

### A WORLD OF POSSIBILITY

A COLLECTION OF

SHORT STORIES

by

ASMSG Authors

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This anthology is a collection of fiction short stories. All works herein are included by the express permission of each author. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by: ASMSG Collections

Written by: ASMSG Authors

Produced by: Christopher Shields, Co-Administrator, ASMSG

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of the publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Authors except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Contact ASMSG at www.asmsg.weebly.com

Cover Art © 2013 by ASMSG

Cover Art by Kyra Dune

Editors: ASMSG Authors

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents:

THE JUMPER, by Alan Hardy

LEAVING SARAH, by Annmarie Miles

THE BALANCE, by Bob Atkinson

THE GUN, by Brian Y. Rogers

MOONCUSSERS, by Carol Carroll

GHOST INN, by Cynthia Collins

VACATION INTERRUPTED, by Debra Parmley

THE PAINTING, by Diane Adams Taylor

ONCE MORE BACK, by Gay Ingram

LALA SALAAMA, by Iain Parke

CUFFED, by James J. Murray

UNDERGROUND, by Kenneth Puddicombe

THE FAMILY TRADITION, by Kirstin Pulioff

FLASHBACK, by Linda Covella

THE WAYWARD PARCEL, by Mary Meddlemore

THE BOX, by Michelle Browne

LEGACY, by Mike O'Donnell

BABY, by Olga Núñez Miret

REVENGE, by Peter Watson Jenkins

THE SEA TURTLE, by PJ Perryman

A DATE TO DIE FOR, by Rosary McQuestion

A STEP IN TIME, by Susan Hawthorne

A COTTAGE AT MANITOU CROSSING, by Tannis Laidlaw

LITTLE BOY BLUE, by Tina Traverse

RUTH, by Tom Ryan

THE UNEDITED INTERVIEW WITH BRENFORD STEVENS, by Yelle Hughes

THE JUMPER

by Alan Hardy

 http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6549307.Alan_Hardy/blog

Amelda was roused from her slumber by John's loud closing of the door. And the irritating sound of his steps. And his exasperating little cough, his effeminate clearing of his throat.

She had been having a lie-down on the sofa, with her long brown coat pulled up over her, while John had been outside, sweeping up the leaves.

He was now wearing his dark-blue jumper, the one with light-blue-and-red diamond shapes on the front. The jumper he had said he had thrown away. Two years ago.

She didn't say anything. Kept on lying there, eyes open. She and John ignored each other. He soon left the room again.

When he came back, he was no longer wearing the jumper.

So, two years ago, when he had said he was going to throw it away, he had lied. He had put it somewhere secret, in the shed or attic or basement. Every now and then, when he did the gardening, or some other job, he would put it on. He had come into the room with it still on and, realizing his mistake, and hoping she hadn't noticed, had slipped out again and taken it off.

But she didn't say anything about it.

She and John never really spoke much now, even though, with the children grown up and off to uni, they were nearly always together. Latterly John had started working a lot from home. They'd even got into the habit of going out together on quite menial tasks like buying the chops and accompanying veg, just for the sake of getting out of the house.

One day he said he was going out to mend the fence. She nodded as she lay on the sofa. When he was out of the room, she got up and positioned herself by the corner of the window so she could look out without being easily observed. She eventually caught a glimpse of him over at the far end of the garden, wearing the dark-blue jumper. She went back to the sofa to lie down. She kept her ears open.

When she heard him making his usual sounds, slamming doors and smashing into furniture, and always that ridiculous irritating little cough, like someone trying politely to gain someone else's attention, she sprang up, rushed to the door and carefully opened it. She heard sounds coming from the steps leading down to the cellar at the other end of the corridor; she glimpsed something navy wending its way down them. She tip-toed along the corridor and down the steps and looked into the cellar. She could see the door of the little white cupboard that stood by the far wall was ajar. John, who was fiddling with something in the cupboard, was obscured by its open door, except for his booted feet and the very top of his greying hair. She could see a key inserted in the lock of that door.

So, that was where the stupid man kept the jumper. She crept back up the steps and along the corridor into the living-room again. She looked carefully into the little white dish by the television which held the household keys. She memorized them all, even the couple she didn't recognize, probably old keys for no-longer-existing doors or changed locks that her poor hubby couldn't bear to discard.

After John had returned, fiddled about, and then left the room, she wandered over to the little dish. There were two more keys there, one which she recognized as the cellar-door key, and a small one which, obviously, would open the white cupboard.

When John said the next day that it was time to go shopping, Amelda complained of a headache and told him to go alone.

"Anything troubling you, my dear?" he asked.

"No. Why do you ask?"

"You look a bit excited, breathless. Have you tried your temperature?"

"It's just a headache. I'll survive. And don't buy that tinned veg any more. Get the real stuff."

He took ages to get ready. Putting on his jacket, combing his thinning, lifeless-looking hair, going twice to the loo to squeeze out every last drop of pee, and have a fart or two, rummaging around looking for the car-keys before finally finding them. In the dish, where he always put them.

"Can't you hurry up?" she blurted out.

"What's the matter with you?"

"Bye-bye."

"Stupid cow," she heard him muttering as he moved off.

As soon as she heard the car spluttering into life, she picked out the two keys from the white dish, and held them to her chest, standing quite still. She felt tense. She ran down to the cellar. She knew she wouldn't have long. He would be back in a quarter of an hour.

It took her ages to unlock the cellar-door and, once inside, in the stuffy atmosphere, she found it difficult to breathe. She was excited, but a little scared, as if she might find something disgraceful. A body or two. The unknown. Secrets.

She opened the cupboard easily. There was a whiff of musty maleness. A hot male breath that hit her body. On the shelves there were electrical bits and pieces. Plumbing bits and pieces. The detritus of one man's refusal ever to discard anything. Probably all broken or not working. She saw the jumper rumpled-up on a shelf. She pulled it out nervously, and something heavier came with it. She gave a start. It was an old, thick belt. Curling like a snake. She saw something else further back on the shelf. She touched it tentatively. The fabric was thick and rough. It was an old pair of John's jeans which, like the belt, he had taken to the dump a year or two ago. Or, rather, said he had. She looked at all the shelves; the only other thing she found was an old white shirt which years ago had been John's best shirt. She had always liked him in it.

She fingered it tenderly, brought it close up to her and smelt it. She ruffled her face in it. She felt scared. She quickly put everything back, and locked the cupboard. She rushed out, closed the cellar-door and, by the time she got back to the living-room, realized she hadn't needed to panic. John didn't come back for another ten minutes.

That was John for you, she thought. He never wanted to discard anything. He grew attached to possessions, even old clothes. Even though he had special clothes for his gardening or DIY jobs, he had kept those old rags to put on in secret. He was a waste of space. He probably believed the jumper and belt and the rest were sentient beings who didn't want to be thrown on the rubbish-heap just yet. It was an act of charity. Even love. There was something womanish about the man. Like his nervous cough. He wouldn't even throw away theatre-ticket-stubs. Just like a giddy girl. But she didn't say anything when he came back.

In fact she couldn't wait to return to the cellar. Her opportunity came when he had to go into the office one morning. She opened up the cellar-door easily this time, and hesitated for a moment before turning the key in the lock of the white cupboard. She tongued her palate and twisted on her legs like a little girl. That male smell made her feel dizzy again. She arranged all of John's bits and pieces into one heap on one shelf.

She fingered them, their differing texture, as if she were in a clothes-shop. One by one, she took them out to smell them. Then, without having really thought of it before, she started to take off her clothes. Her hands and fingers trembled and fumbled, little gasps coming from her lips as they touched haphazardly, in her nervous undressing, parts of her flesh. She flung her clothes in the cupboard. She took out the jumper and ran it across her breasts, midriff and thighs. She did the same with the smooth white shirt, and then the rougher jeans, fingering their dry itchiness. She tried putting on the shirt, but quickly took it off. That didn't do her anything. She put the belt around her waist, squeezing it tight; she then did the same around her hips. She tied the jumper around her waist and caressed her body, becoming more and more, ever so gently, excited.

She fondled her fanny with the rough jeans and pressed her flesh with her other hand everywhere she could reach, squeezing the fat skin of her stomach and caressing the skin of her thighs. She moved the jumper to her fanny and pressed it close, working her hand around; she held the white shirt to her face and mouthed kisses as it delicately smothered her.

When she had finished, she hastily put everything back and got dressed, giggling in between her laboured breathing. She couldn't remember the last time she had had an orgasm which had been in any way related to John. She felt mischievous, naughty, and satisfied. Fulfilled.

It was still a few hours before John came back with his silly clearing of his throat and sense of self-importance as he stood there speaking of his day at the office as if it had been a day out hunting gigantic blood-curdling carnivores.

"What about you, dear?" he asked. "Have you had a good day?"

Now he wanted to make conversation. He thought he was the adventurer returned. She had a funny feeling the silly twat would be getting frisky tonight. She didn't answer him.

As he stood there Amelda could see he had literally no arse. She could remember his pert little bum of years ago, but now it was so sunken in as to be a negative-bum, some sort of black hole, a minus-entity. She doubted he had one at all.

That night, as she lay in bed on her side, turned away from her big lump of a hubby, smiling as she thought of her next visit to the cellar pencilled in for tomorrow, as John had told her he had to go to the office again, he did suddenly start making irritating little jabs on her bum with his willie.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Amelda, darling, I was just wondering--"

"Don't be ridiculous. Please turn the other way, and keep your thingy to yourself."

"But, Amelda, we don't do anything any more. How's a chap--"

"Good night."

The next day she didn't overdress. She did, though, put on the little kinky red knickers that she hadn't worn for years, a leftover from the time when she was youthful and sexy, and that she couldn't bear to throw away, even though they were a bit past it, with one or two tiny holes in the crotch-area. Slipping them on, working them along her thighs, had made her shiver, as if she had an itch in the small of her back.

She got undressed in the cellar again, putting her clothes on a shelf. She wrapped each of John's garments around herself in turn, and caressed her body with them, slowly, sensuously. She tied the dark blue jumper around her waist and toyed with the belt around her crotch, even slightly jabbing herself with its buckle. She covered her face with the clinging softness of the white shirt. Penetrating through her gasps of excitement, she heard doors closing and a series of little coughs. She came out of her dream, stood stock still, distinctly heard the noises again, and frantically flung away John's bits and pieces, grabbing her own and feverishly, all fingers and thumbs, putting on her tee-shirt and jeans. She could hear his steps and effeminate grunts coming down to the cellar. She ruffled her hair, wiped her face with her hand, and tried to assume a normal expression. She probably looked hot and sweaty. She was breathing too heavily. She turned to face the door.

"Hullo, Amelda. What's up?"

He stood framed in the door. Her natural contempt for the great stupid lump took over.

"And what are you doing back here? I thought you were spending the morning in the office."

"I forgot some papers," he blurted out. "What's up?"

He came towards her. She felt guilt written all over her face. Could he guess what she had been up to? Could he see it in her face, her awry clothes? He looked beyond her at, and into, the cupboard. A look of uncertainty came over him.

"And what have you been up to?" she asked roughly. "All these old clothes in here. Why have you been hoarding them?"

"What do you mean?" he said uselessly, like a guilty child. "Anyway, why have you taken your slippers off?"

Amelda looked down at her slippers lying by her bare feet, where she had discarded them. She ignored his question.

"I saw you wearing your old jumper. I knew you were keeping it somewhere secret. And I've found out where. And all the rest of these things. You're such an idiot. Why did you make out you'd thrown them all away? Why are you hoarding them?"

"It...it just seems a waste to chuck them out...I use them for gardening and such..."

He looked sheepish, blushing childishly. He shifted his feet.

"You are a pain, John. You've got special working clothes. You don't need these. I'll get rid of them."

"Do you have to? It's nice to hang on to things...they're not so old-looking...it's like a memory, you know...like, keeping things as they were...time passes so quickly..."

"You are such an arsehole, John."

She turned round, sweeping up his clothes off the shelf into her arms. She closed and locked the cupboard-door. She tentatively, hesitatingly extended the key towards John. After all, it wasn't hers. He took it. He looked churlish. And embarrassed. Found out. And put in his place. Again. She slid her slippers on. She walked out of the cellar, leaving John there.

Once he had gone off with his papers, she hid his clothes in her wardrobe, way back in its recesses where John would never find them. She had no intention of taking them to the dump. She would pretend one day that she had done it, or was about to. She would keep them for herself. For her own pleasure.

She had been wandering happily around the house for a few minutes, revelling in how she had turned the tables on the silly man, when it dawned on her that she hadn't slipped her old red knickers back on. She rushed over to the little white dish. For a moment she couldn't find the key for the white cupboard. She thought he had hidden it somewhere. Then she saw it.

Down in the cellar she opened the door of the little white cupboard. She looked on each shelf and in the bottom of the cupboard. Her red knickers were not there. She frantically looked around the cellar floor. No sign of them. Then she ran off to her own wardrobe, assuming they had been swept up in John's clothes as she grabbed them. But, to her intense disappointment, they weren't there either. She looked all around the house, every bit of floor-space, but they had not been dropped anywhere. She went back to the cellar and white cupboard. Back to her wardrobe. Nothing. There was only one possible answer. John had them. He had opened the cupboard when she had left him there. To see what she had done with his possessions, not just the clothes, but the electrical and plumbing bits and bobs he hoarded there. He had found the old red knickers she had inadvertently left there in her panic. They were probably now in his brief-case. She should never have given him back the key there and then in the cellar.

Why hadn't he said something? He was no doubt waiting until he returned for lunch. He probably suspected she had been up to something sexual, he had seen that on her face, her general disarray. The knickers would have proved it. Maybe he had even seen her while she was playing with herself, while she was in her ecstatic seventh heaven, and had then crept away and come back down the steps more noisily, with a cough or two, as if for the first time. Not very likely...but, then, what was he up to? He might keep his knowledge of her little secret, her little world of sexual abandon, as a sort of threat hanging over her, a means by which he could blackmail her. With a little shudder, she wondered whether he would try it on again tonight, and whether she would have to let him have his nauseating little grope-and-fiddle-about with his thingy, and his pathetic moan of an orgasm. It didn't bear thinking about.

But she soon realized there was no need for panic or guilt. The explanation she would give him was obvious. She would say she had been getting together a pile of old clothes to be thrown away. Anything she found of John's, plus her old red knickers, plus maybe a few other things of her own. She fished out an old pair or two of tights and a jumper she no longer wore and laid them on her dressing-table. She would say she had had the knickers in her hand when she was looking for John's hidden clothes, and, in the confusion following his return, she had left them in the cupboard. She had no need to worry.

Her pride kicked in. There was no way she was going to feel embarrassed or guilty in front of that lump of manure. She could handle him. As she always had.

In fact, when John returned, he didn't mention the matter at all. He never alluded to the episode of the morning, let alone the missing red knickers. And nor did she. They didn't speak about it in the evening, nor over the next few days. The only thing that happened was that the tights and jumper she had left on the dressing-table also went missing. She had realized it the same evening. What was he up to? Was it simple revenge? Nicking her old stuff because she had taken his? She knew instinctively that if she kept quiet about it, so would he. That was understood. Or had he suffered a mid-life sexual crisis? Was he, on the odd occasions she would go out alone or he said he didn't feel like coming shopping with her, putting on her tights and red knickers and parading about the house? She pictured him, maybe after having smeared some of her red lipstick all over his thin-lipped gob, getting a perverted thrill out of staring at his grotesque reflection in the mirror. She did check over the next few days whether anybody had been using any of her make-up, but it didn't look like it. There again, he could have his own supply.

She did once have a peremptory, half-hearted look around to see if she could discover where he was keeping her clothes. She shouldn't really have tried. She promised herself not to do it again. Otherwise, he would have the right to do the same to her, and her fantasies. Attempt to break in on them.

Maybe he was doing what she was still doing, every few days, when she would take John's clothes with her down to the cellar. Where she would open the door of the little white cupboard. Where there was that musty maleness, that whiff of male smell that tingled her body. Maybe he was doing the same. Running her clothes along his body, caressing his skin and face with her smell and touch. His memory of her.

Probably she would never find out. And, to be honest, she didn't really want to. Whether he was doing it to annoy her, or because he had turned into a ghastly filthy transvestite, or because he was still madly in love with the Amelda that used to wear those sexy red knickers, whichever one it was, it wouldn't send her into ecstasy, or break her heart. It just wasn't important.

He had had another little go at her that night. He had crawled up close to her, breathing all over her with his stale breath, and nervously coughing that cough of his.

"Amelda, do you think we could..."

"John, I'm not really in the mood. Be a good boy."

He had turned away grudgingly. The little baby. She had just for a moment felt a pang of regret, that, maybe, she had been too harsh with him. Perhaps it was because she feared he might say something about the red knickers. But she had felt like adding a couple of words so that it didn't sound so final, something like "Maybe later" or "Another time", or, failing that, giving him an affectionate pat or nudge on his back.

She had hesitated, and then thought better of it.

THE END

LEAVING SARAH

# by Annmarie Miles

http://auntyamo.com/

Marian stood at the window surveying the damage. With the sun shining almost white in a clear sky, you'd never have guessed there'd been torrential rain and gale-force winds the night before. Even the patio area was dry, but the storm had thrown the furniture around and scattered some of the potted plants here and there. She considered going out to tidy it up a bit but there were so many other things that needed to be done.

She was about to turn away from the window when she spotted it. It looked like a pile of clothes in the corner of the garden.

"Who put washing out in that weather?"

Marian ran upstairs to get dressed but when she looked out the bedroom window, the pile of clothes had moved. Not much, but enough for her to notice. She quickly put on her jeans, a jumper and her trainers. She tripped over the suitcase on the landing and swore at it all the way down the stairs. Back at the kitchen window, the pile of clothes had definitely moved again. Marian froze as she saw the shape form and a hand emerge.

She backed away from the window and tried not to panic.

"Not the journalists again; why would they come back now? Please God don't let it be a photographer. Why won't they leave me alone!?"

Within about 5 seconds she considered screaming, ringing the police, running out of the house and having a vodka. None of those things would help and before she knew it she was making her way down the garden. The pile of clothes was still again and the hand had disappeared. Marian wondered if she'd gone mad. The nearer she got to it, the more it looked like nothing.

"This is private property and you are invading my privacy. I have nothing to say to you. Get out of my garden; get off my property!"

Silence.

"There are people with me," she lied. "And if you don't move on they'll come and sort you out. You can't stay here. I'm going back into the house and if you're still here in 15 minutes I'm going to ring the police."

Marian made a few more hollow threats but there was no movement.

"I'm such an idiot." She turned to walk away.

"Please help."

The pile of clothes spoke to her so quietly she almost missed it.

"Did you say something? Is there someone there?"

"Please please, help!" The quiet cry came again. Marian was stunned at the young female voice.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

The pile of clothes moved and a teenage girl appeared. She had long hair that was soaking wet. Her face would have been filthy if it had been dry. The clothes she was wearing and the coats covering her were all saturated. She was clutching a plastic bag stuffed with newspapers.

"Help! Please, I think she's dead." The young girl offered the plastic bag, and Marian saw the tiny face.

She grabbed the bag and ran to the house. The young girl cried after her but Marian's instincts were automatic. She ran warm water in the kitchen sink and taking the newspapers off the baby, gently laid her into it. The journey up the garden had woken the infant. She opened her eyes, made a little noise then closed her eyes again as the warm water surrounded her.

"You're perfect – you little precious; you're perfect."

Her heart was racing as she rubbed the baby's skin with warm water.

The mother was lying across the threshold of the back door. "Is she alive?" She was barely able to speak. Her attempt to make it up the garden stole the energy that the sight of her baby being taken had given her.

Marian concentrated on the baby. As she warmed up she began to cry, with the same weakness her mother had spoken. Marian grabbed a couple of tea towels and wrapped the baby up. She looked up at the mother for the first time. She was now in the kitchen huddled up in a ball on the floor, almost asleep.

Marian closed the door and wrapped the baby properly in a blanket she had draped over the back of her sofa. She boiled some milk and tried to get it into the baby with a teaspoon. The baby was more than happy to oblige.

"You need to get out of those wet clothes. I'll run a bath for you. You need to go to the hospital. So does this little one."

"NO! No hospitals. I just need to sleep."

"You need to get out of those clothes or you'll die of pneumonia. I'm going to run a bath for you."

Marian took the baby upstairs, careful to manoeuvre around the suitcase this time. The other suitcase was open on the bed. She took some of the clothes out of it and put the baby into it. While the bath was running she went into the spare room and ripped open the black plastic bag with the 'Charity Shop' label on it. She found some clothes, turned the bath taps off, checked the baby was ok then went downstairs.

The mother was in the exact same position as when she'd left her.

"Come on, have a bath, put some dry clothes on and we'll see what to do next. What's your name?"

"Sarah."

"What's the baby's name?"

"I don't know."

* * *

Marian heated some soup and tried to get the baby to take more of the boiled milk.

"You two need to see a doctor! When did you have her?"

"I don't know."

"How did you cut the cord Sarah?"

"I don't know."

"How did you get into my garden?"

"I don't know I DON'T KNOW. STOP ASKING ME QUESTIONS!"

It was the loudest that Sarah had spoken. The baby opened her eyes for just a second at the sound of her mother's voice.

"Have some soup."

Sarah almost subconsciously, dipped bread into the soup and began to eat. Marian continued to feed the baby who seemed more eager to drink.

Sarah finished the soup and fell asleep at the kitchen table.

"What do I do now?" Marian had no one she could call. There was nobody left.

"They need to go to the hospital."

She thought about it for a minute but she couldn't take the chance. There was no way she'd get beyond hospital reception without someone recognising her. If she rang for an ambulance she knew that half a dozen journalists and photographers would be in her garden before it arrived. Marian looked up at the mantelpiece above the fire to a picture of two little girls. It was the only thing left in the lounge-end of the room, apart from the sofa.

"Why is there nothing in your house?"

"Sorry?"

Sarah was awake again. "Why is there nothing in your house?"

"I'm moving out. Tomorrow actually, so we need to decide what to do with you and.... Have you thought of a name for her?"

Still wrapped in the teatowels the baby slept, totally unaware of her bizarre start in life.

"I don't want to call her anything. I don't want her."

"Sarah when I found you she was your first concern. You didn't ask me to help you, you asked me to help her. You must feel something for her."

Sarah lifted her head. If she'd had energy she'd have wept, but there was nothing. "Can I lie on your sofa please?"

Marian nodded.

Sarah walked over to the sofa and sat down. She looked up at the photo. "Who are they?"

"It doesn't matter who they are!" Marian snapped.

"I'm leaving this house tomorrow and you're going to have to leave. Do you know what you're going to do? Have you family I can call?"

"No."

"Friends then? Or will I see if I can get you into a shelter? You can't go back to sleeping rough. You'll never survive it and neither will she."

They both looked at the baby; Sarah curled up in a ball on the sofa.

Marian put her head in her hands and squeezed her eyes tightly shut hoping for inspiration to come.

"Are they your kids in that picture?"

"Yes."

"Where are they?"

Marian felt a sharp pain somewhere deep inside.

"I don't know. The Middle East somewhere I think. Listen it's you and your daughter that we need to talk about."

"Is that where you're going? To the Middle East to see them?"

"No."

"Where are you going?"

"Sarah it doesn't matter where I'm going. Where are YOU going to go?"

"I don't know."

"You can't stay here."

Sarah rolled up in a ball again and started to rock gently, within minutes she was asleep.

"What am I going to do?"

* * *

Marian was on auto pilot.

She finished packing, cleaned the bathroom, mopped floors & vacuumed. She put stamps on the last couple of cancellation letters and went out to make sure the shed was locked, ignoring the mess. She brought the suitcases downstairs and then went back to pack up the 'charity shop' bag again. She carried it and the 'recycling' bag downstairs. There was only one bag left – labelled 'throw away'. When she picked it up she felt the pain again. It was the heaviest of all the bags.

She ordered 2 pizzas – the soup was the only food she'd had left. She toyed again with the idea of having a vodka but instead opened the last bottle of wine in the house. Sarah was still asleep but the baby was starting to whimper. After giving her more boiled milk she held her for a while and started to sing to her. She closed her eyes and wished that when she opened them she'd be looking at one of her own girls.

Marian felt the blanket get suddenly warm, then wet. She laughed out loud. "You little monkey! I suppose it's a good sign though." She cleaned her up and put a makeshift nappy on her. She felt bad, but knew if she went out & anyone saw her buying nappies they'd probably ring the police.

Laying the baby safely on the sofa she went to the hall. She carried in the bag marked 'throw away' and ripped it open.

As children's clothes spilled out on to the sofa and the floor, so did the tears. Marian picked up each item and smelled it. She tried to find some clothes small enough for the baby but ended up holding every dress and little top close to her face. She found the two matching denim dresses with the girl's names embroidered on back. Aimee and Sophie. She thought her heart would explode in her chest. She dressed the baby in the smallest little romper suit she could find; and wept.

When the tears finally stopped she carried the baby over to the photo of her daughters; their smiles always made her feel better. As she had done many times before, Marian looked at the faces of her children, told them how she loved them times a million, how sorry she was for her terrible mistake and how much she regretted not fighting harder to keep them.

* * *

Marian looked at the baby in the suitcase. There was something wrong. The baby was crying; screaming. Why did she look like Sophie? This baby wasn't Sophie. Then she heard another cry. There was another suitcase and another baby. It was Aimee. It was all wrong. Both babies were screaming. Marian looked from one baby to the next, she tried to comfort them but it was as if they couldn't hear her, they wouldn't stop crying. She tried to reach for them but someone was holding her back. She started to struggle, she kicked and pushed and pulled.

"Let me hold my children. They are my daughters, they need me. Let go of me. They are my children. LET GO OF ME..."

Marian woke with a jump and could hear a baby crying. In an instant she caught up with her reality. Sophie and Aimee were gone and the crying baby belonged to someone else.

"Sarah?"

Marion took the baby up.

"Sarah, you're going to have to go to the shop and get some nappies and some baby milk or something. I can't keep giving her the boiled stuff."

She dressed her in another one of the little romper suits she'd found. Was it Aimee's or Sophie's, she wasn't sure.

"Sarah, I'll give you some money. It's just down the road. When you get back we'll have some breakfast and you are going to have to make some decisions."

"Sarah?"

Marian went down the stairs calling her name.

Marian's handbag was on the kitchen counter; it was empty. Her phone, diary and keys were on the floor. Her purse was there, but it was open and the cash was gone. A couple of the drawers in the kitchen were open but they were already empty. There had been nothing to take.

Marian swung around instinctively and looked at the mantelpiece; the picture of Sophie and Aimee wasn't there. Her head was spinning.

"No... Why? Why would she take that? No No No."

Then she spotted it on the table with a scrap of paper underneath it. One word scrawled on it

"Sorry."

Marian's head was spinning; again. "This isn't happening to me."

She searched the house and even checked the bottom of the garden again. Sarah was gone. It was 10 am before Marian even looked at her watch for the first time. She picked up her mobile phone and scrolled through the numbers. She hesitated at one or two but she knew there was no one who would take her call.

The doorbell rang.

"Sarah!"

Marian ran to the door. Through the glass she could see it wasn't Sarah.

"Did she recognise me? Oh God, did she call the newspapers?"

"HANG ON PLEASE."

She put the baby safely in the sofa corner propped up by all the cushions

A rep from the car hire firm was standing at the door. She had totally forgotten that her rental car was being delivered.

He introduced himself and Marian waited for the flash of recognition that usually crossed people's faces when they met her. He didn't flinch – he had no idea who she was.

The man walked around the car and Marian pretended to listen to what he was saying. He went on about the features of the car, what was in the boot, something about the glovebox and the stereo.

"Ms Redland? Errr... Ms Redland?"

"Yes, I'm so sorry. Yes that's fine. Thank you."

"Great, and the car seat?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, as I said, there is a car seat in the boot, if you don't need it we can take it away to give you more room."

Everything stopped. It had not occurred to her before, but now... well now it made total sense. She argued with herself for half a second, but she already knew what she was going to do.

She looked again at the man to make sure he hadn't recognised her. He was looking at her with a nervous smile.

"That's great. You can leave it. I don't need it at the moment but I'm visiting family and it may come in handy."

Lying had become so easy.

"Oh great! Well thank you, Ms Redland. And you have a safe trip now!"

* * *

Marian drove for two hours in the opposite direction of her intended route. She knew there was a large superstore off the motorway in a retail park. The bigger and more off the beaten track the better. She was putting the shopping bags in the car when she heard a voice.

"They need twice as much stuff as we do don't they?"

She swung around. "WHAT?"

The woman was embarrassed.

"Babies." The uneasy reply came. She nodded at the bags bulging with nappies, formula milk and baby wipes. "They don't travel light do they?" She ventured a nervous giggle.

"Oh sorry, oh yes, sorry," Marian laughed. It was genuine - it was relief. "Oh yes, far more than we do – for such small people."

They both laughed and the awkwardness passed.

"She's beautiful, what's her name?"

Marian didn't hesitate.

"Sarah, her name is Sarah."

THE END

THE BALANCE

# by Bob Atkinson

 http://greyhartpress.com/meet-our-authors/bob-atkinson/

The memory of that night continues to haunt me. I cannot recall the last time I stepped beyond the doors of this house. Even the sight of a tree, or a bush, chills my very soul.

Once I believed that the earth remains impervious to our existence; that we live out the dramas and tragedies of our lives, like ants. Living. Dying. Pointless existence. All swept away by the sands of time.

But what happens to all that love, hate, desire, passion? Does this energy dissipate into the void, or does it survive, trapped within each decaying heart?

I was not always this way; a hermit cringing in the depths of this self-imposed prison.

I was a soldier once, serving with the British Army of the Rhine. It all seems so long ago now. The war had ended some years before, but the scars remained: The bullet marks on the walls of the old Wehrmacht barracks, the rows of gleaming white crosses in the war cemeteries.

Older, but equally terrible scars were also in evidence, however; scars which the hand of nature had never really healed.

Between the camp at which I was stationed and the nearest town lay a forest, vast, dark and oppressive, bisected only by an ancient path. In daylight it was a sprawling mass of brown and green, but the black shroud of night destroyed any semblance of life it possessed, until it took on the appearance of something dark and unholy.

Soon after I arrived I learned that this forest hid a terrible secret.

Somewhere within those depths lay the remains of countless victims of the plague; that hellish medieval murderer that had wiped out a third of the population of Europe. Their bodies had been taken here in their thousands to be buried in huge communal pits. In time this wreck of humanity was absorbed into the slow cauldron of nature. Seeds grew, thriving in the rich soil, developing over the centuries into a vast natural tombstone that had nourished itself on death, and had retained that atmosphere within it's poisoned depths.

The locals regarded the forest as if it still harboured the plague, and told each other that the doorway to hell itself lay within. Certainly the forest seemed to respond to the elements of another world. Sometimes the great trees swayed and rustled while all around was calm and still. At other times they seemed unaffected by the wind; even the bitter east wind that blew from the far away Russian Steppes, and told of sons and fathers lost long ago in those frozen wastes.

Whatever the truth of it, the forest was regarded with unease, even in the testosterone world of the British army, and most squaddies gave the area a wide berth as they flooded into town every weekend.

On one such night I had become detached from the usual beer-sodden melee, and found myself in the company of a Glaswegian Corporal by the name of Andy Cunningham. Andy was the characteristic paradox in uniform; highly trained, courageous, homesick, unstable. He could switch from lager-lout to philosopher in the same breath. This night he was unusually subdued. I had assumed this was because one of his platoon had recently gone absent without leave. We indulged in the usual small talk for a while, before the conversation tailed off altogether. Before long my mind began to follow its well-worn path; home...girlfriend....civvy street...

Suddenly Andy was talking again: "Did ye see that war cemetery we passed the other day?" There was an unusual edge to his voice.

I nodded. "I think it was German. It seemed to go on for ever."

"What a way tae end up," he went on, "just a few scribbles on a slab of stone. Ah mean, those graves don't just hold lumps of meat. What about all that grit and fire and what have ye...?"

I understood what he meant. The pride and courage that had surged through their blood. The sense of beauty, wonder, dignity, hope, that helps to create the unique sentience of human existence.

"Where does it all go?" he wondered.

"Into the ground with them," I replied inanely. "That's the way of things."

"Aye? And what then?" He looked troubled. "Ye know that forest up the road? Ah tell ye man, there's something no' right about that place."

I couldn't argue with that. "I hear the Regiment has started to patrol in there now. Training for Ireland."

He nodded unhappily. "Ah took the platoon through the other day. Jeez, man, the further we went in the darker it got. Ah've never known anything like it." His voice was low and strained. "It was like being buried alive. All the lads were glad tae get out of there, but wee MacQuillen was the worst of all."

"MacQuillen? That's the lad that went A.W.O.L., isn't it?"

"Aye, that's what they say," he said softly.

"What do you mean?"

Andy shook his head. "The thing is, everywhere ye go there's graveyards and battlefields and the like. Every generation gets sorted by something or other; whether it's war or disease or famine or whatever. It's like a cull, tae keep some kindae balance. Ye know?"

"You make us sound like dumb animals," I said.

"That's just the point, we're no' like dumb animals. Ah mean, if ye splatter a sheep or a pigeon all that's left is a grease mark. But if ye waste a human being there's always something left behind. It doesnae matter whether it's Culloden or Belsen, or that bloody forest, it's there man. Ye can smell it. And when that smell gets intae ye..."

I didn't know what to say. I had never seen him like this before. Looking back now it is obvious that something had found it's way into his soul, filling his mind with apocalyptic visions. All I could think at the time was I'd had enough of this nonsense.

"Come on Andy," I said, "I think you've had enough for the night. It's time we got you back to your pit."

He rose unsteadily to his feet. "Ah need tae get hame, man. Get ma heid sortit. Ah've been out here too long." At that moment he looked tired and frail.

Outside, the full moon hung like a lantern in the night sky. Its soft beauty helped to revive us as we followed the ancient path that led incongruously to our camp. We had even begun to talk of home as the path began to melt into the black, silent depths of the forest. Automatically I began to make for the road that led circuitously to our barracks. I could imagine the lights of the guardroom in the distance, the bored sentry yawning at the main gate.

"Let's take the short-cut through the forest," Andy said.

I thought he was joking. "Aye, right."

"Naw, Ah'm serious. Let's go through the forest."

I was horrified. "You are off your head if you think I'm setting foot in there!"

"Fair enough, Ah'll go on ma own."

I think I knew even then that my brave and troubled friend was trying to face the demons he had raised. Fear, however, had taken complete hold of me. "Andy, this is not a good career move, pal. Listen to me now; we've both had too much to drink. Let's get back to our pits, get some kip. Tomorrow we'll go to Hamburg, eh? What do you say? We'll have a wander round the Reeperbahn. Come on, eh?"

I knew I was babbling, desperately trying to take control of the situation.

He looked at me contemptuously. "Don't be such a Jessie. Ah told ye Ah'll check this out on ma own!"

Suddenly it dawned on me. "Oh my God, this is about MacQuillen, isn't it? You don't think he's gone A.W.O.L. at all..."

Andy made no reply. I could see the anger in his eyes as he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crypt-like entrance to the forest. As he went he transferred his wrath to the black mass of trees around him. "Come on ya bastards, do yer worst!" he bellowed. "Ah'm no feart wee laddie."

I stood rooted to the spot, a helpless spectator.

"Ah'm gonnae pit a match tae this whole diseased dung-heap..." Andy was yelling, his anger stabbing and slashing all around him. Gradually his voice faded into the night.

The trees suddenly began to sway and creak as if a breeze had swept through them.

"Andy!" I shouted.

There was no reply.

"Andy!"

I called his name several times, but my cries were swallowed up in the darkness. For a moment I thought of running for help, and immediately felt a wave of shame.

I knew I would have to go in after him.

It is odd how much courage a man derives from yelling every oath he was ever forbidden to utter. That night, I drained every drop of courage I possessed as I stumbled and cursed my way through the black tunnel of that path.

I found Andy in a clearing deep inside the forest. All around him the trees swayed and groaned as if a storm raged above them. Immediately I saw that he was not alone. Around him figures were moving, detaching themselves from the shadows, edging towards him. I saw them flit between darkness and moonlight, like hunters stalking their prey, and I realised with horror, as each one fell on Andy, dissolving into him, that his attackers were not shadowy figures, but the very shadows themselves.

It was as if the darkness was taking human form to gain possession of him, while he remained held by an invisible web; his body jerking and convulsing as each column of darkness entered him.

I remember little of what followed. I have a vague recollection of running blindly along the path, the cold, black, whispering night taking shape behind me.

When I recovered consciousness I was in a military hospital, where I remained for several weeks. Eventually I was classified as psychologically unfit for further military service. The authorities had listened politely to my story, giving it as much credence as one would have expected.

No trace of Andy was ever found. I believe he remains officially absent without leave, along with young Private MacQuillen, and God knows how many others.

I don't venture outdoors anymore. There are too many scars on this ravaged planet of ours. Too many trees, with branches that reach out to the empty sky, and roots that ensnare themselves in the aching depths of my mind.

THE END

THE GUN

# by Brian Y. Rogers

http://www.byrogers.com/

"I remember the day you were born, mostly because you were my first grandchild. I had been out of state for several weeks, traveling for my job. You were almost two months old before I finally got to hold you. Your Mom had you all wrapped up in a pink blanket Grandma had made. I cried.

"The world was turning sour back in those days. Before you were born, I remember hearing of the occasional shooting, if that is the correct and proper way to define what was happening back then. I don't remember much, not really, but I do recall that once or twice a year some disgruntled man, it was never a woman, would lash out at their family or co-workers, killing as many as he could. Most times, it was only a half dozen; even one was too many. But like everybody else, I had a life to live and I moved on.

"Columbine High School buried the most in the beginning. I remember that one because it shocked everybody, even me. Then there was a Baptist church killing in Texas somewhere. There were others. The popular term that was spread around was that someone had gone postal. It was happening more and more.

"Of course, eventually, the big political killing of 2001 climbed to the top. I guess you learned about those when you were growing up. While that was the worst, it was really impersonal for most Americans. Oh, we did get all fired up and blamed whomever and bickered between ourselves, but still, unless it happened to you, it was this far away massacre that was soon forgotten unless you went on a plane ride.

"The little ones got to me. Every couple of years you would hear of one. Then, just a year or so before you were born there was a whole litter of them. And it wasn't just in the schools or at a local factory. These crazies would go off the deep end and kill at home and then they would go to the mall or high school, all armed up with weapons they had stolen from their parents or grandparents. Sometimes they would plan the shooting for months, hoarding their ammo like it was food in a famine.

"I do remember one, the same year you were born in fact, where an Amish school was attacked by some asshole. He killed some kids and that one got to me cause you were so tiny, just a few months old and I remember holding you one day and fighting back the tears, wondering what I would do if someone came into your school and killed you and nobody was there to protect you.

"I don't like guns, never had. My father had several, all rifles. I don't remember seeing a revolver in the house growing up, just rifles. I did go hunting with my father when I was about fifteen. I got sick. Not from the hunt; hell, I was raised on a small farm and did my share of separating chickens from their heads. That never bothered me. I got sick from breathing the exhaust from my father's old Willey Jeep. It was much older than I was and had rotting floorboards. I had to sit in the way back, over the exhaust pipe so the men could sit in the seats. I threw up a lot that morning.

"I remember firing a 22 rifle in Scouts when I was about thirteen or so. I fired it maybe five times. Somewhere along the line, for who knows what reason, I just never felt an affinity with guns. I wasn't against them mind you, just never had an interest.

"Then suddenly the shootings got closer to home. When you were about a year old, there was one in a mall, in the city. I think four or five were killed in that one. A couple of months later, a big one happened at a university in Virginia. By now, I was getting inured to it all.

"Then, when you were in kindergarten, another school shooting changed my mind. That was a terrible year, that year. Time after time, almost every month, somebody somewhere, a mall, a theater, a café, someone was shot to death. It was horrific. Then, there was this case in New York. Over two dozen children in a kindergarten class were murdered. They were your age. I snapped then, it was too much.

"I bought a handgun a few months later, a Smith and Wesson .40. I hate guns. I really do not like them. Still don't like them. While I did not have nightmares of you being killed while dressed up as a ham in a school play or shopping for candy for Halloween, I worried, God how I worried. In my daytime I could see you lying on the floor at school, or on the grass in the park, dead because somebody went postal and I was not there to protect you. I felt helpless.

"So I got the handgun and a concealed weapon permit and practiced, practiced, practiced. I was never that good, but I wasn't bad either.

"While I was practicing to protect you, I lost you. We all did. By the time you were in high school and I was getting better at shooting paper targets, you ran away. Your parents nearly bankrupt themselves trying to help you, but you would not be helped. By the time you were fifteen, you had seen more time in juvenile detention each year than at home.

"The world became crazy while you were gone. I suspect you knew more of it than I did. I gave up. I turned off the television finally and the radio. I didn't read the newspapers any more. I canceled the Internet. I just read my books and wrote in my journal. I think the world got really bad the older I got.

"We lost track of you. You left home before you were eighteen and where you have been, I have no idea. Grandma died while you were gone. I don't know if you knew that or not. I live alone now. I miss her something terrible. Your mother wants me to come live with her and your father, but I'm still able to take care of myself most of the time. I haven't told them no. I haven't said yes either. Now, I guess, they won't have to worry about it.

"I'm old. I feel it every time I move. I am sitting here, on the driveway, in the dark. The concrete feels as cold as I do. My butt can't take this kind of sitting anymore. A cop gently pulled my hands behind my back and put handcuffs around my wrists a few minutes ago. He apologized, said he hated doing it but times, such as they are, it was policy and I had to sit down. So I sat down on the driveway. I don't care anymore. I'm not scared.

"You are still just inside the doorway. I can see your feet from here. The lights from the cop cars are dancing on the sheet they put over you. I can see the soles of your shoes. What am I going to say to your mother?

"I hate guns. I never wanted to pull mine on anyone. I never have had to. But when I heard someone at the door after I had gone to bed, trying to get it, I got scared. Whomever you were with must have put their shoulder to it and hit the door pretty hard. I don't know. By the time the door tore from the hinges, I had the gun that I bought so many years ago to protect you and was aiming at the first person that came in.

"Now, I am sitting here, on the cold driveway, crying, wishing the cops would give me my gun back."

THE END

MOONCUSSERS

# by Carol Carroll

http://carolcarrollauthor.wordpress.com/

On a cold winter's night late in the year of 1869, John McGregor, along with his eight-year-old son, Jack, stood on the New England shoreline near their home. They looked out over the immense Atlantic Ocean. Bright moonlight reflected on the vast body of water and made the night almost as light as day. Jack twisted his head to look up at his father and continued the conversation. "Well then, are they salvagers or wreckers?"

"I'd say those damn mooncussers are salvagers, wreckers, and despicable pirates. They take over a ship's cargo any way they can. It's not unusual for ships to get hung up on the rocks in these waters. Those men may have started out as honest salvagers, but when they decided that wasn't profitable enough, they found other ways to make their fortunes."

Jack heard the strong disapproval in his father's voice. He wrinkled his brow and responded, "Like what?"

John looked down at his youngster and answered, "They don't just wait for a ship to wreck along the shore anymore. They've devised a plan to make it happen!"

* * *

On the same night, a short way down the shore, standing near the tide, another father was talking to his seventeen-year-old. "It's a man's duty to take care of his family the best he can, Sam. You're old enough now to start learning how to do it."

Sam's forehead wrinkled. He pushed his light brown hair away from his eyes. "What do you mean, Pa?"

"I'll show you, come with me." They walked straight up the beach, to some scraggly trees and bushes. Thomas Burns picked up some brush, backtracked, and wiped away their footprints in the sand. Inside the wall of foliage they came to a well hidden clearing. Once there, Sam saw several longboats with oars lying in them and a stack of over-sized lanterns. At the back side of the clearing, there was a path made from wagon wheels headed into a wooded area. He looked askance at his father.

In answer to his son's unspoken question, Tom explained, "Right along this stretch of Cape Cod is one of the busiest shipping routes in the world. But because of the sand bars and reefs it's tricky business for sailors to navigate off our dangerous shore. They often get hung up or wrecked along the way and need our help. These are the tools of the trade. We use these boats to get out to the ships."

"And you need so many of those huge lanterns for light to see what you're doin'?"

"Yes, and on stormy nights we use them to signal ships that have gone aground or to light the way for them to come ashore. If they're hung up we use the longboats to go out to help. For a price, we float their grounded vessel. Or, if she's past saving, we salvage her cargo."

Sam nodded his head. He could see the logic in that. He was feeling very proud that his father was sharing something of the adult world with him.

Tom stared into his son's eyes. "Next time we have a stormy night you can go with me and learn the trade. But first, you must swear to secrecy. My fellow workers and I don't want our identities known or anything about our operations."

Feeling honored to be included in men's work, Sam gave his vow willingly. "I'll never say a word, I promise." He followed his father across the clearing and down the path on the other side.

"Take a good look at that wind bent tree right there." Tom pointed. "It's one of a kind, and it's the landmark to find this entrance. Get used to looking for it when we come in this way."

* * *

John McGregor walked out of the store room with his arms full of dry goods. He sat them on the counter and called out to his daughter across the room, "You can organize these and stack them neatly when you finish what you're doing." He noticed there wasn't a single customer in the store. He scratched his head and said out loud, "How's a man supposed to make an honest living around these parts? I can't sell my goods near as cheap as Ben Shaffer down at the crossing. I swear he's selling stolen merchandise to be able to sell so low. If it wasn't for selling on credit, I wouldn't be able to stay in business at all. Somehow the law abiding folk around here are going to have to put a stop to those mooncussers and to Ben. If they'd just stop buying his merchandise it would put him and those pirating scallywags out of business."

Bess was used to hearing her father rant and rave on the subject. Ever since the pirates had taken up business along the nearby shore his sales had dropped off. He was having a hard time staying open. She'd overheard him tell her mother that if this kept up they'd have to relocate. Bess went back to the sweeping. I'll just die if we have to move. I'd never see Sam again. That just can't happen! She was almost in tears just thinking about it.

The night had turned cold. Strong winds from the north blew in a chilling rain. The sky was overcast, hiding the moon and the stars. Tom quietly stole out of bed, took his clothes to the front room and got dressed. Then he went to Sam's room to awaken him. He shook the young man. "Time to wake up, Son. Get dressed and come with me."

Sam blinked the sleep out of his eyes. His heart started racing. This is it, my first night to go out and help salvage a ship. What an adventure it will be! When he was dressed in his warm clothes and a bulky coat, he pulled a hat over his head and ran for the barn. Tom already had his horse saddled and was almost done with Sam's when he walked in.

"How do you know there's a ship wreck, Pa? Did someone come to get us?"

"Be still, Sam. The first thing you have to remember is to stay quiet. I just get this feeling come over me, and when it does, I know there's work to be done. Come on, let's go. You follow right behind me. You're going to be my shadow tonight, don't forget it. Where I go, you go. You hear me?"

"Yes, Pa, I'll stay right behind you."

When they came to the gnarled tree that was the landmark, Tom ducked his head and turned to ride into the clearing. He looked behind to make sure Sam was still with him. "Watch that branch, Son," he warned in a low voice.

In the open space ahead, Sam saw there were four men there ahead of them. They were busy filling lanterns and getting things ready. Each one seemed to know just what to do. When Sam noticed they were all wearing pistols he looked at his father. He had one also.

Seeing the guns made Sam edgy, he wondered why there was a need for weapons. The group divided, each team took a lantern and made their way out to the beach. Once there, one team went to the north and the other turned south.

Outside the protection of the trees, the wind was fierce. They all had to protect their eyes from flying sand. The sky was overcast, fog hung in the air, and a fine mist dampened Sam's spirits.

Tom reined in to get closer, and then he talked into his son's ear, "Be on the lookout for any light from a ship in distress. Tell me if you see anything."

The three men road their horses next to the pounding surf. They used the lantern to light their way through the nearly total darkness. They had been riding for what seemed like a long time in the nasty weather when Tom called out, "Look up yonder, I think I see something. He led the way to the spot and there they saw a broken spar with the tattered remnants of a sail that had been flung up by the breakers. Tom called over the wind, "Andy, you go get the others. Sam and I will signal for a ship." He waved his lantern until he saw an answering light out on the water.

When Andy returned, he had seven tough looking blokes with him. They came running up, carrying the long boats with them. Without having to communicate they launched and rowed out to the ship. It took strong arms to maneuver through the rough waves. Sam did his best to hold up his end of the sculling.

The ship was well stuck on a sandbar. Tom, with Sam right behind him, boarded the helpless vessel. After a friendly greeting and shaking hands with the captain, Tom offered his services to float the ship for a large fee.

"My good man, your price is exorbitant," the captain complained.

Tom gave him a menacing glare. "It costs dearly to get hung up around here. You won't be offered a better price."

The captain had seen the number of men alongside his ship, he had noticed the pistol on Tom's hip. He agreed to the inflated price and paid it, so he could be on his way. By the time he was free and had sailed away the storm had increased in intensity. Tom's group of rescuers propelled the sturdy longboats back to shore on a turbulent sea... With foam flying, a brutal wind howling, and the pounding of giant waves, they were all glad to get back to the beach, put things away, and go home to their warm beds.

The next morning, while walking his girlfriend, Bess McGregor to school, Sam was dying to tell her about the adventure he'd had the night before. The trouble was, he'd given his father his word to be mum, and a fella's word was his bond if he was any kind of man at all. This was going to be a hard secret to keep, not only from Bess, but from his buddies also. They would be so envious if they knew. Sam could only imagine what they would say. As soon as Bess had to go inside, Sam ran for home. He had plenty of chores to keep him busy. If he was gone too long his father would be mad.

When class let out that afternoon Sam was back to meet Bess in the school yard. He grinned at the smile that appeared on her lightly freckled face, when she saw him standing there. "Can you walk down to the stream with me? I have something important to talk to you about," he blurted.

"I'll have to stop at the store and ask Ma, but I think I can."

Waiting outside, Sam had nearly given up hope when Bess finally came back out the door. They walked down the dirt road that led to a pretty spot beside the babbling brook. Sam led Bess by the hand to a fallen tree trunk where they could sit comfortably. He was feeling very manly on this day, the afternoon after his first rescue job on the mighty Atlantic. He had the money he'd earned hidden under a loose floor board in his bedroom, so he was feeling very prosperous too.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" Bess asked when her curiosity got the best of her.

