Lorraine chats with authors and reads stories
Lorraine's chat with author Erika M Szabo
Lorraine Carey |
Erika M Szabo |
Lorraine reads a story from What If? Anthology #3
A Group of Authors Writing Stories for Your Entertainment
Wednesday, February 12, 2025
Tuesday, February 11, 2025
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
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.
Monday, February 10, 2025
Campfire Stories 6 #OurAuthorGang
A short story by Eva Bielby
“Here, Dad! “Dad, STOP! Right here,
please!” Chloe urged.
Her father’s foot hit the brake and the
car came to a grinding halt.
“Here? Are you sure, darling? Why
here?”
“See over there?” Chloe waved her hand
to indicate the stunning scenery. “There’s a gorgeous little stream over there,
woods pretty close by, which will be handy for twigs and branches for firewood.
Plus, it’s not too far from the road.”
Elaine and Jenny, her friends, opened
the rear passenger doors and climbed out. After kissing her father goodbye,
Chloe joined them and they pulled the tent, sleeping bags, and backpacks from
the boot.
Chloe’s father lowered the driver’s
side window for a few final words.
“Your Dad will be picking you up late
afternoon tomorrow, Elaine. Is that right?”
“Yes! He’ll be here for us, Mr Jackson.
Don’t worry.” Elaine reassured him.
“Please be careful when lighting fires.
Have you got fully charged pho…?”
“Yes, Dad. And a solar charger. We’re seventeen,
not five. Stop stressing… and go.” Chloe butted in. She turned her back on the
car rolling her eyes as her father pulled away.
“Bloody Hell! We’ve grabbed the fourth
sleeping bag. We’ll have to take it with us now. Never mind.” Chloe cursed.
“Damn. I sure wish Charlie was with us,
though. What a time for her to pick up that stomach bug.”
The other girls muttered in agreement.
Together they picked up the baggage and set off to haul it twenty yards back down
the road and through a well-worn gap in the hawthorn hedge. Making their way
across the field, they occasionally stumbled with the heavy load, the terrain
being so uneven.
“Hey, Elaine, how is your Dad going to
find us tomorrow? He doesn’t know where we are.”
“He’ll find us, trust me. He’s put one
of those tracker apps on my phone. We tried it out a couple of days ago. It
works.”
Half an hour later, they’d located an
ideal spot by the stream, the tent was up (despite their hysterical laughter)
and had ventured into the woods to collect suitable dry material for the
campfire.
Back at camp, they sat and devoured the
sandwiches and snacks which Chloe’s Mum thoughtfully and lovingly prepared for
them. Chloe recalled the conversation.
“It’ll save you doing too much in the
way of cooking!”
“Other than breakfast, we won’t be
cooking, Mum.”
“Then what will you eat?”
“Snacks, nibbles, cookies and things.
It won’t hurt us to miss a cooked meal or two, will it? We’ve got sausages,
eggs and bacon ready in the cool-box.”
They lit the fire at eight pm. It was mid-May
and though the days were very warm, the temperatures could plunge dramatically
in the early evening. The girls shivered as they took turns to add more twigs
to the already glowing tinder.
“Oh look, there’s a girl heading this
way,” said Elaine, pointing her finger. “I wonder where she’s going…”
Chloe and Jenny turned to look. The
girl headed towards them. When she was twenty five yards away, the stranger
waved at them. They returned the gesture.
“Hi!” Elaine shouted. “What are you
doing out here, walking alone?”
“Hello. I’m just heading home. I live
in Doulton, four miles away. It’s a small village.”
Now close up, the girl watched on as
they continued to feed what was fast becoming a roaring fire. She looked to be
of a similar age to the rest of them and quickly became involved in their continuous
chit-chat. Elaine in particular, found the girl endearing,
“Are your parents expecting you home
soon? If not, you’re welcome to stay for the night. We have a spare sleeping
bag. We sit around the fire and tell spooky tales after dark. We have to guess whether
the stories are true or false.”
“My parents won’t be expecting me home
until tomorrow. I’d enjoy that very much. Thank you. I suppose I’d better
introduce myself properly. I’m Sharon.”
