown and his posse run as fast as they can, out to the edge of town.

Their target. That billboard.

The Weathermime.

They climb up the scaffolding, laughing maniacally, spray paint at the ready.

The Policemimes arrive just as they're done; the news reporters flying in their imaginary helicopters, recording it all on make-believe cameras.

They jump to the ground as one; run in different directions. Through twisting alleys and side streets; up fire escapes and into abandoned buildings.

The Clown finds himself in a warehouse at the edge of town. He stays low, sneaking peeks out the window. He sees the mimes circling overhead in their helicopters, driving around in their police cars.

He looks out to the billboard; the weathermime with her red nose, thick red lips, cloud of purple hair, green eyelids.

He starts to laugh.

***

He cautiously leaves the warehouse the next morning.

He doesn't disguise himself. He's sick of disguises. He's so sick of the lies.

A riddle; If you wear the same mask every day, how long until you forget there's a face underneath?

How many of these Mimes are really Mimes?

"We are not afraid." he mutters under his breath.

His mantra.

His battle cry.

He ducks into a diner, sits at the bar; orders a coffee and some waffles.

Four sugars. An entire bottle of syrup.

The entire room is distracted; everyone's silent.

No vowels or consonants or punctuation marks.

They're all watching the television; their faces contortions of emotion; worry, sadness, concern.

" _Police are asking for information on an incident in downtown Mimeville in the early hours of this morning. A radical group of Clowns took to the streets, causing mass property damage, a power outage and vandalized a billboard."_

He feels their accusing eyes. Let them stare. They'd stare at any Clown right about now, it may as well be the one who actually did it

Not that they can tell.

" _Several members of the group have been apprehended, but have remained mostly silent. One Clown did, however, release the following statement:" I dream of a world where we're not forced to conform to your ideals. My people have suffered in silence for too long.""_

The Clown nods approvingly.

He finishes his waffles, drinks his coffee, pays his tab. Steps outside.

He sees the Mimes step cross the road to avoid him. He sees them leer at him as they drive by.

They stare at him the way they stare at deadly animals at the zoo, with a mixture of fear and fascination. All it'd take would be a well placed shout and he could bring their world crumbling down.

He stares them back. He wants them to know, not fear, how dangerous he is.

***

It's getting dangerous, now, to walk the streets.

The Clown stands outside the window of a Pawn Shop, watching the news on a TV in the window. He pulls his hood up, his jacket tight.

" _The President today announced that all Clowns, or those with Clown ancestry, should immediately report to their local police office for relocation. Those that resist will be relocated forcefully. This announcement comes in the wake of a spate of recent acts of vandalism throughout the city."_

The Clown watches in sombre silence.

" _The vandals have caused millions in property damage and, although no lives have been lost..."_

When injustice becomes law...

" _...the recent escalation of the attacks certainly raises the possibility."_

... rebellion becomes duty.

The Mime in the store watches him warily. The Clown sees him reach behind the counter, either for a gun or for a panic button.

Time to go.

The Clown turns and walks away.

He needs to get to the safe house. He needs to meet with the group, discuss tactics. Figure out their next step.

He walks in silence through a sea of judgemental gazes and righteous smiles. He keeps his head held high, meets every eye with a defiant stare. He won't give them the satisfaction of looking away.

He ducks into an alley, heads towards the warehouse district. Just a few more blocks until he's safe. One foot in front of the other until he can figure out his next step.

He hears a scream and stops in his tracks.

Hears, not sees.

He moves close to the wall, peeks around the corner.

The Policemimes are here, just one step ahead.

They're wearing earmuffs, bundling someone into the back of a truck.

A real truck. They must have some scab Clown driver; someonewho sold out his race for the privilege of not being sold out himself.

" _There should be one more."_

The words drift from the doorway of the warehouse. He holds his breath, certain that they'll hear any slight movement of air.

Not just any scab, a scab from inside the organization. It makes sense.

He needs to see. He needs to see the face of the Clown who betrayed him. Just a little closer...

He feels a hand on his shoulder. A real hand.

Another real hand clamps over his mouth.

The Clown pulls him away from the corner, into a dark alley.

His girlfriend.

"You shouldn't have come back."

Barely a whisper.

"What's going on?!"

"We messed up. We just..." she sighs. "When you started this crusade, is this what you wanted?"

"Of course this isn't what I wanted, but it's _necessary_. We're _this_ close. People are actually listening to us, you hear me? _Listening_. Any Clown would be happy to suffer if it means they can be themselves at the end of it."

"You think changing the world is that easy?"

He's about to say something else. Closes his mouth.

"They tracked a bunch of us down last week, right after we wrecked the mayor's car. They said that things are going to get bad. This isn't relocation, alright? This is _extermination_."

"Extermina-"

She cuts him off with a hand over his mouth.

"If we hand the group over, this all blows over. That was the deal. We'll be a public spectacle, they get their bad guys, they let everyone else go."

"You're kidding, right?!"

"I wish I was." She smiles sadly. "There's nothing we can do. We lost. It's over. We may as well save as many people as we can."

"It's not over. There's got to be _something_ we can do."

"This isn't a fairy tale where everyone lives. This is real life.

There has to be a sacrifice."

The Clown slumps against the wall.

"We never needed freedom fighters." she said.

He takes a deep, ragged breath. Screws his eyes tight.

"We need a martyr."

"A martyr..."

His eyes shoot open. He jumps to his feet.

"We're going to run, you hear me? I have a plan."

"It's too late-"

"No!" As loud as he can. The Mimes around the corner must have heard. He grabs her hand and starts to run away, back downtown. They reach Main Street. He turns to her.

"Gather up every Clown you can. Get them up on every rooftop."

"What?! Why?"

He pulls her close. Kisses her; head tilted to one side, tongues intermingling, not touching her as close as he can.

"The battle cry."

***

The only colour beneath the sky stands up.

" _Hands up!"_

He puts his hands up.

" _Turn around and step away from the edge."_

He takes one last look at the city; beautiful, in its own way. He slowly turns around.

There's nowhere to run, now. Maybe there was never anywhere to run at all.

He makes a mock gun from his fingers Puts them against his temple.

"Bang."

He feels a sudden sharp pain, then darkness. He doesn't hear any sounds, doesn't see any vowels or consonants or punctuation marks.

He falls off the edge of the building.

The Police mimes run to the edge look down, watching his body tumble to the ground.

Far below, a group of quick-thinking civilians gather in a wide circle, each holding part of a safety net only they can see.

A safety net only they can feel.

The Clown hits the ground. His body explodes on impact; no blood, bone, clothes, shoes, but something else.

Colour.

A gust of wind races by, catching it in its updraft, carrying it away.

The wind splits, dissipates, racing through the entire city, spreading the colour wherever it goes; raining reds and blues and greens and yellows and purples on the monochrome city and its monochrome inhabitants.

From their vantage point, the Policemimes watch the entire spectacle.

" _In all my life..."_ one mouths. _"...I've never seen anything this beautiful."_

He hears a noise; hears, not sees. He looks up. Gestures to the others.

On the rooftop opposite stands a bunch of Clowns. The rooftop next to it, too. As far as the eye can see, Clowns are standing on the rooftops, chanting. Shouting. Screaming in unison across the silent city as their martyr rains from above.

" _We are not afraid! We are not afraid! We are not afraid!"_

## About Lewis Rees

My name is Lewis Rees. I'm a 23 year old author/filmmaker/screenwriter/teacher. I was one of those kids who always had a book under his nose, and two more close at hand, and all I ever wanted to do was tell stories. I studied film at University to help me achieve this in a new medium.

I live in the city that Dylan Thomas once called "The Graveyard of Ambition". A city nobody ever seems to leave. It is where unemployment is rife and crime is rampant. I have always had dreams that were bigger than this place. I wanted to travel the world, explore new cultures, meet new exciting people, and fiction was, for me, a way to achieve this.

Literature lets us explore our darkest nightmares and most vivid fantasies. It gives a voice to the voiceless, and hope to the hopeless. A book is more than a collection of words that tell a story, it's a doorway to a place where dreams take flight.

My writing is sometimes surreal, sometimes sardonic, but none the less is always interesting.

#  16th Avenue

By

Aaron R. Roberts

In the end there was only one. One to share the entire burden of not knowing what was to come. The explosion had taken his hearing from him. His sense of sight had heightened to the point to that darkness meant nothing to him. He was a strong man in belief but weak in stature; A person of God with the reason and sense of Plato. He shared his life with god but walked alone. His life has been full of disappointment. The right thing done for the wrong reason is still wrong. I can just imagine standing in his offices where his papers slew across his desk, there were schematics of unfinished buildings and paragraph upon paragraphs of whys and hows on subjects I knew nothing about. Now in this asylum for ten years, he just sits in his chair by the window.

Watching, watching for what or for whom. I have been his care provider for the last nine weeks. In transition from his old one to me I have learned a lot of his quirks that makes his world tick. His heart, blood pressure, and psychotic medication is well under control , so my only job to do is to make sure he is up right and stays in his area of confinement.

I am a new graduate from the local college and this is the first job to call me for an interview so I jumped on it. I have a degree in social work with a minor of psychology. I have worked with special needs people all my life and this is no different. I am intending to use this position to complete a set of papers so I can advance in my career. I know it is not right to take advantage of people for personal gain but under these circumstances I do not see the problem.

To learn from someone's life is an honor and not a disgrace. I am sure he will not care either way. From the file I have read on him his doctors have verified him as a walking talking vegetable. Somehow I do not believe it. I see a lot of life left in that statuesque of a man. A once vibrate pillar in the society of architecture, now since the catastrophe he sits and watches out the window like something is going to happen.

We spend our days together. He does his routine and I start doing mine. He moves as the sun does. Moving from window to window just to stay in the light. I sit behind the desk that they provided me on this inside out glass gazebo. I have my journals to write in , my case log to keep current, and his schedule that i need to keep him on.

I know we are not supposed to keep notes or journals on our clients. Invasion of privacy but it keeps us from being accused of neglect or abuse. It lets us keep track of bruises, cuts, falls, slips, and any other trauma. It also lets us keep track of habits and achievements. I have always kept some kind of note book on all of my clients, nine in the past eleven years. No one is ever allowed to stay to long with one person of fear of growing attached on both parts.

It lets us keep track of bruises, cuts, falls, slips, and any other trauma. It also lets us keep track of habits and achievements. I have always kept some kind of note book on all of my clients, nine in the past eleven years. NO one is ever allowed to stay to long with one person. For fear of growing attached on both parts. My most cherished memento is a note that was given to me right before I left my last client.

She was a wonderful woman whose family gave up on her. They placed her in the company's care when they couldn't take care of her to the standard of what she was used to living. She always told me she was just in the way. She gave me this note to give to her son "You know just in case". It read "We can't always be there for each other as much as we would like to, funerals and weddings are just not enough.

We grow up, we grow apart, and we grow away from the life we grew up in. We get married have kids and start lives of our own. Distant in not only in miles, but distant in soul. Something else gets in the way of us doing what we should be doing and that is being with family before it is too late to be more than a memory. I love all my family some more than others but all the same in my own way. We have memories of the way it was and sometimes we want to keep the good ones and not replace them with the not so good ones." Her son never came around. To see her or to realize what he was missing out on either.

I have learnt a lot from the seniors I have taken care of, but this one patient is different. He is not a senior. He is a puzzle I would like to solve, a mystery within himself. I have his medical files but that only answers so much. I have yet to convince him it would be ok to talk to me.

Well I mean type what he wants to say. He tried to talk once but it was unclear what he was trying to say. His name does not matter at this point. A person like this forgets his name. How it sounds on the lips of others. He reads lips and signs some but he is way better at typing what he wants said and how he wants it done.

## Background I would like you to know

16th Avenue is a manuscript that has physically sat on my desk top and has survived every move I have ever made. First started in 1995, it has set in a file folder ever since. I first got the title from a song that just resonates my goal in writing. It is a song written by Thom Schuyler and performed by Lacy J Dalton in 1982.

It's amazing how one little idea can gather dust. It can bounce around in your head, be forgotten about, and then you hear that little jingle that sets the thought process back into motion. This is the start of something great. Here is a taste but where I am going with this will surprise and even shock some of my readers. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I have writing it.

There are very few events in life where words are not appropriate. The imaginations of writers have no boundaries. Normal is just a setting on the dryer in the laundry room for me. I feel that if it can be thought up it should be written about. Either by me or another writer but none the less it is unknown what the pages of any book can hold. Most of the time the content just goes unnoticed, unread, and sideline to take up space on a shelf or a hard drive. I have written about just a few categories and cannot wait to adventure into others. I want to acknowledge Thom Schuyler for composing it and Lacy J Dalton for singing it. Most of my writing comes from little tag lines that someone has said somewhere or another. It's all about the material that comes from a writer's world. Whether it is from myself or another writer, our world most likely ends up on the pages that you the reader read.

#  THEY

By

Jason Wallace

The Robsons, Vernon and Michelle, thought that their new home at 1278 Mobley Lane was everything that they'd ever wanted or needed. It was perfect, with its well-painted, black shudders elegantly announcing the high, neatly-trimmed and embossed windows that pronounced the immense entryway to the spacious, high-ceilinged parlor and living room making it quite the envy of most onlookers. It had a sort of "old-fashioned charm" to it that would not allow the family to let it elude their grasp. It seemed to be exactly what parents with hopes of increasing their fold required, enough to allow comfort while providing ample relaxation, despite its obvious necessity of possibly strenuous upkeep. This was all not to mention that the price was surprisingly low for such a house, making it a steal, though neither Vernon nor Michelle could figure out why no one else had beaten them to it, given its six month tenure on the market.

There was a strange feeling of being welcomed every time that the couple and their children walked through the front door, as if the house itself possessed a spirit all its own and wished the family to enjoin themselves to it. The oddest facet of the situation was that no one had lived in the home in more than ten years, yet it was so well-kept and manicured that one would assume it to have been occupied until the very day that the new owners came upon it. Even the yard and bushes were carefully trimmed. The history of the place, however, was elusive and almost ethereal, carved out of nothingness and making no sense to anyone, no ability to comprehend its real progress of ownership presenting itself. Even the agent showing it had little idea about it all, knowing only that the previous occupant had died years prior, leaving it to "some relative" that, after a number of years, passed it on to "another relative," represented only by "their attorney," this one, living far away and wishing to have nothing to do with it.

All was well, too amazingly well, for nearly a week. Everyone in the house slept soundly, always waking with immeasurable energy and joy, each day seeming brighter and more beautiful than the previous. The children had another month until the school year would begin, and Vernon still had the rest of the current week to finish moving and unpacking before he would be made to come to his new job, the majority reason behind the move from Atlanta to the quiet, little town only a short drive outside of Pittsburg. It was the first time since the birth of Vernon's and Michelle's daughter, Isebelle "issy" Robson, now approaching three-years-old, that a better position with the company became available, Vernon's salary increasing by more than twenty thousand dollars per year. It was the happy, better-provided-for, quiet life that the Robsons longed for and knew that they needed.

None of the family had any reason for complaint or unhappiness from the first moment of moving in. That was, until the second Wednesday, at three-thirty-eight p.m., when Vernon stormed, almost falling, up the basement steps, to find Michelle. "Hon, I found something," Vernon shouted as he entered the kitchen.

Michelle, more joyed than she'd been in many months, busied herself with baking a cake, a small celebration that was overdue, hoping to have it ready to serve immediately after dinner. She really didn't want to be bothered and stolen from her task. "What did you find, Vern?

I'm kinda doin' somethin' here. Can it wait?"

"You have to see it," Vernon demanded, still attempting to catch his breath from the shock and complete riddance of his theretofore serenity.

"I'll see whatever it is later, Babe," Michelle informed her husband, never bothering to look in his direction.

"No! You have to come downstairs with me! NOW," Vernon shouted, loudly enough that it caused Mikel, his seven-year-old son, to jolt his head upward, having been, thus far, entranced with his toy cars, making them race and crash on the hardwood of the living room floor.

Michelle trusted that Issy would remain napping in her room, no sounds having emerged from there in nearly an hour, though she wasn't as sure that she could leave Mikel unattended. "Mikey, come with me," Michelle calmly urged, grabbing her son by his hand, guiding him from his seated posture.

The boy's soft, blue eyes flushed a look of deep confusion and fear, fear that he had done something wrong and was to now be punished. "Why, Mommy?"

"Daddy wants to show me something, Honey, and I can't leave you here by yourself. I promise you can go back to playing with your cars in a little bit."

Vernon, nearly posed in stoic immovability, slowly ventured toward the door leading to the basement stairs, pulling the chain to the lone stairwell light and ordering his wife to watch her head. Vernon was the only one to inspect the basement, Michelle and Mikel left to wonder what it could possibly be that had issued such alarm. Soon, another light cord was pulled, lighting so little of the darkened rooms that Michelle mused over having Vernon add a few more vessels of luminance to the place. At last, the others were taken to a secluded room, it being the only one sequestered to itself, almost hidden in the back of the large confines, sheltered by a lone, sliding door; however, it was much better lit than all others.

"What," Michelle asked, her eyes attempting to readjust after walking through near dark and now, into bright light.

"There," Vernon stated, pointing to the back wall of the room. "That."

"A painting," Michelle asked, more confused than she'd been before that moment.

"Look at it. What do you see?"

Before Michelle could utter a response of any kind, Mikel interrupted, raising his hand violently in the direction of the picture, "It looks like me, Daddy!"

"Holy sh... I mean, wow," Michelle exclaimed, realizing who was in her presence. "It does look a lot like Mikey." Adding a smile that brought a small strike of pain from its exuberant pull on so many muscles, Michelle added, "So cherubic."

"Cherubic? Really? You call that cherubic," Vernon shouted, feeling overwhelmed, as if his breath were leaving him entirely.

"Are you saying our son isn't a little angel," Michelle boomed.

"No, but that panting sure as h... heck isn't. It's creepy, kind of haunting. Look at the eyes." With a gulp, Vernon attempted further remonstrance of his wife's acclaims but couldn't find voice to issue any.

"Ok. So, there's a painting in this house that somewhat looks like our son. It's a strange coincidence at most. It's interesting, really. Let's go back upstairs now. I have work to do." Vernon didn't want to follow the command of his wife but knew that he had minimal grounds on which to stand.

Vernon would have to show the painting to someone else and convince them that it was all more than just a mere coincidence since Michelle would obviously hold no belief in it. He was now certain that he could not enter the basement, unless it was to destroy the painting, or, if he didn't, to no more than show the painting to someone else. He would have been happy simply sealing off the room and leaving the painting to occupy its place with no further disturbances to it, taking his monetary loss from subtraction of square footage, but the house was priced so low that it didn't seem to matter much anyway.

As Michelle hurried to fix coffee and continue her baking, having already deposited Mikel back among his toys, Vernon strode outside, dashing quickly to the garage to unhide his cigarettes from within one of his toolboxes. Michelle disapproved of smoking, especially by her husband, necessitating the habit to be quit from view, at all costs. Since moving, Vernon smoked no more than two cigarettes a day, still wanting to be done with it all soon, but now, he felt as though he might smoke the rest of the pack before going back inside. There was something eerie about that painting, and with it, about the house, something that hadn't been seen, he and his wife too eager to take such a great bargain. So many questioned ran through his mind. "Why has nobody lived here in so long? How was the place so well-kept if it's passed through so many hands? Who is the boy in the painting? Why would it be hung in the basement, in that room? Why wouldn't someone get rid of it? Why was it hidden?" Vernon knew that he had to answer some of these things if he were to make peace with everything. He wondered if it had not all been a great mistake to buy the house and move into it. After two cigarettes and thoughts of having a third, Vernon secreted the remainder of his stash in the bottom of the toolbox and headed back into the house to see when dinner would be ready.

Little was said the rest of the day, though Michelle tried, many times, to engage Vernon in speech. His mind was always somewhere else, thinking about the painting and why it was in the house. Perhaps, he told himself, there was no way to know why it was there or anything about it at all, and it would have to be given away or dismantled in some way. There was absolutely no allowance of leaving it where it was, or leaving it anywhere on the property, for that matter.

That night, Michelle went easily to sleep, though Vernon had little chance of it himself, lying in bed awake, staring at the ceiling, the same daunting questions racing in his mind. At times, he was sure that he heard Mikel talking to someone, but he tried, again and again, to silence this thought. At most, Mikel was probably talking to himself or to an imaginary friend. That was all that it could be, Vernon told himself. It meant nothing.

At last, Vernon's eyes closed, sleep approaching more and more, finally, the entirety of his body lost in restful bliss, though he, from time to time, shook, startling awake more than once. When he awoke a second time, he saw, in the dismal black of the room, two small eyes peering back at him. It could only be Mikel, he knew, unless he were dreaming. "Mikel, what are you doing in here?"

"Daddy, Charlie says that you need this."

"Need what, and who's Charlie," Vernon asked, panting a bit in worry but not wanting to wake Michelle.

"I have a knife. Charlie says you need it. The bad people are coming."

"Who is Charlie, Mikel?"

"He's my new friend. He talks to me."

"Mikel, go back to bed. You've been dreaming."

"No, Daddy. I haven't been to sleep. Charlie said I should give you this if the bad people come."

"Mikel," Vernon huffed, unsure if he could continue the dialogue, debating with his young son any longer. "Go back to bed, but give me that knife." As Vernon reached his hand outward to take the knife from Mikel, he felt his forearm being sliced deeply.

"Charlie says the bad people are here."

"Mikel, you cut me! Why did you do that," Vernon steamed, jumping from bed, grasping his arm with his other hand, not knowing if he were bleeding profusely or not. "Michelle! Michelle! Wake up! Wake the hell up!"

"It was the bad people, Daddy," Mikel cried, his sobs growing in volume and immensity though seeming to possibly not even be real.

"Mikel, stop with this bad people stuff! You just cut me! What is wrong with you?! GO TO BED NOW! IN THE MORNING, WE'RE GONNA TALK ABOUT THIS!" With a loud stomp, Vernon made his order clear, Mikel trudging back to his bedroom, though his sobs were now very much real.

The stomp succeeded in waking Michelle from her slumber, the lamp next to her now being flicked on, the light from it dancing off of the woman's brown locks. Her eyes, on the other hand, much the same color as her hair, were equally as shielded from the sight of her husband by their dreariness and the owner's wont of keeping them opened.

"What is going on," Michelle ordered, situating herself against the headboard of her bed.

"Mikel, he cut me," Vernon screamed, now seeing that the knife had entered his flesh enough to send voluminous amounts of red fluid spewing everywhere, a great measure of it having already seeped through the fingers clasping against it.

"He... he cut you? Little Mikey cut you," Michelle asked, still unable to fully fathom the matter at hand.

"Yes! He had a knife, and he cut me!"

Michelle had little urge to deal with the accusation that she was sure had to have come from a bad dream. With a quick turn from her husband and immediate sight of the carnage before her, her face turned ashen white, she scurrying more into the headboard, now sitting completely upright, staring into the bleak realization of what had occurred during her sleep. "What?! How did he get a knife? Why did he have a knife?!"

"Like I know," Vernon screamed, growing hoarse from so much of it.

"Ok. Ok. Mikey cut your arm because why?"

"Like I said, I DON'T KNOW!"

"No. No. No. There was a reason. What did he say?"

"Something about his new friend Charlie telling him he should give me the knife in case 'the bad people come.' I don't know what the hell that means!"

Without another word said, Michelle sprang from bed, running to the bathroom for alcohol and bandages, paying little attention to the groans of Vernon as the liquid was poured onto his gaping wound. "You're gonna have to go the E.R., Vern. That's pretty deep. You'll need stitches."

"Great," Vernon moaned, barely audible, his list of problems now much bigger.

The kids were snatched from their rooms and hurried into the family S.U.V., Michelle speeding to the nearby hospital to see to her husband's treatment, hoping that there weren't any cops watching the roads.

Luckily, there weren't, at least, not in her path.

After three hours, the family was once again loaded into the family vehicle and now brought back home, a screaming Issy put to bed while a very confused Mikel questioned what had happened. "Mommy, it was the bad people. I didn't do it. Daddy keeps saying I did it, but it wasn't me. A bad man did it."

"Ok, Honey. Go to sleep, "Michelle urged. Vernon left the task to her, not wanting to have it placed at his feet, knowing that he might snap at his son if it were, but Michelle wondered if she could do more than shrug it all away. Mikel, she was certain, needed help, professional, psychiatric help. That would have to be dealt with accordingly very soon, but whether or not it would do any good and how to get the boy's cooperation seemed to be fleeting knowledge.

It was now six a.m., and though not enough sleep had been gained, the day had begun, now too unlikely that more sleep could be gotten or that it was a good idea. Coffee was made while Vernon headed to the garage for a cigarette to calm his nerves.

"Where do you think you're going," Michelle beckoned.

"The garage."

"Let me guess. You have a stash there, huh?"

"Maybe, I do. So what?! I need one after this!" Vernon's announcement was cold, callous, unflinching. Michelle's words usually convinced him of familial burdens and that she was the one holding the family together, her orders to be followed, without question, though Vernon found numerous ways, often, without Michelle's knowing, of appearing to follow those orders while doing what he wanted to do.

With blood-stricken white t-shirt and his wavy, blondish-brown hair matted and caked in sweat and still more of the blood, it flying so much around the bedroom that its places of landing had been unseen, Vernon stormed off to the back of the garage, trembling with anger and fear. He was afraid of what was happening to his son, and especially, of what might still happen. He, too, had reached the same conclusion as his wife, that Mikel needed mental evaluation at the hands of a well-trained and experienced doctor.

Staring down at the fourteen stitches in his right forearm, Vernon haphazardly yanked the tray from his toolbox to reveal his much-sought tobacco-filled friends, ripping one from its pack and happily lighting it, taking in deep drag after deep drag until it had been finished, feeling much better and not in absolute need of another. Now, he could have coffee with Michelle and maybe even a little bit of food before showering and making some kind of arrangement to get immediate help for Mikel. It surely would not be a good day, but at least, it could be better dealt with now.

Much to the joy of Mike's parents, there was a psychiatrist one town away that was willing to see him early that afternoon, squeezing him in over his usual lunch hour. After nearly an hour of sitting in a very drab seating area, Vernon and Michelle were whisked into Dr. Cardroy's office to discuss the problems facing their son, Mikel to be watched by the doctor's receptionist while he played with the few small toys brought from home.

