Maci the Lazy Dog #OurAuthorGang

 A short story by Erika M Szabo

Maci, the gentle giant

Margaret sat in her kitchen, staring out the window feeling the weight of the empty house. It had been a month since her daughter Wendy had moved out after getting married. The silence was overwhelming, and Margaret felt lonely. She had been so used to having Wendy in the house with her, and now she was all alone.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Margaret's heart leaped, hoping it might be her daughter coming for a surprise visit. But when she opened the door, there was a man in uniform with a package in his hands.

"Ma'am, I have a person-to-person delivery for you," he said, smiling. “You need to open the package as soon as possible.”

Margaret signed for the package and carried it inside. She carefully opened it, her hands trembling with excitement. She held her breath I awe when a soft-haired, cuddly St. Bernard puppy looked into her eyes. Margaret's heart melted as she picked up the little creature, feeling the small body’s warmth radiating through her hands.

On the puppy’s collar, there was a note in Wendy's handwriting: "To keep you company. Love, Wendy."

Margaret named the puppy Maci, which meant "little bear" in her native language. From that moment on, Margaret and Maci were inseparable. The affectionate little bear brought so much joy and love into her life that loneliness disappeared from her heart. They spent every minute together, playing, napping, and exploring the outside world. Margaret couldn't imagine her life without her little bear, and she was grateful for the unexpected gift of love from her daughter.

As Maci grew, so did the bond between her and Margaret. The St. Bernard grew into a gentle giant, always by her owner's side, ready to offer comfort and love whenever needed.

Maci loved taking naps on Margaret's lap or snuggling up close to her on the couch. And as she grew bigger and bigger, it seemed like she would never stop growing. By the time she was a year old, Maci had reached the size of a small lioness. But despite her size, she remained gentle and calm, never once showing any aggression toward anyone.

Margaret was proud of her fur baby and often boasted to her friends about what a great companion Maci was. She would tell them how the dog always knew when she needed some extra love and attention, how she could sense when Margaret wasn't feeling well and would stay by her side until she felt better.

One day, as they were out for their daily walk in the park, Margaret tripped and fell to the ground with a thud. She let out a cry of pain as she landed on her hip. But before Margaret could even think about getting up or calling for help, Maci was already by her side, offering her strong body for support.

"Thank you, sweet girl," Margaret said with tears in her eyes as she wrapped her arm around Maci's neck and carefully moved her legs. When she didn't feel pain, she held onto Maci and stood up. "I think I'm okay, I'll just a little sore for a few days," she murmured touching her hip. "I don't know what I would do without you," Margaret whispered to Maci as they walked home.

Maci may have been large, but in Margaret's heart, she was still that tiny puppy that had filled the emptiness in her home after Wendy had left. And with each passing day, their bond only grew stronger and stronger.

As Maci reached adult size, she became quite an attraction in their small town. Everyone loved her, and many would stop to pet her as she walked by with Margaret. But despite her size, Maci remained a gentle and calm dog. She never barked or showed aggression toward anyone, even when children pulled on her tail or tried to climb on her back.

Wendy would often ask about Maci whenever she called her mother. "How's Maci doing?"

"She's on the lazy side, you know, she naps a lot," Margaret would reply with a chuckle. "But I’m happy that she's such a quiet and good-natured dog. I would go insane if I had a constantly fidgeting, yapping Chihuahua like Mary.”

“Yes,” Wendy laughed. “I always wondered how that little menace could bark so loudly. His lungs must be the size of walnuts. Maci must be huge by now. She was four month old when I saw her and she was already big.”

“Oh, yes. She's grown so huge and I feel like instead of me walking her, she's taking me for walks," Margaret continued jokingly. "Sometimes when my legs hurt, I feel like I could just ride on her back as if she was a horse."

Wendy laughed at the thought of her petite mother riding on top of her giant dog. "As skinny as you are, she probably could give you a ride with ease," Wendy joked. "I miss you, Mom! I can hardly wait until next month to visit you."

"I miss you too! See you soon."

***

A week later, while watching a movie, Margaret heard footsteps and saw someone trying to peek through the curtains of the bay window. She straightened up on the sofa. Who could that be? She thought nervously when the footsteps were getting closer and closer to her front door. Her heart racing, she glanced at Maci, who slept soundly beside her on the sofa. As the doorknob began to turn and the door rattled, Margaret held her breath in fear.

She grabbed her phone and pressed 911. “Someone is breaking into my house, 19 Mulberry Street, and I’m alone,” she whispered into the phone in panic.

“I’m sending a patrol car right away. Stay on the phone,” the operator instructed.

Margaret put the phone next to her when suddenly, the door swung open, revealing a large man wearing a black mask. He had a knife in his hand and took a step toward the terrified old woman.

"What are you doing in my house? What do you want?" she whispered, trembling with fear.

"Where's your money?" growled the intruder. "Give it to me and I won't hurt you."

Countless thoughts raced through Margaret's mind as she cowered on the sofa. This man is going to kill me before the police get here. She grasped at the dog’s fur, who remained motionless, but Margaret noticed that Maci was watching the man under half-closed eyelids. She could feel the dog's muscles tensing as if she was getting ready to jump.

“It’s over there,” Margaret stammered pointing at the mantel. “I… I don’t have much, but it’s in there, in that red box.”

The man turned and walked to the mantel.

Maci slowly, without making a sound, got down from the sofa and reached the man with a few, soundless steps on the thick carpet. She stood behind the man, watching him.

The man reached for the red box, opened it, and jammed the handful of cash into his pocket with a grunt. “Where’s your jewelry?” he demanded, turning back, but took a frightened step backward hitting his shoulders on the mantel when he faced the huge dog. Maci opened her mouth showing two rows of teeth and let out a thunderous bark that vibrated through the house. The man shrunk back in fear. “Call this monster off!” he shouted.

Margaret stared at the trembling man and heard Maci’s throaty, threatening growl. “I wouldn’t move if I were you,” Margaret said, suddenly feeling safe and calm. She picked up her phone while keeping an eye on the man and her dog.

“Keep talking to him, ma’am. The patrol car will be there in a minute.” Margaret heard the voice of the operator. “Are you safe?”

“Oh, yes, I’m safe,” Margaret answered the operator’s question, chuckling softly. “My dog is holding the man hostage.”

Margaret watched as Maci stood motionless in front of the masked intruder until the man made a slight move. Then, the huge dog let out a deafening bark and with lightning speed, she jumped up and placed her enormous front paws on the man’s chest, her massive mouth open and lined with sharp teeth just inches from his face.

The man froze and whimpered in fright.

Margaret watched with satisfaction as the terrified intruder stood frozen. He seemed to be afraid to move a muscle, only his eyes darted between Maci and Margaret, begging for help.

As she heard the siren from the driveway and running footsteps, Margaret stood up, feeling a bit shaken but no longer scared as she watched her furry guardian keeping the man trapped. She snickered when she noticed the expanding wet spot on the front of the man’s pants, which was clear evidence of how terrified he was.

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and educational and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.

Lost in the Woods #OurAuthorGang

 A short story by Erika M Szabo

A young police officer enters the woods to find a missing woman, but it takes all her mental strength to deal with what she finds.

Excerpt from the story published in the What If? Anthology

The headlights of the police vehicle cut through the gloom, creating ripples of shadow and light through the trees. Officer Angela Devon, a tall, athletic woman in her late twenties pulled up behind the silver car. With the headlights off, it was parked on the side of the winding road that ran through the middle of the dense forest.