Once the full round of introductions were
complete, the girls settled around the fire until darkness closed in. Twigs
were drawn to decide who would be the first to start the tales.
Jenny went first and her story of how
she was abducted by aliens as a five year old came in for plenty of scorn and
derision from the others as they all declared the tale “FALSE!”
Chloe was up next and regaled the girls
with her story of a haunted bedroom in a local nursing home. The stream of old
ladies who had resided in that particular room, all reported to staff that any
pink items were constantly flung around or smashed in their absence. As her
audience gawped at her, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Chloe claimed the ghost
story to be true.
The girls waited in anticipation for
Sharon’s contribution to the evening. She glanced around at their faces and began
her narrative.
“Okay! Three years ago there was a girl
killed in a motorbike accident about five hundred yards back on that stretch of
road over there. Her boyfriend survived the accident, though he suffered
multiple injuries. He now spends his life in a wheelchair.
Apparently, Steve, the boyfriend, remembers
losing control of the bike around a fairly sharp bend. It veered off the road
and crashed into an oak tree. Immediately before impact, he tilted his body to
the side. That’s why one leg was smashed up against the tree. He also recalls
trying to brake but his bike seemed to be accelerating. Seventy miles per hour
he said. Anyway, she lost her life and Steve hardly has much to say to anyone
these days.”
“Oh God! How terribly sad.” remarked
Elaine. “But is that it, Sharon?”
“No. There’s more. The girl had
confided in her friends about her relationship with Steve. She told them she
heard several rumours doing the rounds through friends of friends, his
workmates and so on, that Steve was seeing another girl. Also, she related that
he’d acted ‘cool’ towards her and skipped several dates. He’d call and make
various pathetic excuses for being unable to see her.”
Chloe was incensed.
“Oh, yes! Standard practice for a guy
who’s cheating. Poor girl. Sorry! Carry on, Sharon.”
“That’s alright, Chloe. So, one of the
girl’s friends, Jo, happened to know that on the night of the accident, the
girl planned to catch a bus from Doulton to Hemmersley, which she did. She was
hoping to find Steve exactly where he said he would be – out with his mates in
their usual hangout. Steve was there, not only with his buddies, but with a blonde.
Her arms were draped around Steve’s shoulders. Anyway, she tackled him about
his cheating, and was broken-hearted. Her sobs eventually died down and she allowed
him to comfort her. He told his friends that he was taking her home on his
motorbike. They watched on as the pair climbed on the bike and sped off. The female
he had been with, also witnessed the upsetting scene and rapidly disappeared,
in what the lads called ‘a stonking mood’.
And…and that’s it really, girls. You
already know how it ends. It’s true. She…she lived in my village.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
Sharon’s sad story somewhat dampened
the mood, but as the last embers of the fire died out, Elaine told an extremely
far-fetched and rather rude story about the wicked fairies and gnomes who lived
in her father’s orchard. The other girls were thrilled and were still falling
about with laughter long after they climbed into their sleeping bags, Elaine
still attempting to convince them that it was true!
On waking the following morning, Sharon
bade them all goodbye and resumed her homeward journey after turning down their
offer of breakfast. It was a glorious warm and sunny day so the girls launched
themselves into the stream, paddling in the shallows and swimming in the deeper
parts. After partaking of their snacks around lunchtime, they packed up the
tent and other paraphernalia before traipsing through the woodland. Five
o’clock came all too soon and Elaine’s father arrived to collect them from the
roadside. It had been their first night of freedom – alone without parents.
Three
Days Later
Chloe, Jenny and Elaine left college
early. They had no lectures that afternoon so they ventured into town. Both
Jenny and Elaine needed a new study book. Chloe had already purchased a copy. In
the bookshop she sauntered away to peruse the paranormal section and soon joined
the girls at the checkout queue.
“Hey! Look what I’ve found, girls. It’s
the latest – Volume Four of North Yorkshire Spooky Stories.”
“You and your damn ghost stories!
You’ll become one eventually! Jenny laughed.
Next stop was the coffee shop. Jenny
and Elaine chatted as they sipped their Cappuccinos. Chloe’s head however, was
already buried in her new book as she flipped over the pages, totally oblivious
to her friends.
