The Tale of a Red Sofa

 From showroom star to hurricane survivor

Hurricane Milton left much destruction in my area. Just outside of my housing development was an apartment complex that had gotten flooded out, and all of the destroyed furniture was piled high out by the street. I couldn’t help but see this as I drove by here every day. One red sofa had caught my attention as it lay amongst the heap of discarded items. It seemed to warrant its own story.

The Red Sofa

I remember the day I was delivered to Mr. and Mrs. Grayson’s apartment in St. Petersburg, Florida. Two burly movers lugged me out of the truck and into the heat of the parking lot. My first destination? A first-floor unit in a sprawling green complex. Mr. Grayson was waiting by the front door, waving his hands frantically. "No way that door's big enough! Take it around the back."

Mrs. Grayson had already decided where I belonged—on the far wall, perfectly aligned across from the big-screen TV. It felt good to finally escape that cold, sterile showroom and stretch my legs, so to speak. After months of sitting in a chilly display window, I had finally made it to my forever home.

Mrs. Grayson adored me. She spotted me at Lowry’s Furniture Store and gasped with joy when her hands brushed over my velvety red velour. I’ll never forget the way her face lit up like she'd discovered some lost treasure. Gone were the days of showroom strangers sitting on me, only to move on without a second thought—or worse, kids leaving cookie crumbs behind. No sir, the Graysons would take good care of me.

This was my new life: a quiet home with no pets, no messy toddlers, just two retired souls who treated me like royalty. Even better, Mrs. Grayson was petite—just the right size to keep my cushions plump—and Mr. Grayson, though a bit stockier, knew how to respect a good sofa. My left cushion, where she always sat, stayed in perfect shape. Life was good.

The apartment was tiny but charming, dressed in soothing shades of turquoise, beige, and light oak—a perfect Florida vibe. I fit right in. Every night we watched TV together, usually some baseball game or a cozy sitcom. It was the kind of existence most sofas could only dream of.

Hurricane Milton Comes Calling

Everything was perfect—until the night I first heard about Hurricane Milton. The weatherman’s voice, grave and deliberate, warned of a Category 4 hurricane barreling straight toward Tampa Bay. Mrs. Grayson perched nervously on the edge of my cushion, wringing her hands. "We’ve gotta evacuate, Harold. We’re in a flood zone!" she said, her voice rising with every word.

Harold—Mr. Grayson—tried to calm her, but soon they were packing bags and making plans to head to Georgia. They had friends up there, people they could stay with until the storm passed.

I knew the evacuation didn’t include me. Why would they take a sofa? As much as I wanted to follow them, it wasn’t like I could squeeze into the backseat. "Don’t worry," I told myself. "I’ve got the end tables and floor lamp to keep me company." But those pieces of furniture were no fun—they hadn’t spoken to me once since I arrived. A bit stuck up, if you ask me.

Watching the Graysons walk out with their suitcases gave me a sinking feeling. The TV clicked off, leaving me in eerie silence. No weather updates, no sitcom laugh tracks—just the growing sound of wind whistling outside. From my spot, I could see the palm trees by the pool start to sway. Neon green pool lights flickered, casting strange shadows through the glass doors.

The storm was coming.

Soaked to the Batting

It hit in the dead of night. The wind howled like a banshee, rattling the sliding doors. Rain lashed against the glass, and soon I heard the ominous slosh of water creeping in under the door. At first, it was just a trickle, cold against my stubby little legs. Then it surged, faster and deeper, climbing higher until it soaked into my cushions.

Oh no! I’m getting soaked—right through to my batting! I thought in horror. There was nothing I could do but sit there and hope for the best. Every inch of my velour became saturated, heavy with water and despair.

By morning, the water had retreated, leaving me soggy and deflated. My once-luxurious red cover looked dull, and a faint musty smell clung to my fabric. The lamps on the end tables smirked from their dry perches. Snooty little things—they had made it through unscathed, while I lay here soaked to the core.

When the Graysons returned, I saw the sadness in Mrs. Grayson’s eyes as she stepped inside. She clutched Harold’s arm and whispered, “Look at the damage.” The tile floors were stained with muddy water, and the apartment smelled like a swamp. They’d barely set their suitcases down when the complex manager called a meeting, ordering residents to toss any furniture that had been soaked.

The Curbside Goodbye

I knew what was coming the moment Harold sighed and muttered, “We’ve got to take the sofa out.” My heart sank deeper than my cushions ever had. Mrs. Grayson tried to argue, but Harold shook his head. “Mold, sweetheart. We can’t keep it. Remember your allergies?”

Two men showed up—strangers this time—and hoisted me onto their shoulders. Mrs. Grayson wiped a tear as I was carried out to the curb, unceremoniously dumped among the other casualties of Hurricane Milton. Chairs, tables, mattresses—the whole block had lined up their ruined treasures, waiting for the inevitable trip to the dump.

I lay there for days, watching curious passersby snap photos of the growing pile. A dark tourist attraction, some called it. Every time a car slowed down, I held my breath, hoping someone would see my potential. "I just need a little drying out," I wanted to scream. "I’m still a beautiful sofa!"

A New Beginning?

Then one day, a truck rumbled down the street with "We Haul 4 U" emblazoned on the side. Two older men hopped out—one with a grizzly beard, the other with long white hair. They began loading furniture onto the truck, tossing it all like yesterday’s garbage.

I figured this was the end. But then, I heard it—the words I’d been waiting for.

"Hey, that red sofa’s in good shape," the man with the long hair said, running his hand over my velour. "My wife would love this."

I could have wept with joy. They decided to drop off the other furniture at the dump first, then take me to my new home. I rode in the back of that truck, hopeful for the first time since the hurricane hit.

Would my new owners live on higher ground? I sure hoped so. After all, this is Florida—we sofas can only take so many hurricanes.

