The Fortuneteller #OurAuthorGang

 A short story by Guest Author Sara Sartagne

Lewis grinned at Sophie as a lock of her blonde hair tangled in her candyfloss.

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Hold this, can you?” She passed the sticky, sweet mess to him while she searched for a tissue to wipe her hair. As she did, he winked appreciatively.

“Surprised you can fit anything else into those jeans,” he said, his eyes roving over her neat denim-clad rear.

She swatted his shoulder. “Enough leering!”

He laughed in that deep voice of his, and she grinned back, her thumb automatically finding the diamond ring on her left hand. He’d been so nervous when he proposed. She’d been so excited. It was perfect. She hooked her arm through his and took back her candyfloss.

They walked slowly through the fairground, not speaking. Sophie felt a bone-deep contentment as even their steps seemed to match. The light flashed, the music blared from every stall, every ride, and the smell of fried onions and beer floated on the midsummer air, but it seemed muted as she walked in a perfect bubble of happiness with her husband to be.

“Fancy the big dipper?” he said, nodding casually to the ride which soared metres above them, with cars full of high screams. Sophie sniffed, her stomach rebelling against the smell of gasoline and oil.

“After this? You’re having me on,” she replied, dragging him towards a bin and throwing her half-finished candyfloss into it with relief. It had been sicklier than she’d remembered. She saw a small tent in a quieter part of the ground. Outside, a sign said, ‘Madame Appolonia, fortune teller. Do you dare to seek your future?’

She paused and nudged Lewis. “Let’s go in here,” she said. “It’ll be a laugh.”

Lewis looked sceptical. “I’m not going to waste ten quid for some fraud wearing red lipstick to tell me you’re going to meet a tall handsome man and live happily ever after! I already know that – you’re marrying me!”

“Oh, don’t be such a misery guts. Who knows what she’ll say? My mum’s really keen on this kind of thing, she swears by it!” Sophie said with a moue of disappointment.

He grumbled, but handed over the money to a spotty youth outside the tent, who showed them in. As Lewis expected, it was dimly lit with a faint smell of incense, and a woman with long dark hair and a shawl was sitting in front of a low table. She stared at them with almost black eyes, and Lewis felt a shiver of discomfort. He forced a smile.

“Hello, I’m Lewis and this is Sophie.”

The woman gestured to them to take a seat. “You are engaged,” the woman said in a gentle voice which seemed to come from the depths of her chest.

She saw the ring, Lewis thought. Sophie laughed and congratulated the woman on her accuracy. The woman, who looked neither young nor old, smiled slightly.

“What knowledge do you seek?” she said. Sophie leaned forward.

“Oh, the usual. Will we have children? Will we be happy?”

The woman’s face went blank and for a moment she hesitated. “Give me your left hand.”

Sophie put out her palm and the woman took it carefully. Madame Appolina’s hands were smooth and cool. “This is your heartline,” she said, pointing to a crease at the top of her palm. “You have loved two men in your life passionately, but one of the men has broken your heart. The other has mended it.”

Sophie and Lewis exchanged a look. Sophie had suffered from a callous break up. Lewis had comforted her, first as a friend and then as she gradually recovered, the relationship had deepened to love.

Lewis schooled his face. Some of this would be cold reading, he thought. He was determined not to give anything away. Madame Appolonia quirked an eyebrow as if she could read his thoughts. Turning back, she curled Sophie’s fingers and looked at the lines and bumps of her hand. “You are wilful and headstrong,” she said to Sophie, whose eyes widened. “People say that you follow your own course, not that of others.”

Lewis stiffened. He’d said that only yesterday. Sophie turned a little pale. Madame Appolonia continued in a soft voice. “You wish to be a painter, creativity is strong in your immediate future. You make decisions instinctively.” She turned those dark eyes to Lewis. “It is you who are the rational one in the relationship, but you too have an artistic yearning. You may study engineering, but you will always want to be a musician.”

At this, Sophie gasped. “Oh, my God! That’s so right!”

Lewis fought the urge to jump to his feet and flee this dim, spooky space with the unearthly woman in it. But Sophie, eyes shining, laughed delightedly.

“You really are good! Can you tell us about our future together?”

A veil seemed to drop over Madame Appolina’s eyes. She nodded. “I see a long and happy marriage,” she said finally.

“And children?” Sophie insisted.

“Two. A boy will come first, the girl two years later.”

Sophie clapped her hands and jumped to her feet, laughing and thanking Madame Appolina, who simply nodded. Lewis, lost for words, could only grab Sophie’s hand and push his way out of the tent.

