

# ONE MINUTE STORIES

From A-Z

C.A. Simonson © 2014

Anthology – Edited by C.A. Simonson

Cover Design by C.A. Simonson

##### Introduction

_One Minute Stories_ is a book you can pick up anywhere, at any time, and have an enjoyable quick read.

From warm and fuzzy feel-good stories to horror, romance to suspense, mystery to science fiction, you will find a story to your liking.

From all over the world writers took on the challenge of writing a complete story in twenty-six sentences – one for every letter of the alphabet. They had the choice to write from A-Z, Z-A, or start in the middle, as long as all the letters were used. Liberties were given with the letter X, but many found grand words to use.

I hope you enjoy this book as much as I enjoyed gathering the stories from superior writers all over the world.

A BEAUTIFUL CAUsALITY

### Tim Mooney, Talbott, Tennessee USA

Designations and rules aside, the purpose behind the experiment was overwhelming and exciting to Zeb. Even in his wildest dreams he could never have believed that he would become part of such an important project. Five other scientists were part of the team. Great men and women in their fields. He often had to take a moment to pinch himself, just to make himself understand that he was truly where he was.

Inside the lab, on his own, he was comfortable. Just him and his numbers and the screens, it was what he was destined to do, to be. Knowledge, numbers, possibilities, and Zeb's swift-thinking acuity were now a part of this, and he smiled as he worked.

Laying in programs. Measuring the spacial incongruities. Nursing out the quantum-justifications from the stark realities. Oh, he was so in his element!

Perhaps he was a bit too overwhelmed, because on his third month in the Project, he made a mistake, nothing immediately discerned, but a mistake nonetheless. Queries were raised softly about his background. Rabbets he had chiseled into the programs had not dovetailed with the set parameters of The Potentiality Quotient.

Serious mistakes in his calculations were not discovered in time. Time itself began to dissipate. Unraveled moments began to coalesce and reform. Virtual impossibilities swarmed into the theme and foregoing new reality of The Project.

Wind became a hard, brittle landscape, and one by one, little secrets crawled up from the dark and began to find their way into the Solidity of Perfection.

Xoanon, in His New Reign, dissolved the science of Man, but, in his dark generosity, took Zeb under his cloying, foul comfort, and kept him blind: a small peace.

Years of eternal torment in this New Reality, a mistake of Man's toying with the Universe, would only seem like a long bad dream.

Zeb twitched and smiled as he slept... forever awake."

# A LIGHTER PHILOSOPHY

### Randall Lemon, Highland, Indiana USA

###

"Art is more important than science," declared the ancient philosopher. "But can one truly exist without the other," asked the neophyte? "Certainly they may rely on each other to clarify their definition to the unschooled," responded old Pranidhana. Daring to venture an opinion of his own, young Quang Tu opined, "then if each relies on the other, Master, how can either be truly more important?"

"Erudite as always. Further thought must be given to the matter. Great questions are solved by great minds." Here, Master Pranidhana allowed a tiny smile to cross his usually expressionless face. "Isn't it time you began performing your chores for the learned brothers?"

"Just as always," thought Quang Tu. Keeping his rebellious thoughts to himself, the student stalked off to begin the many menial tasks that were his obligations every day. Losing the argument might have been the smarter strategy. "Maybe my teachers would assign me fewer tasks if I pretended to hang on their every word instead of seeking to debate them?"

Never had Quang Tu managed to learn that lesson. Opinions poured from him like water from a faucet. Pupils far more experienced than he earned lighter duty schedules by feigning ignorance. Quizzing the Masters was not a wise tactic.

Roiling inside of Quang Tu was a tumult of unresolved emotions, as he approached his classmate, Tsung-chih who had observed Quang Tu's exchange with Pranidhana.

"Surely you will one day learn to keep your mouth shut and your mind open," said Tsung-chih with an expression of smug satisfaction on his face. "Try remembering, Quang Tu, you came here to learn, not teach. Understanding—true understanding—will allow you to walk in the light of our great teacher, Buddha's sagacity for all time."

Veritable rage seized Quang Tu and caused him to pick up a rock and strike Tsung-chih to the ground. Wrath drove Quang Tu to reach a final, terrible decision.

"Exacting my vengeance upon these pontificating fools shall become my new goal in life." Yearning for a tool to help him in his terrible plan, he felt in his pockets and found the perfect thing.

Zippo lighter in hand, he advanced on the straw roofs of the temple complex.

# A NEW GAME

### Sue Fenton, Red Hill, United Kingdom

###

After eating breakfast he felt nauseous. Before his head got this mixed up, he'd been able to keep down the aftermath of a night's heavy drinking but these days, the addition of food to the witch's brew in his stomach often provoked a backlash that made him rush to the bathroom.

Certainly, the fried eggs and bacon he'd just consumed made it feel like there was a volcano stirring in his gut, like porridge simmering glutinously on the hob.

Despite the precaution of taking a paracetomol before bed, his head felt awful too: thick, dull, leaden in its immobility.

Empty, too, as though nothing could stick in it for long. Frightening flashbacks kept bursting onto his mental retina, only to fleet away into the place that dreams – and nightmares – go when we wake.

Going back in his head to the beginning was the only way he could make sense of where he was now. How had it happened? Inside his cerebral cortex, where his burning brain could find it if it tried, was a picture of the scene.

Just eight years old – a sweet child, everyone said. Knots of nausea formed again in his gut as he remembered.

"Let's play a new game," Zoe, the little girl from next door, had suggested bored of their usual pursuits.

Maybe what happened next was the first sign of an evil that had always been inside him. Nothing else would explain it. Over and above the habitual tedium and simmering, irrational fearfulness that always filled his mind there was a state of badness. Psychiatrists tried to explain it since that childhood incident, calling it a 'disorder.'

"Queer in the head," was the verdict of those less educated, less sympathetic.

Reaching for the kitchen drawer he'd pulled out the bread knife. She'd trusted him, didn't move away, didn't flinch, just stood and looked at him, expectantly, waiting for the game to start.

Then the silver blade – actually not silver at all, he knew now, but steel, cold, grey, hard, like the stuff in his head – flashed, glinted, plunged and sawed.

Unconscious, bleeding – dead, as they told him when they came running in from the garden, summoned by her screams – she lay on the kitchen floor, next to her neatly-stacked fingers and ears.

Vomiting first – that had been eggs and bacon too, oddly enough, he remembered – he'd sat down patiently next to her on the floor, holding her dismembered hand in a kind of comforting embrace, scarcely comprehending the clamor of voices, screams, sirens.

"Why," they kept asking – and had been asking ever since.

Examinations, brain scans, psychiatric assessments, medication, youth custody, and in due course back to a kind of freedom created by his complete inability to remember.

Yesterday, though, it had all come flooding back, completing the gradual return of his memory, and the alcohol went flooding in too to medicate, as it had for years now, the flashbacks that plagued him.

Zoe had been his first, all those years ago, and right now, seeing his second lying immobile in the same spot in his parents' kitchen, his head and his stomach contents finally erupted.

# A TRUCE

### Sharla Matlock, Florissant, Missouri USA

A wolf climbed the high ridge and ambled slowly to the edge. Biting wind whipped over thick fur but all his chills were on the inside. Caleb's tongue slipped out and ran down the side of his lower jaw. Davenport would be there soon with the rest of the council. Each member would be there for the meeting with the humans.

Far below, the humans were already gathered by their fire and fidgeting in the cold night wind. Giving them a chance at a truce was the council's decision, not Caleb's.

Hampton appeared, followed closely by Ollie, Alexia and Chelsea. It was time for the five to ride the wind down to the meeting with the humans.

Jesus was in charge down below. Keeping in formation, the wolves descended upon the humans just materializing out of the darkness. Leary, the group of humans turned and faced the council while an opening formed in the group that left room for Jesus to come forward. Many men had been lost in the war with the wolves and it was time for a truce. Nina, his niece kept close behind him. Only she had the speed and accuracy with a knife that he hopefully would not require on such a night. Peace was sorely needed on both sides of the war.

Quietly, Caleb and Jesus met in middle ground, away from the ring of fire. Respectfully, they greeted each other then got down to business. Sources had already detailed the laws of the new truce so it was up to them to perform the blood oath ceremony required to make the truce law. They each nodded and Shaman Xandu, from a neighboring village, began the rite.

Under the moon, and in front of the council and tribe, Caleb and Jesus gave forth blood from their arms unto the soil below. Visions danced in the flames when the chanting flowed through the small crowd. Waving his arm, the Shaman sprinkled ash from the fire on top of the blood and poured the contents of a small copper bowl over it all. Xandu closed his eyes, bowed his head; it was done.

Years passed and the truce held. Zero to Zero was the body count of the future.

# A WALK IN THE WILD

### Ken Windsor, New South Wales, Australia

As the sun slipped slowly over the horizon, the landscape became indistinct. Before full darkness took over I cast one more look along the track. Covering my mouth to stifle a gasp, I saw them slowly approaching. Delving into my bag, I felt the barrel of the flashlight. Everything seemed to stop as I pulled the torch free.

Flickering pin-points of light reflected from a dozen eyes in the beam of light. Growing bolder in the darkness, they were getting closer. Holding the flashlight steady, I described an arc across the track, keeping it level with the eyes. In that instant they stopped. Just as I prepared to run, the eyes disappeared. Keeping still I waited, hoping something else had attracted their attention.

Leaning against a tree, I listened for any sound that might tell me where they were. My heart was pounding; I felt the perspiration prickling on my brow. Not a sight; not a sound. Only my shallow breathing broke the eerie silence.

Putting the flashlight back in my bag, I slowly turned three hundred and sixty degrees. Quaking, I moved away from the tree and resumed my journey. Rapidly I moved away from that frightening place.

Suddenly the track ended on the bitumen road and I could see lights. Traffic rumbled past in a steady stream as I followed the road. Unless I was mistaken, the roadhouse was just around the next corner. Very carefully I walked on the edge of the bitumen, stepping aside each time a vehicle passed. When I reached the apex of the bend I could see the roadhouse lights glittering in the distance.

Xysters will not be working on my bones this night! Yet I was still filled with apprehension; alone at the side of the road, I felt threatened. Zephyrs of night breeze raised the hairs on the back of my neck as I moved forward and reached the safety of the roadhouse.

(Editor's note: "xysters" is a bone saw)
A TASTE OF FREEDOM

### Neetu Malik, Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, USA

As still as a statue, immersed in a world of make-believe, Sara sat by the window, brushing her long hair. Burnished gold tresses shone in the moonlight.

Caught in a mood of melancholy, memories trickled through one by one of the times she had wanted to take those trips to faraway places to search for what was within. Dusting the cobwebs away - ones that had hung for years - on the hopes and dreams that lay fragmented and buried, Sara realized she was now free.

Eventually breaking the shackles that had held her in bondage from freedom of soul and spirit, she could be all she wanted to be. Frantically she battled the ties that kept her in check, always hampered, always embittered from the frustrations that had forced her to hold back, to give in. Growing suddenly within her now was the light of hope. Hope, what a curious thing! Immensely powerful as the light of the sun that rose each morning, warming body and soul.

Joyfully placing her hairbrush on her dresser, Sara rose from the chair and looked into the mirror. Knowing that she now had her own life to answer for, her own choices to make for the first time, her life filled her with a sense of relief. Longing to seize the freedom and not lose any time, she dressed hurriedly, even at this late hour, grabbed her purse and car keys, and dashed out the door. Making choices, yes! No one to tell her not to go because it was late or ask her what she could possibly want to do at this late hour? One had to live under someone else's rules to know what it felt like.

Pausing at the end of the block, Sara crossed the street towards her car. Quiet as the night was, she could hear her own footsteps on the sidewalk, but wait! Recoiling instinctively, under a signal from her sixth sense, she stopped and leaned against the car. She stood very still. The night was excruciatingly still. Uncomfortably, she glanced around and felt a presence besides her own. Visions, perhaps? What was it that had stopped her in her tracks?

Extending her arm, Sara reached into her purse for the car keys. Yards away, the headlights of another car turned on, and flashed directly at her frozen face; the engine screeched as the car pulled out on to the street. Zigzagging noisily past her, music blaring within, it sped away as Sara heaved a sigh of relief.

# APPLES TO APPLES

### Neetu Malik, Bethlehem, Pennsylvania USA

Apples to Apples! Boy, that was what we were playing that night the storm raged outside and the branches creaked as they were yanked off the trees by the ferocity of the wind. Cannot imagine how I forgot. Daddy had just left a few short hours before it started to go to the airport to catch his flight to Zurich. Eerie as it was, my sister and I had our friends over for a sleepover so it was distracting enough. From the time I can remember, my mother would ask us to invite friends over whenever daddy went on a trip. Growing up in an old Victorian home, I realized mama was always uncomfortable when daddy was away. Her fears remained unspoken, yet palpable. Imagination can play tricks on you, you know, but the way every sound, every creak would stiffen her, make her stop and listen, made it clear she had an inkling of something...ghostly, perhaps?

"Josh...Josh..." the voice cried.

Keeping as calm as I could, which of course was practically impossible, I looked in the direction of the voice. Leaning against the window was the rain-soaked umbrella Mama brought inside a few minutes before, after carrying the trash out to the edge of the driveway. My eyes, in that very instant, rested on it, and as if guided by some action of my eyes, the umbrella moved, just a tad, just a wee little bit.

No one called Josh lived in our house, and no one I knew had that name. On the floor in front of me lay the cards of the game, red and green. Petrified faces of my sister and our friends stared at the same umbrella, watching it tilt to a 45 degree angle, then move back to upright position.

Queasy in the pit of my stomach, not daring to move with my eyes transfixed on the umbrella, the old picture on the wall below the staircase of the basement I had so often noticed came to mind.

Remembering the name under the picture clipped from a newspaper dated 1935, my heart pounded. Suddenly, I knew Josh. Turning to look at my mother, whose face wore the whiteness of fear and whose expression told me our thoughts had landed on the same photograph, I managed to squeak, "Mama!" Until now, we hadn't moved or spoken.

Vacuously smiling, I took my sister's hand in one of mine, reaching out to the other girls with the other, as if this one motion of the body and expression would bring us back to reality from a dream, or a nightmare.

What had just happened, if anything at all? Expecting to trigger something, anything, to break the ominous silence, I stood up.

"Yes," said my mother, "Joshua had lived...and died in this house of an unknown illness, and I was told that he had been clothed in red and green for the wake - the colors of apples that still grow in our yard, once a farm".

Zukas Apple Farm was right here in 1935.

# BLUE AZALEAS

### By Neetu Malik, Bethlehem, Pennsylvania USA

Azaleas were my grandmother's favorite flowers. Blue ones – a rare color – which she had planted along the front porch, would blossom each spring, merging earth and sky harmoniously together in the first light of dawn.

Calm, gentle and sweet, my grandmother took care of us when our mother could not. Driven by a deep, nurturing radiance, she became the pillar of strength and the healer in our flagging world as our mother's health failed year after year.