Lorraine Carey

https://authorlorrainecarey.blogspot.com/

Lorraine Carey is not only a paranormal enthusiast but has had many unexplained events in her lifetime and has used these as a focal point in her fiction novels.  As a veteran teacher, Lorraine began to write for Young Adults hoping to inspire young readers. Now residing in Florida, since retirement has given her more time to write when the spirits are willing.

Headless

 Never mess with Miz Flora's girls

“So, will you come with me to visit Miz Flora on Halloween?” Janet grinned at her boyfriend, who rolled his eyes.

“Is that the height of horror in this town? Roll up and see the creepy old lady? I can think of better things to do.”

Janet laughed. “If you want to fit in around here, you need to know the local legends. Miz Flora not only knows all of them, she is one, herself. Everyone hits Miz Flora’s house last on Halloween, to hear her tell the story of the Headless Ghost of Foxfire Creek.”

“Does this involve a big black horse and a flaming pumpkin?”

Janet shook her head slowly, her eyes promising mischief. “She’ll be our first stop, so you can hear the story from someone whose family has passed it down from first-hand accounts.”

“How true is it likely to be, then?” Bill laughed, but Janet’s expression didn’t change.

“Every folk tale has a grain of truth at the core,” Janet told him. “That’s what Miz Flora says. You’ll see.”

Bill took her into his arms. “I’ve got a job waiting for me with a good firm in Houston. We’ll get a nice little house off the loop.” He patted Janet’s belly. “The mother of my son isn’t going to live above a hick town ballet studio, teaching a bunch of no talents.”

Janet’s expression changed, though Bill never saw it. There were many things about Janet that Bill never saw because he was always looking at visions of his own success. He found them preferable to the sight of Janet’s hometown and wondered how the hell he’d let her talk him into spending Halloween in the middle of nowhere.

At ten o’clock that night, Janet led him up the steps of a small, neat, frame house surrounded by small, neat flower beds. The gingerbread-trimmed porch was lined with artfully carved Jack-o’-lanterns and a row of costumed children seated at the feet of an old woman.

The creak of her rocking chair played counterpoint to the creak of the oak branches in the night wind. “Y’all wanna hear ‘bout the Headless Ghost?” the old woman asked.

“Yes, please, Miz Flora,” the children sang in unison.

Bill and Janet sat down on the porch steps. A handful of parents lingered about the lawn, pretending not to listen. Miz Flora leaned forward in her rocker.

“Y’all know why nobody swims in Foxfire Creek?”

“The Headless Ghost!” The children sang.

“That’s right,” Miz Flora cackled. “That ol’ ghost don’t want no one messin’ round the Foxfire, not down by the old trestle, ‘cause that’s where he lost his head. Went sneakin’ through the pines to see his gal, took the shortcut ‘cross the trestle, got himself caught by the midnight express. Not no diesel train, no. Big steam engine, whistle screamin’ like a banshee as it come up on the trestle, big ol’ headlight, like the full moon fallin’ out of the sky, right on top of him. Pistons pumpin’, drivin’ rods pushing those big steel wheels so fast they’re a blur. Some said it was the drivin’ rods tore him up, stroke by stroke, till there was nothin’ left but his head, wedged between the spokes of a drivin’ wheel. Crew found it there at the next water stop, but no one ever found the body. Some say his head got tore off clean, and the body fell right back into Foxfire Creek. Say it happened so fast, he didn’t even know he’d lost his head. Which is why if you look down into the water on a full moon night, you can see what’s left of that ol’ trestle, and you can see him, still swimmin’ round down there, lookin’ for his head. You go swimmin’ there, that Headless Ghost, he’ll grab your head!”

The children scrambled back, shrieking with delighted fear, as the old woman rocked forward with clawed fingers reaching for their heads.

 Miz Flora stood up, and the children gathered up their bags, lining up for their treats. Within minutes, the street was empty as the little goblins faded into the night. Porch lights went out, and Bill suppressed a shudder as darkness and silence closed in around them.

“You kids want a nightcap before you go for your walk?” Flora ushered them through her front door, and on into her kitchen. “Wanna try a nip of the family ‘shine, Bill?”

“Now, Miz Flora,” Janet half warned, half teased. “You know I’m gonna take him down along Foxfire Creek. That ‘shine of yours sneaks up on a fella. He’ll set off feelin’ fine and be stumblin’ drunk just in time for something dreadful to happen, just like that Headless Ghost.”

“Dandelion wine, then,” Miz Flora replied, guiding them into her kitchen. She poured three small glasses of golden liquid and joined them at the table.

Bill took a sip of the dandelion wine. It went down surprisingly smooth. He found himself staring at the Halloween centerpiece, a skull with flowers protruding from the eye sockets and a black rose between its grinning teeth.  He gulped down the rest of his wine. “So, this Headless Ghost, who was he? Or is he just a story?”

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

Happy Halloween

 The history of Halloween

In the year 609 A.D., on the 13th of May, Pope Boniface IV dedicated the Pantheon in Rome to honor Christian martyrs. This led to the establishment of the Catholic holiday, All Martyrs Day, in the Western church. Later, Pope Gregory III expanded the celebration to include all saints and changed its date from May 13 to November 1.

As Christianity grew in the 9th century, it began to merge with and eventually replace traditional Celtic customs. In the year 1000, November 2 became known as All Souls’ Day, a time for commemorating departed loved ones. Many believe that this was an attempt by the church to incorporate and alter the existing Celtic festival of the dead into a more acceptable holiday.

The Samhain festivities were quite similar to the celebrations on All Souls' Day. People gathered around big bonfires, paraded through the streets, and dressed up in costumes resembling saints, angels, and devils. The day of All Saints was known by various names such as All-hallows or All-hallowmas (derived from Middle English Alholowmesse which meant All Saints' Day). Over time, the night before All Saints' Day, also known as Samhain in Celtic beliefs, became known as All-Hallows Eve and eventually evolved into the holiday we now call Halloween.

