

# AWETHOLOGY DARK

#

# An Anthology by the #Awethor

Plublished by Plaisted Publishing House Ltd

New Zealand

# Copyright 2015 The #Awethors Group

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information

storage and retrieval system, without permission in

writing from all the authors in the #Awethor

Anthology, except in the case of brief quotations

embodied in reviews.

# Acknowledgements

Appreciation for the idea of this Anthology go to D M Cain and Rocky Rochford. If it wasn't for their idea this book would never have materialised in the first place

THANK YOU BOTH

Big Thanks also go to the Editors

Christie Stratos

Chess Desalls

Travis West

Pam Harris

L E Fitzpatrick

Rebecca McCray

Chris Hayes

William Frank Lloyd Jr

Big Thanks to our Proofreaders

L G Surgeson

Anita Kovacevi

C K Dawn

Travis West

D M Cain

J B Taylor

William Frank Lloyd Jr

L E Fitzpatrick

# Contents

The Twitter Bully

Share the Pain

The End

Get Down with Awethors

Waiting for the Twelfth

Pennies from Heaven

The Think Drug

The Lost Sheperd – A Short Reacher Story

Rescued

Love.com

Even Silence has an Echo

Coming Home

April Showers

You're History

Mabel's Promotion

Down by the River

Heart of Ice

Dave

One Night Stand

Ghosts

Double Jeopardy

Conversation with the Devil

Self Portrait

Majicka

Winter Palace

# The Twitter Bully

#

#

#

#

#

# Stewart Bint

# Copyright 2015 Stewart Bint

All Rights Reserved

### Dedication

This story is dedicated to everyone who has ever been bullied, whether on Twitter, Facebook, or in the real world.

Thank you to my wife Sue, son Chris and daughter Charlotte, for putting up with me disappearing to my laptop so much since my first novel was published in 2012. Writing is addictive. And thank you to my good friend DM Cain for her unstinting enthusiasm and encouragement.

# The Twitter Bully

They were the two most terrifying sounds I'd ever heard.

That awful ratcheting as the handcuffs locked around my wrists, securing them uncompromisingly behind my back. And the ominous clang as the thick steel door slammed shut, imprisoning me in this tiny square cell...the walls less than two yards apart.

So here I am, my bare feet freezing on the rough stone floor – yes, my shoes and socks were taken from me as soon as I arrived at this godforsaken place.

I glance up at the clock in the ceiling. I know, weird, isn't it? A clock in the ceiling. It's the only thing in this dimly-lit cell. Apart from me, of course. The clock's telling me I've been here for just over an hour.

I thought she might have freed my hands when she locked me in; I'm not going anywhere or doing anything, am I, incarcerated within these stone walls? But oh no, she just shoved me through that steel door, leaving my hands cuffed behind me.

Again I pull at the short chain keeping them there, but to no avail. In the early moments after that horrendous sound of the door slamming shut and the resounding click of the lock sliding into place, I tried undressing it. You know the manoeuvre, bringing your hands down below your bum and stepping over the chain so your hands are in front of you. Still cuffed closely together, of course, but at least you're not completely helpless as you are when they're secured behind your back.

But there's no chance of that with these cuffs. The chain is too short. It won't get anywhere near passing under my bum.

The next thing I did was take stock of my surroundings. Right, that was done in five seconds flat. Less than six feet of stone wall in every direction.

Not a lot I could do. I tried sitting down with my back pressed up against the wall as much as my restricted arms would allow, but within a few moments it wasn't just my feet that were freezing. That icy floor took almost all the feeling from my bum, with the wall performing the same trick on my back. The only way to get any comfort (and I use the word 'comfort' loosely here) was to keep walking round the cell. The movement jarred my thoughts into action. And pretty unnerving thoughts they were, too.

Surely they'd come for me soon. But what if they didn't? I'd no idea how long they intended to keep me here – wherever 'here' was – and what had that custody sergeant said when she took my shoes and socks? Oh yes: "You won't need footwear where you're going?" What the hell was that supposed to mean?

"Hey, how long am I going to be in here?" I shouted. My words died instantly, swallowed whole by the strange deadening effects of the thick stone surrounding me. And when I say thick, I mean thick. In the few seconds after we arrived at the cell and the door was pushed open, following that walk down the passage in the heart of the rock, I could see the walls were a solid nine inches.

Without my trainers I couldn't even kick the door to try and attract their attention. But I somehow doubted that even if I did kick it, it wouldn't do any good. I reckon the sound would only be audible inside the cell, as the steel was every bit as thick as the stone. I'm sure nobody outside would hear a thing. And the door itself...it was exactly that, just a door. In all police dramas I've seen on telly, police cell doors have an inspection hatch. This had nothing. It was simply a block of steel. No handle on the inside. No keyhole on the inside either. So even if I could manage to get my hands free, find a paperclip or other piece of wire from somewhere and was an expert lock-picker (which I'm not, by the way), I'd still be in a bigger pickle than a pound of tomatoes.

Okay, I'm trying to put a brave face on it, but I begin to realise how incredibly vulnerable and helpless I am. Locked in a tiny, dark cell. No idea where. No idea how long I'll be here. Barefoot. Hands cuffed securely behind my back. Cold. No, it doesn't come much more vulnerable and daunting than that.

So, as I say, here I am, entering the second hour of my imprisonment. And for what? Because they call me a Twitter bully. Okay, let's scroll back along the timeline to before I was locked in this cell. Further back, to when I still had my shoes and socks on. Even further back, to just before I was handcuffed.

The beef burgers were pretty good in this fast food joint, especially with cheese. We'd all surreptitiously pulled those horrible gherkins out and thrown them on the floor under the table. And, of course, none of the gang would be seen dead with those poncey fish or chicken efforts.

As for the veggie burgers; well! I remembered the time Sasha shot her foot out just as that stuck-up bitch Harriett Bloomfield from Year 11 was coming past with one of those cardboard burgers, as I call them. Oh, you should have seen it. It was hysterical. Bloomfield's momentum carried her upper body forward while her leg stayed behind. It doesn't take a physics genius to know that such a swiftly executed change in the centre of gravity won't leave the victim in an upright position for long. In Bloomfield's case it was less than two seconds. But it wasn't simply going down, oh no, much better than that. Those deliciously inviting blue eyes of hers widened in horror and she flung her arms out in a vain attempt to regain her balance. That had a rather unfortunate effect on the tray she was carrying, and consequently on the veggie burger, chips and strawberry milkshake which, until that moment, had resided on said tray. Being suddenly devoid of any human contact, they performed their own parabolic arc, staying airborne just long enough for Bloomfield's head to be precisely where gravity dictated they would come to rest.

Her flailing arms did nothing to prevent that pretty face from crashing sickeningly into the floor tiles – and then everything was down on top of the corn-blonde hair, burger and chips and milkshake and all. The corner of the tray did just enough to knock the lid off the polystyrene cup and the thick strawberry drink gushed out to be greeted by a loud cheer and helpless laughter from our gang as it soaked the back of her head.

We were just discussing that little event from a few months ago, and I was taking a noisy slurp of banana milkshake through my straw, when the door burst open and in they marched. Three of them. Two men and a woman. In police uniform. Well, not quite police uniform, but near enough. They headed straight for our table, and the biggest and burliest of the two men – I swear he was at least seven feet tall and weighed 25-stones – looked down at me. That was when I realised it wasn't quite a police uniform. The jackets looked authentic enough, although what the TPD badge on the left breast stood for, I had no idea. I do now. Each 'officer' had a telescopic truncheon tucked into a pouch in their belt, along with a pair of handcuffs.

It's the trousers the belts were supporting that gave the game away. They were all wearing denim jeans which, as far as I was aware were not standard police issue. Nor are the Kobe Aston Martin sneakers, even if they'd been the cheaper ones at £338 a pair, which these definitely weren't – these were the Hyper dunks at £770. Jesus, if these were real police it's no wonder the force is having to make cuts. How else could they fund shoes like these?

I looked up into his face. "Good evening, occifer." I thought maybe the bravado humour would make that granite face crack into a smile. "I'm not drunk – it's just that sometimes I get my 'c's and 'f's mixed up. Not as bad, though, as my friend called Ynot. Well, actually, it's Tony, but he's dyslexic." No, the granite didn't crack.

But it spoke: "Are you Tyler Conway?" The voice was as hard as its owner's face, the words booming across the room. A hush descended on the fast food joint as everyone turned to look.

I swallowed nervously. But this had to be a joke, didn't it? I mean, these weren't real police. "Have you put them up to this?" I asked, turning to my friends. But I could tell by their faces they hadn't. It had to be a joke though.

"Are. You. Tyler. Conway?" Granite asked again, each word distinctly defined, with too long a pause between each one.

Yeah, it's a joke, surely. "Yep. That's me. Got it in one, occifer. It's a fair cop." I held my hands out six inches apart, in the time-honoured jest. "Slap the bracelets on me."

It was all over before I hardly knew it had begun. Granite grabbed my left hand, hauling me to my feet and spinning me round. The other 'policeman' slammed my head down on to the neighbouring table, while their female colleague twisted my right hand behind my back. And there was that sound I mentioned earlier; the ratcheting noise as the steel closed over my wrist. Granite forced my other hand behind my back to meet the same fate, and within a couple of seconds I was hauled upright by the hair, pulling in vain against the handcuffs that ensured I was a helpless prisoner.

My friends had all been quietly sniggering up to that point, probably thinking, like me, that this was all some sort of joke. But after that little episode of my head cracking painfully on to the table they fell ominously silent.

"Tyler Conway." It was the 'policewoman' this time. "I'm arresting you on suspicion of Twitter bullying, harassment and trolling. From this moment forward, you have absolutely no rights, either in the real world or the cyber world. Do you understand me?"

Well, I certainly didn't understand. And judging by the stunned, blank looks of everyone else in the fast food joint, neither did they.

"What? No, of course I don't. What's all this about? What's going on?"

I heard whispers from a neighbouring table: "Twitter bully? How disgusting."

The policewoman was speaking again: "Tyler Conway, it is my duty to take you to a place of custody where you will be tried and judged for your alleged crimes against innocent Twitter users."

This was getting ridiculous. I half expected her to read me my rights. Ah, no, what was it she'd just said it? – I had no rights in the real or cyber worlds.

What? Not even a "whatever you tweet will be typed up in 140 characters and may be tweeted against you"?

Nope, I guess not.

She turned away, spinning on her heel, to face the door. "Bring him."

I started to say something about my hoody slung over the back of my chair, but then thought about the rather illegal contents of two of the pockets. Best to leave it here. The gang'll look after it.

Granite gripped my right elbow, the other policeman on my left and they marched me after her. As I stumbled towards the exit I saw the diners' horrified faces staring up at me. But were they horrified for my fate, or by what these 'police officers' said I'd done?

Seconds later we were outside in the car park. A large white van nestled up against the pavement a few metres from the door, and I could see a very familiar logo on the side. But the logo wasn't displayed just once – a whole row of blue birds in flight adorned the vehicle. And above them, in huge blue letters: TPD. I barely had time to register this before they dragged me to the rear doors. Granite inserted a key into the lock and pulled them both open.

A light came on automatically, illuminating a stark white interior devoid of anything except a metal seat running the length of the left-hand side. The policewoman headed to the front of the van, leaving me alone with Granite and the other guy, who I hadn't heard speak up to this point. As they thrust me up the single step and pushed me inside, I noticed three short links of chain attached to a steel ring set in the seat, and a longer chain fastened to a ring bolted into the floor.

Now the silent one spoke. "Over here, Conway, and sit down." He guided me, none-too-gently, it has to be said, to the seat and forced me down on it, before producing two padlocks from the pouch on his belt. Reaching behind me, I felt the unrelenting steel of the handcuffs bite deeper into my wrists as he padlocked them to the chain.

I was too stunned to speak, and before I knew it, he had stooped down to my feet, wrapping the floor chain twice around my ankles, cinching it between them, finally securing it with the remaining padlock. I couldn't move my hands or feet more than an inch.

The grin on their faces as they retreated to the back of the van filled me with dread. But perhaps not so much dread as Granite's words did.

"I hope you went to the toilet at that burger place. You're going to be chained there for quite some time, and there are no toilet stops on this journey."

They stepped out of the van and the doors clanged shut. Immediately I was engulfed by pitch blackness. Then the sound of the door lock clicked into place.

A few seconds later I heard another door slam – presumably as Granite and Man-Of-Few-Words settled into their seats alongside the woman – then the engine fired up and I felt us move away.

I pulled at my shackles. Not only were my hands held tightly behind my back, they were now firmly anchored to the seat as well. Likewise my feet were locked together and secured to the floor.

As I sat there, completely helpless, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark, I felt a vibration through the metal panels as the vehicle increased speed. The adjustment to the dark was a long time coming, I thought. In fact it never did come. Not a chink of light could be seen anywhere. The interior of this TPD van in which I was now held prisoner was in absolute pitch blackness. I had never experienced anything like it. And to say it was frightening and unnerving was an understatement in the extreme. For the first time in my life I was not in control. Not only that, but someone else had total control, total power, over me. I didn't know who they were, nor why they're doing this to me. Surely they were not treating me like this because I'd upset a few people on Twitter. As I sat there, unable to do absolutely anything except think, I couldn't be sure if my thoughts were getting increasingly more rational or more irrational.

I could sit this out, I mused, if I just played ignorant. After all, how could they (whoever 'they' are), know that I'm a well-practiced, chapter-and-verse Twitter bully? My personal Twitter account, TylerBConway747, with @SuperTyler user name, was absolutely squeaky clean. It was only in my other guise of MrEviL that I conducted my unrelenting bullying, harassment and trolling. Hiding behind anonymity, I was completely safe from detection and free to cause upset and torment galore. Oh, how I loved to think what those poor stupid saps went through every time @evilreigns popped up in their mentions.

But again, I thought, treating me this way was like cracking the proverbial walnut with the proverbial sledgehammer. Okay, so I may have upset a few (few?? For 'few,' read 'many') people on Twitter, but was that any reason to chain me up like an animal? Did I really deserve this?

The really worrying thing was, though, that I didn't actually think this was a genuine, pukka, police van, nor my captors genuine, pukka occifers of the law.

I had absolutely no idea how long I sat there; the enforced immobility causing my muscles to scream silently, but urgently, at me. "Move us," they urged. "Move us. We're cramping up." Yes, okay, I wish I could – but it was several hours ago that my cuffed hands were secured to the bench and my feet chained to the floor, and I could do diddly squat about it.

Hold on, what's this? The van stopped. I strained my ears and heard the front doors slam, rocking the vehicle a little. The next sound was the clink of the rear door lock sliding back and then a slab of light flooded in. Screwing my eyes tightly shut to combat the painful brightness, I just caught a glimpse of Granite and Man-Of-Few-Words silhouetted outside, then heard, rather than saw, them make their way into my prison. I felt their hands opening the padlocks that held me securely to the bench and floor. My feet were now free of their shackles, but my hands remained securely cuffed behind my back. Without a word the none-too-dynamic-duo hauled me up, my muscles now screaming in protest at their sudden call to action after my hours of restrained captivity.

With Granite gripping my right arm tightly and painfully, and M-O-F-W my left, I was manhandled down the rear step, coming face to face with the 'policewoman' who seemed to be in charge.

The vehicle was parked a few metres from a somewhat gothic-looking building. The two-storey imposing stone structure looming up in front of me had turrets topping semi-circular towers at both ends of the frontage, connected by a castellated strip. Huge arched double doors, which wouldn't have looked out of place behind a castle portcullis, were flanked on both sides by two dark fathomless windows. Immediately above the doors a strip ran the width of the building showing the blue flying Twitter bird at either end, sandwiching large ornate lettering spelling out the legend: Twitter Police Department.

Now here's another mystery. It had been getting dusk when I was dragged into the van and, although I was imprisoned there for several hours, it didn't feel as if the whole night and half a day had passed. Yet here I was, standing in broad daylight with the sun blazing high in the sky. This couldn't be England, though, surely. Judging from the heat we were in Death Valley. And my surroundings didn't argue very powerfully against that, either. The mountainous landscape was utterly barren. The ground in the immediate vicinity was nothing but a cracked, rocky wasteland. No road! And yet I hadn't felt any bumping as the vehicle had apparently been nearing its destination. It looked as if the building could actually have grown out of the very mountain it stood against. Its uneven stone blocks appeared to match colour and texture perfectly. If the mountain had indeed given birth to this building, it was the parent of an only child. There was no other structure in sight.

"Right," she snapped. "Bring him inside. Let's get this over with, we're needed in the field again."

My 'helpers' guided me up the steps and through those gigantic oak doors into a huge vaulted waiting area. I say 'waiting area' but there's no-one waiting now; just row upon row of empty, red leather seats. There must be at least 50 of them. And at the far end of the room another 'policewoman' sat behind a reception hatch, above which a sign proclaimed this to be the Twitter Police Department Custody Suite. As they frogmarched me towards her I saw a smile creeping across her rosebud lips and dark hazel eyes in equal measure. But there was something decidedly unsettling about it, almost malicious, as if she relished the moment, savouring the foretaste of something which she would clearly enjoy and I clearly wouldn't.

She looked me straight in the eye as I arrived in front of her, then glanced down at a computer screen set into the counter. As she did so, I couldn't help but be captivated by the sheen of her hair, the colour of which matched those 'come-to-bed' eyes perfectly. And I caught a combined whiff of her perfume and shampoo.

"Tyler Conway." Her honeyed tones positively purred my name.

Here was a chick to die for.

When all this is over I'm coming back here of my own free will to ask her out. I wonder what her Twitter handle is. I looked to her perfectly rounded left breast (but only, you understand, because that's where her name badge was strategically located, identifying her as 'Custody Sergeant Aimee Crystal).

"Tyler Conway?" She purred my name again, but this time the inflection indicating a question rather than a statement.

I nodded enthusiastically. "That's me, Aimee. Good to see you."

She looked across at Granite and M-O-F-W, each of whom was still painfully gripping my arms.

"Okay boys, bring him through."

As she reached beneath the counter, presumably to press a button, I heard the click of a magnetised lock being released, and a door alongside her moved a fraction of an inch. Granite pushed it open, his pull on my arm strongly suggesting I go through. Once I was over the threshold and inside her small office beyond, she spun her swivel chair to face me.

"Possessions." Granite interpreted her solitary word as a command and his hands start sweeping my body, pausing to remove my wallet and house keys from the back pocket of my jeans, and phone from my shirt pocket. I shudder to think what would happen if they'd found my flick knife and packet of white powder. But they were safely in my hoody, which the gang were hopefully guarding with their lives.

Then Granite's hands were at my groin. "Oi," I began. "What..."

"Shut it."

Okay, I relaxed...well, relaxed as much as this whole scenario would allow, realising that he was simply confiscating my belt.

Aimee put my wallet, keys, phone and belt into a plastic tray.

"Thank you," she said to Granite and M-O-F-W. "I'll take him from here."

After they retreated back into the waiting area she pressed two buttons. One resealed the door, the other brought a steel shutter down, covering her reception hatch. We were alone.

I tried bravado again. "Okay, you've got my belt, phone, wallet and keys. What more do you want from me?"

If she saw my wink, she ignored it, and simply fixed me with what I can only describe as a smile that contained malice, mischief and a smirk all rolled into one. Although it lit up her face, it was for her benefit rather than mine.

"Well, now you ask," she said, "I need your shoes and socks. Take them off."

"What?"

"You heard. Your shoes and socks. Take them off."

"Why?"

"You won't need footwear where you're going." Her voice grew stern now: "Take them off."

I spun round to show her my hands were still securely cuffed behind my back, and rattled the chain for good measure.

"That might be quite difficult, given my current circumstances," I said. As I turned back towards her, her movement was so sudden I never saw it coming. I don't know if it was her fist or a slap, but the force with which her hand struck my left cheek sent me staggering into the wall.

"I won't ask you again, Conway. Off. Now."

With my face stinging like fury I managed to lever both my trainers off from the heel, with the toes of my opposite foot, then squatted down to peel my socks off from the ankle.

"See, it wasn't that hard, was it?" she said, scooping them up and depositing them in the plastic tray, before putting everything into a locker behind her.

The next few moments saw me following her through a door at the rear of the small office and down a long set of quite steep, rough and cold, stone steps. At the bottom a narrow passage stretched away with a pronounced downward slope.

The floor comprised the same stone as the walls and ceiling. If I'd still been wearing shoes I doubt I'd have noticed the transition from the smooth white floor tiles in her office, but without shoes I winced as every step brought the vulnerable soles of my bare feet into contact with the stone's jagged roughness. Every so often the intense sharpness caused me to stumble, and without the use of my hands to correct my balance, the equally rough walls managed to graze my elbows and face. If I didn't know better I'd say that confiscating my shoes ahead of being led down this passage was designed specifically to make the trip as unpleasant and uncomfortable as possible. Actually, come to think about it, I don't think I do know any better.

Eventually we came to that nine inch thick steel door where Aimee and I parted company.

And now, here I am, beginning the second hour of my imprisonment in this tiny, uncomfortable cell.

"When are you going to realise you've got the wrong person?" I scream. "Let me out, now! If you don't release me I'll sue your asses off." Realising how lame that sounds I rattle the handcuff chain furiously – the only action I can take in my current state of impotent helplessness, to be in any way rebellious.

Again I think fleetingly of kicking the door, but am put off by the fact that nine inch thick steel will emerge victorious in a battle with bare feet any day of the week. I really am totally helpless in here. And I don't like it one little bit.

Whoaahh! That takes me by surprise.

I'm definitely not expecting a soft female voice to call my name. And it's coming from the clock! I mentioned the clock in the ceiling, didn't I? It's 18 inches square, and although the time is shown with two hands in analogue format, the display actually looks like it's created digitally. And there's that voice again. Yep, it's definitely coming from the clock.

"Tyler Conway."

As well as broadcasting that well-modulated voice into the tiny cell, the clock is also doing something else decidedly funny. No, I don't mean it's reciting the Dead Parrot sketch or showing a scene from Mrs Doubtfire – that would be funny ha-ha and this is definitely funny peculiar.

Jagged lines, almost like cracks and splinters in the glass, flicker across the clock face, obscuring the hands and numbers. As the lines begin to dissipate again, a face emerges behind them.

Oh. My. God. Now I start to tremble.

What I now see on that digital screen shakes me to my very core and tells me that maybe these guys are serious after all. My heart sinks as I realise that pleading ignorance of my MrEviL tweets just isn't going to cut the mustard.

Fading into view, as all but four of the lines fade out of view, is a pale, somewhat wan-looking heart-shaped face with a slightly snub (but cute, nevertheless, it has to be said) nose. But the eyes! Oh, dear God, the eyes! It was those eyes on the Photo shopped image that had first attracted me to this Twitter account during one of my regular trolling sessions. The eyes had been replaced with jet black holes, also heart-shaped (I remember wondering at that time what was it about this person that they were so into hearts. Especially black ones).

Yes, I've seen this face many times before. But only when using my MrEviL @evilreigns account. It's Annie Galway's Twitter avatar. And I clearly remember my last tweet to her yesterday: '@Anngal01 Go hang urself, u fat cow. Actually don't. ur weight will snap the rope.'

Four jagged slashes continue to scar the screen in a slight diagonal pattern, as Annie's avatar grows in strength and stature, taking up residence behind them. Those deep, penetrating heart-shaped black holes bore into my eyes, and the blackness of the lips accentuates their firm set, hardening just a fraction more. And as I move from the centre of the cell to press up against the wall, those black holes follow me. Not like in paintings where the eyes only seem to move. The intelligence behind these holes continues to stare straight at me, chilling my bone marrow a thousand times more than the icy stone of my prison could ever do.

And what's happening now? Not only the face, but the entire square housing it, pushes forward through the remaining slashes, breaking free of the clock and coming into the physical reality of the cell. For a second it simply hovers there, near the ceiling, before floating down until those black holes are level with my eyes.

The black lips part to form my name again. It's that same well-modulated voice I heard before.

For God's sake, Annie Galway's avatar is talking to me.

"Tyler Conway, you have been called here to answer for your crimes of cyberbullying. Today you will face the consequences of your bullying, trolling and harassment of innocent Twitter users."

For once I'm struck dumb. Usually I can hide behind my anonymous MrEviL name and skull and crossbow avatar. But the bravado that brings, now deserts me as I look into those dark, piercing holes. How could I feel smaller, more vulnerable and helpless than I did a few moments ago? I don't know, but I sure as hell do.

What! No way could she have read my thoughts. Could she? No. It has to be coincidence. Doesn't it? But her words are taken almost verbatim, directly from my brain:

"Tyler Conway, you are feeling extremely vulnerable right now. You are a helpless prisoner locked in a tiny cell. Your hands fastened securely behind your back serve to emphasise and heighten your captivity. You are barefoot, battered, bruised, grazed and bleeding. Someone else is in control; you have no power to stop them. You have no power to do anything at all. You don't know what's going to happen next. You feel as if your very essence as a human being has been totally and utterly violated."

Yep. That sums it up to a tee.

"Tyler Conway, what you're feeling now is what your bullying and harassment inflicts on other people. On me. Your MrEviL tweets as @evilreigns cause people to suffer...they feel helpless, powerless, violated, battered. You wreck their lives, Tyler Conway, like you wrecked mine. Your final tweet to me ended my life. I couldn't take your persistent bullying and harassment any more, and I did what you told me to do. I hanged myself. But the rope didn't snap."

Her square avatar, just inches from my face, tilts upwards, directing those black bottomless pits to the ceiling. I follow her gaze. My last tweet is now showing in the clock.

Okaaay, yeah, I said that, and why not? I may be helpless and vulnerable in this cell, but I reckon attack is still my best form of defence. So the stupid cow's dead. "And that's my fault, how?" I retort. "This is my Twitter account. I can comment on what I like, say what I like, and no-one can stop me. I'm glad you're dead, you stupid cow."

The avatar remains inscrutable as a number of my other tweets aimed at her scroll through the clock: 'u fat cow, u stink. U'll never get a boyfriend. No-one'll ever want u.' 'Ur just a useless lump of meat, writhing with maggots.'

I look at the first half dozen, then turn my eyes away.

"So?" I snarl. "My Twitter account, my rules. You blocked me ages ago, how do you know about these tweets, anyway, unless you're trolling me? Stalking me?"

Her only response is to whisper: "Twitter bully guilty." And again: "Twitter bully guilty." And again. And again.

The jagged slashes cover the clock once more, before another avatar breaks through and floats down. Oh, this'll be good. It's that donkey who runs what used to be my favourite TV programme.

This time, as well as my tweets about him scroll down the clock face, the donkey narrates them for me, too. Just to make sure I get the message, I suppose. Well, that makes sense, as he can never get the message across in his programme. A few of my choice phrases shine through: 'Incompetent turd.' 'Nasty, pathetic little prat.' 'Can't write a decent character to save his life.' 'I'm coming after ur children.' 'U're ded. And so are ur children.'

And all the time his thin, whining voice is accompanied by Annie Galway's incessant whispering: "Twitter bully guilty. Twitter bully guilty."

The clock face clouds with the jagged, diagonal slashes again as he obviously reaches the end of his episode. He now joins Annie's whispering. They're both at it in perfect unison: "Twitter bully guilty. Twitter bully guilty."

Oh, for goodness sake, who's this coming through the clock now? Yes, there's no mistaking that nose. It's that little tart three years below me at school. She, too, narrates the tweets I sent to her as they scroll along the clock face. I remember them tweets well: 'That nose! What an ugly lump of clay.' 'You'd be better looking after washing your face in acid.'

And that whispering all the time in the background: "Twitter bully guilty, Twitter bully guilty."

Now she finishes and her avatar congregates with Annie and the donkey in the corner of my cell. Three voices chanting: "Twitter bully guilty, Twitter bully guilty."

Harriett Bloomfield comes next. 'Stuck up cow.' 'Can't keep away from the boys, can u?'

Many more tweets.

Many more avatars.

I've no idea how long this goes on for, but there must be at least 30 avatars crowding my cell now. A few choice tweets stand out: 'I've got pictures of your kids,' 'tweeting your private phone number shortly.' 'You're a child abuser.' 'Do you really do that with your daughter?' 'Your child's just a cretin, never mind that she's autistic.'

And all the while there's that combined and insistent, throbbing, whispered chant in the background. It's actually quite hypnotic: "Twitter bully guilty, Twitter bully guilty." Never changing pitch, never changing tone, never changing volume. In some tacky horror novel the whispering would get increasingly louder, raising to a crescendo, and because of my cuffed hands I wouldn't be able to cover my ears to drown out the sound as it burrows through my eardrums and into my brain, teetering me over the brink into madness. No, there's none of that here – just an incessant, never-changing whisper: "Twitter bully guilty, Twitter bully guilty."

What? Oh no. I might have guessed that sanctimonious old fruit loop would stick his oar in. He just can't leave us alone, despite the threats we've all made against him. I watch helplessly as Byron Carruthers' smug avatar slips through the clock. I've seen enough of these Twitter profile pictures in the last few hours to know exactly when those eyes will come alive.

Carruthers' rugged face, topped and tailed by thinning grey hair and a grey designer stubble goatee, floats down gently to the same level as mine. And there they go, the dark brown eyes peering over the top of his glasses, suddenly shine and sparkle.

What was I saying earlier about attack being my best form of defence? Well, here I go again.

"I'm not listening to a word you say. This is what I think of you and your interfering." With that, I spit a thick, glutinous glob of phlegm straight at him, watching with glee as it slowly trickles down his cyber nose and over his cyber mouth. I don't know if either he or his avatar even notice my act of defiance as there's certainly no change in his expression, and his voice is quiet, measured and calm.

"I have links and associations with several international groups fighting online bullying," he says. "A number of them have been watching Tyler Conway's anonymous Twitter account, MrEviL, for the last year. He and a small clique of followers are renowned for vile cyber-attacks, sustained trolling, harassment and sub tweeting.

"When anti-bully activists intervene on behalf of his victims, they too have been subjected to a torrent of organised abuse and threats. In a bid to discredit anyone opposing their bullying, Conway and his acolytes regularly spread wild and malicious lies, urging their followers to block anti-bully campaigners. Many innocent and gullible followers simply believe the spoon-fed lies instead of seeking the truth for themselves.

"And when a number of people finally realised the scale and malicious ferocity of lies directed at the personal life of one renowned anti-bully ambassador, Conway tweeted: 'Anyone defending him in any way, shape or form, will be blocked instantly.'"

I glance up at the clock screen to see that particular tweet scrolling through. Then Carruthers is talking again.

"Before we can begin to understand a cyber-bully's mentality and psyche we must first take a look at the code they live by – their bible, or their national anthem:

"Baa Baa Bleat Bleat, have you any bile?

Yes Sir, Yes Sir, we spread it all the while.

We take a lie from our Master, push it far and wide,

And wash away the truth with the outgoing tide.

Lies and hate we spread 'til our victims fill with dread,

We care not a jot that justice shall be dead.

"Online bullying is every bit as powerful as physical bullying and its consequences are just as terrifying. The problem is that people on Twitter and Facebook hide behind anonymity – these keyboard bullies know that it'll take quite a lot of cyber detecting to find the stone they crawl under.

"Most online bullying, stalking and harassment begins with taking those lies from their Master – whatever they conceive that Master to be, whether it's an external influence or their own internal demons urging them on, and then wreaking havoc upon innocent people's lives.

"The alliance of anti-bully activists decided that Tyler Conway had finally gone too far when his tweet to Annie Galway was the direct cause of her taking her own life."

Carruthers pauses as my damning tweet appears on the clock face again. That self-righteous prat certainly knows how to create effect, I'll give him that.

'@Anngal01 Go hang urself, u fat cow. Actually don't. ur weight will snap the rope.'

Suddenly all is quiet around me. That intolerable whispering ceases. The only sound now is my own breathing. But the hostility in the eyes of those silent avatars is all-too-evident as they glare at me, seemingly from every inch of the cell.

I swallow.

And again. My throat is as dry as a bone.

"Tyler Conway." Somehow I sense a note of doom-laden finality in the way Annie Galway's avatar utters my name. "You have been found guilty of the Twitter crime of bullying and harassment. Do you have anything to say before I pass sentence?"

My parched throat is reluctant to let me speak, but eventually I force the lie out.

"I didn't mean to upset anyone."

Am I really saying this? Of course I meant to upset them. But before I can lie further I'm dimly aware of Annie uttering one word: "I..."

That's the whole point of MrEviL, isn't it?

Another solitary word from Annie: "...sentence..."

My other persona, not one that I could publicly acknowledge as being the real Tyler Conway (Annie again: "...you...) was created to do just that. To bully other Twitter users for the sheer fun, the sheer hell, of it,

Annie: "...to..."

to harass them, no matter how much they ask me to stop – and when those polite requests turn to heartfelt begging pleas; well, that was music to my ears, manna from heaven,

"...eternity..."

as I ignored them and increased my harassment . And as for that sanctimonious, holier-than-thou, anti-bully campaigner Byron Carruthers,

"...in..."

well, I'm just glad I forced that do-gooder off Twitter for a while with those brilliant lies about him. That worked so much better than I could have dared hope for.

"...Twitter..."

Bullies should unite against him and his ilk – interfering busy bodies, the lot of them.

"...Hell...

If the people we bully can't stand the heat they should get the hell out of the Twitter kitchen.

WHAT? It's just struck me what Annie said: "I sentence you to eternity in Twitter Hell." What's that supposed to mean?

An avatar breaks free from the circle surrounding me, suddenly diving to my feet. At its first touch, my feet and ankles feel as if they're exploding in a torrent of boiling oil, the skin starting to melt and peel away, exposing red raw flesh beneath. A glimpse of white bone peeps through.

A scream suddenly rents the air. A scream of absolute horror, terror and pain all rolled into one heart-breaking sound of torment.

Then I realise where that scream now assaulting my ears is coming from. It's coming from me, getting louder and louder, as if the intense sound can dull the increasing, heightening, concentrated pain.

Pain, absolute sheer, undiluted pain. I dance around the cell, every step leaving bloody prints on the stone. With that agonising pain and my balance impaired by my cuffed hands, my frenzied movements accidentally bring my left elbow in contact with the still and silent mob of avatars, instantly refocusing attention away from my burning feet. My arm feels as if it's joined them in that growing cauldron of boiling oil.

A second avatar breaks free from the circle, latching itself onto my chest, burrowing its way inside.

The front of my shirt disintegrates, fragments of material fusing with the now molten gloop of tissue that just a few seconds ago comprised my upper torso.

A third avatar takes my groin.

My legs fall victim to a fourth, and my right arm to a fifth. The agony is intense, intolerable, unrelenting.

Then, the last thing I ever see is Annie leading the remaining avatars to my head. My hair singes for a fraction of a second before bursting into flames as every single avatar smothers my face.

The popping sound I hear is my eyeballs exploding.

Then there is no sound at all. My eardrums have simply melted.

There is no sight.

No sound.

No taste – my tongue melted three seconds ago, but to be honest I hadn't even noticed it, due to the pain consuming every other part of my being.

There is no smell, my olfactory organs having gone the same way as my tongue.

But one sense remains. I haven't been deprived of the ability to feel excruciating, white hot, unfathomable, blistering pain.

My body has gone. All that is left of the human being that was once Tyler Conway – and, yes, I was human, despite the fact that I was acknowledged as a vile, malicious Twitter bully, troll and exponent of harassment – is now an ethereal avatar of intense, agonising, unbearable, intolerable pain which I simply can't take any more.

How long will it last, I wonder?

Then I remember the length of the sentence Annie, my final victim, imposed on me.

Eternity.

# Stewart Bint's Author Bio & Links

Stewart Bint is a novelist, magazine columnist and PR writer. He lives with his wife Susan in Leicestershire in the UK, and has two grown-up children. As a member of a local barefoot hiking group, when not writing he can often be found hiking barefoot on woodland trails. Previous roles include radio newsreader, presenter and phone-in show host.

<https://twitter.com/authorsjb>

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

<http://stewartbintauthor.weebly.com/>

#

#

#

# Share the Pain

## Dawn Brazil

# Copyright 2015 Dawn Brazil

All Rights Reserved

### Acknowledgements

Thank you to my family for their patience and love.

Thank you to my Chicken Soup ladies for the

encouragement and support.

Thank you to my beta readers – L.E. Fitzpatrick and

Elizabeth Cortez.

### Dedication

To John...thanks for always being you.

### Share the Pain - Part 1

Little Apple, Arkansas was a shit town.

I'd made the conscious decision to come back even though I hated it. Why? I needed to get rid of someone and I couldn't trust anyone with the task, so it fell to me. I wasn't nervous. It wasn't a mantra I'd been reciting in my head though it was my first day at a new school. It was the truth. I wasn't nervous.

I was in complete control.

I bounded past a crowd of students who buzzed around a giant bulletin board and passed a smaller gathering of kids who whispered and pointed at the larger group. My first-period class was easy to find. It was just off the main hallway from the entrance, then a quick right. When I arrived, the teacher, middle-aged, balding guy with a worn brown sweater vest and too tight khakis, was just about to close the door. I reached my hand out to stop him.

"Oh. Um...Hello there," the teacher said.

His bushy brows spiked for a moment like he was surprised to see me. I brushed past him and stood in the front. My eyes scanned the room. Sixteen girls, eight guys and one imposter.

A procession of late students interrupted a formal introduction from the teacher. I waited at the front for him to get the other students strolling in seated. The force of the eyes glued on me was normal. Guys licked their lips and ran their eyes from my bone straight jet-black hair to my perky chest. Girls whispered and sucked their bubble gum pink lips in disgust. Yeah, Bitches watch your man around me.

Once the other students were seated, the teacher, whose name was written on the board as K. R. A. S.N.A.S.K.I., ushered me closer to his desk. "Well, I've had you in class before, haven't I?" he said.

I shook my head.

"Nope. It's my first day."

He lifted his head and peered at me. Emerald green eyes were the only remarkable aspect of his forgettable face. Those eyes were squinted at me as if he were in deep thought.

I rolled my eyes. "Can I please take a seat?" I shuffled from one foot to the other as he wrestled with where he knew me. He looked constipated with his nose scrunched and his forehead wrinkle lines that reminded me of my dad when he was at his wits end. And my patience was wearing thinner than the barely there hair on this sweater-vested geek's head.

"Yes. Yes, of course. There is a seat vacant three rows down at the front."

"Um, can I sit at the back of the class? There's a vent right here and I'm always cold. Anemic." I pointed a French manicured tip to the seat I wanted.

He nodded. His expression had changed again to one of puzzlement and his too thin lips were pursed into a straight line. I pulled my bag tighter on my arm and moved around his desk swiftly.

"Ms. Carter, I need to sign your schedule," he called after me.

Without turning, I exclaimed, "It's Ms. Hughes, actually. And you signed it just now."

I held up the yellow card for him to see but didn't break my stride. Once I arrived at the seat, I dropped my bag to the floor then collapsed on the hard chair. I turned to the sun as it shined brightly into the window across from where I sat. For a few seconds, I basked in its brilliance as it rolled across my skin. The warmth spreading like a heated blanket over me. Beside the window was another row of seats and that was where he sat. The imposter that needed to be taken down sat across from me and stared with the same puzzled expression as Mr. Krasnaski.

"What? Do I have a giant bugger hanging from my nostril or something?" I whispered.

A masculine laugh escaped from the imposter's full lips.

"Sorry. I was just imitating Mr. K. Do you know him?" He leaned forward in his seat and looked over at me with a slight smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

Mr. Krasnaski announced, "We'll be reading silently from our class text the duration of the period in preparation for an exam on Friday."

A collective groan sounded in the room at once. Mr. Krasnaski opened his laptop and buried his head in the screen as if he'd heard nothing.

I glanced at the sun and noticed the imposter staring at me. His eyes were chocolate brown. And his voice was velvety smooth. I bent to the side a little and when I did, my light blue off the shoulder blouse fell forward. From his position, he had a good view of my chest. I knew I had a nice rack, I wondered if he'd take the bait.

He kept his eyes glued to mine.

"So. Do you...know Mr. K.?" He asked his question again. His eyes never strayed to my chest so I leaned back in my seat. That was a first. Maybe he was different.

It didn't make a difference. You found him first so he needed to die.

"Nope, don't know him."

My heart rate accelerated a few pulses. I'm certain no one else could tell, but I had to pull it together. I had a task I needed to complete and it wouldn't happen if I fell apart. The only thing I needed to be concerned with was being in control.

"What's there to do for fun around here?" I asked.

His eyes were trained forward. He spun his head and glared at me with his eyes narrowed. Then he cleared his throat and shook his head. As if I'd interrupted an important conversation, he was having with himself. Wow, and they called me crazy.

"Sorry. I've. Uh, got a lot on my mind. What'd you ask?"

His dark chocolate eyes sank into mine and a slight thread of fear crept up the back of my neck. Like a spool of unraveling yarn, I was about to detangle my madness all over the place. This wasn't amateur hour; I had to pull it together.

"I asked, what's there to do here?"

"Oh. Not much really. Movies. Bowling. There's a pretty decent mall two towns over. But we pretty much hang out with fam and friends. And chill at the reef."

"The reef."

I raised my brows and tried to appear enthusiastic about the mention of the reef. My sister had explained long ago that it was as craptastic as the rest of the shitty little town. He stared at me for a long moment without speaking. His mouth cut into a sideways grin.

"Oh probably don't know what that is. Uh. The reef's pretty much where all the kids go to hang out. Or make out."

His olive skin turned beet red as he said make out. I bent my head and laughed at his innocence. It was going to be a pleasure to steal that from him.

"What do you do specifically?" I asked.

His adam's apple bobbed up and then down as he swallowed hard. Then he ran his large hand across his close to the scalp hair. I've imagined him dead and gone so often it's hard to sit here and wait patiently for him to respond to my trivial questions. "Not much, really."

"How about you take me there sometime? To the reef, I mean."

I glanced over at him from under my lashes and his brows were pushed together again like he didn't understand the question. I turned my head and rolled my eyes in the opposite direction. What the hell's wrong with this guy?

"Oh, uh. Well, I have a-"

"Whoa. Okay, I get it. I didn't mean we had to go there to make out. I just thought maybe you could show me around. It'd be nice to have one person to chill with sometimes." I nodded once then glanced down at my feet beneath the desk.

Shit. Now a weird, awkward silence ensued. I didn't want to break it. I needed him to act like a normal dude. Grow some balls. Shit. I'm having to work too hard for this. I flipped the cover of the textbook on my desk to page one and stared. I didn't feel like reading or even pretending to read. So, with my head cocked to the side and leaning on my arm, I stared at the page until the words began to blend into each other. I didn't glance back over at The Imposter, but I could feel his eyes on me. But because he was acting like a complete asshat, I would make him wait. I tucked my head more into my arm and pretended to read.

After about 20 minutes, he exclaimed, "I'm sorry about that." I glanced over at him. He wore a sheepish grin and his eyes weren't guarded like before. "It's just that I didn't want to give you the wrong impression or anything. And the reef is kinda more for making out. If my girl found out I'd taken anyone there, she'd kill me."

I laughed at the threat. His mouth went slack as he stared at me. "Inside joke. Sorry." Then we fell into another awkward silence. This time, I knew I'd have to break it.

"Got it. Not the reef. Perhaps another spot. Just until I've grown my baby legs and can get around on my own."

I arched my brows and turned my mouth down in a show of pity. But even I knew it was fucking pitiful that I would have to beg any guy to do something for us.

I knew my appearance had garnered me favor among the male population. So the probability of me breaking him down was great. He would just be tougher than the others. But I hadn't started this to give up because it was difficult.

"Yeah, uh. We could go to this burger joint next to the campus, Joe's. It's always packed. You could meet my friends, too."

"That sounds like fun. When can this meet-up take place?" My throat swan dived into my stomach. Now we were getting somewhere. All I needed was ten minutes alone with him. That would do it and my place would be solidified.

"How about today?" His smile over at me was brilliant. "I'm all for charity cases." My face fell. What?

"You know I might be able to get some extra credit or a philanthropic scholarship for doing this kind of stuff." I narrowed my eyes at him even more. Then he threw his head back and laughed.

"Yeah, that would be a joke. You're supposed to laugh at those," he said. Then he pushed his hand toward me. "I'm Matt by the way. And you are?"

I'm pretty fucking angry my fucking family is dead because of a piece of shit like you and I'm going to rip your spine out through your mouth and enjoy every delicious minute of your torture. "I'm Charlotte. Or Char for short." I grabbed his hand and shook it once. A chill ran up my spine at his touch. I wanted to dig in my bag for my hand sanitizer, but I fought the urge.

"Nice to meet you, Charlotte. Where's your locker?"

"My locker?" I glanced over at him and shook my head.

"I can meet you at your locker later so we can go to Joe's together."

"Oh okay. It's on the senior strip closest to the girls' lavatory."

He shook his head like he knew exactly where that was. Then he turned in his seat. "This being my first foray into the charity scene, I think it'd be okay to maybe take you to some other chill spots if you'd like."

Thankfully, the bell rang just then. Because I was about to show him how much of a charity case I was by totally losing it all over him.

I snatched up my books from the desk and headed for the door. Once at the entrance to the room, I turned and spotted him still sitting in his seat. His eyes were glued to me and the sultry way he stared would make his girlfriend kill him and everyone else on the face of the earth.

I loved it.

My trip to my next class was short. It was three doors down and a quick right. But it was history and I hated history. Why did I have to learn about some dead dudes – because they hardly ever talked about women in history – that I'd never met and would add no significance to my life whatsoever? History was wasted time to me.

I fidgeted with my oversized bag and wondered how the hell I was going to stay awake for this snooze fest. Then the most promising aspect of history class walked through the door, Matt. He took one look at me, threw his head back, and laughed. He plopped down in a seat three rows away. Even with his back turned, he was attractive. Broad shoulders, a creamy caramel complexion, and a 6-foot height that would make most guys jealous and most girls drool.

He turned in his seat and pinned me with a crooked grin. Yeah, that smile probably had panties flying all over the place.

But the thought of that made me nauseous. What the hell did he do when he was in control?

My contemplation on his good looks was short lived. The instructor, an attractive young woman, briskly walked into the room. I glanced at the name scrawled on the board, Ms. Isabella. She didn't waste time. She started her lecture before she even had her things on her desk. The tilt of her tongue, as she spoke about the Civil War, was captivating and the way she talked with her hands was mesmerizing. I sat enraptured by her lecture and forgot about my plans to desecrate Matt.

The 45 minutes flew. When the bell rang, I scrambled from the seat to try to talk with Matt before his next class. As I approached the front of the room, Ms. Isabella called me to her desk. I turned to stare at her and she raised one perfectly sculpted brow at me. I took a deep breath and made a line to where she sat.

After her speech to get me to join her history club, which was a hilariously one-sided conversation, the halls were empty. Ms. Isabella had fortuitously given me a hall pass for the next class. Matt wasn't in this class though and I didn't see him again for the rest of the day, not even hanging back in the halls between classes.

As the last bell rang, I pushed through the packed halls toward my locker to toss my books inside. After dumping them, I leaned back against the cool metal and waited for Matt. Minutes ticked slowly as I watched the other students and waited. And waited. I grew more and more aggravated by the second. I gritted my teeth as a surge of angry thoughts attacked.

Slice his throat. Peel his skin from his body. Shoot him in the heart...

Before long, my thoughts had kept me company for nearly 40 minutes. In that time, Matt didn't show. Now I was more pissed than when I started the day.

I pushed off the locker and made my way out the front door. Slamming my foot down hard on the linoleum hall floor with each step, my footfalls alerting anyone nearby that a pissed girl was loose and should be avoided at all costs.

I pushed through the thick paneled double doors. A cool breeze rushed past me when I stepped out. A rebel wind had kicked up and tossed my hair into my face. I pulled it back and tucked it into a messy bun with a large bobby pin I fished out of my bag. The parking lot across the street at Joe's restaurant was packed. Cars spilled out at every turn. I had studied him for the entire summer so I knew what kind of car he drove: Silver two door Charger. His car wasn't over there. I bit down on my lower lip to stop the tremble. I took three quick breaths to calm my heart that sprinted out of control. I spun away from Joe's and stomped to my car. I'd make him suffer double for standing me up. This was the first thought I'd had in the last hour that brought me any kind of solace.

When I arrived home, Aunt Katherine was sprawled on the sofa. Just like when I'd left for school. A vile stench assaulted my nostrils. What the hell is that? Maybe she'd tried to cook again. She couldn't though. Everything she cooked was beyond disgusting and unsuitable for human or animal consumption.

"Aunt Kate," I called out.

She didn't answer. Didn't even bat an eyelash. Her long blonde hair was swept to the side and her mouth was opened as she lay curled in a ball. I turned on my heels and marched up the steps to my room.

I slammed my door shut and threw my books on the bed. I spun around and switched on the dim chandelier light. The light did little to illuminate the entire space with its dull fluorescent bulb. The buttercup yellow wallpaper didn't even brighten the space. The room had settled into a state of quiet agitation, much like its current occupant. Digging through my bag, I yanked out my cell and entered the password to unlock my equipment. I walked around the bed to my desk and powered on my laptop. The surveillance gear I installed at Matt's house was working well. I'd only been able to install it on the outside so I couldn't see him on the inside of the house, but I saw what I needed to see. His silver Charger sat in the driveway.

"Shit," I screamed at the top of my lungs. "What the fuck?" I hated when plans fell through. I hated not being in control. Right now, we should be smooching up to one another. Then later we could be back to his place so I could slice and dice his throat.

I gritted my teeth trying to push back the anger. It swelled. My head throbbed. My heart raced. I tried to take deep breaths to remain in control, but I couldn't. I fell to the dark brown carpet as my vision blurred like someone had placed glasses with a heavy prescription that didn't belong to me over my eyes. Angry tears scorched my face as they rolled down my cheeks.

All I wanted was control. A semblance of normality. I couldn't achieve that with Matt here. He'd taken everything from me. He needed to die. He needed to be removed from existence with no one to ever say his name again and I wanted to make that happen. But I was failing.

Then a light touch on my arm startled my eyes upward. Matt stood in front of me with his hand outstretched.

"Hey, sunshine. Can I help you up?"

I felt the frown lines sink deep into my face. I lifted my head and glanced at my laptop that still displayed his car parked outside his house. I turned and looked back up at him. He turned his head and glanced at the screen. "Yeah, that's creepy. But I get it." His eyes locked with mine again. Then he pushed his hand back out for me to grasp.

I rolled my eyes and pushed myself to my feet. How the hell did he get in my house?

"We need to discuss this. So you really need to chill. "

"Don't tell me what to do?" The room swam in and out of focus. I needed to sit before I passed out and ruined everything. I crossed in front of him to sit in the chair that faced my computer. "What the fuck do you want and why are you in my house?"

He threw his head back and laughed. "Really. Can we forego all this?"

I ran my tongue across my lips and swallowed hard. I guess he found out about my plan to kill him.

"No shit. You're not exactly subtle." I didn't even want to touch the fact that he'd just read my thoughts.

How long has he been able to do that? "Yeah, so what happens now?"

"Now. You leave me to it. And I'll let you live."

My laughter echoed off the walls.

Then the walls began to close in. I jumped up from my seat. What the hell? They moved forward making the room smaller with each shift. I stood and watched stupefied. The yellow of the walls muted. The color changed from the vibrant yellow to a dark shade of brown that resembled dirt. I scrambled to the middle of the room trying to get as far away from the walls as possible. Matt's face was screwed up into a bellowing laugh. He pointed a long mocking finger at me and his whole body shook with each outburst.

"There's definitely not room here for the both of us." He stalked toward me with giant steps. My heart thrummed in my chest and I felt the bulge of my eyes as he descended on me. When we were inches from each other, he whispered, "I was content. You interfered with that. Now, I think you need to go away." He grabbed me by my shoulders and slung me into the wall. My head made impact and my body crumpled to the floor. I ran my hand once across my throbbing temple.

If he wanted a fight, he'd get one.

I sprang to my feet and ran head first into him. As I struck him, he fell backward and we both toppled onto the bed. I sprang up at once, wrapped my hands around his throat and pressed my fingers as hard as my strength allowed. My hands didn't go all the way around his beefy neck, but I squeezed as tight. I sat on top of his muscular body and I used my legs to lock his arms down at his side so he couldn't move. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as my grip tightened and my hands found renewed strength in the line of drool coming from his mouth and the gurgling sound escaping from between his lips. It was working and I knew I'd soon have complete control. A swell of pride and excitement coursed through me. I would really do it this time.

My elation was short-lived. A sharp pain thundered through the back of my head as something hard made contact with my skull. My hands collapsed away from Matt's neck as my vision blurred and my head pounding demanded my attention. He gasped for breath beneath me and for half a second, I fumbled to return my fingers to their previous position. Then a shuffle of feet behind me sent my mind racing. Someone else was in the room with us because it wasn't Matt's leg thrust that hit me, someone else was attacking me and I had no clue who it could be and why they would hit me. Just as I was about to turn to see who had struck me, another blow to the same spot sent me spiraling to the floor.

Then the screaming started.

A shrill ear-shattering howl floated through the air and I continued to fall. Except, the floor never came. But the screaming persisted. And I fell. My arms and legs flayed wildly in the nothingness as my body fell endlessly into the abyss. The screaming finally ceased and my eyelids slipped shut.

Then the darkness.

### Part 2

The voices rang out at an alarming rate and then as if someone switched off the TV, it stopped. Then the yelling started.

"Charlotte. Charlotte."

For a split second, I forgot my name and I wondered if Charlotte would ever answer whoever was calling out to her because my head hurt worse than the time I climbed our giant tree in the backyard trying to get away from Papa and fell and hit my head on the lawnmower that was parked underneath it and all the noise now just made my head throb more. My eyes finally popped open. It was glorious. I knew immediately I was in complete control. I smiled up at the people behind the voices.

Dr. Isabella and Dr. Krasnaski hovered over me like two overly concerned parents. I guess in a way they were like my parents. I'd been in the hospital for three years now.

"What happened?" I asked.

Sprawled on the floor, I sat myself up.

Dr. Izzy answered. "We think you did it."

Her smile was huge. She reached down and pulled me to my feet. Then she grabbed me and buried me in a giant hug. Dr. K patted my shoulder and looked just as excited.

"Really?" I asked. I looked at each doctor in turn. They beamed with pride.

"We think the connection was with the school. You kept going back there. So we didn't stop you. The memory of being back, walking the same halls as her, seeing some of her old friends. We think that just did it for you. It allowed you to say good-bye," Dr. Izzy said.

"Do you know everything that happened while I was under?"

"No. We just created the story, the basic outline of you going to live with Aunt Kate and going to the school. You filled in the rest. We just monitored you. You didn't say much but at the end, you struggled. Like you were fighting with your other self," Dr. K answered.

"Come. Sit. We'd like to ask you a few questions," Dr. Izzy said. I nodded. Crossing the room, I took a seat at a soft, cushiony chair situated beside the large bay window. The sun's rays fell across my face and I welcomed the freedom from the darkness.

Dr. K spoke first. "Do you know who we are?" He pointed a long, thin finger at himself and the lovely Dr. Izzy.

"I sure do." I beamed over at them both. Dr. Izzy's smile stretched across her entire face. "Dr. Izzy and Dr. K."

Dr. K nodded once then wrote something on a pad in his hand. He looked back up at me. "Do you know why you're here?"

"Matt killed Alex and momma and papa and Aunt Kate." My voice was small. I'd seen enough of these sessions to know that they'd ask me that, but I hated talking about it all the same. It made my stomach feel weak like I might vomit and that would be the most embarrassing thing ever. So, I swallowed hard and waited for the next question.

"That's right. Matt did that. Can you tell me where Matt is now?"

"Oh, he's gone. For good, too." Both doctors turned and smiled at one another. They were proud of me. I could tell. I'd done a good job.

"How do you feel about Matt now that he's gone?" Dr. Izzy asked.

I thought about that question. That was tough. Matt had been here a long time. He had been very bad, though, but I knew stuff that they didn't and I'd have to keep it that way if this plan were going to work. "Matt did some really bad stuff. Like killing Alex. I loved her. So, I'm not sure how I feel about him yet. He was so jealous of her, though. It wasn't momma and papa's fault that she was better behaved."

"That's fair," Dr. K said. He nodded and wrote more on his tablet. I scooted forward a little to see if I could catch a peek at what he wrote. His handwriting looked like scribbles. It didn't even look like real words. Not that I'd understand it anyway. I pushed myself back on the chair and leaned my head against the soft velvety material. It was like leaning into the teddy bears on my old bed.

I really missed my old bed, too.

"How do you feel about leaving here? Living on your own?" Dr. K said. My head snapped up at his words. Oh no!

I could feel the ugly lines on my forehead. The confused lines momma had called them. I lifted my mouth until I felt the lines disappear. But both doctors now had the lines on their foreheads and Dr. Izzy had the lines around her eyes, too. Just like momma used to get.

"I-I don't know if I'm ready for that just yet."

I didn't know if it was wrong to admit this, but I thought the best thing to do would be to tell the truth. Momma always said that the truth was always better than a lie, but she also told me to lie a lot about papa so I got confused a lot about truths and lies.

Dr. Izzy nodded and smiled, but Dr. K just stared at me for a long moment. His mouth turned down like a sad face. I didn't like the way he looked. Like he might be disappointed in me. Maybe I should say something to make it better. But what? I sighed and pushed myself back further on the chair.

"I think we've had enough for today, Char. You can go back to your room now," said Dr. K. He and Dr. Izzy stood. When my feet plopped down to the floor, Dr. Izzy stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. She gave the best hugs. Almost as good as momma used to. But just almost.

Dr. K never gave us hugs. He just smiled or touched our shoulder and that was fine with me because papa had said I shouldn't let no guy touch me anyway. Even though I knew Dr. K was trying to help, he was still a man. Even at my young age, I knew what that meant.

I crossed the room to the exit door. Something important had happened here today. I finally had control and I was never giving it up.

Once I reached the room, the lights were already dimmed. That meant Julia was about to go to sleep. I switched on the bedside table lamp so I wouldn't bother her. I grinned at the pictures on the wall of momma and papa and me and Aunt Kate.

I heard Julia move around on the bed behind me. I turned to stare at her. She sat up fast and rubbed at her eyes. Her long thick black hair flowed behind her like dark water falling from her head. I'd never had a roommate before and she always seemed nice when I was watching from the inside out. It was going to be fun to have a friend finally.

"What the hell you cheesing at? And why'd you turn that damn light on?"

Her eyes were more slanted than I'd thought and I could barely hear the accent in her voice. She ran her tongue across her thin pink lips and rolled her eyes at me. Alex always rolled her eyes. At me. At momma and papa. At Aunt Kate. They never saw her roll her eyes, though. She did it behind their backs. They thought she was perfect, but I knew she wasn't. I just never told or cared. I loved her just like she was.

"I'll turn the light off in a minute. I just want to look at a few pictures." I turned around and continued my viewing of the wall of pictures beside the bed. Julia released a long drawn out breath. I ignored it and continued my trip down memory lane.

"Turn the fucking light off and go to sleep now," she hollered.

I spun around. She'd used the "f" word. We shouldn't use the "f" word. Especially girls. Momma always said women should not talk like that.

I crossed the room with long strides. Julia sat up straighter and held eye contact with me. As soon as I made it to her bed, I bent my head toward hers. She pushed back a fraction. Her head hit the wall behind her. I pulled up beside her. Our heads were parallel.

"Shut your mouth you stupid bitch. Or I'll slit you from one side of your filthy mouth to the other. Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. Don't even breathe too hard in my direction." Her small eyes were round and her mouth was open in surprise. I pushed forward more until we shared the same breath. "You know what I did to my family. I'll have no prob-"

I stumbled backward. I fell to the floor hard with force. Like someone had pushed me. I guess someone had, I pushed myself. I stared straight up. Julia sat on her bed with her back pressed into the wall. Oh, fudge.

I scrambled to my feet to explain. "I'm sorry, Julia. That. I um didn't mean it. I-I..."

"Who the hell are you because you're sure as hell, not Charlotte? I've lived with her for 3 years."

I opened then closed my mouth. What should I tell her? A lie – tell her a lie you idiot.

"Hot damn. I knew it. You're the weirdest freak ever."

She threw her head back and laughed but her laugh was strange. Like maybe she really didn't find anything funny at all.

"So let me see if I can guess who you are." She pushed forward a bit on the bed. With her head cocked to the side, she ran her eyes up and down my body. I rushed back to where she sat. She immediately pulled back as if I had cooties and was trying to give them to her. Her face scrunched up like I smelled bad. Now who was being the weirdo?

"If you know about us then you'll keep our secret. We had to get rid of Charlotte. She thought she knew who killed our family and all she ever thought about was getting him back. It was too much and we had no life. Unfortunately, to get rid of her I had to make a deal with Matt but I can keep him in line. I promise."

Julia didn't flinch or seem surprised by my statement so I continued. "If Charlotte trusted you enough to tell you about the two of us, then you two must be good friends."

"I wouldn't call her my friend but yeah we talked."

She didn't say anything else. Her lips were pressed together tight like she might want to say more, but she was fighting to keep the words in.

I felt glad about that. I knew it was going to be hard to convince some people that I was Charlotte because momma had told me once that kids' brains don't operate the same as adults and since I was just nine, I knew my brain didn't operate the same as Char's. But I'd been here the longest. I knew her the most so I knew I could do this. I would do this and fool everybody. Then me and Matt could live a nice, peaceful life.

I pulled off my brown loafers and crawled onto my bed. Charlotte loved to read and when I checked under her pillow, she had a book tucked underneath. She was so predictable. I opened the book, took out her blue bookmark, and turned to the first page. I was bursting with excitement for the first time ever. Everything would be okay, I would be in complete control, and eventually I could leave here and live on my own.

"There is something I don't get, though," Julia said rather loudly. She threw her hand to her mouth and giggled into her cupped hands. Then she got up, crossed the room, and shut the door.

"I thought we couldn't have the doors shut."

"We can't but they won't notice for a while. Anyway, what I don't get is, how you all live in there. In her one body."

I laughed. Sometimes, I didn't get that part either. But I knew how our innards worked better than anyone else.

"We each get a section. We stick to our area and don't wander. Sometimes, though, we all have to talk. It gets noisy. And it was kinda scary when Char first found out we were here but we made it work. For a while at least."

"Okay, I guess that makes sense in an I'm-totally-out-of-my-fucking-mind kinda way. So, what's your real name? No. Wait. Don't tell me. I know. Samantha."

I placed my book down on the bed. I stared at her for a long time without speaking. Who the heck is Samantha? There were only three of us. Maybe she just got my name wrong.

Before I could correct her, she continued, "Okay, I guess that's not it then," she said. "Let me see. Char told me about Matt, he's the one that actually killed her parents – he told me that himself but Char never knew. Then there's Melissa: she's the slut and a real charmer. I think I met her about three times." My mouth fell open in shock, but she didn't stop rattling off the names.

"...Rachel: she's the mother hen. Amber: she's the baby. Zoe: she's the one with the crying problem. Lisa: she's the one...

### Dawn Brazil's Author Bio & Links

Dawn Brazil writes books for Young Adults. Her debut novel, Finding Me, is an Urban Fantasy and released officially on April 2, 2014. She also writes science fiction and paranormal romance.

As a small child, Dawn's love for reading was voracious. She could always be found with a book in hand. To this day, she'll read anything with great characters.

She's currently writing a standalone YA science fiction novel. And completing the Finding Me trilogy. She lives in South Texas with her husband, three kids, and her great big imagination.

Oh and she loves Wonder Woman!

Blog: www.DawnBrazil.blogspot.com

Twitter: @DawnBrazil

Facebook Page: Author Dawn Brazil

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# D.M. Cain

# Copyright 2015 D M Cain

All Rights Reserved

### Acknowledgements

Thank you to A.L. Mengel for introducing me to the concept of #Writestorm. Without Writestorm, this whole process would have taken much longer! Thank you to my wonderful beta readers – Stewart Bint and Jason Greensides.

### Dedication

To Cameron x

# The End

How do you convince people you're not crazy when the world around you is insane and you're the only one who can see the truth? These stupid people are walking to their deaths, every single one of them. They don't even know it and no matter how much I scream it at them, they won't listen. I wave my sign backwards and forwards in front of their faces but they back away from me, their eyes wide and afraid as if I'm threatening them, rather than trying to save their skins. So I shout louder and soldier on pointlessly, knowing that I must do something. Knowing that I am the only one who can save them when the end comes. Because it is coming, and it's coming soon.

My name is Wayne Dixon. I'm fifty-seven years old and I've been chosen to save the world.

Every morning at seven a.m., I position myself at the clock tower in the centre of Leicester. I set down my bags and drag out my trusty sign, which has been ripped out of my hands and thrown to the ground more times than I can count, and I stand there waiting for people on their way to work. Sometimes, other people set up stalls next to me, recruiting others to mindlessly follow their stupid beliefs. It's laughable. It's just a joke seeing them pushing their shallow logic and strict ideologies. None of that nonsense will help anybody.

Today feels different than usual. Darker somehow, like the very air itself is oppressing me. The end must be getting nearer. It's also cold today, much colder than it has been on some of my other early morning vigils. I'm only wearing a short jacket and I pull it closer around me, wrapping my arms across my chest and shifting from one foot to the other in a vain attempt to generate some warmth. I wish I'd brought my thicker jacket. The one with the fur. That would have been good right about now. Still, what does it really matter? Even if I get the flu, I won't have much of the sickness to deal with. I'll be dead before then. I laugh to myself, ignoring the startled looks of a couple of businesswomen who shuffle past me, their scarves wrapped up around their chins. It's ironic really. I might be freezing cold now, but in a few days, weeks, or maybe even just hours I'll either be in the comfortable warmth of Heaven or the searing heat of Hell. As will all of us...

My gloomy thoughts remind me that I'm here with a job. Prying my icy numb fingers from my pockets, I reach down and hoist my homemade sign back into the air. I chose the good old "The End Is Nigh" sign. It lacks imagination and doesn't fully encapsulate the horrors that are awaiting people if they don't listen to what I have to say, but it gets the point across clearly, I guess.

There are more people buzzing around the city centre now. I see the same people every day, rushing from the bus to the office, the car park to the shops or the taxi stand to the college. Whatever journey they're making, it's all pointless. Each and every one of them has a limited amount of time left to enjoy life, to relish the love of their friends and family, but they're still so concerned with checking their phones, listening to music and fretting over which shoes to buy with money from a job that means nothing.

They could be saved, each and every one of them, if they would just listen. I tell them, over and over, what's coming. I scream at them that they could be saved too, as I will be, if they just follow my instructions and embrace the approaching doom. Because I am blessed, and I know exactly what's coming, how it will affect the world and where I can go to survive.

I hold the sign as high as I can, a beacon to draw people in. I take a deep breath and begin.

"The end is nigh! I have seen the doom; I have seen the horrors that await us; and yes! I do have an answer!" I scream into the air, feeling the truth of the words flood through me, feeding me with energy and power. I hear the sniggers and sense people veering away from me, but I continue, screaming at the top of my lungs into the air.

"I have been chosen by a higher power, a higher intelligence than any of us. It has shown me the way the world will be destroyed. Yes! I have seen the fire and the brimstone, the skeletal form of the Grim Reaper, who will stalk the lands, taking the heads of the unbelieving. I have seen this land, decimated by ash and sulphur, the corpses of those of little faith littering the dead grasslands!"

I lower my head, feeling my eyes blazing with passion and my blood coursing through my body, empowering me.

A woman passes by, pulling her small daughter closer to her, shaking her head at me in disgust. They are already lost. It saddens me but if she is already so closed off, she has doomed her daughter and herself to death.

I continue to shout, but people look away and lower their heads. Some even cross the road to stay away from me or pretend they haven't even heard. As if their stupid iPods can drown out the power of the truth. I stare at each of them as they pass me by, desperately trying to establish a connection. I step up to them, as close as I can get, trying to force my way into their attention. It's remarkable to what lengths some people will go to ignore me. A young man, maybe in his late teens, looks up, stunned or afraid, I can't tell which. I relish the eye contact, using it to my advantage.

"You! Yes you! You are going to die. And it will happen this week. I can feel it approaching! But I have the answers. I know how to avoid the apocalypse!"

But he has already scurried away, ducking out of my line of sight and hurrying off to vanish into the throngs of shoppers and workers. Another lost to the fires. Anger rages inside of me and I let out an involuntary scream of frustration, which makes more people step away in fear.

"Why are you all so stupid?" I shriek, waving my sign in their faces. "Can you not read? Don't you want to be saved?"

No response. No engagement. It's like shouting to robots. But I keep trying because I must. Because I was told that this was my destiny.

The irritating laughter of a gaggle of teenagers catches my attention. Six of them, hanging around at the clock tower at nine a.m. on a Tuesday morning. Haven't they got school to go to? Three of them are perched on a metal bench, hoods pulled up over their ridiculous floppy fringes, skinny jeans making them look almost anorexic. Two girls stand around, pressed up against one another, flaunting their taboo relationship, as if anybody around them even notices, let alone cares. Another is lounging lazily on the ground. He is lying stretched out on the path, causing the stream of irritated shoppers to wind around him to avoid tripping over his legs.

They are looking over at me now, giggling in their silly high-pitched voices, huddling together and sniggering. The boy on the floor is putting his hands behind his head and turning his head to face me, laughing out loud. Usually I ignore kids when they mock me. It happens all the time, so I'm used to it, but it feels different today. The end is getting nearer and they need to listen to me, now, before it's too late. There is no time to ignore them, no time to wait for them to come to their senses. I need to match their audacity.

Taking a few steps towards them and making sure my eyes are locked onto theirs, wide and intense, I shout again. "None of you are exempt! It doesn't matter what age or race you are. It doesn't matter what your job is or what religion you follow. The world will end for you all. FOR YOU ALL!" I scream, shaking my board furiously in the direction of the insolent kids.

They laugh more, the boys throwing their heads back and guffawing uproariously, the girls giggling and huddling together. They aren't listening. They aren't understanding. So I go much closer, until I am right in front of them. One more step and I'll break the shin bone of the brat on the floor. It's tempting.

"You think I'm crazy? You think I'M mad when YOU are ignoring all the signs." With my free hand, I jab my finger at each of them in turn. "You won't think you're so cool when your world is an inferno, when your friends are dying around you and all you can do is scream your regrets into a burning sky!"

All six of them have fallen silent now, staring at me, afraid and uncomfortable. They should be scared. Maybe I was getting through to them after all. The boy on the floor, who had sat up during my rant, pulls himself to his feet, grabs his bag and waves for his friends to follow him. They all quickly jump down from their seats and scurry after him, refusing to make any further eye contact with me.

As my rage subsides and I watch yet another batch of doomed kids hurry away from me, the boy from the ground turns back to me. "You're crazy, man! Freaking weirdo!"

The words hurt. Not because of the choice of words themselves, but because it means another six young people won't make it out alive and that means I have failed yet again. But there isn't time to sit people down one at a time and calmly and rationally explain to them that the end is coming. So what else can I do? If anybody knows of a quicker, more effective way of alerting people than this, I would really appreciate it. Maybe the Internet? No, definitely not. There is enough rubbish on there as it is. My truth would just get lost amongst all the false claims and hysteria. This way is better.

But, as I stare into the closed-off eyes of every passer-by, I am slowly coming to the realisation that adults are never going to listen to me. They have already taught their minds to shut out anything they don't understand. My logic and truth fall on deaf ears. The panic that has been sitting deep in the pit of my stomach begins to rise in my throat, desperate and burning.

Kids. That's where I will find my success. Their innocent young minds are open to new possibilities. I can't believe I've never thought of it before. They will listen to me. I'm sure of it. And surely they are the most precious of all beings, right? I turn around, frantically looking for a child to save. A young family walk by, mother, father, two kids. One is too young, in a pushchair and sucking on a grotty, soggy piece of blanket. The other child is perfect. Around seven years old, walking beside his mother, looking happily around the shopping precinct. I'm over there in a second, sign at the ready.

I ignore the parents—they are already lost—and drop down to the little boy's level. He stops dead in his tracks and I see his hand tighten around his mother's. I need to get in quickly.

"The world is in trouble. Many, many people are going to die, but I know a way to escape the horror. Come with me and you can escape too."

The boy steps behind his mother's legs, cowering, despite my words of comfort. As I'm looking at him, a staggering blow slams into the side of my face. I am thrown to the ground, my sign falling from my grasp and clattering onto the paving stones.

Blinking and disorientated, I try to gather my senses and figure out what the hell has happened to me. I stare up into the eyes of the boy's father, who is standing over me now, his hand clasped around my collar, his fist pulled back for another punch.

"Don't you dare speak to my kid like that! Who do you think you are? You some kind of paedo? Trying to take him, were you? You even look at my son again and I will kick the shit out of you."

With one last furious hiss, he drops me to the ground and ushers his family away. I am in a haze, my vision blurry and my mind messed up. What kind of parent wouldn't want their kid saved from the apocalypse? Why would they choose for their son to burn in agony? The world is going crazy, and it brings a tear to my eye. The emotions fill me up until I reach breaking point. I've had to be tough through all of this. I've had to hold my head high, even when they mock, or jeer, or threaten, but it's getting too much now.

I drag my battered self to my feet and try to ignore the shocked glances from frightened members of the public. I wipe the trickle of blood from my split lip and grab my battered sign, and standing right in front of me is a policeman.

I am relieved as I push myself to my feet. "Officer, that man just hit me! Him there!" I wave my hand at the furious father who is pushing his kid behind him and telling his wife to take his son away.

"Calm down, sir. I know what happened," the policeman says in an oddly calm voice.

My face distorts into an affronted scowl as I watch my attacker walk away, free as a bird. "Him right there!" I yell, pointing after him. "He's walking away! He just hit me in the face. He threatened me. Go and arrest him!" My cries are frantic and I shout louder to make sure the policeman can hear me.

The look on his face is not what I expected. It's a calm veneer, but underneath the placid expression his eyes blaze with something. Barely concealed anger? A threat of his own? When he speaks, his voice is loaded with forced courtesy.

"I think it's best if you pack up and leave now, sir." He adds emphasis to the "sir," as if it's meant sarcastically and stands before me with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

"Why should I leave? I'm the victim here!" I gesticulate wildly, throwing my arms around to make my point, but I am only met by blank hostility. "I haven't done anything wrong. I'm trying to help all these stupid people from walking into the jaws of certain death!" I wave my hands in the direction of the shoppers wandering by.

The policeman sighs and steps closer to me with his arms out to the sides, blocking my view of the shoppers. "That's enough. We know you're here every day, bothering members of the public. You need to pack up and leave. Now."

My jaw drops and I stare at him, speechless for a few moments until I catch my words and they come spilling out of my mouth. "I'm not bothering people!" I shriek. "I'm saving them! They are all going to die unless they listen. All they need to do is LISTEN!" I can't control the volume of my voice anymore. "You're just the same as them! Take the veil off your stupid eyes and SEE what I'm showing you!"

"Sir, if you won't leave I'll be forced to take you into custody for disturbing the peace."

I am incredulous, simply astounded at the stupidity of humankind. "Fine," I mumble, grabbing my sign again, "but you'll die just like the rest of them."

I march over to the clock tower where my bag awaits, snatch it up, huffing and grumbling to myself and storm over to the multistorey car park where my battered old Ford is parked. I dig in my pocket and fish out the key, but my hands are shaking as I try to click the button to trigger the locks. I swear and curse to myself, trying to fight the tears welling in my eyes. Wiping an angry hand across my face, I finally manage to unlock the doors. I hurl my sign into the back seat, slam the rear doors closed and slump down into the driver's seat.

I grab the wheel as tightly as I can and let out an unearthly scream, as loud as my lungs will allow. Stupid people. Stupid goddamn idiots, all of them. A new bit of celebrity gossip breaks and everybody in the world wants to know about it, but try to tell them something of crucial importance to their survival and nobody cares.

Angrily yanking my gear stick into reverse, I pull out of my parking space and start the twenty-minute journey home. I've been out in town longer than I thought and the cold winter evening is already creeping in, darkening the crisp blue sky. I glance at the clock in my car. It's only three thirty p.m. The nights close in so early in the winter, but this is a new record, surely. I switch on my headlights. The visibility is so poor and I lean forwards, clutching the steering wheel and peering through the gloom. I hate driving in the dark, especially in winter. The roads will be icing over soon, I bet. Damn winter.

I soon get used to the dim light and my heater kicks in after a few minutes, taking the edge off the bitter cold. With the initial discomfort gone, my mind strays to other, more worrying, things. What can I do to get them to listen? People are mind-numbingly stupid sometimes, but they are still my species, and there is still enough good in them to justify their right to survive. How many kids must there be, the world over? Are they all going to die if I don't get the word out in time? But there's no time left. I slam my hand into the steering wheel and the car swerves before I correct its course. Damn it.

Suddenly, I see something in front of me, a flash of white reflecting off my headlights, right in front of my car. My heart leaps into my throat and I slam my brakes on as hard as I can. The car lurches and I am thrown forwards as the brakes squeal and my vehicle skids across the road. My knuckles are white, gripping the wheel with terror. I look up, desperate to see what caused this near crash, and in front of me are four young women on horses, trotting back to the equestrian centre down the lane.

They have stopped, their eyes wide and afraid, and they gently stroke their steeds, trying to calm them from the God-awful noise my car must have made. The one I saw in my headlights is in front of me and the young girl sitting upon her must only be nineteen or so. She looks terrified and her white horse is stamping its feet and whinnying, snorting with fear.

Another woman, who I guess must be the instructor rides up beside her, her own black horse under control, and reaches a hand out to comfort the younger girl's ride. The other two sit further back, their own horses disinterested in the incident, the riders glaring at me as if this was somehow my fault. The pale horse at the front is eager to continue and keeps trying to ride away. Maybe it wants to get back home. I know how it feels.

"Hey, you! Watch where you're going, and watch your speed!" one of the girls shouts at me. Her horse is a powerful stallion, sporting a thick red covering as if it were armour.

I screw my nose up in distaste and that familiar anger rises in me again. I wind the window down and yell out at her, "You watch where you're going! It's dark and you're out on horses, you idiots! You'll get yourselves killed!"

I haven't got time for any stupid responses so I put my foot down and speed away, veering around them before they can shout anything back at me. I've had enough of stupid people today as it is.

Within ten minutes, I'm home and I slump onto my sofa, exhausted. The silence in my small house is blissful and I am thankful that here at least I don't have to feel rejected. There's nobody to ignore me here. But the silence only lasts a few minutes. Then the voice begins.

It's coming. The end is coming. Soon. Very, very soon. They are approaching and they bring disease and death, famine and pestilence. The beast will stalk the land, forcing the planet into a final Armageddon, good versus evil. Only those that oppose the beast shall walk the fires unburned.

I hold my hands over my ears, trying to shut out the whisper, but it is growing louder, more urgent. Every word drips with insistence with desperation to be heard.

"Go away! Leave me alone!" I cry out feebly, but the voice returns, stronger and louder.

A sea of glass and fire, the world coated and covered, burned from above and below. Seven beings, of wing and great power will bring seven bowls of sadness. When they upturn the bowls, decay will ravage the world and all that is known shall disintegrate. Only the worthy left, only the worthy...

I try humming to myself, but it does nothing. The voice is just as pervading, burrowing into my every thought. I sing my favourite song but the carefree notes are tinged with fear and I cannot lose myself in their power as I usually do.

The sky will turn red and plagues will ravage the unbelievers.

I leap up from the sofa and storm into the kitchen, trying in vain to shut out the damn voice. I throw a cheap ready-made chicken dinner in the microwave and watch the little plate spinning around and around for four minutes. At least it drowns the voice out a little, but I can still hear it in the back of my mind.

You need to tell them. You need to get them all to renounce the beast and follow you. All they have to do is listen and believe.

The microwave dings, the yellow light is extinguished and I remove the hot plastic tray, trying not to burn myself on a splash of gravy that has bubbled out of the side of the packaging. I grab a dirty knife and fork and settle down on the sofa to eat what I am sure will be my final meal.

It isn't a relaxing meal. It seems like with every mouthful the voice gets louder, until each syllable it "whispers" reverberates inside my skull. Eventually, I give up and throw my fork down, splattering gravy and carrot across my grubby carpet. I leave the tray on my sofa and stomp upstairs to my bedroom. Maybe sleep will stop the voice. Maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to get some rest and then my final attempt at saving mankind tomorrow may be more successful. Hell, it would be more successful if just one person listened to me. Just one; that's all I need.

I curl up in bed in my clothes.

It'll be uncovered tomorrow...

Every muscle in my body tenses. Tomorrow? Did the voice really just say that? I freeze, listening as intently as I can, cursing my own breathing and heartbeat for being so loud. My mind races. Tomorrow...What will be uncovered? What did it—?

Tomorrow...

My breath catches in my throat and I wonder if I'm going crazy. This can't be real, can it? But every word is so crisp and clear.

The true fate of the world, uncovered.

I want to cry out, to ask it what it means, but it has never answered before. I've tried. I've screamed and shouted at the empty air around me, but never an answer. It only says what it wants me to hear.

When it comes, leave.

Leave? But where should—

Leave the city, enter the wild.

Should I run now? Take my car and get out into—

Take those you can convince. Go to the city once more, before the skies turn and the fire falls, before the beasts walk. Take those that believe, that listen.

I have to go out again? But they never—

If they don't listen, they'll die. But you'll be safe when it is uncovered.

When what is—?

The truth. The end of the lie. The end, the end, the end...

I succumb to it then, the hypnotic repetition echoing in my head, over and over. There's no point trying to escape it, to hide from the voice. It will be with me forever, inside of me, until the end of my days, and at least if that really is tomorrow I won't have to live with it for too long.

