 
BestsellerBound Short Story Anthology

### Volume Three

Copyright © 2011 BestsellerBound.com/Darcia Helle

Smashwords Edition

All rights to this anthology are reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors. This book contains works of fiction. The characters and situations are products of each author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Rights to the individual works contained in this anthology are owned by the submitting authors and/or publishers and each has permitted the story's use in this collection. Individual copyright information is listed with each work.

Cover design by Jaleta Clegg

Contents:

Winter Blues by Maria Savva

Skins by Jess C. Scott

Whisperer by Jaleta Clegg

The Wars Within by Jaime McDougall

The Old Bookshop by Julie Elizabeth Powell

Scale of a Dragon by J. Michael Radcliffe

Counting Blessings Along the Horseshoe Canyon by Sharon E. Cathcart

Eve & Ian's New Love Life by Cynthia Meyers-Hanson

Laundry Day by Stacy Juba

The Day the Lights Went Out by Cliff Ball

### Winter Blues

by Maria Savva

Copyright © Maria Savva

For as far back as she could remember, Adele had suffered, on and off, from a lack of motivation, feelings of anxiety, tiredness, mood swings, and a general sense of depression. Years ago, her doctor had thought she was run-down and advised her to take a few weeks off work. It didn't help. The following year, her doctor said she could be suffering from a virus, then the year after that he said she might be a manic-depressive; he prescribed some pills: they didn't work. Over the years, she had been for countless examinations and tests, scans and X-rays, all of which revealed that nothing was wrong with her. Finally,Adele was diagnosed as a S.A.D. syndrome sufferer: "Seasonal Affective Disorder".

'What does that mean?' she asked her G.P., bracing herself for the news that she had a terminal illness.

'It is quite a common condition these days, I'm seeing more and more cases of SAD syndrome,' replied Dr. Ivory, as he typed something into his computer. 'It means that when there is less daylight, you are prone to feeling a little down. So, in the winter months you are not as motivated as you are in the summer. Looking back at your history, all your anxiety related episodes have occurred during the winter months. It's the lack of sun; that's what causes your bouts of depression.' He smiled sympathetically.

A sense of relief washed over her. There was nothing really wrong with her; well, nothing that a bit of sun couldn't cure.

'So, if I go on holiday to a sunny country, that should help?' she asked, thoughts of beaches and crystal clear blue seas filling her mind.

'Well, yes, that would be a short-term fix,' said the doctor, 'but you need to concentrate on finding something that will alleviate your symptoms all year round. With the British weather, this type of syndrome can be prevalent throughout the year, which is what makes it hard to diagnose.'

Adele wondered if she could ask for a villa in Spain on the NHS, a smile played on her lips as the thought crossed her mind.

'But it's not as bad as it sounds,' continued Dr. Ivory, studying some notes on his desk. 'There are some preventative measures you can try which have been effective for some of my patients. If you make sure you get out and about in the daylight as much as possible during the winter months, you'll find that you feel much better. Some people need more natural light than others. It's the way your brain responds to light. Artificial lighting, like the type we use to light our houses and offices can actually have a detrimental effect.'

'But I work in an office,' said Adele, frowning. 'How can I get out and about during the day? And by the time I go home it's dark already.'

'Well, I can see how that could be a problem; being indoors for so many hours a day, going to work in the dark mornings at this time of year and going home in the dark might in fact be contributing to the way you feel. However, there are lights you can buy now: sun lamps. They are specially made so that they give out a natural light and can make you feel brighter.'

After returning from her G.P.'s surgery, Adele thought about what she had just been told and it began to make sense. It was all beginning to fit together like bits of a puzzle that had been scattered about but were now locking tightly into place. Although most people are happier on sunny days, Adele was aware this went much deeper for her. She began to notice that the sun had to be out for her to feel happy; and her symptoms had been getting increasingly worse. Last winter she had become a virtual recluse. She had made up various excuses as to why she could not attend Christmas parties or meet up with friends. She had locked herself away at home, hardly venturing out even to the shops to buy food. She told everyone who phoned her that she was sick with flu and that they should stay away in case they caught it too.

This year, Adele was determined to make a change; things would be different. The sun lamps which her doctor had told her about were very expensive, but she bought two; if they could stop her "sad" syndrome from rearing its head, they were worth every penny. She put one of the sun lamps in her bedroom, so that she could switch it on first thing each morning as soon as she woke up. The other lamp, she put in her office, to help cheer herself up during the working day. She slowly began to feel a bit better, as if she had more energy.

Adele began to read up about S.A.D. One Internet article had said that S.A.D. sufferers often felt more cheerful around Christmas time when streets and houses were decorated with lights of different colours. The lights and decorations in bright, vibrant colours, all helped to lift the spirits and alleviate feelings of gloom and doom.

She bought plenty of decorations: gold, silver, red, blue, green, yellow; glittering balls, sparkling stars, and shimmering tinsel. Strings of multicoloured lights now decorated all of her rooms at home and even outside the house, to welcome her home after a tough day at work.

'But it's only October,' commented her friend and work colleague, Julie. 'Don't you think it's a bit early for Christmas decorations?'

Adele explained everything to Julie over a hot cup of tea.

'Well, now I understand your reasons, I'm all for it,' said Julie. 'I wish you'd told me about this "sad" syndrome earlier. I really believed you were ill last year. I must say I am disappointed that you were feeling so depressed and that you felt unable to confide in me; it makes me feel like a bad friend. Promise me that in the future you'll let me know when you're feeling down.'

'I promise,' said Adele.

Julie kept a close eye on Adele throughout the winter months; concerned about her state of mind, looking out for any signs of depression.

Christmas came and went and Adele was able to enjoy it with her family and friends. She felt like a different person, bubbly and joyful, full of life. When it came to Twelfth Night, she did not want to take down the decorations. She asked Julie for advice.

'I think you should leave them up until the weather improves,' said Julie, thoughtfully.

'But won't that bring me bad luck?' asked Adele.

'I didn't know you were superstitious,' said Julie.

So, Adele left the decorations up throughout most of January, and far from feeling as if she had bad luck she continued to feel optimistic about life and was hardly ever down in the dumps; it was as if her S.A.D. syndrome had been finally conquered. Her whole life had been turned around thanks to a few colourful strips of tinsel and bright Christmas lights; if only she'd known about this years ago.

Towards the end of January, Adele decided to throw a "Taking-down-the-decorations" party. She invited her family, friends and colleagues from work. They all had great fun pulling down the hundreds of sparkling lights, trimmings and embellishments, drinking wine and listening to music.

'Your house looks a bit boring now,' commented Julie, as she left the party.

'Yes, it does, but I think the decorations have served their purpose for this year.' Adele smiled.

A few days later, Adele didn't turn up for work. Julie phone her.

'I've got flu,' said Adele.

'Oh, I'm sorry, I'll bring you some soup later this evening after work.'

'No, don't. I think you should keep away in case you catch flu.'

'I won't catch it,' said Julie, 'I've already had flu this year, remember?'

'Well, don't come over, Julie, I'll probably be asleep.'

Almost a week later, Adele was still off work. Julie decided to pay her a visit. After she had knocked at the front door a few times with no response, she became concerned. She called Adele's number from her mobile phone as she stood outside the door, peering through the front window for any sign of movement in the house.

'I can't come to the door, Julie. I'm not feeling well,' said the little voice on the other end of the phone line.

'Have you been to the doctor? We're all worried about you at work,' said Julie.

'Oh, don't worry, the doctor said I'll be fine in a few days,' said Adele, unconvincingly.

'What's wrong with you?'

'I'm just run-down,' said Adele. 'The doctor says I should get some rest. I'll be back at work when I'm feeling better.'

'It sounds like this "sad" syndrome might have returned.' Julie's brow furrowed. 'I've been thinking that maybe we took the decorations down too soon.'

'No. I wish I'd taken them down a lot sooner,' said Adele, grumpily.

'But you're obviously feeling under the weather and it's been cold and grey these past two weeks.'

'I'm feeling low, but it's not because of my S.A.D.,' came the reply.

'Well, let me in, so we can talk about it.'

Julie sat next to Adele on the sofa in the lounge.

'It all started last Tuesday,' explained Adele, her head resting on her hands as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. 'And I've been feeling depressed ever since.'

'Why? What happened?'

Adele sighed and leaned back on the sofa, still unable to meet her friend's eyes. She fiddled with her nails as she spoke: 'Well, as you know, I've had decorations up, including lots and lots of Christmas lights indoors and outdoors, for the past three months... and my sun lamps. Remember I bought extra ones for the lounge and kitchen last month?'

Julie nodded and shrugged her shoulders. 'What has that got to do with your mood? I thought they were supposed to help.'

'Last Tuesday I got my electricity bill,' said Adele, her face glum.

***

About the Author:

Maria Savva is a lawyer and author from London. She travels on the London Underground by day and then, by night, writes stories about the people she sees on there... Of course, her imagination likes to add a little extra. You can read excerpts and find links to purchase her stories, by visiting her website: http://www.mariasavva.com

###

### Skins

by Jess C. Scott

Copyright © Jess C. Scott

Skins features "Laer," the dark elf antagonist from The Darker Side of Life (the second installment in Jess's Cyberpunk Elven Trilogy). Hence, there's a little bit of dark fantasy thrown into this story.

This is an incident that occurred in his younger days...

P.S. The interior décor in this story is all real.

"Welcome to Paradise!" Aleksandra Nikolic sailed into the main sitting room of the $30-million yacht she and her husband had recently purchased.

_Really?_ 15-year old Laer looked around at one of the dwellings his good friend's relatives called "home."

"Nice crib, huh," Stefan murmured.

"Don't speak that way," Aleksandra said sharply. She turned around, striking a pose in her impeccable Carolina Herrera gown. "You don't come from the ghetto."

Stefan didn't argue with his step aunt.

Laer nervously ran a hand through his spiky hair. He wasn't quite sure how to politely put across that the lavishness was quite, quite suffocating.

The two teenage boys stayed close to each other, seeking comfort in each other's presence. Both of them had come from backgrounds that were vastly different from the world of the super-rich.

Aleksandra's husband, Andre, gave a quick nod and smile to the boys as he continued chatting over the phone with one of his lawyers. Customs officials had just seized several trophies made from the skins of endangered animals from the couple's Miami beachfront estate. The discovery of the exotic skins had resulted in a $30,000 fine, a fee which his lawyer was working on reducing.

The yacht, named the _Mystère_ , also contained a host of similar trophies.

Aleksandra trotted out statistics like a shopping list, running through the various materials on the walls and floors as they went along. "That's bamboo, that's oak, that's eucalyptus, that's crocodile..."

Laer was getting giddy from the zig-zag pattern of zebra-skinned beddings. There was a jaguar skin rug, complete with the head, open mouth crying out in perpetual silent pain. The tiger and lion heads on one side of the wall eyed the _Mystère's_ guests too, with their cold lifeless eyes forever frozen in time.

Laer leaned against the dining table for some balance when he saw a cigarette holder made from python skin, next to a cigar box wrapped in elephant hide.

"Andre is spending $10 million on a gallery for his world-class collection of ivory," Stefan had mentioned to Laer earlier that week.

Laer had heard of the Nikolics's taste for collecting exotic animal skin clothing and furniture, though he questioned whether Stefan had been telling the truth or grossly exaggerating. It was nauseating to discover that Stefan had not embellished any facts at all.

"Andre had a strong idea of creating something...modern," Aleksandra explained to the boys. "He said he wanted both details and clean lines. It's genius."

She put a hand out to the walls of one room, which were covered in ghostly white stingray hides, while the walls in the next room were covered in hand-stitched calf's leather.

The main deck featured two Michel Haillard chairs made from alligator hides and sienna-hued horns from a deer-like animal called the kudu.

"I love beauty," Aleksandra yattered on, "and I don't understand ugliness in fashion, so I admire all the people who are making this world more beautiful."

"Beautiful," Laer repeated absent-mindedly, taking in the gruesome décor. _Please explain, how spilling the blood of animals for vanity is beautiful?_

Aleksandra took the indifferent silence that chilled his heart as speechless admiration.

When no one was looking, Laer tested if his magic could work on the high seas by conjuring a basic flame spell in the palm of his hand. The pale blue flame lit up in his hand without any trouble.

Laer's boyish good looks contradicted the seething rage hidden below the surface.

Amidst all the carnage he had thus witnessed in what the Nikolics termed "luxurious details," he knew which one made the biggest impression on him. It was the exotic Michel Haillard horned chairs covered in crocodile skin with the tails that slunk out onto the floor, like the distended tongues often seen in persons hanged on the gallows.

"While most mega-yachts are 'vulgar' statements of wealth and power, the interior design of the _Mystère_ was designed to be in harmony with the sea and nature," Aleksandra went on. "This boat has elegance and intelligence. It is not trying to show the money."

Laer's attention was fixed on the crocodile-skinned chairs. He thought he saw one part of the chair rear back and take the form of the crocodile's head, as he heard the screams and cries of the animal as it was bludgeoned and skinned alive. The animal's eyes were glistening.

The vivid image played out in Laer's mind. _No faking it. Those crocodile tears are real._

"Do you like animals?" Aleksandra asked. She admired the trophies on the wall when her teenage guests didn't answer. "I do—nothing screams wild and luxe like exotic animal hides."

Laer was close to throwing up, and it wasn't because of the ocean waves.

"It's...a...abuse," he managed to stammer.

Aleksandra tossed her golden honey blonde hair back and tilted her chin up slightly, observing Laer from the tip of her nose. She gave a little shrug and a cold smile. "It isn't animal abuse if the animal is dead."

_But that isn't the case._ A blinding anguish scorched Laer's mind and seared his soul. _You bloody well know it!_

"I have a true passion for exotic-skin footwear and fashion accessories." Aleksandra was proud of her fashion sense, as proud as she was of the floating paradise she and her husband loved to show off and throw parties on. "I love alligator and crocodile shoes and boots, belts, and wallets, as well as luggage, bags and furniture. Eel-skin is nice, ostrich as well, and stingray, sure...but my favorite is real, proper, sea turtle skin. My custom boots made of sea turtle belly hide—with a lambskin lining for summer and detachable mink lining for winter—is one of the crown jewels in my footwear collection. I can show it to you later."

Aleksandra had a look her perfectly pedicured feet, before adding, "The bar lounge in the _Mystère_ —bar stools, tables and lounge furniture—is upholstered entirely of alligator belly skin. I was included in every step of the design!"

A brilliant idea struck Aleksandra just then. She made a mental note to create bar stools covered in whale foreskin. She thought it'd be a good way to shock future guests.

Laer was thinking of setting off a round of explosives in the expensive yacht, but he realized it wasn't the best move. It was too guerrilla, and wouldn't humiliate or shame the Nikolics. He had to make a more sophisticated statement, to be taken a little more seriously by haute couture devotees who reveled in cold-blooded vanities to pass their time.

Arguing and activism didn't interest Laer. He was clearly picturing a better way to make a statement. The energy he felt gathering within himself came as a surprise, like he was gaining a sense of some kind of new purpose in life.

"Sorry," Laer whispered to Stefan from the back. "But I have to do what I have to do."

