The Ominous Sound of Stiletto Heels

When she walked by, an icy chill filled the air

Sara, a sixteen-year-old brunette with an athletic physique, was a new student at Hillcrest Boarding School. She was unhappy to leave her friends behind, but her father insisted on moving her to a more prestigious school. “The last two years are most critical before continuing your education,” he said. “And Hillcrest is the finest. Nearly all of their students get into reputable universities.”

Her parents were impressed by Madame Chloe, the school principal, especially her mother who embraced her role as a socialite in high society circles. At their meeting, Madame Chloe dressed impeccably in expensive and fashionable name-brand outfits, and the way she presented herself and the school's achievements instantly won them over.

At first, Sara found the principal charming as well. However, as the conversation progressed, the way Madame Chloe’s eyes darted to her and scanned her entire body, made her uncomfortable. Despite the flashing of those dark brown eyes only lasting for a split second, Sara sensed something sinister behind the pleasant exterior of the woman’s lovely smile, pristine clothes, manicured nails, and flawless hairstyle.

Sara always listened to her gut feelings and begged her parents not to make her change schools, but her parents, visibly mesmerized by the principal’s performance, made their final decision despite Sara's weak objections. “You know nothing about life! Gut feelings are not reliable,” her mother shouted. “The school’s reputation is impeccable. You’re going to be a student there, and that's final.”

Sara gave in and hesitantly accepted her parents' decision and moved into her new school's dorm at Hillcrest. Knowing that every school has its social hierarchy, she thought she would need some time to fit in and catch up. However, it soon became apparent that this school was different from others.

There was no hierarchy among teachers or students. There were subordinates and only one top dog: the principal and history professor, Madame Chloe. Her authority and dominance were obvious as she walked in her signature bright red stiletto-heel shoes, her cold eyes darting from student to student. The sound of those heels in the hallways would quiet the students and even the fellow teachers. When she walked past, a chill filled the air. Her presence commanded fear and obedience from everyone around her. Sara couldn't help but wonder what it must be like to have that kind of authority and influence over so many people.

Madame Chloe ruled with an iron fist and Sara soon heard rumors that her physical fist brutally broke several bones over the years. Students had no one to report the physical abuse to, and unfortunately, by the time they were allowed to see their parents, their injuries had healed. Because of the school's reputation and the highly respected principal's words against the students, people dismissed the complaints as childish rumors. The injured students had no proof.

Although Sara had a hard time keeping her rebellious nature under control, she kept quiet while keeping her eyes and ears open. Until… about two weeks into the school year, she stood by her locker across from Madame Chloe's office when she saw her classmate, a petite blonde girl staggering out of the room. Vera sobbed pressing her hand to her side, visibly in pain.

Sara followed her into the bathroom, where two girls stood by the sink and hugged the crying girl.

“You’ll be alright,” Kate, a dark-skinned statuesque girl whispered, wiping Vera’s tears.

“I can’t take it anymore!” Vera cried. “This was the third time this week and she didn’t even tell me why I deserved such a harsh punishment. My leg is still bruised where she kicked me two days ago.” She rolled down her knee-high socks. She gasped and stood up, her face contorting in pain. She held her side. “I think she broke my ribs this time,” she sobbed.

Mary, a plump redhead, huffed. “She’s a cruel sadist! She yanked my hair so hard yesterday that she pulled out a strand and my scalp bled all afternoon. All because when the monster said, ‘eyes on your books’ I looked at Vera.”

“Why doesn't anyone do something about this?” Sara asked, closely watching the group's reaction.

“What can we do? We can’t prove anything,” Kate shrugged despairingly, tears flowing down her cheeks. “Nobody believes us, not even our parents.”

“What about the teachers?” Sara questioned.

Mary shook her curly hair. “They know what’s happening but are too scared to say anything. The only teacher who was brave enough to gather evidence against this monster disappeared before you got here.”

“What do you mean by disappeared? Did she leave school?” Sara asked. The three girls seemed to sense Sarah’s authoritative yet compassionate nature and opened up.

