LT:  Tell our readers about Mortal Ghost.
 

LLL:  It’s the kind of novel you only write once, when you’re still fired up by possibility.

 
LT:   How did you come up with the idea for this story?

 
LLL:  By writing it. I started with one phrase - and no, it’s not even in the book any longer!

 
LT:   How long did it take you to write?

LLL:  Two years. And my second novel took me twice as long. I hope my next one won’t take twice as long again, but it might: I’m slow.

LT:   You also have a sci-fi story called Corvus. Tell us about it.
 
LLL:  I think of it more as science fantasy - a SF novel with the wrong ending. Here’s the blurb:

In an alternate present the minds of teen offenders are uploaded into computers for rehabilitation—a form of virtual wilderness therapy. Zach is a homo cognoscens, one of the new humans who can navigate the Fulgrid. Though still a high school student, he is indentured to the Fulgur Corporation as a counsellor. Laura is a homo sapiens. Their story is part odyssey, part tragedy, part riff on the nature of consciousness.

 
LT:   Your work is available in various forms, including podcasts. How were you able to bring this about?
 

LLL:  A fellow writer/blogger knew someone who knew someone … you know, just like in the real world. Ioan Hefin, the Welsh actor who is reading the Corvus podcasts, is totally professional in his commitment, though he’s not earning a cent. And he’s a superb narrator!

 
LT:  How often do you write, and do you work on multiple projects?
 
LLL:  Everyday. No multiple projects - confuses the hell out of my subconscious.

 
LT:   Speaking of which, what can we expect from you in the near future?
 
LLL:   I’m working on a ghost story - well, a sorta ghost story - and then I may be ready to write a new novel.
 
LT:   What would your “dream project” be like?
 
LLL:  The next one.

LT:   What authors do you read?
 
LLL:  Too many to list. You’ve got to read widely across all genres, including poetry, drama, nonfiction, erotica, the dictionary, cereal boxes.

Just to give you an idea, at the moment I’m reading Colm Toibin’s Brooklyn, Oliver Sacks’ Migraine, Robin Robertson’s The Wrecking Light, Aleksandar Hemon’s Best European Fiction 2010, a book about salt, Linda Grant’s When I Lived in Modern Times, China Miéville’s The City & the City, a couple of other things. Also whatever short stories I come across online.

 LT:   Do your characters/stories get their own “theme” music, and if so, what would it be?
 
LLL:  Never. Music interferes with the music of the prose.

Whoops. Never say never. My latest short story is based on Jacques Brel’s song ‘Ne me quitte pas’. The story is ‘resting’ at the moment, waiting for a final edit, but will be published online in a month or so.
 

LT:  Where can our readers go to find your stories and keep up with your projects?

 
LL:  I publish everything on my own website:  http://lleelowe.com

 
LT:    Is there anything else you’d like to add?

 
LLL:  Thanks for interviewing me!

___________________

©2010 Lori Titus

_________

©2010 Prospero E. Pulma Jr.

Prospero lives in the Philippines. His stories have appeared in the Philippine Graphic, Very Short Stories for Harried Readers, and short-story.net.  When he is free from the salt mines and the taxman, he posts identical entries on his Friendster and Blogspot blogs and writes other mundane stuff on Facebook.  He also tries to write serious material, hoping that an editor will pick up his work and hoping more that it will not end up in the recycle bin.
 
 

Basima, Spain—June 3, 1968

The house is dark.

It’s been years since her last visit, but she remembers well. The spiral staircase the leads up to the second floor. The short hallway with its arch of a window that looks down upon the ocean.

She follows him, and her heart hitches into her throat, because she knows what comes next.

He turns to her, and she feels his hands on her hips. He’s moving her towards the bedroom.

She sways backwards, and now she’s guiding him. He’s pulling off his jacket.

Her shawl spills to the floor, a thin puddle in the darkness.

On the bed, he pulls her close and they move together, like they had never been apart. She tried to remember how long it had been since they last made love, and couldn’t .

Only that it was too long if it could feel this good.

She holds him with her nails digging into his back. Her own voice sounds foreign to her. She whispers and sometimes groans. He is single minded. She feels him tense against her as  his breathing grows ragged.

And then release. He calls her name, and turns onto his back.

Loaded silence. She is warm, but shivering. It takes a while for her heart to fall back to a normal rhythm.

“Fiona?” he says again, this time, softly. His face remains in shadow.

“Yes?” her voice sounds off. Edgy.

He pauses, just a moment. Instead of speaking again, he kisses her lips and lays back down.  

She nestles into his arms and closes her eyes.

“Okay. You’re awfully quiet,” he teased.

“You always say I talk too much.”

“I do think you’re remembering somebody else.”

Fiona was grateful for the dark, because she could feel her face turning red. He was right. She was thinking of Rafael.