Madame Appolina released a long breath and closed her eyes. All was still, and then the ghost of her mother appeared in front of the tent flap.

“Why did you lie?” the ghost asked. Madame Appolina shook her head sadly, her vision of twisted metal and spinning car wheels on a hot dusty road at the end of the summer seared on her memory. The blaring sirens, the frantic paramedics. And then – silence.

She sighed. “They’re so young, so in love. How could I tell them? Let them have their happiness a little while longer.”

The ghost of her mother nodded and faded away.  

Sara Sartagne

https://sarasartagne.com

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.

A Trip to the Dump #OurAuthorGang

 A short story by David W. Thompson

OK, we’ve gotten fancy these days, so “dump” isn’t correct anymore—politically or otherwise. Nowadays, we take journeys to the “Convenience Center,” so named because we’ve added a couple of recycling bins. The vast mountain ranges of cast-away rubbish are now compressed into a ginormous dumpster. After crushing, our kitchen trash, along with many forgotten keepsakes, are hauled away to parts unknown. Sad, but we humans are a wasteful lot.

Behind our local convenience center is a large acreage comprised of our old and now defunct “dump.” It is tons of trash covered with mounds of dirt.  It will be many years before people deem it anything other than a wasteland. But is it? In the evenings, before closing time there, I’ve seen herds of deer chasing each other and foraging in the wild grass that has sprouted despite our meddlesome intrusion.  Our “dump” has become a sanctuary for them. No houses will be built there, and no shopping malls or parking lots will disturb its unlikely tranquility. Nature is reclaiming its own. It gives recycling a whole new meaning.

A cottage industry has grown around garbage. Those without the requisite pickup truck essential for rural life hire others to haul away their weekly cast-offs. It seems trash is good for the economy.

I remember when my kids were small. My youngest loved going on ride-a-longs to the dump—yes, it was still a dump back then. As the youngest of three, she and I had a rare opportunity to spend some “us” time together. At least, I think that is why, although the occasional tossed aside and outgrown toy might also have been a draw for her also. But as she is now a military spouse and too often stationed many miles away, I treasure those memories of then.

Maybe we lost something when the dump became a convenience center. Many treasures were once found among the piles of forgotten gems. Today’s dumpster divers don’t have the same positive connotation as pickers, the ultimate recyclers.

While disposing of several bags today, I noticed people are friendlier at the “convenience center.” Total strangers take a moment to share pleasantries while completing the shared, if unpleasant, task. It’s as if we realize we can let down our protective masks here. There are no false facades at the dump—everyone is equal when their trash is exposed for everyone to see. Our world can be divisive, but our similarities are never more apparent than when accomplishing the mundane.

My parents kept many of my feeble attempts at art and a story or two that I penned over the years. I did the same for my once little ones—boxes full. How do you decide what stays and what goes? I even have several baby teeth bagged up that the tooth fairy passed along as mementos… Strange to modern ears, I guess, as we are a throwaway society. I worry that that mentality might go beyond material things to our moral code and our faith in each other…? Out with the old and in with the new?  I pray not as I weigh what is important to keep and what is past its usefulness to me.  

I’ll ponder it some more…on my next trip to the dump.   

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.

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.

Flash Fiction Challenge 3 #OurAuthorGang

 Challenge accepted by Eva Bielby

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.

Eva's challenge was to write a flash fiction story of less than 500 words, based on this picture:

Felicity

Felicity recalled the day it all happened, and the despair she felt. She and her two babies were unceremoniously evicted from the house they once called home. The house where her children aged twenty months and ten weeks should have grown up. Of course it was all his fault – Adam, her soon-to-be, ex-husband! It was the threatening letters from the mortgage company and her subsequent ‘chat’ about the matter with him that she learned of the massive gambling debts he’d accumulated. Their car, plus the large electrical items (bought on finance) were all repossessed. He pleaded, even cried, as she told him to get out and disappear, though afterwards she felt guilty. He was the kid’s dad, after all.

Later the same afternoon, after spending hours making calls (in a café), desperate to find some form of help, that help arrived. A charitable organisation arranged some temporary accommodation for her little family. They gave an address where she was to meet with a representative from the organisation at six pm and sign the necessary paperwork. Felicity left the café and struggled along in the rain, pushing the double buggy one-handed and pulling a humongous suitcase on wheels with the other. Hard work. The case held their meagre possessions. All that she crammed in – clothes for the three of them. Not having funds to pay someone to transport household items to, or for that matter, a storage facility, it was all she could manage. Her parents lived at the opposite end of the country. The purse full of coins she had wouldn’t cover the train fare to them.