In America

Halloween was not widely celebrated in colonial New England due to the strict Protestant beliefs of the region. However, in Maryland and the southern colonies, Halloween was a much more prevalent holiday.

As the traditions and practices of various European and Native American groups intertwined, a unique version of Halloween took shape in America. The earliest festivities featured "play parties" that were open to the public and celebrated the bountiful harvest. People would gather to share ghostly tales, foretell each other's destinies, and partake in music and dance.

In colonial times, Halloween was celebrated with traditions like telling ghost stories and causing trouble. As the 19th century progressed, autumn festivals became more popular, but Halloween was still not recognized everywhere in the nation.

During the latter half of the 19th century, America experienced a surge of immigrants. Among them were millions of Irish people seeking refuge from the Irish Potato Famine. Their arrival played a significant role in spreading the practice of Halloween festivities throughout the nation.

History of Trick-or-Treating

Influenced by European customs, Americans adopted the tradition of dressing up in costumes and going door to door requesting treats or monetary donations. This eventually evolved into the modern "trick-or-treat" tradition. It was believed that on Halloween, young women could use yarn, apple peels, or mirrors to discover the name or appearance of their future spouse through various tricks.

By the late 1800s, there was a growing movement in America to transform Halloween into a holiday centered on fostering community and bringing neighbors together, rather than focusing on ghosts, tricks, and witchcraft. As the new century approached, Halloween parties for people of all ages became the most popular way to commemorate the day. These gatherings revolved around fun games, seasonal treats, and creative costumes.

Between 1920 and 1950, the centuries-old tradition of trick-or-treating experienced a resurgence. This practice allowed for the entire community to come together and celebrate Halloween without spending too much money. In addition, families could ensure that they wouldn't be subjected to any pranks by giving out small treats to the local children.

Halloween Parties

As the 1920s and 1930s rolled around, Halloween evolved into a holiday that was more focused on community rather than religion. Parades and town-wide parties became the main forms of entertainment during this time. Despite the attempts of schools and communities to maintain order, vandalism became a problem at many celebrations

In the 1950s, town officials were able to control vandalism during Halloween and the holiday became focused on entertaining children. With a significant increase in youngsters during the baby boom of the fifties, parties moved from public venues to classrooms or homes for easier management.

And so, a new custom was created in America, and it has only grown since then. Presently, Americans are estimated to spend around $6 billion every year on Halloween, making it the second most profitable holiday in the country, only behind Christmas.

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WHAT IF- ANTHOLOGY - Golden Box Books Publishing

Burdens of Immortality

She didn't want to live for centuries

After enduring three exhausting weeks of arduous travel through the rugged countryside, they finally made their way back to the magnificent palace. Aya eagerly anticipated the comfort of her luxurious quarters and the flock of servants who would cater to her every need and whim. At just eighteen years old, she emitted delicate beauty that had stolen the pharaoh’s heart when he took her as his third wife only a year ago. Her flawless skin glowed in the sun, framed by luscious dark locks and deep, alluring eyes.

***

Although she had initially resisted the arranged marriage, it was a great honor and elevation in status for her family. Yet deep down, her heart still belonged to Tanamet, her first and only love. He was a low-status merchant, and they both knew their forbidden relationship could never be more than stolen moments of happiness during her time living in her father’s house while Tanamet delivered his delectable baked goods.

On her wedding day as Aya said her final goodbyes to Tanamet, her heart ached with the realization that she may never see him again. But he promised to find a way for them to be together, and she clung to that tiny shred of hope as she was whisked away to the wedding ceremony.

Despite the grandeur surrounding her, Aya couldn’t stop dreaming about Tanamet. She complacently followed orders and endured the middle-aged pharaoh’s clammy hands groping at her and his wet kisses on her body. The marriage bed was only visited once a month, much to her relief, and when she became pregnant, the pharaoh showered her with gifts. With the birth of her son, Aya’s status rose even higher, inciting bitter jealousy and hate among the other wives who could only bear daughters. Fearing for her son’s safety and his role as her ticket to higher status, Aya surrounded him with loyal servants from her father’s court. The palace was filled with intrigue and tension, with sharp daggers hidden in the eyes of two wives who held higher status than Aya’s own. And though the pharaoh doted on his son with joy in his eyes, he showed no interest in his daughters, who seemed to fade into obscurity after their births.

***

Aya strolled through the palace, her steps gliding effortlessly as three handmaidens followed closely behind. The grandeur of the long corridors never ceased to amaze her, with its breathtaking wall paintings and magnificent statues of the Gods. Her heart swelled with a sense of longing and nostalgia as she walked, each footfall echoing off the marble floors.

As they reached the ornately carved door to her quarters, Aya’s pace quickened, and her eyes sparkled with excitement. The servants bowed and opened the massive door for her, revealing a lavish room filled with luxurious furnishings.

With a joyful smile on her face, Aya rushed inside and scooped up the chubby baby boy from the nanny’s arms. She held him close, examining every inch of his healthy body. “Is he well?” she asked the old woman who had nursed her as a child.

“He is thriving and content,” the woman replied with a warm smile, bowing her head respectfully.

Aya showered the child with kisses before gently handing him back to the nanny’s care. “My skin feels rough and dry,” she noted, turning to her handmaidens. “I think a milk and honey bath would wash away the grime of the awful travel.”

The young women nodded in agreement and quickly scurried away to prepare the relaxing bath. Aya motioned to her favorite maid to assist with undressing her. “Ugh,” she sighed wearily. “I feel soiled.”

“You will feel clean and refreshed after your bath,” the maid promised, handing her a cup filled with cool lemonade.   