Exactly when she started gathering and storing these flowers in a box I do not know, but when she passed on, there they were, in a large wicker box at the top of her closet. Feeling them now in my hand, I sensed my grandma's eyes watching me, the rustle of those dried blooms carrying soft whispers to my ear.

Gently, I lifted them out, placing them on the bed. Her scent still lingered on them – I breathed deeply the patchouli-scented soap she had always used, inhaling its sweetness, absorbing her tenderness and her presence seemed to grow stronger in the room as I lifted the last of the flowers out of the box that was lined on the bottom with one of my grandmother's hand-embroidered large kerchiefs.

I removed the kerchief from the box with trembling hands, unfolded it, and gasped as I saw the stain – quite obviously old blood, a rusty brown-grey, running along the entire length of the fabric on one side. '

'Jeremy' – my grandfather's name – was embroidered in gold and green silken threads across one corner.

Knots in my stomach grew tighter as I realized there was something else in the box, underneath that kerchief. Lying there was a yellowed postcard which bore a faded stamp. My heart pounded as I picked it up, as if I were touching something sacred; I, an intruder upon a tryst.

"Never doubt the unbreakable bond we have created, my precious one, as even death cannot do us part; I shall watch you from among the blue azalea blossoms, where you once stole my heart," read the note, in a handwriting I had never seen before.

Only once had my grandma talked about her beloved husband's death from injuries in a train accident as he was traveling home from the front where he was stationed during the war. Painful memories of the loss were stowed away in her heart, but I just knew from the glow in her that their love had been enduring and strong.

Quite overcome with emotion at the discovery of this treasure of a woman so dear to my heart and a grandfather whose picture was now emerging clearer to me, I knew I had been let into a secret temple, which housed the embodiment of true love, guided by the breeze of tranquility that drifted from the spirit of my grandmother.

Returning the note to the wicker box, caressing lightly one more time the immortality of love, I found myself wrapped in the halo of two departed souls who had bestowed upon me this life, in which happiness and pain, love and loss are defined only by who we are and how we make this journey.

Seeing the blue azaleas lying upon the smooth white bedcover, these clusters had now assumed a life.

They will always reside in my home to remind me that death does not separate those we love from us. United in spirit with my grandparents – even though I had never known my grandfather – I knew I was watched over by both of them.

Veritable proof of the indestructible energy and light of love was before me, around me, within me.

Warm in that knowledge, I slowly put the flowers back, smiling as the whiff of patchouli rose and dispersed through the air. Extracting every ounce of the richness of the moment, I closed the box and placed it back on the top shelf.

Young and full of hope breaks spring to rise in little specks of green through the winter-browned earth, as I wait for the azaleas by the front porch to rise and mingle with the blue of the sky.

Zipping up my jacket to keep out the frosty chill of a March morning, I step outside to visit my grandparents.

##### CRACKED

### R.S. McCoy, Houston, Texas USA

"Zachary Davidson?" the twenty-something nurse called absently over the sterile room washed in windowed afternoon light, a hand running over his scant beard.

"Yeah," answered the lanky blonde boy, eleven years old and cradling a broken arm in his t-shirt.

"X-ray?" asked the nurse glancing up from the chart, failing to miss the absent guardian as they walked down the clinic corridor to the exam room.

With practiced contempt, the boy replied, "What does it look like?" as he held up his arm, bent unnaturally just below the elbow.

"Very well. Ulnar fracture, looks like." The nurse sat Zach on the exam table and touched his arm gently, his fingers refreshingly cool as he turned the arm and evaluated the injury, one he recognized all too well.

Still, Zach wasn't one to trust adults.

"Really did a number here. Quite a complex break, really. Probably require surgery," he said as if the boy didn't already know.

"Obviously," Zach replied, trying a little harder to be nice but finding it uncharted territory.

"Now, don't get all worked up. Most surgeries for this kind of break are pretty routine, in and out. Little chance of complications," the nurse said to ease the boy's visible anxiety. "Know what happened?" he added a moment later.

"Just fell," the boy lied.

"I'm required to keep confidentiality, you know. However this injury occurred, you can tell me," the nurse said with a reassuring hand on Zach's shoulder, the first kind touch he'd felt in years.

Gripped by both fear and opportunity, the boy listened to his pulse race in his ears as he thought hard about what he would say.

Finally, he thought, eager to carry one less secret.

"Earbuds," Zach started, eyes searching the man for any sign of betrayal as he relished the taste of truth so long overdue. "Dad hates them, can't stand when I listen to music in my room," he explained, fighting to keep his voice even.

"Cracked your arm for listening to music?" the nurse asked, not all surprised at the cause, only the reason.

"Broke it with his hands, just grabbed it and snapped it..." he said as his voice melted and years of anguish streamed down his cheeks.

"Animal," whispered the nurse as he leaned forward and rotated his arm to reveal a decade old scar just below the elbow.

# DROUGHT IN DAYTON WELLS

### Norma Freeman, Victoria, British Columbia Canada

###

Another arid day, the landscape shimmering in the relentless sun, marked a new milestone for the drought. Before this spell, the longest stretch without rainfall was 165 days. Counting today, this one was 489 days long.

Dayton Wells and the area surrounding the town, was parched and brown, except for the grounds around the millionaire mansions on the hill. Even the streams had run dry. For the townsfolk, a deep well provided water, but despite rationing, it now showed signs of expiration. Gathering their influence and resources, the wealthy brought in storage tanks and trucked water in for their personal use only.

Herb Garner was a reporter. Interested in Dayton Wells because Justine, his favorite aunt, lived there, he arrived at her invitation. Justine convinced him he would find a compelling story in the water disparity between the rich and the poor. Kindness toward his aunt first nudged him in that direction, but he was soon hooked.

Looking into the past, Herb found that the farmers neighboring the town had approached the wealthy conglomerate to request assistance to obtain water for their fields. Meetings were held and agreements were reached. None of the farmers had expected the drought to last so long; hence they accepted extortionist terms in desperation, and most used their land as collateral. Only one farmer still owned his land. Petitions to extend the repayment terms to the others had been dismissed by the conglomerate, and they forced them to become tenant farmers or leave the area. Quickly thereafter produce prices supplied by the farms to the town rose.

Research by Herb uncovered many other ways the wealthy conglomerate had taken advantage of the drought. Sickened by their greed and their lack of compassion, Herb decided he must meet and interview the members face to face.

Tucking his recording device into his pocket, Herb walked through the dry heat to the hotel where the meeting would be held. Under a canopy on the hotel balcony, the leaders of the group stood with drinks of the best bourbon or scotch in their hands. Various snacks and desserts were beautifully set out for consumption.

When greetings and small talk were behind them, Herb began asking about the drought. Expertly steering the conversation, Herb caught them on tape bragging about how they turned a problem into an opportunity: most did not realize how it incriminated them.

Yet, one man understood what Herb was doing; he watched him with narrowed, soulless eyes and then followed Herb when he left the hotel.

"Zip," whispered the sound of the bullet from a silenced gun—Herb crumpled to the ground, his blood oozing into the parched soil beneath him, leaving only his words and the recording behind.

# FEAR

### Doug Clarke, San Diego, California, USA

As the sun set in the west, Zeth couldn't help but think of the sunrise that morning - so full of hope. Besides the prospect of spending the day with Yolanda walking through the shops that line the beach, he was looking forward to popping the question over dinner that evening. Curiosity had gotten the best of him when she didn't show up for breakfast so he went up to her room and knocked. Despite the ever increasing volume of his knocking, she didn't answer. Eager to be with his beloved again, he went and fetched the hotel's manager and convinced her to open the door.

Frustrated and heartbroken, Zeth sat in the lobby wondering what to do next. Gone— without a trace, without a word or note, Yolanda had left. He decided to walk along the beach \- perhaps looking for some closure in doing what he had planned, even if alone. Inside a small shop he saw a blue dress that reminded him of her, the swaying of her hips, the spring in her step. Just then something caught him – a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye – Yolanda?

Knocking over a display and ignoring the shop owner's yells, Zeth ran outside. Looking up the walkway, eyes darting this way and that, he searched for his love. Methodically he made his way up the street, searching every shop, studying every face, glancing around every corner.

Nursing his ninth beer he sat at the bar watching the sun disappear like his love had. Only if he had told her sooner that he loved her – that he wanted to be with her forever. Perhaps she wouldn't have run away, or maybe she knew and that's why she had run.

Queasiness – was it the beers or his regrets –he decided to leave the bar and see if some fresh air might help. Refreshed by the cool evening breeze, Zeth walked along the beach, letting the waves lap at his still-shoed feet.

Standing there was Yolanda. Tears ran down her cheeks. Unable to control himself, unable to feel anything but relief in seeing her again, Zeth ran and threw his arms around her waist, and then swung her off her feet.

Vexed with sudden pain, Zeth put Yolanda down and stepped back.

"Why?

Exhaling, Yolanda spoke of her fear, her panic and regret in running away.

"Yolanda, will you marry me?" Zeth asked, one knee on the sand.

"Zeth, if you will have me, I'm yours," Yolanda replied with her words and her kisses.

# FIRST FLIGHT

### Patrick Granfors, Galena, Missouri USA

###

"Airspeed and altitude, airspeed and altitude," rookie pilot Jason Bowers repeated nervously like his mantra as the weathered B-17 lumbered down the runway towards take-off shuddering and groaning as the thumping wheels left the ruddy airstrip. Below him the approach lights and bristling gun positions fell away as he adjusted his flaps and throttle for the long haul to Berlin. Chalky cliffs glowed in the moonlight as wisps of fog closed in on the vertical shoreline. Dover had been his home since childhood and now with the madness in full swing, it was his turn to protect the land he loved with a load of flaming hell that he intended to drop on his target.

Everything he learned in flight school was about to be tested, and then some. Fokkers lay in wait just minutes ahead, treacherous, versatile, and deadly. Germans had the engineering prowess, skill, and manufacturing capabilities to produce them by the thousands, each one a potential widow maker.

How long until engagement was anybody's guess. Instruments lit the dark panels as his eyes swept over each one of them looking for warnings and gathering flight information. Justice would be served this night even if it were the last thing he ever did. Killing defenseless civilians tore at his conscience, but the indoctrination that the instructors had provided eased at least part of the guilt; besides half of his family had already been lost in the London bombings, so it was about revenge too.

Looking ahead towards the dark horizon the dim lights of Berlin were now visible, no blackout, his plane apparently undetected. Movement caught the corner of his left eye producing an immediate jolt of adrenaline, which resulted in supercharged nerves and a pounding heart beat as the Fokkers set their sights.

Now he was confronted with another challenge, reaching the target before he became the target. One by one his crew processed the navigational checklists and the opened the bomb bay doors while the gunners steadied themselves for their defense. Pop-pop-popping sounds suddenly pierced the moment overpowering the drone of the mighty engines while searing hot lead began penetrating the fuselage, ricocheting through the cockpit. Quiet turned into horror as the instrument panels began smoking and a blast of cold air tore through the co-pilot's window now spattered with brain matter.

Riveted to his seat, the young pilot screamed at the navigator for target coordinates. Somehow, the bullets missed the munitions and the release mechanisms were still intact as the remaining airman waited for the order to drop. Testing his physical endurance, the pilot struggled with the yoke to maintain airspeed and altitude as the engines each began to fail, the fuel tanks bleeding flames.

Utterly frustrated with his failure to reach the target, Jason managed to speak calmly into his mouthpiece to the airman in the bomb bay with the command to drop the ordinance. "Verification of the target is impossible, but somebody is going to die tonight besides us." When he felt the bombs release, his aircraft responded momentarily like a cork on a pond but then settled back into its thrashing spiral dive towards the landscape far below.

"Xenophobes had this one right," he muttered as the treetops seemed to leap upwards. "Yet the mission wasn't a total failure, I hope," he sighed, bracing for impact, "though I'll never really know will I?"

"Zebra Tango Seven Seven copy your position please," requested flight control at Dover HQ repeating over the airwaves, waiting for a reply that never came.

# FIRST HIKE AT THE CAPE

### Annapurna Sharma, Nellore, India

Zigzagged we went along the trail, sinuous green grass crushed under our feet and zest-filled we stroke tiny pebbles that came our way. Yellow chrysanthemums, cheery and bright, spread on both sides of the trail welcomed us warmly.

"X-country hiking is unique, flashing rustic flavors, simple and ingenuous," lectured my aunt. Whizzing past us, sucking nectar were infinite butterflies – white, blue, orange, probably all the hues I knew. Verdure, lush vegetation sprouted abundantly in the wilderness. Unzipping my backpack, I sipped cool water, drawn in by the beauty of my first hike. The Cape was a perfect place for adventure, with the forest on both sides and bay far below at the foot of the hills.

Soon we reached there – foaming surf, tides ripping mossed boulders and... I had become dumb. Ridges extended on the south of the bay on the horizon, ochrous and awesome.

"Quack! Quack!" Pintails, Pochards – wild ducks with families enjoying a bubble bath in the turquoise waters; I captured them in my lens. Over the ledge I leaned in for a better view.

"No, No, get back," yelled my aunt.

"Marvelous," I murmured and kept clicking away like crazy. "Look at these beauties, I'll be posting them on Facebook soon, my friends will all feel jealous," delighted I turned towards my aunt.

"Kathy," she screamed her lungs out.

Jays, sunbathing on jagged rocks below, jeered and fluttered away in bands. I was in shock, my precious lens slipped from my hand. Hung over a narrow ledge far below was my lens, where I couldn't possibly reach.

Groaning, grudging, grumbling, I blamed myself, while my aunt comforted me, said she would get another piece for me.

_Focus, focus on your agility, figure out the way to retrieve it,_ my mind prodded on and my heart lamented at the loss of it: my precious lens. Edged towards my target, I broke a tough branch from a nearby tree and ready to flaunt my gymnastic skills, I lunged forward.

Donna, my aunt was taken aback. Crevices burgeoning with lichen became the cushion under my feet, I inched slowly. Beading with anger, my aunt stood like a sentry, I knew I was on the brink of chasm with my annoyed aunt.

Ace, that I was always, I retrieved my treasured possession, my lens and bruises all over my hands and legs, and torn jeans—I could feel my aunt steaming like an engine; "I wish we carried a few tea bags to make some tea," she snubbed and turned away and before I knew I ventured on my next salvage mission –my irate aunt had to be buttered for I will never be taken again for another trip like this, the prodigal hiker that she was.

# FIRST LOVE

### Sheldon Bass, Indianapolis, Indiana USA

###

Zephyr Hills, Florida is where Nancy lived - an hour away from Largo. You'd think it was a thousand miles by the ache in my heart to see her. Except for a short crush in kindergarten, she was my first love. We'd met at a youth camp in Lake Wales, where her angelic face and curvy shape stirred up the teenage hormones that boiled over in my brain.

