Short Story Symposium

"When Walls Can Talk" by Cate Dean (Novella)

2012-03-09T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Young Adult Fantasy

Type of Short Story: Novella

Summary: A missing prince. A haunted castle. A dangerous man bent on ruling the kingdom - whatever the cost.

When Rosamond and her friend Dan head out on her birthday to explore an abandoned and haunted castle, they expect to find only a ghost or two. Instead they discover the missing prince, and stumble into the middle of a violent, desperate bid for the throne.

In order to save the injured Prince Jaren, and themselves, Rosamond must reach beyond her own violent past to find her courage, and Dan must find the way to his true self.

Their only help is a children's story come to life: an ancient sorcerer whose soul has been trapped in the walls of the castle for centuries.

Can they keep the prince alive long enough to bring him home safe?

Can they defeat the man who would be king?

*Includes preview chapters at the end for The Claire Wiche Chronicles and TimeSearch trilogy.

Excerpt:

Jaren knew he was dying.

The voice that spoke to him from thin air simply confirmed it.

“Who—” Jaren swallowed, his left hand slipping on the chain that held him suspended above the stone floor. He knew it would take the last of his strength to talk to what had to be his own delusion. But part of him—the part he buried years ago to protect himself from his uncle—needed to know. “Who are you?”

“You know already, master, though your heart denies it.”

“Black Mountain sorcery,” he whispered.

Rage smacked him. He clutched the chain as fresh agony scorched his injuries.

“I was born and trained on Black Mountain, proud in my power. I am the sorcerer your kind fears and tried to destroy so long ago. But know this for the truth—sorcery has never been worked inside these walls.” The rage receded, left Jaren gasping. “Acknowledge me, master, or I cannot help you.”

The voice asked for the impossible, asked for him to validate children’s stories whispered in the dark. Stories of long-dead wizards who infused the very walls of their home with knowledge, with life. Jaren hadn’t even believed them as a child.

“You are not real.”

A sigh wrapped around him.

“Were that true, master, you would die here, alone and helpless.” The voice lowered, brushing against his ear as if someone stood next to him. “There has never been a death inside these walls, and I will not allow you to be the first.”

Jaren closed his eyes. His mind, his body, slipped closer to the waiting darkness.

“I may have to…disappoint you.”

“Find your way, master.” The voice rose in anguish now, spearing through Jaren. “Find your way to the truth, and I can set you free.”

“I cannot—” He choked back a scream as torn muscle wrenched under the constant strain of his weight. Pain seared his lacerated arm. Blood slid down his side, his back—blood he could not afford. “Gods—”

“Master—”

“Stop calling me master. Either help me or leave me in peace.”

Anger licked at him. He flinched, moaned when the rough steel of the shackles dug deeper into his wrists.

“Your choice, master. Accept me, and I can free you. Deny me, and you are alone.”

Jaren opened his mouth, not sure what he would say. And stilled when his uncle Arthur appeared in the doorway.

Buy this story on Amazon. Take a moment to check out Cate's website.

"Between The Devil And The Deep Blue Eyes" by Mike Dennis (Short Story)

2012-03-06T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Noir Fiction

Type of Short Story: Short Story

Summary: In this short story, Harry's a blackjack dealer at the Flamingo in Las Vegas. The kind of guy you'd never notice. Ordinary-looking, inconspicuous, practically invisible. Lives in a little apartment behind the hotel. Been working graveyard shift for twelve years now. Got no life of any consequence.

But one night Petra sits down at his table, and then…

Excerpt:

Oh, they were a deep blue, all right. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. They were the color of the clear desert sky in those first brief moments before the onset of dusk, right when the blue begins to darken, to veer into violet. Somewhere right after periwinkle, that’s where her eyes were.

If only I’d never noticed them.

≈≈≈

She came up to my table one summer night at Bally's, setting about two thousand in chips in front of her. It was slow that night, even for the graveyard shift. The usual racket of the slots was down by quite a few steps. Here in the pit, dice action had narrowed to one table, and even those players were restrained. The roulette tables were empty, wheels stilled beneath thick canvas covers.

There was only one other player in my game, a collegiate-looking type in a sweatshirt at first base. He was playing five and ten bucks a hand, stuck about three hundred.

“What do you pay for blackjack?” she asked.

“Three to two,” I replied without looking up. When I did look at her, I blinked and swallowed at the same time.

Plenty of reddish-brown hair framed her face, falling to her shoulders. Her mouth, nose, cheekbones, neck … hell, I don’t know. I didn’t even catch the clothes. After the hair, I only saw the eyes. They were beckoning, shrewd, sexy, and … and vile. Swimming in large chalky pools, daring you to dive in.

Shit, she could’ve been the bride of Frankenstein and I wouldn’t’ve noticed.

She placed two green twenty-five-dollar chips over the line. Joe College bet another single red fin.

I dealt the cards. He busted, she hit blackjack. I slid three green chips toward her.

“Wow! That was pretty easy.”She sounded like she meant it. She upped her bet to a hundred.

Here come the cards. Joe College busts again, she catches two face cards, and I bust. I pushed her a hundred.

“Ooh, I love it,” she said. But she wasn’t the only one.

Reaching onto her stack in front of her, she counted out five hundred, then shoved it over the line. “Let’s live dangerously, okay?”

I looked right at her, which I shouldn’t’ve done. But hell, I never know what’s good for me. After swallowing again, I found my voice hiding somewhere in the back of my throat and forced it to say, “Okay.”

Looking back at me through thick lashes, she knew I wasn’t just talking about her bet.

Then, after only a moment, I had to look away from her — although I really didn't want to — back to the shoe and the cards and the game. I didn’t want her to catch me staring, but it may have been too late.

She hit blackjack again.

I paid her seven hundred fifty.

“When do they change dealers?”

I glimpsed my watch. “Twenty-five minutes.”

She gathered her chips into her purse and got up from the table. As she started to walk away, she turned back to me, asking, “What time does the coffee shop open?”

Now, the first thing that even the dumbest rubes learn when they come to Las Vegas is that places like casino coffee shops never close. “It’s open twenty-four hours a day,” I replied.

“Thanks.”And she sashayed away, disappearing into the deepest reaches of the casino. I knew where I was headed when my shift ended.

Buy this story on Amazon.

"The Last Blind Date" by Valerie Gillen (Short Story)

2012-03-03T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Romance

Type of Short Story: Short Story

Summary: When Kristen's best friend Judy insists on fixing her up with an endless series of terminal losers, Kristen extracts a promise from her friend that tonight will the last, the very last blind date she goes on. And she is sticking to that promise, until she meets Bill. Is Bill another big check mark in the No Way, No How column, or could he really be - the one?

Excerpt:

“I’m off dating,” I said to my best friend when she showed up at my door with a hopeful look on her face and another phone number clutched in her hot little hand. “After that last creep, I’m staying home. The men can come and find me.”

“Then it’ll be Jack the mailman, who’s 70 if he’s a day, or that meter reader with B.O. and terminal halitosis.” Judy declared. She searched my closet, shuffling through the hangers with the expertise of a casino card dealer. “Where’s that sexy black dress that makes you look like a million bucks?”

“Jude. I’m not going. Besides, I burned my black dress after the last blind date you sent me on.”

“Oh, come on, he wasn’t that bad! And this one is it, I can feel it in my bones.”

As if she hadn’t said that about the last ten guys she’d sicced on me. There was more rattling as she moved deeper into the closet.

“Whaddya mean, ‘wasn’t that bad’,” I said, trying futilely to restore order as Hurricane Judy bulldozed through my clothes. “My dress had drool stains on it. That’s where it is - at the cleaner’s.” I crossed my fingers and prayed this was true. No way was I going out with any more of Judy’s “sure things”.

She turned, triumphant, the dress pristine in dry cleaner plastic dangling from her hand. My spirits sank.

Buy this short story on Amazon.

"Maze vs Zombies" by John Dax (Flash Fiction)

2012-02-29T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Horror

Type of Short Story: Flash Fiction

Summary: An accident at a top-secret research facility sets Mark in a race against time. He knows he's infected and doomed. All he wants is to kiss his wife and child goodbye. Is that too much to ask?

This story is illustrated with 5 hand drawn mazes.

Excerpt:

Mark winced in pain, looking quickly to his hand. "Damn, that hurt," he thought seconds before the full implication of what he'd just done reached his brain.

Contact with Specimen #568, the deceptively inert lump of mutagenic virus-infected necrotic tissue, had just cut short Mark’s work day. And his employment with the top-secret work facility. And his life.

“I've got to say goodbye to Andrea and baby Sally,” Mark thought as he started to count down the hours he had left to live.

Buy this story on Amazon.

"Supervillain: The Concise Guide" by Ras Ashcroft (Novella)

2012-02-26T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Humor/Parody

Type of Short Story: Written like a guide, novella length

Summary: Are you tired of living a humdrum life? Is there little to look forward to except a dead-end job and more news headlines that remind you of your insignificance in the world? Do you think the future of humanity depends on your potent leadership skills? Well forget about the nonsense of running for political office and become a supervillain instead.

Fancy degrees and qualifications are not required. With this concise guide, you will learn all the basic tricks of the trade. Ease into your first seedy business, create a large organisation with interests in finance, media and politics, and build a powerful military force. Eventually you will launch your crusade to rule the entire planet.

Take your shot at world domination – and hit the bull’s-eye.

Excerpt:

A popular brand of dictionary defines the term ‘Supervillain’ as follows:

su•per•vil•lain [soo-per-vil-uh n]: A malicious person usually involved in complex schemes to achieve an ambitious evil end goal such as world domination.

This is a white lie since dictionaries do not even bother to define the term. Perhaps it is because they think that ‘Supervillain’ is a title which bears no real significance outside fiction. Another more probable theory hints at a massive conspiracy involving the heads of the powerful dictionary-industrial complex. Whatever the reason, many average people still aspire to achieve this title. They wish to experience the simple (and clichéd) pleasures of relaxing in a diamond palace on a throne crafted from the skulls of their enemies.

By reading this book, you have taken the first step towards achieving these nefarious goals! Along the way, your loved ones will tell you that this is a ridiculous path to follow. They will tout the merits of following a more traditional career path, such as a Marketing Executive for a major brand or a Cat Groomer for upper class spinsters. Pay little attention to these naysayers. The only Marketing Executives you should worry about are the ones you will eventually hire to manage your propaganda. Similarly, the only cats worth grooming will be the genetically modified lions under your command.

Others may try to reason with you, by claiming that some normal career paths these days can easily satisfy your thirst for evil. At this point, they will direct you to the careers section of your friendly neighbourhood investment bank’s website and say “Look, why not become an investment banker? You’ll be rich, respected at posh dinner parties and you can fulfil your need to commit evil by becoming an integral part of a corrupt finance machine!”

While this is true to a minor extent, it is a long way from the recognition you will gain as a supervillain. You will simply exist as a disposable cog in a faceless organisation. Your real aim is to become the face of your OWN organisation, dedicated to more than just the chore of amassing wealth. After all, the novelty of currency will wear thin once you have an entire micro-nation converted to a secure vault, holding trillions in crisp banknotes with your grinning face on them. Money must simply be viewed as a crude but necessary tool.

Popular publications often attribute the origins of a supervillain to a tragic set of events in that person’s past. Traumatic childhoods, lab explosions and a slow descent into insanity usually figure in the pages of their biographies. They also tend to believe that their actions genuinely benefit society. Such factors can help shape their personality, but they are not necessary preconditions.

By harnessing the power of positive villainous thinking, you too can cultivate wealth, image, respect and connections. You will master these areas and find yourself in a dominant position, where you can hold entire nations hostage on demand. At this point, you can forgive your former critics and invite them for a dip in one of your private champagne lakes. Alternatively, you could opt for a more traditional lake of fire party by throwing them in the super-volcano you activated when those pesky North Americans refused to bow down to your will.

Buy this story on Amazon.

"Highway 90" by Heather Ross (Novelette)

2012-02-23T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Young Adult Drama

Type of Short Story: Novelette

Summary: For Brooke and Paige, life in a small border town is getting boring. The same faces cruising the boulevard and getting drunk in the desert just feel so high school until a trip to a Mexican nightclub changes the way they view life, love and freedom.

Excerpt:

"Paige, did you see that?" I don't have to ask. Her face looks as shocked as my voice sounds.

"What should we do?" She lets her foot off the gas glancing at me. The thought of seeing a dead body makes my stomach sink. I've only seen two in my lifetime, my uncle, which I would have preferred not to see dead, but no one told me the funeral was open casket until I walked in the door of the mortuary. The other was on the side of the road, thrown from a van rolling across the center divider. My mom kept saying, "Don't look," from her seat in front of me, but the more she said it the more I felt like I had to see. I was only six, but I still remember the person, bloody limbs scraped raw and bleeding laying lifeless on the highway, eyes open just staring. I don't know if it was a man or woman, but I do know I didn't understand death as much as I understood pain. That looked painful and I didn't want to die if it meant pain.

"We should go back." I stare straight ahead unsure if the words really came from my mouth. I wait for Paige's response, but she's quiet. At this point, I won't protest if she keeps driving. She slows pulling to the side of the road then makes a u-turn. We drive in silence. My heart is beating hard and fast. I hope it's a figment, a joke or that someone else stopped, like the paramedics. All of my ideas disappear as our headlights spread over the lifeless figure. Paige makes another u-turn pulling up within twenty feet of the body, half the car still on the highway.

"What if this is some kind of joke?" Paige looks around like an army of guerrillas is waiting in the brush to jump us.
"Paige, do you see the blood? Who's gonna joke about that?" She looks over the steering wheel squinting her eyes as if looking for a ketchup packet nearby.

