Lorraine reads a campfire story
When a camping trip goes wrong
A short story by Erika M Szabo, and read by Lorraine Carey
 Erika M Szabo |
Lorraine Carey |
A Group of Authors Writing Stories for Your Entertainment
Showing posts with label #stories4you. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #stories4you. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 5, 2025
Tuesday, March 4, 2025
Flash Fiction Challenge 5 at #OurAuthorGang
Challenge accepted by Erika M Szabo
Howl of Grief
The alpha male howled mournfully into the
vast, starlit night sky, his piercing blue eyes gleamed in the moonlight. His pack gathered closely behind him, their warm breaths forming
fleeting clouds in the crisp, frigid air, yet he stood as an island of
solitude, engulfed by his own deep sorrow. The loss of his beloved mate struck
him with a gut-wrenching force, leaving an aching emptiness as if a vital piece of his very
soul had been torn away.
She had been
his equal in every facet of their wild existence, a formidable hunter and
steadfast guardian of their pack. Her spirit matched the fierce winds that
swept across their territory, unwavering and brave. But fate had dealt a cruel
hand when a man in a drunken haze decided to go hunting.
He searched and stumbled with his loaded gun, ready to shoot anything that moved. He mumbled with a wide grin on his face, "A deer or rabbit for dinner would do, but a wolf fur coat for the wife... Now that would be something." He cackled, watching his unsteady steps.
Suddenly, the man heard a threatening low growl that froze the breath in his throat as he looked up to face the wolfpack a few yards away. His hands shook in terror as he raised his rifle and pulled the trigger.
In a moment of selfless courage, the alpha female had
thrown herself into the line of fire, sacrificing her life to ensure the safety
of the others. The alpha male launched and tore the man’s throat out with one
powerful bite. The man’s lifeless body slumped to the ground, but the wolf didn’t
feel the satisfaction of revenge.
As he
howled mournfully, the deep, resonant tones seemed to vibrate through the still
night air, a somber lament that carried his grief far and wide. He could feel
the palpable sympathy and understanding of his pack surrounding him like a
comforting cocoon. Each of them had suffered the loss of wolves they held dear,
but none had been as formidable, as integral, as his beloved mate. Her scent
lingered in the cool night breeze, a whispering memory of what he had lost.
Even amidst the
profound ache of his cries, he understood the necessity of fortitude for the
sake of their pack. He would honor his mate's memory by leading them with the
same unwavering courage and indomitable strength that she had so gracefully
embodied. As his mournful howls echoed through the vast, star-studded sky, his
pack joined in, their voices rising in a harmonious tribute to their fallen
leader. It was a poignant reminder that she would forever be woven into the
very fabric of their lives, an enduring presence in their hearts.
Erika M Szabo
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.
Monday, March 3, 2025
Campfire Stories 9 at #OurAuthorGang
A short story by David W. Thompson
Old Man Jenkins
My old gang and I always agreed that the best stories we’ve
known always started in a circle around the flickering flames of a woodland
campfire. As we got older, we assumed adult responsibilities like jobs and
maintaining our homes. Over time, fishing and camping trips gravitated to changing
diapers, soccer games, band recitals, and dance classes. You get the idea. Our
outdoor adventures became few and far between, especially as a group. I’m not
complaining. I wouldn’t have had it any
other way. But when Sam McDaniels called about an upcoming weekend campout, a
bottle of Clorox couldn’t wipe the smile from my face!
My wife, Cathy, and my kids, Josh and Susan, dropped me off
at our meeting place, The Olde Village Diner. After our tearful goodbyes, I
threw my duffel bag in the back of Jack Dawson’s truck.
“I’ll be back Sunday night, guys. You’ll have a good time
with Mommy at the movies. But don’t eat too much popcorn.”
“We promise, Daddy,” they assured me.
Cathy reached through the car window for a hug and goodbye
kiss.
“You be safe, Dan. We will miss you. Be careful of bear…”
“There’s hardly any bears up there, and they are as scared
of us as…”
“I meant your buddy, Bear Blake. He doesn’t have the best
reputation since his divorce.”
“I’ll be good, Cathy. Promise.” I winked and went into the restaurant.
***
Bear jumped up from the table and yelled a greeting over the
breakfast patrons’ heads.
“Dan Baker, well as I live and breathe. You ain't changed a
bit, buddy. Not counting that gut, of course.” He threw a fake punch toward my
midsection.
“Thanks, Bear. You seem to have grown a few pounds and lost
a few hairs also.”
Sam McDaniels (Mac) and Jimmy Smith (Smitty) stood to shake
my hand. Of the four of us, I was the only one in the “family way,” Smitty lost
his wife in a car accident the year before. Mac and Bear were both divorced.
“It’s been too long, Dan,” Smitty said. “The waitress
already took our order. We remembered you were a western omelet guy and ordered
one for you. Hope that’s OK?”
I nodded. “So, what’s the plan? Are we headed for our usual
spot?”
“We were just talking about that. Bear thinks we should camp
on the river by the old sawmill. You remember the place?”
“C’mon, Mac. Not where that old hiker was killed five years
back?”
“That’s the place, Dan, but it wasn’t the old man. Some
freak killed his wife and kids while he was up on the mountain.” Bear said. “I
don’t reckon he ever recovered, though. He died a short time later.”
They must have read something in my eyes.
“Don’t worry, Dan,” Smitty said. “That was years ago. I’m
sure the culprit was caught. But you always were a Nervous Nellie.” They all
laughed.