And now, three months later, still stuck in the grotty little bed-sit with the second hand cot (a charitable donation) squashed in next to her bed. Both babies slept together each night, top to toe. The only means of cooking - a dilapidated microwave. She’d needed money from somewhere, anywhere. The universal credit from the benefits system barely covered the extortionate monthly rent. Desperation set in over the last four weeks and she’d done things she wasn’t proud of. Caught shop-lifting, she’d hidden stolen food items in the buggy behind the back of her toddler. The store-manager took pity on her after she’d been hauled into his office, uncontrollably sobbing as she related her sad story to him. Yet, far worse than theft, unforgiveable even, she was taking a man back to the bedsit but thankfully, had a change of heart. She had thought about selling her body for money –next to the cot which held her two sleeping babies. All because she cared about feeding her babies and keeping the roof (grim as it was) over their heads. A sixteen year old girl from next door, her babysitter while she roamed the street, turned her nose up at the offered ten pound note. She snatched the offered note rather ungratefully. Felicity was destitute after she’d paid the girl the ten pounds.

Felicity had lost all hope and was unsure which way and to who to turn to next. Her hands trembled as she opened her only letter that morning – a five thousand pound cheque from her parents. Her guardian angels.

Eva Bielby

https://www.evabielby.co.uk

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.

Flash Fiction Challenge 2 #OurAuthorGang

 Challenge accepted by Dawn Treacher

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.

Dawn's challenge was to write a flash fiction story of less than 500 words, based on this picture:

Waiting

By Dawn Treacher

Time. Place. It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t look behind me, spot faces in a crowd, add locks to my door or change my daily patterns. He or she was coming. If it wasn’t today then it would be tomorrow or the day after that. I only had myself to blame, I could point to a dysfunctional upbringing, but who around here didn’t have that. I could argue temptation overcame my better judgement, but I’ve never weighed risks against consequences. Life was the here and now. I grabbed opportunities, excelled in consumption of all illicit forms, revelled in civil disobedience if the goal tempted me. Only this time I did something worse. I gambled with my soul. Now a bullet had my name on, if not all that I held dear as collateral too.

I’d not lived long enough to have kids who’d miss me. I’d not have won any recommendations in any job for I never held one down more than a few months anyway. I had no certificates to frame upon my wall. Hell, I had no real place I could call home. I slipped from hostel to hostel, slept on couches in return for favours. I’d walked the streets at night when it was too cold to huddle down in a doorway. Of late, I’d earned enough to rent a room, it was little more than that. But I didn’t want to die. Not this way. I wasn’t one for ambition or goal setting, I had no great desire to strike off a bucket list of sorts either. But when you dabble with evil, well they don’t forget and they sure don’t forgive.

The street was quiet for a Wednesday night. Those that walked the pavements paid me no attention. I kept my hands in my pockets, my eyes straight ahead. In the beginning I was scared, but not any longer. When death seems certain there is no longer anything to fear. Fear is the unknown. Once you know your fate, you have time to plan, time to think.

An assassin costs money and evil has deep pockets. One shot would be all it took. But you see, I had nothing to lose, yet everything to gain. And maybe luck would be on my side. In a city that rarely slept and where eyes watched all and everything, the deed would need to be clean. No blunders. No living witness. No mess to clean up. Evil may have hearts as dark as the devil himself but those who gave the orders, bore the brunt of exposure, well, they didn’t want to be known when blood was spilled in their name.

So when I saw him walk out of the shadows, I led him into the open, walked straight towards him. I faced death, looked down the barrel of a gun. I raised my hands skywards, shouting out the words.

“O.Neilly, I saw, I coveted and I stole. May my death be your sin.”

Eyes may have seen, ears may have listened, but the bullet was silent. The rhetoric gone.

Dawn Treacher

www.dawntreacher.com

Dawn Treacher is based in North Yorkshire, England. She writes in both adult crime fiction and children's middle grade fantasy adventures. She is also an illustrator of children's fiction, an artist and plush artist. She runs both a writing critique group and a creative writing group and goes into schools to promote storytelling.

Flash Fiction Challenge 1 #stories4you from #OurAuthorGang

 Challenge accepted by Erika M Szabo

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.