"Just stay in the car if you're so damn freaked out." I open my door. It's pitch black except for the headlights and a full moon. The desert's finally beginning to cool. I hesitate for a second hearing my dad, "Don't stop for strangers." Technically, this isn't a stranger. It's a dead person. Besides, what will he say when I tell him, "I drove past a person on the highway last night just layin' there all bloody and lifeless, but you said don't stop for strangers." I imagine he'd be more disappointed than if I'd stopped, but more than that, I'd be too disappointed in myself to tell.

I start toward the body. I'm not good with blood, even get queasy at the sight of my own, and the body is covered in it. Dark patches that look like dry paint surround the figure while bright red streaks ooze from wounds I can't see. The person is on their side facing away from me, probably the only reason I'm still standing. I look back at the car. I can't see Paige through the glare of the headlights, but I'm sure she's chewing her nails watching me. As I get closer I hear breathing. It reminds me of Darth Vader, raspy, strained, filled with fluid. A low groan follows. It scares me so much I almost pee myself. I can't just stand here watching someone die.

Buy this story on Amazon. Check out Ross's other work on her website.

"Vortex" by Steven Mace (Short Story)

2012-02-20T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Science Fiction and Fantasy

Type of Short Story: Short Story

Summary: A tale set in a parallel universe policed by an organisation of supernatural and reality manipulators known as the Arcadian Vortex, who are controlled by a triad known as 'The Matriarchy'. In this story you will be introduced to Peregrine and Victor, two extraordinary and talented men; and Charlie, a very brave little boy.

Excerpt:

Peregrine Lascombe adjusted his monocle, and then proceeded to stroke the elegantly twisted curl of his moustache before chuckling to himself. He watched the woman stride down the pavement, dragging her reluctant son along with her. The little boy was still glancing back at him with wide, curious eyes. Lascombe could see through their outer flesh, and into their internal organs and even beyond that external physical layer, and thus into their skeletal frames. The woman was pregnant again. He could see the outline of a budding foetus within her womb. The boy who was walking with her, a hyper-sensitive child, had actually seen him, while most of the humans present here on this world, going about their mundane daily business, would not be able to distinguish him while he was cloaked in this current fashion. Occasionally such things occurred, and always with children, or the mentally irrational amongst human populations. If a sane adult could see him, then that was a more worrying development, although it was unheard of as far as Lascombe was aware. Even as he stood on the pavement, passers-by walked close to him where he stood, and also through him, stepping through his immaterial presence. Of course, he was not quite present right now in that place, at least not in his essential material form. This was a manifestation of Lascombe, rather than his real body which was currently in limbo within a casket kept in the Vortex.

Lascombe had suddenly detected a disturbance in the metaphysical atmosphere, a mind-wave aftershock. He had already guessed the cause of such supernatural noise in the ether, and after a Mind-sweep he meta-ported himself to the vicinity. He found Victor Phalange in a dingy alleyway, interfering with the brain processes of one of the humans. This was a particularly degenerate example of an Earthbound human, a homeless male with dirty clothes and ill-functioning inner organs, particularly the liver and bladder. The homeless person was presently sitting vacantly upon the ground: a man with a flushed face, and long grey hair and beard.

Phalange was crouched unseen behind the man, his hands discharging electrical energy and hovering half-clenched around the man’s skull as he secretly activated neurons and transmitters within the poor human’s brain. There was a half-smile on Phalange’s face as he concentrated on disturbing the human’s neural pathways and nervous system, and his golden eyes were closed fast shut as he worked patiently at his task.

“Oh, Victor”, Peregrine sighed. “Do behave and do try to desist from disturbing the wildlife.”

Victor was one of the more challenging members of his reality management team. Peregrine was expert at orchestrating the wild and differing talents of his squad of Dimensional Manipulators, hence the reason that the Matriarchy had chosen him for his role, but Victor always required special handling. He had the tattooed physique of a body-builder combined with kinetic and metaphysical skills and the playful mind of an artist or comedian- an unusual and dangerous combination. He could not resist providing that extra unnecessary flourish for a Meld or a Fabrication, either for aesthetic purpose or his own personal amusement. There had been the incident in Chicago, Illinois during the 1940s era on this planet when Victor Phalange had endowed a deformed boy with white feathered wings, and then another notorious moment on Hadea in the Jeth province when Victor had given a Varnic Cult priestess access to the future-scrolls of the Magi. Victor had also left an open portal to the Second Level in the Midian deserts, which the Matriarchy had ordered to be closed once they had learned of its whereabouts. Lascombe had suggested that Phalange be disciplined, but he doubted that his colleague had faced any serious sanctions afterward. Phalange was one of the Matriachy’s favourites, despite his occasionally destructive idiosyncratic nature.

“I’m doing something kind for this poor man”, Phalange said defensively. “I’m making his life more bearable. I’m opening his eyes to inner process and delight, without his usual aid of illicit chemical substances.”

“Unnecessary, Victor”, Peregrine said, rebuking him. “They are nothing but motes in the eye of the storm. Ignore them. We have more important things to do.”

At that moment Lascombe was interrupted by a voice in his head. It was a telepathic message from Nero Basso, who was monitoring their presence in that particular First Level zone: Peregrine, there’s a Third Level disturbance in that sector. I haven’t managed to pin-point it yet, but its something dark and dangerous…causing ripples of chaotic flux that might start to manifest themselves in your reality very soon.

Lascombe’s throat had gone dry. He swallowed and sent a telepathic message back to the source of that ominous warning. Is it…another Deathshadow, do you think?

There was a momentary hiatus, before Basso spoke within Lascombe’s mind again. Peregrine, I didn’t want to alarm you but that assumption is looking extremely likely at this point.

“Victor”, Lascombe said sharply. Phalange still had his hands clasped around the skull of the disorientated and hallucinating human while each of his hands discharged blue-white energies from his palms. “Stop that. We have little time. We still have to seal the rupture. And…there may well be a Deathshadow on its way.”

Abruptly, Victor Phalange ceased his activity within the human’s brain. The vagrant slumped unconscious to the concrete floor of the alley. Previously crouching behind the human, Phalange now rose to his feet and his full height of six feet five inches. He was a tall, powerful person even when he was just a projection as he was now. “A Deathshadow?” Phalange repeated, in an astonished tone. “But…”

Lascombe glanced up at the sky. He had sensed something before he looked: a sudden shift in the atmosphere, or a subtle change in the quality of light. Now he saw the reason why. Something was beginning to blot out the sun; an irregular, and uneven dark shape. Currently, it was covering perhaps a tenth of that yellow-white circle, but it was growing. “Ah”, Lascombe said softly. “It has begun. Now we shall start to see anomalies.”

And, indeed, the anomalies came. The hordes of bewildered shoppers in the middle of the high street had paused and gazed up at the sky, shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun. Even as unwelcome darkness encroached upon the previously bright and sunlit day, the faces of the humans began to change. An elderly man with glasses abruptly sprouted ivory tusks from his hollow cheeks, sharp protuberant curved horns of fresh bone that ripped through the tender flesh even as he cried out in shock and horror at his own sudden and terrifying transformation. A pin-like mass of narrow spines appeared upon the forehead and shaven skull of an adolescent boy. A small girl grew a third eye in the centre of her forehead, an eye that blinked repeatedly in confirmation of its obscene birth from her unblemished skin. There were countless other mutations and disfigurements that swiftly took place amongst the bustling crowds of human beings, who began to scream with horror and bewilderment at the frightening changes that had happened in their own appearances and the faces of others. Even animals were affected. A Yorkshire terrier on the lead of its owner had developed an extra head and two more wagging tails in addition to the original. They flicked about together in a nightmarish triad of unconscious animal delight.

“Victor, we need to shut this down”, the manifestation of Peregrine Lascombe told his companion. “Quickly, man.” Seconds later, Lascombe materialised once again in the midst of the high street. He nervously adjusted his monocle as he instinctively but unnecessarily swerved to avoid the streams of terrified disfigured humans that were running past him, oblivious to his presence. His movements were merely a natural reaction to people running straight toward him, as he had no substantial form. Although he felt a quiver as the people ran through him, disturbing his materialised figure, there was no physical collision. Moments afterward, Victor Phalange also appeared beside him. Phalange’s piercing golden eyes scanned their surroundings quickly, taking in the physical changes of the frightened people scuttling to and fro about them.

“Nero, take us up to Level Three”, Lascombe ordered, sending his message to the Auteur.

Done, Basso sent back.

Abruptly Lascombe and Phalange’s surroundings changed. The scared people running through them and about their location became as immaterial and insubstantial as the two Dimensional Manipulators were. The human beings, the residents of this physical world, were now simply mere ghosts, cloudy and fragile phantasms that Lascombe and Phalange were only dimly aware of. The heat and light from the sun had also vanished. There was no warmth and no breeze here, just a neutral cold that chilled the bones. The physical landmarks of the world they had recently vacated- the towering buildings of the office blocks and the shopping centre; the parked cars; the concrete walls; the lamp posts- were now just pale outlines, white traces upon a shadowy blue-black background. This was not the true physical world, but a rudimentary sketch of it, a vague blue print.

However, the creature that had appeared upon the horizon like a hideous black storm cloud and was now heading straight toward them at rapid speed was no apparition. It was a vast being, a monster of epic proportions. Its torso resembled that of a whale, even though it flew through the elements of air and blank space like that particular earthbound mammal swam through water. Grouped around its neck, flanks and wings were the wailing mouths and faces of lost, screaming souls: poor unfortunates that had been devoured and assimilated by this awful demonic abortion, this monstrous and frightening hell-beast. At the front of the creature there was one small cranium which possessed features reminiscent of a fly: two bulbous goggle-like eyes and a small mouth with vicious pointed glistening teeth like sharp needles. Beneath this a greater second head bulged out, and within it was just a great maw: divided triangles of flesh that opened inwards and outwards like a pulsing Venus Fly-trap. Beyond them, it was possible to see into the belly, the heart of the creature and only see a deep, black empty void- an abyss of nothingness. To be swallowed by the monstrosity was to become one with its darkness.

This was a terrible being known and feared by all operatives of the Arcadian Vortex, a monstrosity that had already accounted for three of their number. It was a Deathshadow, a fabled creature from the Beyond. Now, of course, it had been confirmed as something far more than fable or myth, it was a very real entity within the known Cosmos. This, however, was the first time that Lascombe and Phalange had seen one with their own eyes, whether in their true physical form or any of their materialised appearances in different realms they had visited.

Buy this story on Amazon or on Lulu.

"Johnny Mustang The Adventure Begins" by Ruth Thompson (Short Story)

2012-02-17T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Children

Type of Short Story: Short Story

Summary: He lives in the desert of southwest Arizona where the wild Mustangs run free. Join him on his first wild horse roundup when he learns what it takes to catch a free spirited horse.

Johnny Mustang is an illustrated children's book aimed at readers ages 8-12, but suitable for all ages. It is 6,000 words long and includes 10 full color illustrations.

Excerpt:

The River had long since dried up under the summer sun leaving large cracks in its surface. Every year the cracks got deeper and wider. Only the bravest dared to ride across. Unless you were a Mustang.

They lived and breathed these mountains, understood the intricacies that others called hazards and knew better than anyone how to survive. If there were an owner of these lands, other than God, it was them. That's one reason they made great horses for ranching and hunting. Their hardy nature and ability to learn quickly was the other. They also had one downfall, they would do whatever they could to avoid being captured.

Él va acted as though he were one of them paying no attention to any of Johnny's signals. Pulling back on the reins, leaning back in the saddle and yelling 'WHOA!' did nothing to get Él va to slow down. In fact, it seemed to make him run faster.

Ahead, Johnny could see a long black hole in the riverbed and the Mustangs were headed straight toward it. He had heard stories about riders who crossed the riverbed and never returned. He didn't want to be one of them.

Again and again he yelled for Él va to stop, but his throat became muffled as he choked on the dust. Johnny knew he was in trouble.

Two and three at a time the Mustangs began jumping, their manes suspended in the air like colorful string. Johnny knew it was a chance he didn't want to take on a horse he didn't know, but what choice did he have? If the Mustangs could do it he hoped and prayed Él va could too.

Grabbing the saddle horn and tightening the reins, Johnny squeezed his legs into Él va's sides. The horse adjusted his stride for the take off, then sprung into the air. For a moment, everything was silent. The dust cleared. Johnny couldn't help but look down into the endless black ravine. He froze with fear, his heart beating wildly. He hoped Él va wasn't looking down too.

They hung in the air for what seemed like hours. Then he heard the cracking of Él va's hooves on the rocks. The horse stumbled and caught himself, but the jolt lurched Johnny over the horse's head. Up in the air he flew, this time without Él va.

Buy this story on Amazon. Check out Thompson's website.

"Young Hearts" by Gabriella Mahoney (Short Story)

2012-02-14T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Western Romance

Type of Short Story: Short Story

Summary: Orphaned at an early age, Katherine Parker has been forced to be practical her entire life. She has been a been a nanny, a cook and now a school teacher.

At twenty-six she has just about given up hope of ever finding a man that might see her as more than just the hired help. That is until Alex Dermott, her best friend growing up, comes back into down and seems interested in being far more than just friends...

Excerpt:

Katherine wasn’t entirely certain why she had made such a rebellious statement. It was totally uncharacteristic of her. Normally she was very careful about presenting a respectable public image. Nor was she entirely certain why a hint of tenderness crept into her heart as she draped the quilt over Alex and watched him sleep for a moment.

