

# Ashtrays to Jawbreakers

#

#

#

# A compilation:

# Volume Two

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

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

# Copyrighted August 2014

All said property is owned by individual authors.

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

Photos courtesy of Google Chrome

Some stories may include adult content.

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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# Table of contents:

Foreword

The Game by Lewis Rees

The Ring by Jason Wallace

After the fall – part 2 by Aaron R Roberts

Call of Fear by C. R. Powers

Mantrap by Neil McGowan

Shadow walk with me by Kenneth Norman Cook

The Dark Terror At The Forts By Kevin S. Hall

Dead, White, and Blowout by Misti Blake

The Girls by Viv Drewa

The Collectors By J.R. Cochran

The Pink Scarf by Shannon Thompson

## Foreword

In a perfect world, all writers would get a fair break, judged on talent and not how big their wallet is. This is an attempt to give a few authors their just reward for being stubborn and not giving up. A hobby is not a hobby if it has the potential to be rewarding far more than personal enjoyment.

No writer ever hits it big just writing for money. It would be like saying, "I like breathing just to hear the wind blow." A writer puts all they have into what they create and should always attempt to do so.

Every writer puts part of their being into what they write. Their work is as much a part of them as their heart and comes from within.

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

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

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

Writers are writers no matter where they may be from. This edition proves that no matter the region, fiction is fiction. No matter the age the story remains the same. We as writers strive for that very thing any other non-writer strives for. That is recognition. Recognition of our skills and talents to bend words to fit the need of expression intended to bring you into their (our) world, a world we have created or in some cases destroyed.

## The Game

## Lewis Rees

Dessert was a non-alcoholic decaffeinated Tiramisu, served with vanilla ice cream. The main course was seafood linguine- a recipe Hannah picked up at their honeymoon in Italy. The starter was Antipasti. All courses were served with non-alcoholic wine, picked specifically to compliment the course.

Hannah and Christopher spent all day setting up for the dinner party; painstakingly choosing place settings that complimented the tablecloth, itself painfully chosen to compliment the curtains. They've lived in this apartment for a week, now. A blissful week, spent acquainting themselves with each other as a married couple, enjoying their domesticated life. They've had adventures in Ikea, carefully examining each side table, desk and rug, trying to find the exact ones that defined them as a couple.

They chose the most traditional options available; wooden furniture, brown rugs, a shade of paint Hannah calls Cosmic Latte and Chris finds indiscernible from the shades she called Cornsilk, Old Lace or Floral White.

Still, she had her heart set on it.

She compromised and let him pick the curtains; a shade of blue she calls Palatinate. They have brown coasters, brown placemats. Hannah says one of the first things you learn when you study interior design is that brown goes with everything.

Christopher sits at the head of the table, Hannah to his left. Her sister, Charlotte, sits beside her, next to her husband, James. Christopher's brother, Daniel, sits opposite Hannah, fidgeting nervously the entire time.

They'd sent the cards out three weeks before- the day before leaving for their honeymoon.

On embossed paper, the colour of faded parchment, read the words:

Christopher and Hannah Marshall

Request the pleasure of your company on

The evening of April 28th, 2014, for an intimate dinner party.

Dress Code: Smart Casual

They sent the cards out in powder blue envelopes left over from their wedding invitations, and both replies were waiting in their mailbox when they arrived; one from James and Charlotte, one from Daniel. They spent the evening discussing their honeymoon; the weather, the exotic cuisine's they'd sampled, their journeys through the ruins of Pompeii; walking tours through the Coliseum, day trips to picturesque Italian villages where they still stamped wine underfoot, the scent of grapes so thick it all but perfumed the air. The scent of coffee; so electrifying, foreign even, that Hannah swore she could feel it in her bloodstream and had to retire to the hotel room to close her eyes. She'd sworn she could feel it affecting her already- intoxicating, almost.

She kept the door shut tight, the windows closed. The lights off. The lights were always off when they made love- years of waiting for that moment and it was over in two painful dissatisfying minutes. Frankly, Hannah didn't see what the big deal was about- there was very little pleasure in it. An acquired taste, she supposed. Given time- hopefully before the first baby- she supposed she'd grow to like it.

Or, at least, tolerate it.

Chris stands to his feet, taps his glass with a spoon to quiet them down.

They're not speaking. Chris just likes to be the centre of attention.

"Alright, Gang! You all know the game!" Hannah imitates a drumroll on the table, James and Charlotte join soon after. Daniel, his face ashen, looks like one who wishes only to die.

The rules are simple; questions about each other. Favorite movies or books, phobias. First person to five points wins the game. Chris brings out five piles of cards- Red for himself, Yellow for Hannah, Purple for Daniel, Green for Charlotte and Blue for James. Each is held together with an elastic band, kept separate. A six sided dice, each one coloured to match a card, with the remaining side painted white.

If someone rolls the white side, they get to choose who goes next. They all know the game, played it as kids.

Five colours, five people, first person to five wins the game.

Of course, they know each other so well. Spent their weekends together at the lake, even went to the same church camps. This game is just a formality. A piece of cake. An utterly boring exercise to end the evening.

Like Yahtzee.

Like Charades.

Chris rolls the dice. Purple.

"Alright, Dan, first question is yours." he reads the card carefully. "What is Charlotte's favourite book?"

"Twilight."

Charlotte scoffs into her non-alcoholic wine.

"What?"

"Just because I'm a woman you assume my favourite book is Twilight."

"It was last time." Daniel replies.

"I'm sorry, Daniel, that's not the answer I have here." Chris says.

"So what, pray tell, is your favourite book, Charlie?"

"Ender's Game."

Daniel sighs heavily. Pours himself a drink.

Chris hands Daniel the dice. He rolls it across the table. Yellow. He takes a card.

"Hannah." there's no enthusiasm in his voice. No attempt to add tension. "What's my favourite colour?" he sighs heavily. "Way to make them hard. I'll save you the trouble, Hannah, it's on the card."

"Purple?"

He nods and puts the card down. Hands the dice to her. She rolls blue. Clears her throat.

"James; what's Charlotte's favorite movie?"

Charlotte stares at Hannah, mouth agape. Hannah stares at the card, a dopey smile on her face. James looks deep in thought. "Is it... Titanic? No, The Notebook."

"Is that your final answer?"

He hesitates. "Yes."

Hannah stares him down. The rest of them still aren't saying anything.

"Correct." she utters simply. She puts the card down.

"What. The. Heck."

"What?"

"Do you really think that question's appropriate?!" "What's the big deal!?" Hannah interjects.

"The big deal?! Do you have any idea how embarrassed I am?!"

"What's the big deal?" James asks. "They asked your favorite movie, I told them it's The Notebook. I mean, it sucks, but it's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"...You're kidding me."

"No. Why, what did you think I asked?" Hannah asks.

"...You're sure this wine is non-alcoholic?"

"Yeah, of course. I only use alcoholic wine for cooking."

She sighs. "Sorry. I thought I heard... never mind. Whose turn is it?" James rolls the dice. Red.

"Alright, Chris; what is Hannah's greatest fear?"

"Heck... is it clowns?"

"See?!" Charlotte interjects. "Tell me I wasn't the only one who just heard that."

"No. I heard it too." Daniel said.

Hannah, James and Chris look at him. "What are you too playing at? I only asked what Hannah was afraid of." James protests.

"That's what I heard." Chris says. Hannah nods in agreement.

"Daniel?" Charlotte asks.

"James asked Chris how Hannah was in bed. Chris answered disappointing."

"I would never-"

"Cut it out, guys!" Charlotte says. "Let me see that card."

Chris, James and Hannah look at each other. They shrug. James hands the card over.

Charlotte reads it. Reads it again. Sighs and puts the card down.

"I'm so confused."

"You're confused?" Hannah asks. "What about us? Do you really think that Chris thinks I'm bad at making love? That's ridiculous. Right, Chris?" "Well..." Chris says. Daniel hisses through his teeth.

Wrong answer.

"Chris?"

"I mean... you're not bad at it... but it was kind of disappointing. It's a skill, you know? You learn. The first step towards being an expert is being a beginner."

"...I don't believe you."

"Alright!" Daniel shouts. Loud enough to get everyone's attention. "Chris, roll the dice?"

Chris takes the dice and rolls it hastily. Green.

"Charlotte! What's James' favorite kind of fruit?"

"Hands up if you heard porno." Charlotte asks. She and Daniel immediately raise their hands. Hannah hesitates, then raises hers.

"Cut it out guys!" Chris says. "This is getting ridiculous." Charlotte stands up. Heads for the door.

"Where are you going?!" Hannah asks.

"Where does it look like? Away." she reaches for the handle.

"No! Don't open the door!" Chris now.

"What? You invite me here, ask all these stupid, crazy, obscene questions, then you play oblivious! I mean, I expected it from James, but you? I'm disappointed, Chris."

Her hand's on the handle. It's so cold she swears it's going to stick to her skin, swears she can see the icy blue tendrils reaching out from her hand.

Swears she can see her breath.

"No. You know what? Screw that. You two are going to slip up, and I'm going to be there. You thought this was going to be funny, let's see how funny it is when you're in the E.R at two AM because someone shoved your balls in the waste disposal."

Daniel snorts. Holds his head in one hand. Charlotte rejoins them at the dinner table.

"For the record, James' favorite porno magazine is Asian Babes and he hides it behind the cistern."

"And his favorite fruit?"

"Tangerine." she starts absent-mindedly picking at a hangnail.

"...Correct." he makes a note of it. Hands her the dice. She rolls it. Purple.

"Daniel." she reads the card. She tries to put it down, but feels herself reading it aloud.

"How successful was your conversion therapy?" she looks at him regretfully. He stares back at her, his eyes pleading- those big brown eyes, the way a dog looks at you when you shout at it.

"It wasn't." he blurts out. He clamps both hands over his mouth.

"You... what?" James asks. Daniel shakes his head feverishly, his eyes screwed together tight.

"Answer the question, Daniel." James asks again.

Daniel keeps his eyes shut tight. He sings aloud in his head; Shakespeare's Sister, Fleetwood Mac, The Birthday Massacre. His lips are already moving before he registers the words.

"It didn't work."

James, almost instinctively, recoils in his chair. "Great. Just great. My brother in law's a goddamn homo."

Daniel lets out a sob. Runs for the door.

"Dan, wait!" Chris shouts. Daniel pauses with his hand on the handle. Doesn't turn back.

"Is this true?"

"...Yes."

"God, Dan. I didn't even know you were gay! I mean, how did this happen?"

"Well, I was sixteen, I got the letter from the king of gay. Kind of like Hogwarts."

"Dan..."

"Well what do you want me to say!" he turns around, stares Chris down. "I like guys, alright? I like guys, I like dicks, and I like guys with dicks!" he huffs. "Is this what tonight was all about? You call me over here, drug me, get me to confess?" he sighs. "Now if you don't mind I'm going to go and throw myself under a bus."

He can't open the door. Can't bring himself to turn the handle, even. Just the thought of looking through the peephole fills him with dread.

"Just help me understand." Chris pleads.

Daniel looks his brother in the eye. Sighs. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a packet of cigarettes.

"You're smoking?!" Hannah asks.

"Yeah, I'm just full of surprises." He heads to the window seat, opens the window. Takes a seat and lights the cigarette. "Besides, if I'm going to hell anyway, I may as well live it up." "...Guys, do you think you could give us a minute?" Chris asks.

"Oh. Sure. Charlotte, James, wanna help me get some coffee going? I got some amazing decaf in Rome."

Charlotte jumps to her feet and joins her. James stays in his seat for a few moments, smiling awkwardly, then joins them.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Chris asks.

"You were on your mission. I got caught with a guy, Dad flipped his shit, sent me off to Camp Rockville. Said it'd cure me. Said "No Son of mine is going to be a goddamn homo.""

"Great impression."

"Thanks." Daniel takes a long drag. "I just... they think you can cure it, you know? I guess I did too, a little. All it does is shove you so deep in the closet you're having adventures in Narnia. This is who I am, and when I was there I realised I can't change that. And believe me, I tried. I got out and I just realised that... if God made me this way- made me gay, made it so that I could never be straight, no matter how much I begged or whatever- then either he's going to send me to hell for something he planned for me, he doesn't give a damn, or he doesn't exist. I just... I try to do my best to be a good person." another drag. "I just didn't want to lose you or Mom or Dad. So I lied. Every day. I let them set me up on dates with girls from the church, let them think there was still hope for me. One day I'm going to fall in love and get married, and the only thing that scares me anymore is knowing that you guys won't be there."

"You kidding? Of course I'll be there. You know I will." James throws an arm around Daniel's shoulder. "I just... I didn't know, you know? Nobody ever told me. I mean, Dad told me you'd been sick, he didn't tell me you were gay. I don't give a damn if you're gay."

"You don't?"

"No. I mean, you're the best guy I know. Hell, you were my best man at my wedding, I didn't want anyone else standing beside me. Even if you did fudge the speech."

Daniel snorts.

"Look. I know God. I know that he doesn't care about skin colour, sex, sexuality. Those are just labels. God's above all of those things. And even if he isn't, even if he is some racist crazy old bearded guy sitting on a cloud, deciding who gets to go to Heaven based on something as stupid as who they love, then Heaven's not worth it."

Daniel smiles. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Chris sighs. "Are you seeing anyone?"

"Kinda. I've had a couple of dates with this guy, works down at the paper."

"Well bring him over sometime."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean, if dad's not going to do it, somebody has to have the talk. Make sure he's good enough for you." he clears his throat. Puts on his best gruff accent. "So, what are your intentions with my Daniel?"

Daniel laughs. "Good impression."

Chris smiles. "That's assuming there is a sometime. Nobody's getting out that door."

"Huh?"

You haven't noticed? It's like... I don't know what it's like. It's... wrong."

"Yeah, I think Hannah was trying to do a Friends kind of thing there."

"That's not what I mean. It's like... there's something out there."

"There's nothing out there."

"Not literally, but... just the thought of opening that door gives me chills, you know? Like there's something out there that none of us understand, and the last thing I want to do is see it."

"...You know, I think I'm coming around to your drugs theory."

"I'm serious. Just try it."

Chris looks at his brother. Shrugs. Stands up. Heads to the door.

His breath freezes in his lungs. The hairs on the back of his arm stand on end.

"See what I mean?"

Chris puts his hand to the handle, feels a vice squeeze his chest, feels his heart jackhammering between his lungs. He tightens his grip.

His entire body is begging him to flee.

He pulls the handle down.

He screams, pulls away his hand, a layer of skin sticking to the metal handle, bits of flesh clinging to it, blood dripping to the floor.

He screams again. The others come rushing in.

"What happened?!" Charlotte shouts.

"The door!" Chris answers.

"Is that blood?!" asks Hannah.

"Honey, big picture!" he heads to the cabinet, pulls out the first aid kit with his good hand. James approaches the door.

"No!" Daniel shouts. "Don't open it. Don't even touch it!" James jumps, takes a step back.

"What happened?" Hannah asks Chris. He's rubbing antiseptic into his hand.

"I don't know! I just tried to open it and my hand froze!" He grunts in pain. "I feel like I left half my palm behind on it!"

"This looks bad! We better get you to the hospital!" Hannah says.

"We can't get out." says Charlotte. Hannah turns to her. "Something's keeping us here."

"That's crazy! I mean, there's got to be something we can do." Hannah replies.

James roars. Aims a kick squarely at the handle. The handle lets out a hum; high pitched, the sort of sound that old couples use to drive teenagers away. The kind that drive dogs wild. Everyone covers their ears.

"Great, so we're stuck here?!" James shouts.

"Honey, calm down!"

"No! It's okay for you, you're not in danger here! I'm not going to spend the night sleeping in the same apartment as him." he points at Daniel without looking at him

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"

"You know what it means! You know those people! They can't help themselves! It's a disease! One second you're asleep, the next second you have some homo with his lips wrapped around you! And you shared your room with him! God, I feel violated, I wonder how you must feel."

"Goddamn homophobes." Daniel lights another cigarette. "Always scared we're gonna want you, never thinking that we have tastes or standards or whatever. Believe me; I want to get out of here every bit as much as you do."

"Yeah? So what's your clever idea, fairy boy?"

"Isn't it obvious? We finish the game."

"What?" Hannah stares at him in disbelief.

"The door won't let us open it, a game we've played a hundred times before starts asking questions nobody wrote, and it's evolving. At first, only Charlotte could hear the questions, hear the answers. Then, I could. Now, we all can. We can't lie, can't not ask, can't not answer, and we can't leave. It can't be a coincidence. There's something out there that wants us to finish this game, and maybe when we do we can just walk out that door and you'll never have to see me again. Believe me, I don't want to see you again either. After this, we'll never have to."

"I'm not playing this game. I don't care if I have to break down this goddamn door, I'm not playing."

"...First to five points, right?" Charlotte asks. Daniel nods solemnly. Charlotte sighs and heads to the kitchen, emerges with a bottle of red wine and five glasses.

"Charlotte, sweetie, don't drink that. I was going to cook with that."

"I'm not playing this game unless I'm drunk. Who's with me?"

Daniel puts his hand up. Chris soon after. James next and then Hannah, hesitantly.

Charlotte pours five glasses, raises her own.

"Let's all hope we don't hate each other too much after tonight."

"I'll drink to that." Chris says.

They clink their glasses together. Take their seats.

"What are we on now?"

"Daniel's on two. The rest of us are one apiece."

Daniel sighs. "Look, here's the deal. Whoever's in the lead gets chosen if someone rolls white. The faster we get this over and done with, the faster we can all leave. Fair?" Everyone nods in agreement. Daniel takes a deep breath and rolls the dice.

Yellow.

"You ready?" he asks. Hannah nods hastily. He smiles apologetically and takes a card.

"What happened to Charlotte's Freddie Teddie?"

Charlotte looks at her. Hannah takes a deep sip of her wine. Exhales.

"I... put him in the blender."

"You what?!" Charlotte shouts.

"I didn't mean to, alright? I was just... We'd been fighting, alright? About everything. I found your stash, got a little high, and I was just... I wanted to hurt you."

"You bitch! You know how much I loved that bear!"

"I'm sorry, alright! I swear, as soon as I sobered up I knew I'd messed up bad. I even went out to try and get you a new one."

"Please, Grandma made that for me, you know that! What did you go shopping for, a time machine?! That lightning thing that brought Frankenstein back to life?!"

"Frankenstein was the Doctor." Chris interjects.

Charlotte sighs. Drains her drink, pours another. "Whatever. Dan, can I steal a cigarette?"

"Sure. I'll join you."

They head to the window. The rest of the group watch them.

"Just carry on, we can still answer questions."

"Don't you want to talk about Freddie?" Daniel lights his cigarette first, then Charlotte's. He can see rage in James' eye. He probably doesn't like the thought of her smoking something Daniel touched.

He's probably scared he'll catch something.

Hannah rolls the dice. White.

"Dan?"

"Hit me." he drains his glass and hands it to Chris for a refill. It comes quickly.

"How did your father's car crash?"

"I was using my cellphone and drove into a lamppost."

"You what?!" shouts Chris.

"Haven't we reached a place free of shame?" sighs Dan.

"Alright. Three points." Dan nods solemnly. Rolls the dice. Blue.

"Alright, James. What song was playing when you lost your virginity?"

"Something by The Beatles. Penny Lane? No, Dear Prudence."

"Correct." James sighs. Takes the dice.

"What if I drop it?" "Huh?" asks Chris.

"Drop it. You know. So it lands on Dan."

"I... I don't know." says Chris. "It's technically cheating, but it might work. Dan?"

"Do it."

James turns the dice in his hand. Purple.

He drops it. Green.

"How... what the hell!" James says incredulously.

"I guess the game doesn't like cheating." Hannah shrugs.

"But-"

"Just read the question, James. Hope it lands on Dan next time." says Chris.

James sighs, takes the card. "Charlotte; what song was playing when you lost your virginity?" he sighs in relief. "Gosh, I was expecting something traumati-"

"I Will Follow You Into the Dark." Charlotte utters quietly. A blanket of silence falls across the room.

"What?" asks James, quietly.

Menacingly.

"I Will Follow You Into the Dark. Death Cab for Cutie."

"Sweetie, I don't understand." Says James. He does understand.

"Look, I was in college, was before we got together. My friend had a spare ticket, so she invited me along. I mean... I'd never been to a concert, I guess I figured it was all part of the college experience. So I though... Sure. What the hell. I didn't have class the next day, I'd been working my ass off all semester, I guess I figured I'd earned a break.

"It was at this club downtown. The support act were this really terrible indie band, so I was in the smoking area with a vodka for the whole set. This guy came up to me... he was kinda cute. Not my type, but cute. He had bangs, piercings... he had this way of biting his lip when he was about to speak, it was adorable. I remember he was wearing these jeans, dark red, skintight. He just came up to me to ask if he could borrow a light and we started talking. We just... we had a lot in common, you know? The same music, TV shows, the same books. I guess vodka goes straight to my head. Before I know it, I'm in the bathroom. We didn't even take off our clothes, he just dropped his pants. I just kept thinking... "This is so wrong. So wrong." It was over pretty quickly, maybe a couple of minutes, if that. He left pretty quickly, didn't even tell me his name. I just remember that the walls were so thin that you could hear them singing through the wall as I was getting myself cleaned up, and I just remember noticing the tune." she shivers.

"I'm so sorry, James!" she cries tearfully.

James clenches his fists, the nails biting into his palms.

He stands up sharply, knocking the chair away. He approaches her, raises his hand, and slaps her hard across the face.

The room sits in a stunned silence for a few moments. Chris jumps to his feet and places himself between them.

"James... what the hell?!"

"She deserved it!"

"Why?! Because she slept with someone else before you two got together!"

"A woman's virginity is her present for her husband! No man wants a cupcake if someone else has had a taste!"

"Oh, and I guess guys are allowed to sleep around all they want?" Dan interjects.

"It's different for men. You don't buy a car without a test drive, do you? A man pays the bills. Works hard all day for his family. The woman spends his money and raises his kids. She doesn't go out and work for a living unless she's a lesbian or a bra burner. The woman relies on the man, it's only right he should try before he buys."

"So a woman's property?!" asks Dan, appalled.

"As if you'd know, Homo."

Dan raises his fist, punches him right in the nose. He feels bones crunch beneath his fingers.

He smells fresh blood.

James roars, makes a move to retaliate, blinded by hate and tears. Chris holds him back.