When we left the diner, I spotted a groundhog dead on the
side of the road. It must have just happened, as it wasn’t there when Cathy
dropped me off. But vultures had already discovered the grisly feast and fought
among each other for the choicest entrails.
“Death sustains life,” Bear said.
***
The campsite was much as I remembered, although the brush
was thicker, and the trails were less well-defined. Today’s youth didn’t keep
it beaten down as we once did. There were no video games on the mountain or
reception, either.
We were old hands at camp setup, and our skills weren’t as
rusty as I feared. With our tents up, sleeping backs rolled out, and the
campfire started, we tried our hand at fishing. We didn’t catch anything big
enough—except to use for bait. We settled on hotdogs and beans over the fire.
“It’s been a while, guys. Anyone remember whose turn it is
for the campfire story?” I asked.
Mac and Smitty turned toward Bear. The man’s eyes shone in
the dim light of the crescent moon, and he hunched up his shoulders. His lips
curled into a dark smile.
“Sure, I’ll go. I’ll piggyback off the old hiker story. It
seems appropriate for where we are. As you know, my dad was the Sheriff then,
and I guess I heard a little more about it than most folks.
“Mr. Jenkins was a sprightly old man. He was as narrow as a
board but wiry, with thick, work-hardened hands like meat hooks. Dad said he
could hold his own in a fight with any man. But he was a hot-tempered soul. I never heard of him hurting his wife or kids,
but the screaming matches coming out of that old cabin were the stuff of
legends hereabouts.
“This particular night was no exception. It was so intense
that folks clear on the other side of the holler claimed dishes rattled in
their cupboards.”
An owl’s sudden: “Whoooo! Hooo! HooHoo!” broke the story’s
spell. We looked up at the trees, and the great horned owl’s large yellow eyes
glared back at us.
Bear picked up a stick we’d collected for the fire and
tossed it at the large bird. It dropped from the tree and swooped low overhead.
Its silent wings carried it to its next perch nearby, where it continued its
haunting serenade.
“Why did you do that? Isn’t that bad luck?”
“No,” Mac said. “You are mixing up your old wives’ tales. It’s
worse. Owls mean death is coming.”
“Now, who is the superstitious one?” I asked.
“Probably just smelled our hot dogs and hoped we’d share,”
Bear said. “Still, it is interesting as that was the first thing old man
Jenkins heard on his fateful night.”
I glanced at my cell phone, but it had no bars.
“See, old Jenkins,” Bear continued, “he enjoyed a little nip
of moonshine now and again. But it didn’t much like him. I don’t know what the
cause of the ruckus was that evening, but you can be sure some “corn squeezings”
were at the root of the trouble.
“Misses Jenkins, the sweetest lady there ever was, by all
accounts, had enough of the old man’s shenanigans. She told him to get out and
stay out. Jenkins never knew what was good for him, so he headed up the
mountain, bottle in hand. He tried sleeping it off in the old mill but said an
owl wouldn’t shut up. Kept him awake most of the night. He passed out in the
wee hours only to have a flock of ravens wake him at dawn.
“Jenkins told my dad he knew something wasn’t right. He
could feel it in his bones and raced home. The scene when he got there was
beyond description. The blood began on the front steps. The floors and walls inside
were covered with it. Dad said he’d never seen so much, even at community hog
killings. I’d like to tell you they caught the murderer, but it never happened.
My dad retired, but it’s the one case he never forgot.”
I suspect we all had a restless sleep that night. My dreams
were unnatural, dark, filled with haunted shadows, and too real by far. A shriek
from the river jolted me awake. A woman’s scream of horror, only broken by moments
of insane laughter. I slipped on my boots and crept towards the sound.
Peering from behind an old oak, I spied an old woman knee-deep
in the water. Her gray hair was greasy and matted to her skeletal head. Her
dress was of a style long out of fashion. What was left of it anyway, as it
hung from her in tatters. She raised her face to the heavens and screeched
again. The sound sent shivers down my back. She was washing something in the river, and I stretched
my neck to see. It was Cathy’s favorite dress—covered in blood! She turned
towards me and cackled, then smiled with pointed yellow teeth. She raised one
shriveled hand toward me, pointing at me with long, yellow fingernails.
“Death comes for us all,” she said. I woke in my sleeping bag, drenched in sweat.
***
I crawled out of my sleeping bag Sunday morning and saw
Smitty had revived our campfire. An unkindness of ravens squawked in the trees
around camp.
“I know,” Smitty said. “I wish those damn things would shut
up. Got some venison sausage cooking if you want some. Did you sleep OK?”
“Did you hear anything at the river last night?”
“Like what? Was Bear up making growling noises like every
camping trip?”
“No, more like an old woman screaming…”
Smitty shook his head.
“Guess it really was a dream then—well, a nightmare. It was
an old woman dressed in rags who screamed so loud it hurt my ears, then laughed
disturbingly, like you’d hear in an insane asylum.”
“Dreaming of banshees, are ya, Dan? Another portent of
death—you read too many horror novels, my friend. I’ll bet my ex-wife has a few
romance novels you can borrow.”
His joke did nothing to relieve my anxiety. Still, the sausage
was delicious, even if the fishing was poor. Otherwise, our day was uneventful.
A heavy fog settled over the camp well before sundown. The
woodland came alive with the sounds of night birds and coyotes fooled by the
early darkness. As we packed up camp, a swarm of bats flew overhead.
As I tossed my pack in the truck bed, my phone rang. It was
Cathy’s number.