Her normal, practical self said that she was being ridiculous. That she was simply enamored with his looks. And what woman wouldn’t be? He was entirely too good-looking for anyone’s well being. And certainly far too attractive to be interested in the likes of her. He probably had scores of women wanting to be with him.

Refusing to be one of the many who had fallen prey to his charms, Katherine fixed herself some supper and then lit a fire in the living room fireplace so Alex wouldn’t get cold. Then deciding that she didn’t want to leave him alone in case he became feverish, she sat down in the armchair by the sofa to work on some mending.

“Why aren’t you married?” she heard Alex ask again softly about an hour later, causing her to look up from her sewing.

She considered how to answer this for a moment. “Well… I’m poor for one. For another, I’ve been a nanny at some point to virtually every man my age in this town. That’s not exactly the groundwork for romance.”

Alex moved closer to one side of the sofa and motioned for Katherine to come sit in the empty space he had made.

Katherine later rationalized this as being caught up by the intimate setting the fireplace made. At the moment, she walked over and sat on the sofa without so much as a second thought. The feeling of being so close to his warm, male body felt inexplicably right and made her shiver with pleasure.

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"Zombie Kong" by James Roy Daley (Novella)

2012-02-11T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Horror

Type of Short Story: Novella

Summary: Zombies are bad, but ZOMBIE KONG is worse. Way worse.

Big. Bad. Heavy. Hungry. While a 50-foot tall zombie gorilla smashes the hell out of a small town, Candice Wanglund drags her son Jake through the hazardous streets in an attempt to get away from the man that is determined to kill them. She wishes her husband Dale was by her side; he would know what to do. The good news––Dale’s alive. Problem is, he was eaten by Kong.

Excerpt:

When the giant zombie gorilla tossed me into his mouth he did not chew, nor did he swallow. Instead, he turned his head and roared. The sound, quite simply, was the loudest thing I had ever heard.

Hugging the monster’s dehydrated tongue while balancing on one knee, I found myself desperate and highly troubled. The massive teeth stacked around me were frightful. The canines interposing the calcified walls resembled the grand ivory tusks found on an African elephant, only thicker, more dangerous, and somehow… sinister.

The animal’s mouth sprang open and snapped shut. Then it opened again, slowly this time, allowing sunlight to creep in like the promise of a morning that would never come.

Trapped inside, clutching where I was able, in my state of absolute fear, I recognized those teeth as being something I had been extremely lucky to avoid. But how much longer could my good fortune continue? Another minute… maybe two? Clinging to that terrible wad of dead meat, which was cold and slimy and reeking so bad my eyes watered, my thoughts, when fully formed, were at best unsystematically erratic. But I did manage to keep my wits. Oh yes. Somehow I managed that much. Just.

While smudging the dirty tears across my face, I looked past the monster’s tongue, lips, and teeth, eying the world I thought I knew. But what kind of world was this? A flaming bus held no spectators. A squashed taxicab was overlooked. People running, a dog barking, fires consuming buildings that had been knocked over like mounds of blocks in a child’s playroom.

There were cars––

Cars had been recklessly hurled across the landscape and could be found leaning against trampled trees which had been snapped into sections, lying alongside busted telephone poles while live wires danced beside them. Dead bodies were scattered about, sometimes in pieces, sometimes not. And for a moment––one final moment, I could only assume––I saw my wife, Candice, and my son, Jake. Running. Screaming. Hand in hand, they were fleeing the monster with a group of ten, one of whom was a man I knew quite well: Roy Berkley.

Roy had dark hair, a slim nose, and a big smile that was waiting for me every time I saw him working at my local coffee shop. He always seemed to have everything in order. Everything in its place, he would sometimes say, smiling like a guy that had the whole world figured out. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life it’s that while some men wear their hearts on their sleeves, others hide themselves behind a false exterior of counterfeit cheerfulness. I’d always assumed Roy to be a false exterior man, because his sleeves seemed to be whistle-clean at all times… until that moment. Missing a limb and bleeding profusely, Roy fell to his knees with his mutilated arm flapping insanely while the other arm pinwheeled for balance. With death but a wink from claiming the man, I saw the look of terror fastened to his colorless face. A face haunted with fright. There was no false exterior at that moment. No sir. Everything was real. His feelings were genuine. Roy, I realized then, wore his heart on his sleeve. I almost felt bad for not knowing.

After Roy tumbled to the ground, my wife looked over her shoulder, glancing at my friend before staring up at the animal… and then straight at me. For a single moment, a precious moment, I like to think that our eyes locked together, uniting our souls one last time before the oversized mouth closed tightly, imprisoning me. Did it happen? Did we share a glance, or was my mind so lost within the depths of despair that I imagined the event? The answer remains unknown, for the moment the jaws closed, my existence changed. The beast had me. And it swallowed me down. Whole.

I slipped past the pharynx, past the epiglottis and the larynx, and into the tight confines of the esophagus. Before it happened I was wondering if I could free myself; escaping my frightful predicament was the only option I was willing to entertain. But as the swallowing occurred and my world turned dark, the prospect of escape looked bleak and unrealistic, unless, of course, I could crawl my way back into that miserable mouth once again. It would be no easy task, and even if I managed to claw my way into that cursed place a second time, what then? What would I do? It was a practical question without a reasonable answer, but it didn’t matter. If I couldn’t re-enter the mouth I still had to escape. Somehow. Even if the esophagus muscles had already begun squeezing me, gripping me, pulling me down. Pulling me in.

I felt movement all around. I could tell by the way my world was shaking that the beast was walking, or perhaps running, for I was being pushed this way and that––shuffled about as if living through an earthquake.

Inside that moment, if I could feel grateful about one thing, it would be the fact that the beast had swallowed me feet-first. This isn’t much to smile about, I know. But with my head pointing north and my feet pointing south, I felt as if I had maintained some measure of control, as negligible as that control may seem.

Being inside an esophagus––a strange miracle of evolution––is like being devoured by a toothless python. It grips and pulls, squeezes and clutches, constricts and suffocates.

Suffocation. That was my newest fear, the latest thought picking at my brain and making my heart race, encouraging the sweat to bead up on my forehead and run squiggly trails down the back of my neck. But there was air inside the beast. Enough to breathe, anyhow. There wasn’t as much as I wanted, but there was more than I could have hoped for considering the situation.

Grunting and cursing, I dug my fingers into a wall of flesh. A handful of slippery, fungus-covered meat was my reward.

Something shifted and moved beneath me. I heard a grunt and I lost my footing. The muscles in my body instinctively flexed as I tried to maintain my ground. I was leaving the esophagus. About to be dropped into that stretchy sac known as the stomach.

Gross.

Looking back, that’s the first word that comes to mind. Not ‘scary’. Not ‘terrifying’. Not even ‘murky’ or ‘stinky’… and it was stinky,exceptionally stinky. But as rancid, and curdling, and god-awful barf-doggish as it smelled, gross is the appropriate word.

Gross, man.

When I dropped out of the esophagus and into the stomach, it was gross. It was also dark; I could hardly catch a glimpse of anything. There was air… sort of, which is why I didn’t die. But the air was so wrong. The taste on my lips was akin to bile.

I should point out that there were holes in the stomach, the skin, and the muscles of the abdominal area. Every few seconds the beast would twist one way or another and a little bit of light would seep into the sac, and with the light came nitrogen and oxygen and all the other molecules of gobbledygook that we call ‘air’.

By the way, do you know what a stomach is?

I know you’re well aware that you have a stomach, but do you know what a stomach is? I mean, really know?

Let me tell you:

A stomach is a mixer, wrought like a J-shaped bag. It churns, mashes, and pulverizes all the food that travels down the esophagus, slamming it together and breaking it into small pieces of fodder. This is done with the help of stomach muscles and the gastric juices that the walls of the stomach create.

And there I was––hanging out in a stomach, waiting to get broken down into digestible fragments. But there was a snag. The beast no longer had gastric juices. After the beast had died, the juices went missing.

My guess––and this is a guess––is that the enzymes and acids that aid with food digestion had leaked out, or dried up, or eaten their way through the tissue. No stomach acid meant no digesting. Fantastic news, for sure… however, I found myself sitting in something terrible, something snaking around in a slow-moving circle.

A question came; it was simple and obvious.

What am I going to do?

The answer…

Phone my wife.

A stupid solution, I know. But it was all I had.

I suppose now, looking back at the situation, that I could have called 911. The thought never occurred to me. So I rammed my hand into my front pocket and pulled out my cell phone, thinking about Candice. My keys––house keys, car keys, garage keys, a couple of mystery keys––they also came out of my pocket and slipped from my fingers. The keys were gone, but I still had my phone, and that was the important thing.

I looked to my left. No keys in sight.

I looked to my right, just as the monster released another roar, and this time the noise was louder than I can possibly explain. The sound was coming from everywhere, from all directions. The sound was penetrating, getting right inside me, into my heart. When the noise ended, I found that I was screaming in terror with my hand gripping my chin and my bottom lip trembling uncontrollably. Frightened beyond words, I clicked on my phone and coughed a number of times, in desperate need of a germ-free environment.

The air, of course, was toxic. How long would it be before the air itself killed me? It was impossible to say, although I couldn’t image I’d survive much longer.

I guess this is a good time to tell you that I have asthma, for it was at that moment I felt the first signs of an asthma attack, which, in so many ways, was the very last thing I wanted to add to the situation.

Half the phone number was dialed with jittery hands; then I saw something, and needed a moment to see it again. I hung up.

My phone, like most, came with a backlight. And because I had a light, I could see…

Dead bodies.

I was sitting in a pile of dead bodies: faces pale, mouths opened, noses smashed, eyes locked in fear, arms chewed into mulch, scalps yanked from heads, skin torn, spines protruding from shattered backs, legs broken, fingers missing, feet twisted, kneecaps obliterated, a child…

A child with little yellow ribbons braided into her blonde hair… she had her face pounded into her shoulder. I saw a man that had been bitten in half at the waist; he looked about forty. A pair of chubby arms sat alone, stacked together almost neatly on a mangled corpse. The owner of the arms was nowhere to be found.

I saw a baseball glove, an unopened bottle of wine, a laptop, a pack of cigarettes, a pair of sunglasses, and what I later realized was a horse’s head, covered in blood, guts, and bone. And this––all this––was turning in a circle, blending, mixing, churning.

Fighting for balance, I stood up and dialed my wife’s number. My legs sank into the mulch.

And then it had me: the small intestine. I was going in.

The phone began ringing.

Candice answered, sounding completely stressed out. “Hello?”

“Hello?”

“Dale, is that you?”

“Oh my God, yes! It’s me! It’s me!”

“Where are you? I thought––”

“I’m inside the monkey!”

A slight pause came before Candice said, “What?!”

“I’m inside! He tossed me into his mouth and swallowed me down!”

“You’re kidd––”

Panic consumed me in a way I can’t possibly explain, and I started screaming: “I’M IN THE MONKEY’S STOMACH! YOU’VE GOT TO TELL SOMEBODY! HELP ME! GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE! I’VE GOT TO GET––”

The monster unleashed another thought-crushing yell and pounded on his chest. Instead of finishing the sentence, I screamed more loudly than before. Then something happened. Not inside. Outside. Maybe the monster fell; maybe he jumped off a car or did something as simple as sit down. I don’t know, but my center of gravity changed and the corpses around me shifted position. The dead were piling my way, causing the phone to pop from my hand and tumble from my fingers. The world became a fraction darker than the far side of the moon and before I had a chance to catch my breath––before I realized what was about to happen––Kong’s intestine sucked me in.
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"Dreamwater" by Chrystalla Thoma (Short Stories)

2012-02-08T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Epic/Urban Fantasy

Type of Short Story: Short Story Collection

Summary: "Indra's Return": Indra returns from exile with one purpose: to take revenge on the Elven King for sending him away. But in a game where nobody is who and what they seem, Indra will find that discovering the truth might be crueler than living a lie.

Excerpt:

Excerpt from "Indra's Return":

Beyond the sea of Bara lay the land of exiles – human and troll cities, merchant harbors, thieves and whores. I was supposed to be there, leading a life of nostalgia and pain, languishing in Queen Syrana’s memory.

Dying inside.

But here I stood, well within the forbidden borders – forbidden only to me – of the human-elf coalition, polishing the tables of this accursed inn with a wet rag, and glaring at the hooded human about to grab my hip – again.

I slapped his hand away, and struggled not to punch him. That would be a man’s reaction, not a woman’s, and I had to keep my disguise. “Did you want something?”

“What’s a pretty wench like you,” his voice slurred, “doing in this godsforgotten place?”

What indeed. I finished redistributing the dirt on the table surface – filthy human race – while I thought about the question, keeping one eye on his wandering hands. Only a fool would come back against the elven King’s wishes, as I had. But I had sworn on Melekarth’s name to revenge Syrana’s death, and I had a plan.

If you could call it that. It was more of a purpose, a desire, an urge. A burning need that sustained me, kept me alive.

“My name’s Jonder. What’s yours?” He sounded like an old man, his voice rusty and shaking. He made another pass, at my waist this time, and missed. “Hey. I’m talking to you. I asked you yer name, wench.”

I sighed. “Indra. My name is Indra.” I’d found out the hard way that not answering only made them more persistent. Then again, using my true name helped me remember who I was. “Now let me work.”

The inn stank of sweat, sour ale and stale breath, but it was no worse than others I had frequented. I had worked my way from the harbor to this very spot, inn after stinking inn, insult upon insult.

