Organs for Sale

 The Witch's One Stop Shop is selling organs

The air was crisp and cool, signaling the arrival of autumn. The leaves had begun to turn to shades of fiery red and golden yellow, a beautiful backdrop for the second weekend of October in the early nineteen eighties. It was one of the last opportunities to sit around a campfire before winter’s chill set in. Jack’s father had recently built a firepit in the backyard, and a group of nine-year-old kids eagerly huddled around it, their faces lit up by the dancing flames. They roasted marshmallows on sticks and traded scary Halloween stories, trying to outdo each other with tales of ghosts and ghouls. Jack, a lanky boy with unruly jet-black hair, couldn’t resist sharing his classic story about the ghost that haunted the spooky house in the woods.

However, Steve, his short blond friend, quickly protested, declaring that they had all heard it countless times before. “Come on, Jack! You told this story a gazillion times already.”

But Jack persisted, determined to give them all goosebumps with his eerie storytelling skills. His face flushed with anger, and he was on the verge of snapping at Steve, but Claire, a tomboy who hated girly clothes and was known as the diplomat of their friend circle, stepped in. “Enough, you two!” she scolded the boys, shaking her head. “Steve, if you find Jack’s story boring, why don’t you tell a new story?”

“You tell a story, smarty-pants!” Steve retorted with a sneer. Despite his tendency to criticize others, he rarely had any original thoughts of his own to contribute. His sharp tongue was often used to deflect attention from his lack of creativity.

Claire’s voice quivered as she spoke, “Okay. I’m going to tell you what I saw yesterday.” She paused to take a deep breath before continuing, her eyes wide with fear of the memory. “Grandma and I went to the Witch’s One Stop Shop, you know, in that spooky house that used to be empty. And Marie’s mom, who works nearby, saw a ghost there when she was walking home late one night.” The words hung in the air, thick with tension.

“Come on, Claire, you didn’t see a ghost, did you?” Steve cackled.

Claire replied with a nervous tremor in her voice, “Of course not! It was in the middle of the afternoon. But I’ve seen something that scared the daylights out of me.”

“What did you see?” Jack asked, his interest peaking.

“When we went into the store, there was a sign that said used organs for sale. And when the woman came out of the back door, I could swear she was a real witch. She wore black clothes, her hair in a messy bun, and she wore a black eyepatch over her right eye.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s a witch!” Charlie looked at Claire wide-eyed.

“No?” Claire snapped. “She had bloody gloves on, and she just took them off and threw them in the garbage.”

“Um…bloody gloves?” Jack shivered. “You mean…if, as you said, she’s selling organs…”

“What?” Steve whispered. “Like kidneys and livers and hearts kinda organs? Naw, it can’t be true!”

“I guess so...and what I saw made me think because I saw Marie’s mom leaving the store with a small package in her hand that was smeared with blood,” Claire said, wringing his fingers and taking a deep breath. “You guys know that Marie is very sick and waiting for the right organ donor who can give her a kidney, right?”

“Jack let out a heavy, sympathetic sigh. “Yes, poor Marie,” he muttered.

“I went to visit her the other day,” Claire continued. “Marie was asleep, but her mom insisted I wait for her to wake up. So, I sat in the living room and started reading the book I got for Marie. But I couldn’t help overhearing Marie’s parents talking in the kitchen. Her mom cried and said that there was still no match for Marie and asked Marie’s dad what they were going to do. But then her father got angry and shouted that if they couldn’t find a match soon, he’d have to buy a kidney on the black market. He said there are plenty of organs for sale; they just needed to find the right seller.”

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

Mist and Moonlight of Halloween

 Be careful who you mess with!

Leon Birch sat inside his rented room, listening to the Senate committee hearings. Eating his cold supper, wishing he could afford to get married. Since getting his degree, he’d only been able to pick up a few substitute teaching jobs.

Listening to the government root out subversives usually gave him hope for the future, but now it all seemed far away. The hearings were all taking place back east, and he was in San Francisco, which seemed to be ground zero for everything that was going wrong these days.

It really wasn’t fair that he was living alone, paycheck to paycheck. He had all the skills and all the credentials. He certainly had the necessary moral convictions, yet the good jobs all seemed to be taken by determined spinsters and others of questionable politics and even more questionable “lifestyles.” No wonder the public schools were turning out delinquents.

And worse, like that Carstairs boy in the fifth-grade class he’d taught today. To Leon’s great annoyance, the school he’d graced with his services was one of those careless places that allowed the students to wear costumes on Halloween. Leon wasn’t having that nonsense and required his class to remove their dime store covers and masks. All would have been well but for the Carstairs boy.

Instead of a cheap costume thrown over his school clothes, Patrick Carstairs was dressed in green and brown, with some sort of ivy twined around his tattered sweater. The same stuff was also tangled in his black hair, which Leon thought badly needed cutting. Instead of a mask, the boy wore makeup. Not only eyeliner but glitter, for heaven’s sake.

“What are you supposed to be, young man?”

“Robin Goodfellow, sir,” was the grinning imp’s answer.

Leon glanced down to scan the attendance chart. The class tittered, so he changed his gaze to the seating chart and found the impertinent brat’s name. “I don’t know how you got out of the house dressed like that, Carstairs, but it won’t do. Go to the restroom, wash that filth from your face, get rid of that shrubbery, and comb your hair.”

The whole class stared in dumbfounded silence. “What are you waiting for, Carstairs? Get on, and don’t be all day about it!”

As the boy slunk toward the door, something else caught Leon’s eye. “What on earth is this?” He yanked at the boy’s ear, and a pointed rubber tip came off in his hand. “Fairy ears?” Leon pulled the other ear tip off and threw them in the wastebasket. “Your parents shall hear of this. Now get going.”