James shouts at Dan. Daniel shouts at James. Hannah and Chris join in.

"Can we all just calm the hell down!" Charlotte's voice cuts through the room like a knife. Stunned silence.

"Charlotte... does he really see you as property?" asks Dan.

"What do you think?" she raises her blouse; there are ugly bruises all over her stomach, all over her ribs.

"My God!" Hannah gasps. She leans in close, examines them. "James... how could you?!" "I'll tell you how he could!" says Charlotte, lowering her blouse. "Because he thinks I'm broken. Because he thinks I can't have kids!"

"Yeah? Well blame the miscarriage." James spits.

"Do you really think I want to inflict you on children?" Charlitte says. "When I first got pregnant, you were different. But then... I woke up and there was blood all over the bed, soaking into the sheets. Soaking into my skin. When they told me I'd lost the baby, I thought 'At least I have James to help me through this.' Then you started getting all distant. Cruel. As soon as you hit me... As soon as I saw that little rosebud of blood on the carpet, I made a promise to myself that you'd never hurt my children, so I went on the pill." she takes a cigarette from Dan's pack. Lights it.

"You... babykiller."

"I didn't kill any babies. The eggs never even fertilized. I couldn't live with myself if you ever hit my child, James." she takes a deep drag. Exhales. "I want a divorce. And a restraining order. I hope you die in a gutter, you chauvinistic pig."

"You bitch! How dare you! You're going to burn in hell! You're worse than Madalyn O'Hair!

You're worse than Hitler!"

Charlotte calmly extinguishes her cigarette in his eye.

James screams in pain, finally struggles free. Charlotte runs, keeping the table between them. James grabs the table and upends it, sending everything flying.

Ikea crockery lies shattered on the floor. Red wine seeps into the fabric of the couch. Cards flutter through the air. Dan shouts something, but his protests go unnoticed in the din.

"Charlotte, the closet!" Chris shouts. He grabs James from behind as he approaches her, drags him over, and throws him into the linen closet. He shuts the door, holds it tight. Dan drags over the couch, blocks the door.

James beats against the door, screaming and shouting. Chris looks around the room.

Dan's sitting on the couch, his head in his hands. Charlotte is sitting on the floor, sobbing into Hannah's lap.

"Charlotte? It's your turn."

She looks up through teary eyes. "Where's the dice?"

The whole room is a mess of upended furniture and shattered dishes.

"It's got to be around here somewhere. Come on, gang, let's look."

Dan starts to laugh. He looks up, can barely see through the tears. He points at the window.

"I tried to tell you!" he can barely get the words out. "When James flipped the table!" "The dice!" He'd shouted, as the small plastic cube sailed through the air, right out the window and down to the ground, seven storeys below.

It's stupid, Dan thinks. So stupid that can't stop laughing.

He's laughing because it's better than crying.

"You've got to be kidding me." Chris utters.

They all stare, stunned, at the window. No sound apart from Dan's hysterical laughter. Even James has stopped beating at the closet door.

"Now what?" asks Hannah.

## About Lewis Rees

My name is Lewis Rees. I'm a 23 year old author/filmmaker/screenwriter/teacher.

I was one of those kids who always had a book under his nose, and two more close at hand, and all I ever wanted to do was tell stories. I studied film at University to help me achieve this in a new medium.

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

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

My writing is sometimes surreal, sometimes sardonic, always interesting. My story, "The Game", is taken from my upcoming collection "Ten Storeys", and was inspired by far too many arguments over far too many games of Monopoly.

## The Ring

## Jason Wallace

An aged and very wrinkled man with thinly-sparse gray hair knelt in his garden, tending his tomatoes, an almost daily routine that he had maintained for many years during the warmer weather. Suddenly, he struggled to his feet, nearly toppling as he went, startled by the appearance of a young man, seeming to come from out of nowhere. "Nuni! Nuni," shouted the old man as he awaited the gravely younger man to approach. "Nuni! Nuni!"

"Sir," asked the other man, confused by the outburst of the elderly gardener, throwing his jacket over his shoulder as he peered through the blistering hot rays of sunlight piercing his eyes as he stared downward.

"Oh. I guess I thought you was somebody else. You look just like a fella I knew back in Dubya Dubya Two. Nunzio Calabrisi was his name. Can I help you with somethin', Son?"

"Well, Sir, that's exactly why I'm here. I want to ask you about Nunzio Calabrisi. My name is also Nunzio Calabrisi. The Nunzio you knew during the war was my father's uncle. I was named for him. Would you mind if I stay a while and ask you some questions about my uncle?"

"I suppose that'd be alright, Son. But you might not like what I have to say. Sit. Sit. Pick ya a spot of ground there by the cabbages." The old man waved his hand to direct the other to the grass beyond the garden.

"First, Sir, what happened to Nunzio? Nobody ever saw him again after 1943, and there's no record of him being killed in the war. You were his best friend, weren't you? What can you tell me?" The young man helped the recipient of his verbal intercourse to his feet, seeing that he struggled so as he made countless fruitless attempts.

"You really wanna know about Nunzio Calabrisi, huh? Let's go inside. Pryin' neighbors and all." The two men sauntered into the house, the elderly of the two bringing two glasses of sweetened lemonade into the living room. "I'll tell you what you wanna know, but it probably ain't much ya wanna hear. Nunzio was my friend, my best friend. He was closer to me than any brother ever could've been, and I killed him."

"Wait," the young man, Nunzio, screamed, choking on his lemonade, "You killed my uncle?! What the..."

"Son, I don't mean I killed him like you think. I mean I got him killed."

"Tell me then, Mr. Tucker, please. Can I call you Mr. Tucker?"

"Marion is fine. I met Nunzio in the Navy in 1942. We did everything together. I loved that man. I loved him as much as a person can love another, maybe, in some ways, more than I ever loved my wife."

"So, you two had a homosexual relationship," the second Nunzio asked, vehemently protesting the possibility that his great-uncle was, in actuality, homosexual.

"No. What the hell is wrong with your generation? Two men can love each other without it being that way. Do you wanna hear this or not?"

"Yes. Please. Continue," Nunzio begged, sipping his lemonade more carefully.

"Your uncle, Nunzio, he was a great man. Some people didn't care for him because he was I-talian. I think maybe I loved him all the more because he was I-talian. He could make anybody laugh. He had a wonderful air about him. He could sing like you would not believe. You'd think you were hearin' an angel! We were on leave in the summer of 1943. We drove up to my hometown of Somerset, Virginia. I promised Nunzio I'd introduce him to a beautiful Southern gal. We went out drinkin' when we arrived. We were walkin' along, and Nunzio said that he needed to relive himself. I waited back and kept sippin' on my whiskey I was carryin'. I turned just in time to see Nunzio disappear."

"Disappear?"

"Yes. I saw the tree he was leanin' against open up and swallow him. I saw it plain as day, though it was night. I know you don't believe me. I wouldn't believe me, but I know what I saw. Two dark hands came out from the tree, grabbed Nunzio, and pulled him inside. That was the last I ever saw of the man." The old man, Marion, hung his head, a tear strolling down his left cheek as he finished his words.

"Wh.. huh.. Hands took him? Tree swallowed? What? This makes no sense!"

"I know what I saw. He disappeared that night." Marion took a long pause, and after gulping deeply, decided to continue where he left off, "He... He went into that tree, and I could see what looked like a really bright light."

"Did you try to get him out?!"

"I tried, but there was nothin' I could do. I chopped at that tree for an hour with my pocket knife, but to no avail. I went to the Sheriff and told him what I saw, and he just said I'd been drinkin' too much and needed to cut back. I may have been a bit inebriated, but I saw what I saw. I went back to that tree with an axe I took from my daddy's shed. I hacked and cut and chopped at that tree until I could split it open. It took me much of the night."

"What was.. was inside of it?" Nunzio still doubted that he should believe Marion's words, but something told him that he was not being toyed with, that he should trust the old man.

"You know what it was I found inside that tree? A finger. One finger. That was all. I knew it was Nunzio's finger because it had that ring on it that his father gave him, just like that ring you got on right there, that exact one." Marion pointed anxiously at Nunzio's right hand, at the ring draped around his ring finger.

"I'll believe you if you... if you can tell me what is inscribed inside."

With a deep chortle, the old man sought to oblige the request. "Ok. Let me see if I can remember. Chi si volta... Wait. Yes. Chi si volta, e chi si gira, sempre a casa va finire. I don't remember exactly what it means, but it is something about that no matter how far you go, you always come home."

"Wh... yes. How...?"

"Nunzio showed me that ring almost every day. His father gave it to him. He was so proud of his son, the first generation of the family in America serving it so faithfully. Nunzio enlisted, against the will of his mother. His father didn't like it at first but came around to the idea and had that ring made. Well, actually, he had one made for Nunzio's brother, too. I suppose that's the one you have on your finger right now."

"Y.. yes. Ok, Mr. Tucker. Let's say I'm starting to believe you. How do you explain this?!"

"I can't. I think maybe that tree or that place is cursed, maybe a gateway to some other dimension. Maybe Nunzio lived out his life somewhere far away, in some other world neither you nor I can imagine. The few I've gotten to believe the story say that it must have been a gate to Hell. I don't know about all that, but I know he is gone, never to return. Nunzio would never have lost all contact with his family or with me." The old man's lower lip began to curl, his misty eyes displaying all of his belief in the event and of never again seeing his only true friend he'd ever had.

Nunzio the Younger, as he was sometimes known around his neighborhood, could not make sense of anything or decide what else to ask. Stammering, he could only murmur and mutter, completely incoherent to his listener.

"And to answer your next question of why I live here instead of back in Virginia, I couldn't take the stigma. I left to put an end to the madness. People labeled me a looney for what I told them. I came here to have a chance at a new life. And yes, I

think of Nunzio every day. I see him almost everywhere. With time, the thoughts have softened and faded, but they are still there."

"H.. How did you know what I was thinking?"

"Kid, I've been around for many years. I can sometimes just tell what's in a person's heart. I'll bet you like the same stinky little cigars that your uncle smoked. Stauffer's?"

"Yes."

"I'll bet you slick your hair back really tight when you wanna look tough, but when you want to look all gentle to the ladies, you comb it forward."

"How..."

"And I'll bet when you say your name to the ladies, you pronounce it in an I-talian accent and that sometimes, you say everything with an I-talian accent. It gets you a lot of women."

"How..."

"You really are Nunzio in every way I can see. It's like I'm lookin' back at 1943. If it wasn't for the surroundings, I'd start to believe it. You know, I have looked for him so many times, some piece of evidence to be able to put it all to rest. I even went back years later and chopped away what remained of that tree. I hacked it to little bits to try to find anything inside. I chopped up the roots and even dug up the earth all around. There wasn't nothin' there but more roots. Son, let me show you somethin'. I'll be right back."

As Marion got up from his chair and walked very slowly into another room, young Nunzio felt a deep and almost paralyzing anxiety fill his extremities. He had no idea what the old man might be up to, what it was that he might be planning to bring back. The thought that the old man had something to "show him" created so much fear in Nunzio that he thought of leaving the place without a single word said and never coming back. He had already learned far more than he had expected to, yet in many ways, far less.

Marion returned, clenching a small, wooden box tightly in his hands. "Here. Open that." As the old man handed the box to Nunzio, he tread painfully to his chair, his old bones creaking and popping as he stepped.

Nunzio, his hands shaking, closed his eyes for only a moment and opened them again when he felt his hands pry the lid of the box open. Inside the box was what appeared to be some kind of very aged parchment paper, wrapped neatly with a thin, scarlet bow. Untying the ribbon and unfolding the carefully placed flaps of the paper,

Nunzio stared in near horror. Laying within the paper was the ring spoken of by Marion Tucker, as well as what Nunzio knew must be the bones of a human finger.

"Is this... is this Uncle Nunzio," the younger man cried in sheer terror, his voice as shaky as his hands.

"Yes. It is. That is what is left of him anyhow."

Nunzio carefully turned the ring over and over, examining its every detail, coming to realize that it matched his ring identically, detail for detail, word for word, yet it was in far better condition than his own, having faced much less wear and tear. He choked back the fear climbing into his throat as he looked up at Marion. "I still don't understand how this could be, how he could just vanish. There is some explanation!

There has to be!"

"Son," began Marion, shaking his head, his eyes still somewhat misty, "I spent the better part of twenty years tryin' to figure it all out. I finally had to just give up.

There is no explanation for it. It is what it is. I haven't even opened that box since... since 1986. Has it really been that long? I suppose it has. I used to open it almost every day and stare at its contents and talk to 'em, as if I was actually speakin' to your Uncle Nunzio. There is no use tryin' to explain it. Nunzio hasn't turned up in more than seventy years. He ain't about to just come knockin' on the door over there. Now, you take that box and its contents with you. You give the finger a proper burial or keep it in your house or whatever. I always did wish that I could give what was left of him to his family. Now, I can be at peace, knowin' I did just that and that I closed that chapter, the biggest chapter, of my life. I can die in peace now."

"So, there's absolutely nothing more to this story, nothing more that you can tell me, huh?"

"There's always more to any story. No story ever ends. All I know to tell you is that the best I could figure, there's a curse on that place or that Nunzio was chosen by some, some thing. I don't know what it is. I started to research the area to see if there were any stories similar to mine. I found some records in the public library that talked of strange disappearances in the area goin' back for centuries. There was a legend from the Indians that used to be in that place. They told the early settlers that there was a great evil there and not to build their town. There was an evil spirit that became angry when he was bothered, when people strode into his home. The Indians knew to stay away from there, to revere that spirit for what it was. I knew as a boy that there were very unexplainable things occurring there, but seldom did someone go missing. Everyone always kept things hush hush or said that a person ran off. No one ever spoke of anything happening like what did happen to Nunzio."

"Thank you, Mr. Tucker. I think maybe I should go there and see it for myself. This just doesn't make sense to me. I need to at least see the place. Somerset, Virginia, right?" Nunzio rose from his seat, clutching the box in his hands, before Marion Tucker could respond.

"Son, wait. You shouldn't go there. The whole town is a breeding ground for these sorts of things. The town is just one giant curse. I made it out of there, but you might not. You should leave it all well enough alone."

"Has all of your family disappeared?"

"Well, no."

"Any of them at all?" Nunzio's face evidenced his complete disbelief in the town being cursed. He could scarcely believe any of the story, but he especially could not believe that an entire town could be such a threat.

"A cousin when I was very young. Like the others, people said that he ran off. And then, there was sister's boy. He was only eleven years old. I'm tellin' you, there is a curse on that place. Do not go there. You just go on home, and take that box with you. Give your family some peace over this whole mess. Somerset is not a place you want to be. Get in your car, and head straight back to Philadelphia."

"How'd you know where I'm from?"

"I just assumed. I knew that was where your uncle was from. Just go back, and don't ever head to that area of northern Virginia. You don't want in it. You don't wanna be a part of it. Trust me on that. And no matter what you might think you've found there, you won't get no help from the people. They keep everything very quiet. Some of 'em know the truth, at least, have an idea, but they won't talk about it." The old man's eyes shown the truth clearly, but Nunzio Calabrisi was not about to be dissuaded by such a thing. It all seemed far too fanciful to him.

"Where did it happen? What's the place in Somerset?"

With a deep sigh but knowing that he could not turn the young man from his task, Marion Tucker decided that he would give him the information that he sought. "The Chalmers School. It's an old, abandoned building now. Shortly after the war, they built it over the grove they cut down. Find that school, and you're there. Just be careful, Son. Be very careful. It is not a place to be trifled with or taken lightly. I spent almost three years in a nuthouse for what I told folks I saw, and I was one of the lucky ones."

The drive from southern Ohio to northern Virginia was long, but Nunzio had already traveled from Philadelphia, and he was strongly motivated by his quest for truth and justice on behalf of his great-uncle. When he arrived in Somerset, he thought that the place looked like something out of an old movie. The buildings were old, many dilapidated, the people, wantonly staring in his direction as he passed, their deep set eyes looking as if they were somehow possessed. There was nothing at all resembling what one might call a town. Nunzio wondered if there were more than a hundred people living in the entire immediate vicinity of the place.

Nunzio stepped from his car upon finding the ruins of the Chalmers School. The few walls that remained standing were mostly sunken downward, slanting off into the ground below. The majority of the site was defined by heavy piles and pillars of rubble, some extending well above the level of the walls surrounding them. As Nunzio stood in awe of the enormity of destruction, he was startled to feel a hand placed upon his shoulder. Turning, he came face to face with a man with eyes as sunken as the walls before him.

"Damn cryin' shame what happened here," the other man stated, in his Virginia Piedmont accent that Nunzio found almost unintelligible. "They had a school here a long ways back, when my daddy was a boy. It ain't but what you see here now. They say it started to just crumble down one day as if it was the very walls of Jericho itself. Then, a fire broke out not long after that. A lot of boys went missin' from here, burnt up in the flames, but they never did find the bodies. Ain't that funny?"

Nunzio suddenly found himself wondering if there were not a serious amount of truth to the words of Marion Tucker. "What do you think really happened?"

"I ain't quite sure. Between you and me, Stranger, I think there's somethin' downright sinister at work in this place. They's all kinda funny things occurrin' round about here, but rarely is it anything real severe, just peculiar is all. But this place here, this is somethin' else. I don't never step foot beyond this sidewalk we's standin' on. In fact, I don't know of nobody that steps beyond. Everything from where that grass starts right there in front of ya over to the back of them woods beyond is unholy ground. You know I mean by unholy ground?"

Nunzio choked down the overwhelming, breath-stealing lump in his throat, unsure if he could even answer such a question, though he knew exactly what the man meant. "I... I think I do." Sighing, he looked all around him and noticed that several people watched him from the other side of the street, one standing on a corner, staring at him as if he were trying to see through him, and two others sitting on a porch, casually glancing his way. It made him feel gravely uneasy.

"Feller," began the other man, tucking his right thumb into the waistband of his pants, "I'd advise you get outta here. This ain't no place for outsiders. If the evil here don't get ya, the people here might. They don't take kindly to people they don't know comin' in here, especially ones investigatin' and such."

"I'm just trying to find out what happened to my great-uncle, Nunzio Calabrisi. He supposedly disappeared from here back in 1943. Nobody ever heard from him again. I was told that this was the place where it happened."

"Well, you ain't gonna find nothin' except bricks and stones and other types of mess. If your uncle is down under all them piles, you got one hell of a job to do, gettin' 'em all cleared out. I heard about some feller goin' missin' here back about when you said, but folks just always said the man who told of it was right as a three dollar bill. Personally, I took some thought of it and wondered if there weren't some kind of truth in it. They's legends 'round here, but that's all anybody takes 'em fer, legend. They say the place is haunted by spirits of the slaves that was here, some of 'em maybe even come from the ol' Montpelier place nearby, Madison's ol' plantation, that they was runaways hidin' out here. Some says it's the Indians. I don't rightly know what it is, but I do know you don't go messin' here. Ain't nobody touched this place since that fire, and that was back probably forty-some, fifty-some years ago."

"Did they ever find anybody here, any bodies at all, ever, or at least some parts of bodies, maybe a finger?" Nunzio was bent on finding out the truth, no matter what it took, but he felt that he would find no more than what Marion Tucker told him.

"I heard somethin' once about a feller findin' a finger in some tree and heard of some other feller findin' another finger sometime after that. My daddy talked of that, but folks just thought they killed the men they had them fingers of. One of 'em ended up sent up to some crazy house. The other, folks run him out of town. They's even a rumor they found him in them woods right over there and tied him to a tree and cut him limb from limb. Supposedly, a couple of folks that was involved in that one went missin' theyselves. Some told the town not to build this school here, that the ground was haunted, fer one reason or another."

"Do you think that maybe there was just somebody around here that was killing people and cutting them up and that maybe the fire was completely unrelated?"

The other man, with his thumb still in his pants, began scratching his head profusely with his left hand. "You know, I thought that many a time myself. I don't know what is the truth and what ain't. I know I do get an awful perturbin' feelin' when I come here. They's people died here. That's for certain. How they died is beyond me. I don't know what to believe, but it is a tragedy, all the same. You ain't gonna find no more about this place than what I done told ya. It is what it is, Feller. If I was you, I'd leave it all well enough alone."

"That's exactly what somebody else told me. Damn. I wish I could just find something, anything!"

Darkness loomed its eerie and disturbing head over the place where the two stood, creeping in slowly, with an imminent feeling of death. Both were assured that there was nothing to do there any longer and that the premises should be vacated at once, before night settled in completely. Nunzio felt as if eyes were watching him, but not the deep-set eyes of the townspeople. It was as if something from beyond the walls of the ruined school were fixated on him, keeping track of his every move, whatever it was, even listening to his every word.

Nunzio quickly got into his car and drove away, speeding out of town toward home. The same feeling of ominous and ethereal, supernatural presence that he felt at the site of the Chalmers School pervaded his every fiber, filling him with distraught worry and a complete sense of inner chaos. Nothing would ever make sense about any of it, but nothing could be done either. He knew that he would have to rest on the notion that he had no real information, only hearsay and the word of the only person to witness his uncle's disappearance. He could, at least, take some piece or pieces of his uncle back to his family. No one would believe what he told them, but they would see the ring in the wooden box and know that it must have been Uncle Nunzio's.

## About Jason Wallace

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

Jason enjoys creating them

## After the Fall: Part Two

## Aaron R Roberts

Computers used in data processing systems, communications systems, displays, industrial control applications, including road and rail signalling, and those embedded in military equipment, such as signal processors, electronic flight controls and digital engine control systems, are all potentially vulnerable to the EMP effect.

Other electronic devices and electrical equipment may also be destroyed by the EMP effect. Telecommunications equipment can be highly vulnerable, due to the presence of lengthy copper cables between devices. Receivers of all varieties are particularly sensitive to EMP, as the highly sensitive miniature high frequency transistors and diodes in such equipment are easily destroyed by exposure to high voltage electrical transients. Therefore radar and electronic warfare equipment, satellite, microwave, UHF, VHF, HF and low band communications equipment and television equipment are all potentially vulnerable to the EMP effect.

It is significant that modern military platforms are densely packed with electronic equipment, and unless these platforms are well hardened, an EMP device can substantially reduce their function or render them unusable.