Vaulting over the separating petition between the boys' and girls' barracks-style accommodations, I snuck into the off-limits area for a midnight tryst. Under the beams of lunar light, a passionate kiss rocked my world and became deeply embedded in my forever memory. Time and again over the seven day period we created ways to be alone together.

Six days after our week together I pondered how a fifteen year-old could explain to his parents the need for transportation to a town we'd never seen. Rationalizing a visit to a horse ranch near her home was the ruse provided by my love driven mind, which was overdosed with memory induced endorphins.

Quietly, at 11:00 p.m. I led the gray mare from her stall and mounted bareback. Pounding her flanks with determined heels, I galloped off with a handful of mane and romantic starlight flooding my heart. On the trail ahead, beneath a large oak, a shadowy figure began to take shape.

"Nancy!"

"My prince!"

"Left my folks asleep, and you?"

"Karaoke night for my mom and dad."

"Just perfect! I couldn't stand being away from you."

"Have you told your parents about me?"

Gently I took her in my arms and pulled her close. "For now at this moment it's just you and me."

Exquisitely her delectable lips parted with invitation. "Don't speak."

Carrying my prize to a nearby grassy knoll beside a gurgling river, we sat together as one. Before I knew what was happening we'd been caught up in our passion.

Afterwards, we doubled up on the nickering horse and rode as one into the moonlight.

# GENERATION GAP

### Simon Hurst, Axminster, United Kingdom

"Ah ... I see."

"But I don't think you do see, Uncle."

"Confucius, have you ever thought about what Confucius was really getting at – allegedly, of course, because there is some doubt about..."

"Don't patronize me."

"Every time you accuse someone of patronizing you, you are allowing yourself to be patronized."

"Fortunately for you, I respect you too much to tell you to ** off."

"Good... that's 'good' in relation to the 'respect' by the way as I'm not easily offended by particular – what shall we say – items of vocabulary."

"How magnanimous of you!"

"Insults can be delivered in so many ways, but sarcasm isn't always the most elegant... or the most effective."

"Just give me an answer."

"Kant – that's the philosopher, by the way, not a refusal uttered with a shortened 'a' sound – now there was a thinker... reason is the source of all morality, hmmm..."

"Let's cut to the chase, shall we?"

"Money."

"Not enough of it."

"Or, is it a case of having enough of it but spending too much of it in ways that might be considered, perhaps, as unwise."

"Perhaps you've forgotten what it's like to be young."

"Question for you... we're all queuing – queuing for the final exit as it were – but when you're nearing the front of the queue do you forget what it feels like to be at the back?"

"Round and round and round, rather than give me a straight answer."

"Straight answer... and you think that's what you need?"

"Tea and sympathy, toast and marmalade, transcendental meditation; they all have their place, but right now, yes, I need a straight answer."

"Unless you redeem yourself from certain debts, you might have to relinquish some valuable material possession?"

"Very probably; my motorbike, in fact; my SuperHawk."

"Would that really be so terrible?"

"Xavier, Francis Xavier, 16th century Spanish missionary who made his way across the world on a mission and one of the founding Jesuits – which is exactly what you remind me of with your endless, pedantic prevarications."

"You know, thinking of travelling with a mission, there's a book you should perhaps read..."

"'Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance' by any chance?"

GETTING OLD

### Patricia Salamone, Deerfield Beach, Florida, USA

Alone I sit by my window. I watch the world now with little participation. Befuddled in my thoughts at times, I smile to myself at some distant memory. Cradled in my heart is my life's story.

Damn, why did I waste so much time being foolish? Envy took up a good part of it. Foolish choices made on the spur of a moment can turn out to cost you more than money. Gratitude was short lived as I climbed the mountain to success. Humility was just a word on a sign posted on an old wooden board along the way. I paid little attention to it. Independence was my goal; I would never ask for help. How foolish....

Junctions in my life were ignored as my ego grew. Knowledge was what I craved; I knew it all, or so I thought.

Love came and I let it go; it required too much of me and would take me off my path. Money was my goal, lots of money would give me freedom from the poverty that dwelled in my heart and soul. Narcissism played the music I danced to.

Often I would close myself up to kindness and humility as I had people to use and places to conquer. Passing through the doorways of life I never stopped to smell the flowers or feel the sunshine on my shoulders.

Quietly and swiftly time marched on, and so did I. Roads lay before me: the choice was mine to pick and boldly I traveled the road to success, or so I thought. Success came and plenty of money lined my pockets; I could have the freedom I craved, I was happy, or was I?

Time passes faster as we age; it stops for no one – I realized that one day when I looked in the mirror. Up, on top of the mountain finally, but as I looked around I was all alone. Virtual silence filled my world, no one to share my success with, no one to love, no children, only material success.

What have I done and why didn't I stop to read the signs along the way about love, laughter, help, humility, caring, sharing, and the many more were ignored. Exit is now the only sign I can see – a big sign I cannot ignore and I wonder what's on the other side of it; I am frightened and alone.

Yesterdays are gone, and although I thought I made all the right turns, there are no more choices.

Zero is what I had coming into this world, zero is what I will leave with....
GOING POSTAL

### Tim Mooney, Talbott, Tennessee USA

"Zip Code, son, you have to get the Zip Code right. You wouldn't believe how many people come in here and shell out their money to send important packages without checking the Zip Code. X-ray films from a doctor's office to a hospital across the country, a birthday card from a grandmother to her little grandson, these can get lost without those five little digits. We do our best here to do what we can without it, but it's lot easier if people would just remember to look up the Zip Code."

Veronica, the somewhat thick postal clerk, was in a bad mood. Usually she was all client-friendly. Tactful she was with her admonishments. Smiling and friendly as she dealt with the public who didn't have the slightest clue as to how hard her job really was. Regulations had to be followed. Quantifications had to be addressed. Packages had to be sorted by size and weight and Zip Code, dang it!

On any given day she would be hit by a hundred envelopes, boxes, tubes, improperly addressed, and it was up to her to educate the public of their ignorance, but with a smile and a "thank you".

Not today, however.

Mrs. Olbansky, the self-proclaimed spokesperson for some far-right neighborhood religious group of do-gooders, came in with a thousand pamphlets, none of them properly folded, none of them secured with tape or glue, just a thousand pieces of crap bound to jam up the bulk-mail feeder, and none of them with ZIP CODES! Leaning against the counter she smiled at Veronica, and said "I hope this doesn't take too long."

Killing her would be too easy. Just pick up that little spiky-thing for the receipts and drive it through her eye straight into that pea-sized brain. It wouldn't take but half a second, and the folks in line behind her would most likely applaud. Her Postmaster might even give her an accommodation, possibly a raise, just for her initiative.

"God, help me", she mumbled under her tight, smiling lips, as she began to rifle through the pile.

"Find your quiet place", she thought as she went about her job.

"Every challenge makes me stronger", she hummed beneath her breath as she counted and taped and sorted.

Done", she said, after thirty-seven minutes of keeping her temper intact. "Cash, Mrs. Olbansky, or will that be on your card?"

"Bless me, I must have left my purse out in the car Honey, but I'll be right back", Mrs. Olbansky said as she turned and walked out the double glass doors, and sauntered across the parking-lot...

After the detectives and the crime-scene investigators interviewed all the witnesses, the bloody body of Mrs. Olbansky had been removed from the scene, and Veronica had been hauled off in straps to the county mental-health lock-up until arraignment, I pulled out the little letter I was going to send to my daughter, and double-checked to make sure I had the Zip Code right.
HENRY TAKES CHARGE

Eileen Granfors, Galena, Missouri USA

Anxiety stitched his mouth into a moat filled with the debris of time. Bare, soft breaths wheezed through his nose.

"Careful," he said. "Don't mess with the dosage—doctor's orders."

"Exactly," the home nurse replied, tipping the bottle for an additional tablespoon. Finally, she would be free. "Go to sleep, now. Henry, you're a good man. In sleep there is solitude. Just as God says, 'sleep in peace.'"

Knuckles under his chin, Henry turned on his side, ready to sleep. Let sleep take him and soothe the pain. Make his body whole again. No one should live this way.

On an ordinary night, the medicine worked in minutes. Petulantly, he clawed the bedstead. Quiet in a way new to him after all these years bedridden, he turned the light back on. Roseanna was gone. So he chugged the remainder of the bottle, figuring a little extra would help him. Tranquilized, he slept at last. Under the covers, his body began to cool. Various extremities began to numb. What he felt was neither painful nor frightening. Xanthippe, his name for the nurse, be damned. Yes, he would sleep, truly sleep.

Zealous dreams revealed to his clouding mind, beatitude did not await him.

# INSIDE BALLERINA

### C.A. Simonson, Strafford, Missouri USA

####

Zealous in her love of dance, she pushed ardently through one more pirouette, delicately balancing on one toe.

Young, graceful, beautiful, her chiseled body spun weightlessly on the toe of her yellow satin slipper, then knee buckling, she relinquished to the pain of another cramp.

X-rays revealed a different plan: new life was developing inside her – a message she embraced, but didn't want to hear; she clutched her belly and thought of Victor.

What she would tell him was a problem she didn't want to face; she feared his reaction and his temper...and she was right. Victor was not happy at her news and demanded she get back to work immediately; they would talk later.

Under pasty makeup and scant clothing, she regretted the fact that her living had to be made another way than her love of dancing. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she headed back to work; things didn't go as planned and she had gotten careless, but she had to eat too.

Someday she would dance – and someday she would teach her own little girl to dance – someday. Right now was a different story and she regretted every ugly day Victor ordered her to take care of his business. Quitting was an impossibility no matter how much she wanted out of this decrepit business. Putting her emotions and dreams aside, she knew she must obey – do her job, deliver the goods, no looking back, no matter what.

Once she tried to leave and it didn't end pretty – she should have known by seeing what the other girls went through.

"No one leaves," Victor screamed as he punched her pretty face raw. "MY girls will never leave me," he smirked wryly, "after all, we are family – right, my pretty?"

_Like family_ , she bristled and pasted on a fake smile to cover her wounded heart; she covered her scars and then headed to the streets to turn another trick like before, but now there was another life to consider.

"Kill it," he'd demanded, "just get rid of it; can't have a kid ruin that sleek body of yours."

Jillian was torn – she wanted to dance, but she wanted this baby; she wanted out, but she knew what Victor would do; she wanted to live, but she knew the inevitable choice.

"It's just a blob of tissue," they'd told her, "it will only take a few minutes and you will be done."

Hilton Hospital: stark and sterile, cold and unfriendly; how she longed to be somewhere else.

_God, how did I get here...and how will I ever get out of this mess_ , she wondered as she contemplated the outcome of her terrible choice. Fear gripped her heart as she slipped into unconsciousness... _will God forgive me?_

Emotionally drained, Jillian awoke from the anesthetic knowing she had ruined her life. Dreams for a future, the desire for her child and for dance – gone – forever. _Can I ever forgive myself ...how can I go back...would life even be possible again? Baby – my baby_ , she sobbed, _my little ballerina will never dance for me_ : the reality hit hard.

Aborted: her baby, her life's dreams, all her ambitions—Jillian despairingly gulped down the bottle of sedatives, laid back, and closed her eyes.

*This story won first place in Springfield Writers' Guild 2014 Literary Contest and was also published in the anthology, Creative Collections.
IT

### Charles Stone, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania USA

Along the outer barriers of the reef, a rocky shelf dips gradually seaward for several meters and then falls to the ocean depths of four thousand feet. Beyond human understanding, something calls into those deep fathoms and stirs the longing of creatures great and small to venture upward where they are considered monsters.

***

Captain Mueller stands on deck in the darkness; thirty minutes ago the wind had abandoned his ship, the Xerxes, a schooner, she's dead in the water. Daas, the first mate, stands by his side.

"Every hour wasted increases the odds of discovery, Daas."

Foremost in his thoughts is the cargo in the holds of his ship. Gone are the days of easy smuggling; if the Xerxes is discovered and boarded he would lose his command and maybe much more.

His crew huddles in small groups, together on deck. International law is not their concern, there is scuttlebutt of several schooners swallowed along the trade routes.

"Jettison the cargo," the captain orders.

"Kelp and sargassum weed is our problem, not the cargo, sir."

Light from lanterns mounted on the mast head cast eerie shadows on the calm plate glass surface of the sea.

"Meh. No time to waste.

***

One of the creatures to hear the call is the so-called giant cuttlefish, rumored to be over sixty feet in length and weighing upwards of ten tons. Pulled by a primordial force It did not understand; the creature rises silently and devours everything within reach of Its merciless tentacles. Rays of a shimmery greenish light emits from the shiny surface and beckons the fearless creature - for It has no natural predator. Soulless black eyes as wide across as a canoe, are alert to every moving object below and above It. The creature notices a graceless but massive black shape, as long as Itself, unmoving on the shiny surface; the taste from the bilges of the prey - though novel - heightens Its urges.

****

Under the luminous full moon Daas addresses the small crew, "I need three volunteers to go into the water tonight to free the ship."

Vacant hollow eyes stare back at him.

Without warning a loud explosion, much too loud to be called a splash, off the port bow, breaks the morbid calm of the black sea.

Xerxes is capsized.

Yells and cries of horror turn to whines of prayer when massive tentacles snap the ship's spar like dried tinder wood.

Zealous rescue missions are abandoned after two weeks of fruitless search.

# JUST EAT IT

### Betsy Riley, Washington, District of Columbia USA

All the muffin needed to taste perfect was a swipe of butter. But real butter was dairy, so she would have to settle for margarine. Country Crock was becoming a staple of her diet. Denying herself the taste of dairy products was getting tiresome. Especially difficult was not being able to eat ice cream or cheese. Frozen yogurt was out, but she never liked it anyway and didn't care.

Gluten was still allowed, thank God; she hoped that wouldn't change—cutting out bread was unthinkable. Her food allergies were taking over her life.

Insulin resistance limited the carbs, like bread, potatoes, etc. on her menu as well. Just when she'd find a food she liked and wasn't allergic too, she'd find that it spiked her blood sugar so it would be banned or limited. Kitchens had become dreaded places, with their displays of foods she craved but couldn't eat.

Luckily, she could still eat dark chocolate. _Mmmm_ , she relished the velvety texture of the designer bars and their high cacao count. No pale milky product would do for her; milk chocolate was for babies. Only the pure stuff could satisfy all her cravings for disallowed foods.

Popcorn was another solace: the fiber in it offset the carbs, and she liked the crunch.

Quite fed up with restrictions, she wondered if one could live on chocolate-drizzled popcorn.

RDAs be damned, she could get her vitamins from pills.

Surely there must be some daily dose to make up for the beef and fruits she could not eat.

The last crumb of the muffin tumbled to the ground. Undaunted, she turned to her booklet to read the ingredient lists of her target foods.

Velveeta—surely that's not REAL cheese - might it skirt her dairy allergy as well as the veggie stuff?

What about hotdogs and bologna made from pork and/or turkey—they must taste okay or the store would drop them.