Still holding her hand in his, Sam spoke up. "Bess, you've been my girlfriend since I was in the seventh grade. I think you know how much I love you. What I want to know is...will you agree to marry me?"

Her eyes watered, her heart missed a beat, and she was so surprised she couldn't speak right off. She nodded her head instead. Then when she found her voice, she said, "Being your wife would make me very proud."

Leaning toward her, Sam gave her a kiss to seal the deal. "As soon as you get out of school and I have some money saved up, we'll have a wedding. What do you say?"

"I say yes. I love you too!"

Inside the general store, John McGregor was lamenting the lack of business he'd had again that day. He confided in his wife, "I've tried everything I know how to do, Beth. I simply can't compete with the other stores in the vicinity when they get their goods from the mooncussers."

"What are we going to do?" She asked with deep concern.

"I can't see any other choice. We're going to have to pack up lock, stock, and barrel and move inland somewhere. Start all over again," he replied with a heavy sigh.

"That won't come cheap. It'll cost to have everything hauled to a new location."

"Don't you think I've considered that? I've put this off as long as possible. We have no other choice."

"I do hate to rip the kids from the only home they've ever known. It's hard to start over, make all new friends. I'll miss it here too."

* * *

At the supper table on Saturday night, Tom turned to his wife. "Sam and I have business to attend to tonight. We'll be late getting back, so don't wait up for us."

Martha, being a dutiful wife, nodded and didn't say a word. She always wondered where her husband went so late at night to take care of business, but he never told her and he made it clear it was not her concern. She hoped what he was doing was honorable, but she had serious doubts.

The late afternoon sky had been heavily overcast. The air was damp, and the wind had been coming up since around three o'clock. All signs that told Tom there would be a meeting of his friends this night. It had been planned that on the next appropriate night, they would gather at their meeting place ten miles to the south. The men would be traveling on wagons this time and taking their lanterns with them.

Leaving right after they ate, Tom and Sam road hard to get down the shoreline and meet up with the other men. Tom was driving the team through the water packed sand where they could make better time. It was getting dark and sure enough the cloud filled sky blocked out the dreaded moon. It would be a good night for business.

The band of wily men split up, they took the lanterns to strategic points where they set them up to look like safe havens for a ship in the dangerous waters. Crisscrossing the area on foot, the men watched for a boat in distress. When one was spotted, the nearest decoy lantern was picked up and waved back and forth, beckoning the distraught sailors closer to the shore, as well as signaling in the other mooncussers.

Once the ship wrecked, the mooncussers rushed aboard. Again, Sam followed his father, just as he'd been told. This time; however, what the group was doing was not helping the sailors at all. Instead, they had tricked them into running aground on the wicked rocks, ripping a gaping hole in the cargo ship and totally disabling the vessel. Sam was appalled by this turn of events. Standing back, he was horrified to see his father, along with all of his cohorts, viciously attack the crew. Pistol fire reverberated deafeningly into the otherwise quiet night, gunpowder hung thick in the air, smelling strong and deadly. The brash scoundrels overtook the sailors, shooting most of them before they even realized what was happening. Other's grappled bravely with the intruders, fighting for their lives. Hand to hand, they wrest savagely, trying to get the advantage. Fists flying, hair pulling, eye gouging, foot stomping, anything was fair game, as they tried to tear each other apart.

Sam stared wide-eyed, finding it hard to believe that what he was witnessing was really happening. A tough looking, knife wielding sailor rushed toward one of the attackers only a few feet away from Sam. The nimble landlubber saw him coming. He skillfully darted out of the way. The hand with the knife went on past with a wicked thrust. The broad-shouldered mooncusser grabbed the man's wrist, and in one slick movement bent the arm behind the sailor painfully until a bone snapped. The knife clattered to the deck.

Without skipping a beat, the hulk of a man twisted the fellow's head with a mighty jerk, breaking his neck. He let the lifeless body drop to the wood floor and moved on to his next victim. Sam was sickened by the horrifying sight, nausea churned from his belly to his throat. How could his father, and these men he'd known all his life, turn into such savage beasts? He wondered how he'd ever face them again without hearing their foul language or seeing murder in their eyes.

The experienced men worked so agilely that soon, the captain and all of his men lay dead on the blood soaked deck. Working fast, the mooncussers emptied the deep cargo holds. Sam, in a daze of disbelief, helped the others carry off all the valuables. They loaded the waiting wagons and when they were done, the ship had been stripped and gutted. They wasted no time setting it on fire and erasing all signs on the beach before they high-tailed it out of there.

"Come on, Son! It's time to be off. We have to be quick!"

Sam joined his father on the wagon seat. They drove through the surf, leaving no telltale prints behind them, and they only stopped long enough to pick up their lanterns along the way. When they did ride up to solid land, they stopped and got off the wagon. "Take some brush and backtrack, we have to wipe out any tracks in the sand," Tom instructed.

Feeling like he was having a nightmare he couldn't wake up from, Sam didn't utter a word all the way back to the clearing. Once there, all the men camouflaged their wagons and riding the horses bareback, they left for the night.

It was the wee hours of the morning when Sam fell into bed. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling. I've always looked up to Pa, he thought to himself, but what we did tonight was just plain wrong. He rolled over on his side and worried over what was the right thing for him to do. I gave my word to Pa, it would be wrong to break it. On the other hand, isn't it wrong to do nothing about the crimes being committed? I can't turn in my own father. They'd probably hang him for what he did tonight. Darn it Pa, how'd you get mixed up in such? And why did you drag me into it?

* * *

Bess had never been so upset. She'd cried into her pillow almost all night long. In the morning, when she looked into the mirror to comb her long, red hair, she saw swollen eyes with big dark blotches under them. She wiped her fingers across the puffiness, and then shook her head. She asked herself again, why did this have to happen? Where ever we move to is bound to be far away. Darn those blasted mooncussers for ruining Pa's business! If not for them, we could stay right here. I could keep Sam and my friends in my life. How am I ever going to tell him that I'm leaving? It'll break his heart just like it does mine.

There was a light tapping on Bess's bedroom door. She opened it to find Jack standing there, still in his night shirt. "I thought I heard you moving around in here... Bess, are we really going to move to some other town? I don't want to," he divulged, and a tear formed in his eye.

Putting an arm around her little brother, she led him to the bed, and they sat down. Bess had never seen such a sad face. It made her feel like crying all over again. Instead, she pressed her lips together and inhaled deeply. "Sometimes people have to do things they don't want to. Pa tried to make a living here. He did real well until other stores started under-pricing him. The folks around here want to save money, so they don't buy much here anymore. We can't stay if we don't have any money. I don't see how there's any choice for us, and it makes me miserable too."

Jack turned to put his arm around her waist and leaned his head on her shoulder. If Bess says it's so, it has to be. But moving to some strange place seems so awful. I'll have to go to a different school, and I won't know anyone there. I'll never see my friends again, he thought dismally.

When Bess and Jack got home from school that afternoon, they found their parents taking things off some of the higher shelves and packing them in boxes. If it didn't seem real before, it sure does now, Bess realized. She turned on her heel and left the store. She walked to Sam's farm. She didn't see him right off, so she waited. Eventually he stepped out of the barn. "Sam, over here," she called, waving her hand so he would see her.

As soon as he spotted her, he hurried down the hill. "Bess, what are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

"I have some terrible news," she answered, looking him in the eyes. Then she turned her head, unable to look at him when she said, "My parents are packing up the store. We have to move."

"No, you can't go!"

"We have no choice. Pa says the mooncussers have put him out of business. People don't buy from us when they can get the same goods for less money somewhere else. Pa says the mooncussers can sell their stolen goods lots cheaper than he can sell things. We'll have to move inland where he can do business."

"Where are you gonna go?"

"I don't think Pa knows. He'll have to take a trip and find a likely place. Then make arrangements to have everything hauled to a new location. Everything's up in the air right now."

It sure as hell is, Sam thought. How did my life fall to pieces, all in a just a few days? To Bess he said, "We'll think of something. Try not to be upset." He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.

Walking Bess back home, Sam's mind was reeling. He thought hard; most of the men who live anywhere near here are thieves and murderers. They protect each other with stealth and secrecy. An honest merchant, like Mr. McGregor, doesn't stand a chance. He really has no choice; he's gonna have to leave. I don't want any part of the goings on around here either.

His eyes traveled over Bess's sweet face. "Your Pa's right. He can't make a decent living here. He's going to have to move on. But I can't let you go without me. When your family moves, I'll follow. I'll find work, and we'll be married as soon as we can." Having made his decision, a heavy burden lifted from his shoulders. He looked tenderly into Bess's eyes and squeezed her hand.

With a mixture of hurt and happiness in her heart, Bess wrapped her arms around him and held him close. This is going to be a hard change for all of us, she thought, but with Sam at my side, I know it'll be all right. Taking a step back, she locked his eyes with hers and gave him a smile of love and understanding.

Two young people who had been children yesterday, walked on as young adults today, looking toward a future they would create together.

THE END

GHOST INN

# by Cynthia Collins

http://www.cynthia-collins.com/

Tracy tilted her seat back and listened to the hypnotic drone of the bus. She was having second thoughts about this trip. It would have been so much faster to fly instead of taking a five-hour bus trip. She was on her way to spend part of the summer at her grandparents' home in their small northeastern town. Her parents were already there. She thought it would be fun to take the scenic route. It seemed like a good idea, at first, but now she wasn't so sure. I'm eighteen, she thought. I can handle this. Why the uncertainty? She hadn't slept much last night. In fact, she hadn't slept much all week. This wasn't just a combination of nerves and excitement. It was a growing uneasiness, a fear, a premonition.

Her thoughts trailed off as she stared out the window. The highway wove in and out of the cliffs, playing hide and seek with the ocean. It became a series of sharp turns, cutting through the tree-covered hills and alternating ravines. The bus pulled into a circular driveway and rolled to a stop in front of a Victorian style, three-story house.

"Thirty minute rest stop, folks," the bus driver said.

Tracy felt weary from the trip. Her legs wobbled a little when she stepped off the bus but that feeling went away. She took a quick look at her surroundings while the other passengers headed inside. The house was light gray with white wooden shutters, railings, and posts. A flowerbed filled with pink and purple blossoms provided a colorful contrast in front of the porch. The place appeared inviting even though it was isolated. A wooden sign posted in the front yard read:

WELCOME TO CLIFF TOP INN

_It's a catchy name_ , she thought, _but I don't see any cliffs_.

She followed the last of the passengers inside. The lobby consisted of a matching sofa and chairs with finely carved mahogany and upholstered in green silk. Matching end tables, a crystal chandelier, and a Persian rug added to the setting. The reception desk was in an alcove with framed photos on the wall, some in color and some had faded to a sepia tone. A pleasantly plump, round-faced woman, in her sixties, stood in front of the desk, greeting her newest visitors.

"Welcome! Please come in. The dining room is to the left. You may either order from the menu or we have a deli counter with bakery items and sandwiches."

"We only have thirty minutes," one of the men from the bus grumbled. "You'd think the driver would give us more time."

The woman's cheeks turned a bright shade of red. "Oh, now, everyone. The facilities are along the hallway, just before you get to the dining room. You may order something to go. Feel free to walk around, it's a lovely day. My name is Ida Mae Watkins. I'm the owner here. If you have any questions, please ask."

A gangly teenager was shuffling his feet next to Tracy. "Talk about a time warp," he muttered. "This place is creepy."

"Oh, I don't think so." Tracy had her camera ready and snapped a picture of the lobby. "I love old houses. They have their own stories."

He shrugged his shoulders and headed for the deli counter. Several of the passengers were already in line. Tracy ordered a sandwich and cola to go, and decided to walk around the outside of the inn. A small, stone path ran parallel to the flowerbeds in front and wrapped around the building. The yard in back was level and looked as peaceful as the front. But as she walked away from the inn, she felt an uneasiness that she couldn't explain.

She heard a distant roar. It didn't sound like an animal, but it would come and go as it gradually grew louder. The area was still level even though trees rose up along the sides of the property. She looked over her shoulder at the inn. It was straight behind her. Good. She hadn't wandered off in another direction. The air quality had changed. It felt damp and heavy. She took one more step and stopped suddenly. Before her, a sharp drop down a cascade of jagged rocks plunged to the waves crashing below. She tried to steady herself, but had the feeling of being pulled towards the pounding waves.

"No!" She forced herself to step back away from the edge of the cliff. She turned abruptly to run back to the bus but ran into a gruff-looking man instead.

"You shouldn't stand so close to the edge." His tone was blunt, scolding. His set jaw and sharp eyes made him look angry. "It's not safe."

Tracy glanced at the inn. It was farther away than she'd realized. "I was going for a short walk before boarding the bus again."

"They should put the sign up. Like I said, it's not safe. Now, go on. Go on!" He waved his arm toward the inn.

She ran from him, away from the cliff's edge, and didn't stop until after she'd crossed the front yard. She stumbled along the sidewalk to the circular drive trying to catch her breath. Where was the bus? This _is_ where they were supposed to meet. Her wristwatch indicated that only twenty minutes had passed since she'd first arrived. What happened? She looked at the inn, hoping to see some of the passengers on the porch, but they weren't there. Her mind was spinning. What's going on? Where is everyone? As she turned to look at the empty driveway, she saw her luggage on the curb a few feet away.

"No-o-o-o!!" She was on the verge of tears. "No! I can't believe the bus left."

"You'll be staying here until the next bus arrives?" It was the same man who had been at the cliff. He still looked so stern.

"I don't know. When will that be?"

"Tomorrow, same time."

"Tomorrow!? I can't!" She stared at him. "I need to let my parents know that I won't be on the bus. They were going to pick me up." She got out her cell phone. No signal. She tried again. No signal. "Is there a phone I could use?"

"Come." He picked up her luggage and she followed him inside. He put it on the floor next to the front desk and told her he'd go get the owner. Tracy studied the photographs lining the wall. They were evidently of various guests over the years. One of the faded photographs caught her eye. She went to the next photo, and the one after that. The same man was in several photos. He looked like the one who had carried her luggage.

Ida Mae walked into the lobby carrying some magazines. She was a little out of breath. "Oh hello, dear. I didn't realize anyone was here. I was just tidying up; putting these magazines out so guests could look at them." She put a few on each end table. "There now." She saw Tracy's luggage and came over to her. "Say, weren't you in here earlier with the bus passengers?"

"Yes. I went for a walk out back. I thought I had plenty of time but my watch must have stopped." She held up her cell phone. "I need to call my family but I can't get a signal. Could I use yours?"

"Of course, dear. Let me get it for you." She went behind the desk and handed the phone to Tracy.

"Thank you. The man that was outside, is he the caretaker?"

Ida Mae gave her a perplexed look. "We haven't had a caretaker on staff here for years. The last full-time caretaker fell over the cliff. His body was discovered several days later."

Tracy suddenly felt cold. "Well, maybe the man I saw lives around here or is one of your guests. He's in several of these pictures." She pointed to one of a man standing in front of the porch steps.

The owner caught her breath. Her cheerful nature was shaken. "Oh no, dear, that's not possible. That was our caretaker who went over the cliff. Poor man. I was a little girl at the time. There were a lot of stories but I don't think anyone really knew what happened. Besides, as faded as that picture is, it could have been anyone. Well, you have a nice chat with your parents and I'll go get the key to your room."

Tracy spoke to her mother and told her about missing the bus. "If you were to come and pick me up, it would be dark by the time you'd get here. I'll stay here tonight and take the bus tomorrow. Love you."

Ida Mae came in the lobby holding a key as Tracy ended her call. Her busy, rosy-cheeked personality had returned. She asked Tracy to gather her things and follow her upstairs. The room had the same style of furniture as the lobby and a window that faced the back property.

"This is one of our smaller rooms, but under the circumstances, dear, your stay being last minute, I'm sure you won't mind."

"Oh, not at all. This is perfect. Thank you." She looked out the window and added, "You said there were stories about that man. I'd like to hear them sometime."

Ida Mae looked nervous. "There's really nothing to tell. He was the caretaker. One of the guests got too close to the edge. He saved whoever it was but then lost his footing and fell over the cliff. Any additional information is pure speculation." She started to go out the door but stopped. "I will say though that the incident became quite the main topic of discussion for people in this area for awhile. Well, come downstairs for dinner whenever you're ready."

Tracy locked the door and unpacked a few things. She washed her face and changed clothes. She felt better once the bus ride was washed off. I think the owner knows more than she's telling about the old caretaker, she thought. I guess it doesn't matter. I'm only here for one night. She looked at her watch and wondered if it was showing the right time. It had stopped earlier. That's why she'd missed the bus. Now, she was hungry. It was time to go downstairs.

Tracy didn't know what to expect at dinner. The food was excellent but there were only three other people in the dining room, and they were part of the staff. After she'd finished eating, she took a closer look at a bookcase in the lobby. A sign on the wall indicated that these books were for the reading pleasure of the guests. One book was lodged at the back of a shelf. She took it down and opened it--a Scrapbook of Cliff Top Inn. It had old newspaper clippings, pictures, and letters in chronological order about the inn. She sat in one of the chairs and turned the pages hoping to find information about the man's death.

A headline read:

BELOVED CARETAKER PLUNGES TO HIS DEATH TRYING TO SAVE HOTEL GUEST. _A guest got too close to the edge of the cliff. Local resident saves guest but loses his footing. Body found a few days later._

Other headlines:

MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING DEATH AT LOCAL INN. _No guard rails or signs posted._

CLIFF TOP INN TO CLOSE PENDING INVESTIGATION. _Guests report seeing a man fall off the cliff. All descriptions are the same. Cliff Top Inn renamed Ghost Inn by locals._

NEW OWNER VOWS TO REOPEN CLIFF TOP INN. _Mrs. Ida Mae Watkins, former resident of the area, has purchased Cliff Top Inn and is restoring it to its former glory. Her family moved away from here when she was a child but she is happy to be home again._

She turned another page. There weren't any more clippings about the incident but a handwritten piece of paper was stuck in the crease. It wasn't addressed to anyone.

I can't wait to leave. I never want to see this place again. To think we almost lost her because no sign was posted to warn of the danger. Thank heavens the caretaker was nearby. He caught her before she reached the edge. But the danger wasn't over. The ground still had dew on it. He slipped. It happened so fast, no one could reach him in time. I still have nightmares about it. No sooner than his body hit the rocks, he was washed out to sea. I'll never come back.

Tracy put the paper back in the book, and put the book on the shelf where she'd found it. She went to her room feeling like her day had gotten the better of her. Once in bed though, she couldn't sleep. What was the connection? She got up and looked out the window. The light from the full moon highlighted the mist hovering around the cliff's edge. She started to get back in bed but saw something. Someone was running. A man followed by a woman. He ran into the mist. The woman fell on her knees. She was sobbing. I-da, I-da. She said that name over and over. Then she screamed a piercing scream that shattered the night. A man yelled out but his voice was overpowered by the crashing waves. That was followed by complete silence. It was over.

The next morning, Tracy packed before going down to a late breakfast. She saw Ida Mae in the lobby and told her what she'd read. "I know what happened. You were the little girl the caretaker saved. That's why you came back."

"Yes. We were spending the weekend here. There was a thick mist. I thought it would be fun to run through it. I didn't know the cliff was there. He saw me running and grabbed me before I got to the edge. My mother was holding me when I heard her scream. She wouldn't let me turn around. We moved within two weeks and never came back here. I found old clippings and letters in our attic about what had happened. I decided to come home." She gave Tracy a warning look. "No one knows the whole story. They don't know I was the person he saved."

Tracy smiled. "I promise, I won't tell anyone, alive that is. I'm going to walk around one more time before I bring my stuff down and wait for the bus."

She went to the back of the property, but remembered to stay a safe distance away from the edge of the cliff. She took a deep breath. The crisp, morning air filled her lungs and lifted her spirits. The same man she'd seen the day before appeared by her side now. She smiled at him.

"I wanted to thank you for warning me about the cliff yesterday. I know who you are and what happened. That was terrible. Ida Mae said there's normally a sign back here now warning people, but it was taken down last week for repairs. She said the inn opens for tourist season next week so the sign will be put up again later today. Well, I've got to go but, thank you."

She turned to go back to the lobby and wait for the bus. After she was on board and seated, she looked out the window. Two people were waving to her. One was Ida Mae, the other was the caretaker.

THE END

VACATION INTERRUPTED

# by Debra Parmley

http://www.amazon.com/Debra-Parmley/e/B002BM9H4A

A change of scenery, that's what I need. This vacation will be the perfect answer.

Cyree West paused off to the side of the terminal, digging her ticket out of her pocket and stood for a moment taking a deep breath. The airport bustled as if swarmed by an army of ants, each person clutching a bag while rushing toward a destination.

The feeling they knew something she didn't came over Cyree and she frowned. Since the divorce it made her nervous to feel others were keeping secrets from her. After the way her ex had cheated on her and then tried to cheat her out of the house they'd bought with her inheritance, trust no longer came easy. She couldn't believe her own attorney, who was supposed to be representing her, had not only had an affair with her ex husband, but had tried to cheat her of the home as well.

It was deception and betrayal on all levels. Better to trust no one than to have your world yanked out from under you.

"Oof."

Jarred from her thoughts, Cyree clutched her bag as a large woman bumped into her, pushing Cyree into the trashcan. She slid down the trashcan looking up in surprise at the woman in the black cloak and purple turban before landing flat on her ass.

The woman, neither seeming to care or to notice, continued pushing her way through the crowd, shouldering others aside, her purple turban noticeable in the crowd.

What is with all these people? What is going on here?

The loudspeaker crackled. "Attention all passengers. Check in at your gate as soon as possible. All passengers must sign the release form and receive sendot before boarding your plane."

What the heck is sendot?

"Passengers without sendot will not."

Beep. Beep. Beep.

A vehicle driving down the middle of the terminal drowned out the rest of the announcement and Cyree missed it. She stood up, dusted herself off and then shaking her head, she looked up and down the terminal.

The vehicle speeding away had a yellow sign on the back, which read Sendot in red letters.

Cyree frowned. The mysterious Sendot. What could it be?

She could have sworn she saw a gun sticking out the side of the vehicle and two men wearing helmets. But maybe she was seeing things. Yesterday at the eye Dr. they'd put those drops in her eyes to dilate her pupils and she'd had to wear sunglasses until they wore off. Maybe some remained in her system making her see things.

Men didn't ride through airports holding automatic weapons. At least not in the U.S.

"Attention all passengers. Check in at your gate as soon as possible. All passengers must sign the release form and receive sendot before boarding your plane. Passengers without sendot will not be permitted to board their plane."

What was this sendot stuff they kept talking about?

She'd never heard of it.

Cyree hefted her bag and headed toward her gate, wanting something to quench her thirst. Passing a sign that said Lounge, she backed up and entered. The heavy door slammed behind her.

Bang. Click. Darkness enfolded her. Sudden panic rose in her throat. She spun and grasped the door handle, tugging hard. It didn't budge.

She caught her breath, forcing away a rising feeling of panic that came with being locked inside the dark lounge.

Balling up her fist she pounded on the door. "Hello? Hello? Help! Let me out!"

After several minutes it was clear no one would.

She heard no sounds only silence. No loudspeaker, no beeping cart, no hurrying people, no chattering voices. Nothing but dead silence. And if she couldn't hear them, how could they hear her?

Her eyes adjusted to the dark and she took in the room. As the room came into detail she saw the upholstered seats of club chairs were shredded. Foam stuffing, overturned tables and broken glass covered the floor. She walked around the room, taking it all in.

No wonder they kept the door locked. They'd closed the lounge until they could repair it. But wait. The door hadn't been locked on the outside.

Had someone locked it behind her? Or was the door set to lock itself? Who knew how long she'd be stuck here?

I'll miss my flight. So much for a restful getaway vacation in Florida.

She pulled out her cell phone to call Bryan at work. He could call the airport and they'd send someone to get her out.

No service.

She stared at the only light in the room, coming from her phone and wanted to scream.

Plunking down on the floor against the wall she leaned back and closed her eyes.

Could it get any worse? No. Don't even go there. You know better than to go there. Because you ought to know by now it always can and for you it frequently does.

A tear ran down her cheek, but she was too tired to wipe it away. She sat deflated, her thoughts drifting and soon her head began to nod.

* * *

Wolfe cracked open the door, his eyes scanning the deserted lounge before slipping inside.

A woman slept against the wall, her head leaning to one side, soft waves of dark blonde hair covering her face, round curves, red polish on toenails which peeked out from thin sandals. No tan. Likely headed to a warmer climate.

Now, why is she here?

She didn't appear to be a member of his group. More likely she was a passenger who had slipped in here either to sleep or to get away from someone.

Was she simply a passenger who had tried to avoid taking sendot and gotten scared? How aggressive would they have been with her if she'd said no?

He stepped closer and knelt beside her.

Her breath came slow and even. Long wavy hair covered a pale heart shaped face and full lips softly parted. She appeared to be in her mid twenties and had a sweet girl next door look, everything about her appearing soft, touchable.

He breathed in her scent, nothing he could name, it was soft and enticing. A wave of desire filled him, strong as the chemical attraction took hold.

Her lashes fluttered and her chest rose in a sigh, the picture of innocence. Tracks of her tears streaked one side of her face.

What had she been crying about?

He wanted to touch her, to soothe away those tracks and kiss her until she forgot them.

He sat back. Desire, now identified, he'd keep at bay. He'd learned not to mix business with pleasure. He was here to take care of business, nothing more.

She turned her head as if turning away from something and gave a slight moan.

Probably a bad dream.

An overwhelming urge to protect her from what was happening in the airport and elsewhere came over him taking him by surprise.

Where had this come from? She must put out some incredible pheromones. Few women were as innocent as they appeared. He didn't know her and there it was again, that hero to the rescue habit he'd sworn off. The last time he'd saved a woman, she'd turned around and shot him. The wound had healed leaving only the scar and a well-learned lesson.

Cyree startled awake. Seeing a man with broad shoulders so near, his eyes dark and intense, she opened her mouth to scream.

His hand closed over her mouth, warm and strong. "Hush. You're safe. I'm not going to hurt you. No screaming."

She looked back at him through wide eyes, fear hovering.

They both paused, each watching the other, cautious. Then something shifted between them and he spoke. "I'll move my hand now. Be calm."

She gave a slight nod and he removed his hand.

"How did you get in here?" She whispered, her voice soft and low.

"I opened the door." He smiled.

"Smart alec."

His smile deepened. "Isn't that how you got in?"

"Yes." She answered slowly, as if he'd dragged the word out of her and frowned.

"What I want to know is why you are in here sleeping."

"I wanted something to drink, saw the lounge sign and came in for a quick one before I checked in at my gate."

"So you never made it to your gate."

"No. The door locked behind me and I couldn't get out. I yelled for a long time but no one heard me and I didn't find a phone. My cell phone says no service. So I've been stuck here." She glanced at her watch. "Oh it's late. I've missed my flight and I don't think my ticket is refundable."

"Missing your flight today is a good thing."

He was handsome and strong, with dark hair and dark eyes, his strong physique making a lethal combination.

A good thing? Maybe meeting him is. Maybe this is fate.

But no, no, no, she was not falling for another handsome man, one who would take her for nearly everything she had.

Oh but he was so close and his voice did things to her inside that made her feel a melting begin to spread. A craving for him to take her in his arms and kiss her.

She shook her head. He was wrong. All wrong. Missing out on her vacation was not a good thing.

"Be glad you aren't on any flights today. You don't want to take the sendot they're handing out. It isn't what they claim."

"What in the world are you talking about? And who are they?"

And who are you, Mr. intriguing, handsome conspiracy man?

"I'm talking about Sendot, the drug the airline is required to hand out to all passengers before they board today."

"I'd never heard of Sendot before today when I heard it mentioned over the loudspeaker. What is it for?"

"They're telling people it's a preventative for that onion flu that's killing people."

"Onion flu?"

"Don't you watch the news?"

"Not any more. For the last six months, I haven't even turned it on and when it comes on I turn it off. I've been depressed enough without listening to more bad news."

"Well it's mostly lies and half truths anyway. You aren't missing much. What do you do for a living?"

"I work at the bureau of motor vehicles with the new motors division where all the new license plates come from."

"Interesting. State government. And no one at your office has mentioned this?"

"We're all being overworked the past two months with the new license plates coming out and with the new machines which process them we've had a lot to read up on and learn."

"The new plates with the gel inside that spreads?"

"Yes. The gel will spread once a car is reported stolen so the police can pick it up right away. Instead of numbers and letters they will see a red blob of gel."

"What makes the gel spread?"

"When the car passes a light it triggers the gel somehow. Then poof, the gel spreads. I'm not sure how it works, I only make the new plates and assign them to drivers of the new cars."

"Interesting." He listened intent on all she'd said and was now lost in thought. Then he stood and reached for her hand to pull her up. "Come on. I have to get you out of here."

She let him pull her up and stood stretching her body after the position she'd slept in. "Why? What's the hurry?

"Missing your flight and not taking your Sendot, you'll be automatically on the list. You've been in this room too long already and so have I. They'll want to question both of us."

Cyree frowned, not liking the sound of that or his tone, which was alarming. He seemed worried.

"Who are they?"

"The DPIV."

She gave him a questioning look, having no idea what that meant.

"Stands for Department of Public Immunization Verification."

"I've never heard of that one."

"Newly formed and with broad ranging powers. Soon no one will be able to fly without receiving Sendot and that's just the first step."

"I don't like the sound of that." She frowned.

"Neither do I. Do you have any warmer clothes in that bag?"

"Yes, of course. I have jeans, sneakers and a jacket."

"Good. Change into those as quick as you can."

"You want me to do what?" She didn't like the idea of taking her clothes off in front of a man she'd just met and knew nothing about, no matter how handsome he was.

He turned his back to her and moved toward the door. "Come on, just do it," he said. "I promise not to look and the sooner you change, the sooner we can get out of this room." He reached into a backpack and pulled out a strange looking black tool, which he applied to the door lock and began to twist.

Seeing he really wasn't interested in watching her, but was busy with his task, she opened her bag and pulled out the clothing she needed and then hurried to change.

Taking her bag, she stood beside him by the door as he peered out. "Ready."

He continued watching through the cracked door. "Good. They'll be looking for you traveling alone, so we're going to pretend to be a couple."

"How would they know I'm traveling alone?"

"Background checks. They run them once you buy a ticket."

"Oh. That gives me the creeps."

"It's an information age, sweetheart, and information is power." He winked.

"Still, I don't like it." She wrinkled her nose.

"I'd think you'd be used to it with your job."

She shook her head. "I don't run background checks on people."

"That's because you're licensing the cars, not the people driving them. But I guarantee your boss has access."

"Maybe so."

"Okay. They'll be looking for you traveling alone, so we're going to pretend you're my girlfriend and we're so much in love we can't keep our hands off of each other. We'll blend in with the crowd easier that way."

Standing beside him she realized how much taller than her he was and how solid. The idea of him being unable to keep his hands off of her gave her images she hadn't had in a long time and a longing bone deep.

"But wait." She placed her hand on his arm and he glanced at her. "I don't even know your name."

He gave her a deep smile. "Just call me Wolfe. And what's yours?"

"Cyree Whitten."

"Pretty name, Cyree." Her name dripping from his tongue in that tone made her want to close her eyes. Heck he could even read her the boring technical manual on operating the new licensing machine at work that she'd had to read last week. She'd blissfully listen to him for hours.

"Thank you." She smiled.

He smiled back, his eyes searching hers. "Well Cyree," his hand reached for hers and his fingers threaded through hers, strong and warm. "Are you ready to be in love?"

"Yes."

Oh my God, yes. More than ready. Just keep looking at me that way and touching me like that.

As they exited the room together, closing the door behind them and stepping past it quickly, she heard her name. "Passenger Cyree Whitten, please report to the security office. We have your ticket. Passenger Cyree Whitten, please report to the security office."

"They can't have my ticket, I have it right here."

"Don't reach for it, just keep walking."

"But what do they want?"

"Hush." Wolfe slid his arm around her waist, his hand warm against her side, his strength comforting and reassuring.

He smiled down at her and she relaxed a little.

"Thirsty?" he asked and stopped abruptly.

He turned her toward a kiosk, which sold drinks.

"Oh yes. Very." She hadn't had anything to drink in so long and was touched he'd remembered she'd gone into the lounge because of her thirst. She selected a bottle of cranberry juice and he picked up a bottle of water.

She eyed a chicken salad sandwich. "I wonder if their sandwiches are fresh."

A man wearing bright orange tennis shoes walked up next to her and stood looking at the sandwiches. She tried not to stare at his feet and turned toward Wolfe.

"Probably, but let's just get our drinks now, hon. We don't want to be late meeting your aunt and uncle."

Aunt and Uncle?

She gazed at him and catching his expression, remembered this was all a rouse. The man's orange tennis shoes had distracted her and she'd briefly forgotten to play along.

"I can wait a little longer."

"Just these then." Wolfe paid for their drinks and then after opening their drinks and taking a few swallows they were off down the terminal again headed toward the entrance, as she forgot about the orange tennis shoes.

They stepped upon the moving sidewalk and hung onto the rails as they drank. There was no one in front of or behind them as they rode together so Cyree asked a question which hovered.

"So, this flu. What is it exactly?"

"It's called the onion flu because it's believed to be spread by a new variety of onions that went bad. More of the new improved food they insist is better. It was released in the supermarkets two weeks ago. You really haven't seen them?"

She shook her head. "No. I've been eating out every night." She shrugged.

"Bigger onions, perfectly round and white which they claim won't make your eyes water when you cut them. For half the cost of other onions on the market."

"Wow. Really? They don't make your eyes water?"

"I've no idea. I won't eat that modified garbage they're passing as food."

"Oh." Drawn by his passionate voice she leaned back and he pulled her closer.

"Go on."

"People started getting sick, real sick and every single one of them had eaten those onions in one form or another. The news spread through the communities and then the story finally aired along with a report that the government was on the verge of releasing a preventative medicine."

"Like getting a vaccination."

"Similar, but in pill form. They call it Sendot."

"So that's what the announcement was about."

"Yes." He leaned down to whisper in her ear; the rumbles of his voice making her want to close her eyes and curl up beside him. "But it's a lie. The pills do nothing for that flu."

"Oh, that's horrible." She turned around to face him. "Why would they do something like that?"

"I can't tell you right now. Later." He kissed her forehead and turned her back around. "Watch your step."

They'd reached the end of one moving sidewalk and had to walk a few steps before getting on the next one.

Cyree was so glad she hadn't taken those pills or eaten those onions and that she wasn't around anyone with flu. Now if she could just get out of this airport.

"If you're hungry there's supposed to be a good Vietnamese place about thirty minutes from here."

"That sounds good. I like Vietnamese soup."

A man merged in with them before they stepped on the next moving sidewalk. A man with orange shoes.

"I know you do, sweetheart. I just wasn't sure you'd want to eat now or if you wanted to wait for a late dinner with your aunt and uncle."

"What?" She looked up at Wolfe.

"Check your phone and see if they've called. It's possible they ate a big lunch before they flew in."

Playing along, she pulled out her phone and looked at it.

No calls but she had phone service now. There was a text from the airline. That was odd. She looked up at Wolfe, alarm in her eyes.

He ran his hand across the back of her neck, in a warm caress. "If you only knew how much I want to kiss you right now. I'm not sure I can wait."

Oh yes. Kiss me now. Sweep me off my feet, right here in this airport. I don't care who's watching.

"On second thought, forget about calling them right now." He bent and kissed her with a soft brush of his lips.

Her eyes drifted closed and she wanted him to continue. Everything around them had faded away and...

"Time to get off, baby."

Her eyes flew open and she realized he meant to get off of the moving sidewalk. She turned and watched for the end of it so she could step off and marveled at how fast he could make her forget everything around her, until it was only the two of them in her mind.

Is he just a very good player or is this true love at first sight?

If only she knew the difference.

His arm guided her holding her arm as she stepped off. "I love the way you blush."

She realized she'd been daydreaming. It was a good thing he was looking out for her.

The man in the orange shoes turned left as they turned right and she wondered if he was the same man who'd stood beside her at the kiosk.

They dropped their empty bottles into a trashcan and she was aware of how he was scanning the airport as he went through it, without giving the appearance of doing so. He was constantly aware, which was a good thing, as she seemed to be completely twitterpated by the man.

"Cyree you're going to be fine. But if anyone asks you why you didn't get on that plane, tell them you felt sick to your stomach and decided you couldn't fly right now. You went into the ladies room and you were sick for a long time. Then you decided to head home."

"Okay. But why are you telling me this now?"

"Because we are being followed and could be separated."

"No." She wrapped her hand around his arm. "Please don't let that happen. Don't leave me."

He bent down and kissed her full on the lips, making her feel weak in the knees and her arms wrapped around his neck. His arms wrapped around her back, spreading warmth all the way down to her toes. They stayed that way for a long time as he kissed her nearly senseless.

When he broke the kiss, their noses nearly touching, he said, "Time to go find a taxi. We need to rush like we can't wait to get in bed. We won't talk any more, understand?"

She nodded.

"I'm going to kiss you again and then we're going to hold hands and run for that taxi."

"Yes." She barely breathed the words before his lips touched hers again as he kissed her so passionately that when he broke away her only thoughts were to run for that taxi and something about hurrying to get in bed. Something her body very much wanted. Right now.

He took her bag in one hand and her hand in the other and then they ran, making it all the way outside the airport where they stood on the curb out of breath. She laughed with the excitement and exhilaration of it.

Wolf hailed a taxi. "Come on baby, I can't wait to get you naked."

The taxi driver got out after popping his trunk and came around the back of the taxi to put her bag in the back. Wolfe held onto his backpack. "I'll need to hang onto this if you want me to pay you, mate."

The taxi driver smiled and nodded then closed the trunk.

Wolfe opened the taxi door for her and as she got in she saw a man standing over by the taxi stand talking to the dispatcher. A man with bright orange shoes.

Was he the one following them? She was sure he'd been the one standing next to her at the kiosk and again on the moving escalator. She wished she'd looked at the mans face when he stood next to her the first time so she would know for sure.

Wolfe helped her inside and told the taxi driver the name of a mall he wanted to be driven to.

The restaurant he'd mentioned must be located in a mall.

Inside the taxi he again pulled her close and kissed her for a long time before coming up for air.

She hadn't been kissed this much in the entire last year. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time her ex husband had kissed her for more than a second or two. Usually as a prelude to sex. He'd never gotten tired of that, but long lingering kisses like this had been left behind after the first few years of their marriage.

But wait. What was she thinking? He had never kissed her like this. Wolfe's kisses were like, well they were like her favorite desert that she could never turn down or get enough of. It would be a sort of death to be married to a man who could kiss her the way Wolfe did if he ever stopped. Yet she hadn't noticed that loss with her ex husband until now.

The scenery had flown by as she'd stared out the window, lost in her thoughts and with her fingertips, touching her lips.

Wolfe leaned back against the taxi, watching her with a light in his eyes and a smile. "Day dreaming?"

Oh he knew exactly what his kisses did to her. Blushing, she dropped her hand into her lap. She didn't know what to say.

His hand reached over and threaded through hers. "We're almost there."

Part of her wished they weren't and that he would kiss her again. Too soon they were at the mall and he'd paid the taxi driver who was now driving off.

Wolfe picked up her bag. "Okay, we're going to go into the mall, look inside a few shop windows, then in about fifteen minutes we'll leave and get on the bus. From there we'll get to the restaurant and then we can talk. Really talk."

"I've been okay with the not talking." She couldn't believe she'd been so bold as to say that. But with the kissing some line had already been crossed. "I'd be okay with the not talking again."

He laughed and slipped his arm around her waist. "That could be arranged."

No one followed them from the mall and soon she found herself seated across from him in a tiny little hole in the wall restaurant, which served Vietnamese food.

"We can speak freely here and I know you have plenty of questions. Would you like me to order for you, or do you want to make your own selection?"

"I, well I can't even think right now. This whole day has been so, unreal."

"Do you like egg rolls?"

"Yes."

"And you said you like the soup. Is there anything you're allergic to or don't like to eat?"

"No allergies. Anything you order will be fine."

He placed an order for egg rolls and two different kinds of soup in case she preferred one to the other.

Who was this man? He was so thoughtful.

Had she dreamed him up? Where was this man when she was younger and dating with stars in her eyes? Before she grew disillusioned about marriage. Before she'd had her heart broken and trampled all over.

"You need to know what Sendot really is and why I am so glad you didn't take it."

"Yes. What is it really? Is it harmful?"

"The pills have a tiny chip inside which settles in your stomach for up to two weeks, depending on what you've eaten. The coating of the pill attaches to any processed form of sugar and slows down the release of the pill. So anyone eating a lot of sugar is going to take a long time to release it."

"My God, that's awful." Her eyes widened. "People who think they can't get that onion flu might catch it and die."

"Yes. They started giving this pill to travelers yesterday on the evening flights and we got word of it."

"We?" She held up a hand. "Okay wait. So they created a food that makes everyone sick and instead of taking it off the grocery stores they're handing out this Sendot? Which they know is a lie?"

"Yes."

"Oh my God. That's. I don't even have a word for it."

"I understand that." He nodded. "Must come as a shock, hearing that."

Shock; yes that was a good word. She was feeling as if her world had suddenly shifted. Which it had.

"Yes. It's. Yes." She closed her eyes and took a breath, then let it out and looked and him again. "How do you know all this? Who are you? You said 'we." Who are you referring to?"

"Everyone calls me Wolfe. It's my nickname. We all have them. There's a group of former Special Forces who have been monitoring government moves over the last five years. More and more of our ranks have grown as we've seen constitutional rights whittled away by power hungry men in office. We each swore an oath to defend the constitution. That's all you need to know about that. You are safer that way."

"Wolfe isn't your real name?"

He smiled. "Not my legal name, no."

"Can you tell me your real name?"

"Maybe later. Not right now."

"Okay." She took a breath and let it out. "Thank you." She smiled. "I am glad I didn't get on that plane now. So very glad."

"Me too." The plate of egg rolls came and he placed one on her plate and then handed her the plate of green leafy food to wrap around it. "Where were you headed?"

"Tampa, Florida. I'm overdue for a vacation. I just went through a divorce and wanted to get away."

"I was going to ask you if you were single.' He smiled. "But I thought from the way you were kissing me back that you might be."

She smiled back. "I enjoy your kisses."

His grin deepened. "Good."

Their tea came and both took a minute to eat and drink while watching each other.

"Divorce is rough. Been through one of those myself a few years ago. It gets easier with time."

"Yeah, well mine was pretty bad. My husband was having an affair. With my attorney, who'd been my friend since high school. And I didn't find out who he was having the affair with until halfway, right before the final settlement. He tried to take the house I'd paid for and she was helping him."

"Wow. Most people only go for half of the house."

"Well yeah, but not him. I paid for that house with my inheritance and he tried to take it away from me, with her help. He wanted it all."

"That's low."

"He is low. A bottom feeder. Handsome and smooth though. All my girlfriends liked him. But they never saw how he really was. He's persuasive." She shook her head. "I still can't believe Priscilla did that to me. She's as low as he is. She even tried to pay off the judge so he would get a better settlement and he didn't even have grounds because I'd done nothing wrong."

"Sounds to me like grounds for her disbarment, maybe a separate lawsuit since she was supposed to be representing you."

"I wouldn't know how or where to start. They've up and moved across the country, taking the money he got out of the final settlement after we sold the house. They're out in California starting over I think, but I'm not sure. And me? I'm now in an apartment."

He watched her in silence for a moment then said, "It's good that you're moving on with your life now, in a new place. A vacation is a good way to start. New experiences, new places."

"It sounds like you know about that."

"My divorce happened because my wife couldn't handle being alone when I was away on missions. She started having an affair while I was away and then she left me. Cleaned everything out of the house and didn't even leave a note. I came back from deployment, got a ride home because she wasn't there to pick me up like we'd agreed and wasn't answering her phone. Got to the house and it was empty." He looked off, over her shoulder. "Emptiest damn house I've ever seen."

"My God, that's awful. Did she try to take your money too?"

"She didn't try, she succeeded. Cleaned out the bank accounts and ran up the credit cards. I re-upped to get away from the mess and to pay everything off. Took me another four years but I did it. It's in the past now. I've moved on. As I said, life gets better with time. You'll get there."

She smiled at him. His confident and cheerful manner gave her hope she could be feeling the way he was now that her divorce was over and done with. It was time to move on.

"So why were you in that lounge? I'm guessing you aren't getting on one of those flights."

"I had instructions to check the lounge out. The Sendot was being stored here a few days ago and they were going to use the lounge as a center to hand out the pills. One of our men found out about it and organized a raid. Two of our guys were killed there in that raid two days ago."

"Oh no. But why did you have to go there?"

"I'm in what you might call the clean up crew. I take care of whatever needs taking care of. One of them might have left a message behind."

She shivered. "I'm glad I didn't walk in on anything dangerous. Why do you suppose I was able to get into the room? I don't understand why it wasn't locked."

"No idea. But I do know we knocked out their security cameras in there so they didn't know you were in there. Though they will know you didn't meet your plane and wonder why. They may follow up on this."

"That sucks. I don't want to talk to them." She frowned.

"If they approach you, just tell them what I suggested and stick to it. They'll then focus on other people."

"There was a man with orange shoes. Was he the one following us?"

"One of them."

"There was more than one?"

"The man with the orange shoes got your attention."

"Yes."

"That's why you didn't notice the others. He was a distraction."

Wolfe was the biggest distraction. Her cheeks heated at the thought and from the way he grinned and looked at her, she suspected he'd guessed her thoughts.

"I know you've lived the kind of life where this is your job and you take this all matter of factly and do your job, but for me, well it's feel like I've stepped into a cloak and dagger movie." She shook her head. "But it's not like I thought it would be at all."

"What do you mean?"

"Well in the movies, where everyone is a suspect and bad guys jump out of the bushes, it seems exciting and glamorous. But in reality, it's scary and it's hard to know who the bad guys are because they look like everyone else. If that guy hadn't had orange shoes, I wouldn't have noticed him and you're telling me I was supposed to notice him. That's what they wanted. And there were other guys."

"That's because they do look like everyone else. They blend in, that's their job. You're not going to see some guy in a trench coat that looks out of place. It could be a woman, or even an old man, who isn't really an old man."

"How will I know if they're watching me?"

He reached out his hands and took her hands in his. "I don't want you to become frightened and paranoid about this. I want you to go on with your life as if no one is watching you and free from worry." His thumbs caressed her hands. "Sweetheart, one of the reasons I do this job is so sweet women like you don't have to worry."

He held her hands and she gathered strength from his words, his touch and his gaze. It touched her heart and she blinked away the watering in her eyes.

"You're going to be okay."

"Yes." She felt she would, as he was so sure of it. "Will I," she glanced down, "Will I see you again?"

"If you want to, then yes."

"I do want to." Her words came out soft and quiet.

"That's good, sweetheart, because I want to see you too. If it's not too soon."

She glanced up at him rapidly. "Oh no, it's not."

His smiled deepened. "You'd say that even if it was, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," she said with a sheepish look.

"It's all right, we'll take it slow."

She wasn't sure slow was what she wanted or needed, but she was glad he was considering what she might need. He seemed to want to put her first, which was so refreshing she wanted to pinch herself. The whole day was now starting to feel like a dream, it was so different from her life before she'd met him.

"I'm afraid of what will happen when I go home. I don't want to be alone tonight."

"Then you won't have to be. If you want me to stay with you, I will."

"Oh good." She breathed a sigh of relief, but it was more than that. More than him keeping fears and boogiemen away. She didn't want him to go, because she wanted to be near him. She was afraid if he walked away she would never see him again and if that happened she might never get over it. She didn't want them to be apart.

"Cyree, I want you to stop worrying. I can see it in your eyes. I want you to be able to relax again."

"I'll try."

"We'll get through tonight and you'll learn you can relax again. I know much of this has been a shock to you. But it's amazing how much better you'll feel after a good nights sleep in your own bed. And I'm good sleeping on your couch or the floor."

"You're not sleeping on the floor and I don't want you to sleep on the couch. I won't sleep if I'm by myself."

"Then you won't have to be."

She was glad he would be staying the night with her. She didn't know if this was love, but she knew she didn't want him to go.

All she knew was when he was near, everyone and everything around her faded away. As if there was no one else in the world but the two of them.

Maybe she didn't need that expensive vacation after all. She was happy sitting right here with him in a tiny little hole in the wall restaurant, talking and holding hands. Oh yes, she could be happy doing this for a very long time. She wouldn't think about the future, because the now was something she didn't want to miss a moment of.

She began to relax into the moments they were sharing and pushed away all thoughts of anything else, because nothing felt as good as the time they were sharing together right now.

"Oh no." Her eyes widened. "What will we tell people about how we met?"

He laughed. "We'll say we bumped into each other in the airport and couldn't keep our eyes or our hands off each other."

"No one will believe that."

"No?" His eyes crinkled as he smiled. "One look at the way we look at each other and they will. Haven't you noticed it?"

"Oh yes," she said. "I did notice that."

Was it love at first sight? Only time would tell.

THE END

THE PAINTING

# by Diane Adams Taylor

http://dianeadamstaylor.com/

Alexis watched from her perch on the second level balcony as the elderly man slowly shuffled into the cavernous building. Each of his steps echoed through the granite foyer as if to announce his much anticipated arrival. As she descended the massive staircase, the young woman noted that today the man was holding onto a walker for assistance rather than his usual cane. In spite of the fact that she knew nothing about the man, Alexis was accustomed to seeing him almost daily as she had been working at this museum for nearly three years now. Due to this continual exposure, she was able to observe that his spark of life grew weaker and he appeared frailer with each passing week. Although she had often acknowledged his presence, she had never taken the time to do anything but say 'hello' and rush off to complete her work tasks.

She believed that the man must be lonely as he never came to the museum accompanied by others. She rarely noticed people stopping to speak to him other than the occasional security guard. For some reason, today Alexis felt compelled to find out his story and perhaps ease his isolation for a time. Checking her calendar, she cleared a few hours from her schedule and made a decision that this would be the day that she would finally sit with him to talk.