“Daddy? Help us. Please! We need you…”
“Susan? What’s wrong, honey?” but the line went dead before she could answer.
***
I’ll give Bear credit; he could fly down mountain roads. The
boys tried to reassure me, but the concern written in their eyes betrayed their
true feelings.
The four of us rushed toward the house like an avenging
army.
The front step was covered in a thick red liquid, and tears sprung
from my eyes. I followed its trail to the kitchen, then ran up the stairs,
screaming each of my loved ones' names in turn.
“Cathy? Josh? Susan? Where are you?”
“Dan, come quick. Down here,” Mac yelled.
I raced back down the steps, tripping over the section of
loose carpet Cathy had been after me to fix, but catching myself before I fell.
My three friends stood at the kitchen window,
“There’s a light. I can’t make anything out, but there’s
movement too,” Bear said.
I grabbed a baseball bat from the hall closet and hurried out to save my family!
***
Halfway to the flickering light source, a flashlight beam
hit me in the eyes and blinded me.
“Daddy! Daddy! You came to save us!” Susan squealed.
“Mommy figured it out, Daddy,” Josh said. “She said that
damn tent is worthless.”
“Let’s not use words like that, Josh. Mommy was upset,”
Cathy said. “Welcome home, Dan. The kiddos wanted to go camping just like their
Daddy.”
“We had s’mores,” Susan added.
“But the blood? It’s all over the steps and on the floor.
Who was hurt?”
Cathy frowned, and her lips pinched together. “Hmm, I’m not
sure, but I can make an educated guess. Josh
decided that strawberry syrup would go perfectly with s’mores. I guess it got
away from you, huh, Josh?”
Josh ducked his head, “I’m sorry, Mommy. I meant to clean it
up.”
Bear, Mac, and Smitty left laughing with another story to
tell.
I can’t predict the future; maybe I’ll go camping again—someday. But no time soon.
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.
Sunday, March 2, 2025
Book Sunday #OurAuthorGang
Today's recommendation
Cozy small-town mystery
Mysterious things happen in small towns.
When Danielle finally quits her boring accountant job and opens an Antiques & Stuff store, her life changes for the better. But soon happy life starts to spin out of
control when the snobbish new owner of the Couture mansion brings a seemingly worthless painting into Danielle’s shop. The ownership of the painting is questionable, and the town’s future is threatened by the plans of the ruthless, rich owner who wants to build a leather factory on the estate, too close to town.
An unexpected visitor arrives, and he may possess the much-needed solution to everyone’s problems in this quaint little town.
Read a chapter from the book
Danielle fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. In her
jumbled dream, she was running in a dense forest and her shoes kept sticking in
mud slowing her down. She tried to scream but couldn’t make a sound. Someone or
something was chasing her, and she knew she had to get away. Suddenly, a
beautiful man appeared and embraced her. She felt the warmth of the sun on her
face and all her fears disappeared. She held onto his strong arms and looked
into his passionate eyes. He started talking in a soft voice and Danielle
struggled to hear his words but couldn’t. He caressed her shoulder and when
their lips met in a sensuous kiss, she felt a pleasant tingle deep inside her body.
A sudden crashing sound yanked her out of the sweet dream.
‘Bloody Hell’ she heard a man’s muffled voice. What the— someone’s in the
store! Fear coursed through Danielle as she stood up and reached for the handgun
she kept by the couch, just in case. She felt safer when she occasionally slept
in the store after a long day.
Gun in hand, she tiptoed from the backroom and turned the
light on. “I have a gun, and I’m a good shot,” she warned, cocking the gun,
trying to sound confident.
“Don’t shoot!” The man yelled and Danielle saw him running
toward the door. He yanked the door open and heard his footsteps as he was
running down the street. A minute later she heard a car engine and then the car
speeding away.
Danielle took a deep breath and put the gun on the counter.
Her hands were shaking as she dialed the police. “A man broke into my store! He’s
gone but I’m afraid he might come back!” she cried.
“The dispatcher instructed her in a calming voice, “Hide in a
room where you can lock the door. I’m sending a patrol car right away.”
Danielle was afraid to stay alone and called Sarah. Her best
friend didn’t need a long explanation. “I’ll be there in a minute, don’t hang
up,” she said, in a sleepy voice and Danielle heard the jingle of keys and Sarah
starting her car engine a few seconds later.
The police car arrived at the same time as Sarah’s car
screeched to a halt in front of the store. She jumped out and ran into the
store barefoot, still in her pajamas. “Are you okay?” she cried out running to
Danielle and hugged her.
“I’m fine,” Danielle assured her and looking at the two officers
entering the store with guns in hand, continued. “He ran out of the store when
I put the lights on, and I heard him driving away.”
“Did you see his face?” the taller officer asked, putting
his gun in the holster.
“No, he stood here in front of the counter,” Danielle
recalled. “But he turned his back to me so fast that I couldn’t see his face.
All I saw was his dark overcoat, and he had gray, neatly trimmed hair.”
“Please look around to see if anything is missing.”
Danielle scanned the shelves and looked at the register.
“Nothing seems to be missing.”
“The lock is busted,” the officer observed. “We’ll park in
front of the store for a while. I advise you to go home.”
“No, I want to stay here,” Danielle replied. “I’ll call the
locksmith in the morning.”
“Then I’m staying with you.” Sarah decided.
“I have spare clothes in the backroom. Go, change.”
“Okay.” Sarah turned and walked by the counter suddenly
becoming upset. “Put that gun away, Danielle! I hate guns.”
