Through the Glass by Lisa J. Hobman @LivingScottishD

Although he was raised in Scotland, Jim was by no means heading home. Dumbarton, place of his upbringing, held no pull for him now with his parents gone. They had put every penny they could aside for their sons. The brothers discovered after their parents’ deaths that this was the reason for their frugal existence. The modest town house they inherited on top of the savings had meant that Jim could buy himself a place, albeit small and a little run down. Although the money had always been intended to set him up in a home with Felicity, he’d sat on the money for years not daring to dip into it lest it be swallowed up on minor frivolities. But that home—their home—clearly was never meant to be.

The choice of his new location, Shieldaig in the West Highlands, was more of an escape. He had visited as a child with his family when they were on holiday, but he didn’t remember too much about it. His memories were all in the family photos he’d kept. He just knew that it was a peaceful, almost undiscovered place, certainly more his pace of life than London. Because he had no memories of Flick here, he knew he could start afresh.

Wipe the slate clean.

There would be nothing around each corner to remind him of what a mess he had made of things. He could reinvent himself if he so wished. Not that he would do that. He wasn’t pretentious. That had kind of been the problem really. He couldn’t pretend to be anyone but himself and this hadn’t been good enough. He’d come to realise, in recent years, that Flick was out of his league. But he also knew that he wasn’t a bad person. Other than a failed marriage he had nothing to be ashamed of. He had loved his wife more than life itself. He’d tried so damned hard to fit in with her life and all its glamour. But he simply wasn’t that good an actor.

His brother, Euan, had escaped too. He had emigrated to Australia to be with the woman of his dreams whom he had met two years ago whilst travelling through Europe.

Jim was slightly envious of Euan’s relationship with Tara. She was very easy going and fun to be around. Every bit the beach babe, she had a petite frame, sun bleached curly hair, and eyes as green as the brightest emeralds. Euan had always been into sports and had excelled in football at school. He had been travelling around Europe with some of his football team mates when he was introduced to Tara in a bar in Germany by one of his friends.

Euan was due a visit to the UK. He had promised Jim, during their phone call a few days ago that he would be back at some point this year and would be bringing Tara back with him.

“It’ll be great to see you, bro! I can’t wait! I’m looking forward to seeing where you end up living now that you’re rid of Cruella De Ville!” Euan chuckled. He had actually always seemed to like Felicity but in recent years that clearly had changed.

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Genre – Contemporary Romance

Rating – PG-17

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Website www.lisajhobman.co.uk

Space Dude by Jann Jeter @Hasty_Post

Nadine was washing beer mugs when Dude and Thipp walked in. Dude purposely dropped the keys to the bus on the bartop and Nadine grumbled, “Ya just gonna keep scarring up my bartop or are ya gonna order something so I can make rent this month?”  The boys grinned at each other – it was hard to tell if she could actually see them or not.

“Um, yeah, could I please get a Valway ale in the bottle, Nadine?”  Dude asked, being very polite.

She turned around, opened a door, pulled out a bottle, put the cap on the edge of the back bar, hit it with her other palm, popped it off and turned back to put the bottle in front of Dude in what seemed like all one movement.

“4 credits.”

Dude gave her his account card and watched as Nadine put it straight in the machine, swiped it, and slapped it directly back into his hand. He looked at Thipp and they both shrugged. Still hard to tell.

“Are you just here to take up space, Sonny?” she said in Thipp’s general direction.

“Uh, no ma’am. I’ll have a Luckenbach Lager, please.” He said, inwardly groaning. Why did they both feel the compulsion to be so nice?

Nadine snorted and reached for a glass. She tipped it under one of the spigots and drew down a perfect glass of beer. Thipp raised one eyebrow and his mind tipped more towards ‘she can see’. He automatically held out his account card, Nadine grabbed it, swiped it and returned it before going back to her chores.

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Genre - Space, Fantasy

Rating – PG

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V. L. Dreyer – The Survivors Book I: Summer @VL_Dreyer

I awoke to the sound of heavy rain on the tin roof above my head, a familiar and pleasant sound.  I blinked, then squeezed my eyes closed again, focusing on that sweet noise.  It brought back images of summers spent on the beach and winters with family close by.  It rained all year round in New Zealand, and the end of human civilization did not change our climate at all.

I often wondered if it had in other countries.  We were lucky, down here in little Aotearoa.  We possessed no nuclear reactors, no major military installations.  Nothing that could break down and poison what was left of our tiny little island nation beyond all repair.  Our power stations were either fossil fuel, hydroelectric or thermal, all relatively clean energy sources compared to nuclear.

I wondered what it was like in Europe and America.  Had their nuclear reactors failed and spewed toxic poisons into their skies, now that the people who kept them running were all dead?  Did their few survivors live under the perpetual cloud of nuclear winter?

Was there even anyone left alive over there?  I had no way to know.  Communications were basically gone.  There were only a few limited ways for survivors to communicate with one another and they were spotty at best.  The mobile phone networks still functioned in some places, but they were useless without knowing the number of the person you were trying to reach.  Radio was the only way left to bridge the oceans that separated us from our nearest neighbours, and I had never gained access to one of those.  In some ways, that kind of isolation kept us safe.

If only it had been enough to keep us safe from the plague itself.

***

December, 2013

Skylar leaned against me as we sat in the kitchen, drinking milk and eating the cookies Grandma baked for us that morning.  We had been banished to the kitchen while the adults huddled around the television in the next room, watching the news.  Mum made me promise to keep Skylar away so she wouldn’t see what was happening in the world outside.  She was just a little girl, but she was bright for her age and knew that something was going on.

“What’re you drawing, Skye?”  I asked, trying to keep her attention focused on happy thoughts.  She glanced up from her colouring with a mouth full of cookies, and gave me a bright smile.

“Zombies,” she answered cheerfully, spraying me with crumbs.

“Zombies?”  I blinked like an owl caught in sudden light.  That was the last thing I had expected her to say.

“Yup.”  She nodded and went back to her colouring like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Why are you drawing zombies?  Zombies are yucky,” I asked her, curiosity overwhelming my caution.

“Cause they’re coming,” she answered simply.  With delicate little fingers, she selected a bright red crayon from the box.  I watched as she applied the red crayon to her artwork, scribbling over the figures that looked like members of our family.  The sheer volume of crimson that she used bothered me immensely; I was suddenly overwhelmed by the need to talk to my mother.

I stood carefully, so as not to disrupt my sister’s artistic endeavours, but she barely noticed. She was thoroughly engrossed in destroying her own creation.

Now I was really bothered.

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Genre - Post-Apocalyptic Survival

Rating - PG-13

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Website http://www.vldreyer.com

Our Love by Sheena Binkley @ChevonBink

~

As I drove to the New Oaks section of Sugar Land, I never realized how snobbish this area looked. Just the look of the area gave me the impression that Belmont High wasn’t going to be any different. The only thing I knew about Belmont, was that the students are pretty arrogant, but had a very good football team. Even though Parker is considered an uppity area as well, Belmont kids looked down on us like we were dog doo on the ground; mainly because of the rivalry of our football teams. So I guess word of advice for me, don’t tell anyone I’m from Parker. As I made a left turn toward the school, I remembered the phone call I had with Eva and Ashley earlier that morning.

“No matter where you are, you’re always going to be our girl,” Eva said.

“We got your back no matter what,” said Ashley.