"Mr. and Mrs. Robson," the doctor began, motioning for both to take a seat across from him, "I don't specialize in child psychology, and frankly..." Pausing long enough to gather his thoughts and scratch his head, his scarce amount of mostly-gray curls peering up from the sides while only thin patches evidenced elsewhere, he continued, a deep breath taken after closing his eyes for a moment, "I... I haven't seen something quite like this before. You could say that Mike's case is similar to what you might see in some adults, and that's why I can say what I'm about to say, though... though signs like his don't normally manifest themselves until much later. I spoke to Mikel about this Charlie and about him cutting you. He also said that a bad man did it, that it wasn't him, and he doesn't remember it at all, that he wasn't even there. He only knows what happened from what Charlie told him and from your words, Mr. Robson. Your son displays symptoms of

Dissociative Disorder."

"What is that," Michelle questioned, growing as ashen as she had upon first seeing Vernon's wound.

"It's what used to be called MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder. This Charlie and the 'bad man' that Mikel speaks of seem to be early issuances of alters, or, other personalities. He could go years without anything else happening and then, one day, just snap, as another person. There's no telling what will happen and when, but if something isn't done soon, it will likely get much worse. Usually, these kinds of things go unnoticed for a very long time because they're chalked up to a child having imaginary friends, having tantrums or anger problems, and a number of other things that only mask what is really happening. Rarely, do you hear of a child doing something like what Mikel did and saying what he said. Had he only cut you, Mr. Robson, there might be no real reason to suspect what I'm telling you, but his words, in accompaniment of his actions, are enough to prove the high likelihood of the condition; however, this condition is, most often, brought about by extreme trauma. Has there been anything, rather, has Mikel experienced anything out of the ordinary, anything tremendous, scarring, if you will?"

"No. No, not at all," Michelle eagerly chimed, utterly shocked by Dr. Cardroy's words, unable to fathom them enough to make any real sense of things.

"Pardon my directness, Madam, but could there have been sexual molestation done to your son or severe physical abuse at the hands of a relative or family friend? These are the likeliest of causes, and I am not accusing either of you of having done these things. They are often committed by trusted others, an uncle, an aunt, a grandparent, a friend, someone that you would have allowed to be very close to your son, even a babysitter."

"No. No one," Michelle exclaimed, somewhat offended.

"Very well then," the doctor replied, looking pitifully saddened, truly concerned for the welfare of Mikel. "Bring Mikel back here weekly, if you can, and I will continue to evaluate him, though he might do better to be seen by a child psychologist that I could refer you to. I've dealt with similar cases, but always in adults. I have a wonderful colleague in the city, Samantha Hardeman. She's very good and is one of the foremost in her area. I could make a call to her, but if you would like, I could continue to see Mikel. It's up to you. I would feel much more comfortable were he to see Dr. Hardeman, however. She is much better at dealing with severe childhood disorders."

"Let's see how Mikel does for now, and I'll bring him back to you next week," Michelle sullenly agreed. "If he really is as bad as you think, maybe, we'll take him to see Dr. Hardeman."

For the rest of the day and even that night, Mikel seemed to be his old self, no new occurrences evident, not even so much as the appearance of him speaking to anyone but his parents, or, occasionally, to his baby sister, no sounds emanating from his room after being put in his bed.

Michelle thought that it might have all been a fluke, not like anything that the doctor claimed it all to be, Mikel, instead suffering from some sort of memory loss or just fibbing to not get into trouble. Vernon, however, thought that it might all go much deeper, that there might be much more to the house and to the painting than there seemed to be to Michelle. Perhaps, he thought, there was something in the house, maybe even forces that could not be readily explained, causing Mikel to do what he had done. One way or another, the painting was coming down from the basement wall, and it would be burned, no matter who or what attempted to stand in Vernon's way of ridding his family of the curse it brought.

It weighed on Vernon's mind, taunting him. As much as he wanted to get some sleep, to recuperate from recent difficulties and strains, he knew that he could only perform his realized duties in absence of watchful eyes, though it would require going into the basement late at night, with very little light to aid him, and quite possibly, alerting neighbors when he started a fire in his backyard. Sooner than he knew what he was doing, Vernon was in the basement, every light behind him brought to purpose. When the last of the cords was pulled before nearing the back room, it was plain to see that some shadowy figure scurried in the background, somewhere close to the wall containing the sliding door, lurking and bustling behind small barricades of shelving and boxes, boxes that had never been opened by their new owners. The light directly behind Vernon quickly burst, a great shattering sending fragments of glass through the air all around him, some of it striking him in the neck and back of the head, causing small cuts.

Vernon, now planted evermore in his set work, flew to the room, flipping the lone switch in all of the basement that brought almost blinding light. His mouth went agape as he looked upon the painting for the first time in nearly a day and a half. The beautiful, though perplexing smile of the boy had changed to a furrow, the eyes dashing with fire, as if the painting contained the spirit of its subject, or, at least, was under the control of such. Vernon ripped the piece from the wall, no longer caring about the outcome or doing so or the possibility of angering whoever it was living in his house, without his consent.

Though the rest of the basement was darker than usual, almost too much of it pervading everywhere for its traveler to tread, Vernon ran, with great fury, toward the steps, feeling, all the while, as if he might be grabbed at any moment and stopped, maybe even put permanently from this world. Whatever was there with him, he hoped, could not bring itself into the light, what little remained. That was the sense, the unspoken oath that Vernon somehow believed, though not understanding why, deep in his heart, must be confining the evil of the house, only to spring forth in sheer darkness to do its dirtiest of aims. The painting was clutched desperately in Vernon's left arm, dragging its immense frame up the stairs, plodding and banging as it went, it being nearly the height of most men.

Already, the cursed thing was far from its earlier emplacement, brought into the reaches of the living, to be displaced and disgraced from its hold and hoped enthronement, upon the cold wall in the depths below. A freakishly bitter wave of fright washed over Vernon as he exited the stairwell, seeing that he had left but only small sheerings of light to visit the wanderings of the lower level of the house, seeming hardly enough to force back the presence of danger. Thankfully, the side door to the house was only four feet from that of the basement, some hearty addition the house added by one of its later residents. The old entrance, the stereotyped double, wooden doors, placed at an angle over stone steps, leading from the outside, had been forever stamped shut by something appearing to be mortar, cement, or maybe even the hand of some other unmentioned being.

In no time at all, Vernon had the painting face down on the ground, scampering back from the garage with a can of gasoline and a box of matches, set to finally perform a requirement that would fill him with utmost glee if successful. Masses of the flammable mixture were poured upon the painting, soaking it through, sure to bring a terrible end to the horrid thing beneath it. With a lit match in hand, Vernon felt perfectly ready to rid his family of their wretched state that they had never welcomed nor been made fairly aware of, dipping himself low to push the flame close to the wetted wood surrounding the most awful working within it.

"You cannot do that," a voice bellowed from somewhere nearby, bringing Vernon to stand and look to his left, witnessing that his sevenyear-old son now stood in the doorway of the backmost entrance to the house.

"Go back to bed, Mikel. I have something to do, and you don't need to see it."

"Do as you wish, and you will never find peace, Vernon Robson!"

"Mikel, I said to go to bed! Get out of here," Vernon screamed, pointing furiously toward the door that Mikel had not completely stepped out of, unprepared to give heed to his father's order. "You were told to be ready for them. Do not destroy that which binds them, as I can no longer remain and give protection if you do."

Vernon now believed the truth of his son's words, though this was not most formidable in his mind but only sunken to the nethermost of surreal existence, the plane of all faith, hope, despair, and anguish, tucked away, so far removed from conscience that it only whispers its fountains in minutest of degrees. The thinking and doubting part of Vernon questioned it all and fretted that the doctor's words might be the one, absolute truth in the horrible business of affairs of late. "Mi...

Mike... Mikel, go back to bed!"

"Foolish man, do you not know that I only inhabit this vessel?! Remove yourself from that which you now seek to do, or pay dire consequence! THEY will fall upon you soon enough!"

"Vessel," Vernon questioned, though more to himself than to Mikel or whoever it was that stood in the doorway. A sudden and overwhelming need to flip the painting over for one last look overtook Vernon. He didn't know why he needed to see it, but it must be done. More and more, the image came into better view, each second enveloping the man with chaotic spasms of inner turmoil, disgustedly afraid of what he saw and what it meant. Instead of a front-facing Mikel, looking intently and outwardly into all beyond his enclosure, the painting now revealed a still-present Mikel, though now facing to the side, opposite the infuriated gaze of his father, both seemed at odds with one another. "What the hell is this," Vernon screamed, loud enough that it woke the couple in the next house.

"You have been chosen," replied the voice of Mikel. "You have become vessel to continue their course. That which you seek to destroy is all that steadies the barrier between their world and yours. In darkness, they overcome. In absence of light shone from image, they are supreme."

It was all too much for Vernon to comprehend or give much weight to, though some of it sallied out from that remote vestige of his soul, a little more real now than moments earlier; however, before he could trigger any more belief, a mighty scream rang from the upstairs of the house, Michelle calling her husband's name.

As Vernon brushed past Mikel, he felt a shock to his skin, almost an electrical charge. Each step, though fast spent, brought a great shake, as though something attempted to force its way inside of Vernon's body. The stairs leading to the second floor were taken two at a time, Vernon rushing into his bedroom to find that Michelle was not there. He hurried back into the hall and around the corner to find his wife standing outside of Issy's room, pulling violently on the knob of the door as a terrible noise was heard coming from inside, sounding like a small thunder, with brushing of carpet by many and small voices bursting in some strange chorus that sent chills rocketing up and down her spine. "What's the matter?"

"The door is locked! The damn door is locked! I can't get in, and I heard Issy giggling and talking to someone! Someone is in there with our daughter!"

After giving the door several sharp kicks, Vernon succeeded in gaining entrance to the room. Issy sat, encompassed by the dull glow of her teddy bear nightlight, in a small semi-circle, surrounded by several dark and intangible shapes, working endlessly to move into the small fixture around the girl. As Vernon began to enter the room, he was grabbed forcefully by the hand of his son. "I told you. THEY are here! They are strong in darkness, more than you and more in number than us all."

"How do I get in there?"

"You must offer yourself in her stead. If you are willing sacrifice to their will, THEY will leave her be."

"Vernon," Michelle briskly heralded, nudging her husband's hand,

"You can't be serious about this! There has to be some other way!

This doesn't even make any sense!"

"I have to, Meesh. I have to. I have to get them away from Issy. I have no choice."

"It has to be him," Charlie informed Michelle, though, to her, Charlie was still Mikel, now requiring help more than ever before, only, his madness had overtaken his father, leaving her to wonder if there were not some genetic disposition to insanity.

Vernon stepped slowly into the darkness filling the majority of Issy's bedroom, walking carefully to the place where the foremost of the things still ventured to gain hold of the child. "I'm yours. If you want me that bad, go ahead! Leave her alone!"

Michelle had hardly been able to see the shadowy figures, though to Vernon, they had been as clear as if they were living entities, full of flesh, bone, and blood. All that the confused woman could see was her husband being shaken to and fro, as if having a seizure, while her toddler daughter remained in her small fencing of light, watching helplessly as her father was being gripped completely by uncontrollable strength of some unfathomable ministers of devious multitude, all fighting for first entrance and power, nearly to be ripped asunder. The girl's mouth hung open, her deep breaths barely overpowered by her whisperings of, "Daddy."

Soon, Charlie strode to Issy's side, lifting her from the floor, carrying her safely back into the ample magnitude of illumination beyond the door, now only to watch the remainder of what occurred. "We must go. She cannot stay here," Charlie/Mikel stated, rather calmly, without looking up at Michelle, the girl in his arms placed against his shoulder as he massaged and patted.

"What's going to happen to him," Michelle asked, not taking her eyes off of the ordeal, Vernon still being pulled from one side to the other, turning in such tremendous manner that he looked to be almost spun around and around, despite his legs and feet remaining where they had been the entire time.

"THEY will do all they can to inhabit him, warring among themselves for primal place. If he survives, he will be their tool for great evil. If we stay, I may no longer be able to protect you and your children. We must leave in haste, but the painting must go with us. It is the only chance."

"The... the painting," Michelle breathed in exasperation. "I don't want to go down there."

"It is not there. He sought to destroy it. It is outside of this house. You must get it and take it. I will take her and wait. You must hurry before they finish their fight. Go now!"

Michelle knew not if she should cry for the fate of her husband or simply give herself over to the suggestions of her son, at least, as much as she hoped that he still was. She wondered where Mikel was if there were really truth to this sudden and painful circumstance, what was done with him while his body was taken over by this other person. What if he were, actually, possessed only by that great illness spoken of by Dr. Cardroy, she asked aloud as she ran through the doorway and into the backyard. Part of her wanted to turn back and comfort her husband and children, to let it all go as everyone but her needing a doctor's assistance, but she had seen too much to believe that it could all be that simple. She hardly realized that she was outside in only a nightshirt and underwear, having not had time or reason, before going to Issy's room, to put on pants, and since then, having gone nowhere near the front door, where everyone's shoes were kept.

Michelle ran frantically around the house, with the painting in her arm, not taking time to view it, hurrying to her car, thinking that she would have to re-enter the house and risk her own safety in order to get her keys. She felt ever so thankful that Mikel stood next to the car, holding Issy's hand in his right and the keys in his left. The painting was thrown swiftly into the back of the car, its thrower still not bothering to look at it, she planning only to speed away toward parts unknown, perhaps, to the police station, though they would surely not believe her story, or, perhaps, to her mother's house, more than four hundred miles away. It didn't matter, as long as she and her kids got far away from that house, but what was to happen to Vernon was a mystery, and the very thought of leaving him, leaving him to his abhorred state, bereft Michelle of all sense of calm and joy. Maybe, she hoped, he would find some way of reaching her very soon, somehow, as impossible as that really was. Maybe, it was all a bad dream. Maybe, it was the blistering visitation of Vernon's and Mikel's mental failings combining at once. She had no clue what it was, but enough had been done to merit getting away before something worse happened.

As Michelle started the car and began to drive away, Mikel sat, unfastened as he was, turning to look at the house, demanding,

"Where's Daddy?!" In the back, the painting faded from its display of Vernon and Mikel to one only of Vernon, now holding a sinister smile and blackened eyes upon a ghostly-white face. In the background of it all, Mikel reappeared, one image flashing to another, the boy pulling his father backward, all erased thereafter to leave only a blank canvas.

## About Jason Wallace

Jason Wallace is a self-published Indie author from the Midwest. After his divorce, he attended graduate school, earning an M.A. in American and European History. In his free time, he writes avidly, in a range of genres, including poetry. Jason has been writing for twenty years, beginning in junior high but has only published since 2011. His ultimate goal is to one day gain enough recognition for his work to garner a publishing deal; however, he enjoys the craft for its inherent benefits of self-exploration, creative outlet, and the joy it brings to others. He loves sculpting new characters that hopefully readers can identify with and love reading about as much as Jason enjoys creating them.

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#  The Monument Valley Masters Challenge Race

By

Patrick Furlong

This story received inspiration from the episode "Challenge of the Masters" from the 1980's cartoon series MASK. Fan fiction is not to be determined as any infringement on copyrights intended.

## PROLOGUE

It was mid afternoon in Washington DC. Captain Matthew Bryden, US Air Force, stepped out of his car carrying a briefcase following a meeting at the Pentagon. He was on his way to a nearby cafe to meet his wife. The roar of a motorcycle could be heard as it sped towards Captain Bryden. The driver pointed a gun with a silencer on and fired. As the Captain fell, the rider reached and grabbed the briefcase the man was holding and rode away. As the area was unusually empty, no-one noticed a thing.

Two miles away, in a disused alley, the rider wiped any incriminating evidence from the gun. He then ejected the magazine from the gun before dumping it in a nearby bin. Then he forced open the briefcase and searched it before finding what he was looking for – a SD card which he heard contained details of the new Thunderbolt missile. The man dumped the briefcase in another bin before pocketing the card.

As he drove over a bridge, he discreetly dumped the gun's magazine over the side. With a small splash, it hit the water.

< \- >

The man returned to his workplace. It was a fabrication company who was regularly hired to create trophies. Standing on the main workbench was the trophy for the upcoming Monument Valley Masters Challenge Race. It was almost finished but it needed fitting to it's base.

He saw a perfect opportunity to hide the card. He took the base which had already been prepared. A saw was picked up and a small hole was cut out of the base. Futher cutting saw the segment of base made a little bit smaller. Using a tiny piece of adhesive glue, he stuck the SD card to the piece of wood cut from the base. He then put the piece of wood back into the base, then fitted the base onto the main base. On this base was a plaque onto which the winner's name could be engraved at a moment's notice. His boss was going to go to take a portable engraving machine to engrave the winner's name onto the trophy on site.

## Chapter One

## The Bank Robbery

Former US Marshall Matthew Drewa looked at the scene of the crime – one of the biggest banks in Chicago, Illinois has just been robbed by what eye witnesses had said was a group of people in a bus from London, England. Mr. Drewa had retired from the force after 30 years and set up a freelance security company with his granddaughters. If he hadn't know of a terrorist group who actually did use such a bus, he would have thought they had all been drinking. It was because he knew this group worked, thanks to him perusing them in his time as a US Marshall, that he had been brought in by the FBI as a consultant.

Mr. Drewa looked around the bank. Witnesses mentioned a giant rocket launcher, an elderly witness referred to it as a howitzer something similar to the ones he had seen in Germany during World War 2.

"The strange thing is," a bank official, called Miss Turner said, "they only robbed the contents of three specific safety deposit boxes. We don't normally get our customers to register what they put in these boxes, but due to the nature of these items, we requested our client note down what they were depositing, for insurance purposes." She passed a list over to Mr. Drewa who looked it over.

"You were storing the Vanderliere collection here?" Mr. Drewa asked in surprise. The Vanderliere collection was a collection of priceless diamonds, together worth over $100 million. Owned by one of the richest families in Germany, they had been brought over for an exhibition. They were put in three randomly selected boxes. Miss Turner told Mr. Drewa that only six people knew they were there and which boxes they were in. She gave Mr. Drewa a list and he looked over it.

"Magenta Bartlett." He said, seeing a name on the list.

"She's one of our most trusted employees." The official countered.

"She's a member of the Viper criminal group," Mr. Drewa argued, "she probably told the Vipers they were here."

A forensic expert walked up to Mr. Drewa.

"It appears the boxes were not forced," she told him, "whoever emptied the boxes had the keys."

Mr. Drewa turned to the bank official and asked her who held the keys to the boxes.

"I keep one set of keys in a safe in my office," Miss Turner said, "the others are held by Ms. Bartlett, in a safe in her office."

"Can both sets of keys be accounted for?" Mr. Drewa asked.

Miss Turner led Mr. Drewa to her office. She showed him the safe and keyed in a five digit code which opened the safe. She then took out a set of keys and showed him the specific keys for the boxes. Mr. Drewa was then led to Magenta Bartlett's office. Miss. Turner knocked the door before trying it. The office was empty.

"Strange, Magenta should be here right now." Miss Turner said. She led Mr. Drewa to the safe and keyed in another five digit number.

"As her manager, I have an override code for the safe." She said as it opened. She looked inside for the keys before looking at Mr. Drewa, "the keys are gone."

"Is there a log of when the safe was opened and when Ms Bartlett checked in and out?" he asked.

He was led to the security office where Miss Turner went to a computer and looked up the information. "All employees are suppose to log out when leaving the building."

"Well?" Mr. Drewa asked.

"The safe in Magenta's office was opened at 9:43 this morning and she checked out of the building at 9:50." Miss Turner said, "It sees I owe you an apology Mr. Drewa."

"This has the Vipers all over it," Mr. Drewa said to his wife that evening, "only Matthew Bracca would be mad enough to rob a bank in broad daylight using a bus." He was sitting in his favourite chair at the dining table with their cat Princess curled up on his lap.

"Old Mattie always did have a few screws loose," his granddaughter Annabelle said, brining a big bowl of one of her patented home-made pasta meals to the table. She and her sister Samantha were staying with their favourite grandparents while their own parents were in New Zealand, their father consulting on a major project which involved his talents. The Drewas always had plenty of fun with their grandchildren, the main order of the day was always tickles when Mr. Drewa and Samantha would gang up on Mrs. Drewa and tickle her until she surrendered. Annabelle would look on, deciding if to laugh, join in or stop them. In the end, she would always try to stop them.

"What can be done about him?" Mrs. Drewa asked.

"Nothing," Mr. Drewa answered grimily, "the Police won't touch him. They require positive proof of his involvement before they arrest him." He was so distracted by the thought of the crook, Princess jumped onto the table and stuck her nose into Mr. Drewa's food. She was a fan of Annabelle's pasta meals, especially when it had melted cheese on it.

"Gramps," Samantha began, reading an e-mail on her computer tablet, "have you heard about the theft of plans for a new missile, codenamed _Thunderbolt_? I've got an e-mail from one of my contacts. A memory card containing these plans were stolen and the thief has been selling the details of how to obtain the card. It appears the card is hidden in the trophy for the Monument Valley Masters Challenge Race."

"Baby Tickles," Mrs. Drewa said, using her favourite nickname for Samantha, "We don't use computers when we're eating dinner."

"I know grandma, but I felt gramps should know about this." Samantha countered, turning off the tablet and closing its case.

"I heard about the theft, but what can we do?" Mr. Drewa asked, still not noticing Princess eating his food.

"You said _Drewa & Granddaughers_ were providing security for the event," Samantha continued, "how about we have someone race and try to win. The plans will be very enticing for Matthew and the Vipers, even if they lose, they will attempt to steal it. Annabelle can be our driver, while the two of us keep an eye out on things at the event. It will be a chance to catch old Mattie red-handed and all your Christmases will come at once." Annabelle and Samantha had dipped into their trust funds to help Mr. Drewa start _Drewa & Granddaughters_ while Mr. Drewa had used a lump sum from his US Marshall's pension.

"That is a good idea," Mr. Drewa said, "I don't know why I never thought of that."

"No," Mrs. Drewa said firmly, "I am not having my Pasta Baby race another car for you or anyone else. Have you not forgotten what happened last time?"

She was referring to a race that took place just after Annabelle and Sam turned 18. Annabelle had decided to take part in a race in order to win a $250,000 prize pot, which she had intended to use as a retirement nest-egg for her grandparents. However, when Matthew Bracca tried to cheat and attempted to ram her off the road, she crashed and her legs were crushed by rocks. She was also in danger of a landslide. In order to save her before the landslide, she had to have an emergency on the spot operation to amputate both her legs, just above the knee. The medical bills nearly bankrupted the Drewa's but friends and other family stepped in to help.

"Don't worry dear," Mr. Drewa said, liking the idea, "we will make arrangements to keep Belle safe and we'll rope in a few other people to race for us too."

"Alright," Mrs. Drewa said, "but if anything happens to her, there will be the hell to pay."

Mr. Drewa knew his wife meant business. He picked up his knife and fork and went to eat his food when he saw most of it was gone. Princess the cat was sitting next to it, licking her lips, then her paw, rubbing her lips with it. He gave the cat to his wife, then put some food from the bowl on his plate and began to eat.

## Chapter Two

## Racing Preparation

Nr. Saddleback Mountain, entrance Monument Pass,

Monument Valley

Two weeks later, a small arena had been set up at the entrance to Monument Pass, which was the way into Monument Valley. There were two rows of spectator stands, plus a podium for Miss. Parker, the woman who ran the race. Both cars and motorcycles were taking part in the race. By agreement, Annabelle was riding her specially adapted motorcycle, which took her disabilities into account.

In the pit stop, while the motorcycle was being fuelled, Annabelle could see many additions to the vehicle. She would be riding her pride and joy – a Honda CM 500, a 21st birthday present from Mr & Mrs Drewa. It had a custom paint job, it was mostly purple, Annabelle's favourite colour but had blue racing strips in various places. Among the additions was a small tube attached to the side of the motorcycle. Mr. Drewa told her that it was a very special weapon. Annabelle looked at him with amusement. In his spare time, he liked to come up with very unusual gadgets, most of which never worked.

"This will work, I promise you," Mr. Drewa told her. He also promised her that after the race, the additions could be removed. Annabelle then noticed a holster, painted to blend in with the rest of the bike. On closer inspection, she saw it contained a shotgun. She figured Mr. Drewa had put it there for defence, although not telling his wife about it as he knew how squeamish she was about guns being in reach of her precious granddaughters.

"What are the roads like gramps?" Annabelle asked.

"Mostly normal roads, but most are dust track roads. There is one which the organisers had to spend months negotiating for the use of for the race, normally no-one is permitted there except by special permission from tribal council."

Samantha helped Annabelle into her driving costume, hidden by some blinds. The logo – based on Princess the cat, showed that she was being sponsored by _Drewa & Granddaughters_.

Mrs. Drewa walked over. In a special carrier she was wearing that Samantha had made was Princess the cat, purring. Annabelle reached over and tickled her under the chin. She looked in complete bliss.

At another part of the pit area, two Viper agents – Magenta Bartlett and Frenchman Pierre DuPont were plotting how best to win the race. Magenta was driving a modified C4 Chevrolet Corvette. She had painted it in similar colours Annabelle had used on her motorcycle, the woman herself having natural dark hair but with a red streak in most of it.

"The trick to defeating Annabelle Drewa is to expect the unexpected!" Magenta said, she and Annabelle were old school friends.

"The trick is to make her suffer, then destroy her!" DuPont countered in his drawling French accent.

## Chapter Three

## The Race Begins

The race organiser Miss. Parker was giving a speech. The trophy was on a stand in front of her and there were two security guards wearing suits and tinted helmets standing to attention.

"When my late father created the Challenge of the Masters race, he saw it as an opportunity to reward drivers who combined intelligence, instinct, effort and dedication to be the very best. There are six different colour flags along the course, the driver who crosses the finish line with all six colours will be the winner. Those are the rules, good luck!"