X-ing out all the stuff she could not eat wiped out most of the grocery ads, but there were a few items left.

YES!

Zwieback goodbye, tonight she would EAT!

# LIFE IS A ZOO

### Philip Yang, Deland, Florida USA

####

All day was a struggle. Bees buzzed as I collected plants from their precious flowery friends. Come five PM, I was exhausted. Dan had called while I was gone and he's coming by. Either way, today was not my day. Forgive me, usually my hands aren't sizzled and shrunken by the delirious sunshine and heat of the farm.

Gold was my trade, all of it actually. Had my whole portfolio, all my paychecks in it before it began to fall. I had to sell once it went below a thousand. Justice would have those damn insiders locked up, I tell you. Krystal hired me after I subsequently lost my job with a celebratory last-night-out at a local bar.

Lyla found me on the concrete the day after, shouting and kicking me with a list of irresponsibility's and "how-could-you's."

Meanwhile she had removed me from ownership of our apartment. Never mind our child, she was already filing for divorce AND custody. Otherwise, I'm having a fine day. Probably in a year I'll save enough to move back into the city.

Quite the luck's draw. Right as I was going to make it in life, all this had to happen to me. So is this the 21st century dream, to steal the belt before something knocks you out? To me, I wish I had just known who would have been there and who wouldn't. Unfortunately, life's hard lessons are no joke, no wash over, and nothing to bandage with a sentence or two of sympathy.

Vines become the only things that hang around after you mess up like that. We had a good time. Xavier, the vulture, comes by too sometimes, so that I have someone to feed besides me. Yellow things are starting to grow on the wood inside my shack. Zoos: this one or the middle class version, I still don't know which one I hate more.

LOST AND FOUND

Mary Agrusa, Atlanta, Georgia USA

Sam was gone and Kevin was missing. The Labrador's sudden death opened a vacuum that sucked his eight year old best friend into inconsolable grief. Usually chipper and outgoing Kevin withdrew, became melancholic, hiding out in his room.

Veronica, his mother, monitored her son's behavior and knew something had to be done. Will, Kevin's dad, resisted the idea of getting another dog. "Expedient that we do something," Veronica told Will.

"You think," he asked as his wife searched the local humane society's website, "this is a good idea?"

Zoey, the pound puppy, arrived that evening after Kevin was already asleep. All night long she whined and yelped, unaccustomed to being alone in the strange environment.

Bark!

Covers tossed to the side, Kevin opened his bedroom door and listened intently. Down the stairs he went and searched room by room for the source of the mournful cries. Everything was in place where it should be, no dog anywhere. Finally, on the verge of quitting, he heard a faint whimper.

Garage...check the garage.

He flipped on the light and saw a large cardboard box next to his father's car. Inside it, something caused it to rock back and forth. Just over the edge a furry head popped up and then quickly disappeared. Kevin rushed to the box and peeked in.

Lick – a warm, wet tongue bathed his face with kisses as a short, stubby tail wagged furiously.

"Mine, you're mine," the pup's exuberant actions declared.

Now, more than before, the puppy attempted to escape his makeshift holding pen.

"Oh, you are sooo wiggly," Kevin exclaimed as he grabbed the squirming pup up in his arms.

Placing his face in the soft fur he giggled as Zoey tickled his ear with her tongue. Quietly his parents slipped into the doorway to enjoy his reaction. Right then they knew everything would be okay.

# LOVE VIRUS

### Sarah Mitchell, Overland Park, Kansas, USA

A demanding job is what he had always wanted. But this was almost too much. Collin looked at the mountain of paperwork on his desk. Didn't they know that tomorrow was a holiday? Everyone should get off early to celebrate. Five tall stacks of paper sat on his desk and all he wanted to do was go home.

Gail came near with another stack. Hoping that she wouldn't bring it to his desk, Collin tried to hide behind what was already there.

"I'm sorry, but these are for you," Gail said.

"Just put them there," Collin sighed.

Kevin must be off again today. Listening to music as he worked, he thought it would go faster. More and more, he was beginning to resent Kevin for being gone all the time. No one seemed to consider that Collin was doing the work of several people. On Friday, Collin decided, he would ask his boss for a raise. Patiently, he would wait until that time. Quickly, he took another paper from his stack to work on.

Rarely did he not finish his work, but it looked like he might not finish before it was time to go home this time. So he mentally marked the place on the stack of papers where he would stop.

Two more hours went by with no relief in sight.

Unless he sped up, he wouldn't even reach the goal he had set for himself.

Very much aware that not finishing his work would count against him, he tried to go faster without sacrificing quality.

Why couldn't they have given some work to Tricia instead of giving it all to him?

X's filled his computer screen suddenly, as he had just opened an e-mail from Tricia.

"You have been hit by the Love virus", a message suddenly flashed and then screamed its contents from his computer.

Zeroes then flashed across the screen and Collin put his head in his hands and bumped it against the desk.

### MURDER IN THE RESTAURANT

### Colleen Moyne, Adelaide, Australia

####

"Always on a Saturday night," thought George as he shoved his phone roughly into his breast pocket. Bending to give his wife a quick peck on the cheek, he promised to wrap this one up as quickly as possible and get home to pick up where they had left off.

Carolyn, George's wife, was a patient woman. Day after day, she watched him heading off, knowing what risks he would face, but supported him anyway. Even after he had been shot during that video store robbery last year, he never lost his passion for the job. Few women would be able to deal with the stress the way she did, he thought.

George arrived at the rear entrance to the restaurant just as an officer was cordoning off the kitchen with crime scene tape. How the perpetrator had managed to make so much mess without alerting the restaurant patrons was a mystery in itself. It made George's stomach lurch to see the amount of blood spread throughout the area. Just inside the entrance to the cool room lay the body of the head chef.

"Knife wounds to the upper torso," muttered the portly detective who stood over the rapidly cooling corpse. "Looks like whoever did this made a thorough job of it."

Murder scenes like this one always made George doubt his faith in humanity. No one, regardless of the reason, deserved a fate like this. Open wounds covered the man's chest and stomach, still oozing thick blood onto the floor. Pots of soup and sauces still bubbled away on the stovetop.

Questioning the restaurant staff, George began to form a picture of the events leading up to the incident. Recent late night visitors and shady dealings made it obvious that this murder was drug-related. Staff members tried to turn a blind eye, fearing for their jobs and their safety. To make matters worse, the Chef had a reputation for a fiery temper and no one was going to risk reporting their suspicions.

Unfortunately for the Chef, his shady dealings had gotten him killed. Violent scenes like this were becoming more and more the result of drug deals gone bad.

"When will these schmucks learn?" thought George. Extensive campaigns to wipe out this kind of crime seemed to have little impact, but George was determined to keep on trying.

Yet he couldn't help feeling a lump in his throat as he watched the lifeless body being lifted onto the gurney ready for transportation to the morgue. Zipping the body bag closed, he paused, then turned away and headed home to his wife.
MYSTERY MAN IN THE ALLEYWAY

Mohammed "Mib" Baseer, London, England

As Ximran stepped further and further into the alleyway, his phone finally died, and his annoyance was at boiling point. Bin bags noisily spilled open upon contact with his trainers, and he was bursting to mouth his complaints.

"Could've been at home sleeping by now, but I just had to skip it for the sake of the 'party of a lifetime!' Dumb, dumb, dumb!"

Eerie sights floated past his eyes as he walked. Fickle winds threw ever more raindrops onto his already soaked clothes. Greys, blacks and all other colors merged and melted into each other as light sources became fewer and farther between. Holding on to the walls did nothing to keep him upright, for he stumbled over more and more invisible objects.

"I hope this bar's not too much further or Gavriel's gonna get it," he huffed to himself, and then his foot landed on something soft! Jumping back from panic and disgust, Ximran squealed.

"Kid, watch where you're putting them bloody feet! Lollygagging around like you own this alley! Minding nothin' and no-one but yourself!" scowled someone on the ground, but Ximran couldn't see him.

No escaping this, he thought to himself. "Oh my God mate, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me for stepping on you, this alleyway's really dark and I don't really know my way...."

"Queer much?" the invisible man interrupted. Rattling and rustling noises could be heard as he rose to his feet, and Ximran could see his silhouette towering over him. Stepping toward Ximran, he continued. "Toughen up you little fruit! Unless you enjoy being beaten to a bloody pulp for having such an annoying voice, all apologetic and stuff."

Vehemently quivering, heart pounding, the boy turned and ran for his life. Wind and rain lashed down on him even more mercilessly, and the silhouette cackled like a witch but at least he didn't follow.

"Ximran, is that you?" suddenly came a familiar voice from in front of him, and Ximran ground to an abrupt halt. "You know," Gavriel continued condescendingly, "if you were lost you could've just called or texted."

Zooming through his mind's eye came all the events of the alleyway, which before he could stop himself culminated in his fist pummeling Gavriel squarely in the jaw, knocking him to the tarmac!

### NEW DAY

### Rasma Raisters, Riga, Latvia

A warm breeze blew. By now he was wide awake. Could it be that the birds in the trees were waiting just for him? Determined to have a look, he got up and stretched. Eagerly he looked for an open window. Finding one, he leapt up on the windowsill.

Greeting the new day, he made a quick romp around the garden. He started planning his strategy. It was important to make just the right moves. Just at that moment a grasshopper hopped by and distracted him. Keeping calm was the name of the game.

Lots of choices before him as he wondered which apple tree to climb first. Moving slowly through the garden, he kept an eye on the birds flying about. Never give up was the motto of the day.

Oh, what delight it always gave him to scamper up a tree. Perfectly poised he jumped up on the lowest branch. Quietly, claws digging in, he climbed higher. Rustled the leaves as he passed by. Slowly, ever so slowly, he approached the bird chorus. Tried hard not to make a single sound. Urged himself onward because the ground seemed so far away. Very soon he would be able to reach them. What wonderful excitement he felt. Exactly where he wanted to be at the moment.

Yellow rays of sun shone through the leaves. Zoom, zoom one by one the birds flew by and he was left alone at the tree top.

# NIGHT VISITOR

### C.A. Simonson, Strafford, Missouri, USA

####

Anxious, I awaited the birth of dawn. Beneath the pitch black of the night, I felt the sickening feeling of doom. Cautious not to stir alarm in my sleeping wife, I waited. Danger lurked in the shadows; felt it pulsing in my veins. Evil was somewhere in this house and my emotions were stretched thin.

Finding courage from some hidden reservoir within, I rose stealthily. Groped to find my slippers in the darkness. Hoped beyond hope my daughter was safe in her room. I snuck down the hall to peek around her opened door. Julie was not there – her bed was empty! Kidnapped or taken... fury burned in my throat.

Located and loaded my nine millimeter. Made my way quietly down the stairs. Noticing every detail: never trust monsters in the dark. Opened the door to the kitchen. Perched precariously on a bar stool sat my Julie. Quiet, calm-appearing, but with a queer vacant and scared look in her eyes.

Roused with raw emotion, I was ready for action. She sat still, eyes focused straight ahead, and then she saw me. Tapped the counter silently with her pointer finger; I could see her restrained fear. "Under the counter," her eyes indicated.

Very slow, I tell myself. Walked with calculated, determined steps towards my daughter and wiped away her tears with one hand. Exacting my aim, took the fatal shot at the intruder under the counter with the other.

"You okay, honey?" I asked, a slight tremble in my hands as she nodded mechanically. Zipped her up in my arms, held her shaking body close to mine, and breathed a sigh of relief.

# PINNED DOWN

### Deb Elkink, Alberta, Canada

Awakened by silence from his roadside nap, Taylor glanced to his right at Mother stretched out in the passenger seat, mute for a change. Bound for his Medical Diagnostic Imaging conference in Winnipeg, Taylor had been hooked into offering her a lift from Regina to his brother's home in Brandon—a ruse, he suspected, to fill his ear with her darned yarns.

Conversation with Mother was not his strong suit. Details of her tedious existence, and advice about his own, consumed her; she rarely asked about his job anymore, now that she was a widow. Even when Dad had been around, Taylor thought, it was tricky to skirt her obsessive talking, and now more than ever he shrank from his responsibilities as the oldest son, hanging around only when she buttonholed him with promises of her excellent cooking—which came at a cost. For example, today's meal (of honey-basted ham, scalloped potatoes, and fibrous grain bread, topped off with chiffon cake) was served with a pile of prattle that continued to needle him as they darted across the Prairies until drowsiness overtook them.

Gathering up his energy now that he was awake, Taylor inched his hand toward the ignition, trying not to disturb Mother's sleep as, with knotted stomach, he pivoted from the road allowance and eased back onto the TransCanada Highway.

However, his hopes for a peaceful journey were slashed. Instantly Mother cottoned on and opened her eyes, reinforcing his notions that she would never let an opportunity to chatter slip past.

"Just a minute, Taylor, while I strap my seat belt back on, and I'll finish telling you about our neighbor's girl—you remember the one I figure would fit you to a tee?" she began. "Karen, as I was saying, cut her schooling short because her father, who worked in the oil patch, got collared with pocketing company money and is facing years in jail, and the bias in the community against her was just too much to handle...."

Lips flapping, Mother seemed unruffled by Taylor's yawns as she wove one boring story into another, embroidering the facts as usual with endless, off-the-cuff remarks. Maybe it was her verbose fabrications that had driven him into his own studies in the first place, he mused. Ninth grade had been the turning point for him, really. One of his science teachers that year noticed his daily pattern of staying long hours in the library to read, and encouraged him toward a career in nuclear technology. Passion for his field had earned him recognition already, in his first year on the job, and his voluntary attendance at this convention in Winnipeg would certainly snag him a promotion. Quite an accomplishment for him to surge ahead so quickly, he thought.

"Really, Taylor, have you heard anything I've been saying?" Mother complained. "Sheer disrespect on your part—and me nice enough to keep you company on this trip. That's just like your father used to be—what a model for you, hemming and hawing, avoiding his feelings with never a fitting comment to add to the discussion. Unless you count his incessant ribbing. Vent a little!" she prodded, as the tension in the car mounted and Taylor's nerves frayed. "We've been on the road for hours and you haven't said a word. X-rays and ultrasounds are all you ever think about, aren't they? You must have something else on your mind," she said, and looked at him expectantly.

"Zippers," he snapped.

(First published in "The Leaf," Brucedale Press, Ontario, Canada)

# RESCUE

### Linda Dyson, Gloucester, United Kingdom

Atishoo!" Brendan sneezed for the umpteenth time and tried to work out what was irritating him.

Clouds of smoke issued from the old stove as he entered the kitchen. Deadly fumes poured out in every direction. Everything was covered in black dust. Flailing about in the gloom he finally managed to reach the door. Gasping for breath, he flung it open. He burst out into the garden and almost collapsed on the lawn.

Immediately, he realized that someone was still in the house. Jonathan, his four year-old nephew was asleep upstairs.