“Justin,” she said, tracing her fingers across his chest. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

“If I’d met you before I met him….”

“Would we have been together?” he finished her thought. “ Maybe. But we’re together now, aren’t we?”

“That’s not the same.”

He smiled. “Doesn’t matter. I take what you offer.”

Fiona sighed. She was a believer in fate.  All things happened for a reason. Just then, she couldn’t think of any rational reason why she should go back to Rafael. Or why she couldn’t be happy being Justin’s… girlfriend, if nothing else.

Except the fact that Rafael could still destroy her. He’d overlook infidelity. Her not coming back… that was a different thing entirely.

Rafael  made it clear from the beginning that he’d do what he needed to do to keep her under his thumb.

Justin drifted comfortably to sleep. Fiona laid awake, relishing the warmth of his bare skin against hers.

Her memories of him would have to last, she thought sadly.

When Justin woke the next morning, she was gone. Her shawl still laid on the floor.

_________

©2010 Lori Titus

__________

©2010 BJ Bourg

BJ Bourg is a veteran law enforcement officer who writes in his spare time. To learn more about the author, visit his website at www.bjbourg.com.

Justin put the blindfold over Marradith’s eyes, and whispered into her ear. “Hold still.”

“How long does this last?” Marradith asked.

“It lasts as long as it takes,” he said, tightening the knot at the back of her head.

He kissed her cheek, and gave her a nudge forward.

Justin was gone. She felt the movement of air as he left.

Pausing, she stood, listening.

The woods were full of tiny movements. Branches swaying in the breeze. Birds cooing in the distance.

Leaning into the wind, she could sense Justin. Picking up the trace of his scent, she turned to the left.

The sound of a howl stopped her in her tracks.

A howl that was not Justin’s.

She ran.

Without the benefit of clear vision - she could barely see shapes of trees from beneath her blindfold- she moved swiftly, but clumsily.

The clearing was up ahead of her. Just on the edge of it, she paused.

The movement of air was different here, the scent of the Wolf stronger.

Marradith turned her chin upwards.

The Wolf hurtled down from the trees. She was knocked sideways. When she hit the ground, she pulled the blindfold off her eyes.

The Wolf growled, his pale fur shining like bristles in the sun.

His jaws opened and she saw the shiny maws of his red mouth.

She jumped forward, thrusting her knife into his stomach.

The creature cried out.

Marradith watched as the Wolf grabbed the handle and pulled it out of his stomach.

The animal fell to his knees, and began to shiver.

His snout began to recede, his claws curl under.

“Marradith.”

She jumped at the sound of her name. Justin stood behind her with a grin on his face.

She punched his arm.

“Ouch! Ryder, what…?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He laughed. “Well that would have ruined the point of the exercise, wouldn’t it? Turn around, give him a little privacy.”

Marradith shook her head and glared at her husband. She could hear the sounds of the Wolf behind her transforming back into a man: gurgling, cracking, and a long rattle from his throat.

When she heard the sound of steady, deep breathing, she turned around.

The man looked a good four inches taller than Justin, which would make him 6’5. He was fair with pale blue eyes. She guessed he was probably a blond, but his head was shaved.

Everything about him was thick: thick neck, muscular arms, a chest like a football player.

He extended a hand to her. “Marradith. My name is Cord. It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’m sorry about the…knife,” she said, and flashed Justin an angry look.

Cord shook his head. “Well, that was part of the plan. We replaced your knife with one that wasn’t silver, so,” he shrugged, patting his stomach where a scar had already formed. “No damage done.”

“Cord’s a Sojourner,” Justin said. “And a very old friend of mine.”

“I’m going to help out with some of your strength training,” he added. “Justin wasn’t lying when he said you’ve got a good start. But we could work on some things.”

“What things?” Marradith sighed. “And how old is old?”

“You should trust your instincts enough to know where I am by feeling your prey, not by seeing. Trying to see a form through that blindfold cost you a few seconds. And once I came down, you let me knock you off balance.” Cord said.

“Well, I disagree.”

Cord smiled. “Uh huh. Justin mentioned that, too. Well. It’s going to be a couple weeks before we start, I have another assignment I have to complete first. It’s nice meeting you.”

He turned and was gone back into the woods, just as quickly as he came.

“What’s this about?” she asked Justin.

“I could use some extra help getting you trained up, that’ s all. Besides. I never intended to be your only teacher.”

Justin’s cell rang before she could protest further.

It was Fiona.

***

Jenny was awake.

Syd knew because he could hear what she was thinking.

Could anyone love pop music so much? Syd wrinkled his nose as the water sent clouds of steam around him in the shower. She kept that one song in her head so much that he caught himself humming it:

 I got problems with authority/the right/the wrong/and the majority/ain’t got nothing right to do with me/ oh I go down down down/ until I get up get up again again.