“This is Officer Devon, pulling up at the location now,” she spoke into her radio, peering through the windshield. “There is a car here, and according to the GPS locator, the call came from two hundred yards away in the woods.” She said, hoping it was just a prank call made by bored teenagers, but until she knew for sure, she wouldn’t leave. Not if there was even the slightest possibility that someone was in trouble.

“Copy that,” the dispatcher’s voice crackled through the receiver, followed by a short burst of static. “I’ll be on standby if you need backup. Over.”

Angela cut the engine and turned off the headlights. She leaned back against the headrest with a sigh. Without the headlights on, the forest seemed to be closing in on her in the eerie light of the full moon, darkness spilling out through the branches.

She grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment, switched it on, and then pushed open the driver’s side door and climbed out slamming the car door closed behind her. The large bluish-white beam flooded the trees in front of her, creating ghostly shadows in her peripheral vision.

She really did not want to be there, but she was the only officer on duty who had been able to answer the call. Her partner’s wife went into labor, and nobody was available to take his place for the night shift. In their small town, way up in the mountains, and a small department with only a handful of officers, it wasn’t unusual for the officers to answer calls alone. 

“Let’s just get this over with,” Angela muttered under her breath.

The 911 call that had come in had been an odd one, to say the least. A woman crying for help, saying she was being followed by someone she couldn’t see. In the background, the operator could hear footsteps thudding in the distance, and heavy breathing, but that was all. The phone went silent before she could give a location, but they had managed to trace the area where the call had been made. In the forest by a country road a few miles from town, the caller identified herself as Bella Mason, a twenty-four-year-old clerk at the local hotel. Why would a young woman be out here alone, in the middle of the night? Perhaps meeting someone in secret, Angela thought, and only hoped she’d lost her phone, and whoever found it made the prank call, rather than being anything serious. 

Hefting her flashlight into the other hand, she made sure she had her radio, taser, and Glock within reach and stepped into the forest.

Given that the location had been out of town, and it had taken twenty minutes to get there, Angela had no idea where the woman might be. She was only one person, and she wouldn’t be able to search the entire forest on her own, but she would do her best to follow any tracks that she could find. She wouldn’t leave until she was confident nothing bad had taken place.

Twigs and underbrush crunched under her feet as she moved between the trees, shining her flashlight in a wide arc. Bugs flitted around her, attracted by the glow, but she paid them no mind, other than occasionally brushing a mosquito off her cheek. Despite the cool night, it was humid beneath the canopy of trees, and a bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck, making the collar of her uniform stick to her skin.

The woman on the phone had raggedly gasped out ‘Bella Mason’ when the operator had asked for her name, so that’s what Angela began to call out, her voice echoing through the forest.

“Bella Mason! I’m a police officer responding to your 911 call.” 

She winced when the sound bounced between the trees, the echo growing strange and distorted. She didn’t like the thought of attracting the attention of anyone—or anything—that might be hiding in the shadows, but there was no other way she could go about it. She had to hope that Bella heard her somehow and could give Angela a clue as to where she was.

Seriously though, what was she doing out here in the middle of the night?

“Bella! Bella, are you out here?” She continued to call out as she traversed through the trees, brushing branches and silky moth wings out of her face. “Bella! It’s the police. I’m here to help.”

Nearing the approximate spot where the call came from, the deeper into the forest she went, the quieter it got. She could no longer hear the sound of small rodents and insects scurrying in the undergrowth, or nightbirds ruffling their feathers high up in the trees. Even the wind had fallen still, no longer rustling the leaves. There was only her own labored breathing, and the soft crunch of her boots against the fallen twigs on the ground.

It was almost like walking in the graveyard at night. Everything was so still, so quiet. Angela felt nervous about disturbing the silence, but she quickly shook that thought away. She was there to answer a distress call, which meant she had a job to do. 

She cleared her throat and wiped away the perspiration that beaded her forehead. “Bella! If you can hear me, please answer.”

As the echo faded into silence, Angela thought she heard the faint sound of footsteps behind her. Soft, spongy, like someone walking barefoot in the sand.

She turned, swinging her flashlight in the direction of the noise. “Bella? Is that you?”

She saw a fleeting shadow by a wide tree from the corner of her eye, and Angela felt a shiver of fear twisting her stomach. If it was Bella, she would have answered. Had I merely imagined it? “Who’s there?” She croaked out the words, and suddenly, her mouth and throat felt dry. She swallowed hard and felt the flashlight slipping from the sweat that was accumulating in her palms. 

Get a grip, there’s nobody out here but me and perhaps Bella, if it’s not a prank. And don’t be a scaredy cat. Your eyes just played a trick on you with that shadow.

When it was clear there was nobody there, Angela turned around and continued walking, though now the darkness and fluctuation of light from her flashlight was making her disoriented, and she couldn’t remember which way the road was.

Continue reading in the Anthology

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Campfire Stories 2 #OurAuthorGang

 A campfire story by Lorraine Carey

Mysterious Getaway

Crystal, Shawna, Faith, and Melynda had been counting down the days. Their long-awaited ‘girls’ getaway’ was finally upon them. It had been months of planning, and with Spring Break in full swing at Desert Ridge Elementary, all four teachers were desperate for a break. The stress of their rowdy fourth graders had worn them thin, but for Crystal, the weight of the year was heavier—just a few months ago, her grandmother had passed away, and the grief still lingered.

Shawna had taken charge of the arrangements and booked a stay at the Albuquerque KOA Journey Campground. It wasn’t far—just a half-hour drive from their homes in Rio Rancho—but in the Land of Enchantment, even short trips felt like escapes. Shawna had planned for them to stay in two separate cabins, one for herself with Crystal and Faith and Melynda in another. Together, they piled into Shawna’s SUV, music blasting, singing along to the latest pop hits.

As they hit Route 66, the landscape stretched out before them—endless desert, rugged mountains, and the promise of adventure. Soon enough, they pulled up to the campground, the rustic cabins nestled beneath the looming Sandia Mountains, their jagged peaks bathed in the fading light of the setting sun. The girls could already feel the magic of the place, the world quieting around them as the vibrant pinks and purples of the mountains intensified with dusk.

After a hearty New Mexico meal in the guest kitchen, everyone was eager to stretch their legs. They made their way toward the farthest firepit, nestled on a quiet rise that offered an even better view of the mountain range. Thermoses filled with hot coffee and tea in hand, Crystal reminded them to grab jackets as the desert air would soon turn cold. At forty, she often played the role of the motherly figure, the one with a steady presence and a knack for sensing what others needed—some even said she had a ‘sixth sense.’ Her friends didn’t ask questions; they simply trusted her.

As they approached the firepit, they saw the groundskeeper, a silent figure, tending to the flames. Four chairs were arranged around the crackling fire, waiting for them. The girls settled in, the warmth of the fire offering a sharp contrast to the encroaching chill of the night.

Shawna, ever the instigator, suggested, “Tell us a story, Crystal. You’re half Navajo, you must have some legends tucked away.”

The others eagerly agreed, their voices rising in unison, “Yes, tell us!”

Crystal hesitated, a wry smile curling on her lips. “I don’t want to scare anyone off,” she teased, taking a long sip of her coffee.

Faith, always the skeptic, chuckled. “No way you’re scaring me off after last week’s chaos in my classroom.”

Crystal’s gaze drifted to the fire, the flames dancing hypnotically as sparks swirled into the night air like ghostly whispers. The coyotes’ distant howls broke the silence, sending a shiver down Melynda’s spine. She jumped in her seat.