Kindly neighbors tried to restrain him to no avail. Lunging forward into the smoke-filled room again, clutching his handkerchief to his face, he raced for the stairs. More smoke clouds blurred his vision. Now the temperature was rising too.

Opening the door into the hall, the rush of air fanned the flames behind him. Pulling the door shut with great difficulty and coughing wildly, he forced himself up the stairs. Quickly, he found the boy's bedroom door and flung it open. Reaching down for the child's bed in the gloom, to his dismay, he found it empty.

Suddenly a loud crackle behind him announced that the fire had reached the upper floor. Taking deep gulps of air before the smoke threatened to fill his lungs, he peered around the darkened room in fear. Under the bed his foot caught on something soft. Very soon he had the frightened child in his arms. Without thought for his own safety, he forced his way onto the landing and into the bathroom; from there he could pass the boy out onto the flat roof of the conservatory below. Exhaling the clear air as slowly as he could, he pushed open the bathroom window just in time to see the fireman's ladder reach the roof. Yelling to the fire crew below, he gently eased the sobbing child through the narrow opening and into the strong hands of the fireman.

Zig-zagging his way round the burning skirting boards, he reached the main bedroom and without a moment's hesitation, hurled himself through the window and on to the springy mulberry bush below to the sound of thunderous applause and loud cheers from the huge crowd now gathered outside.

# RETRIBUTION

### Karen Lea French, Lewisville, Texas USA

###

Aria stood at the top of the stairs. Below, the party carried on and no one noticed. Casual chatter floated above the music. Drowning hadn't been painful. Everlasting-silence had surrounded her when her husband had walked away, and left her body lying in the tub. Fighting had been natural though, even when she knew she'd died. Ghost, she'd realized when she'd awakened. How had she become a ghost? Immaterial, a voice inside her answered as she spotted Bryan at the foot of the stairs. John and his wife, Carrie, were saying their goodbyes.

Killing her had been so easy for him. Loving him— that had been hard. Merely six months ago they had wed. Newlyweds still. Only now, she screamed as loudly as she could yet no one heard. Partiers continued up and down the stairs passing through her, as if she wasn't there.

Questions swirled through her mind. Rarely had she given thought to the afterlife. Sensations were gone except for rage.

Tumultuous rain began to fall outside as the wind began to build. Ubiquitous, the storm raged as Aria's rage built. Vacant glances began to turn to nervous looks shared between the guests. Where was the hostess? Xanthic sparks filled the room, illuminating her form for the others to see as she silently glided out the open front door. Yet no one sought her out. Zeroing in on the chandelier above the front door way, Aria stopped and watched as it landed successfully atop Bryan.

# REVENGE DEFERRED

### Joyce Kopp, Houston, Texas USA

After loud confrontation this morning with Karin, his supervisor, over rolling out the company's diabetic drug without sufficient cautions and warnings, Zeke had been unceremoniously booted out the door, not able even to gather his personal items and barred from re-entering the building.

Blackmail was on his mind. Cautiously, he returned on foot around 5 p.m. to view the mass exit of employees, his boss not among them. Dusk arrived while he waited patiently, hidden in the landscaped gardens by the door pondering his strategy. Expecting Karin to carry home sensitive files, he resolved to snatch her bag as soon as she emerged. Foremost, he wanted to save the millions of people who could be adversely affected by the drug, unaware of the intended undisclosed information he had accidently been copied on during back-and-forth emails.

Grabbing her satchel while unexpectedly knocking Karin down in the process, he didn't even look back but fled toward the river walk. Hopefully, among her papers would be the secret disclosures regarding the side effects including possible death, which outweighed the benefits of the drug. Inherently, as much as he knew his misdeeds of assault and impending blackmail were wrong, he wanted to defend his reputation as an honorable man; his means would be justified in the end.

Just then, Zeke heard footsteps racing after him. Karin, red hair flying, was in hot pursuit. Luckily, he darted across State Street in front of a string of oncoming cars, losing her; rounding the corner on Fourth Avenue, he slithered into a corner table of Mulroney's smoke-filled bar where he ordered a beer and investigated Karin's satchel.

More than he had expected! Not only had he stolen incriminating documents, but also now possessed her cell phone with revealing text messages. Oh, such sweet revenge!

Poring over the information within his hands, he decided to contact the President and CEO, Dr. Emilio Xerxes, asking for reinstatement into the company along with a raise for saving the company millions in expected lawsuits should this drug go to market as planned. Quickly, he texted him. Reporters would love to plaster detrimental headlines in the morning paper if Xerxes refused his demands. Surely, he could understand the bottom line.

"Truth will out," he quipped.

Undeterred by Zeke's threats, feigning co-operation, Xerxes agreed to meet with him. Vexed that he had been so short-sighted and too trusting, Zeke humbly admitted to his crimes of assault and theft as an officer handcuffed him.

Waiting outside in a limo was Karin, smiling that her belongings had been returned intact. Xerxes smiled too and ducked into the back seat beside her.

Yelling "Revenge deferred," Zeke approached the departing limo and pumped his locked fists in the air. Zeke's cries of defiance continued but faded into the limo's hazy exhaust: "Power is your truth now, but time will erode corruption!"

# SELL THE HOUSE

### Gail Denham, Sunriver, Oregon USA

As darkness spread across the room, I shuddered. Bad vibes issued from the floor under my bed. Could Aunt Faye be right? "Events have been known to happen," she declared.

Fear gripped me. Good grief! Had I stumbled into some weird fairy tale? I refused to sleep in THAT room; chose the bathtub.

"Just like you," Aunt Faye said. "Keep the light on if you're spooked."

"List this place," I demanded.

My bedroom was the first thing prospective buyers raved about. "Never saw anything so quaint, especially that huge canopy bed," said the wife. "Our lives have been spent in small apartments. Perfect place for us here in this relaxed, calm home."

"Quiet," Aunt Faye whispered to me. "Remember, you get a cut of the sale."

Silence reigned while husband and wife buyers talked low in the spacious hallway. "That's it," said the husband. "Unbelievable how inexpensive this treasure is."

Vibrations of relief shook my being. "We're so pleased you like it," I said.

Vibrations of relief shook my being. "We're so pleased you like it," I said. Extra work maybe, to clean the black pool that spread wider each night under my bed.

"You going to tell them?" I asked Aunt Faye.

"Zip your lip," Aunt Faye muttered under her breath.

### SHE'S LEAVING ME

### John Yantis, Grand Rapids, Michigan USA

####

After a sleepless night I stumbled to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Bouts of sleeplessness were the least of my concerns this morning, however. Could she really just walk out the door and change our lives forever? Does everyone who is faced with this same situation struggle with it in a similar fashion?

Every day for five years we have held each other and thoroughly enjoyed that time together. Five years that have passed far too quickly. Gone now will be many of those wonderful things that I cherished during those years. Her laughter and singing during a lazy afternoon always brightened my day and will be sorely missed. I now will simply have to adjust to spending my days alone.

Just as I am dealing with my feelings on this day I am certain that she will experience these same emotions one day. Knowing that, however, gives me mixed feelings because I do not want her to be unhappy. Love is strange in that it strikes different people in different ways. Many people I know have loved and lost. Now that thought doesn't lessen my pain today, however. Others are probably experiencing the same exact emotions as am I today. People are strong; they cope and move on, and I understand that. Quite different when you are the person who is being affected, however.

Regardless of how hard I have tried to be prepared for this day, it is very difficult and I am simply not ready. She, on the other hand, seems to be well prepared and is actually looking forward to this next stage of her life. Together we will face this challenge and will move on with our lives.

Understanding will be of the essence, of course. Victory will be ours in time, of that I am certain. Why do I have to go through this troubling experience today, however? X-rays of my heart would no doubt show that it is hurting. Yet, I know this is the way it is supposed to be.

Zip, there she goes, my little daughter, enthusiastically zipping out the door on her way for her very first day of kindergarten.

# SLEUTH

### Tom Russell, Alberta, Canada

####

Always a stickler for the truth she was. Brenda's mind bent in turmoil. Crime was on the rise. "Darn lawbreakers," she thought. Ever since she read Crime Incorporated, a novel, she was hooked. First things first, she felt. Gradually, I will figure it out. Heck, this is easy.

In the meantime, she deliberated. Jump in now, or wait. Kill two birds with one stone, or take my time.

Looking at her wristwatch, she decided to act. My how smart I am, she boasted. No, I can't think that way. Oh, what the heck, I am smart. Please don't kid yourself, you're an armchair sleuth. Quick, flip the page. Read the next line. Summarize the situation. Track your prey.

Under the oak tree she lay. Villains running wild. Winding down the chapter, she read on.

X marks the spot. You were right, she said.

Zilch, nothing accomplished; time to go home.

# STEADFAST FAITH

### Sheldon Bass, Indianapolis, Indiana USA

####

"Almighty God will make it happen."

"Because you believe, you think God is going to make it happen?"

"Certainly."

Douglas had been in a horrendous head-on, automobile crash. Every single doctor consulted said he'd never walk again. Frank, a long-time friend from his school days, had come to the rehab center to console Doug, and convince him to accept the inevitable.

"God can do anything, and I say He will heal me so I can walk again. How can you say you believe in God and not believe He is all-powerful?"

"I know He can make you walk again, but that doesn't mean He will."

"Jumpin' Geronimo, Frank! Keeping your faith in times of difficulty is what being a believer is all about. Lest you forget, we gotta believe also in His love for us."

"Maybe it's His will that you don't walk."

"Not the case or I would know."

"Okay Doug, we'll see what happens."

Perfectly convinced, the injured man continued to struggle through exercises with parallel beams, praying diligently and never giving up hope. Quietly one night, he sensed God's presence alongside the bed. Reaching out with both hands as if grabbing hold of the Lord, Doug made an embracing gesture with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Steadfast in faith. This pleases me, Doug. Until you see me face to face you will walk with ease." Virtually heard through his spirit, Doug knew it was the voice of Jesus.

When the sun arose, the formerly crippled man had no hesitation. Expectantly, he placed both feet on the floor, stood, and audibly spoke to himself. "You are healed!"

Zealous faith exuded from every pore as Doug strode across the room.

# SWEET DARLENE

### Tim Mooney, Talbott, Tennessee USA

After the accident out on route 12, after that miserable happenstance concerning the cow and the tractor, the local cop and her deputies let us go on our way after questioning us, as our truck was still somewhat drivable, even though the old John Deere was trashed, still in the ditch on top the poor animal. Baxter, the old man driving the tractor, was being attended to by the county EMTs, and there was evidence that he had been drinking when the accident happened. Cautiously, making sure we didn't run over any of the scattered detritus from the crash, we pulled the truck up and out of the ditch, and headed on our way down the road. Darlene sat next to me in the cab, swearing that she was just fine, but I noticed that she was favoring and worrying about her shoulder. Every time I braked, or sped up, she winced.

Fearing that Darlene had an undiagnosed injury, I let her know that I was going to try and find a doctor in the next town. Groaning and looking worse and worse every mile we drove, she simply nodded, and I focused on getting to a real town out there in the Great American Midwest. Going past exits which appeared to hold no promise of a reasonable medical facility, I kept my eyes squinted that night. I drove that old truck with focus and a heartfelt need to get Darlene to a facility where her underlying, undiagnosed injuries might be attended to. Jesus was wiggling His bobble head on my dashboard, right next to the funky Hula Girl when I pulled off the interstate.

Kansas Town and Country Medical Center the sign said as I pulled the sputtering truck into the parking lot of what appeared to be a major hospital while Darlene lay moaning in the seat beside me.

"Let me get hold of a nurse, or someone with a gurney, Honey, and I'll be right back".

Maybe I was too hopeful, or maybe I was blind to what was really going on. Nonetheless, I left her there in the truck and went into the huge, brick building, looking for help.

Once at the desk I didn't see anyone around, so I rang the little bell. Perhaps there had been another emergency and all the attending nurses and physicians were busy. Quaint prints of watercolors depicting 19th century bucolic life adorned the walls in the lobby. Relaxing, pastel reproductions of the lesser known masters hung above the grey, plastic chairs. Soft colors and gentle lines depicting a simpler time, they lulled me.

There seemed to be no hurry now; I felt Darlene would be fine out there in the truck. Under any other circumstances I might have taken more time to run these thought processes through my head, but the paintings, the lowing cattle, the dusky-skinned farmers beneath the glass of the frames hanging on the walls above the cheap plastic chairs...

Vague memories of why I was there in the first place tried to gain entrance into my head, pushing past the fog and mist I had fallen prey to in that odd hospital. What witchcraft was this, what weird, spell was cast upon Darlene and me down those long, dark roads; what strange evil had led me here?

Xenophobic fear overtook me then, and I ran for the exit of that lobby, stumbling and afraid, and when I reached the sidewalk outside I saw that the parking lot was the ditch with my truck overturned on top of a tractor and a bleeding cow; there in the wreckage lay the twisted, tortured bodies of a young innocent farm boy, and my sweet, sweet Darlene, her fading eyes pleading, one final whisper.

"Zelda, the cow, what about Zelda....?"

# THE CLASS

### Cecelia Lester, Indianapolis, Indiana USA

####

"Always, look to the Lord in times of trouble or sadness." Barbara instructed us in our class.

Class consisted of a variety of people. Down and out people who may have known Jesus before their harsh times began. Everyone was in recovery from something harmful to their well-being. From young adults to those relatively young (also known as middle aged) flocked to her class. Gooey cinnamon rolls awaited us each Sunday. Hot coffee and cocoa made the repast complete. I was there because I wanted to learn the needs of these students.

Just as I sat down on this particular Sunday, people started singing. Kindness broke out on a lot of the faces. Leaning over to the person on my right, I asked, "What is going on?"

My neighbor looked at me and shrugged her shoulders. "Never know what Barb is going to do to get our lesson under way. Often, she has a scripture reading or a prayer to get us started. Perhaps this is the way she chose today." Quiet fell over the room. Response to the song brought a calming to the room. Silence fell over us all as we waited for our teacher to begin.

Then, she stood and began to speak.

"Usually, I begin with a scripture passage, but this week I heard this song and fell in love with the words. Victory belongs to the ones who allow the Lord to lead. While this might sound foreign to some of you, it is true." Excitedly, she shared the lesson. "You—all of you—and I have a Father in heaven Who loves us so much that He gave up His Son so that we might live forever."

Zounds, I needed to hear that back then.

# THE CLIFF

### Wendy Spickerman, Binghamton, New York USA

####

####

Above all else she knew her heart well, as well as the stars in the sky. Before night would set upon her this would ring true. Cold and wet from the bitter storm, she tried to move toward the trees hoping to gain some form of shelter. Darkness was setting in and hope was fading. Every fiber of her being cried out in pain and all she could do was drag herself, reaching and pulling with hands. Far in the distance she could see vehicles passing; there was no way to call out for help the cliff was too steep and she could not climb.

Gravity took hold and before she knew it she was tumbling further down the cliff side. Had she known what this night would bring, she would have stayed home in the comfort of life. It was her own driven actions that brought her to this time, this place. Just as all her actions before this carried her down the path of life in a clumsy manner of which she acted first.