 
 
Syd closed his eyes. He should be pleased. But somehow, he was in a mood. He wasn’t happy it all. Jenny’s eyes seemed increasingly vacant to him. And though she did whatever he asked, it just was not satisfying. Maybe, he should draw back some.

There was no fun in control if she wasn’t fighting him, just a little . He wanted to see fear there.

She just held herself stiff as a board and looked into space, with that damn song going through her head.

He was just about to turn off the water when he realized that he hadn’t heard anything for a few moments.

The silence was loud. And then a click.

He stumbled out of the shower and emerged from the bathroom naked.

The door of the room was wide open, and Jenny was nowhere to be seen.

Fumbling with the pants he’d tossed aside the night before, he ran out into the hall just as the elevator opened and she slipped through the door.

The doors closed before he reached them.

He took the stairs.

Syd had made it down to the third floor when he stopped.

She hadn’t gone all the way down. In fact, his senses told him she was going up…

He turned and started back up the stairs when he felt air rush into the stairwell behind him.

“Hey, Syd.”

He turned, and was faced with the business end of a gun.

“Will….?”

“That’s right mother…”

Syd never heard the rest. The gunshot cracked like thunder in the stairwell.

The world went black.

_____

_____________

©2010 Angel Zapata 

Angel Zapata often wishes he could commute to work via dropping down a well. That way, he could come crawling out of any TV like that darling, little girl from The Ring. Recent fiction has been published or is forthcoming in the Toe Tags Anthology, House of Horror’s Best of 2009 Anthology, Mausoleum Memoirs, Flashes in the Dark, The New Flesh, and Howl: Dark Tales of the Feral and Infernal. Visit his blog: http://arageofangel.blogspot.com

Kinsel waited patiently to kill.  He crouched behind a cluster of trees, peering into the gloom of the forest.  The trees were dark, the shadows even darker, blacker.  If it weren’t for the pale light of the full moon sifting down through the trees, he wouldn’t be able to see the narrow trail twenty feet in front of him.  He was grateful for the light.
 
The forest was alive with sounds.  Crickets chirped seemingly all around.  Night birds cawed endlessly.  Something shuffled through the leaves and underbrush to his right.  Sweat poured off his face, but he remained steady, in control.  He gripped his handgun and focused forward.  He watched the trail, silent and alert, his muscles tensed.  He knew his prey – a tall, dark haired man named Allan Parker would soon come jogging toward him along the trail.  Then he would pounce.
 
Kinsel had been a contract killer for nearly twenty years now, and it never surprised him to see his schedule practically fully booked all year around.  Lucky for him there never seemed to be a shortage of people with deep enough pockets who wanted others dead and out of the way.  Even the failing economy that had plunged the whole country into a deepening recession had done little to hurt his business.  Murder for hire, it seemed, was a recession proof industry.
 
It’s a good thing too, he thought.  With two kids in college and an ungrateful wife who spends money like water, I need all the money I can get my hands on. 
 
A loud cracking of branches broke his reverie.  The sound was close, directly ahead.  He raised his gun and took aim.  He searched the shadows, his forefinger curling tighter around the curved steel of the trigger.  He held that position, poised, waiting…
 
Nothing happened.  Mr. Parker never appeared.  After another minute or so, Kinsel decided that it must have only been an animal and lowered his gun.  He wiped the sweat from his eyes and looked off to his left.
 
The Parker Mansion was clearly visible in the distance through the dark foliage.  Floodlights illuminated its stone exterior, its steeply pitched roof threatening to pierce the stars.  An upstairs window shone with light, and he focused on that.  Despite the distance and the gently shifting trees, he could clearly see the shapely silhouette of Suzanne Parker standing before the window.           
Probably waiting to hear the gunshots and her husband’s screams, he thought.  Suzanne Parker had hired Kinsel to kill her husband.  During their only conversation, she had told him that Allan enjoyed nighttime runs through the vast woods at the east end of their property.  As soon as he heard that, Kinsel knew where the deed would take place.
 
A second figure appeared at the window.  Silhouetted against the light, the woman’s big breasts and perfect hourglass figure were clearly defined.  She was several inches taller, and her hair was much longer than Mrs. Parker’s shoulder length curls.  The second woman placed a soft hand upon Mrs. Parker’s shoulder.  The two women faced each other.  After a brief hesitation, they fully embraced, and as they kissed, Kinsel felt a sudden stirring in his loins.  Now there’s a motive, he thought.  Wants her hubby gone so she could have unfettered love with her girlfriend.  Nice.      
 
Just as he looked away to refocus upon the trail, a deep menacing growl rumbled through the forest.  The tiny hairs on the back of his neck bristled.  Instinctively, he raised the handgun and prepared to empty the clip.  A soft breeze rustled the trees, carrying with it the pungent, musky odor of wet dog and sweat.  He frowned against the stench and crouched lower.  He scanned the woods, feeling his pulse quicken.  It had to be a bear, he thought.      
 