“Maybe they want to join us,” Faith joked.

“Nah,” Crystal’s voice was calm, but there was a strange edge to it. “They’re harmless.”

The others fell silent, waiting for Crystal to speak.

After a long pause, she began: “The Navajo speak of Skinwalkers—shape-shifters who can take the form of any animal. But they’re more than that. They can steal your soul; make you do things... unspeakable things. They can even take the voice of your loved ones to lure you into the darkness.”

Melynda leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. “Have you ever encountered one?”

Crystal’s eyes glinted in the firelight. “Not me, but my grandfather did.”

The night seemed to grow colder as Crystal spoke, her words sinking deeper into the air around them.

“They can hear your thoughts,” she continued, her voice low, almost a whisper. “and they can use the voice of someone you trust to draw you in. They’re never as far as you think.”

Shawna pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders. “Do you think one’s out here? In the mountains?”

Crystal met Shawna’s gaze, her face unreadable. “What do you think? You live in New Mexico.”

“Why would they come here?” Shawna asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Some places are... easier to reach," Crystal replied, her gaze turning toward the full moon, glowing unnaturally bright above them. “They need darkness to thrive.”

The girls sat in tense silence until Shawna broke it with a question. “How do you kill one?”

Crystal’s eyes flickered with a dark understanding. “A bullet dipped in white ash. But even then... it’s never certain.”

The fire crackled, the air thick with unease. Faith nervously whistled, attempting to break the tension, but Crystal’s voice rang out sharply. “Stop! Don’t do that. It taunts the spirits.”

The group fell silent, the weight of Crystal’s words settling over them like a heavy fog. After a long moment, Crystal stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the stone. She picked up her thermos, her face pale.

“I’m not feeling well,” she murmured, her voice tight. “I think I ate too much at dinner. I’m going to lie down.”

The girls exchanged uncertain glances as Crystal left, her footsteps fading into the night.

Shawna, Faith, and Melynda stayed behind, the firelight flickering in the growing darkness as they each shared a story—nothing as chilling as Crystal’s. The coyotes had quieted, and the air was thick with an uneasy calm.

But when Shawna went to check on Crystal, she found the cabin empty. The bed was perfectly made, the bathroom unoccupied. Panic gripped her as she rushed back to the firepit, shouting to the others. “Crystal’s gone!”

They turned to see Melynda staring up into the sky, her face pale. “There’s something up there... a huge crow, circling.”

“Forget the crow!” Shawna shouted. “We need to find Crystal.”

The crow swooped low, almost touching the flames, before it shot back into the night sky, disappearing beyond the ridge of the Sandia Mountains.

The girls exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of Crystal’s disappearance settling over them like a shadow. Melynda’s voice trembled as she spoke. “Maybe... maybe she really did need to get away.”

“And so, you think she just turned into a crow?” Faith snapped back.

Shawna turned to look back in the direction of the crow. “Well, anything’s possible out here. Fact is, Crystal’s gone, and we still need to do something!”

Faith and Melynda stood frozen, their breaths visible in the cold desert air as the fire crackled, casting shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own. Shawna clutched her jacket, her knuckles white. “We can’t just stand here. We have to look for her. What if she’s hurt? What if that old groundskeeper took her? You know how men react to her beauty.”

Faith nodded, though her eyes betrayed her fear. “I’ll go back to the main lodge and see where he went then when I come back we’ll check the trails,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “She couldn’t have gone far.”

Melynda hesitated, her gaze fixed on the ridge where the crow had vanished. “What if...” She trailed off, shaking her head. “No, never mind.”

Faith had returned looking grim as she informed the girls the man at the desk said the groundskeeper had retreated to his cabin for the night. “ I even went and banged on his door and he answered, claiming he hadn’t seen her, but if need be, he’d help search in the morning or get a search party organized. I don’t think he had anything to do with Crystal’s disappearance.”

Shawna grabbed a flashlight from her pack and handed another to Faith. “Split up. We’ll cover more ground.”

Melynda interjected, her voice firm. “No. We stay together. Crystal warned us about the darkness, remember? Let’s stick to the main path and call for her. And Faith, no whistling, please!”

The three women began their search, their flashlights casting narrow beams that sliced through the enveloping darkness. The wind whistled through the trees, carrying with it faint, eerie sounds—snatches of whispers, a rustle of movement. They called Crystal’s name, their voices echoing into the night, but no reply came.

As they reached a clearing, Faith stopped suddenly. “Do you hear that?” she whispered.

The others froze, straining their ears. Faintly, from the direction of the mountains, came a sound: a voice. Crystal’s voice.

“Help me!” it called, faint but unmistakable. “Over here!”

Shawna’s heart leapt, and she started toward the sound, but Melynda grabbed her arm. “Wait! Crystal said they could use voices. What if it’s not her? Remember what she told us about how Skinwalkers can mimic familiar voices?”

Shawna hesitated, torn between logic and instinct. “But what if it is her?” Her flashlight beam wavered; her grip unsteady. “What if she’s hurt? We can’t just leave her out there!”

Faith nodded, but her voice quivered. “Melynda’s right. Crystal wouldn’t have warned us for no reason. Let’s think this through.”

The voice called out again, more desperate this time: “Help me! Please!”

Melynda tightened her grip on Shawna’s arm. “We need to be smart. This may be a trick. She might still be in the campground. Let’s head back and check the cabins again before chasing shadows.”

Reluctantly, Shawna agreed, and the three women retraced their steps, their flashlights guiding them back to the firepit. The glow of the flames still danced in the distance, a comforting beacon in the oppressive darkness.

As they approached, they heard movement—soft, deliberate footsteps. Faith swung her flashlight toward the sound, and the beam illuminated Crystal, standing at the edge of the firelight. Her face was pale, her expression unreadable.

“Crystal!” Shawna cried, rushing toward her. But Melynda stepped in her path, holding her back.

“Wait,” Melynda said, her voice low. “Something’s not right.”

Crystal tilted her head, her dark eyes glinting in the firelight. “What’s wrong? It’s just me,” she said, her tone calm but strangely hollow.

Faith shivered, her flashlight trembling in her hand. “Where did you go? We checked the cabin, and you weren’t there.”

“I needed some air,” Crystal replied smoothly. “I told you I wasn’t feeling well.”

Melynda narrowed her eyes, her instincts screaming that something was off. “If it’s really you, tell us—what did you say about the coyotes earlier?”

Crystal’s lips curled into a faint smile. “I said they might want to join us.”

Melynda’s heart sank. “No! You said, “ They’re harmless.”

For a split second, Crystal’s expression faltered, her features twisting into something darker. Then, without warning, she turned and bolted toward the trees.

“Stop!” Shawna shouted, but Crystal—or whatever she was—was already gone, disappearing into the night.

The three women stood frozen, the weight of what they’d just witnessed sinking in.

“What do we do now?” Faith whispered, her voice barely audible.

Melynda glanced at the firepit, then back at the direction Crystal had fled. “We stick together, just like we said. Let’s get back to the cabins and wait until daylight. If Crystal’s out there, we’ll find her in the morning.”

Shawna hesitated but eventually nodded. “Okay. But we can’t leave her out there alone for too long.”

As they made their way back to the cabins, the oppressive darkness seemed to press closer, and the whispers of the wind grew louder, almost mocking. Inside, they locked the doors and windows, huddling together in one cabin for safety, but found it hard to sleep as they all questioned what just happened at the campfire, each one having their own theory.

