Día del Libro Español #OurAuthorGang

 Hola, gracias por visitarnos

Hoy os recomendamos una dulce novela romántica escrita por Erika M Szabo

LEE EL LIBRO

Elana nació de una madre drogadicta sin hogar y fue dejada en las escaleras de la catedral de San Patricio. Mudándose de una casa de acogida a otra, su vida era una puerta giratoria de esperanzas y decepciones destrozadas.

Tan pronto como sintió una conexión emocional con alguien, el niño adoptivo en ella rápidamente alejaba el sentimiento. Lo último que Elana quería hacer era acercarse a alguien que probablemente nunca volvería a ver. La necesaria defensa emocional le sirvió bien a lo largo de su impredecible vida.

Hasta que conoció a Luca.

Permitiéndoles sólo un corto tiempo de felicidad, el cruel destino los apartó. Todo lo que tenía era esperanza y la mitad del colgante de corazón de palisandro que esculpió para aferrarse.

¿Se volverán a ver?

Leer un capítulo

Los pasillos de la Escuela de Medicina en NYU estaban repletos de la charla y el alboroto de cientos de estudiantes, todos ansiosos por comenzar sus vacaciones de invierno. La mayoría estaría viajando a diferentes estados o en el extranjero para visitar a familiares y seres queridos para las vacaciones. Pero no Elana. Ella tenía una tradición propia.

Ashley, al darse cuenta de la mirada no tan alegre en la cara de Elana, por lo general feliz, le tocó suavemente el brazo. — ¿Estás bien, Elana? Realmente no parece que estés en el espíritu navideño —.

Los labios de Elana se enroscaron en una sonrisa débil. — Estoy bien. Sólo cansada de estudiar para el gran examen. Te veré después de las vacaciones de Navidad, ¿de acuerdo? —. Las dos se abrazaron brevemente antes de separarse en la congestionada corriente del tráfico.

De repente, Elana oyó a Ashley gritar su nombre desde el otro lado del pasillo. — ¡Olvidé desearte Feliz Navidad! —. Elana sólo sonrió de vuelta, saludando a Ashley antes de dar la vuelta a la esquina y salir.

Abrazándose a ella misma contra el frío amargo, Elana llamó a un taxi y se dirigió a su apartamento solitario de Manhattan. El conductor zumbaba a través de racimos de tráfico, cantando al son de la radio. Su voz repicada estaba fuera de tono. No me atrevería a cantar en público si tuviese una voz como tú, pensó Elana mientras veía pequeños mechones de nieve empezar a acumularse en los coches estacionados y la acera. La vista abrió una inundación de recuerdos dolorosos: una presa rota de olores descoloridos, rostros, y palabras que se perdieron en las arenas en movimiento del tiempo.

Esta fue una temporada de vacaciones agridulce para Elana. Aunque había buenos recuerdos unidos a la Navidad, también había muchos en su pasado que ella deseaba que pudiera olvidar.

Veintidós años atrás

En esa tormentosa víspera de navidad hace veintidós años, una joven caminaba a través de los implacablemente fríos vientos del centro de la ciudad de Nueva York con un manojo de trapos apretados en el pecho. Gotas de vidrio de lágrimas congeladas se aferran a la piel expuesta de su rostro. La mujer, ligeramente aturdida y claramente angustiada, vagaba sin rumbo a través de la nieve que apuntaba a la acera vacía.

Ella no estaba segura de cuánto tiempo había estado abriéndose camino a través de la revoltosa nieve, pero sus mejillas crudas eran evidencia del tramo de tiempo y la ferocidad del viento. Para cualquiera que pasara, parecía ser sólo otra persona sin hogar: uno de los muchos intocables de la ciudad atrapada en el feroz clima, tratando de encontrar refugio. Le darían una mirada insensible y seguían en sus asuntos.

La mujer, guiada por sus pies entumecidos, caminó y caminó hasta que la luz tenue de un campanario brilló a través de la manta de sofocada de copos de nieve que caían. Poco a poco, se acercó a los escalones que conducen a la puerta y se detuvo.

—Lo siento mucho —sollozó, meciéndose ligeramente el manojo de trapos de lado a lado—. Estoy sola, y no tengo adónde ir. Estarás mejor sin mí —. Su suave llanto fue capturado en el aire como mechones de diminutas cuentas de hielo, disipando nubes de desesperación insondable. Ellas flotarían momentáneamente alrededor de su cara como una máscara delgada antes de ser tragado por las ráfagas de viento que pasan desde la calle infértil.

Poco a poco, se arrodilló y puso el paquete de trapos cuidadosamente en el paso de la catedral. Con tibias lágrimas volviéndose frías en cuanto se filtraban sobre sus mejillas temblorosas, ella volvió sus pasos por la calle y desapareció en la tormenta. Para nunca regresar.

Unos minutos más tarde, un sacerdote de la iglesia salió a los escalones delanteros. —¡Dios mío! Hace frío esta noche —, Padre Brown, un hombre alto, de mediana edad murmuró mientras tiraba su larga bufanda sobre su hombro. Metió sus manos deshuesadas en los bolsillos de su largo abrigo y tomó un momento para ver en silencio los edificios encalados con amos. Se elevaban como derivas de nieve monolíticas, filas de ventanas desnudas relucientes de hielo, como los ojos de una araña congelada.

El padre Brown se dirigía a un refugio para personas sin hogar al otro lado de la ciudad para ayudar con la preparación de la cena del día de Navidad. Al no tener familia propia, le traía más alegría estar rodeado de los necesitados que estar encerrado en la iglesia toda la noche viendo películas antiguas en el antiguo televisor en blanco y negro en su dormitorio. Aunque disfrutaba de la actuación de Jimmy Stewart en la película clásica It's a Wonderful Life, película que había visto al menos cincuenta veces hasta el momento, servir a las almas desafortunadas sería un mejor uso de su tiempo. Las sonrisas en sus rostros, tan cálido y acogedor como el pavo y puré de papas que tuvo la suerte de servir, fue más de lo que nunca podría haber pedido en este día tan sagrado. Sacando su mano de su chaqueta para revisar su reloj de pulsera, se dio cuenta de que, si quería coger el autobús al refugio, tendría que moverse.

Apurado por los escalones de la iglesia, casi tropieza. Miró hacia abajo y vio el paquete de trapos descansando en el paso inferior. Al principio pensó que era basura, el sacerdote caminó alrededor del montón de ropa cuando, de repente, oyó un gemido que emanaba del haz de trapos, silenciado por las capas. Curiosamente arrodillado para obtener una mejor mirada, casi gritó cuando los trapos comenzaron a temblar y moverse a su toque.

