Storytime Wednesday: Eminent Domain by Erin O'Riordan and Tit Elingtin

Welcome to the last edition of Storytime Wednesday, where we enchanted your imagination or teased your senses, with featured stories and book excerpts.


Today's guest writers are a pair of authors, Erin O'Riordan and Tit Elingtin who bring an excerpt from their novel, Eminent Domain.
 
 

An Excerpt from Eminent Domain

 

After Jeff finished his meal he moved up to the bar. He sat on the bar stool he called his "Norm seat." Steve was bartending. He said, "Hey buddy, how’s it going?"

"Good, Steve. How have you been?" Jeff asked.
"What can I get you?" Steve said.
"Guinness, please, and a shot of Gentleman Jack."
Jeff loved talking with Steve. He sat there drinking for a hour. Kendra called while he was at the bar and they talked for a while too. Jeff told her about his fishing adventure and said he would call her when he got home. It was a little after eight o’clock, and Jeff decided to call it a night. "You can total me out," Jeff said to Steve, giving him his credit card. Jeff wrote $300 in the tip slot and gave Steve instructions: "You keep a hundred. Give Jim and Jenny a hundred each, okay?"
"Wow! You bet, Jeff," Steve said.
Jeff said his goodbyes to everyone and went to the back door. It was raining. He paused there, thinking about calling a cab for the four-block journey. Jenny came around the corner.
"Thanks, hun, for the tip. That was awesome. You have no idea how much I needed it."
Jeff said, "No problem. You deserve it. Are you going out for a smoke?"
"No, going home. I’m done for the night. What are you doing?" Jenny asked.
"It’s raining. I’m thinking about calling a cab. It’s too cold to walk home wet.”
"I’ll give you a ride. Come on.”
Jeff didn’t hesitate. He followed Jenny out to her car, parked nearby. She pushed the unlock button on her key fob and they jumped in out of the rain.
Jeff said, "I live on Cedar Street. The bridge is in my front yard."
"I know where you live. I’ve been there before," Jenny said.
Jeff looked surprised. Jenny said, "When Lex lived there I was there a few times. Please don’t say anything, but I think it’s awful how he’s treated you and Kendra."
Jeff said, "I won’t say anything. Thank you. He’ll learn someday. I can’t be invested in him anymore. He treats me like I’m second class and I won’t put up with that."
Jenny said, "I don’t blame you. I have to stay out of it since he’s my boss." Jenny pulled into Jeff’s driveway and turned off her car. "I’d love to see what it looks like now that you’ve finished it," she said.
Jeff stopped, his hand on the door handle. "I’d love to let you, but Kendra’s not here. I’ve always had a thing for you, Jenny, but Kendra and I have an agreement: no one of the opposite sex in the house without the other one being here. I love her too much to break my rule. I’m sorry. I hope you understand."
"Kendra’s a lucky woman to have you," Jenny said.
"You tell her that next time you see her. She knows I like you. She’ll be fine with knowing you said that. She’ll know you brought me home. I tell her everything." Jeff winced, knowing he was keeping a big secret from Kendra. He exited the door and said, "You have a good night, Jenny. Thanks for the ride."
"Thank you for the tip!" Jenny said.
Jeff went into the house. Grabbing his cell phone from his pocket he called Kendra. "Hi, baby. I miss you." He told her everything that had happened since they last talked. They talked for an hour. Jeff sat in what he called “The Helm,” a bay window area on the second floor that looked out to the river. He sat in his favorite chair, drinking Jack Daniels, and passed out.


ABOUT ERIN O'RIORDAN:
Erin O'Riordan lives in the Midwestern United States with her husband and co-author Tit Elingtin. Her short stories, essays, and film reviews have been published in numerous magazines and websites.
Readers can view more of her work at http://www.aeess.com/

ABOUT TIT ELINGTIN:

Tit Elingtin is a warrior by nature, ready to argue or fight for the disenfranchised at a moment's notice. He takes no prisoners, crushes his enemies and loves deep and hard. Tit expects his friends to be loyal to the truth above all. He describes his philosophical views like this: "As the river flows, it is as one. We are as the mist of the waterfall, joining others and separating as we fall to be one with the river once again."







Eminent Domain by Erin O'Riordan and Tit Elingtin is also available through Smashwords

Storytime Wednesday: Violet's in Bloom by Glory Lennon

Welcome to Storytime Wednesday, where we will enchant your imagination or tease your sense, with featured stories and book excerpts.


Today's guest writer is Glory Lennon with an excerpt from her serialized paranormal romance novel, Violet's in Bloom.
 
 

An Excerpt from Violet’s in Bloom:

Prologue: Death of a Firefighter

“Emily! I gotta get Emily!” the distraught mother screamed as two firefighters held her back.
“Where is she?” Richard shouted. He could barely make himself heard over the screeching sirens, over the bellows from Captain Frankfort and the roar of the flames eating the building in front of them.
“She’s upstairs, last room at the end of the hall. Her dog is with her. Please, let me get her. She won’t come with you. Please!” the woman screamed.
“She’ll come. I have a way with little girls,” Richard assured, smiling at her. He released her then ran into the smoke filled building after pulling on his mask and helmet.
“Ramrod, don’t!” Jake yelled, doubling his efforts to restrain the woman. “You can’t go in alone!”
But too late. Richard was through the doorway and enveloped instantly in billowing black smoke. Flames everywhere, he darted as a beam slammed into the floor from above. He sprinted up the stairs, also aflame, down the hall and...Damn it! The door was locked. Once, twice, thrice he rammed the door with all his strength and it smashed open. Flashlight in hand he scanned the room. Luckily it wasn’t entirely filled with smoke yet but there was no one anywhere to be seen.
“Emily! Your Mama’s looking for you. Come on out, Sweetie. You can’t stay here,” he shouted as he searched under the bed and behind the desk in the corner. A faint whine caught his ear.
He swung open the closet door and there she sat huddled behind some stuffed animals, a playhouse, several shoes and her golden retriever who growled menacingly up at him. Richard could understand that. With his mask on he knew he would definitely look frightening to a little kid and threatening to her protective dog.
“There’s a good puppy watching out for Emily,” he said soothingly as he removed the mask. The Captain would kill him dead for it, after he lectured Richard non-stop for an hour, that is. But Emily needed to see he wasn’t Darth Vader or something worse. “Your Mama’s worried sick, Sweetie. Let’s get you to your mama, okay?”
“Mommy! Mommy!” she cried still holding the dog.
“Rich, you idiot! Mark will have your head for coming in alone!” Bill shouted coming up behind him.
“Emily, this is Bill, my friend. He’s gonna take you to your mama. Come on, baby,” Richard said kindly as he pulled her out. The dog snarled and went to bite him. He released the girl and Bill grabbed her. Richard then lunged for the dog wrestling his muzzle shut. “Go, Bill, get out. I got the dog. I’m right behind you.”
Bill cradled the girl in his arms and threw open the window. “We’re going for a little ride, Honey.”
“Hunny Pot! I wanna hold Hunny Pot!” Emily cried.
“What’s that?” Bill asked the child as he swung one leg out the window.
“My dog.”
“I got him, Emily,” Richard said but at that moment a terrible crunching sound came from directly above him and the ceiling caved in pinning him to the floor. The dog yelped pathetically and struggled to release himself from the burning pieces of timber.
“Rich!” Bill screamed in terror. “Kid, you’re gonna have to take a ride by yourself,” he said then dropped her out just above the tarp surrounded and held by his fellow firefighters. He took a second to see if she landed all right then turned back to Richard.
“Ramrod, let go of the dog so I can get you out!” Bill growled, panic tearing through him. He grabbed the dog and unceremoniously threw him out the window, too, this time not checking to see where he landed. Rich had a nasty gash slicing open his skull, an iron rod impaled his chest and his crystalline blue eyes bulged as he sought Bill.
“Oh, Rich, no....no...” Bill whispered, horrified.
“Tell Violet....tell her... I love her....”
“No! No, Rich!”

