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Animals Forced to Perform

The lives of animal performers

My heart aches whenever I come across videos of dogs being forced to walk on their hind legs wearing tutus. The terror in their eyes is evident, a reflection of the fear instilled by their abusers. I cannot help but speak out in the comments against such cruelty, "Why are you torturing that poor animal? For likes on your video?" These poor dogs are manipulated and subjected to abuse; they're forced to perform an unnatural act. Their bones and muscles are not built for this kind of movement, causing them great discomfort.

Take a moment to visualize being forced to run on all fours with your legs completely straight, unable to bend them. The thought of being beaten if you didn't comply adds to the discomfort and pain. Now imagine how uncomfortable and painful it must be for four-legged animals when they are forced to walk on two legs.

The sight always brings back memories of the first and last time my parents took me to the circus. I was young and innocent, but even then, I could see the fear in the majestic lion's eyes as he was forced to leap through a blazing hoop. I cried in disgust and anger as I turned to my father and asked him, "Why is the lion so afraid of that man? He could kill him with one swipe of his paw." My dad explained how the animals are trained to perform, and we left. After that experience, my parents never took me to the circus again.

Utilizing animals for entertainment purposes entails immense cruelty. These creatures do not possess the innate ability to ride bicycles, balance on their heads, or leap through hoops of flames. Traditional methods of training circus animals involve physical abuse and punishment. Animals are repeatedly beaten, shocked, and whipped to perform tricks that are unnatural and beyond their physical abilities.

The lives of animal performers are filled with suffering and humiliation. Constant travel, confinement, and torture to perform tricks strip wild animals of any chance to fulfill their natural physical, behavioral, and emotional needs. Their existence behind the scenes is mistreatment and abuse.

I'm not referring to the positive reinforcement techniques used to train service animals. You see a sense of fulfillment and accomplishment when you gaze into their eyes. These animals understand the significance of their role and take pride in performing it well. The trainers use positive rewarding methods and patiently wait for the animals to learn and understand what is expected of them. Also, the trainers never force them to do anything that is physically against their comfortable, natural movements.

Also, animals shouldn't be treated like accessories. A cute puppy toted in a purse and dressed in human attire is a sentient being with the capacity to live, breathe, and feel. Treat animals as close to their nature as possible.

 

Animals, including birds, cats, pigs, and especially dogs, have a natural desire to please their favorite humans and will often create tasks for themselves. Also, they can be natural clowns to amuse themselves or do something naughty to test the boundaries.

We had a Kuvasz mix who would wait at the gate each day for the postman, take the newspaper from him, and bring it into the kitchen. We never trained or commanded him to do so. The first time he brought the newspaper in, my dad patted him on the head, told him he was a good boy, and rewarded him with a chicken leg. From then on, our dog seemed to take his job of fetching the newspaper very seriously and happily did it every day.

When a pesky fly found its way into the house, my cat, Mirci, watched me as I tried to swat it away. But when the fly got too close to her, she sprang into action, capturing it with her sharp claws and ending its life with precision. She then presented me with the deceased insect on my lap, looking up at me for praise. I couldn't help but praise her for her hunting skills. After that day, no fly stood a chance against her keen instincts and lightning-fast reflexes. Although I wasn't thrilled about the occasional dead mouse or frog she left on the doormat as a present, I couldn't stay mad at her when she looked up at me with such pride and happiness. So, I learned to tolerate her hunting expeditions and thanked her for the "presents" she brought me.

Our funniest dog was a small, nimble mutt named George. Thanks to our spacious, enclosed yard, we rarely took him for walks; he had plenty of room to run and play as he pleased. Unfortunately for our cat, George's mischievously playful nature often led him to invent new games that irritated her. George despised bath time and getting his paws wet in the snow, but he still braved the outdoors to do his business. One day, he realized that if he lifted his hind legs and balanced on his front paws, his hind legs would stay dry. It was a comical sight until he started relieving himself and accidentally drenched the white hair on his chest and chin instead of painting the snow yellow. That day, he gladly let me put him in the tub without any complaints.

What is your opinion about using animals for entertainment?

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative, and educational, and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.

Our Guest Author Today is Ginger Strivelli

 We were together

“We were together. We were home. We were in our world whirling through our universe. It was a perfectly common day. We were in our right timeline and in our right dimension. We were living. Everything around us was normal. Nothing was amiss. We received no warning that it was all about to go badly amiss.