“I will, don’t worry.” Danielle smiled and put the gun on
the shelf under the counter.
After the officers walked out to the patrol car, Danielle
closed the door behind them and secured a sturdy chair under the doorknob to
hold the door closed. She left the lights on and legs still shaky, walked to
the backroom to make coffee.
“Who could it be and what did he want?” Sarah questioned, putting
the sweater on she found in the closet.
Danielle spooned the coffee into the filter and filled the
machine with water. “I have no idea. Nothing is worth a lot of money in the
store.”
Sarah cocked her head and pulled her thick, curly hair into
a ponytail with a scrunchie. “Maybe he thought he’d find cash, or perhaps he
knew exactly what he wanted.”
“He didn’t seem like a bum or addict who would steal
anything to get his next fix. He looked well-groomed and wore Italian loafers.
I recognized it because the lawyer down the street wears those kinds of shoes
and he makes sure everyone knows that they’re Italian leather.”
“Yeah, he’s a pompous fool.” Sarah giggled and then her
voice changed to a serious tone. “But if this man wasn’t just an average
burglar who steals anything, he could get his hands on and wanted something
specific, why didn’t he just come to the store and buy it?”
“I have no idea. I’m sorry I woke you up, but I was really
scared. Thank you for coming over so fast, even in your PJs,” Danielle hugged
Sarah.
“Of course, what are besties for?” Sarah patted Danielle’s
back.
“I’m too wired to sleep, but you need rest. You’re working
today, right? It’s 2 a.m. so you can still sleep for a few hours.”
“Nope, I’m off today, and I’m not going anywhere until I
know you’re safe.”
Danielle held up the coffee pot. “Do you want some?”
“No, it always gives me heartburn in the middle of the
night. Why don’t you lie down to sleep a little? I’ll stay up.”
Danielle filled her cup. “I’m too wired to sleep. I’m going
to paint for a while.”
“Okay, then I’ll rest my eyes on that comfy couch.” Sarah
yawned.
Danielle walked to her painting corner and after taking the cover off the half-done painting, she changed her mind. I’m going to clean the portrait of the Musketeer. Let’s see what’s hiding under that new coat of paint.
***
Danielle heard a knock on the window and looked up startled.
She saw Mr. Jones straining to peek into the store through the window. Sitting
on her stool in front of the easel with a brush in hand, she glanced at the
clock. Oh, my! Is it nine o’clock already? She stood up and hurried to
the front door. Pulling the chair from under the doorknob, she opened the door.
“Thank God you’re okay!” Mr. Jones pushed through the half-open
door and hugged her. “I just heard from the butcher. Do you know who it was?
Did they take anything? Did they try to hurt you? Why were you in the store so
late?” his questions came as he was trying to catch his breath.
“I’m fine,” Danielle assured the worried mailman, smiling.
“I haven’t the faintest idea who it was and what he wanted. He ran away when I
yelled out and cocked my gun.”
“Oh, good! You should’ve shot him in the leg. He deserved
it.”
“I don’t think he’s from around here,” Danielle speculated.
“Only the lawyer down the street wears that brand of expensive loafers.”
“You don’t think…”
“No, he has brown hair and the burglar had silvery gray
hair.”
“Now wait a minute!” the mailman grabbed Danielle’s arm in
his excitement. “I might have seen that man at the Couture mansion. Mrs. Van
Bramer’s secretary said he’s an art expert.”
“What’s going on?” Danielle heard Sarah’s sleepy voice
behind her. “Oh, good morning Mr. Jones.”
“Mr. Jones just told me he saw the man who broke into the
store,” Danielle explained to her best friend.
The mailman yanked his carrier bag higher on his shoulder.
“I’ll stop at the police station and report this.” He started walking away but turned
back. “Oh, I almost forgot. The bakery is open. Lucy’s niece had a baby boy. I
got you fresh croissants.” He smiled and handed a paper bag to Danielle.
“Thank you, Mr. Jones! It was very nice of you,” Danielle called
after the mailman as he hurried away down the sidewalk, and then turned to
Sarah. “You’re not going to believe what I’ve found! Come, let me show you.”
She reached for Sarah’s hand and led her to the corner in the store.
“Phew, it smells like turpentine over here.” Sarah crinkled
her nose.
“I’ve been working on taking off the new layer of paint and
now the signature of the artist is visible. He was a much sought-after painter
in 17th century France.”
“Let’s search it,” Sarah perked up. “Maybe this painting is
worth a lot of money!”
“I’ll boot up the computer, but first, I’m going to call the
locksmith. While the computer is warming up, we’ll eat the croissants Mr. Jones
brought.” Danielle decided and covered the painting.
“Your ancient computer takes forever. You have to get a new
one.”
“I know.” Danielle sighed. “I never had the money for it,
but after the surge of customers, now I do.”
The locksmith said he’ll stop by before lunch and by the
time the women finished breakfast, the ancient computer was ready for search.
Danielle Googled the name of the artist and her jaw dropped when she clicked on
the first website which popped up on her screen.
Sarah peeked over Danielle’s shoulder. “What? No way!” she
shrieked and read the headline out loud. “The portrait of a noblewoman of the
famous 17th century artist was sold to a well know American art
collector for ten million dollars.”
Danielle, not believing her eyes, backspaced and clicked on
the next link. It was the auction website where the price of the painting was
confirmed. She kept searching and found fifteen more paintings from the same
artist that had been sold for similar amounts in the past ten years. “I have to
tell Mrs. Van Bramer about this. She gave me the painting not knowing the
possible value of it.”