“Oh, no,” Kate shivered and said, “Miss Clara was in my room that night, taking pictures of my bruised ribs and listened to the tape I recorded on the small device she gave me. I hid the recorder in my underwear and turned it on when I was ordered to Madame Chloe’s room. She beat me so badly that day... the more I screamed and begged her to stop, the more she hit me. Just remembering her face, how much she enjoyed watching me wiggle in pain, and the obscenities coming out of her painted mouth, makes me nauseous.”

Read the full 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 December 1

 We have a wide selection for you today

Hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving, now cozy up on the comfortable couch and enjoy some good stories.

Historical suspense The past will hunt them until they break the family curse	Crime suspense She finds out that monsters are real. Can she escape her cruel fate?
Medical mystery Her asthma is cured but at what cost?	Cozy Mystery When her sister-in-law is kidnapped, Emma puts her life on hold

Young adult fiction A young girl trust into the realm of the Vestal Virgins to save Rome	Young adult fantasy A potion made out of jealousy puts her love into a coma. Can he be saved?
Science fiction Kathy Masters never expected to journey to the stars	Sci-fi romance Transported to the past, she must decide to stay or find her way back
Will the two halves of the heart pendant find each other? SEE MORE	He lost her soulmate, but can he find her in another dimension? SEE MORE
Cayman's island is hiding a secret from tourists. Some check in but don't check out. SEE MORE Historical fantasy The demonic force that’s cursed the Dyer family for generations has returned even stronger	Legend of the family Dyer Historical paranormal fiction  Historical fantasy Dark family secrets are revealed, temptation is embraced and the circle of life is renewed

Dark fantasy SEE THE BOOK	Dark fantasy SEE THE BOOK
Dark fantasy SEE THE BOOK	Halloween edition SEE THE BOOK

Visual learning SEE MORE

learning sign language SEE MORE

Sibling rivalry SEE MORE

Friendship, disability SEE MORE

Southern Maryland’s Moll Dyer

Moll Dyer's Rock 

Photo credit

My “home zone” is Southern Maryland, which has been described by many as one of the most haunted areas in the country. Many tales have been shared around childhood campfires over the years. Stories that sent shivers down my spine even as flickering flames lent warmth to the telling.

Sotterly Plantation and Greenwell State Park are the source of many of these stories. Ghostly nuns, deceased soldiers of bygone eras and victims of not so accidental deaths are said to roam the buildings’ halls and surrounding fields. A short jaunt up the road (as the crow flies) is the site of the “blue dog” haunting where a mysterious ethereal canine is said to guard the remains of his murdered master as he has for centuries. Add in Point Lookout where the Union held Confederate prisoners in conditions that made Andersonville look like an island vacation and you can see why the area has the reputation it does.

Naturally, having grown up with these legends, they are in one manner or another, incorporated into my writing. None stir my imagination like the story of Moll Dyer, however, an accused witch from the late 1600s.   

Although the historical proof of her existence is minimal, we have a local county road named after her, and likewise a small stream. There’s the rock purported to be where she breathed her last. Most researchers miss the colonial letter describing her “countenance” in an unfavorable manner, but we’re mostly left with legends. Oral tradition- once the only historical record, and the basis of the old truism “where there’s smoke, there’s fire. How apt is that for a tale of this nature?

Although there are some small deviations to the legend, most oral traditions agree: Moll was an herbal healer and hermit. Most state her origin was Ireland, although she likely arrived on a passenger ship from England. She arrived on our shores single and unaccompanied and never married. She preferred the company of the Native Americans to her European neighbors. She dressed in a manner of lost affluence (threadbare clothes originally made from the finest materials). She froze to death on the coldest night of 1697 after a citizen’s mob burned her small cabin to the ground believing her a witch and the source of a blight on the land. She was found days later, draped over a large rock with one hand raised to the heavens. Some say in prayer; others say to curse the local citizenry. She was discovered by a young lad in search of his missing cow.

So then, who was Moll Dyer? I won’t fabricate a correlation between any segment of the legend and other past lives lived here. It’s unnecessary to make her story more real. Her tragedy speaks to its own truth and …perhaps that’s enough. My answer to the question is Moll’s truth, even if intangible. Moll Dyer is everyone who’s faced injustice or been mocked for being different; those scorned for their beliefs and tormented for living a life true to themselves. She is anyone condemned at the court of public opinion and castigated for their lack of popularity or political correctness. She’s the embodiment of Sarah Goode of Salem fame, Anne Frank, John the Baptist, Joan of Arc, Anne Boleyn, Rosa Parks and…well, the list goes on! Moll, the accused witch, could be the patron saint of them all.