He stood behind the unsuspecting Stefan, covering his friend's eyes with his hands. " _Lanta kaima'lova handasse._ " The spell would keep Laer's human friend asleep and unconscious for the next hour.

"Where's Stefan?" Aleksandra called out, just as Laer turned around to face her with his piercing green eyes.

_"Va, vine, viata_ ," he murmured, waving his hand toward the stunning silver snake arm band Aleksandra was wearing.

"Is Stefan all right?" Aleksandra inquired. The Elven words Laer was muttering were gibberish to her ears.

A chill ran through her lithe frame when she saw the absolute lack of any human warmth in Laer's striking gaze. "Wh—"

She gave a bloodcurdling shriek as her hand went to her throat.

Laer stood still and watched as her eyes began to roll back—she was lying on the ground, convulsing, immobile after her snake arm band had come to life and slithered up her arm to bite her on the neck. Her blood was now poisoned and saturated with pure, undiluted mercury.

"I—" was all Andre managed to utter when he stepped into the room.

Laer waved his hand to the billionaire, who collapsed onto the ground alongside his former Yugoslavian pop-star wife once the silver snake had punctured his jugular vein too.

_"Neuma en' templa_ ," Laer chanted, to trap the 30-strong crew onboard in a sleep spell as well.

He had to work fast—he was simply not yet strong enough as a dark arts practitioner to keep a large group of people unconscious for an extended amount of time.

_"Lietha guldur!_ " He dispelled the charm on the silver arm band. With a metallic clink, the snake band returned to its original form and stayed on the ground, unmoving, as Laer went forward to pick it up.

Once he'd disrupted the power grid of the yacht's integrated surveillance system, Laer whistled as he worked, dreaming of skinning the Nikolics like how an animal was skinned, unfazed by the quick, unmessy murders he'd just committed.

"After all, it's not abuse if the animal is dead..." he muttered over the Nikolics's corpses.

But it was tricky to skin a human body. He didn't have the time or knowledge to drain all the blood without making a big mess. He also didn't know if he could undo any mistakes he might make, especially if it involved the removal of the head.

The young dark elf chose to strip and drag the bodies out instead, placing them on the grotesque Michel Haillard horned chairs covered in crocodile skin, with the tails that slunk out onto the floor.

The Nikolics's stark nude bodies were displayed in the same fashion as the chairs, with their arms and legs resting on and splayed out the exact same way that the horns and tails on the chairs curled up and out.

"Two for the win." Laer stood back, re-positioning the bodies a couple of times, admiring his precise handiwork, when he decided to add a few more things.

_"Skalle_ ," he said, conjuring up two blood-spattered human skulls.

He placed one skull below the tiger and lion heads hanging on the wall—one human skull for each animal head—before having another flash of inspiration.

_"Sk'aal'burdur_ ," he said as he snapped his fingers at the animal heads on the wall, replacing them with real-life replicas of the heads of the Nikolics.

_"Skål_ ," Laer chuckled, enjoying the word play, holding one hand up like he was holding a wine glass. A Skål was a Scandinavian toast of friendship usually offered when drinking, as a casual toast. He toasted the moment to his first kills as a dark elf. It'd been worth it, and something to brag about if he ever felt like it.

Laer grabbed Aleksandra's snake arm band, taking it as his trophy and souvenir, and as his future weapon of choice.

A thin smile appeared on Laer's face as he looked upon the scene of his slaughter. Suddenly, the croc skins seemed to be shining even brighter than they had before. With each passing second, they were looking more and more alive under the pallid remains of Mr. and Mrs. Nikolic.

_One more finishing touch_ , he said to himself.

He went over to their laptop, ran a quick search on how the fur trade worked, and printed out the paragraph:

"Fur items come from animals who spend their short, miserable lives in cramped, filthy cages until they are slaughtered, or they are trapped and beaten to death in the wild. Fur farmers and trappers often use the cheapest and cruelest killing methods available, including suffocation, electrocution, gassing, bludgeoning, drowning, and poisoning. Many animals are still alive and able to feel pain when workers begin to rip the skin off their bodies."

Laer signed the paper off with "We (The Dead Animals) Are Watching You," to infer to the authorities that it was the dead skins that had come to life and taken their revenge on the hard-partying socialites.

After scribbling one final thought that summed up his entire feelings on the exotic skins trade, Laer tacked the piece of paper onto the side of Aleksandra's death-trapped face. He thought it was fitting that she had died with her mouth open, akin to the head of the jaguar rug on obscene display in the middle of the room.

He carried the still-asleep Stefan over his shoulder and vacated the scene, getting into one of the Hov Pods stored aboard in the side tender garage of the _Mystère_. He had just enough manna left in him for the day to accelerate the motor and head back to shore, somewhere faraway from the luxury yacht and scene of the crime.

As he felt the delightfully warm sun and fresh breeze on his face, Laer thought of the line he'd written down at the last minute, in his small, neat handwriting:

We should all learn to feel comfortable in our own skins.

***

About the Author:

Jess is an independent author/artist/non-conformist who's dedicated to writing original stories that are both meaningful and entertaining. She works in a diverse range of genres, such as contemporary fiction, YA fiction, poetry, urban fantasy, and cyberpunk. She thanks you for your support of indie authors.

Learn more about Jess and her writing at: http://www.jessINK.com

###

Whisperer

by Jaleta Clegg

Copyright © Jaleta Clegg

I smelled her long before she made her entrance, a musky animal scent that still remained feminine and alluring. I scribbled a note in the margin of the police report pretending to ignore her. She sashayed across my office like a supermodel, all long legs, tiny waist, generous bosom, and platinum hair. It might have worked if I'd been a male PI from the fifties. I set the pencil aside and fixed my gaze on her face. Marilyn Monroe would have sold her soul to have that face and those emerald eyes. I suppressed a flare of jealousy. Some women have all the luck. I'm not one of them.

"May I help you?" I smiled my blandest please-don't-waste-my-time-or-I-might-have-to-hit-you-before-I-throw-you-out-on-your-shapely-derriere smile.

She cocked her head, green eyes studying me. Silvery blonde strands swirled like silk over her bare shoulder. I wondered how her slinky cocktail dress could possibly keep her warm in our high altitude spring weather. Goose Falls lay on the north slope of a big mountain. Snow lingered into late June most years. Good for the tall pines that hugged the slopes and the ritzy ski lodges on the other side. Not good for curvaceous women in revealing cocktail dresses.

She extended her hand. Was I supposed to kiss it? She set a square of cream paper on my police report. "My name is Maeve. I hear you have a wolf problem."

That got my attention. I sat straighter in my chair. "Have a seat." I waved at the battered chair across from me. I'd found it abandoned in a parking lot. Stuffing crawled from one torn corner. It listed to the right. I found it encouraged people to get to the point as quickly as possible. I wasn't much for small talk.

The woman sat. The chair remained upright and stable. I watched for the slightest hint of discomfort.

Maeve smiled, red lips curving to reveal just the tips of perfect teeth. "You are Tori Jespers, are you not? And you are investigating the wolf attacks over the last winter?"

I nodded. "And you have information?"

She tapped one scarlet nail on her card. "I'm a wolf whisperer. I can help."

I studied her simple card. The outline of a howling wolf stamped in gold, her name—Maeve Lupus, Canid Control, and a contact number. "I'm a consultant for the police on the matter. You should see if they'll pay you for your services." I slid her card towards her.

"I have. They sent me to you." She turned up the wattage on her smile.

If I'd been male, it would have melted me. But, since I was female, it only activated the rivalry response system hard-wired into my primitive brain. My smile twisted into a partial snarl. I didn't like Maeve Lupus. "I'm afraid I can't accept your offer, Miss Lupus. Thanks for stopping by."

She rose from her seat. "Give me a call if you change your mind. I can make it very worth your while. Perhaps you can even afford a decent office chair." She showed her white teeth.

I gritted mine. "Thank you for coming, Miss Lupus. I'll be sure to call if I need your services."

She gyrated her way from my office.

I tapped her card on my desk. I'd bet my entire business, such as it was, that Maeve Lupus knew something about the wolves. But I'd be damned before I worked with her and her slinky evening gown at ten in the morning. I gathered my maps and notes. It was time to find my own resources.

The ranger station lay at the far edge of town, a whopping ten minute stroll from my office above Lillian's hair salon and drugstore. The bell above the door jangled as I shoved it open.

"Morning, Tori." Roy tipped his hat. He reminded me of a bear, all bulk and shaggy brown hair. His tribal heritage added to the image.

"Hey, Roy. Got a minute?"

"For you, darling, I've always got time. What's up?" He shifted the gift shop gadgets to the far side of the counter.

I spread my maps across the space. "Wolves."

"What do the police want you to do with them?"

I shrugged. "Trap them, relocate them, anything but shoot them. The environmental skiers would have a tizzy fit and complain to their friends in the government if we did that. I set up traps starting last March all along the game trails. Every single one tripped but the only thing I caught was a very angry skunk."

Roy wrinkled his broad nose. "Bad spirits with these wolves." He muttered in his native language, a phrase I'd never heard before. "You need Larou's help."

I bent over the map to hide the flush in my cheeks.

"He's at Beaver Lodge," Roy continued, as if he didn't notice my reaction. "He knows more about the wolves in the park than anyone. I'll let him know you want to talk."

"Thanks. What are your thoughts on these wolves?" I traced the markers pinpointing attack sites. They moved progressively closer to town.

"Bad spirits. You'll want this." He removed a pouch from around his neck, holding it to me by the leather thong. "Herbs, spirit magic, protection from bad wolves."

The pouch was worn to buttery softness. I sniffed. It smelled odd, not in a bad way. I slipped the leather thong over my head and tucked the bag inside my shirt.

"Wear it in good health, Tori Jespers." Roy made it sound like a formal blessing.

The door jangled as a group of campers entered. I rolled my maps, nodding to Roy as I left the ranger station.

***

"I smell a bitch in heat."

My heart skipped more than a few beats as I looked up from the police reports I was reading. "Nice to see you, too, Larou." I couldn't keep the bitter note from my voice. I thought we'd had a relationship at one time. He'd left me one night without a word of explanation.

Larou shook his head, his golden hair flopping across his brow. He got his coloring from his French Canadian mother and his exotic features from his Native American father. I didn't know where his golden eyes came from. I'd never met anyone with eyes that shade. "No, a wolf bitch. In heat. Your office reeks of it."

"I can assure you that I have not been entertaining wolf bitches in my office. Only human bitches in evening gowns." I tapped my pen on the police reports.

Larou straddled my uncomfortable office chair. He folded his arms across the wobbly back. "I sense a story. Want to share?"

I twiddled the pen between my fingers. "What happened to us, Larou? You walked out one night and never came back. Not a word for months."

He shrugged. "Roy said you needed help with the wolves. Judging by the smell in here, I'd say he's right."

"I loved you." I still did, but saying that wouldn't change anything and might scare him off permanently.

"Come to my cabin tonight and I'll help you with the wolf threat. I don't like the signs I've been seeing all spring. You'll need these, it's a full moon tonight." He set a small box on my desk. "You still carry that little gun?"

I opened the box. Bullets gleamed silver in the afternoon sunlight.

"It wouldn't have worked, Tori."

He was gone before I could answer.

***

I wrapped my jacket around me. Moonlight spilled across the daffodils blooming in the town square, turning them from yellow to pale silver. My gun weighted my pocket. I'd loaded the silver bullets and tucked the extras in my pocket, though I wondered at Larou's superstition. He'd never seemed to care about such things before, but I didn't know him as well as I'd thought at the time. The herbal scent of Roy's pouch surrounded me, released by my body heat as I walked through town to the cabin at the far edge that Larou called home.

I saw few people. The chill kept most indoors by their fireplaces. In another month, the mosquitoes would keep them inside. I breathed deeply of the pine-scented darkness. I paused on the wooden footbridge across Goose Creek. Water rushed over stones below me, invisible in the shadows. Moonlight didn't reach below the tall pines.

Branches crackled on the path behind me. I glanced over my shoulder, my hand sliding into my pocket to cradle the handgun. I saw nothing in the darkness. The breeze kicked up. PIne cones scattered across the ground. I let out the breath I'd been holding.

I started at a brisk pace up the path beyond the creek. Larou's cabin was another quarter mile. The pines hid the town lights behind and below.

I rounded a bend and stepped into a pocket meadow. Moonlight spilled across the spring grasses. A wolf, black as midnight and as large as a small pony, stepped from the shadows on the far side of the meadow. He planted himself on the path, head down and tail high. The hair on my neck crawled at the sound of his growl.

I swore, backing slowly. The wolf problem had found me. I knew the pack was attacking lone hikers, but not this close to town. I turned at the edge of the meadow.

A silver wolf bitch loped along the trail, headed for me with murder in her green eyes. Three more wolves, more normal size and coloring, followed.

I backed into the meadow. My finger slid into the trigger guard of the gun.

The black wolf advanced, one slow step at a time. He was playing with me. Two more wolves danced behind him, big brindled grays.

My pulse thudded as my adrenaline kicked into high. I pulled the gun from my pocket. A shot or two usually scattered wolf packs. I doubted it would work with this one. The leaders, the big black and the silver bitch, weren't normal wolves. Larou had warned me about the full moon. Werewolves in Goose Falls? Stranger things had happened, like the cat who stole baby chipmunks to raise as kittens. Or the people who claimed they spoke with Indian spirits and channeled crystal power from the native rocks. I just never thought I'd have to believe in folk tales. I was facing one now and it wasn't amusing in the least.

"Maeve Lupus," I addressed the silver wolf. "Where's your evening gown?" I aimed the gun at her head, using both hands to steady it square between her eyes.

She sat on the trail, tongue hanging from her mouth. I swear she laughed at me.

I tightened my grip, squeezing the trigger. Knowing Larou, the bullets he'd given me were silver. I wondered if they'd really kill a werewolf any more than regular bullets.

The black wolf hit me from behind, knocking me to my belly on the trail. The gun fired as it bounced from my hand. I swore as I scrabbled in the dirt. Hot wolf breath brushed my face and neck as he snapped his teeth beside my ear. I elbowed him in the head. He growled, his paws clawing at my jacket.

Maeve the Werewolf joined in the attack. She bit my hair, snapping my head to one side. I wrapped one arm around my head, punching with the other. She yelped as my blow landed home on one ear. I scrambled to my knees as the black wolf snapped teeth shut on my jacket sleeve. I slammed my arm into his head. He growled, jerking backwards. My jacket tore. His teeth left flaming scratches across my bare arm.

I needed help and I needed it fast. I lunged to my feet, then turned to kick at the two wolves. They circled, growling and snapping at my feet and flailing arm. I dug through my pocket for my cell phone. I saw no sign of my gun in the night-dark meadow. Maeve jumped, her front paws thumping on my chest. I stumbled backwards, falling on my rump in the grass. My cell phone spun away. One of the other, smaller wolves caught it, crushing it in broad jaws.

"Damn you," I shouted. "You won't win this easy. Come and get me now, bitch."

They rushed me at the same time. Black and silver fur and gleaming fangs, green eyes full of hate, I went down under the assault. Maeve buried her teeth in my arm. I screamed as fire burned through my veins from her bite. The smaller wolves howled as they circled us. I kicked and punched and kept screaming as we thrashed across the meadow. The wolves played with me, teeth snapping shut just shy of my face. I swear Maeve smiled as she chewed my sleeves off. Blood dripped from the bite on my arm.