The class kept their heads right down after that, working away on the assignment he gave them. Should have been a simple task to fill their day, writing a family history. But again, the Carstairs boy proved a problem.

“We come from an Elder Race. My grandfather, Jonathan Hamilton Carstairs, came to San Francisco in 1912. He established Carstairs House on top of Shipwreck Hill because the hill is full of faerie magic, just like the place he came from, the Hamilton estate in England, called Oakwood. Oakwood is named for its ancient oak groves. Some of the trees are harvested, but some are left untouched so our Faerie ancestors can continue their revels, and the Carstairs family retains the blessing of the Fair Folk. Carstairs House doesn’t have oak trees, but Uncle Nigel planted a holly hedge all around the property to contain the magic. So, our house has the blessing of our High King Oberon and our High Queen Titania, and the Fair Folk are free to hold their revels in our secret garden at the center of the holly maze.

“Halloween is a special night for the Fair Folk. They often reveal themselves to mortals during the hours when the veil between the faerie and mortal realms is thinnest. Especially the Huntsman. He is King Oberon’s enforcer. Unlike the courtly knights who are defenders of the faerie realm, the Huntsman is a monster. Darker than night, but for his eyes, which shine red with lust for the blood the Wild Hunt demands. He leads a pack of damned souls in pursuit of other damned souls, who will, in turn, join his Wild Hunt. Unless the High King has decreed they be hunted to death, in which case, the Wild Hunt shows no mercy. Even their horses will join the hounds in rending the prey till nothing remains.”

Leon smiled, recalling his enjoyment of the shock on the boy’s face when he handed back the paper at the end of the day with a large red F in the upper margin.

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

Book Sunday

 Featured Books Sunday

Time travel romance

The stakes are high, and the risks even higher. SEE MORE

Embark on a journey through time with Dylan Anderson, the lead guitarist of Ablaze, as he strives to recreate the magic of the '70s, inspired by Kenny Chesney's iconic hit, "I Go Back." In his pursuit of reliving his golden days, Dylan becomes entangled in the hidden world of a mysterious cult, eager to uncover the secrets of time travel.
The stakes are high, and the risks even higher - challenges he's prepared to confront head-on.
This adventure is far from a solo act. With his enduring love, Jennifer Kovich, by his side, Dylan is determined to bring her along on this journey whether she's ready or not. However, there's a catch - The dark spell Dylan has created will not allow him to return to the present even if he ever wanted to. Only Jennifer would have a chance at finding an escape route back home, but according to Dylan, it's almost impossible. Or is it? Brace yourself for a tale of love, danger, and the irresistible pull of a past era as Dylan leads us on an unforgettable voyage to the heart of the '70s.

Historical thriller

When the descendants pay the price of the ancient family curse SEE MORE 

Jayden and his archeology group find the burial site of a Medicine Woman from the 5th century. Strangely, Jayden also finds a crude leather book in his grandmother's secret room that was written in 426 by a Shaman.
His sister, Sofia, decodes the ancient runes, and they learn that a powerful curse cast sixteen hundred years ago destroyed the lives of their ancestors for centuries. If it remains unbroken, the curse will ruin the lives of future generations as well.
Dark memories of their childhood start to surface, and they’re stunned to realize the similarities between the tragedy of the family described in the Shaman’s book and theirs, sixteen hundred years later. They’re stunned by the conclusion that Jayden is in danger due to a family curse.

Occult ghost & haunted houses

The dark side of Southern Maryland SEE MORE

Take a journey to the dark side of Southern Maryland, one of the most haunted spots in America, and visit with the ghosts and otherworldly specters of the area.

Southern Maryland is one of the most haunted spots in America. From pre-colonial settlements to modern times, the tales of every era of its history are often dark and sometimes bloody. Brave readers will meet the many otherworldly specters that loved the area too much to leave, like the spirit of the witch Moll Dyer or the nun reclaiming her ancestral home. Learn the haunted history of Sotterley Plantation and the stories of the ghosts that remained after the Civil War. Author David W. Thompson takes the reader on a spooky journey through Southern Maryland's long history.

The Last Resort

 A grieving woman meets a mysterious stranger

On a day unlike any other day, Rose walked into the airport. Her sneakers made minimal sound as she pulled her only suitcase behind her on its almost soundless wheels. Rose glanced up, her face wooden, looking for the correct terminal number.

Her face was expressionless as she walked through the metal detector arch without glancing at the man who waved her through.

Rose walked toward the last barrier, her passport clutched in her hand.

“Destination?”

“Mexico,” Rose answered, “for the festival.”

“Los dia Mortes?”

“Yes,” Rose tonelessly affirmed.

“Where are you staying, and for how long?”

Rose mentioned the resort, adding, “Ten days.”

The woman gave a double-take and returned Rose her ticket and passport without further conversation. She only motioned her through the gate and pointed to the small lounge where several people sat quietly, with their carry-ons waiting to board.

Rose chose to stand at the window, where she numbly watched as the airplane taxied into place and the bridge was driven toward the plane door and readied.

Rose gave a polite, distant nod to the flight attendant who helped her find her seat during boarding, then stared through the plane’s window, ignoring the woman beside her; she hadn’t expected it. The aircraft had few passengers, and Rose had looked forward to not having to climb over someone to get to the aisle, let alone fend off a conversation.

“Is this your first time in Mexico?”

Rose bit her lip in annoyance, answering curtly, “Yes.”

“Ah, not for me,” the woman gave a laugh, “I go away, I come back.”

Rose gave a noncommittal grunt.

A flight attendant stopped, offering a pre-flight beverage, but Rose shook her head, only to have the woman scold her, “You go without too much, I think. You must have juice for a toast if you will not have something stronger.”

Rose looked at the woman’s determined face and shrugged at the attendant, who nodded in affirmation before leaving to take other orders.

“Better, but not by much, eh?”