Erika's challenge was to write a flash fiction story of less than 500 words, based on this picture:

One Small Step at a Time

By Erika M Szabo

After thirty-five years of a blissful marriage, Michael's heart was broken when he lost his beloved wife. They didn’t have children, and their relatives lived in different states. For two years, Michael felt lost and lonely without her. But then, he met Sara, a widow close to his age. He thought that maybe, just maybe, he had found someone to spend the rest of his life with.

The first few months after Sara moved in were like a trial period for their relationship. They both made small compromises and got used to living together. One thing Michael had always disliked was handling paperwork and bills, so he was relieved when Sara offered to take care of all their finances.

Then one day, after a daylong medical appointment, Michael found the house empty. Sara’s clothes, personal items, and all his valuable possessions were gone. All she left behind was her passport, driver’s license, and a short note: I can't live with you any longer, I'm moving to Europe. The next day he found out his bank account had been emptied. Michael felt devastated. He had lost everything, including his sense of self, which hurt the most. The police discovered that the woman he trusted had used a fake identity, the real Sara Gutfield passed away in 1902.

Then he went through the heart surgery that was already scheduled. It took a toll on his already shattered spirit. The recovery process was long and difficult, but amid his darkest moments, he found solace in something unexpected: gardening.

As he planted each seed and saw the first signs of green emerging, Michael felt a sense of rejuvenation, as if a flame inside him had been reignited. He dedicated countless hours to nurturing his small garden, meticulously watering and trimming each plant, finding solace in routine and tranquil isolation.

As he worked, Michael found himself lost in thought, his mind wandering to happier times. Memories of his childhood in the countryside, of long afternoons spent playing in the fields, flooded back to him. The memories brought tears in his eyes when he thought about the happy years he spent with his beloved wife.

In the garden, he found a connection to his past and a sense of purpose in the present. Even as his strength slowly returned, Michael continued to find refuge in his garden. He nursed a sickly-looking cherry tree back to health, and as he watched it bloom for the first time in years, he realized that not only the sickly tree, but he too was also healing. He was finding his way back to himself one small step at a time.

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.

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The Treasures of Grandma's Attic #stories4you from #OurAuthorGang

 A short story by Erika M Szabo

Sixteenth birthdays are special, but something they find in Grandma’s attic will make sure they’ll never forget this party.

An Excerpt from the story published in the What If? Anthology

It was Mia’s sixteenth birthday. Before, her birthdays were always celebrated with her parents, two brothers, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins. But after a long discussion with her parents, they hesitantly agreed to let her have a house party with only her friends and celebrate with the family the next day. She invited half of her classmates and friends from the neighborhood, and they had a blast in the small cottage in the back of the property where her grandmother lived before passing away two years before. Ever since, the cottage stood unoccupied with her grandmother’s things still intact.

Mia looked around the living room, watching as her friends danced, and nibbled on snacks she prepared with her mom and with Kati, her best friend. Everyone seemed to be having fun. The music was loud, she felt the thumping of the bass beneath her feet. It was hard to believe that just a few short years ago, she had been a tomboy whose wardrobe included only a few T-shirts and jeans. Now, here she was, an outspoken, confident teenager, blossoming into a young woman. She loved beautiful dresses, feminine shoes, and accessories, and she took special care of her long, shiny chestnut hair that she usually wore in a ponytail.

As she scanned the room, her eyes fell on the old family photos lining the walls. Her grandmother had been capturing every moment of her family's lives. Mia felt a pang of sadness as she reminded herself that her grandmother was no longer there in the house that held so many fond memories.

The party was in full swing, the music blaring through the speakers, the smell of pizza and cake in the air, and her friends laughing and dancing around the room.

Suddenly, the front door burst open, and a tall, dark-haired boy named Jake walked in uninvited. He had his usual charming, devilish grin on his face that made girls around him feel desirable and alive in a way that no other boys their age could.

“What is he doing here?” Mia rolled her eyes and looked at Kati. “He’s such a troublemaker and gets into fights all the time.”

“I know he’s unpredictable and unreliable, but he’s so damn good looking…”

“Yeah… I know you have a crush on him,” Mia laughed. “I don’t want to interrupt the party and throw him out right away. But as soon as he puts one toe over the line…”

“Okay, I admit. I have a little crush on him, but Jake is definitely not boyfriend material. He’s like a butterfly. Goes from flower to flower and never settles down. You can’t even have a normal, relaxed conversation with him. All he wants is to get into your pants while his eye is on the next girl to conquer,” Kati sighed.

“You didn’t… did you?” Mia’s eyes grew wide, and she took a sharp breath.

“Of course not! I’m not stupid,” Kati indignantly replied. “But I can look and daydream,” she giggled, winking at Mia.