The night passed slowly, every creak and rustle outside sent chills down their spines. At dawn, the first rays of sunlight broke over the Sandia Mountains, bathing the campground in a golden glow.

The women stepped outside, the bright light dispelling the shadows of the night. They began their search again, calling Crystal’s name as they scoured the campground and surrounding trails.

Finally, near a rocky outcrop at the base of the mountains, they found her. Crystal was sitting on a boulder, her face tilted toward the rising sun. She looked tired but unharmed.

“Crystal!” Shawna cried, rushing to her.

Crystal turned to them, her expression soft and familiar. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice heavy with emotion. “I needed to be alone. I... I felt something pulling me, and I didn’t know how to explain it.”

Melynda studied her closely, searching for any sign of the eerie presence from the night before. But this was the Crystal she knew—their friend.

Lorraine Carey

https://authorlorrainecarey.blogspot.com/

Lorraine Carey is a reading specialist and an Award-Winning Author. She was living in California until fate whisked her off to Grand Cayman. She currently lives in Florida. Her love for paranormal stories began at a young age, and is no stranger to the paranormal, having encountered unexplainable events that are woven into her stories.

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Book Sunday #OurAuthorGang

 Today's reading recommendation

Sister Witch by David W. Thompson

ON AMAZON

Moll Dyer prays she can leave her troubles behind when she immigrates to the new world, but a paranormal threat grows, and soon follows her across the ocean to Maryland.Colonial life in the Old Line state was tough on both man and woman. Hunger, disease, Indian attacks, and drought tested the resolve of the settlers daily, but troubles for the Dyers included the threat of a succubus on a mission! Will the demonic call initiated by her family prove too much to resist as she labors to rebuild her life in a distant land?The legend of Moll Dyer originated in earliest colonial Maryland. Despite 300 years of civilization, and scientific reason, Moll's name is still often heard there, especially around campfires late at night, or as a warning to misbehaving little people. Her spirit is often seen as a wisp of unnatural fog in the swampy woodlands near her homestead, with her half wolf companion at her side. This is her story.

Chapter One

My name is Mary Dyer, or Moll to my family and friends. If you are either, you are among the few. It is for my child’s sake alone that I press my quill to paper. I am not proficient in the keeping of secrets, unlike my family, and as my disgrace is the foundation of my woes, I shall confess all for the integrity of my account. My child will know I was truthful in all things, save one.

For five generations, our family called Kinsale in County Cork, Ireland home. Kinsale is a sleepy little fishing village on the River Bandon. For the years I lived there, it was a safe, quiet, familiar place. The men fished the channel, built fishing vessels, and farmed the land.

The womenfolk cared for their families, prepared meals, mended clothes, and, of course, kept the ever-present peat fires burning. Mother loved the smell of a peat fire, saying it reminded her of leaves burning in the autumn of the year. I found the scent to be sticky sweet, like rotten apples. 

I had thought all was well until one day (I am ashamed to say), I learned of our plight while eavesdropping on my parents after the bantlings were abed, and my breath caught in my chest!

“The work here is gone, Cathleen, and our savings are all but spent. There’s money to be made on the Isle of Wight, shipbuilding and working the docks. There’s nothing holding us here now.”

“Are we starting this again, Killian? This is our home! Are you not happy here?” Mother asked.

“Happy? I’m as happy as a pig in shit living on scraps! It is my duty as a man to provide for my family! I won’t be depending on any man’s charity! Every day, there’s more and more debt we cannot pay. Indeed, I’m so happy I could dance!” I heard the patter of his shoes dancing to an imaginary tune, and stifled a giggle.

“You needn’t curse, or play the fool. There is no lack of food for our table, and the peat fires keep us warm at night.” Mother said.

“That’s not enough, Cathleen! The Dyers thrived here before the Battle of Kinsale. I swore to my father I’d reclaim our family’s glory. It’s what you deserve, what our children deserve.”

“I know the story, we’ve all heard it often enough, but you, of all people? You would raise our family among them? You think anything good waits for us among the English?” Mother asked.

“To hell with the English bastards! This is about our family’s future. Building their ships is where the money is. I’ll go alone if need be to deliver this family. I should be able to return in two or three years with bags full of coin!” 

“No, Killian. My place is with you, as is your family’s,” she answered. “We will follow where you lead, husband.”

My mother’s swift submissiveness perturbed me, and I snuck back to my bed, unable to swallow the lump in my throat. Mother was right, but she lacked the pluck to argue with my father. We were happy here. Our family called this place home for time immemorial, and I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving all I knew. Little of life outside of our village reached us, yet I knew Kinsale to be as fine a land as existed in all of creation. I yearned to see other places, know other lands, but as a visitor, not a permanent resident! Two to three years, my father said!

There were few in our village I called friends, but their families' history was entwined with ours for many generations. Their presence in our lives would be missed, but I dreaded being away from the land and the River Bandon.

My little brothers and sisters deserved a better life, it was true. Wealth to ensure their future happiness, a life without want. I suspected if my half-sister Anna had married a lord instead of a farrier, or if she’d settled in County Cork in lieu of Killarney, we’d not be leaving for a foreign land!

If I was ever addle-headed enough to have children, I’d never be so selfish as to force my dreams upon them! Sacrifices had to be made by all, and Da’ booked our voyage within a fortnight.

The village of Westcowes, on the Isle of Wight, appeared damp, and dirty from the windows of our small cottage. The river Medina was a swollen slothful moat. The small roads were formed of shoe-sucking mud, and brown was the predominant color of the town. Mother and I cleaned the floors twice daily, and still, we felt the constant grit of the land under our feet. We knew no one and were not allowed outside alone in the rowdy English harbor town, so we seldom felt the sun on our faces. I wanted to stretch my legs and run, experience this new place, but I was a trapped wild hare, forced to wait for the hungry trapper to come end my life. Westcowes was our home now.

Despite my father’s grand hopes, England did not prove to be our financial salvation. Every evening, he returned to our tiny cottage with the news that another job fell through. From his whispered conversations with Mother, I knew we were at the end of our meager reserves. So, my spirits soared the day he finally announced the news of finding work on the docks. It was not building ships, but it was good money just the same.

Our family was Catholic, pariahs on English soil. It was providential that our church was a short walk away. Sundays were gay outings and presented us with a rare occasion to be outside as a family. I sucked in the air on these jaunts, not that it was sweet and clean like home, but because it was free and unencumbered.

One such day, I tried to be attentive to Father O’Hearn’s sermon on the virtues of the missionary service to the New World, and how parents should encourage a renewed calling to the priesthood. The dear man was a fine Christian, I’m sure, but a speaker he was not, and I was unaware of any such callings for a sixteen-year-old girl.

My attention drifted until I felt my mother’s elbow dig into my side. I glanced about to see if there were any witnesses to my lack of devotion, and I spotted the fancy boy James Rogers. Unlike most boys his age, he dressed impeccably with never a hair out of place. I confess his dark, good looks drew my notice, but his blatant and hungry stare made my cheeks flush! Why was he even here? From what I knew of his family, they were fervent in their Church of England beliefs. Was he spying on us, on me?

I dropped my eyes to the floor and folded my hands in prayer. The seam my mother repaired flashed at me from the bodice of my dress; why didn’t I wear another? The thickness of the air left my hair in a mess of kinks, and I felt the fresh pimple rising from my forehead like a flagpole! Why couldn’t I be more like Anna? I sent a furtive glance back to his pew. James’ shirt was soaked through, and I giggled. He probably thought he was hell bound for attending church services among the Papists. My mother rewarded my frivolity with another elbow in the side and scolded me as we filed from the church.