Then he looked ahead, and his eyes and his gut told him that it wasn’t.  Shock pulled his mouth agape.  Terror froze him in place.  The creature that stood in the middle of the trail was something that he’d read about in horror magazines as a kid, but never thought he’d encounter as an adult. 
 
Covered in thick, dark fur and standing about nine feet tall on its hind legs, the beast loomed like a nightmare.  Its massive head sat atop big, round shoulders.  Its heavily muscled chest puffed out with each throaty breath.  A slim waist flowed into its two huge, powerful rear legs.  The creature stepped closer, and its long black claws scraped and tore at the hard-packed earth.  Kinsel gaped in horror at the creature’s face.  Two sunken, soulless eyes peered out below a heavy brow.  A long snout jutted out from its face.  A hungry, salivating leer split the monster’s mouth wide, and its huge white fangs glinted in the moonlight. 
 
Kinsel’s heart hammered.  Knots of terror churned in his belly.  A thought so outrageous suddenly occurred to him and he hated even considering it.  This is Allan Parker, he thought, and he is a werewolf.  Ridiculous.  Werewolves do not exist.  As if it had heard his inner thoughts and rejected it, the creature reared its head back toward the full moon and let out a long, deep, penetrating howl.         
 
It’s distracted now.  Shoot it! his mind screamed.  Kinsel fought back against the debilitating fear, released a howl of his own, and squeezed the trigger until the gun clicked empty…
 
It did nothing.  It was as if the gun shot blanks instead of heavy, hollow-point loads. 
 
The creature absorbed the rounds and leveled its mean glare in his direction, emitting a deep, throaty growl in anticipation of its feast.
 
Then it pounced.
 
From the open window of the master bedroom, the loud, painful screams of a terrified man pierced the summer night until wet, snarling sounds drowned them out.
 
Mrs. Kinsel stood naked at the window, peering out into the night.  She gazed into her lover’s eyes.  “It worked.”
Mrs. Parker grinned.  “At least Allan is still good for something.”
            
___________

© 2010 John Connors

 John Connors lives in Pennsylvania with his wife, Jaime.  He has several published credits with his first professional sale forthcoming in W.W. Norton’s Hint Fiction Anthology.  You can visit him online at www.johnlconnors.wordpress.com  

LT:  Tell our readers about Dead Boyfriend, and how you came up with the story.

SG:  Dead Boyfriend is the story of Regan St. James, a teenaged vampire hunter, and Ira Greer, an early-twenties vampire. They meet completely at random one night, after they hook up at a bar. Regan doesn’t realize his man of the moment is a vampire until the next day, and by then it’s too late. Ira’s a good lay, and Regan’s intrigued. Kind of shallow motivation on the surface, but the kid’s only eighteen.

I came up with it by reading a Twilight-Supernatural crossover fanfiction, of all things, online. I’m normally very positive on fanfic, but after reading it was like “I can do this better, and more originally.” And so I did.

LT:   With vampires being so popular right now, did you have any reservations about writing about them?

SG:  Not really. My only hang-up is that someone will make an active comparison to Twilight on my forums or in a review, and I’ll have to hang myself with an electrical cord. But so far I’ve skated safely past it. We’ve come close a few times, but narrowly avoided it.

LT:  Courting Death is the first part of the story—what can we expect from the second half?

SG:  More snark, more biting, more Regan/Ira interaction, and more sex.

LT:   What are the important themes in Dead Boyfriend overall?

SG:  Eventually I’d like to do some interesting things with the nature of humanity versus what it means to be a monster, but I’m keeping it pretty popcorn lit right now. Draw the readers in and then hit ‘em where it hurts.

LT:   If you picked music for Regan and Ira, what would it be?

SG:  Regan’s favorite song in the whole world is “The Winner Takes It All” by ABBA. Their falling in love song is “Bad Time to Fall in Love” by Terra Naomi, and their relationship song is “Teeth” by Lady GaGa.

LT:   What authors do you like?

SG:  Laurell K. Hamilton, Kim Harrison, Terry Goodkind, Garth Nix, to name a few.

LT:   Other than keeping up with Reagn and Ira, do you have other fiction for our readers?

SG:  Dead Boyfriend is the first actual work I’ve finished ever, so not really. I’ve got some short pieces I keep meaning to get around to that I always manage to prioritize away, but someday I’ll get to them. I’ve written some raunchy fanfic in my time, however, but I won’t burn your eyeballs with that.

LT:  Is there a work in progress you’d like to tell us about?

SG:  Actually I’m making notes to start a traditional manuscript right now, but until I’ve actually got some words down on it I don’t feel comfortable talking about it.