The technology base which may be applied to the design of electromagnetic bombs is both diverse, and in many areas quite mature. Key technologies which are extant in the area are explosively pumped Flux Compression Generators (FCG), explosive or propellant driven Magneto-Hydrodynamic (MHD) generators and a range of HPM devices, the foremost of which is the Virtual Cathode Oscillator or Victor. A wide range of experimental designs have been tested in these technology areas, and a considerable volume of work has been published in unclassified literature.

This paper will review the basic principles and attributes of these technologies, in relation to bomb and warhead applications. It is stressed that this treatment is not exhaustive, and is only intended to illustrate how the technology base can be adapted to an operationally deployable capability.

The explosively pumped FCG is the most mature technology applicable to bomb designs. The FCG was first demonstrated by Clarence Fowler at Los Alamos National Laboratories (LANL) in the late fifties. Since that time a wide range of FCG configurations has been built and tested, both in the US and the USSR, and more recently CIS.

The FCG is a device capable of producing electrical energies of tens of Mega

Joules in tens to hundreds of microseconds of time, in a relatively compact package. With peak power levels of the order of Terawatts to tens of Terawatts, Figures may be used directly, or as one shot pulse power supplies for microwave tubes. To place this in perspective, the current produced by a large FCG is between ten to a thousand times greater than that produced by a typical lightning stroke.

The central idea behind the construction of FCGs is that of using a fast explosive to rapidly compress a magnetic field, transferring much energy from the explosive into the magnetic field.

The initial magnetic field in the FCG prior to explosive initiation is produced by a start current. The start current is supplied by an external source, such a high voltage capacitor bank (Marx bank), a smaller FCG or an MHD device. In principle, any device capable of producing a pulse of electrical current of the order of tens of kilo Amperes to Mega Amperes will be suitable.

A number of geometrical configurations for FCGs have been published. The most commonly used arrangement is that of the coaxial FCG. The coaxial arrangement is of particular interest in this context, as its essentially cylindrical form factor lends itself to packaging into munitions.

In a typical coaxial FCG, a cylindrical copper tube forms the armature. This tube is filled with a fast high energy explosive. A number of explosive types have been used, ranging from B and C-type compositions to machined blocks of PBX-9501. The armature is surrounded by a helical coil of heavy wire, typically copper, which forms the FCG stator.

The stator winding is in some designs split into segments, with wires bifurcating at the boundaries of the segments, to optimize the electromagnetic inductance of the armature coil.

The intense magnetic forces produced during the operation of the FCG could potentially cause the device to disintegrate prematurely if not dealt with. This is typically accomplished by the addition of a structural jacket of a non-magnetic material. Materials such as concrete or Fiberglass in an Epoxy matrix have been used. In principle, any material with suitable electrical and mechanical properties could be used. In applications where weight is an issue, such as air delivered bombs or missile warheads, a glass or Kevlar Epoxy composite would be a viable candidate.

It is typical that the explosive is initiated when the start current peaks. This is usually accomplished with an explosive lenses plane wave generator which produces a uniform plane wave burn (or detonation) front in the explosive.

This guy Juneau was either a genius or had done it enough times that it was like washing his hands.

Once initiated, the front propagates through the explosive in the armature, distorting it into a conical shape (typically 12 to 14 degrees of arc). Where the armature has expanded to the full diameter of the stator, it forms a short circuit between the ends of the stator coil, shorting and thus isolating the start current source and trapping the current within the device. The propagating short has the effect of compressing the magnetic field, whilst reducing the inductance of the stator winding. The result is that such generators will producing a ramping current pulse, which peaks before the final disintegration of the device. Published results suggest ramp times of tens to hundreds of microseconds, specific to the characteristics of the device, for peak currents of tens of Mega Amperes and peak energies of tens of Mega Joules.

The current multiplication (i.e. ratio of output current to start current) achieved varies with designs, but numbers as high as 60 have been demonstrated. In a munitions application, where space and weight are at a premium, the smallest possible start current source is desirable. These applications can exploit cascading of FCGs, where a small FCG is used to prime a larger FCG with a start current. Experiments conducted by LANL and AFWL have demonstrated the viability of this technique.

The principal technical issues in adapting the FCG to weapons applications lie in packaging, the supply of start current, and matching the device to the intended load. Interfacing to a load is simplified by the coaxial geometry of coaxial and conical FCG designs. Significantly, this geometry is convenient for weapons applications, where FCGs may be stacked axially with devices such a microwave Vectors. The demands of a load such as a Vector, in terms of waveform shape and timing, can be satisfied by inserting pulse shaping networks, transformers and explosive high current switches.

(Juno, the switches are colored coated to make it easier for you to assemble)

The design of explosive and propellant driven Magneto-Hydrodynamic generators is a much less mature art that that of FCG design. Technical issues such as the size and weight of magnetic field generating devices required for the operation of MHD generators suggest that MHD devices will play a minor role in the near term. In the context of this paper, their potential lies in areas such as start current generation for FCG devices.

The fundamental principle behind the design of MHD devices is that a conductor moving through a magnetic field will produce an electrical current transverse to the direction of the field and the conductor motion. In an explosive or propellant driven MHD device, the conductor is plasma of ionized explosive or propellant gas, which travels through the magnetic field. Current is collected by electrodes which are in contact with the plasma jet.

The electrical properties of the plasma are optimized by seeding the explosive or propellant with suitable additives, which ionize during the burn. Published experiments suggest that a typical arrangement uses a solid propellant gas generator, often using conventional ammunition propellant as a base. Cartridges of such propellant can be loaded much like artillery rounds, for multiple shot operations.

Whilst FCGs are potent technology base for the generation of large electrical power pulses, the output of the FCG is by its basic physics constrained to the frequency band below 1 MHz. Many target sets will be difficult to attack even with very high power levels at such frequencies; moreover focusing the energy output from such a device will be problematic. A HPM device overcomes both of the problems, as its output power may be tightly focused and it has a much better ability to couple energy into many target types.

(Juno, make sure you wash your hands after you handle the containers and change your clothes.) Who is writing in the margins? Well whoever it is has a lot of faith in Juneau

The physics of the Vector tube are substantially more complex than those of the preceding devices. The fundamental idea behind the Vector is that of accelerating a high current electron beam against a mesh (or foil) anode. Many electrons will pass through the anode, forming a bubble of space charge behind the anode. Under the proper conditions, this space charge region will oscillate at microwave frequencies. If the space charge region is placed into a resonant cavity which is appropriately tuned, very high peak powers may be achieved. Conventional microwave engineering techniques may then be used to extract microwave power from the resonant cavity. Because the frequency of oscillation is dependent upon the electron beam parameters, Vectors may be tuned or chirped in frequency, where the microwave cavity will support appropriate modes. Power levels achieved in Vector experiments range from 170 kilowatts to 40 Gig Watts over frequencies spanning the dissymmetric and cent metric bands.

The two most commonly described configurations for the Vector are the Axial Vector (AV) (Fig.3), and the Transverse Vector (TV). The Axial Vector is the simplest by design, and has generally produced the best power output in experiments. It is typically built into a cylindrical waveguide structure

(this is very crucial)

(Juno, make sure you couple the right way or you need not come home) Juneau must not be very smart I thought to myself. Maybe he like to skip steps

That was the last of that bundle of papers. The next set of papers were just as confusing to me as the last bundle.

This state of the art low frequency weapon will couple well into a typical wiring infrastructure, as most telephone lines, networking cables and power lines follow streets, building risers and corridors. In most instances any particular cable run will comprise multiple linear segments joined at approximately right angles. Whatever the relative orientation of the weapons field, more than one linear segment of the cable run is likely to be oriented such that a good coupling efficiency can be achieved.

It is worth noting at this point the safe operating envelopes of some typical types of semiconductor devices. Manufacturer's guaranteed breakdown voltage ratings for Silicon high frequency bipolar transistors, widely used in communications equipment, typically vary between 15 V and 65 V. Gallium Arsenide Field Effect Transistors are usually rated at about 10V. High density Dynamic Random Access Memories an essential part of any computer, is usually rated to 7 V against earth. Generic CMOS logic is rated between 7 V and 15 V, and microprocessors running off 3.3 V or 5 V power supplies are usually rated very closely to that voltage. Whilst many modern devices are equipped with additional protection circuits at each pin, to sink electrostatic discharges, sustained or repeated application of a high voltage will often defeat these.

Communications interfaces and power supplies must typically meet electrical safety requirements imposed by regulators. Such interfaces are usually protected by isolation transformers with ratings from hundreds of Volts to about 2 to 3 kV.

It is clearly evident that once the defense provided by a transformer, cable pulse arrestor or shielding is breached, voltages even as low as 50 V can inflict substantial damage upon computer and communications equipment. The author has seen a number of equipment items (computers, consumer electronics) exposed to low frequency high voltage spikes (near lightning strikes, electrical power transients), and in every instance the damage was extensive, often requiring replacement of most semiconductors in the equipment.

HPM weapons operating in the cent metric and mill metric bands however offer an additional coupling mechanism to Back Door Coupling. This is the ability to directly couple into equipment through ventilation holes, gaps between panels and poorly shielded interfaces. Under these conditions, any aperture into the equipment behaves much like a slot in a microwave cavity, allowing microwave radiation to directly excite or enter the cavity. The microwave radiation will form a spatial standing wave pattern within the equipment. Components situated within the antinodes within the standing wave pattern will be exposed to potentially high electromagnetic fields.

Because microwave weapons can couple more readily than low frequency weapons, and can in many instances bypass protection devices designed to stop low frequency coupling, microwave weapons have the potential to be significantly more lethal than low frequency weapons.

What research has been done in this area illustrates the difficulty in producing workable models for predicting equipment vulnerability. It does however provide a solid basis for shielding strategies and hardening of equipment.

The diversity of likely target types and the unknown geometrical layout and electrical characteristics of the wiring and cabling infrastructure surrounding a target makes the exact prediction of lethality impossible. - Drew

A general approach for dealing with wiring and cabling related back door coupling is to determine a known lethal voltage level, and then use this to find the required field strength to generate this voltage. Once the field strength is known, the lethal radius for a given weapon configuration can be calculated.

A trivial example is that of a 10 GW 5 GHz HPM device illuminating a footprint of 400 to 500 metres diameter, from a distance of several hundred metres.

This will result in field strengths of several kilovolts per meter within the device footprint, in turn capable of producing voltages of hundreds of volts to kilovolts on exposed wires or cables. This suggests lethal radii of the order of hundreds of metres, subject to weapon performance and target set electrical hardness.

(Pay attention make sure the transparencies overlay just right, if you get this wrong, it will detonate ) -Drew

Maximizing Electromagnetic Bomb Lethality

To maximize the lethality of an electromagnetic bomb it is necessary to maximize the power coupled into the target set. The first step in maximizing bomb lethality is to maximize the peak power and duration of the radiation of the weapon. For a given bomb size, this is accomplished by using the most powerful flux compression generator which will fit the weapon size, and by maximizing the efficiency of internal power transfers in the weapon. Energy which is not emitted is energy wasted at the expense of lethality.

The second step is to maximize the coupling efficiency into the target set. A good strategy for dealing with a complex and diverse target set is to exploit every coupling opportunity available within the bandwidth of the weapon.

A low frequency bomb built around an FCG will require a large antenna to provide good coupling of power from the weapon into the surrounding environment. Whilst weapons built this way are inherently wide band, as most of the power produced lies in the frequency band below 1 MHz compact antennas are not an option. One possible scheme is for a bomb approaching its programmed firing altitude to deploy five linear antenna elements. These are produced by firing off cable spools which unwind several hundred meters of cable. Four radial antenna elements form a "virtual" earth plane around the bomb, while an axial antenna element is used to radiate the power from the FCG. The choice of element lengths would need to be carefully matched to the frequency characteristics of the weapon, to produce the desired field strength. A high power coupling pulse transformer is used to match the low impedance FCG output to the much higher impedance of the antenna, and ensure that the current pulse does not vaporize the cable prematurely.

Other alternatives are possible. One is to simply guide the bomb very close to the target, and rely upon the near field produced by the FCG winding, which is in effect a loop antenna of very small diameter relative to the wavelength. Whilst coupling efficiency is inherently poor, the use of a guided bomb would allow the warhead to be positioned accurately within meters of a target.

An area worth further investigation in this context is the use of low frequency bombs to damage or destroy magnetic tape libraries, as the near fields in the vicinity of a flux generator are of the order of magnitude of the coercively of most modern magnetic materials.

Microwave bombs have a broader range of coupling modes and given the small wavelength in comparison with bomb dimensions, can be readily focused against targets with a compact antenna assembly. Assuming that the antenna provides the required weapon footprint, there are at least two mechanisms which can be employed to further maximizes lethality.

The first is sweeping the frequency or chirping the Vector. This can improve coupling efficiency in comparison with a single frequency weapon, by enabling the radiation to couple into apertures and resonances over a range of frequencies. In this fashion, a larger number of coupling opportunities are exploited.

The second mechanism which can be exploited to improve coupling is the polarization of the weapon's emission. If we assume that the orientations of possible coupling apertures and resonances in the target set are random in relation to the weapon's antenna orientation, a linearly polarized emission will only exploit half of the opportunities available. A circularly polarized emission will exploit all coupling opportunities.

The practical constraint is that it may be difficult to produce an efficient high power circularly polarized antenna design which is compact and performs over a wide band. Some work therefore needs to be done on tapered helix or conical spiral type antennas capable of handling high power levels, and a suitable interface to a Vector with multiple extraction ports must devised. A possible implementation is depicted in Fig.5. In this arrangement, power is coupled from the tube by stubs which directly feed a multi-filer conical helix antenna. An implementation of this scheme would need to address the specific requirements of bandwidth, beam width, efficiency of coupling from the tube, while delivering circularly polarized radiation.

I don't know if I want to know any more. I am thinking since I am still alive somewhat the plan failed or not all of the participants did their worst. Like Juno. Where did he end up? Why did he not set his off? I keep reading out of shear boredom

Another aspect of electromagnetic bomb lethality is its detonation altitude, and by varying the detonation altitude, a tradeoff may be achieved between the size of the lethal footprint and the intensity of the electromagnetic field in that footprint. This provides the option of sacrificing weapon coverage to achieve kills against targets of greater electromagnetic hardness, for a given bomb size This is not unlike the use of airburst explosive devices.

In summary, lethality is maximized by maximizing power output and the efficiency of energy transfer from the weapon to the target set. Microwave weapons offer the ability to focus nearly all of their energy output into the lethal footprint, and offer the ability to exploit a wider range of coupling modes. Therefore, microwave bombs are the preferred choice.

The task of identifying targets for attack with electromagnetic bombs can be complex. Certain categories of target will be very easy to identify and engage.

Buildings housing government offices and thus computer equipment, production facilities, military bases and known radar sites and communications nodes are all targets which can be readily identified through conventional photographic, satellite, imaging radar, electronic reconnaissance and hutments operations.

These targets are typically geographically fixed and thus may be attacked providing that the aircraft can penetrate to weapon release range. With the accuracy inherent in GPS/inertial guided weapons, the electromagnetic bomb can be programmed to detonate at the optimal position to inflict a maximum of electrical damage.

Mobile and camouflaged targets which radiate overtly can also be readily engaged. Mobile and relocatable air defense equipment, mobile communications nodes and naval vessels are all good examples of this category of target. While radiating, their positions can be precisely tracked with suitable Electronic Support Measures (ESM) and Emitter Locating Systems (ELS) carried either by the launch platform or a remote surveillance platform. In the latter instance target coordinates can be continuously data linked to the launch platform. As most such targets move relatively slowly, they are unlikely to escape the footprint of the electromagnetic bomb during the weapon's flight time.

Mobile or hidden targets which do not overtly radiate may present a problem; particularly should conventional means of targeting be employed. A technical solution to this problem does however exist, for many types of target. This solution is the detection and tracking of Unintentional Emission (UE). UE has attracted most attention in the context of TEMPEST surveillance, where transient emanations leaking out from equipment due poor shielding can be detected and in many instances demodulated to recover useful intelligence. Termed Van Eck radiation, such emissions can only be suppressed by rigorous shielding and emission control techniques, such as are employed in TEMPEST rated equipment.

While the breakdown of UE can be a tech nightmare to perform in the context of targeting electromagnetic bombs this problem does not arise. To target such an emitter for attack requires only the ability to identify the type of mission and thus target type, and to isolate its position with sufficient accuracy to deliver the bomb. Because the emissions from computer monitors, peripherals, processor equipment, switch mode power supplies, electrical motors, internal combustion engine ignition systems, variable duty cycle electrical power controllers (thruster or triac based), super heterodyne receiver local oscillators and computer networking cables are all distinct in their frequencies and modulations, a suitable Emitter Locating System can be designed to detect, identify and track such sources of a heat emission.

Because UE occurs at relatively low power levels, the use of this detection method prior to the outbreak of hostilities can be difficult, as it may be necessary to over fly hostile territory to find signals of usable intensity. The use of stealthy reconnaissance aircraft or long range, stealthy Unmanned Aerial Vehicles (UAV) may be required. The latter also raises the possibility of autonomous electromagnetic warhead armed expendable Eaves, fitted with appropriate homing receivers. These would be programmed to loiter in a target area until a suitable emitter is detected, upon which the UAV would home in and expend itself against the target. [lrec]

As with explosive warheads, electromagnetic warheads will occupy a volume of physical space and will also have some given mass (weight) determined by the density of the internal hardware. Like explosive warheads, electromagnetic warheads may be fitted to a range of delivery vehicles.

Known existing applications involve fitting an electromagnetic warhead to a cruise missile airframe. The choice of a cruise missile airframe will restrict the weight of the weapon to about 340 kg (750 lb), although some sacrifice in airframe fuel capacity could see this size increased. A limitation in all such applications is the need to carry an electrical energy storage device, e.g. a battery, to provide the current used to charge the capacitors used to prime the FCG prior to its discharge. Therefore the available payload capacity will be split between the electrical storage and the weapon itself.

In wholly autonomous weapons such as cruise missiles, the size of the priming current source and its battery may well impose important limitations on weapon capability. Air delivered bombs, which have a flight time between tens of seconds to minutes, could be built to exploit the launch aircraft's power systems. In such a bomb design, the bomb's capacitor bank can be charged by the launch aircraft enroot to target, and after release a much smaller onboard power supply could be used to maintain the charge in the priming source prior to weapon initiation.

An electromagnetic bomb delivered by a conventional aircraft can offer a much better ratio of electromagnetic device mass to total bomb mass, as most of the bomb mass can be dedicated to the electromagnetic device installation itself. It follows therefore, that for a given technology an electromagnetic bomb of identical mass to an electromagnetic warhead equipped missile can have a much greater lethality, assuming equal accuracy of delivery and technologically similar electromagnetic device design.

A missile borne electromagnetic warhead installation will comprise the electromagnetic device, an electrical energy converter, and an onboard storage device such as a battery. As the weapon is pumped, the battery is drained. The electromagnetic device will be detonated by the missile's onboard fusing system. In a cruise missile, this will be tied to the navigation system; in an anti-shipping missile the radar seeker and in an air-to-air missile, the proximity fusing system. The warhead fraction (i.e. ratio of total payload (warhead) mass to launch mass of the weapon) will be between 15% and 30%.

Juneau you will not have to worry about lunching anything just be aware of your surroundings. The bomb will stable until you plug the red wire in to the main circuit.

An electromagnetic bomb warhead will comprise an electromagnetic device, an electrical energy converter and an energy storage device to pump and sustain the electromagnetic device charge after separation from the delivery platform. Fusing could be provided by a radar altimeter fuse to airburst the bomb, a barometric fuse or in GPS/initially guided bombs, the navigation system. The warhead fraction could be as high as 85%, with most of the usable mass occupied by the electromagnetic device and its supporting hardware.

Due to the potentially large lethal radius of an electromagnetic device, compared to an explosive device of similar mass, standoff delivery would be prudent. Whilst this is an inherent characteristic of weapons such as cruise missiles, potential applications of these devices to glide bombs, anti-shipping missiles and air-to-air missiles would dictate fire and forget guidance of the appropriate variety, to allow the launching aircraft to gain adequate separation of several miles before warhead detonation.

The recent advent of GPS satellite navigation guidance kits for conventional bombs and glide bombs has provided the optimal means for cheaply delivering such weapons. While GPS guided weapons without differential GPS enhancements may lack the pinpoint accuracy of laser or television guided munitions, they are still quite accurate (CEP \ (~~ 40 ft) and importantly, cheap, autonomous all weather weapons.

The USAF has recently deployed the Northrop GAM (GPS Aided Munitions) on the B-2 bomber, and will by the end of the decade deploy the GPS/initially guided GBU-29/30 JDAM (Joint Direct Attack Munitions)[MDC95] and the AGM-154 JSOW (Joint Stand Off Weapon) [PERGLER94] glide bomb. Other countries are also developing this technology, the Australian BAeA AGW (Agile Glide Weapon) glide bomb achieving a glide range of about 140 km (75 name) when launched from altitude.

The importance of glide bombs as delivery means for HPM warheads is threefold. Firstly, the glide bomb can be released from outside effective radius of target air defenses, therefore minimizing the risk to the launch aircraft. Secondly, the large standoff range means that the aircraft can remain well clear of the bomb's effects. Finally the bomb's autopilot may be programmed to shape the terminal trajectory of the weapon, such that a target may be engaged from the most suitable altitude and aspect.

A major advantage of using electromagnetic bombs is that they may be delivered by any tactical aircraft with a nav-attack system capable of delivering GPS guided munitions. As we can expect GPS guided munitions to be become the standard weapon in use by Western air forces by the end of this decade, every aircraft capable of delivering a standard guided munitions also becomes a potential delivery vehicle for an electromagnetic bomb. Should weapon ballistic properties be identical to the standard weapon, no software changes to the aircraft would be required.

(and even our projectile is stable you want to be well out of the guidelines when it comes to distance between you and the bomb. Make sure you want to leave extra time for unseen happenings - Drew)

Because of the simplicity of electromagnetic bombs in comparison with weapons such as Anti-Radiation Missiles (ARM), it is not unreasonable to expect that these should be both cheaper to manufacture, and easier to support in the field, thus allowing for more substantial weapon stocks. In turn this makes saturation attacks a much more viable proposition.

(make sure the front of the bomb is pointed 42 degrees north west so it will align with the one that is thirty five blocks west of you. ) Not all of this will apply to you Juno I just want you to know the dangers of what you are doing , but you have to make sure the setting of 42 degrees north west is absolute ;no guessing- Drew

The limitations of electromagnetic weapons are determined by weapon implementation and means of delivery. Weapon implementation will determine the electromagnetic field strength achievable at a given radius, and its spectral distribution. Means of delivery will constrain the accuracy with which the weapon can be positioned in relation to the intended target. Both constrain lethality.