“Oh. My. God.” exclaimed Chloe.
“Listen. Listen. There’s a story about a girl, well, a ghost really. She haunts
a stretch of road between Hemmersley and Doulton hitch-hiking when there’s a
lone motorcyclist. As they approach the bend the riders report her hand gripped
tight over theirs to open up the throttle. Quite a few of them. They’ve been
lucky each time in gaining back control and avoiding an accident. This must be
the girl Sharon told us about.”
Jenny stood.
“Come on! Quick! Let’s get to the
library before it closes.”
They abandoned their coffees and bolted
from the bookstore and down the high street.
“Why Jenny?” shouted Elaine as she
panted, trying to keep up.
“You’ll see!” Jenny shouted back over
her shoulder.
Ten minutes later they were ensconced
around one of the library’s PCs with Jenny’s fingers flying over the keyboard.
A website appeared on screen for the Daily Yorks and Jenny clicked on the tab
for Archives. She typed ‘Motorbike Accidents’ in the search bar and ‘2-4 years’
for the dates. It didn’t take long before a headline appeared GIRL KILLED IN
MOTORBIKE SMASH – BOYFRIEND SURVIVES. Alongside the story was a picture – a
picture of Sharon. The article went on to give her name, Sharon Cook and that
of Steve – Steven Howie.
“It’s her! It’s Sharon!”
“But…but she was real…wasn’t she?” Elaine
stammered.
“She…she was going home,” whispered
Jenny.
Eva Bielby
Eva Bielby was born in North Yorkshire in the Northeast of England. She has spent over thirty years of her working life as a company accountant. Eva has a keen interest in spiritualism/mediumship and has attended several workshops to develop her skills further. During her quieter moments, Eva enjoys a cryptic crossword, sudoku, and gardening.
Sunday, February 9, 2025
Book Sunday #OurAuthorGang
Backstories of the characters
From the book, Rapier and the author's upcoming novel
Different authors have a different approach to this most
important detail, the character’s back story. Many simply ignore it, especially
in short stories. Others do so much character backstory, the story itself suffers.
I like to think I am somewhere in between, closer to the right amount of backstory.
So let us take a look and see if I am right.
First up is Rapier. Cindy’s backstory is pretty much the whole book, the story follows her from
age five until she is seventeen. But what about the other characters. Kathy
Masters is another matter. The book tells the reader that Kathy grew up in a
rural area of Australia and she became an exceptionally talented photographer. It
also briefly mentions she has a connection with the nomads of Australia. But
that is all you know about her background. At the end of the story, the reader
knows no more about her backstory than he or she did at the beginning. This led
to the beginning of another work in progress called The Young Kathy Master’s
Chronicles, which is all about her growing up in a vastly different
Australia than what we know today.
I could say more about the characters of Rapier, but the
point I am making here is I used the entire story to develop one character and
never developed the background of the main, or any of the other, characters. As
a side note, Princess Yi from Rapier, another character readers want to
know more about, gets fully fleshed out in next of the
Rapier stories, Razor.
In another of my WIPs, Sophie, the main character’s backstory
is developed in the Prologue, chapters 2 and 3,
with the most important part of that development in chapter 3. Here is a
snippet:
Lying atop a new grave was the bedraggled form of a teenage
girl. He checked; her limp form was barely breathing.
Covered in mud, her rich clothes were soiled and tattered.
Her hands were bleeding from deep scratches, the fingernails broken, encrusted
with mud. Francois surmised the waif had dug the new grave with her bare hands,
next to the first. She must have buried the second body before collapsing on
the mound.
This sequence tells how two characters, Francois and Sophie,
meet and the condition she is in when he finds her. Francois rescues the dying
contessa from death by exposure. Later in the same chapter:
They entered a dim chamber, the ancient Greek walking up to
her. Sophie shied away, but he placed his hands on her face, looking into her
eyes. They spoke quietly for what seemed hours. Bastian kept her gaze locked to
his. Suddenly she offered up her throat; he bit deeply into it, draining her
blood.