I believe Moll Dyer would be proud of her legacy, and that she’d feel some measure of peace and exoneration from the tales being told of her today. She was once used as a cautionary tale- a warning to little children to behave, but no longer. Now we remember Moll whenever we’re bullied, accused without cause or feeling friendless. Perhaps she gives us a twinge of conscience when we are the ones doing the bullying? It warms my heart to think that some good is our final inheritance from the tragedy of Moll Dyer.

David W. Thompson

​https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer, and a member of the Horror Writers' Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.

Who Are You?

 Positive versus Negative Attitude

Having a positive attitude means focusing on the good in people, situations, and events instead of dwelling on the bad. For instance, even when facing a string of unfortunate events, one might still remain nice and cheerful with others saying, "Have a great day" while the negative person replies with a bitter "What's so good about it?"

A negative attitude is when someone chooses to focus on the negative aspects of people, situations, events, etc. rather than acknowledging the good. For instance, even if a person has abundant power, wealth, and influence with exceptional luck, if they still find reasons to complain and rant, it shows a clear example of a negative attitude.

Gratitude is a powerful and uncomplicated feeling that encompasses being thankful and appreciative of the good things in life. It entails acknowledging and valuing the kindness, support, or positive moments one has experienced through others or from life itself. Gratitude brings a sense of warmth and appreciation that can uplift one's spirits, strengthen relationships, and improve overall well-being. It's like an emotional expression of gratitude that serves as a reminder of all the positive aspects of life, even during difficult

Being thankful is a strong emotion that can positively impact our lives in numerous ways. Showing gratitude and nurturing it within ourselves has been connected to heightened levels of joy, enhanced physical wellness, improved mental state, increased self-worth, and overall satisfaction with life.

Scientifically proven benefits of being thankful: 

• Being thankful allows for more opportunities to form relationships.
• Gratitude has a positive effect on physical health.
• Expressing gratitude can improve overall psychological well-being.
• Feeling grateful increases empathy and decreases aggressive behavior.
• Individuals who practice gratitude tend to sleep better.
• Having an attitude of gratitude can enhance self-esteem.
• Gratefulness is linked to greater mental resilience.

Limiting beliefs can hold a person back and create unnecessary boundaries around their self-worth. When these negative beliefs are prevalent, individuals may find themselves feeling trapped in their comfort zone or settling for less than they deserve. 

Negative: I'm going to fail no matter how hard I try, so why even try?

Positive: I might fail, but what if I fail? I can learn from it.

Negative: I always fall short of my goals despite my best efforts.

Positive: I consistently give my all toward achieving my goals.

Negative: I have already given it my all. There is nothing else I can do.

Positive: I gave it my best effort, but there is always room for improvement. How can I continue to improve?

References: my psychology studies and decades of nursing experience.

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.

Thy Sister's Blood

Friends on a haunted creek uncover ancient relations 

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.”

Read the full 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 November 24

 The Last Vestal Virgin

The Inspiration:

I was inspired to write Beloved Sacrifice which is based on a real-life curse that was imposed on my ancestors long ago in the village of Pacentro, Itlay. I listened to this story time and time again by my grandmother. Yes, it is based on the curse, but the rest of the story is fictional.

Back in July of 2013, my husband took me to Pacentro, and I had three strange events that occurred during my visit that let me know my ancestors were listening.

The most profound encounter was at the shrine of our lady where I took off my shoes and walked in the small pond beneath. I felt the energy that was there as small shocks ran through my feet up to me knees. It was a connection I will never forget.  The shrine is mentioned in the story as well.

The Book:

In a small Italian village, an ancient curse stirs to life.
When a fearless mama from the D’Amici family learns that a dark spell cast by a vengeful gypsy cult over a century ago still shadows her loved ones, she vows to break it — whatever the cost. With storms gathering and time running out, she'll need all her courage, cunning, and fiery spirit. Because when you mess with an Italian mama, you’re in for a reckoning like no other.

Will she break the curse before it's too late?

Enjoy this Supernatural Tale that is great for Young Adult readers through adult as it blends history with mystery. Many facts of Rome’s cult of the Vestal Virgins are mentioned throughout the book.