The time had come. Fourteen vehicles – seven cars, five motorcycles and two unusual looking vehicles were lined up and several meters behind them stood the drivers, including Annabelle along with Magenta and DuPont. Annabelle noticed there was a very unusual looking car in the line-up. She recognised it as the _Lancer_ , a vehicle she saw used in a lot of demolition derbies. She doubted the driver was after the missile plans as he was a good friend of hers. There was also another custom car – it was open topped and had two side panels which had what looked like holograms on. It was built for two people but for this race, only one person would be driving. It was known as _The_ _Claw_.

At the given moment, Miss. Parker pointed a revolver into the air and fired. As the gun fired, the drivers ran to their vehicles, putting on their helmets as they ran. Magenta took a bola from her belt and after giving it a quick spin, threw it at Annabelle. It wrapped round her legs and the sudden tension forced the detachment of her prosthetic legs from her limbs.

As the drama unfolded, a voice could be heard

"Peanuts!" the voice shouted, "Get your red hot peanuts!"

It was Matthew Bracca of the Vipers dressed up as a peanut sales man. He gave a young boy a bag of peanuts who in turn gave him a ten dollar bill. Bracca gave the boy eight dollars change then looked in the direction of the racers.

Annabelle made it to her motorcycle to find a knife in the front wheel. It was already being replaced by her pit crew. She was helped onto the motorcycle and she revved it up and sped away, leaving dust in the faces of her pit crew.

Thanks to their sabotage, Magenta and DuPont managed to get a good head start on Annabelle. They drove past Sefting Hen, Eagle Rock and Eagle Mesa without opposition from the other opponents. As they approached open ground, they could see several flagpoles. There were ten in all, flags sporting a colour each. There were two flags of the same colour. The two slowed down and grabbed a flag each. Three other drivers approached the flag poles.

Magenta reached into her car and took out several grenades and threw them at the cars. The explosions missed the cars but caused enough distractions. One driver swerved to avoid one explosion but another driver smashed through it. One grenade landed under the car and detonated and sent the car flying in the air. It landed on it's roof. The third car sped past Magenta and DuPont without collecting a flag. The driver decided to collect two flags from the next collection point. The _Lancer_ also sped past the crashed cars. But the driver reached out of his window and grabbed a flag.

Annabelle approached the first set of flags. Looking at the wrecks, she carefully navigated to a safe spot where she could collect her first flag. She then took several flares out of her bag and activated them before throwing them onto the ground. The race organisers or anyone keeping an eye on things from above would see the red smoke and find the drivers and organise medical attention for them.

Annabelle then resumed speeding down the road. There was a mountain approaching but it was not a proper mountain, it was one built by mobile phone companies and it was concealing a mast, mostly for use during the race for emergencies.

< \- >

"Magenta!" DuPont called over his radio, "We're being followed."

They were about to go past the artificial mountain. Magenta looked at her rear view mirror and recognized the motorcycle.

"It's Annabelle Drewa!" she said, "We'll both teach her not to mess with the Vipers!"

DuPont pressed a button and gunk poured from a container on his motorcycle. He then drove around the mountain. Within moments, the gunk changed color and it was now impossible to tell it was even there.

"This is the end of the game Annabelle," Magenta shouted over the radio, "which means the end of you." She made a U-turn and backed against the mountain. Annabelle approached but her wheels hit the gunk.

As the motorcycle slid across the gunk, Annabelle noticed Magenta was priming guns behind her headlights. She reached for the shotgun and cocked it. She aimed it and fired. She cocked it again and fired. But both her shots missed – they hit the artificial mountain. Rocks broke from it and Magenta's car was buried by the rock fall.

DuPont turned his motorcycle around to face Annabelle, who was speeding towards him. He pressed a button and the windshield of his motorcycle folded away and two gun barrels slid out.

"Ball bearing guns, fire!" he ordered. Like a machine gun, the guns fired ball bearings towards Annabelle.

She pressed a button on her motorcycle and wind started blowing out of the small tube. The ball bearings were caught in the gust of wind and blew back towards DuPont. The force was so strong, the balls hit him with tremendous force, then he was blown off his bike and into a mountain, his bike following him. Annabelle drove away smiling.

_Looks like one of gramps' inventions worked for once,_ she thought to herself.

As Annabelle drove away, Magenta opened the window of her car and threw micro explosives which exploded, destroying the rock covering the car. A few minutes later, she cleared enough of them to break through and resume the race.

Miss Parker turned to the guard who was now holding a trophy case.

"Please bring the trophy as soon as the first winning car is spotted." She said.

The guard walked away with the case. Matthew approached with the peanut tray.

"Peanuts gorgeous one?" he asked, "the trophy?"

"Being taken away for safekeeping," she answered, "be back by the end of the race."

"Ah good," Matthew stuttered, "it's such a beautiful trophy, I hoped we could see it again." He was trying not to seem too obvious in his desire for the trophy.

"You will." Miss Parker said, "Peanuts, I'd like some."

Matthew scooped up a pile of bags and passed them over.

"Here you go, on me." He said before walking away.

As Annabelle approached the Oljeto Mesa mountain range, she saw a series of flags next to the Rock Door Mesa. She steered the motorcycle next to them and grabbed the blue flag. She stuffed it in her cycle bag with her first one and carried on her way. As she drove, she could see a big red bus next to the Train Rock. She thought nothing of it – maybe a tour group broke down and they were out of the way to avoid blocking the road for the racers. Suddenly, she could see the remains of both the _Lancer_ and the _Claw_. Annabelle could see that both drivers were alive, although wounded. They had set off their distress flares.

According to her map, at the end of the Oljeto Mesa, she had to turn left and go around the mountain and rejoin this road between Oljeto Mesa and Rock Door Mesa. As she approached the turn, she could hear more vehicles approaching. Looking in her wing mirror, she could see Magenta and DuPont approaching her. Then, to her surprise, she saw part of the front of the bus collapse and a large canon move out. The bus then started moving towards her. Mr. Drewa had told her about the bus used in the raid and how he theorized that to contain the extra hardware, it would have been stripped down, reinforced and then rebuilt.

On the bus, Viper minion Maximus Gorien pressed a button and a shell fired from the howitzer. He was protected by a windshield. Annabelle did a sudden skid but tipped too far to the side. She fell off her motorcycle as the shell flew over her and hit the mountain. She got up and stood her motorcycle up. She got back on and began to restart it, but the engine stalled. Both Magenta and DuPont drove past her, ignoring her as the bus approached her. She reached for her shotgun, aimed it at the bus and opened fire. The shell's impact smashed several windows on the bus. She cocked it and fired again. This time, it hit the engine. Cocking it again, she opened fire for a third time. One of the wheels exploded. But before her eyes, another wheel moved into place. She looked at the gun, she had already used two shells earlier on in the race. Her gun could only take nine shells.

Annabelle tried to restart the engine and it started. She drove away before Gorien could fire another shell. She took the corner and went behind the Oljeto Mesa. In the distance, she could see Magenta and DuPont. She smiled as she had a plan.

She figured Gorien would be waiting for her to re-emerge. Activating a turbo boost, she sped along the road and caught up with Magenta and DuPont within moments. Neither Viper did anything as it was a dangerous area and along this part of the course was part of the state line between Utah and Arizona, so there might be a few government officials observing. She looked at her GPS map and worked out a plan. She still had enough turbo power to go at high speed for ten seconds, but there was a risk she would either crash into the Oljto Mesa or the Rock Door Mesa or go so far off the trail, she might lost her spot in the race.

As they approached the state line, the three rivals kept to legal limits. They saw a sign marked STOP. The three stopped and two officials came over to them. The three showed badges to prove they were racing in the Masters Challenge Race. Satisfied, the officials let them carry on. They kept to reasonable fast speeds as they took tricky left turns then right turns to approach the thin gap between the mountains. Annabelle saw her chance. She activated the turbo boost just as the exit to the trail could be seen. She could see the Viper bus waiting. As she pressed the turbo button, Gorien fired another shell. She was quickly out of the way but the shell struck the front of DuPont's bike, which exploded, sending him flying. Ignoring her comrades, Magenta turned right and carried on.

Annabelle shut down the turbo boost and made to turn, noticing she had left the road. She got her gun out and saw the bus approaching her. She aimed it and fired four shots in quick succession, cocking in between each shot. The bus slowed down as she hit the engine and the fuel tank. Throwing down the shotgun, She resumed driving and quickly rejoined the road. According to intelligence, she was now approaching the most trickiest part of the race – going through the Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park. There would be dozens of mountains. She knew that with her car, Magenta was going to have problems but this was why she chose to ride a motorcycle.

Matthew Bracca was standing next to the spectator stands waiting for someone else to ask for peanuts when suddenly a car horn sounded right behind him. The noise made him jump before he turned and saw that is was Viper driver Michael Freeman.

"What do you want?" Matthew asked, in a very loud and angry tone.

"Some peanuts?" Freeman answered.

"PEANUTS?" Matthew shouted, "You scared me half to death for peanuts?"

With violent force, he emptied the tray into the car before hitting Freeman with it.

"Here! You want peanuts, you got peanuts," he continued, grabbing him by his clothing, "and if you foul things up later when we need you, that'll be the last thing you do, got that?"

Magenta drove past the visitors centre of the Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park. She slowed, knowing the temporary roads were not stable. To her left were the West Mitten Butte and Merrick Butte mountains and to her right was the Mitchell Mesa mountain. Little did she know, an airship was above her. The pilot was watching through a set of binoculars.

As Annabelle drove towards the Tribal Park, her radio started beeping. She pressed a button, a display on the bike told her who it was.

"I read you Sofia, what's up?" she asked.

"I am, about four hundred feet up. I'm above the Mitchell Mesa and I can see Magenta Bartlett approaching the fourth set of flags." Sofia Drewa reported. Besides from being Annabelle's aunt, she was her father's twin sister.

"The Vipers' bus slowed me down," reported Annabelle, "but I'm approaching on full cycle power."

"The roads will slow her down, so it'll give you a chance." Sofia continued. She decided to help a little. On board her glider, she had a box of snakes for some strange reason. Pressing a button, her glider detached from the blimp and flew towards the ground.

Sofia hovered above Magenta's car, which had it's sunroof open. She opened the box and tipped the box until all the snakes had been tipped out. They were non-poisonous but Magenta was not to know that. Several slithered through the sunroof. Suddenly, the car screeched to a halt and Magenta got out of the car. She was terrified of snakes. She took some micro explosives out of her pouch and threw them. The explosions, while causing no damage to the car, spooked the snakes and they slithered out of the car.

As Magenta checked the car for traces of snakes, Annabelle drove past the flags, collecting a yellow flag. She could see Magenta entering her car before driving away.

The two approached the Elephant Butte mountain and took a sudden turn to the right. Annabelle sped past Magenta and approached another turn, this time to the left. Cly Butte was to her left while Rain God Mesa was to her right – she would have to go around this mountain, then rejoin the road she just came from. However, the road was not a good one. The bumps on the road slowed her down. Annabelle rode past her.

Meanwhile, the Vipers bus was driving towards the visitors centre. Gorien lined up the howitzer so he could fire as soon as he saw Annabelle. DuPont observed things as he made sure they had enough shells. Gorien had picked him up following the destruction of his bike.

At the time, Magenta was trying to build up speed. But Annabelle had a reasonable lead.

As Annabelle approached Spearhead Mesa and grabbed a fourth flag, Sofia decided she had to take steps to prevent an ambush.

"The presidium disrupter will rule out Magenta calling for reinforcements." She said to herself.

Pressing a button, a bomb dropped and a few feet above Magenta's car, it exploded. Inside the car, she had been trying to make a call.

"No way to reach Gorien," Magenta said, "no need to worry, I'll deal with Annabelle myself." She collected her fourth flag and continued down the bumpy road.

Eventually, both finished their course around the Rain God Mesa and off the bumpy road. The two drove back towards the visitors centre. As Gorien saw Annabelle approaching, DuPont aimed the howitzer at her. In her glider, Sofia could see everything.

She flew towards the bus and pressed a trigger. A built in machine gun fired at the bus. Gorien fired the howitzer. A shell fired from the weapon and flew towards Annabelle. Sofia changed course and fired on the shell. After several hits, the shell exploded. Annabelle swerved to avoid the explosion and in the confusion, Magenta drove past.

"Pasta Baby," Sofia said over the radio, "leave this thug to me, you win this race."

Annabelle sped past the bus, but Gorien was no longer interested in her. The glider flew towards the bus as DuPont operated the controls to move the howitzer so it could be aimed at the glider. Sofia pressed a button and a small bomb dropped from one of it's wings. As the glider flew away, the bomb fell down the howitzer. Seconds later, the bomb detonated and the bus exploded.

< \- >

Magenta made the final turn and began to make the trek along the final stretch when she saw a new set of flags in place. She stopped her car and stepped out to collect the final flag. It went into her bag with the other four.

"I never found racing so relaxing before," she said before getting back into her car and driving away. She was thinking that within ten minutes, she would win the race and the trophy. She then wondered how much she could make selling the memory card back to the American military.

Annabelle was not far behind her. She too had one more flag to collect. She made her final turn and saw the flags. She reached out and grabbed her final one and stashed it in her bag. She looked at her fuel indicator which showed she had less than a quarter of a tank of gas left. She estimated that Magenta would have roughly the same amount.

## Chapter Four

## Who Will Win?

At Monument Pass, Miss. Parker was looking through a pair of binoculars.

"Get the trophy," she said, "the first vehicle is in sight."

A guard walked away and Matthew Bracca stepped forward.

"What's it look like?" he asked.

"You again? Shouldn't you be selling peanuts?" she asked.

"Sold them all," Matthew said, "Just wanted a look at that beautiful trophy." He was being too obvious with his desire to see the trophy. Miss. Parker had been warned of an attempt to steal the trophy.

"Security," Miss. Parker said, "Please remove this gentleman from the stand."

Two guards grabbed his arms and marched him down the steps. They released him at the bottom and he walked away. He knew he would not be able to get up to the podium again.

< \- >

Magenta took a chance look at her rear-view mirror and saw a dust cloud slowly approaching. Then she saw a familiar motorcycle among the dust.

"Annabelle?" she asked herself, "Impossible. Right, you first then the victory."

She was almost at the finish. With a sudden skid, she made a U-turn and drove towards Annabelle.

"You're mine!" she shouted.

Annabelle had stopped when she saw Magenta close to the finish line. She looked confused as Magenta turned and headed towards her.

"The choice is yours old friend," Annabelle said over the radio, "to go for victory or return for destruction." She began to start the engine.

Magenta pressed a button and two chainsaws slid out of the bottom of the car and she approached Annabelle. She continued to bide her time. As Magenta made her final approach, Annabelle pressed a button marked EMERGENCY USE ONLY. Five rockets on the underneath of the motorcycle fired up, sending it several feet in the air. Five seconds later, as Magenta drove underneath, the rockets cut out. As the motorcycle fell back to earth, Annabelle moved it into a wheelie and with a loud thud, the back wheel landed on the hood of Magenta's car and Annabelle drove off it, smashing her rear window in the process and Annabelle rode on towards the finish.

The crowds cheered as Mrs. Drewa watched the two rivals, biting her nails, scared at Annabelle's dangerous stunts. In her carrier, Princess the cat was so worried too, she couldn't eat her favourite cat treats. Matthew and Freeman watched as Annabelle and Magenta headed towards the finish line.

"Manics!" Matthew shouted, "Plan B, get ready." He and Freeman walked away. Behind the stand, one of Mr. Drewa's agents was watching them.

Magenta turned round and began to chase Annabelle. But as she got closer, she decided to try and overtake but her car slowed down. Her fuel indicator flashed to show she was dangerously short of fuel.

Everyone watched in silence as Magenta's car and Annabelle's motorcycle approached the finish line at a snail's pace. Magenta continued to press buttons and levers to try and force some more speed out of the car. Annabelle decided to bend over and let her weight provide momentum. The motorcycle made it in front of the car, which suddenly stopped, two feet from the finish line. Annabelle rode the motorcycle over the finish line. The crowd started cheering and waving their fists and flags in the air. Pit stop crew ran over to the motorcycle to grab it before it could collapse. Annabelle was helped off the motorcycle and she removed her helmet.

She was lead to a nearby bench and given a bottle of water, which she drank really quickly. After she was given a minute, she was led up to the podium where Miss. Parker handed her the trophy. Annabelle held up the trophy while Miss. Parker laughed and cheered. Then the sight of a familiar car startled her. It was a Viper car. Spectators on the ground ran to avoid being run over. Matthew Bracca was in the passenger seat while Michael Freeman aimed a magnetic grappler at her. He fired it and it hit the trophy. Freeman reeled it in as quickly as possible before driving away. Witnessing the theft, police cars started to chase the car. They had been warned to expect trouble.

Meanwhile, Magenta's car was being towed away. She walked up to the podium.

"Too bad," she said, "all that work and someone took the trophy.

"The Vipers took _a_ trophy Magenta." Annabelle said.

"What do you mean?" Magenta asked with surprise in her voice.

"Magenta, they took an imitation," Annabelle answered, "at least that's what gramps told me anyway."

Magenta looked at the two guards and noticed the words "DREWA AND GRANDDAUGHTER SECURITY SERVICES" on their helmets. The two took their helmets off to reveal Mr. Drewa and Samantha. They reached down and picked up a big tall box. It was opened and protected by padding was a nice shiny trophy, identical to the one just stolen. Magenta looked at it open mouthed.

"But," she began, "if you knew, why try so hard to win?"

"My father says you should always try your best or not at all." Annabelle told her.

"Besides," Mr. Drewa said, "there was only one way to be sure the memory card really was in the trophy and that was to arrange it so the Vipers would let us know. Thanks for your help Magenta." The woman started back down the stairs. "Oh, and thank Matthew for us too." He finished with a gloat.

< \- >

Minutes later, Miss. Parker handed Annabelle the real trophy who held it up. Members of her team stood on the podium clapping while the audience cheered. Annabelle was now wearing Princess' carrier and the cat was purring very loudly and head-butting the girl. Mrs. Drewa also joined in the clapping, relieved the race was over and Annabelle got through without a scratch.

Meanwhile, Matthew and Freeman were driving along the desert road, hoping to reach the Viper bus. Within moments, they found it – in several hundred pieces. Bracca got out of the car and walked over to Gorien.

"Gorien?" Matthew began, "what have you done to my beautiful bus?"

"I'm sorry boss, but it got damaged a little," Gorien said, "it won't happen again."

"Too right it won't happen again," someone said. The three Vipers turned and saw police officers behind them with guns raised. One noted that Gorien was carrying a briefcase. She walked over and took it from him. Laying it on the Vipers' car, she opened it and gasped.

"Looks like the Vanderliere collection sir." She said.

"And this looks like the stolen Masters Challenge trophy." Someone else said.

"Right," the captain said, "put them up, you're all under arrest."

Realising they were beaten, Matthew, Freeman and Gorien all raised their hands. Officers walked over to them and quickly frisked them, before reading them their rights and handcuffing them. They were quickly marched to waiting police cars, into which they were forced.

Chapter Five

Two Months Later

Matthew Bracca, Gorien and Freeman were sitting in a Chicago federal court-room. Magenta Bartlett was on the run and was rumoured to have left the country. The defendants had no way of knowing that it was the same court room in which Al Capone stood trial seventy-four years before. The court room were awaiting the verdict. The jury had just been brought back in, having reached a verdict.

"We the jury," the foreman began, "find Matthew Bracca, guilty of robbery from Federal property and destruction of Federal property. We recommend a sentence of no less than thirty-five years.

"We find the co-defendant Maximus Gorien, guilty of robbery from Federal property and destruction of Federal property. As he operated the machines that caused this harm and destruction, we recommend a life sentence.

"We find the co-defendant Matthew Freeman, not guilty of robbery from Federal property and destruction of Federal property, but we do find him guilty of conspiracy and theft from Navajo sacred grounds. We recommend a sentence of no less than five years."

"The court thanks the jury for their service." The Judge said before announcing sentence on Matthew and his people. He also declared that Federal seizure of Viper assets were on hold pending the outcome of a civil lawsuit.

< \- >

That evening, the whole family was sitting at the table as they prepared for Annabelle to bring in her latest recipe which she had codenamed _Arresta-Rika_ in honour of Matthew Bracca's conviction. The Masters Trophy had a place of honour in the middle of the table, it had been returned that day by the FBI. As the family could smell the food coming in, Mr. Drewa picked up Princess, got up and walked over to a conventional cat carrier and put her in, closing the door.

"This is to make sure you don't pinch any of my food." He told her as everyone laughed.

Annabelle put a huge bowl down on the table. It contained spaghetti, beef ravioli, pasta twists along with meatballs, chicken, ham and red onions. It was mixed in with melted cheese and had worstershire sauce in the cheese, the taste being absorbed into the rest of the food. Princess the cat started to meow.

"No," Mr. Drewa said as everyone was served, "I'm not having you eating my food."

"No need to worry about that gramps," Annabelle said as she came back from the kitchen with a small bowl containing some of the ingredients, "I sorted some out for Princess."

She walked over to the carrier and bent down, putting the bowl in front of it and opening the door. Purring, Princess walked out and over to the food, put her head down and started to eat it. The cat continued purring, although louder told everyone she was enjoying it.

As the meal progressed, Annabelle took an envelope out of her cardigan and passed it over to Mrs. Drewa. She opened it and fainted on the spot. Mr. Drewa took it and had a look – it was two cheques made payable to Mr. & Mrs. Robert Drewa for a total of half a million dollars. Mrs. Drewa was revived.

"Where did you get that money?" she asked, "I hope you've not been raiding your trust funds again."

"After Matthew Bracca was arrested," Annabelle explained, "I decided it was time to sue him. I was awarded the $250,000 I would have won had Matthew not cheated at the race and forced me to crash. I was also awarded compensation for my injuries which he caused. The first cheque is your retirement fund while the other cheque is to pay you back all that money you spent when I was injured. Unlike Mum and Dad, you can't afford it. I know you refused to let them pay you back."

"We can't take this." Mrs. Drewa protested.

"Well, you already have," Annabelle countered, "they've already been paid into the bank. Those are just photocopies – completely useless. Now, they are non returnable and if I hear any more talk of returning this money, I'll be joining Gramps and Tickles for the next dose of 'grandma tickles', do I make myself clear?"

Mrs. Drewa knew that Annabelle meant what she said and would do what she claimed – she knew Annabelle had a large collection of owl feathers in her bedroom and she would tickle her with them.

A man quietly walked into the room. Everyone but Mrs Drewa could see him. The man put his finger to his mouth to indicate that they were to remain silent. The man crept up on

Mrs. Drewa and as soon as he was close enough he whispered "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" in her ear. In surprise, she jumped out of her chair and ended up on the ceiling. Everyone started laughing as Mr. Drewa got a rowing oar from the wall and used it to prise Mrs. Drewa from the ceiling.

"You're never going to stop falling that one mum." The man said. It was Annabelle and Samantha's father.

At the Prison, it was time for mail call. Matthew was next to be given mail, as his name was down as having received a parcel. It was given to him and he signed for it, knowing it would have been pre-screened.

Matthew walked into his cell and opened the letter that was with it. He hid a smile as he read it:

Consolation prize on losing the race and the trophy being a fake. I named it 'Arresta-Rika' in honour of your conviction.

He opened the box to reveal a metal tin, which he opened to find Annabelle's latest pasta meal. He laughed for hours.

## About Patrick Furlong

By Viv Drewa

Patrick has been a science fiction fan most of his life, and has decided to write this genre. He does, however write other genre's as well when he comes up with a good idea. He dreams of being the next Tolkien.

He taught history and computers at school before retiring due to ill health, and, besides writing, he also collects old computer systems, British graphic novels and Compare the Meerkat toys.

Patrick lives in England with his wife Jessica, two daughters, Annabelle and Samantha, and three cats, Topaz, Tubby and Lily.

#  Catherine de Valois

By

Laurel A. Rockefeller

"Catherine de Valois" is a creative non-fiction work based on events in the life of French princess and English Queen Catherine de Valois and constructed using primary and secondary historical sources, commentary, and research.

Consulted sources appear at the end of this work. Interpretation of source material is at the author's discretion and utilized within the scope of the author's imagination, including names, events, and historical details.

PARENTS & EDUCATORS:

Download your special "SHAKESPEAREAN ALL-STAR AWARD" CERTIFICATE for students who read both Shakespeare's "HENRY V" and this e-book.

## Prologue

"I Margaret take thee Edmund to be my lawfully wedded husband," vowed Margaret Beaufort in front of the door to the small chapel in Bletsoe Castle in Bedfordshire where she was born and raised as the daughter of the duke of Somerset, John Beaufort and his wife, Margaret Beauchamp . At just twelve years old, Margaret's tiny frame complimented that of her Welsh bridegroom, the twenty-three year old Edmund Tudor whose bloodline as a descendent of the Welsh prince Rhys ap Gruffudd radiated in his dark hair and blue eyes. The wedding vows taken, their priest opened the big red door into the chapel for the wedding mass.

As mass finished and as the priest said his final words of blessing, Edmund's older half-brother, King Henry The Sixth hugged Margaret warmly, Congratulations, Cousin!"

Margaret bowed deeply, lowering her eyes respectfully, "Thank you Your Majesty!"

Henry turned to Edmund, "When do you leave for Wales?"

"Soon – a week if it pleases Your Majesty."

Henry motioned for Edmund and Margaret to follow him down a corridor filled with portraits of Margaret's ancestors, "With your permission, I would like to stay here in Bletsoe with you both until you depart."

Edmund smiled at Margaret, "What do you think?"

Still young and somewhat timid in the company of her king and bridegroom, Margaret struggled for a few seconds before answering, "It would be an honor, Your Majesty." Fidgeting a little, she raised her eyes to both of them, "Is it true you are brothers?"

"It is," affirmed the king. "After my father died, our mother married Edmund's father, bearing him three sons before retiring to Bermondsey Abbey."

"You never knew your father, did you, Your Majesty?" asked a slightly more confident and emboldened Margaret.

"No, no – he died in France when I was a baby. Strange that after my father won the concession from my grandfather, King Charles VI for me to be crowned king of France that he would continue to war with France."

"Your father was a great man, Your Majesty."

Henry smiled wistfully, "Some say so. Certainly here in England most people believe that he was. He was an able ruler. He established English as the language of government for the first time since King William of Normandy. But my father had a fatal flaw: he loved war and loved killing. What Englishman dares remember his cruelty towards our Welsh cousins? Or remembers how he showed no mercy towards the women and children of Rouen? No doubt his early death was God's judgment against him – as was our mother's choice of a Welshman for a husband – against the will of

Parliament, I must say."