My rage was contained like lightning in a glass, my magic buried so deep it gnawed at my guts. I disguised my gender with my clothes, half-hid my ears under my long hair, and hoped nobody became too curious or too suspicious. Maybe I would get lucky for once.

“So slender for a wench.” Jonder grasped a handful of my skirt and to my dread it began ripping at the seams. I grabbed his hand. “And what is that silver tattoo on your arm?” He cocked his head to the side.

I twisted out of his reach and checked my skirt. It would hold a while longer. I picked up the jug and poured him some more warm ale. That usually distracted them. “Just the brand of my previous master. Here, drink. Anything else I can get you?”

He leaned over the table. “That master of yours, he the one who taught you to talk all proper? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were high-born, some lady raised in a palace. A princess.” He cackled.

A chill shook me. The fear of being discovered jolted my magic, burning and seething, up my chest and arms. I fought it back down, to the safe place inside my body. Melekarth’s balls. I thought I blended in. My fault, for talking so much. No more talking from now on, not till I attained my goal.

So I just nodded.

The man raised his head. Under the hood, over the salt-and-pepper beard, his eyes glinted like polished black obsidian, Syrana’s favorite stone. He was not a dwarf, not an elf, but suddenly I doubted he was human.

“Did you know, lass, that the elven King is passing through here?” he asked.

I fought to hide a gasp. I shoved off the table, schooling my face. “Is he?”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“Of course I am.” I was. How did Jonder know? I wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt.

“Well, they say he’s on his way to the Forest of Ydes. There’s great magic and power there. But why would the elven King need more power? He hasn’t come this way in hundreds of years.”

Why was Jonder watching me like that, as if he could see through me? And why was he telling me all this? I shook my head, letting my hair fall over my face and cover my expression. Maybe it was some old ritual King Esh had revived. Even though I was of the royal line, I had never aspired to the throne, never thought about all it entailed. Perhaps elven Kings had to visit the magical forest, pay their dues.

All I cared about was that King Esh was coming here, into my waiting arms. My blade was thirsty.

Jonder focused his attention on his ale. Turning my back, I resumed work. I did my round of the tables, carried trays with bowls of stew and chunks of bread and ale in clay jugs. I kept busy, kept my mind empty of fear.

The men grabbed at my ass, missed when I twisted and turned, shouted about all the things they wanted to do to me, vile, unheard of practices. I longed to give them pain, make them beg for mercy, shut their mouths at long last, and stop their taunting. I was weary, and sorrow weighed heavy on my heart, ever since the day Syrana died. Syrana the beautiful, who had been betrothed to the King of Fairy, Syrana, my lover.

The drakes killed her on her wedding day, and so killed my heart in one stroke.

I’d destroy the drakes, kill them to the last. But first…

I slipped between the men’s arms like water, avoiding grasping hands and booted feet laid out to make me trip. I sidestepped them without really looking; I served food and poured ale, my mind whirling.

As I turned to wipe another table down, shiny metal flashed. A big knife tumbled across my path.

Iron!

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"A Merman's Kiss" by Laura Lond (Novelette)

2012-02-05T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Fantasy Romance

Type of Short Story: Novelette

Summary: The old legend says that a merman’s kiss will make a girl pretty and bring her luck. One poor working girl is desperate enough to try it. She is warned that she must do everything exactly as she is told… but never warned about the effect it might have on the merman.

Excerpt:

Ellie did her usual chores, checking the fireplaces (none were lit since she’d last checked, so she didn’t need to clean them out), dusting, sweeping, airing the rooms. After the Lady finished her breakfast, Ellie gave a timid knock on the door.

“Come in,” came the imperious voice.

Ellie entered and curtseyed, noticing how the Lady’s face softened, and her deep brown eyes with long curved lashes showed mild curiosity. Lady Mirabelle was a real beauty, the kind that needed no jewelry. Ellie had seen her right after bed, in a nightgown, with her hair down and no makeup—and she was lovely. With all the mentioned additions, Lady Mirabelle looked spectacular.

“Good morning, my lady. I have come to return the circlet and the necklace, and to thank you again for your most generous offer.”

The Lady acknowledged the gratitude with a slight inclination of her head.

“Put them on the desk. So did the circlet help? Did Arman ask you to dance?”

Ellie lowered her eyes. “No, my lady.”

She was afraid the Lady would be disappointed, but she wouldn’t lie.

“Perhaps someone else did?”

“No…” Ellie’s voice failed her, so she tried again. “No, my lady.”

She thought she had fully accepted her lot in life and learned not to let such failures affect her, but now, under the Lady’s penetrating gaze, she suddenly felt on the verge of tears—and she was terrified of it. Breaking down in front of the Lady would be unthinkable.

Lady Mirabelle must have sensed her distress.

“Come here, child. Close the door.”

Ellie pulled on the door knob and took a couple of steps.

“I know you will never feel at ease in my presence enough to speak freely or fully confide in me,” the Lady said, “but at least don’t be afraid. I will ask you some questions; answer me truthfully, as you always do. And if those tears spill, it’s not the end of the world, trust me. I’ll pretend I don’t see them, and no one will know.”

She paused, studying the second housemaid whom she was not even supposed to notice.

“Do you love Arman?”

The question startled Ellie and frightened her.

“I don’t dare attach my heart to anyone,” she whispered.

“Do you consider yourself ugly?”

“N-not ugly, perhaps, but very plain. Unattractive.”

“Do you think yourself worthless?”

“I… like to think that my hard work and desire to do what’s right make me worth something.”

“Which is true,” Lady Mirabelle nodded. “I am glad you see that. So while I certainly understand how not being asked to dance hurts a girl, I want you to promise me that you will never let those who put you down, whoever they are, rob you of your worth. Can you do that?”

“Of course, my lady. I just…” Ellie caught herself. Whatever else she might want to say was of no consequence.

The Lady seemed to think otherwise.

“Yes? Go on,” she prodded.

Ellie sighed and let it all out.

“I just wish my sister and mother would understand this as well and ease up on me. So Leatra and I weren’t born pretty; mother says even a merman’s kiss won’t help us. Does that mean we must spend our lives crying about it? Be miserable and make everyone around us miserable as well? There are still so many good things to do, to enjoy…”

She caught herself yet again, suddenly horrified of her boldness. What was she thinking, blabbering like that in front of the Lady?

Oh no. Lady Mirabelle was looking at her differently now, there was something new in those beautiful eyes. She must be displeased, and for a good reason.

“My lady, I’m so—”

“What does your mother know about a merman’s kiss?” the Lady asked, interrupting her hurried apology.

Ellie blinked, trying to gather her thoughts.

“Well, the same legend everyone knows, I guess,” she replied. “That being kissed by a merman would make a girl pretty, and bring her luck, too.”

“And what if I told you that it wasn’t a legend?”

Ellie couldn’t tell whether Lady Mirabelle was serious.

“I don’t know, my lady.”

“You don’t believe it?”

She thought about it. “But… mermen and mermaids drag people underwater and drown them. How could someone get so close to one, get a kiss, and survive?”

The Lady’s calm gaze continued studying her.

“There is a way.”

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"Deeds in Dark Places" by A. S. Warwick (Novelettes)

2012-02-02T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Sword & Sorcery Fantasy

Type of Short Story: Novelette Collection

Summary: In a world ancient with civilisations, where ruins and mysteries and monsters abound, the adventurous thrive.

Sell-swords, mercenaries, corsairs and more, Fianna and Carse of the Red Blade have been all of these. Better known to many as Peregrine and Blade, they are a most unusual pairing. Fianna, a sword-maiden of the wild Aedring hill clans, and Carse, the urbane, educated man of the civilised cities, a dabbler in the Mysteries and sometimes assassin, are a far cry from one another.

Assassins, sorcerers, the undead and other dangers, all are but a few of the obstacles they face in their search for wealth and glory. Success is hard won, and oft times fleeting.

Excerpt:

The turquoise waters of the lagoon were a crystal mirror, still and unsullied. Beneath the surface, the rippled sands stood out sharp under the bright burning sun. Small shoals of vividly coloured fish darted amongst long strands of wavering weeds, while small crabs scuttled to and fro through the shoals. Above, gulls lazily drifted in the silent, breathless air. A furnace of humid heat blanketed the region, the air thick with it, suffocating in its intensity.

White sands that dazzled blindingly in the sunlight bounded the lagoon, a narrow band of beach between the water and the dense, emerald growth of a wild and vibrant jungle, thick with tall palms, dangling vines and bushes heavy with the intense colours of flowers. Through the jungle, a stream cut its way, running across the sand of the beach to feed the lagoon.

A sandy breakwater ringed much of the lagoon, sheltering it from the seas beyond. Out there, small islands dotted the horizon; steep sided and crowded with growth, part of a veritable maze of hidden shoals and reefs, jagged rocks and islands. They were but a fraction of an archipelago strung out along the western seaboard, ranging from the windswept, chilled north were floating ice was as much a danger as shoals, all the way to the far, burning south.

Dipping oars marred the mirrored surface of the lagoon, ripples echoing out across it as three small boats rowed in from the open sea, making for the beach. Anchored just off shore sat a twin-masted lateen-sailed ship, its oars stowed away. Of the type the men of Metsheput labelled a xebec, the corsairs and cut-throats that plagued the shipping lines of the southern islands, the Sevinian Isles, much favoured it.

The three small boats were each packed with a score of men, hailing from a dozen lands. There were pale skinned men from the far north, and ebon men from the jungles of the south. There were those that hailed from the great cities of the plains, from ancient Metsheputi and from the feuding western kingdoms.

The first ashore as the boats drew near to the beach, leaping with the grace and caginess of a wolf, came a striking auburn haired woman, a heavy cutlass in hand. With bare feet and breeches of loose crimson silk, she waded through the water up onto the sands. A broad green sash wrapped about her waist, into which a long dirk had been thrust, while over a loose white shirt she wore a leather vest. Her hazel eyes were sharp as she studied the beach and the jungle, and she moved with the caution of a wild beast.

Others spilled out behind her once the boats touched the beach. Quickly the boats were pulled up out of the water. The group were a rough looking, motley crew, men and women both, clad in an assortment of clothing, from the drab to the elaborately flamboyant, no two alike in appearance. Corsairs and cut-throats drawn from the dregs of nations, still none of them could match the air of barely suppressed danger that lurked about the auburn haired woman. A lioness among jackals she was compared to them, a primal, untamed force of nature such as can only come from being born to it.

The crew of cut-throats spread out along the white sands of the beach as the woman stalked closer to the trees, her eyes guardedly intent upon them. Two others followed after her. A tall man was one of them, though in comparison he appeared slender and soft, a creature of the cities rather than a true corsair. A long and languid face beneath dark hair and pale skin gave him a look of culture and refinement. He wore a silk shirt of dark scarlet, well tailored, and embroidered with delicate detail in golden thread, while a slender rapier hung from a baldric slung across his chest.

The other was a big man, not merely in height, but in the girth of his paunch, though despite that he walked with the light, rolling gait of a man born to the seas. His dark hair and beard were thick and coarse, while a patch across his left eye gave his dark complexion a menacing aspect. Silver rings adorned his ears, and his fingers, and a broad hat with a red feathered plume rested jauntily upon his head.

"This is the place?" he asked, his voice gruff and weathered while his one good dark eye narrowed as he stared at the jungle ahead, an entanglement so thick that barely a yard could be seen into it.

"All indications point to it being so, Vaspari," the other man told him.

"I had wished it were otherwise, Carse," Vaspari stated. "This place is Xaotolan, once part of the vast and malevolent empire of the Xoacana, before the oceans swallowed it up in ages past. They may have walked as men, but the Xoacana were devils in human form, necromancers of the darkest type. A black curse still lingers on this place so that few will darerisk even setting foot upon it."

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“Mom’s Letter” by David Todd (Short Story)

2012-01-30T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Mainstream Fiction

Type of Short Story: Short Story

Summary: Thirteen year old Danny Thompkins is at scout camp, waiting for his family to pick him up. They are very late. At last his dad and sister arrive, and on the drive home Danny learns his mother is in the hospital. At first he thinks nothing of this, as she spent a week in the hospital several times a year for kidney treatment. Then his dad says her illness is terminal, and she’ll never leave the hospital. Danny re-reads a letter his mother wrote to him that week which he received at camp. Forty years later, the adult Daniel finds that letter, and a flood of memories come forth.

Excerpt:

“We can’t wait any longer, Danny. We have to go on with the ceremony. The other boys and their families are anxious to get home.” Scoutmaster Bob’s voice was both firm and kind.

“It’s okay, sir.” Thirteen-year-old Danny Tompkins tried not to sound disappointed. He continued looking down the narrow camp road for a few more moments, and hoped an approaching vehicle was the old familiar Chevy station wagon with his parents, brother, and sister. When a pick-up truck topped the rise and pulled into the campsite across the road, Danny turned to join his fellow scouts.

It was Sunday afternoon. Two dozen scouts formed a semi-circle around the fire pit at Campsite Manitou….

…When the award ceremony was completed, the families spoke appreciatively to the scout leaders and left. Danny, Scoutmaster Bob, and his assistant waited another half-hour before the station wagon pulled up. Danny’s father and sister quickly got out, leaving no one else in the car. His dad said a few words of apology to the scoutmaster. The footlocker loaded, they zoomed off in a trail of blue smoke before the scoutmaster could tell them about Danny’s award.

“Where’s Mom and Frankie?” Danny asked as soon as they were moving.

“I put your mother in the hospital this morning. Frankie is with your grandparents.”