“Wait a minute!” Sarah exclaimed. “What if that so-called
expert knew the value of the painting and lied to Mrs. Van Bramer? I think he
broke into the store. And what if she wants the painting back after she finds
out how much it’s worth?”
“I’ll give it back to her, of course. She bought the house
and found the painting in the hidden room; it belongs to her.”
“Nah-uh!” Sarah announced. “That’s not right. It belongs to
the Couture family. I bet the old lady didn’t tell her relatives about the
hidden room.”
“Or, maybe she didn’t even know about it. But you’re right;
it had to be a member of the family who hid the painting in the secret room. It
belongs to them. I’m going to finish cleaning the signature part to be sure,
and then I’ll call Mrs. Van Bramer.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Sarah decided. “I’m gonna go home to
change but I’ll come back around one o’clock to bring you lunch.”
Erika M Szabo
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.
Saturday, March 1, 2025
Poetry Day at #OurAuthorGang
A poem by David W. Thompson
We’ll Remember
You left us way too early.
No time would be enough.
Still, time heals all, or so I’m
told
But if the years do dull the pain
What then of the memories?
Will past joys, too, slip from
sight?
Will my mind’s eye distort your
visage
‘Til only faded photos remain?
Will your voices not whisper in
the wind?
Soothing my fears, answering my
prayers?
Will the taste of a freshly picked
tomato
Not recall the loving labor of
your hands?
For I’d bear this grief with a
smile,
Pray the lash cut even deeper,
To never forget your names
To not know a day without you…
I saw your dreams forgotten.
While making our dreams come true
You did so forever smiling
Could it be that they were the
same?
But my grief makes me selfish
For I knew you oh so long.
Others have missed you deeply
And now your pain is gone.
I know you’ll always be watching
To guide, to comfort, to cheer.
I know you’ll not be lonely
With so many in your arms.
But know this heart is empty.
Until I am too reborn.
And we won’t forget
Love you, Mom and Dad.
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.
Friday, February 28, 2025
Fate and Nostalgia #OurAuthorGang
The Mysterious Knick-Knack
Mystery has always been a part of my
life, and many of those mysterious events have found their way into my
paranormal novels. Today, I want to take you back to a pivotal moment from my
childhood—a moment that hinted at the incredible and unexpected journey my life
would take. Join me as I share this story with you—one that shaped the path I
never saw coming. Enjoy!
A Tale of
Fate and Nostalgia
It was 1961, and at the ripe age of
eight, I had already earned a reputation as a shopaholic. I adored my trips to
the local dime store—just a stone's throw from home—where my mother and I would
explore aisles brimming with everything from candy to curious little treasures.
For me, it was nothing short of a treasure hunt.
One day, my mother sent me and a few
friends to the market to pick up a few dinner items. Now, I know what you’re
thinking—why would a parent let an eight-year-old wander off to a store alone?
But in our small town, everyone knew everyone else, and back then, it was a
different time. It wasn’t unusual for kids to run errands without an adult.
I don’t remember exactly what prompted
me to veer off the path that day, but something—some inexplicable pull—led me
into the Ben Franklin dime store. As I roamed the familiar aisles, my eyes
landed on something that would spark a mystery spanning decades: a tiny ceramic
figurine of a brown lady. She stood about two and a half inches tall, dressed
in a brown polka-dotted dress, with a tiny pot in hand, featuring a hole for a
candle. She was placed on a lower glass shelf among other knick-knacks, and for
some reason, I felt an undeniable connection to her.
I don’t recall exactly how I ended up
buying her, but I paid $9.00—a hefty sum for the time. When I returned home, my
mother was less than thrilled about my impulse purchase. She was especially
upset by the price. After all, $9.00 seemed like an outrageous amount for such
a small item. She suspected the store had made an error or that it belonged to
a set, so we made our way back to the store to get some answers.
The manager examined the little
figurine carefully, rolling it between his fingers, and inspecting every inch
of it. After looking through the store’s inventory, he was baffled. He couldn’t
understand how it ended up on the shelf. His skeptical gaze made it clear he
thought I might have brought it in myself.
Despite the mystery, my mother decided
we’d keep the little brown lady as a memento of that unusual shopping trip. I
placed her on my bedroom dresser, still puzzled as to why I had been so drawn
to her.
What I didn’t realize at the time was
that this tiny knick-knack would hold the key to a journey that would unfold
forty years later.
***
Fast forward to 2008, a year that
brought unimaginable sorrow. Within just three months, I lost both of my
parents to cancer. As if that wasn’t enough, my husband and I both lost our
jobs, and it felt like we had fallen into a dark abyss.
But fate had other plans. In the
spring of the following year, my husband received a job offer in the Cayman
Islands. He accepted, and just like that, we were off to Grand Cayman—a fresh
start that lasted nine years.
Our first week there was blissful. We
explored the stunning beaches, visited local tourist spots, and reveled in the
beauty of the island. But when my husband started work the following week, I
found myself with some free time. I ventured into Georgetown, the island’s main
town, to check out the shops.
One shop in particular caught my eye.
It was filled with vibrant Caymanian and Jamaican gifts and
collectibles—souvenirs from the island’s Jamaican community. As I wandered the
aisles, something familiar caught my attention: a collection of small, colorful
dolls. They resembled my little brown lady from all those years ago.