She walked over to the bench where the man had settled near the painting of _The Little Girl in a Blue Ribbon_ by Pierre-Auguste Renoir. She had always been drawn to this work and the elderly gentleman sat in this exact location each day. Now eager to hear what he had to say, Alexis quickly introduced herself to him. Slowly he looked up at her, not really understanding that she was actually speaking to him. Gently and in a softer voice, she repeated her name and asked about his well-being.

He offered his hand and said "I am Michel Beaumont and I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance. I was wondering how long it would take for you to come sit with me."

Alexis turned red with embarrassment. "I am sorry that I did not introduce myself to you before, Mr. Beaumont. I am never certain if people wish for company in the museum or if they wish to just enjoy the art and be left alone."

He answered "That is true but I thought you would be curious about why I always sit in this same spot after so many years."

"You are right, sir. I am curious about you. I have often wondered why you come to this place each day and why you sit in front of this same painting. The museum houses many other great works by this artist besides this one of which you seem so fond."

He sat, quiet for a few moments, with his eyes no longer focused in the present as if he was visiting another place and time in his far distant memories. He suddenly smiled broadly and said "I believe that behind every painting there is a story to be discovered. I guess you will think that the one about the little girl in this painting is quite the tale and I should tell you what I have come to know. Perhaps you will find some lessons in the experiences I have had in my lifetime. It will take me a little time to relate this account and I do not wish to keep you from your work. Are you certain you can spare an hour or so to listen to the ramblings of an old man?"

Alexis simply nodded her head "I have all the time you need, Mr. Beaumont."

"All right then, I will start at the beginning. A long, long time ago, I was born in the south of France, not too far from the city of Marseille. In fact it was nearly a hundred years ago as I recently had my ninety-sixth birthday. My father was the son of a very wealthy Jewish banker and my mother was the daughter of a poor Christian fisherman. They were not exactly the perfect match based on society's standards of the early twentieth century but according to my mother, they loved each other deeply and together they conceived a child. My parents never married and I did not have the opportunity to even meet my father. I found out when I was in my teens that my father was a fighter pilot during the First World War and he had died in an air combat mission in 1917 just before I was born.

I had a wonderful childhood but I was always saddened by the fact that I did not know my father or his family. I believe that family is very important and it seemed that I was missing out on being a whole person without this necessary connection to my father.

I was raised in my grandparents' home where I lived with my mother until I joined the army right after Paris fell to the Germans in 1940. I have been witness to some terrible events which have left me with mental, emotional and physical scars. The worst of these wounds were inflicted on me when the Germans were defeated and their atrocities were discovered. I was devastated to learn of the many victims who had been sent to the concentration camps and this knowledge continues to haunt me to this very day.

Once I was given an honorable discharge from the army, I returned to Marseille to help with the family business. Perhaps because my father was Jewish, I was determined to find out if any of my father's relatives had been sent to the death camps. I spent years researching those who had perished in the camps under the sadistic cruelty of the Nazis. I also tried to unlock the secrets of my ancestry during that time frame as well.

My mother had very little information regarding my father's family but what little she had was a good starting point. Using the limited knowledge, I was able to determine my father's lineage and find out facts about several family members."

Alexis had a perplexed look on her face not understanding where he was going with his story and started to interrupt. Mr. Beaumont held up one hand to stop her and said "I am sure you are wondering what all this has to do with this painting and your museum but you will soon understand. Bear with me just a few minutes longer."

He took a deep breath before continuing "My father's grandfather was Louis Cahen d'Anvers, a very wealthy Jewish banker who died in 1922. He married Louise de Morpurgo and together they had two sons and three daughters. As was typical of the time, he wished to have portraits of his children painted. He decided to employ an artist who was experimenting with new techniques in painting and one who did not always paint in the classical style. The artist was Pierre-Auguste Renoir. This man commissioned Renoir to paint the portraits of his daughters, Irene, Elisabeth and Alice. This painting of the little girl with the blue ribbon is the portrait of my grandmother, Irene at the age of eleven. I sit and stare at this young girl and I feel as if I am there with her. I wish I could have known her in this lifetime but it allows me to feel somehow strangely connected to my father just knowing that this beautiful child was his mother."

Alexis gasped "That is amazing. How did you find this out?"

Mr. Beaumont sighed "As I said, it is a difficult story to hear so if you would like me to continue I will."

Alexis nodded "Please I would like to hear the whole thing. I promise I will not interrupt you again."

"It seems that when the portraits were completed, my great-grandparents detested them and hung them in a service area of the hotel where they lived. Even though they were aware that Renoir was using a modern technique called Impressionism when they hired him, they were furious at the outcome of the paintings. My great-grandfather went so far as to not pay Renoir for his work in a timely manner. In fact, my ancestors ended up paying him much less than was normally required for a commissioned piece of artwork of the time. It seems that Renoir kept extremely good records with his finances so that information was fairly easy to obtain."

Alexis shook her head in disbelief "So he earned very little money for this masterpiece. I heard that this painting had been lost for many years and only reappeared after the end of World War II. Where was the painting and how was it found?"

"Show a little patience and listen to the rest of my story, my dear and I believe all of your questions will be answered. I am just about to explain all that I have found out over many years of conducting my extensive research." Mr. Beaumont continued.

"My grandmother Irene, the young girl in this painting, married my grandfather, Moise de Camondo in 1891. They had two children together, my father, Nissim and my aunt, Beatrice before they divorced. My grandmother went on to marry a Christian nobleman and she converted to Christianity. As I have already said, my father died during an air battle in 1917 so my aunt inherited their father's great wealth after the death of my grandfather.

Because my father's family was Jewish, my Aunt Beatrice, her husband and two children along with my Grand Aunt Elisabeth were sent to Auschwitz. The Nazis stole all of the family property including this painting. I came to find out that my relatives were put to death in the gas chambers as soon as they arrived at this notorious concentration camp.

My grandmother Irene however, was spared because she now had a Christian surname. After the divorce from my grandfather, she had married a Christian nobleman and had taken his name even though she later had also divorced this man. I was able to discover that my grandmother lived in Paris through the war years and up until her death in 1963. When the artworks and other property that had been stolen by the Germans were recovered, this painting was among them. My grandmother recognized the portrait that had been painted of her by Renoir so many years before and had it finally returned to her. She later sold it to the current owner and this museum."

Alexis looked dumbfounded "Did you ever meet your grandmother, Irene? Did your father's family know that you were his son?"

The elderly gentleman sat for a moment not speaking as if lost in all the old memories inside his mind before saying "I wrote a letter once to my grandmother after I was able to locate her. In it I explained that I was her grandson and I gave her quite a bit of family history from all of the research I had done. However, I was never brave enough to mail it. I finally got up enough courage to go to visit her and I planned on giving her the letter at our first meeting. Unfortunately, by the time I traveled to Paris and arrived at her home it was too late. She had recently died and I never got the opportunity to tell her that I was her grandson. I still have the letter in my possession. Would you like to read it?"

The young woman said quietly "Yes, I would like to read the letter you wrote to your grandmother. This story is very moving. Did you ever marry and have children?"

Mr. Beaumont shook his head "I was married for a short time but it did not last. I believe that the disintegration of my marriage was due to my preoccupation with the past. No, my wife and I did not have any children. With all the sorrow and the horror I had seen when I was a soldier; I did not wish to bring children into this world. As I have aged, I think that may have been a mistake not becoming a father. I now believe that I would have been a very good parent. I regret that I have lived my life dreaming solely of the past always wishing for something that could never be. For all of my many years on this earth, I have not lived for the present nor have I even considered a future."

Alexis said "I find your story very compelling but I hate to think that you are alone in the world. What about your mother's family? Do you have any relatives left through that side?"

"My mother's parents died during the war and my mother died about a year after my return to our home in Marseille. I think that they could not bear all that had occurred during that long terrible war and they no longer had the strength to start all over again. I was an only child of an only child so there is no one still alive. As I said, I returned to Marseille and took over my grandfather's fishing business. I managed to make it successful after many years of hard work. I have never wanted for material possessions but I have always felt I lacked in personal and family relationships."

The pair sat in silence for a few moments as the young woman considered the lessons which could be learned from Mr. Beaumont's story. He reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out a yellowed letter which was very creased from having been folded and unfolded numerous times over the past fifty years. He pressed the letter into Alexis' hand and she took it from him.

He said "Read it when you are alone and think of me."

Without warning, the elderly gentleman suddenly turned very pale and clutched his chest. He fell to his side as Alexis called out for help. In all the ensuing confusion, he reached for her hand for solace. She held onto it and then cradled his head in her lap to calm him. She tried to comfort and soothe him until the medics could arrive. He kept trying to speak all the while Alexis would urge him to stay quiet and still.

He continued to hold her hand as if trying with all his remaining strength to hold on to his dwindling life force. In a faint whisper which was difficult to decipher, he managed to say "Please remember to read my letter so I know that what I did meant something to someone else as well. It is not good to go through your life aimlessly and one must have a purpose. One lesson I should have learned is that you must forgive and try to forget the past. You will never live fully until you are able to move forward. Promise me you will try to do this and you will master the lessons I never could." With tears in her eyes, Alexis nodded her head and swore she would try. Seemingly content with her reply, Mr. Beaumont closed his eyes one final time and died.

The young woman continued to hold the elderly man in her arms until the medics came to relieve her. They moved him from her lap to start CPR but it was too late. After several minutes of heroic attempts the time of death for the elderly man was announced and noted for the death certificate. The medics carefully placed him on the gurney and covered the old man with a sheet before wheeling his body out to the waiting ambulance.

Alexis stood watching long after they had taken the old man out the door. She held the letter in her hand and looked at it in a pensive manner without reading the contents. Checking her watch she shook her head at the seemingly wasted hours she had spent in talking with the old man. She had deadlines and commitments to keep and now she would have to work late into the evening to make up for all this lost time.

She crumbled the old yellowed letter into a ball and dropped it in the wastebasket in her office. Without another thought to the promises she had just made to the dying man, she went back to her desk to finish her work for the day.

Late in the afternoon, Alexis made her way back to the trash receptacle. She turned the can upset down to empty its contents onto the hardwood flooring. She quickly located the elderly man's letter as the yellowed fragile linen paper was easy to spot amongst the lesser quality of the copy paper. She gently pried the paper out of the ball shape she had tossed earlier in the day and smoothed it out with her hands.

With tears flowing from her eyes, Alexis read the document written so many years ago by a man who wished only to connect with his family. When she was finished she carefully placed the letter in a fresh manila file folder and labeled it with the elderly gentleman's name and the date.

Speaking aloud to an empty room, she said "Thank you Mr. Beaumont for sharing your story with me. I will cherish this letter for all time. I hope you are now with your father, your mother and all your family in heaven. I am very happy that you have earned your final rest after your long difficult life on earth. You must know that you have touched my spirit and I am changed for the better for having spent time with you. May you walk in the light with God."

Alexis gathered her belongings and left for the night. Tomorrow was another day filled with promise of many new experiences to enjoy and savor. For now though, just as she had vowed, she would focus only on the present while living solely and completely in the moment.

THE END

ONCE MORE BACK

by Gay Ingram

http://www.amazon.com/Gay-Ingram/e/B008VS6AJI

A beam of sunlight squeezed between the window slats and burned against the man's closed eyes. He lay inert in the narrow bed, yearning for the familiar chirp of birds voicing their wake-up melody. Moving with caution, he shifted his left arm to test its mobility. With elbow only part-bent, the pain's fierceness became intolerable. Relaxing his muscle, his arm dropped to the bed's surface.

The man groaned, frustrated with his body's continual failure to obey his mind's commands. Anxiety over his debilitated condition brought spasms of constriction in his chest. He took several raspy breaths, willing his body's muscles to relax. By the flush of light filling the room, he knew that soon food carts would begin to clatter down the hallway, announcing the start of another day's activities. The halt-and-start of rubber-wheeled carts and rattling metal lids drew nearer as breakfast trays were delivered, room by room. Awaiting arrival of his own, he had taken to filling this empty period each morning with roaming the compartments of his mind, seeking thoughts of more pleasant times.

The minutes dragged by as with eyes closed, he envisioned incidents from his childhood, reliving the wonders of discovery revealed as he explored the farmland their family worked and from which they drew their living.

Seeping past his closed door, the smell of brewed coffee invaded his sterile surroundings and accompanied his thoughts down a well-traveled path in his mind. He saw himself as a young adult standing in the furrowed earth of a garden, his garden. The sun glared from directly overhead, its heat penetrating through his thin shirt to his skin. If felt good to be alive this spring morning. He paused in his labors, took time to inhale deeply the rich, fertile earth-smell that floated around him. From where he stood, rows of emerging plants traced a delicate design in the black dirt and radiated in all directions. Lifting his gaze, his view took in a nearby field, pear trees in full bloom. From a distance, the soft hum of bees working among the white blossoms disturbed the settled quiet, a promise of an abundant harvest.

He bent once again to his work, enjoying the flexing and relaxing of muscles as he raised and lowered his hoe. The tool sliced through chunks of dirt, chopping weeds and unwanted growth with ease. Strong hands gripped a handle smoothed by years of use. Days like this, filled with strength-testing chores, satisfied his soul even as they left him tired but fulfilled. Sleep came easy at night, just drop on the bed, close your eyes and instantly find yourself deep in a night filled with restful, refreshing sleep.

It was still easier to stretch out under a tree, the shimmering of sunlight teasing as it filtered through the leafy canopy overhead. He allowed his thoughts to drift back to the latest book he'd checked out of the library and read. Interesting how similar was his life to Wang Lung, the character Pearl Buck wrote about in The Good Earth. He too was brought up on a farm, a worker of the soil. Yet, how different his life from that young man. His thoughts grew fuzzy as sleep overtook him. Some minutes later, he opened his eyes, confused as to how long he had napped. The scent of crushed wild mint tickled his nose. Recharged, he jumped to his feet, ready to plunge into unfinished chores.

A distant rumbling distracted him. He looked to the sky for clouds, puzzled by the clear azure overhead. The sound intensified, penetrated his reveries and drew him back to the present.

His door swished open; soft footfalls on the carpet approached his bed. "Good morning." The nurse's voice reminded him of a deep river, the tone of her modulated words a slow flow into his consciousness. She set down the tray she carried and moved to raise the window's Venetian blinds. Harsh white light flooded the room. His right hand rose in an automatic motion to shade his eyes. Returned to the foot of his bed, she pushed a button and raised its head to an inclined position.

"Have a good night, Mistah Walsh?" Her soft smile brought a light to her eyes. "You look mighty rested this morning."

"Not bad," he answered. "What's the weather like today?"

"Looking good right now but gonna get bad later, I'm afraid." A frown puckered her brow. "They're predictin' sixty percent rain and flash flooding." With quick movements, she adjusted the pillows, easing one down into a favored place.

"Good day to stay inside." He chuckled at his private joke even as she slipped out the door.

With deliberate moves, he inched his body into a more comfortable position before taking the cover off his breakfast tray. Disappointment replaced his anticipation when he looked down at what he called 'machine food'. Recalling the savor of fresh eggs and homegrown bacon, the kind of food that used to begin his days, caused his taste buds salivate. Pushing the tray of barely tasted food aside, his discomfort reached for new levels. He could feel the pain ratcheting to higher levels the longer he remained in this elevated position. Screaming silently, he tried without success to adjust to a more comfortable state.

Forced to confront his helplessness, frustration built. He punched the call button, anxiety driving his appeal for help. An attendant poked his head in the room and responded to his request. Getting the patient once again horizontal, the attendant removed the breakfast tray. Shortly thereafter came his bath and the ordeal of changing into a fresh gown. Recovered from the expended exertion, he shifted to his wheelchair and maneuvered out the room and down the hall to the activity area. Exchanging pleasantries with a few familiar faces served to submerge his growing dread of the approaching session in the physical therapy room. Just as he finished his tour of the room, he spied the therapist threading his path toward him.

He groaned. Of everything his disability necessitated he endure, the torture of physical therapy disturbed him most. In the beginning, when he first began these sessions, his humiliation raged each time a stranger saw and handled his naked body. Over time, he learned to abstract himself, retreating from the present and revisiting the past. On rare occasions, the memories were of pleasanter times. Most days, it was memories of those war years that bombarded him during the therapy ordeals; as if what was being done to his body recalled the day's events responsible for his present condition.

His thoughts would jump back to those harrowing days. Days of crawling through dense underbrush, all senses on hyper-alert, as he inched his way toward the day's objective. It always ended with the blinding flash of light, the rattle of released gunshots, soon followed by a chorus of screams and yells. Again came that sense of shock followed by intense pain. The pattern never varied. Over time, his anger and frustration had diminished, but he still couldn't reconcile to the loss of his physical capabilities.

Inside the white-walled area, attendants lifted his body onto the Gurney table. He winced at the shock-wave of pain that gripped like a vise after the therapist's first grasp. A fleeting mental image of a younger self, coasting over the pasture fence, rose up to mock him. Now he could only lie there and allow his limbs to be plummeted and kneaded. Early on, he learned to resign himself to the futility of this torture designed by a medical profession that thrived on optimism.

His muscles slowly relaxed. His eyelids drooped. In no time, he passed into that nether-land of dreamy half-sleep. A parade of faces filed across the landscape of his mind. One in particular paused while his imagination filled in the scene.

He watched sunlight create a halo of gentle Annie's hair. Laughter filled her mouth as Rover crowded her with his boisterous greeting. That dog would rush for her attention every time an errand brought her out the back door. His affection accepted, the dog would then express his joy by tearing off in a wild, mad dash through the trees.

"Ready to go back to your room, Sir?" The attendant's question shattered his mental images. Once settled, he forced himself to return to past days with Annie and Rover.

A sharp knock at the door jarred him from his reveries. He resented the nurse's intrusion with his lunch. The manipulation of bed and adjustment of pillows chased away any remaining wisps of memories. He lifted the lid and the aroma of vegetable soup enveloped him. Resigned to its innocuous contents, he picked up the spoon and started to eat.

Suddenly, the spoon flew to the floor. A sharp piercing stab in his shoulder made him flinch. It felt like something had cut off his breathing and he gasped for air. He struggled to relax and allow the flaming muscles to resume normality. Through the waves of excruciating pain, he inched his hand closer to the control box. With a stab at the button, he clenched his teeth to keep back the scream.

The responding nurse took one look at his facial expression and yelled to others for assistance. Within moments, the room's space became crowded with nurses and attendants. His lunch tray disappeared, his bed lowered and blinds snapped down. While one attendant held his body propped sideways, the nurse injected pain-dissipating medication with swiftness. It took effect almost immediately and he felt himself drift into nothingness, only the buzz produced by a vibrating muscle relaxer placed under his shoulder accompanying him in his mind-blanking journey.

He fought his way out of the blankness, pushing at the fog of his consciousness. The numbness in his upper left side reminded him of the latest muscle spasm. His state of exhaustion denied the short amount of time recorded by the clock's face. Outside the room, snatches of vague murmurings indicated visiting hours were in progress. Ignoring the fading sunlight beyond the window's glass, he turned his face to the wall. No visitor would enter his room.

Now fully conscious, he felt the invasion of excruciating pain each time he tried to adjust his position. Why had the pain-reliever worn off so quickly? A black cloud of gloom threatened to engulf him and he forced his mind to resist. A peal of laughter drifted in from outside and he squinted his eyes to halt the threatening tears. Afternoon on weekends were the most difficult to endure. On occasion, the sound of smothered conversation sneaked under the threshold, mocking his solitude. He turned to his only recourse, escape from reality and return to happier times in his memories.

The darkened room faded. In his mind's eye, a house appeared in the foreground. Outlined against the distant hills, the frame structure appeared settled into its environment. Two towering cedars flanked the front entrance as if to emphasize its importance. A broad porch smiled its welcome across the face of the building.

He remained rooted, drunk on the peace and quiet that flowed from the rural surroundings. A ramshackle barn peeked from behind the house, its weathered boards struggling against the restraint of rusty nails. Although too faint to be certain, he thought he detected the earthy scents contained within its grayed boards. Bedraggled chickens scratched with vigor at the bare yard's dirt, their tail feathers ruffled by a light breeze.

The sharp crack as a screen door slammed shut announced the emergence of a woman, of an age hard to define. She had left behind adolescent dreams but still foretold years of promise. With an ease of movement, she settled into a nearby rocking chair, a shallow pan of unshelled peas covering her lap. He watched as she leaned her head back, emitting a soft sigh. After a moment's pause, her fingers took up their task, the soft snap-snap floating his way. Sometimes her hands would still as the notes of a nearby mockingbird's song disturbed the quiet. She rocked back and forth, her hands skillful at their task, and he could see contentment etched on her face.

He recalled those happier times as a growing child, roaming the fields and woods; the times he would come running across the fields, hands grasping tightly to the treasure he wanted to share. Sometimes it would be an empty bird's nest found in the tangled branches of a bush. Other times, he'd bring her a butterfly he'd captured, hoping his mother could identify it for him. She never hesitated to stop whatever she was doing and give his discovery her full attention. He could still see the dismay registered on her face when he announced his noble intentions. She never spoke of her fears and concerns. Would he make a different decision if he had his life to live over? Not if it meant Annie would never be a part of his life, however short a time. How had he ever deserved such an angel to put up with his less-than-whole body?

Against his will, images rushed past, one overtaking another, until they became a blur in their haste. The reviewing came to a halt and one scenario blazed to fullness in his mind's eye. Once more, he saw the blinding headlights. He heard the screech of brakes as he tried to avoid the oncoming vehicle. He felt the twist of the wheel as the truck slammed into his car. Then a shower of splintering glass followed by a jolting sensation as the car toppled over and over before coming to rest.

The shock of remembering caused his eyes to fly open. He was in his darkened room. Now in full control, he recalled plunging into deep anguish when the doctor gently broke the news. The pain, still fresh and intense as that day, tore at him. As if it were then, it ripped his heart to shreds as he relived the loss of his sweet Annie, his bride of two months. Lost in his misery, he did not hear the door open and admit the doctor. Remaining at the bed's side, he scanned his patient's chart.

"I hear you had a bad go-round earlier today." The doctor's comment echoed in the silence. "How are you feeling now? Resting easier?"

Unable to control the tears sliding down his cheeks, he could only shake his head in answer.

The doctor put aside the clipboard and came closer to check his pulse. "Your pulse rate is back to normal. How's the pain in your shoulder?"

"Okay," he answered, his voice muffled as he struggled to regain control of his emotions.

"Has the staff psychiatrist been in to see you yet? She could help you deal with your wife's death. I feel like that would do as much good as my medicine. We can give your body what it needs to heal itself, but until you decide life is worth living again..." His words trailed off.

Hearing reference to his mental state spoken aloud brought spasms of panic that gripped him. He remained voiceless in his fears.

The doctor kept his look on his patient. When there was no response, he turned to go. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" he asked, hand on the door's handle.. When no reply came from the bed's resident, he shrugged his shoulders and left the room.

He felt the stillness settle about him; the swirl of his emotions gradually subside. Turning to the only occupation that eased the misery, he willed his mind to conjure up pleasant things. Once again, thoughts of Annie filled his mind. He remembered his pride looking down on his soon-to-be bride. She seemed an angel of beauty, her face bathed in the rainbow coming through the stained glass window. He recalled how filled with joy and laughter their few years together were, even when time together had to be squeezed between classes and long work hours. How he wished now he had appreciated more the preciousness of their relationship. It had taken time to realize Annie's unique specialness. Now, it was too late to tell her so. With that thought, it felt like a knife twisted in his gut. How could fate be so cruel as to take such a vital, loving person? Trying to avoid the pain, his mind reached back to life before Annie had entered it.

He recalled being a young child barely high enough to see over the tractor's steering wheel; remembered the thrill of driving the machine up and down the field, watching the furrowed rows emerge when he plowed a field for the first time. Farm life demanded much; never an end to what needed doing. His mother and father set the example. They showed him the satisfaction of work well done. He remembered the long sweltering days of his mother chopping and canning the harvested vegetables. The times when she just sat seemed to be few in number. Even when fierce storms kept them housebound, her hands kept busy. Sometimes it was a sweater for the new baby at church or the next quilt whose material came from that everlasting rag-bag.

His father spoke seldom; he expressed his feelings with action. There was that one day he came upon his father in the far pasture. Hunched over, his body shaking with silent sobs, all the while his rough hands stroked the mutilated body of a new-born calf. Not wishing to be noticed, he had turned and slipped away.

His thoughts roamed forward to those early college years. It took concentrated effort to keep his parents a part of his life, writing long letters, sometimes staying up into the early morning hours to do so. In spite of the letters back and forth, catching up had to wait for summer breaks, to those long breakfasts when he tried to share his excitement between bites of his mother's honey-smeared biscuits. Most of the dairy herd had been sold by then so his father sat with him, enjoying that second cup of coffee. Remembered with fondness were lazy afternoons beside a nearby creek, fishing pole doing its own thing as he watched the water flow past. Sometimes his father would join him, carrying a jug of icy lemon-aid his mother had made.

In his imagination, he found himself once again stretched out under the filtered shade of that big oak tree. He brushed fingertips along the rough bark of a nearby root jutting up from its green carpet. The day was so still and quiet. Yet, the silence throbbed with countless voices, all sounding in harmony with the song of life. He closed his eyes and could almost hear the grass being torn by the teeth of horses grazing behind him. The peace of the moment surrounded him; his mind began to resemble the wispy clouds overhead.

As he slowly drifted into deeper levels, he didn't hear the harsh, intermittent buzzing coming from a distance. As nurses and attendants rushed to his side, he reached for Annie's out-stretched hand, a long, slow smile softening the deep lines on his face.

THE END

LALA SALAAMA

# by Iain Parke

http://bad-press.co.uk/

I took the newspapers out onto the balcony at the back of the apartment as I didn't want to be overlooked. She had bought stacks of the Citizen. It was about tabloid size, printed on rough cheap paper.

I sat in the warm sunshine with my back to the wall of the apartment and gradually over the next half hour or so, the pile of papers on the right became a heap of paper tubes on my left as I took each copy, rolled it along its length and wrapped some tape around it to keep it in shape.

Then I put a blanket in the bottom of a bin bag and packed it with a stack of the rolled up papers. Repeating the process I managed to make four full bags.

I put most of the rest of the blankets to soak in a bucket full of cooking oil.

The day seemed to pass slowly. It seemed an age before darkness fell as it always did at around six. I had about another two hours to wait until the disco at the back started up.

But now I could finish my preparations. I picked up the jerry can. The awkward weight felt heavy but familiar in my hands as with a clank I opened it. As I tipped the sloshing can into the first open bin bag the oily reek of diesel perfumed the night air.

The can shuddered and rocked in my hands as the oil poured with a soft gulping sound, soaking into the papers and the blanket. Once each bag had been doused, another blanket went on top, again to be soused in fuel, and I knotted them closed.

Carefully I closed the can with a snap and left it out on the balcony as I went in to wash my hands. I didn't want any accidents here, after all.

When I had first moved into the apartments, immediately outside the front of the block, but before the roadside shanty _dukas_ and bars, there was a slowly spreading waste ground strewn with blackened piles of old bags, cans and bottles. This was the dump where all the apartments' houseworkers simply piled the trash and where once the heap was big enough one or other of them would set fire to it. Until one day, a lorry full of workers and breezeblocks arrived and at the end of three days, there was the pen.

It was a simple construction about two metres square. Three of the walls were about two metres tall whilst the fourth, facing towards the apartments, was half that. Gaps had been left between the breezeblocks at the bottom to let air in so it made for a relatively efficient incinerator. Now, instead of just dumping garbage at random, the houseboys and maids from the apartments dumped it all in the pen, which at least contained it all in one place until it was full enough to burn.

Carrying the first two bags down, I heaved them over the low wall and onto the stinking heap of tied up plastic shopping bags full of papers, vegetable refuse, potato peelings, scraps and all sorts of trash that had been accumulating in the pen over the last few days, together with some brushwood that had been cut from around the entrance to the car park and dumped earlier in the week. I was pleased to see it was so full.

As I added the second pair of bags a few minutes later I looked around carefully. There didn't seem to be anyone about.

I was quite casual about it. Undoubtedly many of the locals would know that I was going. The houseboys would all gossip together with the _askaris_ every day. People around the apartments would be expecting to see rubbish being dumped as I cleared out, although they probably wouldn't expect to see me doing it obviously.

I could hear a soft hubbub of voices from the bars outside at the front of the apartments, but they were another ten or so metres down the road from the pen.

In daylight the front of the structure was clearly visible from the apartments. In the dark and in the shadow of the pen itself, I doubted that anyone could see me, even if they were looking.

Then there were my friends the _askaris_ , but they all dossed out on the concrete steps in front of the cars at the far end of the car park that led to the path around the back of the furthest block of apartments. I would be unlucky if there was anyone watching.

No, it looked safe enough, or as safe as I could hope for at least. Now it was a matter of waiting.

As I sat there, just after eight, I heard the girls' voices coming from above, a little bubble of brightness and jollity disappearing down the stairwell; then the rusty creak as the ground floor grating opened, followed by the grinding complaining squeal as it was pulled to again and the jail-like clank of the moment the grating crashed shut with a reverberating clang that seemed to go on forever.

It was like the doors of hell closing.

Well, I thought. Time to go to work.

With the girls now out from the apartment above and the apartment below empty that only left the family on the ground floor, but they wouldn't probably matter too much. The shower room's window faced out to the back of the apartments so it was away from the blocks on either side which would be making their own noise anyway. At the back there was the short stretch of ground with the water tank which then gave over on to the road, on the other side of which was the big empty building plot and a large walled house which at the moment looked unoccupied. The disco seemed to be a couple of hundred metres further down on the right, it was shielded from view by trees but I would hear it clearly when it started to get going.

Most of the relevant bits of shopping were on the table.

Standing in the darkened living room I pushed the play button on the dusty black ghetto blaster before turning back into the room and reaching out for the clothes. As if in a dream I pulled the boiler suit on over my boxers and stuffed its legs into the tops of the Wellington boots. As the staccato guitar gave way to the crashing beat of the drums and the strangely echoing melody I felt that at home I'd have been afraid of it drawing attention, of having some neighbour come round to complain about the noise. But here it was normal. Mind you, at home I wouldn't be in this situation. I felt strangely distanced, disassociated from the present almost as though I was watching myself from afar.

I felt nauseous, and then a violent hot churning need to run back towards the _choo_. You're stalling, I thought to myself, slipping the elastic straps of the protective facemask over my head. You're finding all sorts of excuses the voice in my head went on. You've just got to get on and do it.

With an unbearable effort I took a first reluctant step towards the hallway. And then a second.

All of a sudden there I was, dusk mask and goggles in place outside the door as the familiar haunting voice growled its instruction.

I reached across to the unit on the shelf to turn up the volume.

I fitted the bar into the latch on the shower room door and opened it as the song crescendoed.

The shower room was dark, I hadn't bothered to turn on the light.

There was a sort of grunt and movement as I pushed the door open. He must have heard me come in.

For reasons I could never really explain I said, 'I'm sorry about this.'

With the tape over his eyes he wouldn't even have seen me as some massive shape, haloed by the light of the living room.

And then I fired.

There was what a colossal crack and the room was lit with a momentary flash as I felt the kick of the recoil.

Above the scream of the record there was a horrible hideous gurgling sound.

I quickly worked the pump and then in the darkness, I fired again, low.

I was coughing.

There was an acrid stench of cordite in the air. In the small room it seemed to bite and sting my eyes and then there was the smell of blood.

I stepped backwards out of the shower room and shut the door, shuddering and breathing deeply.

My whole body seemed to be going through hot and cold flushes. I don't know how long I stood like that, maybe ten, twenty seconds.

I felt as though I was going to shit myself. It seemed a lifetime.

And then... Well, I felt suddenly calm. I had done it. I breathed deeply. There was no going back now.

And that was it. That's how I committed murder as the song turned into a denial.

With a click I turned off the tape. My ears rang with the silence.

There was no going back now.

It was done.

I just had to get on with it. I picked up the shotgun again and taking a deep breath, opened the shower door and switched on the light.

He was lying huddled in the corner. Dead of course. No surprise about that. One of my shots, the first I guessed, had taken him just at the shoulder, at that range it had just about amputated the arm and smashed in the left-hand side of his chest. It was probably enough to have killed him instantly. The second had hit him full on, slap bang in the centre of the belly and had almost blown him in two. The sky blue mattress was now a sodden, purple black with thick oozing pools of blood.

I took a deep breath. My throat felt tight. I could feel my gorge rising, my hands gripped the gun, my knuckles were white. But I felt oddly calm, collected, controlled, I was on top of the situation. I knew what I had to do.

The problem with killing him had always been what to do with the body. I was living on a peninsula so my first thought was could I just dump him in the water? I had quickly discounted the idea as impractical. There were estuaries on either side and the sea was shallow and quite tidal, while other than the little headland at the end of _Mnazi Moja_ , the coastline was largely beaches or mudflats so there weren't any cliffs off which I could reliably tip him into deep enough water. To use the sea properly, I would need access to a boat which I didn't have. The last thing I wanted was to have him found lying in the mud at low tide or washed ashore.

If I took him inland and could find the right place and wanted to take the risk, I could always dump him and trust the animals do the work. But it was a long way to drive with a body in the back of the Suzuki to turn him into hyena or croc meat. And I would have to get far enough away that circling vultures wouldn't be a giveaway.

Trying to bury him in a patch of wasteland somewhere on the headland would be a complete disaster. There were people everywhere, herding goats, living in little huts, scrabbling over discarded rubbish and litter to see what they could find of value. Either I would be caught in the act or he would swiftly be found.

The only solution was the obvious one. I would have to put him out with the rubbish. I would need to dismember him to fit him into the bin bags we had bought. I also needed to prevent him being identified if his remains were ever found. Ideally I wanted to prevent him being identified as human at all by anyone who came across any remains.

I had to make sure I did three things, well, four, if you include avoiding cuts and breathing in any blood that might be carrying HIV.

I had to cut him up small enough to be able to get his remains into the bin bags for disposal. Draining out anything that could be washed down the shower grate so as to lose weight would help.

Secondly, I had to ensure that any body parts that might by any chance escape the destruction process would be unrecognisable for what they were.

And thirdly, I had to combine the bits as I wrapped them in the oil-sodden blankets and put them into the bin bags, so as to best help the destruction process.

I plugged the extension lead into the socket in the corridor and turned the music back on but at a lower volume. I was going to need to use the chainsaw.

The legs were first, as the great ripping blade tore into cloth and flesh in a spray of blood, the whining tone deepening as it bit into the bone. Working quickly, I looped rope around each ankle and passed them up through the iron security bars cemented across the window, and back down into the room. Heaving on the ropes I hoisted each leg up the wall so that they hung like lambs in an abattoir to drain. They were surprisingly heavy things, huge lumps of muscle and bone. I was going to need to section them in any case, I thought, they were still too big.

I worked steadily and methodically with the axe and saw. The arms came off and I cut them down into smaller chunks and lumps, the flesh jagged and shredded at the edges. I took the fingers off to make the hands less recognisable.

I set his head down carefully on its side on a portion of the mattress in the middle of the floor. I wanted to deaden the sound as, standing over it, I pounded at it with the sledgehammer, smashing the skull, the face, the jaw bone. Without the flesh I wanted unrecognisable fragments of bone, if any survived at all.

I was careful to crush the jaw with direct blows. I needed to ensure I broke all the teeth. I had to do a solid workmanlike job. If there was one thing in my life that I had to do right, this was it. No cock-ups, no mistakes, because there was no second chance, no excuses in this situation.

The guts felt squelchy and hot through my rubber gloves as I scooped and ladled them into some of the bin bags. I was hacking the innards loose with a knife – the liver, the heart, the lungs. I was trying not to look, trying not to think about what I was doing. I was just reaching into the body cavity, pulling out handfuls of organs, hacking the sinews and connecting tissue to free the contents for disposal.

The rib cage would be distinctive. Luckily it was mostly gone on the left-hand side. I cut it into four strips, up the breastbone, up either side to each of the armpits, up either side of the backbone, chopping up and under the shoulder blades with the axe until I could wrestle sections free.

The backbone I cut into manageable sections, the pelvis was a huge lump that I thought would be very recognisable. It was too big for the sledgehammer so I used the chainsaw to cut it into two before pounding it as best I could.

I had finished the noisy bit now and ran the tap in the basin to rinse my gloved hands. There was a mist of blood in the room's air. I didn't want to leave bloody footprints so I slipped my feet out of my boots to step into the main room and turn the tape off again.

I listened hard but the only noises I could hear were those of any normal evening drifting across from the _dukas_ out on the road.

I used the blankets soaked in cooking oil to wrap his mortal remains in as small chunks as possible, before putting them into the bin bags. Once each bag was sufficiently full, but not so full it was impossible to carry, I dragged it out through the living room and kitchen to the balcony. As each shot had shredded the body it had also shredded the mattress beneath and so a mess of blood-soaked foam and pellets went into each bag as well. What bits of mattress were still big enough I used the saw to rip so that I could also stuff them into the bags. The shower room was a mess.

It's called the wick effect. I'd come across it drunk and alone late one night as I vegetated on my couch watching some crappy documentary investigating explanations for so called spontaneous combustion cases. It's been found to happen occasionally when someone's clothes catch fire. In principle, it's a bit like the way a candle burns, but where the wick rather than being trapped in the middle of the fuel, is a sheet of material wrapped around the outside of it.

As the wick burns it melts the body fat, which then soaks into the wick material around the body to burn, giving a very low and localised flame, but one that burns at a very high temperature for ages. They demonstrated it with a pig's carcass. It lasted for something like six hours, smoldering away, but eventually turning even bone to ash. At least he had plenty of fat on him, I thought, as I sloshed the last of the cooking oil into the bags for luck.

I had been careful with the diesel soaked papers that I had dumped out earlier. Just enough to get it going I judged, but not so much that my wick was burnt away before the process could start to work.

The clothes I was wearing would need to go in the bags as well so I had no real choice but to start to clean up now. I ran the shower for about half an hour while I hosed down the walls and floor and used bleach on the scrubbing brush to get the worst of the mess sluiced away. Caustic soda down the drains would help to chemically remove the evidence. I would need to have another go tomorrow. The cement walls were pitted and scarred with shot. The cement and paint would sort that and the damage in the bedroom out later on over the weekend.

I pulled off my sodden boiler suit and quickly ran my head, arms and feet under the shower, scrubbing vigorously to get rid of any obvious signs. I was surprised to find my hair sticky with blood and rubbed it furiously, trying to get it clean.

By now it was nearly ten o'clock. Out on the balcony I threw the clothes I had been wearing into one of the bags. Finally in went the bits and pieces, the scrubbing brush, the extension lead, the mask and the gloves.

I toweled myself down, dressed and looked out the front of the apartments. It all seemed fine. There weren't too many cars in the car park and as normal the _askaris_ seemed to be asleep on the step down from the hard standing. The little row of _dukas_ were shutting up for the night and as ever there were groups of two and three people picking their way around the puddles as they wandered away.

I decided I would leave it for half an hour or so to let the _duka_ owners go home.

I made myself a cup of coffee and thought about it as I drank. I wanted the trip to the pen to be over as quickly as possible and I now had a lot of fairly heavy bin bags sitting out on the balcony. Getting them down the stairs would take a while, as would coming in and out of the building.

I tied the top of each one shut and looked out over the balcony. If I carried them down I could put them behind the water tank, between it and the fence. They would be out of sight there while I fetched and carried from the apartment or from there to the pen.

I just brought the last of the bags downstairs when I realised I had been a complete idiot. I had forgotten the matches. So it was back upstairs, to open the grille, open the door, collect the box, close the door, close the grille and head back downstairs. I was just about to go out through the back grille when I heard a clanking behind me. It was Mr Chavda, coming out for his evening stroll.

He was a pleasant enough old stick. I liked him. He did like a bit of a chat though. Especially with _wazungu_ because then he could indulge in a bit of a moan about the _wananchi_.

'Bloody Africans, no civilisation, no culture, they are just always so noisy. I hear from Dinesh that you have been over to complain to the apartments next door. I've been over to complain as well before. No consideration.'

We stood there in the hallway for a few minutes. I winced inwardly but nodded when he said he had been going to go across to complain about the banging earlier on but he hadn't been able to work out where it was coming from. It was only a couple of minutes talking to him but it felt like an hour, just one of those times when you want to get on and do things and you feel time ticking away. At last he said goodnight and walked off around the corner.

The moon was out, a pair of crescent horns sticking up over the top of the trees, and as I stepped away from the pool of yellow light and its dancing moths at the exit from the stairwell, there was a delicious blue silvery sheen which belied the velvet warmth of the night. I started to transfer the bags across to the pen. I kept my head down and walked, did not run.

The _askaris_ were lying on the steps, asleep on their long coats. The last thing I wanted just at the moment was for one of them to wake up and volunteer to help. As I carried the second set across Daisy came snuffling up.

'Go on, shoo,' I hissed. She stopped, looking up at me, hesitant. Normally I was friendly. 'Go on, off with you.' I swung the bag at her. It was so big and heavy and slow it was never going to connect, it was more an indication and she backed off, almost shrugged her shoulders, and trotted on by me towards the back of the apartments.

I walked across the car park and out of the gate towards the pen, thinking, It's absolutely normal, nothing to worry about, nothing to notice, just a _mzungu_ putting out rubbish. I lifted the first bag up and dumped it on the pile, then the second to join the other black bin bags sitting there. Just a few more to go, I thought, as I wandered back.

As I came round to the water tank for the last time I could see something moving. So that was where she was off to.

'Shoo Daisy, shoo. Go on get out of it.' I was waving my arms as I came up to the tank. She darted off the other way before I got close. I picked up the last two bags and tramped back towards the pen.

The pile of rubbish was quite high now and stank to high heaven of rotting food and veg. I put one of the bags down in order to use both hands to lift the other one on to the top of the pile. I brought my hand underneath it, lifted it to chest height and then up and on to the pile.

I turned and stooped to pick up the last bag and grabbing the neck with my right hand, as I lifted it up from the ground I straightened and swung my left-hand underneath to repeat the operation. The underside was wet and slimy.

I looked down, this was odd. I had done this with all the other bags. Had I put it in a puddle or something? I lifted the bag to chest height and there, staring me in the face, was a huge tear in the bag. The wet sliminess was blood. For a moment I was frozen with panic. All I could think was, Christ, Christ, Daisy, it had to be Daisy. She had been round by the tank.

I could dump this in the pen but if I had dropped anything on the way from the water tank, had I just left a trail of blood between here and there? It was dark. I couldn't tell. I forced myself to think calmly as I shoved the bag on to the top of the pile.

Between the tank and the corner of the block I had come across the grass. I had walked on the paved path just along the side of the block and then had cut straight across the grass in the middle as the most direct route to the gate. So the only places I could have dripped blood where it might be seen would be on the path and across the car park. But the car park was sufficiently dusty and dirty with tyre tracks and oil stains that nobody would notice anything, so that was OK. I lifted the torn edge of the bag and peered quickly inside. Daisy had obviously been after something, had she got anything? If she had pulled something out could other things have fallen? I knew she had a den in amongst some old water tanks dumped in the back corner of the site. I would never find her there now in the darkness, but as I walked back I would just have to check the ground to see if there was anything obvious, check the back of the apartments around the water tank and just trust to luck.

The first thing to do was just to get this away before anybody caught me. I chose a likely looking selection in the corner nearest to me and another on the far side. I glanced around but there didn't seem to be anyone in sight. I fumbled with the matchbox. The first two sticks broke and I muttered, bloody shitty matches, to myself, they were _Kharatasi_ of course. The next one struck and I had to duck to avoid being burnt as the paper in the bin bags took with a whoosh of flame.

I stepped sideways around the corner of the pen to be out of the direct light from the fire as it roared into life and then walked smartly, but carefully, back through the gate. I tried to trace the route I had taken with the bags, my eyes on the ground. I crossed the car park. I couldn't see anything; down the steps on to the grass, it was hopeless here. Behind me flames were just starting to dance over the top of the wall of the pen, the flickering light casting shadows from the parked cars across the field. The moonlight was bright but the light of the flames and the dancing shadows made it difficult to see. I had been carrying that last bag in my left hand so as I had come around the side of the building it would have been the one nearest the wall and would have been directly over the paved surface whereas the other would have been over the grass. I stopped at the corner of the building and looked. It was far enough away here that moonlight ruled again. I couldn't see anything. There was nothing which looked obvious. I would just have to wait for daylight.

The girls arrived back about twenty minutes later.

"Hope you're feeling better," Clare said, as I opened the door to Sam. "You missed a good night."

"Yes, we went to Rooftops, did the barbecue," said Sam looking pained.

"Looks like somebody is putting on a show here," said Clare, nodding at the raging fire which could now be seen blazing in the pen as we turned and looked through the sitting room and out of the balcony windows. "They don't usually burn it at night, it's a bit spectacular though, isn't it?"

I turned and we all looked out at it for a moment. It really had caught, it was roaring now, all furnace oranges, reds and bright yellows, as flames licked up into the sky while puffs of exploding sparks crackled and snapped as a stream of hot red embers and sparks rushed up in to the night air with the hot billowing smoke.

"Yes," I said, "it is spectacular. I've been standing here watching it."

"Oh well," she said, "Time to call it a night. _Lala Salaama_."

"Yeah, good night to you too," I said, and shut the door.

THE END

CUFFED

# by James J. Murray

http://www.jamesjmurray.com/

I parked in the lot of the 24-hour pharmacy at precisely 9:55 P.M. and walked toward the store to begin my shift—the graveyard shift. I heard thunder in the distance. _A storm's rolling in,_ I thought. _It's going to be slow tonight._ I shivered and pulled the coat collar tighter around my neck.

As I arrived at the prescription counter, the pharmacist I was relieving patted my shoulder and said, "It's all yours." He grabbed his coat, turned and walked out as if I no longer existed.

A few customers roamed the aisles and a couple of people stopped by to pick up prescriptions called in earlier. At midnight, the assistant manager—flat-butted, no hips, a pimply-faced string bean—walked over and handed me the keys to his kingdom.

He repeated his nightly script. "Sam, my man, time for me to go home and take care of the wife, if you know what I mean." He looked like he was 12 and I thought of asking him if _he_ knew what that meant, but I resisted. He gave me a smug smile, turned on his heel and walked out of my life for another 24 hours.

Now in charge, I relaxed and prepared to do some studying. That's the whole reason I work this upside-down shift—so I can study and still pay the bills. I sleep some in the morning, go to class for an advanced clinical degree in the afternoon and work all night.

Fortunately, the overnight shift is always dead, but I never say that. Not in front of the customers, anyway. It's bad karma, what with all the robberies and shootings in the news. But it's quiet most of the time. Even though the drugstore is located in the heart of San Antonio's medical center, with seven hospitals within a two-mile radius, there's little store traffic during the wee hours of the morning.

A quick set of instructions to Jeremy, my clerk and the only other employee in the store, kept him busy in between helping the occasional customer.

I heard a strange noise, like metal clanging, and realized that rain was pelting the roof. _Maybe it's hail. It's going to be an easy night._

I pulled out the research paper I had been working on for the last week and continued my analysis of recent cardiac drug studies. My goal was to develop a noteworthy comparison solely to impress my clinical professors.

When I began to formulate a particularly witty conclusion, I heard the door chime. I looked up robotically. The pharmacy is situated at the rear of the store and elevated about a foot above the retail space. I usually looked up when the door chimed since I had a panoramic view of the entire store and anyone entering it.

This customer was a twenty-something white male. He was dressed in oversized jeans about to fall to his knees, and a hoodie. Walking in, he pulled the hood down, retrieved a baseball cap from his pocket and put it on backwards.

He rubbed his face with jittery hands and I got suspicious. I realized I was profiling and almost turned my attention back to my research paper, but decided to keep an eye on the man a little longer.

He looked around, spotted the prescription counter and shuffled toward me. He looked down every aisle before approaching the pharmacy. Acid churned in my stomach and inched up my esophagus like an expanding bubble. _This is it,_ I thought. _I'm about to be robbed._

The man circled the store twice before walking up to the counter. He grimaced slightly as he stood there. I looked at his hands for a possible gun, or a note demanding the store's cash, or worse yet, all the narcotics. His hands were empty, but they were shaking. _A meth head,_ I decided.

Shifting from one foot to the other, he grinned. I saw a few empty spaces where teeth used to be. I hesitated for as long as I dared, squared my shoulders and walked toward him. I positioned myself behind the cash register, the only barrier in sight.

He handed me a piece of paper. "I'm in a lot of pain. Can you rush this?"

I looked at the form. It was a special triplicate prescription, the kind doctors use only for strong narcotics. The order was for Percocet tablets, a popular pain-reliever containing oxycodone. I frowned and looked at him. He frowned also, stepped back and asked, "What?"

Words failed me. I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing. Looking at the paper again, I recognized the physician's signature. I'd seen it often enough on other late night prescriptions. I exhaled audibly, decided to ignore the incongruity of a street dude presenting a legitimate narcotic prescription and said, "No problem. It's an unusual order from an ER physician, but I'll see if I have it in stock."

While I walked to the narcotic safe, I studied the paper and stopped dead in my tracks. The prescription had been altered. An obvious number one had been added in front of the original quantity of twenty. The change to one hundred and twenty tablets was subtle, but the ink was not quite a match.

I was holding a forgery! _Now what?_

_Verify_ popped into my mind. Before I did anything else, I had to confirm that the doctor had not sloppily changed the original quantity. I walked to the other end of my workspace, as far from the register as possible, and called the emergency room. The doctor confirmed that only twenty tablets had been ordered.

"I should never have prescribed oxy," the physician blurted out. "That guy came in with a nasty gash to his torso. I stitched him up and prescribed hydrocodone, but he said he was allergic to it." The doctor was silent for a moment before adding, "It was a jagged wound, could have been self-inflicted now that I think about it. Cancel the order and call the police."

I agreed and hung up. I mentally reviewed company policy as stated in the handbook. "When presented with a suspected forged prescription, call the police if you can. Always be discreet and keep yourself safe."

Feeling isolated, I glanced toward the patient waiting area. The man was staring at me. I smiled, he smiled and I could taste bile and stomach acid burning my throat. I managed to shout out, "Got you covered. Take a seat and I'll have it out in about 10 minutes."

Moving to the computer, I pretended to process the order. I stopped abruptly, as if a call had just come in, and answered a dead line. I slowly dialed 911, identified myself and quietly reported, "I've got a forged prescription in progress and need immediate assistance."