Rose looked at the woman again, who gave a broad smile on a face creased with deep lines—an older woman wearing a dark, shapeless dress and wrapped in a shawl. On her lap, she held a large purse, into which she reached, searching, smacked her lips with satisfaction, and offered Rose a granola bar.

“Eat,” she urged the reluctant Rose, “you are thin, yes? Too much. And not by wanting to be thin, I think? Yes?”

The woman pushed the bar into Rose’s hand and took it without further argument. And, when her juice arrived, Rose took it because it didn’t matter; it just didn’t matter anymore.

“A toast, yes?”

Rose shrugged.

“To those we love and all who have loved us, we drink this in memory.”

Rose ignored the toast and the safety demonstration and put on her seatbelt when the indicator lights came on. The plane taxied into position, and she closed her eyes as she felt it accelerate beneath her, feeling herself pushed back into the seat as the aircraft angled up toward the clouds.

“Do not fear, no, not at all,” the woman said.

“I am not afraid,” Rose retorted grimly, then added as a polite afterthought, “but thank you.”

“It is okay to be afraid,” the woman said, “sometimes.”

Rose did not reply and continued looking out of the window as the woman beside her began to hum to herself.

“Fear is good, eh? Sometimes, eh? It is a good teacher,” the woman chuckled.

Rose gave the woman a sidelong look but didn’t respond.

The woman patted Rose’s hand. “Grief, and her sister, Mourning. They accept offerings of tears as their due, but they do not demand them forever.”

“What are you talking about,” Rose demanded. “You are talking foolishness.”

“Am I? Maybe, maybe,” the woman cackled. “But even so, it is true.”

Rose grunted in annoyance, glaring at the woman who only smiled at her with sympathy before adding softly, “Depression is a woman; she is a demon, that one; her hair hangs like a greasy shroud, covering eyes as black as the blackest night.”

Rose’s eyes widened in alarm as the woman took her hand firmly, in her own, and attempted to free herself to no avail.

“Yes, her hair, hanging like a shroud,” the woman repeated,” and her arms are thin, and her hands, they grab you, eh? They pull you close to her breast, which hides a heart that does not beat.”

“Who are you?” Rose whispered, “I will scream. I will.”

“She presses her cold lips to yours,” the woman continued earnestly, “until your breath is gone, and your soul cries, but it is trapped in a frozen shell.”

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

When a Dog Needs a Job

 The story of Mop read by Carrie Wimmer 

One of my fondest memories from childhood is of a dog named Mop. He was a Puli, a herding breed that my parents knew little about when he followed my dad home one day. As it turned out, Pulis are high-energy working dogs requiring physical and mental stimulation.

Unfortunately, our small yard was not enough to keep him entertained, and soon he became lethargic and uninterested in anything. My mom quickly realized that we needed to find a larger space for him to run freely and use his energy, as well as a sense of purpose and responsibility.

Click the video to listen to the story read by Carrie

Written by Erika M Szabo www.authorerikamszabo.com

Narrated by Carrie Wimmer www.narrationnation.org

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books 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.

A Spell to Restore Youth

 What is she willing to sacrifice?

The bright Arizona sunlight permeated through the plantation shutters, waking Gemma Lowry from a restless night, which was not unusual considering her marriage was going down the tubes fast. Russell, her husband, had already left for work, which was normal with having to take over the accounting agency he’d inherited from his late father years ago.

Throwing back the fine linen sheets, Gemma walked through her vast territorial-style home and headed to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee before her usual morning walk. October in Arizona still meant warm mornings. She sat at the kitchen table, glancing out over the open courtyard at an unused chiminea that graced the corner. I don’t know why we never use this thing. Maybe it’s because Russell has been so busy working late these days. Hopefully, with the cooler weather coming, we can make it a point to spend evenings out here enjoying the beautiful view of the mountains. Her thoughts quickly turned to Russell and his behavior over the past year. Their daughter, Hope, was off at college, and things had indeed been different, but he seemed to lack interest in their relationship, and sex had become less and less frequent, if not non-existent. Gemma wondered if he was having an affair with his attractive secretary, who was young, blonde, and thin. After all, he was an attractive, well-built man five years her junior. It’s no wonder, can I blame him? I mean, it’s not hard to notice the few pounds I’ve put on, not to mention my absence from the salon for some time. Did he also find me boring? Maybe I need to get back into teaching or doing some substitute work. That’d most likely get me back into my routine of dressing up and looking more professional. I guess this is what early retirement does to some people.

Taking an early retirement was something Russell had brought up a while back as the business was doing well, and he had suggested for Gemma to retire from the classroom and do some private tutoring. After teaching for twenty-five years at the local middle school, she’d jumped at the idea.

After her morning walk, she decided to call her longtime fellow teaching partner, Lorna, and meet for coffee later that morning. Lorna had retired a few years back. Gemma needed a friend to confide in regarding her home situation.

Following a cool shower, she headed into her closet to select a simple sundress. After trying on several, she became irritated as most were all too snug. Looking in the bedroom mirror, she shook her head. No more walks; I’ve got to cut back on those sweets I’m so addicted to or start running.

She ran her hands through her dull red hair and fastened her long locks into a ponytail. She remembered the days when her hair was a brighter red. The Arizona sun did have its effect on redheads. She suddenly remembered she had some other outfits hanging in Hope’s closet. Now that her daughter had gone away to school up north, she’d transferred some of her things into Hope’s closet.

Gemma had successfully found the perfect summer shift, but her eyes were soon diverted to the boxes that housed mementos that were stacked in the back of the closet. She knew they were mostly old toys that belonged to Hope when she was a child. Feeling a strong urge, she pulled the top one out, finding old yearbooks and some of Hope’s favorite children’s books. She opened the second box and lying on top was an old shoebox labeled Margie, written in fancy script-style writing.