Memories flooded Edmund's mind, "Yes – she was quite a woman, our mother."

"Will you tell me the story?" asked Margaret.

King Henry nodded, "It has been a while since I last spoke of our mother to anyone. Perhaps it is time, on this happiest of days, to remember her and honor her once more!"

## Chapter One: Paris

Catherine knelt in prayer in the chapel royal at the palace of Hôtel Saint Pol, her hand playfully distracting her elder sister, the sixteen year old Isabella praying beside her in front of its grand altar.

"Virgo Dei Génitrix, María, deprecáre Iesum pro me," finished Isabella. Rising she scolded the five year old Catherine, "Catherine, you know better than to distract me like that. How can my soul be readied to marry the duke of Orléans if you do not let me pray?"

"Must you go?"

"The wedding is in only two weeks, Catherine. Of course I must. Besides, I look forward to moving to Orléans. Surely it must be more peaceful than here in Paris."

"I wish I could say you are wrong – but father is worse all the time and mother." Catherine stopped suddenly, unwilling to admit to her sister that she knew about their mother's love affairs.

"Yes – mother's reputation for being with men other than father continues to worsen, especially when father is sick."

"Do you think it's true what they say, Isabella? Do you think demons are behind what he says and does when he gets violent? Are demons why he cannot remember things after he regains control?"

"I do not know, Catherine. But I know that we are all afraid to be anywhere near him when he gets like that; mother even gave him a mistress who looks like her for the times when he does not recognize her."

Catherine pouted, "I wish there was something we could do for father."

"Well, I am doing what I can – I'm getting married and leaving Paris," asserted Isabella.

"But you will be leaving me alone! Please do not leave me alone with him!" pleaded Catherine.

"With Joan, Michelle, Louis, John, and Charles around, I hardly think you will be alone!" reasoned Isabella with a laugh.

"But it's not the same," begged Catherine.

Isabella's gaze softened, "I know – but it needs to be. I will be happy with the duke, I promise. And who knows? Maybe the king will grant permission for a nice long visit!"

Catherine fell into her sister's arms, "I hope so!"

"Veni veni, Emmanuel captivum solve Israel, qui gemit in exsilio, privatus Dei Filio. Gaude! Gaude! Emmanuel, nascetur pro te Israel!" sang Catherine happily through the halls of Hôtel Saint Pol, much to the delight of her mother as she studied reports on the civil war between the Armagnacs representing house Valois and the Burgundians led by their duke, John the Fearless for control of France. Playfully the eight year old Catherine stuck her head into her mother's suite, "Joyeux Noël, Mama!"

Isabeau held her arms wide invitingly, "Joyeux Noël, ma petite! Do you like your new dresses and your books?" Catherine hugged her mother warmly, "I more than like my presents! Merci beaucoup, Mama!"

Queen Isabeau kissed Catherine tenderly, "You are very welcome!"

"What are you doing, Mama? It's Christmas!"

"Do you know how the Burgundians killed your uncle Louis two years ago?"

"Yes. Is it true you used to go to bed with Uncle Louis sometimes?"

"That's not a proper question for a princess, Catherine. Why do you ask?"

"Because everyone says you did and because I want it to not be true!"

"Maybe someday we can talk about that, but I think you are a little young to understand. All I can tell you right now is that I loved your uncle and that your father scares me sometimes when he is sick – just like he scares you!"

"Oui, Mama," accepted Catherine. "Please tell me we can go celebrate now! What is so important anyway?"

"War, ma petite. Our family, the Valois, we are at war with the Duchy of Burgundy off to the east."

"Why?"

"Well, sometimes people fight when they disagree. En France we love to grow things and make wine. But in Burgundy, they are more like the English in how they live.

Even though it does not make sense, sometimes that is the only reason people need to go to war."

"So why are you here instead of celebrating, Mama? Isabella would have wanted you to celebrate Christmas and go to mass with us!"

"I will – when I am done here."

"What is so important you cannot come right now?" "Well, as you probably know, I am very different from a lot of women. I am from Bavaria where things are more equal between women and men. My mother taught me to be very strong and brave and to take charge of things when things needed to be done. So I am right now – taking care of things, in how our country is run – because your father is not well. Isabella knew that. She knew just how important it is that I run the country until your brother is old enough to rule as king. She knew and believed that women are often better rulers than selfish men who only want power for themselves and not so they can help the people. Does that make sense, ma petite?"

Catherine nodded vigorously, "But does that mean you have to work for all of Christmas?"

Isabeau held Catherine tightly, "No, no, not at all. As a matter of fact, I am almost done. Can you give me five more minutes?"

"Oui!" smiled Catherine.

"Très bien!" applauded Queen Isabeau. "Now go practice your song for a little bit, s'il te plaît and I will be there before you know it!"

Happy, Catherine danced and sang, "Veni, O Sapientia, quae hic disponis omnia, veni, viam prudentiae ut doceas et gloriae. Gaude! Gaude! Emmanuel, nascetur pro te Israel!"

Charles the Sixth sat on his throne in the palace of Hôtel Saint Pol, the room's many tapestries and priceless works of art contrasting sharply with illness-ridden king. In his mind, Charles saw a Burgundian knight with a drawn sword. The king leapt to his feet screaming, "Not today! You shall not kill me today!" Drawing his imaginary sword he attacked, provoking his guards to back away.

The French royal herald Montjoie, whose real name was Jacques de Heilly, bowed deeply to the queen who personally escorted him to the king's presence, "Charles my dear, Montjoie is here to speak to you. He has news that concerns all of us."

Still agitated, the king collapsed into his throne, his hands twitching, "Speak."

"Your Majesty, Henry king of England rejects your counteroffer of four hundred and fifty crowns for the hand of your fair daughter, Catherine."

Still half in his own delusional world, the king found himself struggling to remember, "He asked for more than we offered, right?"

"Two million crowns, dear," affirmed Queen Isabeau. "But we do not have two million crowns!" cried the king. "I threw out all the Jews!" he whined. "Oh where is a money lender when you need one?" Rising, Charles stamped his feet like a child.

Montjoie averted his eyes expertly, pretending the king's madness did not disturb him greatly, "There is more, Your Majesty. King Henry demands you surrender Normandy plus all the lands that once belonged to Eleanor of Aquitaine, all of which he considers his rightful inheritance.

"I cannot! I shall not! Death to the traitors! Oh where is my sword?" charged the king.

Queen Isabeau asserted control, "Charles dear, the traitors are all gone now. Come sit down and listen!" As Charles obeyed, she turned her attention back to Montjoie, "We reject King Henry's demands of course."

Jacques met the queen's eyes, "In that case, I am asked to inform you that King Henry declares war on France. He says that none of these things shall be denied of him – least of all your daughter Catherine – and he is willing to war with

France to secure all he demands."

Fire burned in Isabeau's heart, "If war is what King Henry desires then war it shall be! We shall not bend on these matters. If he wants to rule in France, he must take our lands by force!"

"News from Harfleur!" cried Prince Charles as he ran through the palace. "Mama, papa! News!" At twelve years old Prince Charles had grown strong and healthy – unlike both his brothers named Charles who died before his birth.

Several paces behind the lanky lad walked Montjoie.

As Prince Charles reached his mother, the Montjoie bowed deeply to the queen, "Your Majesty, I bear news. Where is the king?"

"The king is –" Isabeau stopped suddenly, unwilling to remember what she had just seen before fleeing her husband's presence.

As she shivered, trying to block out the images from her mind, the Montjoie grasped her meaning, "Ah!" Fidgeting slightly, he continued, "Your Majesty, the coastal town of Harfleur is lost to King Henry after a month and a half of siege."

"How many dead?"

"King Henry lost half of his army of around eleven thousand to disease and to the battles, but there is no telling exactly how many of our people lay dead. There are so many ways to die during a siege – as our own civil war has taught us." "Ja, es ist wahr," muttered Isabeau in her native Bavarian instinctively before correcting herself, "Pardonnez-moi. My heart breaks at the news. It does not matter that we have lost so many to our own civil war already – without King Henry's help."

"The king has left a small force in Harfleur as the rest of his army marches towards Calais to rendez-vous with his fleet."

"If we do not stop him, how long before he lays siege?"

"A month – maybe two," estimated the Montjoie.

Queen Isabeau fought the grief and fear flowing through her, putting her hands briefly over her face while she collected herself, "Constable Charles d'Albret leads our forces in Normandy. Return to my presence tomorrow and receive from my hand our dispatches and orders."

"Mother, is it true? Is Henry of England marching towards Calais?" asked Catherine anxiously at the dinner table with the queen and her brothers Louis, John, and Charles, her Alexandrine parakeet Isabelle perched confidently on her shoulder.

Isabeau picked at her food, "Yes."

"Did you allow father to join with our army?"

Queen Isabeau averted her daughter's eyes nervously as Isabelle jumped onto her plate and started munching on the queen's food, "I – he wanted to go. Before you were born he was a great king, Catherine. They called him 'the beloved' and praised him in the streets. He was – he was the best of men. I wish you could have known him for the kindness he showed everyone."

"Everyone except the Jews, Mother."

"That, Catherine, came after his sickness came on him, in the year of our lord 1394, before you were born."

"Expelling the Jews was wrong, Mother. So is allowing father to even supervise his army!"

Isabeau dropped her food furiously, alarming Isabelle who promptly flew back to Catherine's shoulder, "What am I supposed to do, Catherine? He is still king of France; at best, I am simply a regent! I have no right to forbid him!"

"You have every right mother!"

"This is not England, Catherine. Absolute power rests in the king," corrected Isabeau sharply.

"Well perhaps I would be happier in England then!" defied Catherine, rising rebelliously from the table. "Short of Henry dying in battle, I am going to be queen of England anyway!

That's what this is all about, isn't it?"

Isabeau softened, "No, Catherine it is not. Maybe the love songs of the minstrels would have you think this is about you, about wooing you with prowess in battle. But it is about the survival of our very country! Never let anyone tell you otherwise!"

Catherine paced, "Maybe our forces can stop Henry. It is only three weeks since Harfleur, right? Maybe there is time to stop this madness before anyone else dies."

"God grant it, Catherine, but I think it is unlikely you will get your wish."

Catherine paced the antechamber just outside the throne room. Spotting Jacques de Heilly striding briskly towards her, she raced to intercept him, "What news, Montjoie?"

Jacques removed his hat from his head, "Sad news, Your Highness." Collecting himself, he met the fourteen-yearold's eyes, "Henry king of England has met our forces near Agincourt and either slaughtered or captured more than half of our forces. Your cousin, Charles, the duke of Orléans is among the captured. He is to be held in the Tower of London until or unless we arrange for his release."

"And if we do not meet his demands?"

"I think you know what will happen to him," said Montjoie simply. "You do not know the horrors I saw, Your Highness. After the battle Henry ordered the execution of those who could not escape. Only the pleadings of his family stopped him from killing every single knight and nobleman on the field. Our infantry, men-at-arms, and other, less exalted soldiers were not so lucky. That they surrendered did not matter; our people were little more than animals to him, to be used and killed at will. When I asked him how he could be so bloodthirsty I heard him declare that any man left alive would likely return to rise against him in vengeance."

Dizziness hit Catherine, "How can I ever love this man? If King Henry survives this war, surely the only prize that might pacify him – besides my father's throne – would be my hand. But how can I in good conscience, even as the dutiful daughter of a king, lay down beside him as his wife? How can I ever forgive him for this?"

"I do not know, Your Highness. But for all our sakes, you will have to find a way."

But finding a way provided difficult. Following the Battle of Agincourt, Henry the Fifth and his army withdrew from France to spend the winter at home in England, his noble prisoners with him. As expected, Charles of Orléans was immediately locked into the Tower of London to endure twenty-four years of hardship which he would later record in great detail. As the frigid winter of 1415 and 1416 slowly yielded to the warmth of spring and as the traditional Beltane fires sprang up across the British isles, Charles The Sixth and Queen Isabeau allied themselves with the Genovese in Italy in order to break Henry's control of Harfleur, sending forth a combined French-Italian fleet to relieve the city and aid its people.

Henry responded venomously. On the fourteenth of August

1416 the English fleet under the command of Henry The Fifth's own brother, John of Lancaster, the Duke of Bedford met the French-Italian fleet in the English Channel to a great and decisive victory for the English.

The following day, Holy Roman Emperor Sigismund finally, after months of courting by King Henry from London, accepted the king's long proposed alliance offer, allowing Henry to widen his war with France even further. Soon, Normandy fell to Henry's conquering sword before he set his armies into siege around the city of Rouen. Starving and unable to feed its population, the people of Rouen opened the gates to women and children in hopes that Henry would allow them to leave unharmed. Instead, Henry forced the refugees to starve to death in the ditches surrounding the town in an act of vicious violence long remembered across the years. In 1419 Rouen fell. Again, Henry responded towards the defenders with violence instead of mercy, killing many who surrendered to him.

"Must we do this, Mother?" asked Catherine, pacing furiously.

"What choice do we have, Catherine? The blood of the women and children of Rouen cry out for action. We must meet with King Henry this day or risk further slaughter," conceded Queen Isabeau, her heart equally furious and grieved at the same time at Henry's atrocities in Rouen. "I do not want to meet him! I hate him! I have never heard of any living man being so vile and disgusting to me!" "It is said that he is otherwise to his own English people, that he governs them kindly and with great skill."

"But what about the Welsh, Mother? Was he kind to them when he slaughtered them while his father reigned?" countered Catherine. "I know it is my duty as your daughter – but you know how I hate violence, especially against the innocent. How are the Welsh any different than us? All they wanted was to not be slaves to this conqueror. We of all people understand this!"

Before Isabeau could respond, the door opened. Jacques de Heilly entered with a bow, "Your Majesty, Your Highness may I introduce you to Henry, by God's grace King of England."

As Montjoie stepped aside to take his traditional place one pace behind the queen, King Henry emerged into the room, his eyes immediately fixing themselves on the beautiful Catherine in her embroidered cotehardie and fur-edged sideless surcoat, the royal fleur-de-lys glistening in gold thread on her gown. For a moment, Henry found himself so moved by Catherine's beauty that he could not speak. Finally after two minutes, the king took a chivalrous bow, "Good ladies, we meet at last!"

Coolly, Catherine curtsied politely, "Your Majesty." Henry, normally so confident and proud stammered, "Y-yyou are more beautiful than I ever dreamed! Truly a vision of all that flowers in France!"

"If you value the beauty of the flowers of France, perhaps you should not have killed so many along the way," countered Catherine, her rage flaming from her eyes. Chided, Henry turned to Queen Isabeau, "Your Majesty, you permit your daughter to speak to me like this?"

"Catherine speaks her mind. In that, she is quite her mother's daughter – and a Bavarian," smirked Isabeau proudly. "That you slaughtered our people, we concede. That we wish to end this war, we fully declare. But do not think you can force the mind and heart of my daughter in any matter. Though you may, through the brutality that brings us here together, compel a measure of outward obedience, if it is affection of the mind or heart you desire, it would serve you best to put aside all savage warrior ways and behave yourself like a gentleman."

Henry blinked in shock. No woman had dared to speak to him so boldly – or venomously. Rather, he was accustomed to fearful pandering – not the confidence of a woman seeing herself as his equal, "I – I do not know what to say. I was not born a prince, though certainly I wear the crown more easily than my father. I," Henry paused, his pride hurt even as his desire to possess Catherine grew. Marrying Catherine was his birth right; since the death of Princess Isabella, Catherine's sister and widow to Richard II, all talk had been across his life of his marrying Catherine. Was it not his destiny to marry Catherine? Did she not see it the same way? As his thoughts grew more confused by Catherine's obvious spite, the rhythm and confidence of his speech waivered, "I have wanted this alliance for many years. I cannot imagine myself with anyone else. Yet do I dream of love, of your love, Catherine. Will you not be my wife?" "Not out of love, England, for you are my enemy. What am I to you but a trophy to your murders?" burned Catherine. "If I swear on my soul to end this campaign this very day and never again kill, will you not agree to marry me?"

"If you never kill again – yes – but there are many things you must agree to in order to make this treaty one and whole," bargained Catherine confidently.

"I SWEAR IT!"

"God will hold you to your vow, Henry of England," warned Queen Isabeau. "If you acknowledge this and still so swear, then shall we both draw up the formal terms to be signed once they are ready."

"God hold me to my vow and strike me down in death if ever my hand spills French blood again!" vowed Henry fiercely.

Content with Henry's answer, Queen Isabeau supervised the drafting of the now agreed-to peace treaty. On May the twenty-first 1420 King Henry the Fifth and King Charles the Sixth met in the city of Troyes where they both formally agreed to and signed the treaty. As demanded by King Henry, King Charles gave Catherine to him in marriage in a grand wedding held a few days later on the second of June. Across the summer and autumn of 1420, Henry and Catherine became better acquainted as they toured together across France over the next six months. Towards Catherine, Henry expressed the utmost admiration and, if not genuine love, certainly an intense romantic attraction to her.

For her part, Catherine found herself more than flattered at Henry's attention. King Henry seemed so sincere in how he treated her. Certainly he was gentle when she yielded to him in wifely duty, despite his fiery temperament. Still in her heart, Catherine could never forget that this man who caressed her so softly in private was the same man who killed women and children for the crime of being born Welsh or French, his eyes both tender like a baby bird's – or fierce like a raging storm – depending on his mood.

Christmas came. Henry wisely decided their first Christmas as husband and wife should be spent in Paris with her parents and siblings. As familiar songs filled her ears at the traditional midnight mass on Christmas Eve, Catherine knelt in silence, the music gone from her heart and reflected in her eyes. Though she tried for the sake of her people to make truly merry, Catherine found herself sad instead, as if something precious to her was lost, gone forever. Finally, at the end of January 1421 they at last arrived at Calais for the crossing to England.

## Chapter Two: Queen of England

"Welcome to England!" proclaimed Henry as the royal boat used to cross the channel landed in Dover. At the dock, a crowd packed densely and noisily. Dutifully and holding her Alexandrine parakeet Isabelle securely on her forearm, Catherine stepped off the boat and into her new country with a carefully crafted smile. The crowd cheered. Henry took Catherine by the hand, displaying his trophy triumphantly as they walked down the ramp and onto the land at last. Behind them, retainers, courtiers, and heralds kept a suitable distance as they too disembarked. Henry faced the crowd, "People of England, merrily welcome your new Queen Catherine, soon to be crowned at Westminster Abbey!" Rapturous applause thundered. In grand spectacle trumpets played at the king's declaration. Flower petals descended on them from the upper stories of nearby buildings, all of it carefully arranged by the king by way of correspondence with his ministers in London shortly after the wedding.

Fifty yards from the dock, a royal carriage waited. Henry stepped forward personally opening the door for Catherine and helping her step up into it before climbing in beside her. Ever the pampered pet, Isabelle climbed down to Catherine's lap. As the coachman secured the door, Henry smiled eagerly at his queen, admiring her great beauty as Catherine watched the celebration outside around them, her face concealing all emotion if she felt any at all as Isabelle chirped contentedly, provoking a kiss from Catherine. Keen minded and well-versed in political drama, Catherine had no difficulty understanding the political play around her. She even enjoyed its splendor on some level. It was, perhaps the nearest thing to what she called normal. For that she was quite grateful.

As the coach pulled forward and towards the main road to Canterbury, Catherine turned her attention towards her husband, "Merci de me donner beaucoup."

"You are most welcome, Catherine. I know I said it for the crowds, but please understand: I want you to be happy here in England. Put aside all the sorrows of the war. Come be my queen and be ever at my side," asked King Henry humbly.

"I am your queen. We are married. The treaty is signed. And my brother Charles, the new Dauphin now that Louis is dead—" Catherine hesitated, mindful of the terms of the Treaty of Troyes which disinherited her only surviving brother Charles in favor of Henry and any children they might have together.

King Henry put his hand onto Catherine's, "I am truly sorry for your loss, Catherine."

Catherine pet Isabelle, "Why? What is one more Frenchman to you? At least my cousin, the duke of Orléans, is still well – or is he?"

Henry softened further, "Would you like to see him?"

"Yes – and then released from your Tower of London. You will do this for me?"

Henry met her eyes, "Aye. I know you are still upset with me." Henry stopped, the words not coming to him. "Look, Catherine, I am a man of action; words do not easily come to me. I do not know how to speak beautifully, least of all to you. But if I may through deeds do you some kindness, please, I ask you, tell me what it is?"

"My cousin Charles," insisted Catherine.

"Done! As soon as we get to London and refresh ourselves from the journey, I will take you to see him myself."

Ten days later, Henry kept his promise, personally escorting Catherine to the Tower to see Charles. Charles embraced Catherine warmly, careful to speak to her only in French,"Catherine! I never thought I would see you again." Charles' gazed fixed upon King Henry, "Are you his prisoner too?"

"I am his wife," answered Catherine in French.

"The war is over?"

"Yes – we signed the treaty in Troyes in May; the king and I were married several days later."

Charles met his cousin's eyes, "You were the price?"

"Partly. It was on the condition that Charles be dis-inherited in favor of King Henry. The treaty states that upon my father's death, King Henry will be crowned king of France and after him any surviving sons that he and I might have together."

"Charles cannot be happy about that."

"He's not."

"What about you, Catherine. How do you feel about all of this?"

"I know my duty," she replied very simply.

"So you are to be queen of England?"

"Yes. Preparations are being made now for my coronation on the twenty-third." Catherine looked back towards King Henry, "I cannot stay long – but Henry promised me he will release you soon."

Charles eyed King Henry, grateful the English king could not speak French, "Do not believe it, Catherine. I faced him at Agincourt. He does not tolerate those who disagree with him nor will he ever leave an enemy alive or free to oppose him with arms. As your cousin, I hold strong claim to the throne should something happen to the dauphin."

"How long can he hold you?" asked Catherine with dismay.

"The rest of my life, Catherine. Granted, I am comfortable and suffer for nothing. But a prison is still a prison, no matter how comfortable," reminded Charles.

"Yes it is. This I will not forget. I shall not love him while you remain in England," vowed Catherine, embracing Charles warmly before a servant signalled it was time for her to leave.

The twenty-third of February 1421 sparkled grandly. Unlike the heavy snow that fell during Henry's own coronation on the ninth of April 1413, the weather remained as bright and beautiful for Catherine as one might hope. With much pomp, the archbishop of Canterbury placed the queen's crown on Catherine's head proudly. For Henry, it was a dream come true.

Across the feasting and celebration, Catherine allowed herself to relax and enjoy the day, putting aside the sorrows of the last several years behind her. That night, she welcomed her husband to her happily. It was exactly what both of them needed, quickening inside Catherine a child – the only one Henry would ever live to father.

"Must you go?" asked Catherine as she and King Henry dined together in private. Now just over three months pregnant, Catherine's fire flashed bright as ever through her eyes.

"No man would dare ask me that," asserted Henry.

"I am no man. I am the daughter of a king."

"And my wife," added Henry sternly.

"Yes, I am your wife and the child is your son or daughter – which you will not live to see if you go to France next week as you plan."

"What makes you think that?" challenged Henry.

"You swore before God in heaven to never kill another of my people."

"War hardly counts," dismissed Henry. "What do you know of war? You are fine lady sheltered from the sights and sounds of battle!"

Catherine half laughed with disbelief and anger, "What do I know of war? Est-ce que possible vous ne savez pas ma souffrance?! Incroyable!"

Henry half roared furiously, "ENGLISH CATHERINE, SPEAK ENGLISH!"

Catherine defied him, "POURQUOI?"

"Because I said so. Because I am the king of England and in this country, everyone – including and especially you – do what I say!"

"You will not harm me; if you harm me, you will kill any chance you have at an heir to the throne. Do not tell me this child means nothing to you! My mother bore ten children; when brother after brother died, one son still remained – treaty or no, Charles is still dauphin of France!"

"Which is exactly why I am going to France – to capture or kill your dear sweet brother and therefore make sure he is no longer a threat to me and my claim to the throne," roared Henry like a lion.

"God forbids you, Henry. You made your vow. Do not think God has forgotten all the promises you made. You war with France – then say we have peace. Then you break the peace again to kill more and more and more! How many more must you kill?"

"Until no one dares oppose me."

"The more you kill, the more we shall stand against you. You should have liked killing less. If you had not killed so many, perhaps things would have been well between us – and the throne of France still gone to the son inside me. Now," Catherine slowed a bit, trying to control her temper, "now, now God judges you. Go to France if you feel you must!

But you will not come back to England still alive!" prophesied Catherine.

"God judged my cause right at Agincourt."

"Ah! But did he? Did you win my hand that day as you love to tell those at court you did? You have lost far more than you think."

As promised, Henry left for France a few days later, beginning his campaign on the town of Dreux. That autumn, as Catherine entered the last three months of her pregnancy, Henry thought of her often – and her warning that he would not come back alive. Did she know something that God did not reveal to him in his prayers? Or was it simply the anger of an emotional woman aiming to manipulate him into obedience? Convinced of the rightness of his cause, Henry marched onto the town of Meaux to begin another long siege.

As December dawned, Catherine retired from court at Windsor castle to prepare for the coming of her child. With the breaking of day on the sixth of December 1421 she rested from her labor, delivered at last of her son whom she named "Henry" after his father, despite her keen awareness that the king cared more about his war than about the son she bore him.

Over the next few months, Prince Henry filled Catherine's world. Still certain that her husband Henry would never come home alive and with the prince six months old, Catherine at last felt comfortable leaving him for a journey back home to France.

"Your Majesty, this is no place for a woman!" cried the king's groom hastily as Catherine arrived in Meaux, a town twenty-five miles east and northeast of Paris.

"I am daughter of King Charles The Sixth and Queen Isabeau of Bavaria. I, not you, am perfectly safe in France," declared the queen matter-of-factly.

Dressed down, the groom lowered his eyes, "Yes, Your Majesty."

"You will take me to my husband," commanded the queen. Bowing, the groom took the reins of Catherine's horse and led her close to Henry's royal pavilion, helping the queen down off her horse. Catherine nodded and handed him a shilling before entering.

As Catherine's eyes adjusted to the low light, she found Henry bent over a map and battle plans. Henry looked up with surprise, "Catherine?"