I asked the shop clerk about them, and
she explained they were called Jamaican Colonial Dolls. I couldn’t help but
smile and share the story of my little ceramic treasure. He nodded knowingly
and said, “Guess you were meant to be here.”
At that moment, it dawned on me—this
was no coincidence. That small, mysterious knick-knack I’d bought so long ago
had led me to this island for a deeper understanding of the strange and
beautiful connections life sometimes offers.
Sometimes, the smallest things are the most profound, and we can never truly know their impact on our lives.
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.
Thursday, February 27, 2025
The Song of #OurAuthorGang
What is #OurAuthorGang?
#OurAuthorGang is a diverse group of writers from around the world, united by their love of literature and support for each other's creative endeavors, and each member brings their unique style and voice to the group.
#OurAuthorGang is not just a name or hashtag - it represents a community built on mutual respect, creativity, and passion for storytelling. The members may come from different backgrounds and cultures, but they are connected by their shared love for literature and their determination to make an impact through their writing.
This diverse group showcases the power of collaboration and the potential it has to elevate individuals and create something truly special.
Click to watch the video and listen to our song
Enjoy our stories:
The song and video created by:
Erika M Szabo
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.
Wednesday, February 26, 2025
Video Day 4 at #OurAuthorGang
Lorraine reads an excerpt
From a sci-fi story published
in the What If? #1 Anthology
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Lorraine Carey |
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Enjoy a video and song from a YA novella
 English with new cover
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Tuesday, February 25, 2025
Flash Fiction Challenge 4 at #OurAuthorGang
Challenge accepted by guest author Sara Sartagne
Flash fiction is a concise form of prose storytelling consisting of self-contained stories that may also be referred to as sudden fiction, short-short stories, micro-fiction, or micro-stories. This particular genre is highly regarded by renowned English writers for its ability to convey profound insights and timeless human emotions within a few short paragraphs.
Sara's challenge was to write a flash fiction story of less than 500 words, based on this picture:
The photo album
The photo album sat on a shelf, and I could
draw my finger through the dust that had settled on it. I drew it carefully
towards me, away from the old postcards, received three years ago, out of date coupons
for money off milk and baked beans, and a bit of string tied in a careful bow.
She would have used that string in the garden, I thought, and blowing gently to
remove most of the grime, I settled at the kitchen table and opened the stiff
pages.
She stared out at me, fresh-faced, her
smile as bright as sunlight, her shining eyes crinkling at the edges. She
peeked over the bouquet of freesias, Lilly of the Valley and eucalyptus and
dared the future. I could still hear her giggle as she only just kept her feet
climbing out of the car, nearly putting her stiletto heel through her veil.
I leafed through the pages, recognising
friends, relatives that had been ancient then, let alone now, on a sunny August
day that I could still recall as almost too hot for comfort. And there was I,
ten pounds lighter, skin less lined, hair a different colour, wearing a
preposterous hat (had I worn it for a dare?). I leaned close to her, laughing
at the sheer joy of the day with her. I recall we hated the vicar’s ponderous
voice and patronising sermon, a church wedding only to pacify her mother-in-law
to-be, and how the chicken had been over cooked at the wedding breakfast.
I sat back, remembering. The church bells echoed
through the chatter and the laughter, and later the overpowering,
throat-catching smell of lilies (another mother-in-law to-be demand). The endless
expanse of green lawns, sweltering in the midsummer heat and the gentle
clinking of champagne glasses as everyone relaxed at the posh hall.
She slipped your excruciating heels off
under the top table and wriggled her toes throughout the meal, discarding them
altogether when the dancing started. Even so, she was a little taller than her
husband, but stared adoringly into his eyes. The song was by Coldplay,
saccharine but absolutely right for the occasion.
Her going away outfit included trainers, to
the horror of her (now) mother-in-law, but no-one else cared or noticed, such
was the blaze of love in her face. Such happiness, it was hard to look at the
pictures too long.
I reach the last page and on it was a
headshot of her, smiling into the camera, her eyes soft with elation and hope. But
in this last photo, the tear on her cheek surprised me.
Until I realised it was mine.
Sara Sartagne
Sara Sartagne writes women’s fiction featuring
brave women, often weaving love stories through the narrative. Her English
Garden Romance series reflects her passion for gardening. The novellas
are downloadable from her website. The Duality books combine
contemporary and historical plots into award-winning standalone dual timelines.
She lives in East Yorkshire, moving from London to a HUGE garden in 2019.
Monday, February 24, 2025
Campfire Stories 8 at #OurAuthorGang
Amaya's Baby by Erika M Szabo
Maria was
deeply concerned about her best friend. She had never seen Kati so withdrawn
since the first spirit had visited her during their high school days. The
memory of Kati's vibrant personality seemed like a distant echo. "We need
to pull her out of this slump," Maria said to her husband, Mike, her voice
tinged with urgency.
"What can
we do?” Mike asked, jamming his clothes into a duffle bag, his brows furrowed
with worry. “Has she told you what's troubling her?"
"No, she
shuts down every time I try to ask," Maria replied with a sigh,
frustration evident in her tone. “Fold those T-shirts, Mike! Don’t just shove
them into the bag.”
“Okay, miss
perfection! Who will see us in the woods to complain about my wrinkled
clothes?” Mike laughed, and staring into nothingness for a second, he mused.
"I know she hates camping, but suddenly, I’m getting this strong urge to
take her with us… so strange."
"It’s
strange indeed,” Maria said, glancing at her husband. “But I think that's a
great idea," Maria agreed, her spirits lifting at the thought.