“Daydreaming and giggling in church? That is no way for a decent woman to behave, Moll!” she whispered, pinching my ear. “What will people think of you and our family?”

I stalked away. I was the oldest now with Anna gone, but she spoke to me as if to a child. I entertained no cares about these strangers’ thoughts. My eternal judgment was not their sword to wield!

The congregation milled about and engaged in various conversations about the weather, politics, and shipbuilding. Mr. Cabot extolled the profits to be made in America, if one was brave enough, but I was not in the mood to listen, even about such grand adventures.

I wandered in ever larger circles around the church property. I stopped in front of the apothecary and stood tapping my foot, waiting for my parents to note my impatience.

“Hello Moll.” I heard from behind me. “Sleepy were you?”

“No James, I slept quite well last evening, thank you very much.”

“The moon didn’t keep you awake then?” James laughed.

“What do you - “

“I saw you last night, and you weren’t sleeping. The moon was full, and there was no mistaking you!”

My mouth dropped open like a carp’s, and I stuttered nonsense like an idiot child.

“What? The full moon…?” 

“What would your dear father say if he knew of your wandering the village in the dark of the night, with thieves and scoundrels about? I don’t believe he’d be pleased, not at all.”

“Nor do I, and I’d ask you not to be running your mouth, but do as you will.”

“Moll, you know you’ve captured my poor heart. Say you’ll be my girl, and not a word will pass my lips.” James’ smile looked like a court jester’s.

“Your girl is it? When just last week you asked Darcy Quinn about the “skinny red-headed Papish girl”? You didn’t even know my name. Now I’ve captured your heart, have I? Indeed!”   

“Ah, your laugh! So endearing, as sweet as a sparrow’s trill! Why else would I ask about you then? Surely your beauty captivated me?”

“James, many things I am unsure of, but my beauty, or lack thereof, is not one.” A sudden heat washed over my face. What game did he play with me? It was cruel of him to mock me so, but maybe…could his compliments be sincere? I thought not; years of young women whispering about my too-white skin and my red kinks of hair did little to reassure me, but could it be true? James did not hurt the eyes. If he was only Irish, my father might even be pleased for me to be courting with such a fine young man.

“Moll, but I am speaking truth!”

“Well now, my poor captivated James, perhaps you will pay our family a visit sometime then?”

 “I would like nothing better, but maybe until we get to know each other better, you might favor me with your company on one of your moonlight walks? I would act as your protector, your knight in shining armor perhaps?”

“Moll!” My mother yelled.

I knew it was wrong, and part of me tried to snatch back the words even as my flapping tongue set them free. “My walks usually end around eleven, by the old oak tree where the fishermen clean their catch. Perhaps I will see you there.” 

ON AMAZON 

David W. Thompson

https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.

Blue Dog Hill #OurAuthorGang

 A paranormal tale of Southern Maryland

The most famous (infamous?) paranormal tale in Southern Maryland relates to our accused witch, Moll Dyer, also known as the “Winter Witch.” However, most dark paranormal stories from the area originate over one hundred and fifty years after her fateful demise in 1697.

The war between the states in Southern Maryland is truly where brother fought brother. Add in a brutal prisoner-of-war encampment, a graveyard desecrated by a marauding army, lighthouses bearing witness to sunken ships, and the screams of passengers meeting their watery deaths, and you have ample ingredients to entice the otherworldly.

 The timeline of Blue Dog Hill is hard to nail down. Some have called it the oldest ghost story in America, dating to 1700. The story (also known as Peddler’s Rock) occurred on Rose Hill Road in the historic town of Port Tobacco, Maryland. It involves the love of a man and his dog. What could be less disturbing and more human, right?

The man was a soldier, freshly returned home after serving his country. Young and unmarried, the soldier was reunited with the dog he’d loved since childhood. The man’s name is lost to time, but we will call the man Charles and our devoted bluetick hound (better known than her master), appropriately enough, Blue.)

The long overdue reunion between man and dog went as such things often do: Blue barked violently as Charles walked up his friend’s driveway. The friend cared for Blue in Charles’s absence, but now his best buddy had forgotten him. Charles’ eyes misted over as Blue growled and circled him. She sniffed and stared as Charles held out his hand. She jumped joyfully into Charles’s arms when his scent touched her nose. He struggled to retain his balance under the weight of the large hound. After that, Blue wouldn’t let Charles out of her sight.

Charles’s friend ushered him inside and presented him with a small box.

“This is from your uncle. He brought it over for you about a month before he passed away. Said there wasn’t no sense in giving Uncle Sam a cut that he didn’t earn, and you’ve done enough for this country.”

Charles ripped off the tape and opened the box. Inside was a stack of $100 bills and legal documents. Charles got teary-eyed recalling the man who’d practically raised him.

“Can you get the crew together to meet at the tavern tonight? They all knew him, and I bet they all have stories. He touched a lot of lives, especially mine. I wish I could’ve gotten home when he passed, but tonight, we’ll have our wake in his honor.”

Alcohol flowed, and lies were told out of respect for a man they held in high regard. As the night transitioned into the wee hours of the morning, one by one, they bid Charles adieu and left for their homes. Charles guzzled the remnants of a warm beer and slid from the barstool.

“C’mon, Blue, time to go home,” he scratched the sleeping dog between her ears. They walked the lonely dirt road toward home, Charles’s military swagger now a stagger.

“Hey, stop right there!” The voice came out of the thick woods beside the trail.

“Who...?”

“Never mind who we are. Just empty your pockets, soldier boy. We want to see that wad of hundreds you’ve been flashing about.”

Charles heard the click of a gun’s hammer as two men materialized from the shadows. Burlap bags with cutout eye holes covered their faces. Charles reached into his pocket and withdrew the cash.

When the taller man reached out to snatch the money, Charles grabbed for the barrel of the man’s rifle, but alcohol threw off his balance. The thief retaliated by smashing his fist into Charles’s face. The other man joined in the fun. Blue jumped into the fray, biting the aggressors several times. When Charles fell backward, his head landed on a rock, and he was still—his neck broken.

Blue renewed her attack, and the thieves focused on her. She fought bravely to defend her friend and master but was no match for the concerted attack. The taller thief smashed the butt of his rifle across the center of her back. As she curled up at her master’s feet the following evening, the pair of rogues met at the familiar tavern. The small bar allowed eavesdropping among the patrons. The thieves listened as two of Charles’s friends discussed their concern for him.

“I’m sure Charles is fine. Probably still sleeping it off.”

“Or maybe he ignored us knocking on his door because he wasn’t up to another night of partying.”

“Tell you what, we’ll walk the trail back to his house when we leave tonight, just to make sure.”

The thieves exchanged glances when Charles’s friends spoke of legal documents and a farm deed that Charles was rumored to carry—sewn into the lining of his coat. They drained the last of their beverages and stood as one, then hurried down the same path Charles had followed the night before. They needed to hide the body—after they searched it. Untold riches might be hidden in the clothes of the dead man.

“Served him right anyway,” the tall man said. “Him and his damn war about broke us. None of our wares are worth nothin’ no more with no trade. Who’s gonna buy ’em? The other broke folks around here?”

As they turned the corner in the trail, there was a strange bluish glow where Charles had fallen. Thinking someone was there with a blue glass-domed lantern, they crept forward. But neither man nor lantern confronted them.