She sat on the floor, eager to open the small, tattered box. There was layer upon layer of tissue paper on top. She tore away at the papers, scattering them about the floor to find Margie, the fashion doll perfectly wrapped in silk and tied with twine. At least my daughter wanted to keep this doll well preserved, she thought.

She gently picked up the doll that resembled so many of the famous fashion dolls at that time, but Margie was unique with her long platinum blonde hair and sparking green eyes. She looked as though she was ready for bed in her white silky gown. Gemma couldn’t help but notice the doll’s brilliant emerald eyes. I don’t think anyone has eyes this color except for a toy, she reasoned. I remember when Hope spent endless hours playing with her and changing her into the many outfits I’d bought. All the memories resurfaced from a different time, a happier time. She examined Margie, closely admiring all of the doll’s youthful features. “You are perfect, you know. You never age nor gain weight. You have it all and don’t even know it. What I wouldn’t give to be in your shoes.”

Gemma shook off this silly feeling and placed Margie back in the box, wrapped snuggly in her silk cloth minus the twine, feeling she didn’t need to be bound up again after being bound up for all these years. She closed the lid to the box and wished her a restful sleep.

Gemma was looking forward to seeing her longtime friend Lorna again. The Coyote Corner Coffee Shop was not overly crowded for 11 a.m. They scored a back table and ordered their usual lattes and cranberry scones. A month had gone by since they’d last met. Lorna looked stunning for fifty-seven with her new short pixie cut. They’d been teaching partners for fifteen years at Brighter Days Academy and had become great friends as well.

Talking about memories of past teaching days was usually the main conversation, but today’s topic would take a slight twist as Gemma was about to confide in Lorna about her rocky relationship with Russell.

Lorna listened with rapt attention and didn’t interrupt until Gemma was finished venting. She’d offered her some sage advice and hoped her friend would listen. Lorna had suggested picking up a few more students for tutoring, knowing Gemma only had a fifth grader at the time. Gemma had commented that she wasn’t motivated to get out there and advertise lately. Lorna had also mentioned that the two of them join the local gym. Gemma nodded, agreeing that both of these suggestions sounded promising. She reached out and took her friend’s hand, thanking her and reminding her of what a good friend she’s been after all these years and proceeded to ask her a heartfelt question. “Tell me truthfully, do I look older than 52? I mean, I want you to be honest.”

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

The Master Parachutist

 The difference between skydiving and parachuting

This story is to help people unfamiliar with this topic understand the difference between skydiving and military parachuting. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve told folks I was a military master parachutist, and they go off asking questions you should ask a skydiver. And when I try to correct them, they look at me like I’m a Martian. So folks I hope this will clear up the confusion, and hopefully get people to understand what it really means to be a military parachutist (or what it means to be one of our close cousins, a smoke jumper. Except for the firepower we carry, the parachuting is the same).

To help the reader understand the full impact of what we do I present the rule of LGOPs:

The rule of LGOPs, or Little Group of Paratroopers, is a concept in the US Army that describes how soldiers adapt and overcome situations in combat:  After the demise of the best Airborne plan, a most terrifying effect occurs on the battlefield. This effect is known as the rule of the LGOPs. This is, in its purest form, small groups of pissed-off 19-year-old American paratroopers. They are well-trained. They are armed to the teeth and lack serious adult supervision. They collectively remember the Commander’s intent as “March to the sound of the guns and kill anyone who is not dressed like you” – or something like that.

We are in extended ranks for a late afternoon manifest call. This is how every night jump begins. We stand in formation, dog tags hanging outside our shirts, ID cards in our left hands. The jump masters walk down the ranks checking each trooper’s IDs against the jump manifest and that they have their dog tags.

Once the jump masters have verified that all the jumpers on the manifest are present, and they all have their dog tags and IDs we close ranks, pick up our gear, and load onto the trucks for the ride to “green ramp”.

People always make the mistake of thinking that skydiving is the same as military parachuting. The truth is the only thing they have in common is that you use a parachute in both.

The ride to “green ramp” is relatively quiet. There is some good-natured kidding, and a few jokes, but mostly there’s introspection. Some pray, some smoke, and all of us recheck our equipment.

The trucks pull into the unloading area at “green ramp “. We get off the trucks, assemble, pick up our gear, and march to the rigging area. When our commander directs us to, we ground our equipment and move over to parachute issue. We draw our main and reserve parachutes and return to our equipment.

We pair up and use the buddy system to put on our parachutes. We attach our equipment and weapons. We will carry on our bodies everything we need to fight and survive for seventy-two hours of sustained combat. We check each other and move over to the jump masters for pre-jump inspection. Once we have been inspected and assigned the door we’ll be jumping we get in stick order and sit down. Tonight, I will be the first jumper in the starboard door.

As we wait, I check that I can reach the knife I have strapped to my right boot. I release the safety strap and grip the handle. I pull it up and it slides smoothly out of the sheath. Most of the guys prefer the Marine Corps Ka-Bar, but I feel that my Gerber Mk II is more elegant, though it requires more skill to use. After checking the blade, I slip it back into the sheath and snap the safety strap back in place.

The jump masters go to conduct their safety inspections of the drop aircraft. When they’ve finished, they put on their parachutes and equipment. They inspect each other and join the rest of us as we wait to get on the airplanes.

A stark difference between skydiving and military parachuting is in skydiving there are few people in the sky at the same time. Tonight, I’ll be in the first of four flights of aircraft just minutes apart, tonight I’ll share the sky with nearly six hundred members of the battalion.

But there is a moment, a very elusive moment, one that we all seek. It is this moment that keeps us coming back, that keeps us jumping.