***

The piercing screams and chaotic yells jolted Aya awake from her peaceful after-bath nap. She stumbled out of bed, her heart racing as she spotted Tanamet leaning against the wall with a dark, sinister look in his eyes.

“How did you...” she stammered, fear coursing through her body. “What did you do?” she screamed, horrified by the sight of her loyal servants lying lifeless on the carpet, their once vibrant clothes now drenched in blood. “Where’s my son?” she demanded, panic rising in her voice.

With a firm grip on her arm, he dragged her toward the adjoining room where the old nanny stood trembling, cradling Aya’s baby in her arms.

Tanamet threw Aya to the ground and shouted, “You belong to me!”

She cowered before him, lowering her head and whispering through quivering lips, “Why did you kill my servants? What happened to you?”

“I died,” he laughed. “And now I’ll live forever.”

“You’re not the Tanamet I fell in love with,” Aya whimpered.

“No!” Tanamet laughed again. “I was weak. Now I’m strong, and I do as I wish.”

“Kill me, but spare my son. He’s just an innocent child.” Aya begged with tears in her eyes.

He took a step back and observed her with a calculating gaze. “Your son will be Pharaoh! But that old man can’t touch you anymore. You’re coming with me.” The air hung heavy with tension as Aya resigned herself to her fate, knowing she had no choice but to follow Tanamet’s command.

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

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The Pumpkin's Curse

 They're desperate to stay alive

I have always felt an odd trepidation towards pumpkins since my early years. Their twisted faces made me feel as if they were watching. This fear stuck with me into my teens. Mom, a teacher, is always busy grading papers late into the night. Despite her busy schedule, I still felt safe until we had to move, leaving behind my friends and family.

Mom bought a house in a small town called Dark Creek, where she got a job at a school just a few blocks away. Our new address is 1300 Dead End Street. The house is ancient, with broken windows and glass scattered everywhere. The backyard borders the forest. And, of course, there’s a basement. No doubt, it holds stories of its own.

Mom and I are waiting for the movers to bring our furniture, and a few men from town offered to fix the windows. I found it strange how they whispered among themselves as if keeping some big secret. But I ignored them, focusing instead on helping Mom clean and unpack.

We ordered pizza and shared it with the workers. By the time they were getting ready to leave, it was already dark. They promised to return the next day.

That night, lying in bed, I hear noises from the basement. The sound is eerie, sending chills down my spine. I don’t want to go down there. But, like the people in horror movies, I feel compelled to go where I shouldn’t.

Instead of running away, I head toward the basement door. My heart pounds, and the flashlight I’m holding flickers on and off, just like a scene from a typical horror story.

I open the door, and it creaks like old houses do. The basement light doesn’t work. With each step, a strange ticking sound grows louder. Suddenly, I bump into someone, and we both scream.

“What are you doing down here, Scarlett?” Mom says, her voice shaky.

“Mom! You scared me half to death!” I snap, catching my breath. “I thought I heard something down here.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says, rubbing her arms. “I found some boxes left by the previous owners. Look at this.” She pulls out a pumpkin with a terrifying grin. “Doesn’t this look like the Joker from Batman? I bet they loved Halloween.”

“Ugh, I hate Halloween. And I really hate pumpkins,” I tell her, shuddering.

We head back upstairs, and the next day, I see the same pumpkin on the porch. The workers laugh about it, comparing it to the Joker’s signature smile. But to me, it looks sinister. I throw it in the trash and try to shake off the creepy feeling as I continue unpacking.

Later, I decide to take a ride to the store for some snacks and magazines. As I’m locking up my bike, a guy about my age stares at me.

“Hey there,” he says. “Never seen you around here. You new in town?”

“Yeah, we just moved to 1300 Dead End Street,” I reply.

The guy’s expression changes. “That old house? Your family must be brave to stay there.”

I frown. “Are you trying to scare me?”

“My name’s Donald Winters,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m not trying to scare you, but that place has a reputation. I could tell you more if you want. Maybe we could meet tomorrow at the river.”

“Nice to meet you, Donald. I’m Scarlett,” I respond. “I’m definitely interested in hearing more.”

As I ride home, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something Donald knows about our house that I don’t. When I pull up to the porch, I freeze. The pumpkin I had thrown away earlier… is back.

“What the heck?” I mutter, rushing inside. “Mom! Are you home?”

I peek out the window, but Mom’s car isn’t in the driveway. She’s probably still at work. Maybe one of the workers thought it would be funny to put the pumpkin back as a prank. But I’m not laughing. Feeling uneasy, I bag it up and throw it in the trash again.

Later, when Mom gets home, we start cooking dinner together.

“I’m glad you decided to put that pumpkin back on the porch,” she says casually.

“What? I threw the pumpkin away, Mom!” I exclaim.

I run to the porch, only to see the pumpkin sitting right where it had been. This is getting weird. Someone must be messing with my mind. Frustrated, I grab a market bag, toss the pumpkin inside, and dump it in the neighbor’s trash bin.

We eat dinner, and after reading for a while, I check on Mom. She has already fallen asleep, so I gently cover her with a blanket.

At least the men finished fixing the house without pulling any more pranks. But I can’t shake the nagging thought that the pumpkin will reappear again. It's becoming a mystery I can't ignore.

The next morning, we hear voices outside. The police are at Teddy Shaw’s house. Had something happened? Mom and I go to see what’s going on. Detective Jerry Marsh asks if we heard anything unusual last night. We tell him no.

“Teddy’s body is missing,” the detective says gravely. “All that was left behind was his head... and an axe.”

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

Book Sunday

 Enjoy our featured books

Short story collection

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A Collection of stories written by Shebat Legion. These tales range in genre, but all share the quirky and thought-provoking, often disturbing voice that is Legion. Hubris, a collection of short stories, new and previously published are offered as an example of the eclectic range and style that is Legion's own.