Blue stood with her front paws on Charles’s chest, growling defiantly, still protecting her friend, her alpha. Her blue-and-black-ticked coat emitted an eerie blue radiance in the moonlight. Her eyes burned with a yellow light as she stepped toward them. The murderers stepped backward as both of their bladders voided. The standoff continued for several minutes... or so it seemed to the men. They took another step backward, and Blue charged, saliva dripping from her grotesquely elongated teeth.

A man smoking a pipe on his porch a mile away heard the echo of their screams, and it’s said that, in the dark of a still night, they can still be heard.

Charles and the two murderers were never seen again. But many have reluctantly told the tale of wandering the dark forest trail and sighting a bluish spectral dog guarding her best friend’s resting spot, most often on a night in February when the dire deed is said to have occurred.

February is just around the corner. Care to take a walk? I think I’ll sit this one out.

David W. Thompson

https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.

Día del Libro Español #OurAuthorGang

 Hola, gracias por visitarnos

Hoy os recomendamos una dulce novela romántica escrita por Erika M Szabo

LEE EL LIBRO

Elana nació de una madre drogadicta sin hogar y fue dejada en las escaleras de la catedral de San Patricio. Mudándose de una casa de acogida a otra, su vida era una puerta giratoria de esperanzas y decepciones destrozadas.

Tan pronto como sintió una conexión emocional con alguien, el niño adoptivo en ella rápidamente alejaba el sentimiento. Lo último que Elana quería hacer era acercarse a alguien que probablemente nunca volvería a ver. La necesaria defensa emocional le sirvió bien a lo largo de su impredecible vida.

Hasta que conoció a Luca.

Permitiéndoles sólo un corto tiempo de felicidad, el cruel destino los apartó. Todo lo que tenía era esperanza y la mitad del colgante de corazón de palisandro que esculpió para aferrarse.

¿Se volverán a ver?

Leer un capítulo

Los pasillos de la Escuela de Medicina en NYU estaban repletos de la charla y el alboroto de cientos de estudiantes, todos ansiosos por comenzar sus vacaciones de invierno. La mayoría estaría viajando a diferentes estados o en el extranjero para visitar a familiares y seres queridos para las vacaciones. Pero no Elana. Ella tenía una tradición propia.

Ashley, al darse cuenta de la mirada no tan alegre en la cara de Elana, por lo general feliz, le tocó suavemente el brazo. — ¿Estás bien, Elana? Realmente no parece que estés en el espíritu navideño —.

Los labios de Elana se enroscaron en una sonrisa débil. — Estoy bien. Sólo cansada de estudiar para el gran examen. Te veré después de las vacaciones de Navidad, ¿de acuerdo? —. Las dos se abrazaron brevemente antes de separarse en la congestionada corriente del tráfico.

De repente, Elana oyó a Ashley gritar su nombre desde el otro lado del pasillo. — ¡Olvidé desearte Feliz Navidad! —. Elana sólo sonrió de vuelta, saludando a Ashley antes de dar la vuelta a la esquina y salir.

Abrazándose a ella misma contra el frío amargo, Elana llamó a un taxi y se dirigió a su apartamento solitario de Manhattan. El conductor zumbaba a través de racimos de tráfico, cantando al son de la radio. Su voz repicada estaba fuera de tono. No me atrevería a cantar en público si tuviese una voz como tú, pensó Elana mientras veía pequeños mechones de nieve empezar a acumularse en los coches estacionados y la acera. La vista abrió una inundación de recuerdos dolorosos: una presa rota de olores descoloridos, rostros, y palabras que se perdieron en las arenas en movimiento del tiempo.

Esta fue una temporada de vacaciones agridulce para Elana. Aunque había buenos recuerdos unidos a la Navidad, también había muchos en su pasado que ella deseaba que pudiera olvidar.

Veintidós años atrás

En esa tormentosa víspera de navidad hace veintidós años, una joven caminaba a través de los implacablemente fríos vientos del centro de la ciudad de Nueva York con un manojo de trapos apretados en el pecho. Gotas de vidrio de lágrimas congeladas se aferran a la piel expuesta de su rostro. La mujer, ligeramente aturdida y claramente angustiada, vagaba sin rumbo a través de la nieve que apuntaba a la acera vacía.

Ella no estaba segura de cuánto tiempo había estado abriéndose camino a través de la revoltosa nieve, pero sus mejillas crudas eran evidencia del tramo de tiempo y la ferocidad del viento. Para cualquiera que pasara, parecía ser sólo otra persona sin hogar: uno de los muchos intocables de la ciudad atrapada en el feroz clima, tratando de encontrar refugio. Le darían una mirada insensible y seguían en sus asuntos.

La mujer, guiada por sus pies entumecidos, caminó y caminó hasta que la luz tenue de un campanario brilló a través de la manta de sofocada de copos de nieve que caían. Poco a poco, se acercó a los escalones que conducen a la puerta y se detuvo.

—Lo siento mucho —sollozó, meciéndose ligeramente el manojo de trapos de lado a lado—. Estoy sola, y no tengo adónde ir. Estarás mejor sin mí —. Su suave llanto fue capturado en el aire como mechones de diminutas cuentas de hielo, disipando nubes de desesperación insondable. Ellas flotarían momentáneamente alrededor de su cara como una máscara delgada antes de ser tragado por las ráfagas de viento que pasan desde la calle infértil.

Poco a poco, se arrodilló y puso el paquete de trapos cuidadosamente en el paso de la catedral. Con tibias lágrimas volviéndose frías en cuanto se filtraban sobre sus mejillas temblorosas, ella volvió sus pasos por la calle y desapareció en la tormenta. Para nunca regresar.

Unos minutos más tarde, un sacerdote de la iglesia salió a los escalones delanteros. —¡Dios mío! Hace frío esta noche —, Padre Brown, un hombre alto, de mediana edad murmuró mientras tiraba su larga bufanda sobre su hombro. Metió sus manos deshuesadas en los bolsillos de su largo abrigo y tomó un momento para ver en silencio los edificios encalados con amos. Se elevaban como derivas de nieve monolíticas, filas de ventanas desnudas relucientes de hielo, como los ojos de una araña congelada.

El padre Brown se dirigía a un refugio para personas sin hogar al otro lado de la ciudad para ayudar con la preparación de la cena del día de Navidad. Al no tener familia propia, le traía más alegría estar rodeado de los necesitados que estar encerrado en la iglesia toda la noche viendo películas antiguas en el antiguo televisor en blanco y negro en su dormitorio. Aunque disfrutaba de la actuación de Jimmy Stewart en la película clásica It's a Wonderful Life, película que había visto al menos cincuenta veces hasta el momento, servir a las almas desafortunadas sería un mejor uso de su tiempo. Las sonrisas en sus rostros, tan cálido y acogedor como el pavo y puré de papas que tuvo la suerte de servir, fue más de lo que nunca podría haber pedido en este día tan sagrado. Sacando su mano de su chaqueta para revisar su reloj de pulsera, se dio cuenta de que, si quería coger el autobús al refugio, tendría que moverse.

Apurado por los escalones de la iglesia, casi tropieza. Miró hacia abajo y vio el paquete de trapos descansando en el paso inferior. Al principio pensó que era basura, el sacerdote caminó alrededor del montón de ropa cuando, de repente, oyó un gemido que emanaba del haz de trapos, silenciado por las capas. Curiosamente arrodillado para obtener una mejor mirada, casi gritó cuando los trapos comenzaron a temblar y moverse a su toque.