My vision blurred with a golden haze. A sense of reassurance washed through my mind. The touch was gone as quickly as it had come.

I rolled through a patch of dandelions, their strong scent mingling unpleasantly with the musky scent of the wolves. The black male snapped his jaws shut on the pouch Roy had given me. He howled in surprised pain, backing away and shaking his muzzle. I grabbed the silver bitch by her scruff, slamming my head into hers. She rolled away. The other wolves launched themselves at me as the leaders retreated. I went down again in a pile of snapping teeth and clawing paws. I curled up, with my arms over my head.

A wolf yipped in pain. The yowl of an angry mountain lion silenced them. The wolves tucked tails between their legs and ran for the trees, except for the leaders. My heart rate doubled. The giant cat was right above me. It yowled again, planting its big feet on either side of my head. I stared at claws the length of my fingers on paws the size of saucers. What other wildlife was going to attack me tonight?

The werewolves advanced, hackles raised. Silver and black fur blurred as they charged the mountain lion. I rolled the other way as the three tangled in a heap of snapping jaws and flailing limbs. I scooted backwards, feeling my way across the meadow. My hand closed on my gun. I clutched it like a lifeline. I aimed at the wrestling animals.

Then hesitated. Something about the cat's golden eyes was too familiar. I couldn't shoot the wolves without hitting the cat. My aim wavered. Blood slicked the grip of the gun from the bites on my arm.

The rest of the wolf pack crept from the woods, eyes fixed on me. I pulled the trigger. The lead wolf tumbled to the ground to lay still. The other four kept coming, crouching as they stalked me.

I couldn't retreat, not while sitting on the ground and aiming my gun. They'd charge if I gave them an opening. I squeezed off another shot. The wolves scattered, all four still closing but now from different directions. The night air was full of growls as the three large animals tore up the center of the meadow. The other wolves crept silent now. I pulled the trigger. The shot echoed through the night. One wolf howled, biting at the bleeding gash on its flank.

The three remaining wolves charged. I emptied my gun, missing all three. I scrambled backwards. A huge shape loomed out of the trees behind me.

"Oh, crap," I muttered as the grizzly stepped into the meadow. It growled, a deep bass rumble. Nobody with any brains messed with a grizzly, especially not one already standing and threatening. One swipe of those claws would kill me. The beast looked ten feet tall from where I sat in the torn up meadow fumbling bullets into my gun.

The wolves were already in an attack frenzy. They snarled, throwing themselves at the bear. He swung his massive paws, knocking them ass over teakettle across the meadow. Two lay still. The other one limped into the forest as fast as it could go, tail tucked firmly between its legs. The one I'd shot took one look at the bear and followed its pack mate.

The bear shook itself, fur rippling silver in the moonlight. It glanced down at me. I couldn't move, frozen in fear. Its brown eyes held more intelligence than I expected. I felt something brush through my head, a touch of amusement. The grizzly stepped past, dropping to all fours to charge the wolves fighting the mountain lion.

I stared, too shocked to do anything as the four animals squared off, mountain lion and bear fighting the two wolves. Fur and blood flew, black in the moonlight. The black wolf squealed, an almost human scream, as the grizzly ripped its throat open. The silver wolf snapped teeth shut on the bear's front leg. The mountain lion roared, jumping the wolf bitch with both claws and teeth. She howled, long and loud, as the cat bit through her spine. She fell to the ground, twitching and moaning. The grizzly placed a paw on her throat and leaned. Her breath choked out.

The cougar looked at me, golden eyes glowing in the night. Blood stained his muzzle. I raised my gun, my aim wavering as I waited for his attack. He nudged the limp black wolf, eyes fixed on me. Was he offering me a present like a housecat with a mouse?

The mountain lion sat on his haunches. I swear he sighed, as if I were stupid. He nudged the wolf with one paw, eyes flicking to my gun.

The grizzly grumbled, copying the cat's gestures with the silver wolf bitch under his paws.

"You want me to shoot them?"

The cat nodded his head. He stepped back, out of range.

I walked forward, one shaky step at a time. The bear and cougar sat back, watching me. I took aim and shot into the head of the black wolf. His form wavered, as if it were underwater. A naked man lay in the torn up and bloody grass, a bullet hole in his forehead. I swallowed bile.

The grizzly nudged the silver wolf. My hand shook as I raised the gun again. I licked my lips my gut twisting. I'd had to shoot animals sometimes, but never people. I lowered the gun.

"I can't," I whispered.

Brown and gold eyes watched me, full of compassion and resolve. The grizzly nudged Maeve's still form. Blood leaked from her throat, staining her silver fur. I shook my head.

The mountain lion sighed, a very human sound. He shook himself, his golden fur blurring. I blinked. Larou rose to his feet in the place where the cougar crouched. His naked skin gleamed in the moonlight. Blood marked several scratches and bites on his arms and shoulders.

"You understand now, Tori?"

I flapped my mouth, unable to find words.

"A werewolf isn't dead unless you shoot it with silver or behead it," Larou said. "So unless you want me to fetch you an axe, you need to use the gun."

"What about the bodies? What about the police?" My voice cracked.

"Roy will take them someplace where their remains might surface in a year or two. Or maybe never."

I shifted my gaze to the grizzly. "Roy?"

The bear growled impatiently.

"But they're people, Larou. And we murdered them."

"Self-defense, Tori. Finish her off."

The silver wolf twitched, front paws scraping dirt. Her eyes blinked open, lips lifted in a silent snarl.

I fired. The explosion echoed too loud in my ears. Maeve went limp, her form shifting to her human shape. I dropped the gun, closing my eyes.

Larou caught me in a tight hug. "Don't think too hard, Tori. Werewolves would have taken over the town."

I wrapped my arms around him, feeling his warm, supple skin under my shaking hands. I breathed in the clean woodsy scent of him. "What about the bites? Isn't that how you become a werewolf?" I pushed away from him. "You're one, too."

"A were-lion?" He grinned. "Not really. You never asked about my tribe. We don't need moonlight to change, only the right incentive." He took my arm, wiping blood from the ragged bite. I winced though his touch was gentle. "They shared their blood and their curse. I can change that, if you choose. You'll have to join my tribe, though."

"Is Roy one of you, too?"

"And others."

I met his golden eyes. "Is this why you left?"

"Can you handle my other face, Tori?"

"If you can handle mine." I cupped my good hand over his on my bloody arm. "Does this mean I'll be a real bitch?"

He laughed. "Only when you choose."

I stepped into his embrace, accepting the unexpected future I'd just been handed.

***

About the Author:

Jaleta Clegg likes to live in other peoples' heads, which is where many of her stories come from. She writes silly horror, science fiction adventure, fantasy, and now rural dark fantasy, since it isn't quite urban fantasy. It has werewolves. You can find more of her work at: http://www.jaletac.com

###

### The Wars Within

by Jaime McDougall

Copyright © Jaime McDougall

"Go on ahead and make yourself comfortable. She'll be in to see you soon."

I stepped inside the small, empty office and looked around, not making eye contact with the short, plump – oh, what was the politically correct term these days? Big-boned? – receptionist, Tammy, who let me in. She waited at the open door as if she expected something. I sat down on one of the fake leather chairs in front of the desk and stared forward, waiting for her to leave. The sound of her wheezing breath became agitated for a few moments before I heard her shuffle off and the door click shut.

I stood and began examining the room. The offices never seemed to change much. Even when you were alone they always felt like boxes. Containers filled with pictures of flowers or landscapes hanging on white or grey walls, a solid colour clock with a white background and black numbers. The occasional stuffed animal or 'inspirational' quote calendar.

Today's quote? "Always look on the bright side."

Louise giggled, and I let her. I probably would have giggled too, had I not realised what being in this room meant.

Sighing, I sat down again and looked at the desk situated, as always, directly opposite the door. There were a few knick-knacks and a pen holder along with a box of tissues on it but not much else.

They never family photos on display. I assumed they were afraid. I would be. I'd never display family photos in an office like this. Not with the kind of people who made these appointments.

Someone knocked softly and I spun around, my jaw and fists clenched. A woman in red skirt and jacket with her blonde hair neatly pinned back came in. I relaxed and came back to myself. She looked nice. Gentle, even.

Red. A bold colour. She must be new at this.

"Hello..." She looked in the file she held. "Allison. I'm Dr. Santia. Please take a seat."

_No handshake. No physical contact at all. I like that._ Louise did, too, but she usually liked meeting new female friends no matter how they chose to greet her.

I sat down in the chair and crossed one knee over the other, folding my hands in my lap. I looked down at them for a moment, focusing on the dirt under my fingernails, and took a deep breath. Then another. Unlike some of my instant defences, Julia took a little coaxing.

"There's no need to be nervous," Dr. Santia said. She smiled. "I'm not very good at these first appointments, either. I get a little nervous, too."

The buddy-buddy route. Haven't had that one in a while.

I'd been through it before. One or two more deep breaths would shut "Allison" off and bring out Julia. Julia, the social queen, domestic goddess, and gracious hostess the world has always loved to think I truly am. I don't remember when she first appeared, but I think it was sometime shortly after starting school and the pressure to be social started.

She would be horrified at the dirt under my fingernails.

I had others I could choose from who would come out with less coaxing than Julia, but people I don't know seem to respond the best to her. She's polite, quiet, agreeable, and everything else perhaps a real princess would have been trained to be. Dr. Santia would like her, and I needed Dr. Santia to be at ease.

All I had to do after that was sit back and watch. Or go to sleep and let Julia hold on as long as she liked. I chose to watch, this time. I usually do for these appointments. I like observing people.

Dr. Santia smiled. "Why don't we get started? Tell me a little about you."

Julia worked her magic through most of the session. She laughed softly at the right times, handled important questions with all the seriousness any slightly bubble-headed twenty-year-old should. She even skilfully paused and occasionally babbled on to push the time as far as she could while they were in the realm of pleasant questions.

Yet another reason I liked having Julia up front.

Dr. Santia nodded along, listening more than taking notes. A good sign.

"And I've always dreamed of doing something that helps people," Julia said. Words from my mouth that weren't entirely untrue, though less true as the years passed. "I'm not sure if I want to try going the charity route or just do what I can day to day to help. I've been looking into becoming a social worker."

She topped that off with a sunny smile and a little shoulder shrug. _Nice touch._

"Excellent, excellent," Dr. Santia said, mimicking the habit of repeating words that I'd noticed among psychiatrists. Whether those few seconds were all that valuable or not, I don't know, but almost all of them did it. "Now I'd like to come right out and ask you a more personal question. Have you ever been abused?"

Julia faltered.

She didn't deal with abuse. Abuse didn't come with subjects like knowing who to seat next to whom at a party or the best way to talk to people when you want them to do something for you.

The jolt of being pushed to the front felt almost like a slap across the face, and I looked at Dr. Santia, wondering if she had somehow noticed. Julia skittered away to wherever it is she goes when she's not up front. I had to remind myself to swallow and breathe deeply so I didn't panic. I just barely moved my fingers and toes, adjusting to the sudden full control.

Did the others feel that way when I called on them?

"Any kind of abuse," Dr. Santia said. "It can come in different forms. Emotional or mental..."

So many memories tried to flood into my mind at once. Knowing at a young age I should have been born a boy. If only I had been born a boy, life would have been so much better. I wouldn't have caused any problems. I would have made my family happy if only for that one detail so out of my control.

I felt Alexandra enter the edges of my awareness.

"Physical..." Dr. Santia continued.

I swallowed. I didn't dare glance at the clock, lest it give away my desperate need for this appointment to be over.

'For your health,' they had said. That's what they always said. Why wouldn't they just take me to the doctor? Why did they have to beat my back so hard? At least I had learned how to stand on the edges of the bath without disturbing the shower curtain. They never found out and I avoided the boiling hot bath water. They noticed my drinking, but they didn't care so long as I left some over for them.

Alexandra stepped forward with her full strength to shove the memory away.

"Sexual..."

Images of Uncle Bo taking me for that walk when I was a little girl popped into my mind. The little copper button on my blue corduroys. How easily the button would just pop off and the matching copper zipper could be undone.

Alexandra immediately shoved the memory away as Louise started to whimper.

"Abuse?" I asked and then licked my lips. "I..."

Next came the memories of the tall man in my nightmares. Tall with brown hair. He used to shove up my shirt and make me hold onto the cheap, metal headboard of my bed. Things weren't clear beyond that, but he was reason I slept in the toy box or under the bed. He made me call him my prince, I think. The memories became so fuzzy and I didn't want them to become clear.

I struggled against the details. I'd lie on the bed during the day and know my prince would come again soon. There was no love or hate in it; I simply knew he'd come.

"Allison?"

Alexandra came forward with full force once again, trying to shove all the memories away before I could become fully aware of them. I could feel her preparing to take over completely if she felt the need called for it. Julia sat in the corner, cuddling Louise and crooning to the little girl softly as they both tried to bliss away the chaos.

I submitted to Alexandra, giving up my hold on the memories as they slowly faded from my mind, but I did it too late.

From the black depths somewhere within me, Maia woke. The torrent of memories had stirred even her in the faraway place I had confined her to – that we all had confined her to. Yet the memories provided more than enough to give even Alexandra pause.

Maia's screams bubbled up inside me, causing the memories to flood in again. People. Places. Emotions I had never fully felt. I tried to catch glimpses of the pictures before Alexandra shoved them away or Maia tore at them, sickly fascinated with the horrors of my past. Maia's rage and yelling made me physically cringe.

I looked at Dr. Santia and Maia raged all the more. _She_ had caused this to happen. She had disrupted the peace and sent it all into chaos. She had released what had been carefully tucked away for so many years. Maia screamed for justice and revenge, making me want to hold my head and cry.

"Allison?" Dr. Santia looked concerned. A little afraid, even. A pleasurable shiver flew up my spine.

So much. There were so many memories. So many things pushed aside. So, so much. Even things as recent as a few days past...

Maia stopped screaming. Alexandra stopped pushing thing away. Even she could not protect me from a memory so fresh.

The cane, all steel.

Mother's face of disappointment.

The pain.

Shock.

Dr. Santia asked the question again and I looked at her. We all did.

"No, I have never been abused." Maia licked her lips and scratched the fake leather along the arms of the chair. It had been so long since she'd had the pleasure of being in control. I took a deep breath, taking away the last bits of control over the body from Allison.

Dr. Santia nodded once again and began writing as fast as her hand would allow. I watched her, cocking my head to one side, then to the other.

Everything had gone quiet. So quiet.

I cracked the knuckles of my fingers, one by one, and wondered if the noise made Dr. Santia nervous. It shouldn't have. After all, she had caused all the noise just moments ago. The noise that woke me up. Noise I stopped. She went and stirred up everything all over again and then expected things to be okay.

She paused when I started but only briefly. As I watched, her hand shook slightly and she began to scribble things out regularly. The corner of my mouth jerked upward for a moment. I'd forgotten how much this body – my body – could act of its own free will. I began scratching the arms of the chair again.

I didn't like the noise the woman in red had caused. Neither did Allison. But Allison never did anything about it when people did things she didn't like.