I smiled at the nice things my girls said. I wished I was hanging out with them now, but there was no point dwelling on the past. As I pulled into a parking space, I looked around the parking lot and realized it looked like a scene out of a rap video. Every high priced car you could think of was in the lot. Convertibles, SUVs, and expensive two-seaters were all occupying spaces on the elaborate school grounds. Even though my metallic black Mustang is considered high-quality, it doesn’t hold a candle to my dream car: a BMW 528i. As I saw a black one pull up into a parking space a row near my car, I wonder how a teenager could get that type of car.

“Rich parents,” I said to myself as I got out of the car.

Really, I could consider myself a spoiled kid. Even though we‘re not rich, we’re living comfortably. My mom’s a lawyer while my dad’s an advertising executive at a prestigious advertising firm; so my friends always thought we were rich. If they thought I was, they needed to take a look at the scene I was witnessing at Belmont.

The school could be a duplicate for the rich kids you see on teen soaps. There were kids sitting on the lawn, and kids walking around talking on their cell phones. As I started to walk down the long sidewalk to the actual building, I had several eyes focusing on me. I wanted to ask people what they were staring at, but I didn’t want to be ignorant; so I kept walking.

As I approached the building, I looked over and noticed someone staring at me. This person I didn’t mind staring. He was too fine. He had one of those faces that would make any girl swoon. He had short blond hair that was spiked up a little. He had a nice body and the most beautiful eyes you’d ever seen. I couldn’t tell what color they were, but I could tell they were nice. As he looked at me, I gave him one of my sexy smiles and walked toward the building. As I was walking, I didn’t realize how close I was to the door. Good thing I noticed before I busted my face though it. I opened the door and went inside.

This could work out after all.

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Genre - Fiction

Rating – R

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Allegiance: Dragonics & Runics Part II by A. Wrighton @a_wrighton

Callon stared at the empty stein and whirled the lingering foamy froth about the glass. The tavern had not changed much from the stories. It still had the same drab walls with faded wood, though some places had started rotting through of late. It still had the unevenly lined stools with five spindly legs instead of four. And, the ale still seemed thinner than normal.

“Another.”

The barkeeper nodded and tapped the keg spigot. He sloughed off the tall foam head as he poured, one eye on Callon the entire time, but said nothing of it. Had he thought with his head and not his thirst, he would have considered the possibility that the barkeeper realized what he was. Had he stopped at just three ales, Callon might have considered that, because of his graying hair and hunched stance, the barkeeper might have known his father. But, he cared for nothing but the warm, fuzzy comforts hiding at the bottom of the stein in his hand – his sixth. It was something he always found funny, considering. Recognizing and connecting him to his father was about as likely as a Dragon being tamed by a woman. The only resemblance Callon had to his father was his temper and humor; he had his mother’s charming looks and the coincidence of his father’s rich brown hair was dismissive, at best.

No one ever knew he was Trent McKafrey’s son, unless they knew his real name.

“Long day?” The barkeeper asked as he slid the stein down the short distance to Callon’s perched hands.

“Long life.”

The barkeeper shrugged and set to wiping the bar top in a steady, swirling motion.

“Perhaps you should join those idiotic Rogues, then!” Grunted a husky voice from the nearby tables.

Callon glanced over his shoulder slowly, eyeing the man diagonally behind him. He was big –not in muscular structure, but rather the gut – shorter, and was easily heading towards the double digits in ales.

“Yeah, you… you’d make a great addition, I’d reckon. Not only is life too long for you, but you’re a whiny pip!”

Callon blinked, took a sip with his gaze solidly fixed on the fat man, and then returned his attention to the bar. He leaned onto the wood bar as he drank through the foam head of his ale.

“I heard the Rogues are so desperate to return to the gavasti-ridden storm this Realm was before the Chancellor, that they’re kidnapping children and murdering any who resist. Heard of this whole Brydellan tailor’s family that got wiped out except for the young daughter. Who, surprise, surprise, is now missing. And, we all know what Rogues do with women – can you imagine what they’d do to that little girl?”

The husky man’s drinking buddy laughed into his glass of straight alcohol. “In true McKafrey tradition, eh?”

“Bretzing McKafrey. That sorry excuse for a man was inspiration to all rakes and rogues. Take ‘em – rape ‘em – slave ‘em.”

As their laughter grew, the barkeeper leaned forward. His drew together tightly, as if he were tempted to say something about the establishment’s favorite and most-missed patron, but Callon waved a dismissive hand in his face. He tossed his head back, pounded his ale, slammed down the stein, and pushed back from the stool. The five legs scraped against the stone floor in an irritatingly loud pitch as he turned around to face the pair.

At well over six feet tall, Callon stood as a sizable foe with an even worse temper. He cracked his neck making sure to hit each vertebra. The dim lighting rendered the scar on his lower right cheek even more excruciatingly painful than he remembered it being as a child. It was a look that he often used to his advantage, even though he could not quite remember what foolish childhood errand had earned the long scar.  Callon stood, arms folded across his muscular chest, his brown shirt exposing a flash of the tattoo on his left chest. He stared through the pair as he shifted from leg to leg, sizing up the husky man and his dirt-covered companion. When his rapier hilts flashed in the lanternlight, he matched the flare with his own smile.

“Look who wants to dance, Fynn,” the husky man said, finishing off his ale.

“Be gone runt.” Fynn stood and smiled down at Callon.

The loud mouth made sense to Callon now, but it did not excuse it. He might be crass, brash, and a bit hot headed, but Callon preferred manners and politeness, even in the company of idiots. He exhaled and rested his hands on his hilts.

“Did I hit a delicate nerve, Puny One? It looks this little man is sensitive, Gol.”

“Do you need a moment?” Gol asked, smiling with a hole-filled grin.

Callon’s laugh started out soft, but grew to carry across the two-story tavern, amusement tweaking his face into a wide smile with every pair of eyes that fell on the standoff.  For the two men before him, with perhaps less than half a brain between the two, he knew better than to engage them. Their stupidity discredited any nonsense or rare logic they presented. But, he could not forgive the rub at his father. It was not that his father was a saint; he was far from it. But Callon held firm to the belief that you only insulted those who were able to fight back. For his father, he would have to stand in his stead. “You should be respectful of the dead, whether you liked them or not, Idiotic Ones.”

“Should we? And I suppose you and those little swords will make me?”

Callon nodded as he stepped away from the bar. As he walked closer to the pair, the table behind them and to the right of them stood, fingers twitching by their weapon belts. That made six. Six was doable. His record while buzzed, drunk, or some combination there of, was five but, he had been sick that fight and there was always room for improvement.

“And my men?”

Callon nodded again.

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Rating – PG-13

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Foreseen by Terri-Lynne Smiles @TLSmiles #Foreseen

This excerpt of Foreseen is from the first meeting between Kinzie and Melvina Whitacre, one of the leaders of the Rothston Institute, who explains how adepts are able to “guide humankind.”
“I think I understand,” I told [Mel]. “But I am not certain how that plays out.”
She paused for a moment, then set down her fork. “It comes down to what our limits are, Kinzie. We cannot cause someone to select an option they are strongly opposed to or would have never considered. And if the individual is emotionally invested in their choice, then it becomes nearly impossible for us to influence them to pursue other options. Take the genocide of the Tutsis in Rwanda in the early nineties. Are you familiar with that tragedy?” she asked. I shook my head, and she hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Hmm. Perhaps over your winter break, we will spend some time on that episode. It is informative as to how, when, and why we work, as well as what can go wrong. In that case, Rothston, along with one of our sister organizations overseas, attempted to avert an atrocity in which thousands of innocent people died. But due to the determination of the participants and the emotional frenzy that developed shortly before the massacre, we failed. On the other hand, if strong emotions are in play, we can easily influence decisions in ways that are consistent with the individual’s emotional state.”
My head swam with the idea that Rothston influenced global affairs – affected massacres! What role had they played in wars? Or in peace for that matter. It sounded like Rex was wrong about them not doing anything. Or at least, they tried.
“So, how do you decide when that should be done – influencing an outcome?”
“That is the question, dear,” Mel answered with a nod. “One that is vital for all adepts to understand. The adepts of Rothston and around the world adhere to a Minimal Intervention Policy which prohibits us from intervening in the affairs of the commons except when necessary to avoid a significantly dangerous or adverse outcome.”
I picked up the glass of iced tea in front of me, but before I drank, I asked again, “How do you know when that is?”
“Consider the Cuban Missile Crisis. A much better outcome than Rwanda. It is an example of both our Minimal Intervention Policy at work, as well as what we can accomplish. With the U.S. and Soviet Union on the brink of nuclear war, our adepts were positioned to influence both the White House and the Kremlin. But we did not act immediately. We waited until the results would be disastrous if we did not. At that point, it was important enough for us to influence the decisions being made.”
“But what if you had been wrong? What if you waited too long?”
She gave me a kindly smile. “Then you and I would not be sitting here sharing this delightful meal.