"Yes."

"What you brings you here? I thought you were staying in London."

"I had a dream. The blessed mother came to me and warned me you would not survive this siege."

Henry stopped what he was doing and rushed to her, embracing her warmly and kissing her tenderly, "I am fine, Catherine! I could not be better now that you are here! Look, the siege is at an end! I can march on Paris any day now!"

"Why do this, Henry?! You have the crown of France as soon as my father dies."

"Do I have the crown in truth, Catherine? The moment I go back to London your darling little brother Charles will declare himself king of France and all this will be for nothing!" scowled Henry.

"Perhaps that should tell you something, Henry. This is a war you can fight – but never win. All it can do is give popular support to Charles' cause. How can you not see that?"

"Do you wish to see your father?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It is a question, now answer it plainly. I have little time for your courtly games."

Catherine eyed him, "I will not enter Paris unless you do.

Which is to say I do not expect to see it again."

"Faithless creature, aren't you?"

"Hardly. I know where my home is – and who my allies are.

My mother taught me well."

"Women!" exclaimed Henry with frustration. "You all think you rule the world and all the men in it!"

"Pardonnez-moi, Henri roi d'Angleterre – but who started this war and who is fighting it? Not one woman was consulted in this. No, Henry of England – this is your war."

Henry collapsed into a chair, "Must we fight again, Kate?"

"Must you war with France?"

Exhaustion filled Henry's eyes "Old argument!"

Catherine sat down beside him, "You have not asked me about our son."

"You are right. Bad manners as usual, I suppose. Too much soldier, not enough king. Good King Richard II, to whom I believe one of your sisters was once wedded and whose crown my father took from him – now that was a king with proper manners. He knew how to keep a court, though of course not his throne," observed Henry. "Catherine – unlike you, I was not born to this. I was not born royal. Granted I embrace it more than any born to it has, but can you not understand me in this? I have spent most of my life at war, fighting someone or another, first on behalf of my father and now all of this."

"So since this is all you have ever known, you feel you must continue it until it kills you?" "Perhaps," conceded Henry.

"Then you doom Henry to grow up without his father, maybe to never even meet him."

"I would like to hold him, Catherine."

"He is waiting in London for you. All you have to do is leave all of this. Let the Treaty of Troyes stand – no more bloodshed." Just then Henry grimaced. "What is it?"

"It's nothing."

"I know you better than that, Henry. What is it?" repeated Catherine.

"My stomach hurts – a sudden stabbing cramp. I am sure it is nothing."

"Well perhaps you should lay down, Henry."

Henry stroked her face gently, "Perhaps you are right."

## Chapter Three: True Love

Five months later, Catherine watched the royal funeral procession sternly from her apartment window as a carriage transported King Henry's body to Westminster Abbey for burial. As Henry's widow and now, officially, the dowager queen of England it was her duty to mourn the passing of England's last medieval warrior king. Yet in her heart, Catherine felt almost indifferent. This was not a love match – but about politics and sparing further bloodshed among her people. Duty brought her to marry Henry. Duty compelled her to yield to him whenever he asked for her in private. Duty compelled her to give Henry his son. Duty even compelled her to spend the summer with him on his final campaign in France while others raised Prince Henry.

These duties were now over. She was a widow, free to be herself – or at least more herself. But who was she? Did she even know anymore? Always before she defined herself by these external things – who her parents were, where she was born, even by Henry's war against France.

As Catherine struggled with her conflicting emotions, a finely dressed servant walked in politely with a bow, "Your Majesty, is there any service I may do for you?"

"Yes – no – I don't know. That must not make any sense to you," admitted Catherine.

"No, my lady, it makes perfect sense. I served with him at the Battle of Agincourt. He was a great man – and yet also," the servant stopped, unwilling to criticize the late king.

"My feelings exactly. Your accent – you are not from

London?"

The servant looked away momentarily, unwilling to let the queen see his face, "No – not originally."

"Where are you from?"

"I am a," the servant paused, uncertain of how the queen would respond to his answer, "I am a Welshman. Have you met many Welshmen?"

"No, I cannot say that I have – at least not that I know of. But I know what my husband's father – and my husband – did in Wales, of the many he killed. It was just a prologue to what he did to my people."

"Aye. My father Maredudd was part of Prince Owain

Glyndŵr's nine year war of independence against King Henry IV. I was just a baby when he left to join up with him. When it was over, my family lost everything, and we moved to London. My father changed my name and as a boy I served Henry IV as a page."

"Is that how you came to know my husband?"

"Aye. When the king decided to invade France, I made a point to join his forces – not out of forgetfulness; he was after all, his father's best warrior against my family and my people back home. But what is done is done. Disloyalty to the king would not restore my family nor would it put a Welshman back on the throne in Wales. I found myself choosing to serve the king your late husband because it was the most logical of the options available to me. To not go might have made it look like I bore resentment – and endanger my life."

Catherine clasped his hands into hers sympathetically, "I understand and I forgive you. I am sure you had very little choice."

"Sadly, you speak truly, You Majesty." "What is your name?" asked Catherine. "Owain – Owen I guess is how you say it here in England. My father renamed me Owen Tudor after I came into the care of our cousin, Lord Rhys. I am a descendent of a daughter of Welsh Prince Rhys Ap Gruffudd of the Welsh kingdom of Gwynedd."

"Royalty?"

"Distantly, yes – I am nearly two hundred years distant from Prince Owain Glyndŵr if I recall."

"I have a service to ask you then."

"Name it, my queen."

"Stay with me as your other duties permit and tell me stories about your homeland and your people, if you would please be so kind."

Owen bowed deeply, "I would be honored."

For the next two weeks Catherine remained withdrawn from court, observing an official period of mourning for King Henry while her brother-in-law John, the Duke of Bedford ran the country in her son's steed. Sitting by a window in her apartment, Catherine read a book as her Alexandrine parakeet Isabelle munched on some fruit secured to her multi-branch perch stand. The new court herald replacing Jacques de Heilly as the Montjoie entered, escorted to her by Owen, "News from France, Your Majesty."

Catherine stood up, "Speak Montjoie. What news?"

"I regret to inform you that on the twenty-first of October your father King Charles The Sixth died," declared Montjoie gravely.

Dizziness hit Catherine at the news. Owen steadied her, ever at her side as her chief-of-staff. Catherine met Owen's eyes, "Thank you, Owen." Sitting down, Catherine met the herald's eyes as Owen rushed to pour the queen a cup of water from a nearby pitcher, "Does my lord the duke of Bedford know yet?"

"No, my queen. Your brother the dauphin asked me to tell you personally and before any other in the English court."

"Most kind of Charles. Please offer my thanks and my love to him when next you arrive in Paris – and to his new wife, Marie of Anjou, of course." Acknowledging the message, the herald bowed, and then left her alone with Owen.

As the door closed, Owen sat down in the chair beside Catherine, "Now what happens?"

"Under the terms of the Treaty of Troyes, my son is now king of France."

"Which makes the duke of Bedford not only the most powerful man in England, but also France."

"In theory. I know my brother Charles, Owen. He will not accept his infant nephew as king over him. Charles is the rightful king of France and he knows it. Whether England recognizes him or not, he is King Charles The Seventh."

"Do you expect more war?"

"I cannot see how it can be avoided – just a matter of time before the court in Paris re-organizes and Charles finds a way to strike back."

"And what about you?"

"What can I do? This is a man's world."

"Surely you no more believe that than I do, Catherine." Catherine looked down, caressing his fingers, "Why are you so good to me? Is it just because you are the greatest of my servants?"

"No my queen," answered Owen softly, caressing her fingers in return before kissing her hand.

"Do I dare dream of a better life?"

"You are the daughter of a once great king. No illness or madness can take that away from your late father. At twenty one you have seen and done more than most people dream of across their lives! And you are – if I may speak truly – quite beautiful." Catherine blushed at the complement. Rising slightly from the table, Owen edged closer to her, kissing her lips with a feather touch."

Wonder filled Catherine's face, "Am I dreaming?"

Owen shook his head ever so slightly, "No." Kissing her twice more, he bowed, and then left her alone in search of information beneficial to the queen in light of her father's death.

"I Catherine take thee Owen to be my lawfully wedded husband," vowed Dowager Queen Catherine in front of the brown-stained door to the chapel royal in Windsor Castle. Taking his bride's hand, Owen escorted Catherine into the chapel for their wedding mass. In dramatic contrast to Catherine's first wedding to King Henry, which was a grand and lavish affair in Troyes, Catherine and Owen stood alone before the priest, receiving the blood and the host prayerfully and without distraction. With the priest's solemn blessing – and vow to keep their marriage a secret – Owen kissed his bride tenderly, his eyes beaming with the purest love. Catherine smiled at the tenderness of both his kiss and his eyes, returning his kiss passionately. This time she knew her marriage would be happy.

Three years passed. By day and to all appearances at court, Queen Catherine remained a chaste widow and ever devoted mother to her son, her interactions with her husband friendly, but professional, as if nothing had changed since King Henry's November funeral in 1422. At nightfall, however, she used her knowledge of Windsor Castle to slip secretly past servants – and to her husband's bedchamber, if only to speak with him and enjoy the comfort of togetherness. Across the palace rumors spread that the dowager queen was to be found in the bedchamber of Edmund Beaufort, the count of Mortain. As the rumors grew louder and more prominent, Catherine noticed Henry The Fifth's youngest brother, Humphrey, duke of Gloucester eyed her more and more with suspicion. Though the good duke said nothing openly, Catherine could not help feeling as if Gloucester considered her more a spy sent by her brother Charles than his former sister-in-law.

As Parliament opened in the autumn of 1427, it became clear that her brother-in-law the lord protector John duke of Bedford also conspired against her, though what she could not tell. Finally Owen bowed before her, "News from Parliament, my queen."

"What news, Owen?"

"Parliament is considering a bill forbidding you from remarrying save by the consent of King Henry upon reaching the age of majority."

"I think they are a little late for that, don't you?" braved Catherine with a sweet and romantic smile.

Owen clasped his wife's hands and kissed her palms once before meeting her eyes once more, "The bill also punishes any man who should violate this edict by stripping him of any lands and possessions he might retain."

"You already lost your lands to the war for independence against England."

"In Wales, yes" agreed Owen. "But we did not lose absolutely everything; we Tudors are hardly impoverished! I have a couple of fine houses off in Hertfordshire."

"Would the lord protector strip you of even these if he found out about our marriage?"

"The lord protector thinks you belong in a nunnery!"

"And himself set up as king, I suppose," mocked Catherine sarcastically. "So what do you think we should do? We are married. That is fact. No law in Parliament can change that – nor would I want it to."

"Nor would I, my love," affirmed Owen, embracing her warmly, then kissing her tenderly, "I have one idea. It would involve you spending much less time with your son – but it might work."

"Leave court?"

"Yes! My love, I think it is time. Come home with me, let us make our own lives together. Be done with kings and courts.

It is time to be man and wife. Come with me to Hertfordshire, sweetheart?"

"Will your family mind a French woman?"

Owen whispered in her ear, "NEVER!"

Catherine smiled at Owen's devotion, his love inspiring her fiery and defiant temperament. "By Jesus' blood, to hell with Parliament!" cursed Catherine with the same fire in her voice she used to use on her mother as a teenager. "I am yours!"

Just over two and one half years later, Catherine looked out her window at Much Hadham Palace, Isabelle taking the occasional circling flight before landing once more on her perch stand. Before her on her desk she re-read letters sent to her over the last few months from her brother, King Charles The Seventh. Most astonishing to her were his descriptions concerning a strange and mysterious young woman from the little border town of Domremy who called herself "the maid of Orléans." Filled with visions from the saints, Jehanne d'Arc deeply impressed her brother, leading armies against John duke of Bedford in Rouen and across the French countryside until Charles was able to be crowned in the city of Reims as the true king of France in July 1429. In the last two letters in front of her, King Charles wrote to her about his hopes for the winter campaign and the amazing courage of this country girl, how she inspired everyone near her to great acts of courage and French patriotism.

As she finished the final letter she felt her unborn child kick her as he moved. Across this pregnancy, the child seemed particularly active, far more than her elder son was when she carried him. Reflecting on the differences between the two pregnancies, Catherine's thoughts turned to Henry, now almost seven and one half years old. Was the king well? Did he miss her or even remember her? Did he know how much she loved him? Sighing, Catherine donned her cloak and took a stroll outside.

Labor pains filled Catherine during the night of the tenth of June. For sixteen hours Catherine bore her labor with the dignity and grace of a princess of France. Finally, as morning turned to afternoon, she heard the wailings of her newborn son as her midwife cut the cord and wrapped him into a bundle for her to hold. Exhausted and her hair matted with sweat, she kissed her son, "Hello! I think we shall call you 'Edmund,' what do you think? Yes, yes I thought so.

Edmund Tudor it is!"

That autumn Owen, Catherine, and their household staff moved to Bishop Ely's Manor fifty miles to the north of Much Hadham. As letters from King Charles reached her, Catherine found herself saddened by news of the imprisonment and torture of Jehanne d'Arc at the hands of the English and Burgundians. Jehanne, she knew, was innocent of all crimes except one: the love of God and the love of her country. Would the English dare execute her for that?

In her heart, Catherine knew the answer, remembering King Henry's campaigns fifteen years before. By all reports, her cousin Charles was still a prisoner of that war – somewhere in England though she knew not where exactly. Her former court still did not trust her, even in her retirement. That she managed to defy Parliament by marrying Owen in secret made her relationships with members of Parliament and the great ruling council even more strained.

Springtime came. As Jehanne faced execution at the hands of the English, Catherine readied herself for the birth of her second child with Owen, a son they named Jasper.

"Thank you for coming all the way down from Hertfordshire,

Mother," beamed the nine and a half year-old King Henry The Sixth as they walked together in Westminster Abbey. Catherine scooped him into a bear hug, "Mais bien sur. I always obey my king – especially when he is grown up so handsome!"

"I missed you Mummy."

"I missed you too – more than you know."

"Did my brothers come with you?"

"No, not this time. But if you want, I am sure your stepfather would be glad to see you again. He came with me to London."

"I would like that." Henry fidgeted a little, "May I ask you a question, Mum?"

"Anything, Your Majesty."

"You don't call me that, okay? When people bow and say 'your majesty' I can tell that they do not take me seriously. I'm just a boy. I don't really rule England – or France. Not like I want to rule France. I am sure my uncle Charles is far better suited for that job than I am."

"In light of all those people standing over there, Henry, I think it would be unwise for me to comment about that – just like my own mother would not comment about such things when I was your age."

"Your Mummy was from Bavaria, right?"

"Yes."

"And you were born in Paris?"

"I was."

"How did you meet my father?"

"War. Whatever people may say now or in years to come about me and your father the king, it was never about love for us, though I think your father found me so pretty that he wanted me as a trophy of war. Men do that a lot, Henry – and not just to women. People are not people to them, but are objects to be used. Your Uncles John and Humphrey have been using you your whole life. Be careful of them."

"I know, Mum. I am so angry about that I do not know what to do! Sometimes I just want to be a boy. I want to run, play, study and pray. I want to sit down and eat dinner with my family, teasing my brothers and making a nuisance of myself. And – I know why you and Owen married in secret. My uncles – they tried to rule your life, didn't they? They thought you were just some brainless person because you are a woman. But you are not! You are the daughter of one king and mother to this king. You are bright and educated and wise and I love you so much, Mum!

Catherine kissed him tenderly, "Je t'adore aussi!"

"Mum?"

"Yes, Henry?"

"Did my grandfather and father really take away your husband's lands?"

"Yes."

"Because he's Welsh?"

"Yes."

"I want to do something about it. I am king; I should be able to do something, right?"

"Of course. What do you want to do?"

"I do not know if I am old enough to order them to give back his lands, but I want Parliament to give your husband full rights as an Englishman. No more second-class citizenship for him. By law, he will be English. Would that be okay?"

"I think that is very kind of you, Henry."

"I will make that happen for you, Mum. I can tell by the way he holds your hand that you and Owen love each other."

A tear fell from Catherine's eye. This boy who so many of the great men of the realm considered more joke than king saw everything so clearly, with the wisdom and keen mind of a university scholar. "I love him, Henry, yes. Owen is the best thing to ever happen to me besides you three boys."

"I promise I will always be good and kind to my brothers. On my very soul, I promise!

## Epilogue

"Then what happened?" asked Margaret.

"Our mother gave birth – to our younger brother Owen – right in Westminster Abbey. The monks took Owen away from her almost from the moment he was born. He was raised in the church and now is a monk serving the Blessed Mother under the name Edward Bridgewater," replied King Henry.

"Four years after Owen's birth, mother was pregnant again – but she was also very sick. She entered Bermondsey Abbey in hopes that they could help her. Sadly they could not. Just days after giving birth again, she died on the third of January 1437," finished Edmund. "My father was arrested for violating the law prohibiting him from marrying our mother. He was in prison for many years, eventually being moved to Wales before he was released, all the time always being the king's humble and loyal servant.

"In time, Jasper and I were allowed to enter King Henry's service where we all became the best of friends – just as she wanted us to be from the beginning."

Henry hugged Edmund affectionately, "And so we are. No brothers can be closer than we are. Mum would be proud."

## About Laurel A Rockefeller

Born, raised, and educated in Lincoln, Nebraska USA, author-historian Laurel A. Rockefeller educates while she entertains, encouraging readers to think about current events and history in a completely new way. Using exhaustive and comprehensive research across dozens of academic disciplines, Laurel's stories come alive so vividly it is easy to forget you are learning something new.

As a low vision author who lost most of her sight to a traumatic brain injury while in secondary school, Laurel is passionate about high quality audio books. London-born British actor and voice artist Richard Mann narrates Laurel's audio book editions with superb performances complimentary to and enhancing Laurel's powerful and vibrant creative nonfiction storytelling. Hear Mr. Mann in action here.

Talk to Laurel and join the conversation on Twitter, follow Laurel on Pinterest, then check out Laurel's blog

#  THE LITTLEST VAMPIRE

By

Viv Drewa

The light from the campsite illuminated a good size area around the tent. Gail and Mark sat huddled together enjoying the fire. It's their first camping trip in three years because Mark had developed a tumor on his lung. The chemo took a lot out of him but was well worth it; he's in remission.

They both felt relaxed and enjoyed the area with the lovely trees and other foliage surrounding them. This was their favorite place to camp and they came every year until Mark got sick. There was a small brook not far where they could get fresh water and another one nearby where they would bathe.

Unknown to them there was something in the woods just beyond the fire light. It sat and watched them carefully, plotting its attack. Now that it was dark it would have no problem but he could only go after one at a time. He waited and watched hoping one would leave the area to relieve themselves. He was so hungry he started to shake. Sure field mice did the trick but he needed several to maintain his strength. Squirrels were a bit of a challenge since they had sharp claws and teeth but they keep him going for a day. He avoided raccoons. They were too strong and had hurt him rather severely. One actually broke his front paws and it took him two days to heal. The lack of blood didn't help either. He was able to surprise a couple field mice so he could eat.

He learned the hard way not to try to attack a skunk. His friends warned him that they were not worth it and once he himself got sprayed he knew why. Damn skunk. Porcupines were another no-no. Their quills were hard to get out even with the help of his friends. He ended up with some pretty wicked wounds that finally healed by the next day.

This was his third time going after people. The first two were great. One family with two little kids kept him going for a month! The other an elderly couple that made him feel a little weird after he drank from them. Later he found out that the elderly humans took medication to keep them going and should be saved as a last resort. They could have told me sooner, he thought. Ass holes!

He was hoping the woman would go. He knew he had to get the male first, in his experience the women relied on the male to keep them safe. Unfortunately, the male went first. As he left Pepe, as he was known, decided to do the injured puppy routine to get the woman to pick him up. Here goes, he though.

Dragging his left hind leg he approached the woman who, as he thought, felt bad about the injured Chihuahua.

"Oh you poor little thing," she said as she picked him up and examined his leg. "It's not broken you probably sprained it." Pepe started licking the woman's face, ear and then her neck. Ah, her neck, he thought and bit hard sucking the blood feeling satiated. When she died he jumped down and started barking warning the man that something was wrong. It worked, Mark came running to Gail and knelt down next to her almost missing the little dog.

"Gail, Gail, wake up," he said with tears in his eyes. He felt for a pulse, nothing. She was ice cold and he wondered how that could have happened so fast. He knew he wasn't gone that long.

He looked down at the little dog who just looked up at him with inquisitive eyes. Then Mark noticed the blood on Gail's shirt and followed it to the two little bite marks on her neck. "What the hell?" Pepe took the opportunity to go after the male. He made his was to his side and nudged his arm as if wanting to be picked up. Mark wasn't sure what to do. Cell phones didn't work and it was about 20 minutes to the main road. His mind raced and whirled as he lay Gail back on the blanket. Absent mindedly he picked up the little dog. Pepe knew he had him and started licking his face and did the same as he did with the woman. In no time the male was dead, too.

Pepe walked away knowing he'd be fine for a week and headed back to the old abandoned house he and his friends stayed in.

It was a bit of a walk to the house but Pepe felt invigorated. He even ran part of the way back. There was enough time before sunrise but he couldn't wait to get back home and tell everyone about his successful conquest.

Once home he looked around to see if anyone was outside. There were a lot of trees here but the forest animals never came around. It's as if they could sense what would happen if they did. Not seeing anyone he went to the back of the house where some of the boards had fallen away from the door. The bigger animals managed to pull down enough so everyone could get in yet be out of the sunlight.

Max was sprawled out in his usual corner at the back of the house. He looked up when Pepe walked in and shook his head. Max was the largest dog in the group and didn't know what he was but a mutt. He looked like a German shepherd with very long fur.

"Gorged yourself again I see," Max said and the little Chihuahua made his way toward him.

"Yes I did," Pepe said, "I'll be good for a week."

"Two humans I take it?"

"Yes," Pepe said and pretended to burp.

"One of these days you're going to get in too deep," Max said watching

Pepe circle his spot on the floor before laying down.

"You big lugs would just get in the way," Pepe said as he watched Princess come into the house. She was a chocolate full-size poodle and acted like she was better than everyone else in the group. Typical poodle Pepe thought.

She made her way to her spot next to Max and shook a little then circled and laid down. Looking over at Pepe she sneezed her discontent. "Why on earth anyone would want such a disgusting animal as a pet?" she then looked at Max. "Instead of such a handsome devil like you."

Max ignored her. She constantly hit on him and he was not attracted to her in the least bit.

"I think he's a cute little guy," Max said giving her a side long glance. She sneezed again and sighed then lay her head down ignoring them both.

Pepe just shook his head and looked back toward the entrance. The other two should be getting back soon as sunrise was on its way.

Dusty, a beautiful cocker spaniel, walked in and looked at the three already settled in their spots.

"Have a good hunt?" she asked and headed to her spot next to Pepe. Max and Princess nodded and Pepe grinned. "Got humans again, huh?"

"Yup. I'm filled to the gills," Pepe said and shot her a wicked smile. "Maybe next time you can come with me. They're a lot better than the rodents we've been feeding on."

Dusty shook her head. "I don't think so, Pepe," she said as she settled in her spot. "They scare me. Especially after what they did to us."

Pepe and the other nodded in agreement. When their masters had been changed they decided to first feed on their pets. Unfortunately, the taste of dog blood was disgusting and instead of draining their pets they did enough damage to turn them instead. The memories made the four dogs shiver. "Yeah, I really miss my master," Princess said and tears filled her eyes. "She was the best."

"I think we all feel the same way, Princess," Max said. "I miss playing with the young master. I wish I could have stayed with them."

"I wonder why they left us behind?" Dusty asked looking at the other three for some kind of explanation.

"Hard to say, Dusty," Max said. "Maybe they weren't allowed to bring us wherever they had to go. I tried to find my master and his family but for some reason couldn't pick up their scent. That's when I gave up and was lucky enough to find this place and the rest of you. At least we have each other."

"That's true," Dusty said and laid her head down.

"I wonder where Brute is?" Pepe asked. "It's almost daylight."

"I hope he didn't wander too far," Max said and got up to go look out of the opening. "Here he comes." Max backed up and went to his spot and laid down.

Brute rushed in panting very hard. "Hey guys," he said. "Didn't know if I was going to make it." He looked at the other four and when he didn't get a response went to his spot next to Pepe.

"Where were you?" Pepe asked. The other looked up to listen.

"Remember when we were wondering if any cats were like us?" he started. The others nodded in unison. "Well, they are. I found another boarded up house and there must be 20 cats in it."

"How do you know that?" Max asked tilting his head to the side.

"I sat and watched as each of them went it and counted 20. There might be more I don't know. That's why I'm so late. I wanted to see how many there were. Might be some inside already."

"Twenty cats?" Princess said disgusted. "Why would you care about those felines anyway?" she sniffed.

"I don't know. Just curious I guess," Brute said.

"Did you recognize any of them?" Pepe asked hoping his house partner was there.

"I saw Misty, she was my house mate. Then there was Jackson who belonged to our neighbour but I didn't see his brother. Your Puff was there, too, Pepe."

Pepe wagged his tail happy that his house mate was OK. If you could call their situation OK that is

"I recognized a few others from the neighbourhood. Did any of you have house mates?" Brute asked the group.

"Yeah," Dusty said, "We had two in our house. One was real old, Blaze, she was a bright orange, the other was younger, Blue, she was solid gray."

"I think they were there, too," Brute said. "But then there were quite a few that color."

"Well, Blaze is easy to spot. Her fur looks like she's on fire and she has bright green eyes. Blue has long fur and bright blue eyes."

"I didn't get to see many eyes," Brute said. "There were a couple that looked like that, though."

"I wonder if I can go there and talk to them; I really miss them," she said with sad eyes.

"I'll take you there when it gets dark. Maybe we'll be lucky and see them. I'm sure they'd remember you, since you were house mates." Brute said and yawned. He was very tired after that long run. "I'll go with you, too," Pepe said. "Maybe I'll see Puff."

"And what?" Princess asked. "Have them move in with us?" she asked sarcastically. "No way!"

"Aww come on Princess. Just 'cause you didn't have a house mate doesn't mean we can't bring ours here," Pepe cried. "I miss Puff."

Princess sniffed and laid her head back down. "Mongrels, all mongrels," she said under her breath.