Fue entonces cuando se dio cuenta de que algo vivo estaba envuelto por dentro. Temiendo lo peor, rápidamente recogió el paquete y lo llevó a las paredes protectoras de la catedral. Agarrando el bulto de trapo contra su pecho, se dirigió al banco más cercano y lentamente lo puso abajo, silbando una oración. Bajo el resplandor de varias velas encendidas y asistido por la luz blanca prestada de la luna llena filtrándose a través de las vidrieras, el sacerdote rápidamente deshizo del haz de telas.

Acostado dentro del capullo de trapos sucios era un bebé recién nacido. Con sangre seca cubriendo su piel y pelo mate, sus ojos azules miraban al azar, y sus los labios secos ligeramente separados para exponer las encías púrpuras y una lengua hinchada.

—¡Dulce Madre María! —Jadeó el sacerdote, trazando reflexivamente el santo símbolo de la cruz en su cuerpo mientras corría su camino de regreso a su oficina. Una vez dentro, sus manos temblorosas agarraron el teléfono en su escritorio y marcaron 9-1-1.

—Sí, necesito que me envíen una ambulancia a la Catedral de San Patricio inmediatamente —, le rogó el sacerdote, con un sudor frío que se le derramaba en la frente. —Tengo un recién nacido moribundo aquí. Por favor, ¡dense prisa! —. Final de la llamada, corrió de nuevo al banco y sostuvo al bebé en sus brazos. Le dolió el alma mirar a la niña, arrugada y aferrándose a la vida, pero obligó a sus ojos a encontrarse con los suyos.

—No te preocupes, pequeño—, dijo, acunando a la bebé moribunda firmemente en sus brazos para mantenerla caliente. —Dios te está cuidando ahora. —

La ambulancia llegó a la iglesia no más de diez minutos más tarde, y la recién nacida fue llevada inmediatamente a un hospital local. La bebé estaba al borde de la muerte. Estaba gravemente deshidratada, y la hipotermia se había hecho sentir, haciendo que su respiración fuera superficial y el latido del corazón lento.

Incapaz de rastrear a los padres de la bebé, el hospital se puso en contacto con los servicios de niños y arregló para que la niña fuera puesta en hogares de crianza, una vez que estaba en mejor estado de salud.

Bajo el cuidado vigilante de los médicos y enfermeras, después de luchar contra una serie de infecciones y síndrome de abstinencia neonatal debido a los medicamentos a los que estuvo expuesta en el útero, se recuperó lentamente. Las enfermeras adoraban a la pequeña bebé y la sostenían en sus brazos, acurrucándola tanto como su apretada agenda lo permitía. Según las reglas del hospital, su nombre era BabyGirl, pero las enfermeras la llamaron Elana.

Fue dada de alta por el hospital un poco más de tres meses más tarde y se le asignó una trabajadora social y se le dio un nombre oficial: Elana Smith. 

http://www.authorerikamszabo.com/

Erika escribe novelas paranormales, épicas, de historia alternativa y de misterio, así como libros divertidos, educativos y bilingües para niños de 2 a 14 años sobre aceptación, amistad, familia y valores morales, como aceptar a personas con discapacidades, tratar con matones y no juzgar a otros antes de conocerlos.

W. I. D. G. E. T. S. #OurAuthorGang

 A short story by R.A. "Doc" Correa

The U. S. Army pursues the technologies “improving” Soldier-Machine Interface for Future Combat Systems. What are the consequences for humans?

May 28, 2073, South of Merida, Spain

We exist to serve.

With that imperative implanted in its mind, Mk-17D unit AA00000487 becomes “active”, or so the main control panel in the M-73A3 Heavy Assault and Command Carrier indicates. But unit AA00000487 has a secret none of the J.A.C.K.S. suspect. Unit AA00000487 is always “active” because it thinks on its own, fully aware it was once a he—a man named Michael Andrew Stevens.

It does not show on their control panel, but Michael Andrew Stevens‘ brain works without their direction, though it’s not supposed to operate outside of established parameters. His mind is only supposed to process directives from the division chain of command, or execute those of tactical significance, and should operate independently only when directive 17 is initiated.

But he does think his own thoughts; they bypass the specially developed neuropathways all W.I.D.G.E.T.S’ brain activity is supposed to follow. If the function varies from set parameters, it would be noticed.

Yet he sees, hears, smells, and feels. Mostly, he feels desperation. When will this nightmare end? When will I escape this living hell?

All of this is not possible. When Michael Andrew Stevens was first upgraded to a cyborg, his ability to think as an individual was supposedly engineered out of him. Neuropathways were constructed by implanted viruses, directing thoughts in very specific ways. Chip implants were inserted into his brain to generate only approved signals. Locations in the brain generating emotions like love, fear, and compassion were all bypassed. Only anger remains linked in, helping make the unit a more effective killing machine. With his upgrade to Mk-17D, when he became a Wholly Integrated Directable General Engagement Tactical System, all remaining humanity was supposed to have been removed from unit AA00000487. Any sign of humanity makes the unit less efficient.

Something else that isn’t possible is happening in the free part of his mind. Michael “sees” an image, the image of a young blond woman. She wears an officer’s uniform, that of a third lieutenant, a cadet. Her arms are open, she beckons for him to come to her, then she is gone. Is it a memory, or a vision? It can’t be a memory; I’ve never seen this woman before.

Unit AA00000487 moves to the parking area for its company. The unit is a Sergeant, a platoon leader. The forty other units of 1^st Platoon, Dog Company, 1^st BN, 327^th Infantry Regiment Cyborg, 82^nd ABN Div Cyborg park around it in platoon pre-assault formation.

Unit AA00000487 sees a near perfect formation, all units are in the correct location, in the proper order. The Mk-17D units are all armed and in standby mode. Power is at reaction level; the med readout shows all bio indicators in “normal” range. They are ready. It reports affirmative to the company commander.

Michael “looks” at the terrain map grid display in his mind. All Michael sees are those for which he’s responsible.

The leader’s data download begins, a massive amount of information is shoved into the neuropathways of his brain. Though the instruments in the command carrier will not register a physical reaction, he feels it. It hurts… it hurts like hell! The pain is excruciating; if he could, he’d vomit. In a millisecond, it’s over.

Now the chips in his brain parse the data, directing smaller data streams to the units of his platoon. In his mind he says, I’m sorry guys.

Unit AA00000487 reviews the platoon’s assigned tasks. Dog company is being held in reserve as part of the exploitation force. Unless there is a change in plan, when ordered 1^st platoon will move by air to a location south of Guadalajara and seize the bridges over the Rio Tajo in and around the town of Sacedón, severing the road and rail lines northwest to Madrid from Cuenca, and the north-south lines between Guadalajara and Cuenca. Once that is accomplished, the platoon will hold the thirty by forty-kilometer region around these bridges from “yard” counterattack. The platoon is to hold this area until link up with the rest of the division is complete.