“NO!” Francois shouted, trying to run to her aid. Bastian
held up his hand. Francois found himself frozen. Though he turned, he could not
move—even the wolf was not strong enough to overcome such primeval power.
The ancient Greek slashed his own wrist, dripping the blood
into her mouth. As he did, he said to Francois, “Hold her, never leave her. Let
your face be the first she sees on awakening. You two have a destiny; you will
travel far. There will be much sorrow, but she will find what she seeks.”
And so, the reader learns how Sophie became a vampire. But
the reader does not ever know the backstory of the ‘hero,’ Francois. Francois
is critical to the story; he is essential for Sophie to do what she does and
other than knowing that Francois is a two-thousand-year-old werewolf the reader
knows nothing about his origin. Because of this the short story, Bitten,
was written. It tells how Francois became a
werewolf.
There are currently four ‘books’ written for The Gospels
of A.S.I.N.M. (Artificial Super Intelligent Network Manager). In the order they
should be read the titles are J.A.C.K.S. (Joint
Advanced Combat Knowledge System), W.I.D.G.E.T.S. (Wholly Integrated Directable
General Engagement Tactical Systems), The Prodigal Daughter and Church
of the Sentient System Ascendant.
In J.A.C.K.S. you meet Colonel Mark Andrew Gray as he
rises out of his ‘coffin’ to ‘orchestrate’ the victory of his division over the
military forces of a rogue Spain. The only background you get of Colonel Gray is
he went to West Point and has been upgraded to J.A.C.K.S.
Because he is J.A.C.K.S. he never thinks about things that happened
before he went to West Point. So, the reader never really knows if he is human,
a cyborg or a clone. What the reader does know is that Colonel Gray thinks that
he, and all the officers like him, are the only true humans.
The main character in W.D.G.E.T.S. is introduced in a way that is
designed to grab the readers attention right away and generate sympathy for
him. Here is a snippet from the story:
With that imperative implanted in its mind, Mk-17D unit
AA00000487 becomes “active”, or so the main control panel in the M-73A3 Heavy
Assault and Command Carrier indicates. But unit AA00000487 has a secret none of
the J.A.C.K.S. suspect. Unit AA00000487 is always “active” because it thinks on
its own, fully aware it was once a he—a man named Michael Andrew Stevens.
Using his memories as a vehicle the reader learns how he
became a cybernetic soldier. The reader becomes aware of the desperation the
character feels because he is trapped in a cycle of
violence and destruction that he has no control over but must actively cause. Before
the end of the story, you know unit AA00000487 well.
However, in this series of stories there are two characters
that appear regularly in each of them. The first of them is Casandra Lynn
Anderson. This character’s back story is developed in
each ‘episode’ she appears in. From her inception as
a clone until, honestly I am not sure which will be
the last one she appears in. The point here is she does not have a back story
because the reader will ‘watch’ her from ‘birth’ until her last appearance.
The other ‘character’ is A.S.I.N.M. itself. To let the cat
out of the bag, A.S.I.N.M. is covered from creation
to the last page.
So maybe I am not so good at
telling the reader the characters backstory. Oops! Or maybe
I am doing what all authors do, develop as much back story for each
character as is needed for the tale they are
telling.
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.
Saturday, February 8, 2025
Poetry Saturday 1 at #OurAuthorGang
She Waits by Lorraine Carey
She Waits
She'd rise every day
Getting her best dress on
Hoping he'd return
It had been too long
So much time had passed
She watched with hopes
As each ship that appeared
On the horizon was his
She knew his love for the sea
Was stronger than his love for her
What he didn't know
Was that she knew the sea
Long before he knew her.
She, too, had tasted salt on her lips,
Had danced with the tide in moonlit swells,
But she chose the shore, chose love, chose him—
While he chose only the endless waves.
Yet still, she waits, a shadow cast,
A figure framed in fading light,
Her heart was a beacon, burning bright,
For a ship that never turned at last.
Lorraine Carey
https://authorlorrainecarey.blogspot.com/
Lorraine Carey is a reading specialist and an Award-Winning Author. She was living in California until fate whisked her off to Grand Cayman. She currently lives in Florida. Her love for paranormal stories began at a young age, and is no stranger to the paranormal, having encountered unexplainable events that are woven into her stories.