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Genre - Science, Fantasy, Thriller

Rating – PG-13

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Eternal by Denise Dowdell-Stent @valaoakley

1

Vala sighed, ran her fingers through her long auburn hair and checked her watch. Under normal circumstances, Vala enjoyed her Friday afternoon biology class but today was Halloween and she was counting the minutes.

Vala glanced at her best friend, Jelly. Jelly’s real name was Kathryn, but to her friends she was known as Jelly, owing to her appetite for Jelly Babies. Jelly also seemed distracted, gazing out of the window, twirling strands of her long blonde hair. Vala wished she could send her friend a text, but if she was caught using her phone during lessons, it would be a case of ‘use it and lose it’, as the school frequently reminded them. Vala’s gaze drifted to the window; it was already becoming dark and the wind was picking up, lifting autumn leaves into the air and propelling them into a chaotic yet strangely graceful dance.

The end of school bell sounded and Vala quickly packed up her belongings, heading for the lockers to collect the rest of her things and meet up with Jelly and Max. Max was the third member of their little ensemble. The three of them had been friends since primary school and had since stayed close, though Vala was acutely aware that this would be the last year they were all together like this. Next year Vala would be reading Psychological and Behavioural Sciences at Magdalene College in Cambridge; Jelly would be at a drama school in London and Max, like Vala, would also be in Cambridge at The Institute of Astronomy studying astrophysics.

“So, are my favourite girls ready for adventure tonight?” Max asked, placing an arm round Vala and Jelly.

“Somehow, Max, you manage to make the most innocuous comment sound pervy,” Jelly replied, rolling her eyes. “But to answer your question, I think we’re pretty much prepared.”

“Did you manage to get the EMF meter, Max?” Vala asked.

“Absofreakinglutely!” Max grinned. “And an infra-red camera. Also a night vision camera for each of us, should we actually spot anything.”

“So guys,” Vala said, “we’re meeting at my house 9pm sharp then heading over to Rise Hill Cemetery. Max is bringing the equipment, I’m bringing the grub, and Jelly’s bringing drinks—right?”

“Right!” Jelly and Max said.

“Can we nab a lift home with you, Max?” Jelly asked, kissing him on the cheek.

“Flattery will get you everywhere!” Max beamed.

Vala suspected that joking aside, Max’s feelings for Jelly ran deeper than friendship and that Jelly was aware of it too. She knew Jelly was in love with Max, but neither of them seemed able to openly admit their feelings, at least to each other. They simply carried on with flirtatious banter and gestures that never led to anything more complicated. Vala surmised that both Jelly and Max were apprehensive about taking things further in case it jeopardised their friendship.

The trio stepped out of the school building into the crisp air. Vala shivered as the dampness in the air clung to her skin, chilling her. The wind roared tempestuously, seeming to encircle each of the friends, grasping them in its icy clutches as though trying to engage them in a wild frenetic dance.

Vala looked up at the darkening sky beckoning to them ominously. Grey clouds were clustering together, forming an oppressive blanket that appeared, from Vala’s perspective, ready to bear down on them in mordacious hunger at any moment. Vala looked away, shaking her head in an effort to banish the unsettling thoughts and feelings that had started to surface.

Jelly looked at her friend, noticing her unease. “Are you alright, Vala?”

“Yeah, fine,” Vala said. “Let’s just get going.”

The two girls climbed into the back seat of Max’s cherry red Lexus Hybrid, while Max settled himself in the driver’s seat and started the ignition.

“Think it might be prudent to bring macs and wellies, girls,” Max said. “Assuming you actually own any practical clothing!”

Jelly reached over Max’s headrest and playfully swiped the top of his head.

“Aw Jelly; Max is going to be such a good daddy one day!” Vala said and laughed, before also taking a swipe at Max's head.

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Genre - YA Fantasy

Rating – PG 13

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Website http://www.eternaluk.com

Morgan’s Return by Greta van der Rol @GretavdR

In this scene from Morgan’s Return, Morgan and Ravindra and their party are booking into a hotel.

Ravindra gazed around the foyer, built to resemble a crashing wave. Light sparkled through translucent, sea-green glass that curved over the entire area. The carpet was the soft gold of sand. It almost felt like being underwater, in a sunlit grotto.

“Oh, this is a lovely spot, Marina. So clever of you to choose it.”

A group of new arrivals advanced on the reception desk. Ravindra stepped aside. The young woman with the too-loud voice was certainly attractive, but she didn’t match Marina. That had to be her in the centre, a glorious mane of golden hair cascading down her back. Her pale-blue dress draped around generous curves, dipping between her breasts. Silver sandals added even more height to long, shapely legs. Very nice. Very nice indeed. She met his gaze as she passed, her glance flicking over him while a slight smile curved full lips.

“I’m here.”

Ravindra started like a guilty schoolboy, while Morgan looked up at him with a wry smile on her face.

Marina and her party had reached the desk, where the staff fell over themselves to assist.

“Her name’s Marina Seabright. She’s an actor. Not currently in a relationship. Anything else you’d like to know?” Morgan’s face, and the tone of her voice, were both deadpan.

He frowned. “This woman has the best rooms in the hotel booked out.”

Her eyes twinkling, Morgan gazed up at him. “So you’ll have to settle for second best for a change. You should see your face.”

“Don’t push your luck, my dear,” he growled.

Still grinning, Morgan beckoned to a porter with a propulsion cart to bring the bags. After a short walk along a shade-dappled path, the young man opened the door of the apartment for them, brought the bags in, then left.

“So. Here we are.” Morgan wandered out onto a balcony.

Ravindra joined her, sucking in the salt-laden breeze as he gazed over a strip of golden beach. Fast-moving craft left foaming wakes in pale green water. Further out, sails provided drops of color in red and yellow, while groups of people dotted the sands. Closer by, a pool surrounded by lush plantings provided a cool oasis. “Nice. But I think we should get our business over and get out of here.” Anger still simmered. Who did that policewoman think she was?

Morgan snorted.

He spun her around to face him. “And I’ve had quite enough of you enjoying the spectacle. It will cease. Understood?”

***

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Genre - Science Fiction

Rating – PG-13

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Website http://gretavanderrol.net

Hostage by Kara Stefanowich @Karakazoo

3.

Her eyes opened slowly, smothering her vision with the late morning’s sun light. It streamed in from behind the curtains and through their cracks. Ivy could hear cars rolling down the street as everyone carried on with their ritualistic lives.

Pain swam around her temples. It hurt just to see. She blinked her eyes hard in an attempt to kill the pain, but of course, it remained.