Until deployment, the cyborg part of him will do everything required. It will move, it will load onto the UV-123 Locust, it will direct the other units to move and load with it. Michael now has several hours to think, to remember. How the hell did I end up like this?

Michael thinks back on what he didn’t know at the time was his last day of “freedom”.

It was June 12^th, 2042, he was just eighteen. This was his third time before “The Judge”. “The Judge” was a holographic projection of A.S.I.N.M.

During the chaos of the 2020s, people lost trust in their institutions. The police, the courts, and the governments all came under scrutiny—and fell short. The political parties went from opposing each other’s policies to open hatred and hostility. Violence, riots, and open rebellion enveloped the nations of the planet.

Then came the pandemics. Three variations of the virus linked to S.A.R.S. swept the planet. These were followed by a reappearance of the Plague, but this Plague was antibiotic resistant.

When they were fully analyzed, it was determined that the first of the virus strains was genetically modified by the Chinese military. The other two mutated from the first. And the Plague, the Plague was genetically manipulated by the Iranian Takavar.

Analysis indicated the Chinese modified virus escaped from one of their research facilities. It devastated them as much as everyone else. All indicators show the modified Plague was deliberately released by the Iranian Takavar in order to bring back the Twelfth Imam. All reports state the Takavar were unsuccessful in their attempt to fulfill prophecy.

The diseases killed millions, but the panic caused by them killed tens of millions more. Much of that panic was caused by news agencies attempting to use the pandemics to push political changes and assign blame on those they opposed. In the aftermath of the pandemics, and the propaganda campaigns that ensued, war and terrorism enveloped the planet.

The young blond woman appears in his mind again. Is she crying?

The National governments all reacted in different ways to restore order. In the United States they turned to technology, they turned to A.S.I.N.M.

A.S.I.N.M., Artificial Super Intelligent Network Manager, did such a great job of restoring economic confidence and prosperity that many local governments submitted to it to manage the police, the recovery projects, and the courts. Defendants would appear before a totally neutral bench to plead their case. No human bias, no compassion, no anger, no fear, just the cold logic of artificial super intelligence.

Continue reading in the Anthology

https://books2read.com/u/mv9Pxj

Campfire Stories 1 #OurAuthorGang

 A campfire story by Erika M Szabo

When A Camping Trip Goes Wrong

Paul, a successful lawyer in his mid-thirties, planned a weekend kayaking trip with his best friends, Steve and Jack. He wanted a chance for old buddies to reconnect in nature because he hated the underlying tensions between them. Lately, small arguments erupted into heated debates, hidden resentments came to light, and once solid friendships now felt fragile and uncertain.

But things didn't go as expected. The weather was comfortably warm and sunny when they left the city but unexpectedly turned. By the time they arrived at the campsite in the mountains, the heavy rain had turned the calm river into a muddy, raging force.

They were soaked to the bones when finally, the tents were up, but the flood threatened to wash the tents away because they pitched them too close to the water's edge. And it wasn't just the weather that had turned against them. The stress of the long journey to the mountains and the unexpected storm exposed underlying tensions within the group. Small arguments erupted into heated debates, hidden resentments came to light, and once solid friendships now felt fragile and uncertain.

The team huddled inside a flimsy tent while the rain hammered down and the wind howled outside. They were tired and anxious, listening to the frightening sounds of nature's wrath, debating whether they should tough it out or pack up their cars and return to the city.

However, as the sun set and the storm subsided, they regrouped around a crackling fire. The tension from earlier still lingered, but they were determined to salvage their trip and make the most of the remaining weekend together. They prepared dinner in silence, and to lift the mood, Paul proposed telling stories as they always did on high school trips.

Stomachs full and warmed by the cozy fire, the group eagerly anticipated the stories as each friend took turns sharing tales of ghosts, demons, and urban legends. As their voices lowered to a whisper and they leaned in closer, it was clear that they were all drawn into the spell of storytelling. The flickering shadows cast by the trees, the haunting calls of creatures in the distance, and the cold night air only added to the chilling atmosphere.

As the evening went on, the tales became darker and more twisted, each one trying to top the last. But no one minded – in fact, they reveled in it.

They shivered with excitement as Steve, the best storyteller among them, started his frightening story of an old mountain legend. “Long ago, a group of hunters had been savagely murdered by a mysterious Shapeshifter. Ever since every spring, campers and hunters had been mauled by this creature who was said to be living in the mountains for centuries. The legend says, the Shapeshifter showed up in different forms drawn by the campfire and takes an item from everyone. Late at night when people are settled and were asleep in their tents, the Shapeshifter drank their blood and tore them to pieces one by one. There were never any survivors.”

The fire crackled and popped, casting eerie shadows on the faces of the listeners. Their imagination triggered and imagined being trapped in nature with a mysterious, ancient monster lurking in the shadows.

Paul spoke up, trying to break through the tension that hung in the air. “Come on Steve, you just made it up. There’s no such thing as a ‘Shapeshifter’.”

Suddenly, they all jumped at the sound of rustling bushes nearby. Steve let out a nervous laugh and got up from his seat by the fire. “Relax guys, I’ll go check it out.”

He walked toward where he thought he had heard the noise coming from, while everyone else held their breath, unsure if they should follow or stay put.

After what felt like an eternity, Steve returned with a cheerful grin on his face.

“Cool it, guys,” he laughed. “It was just a raccoon.”

A wave of relief washed over them all and they laughed at their own paranoia. But deep down, the thought of the Shapeshifter lurking in the shadows still lingered.

“You just made up that legend, didn’t you?” grumbled Paul.

“Yeah, I thought it was when I first heard it!” Steve shouted. “Until last summer when I saw on the news that two hunters were killed not far from here by wild animals. They said they were attacked by mountain lions, but when I thought about this legend I heard when I was a kid…”

“Yeah, I saw that on the news too!” Jack exclaimed, shivering.

The group's fear intensified as they heard rustling sounds coming from the woods, and a creeping sense of being watched overcame them. Every conversation and movement were now tinged with paranoia and suspicion.

And then they heard it - slow footsteps approaching their campsite. The friends were frozen in terror, certain that their worst nightmares were about to come true. But instead of scattering in panic, their shared fear united them. Bravely, they stood their ground and confronted whatever or whoever lurked beyond the safety of their circle of light.

Paul's voice trembled as he shouted into the darkness, "Who's there? Show yourself!"

A calm yet authoritative voice responded from within the dense bushes, followed by a bright beam of light piercing through the blackness. "Calm down, young man," the deep, masculine voice said. "I’m a park ranger conducting routine checks on campers and warning kayakers not to venture onto the river. The heavy rain has raised the water level to dangerous heights, and the current is too strong for safe navigation."

After the ranger disappeared in the thick bushes continuing his rounds, the friends tried to brush off their fear and continue with their stories. But the unease remained as an added layer, and their anxiety was palpable.