Fue entonces cuando se dio cuenta de que algo vivo estaba envuelto por dentro. Temiendo lo peor, rápidamente recogió el paquete y lo llevó a las paredes protectoras de la catedral. Agarrando el bulto de trapo contra su pecho, se dirigió al banco más cercano y lentamente lo puso abajo, silbando una oración. Bajo el resplandor de varias velas encendidas y asistido por la luz blanca prestada de la luna llena filtrándose a través de las vidrieras, el sacerdote rápidamente deshizo del haz de telas.

Acostado dentro del capullo de trapos sucios era un bebé recién nacido. Con sangre seca cubriendo su piel y pelo mate, sus ojos azules miraban al azar, y sus los labios secos ligeramente separados para exponer las encías púrpuras y una lengua hinchada.

—¡Dulce Madre María! —Jadeó el sacerdote, trazando reflexivamente el santo símbolo de la cruz en su cuerpo mientras corría su camino de regreso a su oficina. Una vez dentro, sus manos temblorosas agarraron el teléfono en su escritorio y marcaron 9-1-1.

—Sí, necesito que me envíen una ambulancia a la Catedral de San Patricio inmediatamente —, le rogó el sacerdote, con un sudor frío que se le derramaba en la frente. —Tengo un recién nacido moribundo aquí. Por favor, ¡dense prisa! —. Final de la llamada, corrió de nuevo al banco y sostuvo al bebé en sus brazos. Le dolió el alma mirar a la niña, arrugada y aferrándose a la vida, pero obligó a sus ojos a encontrarse con los suyos.

—No te preocupes, pequeño—, dijo, acunando a la bebé moribunda firmemente en sus brazos para mantenerla caliente. —Dios te está cuidando ahora. —

La ambulancia llegó a la iglesia no más de diez minutos más tarde, y la recién nacida fue llevada inmediatamente a un hospital local. La bebé estaba al borde de la muerte. Estaba gravemente deshidratada, y la hipotermia se había hecho sentir, haciendo que su respiración fuera superficial y el latido del corazón lento.

Incapaz de rastrear a los padres de la bebé, el hospital se puso en contacto con los servicios de niños y arregló para que la niña fuera puesta en hogares de crianza, una vez que estaba en mejor estado de salud.

Bajo el cuidado vigilante de los médicos y enfermeras, después de luchar contra una serie de infecciones y síndrome de abstinencia neonatal debido a los medicamentos a los que estuvo expuesta en el útero, se recuperó lentamente. Las enfermeras adoraban a la pequeña bebé y la sostenían en sus brazos, acurrucándola tanto como su apretada agenda lo permitía. Según las reglas del hospital, su nombre era BabyGirl, pero las enfermeras la llamaron Elana.

Fue dada de alta por el hospital un poco más de tres meses más tarde y se le asignó una trabajadora social y se le dio un nombre oficial: Elana Smith. 

http://www.authorerikamszabo.com/

Erika escribe novelas paranormales, épicas, de historia alternativa y de misterio, así como libros divertidos, educativos y bilingües para niños de 2 a 14 años sobre aceptación, amistad, familia y valores morales, como aceptar a personas con discapacidades, tratar con matones y no juzgar a otros antes de conocerlos.

W. I. D. G. E. T. S. #OurAuthorGang

 A short story by R.A. "Doc" Correa

The U. S. Army pursues the technologies “improving” Soldier-Machine Interface for Future Combat Systems. What are the consequences for humans?

May 28, 2073, South of Merida, Spain

We exist to serve.

With that imperative implanted in its mind, Mk-17D unit AA00000487 becomes “active”, or so the main control panel in the M-73A3 Heavy Assault and Command Carrier indicates. But unit AA00000487 has a secret none of the J.A.C.K.S. suspect. Unit AA00000487 is always “active” because it thinks on its own, fully aware it was once a he—a man named Michael Andrew Stevens.

It does not show on their control panel, but Michael Andrew Stevens‘ brain works without their direction, though it’s not supposed to operate outside of established parameters. His mind is only supposed to process directives from the division chain of command, or execute those of tactical significance, and should operate independently only when directive 17 is initiated.

But he does think his own thoughts; they bypass the specially developed neuropathways all W.I.D.G.E.T.S’ brain activity is supposed to follow. If the function varies from set parameters, it would be noticed.

Yet he sees, hears, smells, and feels. Mostly, he feels desperation. When will this nightmare end? When will I escape this living hell?

All of this is not possible. When Michael Andrew Stevens was first upgraded to a cyborg, his ability to think as an individual was supposedly engineered out of him. Neuropathways were constructed by implanted viruses, directing thoughts in very specific ways. Chip implants were inserted into his brain to generate only approved signals. Locations in the brain generating emotions like love, fear, and compassion were all bypassed. Only anger remains linked in, helping make the unit a more effective killing machine. With his upgrade to Mk-17D, when he became a Wholly Integrated Directable General Engagement Tactical System, all remaining humanity was supposed to have been removed from unit AA00000487. Any sign of humanity makes the unit less efficient.

Something else that isn’t possible is happening in the free part of his mind. Michael “sees” an image, the image of a young blond woman. She wears an officer’s uniform, that of a third lieutenant, a cadet. Her arms are open, she beckons for him to come to her, then she is gone. Is it a memory, or a vision? It can’t be a memory; I’ve never seen this woman before.

Unit AA00000487 moves to the parking area for its company. The unit is a Sergeant, a platoon leader. The forty other units of 1^st Platoon, Dog Company, 1^st BN, 327^th Infantry Regiment Cyborg, 82^nd ABN Div Cyborg park around it in platoon pre-assault formation.

Unit AA00000487 sees a near perfect formation, all units are in the correct location, in the proper order. The Mk-17D units are all armed and in standby mode. Power is at reaction level; the med readout shows all bio indicators in “normal” range. They are ready. It reports affirmative to the company commander.

Michael “looks” at the terrain map grid display in his mind. All Michael sees are those for which he’s responsible.

The leader’s data download begins, a massive amount of information is shoved into the neuropathways of his brain. Though the instruments in the command carrier will not register a physical reaction, he feels it. It hurts… it hurts like hell! The pain is excruciating; if he could, he’d vomit. In a millisecond, it’s over.

Now the chips in his brain parse the data, directing smaller data streams to the units of his platoon. In his mind he says, I’m sorry guys.

Unit AA00000487 reviews the platoon’s assigned tasks. Dog company is being held in reserve as part of the exploitation force. Unless there is a change in plan, when ordered 1^st platoon will move by air to a location south of Guadalajara and seize the bridges over the Rio Tajo in and around the town of Sacedón, severing the road and rail lines northwest to Madrid from Cuenca, and the north-south lines between Guadalajara and Cuenca. Once that is accomplished, the platoon will hold the thirty by forty-kilometer region around these bridges from “yard” counterattack. The platoon is to hold this area until link up with the rest of the division is complete.

Until deployment, the cyborg part of him will do everything required. It will move, it will load onto the UV-123 Locust, it will direct the other units to move and load with it. Michael now has several hours to think, to remember. How the hell did I end up like this?

Michael thinks back on what he didn’t know at the time was his last day of “freedom”.

It was June 12^th, 2042, he was just eighteen. This was his third time before “The Judge”. “The Judge” was a holographic projection of A.S.I.N.M.

During the chaos of the 2020s, people lost trust in their institutions. The police, the courts, and the governments all came under scrutiny—and fell short. The political parties went from opposing each other’s policies to open hatred and hostility. Violence, riots, and open rebellion enveloped the nations of the planet.