Mia wasn’t immune to Jake’s charms either, but her steady boyfriend, Collin, was different. Not as charming as Jake, but she liked him a lot and loved spending time with the quiet boy who had solid plans for the future. He’s so steady and predictable, and he treats me with respect. Mia could never forgive Jake for the embarrassing incident when they were fourteen. He yanked her bikini top off in the pool and grabbed her breast. He laughed and told his friends that they were not ripe yet, not even a handful. He made me feel dirty and violated, I wished I could’ve just died, she thought, shuddering.

“Why are you so gloomy? It’s your birthday!” Kati whispered as she hugged her best friend.

“Oh, I just miss Collin.”

“Why didn’t he come? You didn’t break up with him, did you?” Kati asked, concerned.

“No! Of course not. His little sister had an emergency appendectomy in the afternoon and he’s in the hospital with her.” 

“He’s a good guy,” Kati said.

“Yes, he is,” Mia replied watching Jake as he pulled a vodka bottle from his pocket and started pouring it into the punch bowl. “Now he did it!” Mia shouted and with a few strides reached Jake and yanked the bottle out of his hand. “Out!” she yelled. “Everyone knows how much I detest alcohol, and you weren’t even invited.”

“Just a little something to get your boring party going,” Jake chuckled.

“Boring?” Mia shouted when she saw the sarcastic smirk on Jake’s face. “Get out! Now! Have fun somewhere else.”

“Okay,” Jake shrugged. “Who wants to come to my house and have a real party?” he asked, looking around.

The majority cheered and when Jake headed toward the door, they followed him. Some of her classmates, whom Mia thought were her friends, gave her a sheepish, apologetic look, and others just left without showing any remorse.

“Just go!” Mia said, fighting back tears.

“At least you found out who your real friends are,” Kati pointed at the two girls who were shaking their heads in disappointment as they watched the others leave.

“He ruined my birthday,” Mia turned to her friends, sobbing. “Thank you for staying, but I think you better go home too. Suddenly, I lost my happy mood.”

Kati gently slapped Mia’s shoulder. “What are you talking about? Are you going to let that scoundrel ruin your day?”

Mia wiped her eyes and sighed. “He did that already.”

“Come on, cheer up!” Cloe, a chubby blond girl hugged her. “I don’t feel like music or dancing either, but we can still have loads of fun. Old houses like this are usually full of treasures. Let’s look around.”

“That’s gonna be fun!” Donna, their shapely red-headed friend clapped. “I love looking at old photo albums. People back then looked so elegant. I especially love the 1930s dresses and hairdos.”

“Yes!” Kati exclaimed. “Remember?” She turned to Mia. “When we were little, we spent hours in the attic rummaging through boxes of stuff and trying on your grandma’s fancy dresses and shoes.”

“I haven’t been up there for years,” Mia gazed at the staircase that led up to the attic. “She did have a lot of old stuff up there, and my parents left everything as it was when Grandma was still alive.”  

The four friends climbed the stairs and from the small landing tiptoed into the attic. Pushing aside the cobwebs, the stale air that had collected in the rafters made them sneeze. The spacious room was dimly lit by moonlight that filtered through the slanted windows at the apex of the roof. Mia turned the lights on and gasped. Everything was as she remembered. In the center of the room was a large table littered with forgotten, dusty relics of decades past. Boxes and old suitcases filled the space by the walls, leaving only a narrow path around the table.

“Wow!” Cloe shouted, and when she heard Donna’s wheezing breath behind her, quickly turned and asked her friend, feeling concerned. “Are you okay?”

Donna, reaching into her pocket for her inhaler, managed to say after pushing the pump and inhaling the medicine, “Just my… asthma. I’ll be okay. I just need to sit down for a minute.”

Mia quickly pulled out a small ottoman from under the boxes, and Kati helped Donna to sit down. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Mia asked, worried.

“I’m fine, don’t fuss!” Donna snapped, giving Mia a quick smile, her breathing already calmer and voice clearer. “I’ll sit here for a minute. Go, find some fun stuff!”  

Continue reading the story in the Anthology

https://books2read.com/u/b5wDEA

What if you think the known world isn’t strange enough? Embark on a journey that pushes the boundaries, challenges your perception, and questions reason, logic, and established beliefs.

Campfire Stories 3 #OurAuthorGang

 A short story by R.A. "Doc" Correa

Provence, the end of March 1292

Sir Ade looks up the hill from atop his mount, verifying that the campfire is still there. He spies the flickering flames through the foliage and the thin spire of smoke rising above the trees. When one of the men-at-arms said he saw the smoke from a campfire the knight thought if they left the old Roman road, they would just be following a will-o’-the-wisp. It seems years of war had sharpened the man’s eyes.