His dad offered nothing more and Danny asked no questions. He began to talk about the week at camp. He told of the nature hike, the five-mile hike with pack, his cooking merit badge, and his mile swim on the previous day. His dad and sister sat silently in front as he kept up a constant chatter. They came to Curtis Corners, and went straight instead of right.

“Why are we heading to the city? Aren’t we going to Grandpa’s and Grandma’s?”

“I told you, Son, your mother is in the hospital. We’re going straight there.”

“But why don’t we just stay—”

“Frankie and your grandparents are at our house,” his dad interrupted.

“Oh. When’s Mom getting out?”

His dad twisted his shoulders slightly to glance sideways at Danny in back, and said with an impassive face, “‘Getting out?’ You don’t understand. She’s not getting out this time.”

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"Beyond Home" by Emily Ann Ward (Short Stories)

2012-01-27T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Mainstream Fiction

Type of Short Story: Short Story Collection

Summary: A short story collection of new adult mainstream short stories, centered around travel and transitions. Two sisters visit The Grand Canyon after their dad dies; a young man takes an impulsive trip to Hawaii with a runaway bride; and a young woman remembers a trip with an ex while deciding whether to move across the state with her current boyfriend. Includes Magnitude, Number Six, and Song for Megan Leclare.

Excerpt:

They could never agree, not in all of her twenty-three years, so why would they start now when things seemed much more important? As much as Laura wanted life to be different in the wake of her father’s death—for everyone to be more pleasant and realize that life was beautiful and meant to be lived—things just went back to the way they were. Her mother still washed the dishes every night at seven fifteen, and her eighteen-year-old sister couldn’t agree with a word she said.

“I just think it would be really awkward,” Jessica said. “We haven’t seen them for years, but now that Dad’s dead, we’re going to go visit them?”

Laura wished she wouldn’t say he was dead. She knew they all meant the same thing, but passed away, gone, or even left, they all seemed different. “They’re family,” she said. She remembered the funeral, and seeing her first cousins, who she had only seen in pictures every few years. They were growing tall and scrawny, like their dad and uncle.

Jessica scoffed. “Right.”

“Look, it’s just one stop,” Laura said. “Cheyenne, Wyoming. Add it to the list.”

Jessica huffed, but obeyed. Cheyenne, Wyoming, where their dad grew up and where his brother and sister still lived. “That’s number five.”

Laura examined their road trip destinations in Jessica’s loopy handwriting. The first one was the one that seemed the most important. Since Laura had been old enough to walk, Dad had promised that he’d take them to the Grand Canyon. Something else had always come up: Jessica’s broken leg, Disneyland, his mom dying. Some nights, he’d tell them stories about the canyon to get them to go to sleep, how big and far and wide it was. And Laura would fall asleep, amazed that anything in this world could be bigger than her school.

They had a lot of ground to cover. They’d leave from Chico, California and travel to Flagstaff, Arizona, then up to Colorado, where Dad met Mom. Laura couldn’t remember whose idea it had been, but now that it was being put into action, it seemed like something they had to do.

“Did Mom go shopping?” Jessica asked. She stood up and walked over to the fridge.

Opening the fridge answered her question; there was a wealth of food inside. Their mom was thrilled to have her older daughter home for a while. She had cooked something grand every single meal: banana pancakes, homemade potato salad, lamb roast, apple pie. Laura was pretty sure it took her mind off of Dad.

Jessica started warming up leftover lamb.

“Come on,” Laura said. “We’ve got tons of planning to do if we really want to leave in six days.”

“Six days is an eternity!” Jessica exclaimed, flipping her light brown hair off of her shoulder. “All we need is money.” She left the room, whistling, and Laura didn’t bother to ask where she was going. She was just going to have to do this herself.

***

A few days later, the three of them sat on the back porch. The crickets were chirping loudly, almost drowning out the soft music that came from the old record player. Mom had a bottle of beer in her hand, and it looked odd, like she was wearing a bikini or something. A lot of things seemed odd, though: Dad’s empty chair, the way everything in the house looked the same even after four years, but just the air felt different.

Mom looked at Laura, a sleepy smile on her face. “I’m glad you guys are here.”

Laura nodded. “Me, too.”

The stars spread over their heads in the deepening sky. They seemed to go on forever, twinkling and spelling out stories. The four of them used to lie on the back porch in the summer, bundled up in sleeping bags. Dad would tell them about Orion, Leo, Andromeda. Jessica would always fall asleep first, and Mom would go inside because of her back. Laura would try to stay up longer than he did, but she usually fell asleep anyway and woke up with mosquito bites on her face.

Jessica went inside for a moment, then came out with a slice of apple pie. She settled back down in her lawn chair, and the three of them sat in the silence, listening to Dad’s records and the crickets.

“When do you girls leave?” Mom asked.

“Tuesday,” Laura said.

“You’d better be careful,” Mom said. “I’ve heard stories about rapists at campgrounds.”

“There are rapists everywhere,” Jessica said with a full mouth.

“Geez, Jessica, swallow your food,” Laura said.

Jessica mimicked her in a high voice. Mom began laughing, and Laura rolled her eyes. “How old are you?” Laura asked.

“I don’t know how you’re going to survive two weeks on the road with each other,” Mom said with a chuckle.

Jessica gave Mom and Laura a smile that worked on her teachers in fourth grade, the one that said, I’m completely innocent.

Laura couldn’t believe Jessica was eighteen already, old enough to vote, to buy cigarettes. She had a high school diploma and probably a boyfriend, though Laura hadn’t asked yet.

She wasn’t sure how they were going to survive two weeks, either.

***

Laura woke up early Tuesday morning. She took a shower and finished packing. The last trip she went on, not including driving here to her mom and dad’s house, was going to the Coachella Festival a few months ago with Nathan, Kayla, and their friends. She had camped in a small tent with three other girls. They were up giggling at three in the morning every night and tried sleeping in the next morning only to be forced out of their tents by the heat.

Dad’s truck had definitely seen better days, but Jessica assured Laura it would get them all the way to Colorado and back. Laura knew they didn’t really have any other choice. Mom wouldn’t give up her Excursion, and Laura’s small Honda would be useless with Dad’s pop-up tent trailer on the back. It was something they had used a few times when they were younger, mostly during Memorial Day weekends, a trailer that had sat in the driveway for five years now.

Laura remembered coming home after Dad’s burial and memorial service. She and Jessica sat in her car in the driveway, not yet ready to go in for the reception. “We should go help Mom,” Jessica had said.

“Yeah,” Laura had said, but they sat there, feeling the emptiness of death. She saw the trailer in front of them. “Is that thing still working?”

They got out and worked to bring the trailer to its full height: cranking it up, putting the bars in place, fitting the door on, bringing the table down, even attaching the bungee cords. When they were done, they were sweaty, and their dark-colored dresses were covered in dust and dirt. They stood back and admired their work, staring at the trailer Dad had been so excited to bring home fifteen years ago. Mom came out, asking where they’d been, but she stopped short and came to stand next to her two daughters, looking at the trailer in silence. It almost felt as if he were still alive.

They now loaded their things into the back of the truck, which Jessica had taken to get washed yesterday. Laura opened the front door, only to find it still littered with Dad’s things. A half-finished pack of cigarettes rested in the console, trash was scattered across the ground, and his sunglasses hung from the rearview mirror.

“Jess!” Laura called. “I thought you cleaned it out.”

Jessica looked up from the hitch, wiping her forehead. She just stared at Laura for a moment, and then said, “I cleaned the outside.”

“Well. . .” Laura said, motioning to the dirty truck. Jessica went back to attaching the trailer to the hitch, silent. Laura looked back into the truck. It still smelled like him, like tobacco and sweat and his aftershave. She began taking out the trash. She left his sunglasses, his cigarettes, his scent.

Mom was crying as she said goodbye. “Take pictures for me. You know I’d come, but. . .”

“Don’t worry,” Laura said. “I’ll call Aunt Julia and make sure she’s taking care of you.”

“I’ll be fine.” Mom wiped her face and pulled Jessica over for a hug. “I love you both. Have fun. Call me when you get to Las Vegas.”

“We’ll bring you back lots of money,” Jessica promised.

Mom laughed as they got into Dad’s truck. Laura remembered learning how to drive in this thing, her dad giving constant instruction, and Laura swearing when the brakes took longer than she thought. The stop sign had ended up almost completely past the truck.

“Love you, Mom,” Laura said. She smiled, starting up the engine. “We’ll be back before you know it!”

They pulled out of the driveway. Jessica immediately took out her iPod and asked, “What do you listen to these days?”

Laura shrugged. “Anything. I like oldies, though.”

“Hmmm. . .I haven’t got anything old but Michael Jackson.”

“Nah. Put something else on.”

Jessica began playing a pop-rock band. She sang every word, and Laura wondered how long it took her to memorize the lyrics. Aside from occasionally talking about school with Jessica and commenting on her pictures, they hadn’t talked much. Her senior year had taken up most of Laura’s time.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Laura asked.

Jessica just laughed. “No.” She put her seatbelt on and put her feet up on the dashboard.

“What about that Jake guy?”

“We just went to prom together,” Jessica said. “He’s nice, but he’s kind of an airhead.”

There was a moment of silence as Laura maneuvered the truck and trailer through town, headed for Burger King. “Want some breakfast before we go?”

“Yeah,” Jessica said. “What about you?”

“Yeah. I love Burger King’s french toast sticks.”

“No, I mean, are you still going out with Nathan?”

Laura, too, laughed in response to this question. “No. We broke up in May.”

They got through the drive-through, though Laura was convinced she was going to sideswipe the trailer, and ate in the parking lot. Laura was feeling proud of herself for being able to drive the trailer well when Jessica asked her what happened with her and Nathan.

“I guess we just grew apart. It was like he was suddenly a different person. I don’t know.” She paused. “I don’t think Dad would have liked him.”

Jessica munched thoughtfully on her sandwich. “Who will walk us down the aisle?”

This simple question brought tears to Laura’s eyes. She didn’t want to think about the rest of her life without her dad. But all of these unanswered questions loomed before them. Who was going to take over Dad’s shop? Who would disapprove of their boyfriends? Who would take care of Mom?

“Sorry,” Jessica said quietly.

“Forget it.” Laura started the engine up. “Let’s go.”

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"Love on the Rocks: A Prescott Carmichael Jaunt" by Howard McEwen (Novelette)

2012-01-24T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Humor

Type of Short Story: Novelette

Summary: What's this business with the feather? Whatever it is, it's busted up Daisey and Gus's engagement days before their wedding. Their parents call in Prescott Carmichael to help get the kids back together. Mr. Carmichael sends Jake Gibb to gather intelligence. And all Jake wants is a drink. Do the kids get back together? Does Jake get his drink?

Excerpt:

Who are you, he asked.

Me?

You.

I’m Jake Gibb. I’m staying with the Nottles down the street.

No you’re not.

I am too Jake Gibb.

You’re not staying with the Nottles down the street.

I am too staying with the Nottles down the street.

Mr. Carmichael is staying with them.

I work for Mr. Carmichael. He’s on his way. I flew in last night. Who are you?

I’m Augustus Nottle.

The bridgegroom, I thought.

What were you talking to Daisey about, he asked.

I wish I could tell you. I thought we were talking about the wedding. She wanted none of it, though.

Gus Nottle stepped out from the bushes glancing down the road to make sure Daisey was out of sight.

You want to go get some donuts, he asked.

He looked to have had his fair share of donuts. While not a bad looking guy he was doing a good job of chasing down his father and Mr. Nottle in the Great American Girth race.

Donuts? Sure, I said. I didn’t want a donut. My girlfriend senior year of high school worked in a donut shop. It was an erotically sweet smell at first but after six months of her playing pretty good defense donuts had become the smell of sexual frustration.

We hiked it across a couple of yards and got into a nice little Pontiac two-seater.

This is one of our wedding presents from mom and dad, he said. Daisey wanted babies right away. Mom and dad and Uncle Jack and Aunt Diane think that’s a bad idea. This is one of their little games. You can’t fit a baby seat in this thing.

I grabbed shotgun and thought, by the looks of it, he wasn’t going to be able to fit soon enough.

We took a seat at Flamingo’s House of Donuts and he ordered two banana cream pie donuts. I ordered a single plain. He let me pay for all three. I didn’t expect a good donut on Hilton Head but this was the best I ever had. It still conjured up the ennui of teenage passion denied but tasted nice just the same. Young Mr. Fink began to inhale his two in about four breathes.

So what did Daisey say to you, he finally asked when he needed some air.

Not much. She’s the one that called the whole thing off, right? Did she tell you why?

He dodged the question with some half sentences. I did some nodding.

She didn’t tell you why she was calling it off, I finally said.

She’s just so.... she can’t.....I don’t know why she’s....

If I’m to help you’ll have to use predicates, I chided him. He must really hate predicates because that threw him into a tizzy. He gobbled the last quarter of his last donut, licked his fingers clean of cream and stormed off. I saw the tail lights of that little two seater and began to wonder if he’d forgotten he was my ride. Ten minutes later, I decided he had.

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"The Ranch Next Door and Other Stories" by Elisabeth Grace Foley (Short Stories)

2012-01-21T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Western

Type of Short Story: Short Story Collection

Summary: A collection of Western short stories that go beyond the standard action and adventure of the genre to focus on character and conflict. In the award-winning “Disturbing the Peace,” honorable mention in the 2010 Rope and Wire short story competition, a sheriff experiences a revelation about himself and his relationship with the people of his town, while in “The Outlaw’s Wife,” a country doctor worries that his young friend is falling for a married woman whose husband is rumored to be a wanted criminal. From the suspenseful “Cross My Heart” to the comedic romp of “A Rangeland Renaissance,” to a Western twist on star-crossed romance in the title story, “The Ranch Next Door,” these stories will appeal to a variety of readers, as well as established fans of the traditional Western.