Enjoy an excerpt:

Julianna visits her mother at the nursing home, where she finds out about the curse:

Julianna stood in shock. She knew her family had its share of illness and woes but just attributed it to natural causes.

“I am shocked mother! You... the Strega? Why did you keep this secret for so long?”

“Some things are left to be told when the time is right. They are governed by the laws of synchronicity, my dear. All things have a place and a time.”

Juliana turned to face her mother. She was beginning to sound like some enlightened being.

“As you know, the raging fever left me with tremors most of my life. Your sister, Maribelle, has a severe heart condition and Bella was born blind in one eye. And we have Lorena, not being able to conceive. And you, Julianna, have had crippling migraines since you were a teenager.”

“But Faith...she has no ailments...none that we know of,” Julianna speculated.

“They can surface at any stage of her life.” “What about Trulia, Armando’s daughter?”

 “That is the thorn in our side, Julianna. Her mother was Mia Constantino, and her mother was Gema, the sister of Bibianna. Mia having Trulia at the age of fifty is another oddity. The bloodline was only cursed from the women that I bore and their offspring. Armando was saved.”

“Sweet Jesus, Mother! What was wrong with Armando?”

“When Mia married Armando, Bibianna had already been dead. However, Gema, being an enchantress, had placed a spell on their marriage. Armando never knew Mia was related to Bibianna. Gema, being very beautiful and cunning, lured a handsome Sicilian gypsy to make love to her several times until she became pregnant. That’s how she had Mia. She wanted to produce offspring to keep her special Romani cult alive while mixing the blood of the D’Amici heritage. Hence, we have Trulia, your niece. The curse was to be altered so the seventh child would be also under the enchantment.

“When Strega Carlita passed, I had taken over for her and learned how your great-grandmother Selena saved my life. I had wanted to save others also. I was only ten years old when I learned the craft. Lest you forget, Julianna, the curse that was placed so long ago by Bibianna would stick until a seventh daughter would be born into our family.”

“I remember you told me of how that dagger was used in a ceremony to save your life. My grandmother must have been so strong.”

 “She was one of the strongest women I know. Many women in the village were jealous of her beauty and were worried that they would lose their husbands to her. How ridiculous this was! My mother was much in love with my father. She had few friends in Pacentro because of this.”

Julianna locked eyes with Donatella. “So, if Faith is with child, there is a chance it may be a boy.”

“Take a look back, Julianna; the only boys that had been born to my side of the family were Lucca from great-great-grandmother Rosa Domenica, and he passed when he was ten years old. And then my brother Armando.”

“But if Faith has a girl the curse will end,” Julianna reminded.

Donatella hung her head and Julianna was feeling more shocking news was about to reveal itself. “Okay, so then I am assuming Trulia is safe, being Mia was her mother.”

“Yes, she has the Romani protection rite from her mother.”

“How long have you known all of this?”

“I only came to find out years ago when I was doing work on our family tree. It must have been about ten years ago. Being there were lots of Constantinos in Pacentro, I thought nothing of it until... I dug a little deeper.”

Buy the book on AMAZON

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.

Past Life Regression

Reincarnation 

What Science Says:

The concept of reincarnation suggests that after death, a person may be born again in a new body. This idea has been present in various religious traditions for at least 3,000 years and has roots in even older cultures, including Shamanism, Druidism, Native American tribes, and Norse mythology.

Many people hold a spiritual belief that each undergoes a series of lifetimes to achieve personal and spiritual growth. Reincarnation is often associated with the concept of Karma, a Sanskrit term that reflects the principle of cause and effect.

It is said that a significant portion of the population believes in reincarnation and, by extension, may be open to exploring past life regression. Dr. Ian Stevenson conducted one of the most well-known studies on past life experiences, examining approximately 3,000 cases over forty years where children claimed to remember their past lives. Stevenson published numerous papers and 14 books on the topic, concluding that memories, emotions, and even physical characteristics like birthmarks could be carried from one life to another.

PLRT may not be suitable for everyone. Some people struggle to visualize in their mind’s eye, so PLRT may be less effective for them without a few hypnotherapy sessions first.

People who benefit most are often those who are open-minded or believe in the concept of past lives, or at least the possibility of them.