Young adult supernatural fantasy

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A love potion made with haste out of jealousy puts Dorian into a comalike state. A rare orchid that blooms only once a year could save his life, but the precious flowers are fiercely guarded by Liam and his werewolf pack. The acolytes of the coven are forbidden to enter the forest and the young apprentices volunteer to make the journey that will test their loyalty and courage.

Will they succeed?

Humor and parody

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Through a Wine Glass Darkly. updated in 2024, contains fifteen tales of horror, mystery, humor, and science fiction previously published between 2016 and 2018, including the award winning short story, "Swim With The Beavers," and three stories that received honorable mention status in the Writers of The Future Contes .Also included are six drabbles originally published in the Horror Tree anthology, Trembling With Fear - Year One. A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words. One new story, "Cruising With Eddie" is included in this volume. Scary, evocative, whimsical, and funny - all at the same time. Fill your glass, sit in front of the fire, and enjoy the book. You might want to keep the lights on.

Fallen Angel

 Isabella is a fallen angel, paying for her mistakes in hell

My dark wings sent me on the wrong path; losing faith in Heaven made me a fallen angel with black, broken wings and a halo smashed to smithereens. What used to be bright lights, harps, and happiness now has me sitting in darkness with screaming spirits wailing. I stay with monsters, beasts, zombies, wolves, hellhounds, and Satan. My heart breaks and bleeds every minute of the day. There is no rest, just chaos. I am on bent knees, weeping for God to forgive me, but there is no answer as I pray for forgiveness. I’m afraid for my soul, the unknown black hole of Hell, being alone with my scary thoughts, and my pathic discretions with splintering nightmares. It’s my only plea to save myself. I can’t eat or sleep; there’s a deep voice. “My fallen angel, all mine,” Satan rambles. He laughs, taunting every night, tears of misery falling to the ground. He surrounds my legs with snakes. My screams are raucous; all critters surround me like a feast with no getaway; I’m near a crevasse pit.

It’s my fault for losing my faith and grace; there’s no going back. A wrong crossroad to a path of wickedness. Satan was charming at first, changing his face so you don’t know who he is, reeling me in, saying, “Come with me to Wonderland,” Standing before me was a handsome figure who was evil with no wings, spreading evilness in the dark woods. I could never trust his words again, grinning like a black cat that swallowed the canary. He weakens my knees like no other; Satan is evil who looks for weakness. Shackles bind me down, my ankles are sore, and a bleeding neck with a leather choker confines me, choking my airway. A fire surrounds me with no escape; the flames are high, and it’s so hot and unbearable that sweat drips from my forehead. I’m not too fond of it here.

I’ve suffered enough. I can’t take the heat; Satan’s voice screams, and he laughs, mocking me. It isn’t amicable, it’s cruel. The creepy crawlies are eating me alive. I’m getting weaker, my mouth requires drinking water, and black beetles are lagging on my body. My screams are louder to free me; all I ever wanted was to be in Heaven. One mistake brings me heartache. All I get is burning Hell, which he comes to me with a teasing grin; he’s a fire of brimstone. I’m scared. The demons torture the souls, screeching in pain; the beast’s nails are black, and they have sharp teeth, faces, and bodies with scarred marks and no wings in sight. They keep screaming, making me crazy.

“I will kill you over and over again, Isabella. No one disobeys me, and you will never see the light of day, my sweet dear; you have fallen into the pit of Hell. Temptation is tempting, making a deal with Satan; there is no going back; you’re mine, all mine to have. Treasure forever; you’re such a beauty with broken black wings. You will beg me to stop hurting you every minute of every day. The beast wants your flesh; he always loves the taste of an angel. Come to me, Isabella, and show me who’s king. Reveal the ground I walk on. I’m your master for eternity; don’t you forget it and stop crying, my dear?” Satan speaks.

The wolves are howling and hungry; they want to eat me. I must have the strength to endure, or they will bite my flesh, paying for my sins. The demons get the blade and cut my arm and leg, then the other with knives and arms, gore spilling down my body; cries are known this is maltreatment. This will be my curse for imperishability for making wrong choices, so many regrets in my darkness of wickedness, and a hell of no hope or faith. My lips chapped with cuts, and skin-and-bones dark shadows appeared out of nowhere. This is madness. I’m lying on the filthy ground; roaches make me open my eyes. I look up with tears, a full moon and luminous effervescent, “Angel, will soon be home?” My tears continued to descend. Oh, God is talking to me. The pain didn’t go away, though; there was nothing to gain in this inferno. I want to leave this place of evilness. Burning pit demons rage Satan worship; fallen angels are here forever.

Days go by like a burst of gushing speed and squalling storm screams overwhelming the mind. The heat makes me ill. The fallen angels are getting tortured. The sinner’s fate is death, pure destruction, and watching the horrible scene destroy and punish the soul.