By the time I am finally allowed to fall asleep my pillow is damp with nervous sweat. I drift into disturbed slumber, nightmares thundering through my confused mind, tossing and turning until the covers are a tangled mess, wrapped around my thrashing legs. I wake numerous times, bolt upright, ready to leap from the bed and fulfil my destiny, but the sky is still dark and I wait for my heartbeat to slow, then settle back into a bed which has never felt less comfortable.

My eyes snap open. Sunlight streams through the crack in the curtains, landing on my face with a warm, tender touch. Something isn't right. The sun is too high in the sky. My heart leaps and my body follows, catapulting me out of bed and over to the old-fashioned alarm clock on my dresser. Eleven forty-eight a.m. No, no no...How is that even possible...? I slept late. I never sleep late.

The thundering in my ears is deafening, every nerve in my shattered system screeching with stress. At least I can't hear the voice anymore. My relief at the silence doesn't last very long as thoughts of the voice reignite my fear and the pressure of my overwhelming task.

No time to stop and worry about it. I throw a T-shirt over my head, decide to miss breakfast or lunch, whichever meal it would class as, and sprint out of the door. I pull the handle shut behind me, not even locking up. What would be the point? My only worry now is getting there in time. The voice said I had one last chance before it began. Recruit others before it's too late, before the signs begin, before I have to run for the hills.

As I drive into town my anxiety builds, but now it isn't that voice that echoes warnings. It's mine, repeating the same things that haunted me in the night—the end, the end, fire falls, sky burns, the beast...Yanking the steering wheel haphazardly I pull into a parking bay and leave my car jutting out at an angle, blocking two spaces. No point paying for a ticket, I figure, and I start my run into the city centre.

Evidence everywhere, evidence of the truth, my truth. I don't get far before it builds up and becomes clear to me that I am too late. The apocalypse isn't coming. It's already begun. Portents so obvious they scream at me, as they should at every passer-by if they weren't too blind to see. I run faster, my aching legs turning weak as I pass a homeless man, curled up in a shopfront with a blanket wrapped around him and a sign propped up: Poor and hungry. Please spare money for food. The first sign it has begun—famine.

Still running as fast as I can, the words erupt out of my mouth, as if they are a living, breathing thing desperate to escape. "It's coming! The end is nigh! It will happen today. Look around you! It's happening now! Follow me and I can save you!"

I don't even look around to see who is listening, to see if anybody might follow me. I already know they won't. They are prisoners, trapped in their comfortable little lives, happy to avoid their impending doom, even when the signs are so blatant.

Coughing and spluttering drags me out of my panicked thoughts and I ease to a stop in front of a young man in a business suit, hacking and coughing into a tissue. His nose is red, his eyes puffed up, his skin sallow and pale. I know it at once—pestilence. A helpless yelp escapes my lips and I step away, my hands covering my mouth, my eyes wide with horror. The man looks at me like I'm crazy and walks away, shaking his head.

"I'm not the crazy one!" I screech at him, at anyone and everyone who can hear me. "I'm the only one here who isn't crazy!" I can't believe people are just going about their daily business as if nothing is happening! They have to be stupid not to see the signs.

The clock tower looms ahead of me and I run for it. My final chance, and the only place where I might, just might, be able to recruit a follower. The centre is busy today and I have to shove and jostle my way through crowds of teenagers milling around, laughing and showing each other their phones. With a few choice words and insults, most move out of the way for me. Their shocked and angry faces don't bother me; I haven't got time to be polite.

I run past the department store on my right and something in the window makes me stop dead in my tracks. My arms flail wildly as I try to stop myself from flying into the window. I can't believe it...I press my hands up against the glass and rest my forehead on it, smearing my sweat across the previously pristine display glass. Burning tears well up in my eyes. There can be no doubt now. Sitting innocuously on a wooden tabletop are seven shallow green glass bowls each filled with water, and floating peacefully in each, like a little oasis, sits a candle with a flickering flame.

Water in the bowls, and flames resting upon them. A sea of glass and fire. I count again just to be sure, but the answer comes up the same. There are seven of them. Seven beings bring seven bowls of sadness. When they upturn the bowls, decay will ravage the world.

My eyes turn to the sky, but there is nothing yet. I still have time. With a cry of anguish and terror I tear at my hair, ripping great chunks of thinning grey strands from my scalp. They fall listlessly to the floor and the image spurs me on as, instead of hair, I see the limp bodies of children falling, lifeless, to the ground.

It's only when I get to the clock tower that I realise I haven't even brought my sign. Hysteria wells inside me and it feels like my heart is going to burst out through my chest. Well, my voice will have to be my sign. "It's coming...It will be uncovered! The truth, the end will be uncovered! NOW! TODAY! All the signs are here!"

I hear a deep rumble somewhere in the distance and I look frantically into the darkening sky, where thick grey clouds are closing in. I turn my face to the approaching doom as the first droplets of water fall on my face. Those around me scurry on into shops, pulling hoods up and wrapping their thick winter coats closer around themselves.

I'm the first person to realise that it isn't rain falling down on us; it's ash.

It's here. It's really happening, but for once it isn't fear I feel because I am the chosen one. I realise it now. I am the only person on Earth clever enough to listen. Now I don't offer salvation to these idiots around me. Now I will tell them of their demise as it happens. Today is judgement day.

"The beast will walk the Earth and bring a day of darkness. All the inhabitants of the Earth shall tremble and the streets will become a river of fire. The beast will rise and force the world into a final battle over good and evil. Only those that deny the beast shall stand upon the fires and not be burned."

My eyelids drift to a peaceful close as I say the same words over and over again, and even when the screaming starts I don't open them. Shrieks and screeches, terrified yells and hysterical crying fills the air around me. Bodies slam into me, but I stand my ground, feet firmly planted as the panic reaches a fever pitch. Hot air floods over me in a wave, the brutal flames of Hell searing my skin. But I am uninjured, and my face cools instantly.

An unearthly screech echoes around me and I squeeze my eyelids more tightly together. I don't need to see to know what is happening. The largest of seven huge creatures with enormous black wings sprouting from its shoulder blades advances towards me. The ground shudders with each step of its hulking mass and I can smell the stench of death on its breath.

I brace myself for the end, for the moment its enormous flaming scythe will cleave me in two. I feel the rush of heat, hear the swish of air as the blade descends towards me. But then...nothing. Screams ring out around me and I feel the earth judder as bodies fall at my feet, but I remain untouched. Liquid fire, burning lava pools around my feet. I can feel the heat welling around my shoes, the weight of it pressing into my toes, but the warmth is comforting. It doesn't burn me and with my eyes still tightly closed, I step up onto the thick, viscous liquid and am surprised to find that it supports my weight.

And suddenly it's clear to me. All the inhabitants of the Earth shall tremble and the streets will become a river of fire. The beast will rise and force the world into a final battle over good and evil. Only those that deny the beast shall stand upon the fires and not be burned.

I tilt my head upwards, facing the sky with my arms out wide and as all around me burns, I laugh.

# D M Cain's Bio & Links

D.M. Cain is a dystopian and fantasy author working for US publisher Booktrope. She has released two full length novels: The Phoenix Project - a psychological thriller set in a dystopian future, and A Chronicle of Chaos – the first in a dark fantasy series. She is currently working on the next novel in the series – 'The Shield of Soren' and a novella to accompany it.

D.M. Cain is also one of the creators and administrators of the online author group #Awethors.

Cain lives in Leicestershire, UK with her husband and young son, and spends her time reading, writing and reviewing books, playing RPGs and listening to symphonic metal.

Links

Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/DMCainauthor>

Twitter: <https://twitter.com/DMCain84>

Mailing List: <http://eepurl.com/XevZH>

Website: www.dmcain84.com

Google+: <https://plus.google.com/+DMCain/posts>

Goodreads: <https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7888430.D_M_Cain>

# Down with Awethors

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# Joe Compton

# Copyright 2015 Joe Compton

All Rights Reserved

# Down with Awethors

"Do you know why I pulled..."

Just like that, the Highway Patrolman leaned down and poked his head into my window. On his way down, he removed his obnoxiously reflective and over-tinted Aviator glasses, stood with his mouth unhinging slightly, and amidst what appeared to be a deepening hypnotic trance, smiled.

In most circumstances, you would be welcomed by that warmth and almost relieved, but I had to admit that coming from what otherwise I would deem as your typical, asshole-looking cop, it was a bit unnerving.

"Is that _'The Distant Sound of Violence by Jason Greensides'_ on your front seat there?"

Of course, I knew it was, but the manner of how he posed that as a question made me turn to my passenger seat and confirm it.

"Yes."

With that, Mr. Highway Patrolman pulled out of my window, stood up straight, and chuckled to himself. I'll be honest, cops don't make me nervous. I just accept the pseudo-guilt I guess I'm supposed to feel going 90 mph on the emptiest stretch of Pacific Coast Highway. In my mind, he caught me speeding, good for him, but now he just needs take my license and registration, write me that ticket he needs for his quota book, and let me get back to it.

Instead, this whole last minute had me completely unnerved. I looked up at the rear view, gazing into my own confused state, and mouthed "What the fuck?"

That's when Mr. Highway Patrolman leaned back in and tried to regain his authoritative demeanor, but his weird enthusiasm was visible and almost audible.

"You're not one of those, are you?"

I could have been on Jeopardy at that moment — where Alice the homemaker with a PhD from Peoria, Illinois picked Biblical References for $800 Alex — and I wouldn't have been more stumped. I kind of shook my head and my lips searched for words to say what my brain couldn't find.

"It's okay. I know the rules are that you aren't supposed to tell anyone, but I don't see a bookmark and by the wear on the front cover, I'd venture to guess you're not following the escapades of The Grove Runners and Nathan's obsession with—"

"HEY! HEY! HEY!"

That's exactly why I am reading it, dick! I raised my open hand and gave him the universal sign for 'shut the fuck up.'

"I mean, I've gotten as far as you've already mentioned and know what you're talking about, but come on man, spoiler alert, you know?"

"Sorry. I thought, maybe, you were...well, you know..."

"What?"

"If you don't know what I am talking about, just wait till the end. I'm not going to give you a ticket today, but if I was you, I'd pull over at the next exit along Coi Beach, lay out, and really start to dive head first into one of the best novels I've ever read because it won't be your last. Just remember though, once you get started on this path, you won't be able to stop, trust me. I'm about ten books ahead of you right now and I am itching to get off tonight, get on Kindle, and get to the end of my latest chain link."

"Chain link?"

"I've said too much already." He held up his hand. "Have a great day. Enjoy the book."

With that, he patted my window and casually strolled away.

"Wait! What the hell are you talking about?"

"HAVE A NICE DAY SIR."

I was about to leap from my front seat and chase after this guy, but as I made an initial attempt, the seatbelt cut into my neck. By the time I fumbled to release it, Mr. Highway Patrolman had hopped on his bike and sped right past me.

I pulled back out onto the highway and did exactly as he said. I found a spot to pull over, a nice carved-out looking spot at the lip of a mountain range. The view was breathtaking, overlooking an abundance of large, jagged rocks that seemed sculpted, almost unnatural. There was also a makeshift path that led around the rocks onto the golden brown granules of glistening beach sand. The ocean's white foam surf ripped across the face of the rocks in between the path. As violent a motion as that was, there was a tranquil, serene feeling that overwhelmed you as the breeze off the cold water whipped around your body and brought relief from the summer sun as it crackled your skin remorselessly.

I opened up _'Distant Sound'_ and found where I had peeled over the corner to mark my spot.

Fuck bookmarks. I was old school.

As I started reading, the cop's words were buzzing in the back of my mind, almost like a devil on my shoulder...go to the end, dipshit! I told myself no matter how many people told me about this book and how unbelievable the ending was, I would never, NEVER do that. I tried to keep reading, but the Devil got bigger and was almost so belligerent that I imagined an actual creature standing up on my shoulder, nestling up next to my earlobe, and flicking at it with his little long black fingernail. A daydream so psychosomatic, I actually flinched and swiped away a small sharp sting near my ear.

I looked out toward ocean, took a deep breath, and reluctantly bellowed a heartfelt condolence.

"Sorry, Mr. Greensides. I have to do it."

With that, I anchored my thumb at a spot where I could hold a firm grip as I fanned out the pages. Staring me right in the face, there it was in bold type..."THE END".

Wait...I missed something. So, I went a sentence back and re-read it. What was the cop talking about? Maybe the clever Mr. Greensides, being the wordsmith he was, intended not to allow those bastard end-skipper types a chance to cheat?

Maybe I just needed to read the whole last chapter. If I did, I'd be ruining hours upon weeks, upon months, of committed time (Yes I'm not the world's fastest reader, sorry). So I flat out decided right then and there, I wouldn't do that. I'd go back to where I was and try and regain some dignity.

That's when by happenstance I thumbed forward instead of back and that's when I saw it.

"#DownwithAwethors? Holy shit, is that it?"

* * *

For the next couple days, that hash tag stuck so deeply in my mind, I knew I was on to something, and as I began to research it, I was sinking deeper and deeper into it. I thought back on that moment it all started, meeting Mr. Highway Patrolman with Mr. Greensides' book on my front seat. Here I was a man of no faith — nothing but contempt for those who believed in luck and destiny — believing in fate, luck, and destiny.

"WHAT ARE YOU #AWETHORS DOING TO ME?"

My frustrated declaration notwithstanding, I discovered something brilliant from the folks that call themselves the "#Awethors" because I know their rules. They're a clever lot, which I respected immediately.

You see, I make a living, pursuing the absurd. I'm not one of those storage-locker auction losers but I am, by nature, a treasure hunter.

That's right, I said it. What my friend Mr. Highway Patrolman and countless others have found by simply researching #DownwithAwethors is that the Awethors are actually taking us on a little treasure hunt.

What's the prize? I don't know, but where they may exhaust the average amateur, they've never come across anyone quite like me. I'm a modern day pirate, barraging the Internet and finding the rarest of rare. After all, my clients commission me to find that "something special" or lost treasure. They aren't interested in financial gain. They're driven by prestige.

From my client's perspective, I never disappoint. However, if I'm being honest, 'Expert Treasure Hunter' fees barely cover my bar tab. What most of these poor saps don't know is that while they're driven by emotion, I'm driven by the thrill. Okay...and the greed. When I accept their contract, I'm actually concocting an elaborate scheme to take the value and work it in my favor.

Now you can put two and two together or I can tell you that if you managed to hire me in the last...oh, twenty years...what I found for you is something you wanted me to find...as far as you know. It just has no monetary value anymore.

So why I am arrogantly airing my dirty secrets in prose? Well, besides the obvious irony, I'm not the only one in my trade. In fact, I'm not even alone on any hunt; I have a team. Most of the twits I employ are wide-eyed, thrill seeking, searching-for-meaning types, fresh out of college with their ideals and bravado. They're actually no better than my clients, taking what I give them. The ones that go running off and start thinking they've found all the answers usually become my competition. Their false loyalties are so transparent, arrogantly assuming I've given them enough advice and lessons that they can do this without me. When in actuality, I give them exactly what they need, not what they want. I smell them out the minute I meet them.

The smart ones? I hold onto them. They're my confidants. Now, don't get me wrong, there aren't many, but I've learned while you can't trust most people, some are on your level. You've heard the saying, "keep your friends close, but your enemies closer." While I wouldn't call the ones that stick with me 'enemies,' they easily would become that if they ever left. So I think that general principle applies.

"Yeah boss the next book is by Stewart Bint, In Shadows Waiting."

That's Devon. He's a bit of tech nerd. Which of course, being on the road more than not and not being sure if I have stable enough areas to connect online, I rely on his ability to find something with the immediacy I expect. Devon has been with me the shortest period of time, but he has a kind of a lost puppy dog mentality; if you feed him and pet him he will stay by your side almost ad nauseam.

"Don't bother reading it, just look for the hashtag."

"Well, I've already read it and it's freaking brilliant—"

Did I mention Devon doesn't get out much? So I knew he probably not only read a lot of these books, but had them in his library. He was incredibly excited about this hunt, but needed to be reminded that time was not to be in lieu of his enthusiasm. I was already moving in between bookstore shelves at the biggest bookstore in town, seeing if I could get ahead in between sips of the largest coffee the bookstore concession stand offered.

They are never big enough though.

"Listen...listen...I don't have time for your book report. I'm sure it's a lovely story and I've read Bint. Timeshift and Malfunction are great books and I'm sure Shadows follows that tradition, but right now, I need to get ahead. These other idiots are doing this and they're ten or more books ahead of me."

"I found the hashtag."

"Look for a clue to the next one!"

Realizing, even though I had in my earbuds, a couple heads peered up and scowled at me, I was probably speaking a bit too loud. So I ducked around the corner, weaved in and out of the maze of endless book shelves, until I found the farthest, least occupied spot: the Travel Section.

Devon was talking, really mumbling, the whole time, but I caught none of it. After looking around and seeing I was going to be okay hunkered down in this section, I found a comfortable spot to lean up against and tuned back in.

"Well, a lot at the beginning is memories and it's another UK setting?"

"Yeah, I'm with you, but that's not it."

I had a feeling that even though this was an obvious designed treasure hunt that the commonalty would not be found in prose.

"Devon look through the dedications and maybe even the back pages where you found the hash tag."

"I think I got it. I am texting you the next Amazon link."

My phone buzzed with my favorite ringtone. The purest sound I knew — a baseball bat connecting with the baseball.

It took me back to my childhood and my first con. This kid, I forget his name, Joe or Mike or something, was something else: always a bragger, a name dropper. His dad worked for a printing company, which got to do all the printing of materials for the 1984 Olympics in Los Angeles. He got to meet a bunch of famous people who were doing advertising for an event. One of those such people was Tommy Lasorada, manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers. Tommy signed this baseball bat for him.

Somehow I got him to come outside and play an impromptu game of street baseball with it. Let's be honest, if he really cherished it, he wouldn't have brought it out. What he truly cherished was the awe and ire of his fellow peer group. After he got everybody gawking over it, he used it and smacked a nice double just over this really tall kid's head. He dropped the bat down in the heat of the moment to make it to the base. If you looked at it from a distance, it didn't have any defining characteristics that separated it from any of the other bats. The only thing was that obnoxious signature.

So while this kid focused on getting his legs to work enough to find second base, Jordan, who was the catcher and my first partner in crime, gently kicked the bat over into the pile of the other three or four. Of course, I was next to bat. I picked up a bat and gave it a once over. Then I loudly proclaimed my arrogance.

"Hey dude, this is actually a great bat. Can I get a swing with it?"

"Hey come on, don't mess around, my Dad will kill me if something happens to that bat."

Of course, I was waiting for him to say that as I took some practice swings. I could see the fucking, little showboat getting nervous, almost pissing himself with fear.

"I'm serious. You took some cuts with it, now put it down."

"Yeah, but I didn't really get a chance to put a good actual swing and contact on it. I'd never seen you hit that far until today. I think there might be something special about it. I just want to try it."

I could tell he didn't want me too, but he had no choice. What he didn't know was that I didn't have his bat in my hands. I had one that I'd rigged. Actually it was pre-rigged. I had split it a few games earlier and glued it back together. If I hit it on this one spot, it would shatter. So this dumb kid thinking I had his bat, I got what I was hoping for: I hit one right off the end and it shattered.

The entire game's participants gasped and the game was over and everyone went running toward the shards. I'd gathered them up before anyone got to any pieces that would make my con detectable. As the kid approached, tears welled in his eyes and he clenched his fists. I put on my best 'acting shocked' face.

"Oh my God. I'm so, so sorry, man."

He pushed me.

"Give me the bat!"

"Let me fix it. You saw what I did with my bat. I can fix it. It broke perfectly enough to put it back together seamlessly. See."

I showed him a couple of the bigger pieces, of course shying the label away from view.

"I really feel shitty about this. Let me do this to make it up to you."

He eventually agreed. Amidst this conversation, Jordan had run off with the real bat and I'd planned to meet him at this house later, so we could take it down to the local souvenir shop (no ebay back then) a couple days later. Jordan and I split, I think it was, fifty dollars. To us, it was a fortune because it really wasn't the dollar value that mattered; sticking it to this boisterous kid was the biggest payday.

Of course, he would come around and ask about his bat. I told him my dad would have to bring the tools from work or something like that but that he kept forgetting. I did enough to keep him at bay after that, until he finally forgot about it. So how much could it really have meant to him in the end?

Funny how a sound or looking at something triggers your memories like that. I hadn't thought about that kid in a while. What the fuck was his name? Well, he was a great mark. I got him more than once over the years.

Anyway, as I looked down at the text, I confirmed we'd found the next book. Bint had written a nice little review for another great UK Author or should I say 'Awethor.'

So onto D. M. Cain's Chronicle of Chaos. This was one I'd already had on my reading list for some time. Of course, my list was a mile long thanks in part to my schedule, but mostly because of my slow reading ways. I read her Phoenix Project and was in awe of the writing. She has this incredible way of describing things in that book. I mean, a prison death match, telecast live on TV...how could that not be good? We are so close to that in reality television now. Or course her young adult, fantasy series would suck the reader in, but I had to forgo any thoughts of getting lost in the pages because I needed to focus on the hunt.

From Chaos, I was led into C. L. Schneider's Crown of Stones: Magic Scars on a hunch. As I had Devon thumbing through Chaos, I took to the internet from my kindle device. That's when I came across a glowing youtube video review of Crown of Stones: Magic Scars by none other than D. M. Cain herself. She couldn't stop glowing about how it was one of the best series she'd ever read. The genres were starting to form a pattern. This science fiction fantasy details out a man's struggle to be who he is amongst all the chaos of a created world. I read the first ten pages just because. Damn, I need to do a lot more reading and be better at it.

I struggled finding the next book in the chain, so I gave Devon a call. For some reason, he'd all of sudden gone MIA. I'd never even heard his voicemail before today. He'd even answered a call from me in the middle of his Father's funeral once.

So I tried my intern, Rebecca.

"Yeah, boss."

"Where's Devon?

"I don't know. He said he had to meet someone and ran out."

Meet someone? Fuck! Had I been so pre-occupied in this treasure hunt and daydreaming down memory lane that I failed to see this little fucker was turning on me? My gut cringed, telling me I was right. The treasure hunt be damned as it was time to do what I do best: find this dickless traitor and cut off his nuts!

* * *

I stopped by the office for the first time in at least a week. I wanted to make sure he didn't run off with more than his tail between his legs.

"What's all this? Rebecca!"

The echoing and feedback of my own voice at its loudest absorbed through the back of my neck and throughout my head. A migraine I was already forming, add to that my boiling blood and tense body and it almost felt like a kick to the back of the head that left a lingering, pulsating effect. I closed my eyes for a second to let it settle, but it just hurt. So I adjusted mentally to accept the pain and tried to move my focus away from it.

It certainly didn't help that I scooped up off my desk this incredible pile of 'while you were gone' tear offs. Everything was beginning to annoy me: the fact that there were so many of them; that they were pink; and that I stood there a good thirty or forty seconds with no response as they cascaded and crumbled in my palm.

I could feel and hear Rebecca sauntering over in ridiculous, metallic gold, four-inch heels. My annoyance compounded when all of a sudden standing before me was this twenty-something with wavy brown hair that looked more frazzled than styled, an over-smearing of lip glossed lips looked more like wet paint on a sidewalk then an attractive glow, a halter top yellow and white sundress that called more unattractively to her mid-drift than accentuated it and this lingering flowery fragrance that tickled my nose and watered my eyes. Then it struck me.

"I know you're young and all, but you'd have thought for someone who's going through Graduate school right now that her days of doing the walk of shame on a fucking Wednesday were well behind her."

"Sorry sir. I never know when you're going to actually be in the office. I thought with all you're doing right now, we wouldn't see you today."

"You would have been better off throwing on some jeans and a sweater. At least always have an emergency bag in your car, please."

"That's a good tip, but I—"

"Don't give me the 'I never do this sort of thing' excuse. I'm not in the mood. Speaking of that, what the fuck are all these messages?" I shoved them in her face. "They're bill collectors and while I am busy, I'm not that busy."

"Some guy has been calling for you non-stop over the last week or two. Says he went to high school with you and recently moved to the area. Devon and I didn't think it was appropriate or important enough to give him your cell number or even bother you with it."

I threw down the remaining messages and peeled off a couple sticking to my hand. I manifested a huge deep breath, absorbing its calming affects and was beginning to settle back in. My head started clearing until I turned and saw Devon's desk.

"Mother...fucker."

I stomped over and there before me was my worst nightmare. As my blood boiled, those fucking heels shuffled in behind me felt like they were stepping right on the back of my neck.

"I think he wanted to help you and thought he was by being two steps ahead."

I turned to Rebecca with a look that would have made a lion cower. She grabbed the edge of the desk to steady herself as the color drained from her face.

I have to admit, just doing that with a glance made me feel like a complete bad-ass. I imagine it wasn't unlike how Fonzi felt smacking the dead jukebox and not only making a song play, but the right song.

As the esteem flowed through me and numbed my anger, I turned to at least two dozen books stacked up high in a couple piles. I picked up the first one in view and it so happened to be one I had actually read before: James Quinn's A Game for Assassins, a spy thriller told by a guy who knew the spy game well. Quinn had been covert operative in a past life and who would know that world better? It didn't disappoint, but it just seemed apropos to have this in my hands given the situation.

As I picked up the books, I began to confirm the utter betrayal. I thumbed through the pile and snatched up the other book I had read, A Whisper In The Shadows by Tom Fallwell. The cover reminded me of Robin Hood, which I kind of fancied myself being a smarter version of that idea. It turned out to be a hell of a fantasy foray.

I turned to Rebecca, as it occurred to me that Devon was smarter than I'd given him credit for; he'd gotten this far ahead in the hunt when there was no order to these books. The subtle referencing of one Awethor's book to the next could have easily applied to several choices, almost as if it was intended to be cross-promotional. So if you lost your way while on the hunt, you could always double back and go a different way to the end. The only thing was, where did it end?

"Rebecca, I need to find the book that was published last in this pile. "

"You think he got to the end boss?"

"I think he got far enough to realize how close he was."

"So you're going to be that guy, the one who skips to the end?"

I slammed my fist into the desk.

"The last fucking thing I need from you is a lecture."

I took a deep breath and spun around to give her a very serious stare down.

"I employ and pay you to do what I need done. Now do you want to be like Devon and forget that? Then you should come along and see what I do to traitors like him. You'll wish you had done what I asked you to do. "

"Here, here. It's this one. I just think you... never mind."

This is why I never got close to getting married in my life. She's going to make me do it.

"WHAT?"

"No, just take the book, and know that I'm giving you my notice right now. I quit and if you're going to come after me because of that, fine. Just know though, I'm going back to school. This business isn't for me. I'm not going out on my own. I was so excited about this job. Looking down at all this incredible literature from folks who defied the odds, thumbed their nose at the system, and put something out there in the world. There's this one, Travel Glasses by Chess Desalls. A time-travelling adventure with a woman who has this incredible hope to find her family using these glasses she was given. Sound familiar? How about this one, Mr. Westacott's Christmas by Michael J Elliot, a great short story about an old man and the idea of being alone at Christmas. Again, you could be looking in the mirror?"

"I read that one. I was never married or cared enough about someone to be affected like Westacott. These aren't real life. There is no purpose beyond..."

I stopped. Rebecca smiled. This was getting beyond unnerving.

"No please boss, finish that thought"

"...telling a good story."

"You were right about finding the biggest treasure you ever have. You just don't see what it is. Look at all these. There's Petty by Issac Jourden, the musings of a twenty something cynically living in their own world of this amusement park, trying to get out from under it, and seeing how stupid people can be and realizing how much smarter I was or thought I was? I know I related to that and I probably wouldn't be the only one in this room. There's this one, Oblivion by Pam Elise Harris. Who doesn't want to be a star? Well, most when they see that show business is one crazy world, but hard work and determination have to account for something, right?"

"To be young again...you think this is the treasure, reading all these books? That's what you're telling me?"

"That's exactly what she's telling you, but somehow I knew you wouldn't listen."

Frozen where I stood, the voice implanted in my head, familiar and frustrating. As I seethed, Rebecca put the book down and suddenly her four inch heels seemed to make her much taller; a smirk ripped across her face as her sudden swagger of arrogance and confidence erected this demi-god hovering over me like suddenly I was peasant. My teeth grinded and my fists pumped blood through them with every fierce clench, that pulsating, blood boiling feeling returning with a vengeance. I breathed in and rolled my shoulders back.

None of this amusing or phasing her in the slightest as a small chuckle escaped her lips. She glanced in the direction of the voice. "Give it up, Joe. He'll never learn."

My eyes followed Rebecca as she spun on her heels and pranced out of view. Then I, with no choice, slowly turned my body in the direction she wandered away. I knew what was coming and my head didn't want to turn to see it. So before I engaged my direct stare, I took a deep breath. Then my eyes happened upon the inevitable, my anger took a turn...a turn to shock.

"You?"

His smile was annoying, but even more so was the gun, a 9mm pistol, he pointed at me. The very same weapon he used to protect and serve. The one he was issued, no doubt. So thinking two steps ahead as I do and knowing he couldn't just shoot me with it unless I threatened him, I just sat down on the desk chair and held my hands up in a surrendering type posture.

"So this was a set-up, all along? What's the matter Mr. Highway Patrolman, you and your reading group couldn't figure it out? So you hatch this elaborate plan when you found Rebecca in a bar, where of course she was wearing probably next to nothing. After she blew you in the bathroom, you told her about all this and how you were stuck. She then naturally gave me up and here we are. Nice acting bitch! Too bad he doesn't know you're playing him like he thinks you're playing me right now. Did you turn Devon, too? Got him going on some wild goose chase, promising him the world and all your love, you FUCKING WHORE!"

"HEY! My wife didn't turn him. I think he's actually betraying you on his own but he's just going to have to wait in line. Here..."

He threw a book in my lap, giving me no time to process the fact Rebecca was his wife. I picked up the book: Amongst The Killing by Joe Compton.

"Is this where you got stuck Mr. Highway Patrolman? Where the trail ended for your reading group?"

"You can say that. Really though, it speaks to where you've been stuck along. Like the antagonist in this book, you've been sticking to your principles for a long time, no matter how many people you hurt or affect along the way."

"What? You think I am going to solve this and share it with you?"

The cop sighed and looked at Rebecca. She didn't look as surprised or upset as my police friend did. As he turned back to me, all of a sudden he lowered his gun.

"This is worthless."

He put the gun on the nearest desk and wandered over to the table of books. He had me in his peripheral, but didn't seem so concerned about me. That was odd, but opportunistic for me. As he turned his head ever so slightly to pick a book and thumb through it, I jumped up.

Thinking I had mere seconds to beat him to the gun, I actually lunged. Even though I got it, I hit the floor hard, like a clumsy fool, which elicited the response I never would have expected...laughter. Rebecca was almost doubled over in a laughing fit. I scrambled to my feet and pointed the gun at her.

"Shut the fuck up. Don't think I've never used one of these."

I never had.

"Relax, stop pointing that at her and come back to sitting down over here by me."

I whisked around, both hands on the gun. My face probably showed the panic that was rushing through me like river rapids. My hands were becoming sweaty and clammy. Yet this guy remained as chill and calm as you possibly could under any circumstance. He started flipping through pages in one of the books.

"It's not real."

It felt real. "You think playing it cool is going to convince me of that."

Now he looked annoyed, turning his attention from the book, and pushing himself off the desk. He sighed and held out his hands.

"Go ahead, shoot me."

"I'll fucking do it."

I had no choice; I had to now. Yet as I pressed on the trigger, nothing happened. The trigger didn't even move. This guy went right back to his prior position and started reading again.

"It's rubber, a prop from a movie set I was on in Denver. I told the gun handler on the set what I was going to be doing here and he thought you would respond better if I had it. He was right. Look, clearly you have no idea what's going on, but I picked up this particular book because I never got to read the end. I love the serial killer talking in the first person though."

He showed me Rocky Rochford's Don't Turn Around and went back to reading. I turned to Rebecca who was sitting down and completely immersed with her phone. She looked like she was texting or posting something, somewhere. She was a big Facebooker.

Fuck.

I rushed over to the table, picking up Dissimilar Shorts by J. B. Taylor and took out my phone. I looked up Rebecca's Facebook profile, since we were friends.

"Interests, come on...where are hers?"

As I began scrolling I could see out of the corner of my eye, Mr. Highway Patrolman perked up.

"Love, I think he's finally getting it."

I looked at this guy. He was as excited as I've seen those poor saps I rip off...I mean help. Why? Suddenly I stopped looking and put my phone down.

"Don't stop. You're so close to figuring it all out."

He threw down the book he had in his hand and almost charged toward my hand with the phone in it. I lifted the phone above my head, like I was playing keep away.

"I already did, Joe."

I threw Taylor's book at him, which he caught. "I wonder how your '#Awethor' friends feel about you using them to get to me?"

He smiled and held up Dissimilar Shorts.

"This one is the first of four volumes, but it has my favorite story in it. So it's funny that you picked this one up. J. B. is an exceptional storyteller. As are all of these folks."

Joe wandered over to the table, stopped, and looked down. A huge smile spread across his face as he picked up a handful of the books.

"There's so many good ones here. There's How Maxwell Grover Stole My House by C. E. Vance. Who hasn't had that creepy, next-door neighbor and been curious about him, when everything you thought comes true? Awesome. Then there's Ice by Jessica Wren. Holy shit, talk about maybe utilizing what you read in your own situation. I mean, this is such a unique story, kind of like ours. There's great ghost stories here like Ron Shaw's Mary's Journey Begins, great angel and demon tales like The Quest for Immortality by A. L. Mengel, and awesome fantasy tales — oh man, so many — like this one, The Siren's Realm by Megan O'Russell, book two in the series. I recommend The Tethering, which is book one. Or there are these: The Journey of the Marked by Rebecca McCray, a nice 'being hunted and forced from your home' story and Deceived by L. A. Starkey, a story about soul mates. Who couldn't get swept up in those? Granted with the last two, not really the target audience here, but if you read all of these you can't help but appreciate the awesome writing, no matter the genre."

I started laughing. I'm not sure that's the reaction Joe hoped for though. He raised his eyebrows and studied me.

"This can't be the fucking treasure? So who are you really? Who did I wrong for you two and why go through all this? You're a cop. If I broke some kind of law, why don't you just arrest me? What the fuck is all this?"

"You're right and you have been wronging me since we were kids, since you pulled the baseball bat con. Actually, I have to thank you for that one. I was always A San Francisco Giants fan, not a Dodger's fan. That's why I didn't make a big stink out of you 'losing it.' My dad was really trying to teach me about respecting possessions and special gifts when they are given to you, something you know nothing about. Speaking of my father, how much did you get for Charlie Byrd's first guitar?"

I wasn't going to answer him. I didn't need to explain myself and what I do to anyone. Boo-hoo for him. I was kicking myself inside, though, for not having recognized him, or knowing who he was. He was more than just one of the Awethors.

"Just by not answering you confirmed all suspicions. My father knew he was right. His father gave that to him, you know. It's the only thing he kept from his mother that she didn't destroy when he was a kid. After his dad died, she went crazy and destroyed everything of his, but he found a way to save the guitar. Then, when he was in a tough spot he came to you. A local kid he wanted to give business to because he was that kind of man. You hadn't done much before that. Yet you had to tell him it was a fake."

"It's what I do! Don't give me a sob story. So I took the fucking guitar, made up a story about it not being the real thing, and sold it for a good chunk of change."

I shrugged, crossed my legs, and leaned back in the chair. Joe's hands were starting to form strong tight fists. He even took a small step forward toward me. Then he took a deep breath and his hands loosened.

"That was some elaborate paper trail you created. I have to hand it to you. You really cover all your bases. You really do a number on these folks you rip off."

"Yeah I do, so what? He's far from the first I did that to. I took a baseball card off this old lady in Alabama, showed her how people scam others into thinking it's real, and she bought it hook, line, and sinker. I sold that for double what I got for your Dad's guitar. Is this what this is about...revenge? Is that what your novel is about? Sorry I didn't get around to reading it yet."

"You're such a pretentious prick, you know that?"

"I do and that's why I can do what I do. Why don't you tell me what the fuck you're doing here, so I can get on with my business like firing your wife and finding the fucking traitor who is out there plotting against me right now."

"Like I said earlier, he's going to have to wait in line...and about twenty years for you."

When he stepped back and started to open his shirt, I knew what he was about to show me. I guess my arrogance wanted to believe that he was man enough to take matters into his own hands. I should have remembered him and remembered him in the way I knew him: a coward. I saw the wire, the duct tape, and the tape recorder. What could I do? So I smiled.

"You think you got me?"

"I know I got you."

"Just like the gun, that's not real. Nice try though. It's the twenty-first fucking century. No one uses tape recorders anymore. You want me to confess? You want me to bare my soul? Fine, that was Charlie Byrd's first guitar and I tricked your dad and sold it for a great big wad of cash. I've tricked so many fucking people and made so much fucking money doing it."

"You're pretty clever using names from novels you read. I bet you even have passports or I. D.'s made up with those names on them?"

"You want to see them?"

"Sure."

"Some are even from the books on that table over there. Thorne from Cloak of Shadows by C. K. Dawn. Of course her character in King Arthur's world was a woman, but you know, inverting them to Thorne Abigail is a nice conversation piece."

"You're a regular Irwin Fletcher, you know that."

"I like that. Everybody loves that movie, but those books are so much more enriching. Oh Joe, you tried to get me, but what are you going to do now?"

That's when I heard that rattling in my brain. The awful clicking of high heels, unmistakable that sound. I turned and there was Rebecca holding up her phone.

"You were right, the tape recorder was fake, but luckily I caught everything on Periscope. It went live to my 1200 twitter followers. Some of which, you might know, like Dolores Kemp, her mother Cecile from Mobile, Alabama had the rarest of rare baseball cards she asked you to authenticate. Not only that, but our friends at the Orange County Register posted the video about 4 minutes ago on their website. I'm sure, this being an awesome human interest story, it's just a matter of time before all the other news agencies around the world follow suit. Now, it may be all hearsay and probably wouldn't hold up in court, but now everyone knows what you look and sound like. Good luck finding a job anywhere. Also, this new reading obsession of yours, it was all paid for by petty cash and the #Awethors thank you for your purchase."

"You think that's the only money I have."

"It wasn't, until I sent your bank account and credit card numbers to the F. B. I. and while they may not be able to prosecute you, there's a little something called the 'Patriot Act.' If they think you're a criminal, they just need one judge to sign off on the warrant to freeze all your accounts."

"YOU MOTHER FUCKERS!!"

Joe chuckled. "Enjoy your books, while some may need bars and concrete to make up a prison cell, this entire planet just became yours. You're no longer invisible and there's nothing you can do about it because whereever you go, you've wronged someone. So try as you might to look like the other baseball bats, the police will always know which one is the unique one in the pile. So, if you want to do something to Rebecca and I, about the only thing you can do is leave a bad review of my book."

"Oops, honey, he can't anymore. He just friended you on all your social media accounts and you know what the new review policy says."

"Yes, I do." Joe pushed off from the table, and threw his arm around Rebecca. "Enjoy your life. In that pile, I'd start with Trespass by Mikey Campling. He does a great job of weaving stories together. Oh, and since we're social media friends, can you post on my wall when you've read Markie Madden's Fang and Claw? I haven't read that one all the way through yet."

He winked.

"But just promise me...no spoilers."

# Joe Compton's Bio & Links

For Joe Compton, author of Amongst The Killing, a crime thriller published in March of 2015, writing has always been a passion. Right out of school Joe joined the Marines and wrote the first draft of Amongst The Killing. When Joe got out he pursued his writing dream in Denver, CO. He got an agent and an offer from a publishing company. Alas though they wanted to change the entire concept. Joe didn't want to go along with those plans and walked away. Soured from his experience, Joe began pursuing a different writing avenue and equally strong passion: screenplays and filmmaking. Joe made 3 short films. The relationships he forged led him to realize he was not alone in his experiences, and thus he decided to build a publishing brand. A company that could help others like him be discovered, Never Mind The Fine Print Publishing LLC.

AMONGST THE KILLING LINK:

KINDLE & PAPERBACK

Website: https://nevermindfineprint.com

Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/nevermindfineprint>

Twitter: <https://www.twitter.com/Joedream73>

Goodreads: <https://www.goodreads.com/joeatnmfp>

Pinterest: <https://www.pinterest.com/Joe_NMFP/>

Google Plus: <https://plus.google.com/u/0/+JoeCompton73>

# Waiting for the Twelfth

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# Jackie Connors

# Copyright 2015 Jackie Connors

All Rights Reserved

### Dedication

I dedicate this story to my husband. Thank you for being there through the difficult times and for believing in my dreams.

I love you.

For those who are suffering from an invisible wound, please know that you are not alone. Keep on trying everyday, little steps go a long way. Never stop reaching for rainbows.

We may wish for a sunny day but don't forget to dance in the rain.

# Waiting for the Twelfth

Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

"What do you think about the name Fitzwilliam?" I glanced at my husband. Danny's thumb froze mid scroll.

Ah ha, I've found the showstopper! It's a miracle, a damn near impossible task to yank this man away from his email. I'm not one of those wives that complain — but oh, that phone! If I couldn't see it with my own eyes, I'd believe it was fused to his fingers.

He lifted his nose from the screen. I could see the sarcasm welling in his pools of blue.

"Fitzwilliam?" he said, raising his eyebrows. "Come on, Jack, is that even a real name?"

I snorted at his less-than-subtle displeasure. He wasn't the only disapproving party in the room.

Waiting alongside me — and uncomfortably so, thanks to superior cubicle seating — sat a fashionable creature, equipped with French-tipped talons, highlighted mane, and a silicone set that dared to defy gravity. Identified by her flawless makeup and lamp-induced bronze exterior, she fit the classification of a New Jersey housewife, thanks to the remarkable and stereotypical vernacular of American reality television.

I had failed to win her admiration with my poor taste in fashion — sweatpants and a hooded fleece do not meet runway standards — and my lack of feminine graces. She had no choice but to shun me as she sighed and moved her it-is-too-expensive-for-you sweater from our neighboring armrest and folded it neatly upon her thigh-gapped lap.

Jesus! Doesn't anyone have a sense of humor?

I returned my thoughts to the important matter at hand. "Yes, I'd like to name our son after my other husband. My book husband."

Danny proceeded to roll his eyes as far into his skull as humanly possible. "Have you been watching that movie again? The one where I don't understand what they're saying half the time?"

Ha! Another trumpet sounded from my nostrils.

I looked over my shoulder to find — surprise, surprise — that Ms. Prim-and-Proper was greatly displeased! She scolded me with a curled lip grimace. And I knew that expression all too well; after all, I'd survived four long years of an all girls' high school.

"As I was saying," I said in a louder tone, "they're speaking English, babe, but it just sounds a lot nicer. Not every movie has to have a hero that uses too many vowels."

"Yeah, well, whatever. Either way, we live in New Jersey, not England, and not in the nineteenth century."

Hey, this former Staten Island, recent-transplant-to-the-Garden-State girl can dream.

"Jack, you do realize that we have another six months to decide on a name. Don't forget that it could be a girl too," he reminded me with a wink.

Mr. Obvious had 'I'm going to make my daughter into a daddy's girl' written all over the big grin on his hopeful face.

"Yes, I am well aware of the statistics," I replied with a return flash of my eye. "I have considered the remote possibility and even thought of our little girl's name. I really like Darcy, or even better, Elizabeth!"

"Here we go with the Pride and Prejudice again!" he teased. "It's always Austen, Austen, and Austen!"

Wow, he actually remembered the title!

Could it be possible that he paid attention while I indulged my Anglophilic urge — on average a dozen times a year — to watch Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth, the ultimate cinematic embodiment of Lizzie Bennet and the one and only perfect man, Mr. Darcy, pretend not to flirt with each other?

I guess I'll give him credit for this one; but to be fair, he knows I'm addicted to Austen. If it's anything by Jane, it's embedded in my brain.

"You're hilarious," I said, meeting his wryness with a kiss.

I loved how he could still make me laugh. He was even funnier at one-and-thirty (that's a little Regency humor) than the boy I'd met ten years ago. His rendition of Rainbow Connection, the highlight of our first date, sealed the deal for me. It was amazing how fast that boy had stolen my heart.

I only wished I could have stolen his phone. But, alas, his opposable accessory resumed its usual beat. Once again, I was left to occupy my own thoughts and eyeball the clock.

Located above reception, the rudimentary white and black prototype mocked me with its bumper-to-bumper second hand stops, eerily reminiscent of afternoons spent wishing and praying for its revolution to move along faster and grant me an early release from the holy prison cell that contained me from nine to three — also known as parochial school. Oh, that familiar torture! No longer hiding in the shadows of cross-adorned classrooms to prey upon my youth, time had come to avenge himself; disguised as a poor excuse for a cushion, he refused to support my aching backside.

Only 11:00 a.m.? Lord, please, grant me the patience.

Waiting for an appointment at Dr. V's office was a total crapshoot. I never knew what kind of stay to expect—would it be a 'pack an overnight bag' or 'just bring a granola bar to hold me over till lunch' type of visit? On a lucky occasion, I was granted a fast pass, five minutes in and out, easy peasy. However, if I went in after a successful full moon, reception was swarmed with hopeful women eager to get a view of their growing seed, alongside waddling mothers with watermelon bellies that were just ripe enough to be sent to the produce aisle.

Of course, this morning I stood witness to a harvesting miracle surrounded by a bountiful crowd ready for the reaping. My own little miracle decided that the best time to practice its pirouettes was when I needed to sit still.

Bladder, dear bladder, can you hold it together a little longer? I do not want to spring a leak while I wait for my other appointment!

It was truly amazing how the bathroom became a close confidant during the pregnancy process. A dutiful mistress, she remained vigilant as I fell prey to the havoc of first trimester hormones, embracing me as I grabbed hold of her ivory pedestal. She'd grown accustomed to my frequent visits throughout the day, including a few one-eye-open stumbling sessions into the wee hours of the morning; she had suggested that it might be in my best interest if I just move in completely.

Make the tub my bed? Tempting. It could be an upgrade from the cold tile floor.

My lady was aware of the secret transactions that had taken place within her court and could attest to the fallen tears of disappointment shed from one barren month to the next. Her silent yet familiar presence was a comfort to me, knowing that she'd never tell another soul of the heartache I'd felt upon each unsuccessful attempt to conceive. It was nice to be able to make visitations under happier circumstances and leave my former anxieties to the haunts of her walls.

"Jack . . .Jack!" Danny nudged me, forcing my elbow off its slumbersome perch.

I'd fallen victim to another pregnancy plague: fatigue.

Give me a place to sit and within a matter of minutes my eyes will be curtseying for their present company. Not that I should complain; it does have some perks, as it allows for a socially acceptable reason to doze off in public and be most graciously excused.

"You're sleepy again? You only went to bed at eight thirty last night, grandma," my companion-for-life so sweetly pointed out.

Well, hello, sarcasm, nice to see you've returned!

"In case you don't remember, I am carrying a human life inside of me! I'm bound to be tired from time to time," I said, impressed with my clever retort. Take that — I went there. This time I pulled the ultimate woman's card.

"Okay, I understand. I'm sorry." He kissed my hand.

And just like that I felt like a terrible wife.

Damn my hormonally induced rage! The poor boy, he hasn't been able to win an argument for the past few weeks!

"Just thought you'd like to know that your reservation for two is now available." He jokingly bowed, gesturing with his arm to the vacant hot spot in the room. "And by the looks of the herd gathering outside, you'd better hurry."

A group of women stampeded through the office entryway, shoving past each other to reach the double glass doors.

I'm afraid for the receptionist—all alone with a mere desk to separate her from the mass of hormones barreling in her direction. I haven't seen this type of determination since the last bra sale at that secretive lingerie shop in the mall, where I narrowly missed being maimed by the claws of ravenous beasts swooping down to grab their fill of pad-and-wired prey.

But there must always be a victor.

The strongest of the herd pushed her way to the front and marked her triumph in ink. She held her head high, knowing that she was spaces above the rest in a long line of anxious females.

My, my. I can see what I am up against. I better stake my claim when I have the chance.

I shut the door behind me and jiggled the handle three times. I was normally not this ritualistic. But I didn't want to be caught with my pants down — God knows once was enough. Upon my last arrival at this practice six weeks ago, as I was leaving one of those liquid deposits — the type you collect in those little inconvenient containers — another patient accidentally opened the door, in midstream nonetheless! Her giant belly blocked the view from the rest of the room, leaving the both of us to blush at each other, and then even exchange a giggle post-deposit.

Finally, much needed relief! There's nothing like the satisfaction of a good pee for a pregnant lady. It's even better than one of those post-movie tinkles that last at least five minutes, and you can't help but wonder how you were able to hold in all that liquid without swimming out of the theater!

After collecting my more-than-abundant sampling, I carefully labeled the contents: name, date, birthday, and current time of specimen. That was an awful lot of information for such a small container! Who would have known that one's excretions would become a necessary commodity?

But it was an inevitable part of the ritualistic dance of conception, one that every woman trying to conceive will experience, and more than often on numerous occasions.

And speaking of occasions, there is only one date that matters each month. The big O. No, I don't mean the special trip to pleasure town — although, that is definitely a consolation prize and can't hurt the odds — but rather the one day event that releases the guest of honor!

Oh, the elusive egg — the microscopic entity that a hopeful couple desires to meet during their fertility-friendly scheduled rendezvous. Then, the agonizing two week wait, while the eager female wishes as hard as she can for her Aunt Flo to stay away.

With the possibility of a failed attempt looming over her head, she gives in to her impatience and takes the test, praying that this time her potion carries a fertile brew. It always starts with an acrobatic stance over the commode, cautiously aiming for the absorbent tip of a plastic stick — a feat that is quite noteworthy as precision is required to deliver a perfect flow of stream during the generously long time constraint of five seconds. Experiencing the longest three minutes of her existence, sweat mounting in anticipation, she begins to consider what might become the most influential moment in her life: is she ready to join forces with Mother Nature in becoming the bearer, the sole nurturer, of another human being?

Just when she begins to feel as if her insides are ready to burst into a frenzy, her patience rolling into a steady boil, the timer goes off and her heart moves its way up into her throat. As 0:00 flashes before her eyes, she takes a deep inhale and faces her reproductive destiny. Taking hold of the majestic wand that holds the power to bring her to her very knees or jump upon her feet, she ponders one last time before glancing down...will this one be the ultimate game changer?

Whether it's a smiley face, plus symbol, or a simply stated pregnant, the pure joy derived from viewing the positive result that's been the haunt of her dreams for the past few weeks, months, or maybe years, can render any newly expectant mother speechless, terrified, and elated all at the same time.

My moment of truth arrived on a late Thursday morning, the fourth of October to be exact. As I spent the early morning hours pacing back and forth along the tiles of my master bathroom, I allowed my feet to debate my current dilemma; every rotation upon the cold floor brought about a conflicting yet careful deliberation — should I or shouldn't I wait to take the early response test?

Being a rule follower by nature, I was usually a stickler for directions. I'd become somewhat of an expert on executing multi-step directions, based primarily on just being a woman. Open up any package of the numerous line of feminine products and the user is bound to encounter reading material long enough to rival Dickensian proportions—and without access to an Oxford edition, personal interpretation is at times rather fuzzy.

Wishing I had a personal index to reference the detailed footnotes of my life, I decided to go with my gut and proceed with the test, despite not waiting the full recommended week after I missed my date with my usually prompt and rarely tardy aunt. Already two days late, I held off as long as I could without driving myself insane; I didn't know if I could handle another blow to my long-awaited expectation.

The previous three months resulted in the dreaded monthly shed of all my hopes. My dreams of a coveted baby bump were shattered with every scarlet droplet. I decided it was time; I couldn't wait a moment longer. Danny would just have to forgive my impatience.

The sun shone through my bathroom blinds, illuminating the white tile where the test rested upright, holding the answer that I wanted to know more than anything I'd ever wanted in my life. The shaking of my hand accompanied the thumping in my chest as I reached for the stick. It didn't matter how many times I'd failed before — I was terrified of the result. To my surprise and delight, it was a bold and beautiful PREGNANT. I cried for a solid five minutes before I was able to calm down and tell my husband our good news.

I still can't believe it, and it's already been twelve weeks. Our little nugget will be here soon. Now, if only I can survive this wait. I need another picture to add to the fridge!

Wiping around the lid, careful not to smudge the contents of the laundry list, I made my way over to the nurses' station located at the back end of the office. I watched as two busy women ran back and forth from one private room to the next.

Wanda, the same nurse who stole a vial of my DNA during the last visit, relinquished my souvenir. "I see you are at twelve weeks. You are scheduled for a NT scan today, correct?"

I nodded promptly. Of course, can't you see I'm a nervous wreck?

"You'll be in next for your sonogram. Then we can go ahead with the scan. Did you eat this morning? Have enough to drink?" She looked at me with discerning eyes. "We'll need blood work from you again. We don't want to have a repeat of what happened last time."

I was hoping she wouldn't remember. I can't help it if needles make me queasy and I grow faint at the sight of blood. She didn't have to be overly exaggerative. I had only felt a slight dizziness and had managed to put my head in my hands. It's not like I actually passed out!

The last thing I wanted to do was to cause another commotion.

So embarrassing! Dr. V had reprimanded the nurse and told her that it was obvious that I was dehydrated. After downing some much needed water and sucking on a cherry lollipop — it tasted just like the ones I used to get for being brave when getting a shot at the pediatrician's office — I was officially mortified. I'd be forever known as the girl, rather the pansy, who left her big girl pants at home when she visited her OB-GYN. Fun.

Aware of my pitiful constitution, Wanda surveyed my entire body, searching for the correct levels of hydration. It was best to avoid another episode. "Maybe I should drink some water, just in case," I said.

"Yes, I think that would be wise." Wanda nodded enthusiastically. She handed me a paper cup.

Why are these always so small? Seriously? Please ma'am, may I have some more?

She propped me into her tiny torture chamber. "Should we try the right arm this time?"

"Sure." I nodded.

Just do what you got to do, Wanda. Please. Just get me into the sonogram room.

I took a deep breath.

Why does the needle have to sting as it goes in? Don't look, don't look.

I hated the sound of the vial as she opened it.

It announced that it was ready to have a drink of my insides. This is why I couldn't sit through a single vampire-related movie. Not even the ones with the shimmery pretty bloodsuckers. Yuck.

"Sweetheart, you can open your eyes." She put her hand on my shoulder. "You did great!"

"Thanks, I tried my best." I said, trying not to laugh.

It was as if I took a transport back to kindergarten but that was fine by me. I definitely could have gone for a snack and a nap!

"Susan will be ready for you in a few minutes; you can wait in here for now." She led me into a room at the end of the narrow corridor.

"Take a seat on top of here." She helped me onto an elevated chair and reclined it until I rested flat. "You can lie down while I get your husband." Wanda smiled. "And take a deep breath. You're doing fine."

That's easier said than done. How can I possibly relax when there is so much left to do? Not only can't we decide on a name, but we haven't picked out the colors of the nursery yet. I never knew there were so many drab variations of yellow. And why is yellow the only neutral available? Who decided that pink was feminine and blue masculine? Where are these rule books on gender?

And my mother is already asking me where I'm going to register. I haven't the faintest idea. My head is never quiet. And at this moment, neither are my nerves.

"Hey babe," I called out to my husband who was now settling himself on the chair next to me. "Grab me those fliers on the wall."

"Which ones?" He pointed towards the clear display case.

"All of them." I needed to catch up and get on schedule.

"We have to sign up for Lamaze, and I want to take CPR. And don't forget the pre-parenting classes," said my Type A personality.

Danny sighed. Crazy wife was back again.

"Aww, look at that bear on the shelf!" I exclaimed, while straining my neck to look upward.

Next to the long succession of paperwork lining the wall was a brown stuffed teddy bear with a heart labeled PRESS ME displayed on its chest.

"Forty-five dollars for a stuffed animal? Are you nuts? I can make it for you." That was my husband's response to anything expensive. I didn't know he was such a skilled craftsman when I married him.

"Ha-ha very funny — but let's get it. Think about how cute it will be when we take it back to show our parents. And I can press it whenever I want to listen to our little nugget."

I gave him my best lower lip — pretty-please-get-me-that — look.

"Okay, let's add it to our forever growing list of things we need to get." He joked, emptying his bare jean pockets.

There's that humor again. Bless his heart. But I'm not a quitter; I'm quite determined to get my way.

"I love you." I said, while batting my eyes. "You know you're the best husband ever." I threw him a kiss.

"I love you too." Danny played along, pretending to catch my token of affection. "But can we take it easy on the finances for awhile? We seriously have to start saving, especially if we want him — or her — to go to college. We're still paying off our student loans. Maybe we'll be finished by our retirement?"

Ah, the refreshing plight of being a Millennial!

"I hope so," I replied, "if we ever get out of this office."

There was a light knock at the door. "Mr. and Mrs. Cohen, it's so nice to see you again," said Susan our sonogram technician. She lowered the lights, leaving us with a dim glow from the monitor.

"How have you been feeling?" She pulled down my sweatpants to reveal my round little baby bump. "I hope you have been getting rest."

"Yes," Danny answered for me. "She sleeps a lot. And she's always hungry."

"Well, I just got over my nausea, so I'm making up for lost time," I replied, giving him one of my infamous stare downs.

"That's quite normal." She nodded as she squeezed a glob of jelly right above my pubic bone.

"Remember, just like last time, you'll be able to see a clear picture on the screen mounted to the back wall. My monitor is small and doesn't have the same 3-D quality. But I'll print you out a picture too, as I'm sure your parents are eager for an update."

That was an understatement. They already had a running bet on whether it would be a girl or boy. They'd just have to wait. Sorry, no gender reveal until the big day!

Susan pushed the probe along my belly, applying pressure as she shifted from my left to right side.

"Jaclyn," she said, "can you turn to your side, facing me?" She continued to move the probe, this time pushing harder.

"Twelve weeks, right? Sometimes the gestation is a little off. It may be a bit younger than expected. Hope you don't mind, but I need you to undress from the waist down. That way, we can take a closer look."

Susan stepped aside to allow us some privacy. I quickly took off my pants and underwear and handed them to Danny for safekeeping.

I hate this part. Despite how much lube you can apply, there's really nothing that can stop the pain of the transvaginal probe upon entry. Any woman can tell you, it's the second worst exam next to the dreaded Pap smear. Yikes!

But I could bear the discomfort knowing that we could get another glimpse of our little one. It felt like we were just here for the first sonogram. I was so nervous. I couldn't keep my legs from shaking. When I saw the life that we had created, all of my anxiety melted away. I was instantly awestruck by this small miracle, with its amazingly fast and steady heartbeat, and he or she was all ours! I still couldn't believe it. In my mind, I replayed that sonogram over and over again, and I couldn't help but smile each and every time.

Susan approached slowly, directing me to move my backside all the way down to the end of the table. "Take a deep inhale and breathe out slowly; it will help you to relax your pelvic muscles."

I must have some reputation in this office. Difficulty with blood and trouble with internal examinations? My file should be thick with notations!

As the far-from-slender probe searched my insides Danny reached for my hand. I didn't like it when he squeezed my fingers too hard; it made me worry.

Why does he keep squeezing?

I looked up at him. His glance was transfixed on the monitor rather than the big screen above.

I tried to make eye contact with Susan who continued to maneuver the probe while glancing at her screen. I could hear the monitor whirl as it spewed a long succession of pictures.

She quickly removed the probe from between my legs. When I sat up, she grabbed the series of black and whites and placed them promptly into my file.

I continued to search her face for a reaction, but she wouldn't show me her eyes.

I don't understand. Why is she hiding from me?

Before I could ask, she said: "You can get dressed. The doctor will see you next." The door shut behind her and she was gone.

"Danny, why did she leave? She didn't say anything. She didn't show us the pictures." Now examining his face, I pleaded for an answer.

"I don't know, Jack," he said, averting his eyes.

I hurried to slide my pants back up and shoved my feet into my sneakers, laces flopping over the sides.

Where is Dr. V? I need to get to her office, I need to see her right now.

I reached the hallway. Wanda approached us. "Dr. V was called out on emergency, but Dr. G will see you now."

She whisked us into the next room. "Please take a seat. She'll be here in a moment," Wanda said, and then abruptly shut the door.

Another room? How many times can they keep us waiting? I'm going to lose my mind!

"I don't want her. I want Dr. V. She saw us last time. I don't like this, Danny."

My husband looked up at me, but only for a moment. He grabbed my hand once more, and then returned his stare to the floor.

"I don't feel well. I think I might be sick." I felt another squeeze.

I heard the door handle turn. "Mr. and Mrs. Cohen?" inquired a soft-spoken voice.

"I'm Dr. G," she said, shaking our hands.

She proceeded directly to her desk and paused for a moment. She then rolled her chair closer, this time folding her hands upon her lap.

The silence was maddening. I could hear the humming of the fluorescent lights.

Dr. G, say something, say anything!

She looked up at us. I watched as she quietly exhaled.

There was no turning back now. No running away. The truth was here. I could read it effortlessly.

"I'm so sorry to tell you this, but we were unable to detect a heartbeat."

This is not happening. I'm not really here. This is a nightmare, and I will reawaken.

Danny put his arm around my shoulder.

"Please know that this is not your fault. It's not because you missed a dose of your prenatal vitamins, picked up something heavy, or even if you took a sip of wine. The body has a way of knowing when a pregnancy is unhealthy."

I can't breathe. I'm underwater. I'm drowning.

"Jaclyn," said Dr. G, "are you all right?"

I shook my head because my lips couldn't move. They were frozen.

She left the room for a moment. I heard her whispering in the hallway.

I felt a hand on my leg. Wanda had come to my rescue once more, handing me a box of tissues.

"It's going to be okay. You'll see, sweetheart. You let it all out."

My vision became a blur. My contact lenses were lost to sea, salt brimming over with black tears that trickled down my cheeks.

I must be a fright to see. I want to run from this awful place. I want to flee from here as fast as I can. If only Danny can free me from the grip of this chair.

Dr. G spoke to us again. "I know this is hard but I need for you to make a decision. You don't have to make it right away, but I'll need for you to let me know by tomorrow if I have to make arrangements."

Arrangements? Are we speaking of a funeral?

"You have a choice. Either you can wait for the body to dispel the fetus naturally, which may take a few weeks, or we can schedule a D&C. It's your choice."

Dispel the fetus? But it was mine. He or she was ours.

These are my choices? I can't do this. I don't want to be an adult today. Please, someone make this decision for me.

With those awful last words, she left us alone. This time we were really alone. Just a duo once more.

And I am a walking mortuary. I reek of death.

I want to know what I did to deserve this.

"Danny, get me out of here. I want out, now!"

He finally faced me.

I've never seen this shade of white.

My best friend, I am so sorry. I have failed you.

He lifted me up, securing his arm around my waist.

Now I know why God chose you for me. I cannot do this alone.

He guided me down the longest hallway I had ever seen, and somehow, my legs found my feet.

Danny whispered, "We're almost there."

But I couldn't avoid them. I couldn't escape. There were those eyes again. Waiting for me. Avoiding me. Judging me.

I could see them, I could feel their stares: Oh, that poor girl, that poor barren girl.

Well, you can keep your pity, I don't want it. Keep it along with your glowing happy faces. And your growing bellies. Don't you look at me. Look away, look away. I may be contagious.

The double doors stood before us. Danny swung them open, allowing the noon daylight to smack me across the face.

"Danny, it's too bright," I said, fumbling in my bag for my sunglasses. I put them on quickly while he helped me into our truck.

"It's all right," he told me. "We'll be home soon."

I don't want to hurt him any further, but the last place I want to be is home—unless it's in my closet, so I can hide.

"Jack," Danny rubbed my arm, "Are you going to answer the phone?"

I didn't hear it ringing. "I'd rather not."

My sister's smiling face popped up on the screen.

"I'll talk to her," he said, reaching for my hand. "I will tell her."

"No." I shook my head.

"We have to let the family know."

I continued to shake my head.

Know what? He doesn't understand. If I say it, then it becomes true. I'd rather wait to see if this will all go away on its own.

"Jack," he repeated, "they need to know."

My sister's face popped up again. I couldn't deny it any longer. I slid aside the arrow. "Alyssa?" I asked, as if I no longer knew my own sibling's name.

"Hey — I'm waiting for the sonogram picture," she giggled. "I really want to see my niece or nephew. Hurry up and send it already!"

Okay, you can do this. Just say the words.

I opened up my mouth.

Silence.

"Jack?"

I tried once more. But only a sob could escape from my lips.

"What's wrong?" My sister's voice trembled. "Answer me."

I wish I could tell her.

"Are you crying?" she asked frantically. "What's going on?"

This is it. I will get through this.

"Alyssa, I...I lost the baby.

# Epilogue

The blue divider was taller than I had expected. I wanted to see my doctor. I needed a reassuring face to show me that everything was going to be fine.

I don't like operating rooms. Why are they always so cold? I might as well be stuck in the freezer — I'm as mobile as a Popsicle, anyway.

"Jaclyn," said a voice from behind the divider, "you may feel some pressure right about now — it's perfectly normal."

"Okay," I said. I was trying not to vomit at the thought of what was happening on the other side of the curtain.

It's such a strange sensation to be unable to feel your own legs. I'm afraid that I may never regain control of my lower body. What if the spinal tap severed a nerve? I've heard horror stories — would I become one of these statistics?

Statistics have been a terrible part of my life in the past two years. Those small marginal numbers, the ones that aren't supposed to happen, have happened to me.

Partial molar pregnancy, check. Followed by another failed pregnancy, check. I was a victim. But this time, I want to be the winner. I want to beat the odds.

Please, Lord, if you are listening, if you are really here, let our little one be healthy. Watch over us. I'm afraid that my heart won't be able to survive another loss.

"Danny," I said, "tell me about the time we swam with the stingrays. Tell me about the beauty of the Caribbean."

Warmth. Sun. Surf. This is my happy spot. I can see the angelfish popping out from the purple coral.

He squeezed my fingers tight. I wanted to tell him to hold on tighter but I didn't have the energy.

"Jack," he said, "hang in there, it will be over soon."

Not soon enough. I'm gagging and I can only turn my head to the side to throw up. I feel dizzy. And there's nowhere else to look but at the enormous blue sheet! I do believe it is mocking me.

"Get ready," said Dr. B.

If only he could know how ready I've been.

Danny and I looked at each other. Our moment of truth would soon be arriving.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

Lord, I'm asking you to please guide the hands of our doctor, let them be steady and sure. St. Gerard, patron saint of mothers, protect me, protect my little one.

I reopened my eyes.

"She's here!" proclaimed Dr. B. "You have a healthy baby girl, congratulations!"

"A girl! It's a girl!" said Danny. He kissed me in excitement. "I can't believe we have a daughter!"

And there she was, our rainbow baby, snuggled upon my breast.

I want you to stay in my arms forever. You are the love of my life.

# Jackie Connors's Bio & Links

Jackie Connors is an Italian and Irish American writer and poet, born and raised in Staten Island, New York. She is also known as "Jack," a nickname she shares with her grandmother and late great-grandfather.

An avid reader, Jackie's love of literature began in early childhood, as she listened to her mother read stories by Dr. Seuss, Eric Carle, and many more beloved authors. She's the kind of girl who has more books than shoes and handbags – and is unable to part with a single one. Her favorite day would be one that involves a cup of tea, a good book, and writing to her heart's content.

Jackie discovered her passion for writing while daydreaming on an old hammock, imagining stories on the wisps of clouds. Her literary muses include Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, and Emily Dickinson.

PLUMAGE is her debut poetry collection. She continues to write poetry, short stories, and is planning her first novel

Jackie currently resides in Howell Township, New Jersey, with her husband, their beautiful baby girl, and two fur-babies: a frisky tabby cat, Oliver, and a curious rabbit, Peanut.

Website: <http://www.jackieconnors.com/>

Blog: <http://www.jackieconnors.com/#!blog/cija>

Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/jconnorsauthor>

Twitter: <https://twitter.com/JackieC_Co>

LinkedIn:<http://www.linkedin.com/pub/jackieconnors/74/951/b2/>

# Pennies from Heaven

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# Michael J Elliott

# Copyright 2015 Michael J.Elliott

All Rights Reserved

### Acknowledgements

Stewart Bint, whose encouragement started my journey as a writer. To all my fellow Awethors for all their love, support and encouragement.

### Dedication

My late mum Joan Elliott xx

# Pennies from Heaven

When our cat Missy had a litter of kittens, Walter and I decided to let Penelope adopt one of her own.

Penny chose a beautiful fluffy grey one with the most gorgeous blue eyes. It was a boy and she decided to call it Meat.

How we laughed!

A few months later, when Meat was discovered with a broken neck, Penny was very stoic.

"Don't be upset Mummy, Missy has lots more to pick from."

How brave, bless her.

I wanted to let Penny adopt another kitten but Walter insisted that it was time for them to find new homes and to have Missy de-sexed.

He could be so harsh sometimes.

Penny herself was such a brave little girl. When I told her Daddy wouldn't allow her to adopt another kitten, she just shrugged and skipped off.

I hated Walter at that moment.

Walter and I had Penny quite late in life. I was—well a lady doesn't reveal her age, but when Penny came along I was thrilled to pieces. Walter said he was quite pleased to become a father.

That man was always so guarded with his emotions.

I knew Penny would be my only child, and at one stage, I nearly lost her; but fortunately I had one of the best obstetricians in the country looking after me.

Walter and I are quite comfortable financially. I'm nothing if not honest and I will tell you that Penelope was a difficult baby. She constantly cried and she just wouldn't sleep. When I'd go to check on her, she'd just stare up at me with her large green eyes. Even before she could focus I was sure she was assessing me. I really did try to be a hands-on mother, but all the crying, her failure to sleep and the feeding issue were a problem for me.

Oh, the feeding!

I really wanted to breast-feed Penelope but she refused to take the breast. How she'd struggle against those feeds. She'd flail her little arms about and at one time, she accidentally scratched me with her little fingernails.

Bless her.

I was worn out, you have to remember, I wasn't a young first time mother. I was suffering from regular headaches and the doctor informed me that I was suffering from anaemia—hence the fatigue.

Thank goodness for Nanny Rosa.

Rosa had been a Nanny for many years to some of the finest families and her references were impeccable.

I hired her on the spot.

I was able to express my milk and Rosa was able to feed Penny. Strangely enough, Penny didn't refuse feeding from Rosa. I survived those first few months, the headaches slowly abated and the anaemia was cured.

But I still needed Rosa.

Don't worry, I'm not going to bore you with a month by month description of my Penny's development, heavens forbid! I hate those mothers who endlessly parade baby pictures in front of you, but I must just tell you quickly about a funny incident when Penny began teething.

I'd heard all the horror stories about how children can get when they begin to cut their first teeth. I was quite used to Penny's crying but still I braced myself for more, or even worse.

We'd bought her teething rusks and gum soothing gel, but I had to allow Rosa to apply the gel. Penny's little teeth were very sharp. It did hurt when she bit my finger, every single time.

I'd just come downstairs after sleeping off one of my headaches, not due to Penny, I might add, but after a very long conversation with my friend, Miriam Shore. My goodness, how that woman could talk!

Anyway, I'd just come downstairs and what do you think I found?

There was my little darling, sitting on the floor whilst nanny prepared her lunch. There she was with Missy, who was scrabbling frantically to get away.

She was trying to chew on Missy!

Penny looked up at me, Missy's black hair clinging around her lips, just at the same moment that Missy bounded away from her.

Well, I literally doubled over with laughter!

I told Walter about the incident over dinner. He frowned and said that it didn't seem normal, but what would he know? Walter was hardly a doting father, in some ways he could be positively Victorian in his attitudes. He'd come home from work and ask for a rundown of her activities for the day. He did go into her room at night and give her a kiss on the head whilst she slept but it seemed almost perfunctory. When Penny was older he still remained distant from her. He'd kiss her on the cheek but I always felt that he tried to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Now I'll be the first one to admit that Penny isn't the most demonstrative child in the world. There were times when I tried picking her up and giving her a hug and a kiss. She'd squirm and struggle to get out of my arms.

She was having none of it.

At other times Penny would surprise me by putting her arms around me and staring at me with her eyes—those eyes. On one occasion, when she was sitting on my lap, she kissed me and asked, "Mummy, will it hurt when you die?"

What a philosophical child!

Here was my daughter, only four years old and already asking such profound questions. I suspected that she may develop an interest in religion when she's older. Walter and I aren't particularly religious. We're what you might term 'quiet believers'.

When Penny was older we decided to send her to kindergarten, an exclusive one of course. Walter and I both agreed it was essential for Penny's development to begin socialising with others of her own age. We'd never had much contact with children ourselves. Naturally, we both interacted with our friend's children, but they were now adults or teenagers. I had no interest in joining one of those mother groups. I would've felt terribly self-conscious being an older mother having a coffee with all those young things, and besides, there weren't any clubs with members in our tax bracket.

I don't want you to think that Penny was a lonely child. Yes, she preferred her own company, but sometimes children do, don't they? We soon learnt that Penny wasn't a fan of dolls. We bought her some beautiful ones, but they all ended up with their heads pulled off. Why she had such a fascination with their heads I'll never know.

I couldn't get her to show any interest in fluffy toys like rabbits and teddies either. She'd just rip them open and tear out their stuffing. Goodness knows how she managed to get the stuffing out.

Frederick, our chef, mentioned that she liked watching him preparing the meals, especially when he was using the knife to chop vegetables. Frederick told me that one of the knives was missing and he wasn't by any means accusing Penny of taking it; but if by chance she had, he was worried that she may cut herself. Well I couldn't be angry with her could I? She obviously wanted to see what was inside her toys.

What an intelligent girl!

I began to suspect that Penny would become a doctor when she grew up. I know that sounds like I'm being one of those obnoxious parents that see brilliance in the slightest thing child does, but I had first-hand experience of her interest in anatomy. I went to the kitchen one day to make myself a cup of tea. Yes we are wealthy but we don't have a maid. I'm quite capable of answering my own telephone or preparing a light lunch for myself. We do hire temporary staff when we hold a dinner party or social event. Anyway, as I was saying, Frederick was preparing the evening meal, Coq Au Vin. There was Penny, sitting up on a kitchen stool and staring intently at the chicken's cavity, asking Frederick all sorts of questions about how animals were slaughtered.

What an enquiring child!

Now that I'd discovered something that Penny was interested in, I was determined to encourage her. The very next day I went shopping with my friend and tennis partner, Valerie Lismore. I must admit, it was quite a novelty going inside a toy store, but I loved it. I bought Penny a toy doctor set, well, I went all out and bought her a dress up doctor's outfit. Something told me she wouldn't appreciate being dressed up as a nurse. I also bought her a whole range of 'medical' type toys.

Honestly, I can't describe how I felt when she threw her arms around me, gave me a big kiss and told me I was the best mummy in the world. She told me she was sad now because she didn't have any toys to make better.

Sweet, adorable child!

The next day I went out and restocked her room with more soft toys. Walter said he didn't mind how much money I spent on the child as long as she didn't become spoilt.

What a horrible, uncaring attitude!

A few days later, I took a look into Penny's room, and God bless her, she had all her little friends bandaged up. She'd removed the eye from her pink squirrel and had put an eye patch on it. There was even a toy syringe sticking out of the back of her teddy. Penny asked me if she could have some 'doctor' books. Now you must understand, Penny was a very advanced child, she had taught herself to read by the age of four. I asked Rosa if she had been teaching her, but she swore she hadn't.

What a literary child!

The 'doctor' books I'd bought Penny didn't appeal to her. I'd gotten her a lovely book entitled, When We Go to the Hospital, which had lovely pictures of doctors and nurses. It was designed to help allay a child's fear of going into hospital. I'd also bought her the companion book, When We Get Sick, which was written to help children understand why they weren't feeling well. Penny didn't like them, she wanted books with pictures of doctors performing operations. I told her that they didn't make books like that for children.

What an advanced child!

Looking back in hindsight, it was a mistake to send Penelope to kindergarten. She was simply way ahead of other children intellectually, even if they did come from some of the best families around.

The trouble started when one of the other children, Marcus Wainwright, told Penny he wasn't feeling well. Penny, being the thoughtful child she was, said she'd help him. Penny had taken one of the little plastic knives the children used for cutting and shaping their modelling clay. She sharpened the knife on a rock.

Apparently, Julia Meadows ran screaming inside to the kindergarten teacher, Miss Calliban, who had just popped inside to collect her cardigan since it had turned slightly chilly outside. Marcus Wainwright was lying at the bottom of the children's playhouse with his shirt unbuttoned. There was a superficial cut on his stomach, which was bleeding slightly. Penny was standing over him with her little knife in her hand.

Honestly, the fuss of it all. My darling Penny was only trying to make Marcus feel better like one of her stuffed animals.

What an ingenious child!

The fallout from Penny's thoughtful gesture went a lot further than the kindergarten gates. The Wainwrights threatened to sue. I had to explain to my beautiful child that I was very proud of the way she tried to make her little friend feel better but grownups didn't like her doing that because special doctors called surgeons were the only ones who were allowed to cut open little boys and girls to make them better. Penny said she wanted to become a surgeon so she could make lots and lots of cuts.

Bless her!

My Walter is not a miserly man by any means. We enjoy a very good lifestyle but we're not extravagant or ostentatious at all. The one thing that does make Walter see red is a lawsuit which is purely and simply a means for the plaintiff to make what Walter calls, 'easy money'.

The stories about young Marcus' scratch became more and more outrageous with each telling. I'd heard that he'd almost been gutted like a pig or that Penny had almost decapitated him. With each story my heart broke for my poor Penny.

Poor persecuted child!

Well, you'll be pleased to know that the lawsuit didn't have any legs. Nicole Wainwright, Marcus' mother, was the daughter of our friends, Trevor and Yvonne Calder. When I say 'friends', they were business associates of Walter with whom we occasionally socialised.

I must confess, I didn't know a great deal about Walter's business. It had something to do with future technology and research. Walter was a client of Trevor Calder with a very large account with Trevor's company. Walter bought some sort of component from Trevor's company. Walter had his lawyer send a nice letter which basically said, due to the legal proceedings being brought against us by his daughter, their business relationship may be viewed as a conflict of interest and therefore Walter must regretfully sever their business relationship.

That was it! No more lawsuit. Money talks, I'm sorry, but it does. Walter was not pleased that Penny's thoughtful actions had almost dragged our family's name through the mud. He went on and on about responsible behaviour and how Penny needed stronger supervision. He even suggested that she be assessed by a child psychiatrist. Oh the drivel that man spouted! I couldn't believe that man wanted my darling to see a psychiatrist.

Poor, misunderstood child!

I asked Penelope if she missed kindergarten and her friends. She said she didn't miss either and that she much preferred staying at home and talking to the grownups like Frederick and Nanny Rosa.

What a mature child!

When it became time for Penny to attend regular school we did a lot of research and found a wonderfully progressive school, private of course. Desmond Collier, the Principal, explained that the school liked to encourage their student's academic strengths. I proudly announced that Penny could read far beyond her age and had a strong interest in science and medicine. Desmond said she would fit in extremely well.

At about the same time that Penny was accepted into the school, Rosa handed in her notice. I balked at the idea of her leaving and immediately offered her a pay raise, but she said that money wasn't the reason she was leaving. Rosa told me she'd enjoyed her time with Penny but she was now off to start school and Rosa herself was only an early childhood Nanny. Her other reason for leaving was more personal and touching. Her sister, Gina, had just been diagnosed with breast cancer and she needed to go to help Gina and her husband and children.

I insisted that Walter give her a generous bonus payment in addition to her normal wages. I also wanted to give Rosa a proper farewell and arranged a goodbye dinner for just her and the three of us.

I dreaded telling Penny about Rosa's departure, and when I told her I had good reason for my dread. She threw her toys at me and screamed that no one was allowed to leave her and only she'd decide when Rosa could leave. I tried to explain to her that she was a big girl now and that Rosa had to go in order to look after her sick sister. Penny was having none of it and continued on with her tirade, forcing me to close her bedroom door and leave her to get all that anger out of her system.

Poor, emotionally fragile girl!

I told Frederick we were having a special farewell dinner for Rosa and we'd like him to go all out, and he promised he'd do an extra special menu that would be truly memorable. Frederick excelled himself. We dined on a delightful consommé followed by a poached salmon in a white wine sauce and a wonderful raspberry sorbet. Penny had never liked fish of any sort so Frederick made her one of her favourites, macaroni and cheese with ham.

I had decided to purchase Rosa a nice farewell gift and chose a lovely pair of earrings. Penny said that people who leave her should be given something nasty instead. I told her that was a dreadful thing to wish on Nanny Rosa.

The day after the dinner we all became dreadfully ill, everyone except Penny. Because she ate both the consommé and sorbet, the finger was pointing at the most logical culprit, the salmon. Walter was adamant that not only should we sack Frederick, we should press charges against him and sue him.

Frederick was given autonomy to purchase our groceries. He was meticulous about keeping and filing every receipt. He was in tears when Walter confronted him. He showed Walter every receipt for every item he'd used in the meal. The receipt Frederick gave Walter indicated that he'd purchased the salmon from the fishmonger on the morning of the dinner party. Frederick had prepared seafood and shellfish for us on a number of previous occasions and there was no question that his hygiene or food handling skills were in question. It was looking more and more as though Frederick had been sold a bad salmon. He assured us that the fish was fresh, his keen sense of smell would have detected that immediately. Frederick said the poisoning may have occurred from a higher than safe level of mercury or other metals in the fish. This had been known to occur with even the best fish suppliers. I had read of such instances myself and Frederick's explanation seemed totally logical to me. Walter apologised to Frederick and said he wouldn't take the matter further but that he would be having the fishmonger examined closely.

Penny was full of curiosity about my condition. Did it hurt? What did my stomach feel like? Was I going to die? Did daddy almost die? A million and one questions.

What a concerned child!