In the Dead Boyfriend Universe I just recently started a side story called HOWL featuring Regan’s former hunting partner Eric. It’s an interesting little piece about Eric, a straight guy, finding himself unexpectedly, but undeniably attracted to a man he meets in a bar. Only four parts of it have hit the net so far due to some problems I’ve been having with my computer’s power cord, but I am definitely still working on it.

LT:   So, if you had a chance to re-write someone else’s book or change a movie, which one would it be?

SG:  Oh, man. I have no idea where to even start. I can’t think of anything specific off the top of my head, but there have been several books or movies that have had an interesting, powerful female character that suddenly turn into a helpless bimbo just so the guy can rescue her. Stuff like that bothers me. Some of the strongest people in my life have been women, so I hate the useless female archetype in fiction. Hate it. That’s why I don’t like Twilight, actually.

LT:   When reading someone else’s work, what can an author do to drive you insane? In either a good or bad way?

SG:  In general the author that writes for plot as opposed to writing for character makes me nuts. Get to know your characters and their personalities and give them interesting things to react to and the plot should follow logically out of it. That’s something that really bothers me, when characters randomly turn stupid just before the climax of a book because the author wanted a cliche hero-villain smack down.

LT:   If Regan had his chance to kick anyone’s butt (and not just out of your characters, but anybody elses’ as well) who would he beat up?

SG:  Hmm, this is a very interesting question. I think if Regan could have a crack at anyone, he’d love a shot at Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer.

LT:   Is there anything else you’d like to add?

SG:  The second volume of Dead Boyfriend will be a different piece than the first was. Things happen that let us see a really different side of Regan. He goes to a dark place for awhile. Ira has his own challenges to face when he finds himself defending his relationship with Regan.

I hope current readers of Dead Boyfriend stick around for the adventures to come, and those that haven’t sampled it yet should swing on by.

_______________

©2010 Lori Titus

Tonight was definitely the blind date from hell.  My boyfriend had thought it would be good for our relationship if we spent some time apart and I saw other men for awhile.  My gut reaction when this new guy told me he was a vampire was, “Not another one.”  

He was thin and pale, with dark seductive eyes, and was dressed smartly all in black, but I wrote that off as an affectation, that he was trying for a look somewhere between heroin chic and Goth bad boy.  I tried not to choke on my Bloody Mary and decided to humour him.  “So if you’re a vampire, why don’t you glisten?”

 ***

The squirrel’s right rear leg had been mauled in a fight with a dog and rendered nearly useless.

 The squirrel approached the Medicine Tree.

 
“Medicine Tree,” the squirrel squeaked, wringing its front paws and looking at the ground, “might you repair my leg?”

 
“Of course, my little friend” the tree answered. “Taste of my fruit and be healed.”

 
The tree dropped a piece of fruit in front of the squirrel, who picket it up and ate it. No sooner had the squirrel finished the fruit than he began to hop about on his perfectly restored leg.
“Oh, thank you, Medicine Tree!” the squirrel exclaimed. “You’ve made my leg as good as new!”
“Think nothing of it, dear one,” the Medicine Tree said. “It gives me great joy to help others such as yourself. Go your way in health.”

 
***
The duck’s wing had been broken when a hunter’s buckshot tore through its feathers and flesh. The duck waddled up to the Medicine Tree.

 
“Medicine Tree,” the duck quacked, looking bashfully at its webbed feet, “might you repair my wing?”

 
“Of course, my little friend,” the tree answered. “Taste of my fruit and be healed.”

 
The tree dropped a piece of fruit in front of the duck, who quickly gobbled it down. Almost immediately he began flapping his repaired wing.

 
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” the duck said, flapping joyfully this way and that. “My wing is as good as new thanks to you!”

 
“Think nothing of it, dear one,” the tree said. “It is my pleasure to do what I can to help my friends who are hurting find healing.”

 
***
The young fox was practically on death’s door, having developed a bad infection after cutting its paw on a piece of glass. The fox’s father laid his son’s limp and nearly lifeless body at the base of the tree.

 
“Medicine Tree,” father fox said, his eyes brimming with tears and his voice catching in his throat, “might you cure the infection and bring my son back to me?”

 
“Of course, my friend,” the tree said. “Feed him of my fruit, and he will be healed.”

 
The tree dropped a piece of fruit in front of the fox, who chewed it up and fed the pulp to his ailing son. The young fox blinked its eyes, lifted its head, stood up and began running around as if it had never been ill.

 
“Thank you, Medicine Tree!” father fox cried. “You have brought my son back to me!”

 
“Think nothing of if, dear one,” the tree said. “I live to serve the needs of my friends. My wish is that you’ll have many wonderful years with your son.”

 
***
The woodsman had always laughed at the legend of the Medicine Tree. But when the woodsman’s wife became deathly ill, and all options had been exhausted, he found himself kneeling at the tree’s base..