The 911 operator took pertinent information and said, "Stall for time, the streets are slick and all police cruisers in the area are dispatched to traffic accidents." She promised to redirect one as soon as possible.

About then, a familiar customer walked up to the counter. She was a nurse from one of the hospital ER's, a different one from where the forgery originated. Usually with dark circles under her eyes from a long night, she'd come in to shop and wind down from her shift before heading home. After several times of just waving, we started talking and became friends. She brushed rain out of her hair and asked, "How's it going tonight, Sam?"

I looked from her to the forger and got back with the 911 operator. "Please hurry. He's staring at me and I've got another customer here." I disconnected and walked up to the nurse. "Hi, Mary. I didn't hear you come in."

"Yeah, I waved, but you didn't look up."

"I'm kind of busy right now." I turned toward the forger. He seemed to be concentrating on my every word. "I have to take care of this patient."

She glanced over her shoulder toward the man. "I have a quick question for the pharmacist." She looked back at me. "How strong are these asthma inhalers you have out front here? My son's running out of his prescription and I forgot to ask one of the docs to write a new one." She looked toward the front door. "With this rain, I'd hate to go back for a script."

"I don't think they'd be strong enough from what you've told me about his asthma. I could call one of your ER docs and take a phone order."

She smiled and pulled a card from her pocket. "Call this doc. He's a friend. He'll be happy to give you the order." She wrote the name of the inhaler her son was using on the back of the card. "I'll browse the aisles while I wait." She turned toward the forger. "Sorry to jump ahead." She took a closer look at the man and asked, "Are you okay? You look pale. Maybe you should use that blood pressure machine over there to check your vitals."

He shrugged, but didn't say anything. Mary raised an eyebrow and stared at the man for a moment longer before walking off to shop.

I looked toward the guy and smiled. He asked, "How much longer, man?" He held his side and winced. He appeared to lose focus.

"Maybe you _should_ check your blood pressure. Are you feeling light-headed?"

"I'm fine. Just fill the prescription, okay?"

"I'll get right on it." I moved to my computer and continued the pretense of processing his order. At the same time, I wedged the phone between my ear and chin and dialed 911 again. I got a different operator. I explained my situation quietly and asked, "What's taking so long? He's getting nervous."

"I pulled up your emergency and it's dispatched to the next available officer. The problem is there are several weather-related traffic accidents..."

"I know, but this guy's getting nervous and I can't stall him much longer."

"The closest cruiser is dealing with injuries. As soon as they're free, they'll be on their way. I'm bumping up your priority now."

I glanced toward the forger. He was looking at me. He nodded. I nodded back and turned toward my computer. I stared at the screen. _I took this job so that I could study, not catch criminals. Maybe I should say I don't have the drug in stock. He could go to another pharmacy, be someone else's problem._ I knew I couldn't do that—wouldn't do that—and sighed. _Wait it out. Help will be here soon._

Hoping to see a blue uniform enter, I looked toward the front door. None appeared, but I saw another regular customer walk in. _No, this isn't happening. First Mary and now I've got Ms. Huffington in the store._

Ms. Huffington was a gentle, white-haired lady with insomnia. After a few conversations with her, I realized she was lonely and came in for some company. She'd ask silly questions to pass the time. At first I was irritated by the distraction from my studies, but soon I looked forward to our conversations. I watched her shake out her rain-soaked umbrella, close it and head my way. _No, I can't deal with you now. Go do your shopping._

In my peripheral vision, I saw the guy get up from his chair and move toward me. I backed away from the computer instinctively, stopping only when the phone cord threatened to come out of the wall.

He moved to the condom aisle and scanned the merchandise. He leaned over to read a label and his hoodie rode up, revealing a gun tucked in the back of his pants. More bile and acid surged up my esophagus. The mix was about to erupt like a volcano.

Where'd he get the gun? He couldn't have had it in the ER! Maybe he had it hidden in his car. Maybe he has an accomplice waiting out there now. If the police don't hurry, I could be facing more guys like this one...with guns...in the store...with customers around.

I took a deep breath. _Why doesn't he point that gun at me, demand all the narcotics and get this over with?_ I dialed 911 again. I recognized the voice of the original operator I had spoken to. "This is the pharmacist with the forgery in progress. He's got a gun and he's in the condom aisle."

"The police aren't there?"

"No, what's taking them so long?"

"Is he pointing it at you?"

"The gun?"

"Yes, where's the gun?"

"In his pants—the gun, not the condoms."

"I understand. Please take a deep breath. Your emergency is now top priority. Police will be with you shortly."

"Tell them to hurry! I've got a horny, impatient forger watching my every move and he's got a gun in his pants. And there are other customers in the store about to get in the middle of this mess." I scanned the store and saw Jeremy talking to Ms. Huffington, Mary strolling two aisles over and the forger reading condom labels. "I can't protect everyone. Someone's bound to get hurt."

"Please stay calm. Can I call you Sam?"

"What?"

"Earlier, you said your name was Sam Delany. Can I call you Sam?"

I looked at the phone, shook my head and then put the phone back to my ear. "Sure, call me whatever you like. Just get the police here."

"They're on their way, only a few minutes out. Act like you're working on his prescription, but stall."

"What do you think I've been doing, lady?"

I picked up the nearest bottle and aggressively shook the pills inside, hoping the rattle made me sound busy. I looked up and the guy was at the counter again, peering over the register. "Man, you going to shake that bottle all night or fill my prescription?"

"The computer's slow, probably the weather, but it's processing your paperwork now." I cupped my hand over the phone and nodded toward it. "And I've got this customer asking a thousand questions. Sit tight a few more minutes, okay?"

"Whatever, man." The guy rubbed his head with a shaky hand, held his side and walked back to the condom aisle.

The emergency operator said, "I'm still with you, Sam. Help is maybe three minutes out."

"Hurry, please. He looks sick, maybe too sick to rob me—or maybe too scared—but he's getting impatient. Just get someone here quick!"

My conversation was interrupted by a high-pitched voice at the counter. "Hi, Sam. I must be crazy to be out on a night like this, but here I am. How are you?"

I looked at Ms. Huffington and managed a smile. I put the phone down beside the computer, walked up to her and placed both hands on the register. I leaned over, took a deep breath and quietly said, "You shouldn't be here. You should go home."

"Nonsense. You think I'll melt with a little rain?" I watched water drip from the umbrella in her hand. She tilted her head. "Or maybe you think I'm the Wicked Witch of the West and will melt." She smiled and fluttered her eyelids.

I shook my head and raised an eyebrow. I nodded toward the condom aisle and said, "I'm kind of busy. You should leave now."

Her mouth slackened as if I'd insulted her. She looked me in the eye and frowned. "What's wrong? Are you sick? Maybe _you_ shouldn't be here tonight either."

"I was thinking the same thing. Please leave. I'll see you another night."

She started to look over her shoulder, but stopped herself. She nodded. "All right, I'm leaving now."

The forger glared at me. "My drug ready yet?"

"Almost. The printer's about to spit out the labels any second now." I thought, _I've got a wife, two kids and a mortgage. I can't afford to die._ I tried to remember how much life insurance I had. I visualized policies and added the numbers quickly in my head, too quickly. _Not enough. It'll never cover college, the house and leave enough for my wife to live on. I can't die tonight._

After what seemed like hours, the front door slowly opened and a police officer slipped in. He moved guardedly toward the pharmacy and came around the perimeter of the store from my left.

I glanced toward the forger. He had moved to the blood pressure machine and stuck an arm into the inflatable cuff. He pressed the start button. The cuff automatically inflated around his arm.

Looking to my left, I saw the officer, gun drawn, round the corner and head toward the prescription counter. The cop and I made eye contact. I nodded toward the blood pressure machine.

He approached slowly and quietly. When he was about 10 feet from the forger, he yelled, "Police. Freeze!" The man spotted him and stood abruptly. But his arm was locked in the blood pressure cuff and he was pulled back into a sitting position like a magnet to metal.

The officer moved closer to the machine just as Jeremy ran around the corner with a cane he'd picked up from a display. He slashed through air at the forger. He missed and struck the cop's arm instead. The officer yelled and dropped his gun.

The forger, startled and wide-eyed, fumbled with the machine's controls to disengage the cuff. When that failed, he reached behind him for his gun. Just as it materialized, I saw Ms. Huffington waddle up with her umbrella held out like a sword. She poked the man in the side. He screamed in pain.

_Good aim, Ms. Huffington._ He slumped back onto the machine's seat, holding his side.

The policeman leaped toward him, grabbed the gun, lost his balance and fell on top of him, but held on to the man's arm and the pistol.

I rushed to the blood pressure machine as Mary ran up holding another display cane, ready to strike. I pulled Ms. Huffington off to the side and Mary did the same with Jeremy.

The officer tucked the gun in his belt, retrieved and holstered his own weapon, and yanked the forger to a standing position. He spun the man around, cuffed him and began the litany I recognized from television shows: "You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be used against you..."

Ms. Huffington pointed at the cuffed man and scowled, "Shame on you, young man."

The policeman smiled and shook his head. "Nice poke, lady. Good assist." He handed her a blood-tipped umbrella.

The suspect looked down at Ms. Huffington. "You old bitch." He then looked at me. "I'm going to get you for this, man." He turned to the officer, but nodded back toward me. "He did it. He changed the numbers. Probably does that all the time working this shift. Must have a big stash back there."

The cop shoved him. "Shut up, punk." To me he said, "When I drove up, there was a car in the lot with two guys inside. I called for back up. We've got them detained."

"They didn't try to leave when they saw your police cruiser?" I asked.

"I don't think they noticed. They were so high they could hardly talk, much less drive." He pushed the kid down the aisle. "I'll be right back to get your statements."

While the policeman walked the guy out of the store, I turned to Ms. Huffington and smiled. "How did you know what was going on?"

"I knew you'd never be as mean to me as you sounded earlier. I knew something was up and told Jeremy. He gathered Mary and me at the front of the store, told us to leave."

Mary bit her lip and nodded toward Ms. Huffington. "When Jeremy followed the cop through the store, we got curious and followed also."

Ms. Huffington looked around at everyone, grinned from ear to ear and clenched her fists. "What an exciting night! Do you think I'll have to go to court? Maybe they'll need me to testify."

"Count me out of that," Mary said. "I see enough craziness in the ER every night. Now about that asthma script, Sam?"

"Oh, I totally forgot. I'll call your ER doc right away."

I filled her son's prescription and Mary paid her bill. She started to leave as the policeman walked back to the counter. He held out his arm. "Not so fast. You're a witness."

Mary sighed and the officer pulled out a notepad to take her statement. He questioned her and jotted some notes before saying, "Okay, you can leave. We'll call if we need anything else."

The officer focused on Ms. Huffington with a crooked grin. "You're something else, ma'am. You saved my butt...Uh, excuse me...you saved my life. I'm grateful."

"You think I could testify at his trial?"

"He'll probably plead out. But even if it's only a plea hearing, I'll personally give you a ride to court. You won't miss a minute of this, if that's your pleasure."

"Hot damn...I mean...very good of you, officer."

The policeman took Jeremy's statement before turning to me. "I'll take that prescription now."

I went into the pharmacy, retrieved the forgery and handed it to the officer with some hesitation. He noticed.

"Something wrong, Mr. Delaney?"

Considering carefully what to say next, I explained, "I get these funny feelings sometimes. I had a feeling walking into the store tonight, like the rolling thunder was a premonition of tonight's events. Anyway, something's wrong with that prescription."

"You mean, besides it being a forgery?"

"That's the obvious part, but I think there's more to it than changing a number on a piece of paper."

"What do you mean?"

"It's highly unusual for an ER doc to write for oxycodone and let the patient walk out the door. First, it's given for serious pain, the kind they hospitalize patients for, not to treat them and send them home. And there's the obvious abuse potential. ER physicians don't write for oxy unless they know the patient's full history. That usually doesn't happen in an ER visit."

"You saying the doctor's in on this?"

"I don't know what I'm saying, except that I've never seen it before and I got a strange feeling while talking to that doc, like he was over-explaining. It's probably nothing, but I wanted to mention it."

"After what that old lady did tonight, I'd believe anything," the officer said. "I'll look into it."

He shook my hand and walked out of the store and out of my life. The rest of the night was reasonably quiet with only a few other patients. I went back to my research paper and reread my conclusion. I decided that, although accurate, it was bland and not nearly as exciting as reality. It would need to be rewritten.

I never heard back from the police, but Ms. Huffington came in one night full of stories about the day she'd spent in court as the accused agreed to a forgery charge and received a reduced sentence in exchange.

About a week after Ms. Huffington's day in court, I stopped getting prescriptions with that physician's signature on the bottom. One night my curiosity got the better of me and I called the hospital's ER to inquire if he still worked there. I was put on hold and shortly the shift's head nurse came on the line.

"Hi, Sam. Guess you didn't hear. Dr. Wells was the victim of a hit and run a few days ago. Ironic, but they brought him here. His injuries were extensive."

I swallowed hard and wet my lips before I could ask, "Is he okay?"

"Sadly, he didn't make it. The police are still looking into it."

THE END

THE UNDERGROUND

# by Kenneth Puddicombe

http://kenpuddicombe.ca/

The tunnel was packed all the way to the rear, much more so tonight than Beverley had ever seen on previous occasions.

Even though she and Tom had arrived late it wasn't long before they were pushed and compressed further into the dark, dank underground sewer, one of several that had been sanctioned by the committee. The sewer system had quickly become the last resort for those who were determined not to surrender to the smoking ban, and the stench had proved effective allowing them to avoid detection, so far.

Beverley shivered. The only comfort against the biting cold came from the cigarette they were sharing, that and the heat generated by the other bodies. There were many groups sharing, people passing a cigarette from one to the other. Based on the size of the tunnel, she figured that there had to be several thousand people. With more than fifty much larger venues still undetected, she thought that the movement was still on the increase, despite all efforts by the government to track and eliminate them.

Beverley took another drag on the cigarette. "This is good shit," she said. "Where did you get it from?"

Tom shrugged and took the cigarette. He inhaled deeply and the glow from the cigarette lit up his face enough for her to see the amount of pleasure he was experiencing. He looked like a kid locked in a pastry shop, someone who can't believe his good fortune would last forever, and so he has to make the most of it.

It was more than a minute before Tom exhaled and responded.

"Same as all the others," he said. "Bought it on the black market."

Cigarettes had been taxed heavily back in the 2015 budget when the government was desperately looking to fund the growing demand on the health services. Governments had always raised a significant portion of their revenue through _Sin Taxes_ , but this time the levies became so onerous that several companies went out of business. Ten years later, those that remained were successfully sued by governments and many had to declare bankruptcy, unable to pay the billions in fines imposed by the courts. It took another five years for the anti-smoking lobby to convince the government that additional legislation was needed, and smoking had been completely banned. The few manufacturers who refused to quit went underground.

Beverley leaned closer to Tom to get a whiff of the smoke that he was exhaling. In the glow of several thousand cigarettes, there was a distinct blue haze overtaking the entire tunnel. The latest trend was the mixing of tobacco with marijuana and this had been well received by those who were against the ban.

At times, Beverley couldn't figure who was the more addicted of the two of them. She'd come from a family of non-smokers but had picked up the habit more so to rebel against the growing interdiction than from the fulfillment of a craving. Tom had started even before he turned ten. He'd come from a family of smokers and it had been a real challenge for him, especially after they passed the law outlawing the tobacco companies and smoking became a prohibited act, punishable by a fine for the first infraction, rehabilitation for the second, jail for subsequent offences.

"How did you manage to get released?" Tom said.

"It wasn't easy," Beverley said. "Son of a bitch Wong put me through the ringer, wanted to know where the latest underground was located, and names of the people who went to them."

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing. The new Aromaless cigarettes help. They can't detect smokers that easily these days."

"Won't be long before they come up with something to counter it, though. Must have been a real battle of wills between you and Wong."

"It was. How did _you_ escape? I thought for sure they had you cornered."

"I gave them the slip and went down a back alley."

It had been three days ago when the underground they were in, an abandoned tunnel that had been constructed to connect Centre Island to Toronto was raided by CSASS –the Canadian Squad Against Smoking and Smokers. Beverley and Tom had made their way to the back of the tunnel and escaped by climbing a ladder leading up to a manhole. In the early days of the movement, hundreds of people were picked up easily and it was only after emergency exits were added to every tunnel that flight from the CSASS became possible. But, on this occasion, just as they emerged through the manhole cover, they found the squad waiting for them. She was certain that someone had squealed, not only about the location, but about the emergency exits also. In addition to having to worry about people in the movement squealing to gain favours, they also had to be on guard for vigilantes –armed squads of roving citizens on the lookout for smokers. There were reports circulating about a few smokers being shot on sight.

"You were lucky," Beverley said.

"I know. It's getting tougher and tougher to evade them with that heat and smoke equipment they're using these days."

The technology had changed radically over the last decade, some of it for better. Sure, diabetes had been virtually eradicated with the introduction of engineered pancreas. Body parts could be bought off the shelf: there were manufactured kidneys, livers, pancreas, all coded with the recipient's genetic code for implantation. Cancer had decreased by over eighty percent. AIDS and the common cold had been eradicated with the discovery of new antiviral drugs. These were all things that had helped to raise the life span to nearly one hundred and twenty-five years. And people never looked and felt better. Baldness drugs were now available for both men and women. Artificial skin transplants meant a society free of wrinkles. People never suffered the discomfort or embarrassment of dentures –teeth were replaced by implants. But, with the improvement in health had come growing government intrusion in the lives of its citizens, something that the underground movement was formed to combat.

"You can still outrun the best of them," Beverley said, with a certain amount of admiration.

Tom shook his head. "There's coming a day, though, when I won't be able to get away from them."

Tom had always been able to outrun SAS. He was one of the Bionic athletes, people who had artificial knees, ligaments and muscles. Olympic rules had been relaxed to accommodate them since many athletes worldwide had found ways to utilize the technology. It was at the 2024 Olympics in Cape Town, the first in Africa, that she'd met Tom and they'd started living together a short while after.

Beverley shook her head. It was the uncertainty that got to her most of all; they never knew where it would end. It was like pulling a loose string from a quilt and having no idea about the actual length of the thread.

"I'm so tired," she said. "I feel like I could sleep for a year. Why can't they just leave us alone to carry on with our lives?'

She hadn't been allowed to sleep for two days and nights during Wong's interrogation...

He'd come into the interrogation room time and again. Just as she was about to nod off, he'd return and wake her with more questions.

"Tell me where the next Smokevention is and I'll let you go," Wong said.

He carried around his short, rotund body with an agility that defied his size, bobbing around the room in his uniform and constantly stopping directly in front of her to blow smoke in her face. The irony of what he was doing could hardly escape her: here was the man in charge of eradicating the institution of smoking in Canada, and yet he was using the very act to torture her.

"You know we're going to get all of you, sooner or later," Wong said. "Why don't you make it easy on yourself and tell me what I want to know. I can make it worthwhile for you."

She was intrigued. "How are you going to do that?"

Another puff of smoke in her face, followed by: "Unlimited cigarettes in payment. You'd never have to worry again about satisfying your craving. Or, we could put you through the program, if you want."

The _program_ –she'd heard enough of that to know it was the last thing she wanted. Those who participated were pumped full of drugs containing a cocktail of Nicontrolic, Nicofin and Nicototrelief. It either killed you or cured you but the government had refused to release information and Statistics Canada had been so emasculated as an institution that there was no data available. If CSASS had any doubt that the cure had worked, you were shackled with an electronic monitor that tracked your movements and filtered the air around you, sending back messages to CSASS.

"You have nothing on me," she said. "You have to let me go."

Wong sat down across the table and accessed an electronic tablet he'd been toting around. He had a way of parting his lips and opening his mouth wide, and when he did, his even, white teeth were on display. He was obviously not a habitual smoker. He was someone who only took pleasure in it to show that he had the power to do it. Here was a man, she thought, who would actually like going to the dentist, someone who liked the feel of the drill, the shaking, rattling, whirring, buzzing that creates a sensation that he would actually get high on. "Give me more," would be his thought as he sat in the chair.

"Why are you giving me a hard time? I can take good care of you, if you let me. We have a lot in common, you and me," Wong said, as he scrolled down the tablet.

"I doubt that very much."

Wong continued, as if he hadn't heard her. "We're both cut from the same cloth, so to speak."

"What do you mean?"

"I see that your great-grandparents came from Guyana, in South America."

"So?"

"Mine did too, around the same time, back in the nineteen sixties. They were all coming here to give their children a better life. It's what we're trying to do here, now. Why don't you help us?"

Beverley laughed. "That's funny. I heard that they left the old country because of a brutal dictatorship, and now we seem to be going down the same road here."

Wong ignored the remark and looked at his tablet. "Says here that you applied for a child permit twice and you were rejected because you didn't pass the means test."

He had to be accessing the government's central database. What other information did they have on her, she wondered. It was rumored that they knew everything about you these days, right down to your smoking habits. Wong would also know that Tom had been a sperm donor before he was sterilized in his early teens. His sperm was now held in a central bank, monitored and doled out by authorities, to be used in artificial placenta and vitro fertilization, a process that regulated childbirth from conception right down to delivery.

Beverley sniggered. _Means Test_ : it was an oxymoron for a process to determine whether you were fit to be a parent. The Department of Conception developed a dossier of the applicant, no doubt with information from the central database. Based on a number of different factors ranging from your ability to provide for the child to your psychological profile, you were deemed eligible for parenthood or rejected outright, with no explanation provided. The Freedom of Information Act had been abolished long ago and no one could access government information, but Beverley was sure that smoking would have played a major part in the decision.

"I can fix things so that you have that permit," Wong said.

Beverley shook her head. "No deal. It's a bit too late for that. Either book me, or let me go."

Beverley stirred. She'd been sleeping on Tom's shoulder. The tunnel had grown even more crowded and the noise level had increased substantially. A few people had fallen into the actual sewer and climbed back out with the help of others in the group. Tom was still smoking. She'd thought it was the only one he'd had and was surprised to see another cigarette between his lips. He seemed to have a secret stash that he was not sharing with her, something that was unlike him.

Sooner or later they had to leave and go out again, hoping to escape detection. It was growing much more difficult in the city than the rural areas that were facing a prolonged dry spell. Forest fires had already wiped out thousands of acres of prime forest. The government was unable to detect smokers there, as much as they were unable to control the fires raging out of control.

The tunnels in the city had become the last escape for smokers, and all around she saw nervous people coming to the end of their community cigarette. Tom was no different – he looked like a bird that had grown accustomed to the security of its cage and was fearful that if he left he might meet some unknown peril and not know how to deal with it.

A sudden calm rippled through the entire tunnel. It was like being in the eye of a hurricane.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and listened.

"Do you hear that?" Beverley said.

Tom shook his head. "Don't hear anything."

"Yes, it's coming from the direction of the entrance."

It was where everyone's attention was focused.

"You're imagining things," he said. "There's nothing back there."

But people had already started to head for the escape tunnel in the rear.

"We should go," she said.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," Tom said. "Wait here with me. I will take good care of you."

Wong had told her the same thing: that he would take good care of her.

She ran with the others. The last time she looked back, Tom was calmly puffing away on his cigarette, looking as if he didn't have a care in the world.

THE END

THE FAMILY TRADITION

# by Kirstin Pulioff

http://www.kirstinpulioff.com/

Jackson's family had a peculiar tradition. They planted treasures. It started generations ago when Jackson's great-great-great-grandfather planted his magical beans. As with most traditions, the reasoning behind it was long forgotten, but the practice remained, and every new generation looked forward to this rite of passage. On their thirteenth birthday, they journeyed to the fabled spot and planted their own treasure in hopes of magic.

On the eve of Jackson's birthday, he could hardly sleep. Visions of beanstalks, magic, and adventure raced through his mind as he carefully planned which treasures to plant. By the time the first yellow rays of sunshine peeked through his bedroom window, his eyes were open and his stomach twisted in anticipation.

A soft rat-a-tat-tat sounded on his window. He ran over at the commotion and instantly smiled. Down in his front yard stood his best friend, Gretchen. With her strawberry-blond hair pulled back neatly into a ponytail, wearing her work overalls, and a blue gingham shirt, she looked quite at ease with the big shovel slung over her shoulder. Her goofy grin matched his. She had been waiting for this day too. One more rock thrown in fun was all it took to get Jackson moving.

"Mom," Jackson called out, running down the stairs, his fingers futilely trying to straighten the messy mop of brown curls on top of his head. "Mom?" he asked again, seeing no sign of her in the main room or hall. "Mom!" he yelled.

"Jackson, honey, what is it?" She ran into the room, soap bubbles dripping off her fingertips.

"Sorry, Mom," he said sheepishly. "I just wanted to see if I could run around with Gretchen today? We're going to plant our treasure."

Her exasperated frown turned to a soft smile. "Of course, dear. Just remember- be careful where you dig, some treasures are meant to stay buried... and have fun." She waved him off, soap suds flying, as he jumped through the door.

The door shut behind him as he bounced down the front steps to meet his friend. The rough cobblestones cooling his bare feet, as he ran to her side.

"Are you ready?" Gretchen asked excitedly, her little nose scrunched up, making her sun-kissed freckles stand out even more. Standing there with one hand on the shovel, and a basket of bread beside her, she tossed the bean-shape container to him. "Think fast," she giggled.

"Careful," Jackson warned seriously, leaning in and grabbing the container before it broke. "I only get one of these." Looking down to make sure there were no scratches or marks, he saw his reflection staring back. Big blue eyes, a head full of brown curls, and more freckles than was considered cute covering his cheeks.

"Come on," she urged, "Are you ready?" she asked again, shaking the shovel impatiently.

"You bet," he said, raising his eyebrows, with a crooked smile, and cradling the container carefully in one hand. "Let's go, I'll race you!" Without looking back, he ran, his toes digging into the ground beneath him, spraying grass tufts behind.

They raced through the countryside, over the hills, and across Farmer Percy's beet farm, their feet carrying them as fast as they could.

"Beat you," he said, hunched over, his chest burning as he caught his breath at the edge of the river.

"Not fair," Gretchen cried as she caught up to him, dropping the shovel and basket. "I would have won if I wasn't carrying all that stuff."

Jackson looked at her and snickered, "sure, you would have."

She picked up a loaf of bread and hurled it at his head.

"Hey!" he yelled, ducking in time, as it splashed into the river behind them.

Gretchen covered her mouth in surprise as he looked back toward her. With one quick look, they fell back laughing..

This was the perfect day for planting a treasure. The sun warmed but didn't harden the ground. Tantalizing scents of tulips and daffodils, magically appearing overnight flowed through the air. Bright green buds burst open on the edges of trees beckoning the new life for the season, and quick streaks of silver blinded them as the river reflected the warm sun.

Gretchen sat on the edge of the river, dangling her grass stained toes in, watching the ripples move away from her. Jackson sat beside her, tossing rocks, smiling at the soft plunk-plunk as the rocks skipped the surface.

"Ok," he said tossing in his last rock, and pulling out an old, leathery, stained map from his pocket. "Here," he said pointing to the corner. "This is where we need to go, in the shade of the old bean plant."

"Are you sure?" Gretchen asked quietly. Her normal confidence replaced with a slight tremble. "My mom told me the Giants still hide in that part of the forest."

"Giants, nah," Jackson giggled. "They disappeared years ago when Great-Grandpa chopped down the beanstalk. We're almost there, and anyways," he said holding out his hand, "I'll keep you safe."

She smiled up at him and grabbed his hand. Together, they crossed the river and walked the rest of the way through the farmlands, to the far end of the dark forest, stopping as they entered the old clearing where the stump stood.

Long, sinewy vines wrapped around each other creating a thick stump, vertical fissures and cracks for small foot holds, the perfect combination of magic and nature. Even chopped down, the stalk was impressive. It stood over Jackson's head, and at least five feet around. Tiny sprouts of green vines twirled around the base, a living tribute to the magic and adventure their family planted.

"We're here," Jackson said quietly, looking up in silent reverence. Gretchen elbowed him, and nodded to the bean container.

"Did you remember everything?" he asked, slightly shaking the container and hearing a soft shuffle inside.

"Yes," she said, as the shovel took its first bite into the ground. "One loaf of bread from the bakery, and my stuffed unicorn, you just need to add in your pieces."

"They're right here," he said pulling them from his pocket, smiling at the loud thump as each treasure was dropped in- his favorite action hero and his magic rock. The rock was something special that he had found one day at the river. It was perfectly smooth and flat, and every time he skipped it on the surface of the river, it bounced along to the other side without sinking. If anything was magical to him, it was that rock.

They took turns digging, watching in silence as the pile of dirt grew.

"How deep do we need to dig?" Gretchen whispered, watching the pile of dirt tower above them.

Sweat beaded up on his forehead as he stopped to catch his breath. "I don't know." He wiped his brow with the back of his forearm. "But we only get one chance to bury our treasure, so we're going deep." Jackson yelled in excitement as he dug his shovel in deeper, and struck something hard.

"Found something," he said, reaching down to grab the items in the hole, and passing them off to Gretchen. A muddy bean shaped container like his, and a round, golden egg.

"This one is heavy," she said struggling to take it from Jackson's hands so he could climb out. "Ok, let's see what's in here," she said, shaking the dirt stained egg side to side. Jackson knelt by her side.

"Ewww," they squealed, pulling out a moldy blob that slightly resembled his mother's famous chocolate brownies. Quickly peaking in to see if there was more, Jackson pulled out a yellow ribbon, and some dried flowers. "I guess that is all from hers," he said disappointed.

"I wonder what's in the other one," he said, moving closer to the sparkly egg.

"I don't know, Jackson. This one looks different. Maybe your mom was right that some treasures should stay buried."

He looked at her with a mischievous smile. "All right, but what if we take just a quick peek? There's nothing wrong in that, right?" he asked. "Besides, this one is cracked anyway. We should check, to make sure nothing broke."

That was enough of an excuse for both of them. Squeezing together, Jackson took a deep breath and lifted the egg up gently in his hands.

"Ouch!" he exclaimed, dropping the egg, pulling his hand back to reveal a scratch as blood pooled in his palm. "It bit me. There's something in there." The egg rolled to the side where they had discarded the shovel and bread basket.

"I knew it, we should have left it alone," Gretchen whispered, quickly moving behind his back, shutting her eyes as the egg crackled. Jackson stood, mesmerized, listening to the scratching sound and watching as the egg shook, and the small cracks grew larger and larger. He fell back, tripping over Gretchen as they both watched the egg break away, revealing a small white bird.

Gretchen quickly hid her head behind his.

"Gretchen," he said, pulling on her ponytail to make her open her eyes, and pointing to the bird. "Do you know what we found?"

"What?" she asked, peeking through her fingers. She gasped, quickly covering her mouth. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Yes!" Jackson yelled excitingly, jumping up and down. "That is one of the Golden Goose's eggs. We found it, and it hatched! Do you know what this means? We can have gold, riches, anything we can dream of. It will all be ours." His eyes widened as his mind filled with ideas. "Gretchen, do you know what this means?"

"Do _you_ know what this means?" she asked, pale faced, looking at him in horror. "Don't you remember the old stories?" she asked. Jackson recalled the tales of blessings and curses as she continued. "It wasn't all golden dreams. Each egg that the golden goose laid was made either for human dreams or curses. If the feathers turned blue, a dream would come true. If the feathers turned orange..." she trailed off, watching the white bird peck at the base of the stump.

"...Dreamers, be warned." Jackson finished for her, knowing the stories himself. "Well, look here. This bird hasn't decided her colors yet, if we're nice to it, maybe we'll be on the lucky side." He said, stretching his hand towards the bird, holding out crumbs from Gretchen's bread basket. "Here, birdie birdie..."

"Jackson, I don't think we should be doing this." She slowly backed away.

"Don't be silly, it's just a little b-," he started to say and stopped as soft hues began to appear on the colorless wings.

The goose waddled around the stump, pecking at the crumbs from Gretchen's fallen basket. Stretching its long wings, they saw the white slowly fade into a darker cream, as colors were magically drawn. A green feather appeared on one wing, a purple of the other, a mask of blue above its eyes, the colors swirled around its body until one color dominated. Orange.

Gretchen pulled Jack toward her, as her eyes began to fill with tears. "Jackson, I'm scared. This was not the adventure we had in mind."

Jackson sat, mutely nodding, watching as his blessing of adventure turned into a curse before his eyes.

The bird moved, slowly at first, stretching its wings, waddling in curiosity toward them. Jackson reached for Gretchen's hand, and pulled her back slowly, keeping their eyes fixed on the moving curse.

Blood slowly dripped down from Jackson's hand onto the ground, alerting it to their slow retreat. Jumping closer, it sniffed and squawked. Their pale faces reflected back at them from its beady eyes, as the bird narrowed in—the fear on their faces, the trembling of their chins, the tears flowing down Gretchen's cheeks. They stood still, watching as the bird approached.

A quick squawk, some beating of its wings, and the orange bird took flight. They watched, stricken with fear as it circled overhead, gathering speed and strength, before turning back down toward them.

"Run!" Jackson yelled seeing the bird descending towards them. His chest burned as he struggled to run faster and farther, his feet matching the beat of his heart, until he heard the screams.

Looking back, he saw Gretchen flailing in the air. The bird's talons tightly hooked around her overall straps. Her screams shot straight to his heart. "Jackson!" she cried. "Help me!" Her voice cracked between sobs.

Jackson watched in horror as the bird carried his best friend, slowly disappearing in the sky above him. Her screams softened, and her freckles faded out of vision as they rose higher.

His heart pounded in his chest as his mind raced trying to find a way to rescue his friend. If only he hadn't shared this tradition with her, she would have been safe. He had dreamed of magic, but not at this price. Hearing her screams echo through the air, seeing her body swing all over, somehow the adventure of planting his magic rock seemed so insignificant.

The rock! The rock! He thought to himself. Quickly running, he skidded into the fresh dirt by the beanstalk stump, digging through until his container was found. Ripping it open, he scattered the pieces and ran, feeling the cold stone squeezed into his palm.

"Here, birdie birdie," he yelled again, watching it circle above. The bird squawked and dove towards him.

"One, two, three," he yelled, throwing the rock in a perfect arc. It skipped through the air, and bounced off the bird's beak. Gretchen screamed as the bird dropped her. The ground shook with a thud as her body fell to the ground.

"Gretchen!" he yelled, running to her side, feeling the gravel and dirt bite into his knees as he slid into the ground. "Are you all right?" he asked urgently, moving a strand of hair out of her freckled face. Watching her still face for some response, he held her hands gently in his, and wept.

Her pale lips inched up in a smile, but her eyes remained closed.

***

The sun had long set by the time he felt the cool cobblestones under his feet, and the weight of the door underneath his fingertips. The door swung easily, and the warmth of his home rushed over him. The sweet aroma of his mother's chocolate brownies hung in the air.

Jackson's mother watched him enter, and stopped in her tracks.

"Jackson?" she asked. "Is everything all right? Did you enjoy planting your treasure?"

He stared at her, with guarded eyes, not knowing the words to even begin explaining.

"Did you open any other beans?" she accused at his silence. "I hope you remembered what I said. That some treasures are meant to stay buried."

He stared back at her before walking away. "You have no idea," he muttered under his breath, knowing the thin line between a blessing and a curse, and all about buried treasures.

THE END

FLASHBACK

# by Linda Covella

http://lindacovella.com/

When I came to the Four Seasons Chapel, I slowed the car and peered out my side window. Two people shuffled outside the large, carved doors of the funeral home. I looked at my watch and drove on. It was early. I decided to drive through my old neighborhood, and aimlessly turned corners until I rolled by what we, as children, called "the little store." I stopped the car, stepped out, and, trying to muffle the click of my high heels, walked toward the store.

The building was empty, deserted. Splintery wooden sash framed a broken **window, its** web of cracked glass stretching to all four corners. Weeds and yellow dandelions grew in the cracks of the cement walkway, and half hidden in the tall seedy grass was a metal sign. Rust bled through the white background and blue letters that I knew spelled out Sal's Corner Market. Death whispered around the building; its soul had moved on. But I remembered when the store pulsed with life around its yard, up and down its stairs, and through its door.

The store was a favorite Saturday afternoon destination for me and my friend David. He would push my doorbell over and over until I answered. And I always beat anyone else to the door because when I heard the incessant ringing I knew it was David.

"Wanna go to the little store?" he'd ask.

We set off with a feeling of adventure and independence, but there was also a feeling of comfort that drew us to the little store, an expectation of knowing what and who we would find there.

On summer days, we joined other kids on the cement steps. Racing the sun, we licked our orange and yellow popsicles before they melted under the hot rays. Or, David and I poked through our bags of penny candy, forming our own secret club right in the midst of the other kids, our touching foreheads, whispers, and giggles the only walls and _Keep Out_ sign we needed. In the fall, walking into the little store, a blast of warm air, the musty smell of root vegetables and aged dark wood, and the sharp, sweet-and-sour scent of ripe apples greeted us. We ran directly to a glass case arranged with fluted paper cups holding fudge, peanut clusters, and peppermint creams. Jars of colorful penny candy stood on top of the case. Fingering the coins in our pockets, we fogged the glass case with our decision-making. One day, David bought me a jawbreaker, and I sucked on it for hours, or so it seemed, occasionally popping it from my mouth to his, both of us trying not to laugh as we passed the slippery ball between us, daring each other not to use our hands.

Sal and his wife lived in the rear of the building. Unusual and sometimes delicious smells wafted from the kitchen. Mrs. Sal, as we called her, brought her husband steaming plates of food with foreign, spicy scents and bright yellow sauces that he ate next to the cash register. Once, wandering the dark wooden floors, David and I peeked into the kitchen and saw Mrs. Sal baking cookies. David gave her his charming smile that always made mothers melt, and she handed us each a cookie filled with apricots and nuts, warm from the oven.

A breeze blew, and a ripped screen scratched against the faded gray siding, snapping me back to the present. I wandered around the back, through a gate hanging by one rusty hinge, and stared at the large oak tree shading the dry overgrown grass. I smiled. My first kiss was under that tree. David and I had discovered confusion and pleasure as we moved together from childhood into adolescence. Then my eyes burned with tears as I thought of the telephone call I'd received last week, and the reason I was back in this town.

"It's David," Karen, an old high school friend, had said. "...an accident...nothing they could do."

I walked up the chapel steps toward Richard and Karen, both whom I'd remained friendly with since high school. Their faces were white masks of sadness and shock. We hugged. Richard said David's mother had called them with the news of his death.

"It's still hard to believe," Karen said.

More people arrived, and I saw others from high school. Most I recognized, but I couldn't catch some of the names that flitted through my memory. Unlike me, David had stayed involved in their lives even though twenty years had passed since we graduated. From him I learned about Gary's high-level job in D.C., Kathy's divorce, and Diane and Tom's new baby. Just as, most likely, they heard highlights of my life as well.

I turned to follow Richard and Karen into the chapel and was saddened further by the building's cement-block façade with its cold, uninviting presence. But when I passed through the wooden double doors, a lush soothing garden welcomed me. The clear, leaded-glass ceiling lit the chapel with white natural light. The green of hundreds of ferns softened the brightness. Pink impatiens and red begonias dotted the chapel with color. Shadowed patterns from the leaves of tall twisted ficus trees flickered on the pews and walls.

We sat on a warm wooden bench near the front. I saw Carolyn, David's wife, with their two children. I was surprised to see her face was calm and free of tears. But she was like that, stoic and strong.

A table in front of the altar was arranged with photographs and flowers. A little shrine. A shrine of remembrance to David. There was a formal portrait of David, Carolyn, and the children, and one large photograph of David by himself—perhaps from his wedding. He was grinning, looking at someone or something to his left. He wore a black tuxedo and on top of his head sat a little girl's straw hat, the ribbons dangling in his face. That picture embodied David's spirit. He loved to laugh, and even more, he loved to make people laugh.

I bent my head and smiled. Yes, he had made me laugh; that was why I fell in love with him. Tears filled my eyes. My first love, I thought. My only...How could I sit there, fighting a body that just wanted to collapse into its sorrow? Carolyn, everyone, seemed to be in such control. The tears I held back filled my nose, and I dug into my purse for a Kleenex. I looked again at the straw-hat picture of David. A scene came to mind, and I drifted, a cocoon of memory wrapping itself around my senses. I was sixteen and I was with David and...

...we were racing down a hill on a Sears single-speed bike, laughing, shrieking, yelling. I was perched on the handlebars, my legs straight and spread in a V on either side of the front wheel. David was on the seat behind me. His cheek pressed against my upper arm as he leaned around me, trying to steer and stay on the sidewalk.

"David," I screeched, out of breath from laughter and fear. "Slow down! Oh my God, you have to stop!"

"Okay! I will! I am!" he yelled, probably trying to reassure us both that he was in control.

Suddenly we were at the bottom of the hill. David braked hard and turned the handlebars. I spilled off and tumbled onto a patch of grass. David jumped from the bike as it skidded across the ground. He landed near me, and then on his hands and knees, quickly crawled to my side.

He grabbed my arms. "Are you okay? Oh, God, Lizzie, are you hurt?"

I pulled him down on top of me. "I'm fine. I'm fine!"

We hugged and rolled together on the grass, laughing, recalling the details of our wild ride. We kissed. Sweet little kisses, then harder, our lips pressed together, then opening, exploring, savoring each other's taste, for minutes or hours, until we fell on our backs, panting. Later that night in bed, thinking about David, I slid my tongue along the inside of my lower lip, the skin still puffy and raw from our kissing...

"Hi, Eddy!" I was jarred back to the chapel by David's five-year old son.

I looked up and saw Eddy, David's closest friend, standing at the podium. Carolyn leaned over her little boy, whispered in his ear, and hugged him. Then she smoothed his hair while staring up at Eddy. Eddy's eyes were red and slightly swollen. The corners of his mouth turned downward and trembled. He, too, struggled for control while looking down at the podium. Then he cleared his throat and scanned the faces in the crowded chapel. His eyes locked briefly on mine. "All of you have your own story of how David touched your life. Me, I met David in high school. We were in tenth grade. I'd just moved to this town, a tough age for a kid to start over. But David—" Eddy nodded and smiled slightly. "—of course it was David who made me feel welcome, who brought me into his group of friends. And that was the beginning of sharing time with one of the best guys, the best friend a person could have." His voice faltered. "He—he was always there for me. I'll never forget the times we had. I—I remember once, well, we had cut class--"

Soft laughter rippled through the chapel.

Eddy continued, seeming to relax some. "We were hiking in the hills behind the school..."

I glanced over my shoulder, saw Brenda, and we nodded at each other. I turned back around. David and I, Eddy and Brenda. We were an inseparable foursome all through high school. After Brenda went away to college, Eddy didn't have another steady girlfriend for years. So, with Brenda gone, our foursome became a group of three, even to the point of Eddy becoming our roommate when David and I decided to move in together. I was excited about getting our own place, but not about Eddy sharing it with us. We planned to tell our parents as soon as we turned eighteen. We knew they'd be stunned, and in fact, my father didn't speak to me for at least a year after I moved out. At that time, unmarried couples living together was a shocking event, and I still couldn't believe we'd had the nerve to do it. But the fights with my father had become almost constant—I was desperate to get out. And, besides, David and I were tired of sneaking around, tired of trying to find places to be alone.

After our first exciting, awkward attempts at lovemaking, we only became more fevered, as if with an addiction we couldn't, and didn't want to, give up. Our favorite hideaway was a basement room at David's house—his brother's bedroom before he left for college. His parents both worked, so we could easily sneak down there after school. It was especially cozy on rainy winter afternoons when the windows fogged, and we burrowed under the covers, touching, giggling, whispering.

"Skin on skin," David murmured in my ear, his body stretched out on top of mine. "Such a great feeling. And your skin, it's so smooth." He slid down, kissing my breasts, my stomach...

Later, lying next to him, my arm slung over his chest, our legs entwined, we took turns describing our new apartment. Me—the throw pillows, the color of the rug, the curtains I would sew. Him—the stereo equipment, the speakers that would be placed just so for maximum sound. All dreams, because of course we would barely have enough money to cover food and rent, the basics. But it wouldn't matter, would it?

_Our love nest_ , I thought, and even though it sounded silly, I said it out loud. "That's what our apartment will be, our little love nest."

"And a room for Eddy, too."

I stiffened. "David, come on. You aren't really serious, are you?"

He leaned up on his elbow. "We've talked about this how many times? You know he has to get out of that house. His parents are driving him nuts, and he can't find anyone else who's ready to move out. It'll just be for a while." He tickled me and smiled his irresistible smile. "Come on. Don't be a grouch." He kissed me, and whispered, "Come on, Lizzie, come on." And I _couldn't_ resist him, my drug, my love, my life...

Eddy was walking back to his seat, his head bowed, wiping his eyes. Daniel, David's older brother, took his place at the podium. Unlike Eddy, Daniel seemed to be in control--no swollen eyes, no trembling lips. I hadn't seen him for at least fifteen years, and he had changed little, just a few wrinkles around the eyes, his hair still thick though beginning to gray, no middle-aged fat around his face or waist. I never really got to know him, only seeing him occasionally during the holidays and other special events. By the time he moved back to town, I was gone.

Daniel put his fist to his mouth and coughed quietly, then he, too, looked over the crowd who had come to honor his brother. "I had no idea. I had no idea how many friends David had, how many people were so important to him. We all loved him, didn't we?" He closed his eyes briefly, and then continued. "When I moved back to the old house after my parents died, it was a pretty strange feeling. Mom and Dad gone, settling my own family into that house I'd lived in my entire childhood, seeing my old basement bedroom—that was a trip." David smiled and shook his head, making people chuckle.

Maybe Daniel created his own special memories in that room, I thought. Before he went off to college. Before David and I took it over.

"But," Daniel continued, "David and Carolyn made me and Joanne and the kids feel immediately welcome. We knew we had come home. I'll never forget that, and I'll never forget that we're family, Carolyn. You and Josh and Wendy." He smiled down at them. "I remember when Josh was born, and David called us. Man, was he excited. I wanted to tell him 'Slow down,' but of course I didn't have the chance, I could only wave to Joanne to grab the extension while David rushed on, telling us every detail..."

Carolyn bowed her head and put her arms around her children, their soft dark curls the same as their father's. Yes, David got his two children just as he had always wished for, a boy and a girl with the names he had told me so many years ago.

"Lizzie," David said. "What should we name our kids? We don't want more than two, right? A boy and a girl?"

We were parked in a turnout overlooking the beach. I'd talked David into going for a ride. I needed some time away from Eddy, and some time with David, alone. Eddy had been fired from his job at the Sport Chalet, hadn't signed up for any classes, and was hanging out at the apartment day and night. "Give him time," David said. "He's sort of depressed right now. Brenda's gone; he lost his job. Give the guy a break."

We'd started our first semester of college, and besides sharing our apartment with Eddy, it had also turned into a party haven for all our friends. Almost every night someone was over, smoking pot, blasting music. David and I skipped more classes than we should. But, both being art majors, we rarely missed painting, drawing, or art history. Our kitchen table was permanently covered with our latest projects, whether it was oils, charcoal, or collages that made our friends eye us questioningly. But David and I knew exactly what meaning lay behind each other's work.

"Baby names, David?" I watched the waves roll up on the beach. "I have no idea. Why are we talking about this now?"

"Come on, Lizzie. Just think about it for a minute. Me? I'd name the boy Josh, and the girl Wendy. Now, what would you name them?"

"Oh, all right. Joni and Mick. How's that?"

David laughed. "Joni, okay. But Mick? I refuse to have a son named Mick. Besides, I'm jealous of him you know, this infatuation you have with Mick Jagger."

I made him slide across the seat of the old station wagon, and I hopped onto his lap and wrapped my arms around his neck. "It's not infatuation. It's love. L-O-V-E love."

He tickled my waist, and I squealed. We wrestled into the backseat, laughing, panting, kissing, and then hurriedly, heatedly, making love while I watched over David's shoulder in case a stranger, or a cop, should suddenly appear.

Later that night in bed, I thought about the baby names and a small knot formed in my stomach. I had a secret. Something, in some strange way, I was ashamed of, afraid to tell anyone, even David. I didn't think, no I was pretty damn sure, that I didn't ever want to have children. And if I _did_ tell David, what would he say?

The minister stood behind the podium. "I did not have the pleasure of knowing David as intimately as you all did—his family and friends, his students. Carolyn told me they came to this chapel once for a wedding, and David had marveled at its beauty. His love of nature was strong, an important part of his life and his art. I think we can all feel his presence here today. There is a saying by John Muir that speaks of David and his immortal spirit. Muir wrote: _This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere_. When we think of David, let us remember..."

I silently repeated Muir's quote. It _was_ beautiful, and appropriate for David. I could see those early paintings so clearly in my mind, the ones from class where he was still learning technique, finding his own style.

We started taking school more seriously when our friends got their own apartments and quit coming to our place so often. Around the same time, Eddy and I had a big blowout fight, and he finally moved out. I was relieved, but David was down for weeks. I think it pained him that his best friend and girlfriend couldn't get along. But we loved David; we had no need for each other. School, though, our art, became the most important thing for David and me. I was taking graphics classes and becoming interested in commercial art. Once, I visited my teacher's studio, a graphics business he ran with some other artists. The bustling atmosphere and electricity in the air excited me. What a contrast to the quiet and isolation of the fine arts. But David thrived on that, and more and more, he focused on nature paintings, taking his sketchpad and pastels with him on our hikes and camping trips. I did, too, and we would settle on the ground, side by side, sketching, my drawings stylized, almost abstract, his soft and so enveloping, that later, when I studied them at home, they immediately drew me back to that place--the woods, a stream, the beach.

I remembered one camping trip. It was after Labor Day, so we were able to find a quiet uncrowded campground. We had just gotten a puppy, an adorable fluffy Australian Shepherd, and this was her first camping trip. After dinner and cleanup, we sat next to the fire, nothing visible beyond the ring of firelight, and when we threw a stick for the puppy, she would stop at the edge of light as if it were a wall.

David laughed. "Oh, man. What a wuss we have for a dog."

I punched his arm and scooped the puppy into my lap. "She is not. How mean."

"That's what we'll name her. Wussie the Aussie." We still hadn't agreed on a name. He poked a stick into the fire, sparks flew up, and the puppy jumped then burrowed her nose under my arm. David crowed. "See? What did I tell you? Here, let me see her."