"I'm almost finished writing," Dr. Santia said. "I'm sorry, but could you not scratch the arms of the chair? Something about that noise..."

I almost laughed. _Something about that noise._ She didn't like noise? Well, I didn't care for noise either, and soon she'd pay for the noise she'd caused.

"I understand," I said and smiled.

Allison began to cry.

***

About the Author:

Jaime McDougall is a citizen of the world, currently loving life in beautiful country Victoria in Australia. She loves eating sushi, kidnapping her husband and naming her pets in honour of science fiction authors. She has been published in _Chicken Soup for the Soul: High School: The Real Deal and Chicken Soup for the Soul: Campus Chronicles_. She has also enjoyed writing a column called 'The New Australian' in local newspapers as well as various articles online.

_Echo Falls_ is her first paranormal romance novel and is available in print and multiple ebook formats. You can visit her website at http://www.InkyBlots.com

###

### The Old Bookshop

by Julie Elizabeth Powell

Copyright © Julie Elizabeth Powell

This story has been included in Julie's short story book, _Figments_ published through Lulu - 28.7.11.

I saw it in the window – _Help Wanted_.

I could do that, couldn't I?

And Saturdays were free...forever probably, now that he'd gone.

It had finished.

At least they'd be no more burnt toast.

Or banging into imaginary cupboards.

I looked at the notice again.

No number to call.

Was that a mistake?

But didn't that mean I was ahead of the game?

_Ahead of the game!_ It wasn't for some high-powered executive position.

I reached for the handle, trying not to giggle.

Just so stupid sometimes!

I saw my reflection amongst the etched letters spelling out _The Old Bookshop_ and winced.

Pulling back my hand, I smoothed the blown tangles of dark-blonde hair that attempted to blind weary green eyes – olive, he'd insisted – before taking hold of the large, iron handle.

The black jeans and purple T-shirt would have to do.

Shame about the slashed message: _Born a woman, be afraid!_

Maybe I should go home to change? But by then I will have lost my nerve.

And nerve was something I'd have to chase until the demons were vanquished.

At least I had the T-shirt.

I'd bought it in defiance, and it was my talisman against past shadows.

The heavy door swung surprisingly easy, and then closed to the sway of tinkle overhead.

Lemon polish, tobacco and aged leather; I recognised the aromas amongst the ancient tang of musty pages and mingled scents of at least ten thousand people, each with a story to tell, while searching for faraway fantasies.

Shelves heaved in a blur of colour and size, spilling outward and up like an exploded volcano.

A rickety stool leaned, as if guarding its own special book, chosen centuries ago, never leaving its side.

Someone coughed, breaking the library hush.

It wasn't me.

I walked along the tumbled rows until there he was, a professor-like figure, as jumbled as the surrounding books, wearing the stereotypical leather patches on the elbows of a rather frayed brown tweed jacket and dark green cord trousers. The shirt, I noticed as he came to the end of the aisle, was a paler green, sporting a matching bow tie.

All that was missing was the pipe.

I was wrong.

He stepped closer and there it was, sprouting out of his top jacket pocket like a worn brown bulb desperate for sunshine.

I breathed deeply, sucking in the remembered odour, dark and smoky, rich and fragrant.

Dad, as he sat reading the newspaper that had always seemed enormous to me. But to him, he'd fold and re-fold as each page turned, as if it were nothing more than a wisp, smoke curling along its edges until wafted away with each new pleat.

But this wasn't Dad. Nothing like him at all, with his itchy, grey beard that reached to the level of the bow tie, much like the curls of his corresponding hair.

And too many lines on that ragged face.

Could anyone be as old?

He noticed me and shuffled even nearer, the glint of the buried spectacles peeking through the mass of hair, probing the space, as if an alien seeking answers.

I shivered, as cold grey eyes seemed to puncture their way through to my soul, almost reading me, as if I were one of the many neighbouring books.

The smile warmed them.

"You're here about the vacancy."

He said it, not as a question but a statement.

The deepness of his voice only served to compound his age.

My mouth slackened, not sure what to say.

Should I admit why I'd come in?

"You can fill it if you want."

He turned abruptly and, surprisingly quickly, made his way to the antique desk at the front of the shop.

I slowly followed but kept my distance.

Why was my heart pounding?

Was it a trap?

Don't be stupid! He'd gone for good and wouldn't be hiding behind that desk.

The old man picked up something and came back, his arm outstretched, his hand proffering what looked like a square of purple card.

And a key.

He stood and waited for me to take them. He was smiling again.

This must be what a deer feels like when confronted by humans.

Could he be trusted?

What was he going to do, shoot me!

I sighed, ignoring the tingling down my spine.

But it didn't feel like all those other times.

Never again!

I was free now, wasn't I?

I still hadn't said a word but took one step nearer, then another until we were less than a stride apart.

I took the card gingerly between my thumb and forefinger, inching it out from beneath the key, feeling its thick, warm texture, and stared at the rounded silver letters.

Life is about choices, you just have to recognise the right ones.

I felt hot.

What was this place?

Where was I?

I looked around and realised we were alone – Father Time and I.

Good name, it suited him.

I smirked inside, despite the weirdness of it all.

My eyes flickered back to where he stood, unmoving, as if waiting for my answer; at least the warmth remained in his eyes.

Only the silence filled my ears, while the fragrance of books almost permeated my skin.

It wasn't unpleasant.

I'd always loved them.

I'd missed them.

What could I say? What should I say?

Had I crossed over into some other dimension or was it merely my imagination wanting to bring the magic back into my life?

I shook my head, as if to clear it of tomfoolery.

I'd overdosed on the fresh feeling of freedom, on the wearing of the T-shirt – on the itchy, dusty, baked smell of books.

I looked back at the card.

The sentiment was true.

I had made the right choice – I'd never see him again.

And who was I to question this opportunity? Shouldn't I grab it and say, 'Thank you," whatever this was?

Whomever?

I pushed back the tangle from my face.

He still hadn't moved.

I focussed on him and understood he hadn't turned into a statue but was immersed in patience.

"Okay," I said.

His smile broadened, as he thrust the key towards me.

I took it, half expecting it to explode or turn me into a toad.

It was only a key.

"It'll give you passage into the shop from the lane at the back."

"But what exactly...?"

"As the sign says."

"Okay."

Considering my love of books, my vocabulary seemed stunted.

He took one pace back before twisting round.

"Follow me."

I did.

Back at the desk he said, "You'll start at Fiction," while handing me a thick notebook. "It doesn't matter how long it takes."

"But shouldn't it be...?"

"On a computer? No. This is the only way."

I slipped the card and the key into the pocket of my jeans, while both feeling the heaviness of the notebook and glancing at the rows and rows of books.

"As I said, it doesn't matter how long it takes."

The echoed tinkle resounded through the shop.

Life was moving again.

I couldn't deny that I'd decided.

Here it was then, the next stage of my life, one where I would be in control, where I could continue to choose what was right for me.

And it wouldn't matter how long it took.

***

About the Author:

Hello everyone. If you haven't guessed by now I have a passion for words and have nine books published...all thanks to 'lulu', much hard work and sleepless nights.

My eldest daughter has flown the nest and is married to a man who doesn't mind his mother-in-law though my son is still fluffing his feathers.

My middle child is off on a mysterious adventure, the like of which I can only guess...and tried to do so in my first book, Gone.

I love to read and am looking for ways to double time so to indulge in the mysterious and wonderful and delicious and strange...my favourite kind of story.

Writing is my passion, though I enjoy creating handcrafted cards, jewellery making, scrapbooking and dabbling in encaustic art whenever I can.

Oh yes, I used to teach or mark exam papers but now concentrate on writing and enjoying my new life, which materialised, as if by a miracle. Though still dislike all those necessary domestic chores that would, for me, be included in the Rings of Hell!

That's it. Thank you to anyone who reads my books...enjoy the flight!

I have two websites, where reviews on my books can be found as well as other (maybe helpful) information:

<http://www.freewebs.com/julizpow>

http://www.alchemyuk.yolasite.com

###

### Scale of a Dragon

by J. Michael Radcliffe

Copyright © 01/23/2011 all rights reserved

The warm glow of a fire flickered through the window, beckoning to Callen as she struggled through the snow towards the cottage. It was late; it had taken her much longer to gather the firewood for the night than she had thought, and darkness had fallen while she was still in the forest. The wind was bitterly cold, slicing through her furs like a knife and stinging her face. Every breath she took seared her lungs as the icy fingers of air tried to freeze her heart. She struggled to pull the sled laden with firewood through the drifting snow, her fur lined boots crunching as she walked. She'd had to journey deeper into Ebonwood day after day trying to find dry tinder to keep her cottage warm through the long winter nights. Much of the debris she normally found, fallen branches, sticks and the like, had been consumed by fires throughout the valley. The war between the dragons and the wizards had literally exploded across the land, with the dragons scorching and laying waste to any settlement they could find. The wizards weren't much better. Heaving a sigh, Callen trudged onward with her burden. Although she was a magic user herself, she had a great respect for nature and specialized in creating tinctures and potions from the ingredients gathered in Ebonwood. Most witches and wizards looked down on herbalists like Callen, thinking her backward and uneducated, yet many relied on her for ingredients for their own spells.

Struggling the last few feet with her heavy load, she tied the sled's tether to a post and pushed open the heavy wooden door. At least two feet thick and covered in glittering runes etched by Callen's family over generations, it swung soundlessly inward – it knew her touch as it had known her mother's and her grandmother's. Callen staggered in with an armload of kindling and dropped it on the large stone hearth as the door quietly closed behind her.

"About time you got back!" snapped a harsh, gravelly voice from a dark corner of the room.

"I'm sorry Papa," sighed Callen. "It's getting harder and harder to find wood for the fire – I had to go farther into Ebonwood than I've..."

"Bah! Don't give me excuses girl! Now stoke the fire and get supper going; I've been starving while you were out wandering in the forest."

"Yes, Papa," said Callen as she hurried over to the fire and stirred the embers with an iron rod, sending sparks flying up the chimney.

He's worse tonight. It must be the cold.

"Do you need a blanket, Papa?"

"If I wanted a blanket I would have said so, wouldn't I? Stupid girl! Always asking questions when the answer is obvious!"

She winced at his harsh words and hurried into the kitchen to make up the cook fire. Her father had always been difficult to please, especially after the death of her mother. The past ten years had been hard enough before the war started, and now her father's temper was even worse. She could not remember the last time he had left his chair in the corner, wrapped in shadows. As a wizard he did not approve of Callen's life as an herbalist, thinking it a waste of her time that brought shame to the family – a fact that he reminded her of at least five times every day.

_"A plain girl such as you must sharpen your wit! If a man won't have you for your looks, perhaps we can at least find one that will have you for your mind,"_ he would say.

Callen busied herself in the kitchen, stoking the embers of the small cooking fire so they would heat the soup she had put on earlier in the day. It had been at least an hour since the sun had set, so dinner would be late – another thing her father would remind her of she was sure. He had always been difficult to please and Callen could not recall the last time she had seen or heard anything like compassion or affection in his harsh voice.

I'm sure it's because he's been ill. If only he would venture out into the fresh air once in a while.

She knew her father had been ill for some time, but he refused to budge from his corner and scolded her harshly when she tried to persuade him to go out. She never knew if or when he ever moved from that one spot, for he was always there, wrapped in shadows, when she passed through.

"Callen!"

"Yes, Papa?"

"You've forgotten to bring in enough wood to last the night, girl! What were you thinking?"

"I'm sorry, Papa! I'll bring some more in after I've brought you your soup."

"Forget it; you've made me wait so long my hunger has waned. I doubt I could stomach your cooking tonight anyway."

Callen felt the heat rise into her cheeks as her face flushed and tears welled up in her eyes. "But Papa, you need to eat!"

"You heard me, Callen! Bring in the wood – NOW, before the chill sets in!"

"Yes, Papa," she sighed as she choked back her tears.

Callen pulled her hooded cloak from the peg on the wall and wrapped it tightly around her, knowing the chill wind awaited her outside. She walked past her father's corner without looking at him for fear he would scold her for crying. Lightly touching the door, she stepped aside as it swung open for her and shuddered as a blast of cold night air took her breath away.

***

Callen shivered in the pale glow of the moonlight as she stacked piece after piece of wood in her small arms. She cursed her diminutive frame, which limited how much she could carry. She had learned over the years how to balance more wood than most men could carry, for she knew better than to disappoint her father. Too many times he had made her carry the bundle of wood back out and start over again when the first armload wasn't enough. _"More than one trip is a waste of time,"_ he would snap and order her back out into the cold to start her task over again.

A rumble of what sounded like thunder in the distance made Callen pause, as one did not often hear thunder in the middle of January, much less under a cloudless night sky. She glanced upward to look for the source when suddenly an ear-splitting shriek pierced the night air, echoing over the forest. Dropping her bundle of firewood, Callen looked around in fear as the sound made her blood run cold; the shriek had carried the sound of rage, pain and anguish in equal amounts. A sudden burst of blue-black flame in the distance caught her attention, as an enormous dark object hurtled towards her. Callen screamed and dove behind the pile of firewood as the object passed just over the roof of her cottage, knocking a few stones from the chimney as it passed. A thunderous crashing sound followed as whatever it was plowed through the forest behind the cottage and came to a stop some distance away.

Callen cowered behind the pile of firewood for several minutes, until the cold chill of the snow forced her upward. The forest was remarkably silent since the object had crashed, with the only sound being the wind creaking through the branches high above. Taking a few furtive steps, she eased around behind her home until she could see the forest beyond. Small branches and entire limbs had been torn from the trees, although the object's trajectory was not perfectly straight – some larger trees had been entirely missed – as if some _one_ had fallen from the sky instead of some _thing_.

Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, Callen carefully followed the trail of debris into the forest. Not far beyond the edge of the treeline, she could make out a dark mound nearly the size of her cottage. Callen knew the forest well and there had never been a mound of dirt here before – and this one appeared to have been on fire as there were wisps of smoke rising from it and the smell of burnt sulfur permeated the air. She edged forward, trying not to stumble over the debris in the snow.

This must be what a mouse feels like when it sniffs a trap for the first time.

Fear surged through her as she realized what would happen when she didn't bring more wood in for her father – he would be furious – not to mention how she would explain the thunderous crashing sounds he must have heard as the object clipped their roof. But at that moment, something spurred her forward; she could not explain it but knew in her heart that she had to examine the object that had crashed. As she drew nearer, the object began to take on a more familiar shape – what had looked like just a large mound from a distance was now more elongated, with a spiked tail trailing out the back and large, leathery wings stretched to both sides. With increasing horror, Callen realized she was gazing upon a dragon! It must be a relatively young one, judging by the size, but it was still as large as Callen's cottage. The beast was lying with its head partially under one wing and it was obviously badly wounded. There were scorch marks all along the blue-black scales covering its body, where wizard fire had obviously struck. Most dragons repelled wizard fire with ease unless they were caught by surprise or were very young – which this one seemed to be. Callen knew she should flee and call for help, but for some reason she just could not bring herself to do so. She stared at the creature in awe of its obvious power, for she could feel the magical aura radiating from it.