They were all starting to feel tired and decided to sleep until the darkness returned.

They all awoke to the sound of a hoot owl in the tree outside the house. Max was the first to get up and look outside.

"Well, it's already dark. Feels like I just put my head down," he said with a chuckle.

Princess got up and stretched and sighed. "I'm hungry," she said trying to sidle up to Max. He glanced at her sideways and moved to Pepe and Brute.

"So you guys really going to visit the cats?" he asked.

"Yup," Brute said and sprang to his feet. "It would be so cool to have our house mates stay with us."

Princess turned and shook her head. "We don't need them here. It's better we stay separate," she said and turned her nose up in the air."

"I think it's a good idea," Max said ignoring her. "I didn't have a house mate but always loved the cat next door. We'd sit and talk for hours. I'd like to see if she's there, too.

"Good, we can all go together," Brute said wagging his tail happily.

"Count me out," Princess said with a bit of jealousy in her voice. "I will have nothing to do with this." With that she left to search for her meal.

The four headed out with Brute in the lead. Though their scent has been diminished by the change in their bodies he was good at finding places just by knowing the surroundings. They travelled for about an hour.

"This is it," Brute whispered as the other three came up next to him. Each strained to see if the cats coming out were someone they knew. After a few minutes dusty started wagging her tail quickly.

"I see Blaze and I think that's Blue," she said and headed toward the house before Brute could stop her.

The cats all raised their hackles and hissed loudly at her. She didn't care and ran right up to Blaze and sat down in front of her.

Blaze took a second and her eyes grew wide. "Dusty, is that you?" she said with tears in her eyes. "I though they killed you," she said and rubbed her head on Dusty's.

"No, I'm just like you," Dusty told her. "Where's Blue?"

Blaze sat on her haunches and had a sad look in her eyes. Dusty could sense it wasn't good.

"They killed her," Blaze said and let out a sad wail. "The boy didn't like her blood and broke her neck."

Dusty got close to her and put her head over Blaze's neck. "Our poor baby!" Dusty said as a tear fell from her eyes. They hugged for a few minutes then Blaze looked up at Dusty.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

One of our group found you guys last night. Some of us had house mates and were hoping to find them. Four of us anyway. The fifth one is a snooty poodle."

"I never liked them," Blaze said. She turned to the cats who still had their backs arched and haunches up. "It's OK. They're friends. They're just looking for their house mates."

Some of the cats calmed down interested, also, in finding their house mates.

"Come on, guys," Dusty said to the three hiding in the bushes. "It's OK."

Slowly the three made their way to where Dusty and the cats were standing. Suddenly, something jumped on Max's back and made him yelp.

"Oh my, my!" said Princess. "I never thought I'd see you again!" she said as she nuzzled into Max's neck.

"Princess?" he said and looked up on his back. "I'm so glad I found you."

She slid off his back and rubbed against his long legs. He returned the affection by rubbing his muzzle across her back as she walked past.

"How did you find us?" she asked.

"Brute found you guys," he said and laid down to allow Princess to rub against his face. He in turn licked her knocking her off balance a bit.

"I'm so glad!" she said and started purring loudly. "Are they looking for their house mates, too?"

"Yes," he said. "Dusty found hers and Pepe and Brute are hoping theirs are here, too."

"Let's take a look," she said and walked up to the last two dogs standing nearby. "Who are you looking for fellas?"

Brute and Pepe looked at each other and then into the group of cats standing closer to the house.

"Mine is Puff," Pepe said. "Brute's is Misty."

"We have two Misty's here, and I think we have a Puff," she said and turned to look at the remaining cats. "Is anyone still in the house?" she asked them.

A solid brown long-hair went in to check. "No," he said. "They already left."

"Well, while we're out keep an eye open for them," she said, "And let them know their house mates are looking for them."

The cats all settled down and nodded. They left in three packs to find their meal.

The reunited house mates decided to head off together for their meal. Talking about everything that happened when they were changed.

Brute noticed Pepe didn't want to hunt. "You just gonna stay here?" he asked.

Pepe looked sad. "Yeah, I ate enough yesterday to last a couple days," he said. "Anyway, if they come back before the others I might find Puff."

"Whatever," Brute said and ran off to be with Max and the group.

Pepe walked around the house just to check it out. He was so mad that his sense of smell was gone, well not completely, but not enough to track. He went inside the house to look around and found it a lot nicer than the one they were living in.

The cats had opened cupboard and cabinets to climb into when the light came. There was also a second floor and he decided to check it out. He got to the top of the stairs and notice four rooms. He walked to the one to his right and saw that it still had a bed and furniture in it but had a big window so that wouldn't be a good place to stay when the light came.

The room next to that one was also a bedroom. A little smaller but had heavy drapes on the window, a small be and some furniture. The closet in this one was opened and he looked into it. It was deep and would stay nice and dark.

Next to that one, and opposite the first was another bedroom. This one also had a heavy drape on the window and a large bed with some furniture. He notice it also had an opened closet and when he checked it out found it would be dark enough to stay in.

The last room was right next to the stairway. It was a bathroom. The window was frosted and he wondered if the light would come into it. He didn't see anywhere to stay in it and left to go back downstairs.

There was plenty of time before the light came so Pepe decided to sit at the door of the house and wait. He wondered if Puff was all right. They were never away from each other this long and hoped she remembered him.

Pepe laid his head down on his outstretched front paws when a rustling came from the forest. He knew it wasn't a cat because it was too loud so something really big was nearby. He wondered if the cats had unwanted visitors. He stood up and said, "Who's there?"

A maniacal laugh came from the bushes then a large gray wolf stepped out. "Too bad you're not a little bigger," he said, "I could have had a good meal."

Pepe began to shake, as Chihuahua's are known for except this time fear was causing him to shake. "What do you mean?"

"The wolf just laughed more. "You're more of an appetizer," he said and inched closer to him. "I was hoping to find more of a meal tonight. I'm ravishing."

Pepe didn't like the look of his fangs as the moonlight glistened on them. He looked harder to see if he was changed but it didn't seem like it. Anyway, anything changed never went after another changed one. He didn't know what to do as the wolf moved closer. The only chance he had was to run and hide in the house and he was glad he checked it out earlier. He had an idea so turning he ran as fast as he could into the house. The wolf, stunned at first, started to follow knowing full well he'd be able to find him with no problem.

The kitchen wasn't too safe; he couldn't get to the counter top to hide in the upper cabinets. He ran upstairs instead. He was shaking uncontrollable now and worried he'd not get to safety in time. The one bed would be the best in the second bedroom as it was close to floor. He got under it just as the wolf came running into room and Pepe felt his hot breath on his tail.

"You can't hide from me," the wolf said and tried to get under the bed. It moved a little and Pepe thought this was going to be the end of him. He moved closer to the wall and wondered if it would have been better for him to move toward the foot of the bed. If the wolf got stuck he could high-tail it out of the house.

The wolf pushed harder and harder until it got close to Pepe. It was too late for him to move now and he thought about Puff and how she would be so sad he died.

Suddenly he felt the wolf's tongue reach him. It licked frantically, trying to get the little dog. Pepe just closed his eyes waiting for the end.

He felt the wolf reach him and whispered "Good bye, Puff," and waited to be devoured. Pepe could feel him lick his whole body as if trying to get a good taste. He wanted to open his eyes but was too scared. He felt the wolf nudge him and Pepe yelped, not that it hurt jus that it scared him. How much longer would he have to put us with this torture?

"Pepe, Pepe," a soft voice called to him all the while feeling the wolf licking his head. "Wake up, you're having a bad dream."

He opened his eyes to see Puff sitting in front of him. "Did I die?" he asked.

"No silly, you must have dozed off. We better get inside before the light comes," she said and purred softly.

Brute, Max and Dusty were there wagging their tails that their little friend was OK. "We found Puff and Misty," Max said. They said we can stay here with them. The other cats don't mind." "But what about Princess?" Pepe asked.

Princess, the cat, looked up and asked, "Who?"

"Not you, sweetie," Max said to her reassuring her. "The poodle we told you about is also called Princess. I guess she'll just have to fend for herself."

With that the dogs and cats all laughed and headed into the house to sleep through the light.

## About Viv Drewa

Author of "Owl of the Sipian Lord", "From the pages of grandfather's life" and "Angler and the owl", is a Michigan native who has enjoyed reading and writing since 1963. Though she studied medicinal chemistry at the University of Michigan her passion has always been writing. She was awarded third place for her nonfiction short story about her grandfather's escape from Poland. Later, she rewrote this story and was published in the "Polish American Journal" as ""From the Pages of Grandfather's Life". Viv then took creative and journalism courses to help in her transition to fulfil her dream of becoming a writer. She worked as an intern for Port Huron's 'The Times Herald", and also wrote, edited and did the layout or the Blue Water Multiple Sclerosis newsletter "Thumb Prints." She spends her free time working with physically and mentally challenged adults; a cause close to her heart.©2014

#  Fairy cakes

By

Neil McGowan

The idea for this story appeared almost whole in my head. Normally, I let the ideas ferment for a little while, a kind of exercise in mental self-preservation, and play with the plots a little, ironing out any difficulties before I start to write. This story was different; it demanded to be written. I finished the first draft in one sitting. After letting it sit for a while, I came back to it with fresh eyes for the rewriting and editing process.

I was surprised at how little work this one needed to knock it into shape. A few typos to correct, some minor grammar errors and word choices to make, and voila!

It's rare that a story comes that easily, which makes this one all the more cherished for me. I found the characters had a lot to say in a short space of time.

So, without further ado, let's get down to some baking...

***

"Mum," you say. "Do you mind if I make some cakes?" Mum gives a tired grunt. She's more interested in the cheap bottle of cider that nestles in the crook of one flabby thigh. You sigh, taking that single snort as acquiescence, although it could have meant anything.

You pull down your favourite recipe book. You've marked the pages you need with little sticky notes, the ones you stole from the store cupboard at school. Not that you needed to steal them; Mrs Perkins would have probably given them to you if you'd asked. You were her favourite pupil, after all; she said you have 'promise,' whatever that means.

Probably nothing. After all, you have very little going for you. You know you'll never make a model – nose too long; lips like strips of rubber; your eyes set deep in soft pouches of flesh that gives you a piggish appearance. Scraped back into a tight ponytail, your hair is lacklustre and dull. Your skin shines with unhealthy pallor; you wonder if the grease from your unwashed hair trickles down onto your skin. Something must be causing all those spots, right?

You can't help being overweight. Living on a diet of junk food from the local takeaway has a tendency to pile on the pounds; and the fact that you have a sweet tooth doesn't help. At least your cakes are homemade. They might be fattening, but you know what goes into them; none of those nasty E numbers for you.

Mum grunts again. You pop your head through the door.

"How long will those cakes be? I'm hungry."

"Not long," you say. Your voice is calm, soothing; willpower overpowers the turbulent anger that blossoms inside.

"They'd better not be," comes the reply, the syllables slurred together by Frosty Jack's finest. You close your eyes and count to ten, fists clenched. It's a good job you bite your nails; otherwise, you'd have torn your palms to ribbons by now.

The process of baking soothes you. Ingredients weighed and mixed (by hand, no money for an electric mixer, not when Frosty Jack is calling) and spooned into the silicone cases. A quick check of the oven and in go the trays, two of them. You wipe the sweat from your forehead and brace yourself. "Are they ready yet?" Mum's voice is almost a snarl. You know she won't wait much longer.

In the living room, there's a muffled curse as Mum spills some of her precious cider. You can see her hand shaking from the doorway.

A bell rings, the kitchen timer saving you from further invective. You pull the trays from the oven and leave the cakes to cool. "Five minutes," you call. Your voice is cheerful. A snort is the only response you get.

You make up some special buttercream icing – two colours – and finish each of the cakes with a piped swirl of frosting.

You step back and admire your handiwork for a moment. Two piles of cakes, one red, one white. You push the white ones to the back of the worktop for later and take the plate of red ones through.

"About time," grunts Mum, hauling herself up, a fish-white section of belly on display through the mismatched buttons of her blouse. You keep a smile plastered on your face, hiding the disgust you feel.

Mum snatches the plate and rips the cases from the cakes, before cramming them into her mouth.

"Good," she says, spraying you with crumbs and spittle, her breath foul yet sweet. You try not to gag.

"I'll just go clean up," you say, desperate to be away from her. There is no response; she is too busy forcing cakes down her throat.

You return to the kitchen. You fill the sink and wash up. You dry everything and put it away in its proper place, humming something forgettable. There is a small crash from the living room, little more than a tinkle really. You smile.

You pop your head back in the living room and see that Mum is slumped on the couch, just as she ends up most nights. Your smile widens as you notice the bottle of Frosty Jack rolling back and forth on the floor where she's dropped it, spilling its last few drops. At last, you think. Peace.

You return to the kitchen and fill a bucket, adding a capful of Dettol. It's heavy, and you're sweating by the time you've carried it through to the living room. Your muscles sigh with relief when you set it down.

You set the bottle upright, next to the couch where Mum can reach it. You mop the floor, slow and steady; there's no need to rush things, not today.

The floor dries as you heave the bucket back through to the kitchen and pour it away before snacking on one of the white cakes.

A few minutes pass. You glance at the clock – a quarter of ten. Almost time.

You return to the living room and perch on the end of the sagging couch, kissing Mum on the cheek. "'Night, Mum," you whisper. "Sleep tight." You make sure her pills are nearby, and take a few minutes, savouring the silence. As the clock turns ten, you give a wistful sigh; you know that your peace is soon to be shattered. You pick up the phone and dial the number, listening to the person on the other end as she greets you.

"Hello," you say. "My name's Megan and I'm ten. Mummy has gone to sleep now and she won't wake up." You stay on the line as sirens begin to draw close.

## About Neil McGowan

Neil is the author of "The Surgeon", a gritty horror novel described as 'fast-paced', 'nicely inventive' and 'gripping' as well as Don't Drink the Water, a collection of tales of terror. He was brought up in Yorkshire, and spent many years working as an aircraft technician throughout the world. He is a prolific author of short fantasy and horror fiction, as well as writing fantasy for children.

He now lives in Scotland with his wife and two children, and is hard at work on his next novel. ©2014

#  Death Row

By

Sharon Wheater

The date has been set, I die by lethal injection in three days for my crimes. Day after day I sit in my six by four cell, nothing in here other than a toilet and a desk. I have a bible and one book, read them both so many times I can reiterate every single word backwards. I don't mind dying for what I have done. Guess I better tell you how it all happened. My name is Toby Harris.

## The Early Years.

I was raised on a small farm in Chickamauga in Georgia. My momma Ettie was a housewife and my papa Hank Snr was a farmer. I was born in 1971. My two brothers were older than me and my sister was two years younger. I blame my father for how we all turned out.

We raised cattle and grew potatoes, money wasn't great, in fact we just managed to scrape by. My pa drank heavily, some of the time we couldn't afford to eat yet he always had a cold beer. Momma would try her best to feed us on what she could find but as long as he had cigarettes and beer, all was well with the world.

Growing up was the most painful experience, from as far back as I can remember I was beaten by my pa for the slightest thing I did wrong. Momma couldn't help, every time she stepped in he would beat her too.

I remember most things from about four years old. We were made to work, the other kids from my school used to go out and hang out together but me, I was made to work. By the age of eight, the other kids had learned to read and write but I was always too exhausted from working late into the night. I had a chalk eraser bounced of my head in one of my classes because I fell asleep, what the hell else was I supposed to do. Most people, like myself, they turn out good, socio-paths don't always go bad. I never harmed an animal, hell I never even pulled the wings of a fly. But inside me burned a rage that I could not satisfy, a rage against my father, a rage that eventually triggered a violence that I couldn't control. One memory I have that will forever burn in my mind, I was ten years old and bent over in the field trying to pull up potato's.

"Toby, you gotta move faster boy cos you know what's waiting if you don't. Move that useless lazy ass of yours." My father yelled across from the gate as he swigged a beer.

My sister was eight, she was pulling potatoes alongside me, her hands were bleeding and she was tired. The burning sun was unrelenting, but, we weren't allowed a drink nor rest. We tried to work faster, our arms ached and skin burned but he didn't care. We were only a part of his work force, never his children, never doted on by a loving father.

My sister, Mary Anne, she collapsed at the side of me and I yelled out for momma. She came running towards the gate, but before she could open it the drunk that was my pa struck her in the face. I screamed out but no one lived by us, no one for another half mile at least.

Not knowing what to do I kept hold of my sister and watched as my pa viciously kicking my momma in the ribs. She screamed out, I couldn't take it any more, I jumped up and left my sister and raced towards the monster who was beating my momma.

My pa was on top of her, she tried to kick and scream, but he just hit her harder, he had her dress pulled up, the smile on his face was evil and one I shall never forget. I didn't know what he was doing, I was too young to understand.

I grabbed a spade and I hit my pa in the head hard. He fell face first down onto my momma, she wriggled out from underneath him. We raced to my sister and grabbed her up off the floor, she had started to come around. Momma picked her up and we ran back to the house as quickly as we could. Momma locked the door, my two older brothers ran in to see what the commotion was about.

"We need to get her to the doctor momma." Cried Hank, my eldest brother.

We climbed into the truck, a beat up old ford, but it worked. Her hands were shaking so much it took four attempts to start it up.

We sped through the battlefield parkway towards Fort Oglethorpe, my older brothers sat in the bed of the truck behind, I cried, holding on to my quickly fading sister. We lost my sister that day, there was nothing that could be done. The devastation caused to my momma spiralled out of control. We moved in with my grandparents.

Me, now, I began to fester. Thoughts of torturing my father were in the forefront of my mind. School, this now became important, it was an escape from the evil thoughts that tormented my head. I learned to read and write quickly, my teachers found I had a high IQ, I finally began to excel at my studies.

Only I knew quite how deep my hatred for my father ran, only I knew what sadistic dark thoughts had began to manifest in my mind. No one even noticed.

## Military Service

At eighteen I had to get away. Momma had suffered several nervous breakdowns, both of my older brothers were serving time in Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary a large maximum-security prison near the town of Petros in Morgan County Tennessee. They had teamed up to rob a First Tennessee Bank and one of the tellers was shot dead, my bother Hank was the shooter. Hank was given life and my other brother Amos was to serve a minimum ten years before eligible for parole.

I decided to join the army. Front line infantry, this way I knew I would be sent to war, maybe I could act out my blood lust on shooting the enemy and not hurting the innocent, I knew at this point that I wanted to kill. The urges were becoming stronger and stronger, I knew that I had to do something, it was becoming out of control.

I tried to diary my deepest darkest thoughts, I even considered talking to someone but I didn't know how. I didn't know who, I was lost, lost in a world of dark evil thoughts that I didn't want to have. My only escape was to join the army.

After basic training and two weeks leave, I returned to Fort Benning near Columbus Georgia. I was due to ship out to Kuwait in two days, I had to get all my crap in one sock and ready for my first tour.

The buzz in the C130 was amazing, scared, excited, adrenalin, it was like a mix of everything rolled into one, we had no idea of what lay ahead. We landed safely.

The heat was stifling, the sand, sand everywhere. Our first real fire~fight erupted within six hours of being in Kuwait. The clack clack of the guns, explosions, fire, death, I was surrounded by it. Several men, men I had befriended, men who made me feel I fitted in, dead. The screams, terror and feeling of fear known only to those who have been there, I heard them, felt them, lived them.

Operation Freedom, that was our tour, fighting our way to Bagdad.

After 8 months I returned home, I hated it, I didn't want to be back in the mundane, I wanted to be out there, fighting with my brothers. Sleep evaded me, the sound of the jets, gunships, firefights and the screams rang through my mind. Even awake, I heard the sounds, relived the bad and I couldn't take it anymore.

I returned to Fort Benning four days into my leave and requested to be sent back. Within three days I was in Bagdad. I was landed at Fort Liberty, the familiar sand and dust, the stench that hung in the air, I was back where I belonged.

A mix of lads from Benning and Fort Stewart ready for action, Marines, British Army and Marines, I was back home. Back to what I knew, what I could relate to, back with my brothers.

"Clear!" Sargent Bill Henley called out

"Clear!" I called back as I kicked open the door to a small dark room.

The building was empty, we were sent on a search to find a known insurgent and capture him alive.

I could hear the blood rushing through my ears, the adrenalin pumped hard and fast, I knew something wasn't sitting right with me.

Sudden bursts of gunfire rang out, I turned and ran in the direction of the fight. I knew we had men in that vicinity.

"Harris, stop." The sarg was ordering me to stay put. He caught up, three others joining him. "Where the hell do you think your going?"

"Sarg, gun fire, our guys are there." I called back over the noise of the gunfire.

"Don't be no hero, we go in together." He ordered.

"Hoorah!" I Called back.

We moved together, smoothly, like a well oiled machine. I clung to my gun, we stopped, Sargent Henley went ahead and signalled for us to move out. It was on.

I dropped to one knee, I touched my Stars and Stripes, raised my gun and fired. The noise was ringing out around the dusty dark Bagdad alleys. Shadows of Iraqi insurgents tried to run across but we took them out, we shot them, we killed them. We knew the area was crawling with these men, the men who shot our men, the men who cause a threat to the world. I fired and fired, we could see the insurgents falling like flies, within minutes, minutes that felt like hours, we had secured the area.

Returning to our armoured vehicle, daylight had began to break. An orange sun fought the dust that hung in the air. Innocent Iraqi's scurried quickly through the streets terrified for their lives. I looked around, looking up I caught sight of a man on the roof aiming a gun.

Jumping in front of Sargent Henley as a shot rang out I fell to the ground in searing pain. I'd been hit, the bullet had penetrated my shoulder smashing it into pieces.

What happened next was a blur, pain coursed through my body, I could hear my men calling for a medic, everything moved in slow motion. I had saved one of my brothers, I saved one of my own.

## The Beginning of the End

My injury ended my career, I was going to be a career soldier. My shoulder was badly shattered, recovery has been long and very painful, I remained sedated for the first couple of weeks on my return to the USA.

I had left the army, my one love, my security blanket, the one thing that stopped me from festering as I did before I became a soldier. My nightmares haunted me, the daydreams haunted me, the memories of my childhood mixed with the war, I was beginning to be consumed.

Inside, I felt the beast growing once more. As a soldier I was a war machine, I killed without remorse, I was killing the bad to help the greater good... wasn't I? Or was I just containing my blood lust?

In my mind I was still fighting a war, but this war wasn't just being fought on the sand of Kuwait and Iraq, this war was against my pa who I haven't seen since the day I knocked him unconscious.

A year had passed by, I hidden away in my apartment in Chattanooga. Paid a good pension I was able to live okay, I had found a job at a gas station, I worked the graveyard shift which suited me down to the ground. Quiet nights, only a few people stopped to get gas, truckers were the main customers, only just off the I75 it was handy for the truckers.

I didn't make friends easily, a few of my brothers stopped by to visit for a short while but with deployments it was difficult.

I just wanted to go back there, back over there.

I had left my jacket at the gas station one Wednesday night. Waking just after lunch I had decided to drive to work and pick it up, the day was chilly, winter was heading in, the leaves had fell from the trees, Christmas is coming, I hate Christmas.

Grabbing my jacket I left the gas station, walking across the forecourt I noticed a man in a Ford Crown Victoria screaming at his wife. Two children sat in the back crying. I passed slowly and looked into the vehicle, the man turned and hit one of the children in the face.

I felt a rise of anger, walking faster I jumped in my truck and sat watching. I could hear gun fire, I could hear screams, I could see my pa beating my momma. A feeling stronger than anger began to overtake me.

I followed the car, staying behind at a distance, I never took my eyes of the car. I parked up just short of the home of the family I had followed. I sat and festered, all the years of abuse at the hand of my pa burning, the noise of guns ringing out, even though in my head, to me, it was real.

I opened my glove box, in there, glinting, was the barrel of my 357. I smiled, stroked the metal. Closing the glove box, I waited.

## The First Murder

It was just before 9pm, darkness had fallen and I had patiently waited. The Crown Victoria pulled out of the driveway and passed me.

Starting my engine my truck roared into life. I turned and followed the car to a bar called Ziggy's on Cherokee Boulevard.

They had a singer on, good old country music. I sat at the bar and ordered a beer. The man I had followed sat three stools down from me and I waited. A couple of women came and tried to talk to me, they noticed my infantry tattoo on my arm, but I showed my disinterest. They were not my target.

After just over an hour the man I had followed rose from his stool and bid good night to some guys he had been talking to, going on about how his wife was useless, yep, I listened very carefully.

I left before he had finished conversing, I waited at the side of the building for him to come outside. He did, I hit him over the head with the butt of my gun and threw him in my truck.

I drove out to Chickamauga Battlefield. I knew the area so well. I turned left off the main parkway and drove down towards the bridge, turning off just before the bridge, headlights off, I went off road a little way into the trees and parked up.

The man was slowly beginning to come around, but too late, I had tied his hands behind his back and left his feet free, for now.

I slapped his face and he jumped, he came too quickly, he looked dazed and confused. Dragging him out of my truck I pushed him in front of me.

"Who are you? What do you want?" The man cried out. "To stop monsters like you, to stop you murdering your children, hurting your wife, you make me sick." I replied.

Pictures of my father flashed through my mind, his laugh as he beat us and whupped my momma, my sisters eyes as they faded in front of me. The man began to shout, his words didn't register, they sounded like gun fire, the calls of my brothers at war calling out to fire, the sound of the jets and helicopters as they passed overhead. The screams of my brothers as they were shot, the sight of the insurgents running away, the feeling of the gunshot as it pierced my shoulder. Back over there.

Suddenly it stopped. I looked around confused, my face was wet, my hands were soaked, I was sweating profusely. Looking down at my clothes I realised I was covered in blood. There in front of me lay the body of a man, wasn't moving, he just lay there. The moonlight shone on the body, blood surrounding him, I had killed him.

Covering the body with what foliage I could find I left the scene, running with the noise of my heart in my ears, adrenalin pumping once more, a feeling I had missed since the war.

Back in my truck I took off, I had no recollection of what I had just done, no memory, no idea.