Keeping awake had proven to be a task in its own; her head was killing her and consciousness was fading fast. Lying down or closing her eyes was not an option for it would mean her life.

Moments passed and she dreamt of warmer times. No pain did she feel, just the simply warmth of the sun upon her and the sound of dreamy laughter; his face made her smile. Obviously a dream...this was not real; reality pulled her back with all its might. Perhaps she could make it if she used every ounce of strength in her being; maybe hope was in sight. Quickly she began to pull herself up the cliff side giving no room for thought.

Rest would come after she got home, she kept telling herself. Steven was her only thought, she could not let this night fall upon her without telling him she loved him.

Time was running out, the pain was more than she could bear, but in her heart she would not give up; as she neared the car she found her phone along with everything else tossed out. Unable to reach the roadside, her only hope was to call for help. Voice came on the line, "911, how may I help you?"

"Will you help me, please..." and without another word she fell unconscious; the climb had been too much for her.

X-rays showed several broken bones; she bled out for the struggle up the cliff was too much.

You never know when your time is at hand, but when it comes life is all but clear. Zachary Richards would learn this lesson too, for this very cliff side took three more lives before a guardrail was put up with a caution sign.

THE EXPERIMENT

### Kim Roseblade, Bristol, England

Another kick, this time even more painful, she desperately tried not to pass out again. Breathe steadily, that's what they told her at the anti-natal classes but it didn't seem to be working very well. Calm, must remain calm was her mantra.

Damian had seemed the answer to her dreams; he was handsome, charismatic, intelligent and most impressively, fantastic with animals. Even the big cats they both worked with at the local zoo farm fell under his spell. Following their first encounter, she couldn't get the newly qualified vet out of her head and constantly imagined what her life would be like with him at her side: she was an orphan and craved a family life, she wanted the whole package: husband, children, house, maybe even some pets.

Gradually, they got closer and as they cared for the rhinos, giraffes, lions and tigers during those long, balmy summer evenings he finally asked her out. Hardly a day went by when they didn't see each other either at work or after work, when they usually hung out with the brainy friends that he'd met during his time in Berlin, as he studied for his specialist post-graduate science degree.

"I don't know how you put up with him" they use to laughingly say, "he's obsessed with those animals; it must be difficult for you to compete with them."

Just then, another kick, she'd never felt pain like it. "Kings hell," she screamed; her insides felt like there was a whole family of children in there; she felt the dull knocking of elbows, knees and feet and thought her stomach was going to split open with the force of their blows.

"Let me check your blood pressure," the red-faced midwife said as she bustled into the room with the efficiency of a seasoned professional. "Mmm," she murmured, "that's a bit too high and we may have to call the doctor."

Never before had she been so in love, she was living out her dream during those wonderful summer months. Of course it sounded a strange request at the time but she loved him so much, she would have done anything for him.

Perhaps she had been too naive to think that he was really interested in a plain-faced, orphan girl with few friends but he seemed so genuine and when he mentioned moving in together, she was overcome with tears of joy.

Quite astonished was she by the strange request that she agreed all too readily.

"Right," Damian said in his beautiful deep voice, "first you must close your eyes and relax, this may feel a bit odd but you need to trust me." Specially selected sperm made its way deep into her uterus and within weeks she was pregnant.

"Trust me," he'd said, and then disappeared for months; only now did he show up again at the hospital in time to see the results of his experiment. Underneath the green covers in the operating theatre, the medical professionals were performing an emergency caesarean section; the poor girl had been so distressed, so exhausted, so much in pain by the whole thing that they had to sedate her.

"What the hell is it?" cried the red-faced midwife; a lifetime of midwifery could never prepare her for the shock and she fell to the hard, cold, operating theatre floor with a thud.

X-rays, scans and more tests didn't help as the doctors and the other nurses were dumbfounded by the striped, four-legged, hoofed new arrival.

"Yak... no wait a minute, it can't be."

"Zebra...yes, I think it is."

# THE FISHERMAN

### Linda Dyson, Gloucester, England

Anglers watched in amazement as a small boy of about four or five years old waded knee-deep into the fast-flowing river.

Blissfully unaware of his observers, he stood transfixed. Clearly visible at his feet was a multitude of tiny fish. Delighted at the sight, the child slowly moved further out from the bank. Everyone watching felt the tension between the desire to call out and save him from being carried downstream and at the same time not wanting to break the spell. Finally, one of the men nearest to him edged carefully towards the child. Gently, he extended his hand in a protective gesture. His fingers finally rested lightly upon the boy's shoulder. It was as though this act transported him into the child's magic circle.

Just as it seemed as if they could be frozen in this pose for ever, the boy moved forward once again. Knowing the dangers, the man advanced with him. Laughing now, the little fellow appeared to be enjoying the game as the tiny fish nibbled at his legs. Minnows, seeming to understand his wonderment at them, clustered around him in ever larger numbers.

Next, the youngster reached his hands down into the water. Once again, his guardian bent over with him, like a giant shadow. Playing now with the fish with little dabbing motions, the boy chuckled happily. Quietly, some of the anglers downed their rods and moved closer in case further assistance should be needed. Respecting the child's enchantment, however, no-one spoke. Silently, a posse of sturdy anglers in waterproofs and thigh-high boots gathered like an imperial guard on either side of him. Tiny fingers were now tickling the fish. Under the water, something larger stirred. Very gently, the boy reached down deeper.

With a sudden whoop of delight, he lifted his catch in the air, startling all the onlookers. Excitedly, the boy threw the giant fish behind him onto the bank, narrowly missing a portly gentleman in bright yellow oilskins. Young and old spontaneously let out a resounding cheer.

Zoologists, as well as fishermen, are still talking about the day a four-and-a half-year-old boy tickled and landed a trout on his first time in the river.

# THE FOOD OF THOUGHT

### Robert A. Kendrick, Oceanside, California USA

####

Appetite is an endemic quantity to all things living. Because of it we seek sources necessary for our very existence. Careful scrutiny given to our choices determines the quality and length of that existence. Death or life hanging in the balance.

Energy, being the product of a successful feeding, is our ultimate goal. Fuel, to feed the need for energy. Gardens and livestock are our salvation. However, we are not alone in this need.

In this universe our meager senses are incomplete. Just five are we given. Keeping host to our appetite, to these inadequate five we limit our hunt. Limits most of us accept. Matter to energy is our sole goal. Never seeking as to why.

Outside our myopic vision, however, lies another form. Purposed in this great universal scheme to feed on the product of our hunt, they gather at unimaginable speed. Quick as light they absorb that which we cannot see. Reaping the harvest of their own planting. Sowing not seed where does matter grow. They instead harvest the results of our emotions.

Unending trials and tribulations does by their doing, cause our fate. Varied in richness do they stir and mix our tribulations for their cosmic larder. With predetermined exactness they plant and grow. Xanthic rays they gather from our grief to sweeten their feast. Yesterday the orchestrated planting of our joy becomes the succor of their needs. Zealous in their bodiless form do they steer and harvest the course of our lives as we steer and harvest the cattle and crops of our own necessity.

# THE NEED FOR A WIFE

### Sue Fenton, Redhill, Surrey, United Kingdom

###

As everyone knows, a single man in possession of a large fortune must be in need of a wife.

But finding such a help-meet is never easy. Can a gentleman so favored overlook the unfortunate position in which he would find himself should his beloved's family bring not only a lack of fortune but also a lack of good taste? Disadvantageous such a match would be, without doubt, yet Mr. Darcy found himself peculiarly unable to forget the young lady whom Fate had thrown into his path at the ball.

Elizabeth Bennet, was verily, an ornament of her sex. Fair of face. Gracious in manner. High-minded in principles. Intelligent. Judicious, too, in her dealings with the embarrassments caused by the only-too-public failings of her family. Kitty. Lydia. Mary. Not Jane though – her beloved older sister. Only Jane possessed the sense and grace to mitigate the social shortcomings of the rest of the Bennet family.

Pemberley, that Garden of Eden, was so beloved by Mr. Darcy that he could scarce acknowledge that either of the elder sisters, let alone the younger, could ever qualify as the estate's mistress.

Quietly and unbidden grew the young couple's feelings for each other. Rather by accident than design they came to understand each other's true virtues. She had thought him arrogant, unforgiving and hidebound by class distinctions. "Tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me," had been his initial verdict on Miss Elizabeth.

Until there arose an occasion so constituted to test their respective prejudice and pride.

Valiantly, Darcy saved the Bennets from an entanglement which threatened their very fortune and social standing, and Elizabeth knew it was all done for her.

What was a girl to do? Excessive were her feelings of confusion as her emotions so arranged themselves to allow for admiring Mr. Darcy for his good sense and his sensibility, and for feeling a deep debt for his services to her family.

"You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you," said Fitzwilliam.

Zealous indeed was his plighting of his troth and they both lived happily ever after.

THE NEW CLIENT

Jerry Mac Johnston, Springfield, Missouri USA

"Anybody seen my gun" came the shout from the inner office?

Bella sighed, it was always like this when Charles got a new case. Crashing noises continued amid loud, unintelligible hollering from the door labeled 'Charles Farnsworth \- Private.'

Dealing with Charles was never easy, but new clients seemed to unhinge him, especially redheads like the one who had just left.

"Elementary, my dear Farnsworth," Bella smiled as she thought, "it's in the last place you saw it—as usual."

Frustration fairly leapt from the inner office. Get yourself together Farnsworth, it's just a woman and your job.

Hardly a case passed without Farnsworth coming unglued before getting control and solving them with seemingly great ease. Intuition and experience told Bella to sit tight and wait for the storm to pass. Just then a silence fell over the inner room and Bella thought, "Almost, one more flurry and I can take over and guide Farnsworth into work." Knock on wood, the second round would be quick, and Bella herself could then get back to work.

Ladylike and AARP-age Bella looked the part of the devoted, efficient and organized worker, not at all like the poorly paid and ignored secretary in a shopping mall's private investigator's office. Most men who came through their door, except for Farnsworth, still watched her and she enjoyed the fleeting admiration. Not Farnsworth, he was either absorbed in a case or wallowing in self-pity for being idle.

Outsiders, seeing Bella and Farnsworth together thought, "What a striking couple." People who knew them, wondered when either of them would see the light?

Quick as it had stopped, the turmoil in the inner office began again. Recognizing the approaching end, Bella sat quietly and waited. Soon, she knew, she could approach the door marked Private and they would become a team again, just not the team Bella wanted. Tight, well-organized and deeply sympatico, they worked well as a team— when there was a case. Unfortunately Farnsworth never noticed her influences on the cases.

Vaguely aware of her contributions, he assimilated them as his own. Who knows, if Bella were a different person perhaps she would put an end to the callow treatment from the man she loved.

Xanthippe had nothing on what Bella had planned for the next time Farnsworth had a new client, and this was the next time. Yelling stopped, for what Bella knew was the last time, she smiled with a hint of remorse.

"Zoos are quieter than here," Bella thought as she took Farnsworth's 9mm out of her lap drawer and slid a round in the chamber.

# THE PACKAGE

### Sue Fraser, Lascabanes, France

####

"About time!"

Before I could set foot outside the door, he arrived with the package I was waiting for.

"Come on quickly before anyone else gets here," I said as I stepped outside the door. "David has gone out for cigarettes and supplies, but won't be much longer."

Endings are never easy and I was so happy to escape the confines of this house, I could have cried in relief, but Jack pulled me back inside, slammed the door and pulled down the blinds of the kitchen window.

"For god's sake, what are you doing, we should go now!"

"Get back in; I know there isn't much time, but it's ok" he said as he urged me back through the door.

"How did you manage it," I asked, ecstatic as he brandished the familiar brown package in front of my face.

In the short space of time that it took him to rip open the paper, my lips and mouth moved, but no sound came out.

"Jack, what have you done?"

"Keep the faith my sweet, we are nearly there; don't stop now."

Looking at the contents that spilled on to the table, I wanted him to tell me how he'd managed it, but there was no way Jack would volunteer that kind of information; I kept my involvement to one of total admiration.

Mixing business with pleasure was an attribute I found hard to digest and the ease with which he stood aside to watch my reaction beggared belief considering the risk he was taking.

"Nothing to say?" he asked as he combed back his windswept hair with blackened fingers.

Often in situations such as this I would have plenty to say, but this was different; I was the protagonist in his dealings and nothing could rival this man's pure ability to make me happy.

"Please take your time, but I would like to suggest that we stick to the original plan and now make our escape."

Quite what I had expected, I don't know, but this exceeded everything and I know from thereon in, I had to trust this man with my life. Reaping the rewards of the past six months, I scooped up the package, put it into my holdall and uttered my thanks. Stepping outside into the bright light of the midday sun, I took the opportunity I had been waiting for and throwing the holdall into the boot of my car, I waited for him to join me.

"Take care, my sweet, this is where I leave now I know exactly what you are capable of," he said and he made to leave as he'd arrived, on the old Harley Davidson that should have been disposed of in the depths of the river behind the barn – just as we'd planned.

Unknown to me at that time, he had pre-empted my every plan, every reaction and every move that had led us to this place. Violence had not entered into the proceedings – surprising, considering where I had taken him from – but I had not accounted for the pleasure side of the business we had undertaken together and that was where I had let myself down. We had connected in a way that no man had come close to since my first love in high school and I could not let it finish that way. Extracting the insurance photographs from my pocket, I watched as it was his turn to be speechless when I stepped in front of his bike and held them up.

"You cannot be serious," he eventually uttered, "I risked life and limb for you and thought that we were quits."

Zipping up the pocket on my jacket, I left him lying on the ground, knife still in his in hand – but not quick enough to use – with a thin trail of blood escaping from his mouth.

# THE SHIP

### Gail Denham, Sunriver, Oregon, USA

After Ralph dashed away yesterday, he knew. Belief washed over him. Crazy as it was. Dare he ignore them? Even before he joined the eccentrically dedicated group of UFO and big foot believers, Ralph tried to relate every last drop of sightings to anyone who'd listen. Fortunately for them, whenever Ralph hit the stools at the local bars, the patrons remembered they were needed elsewhere.

"Guys, come on," Ralph exclaimed. "Hey, our meetings are bastions of information and even some (blurry) photos. It's all there."

Just as his friends in the society had predicted, Ralph never got a new recruit. "Kind of discouraging," Ralph muttered crossly now, as he slunk low.

"Look up, old pal," another member, Sidney, said, clapping Ralph on the shoulder.

"Mark says there's been a sighting of something big and shiny over at Watkin's farm."

"No way," Ralph retorted. "Personally I feel we need lots of other members to help on this one – to search."

"Quickly," Sidney shouted. "Run."

Sidney started the car. Tense, afraid, Ralph stayed put, hidden in a back booth. Under the circumstances, he knew they'd find nothing unless he brought enough others. Verified truth; they'd hold him like last time when he tried to leave the ship.