She crept closer to the beast and moved around towards the creature's head, being careful to avoid the outstretched wings and tail. Now that she was closer she could see the dragon was still breathing, though the breaths were ragged and shallow. Guided by her curiosity, Callen leaned forward to get a better look at the beast's head. As she craned her neck forward, a fallen branch caused her to stumble. The sound of the limb breaking echoed through the forest like a gunshot, and the dragon's eye snapped open with a start – the pupil narrowing as it focused on Callen. The piercing stare of the fiery orb transfixed her.

The giant eye narrowed and the dragon snorted, sending a jet of dark blue-black flame just past Callen – a little to the left and she would have been incinerated. Callen screamed and dropped to her knees, covering her head with her hands.

"Please! Don't hurt me!" she cried, her body shaking with fear.

"Hmph," snorted the dragon again, between ragged breaths, though this time there was no fire. "You...you are a... puny excuse for a _wysard_ ... human!" it gasped.

Callen was astounded – she never knew dragons could speak! According to her father and most other wizards, dragons were not much better than beasts of burden to either be harnessed for work or killed for magical ingredients.

"You can s-s-speak?" she asked, tentatively.

The dragon did not move its head but rolled the giant eye that was facing her.

"Of course I can speak!" it wheezed in exasperation. "Ours is the... first of... the races, human – dragons can communicate... with every living thing!"

The more the beast spoke, Callen realized that though the voice was coarse and deep, it was distinctly... _female_!

"What happened?? Why did you almost crash into my house?!"

The dragon did not answer immediately, as a shudder rippled through its body and the great golden eye focused on Callen blinked several times. After several more ragged breaths, the pain seemed to pass and the creature looked at Callen again.

"Why should I trust you _wysard_? Why do you torture me so? Does seeing my pain warm your black heart?"

Callen blanched. She had never harmed another living creature in her life – she would even open windows to shoo flies out of her house instead of swatting them. She was horrified that the dragon thought she would derive pleasure from seeing such suffering.

"What? No! You don't understand! I would never harm you – and I am NOT a wizard! I mean... yes, I practice magic, but I live my life as an herbalist."

The dragon chuckled slightly, puffs of smoke escaping from its mouth in the process.

"Words. Empty words, magic user. Forgive me if I do not trust the words of a _wysard_ – it was one of your kind that lay in wait for me this evening. I was returning from the hunt, having eaten my fill of wild deer, when I was suddenly struck from below with _were-fire_. I was unprepared for such an attack this far out in the wilderness. One of my wings was badly hit, but my attacker did not think I would see him. His last vision was my rage, which quickly engulfed him."

Callen shuddered at the thought of an angry dragon and what it – she – might do. "Where is he now?"

The dragon's mouth parted in a toothy smile and the golden eyes narrowed. "His ashes were scattered on the night wind; he will not attack one of my kind again."

Obviously strained by the effort of talking, the dragon's head wavered and the heavy lidded eyes closed.

At first Callen was terrified the dragon had just died, but then she realized the beast was still breathing. She knew then that she must help the young dragon. Her conscience could not bear the thought of letting any creature suffer. Gathering her cloak about her, she ran back to the cottage and burst through the front door.

"Callen!"

She skidded to a halt, her blood turning to ice in her veins at the sound of her father's voice. In the excitement, she had forgotten about him. He would be furious with her!

"Yes... Papa?"

"Where have you been?! Where's the wood? How many times have I told you not to dawdle, girl?"

"I'm sorry, Papa," Callen stammered.

"SILENCE! Don't talk back to me, girl! What was that racket outside? It sounded like something crashed in the forest."

"It... it was nothing, Papa..."

"Don't lie to me, Callen; I know what I heard – now tell me, what was that noise? Lie to me again and I'll use the **curse of tongues** to wheedle it out of you!"

Hot tears streamed down Callen's face as anger welled up inside her. Once when she was little she had accidentally broken a small vase that belonged to her father. She had been terrified at the thought of his anger and had cleaned up the pieces and pretended as if nothing happened. Her father hadn't believed her however, and used a spell, the **curse of tongues** on her. It compelled her to tell every secret that dwelled in her heart, no matter how small and insignificant. Not only had he beaten her for breaking the vase, but afterward he had mocked her about some of the secrets she had spilled.

"Well?"

Ashamed and angry, Callen told him about the noise and the fire in the sky, and how she saw the dragon crash in the woods.

"WHAT? You must alert the Council immediately! Do you know how much they will pay me for the capture of such a murderous beast?"

"Papa, NO!" cried Callen in dismay. "We mustn't! They will send wizards to kill her!"

"Her? How do you know it is female? You didn't speak with it did you? I forbid you to speak with dragon-filth, young lady! Now, you will contact the Council immediately and tell them how I brought the beast down."

The thought of an execution team being sent to kill and dissect the creature was the final straw for Callen. She stormed from the room, grabbing her bag of herbs and potions as she went.

"Callen!"

Her father's angry shouts continued but she ignored them, slamming the front door behind her as she ran back outside into the snow.

***

The dragon had not moved from where Callen had found her, and she appeared to be in a deep slumber, though her breathing was still labored. Callen worked quickly, setting down her bag and mixing together various herbs into a thick, pungent paste. Muttering incantations under her breath, she imbued the poultice with every healing spell she knew. Carefully, she approached the dragon and began examining her wounds. Most of the burn marks appeared to be superficial, but there were two places near where the dragon's massive wing joined its body that several of the scales had been blown away and the underlying flesh singed. Callen focused on these areas, applying the thick mixture of herbs and layering each with more incantations. She labored for over an hour in the moonlight, until her fingers were numb from the cold and she could no longer feel her legs. She finally stopped and noticed that the dragon's breathing was no longer harsh and ragged, but was now coming in long, deep breaths. She smiled despite her exhaustion, knowing her incantations and poultices had eased the creature's pain and had carried it into a deep, healing slumber. Callen spent the next ten minutes pacing in ever growing circles around the creature, layering protective wards and concealments that would prevent anyone from disturbing her patient. Her task finally complete, she staggered through the back door of the cottage and collapsed in the kitchen next to the embers of her cooking fire.

***

Over the next several days, Callen's life fell into a routine; mornings consisted of enduring her father's relentless tirade of criticism and demanding she obey him and turn the dragon over to an execution squad from the Council. Callen would not bend, however, for she believed her father was wrong – the dragon had been the one attacked, not a wizard. She steadfastly refused to see an innocent creature harmed at the hands of the same spellcasters that looked down their noses at her.

She knew her father was too sick to leave the cottage or try to contact the Council himself; she could not even remember the last time he had left his chair in the corner. Since the onset of the sickness several years ago, he had surrounded himself with darkness by weaving a thick web of impenetrable shadows around his chair. Callen could barely make out his dark form and he scolded her cruelly when she tried to get too close.

After arguing with her father again after dinner, Callen spent the next hour crying as she busied herself in the kitchen preparing a large basket of food for the dragon. The guilt of disobeying her father was almost more than she could bear, but she felt she had a duty to nurse the dragon back to health. The creature had slept for the first two days, and did not seem to notice when Callen replaced the poultices on her wounds. Callen dried her eyes and picked up the large basket which was almost too heavy to carry, laden as it was with two large hams and a shoulder of mutton that had been curing in the pantry.

Struggling through the snow with nothing but the moonlight to guide her, Callen made her way through the forest behind the cottage, passing through the protective wards she had cast. Treading carefully so as not to trip over the brambles, she did not notice the pair of bright golden eyes that watched her approach.

"I would know your name, human," came a deep, throaty voice.

Callen stumbled and dropped the basket she was carrying, as she looked up and saw the dragon had obviously been up and moving about and was now facing her. The creature was sitting upright and had its tail curled tightly around its body, like some giant, scaly housecat. Tendrils of smoke curled upwards from its nostrils, and it gazed intently at Callen as if trying to see through to her soul.

"I... I, um, that is... Callen, my name is Callen," came the stammered response.

"I see," said the dragon without moving. "It would seem I am in your debt, young Cal'len."

"I beg your pardon?"

The dragon actually seemed to smile and her eyes softened as she lowered herself to the ground and crossed her forelegs in front of her. Her giant black head still towered several feet above Callen's, but she seemed somewhat less threatening from this position.

"I was near death when you found me, little one. Had you not intervened, I would have passed from this realm. Now my question – why?"

Callen shuffled and looked up into the great golden eyes of the dragon. "I could not harm a creature as majestic as you, great dragon," she said in a quiet voice. "I am not like the wizard who attacked you – I strive to cherish and protect the living, not attack them."

Callen's answer seemed to please the dragon, who nodded her approval.

"If I may ask, dragon, do you have a name?"

"The _wysards_ I have battled named me 'Darkfire' for the color of my flame; you may use this name if you wish. My true name shall remain unspoken for now, until my sire deems it otherwise."

"Your sire?"

Darkfire looked up into the night sky before speaking, and then returned her gaze to Callen. "Yes, Cal'len, my sire. Thanks to your efforts, my wing is well enough for travel and I must return to the mountains to heal." As she spoke, Darkfire rose and stretched her wings, testing their movement before furling them again against the blue-black scales of her back. She bent down and sniffed at the contents of Callen's basket, which had spilled out on the ground, and in a single gulp snapped up the meat, running her long, snake-like tongue along her snout when she finished. "I am grateful for your aide, Cal'len, but it is time for me to leave; my sire will be here soon."

Callen's eyes grew wide with fear – another dragon? If Darkfire was the child, her sire would be enourmous, not to mention incredibly angry with wizards who had attacked his daughter!

"Wait! You mean he's coming here??" she cried, her voice trembling.

Darkfire did not pause but continued to walk out of the forest, Callen running to keep up. When the dragon reached the side of Callen's house, she stopped and settled to the ground, wrapping her giant spiked tail around her.

"Yes, little one, my sire insisted on coming to escort me home, lest some foolish wysard try to kill me again. In my weakened state I would make too tempting a target."

"But he can't come here – Papa will be furious with me!"

Darkfire shook her head and looked down at Callen. "You have nothing to fear, little Cal'len. My sire is powerful, yes, but he is also very wise – the wisest of our race."

A distant roar interrupted Callen's next thought and she looked up and saw the full moon eclipsed by an enormous black dragon, at least five times the size of Darkfire. The creature circled once and then with a great forward flap of its wings, settled to the ground in front of the smaller dragon, stirring up clouds of snow. Fear chilled Callen to the bone as she took in the majestic beast before her. The creature's hide was so black it seemed to absorb the very moonlight around it, which made the fiery gold eyes that much fiercer. Its head, easily as large as her cottage, turned and fixed her with a malevolent stare, smoke curling from its nostrils. As the beast narrowed its eyes and fixed her with its gaze, her resolve crumbled and with a squeak like a terrified mouse, she dove behind the protective bulk of Darkfire.

***

Seba'an towered above Callen's cottage. The giant black dragon furled his wings close to his sides and bent down until his head was level with Darkfire, who had remained curled up by the cottage like some giant housecat.

"You are all right, little one?" He intoned gently, with a deep, resonating voice that sounded as if it could cause mountains to crumble.

"Yes, Father, thanks to this human girl," she said, raising her head to nuzzle her father. "My wing is healing nicely and I should be able to travel now."

Seba'an turned to look at Callen again, who still cowered behind Darkfire.

"Come out, youngling; I will not harm you."

Callen crept out from behind the smaller dragon and nervously brushed the hair out of her eyes and smoothed her robes.

"Do you know who I am, youngling?"

Callen stared up at Seba'an and visibly blanched. "I... I'm not certain, great dragon," she gulped. "I assume you are the sire of Darkfire, yes?"

Seba'an chuckled from deep within, the sound shaking the ground under Callen's feet.

"Yes, little one, I am the sire of Darkfire, although her proper name is Dahk'ra. Do not use the trivial human nicknames for our kind in my presence, for I am also the Alderdrache – the elder dragon, or leader of our race."

Callen fell to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks. "PLEASE, great dragon, I beg of you! I have tried to help Dark... I mean Dahk'ra. My father was furious, but I could not harm one as majestic as she."

Seba'an snorted, sending out a jet of sulfurous flame and smoke.

"And where is your sire, youngling?"

"He is inside, great Alderdrache; he is not well and sits in a corner of the cottage near the fire. He is furious with me for disobeying him; he wanted me to contact the Council but I refused, for I know they would have killed her or forced her into servitude."

Seba'an nodded at Callen. "It was a wise choice you made, human. My wrath would be a terrible thing to behold had you harmed her or delivered her up to the council of _wysards_."

The great dragon turned and lowered his head until it was level with the window of the cottage. His great golden eye loomed larger than the window as he examined Callen's home.

"I would know your name, youngling," said Seba'an as he turned back towards Callen.

"C-C-Callen, great dragon. My n-n-name is Callen."

"You fear your sire, do you not, young Cal'len?"

Callen could not meet the Alderdrache's gaze. She shuffled nervously and stared at her feet, tears streaming almost uncontrollably down her face now. "Papa doesn't mean to hurt me, great dragon, I'm sure of it. It's just that I've been such a disappointment to him. He wanted me to study the more powerful magics like he had; he did not approve of my choice to learn about herbs and potions."

"Basing one's value upon the approval of others can poison the soul, little one," Seba'an said in a disapproving tone. "I believe I may assist in freeing you from your father's cruelty, however."

Callen looked up at Seba'an through tear-filled eyes. "What do you m-m-mean, Alderdrache?"

The dragon curled his great neck around and scratched it with his giant talons. Sparks showered down around Callen, who jumped back to avoid them. Seba'an knocked a loose scale from his hide and pushed it towards Callen with one of his claws.

"Take this scale, young one, and place it in your father's lap. It should do much to ease his temperament."

"But, I don't understand..."

"You will, little Cal'len. A dragon's scale has many uses because of our magical nature. We are the oldest of races and magic permeates our being. Properly prepared a dragon's scale can heal most wounds, and its mere presence will ward off and even break most curses. Go now – place it at the feet of your sire and see if he does not respond. This is my thanks to you for the kindness shown to my daughter."

The Alderdrache turned again to face Dahk'ra. "Come, little one. It is time we returned to the mountains where you may continue to heal in peace."

The great black dragon spread his wings and took to the air with a single powerful downward stroke. Dahk'ra stood and stretched, testing her damaged wing. She looked down at Callen and nodded.

"Thank you again, Cal'len, for your kindness. You should count yourself blessed; few humans live to see my father, the Alderdrache, much less possess one of his scales. It is a great gift he has given to you." Dahk'ra then stretched her wings wide and took to the air as well, somewhat shakily at first, as her father circled high above.

Callen stared upward, watching the dragons until they were mere specks in the sky. She looked down and saw Seba'an's scale at her feet. The size of a large dinner plate, it was dark black, so dark in fact it made her feel like she was falling down into an abyss when she looked too closely. Steadying herself, she reached down and picked it up. It was surprisingly smooth and slightly warm to the touch. Remembering the words of the Alderdrache, she turned and went into the cottage, the door swinging open for her.

"Where have you been?! Did you contact the Council yet? You have to act now, stupid girl, before the dragon regains its strength!"

"Papa, please!" Callen cried, tears welling up in her eyes again. "I have a gift – the scale of a dragon, given to me because of the kindness I showed to Dahk'ra."