“Medicine Tree,” the woodsman wept, his head in his hands, “might you help bring my wife back to good health?”

 
“I’m sorry,” said the tree, “but my healing powers are limited to the small creatures who share these woods with me. I’m afraid my fruit would do your wife no good.”

 
The woodsman stood up, his face a picture of rage.

 
“How can you know that? Has it ever been tried?”

 
“It has not,” answered the Medicine Tree, “but it is how it has been since the beginning of time. My fruit benefits only the woodland creatures.”

 
“I won’t believe it!” shouted the woodsman. He swung his ax, wedging its sharp blade in the side of the Medicine Tree. The tree cried out in pain, but the woodsman didn’t hear. The woodland creatures shrieked in horror, but the woodsman didn’t hear. He swung the ax over and over, until the great tree was toppled. He collected the tree’s fruit in a sack and returned to his cottage.

 
The woodsman fed his ailing wife the fruit of the Medicine Tree, but her illness persisted and she died. The woodsman was overcome with grief, not only for the loss of his wife, but for having needlessly cut down the Medicine Tree. After burying his wife, the woodsman went back into the forest, stopping at the stump where the Medicine Tree once stood and again falling to his knees.

“I’m so sorry,” the woodsman cried. “I wouldn’t listen, and now both you and my wife are dead. Is there anything I might do to set things right?”

 
The woodsman heard growling and looked up. A pack of wolves approached him, hackles raised and teeth bared. He stood to run, but the wolves were upon him in an instant. They tore the woodsman apart, and his blood soaked the Medicine Tree’s stump.

When the wolves finally dragged the woodsman’s remains into the forest, the other woodland creatures gathered around the stump. They watched and whispered excitedly amongst each other as a crack appeared in the Medicine Tree’s stump and a tiny green shoot pushed its way up through the woodsman’s coagulating blood.

_______________
© 2010 Robert C. Eccles

 
Right in the middle of my very meager and very late night dinner the intercom buzzer went off. It’s so loud that even when I’m expecting it the damn thing nearly scares me to death. Well, if I could die from a heart attack, it might scare me to death.

I walked over and pushed the talk button:

“Who is it?”
“Marcus”
“Marcus, what the hell are you doing here at this hour?”
“I have to see you. It’s an emergency.”
“Are you bleeding or is there a bone sticking out of you somewhere? Because that’s an emergency at 2:00am, but as far as I’m concerned nothing much else is.”
“I’ve been thinking about you all day and I just have to see you.”

Ah. A booty call by a twenty five year old in the middle of the night. That’s all I need. I’d have to change, shower, put some makeup on, what a pain. But then my appetites and an idea hit me at the very same time.

Marcus is a succulent Italian dish and it had been a while.

“Ok, I’ll buzz you in, but I have to hop in the shower, so you just come in and have a beer and wait while I get freshened up.”

I buzzed him into the lobby and left my door open a crack. I’d have a minute or so before he got up the stairs. I scurried into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

I hid in the closet where I could look out through the slats to see if he came into the bathroom. About a minute later he came into the room on tippy toes. He stripped, and crept toward the shower. Just as his hand made contact with the curtain I bounded out of the closet and caught him by the neck in my jaws and around his taut middle with my claws.

His eyes widened as he saw me, then all the blood left his face as I dragged him into the shower. It’s so handy when they take their clothes off first, then there’s no need to spit up the zippers and buttons afterwards.

As it turned out having dinner in the shower was very convenient since all of the fluid splatter just went right on down the drain.

Even with the water running I was relieved that my shower curtain is plastic and easily rinsed down, because Marcus turned out to be even juicier than I thought. 

It always seems like any time I have Italian I just get it everywhere .

________

©2010 Karen Schindler

Karen Schindler writes even when she’s not writing. A wonderer, a cherisher of life and experiences, she lives with gleeful abandon and pulls others into her wake. Karen’s fiction, poetry and essays have been or are about to be published in Eclectic Flash, Voxpoetica, WeirdYear, Flashes in the Dark,  Blink/Ink, InkNode, the upcoming Pill Hill Press and Lame Goat anthologies and online and in the print anthology of the 52 Stitches 2010 line up. You can see more of her work at Miscellaneous Yammering.

Daria waited on the rooftop for almost twenty minutes.

It was starting to rain, but it didn’t bother her. The sounds of the city below were like a discordant symphony, converging beats refusing to become one.

She smiled. It wasn’t just the sounds of the city, but the movement of the humanity flowing below.

Heartbeats. And blood.

“How was your flight?”

She turned on her heel. Rafael smiled and came to stand beside her.

“My flight was excellent. I have never been on a private jet before. Do we always travel in such style?”

“Not always, but as often as it can be arranged.”