At 20:00 hours we load onto the aircraft. We waddle onto the tarmac and to the waiting planes. When you’re wearing 96 pounds of combat equipment, ammunition, water, and food plus 46 pounds of parachute all you can do is waddle. I’m a medic so I have an extra 15 pounds of medical supplies. Fortunately, I’m not carrying a W.I.C.E. bag, that would really suck.

At 20:40 hours the first flight taxis for takeoff. The JATO (Jet Assisted Takeoff) bottles ignite, and the acceleration of the aircraft slams us against each other. When the planes clear the runway the JATO bottles fall away. The forty-minute flight to the drop zone begins.

Believe it or not, you can sleep when you’re this loaded up. Packed into the plane like this there’s nothing else you can do. No one wants to talk; everyone is too busy with their own thoughts.

Flying in an Air Force transport for a jump is not like being in an airliner. There are no rows of seats and no flight attendants. Port and starboard “sticks” sit with our backs against the skin of the aircraft, and the center aisle “sticks” sit back-to-back facing us. There is no room to walk down the aisles so the safety NCOs must walk on us to do their inflight checks.

The jump masters give the ten-minute warning. They have to use hand and arm signals because the noise from the engines is so loud only those seated close to them can hear them.

Shortly comes the six-minute warning. The jump masters take their positions as the aircrew and safety NCOs make their final checks.

The jump masters start giving their commands.

“Outboard personnel stand up!” Those of us seated against the skin of the aircraft stand, lift our seats out of the way, locking them in the up position, and face the jump masters.

“Inboard personnel stand up!” The inside sticks stand, raising their seats and face the jump masters as well.

“Hook up!” We all hook up our static lines to the anchor line cables.

“Check static lines!” We all trace our static lines as far as we can, and then we check the static line of the jumper in front of us.

“Check equipment!” We all check that our equipment is still properly rigged and connected to our harnesses.

“Sound off for equipment check!” Starting from the front of the aircraft each jumper swats the butt of the jumper in front of him and shouts, “Okay!” This continues until it reaches the jumpers closest to the doors. When the check reaches me, I stomp my left foot, point to the jump master for my door and shout, “All okay!”

The jump master gives me the thumbs up and goes to do the door safety checks. He feels the edges of the door frame. He stomps on the jump step making sure it’s secure. Next, he moves to the edge of the jump step and leans outside the aircraft to check for obstructions. When the jump master has completed the safety checks he moves back into the plane and looks out the door for the ground markers.

Shortly the aircraft’s crew chief touches the jump masters’ shoulder and speaks into his ear. The jump master nods and steps back from the door. He shouts, “One minute!” Then he points at me and commands, “Stand in the door!”

I shuffle to the door and get into position. I can see the jump lights on the door frame. The light is currently red.

Standing in the door, the world passes by. The cool air, the smell of spring mixed with burnt JP4. The clock ticks, seconds turning to minutes. Adrenaline pumping, I’m ready to spring into the sky. Heart pounding, pulse racing. Stars sparkling on the horizon.

The light changes from red to green. A shout in my left ear, “Go!” I leap out of the door.

The wind twists me parallel to the plane. I see the canopy starting to deploy beneath my feet. The roar of engines fade as I swing below the canopy. I check that it has deployed correctly.

The night closes in and for a moment I’m alone, and I become one with the night sky.

R. A. “Doc” Correa

www.goldenboxbooks.com/ra-doc-correa.html

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.

Area Code 666

 Phone calls from somewhere that should not exist

The two men moved with deliberation, their forks passing through the food — Chinese for one, Mexican for the other — as they brought the rice and seasoned meat to their mouths in measured, slow movements, hunched over the tiny mock stone table in the main corridor of Lakeforest Mall. The short one, whose features displayed a ruddy, overweight look, stared at the meal without interest.

His companion, a tall black man with the shoulders of a linebacker and a close-cropped buzz cut, dipped and drew at the same rate of speed as if the time to consume the contents of the Styrofoam platter knew no outward bounds.

Another man approached, a pair of paper cups in his hands, the straws jutting upward. As he placed them before the men, he said, “Here you go, guys.” Then he stiffened.

His phone buzzing from his pocket, Steve Hyatt stopped to reach down and then switched it off to prevent the vibration from tickling his thigh. Only later, after he’d finished feeding the ‘tards, did he look to see who called, blinking as he saw the number.

“What the fuck?”

The call read from Area Code 666. Steve stared at it, blinked again, then turned the phone upside down as if to fix the aberration. The number did not change.

He spoke aloud. “Somebody’s fucking with me.” The men, William and Demetri, did not respond, pursuing the earnest consumption of their lunch in continued single-minded silence. Hyatt had long past caring about his language in front of his charges, his supervisors indicating that, while it fell into the area of a technical violation of established protocol, his position as caregiver faced little effect or consequence as they would not comprehend the language.

Tempted to call the number back just to see whether it went to a live line, Hyatt dismissed the notion on its heels as he shrugged. Probably a gimmick. Goddamn corporations would do anything these days to get you to answer the phone.

“Hey, Steve.”

He looked from his cell to his new co-worker, Rachel Brockmeyer. He pocketed his phone.

“Hey. Sup?”

“Hey, so what’s the deal with the schedule tomorrow? How we gonna handle the day?”

“It’s all gonna be different. We’re gonna spend the whole day carting them around to the voting places. You and me, that’s it.”

“Just the two of us?”

“Just like that old song, fam. We gonna be taking the entire clientele –”

“Every client?”

Hyatt nodded. “Every one of them, every single one.”

“How many is that?”

“Few hundred.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck, indeed. We gotta pick ‘em up at all the designated houses, then haul ‘em to the voting booths.”

“Then what?”

“Then we march ‘em to the booths, hand ‘em the written instructions, and cross our fingers.”

“And you say no one’s caught on?”

“Not so far,” Hyatt leaned toward Brockmeyer’s quizzical face, “Runs like clockwork.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

“Look, stop worrying. I have been doing this for like six years. Easy- peasy –”

“You’re making me queasy. Gotchu.”