"Bah! You're a fool, Callen, just like your mother! Keep that worthless piece of dragon-filth away from me."

"But Papa, it's magical – I can feel the warmth of energy pulsing through it. Just look at it, please," she begged.

"I SAID KEEP IT AWAY FROM ME!"

Ignoring his protests, she knelt before the figure of her father and, reaching through the web of shadows, placed the scale in his lap. The blackness of the scale eclipsed the surrounding shadows and the black wizard robes her father wore, seeming to drain them of their darkness. A ripple of energy washed outward from the scale and over Callen. Startled, she looked up and found the corner containing her father's chair was no longer draped in shadow, and she could see him clearly. She gasped as she looked at her father and saw the dark, eyeless sockets of a skull looking back at her from under his cowl. The black robes were tattered and his skeletal fingers were curled around a scroll held at his side.

"Papa?" asked Callen tentatively, though she knew he would not answer. Callen shuddered; he must have been dead for _years_! For as long as she could remember, her father had stayed in his chair in the corner by the fire, ever since the death of her mother, _ten years ago_!

I don't understand; if he's been dead for so long then why did I hear his voice?

Her eyes fell to the scroll held in the dead wizard's hand. Her father had been a ruthless man, inflicting his will on others whenever he could. She reached out and took the scroll, jumping slightly as the bony fingers crumbled. Unrolling it, she recognized immediately that it contained a curse – one of her father's specialties. Scrawled across the top of the page were the words _The Undying Will_. Callen unrolled the scroll and read the beginning of the curse:

'Designed for those who desire to extend their power beyond the grave, to ensure their instructions are followed. The energy required to cast this curse is immense and will almost always cause the death of the spellcaster. Curse should only be used by those who are near death or no longer have reason to live. Once cursed, the person who has been targeted will continue to hear the voice of the spellcaster and be compelled to follow their commands. The target will be under the illusion that the spellcaster lives on, and disobedience will cause the subject to experience great remorse and feelings of guilt...'

Callen couldn't read any further and clenched the brittle parchment in her fist, sending a shower of fragments to the stone floor. Her father had obviously cast this final spell just before his death, cursing his own daughter and inflicting his will upon her from beyond the grave. The curse had persisted until she had placed Seba'an's scale in his lap.

The Alderdrache must have known. He must have seen Papa's true form when he looked through the window.

She rose to her feet and gathered up the scale of Seba'an, clutching it to her breast and feeling the warmth that permeated the object. She looked down at her father's remains and felt... nothing. All the years of abuse, both when he was alive and after she was cursed, had left her empty. But now she was finally free – free to live, work and love as she chose, without the harsh voice of her disapproving father, echoing from beyond the grave, trying to control her. Closing her eyes, she muttered a prayer asking the ancients to protect Seba'an and Dahk'ra, and then she silently thanked the Alderdrache for his gift, as hot tears streamed down her face, a mixture of both joy and sorrow.

***

About the Author:

An avid reader of fantasy and science fiction novels all of my life, I live with my family in the rural hills of Kentucky along with our four cats. When not acquiring ferocious felines for my wife's plan of world domination (cat armies are terribly hard to train), I enjoy spinning stories from the wisps of magic around me.

Follow me online at:

http://www.theguardiansapprentice.com

http://michaelradcliffe.wordpress.com

<http://www.twitter.com/Alderdrache>

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### Counting Blessings Along the Horseshoe Canyon

by Sharon E. Cathcart

Copyright © Sharon E. Cathcart, 2011

Originally published in Around the World in 80 Pages

In September 2006, I took advantage of an opportunity to visit Albuquerque, New Mexico. Along with investigating the city proper, I went to Horseshoe Canyon to photograph the pictograms and petroglyphs left there not only by the Anasazi peoples but, to my surprise, the settlers. That visit inspired this story.

"Get you back in the wagon, Hattie."

Her husband's voice was harsh.

"Yes, Mister Johnson." Her voice was listless.

"Told you to call me Dan'l, gal. This ain't your fancy East coast parlor."

No, it wasn't, Henriette thought as she dragged herself away from the ancient carvings. She was fascinated by all of the symbols carved into the rock walls of the arroyo. Horseshoe Canyon, it was called. Her husband, Daniel Johnson, had plans to turn his now-ragged herd of cattle into a vast empire here in the New Mexico gulch. He'd scratched his own name amongst the ancient symbols.

Johnson's promises of wealth and prosperity had impressed Henriette's father so much that he'd essentially sold her in marriage.

"He's a solid man," Papa had said. "You, with no prospects to speak of now, should count yourself fortunate. It's all arranged with the parson for tomorrow."

Counting, indeed, just as Papa was counting on his share of profits in the ranch; Johnson had given him a deed the day the betrothal was sealed. In the saloon, of course.

Henriette swiped a hand across her reddened brow. If Mama were still alive, she'd have spoken up. Instead, Henriette was in a wagon train from Cincinnati to this strangely beautiful place. Her fair skin was sunburned, her pale hair dry where it was uncovered by her hat. Johnson had given her an enormous calico sunbonnet after a while; she eventually gave in and donned the horrid thing. Likewise the plainstuff dress that Johnson deemed " a sight better than them furbelows."

He was rough ... callous. He was also nearly twenty years her senior and clearly though himself quite the fellow for getting the hand of the "uppity" twenty-three-year-old.

She looked despairingly at her roughened hands as she climbed up next to her husband. Her gloves had worn through some time ago. Johnson mocked her over them anyway.

"You're gonna be scrubbin' clothes on a board with lye soap, Hattie. Ain't no call to be worryin' about your hands."

"I don't suppose, Mister Johnson, that you could call me by my proper name?"

"Don't sass your husband, gal. I ain't going to call you a fancy name like that. You're Hattie."

God, how she hated him. She especially hated the nights when he would roll over in the wagon and do what he called his "manly work" -- always without preamble. No kisses or caresses for Daniel Johnson. Henriette lay still during those times, grateful for their brevity. Now that she's seen the stone pictures around Horseshoe Canyon, she was determined to pretend she was one of them when Johnson came to work. Not a real woman, just a stone image.

"Thought I was gettin' a better bargain to wife," he complained as the oxen shambled along in the wagon traces. "You've said hardly anything since the weddin' and you won't call me by name."

What was there to say? Johnson boasted that he'd taken his annual bath the day they married. He could read, write and figure but had no use for refinements. Henriette knew that he saw her as a trophy that he could turn into a workhorse, and her own father was happy to see it happen.

Henriette looked at her husband, trying to keep the disapproval from her face. He had taken off his shirt; his red Union suit top covered his chest and one suspender strap had fallen down his arm. He needed both shave and haircut; on his head he wore something that was a hat in name only.

"Daniel," she ground out miserably.

"That's more like it, gal," He cuffed her shoulder so hard that she winced.

Henriette could not help thinking of another man called Daniel. One who was handsome and refined. One who was clean and well-dressed. One who, before he died of a cancer no one knew he had, had asked to marry her. One who had been the first to do his "manly work" with Henriette -- but with gentleness and care.

She could only hope that Mister Johnson's figuring abilities were poor when she gave birth to the other Daniel's child in this harsh, new place.

***

About the Author:

Books by internationally published author Sharon E. Cathcart provide discerning readers of essays, fiction and non-fiction with a truthful, powerful literary experience. To learn more about Sharon and her work, visit her web page at: <http://home.earthlink.net/~scathcart1964/sharonecathcart> or her Facebook fan page at <http://www.facebook.com/sharon.e.cathcart>

###

Eve & Ian's New Love Life

by Cynthia Meyers-Hanson

Copyright © Cynthia Meyers-Hanson

While sitting close to a window in a dimly lit coffee shop, my real estate mentor doled out unexpected advice. Karen worked most days with her husband, and I just dropped a potential bombshell into our dialog, which explained her counsel. My instigation started with a single question, "Don't you feel suffocated being twenty-four seven with your partner?"

"You know, at first, I thought we'd constantly get on each other's nerves but it's working out." She sighed then sipped her lukewarm coffee as if it suddenly turned steamy hot. We'd been awaiting our client for a half hour; she wasn't late. Karen and I met early to talk strategy; my coworker took her role as my leader seriously.

After a brief awkward silence, she added, "My first husband and I may have divorced if we dared work together!" Karen never mentioned her first marriage before that very moment. I was pretty sure no one in our office suspected that Ray and she were not celebrating their thirtieth plus wedding anniversary last month; during that party, not one real estate associate asked how long they'd been united. We all assumed their children were born of their union but she quickly informed me that only their youngest kid shared his last name. "Ray took such good care of us after our unfortunate event that my kids called him dad from our wedding day on; I'm fine with that!"

By the look in my eyes, she must have realized that her statements caused confusion. I wondered what unfortunate situation occurred quickly deciding it must have been a divorce from her first husband. Plus, I wanted to know more about how Ray became her new spouse and her other children's father. Before mumbling and bumbling my questions, Karen revealed more details. "My first husband and I married young. My mind never fully wrapped around why he chose me because he had a 'virtual harem' around him- daily. When he singled me out for marriage, I felt so honored and privileged." She giggled like a star stuck schoolgirl. "I hated his best friend because Ray invited my spouse out for drinks most Fridays after work, which turned into partying to the wee hours of the morning." She blushed, again, which struck me as odd, "I despised that fella- my first husband's friend!"

"Why did you stay with a party animal?"

"We started having babies right away. I felt sure he'd mature from that experience and drop Ray. His friend was a confirmed bachelor with different interests; armed with that notion, I prayed they'd go their separate ways over time. My delusion included looking for hints that they were drifting apart. Family life seemed to be changing my husband for the better; at least, I hoped so! "

"Were you right?" My rhetorical question escaped my mouth.

"Not in the way that I hoped or imagined." Her eyes clouded over as if she fought tears. "Drifting and growing apart better explains his change but my naivety kept me from seeing the truth- clearly. Emotionally, he left me instead of his bachelor ways."

"Besides the children, what kept you in that relationship?" My question dared to pry.

"The same thing that keeps anyone woman, there!" She exclaimed as if being a female and married I already knew the answer.

"Security?" My guessing game began, "Friendship?"

Before I could continue, she interrupted nearly shouting, "Chemistry!" Realizing the coffee house audience tuned in on our dialog, Karen giggled with her hand covering her lips.

After the buzz of other conversations resumed, she did- too. "The reason he kept me in check while giddy and off balance included his intimate talents. That's why I hated Ray for keeping him out late; my husband came home too tired for a potential rendezvous with me." She smirked and winked my direction. Just reliving memories of her first marriage brought out steamy thoughts hotter than her coffee, which Karen swallowed without burning her tongue.

My observation arrived, "Your husband should have stayed home and acknowledged his obligations there- you and his growing family. Your two can't really blame Ray! That's worse than the cliché 'the Devil made me do it.' What about free will and self-control?"

"That's what Ray said when I confronted him one week-end." She added, "During that conversation, he alluded to what I worried about!" She swigged her coffee as if it suddenly turned ice cold, "My husband used his best friend as his wingman and excuse to go out in search of other woman." She hesitated before mustering up the courage to admit her next thought aloud, "The father of my children acknowledged multiple trysts when I finally confronted him! As you might have guessed, those two men parted ways because Ray failed to be my spouse's confidant. That bachelor divulged the truth about the state of my marriage; he kept no secrets about my partner's broken vows."

"Did you divorce the scoundrel?" I felt sure of an affirmative response but she shook her head no. I gasped, "Why did you stay?"

"He promised to break his ties with his buddy and work on our marriage. The make-up sex added new meaning to great chemistry. I tried not to suspect other women honed his skills!" She added, "Soon, I discovered that my spouse's only change in relationships was to breakup with Ray."

"How did you end up with Ray if you hated and blamed him for luring your spouse into unfaithful behavior?"

"Something he said kept rolling through my mind especially when my husband and I shared intimacy." She blushed then added, "He told me not to blame him because he was a bachelor and allowed to woo women. Some of the other things he said that week-end stayed in my short term memory banks as well. Ray's exact words were, 'I'm mad that my buddy used me to hurt a nice lady like you.' That bachelor's eyes shined so brightly that he captured my interest in a different way. From then on, I saw him in a new light."

"Over time, what that man said helped you break it off with your spouse?"

"No, I was a devout Catholic; the possibility of divorce didn't make sense to me. Instead, I prayed for healing of our relationship and monogamy on my partner's part." She giggled then announced, "God answers prayers in mysterious ways!" I felt positive her life changed for the worst- in spite of what her laughter suggested. I tend to chuckle when I'm in the most stressful times and suspected she did the same.

"What happened?"

As the morning became later and later, my eyes caught a trickle of sunshine entering through the nearby window; I hoped it foreshadowed a life changing event that freed her from her first husband's spell while uniting her to Ray. I wondered how and when her perceived enemy converted to her best friend. It seemed as if that sudden ray of hope streaming in that pane of glass enhanced Karen's tale while signaling better days ahead.

Right then and there, Karen shed more light on how she finally separated from the entanglement of her spouse. "My husband drank a bit too much at a 'business meeting' then wrapped his car around a tree." I gasped because no one in their right mind wants tragedy to harm other human beings. "While he was unconscious, I forgave him thinking this was his wake up call. It turned out to be his end." She grieve for a few minutes as if the feelings of loss were fresh, "At least, I had one marriage full of fantasy bliss even if it was a bit of a delusion on my part!"

"Isn't your marriage with Ray wonderful?"

"It's easy, friendly, content, and full of goodness." She added, "But, what it lacks is the same driving force that kept me with my first love- chemistry!"

My next statement tried to reveal my understanding. "My mom told me chemistry fails but friendship lasts until the final breath of life."

"You've never felt the fireworks?" She grabbed and squeezed my hands then looked at me with sympathetic eyes, "I hope you have one shot at it before you die. Then, you'll understand why I stayed in that bad relationship."

I wanted to say that chemistry didn't escape me but decided to keep my own love life a bit more private than she did. Changing the focus, I asked, "So, when did you fall in love with Ray?"

"We consoled each other about our best friend's loss."

"Ray still felt close to your husband after all he put him through?"

"They grew up together sharing history and brotherhood!" She added, "You don't give up friends- that are more like family- just because they have faults."

"When did it click that you two should join forces?"

"Sometime during all the conversations, which came easily, we realized we'd make a perfect pair. He asked and I agreed to let him into my life." She smiled waving to our client while flagging her to our table, "He's been a wonderful husband and dad to all my children. Please, don't ever tell him that he doesn't fulfill my need for bliss; I had more than enough chemistry before marrying him!" Somehow, she knew her secret would follow her to the grave. She finished with, "I hate to admit it but God did something I was too coward to do! I'd have never left my first husband, so The Lord ended that tainted relationship for me."

After my unexpressed promise, our eighty-year old client entered the area and conversation; she arrived right in the 'nick of time' because the dialog turned a bit too personal from my initial benign question. Unwittingly, the old woman reopened Pandora's Box, "Catch me up! What are you gals gossiping about?"

Having been friends for years, Karen half joked with Eve, "You're love life!"

"Before or after Ian?" Eve attempted clarification.