The temperature dropped and Paul shivered and went into his tent to grab his warmer jacket. “Did you guys see my jacket?” he shouted.

“Nope,” Steve said standing up. “I better get mine too, it’s getting chilly.” Opening his tent, he stood frozen. “That’s odd,” he murmured. “My jacket is not here, either.”

Jack rushed to his tent and looked inside. “Who’s doing this?” he yelled. “My blanket is missing.”

The group exchanged uneasy glances. As much as they wanted to brush it off as just another of Steve’s scary stories, there were too many coincidences for comfort. The missing items, the ranger’s visit…

A thought crossed Paul's mind, "What if… what if the ranger is the Shapeshifter and…?"

The others were quick to dismiss this idea, but a seed of doubt had been planted. None of them could sleep now, fear keeping them awake and alert. They kept the fire going all night, jumping at every rustle in the bushes. As soon as the sun appeared on the horizon, they let out a collective sigh of relief.

“Let’s get out of here!” Paul suggested. “We can’t go kayaking, anyway.”

The others just nodded in agreement and packed up their things in silence, they felt relief. They jumped into their cars and drove on the muddy dirt road toward the highway as fast as they could.

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.

Book Sunday

 Today's recommendation is a supernatural fantasy

https://books2read.com/The-Potion-by-Erika-M-Szabo

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

Will they succeed?

Prologue

Cordelia, the high priestess of the Ravenwood Coven, stood in front of the altar lighting the candles one by one. The room was dark, and the flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows on the walls. Her hair was pulled into a bun, and her statuesque figure hid under her long, hooded cape. She held her arms high, reciting a prayer.

Lady of the Moon

Let my mind be attuned

I need your guidance

Lord of the Sunrise

Hear my humble cries

I need your guidance.

Cordelia flipped her long cape, turned around with three silver goblets on a tray, and stared for a long moment at the nervous-looking young women and man sitting side by side. Her stern expression sent deep shivers down their spines. She reached them with a few small steps and stood over them before handing them the goblets. “Drink!” Her booming voice filled the room.

Olivia, a slender, dark-haired young woman; Candice, the athletic-built blonde; and Dorian, a dark-haired young man, exchanged nervous glances. They took the goblets with shaky hands, lifted them to their lips and drank the ruby red liquid. Their expressions changed. They seemed to be in a deep trance.

The High Priestess watched the trio for a minute and then asked, “Do you wish to become apprentices of the Ravenwood Coven?

“Yes, I do,” came the reply from the three young acolytes in unison.

“Do you promise to follow the Coven rules and promise to practice only white magic?”

“Yes, I do,” the three answered.

“Do you promise to be loyal to the coven and its members, and promise not to compete with each other or be jealous of others?”

“Yes, I do,” Olivia and Dorian replied without hesitation, but Candice’s answer came a second later: “I’ll try.”

Cordelia drew a sharp breath. I’ll give her a chance because her grandmother is an Elder, but I’ll keep a close eye on her. She clapped her hands, and the young acolytes snapped out of the trance, looking a little dazed and confused.

“Welcome to Ravenwood Coven,” Cordelia announced. “You’re now apprentices. It will be a long road, and the next months will not be easy. You will study and practice hard before you can become witches and a warlock. Good luck to you all.”

Chapter One

When Olivia passed the entry exam and was accepted as an apprentice into the Coven, it was the best day of her life. Her father and grandmother had been preparing her since she was a little girl, despite the objection of her mother. Her parents were happy together and lived in harmony, except for occasional fights between them about the family tradition.

Her mother, Gloria, objected. “Why does she have to be a witch? I’m not, and we’re happy!”

“Because this is our family tradition, and you knew it when you married me. Remember?” Xavier, Olivia’s father, patiently replied.

“Why did you marry me? You knew I was different and never wanted anything to do with witchcraft.”

“Because the blue butterfly told me,” Xavier said.

“A what? Are you losing your mind?” Gloria asked, feeling alarmed and concerned.

“I never told you this…because I never wanted you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now.” He bowed his head and swallowed hard. He then looked into his wife’s eyes and continued, “My family is protected by guardians, and they communicate with us by making different colored butterflies appear to show us the right path. The blue butterfly they sent me the day I met you was to show me that we were soulmates.”

 “That’s so sweet! Scary, but sweet. And yes, we are soulmates, darling. But I don’t remember seeing a butterfly,” she said, staring at her husband.

“Only we can see them. They function as detectors of people’s intentions. You’re a good, honest, and loyal person. That’s why the guardians showed me the blue butterfly.”

“Aw… But still, Olivia doesn’t have to be a witch,” she protested weakly, folding her arms across her chest.

“I told you before we got married that our children will join the Coven when they turn eighteen, and you agreed,” Xavier argued.

“Yes, but…but I was hoping you’d change your mind,” his wife replied in a quieter tone of voice. “Okay, okay! It’s just… I don’t have to like it.”

“You should be proud of her, honey. She did very well on the entry exam. She’ll be a great witch.”

“I’m proud of her, and I know she wants to follow in your footsteps. It’s just, I had a different future in mind for her. She loves science, and I was hoping she might want to follow that path.”

“And she will. She can be a great scientist or researcher, and a witch, too.”

***

Candice enjoyed being popular and never really wanted to become a witch, but because her grandmother insisted, she applied for the apprenticeship. Her mother was absent most of the time, following fleeting dreams and ideas. The only steady person in Candice’s life was her grandmother.

Although Candice passed the entry test, which made her grandmother happy, she was more interested in partying than studying spells and potions. The idea of following the strict rules and studying all the time bored her, but her interest flared when she found out Dorian had joined the Coven as well.

She preferred partying with the athletic boys of the football team, but when she noticed that Olivia and Dorian were developing more than a friendship, she grew jealous of their closeness and quiet happiness. She wanted to be happy like them; she wanted him. She tried starting conversations with him, asked him to go to a party with her, and asked him to study potions and spells with her. Dorian gave her a polite excuse every time.

Feeling frustrated, Candice confided in her grandmother. “They’re spending all their free time together and started dating! How could he like her? She’s so plain and weird. Okay, she’s a caring person, but still. I’m a cheerleader and the prettiest girl in school. How could he not like me?”

“You’re the prettiest, love,” her grandmother cooed, hugging her. “He’s interested in her, so leave them be. There are other boys. Looks like the family curse follows you too like a shadow.” Her grandmother sighed.

“What curse?” Candice asked.

“We’re cursed with always wanting what we can’t have.”

“No, Grandma! I want him! I want him to go on a date with me, to return my feelings. I want to be his girlfriend, but no, he had to ask Olivia, sweet and boring Olivia. All she cares about is school and being boring. I’m popular and full of zest for life. What does she have that I don’t have?”