It seemed only seconds after she awoke that she recalled the night’s excitement. It seemed clouded, though. Like a dream. The question of whether or not it was vanished when Ivy caught sight of the candles on the coffee table along with the George Michaels CD case.

“Holy shit, Stone.” Ivy spoke to herself out loud. “What the hell is going on?” Her mind raced and ached at the effort. Ivy realized her natural dose of paranoia was completely acceptable today. Her eyes darted around the room.

Eventually, Ivy managed to get to the bathroom and shower. It felt great to have the hot water running over her skin. Ivy lifted her face into the water and let it rain down over her.

It wasn’t the most glamorous bathroom in town, but she did what she could to make it livable. The tub was a fairly modern, cheap fixture. It was one of those tub/shower combo’s, the kind that attached to the wall. It was all white and had a glass, sliding door instead of a shower curtain. The fixtures in the bathroom were all silver. Even the tiny porcelain sink was white. Ivy always thought that the color white was the most boring color in the world. So she added some brightly colored towels and candles and things to give it a pop. Her towels had multicolored stripes. Yellow, magenta, green, and lavender filled the room. They seemed to be an endless rainbow of colors. At least she had a nice wooden cupboard under the sink, because other than that, there was nowhere to store anything. There wasn’t even a counter. She just figured that was as good as it gets for a studio apartment.

Once Ivy shut off the faucet and stepped out of the tub onto the white checkered linoleum floor, the cloudy mirror above the sink seemed to silently summon her attention. Her eyes fell over her own naked reflection. But as she stood there looking into the mirror, suddenly, the reflection changed. Ivy saw herself, but with a man standing behind her. In the mirror, Ivy was splashing water on her face, and the man was at her back, looming over her. His eyes were fixed on Ivy’s neck and his hands… his hands were slowly climbing up her back.

The entire vision only lasted a fraction of a second, but its power seemed endless. Ivy’s breath stuck in her throat. She shook her head and put a palm to her closed eye.

“Get a hold of yourself, Stone.” Ivy grumbled to herself. There was no way someone actually got into her apartment and fed her hallucinogens and then left. The whole idea was ridiculous. Maybe she lit the candles and put in the CD in her sleep or something. Hey, it could happen. Ivy rolled her eyes and sighed.

“I don’t have time for this. I’ve got things to do.” she said to herself. In about fifteen minutes Ivy was dressed, painted and ready to go.

The bulk of her money came from singing in nightclubs. It paid well. The only problem was that they didn’t like too many repeat performances. The customers got bored easily, so Ivy was constantly trying to come up with new music so that she wouldn’t have to move once a month. Though, frequent moves were, unfortunately, inevitable.

Today Ivy was going down to ‘The Bottom Feeder’ to see about getting a gig or two. ‘The Bottom Feeder’ was supposed to be the big dog of underground metal clubs in the area. Her goal wasn’t just to get a gig and pay a few bills, but it was mostly to find a band that thought she was worthy enough to lay claim to. It was a goal that had been lingering for too long.

The chill in the air seemed to remain still inside her GTO. It was old and the body of the timeless muscle car was worn and a little dented in several places, but Ivy loved her big black beast. It reminded her of herself. Old, beaten and battered, all before it’s time, yet it’s still going and still strong. The interior was worn out pretty good. The upholstery was original leather, or ‘pleather’, as Ivy liked to call it. You know, it wasn’t really leather, but some kind of plastic leather mixture that the company threw together to save some money. Anyway, it was tired and torn right down the middle of the passenger side seat in the back. Duct tape covered the guts of the seat that would have been spilling out, looking terrible. The duct tape wasn’t exactly factory direct, but it was good enough for Ivy. The shifter had that long silver bar that seemed endless compared to modern day vehicles. The shifter head was a black cue ball that Ivy had replaced the original with as it had gotten pretty worn out and eventually developed some kind of sticky dirt residue on it that she wasn’t fond of.

The engine started with a groan, and with a wiggle and pull of the shifter, she was on her way. About twenty minutes later Ivy was parked outside of ‘The Bottom Feeder’. The front door was actually on the side of the building, which was lined with an alley instead of a street. The words, ‘The Bottom Feeder’ glowed red in smaller print than expected for a club, just on top of a single rusted steel door. A couple of miscellaneous posters hung on the brick walls on each side of the door. Promotions for local bands, Ivy figured.

Ivy knocked on the cold door a couple times then opened it and peeked in. She’d never been there before so Ivy wasn’t sure what to expect. Especially at 12:45 in the afternoon. It was kind of dark inside but a string of small dull bulbs lit a stairwell leading almost straight down, like some kind of dungeon beyond the door.

Ivy followed them down to another long narrow hallway lit by the same string of small dull light bulbs. It was a little creepy, but creepy had always been right up her alley. What seemed like the longest, darkest hallway in the world finally came to another rusted steel door that was slightly ajar. Once again, Ivy knocked and then pushed it open. She walked into a huge, well, dungeon. The walls and floor were made of cobblestone. There was purple Christmas lights lining the ceiling beams and more scattered haphazardly along the walls. The bar kept an entire wall off to the right side. There were only a few tables outside of the bar that looked like they’d been through a tornado. A few too many bar room brawls, Ivy supposed.

A stage took the back wall. It stood about three feet off the main floor and was caged in chicken wire. An inner alarm went off in her head, but at the same time Ivy was a little wet with excitement.

“We’re closed!” A strong baritone voice boomed.

Ivy spun on her heels to see a very large man hovering in the doorway next to the bar’s end. The word ‘Office’ was written in what looked like permanent marker over the door.

“Hours are 5:00pm to 2:00am.” he said as he wiped his hands on a dirty hand towel, not paying her much attention.

“Are you the one to talk to about a gig?” Ivy asked with her own strong voice.

The big man’s tired face lifted. He looked Ivy up and down blatantly, huffed then mocked, “What, you?”

Ivy felt her stomach tighten a bit with the thought of being somewhere she didn’t belong. Ivy ignored it and allowed her nature of intimidation to hold her strength out on her skin. “Is that a problem for you?” She asked holding her ground firmly.

The big man chuckled a bit causing his gut to bounce. “Have a seat.” he said after a moment, motioning to a bar stool. “You got a band?”

“I have a guitar.”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “Lady, you’d have to be real fucking good to stand on that stage with no more than a microphone and a guitar in front of the kind of crowds we get.” he said antagonistically. “I don’t take real kindly to having to sweep up a lady’s eye balls at the end of the night.”

“I appreciate your concern, sir, but I don’t need it.” Ivy retorted with her own note of sarcasm. As Ivy spoke the sentence, he stood across from her on the other side of the bar with his hands palm down on top of it. He looked her straight in the face with his mouth slightly gaped open.

“Lady, either you’re the ballsiest woman I ever did see, or you’re that damn good.” He croaked.

“I’m that damn good.” Ivy replied. There was a silent moment.

“What’s your name?” the big man asked.

“Ivy Stone.” she answered.

A smile crept over the man’s aged face. His widow’s peak slunk back a bit. “Ivy Stone, huh? Come up with that yourself?” he laughed.

“As a matter of fact I did.” She answered proudly.

“What, Ivy because you’re no delicate flower and Stone, because that’s what the world made of ya?”  His vicious grin didn’t fade for a second. “I’m Hef. Short for Hefty. I think that’s pretty self explanatory.” he said holding out a hand to shake hers. Ivy took it and shook. “We’ve got a spot tonight at 11:45. If you live through it, there will be $200 waiting for you.” he said.

“Thank you.” Ivy turned and departed. That took care of the easy part.