In the context of targeting military equipment, it must be noted that thermionic technology (i.e. vacuum tube equipment) is substantially more resilient to the electromagnetic weapons effects than solid state (i.e. transistor) technology. Therefore a weapon optimized to destroy solid state computers and receivers may cause little or no damage to a thermionic technology device, for instance early 1960s Soviet military equipment. Therefore a hard electrical kill may not be achieved against such targets unless a suitable weapon is used.

This underscores another limitation of electromagnetic weapons, which is the difficulty in kill assessment. Radiating targets such as radars or communications equipment may continue to radiate after an attack even though their receivers and data processing systems have been damaged or destroyed. This means that equipment which has been successfully attacked may still appear to operate. Conversely an opponent may shut down an emitter if attack is imminent and the absence of emissions means that the success or failure of the attack may not be immediately apparent.

Assessing whether an attack on a non-radiating emitter has been successful is more problematic. A good case can be made for developing tools specifically for the purpose of analyzing unintended emissions, not only for targeting purposes, but also for kill assessment.

An important factor in assessing the lethal coverage of an electromagnetic weapon is atmospheric propagation. While the relationship between electromagnetic field strength and distance from the weapon is one of an inverse square law in free space, the decay in lethal effect with increasing distance within the atmosphere will be greater due quantum physical absorption effects. This is particularly so at higher frequencies and significant absorption peaks due water vapor and oxygen exist at frequencies above 20 GHz. These will therefore contain the effect of HPM weapons to shorter radii than are ideally achievable in the K and L frequency bands. (Labelled so)

That is a lot to digest. I don't understand it but it appears to have taken it affect. But Juno didn't set his bomb off. Maybe he chickened out.

*Most content courtesy of Wikipedia

## About Aaron R Roberts

Aaron R Roberts, Author of the "425Hillside" series, "Still Life" "Erica with a K" and the first edition is the middle child of three; one sister and one brother. He grew up in in several different small towns in Southern Indiana. His first book was one in a series that talks about his young years and his attachment to his dad. Life changing events were abundant in his life. Either by chance or grand design he was right there in the middle of it all, but for him it has always been about the story.

He had been writing since his Aunt Elnora told him that he could and would definitively leave his mark on the world that way. She just never told him if it would be a good mark or a bad one but never the less he set out to do so. Twenty years of writing, storing, losing it and rewriting came to head when he discovered KDP (Kindle direct publishing) and then directed to go to lulu self-publishing.

"It is not doing any good on my hard drive." was and still is his philosophy today. Some of his stories have originated from simple beginnings. "Write what you know, know what you write, keep it simple, and close to your heart. You will never go wrong with what you write." ©2014

### Call of Fear

### C. R. Powers

Hush

Hush,

Hush, Hush.

There are no monsters in the closet.

There are no zombies at night.

Hush,

Hush, Hush.

The doors are all locked tight.

Shhhh

Shhhh Hush.

There are no vampires.

There are no werewolves.

Hush,

Hush, Hush.

There are no ghosts.

There are no goblins.

Hush,

Hush, Hush.

The house is all locked tight.

H—

Before Me

Before my eyes, I saw...I saw....

Before my ears,

I heard...I heard....

Before my tongue,

I tasted...I tasted....

Before my touch,

I felt...I felt....

Before my feelings, I fell into despair....

Before my soul,

I was left bare under a piercing presence....

Then all was struck down,

Down...down...down...down into darkness...forever!

Of Fangs, Of Claws

Of fang,

Of claws, Of rended meal.

A bone,

A smile, A terror zeal.

On feet, On fours, To rent or peel.

A howl,

A growl,

A life to steal.

At night, In dark, Those eyes to reel.

From family, From home, At monsters heel.

Of Maverick

With eyes aglow In beastly dower.

He shows no hint Of forgotten power.

An ancient ancient Fiercely glow. As darkness falls As fast as snow.

With eldritch eyes He begins to rise. A pearly orb settles In twinkling skies.

White is light On fair palest skin.

Sun would be The death of him.

Settle now, He settles then.

For hunger under Midnight grim.

Spell on him.

A spell is damned.

His life is lost In oldest hands.

A life, A life.

For deathly wake.

'To drink the blood

Of all thy race.'

A monster, Masked in friendly shell. A hunger, 'Till the daylight swell.

Rise

Don't let it rise.

Lock your door, Cover your blinds. Cover your eyes And wait for the end.

Rise!

Rise!

He shall rise.

Drink! Fuck! Blood! Die!

For he shall rise.

The crypt!

The crypt!

From the crypt he shall come!

From the crypt he shall slip.

He comes.

He comes.

Rise!

Rise!

He shall rise.

Drink! Fuck! Blood! Die! For he shall rise.

Drink! Fuck! Blood! Die!

Don't let it rise.

Lock your door,

Cover your blinds.

Cover your eyes And wait for the end.

Rise!

Rise!

He shall rise.

Drink! Fuck! Blood! Die! For he shall rise.

Drink! Fuck! Blood! Die!

Mercy!

Mercy!

For he shall come!

For he has come!

Mercy!

For he has come!

But where is he?

For he is here!

But where?

Drink! Fuck! Blood! Death!!!

Darkness

Darkness, a combustible sheet of exquisite beauty. It scuttles through my mind in dazzling arrays Like the many crisp shades it owns. Claw it close in dead winters

Where many miles are grim smiles.

Light not the pain and anguish of tormented affection. Darkness, the crown of woe,

A poisonous fume beset for the vile.

And the ever growing swamps on high.

It is precious to those willing to embrace it.

A love with sharp dagger teeth, Curdling the mind of illusions, But it is mine.

Mine to inherit and hold,

Mine to break apart the falsehood of my reality.

I am a demon, nay a monster.

Flames are my lover.

Darkness my mother.

I take both to bed.

They cherish me in sex and blood.

Glance Behind Clasped Hands At Hobb's End

Lightning but no thunder,

Darkness but no rain,

Foreboding without the slash of horror.

Dark clouds that milk the should-be-golden-sky.

A shuttering luke warm wind that smells of decay.

Windows that are kept shuttered through all hours.

A blackest point rises up above the shops and houses,

An old church with unfitting architecture,

The new red painted door that bled down to the cobbled stone.

Beyond,

Tall thin, charred stick trees,

Moss and straw grass grow over the cracked rocks with the foreboading symbols.

An overturned train rests beside warped, twisted, curled tracks, bent away from each other.

Lightning but no thunder,

Darkness but no rain,

Foreboding without the slash of horror.

This is the visitors glance behind clasped hands at Hobb's End.

Terror Renewed From Below

Curled horns, the thing had curled horns!

It arose from that foul swamp like a fly to shit!

It arose with such presence that the very sight made me scream!

Then it looked to me, where eyes should be to see, but yes it looked to me!

What courage can a man muster when hell itself rises from the mirth!

My legs like noodles were not soon to fall away!

Every sight, every thought, everything, came to me in twirling agony, in repetitive terror, in wrenching abysmal horror!

It moved the way no, nothing, no thing should move, siraling, spurling, no human word could give it proper!

It came dripping, oozing that ungodly muck of the timeless bog!

It had no mouth, by god, it had no mouth!

Oh, the silence, the sinister, innocent, laughable, quiet!

It would inflict untold horror, agony, consumption, torture untold!

Oh but why, why does it exist, why me?

Then it did something worst of all...it loved me....

### I Spy

I spy with my little eye something...red.

The girl in the red dress.

I spy with my little eye something...wet and hot.

The sand at the beach.

I spy with my little eye something...soft.

The girls voice as she says hello.

I spy with my little eye something...blue and wide.

The girl's eyes as I pick her up.

I spy with my little eye something...empty.

This beach.

I spy with my little eye someone...crying.

The girl as I stuff a sock into her mouth, and put her in my trunk.

I spy with my little eye something...soft, wet, tight, and hot....

### Lilian

You come to me like a warm breeze in the icy winter.

And, what a winter I have made for this, O' mortal coil.

Now upon me do I hear the bells into this ashen time?

Upon me! I swear I did not falter to hear the angelic jingle of bells.

Upon me! Of such bells, such as I heard, to cause this warmth into my bruised chest.

Upon me! O' woe upon me, if such honey sounds prove false to my hopeful ears. What meaning shall I succumb then, to have proven so wrong in this song to have pierced through my chest?

What upon your word would you find in such fallen hope?

How upon your life would you sum up the sheer feeling of joy to suddenly fade from perspective like a rose withering in this my winter?

A life time of rose petals burned in winters grasp.

But what of the bells out in this blanket of snow?

Out in this frigid wasteland, where every fallen footstep is counted for, for a time. You come to me! You come to me! Now but why do you run from me and lead me out into the wide open emptiness.

Shall I recount the passing seasons in this dead zone?

O' now shall I forsworn the bitter fallen snow.

As I lead on without will or reason to the phantasm of my dearly departed love.

By what witching fugue or supernatural power have I spied you again. Where first I found horror and hope to see you outside my bedroom window beckoning me onward.

Now I begin to question my sanity at this fallacy.

By what want of what god, to be so cruel a temptress of the dead.

What shepherd becomes a necromancer?

What trick is this to see, my Lilian, in all her former substance, to run before me with a smile just out of reach.

Why do I follow on to some destination of eldritch doom.

O' but my lovely lost Lilian.

How but for a moment I would hold you in my arms.

No more do the twists and turns prevent my squinted eyes from seeing you, and on you run ahead of me, bare foot in the snow.

This pounding chest is heavy in sight of your supple back and crystalline tears begin to slip down my cheeks.

What is the sanguine dress you bare?

On what face of the Earth do you lead me?

Why do you seek to the trees now?

My legs grow weary and I can feel them faltering.

I must push on for just one more moment with you, just one more time, just once more for the roses that wither too soon.

I follow further and shout out, "Wait!" It is then my lungs begin to seize.

But into the dark forest you plunge.

Well I have come too far in my frenzy now!

Whatever enchantment I have found, let it not falter before I reach you.

Then into the forest I found myself.

Into the dead silence, I saw you not.

Somewhere between rage and anxiety I found myself.

With what well of energy I had I scattered into the roil of my lovely Lilian.

Tears are becoming my only salvation for my lost love.

In the final exhaustion I let loose a mad bellow of, "Where are you?" Silence.

Silence.

Silence to my reunion.

Silence to my thoughts.

Terrible, dreadful, silence upon me.

What of this!

What to be!

Why to this hopeless adventure.

I fell to my knees, hopeless, silent, alone.

Then came the snow.

Then I looked up and saw your face.

Only...this dress you wear is proven false.

Blood....

Blood....

Decay and blood....

Your face is marred.

Feelings of love fester into revulsion.

The horror!

The horror!

The horror!

Her broken jaw opens and ripped flesh contorts, "You betrayed me."

"No! No! You died! I had to move on."

"You betrayed me!" She says in a deeper more sinister whisper.

Oh my god!

No!

No!

Abomination!

Upon me! Doom! Doom! Doom upon me!

....

### The Dead Must Dead

The dead must dead, in the ground align--

Expressions weak in memory--

Never to forgotten grave,

Where sorry plaintively awaits the rising day;

I am here and alive

As you are rotting under me.

The dead must dead and we crumble tears of history-- Features crease in memory--

Always the ominous grave,

Where sorrow cannot wait the rising day;

I am here with the pieces

As you are pictures left to see. The dead must dead, as the rest abide--

Left with pain of memory--

Mostly moss taken stone,

To numb forbidden heart reflecting on the rising day;

I am tormented by the trivial things

As pictures only left to be,

As pictures only left for me....

### A Wilum of Willows

### Dedicated to W. H. Pugmire

A Wilum of willows.

With crown on his head. Looks out on his kingdom With nothing but dread. For the ideas he pondered Have all come to life.

They are the eldest.

The oldest.

From slime and from strife.

They are seaborne

Of land and of air. They blight out the sight Of all that is fair.

A Wilum of willows.

Is now not so niche. He pulls out his trumpet And plays it quite rich.

He blows it so loud

It seems such a spell.

A Kalevala of noise

As deep as the well.

A pale moon rises As he laid his last lied.

Without way.

Without warning.

He sat and let died.

And as he sat dying

The world became wrong.

As love and good hope

Were all dead and gone.

The Dance of Midnight

Let us sing

The dance.

The dance of midnight.

Revisit the dream, You yearn so well.

Reveal your plumed gate.

As dark in hell. Court the eldritch Elder dire.

Sing harsh songs From the mire.

Wane in wonder,

O' dance on high. Dance with ancients From the skies.

Midnight now fades too fast.

As madness starts Its course at last.

Twow the Next Borrowed Eve

Twow the next borrowed eve.

I stood there standing ill at ease.

My muster lost on hasting sky.

A land of dreams to passerby.

But, here I must away.

To a place where constant pray.

Twow the next borrowed eve.

I stand caught by freezing breeze.

"Have I awayed too away?"

But, surely nearly it cannot be.

I caught no site of endeavor

And, this place is no easy treasure.

"Surely, surely it mustn't be so."

Twow the next gibbous borrowed eve.

The sail and mast have lead me, truly.

And, joyous London stands abound.

"Might this be a place of refrain?"

Where the voices cannot hear my name.

Oh, what a hope of all hopes to be.

Twow the next borrowed eve.

The lights and luster.

The sleeping sounds.

The washy voices of foggy town. "Surely such a place can hide me for now." And, any specter shall not reave.

But, I shall not dare to wear my face upon mine sleeve.

Twow the next borrowed eve.

I found a flat where I may rest.

Where silent faces of the night shall not press.

"But, shall there be duress?"

Twow the next borrowed eve.

A slipping stalker of the night.

In dreams they send their accursed light.

"I must away."

Twow the next full moon midnight.

The tapping of my shoes, upon the cobbled stone.

Are all cut short by the jingling of the many bones.

### One Last Skype

The chat gives a constant screaming beep, over and over again, until its chirp is cut off.

"Hey Jay, what's up?" The women says with a smile.

He looks up a little, "It has been a bad day, a very bad day."

"What's wrong sweetheart?"

"I wished I knew you in real life. I wish it had made a difference."

"Why are you using past tense?" The tension in her voice starting to reach out.

"Because...."

"Hey come on tell me, we can work this out."

He shakes his head, "I'm so lonely Julie. I am so alone."

"I'm right here." The tears slipping down her cheek. "I'm right here just talk to me okay."

"No. No you are not right here. No one is. No one will love me. I'm all alone."

"You have me," her plaintive voice pushing out. "You have me okay, now just take it easy."

He waves the gun in front of the webcam. "I wish I wasn't so alone. I wish you were here."

A huge cry comes out of her, "Just put the gun down, just calm down."

"I loved you Julie, I really did." He says as he slams the side of the gun against his head.

"I love you too Jay, just put it away now!" Her voice commanding.

He puts the barrel against his temple. "I'm so alone. I'll always be alone. I just wish I could have met you once."

A terrible shriek comes from her lips as the tears stream faster. "Don't do this, I'll find a way to come to you, I will. I promise just please put it down."

"Don't waste your life on me. Goodbye Julie...I...I wish things could have been different."

"Jus--"

Her words are cut short as Skype cuts out. She screams and slams her fist against the screen. Her shaking fingers press the: Call button. The chat gives a constant screaming beep, over and over again, the constant screaming beep.

### Gore Away

Dent,

Bump on your heel.

The symptons are all there, How do you feel?

Crawl,

Bubble,

As your skin begins to peel.

Now all you do is make people reel.

The Dance

Dance the night,

Dance the moon,

Dance the strings of olden swoon.

Dance with her that nubile friend, Take her under the fog bank bend.

Trickle crimson stains the ground, As comes the harp-like ecstactic sound.

Dance the night,

Dance the dead,

Dance 'top crypts as they moan in bed.

Lead thy lust towards the flesh,

As covetous, As hunger,

As passion make the mess.

Dance the way into the night,

Until all dancing, it is done,

Until the bat streaks 'way from the sun.

### Tweedle Deedle

Tweedle deedle mister mockingbird.

Your hands are crimson blue.

Your heart is rusted shut.

Your mouth is made of clues.

Tweedle deedle

My pictures painted red.

But it is not paint

That drips that crimson muck.

Tweedle Deedle

My stories tip dry.

It sags and sifts

Like an ocean of sand.

Or an ocean of body bags.

Tweedle deedle Mister rapist.

Beware the jibbering of the crow.

It knows the foundation of the soul.

And will drag you

To that dark place if it can.

Tweedle deedle eddle.

Mister shadow face.

You're like the cat with broken insides.

Like a baby screaming underwater.

A death rattle for the down-syndrome.

Tweedle deedle mister mockingbird.

Your eyes are crimson blue.

Your heart is rusted shut.

Your mouth is made of clues.

Let me sew it for you.

### City of Remedy

Putrescent flesh

Is the life of all death.

Bring the sight and I will show you blindness.

The drink is a fabled remedy.

That which you ingest is blood and gore.

That which you see is rape and mutilation.

The babies do not struggle.

They contemplate salvation from a masturbating god.

The sobs of a murdered mother come From the petals of waste and shit.

The life of the party is the clown With dog teeth and a rocket launcher.

Pray for the sullen in the orgy flower bed.

Run for prayer and receive my crown.

Run from the drums of the incestuous rum.

Hide (if you can) from the savage rains The tainted discourse. The child is the master With a thousand eyes.

Who breathes whispers and screams both.

The city of remedy is ready and waiting.

The city is unwhole with the crusade of injections.

The rerun pompous jester with three faces.

Be my puppet or drown in wine.

Sing the song that midnight will not.

The city is alive.

The city is dead.

The city is mine and I have lost the key.

I have lost the way

### Dream of the remedy

Rest in the blackness.

Sleep in the bricks of silence.

The heart of sand explodes forever.

No remains in the chains of murder.

Putrescent flesh is my intoxication.

### The Dribble

The red king fugals at the crippled crunch. The ravens and crows dream an obscene dream, Of life and death beyond the painted row. A house with wheel chairs and padded doors, And spokes on open mouths. The clown is bleeding mercury In the dim growling light.

Blooming, glooming, waterways of the clustered crawling dark.

Jarred eyes that see only curves and jagged edges.

The crimson king is painted blue.

The queen is the hooker with the broken legs.

The crownless dog that should be king

But is denied royalty by the spaded hearts.

The teddy bears watching and waiting in silent protest.

Ready to open wide the carnal lusting salvation Of an empty belly on a sleeping baby.

The songs that nurture and sooth

Turn violent in whales of horrible ripping sounds.

The spinning room drips away its pink ghost And cracks in maniac colors.

The smoky fumes of the laughing teddy bears Invite a riot in the rest.

The splash of blood.

The riddles of stuffing and

Glassy plastic eyes roll on the floor in final revaluation.

The king looks away

Choking on the seizuring crow.

The dribble of a crying child

Is caught and cut short

In the dark

In the night

## About C R Powers

C. R. Powers was born in the mountains of Asheville, North Carolina. He has grown up in the sticks all his life. When he was in high school he had his first revelation about being a writer. He writes poetry, short stories and is working on his first novel, Of Ancient Passages. He is also going to college for his masters in Journalism, which he hopes to use to become a writer for an anime or gaming magazine.

## Mantrap

## Neil McGowan

In the near future, experiments with biotechnology have gone very wrong. Creatures of legend have become all too real as nanotechnology enabled genetic modifications to be carried out at sub-atomic levels.

The initial experimentation was carried out for medical research. Then the military stepped in. They wanted soldiers who were smarter, faster, quicker, and more resilient than the enemy.

They got what they asked for.

The first batch of super-soldiers went rogue when their nanotech formed a nodal intelligence. Driven by the need to survive, the nanites drew fuel from any source they could.

Blood was best. The military had created vampires.

Despite efforts to halt the spread, the vampires spread and multiplied. Subsequent generations of the nanites manipulated their DNA to allow the host specific traits.

Now, creatures of legend have become fact. The government has made a deal to supply food in exchange for retaining an illusion of power.

Blood banks were quickly exhausted; the government then used convicted prisoners to ensure demand was met. A new punishment of donor was added to the statute books and soon became the punishment for any crime, large or small. Terminally ill patients were kept alive as long as possible in order to harvest their blood.

To the exalted few who knew the truth, blood became a currency, a status; most of the population lived in ignorance of the true horror amongst them.

But not everyone submitted as easily to the new masters.

Pockets of resistance sprang up in all the major cities. They fought back against the oppressors, cutting off the supply chain wherever they could. Most of these groups were hunted down and ruthlessly exterminated, but a few survived.

Slowly, they began to organize and find ways of destroying the new breeds.

Mankind was fighting back...

***

The sheer volume of the rain drumming on the pavement made it hard for Matt to hear what the beat cop was saying. Not that he need to hear; it was another jewellery store hit, same as the last four.

The method was simple: steal a car and ram it into the display window. Steal as much as they could grab in the next minute or so, before disappearing. By the time the cops arrived, there was no trace. And it always occurred on nights like this, when the rain was so heavy it would be impossible to track the thieves with dogs or...other methods.

Matt raised a hand and cut off the young officer mid-flow. His feet crunched in glass as he stepped into the shop. Inside, the rain's incessant pounding was muted. His eyes scanned the room taking in every detail.

There! Almost invisible, but his keen senses picked up a tang in the air. Sweet, coppery, full of promise. His nostrils flared as he moved closer. Bending over, he examined the tiny bead of blood that depended from a splintered shard of glass, all that remained of one of the display cases. He began to smile. He ignored the crumpled newspaper at his feet. FREAK WOLF SIGHTING IN VICTORIA PARK! screamed the headline.

***

Alan slammed Davey against the wall. "You idiot! They'll be on us now, for sure!" He shook his head in disgust and let go of Davey's shirt.

"What'll we do?" Davey's voice shook. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. A thin film of sweat greased his sallow skin.

Alan shook his head. "I don't know," he said, pacing the floor. "I ought to leave you here for the wolves, and find someplace new to hole up." He looked at Davey, his eyes alight with anger. "Don't think I haven't thought about it."

"Please, Alan," Davey said. "I wouldn't last five minutes against them."