At first, we didn’t realize we were being dragged somewhere else, somewhere not normal. We just suddenly felt hot. Our planet is always cool. We have not traveled to other planets in our universe. We did not know if we had been teleported to some other planet that was hot. We wondered if we stumbled into some time portal and had traveled not to another planet but to the prehistoric past of our own planet, which was thought to have been much warmer many millennia ago.

However, we have not been taken to another planet in our universe or to another time on our planet. We hadn’t even been taken to some parallel universe as the place we found ourselves was too unlike our universe to be at all parallel. It was paranormal. It was totally unfathomable. We just knew we had to have been spirited away to some wholly different dimension.

We came to this dimension as one. We were all one being just as we were at home. When we arrived, we did not yet know the horror of this dimension’s beings’ having singular existences. We learned that fright when we were moved from the heated entry point by the hands of two different mythical beings. Two plural beings! At their touch, we instantly telepathically understood that the creatures of this dimension are all different. They are separate, somehow. They are alone and apart! We were terrified when we learned of this supernatural affliction. If given more time we would have pondered how they managed such an unimaginable fate. We would have come to feel sorry for them if we’d had a little time. We did not have that much time though to think.

These monstrous creatures loomed over us, huge and round. They looked down upon us with these expressions of happiness or madness, we couldn’t tell which. We didn’t know what they had planned for us as they picked us up in their fleshy limp hands and put us on cold stone. Our warmth started to leak away at once. We were glad because of that. We were not used to being warm. It might have killed us, we had thought when we were in the warm place. We were mighty relieved to be removed, even by the monsters but only for a few precious moments.

We calmed as we cooled but then began to contemplate what the monsters had brought us to their sickly twisted dimension for. What would become of us? Would we become different entities like the monsters were? Would we any moment be jerked back to our own dimension? We prayed to our descendants that we would be taken back home as suddenly as we had been ripped from there. We simply could not take any more fear of this strange place and its stranger multiple beings.

Just like our random instantaneous arrival into this dimension, suddenly our nightmare took an evil turn. Our worry and fear was replaced with sheer terror of a fiendish kind! We experienced the most sinister sensation. It took us a moment to figure out what had happened to us. Part of us was suddenly just gone. Part of us was dead but not ascended. Part of us was nowhere, not back home, not in the afterlife, not elsewhere, but nowhere. Nothing like that had ever happened to us in our dimension. We had no understanding of such bizarre magic or science. How could such a thing even be possible, even in this different dimension? We were so shocked we stopped communicating and just screamed inconsolably in discordant harmony.”

***

“Grandmother, can I have more?” Luna asked as sweetly as the cookie she had just eaten. “They are such whittle bitty gingerbread men.”

“How can Grandmother say no to your whittle bitty face!” Violet said to her granddaughter. “You can have two more, right now my sassafras! I’ll make us some hot chocolate and we will watch the movie about Santa Claus and his reindeer while we eat them all. I can’t wait. When I was a little girl just like you, my grandmother made gingerbread men for me and her to eat while we watched it.”

***

“Our screams all stopped in a speechless stupor as it happened again...and again! We clung to ourselves, what was left of ourselves. We had a flash of a thought of trying to figure out a way to make it stop but it was hopeless. We had no idea why, how, or what was happening to us. We had no chance of stopping what we did not even know.

***

“Grandmother?” Luna called from the couch as she precariously balanced the plate full of gingerbread man cookies. “Hurry, it is about to start!”

Violet rushed from the kitchen herself balancing two cups of steaming hot chocolate. “I’m here, my sassafras. Oh, no I forgot the marshmallows!” She sat the cups on the coffee table and ran back to the kitchen.

“Grandmother! Can I have a cinnamon stick to stir my hot chocolate with, like you use?”

“Sure, my sassafras!” Violet came leaping back onto the couch beside her granddaughter just as the toothpaste commercial ended and the movie started. She put marshmallows and cinnamon sticks in their cups. She hugged her granddaughter as she bit a head off one of the gingerbread men and handed another one to Luna. Luna copied her grandmother’s beheading bite, giggling.