"With Ian- of course! He's the reason we have your sale's listing! We are overjoyed and hope you are just as ecstatic." Karen chuckled as her friend pulled up a chair with one hand while holding her tea cup in the other.

"I'm confused." Eve slyly asked, "Do you want to know if I'm excited to have you sell my home or 'tickled pink' to be with him?" With a tone that seemed stern but hinted of kidding, the woman continued, "The second answer concerning my relationship with my new boyfriend is none of your business; what my boyfriend and I feel is our secret!" She chortled, "But- since you are my best friend, I can tell you that the answer to both questions is yes!"

"Ian and you act like a couple of kids!" Her friend began.

"Yeah, we break all the rules; our parents would be mortified if they ever found out," Eve kissed the Heavens then smirked and winked my direction.

"I'm so glad you finally met the man of your dreams!"

"Wasn't our meeting just the craziest thing?" Realizing I wasn't up to speed, the older lady filled me in with a brief synopsis, "My grandchildren live miles and miles away. My husband died twenty years ago, so I moved to this retirement village to meet a widow; I mean cure what ailed me!" She laughed before further explaining the outcome of her situation, "All around me people remarried second and third times. My love life consisted of being the maid of honor at various occasions including some for men I had my eye on." She smiled wide and winked, "Obviously, the feelings were not mutual!"

Tapping Eve gently on the arm, Karen jested, "I told you if you wanted those guys' eyes on you that you needed to collect your morning paper in a tantalizing nightgown!"

"I did," She giggled while explaining her garb, "I wore a shift."

"Plaid to be exact!" Karen pointed out, "Not a bit revealing. What were you trying to tempt? Fate?"

"It had snaps for easy access," The old lady reminded her.

"Men can't figure that out- not from a distance, anyway!" She jested back.

Turning to me, Karen added, "She had a good first marriage- just like yours!"

Eve interrupted, "Was your marriage arranged?" Her next comment left me wondering if she was joking or serious, "Dad gave me away; actually, he got a quart of milk and ten hens."

"Look on the bright side! Your father got a meal and you out of his house!" Eve's face momentarily revealed contempt due to this current bantering while her friend continued, "At least, he didn't have to pay Fred to keep you!" Karen showed the reality of Eve's first union as they broke into laughter.

The old lady wrapped up her thoughts on her first marriage, "We had a good solid marriage. Fred was a decent man and gave me a great group of children."

Then, Karen moved the conversation to the reason we met that morning, "Let's talk about Ian and your upcoming nuptials!"

"I feel like a kid in a candy store. He's so sweet, and I want handfuls of him!" As that 'eighty-something' lady described her relationship with her new man, she appeared to be a teenager. "If I hadn't taken on that babysitting job, I may have never met him!" She held her breath and chest near her heart- simultaneously, before sighing with delight.

"The gal she was the nanny for introduced her to her great uncle at one of the children's birthday parties," Karen added while her friend caught her breath and collected her private thoughts.

"Ian is great!" Her friend, our client, quickly added. "It was love at first sight!" Eve jested, "He had not yet seen the real me, or he'd have raced away, instead." After her self-defamation, that elderly lady went on to inform me that she suffered breast cancer at forty and the scars alone might chase a man off. However, she didn't really blame that surgery for her lack of male suitors; she accused 'the slutty, neighborhood women' for ruining her chances for love. Realizing that I might not comprehend her smug humor, the third member of our trio corrected her ornery observation. "I can't be sure those old gals conquered all those men with their wiles." She smirked and winked before adding, "Maybe, they bribed the gigolos using their deceased husbands' estates." Her tone assured me that she joked, again. However, there is always a bit of truth in frivolous observations.

"God was saving you for Ian!" Her friend reminded her.

"When I remained single after Fred's untimely heart attack, I began to wonder about God!" She added, "Not His existence but His plans for me!" Then, Eve reiterated, "I lived far from my family because I needed the heat of Florida for my health conditions. Before Ian, I lived a very lonely existence."

Before tears flowed, Karen interjected, "Thank God for sending you your new love!"

Then, she turned her attention to me while analyzing her pal's situation. "Her fiancé lost his wife to cancer just three years ago. That is why he was delayed arriving in this one's life." She pointed at her friend before adding, "We couldn't have you become his mistress!" Her clarification started with sage advice from her past. "It's wrong to sleep with a married man!" She laughed to relieve the pressure of her last statement, "It's especially bad to do it when his wife is fighting a battle with a terminal illness!" Karen lightened the mood with her next observation. "If you wait a few weeks or months, his wife would be dead, and then you could have your way with her man!" She proclaimed, "Take advantage of his new freedom! Date him; sleep with him, or whatever!"

"Which one is it- dating or sleeping? I can do both- simultaneously! Sometimes, I find myself slumbering right in the middle of our date; that can be a problem if I'm the one driving us home after dinner and a movie!" Those friends laughed until tears filled their eyes.

We listed her house in the retirement village that day because she planned on moving in with her new man. He lived further south in a condo on the Gulf of Mexico. "I got me a rich man!" Eve interjected, "And, I'm worth it!"

Weeks after we placed her property for sale, Eve suffered a near bleed out from some medication for her ailments. "I thought Ian healed your heart!" Karen quipped as we entered her hospital room.

"I can't marry him. He doesn't need to look after another sick wife; I may die on him!"

"We all may die!" Karen lectured. "You finally found the love of your life. I've never seen you so happy."

We prayed with the patient as the doctors made their rounds. Suddenly, her fever broke and her color came back including the deep blue twinkle in her eyes. We realized Ian- or more than likely God- may have been at the root of that miracle because her fiancé entered the room with her doctor in the same moment her condition improved. After looking at her chart, appearance, and fumbling around to call a nurse to take her current vital signs- her physician explained his prognosis, "We can regulate her medications. She may out live us all."

As we awaited the bride to arrive to her long anticipated ceremony, I learned from Karen that Ian married the first time out of necessity; his first wife's 'teen pregnancy' prompted that situation. This time, his spouse remained childless, and no shot guns arrived to their wedding. Weeks after Eve's encounter with near death, two elderly teenagers married their soul mates- finally! Throughout their vows, the couples' eyes engaged each other as they giggled while stroking each other's hands before, during, and after the ring delivering part of that ceremony. Their candidness and loving expressions felt refreshing.

At their reception, as Eve's oldest son welcomed his step-father with a toast, Karen whispered, "You're next!"

"What?"

"I hope one day no matter how old you get or how long it takes that God sends you that giddy chemistry." She pointed at the newlyweds. "At least once in a lifetime, everyone should feel the kind of intimacy that is making all these wedding guests want to suggest to Ian and his new wife, 'Get a room!'"

"Eve's dream came true! It's sweet the way those two are acting as if they've never been in love before." I debate Karen, "Contrary to popular belief, people can be just as happy living with their best friend."

"I guess so!" She acknowledged a small amount of truth in my thought before grabbing it back, "However, some people have their best friend sharing their best chemistry. Can you imagine that?"

"I'm sure it's possible!" I conceded. "But- rare!"

"When it happens that spouses are best friends as well as 'physically attracted' lovers, can you imagine their communication- especially on intimate levels? It must be mind-blowing!"

Years later, Karen invited me to Eve's ninetieth birthday party. Arriving, I expected to see a more rickety couple but they were going strong. What blew my mind was that those love birds didn't seem to age one bit. In fact, from what I witnessed that day, they must have found the 'Fountain of Youth' near their Florida, beachside condo. There must have been some secret chemical in their water because they looked as though their aging process reversed in the past ten years.

When that elderly man stood to toast his soul mate, his eyes drank her in as if she never stopped being his new bride. Then, he declared, "Our first spouses were good human beings! We had deep and enduring friendships with them." His wife nodded in agreement as he turned his complete attention to her. "My relationship with this gal," He caressed her shoulder, "is just as long lasting and deeply emotional. But- there is something new and even better that my soul mate and I share!" Leaning towards her ear, he whispered some secret thoughts before kissing his bride's cheek. They giggled as she blushed. Then, he clued us in on their marriage's success, "We love each other's company on all levels. If someone can be deeply attracted to their best friend, then, I am."

Eve thanked him for his toast by saying, "As am I!"

That night, their smiles and glances into each other's eyes proved that when they united they answered most- if not all- of life's questions especially the ones concerning marriage commitments. Best friends can, also, be soul mates. Even better, they may just be the best intimate playmates. When it all comes together in one union; everything including the chemistry is mind-blowing.

Just ask Eve and Ian! Everyone that met them sensed their deep affection!

****

About the Author:

How did you get started?

The short answer is that my mother died.

As she did, her experiences ran the gamut from going through all the grieving steps a terminal soul follows to having what would be called a NDE- if she had lived. Believing everything she said even during what others called babbling, I became her translator. My Hospice grief counselor listened to my version of the events requiring I write my first book entitled _Mom's on the Roof and I Can't Get Her Down. Now_ , I write books about miraculous healings, people being guided by spiritual events (God, Jesus, etc.), and other inspirational or miraculous things.

Sometimes, I am directly the writer of record. In other cases, I use Sydney S. Song as the author's name to tell a somewhat true story as gossip- I mean a fiction- while converting characters and situations with embellishments and poetic license in order to keep the real life people's confidentiality and privacy.

I either write my own stories or co-produce them with other people; there are 16 books to date; 15 are in publication at AMAZON and other book dealers.

<http://mchanson714.weebly.com/index.html>

###

### Laundry Day

by Stacy Juba

Copyright © Stacy Juba

**G** regg knew he should get the hell out of there. The shower curtain gaped open like at a strip show. Wet lingerie hung over the bathtub and the hand-rail above the soap dish. Warmth rushed through his body as he gawked at a scarlet negligee, hot pink teddy, black mesh corset with garters, and a pair of fishnet stockings.

Gregg envisioned his wife clad in the teddy and matching G-string, and his breathing accelerated. Wait till she heard about her best friend's racy wardrobe. Maybe it would inspire her to don something equally dirty. Gregg turned toward the sink and caught his grin in the mirror. It widened as he spied the lacy bra and thong soaking in the sudsy basin.

Unbelievable. He never would have imagined his sweet neighbor, Bridget Severin, as a temptress who treated her husband to Frederick's of Hollywood fashion shows. The jerk insulted his wife all the time.

Just a few moments ago, when Gregg had entered the house after snow blowing his neighbor's driveway, he found Bridget screaming into the phone at her ingrate husband, hassling her even while away on a business trip to San Diego. "I'm tired of you ordering me around," she snapped. "You're my husband, not my keeper."

Retreating to the bathroom and giving her privacy seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do.

Now, waiting for Bridget to finish her call, Gregg slipped into the corridor and parked himself before a display of framed wall photographs. He aimed an uneasy glance down the hallway. Silence. That meant . . .

"Thank you for helping with the driveway." Bridget rounded the corner, her cheeks brighter than the scarlet negligee that adorned the tub. "Here are the muffins I promised."

She was off the phone.

For how long? Had Bridget searched for him earlier and seen the door closed? Did she _know_ where he'd been? Or, was she just worried that he'd stumbled across her unmentionables?

Gregg shuffled in his snow boots and hoped to hell they hadn't smudged the tiled bathroom floor. "Thanks. I've been admiring your pictures." He tapped a photo of the Severins and their teenage son at the boy's high school graduation. He'd played in the marching band with Gregg's daughter.

Bridget clamped the Tupperware container of muffins against her chest, fingers white-knuckling the sides. Miniature snowmen festooned her heavy sweater. She tugged the lank ends of her auburn bob. "Oh God, I'm so embarrassed."

He hoped she meant about the fight, not the sexy garments, though he would have preferred dodging both topics. Gregg zipped his coat up to his collar, chose the lesser evil. "Everyone has spats with their spouse. Don't worry about it."

"Not just that. I know you were in the bathroom. You must think I'm an idiot, leaving my. . .my laundry all over the place."

Why couldn't women allow anything to pass? He'd let her off the hook and she had jumped right back on. Gregg offered her a sympathetic, please-let-me-leave smile. "Oh, that? I see that stuff at home all the time." He wished. "Nothing to be embarrassed about."

"I can't help it. It must look like laundry day at the whorehouse."

Heat climbed Gregg's neck and face. He crammed on his wool New England Patriots hat and gloves, and angled his body toward the living room. "No worries. Thanks for the muffins."

Bridget pressed the container into his arms. She nipped at her fingernail. "Please don't mention this to Dennis. He'll think I'm stupid for being so careless."

Asking Dennis Severin if he'd gotten action with the black corset wasn't exactly mailbox conversation, but Gregg reassured her anyway. Damn, he kept picturing Bridget with that skin-tight corset riding her breasts. In fifteen years, he'd never considered her attractive. She was a devoted mother, valuable member of the Music Boosters group at the school, and a friendly neighbor. But, as far as looks, petite freckled redheads weren't his type. He preferred willowy brunettes, like his wife. Now, after seeing her lingerie, Bridget had turned him on to the point that he visualized her in the naughty underwear.

"I'd better get home." Gregg edged past her. He strode toward the front door.

They exchanged stilted goodbyes and Gregg hurried out into the bitter weather. Thankfully, the frigid air cooled him off better than a cold shower. He lowered his head against the thick flurries beating his beard and trudged through the slushy mess toward his own home at the end of the cul de sac.

He found it interesting that Bridget wore all those outfits when everyone knew she and Dennis shared a strained relationship. Maybe they solved their problems in the bedroom. Gregg shuddered, and not from the 25 degree temperature. He was wondering way too much about his neighbors' sex lives.

He dropped off the muffins at his house, retrieved the snow blower to push from Bridget's, and finally shed his damp outerwear back in his kitchen. Gregg followed his wife's low tones and discovered her in the living room, bundled under an afghan, chatting with their daughter, Emily, at Florida State. He snagged the office extension and joined the conversation until his daughter clicked off.

Julia tossed the cordless phone onto the coffee table as he returned. "Why do we live in Maine? Can you imagine walking around in seventy degrees? I'm going stir crazy."

He winked and sat down beside her. "I know how we can liven things up."

His wife's brow dipped beneath her full bangs. "What do you mean?"

"While I was clearing Bridget's driveway, she invited me to stop in afterwards and pick up some muffins. But when I did, she was busy arguing with Dennis on the telephone, so I made a little detour."

Julia blinked rapidly as Gregg described the corset, fishnet stockings, and other goodies drip-drying in Bridget's tub.

"I can't believe that happened," she blurted. "How awkward."

"Tell me about it. Did you know she had all that stuff?"

Her cheeks pinkened. "No. We don't get that personal."

"You two take walks together almost every day, at least when the weather's warm. I wouldn't have thought you had any secrets."

"This isn't _Sex in the City_. We talk about our kids. Books and movies. Politics."

"Well, you missed out on some juicy conversations. You'd look great in one of those outfits. How about we pick one out at the mall this weekend?"

"Are you serious? I couldn't."

"Why not? If you're embarrassed, we could buy it from a web site."

"I'd look ridiculous." She pushed off the afghan and rubbed her stomach, hidden under a Florida State sweatshirt. "I'm not skinny like Bridget."

"Hon, you've got a gorgeous body. You're beautiful." Sure, she'd gained a few pounds over the years. So had he. He'd lost hair, too, and what remained held more gray than brown. But Julia still looked damn good.