“Nothing, dear. She’s just a plain and boring girl, just like her grandma was. They make a good pair; Dorian is not an interesting person either. Even if he’d have asked you out instead of Olivia, you’d grow bored with him in no time.”

“No, Grandma. I want him! I’ll find a way to make him fall in love with me.”

“And, the family curse continues...” the old lady muttered under her breath, feeling sad and frustrated.

Chapter Two

Candice and Olivia were seniors in high school, and both came from a long line of witches and warlocks. They hadn’t really spoken to each other before they both became acolytes of the Ravenwood Coven. Candice was a beautiful and popular cheerleader, always wearing colorful clothes. Olivia was a shy loner, always dressed in black. Candice hung out with the cheerleaders and often humiliated Olivia publicly, or sometimes she posted degrading things about Goth people on social sites to make fun of her.

They were warned by the High Priestess not to tell anyone about the Coven. They kept it a secret, and Candice rarely talked to Olivia in school. She spoke to her only when she needed her help. One day, at lunch, Candice surprised Olivia by approaching her at the geek table. As Candice sat down, Olivia watched the brown-winged butterfly hovering over her head. She’s a bad person. Dad warned me about the brown butterfly people. I must be cautious, she thought.

Candice leaned closer to Olivia and said in a hushed tone, “I’m in trouble! I didn’t have time to practice, and we’ll have to perform a protection spell tonight. You have to help me.”

Olivia looked at her in disbelief. “You didn’t practice? Studying for school and memorizing the spell and ritual kept me up half the night.”

“We had cheerleading practice, and after that, we went to a party. I was too tired. Being a cheerleader is a commitment, and sometimes it’s not easy to keep up with the others. You always have to pretend to be chipper and happy, even when you’re not. And you always have to do everything as a group. I couldn’t just tell the girls that I needed to study a magical protection spell, now could I? Besides, we had so much fun last night. The football team joined us.” Candice smiled, and her blonde ponytail bounced as she shifted in her seat impatiently.

“I can imagine. Maybe I should have joined the cheerleading squad instead of the science lab,” Olivia said sarcastically.

“You know you wouldn’t have made it. You’re not flexible enough… and a Plain Jane like you wouldn’t be accepted, anyway.” Candice turned away, muttering.

Her mocking tone hurt Olivia’s feelings. She knew Candice didn’t care about her; she just tolerated her and used her, but she couldn’t say no. “Okay, I’ll help you.” She helped Candice memorizing the spell at recess, and the day went by quickly.

***

On the way home Olivia was thinking about her growing feelings for Dorian. She first saw him when his family moved to town to be closer to his ailing grandmother when they were in the ninth grade. She liked him and secretly hoped that one day he’d like her back. But deep down she never thought he would like a girl like her, until recently, when he joined the science club and was accepted into the Coven. He was nice to Olivia and didn’t care about how she looked. They had become best friends. He was interested in the genuine person she was.

Her heart warmed every time she saw him, and she fantasized about him a lot. One day when they were in tenth grade, she was going home from the store and saw him in his Grandma’s driveway next door. He was working on his car, leaning over the engine, under the hood. Olivia was too busy gawking at him and dropped her bag while taking the paper out of the mailbox. He had looked up, startled by the loud thud.

“Are you okay?” he’d asked, concerned.

“No, I’m fine, just dropped my bag. What are you working on?”

“Changing the oil. Mom and I came over to clean Grandma’s house.”

“Is she home from the hospital?”

“We’re going to bring her home tomorrow. She had a hip replacement.”

“Yes, my mom told me.”

“Hey, would you like to go for a cup of coffee after I finish the oil change and get cleaned up?” he’d asked.

He’d always been friendly, but Olivia hadn’t expected him to ask her out and felt the heat rising to her face. “Are you asking me to go on a date?” She didn’t really believe her ears.

He cocked his head. “It’s about time, don’t you think? Or if you don’t want to go out with me…” He left the sentence open and looked at her questioningly. 

Olivia had smiled, feeling and looking embarrassed. “Yes… I mean… Okay,” she stuttered but quickly came to her senses. “I have a few things to do, but we can go to Karen’s shop in about an hour for coffee and cake.” She didn’t want him to think she was a desperate loner who’d been fantasizing about that moment for a long time.

“She makes the best lemon poppy cupcakes with vanilla frosting.” Dorian had smiled and turned back to the car.        

Olivia had nodded and hurried inside before she could manage to make herself look foolish.

One date and bonding over cupcakes had led to more dates. They enjoyed each other’s company, and they spent as much time together as they could. They took long walks by the river, and he helped her collecting herbs in the woods. Dorian’s grandmother, a retired witch, as she often called herself, was an Elder of the Ravenwood Coven. She was happy when Dorian decided to follow her. His mother never showed interest in joining the Coven. She divorced Dorian’s dad when he was very young, and he rarely visited but once or twice a year.

Dorian knew Olivia’s father and grandmother practiced witchcraft. He asked them to help his mother after his grandmother told him it was beyond her knowledge, and the doctors were puzzled by her mysterious illness that left her weak and tired all the time. Olivia’s dad and grandma had performed cleansing and healing rituals, making Dorian’s mother healthy.

When Olivia told Dorian she wanted to be an apprentice, he was eager to know more. She told him about white magic, and he decided to apply for apprenticeship in the Coven as well. Their friendship deepened and bloomed. When he confessed his love for her, and they shared their first kiss, Olivia watched as a blue butterfly flapped its wings above them. I know he’s a good person, but could he really be my soulmate? Well, the guardians didn’t lie before… 

Continue reading or listen to the audiobook:

https://books2read.com/The-Potion-by-Erika-M-Szabo

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.

Can AI Replace Human Writers?

 Is AI getting too smart for our own good?

Lately, there has been talk about authors using AI to "write" books and self-publish them. So, I decided to read a story created by AI and self-published by an "author."

My findings:

While the writing is technically sound and grammatically correct, and the story presents an interesting plot, I found that it lacks a human touch in conveying the characters' feelings and personalities. Although the characters are well-described, the writing noticeably lacks imagination, vivid descriptions, and originality. This issue is becoming increasingly common in many creative industries, with the rise of AI-generated books only amplifying the problem.

AI's reliance on existing texts often results in derivative ideas that may already exist elsewhere. This can lead to less engaging and impersonal content that fails to capture the reader's attention, and it may even risk unintentional plagiarism.

The Ethical Side of AI-Generated and AI-Assisted Writing

There is an ongoing debate about the morality of using AI to write and publish books and whether using a writing assistant to edit and polish a manuscript is appropriate. 

Distinction Between AI-Generated and AI-Assisted Content

Content created entirely by pressing a single button with the help of AI technology is typically of low quality and likely yields a subpar reading experience. This type of content is classified as AI-generated. In contrast, AI-assisted content uses AI-powered tools as a co-pilot in the writing process, supporting rather than fully creating the material.