I handed the puppy to him. "Be nice."

"Wussie! Here Wussie!" He snuggled the puppy against his cheek. "Are you my little Wussie?"

"We are _not_ naming her that," I said, laughing.

"Okay. How about Fussie? Gussie? Pussie?" I glared at him, and he held the puppy in front of his face. "What's your name, huh? What?" He leaned his ear close to the dog's snout. "What's that? Ah!" He looked at me triumphantly. "She said her name is Lucy!"

"Lucy! I love it!" I looped my arm through his, and we both stared, smiling, at our Lucy.

Later, when we crawled into the tent and squirmed inside our zipped-together sleeping bags, we let Lucy curl up between us as we fell asleep. Sometime in the night, I woke to Lucy's stirring and whimpering.

David murmured, "It's your turn to take her out. I'll get her next time."

I sighed, pulled on my sweatshirt, and carried Lucy outside. The wind had picked up, and it waved across the crest of the pine trees. The nylon tent rustled, and a metal clip clanked against a tent stake. A plastic cup clacked across the picnic table, then tap-tapped against some rocks on the ground, and Lucy scampered after it. I watched her. What a doll. I really loved her, and knew David did, too.

When we broke up, one of the hardest decisions had been—who would take Lucy? But then, there really was never any question. I was leaving for New York University, and the chance to someday have my own graphics arts business in one of the most exciting cities in the world. David couldn't conceive of living anywhere else but this town. His dream was simple: us, two kids, the dog, our art, and teaching. I couldn't say goodbye, but I had to. Our dreams had taken different paths, and Lucy became part of his. He called me, years later, to tell me Lucy had died. I could hear the tears in his voice, and when I hung up, I cried, too.

I waited my turn then walked forward to hug Carolyn. I touched her children's curls as they each clung to one of her legs. Then I wrapped my arms around David's mother, Shirley, biting the insides of my cheeks to keep back my sobs. Her shoulders shook beneath my embrace. Shirley and I had always liked each other. I knew she got along with Carolyn, but didn't share the same closeness that she and I'd had. We murmured a few words. I squeezed her hands, then trailed away to allow the next person to offer his condolences.

I walked down the chapel steps. My heel caught in a crack, and my ankle twisted slightly. "Damn it!" That anger, that emotion, finally released my tears, and they flowed down my cheeks into the corners of my mouth. I stumbled down the steps, fussing with my hair to hide my face from any passersby. As I headed back to the rental car, back to my advertising agency, back to my fifteenth-floor apartment with its million-dollar view, back to Elizabeth, not Lizzie, never again Lizzie, I looked once more, over my shoulder, at the scene in front of the chapel and choked on the pain constricting my chest. I could not believe I had to say goodbye to David, my love, my true love, a second—and final—time.

THE END

THE WAYWARD PARCEL

# by Mary Meddlemore

http://marymeddlemore1.wordpress.com/

"What do you want?" the old woman asked. I looked into her eyes.

"I want to belong," I heard myself answering. "I would like to buy some of your necklaces," I corrected myself and stooped to finger a green, white and black anklet.

"Sit down," she commanded.

I did.

I had gravitated towards her every Saturday for the past month now. The marketplace was just on the other side of the post office. It was bristling with sellers and buyers, noises and shapes, but she was the sun. She was a field of daisies. She was an old woman draped in orange cloth, carefully choosing the colored beads from a row of old margarine tubs and threading them one by one on a black leather string. She was sitting on a brown blanket. Her wares were spread on a white lace cloth in front of her.

"I'll make you one," she said. Her fingers were stubby, like the branches of an old tree. She tied a knot in the string. "Tell me what you want."

"I want to belong," I repeated. "I was delivered to Africa thirty-three years ago, but it was a mistake, my mother said. I belong elsewhere. They had to tear me from the womb. I don't belong anywhere. I am a wayward parcel."

The old woman rummaged in the tub with black beads. It made a soft rustling noise, like an unseen mouse in long grass. Then she picked a bead and threaded it into the string.

She looked up. "Yes?" she asked.

"I love post offices. I used to love post offices. I thought I might be redirected to a different place." I took the stamp from my forehead and crumpled it in my hand. "It was just a silly game."

The old woman stirred the tub with white beads. The beads rustled with the same soft stirrings. She picked one and threaded it into the string.

"Yes?" she asked and almost smiled.

"I loved and lost and lusted and lied," I said. I wasn't sure what the sentence meant, but it did seem to say something about where I had been.

The old woman took one of two rather dried-up looking oranges by her side, scraped a hole in the skin and started peeling it. She broke the orange in two and gave me half. I took it and promptly put the whole half in my mouth. I chewed and swallowed and then spat out a few pips. It was incredibly sweet. The juice ran down the side of my mouth.

Then the old woman did smile as she ate her half wedge by wedge. When she had finished she carefully wiped her hands on a piece of cloth and chose a bright orange bead to thread into the necklace of my life, which, apparently, was being shaped in her hands. I was fascinated and glad that I had come here.

I eyed the tub with the blue beads. Surely I needed a little blue now.

I waited for her to say "Yes?" again, but she was waiting for me.

I rubbed my hands. They were sticky with orange blood. "I am creamy and privileged. My mother wouldn't have approved of the way I ate the orange. I was well brought up in a civilized way. We were taught respect for everyone. I am well educated. I travelled the world. I nearly married a Frenchman. I had an affair with a Nigerian in Berlin. I marched in protests against discrimination. I went on a hunger strike in sympathy with downtrodden people and I still don't belong."

Her hand was hovering above the tub with blue beads.

I wanted a blue bead. I wanted a blue bead. I wanted. I wanted to belong under African skies.

She picked a yellow one.

I was suddenly nauseous. "Being hungry for the sake of a cause is not being hungry," I said.

"Yes," she said and threaded the yellow bead.

I stood up. "I have to go now. How much is the necklace?"

"It isn't finished."

"I want to buy it anyway."

"It isn't finished."

"Thank you, anyway," I said and found a few notes in my pocket. I held them out to her.

She didn't take them.

I put them on the ground in front of her.

She didn't move.

A faint breeze suddenly stirred the marketplace, lifted the notes and carried them in all directions. Other people chased them down.

I walked away. I could not see for the tears that were streaming down my face. I wanted the blue one.

I could not find my car. Perhaps it was stolen. I caught a bus home and locked the door behind me.

I stayed in my house for six days. I didn't open the door when Agnes hammered on the door. I ate all the food that was in my house. I drank all the liquor. I sat in front of the TV but I didn't switch it on. I slept, dreaming of a new Ice Age and the sun. It was a dream divided.

Agnes's voice, threatening to call my mother, eventually pierced my solitude. I opened the door. The leaves had accumulated in front of my door.

She grinned. "You look awful. Shall I call your mother anyway?"

I smiled.

"New neighbors on the other side of me are having a house warming tonight. Please come."

She didn't repeat the threat. I was feeling silly anyway, melodramatically silly. I had a wonderful life. There was nothing wrong with it. There was nothing wrong with me. I just had to stop my crazy little obsession. No more post offices for me. Of course I belonged. I had lots of friends. I had a mother who would promptly fly in from England and probably kick down the door herself it she knew there was something wrong with me. She thought I was still with friends on a yacht in the Bahamas. I have never been there, but you had to keep a diligent mother off your back. While I was supposed to be in the Bahamas, I had been doing the rounds of all the weird small post offices I could find. I had been standing in long queues waiting to buy a one Rand stamp to paste onto my own forehead. Hoping, always hoping.

"Okay," I said and went to have a shower and dress for the party. It was time to stop sulking, grow up and party. It was time to celebrate.

An hour later I followed the music to the party. The gate was open. The little garden was prim, proper and neat. I should do something about my own garden. It was a wilderness. The Home Owner's Association was probably going to complain soon. We had to keep up pretences. You could fall apart anytime you wanted, torture anyone you like, as long as the grass was cut and you didn't smoke. I immediately lit a cigarette.

The front door was open. The room was overflowing with people, trying very hard to have a good time. I was on the point of making a U-turn when I saw him. He was the only one not trying to have a good time. He looked neutral. He just sat there, alone on a couch, with his feet primly together, his hands clasped on his lap. He wasn't drinking, he wasn't eating. He was just sitting there. He was nice-looking in a kind of mediocre way.

I squashed the cigarette in an ashtray, poured myself a drink and sat down beside him. "Hi," I said.

He looked up briefly. His eyes were very blue, though his hair was thin and a nondescript brown. "Hi," he said and looked at his clasped hands again.

"Patricia," I said.

"John," he mumbled without looking up.

"You live here? In the complex?" I asked.

"No. Someone asked me to come."

I sighed and swallowed my drink. I twirled the empty glass in my hand.

"What do you do for a living?" I asked.

He looked up again and then down, almost immediately.

"I explore impossible places," he answered.

I smiled. He was a joker and perhaps interesting. "How do you do that?"

"I observe," he replied.

He wasn't smiling, and neither was I. He was a nutcase. I had better go. But, being a nutcase myself, I persisted.

"How? Explain it to me!" I commanded. "How can you explore places that don't exist?"

"Do you see the stain on the carpet beneath the coffee table?"

I leant forward. I nodded. There was a reddish stain on the beige carpet.

"Does it look like Africa to you?"

I fell on my hands and knees and had a good look. "Perhaps," I answered. "Sort of."

His face lit up. His smile made him look like an angel. Or perhaps it was because I was still on my hands and knees. I got up. "Are you crazy? High on something? What is the matter with you? Who are you?"

"John," he answered, still with that smile.

I parked myself on the couch again. "What if it looks like Africa? It is still only a stain under a coffee table."

He kept on looking at me, with that smile. "What if Africa were only a stain on a carpet beneath somebody's coffee table?"

"But it isn't." I needed a drink, but I could not tear myself away from that smile. He looked so happy, so excited. "Come home with me," I said.

"Okay," he said and got up immediately.

We went out into the garden. He walked beside me. "Any impossible places here?" I asked. Could this prim and proper garden produce similar fantasies in this man?

He immediately fell on his stomach on the manicured little lawn and then he rolled over. "Yes," he said. "Come and see."

I stretched myself out on the grass next to him.

Late arrivals to the party stepped over us without stopping.

I stopped breathing. Then I gasped. The full moon was rising behind the conifer. And the conifer shone like a giant candle.

I turned to him. "Who are you?" I asked.

"John," he answered.

I was trembling when I got to my feet. "Let's go home," I said.

"Okay," he said and walked beside me.

I unlocked my front door. What mysteries are going to be revealed with this man by my side?

We balanced on chairs. We slithered under beds. We explored ordinary impossible places. He never touched me, yet he held me in his hands. It was ecstasy. My house was a universe.

I made us some food, but he wasn't hungry. I spilt some milk. It was the full moon on my kitchen floor. I couldn't handle it any more. It was too much. I fell asleep eventually. He was still sitting on a dining room chair, his feet neatly together and his hands folded on his lap, staring out the window at the night sky.

When I woke up it was light already. He was gone. There was no sign that anyone had been in my house. I had imagined him. There was some sour milk on the kitchen floor though. It didn't look like the full moon any more. More like a moon landscape. I fell on my knees and had a good look. I tried the parallel perspective flat on my stomach. It looked like the surface of some weird planet, perhaps. Certainly not like sour milk on my kitchen floor.

I fetched a bucket and was happy while I washed the floor with warm soapy water.

I showered, dressed and caught a bus to go and look for my car. If it was really stolen, I had to report it.

When I got to the car park where I thought I had left it, I passed the gate and went to the marketplace instead. She was there, as if she never leaves.

I sat down beside her.

She took my half life from her neck and held it in her hands. "I kept it safe and warm," she said.

"Thank you. I think I imagined a man. He spent the night in my house. It was wonderful."

She smiled and selected a green bead.

Her hands kept on working.

A blue bead.

An indigo bead.

A violet bead.

And then she reversed the process.

Another violet bead.

Indigo.

Blue.

Green.

Yellow.

Orange.

Red.

White.

Black.

She completed my life with a knot.

"There," she said and held it out to me. "It is done."

I took it. The necklace was alive in my hands.

"Thank you," I said and hung it around my neck.

I was comforted.

I was happy.

"Twenty Rand," she said.

I gave her a hundred.

"Thank you," she said.

On my way to the car park, I started running. I was seventeen again, doing the 800 meters. I was a champion. I had a rainbow around my neck.

A shot rang out and I fell.

"Eish! Easy. Easy, Sissie," a voice said and a hand helped me up.

I looked for blood. I had been shot.

But only my hands and knees were bruised. It was probably just a cracker, or a car backfiring.

"Look out for potholes, Sissie. This is Africa, you know?" He was young, niftily dressed in white and black, with a little white hat askew on his head. And he was amused.

I dusted my knees. "Yes," I said. "The potholes. How can I forget?"

"You all right now, Sissie?" he asked.

I nodded. I was all right. I really had to calm down and try growing up.

My little yellow jeep was still in the car park. I tipped the attendant, who smiled broadly. I drove home and parked the car in the garage. I switched off the engine. I pressed the remote again and the garage door closed behind me. It was deathly silent.

I switched the car on again.

_Safe_ as houses

Tuck me in

Daylight waits for no man

You're still young and breathing's easy

Suck it in*

I switched the engine off and went into my house. What was I doing here? Why was I still here? Why wasn't I on a yacht in the Bahamas?

I switched on the TV.

Corruption

Racial tension peaks

Murders

Hijackings

A new species of hominid called Australopithecus Sediba was discovered on the Malapa Reserve in the Cradle of Humankind World Heritage Site. It is roughly 1.95 million years old.

Ah, yes. That was why I was still here. I lived in the cradle of mankind.

I fingered my necklace.

I may have imagined him, but I would go and ask Agnes if she had seen him too.

I stood on a garden chair and looked over the wall that separated our little courtyards. She was sitting under an umbrella, sipping a drink.

"Hi," she said. "Come over and have a drink."

"I just wanted to ask you something," I said. "About last night's party ..."

"Oh, sorry, so sorry. Are you angry with me for making you go when you hadn't wanted to?" Agnes started apologizing.

"No. Don't worry," I answered. "I had an amazing evening. I think."

"Come on over," she said. "And tell me all about it."

"Okay," I said. I didn't know Agnes at all. Yet I told her one day in a fit of rage about my irritating mother who kept watch on me like a manic hen. Since then I had a feeling that she took over my mother's role, though we seldom spoke.

I walked out my gate and into her garden. "Drinks are in the house. Help yourself," she said.

I sat down next to her. "I drink too much."

"Eish. Yes. We all do. You say you had a great evening?" Agnes smiled beneath her floppy white hat.

"Yes," I replied. "I met a man. I think. His name was John."

Agnes giggled.

Why was she giggling?

"I have a confession to make," Agnes said. "I did some matchmaking. You liked him? He is wonderful, isn't he? Weird, but wonderful."

"You know him?" I gawked.

"Yes." Agnes smiled. "He is my brother."

"Your brother? You talking about John?"

Agnes nodded with a broad grin.

"But you are ..."

She grinned again. "Yes. I am black and he is white. He is like a brother. Buti John. His mother adopted me."

My heart started thumping with wild abandon. He was real.

"He is shy, terribly shy, but an amazing man and a talented artist. His paintings sell like hotcakes. I am very proud of him. Buti John. I thought you might like him." She grinned again.

"Who are you?" I smiled. "My fairy godmother?"

A painter. That figures. "Where is he?"

"In the house, making dumplings. He can cook too."

I slowly got to my feet. My knees were buckling under me. "I will teach him to do a gumboot dance on the roof of my car," I said. "I thought of doing it this morning, but I decided against it. Now, I think it is a good idea. And I will teach him how to eat an orange."

As I walked towards Agnes's house the blue of the African sky entered my mind and all was at peace. My heart was beating to the thud-thud of an African rhythm. I was home. The potholes of life were merely the entrances to places where continents could be found under coffee tables. I stepped on the rake that was lying on the grass and the handle flew up and hit me an almighty blow on my forehead. I screamed and was dizzy with pain, while I could feel the bump on my forehead growing under my fingers. My mother was right. Africa was not a safe place. I sighed, said I was all right and collapsed in John's arms.

* _Safe as Houses_ by aKing:

<http://www.gugalyrics.com/AKING-SAFE-AS-HOUSES-LYRICS/438201/>

THE END

THE BOX

# by Michelle Browne

http://scifimagpie.blogspot.com/

Emily stared through the bulletproof glass into the waiting room. No-one around, again. Quiet days like this had a tendency to stretch on forever. She glanced around the office, trying to think of something to do. There were always things to do--application packages to make up, refilling the copiers, tackling the answering machines...the usual grind. She'd already done half of her to-do list, though.

The smell of toner, warm paper, and artificial flowers from the air freshener mingled nauseatingly. Resting a cheek on her hand forlornly, she glanced at the computer screen. Having been glared at a few times already for non-work-related internet use, the temptations of knitting forums were off limits. Better not to irritate The Boss and make her trundle out of her cavern for a scolding. Same thing went for her smartphone. She couldn't wait for the rotation to be up so she could get back to her campaign for a cushy Oil and Gas job.

With a sigh, she got up and headed towards the copy room. The smell of overheated engines and paper clogged her nose, and she gagged a little. Feeding chunks of flattened dead tree into the drawers of the printer listlessly, she wished she'd called in sick. Lazily, she headed to the mail cart and did a bit of sorting.

Finally, it was all taken care of. She was out of meaningless small tasks, and there still hadn't been any clients. Resting her forehead on the chipped arborite desk, she thought about nothing for a while.

Footsteps. She startled and sat up. One of the workers smirked at her and she grinned back weakly. He shook his head and disappeared down the hall, heading back towards the narrow labyrinth of offices.

As always at times like this, The Box seemed to beckon.

It wasn't much, really. A round, grayish, black-and-white box. A little scratched around the edges, probably from being carelessly dropped too often. There was something sticky on its lid, too, that felt like tape residue. The whole thing was fairly solid, about four inches across and three in height, and made of some sort of heavy, smooth stone—probably marble.

Once, she'd gotten up the courage to ask The Boss who it belonged to. The Boss had grunted and said, "Why do you want to know?" and returned to her paperwork.

Emily had sought the advice of the admin team instead. There had been many temps before her, from her company and from others, and before that, there had been a permanent secretary. It was (probably) the former permanent secretary's.

"So...whose is it?"

"It just stays there," said Answar, shrugging.

"Okay. Cool. Was just curious."

Emily had headed back after that, knowing she wouldn't be able to figure out anything else useful.

She shuddered and withdrew from her reverie. Someone was knocking on the glass and scowling. Wearily, she took their papers and put on her brightest fake smile. By the time she was done, Lindy was already coming around the corner.

"Break time," she said. "Get outta here."

"Back in fifteen," said Emily quickly. She scuttled off to the small, dingy kitchen.

Staring aimlessly into the bottomless pit of Facebook, she fidgeted and listened to the kettle boiling. It sounded like a tiny thunderstorm. Judging by the narrow view of the grimy office buildings and scraps of sky, though, it was perfectly sunny today. She shook her head at herself and fumbled with a teabag.

"Goddamn..." she tore through the paper packet. _Why are my fingers shaking?_ Dunking the teabag in the hot water, she watched the slow golden-brown blossoming of the tea dissipating through the water. She shivered, wondering why the office was so damn cold all of a sudden. Cupping her fingers around the mug, she took a long sip.

The clock on the wall stared at her blankly, an unsmiling face. Time to get back to work already. Shrugging and flexing her shoulders anxiously, she walked back down the hall, clutching her mug.

When she returned, and had dealt with the long, dull lineup, she found herself at loose ends again. The box seemed to stare at her.

She often wondered what was inside, had been wondering since she'd gotten there. Paperclips? Rubber fingertip covers? Elastic bands? Spare change? It was Aladdin's lamp, mysterious genie included, perhaps. Or did it hold something sinister, like a severed finger?

Emily shook it off. Severed finger? It was silly. And yet, she couldn't help picturing it—dried blood and white gristle poking out of the end, the nail broken and chipped from fighting, the flesh dry and dessicated...

Don't be an idiot. It would rot. You'd smell it.

The box was cool to the touch, smooth under her fingertips. Had it been a valentine's gift? A souvenir from some dull beach-bound vacation with too many martinis and not enough adventure? It was awfully plain for a souvenir, and awfully dark for a gift. There were no markings on it, except the small scuffs on the edges and the lid.

The lid. The office was empty. The Boss was upstairs in a meeting. Time to open it. Her curiosity burned, made her shiver in anticipation. Setting a fingertip on the edge, she—

The phone rang. Instinctively, she picked it up. The box would have to wait.

The bus ride after work took an unusually long time, and instead of playing with her phone, she watched the other people. Their tired faces revealed nothing. Her phone vibrated, but she let it be. Not a baby cried, not a person talked on the way home. It was eerie. Through the tinted windows, she could see clouds rolling in.

At home, her apartment seemed unusually empty. Since her cat had run away months ago, the place had been too quiet. To kill the silence, she turned on the television and let it run, listening to commercials as she mindlessly cooked dinner.

Trying to eat was a different matter. It turned to ashes in her mouth, the pasta dry and too bland. She chewed and swallowed mechanically, forcing the food down.

Emily glanced at her own finger, imagined it in the box. Shuddering, unable to face the rest of her tomato sauce pasta, she stood up and shoved it back in the fridge.

According to the clock, she still had time for a workout, but it didn't feel right. Instead, she pulled out her laptop and looked through humour sites for a while. A story about a woman almost losing her finger while she trained someone on a veggie slicer came up, and she wriggled uncomfortably, setting the laptop aside.

Something brushed against her neck. It was cool, feathery, even. She gasped, then realized it was her hair, falling out of her ponytail.

Emily gave up and headed to the shower. _Might as well make an early night of it, and head off to bed._

She had eczema again. Frowning, she scratched at it. It spread before her eyes, crawling over her ring finger to cover her middle and pinky fingers. The red, hard, itch places began to crack. As she flexed her sore fingers, they split, and oozed. Terrified, she watched as the ooze hardened to a yellowish crust. Her palm was covered in it, the strange oozing stuff. Suddenly, it split apart, rotting—

Emily's eyes snapped open. She lifted her hand and glanced at it. Perfectly fine. _Just a dream. Thank god._ Shivering, she got up for a glass of water. It was a long time before she got back to bed.

The next day, she dragged herself in blearily. "You look terrible," said The Boss. "And you're late."

Emily grumbled and apology and sat down.

_Okay,_ she thought wearily. _I can't go on like this._ The box waited. Before turning on the phone, checking the mail, any of it, she had to know. She lifted the heavy lid, stuck in place. Her fingers slid, sweating, and she found—

Nothing. It was empty.

Relieved and disappointed, her heartbeat slowing, she set it down again. The lid rested off to the side. She stood and leaned against the counter, catching her breath, and started to set up for the day.

She'd barely finished when the first client came up, and then the next, and the next. When it was over, and she'd gone for her first break, she found The Boss waiting for her at her desk.

"Can you copy me about a hundred of these and then cut them to size? Thank you." She left the paper on the desk. Robotically, Emily went to the printer and started to run them off. Staring boredly at the loading screen, she waited. The smell of toner and warm paper was in the air, as always. The air conditioner was over-tuned, as always. She wondered what had been so terrifying yesterday.

She turned around and put the first batch of pages on the papercutter. Lining them up carefully, she raised the stainless steel blade. They were perfectly at the one-third mark. Her hand shifted and her sleeve caught the edge of the pages. She adjusted it again, guiding the pages with a fingertip. The blade glinted in the yellow light.

She pulled it down.

_Chop._ A burst of pain. And then, Emily started to scream.

THE END

LEGACY

# by Mike O'Donnell

http://www.mikeodonnell.co.uk/

Martin Longbridge plucked at his straggly ginger moustache.

"You'll pull that thing off your face."

His mother hated the moustache. It reminded her that Martin was no longer a fresh-faced schoolboy. She knew why he had stopped his twice weekly shave. Earlier, in a tide of patriotic fervour and ignorance of modern warfare, he had queued with several under-age former classmates outside the recruiting office.

"Sorry, lad." The Boer War veteran smothered a grin. "You'd never convince the officer. Come back next year."

None of the others had been rejected.

At the time he had felt wretched, and immediately began cultivating age-adding bristles. As nineteen-fourteen moved on through 'fifteen, the war news gave reason to count the blessings of physical immaturity, and he never returned to the recruiting office, although by then the moustache would have fulfilled its purpose. His mother constantly urged him to shave it off.

Now, in his non-moustache tugging hand trembled an official buff envelope and a letter. The document was commonplace throughout the country in nineteen-sixteen. Thousands of men had received similar letters, and many more would be delivered before the year drew to a close. Longbridge had been called up. Casualties had to be replaced.

After the first blood-soaked day on the Somme, the city battalion had virtually ceased to exist. It had taken hours for Longbridge to get over the shakes as his thin finger ran down the casualty list pausing on name after name of dead and missing classmates with whom he had tagged along to try to enlist. Now his own services were demanded without him being given the choice. His country needed him, and he was no longer sure he wanted to go.

No, to be fair, he desperately wanted to go. Or at least his inner hero wanted to fight the good fight. The skinny outer youth who held the letter found the thought almost physically sickening. Longbridge occupied the lower reaches of the pecking order of life, and the outside civilian world was challenging enough. Even his first job of selling newspapers was a battle.

"Look, son. Young Gordon sells four times as many copies as you. It's 'cos he's got a good call. Use yer lungs. Don't matter what you shout, just get their ruddy attention." The newsagent treated Martin to a series of totally unintelligible rhythmic bellows of the 'Morny Stannit!' variety. "See? Then shove the paper under their noses. Make it hard to get past without buying. Everybody needs the morning paper."

Unfortunately everyone elbowed past Martin, and his tentative 'call' barely reached the nearest ear. He sold copies to those of a sympathetic nature, although they were few in the morning rush hour.

The unhappy fact about Martin was that his body and character did not match his yearning. He may have been faint-hearted, uncertain, and horribly self-conscious, but inside beat a stout heart. He longed to have the confidence and courage to be one of life's champions. He dreamt of bold deeds, of gloriously leading his fellow man, but it was as if the actor wishing to represent the hero on this worldly stage, had been given the costume and lines of the fool.

Hundreds of times in his life he had prayed for strength, for the unthinking courage he had seen displayed by others on the rugby field, or even for the simple unblushing ability to stand and sing in the chapel choir, but his prayers had remained unanswered. He was deeply scared. Luckily, it took less courage to comply with his mobilisation orders than to cut and run.

If school had been a trial, life in barracks was worse. Bullies were bigger, unpleasant duties more frequent, and life brutal and more physically demanding. There seemed no time to pause and reflect; no privacy.

His instructors harried him.

"Get a move on Longbridge. I wanna see scorch marks. Pick yer feet up."

"Volunteer wanted for the cookhouse. You'll do, Longbridge. Double away."

"You call that barrel clean, you 'orrible little man? I wouldn't even shoot a Hun with sunnink that grubby."

"I know it's probably stronger than you, Longbridge, but it's only a sack of bleedin' straw, an' it ain't gonna fight back. Pretend it's yer muvver-in-law and stick the ruddy bayonet in."

His fellow recruits mocked. He had kept his moustache but like his under-developed body, it suffered by comparison: recent schoolboys appeared more mature.

"What nearly crawled up your nose and died, Longbridge?"

"Watch out, Longbridge! Thought it was just your uniform hanging up. Didn't realise you wus inside it, Har! Har!"

"Look, Shortarse. We'll swap my guard duty tonight. It'll be healthier for you, 'cos if you don't, you'll be on Sick Call tomorrow."

All were equally afraid and nervous of what lay in front of them and needed someone weaker and more vulnerable to give them confidence in their own bravery. Longbridge fitted the bill perfectly.

Funnily enough, Longbridge loved the army. Or more accurately, he loved the idea of the army. The routine, the drills, the precision, the regulations, and most of all the uniformity, could have given him a secure place. He would ultimately have found a niche. But there was a war on and the Front was hungry for men. He was given no chance to acquire the anonymity offered by the vast organisation. He was pitched in, stirred about, and ejected before he could properly come to terms with the gigantic khaki machine. He might have dreamt of being a Wellington or Marlborough, to die in the hour of victory as nobly as a General Wolfe, but he had not even broadened out to fill his ill-fitting tunic, as the Quartermaster had promised, before he found himself in France. Nobility was the last thing he encountered.

It was the first time Longbridge had been abroad, although there was little indication that this chilly place was in a foreign country. He saw few of the local populace, he tasted none of their cuisine, unless "bully" and stew were all they ate. The only foreign sounds were the distant crump of the heavy artillery, and the everlasting tramp of booted feet on the cobbles.

For all the haste of his training there seemed little anxiety to get him and the new men anywhere special. A period of uncertainty followed that could well have spilled over from his nervous civilian life. He was unsure of what was required of him, but he drew comfort from the fact that no one else seemed sure of anything in that chaos behind the Flanders' lines.

There were six days, which for all the discomfort and strangeness, could have been said to equal the best in Longbridge's drab life. He did not feel set apart. No one was settled or secure, thrown as they were willy-nilly upon an alien shore, and Longbridge, for the first time in his life, did not experience that aching sense of loneliness caused by the gulf between him and his more capable fellow men.

Good things never last, and too quickly the battalion was on the move, shepherded and shouted at by irate and ghost-seeing Sergeants with lined faces and sunken eyes. The nearer they approached the Front, the more they saw of the white, strained faces. Longbridge was sensitive to nuances of looks and words. People who are timid need to be able to read the signs that tell them when they must head for cover. Longbridge was excessively timid and thus an exceptionally good sign reader. The more he read, the less he wished to go where those gaunt-faced men had been.

Before dusk on their way forward, they rested beside the stubby remains of a farmhouse, and Longbridge saw his first corpse. He had seen plenty of stretchered bodies in the rear, some of whom may have been dead, but this was the first time he had seen a dead person in situ. He had steeled himself for the moment as best he could but when it arrived it was almost beyond bearing. The stiff, appealing attitude of the limbs, the hideous, tight-stretched grin, the bloated body, the stench, and the impossibly coloured cold flesh, were unimaginable.

Their guide, an ancient lad of nineteen or less, casually pushed the German body aside and squatted in the ditch, looking down at the mud in front of him with unseeing eyes. There was no callousness in his action, there was nothing at all, except a man going through the motions of living, and for a second, Longbridge forgot his own misery and fear.

Even if Longbridge had been a normally courageous man there was little enough chance of dying nobly, as a nation's hero. He had supreme difficulty in preventing himself from cowering into a muddy corner, pulling his cape over his head and shutting the mad world out forever. His heroic insides may desperately have longed to be servers of mankind, but his legs had a rubbery will of their own. He could not stop himself from dropping to the trench duckboards whenever he heard the tearing sound of a shell passing overhead. Newcomers quickly recognised the need to duck when a "close'un" was arriving, but Longbridge never made the distinction. No matter how much he wanted to be like the other men who moved with complete unconcern around the dug-out, he could not do it. Even the passing asthmatic breath of a neighbour-bound "whizz-bang" would cause him to scrabble at the bottom of the trench as if trying to escape that earthly hell to a quieter place below.

There was one aspect of trench life for which he was continually grateful, and that was that none of the other men taunted or mocked him when he felt compelled to dive face down into the mud. Each had his own way of coping with the fear and constant tension, and such things were no laughing matter. Back in the rear, resting for a short time from the ever present danger, it was permissible to raise a chuckle at the foolish things one did, but only until it was necessary to do them again.

Longbridge was lucky. He arrived at the Front Line during a long lull in the fighting along his sector. Both sides were quietly licking their terrible wounds, and repairing what they could of their damaged men and warren-like homes. There were even several days when Longbridge did not have to scrape the mud from the front of his tunic after taking refuge pressed to the gelid ground. It could not last. There were action-demanding Generals, and the tempo began to warm once more. Again he was lucky.

The first time he fired his rifle in anger, at least it was as a defender. Anger and defender are merely words. Longbridge was not angry: there is no room for other emotions when the body is consumed with terror. As for defender, it is difficult to defend successfully with eyes tightly closed. Longbridge fired his rifle, but he had no idea where the rounds were going and nobody had time to spare to tell him that he was wasting Government property. He worked the bolt and pulled the trigger, his whole body clenched like his screwed-up eyes, and remained that way long long after the feeble probing attack by the Germans had petered out.

Longbridge's prayers now were not pleas to be given strength, but along with the majority of praying men on the front, he asked to receive a "Blighty" wound. It was a measure of how far he had been driven when he could pray to be hit and not to be spared completely from bodily pain.

By what must have been a clerical oversight, or it may have been that casualties arranged themselves conveniently, Longbridge eventually got leave, and the following summer he found himself in England away from the shells. He was glad to be home and away from the noise, fear, mud and danger, but it was like being in a dream. Always there was the numbing thought that he had to go back. It clouded everything, and gave Longbridge no respite from the twisting sensation in his stomach. He did experience a new feeling however; the attitude of other people towards him had changed. The uniform he wore brought him sympathetic glances and a sense of separation from the rest of the civilian world, which was totally opposite to the hostile separation he had always had to bear before.

Once, in a public house, an old man bought him a drink. The man had not said a word but placed the tumbler of whisky before Longbridge, patted him lovingly on the shoulder, and left. Longbridge had been overwhelmed. If ever he had wanted to be a real hero it was at that moment. He felt so unworthy. Before, his shortcomings had been a matter for self-loathing because they made his life worse for himself, now he despised them because he could not justify an old man's faith.

Back in the trenches he found that he was still the same man. When the barrage started, he was already huddled in the deepest part of the dug-out or pressing himself as closely as possible into the churned-up ground. He knew that there was never going to be a way he could justify the old man's gesture. In his heart he wanted to, but it was beyond him whenever he heard that calico-tearing sound of incoming death.

The time came when Longbridge had to do the thing that he feared above all else. It was considered the moment for a big "push" and his battalion was to form the first wave of yet another tide that would batter itself on the enemy rocks. That night there were jars of rum to still the thought of facing those stitching guns, and he drank more than he had ever done. The rum did not still the jumping muscles or fill the boundless emptiness in his chest. It did, however, carry his unwilling feet over the top in the cold dawn light, before all his fears were quieted for ever in the ensuing chaos and carnage, by a bursting shell.

If he had lived, Longbridge would never have possessed the courage, knowledge or opportunity to have developed into the hero who desperately wanted to inhabit his unfortunate body. He had not been given the qualities that would enable him to be an example to all men as he would have liked.

Much later though, his soaring spirit, body-freed, could have dreamt of no more glorious way to serve mankind than as a perpetual reminder of man's need for brotherhood, as it looked down to see the resurrected broken bones of Private Martin Longbridge laid to honourable rest beneath the eternal flame and inscription of the Unknown Soldier.

THE END

BABY

# by Olga Núñez Miret

 http://www.amazon.com/Olga-Núñez-Miret/e/B009UC58G0

The first time it hadn't been easy. The second...the second it was worse.

Carlo was an American, an Italian-American to be precise. Not so tall, dark, slightly on the heavy side. He worked in a second-hand car business, and wasn't very lucky with girls. After a couple of disastrous relationships with American girls, he went back home to Sicily on holiday, and his relatives introduced him to Sofia. She was in her early thirties, petite, shy, modest, good in the house, and she knew enough English to get by. He was already forty, and he realised it was time to settle down and have a family. They got married in Italy, and went back to America.

Sofia didn't fit in. She had grown up in a large family, and had never left home. Now, she wasn't in familiar surroundings anymore, and everybody was a stranger. Their financial situation wasn't good, and she managed to find a job as a nursery nurse. She loved children, anyhow, and her job was one of her only joys in life.

Sofia and Carlo were never passionately in love, but they wanted someone to share their lives with, and they wanted a family. They didn't quarrel; they enjoyed some good old Italian songs, loved cooking, and they were quite content. But for one thing. Children.

Sofia got pregnant a couple of years after their marriage, but she lost the baby in her third month of pregnancy. The effect was devastating. Both of them blamed themselves for it. Carlo was convinced he should have made her stay at home. Sofia thought she had done something wrong.

The process of recovery was slow and painful, and their relationship suffered. Carlo spent as much time as possible away, to avoid confronting his wife, and she grew miserable and bitter. The marriage was on the verge of disaster when his sister Lucia intervened and convinced them to give it another go. They did, because they were Roman Catholics and divorce was still not an easy option for them, and Sofia got pregnant again.

This time both felt this was it. She was almost 35 and her biological clock was ticking faster now. And, Carlo knew that if this time anything went wrong, she wouldn't recover.

It wasn't fair; it wasn't just, but- as Carlo's mother used to say- life hardly ever is, and on her fifth month, when everybody was convinced that the dangerous period was over, she lost the baby again.

It was a baby boy. They had already decided on a name, Antonio, Tony, and had made plans for his future.

Sofia didn't seem to take it in. She was strangely calm. She kept on talking about the baby as if he was still alive, and a reality. When they went out shopping, she would look at things for "the boy", she would buy magazines about caring for babies; she would watch all the programmes on them...Carlo didn't stop her. At first, he thought it was her way of getting over it, a fantasy that couldn't do any harm. Later on, he realised that Tony was more than an idea for her. He really existed, even if it was only in her imagination. Their doctor reassured him; it wouldn't last long, it was just a sign of pathological grief, but it would get better with time and attention. Only it didn't. According to Sofia's own version of things, Tony started attending the nursery where she was working, because that was the best arrangement for both of them. Sofia wouldn't talk about Tony to anybody but Carlo, and every time he tried to explain what was happening to any of his friends, they didn't take him seriously. As he could not win he joined his wife in her reveries about Tony, and they used to discuss his achievements, his failures (not that many, and never serious), his perfect health. Things remained the same for years, until one day, the company Carlo worked for offered him a managerial post in another town. After discussion with Sofia both decided that it was worth trying to start again, away from the scene of their painful experiences.

By the time they moved, "Tony" was already in his first year at University, in Princeton. Carlo was so busy with his new position at work that he left all the socialising to his wife, who seemed to get on very well in the middle-size town, more similar to her Sicilian hometown than the city.

He didn't meet his neighbours until 3 months after their arrival, when they were invited to a barbecue next door. When a woman asked him how his son Tony was doing at University, and shared information about her children, he realised that Sofia had gone a step further this time. The fantasy was official now. His son Tony wasn't real just for her, and, in a certain sense, him, but for the whole town.

When they went back home, Carlo tried to make her explain her behaviour, but she looked at him as if she didn't know what he was talking about, and he didn't dare to ask anymore. Over the next few months he kept on weighing what to do. She needed help, but he knew she wouldn't accept it. The summer holiday was approaching, and with it, the end of the pretence, he hoped. The boy should be back home for it, but he wouldn't be. She could make some excuse up, but a whole summer was a long time for such a devoted son not to go and visit his parents.

The first couple of weeks, Tony spent with his friend Andy, in Florida (official explanation). When Carlo came back from work, on the Monday of the third week, the house was full of people. All their neighbours seemed to be congregated there. His wife came to rescue him from his state of shock. She grabbed him by the arm, and took him to their dining room, where a young boy, tall and dark, was talking to Mrs. Spenser, the next door neighbour. Carlo didn't know what it all meant, but felt faint when he heard his wife teasing him for not welcoming their son after their long separation.

Carlo mumbled something, and shook the hand of the stranger, who insisted on calling him "Dad" all evening. Carlo knew it was impossible, it had to be a bad dream, but he didn't wake up. His sense of amazement gave way to anger and rage. When all the neighbours left, and his wife retired to bed, after kissing "their son", he confronted the "alleged" Tony, whose continual insistence on not giving him any explanation and reiterating that he was his son, drove him crazy. He had tolerated his wife's lunacy long enough already, but madness incarnate...No, it was too much. He put his hands around the boy's throat, and pressed, and pressed...He didn't even notice the resistance, he was concentrating so hard on his hands...

A couple of days later, Mrs. Spenser went to try and comfort Sofia with a few words about her son and the sad state of her husband's mental health (he had been confined to a Secure Psychiatric Hospital for an undetermined length of time). Sofia's reply made her feel ashamed and insensitive, against her best sense of logic.

Sofia said:

"I don't mind about Carlo. I can marry again. There are plenty of men around. But Tony...as extraordinary a son as Tony, you only get one in a lifetime...if you're lucky."

THE END

REVENGE

# by Peter Watson Jenkins

http://peter-watson-jenkins.com/

A shot rang out across the parking lot. It was deserted except for a few cars belonging to the government's night staff. A middle-aged man in a dark overcoat, on his way home from a late meeting, had just reached the door of his car. He fell to the ground with a bullet in his spine. Thomas, the security guard on duty at the government building failed to identify where the shot had come from, nor did he see the body lying on the ground until twelve long minutes had passed, during which the man had died. It was virtually unknown in that part of the capital city for sounds like rifle shots to be heard in the evening hours. In a country where gun laws were strictly enforced, few real shots were ever heard in that cosmopolitan area.

All Thomas' attention at that time was on a basement door in the main building that had been left open by mistake. The lock had not been oiled for a long time and it was difficult to push the door sufficiently hard to close it. That job done, he decided to investigate whether the noise had come from a car bursting a tire or catapulting a stone it ran over, winging it through the air. Walking slowly around the parking lot, he came upon the black ministerial car standing on its own, with a body lying beside it. He bent low and put his finger on the carotid artery of the stricken man, but felt no pulse. He called an ambulance, and it was there in moments.

Thomas had not known the identity of the victim, but it was soon discovered that this was none other than the leader of the opposition party in Parliament, Dr. Jan Elam.

Immediately upon the police identifying Dr. Elam, the President was informed of his death. In what seemed no time at all, a naval SWAT team descended upon the parking lot from helicopters as a mixed force of police and regular army personnel surrounded the neighborhood. Having secured a radius of half a kilometer with the army, the police went door to door. Some twenty people were taken into custody, and a few of them were tried for a variety of drug-related offenses. Nobody seemed likely to have been involved in the shooting. The police records of those interviewed included members of parliament, senators, a high court judge, and so on, down to the very least likely, a woman in her early fifties who had had too much to drink, and had lost her way in the dark.

The radio news broadcasts soon picked up the story. Their speculation was that a political enemy of the leader of the Progressive Party had bought an assassin to bring to an end the success of Dr. Elam's campaign to reform the tax structure. Newspapers and political blogs announced the next day that Elam had been winning over the electorate to curb the excessive pay and bonuses given to successful investors, bankers, captains of industry, and so on.

"It is time for the little man to have his day in the sun," Elam had said. With a general election due in seven weeks, the dead Jan Elam was readily cast as a martyr of the cause to support the working poor.

Suddenly, Elam, an alcoholic, womanizing glutton, that his friends feared because he kept close tabs on their own indiscretions as the means of safeguarding his reputation, had become a defender of the poor, even a saint. His often estranged wife told multiple lies to the press about his virtues, and downplayed their deep marital disharmony. There was a solemn funeral. He had been too controversial a figure, too flawed, to merit the accolade of a lying-in-state.

The President himself gave the funeral oration in the ancient cathedral. He mentioned that Jan, three years his senior, had been something of a mentor for him during college days. The public university allowed American style fraternities and sororities to provide for the needs of undergraduates. Both young men had been members of a rather notorious community, the Pink Panther Club, where fast cars, drugs, and riotous living had been its main attraction. The press took up this reference, citing the number of former Eton schoolboys in British cabinets, and in America, the members the Skull and Bones secret society at Yale, who became political and commercial leaders to an extent that was "positively baffling."

In the third week of the political campaign, two more politicians fell to an unseen assassin's bullet. Kristian Nostra, shadow finance minister in the opposition Progressive Party, was walking along a country path ten minutes away from his home with his two thoroughbred wolf hounds when he was gunned down with a bullet in his heart. The path was little used, and it was not until Ana, his housekeeper, who was of a nervous disposition, fearfully began contacting neighbors that the alarm was raised. It took little time to find and identify the body and call the police. Once again, the SWAT team arrived in little time, followed by a mass of police and army personnel. The President declared a state of emergency. Round the clock security was authorized for the leading politicians of all three major political parties and previously unprotected government ministers. Arrangements were hastened to ensure that all of them were covered by nightfall.

The same morning, however, a mere ten miles away from the Nostra residence, the canal side home of Boris Laangthorn, Chairman of the Progressive Party, went up in flames. Boris and his wife had escaped from the blaze, and stood together glumly watching the fire being hosed down, when all of a sudden he fell into the canal. At first it was thought to be an accident, but on recovering the body the rescuers found a bullet had penetrated the brain of the politician from behind. It was judged to have been fired across the canal where bushes and trees were abundant, providing a safe shelter for the marksman. Work on the fire had masked the sound of the shot.

In both cases the police reports included among those interviewed a single woman in her early fifties who lived in the area. The fact that she was identified both on all three lists triggered a software match, but on a second interview Maria Systempsky gave watertight explanations that matched her previous stories, and the police thought no more of it. Little ladies don't go round shooting politicians, do they?

The burial of the politicians involved services at their Catholic church. In a private letter to the Roman Catholic cardinal, the president cited his membership of a Calvinist community church that was well known to be anti-Catholic, and that, anyway, he was also the leader of the Conservative Party. This gentle request forestalled any invitation to deliver funeral orations. The President was relieved because both men had been senior members of the Pink Panther club in his first year at college.

The election was building up to be a landslide, as the population had concluded that the deaths of the leading Progressive politicians indicated a botched conspiracy of right wing politicians. It was time to unseat the President and all the President's men. People talked about Watergate, and as many "gates" as they could find. The votes were counted, and the carnage of Conservative politicians who lost their seats in the House and Senate was overwhelming.

Was this a plot by someone in the Progressive movement to win the sympathy of the electorate? Within a month, the commentators in newspaper and internets blogs had come to that contrary conclusion. But by then the damage had been done. With a massive majority the Progressives, who had fought bitterly and lost against the Conservatives' recent move to extend the length of parliamentary terms to six years from four, now were counting their lucky stars that was the right wing that would be muzzled for a miraculous 24 extra months.

Several months passed. Ministers and politicians grew tired of security men following them about everywhere. Even the now former president, still active in politics and oddly untouched by the debacle at the polls, felt enough was enough. Quietly, the detail was removed from politicians no longer in office.

In their seaside villa, the ex-president relaxed with his wife and their two unmarried daughters, and wondered whether it was time for him to give up politics. It was logical that, having earned for both himself and his wife a pair of fine government awarded pensions, he could think of retiring as soon as he could find a suitable replacement as the Conservative leader. He was mulling that issue over, sitting in the garden in a lounge chair, watching the small birds flitting from bough to bough. A click of the garden gate announced that a visitor had arrived, and then a small woman in her early fifties came and sat down opposite him.

"I've been expecting you," he said. "Or a bullet."

"You are not going to have a bullet," she asserted. "We were friends and neighbors. When you took me to meet those older college boys you were so drunk that you passed out."

His mind was on the evening when he brought her to meet three Pink Panther seniors, Jan, Kristian, and Boris, who wanted to take photographs of her. They took her into the park, undressed her and assaulted her with their cameras, stripping her 13-year-old body naked with the eye of their lenses. She was too young and too terrified to fight them. Then they escorted her back to the end of her street, leaving the freshman drunk from the hazing and out cold. A park policeman found him. He had awoken in the hospital.

"You never told the police," he mused.

"When I got home, my brute of a father was waiting for me. He tore off my dress and started to whip me in anger at being late home. He was so upset his heart gave out. They took us both to the hospital, but he was dead. My lacerations were really bad. He would probably have killed me had he not died. After five days they let me go home.

"My mother had heard about the pictures. She had my suitcase ready at the door and packed me off to her widowed second cousin in the hill country. I worked as her slave for six years before I escaped. My mother died of shame. Every day I was there, I vowed to avenge myself one day on those three young men."

She paused, looking angry and trembling a little. He mumbled something about his being on her list. She did not answer him. There were tears in both their eyes.

"I took my revenge. Now I will kill myself. I don't want to be put on trial."

"I deserve to die," he growled, unable to look her in the eyes. "I betrayed you."

He had been told beforehand of the senior Panthers' intention to make money from the sale of her pictures. He was so ashamed, thinking of the little neighbor who had been so delicate and loving as a little girl. But that had all changed: her rage had turned her into a cold-blooded killer. At that moment, he was ready to die.

She nodded wordless agreement. After a minute's pause, she finally spoke.

"Now it is time to release myself from hell," she said. She calmly pulled out a revolver, put the end of the barrel into her mouth, and pulled the trigger.

His wife never forgave him, though his daughters did, and he never recovered from the publicity.

THE END

THE SEA TURTLE

# by P.J. Perryman

http://sparklyknickers.wordpress.com/

Captain Alfie P. Bertram couldn't have wished for a better day. The sea was calm, the winds were gentle and the sky was a perfect azure blue. Yet though all sea-faring signs were favorable, he commanded his men to stand down, and delayed their voyage for a few more days.

Anxious to sail, his First Mate Martin Johnson had arrived at the captain's townhouse in Portsmouth at first light. Martin now stared into his tea cup, his young brow twisted into a skeptical knot. "I fear the crew is getting restless and I urge you to sail on this morning's tide, Captain."

Captain Bertram drained his own cup and slapped the back of his friend and fellow seaman. "The King's sailors are not so easily turned; and in any case, it's not like they can desert us – they'd have to fear for their necks. Look out the window, man. Did you ever see such a fair sky and a wind so mild? No, my mind is settled: let Helen deliver our baby, we can set sail after that. She's already near her time, so we'll be delayed by no more than a day or two. What possible harm could come from that?"

"Perhaps none, but I've seen signs of unrest in the taverns, the men are getting anxious about when we sail, if at all. They were told we'd sail a week ago."

"A day or two more won't matter then. It's just a storm in a teacup, Martin. If they weren't whining about this, they'd find something else to harp on. I'm the captain, and I say when we sail, not the men under my command. Don't worry, Martin; we have no cargo to spoil, and no mission to fulfill. As long as we join the fleet at Gibraltar by the end of the month, all will be well. And if they have any concerns, let them bring them either to me, or the Admiralty. All the same, muster the crew, keep them on board and have them working the ship. I want those decks gleaming when we sail. Oh, and post marines on deck to make sure no man returns to shore. A little discipline and leadership is what's needed here. That is all."