"Oh I know. You'd spill your guts for sure." Alan spat on the floor. "That's why you're going to help us sort this mess out." His finger jabbed Davey's chest, punctuating each word. "We're going to try and get hold of one of them. And you're going to be the bloody bait."

Davey's eyes flicked around, not settling anywhere for more than a second. Fear and loathing was evident on the face of the other people in the room. He saw no compassion, only a grim determination to see things through to the end. He hung his head. "Okay," he said, his voice low, defeated.

Alan grabbed his hand – the left one, the one he'd caught smashing the display case – careful to avoid the thin smear of red that marked his wrist. There was a bright pinch of pain. Davey's eyes widened when he saw fresh blood trickle from the wound. "No," he gasped. "They'll find me – us – for sure now."

"I'm counting on it," said Alan, his voice tight. "And when they come, we'll be ready."

***

Matt eased the car along the streets at a steady fifteen miles an hour. The rain had eased off somewhat, making his job easier. Window open, he followed the trail left by the thieves. It was faint, barely a trace; and the rain had made things worse.

He was expecting it to peter out, and was thinking about leaving it to the forensics team to try and gain a DNA match from the single drop of blood he'd found.

He'd decided to give it another five minutes, and was down to the final minute when it hit him. He jerked in his seat, the car swerving. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the run-down tenement building ahead. He smiled.

He knew where they were hiding.

***

Kelly was watching the windows when the black sedan came into view. Her voice cut through the nervous chatter below like a knife through butter. "He's here."

All noise from below stopped. There were a few muted clangs before silence descended. Kelly remained at the window just long enough to see the lithe figure unfurl itself from the car and stride towards her position. She dropped from her perch and made her way to the cellar, taking the steps down two at a time.

She was easing herself into a position, hiding across from Alan when the door above opened with a dull thud. Eyes wide with fear, she glanced across at Alan who held his finger to his lips, shushing her. At the far end of the room, Davey was in plain view. Kelly fancied she could smell the sour tang of fear rising from his pores. He was attempting to act normal, a pile of jewellery on the table in front of him. He was sorting through it, making two smaller piles from the initial heap.

It seemed an age where nothing happened, then: soft footsteps descending the stairs; faint almost imperceptible breathing that culminated in a soft, indrawn hiss.

Alan had his hand aloft, like a referee about to announce the start of a boxing match. Except that, this wouldn't be a friendly sparring match. It would be a fight to the death.

Kelly held her breath as the shadowy figure moved across the floor. There was a soft "Aaah."

Davey had, by now, given up all pretence of work. He'd turned in his seat and was staring wide-eyed at the figure advancing on him. He was trembling.

An inhuman growl split the air. Davey let out a moan. Kelly's eyes were locked on Alan's, pleading. Still, he held his hand up, willing them to remain hidden.

The figure took a step forward, a second. It was now less than ten feet from Davey.

His nerve broke. His eyes flicked to one side as he began to speak. "Alan –"

Alan's hand was already falling. The figure jerked around, snarling as the group came out of hiding.

Kelly's eyes widened. It was the first time she had seen one of the wolves up close. None of the tales did justice to them.

Seven feet tall, roped with muscle and covered in coarse hair, its features were more human than wolf. But the extended jaws and curved incisors left no doubt: this was a beast made for killing, for tearing flesh and splintering bone. It exuded a powerful musky scent, as though marking fresh territory. The legs had developed an extra joint, between knee and ankle. The hands were enlarged, the fingers tipped with inch-long claws.

One of their number, Peter, was nearest to the wolf. He raised his club, studded with silver spikes made of melted down jewellery. Too late. The wolf lashed out, those vicious claws flensing the skin from his face. Peter went down screaming, blood spurting.

Alan swore. The rich coppery smell of blood filled the air now. The wolf was changing further, becoming more wolf-like and less human. It raised its head and howled. This was going wrong; it had drawn first blood and now they had lost the element of surprise, they had little chance of killing it; they would be lucky to escape with their lives. They hadn't landed a blow yet, and already they were fighting a defensive retreat.

There was another scream. Davey! Alan looked over in time to see the wolf rip him open, spilling a stinking slop of guts to the floor.

"Get out!" he shouted at Kelly. "Now! Go!" He raised his club and prepared to face the wolf as it swung around to face him.

"Alan!" Kelly was screaming as she backed away. He didn't look at her, didn't dare to take his eyes off the wolf that was advancing on him. He was sure that it was grinning at him.

"Come on," he breathed, knowing he was about to die, hoping he could at least injure the beast enough to give Kelly a chance. It cocked its head as though listening.

Alan prepared to swing his club. He'd only get time for one shot; better make it count.

He heard Kelly again. "Alan! Get down!" Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. He saw droplets of blood fly from the wolf's muzzle with crystal clarity as it shook its head. His arms acted of their own accord, start the club swinging on a trajectory that he hoped would connect with the beast's sensitive muzzle. There was a loud bang; he had time to think, thank God, Kelly made it and remembered the door.

It wouldn't stop the wolf but it might just slow it down long enough for her to get away.

The wolf's forward motion was checked. It let out an agonized howl as it staggered backward. A paw slashed in front of his face in a blow that would have decapitated him if it had connected. The club sent a shudder up his arms as it connected with the wolf's muzzle. Skin and flesh tore; bone crunched under the impact.

There was another loud bang, and everything returned to normal speed. Alan, blinking stupidly in surprise at still being alive, was jerked backwards. The wolf's mangled jaws snapped shut where his midriff had been less than a second before.

There was a third bang. This time, Alan recognized it as a gunshot. A portion of the wolf's skull disintegrated in a spray of blood, bone and brain. The wolf dropped as though poleaxed.

"Jesus," said Alan, breathing hard. The wolf was shrinking on the floor, reverting to human form.

"You were lucky," said a voice behind him. Low, rough, male. Alan turned round slowly, taking in the stranger. He held out his hand. Alan shook it. "Alan," he said. "Thanks."

The stranger nodded. "Matt," he said.

Alan glanced at the mess on the floor behind him. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "I mean, we're grateful, but –"

Matt chuckled. "I've been looking for you for a while, ever since you started hitting the jewellers. It was obvious – to those like me, at least – what you were doing. I'm guessing a family member had the misfortune to run into our friend back there?" Kelly nodded.

Alan frowned. Kelly said, "How?"

Matt shrugged. "Press reports of odd wolf sightings, thefts of silver jewellery go through the roof. To me, and those like me, that means werewolf." "But how did you – I mean –" Kelly frowned.

Matt sighed. "There are things in the world that few people suspect. A few people like myself try to keep things in check. I've been trying to find you to stop you doing something stupid that would get you killed, something like you just tried."

He shook his head. "You were stupid," he said. "Thinking you could take on a wolf with toys and win."

"But the silver," began Kelly.

"Does very little," said Matt. "Oh, it irritates them," he said, seeing their jaws drop. "But if you want to kill them you need to destroy the head. Otherwise they heal, damn fast, and then come back meaner than ever."

"So what do we do now?" asked Kelly. "I mean, we can't just go back to our former lives, can we? The police will catch up with us, sooner or later." She spat.

"We're criminals, after all."

"Come with me," said Matt.

"What?"

Matt raised an eyebrow. "How do you think we recruit?" he said. "We need people who believe." He held out his hand, a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty. After a moment, Kelly took it. "Alan?" she said. Alan shook his head, said, "What the hell. Why not?"

He reached out and joined his hand to Kelly and the stranger's.

## About Neil McGowan

Neil is the author of "The Surgeon", a gritty horror novel described as 'fast-paced', 'nicely inventive' and 'gripping' as well as "Don't Drink the Water", a collection of tales of terror and vampire novel Nanobite. He was brought up in Yorkshire, and spent many years working as an aircraft technician throughout the world. He is a prolific author of short fantasy and horror fiction, as well as writing fantasy for children.

He now lives in Scotland with his wife and two children, and is hard at work on his next novel.

## Shadow walk with me

## Kenneth Norman Cook

DREAM JOURNAL ENTRIES (PART ONE)

I writhed in ecstasy and gave birth to a sickness

I named "Paradise", for it gave me the gift of a toothless smile.

[Candles suck on flames and strangle on smoke]

I saw my death upon the tip of my swollen tongue

and it tasted bittersweet like hot, black sugar

as it dripped oily fire.

[Ancient caves cuddle secrets and breastfeed mirages]

I howled with purple face and the moon laughed with rusty, blood-filled gurgles as the wind squealed

a forbidden, razor-sharp tune of blue-chrome steel.

DREAM JOURNAL ENTRIES (PART TWO)

Oh god, I think I'm dying!

The floor vomits up sour pus from thirteen

pulsing boils on the neck

of the beast beneath my ice-cold bed,

who laughs into the

steamy grey air with

a black hollow chortle.

[Save me... Save me: My spine is being torn up and out of my back with a rip and a zip] The ceiling drips hot tar landing with a splat and a crunch as they morph

to ebony crystals, crushed under the dirty feet of

thirteen hairy green trolls,

dancing to an ancient song belching and barking up from the bowels of hell.

Oh god, I think I'm dying!

DREAM JOURNAL ENTRIES

(PART THREE)

I stretch my leg across the chasm, the blackness yawning upward as I watch my soul drop out

and spiral down into the abyss.

[Awaken, fool!

The monster crouches in the pit with claws of silver and fangs of ivory to devour

your heart and pick its teeth with your sharpened bones! Awaken, fool!]

I scream into the darkness and shout at the empty dome

with its silently smirking stars

as my soul is swallowed up

by something black... Something hot...

Something holy... Something dead.

DREAM JOURNAL ENTRIES (PART FOUR)

Oh how sweet the taste that tickles my mouth like some rich golden

nectar from a divine world.

[Feel the air grow chill.

Feel the shadow that slowly crawls up... up]

The sudden noise explodes inside my head like a gun

as I clap my trembling hands to my ears with a scream.

[Feel the darkness thicken. Feel the black horror that begins to grow hot... hot]

My face is tight as leather and filled with fire while I watch the hair sizzle and smoke and stink.

[Feel the flesh as it melts.

Feel your skull collapse and your teeth dissolve as the beast begins to feed... feed... FEED]

DREAM JOURNAL ENTRIES (PART FIVE)

A silver-haired monkey devours my face with

fangs of yellow as I feel

my kidneys swell and throb, ready to burst in a spray of colors, while my eyes pulse a milky white and

my ears squirt jade green into the mouths of black

whiskered, laughing gnomes.

[Please get me out of here! Wake me from this!

Please take me away from this nightmare!]

The flesh rips and tears, peeling from my face and landing with a wet plop,

while the coppery smell of

blood draws a thousand flies humming in high-pitched, screeching, tinny harmony

while a massive army of beetles crawl, scramble and scratch at my twitching pale fingers.

DREAM JOURNAL ENTRIES (PART SIX)

Down... Down I fall into the darkness, spiraling in a dizzy descent into

the waiting throat, the hungry teeth

of the monster I created from the bloodiest,

hottest, sickest chambers of my imagination!

[Into the tar-black darkness... Eyes of mucus-filled terror...

Ears of screeching, waxy fear...

Soul writhing in the fire, mind falling through the ice

and heart spinning across the void]

Oh god... Will I never reach the bottom?

Down... Down I fall into the abyss.

My past has died and my future is buried in a stone-cold grave of rot and worms.

I see them now: The bloody fangs of my eternal destiny in the hell

of my brain's vile creation!

[AWAKE! AWAKE! AWAKE!

With heaving chest, trembling limbs, racing heart and swimming in sweat... I AM AWAKE!]

I am awake... Oh god... Awake!

"All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream." ~ Edgar Allan Poe

IT WAITS

(a Metaphor)

I see it out of the corner of my eye, hiding in the black, dusty shadows, watching me with unearthly patience,

waiting for that perfect moment to pounce.

I see its red eyes and yellow teeth, buried deep within its unseen ebony face,

as it crouches in some dark, forgotten corner,

licking its wet, crimson lips in anticipation.

I see it out of the corner of my eye, silently squirming, shuffling its clawed feet,

while its chest quietly pants, and the obscene black hole of its mouth drools a bloody goo as it watches... waits... getting ready to pounce.

THE DARK PLACE

Why do I wear this skin?

I am trapped in here.

All my senses have died.

My ears are deaf when under the water and my eyes are blinded by the blackness

of the silence. In my best dreams I find myself dying, while I fly through the sky in my nightmares.

Up into the attic or through the cellar door, my face folds into

one hundred wrinkles as

my war-torn and weary body cries into the empty night for sweet rest.

Why do I wear this skin?

I am trapped in the dark place that lies between

my ears and my eyes.

THE SONG OF LONELINESS

Light fades to shadow as the sleepy daytime surrenders to evening and the darkness slowly and silently swallows the colors and paints the sky black, while

tiny points of brightness

flicker like golden specks across the ebony dome.

The melancholy nightingale begins its evening ritual,

trilling out a sad and solitary song of mourning

like a funeral dirge,

as I bow my heavy head

once again to the dark tune,

my eyes puncturing the night with shimmering tears and my heart beating

an unheard but chest aching

rhythm to that ancient, primal

melody of loneliness.

THE TURNING

O so slowly I begin to turn my weary head.

The crushing weight of the world presses down as my eyes leave the burning light of day

and enter the gentle shadows of evening.

The heaviness of life lifts from my shoulders and the fiery scales flake from my face,

as the screeching, screaming, blinding sun

shrinks into the distance, fading from my sight, and the soft silver moon fans my face with

a cool night breeze, born from the darkness.

I lower my eyes and drop my buzzing head down from the cruel bright sky and deep

into the silent black caverns of the cold abyss,

where nameless, unseen entities welcome me home, and the echoing voices of countless ancient specters

sing me away into that drifting, floating eternity.

THE VOICE OF THE FOREST

A voice rings out from a deep green forest, singing across the sky, echoing off the hills,

rippling with the wind and entering my ears like the lullaby

of a loving mother.

It knows my name and it's calling me back, pulling me in,

smiling into my soul, and filling me

with the wonder

of the ancient and eternal dark beauty

of my long forgotten home.

LADY OF THE NIGHT

The silver moonlight spills

around her like a halo of softly floating radiance, while the stars crackle and shimmer across

the black sky like specks of bright golden sand. The spectral shadows of trees circle her like

a dark fairy ring, as the gentle night breezes

whisper a ghostly chant with sweet cool breath

in the grey misty air.

ALMOST SPRING

Let the sweet beams of the sun crack the ice and swallow the snow while the blue sky breathes gently

over the hills, chasing away the grey and welcoming the green grass

like a newborn baby sliding out

of the womb and into the warm light. May the daylight laugh at the cold, ebony nights as they crawl away in exhaustion into the dark vault

of the icy, silver archives of winter and let the soft melody of spring sing its resurrecting song of hope

into the air, across the treetops and

throughout the chill and weary Earth.

THE DARK PLACE

Why do I wear this skin?

I am trapped in here.

All my senses have died.

My ears are deaf when under the water and my eyes are blinded by the blackness of the silence. In my best dreams I find myself dying, while I fly through the sky in my nightmares.

Up into the attic or through the cellar door, my face folds into

one hundred wrinkles as

my war-torn and weary body cries into the empty night for sweet rest.

Why do I wear this skin?

I am trapped in the dark place that lies between

my ears and my eyes.

VISIBLE SILENCE

I scream waves of loud silence into the eye-piercing darkness

and it echoes through my skull with black oily laughter.

The closer the sound comes towards me, the farther away it appears in my vision, for

for I cannot see the color blue but blue is cooing in my ear

while red growls in my throat. I shout ripples of hushed noise into the eye-burning blackness

and it bellows through my head with gravelly-voiced snickering

sounds of visible destruction.

THE STORY OF "I"

I entered the world with a slippery shout of

tiny, naked vulnerability.

Their faces covered in masks so I could not know them,

they chuckled and cheered as

they slapped, washed and wiped, making me fit to start on the odyssey for which I never asked and shoving me into

the bosom of a sweaty stranger

who flashed a look of exhausted affection and nervous love

as I began to drink at the pap,

gazing into those frightened eyes.

I entered the world with a slippery shout so long ago,

yet the question still floats in my head

along each step of the journey:

Why? Please tell me why

DESTROY THE WINTER

Let the sun blaze with a fury that grills

the ice and incinerates the stubborn snow, melting, thawing,

warming and liquefying!

Let the sun refuse to leave the sky

as it flares its bright

fiery arms, wrapping the frozen land

in tentacles of heat and destroying

the bitter winter!

## About Kenneth N Cook

I'll skip the boring stuff about my birth, my rearing, my this and my that, and get right to the heart of the matter: My writing.

I've been having a love affair with words since I was eleven years old, when I was asked (as was the entire class) to write a poem about Halloween for the school newspaper. I was in sixth grade at the time. After an initial apprehension about my abilities, I took the plunge (or I should say "the pen") and started writing. A love for my newly discovered art-form gelled in my brain immediately and has continued to be the love of my life (along with reading) to this day, nearly 48 years later. Oh and by the way, the poem got some pretty good reviews.

So here are twelve samples of my passion, six of which are a series, titled "Dream Journal Entries". I hope they meet with your approval.

One more thing: You know what the best part is about having a love affair with words? My beloved may occasionally take a vacation without me, be rather cold and silent, or even make me feel a bit worthless at times, but I know this: She will never cheat on me, she'll always return to me, and (perhaps most important of all) when she gives the best of herself, she never ever lets me down.

## The Dark Terror at The Forts

## Kevin S. Hall

The visions had gotten worse. That's what Bryce Holm called them, as they were too real to be dreams. He was ten, going on eleven, and being a curious young boy he was always into the supernatural and horror, even though he knew he shouldn't be watching or reading it.

He had been a fan of those zombie movies for a few months now, after Kris Ross gave him a copy on DVD at school. There had always been something spooky about his home town of Herne Bay, which wasn't too far from Kent. The abandoned pier and the strange clock tower, always took on sinister forms at night. It was the Maunsell Sea Forts that were jutting out of the sea which scared him the most though.

These towering, rusting structures looked like some ancient alien tripod beasts that had stopped working many centuries before, or like immobile AT STs from Star Wars. They had been used in World War Two as defence platforms to ward off any German forces, but were now decaying in the water, ready to crash into the sea at any minute.

Bryce had two friends at school who shared the same interests as he did, and for that he was grateful. It was very hard to be a geek and be liked – indeed, he had been ridiculed for his big glasses, brown wavy hair and duffle coat on more than one occasion. He had always stood up to them though, and was proud to be who he was and wouldn't change for anyone.

Missy "Mouse" Grey was his closest friend. Yes she was a girl and two years older than him, but he thought of her more like a big sister he didn't have – Bryce was an only child – and she had protected him on more than one occasion. The bullies had laughed and sneered of course, but Bryce just put that down to jealousy. Mouse had short hair like a boys and a button nose – hence the nickname – and the sweetest of eyes. She was timid though and jumped at even the smallest of things. How this would change in the next few days.

Carl "Booker" Cullen was his other friend who he had known since he was about five, and always had his nose in a book or two, sometimes three on the go at once. He had fine blonde hair and looked a bit rough – this sometimes made Bryce insanely jealous but he tried not to show this.

Bryan awoke sweating and breathing heavily. The vision had ended the same as it always did, a soldier rising up behind the other undead soldiers slowly making their way out of the mist covered sea behind the Forts. Seaweed and dark sludge would drip off of their uniforms and water would drip from their helmets. Their faces were grey, sunken eyes and mouths open, moaning louder. The soldier in front would always rise up and roar the loudest.

The first few times this happened, Bryce had been scared witless, and no one could blame him really. It was a massive shock, especially as everything seemed so real and touchable. He had told no one of these visions of course. He would be deemed crazy and probably have to undergo lots of unnecessary tests. He had to tell his friends first anyway, and after the discovery tonight he would. Bryce hadn't noticed it before, but in the lead undead soldiers top pocket was a brown piece of paper. It looked like a map.

Bryce climbed out of bed, checking the time. It was only 3.03am, but he couldn't go back to sleep just yet. He had to check something out. He crept as silently as he could past his parent's bedroom. They had long since gone to sleep and were in Dreamland, but Bryce was still extra careful. There was a loose wooden panel along the corridor and he avoided it now.

In his dad's study, in the large cupboard, there were old jackets and trousers, hanging there, which belonged to Bryce's grandfather. He knew there was the old World War Two uniform still hanging up, moth-eaten but still in reasonably good shape. It was a tender subject and one that was hardly brought up, but Bryce knew he had died here during the war.

He wondered...

Bryce carefully opened the cupboard door and pushed the other jackets aside until he found the one he was looking for. His grandfather's jacket still smelled old and dusty and full of the horrors of war. Bryce had to squint to see – he had his torch with him so took it out of his pyjama shorts and shone it onto the top pocket. There it was... the brown piece of paper. Bryce removed it carefully from the top and turned to go, when a low moan could be heard from behind him.

Bryce turned back, not really wanting to. The arms came through the uniform first – grey and wrinkly, with black fingernails. Then came the legs, slowly, disturbingly. Then the head rose up, a shrivelled grey, with sunken eyes that stared lifelessly at him. Bryce closed his eyes, whispering "this is not real, this is not real," over and over again. The moans faded. Bryce dared to open his eyes a few moments later. Of course, there was no monster there, just the jacket swaying lazily. With a shiver, Bryce left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

Bryce awoke to the sounds of birds twittering outside. He must have made it back to his room somehow, but he had no idea how. In his hands he was clutching the map and torch, as if for protection to keep the nightmares at bay. As he came to, he noticed something underneath his pillow. It was a tape recorder, with a tape already in it. That hadn't been there last night.

Bryce took it out, trying to be brave. Who could have put it there? Surely not a ghost of the past? He shivered and he pressed play.

"Bryce... If you are listening to this, that means I must be dead. I am sorry I was not around to see you grow, but I know you had to be protected. Your father, luckily, missed the curse for some unknown reason. But it has been passed to you and now you need to hear this. The visions, I presume, have started and will only grow stronger. There is no need for alarm – they will not hurt you, even if they seem so real.

"I need you to go to the Forts. By now you will have found the treasure map. There is indeed something deep down in the water, but some ancient creature is guarding it.

I believe this is the source of all the horror and turmoil. The soldiers won't rest until it's been destroyed. Please... you must find a way to stop it. Then the Dark Forts Curse will be broken."

Bryce heard no more. He slumped back into the bed, breathing heavily. It had taken his breath away, but he was now a little relieved. At least he wasn't going crazy.