* * * * *

Violet awoke abruptly. She automatically reached over for Richard. He still wasn’t home? She glanced at the clock. 2:42 A.M.
“You should be home by now, Richard,” she mumbled to herself.
“I’m here, Violet.”
She turned quickly and gaped at him. His uniform was covered with soot and soaking wet. He stood dripping sooty water onto the carpet. She sat up in bed frowning. “Richard, you’ve never come home like that. Why didn’t you clean up at the station before coming back? It must have been an awful fire. Anyone hurt?” she asked anxiously.
He hesitated a second. “Saved a little girl, Emily McNamara and her dog, Hunny Pot. Bill tossed them out the window just in time,” he said a sad smile on his dirt streaked face.
“Is Bill all right?”
“Oh, sure, he’s fine.”
“Oh, Richard, I’m so glad,” she replied relief flooding through her. “Can I help you get cleaned up?” She swung her legs off the bed and made to get up but Richard stopped her with a dirty hand on her shoulder.
“No, Baby, stay here. I need to tell you something,” he said earnestly.
“But, Richard, you’re dripping all over the place and you must be so uncomfortable in that stuff.”
“I’m not. I feel fine... now,” he insisted. He knelt down in front of her, removed his helmet and took her hands. “You know I love you, don’t you?”
She smiled. “Of course. I love you too. My first love, my only love,” she said.
“You remember how we met?” he asked.
“You know I do, silly. At the high school dance. You swept me right off my feet.”
“No, I mean the very first time I saw you.”
She giggled. “Kindergarten? When you stormed the play kitchen with Tommy Harris and shot my dolly with your Uzi? I somehow don’t think that’s romantic enough for the retelling,” she replied playfully.
He grinned. “But that’s when I knew you were the girl for me, the one I wanted to marry,” he replied lifting her hand and kissing it tenderly.
“No, you didn’t. You went out with tons of girls and you never even noticed me until that day at the dance after you won that big game against Meridale high,” she retorted.
“You think that was my doing? Freddy told me your dad wouldn’t let you out of the house without an army protecting you. He told me I had no shot until you were old enough. So I waited. Freddy knew I was in love with you and he arranged for us to meet at that dance. He thought it was about time you got to live a little and he thought.... well, I convinced him I might be good enough for you.”
“Is that why Freddy insisted I go to that game? To meet you?” she asked astonished. He nodded. She smiled and took a tissue out of the night stand drawer and wiped some of the soot from his face. “Well, he was definitely instrumental in us getting together, wasn’t he? More than I thought. I wish I had known. I ought to thank him. But, Richard, why are you telling me this now? We should get you into a nice warm shower.”
“I don’t have much time. Violet, I want you to know I loved you like nothing else in the world. And the kids too. Tell Sophie...tell her she’ll always be my little girl. Tell her to keep singing, to stay with music. That’s her calling. I love to hear her sing. And Kenny, tell him I’m so proud of him. His woodworking will get him far. I just know it. Tell them I love them and always will no matter where I am.”
“Richard,” she said frowning. “What is all this? Why are you saying this? We know you love us. We love you too. What’s wrong?”
He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly his lips trembling. “I don’t want to go, Violet, but I have to,” he said, desperate tears welling in his clear blue eyes.
Apprehension stole through her as she watched him. “Go where?”
“I’m not sure where but I hear my parents calling me. I hear my brother Tim, too. We’re going to be together now. They say it’s time to leave. But I want to make sure you do something for me before I go. Promise me you will love again. Promise me you will let go of me and find another good man to love you.”
Her jaw dropped. “Richard, you want to divorce me? Why?” she squeaked.
“No, Baby, it’s til death do us part,” he said gently.
“But neither one of us is dead,” she said, a stern note to her voice and now looking both scared and angry. “You’re being very weird, Richard, and I want you to stop it. Stop it right now!”
He took her in his arms and held her tightly, his tears leaving sooty streaks down his face. “I don’t want to go but I have to. I’m dead. I didn’t make it out of that house fire. It collapsed around me. I’m still there under the rubble. They’re digging me out now. Promise me, so I can go in peace. Promise me and I’ll know you’ll be all right. Can you do that, Violet?”
She pushed him away. “No, I can’t! You’re going nowhere. Get in the shower. You’re messing up the floor,” she shouted, annoyed and fighting the urge to cry.
“This is just a dream, Violet. It’s the only way for me to talk to you. Promise me already. Promise you’ll let another man love you and take care of you. I don’t want to leave you all alone,” he insisted his voice now gruff and agitated.
“Richard, you’re the only one I ever want. You can’t leave me. You promised to always love me,” she said, her whole body shaking with emotion.
“I will. I’ll always love you even when I’m gone.”
“But you can’t go. We have the kids. They need you. I need you. You have to stay,” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck desperately clinging to him.
He shook his head, removed her arms from around him and resolutely stood up. “If you don’t let me go I’ll be a ghost forever haunting you. You don’t want that. That’s no life for you. Promise me.”
“No! Stop this foolishness, Richard. Get in the shower and come to bed. I need you here,” she said bursting into angry tears. She took another tissue and wiped at her face. When she looked up Richard had vanished.
“Richard? Richard!” she shouted. She got up and went to the bathroom. He wasn’t there. She ran through the house opening doors, calling his name. Terror ripped through her. Where did he go? He had simply vanished.
The shrill ringing of the phone awoke Violet. She sat up breathing quickly as if she had run a mile in the last few seconds. She willed her heart to steady itself. “It was just a dream.... just a very bad dream,” she mumbled as she reached out a shaky hand to catch the receiver.
“Richard?” she whispered.
“Violet, this is Mark Frankfort down at the firehouse. I have some bad news, Violet, about Rich.”
She let the phone drop to the floor into a puddle of sooty water next to her bedroom slippers.

You can find more Violet's in Bloom at:   Violet's in Bloom, a serialized novel
 
Author Bio:

Glory Lennon started writing stories shortly after being introduced to the Harry Potter series by her son's best friend. She wanted to try her hand at making people laugh, cry and feel every other emotion out there, just like JK Rowling did for countless fans, Glory topping that list.
Glory started writing for the web at Helium, Green Thumb Articles and Self Reliance Works where she puts her excessive knowledge of plants and frugality to work for her. She has in the meantime started several novels, but only finish one which she promptly tossed aside to be seriously revised at a later date. Yes, it was that bad!
Now she spends much of her time with her five blogs only one of which isn’t for her stories. Her garden blog is predictably titled Glory’s Garden. The others are: Glory’s Short Stories, novel-in-progress Violet’s in Bloom (from which this excerpt comes), An Ever Fixed Mark and a novella titled Where Your Treasure Lies.

Storytime Wednesday: A Freak's Journey, The Life and Times of a Six-Year Old Circus Runaway by Steven R Roberts

Welcome to Storytime Wednesday, where we will enchant your imagination or tease your senses, with featured stories and book excerpts.


Today's guest writer is Steven R Roberts with ann excerpt from his book, A Freak's Journey, The Life and Times of a Six-Year Old Circus Runaway.

The Borough of Islington

Jimmy ran full speed toward the other three, looking back over his shoulder with full fright on his face and crying “No, No!” Five feet short of the group he tripped and fell, rolling into Max, his teacher. At eight-years-old, Max, a skinny kid living most of the time on the streets, was as close to a father figure as Jimmy had known. For the final bit Jimmy looked up with his wide eyes, brushed his long mop of brown locks out of his eyes and said, “So very sorry, Sir.”

“Blimey, Jimmy, you’ve got to put more spit into the game,” Max said to his young foil. “Let’s see your lower lip quiver when you look up at the target. London streets is ripe with targets but ya’ gotta sell your soul in this bit, Jimmy, or it bloody-well won’t work a lick. I’m not lookin’ for anythin’ queer here me boy just sweet innocent fear in those soft black eyes.” Max, with his dirty yellow hat sitting back on his head, was exasperated at the results of his first training lesson with six-year-old Jimmy, the gang’s newest recruit.

James Northway Stockley was born in the near north side slum of London known as Islington. He and his mother Renee lived in a tiny one-room apartment on the third floor of a building on Childerditch Lane just off Liverpool Road. The four-story buildings stood in long rows close to each other each apartment had one small window for ventilation. Landlords were taxed per window. Typical for 1880s London, the apartments in their block had no water and no toilet facilities. Renee carried water from a pump located about 150 meters down the street from their building. There were pumps located all over London in those days and they were open only certain times and certain days. Lines were typically long at the pumps to fill the families’ pots and jugs. Families who ran out of water while the pumps were closed had to use the water in the rivers, which were also depositories for the neighborhood’s garbage and human “dung.”