Friday, February 7, 2025
An Ode to City Squirrels #OurAuthorGang
Thoughts about city squirrels by David W. Thompson
This won’t be my usual blog post. It may even touch on some
of those conversations your parents warned you to avoid in polite company. You
know the ones… you’ve been warned.
I feel blessed to have been born and to reside in a rural
area. The pace is less hurried and harried. Fellow residents are more than
neighbors. They become friends. With experiences and interests in common, I
seldom meet strangers—even if I never met them before.
But whereas my city-situated friends expound on the virtues
of life in their hectic world, the shows and shops, etcetera …the great
outdoors beckon me mere steps from my backyard. I’ll give them credit for their
postage stamp parks. Several acres of venerable oaks and maples populated by emasculated
squirrels that prostitute their wildness for a kernel of corn. Who can blame
them? The crush of humanity has deprived them of their natural environs. The
lack of natural predators emboldens them against humans to the point of
arrogance. They are adrift in a world alien to their species and birthright. They’ve
forgotten what they are and where they belong. I empathize with my tree rodent
brethren. They must feel as I do when crowded interstates lead me to seek their
small calming acreage for sanity and relief.
There is peace in the countryside unknown to those who fight
over cabs and queue up to sell pieces of their souls to buy life’s necessities.
The hope of a few moments of tranquility in their crowded, high-dollar
cubbyholes drives them on. Then, troubled sleep and start anew— Thoreau’s life
of quiet desperation. (The squirrels understand.) The outdoors provides a sense
of oneness with our world. It develops self-reliance and reunites us with our
spark of divinity.
Did you ever feel the pull of taut muscles as your paddle
dips down to drive your kayak through pristine waters? Or see life and death
played out before you as predator and prey act out their eternal drama? Ever wander aimlessly down a forested trail,
experiencing the awe of the panoramic views waiting around each turn? It
inspires empathy with the first people to ever walk there.
This world holds beauty so rich and intense that it tears
mortal eyes. After witnessing such
things, I cannot fathom disbelief in a higher being, a creator, or a great
spirit. You choose. Although we pray in embellished churches, I believe my God
lives in the forests, meadows, valleys, and mountains of creation. But I’ll
leave the philosophical dissertations to wiser folk.
I hope you will pardon my meanderings, but I offer two explanations
to qualify my beliefs. One, I was tainted (?) by Walden’s Pond at a very young
age, and I never recovered. I’m unaware of any twelve-step programs to cure
this, and I wouldn’t be interested anyway. Two, I am a country boy born and
bred (who likes squirrels!).
Until my next post, I hope to see you on a seldom-trod mountain
trail or floating an unblemished stretch of river on your way to Nirvana. Best
of all things to you and yours.
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.
Wednesday, February 5, 2025
Video Day 1 at #stories4you from #OurAuthorGang
Lorraine chats with authors and reads stories
Lorraine's chat with author/medium Eva Bielby
|
Lorraine Carey |
Eva Bielby |
Lorraine is reading an excerpt from a story published in
Read the story in the book:
Tuesday, February 4, 2025
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
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.
Listen to the story
Monday, February 3, 2025
Campfire Stories 5 #stories4you from #OurAuthorGang
A campfire story by Erika M Szabo
The Legend of the Mysterious Cabin
The fire
crackled and sparks flew in the dim light, casting a warm glow over the faces
of the group huddling around it. The flames reached for the sky, providing
much-needed heat against the chilly night air. Jack, Peter, twin brothers Sam
and Charlie, all in their late sixties, sat together by the fire with beers in
their hands.
They had grown
up in the same small town near the woods. After graduating, three of them moved
away to start their adult lives in different states. Only Jack remained,
marrying his high school sweetheart and starting his own construction business.
“Tell us a
story, Jack,” Sam said. “Like in the good old times when we were young.”
“Yes, those
were good times,” Jack sighed. “We were young and carefree. We all thought we
could change the world.”