Sir Ade looks over his three companions. Their clothing and chainmail show the ravages of time one would expect from months on the road. Looking down at his mantle he can see the same weathering on it that he sees on his companions. The red of its Cross Patée has faded to the point it is hard to tell what the color is. The white of the mantle is now a dingy gray.

The exhaustion displayed on the faces of the men at arms that accompany him he feels within himself. The prospect of a warm fire and the possibility of cooked food, and perhaps company, overcomes the discretion he and his companions have survived by since their flight from Acre last year. Throwing caution to the wind the four veterans of the crusade make their way to the inviting fire on the side of the hill.

As the party passes through the last row of trees into a small clearing, they see a man sitting on a stump next to the fire. The man is dressed in leather trousers and tunic. He wears deer skin boots; a rough cloth cloak hangs over his shoulders and he his hands are encased in deer skin gloves. There is a leather shield, studded leather armor coat and a leather helm on the ground next to the stump. A longbow and a quiver with several arrows lay on top of the armor. The man rotates a side of deer on a spit over the fire.

Sir Ade greets the stranger by calling out, “Hail good sir. My comrades and I ask if we may enter your camp and join you by your fire.”

“Sir knight, you, and your companions, would do well to continue on your way,” replies the stranger.

Sir Ade looks over his shoulder at the setting sun, then answers, “Kind sir, the sun is setting and soon it will be too dark to travel. My companions and I have travelled far, we have spent many a frosty night on this journey. All we ask is you let us warm ourselves by your fire.”

“Any other night I would enjoy the company and even share my catch with you.” He points to the side of deer he is rotating. “But tonight the moon rises late, and with the rising of the moon the forest becomes very dangerous,” says the stranger as he sets another tree branch on the fire.

The knight replies, “Sir, we are returning from the crusade. These men and I fought at the siege of Acre. We were the rearguard of my Templar brothers. We fought off the Saracens until we boarded the last boat out. My comrades and I are more than a match for any danger that may come our way.”

The stranger by the fire looks over Sir Ade and his companions like a man sizing up an opponent. After several moments he nods and tells them, “Perhaps you are right. Come and sit by the fire. There is a cave just beyond that tree where you can quarter your horse. Mine is already in there with plenty of water and fodder for the both of them. Once you’ve groomed yours, please roll the boulder back in front of the entrance. It will protect them from wolves that come in the night. All of you may help yourselves to my deer, and there are potatoes baking under the fire. Oh yes, there are a couple of bottles of wine in the cave as well, bring them out. They’ll go well with the meat.”

The crusaders take the horse to the cave. Sir Ade grooms his mount and waters it. Once he has fed it, he and his comrades move the boulder back in place. When they have finished Sir Ade asks himself, It took the four of us to move this thing, how did he move it by himself?

When they return to the clearing the crusaders start to remove their armor. As they do the stranger tells them, “You should keep your armor on, when the moon rises you will need it.”

Sir Ade says, “Shouldn’t you be wearing yours as well?” as he points to the stranger’s studded leather lying on the ground.

“When the moon rises it will just be in my way,” states the stranger.

Sir Ade and his companions remove most of their armor but leave their gambesons on.

The five men eat and drink together. They finish the two bottles of wine swiftly, so the stranger produces three more. As the crusaders become more relaxed, they tell tales of their adventures in the holy land. The stranger listens intently to their stories.

The sun has set, and the the stories get darker. After a couple of hours of tall tales about Saracen hordes and mystic yarns of Jinn and magic the stranger cuts in with, “I’ll tell you a story from my family’s past. From when the Romans claimed these lands.” His guests all nod yes and look at him intently.

“Over a thousand years ago my family lived nearer to the sea. There were many Roman villas nearby. They owned our land and all the crops we grew. They would take nearly everything. So, the people in our village became thieves to stay alive.

“At first, they stole food, but after time they began to burglarize the villas for precious objects, things they could sell or trade for what they needed.

“One night one of them met a werewolf. Though he killed it, the creature bit him and he became a werewolf himself. He killed his best friend when the next full moon rose. He blamed the Romans for his being cursed, and from then on whenever the full moon was about to rise, he’d be sure to be close to one of their villas so that the Romans would be the victims of the wolf.