"We want at least ten more like you," they commanded. "Exceptional specimens. You bring them, or else," they pointed bony blue fingers at him. Zap."

# THE TRANSFER

### C. A. Simonson, Strafford, Missouri, USA

Alone, he was forced to make a critical choice. Before leaving, he took one last look at the picture on the shelf, impulsively touched the face behind the glass tracing her face with his finger, then kissed it. Carefully, he removed the photo from its frame, lit a match and burned it to ash, dumping the remains into the trash. Dared not leave any damning evidence behind. Every fiber of his being hated what he knew he must do; it made his skin crawl but there was no turning back now.

Focused on his task, he hurried lest he changed his mind. Garrison opened the briefcase to ensure everything was securely enclosed in the envelope: untouched, unopened.

Harsh winds blasted his face as he opened the door; winter had been cruel in more ways than one. _It will be over soon_ , he assured himself. _Judge Abernathy is counting on me to make the transfer_. Keys in hand, the door closed behind him for the last time. Looking back, he quietly said goodbye to all he had ever known and loved.

_Maybe some good will come from this yet_ ; if it did, it was long in coming. Neglecting his own safety, he accepted the task of Keeper; his only regret was leaving Katie behind. Only a small window was given: midnight, the twelfth of December. _Perhaps that had special meaning – 12-12-12 \--_ but he asked no questions, only arranged the meeting as instructed.

Quickly, he hid the briefcase beneath a blanket and drove to the appointed spot. Restless, he scanned nervously for any onlookers; _didn't think things would escalate this far_. Silently he waited for the contact to show. Twisted guts told him danger was imminent although another quick scan promised he was alone.

Under the darkness, at 11:58 p.m., he saw a man approach, hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, uncertain in his steps, nervous, searching. Valuable goods retrieved, Garrison hailed the man, then handed the mysterious envelope to the faceless stranger.

Whispering he asked, "Should I call the Judge and let him know?"

Xerostomia overtook the man and he licked his lips; "No, tell no one... instead..." the man called over his shoulder, "...RUN!"

"Yes sir, you can count on me; _just glad to be done with it_ ," Garrison twitched as he watched the stranger disappear into the blackness.

Zooming in overhead, the single quiet drone targeted its victim and finished the task.

# VITAL SIGNS

### Helen Laycock, Buckinghamshire, England, United Kingdom

Allegedly, I couldn't hear anything anymore, so why was it I was still aware of that metronomic, monotonous sound?

Beep, beep, beep.

Chances were I could still come around, but how could I tell them when, try as I might, my body refused to comply? Doctors' voices swarmed around me like bumble bees and I felt the swish of nurses' uniforms as they bent over me, adjusting the position of tubes, their warm hands stroking me, subtle soapy scents suddenly as fragrant as Chanel No. 5. Even though my eyes were closed, I was sure that I would still be able to see - if only someone would only help me lift my leaden eyelids.

...Futile.

Gradually, that became my stony realization which seemed to curl its way around my body like a cold python. How could I hope to convey anything in this state? I heard someone declare that I had no vital signs... so why was I still thinking? Jenny was crying quietly at my side, her hands cupped over mine, cool and quivering. Kneading my arm on the other side was my mother. Love, as strong as it was, and surrounding me like a fortress, was not enough to replenish me. Making one last gesture, both Jenny and my mother kissed my forehead and I heard their sobs fade and their footsteps clip away until I knew they had disappeared. Never again would I see them, feel them, hear them. Only their memories would stay with me. Perhaps there was an afterlife... Questions like that had never before entered my periphery; my world was one where black and white explained everything, but now...

Rustling of cotton and a pull of my hospital sheet prepared me for what was coming next. Shrouded, the sounds around me became more muffled. The energy within me suddenly intensified into a burning strength and I felt my very soul burst through the shell of my spent body. Up, up, it lifted, through the sheet, above the bed, the machinery, the heads, the bent backs and I looked down at all that I now realized was only material.

Veering towards the open window, I swooped down towards the path which wound through the lush grass towards the car park. Where were they? X-rays, scans, needles and medicines were the last thing on my mind as I fell between them and rested a hand on each of their heaving shoulders as they made their way back to Jenny's car.

"You know, Jenny," said my mother, her eyes still pooled with tears, "he'll always be with us – here, in our hearts."

Zeniths cannot often be reached, but as we three trailed along together, I knew my mother's words, as always, spoke the ultimate truth.

# "WELL, THERE YOU GO..."

### Tim Mooney, Talbott, Tennessee USA

Annie tried her best to pull herself from the wreckage of the car. But the twisted metal of the dashboard had her pinned down tight. Crying was not in her nature, but this situation was beyond what she was used to dealing with.

Down where her feet ought to be was a pile of crumpled metal, and she could see a glow, as if something was burning. Every fiber of her being was telling her to get out, run. Escape this unholy mess. Fire, just a trickle, was beginning to crawl up towards her from beneath the twisted remains of the dashboard.

Gently, she attempted to work out one leg from the disaster beneath her. Her mind was set on not burning and dying in this wreck. Inch-by-inch she worked her right leg up, up, until finally it pulled loose. Jammed under the rest of the dash was her other leg, and hopefully her other foot. Kaleidoscopic waves of pain washed through her as she attempted to pull her left leg out. Layers of agony washed over her, like stinging waves from a dark and evil surf. Lightening waves of agony shot through her pinned-down leg as she struggled.

Maybe she would die here, she thought. Not old and cozy in some hospital bed, with attending nurses and a whiskered, soft-spoken doctor by her side. Out here, on a snow-slick, back-country road.

Perhaps it was karma, just a total amassing of all her sins finally catching up with her tonight, out here on this wrong turn. Quaint memories of her childhood mishaps came to her there, all the funny little sins of her youth, and as she wrestled with her own latent guilt, the fire began to burn hotter and higher.

Reaching up, she found the little handle above the door behind her, that thing she always assumed was there to hang up clothes. Squinting in pain, she held fast to that handle, and pulled. There was a moment of "Take-me-now-Jesus" wrenching shock, but in the next second she was free.

Up and out she crawled, cutting herself on the jagged glass of the broken windshield. Vague ghosts of pain tickled her feet as she began to struggle away from the wreck. When she finally made it to the road-side, she managed to raise her arms, in hope to flag down a concerned driver who might just notice her.

Xantipe-esque in her nature, she did not wave or attempt to flag down any of the common automobiles which flew past her as she lay bleeding, footless on the berm of the road. Years of pretending to be a goddess in the eyes of the world prevented her from any type of supplication towards the lesser beasts who drove these slick highways.

Zen, however, became her undoing, for no-one noticed her there, stumped and broken, and in her final moments, she prayed for the first time, to a god she had never believed in, and he chose to take a different highway that day.

# WHEN SUSAN MET KARMA

### Patrick Granfors, Galena, Missouri USA

####

"Anxiety is a complete waste of time," Jocko muttered to himself.

"Besides sucking the life out of your psyche it makes for a lonely, barren existence."

Christmas had been a perfect example. Do unto others as, well everyone knows, had sounded like the perfect relief valve to release the crushing emotional anaconda that threatened to extinguish any flicker of hope that remained in their relationship.

Everything seemed in perfect order.

Forget those pesky allergic nose drips that accompanied every close contact with that smooth silky fur. Getting Karma, an orphaned female Labrador retriever puppy out of that dark shelter's cage was paramount for her, but profoundly worrisome for Jocko who also truly wanted to please Susan.

How would Susan react right after being half-willingly dragged to Chicago from her hometown of New Orleans? Initially he suspected she might balk at the new addition, but would ultimately be unable to resist Karma's soft-eyed charms.

Jealousy seemed inconceivable, but there it was.

Karma often plays a not so subtle role in life's daily drama and this was no exception.

Lying to himself Jocko had just assumed that Susan's checkered past was behind her and going forward with their lives in a fresh setting would resolve their deepening divide. Marriage was out of the question. Neither felt that the institution was a viable option to their unstable relationship.

On Christmas morning Jocko picked up Karma from his friend Thomas, who had graciously agreed to baby sit the puppy until Christmas and then proceeded home to deliver his bundle of joy only to receive the steely glares of rejection in return.

"Please reconsider this," Jocko pleaded, "it may be our last best chance to work things out, and besides, how can you possibly turn your back on this little doll?"

Quietly Susan rose from the couch, fuming inside and then burst out, "It's me or that damn dog, Jocko!"

"Really Susan?" Jocko replied in anticipated disbelief.

Stammering and stuttering Jocko now recognized the complete futility of trying to make this arrangement work and he proclaimed, "OK, then it's the dog."

Thinking that he had called her bluff, he felt the twisted tension in his body ooze out of his pores into the room like some dark hazy fog until he realized it wasn't a bluff.

Usually he was submissive when confronted by Susan's irritations, and Jocko would find himself backpedaling and kowtowing to her moodiness.

Vestiges of his former self had appeared this time so that he felt an inner glow of peace growing within him, the door slamming shut behind Susan as she exited his life to return to the Big Easy.

Worry, drama, and the dreaded anxiety evaporated as his face was moistened by Karma's soft puppy tongue, with the local oldies radio station in the background warming up the room.

"Xanadu," Jocko winced, as Olivia's warbling, cutesy vocals made him consider retching as he switched to a more progressive station.

"Yesterday's gone, Yesterday's gone," Fleetwood Mac whispered to his subconscious, and then it all became perfectly clear.

ZZ Top began playing Jocko's now most favorite bluesy lyrics, "Jesus done left Chicago and he's bound for New Orleans," and with a grin so wide that he nearly dislocated his jaw, he thought to himself, "Karma certainly is a bitch," as he hugged his new-found best friend."

#####

# XANDRA

### Betty Dolphin, Nashville, Tennessee USA

Alex gazed down, smiling at the image of Xandra sleeping with an angelical appearance. Before yesterday, he hadn't known if his marriage was salvageable. Contrary to what he'd angrily told her yesterday, the 'flimsy piece of paper' known as their wedding certificate held a world of weight in his eyes.

Divorce was on the rise, tempting those with minute problems to sway. Every day, he'd received targeted spam meant to entice him away from his marriage. For the most part, he looked away in order to avoid becoming a statistic.

Given the tone of his wife's affairs, he happened to be the one who was trustworthy within the marriage. Honesty and truth were important factors for Alex.

Information gleaned from the computer's hard drive told him his wife didn't find these factors as important. Justice would be served, though, because Alex knew the name of the man with whom she'd chatted.

Kevin...

Little did the man know that Alex now tracked every digital move Kevin made. Manipulating a plan in his mind, Alex watched as Kevin went about his daily life and recorded every little detail. Naughty seeds bore fruit until Alex faced a decision.

Over the balcony? Perhaps Kevin drank too much...

Queerer things did happen, you know. Rather than spend the rest of his life in prison, Alex's mind turned inward to contemplate how he could make this work out.

Staring at the rug, he would appear to outsiders to be in some sort of daze. Trance aside, Alex had slipped into his own little world. Under his normal steam and without meds, Alex was married.

Vicious monsters lurked in Alex's mind, causing him to believe the image in the mirror was actually his wife peering back at him. Without the powerful drugs to keep this world from impeding in on his reality, Alex forgot he befriended a man named Kevin online.

Xandra, his imagined wife and alter ego, was only in his thoughts. Young and beautiful, a female vision of himself stared back at Alex when the mood struck just right. Zealousness was this alter-ego's nature.

XENO HUNT

Raymond Duchene, Sacramento, California USA

A short distance from the place I grew up, a new building looms – the invader's fortress. Battles raged across decades, lifetimes. Combat consisted of buttons, laboratories, and nanotechnology. Doubtlessly, the invaders thought that was more civil. Everyone I loved perished slowly before my eyes from the manufactured disease that the xenos released. Fear of the slow death caused many to flee into the safety of abandoned buildings, caves, and tunnels which they dug with their own hands. Gone is the world that I once loved.

Hiding for weeks and running low on supplies, I made the choice to search the charred remains of the city for food. I'm not sure why I chose to leave in the early morning dark, versus the night – perhaps it was because the sentries travel in smaller packs in the mornings; or, maybe my empty belly made the decision for me.

Just beyond the twisted gates of my hiding place, I heard two distinct sounds, a drone whistling in the distance and a rustling from the building across the street. Knowing that the drone was closing in, I ignored the rustling and found shelter beneath a large slant of broken concrete. Low in the sky, the drone whizzed over the city and disappeared beyond the rooftops of the buildings that had managed not to collapse from decades of disrepair.

"Maybe they'll come back around," a voice called from across the street. Narrowly missing being sighted by the drone, I spun around, my heart already racing, my rifle raised.

"Oh, hello Zachary," I said, lowering the rifle from his unconcerned face. "Perhaps it will, but I doubt it."

Quick and agile, the teen scrambled through the window of the dilapidated building and joined me on my side of the street. Ruins towered over us on both sides as we began to slowly make our way down the vehicle-littered road.

Seven blocks and a half hour later, we found ourselves huddled just inside the doorway of a long abandoned butcher shop, watching quietly as the two-man team of sentries slowly worked their way past. They were moving cautiously, raising their weapons to clear every window, every doorway. Up until I heard the first footsteps coming from around the corner, I thought our little hunting expedition would probably yield no results. Very slowly, I followed them after they passed the butcher shop, with my rifle held out in front of me. When I shot them both in their backs, they were too surprised to scream.

Xeno-meat isn't the best meal, especially when the creature you're eating is earthling – still, our many hungry mouths found joy in every crispy, greasy morsel, even the parts where the smell of their singed alien hair still lingered.

"You going to eat that," Zachary asked, his hungry glowing red eyes staring at the half eaten hand in my lap.

"Zachary," I said, pointing to the remains of the two human invaders; "don't worry – there's plenty more where that came from."

#

# AUTHORS

## Mary Agrusa

Atlanta, Georgia USA

mary.agrusa@gmail.com

MARY AGRUSA entered the field of writing with the goal of producing a weekly blog, "The Thought Just Occurred to Me." Three years later she still maintains that schedule. Her short stories have been featured in: Relief Notes, Dangerous Days - Tales of Climatic Change and Crowns and in World of Pirates.

http://maryagrusa.blogspot.com/



## Mohammad "Mib" Baseer

East London, England

1tawnystranger@hotmail.co.uk

MOHAMMAD "MIB" BASEER is an up-and-coming young actor. He has performed in Paula David's 'Losing Sight of Home,' as well as performing in numerous shows with Theatre Royal Stratford East since 2012. He is also a spoken word artist, having performed many of his poems in various open mics around London under the stage name One Tawny Stranger. He has also been a short story writer and regular member of two East London writing groups since 2012, with one of his works published in The Voice newspaper.

http://www.wattpad.com/user/1tawnystranger

## Sheldon Bass

Indianapolis, Indiana USA

penman4u@gmail.com

SHELDON BASS, author of Meet Him on the Mountain, is a Christian Minister serving from Indianapolis Indiana, He writes to glorify God and strengthen people's faith. Sheldon's work appears in various magazines, including Renewed, Christian Focus, Christ Centered Home and Church & Family. Many of his poignant short stories are included in popular anthologies, and he has collaborated on several books. He creates content for four separate websites and ghost writes for two blogs. http://www.faithwriters.com/member-profile.php?id=52103

## Doug Clarke

San Diego, California USA

doug@agoodtale.com

Douglas G Clarke is a System Engineer, Dutch oven cooker, Publisher, Game Developer, and Writer of short stories – with two novels in the works. A Quick Read is the eighth anthology to carry his work, visit agoodtale.com for the full list and to subscribe to his newsletter.

www.douglasgclarke.com; http://agoodtale.com
Gail Denham

Sunriver, Oregon USA

booksgal2@gmail.com

#####

GAIL DENHAM has been telling stories since she was young. Her short stories, essays, news articles, photos and poetry have been published in magazines, books, calendars for 36 years.