He got up, showered, dressed, and put the tape recorder in his jacket pocket, the map stuffed into his jean pocket. It was a Saturday and he was up early – his mother would probably have a heart attack if she saw him up before 10am. He dialled Mouse's number on his mobile phone. He had to tell someone about this. And he believed she would keep it a secret. But would she believe him? Booker would be a bit more sceptical but he would be up for an adventure.

Half an hour later he shouldn't have worried. Both his friends were very eager to explore the Forts some more, even though they knew it could be dangerous. Bryce had told his mum he was going into town with his friends, which was half true. If she knew where they were really going...

The walk wasn't a long one, and they got to the docks where there was a rickety old boat tied up to the post. The waters looked calm enough, and they had been out in it plenty of times before with Old Man Walters. He was a big, burly man with white hair and a white bushy beard, and his loud, hearty laugh always made Bryce smile. He was there now as the three of them approached, hauling in an early morning catch of fish.

Other boats, big and splendour lined the docks, all with different names and different stories to tell. It was this small boat that Bryce wanted all to himself. It had been on many journeys and he hoped to own it when he was older. It was gleaming white in the sun, and bobbed lazily in the water. It had it's own name too: The Water Giant, which just seemed to suit it somehow.

Mouse took off her glasses and rubbed them, looking at Bryce curiously. "OK, Bryce. Where are we going today? And why so early?"

Bryce smiled. Mouse could be quite cranky in the mornings. "The map pointed to the Maunsell Sea Forts. I thought we could go and investigate them. I was going to wait until dark but it seemed safer to do it in the daytime."

Booker, surprisingly, didn't have a book with him today, but he was eager to see the map. He studied it closely, noticing the brown faded paper, the skull and crossbones in the bottom left corner, the N, S, E, W symbol in the other corner, a map of the area and Forts, and a large red X in the centre. It had some ancient writing on it which was faded and hard to make out. It also had DARK FORTS CURSE in big letters at the top of it.

"I know where we have to go," Booker said, the map up close to his eyes. Bryce was sure he needed glasses. "But we have to be quick. The weatherman reported a storm was on the way today."

The three of them were sat on the large stone slab running along the dock, their hands resting on the wet rails from the rain the night before. The sky did look like it was turning grey. Maybe this was not such a good idea after all?

Before Bryce had a chance to change his mind, Walters appeared around the corner, smiling warmly at them. "Where to today, kids?" he asked.

Bryce smiled. "Maunsell Sea Forts please, Mr. Walters."

Walters smile faded. Bryce knew immediately that this had been a bad idea after all. "The Forts are no place for young 'uns. They can be dangerous and the waters around there are choppy."

Bryce had to try. "Please. It's for a paper at school. I want to learn about the history of the place and get a feel for it. I promise we won't be long."

Walters looked at him quizzically before his smile returned. "You're an adventurous lad I'll give you that. OK, we can make a quick stop along the way, maybe even take some photos. Let's get going, before the rain comes."

Bryce grinned and the three of them got into the boat beside Walters. He revved up the engine and the boat roared into life, speeding towards the rusty tripod like Forts rising out of the sea.

The journey was short but Bryce could feel himself drifting to sleep. He awoke to shouting – it was Walters, trying to steer the boat. A storm had started, and black clouds were overhead. The wind had picked up too, a sharp coldness going through Bryce that he had never felt before.

The boat was all over the place, swaying about. When his eyes became adjusted again he could see Mouse clinging to the side of the boat, look green around the gills but otherwise OK. Booker was trying to help Walters steer the boat, but it was the thing in front of them that they were looking at the most.

In front of them, rising out of the water was a seething black, slimy mass, with about twenty withering tentacles and spikes on its raised back. It had sharp teeth on the top of its head and nostrils it was trying to sniff with. There were no eyes so it must rely on smell alone. It roared, making everything around it shake. It was thrashing so violently, that Bryce thought the boat was going to go under at any moment.

Walters turned to Booker. "Get down! Keep your friends safe! I can deal with this!"

Booker nodded, not wanting to argue. He looked like he was going to be sick as well. This was not what he had expected, and to be fair, neither had Bryce. He backed away and the three of them huddled together at the back of the boat, as they watched Walter take on this massive sea creature.

The crashes of waves and the roars were deafening, but Walter seemed so calm. He moved towards the middle of the boat, steadying himself as he went. It was like he had done this before. Then he produced something from underneath. Bryce was the only one who was watching the whole time – the other two were looking away. Walter produced what looked like a rocket launcher and fired it up. He had not seen one before and didn't think you could get them in this country.

Walter fired and hit the creature square in the belly. It roared and turned to Walter, now really angry. Walter fired again and the creature crashed back into the water. All was still once more, although thunder did still rumble in the distance. Walter collapsed to the side of the boat, breathless.

Bryce went over to him quickly, helping him back to one of the seats. "What was that thing?" Bryce asked, once he had calmed the old man down.

"A Baalsk. An ancient water creature, the last of its kind. I did it some damage but it's not quite dead yet. That is up to you."

Bryce's eyes widened. "I... I can't take on something like that. I am only ten. You could take it out..."

Walters shook his head. "No. Only you can. You have the curse. The Dark Forts curse."

"How do you know about that?"

Walters smiled and nodded at Bryce's wrist. "Do you think that pentagram birthmark on your wrist got there by accident? Your father missed out but I knew you would come. You will be eleven tomorrow, am I right?" Bryce nodded. "Then you will take on the Light Bringers role and hunt more creatures like these, protecting the planet at all costs."

"Why me?" was all Bryce could say. His mouth had gone dry and he was trying to take it all in. He knew he was meant for great things, so could this really be his calling? And what about his friends?

"You –" Walter began, but was cut short. A large tentacle appeared from the water, landing around him and trying to drag him down into the water!

Bryce stood up suddenly, holding out his hand. "No! Stop!" He was as shocked as anyone when a blue ball of lightning came out of his hand and shot out towards the tentacle. The energy hit it square on and it let go of Walter, crashing back into the water.

Bryce examined his hand, not sure what just happened but he looked mightily impressed. "I... What just happened?"

Walter laughed, nearly falling off the boat. "Your powers are getting stronger, young Bryce. It won't be long until you can take on the many horrors waiting out there – after some training of course!"

Walter clicked his fingers and to Bryce's amazement, purple energy formed up Walters legs and circled him. His lower body transformed into a turquoise and purple tail, flapping on the side.

"A Merman!" Booker pointed, the first time he had spoken in ages. "So the stories of your kind are true!"

Walter nodded, still smiling. "Indeed they are, young Booker. Your role in this will become clear soon, as will yours, young Mouse! I knew this day would come! But first... We need to get to the Forts and put those soldiers to rest. This first adventure is not over yet!"

Walter turned to Mouse. As for you, young Mouse, your part in this may surprise you."

In Mouse's hands, a small sword appeared in her hands, glinting in the light. It had a green leather handle with five dragon heads on it, all in different colours. "I... I can't take this," she stammered, much in awe than anything else.

Walter laughed. "You must. It is the Dragonseeker, an ancient weapon forged many centuries ago from five dragon skins of old. It can defeat some powerful enemies and you must only use it when the time is right."

Bryce did indeed feel like he was getting stronger, but new the real horror was yet to come. He nodded, understanding his destiny. "We need to go in between the Forts," he said. "X marked the spot in the centre of them, so I believe the heart of the horror is in there."

"All right then," Walter said, clicking his fingers. His legs returned to him and he went back to the front of the boat. "Onwards."

The Forts came into view and they still looked menacing in the dullness of the waters. A thick mist had surrounded them and this unnerved Bryce even more. It was just like his visions. Any moment now the lead undead soldier would rise up and come forward, roaring in his face.

But no soldiers rose, no zombies emerged. It was all quite calm now and peaceful, but Bryce would know this wouldn't last. The boats engines died down, as Walter guided the boat under the Forts. Everyone was silent, waiting for something to happen.

Bryce looked above him at the leaning structures towering above him. If they fell on top of him now... The boat came to a stop and the engines died down completely. All that was heard was the water lapping around the boat and heavy breathing as they waited.

Bryce peered into the mist. He was sure he could see some people approaching. Soldiers. He could make out the uniforms and the hats. It was like his vision and he was ready to come true and he could do nothing to stop it.

He could see their faces now, grey with sunken eyes, mouths open in a groan, their arms outstretched. Bryce was ready for anything... Then, in front of them all, a blinding white light came out of nowhere. A figure emerged, another soldier in the mist. But this one was different. He seemed calmer, nicer...

Bryce could make out the soldiers face. It looked like that of his grandfather's... Then, a brilliant blue light came out both of his grandfather's hands, knocking back the undead horde. They shielded their eyes and staggered back. Behind them, out past the Forts, the Baalsk thundered up out of the water, roaring and screeching.

"Now Bryce!" He heard his grandfather shout.

Bryce was a little confused at first, but then he got it. He stood up and shoved out his hands like a weapon, firing the blue energy out of them and hitting the sea creature in the heart. It roared again before exploding into several pieces.

Bryce staggered in the boat a little, and his two friends helped him out. He smiled at them gratefully. The soldiers looked as if they had returned to normal and were smiling at Bryce, nodding. Bryce's grandfather turned to him and smiled. "You have done well, Bryce. The Baalsk has been defeated and the soldiers can now rest, as can I. But your adventures are just beginning. There are many more mysteries and beings to defeat. For now, I need you to go into your father's study. All you need to know is in there."

Bryce nodded. "Was that you on the tape recorder? Was it you from beyond the grave?"

Bryce's grandfather smiled. "I shall leave that up to you. I'll be seeing you again, Bryce." With that, there was another blinding white light and the soldiers were gone.

On the way back to the docks, everyone was quiet. Bryce had expected his friends to be excited and non-stop talking, but even Booker wasn't saying a word. It had been a hell of a lot to take in. If he was part of this bigger destiny, then there had to be others to help him along the way. He turned to Walters, who was lost in thought. He would ask questions later. Right now, he had to go to his father's study.

His hand hurt a little but it was glowing faintly. Bryce didn't think anyone noticed.

They didn't say anything about it. His mind was racing at the possibilities waiting for him at home. He always knew Herne Bay was magical, but not this magical.

Walter looked down at him and smiled. "You OK, Bryce? You've been really quiet on the way back."

Bryce nodded. "Just thinking. This is so amazing. Whatever happens now I will be ready for it."

"Just remember to be strong and protect those you love the most," Walter said. "There is more out there than sea creatures and you must have courage to defeat them."

"I will."

Walter smiled. "Here – I want you to have this." He handed Bryce a pendant which was an amber diamond. It sparkled as Bryce put it around his neck. "Wear this and think of me if you get into any trouble. But I am sure you will be fine!"

"Thank you." Bryce had no idea at this moment in time, but that pendant would be the key to unlocking the truth about his destiny.

Bryce said goodbye to his friends and Walter, who promised he would visit again soon, and he hurried to the study. Inside were various shelves, cabinets and drawers, which could contain all manner of things. He had to be quiet – his dad could come in at any moment, or his mum. He had been in here once before and got in such trouble they had forbidden him to go in again.

It was the top drawer of the brown cabinet where the computer sat, that drew him closer. To his surprise, the drawer opened. There was a black leather satchel with a golden dragon quest sealing it shut. Bryce was shaking as he undid the strap and opened it.

Inside he found several parchments, an hourglass and telescope, and a large golden key. There was also a cassette in here... Bryce returned to his bedroom and put the cassette in the tape recorder.

"Bryce... this is your father. I knew this day would come but did not want to believe it. I am so proud of you to take on this role as Light Bringer. You are still young and there is so much to see and do. The test of the sea creature was the first of many. Now you must look through the telescope and turn the hourglass upside down.

You have three days to return. I will be waiting with more news."

Bryce took the dark crimson telescope in his hands, not sure of its significance. It was only when he looked through the telescope to the land beyond, did he fully understand. There were dragons – some swooping majestically over blue and white mountains against a bright blue sky, some walking upright on the snowy trails below. Beyond the mountains he could see a great city, that looked marvellous in the light. He wished he could go there.

The next moment he found himself standing on a snowy mountain ledge, the wind whipping through his hair and the start of another glorious adventure.

## About Kevin S Hall

I am Kevin S. Hall, 33 and wannabe full time writer. I live in Haddington, East Lothian in Scotland, UK. I've written my first horror novel called Thirteen: A Collection Of Horror Stories, which you can buy on amazon as a normal edition (just type in Thirteen By Kevin Hall and it should come up), and a Special Edition with bonus novella The Dummy's Assistant. I am currently working on Thirteen 2, which will feature four of my stories - including The Isolation Horror featured here - and some from up and coming horror authors who all want a shot at fame. I have lots of other ideas on the go, including my first proper full length novel called Ravens Edge. After that I plan to do a five book fantasy epic series called The Lost Ages Of Wintermore. I hope you enjoy my stories and feel free to leave a review on the website to let me know what you think. I can't wait to read everyone else's!

## Dead, White, and Blowout

## Misti Blake

Today wasn't supposed to be like this. Today was supposed to be the best day of my nine day vacation. I was going to be with my best friend and her family for the first time in four years. My boyfriend and his family were finally going to meet her and her family. The most important people in my life would all be in one place to celebrate America's freedom from the British rule and to remember those who have lost their lives to keep that freedom.

The Fourth of July had always been a time-honored tradition that brought people together and this one was no different. If I could go back and redo today, I would stop all of us from gathering where we did for our safety. If I could, none of us would be sitting here in the hospital waiting to be examined for our injuries. If I could, none of us would have to lie about what happened. I hated lying...

The day started out just as planned. I phoned everyone to make sure that they all knew what they needed to do and where they needed to go. Everything was perfect; the skies were the bluest of blues with hardly a cloud in the sky, the temperature had a high of a eighty-six degrees, the wind was at a minimum, and the food was cooking away at that moment. We were all excited to get this fun started.

The smell of a freshly cleaned car filled my nostrils as my boyfriend, Jaxson, drove me to our destination. The pain-staking two hours it took for him to wash, wax, and otherwise make this car shine better be worth the time I wasted waiting on him to finish. I shook my head as I thought about how many times he'd washed this Civic in the past week since he'd bought it. Four times I've had to fork out money for him to do so.

We were running an hour late because of him and his damn car. We still had forty-five minutes to get to the lake house that Anna's grandpa owned. My phone kept dinging as texts continued to come through with messages asking where we were and pictures of the people there already. One came through as I was trying to reply to the text from my mother, irritating me slightly. I quickly sent my reply to my mother's text before opening the other. It was from my ex-fiancé saying, 'ur missing out.' Along with it came a picture of him with my mom in the background, a sheepish grin spread wide across his face. I scoffed and wiped the text message from my phone. I hadn't known of his attendance until the prior night when he had contacted me via text for the first time in two years, bragging about his invitation to my best fiend's Fourth of July party. He was the last one I wanted to see, but he wouldn't ruin it for me. I refused to let him.

"Botherin' you again?" Jaxson asked without pulling his eyes away from the road.

"Yeah. 'E's freakin' braggin' about this shit and it's gettin' on ma nerves," I replied, smiling at his intuitiveness. One of the best qualities about him was his ability to pick up on my body language. I didn't normally have to tell him anything.

He smiled, clearly enjoying the fact that my ex bothered me so much. He must see it as meaning he didn't have to worry about competition. "That's a'right. Let 'em have 'is fun. It'll be over soon. 'E'll see just how sorry 'e is when 'e sees us tagether."

"Well 'e knows 'e's sorry. 'E'll just be jealous or pissed one."

He nodded in agreement. "That's the best way ta get 'em back for his annoyin' ways these past two days."

"I ain't lookin' ta make 'em feel any kind of way. I just want 'em to leave me alone again. 'E's got no business textin' me."

"Nah. You got a point there."

The rest of the ride was spent in comfortable silence. I turned my phone off to avoid any further texts from the party goers. Today wasn't a day for annoyances. Today was a day for remembrances.

Looking back now, I should've enjoyed the ride more than I did. I should've enjoyed the texts from people more. I should've done things differently, but there's no going back now.

The lake house Anna's grandpa owned wasn't lavish by any means. It was one story with a two bay garage and a white picket fence surrounding the property. You couldn't see it from the front, but out back there were two canopies set up for guests. Had they been staying, one of these campers would've been theirs for the duration of their stay. For a place that only saw people three weeks out of a year, it was all that you could really ask for. It got the job done.

I sighed a little at the thought of being around people I didn't know. It wasn't something I really looked forward to. There were people there that I knew, sure, but I had to go through the painstaking task of learning about and talking to these people. Having to explain to them why I wouldn't remember their names within an hour wasn't ideal for me, either. People don't always understand short term memory loss or why someone in their early twenties would be experiencing this. The last thing I wanted to do was explain to a total stranger how my daddy abused my siblings and myself.

As we reluctantly got out of the vehicle, my best friend came out to greet us.

"Josephine! I'm so glad you're here!" she squealed as she ran up to hug me.

"Anna!" I replied as I hugged her back. It really was so good to see her. She was the only friend I had left and four years apart was too long. The sweet smell of her perfume brought back a flood of memories that reminded me how much fun we used to have together. It brought a warm smile to my face.

"Come on. I want to introduce you to my fiancé, Sean," she said as she took my arm and led me inside where my soon-to-be family was already chatting away with everyone else.

The room was brightly lit with barely enough sitting room for us all. Most were standing as they carried on conversations while the children played silly games and ran throughout the house. The atmosphere was altogether happy and carefree, which was something I needed for one day at least. It was my escape from the stress of the past three weeks.

We were introduced around the room to the people we didn't know. Hand shakes were exchanged with a mixture of grins and scowls. Some weren't too happy about us being there. It was only supposed to be family there, but with Anna's recent engagement, it quickly became a celebration for her and her fiancé.

We settled in for lunch before we would get to go out back to the lake to have fun. The entire kitchen was full of food: hamburgers, hot dogs, grilled chicken, chicken wings, potato salad, corn on the cob, cakes of different varieties, and so much more. It was Heaven for us all. It didn't last long, either. Everyone there went back for seconds and some for thirds. We stuffed ourselves before heading off to the backyard to lounge around and fish from the bank. Swimming would have to wait for now.

Anna, Jaxson, and I sat at the patio table with the umbrella spanning back behind us, covering us in its shade. I looked out upon the lake as the sunlight glistened off the water and the tiny ripples of waves lapped up against the shore where the men and children sat fishing. There wasn't a boat to be seen or heard.

"Anna, what's going on? Is there a storm coming or something?" I asked her, concerned with my observation.

"What do you mean?" she replied, puzzled by my inquiry.

"No boats. Doesn't that seem a bit strange to you?"

She looked out across the water before saying, "Yeah, it's completely strange.

Where do you think they are?" I shook my head in response to her and continued to stare out across the waterfront.

Silence was quickly shattered by a screeching sound from up above us. It was the most horrible sound I'd ever heard. It resembled nails on a chalkboard multiplied by fifty. Frightened, we all looked to the heavens to see what had made that noise, but all we could see was a tiny white dot high up in the air. We were all baffled, but didn't want to take any chances. We rushed the children inside for their safety while we stood on the back porch and on the steps to watch whatever it was come closer to the house.

With a hard thump against the ground, the thing landed in the backyard, causing a cloud of dust to fly up and screen it from view. We recoiled internally and held our breaths for the dust to settle, barely moving a muscle in case it was something hostile. The worse case scenarios running through my head sent my heart pounding into overdrive.

What came out of that hole was far beyond my imagination. Never in a million years would I have thought they existed. They were only supposed to be fairy tales.

Legends used to scare people and explain away the unexplainable. Here it was just as real as real could be. Crawling out of the hole it had created, a white, glistening dragon appeared with a face contorted by anger and aggression. The audible inhale from the crowd moved like a wave as the beast shook itself off and stretched its body.

Its long, scaly neck reached up to the sky from which it had fallen and its giant wings spread out as its claws dug into the ground. You could hear the sound of the scales moving against each other like sandpaper; its joints cracked and popped from the impact with the ground. It shook like a dog one more time before turning its attention to us.

It's hard to say exactly why we all stood there without moving. I know I was in awe of the creature's beauty, but a small part of me was yelling at me to run for it. Fear began to creep its way into my brain, taking over my body and paralyzing me to the spot. The part of me that wasn't fascinated by it knew that I needed to find somewhere to hide, but my body refused to cooperate. Even as the dragon's green eyes washed over us each in turn and its white teeth barred at us, I couldn't run.

The look in the thing's eyes gave off the sense of murderous intentions, sending chills down my spine as it locked onto me for a few moments longer than everyone else. My heart stopped beating momentarily as the fear from its gaze entered it. My whole world seemed to stop in an instant. Nothing seemed real to me.

It had to be a dream. Dragons do not exist.

"Oh. My. Goodness," Anna and her friend, Rachel, said in unison. It seemed to send the beast into a frenzy to hear people talking. It stuck its neck out toward us and screamed, its hot pink tongue coming through its teeth to have a peek at us. The tongue flickered slightly, almost invisibly to the human eye. It lifted its snout to the air and pulled its tongue back into its mouth. His nostrils flared as he sniffed at the air toward us. Every muscle in my body tensed as a primordial instinct kicked in.

Some of the guys that were standing on the steps started a backward retreat for the door of the house, slowly easing their way so they wouldn't spook the beast. It hissed at them the same way that a cobra would hiss at danger, but instead of danger it was hissing at its dinner walking away.

Angered further, it crouched down and flexed its claws upon the ground. Its tail rose into the air, making it resemble a large cat ready to attack. I turned on my heel and flung the door open in a hurry. We all flew like a stampede of buffalo through the doorway for safety as the dragon shrieked again and jumped into the air. It flew straight at us, but the door was slammed in its face as the last person made it inside. The wooden door splintered under the blow, but held strong for the time being.

Silence fell outside as we hurried the children and elderly to the dining room where we could keep them safe. No windows and a door that closed it off from the rest of the house was the only way we could think of to keep the beast from getting them. The rest of us stood in the hallways whispering action plans to get us all safe and away from here.

"There's no way we could all get out of here unnoticed. There's just too many of us," Anna's dad, Rylie, whispered. His face was already sporting a defeated look, which only made the others more agitated.

"I can't believe that. There has to be a way," Rachel replied, fear showing on her face as clear as day.