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Genre - Paranormal Romance

Rating – R

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Website http://www.thrillsandchills.net/

Ocean’s Gift by Demelza Carlton @DemelzaCarlton

As soon as people found out I was back in Perth, I was subcontracting for another electrician I’d apprenticed with, installing air conditioning units, new lights and safety switches. I thought about the fishing charter I wanted to do, but couldn’t decide which one. Especially if I could get enough work in that week to get my house sooner. Fishing can wait, if it means one less shift listening to Dean’s fantasies. He always claims they really happened, but if he’s telling the truth, he’s had more sex than a porn star.

My phone rang. “Hello, this is Joe,” I answered automatically. I pulled a notepad out of the glove box of my ute, clicking a pen in readiness.

“Mate, it’s Dean.”

Speak of the devil.

“I finally heard from my cousin, the one with the charter boat.” He sounded excited.

Please, don’t let him want to come with me.

“One of his crew got injured, so he’s a man short during the fishing season. He won’t be doing charters for a few months, until he gets a new deckhand and finishes fishing up his quota.” Dean didn’t sound too depressed for me or his cousin.

“Oh, that’s too bad. Don’t worry about it.” I dismissed it. I never thought he or his cousin would come through with anything.

“How’d you like to fish for two months and get paid for it?” Dean burst out.

“What?” This has got to be a joke. It’s Dean, after all.

“I’m serious. My cousin’s a real experienced fisherman and he needs a deckhand for the rest of the season, the next two months. The pay’s good and all you have to do is fish.” He sounded thrilled at the prospect.

“Why don’t you do it? He’s your cousin,” I wondered aloud. There has to be a catch.

Dean was so excited, he was probably telling the truth without realising. “He won’t have me. I was over there for Easter last year and he told me if I got seasick on his boat again he’d throw me over the side for the sharks.”

I like his cousin already.

“So I told him about you. You told me you know your way around a boat, and he thinks you’ll be perfect!”

I hesitated. He probably sold me as the descendant of Captain Cook, Columbus and Captain Jack Sparrow. “Now look, crewing a boat out to Rottnest and some kayaking on the Swan River isn’t like handling a fishing boat offshore…”

“Nah mate, you’ll be great. You’ll get to go fishing every day, your food and accommodation are provided, what else could you ask for?” Dean sounded like he was trying to sell it to me.

The certainty that you didn’t just pull this out of your arse?

“Look, he needs someone as soon as possible. How soon can you get up here?”

Dean’s in Geraldton, then.

“I could finish up at the end of the week and fly up on Sunday,” I told him reluctantly.

“Cool, I’ll get my cousin to sort out your flights and he’ll meet you out on the islands. You can see how it goes the first week and if it works out you get paid to go fishing for the rest of your holidays. Seeya.” He hung up.

Shit. What’ve I got myself into? Knowing Dean, this was going to be a disaster. Oh well, next trip I can always get back at him by putting huge spiders in his swag. He’s terrified of them, but he always forgets to zip his swag up properly. And he screams like a girl when he finds them, too.

What’s the worst that can happen? A week on a free fishing charter and possibly getting paid to fish for weeks after it. And if it didn’t work out, the next three months of seeing Dean do a high-pitched jig every night when he found spiders in his swag. Hell, there wasn’t a downside that I could see.

I started writing down a list of things to pack.

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Genre - Australian sea adventure,contemporary urban fantasy,paranormal romance

Rating – PG 13

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Blog http://www.demelzacarlton.com/

Standing Stark: The Willingness to Engage by Carla Woody @CarlaWoody1

Substitution
Words are the shell. They feed intellectual knowledge. What lies in the middle of words is the seed that, if presented and embraced in a certain way, will take us to the place we seek. But words in and of themselves are worthless, like so many knickknacks we may collect and leave on a shelf to gather dust, if we are unable to move beyond them.
For the purpose of making a point, I’m going to offer a distinction between hearing and listening. We’ll regard hearing as the mechanical process of sound hitting the apparatus that then filters through to register in our brains; within whatever paradigms we’ve already developed. The brain quickly sorts the sound or series of words into what appears to be the relevant slot in order to determine logic. However, when something is boxed in, other things are locked out.
Listening is the process whereby we are able to admit a further awareness than the one first taken in through the sonar signal. Listening actively ignores cognitive dissonance, if there is any, to see how there may be relevance—instead of involuntarily determining how there isn’t.
After all, if we’re on the spiritual path, we can trust that there is much we don’t know. These mysteries are hidden from us until we are ripe. The paradox is that we frantically attempt to know in order to surrender to the place of not knowing! The other paradox is that there are no mysteries because the cues are surrounding us all the time. We’re just too tied up to recognize them.
In order to be open to the deeper awareness, the possibility resident in the word-seed, we need to be in a state of receptivity. Instead, we more often take the words, and through our limited education, create conjectures that lead to certain expectations of what is meaningful, good, right and true.
Expectation is related to control. Control is related to fear. When we control, through convoluted strictures, the nature of our comprehension, we merely exhibit our fear. Our fear-based, narrow understandings are released through the mind like so much perfume, and we only notice what we expected coming back to us through the attraction of what we emit. In this way, we generate our own limited happiness, disappointment, sadness, anger, confusion and general heaviness. We perpetuate this process automatically—unless we consciously seek to break the cycle.
Too often when a spiritual teacher is speaking to a group, I have seen some of those present scribbling furiously in notebooks or journals, thereby splitting their attention. How can we write and really listen at the same time? I have also heard people ask a plethora of questions, or make comments, most often having little to do with the real depth of the words given.

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Genre – Nonfiction, Spirituality

Rating – PG

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Quality Reads UK Book Club Disclosure: Author interview / guest post has been submitted by the author and previously used on other sites.

High Cotton by P J Dunn @pjdunn49

It was Monday, July 7, and the auction was to take place the next day. The crew was to prepare the Negros for the inspection of the buyers, a sometimes cruel event none of the slaves was prepared for. This day the prep would begin. All slaves would be washed and scrubbed mercilessly, both males and females. All the hair would be shaved from the body, a process called smoothing. Any cuts, sores or scars would be covered with a mixture of grease and black tar to hide any imperfections. Then the entire body would be rubbed down with grease or fat to make it shine. Once ready for show, the slave would be ushered to the auction block. Standing before the buyers, naked, and being examined, probed and prodded, over the entire body was a most dehumanizing event for males as well as females. The younger males commanded higher bids if the private parts were large in size and the females likewise were more lucrative if they were virgin. The auction moved very quickly. The most desirable were males 12 to 18 years old, strong and agile. The females 14 to 16 years old, virgin, and having the appearance of good childbearing capabilities, were also in high demand.

 

It was Manni’s turn on the block. Several buyers showed interest, especially because he could speak Dutch, and appeared to be rather intelligent. Captain Hannibal did not want to see Manni at auction, and Tamar begged him to please reconsider, but his rationalization was ‘business is business.’ The price paid for Manni, though he had just turned thirteen years old, was the highest of the day, by almost double. He had many years of potential usefulness ahead of him, and was “A good purchase.” the buyer said. Manni was tagged and taken to a holding pen, much like cattle. There, he was branded with the plantation’s logo. The pain from the red-hot iron was excruciating. Grease was then applied to the brand to mainly prevent infection, but it also helped ease the pain.

 

The auction being completed, the buyers made their way to the holding pens to claim their property. A well-dressed man, looking to be fairly young, and a young lady approached the pen where Manni waited. The man walked toward Manni and pointed to him, without speaking, and motioned him to come with him. Manni was very Uncomfortable being naked in front of the young lady, but she didn’t seem to mind. After all, he was just property. Manni was handed over to a large Negro man and put on the back of a wagon with three others, one man and two women. He was given a shirt and a ragged pair of pants, but at least he was no longer naked. There was no talking as the wagon began the journey to their new home. Leaving the slave market, Manni saw other slaves he recognized from the Albatross, on wagons and some walking to begin their new life.

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Genre – Historical fiction

Rating – PG

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Blog http://www.pjdunn.tumblr.com/

Author Interview - S.P. Cervantes @spcervantes

When you are not writing, how do you like to relax? I like to run or go to the beach and read a good book.  That would be a perfect day.  My kids could even join me as long as they could ensure no fighting.
How often do you write? And when do you write?  I try and write every weekend during the “school year”.  There are times when life takes over and I have to take a break for a month or two, but I always try and get something down.  Summertime is my most productive time because I don’t have the guilt of ditching my kids to write, but can write every afternoon into the evening.
What do you hope people will take away from your writing? How will your words make them feel?  I hope when people read my books they feel like they were able be swept away into another world for a while and relax, fall in love, and have fun.
What’s your favorite meal?  Linguini with clam sauce, garlic mashed potatoes, and wine.
What color represents your personality the most?  Purple.  I love it.  It makes me happy, and looks good on everyone.
What movie do you love to watch?  I love romance movies, but I could watch Lord of the Rings, Return of the King a thousand times.
If you could do any job in the world what would you do?  Be a full time author!
What makes you angry?  Mean people.  I you ask anyone who knows me, my family, friends, kids, students, they will all tell you my number one rule is be kind.  I can’t stand when people are rude, mean, or inconsiderate…especially for no reason.  Grumble!
Are you a city slicker or a country lover?  I have never lived in the country, and only a short time in the city.  I love visiting both!!
What’s your next project?  I have a few.  The Prophecy (Secrets of Shadow Hill, #2) has just been released.  I am expecting 3^rd novel in the series to come out in early fall 2014 called War of Wizards.  I am also in the final stages of completing my first Contemporary Romance/New Adult novel, which should be released in Spring, 2014.
Excerpt
Ava
I was bawling. I couldn’t speak as I leaned my forehead on Dalton’s chest. I couldn’t even think as my fear overwhelmed me. The tears easily flooded from my eyes.
Dalton hugged me as we sank to the floor. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered as he brushed my hair off my face.
I got a little angry as I sobbed. “No Dalton, you don’t know if it’s going to be okay, so will everyone stop saying that. I’m not two!” I had to stop this crying and channel it into anger…power!

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Genre - YA Romantic Fantasy

Rating – PG-13

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Indiestructible: Inspiring Stories from the Publishing Jungle by Jessica Bell, Melissa Foster, Susan Kaye Quinn, Leigh Talbert Moore, Anne R. Allen, Cindy M. Hogan, Dawn Ius, Michelle Davidson Argyle, Roz Morris @MsBessieBell

*deep breath*

—dreaming about writing not only the great American novel, but that very special book that launches you onto the New York Times Bestseller list and gives you the freedom to, yes, quit that day job and write. Full time. Preferably with a glass of expensive champagne and a well-done steak.

Don’t be ashamed. It’s okay to dream big. To want what Stephen King has. Success, an impressive publishing track record. Money. You’re not selling out.

Let’s face it, writing doesn’t always pay—at least not with cold hard cash. You type until your fingers bleed, suffer writerly doubt of mass proportions, drink until you find the courage to send your masterpiece off, and then fret until you receive yet another rejection. In the meantime, your spouse, your kids, your mother, your conscience, are questioning why you don’t get a “real job.”

But writing is your job, you think. So the trick, of course, is to figure out how to make that job pay.

Good news, writerly friends. Your book does not need to land on the New York Times Bestseller list for you to be a successful author. You don’t have to secure a contract with one of the Big 5 publishers. You don’t even need an agent to make your mark in the ever-changing publishing world.

What you actually need is creativity.

More great news, right? Creativity seeps out your pores, pumps through your veins. Creativity is your lifeblood!

Excellent. Now tap into that lifeblood and start thinking outside the box. Look for unique opportunities. Because the answer to your mac and cheese dilemma might be closer than you think. It was for me.

I started writing fiction at 16. My first book is a really, really bad romance about an innocent crush I had on a carnie. Yeah, gross. I shudder thinking about it. “Stan” worked the Gravitron, that ridiculous circular ride that acts like a tilt-a-whirl on steroids. Even today, I can’t go near one without throwing up a little in my mouth. My second novel is about a wizard-in-training, which in retrospect was about 15 years ahead of its time. Damn you, J.K. Rowling.

My mother nicknamed me “Alice” in high school (aka: her dreamer), and my father, begrudgingly, bought me one of those old-fashioned desks so many writers dream about. But even I, naïve “Alice,” soon recognized that writing books wasn’t going to pay the bills when I moved away from home. I needed a back-up plan.

I ventured into journalism, where I eventually covered everything from organized crime to pig farming, and became the editor of several diverse publications. My articles were published in national and international magazines, including Cosmopolitan and Soap Opera Weekly. No big bucks there—but I began collecting skills: writing to deadline, research, editing and dealing with controversy.

I went from journalism to communications, finding my stride in a myriad of agriculture-related projects with million-dollar budgets. I managed a team of professionals, worked with some of the most inspirational and creative people I have ever met—and banked anywhere from 60 to 80 hours a week. Stuck in the corporate wheel, I couldn’t carve out a single minute for fiction—after so many hours crafting press releases, briefings, proposals, website content, marketing text, the last place I wanted to be at the end of the night was in front of my computer. At the time, it didn’t seem to matter. I was making great money—I even bought a sports car. My professional toolbox was brimming with skills: crisis management, technical writing, advanced editing, public relations, human resources, working under pressure, teamwork, and the list goes on.

But I’d crept further and further from the dream of writing that #1 New York Times Bestselling novel.

Fortunately for me, my then boss was a smart man. My position came with a professional development fund, and from that, he sent me to my first Maui Writer’s Conference where I studied with Gary Braver, a bestselling medical thriller author. He changed my life. Now a mentor and friend, Gary was the first person to point my career back to my passion—writing.

I quit my job, got married. And hubs suggested I take a year off to focus on writing. What a supportive man, right? I developed a routine—I woke up early and sent him off to work, went for a run, showered and turned on my computer. I wrote for a few hours, ate lunch and watched TV for an hour, then back at it until dinner.

This lasted a whopping four weeks.

The third time I had to ask my husband for coffee money was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. I went back to work—part time, at first. But I’ve discovered that I’m an all-in kind of girl.

I shoved the writing dream to the back of my brain and re-entered the corporate chaos. A year later, I went back to Maui on my own dime and studied with the amazing thriller writer, Steve Berry. He kicked my ass—not just with his redline editing, but with his ambition, and his commitment. Not only was Steve a full-time writer, he was also a full-time lawyer. Married. Kids. Not to mention, involved in a myriad of side projects. Plus, he found time to golf.

How could I expect to be a successful writer if I was doing nothing for my craft other than reading Stephen King’s memoir and hanging out with big name authors in Hawaii?

I couldn’t.

Back in reality, I pondered my options, growing more depressed by the day. Until one day, something amazing happened.

I went for lunch with a former contact from my agricultural days and she told me about a dream project she had in mind—a kid’s picture book to share the amazing story of Canada’s first canola farmer. Though she wanted an educational slant, her primary concern was simply a good story. I convinced her to give me the job.

Today, I am under contract with the Alberta Canola Producers’ Commission to write 10 of these educational storybooks, each of which is in every elementary school library in Canada. Every week, I blog as the main character in the book, Chase Duffy, as well as maintain his Twitter and Facebook accounts. It’s the kind of marketing we all do for our personal projects, except I get paid for it.

In the next couple of years, the books will have accompanying videos, curriculum guides for teachers, and a phone app. Plus, I will have visited hundreds of schools reading the books, talking about reading and writing to young kids, and presenting the series at teacher’s conventions—all of which I am paid for from an approved, and impressive, budget.

In fact, by the end of the series, the Alberta Canola Producers’ Commission will have invested nearly $1 million on a character I created.

*deep breath*

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Genre –  Non-fiction

Rating – G

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Blog http://thealliterativeallomorph.blogspot.com/

Don’t Look Away by Leslie Kelly @lesliekelly

Excerpt from

DON’T LOOK AWAY

By

Leslie Kelly

“Let’s go,” Ronnie told her partner.

Daniels put his hands up, too, and opened his eyes. The bags under them spotlighted his weariness, not to mention his hangover. Ronnie was seriously going kick his butt later for showing up on the job in such a pathetic state, especially on a day like today, which was shaping up to be a really shitty one. Bad enough on any normal day when they were rounding up the latest gang-enforcer or Pure V dealer, Pure V being the hottest new street drug, a cheap variation of Vicodin. But it was much worse now, when they had to come to this side of town and undergo a thorough inspection.

After they had been given the nod by the sergeant in charge, they stepped out into the bright sunshine, and were each immediately approached by different security teams.

“Sloan, D.C. Police,” she said as soon as one of the men reached her, his weapon still trained on her head. Another soldier stood directly behind his left shoulder, and a third was holding the leash of a thick-chested, sharp-toothed K-9.

Never lowering his semi-automatic, the first soldier held out his other hand. She passed over her badge and photo I.D., then moved away from the car for a thorough search. Both of the vehicle,  and of her.

He examined her badge. The gun came down. But he didn’t holster it.

His mouth barely moving, and his face expressionless, he asked, “Weapon?”

She nodded. “Glock. Rear holster.” Ronnie knew better than to reach back and offer it up herself, which was why she hadn’t made any proactive move toward it before exiting the car. Her head would have been a slushy pile of brain and bone on the sidewalk the second these hard-nosed troops had seen a weapon in her hand.

“Take off your jacket.”

She did, glad to lose the extra weight of the dark, city-issued clothing. Ronnie missed the way she had dressed during her early years as a detective—the pre-2017 days of wearing street clothes on the job. But the way the whole country demanded confirmation and re-confirmation of every person’s identity, she figured it wasn’t surprising that every cop now had to be in uniform. All the way up to the Chief of the National Department of Law Enforcement.

“Spread.”

Assuming a customary position, she went completely still, arms extended at her sides, legs apart. Without saying a word, the men got to work. One of the soldiers removed the 9 mm and spare clip off her back and stepped away to examine them. Another appeared out of nowhere with a digital scanner. He passed it over her upper arm like it was a can of beans at the grocery store, looking for the microchip that was implanted in the arm of every law-abiding American citizen.

The non-law-abiding ones didn’t like them so much.

Neither did the civil rights fanatics who had been among the loudest screaming against the idea several years ago when the government had first tried to get its citizens to voluntarily submit to implantation.

Glancing at the data on the tiny screen, the soldier nodded toward the sergeant. “Identity confirmed. Sloan, Veronica Marie, born Arlington, Virginia, January 5, 1993.”

One step closer. But still not done.

Clipping a state-of-the-art, super-powerful sensor to his hand, the sergeant moved in beside her. He was so close she could feel his breath on the side of her face and smell the sausage he’d had for breakfast.

“Don’t move.” He bit the words out from a jaw so tight it could have been used to crack a walnut.

She was tempted to promise she wouldn’t, but that would constitute moving her mouth and she really didn’t want to get shot or clubbed today. So she just stood there waiting for him to finish.

Showing no emotion, he ran the miniscule device over her entire body, his hand less than a centimeter away from her clothes. If he got any kind of thrill off of scraping his palm across her nipples, he at least had the courtesy not to show it.

 

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Genre - Thriller

Rating – R

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Website http://www.leslieAkelly.com/

Corr Syl The Warrior by Garry Rogers (Excerpt)

Corr Syl

Corr decided to refuse the council appointment.  He would assure the council that they could depend on him, but because of his imminent departure they would have to choose another warrior as their agent.

Corr looked around his room at his collections of feathers, leaves, and weapons, his unfinished sketch of Rhya, the pile of pebbles and twigs that one day might form a recognizable shape, and the deep green ivy completely covering one wall.  He started chewing a handful of seeds and dried fruit and clicked the test circuit on the miniature recorder-communicator mounted on his shoulder strap.  As he lowered his hand, he brushed the pouch holding the high-energy weapon he carried for emergencies.  All warriors carried the weapons, but no one practiced with them.  Corr shivered.  To hit anything, he would have to blast the surrounding landscape.  He would never do that.

Corr lifted his weapons harness from its peg on the wall and began appraising his current story stream.  With friends, Corr listened for the right moment to tell a story.  One stream of thought usually worked on a new story or revised an old one.  He filed stories away and waited for a chance to try them on friends.  His considered how he would segue into his latest story the next time he saw Rhya.

The idea came from a picture.  Once, Corr’s mother took a framed picture down from the wall and stood it before the two-year old rabbit.  The frame held a rubbing made from an etching of a long-eared rabbit with a great bushy tail.  As Corr looked, he raised his hands and felt his much smaller ears.

“This warrior rabbit lived long ago,” said Corr’s mother.  “The large ears probably helped him hear and keep cool.  No one knows for sure why he had such a large tail.”

A geologist had found the etching sandwiched between layers of sedimentary rock.  Corr’s parents gave him the picture when he completed warrior training.

In Corr’s new story, a warrior struggled to kill Ankalagon, a deadly predator whose fossils occurred in the same layers of sedimentary rocks as the etching.

Paleontologists often found a sharp gouge on the dens, a small bony projection in Ankalagon’s neck.  The dens extended from the rim of the second cervical vertebra up into the ring of the atlas, the first vertebra at the base of Ankalagon’s skull.  The dens served as an anchor for ligaments that held the skull in place and kept it from twisting too far.  A heavy bony extension of the atlas protected the dens and the precious spinal cord beneath.

The picture had given Corr the idea for the story’s theme:  Behavior could outlive shape.  Corr decided to make the main character female like Rhya; the District’s only other rabbit warrior.

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Genre –  Science Fiction

Rating – PG

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Website http://garryrogers.com/

Dead Men Kill (Stories from the Golden Age) by L. Ron Hubbard

“Police!” cried Gordon into the receiver.

If Jackson heard, he gave no sign. His hard, glassy eyes, sunken and horrible, were fixed on his victim’s throat. Gordon stared up and caught the odor which had assailed him from the first. It was the smell of moist earth mingled with the perfumes of the undertaking parlor. The stench of the grave!

“I have come to kill you, Gordon!” repeated the murderer. It was as though this phrase was all that remained in the man’s mind.

“My God, Jackson! Get away!” Too late, Gordon tried to scramble out from behind his desk.

Jackson lunged, hands convulsing. When the sunken eyes were a foot away from Gordon’s, the fingers snapped down on the victim’s throat. There was a shriek and the crash of the overturned chair. Gordon whipped about, writhing under the maniacal strength of the hands.

Shuddering sobs were coming from the victim’s distorted mouth. Slowly the body under the hands relaxed and lay still. Jackson’s fingers still clutched the throat.

