 
### The Indie Collaboration Presents

### Summer Shorts

A eclectic collection of stories from various authors. From action filled science fiction to dark sinister chills, humorous mystery, and wild impish fun. Ideal for for relaxing in the summer sun.

**ISBN:** 9781310171154

Copyright Retained By Authors

Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this e-book. It remains the copyrighted property of the authors, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy. Thank you for your support.

###  Contents

SARAH'S TREE BY PAUL RAVEN

THE KITCHEN IMPS BY A. L. BUTCHER

BOOTS? BY DONNY SWORDS

THE CASE OF THE SIX BROKEN MILK BOTTLES BY CHRIS RAVEN

HENRY'S WINDOWS BY ALAN HARDY

TALIA SARAN: SUMMER ON INDIGO PRIME BY D.C. ROGERS

WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW BY MADHU KALYAN MATTAPARTHI

DREAMING BY SONYA C. DODD

NEWPORT MEMORIAL REGATTA BY KRISTINA BLASEN

BRITISH SUMMER TIME BY A.L BUTCHER

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

OTHER PUBLICATIONS BY THE INDIE COLLABORATION

#  Sarah's Tree By Paul Raven

In the Kentish countryside tucked away in the folds of the North Downs, lies the small village of Midas Green. I doubt very much if many people have heard of it, yet only a few years ago it was associated with a tragedy that was both macabre and strange. Midas Green has been classed as a village since before history was recorded and it is first noted in the Doomsday Book as having the grand population of sixty-one. With that one exception, fame or popularity had never disturbed the tranquility of village life that was strictly tied to the never ending rhythm of the passing seasons. It grew larger of course, but it remained essentially the same. Built in roughly the shape of an horse shoe surrounding a large green, it remained unspoilt by the changing times.

I spent my childhood there. Free to roam the fields and woodlands of the surrounding countryside with the other village boys, almost without restriction. The local farmers tolerated our escapades with the good humored outlook that 'boys will be boys', and even treated our seasonal scrumping raids on their orchards with only token severity. The fact was that we were country-bred and, as such, had an innate respect for the farmers fields as they well knew. So it was that we had fields to roam, trees to climb, and streams to fish or paddle in with no one to say yea or nay.

There was only one place we were not allowed to play and it was enforced by every adult in the village, whether it was their child or not. That place was Sarah's tree and it stood like a permanent temptation to every tree climbing boy in the center of the village green. An old elm, it stood gnarled and twisted by time, reputed to be the headstone of the only witch the village had known. The story was that she had terrorized the village during the Civil War, cursing people, animals and crops alike until the village feared and hated her so much that they reported her to the church authorities at Canterbury as a heretic and devil worshiper.

The reaction of Canterbury was swift and terrible. Within days of the report being made, a Franciscan Monk with his authority backed by four Cromwellian troopers, arrived at the village and interrogated Sarah in her cottage. The result of which was that on the Monk's orders the troopers dragged Sarah screaming to the center of the green and burned her alive. The pyre was the entire contents of her home and, even as the fire was still flickering, they left the stunned village as suddenly as they came.

The legend was that the elm tree had sprouted almost over night from the ashes of Sarah's final resting place. In the years that followed the story goes that anyone damaging that elm tree was dogged by ill fortune, sometimes ending in tragic and violent death. My grandfather told the story of the three village lads who were called up in the army for the duration of the nineteen fourteen war and they all vowed to meet back in the village after they had given the Bosch the lesson they deserved. They each picked a leaf from Sarah's tree and placed it in their pocket books to remind them of home and left to go to war. At the end of the war only two returned, the other having died in the Flanders mud. Of the two that returned, one was minus an arm and the other had a racking cough that he had as the result of a mustard gas attack on the Somme. The one-armed man took his leaf and buried it one night at the foot of Sarah's tree, to expiate the angry spirit he said. The other, having lost his, died several years later when he had coughed until one of his lungs collapsed.

As a child, I absolutely believed that the tree was cursed and when I reached manhood I left the village for the big town and began to doubt and then finally disbelieve the story as superstitious nonsense.

I kept in touch with the village over the years, first by the occasional visit then, after my father died, by letter to a boyhood friend who had stayed to run his father's farm. I thought no more of Sarah's tree until in the September of 1973 I received the following letter from my friend in Midas Green.

***

Dear Stephen,

I don't know if you remember the story of Sarah's tree that we had drummed into us as youngsters, but the strangest thing has happened. I suppose you know that Dutch Elm disease has been decimating our trees this year, well poor old Sarah has contracted it and has got to go. The village doesn't seem to know whether to be pleased or not and, though none of them will admit to it, there seems to be a current of uneasiness running through the village. It's funny really that even in this day and age that people can be slave to dark-age superstition.

Anyway Stephen, the tree is to come down the weekend after next so why don't you come down and stay at my place and we can drink a toast to old Sarah, the only tree for miles we never climbed as boys.

Hoping to see you soon,

John.

***

At the time pressure of work prevented me from making the trip even though I was quite taken by the idea of seeing part of my past before it was finally gone forever. I imagined the village would look strangely bare without that old tree's shadow. I wrote to John with some regret but I asked him to let me know how it went on the big day, for a big day in the village life it would

certainly be, because they were to lose, wanted or not, part of their history.

Sure enough, in due course, John's letter came.

***

Dear Stephen,

I am sorry you could not make it but perhaps another time soon.

Well Stephen, I am really at a loss to describe the other day at the tree felling. There was nothing to it really, if you look at it coldly, but there was something definitely strange about the whole operation. For one thing, the turnout by the village was very poor, only a few youngsters gathered to watch. The whole village seemed to be in hiding. I know it sounds stupid but that's the impression I had at the time. It only took about three hours all told to clear poor old Sarah away until only her poor stump remained and even that has been laced with poison I believe. There were five men with a large lorry to do the job and they ' certainly made short work of Sarah. Another thing that struck

odd as well was that I spoke to the foreman in charge and he reckoned that there had been a mistake because Sarah did not have Dutch Elm disease in his opinion, but orders are orders and the tree had to go. I think that the fellow from the Forestry Commission had been misled by the general appearance of Sarah and had taken it for granted. If you remember Stephen, that tree has never looked right even when we were boys. The village looks strange now without her but I suppose we will soon become accustomed to it. Anyway there was no earthquake or streaks of lightning so I suppose there could have been no truth in the stories we heard all those years ago. Still there were more of us who believed in them than those who cared to admit. Still she has gone and already there is talk of having a cricket pitch laid out, now she is not in the way of the bowler. So Stephen, that seems to be that. Sarah is no longer there to frighten naughty children, a pity I suppose.

Don't forget to come and see us as soon as you can.

See you soon,

John.

***

I really thought that was the end of the matter until a week later I received yet another letter from John and I was shocked at the tone of fear that had crept into what was really only a

brief note.

***

Dear Stephen,

I am enclosing some newspaper clippings. Please let me know what you think as I do not want to influence your thinking, but I fear Sarah has not finished with Midas Green even yet. Please let me know what you think as soon as possible.

John.

***

In the envelope were three newspaper clippings all obviously from different editions. The first was dated one week ago and read:

Tragedy at Local Mill.

A saw-miller died in what must be the most bizarre accident to have occurred in recent years. Apparently, while he was engaged in his duties of quartering large bulks of timber on the largest saw the mill owns, the blade disintegrated, filling the working area with flying shrapnel, he died immediately. When the timber was examined it was found to contain a small iron cooking kettle of uncertain antiquity within the trunk. Experts are divided in their opinions on how it came to be there but the prevalent theory is the tree has grown around the kettle over the years until the unfortunate mill-worker tried to cut into it. The name and address of the victim has been withheld until next of kin can be informed.

***

Written on the bottom of this clip in red ink John had put:

"I checked, it was definitely Sarah!"

I felt suddenly cold as I lay down the clipping and picked up the next. This was much shorter than the first and dated a day later:

Foot and Mouth Outbreak in Kent.

Foot and Mouth has been confirmed to have broken out in Kent and is believed to be centralized on the village of Midas Green. The Ministry of Agriculture spokesman said today that the source of the disease had been identified and provided all safety precautions were observed there was little fear of it spreading.

***

Coincidence, I thought impulsively, as I threw down the clipping and picked up the third. Johns' letting his imagination run away from him. I wish now that I had been right but even my cynicism was shaken as I read the third.

School Bus in Accident.

A school bus ran off the road in the Kentish countryside last night after the brakes failed. Luckily no one was seriously injured but a police spokesman said that it was fortunate that the bus was about to drop off its last passengers at the village of Midas Green when the accident occurred or more children could have been involved. Inquiries are continuing into why the brakes failed as they did.

***

Coincidence, even then I hung on to the belief that it was only that. I convinced myself that these occurrences could have no relation to the fact that a tree had been cut down in a village in Kent. That was then. I know better now for I write this just after saying goodbye to John for the last time. The churchyard at Midas Green now holds yet another Parishioner in a freshly turned grave. Apparently John had been ploughing the north acreage when it had begun to rain hard, turning the freshly ploughed field into a sea of mud. They believe he had overturned the tractor in his hurry to reach shelter. The tractor had pinned him down with its weight pushing him face down into the mud. When at last his strength had given out, he had suffocated in the same soft earth he had toiled to create. Why Sarah? Why? All he had done was watch, he had not wielded the axe, so why punish him? Tonight I am going to emulate that one-armed soldier all those years ago and try to pacify old Sarah. While the village sleeps I shall bury a small crucifix at the base of the stump which, in spite of all the poisons placed in it, shows signs of fresh greenery. Perhaps once one person has acknowledged her power, Sarah will sleep again.

© Paul Raven 2014

#  The Kitchen Imps By A. L. Butcher

The kitchen was dark, just a faint sliver of moonlight shone through the big glass windows, which during daylight looked out over a rather mundane patio and a nondescript garden in an equally nondescript street. It was not a large room, this being a particularly cramped dwelling, at least for the human but he was not the only creature who lived here. Although of course, in the manner of humans he thought he was the most important, he was wrong. The human believed he ran this dwelling, in that too he was wrong.

For a while the other creatures which dwelled here listened, pointed and hairy ears alert to any sounds, and eyes red and bulbous watching in the darkness. It was silent, save the drip-drip of the leaky tap and the soft squeak-squeak of one of the kitchen's mousy occupants. The boldest of the small creatures pushed past the salt cellar, haphazardly shoved onto a shelf; it was a good deal taller than the creature and for good measure he kicked it hard. The salt cellar moved, teetering over the edge of the wooden shelf above the sink. The imp grinned, sharp and brown teeth revealed in a round but rather squashed face, a cap fashioned from the washing rags, which kept mysteriously vanishing according to the householder, adorned a bulbous head. The blue and white check pattern oddly reflected in the shiny silver cruet as a shaft of moonlight hit it. He kicked the salt cellar again bouncing with glee as it tumbled, showering salt hither and thither onto the floor.

The imp tugged the remains of a face flannel about his rather hunched shoulders, another item purloined, this one pink with a grinning yellow duck, such as a human child would have, or perhaps someone who liked ducks. It did not suit the imp, but the creature was extraordinarily proud of his garment. It marked him out as leader, as the chieftain of this little group.

Using a line no thicker than a length of cotton, which indeed was what it was, the imp slid down from the shelf. The cotton had been incautiously discarded next to the sewing box, and the reel of it was held by another imp – the Holder of the Sacred Rope. The sewing box itself was a treasure-trove for the imps, and each and every one held a needle, a sharpened button or scrap of cloth as a weapon or hook with which to climb. Those mice and the giant spider which lurked under the fridge could be pesky critters after all. Buttons were another item the householder found wanting in the dwelling. He knew he bought them on a regular basis but he could not, for the life of him, work out where they went, possibly the same place as his socks or keys. Ah yes the socks, perfect for imp bedding, but the human did not know that.

The creature bounced from a tap to land in the stainless steel sink, chuckling when he saw the clean, empty expanse of stainless steel, the pristine sideboards and the carefully stacked washing up. This was going to be very enjoyable. Standing in a small puddle he beckoned the others down and one by one they slid down the cotton thread, yelling with glee at the prospect of mayhem. Their calls were beyond the hearing of any human being but alerted the elderly dog dozing in the corner; the hound opened one sleepy eye and growled, then barked once, and having done its duty to alert the household something was amiss returned to its slumber. The imps liked the dog, it was soft and slow and sometimes left food in its bowl. It was, they thought, a shame about the smell.

The imps quickly scattered around the kitchen, their tiny but very efficient little legs carrying them far and wide, hunting for scraps and mayhem to be had. Small they might be but what they lacked in stature they made up for in cunning and mischief. One produced a small grappling hook- a twisted piece of wire and a magnet linked to silk stolen from an unfortunate and now very deceased spider and calling to nineteen others the imp spun the grapple around its head, and with a flick captured the handle of the refrigerator door. They were old hands at this and new exactly how many were required for their naughty plan.

Twenty small bodies heaved and tugged until the door flew open and the delicious and above all messy contents were revealed to many grabbing hands and hungry mouths, which gobbled and stuffed and dribbled with delight at the repast. One of the imps, a tiny individual even by imp standards, spotted an open dish containing a lovely sticky sauce. Yelling at the top of his lungs he leapt over the bodies of his fellows and dived headfirst into the stickiness. He rolled and bathed and wriggled then for good measure he stood on the edge of the dish and jumped up and down until it tilted and fell. Howling and dancing with sheer euphoria he was as the contents fell to the floor with a deeply satisfying, "Splat!"

Imps, still clamoring for room ran pell-mell through the glorious mess, sliding about on the tiled and formerly spotless floor. Another grapple found the pantry door and a myriad of small, but gleeful and sticky bodies leapt upwards, pulling, hauling and tugging. As the door swung open the imps pushed and shoved, grabbed and threw, clutched and gobbled. Flour fell like snow, a fine coating upon all it touched. Soy sauce tumbled and the glass bottle shattered, glass and liquid making sharp mountains and brown rivers amongst the white. Then came the tomato sauce, red and sticky, mixing in the mayhem. Four imps tugged their leader on a pilfered dish-cloth, like a sled on ice, only far more sticky. Eggs, the shells being used as hats or even tiny boats sliding in the mess brought ever more delight to the imps and still the dog snoozed, snoring and farting as it did so.