That night, after they saw the clients to their rooms to sleep, Hyatt retired to his within the halfway house, a Spartan affair that he kept furnished to a minimum on purpose. Hyatt felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He knew what it would read even before he withdrew it. He pulled it from his jeans anyway.

Area Code 666. The same number.

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

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Thy Sister's Blood

 Haunted Creek

Friends on a haunted creek uncover ancient relations. Magic and mystery drive this journey of self-discovery with the enduring power of family.

Stella Reeves wiped sleep from her eyes and sat up in bed. She frowned at the glowing numbers on her bedside alarm clock: 4:33. Working the mid-shift at the plant, she wasn’t accustomed to early morning wakeups. Was the neighbor’s cat in heat again? Or was it the sounds of her century old home settling that roused her from her deep dream? A sweet dream it was too…one she was sure to tell her girlfriends about on their trip.

The trip! She did a double-take at the clock and threw off her covers. Her feet hit the cold wooden floors as the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Stella, we’re outside waiting for you. We’ve been ringing the doorbell for five minutes. Did you oversleep again?”

“I’m sorry, Josie. My stupid alarm didn’t go off again. Give me five minutes. I’m already packed…just need to dress and I’ll be down.”

“Hurry up, girl,” she snapped. “The river waits for no woman.”

The line clicked dead in her hand and Stella dressed hurriedly. She slipped into her new baby blue swimsuit first. Worn jean shorts and a T-shirt advertising her side hustle followed. It read “Stella’s Gems and Crystals” with her website emblazoned beneath a purple amethyst. A pair of red, white, and blue water shoes completed her outfit.

She ran a brush through her long hair (a shade often disparaged as dishwater blonde), grabbed her packed river bag, and hustled downstairs.

Thin, raven-haired Josie hopped out of the dark blue SUV’s front passenger door and stared down her nose at Stella. She stepped to the back of the vehicle and threw open the back hatch.

“It’s about time, Stella. Throw your stuff in back.”

Stella tossed in her gear, bit her lip, and climbed into the back seat. Don’t let on she’s getting to you, Stella, she thought.

Rowan, a red-haired woman in her mid-twenties turned in the driver’s seat and flashed her bright smile. Stella figured it was that smile that held all the guys in thrall, not her glorious auburn hair as she’d once thought. As lovely as Rowan was, her smile was her best feature, appropriate for someone making their living as a dentist. Everyone gravitated to Rowan, despite her keeping everyone, even Stella, at arm’s length.

“Hey, Rowan. Thanks for driving. I’ve been looking forward to this week since this time last year.”

“Yeah, we could tell by how you were waiting for us as planned.” Josie said.

“Chill, Josie,” Rowan said. “We’ll be down county in time to see the sunrise over the water. We won’t be dipping our paddles before daylight anyway—when the kayak rental place opens.”

“Tell us about the place we’re going, Rowan.”

“I think you’ll like it, Stella. It’s a little different than the places we’ve gone to in past years.”

“Different how?”

“Well for one thing, it’s the coastal plain, not the mountains. The river is slower, and there’s fewer river ‘challenges’ as Josie calls them. It will be a nice relaxing float. Plus, we should be able to catch a few fish, crabs and maybe an oyster or two to supplement that tasteless dehydrated stuff.” 

“Yuck, no slimy oysters for me thank you very much.” Josie said. “I wipe enough slime out of my kindergartners’ noses.”

“The joys of being a teacher, huh Josie?”

“Yeah, not so much…”

“Rowan, didn’t you say that is where your family’s from originally?” Stella asked.  

“Sure is, but not that I recall. Not really. We moved away before I started school, but we went back sometimes—when we still had family there.”

“Did your dad take you after your mom…” Stella started.

“Yes, he wanted us to know both sides of our family. There aren’t many Blackstones left in the area nowadays, but people remember the family name even if it’s not for the best of reasons.”

“Why is that? Were you a pre-school hoodlum?”

“No, not me, Josie, it was way before my time. There was a colonial ancestor who got herself into a spot of trouble down county.”

“What? Wait. I haven’t heard of this one. Give it up, Rowan.”

“Nope. Sorry, Josie, but that’ll be tonight’s campfire story…unless you guys are chicken? I know you’re not, Stella. Those tales never affect you. Without empirical evidence, you don’t believe in anything.”

“Wow, is this pick on Stella day? Hey, I’m just realistic, Rowan, but I do get a kick out of a good scary story.”

“That usually ends with you in a fit of giggles.”

“Well, I like them,” Josie said. “Spooky stories around the campfire are a tradition, and if memory serves, it’s you who hides in your sleeping bag during the scary ones, Rowan. Remember the guy with the hook for a hand…”

“One time…just one time and I’m branded for life.”

***

A brilliant orange and purple sunset greeted their arrival at the campground. The moon was a night or two away from reaching its full phase and its mirror image reflected on the flat surface of the river.

“The tide is still. It’s as placid as a lake.”

“Like I said, Stella, this trip won’t be like our usual float. We’ll be putting the kayaks in at the source of a tributary that feeds the Potomac. The locals call it a creek. They’d call it a river where we’re from but it’s not long enough I guess.”

Josie turned her back on the scene and stepped away. “Well, we don’t have time to admire the scenery…not if we want to get camp set up before dark. Guess we were too late leaving to enjoy it.”

Stella glanced at Rowan and rolled her eyes. “God, what a witch,” she breathed.

Rowan smiled but whispered in Stella’s ear, “I know, but go easy on her. She just broke up with Jim. Another lesson to not trust people with your heart.”

Experience allowed a speedy assemblage of tents. Stella started a small campfire and put water on to boil for hot cocoa. The three women unfolded beach chairs and sat around the fire.