The following night, I woke with no shackles or chokers on my neck and relaxed my airway. I got up from the ground and ran, not looking back, but I heard the hellhound following me, wishing to have my white wings and fly away like a bird. Is this the end, or is it a wicked game Satan is playing? The forest is dark and scary, and hiding is my best option, so I made a small hut of branches and leaves and started to think. How I became an angel when I was a human on earth, my boyfriend murdered me. He had this awful rage that couldn’t help himself, so one night, I told him I was leaving, had enough, and he pushed me and stabbed me until my last breath. I went up the loveliest steps and followed the light. Heaven awaits pure happiness and no pain serving God; my beautiful halo shined like the stars. I earned my white wings, saving a teenager from jumping off a bridge. I mistakenly guided a sinner to Heaven when he was supposed to go downstairs to Hell. I didn’t follow the rules: you can’t save everyone; my wings were stripped and replaced with black wings, and I became a fallen angel. I was now stuck in Hell with Satan and his monsters. They are hunting me down safely for the moment. I take a deep breath and another and close my eyes; the silence comforts me, and I fall into a deep slumber until I hear some cracking. I swallow with fear as they find me. I don’t want to go back, but then I hear a voice come out. Isabella he knew my name, and I run the opposite way, stumbling on the ground. Crows surround me, it starts to storm, pouring rain, and the mud makes walking challenging. It’s like quicksand; it is quicksand sinking with no escape. Maybe now my soul will be in peace going down under six feet deep when I see the light, a hand lifting me from the deep mud, carrying me to a lovely waterfall, and washing the quicksand off my body. My long, silky black hair was braided and now loose. The stranger removes my hair from my face; he’s an angel. He covers me with his white wings to dry my body, keeping me safe for a while; then Satan takes us by surprise and throws me into one of his caves. He’s torturing the angel that was saving me. I pray to God to save the angel, but there is no answer; feeling guilty, tears decent for his soul.

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

The Legion Method: Part One

 Writing for Your Life

As an author of moderate success, I am often asked how I achieved it. I typically have only one word to offer.

Luck.

Bad books get made into movies all the time. Why? Because it was in the right place, at the right time.

Or, the author knows somebody; that is about the only other exception.

How can I succeed at writing? I get asked this one a lot. I have to ask what the definition of success is for that person. If they mean financially, I suggest they become a journalist, something regular, something with a guaranteed paycheck.

Don't ever expect to become financially successful as an author. It is a lottery. You stack the deck the best you can, but there is no guarantee. If writing isn't enough for you, you are in the wrong business.

My best advice is to write because you love to write. Publish. Pat yourself on the back from the thrill of being available in print. This is the only type of guaranteed success a writer will ever get. Being available in print is leaving behind a legacy. It is immortality.

Writing and publishing will probably cost you money, not make any. And you should learn to accept that gracefully because the odds that someone will love your work as much as you do are slim. Have no expectations of success, and you will never be disappointed.

Develop a thick skin. Rejection happens frequently, often without explanation. Sometimes, your story or novel is not what they are looking for, or you don't have the clout to have your work even read in the first place. Like any industry, it can be a who's who and who you know game. I don't play that card. I do my thing, get in, and get out. If I get noticed, terrific; if I don't, oh well. It is the healthiest attitude to have, in my opinion. I don't like drama. I tend to stay away from people who enjoy drama. I don't like games. I refuse to play.

I realize that not everyone is like me. You do you.

But.

I can honestly say, after being in the business for many years, having been published over forty times, and having produced and worked as an editor and a producer, that drama is a drain of resources better used elsewhere. Because I steer clear, as best as I can, of dramatics and playing the game, I have kept my sanity, and I am still working.

Not everyone is going to like you. Get used to it. Get over it. Writing is art, and art is subjective. I can't stress this enough. Your work may be liked by some, hated by others, or cause indifference. We all like what we like, whether in a story, a novel, or a painting, and we are entitled to our preferences. It is OK to love your work but never expect others to feel the same. Expectations are like wishes. It is hopes and dreams. We hope that what we strive to produce is appreciated, lauded, and exalted. The truth is, the best you may ever achieve is lukewarm praise. This is where that thick skin comes in handy because if you only publish for attention and do not get it, it will hurt! So, don't expect it!

I know, I know. What kind of business operates on the principle of having no expectations of money, success, or praise? What kind of business expects you to expect so little yet work so hard? What kind of business practically guarantees that there aren't any guarantees yet expects you to tear pieces of your soul, put them on paper, and have people reject them, not read them, not even like them?

Writing.

Writing demands all these things and more. It not only expects you to expect nothing, it expects you to keep on writing because you are a writer and for no other reason.

Write because you must, want to, and have to. Be your own champion, critic, and fan base.

And, most of all, don't ever stop writing. 

Shebat Legion

Her work can be found wherever fine books are sold.

Shebat Legion is an award-winning, internationally best-selling, consummate storyteller/producer/publisher whose quirky tales have appeared in numerous anthologies of various genres, and offerings of her work have been archived on the moon via The Lunar Codex associated with NASA.

Haunting Memories

 John's mind is flooded with long-forgotten memories

As John trudged through the relentless downpour, each step felt like a burden on his exhausted body. The rain pounded against his umbrella with fierce determination, creating a symphony of splashes and echoes that reverberated through the streets. But it wasn’t just the clamor that unsettled him; it was the onslaught of memories that flooded back with every drop. Memories of heartache and betrayal as his ex-girlfriend tearfully ended their relationship under the stormy skies. Memories of fear and pain from a harrowing night when he narrowly escaped death in a tragic accident and when his father drove off in the thunderstorm. John never saw him again.

Since he was a young child, each heavy rainfall seemed to unleash a line of disasters, painting the slick streets with shades of sorrow under the hazy glow of streetlights. Every droplet felt like a stab in his heart, dredging up emotions he had long tried to bury beneath the surface.

The bustling city, usually bursting with life and energy, was now draped in a somber cloak. The incessant rain seemed to have washed away all traces of joy, leaving behind a heavy sense of foreboding. As John made his way through the crowded streets, every step felt like a battle against his past. Each drop of rain that fell from the dark clouds above seemed to mirror his swirling emotions and haunting memories. But he persisted, determined to conquer both the physical and emotional challenges posed by the storm. John’s mind flickered back to a particularly emotional memory from his elementary school years.

***

It was a long afternoon when he and his mischievous buddies were hunched over their desks serving detention. They were so engrossed in their work that they didn’t notice the sun slowly fading behind thick, dark clouds. Suddenly, a distant roar of thunder echoed across the sky, sending shivers down their spines as ominous clouds gathered. The air grew heavy, and a bolt of lightning cracked through the air, signaling the impending storm.