The smallest imp began to tug at the washing up piled neatly, now dry it was merely waiting to be put away. The householder would soon regret his procrastination. Finally the dog roused from all the noise padded arthritically over to the center of the ruined kitchen, his paws moving through ketchup, jam and sundry other stickiness. Suddenly with a crash the plates cascaded from the draining board, smashing, bouncing and rolling in a cacophony of carnage. The door opened and every single imp disappeared, moving faster than the eye could see to leave an old and bemused dog in the middle of broken china, spoiled jars, squirted ketchup and other mischief.

A bellowing voice yelled in consternation "Rufus! You naughty boy! Out into the yard you go and there you stay until you learn to be a good boy!"

With that a hand grabbed the dog by the collar and the unfortunate animal was dragged whimpering to the aforementioned garden. The owner of the hand muttered and swore slamming the door to leave a poor and above all innocent hound to whimper in the rain. Within the kitchen a gleeful laugh echoed as the owner of the kitchen shook his head unaware of the tiny pairs of eyes enjoying their mischief.

© A.L. Butcher 2014

#  Boots? By Donny Swords

Calmly.

That is how he did everything. No move or gesture was dramatic. He moved with an effectiveness that subtly spoke. He knew things, had been around. He was experienced. The lines in his face said so. His easy manner suggested he learned from those adventures. Where he wore wrinkles, lines suggested happiness. He had earned those wrinkles while smiling.

It was dawn when we sat down at the table in his kitchen. We had pulled an all-nighter. I still could not believe it. I had nodded off for around ten minutes, while he had gotten up to stretch his legs a bit. When he came back in reeking of cigarettes, I was already up, with a cup of Joe in my hand.

"Sorry darling. Had to go out. Some of these are powerful memories. Whew, the shit I've done. I hope Jesus still loves me."

He had just said one of his famous lines. I had to pinch myself. I was in his kitchen, holding a coffee cup... I had his poster on my wall when I was 14. I am 32 now. It is funny. I do not think my feelings have changed.

"What do you say we go down to the beach? They can serve our breakfast out there."

"Sure," I smiled, probably awkwardly. I still wanted to pinch myself. I could barely speak. He reached out his arm, I hooked mine in his, taking his hand. Here I was, writing his story...

Sid Justice.

"Thanks."

"That's my pleasure darling."

Outdoors the air was refreshing, warm, but not sweltering, pleasant. The seaside sparkled as we walked down the beach, his beach; the whole island was his. Sid was smart when it came to his royalties. I wondered how he did it. How he was able to keep such a low profile. He let go of me and began to speak. I fumbled with my notebook and gave him the recorder to hold as he spoke.

"Toronto."

"Why was Toronto so wild?"

Did I really ask him that? It felt like a dream.

"Me."

"You? What did you do that was so crazy?"

I felt grateful for the recorder as Sid sat on a stone, knowing that I had not begun taking notes. That is the last time I worried about the notebook. The tape did turn out to be my savior...

Sid began to speak.

I could barely see his lips moving behind his beard, graying in places... He still sounded the same as he used to on TV or the radio, though he looked radically different. Gone were the long wavy tresses and full head of hair he had once enjoyed. His head was clean-shaven, a long beard helped interrupt his brazen baldness. His skin, a tanned bronze, shone shiny, clean, and soft in all the right ways. I realized I was swooning a bit. Even though Sid was in his late sixties, over twice my age, he still had the power to magnetize.

"I woke up at 8:49. At least that is what the clock said.

Dang it, I'm late again.

There was no need to put on my blue jeans and look out the window. The van was gone. I knew it. The guys never stuck around.

Somehow, I always found my way...

How I made it to everything was beyond me to comprehend, above anybody's ability in fact. It was only my second long road tour, in support of "Love Smokes," but I was already a road legend. I dragged my jeans on anyhow, trying not to wake up the red haired sweetie I brought back to the motel, and did not remember.

My feet felt sore on the shag.

Looking down revealed too much about the night before, the debris, my cracked feet, their tenderness, and scabs... the beer cans, liquor bottles, clear, green, and brown, all told the same story. Half the trip had ended like this. I frequently woke up with women, in strange places, barefoot, often broke, and lost. At least this time I had landed at my own motel, much easier to manage.

I slipped on my soft blue t-shirt with my bandmates' side project artwork scrawled over the chest stating, "Paper Zombies." I found a pack of cigarettes on the bathroom counter, and picked them up as I searched for my boots.

I could have panicked. The year before, in similar situations, I had. Things came simpler this time around. Often, I absentmindedly went about my actions, rolling through a kind of mental checklist.

"Girl?"

"Check."

"Is she awake?"

"Nope... Good."

"Showtime?"

"8 PM/Eleven hours."

"Boots?"

"Damn it."

I put one of the cigarettes to my lips, half-sneering, half-smiling as I stepped out of the motel room. The girl just kept sleeping. I let her. It was always better when they slept.

"Wheels?"

"Nope."

The band had grease-spotted me again. I often found myself in such predicaments, finding nothing but oil drippings where the tour van should have been.

I would have to make it to Toronto by eight... I checked my wallet- plenty of cash. No problem. I headed towards the gift shop. It was open. Ah, what a small miracle- I had woke up in my own motel. That was a good sign. The sun above was another one. I hoped it would be a nice drive or ride... or whatever form of transportation I would end up taking to the show.

The clerk greeted me as I came in.

"How may I help you?"

"Do you sell boots?"

"Yes. Only the two pairs. I have most the sizes in stock." The elderly woman motioned to the opposite wall. This was where mental conflict normally took place for others. Not so for me. I went to the boots, seeing the ones I wanted before I saw the other, less expensive ones.

"Do you have a 12 in those?"

It only took about a minute for her to find them.

"How about a pair of socks, do you have any?"

"Yeah, we have single pairs. You'll save money if you pick up the multi-pack though."

"No thanks, one pair works."

"Suit yourself."

She frowned as she looked at my feet. They looked rather beat up, as if I often went barefoot. I did, just as often as I blacked out. I got wild, whether the chips were down or not. I partied like a rock star, and rumors followed wherever I roamed.

The boots shone sleekly, and they should have, for $800. Eel-skinned and fancy, with silver tips... just the thing I needed for the Sky Dome that evening. I was going to rock, plain and simple.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Yeah, do you have any black denim jeans, and a belt that might match the boots?"

"I have a few."

She pointed them out, and soon enough I was leaving with my purchases. My wallet was $1300 thinner. So what? I made more cash every day. It was nothing but a thing.

I finally settled on a taxi, which cost an excessive amount. I sat in back doing rails and drinking vodka straight from the bottle. The driver kept asking if I would be able to pay, so finally, my nerves growing thinner, I slapped a wad of cash on her seat.

"Just drive, and don't mind me darling."

Looking at the cash, she was aghast.

"Where did you get so much money?"

"I'm no criminal- if that's what you are implying sweetheart. I'm a singer. A damn good one, when my head is right."

She smiled sweetly. I noticed her for the first time, not half-bad, for an older chick. I had my share last night. I sat back feeling confident I would make it to the show on time. Saying nothing, I stared at the forest going by on my right. Canada is a great place, but a cold one. I chuckled. I felt fine.

Toronto or bust!

I soon grew weary of staring out the window, falling asleep. I sorely needed sleep. I had not slept much the prior evening. Hell, I never slept. The driver was good for her word, dropping me at the Sky Dome ahead of schedule.

Dale was standing next to the van when I got there. After listening to the bassist's snide rhetoric, I balled Dale out for grease spotting me. I went inside for the sound check. It rocked. My voice cut through the stadium like a buzz saw.

I strolled off the side wing, without speaking to Alan, (the drummer) or Peter, (the guitarist). Five hours until show time... I went and found something to eat, a couple small sandwich wedges provided by the venue.

Sid Justice, I was two touring years in, and already the band was headliners. It was my name in the lights though. If they kept leaving me behind, I would do the same to them- permanently.

I went back to the dressing area, stripping by the small shower and got myself cleaned up. Then I went out to the van and found a new t-shirt, one not so stiff from spilt beer, or so spent.

The crowd began arriving around three, packing the parking lot. Hoots and hollers rang out over rumbling muscle cars playing thunderous heavy metal- turned up a notch above ten in most cases. This was a heated crowd, and a hefty one.

Surveying them, I was not nervous. A wide grin cranked my cheeks upwards, my eyes lit with enthusiasm. It was the show of a lifetime. I was ready.

I went out into the hallway, somewhat blasted by the substances and alcohol I had consumed, for the better part of the day. With me, this went with the territory. I had never missed a show, not even a note. So what? It was fun.

Alan was pacing the hall where it turned left towards the room where the sandwiches were. Sweating, and agitated- again. The drummer's nerves always failed him before the show...

"Dude, Alan, chill out buddy, no use having a coronary."

"That's easy for you to say."

"Yeah? How so? Last, I checked I have a bucket load of words to remember. I'm front and center. Honestly man, just keep the beat. You always do well, and, nobody can see you all that well anyhow. Get ready; we've got to rock their socks off. It's our night man. Don't let us down."

"That's why dude- it's a BIG gig. What if we mess up?"

"We won't- never do."

"Here puff this, it will mellow you out. I'm running down the hall for a snack. Want to come?"

Alan followed me down the hall. Dale met us there, his face full of desperation.

"Guys, help me hide- she's back!"

I smiled, "Here's your chance Alan. Everyone else has been there."

The bassist's face went rose in embarrassment.

"Nah."

"Where's Peter?"

"Where else?"

I should have known better than to ask. Peter was up to trouble. Guitarists often acted out, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.

What else was new?"

Sid paused. I could see him process and disqualify what he was going to say. Any journalist ever to interview Sid Justice had to be patient. If I was going to succeed where my peers had not, I had to remain personable. It had not been easy to get this interview. I am not a pushy reporter. Maybe this is because I am not established. I did not get to speak to Sid on merit. I went through different channels. My goal was never a single interview. I want to write his memoirs. You see, Sid is my hero.

He bent against the wind, palming an orange disposable lighter, propped a cigarette into his crooked mouth, and sparked it up. Three perfect puffs of smoke came from his mouth, as he turned towards me with a thoughtful look on his face.

"See, thing is darling, I might not want to talk about that afternoon."

"I know my fellow journalists pressed you, but I won't. Thing is Sid- well that is my point actually. You are Sid Justice. Everyone expects you to have a crazy story or two. I am confident it won't affect your image, whatever you choose to say."

"Damn, you're good sunshine, but I'll just say this."

"Girl?"

"Check."

"All good?"

"Yep, feeling fine."

"Showtime?"

"Ready."

"Boots?"

"Hell yeah."

We hit the stage at exactly 8 PM. Thunderous riffs sliced through the air like a giant broad sword. Applause carried over the wall of music, as dual bass drums shook the ground and heavy metal- my way- came to town.

All was mayhem. All was bliss.

My right hand made a fist around the microphone as I bent towards the stand, my hair blown back by fans, and my right eel-skin boot propped on the monitor speaker, left fist in the air.

"I can hear you scream,

I control your dreams,

I will make you fiend,

I control all things,

I can see your eyes,

You don't want to die,

I can feel your pain,

Stick the needle in your vein."

The crowd was electric and large, numbering in the high thirty thousands, and Sid Justice was on fire- kings for a night. Objects of affection and offerings of appreciation found their way to the stage.

By the end of the first number, I had to ask the crowd to hold back so I could introduce the band...

"Alan Parker on drums!"

"Dale Foster on bass!"

"Peter Paul on guitar!"

"Who am I?"

I bent towards the crowd, cupping a palm over my left ear.

"Sid Justice!"

"That's right!"

"When I ask you who you are, you say Toronto! Are you with me?"

"Yeah!" came the crowd's reply. There was working room.

"I couldn't hear you! Now, you can go around being sheepish, or you can rock. Lemme hear you one more time!"

"WHO ARE YOU?"

"TORONTO!"

"That's right! Goddamn, I think you have that licked. You know who you are. The question is what do you do? Why are you here? Why?"

The drums pounded out an infectious groove, the bass joined in. Spirits were at stake.

"Well I'll tell you why. It's why I'm here. It's why we're all here. When I ask what we do? You say 'We rock!' Got that?"

The drums kept on, the stage lights were low. A single spotlight shone over me, silver light framing my silhouette against the drum riser.

Now, what do we do?

"We rock!"

"Aw, c'mon, now I know you can do better than that, and you know it. Put your organs into it... WHAT DO WE DO?"

"WE ROCK!"

"That's right!"

Peter Paul's Stratocaster cut in, announcing Sid Justice's early song, Dreamweaver. The riff was enthralling, entrancing, evermore... it pumped pure magic into the air, igniting the crowd.

"Razor's edge,

Cutting blade,

No running to shelter,

No hiding from pain,

Shell of a man,

Lost in isolation,

A victim of love,

Martyr of hate,

Dreamweaver."

The second song had the crowd in pandemonium. Mosh pits erupted on the floor, crowd surfers rode on thousands of outstretched palms, and rockers wrestled for position, struggling to get their hand on the rail, the final barrier to the stage to avoid the ocean of bodies sweeping them away.

Alan's beat segued into the next number without pausing...

Dale's bass pumped a solid rhythm to the masses...

Peter's Am arpeggio sounded bell-like, beautifully blending with the rhythmic beat...

"Hey Mister- what's wrong with you?

What kind of thing did this to you?

Hello in there, is everything alright?

You're kind of drooling, and you look uptight.

Hey-ay-ay-aa-ay.

Hey Mister."

When the music stopped after the third song, we had won Toronto over. Whenever a group plays a show, the first couple of tunes put the audience on the fence. It is up to us to tip the fans our direction, no matter our legendary status. "Hey Mister" was a genuine crowd pleaser. I had a formula, the first song always rocked. Always a fast number, the opener had to give the fans release, a chance to pump their fists in the air. The second song had to engage the audience. By the third, they had to be singing along.