Changes in Traditional Publishing

As AI book writers begin to flood the market, the traditional publishing model is undergoing changes. Editors, proofreaders, and self-publishing companies are increasingly offering options to incorporate AI into the manuscript process based on budget and time constraints. Is this the right approach?

Market Saturation

The growing number of AI authors may lead to an abundance of published works. However, quantity does not always equate to quality. With the ease of creating and publishing AI-generated books, the market may become overcrowded with titles that lack significant value.

Decreased Reader Interest

Given the vast array of books available, readers may feel overwhelmed and lose interest. Regardless of whether a book is created by AI or humans, poor-quality content is easily recognizable. However, if you invest your heart and soul into crafting exceptional stories within your niche, your work will stand out for all the right reasons, even in a saturated market.

Legal Implications

I am curious about the legal aspects of publishing a book solely created by AI. Currently, it is unclear whether copyright protection can be granted to content that is 100% AI-generated. Who would claim copyright in this case? Would it be the AI, or the human who uploaded the work without having written it?

My Conclusion

I choose not to use AI in my writing process because I enjoy writing and expressing my creativity through storytelling. However, once I complete my story, I do utilize software to check grammar, sentence flow, and identify overused words. In my opinion, even the best editing software cannot replace the need for a human editor. Therefore, I also hire an editor to perform a final review of my books before publishing.

What is your opinion as a creative writer? 

Would you publish a story you didn't write?

What is your opinion as a reader?

Would you prefer stories written by AI?

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.

Happy New Year

 Happy New Year to all our readers

In the Western world, we mark the start of a new year on January 1st, thanks to Julius Caesar and his Julian calendar implemented in 45 B.C. The month of January is named after Janus, the Roman deity with two faces - one looking towards the future, the other towards the past. He presided over new beginnings, endings, and transitions - symbolized by doorways and passages.

As the old year fades, and the new one draws near,

We gather together, to spread love and cheer.

With a heart full of hope, love, and dreams,

Wishing you happiness, good health, and peace.

~Erika M Szabo

Wishing you a happy, healthy, and successful New Year!

The blog authors

Lorraine Carey

https://authorlorrainecarey.blogspot.com/

As the New Year approaches, I’ve decided to abandon my usual (and futile) resolution of cutting out sweets. Instead—thanks to my husband’s gentle nudge—I’m embracing a new one: “Feed your mind,” he always says, “immerse yourself in something positive and enlightening.” This year, I’m taking his advice to heart. It’s time to trade my endless binge-watching of conspiracy theory videos for something more uplifting. Not only will this likely bring clarity, but as a writer, I’m hopeful it might spark fresh inspiration. To my wonderful readers and fellow writers: may your New Year be filled with creativity and success. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for your incredible support over the years!

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

As I entered my thirties, I made the decision to stop setting New Year's resolutions. I realized that every year, no matter how determined I was at first, I only stuck to my resolutions for a few short weeks before reverting back to old habits.  Instead, I set small goals every morning that bring me joy and motivation and reflect on my accomplishments each evening to keep a positive outlook. The start of a new year brings with it new challenges and opportunities for growth, but I approach them with a sense of excitement and determination rather than overwhelming pressure to stick to strict resolutions. To my readers, I wish you a happy, healthy, and successful New Year, and thank you for your continuous support and encouragement. 

David W. Thompson

https://www.david-w-thompson.com

I must confess, I’m not a great one for New Year’s resolutions. So, the reality is it’ll be a New Year, same old me situation. Any attempts at self-improvement will be in dribs and drabs rather than grand gestures doomed to fail.

I’m currently working on a second installment in the Emma Love mystery series. With the Winter Solstice in the rearview mirror, the mountains, the river, and my garden will soon beckon. Hopefully, the rabbits won’t eat all my vegetables this year.

As 2025 fades into history, I’d like to thank my readers for their loyalty in sticking with me on this journey. I appreciate sharing a tale or two with you. The campfires we share might be flameless, but that’s where many friendships and all good stories begin. Happy New Year!

R. A. “Doc” Correa

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

The next year holds lots of possibilities. I’m looking forward to spending time with my great-grandchildren and teaching them how to camp, do first aid, and many other skills. I’ve got four works in progress, including a collaboration with Rhonda, all of which I will make progress on. And at the top of the list, writing more short stories for the anthologies I’ve had the opportunity to be a part of.

Enjoy Our Song

She Waits

 A short story by Lorraine Carey

During a class field trip to a historical site in the Caribbean, a curious student encounters a lonely ghost who does not want her to leave.

The sun was just about to set as eight-year-old Mary Jane Eden watched its golden rays spread over the azure waters surrounding Grand Cayman as if to illuminate and warm the sea. She smiled and felt at ease as she sat in her weather-beaten rocker on the second floor of Pedro St. James Castle.  It had the best views on the island—it always did, that was until it had fallen into ruin in the 1950s. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky this late September evening. The mahogany wooden floor creaked as she rocked back and forth. The grounds people had left for the day—she knew their routine, after all, she’d been here since 1877. Since that time, she was bound to the property when she was struck by lightning on the steps of the plantation house as she and her brother went to fetch water in some buckets.

Before that, the castle was one of Grand Cayman’s most important historical properties, a place where democracy had taken place back in 1831 and later the governor of Jamaica had proclaimed the end of slavery in the British Empire. The three-story structure resembled that of a plantation solidly built with stone walls 18 inches thick. It was originally built by slaves and William Eden and his family resided there until his daughter was killed by a freak lightning strike during a tropical storm. It was then the family decided to move, leaving the castle to be later occupied as a bar and a restaurant, but only to become victim to two mysterious fires. The seven-and-a-half-acre property is surrounded by colorful bougainvillea and opulent poinciana trees.

The tourists had been sparse lately and Mary Jane wondered who would show up tomorrow. Maybe someone who would want to stay, maybe stay longer than the usual tour. Every day gave her new hope.

She wandered around the three-tier plantation checking to see if anyone was still there. She peered out of the thick louvered shutters once again checking the night sky for any hint of a storm. She went from room to room twirling around in her long white tattered dress. She decided to sit on the wooden rocking horse in one of the main bedrooms. It was a special gift she treasured from her father one Christmas. She rocked away until she became very sleepy.

***

“Now please, please, stay with your guide,” Mrs. Taylor urged. “If you get lost then it will reflect on Grand Island Elementary and we’ll never get an invitation to come back to visit,” she said, her tone firm.

She had been taking her sixth-grade class to Pedro St. James Castle for the past seven years on a field trip. It was scheduled every year by the principal urging local students and expat parents to work on the island to learn the history of the structure.

Mrs. Taylor tried to settle her students in hopes of gaining their interest, instead of posting videos on social media.