"Perhaps the crisp, fresh air and an escape from the bustling chaos of the
city will be just what she needs. I’ll call her."
Kati,
reluctantly, but agreed to spend the weekend with the couple at their campsite
by the lake in the mountains. They arrived late Friday afternoon and after
parking their trailer, Mike took the firewood out of the trunk and made a
campfire. The women prepared sausages and potatoes to bake, and they prepared
salad and dessert.
After dinner,
they settled by the crackling fire, its warm glow casting flickering shadows
around them. The soothing symphony of the forest enveloped their senses: the
whispering rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze, the distant call of a night
owl echoing through the trees, and the soft chirping of crickets harmonizing
with the crackle of burning wood. The night air was cool, carrying the earthy
scent of the forest floor, and the stars above twinkled like scattered diamonds
in the velvet sky.
“It’s so
peaceful here,” Kati sighed. “I know you’ve been worried about me, and I love
you for that,” she turned to Maria. “I wanted to tell you but… okay I’ll tell
you what’s been bothering me.”
Maria silently
hugged her friend.
“I’ve been
searching for Amaya’s little girl,” Kati sobbed. “And I can’t find her.”
“Is… is she?”
Maria asked softly.
“Yes, both of
them are dead. The first time I saw Amaya's ghost happened two weeks ago. She
showed me a once magnificent house reduced to a charred skeleton by a fire lit
by her husband. I could feel the weight of the tragedy that had befallen her.
She had been searching for her baby, their once peaceful home now a chaotic
memory, but she thinks she’s been doomed to wander this earth without ever
finding her child.”
“That’s
terrible!” Mike whispered, but Maria silenced her husband with a stern look.
Kati continued,
“She could still see the fury in her husband's eyes as he accused her of
infidelity, his rage building until he snapped and ended her life and that of
their 3-month-old baby girl. Amaya had been unable to protect her innocent baby
from her husband's wrath, and now she’s left with the agony. She longs to hold
her child, to feel the warmth of her tiny body in her arms. But it was all in
vain, she can’t find her baby.” Kati cried.
“There, there,”
Maria patted Kati’s shoulder. “Did you see Amaya’s ghost again?”
“Yes, I see her
every day. She’s feeling a surge of anger and despair and lets out a mournful
wail. It’s heartbreaking to see Amaya's translucent form floating through the
charred remains, her eyes glimmering with grief and determination. The memory
of acrid smoke and the feeling of the searing heat that had consumed her flesh
is still vivid in her thoughts, but she is a ghost now, and the pain no longer
affects her in the same way. But her soul is in agony. She told me she had
heard whispers from other spirits that the baby's spirit lingers and moves from
place to place, crying for her mother. With renewed hope, Amaya searches,
calling out for her child in a voice that only the dead could hear. But as the
hours turned into days, Amaya's hope began to dwindle. She could feel herself
losing her grip on this world, the pull to the afterlife growing stronger with
each passing day. But she refuses to leave without her baby.”
“Is there any
way you could help her?” Maria cried out.
Kati grabbed
Maria’s hand, staring at the lake shore her eyes wide. “Oh, they’re over
there!” she whispered. “Amaya is holding her baby girl in her arms.” Kati
sighed, tears flowing down her face. “Amaya is smiling and showing me how her
little girl urged Mike to invite me on this trip. She wanted me to know she’s
at peace now. Oh, it’s so beautiful! They’re floating toward the brilliant
light.”
Maria and Mike turned their heads, but they only saw the full moon’s shimmering reflection on the water.
Erika M Szabo
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.
Sunday, February 23, 2025
Book Sunday #OurAuthorGang
Today we recommend a trilogy
for adult readers
Intelligent,
well-spoken and beautiful, Helen Pawson has lived a privileged life. Her
parents have made sure she wants for nothing. She’s attended the best private
schools and has learned to appreciate the finer things in life. In her mind,
she has everything she needs at her fingertips.
Her father’s
unexpected illness soon turns Helen’s world topsy-turvy. To make matters worse,
she experiences a betrayal that will last a lifetime. Determined to
overcome the mental illness she fights she dives head-first into a decision
that will change her life forever.
The trials and
tribulations of marriage leave her wanting more. From the life she leads.
Displeased and tired of her husband’s dark secrets, Helen sets out on a voyage
of self-discovery. One that leads her straight into the arms of dashing Simon.
Startled by the fact
that she enjoys carnal pleasures in more ways than one, Helen agrees to Simon’s
subtle demands. In doing so, he opens her eyes to the dark and gritty world of
being a call girl. A world she begins to crave.
The secrets of
Helen’s past follow her at every turn. If she’s to succeed in making something
of herself, she’ll need to confront each of her ghosts. Will she be able to set
all wrongs to right before it’s too late? Or will her new hunger for more end
up swallowing her in the process?
Read a chapter
“They’ve all been tried and tested at some of our other
dinner parties.” I told Anthony. “Do you think the menu’s alright then? I don’t
want to try anything new in case I make a mess of things.”
“This menu will be fine, trust me. They’ll love it.” He
replied confidently.
I’m not so bloody sure about that!
The dreaded evening arrived. Anthony went out to welcome
them as their car pulled into the drive. I peered out of the kitchen window
hoping I wouldn’t be seen by them. Always brought up to believe that it is good
manners when you get invited out to dinner to take a gift along; a bottle of
wine, flowers or even some chocolates, I wasn’t sure what to expect from them.