Toronto sang.

With every tune, the excitement grew. Bras and thongs, photos and signs flew onstage. The party was full steam. The audience sang every word.

"Chains" was the final song we played, the thirteenth tune that evening left the crowd in smithereens, rocked to the point of exhaustion. "Rock-xhaustion!"

"Another world brings us back,

High on sin,

Running with the pack,

Forever lonely,

Lonely is my name,

I can't live down my shadows of fame,

Sitting in a cloud of smoke,

Mind is blowing,

It's all a joke-

Chains."

"I didn't really care for the lifestyle, you know? I know it sounds like I did, free times, free dope, loose women- booze. It was all a front. I had to make a living. Toronto changed that somehow. Hell, it changed me. The after party was off the hook..."

As Sid spoke, I began to come to grips with who he was. I felt his wisdom, and sensed his kindness. He was genuine, real. I have met a few stars in my time, but none carried themselves like Sid.

"By the time I hit my dressing room, things were out of control. I remember the girl I brought along, and two others meeting me there. I don't think it's appropriate to kiss and tell, so I'll move on. But, that isn't why I mentioned it. They had vodka- about a pint I guess. It got me started. I went on a roll fairly soon after.

Occasionally, experiencing stardom is rewarding. We joined the actual party after my band had. As soon as I hit the door, I was signing photos. Someone handed me a beer in a red plastic cup. We laughed and joked. The girls I brought from the dressing room fanned out in the room. Soon, they were magnets on one of my bandmates' arms.

Funny how that works, these girls make their rounds- no offense.

Dudes passed me handfuls of party supplies- weed, pills, and booze kept coming... a lot of illegal stuff. I just took it all. If somebody said, "Here, take this," I did.

It got crazy. Things went askew. Hell darling, I probably drank a gallon of booze. Least I remember that much.

Booze is the great eraser. I can tell you that.

Dudes raced me with mugs of beer. We did rails in between... One girl kept rolling me joints. I remember talking to Alan with a gal draped on my arm. I was fully dressed- That's it."

Sid looked serious then, his lines stretched taut over his forehead, his lips parsed by his beard.

"Funny thing is that's actually a sweet memory. My companion was worth spending time around. Her raven hair, dark eyes, and curves amazed me. Guess I couldn't tell you her name if the horsemen showed themselves and the only way I could save us all was to know. It isn't too snazzy, just the truth.

Waking up was the crazy part. Now, not waking up per say. I came to. The world had been moving, and me with it. I just didn't remember a lick."

We came to a gazebo, and Sid motioned me to a seat. He produced a flask as he sat down opposite of me. His eyes sparkled gently, devilishly.

"When my brain finally knew what I was seeing, I sat on a bench, staring at my beat up feet, cursing under my breath.

Someone had spoken to me. I had my hand cupped to my forehead, frightened to look up. I did. As shock hit my system, the homeless man seated next to me stated the case.

"I don't know who you are, but you sure can party!"

The guy was blasted. His matted hair framed a deeply wrinkled face. What teeth my new companion had were stained a dark yellow or broken stumps. He was clutching a bottle of black label whiskey. I had one too. I had to look away.

I was screwed.

I surveyed the city in front of me.

Manhattan.

The city sparkled that day, the twin towers still stood... I took it in, shocked, and scared...

"Blackout?"

"Yup."

"Girl?"

"Nope, worse."

"Showtime?"

"8 PM."

"Wheels?"

"Nope."

"Cash?"

"Nope."

"Miles to go?"

"300 or more."

"Dang!"

"Boots?"

"Nope."

"Things went differently then. We had phones in boxes, they took coins, but you could call folks collect. Sounds crazy now, but that's how it was done in the 80's. It took me two hours to find one, I kept asking people what time it was.

I remember dudes giving me strange glances. It was wild. Bless Jesus. I was only a kid. I had a devil-may-care chip on my shoulder. I don't remember how I shook the bum. I just remember finding a newspaper vendor. Following a blackout, it's always good to find out the date. Nothing could describe my relief fairly. My black out occurred the prior night. This good news diminished the odds I caused any lasting damage in my wake.

Finding a phone booth made me feel a bit better- except for Mike. Mike, our manager had gotten tired of my messing around. He was not happy. Even as he spoke to the operator, I heard his animosity."

Operator: "I have a collect call from Sid Justice. Do you accept?"

Mike: "Oh yeah of course. This ought to be good."

"Where are you?"

"Oh man, he was livid. I couldn't imagine how red-faced he must have been."

"Hello? Where are you?"

There was no use sugar coating anything.

"Manhattan."

"Damn it!"

"Lucky for you, the band plays Rochester tonight. I'm wiring money."

The agent explained where I needed to go to pick up the cash.

"Did you lose your boots again?"

"Yeah."

"I hate you."

Mike hung up on me. The phone went dead. I set out. You know the rest. That evening we recorded our live album and video, "Live at the Gates."

After The Gates released, Sid Justice became a household name. He wears a black silk shirt, blue jeans, and ebon motorcycle boots in the film. I used to play my copy of The Gates to death.

He rocked.

Sid spoke quietly as he cupped his palm to light another cigarette...

"Would you like to hear more?"

© Donny Swords 2014

#  The Case of the Six Broken Milk Bottles by Chris Raven

"It's happened again!" Henry Dunston said, as he looked back and forth between Charles and Benedict with a mixture of hope and annoyance. "That's five times now in as many months."

Benedict gave the older gentleman a sympathetic look and reflected on how time could be a lot kinder to some people rather than others. Despite his seventy plus years or so, Henry Dunston remained a dashingly handsome man for his age, with his thick wavy gray hair, strong chin and that cheeky twinkle in his eye. It was not for the first time that Benedict found himself thinking that in the right circumstances, he definitely 'would'.

"I know Henry," Benedict commiserated. "It must be extremely frustrating."

"Frustrating? I should cocoa!" Henry replied, uncharacteristically irritable. "I brought this to you back in October but you said it was a coincidence."

"I know," Benedict agreed apologetically, "but it had only happened once before then."

"Both occasions were on the same day of the month and it has been again every month since."

"Well in retrospect, I would have to agree with you," Benedict thoughtfully replied. "It does indeed sound like a pattern."

"It is more than that young man," Henry insisted. "I have asked the other tenants, the ones Humphrey delivers to at any rate, and no one else apart from me has had any problems at all with their milk deliveries. Five smashed milk bottles and me at my age having to mop up the mess from all over the corridor each time. I wouldn't mind so much but I had a house guest last month, an old friend from Germany. I was ever so embarrassed not to be able to offer her a cup of tea with her breakfast."

"Mr Dunston," Charles suddenly announced, "I have decided to take on your case." Benedict had all but forgotten about Charles, as he had spent the whole time sitting at the dining table in silence, absentmindedly stroking his full groomed mustache.

"Oh!" Henry said, surprised. "Um, thank you Charles."

Shortly afterwards Benedict showed Henry out of the flat and in the hallway by the front door Henry asked what was wrong with Charles.

"I mean," Henry continued, "why did he call me Mr Dunston? We've known each other for years."

"I don't know Henry," Benedict replied thoughtfully. "He's been a bit off since Christmas. He seems to have gone all Victoriana for some reason."

Henry nodded, almost as if that made some kind of sense to him. As he was about to leave Benedict suddenly thought of something.

"Before you go Henry, I was just was wondering, is there any significance in the date? You know the 23rd."

"No, not really," was the reply but Benedict could not help but notice a slight pause and an uncomfortable look on Henry's face. 'Oh, you are a dark horse after all' Benedict thought, as he closed the front door.

***

Benedict found Charles in the living room looking thoughtfully out of their seventh floor window.

"It sounds to me like someone has quite a grudge against our dashing Mr Dunston," he announced as Benedict entered the room.

"I know," Benedict agreed. "But whom? He's such an affable old gentleman, who would want to harm him?"

"Possibly there's someone from his past?" Charles pondered. "Maybe there's some truth in one or two of his more outlandish anecdotes."

"What? That he was a fighter pilot in the First World War? I don't think so Charles, he's far too young. Maybe he's old enough to have been in the Second World War."

"He does like a yarn does our Henry," Charles agreed, "but I was thinking more about the special agent thing."

"I just don't buy it Charles," Benedict said, thoughtfully slowly shaking his head. "Spy, astronaut, adventurer, it all sounds a bit farfetched to me. I'll tell you something though Charles; he's being cagey about something."

"I know, he's not telling us the whole truth," Charles agreed. "Let's get the irregulars onto it."

"The irregulars?" Benedict asked, somewhat confused.

"Mary and Christina of course," Charles explained impatiently.

"Oh, you mean the rest of the neighborhood watch."

***

A few days later the Musevary Towers Neighborhood Watch were seated at their usual tables in Cleo's, their local coffee shop. There was Charles and Benedict as usual, with the large and bubbly Mary Paddock and the tall and skinny Christina Carr, who was sitting primly at the end of the table, flicking back her long black hair while she look around for service. As regulars they had become accustomed to the attentive service of Jan, who today seemed more preoccupied with her new boyfriend as they chatted at the coffee bar.

"Shouldn't he be working?" Christina complained, indicating Jan's new young man, who happened to be concierge of the residential block in which they lived.

"Oh, leave them alone Chris," Mary scolded, "I think they make a lovely couple, did you see how she swept him up off his feet when he came in?"

Benedict got up to order their usual drinks while Charles started the meeting. By the time Benedict had returned with four coffees on a small round plastic tray the topic of conversation had already turned to Henry and his milk bottles.

"If you ask me, I bet it's that creepy man that is always skulking around the corridors," Christina said as Benedict set the tray down on one of the three tables they were occupying between them.

"Oh not this thing you have with Guy Matthews again," he said with some irritation. "Please leave the poor man alone Christina, he's obviously got some issues but I don't think he goes round breaking milk bottles."

"Well," she replied curtly, "I just don't like him."

"I spoke to him once," Mary chipped in.

"Did you?" Benedict said excitedly. He couldn't help himself, as Guy had always tended to keep himself to himself and avoid contact with his neighbors. "What did he say?

"He just said 'Leave me alone'," Mary answered.

***

It was agreed that Charles and Benedict would interview Humphrey Abbott, the tower block's regular milkman. It was the following Saturday, when his new helper came knocking to settle up their monthly account. Mary was 14 and disconcertingly confident for her age. She had replaced Humphrey's previous helper, a scruffy and unenergetic individual called Tom, about four months earlier.

After settling up their debt under her astute watchful eyes, Charles and Benedict sent Mary off to find Humphrey, who turned up about fifteen minutes later.

"Hello there," he said, looking concerned, "I hope everything's OK."

Charles assured him that it was, and went on to explain the situation.

"Flat 315?" Humphrey confirmed. "Yes, he has mentioned it to me but I have no idea who might have been breaking his milk bottles."

Reginald, the tower's 'postie', came out of the lift and stood behind Humphrey intently listening to the conversation.

"I nearly saw who it was once," he chipped in.

"Did you now Reg? What happened?" Charles asked as Humphrey spun round, unaware until then that Reginald was standing behind him. Benedict couldn't help looking down at Mary, whose serious dark eyes flitted from adult to adult as they discussed the case.

"Oh, you know," Reginald continued, "I came up in the lift and saw milk all over the corridor floor, and the stairwell door slowly closing."

"And?" both Charles and Humphrey said simultaneously when it was clear Reginald was not going to say more.

"Oh, sorry," Reginald continued, "I went and had a look in the stairwell, but whoever went through it had gone, though I could hear some running on the stairs."

"In which direction was the running Reg?" Charles asked, but Reginald shrugged his shoulders.

"I wouldn't know, the stairs go round and round so he could have been facing any direction as he run up the stairs."

"Up!" Charles announced and Humphrey's face lit up as something crossed his mind.

"Tom!" he announced. "Tom lives in this block, on the eighth floor and the milk bottle breakages started around the time I fired him."

They all agreed to go up to the eighth floor and question Tom but as they separated out into two of the pokey little lifts, Benedict noticed that Mary was missing. On the eighth floor the adults were surprised to see Mary waiting for them by the lift. Charles rang Tom's doorbell and after a few minutes he answered.

"Hello," he said nervously. His eyes kept falling on Mary, who stared back impassively.

"Is your mother in, young man?" Charles asked, but Tom shook his head.

"No she's at work," Tom answered.

"I'll come to the point," Charles said assertively, "we are here about Mr Dunston's milk bottles."

Again, Benedict noticed a quick glance towards Mary.

"OK, I did it," Tom suddenly confessed. "Nothing against the old man, but I was getting my own back for being fired."

"Oh!" Charles said a little disappointed. "That was easy; well thank you for being so honest."

It was agreed; Charles and Benedict took Tom to Henry, where Tom apologized and agreed to pay for five milk bottles and promised never to do anything like this again.

***

A few weeks later Henry sat at his usual table for his customary Friday Afternoon pint in the Globe and Compass Public House. Johnny, one of his regular drinking partners, had just left and Henry couldn't help but laugh to himself about Johnny's tendency to excessively exaggerate. At least he wasn't wearing that tinfoil hat of his again. Henry's thoughts were interrupted by an older gentleman sitting down opposite him, and it took Henry a few seconds to recognize the gray-haired, sharp-featured man across the table. Instinctively Henry's hand went for the gun in his shoulder holster, only to remember that he hadn't carried a weapon since his retirement decades ago. The man opposite put up a placating hand.

"Henry please," the main said in a soft Russian accent, "I am not here to harm you. I am not even armed."

"Gregori, this is a surprise," Henry replied, relaxing a little, "forgive me if we don't shake hands."

"Henry I'm retired," Gregori laughed withdrawing his hand, "I have not had to use the toxic handshake for many years."

What can I do for the great Gregori... da Nayk is it now?"

"Ah yes, a change of name, a change of identity, routine housekeeping in professions like ours, eh?"