“As time passed, he travelled far, as far as Egypt. There they revered him as a son of Anubis. On the nights of the full moon the priests would sacrifice virgins to Anubis by locking them in his chambers before the moon rose.

“But always, no matter how far he roamed, he would return here to Provence.” With that the stranger removes his deer skin boots.

Sir Ade asks, “Is that the whole story?”

“No sir knight, but perhaps this story ends tonight.” The stranger hangs his tattered cloak on a tree limb. He removes his deerskin gloves and hooks them to the tie of his cloak. As he removes his tunic the stranger continues, “It is rumored that the cursed man has once again returned, and he is roaming this very forest.”

The men at arms have been watching the stranger disrobe and are now looking quizzically at Sir Ade. The knight notices that the eastern sky is becoming lighter from the rising of the full moon. He asks thestranger, “Sir I understand you wanting to be comfortable when you sleep, but with the chill of this  night is it wise to undress?”

“The chill of the night will not affect me sir knight. It has not affected me since I was a young man, besides, I doubt I shall sleep this night,” replies the stranger. He turns from hanging his tunic on the limb, facing the knight and says, “Sir knight I too fought in a crusade.”

“Did you accompany King Louis IX?” asks Sir Ade.

The stranger turns to look at the eastern sky. The first sliver of the moon appears above the horizon. “No sir knight, I fought to liberate Jerusalem from the Saracens,” answers the stranger.

The-men-at-arms look to the Templar knight, shock clearly displayed on their faces. Sir Ade says with disbelief, “Sir, that was over a hundred and fifty years ago! Clearly you are lying.”

The stranger starts to say something but instead doubles over in pain. He looks to the horizon at the third of the full moon that is now visible. He unties his rope belt and releases the clasps of his leather pants as he rises back to his feet. He drops his pants as he tells all of his ‘guests,’ “I do not lie mes amis.”

As the moon rises further into the sky the crusaders watch as another wave of pain brings the stranger to his knees. It seems to them the stranger has become a blurry, misshapen shadow. From within the shadow his voice rings out, “I am Francois Piere Barteau! I am cursed, I…am…loup…garou… I…am…werew…Ah-hooo!”

The men-at-arms scramble for their weapons as the massive European gray wolf leaps onto Sir Ade, pinning him to the ground as its jaws clamp onto the Knight Templar’s throat, snapping it like a twig.

They were far enough from the old Roman road that no one could hear the sound of their battle…

They were far enough into the forest that no one could hear the cries of the dying crusaders…

They were far enough away that no one could hear the howl of the wolf…ugh away that no one could hear the howl of the wolf…

R. A. “Doc” Correa

https://www.amazon.com/stores/R.A.-Doc-Correa/author/B073R82QC5

A retired US Army military master parachutist, retired surgical technologist, and retired computer scientist. He’s an award-winning poet and author. “Doc” has had poems published in multiple books and had stories published in Bookish Magazine and Your Secret Library. His first novel, Rapier, won a Book Excellence award and was given a Reader’s Favorite five-star review.

Read more stories in our post gallery

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The ToiBox of Serials 1.2: Heart of the Golden Stag

Over on my personal blog, The ToiBox of Words, I’ve experimented with short fiction quite a bit. I’ve entered many blog writing contests and sometimes, just played around with it. In most cases, I’ve found myself expanding the stories I started on my blog and turning them into something more. All the stories in this series will be a product of what I started on my blog and then later added to in private. I will be sharing these stories in parts and encourage readers to leave positive or critical feedback (rude comments will be deleted). Perhaps, one day I’ll publish another personal anthology with these. Enjoy.

Side note: This story has never actually appeared on the ToiBox blog but was derived from a contest I entered and did not win. Still, the submission process was a good learning experience for me. This story is a retelling/reimagining with a twist. 

Heart of the Golden Stag, part 2

Read part 1 here.

The giggles and snaps of children playing in the alley below jolted Jamie’s body forward as dream and reality collided. Jamie rushed to the window, heart pounding and sweat dripping from her bushy unkempt brow. Below, little boys kicked a can back and forth between them as Jamie fought back tears. What a sad and stupid girl I can be sometimes. Shrugging her shoulders, she reached into the worn pockets of her men’s trousers to pull out a coin.

Tossing it down to the boys below, she called out in a gruff, “Bread and tea, young ones.”

The smaller of the two boys caught the coin, as usual, and then pulled the other along before replying, “Right away, Mr. Jaime. Be up soon.”

With the boys off to fetch her breakfast, Jamie quickly attended to her daily costuming. First, a few snips of hair along her forehead and at the nape of her neck. Then, a quick wash followed by fresh linen wraps to bind her breasts.