## News Reports

I sat in front of the television, I waited and waited, weeks had passed by, my nerves were shot to pieces, my night terrors increased. The memories of my father and my time over there were constant and at one point I sat in the dark looking at a blank television screen, but to me, I saw the war, I saw my father torture me and my family, I saw him lay there after I had hit him with the spade, I saw the light fade from my baby sisters eyes over and over again.

Finishing work I drove home, putting on a pot of coffee I made it as strong as I could stomach it. I didn't want to sleep, I no more wanted the nightmares, waking screaming, watching fallen brothers in war torn areas.

I picked up my medals and began to polish them, they were what I had earned, what I nearly gave my life for, not the metal, but what they stood for.

I turned on the television and a news flash came on.

"The body of missing factory worker, husband and father of two, Albert Brown was found dead, badly mutilated in Chickamauga Battlefield Park this morning." Announced the Channel five reporter, "Police are baffled as to the reason for such a barbaric murder. Police spokesman said today that the man was slaughtered, it was one of the worst murder scenes he has attended in over a decade in the Police Department." The reporter was stood where the truck had been parked whilst I killed the man. It felt okay until they named him, now I know he had a face, a life as a factory worker, but he abused his family, he deserved to die.

## More Murders and My Revenge

Its been six months, six months since I killed Albert Brown. My torment is worse than ever, the flash backs are now becoming constant and in between are the odd flashes of what I did to that man. So far the police have no leads, I hope it stays that way.

I have finally tracked down my father. As yet I haven't contacted him but the urge to do so is getting stronger. I have played out his murder in my head so many times, how I would inflict the maximum amount of pain without killing him too soon. How I would make him pay for taking my baby sister away, ruining my life, making my brothers turn to crime, hurting my momma, turning me into this monster.

I have taken the lives of two more men, both I witnessed abusing their families, neither I remember, but all three were hurting the ones they were supposed to love. They can't be allowed to get away with it.

Both news reports were vague, again they announced the names of the victims, but it doesn't humanize them to me, all I see are men who hurt, men who destroy, I know I have been sent here to stop these men.

I drove out to the address I had for my pa, he had moved to a small run down house in East Lake. I parked outside, my heart in my mouth, my anger on the verge of bursting out of me.

The chain~link fences had long since rusted and fell apart, grass was knee deep and the house was way beyond repair. I sat and stared at the house, a dirty blanket hung in the window, the dirt on the windows was so thick you could clearly write your name in it.

A familiar figure staggered down the street, drunk as usual. Too afraid to tell the truth, momma hadn't told the truth about the reason my sister died from dehydration, exhaustion and exposure, he had got away with murder.

I watched him open the door and fall inside. He hadn't closed the door properly, this was my queue. This was my chance to avenge my baby sister.

I walked towards the door. A helicopter flew over head, I was back over there. In my head fire fights went on all around me, in my hand was my 357, I ran to safety at the side of the house, breathed in deeply.

The sound of the call to prayer rang in my head, in reality it was the television on loud inside my fathers house. To me, I was at war.

I entered the house, I shouted clear, then I walked towards the drunken figure of my father. He held a bottle of whiskey, drinking out of the bottle.

"What do you want soldier boy?" He recognised me. I don't know what happened next.

## Arrest and Trial

I lay face down on the ground wearing handcuffs. The scene in the house was awful. Blood up the walls, my father's body unrecognisable. I had done it, I had paid him back for what he had done to us over the years. I just don't remember doing it. The ride in the police car would be the last time I ever saw reality, freedom, a life without metal bars.

I admitted everything. I answered every question, I never asked for anything, I just admitted what I had done. The interview lasted four hours, relatively short, reason for this is because I couldn't remember exactly what I had done, I just knew I had done it. No point in denial, I knew I would face the death penalty, this would at least release me from the prison in my head, no bars could be more daunting than my own memories, my night and day terrors, my life as a victim of my own raising.

I was held on remand in Chattanooga jail house. It wasn't so bad. I had a routine, three square meals, a uniform, a bed, but non of these things could rescue me from myself.

The day of my trial came around. Jail house food had gained me much needed weight. I stood in the dock and looked at the faces of the people who hated me for taking away their tormentors. I saw what the men did to their families, how could they hate me for releasing them from their torment.

The jury sat staring a me. I pleaded guilty, because I was. My defense team were useless. They asked me to plead insanity, I am not insane, I am far from stable but I am not insane. I don't suffer diminished responsibility, I am responsible, I did it. Why do they want me to lie?

"Your honor, before becoming a war hero, Toby Harris was subjected to abuse at the hands of his father. Although never proven, it is rumoured that Mr Harris was witness to his mother's repeated sexual and physical abuse, his father is also allegedly responsible for the death of his sister Mary Anne." My defence lawyer announced.

I hadn't heard her name spoken out since her death, I never used her name, no one was good enough to say her name. Rage began to build once more but I was shackled, helpless to stop them from saying her precious name, like I am helpless to stop the replaying horrors in my head.

The judge asked me for my accounts on what I had done. I explained everything I could remember. I told my life story for the first time in my life.

Two of the jury wept, the judge looked on at me in horror, but my past could never overturn the atrocities I had committed on the four men who died at my cold hands.

The prosecution attorney had an easy job that day, my defence attorney was dismayed and because I plead guilty, they couldn't really do anything other than try and reason why I had committed such heinous offences against fellow human beings.

Approaching the jury my defence attorney looked up to the ceiling as if asking for divine intervention.

"Ladies and gentleman of the jury. It is clear to see that my client is not fully aware of the crimes he has committed. A highly decorated war hero, Mr Harris is obviously suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, he is also suffering the same torment brought on by a terrible childhood. This man served his country and jumped in front of a bullet to save the men in his own unit, this is not the actions of a psychotic man, this is the actions of a brave soldier who has been dealt a terrible hand in life and has lost his way. Even though his crimes are heinous, he has no recollection of the acts he carried out. In his own mind he was back on the battlefield, back in the cruelty of his father's household, back in the places which haunt him and this has disturbed this once heroic soldier so greatly that he eventually snapped. The men he attacked he had observed abusing their families, in his mind, he was preventing the families' tragic loss of a child or mother. Although we were not witness to what he observed, to him, he wanted to prevent another atrocity like what he suffered himself at the hands of his father. Please, do not hand out a hasty sentence, this man can be professionally helped at one of our psychiatric facilities, I urge you to please do the right thing by him, so far, nobody else has." My defence attorney sat down.

I stood staring ahead blankly. No emotion passed my face, the silence in the room began to hurt my ears as the gun fire began to ring out around the room, helicopter gunships and jets flew over head.

"Mr Harris." Someone spoke, "Mr Harris." The voice rose in volume.

I jumped and the judge frowned at me. I didn't speak. "Are you okay Mr Harris. Why were you screaming?" The judge asked me.

I frowned back and said nothing. I didn't even notice the four guards stood around me. I didn't know I was screaming.

Judgement day had arrived, it had taken four days of deliberation. My attorney was hopeful of a psychiatric hospital stay, I wasn't, I didn't need that, I needed to be executed, freed from the prison in my daydreams and nightmares.

I stood in the courtroom, lack of sleep had darkened my eyes and I looked as though I had already had the death sentence carried out.

"Under the law of Tennessee the jury says whether a defendant is guilty or innocent. The Court has absolutely nothing to do with that question. The law of Tennessee provides that a judge cannot deal in any way with the facts. As far as he can go under our law is to state the evidence.

During the trial many exceptions were taken. Your exemplary military record, your terrible up bringing, these facts have all been taken into account. Do you have anything further to say before I pass sentence?" The judge asked.

I looked blankly at the judge, "I want to die for my crimes, death will be the release from the nightmares I live in my head twenty four hours a day. Death will reunite me with my baby sister, death will reunite me with my brothers from the wars. Death is my only saviour."

A rumble erupted like a Mexican wave around the courtroom.

The clerk passed the verdict over from the jury. He held it in his hand for a moment as though contemplating exactly what I had said. A look of horror and surprise crossed his face and he looked back at me. Looking at the paper, he looked back at me and I could swear there had been a little smile of acknowledgement to my situation cross his face.

"Toby Harris, you have been found guilty of four counts of first degree murder by a jury of your peers. You will suffer the punishment of death by lethal injection within the week beginning on Sunday, twelfth of October 2014. This is the sentence of the law.

## My Release

I am to be executed tomorrow. I lay on a bed and they give me some concoction, a barbiturate, paralytic and potassium solution for the express purpose of causing immediate death, hmm sounds ominous.

I had my last meal, I had a t bone steak, hell the governor even gave me a few fingers of whiskey, never been any trouble.

The guards are fully aware of the extent of my PTSD, they have witnessed it first hand, at first it scared them but now they help me. They have tried to encourage me to appeal but I don't want to. They say the system failed me.

They strap me down, I turn and look at my audience, I say I am sorry. I smile to myself. Mary Anne I'm coming honey.

Hoorah!!

## About Sharon Wheater

Sharon was born in Derbyshire and spent most of her time knee deep in horse muck. She joined the military and spent several years away until she was injured. Sharon now lives in Spain with her partner and two little dogs. She started writing many years ago but only recently decided to be published.

Sharon's works include Identical ID and The Art of Magic Realm of the Castles.

#  Silent Screams

By

Street Priest

ThIrty two long years I have been alIve as you scoff at the word "long" and you don't know my lIfe because you haven't lIved It. ThIrty two long years because where you enjoyed your chIldhood I never had one because when you grow up In hell you learn to grow up straIght out of the womb. Innocence Isn't an optIon when you grow up In the prIson of your own mInd wIth demons at every angle wIth freshly sharpened pItch forks threatenIng a chIld wIthIn an Inch of hIs lIfe.

I have lIved a long 32 years because as a chIld stuck In hIs mInd hIs parents and teachers and medIcIne dIspensers extraordInare found It ImpossIble to get through to me, so they doped me up makIng my prIson cell that much smaller and the pItchforks that much sharper. I feel no regret or paIn for the decIsIons made In Ignorance by the people that dId the best they could wIth what they had because they made the rIght decIsIon because I am able to sIt here now wIth a smIle and a pen. I thank them from the depths of my gracIous soul for they dId rIght by me by doIng what they dId though I weep at the thought of other chIldren endurIng the great tragedy.

SInce I can remember nobody could get through and untIl recently I had thought that I was at my own devIces because as a troubled youth when nobody can get through you have to make up your rules and lets face It. Those are pretty reckless rules.

Those rules led to broken bones and stItches and near drownIng's and falls from trees because a kId In hIs own world doesn't understand why bad stuff always happens to hIm. EspecIally when he doesn't even realIze he Is makIng hIs own rules. So many mIshaps whIch could have resulted In death and yet here I sIt wrItIng thIs In a fashIon whIch draws you In because "No way Is thIs comIng from a youngster of 32..."

ThIrty two long years I have been on thIs planet and only In the last few months have I realIzed that there was someone lookIng out for me all along wIth HIs hand wavIng from above yearnIng for recognItIon for a job well done and a "Thank you Lord for makIng sure I dIdn't off myself 150,000 tImes" because that Is how many tImes I should've dIed but dIdn't.

Only In the last few months have I realIzed that He Is the reason I pull sweetest oxygen deep Into my lungs to sustaIn thIs lIfe whIch I have held on to wIth clutched hands because beIng born In hell makes you fear nothIng more than losIng that whIch you can't lose. LIfe.

I feel a grave InjustIce for my unforgIvable deed for not tryIng to Impress the one that mattered over anyone and anythIng else and that Is the only one In years upon years that saId He Is proud of me because as a jaIl bIrd at 18 It truly Is hard for a parent to be proud. In thIrty two years He never gave up on me because He had faIth In me whether or not I had faIth In HIm and that to me defInes grace sInce He made me from the dust of the earth and breathed lIfe Into me and numbered my haIr and knew me before tIme because He knows all and He sees all because He Is the begInnIng and He Is the end and everythIng In between wIthout whom I wouldn't exIst, that whIch scares me the most. "What does He need me for" I am scratchIng my head askIng because what purpose could a from the uterus "never wIll be" lIke myself possIbly offer the Lord Creator AlmIghty that YHWH would look out for a lost cause? "Why would He care about me?" and then I realIze. It's because He loves me uncondItIonally whIch Is foreIgn on thIs planet because when wasted youth raIses wasted youth and you add a dash of wasted youth on the sIde we get a meltIng pot of mIsery makIng up a world full of angry hurt and upset 8 year old adults who were also left behInd because lIke me as a youth, nobody understands how your mInd works and you truly are In a world of your own. And there lays your problem. I am just a humble servant In the majesty of the house of my Lord and Creator and somebody Is beggIng you to please just look up for a second so he can whIsper In your ear "I am proud of you, please come home." for HIs mercy Is amazIng and Is graceful beyond your comprehensIon because what does He need you for? Because He can't fathom the Idea of HIs chIldren dyIng. It Isn't natural and It Is proved by no word exIstIng to explaIn a parent who lost theIr chIld but a chIld wIthout hIs parents Is an orphan except wIthout Papa none of us would exIst.

I fInd myself lIterally on my face more and more often the more I realIze how sorely wrong I was In not showIng hIm the apprecIatIon due for my puny exIstence prayIng and thankIng for HIs amazIng grace In savIng thIs dIsgrace where to everyone else I was lost. Well guess what? I now am found, In Yeshua/Jesus ChrIst our lord and savIor's endurIng name I pray, Amen.

An autobiography is not important at this stage in my career.

I am not important. What is important is you the reader. SP !

#  Good-bye A672E92 Quintus

A Peers of Beinan Series Novella

By

Laurel A. Rockefeller

"Computer, analyze readings from A672E92. How long before star begins to expand and envelope planets in our system?" queried Lady Brigid, her platinum grey eyes filled with worry. The last solar flare to rock A672E92 Quintus knocked out all electrical systems planet-wide with restoration of power only 0.13 shir-ors ago.

"Analysis complete. Solar expansion expected to reach A672E92 Primus in 220 yen-ars."

"How long before it reaches A672E92 Quintus?"

"Estimated arrival at A672E92 Quintus in 270.486 yen-ars," recited Brigid's home office computer.

"Margin of error in estimate?"

"Plus or minus fifty yen-ars."

"Either way you look at, that is not much time to evacuate an entire world! Something must be done; the goddess Ainisil has shown me we can survive this – but how? I do not believe for one moment that the clans are truly done with their blood feuds, no matter what they say in the Great Council! No! There has to be some way to truly unite us. Otherwise, how are we to survive a migration into the stars that may take generations to complete?" contemplated Brigid.

"Insufficient data for analysis," replied the computer.

"Incoming call from Lady Kendra of house Gurun."

"Display."

At the command, the computer projected a three dimensional image of Lady Kendra, her long, nearly black hair braided neatly down her back in stark contrast with her blue-grey eyes and ivory skin. A scoop necklined kirtle in silver-blue framed her petite body as the computer connected the call, "Lady Priestess Brigid, I am glad to catch you in your home office this morning."

Brigid bowed politely in turn, "Bright blessings to you, Lady Kendra. I hear congratulations are in order?"

Lady Kendra half smiled, half laughed, "Yes! The Great Council of Houses elected me last beinor to chair the council. News must travel fast; I have barely had time to inform my own family to celebrate."

"If your reputation is accurate, then your election is well deserved. How may I serve the Great Council this beinor?"

"I want you to mediate a dispute between houses Cashmarie and house Xing-li on the isle of Ben-Ar."

"I am no elder of house Miyoo. Would not one of the delegates from house Miyoo on the Great Council be a better choice? They have far more authority than I do."

"The parties involved do not trust your house elders – no offense intended. If we still had a high priestess or high priest that might be different. But as it stands, they want someone completely neutral politically. Your reputation is that you are fair minded and devoted to the pursuit of truth."

"As you wish, Your Honor. Am I to be the only arbiter on the matter?"

"No. I have requested Lord Malvyn of house Balister and Lady Abbess Sareth of house Ten-Ar to join the delegation. My hope is the combined neutrality of your three houses will be enough to end the conflict before more lives are lost," elaborated Lady Kendra.

"So mote it be then. While I have you, may I inquire as to what the Great Council plans on doing concerning the increased activity within A672E92? My analysis indicates we do not have much time before we need to evacuate our planet. We cannot have more than twenty yen-ars before we start feeling the effects on our atmosphere and climate. All things concerned, a few hundred yen-ars is not even one millionth of a xiao-shir against the age of the universe – or of A672E92 for that matter."

"Evacuation may be prudent, my lady, but not politically possible. As the only unifying institution for the houses, the Great Council is far too new to exert much authority over the individual agendas and prerogatives of each house. We simply do not yet have the power to order the houses into any sort of unified, much less concerted, effort, even in the interests of self-preservation," brief Lady Kendra.

"Perhaps, by the grace of the goddess, that might change – before it is too late," suggested Lady Brigid.

"Perhaps – but only through the charisma of someone all of our world can respect," hinted Kendra.

The isle of Ben-Ar glittered with the crystalline temple of Ainisil, its many spires and towers weaving together organically out of the island's craggy cliffs with smoothness and geometric precision. Dormers flowered near the pinnacles of each tower, amplifying the number of windows and usable working space. Twenty zhang张away from one of the spires, a species of falco albus circled, then wringed and stooped, catching a large rodent in her talons to feed to her hungry chicks being watched over by her mate in their nearby nest. Three stories below wound a carefully paved road leading from the docking port for low altitude shuttles one full li里 to the main entrance to the temple, a choice made to reduce the environmental impact of technology upon the area wildlife.

From the elaborately carved portal arch of the main temple entrance, Lady Brigid walked the smooth stone path with practiced precision. Fifty zhang 张 along the path from her starting point at the heavy wooden temple doors she stopped and stood gracefully at attention. Two figures, one male and one female, appeared as growing specks from the opposite end of the path. Brigid smiled as slowly the features of Lord Malvyn of house Balister and Lady Abbess Sareth of house Ten-Ar became clearer to her eyes. As they approached, Lady Brigid noticed six more figures appearing in the distance that too began to walk the smooth stone road.

Lord Malvyn bowed to Lady Brigid, taking her hand and kissing it, "Honor and respect to the lady of many names and to her ambassador in you, my lady!"

As Malvyn's lips touched her hand, Brigid felt a shockwave of spiritual energy. Her eyes widened and balance faltered barely perceptibly, taking her breath as a presence filled her consciousness. Who was this Malvyn of house Balister and why was his polite kiss of respect, presumably directed at the triple goddess known collectively as Ainisil, affecting her so? Knowing an answer was merited by protocol, Brigid curtsied politely, "Merry meet, Lord Malvyn. House Miyoo greets you in the name of the Lady." Malvyn smiled chivalrously in turn.

Lady Abbess Sareth bowed in greeting to Lady Brigid, "It is an honor and pleasure to meet you, Lady Brigid. Honorable Lady Kendra praised you highly when informing me of the conference."

"I shall endeavor to earn your respect then, Your Grace.

How fares house Ten-Ar this beinor?"

"Too few choose the healing arts, I am afraid. You speak honorifically to me, Lady Priestess Brigid, but I fear there is precious little honor in my title; it appears to be more of a formality than a true position of authority," confessed Sareth.

"But surely you are a skilled healer and gifted teacher of the healing arts," protested Brigid.

"These are not gentile times, my lady. Master knights and generals of war hold the greater prestige. Better a warrior and knight of Ten-Ar than a healer to them– at least for the present."

"Perhaps we may reverse that trend," suggested Brigid, her mind still mostly focused on Malvyn unexpectedly even as she applied Miyoo mental discipline towards staying in the present.

"Reverse what trend?" asked Lord Horatio of house Xing-li, his eyes forward so as to avoid noticing the delegation from house Cashmarie immediately behind him.

Lord Malvyn offered Horatio the Balistrian gesture of respect, "Good morning and welcome lord..."

"Lord Admiral Horatio of house Xing-li, at your service," echoed Horatio.

"A pleasure and an honor, lord admiral. I am Lord Malvyn, master bowman and head of house Balister. Please allow me to introduce the ladies: Lady Abbess Sareth of house Ten-Ar and our hostess, Lady Priestess Brigid of house Miyoo," presented Malvyn.

"A pleasure as always," greeted Lady Silmira of house Cashmarie from behind Lord Horatio's right ear. "I am Lady Mariner Silmira of house Cashmarie and head of our delegation." Turning towards Horatio, Lady Silmira smiled politely and sarcastically, "A pleasure to see you again, lord admiral. Killed any children lately?"

"The affairs of house Xing-li are none of yours, Mariner. Or should I call you a hapless dimwit of a sailor who cannot navigate her way out of a sea to an ocean?" snarled Horatio.

Lord Malvyn raised his eyebrow with a turn of his body so only Lady Sareth and Lady Brigid could see his expression of mild annoyance and disbelief. The ladies echoed his body language silently. Turning his attention once more to Horatio and Silmira he motioned, "Well then, clearly we have much to discuss. Shall we enter the castle temple then and begin?" Lady Silmira bowed and curtsied politely, her ocean green kirtle catching a sudden gentle island breeze, "By all means, Lord Malvyn! Let us find the solution to this problem. The sooner we conclude negotiations, the sooner we may all return to our homes." Horatio nodded consent as Lady Brigid led the way into the castle temple and showed each of her guests their quarters for the duration of the negotiations.

Two shir-ors later, the negotiations began without progress. At the first meeting lasting three shir-ors, the three delegates from house Xing-li shouted insults and insinuations at the three delegates from house Cashmarie who returned them with equal ferocity, trying the patience of all three arbiters and forcing an early adjournment. The next morning talks fared little better as the delegates from each house numerated the flaws they saw in the other, their voices increasing in volume and the cutting of their mutual insults escalating to levels none of the arbiters realized was possible. After four full shir-ors of shouting with barely any breaks for meals, Lord Malvyn left the conference room for some air. Heading to his quarters, he collected his heritage bow, a recurve bow made of a tawny white wood called Nara known for its lightness and strength. Heading outside, he set up two targets, the first twenty zhang 张 from the invisible firing line he drew in his head and the second at sixty zhang 张.

Stringing his bow he picked up an arrow from his nearby quiver, nocked it into the bowstring, and drew the string to his ear, sighting carefully at the far target. Releasing the arrow he heard it thump into the ground clumsily, his concentration clearly off. Picking up another arrow, Malvyn tried to quiet his mind. Behind him strode Lady Brigid, "You are angry."

"Shouldn't you be at the conference listening to their profanity?" remarked Malvyn.

"I adjourned the meeting three xiao-shirs after you left. It was pretty clear we were not going to achieve anything this beinor."

"My lady," began Malvyn, trying to conceal his anger at the stupidity that filled the negotiations, "I – I don't know what to say or feel or do. I am used to leading women and men; I have certainly heard my share of petty arguments. But this? This I do not know how to handle – do you?"

"Anger and hate is like a gale force wind; sometimes you have to simply endure it and let it run its natural course before you can clean up the damage it has created."

Malvyn lowered his bow and set it aside gently, "What makes you think anything will survive the 'gale' as you put it?

These two houses are determined to destroy one another."

"They are more alike than they are different. But Cashmarian discipline is based on cooperation and mutual respect; Xinglian discipline is largely about fear and obedience to authority. Until they stop shouting and recognize how much they really do have in common..."

"... This nonsense will continue," finished Malvyn.

"Yes."

"I am sorry I lost my temper."

"There is nothing to apologize for, my lord."

"Please call me Malvyn."

"Malvyn. May I ask you a personal question?"

"Yes, of course."

"When you first greeted me last beinor – did you feel anything, notice anything out of the ordinary?"

"You mean beyond simple respect for you as the chosen representative from house Miyoo for these talks?"

Brigid paced nervously, "Yes. I do not know how to put it into words."

"I am not a man of religion. The Lady Ainisil is a mystery to me; I need priests and priestesses like you to help me understand. Of late I have had dreams, a face and an image that made no sense to me – until I saw your face and recognized you from the dream."

"What happened in the dream?"

"It is hard to remember. But you were with me, steadying me in some way, I think."

"Politically? Personally? Do you remember anything about the context?"

"It makes no sense to me. I saw – people I recognize to be on the Great Council. There were people everywhere around us, all dressed in their finest fabrics and brightest colors. There was food and drink being served, then some sort of formal – I do not know – maybe an inauguration or something?"

"Then what?"

"I do not remember. But I do remember feeling you close to me and liking that feeling," blushed Malvyn.

"When you touched me, Malvyn, I felt an energy flowing from you into me. It was unexpected and hard to understand. Something changed in me from that touch. I have no words to elaborate with. In all my training I have never heard of anything quite like that before. But we are taught one thing: the goddess of many names whom we called Ainisil often gives us sign posts on things to come so as to alert and prepare us for some challenge. Do you think it is possible that your dream and my experience last beinor are perhaps connected?"

"I do not know, my lady. But I am willing to see what comes next."

"As am I."

"Assuming there is some special significance to all this, may I touch you again?"

"Are you married?"

Malvyn's grey eyes lit up at the question, "No. I have never actually been close to any woman in any particularly personal way."

Brigid smiled, "Then you may."

Encouraged, Malvyn closed the distance between them and brushed a free lock of her hair back behind her ear. Tentatively he brushed his lips shyly upon hers before feeling bold enough to kiss her fully and completely. Brigid reciprocated the kiss. Malvyn kissed her again, "Could it be that you and I are destined to be together? Are you to be my wife?"

"Let's find out," blushed Brigid.

Dawn broke over the island of Ben-Ar. Inside Lady Priestess Brigid's humble apartment Brigid knelt at her altar in prayer, her pale blue bliaut shimmering over her saffron kirtle. Her waist was belted with a long tapestry brocade belt that flowed down past her knees in a running knot-work pattern. From her nearby bed, Malvyn stirred contently, his doublet and kirtle folded neatly onto a dresser on the far side of the room. Rising, he knelt next to Brigid as she prayed silently, putting his arm around her affectionately. Brigid rested her head on his shoulder as she finished. Malvyn stroked her hair, and then kissed her, "Good morning, my lady."

"Good morning, my lord."

"Will you get in trouble for last night?"

"It is not forbidden, but it is perhaps the sort of breech of professionalism that the elders in my house may frown upon.

We are neither married nor betrothed."

"Would you like to be?"

"W-what?"

"Would you like to be my wife?"

Brigid rose, taken back by the question, "Are you asking me to marry you?"

"Nothing so extreme. But I am asking you if you want to continue this."