“Students, as you know in 1831 this island signed its first democracy papers and the government had been formed,” raved a tall elderly man who was the main docent for the tour. “My name is Mr. Dalton. You will first watch a movie on the history of the castle in our large theater room and then we will begin our live tour. And please remember to have your phones muted or turned off during the presentation.”

The students were all seated in the theater then the lights went out. There was only blackness as the big screen rolled down from the ceiling. A few of Mrs. Taylor’s students began to scream, but it was mostly the girls.

“Ssh!” Mrs. Taylor hissed, putting her finger up to her lips. 

“But, Mrs. Taylor, I’m scared, and I don’t like this place!” Jessa Franklin said, clinging to her teacher’s arm.

Dana Benson had her arm around Jessa, being they had been best friends since first grade. “It’s okay, Jessa. It’s just a movie.”

“I can walk her outside, Mrs. Taylor,” offered one of the parent volunteers.

“I’ll be okay, Mrs. Taylor,” Jessa said softly. “I’m going to be brave.”

“The movie will be over soon and then we’ll be out in the sunshine,” Mrs. Taylor assured. “You’ll feel better then.”

The movie began with the portrayal of the beautiful grounds that surrounded the castle as Robert Thompson, the governor from Jamaica held court inside where he issued a proclamation that ended slavery in the British Empire. Outside dark skies rolled in and thunder boomed as a fleet of pirate ships came ashore only to be met with an intense thunderstorm that now caused the castle to be shed in an eerie light. The loud booms caused the entire theater room to vibrate due to a state-of-the-art surround sound system. A misting system had been activated to sprinkle its audience giving them the full effect of the storm, not to mention the musty smell of a damp theater.

A voice echoed from the speakers, “What you are about to see is not for the faint of heart.”

Jessa grabbed Dana’s arm tightly. “I’m going to cover my eyes.”

A frightening portrayal of the storm that had taken the life of Mary Jane Eden, the daughter of William had commenced. Most of the students were silent as they watched bolts of lightning strike the child on the steps of the bottom landing as she and her brother attempted to fill buckets of rainwater.

When the movie screen rolled up, the lights came back on and everyone clapped, especially Jessa.

“Okay, students, now that you know the history of the plantation you’ll get a tour from our guides, Mr. Dalton informed.

“I’m glad, that’s over,” Jessa sighed as she wiped the sweat off her forehead while they walked outside. The bright sunlight hit their faces like a strobe light causing the students to squint. Jessa wasn’t the only one who was glad to be outside as the other students spoke of being spooked in the theater.

“Mrs. Taylor, can I use the restroom?” asked Dante Reed, the class troublemaker and attention seeker.

“Sure, and you know, I think we’ll all take a break before heading on with the tour. Please stay with your group. We’ll meet out by the main house when you’re done,” the middle-aged teacher said while pulling her long brown hair up into a high bun. She wiped the back of her neck with a handkerchief.

“Ya know, Dana, for some reason this place really gives me the creeps. Do you believe the stories about the slaves they kept in the basement and all the strange things that went on here?” Jessa asked while scanning over the lush grounds.

Continue reading in the Anthology

https://books2read.com/u/b5wDEA

Book Sunday

 Today's recommendation is a science fiction-space opera

Read a chapter

Rapier

by R.A. "Doc" Correa

Prologue

“Shit, I’m going to be late!”

     Kathy hops out of the bathroom of her tiny flat, pulling up her pantyhose. She looks at them as she does. “Damn, I’ve got a run in them,” she growls at the streak on her right thigh. Maybe no one will notice. You’d think that with all this new technology, being able to travel among the stars, that someone could invent pantyhose that don’t run. She frowns at the thought. Kathy adjusts her skirt so the patch she sewed will be covered by her coat.

     Kathy looks in the mirror. Her dark-brown hair has a graying streak by her right temple, but her deep brown eyes are still bright and full of life despite everything. Everything—space battles, raids, sword fights—and all this time trying to raise a young girl among battle-hardened raiders. It’s amazing that all my hair isn’t gray.

     Her white blouse is fraying in places, so to keep it covered, Kathy puts on the leather bustier he gave her. It still fits like the first time she wore it. Her figure hasn’t changed much at all, even after having a baby.

     For a moment she thinks of him, a tear forms in her eye. Kathy rubs his wedding ring, which she wears on her ring finger. “No time for this!” she admonishes herself. Still, she can’t help seeing the dark-brown eyes, salt-and-pepper mustache, graying hair, and devilish smile—a smile Kathy sees every night in her dreams.

     Kathy looks around her flat. It’s small and sparsely furnished, barely enough room for the three of them, and she can’t even afford this. Still, it’s better than the cells the Americans kept her and the others in. The bastards, how dare they. There was a deal, a deal that has given them the edge in the current war, and they didn’t even try to keep their end of it.

     Since her “rescue” (that’s how the Americans touted it in the media when they released her, Cindy, and little James—the Americans rescued them from pirates), she’s been trying to get by. The brothers gifted her almost all their loot. It was washed very clean by it being passed through numerous corporations, off-planet banks, and other entities. But the Earth government, particularly the Americans, has kept it from being released to her, claiming it was the ill-gotten gain from piracy. Piracy, that’s almost funny; it didn’t seem like piracy at the time. Somehow it seemed like justice. Justice for those that were abandoned, justice for those who were senselessly slaughtered, justice for those enslaved.

     The truth is, the Americans don’t want it known what happened to the people they wouldn’t fight for, and the Chinese definitely don’t want the truth of what they’ve done to come out. They know more colonies will join the war against them.

     Oscar looks lazily at her from the table.

     “If you don’t have anything helpful to say, don’t say anything,” she says to the cat. He just rolls over, keeping his eyes on her and answers, Meow.

     “Thanks,” she replies mockingly. Oscar responds with his usual indifference. Kathy hears the cab honk for her and rushes out the door with her bag and coat. She waves bye to little James and shouts, “Thanks, Mrs. Fuji. I love you, James.”

     “Good luck, Kathy!” Mrs. Fuji shouts in reply. Little James waves and says, “Bye, Mommy.”

     “The Galactic Geographic building,” she tells the driver as she enters the cab. “Yes, ma’am,” the cabby replies as he swiftly cuts into traffic.

     The cab drops Kathy Masters off in front of the Galactic Geographic building. It’s been over eleven years since the last time she was here. It looks the same as it did the first time she saw it. But she is definitely not the same as when she first was here.

     She enters the lobby, walks to the lift, and pushes the call button.

     The last time Kathy was here, it was just her. A twenty-year-old gifted photographer being offered the chance of a lifetime, to photograph the creatures of a newly discovered planet before full colonization begins. Now it’s Kathy, her son James, and Cindy.

     The lift doors open. She enters and punches the button for the thirteenth floor. Her thoughts continue.