Martin knew when he was beaten. "Very well," he said. He rose from his chair, drained his cup and tipped his slope hat respectfully. "Forgive me, I must seek out the harbor master and tell him the _Sea Turtle_ will not be sailing on the morning tide."

"Thank you," said the Captain. He opened the study door and ushered his first mate out. As soon as the door closed, Captain Alfie threw his own slope down on a table and dashed up the stairs to his wife's bedchamber. Though the hour was early, Alice was already awake, though she'd not quite risen from her bed.

"Good morning, husband. How did Martin take your news?"

"He doesn't agree, my love, but he hid his disappointment well. Perhaps when he finally marries his sweetheart and begins a family of his own, he'll understand."

Alice raised her eyebrows but if she had any doubts, she didn't voice them to her husband. Alfie took Alice's hand in his and kissed the back of it. "Any sign of the child arriving?"

"I couldn't say, Alfie, I've nothing to compare it to. I wish I could get comfortable at least, my poor back is aching."

Even as Alfie smoothed the pillows for his wife, the front door slammed and they heard the sound of steps running quickly up the stairs. The maid, Juliet, came bursting into the room, still in her cape and with a punnet of fresh strawberries on her arm.

"What is the meaning of this?" said Alfie.

Juliet struggled to catch her breath, her hand in the air requesting a pause as she tried to compose herself.

"My apologies, sir, allow me a moment, I can hardly breathe." While Juliet gasped, she bent over and put her hand to her stomach, dropping the fruit basket to the floor. "Madam, sir, forgive me, but I've just heard news of a most alarming nature and wanted to bring it to you immediately. There's a fire started on the Eastern dock. Captain, it's... I'm afraid it's the _Sea Turtle."_

"What?" Captain Bertram's frame stiffened, and then, without so much as a backward glance, he dashed from the room, ran down the stairs and out into the street. His heart pounded as he ran, a million questions whirling violently in his head.

As the Captain approached the dock, his worst fears were confirmed by the scene in front of him. The flames tore through the canvas and burned clear of the mast, crashing onto the main deck and igniting all the wood around it. In a few seconds, the entire midsection of the frigate was ablaze, and though buckets of water were already being passed towards the stem, Captain Bertram's heart sank in the sure knowledge they were already too late.

He ran forward to assist the fire fighters. "Good God, how did this happen?" First among them was Martin Johnson, his First Mate, his regulation doublet abandoned while he led the efforts to either save the ship, or perhaps more accurately Captain Bertram thought, to save the fire from spreading to other vessels docked in the port.

Martin never stopped passing buckets as he shouted his answer out over the roar of the blaze. "Arson, Captain. They couldn't have picked a better time for it, for the winds have just picked up and have fanned the flames into an inferno."

"What about the _Turtle_ 's gunpowder?"

"There were just a few barrels and we managed to get those off before the fire intensified."

Captain Bertram stripped down to his shirt to join the rescue efforts. The _Red Admiral_ was moored a few hundred feet away and the flames were being fanned in her direction. Martin followed his Captain's gaze along the dock and nodded. "We're focusing on the stern now; if we keep it dampened we might prevent the spread. _Red Admiral_ is fully laden with gunpowder destined for the Napoleonic effort. If the flames reach her the entire dock will go up."

"God help us all."

For an hour they labored, but though most of the men at the port joined their efforts, the indomitable fire hissed, spit, licked and crept ever closer to the _Red Admiral_.

"Did anyone see who started it?" said Captain Bertram.

"The watch reported a man running from the ship but we've yet to identify the culprit." Martin, his face caked in black smoke, raised his arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. As he paused he looked to the sky, then over to the Red Admiral anchored a short distance away. "The wind is against us, Captain. I think there's no hope for it, may I suggest we try and scuttle the ship?"

"We can't send someone on board, it's far too dangerous, and I'll not risk a man for that."

"Since we can't get to the scuttlebutts, I was thinking we could fire cannon into the hull and simply sink her. The dock's deep here, it's possible she'd submerge completely."

Captain Bertram turned his head and scoured the length of the dock. "Perhaps we could, but not while she's still moored here. If the wind changes direction before she sinks, she might ignite the entire dock. Plus, it would take too long to drag the cannon from the fort and put it in place."

"Should we set her adrift, then?"

"No, too risky again; who knows where the wind will take her. Find the harbormaster, there's a longboat secured at the end of the dock. We'll tie the _Sea Turtle_ to the long boat, tow her out of the harbor, and scuttle her at sea. If you man the longboat, just keep her within cannon range."

"And set her adrift there?"

"No. Keep the long boat anchored; we'll need to keep her steady if the cannons are to hit their mark. Take a dinghy for yourself and crew to return on. It's our only chance. Make haste. Gather as many rowers as you can."

Captain Bertram obtained tow ropes from one of the other ships, drawing assistance from the line of men still battling the fire. He could see Martin at the far end of the dock, with five other men following him into the longboat. The harbor master untied the lines, and very soon the longboat, with a small dinghy in tow, was at a safe but close distance to the _Sea Turtle_.

Captain Bertram turned his attention to his band of helpers. "We need to secure the lines to the burning frigate," he said. "Come men, be quick about it." The lines were swiftly tied and the Captain gave the order for the tow crew to proceed. "Make haste, make haste," mumbled the captain under his breath. His pulse thumped as the flames crept ever closer to the Red Admiral, its large hull bobbing ominously along the dock. It would be a close call, and if Martin failed, the gunpowder would blow them sky-high or take them down to Davy Jones' Locker before the timber hit the sea. The long boat's progress was slow and painful, and it was a few minutes before the rowers eased into any kind of momentum.

The men watched in incredulous awe as the ill-fated _Sea Turtle_ slowly made its way through the port to the edge of the harbor, the oars of the long boat rising and dipping in unison as Martin called out the beat.

All the while the fire on board raged, and with a tremendous splash, part of the Sea Turtle's rigging fell into the water, barely missing the rowers and almost capsizing the longboat. Still, Martin never flinched from his task and the watchers at port burst into applause as the valiant sailors continued on their mission.

Only once she was clear of all boats did the Captain allow a sigh of relief, satisfied that at the very least, he'd saved them all from a potential disaster. As he wiped the sweat from his own brow he turned to look at the men who'd helped him. Their comments set his blood on fire.

"Funniest sight I've ever seen..."

"Let's see how fine things turn out for him once he's up in front of the Admiralty..."

"Damned waste of a fine ship... should've sailed a week ago... I blame the captain..."

The captain scowled at his malevolent crew. "How dare you look at me as if I were at fault? One among you lit the fire, not I. As soon as I find out which one of you did it you'll be hanging from the yardarm, depend upon it."

The men grew silent, their aggrieved eyes on both their captain and the growing number of marines now gathering around the dock. Captain Bertram was also aware of the expanding crowd, including the Captain of the _Red Admiral,_ who even now was shouting at his men.

"Damn it, men, get back onto the ship, or see yourselves clamped in irons for the outbound journey. There's a war to be won."

The brutal reminder of the war made Captain Bertram sick at the prospect of having to report the loss of a ship of the line, and worse, without a single enemy boat in sight. For now, the most pressing matter was the scuttling of the ship, and, as the _Sea Turtle_ was in position, he sent the order to the fort.

Black smoke hovered malevolently over the dock, and though the captain inhaled a huge gulp of air, the smell of salty sea he'd always loved so much was polluted by smoke and dead ash. At least the gulls had returned, their familiar cries lamenting dolefully over the space once occupied by the proud frigate.

The sound of cannon fire broke him from his reverie. He hadn't expected the blast to come so quickly. Six shots blasted over the port; two fell short of the mark, one clipped the mast, and two directly penetrated the hull just at sea level. The final shot hit the main sail, which slowed its velocity and caused the ball to change its course, just a fraction.

Captain Bertram's mouth dropped as the errant cannonball directly hit the small dinghy, still carrying the rowers away from the burning ship. It hit with such force the men and boat were all catapulted into the air, before falling back to the ocean which a visible splash.

All the men on the dock stared in stunned horror, waiting for signs that any of the crew had survived. Six men had manned that dinghy, and the captain watched as, one by one, six bodies floated to the water surface, face down. White as a ghost, the captain stood at the edge of the dock, a great nausea rising in his throat. Martin Johnson was not only his First Mate; he was also a personal friend. And though he knew none of the men who sailed with Martin, he knew he was indirectly responsible for all of their deaths.

The captain's spirits sank along with the _Sea Turtle_ as ever so slowly, the frigate capsized and was engulfed by the relentless waves. Only the screeching gulls and the water lapping against the pilings could be heard. The malignant awareness of new death became more powerful than the lingering smoke, and one by one the faces on the dock turned towards the penitent captain.

Captain Bertram turned to find the mob had slowly circled around him.

"Stand aside, men, let me pass."

One of the men carried Martin's doublet loosely in his hand. The captain stepped forward and took it, holding the garment tight to his chest. "I'll see this gets returned to the proper person." The image of Martin's young sweetheart rose in his mind, and he shuddered, not looking forward to their next encounter.

"The bodies, the bodies must be recovered," Captain Bertram said. He turned to some men standing quietly at the edge of the circle. "You men, take a boat out to the wreckage. The harbor master can furnish you with one. We must bring the bodies back."

The captain of the _Red Admiral_ stepped forward, and Captain Bertram felt a strong grip on his shoulder. He looked up into the ruddy, sea-weary face of his fellow seaman, not sure what he'd find there. The other captain handed him his own coat.

"I saw the man that started the blaze and, though he got away, he can't get far. My men are already in pursuit, we'll no doubt have the scoundrel in custody by nightfall. I wanted to thank you, you saved my ship. When you go before the Admiralty to answer for the day, I'll make sure they're aware of that fact. Damned bad luck, Bertram, I must say. But why on earth hadn't you sailed before now? Conditions were perfect, man – the _Sea Turtle_ was ready to sail a full week ago."

"My wife..." The words trailed on his lips. He knew that answer would ruin his career. It would be viewed as a sign of weakness, and the Admiralty might never trust him with a commission again. Could he lie, he wondered? Blame the crew; blame the ship, lack of winds, anything? His head dropped as he anguished over the matter, and he clung to the doublet tightly.

"Why wasn't the ship guarded?" asked the other captain.

"I... we had nothing on board, we had no gunpowder to speak of, merely provisions of food. The one man I did have on guard seemed sufficient for the task."

"Clearly not, it seems. We've received word that you're to report to the Admiralty immediately. And, for what it's worth, you have my personal thanks."

Captain Bertram nodded and bid the man farewell. His feet dragged like lead as he pushed past the others and he felt their eyes bore into his back.

His house was situated on route to the Admiralty building, and though he'd been ordered to go directly there, he needed to see his wife, Alice, first.

With the slowness of a much older man, Captain Bertram reverently laid Martin's doublet over the back of the very chair he'd sat in just a few short hours ago. His hand lingered on the fabric, but then a whiff of smoke reminded him of his duty and he backed away.

"Is everything okay?" called Alice.

Alfie looked up at the ceiling and wondered how his wife would take the news. He would spare her the news about Martin for as long as he could. "Yes my love, send down Juliet – I need to speak to her. I shall be up in a moment."

The tall man poured himself a large glass of sherry, which he drained in a single shot, and breathed deeply as the alcohol flared hot in his belly. He would have need of its courage.

"How fickle is fate," Alfie thought. And though he'd neither lit the fire that burned the frigate, nor fired the cannon that killed Martin, he knew he'd carry this burden for the rest of his life. He stared down into the empty glass and thought of the calm of the morning and how pleasant the forecast had seemed then. He shook his head and placed his glass down on the table.

"How is everything?" said Juliet. The servant stood in the doorway, eager to hear more news from the port. "Is anyone hurt?"

"I'm afraid so." He relayed the ugly business and watched the color drain from Juliet's face. Captain Alfie P. Bertram patted her shoulder as he walked around her, and then climbed the stairs. He needed to reassure Alice he was quite well, but, more than anything, he needed her words of comfort before facing the storm to come.

THE END

A DATE TO DIE FOR

# by Rosary McQuestion

http://www.rosarymcquestion.com/

Chapter One

"I'm finally going to get the guy of my dreams," Lexy Anderson said, talking into her pink Swarovski accented cell phone, as the cab driver eyed her in the rearview mirror.

"Yeah, well, that's what you said about Jack," said the high-pitched girly voice of Jenny, on the other end of the line. "You've said that every time you've dated a new guy."

"Well this time it's going to be different. The dating service I joined guaranteed to match me with the perfect guy."

"Hey Lex, that's great. Just don't get your hopes up, okay?"

Lexy blew out a breath of frustration, as she squinted out the cab window toward the harsh sunlight. The casinos, a blur as the cab traveled down Las Vegas Boulevard. "Why would you say that?" she snapped.

There was a pause. "Um..."

"Look, Jenny, I have a plan. I'm twenty-eight years old, and I don't want to stay in this town forever. I want to meet someone who'll take me away from the freakiness of seeing a bunch of Elvis impersonators in white jumpsuits. I want to do something worthy in journalism, like be another Katie Couric, or write for the New Yorker. Writing for Las Vegas Magazine is great, but I hate that I have to work third shift at The Chapel of Love to make a little extra for my mounting bills. And I just can't do one more Rocky Horror wedding playing Minister Frankenfurter singing 'I'm Just a Sweet Transvestite.' There's another world waiting for me, along with a man who'll love me unconditionally."

"I know Lexy, but what about Jack? Can't you give him another chance? I know you still love him."

Lexy gazed out the window at the lofty tower of the Stratosphere, as the cab whizzed down the Strip past the Luxor Pyramid and the skyline of the New York New York Hotel & Casino. "Yeah, well, sometimes love just isn't enough."

"Hey, not to get down on you, because God knows the man was a psychological mess, but come on now, telling Jack you joined a dating service?"

"Jen, surely you've heard of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Besides—"

"Yeah, but tell me you didn't have an ulterior motive for rubbing it in his face," Jenny interjected. The pitch of her voice so screechy, Lexy held the phone away from her ear.

"Okay, fine. I thought he'd come to his senses and stop being so damn possessive. Besides, it's been six months. I'm over him."

"Hmm...if you say so. Anyway, I called about your car breaking down. Sorry I couldn't get out of my meeting to give you a ride downtown to the dating agency."

"Don't worry about it. I'm fine with taking a cab."

"Okay, well call me later and let me know if any of the guys they profiled for you are hotties."

Lexy slipped her phone in her purse, when suddenly her body jerked forward. She automatically held on to the back of the front seat to brace herself, as the cab came to a screeching halt at the intersection, across the street from a swanky new downtown office building. The cab driver chuckled to himself, as he eyed her in the rearview mirror.

_Men!_ She handed the cabbie the fare, subtracted from his tip the cost of almost catapulting her over into the front seat, and climbed out of the cab. Waiting at the corner to cross the street, a gust of polluted warm air from a passing Sun Bus fanned out her long flaxen hair. She dashed across the intersection and slipped into the cool, air-conditioned building.

Lexy took a seat in the reception area of Anonymous Dates Inc., where the marble floors were a luminous black with stylish black and white furniture. She looked around at the roomful of hopeful people. All of them there for the sole purpose of finding love.

She nervously tucked her fingers into her uncooperative hair to loosen the waves. Nothing could possibly go wrong now, she told herself. They were a reputable dating service that carefully screened each client. No more dating losers, although Jack was different. He was actually a great catch, but his jealousy turned him into a total freakazoid, thinking she was rendezvousing with a lover each time she went to the grocery store. She swore she'd rather die than date another control freak.

"Lexy Anderson?"

Lexy looked up at the Armani clad, barge-like woman standing behind the sleek, contemporary reception desk. The spiraling metal base and kidney-shaped glass top desk looked futuristic, while the woman's hairstyle looked like something out of the nineties. Her fiery red hair ballooned into loopy curls on top of her head, her fingers weighted down with glittery bling. Her white pearl necklace almost lost under the pink folds of her chin. She motioned for Lexy to come forward.

"Hello, I'm Martha," she said, as she gave Lexy a limp handshake. "I'll be taking you down the hall to our viewing room." Her tone was jovial; her smile was like that of a Cheshire cat.

Lexy settled into a comfy, cushiony lounge chair in a room that looked like someone's ultra contemporary study with built-in, shiny white acrylic bookshelves. Martha handed her a classy, black leather folder.

"In the folder you will find information about each of the three gentlemen that matched up with the personality test you took. The same gentlemen you will get to view on video."

She handed Lexy a remote control, walked over to the bookshelves, pushed a button, and left the room. The shelves parted like theater curtains to expose a huge flat-screen TV. It reminded Lexy of a bedroom scene from a James Bond movie, which didn't surprise her knowing everything Las Vegas has to offer is somewhat theatrical.

Glancing through the folder, she was impressed. One gentleman was a doctor, the other a lawyer, and the third gentleman a magician. Hmm, must be a typo, she thought. Maybe they meant _medical technician_. She wasn't a gold-digger, but on her application, she specified the importance of dating someone financially stable. Not that he had to be rich. She just didn't want to date some restaurant waiter.

She was equally impressed as she viewed the videos on the fifty-inch screen TV. The doctor, a total McDreamy with added points for being a plastic surgeon, conducted his taped recording session on his forty-foot yacht. She focused on his blue eyes and nice hands as he spoke. The lawyer, just as yummy, had his chauffer videotape his interview. He looked as if he just stepped out of GQ. However, she thought his red vest looked a bit like something suitable for a carnival barker.

Then there was Victor, the magician. The video began with a close-up shot of his smoldering deep gray eyes. He had a seductive, sexy, look with a high forehead and longish wavy black hair. His penetrating stare into the camera sent tingles throughout her entire body. The camera panned out to reveal that he stood on a stage, a huge spotlight shone down on him. His face was like that of an Adonis. A man so handsome most women would _die_ to have even one date with him. Lexy's heart strummed like the strings on a guitar.

With the smoothness of David Copperfield, he waved a black top hat in a circular motion above his head. Snow-white doves fluttered out from inside the hat and flew up toward the stage rafters. Then magically the words, "Lexy, please be my date," appeared across the screen in what looked like fairy dust and the video ended.

Lexy was stunned. For a man who had not spoken a single word, he had managed to send lightning bolts through her body with one smoldering look into the camera. He was a man whose luck in the gene pool would far exceed any woman's expectations.

A knock at the door broke her concentration. "Come in."

"So, have you chosen the date who could turn out to be the man of your dreams?" Martha asked giddily, practically clapping her hands together.

"Well, surely, I'll get a chance to talk to these men over the phone or maybe have some kind of e-mail communication before I choose. Correct?"

"Ms. Anderson, we believe in spontaneity and love at first sight. Your personality, likes, dislikes, family values...everything on your psychological profile matches perfectly with each of the three gentlemen. In addition, each chose you as their first choice in the photo lineup. Besides, it's against company policy to give out contact information, hence the name Anonymous Dates, Inc."

Martha clasped her chubby, well-manicured hands together and cocked her head, her eyebrows raised. "If none of these gentlemen interest you, we can always pair you up with another selection."

"Oh, no, actually, they all seem perfect. But there was something about Victor that stood out from the other two."

"Okay then, I'll set up the date. A packet will arrive to you within a week with instructions on where and when you and your date will rendezvous. Oh, and Anonymous Dates, Inc. always includes an added complementary surprise to keep the date spontaneous, fun, and romantic."

As Lexy walked out of the building, she never dreamt she'd date a magician, but within seconds of laying eyes on him, he completely drew her in, a feeling she'd never experienced. It made her wonder if there really was such a thing as _love at first sight_.

Chapter Two

"Jenny, I can't believe this," Lexy said with the phone pressed to her ear. Her new, just out of the box pink strappy stilettos clicked loudly on the hardwood floor of her apartment as she paced. "How is it possible that of all the places in Vegas, I'm supposed to meet Victor, my Anonymous Date guy, at the Savannah Hotel tomorrow evening?"

"You're joking."

"I wish I were, but it's right here in my instruction packet." She threw the envelope down on the kitchen counter and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "How in the _hell_ am I going to meet my date at a hotel where Jack is the food and beverage manager?"

"Can't you call and change it?"

"I tried that. The woman at the dating agency said she had left my date a message, but that he never called back. She said his voice mail message said he was out of town on business. And our date is tomorrow evening!"

"Well, maybe Jack won't be working."

"Saturdays are always busy. The Miss Rodeo America Pageant is going to be there tomorrow, plus Shania Twain's show. Believe me he'll be at the hotel."

"Actually, that's perfect. With the hotel that packed, it's not likely Jack will be wandering around the lobby."

"I don't know. You're probably right. I'll meet up with my date and then we'll leave. If Jack happens to see me, maybe it'll serve as a reality check that it's finally over between the two of us."

* * *

Lexy sat on the edge of a Queen Anne sofa in the rotunda-like lobby of the Savannah Hotel. Her black chiffon dress, fitted at the waist with short, flared shirting showed off her long, tanned legs, while the spaghetti-strapped bodice accented her delicate, swan-like neck. She fidgeted with the white pearl-embellished belt that wrapped her waist, while nervously waiting for her date to arrive.

Although dwarfed by the magnificent architectural detailing of the three-storey, wood-trimmed archways, gigantic pillars, and crystal chandeliers, she felt as if she were in a spotlight. She anxiously scanned the lobby, hoping Jack wouldn't pop up somewhere.

Looking past the grand staircase that led up to the exclusive Bedford Restaurant, she spied a tall man stride into the hotel. He was dressed formally. Although she couldn't get a good look at his face, she was sure it was her date, Victor.

He turned in her direction and pushed back a lock of thick black hair that fell over his forehead, his cheeks sharply cut. Her heart flip-flopped, a scrim of perspiration formed on her upper lip, the palms of her hands moist. She absentmindedly twisted a lock of wavy, champagne-colored hair around her finger, waiting for him to notice her. His nose was strong and straight, his lips generous. He had an aura of sophistication about him. The sharply creased black pants, expensive looking jacket and crisp white shirt, even his too-long black hair looked to be a designer cut.

He finally noticed her and quickly cocked a sexy smile as he swaggered toward her. His face was ruggedly handsome, and as he got closer, his eyes took her breath away. On the video at the dating agency, his eyes were deep gray but in person, they were a clear blue-gray like the color of the unsettling ocean.

"Your photograph doesn't do you justice," he said.

Lexy smiled shyly. "Thank you. I like your accent. You must be a New Yorker, right?" She marveled at how spectacular his eyes were up close, with dark gray flecks.

"Yeah, I am. Brooklyn, New York," he said. Gently taking her fingers, he brought them to his lips and kissed the back of her hand. And she thought chivalry was dead.

"So, I'm Victor Capelli."

"You're Italian?"

One side of his lip curled up. "Hmm, I guess you could say that."

"Well, I'm Lexy Anderson."

"Swedish?"

"Yes," she said as his strong hand kept hold of hers. His nails were neat and buffed. His eyes swept her face, her lips, her figure, but not in a leering, perverted kind of way, but more in an admiring kind of way. He locked in on her eyes. She felt the penetration of his gaze, and she felt as if he could see everything she was and everything she is. A feeling she couldn't put into words.

He lifted his chin slightly. "I'm pleased to meet you Lexy." From behind his back, he produced an exquisite bouquet of fresh calla lilies tied with a pink satin ribbon. "These are for you."

Lexy's eyebrow automatically rose; a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "What's this? No doves hidden behind your back? Thank you," she said, accepting the bouquet.

"Sorry, I can't afford to pay them overtime. You're welcome."

Just then, Lexy looked over Victor's shoulder and glimpsed Jack standing at the top of the staircase talking to Sam Petri, a waiter who resembled a very young Bruce Willis. She thought of him as the womanizer who had poisoned Jack into thinking every woman was easy, which in turn played on Jack's insecurity, thinking he couldn't trust her.

"Yes, well, shall we go to dinner?" said Lexy, as she looped her arm around Victor's, and half dragged him across the lobby.

"Guess you must be pretty hungry," Victor said, looking down at her.

She smiled demurely, taking notice of his height. Her new four-inch, black strappy stilettos put her at five-ten. Victor was an imposing six foot three and built solid with broad shoulders, and no way could she resist that bad boy Brooklyn accent. They walked outside and emerged into the hot, but comfortable night air. Across the street at the Paris Hotel, the majestic Eiffel Tower twinkled with thousands of white lights.

"I made dinner reservations at STACK. I hope that's all right. If not we can go someplace else," Victor said, as they walked north down the Strip past the lighted fountains at Bellagio. The synchronized waters danced to the orchestrated Broadway music of "Fly Me to the Moon."

"No it's perfect! They have great seafood dishes," Lexy said.

She turned to look at him and raised the lily bouquet to her nose to take in the sweet scent. The hyper-reality of the Strip hummed inside her. Throngs of people walked in all directions, buildings glittered with miles of dancing, pulsating lights, some of it gaudy and tasteless, but in the neon wonderland of kinetic energy that evening, all she could see was Victor.

They made small talk as they walked the block and a half to the Mirage. He told her he was under contract with the Stardust and that he'd joined the dating service because he worked most nights, slept during the day, and didn't get to meet many people. She couldn't very well tell him she'd joined the dating service to knock some sense into her ex, so she told him she always chose the wrong guys and wanted to find the right one.

A crowd mingled outside the Mirage, while two lines snaked down the block waiting to get in to see the Cirque du Soleil show. They entered the cool, crowded lobby. Guests mingled in the brightly lit tropical-like atrium surrounded by sounds of tall waterfalls splashing into manmade ponds, all in a forest of rich tropical flora. The fragrance of exotic flowers and orchids with a setting of towering palm trees, elephant ears, and banana trees called to mind a beautiful day in Maui.

Victor put his hand on the small of Lexy's back in a courteous way to guide her through the crowd and into the restaurant. The maître d' led them through a trendy dining room with beautiful rippling walls of stacked wood, a canyon-esque structure with a sleek hardwood design. Soft jazz music played as they settled in seats across from each other at a table toward the back of the restaurant. A waiter quickly came and took their drink orders.

As Lexy looked across the table at Victor to meet his gaze, the buzz of the crowded dining room fell away, and there was only the two of them. Words like amazing, terrified, hypnotic sprung into Lexy's head. In Victor's eyes, she saw something more than his beautiful exterior. There was magic in his eyes. The way they held her attention, how they sparkled, they seemed to awaken a raw, sensual feeling inside her, and it seemed they held some mystical charm.

Their gaze broke only when the waiter returned with the drinks and took their dinner orders. As soon as he walked away, Victor clasped his hands together and leaned forward over the table. "Well, you're so beautiful I barely know what to say."

"So are you," Lexy blurted out, unintentionally. She cringed thinking she'd just called a man beautiful. Thinking he was beautiful was one thing, but having it slip off her tongue, raised the heat from her neck to her face.

"Eh, good thing we're not in Brooklyn. Guys would mistake that for thinking I'm a little, ah, ya know, too in touch with my feminine side, but thanks anyway."

Lexy's face lit up with a big smile. "I just love your accent. You have family back in New York?"

Lexy sipped her pineapple martini while Victor gave a hard stare into his long-stemmed glass of merlot. "It's complicated," he said, and raised his eyes to look at her. "My parents were killed in an accident when I was a kid. A distant Italian uncle, who still owns an Italian restaurant on Grand Street in Brooklyn, adopted me and raised me like his biological son. I've always considered him my father."

He went quiet and Lexy could tell he didn't want to talk about it, and thought it best to change the subject.

"So when did you start your magic act?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Around nine or ten. I'd collect some serious change on the weekends at my father's restaurant."

"Intriguing, but I meant, professionally."

"Hey, so what's not professional? I had a magic kit, wore a cape, and raked in the dough." One side of his lip curled up into a sexy smile.

She felt the irresistible urge to throw herself across the table and kiss him. What's wrong with me? she wondered. Sure, her relationship with Jack was problematic and it'd been weeks since she'd dated, but why was she thinking like a desperate woman? She'd seen those clingy, needy, lonely creatures that couldn't stand to be alone. Eventually, they'd turn into "serial daters" with panicky behavior who'd pull out all the stops to trap a man.

Get it together Lexy.

She sat up a little straighter in her chair and cradled her martini glass in both hands with elbows resting on the table. "So what brought you here from New York?"

"That's kind of a long, twisted story."

"So tell me a little about it."

Victor fingered a scar on the back of his hand. Darkness crossed his face. "A woman's love," he said in a whisper, like his mind was reliving a painful memory.

Just then, their dinners arrived. Thank God, she thought, knowing she had just put her foot in her mouth. She stared down at the succulent main lobster on her plate and spread the linen napkin across her lap, while feeling embarrassed that she'd delved into something so personal.

"So, tell me something about you," Victor said, as he sliced off a hunk of his Porterhouse steak. The meat so rare, it could have been classified as almost alive and kicking.

"My mother is a teacher, my father a lawyer. They both live here in Vegas. When I was a kid, they'd drag me and my sisters to Mass every Sunday. It wasn't enough that we went to a Catholic school and had to attend daily Mass. We spent our early years on religion overload. Other than that life was good."

Victor chuckled. "So, you have sisters."

"Yes, three. With all the hair-pulling contests I'd competed in while growing up with three older sisters, I'm lucky I have any hair left. All are married now." She rattled on about her college days at Boston University with bits of trivia here and there, talked about the articles she wrote for Las Vegas Magazine, and that she envied food critics who make a living by sampling dishes from world famous chefs.

"So, Miss Wannabe Food Critic how's your lobster?"

"Delicious!" She wasn't the type to offer a guy a sampling of food from her plate on the first date, but Victor was different. She felt an unexplained, immediate intimacy with him. She dipped a flaky piece of lobster into the garlic butter sauce. "The lobster is to die for. Here try some," she said, and leaned forward to place the forkful in his mouth. With lightning reflexes, he grabbed her wrist pointing the fork away from him. He gazed at the morsel of food as if it were a venomous python.

"What's the matter?" she said, as his actions took her by surprise.

"Garlic," he said, with much disdain.

She felt like an idiot for not ordering lemon butter for the dipping sauce, especially since it was their first date, but was relieved she hadn't yet dunked a piece for herself. She didn't want to kill him with her breath.

"I'm sorry," he said, releasing her wrist. "Although not common, I'm highly allergic to garlic. Similar to people who have a bad reaction to shellfish or peanuts, my throat closes up."

"I'm so sorry." Lexy pushed the silver ramekin that held the garlic butter sauce off to the side.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I'm the one who should apologize for grabbing your wrist. I'm sorry. I almost died from garlic once and I tend to become panicky if it gets near me. I overreacted. Please accept my apology."

Oh great, and she was afraid she'd kill him with her breath.

Seriousness washed over Victor's face as he dabbed his dinner roll in the bloody juices on his plate, the bread a soggy pink.

"Hey, by any chance, do you like dancing?" asked Lexy, trying to lighten the sudden heaviness that seemed to hang in the air.

Victor looked up from his plate with a wide grin of enthusiasm. "You're going to think this is crazy, but I love disco dancing. Ever been to the House of Blues?"

"Get out!" she said. Lexy opened her black rhinestone clutch, pulled out two complementary passes and drink tickets for the House of Blues, and waved them in the air. "I got these in a packet from the dating service, and tonight just happens to be disco night! The Boogie Knights are playing live. How's that for a coincidence? After we eat we can boogie on down to your favorite dance club."

"Great idea," Victor said, as they picked up their drink glasses to clink them together in a toast. They spent the rest of their dinner discussing a variety of topics and learned they liked the same kind of music, were drawn to the same types of people, and that they both loved to travel.

"Truthfully, Victor, I have never before met anyone that I've had so much in common with," said Lexy, as the waiter arrived with the bill.

"We're a perfect match," said Victor as his gaze held hers.

"I guess the dating service was well worth it," she said, and shyly averted her eyes to look out into the crowded dining room. Halfway across the restaurant she spotted Jack lurking around the bar. She folded her napkin and placed it on the table.

"Victor, I just need to go freshen up a bit. Be right back."

As soon as she stepped away from the table, her face took on an angry lock and load expression, so intense she felt the furrow between her eyes begin to cramp as heat pooled in her head. Jack was busy talking to the bartender, as she walked up behind him and jabbed her clutch bag into his side.

"Ouch!" He spun around to look at her.

"It serves you right. You're just lucky I didn't grab a steak knife on the way over and shove _that_ in your side."

"Oh, c'mon babe, don't be like that," said Jack, while rubbing his side.

"I'm not your babe, and exactly what the _hell_ are you doing here? You're supposed to be at work."

"Hey, it's a free country. I happen to want to take my break here instead of at the hotel."

Lexy shifted her weight to one side and planted one hand firmly on her hip. "You know what I mean. You followed me here. Didn't you? You have no right doing that."

"Yeah, like you had a good reason to throw your date in my face by meeting him at the Savannah."

"I had nothing to do with that. Besides, I don't need to explain anything to you. You're history, remember? And I don't appreciate you stalking me!" Lexy glared at Jack. All she could see in his brown puppy eyes was torment and suddenly, she felt sad for him.

"Look, it hasn't done any good following me to the grocery store, or the drycleaners, waiting outside my office building for me to come out, or driving past my house every night to see if I'm home. Has it?"

"You know I drive past your house?"

"Who else would play 'Unchained Melody' and blare it from their car stereo night after night?" She took a quick glance over her shoulder, hoping Victor wouldn't turn around, when just then, he did. Great, she thought, now she'd have to explain Jack to Victor.

"Lex, I'll always love you."

Next to Victor who was definitely all man, all she saw in Jack was a boy. A boy, with slightly ruffled chestnut hair, dressed in a cream-colored sport coat, summer trousers, a dark tan shirt, and brown Ferragamo's. "Yeah well, love wasn't enough to keep us together. Please Jack, just stop following me."

As she turned her back on Jack and walked away, she felt a sense of calm and peace knowing that leaving Jack was the right thing to do. Victor Capelli was the answer to all her dreams. She'd make him fall madly in love with her and they'd move to New York where he could perform his magic act and she could write for The New Yorker. She just wanted to be with a normal guy out on a normal date and leave all the craziness behind.

Chapter Three

The cavernous hall in The House of Blues was in full swing with the Boogie Knights belting out the 70s Bee Gees hit, "Night Fever." Go-go dancers in micro miniskirts danced in suspended cages, as Victor whirled Lexy on the packed dance floor.

"I should warn you that I could have been another John Travolta. I know I'm only twenty-nine," Victor said, trying to talk above the music, "but I've got his _Saturday Night Fever_ steps down to science."

"So, are you trying to intimidate me on our first date?"

"Of course not." Victor gave Lexy a mischievous smile as he pulled her body to his. Heat rose up the back of her neck and into her face. Their eyes locked and their bodies moved as one while they danced the hustle. The faceted mirrors of the huge overhead rotating disco ball sent dazzling, dizzying swirls of dots over the ceiling, the floors, and their bodies.

"You know what?" said Lexy. "You do kind of resemble a young John Travolta, especially with that cute dimple in your chin."

Victor threw his head back and laughed. "I should maybe stop by my house and put on my white suit."

During a break between songs, Lexy and Victor walked over to the bar to get a drink. Nudging their way through the crowd they managed to stake claim to a small area next to the bar as they ordered their drinks. A bachelorette party was in full Vegas mode, as five young women tossed back a round of Cuervo shots and slammed the glasses on the bar top with the synchronicity of an Olympic drinking team. The bride-to-be who wore her veil and little else let out a primal "Woo hoo!"

Never before had Lexy felt such excitement with any man as she did with Victor. She was so hypnotized she could barely speak, and as they raised their glasses to their lips and took a sip of wine, hers dribbled down the front of her chin. Victor quickly grabbed a bar napkin and dabbed the wine, while the voice in her head, shouted _Klutz_.

Victor canvassed her face and held his fingers under her chin. "You have such beautiful, delicate features. Flawless, translucent skin, a tiny spray of endearing freckles across your nose, and eyes the color of emeralds. You're perfect."

He brushed his thumb lightly over her lips. She felt a tingle run through every part of her body. Their eyes locked for what felt like forever, when suddenly his merlot soaked lips were covering hers. After a long, sensuous kiss, he gently pulled away from her lips, set their drinks on the bar, and guided Lexy off into a dark alcove, away from everyone. Victor pulled her hard against him and crushed his lips to hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back hard, deep, sensuously, drinking him in, feeling as if he was the very air that she breathed. Her head fell back, and her eyes closed as he kissed her neck. She felt dreamy, giddy, sensual.

Chapter Four

Lexy woke up in total darkness, surrounded by the dank odor of freshly unearthed soil while lying flat on her back with arms crisscrossed over her chest, palms down. The area felt very restricted in that she was barely able to move, when suddenly she barked up a mouthful of dirt.

Funny, but I don't remember dying, she thought, while feeling an odd sense of peace.

The sweet smell of lilies tickled her nose, as she raised her hands inside the confined area to feel soft, satiny fabric overhead. Total affirmation...she _was_ dead! But wait, she thought, do they have cell phones in heaven? "What the hell is going on?" she mumbled.

She dug into the dirt around her, found her purse, and fumbled to pull out the phone. The caller ID confirmed an unknown caller.

"Hey Lexy, it's me."

She immediately recognized the deep, sexy voice. She wriggled around in the dirt. "Victor, thank heavens you called. Someone kidnapped me and they're trying to bury me alive!"

Victor let out a low laugh. "No, no, gorgeous, no one's kidnapped you. You're at my house."

"Your house? But...um...I think I'm locked in a coffin."

"Now, just don't worry your pretty little head over it. I'd never hurt you."

"So I _am_ in a coffin?"

"Sweetheart, the whole ritual is just part of the process."

"Ritual? Process? I thought we were a perfect match! How could this be happening?"

"We _are_ a perfect match. I'll explain later. Love to talk longer, but have to finish my act. See you in—"

"Victor? Victor!" With her phone battery dead, she tried to remain calm, as hyperventilating would use up too much oxygen. This was the kind of stuff she'd read about on the internet—psychos who prey on women and lock their victims in boxes and dungeon-like rooms, and do God knows what to them. Then when they've finished, they dump their victim's lifeless bodies in the desert where they decompose very quickly.

She placed the palms of her hands squarely on the lid and pushed up with all her might, while trying to recall how she'd gotten herself into such a predicament. But she drew a blank. She loosened her legs from the dirt and kicked at the coffin, while pounding with her fists and swearing that if she ever got out, she'd march right over to Anonymous Dates Inc. and get a full refund. But the first thing on her mind was escaping, and calling the cops to lock the sick bastard up before he kills someone.

While hyperventilating, she told herself to keep a level head and that maybe Victor wasn't an axe murderer. Probably just part of some silly underground cult, people who think they're vampires. She'd heard of them.

After ten minutes, she gave up trying to fight her way out, then heard a soft click and the lid popped open. A refection of light flickered directly overhead. She slowly sat up in the coffin. Situated on the floor in the shape of a heart were lots of lit candles in red votive cups. She wasn't touched by Victor's sentiment.

As the flicker of candlelight sambaed across the basement walls, she pulled herself out of the coffin, removed her shoes, and shook out the dirt. Okay, this really bites, she thought, as the heel fell off her brand new pair of shoes. When she brushed the dirt from the bodice of her black dress, it smeared like damp clay.

"Ugh! The dating service is so going to pay for my dry cleaning, and a brand new pair of shoes that took me a whole year to save up for." Her voice sounded loud in the dead quiet of the room. The moon cast an ethereal glow through a small, narrow window up high.

I don't believe this, she thought, the bastard stuffed me into a coffin in his basement. Okay, so it's a finished basement, but still. How the best date of her life could turn out so bad, she didn't know.

She felt weak as she climbed the stairway to the first floor, and thought Victor must have drugged her, put something in her wine. She shuffled through pitch-black rooms trying to find her way out, when she bumped into a table with a lamp and quickly turned on the light.

The one-storey ranch, decorated in mid-century modern, except for the 70s disco ball that hung from the living room ceiling, had deep, dark burgundy painted walls. A framed sepia-toned poster of a man hung on the wall. It looked like an antique. The man had piercing eyes and wore an eerie expression. A signature at the bottom read, _To Vincent, Best Regards, Bela Lugosi._

While wondering who the creepy Bela Lugosi was, she peeked around the corner into the kitchen. The counters were neat and tidy, everything in its place. In the breakfast nook was a window. Outside, under the glow of a lamppost was a street sign. "Desertscape Avenue," she whispered to herself. It quickly clicked in her head that she was in Southern Valley, about fifteen minutes from the Strip.

It was difficult for her to understand how she could have been so wrong about Victor. He seemed like a man out of time, a hopeless romantic living in a cynical age, and not at all jaded like the other guys she had dated.

"Hello, Lexy."

Startled, she spun in a dizzying three-sixty. "Victor, how did you...where did you come from?" Lexy felt breathless, her heart pounded in her ears.

"What does it matter?" he said. "I'm here. Now we can be together."

"Well, about that. I don't think we're quite right for one another."

Victor drew her to him, enveloping her in his long cape, like a cocoon. How was it possible, she wondered, that all at once, she felt safe, she'd become unafraid of him? He was a psycho; he'd locked her in a coffin. Yet, she felt powerless against him.

He took the shoes from her hand and placed them on the floor. "Can we sit and talk? There's something I have to tell you." Victor led her into the living room. They sat down on a vintage turquoise leather sofa that felt cold on the back of her thighs.

"Listen, I shouldn't have lied to you Lexy. That's no way to start a relationship, but I didn't know how to tell you the truth," Victor said, as he took her hand in his.

"The truth?"

"Lexy, I can offer you the assurance of eternal life."

"Ha! So, you're not even a magician. You're a life insurance salesman?"

"What? No, that's not what I said. Just look into my eyes. What do you see?"

"That they're bloodshot?"

"No, look again. What else?"

Lexy shrugged her shoulders.

"Come on Lexy. It's love. Can't you see it in my eyes? That's what I feel for you."

Just hours ago, she had wished for Victor to fall madly in love with her. Had she known she had such powers she would have wished for something more sensible—like winning the lottery. "Victor, you don't even know me."

"I _do_ know you. I know you like your ears nibbled and you can't resist having that little spot right behind your ear licked. Oh, and you love a good foot massage, especially your little toe." Victor gave her a wink.

One perfectly arched eyebrow shot up. She wondered how he could have known all that.

"I'm not from Brooklyn, New York and I don't have an Italian uncle. I've lived a lonely existence in my native land of Romania. For the past two hundred years, give or take a few, I've been searching for my one true love, a woman I met long ago who had died a tragic death. I tried to save her—I mean, save you. One more taste and she—you would have been mine. Then one day I read about a place called Las Vegas, and there in the magazine was your picture in the Viewpoint section. I traveled here to find you."

"First of all," said Lexy, "your story isn't making any sense. Secondly, you saw my photograph and traveled thousands of miles to find me? Why?"

"Because you're my Madeline, don't you remember? Oh, and I also read the article you wrote on the research of bats in southern Nevada—it really moved me."

And she thought Jack was odd. "I'm not whoever this Madeline chick is."

"You're an old soul Lexy. Given time, you'll remember."

"No, really, I'm very young, and speaking about time, it's late. I have to leave now." Lexy stood up and felt dizzy, and her neck was stiff. "Ouch!" she yelped, while rubbing an area of her neck that felt sore. She pulled a mirrored compact from her purse to check the soreness.

"My God, is that a bite mark?"

"Sweetheart, it'll be fine. I promise." Victor reached for her, but she pulled away.

"Please sit down, Lexy."

"No, this is not normal. You're not normal!"

"Ha! Normal," Victor said, while sitting on the edge of the sofa staring down at the floor. "You have no idea how much I long to be normal like everyone else. I dream about wearing bright Hawaiian shirts, instead of always looking like a damn maître d'. I want to experience the taste of ice cream on a hot sunny day, instead of a liquid protein diet by the light of the moon. I want to know what scotch with a twist of lime tastes like, instead of a glass of blood with a wine chaser. I want to be normal, but more than that, I want to be the man you love. I want you to love me Lexy like I love you."

She didn't know why, but looking at him tugged at her heartstrings. She wanted to touch his beautiful face, crush her lips to his mouth, but it was wrong on so many different levels. "Victor, I'm sorry, but I'm not into the vampire cult thing."

"You think this is a joke!" His eyes turned steely gray. Clearly, she had angered him. But he couldn't possibly think she believed in vampires, which was weird since Jack had tried to convince her there were such creatures. What are the odds? she asked herself.

"I'm depressed," he said as he stood up from the couch. "I'm going to rest. I won't be going out tonight."

"Victor, I'm sorry I don't—"

He put his fingers to her lips to shush her. "It's okay, we'll talk tomorrow evening."

There was something unexplainable, something wonderful about him, she thought. But as soon as he disappeared down the basement steps, she ran out of the house.

Chapter Five

A loud scream emanated from Lexy's mouth as someone grabbed her from behind in the darkness, while the howling sounds of coyotes echoed in the mountains.

Applying what she'd learned in her self-defense class, she held tight to the arm around her waist, pushed it away from her body, spun around still holding tight, and heard a snap. Yes, she thought, as her attacker screamed out in pain.

"Oh my God, I think you popped my arm out of its socket!"

"Jack? Is that you?" she hissed, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness.

"Yes," he whined in pain, as he snapped his arm back into its shoulder socket.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I made my nightly drive by your house and saw you weren't home yet. Then I happened to see your date walk out of the Stardust without you and I got worried. I know the guy who bartends there. He told me where your date lived, so I came here."

"So your first thought wasn't that I shacked up with some other guy from one of the casinos and left my date hanging?" Lexy was deliberately being sarcastic.

"Lex, I was a jerk, okay. I don't think like that anymore."

"So, you were genuinely worried about me?"

"Of course I was. But aside from that, what are you doing running around out here in the middle of the night?"

"There's no time for explanation right now. C'mon, let's get to your car."

* * *

"How many times did he bite you?" Jack asked, looking closely at her neck under the bright fluorescent lights in the kitchen of the Bedford Restaurant at the Savannah Hotel. It was three o'clock in the morning. The staff was gone.

"I don't know, once. Besides, what difference does it make?"

"It makes a difference. Three bites and you're his."

"Jack, you're obsessed. You've got to quit thinking everyone's a vampire! You need to burn that Bram Stoker novel, get rid of your Anne Rice collection, and quit thinking you're somehow related to the Van Helsings."

"I'm not obsessed!"

"Ugh, you thought my neighbors were vampires simply because they seldom go outside during the daytime."

"Yeah, well, tell me they didn't look unusually pale, and I've never seen eye teeth that long on a ten-year old. They're like tusks."

"You're ridiculous." The bright fluorescent lights overhead hurt Lexy's eyes.

"So, just humor me," said Jack. "It's real important that he didn't bite you three times or like I said—you _will_ be his."

"So I'll break it off with him! I won't ever see him again."

"I mean his like for all eternity. There _is_ no breaking up."

"Well, at least I'd be able to say I was in a _lasting_ relationship. Unlike the two years I wasted with you."

"Funny," Jack said, giving a dramatic eye roll. "Hey, you know that gun case I keep in my study, the one with the antique war relics? I know one of those guns still works. Here's my plan. I can have my silver coins melted down to make silver bullets."

"Silver bullets?"

"To shoot through the vampire's heart and kill him."

"Are you crazy? Vampires don't exist!"

"Look, that's the only way."

In a creepy, weird kind of way, Lexy felt a strong bond with Victor. She felt protective of him although he acted like some lunatic when he bit her neck and locked her in a coffin. And she called Jack crazy.

"Okay, look," Jack said as he rummaged through drawers, "this is what we'll do first." He ran across the kitchen, searching the shelving units. "Dammit, where do they keep it?" He scanned the kitchen, and then dashed over to the refrigerator. "Huh-ha!" he said, as he jabbed a finger into the air. He rooted through the refrigerated items, and pulled out a large jar with a label. He fumbled to unscrew the lid, getting annoyed because he couldn't open it fast enough, when cloves of garlic spilled across the stainless steel countertop. "We'll make a necklace for you."

"That's a myth! And I don't think it's funny!"

"I'm not trying to be funny. I'm trying to protect you," Jack said, as he pulled a knife from the utensil drawer to slice into a garlic clove.

"Protect me from what? Victor? Okay, I agree the whole vampire cult thing is a little far out there, but with the exception of when he stuffed me in a coffin filled with dirt, he really hasn't done any harm."

"He what?" asked Jack, as he looked up at Lexy, when the sharp blade slipped and cut his finger. "Dammit!" he exclaimed, dropping the knife.

"Oh, Jack." Lexy rolled her eyes, grabbed a roll of paper towel, and ripped off a square. "Give me your hand."

Jack held his index finger and grimaced at the blood oozing from the cut. Lexy reached for his hand and immediately felt lightheaded. Instead of wiping his finger, she became fixated on the blood and its sweet metallic odor, while gazing at the dime-sized droplets as they splashed down on the cold stainless steel countertop. She felt overcome...her eyes closed...

"Lexy, stop it! What are you doing?"

She opened her eyes and found she was hungrily licking the blood off the countertop, and then grabbed Jack's wrist and began sucking his finger.

"Lex, normally this would be a turn on," he said, trying to break loose from her grip, her fingernails cutting into his skin. "But you're acting weird. Cut it out!" He finally broke away. Lexy staggered backward, while her tongue ran over a drop of blood that clung to the corner of her mouth.

Jack looked at her wide-eyed. "What the hell just happened?"

Lexy put her finger to her temples. "I don't know. I had this feeling of floating and next thing I knew I was...well...I don't know!"

Jack gasped. "Oh my God, you've already begun the transformation! But how can that be? Are you sure he bit you only once? Tell me everything he said to you."

"Yes, he bit me only once! But he mentioned something about me being this Madeline chick and that one more taste and she—I would have been his."

Jack nervously ran his fingers through his hair. "Don't you see, Lex?" His eyes lowered to stare at the area of the countertop she licked, then back at her. "You're probably the reincarnation of the love of his life. One more taste probably meant he was ready to give her a third bite to make her his. Vampire hunters probably killed her before he could get the chance. If you're the reincarnation of her, it would only take one bite to make you his—his last taste."

Lexy's fingers lightly grazed the wounds on her neck. She felt confused. As ridiculous as it sounded, she wondered if it could be true. Why would she have done something as gross as licking Jack's blood? And why would she _like_ it.