***

“Oh, how we were panicking as again and again parts of us just vanished, gone from all time, all space, and all dimensions. We tried to discuss our doomed fate. We tried to bemoan how we had lost all hope. Nevertheless, we could only wail and sob. It was unreal. We still didn’t understand what was happening to us, but it kept happening and happening until there was nothing of us left. We were together but gone.

https://www.amazon.com/stores/Ginger-Strivelli/author/B0BKY39Z48

Ginger Strivelli is an artist and writer from North Carolina. She has written for Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine, Circle Magazine, Third Flatiron, Autism Parenting Magazine, Silver Blade, Cabinet of Heed Literary Journal, The New Accelerator, and various other publications for thirty years. She loves to travel the world and make arts and crafts. She considers herself a storyteller entertaining and educating through her writing.

Midnight Murder

 Emma's trust in her psychic ability solidifies

Emma finished her patient notes and gave her report to the evening shift nurse before changing clothes and rushing to the garage. For once, she would be able to leave work on time. She thought back to days when she had to pull double shifts or when the chaos of the ER made it nearly impossible to finish her paperwork in a timely fashion. As she drove home, Emma called her husband.

“Are you working overtime again?” Paul asked with a laugh.

“No, for once I'll even have time to cook dinner,” Emma replied.

“Wow, that's rare,” Paul chuckled, knowing how often he had to work late at his law firm and rarely had time to finish his work before 5 pm. “Do you mind if I invite Steve over for dinner? He has an investment proposal and I'd rather discuss it at home than in the office.”

“Of course, darling,” Emma said with a bright, cheery tone. “Then I'll defrost the lasagna and take out the German cherry cake from the freezer that I picked up last week. It will give me time to tidy up before you arrive home.”

“That sounds perfect, sweetheart! We'll be home by six.”

On her way home, Emma couldn't resist stopping at a charming farmstand she passed by. She carefully selected fresh lettuce, crisp radishes, juicy tomatoes, and crunchy cucumbers to create a delicious salad.

As the food thawed, Emma tackled some light cleaning tasks around the house. She ran the vacuum over the carpets, dusted the surfaces, and even managed to squeeze in a quick shower before five o'clock rolled around. As she dried her hair, she tried to recall Steve's face. She had only met Paul's business manager once at a party nearly a year ago, and their exchange was brief and polite. Despite not knowing much about him, he seemed like a decent person and Paul had never said anything negative about him. The firm was successful and catered to affluent clients, a fact that Emma knew from casual conversations with her husband. Curiosity piqued as she wondered what kind of proposal Steve might have in store for them. Since their marriage three years ago, Emma made a conscious effort not to pry into Paul's work life and only knew snippets of information that he shared with her voluntarily.

Shortly after six, they arrived, but as soon as she looked at her husband’s face, Emma knew something was wrong. The slight frown on his handsome features was a rare display of emotion for him, but Emma had learned to read his subtle signs over the years. His tense posture and the way he shot a quick glance at their guest, Steve, told her that something was very wrong. She raised her eyebrows in question but remained quiet and followed Paul's lead as they ushered Steve into the living room.

Paul expertly mixed cocktails for them all, but Emma could sense the tension in the air. As they sat down, Paul turned to Steve with a calm yet controlled demeanor. “Before you tell me about your investment plans, let me ask you something,” he said in a low voice.

Emma watched with growing alarm as her husband's jaw tightened, signaling his underlying anger. She couldn't imagine what would come next. It must be something very serious. She thought. Otherwise, he would talk about business after dinner, as he usually does.

“Tell me about the two hundred thousand dollars,” Paul's voice rose slightly, revealing his true emotions towards their guest.

Steve's hand shook and he jolted in his seat, spilling a few drops of his drink onto his lap. His eyes widened in surprise as Paul confronted him about missing money.

“Why are you asking me?” Steve stammered, trying to compose himself.

“Because the accountant called me just before we left to ask about one of our bank accounts,” Paul explained. “He said he couldn't find the statement for the interest we had been paid on that account. I didn't want to cause a scene in the office, so I'm asking you now. Where is the money?”

“I had nothing to do with it!” Steve exclaimed, his face turning red with anger as he stood up. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“Yes!” Paul fumed, his frustration evident. “I checked with the bank, and they informed me that the account we had 210 thousand dollars in now only has eight thousand. What did you do with the missing money?”

“I… I’m leaving! You can’t just accuse me of something I didn’t do,” Steve mumbled, putting his glass on the coffee table.

“You’re not going anywhere until you answer my question!”

Paul's voice echoed through the room, loud and forceful as he jumped up to block Steve's path toward the door. Emma shrunk back into the far corner of the sofa, her heart racing as she watched them. Paul, usually calm and collected, now had a fiery rage burning in his eyes. She had never seen him like this before.