Then came the pandemics. Three variations of the virus linked to S.A.R.S. swept the planet. These were followed by a reappearance of the Plague, but this Plague was antibiotic resistant.

When they were fully analyzed, it was determined that the first of the virus strains was genetically modified by the Chinese military. The other two mutated from the first. And the Plague, the Plague was genetically manipulated by the Iranian Takavar.

Analysis indicated the Chinese modified virus escaped from one of their research facilities. It devastated them as much as everyone else. All indicators show the modified Plague was deliberately released by the Iranian Takavar in order to bring back the Twelfth Imam. All reports state the Takavar were unsuccessful in their attempt to fulfill prophecy.

The diseases killed millions, but the panic caused by them killed tens of millions more. Much of that panic was caused by news agencies attempting to use the pandemics to push political changes and assign blame on those they opposed. In the aftermath of the pandemics, and the propaganda campaigns that ensued, war and terrorism enveloped the planet.

The young blond woman appears in his mind again. Is she crying?

The National governments all reacted in different ways to restore order. In the United States they turned to technology, they turned to A.S.I.N.M.

A.S.I.N.M., Artificial Super Intelligent Network Manager, did such a great job of restoring economic confidence and prosperity that many local governments submitted to it to manage the police, the recovery projects, and the courts. Defendants would appear before a totally neutral bench to plead their case. No human bias, no compassion, no anger, no fear, just the cold logic of artificial super intelligence.

Continue reading in the Anthology

https://books2read.com/u/mv9Pxj

Campfire Stories 1 #OurAuthorGang

 A campfire story by Erika M Szabo

When A Camping Trip Goes Wrong

Paul, a successful lawyer in his mid-thirties, planned a weekend kayaking trip with his best friends, Steve and Jack. He wanted a chance for old buddies to reconnect in nature because he hated the underlying tensions between them. Lately, small arguments erupted into heated debates, hidden resentments came to light, and once solid friendships now felt fragile and uncertain.

But things didn't go as expected. The weather was comfortably warm and sunny when they left the city but unexpectedly turned. By the time they arrived at the campsite in the mountains, the heavy rain had turned the calm river into a muddy, raging force.

They were soaked to the bones when finally, the tents were up, but the flood threatened to wash the tents away because they pitched them too close to the water's edge. And it wasn't just the weather that had turned against them. The stress of the long journey to the mountains and the unexpected storm exposed underlying tensions within the group. Small arguments erupted into heated debates, hidden resentments came to light, and once solid friendships now felt fragile and uncertain.

The team huddled inside a flimsy tent while the rain hammered down and the wind howled outside. They were tired and anxious, listening to the frightening sounds of nature's wrath, debating whether they should tough it out or pack up their cars and return to the city.

However, as the sun set and the storm subsided, they regrouped around a crackling fire. The tension from earlier still lingered, but they were determined to salvage their trip and make the most of the remaining weekend together. They prepared dinner in silence, and to lift the mood, Paul proposed telling stories as they always did on high school trips.

Stomachs full and warmed by the cozy fire, the group eagerly anticipated the stories as each friend took turns sharing tales of ghosts, demons, and urban legends. As their voices lowered to a whisper and they leaned in closer, it was clear that they were all drawn into the spell of storytelling. The flickering shadows cast by the trees, the haunting calls of creatures in the distance, and the cold night air only added to the chilling atmosphere.

As the evening went on, the tales became darker and more twisted, each one trying to top the last. But no one minded – in fact, they reveled in it.

They shivered with excitement as Steve, the best storyteller among them, started his frightening story of an old mountain legend. “Long ago, a group of hunters had been savagely murdered by a mysterious Shapeshifter. Ever since every spring, campers and hunters had been mauled by this creature who was said to be living in the mountains for centuries. The legend says, the Shapeshifter showed up in different forms drawn by the campfire and takes an item from everyone. Late at night when people are settled and were asleep in their tents, the Shapeshifter drank their blood and tore them to pieces one by one. There were never any survivors.”

The fire crackled and popped, casting eerie shadows on the faces of the listeners. Their imagination triggered and imagined being trapped in nature with a mysterious, ancient monster lurking in the shadows.

Paul spoke up, trying to break through the tension that hung in the air. “Come on Steve, you just made it up. There’s no such thing as a ‘Shapeshifter’.”

Suddenly, they all jumped at the sound of rustling bushes nearby. Steve let out a nervous laugh and got up from his seat by the fire. “Relax guys, I’ll go check it out.”

He walked toward where he thought he had heard the noise coming from, while everyone else held their breath, unsure if they should follow or stay put.

After what felt like an eternity, Steve returned with a cheerful grin on his face.

“Cool it, guys,” he laughed. “It was just a raccoon.”

A wave of relief washed over them all and they laughed at their own paranoia. But deep down, the thought of the Shapeshifter lurking in the shadows still lingered.

“You just made up that legend, didn’t you?” grumbled Paul.

“Yeah, I thought it was when I first heard it!” Steve shouted. “Until last summer when I saw on the news that two hunters were killed not far from here by wild animals. They said they were attacked by mountain lions, but when I thought about this legend I heard when I was a kid…”

“Yeah, I saw that on the news too!” Jack exclaimed, shivering.

The group's fear intensified as they heard rustling sounds coming from the woods, and a creeping sense of being watched overcame them. Every conversation and movement were now tinged with paranoia and suspicion.

And then they heard it - slow footsteps approaching their campsite. The friends were frozen in terror, certain that their worst nightmares were about to come true. But instead of scattering in panic, their shared fear united them. Bravely, they stood their ground and confronted whatever or whoever lurked beyond the safety of their circle of light.

Paul's voice trembled as he shouted into the darkness, "Who's there? Show yourself!"

A calm yet authoritative voice responded from within the dense bushes, followed by a bright beam of light piercing through the blackness. "Calm down, young man," the deep, masculine voice said. "I’m a park ranger conducting routine checks on campers and warning kayakers not to venture onto the river. The heavy rain has raised the water level to dangerous heights, and the current is too strong for safe navigation."

After the ranger disappeared in the thick bushes continuing his rounds, the friends tried to brush off their fear and continue with their stories. But the unease remained as an added layer, and their anxiety was palpable.

The temperature dropped and Paul shivered and went into his tent to grab his warmer jacket. “Did you guys see my jacket?” he shouted.

“Nope,” Steve said standing up. “I better get mine too, it’s getting chilly.” Opening his tent, he stood frozen. “That’s odd,” he murmured. “My jacket is not here, either.”

Jack rushed to his tent and looked inside. “Who’s doing this?” he yelled. “My blanket is missing.”

The group exchanged uneasy glances. As much as they wanted to brush it off as just another of Steve’s scary stories, there were too many coincidences for comfort. The missing items, the ranger’s visit…

A thought crossed Paul's mind, "What if… what if the ranger is the Shapeshifter and…?"

The others were quick to dismiss this idea, but a seed of doubt had been planted. None of them could sleep now, fear keeping them awake and alert. They kept the fire going all night, jumping at every rustle in the bushes. As soon as the sun appeared on the horizon, they let out a collective sigh of relief.

“Let’s get out of here!” Paul suggested. “We can’t go kayaking, anyway.”

The others just nodded in agreement and packed up their things in silence, they felt relief. They jumped into their cars and drove on the muddy dirt road toward the highway as fast as they could.

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and educational and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.