Barefoot, with her hair a tousled mess, her black cocktail dress caked with dirt, Lexy ran from Jack, down the long winding staircase of the hotel, out into the night, and into a maze of people, all of whom looked like they were straight out of "Deliverance." The people were scary, the traffic seemed scary, the lights, the fountains, the Eiffel Tower, the lion, everything! Wake up, she shouted in her mind. Wake up from this terrible dream!

She ran south past New York New York and down Tropicana Avenue and ducked into a dark corner behind one of the casinos. As she leaned her back against the cool brick wall, she could still taste the blood from Jack's finger. She was surprised it tasted better than the pineapple martini she'd had at dinner. Even better than Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey, her only vice. Her knees buckled under, as her body slid down the wall and her butt hit the hard pavement.

She touched her fingers to her lips and wondered what the hell she was supposed to do now.

Chapter Six

The 101 temperature of the day had only cooled down to 89º that evening, while Lexy kept her head buried in her hands while hiding in a dark alleyway. With strands of hair stuck to her sweaty face, she tried to push the thought of vampires from her mind, but remembering her insatiable thirst for Jack's blood wouldn't allow the thought to disappear. Although she hadn't heard anyone approach, she sensed a presence and lifted her head.

"Good evening my beauty."

Anger flooded her body as she stood to face Victor. "Good evening my ass! Exactly what the hell were you thinking?"

"I know I said I wasn't going out tonight, but I missed you and—"

"What? No! I mean what were you thinking when you bit me?"

"That you are magnificent."

"Ugh!"

Victor put his arms around Lexy's waist and pulled her close to him. It suddenly didn't matter what he'd done, or that he looked silly still wearing his magician's cape. She didn't resist, she just couldn't, no matter how she tried no matter how angry she got. She couldn't. He had an unexplained power over her and she couldn't say she didn't enjoy it, because she did.

"Lexy, I was so lonely living—I mean dying—I mean existing for all these centuries without you. No one will ever understand the monotony of it all. But now I feel alive...well, maybe just not as jet-lagged after flying around dark city streets trying to find a bit of nourishment. Now that I'm with you my love, from now until eternity, whatever your heart desires will be yours."

"Victor, you're only a magician and not even a famous one. It's not like you make enough money to keep me in designer clothing for the next few centuries. Besides, I wanted to get out of this town. I wanted to live in New York."

Victor bust into hysterical laughter; tears filled his eyes. "Listen gorgeous, I was incognito. I'm really Count Victor Constantinescu - Bochinsky. They'd have never been able to fit that on a marquee. I have millions and my millions make millions and those millions...well, I think you get the picture."

"It doesn't matter. I like being an independent woman and making my own way in the world. I don't want to give up my dream of writing for the New Yorker."

"I see," said Victor pulling at his chin. "Maybe I can introduce you to David Remnick."

"Her eyes lit up. As in the editor of the New Yorker? You know him?"

"We'll talk about it later. C'mon, let's go home." He pushed back a strand of hair that stuck to her face, lifted her into his arms, and carried her out of the alleyway. Her heart trembled as she wrapped her arms around his neck and their lips met. Not only was he beautiful, she thought, but he was romantic and caring. How could she resist falling in love with a man who had been pining for her for the past couple centuries?

She laid her weary head on his shoulder. True love and a lasting relationship...after all, it is what she had always wanted.

Back at his house, Victor laid Lexy on the turquoise leather sofa. "You've been through a lot," he said, as he sat on the edge of the couch cushion looking down at her. His fingertips slid along the side of her face, sending shockwaves over her flesh. Then he came closer. Just below her ear, she felt his lips press against her neck, followed by another kiss just below it, then another, then another. . . His lips moved from her neck toward her cheek and then finally found her mouth. She ran her fingers through his beautiful long, black hair, then grabbed the back of it and pulled him even closer. Her blood burned within her, and she felt more alive in that moment than she ever had. She loved him, loved Victor so much that—

A loud commotion outside the house caused them to break abruptly from their kiss. "What was that?" she asked.

Victor went to look out the window. "I'm going outside to see what's going on."

"I'm coming!"

Lexy clung to Victor's cape as they walked through the backyard, when someone stumbled out from behind the trash bins. "C'mon Lex, run over here by me, I'll protect you!"

Dark as it was, Lexy's night vision was quite sharp. She saw Jack holding a wooden stake with a sharpened edge.

"Jack, it's okay. Victor and I are in love."

"You're not in love with him, Lex. He sired you so you're under his compulsion. He can compel you into believing whatever he wants you to believe and feel whatever way he wants you to feel toward him. That's what vampires do."

Victor howled with laughter and in the next breath looked at Jack as if he were an evening takeout snack. "I sense your ambivalence in not wanting to be in a committed relationship, so why are you here?"

"Because I won't let you have her! She's the woman of my dreams, the only person I've ever loved. Yeah, I admit I screwed up, treated her with disrespect, but I've changed. I even went to therapy!"

"Jack, you said you'd never go to therapy."

"Lex, I said a lot of things. I was stupid and wrong, but I worked through my insecurities. All I want to do now is prove to you that you mean everything to me. I want to spend my life with only you and make you the happiest woman that ever walked the face of the earth. I'll do anything for you if you give me one more chance."

Victor folded his arms across his chest and looked quite amused. "Listen bellboy, why don't you go back to the hotel and move some luggage."

Lexy's brow furrowed as she stepped up to Victor. "Hey, his title is Food and Beverage Manager."

"What _ever_!" said Victor, as he waved his hand dismissively. "Besides, on your salary, you wouldn't even get her through the first hundred years, not that you'll live that long. And you certainly wouldn't be able to afford a steep enough life insurance policy to take care of her for all eternity. With me, she'll never want for anything."

"Don't listen to him, Lex," Jack said, as he came out from the shadows and into the moonlight. "He'll pimp you to do his dirty work. Probably have you stick-up the local hospitals and blood banks, demanding gallons of the stuff in unmarked bags."

"That's a bunch of BS; he's just jealous, my darling." Victor took two steps forward.

Jack quickly stepped back, gripped the wooden stake with both hands, and raised it above his head, the sharpened edge pointing forward. "I won't let you have her, vampire!"

"Better think twice about trying to poke me with that toothpick you call a stake, _busboy_ , unless you don't mind spending eternity in hotel hell."

"I'm not afraid of you! I come from the Van Helsings. You have heard of them, right?"

"Hmm, smart people those Van Helsings, however, I was smarter, that's why I'm still here."

"Yeah, well not for long!" Jack charged forward like an angered bull, aiming the stake at Victor's heart. With the agility and precision of a matador, Victor fanned his cape and quickly stepped to the side, the stake narrowly missing him. As Jack spun around, the stake fell from his grip, Victor's hand wrapped around Jack's neck, lifting him inches off the ground.

"Victor, no!" Lexy pulled at Victor's arm.

He growled and shook her from him. Her body lurched backward; the fall knocked the wind out of her.

Victor let out a low, maniacal laugh. "Killing a Van Helsing these days just isn't the adrenaline rush it used to be," he said, his fangs morphing into sabers, a sardonic grin on his angular face. "Hmm, about ninety or was it ninety-five years ago, I took the wooden stake from a hunter and speared his heart. It truly was a bloody mess. Maybe I should kill you the same way. I have so little fun these days."

Lexy shook her head as if to get the cobwebs out of her brain. _Did he say kill? Kill Jack?_ As though stepping out from a thick fog, she now saw Victor from a different perspective. No longer was he the romantic, gentle person she thought he was, but now saw the ugliness of the monster within him. She sprung to her feet and pounded on Victor's back.

"Put him down! I won't let you kill my boyfriend!"

Victor released his grip. Jack coughed and gagged as his body crumpled to the ground. Victor whirled around and glared at Lexy. "Have you forgotten so soon darling, that you are _mine_?" The fires of hell seemed to flare in his eyes.

"I don't date killers, and I'd rather _die_ than date another control freak!"

"Seriously darling, technically speaking you _are_ dead."

"Vampire!" Jack shouted, as he picked himself up off the ground and staggered back a couple steps before catching his footing. Even in the moonlight, Lexy could see the paleness of Jack's face as he tried to catch his breath.

Victor's cape flared as he spun to face Jack. Anger licked at his body like hot flames, his posture rigid. "Okay Jack, you're beginning to annoy me."

As Victor lunged toward Jack, Lexy screamed. Suddenly, Victor howled in pain, stumbling backward away from Jack, while holding his face in his hands. Jack was holding a bag of verbena, a potent herb that if touched by a vampire, causes burns. And Jack had just rubbed it in Victor's face.

"Come on, we have to get out of here!" Jack said, as he grabbed her hand. They took off running through the night, through backyards, dodging swimming pools and swing sets. Lexy was amazed at Jack's heroic efforts to rescue her, a once self-absorbed man who now put his life on the line to save her. How ironic, she thought, that she saw the ugly part of Victor and at the same time, saw the beautiful part of Jack.

Lexy wondered how much longer she could keep running. Her lungs burned, her body felt weak, and she knew that any minute her legs would give out. As the distant barking from a dog echoed in the moonlit night, Jack helped Lexy over a tall wrought iron fence, right into someone's vegetable garden. As she jumped to the ground, she slid on a pile of rotting tomatoes and twisted her ankle. Through her psychic connection with Victor, she knew it was only a matter of seconds before he'd catch up.

"Jack, just go! Hurry!"

"Lex, I'm not leaving you!"

"He'll kill you Jack, please!"

"She's right, Jack. Sorry, but time's up." The muscles jumped in Victor's jaw as he lunged toward Jack. Jack pulled a wooden stake from the ground, swung it, and hit Victor, putting a slash across his face.

"Shouldn't have done that, Jack." Quick as lightning Victor leapt into the air and pounced on Jack, the two of them falling to the ground in a heap, wrestling. However, Jack's fierce struggle was no match for a vampire with super strength, leaving Jack bloody and semi-conscious. Victor paused, then crouched down to gaze at Jack, when all at once, he reared his head back, his fangs morphing into deadly sabers, ready to plunge them into Jack's neck. Instead Victor gasped, his body stiffened.

Lexy stood behind Victor, her face pale with disbelief at her own super strength. Quickly, she released her grip on the stake she drove into Victor's back that pierced his heart.

Victor staggered to his feet, letting out a loud gurgling, as he gripped the three-inch piece of wood protruding from his chest. Weaving, he took one last gasp of air and toppled backward into Lexy causing her to lose her footing. The two of them plunged to the ground. Lexy cried out in agony, as the stake jutting out of Victor's back, ripped through her chest.

Jack scrambled to get to Lexy. As he pulled Victor's body off her, the vampire combusted into a heap of ashes, the wooden stake left in her chest. Jack dropped to his knees. Tears wet his face as he knelt beside Lexy and scooped her into his arms. Her body writhed in pain, her lips blue her skin ashen, as she lay on the blood-soaked ground.

"Lex, don't worry, I'll get you to a hospital."

Lexy managed a weak smile. "There is no time...no time..." Her eyes rolled back into her head, as Jack cradled her limp body close to his. "Lexy, don't die! Please don't die!"

One Year Later

"I'm really going to miss our girly chats on trashing men," Jenny said, sitting on the edge of the king-size canopy bed in Lexy's bedroom.

"I know Jen, but who'd have thought I'd write a novel that would end up on the New York Times bestseller list? And now I'm moving to The Big Apple," Lexy said, as she tucked her fingers into her long hair, loosening the ringlets which fell into soft waves.

"I know. All I hear around the office is—'Have you read Lexy's "A Date to Die For" novel? It's so romantic.'"

"It is, isn't it," Lexy said, opening the heart-shaped locket around her neck to swoon over the tiny photo inside. "Jack looks so handsome in this photo. How could I not love this man who made the ultimate sacrifice for me? He gave me my life back."

"Yeah, and who'd believe that my two best friends are vampires," Jenny said, shaking her head.

"Yeah, well, it's not like we planned for it. But good things have come our way, like what luck that Jack's marketing talents, of which no one knew he had, would land him the job of Public Relations Director for the New York Blood Bank Society. The job certainly will have its perks, if you catch my drift."

Just then, Jack walked into the bedroom as Lexy slipped on her new pair of snakeskin Prada's. "Honey, you look absolutely gorgeous," he said.

"You do, too, my darling," she cooed, as she stood to adjust the collar on Jack's blue pinstripe shirt. Tears welled in her eyes, as she thought about the night she almost died, not from the wooden stake that luckily missed her heart, but it was when her body began to convulse.

Jack instinctively knew what was vital to her existence. She was too sick; too delirious to remember that night that he let her feed on him, knowing that he, too, would become one of the living dead. It was the ultimate testament of his undying love for her.

"Come on, honey," Jack said, brushing a tear from Lexy's cheek. "Time to go, we have a long flight to New York."

THE END

A STEP IN TIME

# by Susan Hawthorne

http://storybookster.wordpress.com/

Grant stood on the deserted country road staring at his broken-down rental car. With a sigh, he gazed around. The night was as black as the inside of a coal bucket, no lights anywhere. He flipped his cell phone open, but there were no bars. At least its light chased the darkness away. The smell of summer grasses sweetened the air and the crickets and frogs were singing their night song in a rolling crescendo.

Flipping the phone shut, he dropped it in his pocket and looked up the road with disgust.

He remembered passing a farmhouse around the last bend, so he grabbed the car keys along with his briefcase and slammed the car door. With a grunt of amusement and a beep, he locked the car and shook his head. It wasn't as if anyone could steal it!

He started to walk down the lonesome road.

The darkness closed around him. A chill crept up his back and he turned, expecting to see someone watching, but there was no one there. He was struck with the sensation that something was about to happen. It crackled through the air like static electricity. He could feel it. He could even taste it. The heavy darkness and the empty road ahead created a strange feeling of solitude. It wasn't just a feeling of being alone, but of being alone forever. A nervous laugh threatened to escape him.

_'A sinister fugue of psychotic music would be perfect right now_ ', he thought. ' _I haven_ ' _t been scared of the dark since I was seven; this isn't a good time to start up again._ '

A light breeze sprang up and played through his hair. It ruffled the tops of the trees filling the night with a 'shhhhhh' sound. Their silhouettes were dark, moving shadows against an even blacker sky.

After walking quite a while and wondering if his memory had failed him, he came upon the farmhouse. It sat well back from the road with a dirt path that led up a set of steps to a ramshackle front porch. A little farther down the road, he could just make out a weedy driveway that stopped in front of a dilapidated unattached garage. It had probably been a handsome house in its day with the wide wraparound porch and the gabled windows.

As he drew closer, he noticed someone rocking in the backwash of light from a window. An alarm in his head said they had been waiting for him but he shook the feeling off and continued to walk toward the steps. He heard a scrabbling noise, as if a small animal had scurried away from his footsteps but he could see nothing in the shadows around the porch. His step faltered as he realized that the insects had stopped their singing; it was as if the night were holding its breath to see what might happen next.

An elderly lady arose as he drew nearer and moved to stand at the top of the steps. She had a shawl around her shoulders and clutched something close to her chest. The rocking chair that she'd abandoned creaked as she stepped away from it.

She looked up at the sky as he approached and tugged her shawl closer to her throat. Then she opened a book, her shaking fingers moving over the page. He could now see it appeared to be a Bible.

Holding one hand out toward him, she clutched the Bible and gave him a stern look. "Now you stop right there, mister."

He held his arms out from his sides, left palm toward her, right hand clutching his briefcase. "I'm sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but..."

"No, sir, I know what sent you here and there will be none of that going on at my house. You just keep trudging on up that road!"

He tried again. "Nothing sent me here, ma'am. My car broke down..."

"I heard no car."

"If you could just let me use your phone, ma'am, I'd be on my way. I'd really appreciate it."

"I just bet you would, the devil cannot enter uninvited."

"Ma'am, I just need help with my car. I'm on my way to a very important business meeting." He shook his briefcase. "See, all my work's in here."

The old woman glared at him. "Do you see that moon up there?"

He peered up into the dark sky. "No ma'am, I don't see a moon."

"That's right. The moon is the eye of God, and the devil's gone and covered it up with black clouds. Spirits are running over the tops of the trees. Can't you hear them?" She wrapped her arms across her Bible, holding it tight to her chest like a shield.

Grant glanced back at the lonely road wondering how far he'd have to walk to find another house. He couldn't remember seeing another one nearby. Looking back up at the lady on the porch, he decided he'd better play along. "It _is_ pretty spooky out here. I'd sure like to get into the light and call someone to come help me."

"Oh, Lord," the lady muttered, "protect me now." Slapping the pages of the book together and stroking the pebbly black cover, she stared at him with narrowed eyes for a moment. Then her little frown firmed into a straight line, as if she'd come to a hard decision. "All right, come on up here then. You just know that I'm holding onto the Lord's Word here. The moon may be covered up, but He is here with me all the same. You look like a nice young man and as a Christian woman I can hardly leave you out there in this devil's darkness."

"Yes, ma'am, thank you so much." He moved toward her with a slow gait and climbed the steps to her porch. "I just want to use your phone. I don't mean you any harm."

"Your eyes don't give me a chill, so I s'pose you're alright. The phone is in the hall just through the front door. You go make your call, and I'll make us a nice cup of tea. I have carrot cake, too, made fresh this morning." She nodded and smiled, showing him a mouth full of widely spaced, stained teeth.

He followed her in as she hitched her way to the kitchen. She pointed to the phone in the hall as she passed it. He looked around the dim hallway. A tall staircase disappeared up into blackness and he heard a creak from above. ' _Probably a draft_ ,' he thought.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked toward it he saw an empty room that faded into darkness. The only light came from the left, where, he assumed, resided the kitchen.

He reached for the receiver and lifted it to his ear. Dead. He rattled the hang-up buttons: nothing. Following the cord from the phone to the wall, he could see it was plugged in properly. He jiggled the buttons again but nothing happened.

He returned to the porch, shaking his head.

She came out through a door on the left side of the porch carrying a tray with two steaming cups rattling on saucers and two plates bearing the promised carrot cake.

"Your phone is dead, ma'am."

"Oh, please, call me Miss Lula. Everyone around here does," she said with a sweet smile.

"Ok, Miss Lula, but your phone doesn't work."

Smiling, she said, "Yes, yes, I know. It hasn't worked in months."

He gave her a startled look. "But you said I could use it!"

"Well, I couldn't leave you out there on that dark road with the spirits walking, now could I?" Her brown eyes twinkled. "Come have your tea. I have a spare room you can use tonight and in the morning we'll get Mr Hankins, the newspaper man, to carry you into town. Won't that be nice?"

"But, ma'am..." He amended that to 'Miss Lula' when she gave him a glare. "I need to get my car fixed. I need to get to my meeting."

"Sometimes," she told him sternly, "the Lord has other plans for us. That road is dangerous tonight. He sent you here, to me, where you're safe. Yes, the Lord works in mysterious ways, He does." She chuckled and nodded.

Grant sighed and dug his fork into the moist cake. He hadn't eaten since the peanuts on the plane. After one bite, he could only grin.

"Miss Lula, that's the best carrot cake I ever tasted!" He felt his mood change for the better and decided it must be the sugar.

She leaned toward him. "It's my grandmother's secret recipe," She whispered. "I'm glad you like it, Harrison always did."

"Harrison?"

"My fiancé." A cloud passed over her expression. "Oh, he was a dashing man, so tall and dark. I loved him something fierce, I still do. He left to go to the war, you see, and I've been waiting for him ever since." Her gaze wandered into the night but quickly swung back and settled on Grant. "You look a lot like him."

A tree branch scraped against the roof with an eerie squeal.

"Oh, I... Which war was that?"

"Why, the Second World War, of course!" she said. "I can hardly wait to see him again."

The wind swept down the path toward the steps and a jumble of leaves swirled into the air by the railing.

Grant jumped, then sat back and rubbed his chin. "Miss Lula, do you know how long he's been gone?"

"Yes, indeed! It's been much, much too long. But I've been content to wait for him. I mean, just think of all he's gone through over there." She shook her head then smiled a wistful smile. "But as soon as he gets home, we'll be married. My wedding gown is all wrapped safely in the cedar closet."

Grant nodded and thought it best to go along with her. "I see. Have you lived out here long? It must be difficult taking care of this big house all alone."

She nodded. "I was born right here in this very house. I'm sure there are more exciting places to be, but I couldn't imagine living anywhere else. I don't mind the chores much, it keeps me busy."

"It's very quiet and peaceful here. I live in New York. It's nice to live in the city and have so many things to do, but it's never very quiet there. How did you meet Harrison – if you don't my asking?"

"Oh no, I don't mind. He was a local boy, I knew him in school – when he was there. His daddy was a farmer and the boys around here weren't in school much in the fall and spring. They had work to do at home. But it wasn't until we were in high school that we really paid much attention to each other."

"High school sweethearts, then?" he smiled.

"Well, it wasn't like it is now, back then. Everyone dated and no one got too serious. At least, not at first, but by the time we were juniors, we were pretty much an item." She fidgeted in her seat.

He was surprised at how much younger she appeared. How was that possible?

"What did you and Harrison do together?"

"Picnics, walks... and of course we always saw each other at church on Sundays." She blushed and glanced down, then back up with an impish look on her face. "And we danced... ". She seemed to gain more spirit with that declaration. "We used to dance. We loved to listen to the phonograph records and, oh my, he could dance so divinely."

Once again, her gaze drifted away, and then she focused back on him. "Do you dance, Mr..."

"Grant. I mean, my name's Grant Jacobs, but please call me Grant. I dance a little but I'm afraid no one would ever call me 'divine'."

Miss Lula clapped her hands. She appeared to grow even younger with this revelation. "Oh, would you like to hear our songs? I'm sure Harrison wouldn't mind."

Grant had to smile at her delight. Since he wasn't going to make that meeting; he might as well relax and make the best of it. "Certainly, Miss Lula, I'd love to hear your dancing music."

The screen door leading into the hall swung open with creak, wavering for a moment before slapping back into the door frame.

"Oh this funny old house, that door does that all the time!" She hopped up quicker than before and moved in the direction of the front door, stopping once to make sure he was following.

Her skin appeared much smoother in the darkened doorway and her silhouette more womanly. Grant couldn't believe he had thought she was so old earlier.

He followed her into the house, past the dark imposing stairway and through an arched doorway into the living room. Miss Lula touched an old fashioned pushbutton switch on the wall and a lamp with a deep red glass shade came on, washing the room in color and chasing the shadows away.

The phonograph cabinet stood in the corner of the room; an imposing piece of furniture. Miss Lula lifted the lid upright with a strong, sure hand and turned the button at the front.

The turntable started to spin.

"Wow," said Grant, "It works!"

"Well, of course it does, silly!" She laughed at his amazement as she knelt and opened the cabinet in the base of the machine. She pulled out what appeared to be a thick book. When she opened it, Grant could see it held many round paper sleeves, each of which protected a thick black disk.

She looked up at him with a winsome smile. "My grandmother called this a gramophone, but it's much more modern than those contraptions. They had to be cranked, can you even imagine that?" Her eyes were wide and clear. He noticed they were green. Weren't they brown earlier? He couldn't recall. She seemed much younger than he remembered as well.

"I can." Grant nodded and didn't allow his amusement to show.

Miss Lula slipped one of the 78s free of its sleeve, placed it over the spindle and pushed it down onto the turntable. She lifted the arm beside it and blew. Grant heard her puff amplified through the needle and saw a tiny fleck of dust float away. She set it with care on the edge of the record and happy music began to swirl into the room.

"That's 'In the Mood,' by Glenn Miller," she beamed. "We danced the swing to that and didn't my grandmother think we were crazy. 'Lula!' she would cry, 'What might people say if they saw you gyrating around like that?'" She laughed and took Grant's hand, giving it a little tug. Her hand was smooth and strong. "Dance with me, oh do!"

A cold draft washed over him as he took her hand.

The years fell away as he led her around the room. She moved in perfect rhythm to the music, never missing a single step. He began to glimpse the young woman within as she moved to the sounds of the war-torn '40s. The tunes moved through 'Pennsylvania 6-5000' and into 'It Must Be Jelly' before the scratching needle indicated the end of the record.

Mingling shadows slid past the open archway, wanting to rush in, but the red globed light kept them firmly out. All but one.

She rushed over to the phonograph with the step of a young woman. "Now I'll play our favorite song, oh I love it so much."

She plucked the record from the spindle and replaced it in its sleeve. She flipped through a couple of pages, then pulled another out and set it up to play. Her skin was clear and smooth against the browned pages of the old book; her nails painted a bright glistening red that grabbed Grant's attention and fascinated him.

She turned as the gentler strains of 'We'll Meet Again' wafted through the air. Reaching up, she pulled the pins out of her dark shining hair and it tumbled down around her shoulders. She looked at him with expectancy. "Do you remember?" she whispered.

A shadow moved between them and he felt a jolt as something moved through him.

_'Remember_?' Grant glanced back at the door. He wasn't sure where he was, or why he was here. But it felt so familiar. He tried hard to clear his mind.

Dread crept over him and he turned to escape the room, but that sweet music captured his thoughts. Something... no some _one_ asked to be allowed in.

_'Who_...'

It was as if he had met with a part of himself that had been hidden away for years. Unknown memories now coursed through him with breathtaking clarity. His mind opened and new feelings poured in. He loved that song; of course he remembered it!

"Lula!" He was delighted to find himself with the most wonderful, beautiful girl he'd ever met. She looked exactly as he remembered her. And he had missed her so. How long had it been? His last clear memory was of lying in pain in a cold, wet foxhole in a war-torn land. He didn't know how he'd gotten there, or how he'd come from there to here, but he thrilled at hearing these soft familiar strains and longed to hold his Lula close.

She held her arms out to him. "Harrison, you do remember!"

"Oh, Lula, of course I remember! Of course I do. His face lit with joy as he stepped into her arms and held her close as they danced away into the night.

THE END

A COTTAGE AT MANITOU CROSSING

# by Tannis Laidlaw

http://tannislaidlaw.com/

Cassie looked over at her sister Dawn then back to the solicitor. "Yes, we knew our grandfather had gone to Canada but he left the family years back. Even our mother never really knew him. We all thought he'd died long ago."

"No," the lawyer said. "Only last month. Silas Appleby left a will, and, as I told you on the telephone, you are mentioned in it."

"Wonderful," Dawn said. "A long-lost ancestor leaving us something. What is it?"

The lawyer frowned as if to indicate he was not prepared to jump protocols before time. "You brought your birth certificates? And your mother's death certificate?"

Cassie handed over a folder. He quickly scanned the contents and buzzed for his secretary. "Copy these, please," he said before turning to the two sisters. "Legalities."

Cassie sat back, her impatience portrayed by her crossed arms.

"Well, now, as the natural daughters of Mr Appleby's elder daughter, Eileen—'

"Only child," Dawn corrected.

The solicitor shook his head. "No. Elder daughter, Eileen, here in England. He had another daughter, Arlene, and a son, Larry, both born in Canada."

Cassie looked over at Dawn, eyebrows raised. Oh goodness, naughty Grandpa.

"Was there a divorce?" Cassie asked. "Or was he a bigamist?" She derived a certain amount of pleasure asking that.

"I don't know and it doesn't matter. Illegitimate children have the same rights of inheritance as legitimate children," he said flatly. "In this case, your mother and her Canadian sibling Arlene were left items in Mr Appleby's will. He specifically states that should his daughters predecease him, their children are to inherit their portion."

"The son? You said he had a daughter and a son," Dawn interrupted. "Sorry, Cassie, but I want to put this all in context."

Cassie gave a tight smile to her sister.

"The son, Larry, was killed in Vietnam with no descendants," he said.

Cassie quelled her desire to keep Dawn quiet and to push the lawyer. She told herself to just let him take his own time, frustrating as it was. Something occurred to her. "Our grandfather knew about us?"

"I gather he and his late wife – your grandmother – were in contact right up until her death some twelve years ago. He continued to support her."

Cassie and Dawn again looked at each other. Their mother had been brought up by their grandmother in a semi-detached house in Surbiton, not far from London. It had never occurred to them that living there would have been impossible for a family existing on the wages she earned as a supermarket check-out operator.

"So you're telling us that Grandpa sent money back to Grandma for years and years?" Cassie asked.

"He wanted Grandma to move to Canada before the war; I remember hearing about that," Dawn said. "But Grandma wouldn't go, wanted him to come home instead – she was waiting for him, in a way, for the rest of her life."

"Of course, there was the intervention of the war and, well, this new family," Cassie mused. "But the two of them kept in touch. So he knew about us because Grandma would have kept him informed but the old goat never mentioned his new family to her?"

The solicitor shrugged. "The will does not specify who knew about whom. Perhaps the Canadian family were told about you. Perhaps not."

"Who knows," Dawn said with a frown.

"Please," Cassie said. "We don't know much about our grandfather, obviously, but we are curious about what he left us."

"I'll go through the list." He read, "To my daughter, Arlene,"... he looked up. "I find it unfortunate he called his two daughters with names so easily confused. Eileen and Arlene."

"Replacement," Cassie said with sudden insight. "You know... he couldn't have his little Eileen so when he had another little girl, he just changed the name slightly. Arlene."

"Be that as it may," the solicitor said, "Arlene inherited the Manitoba farm. I gather she and her father farmed together for many years, and now she and her son Rick farm together. It's a family farm in every sense."

"The will?" Cassie asked.

"Now, to your mother: "To my daughter Eileen, Wolverine Island..." – and here he gives geographical coordinates – "and the shack and jetty thereupon"."

"An island! My goodness. Where do these geographical coordinates put the island?" Cassie asked. Now this was more interesting than she had figured. She noticed Dawn had slumped back in her chair. She figured her sister had been hoping for money. Or shares. Or even jewels she could sell.

"I've taken the liberty of contacting the referring solicitor for more details. The island is apparently on a large river in north-western Ontario called the "Winnipeg" which, I have just learned, is nowhere near the city of that name, and thus not near the Manitoba farm which _is_ near that city. The nearest village to the island, some three miles away, is called Manitou Crossing and I've put the coordinates through Google Maps to show you." He passed over a copy of a satellite photo showing an abstract juxtaposition of water and forest. Some roofs from a tiny village could be seen in the upper right of the photo, a railway bridge and what looked like a marina but otherwise it was a mix of dark green forest and blue water. "There's no jetty I can see," he said, pointing to a smudge of green in the lower left of the printout. "It's probably long gone, I suppose. After all, Mr Appleby passed away at ninety-five. He could hardly be visiting an old shack in the wilderness with no road access at that grand age." He looked from one sister to the other. "Do you understand? There is water access only and I believe no electricity or plumbing either."

"Okay, this island has no road access," Cassie said, while suppressing a desire to roll her eyes. "What else can you tell us about it?"

"It's something less than two hectares, that's five acres or so, and it's a lozenge shape from this photo," he said, pointing to what appeared to be a bump on the mainland.

"Hardly an island then," Cassie said seeing how close the island was to the mainland.

"Close to the shore, yes," the lawyer said. "In addition, no owners in the area have any mineral or forestry rights. I gather those are held by the government."

"So the government could decide to cut down all the trees?"

"For this size of island, no. There's a new regulation that preserves a strip of trees for some twenty metres back from a shoreline. There wouldn't be any commercial value in cutting the remaining trees in the centre of the island."

"People?" Cassie asked.

"Only the shack on the island; nobody nearby. This is an inaccessible part of the world. But it will be totally owned by you."

"Can we sell it?" Dawn asked.

"Most things can be sold. Eventually. But we're talking about a very, very remote area," the solicitor said with pursed lips. "I can communicate with the Winnipeg solicitor again and ask him about initiating a sale. He mentioned you would most likely want to put it on the market. He could arrange conveyancing."

"Hold on," Cassie said, more to Dawn than the solicitor. "There's no way I'm going to sell some inherited property without seeing it myself." Cassie owned her own travel company in Kingston and organising some highly discounted fares was usually possible. She could pop over the ditch and see for herself

"I mean it," Cassie said over coffee some fifteen minutes later. London traffic whirled past their table on the pavement near the solicitor's rooms. "We need to do a recce before we decide anything."

Dawn sighed. "The inheritance could be a godsend," she said, "but only if I can turn it into cash."

Cassie knew how important money was to her sister. Dawn's husband had been in a company reshuffle and his position became redundant, doubly important because they still had a teenager at home, their little afterthought, Benjamin. He was nineteen and due to start university in September.

"Ben is the brightest of the lot," Dawn said, referring to her other three children, all of whom had finished their tertiary education and were out in the world. "We can't not help him."

Cassie touched her sister's arm. "Look, Dawn, selling something without knowing the facts is plain silly. I should pay this island a visit and find out what I can. Meanwhile we can use the internet to gather any info about the area."

"To be of some use, I'd really like the money before uni starts in September," Dawn said into her coffee cup. "No, ignore me; I just got my hopes up, that's all."

Cassie was looking at the papers the solicitor had given them. "Oh, oh," she said. "More bad news."

"What?"

"The local taxes? They come to less than $100 Canadian a year – not even 50 quid. I guess that means Wolverine Island is not worth very much." Cassie watched Dawn's face fall. "Sorry."

Dawn pushed her chair back. "Well, it was fun while it lasted," she said. "I'll just have to help Matthew get some more applications out to potential employers. The trouble is that sixty-three year old accountants are not all that employable."

"Can you dust off your degree and find something yourself? You're ten years his junior, after all," Cassie said. But they both knew Dawn had never worked, instead choosing to bring up their children as a stay-at-home mum. "What about admin? You have a lot of supervisory experience from your charitable work."

"The thought has crossed my mind," Dawn said. "But my confidence is below zero."

"Well, I'll think about telling that Canadian lawyer to put the place on the market," Cassie said. "But it's against my better judgement."

A week later, Cassie made up her mind. She rang her sister. "I think I will go over to Canada after all," she said. "Mostly, I'm curious – curious about relatives we have never met and curious about our little island. I'll take time off work if you can help out."

"Me?" Dawn asked.

"Look after the shop, so to speak," Cassie said. "If you can follow me around for a week seeing what I do, you can hold the fort while I'm overseas."

"I couldn't," Dawn said. "You're a professional. You have masses of specific knowledge."

"True," Cassie said. "But I also have a parcel of highly experienced salespeople here. You need to hold weekly meetings, jolly along those who are lagging, forward any queries to those who do have specialised knowledge – including our tame solicitor and insurance company – and be the front person. Besides, you'll be paid."

"Oh," Dawn said. "I won't promise I'll do it, but I can puppy-dog behind you for a week. It will get me out of the house. Poor Matthew is a grumpy old bear and I could use a break."

"I need you to promise or I can't go," Cassie said emphatically. "Talking about needing a break; I haven't had a holiday in years and I deserve this."

Dawn rang back to say she had thought it over, discussed it with Matthew and young Ben, and she'd do it. Matthew even said he'd throw in his accountancy consultancy for free, just in case someone needed his advice.

Getting to the island was not straightforward. Cassie flew into Winnipeg airport then picked up a coach that deposited her into the nearest town to Manitou Crossing. She paid a taxi driver a horrendous fee to take her to the village from the coach station which was almost an hour's drive away. The taxi ride was turning out to be the most expensive part of her trip so far.

After the taxi deposited her in front of the station at Manitou Crossing, Cassie took a proper look at the scene in front of her. The abandoned but picturesque train station dominated the hill above the marina. The lake was a deep blue in the afternoon light rimmed with a mixed forest of pines, birches and poplars and little cabins dotted along the shore near the marina. The sky was such a deep blue it appeared to be almost purple above her head. The day was warm and she needed to shed a layer or two – she had gone from an air-conditioned international flight to an air-conditioned coach to an air-conditioned taxi. This was full summer and a beautiful day.

She had booked a room at the marina which turned out to be simply furnished but with a glorious view above the docks and boats and out over the large lake. She was directed to a café where she could purchase plain food. She ate something with pasta and minced meat, purportedly a lasagne; the saving grace was the glass of white wine – Californian, of course, but it was icy cold and tasted fine.

She couldn't go out to the island until the next day when the marina could spare a boat and driver. Nobody knew an island called Wolverine Island but the boat had a GPS and they assured her it would find the coordinates.

Whether it was the refreshingly cool night, the glass of wine or sheer exhaustion, Cassie slept well, awakening to a bird chorus well before six. She set up her laptop and was able to use the marina's internet connection to send an email to Dawn.

"Gorgeous country so far. Very wild, almost no habitation. Trees and lakes, trees and lakes and lakes and trees. Blue skies and little wind. My kind of a July day. Off to see the island at 10am. Will report all when I get back here to my little room at the marina. Lots of love to everyone and hope the office is behaving itself, Cassie, xx."

The boat was open with a teenaged boy managing the outboard motor at the back and a high swivel seat at the front for a passenger, in all likelihood usually complete with fishing rod. The lad directed her to wear a life-jacket which was several sizes too large but she put it on anyway. There was a faint smell of fish but as soon as they got away from the docks the fresh air was fragrant and delightfully different. The motor pushed the boat along like an aluminium water-borne bullet. Cassie swivelled her seat so she faced forward into the blast of wind they were generating. She felt like one of those dogs who love to stick their heads out of car windows on the motorway. Now she knew why they did it. She couldn't help grinning.

"Is this a lake or the Winnipeg River?" she yelled back at the boy.

"Since that last point, we're on the river," he yelled back. "We're now going up river."

Interesting; it was like no river she'd known. It seemed to be more a series of interconnected rock-rimmed lakes than a river. "Is there current?" she yelled.

"You'll see it in the narrows – in a minute or so we'll go between an island and the shore where it's visible on the surface. Very deep there."

Sure enough, there were a few eddies here and there where one lake narrowed to two passageways on either side of an island. Some of the lakes were huge; she guessed a massive volume of water was involved here.

"Do they dam this river?" she asked.

He nodded. "There's a dam not too far downstream from here. Hydro."

Hydroelectric power, she presumed. But no electricity at Wolverine Island.

"We're almost there," the boy called. He pointed toward a shoreline. "I don't know about any Wolverine Island, but I can take you to the Appleby place. One of the guys just brought the floating dock out of winter storage and connected her up, so I can head over there. We can look at the GPS properly when we land."

"Did you say Appleby?" a delighted Cassie yelled back. "That'll be right."

She couldn't hear what he said, but she thought she lip-read the boy's lips saying, "Why didn't you say so?"

They landed at a jetty attached to an attractive rocky point. The boy tied up the boat and pointed to the GPS.

"Bingo," he said. "Why didn't you say you were going to the Appleby's?"

"Sorry," she said. "I was told Wolverine Island. But Appleby is a family name."

"They're not down yet," he said. They? Down? Her heart lurched. He saw her confusion. "We always say "down at the lake". "Not down" means they're not here yet. They usually come for the last two weeks in July and the first two in August."

"Who are "they"?"

"Oh. Not old man Appleby anymore. I'm talking about Rick and Stella and their kids." He looked puzzled. "You said Appleby, didn't you? This here is the Appleby's place and the GPS says this is Wolverine Island. I didn't even know it was an island." Cassie bit back a continuation of the conversation. She'd be putting in a call to the Winnipeg solicitor. Appleby descendants using the island? Unexpected. She fingered the key in her pocket, a key sent by the Winnipeg solicitor and passed on by the lawyer in London.

"I can explore here for a bit, if you need to get back," Cassie said. "Do you want to stay and wait or make two trips?"

"Better I come back. An hour? Two? Three?"

Cassie looked around. She had a key to what was supposed to be what remained of a derelict shack, not that she could see one, but a path led up into the bush. She had packed a just-in-case bag with her swimming costume, a towel, a bottle of water and a packed lunch. She was ready for the lad to leave. "Give me three hours," she said. "Come back at about 1:30?"

He grinned. "Sure thing," he said. He took off, turning to give a cheerful wave as he opened up the throttle.

Cassie waited until the sound of the engine faded. Alone. Deliciously alone. She filled her lungs with fresh air then bent down to put her hand into the lake water. Cool. But here, the water was clear with all the appearance of an open lake. She could see the opposite shore over a wide expanse of blue water. There was no indication of water flow.

First things first, she thought. An exploration then a swim. And she had three whole hours of solitude.

She climbed the well-worn path which took her up a rocky slope then down towards a broad roof – much larger than she was expecting – set above the sun-spangled waters of a bay, maybe fifty feet across. To the side of the building she could see a sandy beach facing, Cassie figured, roughly east. The end of the bay to the left was made up of reeds which meant it wasn't a real bay, but a reedy channel between the island and the mainland. The side of the bay opposite, not as long as the beach, was a smooth pinkish granite cliff capped by tall pines. It was spectacularly beautiful and Cassie instantly knew why the cabin had been sited here.

The building was clad in cedar shingles and painted a dark green trimmed in white. Everything was immaculate. Evidently the solicitor had been wrong about Grandpa Appleby's presumed neglect. This was no derelict shack.

On the lake-ward side of the building, she climbed steps up a tall stoop from the path to a white painted door. She struggled to open the lock with the old fashioned key, but eventually it snapped open. She entered a bright room with windows framing the view. The house was far from new and the furniture was appropriately old too, but beautifully kept. Cane chairs and sofas covered in colourful throws were set against unlined walls made from two by fours and rough planking, all painted white. The floor was varnished wood.

She set her bag down to explore. The cabin was simple, rustic even, but reasonably spacious. To the right of the living room was a large kitchen-diner complete with wood burning stove and furnished with a table that could seat eight. She counted four bedrooms of various sizes but no bathroom. No electricity, either, as had been described in the solicitor's notes, but kerosene lamps were in every room. She peered from the kitchen window and counted three outbuildings. One must be a primitive loo. She threw open windows to let the summer airs through the house. She had a thought. She didn't have to stay at the marina; she could stay here.

The boat boy picked her up as planned. She had eaten her packed lunch and twice had swims in the lake, once from the floating dock which included a handy swim ladder and once from the beach in front of the cabin.

""Cottages", we call them," the boy yelled on their way back to the marina. "And people who have cottages are called "cottagers"." His Canadian accent emphasised the "r" at the end of "cottagers".

An hour later, she had bought a dinner of hamburger and chips she intended on eating cold when back at the cottage that evening. At the marina's small shop she obtained a carton of milk and some ready-to-eat cereal for tomorrow's breakfast plus a packet of instant chocolate she could drink cold. Scratch meals, but what a treat.

Back at the cottage, she made up the bed in the largest bedroom under a window through which she could see the same glorious view as from the living room. She adjusted the wick of a kerosene lamp and managed to light it well before dark, letting it burn in case she couldn't start it a second time. She had another dip in the lake before eating her cold hamburger on the dock watching the sky turn a line of whispy cirrus clouds into searing yellows and oranges as the sun set. She was totally delighted with the inheritance her grandfather had left them. That thought reminded her of the stark reality of her sister's circumstances; Dawn needed money. How could Carrie keep this delightful place and still arrange for Dawn to have the money she so desperately needed? That would require some creative consideration.

She slept deeply only awakening when she heard people noises. She ran into the kitchen to see a slim woman cresting the path from the dock and heading down her way. Cassie scurried into the bedroom and snatched an old dressing gown hanging off a nail behind the door. By the time the woman came in the front door – no knocking – Cassie was at least decent.

"Excuse me?" she asked the woman. "Who are you?"

"You're asking who _I_ am?" the woman expostulated. "The question is who might you be? You're in our cottage."

"Your cottage?" Cassie asked, thoroughly confused, her mind awhirl. Maybe this wasn't Wolverine Island? But the key fit. Could all locks that age be opened with such a key? Her knees began to shake.

"I asked, who are you?" the woman asked, frowning and her hands now on her hips.

"Cassandra Wood," Cassie said. "The new owner of Wolverine Island."

"That's—," the woman said.

"Keep quiet, Stella," a man's voice said from outside.

The woman flashed a quick smile which didn't reach her eyes and left through the front door again. "Oh, by the way, that's my robe you're wearing," she said through the open window as she descended the steps.

Cassie hurriedly went back into the bedroom and threw off the old dressing gown and her nightie and pulled on yesterday's clothes. She barely finished dressing when she heard the door open yet again. A man stood in the living room taking up too much space, hands on his hips, maybe forty years old.

"What's going on?" he roared. Cassie stepped back at this onslaught. She noticed the woman stayed outside the door.

"I'm Cassandra Wood," Cassie said, realising who he must be. "And I presume you are Richard known as Rick, grandson of the late Silas Appleby, who, by the way, was also _my_ grandfather." She held her head high. He was physically frightening. She was glad of the woman's presence – until she remembered couples like the murderous Wests, Fred and Rosemary – a woman's presence does not guarantee safety.

Rick glared at her. "So you know who I am."

"My mother, Eileen, was Silas's firstborn. Your mother, Arlene, is his second daughter. Or so says his will."

"Jesus H Christ," Rick said. "The lying bugger." He collapsed into a chair. The woman just stared at him through the window, then disappeared down the stairs.

"Who lied?" Cassie said. Now, this was interesting.

"Shut up, you," he said, not meeting her eyes.

Cassie thought the only thing was to do the stuck record trick. "I'm Cassie Wood. I've inherited Wolverine—'

"I said, shut up!"he growled, standing up and again towering over her. "I have to think. You're not supposed to be here, for god's sake! You were in England. Half a world away."

"What are you going on about?" Cassie asked. He was frightening her badly.

"You were supposed to put our place up for sale." The man was shouting, spittle flecking his lips.

"That's one consideration, true," Cassie said. She was shaking but she was determined Rick would see none of it. She straightened her back and took a deep breath. "But only a fool would sell her inheritance without seeing what she was selling. And I'm no fool." She kept her eyes fixed on him but he didn't meet her gaze.

Rick turned from her and yelled, "Stella! Get in here."

The woman crept in, making sure the door didn't slam. Cassie sat on the edge of the cane rocker. She let the chair rock, hoping her own nervous trembling would be concealed.

There was nothing attractive about her cousin Rick. He was sweating; he breathed noisily and she watched him wipe his mouth on his hairy arm. She looked away. They were first cousins. Well, half first cousins. She relished the half.

Rick turned to see his wife was inside.

"Get in here, Stella. I want you to be witness when I tell this Limey to bugger out of our house." He turned an angry face to Cassie and slowly stood up, leaning towards her. "So go. Beat it. Leave. You have no rights to this place until the lawyer straightens out this mess."

Cassie's heart sank. From his defeated look before Stella came back, she thought they could have had a civilised conversation. "I will leave when my boat comes to pick me up," Cassie said attempting to keep her voice even. "But I have to tell you, I believe you are trespassing on _my_ property." She stood her full height trying not to be intimidated by the much larger Rick. "Stella, nice to meet you. I had hoped to talk quietly and normally about this strange situation we find ourselves in." She edged towards the bedroom door, opened it, whirled inside before closing it in relief. She hastily packed her belongings and remembered to hang the old dressing gown on the nail.

When she came out, the two of them were in the kitchen, still arguing. So, no breakfast today. She took advantage of their absence to slip out the front door. She headed over the rocks towards the floating dock. When she had the dock in view, she concealed herself just inside the bush line where she could watch for the marina's boat when it came across the lake; she hoped, by then, her thumping heart would have settled down. Before long and only slightly late, a boat rounded the gap in the opposite shore. By the time the boy drew close to the dock, she hopped on board before either the boy stopped the engine or Rick appeared.

"Go," she said to the boy. He nodded and they raced towards the marina.

"Yes, I did discuss the will or organised that it would be discussed with everybody named therein both here in Canada and in England," the lawyer said. "That is standard procedure." Cassie had arrived into Winnipeg on a very hot day. What was a pleasant temperature at the lake was sweltering in the city. The lawyer was a smarmy fellow who never let his smile slip.

"And did you make clear to my aunt Arlene who inherited which part of my grandfather's estate?" Cassie asked.

"Yes, of course. And it was me who contacted a solicitor in London for you. Everybody has been treated equally."

Cassie smiled, her confidence returning. For all his pedantry, he made a basic grammatical error: "I" not "me". "To be totally clear," Cassie said, "I understand my aunt Arlene has inherited the farm. But she can do what she wants with her inheritance; Rick and his brother inherit nothing directly from Grandfather Appleby?"

"Madam, you have seen the will. Why ask these questions?"

"Because, sir, I was summarily kicked out of my cottage on Wolverine Island by Rick Maine, son of Arlene Appleby, and he claimed there had been a bad mistake. The island was his."

"That, I believe, is a matter for your aunt Arlene. Or, if you insist, the police. I think you should speak to her," the annoying man said. He stood. "Please let me know if I can be of any further help." He motioned Cassie towards the door.

"Please confirm my sister and I have inherited Wolverine Island and the cottage that stands upon it."

He sighed. "So says the will, although you'll find the cottage is not worth much," the lawyer said. "Any court will uphold your right to it, though. And your right to sell it, which might be the easiest way out of this dilemma in which you find yourself."

In a burning fury Cassie stood on the pavement as it proved impossible to flag a taxi. She was reluctant to return to the odious lawyer's office to borrow a telephone. After a long five minutes without a taxi in sight, she walked purposefully towards the downtown area. As soon as she saw an air-conditioned café, she stopped for a long drink sitting in the cool. Arlene. Yes, he was right; that was the place to start.

Cassie pulled the rental car to the side of the sprawling bungalow well out in the prairie beyond Winnipeg. The yard was tidy, rimmed with blooming flowers and the house was in good repair. Although it had well grown trees surrounding it, the house was the tallest man-made structure for miles. She knocked on the door.

Her aunt was a weather-beaten woman in her late sixties wearing long jean shorts and a t-shirt. She was stocky but athletic looking. Her face betrayed her age but not her figure.

"I'm a working farmer," she said over tall glasses of buttermilk. "I make this," she said, holding the glass aloft. "I bet you've never tasted anything like it before."

"A bit like yogurt," Cassie said. "I can't believe how refreshing it is. Thank you."

"Best drink on a hot day," her aunt said.

Cassie leaned forward. They were sitting in the shade of tall trees in a garden gazebo screened against insects but allowing the prairie breezes to blow through. "I didn't know of your existence until the will was read to my sister and me," she said.

"I suspected yours," Arlene said. "My mother found out Dad was sending money back to England. They had an unholy argument about it. What I didn't know and what Mum never knew was that the payments weren't for a mother or grandmother, but for a wife and child." She shook her head. "I'm glad she never found out."

"We only just discovered my grandmother had been supported all those years. Don't get the wrong impression; I don't think he sent a lot of money. Grandma worked all her life in a supermarket and she and Mum lived modestly; nothing like this." Cassie looked back at the sprawling house, warmly lit in the afternoon sunshine.