Steve looked like a cornered animal, his hands shaking, and his face twisted in fear. “Okay, I gamble, and I've been unlucky the past three months! I'm an addict. I'm sick!” he screamed; desperation evident in his voice. “I'll pay it back, just give me a chance.”

Paul's voice cracked with pain as he spoke. “How could you do this? I trusted you!”

“I'm so sorry! You have to understand. It's a disease!” Steve pleaded, tears streaming down his face.

But Paul was unfazed. “You played your card, now you suffer the consequences. You're fired!” He stepped aside to let Steve pass. “And you’ll have to pay back the money you stole,” Paul said coldly.

Panic set in for Steve as he realized what that meant. Desperation swept over him as he begged, “You can't! Please, you can't do this to me.”

Paul's face hardened, his once friendly features now twisted into a cold, angry mask. “You did this to yourself. Now get out of my house!”

Steve recoiled at the sharpness in Paul's voice, feeling a surge of pain and anger bubbling up inside him. He looked into Paul's eyes, but all he could see was disappointment and hurt. With drooping shoulders and a defeated expression, he turned and made his way to the door, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the tense silence between them.

“I trusted him,” Paul whispered when the door closed behind Steve, his voice hoarse and heavy with emotion. He slumped down beside Emma, his shoulders shaking with the weight of betrayal.

Continue reading the story in the book:

https://books2read.com/u/m27NQd

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

Book Sunday

 Enjoy our featured books

In online bookstores, readers often discover new books by browsing the bestselling titles in their desired genre. However, countless hidden gems may not receive as much promotion but offer incredible stories that deserve recognition and readership.

Time travel romance

READ NOW

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.

Review by Readers Favorite

"Lorraine Carey uses an intoxicating brew of romance and mystery with a tinge of the paranormal to take you on a captivating time travel adventure odyssey you don't want to end. With an absorbing narrative, Carey captures the vibe and atmosphere of the 1970s flawlessly, offering readers a chance to immerse themselves in the golden era of rock and roll. The characters are not only well-developed but also very likable for the most part. While Jennifer's interactions with Dylan are entertaining, I also enjoyed her friendship with Paul. The plot has its share of surprises to keep readers hooked. I thoroughly enjoyed this book and heartily recommend it to romance lovers who don't mind dipping their toes into the paranormal genre."

Sci-fi space opera

READ NOW

Kathy Masters never expected to journey to the stars. When she does, she experiences the adventure of a lifetime.

That all changes when she is selected by the prestigious Galactic Geographic Society to photograph and record the flora and fauna of a newly discovered class M planet. Filled with hope and enthusiasm, she boards the S.S. America for the trip to Beta 3 Epsilon to begin her new project. On the way she is abducted and brought aboard the privateer Rapier.

Going from captive, to slave, to induction into the infamous Brotherhood, Kathy finds herself raising the adopted daughter of the crew of the Rapier. Given the responsibility to raise their princess, Cindy, they travel among the stars preying on merchant ships, dodging Chinese warships, fighting pirates, visiting strange worlds, and encountering fantastic creatures, all under the watchful eyes of Commodore James Ulysses Black. Trying to raise a young girl among gunfights, swordfights, ship-to-ship battles, slave trades, deals, and some of the most feared raiders in human space is no small challenge.

The only question is, Is Kathy up to the task?

Review by Travis B

"The face-paced, in-the-present style of writing always keeps the story moving along at light speed. But after each jump to or from hyperspace anything can happen and does. Swimming with whales living in nebulae of thick, colorful gases. Horse-sized wolves and never-before-seen natives and underwater adventures to meet the almighty, giving ones: bioengineering “gifts” with omnipotent capabilities. And sword-fights, blazingly fast strokes of the gleaming steel, bellies bursting, men keeling over."

Ghost suspense thriller

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A powerful curse cast thousands of years ago by the Grand Vizier. Tanakhmet cursed Prince Akhmose to never enter the Field of Reeds, the heavenly paradise. Why did he want him to linger as a restless ghost among the living, forever?

By reading the hieroglyphs, Layla, a young Egyptologist, inadvertently breaks the curse and frees the ghosts of both Prince Akhmose and the Grand Vizier whose thirst for revenge is stronger than ever.

With Layla’s help, can Prince Akhmose finally cross into the afterlife?