Seconds ticked by before the murderer moved. Then, with his expressionless face turned toward the door, he walked slowly from the room.

Terry Lane

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Genre - Mystery/Zombie

Rating – PG13

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Website http://www.galaxypress.com/

Chasing the Lost by Bob Mayer

The man blinked. “Old Doc Cleary owns that land. You related to him?”

“No.” And why Old Doc Cleary had deeded it to his mother was a question that Chase was going to find an answer to. It was a double lot, a little over three acres, stretching from Brams Point Road in front, across a hundred yards of scattered palmettos and scrub to the house, and then a short, sloping backyard of dying grass. It ended at a two-foot-high steel sea wall and a hard-packed beach whose width depended on the tide, and beyond that was the Intracoastal Waterway.

“No one can live there,” the man said. “The house is—”

“I live here now,” Chase cut him off.

“I’ll give you two million for the lot. And the house, even though it isn’t worth shit since the storm put that tree down on it. Hell, it wasn’t much of a house to start with. Have to raze that piece of crap, anyway.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Chase could still see the woman. Long, lean legs. Tanned. Perhaps a dancer. His mind went back beyond Sylvie; she reminded him vaguely of images of his mother, a dancer too, the memory from his hazy childhood. She stood where the gravel driveway met pavement, not hiding her interest about what was going on in the slightest. The kid, however, had become bored, and was peddling away down the street.

“I said two million,” the man repeated.

“Heard you,” Chase said. “Not interested.”

“Listen, you motherfucker, take the money or I’ll—”

Chase made up the ground between the two of them in less than three seconds, in which time the man brought the gun up and aimed it. Chase clamped his hand on the man’s wrist and twisted, the gun falling to the ground with a clatter. He shoved the man back and away from the weapon.

That should have been it, but the fire-plug guy dropped his beer, grabbed a golf club from one of the bags in the trunk, and came forward. In a smooth movement, Chase went to one knee, scooping up the gun, cocking it, flipping off the safety and aiming it right between the man’s eyes. The man froze, eyes wide, club over his head.

“Good boy,” Chase said. “Down.” The man lowered the club and backed up.

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Genre – Thriller

Rating – PG

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Website http://www.bobmayer.org/

Tempted: The Dark Hart Chronicles (Book 1, Excerpt) by Alexandra Anthony

***

I hadn't expected to have a voice mail like this one waiting for me.  I was exhausted, kicking off my heels as soon as I'd locked the door behind me.  The light flashing on my phone alerted me to a message.  I pressed the button for my voicemail and let the message play through the speaker.

"Savannah, this is Elliott Winters.  I'd like you to stop by my office tomorrow around 11.  I have a job opportunity I'd like you to interview for...one of my clients is in need of a personal assistant.  This interview will be a two step process."

The message droned on to give me other basic information about the meeting.  The client’s name was never revealed.

And that is how I came to be standing in the bathroom of Elliott Winters office building, adjusting my blouse in the mirror and leaning in closer to apply a thin coat of nude lipstick.  Rubbing my lips together, I smiled widely at my own reflection.  My blond hair was expertly tousled and my make-up was impeccable.  It was important...no, it was a must that I looked perfect for this interview.  I knew I wasn't taken seriously in this business for quite a few reasons.  My blond hair, blue-eyed good looks and plentiful curves made me seem like every other bubble headed actress wannabe.  God knows I'd been approached more than I could count on both of my hands twice.  The casting couch didn't just apply to actresses.  It also applied to washed up teenage models who wanted a career instead of being a mindless, needy fool.

I'd been the personal assistant to up and coming singer, Sam Stricker for nearly three years.  After his fourth failed, highly publicized stint in rehab had crushed his fledgling career, I'd had no choice but to walk away before he managed to drag me down with him.  He was a nice guy, but he'd let his addiction to alcohol, cocaine and hookers demolish the good-guy image he'd tried so desperately to construct.  It crumbled around him faster than a house of cards in an earthquake.

That was Hollywood for you.  Being famous was a smoke and mirrors game.  It was fickle, fleeting and if you weren't careful, you'd be yesterday's news in the blink of an eye.  Personal assistants were on first name basis with the paparazzi.  We knew when we needed to call to arrange a ‘surprise’ photo op to help bolster your employer's image.  I was lucky to have a best friend in the business.

You either played the game or threw in the towel and went home.

When I called Elliott early this morning to confirm, he refused to tell me who his client was, only telling me they needed a new PA and he wanted to know if I was interested in finding out more.

Of course I was intrigued and Elliott was savvy enough to know I would be.  I had to land this job for more reasons than one.  My self-inflicted unemployment had me burning through my savings.  And yes, I could live off my Daddy's money, but I'd never wanted a free ride.  And this job could propel me career-wise.  In five years, I wanted to be representing clients.  This job was an all around win/win for me.

With a final sigh, I turned away from the mirror and glanced at my watch.  I had five minutes to spare before my interview.  Plastering on my emergency smile, I pushed the butterflies down and smiled a final time at my reflection.

I could do this.

Let's get this over with.  I have to get this job, I thought to myself.  Yanking the door open, I strode purposely down the hallway to Elliott Winters office.  The initial interview would be between Elliott and myself.  If I passed the crucial first phase, the next step was to meet with the mysterious client, hoping I'd be able to win their approval as well.

Drawing a deep breath, I entered the agent's office.  A gaunt faced receptionist glanced up and did her best to arrange her mouth into something that resembled a smile but made her appear constipated.  Another case of too much Botox and more than likely, too much Adderall.

"Can I help you?"

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Genre – Erotica

Rating – R

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Website http://www.alexandra-anthony.com/

BoX by Lucas Heath

1: Marsha and Barry

The room was a cube. It was twenty feet in height, length, and width, and the walls seemed to glow a stunning white that surpassed the purity of freshly fallen snow. There were no windows, no doors, and no blemishes of any kind, just solid walls that boxed the young girl inside with no way of escape.

Her fragile body lay sprawled upon the solid white ground, shaking from cold. Fear had yet to settle in, for she had not yet awakened.

As time ticked away, her eyes finally opened and her head jerked up from the floor of her prison. Her head pivoted and tilted as she surveyed her surroundings. The beat of her heart began to quicken as she came to the realization of her predicament.

She remembered her identity, and where she was from, though why she was in this strange place escaped her memory. She sat up and grabbed at her neck, letting trembling fingers glide across the soft tan skin. A bump where somebody had stuck a needle found its place underneath her index finger and she rubbed at the spot, ignoring the pain. She had been drugged, though the reason why someone would do this eluded her.

Panic threatened to kick in. The fight or flight instinct gripped at her heart, but with a deep breath she pushed the feelings away. Her father had always said, "Marsha, fear is an illusion that makes you weak. You either learn to control it, or it will control you." She agreed with that statement and made destroying fear in her life a goal.

Marsha slowly stood up and felt her legs wobbling underneath her. Using the wall for support, she steadied herself and took another deep breath, letting it out slowly. A pedestal in the very center of the room drew her attention. Sitting atop the square stand was a single pistol, though she had no idea what kind it was, or if it was even loaded.

Deciding to avoid the deadly device, Marsha turned toward a wall and ran her hands over it. It was smooth like marble and radiated a luminescent light that gave the room its glow. If it weren't for these walls, floor, and ceiling, she would be shrouded in darkness. She followed the wall around the entirety of the cube, feeling for any switches or hidden panels, though she didn't find anything.

She finally leaned against and slid down a wall until her bottom hit the ground. She rested her head against her knees and began to cry.

****

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Genre –  Thriller / SciFi

Rating – PG13

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Website http://lucasheathbooks.com/