Arlene nodded. "We're still mainly wheat here – the new heavy-cropping varieties of course – but we have oats and flax as well and some sunflowers. Most of us plant a variety of crops nowadays that suit Manitoba's rich black soils. Never again will we be caught like they were in the dirty thirties. Dad bought what was a derelict farm before the war. But he didn't become a farmer – and a good one, as it turned out – until he returned from overseas.

"He fought in the Second World War? Actually, I think I heard that."

"Canadian army. He was invalided out; Mum nursed him at the vets"hospital. When he was discharged – usual story – she got pregnant with me and they married _toute de suite_. He had a limp forever more which obviously didn't affect his life span." She grinned and Cassie grinned back. Yes, ninety-five was good going. Cassie skipped over the married bit. No use rubbing salt.

Cassie looked out across the fields. Wind ruffled the tall grasses in broad waves of green. In a funny sort of way, it felt like being at sea with nothing to obscure the horizon. But she jerked her mind back; she had come here for a purpose.

"Aunt Arlene, I've just had an uncomfortable confrontation with your son Rick."

"Oh dear," she said. "It that why they went down to the lake so precipitously?"

"He seems to be under the misapprehension that Wolverine Island is his."

Arlene sighed. "He was the only one interested in it, actually. He and the old man spent time there every summer ever since Rick was a boy. When Dad stopped being able to manage the paths and the boat and everything, Rick took over. He loves the place, keeping everything up to scratch. An old place like that needs constant maintenance, but he's very practical, Rick is." She sighed.

"He farms with you?" Cassie asked, more to break the silence. This must be difficult for Arlene.

"He runs this farm beautifully. Poor boy, he was very upset about the will; he's always considered the Manitou Crossing cottage his – and frankly, I thought the old man wanted him to have it. He was always banging on about it going to someone who appreciated the place. And that could only mean one person: Rick."

"It would be a natural assumption," Cassie murmured.

Arlene carried on as if she hadn't spoken. "Pop felt some important values were worth preserving, values only found when living a basic lifestyle in a wilderness place like Manitou Crossing. Sorry, but I find it very strange he left it to people who had never seen the place."

"I guess I can understand," Cassie said. "But, I have to tell you, Rick frightened me. Badly. I felt lucky to escape." The memory of it caused her hand to shake. She put the glass of buttermilk down before she dropped it.

"Oh, dear," Arlene said. "Rick is a dirt farmer, not good with polite conversation. Besides, Pop would have left the cottage to Rick if there had been any other way, I'm sure. But there wasn't. He owned two properties, one worth vastly more than the other. If he left anything to you at all, it most likely would have been the smaller property."

"Which he did," Cassie said. "Presumably there's no comparison between this farm and the island."

Arlene momentarily smiled. "I know he wouldn't have split this farm just to even things up. No, if he was going to give you anything, it had to be the place at Manitou Crossing."

Cassie nodded. It made sense. But no wonder Rick was disappointed.

"In fact," Arlene said, "my own will states the farm is to be inherited by my two sons but it must not be sold outside of the family. That means Rick will farm and Brent receives half the profits after Rick's living expenses are deducted. Not ideal, but farms are always a problem."

Back at the hotel in Winnipeg, Cassie received an email from Dawn.

_"Office running sweet as. Matthew happily re-jigging your entire financial organisation_ – _hope that_ ' _s okay_ – _he does know what he_ ' _s doing. Staff working well and business is picking up for autumnal holidays in the south of Europe, especially Greece and Turkey. Hey, maybe I should take my wages in a holiday?"_

Well, that was a relief. Cassie immediately emailed back that she needed to sort things out here and it would be some days yet before her return. She had to get her head straight about all this. This dilemma was doing it in. Maybe she should just walk away. But Cassie had walked away from nothing in her entire life. Even when she should have done so. Maybe this was one of those times. Then there was Dawn. It was her inheritance and dammit, the island was her own as well.

In the cool of the evening, Cassie went for a long walk around a lovely area at the confluence of two tree-lined rivers. Winnipeg was surprisingly attractive, given its position on the prairie with nary a hill in sight. It was a city of heavily foliated trees with streets like green tunnels.

She received the call from Arlene that evening. Cassie could return to Manitou Crossing should she wish to do so; Rick and Stella were back at the farm. Good, because she had the beginnings of an idea.

Cassie wandered up the path to the ridge where she could have a good overview of the island – looking one way over the roof of the cottage down to the little bay and cliff beyond and, turning the opposite direction, out to the distant shore of the lake from the dock side. Both were attractive views and very different. She made her way back to the cottage and along the beach towards the reedy end of the bay. The reeds themselves were eye-catching and the view across to the rocky shore of the other side of the bay was just as charming from that part of the island as from the cottage itself. Still, it was a bit close to the cottage.

She made her way back to the dock. She had found a small sit-upon plastic canoe – more a kid's toy than a real boat – in one of the outhouses, but it suited her purposes. She climbed on – in her bathing costume; she had no illusions about staying dry – and paddled to the northern end of the island. There, a point consisting of a long run of pink rock headed down and out to the waters of the lake. Beyond the point, the lake bed gradually became shallow enough for reeds to grow. She tried to paddle through the reeds so she could circumnavigate the island, but they were tall and strong and too close together. Instead she climbed out on the pink granite shelf facing west. Now just up into the forest would be a lovely spot for a cottage; she wondered if her grandfather had considered it.

This aspect was totally different from the other side of the island. The mainland shore stretched northwards beyond the reeds to a small point. She was as far from the cottage as one could go on the island. Here she felt a welcome breeze from the lake. She decided to return at sunset. But she was fairly confident she knew what she'd see.

Late in the evening, she gazed over a darkening lake to a spectacular reflection of yellows, oranges and deep purples on the waters beneath the setting sun. Yes.

"Matthew's working on the ins and outs now," Dawn said. She and Cassie were in Cassie's flat in Kingston. "The income should solve any last problems we have, especially now you've decided to hire Ben on weekends during term time."

"Matthew had no problem starting his pension two years early?"

Dawn shook her head and helped herself to another scone. "None. Sorry, this is my breakfast."

"And you know I am perfectly happy for you to come visit me when I'm at Manitou Crossing," Cassie said. "So you kind of can have your cake—'

"—and eat it too," Dawn finished. "Maybe. But Manitou Crossing sounds a little... er... primitive for me – what about bears?"

Cassie laughed. "Sometimes, but I'm told they're more scared of us than we are of them."

"Best of all," Dawn said with a smile, "is that Matthew can make a real contribution to the business with his accountancy know-how. Already he's about to ask you – well, _us_ I guess – if he can invest in better software. And, I have to admit, I love being in the office. You can stay at Manitou Crossing all July, if you want. And my twenty percent of the travel business says you can have more time off than a measly month, anyway."

After Dawn left, Cassie helped herself to more coffee. Sunshine poured into her flat in the mornings in contrast to the new place at Manitou Crossing. It was to face west, situated just into the tree line above the long finger of pink granite. Oh, those Canadian sunsets. She closed her eyes and pictured herself sitting on her little deck, gin and tonic in hand, watching the sun go down behind the far shore, the water reflecting every hue in the rainbow.

She had come up with a good deal: in return for supervising the building of the new log cabin and providing all maintenance of everything on Wolverine Island: the paths, the cabins and the dock, Rick and his family would continue to have free use of the old Appleby cottage on the eastern side of the island.

Funny how things change, Cassie thought. Thank you, Grandpa Silas. Rick told me of your little arrangement. Leave the island to those unknown citified granddaughters living half a world away and they'll jump at an opportunity to sell it through their only contact, the Winnipeg lawyer. Cheaply. So in return for not too much cash, Rick would receive the inheritance his grandfather really wanted him to have, yet the old man could do his duty to his first family.

Sorry, Gramps, she thought, for my putting a spanner in the works, but somehow I think you just might approve of this solution.

The phone rang. Dawn. "I just realised you said you were having a log cabin built at Manitou Crossing in August. Not this August?"

Cassie laughed. "Yes, Dawn. This August. Next month. The cabin comes ready to assemble; the builders only need a week."

"A log cabin in a week? Never."

"We're talking about Canada, Dawn, not the UK. I ordered it on-line from a catalogue."

THE END

LITTLE BOY BLUE

# by Tina Traverse

http://www.amazon.com/Tina-Traverse/e/B008AJX9Z6

My name is Justin Hancock, and I always favored the light over the dark. The dark has very scary things contained within it that will assault the five senses to almost non-existence. It has menacing shadows, spooky creepy sounds, nauseating foul odors that penetrate the tongue and slimy ooze that runs through your fingers. I am so afraid of the dark that I refuse to sleep at night, instead choosing to sleep in the day. I hold my breath from the time the sun goes down, until its glorious golden brilliance rises over the horizon, bringing me serene relief.

I suffer for my unnatural affliction and because of my fear I cannot attend all the social events and activities that kids my age partake in. I have no friends.

I have survived the experiences of being a high school senior alone, tormented and scared. I am bullied not for my secret affliction, but for my mere presence as a human being.

Well, maybe a human being is too optimistic a description for what I am.

I hate myself and pray each night that whoever created me would just end my life and get it over with.

At least, that is what the voice kept telling me.

The only bright spot in this dreary existence is my Golden Retriever, Pal, who has been by my side since I was six years old when my mother gave him to me as a birthday present.

It is Pal who lies on the bed next to me at night as I curl up under a blanket fighting the drooping of my eyelids with my brain screaming at the rest of me to stay awake, stay alert!

Pal lets me rest my head on his soft furry back as I stroke his silky head and scratch behind his ears, daydreaming of a day where I can be just normal and sleep when the fat moon rises and the earth is shrouded in black.

Where my five senses are not paralyzed by the shadows, and I can have a normal life filled with friends.

I hear my classmates make fool hearty wishes for silly things such as a new car, new clothes or the latest iPhone, but for me, all I wish for is to simply not be afraid.

I zip my hoodie up to my neck and pull the hood over my head to ward off the sudden sun shower before I silently and discreetly enter the school.

Today is a big day at Paradise High, it is the last day before the Winter Ball and the hallway is buzzing with conversations about dates, dresses and the crowning of the Winter Ball Snow Queen and King.

Keeping my hood over my head and my eyes straight ahead, I walked swiftly by the hovering and gossiping masses to my American History class, confident that for once in my entire school career, I am going to make it to a class without being harassed.

However, like most of my tiny dreams, this goes up in smoke when Clive Gibbons, the senior class president and captain of the track and field and swim teams, pushes me over the threshold, knocking me down on my hands and knees and onto some broken glass that someone purposely left there, cutting them.

I tried to ignore the fits of laughter as I struggled with my too heavy backpack and try to control the flow of blood running down my torn blue jeans and my hands. "Hey, looks like cocky here got his period! Do any of you girls have a pad?" The peals of laughter from my classmates almost drown out the arrogant booming cackle coming from Clive's big priggish mouth. I tore out of the room with whatever speck of dignity I have left, almost bowling over Mr. Longhorn as he enters.

I barely heard him cursing and calling out to me as I ran as fast as I could to the boy's washroom. I prayed that it was empty and breathed a sigh of relief as I discovered that it is. I was blessed with one small favor from the gods today.

I fill the sink with hot water and carefully and gently mend my wounds. I have become quite an expert at self-mending.

I have to be, considering that this was not the first, nor the last of my injuries.

Hell, I will probably receive at least one or two more confrontations before the three o'clock bell rings.

I received so many cuts and bruises over my short lifetime that I always have a fully stocked first aid kit in my backpack.

The warning bell shrilled in my ears, signaling me that the school day was about to start, but I ignore it. Leaning over the sink, filled with my blood, I pull my hood down and take one long look at myself.

The bruise I received from my last confrontation on my cheek was now fading to yellow and the angry red cut above on my right temple had begun to heal over, leaving a crusty scab.

My long thin nose is slightly crooked thanks to the many times I am used as a punching bag.

My light blue eyes are listless and have dark shadows from nights without sleep.

I push my forehead into the glass to press the growing headache deep into my head in the hope that the headache would squash the voice there.

I push myself off the mirror and slide down the bathroom stalls and wrap my arms around my waist, and rock back and forth, desperate to soothe away that voice.

A loud grumble interrupts the rocking motion for a moment.

I had forgotten to eat breakfast this morning, _again._

But what did it matter? What is the point of eating when there are much more important things to worry about?

Like quieting the suicidal screaming in my head.

The voice howling in my ear manifested the same night my mother left me.

Anna Claire Smith found out she was pregnant with me during her senior year of high school.

My father is still unknown to me, the details, including his name has been kept from me. The only tidbit of information I heard through the murmurs of my Aunts and Grandmother was that I was the result of a one-night stand at her best friend's birthday party.

A house full of 17 year olds without any parent supervision plus an endless supply of alcohol. You do the math.

For the first three years of my life, it was just my mother and me. I enjoyed my time with her, being the center of attention and the only male in her life.

Then at the age of four, Damian came along, and suddenly I had to share my mom with him. It took me a long time to warm up to this new person in my life, but by the time I entered kindergarten, I not only liked him, I grew to love him.

Damian became the father I never had.

At the age of 24, Damian had taken on a huge responsibility becoming involved with a woman with a kid, an instant family is not an easy thing to accept and deal with.

I knew he must really love my mother to not only move in and accept me as his own, but to deal with the tragedy that would soon follow their second wedding anniversary.

Mom had been suffering these awful headaches since the age of 16 that got worse over time. With some headaches so bad that she would not be able to function, staying in bed, in the dark, trying to sleep through the pain.

At first the doctors told my grandparents that it was simply migraines and prescribed her painkillers.

They worked for a while, and for a time my mother believed that they were gone for good.

However, when my mother suddenly collapsed and suffered a grand mal seizure, she was rushed to the ER where they discovered the source of those "migraines".

My mother had a brain tumor that had gotten too big to operate, leaving her with only months to live.

Though Mom and I were both terrified and devastated about the news, my father was the picture of calm, seemingly unaffected by this horrific news.

Nonetheless, what I mistook for and cruel indifference was really Damian's way of coping with the news of my mother's pending death.

He kept it all bottled in in order to become our full time caregiver.

My mother declined rather rapidly.

In a matter of months my mother went from being a beautiful, strong and full of life to so thin and pale that she could barely keep her head up.

In her final days on this earth, I remember spending those last moments with her lying next to her in her bed, curled up in her arms, with my head on her chest and counting her heartbeats.

I stroked her smooth bald head that once had long, silky, sandy blond hair that tickled me whenever she held me or gave me a kiss and hug, while she stroked my hair until we were both fast asleep.

Then on the eve of my 8th birthday, as I was curled up in her arms with my head on her breast, counting her heartbeats as they suddenly became fewer and fewer until I could count no more,

I knew my mother had left me to live with the angels.

So I hung onto her still warm body as her last breath caressed my cheek.

I closed my eyes to fight back the tears that had pooled behind my eyelids and before long, I fell off to sleep as I always did.

I sensed that I was floating on a cloud flying over the ocean, high in the sky and sitting on my mother's lap.

Her arms were encircled around my arms and chest as I leaned into her scent of lilacs and baby powder.

Her long hair whipped around her in the wind as it periodically tickled me on the cheek.

She kept humming the tune of my favorite nursery rhyme as we flew over the vast sapphire ocean.

I was so happy, peaceful and serene that I felt no desire to come down from this cloud with my Mom.

This was the precise moment that despite my tranquil cheerful mood embracing the warm glow of my mother, something deep and dark inside me cut into my happiness turning it sour and ugly.

I was not deserving of such peace and love.

Out of nowhere, a dark black cloud as big as the sky bore down on my mother and me, swiftly swallowing us whole before we got a chance to fight it away.

I watched in terror as I was ripped from my angelic mother's arms and thrown hard into the ocean below.

Agonizing pain made my eyes snap open as I looked up from my position on the floor into the blazing red eyes of my father.

"You little bastard! What did you do to your mother?" he accused, slurring his words.

"I-I did nothing, Daddy! Mommy is with the angels now!" I meekly protested. The tears that were pooled under my eyelids now burst forth, falling down my cheeks in a torrent.

My protest was met with a stinging slap across my face that made my head hit hard on the floor.

When my head hurt so bad that it brought more tears to my eyes, he hit me even harder, lifting me off the floor and shaking me.

"Stop that bawling you brat! A real man does not cry, he sucks it in and does not be a little pussy like you!" he raged, as the strong stench of beer and booze wafted into the air making me gag.

The more he shook me, the more upset I became and, combined with the foulness of his drunkenness, I could not help but vomit the bile that I been trying so hard to swallow, all over him.

This infuriated him all the more.

"You little bastard, look what you done!"

These were the last words I heard before he propelled me from his arms and into the wall.

I am shaken from my nightmarish reverie by the shrill of another bell signaling the end of another class.

I wipe the tears and snot with the back of my hand, slowly stand up and walk out of the washroom and make a beeline for home.

I am grateful for yet another blessing as I find that the house is still vacant and my father is still at the pub.

Before my mother became sick, my father was a certified workaholic climbing swiftly up the corporate ladder on his way to becoming his advertising firm's youngest VP.

However, when she became sick, the burden of having to solely care for a terminally sick wife and young son became too much for him.

He turned to the bottle to soothe his frustrations and ease his burdens.

At first my father was a closet drinker, only taking sips of alcohol here and there, but very quickly those sips turned into full bottles and endless nights spent at the local pub.

Soon my father was a full time alcoholic who spent most of his wages on booze.

My father thought that he had his drinking under control, until Bill Simms, my father's boss, fired my father for drinking on the job.

One would think that this would shake up his world a little, losing his job when he had a dying wife and young son at home, but my father did not operate that way.

He continued to drink heavily and by the time my mother died, he had become brutally abusive against the person who he believed caused his wife's death-me.

After that night when my mother died with her arms around me, and my father so violently took out his grief and rage on me, the voice first visited me.

When I awoke from being knocked unconscious, I heard a strange new voice calling out to me.

The voice was deep, gentle and commanding.

It whispered in my ear in soothing tones that my mother's death was not my fault, but how wonderful it would be if I would leave this cruel abusive world behind and join her.

There is nothing like a voice in your head that gets to the point.

That voice has never left me and becomes stronger the weaker I become.

When I pass by the kitchen my stomach rumbles again.

This time I do not ignore it so I open the fridge to find that there is no food or drink, save for the dozen beers sitting on the top shelf waiting for my father.

I search the cupboards to find something to sedate the hunger gnawing at me, finding nothing but a single pack of saltines and peanut butter.

This will have to do until I am able to sneak some money from my father's pub fund to buy some groceries.

I have done this before without detection because my father is always too drunk to notice a few dollars missing.

I make sure to only take enough to buy a few essentials, leaving enough there for his rounds of drinks at his favorite pub.

I take my crackers and peanut butter and a glass of tap water and go to my bedroom and lie on my bed.

I join Pal on my bed as I share my crackers (minus the peanut butter) with him, and then lay my head on my pillow.

I reach under my pillow and pull out my favorite book and open the worn page to my favorite nursery rhyme.

The same rhyme that my mother read to me every night before I went to sleep.

Even to this day, this book never fails to put me to sleep.

With my hunger sedated, I read the poem over and over until I feel my eyelids droop, and before long I drift into sleep.

I sleep until I smell that all too familiar stale whisky odor turning at my almost empty insides and feel the blows of his rage all over my body, jarring me awake.

My father has violently pulled me from my bed by my wrist, lifting me high in the air and throwing me across the room, my head missing the wall by mere inches.

His blows no longer carry the sting of his words. Instead, the years have mellowed him to just needing to use his fists and feet.

Pal growls menacingly at my father as he leaps from the bed, clamping his sharp canine teeth into my father's arm.

I knew that Pal had gotten my father good this time when he yelps out in pain.

Pal comes to my rescue every night when my father comes calling on me as an outlet for his pent up rage, but Pal rarely gets to bite my father because he always hits Pal hard enough to knock my dog unconscious.

But tonight, Pal has managed to make my father bleed, infuriating him.

My father retaliates by letting me go just for a moment so he can drop kick Pal into the wall, snapping his neck.

I let loose a cry of anguish as I watch my faithful companion and only friend and defender die such a brutal death.

"I told you to stop that blubbering you waste of space! All that snotting and wailing does is make you a wuss! Now shut up and stand up like a man and take your beating!" he seethed, steam practically coming from his ears.

I feel the fear thicken as I am treated to the first biting words my father has spoken to me in two years.

I thought I have been taking his beatings pretty well every night for the last ten years.

When I did not get up quick enough, he pulls me up by my arm, nearly dislocating my shoulder again and pulls me to my feet.

I am grateful that he is holding me up because I would not be standing otherwise under my own will.

I had not looked my father in the eye since that night of my first beating, but something inside of me compels me to look him in the eye.

When his dull blood shot hazel eyes met my dead blue ones, he staggers back, almost losing his footing.

My father turns deathly white as I hold his stare, never turning away for a moment.

I could not understand what was happening, why my father was suddenly looking so frightened of me, when I heard a voice whispering in my ear.

This voice however, was not the same deep menacing voice encouraging my suicide, but a softer, gentler voice urging me to fight back, fight for my life.

It was time to stop the years of horrendous abuse and stand up to the man who instead of being my caretaker, my nurturer and guide through this harsh world, became the man that harassed and abused me worse than all my classmates combined.

This voice that told me to fight for my existence was my mother.

I did not hesitate this time as my angelic mother gave me the strength to fight back.

I continue to stare my father down as I summon all the strength I had in me to push my father off me.

He was caught off guard and at first did not know how to react to his son standing up to him and fighting back, but soon he recovers as he grabbed my arm, twisting it painfully behind my back and dragging me out the door to the top of the stairs.

"Mr. Big and Brave thinks that a little shove is going to stop me? You got to be kidding me, boy! I am far stronger than you are, so close your eyes and say your prayers; you are about to take your last breath. Say hello to that whore of a mother for me, will you?"

This was it, I thought. I am going to die tonight and I am going to welcome it.

I am welcoming my salvation from his hellish nightmare and I cannot wait for it to happen.

But not before I take care of one little chore.

"I will, but only if you say hello to Lucifer for me!"

My voice is cracked and weak from so little use over the years, but it still packs a punch as I distract my father long enough to give him one more shove.

He tumbles over the rail, taking me with him, landing hard on his back, his head hitting off the hardwood floor, snapping his neck like a twig.

His body does very little to cushion my fall as I land next to him, on my head.

I feel no pain as I watch my blood pool around me, only weightless peace as the spreading darkness turns into light.

I am no longer afraid of the dark.

THE END

RUTH

# by Thomas Ryan

http://thomasryanwriter.com/

After hitting the kitchen floor and suffering the sickening sensation of her head bouncing off the grey slate Ruth Deverett found her vision quite blurry. Squinting eyes couldn't make out the position of the hands on the wall clock above the fridge. No matter. She knew it was six oclock. There was no mistaking the news signature tune streaming from the television set in the lounge.

The Channel One news was starting.

The news always started right on six o'clock.

The lasagne splattered across the floor meant it was Wednesday. Robert demanded she keep a strict mealtime regimen. Roast on Sunday, steak on Monday, curry on Tuesday and lasagne on Wednesday. From the cheese and garlic aromas in her nostrils meant there was no doubt it was lasagne.

She ran the tips of her fingers along the side of her head. A lump was forming. It hurt. Her head had never jarred as much when it hit vinyl. She had argued with Robert against replacing the vinyl but as usual he had argued forcefully and had been able to show the rightness of his decision. How fortunate, Ruth continually reminded herself, to have a husband who was so right, all of the time.

Out the corner of her eye she saw movement. She deflected the boot with her wrist onto her thigh. Needles of pain stabbed through her upper arm. She worried her wrist might be broken. How could she iron Robert's shirt in the morning with a broken wrist? Her own fault really, she should not have tried to defend herself. Robert had repeatedly yelled at her not to do so. It only made him angrier. The beatings worse. She should apologize for her foolishness. After all, Robert only offered helpful advice.

Without opening her eyes Ruth curled into a fetal position and waited. Robert tapped the toe of his boot against the table leg. She sensed him looking down at her, disgusted by her weakness and deliberating his next move. This usually meant he was calming down. She held her breath guarding against sound. A groan would set him off again. She ached but it wasn't so bad. Not as bad as other times.

She could hear the news reader start up.

The ad break was over.

Robert would not miss the news, not on her account.

A bowl smashed against the wall. Ruth flinched. Lettuce and tomato sprinkled across her exposed calf. This was a good sign. He only threw dishes at the wall when it was over. A final vent. Footsteps moved away. When the sound muffled she knew he'd reached the thickness of the broadloom carpet in the living room.

"Don't move yet," she whispered. "Don't move, not yet."

* * *

The prosecutor slammed his fist on the table.

Nodding jurors shot upright. Judge Bowden looked over the top of his glasses and glared at Harvey Wilson but refrained from saying anything. He disliked theatrics and the prosecutors and lawyers who entered his court knew this. A look was usually enough to bring them back into line. He knew why Wilson had done it. The trial, now into the third day, had driven the jury to the brink of distraction. Wilson had a high pitched monotonous whine of a voice. His painfully slow questioning of expert witnesses would put a hyperactive child to sleep. But the time had now come when the judge knew Wilson wanted the jury to concentrate.

Ruth Deverett was on the stand.

"Mrs Deverett, you say you lay on the floor until you were certain your husband had left the room. How much time passed? A minute, two minutes, five minutes?"

"I'm not certain. Not more than five, I wouldn't think." Ruth Deverett's voice was barely audible. Wilson had asked her a number of times to speak up. His eyes swung towards the jury. They looked attentive enough. He assessed they could hear her answers.

"What were you thinking as you lay there? Were you angry?"

Ruth shook her head.

"Understandable if you were."

"No. I was shaken. Frightened, but not angry."

"The anger came later?" Wilson prompted.

"No. I didn't get angry."

Wilson regarded Ruth Deverett for a few seconds, then turned to the jury. He shook his head. Judge Bowden frowned. Ruth Deverett was obviously lying. He hated these trials. After years on the bench, the battered wives irritated him the most. He considered them stupid bitches. Why the hell didn't they just leave? They always stayed. They deserved everything they got.

"Mrs Deverett," the prosecutor continued. "You have just explained to the court how your husband allegedly brutalized you and now you tell us that this did not anger you?"

Ruth nodded.

Wilson paused for effect. He pretended to be fiddling with papers on the table but it was a ploy he used when he wanted a point made. He would let the jurors think on it for a moment. Actions from anger might be understood and even gain sympathy, but without the anger any action would be deemed, callous, premeditated. Ruth Deverett had just made his job a little easier. He could feel Bowdens' eyes boring into him like a slow speed dental drill. Wilson knew Bowden had grown impatient and he wanted the trial over, but Wilson wasn't about to be intimidated by any Judge.

"What happened next, Mrs Deverett?" Wilson asked, finally looking up.

* * *

Ruth crawled out from under the table. She reached up and gripped the edging of the bench top then raised herself off the floor. At the next commercial break Robert would want his dinner. She took a can of beer from the fridge and placed it and a glass on Robert's special serving tray. The same one his mother had served his father's on. Robert liked a beer. He didn't drink a great deal, certainly not a boozer, but always a beer with his dinner.

Ruth spied the cat's bowl in the corner. She picked it up. With spatula in hand she began scooping the lasagne riddled with slivers of glass, off the floor. After all, Wednesday was lasagne night and it wouldn't do if Robert didn't get his lasagne. The bowl filled, Ruth placed it on the tray. As an after thought, she picked up the can of beer and shook it for a few moments. A girlish giggle bubbles in her throat. The thought of beer spraying over Robert when he opened the can drove her to the brink of hysteria. She fought to control herself. It might warn Robert something was amiss and that wouldn't do.

Dusting off her skirt, she noticed her pantyhose had torn. She pulled them off and dropped them to the floor. Robert didn't like snags. A loose thread on a blouse or jumper made him most unhappy. She had shaved her legs every morning. But her pale skin could never hold a tan and Robert did not like lily white bodies. He made her cover up before she came to bed. Robert had funny ways. She would have put on another pair of pantyhose but didn't have time. She could hear the broadcaster announce the ad break.

Ruth picked up the tray and walked towards the lounge.

* * *

Wilson saw that the jurors now hung on every word. Ruth Deverett had come out of her shell. Now she spoke clearly, forcefully. Her eyes danced, even sparkled.

"Mrs Deverett," Wilson began, "You scraped food off the floor filled with shards of broken glass and proceeded to serve it to your husband. Did you not think this might anger him, given that he had allegedly already beaten you?"

"I had no choice. It was Wednesday and Wednesday is lasagna night. Robert liked routine. I couldn't not serve it."

Judge Bowden looked down on her, shaking his head. The bitch is mad. He had begun to despise her. She won't leave an abusive husband, and then she deliberately provokes him. God help us.

"And you weren't angry at any stage. You didn't scrape it off the floor cursing your husband. Rage would have been understandable." Wilson continued.

"No. I wasn't angry."

"If you weren't angry, Mrs Deverett, can you please enlighten the court as to your emotional state?"

"Thoughtful I think. Yes that would best describe how I felt. Thoughtful."

"Could you expand on that a little?"

"I was thinking about God. If he exists. That sought of thing. I'm not a religious person. I did go to Sunday school as a child but grew out of it. But at that moment, I began to wonder. Is there a God?"

Wilson fiddled with the papers on his desk again.

"You were thinking about God. Why Mrs Deverett? Did you blame God for what had happened to you?"

"Oh no nothing like that. I knew the fault was mine. Robert was very convincing when it came to apportioning blame. No, I had other reasons."

"Could you be more specific Mrs Deverett?"

"Your Honour." Rachel Black rose from her chair. "I fail to see any relevance in this line of questioning. Whether or not Mrs Deverett believes in God has no bearing on this case."

"I'm trying to establish the state of mind of the defendant Your Honour."

Judge Bowden did not like Rachel Black. The woman had too much attitude. Her designer suits had not fooled him. Not for one moment. She had had them tailored to show the lines of her body in the most intimate of ways. Her wanton, provocative display would not score points with him. Her seductive prancing he knew was a deliberate attempt to win favour, but she was too skinny for his liking. She could look at him with those dreamy eyes all she liked; he did not find them enticing. He noted that she deliberately stood with her back to the window so that her hair glistened in the sunlight filtering through the side windows, further proof of her seductive intentions. He would order her to pin it up the next time she came into this courtroom. That would fix her.

"Very well I'll allow it, but get to the point Mr. Wilson."

Wilson turned his attention back to Ruth.

"Mrs Deverett, did you come to any conclusions on the existence of God?"

"No, and it troubled me. I mean, if someone were to die, it would be dreadful if there was nothing. You know? Just...nothing. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Even Robert."

"I see." Wilson said slowly, adopting his special courtroom tone of empathy. "You had considered your husband's spiritual well being in the after life. The thought of his dying and there being nothing, worried you."

"Yes. I've always been a considerate person. Robert was my husband after all. It only stands to reason, if I needed to be considerate on a death, Robert's death should come first."

Wilson paused to give the jury time to think through what they had just heard. Bowden shook his head.

* * *

Ruth stood before Robert. When he reached up to take the tray, she pulled back. He made to rise then decided against it. Her manner had unnerved him. She studied his facial expressions. A creasing at the centre of his brow. She had unnerved him. He was searching for the answer. His mind carefully hypothesized his next move, like a soldier about to step into a mine field.

"What are you doing, Ruth?" He demanded. His voice not as forceful as it might have been.

"Bringing you your dinner Robert."

She held the tray out to him. He refused to reach for it. She let it drop. All the time her eyes fixed on Robert, piercing, belligerent. His feet splayed sideways as lasange coated his lambskin slippers. Startled eyes rose to meet Ruth's.

"You fucking mad bitch. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Ruth turned her back on him and crossed to the fire- place. She inspected the ironmongery on the brass stand and selected a heavy iron poker. She held it in both hands.

"What are you going to do with that, Ruth?" To Ruth's ears Robert's voice had a new edge. Was it fear. "Time to stop now. Let's talk. There's no need to do anything silly."

Ruth turned, smiling. She raised the poker above her shoulders. Robert raised an arm to protect himself. Ruth swung as hard as she could. The screen of the television shattered, glass exploded across the room. She was triumphant and squealed with delight. She turned back to Robert, her eyes tinged with insanity and glazed over with a feral wildness. Robert, now standing, backed away.

"Ruth. Please...please, calm down. Let me call the Doctor."

* * *

"And did your husband call the doctor, Mrs Deverett?" Wilson asked.

"No, it wasn't possible. I broke the phone and then his mobile. The mobile was on a charger next to the toaster. It was harder than a normal phone. The poker didn't do much damage, so I put it down the waste disposal. "

"And your husband, how did he react when he saw you had destroyed his phone?"

"He tried to leave the house but I had bolted all the doors. Funny really. Robert had fitted all the doors and windows with deadlocks and bolts. He said it was to protect us from intruders, but I knew it was to stop me leaving the house. Robert would lock me in before he left for work. Said it was for my own safety. I locked everything and put the keys down the waste disposal as well. Robert couldn't leave. He didn't say anything. He just looked at me. It was interesting because I think it was the first time Robert had actually looked at me with genuine interest in many years. I suppose under different circumstances I might have been flattered."

Judge Bowden almost threw his gavel at her. This woman was insane and the trial was a farce. She should be locked up in an asylum somewhere.

The court clerk handed him a slip of paper. It was from his wife Jackie. A reminder for him not to be late home. Jackie had prepared a special dinner for his birthday. He reread the, _don't be late_ part. As if he needed reminding. He had thought of nothing else but being on time, all day. Even after all these years, it still amazed him that he had managed to snare the former Miss West Coast winner. He remembered the early days. How he loved to run his fingers over her body. The firmness of a torso, so finely sculpted. It still excited him.

* * *

Ruth felt taller. Certainly the light behind her as she stood in the hallway, with the poker still in her hand, cast a long shadow. She shuffled forward, her injured thigh from where Robert had kicked her causing her to limp. Robert kept his distance. Well, why would he change now, Ruth ruminated. He had kept his distance throughout their marriage.

She now stood before Roberts's inner sanctum.

His study.

Only Robert had a key. She had never been inside. She had never seen his secrets. She picked up Robert's prized golf trophy from the hall table. A statuette of a golfer on a pedestal he had won in his younger days. She had always hated it. It stood nearly three feet tall. An eyesore. Robert had kept it there because he knew it annoyed her. She stood the poker against the wall and lifted it. It was heavy. It had a big square bronzed base. She raised it above her head and smashed it against the door. It took three blows before the locks gave and the door flew open.

She retrieved the poker and stepped inside. When she turned on the light, the scene that confronted her brought her to a sudden stop. Eyebrows pressed together in a deep frown. A blink. Then another. Then a slow disbelieving scan of the interior. As Ruth stepped forward, the relevance of the contents of the room dawned on her.

She burst into laughter. Not joyous laughter. It was low, guttural, anguished. She fell to her knees and sobbed.

* * *

The courtroom was silent. No one dared breathe. Even Judge Bowden for once was attentive. What had she seen?

"And what was it you saw, Mrs Deverett?"

Harvey Wilson knew what was coming as did Rachel Black but the jurors and Judge Bowden leaned forward, not wishing to miss a word.

"One wall was lined with mannequins, and against the far wall, a small table stood underneath a mirror. The mirror had small lights round the edging. You know? Like the ones you see in theatres. It was a makeup table."

"And the mannequins?"

"Clothed in dresses. Ball gowns mostly. And on shelves behind them a lot of wigs. All lined up."

"Your husband was a member of the local theatre Mrs Deverett."

"No. He was a cross dresser. He was a transvestite. But I would like to add, a classy transvestite. The clothes were of the finest quality. It seemed that even in the most perverse of states, Robert was unwavering in taste and quality. He had always worn Italian suits and Italian shoes. Always an immaculate dresser so it was reasonable that when he dressed as a woman he would dress in the finest."

Ruth shrugged.

"I was disappointed of course. Not because he was a transvestite but because I recognized the clothes. They were gowns I had selected when Robert had taken me shopping. I, myself, had never had such finery. Robert told me I had a good eye but lacked the ability to fully appreciate such quality workmanship. To buy these gowns for me would be wasting money."

Wilson picked up a paper from his table. Gave it a quick scan.

"What happened next, Mrs Deveret?"He asked without looking up.

"I heard noises. At first I ignored them, but the strangeness of them piqued my curiosity."

"What kind of noises?"

"It was like a bird had got trapped in the house and was trying to escape. That kind of noise."

"Where were the noises coming from?"

I followed them back to the lounge."

"With the poker in your hand?" Wilson asked.

"No. I had no use for it anymore."

"And what did you see when you got to the lounge?"

"Robert was involved in hanging himself. He had put the long power cable from the television over a beam. The television didn't work anymore, so there was no need for the cable. Anyway he had stood on a chair, put the noose around his neck and kicked the chair away. His legs were kicking wildly. Jerking I suppose you'd say. And he made terrible gurgling sounds."

"Did you make any attempt to cut him down? Did you call the police or a neighbor?"

"Oh no. I couldn't have done that. Robert didn't like it when I interfered with his activities but I did get a mop. Robert was urinating over the carpet and I had to keep the house clean. Robert would be upset if I hadn't."

Judge Bowden shook his head. He had heard enough. This bitch had driven her husband to commit suicide. If she had left the relationship, this tragedy would never have happened. The woman's husband was a member of parliament for goodness sakes. She would have known this would ruin him. There is no excuse. She is in the wrong and he is going to see to it she pays the price society demands.

"Your Honour." Rachel Black was on her feet. "This trial has gone on too long and the Prosecutor has produced no evidence other than Mrs Deverett was in a diminished capacity in all matters pertaining to her husband. She is obviously not responsible for her actions. The available evidence establishes only one incontestable fact. From deepest shame Robert Deverett took his own life. I ask that all charges against Ruth Deverett be dismissed. Mrs Deverett needs counseling not a courtroom."

Bowden looked at Harvey Wilson. He was not objecting to the request. He had his head down. Fiddling with papers. Wilson had always been weak. Bowdon had never liked him. He looked at his watch. He had a party to get to and he couldn't be late. He would delay the ruling and try to talk sense into Wilson in the morning.

"Court is adjourned until tomorrow."

"Your honour."

"Tomorrow, Ms. Black."

* * *

Judge Bowden stood, and the rest of the courtroom stayed on their feet until he had left. Harvey Wilson looked across to Rachel Black and nodded. The unsaid message was clear. He would not object to the case being thrown out.

* * *

Judge Bowden closed the front door and hung his coat on the rack just inside the door. He was glad the day was over. When he entered the kitchen, Sybil was standing beside the sink wiping her hands on a t-towel. She looked up at him.

"You're late, Gerald."

Bowden checked his watch.

"Only ten minutes," he answered meekly.

"Late is late, Gerald." She had the glint in her eye he had come to know and dread. Her shape had changed since she had won the Ms West Coast Bodybuilder competition. She had become bigger.

And stronger.

She moved towards him. He froze with fear. She swung her fist. He raised an arm to protect himself. She was too strong. Easily breaking through his defense and striking him on the side of the head. He hated her and cursed her as he fell to the floor.

One day he would leave the fucking bitch.

A plate smashed onto the floor beside his head covering him with pieces of cake. He knew it was carrot cake. Sybil only ever made carrot cake on his birthday.

THE END

THE UNEDITED INTERVIEW WITH BRENFORD STEVENS

# by Yelle Hughes

http://yellehughes.com/

The Unedited Interview with Brenford Stevens

Delfini Mesa Pelagos Magazine

September 6, 2011

By Reyna Pathos

When I told my boss I was ready to take on different types of assignments, I didn't think he'd send me on one like this:

I walk up to the front door of Brenford Stevens...Adult Entertainer, in other words, a male pornstar. I've never met anyone in the business, and I never really watched porn. I did, however, watch a couple of short films, some starring Brenford, so I could get a better understanding of what I was getting into and boy, did my ears burn red. But enough about me.

I am a little excited and a little scared to meet what's behind door number one. I knock on the door-it's an old fashioned-knocker-and then HE opens the door.

Standing before me was a beautiful, gorgeous man. Tall, he must have been about 6'3". His dark hair was cut in a fauxhawk and he had the greenest eyes I have ever seen. Wearing a white t-shirt and low-slung loose-fitting jeans, he greets me with a cheery "hello".

I reach out my hand, "Hi, Mr. Stevens, I'm Reyna with Delfini Magazine. You agreed to a two hour interview?"

"Sure, call me Bren. Come on in."

"Thanks." The décor was very modern. Everywhere was black and silver...a guy's place.

"Take your shoes off and have a seat."

He points to a black leather loveseat. It's summer so I didn't wear any hose with my plain blue skirt and my white blouse.

Thank God I got a pedicure.

"So tell me, Reyna, what do you know about the business?"

"Not much, that's why I'm here, to tell our readers all about it."

He settles back in his leather recliner. "Ok, well, sit back relax and ask away. Don't be afraid to ask me anything."

His chair was right in front of me, so I scoot back and keep my knees carefully closed. _Remain professional, Reyna!_

"That's your idea of relaxing?"

I nod yes, and he shakes his head.

Pulling out my recorder and note pad, I clear my throat. "Well, Mr. Stev...er-uhm Bren, why this type of work? How did you get started?"

"A friend of mine in college turned me onto it. She had been asking me to talk to a director she knew during our last year but I refused, cause I wanted to complete my courses. Once I graduated, I spoke with the producer about the business, they hired me and I've been doing it ever since."

"How long is that?"

"I started at twenty-two. I'm thirty-three now, so I've been fucking on screen for eleven year's now." He peers at me closely. "Does that offend you? Me saying "fucking"?"

_Good grief, is my collar all of a sudden feeling tight?_ I pinch myself not to reach up and try to loosen it. I clear my throat again, "Uhm no, that word doesn't offend me."

"Good, cause there's gonna be a lot more."

"So...eleven years, huh? How long does one last in this business?" _Ok, why did I say that?_ I try to clarify, "I mean, how long does a man keep going...I mean..."

He stops my blundering, _thank goodness_ , by holding up his hand. He chuckles, "I know what you mean. Here, let's do this, seems to me you're a bit nervous and you don't have to be. Just think of me as your buddy from way back and we're just sitting here chatting. How's that?"

_Buddy?_ Some of the weight lifts off my shoulders as I nod in agreement. "Ok, back to my question. How many years do men keep making films?"

"Well you can last, no pun intended, as long as you want. Keep a good rapport with management, stay healthy and keep your body in shape. No drugs, no outside soliciting and always continue to provide entertainment for your fans."

He places his bare feet on the shag silver carpet and leans in closer to me. "I forgot to tell you the main reason why I do this, I...love...women."

The soft puff of his breath, which is minty fresh by the way, blows wisps of my hair backward. My brain keeps telling me to back up against the couch but my body isn't listening.

"Uh..."

_Listen to you, not professional at all._ _Get a grip, Reyna!_

"I guess that's a good thing, loving women and all. Now to my next question, what does POV mean?"

He sits back with a knowing grin on his face. Knowing what, I don't know and I am not about to ask that question.

"It means point of view."

I wait a beat to see if he would give any further details. He doesn't.

"Can you be a little more specific?"

"Yea, I can be more specific, in fact I'll show you, that'll be specific enough."

"Oh please, tha-that's okay, you can just tell me. I'm sure I can imagine how it would go."

"No, no, I insist. You do want a detailed interview that shows as well as tells how we do things, right?"

I nod my head. Seems my tongue has gone on vacation as I look into his gorgeous eyes. The way I am feeling, I would agree to anything he wanted.

"Don't worry, I won't do anything to you that will make you uncomfortable."

He winks.

That isn't very comforting to me, because I want him to do something... _Stop it, Reyna! You are here to work, not get fresh with the person you're supposed to be interviewing._

"Now my dear, move your pretty self over to the middle of the loveseat."

I set down my recorder on the side table and put my notebook in my lap, then slowly move over until I am in the middle of the couch.

"Okay."

"Don't be alarmed, I'm going to get down on my knees in front of you." He kneels but forgets to mention that he's going to put his hands on my knees as well.

"Now...from your eye's view, do you see my location?" He doesn't give me a chance to answer him. "Follow me with your eyes as I lower my head." His hands gently push my legs slightly apart as I continue to watch his lips move closer to my bare skin.

"At the angle you're looking at me, so does the camera." His warm breath seems to have a mind of its own. It's like following a path under my skirt to my private parts.

I'm going to get so fired for this!

His lips were so close, if I tapped him on the head, they would touch the inside of my bare thigh. He raises his head slightly and looks at me with a glow in his eyes. "Write that down."

I snap out of my trance and snatch up the steno pad writing furiously. What am I writing? I really couldn't tell you. It looks more like chicken scratch than any legible penmanship.

"Got it." I shake my head slightly to clear some of the fog that seems to be surrounding my brain. I have to do something to break this craziness up. "What about STD's? Is that something that's a major concern?"

He smiles but doesn't get the hint to back off. "Everyone in the industry is required to get tested every twenty-eight days. And, every female I work with is vetted and their medical records are verified, and confirmed negative before any sex. The same goes for me, I'm tested every month. After the results come back and everything's all good, I go back to work."

Bren sits up and is really, really close, and all I can do is sit there and breathe in his light cologne.

I put my notepad in between our faces, and I pretend to write something. "This is a personal kind of question. You are intimate with a lot of different women and I noticed during my research..."

"Research? You've studied me?"

I ignore his question. "During my research, the women you're with are very relaxed. When I compared your films to others, some of them didn't seem to enjoy it. How long do you know these girls before you have sex with them?"

His hands are still there. "I don't know half of them, what I do before we are given our scripts-there's not a lot of dialog you know-I like to take them over to a quiet corner and talk."

Those hands begin to move, making a circle pattern on my knees.

Do I stop it?

No I do not.

Even knowing that my job and career as a journalist is in jeopardy, with his hands on my legs and his piercing green eyes captivating me, I don't care. I literally don't care.

I watch those hands lightly caress my knees. I look up and catch him watching me-watch him. After a couple of tense seconds of silence, he gives me a grin so wide it lights up all of his features.

I guess it's because I didn't protest and tell him to get off me.

He leans further into me, this time his pelvis touches me. "Write that down."

"Oh...oh right."

Clearing my throat yet again, I say, "What do you say to the ladies to get them comfortable?"

He is still close and for some reason he takes a deep breath before answering. He breathes deep, holds it then exhales with a sigh.

"I talk about...them, ask what do they like, do they like it soft in the beginning or do they like to take it hard. I have enough sway with the directors I work with, so I can push the direction of what type of sex we're going to have. If she's not into the rough stuff then I don't push it. But, that's usually not the case. You sort of know what you're getting into before you get there, that's what auditions are for."

"That's it? You just talk to them?"

"No, there's more to it than that." He moves a couple of inches back. Much to my...relief?

"I'm a touchy-feely guy if you didn't know that already." In my head I'm saying, _Yea, I get that_.

"So when I'm talking to them, I get them used to my touch. Pretty much like I'm doing with you. Did you notice that my hand is under your skirt?"

Startled, I look down and yes indeed his hand is under my skirt. The tips of his fingers barely an inch from the edge of my panties.

What the hell!

I take an indrawn breath to tell him what for, but he places a finger gently against my mouth before I can utter a sound.

"Now Reyna, don't be upset. I only did this because you were so nervous. If you hadn't relaxed, it would have been more awkward for both you and me. I must confess it is a great pleasure touching you because you are very attractive and your skin is very nice and you smell wonderful."

Did I just feel a tweak in my panty region? I will definitely be doing my own editing of this interview before anyone at work see's it.

"Uhm...thank you, I think?"

Ok Reyna, you need to get control back over this interview!

"Ahem. Bren, let's get back to the interview shall we?" I look at my notes to see what topic I can ask him next.

My boss had me write down a few words that had no meaning to me other than the standard definition.

"Let's see here, what does Gonzo mean?"

Bren chuckles while standing up, he turns and goes into another room. I let out the air I am holding in my chest, glad that this close encounter is over.

He walks back into the living room with a small camcorder.

Oh shit!

I watch with trepidation and a little anticipation as to what he is going to do with it.

He hands the camera to me.

Relieved he didn't turn the lens towards me, I ask, "What am I supposed to do with this?"

He kneels down in front of me again.

Oh boy!

"Set the camera on your right shoulder and point the lens down towards my head."

I...reluctantly follow his instructions?

"Now pull the screen out and adjust it where you can see me through it."

As I flip open the screen, the camcorder turns on and there he is, live and in color kneeling between my legs.

Oh my! When did he open my legs wider?

"Now Reyna, push the zoom and get a tighter shot of my face."

I follow his head lowering with the camera. He turns his head to the side so I can see his profile.

"Can you see where my lips are?"

"Yes."

"Zoom in closer so all you can see is my mouth."

I do and the next thing I see is a long tongue protruding from that mouth to wetly lick the inner part of my knee.

"Oh!"

"Keep watching through the lens, Reyna." His voice is suddenly very deep and very rumbly.

I don't question or protest, just do as he tells me. I keep my eye on the screen and follow as his mouth pushes my skirt up out of the way. I can feel his hands helping that mouth along but can't see them.

He stops only to direct me to lift my butt.

Not a word of protest from me.

I see something white fly by. Guess those were my panties, but I don't care. I can feel my skirt gather on my waist and I'm half-lying down. I still don't care.

Being turned on and curious makes you do dumb things.

Bren seems to know where the camera is pointing at all times. He always keeps his mouth in clear view of the camera lens.

"Keep it focused, Reyna."

Yes, focused on the inside of my thighs, his mouth and that tongue.

After this, I'm sure I can get a job writing obituaries or something, right?

My body has been manipulated without me even knowing it, my left leg is lifted high and sitting on his shoulder, and my right has been pushed over so I'm spread wide for whatever he wants to do to me.

Glad you went in for that wax, huh Reyna?

I keep the camera focused on his mouth.

It hovers over me for about a minute. I pull back the lens just enough to focus on more of his face and I can see him take in deep breaths as he inhales my fragrance.

Thank you, thank you, Mom, for instilling in me to make sure I always keep that part of me straight!

After a beat, that long tongue snakes its way out of his mouth to show me what gonzo really stands for.

This interview has been shot to hell and a hand basket and as a professional, I crossed the line.

Do I regret it?

Hell No!

THE END

COMING SOON:

# ASMSG POETRY ANTHOLOGY

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