Pennessce anthology is considering using her photo for cover on their prize-winning poem anthology, along with acceptance of several other poems.

http://storypoet3.wordpress.com

#####

## Betty Dolphin

Nashville, Tennessee USA

Atomic2112@gmail.com

BETTY DOLPHIN says she is driven to write and uses her creative streak to construct fiction in order to tantalize imaginations into high gear. She is a contract ghostwriter and editor, a published author and writer.

Raymond Duchene

Sacramento, California USA

RM_Duchene@yahoo.com

My passions include my family, reading and writing. I am constantly looking to acquire new knowledge/skills. I'm a novice story teller who had only just begun to take my craft seriously. I am a full time military member and live in Sacramento with my finance and baby.

#####

## Linda Dyson

Leamington Spa, Warwickshire, United Kingdom

lindadyson101@tiscali.co.uk

LINDA DYSON was born in southern England in 1948. She has enjoyed writing from an early age, teaching some English during her varied career which included 21 years in Greece and the Balkans.

She writes poetry and is working on her first novel. She also writes and presents material on local community radio.

Deb Elkink

 Alberta, Canada

deb@rolledscroll.com

DEB ELKINK is an author, world traveler, academic editor, and former ranch wife with a lapsed pilot's license, a happy marriage, three kids, and experience rounding up cattle. Her debut novel,  The Third Grace, won a prestigious Canadian award in 2012, and she's currently working on her second and third books. Read a more of her short works at http://www.debelkink.com/writing.php

www.debelkink.com

## Sue Fenton

Redhill, Surrey, United Kingdom

sue@fwords.co.uk

SUE FENTON is a freelance journalist based near London, UK. She specializes in writing feature articles and copy-editing for business magazines but also enjoys creative writing. She is available for news and feature writing commissions from international business and consumer magazines and can be reached at sue@fwords.co.uk.

www.fwords.co.uk

Sue Fraser

Lascabanes, France

soofraser3@gmail.com

SUE FRASER says, "I write for the sheer joy of it and if anyone likes my work, that's a real bonus. I now have the spur I need to complete my first novel (mystery and intrigue set in France and England)." Sue work as Curator of Hornsea Museum in Yorkshire.

Sue Fraser owns a beautiful barn– with a heated private pool and ample amenities. She rents this barn for a holiday get-away in France.

<https://www.facebook.com/lascabanesbarn>

http://www.ownersdirect.co.uk/accommodation/p8131049

## Norma Freeman

Victoria, British Columbia, Canada

normafree@gmail.com

NORMA FREEMAN says, "Since retirement, I have begun to write short stories, have published a book of poems, Words Without Music—Poems with Rhythm and Rhyme, available at Friesen Press and Amazon.com." During her working years, her writing was predominantly non-fiction: articles, manuals, courses for distance and classroom learning, and advertising copy.

 http://normafree.wix.com/poetry-and-paintings-by-norma-m-freeman

www.facebook.com/norma.freeman.336

## Karen Lea French

Lewisville, Texas USA

jordanlea2014@gmail.com

KAREN LEA FRENCH (aka Lea Jordan) is the author of several novellas including Created in Fury and Hell Hath No Fury, part of the novella series that centers on Chesare DeLaqouix Fury. She currently resides in the South with her family.

kareflea.wix.com/jordanlea

## Eileen Granfors

Galena, Missouri USA

egranfors@att.net

EILEEN GRANFORS is a former English teacher, who still writes every morning and reads every afternoon. She blogs. She reviews. She plays with her dogs and goes swimming. "I love being retired and having no essays to grade!" she says. "We have celebrated our first anniversary of retirement here in Missouri, and we love our new rural lifestyle."

https://eileengranfors.blogspot.com

## Patrick GranFors

Galena, Missouri USA

egranfors@att.net

PATRICK GRANFORS was a geotechnical engineer on the Alaska pipeline and construction planner before retiring to the woods of the Ozarks in 2014. He began writing in 2009 and posts his works, mostly an eclectic variety of poetry on AuthorsDen.com.

https://Authorsden.com

## Simon Hurst

Axminster, United Kingdom

Simon@simonhurst.com

SIMON HURST is a freelance copywriter. He brings insights gained across a wide variety of projects to crafting the words that all organizations need to communicate effectively with their target audiences – whether customers, prospects, employees, applicants, investors or wider communities. He also writes speculative scripts for film and TV.

http://simonhurst.com

## Jerry-Mac Johnston

Springfield, Missouri USA

wurdriter@hotmail.com

JERRY-MAC JOHNSTON, fourth generation of a theatrical family has performed in nearly 200 plays, films, and commercials. He is a prize winning, internationally published poet, playwright, and children's book author. Jerry-Mac loves minor league baseball games, then curling up with a good book, or somebody who's read one.

## Robert Kendrick

Oceanside, California USA

rkendrick930@gmail.com

ROBERT KENDRICK has been writing for his own pleasure on and off all his life. He has worked as a ghost writer on letters or articles. He has published Shorting Myself, a collection of short stories and poems, available on Amazon.

He is working on the completion of a children's story, "Owy Gator and the Bumbees Watch Oliver Heggs," and a story expanding the A-Z short.

He currently lives in Oceanside, a rapidly expanding town with a quaint harbor situated at the north end of San Diego County.

## Joyce Kopp

Houston, Texas USA

jkopp1001@gmail.com

JOYCE KOPP is interested in poetry and short story writing. She has written a novella, yet unpublished. Originally intrigued with poetry when I read Shelley's "Ozymandias," saying so much in so few words, I began writing. Other interests include hiking in the mountains or fly fishing in all seasons with my family. I tutor French and ESL.

## Helen Laycock

 Buckinghamshire, United Kingdom

HELEN LAYCOCK is a former primary school teacher and English specialist from the UK. As well as having written eight children's mystery/adventure books for readers of 8+, she has put together three contrasting collections of short stories for adults. She has written three short story collections, Light Bites,  Peace and Disquiet, and  Minor Discord. All books are available at Amazon.com, and Amazon.co.uk. More information is available on her website, Fiction in a Flash: She is the author of several mystery/adventures for readers of 8–12, and has a website for children at Helen Laycock| Children's Author

##  Randall Lemon

Highland, Indiana USA

maceprez@gmail.com

RANDALL LEMON's stories can be found in ten anthologies. All except one of these can be found by going to his Amazon author page. The other anthology, Dance Like a Monkey, is available through its publisher, Silence in the Library. "Bobby Darwin's Lucky Day," can be experienced at http://thenewsinbooks.authorpatricialogan.com. Randall is co-author of  Gryffon Master: Curse of the Lich King available at  Amazon.com

## Cecelia Lester

Indianapolis, Indiana USA

cll4him@sbcglobal.net

CECELIA LESTER has been writing for over a decade with Christian devotions, short plays and essays. She is a columnist for God's Words for US at liveasif.org.

She and her husband have been married 46+ years. They have one grown son.

http://quietspirit-followingmyking.blogspot

## R. S. McCoy

Houston, Texas USA

rs.mccoy@live.com

RS MCCOY didn't ever plan on being a writer. With a career teaching high school science, writing is the last thing she expected. While battling cancer, she picked up her laptop and let the words flow out. She is a wife, mother of two, a scientist, baker, gardener, and life-long science fiction and fantasy addict.

http://rsmccoy.com

Website|Facebook|Twitter|Pinterest|Google+|Goodreads

## Neetu Malik

Bethlehem, Pennsylvania USA

nmalik.malik39@gmail.com

NEETU MALIK was educated at the Delhi University in India. Neetu writes short stories, poems, articles and blog posts. Having lived in three continents, she weaves her impressions and experiences into the tapestry of her work. Human actions and motivations intrigue her, forming the substance of her character-driven stories. She is a devoted mother and resides in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.

## Sharla Matlock

St. Louis, Missouri USA

sharlamatlock@yahoo.com

SHARLA MATLOCK is an entrepreneur, writer, blogger and photographer. She lives in St. Louis, Missouri with her husband and five children. An avid tree-hugger, she enjoys hiking, visiting new state and national parks. Her favorite pastimes are reading, gardening, scrapbooking, yoga and puzzles.

## Sarah Mitchell

Overland Park, Kansas USA

SARAH MITCHELL is a flood insurance underwriter. She is also a freelance writer and poet. She attended Baker University receiving her degree in Spanish. During that time, she went, on three different occasions, to the National Undergraduate Literary Conference held in Utah to read her poetry. Sarah resides in Kansas.

## Tim Mooney

Talbott, Tennessee USA

mooneye2@yahoo.com

TIM MOONEY says, "I don't write for the money or the fame, I write because the words and stories are in my head and I have to get them out. Otherwise I'd explode, and really ruin the living room," says Tim Mooney. He is an Irish farm boy from Western New York who has traveled all across this country. The folks I have met have stories, sometimes dark and dirty, and sometimes bright and wonderful; I hope you enjoy the lie." Tim Mooney's fiction has the ability to grip a reader at the opening page and not let go until the end of the story.

## Colleen Moyne

Gawler, South Australia

colmoyne@hotmail.com

COLLEEN MOYNE is a published writer with credits in articles, poetry, and short fiction. Website Administrator at www.forvolunteers.webs.com / www.forvols.blogspot.com

Published article writer with Hubgarden; Published poet and short fiction writer.

myinspiredlife.com
Rasma Raisters

Riga, Latvia

razmatazjazz@yahoo.com

RASMA RAISTERS was born and raised in New York City, but now lives in the suburbs of Riga, Latvia with her husband Martin and adopted cat, Sid. She works as a private English language instructor in Latvia.

Rasma writes for HubPages, Bubblews and BestWriters. She maintains a poetry blog, nothingbutpoetry.wordpress.com; a music blog, musicisajoy.blogspot.com; and a travel blog,

yamarella.wordpress.com. You can also find her on Facebook, Twitter, and  LinkedIn.

##

## Betsy A. Riley

Washington, District of Columbia USA

BETSY RILEY says she is "in the enviable position of working a challenging day job, while exploring opportunities as an author, artist, poet, publisher, and speaker." Originally from Maryland, she writes and illustrates books, short stories, poetry, and non-fiction articles. She is the owner, editor, designer and publisher of Blue Dragon Press for print-on-demand books. Betsy A. Riley spends her days helping to make the world a better place, using science and technology. Evenings and weekends she uses her other talents to spread joy and hope.

http://brws.com; bluedragonpress.com

## Kim Roseblade

Bristol, England

kimrontour@hotmail.com

KIM ROSEBLADE left a successful career in financial services to go to university to study English Literature and Language. Since graduating with a first-class honors degree in 2013, she has been pursuing her creative writing interests and is training to become an English teacher.

Tom Russell

Alberta, Canada

trussell@bloodtribe.org

TOM RUSSELL is a writer from the Blood Tribe (Blackfoot Confederacy) in southern Alberta, Canada. He works for his people in writing and producing a magazine highlighting the positives and successes of his tribe. Tom enjoys photography and connecting with people worldwide.

Patricia Salamone

Deerfield Beach, Florida, USA

salpa58@hotmail.com

PATRICIA SALAMONE was born in New York. She started writing stories as a child. She married and raised three children; working full time, her stories stayed tucked away for her eyes only. When she retired she found time to let her imagination soar.

First published work was a poem, "Angel Dear," published in Shades of Expression. Her book The Italian Thing, is available at amazon.com.

www.salpa58.wordpress.com

## Annapurna Sharma

Nellore, India

purnamadhav.nutri@gmail.com

ANNAPURNA SHARMA is a lecturer turned creative writer, nutritionist, impulsive blogger, children's author, short story writer and poet. A consistent contributor, her stories and poems have appeared on online portals like induswomanwriting.com , writespace.in , ratemyliterature.com and Women's Era. Experience a slice of her penning, visit her blog www.myoutlook1.blogspot.in

## C.A. Simonson

Strafford, Missouri USA

casimonson@hotmail.com

C.A. SIMONSON writes fiction and nonfiction short stories, articles, and books. She has over 200 publication credits in anthologies, newspapers, and magazines. Her first novel, Love's Journey Home, was published in 2013. The second in the series, Love Looks Back is due for release the spring of 2015. Both are available on Amazon.com.

www.casimonson.wordpress.com

www.kitchentipsandtreasures.wordpress.com

www.candysimonson.wordpress.com

Wendy Spickerman

Binghamton, New York USA

wspickerman@yahoo.com

WENDY SPICKERMAN is a digital journalist by day covering news on social media, health, parenting and controversial topics; by night a writer of words brought to life. My first poem was published at the early age of sixteen and I've received many honors in recognition of my works. Wendy works with Examiner.com, Yahoo.com, DigitalJournal.com, and Bubblews.com.

http://livingwithhearingsensitivity.blogspot.com

http://informedwsdj.blogspot.com/

## Charles Stone

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania USA

charlesstone1974@gmail.com

CHARLES STONE is a semi-retired educator and mentor. His passion is the art of the written word. His flash fiction stories appear in Reader's Carnival, Long Story Short and other magazines. He lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

## Ken Windsor

New South Wales, Australia

kenwindsor023@gmail.com

KEN WINDSOR is a retired Logistics Manager. He has publications in newspapers and magazines, technical articles, plus short stories. He has entered Literary Competitions with several successes. Writing in all genres, he has also dabbled in Australian Bush Poetry. Ken says he is currently working on a historical fiction novel based on Australian convict life in the mid-1800s.

## Philip Yang

Deland, Florida USA

philipyang0225@msn.com

PHILIP YANG is a student at Stetson University who is studying Accounting. On the side, he is working on a fiction novel featuring the exploration and dynamics of fantasy, science, gender and other things.

## John Yantis

Grand Rapids, Michigan USA

jojayantis@aol.com

DR. JOHN YANTIS served as a teacher, coach, and school administrator in Kansas for ten years and then as a university dean in Michigan. Since retiring from the university he has published three novels and enjoys participating in Community Theater. He lives with his wife, Jane, in Michigan.