Josie stretched and settled into her chair. “Ok, Rowan, it’s story time. Let the tall tales begin.”

“Are you sure it won’t keep you up tonight?”

“We’ll take our chances,” Stella laughed.

“Very well. Buckle up, ladies, here goes:  As you may know, the Maryland colony was established by folks seeking religious tolerance in the 1630s. Ironically, the colonists were not immune from the witch hysteria that rocked Salem Town. In the late 1600s a woman arrived on these shores who was…different. Her name was Maeve Blackstone. She was…”

“Blackstone? Was she related, Rowan?”

“I’m afraid so, Josie. She was my great-great…I don’t remember how many greats— grandmother. She was, by all accounts, a beautiful woman in the prime of her life. No one knows where she came from. She travelled here alone—very unusual for a single woman in that day and age. She didn’t get along well with folks. Men were always chasing after her, though she didn’t give them the time of day…which spurred them on even more. The local ladies didn’t much appreciate the attention she attracted. They claimed she was an ‘unnatural’ woman, and too prideful and haughty for her ‘station.’ Maeve traded with the natives and helped those most in need. But mostly she kept to herself, balked at societal norms and avoided colonial functions—including attending church services.”

“It sounds like she was an independent woman, not a popular trait in those days.”

“Exactly and not now either, Stella. Tensions increased when it became obvious that Maeve was with child. The father was never identified, but every matron in the colony, even while suspecting Maeve’s never-do-well hangers on, feared it would be discovered to be their own husband, brother, or son.”

“So, they ran her out of town?”

“Let her finish, Stella, but do get on with it, Rowan. I’m ready to hit the sack.”

Rowan smiled and continued. “Maeve was used to the townsfolk shunning her, but now they took it to a new level. People whispered curses under their breath when she passed. Children were scolded if they didn’t cross the street to avoid her. She became the focal point of church sermons as the preacher railed against godless, immoral, and unnatural acts.

“The colonists’ livelihood in those days depended on tobacco farming and fishing. When a drought seized the land, work-worn fingers all pointed at Maeve. Then several children caught what they called the seasoning—likely malaria which was rampant in the area at the time. Hatred towards Maeve grew stronger, and folks began to suggest witchcraft was involved. The icing on the cake was the red tide in the Potomac…”

“Red tide?” 

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

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A treasure trove of imagination and creativity, showcasing the authors' diverse voices and talents.

The True Horror of Being Bitten

 A story from the What If? #4 Anthology

In the days of the Roman Empire, a French peasant and thief learns the true horror of what it means to be bitten.

Once bitten, twice shy

August 28, 45 AD Provincia Romana

Francois slips quietly over the villa’s wall, dropping softly to the ground. Crouching, he looks along the wall in both directions and then down the gentle slope from the wall to the edge of the woods. None of the Roman guards are visible. They all must be searching the estate’s grounds.

Moving in the shadows, Francois cautiously makes his way down the hill. He avoids the bright spots of reddish light from the ‘blood moon.’ We should have waited for the full moon to pass; there is too much light tonight.

Wraith-like Francois disappears into the edge of the forest. He holds his stolen treasure inside his loose-fitting shirt. The cool, hard silver of the wine pitcher comforts him. This could feed the family for a year. I hope Luc has taken something of equal value. That will get us through the next year.

Silently, Francois follows the trail that leads to their rendezvous spot, a small knoll that is almost a league away from the villa. After half an hour, he gets the feeling he is being watched. The feeling stays with him, so when he is more than halfway there, Francois stops and listens.

At first, he hears nothing, not even a night bird. It is so quiet that all he can hear is his own breathing. The hairs on the back of his neck start to stand up. His heart begins to pound. Then he hears it.

The breathing is heavy and, at the same time, rapid. Is that a dog? Has that Roman set the dogs on me?

The longer he listens, the surer he becomes. If it is a dog, it is huge. Francois slowly turns his head, trying to find where the sound is coming from. He focuses on a copse of small oak trees to his right. Brush and tall grass grow around the trees. The sound is definitely coming from them. His vision zeroes in on the shadows between the trees, concentrating on a patch of bushes and tall grasses.

A flash of reddish yellow, then it is gone. What was that? Francois turns, facing the direction he is looking, and starts to crouch, keeping his eyes on the spot where he thought he saw the yellow flash. After a moment two yellow orbs appear, the moonlight adding a reddish tinge to them. With the appearance of the orbs comes a low, rumbling growl.

Slowly, the yellow orbs move closer, and the growling gets louder.

Francois draws his knife, taking up the fighter’s stance his father taught him. He keeps his eyes on the approaching yellow orbs. As they draw closer the drooling snout of a wolf comes out of the shadows and into view. Its fangs are exposed, lips drawn back, and ears flat against the wolf’s head. Drool drips from its mouth onto the ground.

Francois looks around, searching for more wolves. Wolves always attack as a pack! But there are none to be seen or heard. Where are the others?

As the wolf advances on him, Francois quickly considers his options. I could run, but I cannot outrun him. If I fight, and I do not kill it quickly, the other wolves will get here and kill me. My only chance is to kill it quickly and find a tall tree to climb before the other wolves arrive. Francois prepares to attack as the beast gets closer.

The wolf is about ten yards away now. Its coat might be gray with silver highlights, but it is hard to tell because of the reddish light from the ‘blood moon.’ It must be the biggest wolf to have ever lived. Francois guesses that it is at least a hundred and seventy pounds. As it prepares to pounce, Francois charges. For a moment, the wolf is surprised, but it recovers quickly and races toward Francois.