The teacher and students were caught off guard, their minds still occupied with the math problem at hand. But Mother Nature had other plans, unleashing a fury of wind and rain. The students eagerly packed their belongings and rushed out of the classroom, determined to outrun the approaching storm. The first few drops landed on their skin, almost teasingly, before exploding into a relentless downpour. Within minutes, the streets were awash with the sound of heavy rain, drowning out all other noises and creating a hypnotic symphony of water hitting pavement and rooftops.

Navigating through a maze of winding streets and narrow alleys, their feet finally carried them to a park where their paths diverged - each heading toward their homes on opposite sides. John’s eyes darted around. Deciding to take a shortcut through the park, he stepped onto the footpath but soon found himself struggling to keep his balance as rain-slicked patches made it treacherous and difficult to progress. The heavy droplets came down with an unrelenting force, soaking his clothes and skin. Despite the obstacles, John pushed forward, determined to get home as fast as he could.

Fueled by a sense of urgency, John braced himself against the relentless onslaught of rain, his arm shielding his face as he pushed forward. With each step, his feet seemed to sink deeper into the muck and mud, making it increasingly difficult to move forward. The rain beat down on him with such ferocity that it penetrated through his clothes, drenching him completely and weighing him down. His hair clung to his scalp in wet, tangled strands. But despite the discomfort and fatigue setting in, he refused to give up or falter. His determination was unwavering, propelling him onward through the storm.

Suddenly, piercing cries shattered the sound of the hollering wind, followed by the sharp report of gunshots. John’s heart pounded in his chest as he recognized the unmistakable sounds just a stone’s throw away. Without hesitation, he dropped to the ground and pressed himself against the wet vegetation. Through the dense curtain of rain and tangled foliage, he could make out a dark figure hunched over a motionless form on the ground. The only source of light came from sporadic flashes of lightning, casting eerie shadows that danced across the scene before him. Fear and adrenaline coursed through his body as he watched, frozen in place, unsure of what to do next.

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

Purr-anormal Activity

 Gimli's Cat-astrophic Hallowe'en!

Hallowe’en conjures up something different for everyone. Some think about dressing up in costumes and trick or treating. Others decorate their homes with ghosties, ghoulies, and jack-o’-lanterns. Some dream of mischief and all the naughty pranks they can pull.

When I think of Hallowe’en, the first thing I think about is cat pee. That’s right—you heard me. Cat Pee.

But why? You’re undoubtedly asking yourself, with equal measures of intrigue, disgust, and amazement.

I should explain. It all started innocently enough. When my husband and I were dating, I got him an ugly black kitten as a gift. He had a face only a mother and I could love.

The kitten was black and sleek and had orange-brown eyes that looked more like a lizard’s than a cat’s. He had very short ears giving him that vintage Batman look, and to top off, he had very long pointy canine teeth that extended well past his upper gumline, so he had a severe case of ‘perma-fang.’

Best present ever!

And lo, my then-boyfriend, husband-to-be, named him Gimli. This is about when I became a student to the decades-long tutelage on all that is J. R. R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings series. Being more of a Star Wars nerd, this would prove to be an education, but I digress…

Gimli’s unusual appearance was exceeded only by his intelligence and nerve. This cat had balls, even after we had them surgically removed.

After the wedding, Gimli and my pets became one big happy family. Despite my worries, the hubby allowed Gimli to be an ‘outdoor cat.’

He was like a wild teenager, coming and going at all hours. This would’ve been ok if we had a pet door, but he’d yowl at my bedroom window at 5 am to be let in. 

Mine were ‘indoor cats.’

*Cue the snide looks* So, they were all, ‘Why does he get to go outside?’ at first.

Gimli was a character. When I walked our dog up into the back fields behind our subdivision, he’d follow us, careful to keep a 15-foot distance like our very own Secret Service detail.

In all honesty, he was probably just wondering, ‘Where the heck is the human dragging the mutt? Far away, I hope.’

Sometimes, Gimli would get bored tailing us and he’d go lie in the middle of the road in front of our house. He’d be soaking up the rays on the warm pavement and staring down the approaching cars. They’d honk, and he’d swish his tail, forcing them to go around him. The cat had balls.

Probably by now, you’re wondering how cat pee fits into all of this, but it was vital to establish character, your honor.

If there are no further objections, I’ll tell you. Our local radio DJ advised city folks to keep their cats indoors before and just after Hallowe’en for their safety, especially if they were black cats. There had been a rash of pet hate crimes locally.

Of course, I thought this was brilliant, and just the thing to do. So, after dinner that night, I spoke of the radio announcement and decreed that we would follow suit for Gimli’s safety and well-being.

Gimli did not respond well to forced captivity. I would stare down into his beady little lizard eyes and tell him, ‘It’s for your own good. You don’t want to be hurt, killed, sacrificed, or maimed, do you?’

I should’ve seen the fury building in those eyes of his. I should’ve heard it in the annoyed yowls that he so lovingly communicated in my ear when I was sleeping.

By day three, which was Hallowe’en, he’d had enough. The look of fury had turned to rage, that rage had turned to pure, unbridled wrath. And that wrath could only be quenched with an act of vengeance most vile.

 Of course, he didn’t blame the hubby, his besty, and partner in crime. (And yes, I went into this marriage, knowing full well that wasn’t me, but I was okay with it, far be it for me to be jealous of a mere cat.)

Maybe it was the fact that every time the hubby met with Gimli, he said, ‘Sorry buddy, but she said you have to stay inside for your own good.’

The hubby would even favor me with that look of mock disdain that the cat wholly embraced as real. The tall human…understood.

Ah yes, the vaunted enemy. She.