“If that’s the case, I have always wanted to go to Dubai. Thoughts?”

He grinned. “Next assignment I have there, I’ll be sure to send you, my dear. So. What were you able to find?”

“A few things. We definitely have a Wolf problem here.”

“And the vampires here have not driven them out?”

“No. In fact, there are very few of my kind left, in this part of the city. The humans are driving them out.”

“I see.”

“Rafael… you knew that already, didn’t you?”

“I wanted independent verification.”

“Okay. You heard about Tom Stark?”

“Yes. The Wolf that was killed a few weeks ago.”

“His wife moved . Should I pay her a visit?”

“No. Granthem already has. He doesn‘t think that she‘s the person we‘re looking for.  Justin always said that she and Tom were… nomads.”

“Whoever is doing this is organized. This Pack is well entrenched. I think they have been here for a while.”

“Pack? We’re dealing with a Pack hunting in the city?”

“Yes.”

“No wonder Miranda is fit to be tied. It has been years since things have been that bad.”

“Maybe we underestimated Pablo Vega’s influence.”

“It has to be more than just that,” Rafael pondered.

“Well. Not to overstep, but….is there something else that you haven’t told me about this assignment ?”

“Possibly,” he said with a dry smile. “I have something for you to do tomorrow.  We’ll meet again the day after. I should have more to tell you then.”

 *******

 Jenny woke.

At first, she was not sure where she was. She stared at the thick, gold draperies at the windows.

On the bedside table, there was a tablet with a fancy name scrawled in cursive:

Last night, he must have dressed her in it.

Syd was in the shower. She heard the water running.

How long would he be in there? She wondered.

Standing up, she hummed a tune under her breath.

In her bag, there was a pair of jeans. She pulled them on, and shoved the gown into them.

Snatching Syd’s jacket off the back of the chair, she grabbed her sneakers and opened the door.

She heard the bathroom door open behind her.

Jenny took off running. The hall seemed to go on forever, but at the end of it there was an elevator.

Pressing the down button frantically, she waited. It seemed to take forever for the doors to open.

The doors slid open with a pleasant ding just as Syd’s form entered the hall.

Jenny screamed, pounding her fingers against the buttons.

 ****

Fiona didn’t say much that morning.

She was quietly happy.  Will did not want to disrupt her mood. They’d had breakfast in bed, and a long shower together afterwards.

He was pretty sure no one would miss him back at the house, but Fi was another story. Whenever Rafael was gone, she was in charge. Sooner or later someone would ask for her.

They decided to leave about six in the morning, before the other guests started checking out. Their car would be waiting for them at the curb.

Standing next to her in the hall, he was aware of how good she smelled. He touched her arm with his forefinger. She gave him a sidelong glance.

“I don‘t guess it‘s not too late to not check out,” she teased. “Could another twenty minutes hurt?”

The elevator doors opened.

The woman inside pressed the down button right in front of them. “Hey,” Will said, and pushed the door back open just before it slammed in his face.

“Excuse us,” Will said.

“Jenny? Are you Jenny Winslow?”

“Yes! Please help me! There’s someone after me.”

Will and Fiona looked at each other, and said one word in unison.

“Syd.”

 ___________________

 ©2009 Lori Titus

Green Water Lullaby, Lori’s collection of short stories, is available for pre-order:  http://www.sonar4publications.com/green.html

 Ed Welter writes various genres of fiction.  He currently maintains a short story blog called A Tale of Words (http://taleofwords.blogspot.com) and a popular humor blog he writes under the writer’s pseudonym “VE” called VE’s Fantastical Nonsense (http://vehow.blogspot.com)

Magda walked to the pot of boiling water bubbling on the fireplace and removed a steaming cloth using a long wooden spoon.

“This will hurt, Yohan, but it will draw out some of the infection from the bite. We can go into the village tomorrow and get the Doctor to use leeches on the rest.”

Yohan grunted and rolled onto his side, presenting the wound to his wife. It looked worse than it had that morning – the puncture wounds inflamed and oozing with foul smelling pus. He groaned in pain as the scalding cloth was placed onto his skin. Red blossoms of blood spread across the white surface of the fabric. Magda squeezed the dirty liquid into a bowl and reapplied the dressing.

Michael began to cry in his crib and Magda picked up the child in his blue blanket, singing to him, rocking him back and forth in her arms.

“Do you think it will come back tonight?”

Yohan coughed and wiped his forehead with his arm.

“It probably crawled off to the woods to die. I managed to get a shot off when it got me, and it ran away. Biggest damn wolf I ever saw, but a bullet doesn’t care how big something is, it kills it anyway.”

She walked to the window and pushed back the curtains, peering into the inky shroud that had settled.

“I hope you’re right, Yohan, we can’t afford to lose any more animals. The winter will be hard enough, especially with the baby to take care of.”

“Everything will be alright. I won’t let anything happen to you or Michael. Can you see anything out there?”

“Not yet, but the moon is rising. Soon it will be as bright as day.”

Yohan cried out and Magda put the baby back in his crib, then hurried to her husband’s side. The bed sheets beneath him were soaked with sweat and his face contorted into a mask of agony. He gave a long guttural groan.

“Oh God, Yohan, I’ll get Doctor Schmidt. He will know what to do!”

 ****

Magda grabbed her coat and Yohan’s rifle then rushed from the cottage, into the night.  The full moon bathed the clearing in cool light, casting deep shadows and Magda ran towards the forest lane that led to the village.

As she reached the lane, a long shrieking howl echoed across the clearing, seeming to come from everywhere at once.  Magda stopped and looked around, her eyes darting back and forth, the rifle held tight against her shoulder, but could only see the darkness of the woods surrounding her, could only hear her pounding heart and the ragged gasps of her breath. The forest was silent.

A deep growl came from behind, she span around, the rifle raised before her.

Something from the undergrowth into the clearing. In silhouette it could almost have been mistaken for a man, for it stood on two legs. There the similarities ended. The creature was easily seven feet tall, with elongated ears, snout and hands – each finger tipped with a curving talon. Its eyes reflected green disks under the silver moonlight as it moved forward.

Magda raised the rifle, snapping off a single shot before bolting to the relative safety of the cabin. The creature snarled in pain behind her, but she barely registered the sound over the pounding of her own heart – just focused on putting one leaden leg in front of the other.

The cabin drew close, barely twenty yards more to cover. I can make it; she thought and redoubled her efforts despite the burning in her lungs from the cold night air.

She heard a snarl from behind and knew that the monster must be gaining on her, but she could not – dare not turn to look. She had almost reached the door of the cabin, when it burst open and another creature stood in the threshold, snarling at the terrified woman. Magda fell to her knees, ready to accept the inevitable.

The creature that had emerged from the cabin looked at her once, sniffed the air and then howled in defiance at the pursuing werewolf. The two monsters began circling each other, snarling and spraying flecks of blood stained foam from their maws.

Magda watched in terror as the new creature flew at the other, lashing out with razor claws – raking deep grooves across its chest. The new creature was easily as large as the first and attacked with astonishing brutality, carving chunks of flesh from the other. Magda realised it was wearing trousers.

“Oh my God – Yohan!”

The other creature began to fight back and snapped at Yohan’s throat. He darted his head aside at the last moment and the werewolf’s fangs buried themselves deep in his shoulder, tearing out a fist sized piece of muscle and sinew. Yohan howled in agony, and then rammed his claws into the other creature’s chest. Blood sprayed from the wound and the monster fell away to the left, attempting to flank its assailant.

Magda backed away from the battling monsters, edging her way to the cabin door. Despite her terror she felt pride in her husband – regardless of what he had become, he was still fighting to protect his family.

He would keep them safe.

Yohan lunged at the werewolf and fastened his jaws around its throat. The creature thrashed, its claws raking across Yohan’s face, ruining his left eye. Yohan bit down harder, snapping the werewolf’s neck with a wet snap and tearing its head free. The severed head of the monster rolled across the floor to Magda, and she kicked the gory object away. Yohan turned to face her.

“You did it Yohan – you saved us,” she said, her voice trembling as she backed away from her husband, into the open doorway.

Her feet slipped on the wooden floor and she looked down to see a trail of blood leading back into the house. She followed the trail with her eyes, to the gore stained crib and the small pieces of meat hanging from it.

He’s not defending his family – its protecting its food!

A shadow fell across her and she turned to face the monster that used to be her husband. There was no recognition in its eyes – just hunger and rage. Magda cried out as the beast lunged forward and sank its fangs into her arm. She heard the muffled sound of a rifle shot, before she passed into oblivion.

Magda awoke as the first shards of sunlight pierced the trees. She pushed Yohan’s cold corpse away and regarded the man she had loved. Scraps of pink flesh and fragments of blue cloth were caught between his teeth. A bullet had torn out most of his throat, the edges of the wound burned black from the rifle’s discharge.

She knew what had happened, to Yohan, to their baby, and, looking at the bite in her shoulder, what would happen to herself. She fell to her knees, sobbing.

She looked up to the sky as she placed the rifle’s barrel under her chin. The cold metal was soothing somehow.

“I will be with you both” she said, and pulled the trigger.

________________

©2010 Graeme Reynolds

Graeme Reynolds is a 38 year old author of horror tales, member of the Horror Writers Association and freelance destroyer of computer programs.  He lives in the South West of England with 2 cats, 3 delinquent chickens and a long suffering girlfriend.  You can read his other works on his homepage:

http://www.graemereynolds.com/