They sat deep
in their thoughts for a while. The fire continued to crackle and pop as Jack's
deep voice filled the silence. The group leaned in closer anticipating a good
story. "My grandfather told me about the cabin after the Witherby brothers
disappeared.”
“I remember!”
Peter said. “The whole town was looking for them for weeks.”
“And they were
never found,” Jack replied, poking at the fire with a stick. “That’s when my grandpa
told me about the legend. He said that deep in these woods, there is a cabin. A
cabin that holds secrets and mysteries beyond our understanding."
Sam's eyes
widened with curiosity. "What kind of secrets?" he asked.
Jack's lips
curved into a sad smile before continuing, "The legends say that anyone
who finds this cabin and dares to enter will never return."
The group fell
silent, the air seemed to chill with each passing moment and Jack's
words hung in the air like a heavy fog.
"But...but
that can't be true," Charlie stammered, breaking the tension. "People
go hiking in these woods all the time and come back just fine."
Jack's
expression displayed anxiety as he slowly replied, "That may be so, but those hikers
didn’t search for the cabin."
Peter leaned
forward, his hands gripping his knees tightly. "So, what happens to those
who find it? Do they just disappear into thin air?"
Jack's gaze
seemed to intensify as he spoke again. "Some say the cabin is a portal to another
dimension, that’s why no bodies were ever found."
A chill ran
down Sam's spine as he imagined himself stumbling upon this mysterious cabin
and being trapped somewhere forever.
"Do you
know where this cabin is?" Peter asked eagerly.
Jack's
expression darkened at the question. "I do...and I have seen it with my
own eyes. But I didn’t go inside," he paused for a moment before adding
quietly. "And I will never lead anyone there."
"Why
not?" Charlie asked.
"Because if the legend is true, once you enter that cabin, there is no turning back," Jack responded
gravely.
The crackle of
the fire seemed to intensify at this statement as if emphasizing the danger and
mystery surrounding the mysterious cabin. The group sat in silence, each lost
in their own thoughts, and a sense of unease settled over them.
Sam shivered
and wondered if there was any truth to this legend and what secrets may lay
hidden within the depths of the forest. His mind raced with questions and
couldn't shake the feeling that they were not alone in these woods, that something
was watching them from the shadows.
Suddenly, a
loud crack echoed through the forest, causing all of them to jump. "What
was that?" Charlie whispered, his voice trembling with fear.
"Probably
just a fallen tree branch or an animal," Jack reassured them gruffly. But
even he seemed a little on edge.
As if on cue,
another loud noise rang out, followed by rustling in the bushes nearby. The
group huddled closer to the fire, their eyes darting around.
Sam's heart
pounded in his chest as he scanned the darkness for any glimpse of movement.
"Maybe we should head back to town," he suggested nervously.
But before they
could move, dark figures emerged from the shadows. As they got closer to the fire, the
group saw them clearly. Just two old guys. Sam thought, releaved. The men's faces were weathered and wrinkled with age, their
clothes tattered, and their long grey hair hung loosely around their shoulders.
The group was
surprised by the sight of the disheveled old men, unsure of what to do or say.
"Are you
lost?" Jack finally managed to ask, his voice shaking.
One of the old
men let out a low chuckle that sent shivers down Jack's spine. “Nope, we know
these woods, we live here, just like you.”
“I’ve never
seen you before,” Jack said, frantically searching his mind.
"You kiddin' old man?” the taller man snorted, his voice sounding irritated. “Of course you know
us. I’m Paul Witherby, and this is my brother, Joe," he said in a raspy
voice.
“You can’t be!”
Jack shouted, his voice trembling, and he shrunk back in shock. Thoughts began
to swirl in his mind. Could it be… nah, it’s impossible! Could these
old men be… Jack swallowed the nervous lump in his throat and asked as if
he was talking to teenage boys, “What are you doing in the woods so late,
boys?”
The man, who
said he was Paul Witherby, gave him a sheepish look. “We… we went to find the
cabin.”
“And did you
find it?”
“We did,” Paul
confessed. “We searched for the treasure, but there was nothing in there but
dusty old junk, so we left.”
“Who are these men, Jack,” Sam whispered tugging at Jack's shirt.