Or perhaps, because of the charms of the mortal woman, he doesn’t want to…

Review by Termite Writer

"I’m always attracted to stories with archaeological subjects and this story deals with ancient Egypt and its curses, mummies, and ghosts. Through the machinations of the Pharoah’s evil Grand Vizier, Prince Akhmose is murdered and his soul is sent into the future, while his lover’s soul is also reincarnated in a modern woman who happens to be an Egyptologist. Her skeptical roommate Mara adds some enjoyable humor to the tale."

Gothic romance

READ NOW

Fernal Thorn always suspected her family had secrets.

But she has no idea how dark and dangerous these secrets are until a mysterious man, his horde of followers, and a powerful demon invade her forest home. Badly beaten and alone, she is rescued by an aloof high-born stranger who takes her to his family’s ancient estate in Cumbria.

There she finds allies and enemies with secrets of their own. Captivated by her alluring yet reclusive rescuer, Fernal is torn between vengeance and love, and she must find a way to defeat the evil that has plagued her family for centuries—or die on the next solstice.

Deeply compelling and seductive, Eternity Awaits is a richly textured story that will dwell within you long after the last pages are read.

Review by aerowell

"Intriguing story that has something for everyone: mystery, suspense, romance and the supernatural. The characters had flaws and insecurities with which we can all relate. Eternity Awaits is an entertaining page-turner with unexpected twists. "

FIND OUT HOW

A Through and Through Villain

 Mora, the villainess from The Ancestors' Secrets Series

Mora is a classic through-and-through villainess. Yet as we know more and more about her backstory, we're almost starting to understand what drives her and empathize with her, until her next cruel act... when we're passionately hating her again. 

The Royals and Elders were furious when they found out many centuries ago that Joland had shared the gift of eternal life with Mora and gave her the power to keep her body young. The Elders separated them, but they couldn’t make them mortal again. She has lived so many lifetimes, alone, because Joland was exiled to a timeline in the distant past. As his punishment, he couldn’t move forward in time with her. The Elders succeeded in taking away the ability to rejuvenate her body, which became bones with wasted muscles and shriveled skin. Although her withered body was useless, the power of her mind allowed her to reach the remotest part of the world and beyond. 

She wants power, she wants to rule, and most of all, she wants revenge. There is nothing she wouldn't do to achieve her goal. Will she succeed?

A short excerpt from the book

The soft humming of Mora's rotating, air-filled mattress relaxed her and protected her withered body from developing bed sores. Her castle was well hidden from prying eyes, deep in the woods on the mountainside. Nobody knew about its existence, only Zelda, her trusted servant throughout the centuries.

Mora didn’t allow anyone to see her in her miserable state, old and wrinkled. Her mind control ability helped her to make even Zelda see her in her youthful glory as she had known her so long ago, but she couldn’t completely conceal her body’s present state of old and wrinkled. The image of her old body is shown in Zelda’s mind through the youthful picture Mora projected.

​Mora closed her eyes and began searching the complicated network of the Collective Memory, in her mind. She murmured under her breath, “The Elders took everything I valued in life from me, but they never found out I could read every word that is written by every gifted Hunor after they reach maturity. When they use the ancient letters given to them by the Ancestors and they mention the meaning of the flowers, their lives are open books for me.”

Mora’s prune-like face lit up, “Good girl, Adel. You are the servant of the Leaders and can’t talk to anyone about this, but you just wrote in your diary that the Elders are planning a meeting. Oh, I see. One of them is about to take her last breath, and they need to choose her successor. Hmm… could I use it to my advantage? We’ll see. There is another interesting sentence here; you are worried about your mistress, Csenge. She seems distant and unhappy. Let’s see what our Leader has been writing…” she scoured Csenge’s desk in her mind.

“What?!” Mora shouted angrily when she read Csenge’s note in her calendar, “The Chosen One, Ilona, is coming of age today.” Mora was furious, “I can get into the minds of those who are related to me, but I can’t get into the Elders’ meeting or see the Chosen One. I curse you Ancestors for taking away my powers, and I curse you for tearing me away from the arms of my beloved, Joland. We’ll be together again one day, my love. I’ll find a way, somehow…”

In her fury, Mora clawed a hole in her soft comforter, but then, she started seeing an unfamiliar handwriting in her mind. Someone, unknown to her was writing a diary with the ancient Hunor letters. Mora’s rage calmed instantly as she rejoiced, “Ilona’s diary! She must be the Chosen One that Csenge wrote about.”