Francois rushes forward in a half-crouch, ready to strike. He realizes the wolf is going for his throat, so he leaps forward, going erect at the same time. The wolf’s jaws do not slam closed on his throat. Instead, they clamp down on the silver pitcher inside Francois’ shirt. He grabs the wolf’s left ear with his left hand, twisting its head to the wolf’s right, exposing the massive canine’s throat. Francois drives his knife deep into its throat, all the way to the knife’s hilt. The wolf howls in pain and leaps backward, away from Francois, wrenching the handle of the knife from his hand as he falls to his knees.

The wolf moves a few yards away from him and sits down, keeping his eyes on Francois. He looks at the wolf and watches ‘smoke’ rising from the wolf’s mouth. That cannot be smoke, it is cold, it must be steam. Francois looks closer and it seems to him the wolf’s tongue is burned.

While the wolf stares at him, it starts swatting at the knife hilt with its left hind paw. With a few swats, it gets a ‘grip’ on the hilt, pulling the knife free. The knife falls to the ground, and then the wolf swipes it into the bushes with its left front paw. What strikes Francois is it is barely bleeding. Blood should be gushing out of that neck wound! What the hell am I going to do now?

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A treasure trove of imagination and creativity, showcasing the authors' diverse voices and talents. 

The Howling: Exploring the Unnerving Power of Wind on People

 The Dark Side of Nature’s Whispers"

By Lorraine Carey

Jimi Hendrix sang a hit song, “The Wind Cries Mary” in the late sixties which was a tribute to his girlfriend and longtime love. Well, she may have liked the wind and been honored by the song, but some of us may beg to differ.

I vividly remember those windy days when I was a classroom teacher. The staff lounge would be abuzz with teachers commenting on how many students would be misbehaving on that day and the detention hall would most likely be full. Let me add that I am so glad I am retired.

There is something about wind that directly affects our physical and mental status. Observations of the negative behavior of children on the playground of an American school revealed that the average number of fights per day doubled when the wind speeds rose about a threshold, above force 6.

Wind does increase our production of adrenaline, metabolisms speed up us, and blood vessels of the heart show a tendency to stand on end.

Positive ions become over-abundant. The wind’s energy can strip away a negatively charged ion into a positive ion. And these charged particles do strange things. Science has not been able to explain exactly why too many positive ions in the air have a negative impact on us but have confirmed that the effect is real.

I’ve always felt that the wind picks up so much energy from everything around us: people, animals, plants, and whatnot. And all of those energies, good or bad impact us.

Our nervous systems were built to detect changes that require a quick response- when winds become strong our bodies trigger that ‘fight or flight’ mode releasing stress hormones, adrenaline, and norepinephrine as a defense response mechanism.

Now let’s talk a bit about the recent Hurricane Helene and how the wind had affected so many:

Yes, science has its theories but I have witnessed all types of behavior, good and bad before, during, and after this hurricane here in Florida.

I live in St. Petersburg, (Tampa Bay area) and yes, this area got hit hard. Luckily we did not get any damage other than much debris in our pool and yard. And we do have the bayou in our backyard that runs out into the bay.

My in-laws were staying with us from Ohio during this storm. Two days before the storm I had gone to the market to get supplies and I knew what that situation would look like. Yes, panic buying was in full swing. The look on shoppers’ faces told it all. Many were racing their buggies to get to water and nonperishables, some banging into others without any apologies.

I let many of the seniors get in front of me as the line to the water aisle was jammed. When I got there I found two jugs on the top shelf. One man reached ahead of me and said, “Not till I get one.” Well, he did get his and handed me one.

I was glad to return home and vowed not to return back there until the storm passed.

The day before the storm I had a doctor’s appointment and driving to and from was a real stretch. Some people were polite but others were in full road rage mode. I almost wished I had taken an Uber to my appointment.

Most of the people in my neighborhood had evacuated but offered to assist or see if we needed anything as we did the same. Being we stayed we’d be the boots on the ground.

It was probably a good thing to have company at the time for moral support. The day of the storm we were all tense and scared. Our eyes and ears were glued to the weather stations, but we all pitched in and began moving furniture, placing sandbags out, and removing all outside furniture as the surge was supposed to be high.

The winds started to pick up during the late afternoon on Thursday, Sept. 26^th. I went into the backyard to check the water levels and the bayou was starting to rise. The wind was howling like thousands of banshees. No birds were in the area and I felt a sense of doom overtake me.

That night, none of us slept, with having to keep vigil on the rising waters from the bayou in the backyard. I’d gone out around midnight as the surge was supposed to end around 2 a.m. My husband and I had our boots on and were wading through waters that had risen from the bayou and into our yard. It was then that I felt like I was truly in danger. I know what lurks in those waters and I could just imagine a snake or gator at my feet. I kept thinking, Would this water rush into our home and have us swimming out? The wind blew harder and the Mangrove trees were moving wildly and I was screaming.  Yes, I was feeling out of control. Our entire neighborhood was flooded as well. My husband was trying to calm me down but that was futile. All I could think was, why did we stay here?

We watched the water until 2 a.m. Luckily it had stopped so we were all tired and able to get some rest.

In the morning the waters were receding back to the bayou as well as the front area.

That morning was the big reveal as to all the damage that the area had received. We were spared here, but many were not as fortunate. The pictures of the devastation of St. Petersburg and the Tampa Bay area were devastating.  I had family that had homes destroyed.

It’s been a week now post-hurricane and I do see some calming down but only from those who did not have devastation to their property. Most people you talk to here are dealing with PTSD from this. There are neighborhood groups as well as local agencies that have come to the rescue.

My most recent trip was out to the store yesterday, traffic was very heavy, and I was still seeing some aggressive drivers. Some folks needed to replenish food and panic buying resumed in the store.

The next day after the storm the winds continued to have some pretty strong bursts here and there. It was as if the storm was trying to mark its territory.

Hopefully, I will not encounter a storm like Helene in my lifetime but as far as the wind goes, I have to say I’ve always feared it, and now more so than ever.

References: www.adirondackalmanack.com

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.