"For some of us," Henry replied coldly. "What do you want Gregori?"

"To apologize," the old Russian replied gently, "and to save your life."

***

The following Saturday was the 22nd and the day after that would be the first 23rd of the month where there would be no milk delivery. Henry had been waiting at the door earlier that morning and had quickly taken the milk bottle from Humphrey when he arrived to deliver it.

"Sorry I'm a bit late," Humphrey apologised, "I'm shorthanded today."

"What no Mary?" Henry asked as he stepped back and started to close his front door.

"No, she's resigned," Humphrey complained, "It's a shame though; she was a good little worker, she said she had other work to do."

***

Henry set the milk bottle on his draining board and made himself a cup of tea, using a carton of long-life milk he had opened the day before. He hated the taste but you can't be too careful. Gregori had explained the situation to him that Friday afternoon in the pub. He had confessed to arranging the hit. An assassin to kill Henry for a crime he committed five decades ago. Not a crime in the eyes of the law as such but a crime nevertheless. It had been an error in Henry's judgment that had cost somebody their life and neither Henry nor Gregori could ever forgive him for it. It had also been the one final event that had led Gregori away from protecting democracy as a White Russian intelligence agent, to becoming a very successful international criminal mastermind.

Henry had found it difficult to condemn Gregori for setting the poisoner onto him because deep down he believed he deserved any punishment that was coming to him. Gregori however had immediately regretted his actions but he had been unable to call the assassin off in time. He had sent one of his minions to protect Henry and it had been that person, not poor gormless Tom, who had been breaking his poisoned milk bottles. The original attempt on Henry's life was to be on the 50th anniversary of the death of the woman they had both loved. Andrievicha Yurika was a Russian double agent working for the west. She had died during a mission Henry had been far too arrogant to plan properly.

Gregori couldn't be sure, but he believed that he had called the assassin off. He had been very explicit about the date however, so if another attempt was going to be made on Henry's life, then it would be on the 23rd of the month. Now that the whole block knew about the broken milk bottles, it was no longer safe for his minion to remain involved, so Henry was now on his own.

Henry looked at the bottle standing by the sink. He could end it all right now quite easily, all the doubt and uncertainty, he would know one way or the other if the hit had been called off. And if it hadn't, then it was no less then he deserved. He ran a forefinger down the bottle's neck, disturbing the fast evaporating condensation.

"Nah!" he suddenly said out loud as he gave the bottle neck a small shove with his index finger. It fell smashing into the sink. "That's not my style at all," Henry said to himself as he ran the tap to help the milk disappear down the drain.

© Chris Raven 2014

#  Henry's Windows by Alan Hardy

Henry was feeling pretty low that day. It was his usual Thursday afternoon off, and he had arrived back from the office tired and sulky. He still hadn't got used to fending for himself. Each time he came home and found there was no-one waiting to make him a cup of tea or cook his lunch, he used to spend a good hour or two sitting in his usual chair, feeling very sorry for himself. Really all the chairs were his 'usual' ones now, since his wife had gone off to her mother's, taking the children with her; he could sit on any chair he liked, and watch the television from all sorts of angles.

On this particular day he was sitting on the settee at the back of the room, facing the spacious window which gave a good view of the house opposite, a replica of his own middle-class, suburban house. He had been sitting there a good while, his empty stomach yearning for some food that he didn't feel inclined to cook. It was extremely quiet, as always, although the gray sports-car which had pulled up in the driveway opposite had caught his attention. A youngish man in a black leather-jacket had got out, rung the bell, and been admitted. Henry then lost interest. He did not know many people on the estate. They themselves had only moved in three months ago, and the few people they had known were more his wife's acquaintances than his own and they tended to shun him since his wife had deserted him after that last quarrel. All he would do after work would be to sit there, looking vaguely out of the window, and then, when it grew dark, watch television. The boredom and self-pity were worse than ever on Thursday afternoons, especially since he had always looked forward to them so much before. He was getting to the stage when he knew he would have to go to his wife and beg her to return, but for now he persisted in spending his time sitting there all alone, hourly hoping for an apologetic phone-call from his wife which never came, and which he knew would never come.

He noticed with a vague flicker of interest that the man in the black leather-jacket was now in the living-room opposite which, as in his own house, looked out on the road, and the spacious window gave him a good view of the interior of the room. The man was standing there, talking to the lady of the house, a few yards away from him. Apart from the fact that Henry hardly knew anyone anyway, the family opposite had only moved in a month ago, and he had never spoken to the woman or her husband. The husband's job must have taken him away for long stretches at a time for Henry could never remember seeing him except at weekends, when there would always be an extra car in the garage or the driveway. He must have been a high-powered salesman, or perhaps worked in the City all week, returning to heavenly suburbia every weekend.

He had only ever seen the wife from a distance, usually, as now, vaguely watching her from the settee as he looked out of the window while she potted around the garden, or drove away to take her two children to school or bring them back. She had blonde, medium-length hair and a well-formed, if slightly stout figure. That was all he could say about her. She was always dressed in roughly the same manner: a blouse, jumper or cardigan and a skirt, just above the knee. She looked forty-ish, and, if anything, rather scruffy for a middle-class lady of leisure with nothing to do but spend time going for walks, pottering about the house, or sitting in a chair vaguely looking out of the window. Mind you, Henry had always been aroused by her whenever he spotted her, especially now in his sexually starved state.

The man was standing by the fireplace on the right, very still, and nearly always waiting for her to speak. She was talking a great deal, laughing every now and then, nodding and jerking her head, and gesticulating with her arms and hands. Yet her feet and body remained awkwardly still. Henry got the impression that she was rather embarrassed, and that was why she was talking too much, and nodding and waving. Then she walked out of the room – or so he imagined – for she walked out of his line of vision provided by the wide window. The man remained where he was, idly looking around the room. He was probably in his thirties, about Henry's age, and gave Henry the impression of a robust, very strong young man. There was something about his powerful shoulders and body which irked Henry and made the man seem rather unpleasant in an aggressive, cocky way. He felt sure he had seen the man before somewhere; there was something familiar about his gaunt, earthy features and imposing manner. His hair was black and close-cropped, just like Henry's.

But Henry had lost interest since the woman had moved out of the room and his vision, and he was not even always looking out of the window, often reclining back in the settee, staring at the ceiling.

Then, on looking out one time, there they were, sitting next to each other, so close, and talking. The settee in that house was in the middle of the room facing the fireplace, so Henry saw it lengthwise, with a back-view of the man's black head and black jacket as he looked at her, and, in front of him, the blonde woman's face, smiling and talking as she turned to face the man full-on. Nothing was happening, and yet Henry could sense that it would. They could have been talking quite innocently about some matter for all he knew, but there was something in the woman's face and manner which could only be called flirtatious. Henry had not been a married man for nothing. He felt sure he could see the red lipstick on her lips and the inviting twinkle in her blue, direct, fascinated eyes. He could not see the front of the man at all, and as Henry, open-mouthed, watched the woman, he caught his breath, and his body gave a little jump. He swallowed and breathed heavily. He loosened his collar and moved away from the settee. He did not stand up but dropped to the floor and crept along the carpet towards the window, and, once there, raised his head so that he could see over the window-sill into the house opposite. It was a mixture of curiosity and guilt: to get as close as possible and yet hide at the same time. His wife had been away for some time now, and the little grunts escaping from his lips, and his jerky, sharp breathing, suggested that certain urges had been aroused in him. He quickly rearranged matters down in his nether regions, disentangling and repositioning his little friend, so that he could concentrate on the matter in hand.

He was very aware that he might be seen, and kept popping his head down below the level of the window, all the time feeling very excited and tense.

Then, once again without Henry really seeing it begin, they were kissing. Rather the blonde woman was kissing the man. She had her arms around his neck, clasping and unclasping them, either slightly pulling his neck towards her or laying her hands limply upon his back. She gave him short, but intense kisses, moving towards him so that Henry lost sight of her face as they kissed and saw only a mass of blonde hair, and then withdrawing and moving to stare penetratingly and directly at the man. She was egging him on. How her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled! The man just sat there with the woman's arms around him, not moving, letting her kiss him and responding to her kisses. There was something strange in only being able to see the back of his head and his black leather-jacket, an almost impassive head, shoulders, arms and torso being caressed and excited by the enraptured, shameless woman in the house over the road.

Henry felt the suspense of the whole situation, and was fascinated. He was terrified of being seen and found out, and moved over to the right near the television so that he was in the bottom corner of the window. He watched them intently and swallowed expectantly, waiting to see what might happen.

Then they were apart again, she still sitting on the settee, serene and unconcerned, and he standing up looking down upon her. The man turned round and looked out of the window and, as Henry quickly popped his head down, his eyes met the man's deep black eyes for a split-second. Henry cowered below the level of the window, his heart pounding and his face growing red. Had the man seen him? He slowly raised his head, and there was the man again, on the left of the window near some curling curtains, looking suspiciously at him. Henry was very embarrassed and began fiddling with the controls of the television-set, as if the fact that he were crouching there only meant he was about to watch some afternoon pap on TV and had mislaid his remote-control. And yet in a curious way, perhaps because they were so far away, he still thought that they might not have noticed him, or at the least did not suspect him of spying. The man turned to the woman and began talking, pointing in Henry's direction, and then moved away from the window. The woman just sat there, untroubled, and not even bothering to look. The man went to sit in another chair, and for a few minutes they sat there, hardly talking. The woman seemed resigned to the fact that it was all over, at least for now. Henry stayed where he was, feeling that to run away would prove his guilt even more than staying, continuing to fiddle with the controls, sometimes crouching low, other times peeping over the window-sill. Eventually he crawled back along the carpet, always keeping below the level of the window, and out of the room. He felt rather silly, but not that ashamed, for he reasoned that their guilt was greater than his own. To show his boldness and indifference he stood up and walked back into the room and sat down on the settee, in full view of them if they cared to look. He took some papers out of his brief-case and pretended to be studying them, and yet still occasionally, as if quite naturally, looking up. He had nothing to fear.

The man eventually left the house and, to Henry's consternation, began walking purposefully towards Henry's house. He gave Henry a hard, almost threatening stare and, as Henry stared back open-mouthed, veered off towards his sports-car in the driveway. Henry breathed a sigh of relief as the car sped away. The woman began walking about the house. Henry could see her clear figure, or silhouette, appearing every now and then in various rooms, upstairs and downstairs, as she paced out the large confines of her neat suburban home. Eventually she settled down in the living-room, picking up a magazine and sitting in a chair, resigned to sitting out yet another afternoon of quiet, untroubled, boring suburbia. Although she was facing him and seemed to be looking out of the window, she was not seeking him out as the man had, and seemed not to notice him. Sitting there, smug and self-sufficient, she seemed untroubled by either Henry or, since she had got used to him going, the man she had been kissing. Henry stared at her, fascinated. He had discovered a little secret in suburbia, and that blonde, well-built woman was at the center of it all. He yearned to come face-to-face with her, and see her features and her flesh close to, and smell her, and touch her, and know her. Henry felt a mixture of smugness and fascination, and his whole body itched. He had to quickly rearrange things down below again. He yearned for her.

The phone rang. Henry started. After laughing at his nervousness, he picked up the phone.

"Hello."

"Hello," said a man's gruff, direct voice. "Is that the supermarket?"

"The what?"

"Is that the supermarket?" repeated the unpleasant voice.

"No. You have the wrong number," he answered.

The connection clicked off without a word. Henry put down the phone, and moved away, feeling rather worried.

The phone rang again.

"Hello."

"Is that the supermarket?"

"No. I told you you've got the wrong number."

The phone clicked off abruptly. There was something menacing in that aggressive, rough voice and all he could think of was that sturdy, well-built man in the black leather-jacket.

The phone rang again. He answered, and the phone was disconnected immediately. The phone rang once more in a few moments, and again the connection was terminated roughly and rudely.

Henry was scared. Was that man ringing him up? Was he threatening him in some way, warning him what might happen if he went spreading tales? Or was the man just playing games and getting his own back? Henry paced about the room, feeling tight in his chest and constantly looking out of the window to make sure the man was not returning.

The phone did not ring again, and he calmed down. Why should the man ring him up? How would he know his number? He prepared himself a bite to eat, and, towards four o' clock, saw the woman leave the house, still in the same jumper and skirt, and drive off to fetch her children from school. Yet, in Henry's eyes, she was transformed. She was somebody special now.

***

From now on Henry kept on the look-out. He would wait expectantly in the living-room every Thursday afternoon, but the man never returned on that day. Once, returning home fairly late, and when it was dark, he thought he saw the same gray sports-car in the driveway, but could not be sure. He glanced nervously at the woman's house and it was in darkness except for a bedroom upstairs which stood out in shameless nakedness amidst the other windows of darkness, the curtains undrawn. He rushed upstairs to the corresponding bedroom-window and stared across. Nothing. The window afforded him no view of the room's interior. No view of the bed. He stood on tip-toe, he strained his neck, he looked from all angles and bedroom-windows, but had to give up. He was so disappointed. But then perhaps it meant nothing. Perhaps that man was not there. It did not have to be that.

He did see the man again though. On a Saturday afternoon. The husband was home because, on looking out of the window in the morning, there was the extra car. When he looked again later in the day, another car stood outside the house. The gray sports-car. He wondered what it could mean. Was this the great confrontation, the moment the husband faced his wife and her lover? He soon found out. The man – again wearing that leather-jacket – came out of the house and, instead of getting into his car, came towards Henry's house. Henry was not scared this time, for it was Saturday afternoon and there were a lot of people around, cleaning their cars and mowing their lawns. The man rang the bell. Henry answered and once more experienced the man's strange stare as he looked at Henry rather darkly and threateningly, slightly hooding his eyes. He offered Henry a card, and started talking about double-glazing. Henry told him they had already had it done. The man left and Henry closed the door. Now he remembered. He had seen the man in the street a few times, usually when there was a small black van with the words 'Double Glazing' painted upon it parked outside a house. So the wife was having it off with one of the workmen: the lady of the manor and the gardener all over again. He might be his own boss, but he was still definitely a cut below her. He was taller than Henry had expected, his face gaunt and unshaven, menacing.

The husband obviously knew nothing. They had just been discussing the double-glazing to be done. But why had the man come to his house? Another warning? The man's eyes had told him he still remembered. Or perhaps he was just looking for extra work, and did not care whether Henry knew or not.

Henry saw her a couple of times too. One night, returning home late after spending the whole evening trying to drink his troubles away, he saw her from his car walking up another road on the housing estate, a bulky, ungainly fur-coat wrapped around her; it made her look stouter than ever. As she huddled herself up against the cold night-air, he caught a glimpse of the bad-tempered expression in her face and eyes. Where was she going? Just for a walk? But then why would she be so annoyed at being out at such an unpleasant hour? It could be a midnight-assignation somewhere. A hot tremor passed through his body, his legs going weak. He ached for her. He started fiddling with his groin-area again.

Early one morning, going to work, he caught another hurried close glimpse of her. He had turned a corner and there she was, swiveling round to look at his car as she walked down the road. He was past her in a flash, but their eyes had met. He was shocked at first. She was much older than he had thought – or at least looked older. Her face was somewhat lined, the powder making it look patchy and rough, and her lips were held down in a frown, her cheeks drooping also. Her blonde hair seemed shorter and messier. Once again she was dressed in that bulky fur-coat, closing it tightly around her neck with one hand. She looked like an aging vamp. And yet, despite all this, he was stirred and intrigued by her. Her eyes had widened on meeting his, her lips had opened, and she had watched him with a devouring interest. But he could not catch a proper glimpse of her again before having to turn the next corner, although he strained to see her in the rear-mirror.

That was all that happened: the woman and the man were having an affair, but the time and place could be anytime and anywhere. The only thing he really knew was that he would dearly like to make love to her himself.

***

It was a very cold Thursday afternoon. He was glad to get inside the house. He looked out at the trees and bushes stirred by the blustery wind. Henry shivered, and went to prepare some food. He had decided to go and see his wife as soon as he had eaten; he could not live on his own any more, and he would have to swallow his pride. He wanted things to be normal again. He wanted something else too, and, at his age, had no desire to become blind.

Having eaten, and quickly tidied the house, he went upstairs to put on the jacket which had always been his wife's favorite. As he held the jacket in his hands he glanced out of the window. He gasped. There they were. The man and the woman. The black leather-jacket and the blonde hair. He had grown so used to his no longer being there on Thursdays that he had not looked for them the last couple of weeks. They were in the living-room and they were arguing. Once again he had his back to Henry, but she was shouting and waving her arms at him. The man just stood there. A shiver passed down Henry's spine. What were they arguing about? She began to strike him, frenzied, uncontrolled slaps on the face, shoulders and arms. What would he do? Then she stopped, and began to laugh, a stout figure in jumper and skirt rocking back on her heels slightly, her bosom pushed forward as if mocking the man. She began to say something, her face sneering horribly, and the man's shoulders heaved, remaining still for an unbearable moment. Then, to Henry's gasp of astonishment, his hands sprang forward and roughly gripped her neck, choking her words, squeezing tightly and more tightly in a mad frenzy. She struggled and struggled, her eyes swamped by fear and surprise, her skirt swirling about her thighs, but she was no match for him. As Henry stared open-mouthed and paralyzed, she crumpled to the floor as the man released his hands. The man just stood there, impassively, his aggression spent. He slowly took off his black leather-jacket, and laid it on the settee.

Henry could hardly breathe. Instinctively he knelt down and crouched below the window, peering over to watch. It was like watching a murder at the cinema – a horrific scene on the screen – and he could not believe it. He was scared.

Then the man, the woman lying at his feet, lifted his head as if suddenly remembering something. To Henry's horror he swiveled his head round to look at the downstairs window of Henry's house. The man must have remembered the time he had been seen. Henry crouched lower as the man scanned his living-room, his dark, brooding eyes searching out every inch of space. Then the man turned away, glanced at the senseless body below him, seemed to shudder, ran his hand through his hair, and rushed out of the room. Henry looked at the gray sports-car in the driveway. He lowered his head completely below the window, his heart pounding fast and loudly and his mouth bone-dry. He felt like screaming. He heard the car-door being opened, abruptly slammed, the car splutter noisily into life, and then roar away down the road, and then, soon, there was silence.

Henry's hands were sweating, and he dried them on his jacket which he had placed over his knees. He nervously raised himself, his body tense and aching, and looked out of the window. All was well. He went downstairs, running his hand through his hair. He drank a glass of water, and began to pace about the room. What must he do? Go over there? Ring the police? Perhaps she wasn't dead? He should make sure first. Perhaps he could help her. He wanted to look at her. Close to. He wanted to. He realized he was walking awkwardly again. He gave a quick fiddle down below.

The phone rang, and he almost collapsed. Collecting himself, he automatically went over and picked up the receiver.

"Hello," he almost whispered.

"Is that the supermarket?"

Henry froze.

There was silence.

It was the same gruff voice as before. The connection abruptly clicked off. Henry stood there for a moment, feeling his head would burst.

He must get out of the house. He had given himself away. The man knew he was there and that he could have seen the murder. He had rung up to check whether there was anyone there.

The man had only been gone a minute or so. He could be back any moment.

Henry began to panic, running this way and that. Fearing he would hear the spine-chilling roar of the sports-car any minute, he dashed out of the front door and, not knowing what he would do, hurried across to the dead woman's house, still holding his jacket in his hand. He shuddered as the wind cut right through him.

The front door was open and he entered. He instinctively made his way to the living-room – as it was a replica of his own house – despite the strangeness of the furniture and colors.

There she was, sprawled on the carpet, her face pressed down, her arms outstretched, and her legs bent, almost doubled up. He laid his jacket on the settee, and approached her. Breathing heavily, he stared at her lifeless body. Her skirt was thrown half-way up her thighs and he devoured the curves of her shins, calves, knees and thighs. She looked dead enough, lying there in her plain green jumper and gray skirt, her body huddled up. He remained there looking at her, transfixed, fascinated by the stillness of the body, realizing it was the closest he had ever been to her. He remembered the man's hands around her neck, squeezing her flesh, and her struggling arms and strangled cries of terror, her body fighting and pushing helplessly against the man's immoveable strength. He could sense the warm feel of her body in its last seconds of life. He turned to look at the coffee-table near the settee: a telephone-directory, a couple of books, and a ball of wool and two knitting-needles upon it. A nice suburban home and a dead woman sprawled on the floor. Killed by her lover. He started to move towards her. He realized he was breathing heavily.

His mind cleared, and terror seized him. If the man came back he would find him here. What the hell was he doing? He had left his mobile in his home. He must get out and go to somebodyelse's house to call for the police. He must get away from both houses. He looked out of the window and saw his own house, and turned to look at the woman. He spun round on his heels on the sound of a distant car. The man was on his way back!

He rushed out of the room, grabbing a jacket from the settee. As he came out of the front door he heard, like a cry of death, the roar of the sports-car as it turned the corner, and he stopped still, hardly able to think. Moaning and mumbling to himself, he retreated back into the house, and, as in a dream, found himself in the living-room again, crouching below the window-sill, looking at the gray sports-car as it drew up in his own driveway. Another moan escaped from his lips, but he was powerless. He could only watch.

The man jumped out of the car, and approached Henry's house, the figure in a white shirt and long black trousers looking thinner and taller. Henry gave a nervous twitch and his eyes fell upon his own body and the black leather-jacket he was wearing. A shudder of repulsion and fear passed over him. His hands pawed ineffectually and senselessly at the jacket. An earthy, rough smell and sensation encompassed him. He must have picked it up by mistake, and put it on as he was going outside, but he could not remember.

He had left his front door open! The man entered cautiously. Was he planning to kill him too? He saw the figure of the man wandering about his own living-room. He stared across, fascinated. The man came over to the window and looked across. Henry crouched lower, not able to think. The man dropped to the floor, and began peering through the window. Henry saw two menacing, dark eyes reaching into his soul.

A spasm of terror convulsed his body. He turned round, petrified. A tremor of movement had caught the corner of his eye. He looked at the body of the blonde woman. To his horror her thighs stirred fractionally and her hands trembled. A moan came from her lips, and her head rose slightly. He felt he was watching something out of a horror movie, and his body was wracked by a powerless frenzy of fear. The limbs began to move even more, and the whole body of the woman became alive.

Then Henry began to laugh! This was no corpse springing to life! She was not dead! Everything was all right! The man had not killed anybody. Everything could be forgotten. He was safe. It was like a bad dream suddenly ending. It was not true. It had not happened. And nobody was going to kill him.

He turned round to look out of the window, and stood up. He began waving to the man opposite whose eyes fastened upon him. As he waved, he laughed and laughed. The man opposite slowly began to rise from his crouching position, and Henry waved even more, sensing and hearing that the blonde woman behind him was herself rising.

The man opposite stood completely upright and stared over like a man possessed, and, to Henry's unconcerned bewilderment, raised his arms and began pointing frantically with both hands. Henry stared at him, nonplussed, as the man feverishly shook his head from side to side, pushing at the window with the palms of his hands. A look of horror enveloped the man's face, and, as Henry stared across, a scream of hatred erupted in his head and two knitting-needles thrust into his back brought stabs of burning pain into his chest. Then there was a gurgle of blackness, and nothing more.

© Alan Hardy 2014

#  Talia Saran: Summer on Indigo Prime By D.C. Rogers

## Prequel To The Star Child

Talia wedged herself behind a large rock. The heat of this planet that was nicknamed the summer planet was playing hell with her metabolism. Being half Velusian half Human both of her genus wasn't suited to this climate. To top it all off she was being fired upon by Thraxian kill bots. Towering six feet tall they were imposing as well as deadly. Laser shots burst on the rock sending sparks and molten rock flying.

The Thraxians were an advanced race of people who built robots to fight their wars for them. As a race they were now extinct. Not due some natural disaster or just plain dying out. They were dead by their own hands, well an extension of them. The kill bots as they've been aptly named slowly grew in intelligence over time. Then one day just as the monster turned against Victor, they turned on their own creators.

Talia was now stuck on this damn furnace of a planet feeling like she was in a bath of sweat, to add insult to injury her boots were also uncomfortably filled with sand. Knowing it wouldn't do much good against the robots shielding she drew her laser pistol anyway and quickly peeked out. She then sent a volley of shots towards the kill bots in the hopes of slowing them down.

A few of the shots hit home it was no victory they harmlessly dissipated against their powerful personal shields.

"Vixen I really could use a pickup, any time soon would be good" She shouted at her wrist mounted holoslate.

"I am traversing the quadrant as fast as I can, may I ask how you got yourself in this predicament?" The AI scolded. Vixen was the name of both Talia's spacecraft and the advanced AI installed in it. Aside from auto piloting she also helped plot courses and maintained the ships essential systems.

"By being too trustworthy, yes I know that's nothing new" Despite her fear and the imminent danger Vixen still made Talia feel like a naughty child with the scolding.

"That's what you get for leaving me behind, you should never have trusted those bigoted Bedlam triplets" If Talia didn't know any better she would have said Vixen was a little hurt. She was right though. The bedlam triplets were three pureblood Velusian brothers. They were Tommy, Ludo and the biggest of the three Jacques and he also doubled as their leader. They were bad news but they had needed Talia's help to disable some security systems on their latest venture. Seeing credit signs at the promised loot she had stupidly said yes.

The brothers rudely referred to Talia as a mongrel due to her mixed breed status Talia had gotten mixed up with them on possibly the worst black market planet in the whole neutral sector, Taurus IV. Talia was well known around these circles due to her fiery temper.

Of course the brothers didn't care they had the bravado coupled with the intellectual prowess of a sea slug. They were street smart though and good at what they did but so was Talia, they hated each other from the get go but the money kept them going.

They explained that Indigo Prime was a medium sized desert planet that was found fifty years ago quite near a white dwarf sun in the Canis Major sector. Its erratic axis meant only a small portion of the planet received major sunlight for a minimal amount of its yearly cycle. This part of the planet also had the planets only ocean. Garnelks ever the business minded of all the races decided to make Indigo Prime a 'summer get away' as they called it.

They built a large resort near the beach and opened it as a holiday resort. It was a massive success with many stars staying in the costly sectors. Which meant it had cash supplies stashed away numbering millions in credits in all the casinos and safe storages.

Ten years ago a small excavation team uncovered a crashed Thraxian vessel. Cracking it open the old power cells made by a technically advanced race powered the ships defense systems. The team were annihilated by the fifty awoken kill bots before they could get word out. Suffice to say the rich and famous fled Indigo Prime losing only a few of their number. The poorer people were left to die thankfully with no way off the planet. The kill bots happy the threat was dealt with powered down after their slaughter of every living thing.

A few small attempts to retake the planet were met with superior force so it was left for dead. The triplets had heard about the casinos having millions in credits in their safe and reckoned if they could sneak a small ship in with an expert defense cracker get in the safes and take it all.

Talia despite hating the brothers had seen cash signs in her eyes so offered the triplets her services. Of course they accepted they knew Talia was good at what she did. They were going to either kill her or leave her there though once the job was done. Talia wasn't stupid though she had counter plans for nearly every situation, other than this.

They had got onto the planet hassle free not waking a single bot. Gotten to the old sand laden casinos without setting off a single alert or alarm. Then while Talia had got to work cracking a safe on of the stupid triplets couldn't help but get greedy. The gambling machines he surmised would be full of credits Tommy along with Ludo thinking to surprise Jacques with a mini haul of their own went about cracking them open.

Seven numbers through the ten digit alpha lock Talia was shocked into setting the alarm off when a smaller alarm of a not quite dead tampered machine blurted into her ear. From shaded areas all over the resort Kill bots activated at the sounds of life. Tommy and Ludo with the couple of thousand credits they had pilfered from the machines ran, closely followed by Jacques. Talia hot on their heels the four made for the triplet's vessel.

Two kill bots had already made it there before the group did and were closely studying the vessel for signs of life. The brother's saw this as their opportunity to lose the slack, Jacques quickly man handled Talia throwing her from their hiding place. The bots though efficient killers were very single minded about it, hence their name.

Betrayed, out in the open and in peril all Talia could do was run. Finding a safe hiding spot in the resort she radioed in Vixen, the kill bots had found her before she could ask for anything other than help. Thankfully the AI could lock onto her location with the holoslate.

She had been running and hiding now for four hours. She had, had to leave the resort as almost the full fifty bots were now scanning that area for her. Then these two had found her. It wouldn't be long before the rest started to come their way with all the commotion. A few meters away a large sandstone cliff loomed, Talia had to get high for a better signal lock for Vixen. Despite advanced AI they still weren't great at landing on their own.

It was now or never. Talia had only one option her pistol could be over charged to explode like a large plasma bomb. It would leave her with only her useless knife but it might, just might take out one of her pursuers. Flipping it's side she set it to overload waited a few seconds then ran for her life, as she did she threw the overloading pistol in the general direction of the kill bots.

Plasma energy was one of the very few destructive forces with enough oomph to take out shields anything else would take forever to wear them down. The robot with no concern for its safety only its singular purpose to kill stood right on the pistol. The impact coupled with the fact the explosion was now compacted into a tiny space made quite the plasma ball.

It ate through kill bots shielding in milliseconds melting and fusing its frame together before shorting all its circuits. The resulting heated blast wave partially depleted the shields of the kill bot next to it as well as damaging its weapon and momentarily scrambling its circuits.

Unfortunately the remaining forty eight kill bots who were following the gunshots now knew exactly what direction to go. The one now scrambled gave Talia enough time to run for the relative safety of the cliff. Bounding from ledge to ledge Talia started to climb higher on any foot or hand hold she could reach. She didn't care if she skinned her knuckles or scrapped her knees she had to get off this god forsaken planet. She had always hated summer time on any planet a permanent one just made her ever more determined to get to Vixen.

Talia was almost near the top of the cliff when a metal on stone grinding noise below her took her attention. She feared its laser retribution until she spied its arm cannon sparking. She also noticed as small stone chips bounced off it its shields they shone red, this should mean they were low. Talia looked away continuing the last few feet to the opening above her.

She scrambled away from the edge on her backside keeping watch for the kill bot to rear its head. Despite a damaged gun it still had the strength to crush her bones with its bare hands. As its metal hands came over the ledge closely followed by its deathly visage Talia quickly looked around for anything to use as a weapon. She spied a large rock a few feet away. Getting to her feet she ran to it scooping it up.

She wasn't going to let this robot death dealer get the chance to retaliate, running over to the uncaring automaton she lifted the rock high. It looked up at her then the rock as it clambered over the lip. Talia brought it arcing down with all her might, considerably more than a pure blood human could muster. A thundering crack filled the air, as with her might along with the weight of the stone destroyed the shielding on its head.

Lifting the rock she saw the optics of its right eye heavily damaged from the blow. She lifted again and smashed once more. The robot jerked suddenly then stopped moving the dim icy blue light leaving its eyes.

Talia released the rock sending it clattering to the ground. She sighed sinking to the ground herself, as the adrenaline left her body she suddenly felt fatigue take it over. Legs splayed in front of her she didn't know what to do as the light reignited in the kill bots eyes. She tried to scramble backwards as it reached for her now accessible leg.

This was it she thought, the end of Talia Saran's story. The cold metal of the robots grip grabbed her ankle tightly. She felt the pressure as it began to close its grip, it obviously sought to cripple her so she couldn't get away.

A rush of wind at Talia's back shocked her also. The robot looked up also momentarily forgetting its ankle crushing.

"Talia please duck backwards" Vixen's monotonous voice rang from the holoslate. Talia slapped backwards seconds before the ships twin ion cannons sent out two bursts of energy. If the kill bot hadn't already been damaged it may well of taken these and crushed Talia's ankle in the process.

She felt a release but a weight still. Looking down she saw its arm still attached to her ankle but no longer a part of its body.

"Don't just lay there run, there's about forty more in the valley below" Vixen scolded.

"Right away ma'am" Talia replied flipped to her front then pushing herself up she ran for the Vixen. The AI had positioned itself near the cliff edge hovering with its cargo ramp down. Talia leapt inside barrel rolling along the floor as she landed.

"Vixen close that door, set a course for Taurus IV right now" Despite her sarcastic nature the AI knew when not speak back. She just did as she was told.

Talia sat there the forearm and hand of the kill bot still holding her ankle. It was covered in emitter arrays. An idea struck her for a use for them but not now while she was so angry. She just went to the cockpit and waited for the journey to end.

The triplets were regaling a Garnelk of their story when the rushing of a spacecraft's engines made the four look up. The Garnelk whose name was Henry fled the scene as fast as he could, the ship landed. Cargo bay ramp extending the triplets looked on as Talia strode from inside.

"Talia Saran, my sweet heart!" Jacques roared, throwing his arms wide in a mock greeting. The other two brothers looked on wide eyed, fear a little evident in their eyes. Talia walked right up to the large Velusian, then wordlessly and quicker than lightening her knee struck full force into his groin.

"I wouldn't if I was you" She warned the other two before they even reacted. She turned then strode off leaving the heaving alien whimpering on the floor.

Once she was back on board the Vixen and safely in space she relaxed. Then taking off her holoslate she retrieved the kill bot arm and sat at the table in the mess hall.

"Where to now Talia" Vixen asked.

"I think I need some quiet time and a stiff drink, head for Ganymede, Gruel's bar is calling me please Vixen" Sighing she relaxed back into her seat.

"As you command Talia" The AI said with the slightest hint of sarcasm. Then in the blink of an eye the ship shifted into warp and vanished.

© D.C. Rogers 2014

#  Write What You Know By Madhu Kalyan Mattaparthi

Once upon a time, a young woman was so in love with books that she decided to become a writer so she, too, could create loveable stories. She read everything she could about writing. Then, one day, she found herself in a book store where she bumped into an old man among the shelves. Turning to apologize, she discovered it was a venerable, much-loved author.

As soon as she found her voice to speak, she said, "Oh, sir! I know you are very busy, and so I would just like to ask you one small question: what is the best piece of advice you have for a beginning writer?"

The old man smiled and said, "Certainly, young lady. In fact, I will write it down for you." He took out a small slip of paper and a pen and jotted something down. Then he handed the paper to her.

She thanked him profusely and moved out of his way so he could go about his business. Then she looked at the little paper in her hand and frowned.

"Write what you know."

Well she was very disappointed. In fact, it made her quite angry. What if she didn't want to write about the things she knew? What a stupid piece of advice. She had expected better from the very successful old author.

No, she decided, I will write about something I can't know about. I'll write about space, she thought. And she crumpled up the paper and tossed it away.

It became an obsession. She found when she sat down to describe the stars that she didn't really know how to describe them. So she purchased a telescope. Some stars appeared differently than others, and so she went to the library to find out why. She began to follow NASA's projects, read articles and interviews about astronauts. Looked at spaceship specifications. Watched televised rocket launches.

Soon she could write all about space and space exploration. But space was a wild frontier; there was so much of it that hadn't been explored. She thought, aha! This is something no one can know anything about. She took her research about possible other planets and began to imagine what they were like, what plant and animal species might be like on them, whether there could be intelligent life and how that might play out in a world isolated from her own.

She created characters and spent hours thinking about them, thinking about what their languages and cultures might be like, thinking about what their emotions might be. She turned to philosophy to see if she could make them more or less human like, developed moral and value systems for them. She put much care into making them as real to herself as possible—keeping them consistent, making them believable.

And she wrote. She wrote and she wrote. Her work was good at first, but the more she wrote about these things she'd been learning and developing, the better and stronger her work became. She was invited to conferences of all kinds, from academic summits to entertainment conventions. Sometimes she was asked to speak on panels. She used these opportunities to talk to other people in the fields, to see what they were doing and what they thought.

One day, she was sitting in a coffeehouse when a shadow fell over her table. When she looked up, she saw it was the venerable old author she'd run into all those years ago in the book store. He was even older now, the lines on his face much deeper than before, and he was smiling at her. "May I sit down?"

"Yes, of course," she said, a tinge of her old awe coming back to her.

"I was wondering how my old advice has served you in your work," he said.

"Oh," she said. For a moment, she wasn't sure she should answer. But it is usually best to be honest. "I didn't find it very helpful at all, actually."

He seemed surprised. "No? But it is the best advice any writer could give or receive."

"I don't think it is. You told me that I should only write about the things I experienced in my life. But you know, I wanted to write about other things."

He raised his eyebrows and reached into his coat. From an inner pocket, he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He straightened it out on the table and then turned it toward her so she could see the writing on it. "I would love for you to show me where I said that," he said, "so I can correct myself."

But the rumpled message only said. "Write what you know."

She frowned. "But I wanted to write about things I didn't know about."

"Did you do it?"

"Yes. I wrote about space. I've never been to space."

He began asking her questions. What's the difference between a gaseous giant and a white dwarf? What kind of planet is Earth? How does the distance between a planet and a star affect the conditions on the planet?

She answered all of them.

"It seems you know a lot about space," he said.

She frowned. "Well, there are some things that people can't know about. Like aliens."

"Oh?"

She nodded. "I had to make things up."

"I've read several of your books," he said. "I particularly like your Falengal Race."

She smiled and felt very pleased.

"They had an interesting culture dynamic," he said.

"They were based on an African society," she said. "Just wait until you read my next book. There is another faction that comes into play, another tribe, and it is based on a South American one. The society is a paternal rather than maternal one, which is a break with earth-based traditions." She began to describe this new people in detail.

The venerable old writer sat listening and nodding, his hands folded on the tabletop. After a while, he said, "It seems you know a lot about these invented people of yours."

She went quiet.

"It seems you've been following my advice all along, you just didn't realize," he said.

He continued. "As a writer, you know now there are many different ways to say something, just as there are many different ways to know something." He took up his little paper and ripped it into strips so that there was a word on each strip, then he rearranged them on the table. Now the advice said, "Know what you write."

"To be honest," he said, "it's all the same. But I think you can recognize the point now."

She didn't answer.

"I am glad you have become a very good writer in your own right," he said as he rose. He smiled at her and tipped his hat and went on his way.

Over the years, she met many different other kinds of writers. Sometimes they came to her for advice.

Some wanted to know why their characters were so flat. She could tell them, "It is because you have not gotten to know these characters at all; they are strangers just moving your plot along. Characters are people, not tools. Find out more about them. Ask those questions, explore their pasts, give them strengths and flaws, and pay attention to how they do even mundane things."

Some wanted to know why their characters seemed to move in an endless, indefinable plane. And she would tell them, "You know very little about the world you are trying to write about. If you want to write about 12th-century England, you must learn about 12th-century England before you can expect to recreate it. What were the sights, the smells? What were common occupations, what did people do in their free time? What did the landscape look like, what crops did people plant, what foods were there to eat? And people didn't talk like you and I do now; you'll have to look at texts that survive from the period."

Some wanted to know why their readers wouldn't believe the things they were trying to write. "If you knew more about what you were trying to do," she'd tell them, "you could be consistent about it and offer details that would let your readers follow you and believe you. Yes, you can shoot a man out of cannon, but I don't know a thing about how. So you're going to have to find out about circuses, read some biographies of famous daredevils, and watch some documentaries. Then your readers will have an easier time suspending their disbelief."

One day she was in a book store and a young man bumped into her. As he turned to apologize, he realized who she was.

"Oh, I just love all your books!" he said. "I want to be a writer just like you someday."

She smiled. And when he asked her for the best piece of advice she could give to someone who wanted to become a writer, she said, "I'll even write it down for you."

She handed him a slip of paper. "Write what you know," it said.

He frowned. "Well, what if I want to write about something I don't know? What if I want to write about vampires and vampire hunters and witchcraft?"

"There are all sorts of ways to learn about those things. And you can write about anything in the universe that you want to write about; it's just better if you know what you're doing before you sit down to write," she said. "And if you don't know it, learn it. Then you'll know it, and it will show in your writings."

© Madhu Kalyan Mattaparthi 2014

#  Dreaming By Sonya C. Dodd

The photograph in the magazine leapt out of the page, mesmerizing Kate. The color of that sky, as well as the crystal waters of the sea looked simply idyllic.

Three hundred and fifty pounds for a nine day holiday to Tenerife, flying from a local airport too seemed a pretty good deal.

Could she do it though? But why not? After all, Grant, her estranged husband had certainly not paused before moving on in his life. He appeared incapable of any remorse as he worked his way through a string of girlfriends.

It didn't always have to be her who looked after the kids whilst he was off somewhere, having the time of his life. He was like a dog which had been let off the leash. Anyone would think she had set out to make his life a misery from the way he was behaving nowadays.

A smile grew on her lips as Kate pictured Grant's face when she informed him of her plans to head off to the sun for a holiday. Just that image itself made her even more determined to finally do something for herself and forget all responsibilities for a while.

With a light heart Kate carefully cut out the picture from the magazine and pinned it to the notice board on the kitchen wall. She knew she was likely to get cold feet about the whole idea several times so she would need the image to help maintain her resolve.

Grant's face was even better than she could have imagined. He coughed and spluttered whilst the cogs in his brain tried to form some kind of coherent sentence. It was probably a combination of the realization he would have to look after their twin ten year old sons, as well as the fact his ex-wife was about to do something totally out of character which was rendering him immobile and speechless.

Even if she never got there, Kate knew it would be worth it just to maintain this moment in her memory.

But she needn't have worried. Once Grant had managed to regain some level of composure and had agreed to have the boys whilst she was away, the phone call to the travel agent's ran smoothly. With her bank account a little emptier and her heart racing, Kate realized she felt fantastic and suddenly life was slightly brighter.

Of course, there were still six weeks to get through before her holiday and that loomed before her like an Indiana Jones-type assault course. But barring death or serious injury, Kate could think of no reason not to begin planning her wardrobe and letting her growing sense of excited anticipation develop.

Some days flew by whilst others dragged their heels but eventually her suitcase stood by the front door and Kate checked her passport and ticket were in her handbag for the umpteenth time.

She refused to allow herself to think about her tearful farewell to the boys. They had never been apart for more than a weekend and it was the only thing which currently threatened to blot her holiday.

Grant was a good dad, despite all the other things he was pretty rubbish at; Kate knew he would look after them.

A car horn told her the taxi was outside and after a final look round her home, Kate took a deep breath, picked up her case and pulled the front door firmly closed behind her as she set off on her adventure.

She'd never expected to be alone at forty five. Assuming she and Grant had married for life, and happy their children were secure in a happy family environment, Kate had been prepared to grow old with the man she thought she had loved.

It was odd to look back and realize she had not noticed how easily their love had died. Too wrapped up in day to day living and oblivious to a world crumbling around her, Kate had thought she was devastated when Grant first announced he was in love with another woman and was leaving her.

Of course she had been shocked. But there had been no tears and her only concern had been that the boys would have parents living in separate homes. Once she had realized where her fears lay, and it was simply a dread of growing old alone which scared her, Kate had learned to move forward in her own life and had relished turning her home into a man-free zone with feminine touches everywhere interrupted only by Nerf gun bullets and Minecraft posters.

Now having checked in at the airport desk and having found her way to the departures lounge without mishap, Kate realized there was a strange feeling inside her. Could this really be a happy sense of independence and excitement she was aware of? she wondered.

It was difficult to keep a wide smile from her lips, after all she didn't wish to look like a loon as she waited for her first taste of real liberation.

Burying her head in a book, Kate only glanced up occasionally as she waited for her flight to appear on the screen.

After an event-free flight and a bumpy bus ride, they arrived at the hotel.

Stepping out of the dusty vehicle, the afternoon heat hit Kate like an invisible wall. But still, she smiled to herself, nine days of warmth and laziness had arrived and she silently congratulated herself for being so brave.

Although traveling alone, her room was a double and Kate allowed herself to slowly unpack and enjoy arranging her things in her own space before stepping out onto her balcony to admire the view.

From here she was able to look out across the ocean. Even in the early evening the sunlight danced on the ripples of the water. The stresses and strains of everyday life were evaporating as Kate felt herself physically relaxing. The slow pace of life and the beautiful, warm surroundings were already having the desired effect and she smiled at the thought of a whole week of this paradise lying ahead of her.

The restaurant was busy when Kate went downstairs for dinner and she was aware of the paleness of her skin setting her apart as a newcomer.

Shown to a table for two in the corner, Kate perused the menu before glancing around at the other occupants.

It was possible to pick out conversations going on in at least three different languages and she couldn't help but admire some of the suntans on display.

Her own skin burnt easily and Kate knew she wouldn't be flying home after just nine days with much evidence of a holiday in the sun. However she smiled to herself knowing it wasn't just a suntan which had attracted her to taking such a bold step in coming on this vacation.

"Would you mind if I sat here?"

The sound of a man's voice in such close proximity startled Kate. His approach had been silent, although with all the conversations along with the piped music playing through a sound system, it would have been unlikely Kate would have known he was there anyway.

She looked up at the speaker aware her cheeks were probably bright red with embarrassment at the way she had almost leapt from her chair when he had spoken.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you jump," he added, smiling and still holding the back of the chair.

He was clearly English, Kate noted, with no trace of any accent. He looked to be in his early forties and was clean-shaven, lightly tanned and well-dressed in a checked shirt and linen trousers.

For a fleeting moment Kate wondered why he had chosen her table. Yes the restaurant was pretty busy, but there were one or two empty tables.

The stranger seemed to read her mind. "Those tables are pre-booked," he explained.

Kate nodded her head quickly when he looked at her enquiringly. He appeared harmless and at least they were in a public place.

She glanced at him again as he settled into his chair and picked up a menu.

His hair was dark, she noted, and a small amount of dark hair was visible at the base of his neck where the top two buttons of his shirt were undone.

The hairs on his arm were not thick and his hands looked well-manicured.

Glancing back at his face, Kate saw to her embarrassment that he had been watching her as she had taken in his appearance.

Barely concealing his smile, her dinner guest held out his hand across the table.

"My name's Tom," he said.

Kate accepted his hand, noting the warmth and smoothness of his touch. She smiled as she let his hand drop and took a quick sip from her glass of white wine to steady her nerves.

It had been so long since she had been in male company, other than Grant's or the boys; she felt self-conscious as though all eyes in the room were watching her and conversations were now focused on the pale woman in the corner with the handsome guy.

"I'm sure I can find another table if you'd rather," Tom said.

Again Kate was surprised as he seemed to read her thoughts.

"Oh no," she muttered hurriedly. "You're fine. Sorry, it's my fault, I only arrived this afternoon and haven't quite got my bearings yet," Kate explained.

"Ah," Tom sighed. "Well let me tell you a little about the place and then maybe I can show you around tomorrow, if you have nothing else planned, that is."

Kate smiled and relaxed back into her chair. In Tom's presence she could feel herself beginning to relax already and she listened as he filled her in on the hotel and surrounding area.

His voice was smooth and confident. The waiter bringing their food to the table caused Kate to jump for the second time that evening as she was so wrapped up in listening to Tom's light but informative banter.

At the end of the meal Kate was surprised to note how much time had passed. She felt guilty for taking up so much of Tom's time as she took in the empty glasses and coffee cups on their table.

He laughed and hurried to reassure her. "Don't worry, it's been a pleasure. I don't know how long it has been since I enjoyed a meal here so much."

Although she found it difficult to believe what he said was true, Kate hoped there was a small element of truth buried there.

Tom walked Kate to the foot of the staircase. "What time shall we meet tomorrow?"

Shyly Kate suggested eleven to which he agreed.

As she placed a foot on the bottom step, Tom leant forward and gently kissed her lips.

If she had been expecting it, Kate knew she would have been terrified of the prospect; however as he took her by surprise she blushed as he drew back, realizing she had happily kissed him back.

Once more Tom was smiling at her and Kate wondered whether he really could read her mind. She bid him 'good night' quickly and hurried up the stairs still feeling embarrassed by her apparent boldness.

In the sanctuary of her room, Kate couldn't help but let her mind wander back to their kiss. It was foolish, she knew, he was probably just being polite and she had shown her own naivety in reading more into it. She wondered what he had thought when she had kissed him back. It couldn't have all been bad because he had certainly been smiling when he had looked at her afterwards.

Smiling to herself in the darkness, Kate silently congratulated herself on her bravery and snuggled down beneath the duvet.

The following morning Kate woke to find the duvet in a heap on the floor next to her bed. Laughing, she realized she'd forgotten what it was like to pass a night in such heat.

Refreshed by a shower and wearing a bikini beneath her shorts and vest top, Kate wandered down to the restaurant for breakfast wondering whether the whiteness of her skin was enough to repel the sun's rays.

Whilst feeling more as though she fitted in wearing her holiday clothes now, Kate was fully aware of her lack of a sun tan and her growing anticipation of seeing Tom again.

It had crossed her mind that he might not show up and Kate had given herself a good talking to about not letting her holiday become just about meeting a man.

She had so much to gain from the freedom of being away and the chance to totally relax, Kate knew it would be foolish to lose sight of that.

However, just as she drained her coffee cup, Kate spotted Tom out in reception. She took a moment to observe him before he would see her.

He was wearing khaki shorts and a white polo shirt which made him seem much more tanned than he had the night before.

Looking down at her own paleness, Kate sighed. Tom was a handsome man so probably wouldn't even think of her as potential girlfriend material, she thought. He probably provided a kind of welcoming service to plenty of people who arrived and she was nothing special, she concluded.

"Hi Tom," Kate said, hoping her voice sounded as casual as she had intended.

His face seemed to light up as he turned to look at her and he leant quickly forward and gave her a peck on the lips.

"Shall we?" he suggested, indicating the open doorway.

Kate nodded and slung her beach bag over her shoulders.

The heat hit her like a barrier as she stepped out of the air-conditioned lobby. Squinting her eyes, in spite of her sun glasses, Kate looked at the jeep Tom was standing by as he held the passenger door open for her.

She had expected them to be traveling on foot so this was a pleasant surprise. Clambering into the seat and securing her seat belt, Kate waited whilst Tom got into the vehicle and started the engine.

"You ready?" he asked.

Unable to conceal her excitement, Kate nodded realizing to her embarrassment that her smile probably looked as though it had split her face in two.

Tom appeared to know everywhere worth visiting as they clocked up the miles. He would point out anything he thought might be of interest and stopped the jeep at the best photograph spots, insisting he take the pictures with Kate in the shot too.

As the sun reached its highest point in the day, Tom suggested they go to a place he knew for lunch and a swim.

"It's quiet and private," he explained as Kate nodded her agreement.

The morning had been quite wonderful. Tom's company was relaxing and he made her laugh with his anecdotes. Kate couldn't recall a time when she had felt more at ease and care-free.

The iron gates drew back as if by magic as their vehicle pulled into the driveway.

The house was beautiful. Painted white but covered in a climbing plant which was full of purple blooms, Kate thought it looked like a postcard with the shimmering ocean lying in the background.

As Tom brought the jeep to a standstill in front of the front door, Kate looked at him quizzically.

"Welcome to my humble home," he declared, opening her door and taking an extravagant bow.

For a moment Kate remained in her seat, her mind whirring. Well he'd never actually stated that he wasn't staying at her hotel, although Kate concluded she couldn't be blamed for having made that assumption. If he lived here it certainly explained why he knew the island so well.

Nervously Kate glanced up at Tom's face. He was smiling at her and held out his hand for her.

Taking a deep breath and wondering what Grant would have to say, Kate forced her ex-husband quickly from her mind as she accepted Tom's hand and stepped out of the car.

Surprised her legs hadn't given way on contact with the ground, Kate tried to keep her breathing calm and regular, not wishing Tom to see her fear.

I'm a mature, modern woman who has chosen to be here with this man, Kate told herself as she followed Tom to the door and waited for him to open it.

He pushed the door open and stepped aside for Kate to enter the house.

Without pausing Kate moved inside and found herself in a large, open hallway with a wooden, imposing staircase leading upstairs. Various doors adorned the walls of the hall and Kate followed Tom along a passage before entering a luxurious-looking lounge where everything seemed to be white.

Tom crossed the room and pushed open a pair of patio doors.

Kate stepped forward, following him as a swimming pool came into view with several sun loungers arranged along one side. Beyond the swimming pool a manicured garden led in terraces towards an edge which looked as though it fell away into the sea.

The view was breath-taking but Kate was barely aware of it as her mind was fully aware of being here, alone with this man who was extremely good-looking.

Kate watched as Tom peeled off his shirt. As he reached for the fly on his shorts he saw her look alter.

"You fancy a swim before we eat?"

His shorts dropped to the ground, revealing a pair of navy swimming trunks. Kate felt her embarrassment as Tom dived into the azure water.

Realizing how foolish she would appear if she continued to stand there clutching her bag, Kate dropped it onto one of the sun loungers and removed her own shorts and vest.

Feeling self-conscious in her small, green bikini, Kate sat on the side of the pool before lowering herself into the water.

Tom had been swimming strongly along lengths of the pool but now changed direction and appeared just in front of her.

Kate reminded herself to keep breathing as he slicked back his hair from his face.

"What do you think?" he asked, waving a hand in the air but keeping his eyes fixed on hers.

She smiled. "It's beautiful," Kate managed to reply.

And then quickly, as though some sudden impulse had taken hold of him, Tom's lips were on hers.

Instinctively Kate put her hands on his shoulders to support herself in the water as she became caught up in his kiss.

All thoughts of where they were or their solitude left Kate as Tom kissed her and his hands began to wander over her body.

Kate knew she was being foolish but she had become putty in his hands. Some invisible spark had ignited inside her body which seemed to be roaring for more.

Their swimwear was removed effortlessly as Kate gave herself up to Tom. Barely managing to hope he wouldn't think she was desperate for a man, Kate let him take the lead as he confidently made love to her.

Afterwards, as he glanced at her before disappearing beneath the surface of the water and swum away from her, Kate remained still, feeling her heart racing and reliving what had just taken place in her mind.

Was this real life? she wondered. Could she be caught up in some magical dream?

Whatever Tom had done to her, Kate only knew she wanted more. Her whole body was abuzz with life and she knew she felt reborn. He had ignited feelings inside her which Grant had never taken the trouble to discover and she wasn't yet sated.

Watching as Tom climbed out of the pool, Kate admired his confidence and the way the water, clinging to his torso, glistened in the sunlight.

He began drying his body and Kate swam across the pool. Climbing up the steps to the patio, Kate paused as she heard the sound of a car horn and then the slam of a door from the front of the house.

Her blood ran cold. Tom thrust a towel into her hands as she came and stood next to him. But Tom was moving quickly. He'd already pulled on his shorts and had his shirt halfway over his head before the sound of clipped footsteps approached them from the house.

A woman stood in the doorway. Her eyes took in the scene before her without any evidence of emotion showing in her cold, dark eyes. She was dressed immaculately in a business suit. High, black heels completed the vision of efficiency.

Kate shook slightly, holding the towel feebly round her body. The sun was hot on her shoulders but she remained motionless, waiting for someone to speak.

The woman put on a pair of dark sunglasses. She cast her eyes down the length of Kate's body and then seemed to dismiss her.

"Why the hell do you always have to bring them here?"

Her voice sounded cold and disinterested.

"Get rid of her, I have friends arriving shortly."

With that the woman turned and disappeared inside, only the tell-tale sound of her heels on the tiled floor betraying her presence.

Kate was immobile. Her mind was racing and she knew her cheeks were flaming but inside she felt empty and foolish.

Suddenly she became aware of Tom's presence again as he hurriedly tidied up his things.

Not able to trust herself to speak, Kate let the towel drop and pulled on her clothes quickly. She wanted to get as far away from here as she could.

Neither spoke. There was no need. It was evident from what the woman had said that she wasn't the first victim Tom had brought back to his home. She was a trophy, a pathetic English woman who had made a fool of herself thinking she was something special.

Kate grabbed her bag and followed Tom back through the house. At the front door he paused with his hand on the handle.

"I'm sorry," he began quietly. "I had no idea she would be home. I didn't mean for it to be like this."

Feeling the tears pricking the back of her eyes, Kate blinked and pulled her bag higher onto her shoulder.

"I don't care how you wanted it to be," she hissed. "You used me and tried to make an idiot out of me. Well, screw you Tom; I am walking out of here with my head held high."

Feeling a strange sensation of fulfillment rising inside her, Kate couldn't prevent a small smile appearing on her face as she stuck out her chin resolutely and waited for him to open the door.

For a moment Tom seemed to hesitate. Then, as if realizing there was nothing left to be said, he pulled the door open and stepped aside.

Kate strode down the driveway, with no idea which way she needed to go but she didn't care.

She might have started off imagining she had just been made a fool of but in her mind she knew she had achieved exactly the same as Tom. The ties between her and Grant had been loosened further today, she had taken a bold step. Things might not have turned out the way she would have planned it but she had taken a pair of scissors to the link between her and her old life. And it felt liberating.

© Sonya C. Dodd 2014

#  Newport Memorial Regatta By Kristina Blasen

Doryman's Hotel—Newport Beach, California—15 years after the first memorial regatta...

***

The door opened with a hollow jingle-clank from the old bell above. It let in a bit of a breeze to lighten up the stuffy room and a tall 40-ish man who looked to be aging well despite being overly tanned strolled in. "You've got to see this," he said, "it's still the same set up from the English owners—here you can look—we've got to at least try—," the man said urgently, motioning his friends inside. He didn't seem to notice how out of place his bare, perfectly waxed chest was with his brief, very brief and almost see-through white Speedos looked standing on the old Victorian carpets next to the half dead begonias at the Doryman's Hotel check-in desk.

The tired-looking proprietor looked skeptical when eight wet and sandy men and women tramped through her front door. They didn't seem like the Doryman's type, she thought. Her clients were old and had seen better days; these strangers were too young, too tan and too happy for Doryman's, not to mention too loud, too wet and too sandy.

To make it worse, they didn't seem to want rooms. They came in and wandered the small lobby, touching things. It was very irritating, but until they actually did something wrong she didn't know what to say to this odd behavior—she just stood at attention and watched them with her eyes only.

After a quarter hour of watching them like a hawk, she decided they were definitely searching for something—covertly. Thinking of the safe in the back, she grew afraid she was going to be robbed at any moment. She couldn't figure out where they'd hide the gun since between them no one wore enough clothes to conceal anything.

Finally, the stand-off was broken when the same man who led the charge through the lobby door bent deep and plucked an old wallet photo out of the half dead begonias.

"It's here," he told the others quietly.

Like a snake he turned to her and pinned her with his eyes, "We'd like to buy these begonias ma'am."

Stunned, she said the first thing to come to mind, "But—they're dead."

The whole group was converging from all points to the plant stand full of half dead and overgrown begonias that she'd never quiet bothered to throw away since, after all, they'd been living in the lobby for decades.

Between the intense look in the man's eyes and the threat of seven people coming close, all she wanted to do was escape to the backroom hotpot and a calming cuppa, but it was her lobby and she paid good money for those dead plants when she bought the place. "$500," she said bravely.

"Done," he said, turning to the others with the news.

In fewer moments than one might think $500 cash appeared, gathered from each of the eight and was plunked into her waiting hand. She took it and fled.

***

In his hand he held dead leaves, old dark pink flowers and Anna Belle's picture. At first glance it might look to be a memorial of some kind, but he knew this wasn't meant as a memorial, it was something much, much more important to him—it was a remembrance of a life. Anna Belle was the girl who lived.

***

Looking down at the old photo he couldn't help but remember Anna Belle as she'd been the summer of the first regatta. Blonde, only five or six, running around on the beach in a red, ruffled swimsuit. She wore a necklace with lady bugs around her neck. She spent the afternoons playing on the beach, but never in the water. They all remembered Anna Belle; she was the first person to survive a formerly deadly cancer, one people died from within months.

The first Newport Memorial Regatta was born in 1999 when Anna Belle had just finished her last treatment—it was all over the International news when the new treatment worked. They followed every story, read every word, they were stalking her, but with no ill intent. A reporter leaked that she staying a hotel near Newport Beach, California to recover before getting on a plane back to Framlingham in Suffolk. They had only wanted to see her from afar—living—the regatta was their excuse to take a holiday to the California coast in the U. S. and spend each day watching her as she played on the beach.

They gathered around, removing the dead leaves and old flowers from the begonias. Soon they discovered small notes, all written on the same faded and yellowed pieces of paper from a hotel notepad.

They were prayers and letters from each member of the regatta, left behind so many years before. It was time. Time to open them and remember. They'd all agreed.

Words seemed to float up and out into the room which had gone still and quiet. Some stood together, but most found a chair, a windowsill, a corner to sit and read, to think and in the end—to grieve again.

"Dear St. Anthony,

I need your help. I can't stand the pain of losing her anymore and I'm cursing the Lord's name each and every day. I'm lost..."

"Catherine my darling, my love—

I still think of you each and every day—silly things—"

"...I still garage your car because I want it to somehow last forever..."

"...I love you...Oh, God, this hurts so much..."

***

The Newport Memorial Regatta was created as a memorial race off Newport Beach in California. It was an event to remember loved ones who died from cancer. In the regatta, you can make or buy your boat, but either way, you use your arms a pole, an oar, anything to paddle, but no motors are allowed. One guy was the boat; his legs came out the bottom with rubber seals to keep the water out and when he got in and out of the water he just stood up and walked, boat and all

***

In the first memorial regatta there was Scott who raced for his wife Marianne and John who remembered his daughter, Lilian. Sarah entered for her brother Daniel and Jacklyn for her lost fiancé Mark. William came for Jane, his wife and Joe remembered his little sister Katrina, like Tameka who raced in memory of her sister Shana. Then there was George. George remembered his beloved wife and partner for life and beyond, Catherine. George started it all.

Newport beach, isn't like you'd imagine. There's the town, then the Regatta sign. The boats, the people and the race itself. If they hit a buoy then they yell a name—smiling, laughing, talking, crying—

That's how George saw life and he saw grief the same way.

We stayed at the Doryman's hotel on Newport Beach, an older establishment catering to families and couples on holiday from the U.K. The owners were a lovely older couple who understood the needs of a civilized person—they always had water at the ready for tea and she baked scones with clotted cream and jam each morning—if there was love left in his heart for anything it might be those scones.

They breakfasted together, Scott and George, before trekking down to the sandy beach with the masses once the sun was out and the wind died down. "I guess I'm not as popular as you—then again—I'm not exactly talking to anyone in the group—even though I know these people of all people would understand the lump of grief lodged permanently in my throat and leave me be," Scott said.

Scott was a last minute addition to the group, a first year Newport regatta virgin, but George had come around to visit his flat only to discover him wallowing about unshaven, unwashed, unfed. He'd patched him up, fed him, pushed him into the shower and eventually got him back to work, but there was no heart in it, no soul inhabiting the body as it sat in the office each day.

All that might have been par-for-the-course in a man who just lost his wife to cancer, but Scott knew he ended up here because of the robe. It was Marianne's old ratty pink robe, he'd been wearing it, sleeping in it, smelling it—he just needed to be close to her. The day George came to check on him he'd quickly taken it off and shoved it into the cushions of the duvet. Not quick enough or well enough to escape George's eagle-eye notice though.

George had coddled and bullied him by turns into taking a holiday, getting away from the dreary rain and seeing a little of the world. All he knew ahead of time was the George was lending him a little boat for some event on the water he felt they should attend together. A Harrod's bag shoved into his hands at the last minute revealed a tiny pair of red Speedos in the hotel room, which turned out to be the least racy wear at the regatta, but he didn't know that then, he just wondered if George had finally lost his marbles.

© Kristina Blasen 2014

#  British Summer Time By A.L Butcher

Crowded beaches, full of chilly swimmers and ice cream stalls,

Heaving airport lounges, seekers of the sun ever hopeful for more.

Bingo, campervans and muddy festivals,

Druids and the old ways practiced beneath rocks so very mystic, waiting for the rising solstice sun.

Museums and parks, the Changing of the Guard,

Castles, forts, and nature walks come rain or shine, mostly rain.

Changing clocks and garden parties,

Holiday camps and struggling with suitcases on the train,

Happy memories of childhood, happy memories of adulthood.

© A.L. Butcher 2014

## About The Authors

Madhu Kalyan Mattaparthi

Alan Hardy

Sonya C. Dodd

Chris Raven

D.C Rogers

Kristina Blasen

A. L. Butcher

Donny Swords

## *

## ***

## *

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# Madhu Kalyan Mattaparthi

Madhu Kalyan Mattaparthi is an IT professional from Hyderabad, India, born on 16th January 1989. He is a philanthropist, traveller and pursues writing as a hobby. Sensitive and observant, everything that happens around him is an inspiration to do something new. His knowledge in the world of technology has earned him appreciation and success and he now considers writing his new passion. He has worked in Google, India as a CEA and also the owner of a start-up company, Green Turtle Software Solutions.

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# Alan Hardy

Alan Hardy: I'm a Brit. Director of an English language school for foreign students. Married, with one daughter. Poet and novelist. Poetry pamphlets: Wasted Leaves, 1996; I Went With Her, 2007. Comic, bawdy novel GABRIELLA available on Amazon as Kindle e-book. Other novels, similarly disrespectful, surreal and shocking, on their way. Get ready for them.

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# Sonya C. Dodd

Sonya C. Dodd lives in Norfolk, England with her husband and two sons. Although Sonya began writing in 1996, it wasn't until 2013 that she started to publish her work. A teacher, as well as a mother and writer, Sonya has a selection of novels and short story collections available.

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# Chris Raven

Chris Raven was born in south London just shy of 50 years ago. He originally started out in Theatre in the 1980s but he became side-tracked by health and social care, where he has made his living for the past 20 or so years. More recently he has found his way back to the creative arts by contributing a number of short stories to the Indie collaboration's series of free anthologies. He has also contributed illustrations to other author's works and has been coordinating a shared writing project with other new writers called 'Tall Stories'.

A relative newcomer to fiction, he is currently experimenting with a number of different formats and genres, including poetry, short storytelling and play-writing.

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# D C Rogers

Author D C Rogers is a 31 year old man with ideas people say are great so he's decided to write them down. Hailing from the deep dark valleys of Wales, where his first zombie based novel stems, he lives happily with his fiancée. Pretty new to the game of writing his style is fast and fresh, focusing on thrillers horrors and fantasy works. I just want to show you lot the chaos in my mind!

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# Kristina Blasen

Kristina Blasen is a dabbler. She writes a dab of this and a bit of that. She enjoys writing children's fantasy, short stories and poetry. Her dark fantasy short story collection, Tales of the Wyrd, is her favorite collection. She's also the author of three poetry chapbooks: The Wildwood Guardian, Grey Weir and Slipshod Mornings & Meandering Midnights and is currently finishing her first full length novel, a science fiction fantasy called Gateways through the Penumbra.

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# A. L. Butcher

A. L. Butcher (Alexandra) is a British author of the Light Beyond the Storm Chronicles series and several short stories in the fantasy and fantasy romance genre. She is an avid reader and creator of worlds, a poet and a dreamer. When she is grounded in the real world she likes science, natural history, history and monkeys.

Also By This Author

#  Donny Swords

Currently residing in Glendale, Arizona,  Donny Swords was born in Washington State a long, long time ago. Eventually, he moved to the Southwest to find out what the sun was like.   
Presently, he has written four novels for commercial consumption and another for his pyromaniac ex-girlfriend's amusement. Two of his novels are available now, Ways of the Stygia- Fallen Song, (dark epic fantasy/horror) and The Bitter Ends, (12 unique character stories, in a zombie outbreak/horror). In addition to being pirated more than any indie author alive, Mr. Swords has two novels completed and due for release, Ways of the Stygia-Cult of Morgod, and The Vampire Faus- Dragon Stone.

Donny Swords is currently working on several projects due shortly through Primal Publications, including, but not limited to, The Bitter Ends II: the other side of town, & it's sequel: The Crimson Beam. Children can also look forward to a full volume of wacky adventures starring Bob & Dill, of Snips, Snails, & Puppy Dog Tales fame...

Mr. Swords is proud to be a part of The Indie Collaboration and will be a continuing contributor to the fine anthologies the group produces.

 Also By This Author

# Other Publications

# by

# The Indie Collaboration

# Tales From Dark Places: The Halloween Collection

A selection of chilling stories from some of the best Indie authors on the market. We dare you to venture into these pages of spine chilling tales and stories of ghosts and goblins. Freely donated by the authors themselves, these dark passages are a great example of their various, unique styles and imaginations. This is the first of a series of free topical collections brought to you by The Indie Collaboration.

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# Yuletide Tales: A Festive Collective

A diverse collection of stories showcasing some of the best indie authors on the market. Filled with heart-warming romance, mysterious humor, sinister, supernatural thrills and tearful sorrow, this anthology has something for everyone. So snuggle up with a warm glass of mulled wine and join us for the festivities, while we lift your spirit, tickle your fancy and rattle your bones.

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# Kiss and Tales A Romantic Collection

Another collection of original tales brought to you by The Indie Collaboration. This time we present a chocolate box selection of love stories. Some are romantic, some funny, some sad and some mysterious. Whatever the style, there will be a story or poem in here that will melt even the most hardened of hearts.

# Snips, Snails & Puppy Dog Tales A Children's Story Collection

Another collection of free poems and stories brought to you by The Indie Collaboration. This time we take you to a world of dreams. To far-away lands of magic and wonder, where ducks and children have adventures and learn about the world; where heroes help their friends and elephants get lost.

So pack your lunch box, grab your coat and shoes and join us in a land of make believe.

I can't wait. Can you?