I noticed they were both empty-handed. I walked over to the door to greet them
as they entered the kitchen and held out my hand,
“Eileen! John! How lovely to see you again.”
“Hello.” She grunted, poker-faced as usual as she glanced at
my proffered hand and pushed straight past. John put his hand out, fleetingly
shook mine and swiftly pulled it back out of my grasp. Hell fire, did he think
he was going to bloody catch something from me if he held on too long? I looked
over at Anthony to see if he noticed their reactions towards me…he had. He
shrugged his shoulders at me and asked them both if they wanted a glass of
wine. Eileen said she’d have a glass but quickly followed with,
“Your father won’t want one, he’s driving.”
Like he had a choice in the matter!
“Would you like a tour of the house, Eileen?” I offered
politely.
“I’ll show myself around, or Anthony can give me a tour. You
get back to heating the ready meal.” She walked off leaving me totally
flabbergasted. I heard her footsteps on the stairs seconds later. Again I
looked at Anthony for support and mouthed the words at him ‘get back to heating
the ready meal up?’ He mouthed back,
‘Shhh!’ and shook his head. I gave him one of my looks and
stomped back to the kitchen. So he was going to let his mother get away with
everything. Maybe he would, but I was definitely not going to!
They took their seats in the dining room half an hour later
and I served up the starter before sitting down myself. Eileen stared at her
plate a few seconds too long, looked over at Anthony and asked,
“What on earth is this?” I just couldn’t resist,
“Why don’t you ask me, Eileen? Anthony doesn’t really
remember, and it was me who did the cooking.” She didn’t even acknowledge me or
cast a look in my direction.
“They are called Glamorgan sausages (pointing at them), and
that is red onion chutney” I said (pointing again), and indicating next the few
lettuce leaves and cherry tomatoes, “and that’s a bit of salad on the side.”
I could feel Anthony’s eyes burning into the side of my face
and I didn’t give a damn!
“Is it cheese?” She asked.
“Yes. Caerphilly.”
She pushed the plate away, remarking, “Cheese gives me a
headache.”
“Forgive me, Eileen.” I said in my sickliest of voices, “I
never realised.” I caught a disapproving look in her direction from her
husband. The main course also met with disapproval,
“I do think lamb is so terribly fatty. We hardly ever eat
it.”
I chose to ignore the comment, carried on eating, and
listened to her continued, scathing remarks to Anthony about the décor in our
bedroom, our choice of leather suite in the lounge and how we rushed in to
marriage far too soon. She pushed her food around the plate as she talked and I
noticed the determination on her face. The bloody woman had no desire to eat
anything that I cooked and furthermore, she was hell bent on insulting me at
every given opportunity.
I could see that John was starting to feel very
uncomfortable with her behaviour and perhaps feeling a little sorry for me. He
ate everything on his plate and complimented me on the menu, despite the glower
he got from his wife. He was interested in, and asked me intelligent questions
about my work and badminton, which he apparently had been pretty good at in his
younger days. The guy was actually good company and pleasant to talk to. I was
pretty adept at being able to hold a conversation with one person and pick up
on things being discussed in a second conversation and sure enough, Eileen
carried on spewing out her cynicism.
As I served up dessert and placed Eileen’s in front of her I
couldn’t stop my sarcasm surfacing,
“Eileen, if the dessert is not to your liking I can get you
some ice-cream from the freezer - something that I’ve not prepared.”
It was a waste of time, the woman was so thick-skinned. I
was by now, avoiding all eye contact with Anthony and John couldn’t fail to see
the warning looks from Eileen while I had been in the kitchen as he became very
quiet again. I ate my cheesecake and decided I had enough tension for one
night. Pushing my chair back and standing up, I announced,
“Do excuse me folks, I have a headache and I’m going to bed.
It has been nice to see you again, John.”
“Too much wine darling?” Anthony asked me sarcastically.
“No! It must be the cheese in the Glamorgan sausages. Good
night!” and feigning calmness and serenity I walked out and left them.
I heard their car pull out of the drive fifteen minutes
later, which was rapidly followed by Anthony’s footsteps thundering up the
stairs. He shoved the bedroom door wide open, hitting the chest of drawers
behind it and pointed at me accusingly,
“YOU” he shouted loudly “have embarrassed me tonight, Helen.
How dare you treat my mother in that manner?”
I’d already calmed down and was ready for the onslaught I
knew was coming.
“So it’s just fine then…the way she has been trying to
belittle me all evening? You did not find anything wrong with the things that
she said to insult your wife, Anthony? That is acceptable is it…for her to
speak to me the way that she did? Does my father talk down to you? Does he
insult you at every given opportunity? He never would do that though, he has
better manners, and at least he likes you. But if he didn’t, I would still
defend you, Anthony. That is what a husband and wife should do after all, support
each other. She hates me! I think your dad likes me but he has to do her
bidding. I feel sorry for him.”
I struck a chord. The truth hurt! He was beyond furious.
Unable to defend his mother further he screamed,
“F*** YOU, HELEN!” and with that, he slammed the bedroom
door and was gone. For the first time since we married, I woke up alone the
next morning. Anthony slept in one of the guest bedrooms for the night.
Eva Bielby
Eva Bielby was born
in North Yorkshire in the Northeast of England. She has spent over thirty years
of her working life as a company accountant. Eva has a keen interest in
spiritualism/mediumship and has attended several workshops to develop her
skills further. During her quieter moments, Eva enjoys a cryptic crossword,
sudoku, and gardening.
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