I stood there thinking as the argument went back and forth between the two of them. Drowning out their whispers, I surveyed those in the hallway with me. All of them were frightened, but none of them had any idea how to get out of it. I had to come up with something. Looking at Jaxson, it dawned on me what I had to do. So long as he was safe, it didn't matter to me what happened to the rest.

"I have a plan," I whispered in the middle of Rylie saying that Rachel was crazy. They all turned to me, inquisitive despite their fears. "Someone has ta draw it away from here so the others can leave. Not in the vehicles, though. That would draw too much attention back ta everyone."

"What are you talking about? We're supposed to sacrifice someone that we love and then figure out where to go?!" Anna's grandpa, Max, asked. If looks could kill, I would've died. He was pissed at me! I could tell that the others were, too.

"I'll do it. I'm faster 'n have more endurance than everyone else here. I can draw it away. Everyone just need a place ta go, a way ta get to safety," I replied, ignoring his attitude.

Jaxson gave me the worst look he's ever exhibited toward me. It was a mixture of anger, betrayal, and worry. My heart broke to see him look at me that way. I looked away, ashamed of myself for volunteering. Someone had to do it, though.

Jaxson's life, and the lives of many others, was at stake if someone didn't do it. I could never live with myself if I didn't save him when I had the chance.

"You're suicidal," Rylie whispered before turning away from me to stare at the wall. I felt two inches tall. How could they not have faith in me? I just couldn't understand one bit.

"If she wants to do it, let her do it. We can all get out of here then," Anna's cousin, Tori, whispered. Her face was washed of all emotion, stoic as a statue. The others started to protest, but were cut short.

A loud crash resounded through the whole house and dust mixed with spackling from the ceiling came raining down on us. The creature was on the roof! We all looked up as the dust stopped falling with the same question on our minds: could the house hold off the thing?

Scratching against metal came from above us. This thing was relentless in its pursuit. Our spirits sunk lower. "We don't have much time, guys. I'm going! Where can everyone go where they'll be safe?" I pushed, heading for the door.

"All right! There's a boat nearby. The owners never take it out. It's too big for anything other than docking here," Max replied. "Meet us at the blue house with the white shutters down the road from here. It's hidden back off the road by oak trees. Go around back and you'll see the boat docked there."

"Ya can't be serious! You're not sending 'er out there!" Jaxson yelled, no longer caring if the beast heard us or not. He was quickly hushed as all eyes other than his looked up at the ceiling.

"That thing will figure out a way in here sooner or later if we don't do something! We can't sit by and wait for it," Rylie defended his father. Everyone nodded in agreement. Looked like Jaxson was outnumbered by the majority this time around. Jaxson shook his head, looking around at everyone as though they were sentencing me to death. They all stood their ground without blinking or moving a muscle. It was clear they had made up their minds.

He turned to me. "Don't do this. I don't know what I'd do if I lost ya," he pleaded, eyes tearing up slightly. I took his hands in mine and kissed his lips for a moment.

"I love ya, babe," I replied as I let him go and turned to the door. I ran out of it to prevent further argument from him. I was crying at the thought of hurting him, but his safety was why I was doing this.

Down the steps I went, out onto the lawn hitting everything near my path to make as much noise as possible. I could hear the claws of the dragon scratch at the roof once more before mighty wing beats signaled it had taken flight. I just had to make sure that I was faster than it was.

I ran through the trees in a zigzag pattern to make it more difficult for it to catch me. I pushed my legs beyond their limits through the woods by the waterfront. The beast stayed on my tail, flying at a great height above me in the canopies with an ever watchful eye. I could hear it crashing into branches above me as its thick hide tore away anything in its path. Fear for my own safety was the driving force for me now.

I made a cut across the gravel road to the thicker woods on the other side. Branches smacked me in the face, cutting small wounds into my skin. Thorns caught at my legs and brought blood. For a moment, I wished that I had worn pants today.

I don't know how long we played the cat and mouse game. All that I knew was that my body was aching and my legs were filling up with lactic acid as my muscles started to break down. My lungs cried for more oxygen and my feet throbbed for relief and comfort. I wouldn't let myself stop until I found that small bridge with the fast running water cascading underneath it.

The trees were thinner around the bridge so I had to make this count. I only had one shot at it and even the slightest misstep would be the death of me. Sensing its chance approaching, the dragon, glistening every time the sunlight hit its scales through the trees, roared an ear-piercing scream and sped up its flight to reach the river quicker.

If I could time it right, I could get under the bridge where the beast couldn't fit between the concrete and the water. There was a fallen log for me to hold onto to keep from being swept away that had been stuck there in the mud for many years. I just prayed that it was still there. If not, I would be in a lot of trouble. I'd have to ride the current and hope that I survived the trip without drowning.

I could see the rushing water so clearly now. It was the most welcoming sight I could ever experience in that moment. I tensed my muscles as my opportunity was about to present itself. I bent my head down and pushed my legs even faster to cross the bridge before the dragon could get to me. As I dove off the side of the bridge to the bank below, I could feel the beast's breath on the back of my neck and its claw graze my back.

My feet squished into the mud at the bank as I landed and pushed myself off the ground to dive below the bridge. The dragon screamed a high-pitched screech at my avoidance of its claws and perched itself on a nearby tree trunk, head facing the ground, like a lizard. It kept a weary eye on me as I struggled to cling to the log sticking out of the mud. The water was stronger than I remembered and it took all the strength I had left to stay above water. My head kept going under as the current surged in intervals, slapping the belly of the bridge and dunking me for a few moments. Every time I'd finally come back up and gasp for air, the dragon would smile at me.

Go ahead and let go. You know you want to, a voice came through my thoughts. I looked up at the beast before my head went underwater again. Was that thing talking?! The damn thing was smiling a toothy grin.

Yes, I can telepathically project my thoughts into your head. Now, let go of that log and float away. I'll catch you. It smiled a bigger smile, spreading its cheeks wide to reveal more teeth. A deep grumbling came from its mouth.

I shook my head at its words. I knew what it meant, but that wasn't about to happen. Not a chance... "You're not as smart as- the legend- says you are," I replied with a sarcastic tone in between current surges. It chuckled; each inhale of air lifting its shoulders up high on its neck.

Tell me where the others went. Children are delicacies, it hissed inside my head. I'll spare your life for theirs.

"Never!" I spluttered as my head went underwater again. Without replying, the dragon spread its wings open and floated down to the bank beside me. It stuck one of its wings in the water upstream from me to break the current. I was temporarily free from almost drowning until the beast decided to move its wing back against its side.

The water came rushing angrily at me and I went under for a longer period of time this time. My lungs screamed for air, but I couldn't get any without leaving the safety of the bridge. I would rather drown in that moment then let that thing talk me into revealing the safe house for the others. The water receded back all at once, allowing me to breathe once more. I gasped to fill my lungs with air. It was the best thing my body ever wanted. I looked to see that it had put its wing back in the water.

Where are the children? Next time my wing comes out, I'll drown you, human. I was so worn out by this point that I couldn't see myself fighting any longer. I just hoped that they would be far from here by now.

I looked up at it with a defeated look, fully regretting what I was about to do.

"They're on a boat behind a blue house with white shutters covered by oaks. That's where you'll find 'em," I relented. I didn't know why exactly I had given up so quickly, but the defeat I felt overweighed my loyalty. Self-preservation had won the fight.

The dragon smiled a wicked smile before removing his wing and flying off. I was overcome by the water once again; my fingers were slipping off the log. Fear struck hard as I thought of Jaxson losing me this way. Or losing his life when that thing found them. I hoped they hadn't gone to the boat and had left the lake altogether. Had my mind been working correctly, I would've known better.

The water broke just as I was getting lightheaded. I was ecstatic to get a break. Struggling to get up on my feet in the fast moving water, I made it to the riverbank. I lay there gasping for air and fought to keep my mind from passing out. My body felt like a wet noodle and my lungs burned as though a fire had been started in them. I slipped in and out of blackness a few times as I fought to regain myself.

I wasn't sure how long I lay there, but I finally was able to get my feet up under me to push up off the ground. I wobbled as I walked up onto the bridge. There would be no way that I could run back to them to help them. I would have to walk and hope they were still safe.

Lying beside the trail was a long stick. I used it as a temporary crutch until I could get my legs to work. It made the walking process go a bit faster having leverage to lean on, but it was hell to get back. All the things running through my head was what was stressing me the most. I pictured everyone laying in that boat dead or the boat laying at the bottom of the water with dead bodies floating in the surface. My heart hurt from the pain of their demise in conjunction with the excursion from the day's activities.

When I reached the right place, I heard the most horrible noise. Crashing and screaming came from behind the house as I rounded the corner. The dragon was flying circles around the boat that was still docked, throwing fire balls from its mouth and head butting different parts of the boat. A huge hole had been caved in port side where I could see some of the people hiding against the far wall away from the dragon. There were a few of the children in there crouched behind the adults.

No bodies floated in the water and none were on the deck of the boat. I smiled a moment from relief. I had made it just in time to stop this madness. Even though I wasn't sure what to do, I boarded and hobbled over to the stern of the boat. Everyone was screaming and crying from fear. I tried to drown them out as I stood there waiting for the beast to realize I was there. I didn't have to wait more than a few minutes. It landed on the railing in front of me and just stared me down. A low grumbling came from deep in its throat as it lowered its head down to glare at me with its green eyes.

What happened next is still a blur in my mind. It defied the odds more than even a dragon existing. While the beast's back was to the water, a giant shark came rushing up out of it and swallowed the beast whole before returning to the water from once it came. I stumbled back against the boat, mouth agape, and slid down to a sitting position. The others that had witnessed it came walking out to the stern sporting the same expression that I had. No one could believe it.

Jaxson appeared at my side to hug me and pull me in close. His hands moved over my body as he examined me for injuries. Finding no signs of external wounds, he sighed in relief. Max and Rylie ventured over to the railing and looked over the edge to the water below. The surface was calm as could be. If it hadn't been for the damage to everything, no one would ever know that it had happened.

A light broke through the clouds that we hadn't noticed before, lighting up the stern where we all stood. Anna's fiancé, Sean, was the only one to speak up. "God has sent his ocean dwelling shark to devour the beast that attacked his followers. It's a miracle," he half whispered as he gawked at the sky. We stood there for a moment more before gathering everyone up and taking the injured to the hospital for examination.

## About Misti Blake

Born in Concord, NC, Misti has always been in love with writing. With her first book published right out of high school in 2008, she hopes to be a recognized name in future years. Her passion to help others escape reality drives her to publish.

She lives in her own home with five dogs and a cat. She is an avid supporter of dangerous dog breeds' rights to live and have a loving, happy home. You can visit her Facebook page, We're Just Dogs, to join her support for equal rights.

## The Girls

## Viv Drewa

Phil and Brenda hating moving but like a lot of people they lost their jobs and then their home. The programs out there weren't able to help them so they had to look for a place to rent. Fortunately they saved as much as they could and had enough for a deposit and first month's rent.

After going through what felt like a hundred houses they were ready to call it quits and just move into an apartment. Until they spotted a house with a 'For Rent' sign in the front yard. It said to call a number so Brenda called. It told her there would be a showing that Saturday and they decided to go.

The house was a ranch-style brown brick with quite a few trees around it and a very large back yard. They didn't care about the back and thought the house looked good. The rent was what they budgeted for so it seemed like it would work out.

When Saturday came they showed up and were greeted by two very nice people. The man took them on a tour of the house. It has two small bedrooms, a decent size living room, small dining room, and, what sold Brenda, was the oak kitchen. The walls, ceiling and cabinets were solid oak stained a walnut color. It also had a small attached garage they knew the car wouldn't fit in with a workshop off to the side. Phil liked that. He was always tinkering and this was perfect. There was also a large room over the garage with built-in shelves that Brenda said would be good for her sewing room. Now down to business.

Brenda had the paperwork required per the recording and their check book. They signed the papers and got the keys.

"I can't believe it," Brenda said excitedly.

"Me, neither," Phil said. "I was sure something wouldn't be right with it and we'd end up in an apartment or trailer park."

"Yeah. I love that kitchen," she said.

"It looks nice. I knew when you saw it you'd like it," he said. They stayed in the house for a little longer and headed home to finish packing. Phil told the man they'd move in in two weeks.

That was OK.

When they got home Phil called the utilities and had everything set to be on the day before they moved into the new house and have them shut off in the old one. He couldn't stop thinking about all the work they put into the old place and it pissed him off, but there was nothing they could do.

Phil and Brenda would came to the new house to clean, not that it was dirty, before they started bringing things over. During the two weeks they would bring boxes and put them away then take the boxes back to fill again.

One day they were taking a break and heard two female voices coming from the upstairs room. They looked at each other wondering what was going on. Phil crept up the stairs but when he opened the door the voices stopped. He walked over to the window to see if anyone was outside and maybe the voices just carried. All he saw was a younger man with his two dogs. The voices were definitely female so it couldn't have been him. He came back down.

"Nobody up there," he told Brenda. "I looked out the window but only saw the neighbor with his dogs out."

"That was just weird," Brenda said and got up to start unloading another box. She thought at this rate they'd only have the big stuff to move on moving day and they'd be able to settle in.

Well, that's what she thought would happen. They ended up with about 14 boxes. On moving day she piled most of them in the car and the rest would have to go in the moving van they rented.

Family and friends helped with the moving and everything went smoothly.

Until three of the women went into the room next to the sewing room. They opened the door and saw fresh footprint in the dirt of the attic. They slammed the door shut and ran down the stairs scared shitless.

"Were there kids in this house before you moved in?" one of them asked.

"No. Nobody's been here for almost a year," Brenda told her. "Why?"

"In the attic there are fresh foot prints," she said and became more scared. "Are we done now?"

Brenda and Phil looked at each other and shrugged. "Yeah, everything's unpacked and put in the rooms. So you can go."

The three women said their goodbyes to everyone and ran out of the house.

"What was that all about?" Phil asked.

"They said they saw fresh footprint in the attic," Brenda said. "It must have scared them." "Probably someone looking at this place let their kids run around up there," he said.

"Maybe." Brenda dismissed it and ordered pizza for everyone. Phil had picked up some soda and beer earlier and put them in the fridge.

Since the kitchen didn't have room for a table and the dining room table had boxes on it they sat on the sofa and chairs in the living room. Phil and Brenda were glad to have such wonderful people in their lives. Without them it wouldn't have happened this quickly.

"Why did those three leave so early?" Brenda's sister Pat asked. "I don't remember their names."

"Ashley, Terry and Paula. They saw fresh footprints in the attic and got scared. They asked if they could leave and I told them they could. They looked terrified."

Everyone chuckled and continued eating, drinking and talking about different things. It started to get late and Bill had too many beers. His wife, Bobbie Jo became the designated driver.

Everyone got up to leave and a hundred thank yous were said to them all from Brenda and Phil.

"I'm so glad that went as smooth as it did," Phil said. "I'm ready for bed how about you?"

"I want to shower first. I feel icky," Brenda said and went into the bedroom to get her nightgown then into the bathroom and started the shower. A few minutes later Phil joined her.

"I'll do you if you do me," he said with his 'I want you' grin.

"Oh, really?!" Brenda laughed. He held her breasts and gently fondled them and she purred. This made him get even more excited and he grabbed her and kissed her holding him tight in his arms. The shower was going to have to wait as they made love and nearly knocked down the curtain. He didn't want to let her go. He loved her more than ever.

When they finally got to bed they fell into a deep sleep instantly.

The next morning Brenda and Phil got up and got dressed. Brenda headed to the kitchen to go put on a pot of coffee. She had to walk through the living room and dining room to get to the kitchen. But as she walked to the dining room the boxes were not on the table where they left them.

She peeked around the corner and saw them piled in a pyramid in the center of the kitchen floor.

"PHIL," she screamed. She was trembling and felt the hairs on the back of her next stand straight up. Phil rushed to her side and saw how frightened she was, and he didn't notice the boxes were not on the table until he looked in the direction of the kitchen.

"What the hell?" he said. Phil wasn't sure if he was angry or scared he just stood there staring at the pile of boxes.

"Did you give a copy of the key to anyone?" he asked Brenda.

"No. We only have the two keys. I wouldn't do that," she said afraid to move. Phil walked past her to the kitchen and picked the top box off the pile and put it on the floor. Nothing happened. He wondered why he thought something would.

"Let's move these to the side so we can have our breakfast and start unpacking," he said to her gently.

"They said they saw those footprints upstairs yesterday. Do you think this place is haunted?" Brenda said as she slowly walked into the kitchen.

"Maybe this is their way of saying hello," Phil said and smiled. They both believe in the paranormal but nothing ever happened to them.

"OK," Brenda said and started helping him move the rest of the boxes.

Phil fixed the coffee while Brenda made the bacon and eggs. She did the toast after the bacon was done.

"At least we can sit at the table and eat," Phil said trying to lighten the mood.

"Yeah," was all Brenda said. They got the dishes and silverware set up and she brought their breakfast to the table on a platter. She was so glad they got the kitchen unpacked with the exception of what they'd need while still at the old house.

Brenda trembled all through breakfast almost spilling her coffee as she took a sip. She wondered if the girls, as they called them after hearing the voices, were just mischievous or would eventually become malevolent. She hoped they were just mischievous.

When they finished eating Brenda did the dishes and Phil started unpacking.

"I'm not sure where you want some of these things," he said to her as he opened a box of nick-knacks

"Just leave them on the table and I'll get to them. I want to finish today if at all possible," she said drying the dishes.

"Do you think we should call Bernie and see if she can come over?" Phil asked as he opened another box with more nick-knacks

"I was thinking about it," Brenda said. "But not tell her about what's happened, or what will happen before she gets here."

"Good idea," he said looking at her. "If anyone can tell about these girls she can."

"Yup," was all Brenda said and walked to the table to start on the boxes he'd already opened. There were shelves built into the one wall with cabinets on the bottom in the dining room. Here she started putting her nick-knacks

They spent the morning going through the boxes and only had seven left. It was time for lunch and Phil suggested going out.

"No. Let's just have a sandwich and go out tonight," Brenda said. "We're so close to being done I just don't want to quit."

Phil's reason for going out was to see if anything was going to happen while they were gone. But he knew when Brenda put her mind to something it had to get done so they took a bread and had lunch.

Four of the boxes were more nick-knacks, two went into the laundry room and the last one into the bathroom. Brenda left the nick-knacks for now and started on the laundry room. There were cabinets over the washer and dryer so she organized them to her liking. Phil went to the bathroom to put that box away.

He put there deodorant, toothpaste, and pills in the medicine cabinet about the sink. He was able to arrange them the way they were in the old house. Brenda would like that. As he was putting the things away the toilet paper started to unroll slowly. He didn't notice it at first but then caught the movement with the corner of his eye. He slowly turned his head and watched as the roll kept going until there was only a quarter of a roll left. It stopped and he just stood there staring at it. He broke out in a sweat and felt himself tremble. Did this really happen? Phil hesitated for a minute and walked over to where it was hanging on the wall. Gently he started to re-roll the toilet paper as best as he could until it was all back on the roll. He walked out of the bathroom and went to the laundry room where Brenda was starting on the other box.

She looked up at him and noticed all the color had drained from his face and he was shaking.

"What happened?" she asked very concerned and getting frightened.

"I was putting the stuff away and the toilet paper started to unroll," he said and sat in a chair in the dining room, which was near the laundry room. Brenda pulled a chair close to him and took his hands. She looked into his eyes and saw that he was really scared.

"Maybe I'll call Bernie tonight," she said. "They haven't done anything bad to us so maybe they're just playful," she said and tried to help him calm down a little.

"Yeah, you're right," he said, "Let's go get dinner. I'm starved." They left leaving a light on in case they were out late.

Once at the restaurant they had a short wait for a table. Brenda looked around at the people and wondered if any of them have had the problems they were having with the girls. She was so deep in thought she didn't hear the waitress tell her their table was ready. Phil gently held her elbow and nudged her on to follow the waitress.

They ordered coffee and their meal. Phil noticed she was starting to feel scared by the look in her eyes.

"It'll be all right, honey," he said taking her hands in his and smiling at her.

"I hope so," Brenda said, "Bernie said they'd be over tomorrow. She wanted to know if we are going to order pizza," Brenda said and smiled.

"Yeah, that's her way of telling us what she wants for dinner," Phil laughed.

"Well, that won't be a problem. We all like pizza and only Dave want's anchovies so we'll order all small pizzas."

They both laughed and started to feel better. Not just because Bernie would be able to help them figure out what was going on, but because they really enjoyed their company.

They finished their dinners and headed home not even thinking about what had happened at the house. But when Phil turned into the driveway they noticed all the lights were on, even the outside lights. They looked at each other almost afraid to go inside. Phil got out of car.

"You wait here," he said to Brenda as he walked to the door. He checked to be sure it was locked; it was. He unlocked the door and slowly opened it then stuck his head into the living room.

Nothing looked out of place so he decided to go through the house. Everything was just as they had left it with the exceptions of the lights. He went to tell Brenda but the door wouldn't open. It wasn't locked and he pulled as hard as he could.

"Now you girls cut it out! I just want to go get Brenda," he yelled as if speaking to a child who was disobeying. Suddenly he flew backward as the door let loose. "Damn you!"

Brenda saw the door swing open and heard Phil yell. She got out of the car and ran to the front door.

"Are you all right?" she said as she watched him get to his feet.

"Yeah, they only turned the lights on," he said still angry at them. "Then they wouldn't let me out."

"Maybe you shouldn't have yelled at them," Brenda said, "They might get back at us. You better apologize."

"The hell I will," he said and locked the door for the night.

They settled in to watch a little TV and went to bed. They were both tired from all the work they did that day and tried not to think of the girls.

A little past 1 AM Brenda felt someone tap her foot twice. She couldn't sleep with her feet covered so she definitely felt the hand.

"Phil," she screamed. He sat up at once.

"What?"

"Someone just hit my foot," she said feeling the hairs on her neck stand up.

"You sure you weren't dreaming?" he asked.

"No. I wasn't dreaming," Brenda moved closer to him and he put his arms around her.

"It'll be fine," Phil said, "They're probably pissed that I yelled at them."

"Why are they picking on me?"

"To get back at me probably," he kissed her. "Let's get back to sleep."

Around 2 AM Brenda and Phil were sleeping back to back and Phil felt someone punch his front left shoulder. He sat up so fast it woke Brenda.

"What?" she asked concerned.

"They just punched me," he said.