     Cindy, her adopted daughter, a very brash and creative sixteen-year-old. The two of them have been together since she was five, but she’s definitely not five now. They’ve been back on Earth for just over two years, and she’s proven to be quite a handful. Five times now, Kathy’s been called to school because she’s been fighting. Not the silly girl fights most high school girls have, no. She’s been kicking the butts of the boys in school, specifically the jocks. She likes fighting wrestlers and football players the most. One time, Kathy entered the principal’s office to find she had beaten and tied up three eighty-kilo linemen.

     And the capers she’s pulled off—a floating gambling ring at school, the fake-diamond scam, and her favorite, the Gibb switch. That one nearly got her arrested by the Feds. Yet whenever Kathy looks at her, she still sees the frightened five-year-old she shared a cell in the brig of the Rapier with—the young girl she raised among a crew of the roughest raiders in human space. Their princess, their daughter, their lovely child that they entrusted to Kathy to teach how to be a woman.

     The lift door opens, and Kathy steps out into the hallway.

     Kathy has tried to work as a photographer since she returned, but no one will hire her. They all look at her with the same expression, but it’s their eyes that tell the truth of what they are thinking. She’s a pirate, a thief, and a cutthroat. They all fear her. Good, she likes it that way. Who needs them anyway?

     But her heart hasn’t been in it. Still with the Feds holding her money, she’s broke. She can’t take care of little James, Cindy, and herself this way. So she’s decided to play her last card. The pics. I sure hope this is the time the gods spoke of, please let it be.

     Kathy walks into the Galactic Geographic offices, walks up to the receptionist, and announces, “Kathy Masters for Mr. Baker.”

     “One moment, Miss Masters,” the receptionist says coldly. Kathy can hear it in her voice, pirate. She can go to hell!

     The pictures, they’re all Kathy has left from those nine years. As difficult as they were, Kathy and Cindy think of them as the best of their lives, and she misses them. She misses all of them—especially him, Commodore Black.

     The receptionist says, “He’s ready for you, Miss Masters.” She points down the hall. It’s there again in her voice, pirate. But she’s not just any pirate—no, indeed. She’s the pirate that caused the war. She survived to tell part of the story—that and what was recovered with her was all it took. And now the colonies of seventeen nations are at war with the Chinese, and it’s been the most bloody of conflicts.

     Kathy knocks on the door. A man opens it. “Come in, Kathy. Please have a seat. How long has it been?”

     “Eleven years,” she replies. “Yes, I remember. I gave you the assignment for Beta 3 Epsilon. That was the beginning of your adventures.”

     “Yes, yes, it was,” Kathy says.

     “Well, what can I do for you?” She looks at him and can tell he plans to blow her off, just like the others. But she hasn’t shown him the pictures yet. Pictures and vids of life as a privateer, a life she never expected, a life unknown here on Earth.

     “I know it’s not your usual fare, Steve, but I have an exclusive for you. One I know your readers will eat up.” “Really, and what would that be?”

     “The exclusive story of my nine years on the Rapier. Logs, journals, and pics, plus vids.”

     “Pics of everyone?” he asks.

     “Yes, everyone.”

     “Even him?”

     “Him who?”

     “You know, him.”

     “Why can’t you people say his name?”

     “I don’t think that’s important.”

     “His name is Black. Commodore James Ulysses Black!” She is nearly shouting. “And he was the most decent man I ever knew!”

     “Yes, of course he was. But he was a pirate, the most infamous pirate captain since the Spanish Main.”

     “He was a husband, a father, and a good, decent man,” she snaps back. Steve Baker says nothing. Silence hangs between him and her for several moments. Then he says, “I really don’t think I can help you.”

     “You haven’t seen the pictures.”

     He looks at her a moment. “Okay, let’s see them.”

     Her holographic display projects a screen between her and Steve. She starts going through the pictures of life on the Rapier. Tears build up in her eyes. Kathy never realized how many pictures had Cindy in them—Cindy in the pilot’s seat of the Rapier with Captain Gibb at her side, Cindy in engineering learning about antimatter reactors, Cindy flying the shuttle under the instruction of Captain Rawls and Commodore Black teaching her the art of the sword.

     “That’s him?” Steve asks.

     “Yes,” she replies sadly.

     “He doesn’t look all that dangerous. Flamboyant to be sure. Stern certainly and yet grandfatherly, but not dangerous.”

     Kathy whispers, “Looks can be deceiving.”

     The next pic is Cindy and Kathy looking out the observation dome, watching the great whales near Pi Delta Epsilon. They look like the great whales of Earth, “swimming” in the gas clouds like it were water. The look of awe was on their faces. Steve stops.

     “You actually saw these?”

     “Yes, yes, we did. As a matter of fact, we swam with them, Steve.”

     “Swam with them?” Steve asks. Kathy brings up the next pic. Cindy sits atop the “whale” as Commodore Black swims beside them. “Yes, Steve, we swam with them.”

     Then the elusive “Dire Wolves” of Pi Beta 2. Cindy, in this pic a precocious twelve, sits atop one of the great predators with Commodore Black and Captain Gibb standing beside them.

     Steve whistles, “Your daughter really rode one of these?”

     “Yes,” she replies. “Actually, we all did.” Kathy brings up the next pic. Cindy, Captain Gibb, and Commodore Black race across the plain on the backs of wolves with the whole pack running around them.

     “People don’t believe they exist.”

     “They do.”

     “We’ll have to verify these aren’t manipulated.”

     “Of course,” she says.

     Then the next pic. “What are those?” he says truly surprised.

     “Those are gods,” she says to him.

     “Gods?” he asks.

     “Yes, the gods of the aquatic natives of Safe Port.”

     “We’ve been on Safe Port for eighty years now. No one has seen anything like this.”

     Kathy looks at the picture—she, Cindy, and Captain Gibb are in their deep suits, floating before the massive god of the nanchiks, the squidheads of Safe Port. The next pic shows the god sitting on its dais, with Cindy, Captain Gibb, and Commodore Black standing before it. The one after that shows the city of the gods as they approach it. She softly says, “No one has dived in the right place or deep enough to see them.”

     He thinks hard.

     “There’s more, you know,” Kathy tells him.

     “Okay, okay. I’ll pay you two hundred thousand plus half a percent of net sales, but that’s for the whole story.”

     “Of course,” she replies.

     Steve turns on his transcription bot then asks, “So how did it begin?”

     “Begin?” she mumbles. Kathy looks at him and says, “It began right here. It began when you offered me the job, gave me the tickets, and drove me to the shuttle port.”

R. A. “Doc” Correa

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

A retired US Army military master parachutist, retired surgical technologist, and retired computer scientist. He’s an award-winning poet and author. “Doc” has had poems published in multiple books and had stories published in Bookish Magazine and Your Secret Library. His first novel, Rapier, won a Book Excellence award and was given a Reader’s Favorite five-star review.