YouTube Channel That Caused Quite a Stir!

The title, “Seven-Year-Old Writes Gone With the Wind”, did attract many viewers, including myself. It was indeed most interesting. As a teacher, I had come across a few students who had me thinking that they were indeed old souls after having several conversations with them. My comment on the channel did raise some brows on my credibility as a teacher. We all have our own beliefs, and we need to honor them.

My Experience with PLR:

A trip to Pompeii in 2014 reaffirmed my suspicions when I received a severe shocking sensation in my right arm after touching a pedestal in one of the remains of the Vestal houses. We were on a guided tour, and the guide was a student studying ancient Roman history. She had witnessed my account and told me I had possibly made a connection with one of the Vestals.

That shocking feeling lasted a few hours and I was deeply concerned I would need medical attention but luckily it had faded.

When returning home to Grand Cayman, where we were living at the time I had found a therapist who did not advertise regression therapy as her service, being the island was most conservative, however, a friend had recommended her knowing I had a great interest in this. I’ve always felt drawn toward anything Ancient Roman, especially artifacts or news on new archeological findings. And now I was even more interested after my experience in Pompeii.

The Past Life Regression Session:

I entered the small office space of the therapist. It was dimly lit but I was able to see her framed degrees and a few accolades on the wall behind her desk.  I took a seat across from the middle-aged woman who was wearing thick black-framed glasses. After she had informed me of what the session would entail, I was told to lie down on a chaise that looked comfortable, which it was. I was beginning to feel a bit of anxiety, which she said was perfectly normal. Her voice was calming, so that did help quite a bit.

She began with subtle directions for breathing deep from my belly. Her voice was soft, and then she had me envision walking in a field of wildflowers with a scent of lilacs. I had no problem going there.  I could smell the pungent aroma and could feel a silky sensation as tall grass brushed against my legs. You see, it’s easy for empaths and sensitives to react. She told me to close my eyes and keep them closed as she was counting backward from ten.

Things got a bit more interesting with her questions:

When she got to one, she wanted me to breathe deeply again and then look at my feet as she asked me what I was wearing. I had on some type of strappy sandal that had ties that went up my calf. The soles of the sandals were flat and a bit flimsy.

“Now look at the ground around you. What do you see?”

I saw cobblestones that seemed to lead to a long path that resembled an old road.

“What are you wearing?”

I used my hands to run up and down my body and saw some type of beige tunic that resembled something one would have worn in ancient Roman times. It was gathered at my shoulder with a clasp that felt heavy. My arm was weighted down with something even heavier; I looked down to see I was carrying some sort of clay jug. It was empty.

The therapist was quiet for a bit. I assumed she was listening and trying to decipher all of this.

“Can you tell me if you hear anything— voices, sounds of some sort?”

I took a deep breath and I saw myself actually on that cobblestone path and heard voices calling out from behind me. I couldn’t make out the words but they were almost shouting.

This disturbed me as I turned around to see if I could tell where they were coming from when the ground beneath me shook, I dropped that red clay jug, and it shattered to the ground.

My pulse began to race, and I felt as if I were going to have an anxiety attack right there. My chest felt heavy with each rise and fall.

The therapist had instructed me to repeat deep breathing as she would count back from ten. On one, I would return to my present state.

Conclusions:

Upon opening my eyes, I saw the therapist sitting to my right with a pad and pen in hand. She instructed me to lie there as she wanted me to recount all of the details again. Then she read her notes from the tablet.

I was amazed at what she had told me because it was exactly what I’d encountered.

She asked me where I believed I was. I took another deep breath and the words just came out like velvet, I didn’t have to think twice. “I believe I was back in ancient Pompeii and possibly the day of the eruption.”

With a nod of her head, she agreed and told me I was probably correct. I had told her about my account in Pompeii, and she nodded again. She took my hand and helped me rise from the chaise making sure I wasn’t dizzy.

Once standing she asked me if I would want another session in the near future.

I told her I wanted to wait. I had to digest all of this. Everything was finally coming together.

One woman's experience

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.

Our Guest Author Today is C.R. King

Tombstone 

Tombstone is a very popular place for those of us who enjoy history, especially facts about Wyatt Earp and his brothers Virgil and Morgan; Add Doc Holiday for he was very close to the Earps.