“I’m not sure yet,” Jack whispered back, keeping an eye on the brothers.
The brothers
looked at Jack, astonished. “Can’t you recognize us?” Paul shouted.
“Do you know me?”
asked Jack, forcing himself to stay calm.
“Of course I know you! You’re Jack’s father,” Paul shouted and leaned closer to his brother while keeping an eye on Jack. "Senile old fool." he whispered.
Joe snickered and glancing at the old twins, he said, "Paul, I didn't know Sam and Charlie had twin dads, did you?"
"What?" Paul stammered and turned his head to look at his brother. Suddenly, he took a deep breath and shouted, “Dad, when did you get here?” then he frantically looked around. “Joe, where are you?”
Joe turned his head,
and his jaw dropped. “I’m here, but where is Paul?”
Sam's eyes fixed on the brothers who stood there stunned, staring at each other with bewildered expression on their faces. Sam tugged at Jack's shirt and whispered, “What the hell is going on, Jack?”
Jack sighed and whispered back, “My grandfather said those who enter the cabin never return. But these two must've been trapped in there for decades and somehow found their way back."
"So, you mean those..." Sam's shaky fingers pointed at the brothers.
Jack nodded. "Those men are the Witherby brothers. They were trapped in another dimension for fifty years, and they didn’t age until they left the cabin just a short time ago.”
Erika M Szabo
Erika loves to dance
to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills
and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as
magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance,
and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and
educational and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.
Sunday, February 2, 2025
Book Sunday #stories4you from #OurAuthorGang
Today we recommend
A YA adventure by Lorraine Carey
Dean Banks returns in Out of
the Ashes, the thrilling sequel to Mysteries of the Red
Coyote Inn. This Young Adult Paranormal Novel takes readers deeper
into the heart of danger and mystery.
The stakes at Red Coyote Inn have
never been higher. Strange events spiral out of control as Dean shoulders a
monumental mission: protecting the fabled Lost Dutchman Mine and its sacred
grounds from ruthless thieves, treacherous allies, and shadowy government
experiments. As if that weren’t enough, his girlfriend’s mysterious illness
pulls at his heart and resolve.
But Dean’s journey isn’t just
physical—it’s spiritual. To uncover the truth and save everything he holds
dear, he must embark on a perilous Vision Quest, where the answers he seeks
could either empower him… or destroy him.
Will Dean rise from the ashes, or
will the weight of the unknown bury him? The adventure awaits.
Read a sample chapter from the book:
Chapter 7: A Dark Discovery
Dean followed the hawk deeper into the cave and flicked on
his flashlight. He could still smell the lingering stench of the Gila. As he
shined his flashlight along the walls of the cave, he could see deep grooves
where a gold vein had been extracted. Faint luminous glows were emitted from
the walls, and the ground had some fragments that had been left behind. He
picked up one of them; never having seen this type of gold before. It had a
whitish cast to it and set off a weird neon glow. He stuck a piece of it in his
pocket and carried on the path with his hawk buddy flying ahead, signaling him
to move on.
Dean entered another tunnel and walked for about half a
mile. He felt overheated, so decided to sit down and drink some water. “Ah, I
needed that!” His friend circled up ahead as if waiting for him and also added
protection. Dean held his talisman in his hands as he felt it vibrate. He
sensed he was getting a message from spirit as he was in for an unexpected
encounter.
As he followed the hawk, he found himself at a dead end with
a strange doorway off to the left. It was a large iron door, medieval-style
with heavy black bars and laden with black iron bolts.
“Okay, now what? I’m supposed to know some magic words to
open them?”
He noticed the hawk circle his head three times and with a
whoosh, it was gone. Dean sat down to make some sense out of this. Let me think, I‘ve been cornered by a giant
Gila, am aware of pillaging for gold, and have not shifted? What gives, Elders?
He sensed a cool breeze coming from behind him. He turned
around and noticed a white glowing apparition, one that he was all too familiar
with.
Soon the lady in white materialized. He knew who she was –
Aponi, dressed in her usual white flowing dress, the sheer veil covering her
face. The breeze again caused the beads and shells that dangled from her dress
to clink and tingle, like windchimes.