In her mind’s eye, the ancient Hunor letters appeared as Ilona wrote them in her diary. Dear diary, I’m supposed to keep a detailed journal from now on…

Mora grinned, “Write my little princess, and keep writing. I want to know everything about you.”

Mora continued her monologue in a subdued voice, “They will pay! But, for now, I have to gather every bit of information I could use for my revenge. Let me see what they’re writing about. Oh, so that’s where the Seer is hiding. She has written about every boring detail, but she never mentioned whose housekeeper she was. Damn, this crippled body and the constrictions they installed in my mind. Hah! The Chosen is in love with Bela, the mutt, now that’s ironic. His mother was excommunicated from the tribe for breaking the law. He’s useless to me but let me see what Zoltan is doing. At first, he refused to write in his diary, but his mother made sure that he does now. This is interesting! He decided to move to the town where the Chosen One works, which means that I can use him. Finally, my chance to change the future arrived. They must meet, and he has to get close enough to her, and then I will make him kill her, whenever I see fit.”

The Ancestors' Secrets

READ THE BOOK

READ THE BOOK

Epic fantasy-magical realism novels

Ilona resigns to live the simple life of a small-town doctor, but her life goes into a tailspin on her birthday. She finds out she was born into a secretive, ancient clan still hidden among us. She starts to develop unusual powers which she finds exciting as well as frightening. She can slow time and heal with her touch, but how and why?

She struggles to find answers, but those who try to reveal the clan secrets are severely punished.

A menacing man is following her and wants to kill her. Who is he?

More life struggles continue to plague her. After being thrust into a world of clan mysteries, obscure traditions, and beliefs, her life is drastically changing.

She must seek out and stop Mora’s evil plan. Punished by the ancestors long ago, Mora has waited centuries for the chance to reunite with her beloved Joland and to gain power over the Hunor clan. Revenge has kept her alive for over 1600 years.

Ilona must search for the mysterious Destiny Box that holds a message from her Ancestors while she attempts to sort out her feelings for the men in her life.

The spirits of the clan come to Ilona’s aid with answers to the clan’s secrets and the key to helping her maintain her sanity amidst the fear of danger lurking everywhere as she tries to succeed.

She must activate her Chameleon ability and obtain unimaginable powers. The clan Leaders and Elders are worried knowing that she can use her growing powers for absolute good or absolute evil. But they have no choice, they’re powerless against Mora and must place their trust in Ilona.

With the help of the clan’s Time Bender, her journey will take her back in time to when her people lived as nomads, to the castles of the 14th century as they struggle to overcome the obstacles in their path due to the evils of Mora.

Ilona finds her Destiny Box where the ancestors reveal what she must do—but it does not come without cost.

She must ensure the birth of the Chosen Child in the 4th century to save the future of the Hunor Clan. Will Ilona succeed in saving the child? Will she accept her destiny?

A review from Reader's Favorite

"I was keen to read The Ancestors' Secrets Series by Erika M Szabo for a couple of reasons. The first is that I was impressed by the premise and the promise of two strong female leads, and Mora and Ilona are worthy in this regard. Neither are perfect and even though we are not meant to like Mora, we do sort of understand her motive. It's deeper than the power and the revenge she seeks; we get that. She is not a cookie-cutter antagonist, and because Ilona is far from perfect herself, we are able to read through the eyes of women who are authentic. This is refreshing. The second part that piqued my interest is a modern female thrust back into the 1300s. This is something of an origin story, not just for Ilona but the entirety of the Hunor Clan. The magic is fun, but the tension and the settings are Szabo's best work."

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative, and educational, and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.

The Tale of a Red Sofa

 From showroom star to hurricane survivor

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

The Red Sofa

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

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

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

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

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

Hurricane Milton Comes Calling

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

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

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

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

The storm was coming.

Soaked to the Batting

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

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

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

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

The Curbside Goodbye

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

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

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

A New Beginning?

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

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

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

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

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

Lorraine Carey

https://authorlorrainecarey.blogspot.com/

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

Headless

 Never mess with Miz Flora's girls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Headless Ghost!” The children sang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

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Happy Halloween

 The history of Halloween

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

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

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

In America

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

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

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

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

History of Trick-or-Treating

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

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

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

Halloween Parties

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

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

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

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WHAT IF- ANTHOLOGY - Golden Box Books Publishing

Burdens of Immortality

She didn't want to live for centuries

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

***

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Pumpkin's Curse

 They're desperate to stay alive

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

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