Excerpt:

(from “Delayed Deposit”)

Across the street, Jim Beaudine rested his shoulder against the rough plank wall at his left, rifle in hand, watching the silent shaded windows of the bank. He heard footsteps behind him and then Sheriff Graham was at his side, breathing noisily after his run.

Graham was a stocky, sandy-haired man, rather short, with a round bulldog face which had a tendency to turn red at the slightest exertion or irritation. At the present moment it was already a warning pink.

“Who’s in there?” he asked of his deputy, squinting across the sunny street at the bank.

“Middleton, of course…one of Arnold’s freighters, Mrs. Eberley and the Murphy boys.”

“Well, this is a nice kettle of fish,” said Graham, and to do him credit, he did not mean the hostages.

“That’s who was seen go in, anyway, and haven’t come out. Nobody saw the hold-up gang get in. They must have come through the side door and got the drop on everyone.”

“Door should have been locked,” said Graham testily.

“Should have don’t mean it was.”

Graham wiped the sweat from his forehead with his hand, wiped his hand on his trousers and gestured impatiently toward the bank. “What’s going on in there? Have you seen anything?”

“Nope. They’re trying to figure out what to do, I guess.”

“They must be first-class idiots to try something like this in broad daylight, with the place full of people. And if theyare idiots it won’t be hard to get them out of there.” Graham nodded twice emphatically, highly satisfied with this conclusion.

“Always thought it was a bad idea to have a door back there,” said Jim Beaudine musingly.

“Well, if they didn’t have a door there, they wouldn’t be able to take shipments in and out without being seen from—” Graham realized the futility of the argument in mid-sentence and finished in exasperation, “oh, never mind.”

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"The Last Medal Winner: Four Science Fiction War Stories" by Robert Collins (Short Stories)

2012-01-18T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Science Fiction

Type of Short Story: Short Story Collection

Summary: In this short collection are four science fiction stories about war, from an effort to get a hero his due to the use of a new technology to keep a planet free. All four stories have been previously published.

Excerpt:

Dear Mr. President:

Greetings from John Nance Garner, your predecessor in this high office. I am writing this letter to you on my last full day as President of the United States. I am also writing a few other letters, but as this is the one you’re reading, I doubt if you’ll ever see them. Keep your mind on what this letter says, and you shall weather the coming storm.

“How do you know a ‘storm’ is coming?” you ask. Simple: this moment has been prepared for, by myself and my special advisors. They used their expertise and experience, came up with several options, then developed the appropriate solutions. This letter contains the answers to the particular crisis you are finding yourself embroiled in.

I wonder, am I still alive as you are reading this? I know it's doubtful. Maybe you are a junior congressman as I write this. Maybe you’re in high school. Maybe you haven’t been born. Strange, isn’t it? I hope and pray you shall never have to go through this.

Now, to the issue at hand. As you are reading this letter, I can surmise that Germany and Japan are on the brink of war. They are nearly evenly matched, either economically, militarily, or both. All efforts to find a diplomatic solution have failed, and it is only a matter of time before the tanks roll and planes take to the skies.

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"The Birthday Box" from a collection by Steve Mace (Short Stories)

2012-01-15T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Horror

Type of Short Story: Short Story Collection

Summary: Lydia Charlesworth, the daughter of a museum curator, receives a mysterious and sinister package on her birthday. The contents are linked to her father's work...and a secret deadly cult which worship a supernatural spider-goddess...

Excerpt:
Victoria tore open the brown paper wrapping. Underneath that layer, she found a plain cardboard box. On top of the box there was a piece of paper, attached by sticky tape. It was a typed note, with James’ name on it. She carefully tore it away from the box, before opening the note up and reading the following:

Dear James,
I do hope you accept this gift, a present for your daughter on her very special 7th birthday.

My client wishes to keep his identity discreet, and therefore it shall not be revealed, but this gift is a reflection of your services rendered.

Many happy returns to your daughter.

That was it. There was no clue as to the identity of whoever had sent the present. Victoria frowned, bemused. ‘My client wishes to keep his identity discreet’- how odd, she thought. It was a bit of a mystery. She picked up the parcel and found that it did not feel that heavy. She took it upstairs to her husband’s study. She would ask him about it when he arrived back home from work.

In the meantime, she went to pick Lydia up from school. The little girl was already excited about her birthday and looking forward to having her friends round for the party. She sat in the back seat of the car and talked about the games they would play, like ‘Pass the Parcel’ and ‘Musical Chairs’. She was a very pretty child, having inherited her blonde hair and blue eyes from her mother, rather than the dark looks of her father.

When James got home from work, his wife showed him the mysterious box in his study. He was as mystified by it as his wife was. “I can’t think who it would be”, he told her. “A client would have mentioned something to me at work. I don’t think I even mentioned Lydia’s birthday to anyone. How strange.”

“Do you think…it’s alright?” Victoria asked, biting her lip. “I mean…maybe we should open it and see what it is? We can always wrap it up again. I think we should check it out.”

“You want to?” James glanced at her, his eyes made smaller by his bi-focal glasses. “It would spoil the surprise, wouldn’t it?”

“James, I want you to open it”, his wife said firmly. It was not just the fact that the sender was anonymous. There was something sinister about the mystery, something that instinctively made her feel wary. She didn’t want her daughter opening this mystery box without her or James having checked it first.

James picked up the box and held it up to his ear. He heard nothing. “You think it’s a bomb?” he asked, laughing.

“Don’t joke about things like that”, Victoria said, admonishing him. “Open it.”

James shook the parcel hard, wondering if he might break what was inside, if it was something delicate. Nothing made a sharp cracking noise, but he did hear something else. He frowned. It had been almost…a scuttling noise. Like something was alive and moving in there. Would someone have put a kitten or a puppy in a box? There were no holes for breathing.

He wondered if he had imagined it, but decided it was probably best to open the thing. The lid was taped shut, and he picked up a pair of scissors to slice through the tape. Once he had done that, the two sides of the lid were slightly ajar. Cautiously he opened the lid…

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"Bright Moon" by Marilyn Peake (Short Story)

2012-01-12T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Dark Fantasy

Type of Short Story: Short Story

Summary: In China, an infant faerie is found by a toddler. Delighted, his peasant farmer parents see this as an opportunity to raise a second child despite China’s one-child Planned Birth Policy. They name the baby Ming Yue, meaning "Bright Moon." She is precious and magical. As China begins its industrial revolution, waterways and rice paddies run red with pollution, farms become cancer villages, and the baby faerie struggles to survive.

Excerpt:

The baby was cute. The Zhou family found her, naked and shivering, in a thicket of bushes next to the stream winding its way like a singing ribbon across their farm. That night, they named her Ming Yue, meaning “Bright Moon”, as the cool white illumination of a full moon rained down from the heavens and filled their home with light. Observing her bright blue eyes, they later nicknamed her “Ming”, meaning simply “shining, bright, clear”. At the time of her discovery, they assumed that she had been left by parents too afraid to transgress the one-child Planned Birth Policy.

Cheng-Gong, their toddler son, had been the first to find her. Wearing coveralls more stained with mud than their original beige dye, he had been digging in the soil for worms as his parents worked their tiny farm. Aware of both butterflies and faeries flitting to and fro upon the wind, his hearing and other senses keen and developing every day, he heard a baby’s cry and wandered off to find its source. Running as quickly as his little legs would carry him, he ignored his parents’ shouts warning him to stop and come back. Following after Cheng-Gong, they eventually came upon the tiny baby, kicking her legs and wailing within the deep grasses of the thicket.

Jia Li, the mother, picked up the fretting infant, cheeks red and slick with tears, and held her close. To her husband, Quon, she spoke furtively, “Someone left her, probably hoping we would find her. We should keep her. The government allows us only one child without penalties, but we didn’t have this baby ourselves. We should be allowed to keep her, don’t you think?”

As Quon smiled, the leathery, sun-baked skin of his thin cheeks and around his glittering black eyes gathered into wrinkles. “Yes, yes, we should keep her. Last night, I dreamed that a dragon had climbed down from the mountain caves above our farm, carrying a golden cup in its mouth. Then I woke. That must have been a message from the gods that this infant was on her way. She is a very special gift.”

For a moment, Jia Li’s wizened face softened and filled with a soft radiant glow. Then, remembering her responsibilities of motherhood, she realized the baby needed clothes soon and Cheng-Gong needed an introduction first. Kneeling down, Jia Li showed the infant, now happily cooing, to her son.

Cheng-Gong reached out a chubby little hand and patted the newcomer on her shiny golden head. “Momma, her hair is gold.”

Quon thought back to his dream of the dragon carrying a golden cup in its mouth. Jia Li wondered if there had been male visitors from abroad, perhaps Europe or the United States, within the past year. She tried to remember, wondering if the baby might be the result of an illicit union between a local Chinese woman and some blonde-haired man. So much the better if that were true, she decided, because it was less likely that the woman would ever try to reclaim her child, especially if she already had one, as the Chinese government would never allow two children without fines and other penalties. Briefly, she remembered a local man hung from a tree for failing to pay the fine after the birth of his second child, a fine as large as one year’s earnings; but she tossed the thought from her mind, feeling certain the child’s golden hair would somehow protect them.

After gazing into the dark glimmering eyes of her new brother, Ming Yue was carried into the small farmhouse of the Zhou family and swaddled in brightly colored, tattered blankets. That night, she drank sweetened goat’s milk, waved her arms and babbled incessantly while her older brother danced rings around her with entertaining antics.

As the full moon rose high in the sky, stars twinkled and winked and planets sparkled like diamonds, Mr. And Mrs. Zhou rose repeatedly from their dreams to feed their crying infant. The next day, Jia Li stayed inside the house with her children, too tired to handle the risk of being sighted by nosy neighbors or government authorities.

Three months after Ming Yue’s arrival, as his mother was changing his little sister’s clothes, Cheng-Gong pointed to her back. There sprouted tiny, sparkling, light blue feathers. Suddenly released from the confinement of the tiny undershirt, they fluttered and flapped, completely out of sync with each other. The baby giggled and smiled at her mother.

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"Dirt Baby and Other Small Mercies" by Stuart Millard (Short Stories)

2012-01-09T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Transgressive Fiction

Type of Short Story: Short Story Collection

Summary: In this mini-length collection of short stories and flash fiction, Millard leads you through another unsettling wander down strange verbal pathways and untrodden literary trails. Assisted suicide for aging snowmen, hearts replaced with bombs, and the humiliating death of Fruity O' Toots; and what of the lonely tornado who tried to befriend the anvil?

One complete flash fiction from the collection:

Small Man

When Reg Cuff heard that Sandlewick's abandoned Tiny Town model village was up for auction, he sold his home and failing business and moved right in. As Tiny Town's resident giant, you could often hear him from the car park, stomping around the diminutive streets and growling at plastic figures living out frozen snapshots of their lives. At first, it probably seemed like fun; the little man that nobody noticed suddenly the lumbering master of his own kingdom. He filled his days terrorising the silent inhabitants, crushing train carriages beneath his feet and yelling “God can't save you now!” through the roof of a weather-beaten fiberglass church. By night he curled up on the astro turf of the cricket green, finding comfort in the metrical tinny mooing from the miniature farm he'd splintered with his fists. Eventually, something inside him snapped. There's a loss of perspective particular to giants – everyone seems so far away when you're half as tall as the sky. He emerged naked from the boating lake like Goya's Colossus, standing astride the smashed up buildings and tearfully howling for forgiveness.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” he said, peering inside the tiny houses for a friendly face, but nobody ever came to the window.

Buy this collection on Amazon. Also, check out Stuart's site.

"Cannon Fodder: Operation Horse Whisperer" by Marilyn Peake (Short Story)

2012-01-06T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Science Fiction

Type of Short Story: Short Story

Summary: The years 2026 – 2027. China is the world’s superpower. Recuperating from a nasty head injury in a military hospital, U.S. Army Private Jack Walker experiences vivid memories of fighting along the Chinese-Mongolian border. The military brass insist he’s been fighting in Ethiopia, Africa; and they have photographs to prove it. Of course, all isn’t what it appears to be. There’s the matter of the luminescent purple liquid in the hypodermic needle and the little purple pill.

Excerpt:

February 2027
The sky was deep primary blue, the clouds milk-white cream hastily whipped into the random, shifting shapes of giant frogs, horses, palaces, and guns. The men sat - bundled in heavy coats and wearing large, fur-lined caps and gloves - on top of horses that snorted cloudy mists from their warm nostrils. The dirt and grass were frozen and dusted with a thin sprinkling of snow.

Jack Walker carried a large golden eagle on his arm as he rode into the snow-covered mountains. Many of the Mongolian men supported two eagles. As the horses maneuvered the terrain, the men sang songs.

When the sun dropped from the sky and set like a brilliant red campfire along the mountain ridge, the blue sky darkened, the clouds grayed, and a fox scampered out into the open leaving clear tracks in the frothy snow.

The men fed small chips of ice to their eagles to make them keener and hungrier. Jack studied the fox. Wearing a thick, bushy coat – white, black, gray, and topped with lustrous red fur – the fox pointed its black snout in the direction of something primal, tucked its front legs under him and pounced into the snow to race forward.

The men removed tiny leather hoods from the feathery heads of the golden eagles; then set their trained birds free to track the fox. The eagles soared into the evening sky, solid black against the fire-and-ash color of dusk, on wingspans of seven and eight feet. The men followed their flapping guides on the backs of their horses.

Nergui waved to Jack Walker. “Walker!”

“Mr. Walker! Mr. Walker!”

Jack felt a cuff tighten around his left bicep and heard the rhythmic beeping of the blood pressure machine. He inhaled an uncomfortable mix of cleaning fluids, male body sweat, and a woman’s perfume. He opened his eyes.

The room was dark. Soft golden light spilled onto the wall in the shape of a tall, distorted triangle. In the dimness, Jack made out the small face of Nurse Nancy, the most frequent night shift nurse.

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"The Blessed and The Damned" by A.R. Williams (Novelette)

2012-01-03T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Dark Fantasy

Type of Short Story: Novelette

Summary: When her twin sister kidnaps her daughter, Lorna Jassan must return to Kuwar in order to find them. Her mission forces her to seek help from Weslin, a man she never wanted to see again. In the midst of her search, Lorna must keep a sixteen-year-old secret hidden, but the city has secrets of its own. Can Lorna unravel them in time to rescue her daughter and escape?

Excerpt:

Lorna Jassan forgot how the fog smelled of ash and bone. It hung over the bay, thick and heavy, dampening all sound except the gentle lapping of waves against the Virgin Saint's hull. Nearby, she could make out other ships in the mist. They bobbed like shadows on the waves. Fog lanterns glowed orange-yellow on their decks then disappeared as the ships passed, the soft tinkle of bells, fore and aft, the only hint that they were close and danger near.

"Captain, please prepare me a boat. I'm ready to depart the ship," Lorna said.

"Impatient, impractical woman. Do you not listen? There are dangers in the fog," Captain Baraheri said, disturbing the silence that surrounded them. He wore his dark hair in the religious knot of his people and a multi-colored chapan cinched around his waist with a maroon belt. He looked at her, sadness etched on his face. "I too have children and understand your plight, but this is madness."

"I will wait no longer," Lorna said. "My daughter is out there, lost and alone. The goddesses only know what she is going through."

Sheridan, her man-at-arms, pulled thoughtfully on his grey-white mustache and leaned against a rail. He said nothing to choose either side, but waited for the issue to be resolved. He reminded Lorna of one of her father's mastiffs: old, tough, reliable. She suspected he was enjoying the debate.

"There are many mysteries in the fog," Baraheri said. "I have seen ghosts emerge from thin air and take a man's life. I have witnessed brave men lose their minds and their courage due to the horrors of that city. They are a fierce people, suspicious of outsiders."

"Ghost?" Sheridan asked in disbelief. "We are paladins of the Three Sisters; you can do better than try to frighten us with tales of ghost, sir?"

Captain Baraheri scratched at his beard. He glanced at Sheridan, then back at Lorna. "There are many swords in Kuwar. Twice as many daggers. Even the Iskartaya have blades." He noted Sheridan with a slight nod of his head. "In a city of five hundred thousand, two is not an imposing number. Your gods cannot protect you; even they are outnumbered by the gods of Kuwar."

"I will pay for a boat," Lorna said. She extended her hand to give him a satchel of coins.

Captain Baraheri looked at her as though she offered him a snake. He raised his hands in rejection. "Only a fool accepts money from the unfortunate." He shook his head in disgust, braced his hands against the rail and looked out into the fog. "I will give you a boat," he whispered.

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"eyeballs growing all over me . . again" by Tony Rauch (Short Stories)

2011-12-31T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Science Fiction

Type of Short Story: Short Stories

Summary: A man comes home to discover a Bigfoot-like creature watching his tv, a giant robot pays a visit to a couple, a new kid has some unusual toys to share, an inventor creates a gorgeous robot in order to meet women, a girl becomes so ill she has her head replaced with a goat head, someone wakes to discover little eyes growing all over his body, small, hairy creatures come looking to retrieve an object they had misplaced, and a boy finds an unusual pair of sunglasses in the weeds. These are the whimsical, surreal adventures of Tony Rauch.

One Complete Story from this Collection:

red ball jet (drop me off on planet earth)

1.

Aliens appear in my bedroom. They wake me by shining some kind of weird blue light in my eyes. Jerks.

I shake my head and sit up. At first I think, oh great, aliens - that’s the last thing I need right now. Yeah, aliens, that figures. Yeah, that’s about right. But then my curiosity gets the better of me, and I wonder what kind of battery their strange blue light thingy takes. Probably a couple of double A’s.

It’s incredibly late at night. Two of them are looming at the foot of my bed. One of them reaches to me as my eyes adjust to the gray, foggy night. I’m a little scared at first. A little intimidated. I study their outlines - kind of a ghostly gray. They possess a rather ghoulish pallor. I sort of feel sorry for them - being all washed out and gray like that and all. They really should get out more - get some sun.

One of them raises his hand and begins to speak to me telepathically, putting pictures in my mind. He asks me what I want. I tell him I’m tired, that I just want to be left alone. I tell them to buzz-off, that I want to get some sleep. He says, no, we mean if you could have anything you want, you know, like a wish - if you could have anything right now, at this exact moment, what would you want? What would you like to do? Where would you like to go? What would you like to see?

I must admit I’m rather taken aback by this unusual proposal. I think for a moment. What do I most want or need at this time? Right now? . . . Actually, I was rather frustrated. It had been a really boring weekend. There was absolutely nothing going on. Nothing at all. Now I don’t mind layin’ low every now and then, just chillin’ out and all, but this was the beginning of summer, I should be out there after all, out there wandering around, meeting people, hanging out, immersing myself in the soft, dark, velvety night. I tried to call a bunch of people, but no one was around. . . . Just then, in reading my thoughts, the alien asks me if I want to go out. This is a strange thing, to have some big gray dude talkin’ to me in my head. His voice is all long and fuzzy, like out of a metal tube or a long concrete tunnel.

I think for a moment and shrug. Sure, I say, I guess I’d like ta go out. Maybe to a nice party that has lots of nice girls and some great tunes. Maybe to a cool club - some little dive. Heck, I wanted to go out all weekend and here it is Sunday night - and it’s too late to do anything, surely everything is closed up by now. What a waste. Then the gray chap asks me how this makes me feel. I say I feel kind of bad about it - it being summer and all. I mean, I don’t want to waste my summer or anything. I mean, I should be out there - out there doin’ stuff, rockin’ out or something, I shrug, and here I am, stuck here like always. I explain to him that it feels like I’m missin’ out on stuff, that I’m wasting the summer, wastin’ my life. Wasting it. Missing out on things. Squandering chances. Chances slipping right past me. Squandering my life away. What a rip-off. What a shame. Like here I had this great weekend, and what do I do with it? Huh? Nothing. Shoot some hoops and read some science fiction and watch some baseball and stuff. Read some baseball stuff and some Vonnegut and all. Yeah, sure, I cranked some tunes and all, but still, I just wasn’t up for just hangin’ low. I mean, it wasn’t necessarily my fault. I mean, I tried and everything but nothingwas goin’ down. No one was around at all. But still.

I think the guy can tell I’m being sincere, that I’m bummed out, regretful, ashamed - feeling pretty bad about things, because he turns slowly and looks over to the other guy. Then he slowly turns back to me. O.k., he says in my head, we’ll take you out. We want to learn more about your feelings, your inner-workings. I tell him that would be fine, but nothing’s open, nothing’s going on, it‘s too late. It’s just too late. He looks back over to the other gray guy again and then back to me and tells me it’s never too late, that there‘s always plenty of time. Then he asks me where I’d like to go if I could go anywhere, if I could actually be anywhere right now.

I smile a kind of crooked, disbelieving grin out of the side of my mouth, as if to say “get out of town.” But the dude assures me we can go absolutely anywhere, that we can do absolutelyanything. And I am instantly filled with a strange sort of faith, a warmth of trust rushes over me. For some reason I believe them. I mean, they’re aliens after all, surely they could just whisk me off to anywhere. I mean, it just figures.

So I think about it for a second. If I could be anywhere, where would I want to be? If I could experience absolutely anything, what would I like to do? What would I like to re-do?

I remember always being disappointed that I missed the UFO concert back in ‘82. I think I was sick or something, I can’t remember. That woulda been a great show - Saxon, UFO, and Rainbow - what a line-up, I shake my head. Then there was another really great show, The Only Ones and The Flamin’ Groovies back in ‘78. That wasn’t hard rock, though, that was more new wave, modish, power-pop stuff. Yeah, that woulda been something, to see those guys in a small club. A small new wave club. I shake my head. Man, that woulda been something.

I’m looking down, shaking my head and thinking about all the great shows I’ve missed, all the concerts I coulda seen, all the great times I coulda had, when suddenly I’m standing in a well lit bar. Suddenly we’re back in 1978. They’ve whisked me back in time. Just like that. I’m dressed in some weirdo 1978 clothes. They tell me this is to blend in, so no one catches on. The two aliens are here too. Huh, imagine that. And sure enough, they’re disguised as regular folk now too. So I look around, and here we’re standing by the bar. We get to drinking and talking and I ask them their names and where they’re from, how they like it here and all that. And they tell me their names, but the bar is noisy and their voices in my head are kind of foggy and distant, so it ends up sounding something like “Red Bull Jeff” or “Rag Bulges” or something like that. Maybe it was “Redball Jet,” or maybe that’s where they’re from. Aw, in the excitement and noise of the bar, well, you know how it is. So I just start calling the taller one (the leader guy) “Gray Guy” and the other one “Junior.” They just refer to me as “The Subject,” which seems fair enough I guess, I mean since we’re giving each other nicknames, it only makes sense they’d wanna pick one out for me and all.

Anyway, the bands crank up and it’s totally awesome. Unbelievable! I feel like the luckiest guy in the entire world, like I’ve died and gone to heaven, man. We party. We rock. We hit the sunken dance floor and start rocking out like demons. The big guy just kind of stands there and shimmies - I think he’s just playing it cool and all, checkin’ out the scene. But Junior’s really giving it his all - swaying and dipping and swinging around and hopping up and down like some goof who hasn’t been out in way way way too long. And I tell ya, man, he really looks like he needs it too. I knew a night on the town would really do me some good right about now, but I never in my wildest dreams could’ve ever come up with this scene. It was simply, like, the best time of my life, man.

The bands rip into their best stuff - “Shake-some-action,” “Another-girl-another-planet,” the works. Celebratory, ebullient songs of summer, exuberance, and anti-conformity that also happen to rock enormously. The uninhibited music’s beautiful freedom rings in the night forever. Then the bands end and the house lights go up. One o’clock and closing time. Time to go. So I look around, hoping we can meet some girls and hit an after bar party or something. But then I come to. Flash-of-light and I’m in my room, lying back in my bed like nothing has happened at all. Zip. Just like that.

I lay back and think, huh, that’s odd, they didn’t even say goodbye. But it’s late and I’m, you know, kind of tired after the extensive and gigantic rocking-out I’ve partaken in. So I roll over and think about the night. It’s all so vivid in my mind - bright and soft and moist and squishy. The bands, the clothes, the little club, the music, so clear and radiant, the atmosphere, the spiky hairdos, the bright colors, the oranges, the browns, the dankness, the girls. What a night. A dream come true. It totally made my summer. And what a comforting thought that is, that I wouldn’t have to worry about totally wasting a summer on doing nothing fun at all. What a death that would be.

So I’m laying here, smilin’, grinnin’ from ear to ear when I hear something in my bathroom. My sister and I share a bathroom upstairs, like on the Brady Bunch - it’s in between our rooms and we each have a locking door into that bathroom. But the weird thing - she moved away to college so it’s all mine now. I mean, she hasn’t come back home yet. She hasn’t returned. Her school’s not over for the year yet. That’s really odd. She wasn’t here earlier. I mean, what’s she doing back home right now? This late?

I look over and the light’s on. “Hey, who’s there?” I call, thinking maybe it’s the aliens still, Big Gray and Ol’ Junior checkin’ out the medicine cabinet or something.

“Jack?” my sister, Becky, replies. She steps from the bathroom, the light shining in as she stands in the doorway.

“Yeah,” I answer sarcastically, like who’d she think would be sleeping in my bed at, like, a million o’clock in the morning. And here I am wondering what she’s doing home.

“Jack, how’d you get there?” she asks.

“I’ve been out, but now I’m back,” I grumble and roll over, away from the light. “I, ah, snuck in. So I wouldn’t wake anyone.” I have to lie. I mean, what if someone noticed I’d been away. I figure the aliens flashed me back in bed somehow - slipped me in the window, or floated me in on that slick beam of blue light of theirs. Yeah, I gotta get me one a those blue light things. I bet it can do all sorts a stuff, better than a Swiss Army pocket knife.

“Jack,” she calls again.

So I answer, “Ah, yeah,” even more sarcastically. And then, suddenly I appear in the doorway, standing next to my sister.

The me in the bathroom says, “Yeah, whadda ya want?” He’s brushing his teeth.

And Becky looks at him and then back over to me, and asks, “Who’s that in your bed?”

So I say, “It’s me, ding-dong. I’m in my bed.” I sit up and the light from the bathroom catches me, illuminating my face. The eye’s of the me in the doorway get bigger and bigger. He stops his brushing. His toothbrush drops to the floor. Becky clutches the doorjamb to steady herself.

Despite our shock and discomfort, we get to conversing and I explain what went down, and we figure the aliens must’ve drank too much or got lost or something and accidentally sent me back to the wrong time. We must’ve stayed out too late. Dang, I always seem to do that, don’t I? It’s one of my worst tendencies. They sent me forward in time, but returned me three years too early. And the next thing I know it’s like a billion o’clock in the morning and here I am, lying in bed next to myself, all tired and all, stuck back in time. Out of time. Stranded. Marooned. Trying to figure out what to do now.