"I have no experience in these matters, Malvyn? What do I know about it? Given your dreams – I am not qualified to say yeah or nay. If we had a high priestess then perhaps – I just do not know," paced Brigid nervously.

Malvyn rose steadily, "What if you are our high priestess,

Brigid? What if that is your destiny?"

"It cannot be! I am no one!"

"No different than I am. Who am I?" questioned Malvyn.

"The king, the leader who will take our people to the stars!" quipped Brigid absentmindedly.

"What?"

"Oh – I – I spoke without thinking, out of instinct perhaps."

"You are the high priestess, Brigid, or are meant to be. You see things; you know things without knowing you know them. You clearly have the Sight that house Miyoo is famous for."

"I am no leader. You at least are a master bowman and the head of your house. You rule others and rightfully so," protested Brigid.

"If I am destined to be our people's first king, then so be it. I trust your Sight, Brigid. I _need your Sight_ to guide me." "Malvyn, I'm afraid. I see things, I feel things – I do not understand. A high priestess should understand. A high priestess must be more than I am."

"We all change, we all grow. What if our meeting was not by chance, but by divine providence? What if we are meant to guide our people to the stars? You said last night before we retired that you were concerned about the readings from A672E92, that we have very little time to evacuate our planet. This I well believe. We need to evacuate and yet are in no position to do so – especially with both Cashmarie and Xingli at each other's throats. We look to them to guide us through the vastness of space, to their expertise in handling both sailing ships and star craft and their knowledge of the greater universe. And what do they do? Quibble over territory and resources that very soon will be destroyed when A672E92 expands and takes this planet with it. Brigid, listen to me and listen well: I cannot do this on my own. Even if the Great Council of Houses should summon me as soon as the negotiations conclude, I am not able to lead – not without you." Pulling his kirtle over his head and beginning to lace it closed he added, "I do not want to do it without you. I am asking you, nay begging you to help me."

"What do you need of me?" trembled Brigid.

"Marry me! Stay at my side for all the yen-ars of my life," pleaded Malvyn.

Tears of fear streamed down Brigid's face, "I do not know you. It is not logical to accept a proposal with a stranger save by the command of my house."

"Do you want me to go to them to ask for your hand?"

"We have work to do, Malvyn. Cannot this wait until this evening?"

Malvyn pulled on his doublet and fastened it, whispering gently in her ear, "As you wish."

Brigid met his eyes, "Thank you."

"Why do you still refuse to concede my point, Lady Silmira? We of house Xing-li are clearly the superior navigators. We invest more in studying the stars than you do. We know more about the universe than you do. Concede my point and perhaps we can finally move on," demanded Lord Admiral Horatio.

"I will concede nothing. How do you rule yourselves? By fear and terror? What happens to the navigator who fails to obey a command precisely and uses her own judgment instead?" countered Lady Silmira, raising her voice.

"Perhaps more would be achieved by not trying to force each other to comply with the customs of your respective houses," asserted Lady Brigid, her eyes flashing with annoyance as yet another shir-or of yelling started to grate on her nerves.

"Why do either of you need to agree on these internal matters at all? They are irrelevant to your dispute. Moreover, they distract everyone from larger issues that need to be addressed," added Lord Malvyn.

"Such as?" contended Horatio.

"Such as the very real possibility that we have less than two hundred yen-ars before this world becomes inhabitable from the impending death of A672E92. Yours are the houses most capable of leading us to safety. Yet what do you do? Worry so much about trifles in our present that you are willing to sacrifice all that we are or could ever be? Is this logical, lord admiral?" confronted Malvyn.

"What makes you think our star is dying?" mocked Horatio. "The lord admiral of house Xing-li is actually asking this question?" asked Lady Abbess Sareth with disbelief. "If you really are unaware of our impending doom, then perhaps you never earned the honors you bear! I earned my title through a lifetime of dedication in the healing arts and countless surgeries performed on our knights. Surely one does not become an admiral of Xing-li without being expert at all manner of ship and star craft operations!"

"At last some sense is spoken!" cried Lady Silmira.

Lady Brigid drummed her fingers on the conference table, her mind almost visibly working through the math on a dozen variables. Malvyn looked at her inquisitively, "What are you calculating?"

"I wonder," articulated Brigid.

"What is it?" asked Malvyn quietly.

"What if? Hmm! Lord Admiral, what do you consider the top three skill strengths of your house?" pondered Brigid.

Horatio looked at her blankly, visibly puzzled at the question. Malvyn eyed him, "The question is valid, lord admiral.

Answer it!"

Horatio closed his eyes to think before answering, "Star navigation, efficient ship and star craft operation, and exploration."

Malvyn caught Brigid's train of thought, "And you, Lady Silmira? What are the top three skills of house Cashmarie?"

"Trade, community, and interstellar communications, if I must pick three. That does not make us inferior in navigation, ship operations, or any of skill required to effectively pilot vessels – across our world or across the stars," asserted Lady Mariner Silmira.

"No one save perhaps Lord Horatio believes to the contrary," observed Brigid. "But I am asking for reason. Clearly both of your houses possess skills needed badly for an evacuation of our world and a successful migration to another planet where we may in time settle. What makes sense to me is that we should play to the strengths of each house. We are not separate countries, but one people. We have a common government now; why should we not conduct ourselves as peers and colleagues, each of us depending on the other for survival? Whether we claim it or not, that is exactly what we are, especially now that our peoples' survival is at stake. To that end I propose we put the greater good of our people to the forefront of our efforts. These resources each of you have fought and killed over no longer really exist – or they will not in a generation. Now is the time we prepare ourselves to evacuate. Do we have star craft enough to carry every single person off world for a prolonged voyage?"

"No," admitted Lady Silmira. "I do not know the full numbers of Xing-lian star craft, but I estimate our current star craft fleet capable of carrying no more than two hundred fifty one thousand eight hundred and thirty five individuals – less if we consider the amount of supplies we require for a journey lasting more than ten yen-ars."

"It will take more than ten yen-ars to find a suitable home," observed Horatio. "So far there are no suitable planets in this region of space to settle upon. Nothing in the A672 sector nor in any adjacent sectors. Our people are adapted to bluewhite stars; these tend to have short lifespans, meriting we locate a blue-white stellar system that is not too old, but not so young as to lack habitable planets. This is far from an easy task. Our needs are very specific. I estimate a voyage no less than sixty yen-ars and perhaps up to three hundred yen-ars, unless our instruments improve in the detection of systems we do not yet know exist."

"This is why we need you to stop fighting and work together.

No other house can match the expertise of either Xing-li or Cashmarie when it comes to interstellar travel. You are true experts whose skills are called upon now to solve the problem of our survival," declared Malvyn. "Can you not work together now towards evacuating our world and all that we need to survival a prolonged migration into the deeper universe?"

"I am willing," declared Lady Mariner Silmira, "if the lord admiral will meet us halfway."

"We are prepared to draft a contract equitable to all parties if both houses will sign it and agree to its terms," offered Lady Abbess Sareth.

"One condition," indicated Horatio.

"Name it."

"That I command the fleet during the evacuation and be permitted to set our course away from A672E92 Quintus," specified Horatio.

"For the first yen-ar of our voyage, I will agree to that. But after the first yen-ar, all course headings must be approved by a vote of the Great Council," countered Lady Silmira. "No single house must be permitted too much power in this, let alone a single individual. Command of the fleet and command of our people must remain separate matters lest too much power be weld by one person and through such power, corruption and despotism."

Horatio snarled, clearly not liking Silmira's condition, "I will concede to the condition only so long as the Great Council ratifies it."

"Then we are agreed; let us draw up the papers and be done with this matter," approved Malvyn.

Two beinors (solar days) later, Lady Mariner Silmira and Lord Admiral Horatio signed the contract outlining the duties and responsibilities of houses Xing-li and Cashmarie towards preparation for and embarking upon what would eventually be called the "Great Migration." Among its many terms, both parties agreed to the construction of two dozen star craft from their house each capable of carrying no less than two hundred thousand passengers plus an equal number of square zhang张 allocated per star craft for food, supplies, livestock, and other essentials, all of which were to be completed in less than five yen-ars. The contract also specified creation of a subcommittee of the Great Council whose purpose was to oversee fulfillment of each of the one hundred eight two provisions enumerated within its contents. Five beinors after Lady Brigid, Lord Malvyn, and Lady Sareth summited the contract, the Great Council ratified it 98 votes to 2, beginning the first of many yen-ars of preparation to leave A672E92 Quintus forever.

Five yen-ars passed. Lady Brigid sat in her office adjacent to her apartment in the temple of Ainisil on the island of BenAr, her eyes fixed on the data stream in front of her. Touching the screen, she accessed a report detailing progress by houses Xing-li and Cashmarie towards preparing for the evacuation. A line of text from Lady Mariner Silmira notified her that the Cashmarian star craft the Dolerin with its passenger capacity of over 400,000 and livestock capacity of up to two million mammals, fish, and birds neared completion. Estimated time of completion was set for fifteen beinors from current date. The Dolerin was the largest star craft completed in the history of A672E92 Quintus to date; if only they had five hundred thousand of them! The door chimed. "Come," answered Brigid.

As the door opened, Lady Priestess Miriam stepped forward, her kirtle a rosy pink that appeared pale orange to trichromatic eyes. Embroidered on her gown was the heraldry of house Miyoo: a single waxing gibbous moon paired with a twinkling white star somewhat resembling the Xing-lian star heraldic charge. Miriam strode confidently into Brigid's office and leaned up against Brigid's desk, intentionally obstructing her view of the data, "Why are you still here? We have guests arriving from across A672E92 Quintus. All the leaders from each house will be gathered at the festival filled with food, music, and tournaments. There is to be a celebration: the star craft Gilráne was finished an entire yenar ahead of schedule. They say Lord Admiral Horatio himself will pilot it in a grand display!"

Brigid eyed Miriam with only slightly veiled annoyance, "I have no interest in celebrations, least of all those involving the so-called great and powerful of Beinan. I have work to do."

"You are not an engineer, Brigid. This data you watch so diligently is not yours to monitor. That task falls to the engineers of Xing-li, Cashmarie, and Slabi. _They_ are the professional scientists, not you."

"I do not care. I must know our people will be safe."

"They will be, Brigid, but I sense there is a lot more to your avoidance of people than just worry about something we can only prepare for and not change. Tell me. I am your sister priestess. I can help."

"Can you make the dreams stop? Can you calm my soul from this terrible foreboding? _I see things_ , Miriam. Terrible things. I do not know how or why or even when. But my soul is tormented."

"What better distraction from such visions then than to be with people?"

"No – I can't! I cannot see him again. Please, do not ask me to put myself where I will be forced to see him!"

"Him? Who? Brigid, you have not been the same since

Honorable Lady Kendra sent you to arbitrate the peace between houses Xing-li and Cashmarie. Did something happen during the conference?" reasoned Miriam.

"Yes. Since I met him, my dreams and visions have only grown more intense, more frequent. I see things of other times and places, even when waking. Since he kissed me – "

"Who?"

"Lord Master Bowman Malvyn of house Balister."

Suddenly everything clicked for Lady Priestess Miriam, all of her sister priestess' odd behaviors and reclusiveness, "So that's the answer to the riddle! He did something to advance your powers, didn't he?"

"Yes. I mean no disrespect to the others, Miriam, but I have no control over these new abilities. In private I've thought about objects and had them suddenly appear corporeally, as if by thinking about them I made them materialize. Miriam I am terrified. Strange things happen around me that I just do not understand and am certain I do not want to understand. I..." Brigid began to weep hysterically. "Why me? Why can't She choose someone else?"

"You are called, sister. There is no why, at least among mortals. When She calls, we have but two choices: to answer and obey of our own accord or resist and suffer until we can humble ourselves and do the right thing," explained Miriam compassionately.

" _I do not want this burden!"_ cried Brigid.

Miriam hugged Brigid tightly, "I know. But you cannot escape it either. You must meet this head-on and embrace who and what you are."

"I do not think I can."

Miriam rose, bringing Brigid up with her, "Yes, you can. All it takes is the first step, as terrible and terrifying as it sounds. Then the next and another and another and another until you are not only walking, but flying, free and true to yourself." Miriam led Brigid into her bed chamber and picked up a brush from her dressing table. Gently and calmly she brushed, then braided and pinned up Brigid's long dark hair. Finding a surcoat from Brigid's closet, she eased her sister priestess into it and fastened it together at the neck. "Now, sister, you are ready. Let us take the first step together." Brigid nodded nervously, and then followed Miriam to the festival outside.

Brigid and Miriam walked along the pathways radiating out of the main temple entrance. On the south side of the grounds gathered a dozen archers from house Cashmarie. As the ladies arrived, the mistress of the lists paused the current round so the ladies could cross safely. As Brigid and Miriam sat down, her arm came down – the signal for fire when ready. Nearest to Miriam and Brigid stood Lord Malvyn, his eyes stern and body tense with concentration as he fired the next volley. This time, without the aggravation of the conference to distract him, his arrow landed clear and true in the heart of the bull's eye; a perfect score. Brigid tried to relax and simply watch him at his best. Malvyn, for his part, kept his eyes and concentration on the task at hand, intentionally avoiding the spectators. This was more than just about archery for show to him; it was about retaining control over house Balister and ensuring that his agenda of preparation for evacuation was fully carried out. As the mistress of the lists declared the round over and for a brief recess while the judges tallied the scores, Malvyn lowered his bow and looked around, his eyes meeting Brigid's for the first time in five yen-ars. Malvyn put down his bow and walked over to Brigid and Miriam, bowing as he reached them, "How do you like the tournament, my ladies?"

"You shoot better when Lord Horatio is not grinding your nerves," smiled Brigid, trying to avoid his eyes.

"It's been five yen-ars; I am surprised you remember, Lady Brigid."

"I remember more than you think," countered Brigid.

"Why then avoid me?"

"I do not want my visions to come true, Malvyn. It is nothing personal," replied Brigid coolly.

"Nothing personal? I fall in love with you, ask you to marry me, and instead of answering me you flee from my presence for five yen-ars? How am I not supposed to take that personally?"

"Since that night together, Malvyn, my abilities have been completely out of control. Do you really want to be around someone so cursed as I am? I do not know what I am capable of now and I do not want to find out. These things terrify me; the last thing I want is to hurt you, to kill you by accident. I love you!" argued Brigid, unaware of her own feelings. Suddenly aware of what she just said, she sank, almost fainting.

Disbelief and shock filled Malvyn's face, "I-I-I did not know."

Lady Miriam eyed Malvyn, "You are a great warrior, Master Bowman, but her courage is the greater. You cannot imagine her torment; she has stayed away from everyone since the conference ended. When we take vows as priestesses, Malvyn, we swear to do no harm to any living being – even food animals must be killed by those who have not taken vows. She loves you, my lord; therefore her vows compel her to avoid you as long as she lacks proper control."

"Can you sense what she is experiencing?"

"Some. Enough to know the chaos in her soul and mind. This is not something a mind-healer can cure, my lord. It is a battle of the soul that only she can fight."

Malvyn knelt before Brigid and took her hand, kissing it, "Forgive me! I did not know."

"But I told you back then...your dreams, mine..." alluded Brigid.

"You are right; I should have listened better."

Suddenly the herald cried, "Honorable Lady Kendra of house Gurun summons Lady Priestess Brigid of house Miyoo to come before her on the field of honor."

Brigid trembled. Lord Malvyn helped her rise and escorted her to the field where a gathering of twenty peers stood, Lady Kendra at their center. Brigid knelt before the feet of the leader of the Great Council, "I here and obey."

Kendra addressed the gathering, "Peers and nobles, lords and ladies from across our world, for four thousand yen-ars our people have been without a high priestess or high priest. Not since the beinors of High Priestess Cordelia the Kind and her husband, High Priest Elendir have we been formally led by the wisdom of the goddess of many names known to us here as Ainisil. This xiao-shir, that changes." Motioning to one of the gathered priestesses of Miyoo from the Great Council, a coronet was passed to Kendra who raised it up for all to see.

Malvyn raised his voice in interception, "Your Honor, may I?"

"As you wish," consented Kendra, passing the coronet to him who lowered it upon Brigid's head as she proclaimed, "Lady Priestess Brigid, in the name of our people I declare you high priestess and spiritual leader of all our people."

"Your honor, before you salute our new high priestess, there is a question I would ask before her grace rises," interrupted Malvyn. Kendra nodded consent. "Your grace, high priestess of our people, for five yen-ars I have loved you and needed you. Now I declare that love before all and ask of you, my high priestess, for your hand in marriage."

Brigid whitened and nearly fainted. Why would he corner her with such a question in front of everyone? Breathing hard and trying to adjust to the weight of the coronet on her head, she felt trapped; to refuse would be to dishonor herself. But to consent would be to throw herself headlong into the very foresight that frightened her most. Hesitating for as long as she could, her eyes met Miriam's. In her head her she heard Miriam tell her, "You are the chosen of the goddess. When She calls, we have but two choices: to answer and obey of our own accord or resist and suffer until we can humble ourselves and do the right thing."

Panting, Brigid raised her eyes and met Malvyn's for the first time in five yen-ars, "I will marry you, Malvyn of house Balister."

Raising her up, Malvyn kissed her affectionately, then proclaimed, "Long live Her Grace, Brigid, High Priestess of Miyoo!"

In her head Brigid heard Malvyn's voice merge with a dozen other voices, female and male, "Long live the king," the cry merging with other voices crying, "Long live the Queen."

Brigid cringed at the sound, her heart crying, "Why me, Lady? Why choose me?"

Twenty beinors later, High Priestess Brigid married Lord Master Bowman Malvyn in a small outdoor ceremony on the very field where she was crowned high priestess. In this, Brigid accepted her duty, even as her uncertainty made objects fly across the room around her. As a precaution, Malvyn replaced Brigid's crystalline decanter normally filled with nara wine with one of Beinarian silver for the reception.

A silver pitcher at least would not shatter so readily.

In consideration for Brigid's lack of confidence in her ability to control her powers, Malvyn ordered both wedding and reception to include only their nearest relatives and closest friends, gentles whose affection for them would forgive telekinetic mishaps. As the customary toasts began during the reception, Brigid tasted the mint-chocolate cocoa traditionally served for the toast, "It is too cold." Suddenly the cups bubbled, the temperature rising steady. Brigid gasped. The bubbling stopped. Sipping the drink again, her mind noted the temperature greatly improved.

Five yen-ars passed. In a small bed near Brigid's bed in her apartment, a toddler fussed with the first rays of dawn. Brigid rose to console her son. The door opened from the adjacent apartment. Malvyn appeared in the doorway, equally observant of their son's inability to sleep, "Let me!"

"As you wish," relaxed Brigid, laying down and closing her eyes. Ugly, terrifying faces appeared in the fiery crimson blaze she saw, energy creatures of malice and hatred that tormented her when she tried to calm and control her powers.

The little boy seemed sensitive to his mother's pain, "Help momma! Monster bad hurt. Help momma!"

"How do you know about the monsters, Tristen?" asked Malvyn.

"Momma!" replied Tristen.

"Brigid, does he have the Sight?"

"Yes. He can see what I see, at least until he grows old enough to ignore it the way most people ignore these things," answered Brigid, trying to meditate and quiet her spirit.

"Incoming call from Lord Wyne," cried the computer nearby. "Display," commanded Malvyn.

"My lord! At last I reach you. You have been summoned to appear before the Great Council," exhaled Lord Wyne with relief.

"When do they want me there?"

"Two shir-ors. They say it is important."

"When is it not important?" remarked Malvyn. "Any indicator what they want this time?"

"No, Sire."

"Tell them I shall be there. And Wyne, bring my heritage bow, the one I used to win the tournament the beinor of her grace's elevation."

"Yes, Sire, of course sire!" agreed Wyne nervously.

"Your Excellency, it is time." alerted Lord Wyne, picking up Lord Malvyn's ornately carved recurve bow, its pale, tawny wood shining from many yen-ars of reverential care. This was a heritage bow, carefully preserved by each successive generation and used only when necessary to preserve its integrity. Bowing as Lord Malvyn knelt; Lord Wyne gently guided the black bow string around Lord Malvyn's right shoulder.

Lord Malvyn raised his grey eyes to Lord Wyne's pale blue eyes, "Are you sure the Great Council asked for my presence? Ours is not the oldest house, after all. Would not someone from House Gurun or even House Xing-li be better?

Their traditions are far older than ours."

"My lord, I cannot claim to know the Council's mind... only obey their summons."

Lord Malvyn nodded, "Very well then... shall we enter chambers?" Lord Wyne bowed respectfully, and then opened the massive carved doors that opened into the Assembly Hall.

Not surprising to Lord Malvyn, the head seat of the council was occupied by Lady Kendra of House Gurun, her pale blue gossamer gown clinging to her petite frame. Kendra's nearly black hair was neatly braided down her back, a practical style.

As Lord Malvyn and his aid, Lord Wyne entered, Lady Kendra addressed the Great Council, "Delegates of our people, houses great and small, we have come here to confront the needs of our people in light of the danger presented to us by the impending death of our blue-white sun. The findings of our best scientists from Houses Xing-li and Slabi are conclusive: we have but a few yen-ars before our sun goes nova. In those yen-ars we must evacuate. Our council is well suited to the normal governance of our people. Yet what lies ahead is greater than our traditional democracy can handle. We need executive leadership to guide our people into the stars and to a new homeland, a new world where our civilization may yet thrive. Lord Malvyn we have summoned you here as chieftain of House Balister."

Lord Malvyn bowed, "How may I be of service to our people, Honorable Lady Kendra?"

"Over the past twenty eight beinors we have debated. We have chosen to create an executive for our people, a king elected by this Council who may, with the permission of this august body, transfer power to his best qualified offspring should he rule well until death. You, Lord Malvyn, are childless, but your wife, our high priestess, is strong and wise, a credit to House Miyoo. We therefore confer upon you the title of King and ask you serve as our chosen executive to guide us into the stars and into the great migration that is so key to our survival."

"Wise counselors, I am humbled by your choice. As this is your will, I shall most conscientiously obey," bowed kingelect Malvyn.

"So mote it be." smiled Lady Kendra, pleased at their choice.

Twenty beinors later, the Great Hall of the Assembly glittered with pomp and circumstance. Banners representing each of the noble houses of Ana, Balister, Cashmarie, Gurun, Miyoo,

Shem, Slabi, Ten-Ar, and Xing-li danced in the gentle breeze in unity and pride from every window and through every corridor of the mansion-turned-government office building. On the lawn in front of the mansion a simple stage sprawled with two thrones resting upon it. Two steps joined the stage to the grassy meadow where benches lined up in three columns, enough to accommodate over two hundred nobles. In front of the thrones stood High Priestess Brigid, her crimson gown twinkling with tiny iridescent diamonds sewn into the organza overskirt in contrast to the konyn wool of its bodice and underskirt. Shawms played a triumphant processional as Lord Malvyn strode forward, his crimson cloak embroidered with the Balistrian heraldic bow. High Priestess Brigid motioned for the assembly to sit, "Peers and nobles of A672E92 Quintus, you have chosen your king, the first king to rule in our society. This coronation comes out of the great emergency that confronts our people; unless we leave this world forever soon, we shall perish with it as A672E92 dies and envelopes its planets. Therefore, it is my solemn duty to install Lord Malvyn as our king that we may put aside our quarrels in the interests of survival." Brigid turned to Lord Wyne who ascended to the platform from a set of side steps. Dutifully, Wyne handed Brigid the newly constructed crown for the Balister dynasty. Brigid raised it over the now kneeling Lord Malvyn, "Malvyn, son of Cordelia and Gregory of house Balister, you are called to serve as our first king. Do you promise to rule with mercy, wisdom, and compassion, putting aside the interests of any single house and committing yourself to service to all – rich or poor, healthy or infirm, powerful or weak, urban or rural? Will you swear to protect the innocent while punishing the guilty through justice, not vengeance, ever humble before that which is greater than all of us?"

"By my life or death, I so swear, forfeiting all I possess should I fail to uphold this vow," swore Malvyn.

Brigid lowered the crown upon his head, "By the power vested in me as high priestess, I proclaim thee King Malvyn."

King Malvyn rose, turning to all assembled while holding Brigid's hand affectionately, "My people, I promise to serve you and serve you well. As my first act as your king, I hereby elevate High Priestess Brigid to the rank of princess consort and claim our son, Tristen, as our heir. Listen well to the words of her highness and her grace which are one and the same this beinor. For hers is the greater power and the greater wisdom than any of us. Hers is the greater burden than mine. For foresight and insight is the gift of house Miyoo and of these, the Goddess has blessed her grace far more than any in our history. Listen well and we shall survive that which comes soon."

Fifteen yen-ars passed. Finally, all was ready thanks to the wisdom and cooperative leadership of King Malvyn and Princess Consort Brigid. With a clear directive and steady leadership, the peers and nobles of A672E92 Quintus redoubled their efforts to evacuate their world. With most of the star craft already launched and waiting between A672E92 Quintus and A672E92 Sextus, King Malvyn and Princess Brigid boarded the star craft Gilráne under the command of Lord Admiral Horatio. With a roar from the Gilráne's engines, A672E92 Quintus disappeared behind them. In all, 80% of all manner of life was able to evacuate, including hundreds of thousands of species of flora and fauna. On the bridge of the Gilráne, Brigid listened as Horatio expertly commanded his star craft as skillfully as his reputation, King Malvyn ever watchful of his conduct. Looking back one last time, Brigid bowed in deference to the world that was their home and the goddess who gave birth to all. With a tear in her eye, Brigid put her hand upon the bulkhead near the window next to her, "Goodbye!"

## About Author Laurel A. Rockefeller

Born, raised, and educated in Lincoln, Nebraska USA, author-historian Laurel A. Rockefeller educates while she entertains, encouraging readers to think about current events and history in a completely new way. Using exhaustive and comprehensive research across dozens of academic disciplines, Laurel's stories come alive so vividly it is easy to forget you are learning something new.

As a low vision author who lost most of her sight to a traumatic brain injury while in secondary school, Laurel is passionate about high quality audio books. London-born British actor and voice artist Richard Mann narrates Laurel's audio book editions with superb performances complimentary to and enhancing Laurel's powerful and vibrant creative nonfiction storytelling. Hear Mr. Mann in action here.

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