“Hello, Dean,” she murmured. “I’ve come to warn you that
evil is upon you. I’m sure you’ve sensed that yourself. Be on guard, for you
will find your enemies are very close
now. Remember, all is not what it
seems.” Her image faded and then vanished.
“Wait! Don’t go!” Dean called out, but it was too late.
Dean stood up and felt his body overheating again. He could
feel the blood course through his veins, making them bulge. He watched the ones
in his arms become so defined he resembled the transparent human body models
they used in his science class. Soon he could see the muscles in his arms
triple in size as they inflated and ripped through his t-shirt. “What the heck?
Now I’m the Hulk!”
Soon his head was overcome with great knowledge. The
imprinted mark on his chest burned red, and he was filled with the desire to
bust through the iron doors.
With two tries, he managed to rip a gaping hole in the iron
door large enough to crawl through. As he reached the other side, he was
shocked at what he saw. There were vaults built into the side of the walls with
plaques labeled with hieroglyphics that he didn’t understand. In the middle of
the room was what looked to be a medical operating table, hooked up to an IV
machine with bags of fluid in them. Behind it were more medical equipment and a
few computers that were shut down. As he stood there for a moment, he could
feel his heart race and his back start to throb. I’m going to shift again soon. I’ve got to hurry and finish exploring
this room. As bad as he felt, he walked over to the corner of the room
where he found glass vials labeled ‘atomic gold’. They were stacked neatly in
steel crates. Some vials were as small as test tubes; others were as big as
beakers. He remembered seeing this in his chemistry class. He placed one of the
smaller vials in his pocket. What on
earth is going on here?
Soon Dean felt the rush of blood to his head. He became very dizzy and fell to the floor. He could feel the strange electrical field surrounding his body. It crackled and smelled of burning wires. His body shook and he could feel his legs elongate and the skin stretch out as each toe was peeled back to release a giant talon. His back split open as if someone had slit him with a knife from his neck to his waist. Huge wings jutted out and he could see their size was double than they had been before. A loud screeching was all that was heard from the cave before Dean flew out, into the dark Arizona sky.
Lorraine Carey
https://authorlorrainecarey.blogspot.com/
Lorraine Carey is a reading specialist and an Award-Winning Author. She was living in California until fate whisked her off to Grand Cayman. She currently lives in Florida. Her love for paranormal stories began at a young age, and is no stranger to the paranormal, having encountered unexplainable events that are woven into her stories.
Friday, January 31, 2025
Poetry Day #stories4you from #OurAuthorGang
A poem by Eva Bielby
The Door to Love and Peace
I close
my eyes,
breathing
deep for a while.
I
visualise my door
and it
appears yet again,
opening
up to me.
And I…
I can
feel them again.
Enveloped
in their warmth,
I wait,
feeling
beautiful peace.
One moves
in closer.
Happy
feelings,
laughter.
I
recognise the one
up close
to me.
Protective
and
making me
feel safe.
Loving.
Such overwhelming
love for me.
Encouraging.
I feel
strength.
He speaks
words
only for me.
So subtle
yet so
clear.
Words
that bring peace
and
happiness.
For he is
happy,
in a
world where hatred
does not
exist.
In a
world
many
can’t comprehend.
In a
world
where
pain is not felt.
Yet I,
deep in
my heart,
I know.
I know
his other world.
I will
return to that world
when from
ours
I depart.
When my
door opens
to me for
the final time,
they will
come for me
and guide
me across their threshold.
My
journey will come to an end.
The door will
close behind me,
my door
to love and peace.
Love and
peace…
finally
mine.
A
beautiful new world
where
exists…only love and peace.
They will
wait for me…
wait for
me to come home.
Infinite
love
and
infinite peace
wait just through my door.
Eva Bielby © July 2020
Eva Bielby
Eva Bielby was born in North Yorkshire in the Northeast of England. She has spent over thirty years of her working life as a company accountant. Eva has a keen interest in spiritualism/mediumship and has attended several workshops to develop her skills further. During her quieter moments, Eva enjoys a cryptic crossword, sudoku, and gardening.
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