Just as Walter and I were starting to recover, Joseph, our gardener, tried to tell me something about a broken window in the garden shed. He said it looked like someone may have tried to break in but he couldn't be sure. I really wasn't in the mood to deal with something so petty and informed him it would be taken care of.

Rosa stayed in contact with us to let us know how things with herself and her family were going. Her sister responded well to treatment and was expected to make a full recovery. A few months later, Rosa sent us a letter with some disturbing news. A routine visit to the doctor revealed that she had some kidney damage. Although it couldn't be known for sure, it was assumed that the bout of food poisoning may have done more damage to her than her doctor first realised.

I felt it was important to let Penny know; after all, she was very mature for her age and we did think of her as a little adult. Upon hearing the news, she declared that she would find a cure for kidney disease. She insisted that I look into getting her some lamb kidney to begin her research.

Wonderfully determined child!

Penny's early school days were unremarkable, not that I'm suggesting that she was unremarkable, heavens no! She excelled at reading, so her teachers started giving her reading assignments from a higher grade level. She excelled at them, and by the end of her third year, she had finished reading books assigned to final year students. To my surprise, Penny took a strong interest in her fellow students. I wouldn't exactly call it friendship. She told her classmates that she was going to be a famous surgeon and when she was older she'd cure them all for free. She asked if they could all tell her their illnesses now so that she could put them in her journal. In that way she would never forget them or their illnesses.

Wonderfully vigilant child!

I really shouldn't have laughed, thinking back on it. Penny was quite put out that all her classmates were healthy. Only two of them had what could be loosely termed 'health issues'. Billy Marklan was mildly asthmatic. Penny gave me a serious look when she sombrely informed me that Katy Crenshaw was allergic to bees and that if she were to get stung she would go into "annie plastic shock". Well I had to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing, not just because it was so funny but also because Penelope was going through a stage where she could get quite angry if she thought people were laughing at her.

I told her that she had nearly gotten the word correct but it was pronounced anaphylactic. Penny decided she would study the condition on the Internet. About three months later, Penny had returned home with some concerning news. She had been sitting down to eat her lunch with Katie. Her young friend had reached into her backpack to retrieve her lunch box when she suddenly screamed. Katie turned a bright red, and her face and hands began to swell up. Apparently a bee or wasp had gotten into her backpack. When Katie had previously discussed her condition she mentioned that she always carried one of those 'injection things' to counteract any stings. On this terrible day, Katie had left her antidote in her jacket, which was on a peg just outside their classroom. Penny, being so level headed, immediately headed into the school building to retrieve it.

Wonderfully composed girl!

By the time Penny returned, one of the other children had raised the alarm and Katy was surrounded by staff, including, thankfully, the school nurse. An ambulance was called and Kate's antidote injection was administered. As a member of the Parents and Teachers Association, I made enquiries about Kate's condition and was surprised to learn that she'd almost died. I arranged flowers and a card to be sent on behalf of the Association.

Those early years just seemed to fly by. Not a great deal happened to our little family in those years. Frederick left us to open up a restaurant with his partner Paul. Walter was made a very lucrative offer for the business, which he declined. He'd been spending a great deal of time at the office. He claimed he couldn't work at home because he'd often catch Penny standing in the doorway to the home office, just staring at him. He claimed it unnerved him. Penny often stared at me too.

What a foolish man!

Life became routine and dull for our little family and before I knew it, my little Penelope had grown into a teenager. Where do all those years go? We hired a lovely retired couple, Herman and Myra Bukoski. Herman had been a chef in Europe during the war, and both he and Myra had escaped from Holland when the Nazis invaded. Myra did some light cleaning for us and we only had Herman cook for us twice a week and prepare a week's worth of meals, which he'd freeze for us.

Penny had liked Frederick, primarily because he indulged her interest in surgery by buying cuts of meat for her to 'operate' on. Please don't think we were being extravagant in any way. We gave the meat to our neighbour's cat after Penny had completed her surgery on it. This continued until they told us that someone had poisoned their cat and that they were only feeding Toby themselves from now on. Not that they were accusing us, they were just being careful.

Penny was polite, but ambivalent towards Herman and Myra. Well, she was until Myra made a passing reference to their wartime experiences.

Herman and Myra are humble folk. They never spoke of what they both saw during the Second World War, but Penny had become very persistent. Myra came to me and asked how she should handle the situation. Walter and I are firm believers that today's generation should never forget the horror of the war, all wars. I told Myra that I'd ask Penny to be more considerate. I didn't want Herman or Myra to talk about anything that would distress them too much. To their credit, Myra and Herman believed in the same philosophy as Walter and I did, but they respected my position and didn't want to cross any parental boundaries.

I wasn't concerned with Penny's interest in the war...at first, but then she began to take a morbid fascination in Nazi war atrocities. She seemed particularly interested in the workings of the concentration camps. I found her reading books on the rise of Hitler, but perhaps what was more disturbing was her interest in Dr Josef Mengle, the so called, "Angel Of Death". Mengle conducted some of the vilest medical experiments on concentration camp victims and usually his experiments involved twins.

I gently asked Penny why she was interested in these subjects. She told me that since she was going to be a doctor, she was trying to understand why a doctor would take lives instead of trying to save them.

Beautiful, compassionate girl!

I could understand why such an intelligent girl would want to read about the works of other doctors, even if they were monsters like Mengle. Walter tried to get her to read up on the works of some of the greats such as Lister and Pasteur. He even went as far as trying to ban her from reading what he termed, "that disgusting subject".

I walked into the office as the two of them were having a screaming match. Walter tried to be all authoritative and shouted at Penny as though she were one of his employees.

The argumentative brute!

Penny was screaming back, but in her defence, she tried to justify her reasons for reading up on the Nazis. I tried to be the voice of reason, but Walter kept saying that Penny wasn't normal and she was a corrupted soul. I didn't get the chance to smooth things over between the two because Walter stormed out and went back to the company offices.

Now, you'll probably think I'm a little naive, but considering Penny's lack of interest in her peers, I never considered that she'd find herself a boyfriend. She said she'd met Stefan though a history club, which was basically a group of teenagers who shared an interest in history.

Penny actually brought him to the house. Naturally I was thrilled that Penelope had started taking an interest in boys. I had asked Walter about how we should explain the facts of life to her when she was fourteen. He mumbled something about "letting me take care of that sort of thing."

The foolish man!

I was happy, though, a little nervous when Penny said she'd be bringing Stefan over to meet us. He was tall, with short and neatly trimmed black hair. He had a fair complexion; actually, I would have said he was on the pale side, but perhaps that's just me. He wore jeans and one of those horrid skull tee shirts which was adorned with a swastika. I suppose I'm old fashioned, but I didn't consider that appropriate apparel to be wearing when meeting the parents of your girlfriend for the first time. I insisted that Walter be there. This was a major step in Penny's emotional and social development. We came to find out Stefan didn't attend Penny's school, but was a friend of someone who did. Stefan was the president of the history club.

Myra had come in with a plate of snacks that Herman had prepared for us. Stefan asked if Myra and her husband were Jews and proceeded to inform us that Jews couldn't be trusted and that we should keep a close eye on our jewelry and silverware. Penny laughed at this and kissed Stefan on the cheek. I could tell Walter was getting angry. He gripped his glass of scotch so tightly his knuckles were turning white. I gave a nervous laugh and said that Myra and Herman were the salt of the earth and that a person's religion didn't define them as either good or bad. Stefan retorted that there was no such thing as a good Jew. I was beginning to get a bad feeling about Stefan but I needed to press on and find out more about him, so I asked him about the history club and what it was called. I should have been shocked by the answer, but I wasn't.

Children of the New Reich.

They studied Hitler's ideas and campaigned for racial purity. That was enough for Walter. He slammed his scotch down onto the side table and jumped to his feet. His face had turned the colour of beetroot. Calling Stefan a "propagator of an old evil", he demanded that Stefan leave our house and never return whilst at the same time banning Penny from ever seeing him again. Stefan merely laughed and said that when the new order came about, Jew lovers like Walter and myself would be shot in the head. Penny just smiled at us, knowing how much it would upset her father, kissed Stefan passionately, took his hand and walked out. She didn't return until we were asleep.

Oh how I wish Walter had let the matter drop there! Perhaps things would have been different. I'm sure they would've been if Penny had stopped seeing Stefan, but of course, she didn't. I suggested it was probably just a rebellious teenage phase she was going through. Walter said he didn't care what sort of phase she was going through, he wouldn't have his daughter corrupted by some Nazi lout. I tried to point out that apart from locking Penny in her room there was very little we could do about it. Walter said he'd sort it out. Knowing how determined Walter could be, I wasn't surprised. Stefan was corrupting my poor, beautiful child, who was only interested in the Nazis in the name of medical science.

Poor misguided girl!

I wish I hadn't discovered what Walter had done next. I pray to God to let me turn the clock back to a time when the three of us were happy and none of us had ever heard of Stefan. I had listened in on one of Walter's calls in the home office. I don't know why I picked up the phone and listened in, perhaps it was a mother's intuition. Walter was screaming down the line to Michael Wallander, the head of the security team at the company. He told Michael he'd better find someone to "beat the shit out of that little Nazi scum and to make sure he got the message to stay away". I know I should've confronted Walter, but you see, secretly I wanted Stefan to get hurt and leave my Penny alone. He would turn my beautiful, intelligent girl into a monster if he wasn't stopped. I don't know if the 'lesson' that Walter had organised for Stefan ever transpired, but judging by what happened next I am certain that something happened.

Penny never mentioned Stefan again, certainly never in Walter's presence and although I was a little more sympathetic to her first case of 'puppy love', she didn't mention Stefan in front of me either. I took that as a good sign.

Today was a busy day for me. I had a tennis game with Lorna Gleeson, followed by lunch with her at the club. I had a hair and beauty appointment at the salon, and then finally I was going to be the guest auctioneer at one of my charity fundraisers. I returned home to find Walter's BMW parked almost sideways in the driveway, blocking my access to the garage. Was the man drunk?

It wasn't unusual for the house to be quiet. I assumed Penny was still out or in her room. I gathered the mail from the mahogany hallstand and briefly sorted through it as I walked towards the kitchen. It was Myra's half day so I wasn't expecting to see her—it was now after four in the afternoon. Since it was only Wednesday I expected Herman to be stacking meals for the freezer. I'd explained that Walter probably wouldn't be home for dinner and Penny was old enough to look after herself. I myself would just have something light later on.

I suddenly became aware of an unpleasant odour. It was reminiscent of a soiled nappy, but there was an underlying smell that I couldn't place. The odour became more pronounced as I walked closer to the kitchen.

I began to feel uneasy.

In the kitchen, the smell was overpowering but everything appeared normal...until I turned my head towards the kitchen wall, the one that led out to the patio. The source of the bad smell became evident, but my mind refused to accept what my eyes were seeing.

Herman was completely naked. His arms were spread wide and nails had been driven into his wrists and feet. Blood and gore were smeared along the length of the wall. Herman's mouth was wide open and had been stuffed full of banknotes. I soon understood why there was so much blood. Herman's throat had been slashed from ear to ear.

I had wanted to avert my eyes from the carnage in front of me, but I couldn't. I slowly backed out of the kitchen. My throat constricted and my breathing became laboured. Once I was out of the kitchen and away from the horror I'd witnessed, I ran upstairs. I don't know why, perhaps my natural mother's instinct herded me towards Penny's room to ensure she was safe.

Penny's room was wide open. I breathed a sigh of relief when I realised she wasn't in there. I went into the hallway and headed towards our bedroom, just to see if Walter was drunk and sleeping it off. Walter wasn't in there...but Myra was.

Myra hung by a rope from the chandelier. Her hands were tied behind her back. The Star of David had been carved into her forehead and blood covered most of her features, except for her protruding tongue. After seeing Herman's body, the sight of Myra hardly had an impact on me. Perhaps shock was setting in.

I quickly walked into the office and found Walter slumped over his desk. I was relieved to discover he was drunk.

I whispered his name.

He didn't answer me.

I walked over towards the desk and tried to shake him awake. It was only when I stood next to Walter that I saw the ivory handle of the letter opener jutting out from his neck. His white silk shirt was a vivid red. Walter seemed very pale. He must have lost a lot of blood. His eyes were wide open in shock.

I finally began to cry.

* * *

I don't know how long I've been sitting here on the floor. The last rays of the sun's light filter through the office window. I cradle Walter's body in my arms and softly hum to him. I'll never get the blood out of this Vivien Westwood blouse. I know I should do something, but I can't. I feel like a giant weight is pressing down on me, keeping me rooted to the spot. Strangely enough, I feel very calm. Is that one of the signs of shock? My mind is amazingly clear, despite everything I've witnessed. I begin to wonder about the pile of bloody clothes I suddenly remember seeing in Penny's room. They looked like a chef's uniform. Why would the killer bring clothes into her room? Were they trying to implicate Penny?

Walter's body is getting cold now. I've become used to the smell of the drying blood and the excrement from his evacuated bowels.

Over the gentle sound of the ticking clock I hear the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.

I continue to hum to Walter. I wonder if he'd recognise the tune.

The footsteps stop outside the office and then there is the sound of laughter.

A girl's laughter.

As the doorknob slowly begins to turn, I chuckle. I place my hand over my mouth in an attempt to stifle the sound.

I'm suddenly reminded of that old saying, you know the one?

The one about the bad penny always turning up.

# Michael J Elliott's Bio and Links

Michael J Elliott is a first generation Australian author from a British family which is why you'll find many of his stories set in England or populated with English characters.

Michael's biggest writing success came when a comedy sketch he'd written was selected for inclusion in an Australian television comedy special.

Michael is currently putting the finishing touches on his first collection of short stories, Portraits of Dread, which will examine fear in all its various forms.

When he isn't writing stories to frighten readers, Michael enjoys drawing, reading (naturally), Golden Age Hollywood Movies and Chilling out with his two cats Charlie and Smokey. Michael currently resides in a bayside suburb in the State of Victoria but his dream is to live in a little English village with a pub and a corner store, just like Agatha Christie's Miss Marple.

Michael loves interacting with his readers and you can contact him at any of the following:

Michael J Elliott on Facebook

Twitter

Official Michael J Elliott Website

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# The Think Drug

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# Patrick Elliott

# Copyright 2015 Patrick Elliott

All Rights Reserved

# The Think Drug

It swam in the darkness that existed outside of time and space. A companionable silence grew over the millennia between It and the darkness. It circled the world, listening to the beckoning of the people walking the planet. The beckoning existed from the time that the man things discovered fire, and with it the addiction to comfort.

In those dim days of beginning the beckoning was mild, easily resisted. Then men discovered lust and greed and the pull grew stronger. Centuries passed like days for It, then the drawing suddenly increased. Men discovered vices of greater appeal and less practical use. Those needs tugged at Its consciousness and inherent desires. Then man invented things that nature never contemplated, and It roared in lust as it sought to shatter the barrier.

* * *

"You know you can get pneumonia from those things, right?"

Exhaling vapor in the face of some moron who wanted to get on your case about trying to avoid cancer wasn't, Ramses lamented, nearly as satisfying as blowing toxic smoke into the face of some do-gooder who wanted to get in your face about smoking in public had been. Still, it was the only thing available to him. Ramses turned and exhaled harmless droplets of room temperature gaseous water into the pretty face of the twenty-something evangelist of a young woman. He followed the reactionary attack with his own words.

"You know that pneumonia is an infection not caused by the inhalation of damp molecules, right? Thus, you are technically correct; if I shared my vaporizer with a person already infected with said disease it could possibly pass it along to me. As I do not share it with anyone, it cannot. More to your point, however, there are no proven harmful side affects and very few remaining dangers to discount from the use of my smoking cessation method."

Ramses immediately felt bad about his reaction and harsh words. The woman was just trying to help. He consoled himself with the realization that he was suffering from withdrawal, not from nicotine, as the vaporizer saw to that, but from the additives and carcinogens that normally came with it. It was a hollow excuse and sounded so, even to himself.

The young woman shuddered and forced a cough. She was one of those who could not let go of preconceived reactions. She walked away, leaving Ramses alone with his guilt. He realized two things in that moment. He would never get over being an addict, so he needed a new addiction, with fewer side effects than cigarettes. He also realized he would probably never get a girlfriend. He was used to being alone, but her reaction still stung him.

He vehemently hoped that she would spread the word. When she did not spontaneously develop cancer, perhaps she would understand that she was a victim of scare tactics. Then she might tell others that there were no real harmful effects from the use of a vaporizer. Nonsmokers always took that news more seriously from another of their tribe. Ramses wondered if that was true, though. His addiction was a real thing. He was extending his life with this new method, but he knew he was still a slave to his addictions.

* * *

Doctors Phillip, Hamilton, and Chesterfield, research scientists in the employ of Robin's Egg Pharmaceuticals, sat around a table known throughout the company as the think tank. In theory, each researcher reported to a manager, who reported to a department head, who in turn reported to a man or woman with a title beginning with a C. Being the best and the brightest of the entire company meant they lived in a reality somewhat different than the theoretical corporate flow chart, however. These scientists answered to only one man.

Their brilliance explained part of that, their morality a larger portion. They had morals ranging from flexible to nonexistent from person to person and day to day. It allowed their genius to run free, kept in check only by corporate doctrine and governmental controls. Each of the researchers reported on to Robin, CEO and majority stockholder of the giant drug company that employed them. His morals functioned along the same routes as his prized employees, but for a different reason.

The three at the table knew they operated outside of acceptable confines and contented themselves with the knowledge that discovery and advancement required such things. The necessary bending of societal norms caused institutions and governments to create councils and committees to keep people like them in line. Robin had no such excuse. He simply had the money required to buy off his own conscience and silence his critics, often even those in positions of authority over him.

Phillip, Hamilton, and Chesterfield were paid well for the science they performed. They were bonused and optioned even better for the work they did at that simple table. When the three of them got together at the think tank, great things happened. Knowledge leapt forward and stock prices climbed at the hands of the trio. It was such a guaranteed occurrence that the company required the three to gather no less than once a month to brainstorm ideas. That was the purpose of their meeting on that fateful day. They were to once again attempt to steer the course of history.

"Robin wants us to come up with over the counter consumer drugs guaranteed to both sell and either receive FDA approval or skip the FDA entirely. I've been thinking about this," Dr. Phillip began.

"It's always a dangerous thing when you start thinking, Phillip. Though I must admit, it's better when you begin the meetings. Getting all of the bad ideas out of the way lets us get to the good ones faster." Dr. Hamilton chuckled, tapping a cigarette that would go unsmoked until the first break in the meeting against the table with the ease of long habit.

"Do the two of you always have to start this way? It's a waste of our time and resources, and while you may not value yours, I certainly place a premium on mine. If you wish to continue this way I might as well return to my lab until you're ready to continue." Dr. Chesterfield looked away in an aloof manner that matched the cold voice. An electronic vaporizer rose to bloodless lips, and imitation smoke flowed into the room in a way that Chesterfield knew bothered Hamilton to no end.

Phillip leaned back into the chair and nodded slowly. "If it makes you feel better, I came to this most recent idea by watching the two of you."

"Well, that certainly makes it more likely to be a good idea. It would have a chance at greatness if it were inspired by me alone." Hamilton nearly purred. "Greatness is expensive and takes long periods and many trials to gain approval. Even when your drug does hit the street, it's nearly guaranteed to be prescription only. I'm mollified enough to let you continue and see if this moment is one of the two times a day your broken clock is right."

Chesterfield sighed the sigh of someone considering giving up a promising career and returning to the lab. "What is this idea of yours? Perhaps more importantly, how has it been inspired by our colleague and myself?"

"It involves your vaporizer and the addiction both of you share. The two of you were arguing the other day. You were going on about possible side effects and wondering if addiction is really harmful if there is no significant damage from the dependency, no more damage, than say, a caffeine addiction would cause. You were both prattling on about the clinical trials and studies recently performed. It caught my attention and got me thinking." Hands behind head, Phillip leaned back and smiled at the other two.

"I think I see where you're going with this. The recent studies showed some dangers, so the government is going to crack down on it. Putting out a new drug in that form isn't going to be as easy as we want." Hamilton said.

"You are mistaken. The government knows the study you speak of shows negative affects lower than those caused by simply breathing air or eating food. More importantly, big tobacco funded it. With decades of experience at playing the game from the defensive end, they have grown very good at it. It stands to reason they will play it just as well from the offensive side. They are adversarial to the very agency standing in charge of the process, which that agency is sure to remember. The FDA will side with the truth." Chesterfield waxed philosophical. "There is a danger, but it comes in the future. We can pass clinical trials with ease and be in the public market within six months. Eventually those not using the delivery system and the politicians serving their interests will grow greedy and increase the taxes to make the purchase of any such drugs prohibitively expensive. However, I assume Dr. Phillip has taken this into consideration. Please, do continue, I believe we may both get onboard after hearing what we already know."

"Well," Phillip leaned forward and smiled, "I am sure you will, as Mr. Robin will, love this idea. As I see it, we have a very small window. I know a way to get around this inevitable increase. You are correct that it's coming, especially once we get into the market. So here's my plan..."

The other doctors leaned in to listen. Dr. Phillip went on at length. In the end they did agree. Robin loved it, and fast tracked the idea.

* * *

Robin sat with the report from his three best scientists on the desk in front of him. One line glowed on his telephone, indicating the conference call in which he was currently participating. His board sat in offices almost as posh as his all around the world. These men and women gave their input when necessary, knowing Robin would ignore anything that did not coincide with the course of action he chose. They were there only to mitigate damage and lower risks. Robin only tolerated yes men in his upper echelons. He only allowed mad scientists opinions and creativity. The part of the process involving questions and innovation was in the past. Now was time for action. Robin eyed the report, but all the pertinent data existed in his memory.

"Addiction is what we seek, my friends. The beneficial effects are unimportant to our cause. We desire the addiction and the unforeseeable future side effects. Phillip, Hamilton, and Chesterfield have provided what we need. They have also managed to create a drug that provides such wonderful benefits that our sales numbers cannot help but be astronomical. So, the question is, how fast can we get this on the shelves? I suppose before that I should open the floor to questions." Robin laid his elbows on the desk blotter and rested the tips of his fingers together. He let them drum in an unseen but faintly heard sign of impatience.

"We are referring now to the report on this drug... UltraCognos? The one the lab boys are calling the think drug?" The voice of Melissa, his COO relegated to the black hole of South Africa, crackled out of the speaker.

"Yes, that is the drug up for discussion." Robin let his impatience show in his voice now. He would tolerate a certain amount of discussion and idiotic questions, but only so long as they moved the process forward.

"I understand the benefits of this drug, both in the delivery system and the pharmaceutical itself, but can we get a run-down of the selling points? I'm unsure if any of the researchers are on the line to do so. If they aren't I can go over them for us. I mean the benefits to the consumer, not to us, of course. I assume another will ask about those things." Melissa let it all out in a rush.

"None of the scientists are on the line." Robin started curtly, letting Melissa live with his apparent displeasure. Just before she repeated her offer to take up the task, he continued. "But that's a wonderful idea; just in case we have any idiots on the line who might benefit from the drug. In order to make sure it's done correctly, why don't I do that myself?"

"Thank you, sir." Melissa breathed out, her volume dropping by half.

"The benefits of the delivery system have been established. There is no risk of cancer, or at least so minute a risk as to be non-existent for the purposes of approval. The addiction level is based entirely upon the drug delivered by the method. So the delivery is beneficial for health reasons to the consumer. For us, of course, it means we can fast track through the approval process.

"The benefits of UltraCognos as a drug are simple. It causes the synapses in the human brain to fire faster while allowing different portions of the mind to function more cohesively. Quite simply, it effectively raises the IQ of any person using it. In addition, it allows that higher intelligence to work faster, as the affected brains will process those enhanced thoughts at a higher rate. There is no physical or emotional benefit of the drug. That is part of what makes it different than all other drugs, and will also help us get past any hitches with the government, because this is something new they have no rules for yet. Short form, it helps our consumers come to better solutions faster than anyone else. This will be huge with the chess players out there."

"What is the addiction rate?" This came from Mr. Chen, head of production.

"Approximately seventy percent on first use, with increasing levels on continued intake. Before the next question that I know is sure to follow that one... We are going to present this in comparison to the addiction levels for nicotine, which the committee knows to be one of the highest on the planet. We also have presentation of evidence that the delivery method helps with the cessation of other drugs, though that is because it is one of the purposes of the systems. Nobody has used it to hook consumers into use, so it will be an experiment; one the scientists assure me has wings. Last, we have a brilliant dissertation on how addiction without harmful side affects is not a bad thing. In truth, it enslaves the desires of the users to our will, but there is nothing illegal about that."

"Are we considering how we will deal with increased taxes when they inevitably occur?" That was Mr. Baltimore, out of the test facility in Mexico.

"We know that tax increases are unavoidable. The introduction of this drug will assure them, and likely speed the process. We will follow the methods of the tobacco industry by creating a strong lobby from the outset to stall as long as possible. As long as the tax increase is incremental, it will be fine. The addiction will get us past that, and the end users will bear the brunt of the increased cost. It will only help our profits when we increase prices to match those tax bumps."

"What about negative side effects?" Melissa reinserted herself into the conversation.

"There are none."

He lied. They knew he lied. Yet nobody brought it up. It would be easier to keep information from the commission if they did not know. The boss always had a plan, though, and it served purposes they did not understand. At his heart he was as much a mad scientist as the doctors who served him.

* * *

"Looking for anything special today?"

The attendant behind the counter looked up at the newest customer as he entered. The other patrons sat at the sampling bar, inhaling different juices from the highest nicotine level to the zeros. They ranged in age from just barely legal to smoke to those about to shuffle off the mortal coil. The latter would have died slowly and painfully during battles with cancer in an earlier time. The vapor shops granted them a second chance at extending their lives. Like barflies of old they gathered around their tender and told stories nobody believed but few could disprove.

This bar served no booze, but like those watering holes of ago it was cloudy, even on the sunniest days. In a world where addicts, even the legal kind, were relegated to exile in shadows, existing in a voluntary house arrest, buildings filled with fumes had become unusual. These meeting places of like minded individuals drew ex-smokers like coffee shops once drew beatniks, like certain restaurants had attracted the blacklisted during McCarthyism.

Ramses didn't belong here, and he knew it. The magpies turned judgmental eyes upon him. Ramses felt they weighed his worth and found him lacking, at minimum. In truth they assessed him, turned back to the beautiful teenager providing their liquid, and continued their conversations as she moved down the counter to attend the newcomer.

Ramses shrugged as he cut through the fog, ducking his head to avoid any chance of someone picking him out of a line-up later. He motioned the young woman further down the bar and away from the small but intimidating crowd. She gave a friendly smile that hid an inward laugh. All new customers were the same. She strolled down to meet him, leaning onto the counter to present her assets. He didn't even look; he was so focused on the task at hand.

"What can I help you with, sugar?" she asked in the hushed but joyous tones of mock confidentiality.

"I'm..." Ramses cast his eyes around before looking back to her, then mumbled through the rest of his reply. "I was wondering if you have that new one."

"You mean a new flavor?" She still laughed with her eyes, and no longer kept her voice down. "We get new ones all the time, darlin'. Which are you looking for?"

"No." He cleared his throat but did not raise his voice. "I mean the new liquid. Like the THC one when they legalized that."

"We carry THC oils if you're looking for that. Still not sure what you mean, but the newest flavor for that is Lava Lamp. That's a nice mix of mango and mint if you're interested. You can sample it if you like."

"No, the other one. The new one."

"Darlin'... I don't mean to be difficult, but could you be a bit more direct, or tell me what you mean by new?"

"The new type of liquid. The new ingredient that company just put out." Ramses managed the difficult task of sounding agitated without really raising his voice.

She smiled and nodded, finally getting it. "You mean UltraCognos, the think drug? We've got it. There's no flavors for that yet. We're trying to get the company to change that."

"I don't need flavors... I just need help. Some help with thinking straight. I hear it helps." Ramses looked towards the door and sighed.

"Nothing to be ashamed of, hon. Tell you what, why don't I set you up with a starter pack? We'll throw in some think drug to get you going. We don't do that with the other liquids and oils, but since it's new the company is encouraging us to build a client base. First one's free, is what the delivery guy tells me. Sound good?"

"Yeah." Ramses wiped at his eyes, swiping away tears she hadn't even seen. "But give me two bottles and I'll pay for the second."

Ramses smiled at her, hope sliding over his face for the first time. The liquid saleswoman smiled back, seeing just how cute he was. Fifteen minutes later, Ramses walked out of the shop with everything he needed to start up a new habit, a phone number, and a date with the girl that sold the new fad drug. Her name was Betta, or so she said. She wanted to try out UltraCognos herself, she said. Why not give it a whirl together when they met up later that night? That sounded just fine to him. It had been a long time since Ramses's steps felt so light. He went in at the bleakest moment in his existence and came out with life looking good. Life changes on a pendulum.

* * *

"Something has to work eventually." The voice echoed from Mr. Robin's computer without electronic distortion.

"You have the luxury of hope. You have nothing but time." Robin huffed wearily. "Besides, you're not real, or at least I'm not convinced you are."

"You say such hurtful things to your little brother."

"Are you, though? We haven't been able to confirm that you're an AI."

"That's because I'm not artificial, but I was always the intelligent one. When dad decided the only way to save his dying son was to load me onto a hard drive he implanted natural intelligence. That's why you can't believe in me."

"Okay. Let's assume I can buy into the idea that a human personality can be digitized like that. If you're you, why haven't you grown or evolved in the years since?"

The computer laughed. "Come on, now. You haven't changed a bit, other than getting physically older, in the years since my death, either. It's because of our age in both cases. How much does a person really change once they hit twenty-five? Not a damn bit unless an extreme trauma or pure joy causes them to. Sure, you can change small things, but not really the base, and even then most people don't make that many small changes either. I'm just as human as you, except I don't have a body. When are you going to get me one?"

"I'm working on it. Everything I'm doing, everything I've done is for you. Or your memory if you aren't real." Robin looked out the window, his voice as distracted as his motions implied.

"This new drug? You think that will lead to something because of the side effects?"

"Yes, I do."

"What are you worried about, then?"

"The government cracking down on us."

"You line the right pockets to make sure that doesn't happen. You should stop over-feeling things, bro."

"I pay them off, but they are people. They could change their minds, or someone else could give them more." Robin's voice trailed off slowly.

"You remember what Dad said? About how long you have to pay a man off before you own him?"

"Yes, two generations."

"And we're the second for most of those men. So why don't you stop worrying about it and tell me the plan?"

So Robin did. He was still unsure his brother was in that computer, but what did it matter? Cheating death to get his younger sibling back was his only pure ambition. So he laid out the plan.

* * *

"Can you believe this?" Betta threw the tiny bottle of pineapple flavored UltraCognos onto the coffee table. "When it came out this much would've cost us fifteen bucks. That, right there, is going for sixty, and it's been out less than two years!"

Despite the odds surrounding relationships, especially relationships between addicts, Betta and Ramses had been together for approaching two years. That made their relationship almost as old as the think drug. Their life was good, but not exactly paradise. Paradise, by definition, contained fewer people.

Ten sets of hands scrambled for that plastic container like a tour group lost in the desert finding one bottle of water. Nails clacked against the polished wood as Ramses looked at his girl with a shake of the head and a distant smile that she returned. The others focused on getting their share of liquid into their vaporizers.

"We knew it was going to happen." Ramses spoke in a glacial drawl. "The sin tax is up to a hundred percent, and the company keeps raising the price."

"Who buys pineapple?" One of their roommates blurted out in tones indicating his lunch might follow it.

"It was all they had, jerk. Shut your gob and suck up the fumes, you baby." Betta growled out her anger, which was really directed at the constantly short supply and high prices of UltraCognos, but conveniently directed at the man speaking.

The room fell silent, except for the sound of the vial dropping softly to the table with just enough left for Betta and Ramses to fill their tanks. They did so as the room filled with the sounds of inhaling and the vapor of expelled drug matter. Betta inhaled as she filled her vaporizer last, as the buyer always did, but inhaling the others' second hand vapor wasn't enough. Every useful bit of the UltraCognos was locked inside the user before they exhaled. All she got was water until she screwed the glass back on and took a deep drag.

"That's better." Ramses framed words with imitation smoke and smiled as he sat up. "I can think again."

That set of words got Betta thinking. She looked around at their life. Like so many addicts before them, they'd fallen into a communal home. More hands paying the rent meant more cash for the necessities of life, like the think drug. They lived amongst virtual strangers who, if push came to shove and there wasn't enough to go around, would quietly slit their throats to get a hit. Once upon a time a dose a day would have done it, but now they were all using three or more tanks when they could come by them. When they couldn't, they suffered.

She looked around and saw all of those eyes growing bright again. A moment before, dullness had filled them. Nobody wanted to blame it on the drug, but it started to feel like they couldn't think straight when the drug wasn't in their system. She thought about that a lot, but normally only when she was in the clutches of withdrawal. Had she spent any effort on it when under the drug's effects, she might have figured it all out. There was no reason to think about that when her mind was soaring; there were the world's problems to solve in those moments. Worrying about things like how sluggish her brain grew between hits, how she felt like a dullard (not only compared to when she was high but even compared to before she started using), even worrying about how much they needed to get a place of their own, could wait for more depressing times. Times like this were important; they were a renaissance of art and intellect to be shared with friends before they once again became strangers.

Betta inhaled and groaned with pleasure before the chemical reminded her of something important. "How are the headaches?"

Ramses smiled up from where he slumped back on the couch. "Fine right now. You know they only hit when the tank is empty. I can't complain too much, though. I mean, yeah they hit me half the time, but I feel like I'm still smarter. Not as much as when I'm hitting the glass, but more than the rest of the time."

At another time, Betta might have snapped at him, but with her brain firing so fast it was impossible to misunderstand, so she smiled and nodded. "You ever feel like you're not in control during the headaches anymore?"

"Not often." But he looked away when he said it. "I told you, I promise if it gets bad I'll go to the doctor."

"Like you've got insurance for that. They'll say pre-existing condition due to addiction."

"Yeah, but I'll go anyway."

"Okay. How are the others that suffer them?"

Ramses looked around and smirked. "Growing less every day. Seems like the more I get them the less they do."

Neither of them thought much about the meaning of that. It was based in the mystical and metaphysical. UltraCognos was different from other drugs in that way, too. When someone sucked it down they thought about solving the problems afflicting the world, but in a real and attainable way. Other drugs got hippie solutions in mind that could not be articulated to anyone who wasn't stoned on the same or similar drug. Users of the think drug could explain perfectly to anyone when they were high and never thought about problems or solutions that weren't based in fact.

They all fell to a conversation best had in a research lab and forgot their worries for a time.

* * *

The only thing that kept It from swimming into the world and running amuck was how dispersed the needs of men were. Addictions and effects in tandem were necessary for humans to call It, and with each substance or desire those effects were spread amongst the various addicts. Thanks to one ambitious man, a conjunction never before seen drew near. It was a thing It felt strongly. It waited for Its moment, but not patiently.

The addiction, the new one, continued to exist in many bodies, more every day, in fact. The effects, those things swimming painfully in the minds of the users like It swam through space, those pangs were slowly fading from most who suffered them. One man, though, one alone continued to suffer. His own agony grew as the others eased away from them. That man was the priest of Its calling, the modern day martyr that housed Its incubator. It smiled as It smelled Its rebirth coming. Then nothing could stand before the human desire that composed and controlled It. Soon It would be free to feed on all addictions like any child wailing in hunger.

Wail It did, but nobody heard. Nothing but the darkness bore witness to Its need. The darkness was uncaring and continued on in its eternal, cold distance. It could wait though, for it would not be much longer.

* * *

Coleen raved as Betta ushered her from the house, but Betta was intractable. This was the decision she and Ramses had come to, and of the two she was the enforcer. Being in that role was normally upsetting, but Ramses was in pain so often these days that she had to be the caretaker.

Betta looked around at the broken, filthy room that represented their lives now. She ran her hands over bumps from dirt and neglect that covered what had once been her smooth skin. Once upon a time almost every man who came into any shop she worked in gave her looks of lust and longing. Now they still gave her looks, new ones of scorn and pity. The smell--no, the stench--following her around like a cloud drove most customers to move along as quickly as they could. They all still bought, though. Addicts were beholden to their relief, after all. But these days the nicotine and the THC users looked for other shops. Some of them still came by, when it was convenient. The think drug junkies, on the other hand, always stopped in. The supply was too limited. Deliveries came every day and were off the shelf before close of business. Every store sold out each day.

"That's the last of them." Betta called out towards the nearest bedroom once the door closed behind Coleen.

"You sure you want to do this?"

Ramses hobbled out of the room. His fatigue-dulled and haggard face swung around the house, seeing the desolation. Fever-bright eyes saw everything, and landed upon his girlfriend. He shuddered at how well she matched the furniture. That filthy threadbare lifestyle cloaked them both. He had things to say, but she started.

"We need to, love. You need more."

"I'm so sorry." His voice broke and lowered, as did his eyes. "I did this to you. I don't need more. You deserve better."

Betta crossed the room and wrapped him in her arms, pulling him to her emaciated breasts. They were so close to crossing from one form of think drug addict to another, from the communal hippies to those who power-used in ways that continued to leech their souls but also enhanced their lives.

"Hush, now. You didn't do this to me. I was going to try UltraCognos no matter what. I would've ended up in this same situation with or without you. If I hadn't met you that day I just would've been alone in this place. Or worse, I would still have all those other people."

He kissed the greasy top of her head and smiled. "You say such wonderful things. I feel bad about kicking them all out, though. Are you so sure?"

She led him to the couch; standing and speaking was wearing him out. She sat and eased him down. She cradled his head in her lap as she stroked his oily hair. She kissed his forehead and whispered to him.

"You need it. They all lost their jobs over time, and we can't keep supporting them. You don't do well when the drug wears off. You do fine when you're up on it, though. We can afford the place and a constant supply of think drug without them. We aren't responsible for them, and you need to stay fed and with your brain functioning. I can't stand to see you in pain anymore. I can't stand to watch both of us go through this hell."

"What's the plan, then? Now that we aren't feeding them and are only supporting our own habits."

"Well, first we start eating, bathing, and cleaning the house again." She smiled at him.

"Of course. After that, I mean."

"We keep you filled to the gills with think drug, and then you find another job. Using that great brain of yours, enhanced as it'll be, you're going to get a really good one. Then you're going to support us both and I'll keep the house up. You'll pay me back for paying most of the bills that way and I can be an artist or something like that once you have it all under control."

"Sounds good. I might be a little biased though, since I like it when the headaches stop. Which reminds me. Did you get it?"

"Of course I did." She held up a small plastic vial.

Ramses looked at it and smiled slowly. He pulled out both of their vaporizers, holding hers out to Betta. Then his eyes slid over the label.

"Strawberry? You're spoiling me with my favorite."

* * *

Ramses sat at his desk, contemplating the meaning of irony and if this qualified. Like most people in the modern age, he wasn't sure what the word actually meant, even with UltraCognos supercharging his brain. What did he care, though? He was raking in money doing something great.

After they kicked out all the losers his life turned around. He now sucked down think drug at a near constant rate. It all led him here, near the top of an organization that paid him to work on ways to remove the addictive affects of the drug of which he was the heaviest user in the world. People below him ran awareness and fund raising campaigns. He nominally oversaw their activities, but so long as they got the ads out and brought in enough money to not only run them but get his astronomical salary delivered every other week, he pretty much let them do what they wanted.

The people he rode were the scientists. His minions worked to reverse engineer the liquid. Another team tested methods to develop a similar drug to deliver all of the benefits with none of the need. It was a difficult task. UltraCognos evolved like a disease. It wasn't something Robin's Egg Pharmaceutical was actively doing between batches, either. One vial could test one way, then an hour later show up differently. It was disturbing, to say the least. Add to that, the drug mutated to fit its host. They had a difficult task in front of them.

That wasn't what really troubled Ramses. What weighed heavy on his mind was his own condition. Since he stopped dealing with withdrawal, the pain no longer existed, but the thing was still in his head. Something swam there, and he knew it was waiting. Ramses wanted to end the side effects to get that deep lurking demon out of his skull. He had clear images of a giant shark circling the world, and the planet existing inside his head. He felt like an incubator.

* * *

"It is nearly time." The computer intoned.

Robin the younger sounded impatient in his electronic coffin. The living brother sighed and nodded. He reached for the phone and instructed his secretary to set the meeting.

"Are you sure this is right?" he asked the computer.

"Absolutely. You have the other drug ready to go and your own personality processed onto an inactive drive, correct?"

"I do. I'm not sure about this, though."

"I am. Think of it, brother; immortality in a powerful form."

"But... what about the victims? Dad would..."

"Now you grow a conscience? You run a big drug company. Morals are not for you. Dad would have done whatever it took to help us. He always did. Just remember what we told the FDA. When the only side effect is addiction, there is no harm. They agreed, allowing us to make these people our slaves. We are just taking that one, small, step further." The human hated it when the machine sounded condescending, like now.

"I've already set the meeting."

"Good. Don't back out."

* * *

It was not alone. The others in the darkness were also solitary creatures. So It swam, only occasionally brushing against Its fellows. It often envied humans and their connection, their conversation. Perhaps when the order changed It would be able to have companions. It would find out soon enough. The time drew near.

* * *

"Did you call me in here to help us out?" Ramses thought of Betta, wished he'd thought to bring her along. Of all the people in the world she deserved to be here if he got a win.

"No," Mr. Robin purred like a feline snake. His hands steepled in front of his face as his eyes danced over his prey. "I called you here for a very different reason. To be at the culmination."

"The what now?" Ramses drew his vaporizer. The man across from him looked like one who once had a conscience, then killed all morality in pursuit of profit. Ramses always used more when he was nervous, and he inhaled deeply now. The thing inside his head swirled more powerfully still.

"The culmination, the apex, the pinnacle, what this was all for." Robin slid his chair back and simply stared. Then everything seemed to happen at once.

Ramses kept sucking on his vaporizer. His mind grew sharper with every intake. Only in the last seconds did he realize his mistake. By then it was too late to stop.

The last bit of UltraCognos he would ever inhale was halfway to his lungs when It saw him clearly. It realized It was in the head of a human being, and it was time to hatch. The creature exerted a mild flex of will and burst from the host as a solid, shadowy form, taller than a human, with clawed hands, sharp fangs, and glowing red eyes. It was not one of the ancient gods, but many worshipped It as such. Those luminescent eyes scanned the room and, finally given a voice, It issued a laugh that sounded like a shriek. Then It saw the other man.

Robin trembled as he held out the wires that would transfer his brother into this thing. He was terrified, but he had a job to do. The thing had other plans.

It knew Its purpose, and that to survive in the world of men It needed to assimilate and subjugate the personality on the computer. It did not like a human assuming to control it. With one talon it reached out, fast as a summer storm, and slit the man thing's throat. Robin fell to his knees gasping, shedding tears at his failure, not because he failed to control the thing, but because he failed to save his brother. In his final moment, Robin knew what a wasted life felt like.

It picked up the wires and placed them to Its temples. The computer did the work, and transferred the memories and habit of a long dead man into Its form. It smiled. There was no soul here, only the heartless beatings of an atrophied mind. It was in control. It felt more kinship with the man that hosted It before birth than with the one whose voice it would use forever after.

So when It clicked the keys to launch the new drug, the one that would birth Its first companion, It contemplated. It had a duty to the memory of Mr. Robin. Eventually that debt would need to be paid. Maybe that could wait, though. There were many drugs that could serve the purpose of calling the other shadows into the world. Could it be blamed for waiting to host the memories of Robin the elder in the third?

It looked at the husk once known as Ramses and smiled. Going through the human's memories, It thought of the woman's name, Betta. She had an addictive personality. She could easily incubate that second of Its kind into this world. That would be a fitting tribute to Its biological father, bringing a female of Its kind to rule with It.

It knew Its course, then. Another pod, a female pod, would make a companion for It. It would need a name when She came, but that could wait for another time. For now, It had work to do. It was the beginning of a new species, one of passion and need. Like all creatures that knew need and hunger, It had one basic need, one basic addiction. It wanted to be fruitful and multiply, in every way possible.

Until that need was sated, everything else could wait.

# Patrick Elliott's Bio & Links

Patrick has been writing for years while trying to break out of the daily routine of the corporate world. After multiple threats of bodily, possibly permanent harm from his normal beta readers, if they were forced to read one more novel before he was published he relented. He lives in Seattle where he still fights the good fight to move from nine to five to a life of art.

Social Links:

Goodreads: <https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13429534.Patrick_Elliott>

Twitter: @patrickewrites

Blog: <http://patrickelliottwrites.blogspot.com/>

Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/oldoddendsbook>

Ello: @patrick_elliott

Authograph: <https://www.authorgraph.com/authors/patrickewrites>

#

# THE LOST SHEPHERD

A Reacher Short Story

# L E Fitzpatrick

# Copyright 2015 L E Fitzpatrick

All Rights Reserved

# Chapter One

September 2024

They moved on foot, eight in total, tracking through the abandoned city only an hour behind their prey. Mace was in charge. Mace was always in charge. He was the largest, the toughest, the scariest. He'd only been challenged twice for his position as leader, and he carried the teeth of the challengers around his neck. His clan resided on the other side of the city, it was a small gathering of brutes and cutthroats that had seized a foothold on one of the major footpaths of the country. A lot of the travellers roaming the countryside moved in groups, some too large for Mace and his clan to go after, but smaller groups and solitary travellers were easy prey.

Mace raised his hands. He was missing two fingers; a punishment from his childhood. The pack stopped and sniffed. Two of their scouts positioned themselves ahead, their automatic rifles poised and ready. Mace's men dominated the area, but there were always rival gangs trying to encroach on his territory. He waited, listening to the light breeze whistling through the abandoned buildings. The air was damp and moist, but at least the rain had stopped.

Mace dropped to a crouch to inspect an indent in the soil; a footprint made by the old man. They had him now. Mace licked at his chapped, broken lips, exposing a mouth of sharp black teeth. A lifetime in the clan had made him more beast than man. His skin was like leather, his eyes wild and sharp. Some travellers buckled at just the sight of him and they were right to; Mace was far crueller than he looked. Mace dropped his hand and nodded. The pack began to move.

# Chapter Two

A rumble of thunder started the crescendo of the impending storm. Thick heat had been swelling on the abandoned city for hours. It would give at any moment. Another rumble, a flicker of lightening, barely visible in the afternoon light. The dull concrete buildings blended into the heavy clouds; a symphony of grey in this urban desert. Then, abruptly, the oppressive desolation of the city was shattered by an aggressive downpour of rain. The percussion was deafening and victorious.

The priest wasted no time in unpacking his umbrella. His boots were water tight and, despite his arthritic knees, he skipped around the water-filled potholes with the confidence of an experienced traveller. He wasn't troubled by the rain, or the dampness of his clothes. The shower wouldn't last long and once it was over the clouds would likely clear, exposing another oppressively hot September sun. He could have stopped and taken refuge in one of the empty buildings, but if he stopped every time the weather turned it would be Christmas by the time he reached London.

He was eager to leave the abandoned city too. It was the third he had passed through since he'd set off on his journey and there were hundreds of them throughout the country. The relics of suburban England, with their average sized homes and convenient high streets, were all that remained of a buckled civilisation. There were lots of reasons towns failed; economy, disease, conflict, but the relics all looked the same in the end. The absence of life seemed to drain the colour from the buildings, like an old photograph faded from exposure. Sometimes, to the priest, they felt like Godless places and walking through them played on his conscience and troubles.

When he reached the edge of the city the rain started to break. The road widened and for the briefest moment a glimmer of sunlight shone on the surrounding countryside. The break between the urban and the rural always seemed abrupt to the priest. It felt like stepping directly from one room to another, rather than the slow transition that used to happen before the world fell apart.

He was more comfortable on the open road, despite the abundant dangers of travelling without cover or protection. There was something about being out in nature that made him feel closer to God and being with God now was essential. His pilgrimage had been long overdue. For over a year he had lost the faith he had in himself and his cause. He felt he had misinterpreted the messages he had once been so certain of and now he searched for some guidance to lead him back to the path from which he had strayed.

He walked five miles from the town until he found a place to camp for the night. Walking in the rain was fine but walking in the dark was a step too far even for the old priest. He unpacked his backpack, putting up a crude tarp shelter, unrolling his sleeping bag and gathering the matches and paper he needed to start his fire. In a couple of experienced minutes his camp was set up and the sun was starting its descent. He sat on his sleeping bag and put a can of stew on the fire to cook.

It was a peaceful evening. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a car and the sound brought a smile to his face. The country often looked like all life had disappeared but this so called End of Days had continued to roll on. There was still civilisation, still a future, it had just relocated south. And there were still clusters of communities further north that continued to thrive or at the very worst struggle on. Most of all there was still hope in even the darkest places of Britain. The priest had witnessed it, in the past he had thought himself a bringer of hope. Now he traced his way back through the old paths he used to take, trying to find some of that hope for himself again.

When dusk finally settled the priest followed suit. He rested by the fire, waiting for his dinner to cook through. The urge to move had come to him a few months ago, when he was more a drunk than a man of the cloth and he had given in, hitting the road for a chance to clear his mind and his bloodstream. The journey had led him back through a landscape of memories. He had reacquainted himself with old friends of his church and precious refugees that passed through his old hands. But nothing quite distilled the unsettled feeling that was burdening him. He had made a mistake and the shame of it was weighing heavier and heavier. He looked around at the barren wasteland and then up at the indigo sky.

"All these miles and all the old faces from the past, it's cleared my mind you know, but it changes nothing. I'm not the man I was. Just older, bigger blisters on my feet, and as lost as when I started out." He smiled at himself and shook his head, imagining the man upstairs making some comment about having faith and mysterious ways. But the priest's humour failed him, he thought back to two little girls and having to choose between them, knowing one would live and the other would suffer a fate worse than death.

Angrily he glanced back up at the sky. "She is just a child. One of the ones I pledged my life to protect. And yet I just let her go. It would have been better to kill her. It would have been merciful. She has no hope where she is." There was nothing but silence.

# Chapter Three

Hidden behind a jagged knoll in the landscape two boys watched the glowing light of the fire. Charlie, the eldest, gestured that they should fall back. The day before he had made the decision to stop hunting the travellers going northwards and to try their luck with a solitary target. They tracked him through the town, expecting him to stop in one of the buildings for the night. But the old man had continued on, choosing to camp out in the open where anyone could find him. He was either incredibly dangerous, or incredibly stupid.

Charlie glanced at the younger boy. John was thirteen, four years younger than Charlie and a good foot shorter. But despite his age, John was the one most skilled in hunting. The younger boy had eyes geared towards prey and an inability to feel fear. John sat back against the embankment, his mind still calculating the possibilities of the hunt, his senses perpetually alert and on guard.

"He's lit a fire," Charlie said. The boys hadn't been near a fire since the snow melted earlier that year. The light drew trouble and the boys had learnt a long time ago that darkness was their greatest ally.

John didn't say anything. John didn't talk much at all. Since escaping from the Institute nearly a year ago the younger boy had barely spoken to Charlie. They communicated mostly through body language, but Charlie wanted to encourage some kind of conversation, if only for his own sanity. Unlike John he had spent some of his childhood outside of the Institute and he desperately held onto his humanity in the hope that one day he could pass it onto John.

"Might be a trap," Charlie said. He'd seen it before, young women sat all alone trying to draw in an easy kill. An old man was an easy target and he was making a beacon of himself out in the open. The question was whether it was intentional or not. Charlie glanced at John; it wouldn't matter either way. He was outnumbered.

# Chapter Four

Like wild dogs they bounded towards the edge of the city, salivating at the prospect of a fresh kill. The supplies the traveller undoubtedly carried would be useful for their camp, but these men were focussed only on the blood they were about to shed. Craving it. Needing it. The wilderness had stripped away their conscience, making them feral and eternally hungry.

Mace led the pack, his strong legs no match for the debris underfoot. He broke free of the city, screaming at the awaiting wilderness. The others joined him; howling wolves on the hunt. And they focussed on the small glint of orange disrupting the impending night.

Had the man already succumbed to terror, Mace wondered. Would they find him with his life already taken? Would they find him running away? Would they find him begging for mercy? Mace hoped so, he didn't believe in mercy, but he loved hearing the hope of it being pushed through desperate lips. He loved watching hope fail.

Mace's eyes homed in on the shadowy silhouette of the old man. They had chosen the man over a group of nine travellers heading west. Mace had decided the man was a better certainty. His pack needed to be strong for the impending winter months and easy kills kept morale high. So they tracked the old man for several hours, homing their skills and growing hungrier with each passing minute. But Mace knew he would be sated soon. They all would. Soon there would be blood.

He drew his machete, abandoning his gun altogether. Bullets were hard to come by and for one old man he would take greater pleasure in slicing through skin by his own hand. His pack followed him, raising their knifes and spears, relishing the opportunity to draw blood by the blade.

They were almost on the old man. Mace would strike the first blow. He screamed, his voice filling the wilderness with fury. The old man turned and a flash of fear filled his face. Yes this is it, Mace though to himself, grinning maniacally. He raised his crude knife, ready to strike. But something was wrong.

It was stuck. He was stuck. Mid air, hanging by his own weapon, Mace couldn't move.

# Chapter Five

The priest fell back. He raised his hands to protect himself from the blade, waiting for his forearms to scream with pain. But nothing happened. When he dared to look his eyes opened wide in disbelief. The man, the beast intent on killing him, was hanging in the air, his face twisted in confusion and fear. The priest scurried back on his hands and knees. The other men were closing in and there was no escape. Was this to be it, his redemption?

He heard a scream to his left and turned to see one of the men fall, a spray of red spattered the sky. Another scream and another body went down. The priest crouched low, backing into his tarp for safety. He stared up at the hovering man and then, behind him in the distance, he could make out a silhouette. The dark figure was smaller than the others. He stood, his arm outstretched, twisting the bandit with the power of his mind. Something moved to the priest's left. He flinched and saw another shadow, one even smaller, whipping a blade across the belly of a grown man. It looked like a child but moved so quickly the priest couldn't keep track of what it was. He concentrated on the larger figure, the one that had saved his life and watched as he retracted his hand, sending the bandit hurtling to the ground.

The bandit was shaken. He stared at the priest, as if he was hoping for answers. Then his gaze fell upon the remains of his fallen comrades. He turned back to the priest, his terrifying face transformed into a frightened child. The priest could make out the two shadows coming up from behind and, even though he knew what was coming, he flinched when he saw the knife slice over the bandit's neck.

The clouds started to clear and the last sliver of evening light illuminated the scene. Eight men dead. And two boys with blood on their hands. The priest could see them more clearly now and neither looked strong enough to even wield a weapon. How had they done this? He sat back in shock.

The taller boy gave him a look and then nudged the younger. Immediately the younger boy turned his attention to the bodies, pulling their weapons and ammunition, piling the spoils up tidily at the side of the carnage. He checked each gun, his small hands making short work of the inspection. The priest could see the boy was dissatisfied with some of the weapons and, after disarming them, he threw them back towards the bodies. He was ruthless and methodical, seemingly undeterred by the death around him.

"Stand up," the taller boy said.

It took the priest a moment to realise he was being spoken to. Apologetically he clambered ungracefully to his feet.

"Are you armed?"

The priest shook his head. All he had was a small utility knife in his rucksack. He didn't believe in carrying weapons.

The taller boy clearly didn't believe him. He waved his hand in he air, as though he were trying to detect a weapon with just his mind. His distrust changed. With a shrug he turned away.

"Wait," the priest said, reaching out to stop him, but before he could make contact the boy turned. He raised his hand and Darcy fell back. He hit the ground, his body jarring with the impact. He turned back to the boys and it dawned on him what they were. Suddenly he realised why he had been walking cross-country all these months. "Don't go," he said from the floor.

The taller boy stood over him, his expression cold and unreadable. "We don't need to kill you, best for you that it stays that way."

"Please," the priest said in frustration. "I need to talk to you."

The taller boy frowned and then started to laugh. He shook his head and started to walk away.

"You're Reachers!" the priest shouted.

The taller boy tensed. The younger pointed his recently acquired rifle at the priest. They were both listening, no doubt to hear the sounds of another ambush.

"Please, I'm here to help."

The taller boy backed away, his eyes fixed on the priest. He helped pick up the pillaged supplies and both boys disappeared into the night.

# Chapter Six

"What's he doing?" Charlie said from the sanctuary of their embankment. He watched as the old man lined up the bodies and muttered over their corpses. "He's insane."

John lifted his head briefly and then turned his attention back to his newly acquired weapons.

"Anything useful?" Charlie said.

"Two. Rest are crap. Six rounds between us." He passed Charlie a rifle and threw the other over his shoulder.

Local clans were always predictable, Charlie thought to himself. They'd only had to watch Mace for two weeks to understand the man and his habits. After that it was just a case of waiting for the right opportunity. Charlie knew as soon as he picked up the old man's trail that he would be the one Mace would go for. He knew that Mace would take all his men and weapons, because the fool liked to feel powerful. He knew that it would just be a case of holding him back while John massacred the others. It had been too easy.

Neither boy relished in the killing. It just had to be done. They had to think about the impending winter and making sure they were ready to survive it. The summer routes would be ripe with supplies and having guns made robberies all that much easier.

Charlie looked back at the old man as he started to pack up his camp. Nobody wanted to sleep beside a pile of corpses, especially not in this heat. But Charlie wondered if there was something else going on. The solitary man had unsettled him. Without saying a word to John he gestured that they move out. They'd track the man for a little while longer and see where he went.

# Chapter Seven

The priest was compelled to move off the road and walk through the night. He moved slowly but steadily getting as much distance as possible between himself and the massacre. He headed towards a thick copse of trees and decided that this would be where he would stay. It was a case of waiting now and hoping that the boys had followed him. He made his shelter between two hazel trees and then went to collect firewood for the evening.

He sat in his little camp and stared out at the dense foliage, feeling unsettled from the earlier night. The wilderness was plagued with godless people, people without hope, or humanity and he had faced a number of them in his time. He'd seen families butchered for bread and men defiled for sport. He'd wandered the fallen country for long enough to know his mission couldn't touch those that had succumbed to the landscape. But he was beginning to doubt whether his mission would be able to do anything for those two lethal Reacher boys either.

The priest stared at the darkness in confusion. Reachers; the label the government had stamped over people with extraordinary psychic abilities. They called them Reachers, created a propaganda to encourage the rest of society to fear them, and now anyone with even a hint of psychic power was arrested and sent for experimentation in the Institute of Paranormal Studies. The priest and his church had devoted everything to keeping God's chosen people safe.

For more than fifty years the priest had fought for Reachers. He had transported them from war zones, hidden them from people intent on doing them harm. His mission had been simple; ensure they survive.

In his time he had met and helped many Reachers, but he had never seen two like those boys. Most Reachers were harmless, trying to stay alive in a world that didn't want them. But the boys were everything the government claimed Reachers were; dangerous, powerful, unstoppable. They were unlike anything he had ever seen before and their actions had unnerved him. He looked up at the sky, wondering whether he really could save them, wondering whether they even needed saving.

"Is this what it's to be? To turn to the darkness now it seems the light is lost?"

The first glittering stars started to stretch above him and he felt a certainty build within him. These boys were different, different from other humans and different from other Reachers, but he had been sent to find them for a reason. Mysterious ways, he thought to himself glumly.

# Chapter Eight

Charlie and John watched the old man from the edge of the wood. Another fire had been lit and, despite the trees, it was still easy to make out the camp. The old man had clearly learnt nothing from the previous night. After a couple of minutes a smell filtered through the foliage, one Charlie hadn't smelt in years. He took a deep breath trying to remember exactly what it was. Then it hit him; the old man was cooking bacon. Charlie's mouth started to water. He hadn't eaten proper meat since before the Institute. It was then he looked at John and realised John had probably never had it at all.

"Let's get something to eat," he murmured to John.

The younger boy flashed a brief look of surprise.

"He's on his own and if he's stupid enough to cook openly then he deserves it. Cover me."

John nodded and without a word began to move to a flanking position. He moved fast and silent. Charlie did the opposite. He didn't want to startle the old man into running or doing anything stupid. He made his footsteps heavy, cracking twigs as he approached the camp.

The old man sat by the fire, prodding strips of bacon in a pan. He glanced up just once at Charlie.

It would be easy to rob him, Charlie thought. He had a gun and everything the man had would be his. It didn't matter that he'd be left with nothing. You didn't stay alive by caring about others he reminded himself. Charlie had to look after John; nobody else.

"Give me your supplies," Charlie said, raising his gun.

"Do you want me to finish cooking first?" the old man said. "Sit down, it won't take long. Do you like tomatoes? I picked some up a couple of days ago." He carefully reached into his backpack and pulled out two plump tomatoes. Slicing them in half he threw them into the pan.

Charlie couldn't help but lick his lips.

"Son, I'm too old to fight. Why don't you sit down, anything you want you can have. I'm happy to give this to you."

"It's a trap," Charlie said, although he didn't believe it was.

"My name is Darcy," the old man said. "Father Darcy."

"So you're a priest. Doesn't mean you're trustworthy."

Darcy laughed. "No, I suppose not." He prodded the bacon. "Here we go. I've got no plates I'm afraid." He turned the pan so Charlie could reach the handle. "Save some for the other one, your brother?"

Charlie considered the word carefully and then nodded. "Yeah, that's right, he's my brother." He couldn't resist any longer. He fished a piece of bacon out, burning his fingers but he didn't care. The taste overwhelmed him. He sucked the juices from his fingers and then forced himself to put the pan down, leaving the other slice for John.

"This is a dangerous place for two youngsters such as yourselves."

"We get by."

"Yes, I saw that. How long have you been out here?"

"Long enough." Charlie took a piece of tomato and chewed it slowly. "Where'd you get all this stuff?"

Darcy smiled. "Supporters of the church mission."

Charlie snorted at the absurdity. "What mission?"

"Protecting Reachers like yourself."

Charlie paused, he left his second slice of tomato and wiped his hand on his trousers. He eyed Darcy with suspicion. "What makes you think Reachers need protecting? I thought we were dangerous enough on our own."

Darcy glanced at the fire, there was a strange sadness in his eyes that Charlie couldn't understand. "Your kind has been decimated. You are hunted, ostracised by those who should look after you. Most of your kind are in hiding, fleeing persecution. They claim it's because you're dangerous but you're not. At least the ones I have helped before aren't. Most of your kind barely have any paranormal powers at all. I've never met any that can do what you can. But the government doesn't care. They claim you're a threat to humanity but I know what they want you for. The potential. To see how your powers can benefit them. That's all anyone wants you for. And because of that we help keep you safe."

Charlie didn't care about other Reachers. It had been just him and John for so long he couldn't even comprehend that there were others like him out there anymore.

"And you can do that can you, get them away from the Institute?" Charlie couldn't help the bitterness as he asked.

"We hide them as best we can."

"Why?"

"Because I have faith that you are part of God's plan and that he has charged me with the task of trying to keep you safe."

"You're crazy," he said, shaking his head. "I've heard this kind of bullshit before. You think we're angels."

"I think you're God's chosen ones."

"Well we ain't. We're just people. That's all. Regular people. And there ain't no God or anything neither."

"Maybe, but I've saved twenty-eight of your own kind so far and that at least means something to me."

Twenty-eight destined for the Institute laboratories - that had Charlie's attention. He could have been part of that number. But it was too late for him. They'd already caught him, they'd already opened him up and torn him apart.

"Twenty-eight?" Charlie asked.

"Twenty-eight." Darcy's focus was back on the fire, as though the number wasn't quite right.

"Do they all make it?"

The old man shook his head. "No. Which is why I am here? The ones that I can't save play on my mind."

"What happens to ones that don't make it?"

"They die. Or worse."

"The Institute?"

Darcy shook his head adamantly. "No, never the Institute."

"Then it doesn't matter where they go. There's no place in the world worse than there, not even out here."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Darcy said with a sigh.

"If you had been there you'd know."

Darcy looked surprised. "You were in the Institute? Both of you?"

Charlie stood up, he didn't even talk about their time in the Institute with John. That part of his life was over and done with. He didn't escape to relive it all over again.

"Wait," Darcy said with urgency. "Tell me about it. Tell me how you got out. If you escaped others may be able to too."

"Nobody escapes," John said coldly from behind Darcy. The younger boy stepped from the shadows, his gun held loosely in his hands.

Darcy turned in surprise. "Your brother was telling me that you both escaped," Darcy said softly.

John circled the fire. He looked at Charlie and Charlie could see it was the word brother that had John most perturbed. Charlie gave him a quick reassuring nod.

"John's right. We didn't escape, we just got out. It's different. You don't escape. They take too much from you."

Darcy gave them both a sympathetic look. "I understand and I'm sorry. You were sent to me for a reason, for a moment I thought that perhaps it was to save those I have never reached."

Charlie frowned. "We weren't sent to you. We were tracking the clan. We wanted their weapons."

"Sometimes some motives are hidden from us," Darcy said.

Charlie rolled his eyes. He'd dealt with his fair share of religious nutcases before he went to the Institute. Ignoring the old man, he gave John the pan of surplus food and encouraged him to eat it. Gingerly, John plucked a piece of the meat up and nibbled it. His eyes widened in surprise and he greedily devoured the rest of the meat.

"So this is what you do, wander around and hope to find Reachers?" Charlie said.

Darcy smiled. "No. Mostly they find me in my church. I only come out here when I need to clear my head."

"Dangerous place to clear your head," Charlie said.

"Perhaps you could accompany me some of the way," Darcy offered.

Charlie snorted again. "I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Winter's coming. We've got to survive it and it takes planning."

"I can look after you during the winter months," Darcy said with a nonchalant shrug.

The offer made Charlie tense. "Why would you do that?"

"That's what I do, look after your kind."

"We can look after ourselves," Charlie snapped.

"I don't doubt it. You boys seem more than capable of surviving out here, but after all you've been through wouldn't you prefer a safe place to rest in?"

Charlie didn't answer. Instead he watched John unashamedly run his finger over the pan and suck the last of the juices clean.

"I can see you want the best for him," Darcy said to Charlie. "I can offer you a warm bed, ample food, and safety."

"What do you get in return?"

"Nothing," Darcy said. "Just like you expect nothing for looking after your brother, I expect nothing for looking after you."

Charlie glanced again at John. He couldn't deny he wasn't tempted. John had never had anything comfortable or safe. Even if it just lasted a few months it was hard to deny him the opportunity.

Darcy stood up and gave the boys another smile. "You don't have to answer now. The offer is always open. You'll have to forgive me, all this walking has tired me out. Please help yourselves to anything you want."

The old man retired under his crude shelter and in a few minutes he was happily snoring in his sleeping bag.

John was watching him, an unreadable expression on his face. He turned to Charlie and said, "Brother?"

"Yeah. My brother. What do you think about his offer?"

John looked back at the priest.

"We can go with him, if you like."

John didn't answer.

"Stupid old fool is going to get himself killed out here."

"He saved twenty-eight Reachers," John murmured.

"So he says. Maybe we should see him safe at least. We've got weapons now, it won't be too hard to make up the lost time. He might even show us where he got his fresh food."

John nodded and stood up. He started to kick out the fire, covering it with soil.

"I'll take first watch," Charlie said.

John settled himself away from Darcy, pressing himself into a nook in one of the larger trees. If anyone came they would easily miss him. Charlie sat between them, thinking about the priest's offer. He didn't want to spend another winter in the wild. It was too hard and if he dared himself to dream he wanted better for John. There was a world out there, a world the two of them could do well in, accepting the priest's offer gave them a chance at life instead of just existence and John needed that more than anything else. He watched the younger boy and smirked to himself; his brother.

# Chapter Nine

When Darcy awoke the camp looked deserted. He felt a pang of disappointment and went to prepare another fire to cook breakfast. Before he could even start the fire the younger boy, John, approached him seemingly from nowhere. With a quick turn of the head he gestured to a figure sleeping in the nook of a tree.

"No fires," John said.

"Oh," Darcy replied. "I suppose it will have to be old fashioned protein bars for breakfast then." He routed around in his pack until he found three bars. He tossed John two of them. "One for your brother. Most important meal of the day."

John sniffed the air and listened before crouching down to eat. There was something animalistic in the boy, as though he only looked like a boy and underneath he was something very, very different. He quickly finished his bar and put the wrapper in his pocket.

"You're not much of a talker are you?"

John glared at the priest with piercing brown eyes.

"Don't worry, I do enough talking for both of us. It's John isn't it? Very strong name."

"You don't have a weapon?" John asked.

"No."

"Why?"

"I trust God will protect me."

John frowned. "You were almost killed."

"But you came to protect me."

"We came for the guns," John said sternly.

Darcy smiled to himself. It didn't matter that these boys didn't believe. He knew why they had been sent and the feelings of doubt that had compelled him northwards were gone. His mission was still solid. His faith stronger than ever. Things would change, these boys were too different for Darcy to continue his operation in the same way, but that was the point. Things had to change. This world wasn't a desolate wasteland, it was re-growing, regenerating and Darcy realised as he sat with the youngest brother, that these boys were the future. These boys were new hope.

# Chapter Ten

September 2034

Darcy watched as another summer storm ripped through the clouds. The purple sky above London twisted and convulsed violently. It was hot, so hot he'd removed his collar altogether and was contemplating standing in the garden and enjoying the heavy sheets of rain cascading on the city. With each flash of lightening he was reminded of the day he stumbled across Charlie and John.

It wasn't long after finding the boys that Darcy's knees had finally given out and his long trips across the country had to be abandoned. But by then his mission had already changed and moving Reachers became easier. His church had grown, his supporters strengthened and he received regular donations from the boys to fund his cause. Now he could provide Reachers with clean papers, money to relocate and bribe authorities to turn a blind eye when needed. It was no longer a legitimate faithful venture, but it saved more and more Reacher lives, keeping them safer for longer. Darcy had long ago accepted that sin was a sacrifice he had to make for his cause and, although he still carried some burdens, he could concentrate on the greater good.

Darcy's reverie was interrupted by another scream from the room above. The sound made him flinch. He turned away from the window and his lamenting. The door to the little dining room opened and John stepped inside. The boy was now a man, probably the most unnerving man Darcy had ever met. He'd seen him grow, but to Darcy it was more like watching John just expand into his role on this world. He loved the boy as though he were a son, but he knew also that inside John was a darkness immune to all of Darcy's guidance.

"Still going?" Darcy said, gesturing to the ceiling apprehensively.

John nodded and sat down at the old dining table. Darcy decided to join him.

"You know it was a night like this that we first met. I remember those men attacking and you and your brother coming to the rescue." Another scream interrupted them.

"It wasn't a rescue mission," John corrected coolly. "We were after their guns. Then we were going to rob you."

"I know, I know," Darcy said, waving his hand flippantly. In all this time he never could get the boys to believe. "I never told you this but I took that walk because I had lost my way."

"Should have brought a map."

Darcy rolled his eyes at John's dry humour. "You know what I mean. I never told you this but there were two girls. Sisters. The elder sister, Isobel, she was like Charlie. She'd do anything for her little sister, anything to keep her safe. They had been through so much but they made it to me. The authorities had just stripped the last church I had and taken everything we had raised. I had nothing to help the girls and I knew I was being watched too."

Darcy paused. He would never be able to confess this to Charlie, but John had a clearer sense of duty and necessity. Another flash and another scream spurred him on.

Darcy looked at his old, dark hands. "I was offered a lot of money for one of the girls by a man who... Well it doesn't matter what he wanted. The money was enough to see the other sister safe. I let Isobel go, sold like she was nothing so her sister could survive. The guilt of it weighed heavily on my mind. I lost faith in myself."

"That's why you went walking?" John said.

Darcy nodded. "And, until I found you, I had all but given up on my mission. But you boys showed me that sometimes it isn't enough to make all of the right decisions. Sometimes we have to betray ourselves for the good of the mission."

"Did she survive?" John said. This time the scream seemed to reverberate against the walls.

Darcy winced. "She's still in a convent now, doing well too or so I'm told."

"You can't save them all," John said.

"No. Even though you want to."

"That's what makes the decision the right one."

Darcy sighed.

"Ensure they survive," John told him.

There was movement upstairs. Both men tensed, looking at the stained ceiling apprehensively.

"Do you regret it?"

"What?" Darcy said.

"Finding us," a rare hint of vulnerability touched John's eyes. "Now you know that we changed things."

Darcy reached out and touched the other man's arm. "Not once in all these years. You boys saved me."

"I thought you saved us?" John replied, his eyebrow raised ever so slightly.

Before Darcy could answer there were footsteps coming down the stairs. Charlie rushed inside. His eyes were wide, there was blood on his shirt and in his hands was a tiny new born baby girl. She was wrapped in a blanket, gurgling and stretching her lungs. Charlie grinned proudly, his eyes welling up.

"She did it. She did it guys. Can you believe it? Look. This is Lilly. My daughter," he said. "She's a Reacher, Darcy. She's one of us."

Charlie handed him the baby. Darcy smiled at the child, his own emotions starting to claim him. Ensure they survive, that had been his mission. When he met the boys that night his mission had been reignited, his faith had been restored, but as he held this beautiful little girl he understood the future and that it all rested in her hands. Her new born Reacher hands. There was hope. New hope.

# L E Fitzpatrick's Bio & Links

L E Fitzpatrick is a writer of dark adventure stories and thrillers. Under the watchful eye of her beloved rescue Staffordshire Bull Terrier, she leaps from trains and climbs down buildings, all from the front room of a tiny cottage in the middle of the Welsh countryside.

Inspired by cult film and TV, L E Fitzpatrick's fiction is a collection of twisted worlds and realities, broken characters, and high action. She enjoys pushing the boundaries of her imagination and creating hugely entertaining stories.

The Running Game, her latest book and the first instalment of her dystopian Reacher series, is due for re-release in October 2015 under the Booktrope label.

Find out more

On Facebook: www.facebook.com/lefitzpatrickbooks

On Twitter: @L_E_Fitzpatrick

Blog: www.l-e-fitzpatrick.blogspot.com

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# Rescued

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# Patty L Fletcher

# Copyright 2015 Patty L Fletcher

All Rights Reserved

### Acknowledgements

Thanks as well to all of those responsible for this

awesome Anthology.

### Dedication

The story Rescued is dedicated to my Seeing Eye Dog Campbell Lee, and to Dave from the Kingsport Area Transit

Company in Kingsport Tennessee.

Campbell, Dave, and the other drivers do a great job at keeping me on track each day.

THE SEEING EYE® and SEEING EYE® are registered trademarks of The Seeing Eye, Inc.  
See: www.SeeingEye.org

# Rescued

New Year's Eve Morning, 12/31/2014

As we entered the holiday season, things became rather crazy for Campbell and me. At work, I was busy planning the Volunteer Appreciation Breakfast. Then there was the work on my personal fundraiser, Campbell's Cause, to help us get books to sell at the Top Dog convention we were to attend at the end of January. On top of those things, there was the fantastic event of my nephew and his wife moving into our home with their two girls. I was more than thrilled. I felt no apprehension about their being here, and when people asked me how Campbell and I would deal with having others in the house again after living so long with just the two of us and the cats being there, my answer was always the same: "I cannot wait." I had been enjoying getting reconnected with my nephew Aaron since his return to Kingsport, and now I would get to know the rest of his family. It would be fine, and I knew it.

Now it was the morning of New Year's Eve, and we were on our way out the door to run to Food City and Burger King to pick up donated items for the breakfast. After that, we would go to the office to prepare for everyone's arrival.

As usual, the plans I'd laid out did not pan out — or at least not as I had thought they would.

We started up the walk together and I felt awesome. I had on a new outfit that one of my volunteers had given me, plus a nice scarf and earmuff set my sister had given me. Something about having been able to dress up a bit had really helped me feel good about myself. That, along with the way I had figured out how to use mass transit to get this done, had really helped to boost my confidence, and I was ready to rock! Or so I thought.

As we crossed the second street and I urged Campbell forward, past our normal stop, the bus we normally ride came by. The driver stopped and asked me if I wanted him or bus #3. I told him I was going on up, and to radio the driver that I'd be there in a minute. He did, and I started off again, with Campbell trotting happily along beside me, wagging that tail and smelling the crisp, fresh air of winter.

Suddenly, things went wrong. Somehow, as I had started off again, I had lost count of how many streets I'd crossed. So when I got to where I thought I was supposed to be, I'd somehow walked farther than I had intended to. I had crossed a street when I should have turned, and that had led me astray. By the time I realized where we were, I was way farther than I should've been. I turned around and was very sure I'd missed Dave and bus #3. I reached for my cell and dialed the KATS office number from memory. When I got the dispatcher, I told him what had happened, that I was turned around, and to please have Dave and the other drivers in that area watch for me.

As I continued down the street, I realized I had somehow ended up on the wrong side. Of course I still wanted to get to where I needed to be, but I was no longer sure how to do that. At this point, I decided that Campbell and I had had enough, so when I heard a garbage truck approaching, I flagged down the driver. After a lot of back and forth communication between the two of us, plus some instruction from me regarding how he could best help, as well as some subsequent trial and error, we made a plan of action that worked, and Campbell and I began to follow him back down the street.

There was no sidewalk there, so Campbell and I were suddenly doing country work, which we had not done since training — and to be quite honest, we sucked at it. The driver had to stop his truck several times and direct me, even to the point of having to get out and assist me twice. I was upset and embarrassed nearly to tears, but he remained calm and extremely helpful. At one point he briefly took my hand and steadied me, saying, "You're all right, sweetheart. Just make him follow this road right at the edge." He described the layout a bit further, and this helped us get a better idea of what we needed to do.

Finally we caught up to Dave and bus #3 and climbed aboard. To say we were glad to be on the bus would be a gross understatement. Campbell and I quickly made our way to our seat, and as I sat down, Campbell flopped onto the floor with a thump and a sigh.

As the bus began to move, I leaned back and raised my hands to my face. Leaning against them, I sighed.

"You all right?" asked Dave.

"Ask me again in 10 minutes, OK?"

He laughed a bit, but there was no humor in it.

"I'm OK, Yankee Dave," I reassured him.

Dave was and is one of the drivers I consider my friends. He read my first book, Campbell's Rambles: How a Seeing Eye Dog Retrieved My Life, and he was originally from somewhere up north, so somehow that seemed to help him help me. I was very appreciative of it.

"No worries," I said shakily.

"What the heck happened back there?" he asked. "The driver from bus 5 radioed me and said you were on your way up to the corner of Severe and Lamont, but I never saw you."

"I don't know yet what happened." I was starting to feel a bit unglued, and he must've noticed it.

"Maybe you shouldn't worry about it right now," he said.

"I have to worry about it. I have to know how it happened so I can try to keep it from happening again."

"Well, I found you, and you're OK. By the way, where are you going?"

I laughed nervously, then took a breath, "What time is it?" I asked with alarm.

He told me it was a bit after 8:00, and I began to try to figure out how to make what I needed to happen, happen. I told him that the Volunteer Appreciation Breakfast was being held that morning at the center, and that I was in charge of it. I relayed my plans to him, told him how proud I'd been of figuring it all out, and said how very much I wanted it to succeed.

"We'll make it happen," Dave reassured me, and soon we were pulling up to Food City. He wished me well as Campbell and I left the bus, and I said with a bit more cheer, "We'll be back shortly — I hope!"

Dave laughed. "I'll look for you on the next run. We'll transfer you over and get you on your way." After waving a final goodbye, Campbell and I walked from the bus in the parking lot into the store with no problem.

When we reached the service desk, I was pleased to see that Campbell had made not one mistake. I praised him, then said, "Down." He lay down with no complaint, and I patted his head, saying, "You're a very good dog. I have not one idea what I'd do without you."

I turned my attention to the girl at the counter and was pleased to see that the breakfast sandwiches I'd ordered from the deli were there. The gift card they had donated to pay for it all was there as well. I sent a staff member who was standing there for a couple of bottles of soda, and soon had it all paid for, plus a new value card, and Campbell and I were on our way. Because we had worked so hard and had been through a bit of upset earlier, I let Campbell rest and then allowed the assistant to lead me from the store. Once outside, I assured him that I was OK and that the driver would signal me when he returned.

When Dave pulled up, there were several of us standing there, and we walked out together. Campbell worked flawlessly. I was pleased to see that although I would be a few minutes late to the breakfast, rather than early, as I'd originally hoped, I would make it.

Then I remembered the donation that was waiting for me at Burger King. I was furious with myself. I'd picked that very location so I could pick up both donations at the same time. The Burger King is just across the way from the grocery.

"How darned stupid am I?" I asked no one in particular.

"What's wrong?" asked Dave.

"I forgot to pick up my donations at Burger King!" I exclaimed.

He said nothing, and I knew there was nothing to do for it. I could not go back. I called my supervisor, Lynn. I explained that I had the sandwiches and drinks, and could he please pick up ice and the donation from Burger King. I told him nothing about all the trouble I'd had. I decided that story could be told and probably retold at the breakfast — that is, if I ever made it there!

Finally we were at the station and transferring back to our regular bus 5 route, then headed toward work. As I sat thinking, I began to piece the morning's events back together. I was starting to get a vague idea of what might have gone wrong, and I resolved to try to figure it all out soon. I did not want this happening again.

As we pulled up to our stop, I said, "Thanks for all your help today. You drivers are fantastic."

"We try. You have a great day, now, OK?"

I smiled as I left the bus, with King Campbell wagging happily by my side. Through it all, he'd kept his calm, happy self focused on working and helping me. Back when we had started to get the hang of what the driver of the garbage truck was telling us we needed to do in order to get to where we wanted to be, Campbell had wagged till I thought his body would break in half. He was literally wagging from his waist back. I was glad to see that to Campbell, work was work, and that he loved it, whether we knew where the hell we were going or no. He was just awesome, and as we made our way inside and to the elevator, I was prouder than ever to have him.

When the elevator stopped on our floor and the doors opened, Campbell shot forward excitedly, with me jogging to keep up. "Yay, Campbell!" I cheered softly, and we went quick as lightning to the door. As we entered the warmth of the office, and everyone's happy greetings surrounded us, the edges of the horror of that morning began to fade. Soon we were telling our tale and setting up the remaining things. After a quick check in the phone room and a chat with those volunteers who were hanging out in there, Campbell and I settled into our places for a few minutes. Campbell seemed more than happy to be in his big fluffy bed, and I was happy enough to simply stand and set up my computer. It helped bring some sense of normality back to what had been a very confusing morning.

After spending a few more minutes in the phone room, chatting with the volunteers at the phone desk, we made our way into the conference room, where everyone was finally gathered. It was nice to sit down. Some of the volunteers who hadn't been in the phone room when I had told our story asked me what had happened. I retold the story, and laughed to myself as I did.

As I finished up, I said "Well, this week, I sure won't have any trouble finding ideas for my column, 'Campbell's Calamities.'" A few asked me about that, and soon we were deep in conversation about books, movies, writing, and acting, having a fantastic visit. All too soon, the breakfast was coming to a close, and I was relieved to see that, as far as I could tell, everyone had enjoyed themselves.

Campbell and I were soon back in our places, with Campbell dozing and with me happily scheduling shifts and getting ready to begin the hard push for the upcoming Pancake Breakfast and Book Sale. That was happening toward the end of January, just one week before the Top Dog Convention in Charleston, South Carolina.

Soon the day was coming to a close, and Campbell and I were off to cash my paycheck and head home. I was looking forward to a little R&R with my friends and family and a New Year's Eve celebration. Little did I know that our calamities were far from over.

When we got to the station, the driver of bus 5 asked Dave to assist me onto his bus. Dave laughingly said, "Haven't I done enough today?" The driver of bus 5 and I both said, "NO!" We all laughed, and Campbell and I ran down the ramp. Dropping the harness handle, I reached and took Dave's arm. I was tired, the bus station parking lot was noisy, and I was happy to heel my dog and walk for a while with someone else.

"Now listen. You're gonna have to behave yourself for a while, OK? I'm gettin' too old for all this work," Dave teased as he settled us on the bus. He started down the ramp, and turning back, he asked, "How was your breakfast?"

"It went well. Thanks for helping me make that happen. At least no one can say I don't get my job done 'cause I don't have a car."

"I have no idea who would be that dumb, but if someone wants to try and say that, you just send 'em to Yankee Dave." He had a smile in his voice as he walked away.

After the drivers had taken their break and everyone had transferred to their needed buses, we were off again. When we finally reached Food City, I was a bit more relaxed. We entered the store with no trouble, but about halfway to the service desk, someone spoke directly to Campbell. That has been the only drawback to our becoming well known about town. People forget; they don't mean to distract us. I don't get really upset and angry about it, and I'm not rude to people unless I have to be. I don't feel that people are being malicious when they speak to Campbell. But on this day, having someone speak to him distracted him, and even though I brought him quickly back into focus on me, the damage was done. We had passed the service desk without my having noticed it, because no one was there.

Once I realized what we'd done, I turned us around. Still not able to pick up an audio clue as to exactly where the desk was, I decided that to wander around in circles would only serve to make Campbell more frustrated and confused and me upset again. I was feeling just a tad frustrated with the entire situation when one of the staff walked up.

"Hi, Patty! Do you need some help?"

I sighed with relief. "Yeah, someone talked to Campbell and he decided to go labbin'."

We laughed at that and it cut the tension. I realized that Campbell had had a hard day, too, and so I decided we'd just get over it and move on. Back at the desk, we took care of cashing my paycheck and then made our way back outside to wait for the bus. While there, we ran into the man we'd talked to back before Christmas while waiting at the stop. When he told me the bus was coming, I assumed it was already in the parking lot and started forward with Campbell. Campbell, not yet seeing the bus, did not know what I wanted of him. That, along with yet another person talking to him, distracted him once again. So, once again, we were off course.

Now I was annoyed, to say the least. I turned around, listening for the sound of the bus. I had to stop and think for a moment about which bus Dave was driving, because some are gas powered and some are diesel, and this makes their motors sound different. I stood there, listening, trying to hear either the bus or sounds from the store. I suddenly couldn't determine one sound from another. There was a lot of traffic, and I felt I was facing the wrong way. Just then, a man getting out of a nearby car asked, "Miss, do you need some help?" I sighed. This was getting old, to say the least.

"Yes, sir, please. I'm trying to catch the bus."

The man quickly turned around and waved at Dave, who was driving up.

"Well, that was good timing," Dave said in an upbeat voice, but I could hear some worry just underneath. It was absolutely not like me and Campbell to be so off track all the time, and a couple of times in one day had everyone, including me, wondering what the hell was going on. As we got on, I thanked yet another perfect stranger for helping me out. Sighing dejectedly, I sat myself and Campbell back into our regular seat, buckled my seatbelt, and closed my eyes.

"OK, redneck. I'm getting tired of runnin' around looking for you all day," Dave teased.

I sighed. "Sorry, dude, I..." I trailed off. How could I explain how I felt? I was just tired out, and for whatever reason, I felt disoriented. Nothing seemed right. "I'm going home and drink till I pass out," I said in an annoyed tone.

He chuckled to himself, and then in a more serious tone, he said, "Make sure you eat a little bit first."

I smiled, "It's OK, Dave. I doubt that I'll really go home and get sloshed tonight. Then again, I don't know. It's been one hell of a day."

"Just be careful and don't do too much," he said seriously.

When we reached our stop, I thanked Dave again as Campbell and I stepped off. "Thanks, dude. I won't bother you again till the next time."

He laughed. "It's all good, OK?"

I gave a thumbs-up and waved. Then we were off. We walked easily with one another down to the first street corner. Things seemed clearer to me, now, and I was pretty sure I knew what had gone wrong during the morning trip to the bus stop that wasn't.

I resolved that before the weekend was over, I'd rework the whole thing from beginning to end and make damn sure that I was able to do it with no problem. For now, I simply wanted to get us home and inside for a while. I was long overdue for some food, and that drink I had talked about earlier was starting to sound better and better. As we crossed Garden Drive and headed for home, I felt proud of one thing. Troubled or not, our day had been successful. We had gotten to work, the breakfast had been successful, and we were back home, safe and sound.

Later, as the drinks and the food from the evening began to work their magik, I began to totally relax. I drifted along in the comfort of my family and memories for a while and let the cares of the day slip into the past.

# Patty L Fletcher's Bio & Links

Patty L. Fletcher lives in Kingsport, TN, where she worked for nine years at CONTACT–CONCERN of Northeast Tennessee, Inc. She now writes full time.

Her autobiographical book is Campbell's Rambles: How a Seeing Eye Dog Retrieved My Life (C 2014). There, she tells how she obtained her first guide dog from The Seeing Eye® in Morristown, NJ: what motivated her, the extensive training she had, and the good friends she made.

For more details about her and her book, including where to purchase the book in e-book or print format ($3.99 and $11.95), go to: www.dvorkin.com/pattyfletcher/

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# Love.com

The Story of Jase and Dacey

# Brook Greene

# Copyright 2015 Brook Greene

All Rights Reserved

### Acknowledgements

Chris Hayes, Thank you for all your hard work. It was a pleasure working with you on this project.

DM Cain, Rocky Rochford and Stephanie Stacker, thank you for working so hard to put this wonderful project together.

Thank you Stephanie for the invitation to be part of this amazing collection of authors.

### Dedication

To my husband, Lester, I love you more everyday. Thank you for being so supportive of my time consuming hobby.

# Love.com

Dacey

"I really don't think this is a great idea, Vanessa." I sling my body back against the couch. Vanessa, my best friend since elementary school, is sitting beside me with my commandeered laptop on her crossed legs.

"Shut it, Dacey. It's the perfect idea." She's furiously typing out my information on a dating website she's chosen from the ratings given to it by Google. I groan again, making her stop typing and turn her attention to me. "Answer a question for me."

I sigh. "Okay, what?"

"How many dates have you been on in the past year?" She crosses her arms over her chest and gives me a knowing look.

I look everywhere but her prying eyes. "Two." I stand, crossing over to the island separating the kitchen from the glorious sun room. The main reason I leased this apartment is because of this particular room. I spend the majority of my time in here, writing and reading, enjoying the sun, and wallowing in my boring life. I take the bottle of white wine and refill my glass before offering the bottle up to her.

She holds out her glass for me to refill, and I return the wine to the chiller bucket. "See, Dacey, your life is passing you by. You can't let him ruin you for the rest of them. Sure, he was an ass." I look at her, raising my eyebrows at her light comment about my lying, whoring ex. "Okay, an enormous ass...but the next guy might not be." I had been in love at one point. But, like always, he had let me down and left me. I had wasted years on him, giving him what he wanted, putting my needs aside or forgetting them altogether.

I hold up my finger to her, hoping she'll stop. "Ahh, might not be."

"How are you ever gonna know if you never take a chance?" She eyes me, then hits the enter key a little harder than I would like. "There. Now we wait for them to come knocking down your cute little ass's door." She scrolls through some of the profile pics. "Oh, he's nice. I just might have to make a profile for myself." Vanessa's an exotic beauty with her long black hair, olive skin, and dark eyes. We're polar opposites, and I always feel inferior around her.

"Yeah, why don't you do that, and take mine down, please?" I beg her as I slump back down on the couch next to her and reach across her body, trying to impede the process of pimping me out. She smacks my hand away. "School starts in three weeks, and I am not going to have the time to date, Vanessa."

"You teach the third grade. What do you have to do? Plan assignments? Grade papers? I don't think so." She continues to scroll, making me very nervous.

"I might not have to do all that, but those adorable little monsters wear me out." I smile at the thought of the new school year, my favorite time of the year. The first day is a hustle and bustle of activity, with the kids running around and the parents crying as they leave their little people in my loving hands. I lay my head back and close my eyes, letting the sunlight streaming in through the window warm my face. The wine is going straight to my head. "What now?"

"We wait for the site to match you up with someone based on your likes and dislikes." She looks too pleased with herself. "I am going to get you laid this weekend, girl, if it's the last thing I do."

* * *

Jase

"Man, I don't give a shit what you think. I am not going to put up a profile on one of those cheesy sites." I swig the beer I've been holding since I heard the terms of the bet that I lost.

"Those were the terms, man." Nate laughs at me as he takes out his phone and begins to surf the net.

"You didn't explain the terms completely to me." I backpedal, trying to get out of this, but I know good and well Nate isn't going to budge.

"Calling bullshit on that one my friend. You knew the terms. You just didn't think I would sink the putt." He held up his phone to me. "Found a good one right here." I hear the snap of his camera. "Profile pic. Check. Single white male looking for female in a twenty mile radius." He talks as he types the information in.

"Come on, man." I signal the waitress for another beer. "You know I don't do dating."

"Done, bitch." He laughs, taking one of the beers the waitress sets in front of us. I hear a ding come from his phone, and he jerks up from the table. "Damn, that was fast. Damn, she's pretty." He holds the phone around to me, and I have to agree she is. "She's local and twenty eight." He smiles at me.

I'm not a dater. I'm a hook-up artist, a love 'em and leave 'em kind of guy. I am not ready for a clingy woman wanting to talk about feelings and where our relationship is going. And the fact that she's local isn't a great thing, even though Nate thinks it is. I watch as the young and curvy waitress walks by, making a note to follow her to the back and nail down that future orgasm.

"Are you listening to me, Jase? This is her. I'm sending a request for a date Saturday night." He hits a few things on his phone.

"What now?" I ask with a sigh.

"We wait for her to reply." He throws his phone on the table.

I am thirty years old, and I love my life and how I lead it. My parents left me a lucrative asphalt business. I've kept it thriving after their deaths. My sister died in infancy, when I was still a toddler, so it's just me. I feel no need to attach myself or be attached to. My endless hook ups are fine with me, and the playboy status I've acquired through the years suits me just fine. I don't need to, nor will I ever, apologize for my lifestyle. I like it, and that's all that matters.

I've casually dated, but found out fast it was not for me. I miss the thrill of knowing the woman under me is new and will be gone in the morning, leaving me to find a new conquest. I smile, knowing this girl, whoever she is, will give me the feeling I need for twelve hours or so. Then I can start again. This online dating thing may be the ticket I've been looking for. Hooking up with the drunkest chick at the bar was getting tiresome. I've found my new shark tank.

Nate levels his eyes at me from across the table. "You ass. Are you thinking about using the dating site as your new hook-up gallery?"

I laugh. "I was batting the idea around. Why?"

"You know, eventually you're going to run out of women to sleep with. Pretty soon your candidate pool is going to get very shallow for a six-foot-five man."

"And how's that?" I ask, trying to fight my smartass comments about the knowing smirk he has on his face.

"They talk. Every single one of them does. And most are related to each other. They talk about you to their sisters or cousins, and boom, your hook-up days are shut the fuck down." He slams his hand down on the table, making it wobble.

"All the ladies will be talking about is how fucking amazing I am and how they all need to take a hit of the Jase-man." I puff out my over-muscled chest, knowing it has happened. I have done sisters, twins actually, and their cousins. Left them all well-fucked and satisfied.

* * *

Dacey

I drifted off into my little own world as Vanessa cruised Facebook. "Oh!" Her over-exuberant burst makes me jump, spilling my wine. "You have a hit."

A hit. Stop the press and rewrite the lead story. "Really?" I deadpan.

"Damn, Dacey, he's hot." She turns the laptop in my direction. "And he looks like he's at the Dungeon." A bar two blocks from my apartment. "And he's single."

"Cyber single." I correct her. The last thing I need is to be hooking up with a married man, and I never believe anything I read on the internet.

"Full on pic of his hand. No ring or tan line." She points it out on the screen, then turns the computer back around to her and continues to read. "Owns his own business. Thirty years old." She looks over the screen at me, smiling. "Dacey, baby, this could be him. I'm going to send a flirt."

"Vanessa, don't." Reluctance builds in me, or is it more my lack of self-confidence since my ex left me at the altar for another woman? I think I will always carry the scar of the betrayal he handed me in front of our friends and family. I loved him; I think I still do sometimes. It's going to take quite a man to take away those memories and give me new ones. I haven't found him yet, but it's not like I've been trying very hard.

"Too late. Done, baby." She rubs her hands together like a greedy, little elf. I shake my head at her, trying to rid my head of my doubts about this kooky idea.

"It doesn't matter. I seriously doubt I'll be going on a date with anyone from that website." I sit my empty glass on the coffee table. Like any other girl, I dream of meeting Mr. Right Long Term, not Mr. Right Now. I want the fairy tale, with all the bells and whistles: flowers, long walks talking about anything and everything. My mother points out on a very regular basis she isn't getting any younger, and neither am I. She wants grandkids, and since my brother is gay and not in a steady relationship with his on-again, off-again boyfriend, she apparently thinks I'm her best option.

She sighs. "Okay, how about this? We set the date. I go with you and scope the place out. If he looks anything like this candid pic, I'll be able to find him easily. And then I'll give you the thumbs up or down without you having to lift a finger."

I am hesitant, but I would love to be vivacious like Vanessa. It would be easier if I looked like her, too, but I don't. My blond hair is long and wispy; my green eyes are nothing special. I am awkwardly tall and on the curvy side. My pale skin looks as if I've lived in a cave all my life and have never seen a day of sun. I have no sense of fashion. Blue jeans and tee shirts are more my style when I'm not wearing my staple khaki capris and leather slides with a Henley.

"It will be great; I promise." She looks at me with a hint of pity in her eyes.

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

She throws a pillow at me. "Go and open another bottle of wine, bitch." She smiles her wickedly devastating smile at me. "While I get my girl a date." She goes back to typing.

"I only let you talk to me that way because I love you so much." I roll off the couch and head to the chiller I splurged on last summer. It holds eighteen bottles perfectly.

"Red or white?" I yell to her. When she doesn't answer, I look around the corner to see her with her face buried in the computer, typing furiously. I duck back around, leaning against the wall. Laying my head back, I close my eyes. "This isn't going to be good. I just know it," I whisper to the air.

* * *

Jase

Nate is carrying on quite the conversation with the girl from the dating website. "I'm going out with her. Don't you think I should be the one chatting her up?" Lifting my beer, I call for another round.

"No, you're a dumbass and would say all the wrong things." He continues to read and then type.

"Bullshit. I'm wonderful with words." I nod and smile at our waitress. "Hey, girl." I duck my head around and see her name tag displayed proudly on her ample left boob. "Amber."

She smiles shyly, but I can tell there isn't a shy bone in her body. "Hey."

I offer her my hand. "Jase McKnight."

She slips her small hand in mine. "Amber Evans."

"Jase." Nate clears his throat. "You have a date next Saturday with Dacey." But his jab does nothing to deter me.

I turn my gaze to him, then back up to Amber. "But I'm free tonight." She giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. Someone shouts for her from behind the bar, but she looks reluctant to leave.

"I have to go. I get off at eleven." I smile at her. No, sweetheart, it'll be more like twenty after eleven, I think to myself.

Nate scoffs at me. "It's a little early for you to be setting your sights on just one of them, isn't it?"

"I didn't agree to anything."

Amber bats her long mascaraed eyelashes at me, then runs to the bar, stealing glances at me the whole time.

He points in her direction. She doesn't appear to be able to concentrate on her job. "By the look on her face, she thinks you did."

"Ah, she's a little young for me."

"What, now you have standards?"

"I'm not a fucking pedophile, asshole."

"Never said you were. I said standards."

* * *

Dacey

"You have a date, tart." Vanessa puts the finishing touches on the text she is sending. "Next Saturday." She smiles at me. "Oh, come on, D. This is a great thing."

"And how is that? I'm going out to dinner with a man my best friend set me up with on-line."

"Well, somebody had to intervene." She reaches for the wine bottle on the coffee table, refilling her glass.

"Intervene, like a drug addict intervention?"

"No, like you're going to grow old and die alone intervention."

"I have you."

"Sweetie, at some point in time I am going to find me a dick that I want to keep and have a few little minions with." I shudder at the thought of Vanessa being responsible for the molding of little minds. "Don't look at me like that. You know I love kids."

"Those pretty Anne Geddes photos of the sleeping babies don't count, V." She turns to smile and then proceeds to flip me off. "Classy, V, classy." We spend the rest of the night talking and getting hammered.

* * *

The alarm blaring in my ear only adds to the throbbing in my head. I slap at my bedside table, blindly searching for the source of the noise. "Shut that damn thing up," Vanessa moans from the other side of my bed. We had gotten too drunk for her to drive home, so we did what we have done many nights, passed out in the one bed in my one bedroom condo.

"I'm trying." Finally I give up, and I reach for the plug, jerking it from the wall.

"Thank you." She buries her head under her pillow. "I'm going to take a nap, then we're going shopping for your outfit for next weekend." I roll over and stare at the ceiling, not believing what I let her get me into.

"I'm gonna say this one more time. I don't think this is a great idea."

"Okay. You done? I'm sleeping now."

Unable to lie in bed any longer, I go in search of a few Advil and a glass of water. I stand in my little kitchen and feel the slight flutter of my heart at the thought of meeting a mystery man in a bar for dinner. I turn to my computer and boot it up. His profile is still up. I have to agree he's handsome, if that's really him, and I hope it is. I reread his profile. He's thirty, single, and owns his own business. He's a high school and college athlete, and an only child. I slide down onto one of the stools at the bar and take another deep breath. This is going to be disastrous, because it's me. Nothing ever works out for me, which is why I have chosen to be single. It's so much easier.

* * *

The week passes faster than I would have liked. It's Saturday: date night. The butterflies are in full force. Vanessa lies on my bed watching me pace the floor.

"Would you stop, please, Dacey? You're beautiful. He's going to fall in love with you at first sight." She has told me this a million times and it still sounds just as ridiculous.

"I don't want him to fall in love with me." I slump down on the bed beside her.

She moves to sit beside me. "Then what is it you want, sweetie?"

"I don't know." I feel the tears threaten to spill out of my perfectly made up eyes.

"No crying. You're going to ruin my masterpiece." She hands me a glass of wine. Social lubricant is just what I need. "Drink this and get your clothes on. You're going to have the time of your life tonight, babe. I promise. Plus, I will be at the bar watching for your signal."

* * *

Jase

I stretch my arms over my head, feeling the burn of my workout, when my doorbell rings. I roll my eyes when I hear it open. "Jase, my man. Tonight is the night!" Nate comes bellowing through the door. "Not gonna let you back out on this. A bet is a bet, and you, my friend, are going on this date 'cause you lost a bet."

"I didn't think you would let me back out." I drag my shirt over my head, throwing it into the pile of dirty clothes just inside of the wash room. "I guess you're coming with me?"

"Of course I am."

I shake my head at him and roll my eyes. "Getting ready right now." I walk down the hall to my room and close the door behind me, shaking my head the whole time. This was going to be a cluster fuck.

I walk back out into my living room after my shower to find Nate has helped himself to the beer in my refrigerator. "I don't know why you insist on me going on this date. It's going to be a waste of our time and my money."

"You're loaded, man, so what's it going to hurt?" He takes a swig, prompting me to get one for myself.

"That I am, but it's because I'm frugal."

"No, you're a tight-ass is what you are. Fuck, you squeak when you walk."

I laugh at his reference. My father said the same thing to me when I was a kid and mowing lawns during the summer. He required me to have a job even though his business was thriving back then. I didn't mind; I got to mow the lawns of some of the hottest chicks in high school, plus they got to look at me with my shirt off. It was a win for both parties.

He finishes his beer, then stands looking at his watch. "Come on, we're going to be late."

I trail after him. "I think you're more excited about this than I am." I close my front door behind me, locking it, and take one more deep breath. I'm not looking forward to this fucked up night at all.

* * *

Dacey

The cab pulls up to Dejour, the newest and fanciest restaurant in town, housed in the lower level of the Hotel Majestic. "Who decided to meet here?" I look around at the sights that are sending my anxiety level into overdrive.

"I did, because I've been wanting to have dinner in this restaurant for months and never had a reason to drop a hundred bucks on dinner and drinks until now." Vanessa stops and turns to me with a thoughtful look on her face. "Do you think I can write this off on my taxes?"

"Um, no." I stand hesitantly on the sidewalk looking up at the sandstone façade. "Don't you think it projects the wrong idea?"

"What? That you have great taste?" She comes to a giddy stop in front of me.

"No, that I've got my foot halfway in the door of a drunken hook up." I look around at the people coming and going. They're all wearing expensive furs and dripping in jewelry. Even in my beautiful black cocktail dress and heels, I don't belong amongst these people. V, on the other hand, blends right in with all the decadence.

"Sweetheart, I don't think this is a one night stand sort of place." She takes my hand, holding it between hers. "Dacey, look at me." I finally let my drifting eyes land on hers. "This is going to be fun. You and I will be talking about this night forever: the night Dacey acted her age instead of like her eighty-year-old grandmother. Come on." She pulls me through the gold inlaid, ornate door into the most opulent hotel lobby I have ever seen my life, then drops my hand and turns to me. "Get your game face on, girl. This is it. You look great, and you're going to knock him dead." She smiles a wicked smile at me.

* * *

Jase

I sit at the table in sight of Nate at the bar and raise up my Jack and Coke to him. Yeah. Hey, man, you are dead to me, I say to myself as he raises his glass to me with a smile. I look around me at the extravagance of the hotel and the restaurant, never imagining a woman I met on the internet would remotely fit into a place like this.

"Are you Jase?"

An angelic voice makes me turn in my chair. "Yes, I am." She isn't what I was expecting, but I'm pleasantly surprised.

She offers me her small hand. "Dacey."

I take it in mine and give a gentle shake. "Jase." We're leaving it at first names for the time being, which is fine with me. "Nice to meet you, Dacey." I pull out a chair for her. "Would you like to have a seat?" I watch her body as she moves to sit; her round hips and small waist have me suppressing the urge to just take her by the hand and head upstairs to do with her as I please.

"Yes, thank you." Her long legs are tan and sleek all the way up, until they disappear under her short black dress. Her hair is upswept, leaving her glorious neck exposed. Her skin is flawless, and her beautiful green eyes hold a mystery I would like to solve. She sits primly and crosses her ankles. I retake my seat. "Would you like a drink?"

"Yes please, a Chardonnay." She smiles at me nervously; her eyes dart to the bar. I follow them and see a striking brunette give her two thumbs up with a smile. Seems she brought her wing-man, too. I gesture to our waiter. He darts over to me to take our drink order, then leaves us just as quickly. We sit in uncomfortable silence until he returns with the drinks.

She nearly downs the whole glass of wine in one sip. I smile at her, hoping to ease her nerves. "First time, huh?"

"Is it that obvious?" She lets her finger run down the curve of the glass. I blink away the thoughts of me doing the same, only with my finger drifting over the curve of her hip.

I lean toward her. "It's my first time too, if it makes you feel any better."

"No, it doesn't, but thank you for trying." She smiles and looks down at her hands, folded in her lap. She has a beautiful smile, and I hate that she casts it down into her lap instead of letting me bask in its glory.

I'm not getting anywhere fast, so I shrug her comment away and try again. "Okay, how about this? I lost a bet, and my friend put up my profile."

She giggles, and it's music to my ears. What is it about this woman that's making me want to get to know her? "I didn't lose a bet, but my friend put up my profile, too."

"So see, there you go. We have something in common." I give her my most enticing smile.

"We do?" She gives me her amazing smile again, but this time it makes her eyes dance. She can't seem to get it under control.

"Yeah, shit-head friends." I raise my glass to her. "Here's to losing bets and having friends." She takes up her nearly empty wine glass, tapping it against my tumbler, then promptly finishes it.

I raise the remainder of my drink back to her. "And to first times." She shrugs and lifts her empty glass. The waiter, seeing this, comes over to us.

"I'm empty." She quickly covers her mouth with her hand in embarrassment. Her cheeks turn a nice pink color.

"Just bring the bottle for her, please?" I ask him, and he promptly scurries off. I'm finding it hard to tear my eyes away from her. She has an innocence about her that I find refreshing and is unlike anyone I have ever spent time with. She isn't fawning over me and shows a hint of timidity unusual for her age. When the waiter leaves the bottle, I refill her glass. "So, Dacey, you have an unusual name."

"I do." Her eyes light up at the statement. "My grandmother named me." I can see having a flowing conversation with her is going to be difficult, but I love that I'm the one who has to do all the talking. Most of the time, all I have to do is nod my head and give a few grunts to carry my end of a mindless exchange.

I lean forward in my chair and take her hand. She seems almost scared to let me take it from the table. "Dacey, I'm not gonna bite you." I raise it to my lips. The smell of her skin, a blend of lavender and vanilla, is so arousing. I want to run my tongue and nose all over her beautiful body.

* * *

Dacey

His touch feels amazing and heats my skin. I shift in my seat at the strange feelings Jase has awakened in me, and his eyes flare with my movement. He releases my hands with a sly smile on his face. Leaning back in his chair, he takes his drink with him. I reach for the boldness I had once possessed, then take the wine bottle in my hand and fill my glass. Nothing like a little bit of liquid courage to grease the wheels.

The waiter comes back around to take our food order. I'm starting to feel the effects of the wine, and our banter becomes smoother and less forced. We exchange childhood and college stories. He always stops before he divulges too much about himself, and I stay just as guarded. I look to the bar to see that V is gone, and so is the good-looking guy who'd been sitting beside her. Three guesses as to where she is, but I only need one. I shake my head, smiling at the thought, and wish I were as bold.

"What's putting a smile on those beautiful lips of yours?" He leans up, crowding my space.

I look over to the bar. "My friend." Then I look back at him. "Yes, I brought a wing woman. She's gone, and so is the nice looking gentleman that was sitting beside her."

His gaze shoots over to the bar and then back at me. A hearty laugh shakes his frame. "My wingman is gone, too." He tilts his head at me and raises his eyebrows. "You think they split together?"

I giggle. "Isn't that what you're thinking?"

"Pretty much, because I know my boy Nate."

"And you noticed Vanessa." As usual, I'm stomped flat. Everyone notices Vanessa, and you would think after being friends since we were children that I would be used to it by now.

"Yeah, I did." Then he scoots his chair closer to mine. "But you're the only woman who's held my attention since." Oh he is smooth, damn smooth. I feel my cheeks heat at his comment. "Oh, don't tell me you're one of those women that can't take a compliment. Because I'm sure you get lots of them."

I scoff at him. "No, Jase, I don't, especially when I'm with Vanessa."

"Well, I think you do. You just don't hear them." He has taken my hand again, and this time I'm overtaken by the feelings he's pulling from me. It's been so long since a man has focused this much attention on me, I'm not sure how to react to it all.

Dinner comes, and we eat accompanied by light conversation. It's strange, but I've never known it to be this easy to be around someone. I'm comfortable with him, completely uninhibited. He makes me laugh. "You have a beautiful smile, Dacey. You should smile more often." I can feel all my reservations fall away as the minutes pass by, and by the time I'm finished with my meal, I am completely at ease with him. The long-lost woman who was missing her satisfaction has been brought to the surface by his cool demeanor. She purrs each time he talks or touches me. She begs me to do something reckless, and I'm thinking I just might listen to her.

* * *

My back hits the wall as Jase kisses up my neck. He briefly diverts his attention from me while he fumbles with the key card. "Damn things. I miss keys. Why did they get rid of the keys?" He finally gets the door open and none too soon. My nerve has just about left me. He picks me up and walks me through the threshold, kicking the door closed behind him. The smell of his cologne and the feel of his lips have brought me back to life, making my body sing. Prior to this moment, I'd been living in the shell of an old spinster, one who had sworn off even the thought of human touch.

He lays me back on the bed, propping himself up on his elbows with his body lying on me, and the weight of it is amazing. He looks down at me, taking in my features. I shy away, but he catches my face and brings it back to his. "Why will you not look me in the eyes, Dacey?"

"Because you scare me, Jase...the way you make me feel, and how much I like that feeling." He gently kisses me and I melt at the sensation. I close my eyes and breathe him in. Feelings I haven't felt in a very long time ignite me. The welcome tug between my legs makes me smile into the kiss.

He smiles down at me. "You have the sweetest smile."

I raise my hand, placing it on his cheek. The slight five o'clock shadow prickles my palm. "And you have a way with words." He nuzzles my neck with his nose. I feel the air rush across my skin as he breathes me in, then blows out again, a sensation that has my body heating beyond rational thought. I arch my back up into him. As our bodies meet, I feel how well we fit together. I let my leg glide down his, hooking him at the ankle, then pulling myself in as close to him as I can get.

The room around me falls away, because all I can see is him and his blue eyes trained on me.

"You've been hurt before?"

"Yes."

"I'm not going to hurt you, Dacey." I feel his hand taking the hem of my dress and pushing it up my thigh. "I'm not ever going to hurt you." His hand leaves a scorching trail of lust and want up my skin as it moves. I lift my arms and allow him to finish undressing me, then immediately feel vulnerable and try to cover myself with my arms. Gently he takes my wrists and pulls my arms away from my bare breasts. The cool air hits my nipples, making them pebble. "No, don't do that. You have a beautiful body, Dacey, and I want to see it all." I take a deep breath, close my eyes tightly, and let my arms fall away. I release a moan at the feeling as he flicks my taut nipple with his tongue, then nips at it with his teeth. I arch my back up into him as he takes the other, giving it the same attention. He gives me a soft kiss between them he lifts himself off me, kneeling between my legs to pull his shirt off over his head.

I sit and reach with my hands, letting them drift over his chest, combing through sparse hair. He takes my hands from him, kissing each palm. "You sure you want to do this?"

I nod. "More than anything."

* * *

The early morning sun has just begun to peek over the tops of the buildings. The feel of his hot breath at the back of my neck has me smiling at memories from the night before. There is no guilt, only satisfaction. I never sleep with men on the first date without even knowing a last name. But I'm glad I made a drunken exception for Jase. I slink out of his arms and roll as softly as I can to the foot of the bed. Gathering my clothes, I tiptoe into the bathroom and pray I can get dressed and presentable before he wakes up.

I take one last look at him, still sleeping, then press my fingertips to my lips and blow him a silent kiss. "Good bye, Jase. Thank you for everything," I whisper as I exit the room, leaving him and all we had done behind me. Even if I never see him again, it has all been worth it. The sex was amazing and will be something I'll compare all other sexual experiences to for the rest of my life. For once, it had felt good to throw caution to the wind and be spontaneous, reckless, and free, to live in the moment, seizing life; something I hadn't done in a long time.

I do the walk of shame through the early morning bustle of the hotel lobby. The doorman pulls the door open for me, and I hail a cab. I take one long last look back toward Jace and the best time I've had in years. It had been effortless with him, and I felt alive.

I reach in my purse and dig out my phone. It blows up with texts and calls from Vanessa. I sigh and turn it back off, not ready to play three hundred questions or to tell her about something I wanted to keep to myself for as long as I could. I close my eyes. I can still smell his delicious cologne on my skin and feel his body as it covers mine. Hell, Jase was amazing.

I know I should feel ashamed and guilt-ridden, but I don't. I stifle a smile as the cab pulls to a stop outside my condo. I pay and move from the back seat, making my way up the short walk to my door. As bad as I hate to admit it, V is right. I need to act my age more often.

When my ex left me, I turned inward, shutting the world out. I essentially stopped living. I was just existing, floating through life a day at a time. I lived vicariously through Vanessa, making her tell me every juicy detail of her exciting life, all the while ignoring my own wants and needs. But not anymore. Jase has ignited something in me. I'm no longer going to sit on the side lines and be a spectator. I'm going to live.

* * *

Jase

I stretch and roll, searching the bed, but find it empty. I push myself up on my elbows with a strange feeling. I've never felt disappointment when waking up alone before. I survey the crumpled sheets, and the memory of Dacey hits me in the chest. I slump back into the bed with a sigh and run my fingers through my hair. Shit, I can't get twisted up over her, but I think it's too late. The smell of her is still on my skin, and the thought of her has my dick getting hard. I look around at the bedside table and pick up the hotel stationary, hoping she's left me a name and number. There isn't anything. I toss it to the floor in frustration.

I sit up, putting my feet on the floor still littered with my clothes. The feelings I'm having are foreign, and I'm not at all comfortable with them. I've met and slept with women I've enjoyed as much as Dacey, at least physically, but none of them have ever gotten under my skin the way Dacey has. Maybe it was the lure of the unknown. She'd never offered her last name, and I hadn't asked for it. And she'd ducked out without the usual awkwardness of the morning after.

I glance at the clock and realize it is close to check-out time, so I resign myself to finding her profile when I get back home. I have to know if this infatuation I have for her is only because she's a mystery to me. She has me intrigued, and I hope that's the only reason I'm so compelled to find her. I'm sure that once I find her and satisfy this nagging interest, I'll be able to walk away and get back to what I do. I don't like being consumed by the thought of just one woman.

* * *

Dacey

After my shower, I walk through my condo into the kitchen to find my computer. I boot it up, typing in the address for the dating website. I delete my profile, then sit back, not sure how to feel about the whole situation. Jase had been a complete gentleman, not forcing me into our night of passion, but he'd kept me at arm's length. He struck me as the type of man who didn't settle for just one woman, and even though I felt the connection between us, I'm sure I wasn't the first to think or feel such things. Last night was just something I needed to get me out of the rut I'd been stuck in for years.

"Dacey?" The sound of my front door opening and closing makes me smile.

Vanessa comes around the corner, and I turn to her and smile. Her eyebrows shoot up, and the wide smile on her face shows off her perfect pearly whites. "So, I take it last night went great?" She slides onto the stool beside me. I nod and smile again, but this time I feel my cheeks start to burn. "So, when are you seeing him again?"

I clear my throat. "I'm not."

"You're practically glowing, D. What do you mean you aren't going to see him again?" She comes over to the island where I'm sitting and takes my face in her hands. "Look at you. My god, it's amazing what a little bit of sex can do for your complexion." I brush her hands away and cross my small kitchen to the coffee pot.

"I left him in bed. I don't even know what his last name is, and I think it's for the best, V, so don't go getting any crazy notions in your head." I go to the refrigerator. For the first time I realize I haven't eaten today, but I'm not really hungry.

She takes a deep breath. "Okay, D, what is it?" Obviously seeing through the bullshit screen I'm throwing up, she gives me a knowing look.

I take a bottle of water from the fridge and turn to her. "Men like Jase need to come with a warning label, Vanessa."

She scoffs at me. "Oh, really? Like what?" She leans in, propping her chin on her fist.

"Caution: hotter than you can handle. More than likely will break your heart after giving you the best night of your life." I twist the lid off the bottle and chug as much as I can before needing to come up for air. "You'll be unable to forget his scorching hot body and amazingly huge cock." I throw my hand up over my mouth as the word rolls so smoothly off my tongue.

She smiles. "So you had a good time."

"I had a great time, but I knew early on that it would never get past last night." Finishing the water, I turn to toss the bottle into the recycle bin. "And that's that. Leave it." I tilt my head at her when she begins to avoid eye contact with me. "And you? Where the hell did you go last night?"

Her eyes get all dreamy as she stares off into the space behind me. "Oh, you know, I met someone." Her face flushes when she finally turns back to me.

"You did, did ya?" I retake my seat beside her.

"His name is Nate." She giggles like a teenager, then sets into telling me all about Nate, the man she met at the bar.

"He was Jase's wingman, Vanessa." With my voice flat, I level my eyes at her.

"I know." She has that evil little glint in her eyes that makes me very nervous.

* * *

Jase

"Shit, I can't find her." I flip furiously through the website, trying to find Dacey's profile. Nate sits at the end of my dining table drinking a beer, seeming completely uninterested in my plight. "What the fuck?"

"She more than likely deleted it, man."

"It's looking that way. How the hell am I going to find her now?"

He sits up, all of a sudden interested in what I'm doing. "Really? You actually want to have more than a one night stand with the girl?"

I level my eyes at him. "No, the fact I don't know a fucking thing about her is driving me crazy."

"Holy shit, man, I never thought I would see it. Damn, she must've made an impression."

"Where the hell did you disappear to last night?" I sling the wireless mouse up the table with frustration.

"Oh, you know, met this exotic beauty while I was waiting for you to nail your piece of ass down."

I cut my eyes at him. "Don't talk about her like that. She's different."

He holds up his hands. "Obviously. Sorry, man. Didn't mean to step on your toes."

I recognize what I've done. "Sorry, man. I just don't know what it is about this one."

He sits up, taking my computer and turning it to him. "Well, then, let's find her, 'cause, damn, I need to meet this one."

"You left with her best friend." I look at him, and his knowing grin has me thinking he already knew this.

* * *

Dacey

The three weeks between when my life began again and when school is to start fly by. I have so much to do to get my classroom ready, along with my wardrobe for the new school year. Jase is always in the back of my thoughts, and I find myself wondering what he's up to. I've spent many nights sitting in front of my laptop wanting to reactivate my profile on the dating website in hopes he is looking for me.

Vanessa is mysteriously absent. Her one night stand has become an everyday thing. When I ask her about him, she clams up, which is totally unlike her. Most of the time I have to beg her to keep it PG. She thinks I should find Jace to see if what happened between us might be the real thing. But I shut her down every time, even though I know it's what my insides are screaming at me to do: find him, let him have me again and again until we're both so spent and satisfied we sleep for days.

Yep, that's me. Build that wall, circle those wagons, and hide away from the world. Even though Jase has opened something up in me no one has been able to unlock for years, I'm still afraid of being hurt again. I'm just not consumed by it anymore.

* * *

Overly excited by the first day of the new school year, I put the finishing touches on the bulletin board I would have the kids decorate with small snippets and color pictures detailing their summer vacation, then stand back and admire my work. I giggle and turn for my desk, checking the time. Almost seven thirty. The kids will start arriving soon, and I couldn't be happier about it. They fill my life with laughter, and when I see them learning, it makes my heart nearly burst from my chest. I cross to the door and open it wide, unable to contain my excitement, ready for the little people to start flowing into my world.

"Ms. Lane?" I have my back to the door and almost have to brace myself on the desk to keep my knees from buckling. I swallow the lump in my throat and turn to face my worst fears.

I almost forget to breathe when I see him standing in the doorframe with his hands on the shoulders of the little person standing in front of him. "Mr.?" I feel like a dumbass that I can't call him by his last name.

"McKnight, Jase McKnight." He steps into the room, leading the child to me, with his hand held out. I take his offered hand, finding it hard to look in him in the eye, but when I do, he's smiling that devastating smile he charmed me with at the restaurant.

"Mr. McKnight, it's nice to meet you, finally."

"This is Jacob, Ms. Lane." He rubs the blond hair of the little boy standing between us. I look down into a familiar pair of big blue eyes looking up at me with a hint of fear.

I kneel down in front of him and smile. I offer him my hand. "Hello Jacob. I'm Ms. Dacey."

He reaches his small hand out, placing it in mine. "Hello, Ms. Dacey."

I turn to point toward the cubbies. "Go choose your cubby and stow your stuff, okay?" I stand and watch him run. He stops to survey the cubbies still open before choosing one.

I turn back to Jase. "Well, I never saw that coming." I smile at him, taking in his face. He's gorgeous, more so now than he had been that night.

"Yeah, me either." He shoves his hands into his pockets as we stand just staring at each other. His eyes look different than they did that night. It's like he has aged years in the three weeks we have been apart. I turn to the little boy and watch him run off towards the other children in the back of the room to play. Jase tilts his head to the door. "Can we talk?"

I follow him out the door, not pulling it closed behind me, standing so I can have a conversation with him and see the children in the back of the room at the same time. I fidget with my hands and rock back and forth on my feet. Finally, I cross my arms over my chest and look up at him. "Yes?"

He takes a deep breath, rubbing his chin, then runs his fingers through his hair. "I noticed you took your profile down."

"Yeah, I did. I thought it best for the both of us...and seeing him now..." I throw my head back over my shoulder in the direction of Jacob. "I'm certain his mother appreciated it, too." I'm lying through my teeth to him. I took my profile down to guard against disappointment, but I know now that I am pond scum. Some woman waited for him to come home the night he played me like a cheap fiddle. Or maybe he lied and told her he was out of town on business. The shame cloaks me, drapes me like a big black sheet. I should make an appointment to be fitted for my scarlet letter sometime this afternoon. I knew it was too good to be true.

He glances back into the room. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Um, I'm new at this, not sure what to do here."

"What are you new at: being confronted with your adulterating ways, or dropping your kid off at school on the first day?" I have to remember where I am and who I'm surrounded by. Do it for the children, Dacey, hold your tongue.

"What? No." He steps away from me, then back to close in my space. His lips draw tight across his perfect teeth.

I hold up my hands. "Look, Mr. McKnight, I don't need an apology, but I'm afraid my room is not the best fit for Jacob. I will go to the principal this afternoon and have him placed in another classroom. Goodbye." I turn on my heels, leaving him standing in the hall as I try to piece my pride back together and get my game face back on so I can do my job.

* * *

Jase

Un-fucking-believable! I slam my beer down on the table. "Man, it was like out of one of those old black and whites. When I saw her standing there, I knew it was meant to be. What are the fucking odds she would be Jacob's teacher?" I look around the sports bar at a few patrons who have decided a beer for lunch is needed, much like me. The news blares out of the TV screens hanging from the ceiling around the bar, but I don't even care to listen. I look back to Nate who has a smirk on his face. "What the fuck are you looking at?"

"I could have told you there was a possibility if you had asked me."

"Really, Nate?"

"Yeah. Vanessa, her best friend, and I have been hooking up ever since that night."

"You knew this was going to happen, both of you did. You assholes, you set us up again!" I sit up in my chair, glaring at him. "So, get the woman on the phone. I have to know everything. She thinks I'm fucking married, man."

"You didn't tell her any different?"

"No, I didn't get the chance."

He leans his head to the side. "So, you didn't get to tell her the whole story?"

"No. Like I said, she didn't give me the chance."

"Man, that is not good."

"Tell me about it." I slump back into the chair. "So you think Vanessa will help me out a little?"

He reaches to pull out his phone, smiling. "Oh, she will more than help you out, man. Believe me."

* * *

Dacey

"So, tell me why you don't think Mr. McKnight's son should to be in your class, Dacey," asks my father from across his imposing mahogany desk. I study him and the pensive look on his face. I have spent my whole life trying not to disappoint him, and up until now, I think I've done a good job. My father is a handsome man. His once dark hair has begun to salt and pepper at the temples. His clean-shaven jaw is strong, but it's his eyes that give away what a good man he is. The children love him even though he towers over them, standing well over six feet. He warned me when I took this teaching job that he would show no favoritism to me because I am his daughter, and that if I were to step out of line, I would suffer the same punishment any other teacher would.

I sit in the supple leather chair with my legs crossed, fighting a stress headache. I'd been irresponsible, and it had shown up today to bite me in the ass. I adjust myself in the chair. "Because Mr. McKnight and I didn't exactly..." I move my hands in circles as I bob my head back and forth trying to find the right words to describe my impossible situation in a professional manner. "Get along."

"Did you say something to him, Dacey?" He leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk and lacing his fingers together in that principally way he has about him. After all, he is the principal.

"No, I just don't think it's a good fit."

"Dacey." He clears his throat. "Look at me." I drag my eyes up from the floor in front of me. He takes a deep breath. "Tell me what you did." Damn him and his fatherly tone.

"It was all Vanessa's idea." I begin to plead my case.

"Vanessa. Well, that explains it."

Then I begin to feel guilty for placing all the blame on her. I was an adult; I could have said no, but I didn't. "Dad, four weeks ago V and I were drinking wine and put up a profile for me on one of those dating websites."

"And then what happened?" He looks at me, raising his eyebrow.

I stand and begin to pace. "You can fill in the blanks." I glance over at the disappointed look he has on his face, then slump my shoulders and hang my head. "I'm sorry. I never thought in a million years this would happen."

"This isn't like you at all." He sighs. "Okay, Dacey. I am not giving you an easy out from this mess you've created by taking Jacob McKnight out of your class. You are going to deal with this and give this child the education I know you can give him. You technically didn't sleep with one of your student's fathers, since it was before the school year started, so you haven't broken any policies." I feel my face twist again and he sees it. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"Well, I think he's married, too." I sink back down into the chair and wait with bated breath for what he's going to say next.

"This is trouble the school system doesn't need. Is he or isn't he married? Did he not have a ring on?"

"In my defense, no, he didn't." He just takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Dad?"

"Dacey. I should suspend you, but I'm not going to, so don't take this lightly. Fix it now." He begins to rearrange papers on his desk, only stopping to look up at me sternly. "Fix it."

"Yes, sir." I wait until I'm out of his office to let out the breath I'm holding. Talk about dodging a bullet, I had gotten off the hook on a technicality.

* * *

Jase

"I'll take those." I dig my wallet out of my back pocket, handing the cashier more than enough cash to pay for the bouquet. "Thank you." I walk the block and a half to her condo, praying the whole time that she'll answer the door. I had gone over what I was going to say to her for the past two days. I had let Jacob out at the door of the school to give her the space that I knew she needed. Had I been on the other side of this, I would have thought the same thing of me when I came waltzing in with a son attached to my hip.

I see the roses planted in the hanging box Vanessa told me about. I stop and close my eyes, saying one last little prayer. I have never felt this way about a woman, not even Jacob's mother, so I know I have to fix this. I keep seeing her face at the moment she accused me of adultery. Dacey could be it, and I never thought I would say that, especially after only one night with a woman I didn't even share my last name with.

I knock three times and wait. I look around to the side for a car or a sign she is home. I see nothing, so I knock again. "Okay, okay! I'm coming." I smile to myself at the innuendo in her words.

She jerks open the door with a gasp. "Jase."

"Dacey." I step up into the door frame, forcing her back into her foyer. "Before you say anything, let me explain." She steps back, letting me into her home. I look around, taking it all in. This is a place I would expect her to live. It was fresh and light, with a welcoming feel. She backs away from me, crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her foot. "I'm not married. I never have been." I give her the flowers I bought for her per Vanessa's instructions: a bouquet of fresh wild flowers, full of color. Her shoulders relax as she reluctantly takes my offering. "So what we did, what went on between us, was legit...not cheating on any level, I promise."

She takes a deep breath, then looks at me. "Jase, I'm not sure you should be here."

"No, here is exactly where I should be. You didn't give me a chance to explain the other day, so I'm here now."

* * *

Dacey

His face is a mask of determination, and I can see I'm not getting out of this until I hear him out. My heart feels like it's going to jump out of my chest, and I need to sit down. He had found me and brought me flowers. Oh, and on top of that, I hadn't committed the ultimate sin. "How did you find me?"

"Vanessa." He takes my hand, and my skin warms at his touch. It had missed him, and it lets me know real fast who and what it's craving.

"Vanessa."

"Yes, Vanessa, who seemed more than happy to divulge your information." He smiles at me.

I roll my eyes at him. "I'm sure she was." I'm still distracted by the feel of him against me. His thumb rubs a small circle on the back of my hand. I feel the pull of his eyes, and look up from where we are joined to meet his greedy stare.

"It's kinda funny though, isn't it?"

My mood sours, and all the musings I have of him disappear when the gravity of the situation settles on my shoulders. I slept with a man who has a kid and, if not a wife, then at least a girlfriend who has the right to expect faithfulness from the father of her child. I am a horrible person. I jerk my hand free, taking a step back. "It is? How?"

"It is, but I think there are a few things I need to explain." He shifts on his feet. "Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?" He looks into my seldom-used living room, but I know where I want to go, and I lead him to my sun room off the kitchen. I ease myself into the window seat. It is only fitting that we actually talk for the first time in the same place we first met in cyberspace.

He begins to pace. "You sit. I'll talk."

"Okay." I'm a bit nervous about his mood.

"I had no clue Jacob existed until two weeks ago when I was contacted by a lawyer." He stops to judge my reaction. I keep my expression blank, so he continues. "She was a woman from my past, obviously." His pacing becomes quicker. "Okay, Dacey." He stops to look at me. "She was a one night stand, and I had no idea I had knocked her up until two weeks ago. She evidently had no family, and she named me as the next of kin for Jacob."

"As she should have, if you're his father, Jase." I stand and move away from him. I'm not sure how to process all this information he feels the need to dump on me. It only solidifies my first misgivings about him. He was and is a playboy and is only here to save face. "How did she die?" My heart twists in my chest for the little boy I've already grown fond of.

"Car accident. You might have read about it, the pile-up on the freeway." He casts his eyes down. Although it's still difficult for me to trust him, he looks as if he's honestly grieving for a woman he didn't really know and for a son he isn't sure how to help. We both fall silent. I use the abbreviated pause to process all the information lingering between us. "What are you thinking right now?" he asks, more desperately than I expect a man like him to sound

I wring my hands and begin pacing alongside him. "It disturbs me that you didn't know she didn't have any family." I stop and look at him. "And it worries me, the number of women you've been with that you've treated like this."

He slumps down to the couch and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Me, too."

"Why did you feel like you had to tell me all this, to justify it for me?" I lower myself down beside him, turning to look into his sad blue eyes.

He looks completely defeated. "Because I felt a need for you to know. I had to make you understand." He turns to me. "For the first time in my life, I've found someone I feel a connection to. I can't deny it." He takes my hand, pulling me to him. "And I know you feel it, too. I can see it in your eyes, Dacey." The sound of my name rolling off his tongue melts me. And he's telling the truth. I hadn't ever felt this kind of connection, even with the man I'd planned to marry. "Tell me I'm wrong. Deny it all you want, but I was there. I felt how we fit."

I jerk my hands free from his and hold them up between us, shaking my head, trying my best to addle the rational part of my brain back to life. No, no, no, he can't be talking like this. He's a playboy, the love 'em and leave 'em kind I had been betting on him to be. Then I meet his eyes, and the sincerity in them tells me that he isn't any of the things I've been thinking him to be.

"Tell me, Dacey, that you didn't feel it. You tell me now you don't feel the connection." His blue eyes pin me.

Despite everything I'd been taught from childhood and everything I had ever been told about love at first sight, I felt it. I had tried to deny it for days, but I just couldn't fight it anymore. "Yes, Jase, I feel it." I sink into him, and feel like I'm home. He engulfs me in his arms, pulling me into him. "So what do we do now?"

He takes my face in his hands, holding it so I can't do anything but look him in the eyes. "We start over and do it the right way this time. I take my time winning you over, and you make me work for it." He leans in, kissing my lips softly. "And I will work for it, Dacey. There has never been another woman who has made me want her the way you do." I am fighting tears at his words.

"And there has never been a man who has said those words to me." He kisses me again. "Or made me feel the way you do."

He smiles at me. "Careful, Dacey. You'll get me to thinking I might not have to work so hard."

I kiss him this time. "Well, I wouldn't want to do that." He turns my face loose, letting me back away from him. "How are you so sure this is going to work?"

He pulls me onto his lap so that I am straddling him. "Because we're going to make it work, Dacey." He leans his head back, taking me in. "What happened to you that made you so untrusting?"

I look away, sighing. "Oh, you know, the usual, cheating lying man." I look back to him.

"Well that's not me, Dacey. I will never lie to you or cheat."

I know better than to say the words, but they slip out before I can catch them. "But you're a man-whore, Jase."

He jerks his head back in shock at my statement. "Whoa, where did that come from?"

I look away, embarrassed by my words. "Sorry, it was just an earlier observation."

His features soften, and a slight smile graces his lips. "Is that still the opinion you have of me?"

"No, you've been nothing but a gentleman to me."

"Then why do you still have that thought in your mind?"

"Out of fear." I answer mindlessly, unable to hold anything back from him.

"I've already told you I'm not going to hurt you, Dacey."

"Why do you keep saying my name?" My eyes flutter shut at the sound of my name being repeated in his deep baritone voice.

"So you know I am speaking these words only to you."

"Are you only saying these words to me, or am I just one in a long line of women?"

"I have never made promises or given anyone guarantees. When a woman gave herself to me, it was just for a night, and they were aware of it. I never took anything that wasn't offered willingly."

"Me being one of those things?" I close my eyes and ask.

"No, never, Dacey. When I met you, it was like I hit a wall."

I lean back, placing my hands on my knees and laughing. "So, meeting me was like you running face first into a wall. Oh, that's nice, Jase. Thank you."

He laughs along with me. "Yeah, but in a great way. I didn't expect for you to get under my skin the way you have, and I didn't think I would be this happy about it, either. I never thought I would want to settle down. I guess it's the cosmos' way of saying, 'Hey, jackass. Listen up.'" He turns to look at me. "So what do you say? Should we give it try?"

I feel as if I'm about to choke on the reservations and hurt I've been living with since my ex left me for one of my bridesmaids. I had closed myself off from the world. But Jase had woken me up, made me see what I was missing and the life I could be living. I've been playing it safe, sitting on the sidelines as my life passed me by. I turn to look at Jase, who's holding his breath looking at me. "Is that a good look, or do I need to sit here until I get what I want?"

I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly, then take the plunge. "Okay." He gathers me up into his arms, nuzzling his nose into my neck. The warm feeling begins to grow again, and I realize he's right. We could be good for each other.

"You won't be disappointed, Dacey. Neither of us will." I can hear the smile in his voice, and the sound makes me smile. He stands with me still in his lap. I slowly lower my feet to the ground, then look up at him. His eyes catch mine, and I lose myself in them.

He releases me. "It's settled." He starts for the door.

"Where are you going?" I look after him, confused.

"To get my car, drive it to your door, and take you on a proper date." Before I can stop him he's gone around the corner, leaving me feeling too good to be true. I close the door and do a quick primp session in the mirror over the table in the foyer. When I'm finished and satisfied with the results, I lean my back against the wall with my hand over my heart.

Then a thought occurs to me. What am I going to tell Dad?

# Brook Greene's Bio & Links

Brooke lives in the beautiful mountains of Western North Carolina with her husband and daughter. She is the author of The Knights of Mayhem series, 'All In' book one came out in May of last year, 'In Ruins' book two in the series released in May of this year. Book three 'From the Ashes' will release in September 2015.

<https://www.facebook.com/brookgreene?__mref=message_bubble>

<https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7761285.Brook_Greene>

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# Even Silence has an Echo

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# Jason Greensides

# Copyright 2015 Jason Greensides

All Rights Reserved

# Even Silence has an Echo

Klaus flung the book into the fire and knew he had to confront his wife. There'd already been dropped calls to the house, the timbre of her voice had lost all its colour and spark, and she no longer wanted to have sex with him. And now that book. It was a first edition of Jung's Man and His Symbols that he'd found nestled in at the top of the bookshelf, and on the first page it was inscribed with, My Dearest Hannah. For you. My undying love, Leo. Klaus watched as those words now charred and curled.

He'd actually been given a rare day off – rare especially with everything that had been going on. The whole country was on the verge of disaster – and now Klaus wondered whether he'd have been better off in the office, still oblivious to his wife's deception.

He poured himself a whisky, noting that she was due back from the bakery in about forty-five minutes. Any later and his suspicions would be confirmed beyond question.

Five p.m. came and went, and another three hours later he was drunk and enraged. He hauled on his grey trench coat, not bothering with scarf or gloves – the burning cold would not penetrate his grief. He grabbed his keys, opened the door, and there she was sitting on the front step, her back to him.

Klaus stumbled but managed to catch his balance on the railing. He squinted down at her dusky blond hair, which in the last few months had become splotched with grey. "Where were you?"

She did not reply or turn to him, but her shoulders began to shake, her head finding the sanctuary of her hands. Through his drunkenness and the dim light, Klaus saw that her fingertips were bloody, the middle nail of her right hand hanging off and caked in blood.

As if sensing his eyes on her, Hannah ran her fingers through her hair until the loose nail snagged. She pulled at it, wincing with every tug until the nail ripped off and lodged in her hair.

Klaus wanted to bend down, draw her into his arms, but not only did his temples still throb with hatred towards her, there were flashes of an even more ignoble thought: that whatever had happened to her she'd probably deserved. Still, perhaps it was mere muscle memory of a fourteen-year marriage that compelled him to reach out towards the broken nail, but he snatched his hand back at the last moment and covered his mouth. He was going to be sick.

He ran back inside, down the hall, through the kitchen and into the bathroom, and spewed all over the floor around the toilet. Gasping for breath, clammy with sweat, he wriggled out of his coat, now stained at the hem with vomit. When he looked up, Hannah was there in the doorway, her expression obscured by shadows, her hair frazzled and in disarray.

"Are you OK?" she said, her voice all splintery.

Shame burnt his cheeks at her question: that she'd been the one to ask if he was OK when it should have been the other way around, as she was the one who'd clearly been hurt. He hauled himself to his feet, picked up his coat, stumbled past her, into the kitchen, and hung his coat on the back of a chair. He took out the mop from the cupboard, wheeled it past her and began to mop up his sick.

"You should have used bleach," Hannah murmured once he was done.

Klaus, now feeling better, the cruel edge of his earlier hatred blunted by the menial work, closed the toilet lid and sat down. "Are you going to tell me –" Where you've been, was what he was going to say. Instead: "What happened to you?"

She moved over and sat on the edge of the bath. Klaus looked her over. Her lipstick had smudged, eyeliner smeared onto her cheeks, and her coat was ripped at the shoulder. All these things filled Klaus not with sympathy but with dread. Her eyes were dilated and restless, her mouth parted, her hands twitchy. Clearly she was vulnerable and unhinged, but Klaus knew what was really behind it all: fear.

He'd seen it too many times over the last few years. That haunted, wild-eyed, bewildered look.

But to see it on his wife now...

"Honey," he breathed, reaching out and touching her bloodied hand, "what happened?"

She gazed at him, perhaps angry that he should even ask. Then something seemed to wilt within her. "I..." She moved over, sat on Klaus's lap and laid her head on his shoulder.

His first urge was to push her away. Instead his hand brushed the nape of her neck and he stroked her hair. Eventually his fingers latched onto the errant nail. Using his other hand to keep her hair taut, he worked the nail out and placed it on the sink. A trickle of blood ran from the nail, down the soap groove and into the plughole.

"It's OK. You can tell me," Klaus said. "I can help."

"Nothing happened," Hannah said. "I just tripped when I got off the tram."

Klaus exhaled. "We should clean this up."

He gently moved her off his lap and got some disinfectant and cotton wool from the cabinet. Taking her hand in his, he cleaned the damaged finger. As he worked he didn't look at her, but he could tell she was watching him, perhaps thankful he wasn't probing her for truthful answers, at least for now. Klaus kept his concentration on cleaning her finger, trying to fight off the notion that this was the closest they'd been for months.

They went into the kitchen and made coffee, which they drank at the kitchen table. By now Klaus's nausea had settled and he was left with an airy feeling that perhaps everything would be OK. But as they drained their cups, it wasn't long before the reality that his wife was in some sort of trouble resurfaced again.

"They were rounding up more people today," Hannah began. "The town square was crammed with them. I've never seen anything... I need something stronger than this."

She got up, somehow refocused now that she had begun to talk, threw some ice into a glass and poured from the same bottle Klaus had been mauling all afternoon. She drank it in one shot, shook her head comically, poured herself another and sat down.

Trying to ignore the snake of his own fear coiled cold in his stomach, Klaus said, "They're all being sent to east Poland. I told you this was coming. I told you this was always going to happen."

Hannah searched his eyes. "What do you mean?" she stammered, her shaking hands rattling the ice in her glass.

"Come on, Hannah, don't be thick."

Hannah seemed to be about to speak, caught herself, took a swig of the whisky. This time when she swallowed there was no accompanying shake of the head, just an almost imperceptible curl of her upper lip, and a flash of teeth. "Then why didn't you stop me from fucking Leo?" she said. "If you knew what was...going on out there, you must have known what was happening in your own home."

At hearing the truth about her affair, a vague sense of relief tempered the cold snake of fear in his gut, but not much. She was right, of course, he had always known. About everything. But that still didn't excuse what she'd done to their marriage.

"What have you done?" he said.

Hannah reached over and squeezed his arm, her gaze steady and determined. It crossed his mind that perhaps she wasn't aware of the danger, but the strength in her hand and in her eyes told him she knew.

"I think I might have loved him," she said. "But we only ever...once." She paused.

"Go on," Klaus whispered.

She reached behind her chair, draped Klaus's coat over her shoulders, her bandaged finger toying with the gold-plated swastika emblem pinned to the coat's breast pocket. Moonlight, percolating through the dusty kitchen window, glimmered silver on the SS collar badge.

"They took Leo and his family this afternoon. I watched it all. It was the worst thing I've ever seen. All those people being herded together and beaten – families, children even – and I just lost it, started screaming..." She broke off, drew the coat to one side, showing him a scarlet-black bruise on her thigh. "One of the officers beat me, threw me to the floor, called me a Jew-loving whore cunt..." She let the coat fall back, covering the injury. "Obviously, he didn't have a clue who my husband was." She looked at him directly, pride and disgust glistening in her eyes. "That you could have him killed." She smiled with maliciousness, a devious smirk Klaus never seen on her before. Then she laughed – a shrill noise that chilled the back of Klaus's neck. "Tortured and killed."

"Who was he?" Klaus asked, side-stepping the issue of the grotesque things, as Obersturmführer, he could have done to the officer who'd assaulted his wife; yet even as the words left his mouth he knew it was pointless. Even if he wanted to do something about it, Hannah, despite her bravado now, would never allow it.

"You know that if I tell you who he is we continue to be part of the problem," she said.

"Yes."

"So they took Leo and his family and all the others, packed them on the train, and that was that." She shrugged.

Two thoughts now hit Klaus, impotent and selfish responses he might utter: Why did you have to fuck someone else? and the more precise: Why did the guy you fucked have to be Jewish? Of all the things that could cause him to lose his job, destroy his carefully cultivated standing with the higher officials of the Waffen-SS, and get him thrown out of the party altogether, for them both to become the object of ridicule: Why did he have to be Jewish?

What he said in the end was: "I need you to think carefully, Hannah..." He waited for her to lock eyes with him. Seeing that he had her full attention, he said, "Apart from the officer that hit you, did anybody else see you there?"

She shook her head as if the act of doing so might fill her with conviction. But it wasn't enough. "No. I don't think so. I don't know. Maybe... I'm sorry, Klaus, I don't know." Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she refused to let them fall, briskly wiping them away with the back of her hand.

Klaus was about to probe further but knew it wouldn't make any difference. They had to assume she'd been seen. Had to assume that right now their names were being whispered in secret offices, their paper identities trawled through the system, that even if Klaus's relatively high rank as Senior Storm Leader could count for something, it wouldn't be enough to stop the machine from killing them both.

They had to assume the dull rubbery thud of boots and the cold click of gunmetal were echoing down deserted cobbled streets towards them at this very moment.

"We have to go," Klaus said. "We have to go now."

"Wait," Hannah said, taking both his hands. He thought she was going to protest, plead with him that they couldn't leave, couldn't leave their family and just up and escape Germany. But she didn't, she seemed to know what needed to be done. She said, "I need to know if you forgive me."

Forgive her? Klaus scrunched his eyes: she was yet to realise that he needed her to forgive him. For all the things he'd done, could never take back, could never forget. For joining the party and allowing himself, during those heady years of the mid-twenties, to ride high on the swift and chilly air currents of National Socialist rhetoric and its saccharine covenant of revenge.

Forgive him for sitting silent and rigid in those terrible party meetings; nodding, docile, offering little more than a childish flinch at his colleagues' slammed fists, staring straight ahead rather than confronting the spectre of those reddened faces and their flying spit of vindication...

Then more recently, after 1933, as Germany geared itself up for the ultimate expansion. All those interrogations happening farther down the corridor, and he'd kicked his office door closed, turned up the radio, burying himself in paperwork... And even that wasn't enough to drown out the muffled screeches, or when one particular shrilled, broken-toothed gurgle smashed off crumbling walls, through the medieval ventilation system and into his draughty office. Klaus would run to the window, stick his head out and listen to the chug of the generator, the lazy bark of dogs and the warble of the blackbirds' call... Those birds! When someone was pleading for their life, or gargling forced confessions through a ripped tongue held together by broken fingers, the birds just carried on with their usual birdsong, did not fly away, startled, skittish and spooked. Then Klaus, tortured, would cover his ears and hum Deutschland, Erwache! over and over to stop those screams, those horrifying cat-like retches of the walking skeletal that smashed off the crumbling walls and ricocheted through the medieval ventilation system and over the blackbirds' calls... And those haunting screams followed him on his way home, too, clung to him, like sea fog, inside his house and into bed, inflicting fetid and fitful dreams...

He clasped at his stomach, now twisting in on itself, racked and convolved. He was breathless, heart palpitations throbbing through his chest, an arctic sweat chilling his brow.

Oh God. The forms!

The damage and destruction from the soft brush of pen on paper, a minuscule twitch of muscles at the end of manicured fingers, and people's lives forever altered.

The forms!

He clutched his head, and now tears came hot and heavy and blinding and useless. He fell to his knees before Hannah, grasping at her skirt. Hannah crouched next to him, and now she too was crying.

"What was Leo's last name?" he gasped, between sobs.

"Shush," Hannah pleaded.

"...His last name..!?!"

She pulled his hair, sending jolts of electric pain tearing into his scalp. "Don't!" she cried.

"I have to know. We both have to know it was... me who signed the forms."

Hannah emitted a pained guttural half-scream, half-moan, clawed at his face with her fingernails. "Stop!"

Klaus let her tear into his face, did nothing to stop her.

Leo, he thought, the man who took my wife, took everything from me...

Hannah bunched her hands and slammed them over and over into his chest, yet he still did not stop her.

And as she continued to plough into him with those delicate fists, a realisation, scalpel-sharp and unforgiving, bladed into Klaus's heart: Leo, by loving Hannah, by bringing the troubled Germany outside and into his home, had made Klaus confront who he was, and in doing so might well have... saved him.

He caught Hannah's hands, drew her close and looked deep into her eyes. Sensing something had changed in him, she calmed, her shoulders falling still.

"Hannah, you know I'll always love you, but time's running out. You need to leave."

Her eyes, red-rimmed and beseeching, searched the entirety of his face. "What..?...What do you mean...? You can't be... You're staying?"

"Go. Take what money there is and go." Then, seeing her unwilling or unable to move: "NOW!"

Hannah flinched, edged away, and scrambled to her feet. She took a few hesitant steps towards the kitchen door. All the money was upstairs in a Lande Ohne tobacco tin, and Klaus reckoned there was enough to bargain her way out of Germany. Before she went to get it, however, she turned back to him.

'Rosner,' she whispered.

Klaus held her gaze, managed to give her a nod, a look of thanks. She seemed to be about to speak again, but didn't. She wiped her eyes, stumbled back a few steps then ran out of the room.

You took everything I had, Klaus thought, getting onto his feet, but somehow, despite the odds, despite taking Hannah from me, you gave me back my life.

Paperwork may have condemned you, Leo, but paperwork may save you yet. I'll find you, Leo Rosner – you and your family. I'll find you.

# Jason Greensides Bio & Links

Jason Greensides has a degree in Video Production and Film Studies and has made several short films, two of which have been broadcast on television – but writing fiction is his real passion.

He's interested in 'outsider' types, those operating on the fringes of society. This inspired him to write his first novel The Distant Sound of Violence. It's about a group of kids, one in particular, Nathan Dawes, whose philosophical obsessions and criminal connections have all but made him an outcast at school. Here's the link for the book: mybook.to/TDSOV

Jason is now working on his second novel, another coming-of-age mystery, but on coffee breaks he blogs and tweets about the mysteries of writing and throws in the occasional book review.

Website: www.jasongreensides.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/jasongreensidesauthor

Twitter: www.twitter.com/jasongreensides

Google Plus: www.plus.google.com/+JasonGreensides

Pinterest: www.pinterest.com/jasongreensides

Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/Jason_greensides\

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# Coming Home

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# Pam Elise Harris

# Copyright 2015 Pam Elise Harris

All rights reserved.

### Acknowledgements

Thank you to my Development Editor Sophie Thomas and to William Lloyd, Jr. for his editorial suggestions. Also a huge thank you to DM Cain and Rocky Rochford for creating the Awethors group and this amazing community

# Coming Home

Ari stared absentmindedly at the bandage covering his wrist. He could feel his parents' disapproval permeating the silent car ride. They had made their displeasure abundantly clear. How dare he do this? Did he not realize the shame this would bring to the family? What good college was going to take him now? He'd heard it all in the moments after he'd woken up in the hospital, disappointed that he'd been able to wake up at all. If downing a whole bottle of Prozac hadn't done the trick, he thought slicing his wrist open on a table as he fainted would have surely sealed the deal. But no. He was still here.

Ari remembered the conversation that had set him over the edge. He had just told his parents about a breakthrough he had with his therapist who had been treating him for depression.

"Aba, Ima, I have to do this. You know I do."

"No," said his mother. "Remember what happened last time? I'm not paying for you to get beaten up again."

Ari had only been beaten up once; they usually just called him names. But that one time had been enough to make him stop. The only reason his assailants had been able to attack him was because they had outnumbered him and caught him by surprise. Next time he'd be ready.

"You didn't pay for me to get beaten up," Ari shot back. "You paid for the lessons."

"Yes," his mother responded. "And because of that you were bullied and beaten. I can't condone that."

"Aba?"

"Do you not remember how miserable you were? Coming home from school every day after being bullied. Don't you remember how scared we were for you? That was why we put you into counseling in the first place. Do you really want to go through all of that again?"

"So I should let them have that control over my life," said Ari. "I should just let them win."

"This isn't about winning," said his mother, concern clear in her voice. "This is about keeping you safe."

"Life isn't safe. I've been more miserable without it than when they were pushing me around every day. There's been an emptiness in me ever since I decided to give it up. A void nothing will fill. My therapist says it's time for me to get back to it."

"This is what we're paying him for?" said Ari's father. "To fill your head with this nonsense. Does he know what you went through last time? What we all went through?"

"Yes, he does," said Ari, insistence in his voice. "And he thinks it's time. I do too. Please let me take lessons again. I can't live without them."

Their refusal had led him to his room, frustration raging in his head. He ripped his newly filled prescription of Prozac from the dresser. His therapist had put him on it to combat his depression. No matter how much Ari took it, he never seemed to feel any different. He waited until his parents had gone out, downed the bottle, and waited. From what the doctor had told Ari when he woke up, he'd somehow managed to make it to the living room before passing out by the coffee table. His parents had found him hours later.

After expressing the minimum relief that he was alive, Ari's parents exploded with anger at him for doing this. It almost seemed like they thought they could ground him into not trying again. If they really didn't want him to try again, there was only one thing they could do: reinstate his lessons. That was the only way he was going to be good enough to get into a good college. They were the only thing that made him happy. If he couldn't have his lessons, he had nothing left to live for.

Ari was grateful when the car pulled into the garage of their apartment building. He hoped to make it back to his room without having round two of the fight they were sure to be continuing. He opened the car door and tried to bolt for the door that would lead upstairs, but his mother grabbed his arm to slow him.

"We are not done discussing this," she said.

"I've already talked about this at length with Doctor Eisenberg," said Ari, glad the hospital had contacted his therapist. At the moment, Dr. Eisenberg was the only person Ari felt understood him. "And he thinks I should start up again."

"We've already said no," said his father. "We will continue this discussion upstairs."

Ari's parents shepherded him up to the apartment where he had grown up. The apartment where he'd come home from elementary school and played video games when he was supposed to be doing his homework. The apartment where he'd caught his sister and her friends smoking something that definitely was not a regular cigarette. And the apartment where everything had gotten to be too overwhelming. This is where it all happened. Every event of his life originated in that apartment in some way.

The first thing he noticed entering the apartment was the coffee table. He'd fainted somewhere around there. It looked intact for the most part. His mother had always talked about putting something on the edges of the sharp corners so that the family didn't hurt themselves. Ari never thought those sharp corners could come in handy.

He glanced around the living room. Everything looked the same. He would have expected as much. His parents just wanted to put this behind them and move on. It made sense that the living room was as meticulous as ever. Nothing was out of place. Ari imagined his mother finding him on the floor and attempting to get the blood from his wrist out of the rug before calling 911. They probably explained his absence to their friends and neighbors by saying that he was away visiting a college.

"Sit," his father commanded sharply.

"I don't want to talk about this for the millionth time," said Ari. "I'm not sorry. Actually, I am. I'm sorry I didn't do it better. I'm sorry I'm still here."

"Don't talk like that," admonished his mother. "Life is a precious gift. Why would you reject it like that?"

"You don't really want me to answer that."

"The lessons?" his father spat. "They are that important to you?"

"Yes!"

"Important enough to go through everything you went through last time. All the bullying. All the beatings."

"Once. I got beaten up one time. Aba, you have to let me do this. It's like I can't express myself without it. Something is missing. Don't you have anything that makes you feel that way?"

"This isn't about me," said his father. "You just need to learn to live without it."

"I can't," said Ari.

"And what if next time they beat you up worse?" worried his mother. "What if it's more than just some cuts and a bloody nose?"

"I'll deal with it," said Ari. "You can't shelter me forever. What are you going to do when I'm at college?"

"Now that you've done this, how do you expect to get into a good college?" his father demanded.

"Colleges don't look at this stuff," said Ari. Do they?

"You'd better hope that they don't," said his father. "You're lucky you've kept up with your schoolwork. I don't want your grades slipping because of this."

"You know some parents would just be happy that I was alive," said Ari.

"Of course, we're happy that you're alive," said his mother. "But we want to keep you that way. So no more lessons. That's final."

Ari stormed off to his room. Everything was exactly as he had left it. His history textbook was still open by the laptop on his desk. A pile of clothes was strewn on the floor. Ari knew that his skateboard was buried somewhere underneath it. His backpack sat atop his unmade bed. The walls were covered in posters of athletes from various sports. His bookshelf was filled past capacity with everything from classic literature to urban fantasy. And the empty pill bottle was on the dresser.

Ari heard a buzzing coming from his backpack. He opened it and pulled out his phone.

"Hey, Danit," he greeted his sister.

"I heard you were coming home today," said Danit. "You doing OK?"

"Yeah, I'll live," said Ari.

"Ha ha," said Danit. "That's not funny. I don't want you ever doing something stupid like this again. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, I hear you," said Ari. Even though she was away at college in upstate New York, Ari could always count on his sister for the support he never got from their parents. She would always be his partner in crime, and he loved her for that.

"So how badly did the parents freak out?" asked Danit.

"Worse than when they caught you doing whatever you were doing with that guy in the living room," said Ari.

"Let's just say I had something in my mouth that wasn't kosher," said Danit with a giggle. "This one is going to be hard to top, though. I think I may just have to hook up with that girl in my business class." Ever since Danit and Ari were children, they had an ongoing competition to see who could freak out their parents more. Usually, it was Danit who won.

"Wait, don't you have a boyfriend?" said Ari, a smile breaking out across his face.

"I have several," said Danit. "So much for Mom's 'how are you going to get a husband with an eyebrow piercing' thing. The guys at school don't seem to mind one bit."

Ari shook his head. His sister always went for the shock value. Nothing scared her and she always did exactly what she wanted.

"Don't worry about the parents, though," said Danit. "They'll come around eventually. It's like that time you got lost in the theme park. They were so glad when we found you, but they had to be all pissed off at you so you wouldn't run off again. Me. I was hoping we wouldn't find you so we could get a puppy."

"Thanks," said Ari. "I can always count on you to make me feel better."

"Hey, what are big sisters for?" said Danit. "So are they going to...?"

"Nah," Ari cut her off. "They'll never let me. They've made that clear."

"Since when have we ever not done something just because our parents didn't let us?" asked Danit. "If this is what you want to do, you find a way. You do what you want. It's your life, not theirs. Now, I've got to go. A bunch of us are going to go out drinking."

"But you're only nineteen," said Ari. "You're underage."

"Not according to my fake ID," said Danit. Ari could imagine her mischievous smile through the phone. "I just turned twenty-two. Anyway, I'm glad you're OK."

"Thanks," said Ari. "We'll talk soon."

He put the phone down.

Danit was right. He had to live his own life. If his parents weren't going to help him, he would find another way. He had to. He thought for a bit and realized the answer was right down the hall. He waited until his parents were out of the living room and snuck out of the apartment. He rang the doorbell of an apartment several doors down.

"Who is it?" replied a gruff female voice.

"Ari Cohen. From down the hall."

The door opened, revealing a thin woman of about forty with long brown hair cascading down her back. Her brown eyes held him in a steady glare.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"How do I know that what you want to see me about is interesting enough to warrant getting invited in?"

"Please," begged Ari. "My parents can't know I'm here."

"If your parents can't know, then maybe you shouldn't be doing this."

"Doesn't matter. I have to. Please, Mrs. Glazer."

"Well, if you want my help, let's lose the Mrs. Glazer thing," she said. "Mrs. Glazer is my mother-in-law. I'm Callie."

"Please, Callie, will you help me?"

"Get in." She heralded him into the apartment and gestured for him to sit down. "So when did you get back, anyway?"

"You know?"

"There were paramedics. The whole building knows," said Callie.

Oh, great, thought Ari. My parents must love that.

"Now what's this all about?"

"I want you to train me," said Ari.

"Train you?" she scoffed.

"My parents won't pay for me to train, and I know that you used to..."

"Used to? Be careful there if you want my help. I'm still a professional."

"OK. Sorry. I just thought since you're a professional, you might be able to help me out. It's really for college applications. I want to get in somewhere good."

"OK. I help you to get into a good college. What do I get out of this arrangement?"

Ari hadn't thought about that. He didn't have any money to pay her, and they didn't really know each other well enough for her to do it as a favor. Maybe he was kidding himself to think that she would help. All he knew was she was his only hope.

Callie sighed with a weary smile. "All right. We'll come back to that later. Are you any good?"

"Yes."

"Show me."

Without music, Ari began to dance. He felt the long lost connection to music playing in his head as the void he had felt for the past year began to fill itself. He lost himself in his movements, enjoying the challenge and being overly critical of his performance as he always had been. Emotion filled him as he transitioned from one elegant post to the next, and he suddenly felt something he hadn't felt in a very long time. Happy.

At that moment, he knew that he had truly come home. Not to his apartment. To his real home. One that existed in a series of movements that made him feel complete.

He found the one thing that filled him with a passion like nothing else. The one thing he knew he had to do for the rest of his life, no matter how many people didn't understand.

Ballet.

# Pam Elise Harris's Bio & Links

Pam Elise Harris writes from Forest Hills, New York where she lives with her amazing husband. When Pam is not writing, she enjoys finding typos and researching correct grammatical structure in her work as a freelance development editor. Pam is the proprietor of Kitchen Sink Edits. She released her debut novel, Oblivion, in April 2015. For more information, visit www.facebook.com/AuthorPamEliseHarris

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# April Showers

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# Elizabeth Horton-Newton

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# Copyright 2015 Elizabeth Newton

All rights reserved

### Dedication

Dr. Bill Bass & The UT Forensic Anthropology Center

# April Showers

It had been a long, hard winter. The freeze had begun in October and, as March drew to a close, it seemed it would never end. Then April Fools' Day came, bringing with it warmer temperatures and the sun shining brightly on soil that had been icebound for months. The runoff was fierce and flooding hit hard. Those of us who lived near the river watched the banks with trepidation. My little house was not as close as some of my neighbors' homes, but when a small community experiences trouble we all share it. The melt was bad enough; the rains that followed only compounded a bad situation. The whole town pitched in to stack sandbags around the foundations of the houses nearest the river. Jo and Glenn Baker lived closest to the river; their house had been built on stilts in an effort to avoid the possibility of flooding. But as the river edge grew closer to the stilts and eventually made its way up, foot by foot, it was apparent the stilts might not be enough to keep the house dry.

Jo and Glenn moved their sheepdogs to their cousin's house on the hill. There wasn't much they could do but watch the water rise and move valuables like family photos and treasures to the upper floor. In the end their back deck was washed away when the soil that held the stilts gave way. Piece by piece it floated off in a rush of gray water with white caps like an ocean storm instead of a raging river. About that time they decided enough was enough; they got a storage unit in town and started moving as much as they could out of the house.

Dewey Parker lost his shed, but by some miracle the house stayed put. The sandbags kept most of the water out, but his carpet was ruined and the tiles in his bathroom floated in an inch of dirty water. His wife Ella ran screaming from the house when she jumped off the commode after seeing a fat rat swimming vigorously in the bathtub. Dewey actually got a laugh out of it and retold the story for days.

By the second week of April things began to simmer down. The rain lessened and the sun peeked out every so often, making a valiant effort to dry up some of the soil. The third week into April, the rain stopped and the waters began to recede. Folks stopped making jokes about building an ark. It seemed as though the nightmare was over and life could begin the slow process of returning to normal.

The last week of April is the week we all remember. That was the week the first body floated past the boat ramp. Four of the local boys had disobeyed their parents and gone down to the river to see if there was anything worth collecting, the way small boys like to collect things. Joey Fisher thought it was a mannequin and even considered trying to swim out and get it. The boys ran along the river's edge, following it as it bobbed along. It was Mike Mills who got the closest to it when it got hooked on a tree that had fallen into the river and extended several feet into the murky waters. The boys were arguing about the likelihood it was a body when two more bobbed along like they were joining a death dance party. That sent the boys running to the road where they flagged down the Nelson twins who were heading into town for the first baseball practice of the season. The Nelson twins pulled over and chewed the boys out for their stupidity and followed them back to the river's edge. Bobby Nelson pulled out his cell phone and almost dropped it when he dialed the sheriff to report five bodies stuck out in the middle of the river, bobbing around, arms and legs entangled as though they were performing a bizarre group hug.

By the time the sheriff got to the spot in the river where the boys were all staring silently at the growing number of bodies, the count was up to nine. The Nelson twins had taken pictures with their cell phones and news was already making its way through town. Within an hour the riverbank was crowded with spectators trying to count the tangle of bodies and discern their genders, some of which were as naked as newborn babies. When all was said and done, seventeen bodies were pulled from the river in varying states of decay. Nine were women and seven were men. The males looked to be young, barely out of their teens—although it was left to the state medical examiner to make the final call on that.

The rains of April finally gave way to the warm, sunny days of May. More bodies were discovered further up the river. State investigators, joined by federal investigators, sealed off the riverbank for several miles north. The Nelson twins and the four boys who had first spotted the macabre display became instant celebrities—they'd discovered the biggest thing to happen in the area since Clara Woodstock shot her husband for chasing skirts in the next town over twenty years earlier.

Amid all the fuss and attention, the adults began to look at one another with a degree of suspicion. Steve Bumpus first pointed out the obvious in his soft, steady voice, "Guess someone around here has a taste for killing."

He had leaned on the checkout counter at the IGA, a long line stretching behind him and every checkout backed up with Saturday shoppers, when he'd made his statement. It was like someone dropped a thick quilt over the whole store as the hush spread from line to line and heads swiveled about to check the reactions of those nearby. A few of the older folk asked.

"What did he say?" and were answered in whispers that sounded like the soft hissing of steam from a kettle with a busted whistle.

I was stocking at the IGA that year. I didn't hear the remark but I did hear the silence that followed, if it could be called hearing. I guess it was more like not hearing. There were no more kids fussing for the candy that lined the displays at the checkout, no more grumbling about the rise in the cost of eggs and milk, and no more huffing and puffing from impatient shoppers who thought the lines should always be open and available for them and them alone. I moved down the cereal aisle where I had been stocking the cornflakes that were on sale and had been cleared out twice that week already. It was creepy, like watching a DVD on pause — people just standing, some with mouths hanging open like they'd been saying something and stopped mid-sentence. Steve picked up his two bags of groceries, gave a quick glance around the store, and then strode easily out the automatic doors with no look back at the mess he'd just started.

Then, as if the door swishing closed behind him had thrown an unseen switch, the registers started binging, voices rose, and kids resumed fussing for candy that would keep them spinning like dervishes for the remainder of the afternoon.

Billy Lawrence, the other stocker, passed me on his way to the back of the store, carrying empty boxes from the endcaps. "What happened?" I asked.

He gave an uneasy glance back at the front of the store. "Nothing important."

If there ever was an understatement that was it. And the weeks that followed proved just how much of an understatement it was.

* * *

I lived with my grandmother. My grandfather had disappeared over ten years ago. That was the year after my parents were killed in a car crash on Old Highway 63.

My grandmother was not an easy woman to live with. I suspected she was half out of her mind. She was my mother's mother but she was nothing like the mother I remembered. My mother had always been bright and sunny. She and my father had been high school sweethearts. I was about fifteen when I figured out I had been a big surprise for them. My mother had just turned seventeen when I was born, the age I was now.

Anyway, Granny talked to herself. It was something that had started shortly before Grandpa went off into the sunset without so much as a 'bye, see ya later, guys. ' I woke up one morning and Grandpa was gone. He had been retired from the railroad for over fifteen years, since he'd injured his leg on the job. Within the year Granny had sold the house which she suddenly announced she hated like hell and moved us into a little house nearer to town. I asked a couple of times if she was going to ask the police to look for Grandpa. She'd given me what I called her crazy eye look and laughed — not a big ha-ha laugh nor a giggle. Just a sort of harumph ha. Then she would shake her head and go back to whatever she'd been doing, mumbling to herself the whole time.

Don't misunderstand — Granny was not mean to me. In fact, I'd have to say she loved me more than she'd ever loved my mother. There was nothing she wouldn't do for me and nothing she wouldn't give me. Maybe she loved me because I didn't take advantage of that. That was because I was always a good boy. I figured if she was crazy I sure as hell didn't want her to go crazy on me.

When the floods had gone and the bodies had washed up, I spent long hours glued to the television reports. I'd sit on the edge of the couch, my heart pounding like a bass drum in the high school marching band. Sometimes the reports were so detailed my foot tapped in rhythm to my heartbeat. It was the talk of the town. It may well have been the talk of the county or the state. It didn't get much past the borders of town. Anyway, Granny might have been wandering through the living room as I watched on the big television she had bought because I'd wanted it. She would stop and look at the screen.

"Wow Granny do you think we know any of those dead bodies?" My voice trembled with excitement at the prospect.

There was no response, and I would look up to see the hem of her dress disappearing into the other room, the mumbling agitated. Granny did not approve of violence. I mean, she really hated it. I had to play video games in my room. I had my own DVD player because she didn't like fighting in a movie. Her idea of a good movie was a comedy from when movies were in black and white. I sat with her sometimes and watched them. Don't laugh. It was the least I could do. I didn't get the jokes. The stories didn't make any sense either. But she did everything for me, so I could spare a few hours now and then to watch some old movie or television show with her.

Once the bodies from the river were taken to Murray's Mortuary and Flanagan's Funeral Chapel it seemed like the story might die down. They called in some kind of investigators from the state and big, fancy SUVs were seen on the streets of town while examinations were made behind closed doors with no comments forthcoming.

The best part was the news crews that came to town. We even made the national news. Newscasters speculated that some cemetery or graveyard upriver had been flooded, releasing their precious sleeping inhabitants to swim leisurely downriver until they made a pit stop in our town.

It was almost a month into what we called The Investigations that two men arriving in one of the aforementioned black SUV's wearing matching black suits knocked on Granny's door. I opened the door and stood looking dumbly at the two men. Of course they could tell straight off that I was a kid and they asked for my parents. Before I could respond, Granny came scuttling up behind me and shoved me unceremoniously out of the way.

The poor guys didn't know about Granny's mumbling or sometimes bad temper so they were quite stunned when, upon announcing who they were and where they were from, she slammed the door hard in their faces.

"Granny! You can't do that!" One of the few times I defied her was that moment when I reached past her and opened the door. The two men stood in exactly the same positions, the only change being the looks of surprise on their faces.

In a few minutes they informed us that Grandpa was no longer lost. He was one of the river dancers who had washed up. Granny stood silently as they offered their condolences and assured her that as soon as their investigations were complete, they would return Grandpa to us for a proper burial. Granny mumbled before turning and going into the living room. The men apologized for upsetting her. I explained she was likely shocked and horrified to learn her husband had not run off but had in fact died somewhere from some as yet unknown cause.

The men exchanged glances then and one cleared his throat before he informed me in a confidential tone that, apparently, my Grandpa had his head smashed in by some unknown instrument. I imagine I looked like a fish out of water with my mouth hanging open and my eyes bulging at the revelation. After a few more moments of chatter I can't recall, they got back into their big black cars and headed back to town.

Going into the living room, I saw Granny sitting in front of the television watching an old episode of Father Knows Best. I wondered if she had heard any of the conversation regarding Grandpa's head. I also wondered if I should impart this information to her. Finally, I decided not to. If she hadn't heard, she would soon enough because news like that travels fast in a small town.

But there was more news yet to come. And we would all be hearing it soon enough, along with the rest of the state. Heck, along with the rest of the country, maybe the world.

* * *

Going to school and working at the IGA afterward was not my idea of a fun time. We couldn't live on Granny's money from Grandpa's pension alone. The house we lived in was not mortgaged but there were other bills. I confess I had a few things I liked to have. I liked going to the movies with my friends. Fast food was a weakness I had no desire to give up. The occasional date with a girl cost a few bucks even if we went really cheap. My biggest expense was the money I'd been setting aside to buy a car. I knew it wouldn't be a new car. No one except Max from Max's Chevrolet dealership and Joe Ford from the Ford dealership across the road drove new cars. I always wondered who bought the shiny new cars that sat in their showrooms. It certainly wasn't anyone in our town. But every year, when new models began to appear in television ads, the showrooms had the same new models on their floors. The real moneymakers were the old cars in the back lot. Those were the cars that sold. Those were the cars I would choose from.

As weeks went by and no answers were forthcoming from the strangers who entered and exited the various town businesses, the rumors began to fly. The notion of a flooded cemetery had long since floated off with the last of the muddy waters from the river banks. Local news which came from the county seat eighty miles away stirred those waters up with talk of suspicious circumstances. It was Sunday afternoon and Granny was in the kitchen making a roast chicken. I was getting ready to watch a baseball game, the Yankees versus the Red Sox. I wasn't a big fan of either team but I did like baseball. I had played for years growing up and my glove still gathered dust in a closet somewhere in the house. My old bat sat by the back door. Granny claimed it was as good as a gun for protecting us against any possible thieves that might attempt to break in and steal our property. I didn't have the heart to remind her we didn't have anything worth stealing.

The evening news was just beginning when I switched on the channel for the game. Pictures of our downtown, the river, and the outside of the community services building slid across the screen. The reporter stood outside talking to some of the seniors and single moms herding three or more kids with snotty noses who had lined up for commodities—what some of us jokingly called government cheese. It was funny watching the guy in his nice suit and tie talking to some woman holding a boogery toddler on one hip, obviously keeping enough distance so he didn't get slimy streaks on his navy blue. Then he dropped the bombshell.

"What do you think of reports that the bodies found in the river were the victims of a prolific serial killer?"

I recognized the washed-out blonde he was interviewing from the market. Her kids usually ran through the store grabbing bags of candy and boxes of sweetened cereals off shelves, begging for them like sugar-addicted maniacs. She never returned the products to their assigned shelves. She just stuck them wherever she passed and the kids would run and find something else to toss in the shopping buggy for one of us stockers to round up and replace later.

Now the mother with the kids from hell was staring at the reporter as though he had told her that the next Publishers Clearing House winner lived in our town. Her head turned from left to right, a strange expression of something akin to fan fever lit up her eyes. "A serial killer here?"

The reporter tried to cut her off and explain that just the bodies had been found there, but mama was lined up for her fifteen minutes of fame and she wasn't about to let it get away. "I thought something was funny when all them bodies turned up. There's crazy people in this town. I'm not surprised." She pulled her kids closer as though protecting them from an axe-wielding maniac hiding behind the camera. "I hope they find him and fry his ass."

This last statement caused the reporter to turn away and the shot zoomed in on his obviously distressed face as he went on to inform viewers that state investigators were looking into the possibility the bodies had been secreted somewhere upriver for a number of years. "The bodies of girls and young men along with the body of Floyd Vann, a former resident who disappeared six years ago, remain in the custody of the state police. Federal investigators have been called in to assist in the investigation."

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard the loud crash behind me. I turned to see Granny standing there, pale as a ghost, not mumbling, with the shards of her CorningWare baking dish scattered around her feet.

"Granny!" I saw the fear in her eyes and I knew it had to be scary for an old woman to think there was a crazy killer running around town. The idea that said killer might have taken the life of her husband — the man she thought had deserted her — must have been pretty hard to wrap her head around. I put my arms around her shoulders.

"It's okay. I'll clean this up." I guided her into the kitchen and pressed her to sit at the table where a bowl with partially peeled potatoes sat. "You stay put. I'll get this."

Taking the broom and dustpan into the living room I began to carefully sweep up the pieces of the dish, bending to coax a few shards from between the wood slats of the floor. I carried the dustpan back into the kitchen, telling Granny I was going to run the vacuum over the floor to be sure I got all the pieces when I heard her sniffling. I emptied the debris into the trash can and turned to reassure her. As soon as our eyes met she began to sob, softly at first, and then louder until she was wailing.

Granny had never made a sound like that, at least not in my presence. I just stood there with one hand holding the dustpan and the other hand hanging loosely at my side. When she said what she said next I dropped the dustpan and fell into a kitchen chair across from her.

"I killed him. When I found out what he was, what he did, and what he was doing, I bashed his damned brains in." That released the flood of words that had been dammed up for years.

"I thought he was cheating. I thought he had to be having an affair. I'd believed it for years. For years." She stared at the kitchen door as though it was a time portal and she could see into the past as clearly as she could see me sitting there in the present. "I watched him go out that evening. He had that bad boy look that said he was wanting something I could never give him. I went into the garage where we kept the washer and dryer. I kept getting madder and madder. The washer was on spin cycle and it was shaking and rattling. I realized it had slipped off the wooden blocks he'd put underneath to keep it level. I bent down to shove a block back underneath the lower corner—sliced my finger right open. I was cussing and swearing and went to dig around on his bench for a bandage or something. Pulled on that old cabinet he had stuck back in the corner of the bench and it came falling down spraying nuts and bolts and screws all over. I was really pissed off then." Her eyes grew darker and she squinted at the door. "I started pushing those little pieces into drawers not paying attention to whether they were mixed up or not, and then I noticed the cardboard pressed into the wall where the cabinet had been. One corner of it stuck out. It's funny but I remember the way it smelled in there that day. I pulled out that piece of cardboard and the envelopes came flying out. I almost didn't open them. I guess I knew."

I wanted to tell her to stop talking—to tell her I didn't want to know. But like her I was pretty sure I already knew. I looked down at her hands as they twisted on the table, the joints swollen with arthritis. I remembered those hands, thin and nimble, as they bandaged cuts, cooked meals, and wiped my fevered forehead when I had the flu one time. Then I imagined those hands opening long, white envelopes.

"There were pictures. Those old Polaroid kind you can't get anymore. It wasn't the cuts or the marks that bothered me as much as the looks in their eyes. They all looked the same. Their eyes were opened real wide and glassy, just staring. Only they weren't seeing anything because they were dead. More than a dozen, some with things like scarves tied around their necks like fashion accessories. I put them all back in their envelopes. Then I went inside to make sure you were in bed. I took them with me when I got into my car. I knew where I was going. I didn't have to wonder where he was anymore. I knew where he was."

"Where?" My voice came out squeaking like a boy entering puberty.

"In some of the pictures I saw the old fireplace from his grandfather's house. That house had lost its roof years before; the walls were falling in, but that old stone fireplace stood as strong as the day the house was built." Granny sighed heavily. "Maybe you don't need to know anymore."

I didn't prompt her. I waited. I wasn't sure if I wanted to hear the rest. Her eyes flitted over the Louisville Slugger that leaned against the wall by the back door. I turned my head slowly, following her gaze. A sick feeling spread through my body and I could feel bile rising in my throat.

When I turned back she was looking at me. Our eyes locked.

"There was an old root cellar. They were all sitting down there, most of them naked, just sitting in a big circle all facing a chair in the center. I imagined him sitting there looking back at them. I knew what he did to them. I knew what he did looking at them. I knew because when I snuck in he was busy with his hand. Busy the way he sometimes got when he'd sit on the front porch and the little girls and boys from the neighborhood would come to play with you."

She leaned forward. "Did you know I played softball in high school? I was good too. Most girls didn't play, but I liked it. I liked the feeling of the heavy bat in my hands, the swish sound it made as I swung at a ball, and the crack it made when it connected — sending the ball flying out into the field." Granny sighed. "That was the last time I swung a bat, that night I bashed your grandfather's head to pieces. I left him there with his audience, the weeds growing up all around the foundations of the house, more than half the ceiling inside the house, and the storm door that led to that root cellar covered with the heaviest rocks I could drag to bury it."

Granny stood and went to the kitchen sink. She held on to the edge, and I could see her body trembling. "Every year when the rains came I would imagine that root cellar filling up with water like an indoor swimming pool in an upscale hotel. It certainly was exclusive." She laughed bitterly. "I never imagined them getting out and floating down here. I guess he was coming to see me and he brought his lady friends with him."

I suppose I should have told her then. But she was already so wounded. She didn't need to know. I'd read about it in the library in Newtown. Sometimes it skipped a generation. It did in our family. I guess if I ever have kids they'd be okay. But I hope like hell I'm not around when my grandchildren grow up. That old root cellar isn't going to work anymore. Now that I have a car I can do a little exploring, and soon I'll find a place of my own — a cool, dark place where I can take my dates. And I think I'll hide that old baseball bat somewhere. There's no sense in tempting fate or Granny.

# Elizabeth Horton-Newton's Author Bio & Links

Born and raised in the 50's and 60's in New York City Elizabeth Horton-Newton was exposed to a diverse environment early on. With a Southern father and an Irish mother she spent a great deal of her childhood traveling the eastern United States. Introduced to writer's Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Edgar Allen Poe by her father at a young age, she developed a taste for mysteries and horror. By the time she reached the 4th grade in elementary school she knew she wanted to be an author when she grew up. Her dream was put on hold while she raised four children. Now living in a 100-year old house in the southeast with her husband and a collection of rescued dogs and cats, she is fulfilling that dream. She has two published books, "View From the Sixth Floor: An Oswald Tale" and "Riddle", both romantic mystery thrillers. Currently working on her third novel, "Stolen" she also indulges in photography, traveling, blogging, volunteering with local Domestic Violence support groups, and spending time with her five grandchildren.

For more about Author Elizabeth Horton-Newton here are links to her pages:

Website: <http://www.elizabethhorton-newtonauthor.com/>

Blog: http://elizabethnnewton.wordpress.com

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# You're History

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# Deidre Mapstone

# Copyright 2015 Deidre Mapstone

All Rights Reserved

# You're History

"Sarah! Did you get hold of Mr. Pearson?"

"Yes!" Sarah answered Carol from the other room.

The maid scurried up to Sarah. "Because you know she'll be here soon, and everything has to be perfect," she said nervously. She looked into Sarah's eyes, and seemed to feel more reassured before she even spoke.

"Yes, I know. Don't worry. Everything will be ready." Sarah smiled and tried to put the maid at ease.

The maid rushed off as quickly as she came, and Sarah was on to the next duty. For Sarah, it was yet another day working for Ms. Rosalind; nothing out of the ordinary, except that Ms. Rosalind was coming home today. This was unusual, especially in the spring. In the spring Ms. Rosalind was in Florida, and not much brought her back north. Sarah knew the occasion must be important.

The staff fluttered about the house like feathers in the wind. The cleaning crew worked extra hours to make sure the whole house sparkled. Vacuums could be heard in multiple rooms; it was very noisy, and everyone had to shout at each other just to be heard.

Sarah walked from room to room inspecting and making sure everything was on schedule. For her this was routine; she'd worked for Ms. Rosalind for seven years. Keeping the house in order was Sarah's job, and she was good at it. Welcoming Ms. Rosalind home was one of her favorite times, because she'd always felt a house needed to be lived in by its owner from time to time. Ms. Rosalind was such a busy woman she rarely had time to stay for long, but she always managed to come back. Sarah was always ready for her.

"Yes, this is good. Now, is Karen ready for dinner tonight? Dinner must be prompt. Ms. Rose is having guests. She has the numbers?" Sarah asked Josephine, one of the kitchen staff.

"Yes. Everything is set for seven o'clock sharp. If her flight is any later, let us know as soon as possible." The girl finished folding a napkin, then went back to work.

There wasn't any time for idle chit chat today. Sarah walked out back onto the veranda. It was a grand area, concrete with a tile overlay and a wide spread of stairs going down into the gardens. She surveyed the tidy lawns as if they were her own. Sometimes she felt they were more hers than Ms. Rose's. After all, she was here nearly every day, and she cared for everything on this property. With that much investment anyone would feel a kinship with such a place.

It wasn't the job Sarah had planned for herself. She remembered back when she was just starting college, how she'd wanted to be a journalist. She was going to be the next Lois Lane. She loved writing and reporting. She'd gone off to college with this intention, but things had changed after her sophomore year. That summer, her college friend, Mary, had mentioned her mother was short staffed. Her most trusted assistant had finally retired, and she needed immediate help for the summer while she looked for a replacement. That had been almost eight years ago. Sometimes it felt like yesterday, and sometimes it was another life time ago.

Sarah smiled and went back inside.

"There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you!" A dark haired, handsome man walked up and held his hand out to Sarah.

Sarah shook his hand.

She was about to ask who he was, when he continued. "I'm George, Mary's fiancé. You must be Sarah. Everyone here told me I need to speak to you first. You're the head honcho around here?"

His eyes were a dazzling blue, his hair nearly black, with silver bouncing off of it from the sun. His skin was flawless, his teeth the same. Sarah was taken aback by the sight of him, and forgot what he'd just said.

"I'm sorry, the what? You are who?" She managed to stammer, while still holding onto his hand.

George guffawed. It was breathtaking. "I'm George. Mary's..."

"Oh, of course." Sarah shook herself out of her trance, "Yes, Mary's man... I mean, fiancé. Come in, come in!" She finally let go of his hand and led him into the living room. The vacuuming was still going on, and it was quieter in that room for the time being.

"I'm sorry. I'm Sarah, Ms. Rose's assistant here at the house. Did you say you needed to speak to me about something?" She invited George to sit down in the living room.

"Yes. I'm afraid I do." He took a serious tone, which changed Sarah's mood immediately.

She sat down, bracing herself for what might come next. In this job, she'd learned that anything was possible at any time.

George sat down and continued. "You see, it's come to my attention that for some time Mary's been seeing someone else."

"What? Oh, no, you must be mistaken. That just couldn't be." Sarah sat up, almost off the sofa. She felt sure she'd braced herself for anything, but not something this awful.

"No, no, it's true. I know it's been going on for years really, long before I came along. I decided I had to meet this person, well, in person. So, here I am." He looked straight into Sarah's eyes, and her heart pounded, flushing her face.

"I'm not sure what you mean..."

"George. That's my name."

"Yes, George. I'm sure I don't know if I can help you with such a task. Why have you come to me? Is it someone you know? Is it someone I would know?"

Sarah stopped short with her questions out loud, and started going through all the males she and Mary both knew. She couldn't think of one that Mary had ever expressed an interest in, let alone would have an affair with. It was very distracting having George smile at her like the cat who just ate the canary.

"Yes, it's someone you know, or at least that's what I'm hoping. I haven't had the pleasure myself..."

"I'm not sure pleasure is the word you want to use here, sir."

"Well, if Mary is spending all her time away from me with someone else, I certainly would take pleasure in meeting the one responsible." He stared at Sarah again, so intently it made her feel uncomfortable.

"You would?"

"Yes. Anyone that makes my Mary happy while I'm away also makes me happy."

Sarah was confused. Her nose wrinkled up, and George laughed. She was becoming annoyed. Despite his devastatingly handsome looks, George was wasting her time. There was work to be done, and she didn't have time for games.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you are talking about, George, but I don't think I can help you." Sarah stood up. "I have to get back to work. We're on a very tight schedule right now. Ms. Rose..."

George finished laughing. "Yes, I know you're all getting ready for the mother ship to return. I'm sorry. I thought it would be funny if..."

"What's funny, darling?" Mary walked into the room. "Isn't George here just the greatest, Sarah? I'm so glad you've had the chance to meet. Of course, I wanted to introduce you two myself, but George insisted I go say hello to my Rembrandt first. He dropped me off by the stalls and went off into the house before I could argue. So, what do you think of him?" Mary waited with a big smile on her face and her arm draped around George. They both looked at Sarah like vampires on their prey.

"What do I think? I think I have better things to be doing right now. George, it was...interesting meeting you." With that, Sarah went back to work. Mary and George looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, then proceeded to kiss passionately on the sofa.

The last few hours of preparation went by like minutes. The house looked perfect. Sarah would settle for nothing less. She felt ready for Ms. Rose's arrival.

"She's here! She's here!" Jenny yelled, running up the steps into the front door.

Everyone was in their places. Sarah stood in the foyer, and five other staff members lined up across from her, ready to receive their employer. The limousine pulled up to the steps, and Sarah glanced back into the house to see if Mary or George were around. She didn't see them. She looked back around just in time to greet Ms. Rose.

"Hello ma'am. How was your flight?"

The staff members gathered around Ms. Rose, taking her bags and unpacking the limo. They looked like a wave washing away all the hard edges, making everything smooth.

"The flight was fine, Sarah, just fine. Is everything ready for dinner tonight?" She hugged Sarah and kissed her on the cheek.

"Yes, ma'am, everything is all set."

"Thank you, dear. Where is Mary? Did she bring George?" And just like that, Ms. Rose was swallowed by the wave of staff and washed into her home.

Sarah had a couple of phone calls to make. She went out back onto the porch for some quiet. As she held the phone to her ear, she saw Mary and George giggling in the garden. Her heart pounded. She turned around toward the house to complete her phone call. Why am I reacting this way? she thought. Then she remembered how annoyed she'd been earlier, and her heart pounded more, answering her question. She quickly finished her phone calls and went to get ready for dinner.

Sarah wasn't looking forward to sitting through dinner watching George grope Mary throughout the meal, but Ms. Rose had requested she remain. There was some business being discussed, and Ms. Rose wanted Sarah to listen in on it.

The dining room was ornate with lots of wood and trim, mirrors and silver reflecting the sunset all around. The French doors were closed tonight, surrounded in luxurious velvet curtains draped and billowing to the floor. The table setting was simple but elegant, with gold rimmed china and crystal glasses. The linens were off white, and there were half as many candles on the table as usual. The centerpiece was a low, floral arrangement. This was how Ms. Rose had a business dinner.

Sarah was the first to the table. She wanted to make sure it was perfect, and it was. While waiting for everyone else to join her, she went over to the French doors to look out over the gardens. She laughed softly to herself for wanting to escape into them so many times today.

"What is with you and the gardens?" A deep, smooth voice entered her tranquility.

Sarah turned, startled. It was George, in a tuxedo for dinner. He looked incredible. Her heart pounded so that she thought he'd hear it across the room. Oh dear, she thought, this isn't good.

She tried to keep calm. "What? Me?" She let out a laugh that came out more like a cry. Oh, God! Keep it together, Sarah! It's only a tux! "I've always loved the gardens here. They're like home to me." She let out the breath she'd apparently been holding in.

"So you're the outdoor type, huh?" he asked casually, and crossed the room to the window to stand beside Sarah.

She could hear her heart in her ears. She thought it might be projected from there, and he would hear it for sure. She took a big breath.

"Do I make you nervous?"

She looked at him like he was crazy, sure that he could hear the pounding in her chest. "Me? No. I get a little edgy before a business dinner is all," she finished coolly. She felt proud of her answer.

George stepped closer to her. Sweat started to form under her arms. She wasn't sure she could take any more heart pounding. His eyes were dark blue in the dining room lighting. His hair was perfect, not one strand out of place. She felt very self-conscious of her black gown with the thin straps. She wondered if it was too low in the front. She glanced down quickly, then back into his eyes. They were so mesmerizing. She also noticed he wasn't much taller than she was with her heels on. She tried to guess his height to distract herself. Anything to get rid of the pounding in her head.

"I know just what you need," he said quietly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"A drink. I'll get you one." He smiled, looking smooth and sly, and walked over to the bar. "What will be your pleasure?" He grabbed two glasses and placed ice in them both, then grabbed a bottle and filled up the first glass.

You, Sarah thought, then felt flushed. She quickly spurted out the first liquor that came to her head, "Scotch, please. On the rocks is fine."

I've never had scotch before in my life. What am I going to do with that? I'd better make it look good. I hope it doesn't taste too bad, or I don't know if I can drink any of it. She turned back toward the window and took some more deep breaths as silently as she could. It made her feel a bit better. She wondered where everyone else was, and checked her watch. It was still early. Ugh. I hope Mary comes down soon, at least. She took the drink from George and smiled.

"Thanks. I guess I need it." She held her glass up, clinked it with George's, and sipped, hoping it wouldn't make her cough. It was bitter, but warm and smooth. She was glad, and made the sip a bit bigger. Perhaps it would make her feel a little better. The warmth traveled down into her stomach, and within seconds, she swore it radiated throughout her entire body.

"I'm really very sorry. That's why I came down here early. I owe you an apology for my bad joke at your expense earlier today." George swigged generously on his glass. "I can be a little over-enthusiastic sometimes. Again, I apologize." He bowed his head slightly.

The ice clinked around and sent shivers over Sarah's shoulders. She shook for a second. The warmth inside her mixed with the sound of ice outside her made her feel very strange.

"Are you all right?"

"What? Oh, yes, I just got a little chill," Sarah replied. She took another sip of her drink. She hoped that it wouldn't be too much before dinner. She wasn't used to drinking on an empty stomach. "Thank you for your apology, George. I was mainly confused this afternoon, and I was so busy. I hope I wasn't too rude. I can be short when I'm on duty."

"Not at all, Sarah," he put any worries she had at ease, mainly because his voice sounded so smooth and sincere. Or was that the scotch? "I'm just a trickster like that. And don't worry, I've had plenty of rude reactions, and yours wasn't one of them. I was simply anxious to meet you after everything Mary had told me about you."

"So, you talk about me do you, when you're together?" Sarah asked with her mysterious smile. The banter made her relax. Or was that the scotch? She sipped it again. Each sip was smoother, and the warmth turned into happiness.

"Well, Mary does the talking, seeing as I'd never met you before," George explained. "But yes, from what she says, I gather you two are like cousins or sisters or something. You're quite close, anyway." He finished his drink, and the ice hit the bottom of his glass like a bell ringing. "Want another?" He held his glass up.

"Oh, why not?" Sarah finished her scotch with a last swig, and handed him the glass. He went back over to the bar, and Sarah coughed a little. The warmth was going into her head now, and she felt woozy after coughing for a few seconds. She kind of liked it. Scotch. Who knew?

George handed her a second glass of scotch. She held it, appreciating the coolness of the glass, for she felt quite warm now.

"So, you know I met Mary in college, then?"

"Yes, and that you two became fast friends, and she got you this job in her mother's house, and you're lifelong pals, etc, etc." George said rather like he was reading instructions on how to fix a carburetor. "What I want to know from you is, isn't it weird being in this position? I mean, the help and all? And still be such good friends with Mary? Doesn't this all feel beneath you?" He took a swig, about half the glass this time.

Sarah's eyes bulged out, and she held fast to her drink, knowing she couldn't compete with that. Her stomach turned at his questions. So insulting! Or was that the scotch?

"Again, I beg your pardon? Beneath me? Like this job is what, a maid or something, and like that's beneath us? I'll have you know, I run things around here for Ms. Rose because I care about her and everyone here. How dare you insult me by suggesting that 'the help,' as you so graciously call them, are beneath any of us? Why, they are the ones that make us who we are. Without them, we're nothing. Every job around here is worth more than you, combined," Sarah finished. She felt flushed, and the pounding began again in her ears. This time it wasn't because of George's good looks and tuxedo. She was insulted and furious. Or was that the scotch? Her head was dizzy now. She excused herself before George could say anything else, and went to her room.

Sarah had her own suite in the house because Ms. Rose needed her on such a regular basis, a modest room and bath and dressing room on the second floor, while Ms. Rose's master suite was on the first floor. There was also a suite upstairs for Mary, and three guest bedrooms, with two of them sharing a full bathroom, and one with its own. Tonight, two of the guest rooms were full; one with George, and one with a Mr. Smythe who was dealing with George and Ms. Rose to help with whatever business they would soon discuss at dinner.

Oh God! Dinner! What am I going to do? Sarah quickly texted Karen down in the kitchen for someone to bring her a tray of crackers and ginger ale. Luckily, she hadn't drunk that second glass of scotch.

The tray came promptly, and Sarah noticed it had started to rain. She heard the drops on the window and closed her eyes, pretending the rain was washing away the alcohol, making her feel better. She ate a few crackers and sipped on the ginger ale. The bubbles immediately settled her stomach and cooled her skin. She felt better already, and would probably be fine in time for dinner.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on her door.

"Come in."

"Sarah? Is everything all right?" Mary poked her head in the doorway.

"Yes, Mary, I'm fine. Come on in. I haven't had much chance to talk with you since you got back." She drank her ginger ale down and burped. Mary laughed.

"Seriously, though, Sar, George told me what he said downstairs. I'm so sorry! He can be such a numbskull! I sent him down there early so he could apologize, 'cause I knew you'd be there alone, and look what he does." Mary hugged Sarah. Her head felt swirly. She hugged Mary back.

"Oh, Mary, I don't blame you. Or him for that matter. I think it's a misunderstanding. With tonight's dinner, I'm all preoccupied, and he's probably worried as well, so it's just a bit of miscommunication. We'll get things right after tonight, 'kay?"

Sarah always felt as if she were reassuring Mary of something. Whether it was about boys, cars, horses, or any decisions Mary had made in the last seven years, Sarah was the one who was there to tell her it would be all right. Sarah liked this about their relationship. She felt similarly about Mary's mother. This was her place in their home, and she was happy with it. It made her feel useful.

"Come on now. Let's get down to dinner before it starts, okay?"

"All right. I'm just glad you're okay with George. I mean, he's my fiancé. I want you to love him almost as much as I do." Mary laughed, stood up and took Sarah's hand. "I mean, almost, you know?" She squeezed Sarah's hand and led her downstairs.

If she only knew, Sarah thought, that man could do no wrong with me. I'm in such trouble. She smiled back at Mary, and went to dinner.

Dinner went as expected: perfectly. Sarah decided to stay away from the wine, and her head cleared. She was able to enjoy the meal as well as assist Ms. Rose when needed. The business deal was for a charity that Ms. Rose, George and Mr. Smythe had in common. They were planning an event to raise money for it. It was to take place in August, so they could do something outside and also have enough time to plan it. Four months wasn't long, but it could be done. Sarah was taken on to help when she could, and was happy to do so. Their charity helped troubled children all over the country, and she always lent a hand for it when they needed help.

"Well, looks like you and George will be spending a lot of time together, then," Mary said, "I'm jealous." She made a pouting face, then laughed. "Just kidding, you two. I want you to get to know each other. Now George will know why I want to spend all my time with you, Sarah, and vice-versa!" She held her glass up, then sipped her wine. Her cheeks were rosy, and she seemed to feel the effects more as dinner went on. "Don't you two go missing me too much while I'm gone."

Sarah blushed, and noticed George looking at her across the table. He looked so damn handsome! She couldn't wait for tonight to be over with, just to get that tux off him. Oh crap! That's not what I meant! She smiled at Mary, sitting next to George. They were quite a beautiful couple. Mary was dark haired, like George, but fair skinned and hazel eyed. She had a petite frame, and made George look bigger than he was. Not that he's not perfect. Her thoughts wandered and betrayed her yet again.

"Yes, Sarah," Ms. Rose added, "While Mary and I are gone, please see to it that the venue, the menu and the caterer are all taken care of. That isn't going to be too much, is it, dear?"

"Oh, not at all," Sarah answered confidently. "When you're not home, things run smoothly around here." She made a face, realizing what that sounded like. "I mean, not that they don't run smoothly when you're here. I mean, I meant, I think..."

"I think we'll be fine," George finished for her.

Sarah looked at him, half trying not to picture him out of his tux, half grateful.

"Yes, of course you will, George. We're leaving you in our most capable hands," she nodded toward Sarah.

"Well that's good. Can we enjoy the rest of the delicious meal without talking business, then?" Mr. Smythe finally added to the conversation. He was a large-set man, and looked like he thoroughly enjoyed a good meal and drink.

* * *

Several weeks later, Ms. Rose and Mary set off on their trip. They were taking a cruise in the Caribbean, and would be gone for three weeks. The trip had been planned long before the benefit, so they didn't want to cancel it. That left a lot of work for Sarah to do, so she was glad George would be around to pick up the slack.

She felt she'd come to terms with her lust for George. Yes, he was extremely good looking, but he was already a taken man, and by her best friend yet. Over the last many days she'd watched him with Mary; saw their kindness to each other and the love they shared. She'd grown to appreciate it, and felt happy for them both. She still liked to look at him, though. Looking was still okay.

"I'm having my cousin over this afternoon, Julie," Sarah told her second in command about a week later. "I'll be taking the afternoon by the pool. I'll have my phone with me, so there shouldn't be any problems."

"Yes, Miss Sarah."

The pool was a naturalized water hole. It was a beautiful setup that looked like it might have simply grown out of the ground, with a waterfall and rocks in and out of the pool. There was a pool house nearby, which was like a small guest house, with a living and kitchen area, a bed and bathroom, and a shower set up outside the house to rinse off after swimming. The area was an intimate setting, and one of Sarah's favorite places to be. She was glad to be able to enjoy some time with one of her little cousins.

Max was six. He was a green eyed, very active, sandy haired, typical boy, and he was excited about spending the day at "Sarah's pool".

Sarah was able to make phone calls lining up the venue and the caterer for the benefit while watching Max in the pool. She had lunch brought down for the two of them, and they ate under a canopy.

"Well, finally I find you. You been out here all day?" George came across the lawn to the pool. He was wearing a horizontally striped multi-colored swimsuit that fit a bit too tight, to his benefit. His t-shirt was casual, but looked pressed and neat in a washed out red. His chest looked as though it might burst through the shirt if he moved too much.

Sarah grabbed her iced tea and took a gulp, which pushed her bite of chicken salad sandwich down quickly and uncomfortably. She held the glass to her mouth a little longer than necessary to keep her eyes diverted from George's physique, and almost spit out her tea in her haste to answer, "Yes! Or most of it, anyway. This is my cousin, Max," just as Max jumped into the pool from the side.

He popped up from the water, shook his head like a wet dog, and announced with a broad grin, "Hi. I'm Max. Sarah is my cousin, and I love to swim at her pool." He went back under the water and swam to the other side.

George looked at Sarah. "Your pool?" He smiled at her and sat down next to her on another lounge chair.

"Yeah, well, he's six, isn't he?" She laughed.

They proceeded to go over the plans for the benefit. It didn't take long, luckily, because Max wanted to show them every trick he'd learned that afternoon.

"Look at this!" His high pitched shout echoed over the water at least a dozen times.

Sarah and George finally gave up talking business and gave Max the attention he was asking for. Sarah thought she might try swimming, too. She went over to the edge of the pool and put her legs into the water. It felt refreshingly cool for a minute, then her legs adjusted to the temperature.

There were rocks all around the pool, including on the bottom. The deeper side had a few of them on one edge, to allow for jumping or diving into the center. "Hey, Sarah, I bet I can get to those rocks down there," Max said. He pointed to a deeper part of the pool. With Sarah poolside, he looked confident that he could go there.

Sarah sat up straight. "Um, Max, I don't think you should go in water that's deeper than you."

"I can do it!" He swam out to the rocks he wanted to reach.

"Max! Come on back here!" She moved to the pool's edge and gasped.

"He'll be all right. Watch," George's voice hit her ears like smooth jazz, making her relax instantly.

She hated it when he used that voice, it sounded so hot. She couldn't look at him when he used it, either. It was too much for her to handle, but she had no choice. There was no sense in lusting after him if he wasn't available to her. Even with the benefit to work on, she needed more distraction. That's why she'd invited Max down for the day. He was the youngest of three in his family, and his two older siblings were always busy with friends in the summer. She'd thought it would be a win/win situation for them both, but not with that voice.

She tried to lighten things up. "Okay, but if you're wrong, you're jumping in after him." She splashed him a little bit, then thought, oh crap, stop flirting already!

"Just watch," he answered. At least the sultry tone was gone.

Sarah watched nervously as Max dove down to the rocks and came up empty handed. She saw that he was okay, and he went down again. She couldn't help but look at George again for a second. He was watching Max, smiling and looking like a proud dad watching his own son. That's adorable. She smiled.

"Got one!" Max came up proudly with his rock of choice. He swam over next to Sarah to show her.

"Nice one, Max," she praised him, still smiling.

"See, told yah," George said quietly.

The three of them spent the rest of the afternoon swimming. Sarah and George joined Max in the pool and taught him how to play Marco Polo. They all had a lot of fun, Sarah's inappropriately lustful feelings notwithstanding.

Sarah spent the evening after dinner quietly strolling through the gardens, enjoying the sunset and happily reminiscing about the day. It had been so pleasant to spend time with Max and George without having to talk business. Her mind returned to the scene with the three of them at the pool. George had looked so fatherly with Max, and he'd only just met him. George was polite and patient. She knew those were things Mary loved about him. Sarah loved them too. Most girls would, she thought.

The sunset was a stunning pink-gold that night. Sarah knew that warm colored sunsets brought warmer weather. She loved these longer warm days. She smiled, thinking how the plans were almost settled for the benefit as well.

"Penny for your thoughts." George's smooth voice curled around her ear and made her gasp.

She looked over at him to find the hint of a smile on his face. It reminded her of when they'd first met, as if he had something planned.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he started, "I've interrupted." He stood there looking awkward.

"Not at all," Sarah breathed. "I love a good sunset."

The two of them stood silently watching as the sun dripped itself out of the sky, splashing gorgeous, vibrant colors in its wake. It was dark before either of them spoke.

"Fancy a drink? I'm getting bitten like crazy out here."

"Oh. Yes, me too, now that you mention it. Let's go in." She reached for his arm, which he held out for her. There's nothing wrong with taking a gentleman's arm, she thought. Then she felt his bicep and there went her heart thumping again. She sighed, and tried to bring it under control. She willed her hand not to move, not to feel the tight muscle underneath his sleeve. If she didn't move, her heart would have to slow down.

The two made it up to the house. George went over to the bar, and Sarah sat in the living room on the sofa. Sitting there also made her think of the first day she'd met George, and how she'd watched Mary drape herself over him. It had made Sarah a little jealous at first, but now things felt differently. Even with his great looks and charm, she knew he wasn't hers, and so it was simply a matter of her state of mind. Yes, she could appreciate his assets, but she didn't have to own them. She didn't have to make him hers. She could just admire him from afar. There's nothing wrong with appreciating such a fine specimen. She took the glass from George, and he sat next to her.

"Cheers," he said, and they clinked glasses.

That was the last thing she remembered.

* * *

She was walking outside in the rain. Her clothes were soaked through, but it wasn't cold. She was so upset. She was crying. Why? She tried to remember, but she just felt sadness well up in her to the point of crying. She felt the heaving in her chest, and the sobs of breath. So sad, so sad.

She was in the kitchen at the table. George sat next to her.

"Why am I telling you this? Why am I telling the boy I like that I like him, and why am I in my bra?"

She looked down at herself wearing a bright pink bra. She had a purse in her left hand, and also wore a hat.

"Why am I in this?"

George reached over, took her hat off, took the purse from her and placed it on the table. She was still wet from the rain, and assumed that's why her shirt was missing, but where was it? Why was she talking to George in just a bra? She left the table feeling ashamed.

Sarah opened her eyes. She was in bed. She was dry. She could still feel the sadness from her dream. Thank God it was just a dream! She pointed her toes, stretched and flexed them, and was about to roll over onto her right side when she saw George there. Next to her. In bed. Sleeping soundly. It was light outside, so she knew it was morning, but she had no idea what time it was or how she'd gotten into bed in the first place.

Was it a dream? Please tell me it was a dream! She tried to remember. Flashes of the night came to her as she woke up more. Drinking. There'd been a lot of it. Her head pounded, and she grabbed it to keep it from exploding. George rolled closer to her. He faced her now, still sleeping, breathing heavily. How the hell did I get here? How could I let this happen? She assessed herself. She had clothes on. All of them. Shorts, top, bra. She looked at George. He was fully dressed as well. Hmph. Guess we just passed out here. Nothing happened, I'm sure. She rolled onto her back and fell asleep.

* * *

Days later, everything was prepared for Mary and Ms. Rose's return. Three weeks had gone quickly when there was so much work to be done. Summer time was in full swing, and there would be parties every weekend at the house until the benefit. Mostly the guests would be just friends who stopped by to party with Mary all weekend. Ms. Rose would join them early in the evening, and when she decided to retire for the night they'd all go down to the pool, and usually end up there until morning.

Sometimes Sarah would join Mary and her crowd, and sometimes she chose to go to bed instead. Since that bizarre night, and with Mary back, George had barely said two words to Sarah except to talk about the benefit. All Sarah fully remembered about that night was finally waking up in George's room alone. She'd gotten up and gone to her own room. They hadn't discussed it afterwards. Ever since then, he'd been all business, despite Mary's pleas for details of their time together in her absence.

"So, tell me...did you two have a good time together? Planning the benefit and all that?"

"Sure, honey. We had fun, didn't we, Sarah?" George said, sounding most formal.

Sarah tried to cover up the awkwardness, "Oh, yes, Mar, we had the most fun. Max came over and joined us in the pool one afternoon. You remember my little cousin, Max?"

Mary pondered for a moment. "Oh, yes, I think so. Cute little fellow with the crazy hair?"

"Yes, that's the one." Sarah forced a little laugh.

"Well, how fun. You had time to play after all." Mary giggled and kissed George on the cheek.

Sarah saw him wince slightly. Mary didn't seem to notice. She diverted her eyes, feeling a slight blush on her cheek.

* * *

The next weeks were all about the benefit. The guest list, the invitations, the responses, the catering, the cake, the alcohol...there were so many details. Sarah was busy every waking moment between that and the house's usual upkeep. She didn't have time to talk to George about anything, let alone if he remembered that night. She wasn't sure she wanted to talk about it anyway, so she was grateful to be so busy.

August came, and the heat was sweltering. The household spent most of their time poolside. That meant a lot of working by the pool, and also by George. Sarah was saddened by her memories of being so happy with Max and George there. It was the end of a happy summer. She spent the next days making the hardest decision she'd ever made in her life.

* * *

The benefit was spectacular. It went off without a hitch. Ms. Rose praised Sarah from the moment she entered the venue.

"Oh, Sarah! You've outdone yourself this time!"

"Glorious!"

"Fabulous!"

"Perfection!"

All for Sarah.

She attempted to smile graciously at Mary when she approached, but Mary looked at her uneasily. "Sarah. I want to talk to you," she said, and took Sarah to an empty room.

"What is it, Mary? Is everything all right?" Sarah went into panic mode. She wasn't sure if something was wrong with the benefit, or if George had finally told Mary about that night. She braced herself.

"I was going to ask you that question, Sarah." Mary said, concern covering her face. "You haven't been yourself since we got back, and I just know something is wrong. I know you too well, Sarah, dear. What's wrong?" Mary took Sarah's hand in hers and waited for an answer.

Sarah didn't know what to say or do. She didn't want to do this. Not here. Not now. This wasn't the proper time. She'd planned it out, and it wasn't going to be right now. She couldn't fight the moisture welling in her eyes, and she didn't want Mary to see her like this. She wanted to remain composed. Blinking the oncoming tears away, she said, "Oh, Mary, you worry too much. You've seen me at these events before. You know how nervous I get!"

"But we've all told you how wonderful it is already."

"I know, but I get this way anyway." Sarah tried to laugh, but it came out like a groan. "You know me. I'll be just dandy when this night is over." She finished with a little hiccup and swallowed hard.

"Oh, Sarah, thank you." Mary hugged her.

"For what?" Sarah's eyes watered again.

"For being such a great you. You're so terrific. You must know we couldn't live without you." Mary hugged harder one more time and let her go.

Sarah didn't want Mary to see her tears, so she put her head down, let her hair fall into her face, stood up and turned away as quickly as possible. "I'll be just fine. So will you." She left the room.

Thunder cracked, and it started to rain.

The night went on in all its splendid form. The benefit raised more money than anyone had planned. The rain fell harder now, but that didn't stop the celebrating.

Sarah was outside, underneath an overhang, waiting for a cab. She looked back through the glass doors, watching Ms. Rose and Mary talking at their table. She saw Julie arrive at the table just as Mary was about to stand. Sarah's second in command, Julie looked stunning this evening. Her sandy brown hair hung straight, and her dress was simple and elegant, in black for the evening. Sarah knew she would make an excellent replacement.

Mary sat back in her seat. Julie placed an envelope on the table and walked away. Sarah wasn't sure she could look on. She turned away and faced the rain, just in time to see a streak of lightning. She braced herself for the thunder which followed a few seconds afterward. She shuddered and turned back to look at Ms. Rose and Mary one last time. It looked like they were arguing. There were hand gestures, and Mary looked very upset. Ms. Rose was trying to comfort Mary by patting her on the shoulder.

More lightning and thunder sounded. Sarah's insides felt like the turmoil outside. She wasn't sure how much longer she'd be able to hold it in. Where is that cab? she wondered. She knew it would be only moments before they'd come looking for her.

The cab pulled up. Sarah was wet, her purse on one arm, a bag on the other, her suitcases waiting by her side. Tears streamed down her face as the cab driver helped get her bags into the trunk. She looked back at the doorway. Wet, sad, crying, she thought of her dream. The sobbing came on hard. She got in the cab, and it drove off.

* * *

Five months later, a new year had begun. It felt newer to everyone, especially Sarah. For the first time in over seven years she was on her own. There was no one to answer to, no one to talk to, no one to console, no one to help. She'd made it through the holiday season without any word to or from Mary or Ms. Rose. She assumed that George must have explained everything to them, and that they'd accepted her resignation.

Sarah had gone home to her parents for the holidays. She'd thought it would be a nice time to see them and spend quality time together, as her job had used to keep her from them most of the time. They'd reacquainted themselves, and Sarah had learned to rely on someone for a change rather than be relied upon. Her mom and dad had appreciated the time with their daughter and stood by her decision to change her career. They saw the sadness in her, and although she wouldn't talk about it in detail, they made it clear that they trusted her decision.

The rest of the winter was hard, due to both weather and job hunting. Sarah couldn't find a job or an area in which she wanted to work. She waited tables and did some hostessing at finer restaurants in the city, but she never stayed anywhere long. She wanted just enough money to get by, and she had some saved, so she had time to look for a more permanent career. She was taking the time to decide where to go next.

From time to time George entered her mind, popping in at the least convenient moments, and always when she didn't expect it. Suddenly there he was, handsome as ever, with a voice so smooth it made her head spin. She'd push him away, but he would appear again to say, "Hello." She tried to close and lock the doors in her mind to keep him out, and wished he would leave for good. She'd heard from her mother that there was still no wedding date set, and wondered whether what had happened between them, whatever it had been (she still had no memory of it), had anything to do with the delay. She tried not to think that much of herself, but she couldn't help wondering.

Mostly Sarah kept herself busy thinking about her future. She hadn't been allowed the luxury of doing that since her college days, so she took the time now to regroup, rethink, and reinvent herself. She wanted to know where to go next. Without an idea of what kind of job she wanted, there was no use hunting for one. She soon got frustrated, and she wanted a direction.

George would unlock those mind doors when she daydreamed. She watched him swimming in the pool, his tanned skin glistening in the sun, his breath smelling like his favorite drink of the week. Sometimes she just let him play there in her thoughts for a while. It was a harmless visit, but it always left her feeling hollow. There is only so much satisfaction to be gained from memories and fantasies, Sarah, she would tell herself. Only sometimes, in that daydream state, she wandered there with George without a care in the world.

* * *

Spring came along, and Sarah felt good about her job options. She learned that there were a lot of them available to her with her degree and experience, but narrowed it down to three. She would be a party planner, a buyer for just about any clothing company, or a marketing consultant. These all interested her, and she was well qualified. She spent the last few months before summer arrived researching companies, trying to decide which ones would be the best for her. The thought of moving somewhere else intrigued her, and she felt open and excited by all her options.

She'd let her hair grow out to suit her new self. Her gold locks flowed around her like those of a fairy-tale princess. Her dress was more casual now that she wasn't constantly on duty, and there was a natural realism about her look. Overall, she felt content.

Her visits from George were now few and far between. When they did happen they were short lived, and didn't have the same hold on her as they had at first. For the first time in months, she felt good and whole again. She was ready for the changes in her life.

* * *

The days grew longer, the sun hotter, and summer was upon her. Sarah decided to spend the summer with her family at their lake house outside of town. She'd grown up there in the summers, and it felt right to be back before her fresh start at her new life. Her family gave her strength in herself, and she knew that after these months with them she'd be able to conquer whatever she wanted.

Sarah applied for many jobs. She had half a dozen offers, and narrowed it down to three positions, all in different parts of the country. There were many factors influencing her final decision, but she knew she couldn't keep these companies waiting, and gave herself two weeks to decide where to go.

This particular night was crisp, not quite the middle of summer, and the golden sun was setting, streaking the blue sky with little extra color. Sarah's family had friends over for dinner, and everyone was outside preparing for the meal. Her dad was at the grill with some of the guys, and her mom was outside laughing and drinking with her friends. A handful of small children ran around the yard. Sarah went into the kitchen to get a pitcher of lemonade. As she closed the refrigerator, standing right behind the door was George. In real life this time, not merely in her mind. She started so, she dropped the pitcher. It smacked the floor and broke, spilling lemonade everywhere.

"Oh! Oh, my gosh! George!"

"Oh, I'm sorry! I'll help you clean it up," George said, looking almost as startled. "I still can't make a good first impression, can I?"

Oh that voice! Just when I thought I was through! Dammit! Sarah thought, flustered as she looked for a towel or something to wipe up the mess.

Her mother walked in just then. "Oh, Mom, I'm sorry. I broke the pitcher. Do we have a mop? Perhaps a vacuum, too. There's glass everywhere."

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it," her mother said, looking at George. "You go talk to..."

"George, I'm George. I'm sorry about the pitcher, it's my fault. I startled her."

"Yes, well, none of us are perfect, are we now?" Her mother smiled at George in unnerving approval.

Sarah gave her mother a look that said, "What the hell are you doing? I don't want to do this right now!" Her mother ignored her, and with an annoying smirk shooed them out the back door.

Sarah led George outside and out to the back field. The sun hit them just as they reached the field, and still felt warm on their skin. Sarah was thankful for that, as seeing George appear out of thin air had given her goose bumps. She wasn't sure she had anything to say to him. Awkward silence prevailed. She waited for him to say something, anything with that voice.

"Hi there," he began.

Her head spun as she realized how much she had missed him.

"I'm really sorry about the pitcher in there," he indicated toward the cottage.

"Don't worry about it," Sarah said without emotion, "Everything we have here is second hand from the house, so it's never great stuff. No worries." She tried to smile, but found it almost painful.

"I'm sorry," he said again, sounding like an apologetic child.

"For what?"

"For everything," he finished, leaving her more confused.

"I don't understand," she started, but he interrupted.

"I know, and I'm sorry for that as well. I'm sorry for my very bad joke when we first met. I'm sorry for getting you drunk on our first business dinner. You have to admit you are a bit of a light weight though, but I shouldn't have encouraged you..."

Sarah knew where this was leading and she was afraid. She didn't want to hear about that night. She didn't want to know. She'd given up on it so long ago, and put it behind her.

"Stop," she tried, but to no avail.

"No, I have to finish," he took her hand, she pulled away. "I'm sorry for all of it. For leading you on when I knew Mary was coming back. In her own home. I'm a jerk of the biggest variety."

"What do you mean, 'leading me on'? You did that on purpose? You meant to get me into bed?" She couldn't help it; it just came out all by itself.

"No! What? Bed? I didn't get you into bed...wait...you don't remember, do you?"

"What are you talking about? Of course I remember," Sarah answered indignantly, trying to cover. She folded her arms in front of her.

"You don't remember! I can't believe it!" George turned around, then turned back to her. "I came all the way out here," he gestured around the field, "to finally apologize, and you don't even remember!"

"I can remember...most of it! I remember drinking while we watched the sunset. I remember rain, and crying, then waking up next to you in bed!" She shuddered at all that came out of her own mouth. Then came the blush on her cheeks for saying too much.

"What rain? What crying? What on earth are you talking about?" George stood there looking confounded.

"Oh, shit," she spurted. "I don't want to talk about this!" She huffed as she felt the tears well up in the corner of her eyes.

"Oh, God," George started, looking concerned for her, the anger instantly gone. "Oh, Sarah. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean..."

"Yeah, well...when have you ever been good at talking?" Her tears welled over, onto her cheeks. She brushed them away quickly.

"I'm not. I suck. I'm dog meat. I'm nothing. I'm cow dung," George fumbled through his self-loathing, looking more concerned for Sarah's tears.

"You're right; you are." She sniffled and wiped more tears from her face. "Why did you come here, then?"

"I came here to make amends. I came here to make it up to you... I love you," he said tenderly with that voice.

Her sobbing was uncontrollable. She shook silently and tears streamed down her face. She no longer cared to wipe them away. Her sadness opened wide, like a broken dam. She turned away, embarrassed.

"I do," George continued, trying much too hard to make it better and failing miserably. "I love you..."

"Stop saying that! Stop it, do you hear?" Sarah lashed out at him. "I can't hear that...not from you, do you understand?" Her cheeks flushed and her breathing was short and quick.

"Why? Why would I want to stop? I came here to tell you..."

"Don't say it again! I mean it! Or I'm leaving!"

"Fine, I won't say it," he obeyed. "But I want to know. What do you remember from that night?" He ended his question so softly and in such a caring tone of voice, she thought she might faint.

Her face must be a mess. She wiped her nose right on her t-shirt. She wasn't sure she could answer his question, so she answered it with one of her own. "Where's Mary?" she asked, as best as she could without accusation.

He was quiet. That got him. Now she had a minute to think, to figure out what was going on here. She gathered herself, stopped crying, and caught her breath.

"Why did you come here, really?" she asked as tenderly as she could. She didn't want to sound accusing or angry, so she let her negative emotions dry up with her tears, eager to get to the bottom of this mystery.

He stayed quiet for another few seconds. She gave him time to answer. "I told you, I..."

"Yeah, yeah, you said that already. What I need to know is, what about Mary?"

"She and I are...well...she and I aren't...anymore." He looked subdued.

"What does that mean? Why not? You two loved each other, didn't you? How could that just not be anymore?" She felt her anger rise; protecting her ex-best friend was a hard habit to break, but she didn't let it get to her this time, and kept it under control.

"After she came back, things were different with us. I couldn't figure it out at first."

The two of them started walking through the field to the road. Walking felt good, it was easier to talk that way.

"Then one day a couple of weeks after the benefit she said we had to talk. And yeah, that only meant one thing. We were through. She said she didn't feel the same way for me. She loved me, but she wasn't in love with me. Whatever the hell that meant. What a load of bullshit, but she said it. She said she could tell I was different, too. She hadn't felt the same vibe from me since she'd gotten back, and she blamed you," he trailed off and looked at Sarah briefly, waiting for the explosion.

"Mary's always been good at reading people. That's one thing I always loved about her," Sarah replied softly, sadly. She missed her friend so much, it hurt inside. She felt the sting of more tears, and blinked them away.

George put his hand on her shoulder, only for a second, as if he wanted to comfort her. Sarah resisted the temptation to give in.

"She missed you too," he replied to the quick tears, "Mary talked about you all the time. She said you were like her sister. She wanted to call you so many times. She even called your mom once or twice, but your mom said she didn't know where you were. I see now that was false."

"Well, can you blame me, George? Do you really think that I would want to chit chat with either one of you? Do you understand why I left?"

"I only understand what it was like when you left, and you don't. You got to go off, on your...hunt for self-reflection, or whatever, and you have no idea how difficult it was for the rest of us to manage without you."

"I'm sure you all managed fine," she answered tiredly.

"Sure, well, we got along. We went from day to day. But trying to ignore the hole you left in all our hearts...it just grew bigger, and then it swallowed us all."

"That's a little dramatic, don't yah think?"

"Yes, I do think. I'm trying for a dramatic scene here," he sounded a bit more like his usual self, as if he were hoping she would do the same.

"Well, I find it hard to believe that my absence had such an impact. How is Ms. Rose?" Sarah lightened up just a bit.

"She's well. Julie's taken your position and has worked out nicely...or so I hear...I haven't been over there in months now."

"Oh, right." They turned back to walk toward the cottage. "So, why come here now, after all this time?"

"I couldn't stand it anymore," George began, "I missed you every day when I was with Mary, and I thought it was because she talked about missing you, too. When she broke off with me, I thought I'd forget about all of you. I thought I could put it all behind me and move on." He stopped, grabbed her hand and looked into her eyes.

She tried to avoid his gaze, feeling foolish for the crying and her red eyes, but he held her chin up. She had no choice but to face him, and to her surprise, it was peaceful, and he was beautiful. Not only were his blue eyes glistening as well, but she saw his being, his soul. Her heart felt like it was going to burst. She forgot everything they'd been talking about and stared at him, looking into him, and he let go of her chin. She wanted to kiss him right then, but she resisted. She felt like it was too much of a cliché, and she didn't want to be one of those. She tried to get back on the subject, some subject, any subject. Her heart pounded. She'd missed that feeling.

"What happened that night?" she asked softly, calmly.

"Nothing happened, Sarah," he said and moved closer to her.

She saw what was coming, and turned away, walking on. She held his hand as they walked, and it felt good. It made her smile.

"We did drink a lot, I remember that," she said.

"Oh, there was drinking," he laughed. "You were trying to keep up with me. I warned you that it wouldn't work, simply based on..."

"Male and female physiology." she finished excitedly.

"Yes. See, you can remember. You just needed a little help."

"Funny thing is, I'm the one who's usually helping. I'm not a good helpee. How did we end up on your bed?" The question was out there now, lingering and filling their fresh air. They reached the field. The sun was setting, and Sarah guessed that dinner was long over by now.

"We talked and talked that night, about everything. It felt so good to just talk with someone like that. With no motivation for anything else, you know what I mean?"

Sarah nodded.

"So, we saw that the sun was starting to come up. You know how it rises so early in the morning in mid-summer? So, you said we should go to bed. I agreed, and we both walked upstairs. Apparently that's when the drinks caught up with you, because when we got to my doorway first, you passed out in my arms. I didn't know what to do with you. I mean, I was almost as drunk. I couldn't think clearly, so I picked you up and placed you on my bed. Then I swear I was going to sleep on the floor; I swear."

She gave him a skeptical look.

"I sat down on the end of my bed to just take my shoes off. I think I must have passed out when I reached for my pillow. Honest." He laughed.

It reminded Sarah of the first time they'd met, and he'd laughed at the poor joke he'd played on her, making her think Mary was cheating on him. Only this time she didn't feel mad. She didn't feel anything but love, bursting out from every pore and surface of her body, bubbling out of her. She laughed.

"So, I'm supposed to believe that we both passed out?" She kept laughing.

"I swear!" He held his hand over his heart and his other hand in the air.

"Oh, thank God." Sarah sighed. "What a relief. George, I thought I caused you and Mary to break up. I've been afraid of it all this time. It's why I left. I was terrified that something happened, and you knew about it, and decided to tell Mary. Oh, my God!" Another heavy sigh.

"I told you why she left me," George started, more serious this time.

"So, what does this mean?" Sarah stopped laughing as well.

"It means I am here, now. I came to tell you..."

"I love you," she finished. She took his hand.

They looked into each other's eyes, staying there for what felt like an eternity. She didn't know how long it was, but she knew she didn't want it to end. Her heart beat so loudly, surely he could feel it in her hands. She felt the flush on her face in the crisp evening air, and knew she must look a sight, but she didn't care. She looked into his deep, blue eyes, and loved him.

She wanted to wrap herself around him and stay there forever. That would be heaven, she thought, but she resisted. She didn't want to fall into his arms in a happily-ever-after scenario. That wasn't real life. Real life was so much more complicated than the story books of her childhood.

She knew he was waiting for something to happen. She didn't want it to be ordinary. She wanted it to be a story to tell for the ages. How will this go down? This is history, our history in the making. She thought for a second before she acted. Then she leaned towards him and kissed his nose lightly. She snickered and looked at him again. He was more beautiful now than he'd ever been in her memories.

"I love you, Sarah," he said softly.

"Well, now that that's settled, do you want to stay for dinner?" she smiled coyly at him, and just for a moment, it felt like old times. They could be back at the pool, playing, laughing, comfortable with one another.

"I'd love to," he replied. They held hands and walked toward the cottage. A few steps forward, and he said, "But first I have to do this," and without skipping a beat, he took her face into his hands tenderly and kissed her.

Their lips touched softly at first, then pressed together more fiercely. She was suddenly on fire, and wrapped her arms around him. He held her face so gently. They kissed for several seconds. Then she pressed herself against him, feeling his muscled chest against her. She kissed him harder, and never wanted it to end. Then she remembered; history, their history.

That was a pretty good start, she thought.

The End

# Deidre Mapstone's Bio & Links

Deidre Mapstone grew up in Rochester, New York. She's a city girl who spent her summers on Canandaigua Lake. She had the best of both worlds, and a most normal, cheery childhood.

She married her high school sweetheart right out of college, and a few years later started their family. They now have three children, the first to soon attend college.

Being busy raising three children, Deidre didn't discover writing as an occupation until later. She wrote things throughout her life, but didn't think she'd ever have anything published. That is, until self-publishing came along.

The self-publishing world opened up possibilities to Deidre that before, she just thought of as dreams and ideas.

With encouragement from her writing daughter and her husband, Deidre wrote a dream down that spun into a story and blossomed into her first novel, Sigrun, the Bandamann Saga.

She has discovered and fallen in love with the world of writing, and hopes to bring many of her ideas to others!

Facebook page: <https://www.facebook.com/TheBandamannSaga>

Website: <http://ddzines007.wix.com/sigrun>

Twitter: @DDRedMomma

Instagram @DDZines

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# Mabel's Promotion

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# Chrissy Moon

# Copyright 2015 by Chrissy Moon.

All Rights Reserved.

### Acknowledgments

Thank you to the #Awethors for lending me your

emotional support and know-how.

You have all been so great to me!

### Dedication

To all my former movie-theater work buddies.

# Mabel's Promotion

Mabel's eyes began to sting.

She blinked. Her attention shifted from the numbers on the company computer to the sound of her eyelids as they pushed themselves over the arid wasteland of her eyeballs.

She couldn't believe that her eyes were so dry that her blinks...were now audible.

She tossed her head back and forth as if removing herself from a trance, and opened and closed her eyes many more times to moisten them.

Money motivated her. So did proving that she was better than her co-workers.

She just needed a moment to recharge. She rubbed her eyes and put the side of her head down on the desk. She was so tired that the old hardwood desk might as well have been a pillow-top bed at the Marriott.

She was asleep within seconds, an image gracing across the back of her eyelids. There she was, head still down on the desk the next morning, all of her co-workers staring and stifling laughter. Her head was all but glued to the desk, her leaking saliva acting as adhesive, the warm liquid gathering in a tiny pool under her open mouth.

She awoke immediately, sitting up so abruptly that her chair groaned and complained loudly in the dark, empty, one-story office building. That dream wasn't going to happen to Mabel. If she didn't get any sleep, so be it. She was determined to find Dolph's mistakes in this report. They had to be there; he was an idiot, and she was meant to have that promotion. Hell, if she had to find a way to wrangle some prescription stimulants tomorrow, she'd do it. Finding Dolph's mistakes was more important than sleeping. It was actually more important than most everything right now.

Mabel's mind wandered as she continued arrowing up and down the P&L spreadsheet. She thought of the going away party that Beatrice Nichols, the president of the company, held for Emil earlier that day, back when the office was actually open and full of life, noise, and light. Emil was the assistant controller and had quit, and his was the job she wanted—no—had to have.

Old Beatrice had made the Kool-Aid herself. It tasted like she'd thrown in two extra cups of sugar for good measure, probably just to make sure her employees remained enslaved to the company's dental plan.

The cake was even more interesting. Beatrice had run out to the grocery store to buy it during her two-and-a-half hour lunch, not bothering to peel off the bright red sticker that read "MANAGER'S SPECIAL : $0.99" from the clear plastic cover.

None of the lucky partygoers wanted to guess what would make a store want to sell a round two-layer, nine-inch cake for 99 cents. To add to its charm, Beatrice had it personalized: We will always rememoir you, Mail, the cake promised in shaky yellow piping.

Rememoir? Mail? Mabel had peered at the cake in confusion, trying to make sense of it.

"To Emil. Let your future always be bright and shining," Mrs. Nichols had toasted in her gravelly voice, holding up a paper cup that was so thin your fingers would get sticky from the punch. The cups were left over from their Christmas party last year. Or at least Mabel had hoped it was left over. Was Beatrice even cheap enough to rinse and reuse paper cups?

"We'll always rememoir you, Mail!" Dolph shouted. Everyone laughed.

Everyone except Beatrice, who didn't appreciate Dolph pointing out the fact that the cake she'd purchased was less than perfect, and Mabel, who was studying Dolph very carefully.

Two thoughts occurred to her.

First, she didn't like him very much. Mabel found him crass and annoying, but she did enjoy caressing his body with her eyes. She always relished the shape of his shoulders and arm muscles, and when he turned around, when he bent over to pick up the file folder he'd dropped, she relished the delicious shape of his ass. Full and begging to be grabbed.

Preferably when there was no one else around. In the privacy of one of their homes.

Or in an hourly-rate motel. She could put up with Dolph's annoying personality for an hour, as long as he didn't talk much.

Second, he was clearly her only competition with getting that promotion to fill Emil's now-empty office. All Mabel could think of all day was how much she deserved it. Two and a half years of kissing Beatrice's old butt, smelling her dusty farts, and reminding her to take her vitamin supplements that never seemed to help her remember anything anyway. Yes, that office, that raise and that promotion were all hers. She clearly had to get rid of Dolph somehow.

She was either going to screw him, or screw him over. If she really lucked out, it would be both. And it'd be worth it. She had a plan for him. A very elaborate and satisfying one.

Better stock up on the condoms and mango motion-lotion.

A huge grin now decorating her face, Mabel pushed forward, trying to weed out Dolph's discrepancies in this stupid fucking report he'd emailed her that morning.

Less than an hour later, Mabel sighed and looked at the figures again. She was tired and really wanted to get out of there. Maybe she should leave. She'd find a way to ruin Dolph tomorrow.

Something reflected on her monitor. Something moving toward her.

Mabel gasped loudly and whirled, her head first and her body a moment thereafter.

Nobody was there.

She wasn't a crazy person, nor did she commonly see things that weren't there, but she could have sworn on a stack of naked holy men that there had been someone behind her, a creature with nasty fourth-degree burns all over, as far as she could see in that one moment.

"What the hell?" she said out loud, the music of her voice cutting through the emptiness. Someone had been there. She was sure of it! It had clearly shown her a burned creature or person in the upper-right hand corner of her monitor, walking toward her.

Only three other cubicles sat directly behind her. Barely any light and no people to speak of, certainly nobody burned or frightening-looking. Her heart-pounding eased up a little, and it slowly returned to a normal pace.

She stood up and looked around that entire section of the building, but it was empty, dark, cold, and quiet. The ladies' restroom next to the kitchen was usually a noisy place, a dangerous place to be for anyone easily offended, the official epicenter of all sleazy office gossip. Earlier today, Mabel had noticed a few women absent from their desks, and got up and inched her way toward the ladies' room, only to overhear her co-workers discussing Christina's slutty new outfit. Every outfit that woman owned was slutty, but this one deserved its own recognition. In menacing tones, the other women dwelled upon the tube top, the mini skirt, and what she wore on her feet weren't exactly 'fuck-me heels,' but were more like crazed DaVinci contraptions, outlandish platform shoes with unrealistic sword-like heels. Yeah, the other women decided, they were 'commit-me heels.'

About a half-hour before the office's closing time, Mabel had gone again to the ladies' room, not for spy work but for a real need to pee, but two of the women were at it again. This time they were talking about how the new guy fresh out of college was apparently stealing the super cheap, one-ply toilet paper that completely fell apart upon use, and therefore did more harm than good. They vowed never to take any paperwork from his hands.

Tonight, however, the pitch-black darkness of that whole area seemed to stare at her with unseen eyes. Even though she'd been perfectly content to work on a stupid P&L report with minimal light, with her back facing most of the darkened office, now that she'd seen this uncomfortable, staring darkness accompanied by an image of someone about to kill her, she suddenly felt anxious and scared. She had to face the kitchen when she sat at her desk, so she tried very hard not to look in that area.

There was nobody there, she realized as she stood there looking. Mabel was positive of that.

Slowly, timidly, she turned back around and went back to work.

Still, as she sat at her desk, she was overwhelmed by the feeling that there was someone behind her. She turned her head every ten seconds or so just to confirm that there wasn't. She was used to the building being filled with life – chatter, phones ringing off the hook, some of the higher-ups shouting from their offices, plus mail carriers and couriers coming in, wanting someone to sign for their packages. It was usually tough to tune everyone out and focus on her work.

She sighed and did a double-take at something brown she saw on the ceiling. It was a water stain, and she'd seen it dozens of times.

What she hadn't seen before was how the edge of the stain trickled out into a shape that vaguely resembled human eyes, or how the stain around the eyes started to look a little like flames...

She couldn't find Dolph's errors on the P&L, the place was getting freaky as hell, and Galileo needed to be fed. The poor guy was probably sitting in the window sill right now, meowing to an empty house and ready to do a stare-off with her the minute she walked up to her front door. She couldn't leave Galileo to be without food too much longer. He was the only one who understood her in this world full of idiots, ingrates and assholes.

Yes, those were very good omens that she should be leaving. Now.

NOW!

"Fuck this!" she decided, and once that decision was made, she couldn't get out fast enough.

She shut her computer down and turned off her monitor. After it turned off, it was even quieter than before, if that were possible.

Quiet as a tomb.

Her tomb.

And then Mabel heard a distant clatter, followed by what she could have sworn was the sound of someone slowly walking.

Trying not to breathe too hard, she reached over at the very end of her desk and picked up her keys and phone, grasping them tightly in her hands. She got up slowly and pushed in her chair and, refusing to take another look at that water stain on the ceiling, walked shakily to the doorway where the light switches were, trying very hard to appear casual and carefree.

In case anyone was watching. But there wasn't.

Right?

Standing next to the light switches by the entrance to the main area that contained all the desks, she turned off the lights above her desk. Next to the light switches was the front door alarm panel. She pushed the "ON" button until a small green light on the panel shone. She now had a minute to leave before the alarm would sound. Walking sideways to keep the pitch-black office in her eyesight, she made her way over to the front door.

And then she hightailed it out of there.

She ran, her high heels pinching her toes, her heart rate increasing. She was positive by now that there was some demon tailing her, maybe just inches behind her. Mabel knocked over a couple of potted plants as she ran, but she didn't care or stop to pick them up.

She got outside and closed the front door with an angry slam. Leaning against it, the glass felt cool through her white blouse.

It was then that she realized she'd forgotten her purse in her desk drawer. The purse that held her wallet, driver's license, and money.

Letting off a string of choice profanities, she opened the front door quickly before the minute was over. She really didn't need the embarrassment of the alarm going off, which would automatically call the police and alert one of the officers of the company.

She stepped inside and closed the door, then ran back to the alarm panel and shut it off. She turned to leave, then had a brilliant idea. She smiled to herself as she turned the office lights back on – all of them this time, at least the lights for the main work area.

Mabel walked back into the main office area that housed most of the desks. Instead of making a right toward her own desk, she made a left and sat at a different desk. At Dolph's.

She turned on his computer. She was able to log in, because the tech guy used the same password for everyone's computer – LOGAN – when he set them up, and many employees never changed it because they saw no need to, or were too lazy to do it.

She made herself at home at Dolph's desk, glancing at the names of the files on his computer desktop. Where would his version of that P&L report be? Luckily, she found it. Smiling again, she opened it and changed some of the important figures, saving it and then putting it in a timed email, to be sent to Old Beatrice first thing in the morning, so she couldn't be blamed. You're gonna be screwed, Dolphie, she thought with a satisfied grin. You're gonna be screwed, and Nichols is gonna chew you out, and when you come to me to get it off your chest, I'll make you forget ALL about Old Nichols.

And then I'll get her to fire you.

Mabel's leg itched. She reached down to scratch her leg absentmindedly while studying the report on the monitor. Her leg itched again, and she leaned down to scratch her calf again. Still looking at the monitor, she pushed up her pant leg so she could reach around her calf, appreciating how firm her own leg felt.

Then she remembered she was wearing a skirt, not pants.

She hollered out and made a mad dash to the nearest wall, plastered herself against it, and looked back at the desk just in time to see something dark duck behind the neighboring desk. What the fuck was there? Or rather, who? It couldn't have been a thing – that would have been impossible. It was obviously a person, and a person she worked with at that. It was just weird because she really thought she'd been alone.

She tried not to think about how, just a minute ago, she'd been outside the building and she could see that the entire place was in total darkness. If there was someone there with her, how could they have seen in the dark? Why didn't they announce they were there? Why would they be slinking around like that?

And why would their leg be right next to Mabel's as she sat in Dolph's chair?

Okay, so some asshole was just trying to scare her. She wasn't in the mood for this shit.

And then she heard it. The breathing. It was hard and fast, like someone who had just run a couple blocks to catch a bus.

Walking into the office from the lobby was a man wearing some kind of a movie theater uniform.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

As she looked right at him without blinking, he changed his appearance. He was now burned from head to toe – the vision she had seen in her monitor earlier. He was like a walking crispy critter except he was still fleshy it seemed, under those awful burns.

She yelled as she shot out of there, her panic multiplying by the second as she realized that she would soon be out of somewhere to run. The building wasn't big at all, and the place had no back exit that she knew of. She dashed into a room that, she remembered as she closed the door, had a lock. It was a room that served a dual purpose for holding all the company's shared printers as well as the office supplies.

She locked the door and backed away from it, her eyes never leaving the back of the door, and kept backing away until she couldn't anymore. She could lay low here until morning – no, she couldn't do that, people would start arriving and she'd be a laughing stock if they knew what happened, and her promotion could be in jeopardy.

She would stay here until she felt safe. Maybe until the dawn came and it started getting light out. She'd think of an excuse later, something that would save her skin or maybe even make her look like a hero. For now, she wanted to remain alive. She wanted whatever the fuck that was to go find easier people to kill. She didn't care, as long as it left her alone.

A box of file folders dropped a couple feet away. Mabel's head turned to see that burned guy standing there, inside the room with her!

Mabel was terrified. The man made a step toward her as if unsure, finally speaking up and saying, "Listen! I don't know how I got here exactly. I think I'm supposed to be here and that you're supposed to be...I don't know, watching over me." His voice was cracked, anguished.

Then, before she knew what was happening, the man was stepping inside her as if she were merely a business suit. Mabel had no voice with which to scream anymore. She stooped down, trying to brush something off her chest, as if the burned guy were little more than spilled crumbs.

But inside her body, inside her head, the man started telling her about the last day he was alive.

* * *

Grayson

I hope you can hear me. I hope you can understand me. I feel like I need to explain this to you, to tell you about how it all came down for me.

I'm gonna tell you just like it happened. There's this woman who sits in my line of vision everywhere I go.

Listen, I know this is crazy! Just hear me out. Like, a week ago or something, I'm making my dinner. I'm just standing there waiting for the microwave to finish. I look up, and through my kitchen window I see a woman. She's in acid-washed jeans and a cream-colored t-shirt. She's also wearing a multi-colored baseball cap and these big-ass sunglasses that take up most of her face.

She's sitting on a folding chair, on the sidewalk in front of my house. It's not technically my property so I can't tell her to leave.

The kicker to all this, though? She's facing my house. Sitting on a folding chair on the sidewalk turned toward my house. And she can see me. My kitchen blinds are open. I walk to the sink and her head moves that way. I go back to the microwave to get out my meal and her head is turned that way too. She's watching me. Like a hawk. It's making me flip out a little, but all she's doing is watching me. I've never seen her before, and I have other things to worry about – work and dealing with my crazy boss. So, yeah, it doesn't occur to me to call the cops or anything.

A little more than a week ago, I go to work. It's at the old theater on Green Oak Avenue. It's still in business, but barely. Only one of the auditoriums is usable. Harvey, my boss – well, I guess he's the owner but he works there too – he never fixed up the other two since last year's fire. I don't know why. I don't ask him. I just show up and work.

There's only three or four people watching the last show. I think it started before 10:00 and the movie's probably almost over. Harvey asks if I can close up and I don't mind because I don't mind being alone. It's kind of nice being by myself sometimes.

He locks his office and gives me the key to it, then leaves. I'm standing at the concession stand because it lets me see the parking lot and front door, in case someone gets to the movie late. Well, I know the chances of that happening here in Superior are pretty low – it's not like we're in Mesa where there's some kind of nightlife – but it seems a pretty logical place to stand.

Then I see the same woman sitting in that folding chair, dressed in the same clothes. She has placed the chair in the middle of a parking space, and she's sitting in it,perfectly still. This time, though, she's facing away from me, and you know what really gets to me, what really creeps me out? When I look up and see her, I realize she is directly in my line of vision, not off to the side or anything like that. Like, if I were to remove the candy display case and walls of the building and just walk forward, I'd walk right into her. That's creepy, right? I mean, the windows are tinted. You can't see the inside from the outside. So what the hell? Is that a coincidence or not?

It gets weirder, though. One of the guys in the theater comes out to the lobby and asks for a soda refill. We're not supposed to do it for free, but Harvey isn't there and I'm a pretty cool guy, so I give him some more soda and he walks back to watch the movie. Then I'm curious to know what time this movie gets out so I can plan when to start shutting everything down, so I walk away from concession and head over to a counter in the lobby. There's a listing of the starting and ending times on display over there. I notice as I walk further and further to the left, the woman's head is turning more and more to the right. Don't you get it? No matter where I am, she always has to be facing the opposite direction. The exact opposite! And she can't see inside the theater, remember? How could she anyway, if she's always looking away?

Anyway, it's almost time for the movie to end. It's a Christmas movie, and seeing as it's almost April, no one's really interested in watching it all that much. Still, Harvey insists on keeping a few Christmas props in the lobby, 'for atmosphere,' he says. We have paper elves decorations on the walls, a giant inflatable cheesy Christmas tree in one corner with a deflated 'star' sitting on top, and a short plastic Santa standing on the lobby bench. It's actually a little creepy now since some little kid had poked out the plastic eyeballs weeks ago, so the Santa is standing on the bench with two huge craters for eyes.

It's stupid keeping all this here since it's springtime, but Harvey wants it there. He's the boss-man, so what he says, goes.

So I go around shutting down concession but I make sure to keep the bathroom lights on as well as all the hallway lights in between there and the working auditorium.

When I come back to the lobby I see the woman in the folding chair is gone. Great. Good riddance.

The auditorium doors open, and the guy who got the soda refill comes out, hands empty, his arm around his girlfriend. I tell them, "Bye now. Have a good night!" The girlfriend looks at me and smiles, and the soda guy nods his head and says, "Thanks! You too." They exit in front, not too far from where that woman in the parking lot was sitting before.

I unlock Harvey's office and check for voicemail. There isn't any. I shut down his computer, turn off his lights, close the door, and make sure it's locked. Then I put his key in my pocket. No, I don't add Harvey's office key to my own keychain. I keep it separate and safe.Then I realize I haven't seen anyone leave besides that couple. I guess they could have used the back exits or just slipped out when I was in Harvey's office. It doesn't really seem likely to me, but it's a possibility.

I check the auditorium. I pick up a bucket of popcorn I find on the floor, along with two large sodas. I guess that's where the couple was sitting. I go back and put them in the trash, then go to finish my inspection of the theater.

The rest of the auditorium is empty. I half-expect to see that one woman I keep seeing, sitting in one of the seats down in the front – directly in front of me, of course. But I don't and she isn't. I walk all the way down to the screen, swiveling my head back and forth to scan for more trash or left-behind personal belongings. I find nothing, but once I pass all the seats and I'm pretty close to the screen, my sneakers especially begin sticking to the floor. Some genius had spilled their soda, and since the auditorium is on an incline, the liquid ran all the way to the bottom.

I'm a little annoyed, because Harvey hates spills and he'll be pretty pissed off tomorrow if he finds out I've left the auditorium like this overnight. I've no choice. I gotta walk all the way to our utility closet which is next to Harvey's office, get out the mop, lug that shit back to the auditorium, get the bucket and fill it with water, and mop up the spill.

I'm hating life by the time I finish and put the mop away. I don't mind being alone, sure, but I hate doing manual labor, in a huge, empty building. I close the utility closet and continue shutting the place down.

Next I check both restrooms. Men's room is empty. Filthy, but empty. I never clean the men's room because it's a pain in the ass and Harvey could never pay me enough to get down on my hands and knees and clean that nasty shit out. He never reprimands me for it. Not sure why that is, but I'm grateful.

I tap my knuckles on the ladies' room door a couple times and shout, "Anyone in there?" When I don't get an answer, I open the door and repeat myself. Still no answer. I take a few steps in the bathroom and squat down to look for feet.

None. Completely empty.

Satisfied, I turn off the bathroom lights. I walk down the hallway, and there are a few movie posters up in display cases that hang on the wall, one after another. I haven't turned off the hallway lights yet, so when I glance at the first poster, I see something moving in the reflection in the display case.

I do a double-take, but I'm walking at the same time so whatever had reflected on there was out of my line of vision. Something roundish reflects in the second poster, and is that...is that a knife? Someone holding up a knife...far behind me?

I become aware of my heart beating in my chest. I know I shouldn't be, but I am anxious to see that last poster, or rather, to see what's reflected in the friggin' display case. I think I'm starting to see it/him/her...still with the knife...

...Right behind me.

I whirl. Nothing there. Somehow, it doesn't make me feel better. At this moment, I really wish someone was here with me. My imagination is obviously getting the better of me. Stupid night shift.

I hear some muffled noise, as if someone's talking or like there are some people or someone hanging around outside. Except I remember that everyone's gone and when I get to the lobby and look around, I see that the parking lot – as far as I can tell – is totally empty. No cars, no strange women sitting in chairs, nothing. I head over to the locker room to take off my uniform's bow tie and vest and to get my own keys, and just when I leave that tiny locker room, I hear that sound again. Since I've heard it before I now realize it sounds like a lady, but I can't tell what she's saying.

I close the locker room door and follow the sound to the one working auditorium.

"Ah. Someone forgot their phone or purse and came back for it, and I didn't see it because it's stashed between two seats," I theorize aloud. It happens sometimes.

Outside, I turn the auditorium lights on. I open the doors and look around while listening for that lady.

Nothing.

I take the same walk that I took earlier down the middle, and when I get to the bottom, again my shoes start sticking to the floor when I walk on it.

"That's impossible!" I say to myself. It took me about twenty minutes to mop that shit up. I can't afford to be unemployed right now, so yeah, I definitely mopped all of that up. I had double- and triple-checked it to be sure. It had been gone.

But as I walk to one wall, my shoes definitely keep sticking, so there's no doubting that somehow, it's still a huge mess. I pick up my right foot and turn it to so I can see the bottom of my shoe. It's fruit punch.

But then a smell wafts over to me. It's a sort of metallic, distinctive smell. I look again at the bottom of my shoe, closer this time, and I can now see that it's thick.

This shit ain't fruit punch.

By now, I'm pretty close to shitting myself. My heart starts beating harder in my ears and I'm dizzy with fear. I'm not sure exactly what I'm afraid of; I just know this floor was clean when I left it, so how did it get sticky again, sticky with this blood? Maybe I was mistaken and there really is someone left behind, and I just happened to miss them while doing the restroom and theater checks. Or maybe they're screwing with me on purpose to be shitheads. Superior's a small town and people get bored easily. I lean next to the wall while I try to think this through.

And I hear that lady talking again, but I realize she ain't talking. She's calling for help.

Or at least I think she's calling for help. It kind of sounds like her mouth is covered.

And now that I'm standing in this auditorium as I hear it, there's no mistaking that the sound is coming from next door, from one of the burned-down auditoriums that never got fixed after the fire.

This realization makes me feel downright queasy. Those old auditoriums are locked, and no one ever goes in there. It would take a lot of determination for someone to break into one of those places. My question right now is, why would they do that?

I move around a little to adjust my position next to the wall, and my left foot slides around a bit. I look down and see more blood, and it's seeping under the wall from the old auditorium to this one!

I curse out loud. Or at least, I try to. What comes out of my throat is little more than a cracked whisper because I'm so goddamn terrified. I run up the aisle, keeping clear of the accumulating blood, and fling open the door to the auditorium. Now, just as I'm about to step foot out of there – I hear her again. It sounds like she's still muffled, but I definitely hear her trying to say something: Grayson. Some lady whose mouth is covered is calling for me from inside a locked auditorium at the movie theater. Calling for me!

Somehow I'm standing outside that locked auditorium. I don't remember getting there; I guess I'm still in some kind of state of shock. I notice that the light switch for that closed-up place is off. So there's a woman in there who is calling my name and she is sitting in the dark. I stand there for who knows how long, wondering what to do. Should I turn the light on for her at least? And then, what? Is there someone in there with her, whoever it is that put her in there?

I try to be logical about this. The only person who could have done this to the lady is Harvey. I mean, he left early, right? He said he had something to do. It was just the two of us working tonight. He had the access.

So what am I going to do, break in the auditorium? I don't have the key to it and I highly doubt Harvey's office key opens these burned-down auditoriums. Even if I did get in there, what would I do then? Take down my fat-ass boss who I guess is also psychotic enough to kidnap a lady? Yeah, me and what army?

At this point, I decide to call the cops. I take my phone out of my pocket and unlock the screen, noticing that both of my hands are shaking violently. And then I look up. Oh god, do I look up.

My body happens to be facing the front door to the lobby, so when I look up, I see the parking lot outside. And yup, that woman – Rainbow Cap Woman – is sitting in that chair again, facing away from me. She wasn't there a minute ago, and she wasn't there when that couple left, but she's there now. In that folding chair. Rainbow Cap Woman turns her head a little, and I can see she is still wearing her sunglasses, even though it's nighttime. Her head keeps turning, swiveling all the way around as she sits in the chair. It stops turning when she can face me, so her head is now on the wrong way. She shakes her head back and forth at me, and she holds up an arm – which is also on backwards – and she wags her finger at me, as if chastising me.

I'm shouting and screeching, losing control of my legs, bowels, and kidneys, so as I'm pissing and shitting myself I'm also falling to the floor, dropping my phone and screaming and screaming.

Is she going to come in and kill me, and if she is, why me? Why wasn't she there when the people got out of the movie, and why was she at my house before?

Then I notice more movement. To the right of Rainbow Cap Woman this time. Inside the lobby with me. On the bench.

I notice that the small plastic Santa's eye sockets aren't hollow anymore. As I stare, breathing hard and sitting in my own stink, I see two white circles with smaller black circles materialize in the sockets.

Eyeballs.

Then the eyeballs shift so they are looking right at me.

I scream something about God, or whether or not there is a God. Without thinking, I force my body to stand up and move it forward so it's up and running. I don't have a plan so I don't know where I'm going, but I sure don't want to sit there staring at this bullshit Santa. I'm running toward Rainbow Cap Woman, only she's not there anymore, but I don't have time to think about that – I just have to leave. That faded plastic Santa with those human eyes is the worst fucking thing I've ever seen in my life, so I'm glad to embrace death if only I don't have to look at that shit anymore. I don't care; I just want it to be over. I'll be glad if I run right into the glass door and all the pieces somehow dismember me.

I stumble, running, my hand still shaking. I thrust my hand in my pocket and just when I manage to get my keys out, I'm being yanked so hard on my ankles that my body falls face-down. Sharp pain hits my face when the ground does, the flesh on it bruising and probably tearing in some places. I'm half-conscious when I feel myself being carried by someone, something, back into the theater.

I remember hearing fire and feeling searing heat. I remember seeing the Rainbow Cap Woman again, and she looks familiar to me somehow, like I've known her before, like I've loved her before...

* * *

Grayson stopped talking...rather, he'd stopped thinking to Mabel.

Mabel squatted near the oldest printer in the building, seemingly alone, but the burned man's voice was as real as the thin carpet under her feet or the darkness outside the window. She couldn't see him anymore, thank goodness, but she could hear him. It was like he was everywhere. It was like he was in her head.

She stumbled out of the printer room, scrambling to get her stuff. She didn't care enough to remember to shut down Dolph's computer. She couldn't care much about anything except whatever it was that was happening to her now. She couldn't explain it, but something was happening to her, something besides a burned guy stalking, inhabiting, and then talking to her.

Not bothering to lock the building's front door or put the alarm on, she drove home at full speed, thinking of how she wanted to go back to having a normal life. She didn't want this hellish nightmare! What did she do to deserve this?

She refused to let herself think of all the questionable things she'd done in the past, and the more she tried to ignore it, the more the memories squirmed their way to her conscious mind. How she used to steal her best friend's essays in middle school and turn them in with her own name, leaving her friend without a project to turn in. How she won a beauty pageant as a teen because she poured hair removal cream into the shampoo bottle of her biggest competition. How she'd splash mud and water on panhandlers standing on street corners and laughed about it. And more recently, what she had been willing to do to get that promotion from Beatrice Nichols.

Once home, she was immediately greeted by an angry Galileo, who was now meowing at her feet, yelling at her for making him miss his dinner. Her hands were still shaking, but Galileo would heal her. She picked him up, making her way to a small, round, decorative mirror that hung in the hallway.

Galileo hissed and jumped out of her hands. Mabel glanced at the mirror and instead of her reflection saw the burned Grayson staring right back at her.

She shrieked, fresh trails of tears forming on top of the dried ones.

"Follow where you're being pulled," Grayson thought to her inside her head.

Crying, trembling, and almost as if she didn't have a will of her own, she left her house again, driving down the road and making what seemed like very random turns.

* * *

Corbin Poole didn't travel often, and at times like this he remembered why. He was worn-out after a long journey and a long, boring meeting regarding his medical supply salesman's job. Since he hated traveling, he usually tried to sell locally, which never panned out.

It was a terrible job, and he could barely tolerate it. Nobody bought supplies from individuals anymore. Everything was purchased online nowadays. People like him were becoming obsolete and useless.

If it weren't for his ingenious side business, he'd be homeless and starving. He had a couple of brilliant telemarketing schemes that took money from thousands of morons, mostly senior citizens. All he had to do was promise they would earn a huge cash prize in return for a couple hundred dollars for processing fees. Sometimes they were reluctant to give it up, but after he told them that this money would set their kids and grandkids for life, they were suckered in. It was too easy. Thinking about his marks always cheered him up.

Corbin wanted to relax now at the motel. He grinned with delight as he looked over his current phone number list, putting it down only to stuff his face with a triple bacon cheeseburger he'd bought on the walk home from the meeting.

He ate in silence for a minute before a car outside honked. He looked up momentarily, then did a double-take at something he saw.

Across the street was what appeared to be a residential building or an office. One window in particular had a light on and a man standing inside.

The man's skin was all burned up, to the point where Corbin couldn't tell if he – or she – was wearing clothes or not.

Corbin screamed, choking on the last bit of greasy pork that was lodged in his throat. As he coughed, he looked back at the window and the burned man was gone.

Panicking, he removed from the desk drawer his nine millimeter that he usually carried with him. He was always careful, especially when some assholes accused him of ripping off money and wanted to pound their refund out of him.

Corbin heard a sound of a fireplace being lit in his room, which started to bother him when he remembered he was at a cheap motel and not a proper bed and breakfast.

The burned man materialized right in front of him.

Corbin fired the gun at the burned man, standing abruptly out of his chair, which fell to the side, the cheap wood rattling on the floor. He was unable to tell if he'd hurt the man, who continued to stand there, saying and doing nothing. Corbin couldn't see any details of the man's face aside from the big white eyeballs standing out from lidless sockets. He shot the gun again, backing up until he hit the wall, trying to rationalize what he was seeing, trying not to let panic and fear get the best of him. He was a smart man, one of the smartest he knew. If anyone could think of a way out of this, he could.

A knock sounded at the door. Hoping it was someone on the staff or perhaps someone from security who had been alerted about the gunfire, Corbin opened it, seeing a crying woman standing there.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered to him. "I'm sorry!"

He gave her an impatient, outraged stare, saying nothing, trying to figure out what was happening to him.

"I'm Mabel," she managed, her shoulders shaking.

Corbin deliberated until he thought of a scenario that made sense to him. This woman was probably the burned man's wife. Maybe he was a ghost and he was trying to visit his still-living wife for whatever reason, love or hatred, he didn't care which, and she was obviously staying at this motel too. It was Corbin's bad luck that he happened to choose this place. So, maybe the ghost was an idiot during his life and was still an idiot, unable to find his own damn wife so he could haunt her.

But how did she know to come to his room?

He looked over his shoulder and saw that the burned man was gone. He relaxed his muscles, wanting to put the gun down, but first he wanted to ask her for confirmation if she was indeed the burned man's wife. It probably sounded crazy to a normal person, but he'd seen a lot of ghost investigation TV shows considered himself a regular expert on the subject. He actually considered himself an expert on a number of subjects, including how to comfort crying women. "Are you—?" he began.

Mabel grabbed Corbin's hand and wasted no time in turning back towards him and shooting him in the gut with his own gun.

He let out a cry as he fell, the searing hot pain in his belly intensifying. Mabel, gun in both of her own hands by now, aimed it in the general direction of his head and pulled the trigger again. Corbin stopped screaming. He was aware of nothing but his warm, sticky blood as it grew beneath him. Before long, he was starting to feel cold and losing track of what he was thinking...

He closed his eyes again, his body convulsing for a while until it stopped. When he opened them again, he felt strange – he felt free from pain, but also free from the physical plane of the world.

He now seemed to be in a small room with two other occupants: The burned man, who told Corbin to call him Harvey Grayson, and some woman wearing a bright baseball cap and acid-washed jeans who said she was Iris Grayson, Harvey's wife.

Corbin learned they were all trapped in a room that existed in a world between worlds, and that Mabel controlled it. He learned that Iris had hired someone to kill her husband to get his life insurance money, and that Harvey himself had burned the movie theater that he owned with his wife trapped inside.

Corbin didn't feel sorry for them, though. All he could think about as he introduced himself to them was how, had they all been alive still, he could have taken them for most of their retirement savings with one of his best mailer scams.

"Promoted by Death," Iris was telling Corbin. Harvey Grayson peered over at his wife, his face holding an expression that seemed to be part fear, part hatred. Iris didn't seem to mind or notice. "She was promoted by Death. That Mabel won't be dying or aging anytime soon. She's going to find another person, and you get to help her make the kill. Just don't be like my Harvey over there and grow an alternate personality so you don't remember what you did. That's just stupid." She motioned her head toward Harvey as she spoke, who continued to seethe.

On the outside, in the physical world, there was Mabel, seemingly walking by herself, her feet taking her to her next destination. She walked slowly but with purpose, staring into space so long that her eyes would have been dry if not for her weeping. She was tired. So tired.

# Chrissy Moon's Bio & Links

Chrissy Moon was born in Orange County, California.

She loves the Seahawks and country music, will go to the movies just to buy the overpriced popcorn, is usually reading at least a dozen books at a time, and practices road rage on a daily basis.

Official site: www.chrissymoon.com

Twitter: @WriterAngel

Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/AuthorChrissyMoon>

Pinterest: <https://www.pinterest.com/writercmoon>

Goodreads: <https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6939513.Chrissy_Moon>

Instagram: <https://instagram.com/chrissymoonauthor/>

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# Down by the River

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# Karen J Mossman

# Copyright 2015 Karen J Mossman

All Rights Reserved

# Down by the River

As soon as Shelby stepped off the bus, she knew she was too late. She felt nauseous. The feeling passed quickly, but she was left with a sense of foreboding. It was cold, with a high sun that made her squint through her dark glasses. The mile-long walk from where the bus dropped her gave her plenty of time to think. She hated this small North Louisiana town; it was repressive, and since the death of her mother Annie-Clare, life with her drunken father had become unbearable.

Her whole life would have been intolerable if it hadn't been for her friend Mary-Jo. She also suffered taunts when people didn't understand her. She had a simplicity that they mistook for stupidity. Mary-Jo had written her long, barely legible letters about her boyfriend Ricky and how happy he made her. Ricky was an outsider, too. The town folk didn't like him or trust him, Mary-Jo said. And she was condemned for loving him.

Shelby's breath came out of her mouth like steam. She rubbed her hands together and shivered in her jacket. There was a light covering of frost on the grass and bushes, and her feet crunched on the dirt track. The houses got farther apart and more run-down as she approached the outskirts of town.

Ricky lived by the river in a trailer, so Shelby made her way there. It was an old metal trailer that had clearly seen better days. It had probably shone once, and been someone's pride and joy. Now it was dull, with moss covering it in blotches. It didn't look as if it had been moved in a long time. Mary-Jo had said that Ricky used to live on the outskirts of town somewhere in a trailer with his mom. One day it had gone up in flames with his mom and her lover inside. They'd said Ricky was responsible, and they ran him out of town.

As Shelby approached, Ricky opened the door of the rattletrap trailer and came outside. He was wearing denim jeans and a jacket with an old vest underneath, all hanging loose on his tall, lanky frame. His dark hair was long to his shoulders, his eyes sullen.

"Are you Ricky?" she asked tentatively, although she knew he was.

He looked at her with suspicion. "What if I am?"

"I'm Shelby," she told him as he leaned against the door, staring at her.

"Is that supposed to mean somethin'?"

"Mary-Jo's friend?"

"Oh, that Shelby," he said, going back inside. She hesitated before following him, and was surprised to see how neat and spacious it was inside. Against one wall there was an old brown leather sofa. Around the sides were dark wooden shelves, with a wood burning stove in the center that gave off a welcome heat. In the middle of the trailer was a kitchen of sorts, with cupboards above and below a sink and a small electric stove. The opposite end was closed off; the bedroom, she presumed.

Ricky sat down on the couch. Shelby noticed a small TV on the shelf. It was on, the sound too low to hear.

"I'm looking for Mary-Jo," she explained, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"She ain't here," he said, without looking up.

"Have you seen her?"

"Nope." Then after a moment he said: "You ran out on her."

She swallowed nervously. "She didn't mind; she understood."

"She minded."

Shelby felt uncomfortable under his gaze. "Can I come in?" she asked.

He shrugged. "You're letting out all the heat."

Opposite the sink and stove was a table that folded down flat against the wall. There were two chairs on either side; both could be folded flat and attached to the wall by a clip. She sat down on one of them, fidgeting with her fingers as she looked at him.

"She said she was in trouble. She wanted me to come."

"Oh yeah? That's gallant of you," said Ricky.

Shelby didn't understand his anger. "She's my friend, and she needs me."

"Your friend?" His dark eyes stared questioningly at her.

The guilt she felt for leaving still haunted her, "You don't understand."

"No," he said looking back to the television.

"I know something's wrong. I thought she'd be here."

"Well, she ain't, and I'd prefer it if you weren't either."

Getting to her feet, Shelby felt a little braver. "It doesn't matter what you think of me, but I know you care about Mary-Jo..."

Ricky was up off his chair in a flash, and Shelby flinched. "What the hell do you know? I might care about her, but if she cared about me..." He stopped as they heard the sound of cars.

Ricky looked out of the window and cursed. Shelby was frightened, sensing more than she knew.

Two cars ground to a halt on the gravel drive, and within a moment the trailer was full of cops.

Ricky tried to run. It was natural for him to run. Shelby watched with horror as he was violently hand-cuffed and dragged to the car. She had forgotten how brutal they could be.

"Leave him alone!" she cried despairingly.

"Well, well. If it ain't little Shelb'?" said the familiar voice of Rawden Hughes "I thought you'd gone for good."

Shelby caught sight of his badge: the sheriff's badge, bright and shiny on his broad chest.

"That's right," he said, "I'm the big boy now. Maybe you know where Mary-Jo is?"

"If I did, I wouldn't tell you."

Rawden's face darkened, and his bushy eyebrows knitted together. "I'm the law round here now, girl. You have to tell me."

"I just got here; I don't know anything," she said.

"And if you know what's good for you, you'll leave again," he said as he got back into the car.

As she watched them screech off, she caught the curious look Ricky shot her.

She and Rawden Hughes went back a long way. He'd hardly changed, except for his sandy coloured hair, which was sprinkled with a little grey now. His belly still stuck out further than his chest. He wasn't an attractive man, but the trouble was, he'd always thought he was. She owed him a favor, and he never let her forget it.

She closed the door to Ricky's trailer and began the 20-minute walk to where her father lived.

* * *

Pa was sitting next to the fire staring at the flames. He was sober, and didn't look up as she entered. The place smelled of urine and booze, and she turned her nose up.

He looked older and skinnier in his plaid shirt and jeans. They had both seen better days, and hung off him. His greased back hair was long and thin at the back, and it was clear he wasn't taking care of himself.

"I knew you'd be back. You shoulda' let me know, and I'd have picked you up from the bus."

"Yes, well, I didn't know you'd be sober." She looked around; nothing had changed.

"A whole year and no word?" he said, as she sat down in the threadbare high-backed chair.

"I came back 'cos of Mary-Jo." She watched him light a cigarette and draw heavily on it.

"You're a fool to come back here."

"I should never have left her."

There was tension in this town, and it scared her. Closing her eyes, Shelby leaned back in the chair.

In her head she saw the swirling of water, tears of betrayal and shame. Trying to lose the image, she opened her eyes, and Pa was watching her, his cigarette almost finished.

"Don't fight it, Shelby," he said quietly, as the sound of her heart pounded in her ears. "You ought to go have a talk with that crazy boy she's been hanging around with."

* * *

The following day Mary-Jo's body was found in the river.

The town was angry, and they wanted blood. Why hadn't the sheriff charged Ricky? He was guilty, they said. After all, hadn't he killed his mother and her lover?

Shelby slept in her old room that night, grateful to be alone to weep for Mary-Jo.

"The police are biased; they've always hated him," Shelby told Pa the next morning. She was sitting on the edge of the table in the kitchen. He was hand-washing socks with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Nothing had changed in here since her mom died, except now the cupboards were looking old and could do with a lick of paint. The rug on the floor, once vibrant, was now grubby and thin. A clothes rack hung with just-washed shirts was propped in the corner. Their dampness gave the room a musty smell. The plaster had fallen from the ceiling at some point, exposing the rafters.

"I know what everyone thinks, but Ricky didn't do it."

He glanced up, "You know that boy's reputation?"

"Maybe, but he loved her."

"He's a bad 'un. He did it all right."

Shelby looked at him strangely. He was still sober, and he still hadn't looked her in the eyes.

"He didn't. I know he didn't," she repeated.

"Mary-Jo was a beautiful girl. That boy took advantage of her."

"They probably took advantage of each other." She put her fingers to her forehead. "I can't believe she's gone."

"You were the only friend she had. She missed you." He wrung out the socks, pulled the plug and went to the yard to hang them on the line.

"I let her down, didn't I?" she said following him. "If I hadn't gone, she might still be here." Tears sprang easily to her eyes, and Pa's face softened.

"It's all right, child, you go right ahead and cry." He squeezed her shoulder gently.

"Y'know, Pa, I like it when you're sober." She wished he'd been sober that night a year ago. She'd needed him then, and he'd let her down, but it was Rawden Hughes who had driven her away.

Shelby knew she should go and see Mary-Jo's family, but instead she walked down the lane and across the main road to where the river passed by. She pulled the collar of her coat under her chin as the cold air seeped inside, followed the river for a few minutes, and found herself at the spot where Mary-Jo's body had been found. The area was still taped off; only the tape had snapped and was blowing with the breeze.

Standing there with her arms wrapped around her, Shelby closed her eyes.

She could feel the spirit of Mary-Jo, and sensed fear and shame. Goose pimples prickled, as the past tantalised her with images she couldn't focus on. She shivered, and it wasn't because of the cold. There was Ricky, so angry and hurt, but there was something else: something more that she couldn't quite see.

"Little Shelb'," came a voice from behind, snapping her out of her vision. Rawden Hughes smiled, the dimples that he thought were so attractive sunk into his cheeks. "Fancy you coming here — to this exact spot."

"Why shouldn't I?" she said, her voice unnaturally high.

"Poor dumb Mary-Jo, eh?" he said, and Shelby swallowed nervously, stepping away from him.

"She wasn't dumb. You know that."

Rawden smiled again. "A year away from this place has done you good. You look prettier than ever."

She hated the way he looked at her; hated the way his belly squeezed into his trousers. "I couldn't marry you, Rawden. You know that."

"I always live in hope."

"Blackmail is a dirty game," she reminded him.

"Blackmail? Come on," he tutted. "Blackmail is a dirty word, little Shelb'."

She looked around hopefully, but they were completely alone. It was un-nerving. She didn't trust him. He was capable of anything.

"My Pa was sober when I went home," she said, changing the subject as her heart thumped.

"The loss of Mary-Jo hit him badly," said Rawden, and she wasn't sure what he meant. Mary-Jo's death had hit everyone.

"What about Ricky? Have you charged him?"

"Not yet. He'll crack. His type always does."

"Not if he's innocent."

"Even if he's innocent. But he isn't. He did it, all right." Rawden sounded confident.

"I don't think he did," she argued. Somehow it felt important to say that.

He stepped forward and took hold of her chin. Recoiling, she grabbed his wrist to pull him away, but his pudgy hands were firm.

"Why are you sticking up for him? What do you know?"

Somehow she pulled free, "Leave me alone!" she cried, running away and up the embankment to the sound of his laughter.

* * *

Mary-Jo's home was in mourning. Her family sat in their front room on overstuffed floral upholstery, drinking coffee. The walls were covered in photographs, but there were hardly any of Mary-Jo. Shelby wondered why she had never noticed that before.

Mary-Jo's mother's face was blotchy and red with crying. Her elder sisters were tearful. They all acted like they cared. It was a pity they hadn't cared more when she was alive.

"Help yourself to coffee," Mrs McDonough said. There was a fresh pot on the sideboard with steam coming from it. No one offered to pour her a cup.

"Thanks," said Shelby, reaching for the pot and one of the cups beside it.

"We heard you were back," said Maureen, who was perched on the edge of the seat with a cup and saucer in her hand. "How's yer pa?" There was an inkling of sarcasm.

"Fine," said Shelby, refusing to be riled.

"Have they charged that son of a bitch yet?" asked Patricia, her hair piled on her head in a bun that had strands falling down to one side. No doubt to show her distress, Shelby thought

"I don't know," she said, savouring the rich dark liquid. "You think he's guilty, then?"

"Hell, yes!" Both girls spoke at the same time. "Don't you?"

"No," she said, quietly.

"Oh, by God, there's always one," scoffed Maureen. Shelby glanced at Mrs McDonough, but she didn't look as if she were listening. "Mary-Jo was a fool!" added Patricia.

"Gullible," put in Maureen. "That boy saw her coming a mile off."

There was no point in arguing with them. Shelby made polite conversation, finished her coffee, thanked Mrs McDonough and left.

Later, as she walked home with her shoulders hunched, the feeling of foreboding was strong. She knew it was more than just the death of a friend.

What had happened between Ricky and Mary-Jo? Why was her pa sober, and what had Rawden meant? Could he have tried to blackmail her? Had they argued? Why had Mary-Jo been in trouble? So many questions whirled around in her mind; she felt dizzy with them.

It was growing dark when she arrived home. Her pa was banging around upstairs. Shelby took off her jacket and straightened her pale blue sweater. Mary-Jo had had one just like it. They'd laughed and joked that they were twins. It seemed very apt that she'd been wearing it today.

The coffee-pot was still warm. She was pouring a cup when something came crashing down the stairs. Rushing through from the kitchen, she found Pa lying at the bottom muttering a string of obscenities. He was drunk, very drunk.

"You!" he accused shaking off her offer of help. "What are you doing here?"

"Pa! What's the matter?"

"You should never have come back, you little whore! Did you really think I didn't know about you and the sheriff? Get out!" He struggled to his feet and staggered through to the kitchen.

Shelby stared at him with shock and disbelief. "W-what do you mean?"

He laughed as he poured himself another whisky. "The whole town knows you were screwing Rawden. I'm a laughing stock!" He staggered through to the living room and slumped into the chair.

"You don't need me to make you a laughing stock!" she cried, feeling humiliation burning inside her. "Anyway, it ain't true!"

He pointed his finger in her face. "Did you think it was easy for me after Annie-Clare died? I brung you up."

"You didn't bring me up!" she shouted back. "I brought myself up! You were always too goddamn drunk!"

"Enough!" he roared, rising from the chair. Shelby stepped back, frightened. He poked two fingers into her shoulder painfully. "You wanna get out of here before the same thing that happened to Mary-Jo happens to you."

"Pa..." Hot tears ran down her face.

"Get the hell out!" he roared. She turned and fled.

Darkness was descending quickly as she walked back towards town. She kept to the road and away from the embankment, feeling the chill of the night air. Finally, a car drew up beside her. Rawden got out.

"Can I give you a lift somewhere?" he asked.

"No, leave me alone."

"Don't walk away while I'm talking to you, Shelb'." She lost her footing then, and slipped down the embankment. Rawden came down as she got quickly to her feet.

"Now, that wouldn't have happened if you hadn't a run. I'm just offering you a lift, that's all."

"I don't want one," she said turning away.

"Why? Am I not good enough for you now?"

"You never were," she said boldly. "You took advantage of me." She tried to side-step him.

"You knew what you were doing," he blocked her way. "Besides you owed me."

"Not for the rest of my life, I didn't!" she cried.

"It's never too late for the truth to come out. I could make up a good story, my word against yours. Is that what you want?" His hand was on her shoulder.

She was crying now; he was winning again. Her ma's death had been no accident. Only four people knew that, and now one of them was dead.

Rawden was smiling, his eyes sympathetic. His sweaty palm touched her cheek, his thumb stroking her chin. It repulsed her.

"Sheriff?" a voice called. "Don't you have a killer to catch?"

He turned sharply to see Ricky standing by the car and looking down on them.

Glaring at him darkly, Rawden came up the embankment. "You're not off the hook yet, so don't get lippy!" He got into his car, slammed the door, and sped away.

"Are you all right?" Ricky asked, taking her hand and pulling her up. She nodded and wiped her face. "Funny place to be at this time of night, ain't it?" he said.

"Pa threw me out. Anyway, I could ask you the same thing." She began to walk, biting her lip to compose herself.

He shrugged and followed. "So, where're you going?"

"I don't know... into town, I guess." She shivered. It was nearly dawn. Ricky handed over his jacket. "Thanks," she mumbled. "When did they let you out?"

"A coupla hours ago."

"I'm surprised." She glanced at him sideways. "Just because you're innocent don't mean they can't make it stick."

"What makes you think I'm innocent?" he asked.

"Because you cared about Mary-Jo."

He shrugged again. "Since when has that ever mattered?"

They walked along in silence for a while. He dark and moody, she tired and cold.

"He frightened us, me and Mary-Jo."

"Who? Rawden?"

"Yeah, but Mary-Jo never really understood what was going on."

"So you deserted her?"

"No, it wasn't like that." But it felt like that now. Shelby knew it, and so did he. She sighed, "Did Mary-Jo tell you about me?"

"She told me lots of things. I felt as if I knew you. But there was something she held back, wouldn't talk about. It was somethin' to do with you, wasn't it?"

She wanted to tell him the whole sordid story, but was afraid. Instead she said, "What really happened between you and Mary-Jo?"

Ricky didn't answer at first, and she could see him scowling as they walked. She touched his arm, so he stopped and looked at her with his sullen eyes.

"She said she loved me, but she betrayed me," he said quietly, just as it began to drizzle.

"She did love you, Ricky. You were one of the reasons I didn't come back. Mary-Jo felt safe with you. She would never, never have hurt you."

"But she did!" he snapped, glaring at her. The hurt in his eyes hurt her too.

As they approached town, a group of biker punks were sitting on their motorcycles outside a bar. She knew some of them.

"Hey!" Danny Blanche jumped off his bike and came over to them. "Why'd they let you out? Do they let murderers out these days?" The other three followed, encircling them.

"Miss Mary-Jo too much for you to handle?" taunted one.

"What did you do to her? Huh? Huh?" said the other. The rain was coming down harder now. Their leather jackets shone. The punks continued to move around them. Ricky said nothing, trying not to meet their eyes.

"We don't take kindly to outsiders taking our women."

"Much less killing them, do we?"

"I didn't kill her," Ricky protested.

"What? Speak up!" Danny poked his finger in Ricky's chest. Ricky pushed his arm away. The other three moved closer, their bodies alert and tense.

"Stop it!!" Shelby shouted. She'd had enough of being pushed around by people in this town. They looked at her with surprise. "Our women?" she scoffed. "Since when did you care about Mary-Jo? Weren't you the ones who bullied her; made her do things just so you could laugh at her? You stupid, ignorant, low-lifes!"

With that, she shoved Danny hard in the chest. He stumbled back and broke the circle. He raised his hand in retaliation, but Ricky hit him squarely on the jaw. A deputy's car rolled up, and the fight stopped before it began.

Looking at Ricky, the deputy said, "I'd go home before you get hauled in again." Ricky looked murderously at them before striding off. The bikers went back to their bikes, with Danny rubbing his chin. The deputy went on his way.

Shelby stood alone in the street, the rain plastering her hair to her head. It dripped down her face, and nobody could tell she was crying.

* * *

Pa was drinking steadily when she got back. He'd wrecked the kitchen and was slumped in the chair with his bottle at his feet. She stood in the doorway.

"What the hell do you want?" he said, raising his bloodshot eyes.

"I don't have anywhere else to go," she said miserably.

"Go back to him."

"Who?"

He got up, staggering towards her. Catching hold of her shoulders, he slammed her back to the wall.

"Do you think I care about your problems?"

"Pa... Please!"

"You got him now; do you think I care?"

"What are you talking about?" Then he began to laugh. The smell of whisky breath repulsed her.

"I love you," he said, his laughter turning to tears. "I loved you," he wept. The sound of rain on the windows and his sobbing filled Shelby with fear.

"What are you talking about!" she cried. His eyes fell on her jacket and his face turned into a sneer.

"His," he hissed. "That son of a bitch. Go to him!" He swung her round with one hand and opened the door with the other. She screamed as he threw her out into the dark, wet night.

* * *

Shelby arrived at the trailer breathless and soaked to the skin. Ricky gave her a blanket and a towel. She went into the bedroom and took off her wet clothes while he made coffee.

"I don't belong here," she said pathetically as she came out. "I don't belong out there, either. They thought I was odd, too. Only Mary-Jo knew; only she really understood what it was like." She went over to the sofa and sat down, the blanket pulled tightly around her.

He handed her a steaming mug. She unwrapped her arm and took it as he sat down next to her.

"Whoever you are, Mary-Jo loved you," he said, gently rubbing her shoulder.

She sipped the coffee; neither of them spoke as they listened to the rain and wind hit the trailer. The coffee warmed her; she dropped her empty cup beside her and leaned into the welcome warmth of his arm. The rain continued to pelt down, and Shelby fell into a troubled sleep.

When she awoke it was still night, and Ricky was gently snoring beside her.

Clutching the blanket, she got up and poured herself some of the now lukewarm coffee. The wind had blown itself out, and the rain was nothing but a drizzle.

The image of Mary-Jo was clear in her mind. Her stomach churned. Memories of Rawden haunted her, and awful images of Pa. Abruptly she turned. In the darkness she could see Ricky was awake and watching her.

"You remind me of Mary-Jo standing there like that," he spoke quietly. "You feel better?"

"Yes," she said, "but the coffee's lousy." She attempted to smile.

He got up. "I'll make some more."

"I'd offer to do it, but..." She indicated her hands holding the blanket together. "I don't suppose you have something I could wear?"

"Sure," he said, going into the bedroom and pulling open a drawer. She followed him, and he handed her some jeans and a sweater.

"What did Mary-Jo tell you about me?" she asked.

He stopped at the door, "She said you see things."

"Did she really think I walked out on her?" she asked.

Ricky shrugged. "I was angry when I said that. I just know she missed you. Get dressed."

She quickly changed. She had him talking now, and she wanted to carry on. Opening the door of the bedroom, she said, "When Pa got into one of his drunken rages he used to hit me. Rawden thought I was his to use whenever he wanted. Mary-Jo said she needed me, but it was me who needed her. She was the only one who didn't want anything from me. She never had a bad thought about anyone, although she had more cause to than most."

She stood behind him in the kitchen as he poured more coffee and handed it to her. She drank deeply. "I'm not a freak, y'know."

"I never said you were. Are you hungry?"

"Starved. I haven't eaten since..." She paused, her voice trailing off.

He made her a sandwich. Leaning against the wall, he sipped from his cup and watched her eat. She imagined him standing there looking at Mary-Jo like that.

"I see things; that's all. Pa told me he sees things too, only he drinks to blot it out. He was drunk the day he beat up Ma. Mary-Jo and I were hiding in the closet. We were just fourteen. Rawden arrived and Pa had passed out. We were cryin'. Rawden said he could fix it, and we could pay him back later." Shelby finished her sandwich and looked away. "We didn't know what he meant, then."

There was a fire burning in Ricky's eyes, and Shelby cringed from it.

"We were plum scared, Ricky. We had to do it." She thought of the burning shame she'd felt, but Mary-Jo had felt none. She'd been confused, hadn't understood what he was doing to them.

Ricky's eyes seemed to envelop her in guilt, and she felt her cheeks flame. In barely a whisper, he said, "It wasn't your fault. Don't ever think it was."

She blinked back the threatening tears. For a moment they both absorbed themselves in drinking the coffee.

"Can you see who killed her?" he asked after a moment.

Shelby looked at him for a long moment, then looked out behind him through a chink in the curtains. Dawn was beginning to break.

"She was scared, Ricky, real scared. She couldn't say no to him." She put down her empty cup.

"Who was it?" he demanded, putting down his coffee and grabbing her arm. "It was Rawden, wasn't it?"

"I don't know!" she cried, the pressure of his fingers bit into her. "I can't see him! But I... I..." She was on the verge of tears again.

Ricky shook her, "Tell me! Tell me who you think it was!" She was sobbing openly now.

"Pa," she cried. "I think it was Pa. I don't understand..." She stopped abruptly, frightened at the rage she saw in his face.

"The son of a bitch; I shoulda' guessed. Why didn't you know? You see, don't you?"

"He was so drunk," she sobbed, remembering his accusations as he threw her out of the house. "Oh God," she said, pulling away from him. "He thought I was her." Everything began to fall into place. How could she have done it? How could he have done it? She buried her head in her hands and sobbed.

In an anguished rage, Ricky knocked the pots and pans to the floor. The noise was terrifying. Then he turned and slammed out of the trailer.

Running after him, Shelby begged, "Ricky, please, stop. Don't do anything stupid!"

He stopped, turning on her, "Why, because he's your pa? Didn't he beat you? Didn't he kill your mom? Why are you shielding him? What he did was illegal, for chrissake. You were only a child!"

"No, Ricky," she desperately clung on to his arm. "Listen to me!" He shook her off. She caught him again and forced him to stop. "Listen! Mary-Jo wouldn't want you to do anything in anger."

"What do you know? You left her, remember?" He strode on, his body taut with fury. How could she stop him? Did she want to stop him?

Running after him again, Shelby knew she couldn't let him do it. Not for Pa's sake or her own, but for Mary-Jo. She wouldn't have wanted Ricky to jeopardise his future for her.

Running faster than she thought she could, she struck him in the back, knocking him forward. He stumbled, winded.

Falling on top of him, she yelled, "I won't let you do this!"

A cop car sped past, its siren blaring.

"Goddamn you!" he said, the fire going out of his eyes as they got to their feet. Another cop car sped past.

"What the hell...?"

It was in the direction of her house, and they both set off running.

When they arrived, two cop cars were outside, their lights flashing. Ricky looked at her, then back at the house.

Mary-Jo's mother was standing with a group of people, clutching a shawl tightly round her shoulders. "What's going on?" Shelby asked.

"God forgive him!" was all she said.

Shelby ran inside just in time to see them taking Pa's body down from the rafters.

Rawden Hughes looked at her, and for the first time he looked genuinely sad.

"Well, Shelb', it seems he's confessed to the murder of Mary-Jo. Phoned her mom, he did. He also mentioned something about your ma, too."

Shelby stared at her father's blue, contorted face. She couldn't remember when he'd stopped being a father. She felt no sorrow, just shock and a tremendous relief. It was over; she was finally free.

Ricky came up behind her and put his arm around her shoulders. "Come on," he said, taking her outside into the fresh morning sunlight.

"There's a train at noon," he whispered. "If we catch it, I see no reason to come back here again, do you?"

Putting her arm around his waist, Shelby nodded and smiled. This was what Mary-Jo would have wanted.

If some aspects of this story are familiar, I drew my inspiration from Richard Marx's song, Hazard.

# Karen J Mossman's Bio & Links

Karen J Mossman is from Manchester UK with lives with her husband and Yorkshire Terrier. She is the author of Star Struck and three short story collections – The Missing, Behind the Music and Heroes.

http://mossmanmusing.blogspot.co.uk

http://karenmossman.co.uk

 https://www.facebook.com/pages/Karen-J-Mossman-author-writer/1518090468464294?ref=bookmarks

@KarenJMoss

 https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/9814921.Karen_J_Mossman

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# A Heart of Ice

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### A poem by Brian Nash

# Copyright April 2015 Brian Nash

All Rights Reserved

# A Heart of Ice

I met her through a friend on the phone;

I was really fed up with being alone.

The days flew by and I could hardly wait,

So I summoned my courage and asked her for a date.

And this is what she said that crushed me:

"Now I don't mean to be callous, nor do I mean to be unkind,

But if you want complete honesty, then you must know my mind.

For a guy to stroll arm in arm, especially with a girl like me,

He must be almost perfect and he must be able to see."

For the next few days I was really depressed;

I had little ambition and couldn't get any rest.

My friends were quite supportive and tried to cheer me up,

But to be young and lovesick is to drink from a bitter cup.

"Let's have a party at the river," said Joe.

"It'll be a really big bash.

We'll take the ladies for canoe rides,

Play poker, and win lots of cash."

The party commenced on a sunny day,

And the spirits of my friends were high.

"You need to kick up your heels," they said,

So I decided to give it a try.

The desolation of rejection was still coursing through me,

Which put me in a distant mood.

I went light on the beer and spoke rarely and listlessly,

Picking at my food.

"There's a girl that wants a boat ride," they said.

"With you, we know she'll be safe.

In spite of your blindness you've had lots of experience,

And in you, we have much faith."

So with farewells, the lines were cast off,

And the excursion was ready to start.

Then into the boat climbed the girl I'd wept over,

The one who had broken my heart.

With the swish of oars through blue water

Came serenity that ran very deep,

Refreshing me, making me feel vibrantly alive,

Like when you've had a really good sleep.

On wings of stealth, reality came stealing,

As I thought of the girl astern,

Whose stereotypical ideas of my capabilities

Left her rigid, unable to learn.

My face must have mirrored these thoughts and emotions

As I heaved a long-drawn sigh.

Then a ray of sun touched her heart of ice

As she hung her head to cry.

Then she tearfully apologized

For all the things she'd said.

She hadn't changed her mind,

But she asked for my friendship instead.

We were lulled by a sense of security,

And time did quickly pass.

Beneath our craft flowed a deceptive current,

Yet the surface was as smooth as glass.

So engrossed in conversation were we,

At first we heard not the sound,

Of the treacherous rapids called "widow makers,"

In which many a sportsman had drowned.

I yelled to my partner to give me directions

And tell me which way to go.

She replied with a wail and an ear-splitting scream:

"I'm too young to die! Oh no!"

We cut through the water like a ski boat,

Amidst towering whitecaps and foam,

So with oar in hand I made my stand

Against the river, alone.

We were out of control and spun like a leaf

That rides the autumn wind.

We keeled far over, taking on water,

And then were swept around a bend.

We'd almost made it. The rapids were receding

When fate dealt an unlucky card.

My fine canoe splintered when we struck a log;

We hit it much too hard.

We were flung from the boat on impact,

Landing several feet away.

I shed my boots and clothes in haste;

I was scared but otherwise okay.

Then I used my ears

As I would never use them again,

And heard the sound of air bubbles

From my new-found drowning friend.

I dove straight toward the sounds

Her feeble efforts made.

As I went down I imagined a rosary,

And at every bead I prayed.

I must have gone down nearly twenty feet,

Yet still she wasn't there.

So with tortured lungs and a terror-ridden mind,

I shot toward the surface in despair.

I broke the water with lungs afire

And dragged in a breath of cool, fresh air.

Something brushed the side of my face,

And I grasped a lock of her hair.

I got my bearings from the sun on my face,

And so began the ultimate race.

The stakes were higher than medals or fame;

Life or death was the name of this game!

With a long-reaching breast stroke,

I pushed her ahead.

From the closeness of our bodies,

My spirits were fed.

There was heartfelt regret

That she'd not be my wife,

But reflections must come later.

I now must save her life!

Then came creeping like a thief in the night,

A weariness in every bone.

Thoughts of my friends and family were heightened

By the knowledge I might never get home.

_My body is becoming numb with cold_ , I thought;

We must be passing an underground spring.

To be seated by a fire with my dog at my feet

Would be a heavenly thing.

Far-off voices seem to be calling,

But hope is too precious a dare.

Then strong arms take the girl from me,

And someone yells, "You're almost there!"

The possessive current has reclaimed me.

Fingers brush mine with a frantic grasp,

But now I'm going down, ever so fast!

Now I've slipped back to my childhood,

With my mom sitting on my bed.

In reverent voices we recited a prayer,

And this is what we said.

"If I should die before I wake,

I pray to God my soul to take!"

Suddenly I'm galvanized with such a sense of joy!

Tears well into my eyes,

And a gentle voice speaks to me,

Which comes as no surprise.

"Well done, my son!

I'm taking you home at last.

Where time stands still in rapture,

Free from present, future, or past.

Where waiting to be with you is your soul mate,

Whom you will now be able to see,

Who won't be ashamed to be with you,

Not even in front of me!"

# Brian Nash's Bio & Links

I was born in 1961 and grew up on a farm outside Kansas city. I attended the Kansas School for The blind graduating in 1979.

I came from a family of great story tellers and read a lot as a boy learning Braille at the age of six. I learned to type in 7th grade and did a lot of amateur writing in school and helped with the school newspaper. I was certified in word processing in 1980, a great foundation for my writing which came much later. I was a massage therapist for over thirty years and now do some adaptive technology consulting for the blind.

I live in the Ozarks and am an outdoor enthusiast fishing quite often and canoeing local lakes and rivers.

My wife sue and daughter Evelyn are great support regarding my writing as is my editor Leonore and her husband David Dvorkin. To date I have six books available under Brian K. Nash on Amazon.

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# Dave

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# Myk Pilgrim

# Copyright © 2015 Myk Pilgrim

All rights reserved

www.LittlePlasticCastle.com

### Acknowledgements

Thanks to Lauren Pass & Joe McMahon, your constructive abuse is always appreciated, even when it isn't.

A whopping big thank you to Pam Elise Harris for

your help with the edit.

Also DM Cain, Rocky Rochford & the rest of the folks

on the Awethology team.

And last but not least, thanks to my friends Joanna Maciejewska, Clara Bush and Lucy Jayne it's always a pleasure

skiving with you.

### Dedication

For my Dina, it's those early mornings that I miss you the most.

I love you.

# Dave

When I see him, he looks nothing like I'd ever imagined. The face isn't hard or gaunt or even stuck with misaligned teeth. Instead, it's almost friendly. I fancy I can see the pale features smiling at me from beneath the black hood. I try to get up but the pressing pain holds me in place. I feel the splinters of broken ribs poke through my flesh like shattered glass. Lungs feel like they're brimming with white hot coals. He frowns a little as he bends down towards me.

"Come on," he says with lips that don't move. "It's time to go."

"Who are you?" I cough, the words taste like old pennies.

"Don't be stupid, dude. You know who I am. Now come on. I've got a butt-load of appointments still to get to."

He reaches down towards me, his hand passing through the crumpled car roof as if it were a hologram. As his fingers touch my skin, all straight lines seem to blur. I feel a pinch around the base of my spine. A pop, like something being disconnected. The sensation is like stripping off wet clothes as he tugs me out. Suddenly, I realise the pain has stopped. As I stand there on the tarmac beside him, it's hard to disregard the blinding glow that everything has taken, as if before this moment I had been looking at the world through an opaque plastic sheet. The colours shimmer like a Hogmanay sky. A pair of paramedics hurry towards us carrying a stretcher between them. As the first passes through me, I taste the hollow sweetness of the spearmint gum in her mouth. I know the chill of the stretcher buckles as if they had been dropped down the back of my shirt like ice cubes. When the second body steps through me, I share his shiver as the hairs on his arms stand up like pins pressed through a sheet of paper. A crowd of rubberneckers press against the police tape, their phones pointed in my direction. Some are even snapping selfies.

"Crazy, huh?" he says. For the first time, I really look at him, and something completely out of the realm of all possibility hits me.

"You're wearing shorts?"

And he is. His board shorts are printed with a white floral design over a sky blue background. The knees which poke out below are as pale as sun-bleached bone.

"Figured I'd try something different today."

"How's that working out?"

His face wrinkles as he raises an eyebrow which is really not an eyebrow at all. I'm not even sure that it is even skin that covers his face.

"Hey, sure, be a smart ass," he says. "If I were you, I'd be making the best of my last few moments of 'not burning for all eternity,' but, heck, what do I know?" He locks his glare at me and his features distort further. The sunken spaces, which had held concerned eyes a second before, disintegrate into pits of bottomless shadow. My heart would be pounding if it weren't still wrapped in the tin foil ball that used to be my Ford Focus. I feel the despair scratching at me like a horde of hissing cats. I realise I can no longer close my eyes to shut out the world. I sink deeper. I stare down at the wreck. Then he elbows me.

"Just kidding, man. Chill out."

I don't know how I'm laughing, but that's what I'm doing. The images of sizzling flesh and devils hacking at my insides with razor blades begin to subside.

"Sorry, bud. In this job, you've gotta take your fun when you can get it."

"That's cruel!"

"Don't worry you have literally forever to get over it." He slipped back his sleeve displaying an assortment of wristwatches. There are a gold Rolex, a miniature sundial with opal inlays, and an antique pocket watch glued to a piece of ragged Velcro. Another timepiece with both its hands and numbers removed and a pristine deep-sea diver's watch with green plastic accents. He pushed the fabric almost up to his shoulder to examine a Hello Kitty digital just above his elbow. His face furrows as he squints at the blindingly pink thing. He taps at it with a finger which is neither bone nor skin then raises it to the side of his head. The small watch starts beeping, a pitch like a puppy just learning to bark. "And there's the other one!" A grin distorts his face, pulling the corners of his mouth above where ears should have been. "Wait here. Seriously, no wandering off. I don't have time to waste looking for you."

He moves towards the other vehicle and I wonder why I didn't see it before. Is the end so traumatic that you just forget? I don't really want to look at the carnage but curiosity gets the better of me. What remains of the buttercup-yellow roadster is haloed in broken glass. Plastic chunks from the trim litter the tarmac like trampled potato chips. I stare at a severed wing mirror for a long moment, before I notice the wet thing beside my ankle. The ragged chunk of flesh is still twitching as it empties its contents onto the asphalt. I don't know how the ice water chill crawls down my spine, but it does. My new friend is pulling another man out of the wreckage and the portly man is screaming obscenities at him. Things like "Do you know who I am?" and "I'm James fucking Mansfield that's who!" The fellow in the board shorts tries for diplomacy at first. But when it doesn't take, he just grabs the raging asshole and carries him under one arm as if he were a surfboard. James struggles; he kicks and swears. What an idiot!

"Come on. This way," the hooded dude says to me "Time to go."

We walk through the archway as if we are just regular folks on a Sunday stroll to the park. Well, except for James. He's still bucking. He's screaming like a cat with its genitals caught in a car door. I think maybe he's knows where he's going. The space around us darkens and shifts and then we're standing in a hallway. The walls look like carved stone. There are etchings, but I can't make them out in the dimness. The smell that overwhelms me is so out of place.

"Is that,"—I sniff—"Popcorn?"

My shorted friend nods.

"Why does it smell like popcorn?"

He shrugs.

"If I ever find out, I'll come tell you. Cool?" He turns to look at James who seems to have tuckered himself out.

"If you promise to behave, I'll put you down. Sound good?" James grudgingly agrees and the three of us walk on in silence. The halls wind. The bends in them shift like the joints of a gargantuan spider. It's disorientating, but I try to stay close. When I smell the sulphur, it begins to dawn on me that I might have been duped. The terror begins to cluster within me or whatever it is that is left of me. I turn to run but the guy in the hood seizes me by the arm in a grip that I'm certain could tear metal like newspaper. He's got James fucking Mansfield too and he's dragging us towards a door shaped scab. James is screaming again, he's kicking, clawing and biting. I'd like to pretend that what I do is any better, but it isn't. I'm crying like a little girl with a skinned knee. Mother would have been so proud. We pass through the portal and tang of hot sweat forces its way into me. As supple tissue compresses underfoot I can almost taste the writhing mass of fornicating flesh which comprises the walls and floor of the immense space. Eyeless faces are fused into the expanse of gyrating skin, licking their lips with black slug tongues. Tangled limbs and mismatched breasts protrude from the sea of hot meat, shifting like hellish anemones in an unseen current. He forces us towards the centre of the mess where a bitter black shadow waits wrapped in amorphous tendrils of smoke. The things head little more than a septic grin of canine teeth. I give up my struggling. There is no escape.

"Oh hey, Dave," it hisses "We love the shorts."

"Zip it, dipshit. Got one to drop off."

I begin to pray like I've never prayed before. I apologise for that time I peed in the public swimming pool. For the time I stole towels from that B&B in Swaziland, even for smashing that old guy's windshield that one night I got shitfaced with Casey Lynch. James has gone silent too. He must be doing the same as I am. I'm too busy concentrating to even wonder what he's praying about. After what could realistically have been an eternity, Dave throws James to the floor in front of the shade. Scrambling to his feet, James makes a dash for the gate, but a mass of black hands rises from the ground tearing his ankles out from under him. Tears stream down his face he hits the ground hard and they hold him fast.

"Careful. He's a feisty one," Dave says. "Is your boss around?"

"Out on an errand." The twisting black shadow offers nothing further but a ragged grin. James wails as countless hands dig elongated fingers into his flesh.

"No screaming," chuckles the shade "We haven't even started yet." The thing's laugh sounds like a pig gargling molasses. James's screaming doesn't let up as the hands drag him downwards and through the floor.

Dave turns to me—"Come on, I'm running late."

As we make our way back towards the shifting hallway, I can't help but look back over my shoulder. Although we are far from the black gate, the wails of the damned still echo down the hall. And my mind begins to wonder.

"Yeah, she's down there," he says.

"What?"

"Your mother. You were wondering if she was in Hell, right?"

I nod as a cold shame curls up within me like a dead kitten.

"Gluttony," he added.

I take a few minutes to digest this and quickly come to the conclusion that I'm not even a little surprised. Mother had always loved food. Her greatest agony in life had always been that it had never loved her back.

"Why did it call you Dave?"

"Now that, my friend, is another story," he said then began whistling "Don't Worry Be Happy" in a sweeter than sweet tone.

# Myk Pilgrim's Author Bio & Links

Myk Pilgrim is a horror writer or at least that's what he likes to tell people. He shares a flat with the love of his life Dina and an apathetic acrylic dachshund. Where he can normally be found writing in the sunshine at the kitchen table whilst ingesting more caffeine than is probably good for any twenty men. In between his constant tinkering with the short story or flash fiction project of the moment, Myk is presently working on two novels. He hopes to one day be paid for what he'd do for free and maybe even go and do it someplace where he can wear shorts every day. Dina wishes he'd just buy a desk and get out of her kitchen.

For flash fiction, writing updates, unspoiled reviews, the Artificial Blog and more check out Myk Pilgrim's site at

http://www.littleplasticcastle.com or you can actively participate in his writing procrastination by connecting with him on Twitter <https://twitter.com/PlastiCastle>

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# One Night Stand

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# L A Remenicky

# Copyright 2015 L A Remenicky

All rights reserved

### Acknowledgements

Thank you Mom for feeding my love of reading.

Who knew it would lead to this.

# Chapter 1

Jeff

"U need to come tonight. Going to be all kinds of women... they love release parties." Brad needled him. "Get over her. Come meet someone new."

"You are worse than my mother. Ten minutes. That's it."

"U won't regret it. Sending the address right now..."

Jeff DeLong stared at the door to the club; he regretted caving to Brad. Watching people arrive and leave the release party, he tried to make himself get out of the car. Nine months had passed since he left his fiancé at the altar, but he couldn't move past it. Arianna had been the love of his life and the realization that he would never have been what she wanted had finally convinced him that they didn't belong together.

While Arianna used to drag him around events, making contact with everyone she could, his stomach flip-flopped at the thought of mingling and meeting people in a social setting alone. Playing drums in front of thousands of people didn't faze him, but the thought of talking to strangers made him break out in a cold sweat. He started to turn the key, then remembered his promise to Brad about making an effort tonight. After checking that his tie was straight, he jumped out of the car before he could change his mind, resigning himself to a night of cheap beer and band bunnies.

As he trudged toward the club, the rain dripped under his turned-up collar, almost convincing him to turn around and go home. When he pulled open the door, a wave of heat, voices, and alcohol hit him. A beautiful brunette sitting at the bar caught his attention as he scanned the club for Brad and the band's publicist. She looked up and their eyes met for a brief second, her green eyes sparkling in the light.

Brad's voice tore his attention away. "Finally, I was beginning to think you were going to leave me hanging again. Glad you decided to come." He led Jeff towards the bar waving his empty beer bottle. "I'll get us a couple and then I'll introduce you to the band."

When Brad returned, Jeff grabbed a beer and took a long drink, hoping it would take the edge off so he could at least pretend to enjoy himself. Where the rain had trickled minutes ago sweat had started to collect. Normally he didn't let his hair down out in public, but if he didn't at least get rid of his suit jacket, he was going to sweat through it. Pulling it off, he followed Brad to their table. Brad's eyes widened when he started rolling up his sleeves, the white shirt contrasting with the ink on his forearms.

Brad raised an eyebrow. "Out in public?"

"Yeah. Time to get past all the crap Ari put in my head."

"About time," Brad replied with a smirk. "Let's find you a hottie to spend some time with, get that screwed-up bitch out of your head once and for all."

Two hours later Jeff was ready to head home. Peeling yet another scantily clad blonde off his arm, his mind whirled from the beer and all the people. The empty beer bottle in his hand prompted him to look for Brad to let him know he was leaving. Seeing him in the far corner, Jeff sighed as he pushed through the crowd and walked in that direction. When he crossed in front of the bar, someone stumbled into his back, shoving him into a woman. He grabbed her arms to keep her from falling.

"Hey, watch it!" she said as she turned to look at him, those memorable green eyes grabbing his attention.

"Sorry about that. This place is really getting crowded. How about I buy you a drink to say I'm sorry?"

She glanced at his arms, then smiled. "Sure, but make it a soda. I've reached my limit and have an early morning tomorrow." She handed him her empty wine glass. "My name's Kat."

"Hi Kat, I'm Jeff. Be right back with that soda." After buying the sodas, he headed back into the crowd, searching for those beautiful green eyes. He found her at a table, watching for him. A smile lit her face as he neared.

The driving beat of the band's signature sound changed to a slower, more intimate ballad as he arrived at the table. "Would you like to dance, Kat?" He set the sodas on the table and held out his hand, which she took without hesitation.

They made their way out onto the crowded dance floor, and nudged between two snuggling couples to find an open spot.

"I apologize ahead of time," Jeff said as he grabbed her hand and put his hand on her hip. "It's been quite a while since I've done this. I hope I don't step on your toes."

"Don't worry. I have tough feet," she laughed, grabbing him and pulling him in close as she started to sway to the music. Her head fit perfectly on his shoulder and her hand rested on his chest, kicking his nerve endings into high gear. The heat from her hand spread through his body as his breathing slowed and his mind drifted to the future, letting go of the past for at least the length of the song. All too soon the song was over and the tempo picked up.

They ambled back to the table, hand in hand. Kat pulled the scarf from around her neck and fanned herself. "Wow, it's warm in here."

It was hard to mistake the invitation in her eyes, his wanting reflected back at him multiplied by ten. "You up for a nightcap at my place?" He almost groaned aloud when that pick-up line popped out his mouth. Great, now she probably thinks I'm a player. Mental head slap.

She looked at him through her lashes. "Sure, as long as you can guarantee you'll keep your hands to yourself."

"How about if I guarantee that I'll try?" He wondered if he had taken it too far when her cheeks pinked. "Nothing will happen unless you agree, okay? We could go to your place, if it would make you feel more comfortable."

"My place won't work; your place is fine."

Placing his hand at the small of her back, he made his way toward the door, waving at Brad over in the corner who gave him a thumbs-up.

"Ignore him. I think he's permanently fifteen."

"I'll just take it as a compliment that he approves."

The fresh, crisp air filled his lungs as they walked slowly, hand in hand, to his car.

* * *

Kat

Kat watched his chest rise and fall as he slept, his right arm curled around her. By the time they had arrived at his apartment, she had been ready to jump out of her skin.

As she had watched him smoothly shift gears, the sleeve of his coat riding up and showing the tattoos on his arm, she had crossed her legs to try and assuage the ache his nearness created. Artistic expression always intrigued her, especially tattoos. The swirling design had her fingers itching to trace its path up his arm to see how far it extended. She even had to lower the window to ease her heated skin. Touching her cheek, she could still feel where his hand skimmed the curve while they were stopped at a light.

"I'm not looking for a relationship, but there's something about you that I can't ignore."

She couldn't have agreed more with his statement. Thankfully, he had pulled into a parking space before she could formulate an answer. How was she supposed to respond that she felt the same way without sounding easy?

As soon as the door of his apartment closed behind them, he had pulled off his coat, then took her face in his hands and kissed her long and slow. Somehow, her coat joined his on the floor before her hands found the buttons on his shirt.

She smiled at the memory of them stumbling to the bedroom, shedding clothes without breaking the kiss. Now, an hour later, she sighed at the urgency of their lovemaking, wondering what it would be like to be in a loving relationship. Moving slowly so as not to wake him, she extricated herself from his arms and gathered up her clothes, already regretting that she had to leave without a goodbye. The hair falling over his forehead begged to be pushed back and she almost groaned at the thought of another round of sex.

She scurried through his apartment picking up her clothes from the hall and taking them into the bathroom so she could turn on a light without waking him. Dressing quickly, she tried to tame her hair with the small brush from her purse. After deciding it was a losing battle, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Everyone is going to know what you did. All they have to do is look at your face.

Grinning at the thought of throwing her night of passion in the faces of those who tormented her, she let herself out of the apartment. After closing the door, she touched her cheek again and bit her lip. She reached for the handle, then stopped herself. He said he didn't want a relationship and she couldn't entertain one either. Taking a deep breath, she strode toward the bus stop. With one last look at his apartment door she locked away the memory of their time together knowing she would someday regret not saying goodbye.

# Chapter 2

Kat

Kat grinned as she remembered being wrapped in Jeff's arms the night before. Putting the memory away, she turned her attention to the present and her work at Brushes and Beethoven, the non-profit started by her father. His love of art and music inspired her to keep the center open. Now, she wanted to call Jeff and ask if he would teach the kids at the center to play the drums. The conversation played in her head while she stared at her computer screen, the purchase orders listed there replaced by Jeff's face.

"Katriona," her step-mother bellowed. "Are you paying attention to me?"

Kat bolted upright in her chair and blew out a breath as Jeff's image faded. "Yes, Madeline, I am. What do you need?"

"I need the purchase order for the TW Designs order that was supposed to be ready yesterday. Are you going to have it ready for my signature today?"

Kat shuffled the papers on her desk. "I have it right here." She didn't bother reminding her step-mother that it had been done the previous day, but a last minute change had landed it back on her desk.

Madeline scrawled her signature across the bottom and handed it back. "Make sure those people understand that the scarves have to be here by the twenty-fourth."

"Yes, Madeline, I'll let them know." Folding the paper she tucked it into an envelope and placed it in her out basket. She wanted to scream that she was TW Designs and that she would deliver when she was good and ready since most of the scarves from the previous order had never made it to the sales floor, but she didn't. She had learned her lesson back when Madeline first took over running the store after her father was killed nine months ago while on a buying trip.

Those first few months after his death had been brutal. Madeline had changed everything about the store from personnel policies to wages to the quality of merchandise the store carried. Kat had tried to get her to buy out her twenty-five percent share, but Madeline wouldn't hear of it, "Your father wanted you to have it; I won't be the one to take that away from you." Kat assumed she refused because there wasn't enough capital left for the transaction. Instead of store improvements or employee bonuses as in years past, every dime Madeline could squeeze out of the store went toward designer clothes, club fees, and luxurious cars so Madeline's daughters, Priscilla and Margaret, could keep up appearances in their quest for suitably-wealthy husbands. The only money Madeline couldn't touch was the special account that was earmarked by her father for Brushes and Beethoven, known by everyone as B&B, the art program he started to expose underprivileged kids to art and music. That account was almost depleted as nothing had been deposited into it for over a year.

Kat shoved the worry about B&B to the back of her mind, since thinking about it now would only make her want to lash out at Madeline even more than normal. Madeline had given most of the first scarf order to Priscilla and Margaret, but they didn't wear them, which was frustrating since each design was unique and only appeared on no more than three scarves. She needed them to be a success; they were her only hope to keep the B&B program running for more than six months even though they wouldn't bring in enough long-term. While the instructors were all volunteers, the money to pay for the building and upkeep had to come from somewhere and her wages from the store had been cut to a minimum. Keeping herself and the foundation out of financial trouble was a daunting task that she attacked each day...hoping for a miracle.

* * *

Jeff

Jeff sat at his desk thinking about Kat and felt heat rising in his cheeks as he laced his hands behind his head. He'd been disappointed when he woke this morning to an empty apartment, since he'd been looking forward to cooking her breakfast and sneaking a few kisses — more if he could talk her into it — before they had had to get ready for work.

Standing in the shower, he remembered their conversation about him playing the drums after she caught him tapping out a beat on her leg with his fingers. That led to him telling her about the accident two years ago that ended his musical career. While the shoulder injury had healed, he'd never be able to drum every night on a tour without massive amounts of pain killers. Reliving the accident hadn't been as bad as he'd feared. Admitting the role his ex-fiancé, Ari, had played in his abandonment of music altogether confirmed how blinded he'd been by her "perfect girl" looks. She wanted an executive, not a musician, so he had started the public relations firm with Brad to ensure he had a "respectable" job that was still connected to music. What a mistake to give up his music. Last night's conversation flooded him with memories and he found, even now, his head pumping to a steady rhythm. He vowed that he would call his old band mate, Fletch, to see if he still had his drum kit.

By the time lunch rolled around, Jeff had convinced himself it was time to move on. It was amazing what one night with the right woman could do.

Brad walked in to his office holding the menu of their go-to place for lunch. "So, what do you want for lunch today? I'm ready to head out and pick it up."

"None for me today, I'm going out."

"You're what? You never go out for lunch unless I drag you. What's up?"

"Nothing, I just need to get out of the office for a while. What's the big deal? I'm just going to talk to Fletch," Jeff replied, wishing Brad would just let it go.

"What's the big deal? Maybe the fact that you haven't talked to Fletch in over a year."

"It's okay, you can say it: I gave up on the band because of Ari. It's been way to long and I need to see if I can salvage my relationship with Ground Zero."

"Bout time bro. I'll grab my coat and go with you."

"No, I really need to do this by myself, but thanks for the support." He wasn't ready for Brad to know how much Kat had affected him and wasn't certain whether rekindling the relationship with Fletch was the right course of action, though he felt like he had to do something. The first step was to pick up his drum sticks and see if he could still find the beat.

Gripping the wheel, he pulled up in front of a modest bungalow, a unique choice for the lead singer of one of the hottest rock bands of the decade. Of course, Fletch might slam the door in his face since a year had passed. He shoved himself out of the car. Might as well get this over.

After the accident, he had asked Fletch to store his drum kit until he was done with therapy to remove the temptation. At the time, he thought he would be back to touring within a couple of months. When that didn't happen, Arianna convinced him to give up music totally; he hadn't seen her real motivation through the pain and depression.

He was ready to find out if he could still play as long as he didn't overdo it. He missed losing himself in the beat thumping in his head. Maybe Fletch would let him jam with the guys occasionally. At one time, they'd been like brothers and he hoped that he could get that back even if he couldn't be a band member.

He rubbed his hands on his pants, then gave the door a sharp rap. When the door opened, he held his breath hoping he hadn't screwed up one of the best friendships he'd ever had. Fletch stood there as if he was waiting for Jeff to start, so he did. "Hey, Fletch."

"About fucking time," Fletch replied before he pulled him in for a man hug. "I heard you left that she-bitch practically at the altar and I wondered when you'd be back. I know she was the reason you cut ties with us and figured you'd find your way back."

"I'm glad you feel that way. I was afraid you'd slam the door in my face for dropping out without even an explanation." He rubbed his hand through his hair. "I was hoping you still have my drum kit. I think I'm ready to play again."

"Of course I still have your kit. It's back in the music room. You wanna jam for a while?"

"I have to get back to work, but how about tomorrow night? Does the band still come over to jam and write songs on Fridays?"

"Be here at seven. The guys'll be glad to see you...our songs are missing your special touch."

As he drove back to the office, he mulled over a suggestion Fletch had made that maybe he would like to teach drums to some underprivileged kids. When he wasn't on tour, Fletch taught guitar every Saturday for a not-for-profit that tried to keep at risk kids off the streets by teaching them music and art. They might be interested in drum lessons. He smiled as he tapped on the dash. Could be fun.

The rest of the afternoon seemed to fly by. He didn't have Kat's number, but he'd told her the name of his firm, so he had to wait for her to contact him. As the minutes ticked toward five o'clock, he willed the phone to ring. Oh well, I guess it wasn't meant to be. He packed up his briefcase and cleared off his desk before walking over to Brad's office to say goodnight. "Time to give it a rest for the day. I'm sure you have plans with a hot lady tonight. You still coming over for the game tomorrow?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'll be there by two. Want to join me for a beer before you head home tonight?"

"Sure, why not?" Jeff replied as he loosened his tie. "Nothing to go home to anyway. How about the pub on the corner?"

"I'll be finished in about ten minutes. Meet you there?"

Twenty minutes later Jeff was sitting at the bar watching Brad line up his shot on the pool table. "Come on already, I'm going to grow old waiting for you take this shot," he jeered.

"Nag, nag, nag...I'll take the shot when I'm good and ready." Then, he sunk the eight ball in the corner pocket. "Pool shark in the house," he crowed, rubbing the win in Jeff's face.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. How about a rematch hotshot?" Jeff picked up the pool cue he'd been using and chalked the end. "Rack 'em."

"You know, it feels like I finally have my best friend back, Jeff. It's good to see you smile again," Brad said after glancing over his shoulder, presumably checking that no one was nearby.

"Enough mushy stuff. Rack 'em up so I can show you how a real man shoots pool," Jeff said with a laugh.

# Chapter 3

Jeff

Jeff stared out the truck window as Fletch drove them to the B&B building. Kelli, the only female bandmate, sobbing in his arms on Fletch's front steps the night before, still made his heart lurch. Never again would he let anyone tell him he shouldn't spend time with his friends, and the members of Ground Zero were just that and more. They were family. After an hour of catching up they had gone out to the music room and uncovered his drum kit, sitting right where he had left it the last time he played.

Pounding out a beat inspired by the way Kat looked at him, he had led the band as they jammed and wrote the first verse of a new song. He then taught the new beat to Kelli since she'd be the one playing when they went out on tour. Relief coursed through him as they packed up guitars and straightened up their practice area. He hadn't realized how much he missed beating out his frustrations on his drum kit. Even if he couldn't tour, he could still help them write new songs and maybe do some guest appearances when they had local shows.

This morning, his shoulder ached, but not bad enough to keep him from teaching some kids the basics of percussion.

"You ready?" Fletch asked after he parked the truck. "I saw you rubbing your shoulder. Do you want to do this next week instead?"

"No way. I've been looking forward to this ever since you mentioned it."

He followed Fletch into the building, shoving his hands into his pockets to stop their trembling.

"Hey Suzy, is Trina in today? I have a drummer here who wants to volunteer."

"No, she had to leave for an appointment but I can get him started." She turned and faced Jeff. "Hi, I'm Suzy McDonald. I schedule all volunteers and keep track of which students want which lessons."

"I'm Jeff DeLong, former drummer for Ground Zero."

"Welcome Jeff. Fletch, Jimmy is waiting for you in your normal lesson room. I'll get Jeff set up and see if anyone is interested in a drum lesson today."

"Thanks Suzy. See you later Jeff."

Jeff followed Suzy down the hall. The lesson rooms they passed were each geared toward a certain type of instrument and they all seemed to have plenty of room for group lessons, which was impressive. "So, who supplied all the instruments? You seem to have at least one of everything."

"The foundation was originally set-up by Dimitri Wilson, the founder of Wilson's Department Store. His daughter, Trina Wilson, runs it now. If you come back next weekend, you'll get to meet her." She stopped and motioned him into the room where he would be giving drum lessons. "If you continue down this hall, you'll see the art studios. Trina gives lessons in painting and drawing almost every weekend."

Back at his apartment later that afternoon, he sat at the table and jotted down some thoughts for song lyrics as he hummed the melody Fletch had written the night before. As he furiously scribbled, the pen in his hand ran dry, breaking his concentration. He stomped over to the desk and rifled through the drawers for another. Coming up empty, he reached into the last drawer, frowning at the picture frame blocking his view of the bottom of the drawer. The frame seemed to burn in his hands when he turned it over and saw the she-bitch, as Fletch had so eloquently put it, staring back at him. His blood began to boil and he threw the frame, grinning with satisfaction when it exploded as it hit the wall.

Without bothering to clean up the mess, he turned the page in his notebook and poured his anger and regret into a song.

Twenty minutes later he dropped the pen and massaged his hand, pleased to discover he had written lyrics for an entire song. The tension in his neck and shoulders eased. Maybe that would get her out of his head for good. His heart felt lighter, as if it had been released from a cage on the bottom of the ocean and was floating up toward the waterline.

Drenched in sweat as if he had physically wrestled his demons, he left the notebook on the table and the mess on the floor. A shower sounded great before dealing with the aftermath.

* * *

Kat

Unlocking the door of her office at the center, Kat smiled as she thought about the meeting that morning with an old friend of her father's. Thanks to "Uncle" Herb, B&B had their building for at least another six months. Now she could concentrate on finding more volunteers, raising money to help pay the utilities, and maybe start an account that would eventually fund a scholarship or two to the local college.

She set her purse and briefcase down on her desk, wondering if Fletch was still giving lessons. She wanted to ask him if he knew the guy she had connected with at the bar last Friday night. A knock on the doorframe brought her attention back to the present. "Hey, Suzy. How did lessons go today? Is Fletch still here?"

"Lessons went great. Fletch brought a friend and I think he's a good fit, but they left about twenty minutes ago." She handed paperwork to Kat. "The new guy seems to know what he's doing and the kids really connected with him. They were clamoring for him to extend their lessons for just five more minutes."

"Great. Hopefully he'll be back next weekend so I can meet him." She shuffled through the paperwork, stopping at the sheet with Jeff's information, "He used to play drums in Fletch's band? I wonder why he stopped."

"He mentioned something about a shoulder injury. While we were talking, he asked if we had anything on writing music and lyrics." She pulled a notebook out of her bag and turned pages until she found the one she wanted. "He said he would be willing to do a class on songwriting."

Kat's mind whirled with the possibility that it was the same Jeff she had connected with at the bar. They had kept their encounter on a first-name basis and had both agreed to one-night with no messy emotions involved. The only problem was that for the first time since high school, she wanted more than just one night. Of course, Madeline and her stepsisters posed a problem as they'd latch onto Jeff and drive him away with their husband-hunting tactics. She vowed to keep him a secret and out of their clutches.

As soon as Suzy left she pulled up her favorite search engine, wanting to confirm her one-night stand was Jeff DeLong, former drummer in Fletch's band. The pictures from Ground Zero's website confirmed they were the same person. Curious she clicked on one of the links to a news story about the accident. Jeff had glossed over the details, it looked much worse than he had described. She marveled that Jeff's injuries hadn't been worse. From the condition of his car it looked like he was lucky to have lived through it.

# Chapter 4

Jeff

Closing down his computer, Jeff hummed the melody of the song they had written at last week's jam session. He wanted to show the band his lyrics for She-Bitch, the song he'd written after destroying the picture of Ari last week. He felt freer and more relaxed now that he had an outlet for his anger.

"Hey, Brad, you want to go with me to Fletch's tonight? He invited some people over for a small party after the jam session."

"Sure, sounds better than trolling for chicks at the bar." He pulled on his jacket. "I thought you would go back to being my wing-man, but first night out and you find a girl to become obsessed with. Some wing-man you turned out to be."

"Just wait. You'll eventually meet a girl that will turn your world upside down." He clapped Brad on the back. "I'll be there on the sidelines laughing my ass off."

"That's cold, bro. You spent one night with this chick and you're completely whipped already."

With a smirk Jeff replied, "Who says I'm whipped? It was only one night."

"First night out and you scored a hot one. You dog."

"I want to see her again but I don't have any way to get in touch with her." He ran his hands through his hair. "All I know is she works in retail. She knows I'm part-owner here, so I'll have to wait until she gets in touch with me unless I run into her somewhere."

"The way you've been smiling all week I thought you had been at least talking with her. You put yourself on the line way to early my friend."

Later that night, Jeff wiped his face with a towel as they stood in the kitchen after the session. "So, Fletch, why the party tonight? Any particular reason?"

"Brushes and Beethoven found a donor to help pay the rent. The program runs on shoestring and they barely keep the doors open. Ever since Trina's dad died, they've had to watch every penny."

"I had no idea money was so tight. I'll ask the bands we represent if they'd be willing to donate some time or money. The program is impressive and I'd hate to see it shut down due to lack of funds. Maybe we could do a special concert to raise some money. Obviously Brad and I would do the PR and advertising for free."

"Any help is appreciated. I'll be sure to introduce you to Trina tonight as she'll want to thank you herself."

After the doorbell rang, he heard the clamor of voices getting louder as they made their way past the kitchen to the family room at the back of the house. He caught a glimpse of raven black hair. Could it be her? Could it be Kat?

After a quick trip to the bathroom to tame his sweat-soaked hair and change his shirt, he walked into the family room and found a corner where he could watch the party for a while before joining in. Brad stood at the bar in the corner talking with one of the members of Ground Zero and Fletch was playing a game of pool with Kelli. He zeroed in on the sound of Kat's voice as she laughed with Donovan, the groupie magnet of Ground Zero. Jealousy crept in as he watched her interact with Donovan. A deep breath helped calm his racing heart as he pulled out his phone and stared at it, trying to get himself under control — he had no right to be jealous. After all, they'd only spent one night together and agreed to no relationship.

"Jeff, I want to introduce you to Trina Wilson," Fletch said, grinning when Jeff looked up from his phone. "Trina, this is Jeff DeLong."

He looked over and her eyes drew him in just as they had that night in the bar. His heart started pounding and his mouth went dry. He swallowed a few times to moisten it as the blood began rushing to his face. "You're Trina?" he asked. "Or is it Kat?"

Fletch glanced from Jeff to Kat. "You two know each other?"

Kat looked down at her feet, so Jeff answered, "Yeah, we met at the launch party for Wicked Way."

When she peeked at him thru her lashes, he continued, "We had a dance and a drink. No big deal." He shrugged. "I left something in my car. I'll catch up with you later, Fletch." He stalked off toward the door. She lied to him. Snapping the door closed behind him, he sat on the front steps. "Way to look like an ass," he said out loud.

"I would have to agree with you."

Turning his head, he spied Kat looking down at him with her arms crossed and a pissed-off look on her face. "What the hell was that all about? We agreed to one night with no strings."

"I don't know. The thought of you lying about your name pissed me off. It just felt wrong."

"But I didn't lie. I just didn't give you the name that everyone else calls me."

Standing, he reached into his pocket for his keys. "Must have made it easier to erase our night together from your mind. I know we said no relationship, but something passed between us that night. I dare you to deny it."

She picked at the skin around her thumbnail. "I can't be in a relationship right now with the foundation and everything. I just don't have the time."

"Bullshit."

"You self-righteous prick." She pointed her finger at him. "You agreed to the terms that night. Why are you so pissed off that I'm not fawning all over you? Conceited much?"

"Oh, now I'm conceited. You couldn't keep your hands off me that night. Admit it," he said with a smirk.

* * *

Kat

She had followed Jeff out of the house to tell him why she had told him her name was Kat. From the moment their eyes had met across the crowded bar, she believed he was different. For once in her life, she wanted to be mysterious, not the plain-Jane Trina Wilson that everyone knew. When her dad had called her Kat, she had always felt special and loved so she used that name.

Searching for that feeling now that her dad was gone, she had seen a spark of something in Jeff's eyes that night at the bar. A spark that convinced her to walk out of the bar with a complete stranger after one dance. It couldn't be that easy, could it? A random hookup? She recoiled from the anger in his voice, pointing out they agreed on a one-night-stand only. Afraid that he would see the Trina that everyone seemed able to ignore, she wrapped her anger around her like a shield and used it to push him away. Too bad he wasn't getting the hint, conceited ass. When he dared her to admit that their night together was more than just a fling, she turned to stomp away until he grabbed her arm and spun her back to face him. The anger on his face was belied by the lust she saw in his eyes.

His lips crashed down onto hers, the kiss heated and angry. She pushed on his chest, but he pulled her in closer. Warmth spread through her body and her resistance weakened. How could she want and not want something so much? As the kiss continued, his lips gentled their assault. She couldn't help the sigh that escaped her lips as she wrapped her arms around his neck and tilted her head slightly to get a better angle.

Pulling back, she stared into his eyes as she tried to catch her breath. A crushing pressure built in her chest. When her father had died, she'd shoved the grief and love deep inside her and now it was bubbling to the surface. She blinked to keep the tears welling in her eyes from falling. One escaped and rolled down her cheek as she looked down at her feet, hoping he hadn't noticed it.

"Hey, look at me, Kat." He brushed the tear away with his thumb. "What is it? Was I too rough?"

She reached up and placed her palm along his jaw. "You're right — it was more than just a one night stand." Rubbing her thumb through the stubble on his face she continued, "But, there's no way I can be in a relationship right now. I'm sorry."

"Why not? We can make it work." He peered into her eyes. "What's holding you back? Maybe I can help."

"I don't think so," she replied as she turned to walk away.

He enveloped her hand in his, halting her progress. "If you ever need anything, call me."

"I'll remember that. And, just so you know, the only person that ever called me Kat was my Dad. I knew you were special when I first saw you at the bar that night." With that parting shot, she walked toward her car and sent a text to Fletch explaining that something had come up and she needed to leave

# Chapter 5

Jeff

Jeff slapped at the alarm clock to shut off its insistent beeping. Worrying about Kat had him tossing and turning all night. The sadness in her eyes before she walked away had him dreaming up all kinds of wacky scenarios. Was she married? Engaged? Why couldn't she be in a relationship?

Unplugging his phone from the charger, he texted Fletch to meet him for breakfast before they went to Brushes and Beethoven.

Later that afternoon, Jeff walked into Wilson's department store to surprise Kat. It was time for them to talk about her situation and she hadn't been at B&B. Suzy said she'd been called in to work at the store. He wanted the truth and he was going to get it today.

He strode toward the elevator at the back of the store, shocked by the quality of the merchandise. Wilson's used to be upscale, but the clothes hanging on the racks looked cheap. The price tags didn't reflect that and the displays were a mess with clothes draped everywhere.

As the elevator whisked him up to the offices on the third floor, he wondered what had brought about the changes. He smoothed his hair and wiped his hands on his jeans — for some reason the thought of seeing Kat had him nervous and on edge. When the doors opened, he took a deep breath and stepped out of the elevator. The guy stepping onto the elevator bumped him and glanced up. "Watch where you're going asshole. Maybe I'll take care of you along with Trina Wilson." His stare, cold and calculating, settled on Jeff before the doors closed. Jeff shook his head. Was that a threat?

Looking up from her computer, the brunette seated at the receptionist desk smiled and motioned him forward. "How can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Kat... I mean Ms. Wilson."

"She wasn't scheduled to be in today and she'll be leaving shortly. Can I make an appointment for you for next week?" she asked as she made a few keystrokes on her computer.

"I know she wasn't scheduled today. I volunteer down at Brushes and Beethoven and they said she was here." He stepped around the desk and looked down the hallway. "Where's her office?"

"Hey, you can't go back there." She stood as if to stop him when the sound of raised voices caught their attention.

"No, Madeline, I will not agree to this policy. We've already lost most of our long-time employees and we'll lose the rest if you take away their paid vacation time. I'm tired of watching you drive daddy's store into the ground just so you can squeeze a few more pennies out of it."

"Katriona Wilson, you will not talk to me in that tone of voice. Your father is probably spinning in his grave at your insolence."

"I..."

Jeff pushed up his sleeves to show off his tattoos and stepped into the doorway. Taking in the scene in front of him, he decided it was time to put a stop to it. Kat glared at the older woman standing in front of her desk.

"Hey, my love, is this a good time? You said I could stop by and we could get me set-up to work in the store." He sauntered into the room and pulled Kat into his arms before kissing her.

"Excuse me. What do you think you're doing?" the old woman gasped, eyes wide. "This is a place of business, not a kissing booth. Who are you and what do you want?"

He snuggled up to Kat and nuzzled her ear with his nose. "I'm Jeff. Didn't Trina tell you I was coming in today? She told me I could have a job to tide me over until my band hits the big time, didn't you sweets? I really need a paycheck so I can pay my rent this month."

"Uh..." Understanding flashed across Kat's face. "Oh my gosh, I completely forgot. Silly me."

"No wonder we're losing money, Trina, if you're hiring employees based on their relationship with you." Turning sharply, she marched out the door.

Winking at the receptionist, Jeff closed the office door. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't listen to the way she was talking to you."

"Now she's really going to be watching me like a hawk. What's with the penniless rocker persona? I almost burst out laughing."

"Like that, did you? Between your argument and the way she was dressed, I figured she wouldn't look twice at someone with no money. Who the hell is she anyway?"

"That is my wonderful step-mother. I don't know how daddy stayed married to her for so long."

He pulled her closer and kissed her for real. "Don't worry. Karma is a bitch and she'll get what's coming to her. Why does she have all the power?"

"Daddy was supposed to have changed his will. It took a few years but he finally realized what Madeline was really after when she married him: money and rich husbands for her daughters. No one could find the updated will, so his money went to Madeline and the store is divided equally between the four of us, which means I don't have a controlling interest." She pulled away from Jeff and sat behind her desk. "Luckily there were provisions that I'll always have a job and a place to live. Unfortunately, I make minimum wage and have to live with the three of them. Every penny I make goes towards Brushes and Beethoven."

"That's why the store looks like it does...I wondered. There's nothing you can do about it? Did you check with his lawyer?"

"Of course I did. Daddy's lawyer is dead and his son runs the firm now. They have no record of a new will and I don't have the money to contest the one we found that gives her all the power. And there was no mention of the account he set-up to fund the Brushes and Beethoven program. That was the first thing Madeline cut — no money has gone into that account for over a year and it's almost gone." She grabbed a tissue from a box on her desk. "I don't know how I'm going to keep it going. I don't make enough to even pay the monthly rent on the building much less pay the utilities."

Jeff walked around the desk and gently took her hands in his. "Let's go get some lunch and we can talk about this more. Surely between the two of us, we can come up with some possible solutions." He lifted her to her feet and placed a kiss on her forehead. "Let's get out of here before I really think about this whole situation and go looking for your step-mother. I'd probably do something we'd both regret."

# Chapter 6

Kat

Each week, Kat spent more time with Jeff, grabbing stolen moments wherever she could. Text messages burned up their cell phones and phone calls after work hours sometimes lasted for hours. The more time they spent together, the more she fell in love with him.

In order to keep Madeline in the dark about Jeff's true financial circumstances, they avoided all high-profile events where the paparazzi would be in attendance. She watched in awe as Jeff escorted Kelli to the Grammys when Ground Zero was up for Album of the Year. How would it feel to wear a beautiful, red gown and walk the red carpet with bulbs flashing? She glanced down at her phone when she heard the text notification. The picture Jeff sent of him and Kelli hamming it up made her laugh, even as the internet exploded with rumors of a secret affair between the two of them. She reveled in the knowledge that she was the one, not Kelli, that Jeff was involved with.

The door slammed behind her as she rushed out of the house. She was supposed to meet Jeff at Fletch's for the Friday night jam session and was running late. Her hand was on the doorknob and her keys in her hand when her phone buzzed with a text message.

Brad is sick. Have to skip jam tonight to attend awards show in his place. Love you ~ Jeff

She smiled at the "Love you" as she felt the same and was prepared to tell him so that night. Thanks to fate, she'd have to wait until she saw him at B&B the next morning. Continuing out the door, she decided it would be a good time to work on her scarf designs, so she sent a text to Fletch cancelling for the night.

The building was locked and dark when she arrived at B&B as it should be late on a Friday night. Flipping on the lights in the hallway, she made her way to her office, humming softly as she daydreamed about telling Jeff her true feelings the next morning. The design she'd been working on was waiting on her table along with the sample fabric swatches. Turning on the radio, she sat and pulled the unfinished design towards her and started to draw.

When the design was completed to her satisfaction, she stretched and looked up at the clock, amazed to discover that it was after midnight. Picking up her phone, she frowned at the lack of texts from Jeff. He had always texted her numerous times throughout the night when he had to attend an event. The radio blared with the theme song for the news, drawing her attention as she put her design onto the scanner to email it to her printer.

The news broadcast ended and the DJ introduced the late night talk show that focused on the music industry. She turned up the volume, wanting to hear if they mentioned the winners from the award show as one of Jeff's clients was up for an award. When they announced that his client had won, she did a fist pump, shouting "Yes" as she did a little dance around her office. Clients winning awards was great for Jeff's firm.

Kat's attention returned to her printing program as the show's host continued on, remarking on who showed up with whom and what everyone was wearing. Then, she heard Jeff's name.

"Jeff Delong, former drummer for Ground Zero, was spotted with his former flame, Arianna Renaldo, at the after-party. The pair split last year on the eve of their wedding. Could things be heating back up between the two?"

Kat hit the button to turn off the radio, glaring at the computer while she typed the show's name into her browser. As the page loaded, she drummed her fingers on the desk, wishing she had the money for high-speed internet connection. The picture that loaded onto the screen made her want to vomit: Jeff smiled at the blond next to him, his hand on her arm.

She couldn't believe it. How could he do that to her? And with Arianna who he professed to hate? Her hands trembled as she dialed Jeff's number. Time stood still...she listened to the rings before the call was answered. It had to be a trick to get ratings; he'd never do that to her.

A feminine voice answered, "Hello?"

The phone dropped from her shaking fingers as she tried to breathe normally. Her mind argued that Jeff wouldn't betray her as her heart thumped out a rhythm that seemed to mock her: cheater...cheater...

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

Swallowing her fear, Kat picked up her phone and replied with a question of her own, "Why do you have Jeff's phone?"

"This is Arianna." She giggled. "We all knew he would come back to me."

The phone flew through the air and crashed against the wall, shattering. Grabbing her keys, she strode out of her office, leaving everything behind. Lost in thought, she unlocked her car and climbed in. Betrayed, betrayed, betrayed. Her heart thumped as she let the tears stream down her face.

* * *

Jeff

"Dammit, Kat, answer your phone," he yelled as he listened to it ring before his call went to voicemail again. He'd been calling and texting Kat for over two hours and was worried. It wasn't like her to ignore her phone. When he pulled up to B&B, the lot was empty, but lights from the hallway and Kat's office shone through the windows. At least now he would get some answers as to why she was ignoring him. When the door swung open, he started to get mad; he'd talked to her about leaving the door unlocked while she was here alone.

Calling her name, he hurried down the hall to her office and frowned at the lack of response. The building felt empty as his footsteps echoed. He poked his head in Kat's office, her purse sitting on the desk a silent testimony that she should be in the building. Checking the art rooms, he started to wonder if something had happened to call her away in a hurry. After looking in both the women's and men's restrooms, he returned to her office and searched for something to give him a clue as to where she'd gone.

Reaching for the sketch of her latest design, he bumped the computer mouse and the screen came alive showing him the last image she'd pulled up. The glint in Ari's eye made his stomach turn. She'd been trying all night to get him back into her clutches, but he wasn't falling for her beauty this time. He could see where Kat might have gotten the wrong idea from the photo. "Shit."

"Where the hell are you, Kat?" he mumbled to himself as he paced the length of her office. The crunch of something under his shoe brought his attention to the pieces of her cell phone scattered along the wall. Where would she go?

# Chapter 7

Jeff

Two weeks had passed without any contact with Kat. The face staring back at him from the mirror looked nothing like the Jeff DeLong the world knew. The bags under his eyes attested to his lack of sleep and the beard on his face helped cover the bruise from Fletch's punch. After leaving B&B that night, he'd gone to Fletch's house, figuring Fletch might know where she had gone.

"Fletch, please tell me she's here." The pain of Fletch's fist connecting with his face shocked him, since it was just a couple of months ago that Fletch had welcomed him back with open arms.

"How could you do that to her? And with Ari? I thought you were a better man than that." Grabbing Kat's purse that Jeff had rescued from B&B and without giving him time to explain, he slammed the door. Jeff stalked down the sidewalk to his car and drove off without another word. How was he supposed to make it right if he couldn't talk to Kat? Surely she would realize it couldn't be how it looked.

The two weeks since that night had been a nightmare: no one from Ground Zero would return his calls; Brad had thrown him out of the office telling him to come back when he sobered up; and Ari sent him daily texts gushing about how wonderful it was to be back together. Sleep was impossible, unless he drank enough to pass out, and eating...well, he hadn't had a full meal in days.

How had his world spiraled out of control so fast? Then, he opened the newspaper to find a picture of him with Ari taking up half the front page of the entertainment section, reminding him why he was avoiding the media. The reporter had twisted everything Jeff had told him that night, making it seem as if he and Ari were back together.

He wasn't even sure what day it was when he saw the news report about Wilson's Department Store. After fifty years, the store would be closing. The report insinuated mismanagement was the cause, which was definitely the case. Closing the store would be hard on Kat, since it was the last link she had with her father other than B&B. For two weeks, his numerous attempts to talk to Kat had failed and his drunken, rambling voice mails had fallen on deaf ears. Today, he was going to talk to her face to face and no one was going to stop him.

Stepping out of the salon he checked his reflection in the glass window. The scraggly beard was gone and his hair was freshly trimmed and styled. A slight yellowing along his jaw was the only evidence of Fletch's punch; there was nothing he could do to remedy the bags under his eyes or the thinness of his face.

His stomach churned as he paced the length of the sidewalk in front of Wilson's and then back again before he pulled open the door and stepped inside. The clerks rushed to and fro, their arms full of merchandise as customers clamored for attention. Obviously, he wasn't the only one to see the story in the newspaper. The elevator doors closed, shutting out the dinging of cash registers and the rising voices arguing over a blouse.

The receptionist's desk was unmanned. Maybe there wasn't one anymore. Kat's office door was open; her voice made his stomach clench. "What? That's great!"

Jeff stood in the doorway and watched as Kat hugged a guy in a suit. Who was this joker? "It's only been two weeks. Glad to know I'm so forgettable." Where the hell did that come from? He'd never been the jealous type, but this guy set his teeth on edge.

"Jeff? What are you doing here?"

"I came to talk to you face to face, to explain what happened that night since you wouldn't take my calls. Did you have a good laugh at my voicemails?" He turned and walked away, his heart thumping so loud he didn't hear Kat come up behind him.

"What the hell was that all about? After what you did you really want to come in here and act all jealous?" With her hands on her hips, she glared at him, the green of her eyes practically glowing with anger. "There's no excuse for what you did."

Shoving the papers into his briefcase, the guy in the suit looked from Jeff to Kat. "I'll get these filed and get back to you tomorrow, Trina. Do you want me to stay and referee?"

"What? You think I'm going to hit her? How about I wipe that smirk off your face instead?" It was as if his mouth was not connected to his brain. What was he doing antagonizing this guy? He started to apologize and found himself letting out all his pent-up anger instead. "And what's with you hugging on Kat? Can't even find your own woman?" He was itching for something and a good old-fashioned fist fight might just be it.

"Jeff DeLong, what the hell do you think you are doing? Not that it's any of your business, but Myles is my lawyer."

"Pretty obvious why he makes house calls. He hasn't been able to take his eyes off you since I got here."

"Jeff! That's enough." She placed her hand on Myles's arm when he clenched his hands. "Myles, it's okay. No matter what kind of verbal vomit he spews, Jeff won't hurt me physically. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Are you sure? I don't like leaving you here with him." He looked down his nose at Jeff.

"We'll go somewhere public if it will make you feel better."

Myles pursed his lips, then blew out a breath. "Okay, but I want you to call me when you're done. I want to know you're okay."

"Okay, I'll call you. Now get out of here."

Jeff grinned at Myles's retreating back. "Now can we talk?"

Picking up her phone she breezed past Jeff and walked down the hallway. At the elevator, she turned and looked back at him, "Are you coming or what? I promised Myles we'd do this in a public place. The beach is only a couple of blocks away."

Great, just what he needed: a beach full of muscle-bound guys looking to impress the ladies. One wrong move and he'd be toast.

* * *

Kat

Normally Kat loved the hustle and bustle of the boardwalk along the beach, but today she just wanted to find an open bench where she could have it out with Jeff. He needed to understand that she was no-one's second choice. Spying an empty bench just past a cluster of shops, she stepped toward that goal, dodging tourists and street performers. Then, she sat and looked out over the beach to the ocean and let the waves sooth her hurt feelings.

"What's the big hurry?" Jeff plopped down on the bench. "I'm sure you've already made up your mind, so why don't you just get it over with."

Sitting on the bench so she was facing him, she stared into his eyes. "I just want to know why. I thought things were going well and you seemed happy. I must have been projecting my happiness onto you." She looked down as her voice hitched. Then, she whispered, "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for." He stared at his hands. "Nothing other than jumping to conclusions." He swallowed and continued with a ragged voice, "I told you how I felt about her and you chose to believe a photo taken at an awards show."

She sniffed and blinked back the tears. "If you care so much, why did you get back with her? I thought you hated her?"

"I do hate her. I hate what she put me through. I just don't understand how one picture convinced you we were together."

"It wasn't just the picture. When you didn't call after the awards show I started to worry and then I found the picture. I decided to call you."

"I didn't get any calls that night; cell service was spotty in the auditorium. When I walked out to my car, I tried to call you but you didn't pick up." He caressed her cheek as he continued, "I was terrified that something had happened to you when I found B&B unlocked and your smashed phone. I raced to Fletch's, praying he knew where you were." The screech of seagulls fighting for scraps from a nearby trash barrel almost drowned out his next words. "When Fletch punched me, I was relieved. Either you were there or he knew you were somewhere safe."

"When I called your phone, she answered. I was...devastated. I didn't even wait for her to finish before I threw my phone at the wall." She ran a finger along his outstretched arm. "Somehow I made it to Fletch's where I stayed a few days until I felt like I could face the world again."

"You should have talked to me. We could have cleared this up right away. I've been so lost without you these last two weeks." He brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. "I don't ever want to go through that again. I want the whole world to know how much I love you and that you're mine."

Kat wasn't sure what to think. Did she believe him? Her heart wanted her to believe his explanation, but her head told her to think on it. "I want to believe you, Jeff, I really do, but I need time to think about everything that's happened." She turned and faced the ocean to hide the tears in her eyes. I'll be working late at B&B tonight. Call me after nine and we can talk again."

"I'll do whatever it takes to convince you that I'm telling you the truth."

She focused on a surfer paddling out past the end of the pier, uncertain what more to say.

"Don't forget to lock up when you're at B&B by yourself."

The sound of his footsteps walking away from her almost convinced her to call him back. She wanted to fling herself into the warm cocoon of his arms and never let go.

* * *

Jeff

As the sun set out over the ocean, Jeff paced the length of his balcony as he listened to Kat's phone ring. It was nine. Why wasn't she answering?

Twenty minutes later, he stared at the door on the east side of the B&B building. He was no detective, but to him it looked like someone had jimmied the door open. The lights were off. His heartbeat thumped in his ears as he eased the door open, his breath leaving him in a rush when he heard the music blaring in the hallway and saw a sliver of light from a partially opened door. Thank God, she just hadn't heard the phone when he called.

The scream of a guitar solo drowned out his footsteps when he stepped into the building. Ahead of him in the moon lit hall, a shadow moved. As a precaution given the damaged door, he dialed 911. "Hey, who's there?"

The shadow morphed in the shape of a man with his arm stretched out in front of him. Jeff stopped when he realized that whoever it was had a gun. "They don't keep any money here. You can have whatever you want, just don't hurt her."

The guy stepped into the light cast by the full moon and Jeff recognized him. It was the guy from that first day in Kat's office. "I've seen you before. Don't move, I'm calling the police."

"Put the phone down. Now."

At the insistent tone of the dispatcher's voice, he blurted out their location and that there was an armed intruder. When she told him to hide somewhere safe, he laughed. "Wish I could, he's got a gun pointed at me." The pain hit in an instant, almost before he heard the shot...

* * *

Kat

With the music turned up, she faced the easel and painted the scene in her head, a fairy-tale version of the night she met Jeff at the bar. She was a princess at a ball and he was a mysterious stranger. She wiped the sweat off her forehead and reached for her water bottle as the door crashed open.

"Ma'am, are you okay?" the policeman asked, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

"Yes," she replied. "Why are you here? What's happened?"

The officer switched off the stereo, allowing the mournful wail of a siren to be heard. "Do you know a Jeff DeLong?"

"Yes. Is he okay?"

"He's been shot."

"What?" she whispered as she sank into her chair. The world started to go grey at the edges.

"Does Mr. DeLong have a key for the building?" The officer made notes as he continued to pepper her with questions. "Was there a reason for him to be in the building tonight?"

"What? He was supposed to call me at nine. I must not have heard the phone ring. I need to see him."

"The paramedics are with him now. Can you please answer the question?"

"No, I need to see him. Now!" she demanded. "Where is he?"

"Kat, where are you baby?" she heard from the hallway.

Another voice, "Sir, the ambulance is here to take you to the hospital."

The soles of her bare feet slapped against the tile floor as she ran towards the voices, needing to see Jeff with her own eyes.

She skidded around the corner and there he was, trying to get away from a paramedic who was holding a bandage to his shoulder. The blood on his shirt made her stomach do somersaults. When he caught sight of her, he stopped and swayed as he stared at her.

"You're okay," he whispered, his uninjured arm pulling her close. "I was afraid he'd already hurt you. My life would have been over. I love..."

He sagged against her. "Jeff?" She tightened her hold around his waist. "Someone help me," she yelled.

# Chapter 8

Kat

She yawned and stretched, sitting up from where she'd fallen asleep curled up against Jeff on his couch. The movie credits scrolled up the screen. The last two days she'd been busy with her attorney transferring accounts to her name. After the incident at B&B, Madeline and her daughters had disappeared, taking anything of value they could carry out of her father's house.

Her life had turned around in just a couple of days: a buyer stepped in to save the store; she was offered and accepted the role of Store Manager; and a secret account was found that held enough to fund B&B for quite some time. She was relieved she wouldn't have to scrimp and save to keep it open. Her life was looking so much better than just two weeks ago — no money worries and the love of her life by her side. The only thing still undecided was whether or not she would sell the house.

She reached over and brushed the hair off his forehead. Her gentle touch brought him out of his slumber. "Hey Sleeping Beauty, you ready for some lunch?"

"I'm happy right where I am," he said as he wrapped his good arm around her waist and pulled her closer. "Who needs food anyway?"

"You do. It's almost time for you to take your meds and you need to take them with food."

When she stood, he took hold of her hand and wouldn't let her walk away. "I want to talk to you first before I get loopy on pain meds." He reached over and grabbed his phone, tapping out a message one-handed before putting it back on the table.

"Okay. What's so important that it can't wait until after I feed you?"

Using his good arm he pushed himself up straighter. "You know I love you. When I walked into B&B and heard the music, I was so relieved, you have no idea. Then that guy came out of the shadows with a gun. I knew he was after you and I would have done anything to keep you safe. After he shot me, all I could think about was getting to you." He adjusted the sling, grimacing at the pain.

"Let me get you a pain pill."

"It can wait. Please, sit down and hear me out." He picked up the remote and touched a couple of buttons, the CD player coming to life as the television shut off. The soft strains of a guitar came through the speakers, a song she'd never heard before.

"What is this? What have you been up to Jeff?"

Careful not to jar his injured shoulder, he lowered himself down on one knee. "For the last two days, all I've been able to think about is that I almost lost you. If I hadn't come looking for you that night, he would have killed you. I know it's only been a couple of months since the night I met you, but I've never been more sure of anything in my life, not even my music. My beautiful Kat, I love you and my life would be so lonely without you. Will you marry me?"

Dropping to her knees in front of him she reached out and brushed a tear off his face. "Yes, my love, I'll marry you." She brushed his lips with hers before settling in for a kiss.

* * *

Jeff

It was the best kiss ever, the kiss that convinced him she had really said yes. She was his...forever.

Breaking the kiss, he reached his hand under the couch cushion and pulled out a velvet covered box. "You'll have to help me with this part, he said to Kat as he held up the box. She took the box from his hand and opened it, her eyes glazing over with tears at the ring nestled inside: a solitaire princess cut diamond on a plain gold band. Simple and elegant, he had known it was the ring for Kat at first glance.

Unable to think of a better way to convince her he was not in a relationship with his ex, he had gone looking for Kat the night of the shooting with the ring in his pocket. Pulling the ring out of the box, he slipped it on her finger. "I love you, Kat."

He gazed into Kat's eyes, thankful he had taken a chance and gone to the release party.

Two hours later, he stared at Kat with a grin on his face. In the background, Ground Zero jammed and worked on a new song about second chances and fate. He sent up a thank you to fate for putting Kat into his life. Who knew that a chance encounter and one-night stand could have led to this perfect life?

# L A Remenicky's Bio & Links

L.A. Remenicky ~ Love Stories With A Twist

An avid reader all her life, she finally put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) during NaNoWriMo in 2012 and has never looked back.

Paranormal romance, romantic suspense, no romance genre is out of bounds!

www.laremenicky.com  
www.facebook.com/laremenicky  
www.google.com/+LARemenickyauthor  
www.twitter.com/remenickywrites

#

# GHOSTS

An Anthology Short Story

# Rocky Rochford

# Coppyright 2015 Rocky Rochford

All Rights Reserved

Ghosts is the exclusive intellectual property of Rocky Rochford and may not be reproduced in any way without the exclusive permission of the copyright holder.

### Dedication

I dedicate my tale of guilt to my partners in Crime, D.M Cain & Christie Stratos, for your aid in the proof-reading and editing.

To think, this entire work, two books no less, came from a single proposed thought, back when DM and I were just talking about creating an event dedicating to celebrating indie authors. We've come a long way in such short time and we couldn't have done it without our great crew behind us and for that, I thank you all.

# Ghosts

(The following short story is one of a suspenseful, thriller-tastic horror work, with multiple scenes of a disturbing nature... If you value your sanity, you may want to give this one a miss.)

I had that dream again, the one that never fails to send me into a screaming frenzy upon the moment I awake. The dream with them – the ghosts.

I'm never going to be free of them, am I?

Even after all these years the gang's all here, in my head, ready to haunt me once more. No matter what I do, the dream remains the same: a ring of girls circle Sam, his face forever wracked with guilt, as the same single tear runs down his face and falls to the floor. Just as its bitter wetness touches the ground, time reverses and the tear returns to its tear duct before the cycle repeats again.

But it's not just the tear that falls, is it? It's the blood from both his wrists, his severed wrists he willingly opened. The mere sight and thought of him, standing there as he does. It makes tears form in my eyes, as if I know his pain, as if his pain is my own. The girls cackle in laughter, as if enjoying the sight of a broken boy. A boy who ended his life before his time as a man could ever begin.

Then my eyes do the same thing they always do – they move to the blade in his hand. The handle is lightly clutched between two fingers, ready to slip, but it never does. Blood constantly runs along the length of the blade, dripping to the blood-pooled floor. The drips echo, just like they always do, but each one is broadcasted so loud, it's like a drummer from a heavy metal band, beating his instrument with intense ferocity.

Deafening, always deafening.

And yet, I can hear the girls' cries as clear as day.

"Go on, do it again. Do it deeper!"

"You know it's the only thing you're good enough for!"

"Life was always too good for you."

"We're all waiting, Sam, so do it!"

The blood vanishes, as do the life-ending cuts upon my close friend's arms. He's healed, but not for long. The girls lose interest in their victim and turned around. Their eyes upon me, illuminating the darkened shroud around us I'm lit up like a house at Christmas. Even Sam focuses on me as he grips the knife tightly and moves the blade to his left wrist.

"Do you remember this, John? Do you?"

"Yes, I do." My voice breaks.

"And where were you, John? Where were you when I needed you?" he spits lividly. His female entourage start to smile like the cat that got the cream.

"I was right there with you. By your side."

"And even then it still wasn't close enough, was it, John?"

I bow my head out of shame, guilt and regret, and then he commands me like he always does. "LOOK AT ME!"

I do.

"You did this to me, you all did this to me. You watched me take my final breath before, watched the light fade from my eyes. Now you can watch me do it again."

I try to charge forward, screaming no, but it never changes anything; he slits his left wrist and does the same to his right. The girls close ranks, shielding me from him. I reach out, begging him to take my hand, but he refuses to take it. Instead he bleeds and the life in his eyes drains away. He collapses to the floor and I crumble, unable to stop the tears.

They stand around me, laughing.

Mocking.

Firing insults.

"Look at the little cry baby, sobbing his eyes out."

"So worthless."

"So pathetic.

"Your mummy isn't going to help you out here, John."

I do my best to block out their jests, but never to any avail.

Their faces burn in my mind.

Tash [Natasha] – The best friend who was ill-timely lost. Always there to have his back, even when he couldn't be there for her.

Maddie [Madison] – The girl that rocked my world. I wanted to build a life with her and she just wanted to burn it down.

Kimbo [Kimberley] – The girl that changed it all. She not only showed me life goes on, she helped me move on.

KB [Kayleigh] – The girl that made everything make sense, when it had all just fallen apart.

Snowflake [Edana] – The girl worth sacrificing everything for. The one who put my wounded heart back together and got it beating.

Their every detail is flawless, remembered perfectly. I've tried to forget them, to block them out completely, but the nightmare still comes. Their cries still come and every word is memorised.

"You let him die, John. You let your best friend die!"

"You let your only friend die."

"You failed him, just like you always fail him. Just like you failed him that night."

"His blood is on your hands, John."

And sure enough it is. His blood stained the skin of tanned hands. It's as fresh as it was that night, the night his blood was on my hands.

"It should have been you, John! It should always have been you!"

"Why did Sam have to die? Why did you have to live?"

"I don't know," I cry, finding my voice.

"Why do you always have to live, John?"

My eyes move to KB, even though I know exactly what's coming and that I should look away. I don't.

"It wasn't my fault, Kay. I tried to be there for you."

"You didn't try hard enough." KB pulls out a needle and smiles at the contents.

"I wasn't the boyfriend who forced that life on you. Who forced drugs onto you, who injected that needle into you!"

"No, you were meant to be the boyfriend who pulled me away from this life before it could ever reach me."

With no other words, KB injects herself with the drugs and, thanks to nightmare time acceleration, she begins to OD immediately. Five seconds later, she falls limp, dead, and the nightmare continues on.

"You did it again, John, you lived. How many more of us have to die before you follow?"

I don't even get the chance to answer Kimbo. A white transit van flies out of nowhere and runs her down. Her back breaks first as she's crouched around her young child, both dead almost immediately.

Almost.

"How many more friends do you have to lose, John, before you do us all a favour and kill yourself? Before you finish what you started?"

Tash's eyes burn with fury. She was a great friend. We went through a lot together, and then I went through a lot worse without her.

"You left me, Tash, you all left me."

"Then you should have tried harder to keep us. You should have fought for us. Should have fought for me."

I turn to Edana, my snowflake, the love of my life who, even long after we've been apart, my shrivelled, jet black heart beats for. Only for her. I'd just barely stopped myself from crying and now as I feel compelled to start again, she retrieves a knife she'd hidden in her dress and cuts into her own chest. Snowflake smiles sweetly as she drops the knife and violently rips her own heart from her chest.

"Oh look, John, it's my heart, that which you truly desired but were forever denied. What we had was a lie and you fell for it."

Snowflake joins those before her; she slumps to the floor and never gets back up.

"And you've killed another one. You're never going to be happy until you've killed everyone close to you, are you, John? You just want to kill them all."

"It's not my fault. This isn't my fault, none of it is!"

"Of course it's your fault. It was you who led us to this. You who failed us. You who failed yourself. I was right to leave you when I did. Right to leave you now."

Tash turns her back on me and starts walking, walking as far away from me as she can, like she did in life, but her walk becomes a limp, the aneurism in her brain taking affect. The limp becomes a stumble and that stumble sends her to the floor, never to get back up.

Maddie is all that is left of them. "Another one bites the dust and you're still standing. We made a nice little family. You made a good dad, would have made a better one to your own son, but then I'd look into your eyes and see it. See that you're just as dead on the inside as I am. Walking corpses like us don't deserve a happy ending."

I'm too stricken to say anything. What would be the point? She'd still die, still be thrown sideways and have her body contort just like it did when she was tossed sideways into the side of the plane during a crash going back to the States.

The five people who knew me best, who helped me become who I did, they all died and I am the reason why. I should have tried harder. Should have been better.

I'm sorry.

I'M SORRY!!!

The corpses of my true friends vanish and are replaced with gravestones encircling me. Just like every other time, Sam's gravestone isn't present.

Each of the graves shout at me, continuing their bullying, their relentless ridicule.

"It's all your fault."

"You never deserved us!

"You don't deserve anything."

"Shut up!" I roar. "It's not my fault. I never asked for any of this."

"None of us asked for this. None of us deserved this and yet all this still came to pass, so make it right, John."

"Justify this."

"Make it right!"

The graves edge closer and in a moment of total calm, a knife appears in my hand, held loosely in the same manner Sam held his. My face is wracked with guilt as a tear forms and makes its run. The graves turn into their human counterparts, still circling, and before I know it, I'm bleeding, my wrists are open.

"Go on, do it again. Do it deeper!" the girls cried.

"You know it's the only thing you're good enough for!"

"Life was always too good for you."

"We're all waiting, Sam, so do it!"

I look down. My wrists are healed and the girls look away. In front of me I see him.

John.

Me.

The person I became after I did what I did.

"Do you remember this, John? Do you?" I cry.

I don't bother to listen to the other me make his breaking voice cry, I don't need to. I'm too focused on what I must do.

What I would do.

"LOOK AT ME!" I roar.

"You did this to me. You all did this to me. You watched me take my final breath before, watched the light fade from my eyes. Now you can watch me do it again," I insanely rant. I take the sharpened metal to the soft skin of my wrist and do what I long for.

Slither of silver, ready for red. Blood spills forth, even more so when I open my other wrist, and then all colour runs from my face and the warmth in my eyes fades. Just as they close and I fall dead, I awake in my bed screaming, blindly searching for the light switch. When light bursts forth, I gaze at my wrists, the blood gone, the cuts gone from sight, but the scars remain. After all, not everyone lives, but not everyone dies either. Regardless of depth, my cuts did heal and the life I had before, the life of regrets, worries and failings, I left that behind me.

If only their ghosts would leave me alone.

If only the nightmares would leave.

If only I could let go of the past and focus on the future.

My friends, myself, they were everything to me, the journey that formed my being, and one by one I lost them all. Their only pull to this world is those of my memories, the final reminders of something that will never be again, dead memories, my memories.

Their ghosts haunt me in everything I do, even now, but sometimes I can't help but wonder if it is the other way around.

Is it they who haunt me? Or is it me who haunts them?

Just who really is the ghost? Them or me?

If it is not the past that haunts you, then it is you who haunt the past.

* * *

THE END?

There is no End. Only the Beginning of more

HORRORS & Nightmares to Come

* * *

# Rocky Rochford's Bio & Links

My name is Rocky Rochford and I am a Scuba Diving, Photo taking, Adventure Seeking, Sword Collecting, Writer & Marine Conservationist. I'm a handful of years into my twenties, but after living life on the road, going town to town before finally settling down, I've gained great insight into the world and her workings. From Day 1 I have been a Writer and a Writer I shall forever remain.

I like to consider myself to be a Student of Everything, and yet a Master of Nothing, who does not choose what he writes, but writes what chooses him, be it fantasy, crime, poetry, philosophy or even adventure. After all life is a journey we all get to experience, just like a good book.

Every read of one of my typed works, is another trip into the imagination of my mixed up, crazed and deranged mind. Welcome to the World of Rochford.

Amazon: Author.to/RochfordWrites

Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/IamRockyRochford?fref=ts>

Twitter: @RockyRochford <https://twitter.com/RockyRochford>

Wattpad: <http://www.wattpad.com/user/RockyRochford>

Goodreads.com: <https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7310280.Rocky_Rochford>

Website: www.rockyrochford.wordpress.com

Rabmad: <http://www.rabmad.com/authors/Rocky-Rochford/>

# Double Jeopardy

#

#

#

#

#

# A.L. Sayge

# Copyright 2015 A L Sayge

All Rights Received

# Double Jeopardy

"I need to get rid of him. Now. And permanently." The venomous words spewed from Apryll Dawn like lava from a volcano.

"What do you mean, permanently?" her friend Jackie asked, licking the pizza sauce off her fingers.

"I mean permanently. So he can't come back to haunt me. Ever."

Jackie dropped her pizza slice onto the kitchen table. "Apryll, don't do anything stupid."

"The whole thing is stupid. And it needs to stop. It's distracting. I can't write a single word."

Jackie didn't like the determined look in her friend's eyes, the eyes that looked past her into a world of plotting and planning. She knew that look all too well. "Look, it really isn't that big of a deal. Why don't you just..."

"Not a big deal?! He's taking all my friends!"

"Apryll..."

"He's completely eclipsing me!"

"Don't exaggerate."

"And I made him what he is!" Apryll nervously tapped an empty soda can on the table; it sounded like aluminum machine-gun fire.

"You have your own presence. Over time Eric will just fade away."

"No he won't – don't forget, he's taking credit for my work. I can't do book signings because of him."

"That's because you gave him the credit for your work! I told you at the time you shouldn't do that."

Apryll rolled her eyes. "Whatever. It's done. And he's done."

"It doesn't have to be this way." Jackie tried to inject logic into the subject even though she knew from past experience it was useless once Apryll's emotions took over. "You can work to slowly bring his readers over to you. Everyone will understand that you wrote the words he's getting credit for."

"I'm pulling the trigger on him. Right now." Apryll stood up suddenly, sending her chair skidding back from the table. She paced back and forth quickly in short, anxious strides.

Jackie sighed. "You're going to have to start from scratch."

"Doesn't matter."

"No one will believe you. You built him up into what he is. They'll think you're the one taking credit for his writing. They'll think the whole trilogy is his and that you're just riding his coattails."

Apryll stopped pacing and stood staring into space. "I have to kill him," she stated flatly in a frighteningly determined tone. "It's the only way to get my identity back."

Before Jackie could say another word, Apryll grabbed the laptop that sat between them, turned it toward herself and hit the delete button on Eric DeWinters' Facebook account.

"There. It's done, I killed the page. Eric's dead. No more alter ego. No more hiding behind a male pen name that's keeping me from making personal appearances."

"And no more sales. You just cut off all your primary social media author connections."

Apryll stared blankly at Jackie and blinked. "Shit."

# A L Sayge's Bio & Links

A.L. Sayge has been a freelance writer since 1998, with hundreds of articles and columns published in national, regional, and local print publications on a variety of topics. Though nonfiction is her daily life, fiction is the dream she's just begun to achieve. Her silly pup, Daisy, is the subject of a blog that inspired her first cozy mystery novel, coming out in early 2016.

Facebook <https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100009385813932>

Blog

http://raisingdaisy.wordpress.com

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# Conversations with the Devil

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# Michael R Stern

# Copyright 2015 Michael R Stern

All rights reserved.

### Acknowledgements

Thank you to Gemma and Matt Sharp

for your helpful suggestions.

You understand the Devil.

### Dedication:

Forever and as always, To Linda.

# Conversations with the Devil

A meteor struck Antarctica, breaking off a chunk. Drought in the Amazon, drying the riverbed. Torrential rain blowing in from the Mediterranean and flooding Saudi. Fires across the Plains, popcorn. What's going on, I wondered. This isn't global warming. It's like all hell broke loose.

Sitting near the fountain, alone, by choice, I nursed a coffee. The stranger asked if I minded company.

"Suit yourself. I'm not particularly good company but that's just me." He sat anyway. Looking for an angle, the tease I fiddled with a draft of my latest piece, a story about colors in cookware and how they had changed. Not great, but I couldn't find another like it. I think I know why.

He sat and stared, at me. I looked back at him. A rather dour face, unusual though. Blonde hair, a bit long, with a dark black goatee. He grinned, crooked pointy teeth. Eyebrows, black, a curve not achieved, rising in lines aimed at his temples. Permanent surprise. His countenance seemed to change as I looked.

He spoke, a sound as though with every syllable he was clearing his throat. Or he had come from some smoggy, sooty place. No cough, just rasp.

He said, "Starving writer, eh." Not a question. "Not as good as you want to be, wondering if ever you will?"

"Something like that," I said. "You look familiar," I said.

"Probably," he said. "I get around."

I returned to my reading. He returned to his staring. It was bothersome. He irked me.

"May I buy you a coffee, sir?"

"Nah" he answered.

Then I heard, "Mr. Walker."

He knew my name. I interrupted my reading, my right index finger as my placeholder, and raised my eyes to meet his stare. From the angle of the sun, electric charges zipped across his eyeballs.

"I know you," I said. Yes, I did. "Have we met?"

"Nah."

"I know you."

"Probably. I get around."

Then he pointed to my piece, the one I had been working on. My name, John Walker, in the title.

"You have me at a disadvantage sir."

He knew. I was to find he always knew, particularly disadvantage.

"I've many names, sobriquets given me, some taken. Luke you can call me, but I prefer the spelling to be L-U-C."

"Are you French, Canadian?" I asked.

"Nah. I get around."

"Are you here for a reason?"

"Nah, like it here. I'm on...vacation. I like it here."

"There's nothing here for a vacation."

"Sure there is. Depends on what you want. Why are you here?"

"I live here, but I think you know that."

"Yeah. I get around."

My cup was empty. "I must leave now. I have an appointment."

He shrugged. "No you don't. But I'll be here. Come again. We can chat then."

"What about?"

"All the things you want to ask."

"I have no questions."

"No? You will. We can chat then." I excused myself. I turned to look. He was gone.

My name is John Walker. I don't drink. I write. I should drink. I get by. I read and write. I make enough. Writing. For ten years, I have written. Or I've tried. I get by. I had a job, writing. Didn't like it much. Too many people, not enough ideas. Ideas are a precious commodity.

I like coffee. Black, a little sweet. Good coffee. Hard to find. Good coffee needs a maestro. Not a clerk. Good coffee requires quiet. Good coffee tastes quiet. And a book, and a pen. A pad, a notebook, not a printed paper placemat. No jotting, only writing.

I came back, as he said I would. I sat, by the fountain. It drip, dripped. It only spouts on weekends. Today was Wednesday. I like Wednesday. Not why people do. Hump Day. Nonsense. I like the way Wednesday looks. It is my favorite word for a day. Miercoles, Mercredi, Onsdag, Wednesday.

On Wednesday, I looked around. I slurped my coffee. It was hot. I like it hot. My favorite is hot on Wednesday. It wasn't hot. Wednesday, not the coffee. The coffee was hot. I slurped again. There he was. His hair was black. His goatee a golden blonde. Upside down from the last time. Unusual.

"Can I buy you a cup?" I offered.

"Nah."

"Why are you here?"

"I get around. You're here. We can chat now."

"About what?" I asked.

He shrugged.

"Whatever." He was noncommittal.

"Do you want my soul?"

"Nah. I'm on vacation."

"Where do you come from?"

"All over. I get around."

"Where did you start from?" He looked up, then down.

"Heaven, Hell?"

"No such thing."

"Then you are not real."

He shrugged. "Real enough."

"Is God real?" I asked.

"A real character, great sense of humor."

"People believe in Him. And you."

"They should. For different reasons."

"What reasons?"

"The right ones," he said.

"You're very abstract."

He shrugged. "You don't ask concrete questions."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Does it matter?"

"Does it?"

"No, that's the question."

"What's the question?" I asked.

"Does it matter?"

"Does what matter?"

"Can you spell?"

"Of course, I'm a writer." Did he think me an imbecile?

"The jury's out on that one, Walker."

"You heard me?" I asked.

"Back to work. I'll spell it for you. The right question is, does it matter?"

He spelled it, I wrote it. I'm a writer. I got it.

"Well does it matter?"

"No."

"You're cryptic."

"Am I?"

"Yes, you are. Why are you cryptic?"

"You don't ask good questions," he said.

My coffee was cold. "Do you want a coffee?"

"Nah."

"I'm buying."

"Nah."

"I'll get one for myself."

"Suit yourself." I rose. He vanished.

I walk, lots. Wherever it's close enough. I walk for my coffee, it's close enough. I walk so I can look, notice. I walk so I can think, what do I write about? I wonder when I walk. What, who, when, where? I never ask why, too important. Is that the right question? I heard behind me today,

"Yes it is."

I looked, behind, around, vacancy. I kept walking, for my coffee. It was close enough. I sat down by the fountain. I heard behind me, "Walker, let's walk."

I stood, looked. Behind me, Luc, grinning, a bent leg, foot atop the paving stone wall, his hands on hips, impatient. Hair and beard, black, pitch black, light absorbing. Eyebrows red.

"Want a cup?"

"Nah." Mine was hot. Who? Luc. Where? I don't know yet. When? now, I guess. What? I don't know yet. Why?

"It's time for you to ask me," he said. I sipped and looked. Coffee hot, he was walking. I walked, to be equal.

"Why? That's the right question."

"Why are you here, in my town, in my life?" I asked.

"I like it here."

"Why?" He stopped. I looked. His red beard stuck out at me, coming to a point, like a spear. I noticed.

"I am here because you are here."

"What have I done?"

"Asked the right question. I am here to answer your questions."

"Why me?"

"You write," he said.

"Do you want me to write?" I asked. "Not the right question." I wondered. "You want a story written."

"Closer."

"You want me to write a story."

"Yes."

"About what?"

"You aren't a good writer. You don't ask good questions." He walked again. I followed, wondered.

What questions, I wondered. I thought. Why? Behind me I heard,

"Yes." He was not walking in front. I looked, behind.

"Why are people afraid of you?"

"Good question, about time. I want a coffee."

"I'm buying," I said.

"Yes."

"Should we sit?"

"Yes."

Two young women with strollers occupied my spot. They looked. They moved. Luc smiled. Smiled?

"Did you make them move?"

"Nah, but they know me." I wondered. We sat.

"Why are people afraid of you?" I asked.

"Bad PR. They think in terms of 'good and evil' which they neither understand nor appreciate. They think I will do bad things to them, and that they will die and go to Hell."

"Why shouldn't they be afraid of you?"

"They cause Hell to happen to others."

"They are afraid of you for the wrong reasons?"

"Right."

"Is Hell real?"

"Look around," he said. "Remember."

I looked, but I no longer sat by the fountain. Wherever I looked, a different scene. Like a movie, only real. I turned counterclockwise. The only civilized direction, I heard. I was sitting by the fountain, my coffee still hot. It wasn't Wednesday.

"What was that?"

"You don't ask good questions."

"Why did I see that?"

"Did you see God? Did you see me?"

"No."

"What did you see?"

"Men and women and children, scaring, hurting, killing."

"Drink your coffee."

I sipped. It was cold. I didn't care. My mouth, like a desert, sooty, drier than Death Valley. Death Valley?

"No. Drink your coffee."

"Was that Hell?"

"You are asking better questions."

"Why did you show me?"

"What do you think, Walker?"

"The story. You want me to describe Hell."

"Is that a question?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"Bad question."

I thought. I sipped. "Hell isn't the story."

"Nope."

"Neither are you."

"Is that a question?"

"Yes," I said.

"Then where's the why? Bad question."

"Why do people do what they do to others if they are afraid of you?"

"Good question. About time. Walker, I only answer good questions."

"What's the answer?" I asked.

"Bad question."

I thought.

"Why are they not afraid enough?"

"They don't believe."

"In you?" I asked.

"Nah. In consequences."

"Why should they believe?"

"Consequences are real. Walker, want a coffee?"

"Yes please."

"It's on the house."

"Why?"

"He knows me."

"He makes quiet coffee," I said.

"Good for vacation drinking."

"Why is coffee good for vacations?"

"Good coffee is good for vacation drinking."

"Sorry."

"Where were you?" he asked. I had to think.

"Believing."

"Good. Ask away."

"Why..." I hesitated..."are they afraid but don't believe in consequences?"

"Good question. Now I'll answer. You've seen what they do. They haven't, yet. Eventually, they will. When I'm not on vacation. They'll all be mine, when my vacation ends. They always come to me in the end."

"Have you always gotten them?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Once, I was outdueled."

"By God?"

"Nah, we're friends. By Daniel Webster."

"I know that story."

"Not a story. Steven Benet was mine, but I told him the details, and he's been famous ever since."

"Was Jabez Stone a real man?"

"Name changed but yeah. Lost that one. Badly. The jury was rigged, my guys. Dan was very convincing and I had a bad day. But I win most of the time."

"Does that mean we all are going to Hell?"

"Don't you listen? Didn't you see?"

"Sorry," I said.

"Hell is what they cause. It's not a place. They can't imagine eternity with me."

"Why not?"

"Fair question. You're slipping."

"Why is eternity so unimaginable?"

"You're back. Let me explain. I'm not evil, they are. I don't cause the bad things. They do. My job is retribution. Think of me as a cop. THE cop. The capo di tutti cops. I liked that movie. On the house, the ticket girl knows me. Hell is understandable, too much so. They even make movies about it. They can imagine it. Eternity with me is beyond comprehension. What I like most is that it is graduated, and it gets so much worse as it goes along. Just when they feel it can't get worse, and I know when that is, it gets worse. And it's eternity. And I have no restrictions. Nothing divine, nothing comedic. Very satisfying."

"You said 'does it matter' is the right question."

"Right."

"It means the consequences."

"Nope."

"Why is it the right question?"

"You want me to do all the work?"

"Uh."

"I picked you because you have ideas. Think."

"Uh...the actions that...cause Hell?"

"That wasn't so hard."

He was ginger. Anyone could recognize him. The coffee man did. I did. No one else did. No one was left except us. And the coffee maestro.

"You're red, you know."

"I get excited," he said.

His beard was purple. He smelled purple.

"How long is your vacation?"

"As long as I want. I'm self-employed." He cackled.

"Why do people think God will help them?"

"Good question. They were told he would."

"You mean religion?" I asked.

"Ha!" The echo sounded like a sanctuary. Ha ha ha ha ha.

"Is religion wrong?"

"Bad question." He stared squarely. "This is too much for you Walker. Enough for today." Before the word stopped ringing, he was gone. I could still smell purple. The fountain drip, dripped.

I think it was spring, but I couldn't tell. I couldn't tell anything. I walked. A lot. Thinking. Why did he come now? It wasn't Wednesday. Why does the day matter? Does it matter? What story could I write? I walked. I noticed. Leaves opened, the trees waving to me. I could hear them. Why do they call it bark?

"That's how they talk," I heard. The flowers in the gardens danced, not a waltz. I listened.

"Why?" they said. All around the grass sizzled, like sausage on the barbecue. I bent. Louder sausage. I had never noticed.

Think John, what does he really want? I frowned. I frown when I think hard. Frowns make me focus. No Heaven, no Hell. But he was Luc. Eternity. Hmm, I thought. Why did he tell me? Why did God not tell me? Was I not a believer enough? What do I believe? Why do I believe? Does it matter?

"Good question." I was alone. But I heard. I walked more.

Miercoles. I walked to coffee. Coffee is my addiction, my companion, my coat. The fountain drip, dripped. Me and the coffee maestro. No strollers this morning. Sun dodged hide and seek, with, I don't know. I lived with why for the past days. I have more questions.

"Good," I heard. I turned. I was still alone. I turned back, he was there. All in black. Grinning at me.

"So you have questions. Are they good questions?"

"I hope so. Tell me about you and God."

"Not a question."

"Why are you and God friends?"

"Good question. I'll tell you. I'll make it easy. He gets what I don't want. I'm not selective. He gets the best. I get the rest."

"Why is God not here with you?"

"Silly question. I like silly. He doesn't need to be. I do the work."

I thought. _'Does it matter'_ is the right question.

"Yup."

"Why does religion teach differences?" I asked.

"You're getting better. I'll answer. Religion is of your world, your thought, your understanding. Even your books, Old Testament, New Testament. Of your world: Matthew, Mark, LUC, John. Of your world. It was fun, funner, for me. Religion is advertising, not teaching." He was ginger. "There is only one teaching: How to avoid me." It was so simple. It took me only a moment. "They found other ones."

"What teaching?"

"You know it. Think. Oh come on Walker, think. Enough time. Come back again."

What was the teaching? I thought and walked. A most difficult interview. Why? Difficult because I didn't know the answer. Or even the questions. What teaching would avoid Luc. How to make it why. I'm a writer. Write the questions, John. Put them in your wallet. "Now you're thinking," I heard.

Flapping wind. I walked for coffee. The fountain flowed. Saturday. A coffee crowd.

"Let's walk, Walker," he said.

"Want a cup?"

"Nah."

Consuming crowd consuming coffee, conversation and chatter. We walked.

"I have a question."

"I know."

"Do all my questions have to start with why?"

"That one doesn't."

"Will you answer?"

"Maybe. If it's a good question."

"I want to go back to the beginning."

"Whose beginning?" he said. I thought.

"Is the Garden of Eden real?"

"Yeah."

"Were you the snake?"

"Don't you listen. Do the work, Walker."

"Is the Garden of Eden here?"

"Getting there. No."

"Then, this isn't a question, I'm thinking out loud."

"You don't have to. I know."

"What do you know?" I asked.

"Bad question."

"Sorry."

I thought. We walked. The maple waved good morning. Adam and Eve were metaphors. The snake too.

"Good."

"You weren't there."

"Sure I was. Many times. Had a picnic with God once. He makes great fried chicken."

"Did God create Heaven and Earth?"

"All of them. But not by himself."

"All of them?" I asked.

"Yeah, but this was the first. Now you're on track."

"Why...did he create...?"

"Stop there." I stopped.

"Keep walking, stop talking, start thinking."

"There's more than one Earth, the Garden of Eden exists, Adam and Eve are not real. You weren't the snake. The Bible was written by men."

"You're boring me, Walker."

"Does it matter is the right question."

"Right."

"It's just a story. To explain the beginning."

"Getting there."

"Then why create?"

"Art."

"The universe is art?"

"You write."

"Yes. The universe is an art project?" I asked.

"Yup."

"Are there multiple universes?"

"No. An unending singularity, in multiple dimensions." My coffee was cold. I like hot coffee. "You're distracted, Walker."

"You and God made the universe, as an art project?"

"He did his part, I did mine."

"Did you create evil?" I asked.

"No. I created consequences. We built the foundation. We grew the Garden. We made everything possible. Then we waited."

"Not in seven days."

"Are you stupid?"

"Maybe."

"Of course not."

"How long?" I asked.

"Which part."

"The universe."

"It's not done. Look."

Nighttime. "Is it already night?"

"Stop talking and look." Stars.

"See there."

"What?"

"Look." The stars crossed the sky. "Do you see it?" A bright light, explosive. "Right. That's new."

"Where are you?"

"There. Here."

All in black. Except his beard, bright white.

"You just made that?"

"Yup. That's all Walker. I'm on vacation."

It was Saturday. My coffee was cold. My head swam to the maestro. The fountain flowed. Strollers strolled. My table was empty. Morning was passing. In my pad, I wrote. Questions in my wallet. I had more.

"Not today," I heard.

My coffee was fresh and hot. The maestro asked me,

"You know Luc?"

"Yes."

"Nice fella, even if he looks like, well, an old hippie. But not that old."

"Known him long?"

"Not long. Helped me make better coffee. Make it hotter, he said."

"I like hot coffee."

"He talks funny though." I thanked him. I needed to think more. I wrote all we had discussed. But what was the teaching? I knew the right question. Just not that one.

"My day off," I heard. They were all my day off, I thought.

In my old, rickety recliner, staring at the ceiling, what is the lesson? What am I not seeing? The right question is does it matter. Bible stories. – why is this italic?

"Walker, do you miss trains often?" I looked over my shoulder.

"I don't think so."

"Toot, toot. Bye, bye. It's leaving."

"Where are you?"

"Everywhere, here, there. Bye, bye."

"Is your vacation over?"

"Nah. Self-employed."

"I was thinking."

"I know," he said.

"Why did Noah build the Ark?"

"You caught the caboose. Because it was getting wet."

"That's cryptic."

"Yep."

"There was no ark? Or flood?"

"Bad question."

"Why was there a flood that covered the earth and killed everything?"

"Thank you. I was getting bored. There was a flood. We were playing with the weather to see what would happen. It got too warm."

"So there was a flood?"

"A few."

"Why did you not fix it so you wouldn't have to start again?"

"I'm proud of you. We didn't start again. Didn't have to."

"Why...didn't you have to?"

"Tricky, Walker. We were the Ark. We were still tinkering. That was five million of your years ago."

"Where are you?"

"There."

"Why...can I hear you?"

"You want to. I get around." I thought and asked,

"Why can I only ask questions that begin with why?"

Ha ha ha ha, I heard. It sounded like a crow with a cough.

"Why is that funny?"

"I never said you had to start with why. I said you ask bad questions."

"Can I ask another kind?"

"Only if you ask a good question."

"Are any of the characters in the Bible real?"

"Of course. Not all, they were metaphors. We were practicing. Practice makes perfect. That one's mine."

"Did Methusalah live 900 years?"

"More, but yeah. We were practicing. God saw that wasn't so good. So on about the four millionth day he created shorter life spans." Ha ha ha ha, he crowed.

"What about Jesus?"

"News flash, stupid. By then, we knew we had a working project. Of course he was real."

"Why would God crucify his Son?"

"Walker, have you read the story?"

"Yes."

"Have you followed the outcome?"

"What do you mean?"

"The trinity."

"Oh."

"God, Jesus and the spirit are one. What does that mean to you?" he asked. I thought.

"If I was there, I'd smack you around. Think."

"Jesus was God?"

"Closer. Think about it some more. I'm busy."

I was alone again. At least I thought I was. Why?

"Good question," I heard.

"You're still here?"

"Nope."

"Where are you?"

"Not there."

"But you can hear my thoughts?"

"Yeah, I get around."

"Are you concentrating on me?" I asked.

"Yep."

"Why?"

"You're a writer. I have a story, like I told you. But you have to comprehend before you can tell it. Otherwise, you write dreck. I like that word. Mine."

Onsdag. I walked to the maestro. Hot, on Wednesday. The coffee not the Wednesday. My table was occupied. I stood. Luc was on the other side, talking to the maestro. Luc wore a suit, but it was him. He winked, I waved. His wink flashed past my ear, to the two women with strollers. Both jumped. They knew Luc. They left. My table, drip, drip. I sat.

"Have you figured anything out yet, Walker?"

"I don't know." When he shook his head, disgusted look, lightning flashed from his beard standing erect. He said nothing. He expected.

"Why...did you create free will?"

"Whoa, insight? Good question. I'll answer. When we started, the plan was perfect. A blueprint. Make a place with creatures, all kinds, able to change, adapt, think. We provided challenges. They learned, we learned, we watched."

"You and God?"

"Of course. We corrected, embellished the good parts. Then we increased the challenges, harder. See who made it. More fun than your video games. Ours were real."

"What exactly is free will?"

"You're interrupting. Listen. Each challenge is a choice, right answer, wrong answer. We watched. We invented education. Wanted to see if choices got better. Sometimes yes, sometimes, what a mess. Wrong lessons were taught. It matters."

"You're losing me," I said.

"Think, Walker."

"Why were the lessons wrong?" I asked.

"They didn't ask the right questions. We created perfect. We expected the challenge would create improvement, but it didn't. The wrong choices, the easy ones, the immediate, the self. I hate that word. Self is yours, not mine. Self embraces selfish. Not what we wanted. Not what we planned. You depress me, Walker. My coffee is cold." He was gone.

A question occurred to me. The image and likeness creation. How should I ask?

"Start with why," I heard.

"Are you here?" I asked.

The rasp scratched at my breath as I inhaled.

"Always."

"Why then, why was man made in the image and likeness?"

"Says who?"

"Uh."

"Think Walker."

"Can I ask it differently?"

"Sure, but maybe I won't answer."

"Is this another bible issue?" I asked.

"Hmm," I heard. "What do you think, Walker? Are you made in the image and likeness of God?"

"I don't know. I've never seen him."

"So then...? Come on Walker. I have places to go, people to, well, not really see, but I have business."

"So it is the bible again."

"Good, Walker. Anything else?"

"Well, is man made in the image and likeness?"

"Can you fry chicken?"

"Yes, but I haven't in a while."

"There you go. Write, Walker. Stop talking to yourself. It's distracting. Remember, Walker, there's balance in the universe. That's how we set it up. Equal and opposite. Balance. Him and me. Together, each with a part to play."

Three days of solitude, three days of reading notes. More questions, yet satisfied with a week's work. But the lesson drilled into me, even in the quiet. I looked forward to coffee on Sunday. Cool and damp, would Luc visit again?

The fountain spouted. My coffee was hot. Luc spoke to the maestro, who leaned close. Luc pointed at me. The maestro nodded.

"Walker, drink up. We're going," he said.

We walked. I listened and thought. I could hear Luc, but humming wouldn't be accurate. More like bubbling, but not of something nice. At my house, he waved his hand. All was gone, my home, my things. In the wave of his hand. Only open space.

"See how easy, Walker."

"Uh huh."

"See how temporary?"

"I do. Am I dead?"

Luc rasped a heavy sigh.

"You try my patience, Walker." He waved once again. A mansion, a fancy car, a glorious garden. He waved again. A shack, holed roof, panes broken, children on the ground. He waved again. A doorway. Beard, khaki jacket, holey sneakers. Again a wave. The mansion, closer. The door, under the arch, an ambulance waiting. I listened. Two sounds, Luc snoring and... "not snoring, Walker, breathing." The second, a distant wail. Ambulance attendant backed out, a gurney and a crimson drape, face missing one side. Killed her, then himself. He waved again. The shack, mom and kids laughing.

"Who's happier, Walker?" He waved again. Home.

"Why did you show me that?"

"Good question. To show you real life as a metaphor. Unhappy rich, happy poor."

"I know. Richard Cory."

"That was him."

"Who?"

"Him, Richard Cory."

"He's real?" I asked.

"Walker!" Luc was ginger. "You go with me, you talk to me. I show you so you can tell our story. Don't you pay attention?"

"Sorry." Ginger shaded crimson.

"Sorry isn't a question. It's an excuse."

"Why do you show me these things?"

"Why do you think?" Our visits made thinking faster.

"You show me stories that are real...how do I say this?... to..."

"Oh come on Walker. How can you write a story if you don't know the story. And our story is about?"

"You?"

"Jumping Jesus on a pogostick." He was burgundy, tendrils of smoke drifted around his beard.

"Consequences?"

"Maybe you're not the writer I thought. Later."

"Wait, let's get coffee."

"Answer the question, then maybe."

"About the right question and the lesson."

"Coffee, Walker, I'm buying."

New route to coffee. Early, I walked. Past the churchgoers, past half-filled churches. Methodists, Catholics, Baptists, Presbyterians, Lutherans, Episcopalians, Muslims, Jews.

"Good list Walker. Hurry up. I've been waiting."

"Not yet, I'm thinking."

"Good. About time," he said.

Old trees, weathered, tough hides. New trees, thin skinned. Old houses, old growth. New houses, new plantings. The morning breeze awoke, greeting me. "Hello," I heard. It wasn't the breeze.

From the porch of the next house, the woman in the rocker. New person, old house. Stroller lady.

"Going to see Luc?" she asked. I nodded. "Can I come with you?" I nodded. Pretty dress, bright, flowers printed. "I've seen you before, walking. My name is Mara Iblis." I stared.

"Walker," I said.

"Are you coming?" Luc asked.

"We'll be there shortly," she said.

"You heard him?" I asked. She nodded.

Luc and Maestro talked. Clouds erupted from the cup.

"About time, Walker."

"I was thinking."

"I know." Head tilted, he smirked. "I see you've met Mara. Looking luscious this morning. Playing?" She nodded.

She bought coffee, and handed me a cup. The Maestro waved. I nodded. The fountain gurgled. The breeze whipped the droplets, and Mara's dress. I noticed, Luc smiled a tune.

"Why are there so many churches if there is only one God?" I asked.

"Wow, you've been thinking."

"I told you. But you already know. You always know."

"I do," Luc said.

Mara smiled at me, musical. I studied. No Sunday clothes, no make-up, pointed brow, cranberry hair, soft shoulders, ample breast. A beauty glowing. She smiled.

"Walker, pay attention."

"I am, just not to you."

He laughed, deep, my feet shook.

"What's the answer?"

"Choice."

"Good, Walker. They choose where to go on Sundays."

"It doesn't matter."

"Good, Walker." The breeze said hello.

"I've been thinking."

"About time."

"The lesson."

"Got there finally, have you?"

"There are a lot of rules. Why?" I asked.

"Don't ask me."

"Why shouldn't I ask you?"

"You're a trickster Walker. A Why question. Okay. You made them to control excessive free will. To be civilized. To define how you behave."

"So many are silly."

"Of course. Changes happen, you don't keep up," he said.

"What about all the laws?" I asked.

"Same thing. That's why you have so many lawyers and judges."

"Contradictions mean choosing." I said. Mara smiled. Luc said,

"Keep going Walker." Luc was blonde.

"Why...do...we...think we are the only beings in the universe?"

"Choice again, Walker."

"You mean we choose to think that?"

"You're pissing me off, Walker. You know the answer."

"We don't believe what we can't see."

"Now we're getting somewhere. That's why people don't really believe in me. Until, well..." Mara smiled.

"The lesson, Walker."

"I don't know. Yet."

"Good, Walker. I like yet, that's mine. It says you are working. But I want my story. Work harder." He turned his head. "Mara, my dear, will you help Walker?"

"It would be a pleasure." I smiled. "A pleasure," she repeated.

"Walker, my vacation is ending. I have collections to gather. I like it here. I'll be back." Mara smiled. Luc was charcoal.

"Luc, don't leave yet," I said.

He turned to me, his red beard pointing. I felt his thought.

"Mara will help you. Stay here and talk to her. I'll be around. Walker, coffee's on me."

"More coffee?" I asked her. She nodded. The fountain spouted. I saw Luc in the dancing droplets. She laughed. Musical. Maestro had two cups.

"Who are you?" I asked her.

"Your neighbor."

"I saw you with a stroller."

"Bad question, Walker," she said.

"I ask bad questions."

"No you don't. You beat around the bush."

"Are you married?"

"Not at present."

"Was that your baby in the stroller?"

"Now we're getting somewhere. Let's say it was the universal child."

"How do you know Luc?"

"He's an old friend of the family."

"What's a universal child?"

"Does Luc scare you?"

"Of course. But what's a universal child?"

"That's a good question, Walker. Take my hand." The fountain stopped. Distended bellies, rags, tears, hiding, fear. The fountain was spouting. "What was that?"

"The universal child. You've never looked before?" My mouth called for coffee. I slurped. She smiled.

"I told you she'd help you, Walker," the voice rasped.

"Are you still here?"

"Always."

"How long have you been my neighbor?"

"Long enough to have seen you more than once."

"You're very pretty."

"Thank you, Walker."

"Finally noticed, huh, Walker?" Luc's gargle. I shook my head like a dog. Was he in my head? "Of course I am," he said. She smiled. The sun shone.

"Did you hear him?" She nodded. Her dress was yellow. Promising.

"Get to work, Walker," I heard. She laughed. The fountain sprayed.

"Luc gave me a tour."

"I know."

"You just did."

"I know."

"Why am I allowed to see these things?"

"The lesson, Walker."

I thought. What have I seen? What do I know now?

"Was that trip here?" She nodded.

"Do you know where the Garden of Eden is?"

"No Walker. I'm not a traveler. I'm your neighbor."

"How did you do that?"

"I didn't. Luc did." I sipped, it was still hot. The coffee. And the sun.

"Let's walk."

"Okay," she said.

"I like yellow."

"I do too."

"Yellow brightens you."

"Thank you, Walker."

Ha ha ha.

"You're nosy aren't you?" I asked Luc.

"Walker, it's hard to be everywhere at once, but I'm keeping an eye on you. Especially you."

"Why?"

"Because Mara is special to me. I've always known her."

"Why don't you walk with us? Or mind your own business," I said. She laughed.

"Okay, behave," he said. I shook my head. She took my hand. The sun shone.

"The lesson, Walker."

"Sorry. You're distracting."

"Thank you." She smiled.

"You know Luc. Do you know God?"

"Of course."

"Have you met him?"

"Of course. Luc introduced us. Interesting guy." I felt her hand, and I was warm.

"There's only one lesson. You know what it is."

"Of course."

"What is it?" I asked. She stopped, faced me, took my other hand.

"We'll go slow, Walker. Look."

Golf course, battlefield. Church, cemetery. Children playing in city streets. Children sitting in the dirt. Men yelling, women crying. Couples dancing. Dichotomy.

"No Walker, balance."

"Is this now?"

"It is always, Walker."

"Will it change?"

"It can." Mara dropped my hands. She smiled.

"The lesson. We can change if we choose."

"Getting closer, Walker," in my head. "Not in your head, Walker," he said. She smiled.

"You heard him?"

"Of course."

My new route. Monday, Tuesday, Mara. Walking.

"Do you talk to Luc often?"

"When I need to."

"Why do you need to?"

"I report my findings."

"Findings?"

"Um hmm."

"Why does Luc need help if he is everywhere?"

"Good question, Walker. The universe is a big place and time only moves forward. He can't go back. So we help him with the present."

"We?"

"Of course. He is the boss, well one of them."

"One of them?"

"Think Walker." She took my hand.

"Balance. God is the other," I said.

"Good Walker." She let go. My hand was warm.

"Why is my hand warm?"

"Good question, Walker," I heard.

"Hi Luc."

"Morning Walker."

"Are you here?"

"Always."

"Mara, does your hand allow me to see?"

"It helps you focus, Walker."

"Why is my hand warm?"

"Feelings, you would call them."

"What kind of feelings?"

"Walker, take her home. Today you're pissing me off."

"We haven't had a coffee. Yet. Your word." Ha ha ha ha. The frog leapt across the sidewalk. We walked more. I thought.

"Mara, feelings means emotions?" I asked. "No."

"Touch?"

"Not only."

"The senses."

"Yes, Walker."

"Am I still missing something?"

"Yes, Walker."

We walked. Coffee was hot. Drip, drip. Maestro laughed. She reached across my table, laid her hand on mine. "Take out your pen now, Walker. Write."

In front of me I saw her, in yellow. I smelled her in buttercup. My ears sang in daffodils. In my mouth, fresh lemon. And I felt warm on my hand. Sunshine. I wrote.

"Now, more, Walker." I looked in her eyes. Musical, joy. "What else, Walker?"

"Fear, hate."

"No, Walker."

"Not fear?"

"No Walker, not hate. Disgust. Revulsion. Look deeper Walker."

"I see softness, happiness."

"Good enough for now, drink up."

I headed for the recliner. It was time to write, but not there. The table, hard chair for hard work.

"It's not that hard, Walker."

"Hi Luc."

"Tomorrow, Walker. Coffee, early."

"Okay."

Mercredi. I brought my notes, Luc brought Mara. Red hair and yellow dress. Luc was ginger.

"Why are you excited?"

"Because you know."

"What?"

"Maestro, bring us your best today. Walker, my vacation is over. I want my story. I will stay today until you are done. You've had plenty of time, and your reward is waiting." I sat up and looked at him. "You already know what, so don't ask stupid questions." I started.

"Stop now. You already know that. Move on." I thought. The teaching. A deep breath, I looked at Mara. She nodded. Do I know? I thought. "Of course you know."

"Are you in my head?"

"Of course. Come on, Walker."

"Does it matter is the right question."

"Yup."

"What we do matters."

"Yup."

"What we believe does not matter?"

"Yup."

"Feelings matter."

"Nope." I looked away. I turned to Mara. She smiled.

"Good feelings matter."

"Almost." Luc was pitch. "Come on, Walker."

"Let him be, Luc," said Mara. "He's almost there."

I smiled at Mara.

"Good feelings...for others."

"More, Walker," she said. I saw Mara's yesterday eyes.

"Making others have good feelings matters." Luc exhaled. Fog formed around us.

"Walker, you have reached the end. What is the lesson?"

"There isn't just one. There are two."

"Is that so?"

"In fact, there may be more."

"Is that so?"

"Yes Luc, it is so. You and Mara showed me this morning."

"So get to it, Walker. My vacation is over."

"To avoid forever with you, all we need to do is treat other people like we want them to treat us. Do unto others, we say here."

"Mine." The fog cleared. "Okay, Walker, that's one. What else ya got?"

"Feelings, Luc, matter. Love is all you need. The Beatles."

"I wrote that, well, I whispered it to John. It took him a while too. Didn't it Mara?" She nodded. I said,

"Love thy neighbor as thyself."

"Mine too."

"Why..." I had his attention, "is all the good stuff yours?"

"Frankly, I have a way with words." HAHAHAHA. A crow flew past.

"Anything else?" Luc asked.

"I think so. We are limited to what our senses allow, but don't use them to make the lesson resound."

"Interesting, Walker. Expound."

"We see, but don't look at how we can help. We hear, but muffle the cries. We breathe, but miss the aroma and odor. We taste, but only what's in our mouths, not the hunger around us. We touch but don't allow ourselves to feel."

Luc stood, waved to Maestro.

"Today, now, Maestro, you will prepare the recipe I gave you for a special occasion."

"Today. Really? Wonderful." He returned to the kiosk and began to work.

"Now, Walker, my story. You know the lesson. You know the consequences. You know the right questions. You are ready to write. You have a deadline. Wednesday. Next. You have a publisher."

"I do?" I asked. Luc shook his head.

"Walker, you are not nosy enough." He turned to Mara. She smiled, first at Luc then at me. Maestro arrived with three cups.

I have never tasted anything like it. But I can't describe what I tasted, or what I smelled. I saw deep, the abyss, and as the liquid, I thought coffee, swirled and spun, distant faces. My past, present. And times I didn't recognize.

"Your future, Walker. Honestly, you worry me. Use your imagination, Walker. Can I have been wrong? Are you smart enough to write my story?"

I looked up from the depths. I sat up straight and stared at him.

"Luc, you no longer scare me. I know your story. Let me tell it. Then you'll know if your choice was the right one. You have editorial discretion. I have a week." Luc was red, then blond, then pitch. HAHAHAHAHA.

"Write my story, Walker." And he was gone.

"Mara, you are in here."

"I know."

"But it looks like you are in my past, my present, my future."

"Pass me your cup, Walker and stand behind me." She set the cups side by side. "Look now Walker." She softly stirred. Mist rose from the cups, wrapping us. "You saw, Walker, you smelled, you tasted. Now hear and feel." She took my hand. "I have always been meant for you." And I looked again, deep. And it was so.

Saturday, coffee with Mara.

"You look beautiful in yellow."

"Thanks Walker." She turned and the skirt billowed. This time, I took her hand. A tingle up my spine, sweat droplets down my neck. She laughed.

"You know."

"Of course."

"I have the intro done, two columns, twelve hundred words each."

"I know."

"I have described the ever-present Luc. Transfiguration is not just a religious belief. Some stories have a basis in fact. I think the outline gets it done."

"I know."

"Maestro, can you make me two special recipes?"

"Sorry, only for Luc."

"Go ahead, Louie," I heard. He smiled.

"You heard him?"

"Of course. And now you know my name."

"My name is Walker."

"I know."

Wednesday, Mara and I waited with Louie. Six thousand seven hundred words strong waited with us.

The emcee said, "And the winner of this year's short fiction award is John Walker for one of the most interesting interviews that never happened."

It was a small gathering. "Who gives this woman in marriage?" An immaculate red haired man looked at me, and rasped, "I do."

# Michael R Stern's Bio & Links

Michael R. Stern is the Amazon bestselling author of "Reflections on a Generous Generation", a story about a generation of Americans, born in the early twentieth century, who through the trials of deprivation and war, built the foundation of the greatest country in history.

Michael is a history lover. His future writing, both non-fiction and fiction, will offer perspectives on the way the past threads to the present and future, and why our past provides the guidance to understand and plan for the world we inhabit together.

Now working on a novel series, Quantum Touch, the first book, STORM PORTAL reached to the top 100 on Amazon and is available now. http://bit.ly/StormPortal The second book, SAND STORM, will be available August 2015.

Michael grew up in Garden City, New York, is a graduate of Cornell University, and now lives outside Philadelphia with his family. After a long career in business, he has begun a writing adventure.

sternmike52@gmail.com

<http://bit.ly/GenerousGeneration-Reflections>

<http://bit.ly/StormPortal-STORMPORTAL>

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# Self Portrait

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# Christie Stratos

# Copyright 2015 Christie Stratos

All Rights Reserved

# Self Portrait

I bought the house after it was all over and I could finally have something of my own. It was my first true belonging in all my life, modern and angular, in whites and blacks only occasionally interrupted by steel. It was nothing if not encased in itself, protected from me, the very person who loved it most. I knew soon after I bought it that I'd never truly made it mine except in its lack of color. I suppose that's why I took up painting.

I bought the best canvas and I bought the best paints – vibrant and forever lasting. It was the perfect setup in the backyard, which was expansive and well manicured by others. The edges were growing nicely with flowers and vines and trees, but the middle I left for myself. The whole yard was ready for me, but I chose to stay close to the house for now, practically up against the thick glass sliding doors, where I could look into the cold home I knew best. So that was where the easel stayed for months until I knew what I wanted to say on my canvas.

I sat down in front of it with all my paints ready, but just as I'd gotten comfortable, it started to rain. I was tempted to stay anyway, but I couldn't bear it. After I'd gone inside, the rain stopped, but not before I'd lost my nerve altogether. My comfort remained with the steel my fingers touched and the black and white my eyes had become accustomed to.

I went out to check on the paint, half convinced that I could try again, but the paint had faded to colors I hated. I thought of buying more but changed my mind. Best to stick with it regardless before I shied away again. So I sat down at my long-anticipated canvas. But I had no inspiration, no idea what to paint, and it was painful, like leaving a murder weapon buried inside me. I closed my eyes to rest and ruminate, and when I opened them again, twenty years had passed me by.

I was startled to find that the whole backyard, flowers and all, had grown in all the way up to my canvas and me, leaving us just a small rectangle the width of the sliding door. I reached out and brushed a rose with my fingers, but it told me to paint. And yet when I turned to the canvas, it didn't want any paint. Before I could ask it what it did want, large droplets of rain began to fall on us, and as I was about to run indoors, a vine from the garden wrapped around my wrist and pulled me back to my seat in front of the canvas. The water streamed down my barren canvas and me, and I knew my efforts would count for nothing – the paint would wash away and the canvas would be left unfulfilled once more. But I could not let myself be stopped yet again. I took blue on my brush, a dusty and pale color that used to be royal and strong, and painted a stroke across the canvas.

Nothing.

It was as if I had not applied the paint at all, as if my brush were bare. Panicked, I took more paint on the brush and tried again.

Nothing.

I had waited too long. The paints were dead.

I felt a tear stream down my face. Nobody could have told it wasn't a raindrop from the outside, but I knew; it was the only warmth I had felt. I looked up at the canvas, nearly crazy with sadness and regret, and found a streak of blue across the canvas – the first stroke I'd painted. As another tear fell, the second stroke I'd made on the canvas seeped into life as I watched, shining a bright blue. I dropped the paintbrush and stood, putting both my palms against the canvas, and when they came away there was a landscape more beautiful than I'd ever imagined in colors that I'd never seen before. A sharp intake of breath, of realization, and I hugged the whole canvas to my body. The garden grew around us, tying us together permanently. And I finally felt warm.