2.

Naturally the younger me wants to talk. He’s asking me all these questions. And I start getting a little upset. I mean, I’m tired and a little frustrated that they’d leave me back here, and I’m tryin’ ta get some sleep over here. I had a lousy weekend, then I got rousted by some mysterious aliens for reasons I don’t even really know why, I’m out all night, then here I get stuck back in time. And now I’m really tired. Now how’m I supposed to deal with all that? Huh? It’s a little much to deal with right now, you know.

So eventually me and the younger me start fighting. “Get out of my bed,” he grunts, pulling the covers more over to his side.

“No,” I say, “you get outta my bed - go sleep on the couch,” I grab and tug back.

“No way, man. You go sleep on the couch. This is my bed.”

“No it isn’t, I’m older, I’ve slept in it longer, it’s my bed. Now scooch over.”

“Oh go feel yourself.”

“Yeah, like you haven’t done enough of that already.”

“Oh shut up.”

“No, you shut up.”

So, we’re going back and forth like this for a while. Then my sister opens the bathroom door, “Give it a rest already,” she calls, telling us to shut it off. The little me hops out of bed and tries yanking the covers off. I pull back. He starts pointing, jabbing a finger in the darkness, poking me in my ribs. My sister stands with her hands on her hips, insisting, siding with him. “Yeah, imposter,” she accuses. “Why don’t you just get outta our house, this isn’t your house anyway, you don’t even belong here, why don‘t we just call the cops and let them decide.”

And I’m all like, “Whoa whoa whoa, o.k., hold on now, how ‘bout I just try the couch then, hey. Or we could all just cool out an’ get us some sleep already ‘cause it ain’t like there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it right now anyway, so let’s all just cool down here and figure things out. Let’s all just get us some sleep. I mean, I realize this is all highly irregular and all, ‘cause it’s like this crap don’t happen to me often neither, so cut me some slack here, I mean, I am still your brother no matter how old I am. I mean, gee whiz, what’m I supposed ta do about it? Huh? I mean, I’m some kinda genius here? Some kinda astrophysicist or quantum mechanics guy?”

“It’s the government,” Becky shakes her finger in the air.

“It’s not the government,” I sigh, exasperated, “It’s the stinkin’ aliens already. I got ‘em all liquored up. We were just havin’ too much fun.”

“Yeah, the aliens,” the younger me throws up his hands, “They’re worse than the jivin’ hippies already. What we gotta do is get us some guns, an’ if they come back, whoa boy, we show ‘em a thing ‘er two about earthling hospitality by puttin’ a couple a extra belly buttons into ‘em, ya dig,” the little me gets all excited.

I just roll my eyes. “Oh, that’s right,” I groan, “you must be in your ‘gun’ phase. How ’bout we all just get some rest instead. We can assign blame and finger point tomorrow. There’s always plenty a time for that, ya know.”

“Don’t boss us,” Becky snaps.

“Hey, I’m the oldest here, remember,” I explain, pulling up the covers and rolling over.

“You’re not the oldest here,” Becky squeals.

“Yeah I am. Older an’ wiser,” I nod.

“No, no, no you’re not,” she insists, “I’m the oldest.”

“Not anymore you’re not - technically I’m, like, three years older. Remember, I’m from the future. So I say, lights out,” and with that I close my eyes.

There’s a faint glow through the bathroom from Becky’s room. The glow flashes out as she stomps back to her room. The younger me stands there in the darkness for a while. I hear him breathing, thinking. Then he/I finally makes his/my way over to my/our bed.

Finally he climbs into bed and re-joins me. “Scootch over,” he grumbles and I inch over a little. “It’s my bed,” he whispers.

“It’s my bed too,” I respond. “Only I’ve been sleeping in it longer than you.”

“Yeah, but I’ve been here longer. You don’t even really belong here. You’re just a guest, remember?” After a while of lying in the darkness, he asks me if I think they’ll ever come back for me.

“I don’t know,” I respond. “I suppose they will. Probably. They seemed to have a pretty good time. You shoulda seen ‘em. They were really gettin’ into it. I’m sure they’ll be back. I mean why wouldn’t they? They seemed like decent enough folk and all. I mean, you know, other than gettin’ snagged back in time, hung up, caught here like this, other than that, all things considered, they were actually pleasant enough fellows. Very polite and well mannered, although a little on the mysterious-secretive side. . . Yeah, I‘m sure they‘ll figure it all out,” I yawn.

“Either way, you’ll have to lay low,” my younger self whispers.

“Yeah, probably,” I answer. “Say, it’s been a long night an’ I’m kinda hungry. Think you could run down and get me a pop-tart ‘r somethin’?”

“Get it yerself,” is his answer.

So I say, “Hey, I gotta lay low, least someone sees me and freaks out and all.”

The night spreads deeper and thicker, and as I lie there I start realizing how I was actually back in time. Huh, imagine that. I mean, think about it - what if I could go back and change things, redo things, undo things, correct mistakes in my life, regrets - you know, lemons into lemonade, silver lining and all that. So I sez to myself, I sez, “You know, the World Series this year is kind of a shocker. You might wanna get in on the action. Heck, you could put a bunch of money down on the Super Bowl, World Series, the works. All the cake you can. Then hide the winnings in a safety deposit box. Hide the safety deposit box key in our Heavy Metal movie sound track album so I’ll know where to find it when I get back to my time. That way we’ll have a lot of money to spend in the future. I’ll write all the winners down. You just hide the list in the album sleeve and refer to it from time to time. There’s a bunch of bookies in bars around the college. They’re easy to find if you’ve got money. Just ask around. Save up every penny you have and place bets with a bunch of them. We’ll clean up. Really. This is good. This ‘ll work. I’m sure it will,” I grin with pride at my perfection.

The younger me sighs, “Yeah, that’s not a bad idea. What else? Tell me more. What girls like me?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s a good one,” I agree. “In about six months you’re gonna meet this tall girl named Liz. . . .”

“Yeah?” he jumps.

“Yeah,” I nod.

“Is she cool?” he squeaks.

“No,” I shake my head. “Stay away from her at all costs. Trust me. Just stay away. Resist all her come-ons. Believe me, it won’t be worth the trouble. Now, there’s this other girl, Jill. You won’t think she’s interested in you at all. In fact she’ll go out of her way to ignore you and be kinda nasty to you, but she’s just being shy, kinda freaked about her strong feelings for you, that’s all. She’s not very experienced in matters of the heart. When you think of it, it’s kinda sweet in a way. . .”

“No it isn’t,” I interrupt myself, “I’d go with the nice girl. Why waste your time with the one who doesn’t even talk to ya?”

“Just trust me,” I assure him. “She’s interested in you. And the other one isn‘t nice, she just acts nice sometimes.”

“Yeah? For sure? You‘re not just jivin’ me here are ya? Pullin’ some big, elaborate, nasty, time-traveling-big-brother trick on me here?”

“Naw. Don’t worry about it. Here’s what I think you’re gonna need ta do ta pull it off. Now this might not work, but it’d be totally worth it if it does. First you gotta . . .” Suddenly a flash of white light blankets the room, zzzaaappp, ffffffooooooommmmm, and then in the corner there stands ol’ Gray Guy and Lil’ Junior. They tell me they’re very sorry, and that they’ve been looking for me everywhere, that they’d lost me back in time and it just took forever and that they were afraid of gettin’ in trouble and on and on and all that, and I’m all like, “Hey Big Guy, it’s good ta see ya.” And I look over to Junior and I’m all like, “Hey Tiny, how’s it hangin’? That was some night there, back in ‘78, huh? The two of us just shakin’ it all out back there, just livin’ it all out, hangin’ out together, just hangin’ lose. Dang, Slick, we gotta do that again sometime, and I mean real soon - and that’s for real, daddy-o.” You see, I’m not mad at them, I figure they’d figure it all out and be back for me eventually - it was just a matter of time. I always sort of suspected this was maybe all a part of their experiment anyway. So here they’re standin’ there, trying to look all sorry like, thinkin’ I’d be sore at them, and here I’m layin’ here all relieved to see ‘em. Ain’t that just the way though? I mean, wouldn’t that just figure?

So I list up a bunch of sports scores for me to bet on, then I turn to the guys and apply a little guilt. You know, the whole, gee guys, how could you leave me back here. Gosh, I thought we were friends and all, I mean come on here, and finally convince ‘em to take me back again.

I consider going back and checking out a good basketball game. Maybe catch a Clippers game from when they had Lloyd “All World” Free or Bill Walton or something. When they had those cool blue uniforms.

Or maybe I should try an exotic, panoramic locale this time - a setting I’d never get to see - some place romantic, intriguing. Maybe head to Europe. Maybe hang out in Paris back in 1963. Catch some smoky basement jazz joint. Shoot around on a Vespa scooter. A little baby blue number. Scoot around with Audrey Hepburn or something. Hang out with an early 60s era Audrey Hepburn and wear those cool wrap around sunglasses. Yeah, Hepburn in Paris. Audrey Hepburn. That’d be fine. Really nice.

But instead we end up at a kickin’ Sammy Hagar concert down in Texas, circa 1981. Yeah, an early 80s Sammy Hagar concert. But not just any Sammy Hagar concert. No, it has to be aTexas Sammy Hagar concert. And just like that - flash - we’re right there in the middle of it all. And when Hagar rips into Montrose’s “Space Station #5”, I tell you I just lose it, man, just lose control of my faculties, just totally lose my mind. I tell ya, I start rockin’ out like a mad man . . .

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"Alien Coffee" by John H. Carroll (Novella)

2011-12-28T00:00:00.000-08:00

Genre: Science Fiction, Humor

Type of Short Story: Novella

Summary: Jillian keeps trying to drink her coffee, only to find the cup empty. However, she is NOT the one drinking it. To make matters worse, Jillian has a tendency to forget it downstairs even after filling the cup. It frustrates her more and more with each passing day until she finally discovers exactly what has been happening.

Everyone knows there are aliens living secretly on Earth. What isn’t known is how much they like coffee or what sort of affect it has on them. A Columbian drug lord has an alien problem of his own, but what can teenagers really tell him, extraterrestrial or not?

Somehow Jillian gets involved in all of it and discovers the most exciting adventure of her life. But what in the world do emo bunnies and snails have to do with anything?

Aliens, coffee, emo bunnies, snails, teenagers and a Columbian drug lord all take part in this humorous sci-fi romp. It’s hard to tell which one is worst.

Excerpt:
In the middle of the dimly lit area was a spaceship that looked oddly like a snail. It had a long front fuselage with antenna in the same place as a snail, and a curved shell in back. Jillian stopped and frowned at it while Nyxulla moved to a screen on the wall and touched some symbols. Lights in the ceiling and along the wall turned on. “Why does your ship look like a snail?” Jillian asked.

“Actually; snails look like our ship, not the other way around,” Nyxulla corrected her.

“What do you mean?”

“This is a fairly standard ship design throughout the Amalgamation, which is what our galactic civilization is called. They come in all different sizes and models, but the drive technology is the same.” She walked over to the craft that was five times as high as they were tall on the main body and ten times as high at the shell. The entire thing was about a hundred twenty feet long. “They don’t cost much to make, but they do break every once in a while. It’s a pain in the butt to be stranded, so spare ships have been scattered on planets throughout the galaxy.”

“That makes sense I suppose,” Jillian agreed. She tentatively reached out to touch the ship. When Nyxulla didn’t stop her, she ran fingers along the smooth cool metal.

“Are there extra ships on Earth?”

“Yes. They are the snails you speak of.” Nyxulla grinned at Jillian’s look of incredulity. “A special device is needed, but they contain the basic building blocks and codes to transform into a perfectly functional ship just like this one.”

“Are you serious?” Jillian asked flatly. “Snails are really spaceships?”

“Snails aren’t spaceships exactly; they’re the biological coding for spaceships. A device is needed to transform them. The good news is that they reproduce quite well, which helps keep costs almost non-existent.” Nyxulla turned the main lights back off, leaving only the few that were on before they entered. “Every planet and moon in the galaxy has snails.”

“You mean the ones that can support life,” Jillian clarified, going back through the doorway into the hall with Nyxulla right behind.

“No. There are other snails that can survive in the vacuum of space.” The alien took the lead again. “Each one adapts to its environment. The important thing is that there’s always one available anywhere in case anyone gets stranded.” They passed through the sitting area into the other hallway.

“That’s extraordinary. How slow are the spaceships?” Jillian asked. Everything was so intriguing and odd. It was an adventure more fascinating than many of the stories she edited.

The question puzzled Nyxulla. “Slow? Why would you think they’re slow?”

“Well . . . they’re snails . . . snails are slow, so it stands to reason that the ships are slow.” It made complete sense to Jillian. They entered a large control area with a bank of windows overlooking the cliff out onto the lakes. It was right where her favorite spot had been. Buffy was sitting at a desk protruding from the left wall in a u-shape with multiple screens and was tapping on them more rapidly than Jillian had ever seen anyone move.

Nyxulla walked over to the windows and leaned on a metal bar running along the length. “Space travel has nothing to do with speed and everything to do with the manipulation of space and energy while avoiding mass and time. I’m not going to tell you much more about it. It’s basic education in the Amalgamation, but would take quite a while to explain and you’re not technically supposed to know any of it.” She stretched, which emphasized each perfect curve in her body.

Buffy chimed in. “As far as snails being slow; if you crashed on a strange planetand had to find a new ship, would you want to have to chase it down?”

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