After chatting with the boys over tea, Jamie went to polishing her shoes with the intention of mulling over the day’s objectives. She’d lined up three marks the day before and was due for a good payday, yet her mind kept drifting back to her childhood. With her seventeenth birthday approaching, Jamie was plagued by nightmares and daydreams of the day she left home to become a boy.

She and her twin brother were turning twelve. Her older sister was a weeping doll, all dressed and made-up, in the corner sobbing through handkerchiefs as her stern and wrinkled betrothed pressed his hands upon her shoulder in mock-sympathy. Jamie watched the spectacle with dread, knowing that would be her fate upon her fifteenth birthday while her brother sniggered. He’d be heading off to the academy soon, to be educated and learn a trade.

Face warmed by the flickering candles, Jaime kept her eyes closed even after her brother blew out the flames as smoke wrapped around her head. She couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes and say goodbye to her childhood. From here on, her days would be filled with learning all the ways a wife should keep a husband happy. If that was love, Jamie wanted no part of it, yet she hoped there was more to it. She hoped to find an unconventional man not bound by Northern traditions.

With the snap of her father’s fingers, Jamie popped her eyes open to see him holding tightly onto the belt resting around his waist. Knowing he wouldn’t dare punish her in front of company, and on her birthday no less, Jamie seized the moment and ran into the woods, calling for a game of hide-and-seek. Only, she never hid.

Jamie grabbed the bundle she’d concealed days before and continued to run. She kept running until there was no chance of being able to turn back. 

To be continued...

Heart of the Golden Stag 2018 Copyright © Toinette J. Thomas 

Find out more about me, my work, and my inspiration at the following links:

Amazon | Goodreads | The ToiBox of Words | YouTube | See a list of my other posts here.

Missing by Rick Haynes

Missing

https://www.rickhaynesauthor.com

My life was as empty as a cracked piss-pot. And with each day merging into the next I had no idea of time. With my best friend, Cissy, missing, my world had collapsed. The taste of any food was like chewing cardboard. It made me retch, but being so weak, I had to force myself to eat something. Eventually, I opened a can of baked beans; with hot sauce the taste was palatable. Starving to death was no longer an option but I still cried every day. 

Why did she disappear? Is she still alive? How did I allow this to happen? No matter what I thought, the idea of me being responsible never left me. Trips to her favourite place, attaching posters to telegraph poles and placing pictures in shop windows, all failed to produce any results. Even the police showed little interest.

A week passed. The telephone rang. A man with a deep voice spoke in harsh tones. His English was poor and he frequently repeated himself. He demanded money. I was worried about how Cissy was coping without her medication and without thinking, I instantly agreed to his demands. He gave me specific directions about where and when we should meet and I was warned that Cissy would die if I didn’t comply. The bank asked questions about my withdrawal of £1000 in cash, but my insistence paid off.

The relief in knowing that Cissy lived was like a lottery win that didn’t exist. I was overjoyed she was safe, yet terrified I’d never see her again if I made a cock up. I imagined she was tied up, blindfolded, perhaps tortured. Nothing else mattered. My lass had disappeared and as long as I followed the instructions, all would be well.

Going over his directions one last time, I set out to be reunited with my beloved, Cissy.

The clouds had finally decided to play elsewhere. After my long climb through the forest, I could now see the top of the disused lighthouse. Inhaling deeply, I took in the clean air lightly scented with salt. Weathered steps of stone curled around the stone colossus but that wasn’t the route I was instructed to take. Looking to the right, I saw another track overgrown with thick bushes and low slung branches.

Once more my mind wandered. Would she be waiting? Would she be unharmed? It was time to make the last ascent. Slowly, like an old man in fear of falling, I placed one foot in front of the other and followed the track towards my destiny.

A shaft of light arrowed through the greenery before instantly disappearing. Would it be my star of hope? Without thinking, I quickened my pace. Calling her name made me want to believe she would greet me at the summit. Faster, I told myself as I ploughed on. The treeline ended and all trace of the shadows vanished as a sunray illuminated the small clearing in front of me.

And there she was, securely tied to an old tree. I looked around, saw the empty bag, placed the cash inside, untied Cissy, picked her up in my arms, kissed her and quickly retraced my steps. Little did the kidnapper know I had left a tracer inside the bag and spread a little poison over the notes.

Rot in hell, I mumbled as I walked back down the slope.

No one steals my dog, my best friend, Cissy, and gets away with the crime.

rickhaynesauthor.com