She flipped back the long dark waves she'd started having professionally colored six months ago. "That's sweet to say, but I'm not comfortable dressing sleazy. Besides, you know how Dennis is. He probably forces her to dress up."

Gregg slumped forward, cupped his chin in his hands. He could have predicted Julia's tepid reaction, but that hadn't stopped him from hoping. "I thought with Emily away, we'd enjoy our privacy, but nothing's changed. Sue me for wanting to spice things up."

"So it's all my fault? When was the last time you got me flowers or wrote a love letter? You're never romantic or spontaneous, but you expect me to dress like a hooker?"

Gregg dropped back against the cushion. He opened his mouth, closed it. He used to send her roses and leave her 'I love you' Post-Its just because. Now he reserved such gestures for Valentine's Day. He hadn't realized she missed them. "You're right. I got lazy. But, you could be more romantic, too. The only notes you leave me are 'to do' lists. I'll try harder if you will."

Julia lowered her head and kneaded a crocheted lump on the afghan. She raised her chin. "Okay. Maybe I can find a satin negligee that we'll both like. Something sexy, but tasteful."

"Tasteful," Gregg muttered. "Great."

Apparently, slutty wasn't an option. Since he'd slacked off on flowers, he couldn't push it.

Julia popped up from the couch. She averted her blue eyes. "I'll make coffee and we can try those muffins. I hope they're chocolate chip."

She disappeared into the kitchen and Gregg fumbled with the remote control on the end table.

Dennis Severin might be a bastard, but he was a lucky bastard.

***

The next evening, Gregg discovered his house dark. He rested his briefcase on the floor and flicked on the kitchen light. No dishes stacked in the sink, nothing cooked in the oven. Blackness engulfed the office down the hall. He'd parked behind Julia's Toyota, so he thought she'd be home. She could have walked to visit a neighbor, he supposed. Or maybe she'd gotten sick?

Gregg jogged upstairs and opened the bedroom door. Julia was huddled in a fetal position on the bed, the only sound the whirring humidifier near the closet.

Her head tilted up and Gregg switched on the lamp. "You okay?" he asked.

Her swollen eyes stared dully at him. She'd been crying. No, sobbing.

"Something awful happened," Julia whispered.

Gregg thought of his little girl in Tallahassee and his stomach belly-flopped. He curled his fingers around the bed post. "Is Emily all right?"

"Emily's fine. It's Bridget. She's...she's dead. I found her."

Relief weakened his knees. Thank God. Not his daughter.

Bridget. His wife's best friend, the mom of Emily's high school classmate. All the band competitions and block parties they had attended together. All the years Bridget bought Girl Scout cookies from Emily and made them coffee cake for Christmas.

Shock numbed Gregg from head to toe. "I don't understand. She looked fine yesterday. Was it a heart attack? Accident?"

Tears spilled down Julia's puffy red cheeks. "She was strangled."

"You mean, she was murdered? On our street?" Gregg paced to his bureau and back. One of his wife's earlier statements registered. "Hold on. You found her?"

"We...we had plans to discuss our book club agenda. She didn't answer the door." Julia spoke in shaky fits and starts, forcing out the words. "I went home. Left her a message. She never called. I...I got worried and used my key."

"You have a key?"

"We exchanged them to water plants and leave the mail when we go on vacation. She's... she was the most reliable, organized person I know. Bridget wouldn't have forgotten our plans, and if something came up, she would have cancelled. She had low blood sugar, and I knew she'd been alone all night, so I went to check on her."

Julia rolled onto her back and crooked her elbow over her eyes, as if to block the vision imprinted in her memory. "When I got there, she was lying in the bathroom with a fishnet stocking wrapped around her neck. It had been squeezed so tight. She looked...grotesque. Not like Bridget at all."

"Jesus." Gregg sank onto the bed beside his wife and massaged her trembling hand.

What the hell had happened? He hadn't heard of a serial killer on the loose, and burglars armed themselves with guns and knives, not provocative pantyhose. "Hon, why didn't you call me?"

She sat up, hugged her knees. "I spent all afternoon with the police. They asked me about Dennis."

"Do they think he killed her? He's not due back from his business trip until tomorrow, is he?"

"I think they suspect him anyway."

Gregg thought back to the Severins' telephone argument. He hadn't overheard much, other than Bridget venting about her husband's bossiness. Until then, Gregg had never heard her stand up for herself against Dennis.

"Was the lingerie still hanging in the bathroom?" he asked.

"Yes. Why?"

"Maybe it's not coincidence that she hand-washed it while Dennis was out of town," Gregg said slowly. "What if she wasn't dressing up for him after all? What if he came home early, saw the bathroom, and killed her because it proved she was having an affair?"

Julia's spine tightened. "I can't believe Bridget would do that."

"We know Dennis has a temper. Remember the time a neighborhood kid hit his passenger-side mirror with her bike, the way he screamed?"

"Bridget did tell me that he has terrible road rage," Julia murmured.

Gregg withdrew his handkerchief from his trousers pocket and dabbed his wife's teary cheek. "If she was cheating on him, I hope Dennis doesn't know who it was, or the guy's got a death sentence."

Julia licked her lips. "If he's guilty, the police will arrest him. Right?"

Gregg shrugged. Dennis might be an asshole, but he was no fool. As vice president of a marketing company, he'd had plenty of practice exercising his brain. "They have to find him first."

***

One-by-one, Gregg stacked plastic containers on the kitchen counter. Chicken parmesan, ziti, salad, rolls and carrot cake, all from Julia's favorite Italian restaurant. He removed the last item in the bag, a bottle of red wine. There. That should cheer her up.

Gregg hung his coat in the closet and slid a library DVD out of the pocket. _While You Were Sleeping_ , starring Sandra Bullock. Light, funny and romantic, sure to encourage a smile. Julia hadn't smiled in three weeks, and this morning her depression had magnified. Her book club would meet that night, for the first time without Bridget. He'd taken the afternoon off work as a surprise.

Gregg headed up the stairs. She was probably moping in bed. Bridget's murder with her missing husband as the chief suspect had shocked the whole neighborhood, but it impacted Julia most of all. She and Bridget took walks together, gossiped over coffee, and had occasional girls' weekends. She had lost her closest friend.

"Bitch! It's all your fault!"

Gregg grasped the railing. He knew that voice. He barreled up the last few steps and through the open bedroom doorway. Gregg's heart plunged.

Dennis hunched over Julia on the bed, cinching a fishnet stocking around her throat. A cold tremor rippled through Gregg's body.

A weapon. He needed a weapon. His gaze panned the room. Books. Picture frames. Magazines. They'd weaken a fly, not a madman who had thirty pounds of muscle on Gregg.

Dennis shouted, oblivious to Gregg's presence. "Did you think I wouldn't...."

He bent closer and wrung harder. Julia pried at the stocking, struggling to loosen the pressure. Her breath puffed out in short ragged gasps.

"Kill you for...."

The water tank. Gregg spun toward the droning humidifier, less than a foot away. He had filled the tank that morning and it was damn heavy.

"Screwing my wife."

Gregg froze. Air whooshed out of his lungs as if he were the strangling victim.

"It's your fault." Dennis tugged again, held the stocking tight. " I knew something was up with Bridget, so I came home early. I saw those whore clothes hanging everywhere and forced the truth out of her. Now I'm on the run for killing the bitch and my kid will never forgive me. Because of you."

A wave of raw hurt gushed over Gregg. It all made sense. The time Julia and Bridget spent together. Their weekend trips to New York and Boston last year.

For two decades, he'd trusted her. Loved her. And no matter how hard Gregg tried, no matter what he did, Julia must not have loved him back, or else she couldn't have betrayed him like that. Betrayal was betrayal, whether it was with a man or a woman.

Heat assaulted Gregg's face. His hands fisted. He hurled the DVD across the room, stalked to the bed and screamed even though Julia couldn't answer. "You cheated on me? With Bridget?"

Dennis jerked his head sideways, acknowledged Gregg between yanks of the stocking. "I'm doing you a favor. Give me a head start before you call 911 and you'll never see me again."

Gregg met Julia's wide panic-stricken eyes. The strangling swelled her terrified face to a mottled purplish red. She kept looking at him, silently begging. She'd stopped thrashing and clawing, her strength, her spirit, fading. A whirlwind of adrenaline pumped through Gregg.

No wonder Dennis exploded and killed his wife. Until now, Gregg hadn't understood.

He'd given Julia everything.

She'd given him nothing.

Nothing.

Except....

Emily.

Queasy, Gregg turned away from his wife's frantic eyes. How would he face his daughter, if he watched her mother die?

Gregg hefted the humidifier tank by its handle, a gallon sloshing inside. He swung it like a baseball bat, first at Dennis Severin's back, then across his skull. Plastic shattered. Water burst over the bed. It was enough.

Gregg rolled his neighbor's unconscious body off Julia. He unwound the stocking, winced at the fishnet pattern imprinted on her bruised neck.

Julia sat up, gasping and rubbing her throat. She choked out a series of wheezing coughs. Gregg hesitated, and then reached down to pat her back. Once the hacking subsided, he moved away.

Tears brimmed over her lashes. "I'm sorry."

"Me too. I loved you." Gregg picked up the phone to call 911 and face even greater humiliation.

He never would have believed that Bridget's dirty lingerie would become his dirty laundry.

***

About the Author:

Stacy Juba is the author of the acclaimed adult mystery novels _Twenty-Five Years Ago Today_ and _Sink or Swim_ , published in trade paperback by Mainly Murder Press and in multiple bargain ebook editions, the young adult paranormal thriller _Dark Before Dawn_ , and the young adult family hockey novel _Face-Off_. She is also the author of the children's picture books _The Flag Keeper, Victoria Rose and the Big Bad Noise_ , and the _Teddy Bear Town Children's E-Book Bundle._

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### The Day the Lights Went Out

by Cliff Ball

Copyright © 2011

I woke up from a really restful sleep, which is unusual for me because I'm usually groggy when I wake up. It was then that I realized my digital clock-radio hadn't gone off, and it must be around 9 or 10 in the morning, at least from what I can tell through the daylight streaming through my curtains. I glanced over at the clock, but it seemed to be dead. I reached over, tried the radio, but nothing came through, not even static. I got up, looked for my analog watch, and the time said that it was 10:30. Since I was off today, it wasn't that big of a deal, but it was disconcerting to say the least.

I went into the bathroom, to check the sink and the shower, thankfully, they still worked. I took a shower, and then got dressed. I went into the kitchen, which was when I noticed that it was eerily quiet. I heard no buzzing of electricity, indicating that the refrigerator wasn't running. I wondered how long my food would stay fresh. In my living room where my computer was, which is usually on standby, was silent. Finding my cell phone, I realized that it too wasn't working, it was dead. I still had a land line, so I tried that; nothing but silence. Just to make sure I wasn't dreaming, I went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, and even pinched myself, so I was definitely awake. Since the water still works, I don't think the water pipes in my house are all that technologically advanced, that is, until I actually run out of water since there would be no electricity to pump the water to my house. I wonder what the outside world looks like?

Stepping outside, the only noises I hear were from the various dogs barking, and the neighbors who are all outside, wondering what to do. It was then that I looked up at the sky.... it was a weird shade of reddish-blue. I thought I'd try to start my car, since it was at least 15 years old, and had only had a little bit of electronics in it. I slowly realized that the starter was probably an electronic piece, and the car probably wouldn't start. I tried it anyway, and didn't even hear a clicking sound indicating something was wrong.

My next door neighbor, Dave, came over while I was mulling on what to do next. He shook my hand, and I asked, "Do you know what's going on?"

"I'm not sure. Somebody told me they saw a weird flash in the sky a little after 4 am, and then that's when everything with electronics quit working. I have a 1964 Mustang, and it works fine, but my current car, that Dodge Challenger over there, won't start at all. Do you think NASA or the government has anything to do with this?"

"It might have something to do with those aliens that picked up one of the _Voyager_ probes that President Foley was talking about on TV the other day." I responded.

"Didn't he say they wouldn't be here for a few more years, or something?"

"You know, I have no idea. Maybe they have some kind of warp speed or something, and managed to get here faster than we thought they would. Who knows for sure? But, hey, look, we're only about 30 miles from Lackland Air Force Base; maybe we should go over there and find out."

"We can take my car, but it has only half a tank of gas in it. As far as I know, there are no manual gas pumps in this city any longer, so we'll have to be careful on where we go." responded Dave.

We walked to his car, and that was when I noticed a few teenagers sitting on the sidewalk, acting like the world had come to an end. I guess in their view it would have, they couldn't play their video games, couldn't text message on their cells, couldn't listen to music on their music players, or do everything at once on i-Pad's. I guess some of them will just have to learn to talk to each other in person. We got into Dave's car, he started it up, and we were about to leave the driveway, when a few of the neighbors began approaching. This prompted Dave to floor the accelerator, peeling out onto the street, and we drove off. I looked back, seeing really angry neighbors shouting and shaking their fists at us. I'm just glad Dave had the sense to get out of there quickly.

On our way to Lackland, we saw a few antique cars on the road, a few bicyclists, and some people just walking, all towards the military base. I wasn't sure what we would find, but I was thinking it may not be good. Did the aliens show up early, decide to be hostile, and take us out before we fought back? Did China attack us without warning? Did an EM weapon accidently explode and take out all the electronics? The possibilities were endless, and my imagination fertile, but I wasn't sure, although we were about to find out. Twenty minutes after we left our neighborhood, we arrived at the gates of Lackland Air Force Base. Something didn't seem right, and I just couldn't figure out what it was. However, at the gate, an airman was trying to keep back about a dozen people, who were arguing with him.

I got out of the car, calmly went up to the airman, and asked, "What happened for our electronics to not be working? Was it those aliens President Foley mentioned in his press conference the other day?"

"Sir, as I've been trying to tell these people, I don't know, I know about as much as you. Nobody in command has seen fit to tell me, and with the radio not working, I can't get any information. You'll just have to wait here until an officer decides to come out here."

I was about to protest, but, an explosion rocked the base. A huge fireball appeared which seemed to come from the center of the base. I heard gunfire, apparently our weapons that had no electronics were working, and the gunfire sounded like it was coming closer. The other civilians around me started running away; the airman checked his rifle, making sure it was loaded. Dave and I decided to stay and find out what would happen next. More explosions rocked the base. I noticed that the other military installations around Lackland sounded as if a war was going on. Although all of that was in the background and some miles away, I could still hear it. I saw some Air Force personnel running our way; it appeared to me they were all geared up for a battle. An officer stopped to talk to the airman guard, and it sounded to me like he was telling the airman to fall back. I managed to get the officers' attention.

"Sir, what's happening here? Why did our electronics quit working?" I asked.

"A war is what is happening, and they," the officer pointed in the distance, "are the ones who made our electronics quit working. You need to go with us if you want to live."

I was going to question who "they" were, when something came screaming out of the sky, hit near us, causing a massive explosion, and the last thing I saw was a shockwave racing towards me. I never did find out who "they" were.

***

About the Author:

Cliff Ball is a science fiction & thriller writer, the author of 4 novels, lives in Texas, and has a BA in English. You can check out where to find his other works on his website at http://cliffball.webs.com

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