We dwell on the most famous gunfight in the old West, the Gun Fight at the OK Corral. The above names fought part of the Cowboy faction and won. The word ‘Cowboy’ was used as an insult. History is covered up by those who want to hide things for many reasons, and it goes down as factual; that is, whatever was used to hide.  As a Historian, I want and work hard to uncover the truth as all 6 of my books do just that. The gunfight was not at the OK Corral but behind it.  From the Epitaph Newspaper published on April 27, 1881: 

“A reporter obtained some startling facts about the opium dens of Tombstone from a police officer about opium dens of Tombstone and their habitues. One den was on Allen above Sixth Street. The balance was [of dens] were on Third near Allen. All told, there were five or six of them, all kept by Chinamen and well patronized by American men and women. The women patrons are courtesans [ sic courtesans], who no doubt indulge in this dissipation to benumb their faculties and obliterate the memories of innocent, happy days that are past beyond recall. Statistics show an alarming increase in the opium habit throughout the country. The city authorities should look into this matter immediately.”

The Tucson Star of August 4, 1881, said at the end of an article: “There is no dodging the question. These opium dens are being carried on in open defiance to the law.” The article asked for the mayor to see that the city marshal take steps to have them wiped out.”

Butte, Montana had five dens when Morgan Earp was wearing the policeman’s badge. They had 3 dens. When Morgan resigned to join his brother in Tombstone but just before he handed in his badge, he discovered two hidden dens. Wherever there was a Chinese population, there were opium dens, over 50% were white men and female prostitutes.

Of my books, all 6 of them are well researched, and I have at least one item in each book that no one knew of until I published. I have three volumes of A Fraternity of Gunslingers: True Stories of Wild West Gunmen. Volume 3 has 22 stories. I will be ordering 20 paperbacks on this volume. I have more stories in my other books.  

C.R. King

C. R. 'Randy' Has worked in the Broadcast industry most of his adult life. A father of two beautiful daughters, now grown and a avid student of American History. He spent most of his life working, raising a family, involved in community affairs putting his one passion aside until a few years back. King has had in several articles published in historical journals and magazines but has had a desire to share his knowledge with the general public in a format that is a pleasing and easy to read without all of the end notes that his articles normally have but to include as much factual data without the mundane.

The Prodigal Daughter

A snippet from the story 

For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found. And they began to be merry.

Luke 15:24 KJV

February 12, 2081, Denver, Colorado, USA

Cassie lies on her bed waiting for her ‘showcase’ to start. She’s wearing her ‘display’ outfit, black spiked heels, thigh-high black lace stockings, black lace garter belt, black lace quarter cup bra, and black choker with a white cameo. While she waits for the get ready signal she has on her beat-up blue flannel shirt. It’s unbuttoned and hangs loosely about her petite body. Cassie’s long blonde hair cascades over her shoulders, spilling onto the bed.

She looks at the wall the camera is built into, the lens reflects the light from the room’s only lamp. Above it hangs her general discharge from the U.S. Army, an army that no longer exists. She reads the name emblazoned on the certificate, 3^rd Lieutenant Cassandra Lynn Anderson. Though it is nearly eight years ago that she was ‘bounced’ from the J.A.C.K.S. program to her it feels like a thousand.

She thinks back on those three days. The intimate horror of being mentally connected to a W.I.D.G.E.T.S. as it died haunts her every night. Colonel Gray was right, she didn’t belong there. At least his success during that campaign carried enough weight that they accepted the Colonel’s recommendation that she be assigned to a comfort unit instead of a labor battalion. Still, she wonders, Am I better off being used by these perverted men every night than being worked to death as a common laborer?

Cassie looks at the framed certificate next to her discharge, her Courtesan Diploma. She spent six months in courtesan training, at the top of the class in all subjects, but she excelled at all the activities requiring empathy. Erotic massage, intimate conversation, serving the client's needs, listening to their inner desires. Most importantly, she excelled at knowing when to be physical with a client, and when to just be there with him, or her.

When she completed her training, she was sent to this house, Isabella de Luna, of Denver.

For years the girls there entertained men in a somewhat dignified manner. They would meet the men, get to know them, and then take care of their desires. Though she still felt dirty when the night’s work ended at least there was a sense of propriety.