Because the latrines on the ground floor of the building were dank and putrid, most upper floor residents kept a copper chamber pot in the corner of the room. When the pot filled for a day or two and the smell in the apartment became unbearable, it was emptied out the window. Richard II, who had become King of England back in 1377 at age 10, later issued a writ that, “no one is to dump dung.” Further, there were penalties, still in effect, for hitting a person with anything, especially dung, thrown from a window. It seemed such restrictions only encouraged tenement dwellers. By the end of the day the streets below the tenement windows were ankle deep in human waste and ripe until the next rain washed it down the gutters toward the rivers. The appearance of the buildings suffered in that a yellowish brown stain quickly developed below each window. Apartment dwellers kept their windows closed despite the occasional hot day to avoid dung spilling in from above.

Jimmy’s mother worked afternoons and nights as a prostitute walking the streets bordering the boroughs of Islington and Heringey, where she competed with women stationed on several other street corners. Jimmy’s first memories of his mother were of her wearing pretty dresses and sparkly bracelets with her blonde hair pulled back and tied, running down her back. He remembered her ruddy complexion and sad loving eyes as she got ready for work. On many nights there were no customers in their dark district but she needed to be there just in case.

“Come to Mommy, Jim Bo,” she whispered as the toddler ate stale bread she’d found thrown out the back door of the bakery. Jimmy looking around the table for more. “Things will be better, Jim Bo, just you wait and see.” In those early years, Renee worked from 3 to 5 pm with Jim in her arms, then took a two-hour break to fix dinner. Before reporting back to the corner, she wrapped her son in a blanket and rocked him in a chair that didn’t rock, gently smoothing his little brown infant curls. Renee spit on her fingers and cleaned her son’s face of the grime of the day. She sang him to sleep with a lullaby, a fantasy of unrealistic hope. Somehow it had been very real when her mother had sung it to her many years before. Jimmy grinned, looking up into his mother’s eyes as she rocked and whispered the song more than sang it.

Curly Locks, Curly Locks

Wilt thou be mine

Thou shalt not wash dishes, nor feed the swine

But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam

And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream

Renee sang it again with tears slowly ruining her heavy makeup. She placed her son in the top wooden drawer of a beat-up dresser that served as a bed before locking the door and leaving him in the apartment while she went to work. If the night went well, she’d be back a time or two, accompanied by a friend.

At three years old, James walked to work with his mommy in the afternoons and played along the streets while Renee sat on a broken bench with Sadie, a partner prostitute with dark orange hair. Sadie nursed her newborn baby girl, Marilyn, who she called “Pookie.” The baby, with a shock of wavy auburn hair and big blue eyes, was a happier miniature version of her mother. Sometimes one of Sadie’s regulars walked by and stopped to talk. James couldn’t hear what was said but a few minutes later Sadie stopped the feeding, slid her breast inside her blouse, and declared the baby fed. She stood and handed Pookie to Renee for a while as Sadie and the customer walked toward her flat. James sat down at his mother’s feet and played in the dust. Renee put the baby down next to her son.

The women worked in pairs so one could watch the children and hold the position if a customer showed up. Sometimes Renee would grab Jimmy’s hand and hurry behind the nearest building. Jimmy noticed that Sadie picked up Pookie and did the same as a black carriage rolled by on the rutted street. Renee mentioned to Sadie that the constable was getting to be a pest with his weekly patrols. Sadie didn’t say much because sometimes the constable winked at her and she walked away with the constable.

The girls were always on the lookout for fancy carriages with skinny-legged horses entering their street. Well-dressed gentlemen from the wealthier boroughs sometimes rode up in carriages providing the girls with a chance for income for the evening.

“Here comes a carriage, Mommy,” Jimmy said, as the women dozed, leaning into each other, back to back on the bench.

“How many in the team, Jimmy?” Renee asked, opening one eye then the other.

“Looks to be two horses, Mommy,” her son reported proudly.

“Come on Sadie,” Renee said. “Put the baby down and get up. This could be dinner for one of us.” As the carriage approached, the women stood, brushing back their hair, smoothing their dresses and smiling. The carriage passed by with a look of disdain from the dark occupant inside. Some days it seemed the rich had better things to do, and all the four souls on the corner got for their trouble was a smile and a wink from the driver.


A Freak's Journey is one of six books Steve has written, several of which are based on true stories in the action adventure genre.
More information can be found on Steve's book at www.steverroberts.com


 
In an 1890's London slum six-year old Jimmy Stockley is thrown out of his apartment while his mum services clients. Broken and confused, the boy runs away with a caravan circus. Jimmy takes to the circus life as he meets the circus owner's challenge to become a 'freak' of some kind to earn his keep. Along the way Jimmy falls for Caitlin the lion tamer's daughter but he is forced to run again to hide a personal secret and keep from being fed to the lions by Caitlin's disapproving father.

Storytime Wednesday: Broken Silent by Kristine Esser

Welcome again to Storytime Wednesday, where we fire your imagination with the words from writers who share their stories or book excerpts.


We have a story today by writer Kristine Esser, a cautionary tale about relationships, called Broken Silent.

Broken Silent

I finally decided to turn the shiny knob that had “hot” inscribed on it all the way to the right, shutting off the blistering liquid. I climbed out of the tub, and wrapped myself in an old floral towel sitting on the edge of the toilet. Standing and looking through the small patch of wiped-away steam in the mirror I recognized the unattractive towel along with the steam rising off my shoulders from the sweltering shower I had just taken.

Opening the door from the bathroom I stepped out to see my boyfriend, Ben, sitting in the Goodwill-bought lazy-boy. He looked at me from afar and smiled. A quick grin did the trick, and I walked into my room. It was dark and chilly in there, and I felt the strong need to just sit on my bed for awhile, cool off, and kind of catch my breath.

I had to think of my plan to face Ben with the growing problem of me being lonely with him being gone constantly. This was not always a problem in our relationship but one that came after we graduated college. Ben and I both attended a rather large university in Indiana. We met our sophomore year when we lived across from each other in the dorms. He was cute, got straight A’s, and was very gentle. While I was the cute party girl who passed most of my classes, but always looked good. These things changed after we started dating. I got him to loosen up, and not be so serious while he made me take life a little more seriously. His mother died not too long before we started dating, and I sometimes got the feeling I was a replacement. This did not bother me as much as it might have some other girls. I enjoyed being loved whole heartedly. Of course, this was over three years ago and situations have changed. He was gone with his job all the time having a great time while I had to stay at home, go through my daily routine without him, and be miserable. It was time to talk to him about a break.

After some time, I stood up slowly and dropped the towel to the floor. I paused for a moment looking at the ugly thing. The corners were tattered and frayed with strings hanging from the center of the towel. It was so hideous. Why keep it around so long? That towel had to be at least a decade old. I remembered having that towel in my childhood when the biggest problem of the day is what game to play next. I remember having it with me at the beach and numerous pool parties back when it was cool. I really wasn’t sure at what point the towel became disgusting but it was definitely time to throw it out. It had lived its life.

I went through the dark cedar drawers, and found some grey yoga pants and an old college t-shirt. After slipping them on I decided it was time to walk toward the door of my room, and let myself out to see my boyfriend, Ben. It was time to leave the safety of my room, and to enter the dangers of my blond hardwood floor living room; after all, he is waiting for me.

I stepped out, and walked down the somewhat short hallway. Today, however, the hallway seemed freakishly long. I touched the white walls of the hallway, and thought about all that they had witnessed. It was like the old saying I had heard all my life. What did they see? What would they see today? I prayed it wouldn’t be anything horrible. I hoped it would not see tears or any kind of sadness. I hoped they wouldn’t see anger or fury. But I knew that was all a lie.

“There you are baby,” Ben said with his arms outstretched. He was motioning for me to come sit down on his lap. He was really happy to see me. It had been awhile since we saw each other last. He left for the summer for one of his many odd random job assignments. This time it was in Colorado for a summer camp helping needy children. The company he was working for thought it would be a great fit for him, so they decided that this would be his next assignment, send him half a country away to work with kids he didn’t even know.

I couldn’t help it but I was always upset when he left, which seemed to be all the time now. I adored him when he was there with me in Chicago but felt this overwhelming feeling of frustration whenever he left. Anger would boil over inside towards Ben, but I was not sure why exactly. It’s somewhat irrational for me to feel this way, but it’s just how I felt. However, I knew it would be like this from the beginning. He had signed a contract with the company right out of college for the next five years of his life. It had only been a year after graduation, and the constant leaving and returning was now taking a toll on both of our emotions.

Sitting in his lap, and curled up under his neck, my wet hair made a spot on his old cotton shirt. I bought that shirt for him when we were sophomores in college. It was our first Christmas together, and we made love all night with our cheap, but meaningful, gifts surrounding us. Now it was visibly worn with cracked-print lettering. It seemed like he wore this shirt at least once a week. Or the weeks I happened to see him anyway.

“You smell good. Is that a new shampoo you’re using?”

“Yeah, it was on sale. Do you like it?” I replied while pushing back the ringlets of wet curls away from my face.

“Yes, I do,” Ben stated with closed eyes. Silence then started to engulf the room. I looked around the space, and couldn’t find life of any kind. Sometimes one can see a breeze or draft of some kind through the room, but there was nothing. The TV was off, and the roommate was gone. Deep breaths were all I could think about taking during that moment of deadness in the room.

“When do you leave next?” I had to say finally.

“Asking so soon? I just returned from Colorado yesterday. Let’s enjoy this a little bit.”

“I can’t, I need to know.”

“I am leaving again in three weeks to go to China. I will be there for seven months this time. But I am sure I can fly you out for a weekend or two. Maybe you could take a couple of days off of work too. Do you think you can do that with your job?” He said.

He knew I could not take off of work. He knew I had just started this job with my dream PR firm about nine months ago, and vacation time for entry level employees was not something they gave out. Irritation crept up inside of me once again. He knew I couldn’t get time off work, and he was leaving again, so soon, for such a long time.

“You know I can’t get the time off of work,” I answered with pain. This burning feeling then came from behind my eyes. Anger started to rise up inside of me, but I tried to stay calm.

“Well can’t you talk to someone?” He said now starting to lean forward.

“No. I told you I couldn’t take any time off of work right when I first took this job.”

“I never see you and I don’t like it. We need to change this,” He said looking into my eyes now.

“Yeah, I don’t like it either, but I am not the one leaving all the time. And I don’t know how you want to change this. We both have obligations,” I replied sternly.

“I just can’t go on not seeing you like this.”

“Something has to change…” I said trailing.

“Yes, something does. I love you Jessica. I want you always with me. I know this isn’t possible but I want to make this situation better. I am not happy seeing you this few and far between, and I know you are not happy either. What can we do? Do you want to move out with me? China is such a beautiful place.”

“I don’t want to move to China! I want to be here! In Chicago! This is where my dream job is, and believe it or not I got it! This is where my family is. I don’t want to move to China. I want to live here.”

The room fell silent again. We both looked around this time at the seemingly deceased surroundings of the apartment. Everything was perfectly still. Not even a visible wind from outside the window was present. Every being in that room was eerily motionless. The tissues in the Kleenex box didn’t move. The TV was off, and so was all the technology that went with it. I eyed the vase on the coffee table with the dead flowers in it.

For some couples this might have been considered an awkward silence, but for us it was becoming somewhat of an acquaintance these days. This was not the first time we had this discussion. This also was not the first time this silence befell this particular living room. However, this time seemed peculiarly stationary and stuffy. Of course previous discussions seemed to have answers, while this one did not.

We both kept looking around the room, and then turned our attention to each other’s hands. Ben’s fingers were touching the inside palms of mine. He went from the palm of my hand to the tip of each individual one of my fingers. My hand remained lifeless like the room. I never moved my hand, or even my fingers. I just watched as he drew with his fingers onto mine. Once he had gone through this a couple of times, I knew it was my time to talk.

I closed my eyes and inhaled, “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know. What would you like to do? How do you think we can fix this?” he said.

“We’ve tried everything, Ben.”

“It seems like it,” he was now looking down into what would be his lap if I wasn’t sitting on it.

“There is nothing more we can do right now. The time you’re away is ripping us apart,” I said while trying to look in to his eyes.

“I know,” was the only counter he could muster.

“I think we need to take some time apart. We’re just not happy doing what we are doing. I think we just need to take some time for ourselves, and make sure this is the relationship we want, you know?” I could now tell tears were coming to the surface in his eyes, and I could now feel them coming into mine. I felt Ben’s hands on both of my thighs tighten, and his chest puffing out.

“No, I don’t want to. I know I want to be with you forever Jessica. I know this sucks now, but we can get through this. I promise!”

“Ben…no…” I said while shaking my head.

“Why does it have to be like this? Why Jessica? What did I do? Did I mess everything up?” He screamed question after question until his tears took his voice in a red mess. His hands grew tighter.

This was when I knew that now was the time to get off his lap. It was tough breaking away from his grasped hands, but as soon as I could I quickly stood up with tears running down my face. For a moment I wondered if I was making the wrong choice. Ben had been nothing but good to me. And now I was breaking his heart, God, I’m a bitch. Then turning around so my back was facing Ben, I wiped the few spots of tears away from my face.

“Ben please…just try and understand…I just need…”

“No.” Ben said as he brushed away his tears with the palms of his hands. He reached forward to grab my wet hair, but his saltwater hands with my damp hair made his fingers slip. He reached to grab me again, but I slipped, and fell to floor making more noise than pain. Ben looked furious, but stunned.

I was breathing heavily. He had never tried to hurt me before. He had always loved me, and did for me anything I wanted. He even made me vegetable and rice soup for me once from scratch, but now he was standing over me in throbbing heartache and rage.

“I love you with all my heart, and this is what is going to happen now? You want to leave me? That’s not how this works. I am the all-star, and you’re the one that couldn’t get even a B in college algebra. I loved you! And you’re leaving me?!” passion was now blazing in his eyes. He picked up the flower vase spilling out all of the death flowers. He raised it over me as I lay on cold hardwood floor crying, and ready to scream. Soon all I could see was red pouring over my eyes, and a kind of hot pain rushing all over my face and hands as he hit me three more times with the broken vase.

Ben then put on his sandals and left my barren apartment. I twitched when he slammed the door behind him. He wasn’t the slamming door type. Or so I thought.

I reached to touch the walls again. They were still cool. I crawled into my room for the phone, and I noticed that I left the ugly towel on the floor from my shower from just a half hour ago. I gathered up the towel, and pressed it against my face. It wasn’t soft anymore, and it was a lot coarser than I remembered from yester year.

By the time the ambulance arrived, the towel was soaked with blood, and the paramedics asked me to give them my towel so they could get a better look at the injuries. After handing them my old towel they placed it in a medical waste bag.



Author Bio:

Kristine Esser is a somewhat recent graduate from Purdue University. When she isn’t writing or composing material for her poetry blog, she's walking her dog, and continuously baking. 

Storytime Wednesday: Poetry Remembered by Joann Brosnan

Welcome again to Storytime Wednesday, where we fire your imagination with the words from writers who share their stories or book excerpts.

Today’s narrative is a real treat, the graceful tale Poetry Remembered by Joann Brosnan, a delightful story of weddings, culture and marriage.

Poetry Remembered

Umniya stared through the delicate tracery of the screen surrounding her family roofgarden. Sleep had been a foreign thing and, in the hours before dawn, she had crept to this rooftop to experience her last breaths of freedom. Tomorrow - - No, later today, she would become the bride of Aaqil.

Umniya had been three years old, Aaqil almost five, when her mother had taken her to visit his. They had played together and listened to their mothers' conversation. Aaqil had been gentle and kind to the younger girl-child. The next time they visited, he was no longer allowed free run of the women's rooms. She wondered if he was still kind. Their mothers had discussed a bit of poetry, now long forgotten, that involved the gift of a love token from a prince to his loved bride. She remembered Aaqil saying that someday he would gift his love with such a thing.

Streaks began appearing in the eastern sky and the mezzuin began his call.  “Allaho Akbar, Allaho Akbar, Ash-hadu al-la Ilaha ill Allah - Ash-hadu al-la Ilaha ill Allah . . .”

After the prayers, Umniya stood for a moment, then turned to see her mother coming up the stairs.

“Come, child, you must be made ready. Today you will become a wife.” her mother said.

In the next hours, Umniya was allowed to do nothing for herself. As she was fed and fussed over, bathed, lotioned, perfumed, painted and primped, her mind wandered again and again to her betrothed. She remembered, when she was nine, the day she had been taken to purchase her first niqaab. Her mother's friend, Aaliyah, mother of Aaqil, had accompanied them. She remembered the moment of panic when, veil in place, the mesh eye cover had been lowered, discretely, over the eye holes. Suddenly, there seemed no air to breath, she would surely suffocate. Then as the two women proudly led her from the shop, Umniya had seen boys in the street, playing. One of them was Aaqil and he waved to his mother. As his eyes passed over his mother's companions, it seemed to Umniya that there was something different in his eye as it briefly touched her, then quickly, politely passed over. She had held herself a little taller, as they walked, secure in her mother's protection and her own nearing womanhood.

Her mind slid to the day when a betrothal was decided. Aaqil had requested that they say Salat-l-Istikhara to assure that this decision was right for both. When the prayer had been said, she knew that she would not be forced, she had the right to refuse, but what other choice was there. With head bowed, she silently nodded her assent and was allowed to retire from the room. Peering through the lattice from the next room, she looked at her betrothed's unsmiling face with its heavy eyebrows and dark eyes; the fierce black mustache that covered his upper lip; the full lower lip that made something in her stomach flutter. She would come to know this face very well.

Now, sitting still under the ministrations of her mother, friends and cousins, she felt the flutter begin again. A small knot of terror was born. Everything she knew in life was about to end. They pulled her to her feet; turned her in front of a trio of large mirrors. She, Umniya – the desired – was gone. The woman looking from the mirror was a stranger, a wife. The terror grew. It was time to go.

Her cousin, Jumana, turned from the door, holding a covered silver tray and a note, which she handed to Umniya. The note read:


Beloved,

Were you too young to remember the poem of the prince and his gift to his beloved bride? I bid you accept the gift of your prince to his princess.

Aaqil


Umniya lifted the cover from the tray and there, on a silk cloth, lay a single, perfect white rose. The fear faded, replaced by a gentler quiver. “Aaqil means 'wise'” she murmured. She picked up the rose and tied it to one of the colorful ribbons on her wedding dress then, surrounded by her ladies and holding her head very high, she went to her wedding.


Author Bio:

Joann Brosnan is a Capricorn woman, faithful friend, intrepid adventurer, steaming through her 60s; she finally sprung her writing on the world, and is having great fun with that.
“Next up - figuring how to get paid for same. Ah, well, hope springs. Maybe better luck with photos. It can be a bit distracting, having a soupçon of many talents and no one big one!”

Storytime Wednesday: Satan’s Mirror by Roxanne Smolen

Welcome back to Storytime Wednesday, where we fire your imagination with the words from writers who share their stories or book excerpts.
  
Today's guest writer is Roxanne Smolen, with an excerpt from her chilling book, Satan's Mirror.


 

Excerpt of Satan’s Mirror  

Vanessa walked as if condemned, her limbs stiff, her gait slow. Dust kicked up, tainting the stale air, and she wondered if the stench of brimstone would soon replace such mundane odors.
She paused at the staircase, listening, gazing upward, drawn like a dog to a harsh master. As if her sandals were mired in muck, she climbed the stairs. No one spoke, but she heard quick breathing and knew the group was excited, anticipating a great show. She shuddered with an unwelcome thought--not all of them would be leaving tonight. The devil was hungry.
At the upstairs landing, she hesitated. Joey slipped his arm about her as if to keep her from running. She shrugged him off. "This way," she said, entering a room on the right. She glanced about. Yes, this was the place. "Do you have the powder?"
The boy rummaged inside his sack, pulling out a pouch of pickling alum.
Vanessa took a penknife from her pocket and punched a hole in the burlap wrapper. She drew a large pentagram on the floor with the powder.
Shoulders slumped, she held out her hand. "Candles."
"Here." The boy brought out a thick red candle. "I brought a lighter."
"It has to be wooden matches," she told him.
"I've got some." Joey rattled the box as he handed them to her.
She lit the candle. In its glow, she saw the rapt expressions of the four newcomers--three boys and one girl, their hair held back by beaded headbands, their clothing laced, not buttoned. She didn't know them. They were probably part of the multitude of college kids who flocked to Saint Augustine each spring. She wondered how much they'd paid to witness the ritual.
With the candle held sideways, she dribbled a puddle of wax onto the floor and set the candle upon a point of the pentagram. As the boy held out more candles, she set one at each of the other four points. At last, she stood back to appraise her work.
"Hand me the offering plate," she said.
He gave an excited giggle, and then pulled out an ornate brass dish on a pedestal. The discolored center boasted of service many times before. He offered it to her along with a final candle.
Vanessa knelt in the center of the pentagram. She lit the candle and set the dish over it, allowing the meager flame to heat the brass. Smoke rose, drawing leftover scents of incense and soot and blood.
From his sack, the boy drew out a baby rabbit. She cradled it in her hands, stroking it, feeling its tiny heart race in terror. She looked up with a last plea--did they really want her to do this?
The boy tossed the sack behind him and lit a joint.
Vanessa closed her eyes, wishing she were anywhere but there. She was innocent. Just doing as she was told.
The rabbit squirmed within her fingers. Nose wrinkled, she cupped the animal on its back in one hand and grasped her penknife with the other. She felt a pop as the point pierced its flesh--then she opened the rabbit from groin to gullet. Blood dripped down her wrist.
She held the creature over the offering plate and scooped out its innards with her fingers, careful to include its heart so the legs would stop kicking. The intestines sizzled as they hit the plate.
Silence filled the room.
After a moment, the boy who was passing around the joint said, "Shouldn't you say some special words?"
"Yes," Vanessa whispered. A familiar coldness coursed through her. "Be ready to run."
The wall before her shimmered as if a portion had turned to water. The patch solidified into an oval, shining like a silvery mirror--Satan's Mirror. A face grew within. Brimstone overpowered the smoke of marijuana and entrails.
Someone gasped. "Wow."
Lightheaded, Vanessa sat on her haunches. She felt both exhilarated and disgusted. She had done it--she had called forth the devil once again.
The face observed them malevolently. It looked like a caricature from a comic book--red skin, yellow eyes. Its lips parted in a sneer or a grin, showing sharp, needle-like teeth.
Vanessa froze as its gaze passed over her. Maybe if she held perfectly still, it wouldn't see her, wouldn't know she was responsible.
"Is it real?" the girl asked, her words slurred as if she were stoned.
The face in the mirror laughed and said in a voice that sounded far away, "You are so weak, yet you come so willingly."
Its words did not match its lips, and Vanessa wondered whether it was speaking English or she was merely hearing English.
The others moved as if entranced, stepping to either side of the pentagram. Vanessa looked up just as a second mirror formed in mid-air behind the boy with the joint. A bright red demon leaned out as if through an open window. It grabbed the boy before he could turn and pulled him through. The window vanished.
The girl screamed. Vanessa covered her ears. The remaining two boys scrambled around.
"What happened?" one of them yelled. "Where is he?"
In the mirror, the devil laughed.
The other boy ran toward the door. Before he could reach it, a new mirror swirled into existence, and he ran straight into the arms of a waiting demon. He struggled and kicked as it lifted him from the floor. "Help me! Don't let it take me!"
The third boy stepped forward then hesitated, his face stark with horror.
"Help me! Please!" His friend reached as if across a great distance.
The window closed on his cries.
"No!" The last boy rushed to where the mirror had been. He stared at the doorway, his face echoing a longing to go through it and a fear of being snatched if he did.
Joey leapt into the pentagram beside Vanessa, hunkering beside her. He was not grinning now.
The girl stumbled away, sobbing. She fell over the sack the first boy carried. On hands and knees, she crawled to the pentagram, blowing out the candles and shoving them into the bag. "Put it back," she said. "Put it all back."
Behind her, the air shimmered.
The boy yelped and ran out the open door, pelting down the stairs.
She looked up, her long, blonde hair spilling over her face just as the demon grabbed her. "Nooo," she wailed, trying to run away. "I'll be good. I won't do it anymore."
The demon's fingers raked her face, leaving dark trails. She screamed, arms flailing as it yanked her through the mirror. The window vanished, leaving silence.


Satan’s Mirror is available in print or ebook and can be found wherever books are sold.

Amazon Link


Author Bio:

Roxanne Smolen has written nine novels, all in the science fiction/horror realm. She enjoys placing ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances to see what they will do. Case in point, in her novel Satan’s Mirror, a paranormal investigator must break into hell and battle the denizens of the underworld in order to rescue her little girl. Smolen is currently writing a humorous romance in which a werewolf falls in love with a Wiccan. The Amazing Wolf Boy will be released this fall.

Website:  www.roxannesmolen.com
Facebook:  www.facebook.com/roxannesmolenauthor

Storytime Wednesday: The Mirror (part 2) by Dee Brown

Welcome back to Storytime Wednesday, where we fire your imagination with the words from writers who share their stories or book excerpts.

Today's guest writer is again Dee Brown, and she brings us part two of her haunting tale, The Mirror.

The Mirror: Part Two

I stood transfixed in front of the mirror. The gray was starting to lighten. I rubbed my eyes, not sure if what I saw was real or imagined. I looked again, and it was dull gray as it was before. Shaking my head I shrugged it off and walked away. When I had reached the doorway I looked back. It was still the same. "I know I saw something", I said to myself.

 

It was getting late and I had things yet to do. So I ended my sleuthing, and headed out. While driving, I kept thinking about the mirror and tried to remember that moment. I even tried to convince myself I hadn't seen anything. But another part of me said otherwise.

That night l drifted off to sleep, and the mirror and that moment played over and over in my dreams. I awoke the next morning and knew then I had to go back to that house. My next day off from work, I planned to take care of a few things, and return to the house once more. Getting an early start would leave me a good part of the afternoon.

I drove up to the house, got out of my old beater and started for the porch. Entering the same way I had before, through a window that had a loose board. Up those rickety stairs I climbed once more. Now in the doorway, I looked to the far part of the room where the mirror stood. Slowly I walked over to it, and stood once more in front of it. For minutes I stared at this non-reflecting glass. Nothing. I must have imagined it, I sighed. As I turned to walk away, the mirror started to lighten again. I stood back, my heart pounding, and frozen to my spot, it continued, till something vague started to appear. It was coming and going. I stayed rooted to my spot. I hadn't imagined anything. This mirror was doing something!

After who knows how much time, still standing in front of the mirror, a fuzzy picture of a woman, was now showing. She appeared to be dressed in clothes fashionable, from perhaps the late twenties or maybe early thirties. Her hair was in a bun and she looked somewhat matronly. Her expression seemed sad and forlorn. Then her lips moved. Her eyes were pleading. It seemed she was saying something. Then the words she seemed to mouth were, Innocent.....innocent!
With that the image disappeared.

I don't know how long it was before I could get my composure, and drink in all I have witnessed. But one thing was certain, a voice from the past was reaching out. But who? Was it the convicted nanny? "Innocent", she had said. It had to be, I thought. Shortly after, I left the house and did some research. I found some old articles on the trial. In one there was a picture of the nanny being lead to courthouse. The picture was the same woman in the mirror.

I took off from work, as I rarely did, and went back to the house. The mirror then told me the rest of the story that day. An image of the the nanny sitting near a bassinet. A man comes in and quickly leans over as if to kiss her. She puts a quivering finger to her lips, as if to say quiet. A moment later the man reaches in the bassinet and begins to shake the baby hard, then drops infant back in bassinet, and stumbles out of the picture. The Nanny rushes to the bassinet, then the image turns to the nanny pointing to something. I follow her gaze, trying to understand where she is pointing to and why. I walk around the room, trying to figure out her message. Then as I step past a part of the floor a piece pops up. I lift it from its spot, and with my flashlight, I point it down where the piece of floor was. I could see what looked like a small book and retrieved it. I carefully open it up. It's old and faded, but the ink legible. After a short spell of reading I realized that what I had was a diary of some kind and it was written by the nanny, whose name was Maggie Doyle

One faded page read, "He forces himself upon me. I try to resist, but he threatens me with ill repercussions. His breath reeks of alcohol. The wife is unknowing, as she sleeps down the hall. It becomes an almost nightly horror. I cry myself to sleep. I am defenseless against this man, and know his wife would never believe my words."

The images became clearer to me. It was another night she tried to resist. He is drunk. Fearful of him awakening the sleeping child she tries to hush him. In his drunken state this angers him. He then picks up the child and shakes him, where the child dies from the trauma. There was no way this poor immigrant woman could prove she was not guilty. Even had the book been revealed, she could not defend herself against his wealth. All she could do was proclaim innocence and take the truth to her grave.

Enough was read to understand the truth, along with the images of the mirror. But even with the truth in hand I could not vindicate this woman, no more than she could have, had she revealed the book herself, I thought. "So why did this image of the past reach out to me?"

I looked up from the book and at the mirror again. The images had vanished. I had the whole story, or at least enough. I went home taking the book with me. As I sat on my bed with the book in my lap, thinking about what I had learned, I began to wonder maybe I could help vindicate her, or try. It would never change what had happened to Maggie, but it would shed new light and present another possibility to the story.

There was a museum in town that had, among other things, a section on the history of our area. The Museum director there, Mrs Hayes, might know what to do with the book. Of course I could never tell her the whole story of how I come to have the book in my possession. But I was sure I could think of something. I then decided that was what I would do, and gently placed the old book in my end table for the time being.

For the next couple of days, it still haunted my thoughts. And for some reason was still drawn to the old house and the mirror." Why?" I asked myself. I knew I was still curious if the mirror would still do anything else, and thought maybe that was it. So as I did before, I made another trip. This time as, I stood in the doorway, I saw the mirror laying face down, and shards of glass were strewn about; I righted it. The mirror was now devoid of glass.

Maybe the mirror had done what it had intended. To let at least one person know the truth of their innocence so their soul could rest in peace, or maybe hope that the one person reached would let the truth be known to others. I knew now it was time to take that book to Mrs Hayes.


Author Bio:

Dee Brown is a Jersey native, who now resides in the South Western part of Kentucky. This mother of two, has always had the passion for writing stories and poetry, and only up to recently has learned to share that love of writing.

Storytime Wednesday: The Mirror (part1) by Dee Brown

Welcome again to Storytime Wednesday, where we fire your imagination with the words from writers who share their stories or book excerpts.

Today's guest writer is Dee Brown, and she brings us the two part tale, the haunting story of, The Mirror.  

The Mirror:  Part One

The old house creaked and groaned as I slowly moved about. It had been empty for as long as I could remember. I was always curious about this decaying old Victorian home. It sat apart from many of the homes in the nearby community. It was reminiscent of a bygone era. One could smell history in the air, or was it just the musty smell, of being closed up for so many years?

What little I knew of this house was from a couple of elderly locals who still lived in the area. It had belonged to a wealthy family named O'Sullivan, who attained their wealth, in the hotel industry. As with most affluent families, they had a cook, housekeeper, groundskeeper, and a nanny for their only child, a son, named Henry. Unlike most Irish families, the O’Sullivans only had one child. Due to a medical condition, Mrs O'Sullivan could not bear anymore children. The O'Sullivans came to the United States, as Irish immigrants, in the early 1900's with hopes, dreams, and determination. And to make this country their new home.

They worked hard, and rose in the social ladder. Soon they became successful, and life was good. It was time to move from the ghetto like neighborhood, that most immigrants were bound too, and live as most of their social status did. But unlike many of their counterparts, they were still humble and never forgot their roots. A mansion in all its glory would not be reflective of their humbleness; however a large home would still be in fitting with their status. This old home was then built.

As a youth, I was always intrigued with the house, but my parents warned me to stay away. I was never really told why, except that it had a bad history. Of course as a youngster that only made me more curious, and one day, I rode my bike near the long driveway that lead to the house. My mother happened to be driving by, coming back from a store, and caught me. I got a tongue lashing soon afterwards. "Kara if I catch you trying to sneak over there one more time, you will be grounded for a week!" I never tried that again.

Some years later, now as an adult, I had the opportunity to find out a few things when speaking with one of the elderly residents of our community. I asked her what my parents, now deceased, might have meant. She relayed bits and pieces. Some of which I knew, and others I didn't. "Apparently even riches, could not shelter anyone from the pain that life can sometimes bring," she began. And sometimes those riches can change a humble person. She then started to recite from her memory as a young woman. She didn't recall all the details, but remembered the trial of the nanny, who was accused, of killing their son. The nanny was found guilty, and went to prison where sometime later, she committed suicide. She proclaimed her innocence up to that day. And never said more. Mrs O'Sullivan took the child's death the hardest it seemed. Mr O'Sullivan spent most of his time either submerged in his work, or in his office behind locked doors, rarely talking to anyone. Because Mrs O'Sullivan never got over losing her son, she soon became depressed, and despondent. Household staff and grounds keepers were let go. Everything began to deteriorate. And with it so did the lives of its occupants. Mrs O'Sullivan as the story goes, jumped out a second story window. Her neck was broken, as her sprits. Sometime afterwards the house was boarded up. Mr O'Sullivan left and was never heard from again. Some say he ended up in a mental ward, others say he went off to kill himself out of guilt. There are some who even say that her ghost still haunts the grounds. I thought about what the elderly woman had said and still couldn't understand my parents reasoning. Then I surmised maybe it wasn't really the history of the house, but the thought of my getting hurt in it. Either way I was still intrigued, with the old place. In some way even drawn to it.

I continued to walk around the house, with a flashlight by my side and what light streamed in from some of the now missing and cracked boards. Through the cobwebs, I could see where pictures must have hung. Carved moldings all around the living room. What were properly beautiful wooden floors were now laden with dust and rotting in places. On the far side I could see a huge brick fireplace, with ashes still strewn about in its pit, from the last fire. As I walked about, I could imagine the house stood in some glory at one time. I peered into other rooms in the lower half of the house, and could see that for the time period, it was good living. I then carefully climbed the stairs to the upper half of the house, brushing cobwebs, along the way. Some stairs didn't look as though they would hold me, even though I was of small stature. So I held on to the banister that too seemed wobbly, and carefully skipped steps, till I had made it to the top.

At the top of the stairs I could see a long hallway that stretched in both directions. I made a right turn, and was led to what I believed was a bedroom. Another room nearby, much larger than the last appeared as though it too may have been a bedroom. I surmised the smaller one might have been their son's. On down the other end, there was a room with two large doors that swung in opposite directions. The lever handles on the door, appeared to be made of gold, long since tarnished. It was a very large room, with big windows. This most likely was Mr O'Sullivan's office. Further down the hall, led me to another room, small, with flowered wallpaper, that was now faded and hanging. I know Nannies lived with their charges back then, and figured that this might had been her room. Off to the corner, my eye caught, what looked like something covered, in a sheet, now gray with dust.

So far this was the only thing I had found in the house, and with curiosity, I stepped over and slowly pulled the sheet off. After choking from the dust, I looked up to see what removing the sheet had revealed. Before me was a standing wooden framed mirror. It cast no reflection, as the glass was as gray as the dust that clung to the sheet that covered it. I stared at it for a few moments, and then proceeded to walk away, when something started to change in the mirror...

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEDNESDAY...

Author Bio:

Dee Brown is a Jersey native, who now resides in the South Western part of Kentucky. This mother of two, has always had the passion for writing stories and poetry, and only up to recently has learned to share that love of writing.
 

Storytime Wednesday: The Alestrion Chronicles by LeAnna Shields

Welcome again to Storytime Wednesday, where we fire your imagination with the words from writers who share their stories or book excerpts.

Today's guest writer is LeAnna Shields, and she is bringing us a chapter of her novel, The Alestrion Chronicles: Slaves Redeemed.

Excerpt of The Alestrion Chronicles: Slaves Redeemed:

The Silent Performer

The clouds overhead threatened snow that day, but did nothing to stop the natives of this forlorn little moon from coming out to see the show. One lone man towered above the crowd, his seven foot height, snow white hair, and glowing teal eyes affirming the fact that he was no native. He sneered, shaking his head at the state of the tents that had once been a grand sight. Now the once proud flags were tattered, the royal blue fabric patched with scraps of cloth, and what was not patched was filthy. It’s hard to believe the Hygiene Commission hasn’t shut this place down. The scents of fried bread and sweets filled the air, mingling themselves with the unappetizing smells coming from the animal cages.

The man flipped up the collar of his plain leather coat to ward off the icy chill of the wind. This is where the captain’s tip on where to find the high king’s granddaughter has brought me? Hard to believe she would be in a dive like this? Kicking a can that someone had left on the path, he walked into the darkened tent. The show was beginning. Finding a seat between a three-headed Re’ab and a scaly, water breathing Glornark, he sat down on a wooden bench that gave a threatening creak.

The excitement was palpable as he gazed down at the center ring. A spotlight highlighted a lone figure, waving for silence. The ringmaster, wearing a long velvet overcoat and silken top hat, continued to motion for the audience to quiet down. “Ladies and gentle beings!” he shouted as the crowd seated themselves. “We humbly thank you for allowing our great show to appear before you today. We hope that our entertainment brings a smile to your hearts and many laughs to your spirits. Now for our first act…” He pointed upwards with the spotlight following, “We direct you to the top of the tent… The wondrous Salin and her cardonian poles!!!”

The stranger looked up and saw a girl about the age of twelve dressed in a glittery, low-cut gymnastic uniform and plumed headgear. She was standing ready to walk across a series of metal poles only wide enough for the ball of her foot.

Look at those support field generators! How long has it been since they’ve been replaced? The clanking and whirring of the two rusted servo-motors merely blended into the ecstatic cheers of the audience. They shuttered, sparked, and smoked as the field they produced wavered in and out of vision, causing the poles to either lean or stand up right.

The crowd held its collective breath as the girl jumped out to the first pole, then from one pole to another. The audience gasped, some closing their eyes with horror as she reached the middle, but missed her landing place. However she managed to grab the pole with split second timing and performed a series of spins and flips before pulling herself back up onto the pole. Then she resumed her graceful leaps and flips to the opposite platform as if nothing had happened. Her performance over, she turned her back on the ecstatic crowd and disappeared without taking a bow.

* * *

After the show, the stranger walked among the ragged tents searching for where the entertainers dressed. His pace quickened when he heard shouting and the sound of a whip crack. Stopping at the corner of a trailer he saw the ringmaster towering over the girl with a buggy whip in his hand. Since the show she had changed from her costume into a tunic and pants made from bits and pieces of drab scrap cloth.

“You completely botched that show and you expect to have the privilege of sleeping indoors?” The threatening crack of the buggy whip echoed in the still air. The ringmaster was about to lower the whip again, but this time aimed at the girl.

The outsider grabbed his wrist. “How dare you, Sir! This child hasn’t done anything to deserve being beaten!”

Reeking of alcohol, the ringmaster turned and snarled, “I can do anything I maknel please with my property.” Snarling with anger and hatred he picked up a shackle made of white metal in his gloved hands and placed it on the girl’s ankle as she whimpered softly.

Check out the The Alestrion Chronicles at: http://griffinpilot.webs.com

Author Bio:

LeAnna Shields grew up and lives in Colorado. She went to public schools until high school and then chose a home school out of Chicago called Christian Liberty Academy Satellite School. Home school is where she excelled and learned to write. It was fun for her to write fan fiction about Star Wars. During college she started this series, Alestrion Chronicles. She has put much love and hard work into it. Hope you enjoy it as much as many of us have.

Website for LeAnna Shields:
http://fictionwriter.blogspot.com

Storytime Wednesday: The Judging by Ellen C. Maze

Welcome to the inaugural edition of Storytime Wednesday, where we will enchant your imagination or tease your sense, with featured stories and book excerpts.

Today's guest writer is the talented writer Ellen C. Maze, author of the acclaimed vampire books of the Rabbit Trilogy.  Her wonderful contribution is an excerpt from The Judging, the first book in her series, The Corescu Chronicles:

An Excerpt from The Judging by Ellen C. Maze

(TreasureLine Publishing 2010)

This last one wouldn’t scream.

Tate rolled the corpse over for one last look. She was Emily all over again; it was uncanny. But why didn’t she scream? It really sucked the fun out of the exercise. Emily had screamed, and oh, what a sound.

With the toe of his work boot, Tate shoved the body over the edge of the bridge. Nobody would ever find her. He’d chosen this spot three years ago, and since weighted down and buried seven such Emilys. Deep in the Talladega National Forest, but no more than a mile from his granddaddy’s farm, the traffic on the abandoned road was nil. Only equestrians and hikers ambled by these days, and with the latest summer flooding, not even they traversed the treacherous terrain surrounding the defeated wooden crossing.

The eighth Emily made a surprisingly small splash and disappeared. The water was twelve feet deep and hardly moved. Tate thought about the others down there, what they must look like, wrapped in ropes, chains, and shower curtains, with only their long brown hair free to wave at the fishes that happened by.

Snap.

Tate frowned and looked toward the noise, his flashlight dark for the moment. It was half-past midnight and he was alone. Maybe an animal?

Snap!

Tate switched on his halogen beam and it sliced into the dark of the tree-line fifteen yards north. The noise was deeper in, snuggled into the way he was to go. It might’ve been a “woodland creature,” as his mother Emily called them, but she’d been a whore—Tate spat out the bile that rose as his memory of her sharpened. Cursing under his breath, he puffed out his chest. The sound occurred again, but this time on the opposite side of the disrupted clay path that used to be a road.

“Who’s there?” he whispered, unnerved that the forest had fallen quiet. The only noise that filtered into his ears was the echo of the latest branch breaking. It wasn’t an animal; someone was toying with him.

Tate backed two steps from the last noise and swallowed. A list of possible suspects paraded past his consciousness as he worked to divine who might have followed him to his killing field. Whoever it was, they had to die. There were too many Emilys left to locate and destroy before his work was done. Tate opened his pocket knife and hid it in his palm. If somebody rushed him, he’d do what the Army trained him to do twenty years ago. He was an excellent killer.

“Tatian Murphy, you are being judged.” A raspy voice filled the clearing with no definite source or direction.

Tate whirled to his right and presented his blade with a stiff arm.

“Who’s there?” he shouted, jerking to the left, behind, and then right again.

“You have killed for the last time. Repent of your murderous deeds and you will find forgiveness.” The voice rumbled closer now, eerily emanating from the air itself.

Tate jabbed at nothing and sought a reply. Intending to scream curses, he ended up repeating himself, “Who’s there?”

Strong hands from behind took hold of his shoulders and held him fast as Tate yelled out, this time in surprise and fear. Twisting backward to see, he caught a glimpse of a pale face floating in a sea of black, the mouth open and red.

A hungry mouth with the sharp teeth of an animal.

“Your sins have called me here and the time of judgment has come. Repent,” the voice hissed into his ear.

Tate screamed and swiveled his upper body with all of his strength only to be pulled into the thing’s wide chest. Twice more, his attacker whispered for him to repent, now speaking telepathically, penetrating his mind with icy fingers.

“Get away from me! Help!” Tate shouted until his throat was raw, but didn’t expect rescue; he’d chosen this desolate location well.

Still behind him, his attacker repositioned to hold Tate immobile with one arm while the free hand yanked down the collars of his coat and T-Shirt. Tate’s panic level rose as the monster’s breath whispered across his bare skin.

“Once more, Tatian Murphy,” the telepathic voice threatened, “repent of the murder and violence you have perpetrated. Repent and be saved…”

His assailant’s fang-like teeth touched his skin. Tate increased his struggle, accidentally pushing himself upward until blood trickled from the self-inflicted punctures. The monster inhaled, held him tighter, and sent him one last mental message.

“You should’ve repented. Bye, bye, Mr. Murphy.”

With that, the fangs were thrust as far as they would go into his jugular. Tate’s eyes bulged as the fire that raged at the wound site was surpassed by the undeniable sensation of his life slipping away.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he shouted, his knuckles white where his fists grasped the attacker’s sleeve. “God, help me! I’m sorry!”

Did he make it in time? Who was God and was He listening? The vampire drank deeply, squeezing Tate’s chest until it was difficult to breathe. Whimpering, Tate’s knees buckled. The monster supported his weight and held him fast, still brutally draining his life.

“I don’t want to die. No…”

Tate’s pleas fell to a whisper and then became internal as a white fog encroached on his senses.

Would God help him? He’d worked hard to punish his mother for what she did to him. He was washing evil from the planet; wasn’t that a good deed in itself? Should he have left that job to God?

Tate moaned and realized the lub-dub thump in his ears had become irregular. Soon, it would stop altogether.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He tried to say it, but he had no breath. Oh, but he was sorry.

Author Bio:
A recovering vampire/horror fanatic, Ellen uses her experience in that subculture to bring the Light into the vampire genre. Addicting and delicious, Ellen’s brand of story-telling is rife with deep character study and honest emotion. Ellen graduated from Huntingdon College in Montgomery, Alabama, with a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Psychology and a minor in Sociology, and lives in Historic Montgomery, Alabama with her husband,   daughter, five cats, and one spoiled dog.

Website: http://www.ellencmaze.com/

Tomorrow Begins Storytime Wednesday

Tomorrow, June 1st, my new weekly feature, Storytime Wednesday launches.

Every week, provided I get enough submissions, I'll be showcasing a new story or an excerpt by a writer for your reading pleasure.  It will be a mixture of experienced and novice storytellers, writers published and unpublished, in a variety of genres.

So far on the schedule:

June 1st:  Excerpt from The Judging by Ellen C. Maze

June 8th:  Excerpt from The Alestrion Chronicles: Salve's Redeemed by LeAnna Shields

June 15th:  The Mirror by Dee Brown (note: this story most likely will be posted in two parts, continuing on June 22nd)

So I hope you can join in the fun and the reading!

New Feature: Storytime Wednesday

In June, I will be starting a new feature on my blog called Storytime Wednesday, where I post a story or excerpt from a writer other than me. I'll be showcasing genre fiction such as fantasy, sci-fi, horror, mystery, or romance, but I’m certain some general fiction or non-fiction will sneak in as well.

If you are a writer, published or unpublished, just submit your story or book excerpt (I would like the book excerpts to be relatively self-contained, though) to afstewartauthor@gmail.com along with a paragraph bio and website/blog link. I'll also include a bio picture if you wish and links to your books if you are published.
Ideally, I'd like the length to be between 200 and 1000 words, but I'm not overly concerned with word count and will consider longer or shorter stories.
Also, please attach your story to the email as a Word document if possible; if not then send it in the body of the email.



Now here’s a sneak peek (using one of my stories from Killers and Demons) so you get the idea of what Storytime Wednesday will be:

Today’s story is the horror tale, Devoid by A. F. Stewart:

Devoid

I wish I had my eyes closed.
Then I’d know why I can’t see.

Everything is black, there’s no light, no shapes.

I’m blind.

And I don’t know where I am.

I’m sitting on a damp cold surface, my back against something hard; it feels like stone under my hands. Maybe I’m in a basement. I think I am alone, at least I can’t hear any sounds, in fact there’s no noise at all. It’s a perfect silence.

I don’t know how I got here.
Or where here is.
I’m so scared.
The last thing I remember is… being happy.
I was with Jeremy.
Jeremy, where’s Jeremy?!
What if he’s been…?

I reach out and my hand touches a hard surface, more stone, I think. I feel my way along the stonework to find four walls. I think I’m in a very small room, but I can’t locate a door. I try to stand, but my head hits a solid ceiling before I’m upright. I sit down again, the dread slowly crushing my thoughts. It can’t be true, I can’t be imprisoned!

NO! NO! NO!
I’m trapped!
I’m alone and I’m trapped!
What happened!
How did I get here!
And how do I get out!
Someone has to get me out!

I’m screaming now. I can’t help it. I’m in a nightmare and I don’t know how to wake up. I claw at the walls in a futile attempt to escape, but all I manage is to bloody my fingers. I stop and take a breath, to calm myself.

I need to figure things out.
To remember last night.
Was it last night?
I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.
Jeremy and I were celebrating our six-month anniversary.
With champagne, in my apartment.
I was laughing and drinking.
Then…? Wait, yes. I stumbled, fell and...
Jeremy was smiling?
Why was he smiling?
I think I passed out.
Why did I pass out after one drink?

“Hello, Anna.”
“Jeremy?!” Relief floods through me. He found me; I’m getting out of here! “I’m here, Jeremy! Help me! Get me out of here!”
“Why would I do that? After all the trouble I went through to put you in there?”
“Wh-what?!” The awful realization finally sinks in to my foolish mind.
“I spent months constructing your little underground prison, planning how to get you inside. I took great care in getting it all right. I made certain the stone was thick enough, the hatch could be permanently sealed, that there was a wireless setup so we could talk this one last time. I’m so happy. Everything fell into place flawlessly.”
“Why?! Why did you do this?!” I heard him laugh. A twisted version of the sound I used to love.
“For fun. I like doing this sort of thing. I like tormenting. I like killing.” There was more laughter. “Good-bye, Anna, and enjoy your new home. For the rest of your very short life.”
“No! You can’t mean it! Jeremy! Jeremy, please! Please don’t leave me here!” I wait for an answer, but there is only silence. “Jeremy! Please, please! Don’t leave me here!” I pray he is still there, cling to hope he will let me out, strain my ears for any noise, but nothing. He is gone.

I’m going to die.
He locked me in a hole to die.
He buried me alive and I’m going to die!
I’m not getting out!
There is no way to get out!
Somebody help me!

All around me it is darkness, and it is so still, so quiet.
I start screaming again.


A. F. Stewart is the indie author of several books, including Chronicles of the Undead and Killers and Demons, who favours writing dark fantasy that borders on horror.

Website: http://afallon.bravehost.com/