"Told you not to yell at them," she said, "I told you to apologize to them. Go back to sleep." The rest of the night went by peacefully but Phil didn't rest well.

The next day went without incident. That made Phil and Brenda feel so much better. Maybe the girls were just testing them. Phil decides to go outside to check out what yard work needed to be done. Their neighbor waved and said "Hi" then walked over.

"Hello, I'm Eric," he said holding out his hand. Phil shook it and said hello. "How are things going?"

"Not bad," Phil asked feeling a little inquisitive. "Why?"

"Well, we been here seven years now and, not that I'm trying to scare you away, but nobody ever made it a year."

"Really? Why? The house seems sound," Phil asked.

"Don't really know. Last year three college students rented it. One night they came running over pounding on my door. Said something about ghosts."

Phil knew what he was talking about but didn't want to let on. The way Eric sounded he thought the college students were crazy.

"No, everything's fine. We plan on staying here a long time," Phil said and smiled at his neighbor.

"Well, you need anything stop over," Eric said and shook Phils hand again.

"Thank, same here," Phil said and went back to looking over the yard.

Phil didn't realize how long he was outside until he saw Dave and Bernie pull up. He put down the broom he was using to sweep off the sidewalk and porch and waved, walking up to their car.

"Hey, good to see you guys," he said giving Dave a man-hug, and Bernie a kiss on her cheek and a hug. "Come on in and see the place. Brenda ordered us all individual pizzas and they should be here soon. I need to clean up."

They headed into the house through the back door. Bernie went in first and stopped dead in her tracks right in the doorway.

"What's wrong, dear?" Dave asked. He knew about her gift and hoped it wasn't bad news.

"Someone's here," she said and slowly walked into the kitchen. Bernie was drawn to the upstairs.

"May I go up there?" she asked as Brenda walked up to greet them. She gave them both a big hug.

"Sure. Come one," she said and led the way to the now sewing room.

"They stay up here don't they?" Bernie asked Brenda.

"Who?" she asked trying to sound like she didn't know what she was talking about.

"Don't play coy with me, young lady. They made themselves known to you didn't they?"

Brenda looked down a bit ashamed. "Yes."

The doorbell rang and Phil yelled up that he'd get it. It was the pizza.

Bernie went to the door that led to the attic and opened it. She stood there for a minute and closed her eyes. Then turned to Brenda and said, "Let's go eat."

That made Brenda feel good because if it would have been bad news Bernie would have run right out of the house. So the two women made their way down the stairs and headed for the dining room.

Phil brought each of them a beer and Brenda brought napkins.

"Here's to your new home," Bernie said and held up her bottle. Everyone clinked theirs to hers. "You have two young teens living with you," she said, "And they like you so you don't have anything to worry about."

Phil and Brenda let out a sigh.

"Now, let's eat," Bernie said as she picked up a piece of her pizza and took a bite."

### THE END

NOTE: This is a true story with the exception of the boxes and the lights. Things still get moved and feet still get tapped at night but nothing malicious ever happens.

## About Viv Drewa

Author of "Owl of the Sipian lord", "From the pages of grandfather's life" and "Angler and the owl", is a Michigan native who has enjoyed reading and writing since 1963. Though she studied medicinal chemistry at the University of Michigan her passion has always been writing. She was awarded third place for her nonfiction short story about her grandfather's escape from Poland.

Later, she rewrote this story and was published in the "Polish American Journal" as "From the Pages of Grandfather's Life". Viv then took creative and journalism courses to help in her transition to fulfil her dream of becoming a writer. She worked as an intern for Port Huron's 'The Times Herald", and also wrote, edited and did the layout or the Blue Water Multiple Sclerosis newsletter "Thumb Prints." She spends her free time working with physically and mentally challenged adults; a cause close to her heart.©2014

## The Collectors

## J.R. Cochran

I pushed the glass door open entering into Mike and Lola's Party Central an ugly, ash colored, brick building full of aisles of party supplies, from balloons, to streamers, even cakes, party foods, beverages and their own florist. Thank god it was early, the store was practically empty with only a few people staggering around the aisles. Walking up to the florist counter, I slammed my hand down on the small metal bell as I leaned against the counter. An old man in his late sixties, walked up dressed in striped pants, shirt and with bright orange garden gloves on his hands. Perhaps he was Mike, I didn't know nor did I honestly care. To me, he was just another pawn in my game, and I was winning this hand. "How can I help yah?" He spoke in a deep southern drawl, sliding the gloves off his hands. "I want to order an arrangement." I flipped the pages in the catalog rapidly. "Which one?" "I couldn't care less.

I just need something for my father's funeral tomorrow morning. So whatever you choose will suffice." I yawned rolling my eyes. I had been here only two weeks and I was already sick and tired of this annoying, disgustingly nosy small town. Talks about my pretend father's death escaped from everyone's mouth, spreading rumors faster than a deadly epidemic through people packed in a subway car. Most told of how he deserved it, had it coming to him, but some said it was an accident. Yet there were others who flatly claimed it was murder. Looks like I had been a little too sloppy, then again perhaps not. The cops had nothing, at least nothing on me that is. There had been zero evidence, no witnesses and too long of a list of possible suspects to go through. By the time it would take to clear them all, I would be long gone.

"You're a kid of Darcy's?" He asked with a surprised voice and a look of doubt. I nodded with a twisted smile on my face. "He never spoke of having another child."

"I suppose he wouldn't have, sixteen years ago my father met my mother and had a brief one night stand. She got pregnant, he never denied me but seeing as he was having an affair he wired my mother a large amount of money. To keep her quiet that is. My mother died last year in a freak car accident. Now that he is dead I can break the silence." I watched his face think through the bait, he was buying it perhaps too well. My mother had been a single mom, but this Darcy fellow wasn't my father. Yes it was true my mother died when I was fifteen, not by an accident, no, but by my hands. In order to show my loyalty I had to kill her. It wasn't that I didn't love her, I did, it's just if I kept her alive I would be dead.

That wasn't an option. Though it came at a price which left me stuck between dead and alive. Forever a slave to my master, frozen at the age of sixteen unable to move on, yet somehow unable to forget. For the last two hundred years tortured by the regret, never able to free myself from this blood contract sewn against my will. The darkness grew inside of me until the person who I once was had disappeared, leaving behind only vague pieces of the past. It transformed me from that whiny, idiotic weakling into the strong, powerful being I am today. "Well you don't look like him that's for sure. " He smiled ringing up the order.

"I hear that's a good thing" The man nodded with a kind laugh, that made me sick to my stomach. "No, I take after my mom." "Do you want this delivered, dear?" "No, John Jacobs will be getting it. I called him and he should be picking it up here just let him know when it's ready." "Any message on the card?" He pulled out a pen and ugly flora card. Though I had never been the sentimental type I was even less so now. Instead I chose to use this as a way to pass along a message to the next target that I had been assigned here. "Sure, have it say 'Sorry for your loss. Méfiez-vous, je viens pour vous. Love, your sister, Alexa Senka.' "

A twisted half smile crossed my face as I ran my fingers back through my long, silky, midnight colored hair. "That will be seventy four even." I handed the money over, took my change and headed out the door. The sidewalks were beginning to get busy. I snuck around the corner and ran down the dark alley. I glanced behind me, but no one was paying me any heed. For a town that knew everyone's business when it came to strangers they were aloof. Almost pretending like they weren't even there, stupid fools. Turning around fast, I clenched my hand tightly. If it had been up to me, I would have killed them all.

Sadly my boss would never have approved of this reckless behavior, after all, an assassins job was to keep out of sight, and well, my boss didn't want to arise attention. Especially when it came to his clients, they were to be kept at bay about the whole operation. If they caught us he would be annihilated by his boss, who was the son of the devil himself. If that is what he did to high level demons, I hated to think what happened to the enslaved souls underneath him.

With a swift run I bounded against the side of the building, flipped around landing on the lamp post before jumping up to a window ledge and again on to the roof top. "Mama," said two sweet childish voices. Climbing over I twisted around just as two tiny sets of arms wrapped around my waist. To my right stood a short, five year old, girl with curly, snow blonde hair that flared out to the sides. Her hair was held back by a headband made up of small, white, delicate flowers. Her skin was very fair, other than her cheeks which were a natural blush color, she was as white as snow.

Her eyes were a bright blue and when she smiled she lit up a room. She had this innocence about her, a frail angelic look that was anything but the truth. If anything, she was far from it, but I used the look to my advantage enhancing it with girly princess clothes. Her twin sister Buddel was laid back, more silent in comparison and always watching. She was a thin, tall, lengthy girl whose appearance was more of a country look. Her milk chocolate hair was long and often up in braided ponytails, like today, that lay on her shoulders. She had dull chocolate eyes that were too big for her thin short face, which always looked as if she was about to cry, but she was a strong girl despite her sad disposition.

She almost never spoke, while her sister Brenta was very social and outgoing. This made her very popular no matter where we went yet for Buddel, she was a simple tomboy. Mainly in the way she wore her clothes, for she normally dressed in overalls with a t-shirt underneath but today she wore a nice maple green dress with nice shiny black shoes. It was very suspicious and I knew she was up to no good.

"What have you two been up to?" I asked glaring down at them. Buddel backed away into the shadow of a large billboard that was advertising toothpaste. While Brenta stayed attached to my hip hugging me longer. Her soft cheeks rubbed against my hands like a cat does when it begs for its supper.

I ran my hand over her head and waited. "Nothing Mama" Buddel said in soft, near whisper voice. Brenta turned her head eying her. "Mama that isn't true." Brenta squeaked and glanced back up to me. There was something evil about the way she could betray innocence, melting heart with just a smile. Thankfully this had no effect on me. "Shut up!" Buddel yelled back and stuck her tongue out. "Buddel? Tell me the truth." I asked curiously, folding my arms across my chest. " I was just playing around," she responded dropping her head down. "She was messing with the baker again." Brenta tattled on her, her soft angel like face shone with a smile that didn't fool me. She probably was just as involved as Buddel. They would tell on each other so I didn't actually have to coax anything. Just merely sit back and watch, a parents dream come true. "You were doing it too, you burnt all his bread." Buddel said edging forward as Brenta finally let go of my waist getting in her face.

"Well at least I didn't burn the cookies!" She shoved Buddel knocking her back a bit. Getting up Buddel rammed her head into her waist sending Brenta flying back on her butt. They rolled around, pulling and punching at each other and after several moments I intervened, separating them apart. "I don't care who started or what you did, I told you stay away from everyone didn't I?" "Yes mama but--" they said in unison. "There is no buts, did you get seen?" They shook their heads no. "Good, we have orders now don't blow it."

Walking to the edge I glared down at the city below with disgust, shaking my head I washed my hands of them all. I plopped down against the wall, closing my eyes. The two girls following at my heel. My arms folded under my head, peeking out an eye. "Go keep watch, the wake isn't till this afternoon and I haven't slept in nearly two nights." Being immortal didn't mean I still didn't need sleep or food, it just meant I could go longer without.

The girls nodded, giggling, they separated. Brenta went to the back side while Buddel climbed the roof edge on her knees. Her tiny body curled into a ball, humming a cheerful tune as I drifted off. I never slept, not in the same sense as mortals did with dreams. At first I missed the sweet memories and the fun yet bizarre adventures that my mind often traveled on during the night. Though as time grew on, and person I was once knew was erased, so too faded the longing for these dreams until it was completely obsolete.

I awoke hours later to the frantic calls of my girls as they tugged on my legs, crying out 'mama' loudly. Opening my eyes I sat up fast to see the sky was stripped with ugly pinks, purples and oranges as the sun set in the west. I jumped onto my feet and ran to the edge, watching as the target John Jacobs walked up to the church. He had a young girl attached to his arm, she was dressed so inappropriate with her large bosoms hanging out of her tight mini dress. The church sat on the hill up the street, not far from the store. It was a single tiny bricked building with stain glass windows and a bell tower.

It mimicked every other small town's only church and I hated it. For it was ugly and all I wanted to do was douse it in gasoline, light a match, and watch it burn up in flames. Clenching my fist in a tight ball I fought the urges back, instead focusing my mind of the task at hand as hard as it was. They approached the building and in his hands sat the very flowers I had ordered. From the looks on their faces they were chatting but distance made it too hard to hear anything.

I could only assume, since the card I left was in their hand, that they were talking about my lovely gift. Pity, I really wished I could hear what they were saying. I would have enjoyed their confusion by the note. Perhaps they were angry at this discovery of their father's adultery, or that he had lied. Maybe denial, or shock, either way it would have been, to say the least, entertaining to hear.

Laughing, I followed them along the rooftop stopping at the edge. My girls following in my wake. Holding hands, they skipped together and stopped behind me. I sat low to the roof and peered over the edge. The girls knelt down beside me, and glared over. I nodded, and with soft giggles they jumped off the roof. Their heads lowered into their chest which sent them spinning as they dove fast to the ground. Right before they were to hit it they tucked their knees up, large wings popped out from their backs and they soared high above me like eagles.

The soft childlike face morphed into long fierce snouts. Within seconds, the ugly disguises my babies wore, disappeared revealing their true selves. Hovering nearby was a small, snow white dragon with a long snout full of razor sharp teeth, and two large white horns on her head. A single strand of teal blue hair ran down her neck and traveled all the way to the tip of her tail. Though only the size of a large goose, her wings were quite a bit longer and had teal blue patterns. Her eyes were large, teal colored like her mane. She flew up to my side fast rubbing her scaly, yet quite smooth face against my hand. Brenta growled in playful way before she soared up once more to the stars.

Buddel flew up nipping at her sister's snowy white tail. Buddel was the opposite of her sister,black in color, with a long purple mane that ran down her. From her head to her tail were long ivory spikes identical to the two on her head, but at the tip the sharp needle like spikes spread out into a ball. She was the same size as her sister, but her wings were instead a intense dark purple with deep black stripes. Instead of being smooth, her wings were torn, ragged pierced with large gold rings at each joint. Growling teasingly she chased her sister around me, so fast that I was barely able to catch more than quick glance of purple and white.

"Girls, we have a task at hand. Now let's go hunting." I smiled and they growled besides me. I stepped back and ran to the edge, and leapt across the alley to the next building's rooftop. I landed on my feet without making a sound. Soon after jumping several rooftops, I came to a halt at the edge. Without thought I dove fifty feet down. My feet touched the wet soft grass below and I set off racing, the two dragon gilding above, until we reached the church.

With a jump I twisted in the air, grabbed a hold of my girls backs as they lifted me up into the sky. When we were over the steeple, I rolled off and dropped softly onto it and knelt down on the edge. The whole town filtered in through the two wooden doors; this was most peculiar, I thought. Even though everyone in the town was a suspect, they all turned out for this horrid man's wake. Now whether it was out of respect for the family or to allay suspicions I didn't know, but either way, this was going to take a while.

Annoyed, I sat waiting with my arms firmly across my chest. The two dragons were playing around in the air above. With a giggle like growl they tossed golf ball sized rings of fire at each other. Could have stopped them, yet I was too intrigued in the activities of these foolish people below to really take notice. How could they put on these false masks, pretending as if they care, when in truth be told they were happy to see this scumbag dead. Though the town's people were very annoying, these lies they spun were intriguing, and more than enough entertainment for me.

When the last of the guest had left, I reached behind me and a see through crossbow formed in my hands. I grasped an arrow, rested it in, and pulled back loading the bow. A young man stepped out, he was fat and wore a dark suit with his hair slicked back with gel. He stopped under the flickering candle light and called into the church. I pulled the trigger releasing the arrow, it flew through the air and into the heart of the victim. His body fell to the ground and with a deep gasp his eyes rolled into the back of his head. The arrow in his chest vanished like a bubble as blood began to squirt out soaking the concrete. A cold smile lingered on my face, standing I pushed myself back blending into the shadows. "Nooo John," cried the girl from the doorway below. She ran out, got on her knees and placed her head to his chest. Panicked and covered in blood she jumped up, stumbled back and ran down the sidewalk screaming.

"Help someone help! Call nine one-one, someone please help." That was my cue to take my leave, with a silent whistle I called for my girls. Flying to me I ran across the arch of the roof and jumped into the air. With swiftness they grabbed me.

"Let's head back to the hotel." We flew off disappearing into the moonlight.

## About J RCochran

I have been writing since I was in middle school, but I have been storytelling since I was very little. I have always had a vast imagination and often told stories using toys, pennies, people and even video games. When I was a child you often found me outside, climbing trees exploring forest, brooks, streams, mountainsides or parks. I was deep in my own world. I called these my "adventures" and as I grew older they grew more frequent. I loved to share these worlds with others and often included them in, making them into characters in my stories. We would then play it out for days or until I grew bored of the one idea. As I grew older I often would daydream of adventures or scenes of them. Even now I still do this, the scenes never go away so ideas stay with me until I write them down. It wasn't till middle school that I was aware I could write them down and turn them into a story that many could read. Before then I almost never read at all, it was here that I found my love for books. Though I wrote a bit in middle school I had no idea I was any good until 10th grade when a creative writing teacher pushed me. To this day she is the only reason I even considered going down this road. Throughout the next ten years I wrote on and off but it wasn't until 2012 that I found my own voice, my own style. Thus The Blood Marked series was born.

## The Pink Scarf

## Shannon Thompson

Hanging on the chipped cement walls was a black sign with white bubbly letters that ordered, "Don't Dump Coffee Grinds in the Sink!"

I did it anyway, using the tip of my pinkie to stroke the remaining grinds out of my plastic coffee filter and into the enamel sink. The water spiralled brown as my skin burned red. I avoided looking in the 5x5 mirror ahead of me as I finished soaking the urn, remembering the psychology lecture from this morning. 77% of people were less likely to cheat, steal, or lie if there was a mirror in the room. I guess I was a part of the 13% that was unaffected. I wasn't sure what that meant about my overall personality, but then again, I wasn't sure I cared.

My dorm room was the second to last at the end of the hallway, and every possible seasonal decoration created by Hallmark was double taped to the flimsy frame. The resident assistant, the same girl who had made the bubbly coffee-hater sign, insisted on making door decs for each student. Everything from move-in day to return from spring break littered the crackled wood, and they all had cartoon smiles painted across the cheap construction paper. The latest one was a blooming flower— bubble gum pink—and yet I hadn't seen a single bud on campus. If the flowers didn't believe it was spring, I found it impossible for me to either.

I tore it down, unexpectedly ripping the rest of them down with it. Move-in day? Gone. Fall's arrival? Gone. Halloween pumpkins? Gone. Thanksgiving turkey?

Gone. Christmas departure? Gone. Valentine's Day? Ripped in half.

There was something eerily pleasant about seeing the door covered with only my roommate's name. I liked being gone. I liked not having a place to be. That's why I chose what I meant to choose.

I walked inside, kicking the heavy door closed behind me, and locked it. The sparkling coffee pot returned to the burner, and the holiday nametags were carefully folded inside my vanity drawer. My movies—a very small collection of films from the 50's—were stacked alphabetically, and all of my journals were pushed to the back my closet. The rest of my belongings were snuggling together in the minuscule trashcan by my desk.

I smiled with satisfaction, knowing that the room suddenly looked as if I had never really lived there at all. I pranced to my closet, sprung it open, and carefully picked out a long-beaded scarf, gifted to me by my aunt. It was the same delightful pink as the flower decoration the resident assistant made, and I hoped she would appreciate that.

I wrapped it around my neck, did a little dance, and pulled my chair away from the desk. For miles, I could see outside our dorm room window, and I wondered for a moment if anyone in the cars, even if they were miles away, could see me. Quickly, I decided this was impossible, mainly because no one drives with binoculars pointed at dorm rooms (at least, I hoped not), and secondly because the police would already be knocking on my flimsy door, begging me not to do it. Maybe they wouldn't even bang on the door. Maybe they would just break it down since it needed to be replaced anyway. A part of me wondered what it would be like to be begged to do it.

This is where my mind went as I wrapped the far end of my scarf around the draining pipes on the ceiling. As any complicated story goes, my older sister's ex-boyfriend's, best friend's ex did herself in by hanging herself on the same pipes I was holding onto—only two buildings over, three flights up, and two years in between, so I was pretty sure my scarf would hold me up once I stepped off.

Suddenly, and without any notice, the air conditioning gusted on, and I gasped, falling off the chair as it tumbled backwards. The cloth pulled, choking me momentarily, and then my back hit the ground, the pink cloth spiralling down and into my face.

It had come undone.

I coughed, my stomach lurching, and I spread my legs out as I stared at the draining pipe with wonder. Even inanimate objects kicked my ass.

Then, the doorknob of our room wiggled, and I jumped to my feet as my roommate's voice filled the air. "Hey—"

She stopped in the entryway, her brown pupils widening as she glanced around the shared room. I held my breath, knowing she must have figured it out, but she shut the door without crucifying my selfish actions.

"Nice," she finally breathed, throwing her backpack onto her desk before she picked up the tumbled chair from the floor. "It's finally clean in here."

I exhaled sharply and nodded as she moved around the room, checking things out, not realizing that the reason it was clean was because I had thrown all my belongings away. I stood up, brushed my pants off, and sat down in my own chair, expecting not to talk again, but she whistled to gain my attention.

"Mind if I open a window?" she asked.

"Go for it."

Her short curls bounced as she turned the crank, and wind blew in between the glass and the wall. For once, it was warm. Spring must have arrived, after all.

I stared at my wall, refusing to get up to see if the flowers had – in fact – bloomed that afternoon. I bet they would be small and pink. They always were.

The coffee pot beeped, and my roommate walked right past me to grab a mug.

When she filled it, she didn't drink it. She only placed it on my desk.

"You look tired," she noted, only to have her eyes drag over my face. I prepared myself for an array of interrogation.

"By the way," she started speaking, "Cute scarf."

## About Shannon A Thompson

Shannon A. Thompson is an award-winning author, poet, and blogger. She was first published when she was 16 years old, and she hasn't stopped since. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies, journals, and novels, including a Norwegian magazine. In 2013, she signed The Timely Death Trilogy with AEC Stellar Publishing, Inc. After releasing the first installment, her young-adult, paranormal romance, Minutes Before Sunset, became Goodreads Book of the Month. Since then, the sequel, Seconds Before Sunrise, released, and AEC Stellar Publishing released her latest novel, Take Me Tomorrow, on July 17, 2014.

Outside of her publications, Shannon A. Thompson graduated from the University of Kansas with a bachelor's degree in English with an emphasis on creative writing.

Visit her at ShannonAThompson.com