When the war with China ended that all changed.

Everyone was certain it would be a short war, but they always are. The sides were clearly divided, the USA, the UK, and UES against the Russian Consortium and China. After seven months they started talking about calling up all prior service, including candidates that were bounced out of programs like J.A.C.K.S. In month eight China pulled the rug out from under everyone. It seems that China’s Artificial Intelligence knocked out the AIs of the USA, the UK, the UES and the Russian Consortium. China stabbed the Russians in the back, seizing all of Siberia east of Lake Baikal. All those countries were defeated, leaving China the big winner.

The Chinese overran South Korea, Japan, The Philippines, Indonesia, New Guinea and Australia. They annexed Hawaii and California. And their secret ally, Canada, annexed Alaska, Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont.

They established an occupation government in each of the defeated countries. All former US military were taken into custody and interred in ‘reeducation’ camps.

Cassie found herself in one of those camps.

For the first two weeks, all the detainees were subjected to constant interrogation, sleep deprivation, and political indoctrination. During the second week, several prisoners cracked. Though the inmates were never allowed to be together in groups, they did pass each other when they were moved from room to room. It was then that Cassie encountered some of the broken.

Their eyes were filled with terror, some had tics, others were pale like all their blood had been drained from them. A few shook uncontrollably.

To her surprise, Cassie never felt that she was at the end of her rope. It was not that she wasn’t afraid, it was not that she wasn’t exhausted, it was not that she wasn’t in pain. She just knew she would be alright.

At the beginning of the third week, she caught the camp commander’s eye.

On Wednesday she got a decent dinner and they let her sleep that night. On Thursday she was allowed to shower, was fed a decent dinner, and allowed to sleep. On Friday She did not attend any ‘reeducation’ programs, instead, they left her in her cell. At noon she was served a light lunch. When she was finished the guards ordered her to shower. They watched her shower, to be sure she didn’t escape. After her shower, the guards gave her one of her courtesan dresses and told her to put it on. The guards watched her dress too.

Once she was in her dress the guards brought in the makeup manager from the house Isabella de Luna. He did her hair, applied some blush and eyeshadow, then some lipstick. When he had finished the guards took her to the commandant’s office.

At first, the camp commander was courteous to her. He offered her wine, which she accepted, then offered her hors-d’oeuvres, which she declined. She fell back on her courtesan training and experience to manage the encounter, and it seemed like it was working, but that didn’t last.

Suddenly he dragged Cassie off of the couch by her hair. The commandant ripped her dress, slapping her in the process. He tossed her back onto the couch, yanking her torn gown off leaving her naked. When he grabbed Cassie, she phased out. To her, it seemed like she was leaving her body to someplace outside of reality.

When she returned to reality Cassie was back in her cell, she was naked, lying under her blanket. Cassie tried to recall what happened the night before. She had the impression in her mind that she had had sex, that she had been raped, but her body didn’t feel like it. From all that she had read, her courtesan training, and from talking to the other girls that had played out their client's rape fantasies she should have been hurting and feeling humiliated. But she felt nothing, her whole body was contradicting what her mind was telling her.

Cassie dressed in her camp overalls and waited to be taken to indoctrination. The guards came, but they didn’t take her to ‘class’, instead they brought her breakfast. Later when they brought her lunch she overheard them saying the camp commander had hung himself the night before. They also discussed that they’ve been ordered not to harm her in any way. All of this made Cassie very confused.

In the middle of week four Cassie was processed out of the camp, even though they hadn’t broken her. Her records were updated indicating that she was loyal to the Chinese Communist Party, and she was transferred back to house Isabella de Luna, of Denver.

When she returned to the house Cassie was shocked to find it was under new ‘management’. It no longer followed the courtesan rules. There was no getting to know the client, no elegance, no propriety. Instead, the staff, whether male, female, or teen, were required to put on a lewd display for the potential clients. At the end of the performance, the potential clients would bid to possess that staff member for one hour. When that hour was up the staff member was required to shower and get prepared to ‘perform’ again.

Cassie was forced to learn a routine. She spent a week getting it down right. Tonight is her first time on the auction block.

While Cassie was adapting to the new ‘management’ she started to notice things she hadn’t before. There were several small things but the most important was she wasn’t aging.

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.