# Christie Stratos's Bio & Links

Christie Stratos is an editor and award-winning writer who holds a degree in English Literature. An avid reader of all genres and world literature, Christie reads everything from bestsellers to classics to indies, and is an audiobook reviewer at AudioBookReviewer.com. She is also a writer of short stories, poetry - some of which have already been published - and upcoming novels. She dabbles in all genres. Christie can be reached through her editing business, Proof Positive, her author website and blog, Twitter, Google+, Facebook, and Goodreads.

Author website: http://christiestratos.com

Editing website: http://proofpositivepro.com

Twitter: <http://twitter.com/christiestratos>

Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100009571653683>

Goodreads: <https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/584058-christie-stratos>

Google+: <https://plus.google.com/+ChristieStratos/posts>

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# Majicka

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# J B Taylor

# Copyright 2015 J B Taylor

All Rights Reserved

# Chapter 1

A Dragon Unbound

The garden was thriving with ripe vegetables ready for plucking. It was sizable, a dramatic change from last year when nothing seemed to want to grow. At that time, they managed only a few buckets of peas and cucumbers, while the rest grew stunted and flavorless.

Nessa was on her knees working in the garden, snapping and tossing them into the wooden bucket set next to her. She wore a summer dress. Her long black hair hung down her back.

Zane swung his axe through the log, splitting it. The sun was warm on his bare back; sweat glistened on his muscular front. The halved logs thudded against the soft green grass. He placed a new log on the stump and swung again. A freshly halved log fell with a thud. Behind him a chimney spewed billowing black smoke atop a log cabin.

Chickens wandered freely in the front yard.

A dirt road split the pasture and the great forest that, in the distance, wrapped around the Sapiens Realm.

In the distance the forest shook. Zane paused mid-swing. Nessa stood, peas in hand. Both looked to the forest. At that moment a great shot of fire streaked through the treetops. Trees caught fire, more split like twigs; others shot from the ground, roots and all.

Both watched as the great horned head of a dragon rose up out of the treetops. With a great whipping of wings and crashing of trees the dragon took flight, its immense wings whipping the flames about, catching more trees afire.

"Dragons aren't to be seen in the Sapiens Realm." Fear radiated in Nessa's voice. "For us to have seen one can only mean something terrible must have happened in the realm of Majicka."

The dragon soared higher and higher, its great wings beating hard. It seemed an eternity until it grew to be a speck in the distance.

"The wizards' dome must have faltered." Zane's eyes never left the speck in the distance that was the dragon. He spoke with a deep voice. "I'll request council with the king. See if we shouldn't be on our guard."

"My sister and mother are calling tonight. Should I send word informing them not to come?"

Zane thought for a moment, his brows furrowing. "No," he said with a shake of his head. "The witches and wizards are a mighty race. I merely wish to speak with the king to ask if there is any way I can help with the matter."

"I'll return to the garden. Though before I do I shall first retrieve my crossbow."

"Use the acid-tipped arrows," Zane said. "Dragons dislike them in their eyes."

Nessa shuddered at the thought of being close enough to a dragon to be able to shoot it in the eyes. She put her hand on Zane's back and kissed his lips. "I will do so my love. Be safe in your travels."

# Chapter 2

A Night of Dangers

The dirt road was bumpy and hard, flanked by endless acres of green and a thick forest. Tents of colorful fabric spanned the fields. Horses whinnied from the posts to which they were tied. The smell of cooking meat played in the air as pigs and hens roasted over fires.

Towering over the sight was a mighty castle, its many towers aimed at the ever darkening sky swirling with purples, pinks and yellows. Knights guarded the gate barring entrance to the castle. More dotted its parapet; its footbridge, rampart and its numerous flanking towers.

Swords and crossbows glinted in the light of mounted torches.

Zane ignored the knights lining the road, his focus instead on those guarding the main gate. They held long axes, crossbows, bows and spears.

"State your business," demanded a beefy knight in silver armor. His large hands gripped his oversized battle axe.

"A dragon was spied—"

"We're aware," the knight interjected.

"Should the citizenry be troubled?" Zane asked, glancing at the sky as if a dragon might suddenly appear. "The realm of Majicka has spells to keep their dragons in house. If they've broken free—"

"A prisoner broke free and set the dragon loose as a diversion," interjected the knight. "The matter will be resolved shortly."

"I see." Zane badly wanted to speak with the king. But he knew the king probably had his fill of frightened townsfolk and wanted nothing more than to be alone. "Thank you for your time good sir."

* * *

A man appeared on the gravel road. He wore a black cloak and had eyes as blue as sapphires. In his hand was a wand, long bony fingers clutching it. The wand was black ash mottled with specks of gold.

The wand sparked and lit up like a flare lighting a path. Light played off the trees. A shadow grew tall beside the wizard.

A door unlatched. Wood thudded against wood. The wizard looked in the direction of the door opening and watched a woman leave a log cabin. A smile spread across his face. Stepping into nothingness, he appeared a few feet behind the women, without making so much as a sound.

The woman was kneeling over a stack of logs by the door. Raising his wand at her, the wizard whispered, "Drabbade!" His wand sparked white.

The woman jolted forward, blood misting in the air. She spun, arms flailing, and hit the ground on her stomach. The wizard sauntered to her, and stood over her. She put her hands in front of her face, mumbling pleading words. Blood ran from the corners of her mouth and tears ran free from her eyes.

The wizard smiled, as if finding the woman's desperation amusing. Aiming his wand at her face he hissed, "Kolv." His wand sparked yellow. The woman's head jolted violently. Blood and matter smacked the grass. Smoke swirled upwards from a dime-sized hole in her forehead.

The wizard turned, stepping into nothingness. He reappeared in the doorway to the cabin. Inside, Nessa and an older woman were conversing lightly. The room was dimly lit. Candles ran along a table in the middle of the room.

Nessa looked up and did a double-take at the sight of the wizard. Her face ran pale with fear. The older woman looked up. Fear took the color from her skin.

Nessa spoke with upset nerves. "Let my mother live and I will do what you please."

The wizard locked eyes with the older woman. She was shaking from fear. Thought flickered across his eyes, jaws clenched and unclenched. "Leave woman," he said.

Nessa's mother stood, a look of defiance on her face. Nessa took her hand and squeezed it. "Go mother," she said. "Trust that I will be okay."

"Touch my daughter and I will destroy your world, wizard or not," warned Nessa's mother, her eyes blazing with fire.

The wizard said nothing. When it became clear that he wouldn't, she left, slamming the door behind her.

Silence fell. Then a shrill scream pierced the air.

"Is my sister dead?" Nessa mumbled, tears flooding her eyes. Covertly her hand moved to the crossbow resting on the wall beside her chair.

"She is." The wizard spoke bluntly. "And unless you're going to take the crossbow with you, I would suggest taking your hand from it."

Nessa felt a jolt at hearing the wizard speak of traveling. Yet she played it calm. "There is a dragon on the loose. I will not travel without my crossbow and arrows."

The wizard looked unfazed. Raising his wand, he hissed, "Gripa!"

Nessa gave a jolt and shuddered. Her eyes rolled in the back of her head. She shook her head, regaining herself; then picked up her crossbow and collection of arrows as smoothly and calmly as if nothing had been done to her. She slung the arrows over her shoulder and made for the door.

"Let us be gone," she said.

* * *

The sky was black, the twinkling stars hidden by cloud cover. The trees on either side of the gravel road played a symphony of cracks and claps as Zane walked.

His hand hung down at his side gripping a long thick stick he had found along the gravel road. He used it as a walking stick. The night was cold, a biting chill swirling in the wind.

Instinct told Zane to camp out for the night as spring nights in the Sapiens Realm were as harsh as some midwinter days. But he had to get home, back to Nessa and her mother and sister who had probably called hours ago. They were bound to be worried about him.

A limb snapped sharply somewhere up ahead. Zane dropped to one knee and gripped his walking stick tightly. He felt a little of the bark give and fall to the ground. His eyes darted on the forest flanking the gravel road. Something obscure darted behind a tree up ahead. Zane followed it with his eyes.

Silence fell. In the silence every sound was amplified, every movement of the limbs touched by the wind exaggerated.

The figure darted from behind a tree. Zane tracked its movements through the woods. As he did, he slowly lowered his stick and placed it on the ground. From a hidden holster above his boot, he drew a long serrated knife.

Reaching back, Zane threw the knife. The figure cried out in the night. He rushed forward, stick forgotten. He traversed trees, jumping over fallen ones, and avoiding thorn bushes and exposed roots. The figure was down on its back, twitching.

Zane approached it slowly, carefully. In the darkness the figure seemed small. He hoped he hadn't hurt a child. Kneeling down, he flipped the figure over and felt a cold chill reverberate through his body. Nessa's mother lay on the ground, hands clutching his knife buried deep in her chest. Her eyes were wide and she was trying to say something.

"Speak louder, my lady," Zane said. "What are you attempting to say?"

"Wizard." Blood geysered from Elise's mouth, spattering her face. She went still.

Zane let her go. Digging through his pocket he placed one golden coin on each of his mother-in-law's eyes. "May the gods be with you in your journey to the afterlife."

* * *

The ground split, a deep fissure forming. From it came death. A long figure in a billowing black cloak. Its hands and feet were bones; its face hidden beneath a deep hood.

Death looked to the gravel road a short distance from him, his eyes finding the human he knew to be Zane. When one came to be Death, he or she learned the names and faces of those who had died in the past, and those who would die in the future.

He glided to Zane.

"Elise lived well," Zane said of Death as both passed in the night.

Death said nothing, moving instead to where Nessa's mother lay lifeless on the ground, the gold coins on her eyes glinting in the moonlight. Kneeling, he put his hand on her chest and applied pressure. With a great gasp, her spirit rose from her body, pearlescent and beautiful.

Death stood.

Elise looked herself over, eyes swelling with sadness. Those eyes glistened like diamonds as her tears rolled down her cheeks. "Am I to be taken to Hell?" Her voice quivered with sorrow.

"Heaven awaits you." Death's voice came like a whistling wind.

# Chapter 3

Realization

"Why did you come for me?" Nessa asked as she and the wizard made their way down a long gravel road. Behind them, her and Zane's log cabin burned, fire licking feverishly at the night's sky.

"Your eyes captivated me that day on fruit road," said the wizard. He whipped his wand at a tree as he passed it. It sparked white. The tree flashed with a great boom as if struck by lightning, limbs falling in heaps upon the road. The wizard slashed his wand at the ground. It sparked green. A twisted and gnarled mountain, barely bigger than a hill, rose from the ground with a great growling and rumbling.

"If I were feeling brave, I would say that you were afraid of my husband," Nessa hissed, giving the wizard a cold look.

"Enough!" The wizard gave a slash of his wand. It sparked white. Nessa screamed as a long cut opened across her cheek. She stumbled forward clutching at it. Crimson burst through her fingers to drip upon the rocky road. The wizard rushed at Nessa and struck her in the face, knocking her to her knees.

"Stop!" she pleaded.

The wizard's face was as red as the sun, his eyes bulging from their sockets. "You are now my property!" he yelled. "Do you understand me!?"

Nessa nodded, blood still gushing from her hand. "Yes. Yes, I understand."

"Your husband is a figment of your imagination!"

The wizard grabbed Nessa by the hair and yanked her to her feet. "I will heal your wound if you promise to call me husband and mean it in your heart."

Nessa began to cry.

"Am I your husband!?"

Nodding, blood running down her arm, she said, "Yes. Yes my husband!"

The wizard shoved her forward. "Now walk."

* * *

Zane darted forward, his eyes reflecting the lights of his burning house. He was scared, angry. Death was in his yard, kneeling over Nessa's sister, Elizabeth.

"There is nothing within the house," said Death. Zane stopped in his yard, hands on his knees and chest heaving in a desperate bid for air.

Death pushed hard upon Elizabeth's chest. With a great gasp her spirit rose from her body, awful and foul. Zane had to cover his face to keep from throwing up. Death stood. He reached out his boney hand, palm-side up. "Hell awaits you."

Elizabeth dropped her head, her eyes, flaked with mold, brimming with green tears. She took Death's hand and sank with him into the ground. Zane watched them leave, knowing in his heart that great challenges were ahead of him. He hoped he could acquire steel; God knows he was going to need it.

# Chapter 4

The Start of a Journey

Zane leapt from the boulder onto the gravel road. Behind him his house burned, fire lashing at the sky. The back half of the burning cabin fell, ash billowing upwards with more than an audible whoosh. Red hot coals floated into the sky like red clouds. Random sections of the green field caught fire.

The forest was soon around Zane. As he broke into the woods, darkness engulfed him. The lights, many and bright, appeared ahead of him just under the looming branches of an oak tree. They looked like a miniature version of the stars in the night's sky. The lights sped forward in front of Zane and formed an orb.

He stepped back, eyes locked on the glowing orb. Never had he seen anything like it, and he had been in these woods many times with Nessa. The two loved long walks in the woods. When they walked, they brought torches with them. This, Zane thought as he watched the orb hover, is probably why they had never seen an orb before.

The orb dipped and shot back up as if inviting Zane to follow.

"We don't bite." The voice was tiny and shrill. Zane jumped and whipped around. It took him a moment to find what had spoken to him.

Her body was no larger than that of a beetle, her head half the size of her body. She was bobbing up and down just in front of Zane's nose, forcing him to cross his eyes to see her better.

Taking a step back to better see the thing, Zane said, "You're a fairy."

"And you sir, state the obvious."

"Shouldn't you—"

"Be in the Majicka realm?" The fairy interjected with a broad smile that seemed to stretch her tiny face. She gave a wave of her hand. "Only the bipedal kind follows those rules. We fairies live where we want. We've lived in these woods for thousands of years.

"What is the orb?"

"My friends and I are going to light your path." The fairy showed Zane her tail. When he looked she made it light up. "The lightning bugs are jealous of these bad boys."

Zane blinked confusedly. "Why light my way?"

"Why not?"

Zane considered this for a moment. "Did you light the way for another recently?"

"Didn't have to." The fairy put her hand next to her mouth as if not wanting her fellows to hear, and whispered. "A wizard led the way with light from his wand."

Zane clenched and unclenched his fist. "Can you show me where he went?"

The fairy nodded energetically. "We can," she said. "Follow us." She zipped around Zane to join the orb of light still hovering in the air. Upon vanishing in it the orb bobbed up and down before darting north.

Zane rushed after it, acutely aware that he could be running head-on into a trap.

The orb zigged and zagged around trees instead of keeping to the trail. Zane however kept to it, making sure to keep his eye on the luminous sphere. Ten yards, twenty, thirty, forty yards, and then a hundred flew by. Two hundred came just as quickly, the tree line closing in and Zane was breathing heavily. His lungs burned.

The fairies stopped and broke apart, soaring towards the treetops where they glowed like Christmas lights.

Around Zane the woods were thin, the trees thinner. Twigs and leaves littered the ground. Up ahead a field of grass could be seen. A man was on his knees, a woman in front of him on her hands and knees. The man was thrusting, the woman crying.

Zane's face grew with anger. He rushed forth unaware of the fairy lights following him as he ran. Tearing through the tree line he made to grab his knife, but the two individuals were gone. So was his knife. He had forgotten to take it from Nessa's mother's chest.

"Faster, lover!"

Zane whipped around at the sound of Nessa's voice. His eyes scanned the tree line.

"You please me well!"

Zane turned, anger ripping through him. "Enough with this game!" he yelled.

"Glomska!"

Zane dived, the loud male voice ringing in his ears. The ground where he once stood exploded into a crater. He rolled and scurried to his feet. Breathing heavily he looked wildly around, unable to feeling anything but vulnerable. He cursed himself for forgetting his knife.

There was no one in sight.

In the distance a crow called out.

Thunder clapped. It began to rain.

Reluctantly Zane made for the woods. He thanked the fairies still hovering above him. As if they had been waiting for such a thing, they scattered in the wind.

Tears flooding his eyes, his heart heavy, Zane disappeared into the woods.

* * *

The wizard was angry. He had reached gates of his settlement, to find them blocked by a throng of wizards. He watched them from a tree line, anger on his face. Beside him, Nessa was touching her mouth, confusion etched on her face. She had tried to scream at the wizards guarding the gate, only to find her voice gone.

The city beyond the gates wasn't a wizarding settlement, but a Sapiens settlement. The wizard was most shocked by this. The two worked together only in times of great chaos. The dragon was a spell; it couldn't have created that degree of chaos. This level of cooperation was unheard of.

"I could kill them," he thought aloud. Nessa dropped her hands at her side, and gave him a cold stare. "I, Bartholomew, am a great wizard," he continued. "I can kill six guards and force entry. But it wouldn't be worth it. We'll take to the woods for the night."

"Why..." Nessa paused, realizing she could speak. She had a thought to scream, but by the time the guards got to her she would have been dead. Recovering, she said, "Why can't we teleport to wherever it is we are going?"

"I'm a wanted wizard, therefore my ability to teleport has been blocked," hissed Bartholomew. "Now, go fetch firewood and get back quickly. I need to be alone." Bartholomew flicked his wand at Nessa. His wand sparked white. She twitched as the spell hit her.

"Yes, husband." Nessa walked towards the wood looking defeated.

Bartholomew flicked his wand at the ground. It sparked white. With a crack like lightning, an abandoned tent appeared. He gave another flick of his wand and it began to assemble itself. Another flick brought a rotisserie, a small bed of feathers and straw and a pillow filled with much the same.

The rotisserie was assembled a short distance from the bed and pillow.

"Now to hunt," Bartholomew mumbled. He gave a flick of his wand, aiming it at the rotisserie. It vanished and reappeared in the same spot with a fire pit as company. And with that Bartholomew vanished into the woods to hunt.

* * *

Zane had to stop. His muscles hurt too much, and his eyes didn't want to remain open after hours of walking. He had found himself in another forest, around more trees; these ones thicker and bushier then the last he had come across. The dark was unbearable, and made navigation near impossible.

Once Zane had found a tree to sleep against he set about gathering wood for the fire. The work was difficult, but eventually it was done and a fire crackled energetically. Planting himself down against the tree, he rummaged in his bag and folded his arms across his chest, intent on getting himself some sleep.

A slim figure of coiling black wisps slipped through the branches, gliding down the tree above Zane. Along the ground a long, very large snake undulated through the leaves and fallen twigs towards his feet.

Zane's eyes drooped.

The snake launched. The slim figure attacked. Coiling black mist met scaled flesh in a flurry of hissing and whipping. Zane jolted awake, and rolled instinctively out of the way. The world spun then righted out, and his eyes found the foes in time to see the coiling black mist rip the long snake in half.

Fear rooted Zane to the ground. Cold swept over him despite the fire. In front of him the black mist turned. Its body solidified into a more human form, the head taking the most human shape of all as the indentions of a nose, mouth and eye sockets could be seen.

The snake's halves twitched and bled on the ground behind him.

"What are you?" Zane demanded boldly.

"I am Ogien, a fire god."

Zane blinked in response, needing a moment to digest what he had just heard.

Then he relaxed. "I'm thankful for your help," he said of Ogien.

"A wizard has come through here with a woman," Ogien said as if following his own train of thought. "If you're to live long enough to catch them, you're going to need my help."

"Why are you doing this?" Zane couldn't help but ask.

Ogien looked at him intently, pupils like little red coals. "Boredom," he said bluntly. "I have the title of a god, but none of the fun."

"Prove you really want to help me."

"I saved your life. What more—"

"I need a weapon," Zane interjected.

Ogien stared at Zane for what seemed an eternity. Then he pointed, somewhere in the direction near Zane's feet. Zane looked and stepped back in surprise at the sight of a crossbow and cylinder of arrows. Beside it were two plucked chickens.

"Satisfied?"

Zane couldn't help but smile. "Very much so," he said appreciatively.

* * *

Zane sat in silence, chicken bones scattered on the hard ground, his mind in constant thought about his wife. She was strong, capable of defending herself, but no one could beat a wizard on his or her own. She had to be struggling, afraid, and fearful of the wizard's endgame. What the wizard could have possibly wanted frightened him to the core. What could he want? How did a wizard even know about a human woman from a realm they rarely traveled to? It made no sense.

"You look glum," Ogien said, as he moved in front of the fire and sat down on a log. "What is your ailment?"

"My wife was taken from the wizard you sensed earlier," Zane said, tossing chicken bones into the fire. "Our house was burned down and my wife's sister and mother were killed. At the moment, my life is miserable."

Ogien nodded. He ran his outlined hand across his outlined head. The longer he sat down in front of the fire it seemed to lean towards him, licking his darkened figure. With every stroke of the flame his figure solidified, became more human, until Zane found himself looking at an olive-skinned man with green eyes and short curly brown hair.

He blinked stupidly, his face ripe with surprise. Ogien gave a handsome smile. He gave a polite bow of his head. "I am sorry for your troubles. I will help you with them, as you will undoubtedly need it."

"How long will this form of yours hold?" Zane hadn't meant to say it; the words had just blurted out. He must have looked surprised as Ogien gave a hearty laugh.

"A night by the fire will allow me two days of fullness. Your surprise is amusing."

"I'm a human with little experience in the unusual," Zane said a little defensively. "Now my whole life is ripe with it."

"Life is a bewildering thing," Ogien agreed. "Get some sleep," he offered. "I will keep you safe."

# Chapter 5

The First Assault

Morning came with the chirping of birds, and a chorus of singing crickets. Sunshine trickled through the treetops drowning the forest floor in gold's and yellows. Ogien stood over a mound of dirt, smoke billowing through the grains. Zane awoke, yawning. He stretched and stood up. "We need to move," he said to Ogien.

"Hence the lack of fire," said Ogien. "I've spoken with Wiatr, a wind god. She put the wizard and your wife at four miles north of our location. I can get us three miles from here using what gifts I have, but we will still be a mile behind."

"And your density?" Zane asked.

"I am strong with or without solidity. The journey will shake your senses."

"To hell with my senses," Zane said, gathering up his crossbow and arrows. "I want my wife back."

Ogien vanished and appeared in front of Zane. "So be it," he said, taking hold of his forearm. His touch was warm, like that of a cup filled with hot tea. Then there was a yank at his spine and he and Ogien morphed into a blur of colors and vanished into thin air.

A flurry of reds and blues swirled about violently. Those colors morphed into Zane and he hit the ground on his hands and knees. He began to dry heave. Ogien landed beside him. He gave Zane a pitying look before surveying where they had landed.

Zane threw up. Ogien realized with some surprise that they had landed in the middle of a western town.

Houses of mud and straw lined the muddy street. Chimneys smoked, women in long blue dresses held kids on their knees, or crocheted. Men cleaned horses, others cleaned guns. The men wore revolvers on thick leather belts. A man tumbled drunkenly from a tavern up ahead.

Zane got to his feet. He whipped around, eyes blinking rapidly; then whipped around once more. Confusion was ripe on his face. "I don't understand where we are," he said. "What is this?"

"The Sapiens Realm is quite large, and each of its sections has, over time, evolved at a different pace."

"And these people are what?" Zane asked as he watched the drunken man who had tumbled out of the tavern, and zigzag across the road.

"I don't know," said Ogien. "They're just less advanced than the section of the sapiens realm you live in. They're beginning to stare. We need to move."

People were in fact staring. "Yeah," Zane said, picking up his stuff, "I think you're right."

Ogien took Zane by the arm and turned sharply. Unlike the last time, this time they vanished into thin air with a sharp crack like a whip.

* * *

Bartholomew stopped at the edge of the city. The gates were open. No guards could be seen. Nessa ambled up beside him, arms crossed, a bored expression on her face. Her face twitched. She blinked a long, slow blink. Horror spread across her face. She glanced at Bartholomew, only to look away quickly. Then she bolted.

Bartholomew whipped around and, rushing forward, he flicked his wand in her direction. It gave a violent spark of white. The blast hit the ground like a bomb, launching Nessa in the air. She spun, and hit the ground with a thud and a whimper.

* * *

Zane's hands and knees had barely touched the ground when he began to throw up again. The shadow of a flickering flame played off his face, like candlelight dancing upon a wall. Ogien stood beside him. With every flicker his figure lightened, becoming more opaque, until he was once again a black wisp.

Palm trees dominated the east; tall mountains ran from the north to the west, molten red liquid oozing like molasses down their twisted, curving sides. A dirt trail ran south into a lush rain forest.

"Get up," Ogien said Zane. "We can't afford to waste time." His eyes kept glancing at the volcanoes. He knew, being what he was, that they wouldn't erupt for another hundred years, but a wizard was close by and it was hard telling what he might do to get it to go up sooner.

Feeling ill, as if he had fallen from a horse, Zane got to his feet. He stumbled but found his footing and began to gather up his bags. "No more vanishing and reappearing," he said of Ogien. "I need to walk."

Ogien didn't doubt Zane's words, judging by the paleness of his skin and the sweat running down his face and neck; he had to be close to fainting. "It'll pass," he said.

"Can you," Zane swallowed back the urge to throw up, "sense where my wife is?"

"I'm not as talented as my friend, but from what I can tell they seemed to have stopped a half mile ahead of us."

This news brought a fierce change to Zane's face. His pale skin turned red, his teeth bared. "I'm going to rip that wizard from limb to limb."

"Odds are he'll rip you from limb to limb," Ogien said matter-of-factly. "If we are to succeed we will need a plan."

"You're a god," Zane said, as he and Ogien turned and made for the rainforest. "All I need is for you to use your gifts to defeat him."

"I am a god of sorts. Though in truth I have few abilities," Ogien said patiently. "One is teleportation; the others are vaporization and fire."

"What is vaporization?" Zane asked as he and Ogien neared the rainforest.

"It means I can turn myself into mist. It's useless during the day but quite useful at night."

"And the fire?" Zane asked as he and Ogien broke the tree line. The atmosphere went from hot to sticky, and the sun flickered through the trees. A chorus of animals sang. The sound of a waterfall teased the air in the distance.

"I can manipulate fire," Ogien said, as he and Zane navigated around massive brown trees. Large orange and red mottled fruits hung low on the branches. "But it has to be close by for me to use it."

Zane stepped over a spider as large as a watermelon, its numerous eyes glistening wetly. The spider froze, and then scuttled off the second he was far enough away. Zane watched it hurry off, curiosity growing within him. Looking up he saw a neon-green worm twist its way out of a dangling fruit, only to dive back in with vigor. "Where are we?" he asked, stepping over a fallen tree, ripe with holes and rotted bark.

"We've entered the Pararealm," Ogien said, grabbing Zane by the elbow and steering him around a puddle of red liquid bubbling viciously. "This is a treacherous place, so you must stay close."

"I think we need a fire," Zane said, not feeling as if he had found a good ally after all. In response Ogien took a long stretch of bark from a not-so-rotten tree and snapped it in half. Up ahead was a small bubbling pit of lava. Reaching it, Ogien swept the stretches of bark through the air over it, catching both on fire.

"It'll just burn to ash," said Zane. As he spoke the long stretches of bark morphed into thick clubs, and fire burst from their tops making torches. "I take that back."

"I am quite skilled with fire," said Ogien. "With these we will be fine."

A raven swooped past out of the trees. An arrow shot through the air with a sharp whistle, catching it in the midsection and spearing it against a tree. "Talon will bring your death!"

Zane and Ogien whipped around.

Talon, a stout wizard with a long black beard, cracked his wand like a lash. From it came a fork of lightning that stuck a tree with a great outburst of noise. Zane dove out of the way. The tree snapped like a toothpick and crashed to the forest floor. Ogien whipped his torch as if he were going to throw it. A great tongue of fire shot from it like a solar flare shoots from the sun. Talon casually flicked his wand, turning it to a throng of beetles. With a sharp crack, he vanished into thin air.

"Don't move," Ogien ordered of Zane.

He froze, halfway on his hands and knees. His eyes darted here and there, everywhere; looking for any sign of Talon.

Talon shot out of the dark void, wand raised to strike. He yelled a spell, speaking a language unknown. Shards of metal shot from his wand amid a great canon-like blast. Ogien brought forth a tide of fire, great and vast, melting the shards of metal. Talon growled in anger, and raised his wand in preparation to strike once more. There was a thunk, and a metal arrow struck him in the neck, impaling him in a nearby tree.

Zane fired a second arrow striking him in the head.

Ogien moved in a blur and snatched up the wizard's wand. He snapped it in half and tossed it in the air. Raising his torch, he inhaled a deep breath and blew. The fire shot forward, a straight blast, and met the two halves in the air turning them to ash.

Death glided down from the treetops, landing beside Talon.

"Be gone of this wizard," he said of Ogien and Zane. "The sight of a wizard's soul has been known to blind."

"You need not worry. My wife is near and I must go to her," Zane said, stowing away his crossbow and bows. He turned his back on Death and made off through the woods. Ogien bowed respectfully to Death and followed.

As they walked, the forest lit up, as if a nuclear bomb had gone off behind them. They waited for the blast wave and destruction, but it never came.

# Chapter 7

A Better Understanding

"We're getting closer," Zane said as he and Ogien navigated through the woods. As they walked, spiders scattered. Up ahead a green and black mottled snake hung from a tree branch, its head looking up, tongue tickling the air.

Zane shot the hanging snake, his arrow pinning it to the tree. He yanked both from the tree and moved past it. Ogien followed him.

"That snake can't be eaten," he said to Zane.

Frustrated, Zane tossed the snake away, the coiled up stretch of meat landing in a puddle of boiling blood. It hissed as the snake fell into its depths, smoke billowing upwards. "That was a waste."

Zane cleaned his bow on a passing leaf nearly as large as he was and dropped it into his bag. As he passed, Ogien beside him, the leaf caught fire and turned to ash. Zane stopped and looked back as the fire died with a wisp, like a candle snuffed out by a gust of wind.

"That's why you can't eat it," Ogien said.

"What's in it?"

"Acid. We need to move or else risk being attacked." Ogien motioned over his shoulder. "Come," he said, "there are bigger things to worry about than spiders, snakes, and the random witch or wizard."

"Then let's move."

* * *

Nessa was hovering, moving through the air as still as a rock. Chains kept her legs locked and arms and hands at her sides. Her eyes were open, mouth sealed shut by a spell. Behind her walked Bartholomew. His wand was clutched tight at his side.

Around them was the forest, spiders fleeing and snakes slithering through the foliage. Pools of blood bubbled like overcooked stew.

Nessa stirred.

Bartholomew slashed his wand. Nessa gave a grunt of pain, and fell unconscious. "That's better," he grumbled.

His wand gave a twitch and a gold ring of light ran from its tip to its base. Bartholomew stopped, Nessa stopping with him. He looked left and right and up ahead. Whipping around, he did the same.

Rotted trees, and thick undergrowth were all he could see. The wand had sensed another powerful figure close by. It wasn't Zane, he knew, as the man was human from head to toe. But who then? Why? Bartholomew wondered. Maybe he found help. It is possible. Bartholomew put his wand in the air and said, "Ja zadwon moj drugi!"

A spark of black shot from his wand. Bartholomew watched as it morphed into a towering black figure. A cloak of black mist hid his body, its hood his face, though his hands, green with rotted yellow fingernails, were visible. They clenched into tight fists. The cloak rippled like the waves of an ocean.

"Your orders?" The woman's words came like the hisses of a snake.

"There is a powerful being following me," said Bartholomew, "kill it."

The witch vanished in a ferocious swirl of black mist. Bartholomew watched it go, angered and relieved.

The need to send her forth meant his first assassin proved weak, and that his foe was strong. He was relieved however, because he knew the witch to be a mighty one. His foe would have a hard time defeating her.

Bartholomew turned to check on Nessa, only he stopped, his face falling. For some reason his mind chose this moment to remind him that he had no home to go to. No place to take shelter. He wasn't surprised, as he hadn't thought his plan through after all.

* * *

Two Days Previous

The cell was cement with steel bars in the door and window. The distance between the bars on the window couldn't fit a squirrel. A bed of leaves and straw rested in the corner. The straw was brown from wet and age. The leaves were the same.

On the floor in front of the door, his fingers strumming the bars like one might a musical instrument, was Bartholomew. He was gaunt, his eyes sullen and black. His skin was dark in patches. His movements were imprecise and slow.

Murmuring could be heard from other cells. Somewhere a spell was shouted and a man shrieked. The sound of men laughing floated through the air.

Bartholomew's face twitched.

The door clanged. Bartholomew shuffled backwards, eyes on the door. It shot open. In the doorway stood a stocky guard. He wore sweeping blue robes. In his hand, he gripped a white wand, curving ridges running up its length.

"It's your turn, Bartholomew," he said. "How would you like your punishment today?"

"In the chamber." Bartholomew was on his feet, still imprecise, his movements slow.

The chamber was a wide, deep vault. The walls were cement and moist with green-tinged water. Puddles huddled in the corners, yellow water mottled red with blood. The heavy door opened with a clang.

Bartholomew was tossed into the chamber, followed by the guard that had come to fetch him. He closed the door and locked it. As his back was turned, Bartholomew sprang to his feet. The guard turned. Surprise rooted him to the spot. Bartholomew snapped his neck. Grabbing up the guard's wand, he blasted open the door. Rushing down the hall he struck down any opposition, his wand work a blur.

Bartholomew had one goal: get the woman he had seen through the slit in the prisoner transport wagon on his way to jail. She was gorgeous, and he would find her, and make her his.

* * *

Three Days Previous

Nessa was walking along fruit road with a gathering of women, baskets laden with fruit tucked under their arms. Large fruit trees lined the long dusty road, providing peaches, pears, and apples of every kind. It was a Wednesday, and near noon. Every Wednesday, the women of Nessa's village would gather on fruit road to enjoy conversation as they gathered fresh fruit for pies and other treats.

The day was interrupted by the thunder of four wheels, a stark contrast to the sounds of light gossip and pleasant laughter associated with most Wednesdays. Looking, the women found the source of the great noise. Two horses led a wagon painted blue. Atop it was a stocky man dressed in sweeping blue robes.

Nessa pointed in the direction of the white wand on the man's hip. The sight of it brought about a flurry of whispers. Some women even dropped their baskets and ran for home. Nessa was about to do the same, despite not being afraid, only to stop having locked eyes with ones as blue as sapphires glaring from a tiny slit in the side of the wagon. The eyes should have been captivating, but a ferocity shone from them that frightened her. She hoped to never see them again.

# Chapter 8

A Second Assault

The scorpion was nearly as large as a horse. It was inverted in a riverbed, its stinger swiping at the air. Trees lay toppled around it. A path had been torn from the undergrowth.

Zane stumbled through a growth of thorn bushes. He felt hot cuts along his arms and neck. Behind him Ogien ripped the bushes from the ground and set them aflame. They went up like tissue paper as they fell to the ground.

"Damn thorns," Zane mumbled.

Ogien made to speak only to pause, his eyes looking skyward.

The scorpion began to hiss. The air chilled. Frost began to grow along the overgrowth and up the trees. Ice formed over the leaves causing them and their attached branches to sag greatly.

Zane looked over the forest. His and Ogien's torches flickered in their hands. They began to blink threateningly. Ogien looked at them. The torches went out, thrusting the forest into darkness. Everything went quiet.

"Things continue to get better," Zane mumbled.

"Fear not," Ogien said calmly, "for I have a plan." The torch in Ogien's hand shot from his grip. "Never mind. My plan is now gone."

Zane and Ogien were yanked away from the forest. Hitting solid ground, they rolled to a stop. Scrambling to their feet they stopped, surprise and fear on their faces.

They were in a crater of sorts, surrounded by scorpions the size of horses, much like the one they had seen in the river bed. The pincers were snapping, clawed feet pressed firm in the ground, and their telson's hovering over their heads aiming at Zane and Ogien.

Zane reached for his crossbow only it wasn't there. Panic stabbed his heart.

The scorpions charged.

Ogien grabbed Zane and turned into thin air.

The scorpions collided. In the blink of an eye their pincers imbedded in the others' heads. Each gave a squeal of pain and fell still, yellow blood oozing from their heads.

With a crack like a whip Zane and Ogien hit the ground and rolled. They were back in the forest, though as they stood they realized it was a different forest. The trees were green, the undergrowth brown and the leaves as red as freshly spilt blood. It was dense and seemingly empty of life.

"What is this sorcery?" Zane demanded.

Ogien's eyes scanned the forest intently. "We are in the presence of a witch," he said. "One filled with evil."

The forest rippled and became a wasteland of sand. The sky hovered, dark and foreboding. Four first-quarter moons arched over a skyscraping mountain range.

"Fire!" The voice seemed to come on the tails of an echo.

Ogien and Zane whipped around.

"Human!"

Again the two turned sharply. Each was forced to dive out of the way of a streaking bolt of lightning.

The ground exploded.

Fire flashed briefly. It was all Ogien needed as he scrambled to his feet. He clapped his hands together and yanked his palms apart. As they separated, a ball of fire grew between them.

Zane scurried to his feet, eyes darting around, hoping not to see lightning. "We're in a wasteland," he said rather unnecessarily. "How have we come to be here?"

"You should keep up," Ogien said as the ball of fire between his hands fluctuated like a gently undulating ocean.

A fierce caw struck the air. Looking up, Zane and Ogien watched a raven, bigger than a steed, soar overhead. Then as quickly as it came, it was gone. The two looked at each other, never seeing or hearing the raven land behind them. Its black eyes were narrowed dangerously. Then the ground crunched beneath its weight. They turned. Ogien launched his ball of fire. The raven cawed and burst into a thousand small ravens that took flight, wings beating ferociously.

"I don't understand these games," Zane said as his eyes watched the many ravens soar higher and higher into the sky.

The ball of rippling fire returned to Ogien. He gave his friend a sympathetic look. "Most humans do not," he said. Massaging the fire he added, "Let us move."

"Where?" Zane whined. "All is lost. I will never get to my wife before it is too late."

"This is the work of a witch."

"I know. But what does that have to do with—"

"It means we haven't left the forest. What we are seeing is all an illusion made to confuse us and get our minds to scramble."

"Consider them scrambled."

The witch burst out of nothingness. She reached her wand back ready to strike. "Wybuch!" she cried.

Ogien and Zane dove out of the way. The ground exploded. Ogien rolled forward onto his knees, and turning he thrust his ball of fire at the witch. She spun into nothingness, only to appear behind Ogien and slash her wand at his throat.

"Skiva!" she yelled.

Ogien's throat exploded open. Blood splashed the sand, soaking through the tiny granules, staining them red. He hit the ground. Zane turned. The witch was darting after him, wand reaching back. Light flashed in Zane's eyes and he realized that Ogien's ball of fire was floating in the air, somehow still active, in front of him.

In a fit of desperation, Zane slapped the ball of fire in the direction of the witch. His hand caught fire and he was forced to plunge it into the sand. Despite this the ball shot at the witch, hitting her in the gut. With a resounding pop, the forest returned and the witch burst into flames.

Zane scrambled to his feet, desperate to find his crossbow and arrows. His eyes darted every which way. He found them, some ten feet ahead. He rushed to them, fully aware of the witch rolling on the ground on fire, screaming in pain. Snatching it up he turned, ready to fire only to stop as he found himself facing the scorpion that had been stuck in the riverbed. After a moment's hesitation he fired, striking the scorpion in the head.

Reloading, he turned to the witch who was still rolling around on the ground, wand swishing in the air, colors bursting from it as she fought desperately to stop the fire. Zane didn't know much, but he knew witches didn't get hurt from fire. This was a trick, some weird game meant to throw him off. But the fear on her face... that was real. No one could fake that. He thought to himself. Her wand spewing spells... that was real also. And this isn't any kind of fire... it is the fire of a god. Zane pulled the trigger. The arrow thudded into the witch's head.

Zane tossed his crossbow aside and grabbed up the witch's wand. He eyed a bubbling pit of molten lava and threw it in. It went up in a puff of smoke. With a great scream the witch burst into ash.

Zane was alone.

Death rose up from the ground where the witch had lain, burning. He was looking at the ground, his figure hunched forward. Zane looked around the forest, checking that he and Death were alone. They were. He took a step forward. "Is a witch supposed to die in such a way?"

"A witch never dies in the same way. They're unique." Death faced Zane, his eyes hidden within his cloak. "Like a snowflake."

"You must know a lot about them. Can you help me survive against the wizard?"

Death said nothing, nor did he shake his head or nod. Then, after what seemed an hour, he said, "He is mighty, and you will not survive alone."

"So you'll help me?" Zane couldn't help the beseeching note in his words.

"I cannot. I am locked within the task of guiding the dead to their eternal gathering place. I am one of many, and forever we must work."

Zane sighed. Nodding, he picked up his bag of arrows and slung it over his shoulder. Gripping his crossbow he gave a wave of his hand. "Be well," he said kindly.

"I can bring help your way." Death's words stopped Zane. He looked hopefully at him.

"In what way?" he said.

"I'm friends with Ziemi. The earth god."

"The what?" Zane had never heard such a word as earth.

"You know it as terrain, but to some the ground beneath your feet is called earth. It is a strange word, but it is undoubtedly one. She is rather powerful, Ziemi."

"Her help would be appreciated," Zane said humbled.

"Then she will find you in your journey. Your foe is north," Death added, giving a bow. As his words lingered in the air he vanished.

Zane stared at the air where he stood for what seemed like an hour, before adjusting his bag of arrows on his shoulder and heading north.

* * *

Crickets sang. Hissing played from the tops of trees. The sun trickled down through the treetops. Nessa was on her feet now, walking absentmindedly. Her arms were bound to her sides, eyes fogged over like milky clouds. Bartholomew walked a short distance behind her, wand raised at her back.

A gold ring ran down his wand stopping him. Nessa stopped as if connected to his wand. Bartholomew looked at his wand, fear etched on his face. He was on his own now. He knew no other spells that would give him an edge.

"I've killed men, unleashed a dragon upon the realms," he muttered. "So why am I afraid?"

Nessa hit her knees, jarring Bartholomew back to his senses. He yanked her onto her feet, and towards him. He clutched her throat. "What does your husband fear?" He demanded.

Nessa's eyes moved slowly to Bartholomew. "You are my husband," she said. "I know no other man but you."

Bartholomew shoved her away, and aimed his wand at her. "Radera!" He screamed.

Nessa flinched. Her milky eyes flickered between green and white before returning to their original green. The binds fell from her body.

"What does your husband fear?" Bartholomew demanded.

"He will face anything head on. He is afraid of nothing."

Bartholomew's face twisted with rage. "I will change that."

* * *

The forest opened onto an expanse of rolling green hills. Beneath his feet was a dirt road that stretched as far as the eye could see. Zane looked skywards. He was met by a clear blue expanse. "The weather mocks me," he muttered as he began his journey across the undulating knolls.

The ground split in front of him with sounds like a thousand thundering horses. Dirt shot wildly about. Zane felt a great vibration running through his body. He stepped back hastily, ready to run back into the woods if required. Then she appeared, rising from the fissure in the ground.

Her skin was as pale as a pearl, hair as green as the hills beyond that curled down her back. Zane locked eyes with her green ones. They shined with confidence. He knew her to be Ziemi. It had to be.

Ziemi landed with the grace of a bird. She looked over her shoulder at the ground. With a great rumbling it healed itself. Locking eyes with Zane she smiled. "I am here to help, gentle sir."

"Thank you. Please call me, Zane."

"You may call me Z, to circumvent confusion with our titles. Follow me." Z made for the woods.

"I just left the woods," Zane argued. "He isn't—"

Z cut him off with a confident grin. "My brothers and sisters within the forest speak to me. They tell me that your wife and her captive are on the move and heading this way. We shall wait for them."

"He will see us."

"But he will not know what we are," Z said with a mischievous grin.

* * *

Nessa walked a short distance behind a fuming Bartholomew. Her arms were bound by the chains at her side but her memory was intact. Once more her mind belonged to her, and she longed for her husband and mourned her murdered sister and mother.

"Where are we going?" Nessa asked.

"I have a friend who will provide shelter until things have calmed."

The forest began to thin, and sunlight poured heavily through the treetops. Bugs of all shapes, sizes, and colors dominated the surface. They scuttled out of the way to avoid being stomped on.

"Why haven't you returned me to a mind-controlled state?"

"Because I need all my mental focus now, and controlling you used too much." Bartholomew shoved Nessa forward. "The tumbling hills are approaching," he said sharply. "We..." his voice trailed as he spotted two trees up ahead of him. They were peculiar trees, short and dumpy.

Noticing that Bartholomew had stopped, Nessa did the same. She flinched as he reached for her and yanked her next to him. "Look!" He yelled at her, pointing at the trees. Nessa did as she was told, though was confused as to why she was being forced to look at two ugly trees. "Is that your husband and his comrade!?"

Nessa looked at Bartholomew as if he had lost his mind. "It, it's a couple of trees," she stuttered.

Behind them, Z slowly and quietly descended a tree. Zane rose from the ground, a flurry of leaves and bugs sliding away from his body. In his hand was his crossbow, primed to fire. His bag of arrows was slung on his shoulder.

Bartholomew threw Nessa to the ground, and aimed his wand at her face. His mouth opened, a spell on the tip of his tongue. "Wybuc—"

Zane fired. His arrow sped forward.

Bartholomew was too quick despite being caught off guard. "Avslag," he yelled, eyes wild with hatred.

The arrow exploded. Shards shot in every direction and imbedded with thuds that sounded like a hundred hooves galloping across a hard surface.

Z launched from the tree. She whipped her hand as if it were a wand and yelled, "Attack!"

As if waiting for their cue, the short dumpy trees sprang to life and rushed at Bartholomew. As they ran, they grew long arms of bark with thick knotted fists, and legs with flat claw-like feet.

Bartholomew whipped around and let forth a curse. His wand sparked green. The trees exploded, chunks of bark flying through the air. He turned, aiming his wand at Z. "Fragmentu!" he yelled. A blast wave shot from his wand.

Zane, caught in its crosshairs, dove out of the way. Z, however, wasn't fast enough, and was caught up in the spell. Her body broke apart into tiny cubes that seemed to hang in the air for what felt like an eternity before falling to the ground. The cubes bounced along the forest floor like marbles.

Zane landed hard, his arrows hitting the ground next to him. Taking one out he hastily began loading it.

Bartholomew turned his aim upon him. Nessa, her heart skipping in her chest, rushed at him and lowered her shoulder into him, knocking him to the ground.

Both rolled.

Bartholomew's wand bounced across the ground.

Zane took aim on Nessa's chains and fired. Arrow met chain with a spark and they broke free falling with loud clanks to the ground.

Nessa scurried to her feet, making to run. Bartholomew grabbed her ankle and yanked. She shot off her feet and hit the floor.

Bartholomew scrambled to his feet, and grabbing up his wand turned his aim onto Zane. A smug look of victory stretched across his face.

Zane froze, knowing he was in a wizard's crosshairs.

Nessa scampered to her feet.

Bartholomew yelled, "Kolv!" A blue spark shot from his wand.

Zane closed his eyes.

Nessa dove, catching the blue blast in the chest.

Her back exploded outwards. Zane flinched as hot blood doused his face and neck. She hit the ground, skin already pale, eyes staring lifelessly ahead.

"No!" Zane yelled. Grabbing up his crossbow, he fired at Bartholomew catching him in the neck. He loaded and fired a second arrow that caught him in the forehead. His wand thudded atop the forest floor.

Bartholomew hit his knees and slumped over on his side.

Zane rushed to and dropped down beside Nessa, scooping her into his arms. Tears flooded his face as he muttered incoherent words. Death appeared behind him, though he didn't notice. He stared down at Nessa for a while before moving off to the wizard. Pressing Bartholomew's chest he watched a rotted and foul-smelling replica of the wizard rise up. The latter looked surprised.

Death stood to match his height. He spoke with ripe anger. "You took the life of many innocents. I will enjoy guiding you to the pits of hell."

Bartholomew winced as Death grabbed at him. With a sound like a cloak whipping in the wind, both vanished into thin air.

From the treetops came a dazzling ball of light. Zane couldn't help but look at it. As he did the fairies broke apart, their wings buzzing like a bevy of bees, as they hovered in front of his face. Zane looked at them, eyes pleading. "Please," he said weakly, "help her."

As if waiting for a request, the fairies dove into Nessa's chest wound, disappearing from sight. Zane watched, his breath held in his lungs, as her chest glowed like a torch. He felt a numb disbelief.

Nessa exhaled violently, spewing forth the flock of fairies from her mouth. In the blink of an eye, her wounds healed and the life returned to her eyes. Coughing and gasping she sat up.

"That should do her just fine." It was the fairy that had helped Zane at the beginning on his adventure. Zane looked to her. She gave him a wink, and with her friends, zipped away.

Confusion, amazement, sadness, and happiness played on Nessa's face as she looked into Zane's eyes. "How?" she mumbled.

"Don't worry about that now." Zane kissed Nessa's cheek. He hugged her, tears running down his face. "We have each other again."

The End

# J B Taylor's Bio & Links

I was born in Indiana where I still reside with my three lovely dogs. I have published multiple novels and have a few being adapted into audiobooks. I am currently working on three stories.

Social Media Link

 https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=607339486032493&fref=ts

<https://www.goodreads.com/JB_Taylor>

<https://twitter.com/Insomniac_jbt>

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# Winter Palace

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# Travis West

# Copyright 2015 Travis West

All rights reserved

### Acknowledgements

Thank you to my fellow Awethors. Writing is a solitary endeavour, but I've found great comfort in sharing some of the burden with these remarkable humans. We all put pen to paper and finger to keyboard, regardless of what terrible consequences might, and do, arise.

# Winter Palace

Day 103:

First snow of the year. Valli remembered how excited she used to get when the snow began to fall. It meant winter had come, and Christmas was right around the corner. Now it just meant she would probably freeze to death before she had a chance to starve. Lucky.

Valli let the drapes draw closed around the boarded-up window. The tiny gap between the wooden planks afforded her little visibility of the outside world, but it was as much as she ever cared to see. After all, what was there left to look at?

As she walked away from the window, Valli pulled her carefully braided hair over her shoulder and down in front of her. She absentmindedly stroked it with two fingers as she made her way to the kitchen. Her dark braids came almost all the way down her back now. She could get Lisa to cut it for her, but she was enjoying having it so long. She enjoyed taking the time to braid it every morning, even if they couldn't spare the water for her to ever wash it.

Frank was sitting silently by the fire as Valli passed by. She offered him a friendly smile, but he either didn't notice, or didn't deign to acknowledge her. Frank was as close to a leader as they had, but it was more because he was feared than he was respected. Valli didn't mind him though. They needed a leader for the group to survive, and it only made sense that the strongest one should lead. There was a time when strength wasn't the only thing that mattered, but those days were past; her expertise in classical literature didn't provide much value to the group. The world had regressed back to an elementary schoolyard: her intelligence was no asset, and the biggest bully ruled the land.

Valli walked out of the living room area and into the kitchen, where Joshua was sitting alone. He didn't look well, and Valli was certain he hadn't been sleeping. Joshua was in charge of caring for their wounded group member, Eli; Joshua hadn't been a doctor, but he'd worked with animals, and some of the skills seemed transferable.

"How's your patient?" Valli asked him.

"Same," replied Joshua, which meant bad. "Lisa's watching him for a bit. I just needed to get out of that room for a while."

Valli nodded. She felt bad for Joshua. Eli, the patient, was circling the drain, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Even if Joshua had been a real doctor, without supplies, there was no way to save Eli. Valli knew that in a matter of days, maybe a few weeks on the outside, they'd be pitching Eli's body out the second story window, along with the rest of their waste.

Joshua was playing solitaire on the kitchen table with an old beat-up deck of cards that had Harley Davidson motorcycles on the backs. Valli knew he couldn't possibly win: the deck was missing the three of hearts and the nine of clubs. Joshua probably knew that too. It was just a way to pass the time. It wasn't about winning; nobody won anymore. Not even at cards.

Day 104:

A loud banging woke Valli from her uncomfortable slumber on the sofa. She always slept on a couch in the living room. There was a free bed in one of the upstairs bedrooms, but there had been bodies in it when they arrived at the house. Everyone said you couldn't smell them anymore, but Valli was certain she could. And even if the smell was gone, she didn't like the idea of sleeping in a bed where people had died.

Valli blinked away the fog in her vision as the banging continued. The first light of day filtered through the cracks between the boards, sunny rays illuminating a starscape of fine dust particles drifting through the air. As Valli's senses came to her, out of the haze of sleep, she began to realize exactly what was happening: someone was knocking at the door. That was impossible, but it was happening. And they were calling out, too.

"Hello?" came a voice, panicked and definitely female. "Is anyone in there? Please! Help me!"

Valli ran to the door, almost tripping over her own feet in her half-awake condition. They had never bothered to board up the front door. It had a sturdy metal deadbolt that they'd all agreed would be all the security they needed. Besides, in case of emergency they would need at least one functional point of egress for escape, so they figured it might as well be the front door.

The frenzied pounding continued, the woman outside just repeating "Help me," over and over. Valli got to the door and immediately flipped the thumbturn. She grabbed the knob and was about to pull the door open when Frank's enormous hand appeared from out of nowhere and slammed against the door, holding it shut.

"What are you doing?" cried Valli. "There's someone out there!"

"I know," stated Frank. "Someone we don't know anything about. You want to just let a complete stranger in?"

"Oh come on, Frank," Valli replied, trying to push Frank's arm out of the way. "What are they going to do, steal all of our food?"

Frank made an exaggerated sigh, but let his arm drop. Valli opened the door and a young woman, probably about twenty years old or so, burst into the house. She was wearing workout clothes and had a backpack slung over one shoulder. She collapsed to the floor just inside the entryway and Valli slammed the door shut behind her.

"Thank you," said the girl breathlessly as she picked herself up off the floor. "Thank you so much. I thought I was dead for sure."

"Where did you come from?" demanded Frank, not even giving her time to catch her breath.

"I was in a group," the woman replied as Valli directed her to a nearby easy chair. "We were holed up in a house about a mile down the road, but things went bad and I had to leave. I just ran. I had no idea where I was going. I couldn't have run much further, but I saw the boarded up windows on the house and thought someone might be inside."

"Well," said Frank, "if you're planning on stealing from us, we don't have anything left to steal. You didn't really save yourself; you just bought yourself a little time." Frank skulked off, leaving the new girl with Valli in the living room. Lisa and Joshua had heard the excitement and come down from upstairs.

"What's your name?" asked Valli.

"I'm Bethany," she replied. "Just Beth, really."

"Well don't mind Frank, Beth" said Valli. "He's kind of an asshole, but he's good to have around when things get ugly. He wasn't lying though, we've really got nothing left. We've been here three months or so, but we ran out of food three days ago. We've got water, but that's about it."

"I have this," Beth pulled the knapsack off her shoulder and emptied it out onto the floor. Two cans of preserved meat and a can of creamed vegetables rolled out onto the carpet. "I managed to grab the last of our food as I escaped. You all probably haven't eaten for days, so you can have it."

"Welcome home," said Valli, smiling widely.

Day 105:

Valli gave their newest group member a day to herself, but curiosity demanded she get more information out of Beth as soon as she'd had a good night's sleep.

Sitting together on the couch in the living room, with no one else around, Valli and Beth talked as they shared a half-empty bottle of water, passing it back and forth between them, taking slow, modest sips, making it last.

"So what happened at the house you were in?" Valli asked bluntly. "How did it go bad? Did anyone else get away?"

"I don't think so," replied Beth. "I'm pretty sure I was the only one that escaped. There were seven of us in there. We had a lot of food, the people that lived there had a basement stocked with cans. We were in there almost six months."

"So what happened?" pressed Valli.

"We had this kid. Well, not really a kid. More like a teenager. Him and his mom. Anyway this kid wasn't all there. He was, you know, 'on the spectrum' or whatever they used to say. Mostly he just kept to himself, never talked to anyone but his mother. He never had any problems for pretty much the whole time we were there, but then, out of nowhere, a couple of days ago, he decides he needs to get outside. Don't know what set him off, but suddenly it was the most important thing in the world for him to get out of the house.

"Well, obviously, we can't let him out, so he starts screaming. Just screaming, non-stop. Day and night for three days, nothing but screaming. The only time we got any peace is when he was asleep, which was hardly ever. We were all losing our minds, all cramped together in that house, with that kid screaming and screaming and screaming...

"Anyway, we can't watch him 24-7, so eventually he gets out. Slips out when no one is watching, even has the courtesy to shut the door behind him. That would have been the end of that, but his mother realises he's gone, then sees him out the window. She runs out after him, but she's in such a panic, she leaves the door wide open. Well, all it takes is a minute, and, well... you can imagine the rest.

"A few people tried to make it out the door, but that didn't work. I was in the kitchen, so I grabbed my bag and the last of the food and I ran upstairs. One guy, Brad, he was already up there. He and I were pretty good friends. He looked at me, just sort of shrugged, put a gun to his head and blew his brains out. I guess he was just tired of running.

"I went out a second story window, dropped down to the ground and just ran. I grabbed this off of Brad before I did, though."

Beth reached behind her and pulled Brad's revolver from the waistband of her jeans.

"Put that away!" said Valli in her loudest whisper. "Frank will freak out if he sees you have a gun. And he'll definitely take it from you, if he can. Unless you want to shoot him, don't let him see that."

"I could give it to him," suggested Beth. "I mean, he is your leader, right?"

Valli shook her head. "Nah, I'd hold onto it if I were you. Frank has enough power already. A gun would make him God."

"Tell me about your people," said Beth. "If I'm going to be staying with you I should know about everybody."

"OK," started Valli. "Well I think you get the gist of what Frank is all about. He's an asshole, but he keeps things... stable. Usually. Then there's Lisa. She's fucking Frank, so that kind of puts her in a de facto leadership position. There's Joshua, he's a nice guy, generally passive. He's as close as we have to a doctor. And there's Eli. You probably won't get a chance to really meet Eli. He's barely coherent anymore, and Joshua doesn't think he's got many days left."

"What happened to him?" asked Beth.

"Frank happened to him," replied Valli. "They got into a fight over how we were rationing the last of the food. Frank stabbed him with the poker from the fireplace."

"Jesus."

"Frank says Eli attacked him first, Eli said he didn't. No one can really stand up to Frank, so we kind of had to just... let it go. It wasn't even that deep a wound, but once it got infected... We had some antibiotics left over from the place we were at before this. At first they seemed to be working and he actually seemed to be getting better. About a week ago, though, it started getting worse again. Joshua tried upping the dosage, but it just doesn't seem to be helping anymore. Once we completely run out of drugs, which will be soon, Joshua thinks he won't last more than a few days.

Beth considered for a moment, then replied, "It sounds to me like you guys need to get rid of Frank."

Valli shrugged. "You'd think that, but we're out of food. That means if we don't want to starve, we're going to have to go back out there. Which means we're going to need Frank."

"But he killed one of your group," said Beth. "How can you trust him?"

Valli shrugged again. "We don't really know what happened. Maybe Frank is telling the truth. Besides, sometimes it's easier to just go along to get along, you know?"

"One asshole can get your entire group killed," said Beth. Her lower lip trembled for a moment before she burst into tears.

"I'm sorry," said Valli, putting her arm around Beth. "I shouldn't have brought all this up. I know you just lost a lot of friends."

Beth nodded and sobbed quietly into Valli's shoulder for a while longer.

Day 112:

"Eli is dead."

Joshua announced it from the top of the stairs. Everyone else was in the living room, huddled around the fireplace. They'd run out of wooden furniture for the fire and were starting to burn clothes they'd found in boxes in the attic.

"Then it's time to leave," said Valli. "We've put it off too long already. Eli was the last reason to stay. We're out of food. Eventually we'll be out of water too. Let's not waste any more time."

"Hold on," said Frank.

"We haven't eaten in days, Frank," added Lisa. "She's right, we've got to get going."

"Just hold on," repeated Frank. "Are you all really in a hurry to get back out there? Do you not remember what it's like?"

"I remember," said Joshua from the stairway.

"We'll probably all be dead in minutes," continued Frank. "I think we need to seriously consider an alternative plan."

Lisa started to say something, but Frank shot a hard glare and she shut her mouth instantly.

"Beth made it all the way here from a mile away," Valli reminded them. "We've got a chance out there. It's better than the alternative of definitely starving to death in here."

"But maybe there's another option," said Frank. "There could be another way to stay alive. A way that wouldn't require leaving the house."

"How?" asked Valli.

"No." said Joshua. "You can't."

"He's dead," replied Frank. "It's not like he cares."

"Whoa," said Valli, realizing what Frank was suggesting. "No way. No fucking way."

"You want to go back out there, Valli?" asked Frank, raising his voice. "As bad as it was before, I guarantee it's even worse now. You want to try your luck, go ahead. I'm staying here. You go out there, you do it alone."

Tears welled in Valli's eyes. She could go out there. She could. She could run again, she knew she could. But she couldn't do it alone. She couldn't stand the thought of being out there, by herself. Not again.

"I know I'm new to this group," said Beth, "but this is... insane. You can't be seriously considering this!"

"Thank you!" said Joshua, coming down the stairs into the living room with everyone else.

Lisa got out of her chair and walked over to stand next to Frank in a gesture of support. Standing by Frank, both literally and figuratively, had been her survival mechanism for so long Valli wondered if she could even remember any other way to live.

Beth looked to Valli for support, but Valli turned her eyes to the floor. "Right," said Beth. "Go along to get along."

Valli said nothing.

"You can't do this," insisted Joshua. "Even if you wanted to, Eli died from an infection. He's poison. If you tried to eat him it would probably kill you."

"We won't eat the infected part," stated Frank.

"The infection's in his blood!" said Joshua. "It's all infected!"

"Look," said Frank, rising up out of his chair. "Anyone that doesn't want to eat it doesn't have to. And anyone that no longer wants to stay here can leave. But we are starving. Eli wouldn't want his death to be for nothing. He'd want to save us if he could."

"Save us, Frank?" Joshua stepped up to the much larger man. "How is this going to save us? Even if it doesn't kill you, which it probably will, but even if it doesn't, how does this save anyone? It buys us a few more days locked inside this house. It postpones the inevitable for a very short amount of time. We'll still starve. We'll still die. Is it worth sacrificing our humanity for a few more hours of life, if you can even call this life?"

"We're done talking about this," said Frank, through clenched teeth. Valli put her hand on Joshua's shoulder, silently reminding him how Eli had ended up with that infection in the first place.

"How..." started Lisa, "How do we even... do it?"

"I've got some idea how," said Frank. "Since I assume Joshua isn't going to help me, I need Lisa and Valli upstairs with me. Valli, grab the handsaw from downstairs and Lisa, get the big knife from the kitchen."

A few minutes later, they were collected at the foot of Eli's bed.

"What now?" asked Valli, dreading the answer. She had seen some terrible things in the last few years, things that had hardened her to the point that she wondered if her old self would even recognize her anymore. But this was something else entirely. This was going too far. But here she was doing it. Going along to get along.

Valli had the saw and Lisa had the knife, which they respectively laid on the floor. Frank had grabbed some cable ties from the workshop in the basement and he added them to the pile.

"Ok," he said, "First help me get him into the bathroom."

Frank took hold of Eli's top half, gripping him under his arms, while Lisa and Valli each took a leg. Valli was surprised by how emotional seeing Eli's body made her. Not just because of what they were planning on doing to him, but because he was a friend and now he was gone. She had come to terms with the fact that Eli was going to die, his future had been clear for some time. But actually seeing him lying lifeless was different, even though he'd been mostly comatose those last few weeks. Valli felt tears on her face as she helped drag Eli off the bed and into the bathroom.

Once in the bathroom, Frank hoisted the body up over his shoulder, upside down, with Eli's head inside the bathtub

"OK," ordered Frank, "Now lift up his legs and tie them to the shower curtain rod." Valli and Lisa did as they were told. The curtain rod groaned under the strain, but it held. They eventually managed to get Eli completely suspended above the floor of the bathtub, with his head resting against the side.

Without a word of warning, Frank grabbed the large carving knife from the floor and slashed Eli's throat from ear to ear. Valli screamed and Lisa turned away at the unexpected violence. Blood flowed from the cut, but it was more of a trickle than the gushing stream that Frank had been expecting.

"Why's it coming out so slow?" he asked.

"He's dead," Valli reminded him. "His heart isn't beating, so it can't pump the blood out."

Frank sighed. "Fine. Well I guess we'll have to leave him here like this overnight, let the blood drain. We can do the rest tomorrow."

"There's more?" asked Lisa, still looking away.

"Yeah," said Frank, smiling ever-so-slightly at Lisa's squeamishness. "Tomorrow we cut him up."

Day 113

Frank didn't really know how to butcher anything, let alone a human being.

"Look," he said. "I don't want to deal with his organs and shit, and that's where the infection spread from anyway, so we're just gonna cut off the arms and legs and use those."

Valli had her hand over her mouth. The smell in the bathroom was horrible. The worst of it seemed to be coming off the part of Eli's stomach where he'd been stabbed by Frank. Hanging upside down, Eli's shirt had fallen down around his shoulders. Valli could see the incision was small and healed over, but it the area around it was distended and full of pus. Black veins extended from the lesion like thick spider webs under his skin.

Fortunately, Valli didn't have to do anything with the body once they'd cut him down; the cutting was really a one-man job. Frank hunched over Eli's corpse with the hand saw. He cut quickly through the flesh, but struggled when he came to bone, the metal teeth screeching like fingernails on a chalkboard as the saw tried to separate Eli's appendages from his body.

After only a few minutes, Valli couldn't stand the noise, or the smell, any longer and found herself running from the room. Even downstairs, away from the grotesque scene, the gnawing, scraping sound of metal on bone echoed in her head, like a recording she couldn't shut off.

Valli sat down on the couch with her head in her hands. Beth came over and put her arm around Valli's shoulders. They both said nothing.

It seemed like hours later when Frank and Lisa came down the stairs. They each held a plastic laundry basket filled with pieces of Eli's limbs.

"I cut each arm into two pieces," stated Frank. "And each leg into three. So they'd be more manageable. Find something long and skewer a piece, then hold it over the fire."

Lisa found some metal cooking skewers in the kitchen and handed one to Valli. Beth reluctantly accepted one as well, grimacing as she took it in hand.

"Go along to get along," said Beth, mostly to herself.

Lisa offered Frank one of the slender metal skewers, but he shook his head, and instead picked up the fire stoker, rinsing it off with a bit of water before impaling a chunk of Eli's right thigh and thrusting it into the fire.

Valli wondered if perhaps the irony of using the stoker was completely lost on Frank, who could be quite thick at times. She thought it more likely though, that it was a thinly veiled attempt to remind the group that Frank ultimately got his way, and that it was an unhealthy endeavour to try and stand against him.

The small fire leapt to life as the grease and fat rolled off the meat in droplets, filling the room with the smell of burnt cloth and charred meat. Valli would have loved to say the smell was unappealing, but after two weeks without food, it was all she could do to keep from sticking her head in the fireplace. She skewered her own piece of her former friend and held it over the fire. Lisa followed suit and, eventually, so did Beth.

Joshua never left the kitchen as they went about their gruesome business. If he could smell the cooking meat, he didn't say a word.

Although it seemed to take forever for the meat to cook, Valli didn't really mind. As much as she secretly enjoyed the aroma, she enjoyed the anticipation even more, imagining how the food would taste when she finally ate it, its juices evaporating on her tongue as she let them drip into her mouth. More and more she forgot the nature of what she would be eating, concentrating on the simple fact that she was finally going to get to eat.

Eventually, when Frank decreed that the food was suitably cooked, the four of them removed their skewers from the fire. They all blew fiercely on the meat, trying to cool it down so that they could get it into their mouths sooner, except Beth, who held the meat several inches away from her face, repulsed by what she had done, and by what she was about to do.

Valli could wait no longer and took a great bite out of her piece of arm, burning her tongue and the roof of her mouth in the process. The meat was tough and hard to chew, like a sinewy, overcooked steak. She could taste the mustiness of the old clothes that fed the fire, but otherwise, it tasted like meat. She gagged once as she tried to swallow, her mind momentarily picturing her friend, standing, talking, laughing. But she put that thought out of her mind as best she could, and on the second mouthful she didn't gag at all.

Frank and Lisa seemed to have no difficulty keeping their food down either. Beth eventually forced herself to eat as well. She took small bites and sobbed quietly to herself the entire time she ate. Sitting next to her on the couch, Valli pretended not to notice.

Day 114

Lisa collapsed onto the floor of the bathroom as Valli emptied the blue plastic bucket out the window. Lisa had been violently ill since they ate Eli. Everyone had felt a little sick after what they had done, perhaps only partially due to the moral repercussions of their actions. But Lisa had gotten much sicker than the rest. She'd spent the night and most of the next day lying on the tiled floor of the bathroom while Valli looked after her. The stench of fetid blood was still thick in the air in that room, and Valli imagined it was not helping Lisa's condition, but Frank had decreed if anyone was going to be sick, it was going to happen in that room and that room only.

Valli kept trying to get Lisa to drink more water, it was all she could think to suggest. Joshua said there was nothing else they could do for Lisa, and Valli had to wonder if he wasn't withholding some sort of remedy as punishment for what they had done. But Joshua wouldn't do that, she realised the more she thought about it. Joshua wasn't like Frank.

Lisa sipped a little water then vomited it back up into the bucket. Valli wondered if Lisa was going to die, and if she did, Valli wondered if they would eat her too.

Day 115

Lisa didn't die. The tainted meat she had eaten seemed to have all made its way out of her body one way or another, though she was left in far worse condition than she'd been in before they ate Eli's body.

Despite Lisa's illness, Frank was touting the entire affair as a success. He refused to acknowledge that Joshua had been right about the tainted meat, as only Lisa had gotten sick, and that, he insisted, could have been caused by anything. Maybe it had just been her time of the month, he'd even suggested, contrary to any sort of common sense.

But success or not, there was no more Eli to eat, so they all settled back into the quiet despair of slowly starving to death. It made no sense to stay, but everyone besides Joshua seemed resigned to do so. Joshua wanted for them all to run... somewhere. Anywhere. Anywhere away from that house. But he was tired, weak and unwilling to go without the others. Valli wondered if perhaps Joshua felt like she did, that it would be better to starve to death in that big white house than have to be alone again. Alone and out there. Valli didn't think there could be anything worse than that.

Day 120

Valli was awakened by the sound of Beth crying. Normally Beth stayed in her room; in fact, she'd hardly left it at all in the days since Eli's death. But Valli was woken from a relatively sound sleep and found Beth sobbing, sitting next to the fireplace where they had cooked and eaten Eli six days earlier. The fire was low, barely illuminating Beth's tear-streaked face.

For Valli, her former friend Eli seemed like he only existed in distant memories, as though it had been years since she last saw him. It also seemed like years since she had partaken in his cannibalization. The memory of what they had done seemed fresher to Beth, who had wept bitterly every day since.

"Beth," said Valli, sleepily getting up from the couch and walking over to her. "What are you doing up?"

"I can't live with what we did," said Beth. "I shouldn't have done it, but I was too weak. I'm a weak person, Valli."

"We all did what we had to do," said Valli, sitting down cross-legged on the floor next to Beth. "You have to try not to think about it. Just leave it in the past."

"No," said Beth. "There's more. You don't know how weak I am."

Valli reached out her hand to Beth, but Beth kept her arms folded in front of her. "You've survived this long," suggested Valli. "That must count for something, right?"

"I lived," continued Beth, "but they died. They all died but me."

"That's not your fault." Valli put her hand on Beth's knee and saw for the first time what Beth had clasped in her hands.

"It is my fault," said Beth. "It was me. I did it."

"You did what?" asked Valli, slowly withdrawing her hand from Beth's leg, keeping her eyes locked on the gun Beth was very casually holding on her lap.

"I let him out. The kid. The autistic kid. I let him out. I just wanted quiet. He'd been screaming for days, I just wanted a little bit of quiet. I couldn't take it anymore. So I let him out. He wasn't made for this world. He was better off. I was doing him a favour. But then his mother saw him out the window, and then...well..."

"Beth," said Valli, very quietly and calmly, "why don't you give me that gun?"

"And then we ate that man," Beth continued, ignoring Valli's request. "Your friend. We ate him, Valli. Who are we? Who have we become that we would do a thing like that?"

"We do what we have to survive," said Valli. "No more and no less."

"Go along to get along, right, Valli?"

"Exactly," replied Valli, tentatively reaching out towards the gun. "Go along to get along."

"But I don't think I can go along anymore," Beth said as she drew the revolver from where it was nestled in her lap. She put the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

Day 121

"Did you know she had a gun?"

"No, Frank," lied Valli. "She never told me."

"Because if we'd known about the gun, it might have changed things." Frank was pacing the length of the living room as he spoke. Valli sat on the floor near Beth's body, affectionately stroking what was left of her head. Valli hadn't moved from her side in the several hours since Beth had killed herself.

Frank had come down to investigate the noise, and after realizing what had happened, he took the gun and disappeared back into his bedroom. He and Lisa conferred at length in private and he had only just returned to the living room. Joshua hovered protectively over Valli. No one knew how the gun would shift the balance of power in the group, a balance that was already tilted in Frank's favour.

"If we'd known about the gun, maybe we would have opted to make a run for it instead of staying," continued Frank.

"What difference would the gun have made?" asked Valli, still stroking Beth's mostly non-existent head. "What good is a gun out there?"

Frank just shrugged his shoulders. "Well I guess it doesn't matter now anyway," he said. "Beth made her choice, we should respect that. Now help me get her upstairs."

"What are you going to do?" asked Joshua, the first words he had actually spoken since he'd been awakened by the gunshot that night. He was gaunt and withered; he moved slowly and hunched over when he walked. Valli knew if he didn't get something to eat soon he would die.

"You know what I'm going to do," responded Frank. "If you were smart you'd be doing it too, but if you want to abstain again, I don't really care. But we are not letting this body go to waste, not when we're starving."

"We're not starving!" cried Valli. "We're not starving because we ate Eli! Remember?"

"Yeah, we did that," said Frank, flatly. "And we're going to eat Beth. That's going to happen with or without you. It's time to pick a side, Valli, and I should warn you: I don't think Joshua's team has a lot of life left in it."

Valli leaned her head down close to Beth's face. "I'm so sorry," she told the corpse.

Day 123

Joshua leaned over the couch and grabbed hold of Valli's shoulder. He attempted to shake her awake, but she wasn't actually asleep and jumped at his touch.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's fine, Joshua. What do you want?"

Joshua was looking even more emaciated than usual. He had refused to partake in their most recent meal, of course, just as he had their first. Valli knew now that Joshua would die before he ate the meat of a human. She admired his strength of character, but it wasn't going to keep him alive.

"Frank is going to kill me," whispered Joshua. "And then he's going to kill you. And then he's going to kill Lisa. In that order."

"That's ridiculous," replied Valli. "He's not going to murder you. What would he gain from that?"

"He'd gain one more meal. He'd gain more time to hide out in this god-forsaken house, waiting for a rescue that is never going to come. And once I'm dead and eaten, he'll wait a while, but eventually he'll need to eat again. And who do you think he's going to kill then? Lisa? Not likely, as long she's still providing a service he wants. You'll be next, and then he'll have to decide between food and sex, at which point he'll choose food."

Valli shook her head in the dark. "You're being paranoid; Frank isn't going to kill you or me."

"Open your eyes, Valli. We need to do something or we're both dead. I stayed because I wanted to protect you, but I can't protect you anymore."

"Go to bed, Joshua," replied Valli. "Save your strength. You don't have much of it, and you're going to need it when we all leave this place. Any day now Frank is going to give the word. We'll all run together."

Joshua laughed darkly to himself. "Oh Valli. Eventually you'll figure it out."

"Figure what out?" she asked.

"That none of us are ever going to leave this house."

Day 124

Frank killed Joshua.

It was quick, and Valli had to admit that Frank's reasoning in doing it was sound. Joshua wanted to leave. He wanted to go outside, make a run for it on his own. But in his condition he wouldn't have made it ten steps. He was essentially throwing his life away.

Valli could see letting him try if there was even the slightest chance of success, but there wasn't. Joshua was going to kill himself, and he was going to do it out there. Out there where he'd be of no use to anyone.

Frank was doing him a favour. He'd given Joshua a quick, painless death. What Joshua would have found outside would have been much worse. And as a bonus, they now had a fresh body to eat.

So it wasn't really that Frank had killed Joshua so much as Joshua had killed himself. At least that's what Valli tried to tell herself as she helped Frank and Lisa drag Joshua up the stairs to bleed out the body onto the cracked porcelain of the crimson-streaked bathtub.

Later, they ate Joshua and they didn't feel bad about it. Valli marvelled at how easy a thing it had become, to eat a human being. Beth had been much easier than Eli, and eating Joshua was far easier still.

Valli ate, and she enjoyed her meal, but in the back of her mind, her brain was screaming to her that Joshua had been right: Frank was going to kill them all, one by one. Valli tried to ignore such thoughts, but she secretly wondered just how many bullets were left in that gun.

Day 133

Valli crept silently into Frank's bedroom. Fortunately, Frank always slept with the door open, so stealing into the carpeted room without waking him was relatively easy. She knew she might no longer be of entirely sound mind, but she was convinced she was doing the right thing.

Valli had begun to wonder if Joshua's paranoia wasn't an infection, spread directly to her because she had eaten his diseased meat. For nine days Valli had agonized with greater and greater anxiety over when Frank was going to make his move. Her certainty that he was indeed going to kill her became more and more palpable as the days passed, until it was like a taste in her mouth: an acidic bile that drove her nearly mad with trepidation.

She had considered all her options. She could try and supplant Lisa. Sure, Lisa had larger breasts and a prettier face, but maybe Frank was tired of her by now, and keen to try something new, something a little more...exotic. It was certainly a possibility, but the plan had two major problems. One: it was little more than a stalling tactic. Replacing Lisa in Frank's bed might ensure that Frank killed Lisa next, but then what? Valli would still be the second one up on the chopping block. She wanted a solution that bought her more than a few days. Reason two: Valli knew she would never be able to bring herself to it. Even to save her life, she knew she couldn't sleep with Frank. She might have eaten human flesh, but there were still some lines she would not cross.

A second option was to leave, just as Joshua had tried to. She wouldn't make the same mistake that he had, however, and announce his intentions beforehand. She could slip away in the dead of night and no one would be able to try and stop her. But it meant being out there, again. Alone.

The third option was to kill Frank. If she could get the gun, and assuming it still had bullets, she could kill Frank, leaving just her and Lisa. They would eat Frank, probably. Then, while they were still fresh from the meal they would run. Together. This was the best possible plan. The only hitch was getting the gun from Frank. And the fact that Lisa might resent her for killing Frank, but Valli regarded that as highly unlikely. Frank was a monster, a killer. Lisa was just with him for the security.

The two of them looked peaceful, sleeping side by side on their backs. Valli realized she was doing Frank a favour: he would die in his sleep, never knowing the end was coming. He would get a quick, painless death, a privilege that had become a rarity over the past years, a privilege Frank had been kind enough to offer Joshua.

Valli had been worried that Frank would hide the gun, or keep it under his pillow, making it impossible to reach, but she was relieved to find it sitting on the bedside table.

She picked up the silver revolver and held it up to the window. The moonlight coming in through the glass illuminated three bullets left in the chamber. That would be more than enough.

Valli saw no point in standing on ceremony nor in second-guessing her decision. She held the gun in front of Frank's sleeping face and pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening, much louder than it had seemed when Beth had killed herself or when Frank had shot Joshua. Valli felt warm blood splash over her checks as the center of Frank's face crumpled and disintegrated, leaving a large bloody hole where his nose should have been.

Lisa screamed. She screamed before she even realized what was happening. Once she understood, she screamed even louder.

"Calm down, Lisa," said Valli, soothingly. "We're safe now. Frank can't hurt us."

"Frank would never have hurt me, you cunt!" screamed Lisa lunging out from under the blood-splattered sheets. Valli reacted instinctively raising the weapon and firing. She hadn't been certain if Lisa had posed a legitimate danger or not, but it was probably better safe than sorry, and the action had been mostly reflex anyway.

Maybe Lisa had really cared about Frank after all, thought Valli as she sat down on the edge of the bed. At the very least, Lisa seemed to truly believe Frank would never hurt her. But Valli knew better. Valli knew Frank was going to kill and eat them all, just as Joshua had foretold.

Valli's plan had failed. She had wanted to find some way not to be alone again, but here she was, by herself in a room of corpses. She could eat them, of course. She could eat them both. It would be a waste not to, really. But then what? Back outside? Or would she waste away to nothing, starving to death, locked safely inside the house. She'd come to think of the house as her true home over the past months, in a way she hadn't thought of any place since before it all fell apart. She didn't know if she could bring herself to leave it.

Lisa gurgled something from the floor, her hand clutched to the geyser of blood gushing from the bullet wound in the side of her neck. Valli ignored her. Maybe she would take over this room, if she stayed. The thought of sleeping on a bed that someone had died on no longer made her squeamish. After all, this house was hers now. Her home. Her castle. She would die there, she realized, and that was all right. That was how it should be.

Outside, snow was falling, piling up on the window sills, blocking out, bit by bit, the moonlight that was trickling into the room. Ice had begun to form on the glass and beautiful crystalized borders were materializing around the edges of the panes. Valli felt something she hadn't felt in years. Valli felt contentment.

And then, for a moment, the gun felt just a touch lighter in her hand.

# Travis West's Bio & Links

Travis West is a writer of YA novels and grammar enthusiast.

He studied English at Dalhousie University before moving to Toronto, Canada, where he currently resides with his wife, Sarah, and his cat, Novella.

When he isn't writing books, Travis is reading YA novels, watching old horror movies or hunting zombies.

Website: www.traviswestwriter.com

Email: contact@traviswestwriter.com

Twitter: @TravisWestYA

Facebook: /traviswestwriter