Gimli’s vengeance had a target identified and locked in. All that remained was delivering the coup de grâce to the target.

It was our first year in the neighborhood. I had no idea how many kids would visit. The subdivision was new and had lots of families. Better safe than sorry. So, I ran out to buy more candy and chips in case we ran out. 

I arrived home, struggling with my grocery bags because I was younger then and was the sort to carry all of them at once even if it killed me, instead of making several trips. 

So, I walked into the kitchen and Gimli was there…lying in wait on the countertop. He stood up and looked me in the eye with those snaky, unblinking eyes of his and hissed.

He then proceeded to spray the entire kitchen counter, including the jars where I stored coffee, tea, and sugar, the microwave, the coffeemaker, the upper cupboards, the mugs that hung from them on hooks…everything. No surface was spared the wrath of Gimli. Quite an achievement for a neutered male cat.

He even got my Siamese, Nikki, who seemed to say, “What? What did I do?! You %@#@#$!!”

I was not thrilled or impressed. I was ready to tie Gimli to a stake on the front lawn with a sign saying, ‘Black Cat for Sacrifice—Free.’  

Just as I was pulling out the markers, cardboard, and heavy-duty zip ties, the hubby came home from work and Gimli gave me that smug look that he always did when he got his way.

Darn it. Foiled again. ‘Fine cat, you win. This time.’

And so…Gimli was safe for another Hallowe’en.

We observed the safety measures every Hallowe’en, for the next thirteen…but I had to up my game more than once.

Happy Hallowe’en. Keep your pets safe!!

E.V. Emmons

https://eclark46.wixsite.com/-evemmons

E.V. Emmons lives in Ontario. Author of the novels ETERNITY AWAITS, THE SINISTRATI, and the writer’s guide, ‘WRITE HERE, WRITE NOW!’ As a contributor to several anthologies, her work even made it to the Moon with the Lunar Codex Program aboard lander Odysseus in February 2024. Available on Amazon.

Broomstick and Chocolate

 When Halloween traditions defended by real witches

Agatha couldn’t help herself, so she swept the porch with her broom before she used the oversized door knocker. It was a bad reproduction of the head of Bela Lugosi’s Dracula holding a single link of a heavy chain in his fanged mouth.

A short octogenarian woman who could have been Margaret Hamilton’s double answered the door. “About time, Cousin Agatha. It’s almost sunset, and the trick-or-treaters will be starting.”

“Don’t bristle at me. This is a new broom, and I just whisked in from Cincinnati. This isn’t your first Halloween; I suspect you’ve got a handle on things.”

“I do. Come inside, and let’s get ready for the children.”

Agatha leaned her broom against the wall inside the door. “This is a Boeing Stratoduster, right off the assembly line. Free to me because I’m a beta tester. Thought I’d try it for a spell.”

Endora inspected the broomstick. “Boeing? It’s a miracle you didn’t crash on takeoff.”

“Jealous much? You’re still flying that old Curtis Twin Stick, aren’t you?”

“It’s a classic and the most stable broomstick ever manufactured. It belonged to my grandmother. She flew 36 missions during World War Two.”

“She’s my grandmother, too. That’s such a bewitching tale, but my mom said that Grandma spent the war working in a defense plant in upstate New York putting protection spells on aircraft.”

“She was a witch just like us. She told me that the defense plant was just a cover story. The Curtis was the fastest broom on the planet. She’d finish her shift at the Curtis-Wright plant, sweep across the Atlantic, make a bomber escort run, bewitch a V-2, and then shuffle back to Buffalo in time to clock in.”

Agatha petted a large black cat, Ashtoreth, Endora’s familiar. “Ashtoreth looks healthy and happy, cousin, but I came for Halloween, not a history lesson. Are we ready for the children?”

“I was born ready. Ashtoreth loves Halloween. We’ll take turns with the kids. I’ll go first and you take the second group. The children love my house because I don’t do Halloween like everyone else.”

“How does that work? Don’t the children get upset?”

“Not at all. When I answer the door, they don’t say trick-or-treat. I do. They always say trick, and then I do a trick for them. Different tricks for different kids. I sometimes make their flashlights talk or their costumed wings real. I make the jack-o’-lanterns or my Bela Lugosi door knocker talk.”

“That’s real magic, Endora. No one can know that magic is real.”

“Relax, Cousin. The only magic I do for the children are parlor tricks, and they wear off like fairy gold when they leave my yard.  Most of the parents who live around here visited my house when they were young, and the rest wouldn’t believe it anyway. I’m just a harmless old lady. It’s fun, and it makes Halloween a little more special for the children.”

“Clang, clang, clang went Bela Lugosi. Endora opened the door and said, “Trick or treat.”

Three princesses shouted, “Trick.”

Ashtoreth slipped out the door, brushed against the girls’ legs, and then slunk back into the house. Endora thought for a moment and then touched the girl’s tiaras one at a time. The plastic headpieces glowed brighter than sparklers on the Fourth of July.

The princesses laughed and danced. Ashtoreth danced with them. Like real sparklers, the tiaras soon went out, and the three girls walked quickly to their mothers waiting on the sidewalk. One woman cupped her hands and yelled, “Thanks, Endora. You’ve still got it, girl.”

Two boys ran onto the front porch. Endora smiled at them. “Wow, I love your costumes. Who are you supposed to be?”

“I’m Speed Racer, and Greg is Astro Boy. Manga comic characters. Japanese.”

“Can’t say as I’ve ever been to Japan. Trick or treat, boys.? Trick or treat?”

“Trick.”

“Agatha, help me with this one. These boys want a trick.”

Agatha waved her little finger, and Speed Racer’s helmet lit up like a futuristic computer screen. Data flashed inside the faceplate, visible only to the wearer, and scrolled rapidly in several colors, using several languages, known and unknown. The young man was mesmerized.

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO