BestsellerBound Short Story Anthology: Volume One
A Collection of Tales by A Variety of Authors
Copyright © 2011 BestsellerBound.com/Darcia Helle
Smashwords Edition
All rights to this anthology are reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors. This book contains works of fiction. The characters and situations are products of each author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Rights to the individual works contained in this anthology are owned by the submitting authors and/or publishers and each has permitted the story's use in this collection. Individual copyright information is listed with each work.
Contents:
Wish Upon A Star by Lainey Bancroft
Tears For Hesh by J. Michael Radcliffe
You Can Call Me Ari by Darcia Helle
Flames by Maria Savva
Minor Details by Jaleta Clegg
Ice Cream Man by Neil Schiller
No Eyes But Mine Shall See by Sharon E. Cathcart
The First Texas Twister by Magnolia Belle
Shadow Lantern by Gareth Lewis
Stained by Amy Saunders
Wish Upon A Star
by Lainey Bancroft
Copyright © March 2011
Jordana Jones flipped the pages of the scrapbook that had been left in her dressing room. The dog-eared sheets probably represented a five year labor of love. The demented effort of some dweeb who’d spent every night whacking off to her glam shots after he discovered the pathetic appendage in his pants was good for more than aiming at a urinal or writing his name in the snow.
Her fingers brushed the worn-to-velvet publicity pictures. The thought of a pervert’s digits repeatedly stroking the flesh she’d bared in the images forced a shudder from deep inside her already trembling frame. She reached for the amber bottle on the table beside her and shook out a couple pills, sifting the smooth ovals between her fingers and savoring the relief they’d bring.
The scrapbook headlines were no better than the revealing pictures. A collection of best loved clichés. Reporters considered her an overnight phenomenon with the power to rise to fame like a shooting star. She’d been credited with having ‘the body of a Venus’, ‘the face of an angel’ and ‘a voice heaven-sent’.
Once, all the claims were true, but it wouldn’t be long before everyone realized her greatest attribute—the one that actually mattered—was no longer a trait she had any claim to.
She hummed a few off-key notes, hoping it would drown out the voices that had come nightly for months now. Her feeble warble failed to silence the judgmental murmurs. Nothing would silence them.
Burn out. Fade away. Burned bridges. Burn out. Fade...
The only bridges she’d burned were ones she’d already crossed and she had no intention of burning out or fading away. She’d worked too damn hard. Jordana Jones was going to keep right on burning down the house and laying claim to fame. It was her right. She owned it.
Someone banged on the door. The collection of lotions, potions and cosmetics on the table in front of her rattled. Jordana jumped, the icy Southern Comfort trickling down her arm anything but comforting.
“You’re on in fifteen, Jordi.”
“Gimme twenty.” The diva-like request would be anticipated, the grating delivery, much less expected. The change couldn’t have gone unnoticed. Why hadn’t anybody mentioned it?
Jordana popped the pills in her mouth and chewed. The oxy, carried by a generous slurp of Southern Comfort, travelled down her throat like shards of lead crystal. Hot. Brittle. She welcomed the sharp spike of agony; it masked the relentless ache that had been ripping her apart mentally and physically for too long.
Tears danced in her eyes, fragmenting to bright bursts like shooting stars just as the comfortable numbness settled over her. She blinked hard. The tears brimmed over and fell to trail like cold drops of rain on her burning cheeks.
Her gaze dropped to the glossy eight-by-ten that served as the scrapbook cover. Her five-years-younger self stared back at her. She could clearly recall that blue-eyed innocent lifting her face to the stars that blanketed a small-town, northern Ontario sky and singing to the heavens. Singing for her freedom. For her big break. Singing for the opportunity to show the world that she could sing. Was born to sing.
The stars had fragmented that night, too. Well, one had, anyway. Her special star. The one she’d wished on the night Mama went away and never came back. The individual pinpoint of brightness that had called to her through her bedroom blinds so many tear-filled nights had burst into streaks of shimmering white light that rocketed out of the sky toward her, around her, and right into her. The unearthly heat had embraced her. The raw power had empowered her.
And she hadn’t even imbibed a single pill or shot of alcohol that night.
Of course, Daddy’d had plenty to drink. He’d damn near knocked her into that star-studded sky when she’d tried to explain what had happened. To tell him that the very heavens themselves had told her it was her time.
Daddy was wrong. She wasn’t crazy as a shit house bat just like her Mama. The cop that came after Daddy had that unfortunate incident with the hunting riffle didn’t think she was crazy, either. Officer Hawkins had used up his entire retirement fund and then some financing recording time for her and seeing that she got the proper promotional push to rocket her onto the pop music charts.
It was too bad she’d had to tell the press he’d behaved indiscreetly, but old Hawk just got too clingy as her popularity grew. Besides, the world loved to back an underdog. Being big wasn’t big enough for Jordana. She needed to be the biggest. Her status as the poor little girl who’d been done wrong fighting to make things in her life right had tipped that scale. Suddenly, she was no longer merely popular, but a media darling. A freaking legend in her own time.
There wasn’t a music fan in North America—in the world—in the Universe—that didn’t know her name. This, her first live tour in a year had proven that when the tickets sold out within minutes of the concert announcement.
The dressing room door rattled again. “Your fans are waiting, Jordi.”
“Yeah?” Jordana struggled to her feet. A rolling gait carried her toward the door, which she punched. Her eyes registered the burst of bright red blood on her knuckles but her numb hand remained unaware of the impact. “Let ‘em keep waiting. I’ll be out when I’m good and ready.”
Her uncooperative tongue ran the last words together so they sounded like the name of her favorite, multi-colored licorice treats. Mama had bought her a little box every Wednesday when they shopped at the local grocery.
She ran her tongue over the smoothness of her teeth, longing for the taste of sugary licorice—of love—but tasting only bitter painkiller, sour alcohol and the acrid burn of bone deep loss and loneliness.
Ignoring the pleas and continued rattling at the door, she thrust a chair beneath the single window high on the dressing room back wall. She engaged in several clumsy attempts before finally managing to climb aboard, and then blinked, fighting to focus through the two-by-two triangle of smeared glass. A sprinkling of stars dotted the night sky. To the right of the Big Dipper, in the area that had been a dark void since the episode she thought of as the night of the brightest stars, a small pulse of light glowed, growing stronger as she stared.
Her heart hammered in time to the pulsating and ever brightening light. She opened her mouth and a hoarse cry of rage drown out the plaintive begging of her manager from the hall.
“Give it back.” Spittle flew from her numb lips to splatter the already blurry pane of glass. She gripped the wood window frame to keep her balance, blood from her wounded knuckles making her hold slick and slippery against smooth pink paint. “It’s mine, damn you.”
“It was never yours.”
The voice was all around her. Familiar, and yet, unfamiliar in that she’d never heard it so clearly.
“Is so mine. Was born with it.” Her grip fumbled and she dug her nails in, tearing the siren red manicure to tattered, bloody nail bed. Tears welled in her eyes again and angry sobs burst from her chest. She released the windowsill to swipe moisture and mucus from her streaming face. “Born to sing.”
“And sing you did. Anyone can sing, foolish girl.”
“Not like me, they can’t.” The chair wobbled beneath her and she clung to slippery wood with both hands. “I was born to be a star.”
“Only a star is born to be a star, Jordana.”
“Bullshit!” Her fist flew through the glass, aimed skyward.
“Jesus, Jordana! What’s going on in there? Do I have to break this door down?”
Her manager’s voice sounded frantic. She giggled, picturing Bernie’s bulbous nose turning purple and his well-fed jowls trembling in frustration over his inability to control his meal-ticket. That’s all she’d ever been to him, a fat paycheck to fill his even fatter belly.
A sucker-punch of pain walloped Jordana. She surveyed her arm, half in and half out the window, flexed her fingers and took note of the red river of blood coursing into the crease of her elbow. Nope, her arm didn’t hurt a bit. It was her heart that ached. Hot tingles travelled from her fingers and along her arm for a second before her entire body felt cold and weightless.
The single hand still clinging to the bloodied wood lost its tenuous grip. The chair tilted and her body free-floated to the worn carpet. Even with her eyes closed she could see the ever increasing pulse of light in the space that had previously been dark. “I am a star.”
“Star power is leased to those who need it. Those who deserve it.”
“Fuck that. I earned it, dammit!”
The disembodied voice ignored her. “Sometimes the power is leased for a lifetime. Sometimes it is a brief, rental trial. We tried. You failed. Your lease is up.”
The voice was no longer all around her but right in her. She wanted to tell it to shut up but couldn’t seem to find a voice of her own. No voice to sing. No voice to speak. No voice.
“I faded away so you could shine and you burned me. You burned yourself and everyone around you, Jordana.”
Fuck you. The words formed in only her mind, but the voice heard her. She could tell by the stern, dismissive tone when next it spoke.
“The official word will probably be that Jordana Jones bled out due to a tragic accident caused by drugs and alcohol. The world will never know that when fame faded away what had once been the best part of her, a hope and warmth even the stars noticed, she burned out.”
Fade away, my ass. Jordana’s head lolled to the side as the dressing room door burst open. Her manager fell to his knees beside her, screaming for someone to call 911. Funny, she could hear his cigar and triple malt voice but couldn’t smell the cloud of expensive cologne that usually enveloped him. Bernie would never let her fade away. He relied on her too much to provide him with creature comforts. Burned out. That’s all she was, a little tired. She needed a few more weeks to heal the pipes, maybe kick the pills. Bernie would arrange it. He’d do anything for her. She’d ask later, when she wasn’t so tired.
Closing her eyes, she let the darkness and insulating comfort of the pills lift her away from the sudden chaos of her dressing room. Warm air cloaked her and she shifted, weightlessly left the commotion beneath her and floated into a wonderful, velvet blackness. Damn, but what a fine prescription. Possibly the best she’d ever had.
Jordana spread her arms and flew through the shattered window. In the midnight sky, just to the right of the Big Dipper, a brilliant star twinkled. A sob rose in her throat as she soared closer and saw that the star winked down on a poverty-stricken cabin in Nashville where a young woman with the face of an angel and a voice heaven sent sang softly to a tiny baby girl.
***
About the author:
Lainey Bancroft resides in the wine regions of Ontario enduring too much snow or too much humidity, depending on the season. She is surrounded by too many pets and too many teenagers, forcing her to sometimes indulge in too much lovely, regional wine. The many excesses help fuel Lainey's too active imagination and keep her fingers flying across the keyboard creating tales of romance and speculative fiction in various lengths. Unfortunately, she's never been in a situation where she had too much time to write.
Discover more about Lainey and her award winning, Reviewer's Choice romance stories at http://www.elaineforlife.com
###
Tears for Hesh
by J. Michael Radcliffe
Copyright © December 2010
Hesh wandered about the potions shop aimlessly, unable to find the rare ingredient his master needed. He grew more frustrated by the minute, for his master had been very specific in his request. He had ordered Hesh to rush out and acquire one phial of firedrake tears, as quickly as possible. Almost indistinguishable from salamander tears, the tears from a firedrake were much more valuable and exceedingly rare, since they could only be gathered from a fully grown adult of the species. This was a dangerous task under the best of circumstances, since adult firedrakes – a distant relative of the phoenix – could only be found in the calderas of active volcanoes, where they built their nests.
Although Deadwood & Blight’s was one of the most reputable shops in town with an enormous selection, they just didn’t seem to have it. Hesh stumbled slightly as he tried to squeeze past a plump little wizard carrying a basket overflowing with ingredients. The cramped, narrow aisles of the shop made his task that much more difficult and at almost seven feet tall, he towered over all of the other patrons. Muttering to himself as he went, he scoured the shelves looking for the ingredient.
I will not fail the Master! He’s kept me on all these years when no one else would have me. I know he could have smarter and quicker assistants than the likes of me, but I’m strong and loyal, I am! Ha – I’d like to see any of those skinny little wizards carry a cauldron in each hand like I do! I just wish I didn’t stammer so; the Master said he’d fix my tongue one day with his magic. Like he said, how can I work for the most important wizard in the city if I sound like a dolt?
He shuffled down another aisle for at least the third time, bumping into a stack of cauldrons at the end of the row and sending several of them rolling noisily across the stone floor.
“Oi! You there!” shouted Jerrick, one of the clerks. “Mind where you’re going or you’ll be paying damages!”
“S-S-Sorry...” Hesh stammered apologetically.
What’s wrong with Jerrick? He’s never snapped at me like that before; normally he’s so understanding, even when I can’t get my words out.
Hesh backed out of the way as Jerrick tried to retrieve the errant cauldrons. The shop was nearly bursting at the seams with customers seeking to restock their supplies in preparation for the annual potions competition next week.
“I’m… I’m trying to find f-f-firedrake t-t-tears,” he stuttered.
Jerrick stopped restacking the cauldrons and glared at Hesh.
“Are you insane? Do you have any idea how unstable those are?”
“Unstable?” Hesh’s eyebrows shot upward in surprise. His master hadn’t mentioned anything about the ingredient being unstable. He had just ordered Hesh to find them immediately and at any price.
“Yes, unstable! If you shake the container too hard or gods forbid drop them, they will combust, destroying everything within fifty feet. That’s why they are on the restricted list!”
Hesh fumbled with his bag of coins and shuffled his feet, looking around to see if anyone was near enough to hear what he was about to say.
“Look, Jerrick, you’ve got to help me. I was ordered to f-f-find them immediately. It’ll mean m-m-my head if I come back empty handed! Master won’t be happy, not happy at all!”
Jerrick just sighed as he finished stacking the cauldrons back into a neat pyramid display.
“Look Hesh, I’m sorry, okay? But trafficking in black market ingredients is just too dangerous. Besides, if your master needs them so badly, then why doesn’t he have a signed order approved by the Council Apothecary?”
“Shh! N-n-not so loud! Master said he doesn’t have t-t-time for such f-f-foolishness.” Hesh glanced around again to make certain no one had heard Jerrick.
“That isn’t right, Hesh. Do you know what they would do to you if you were caught with firedrake tears without a permit? You’d be indentured to the Council for at least ten years and forced to spend twenty-three hours every day as your animal form, whatever that might be.”
Unfortunately Hesh knew exactly what his animal form would be – a large panda bear. Unknown to Jerrick or anyone else, Hesh’s master, a member of the Council, had one day turned Hesh into his animal form for amusement. Hesh hated his animal form – the fur was hot and he scratched for hours after returning to his human self.
“But Jerrick, I don’t have a choice!” he pleaded. “L-l-look, I’ll give you t-t-ten gold crowns if you get me the stuff.”
Jerrick raised his eyebrows. “He must really want those tears,” he said, obviously surprised by such an offer. “That much coin would pay my wages for nearly six months!”
“Please, Jerrick! I must not f-f-fail the M-m-master! I m-m-mustn’t!”
“Look, why is this so important to him? What does he need those tears for, anyway?”
Hesh shook his head, and then brushed his long brown hair out of his eyes. “Dunno. All I know is he wants them, and he wants them now.”
“Alright, fine – I’ll get them for you, but keep your money. Your master doesn’t deserve you, Hesh; he’s obviously a cruel beast judging by that scar he gave you the last time we were out of ingredients he wanted.”
Hesh shuffled his feet as his hand automatically went to his cheek, feeling the scar where his master had hit him with a lash. Master had been very angry that day indeed.
Jerrick rapped his knuckle three times in an offbeat sequence on the stone wall of the shop and vanished into a dark opening that appeared. He reemerged a few minutes later with a small brown parcel cradled gently in his hands. Carefully he handed the small box to Hesh, who looked at it with interest.
“Now listen, Hesh,” said Jerrick sternly in a whispered voice, “you MUST make certain you don’t shake or drop this box! Even though I’ve packed it carefully and placed a cushioning spell on it, it is still very, very dangerous!”
Hesh nodded and very gently placed the parcel into the pouch on his belt, steadying it with his hand for good measure.
“Thank you, Jerrick. You’ve always been so k-k-kind to me. Maybe someday I can repay your kindness.”
Jerrick smiled. “Go on then, you big oaf. Back to your master before he sends a seeker after you.”
Hesh thanked Jerrick again and quietly left the shop by way of a side door. He would have to hurry or his master would be furious. He quietly latched the side door and hurried down the busy street towards his master’s chambers.
***
Hesh continued to trot down the alleyways towards his master’s chambers, although he was careful not to jostle the priceless package he carried. He was still a number of blocks away when the soles of his feet suddenly tingled with an intense burning sensation. He broke into a trot, knowing Master must have cast the summons. As he rounded the corner at a brisk run he could almost hear Master’s voice warning him not to be late.
“You tarry too long and I will not hesitate to cast a summons! It’s a lovely little hex I’ve found in that book you retrieved for me just last week – you remember, the Tome of Hefestus Blackstone? He was a black-hearted tyrant of a wizard. The spiteful old codger was famous for the abuse heaped upon his unfortunate apprentices, especially if they failed to arrive at an appointed time. One day, having been kept waiting for just over two minutes by an assistant who had slipped and fallen down a flight of stairs, Blackstone devised the summons. It begins as a tingling sensation in your feet and gradually increases in severity until it feels as if you are standing upon a bed of hot coals. Nothing will stop the burning sensation except for appearing in front of the spellcaster who placed the hex on you. If something prevents you from reaching the caller, the level of pain will eventually overload your central nervous system, causing first unconsciousness and eventually, death. You understand this, my slow-witted assistant?”
The burning sensation in his feet was rising up past his ankles now, spurring him into a dead run towards his master’s home. The wizard had used the spell on him twice before and Hesh knew he had precious few minutes to go the last few blocks before blisters started erupting on his feet. The pain had just reached the level of a blowtorch when Hesh burst through the door of his master’s study. He collapsed in a heap on the cold hardwood floor and tore off his leather boots, tears streaming down his face as he fanned the burning soles of his feet. His master remained seated at the oversized ebony desk near the fireplace, with his back towards Hesh as he gazed into the embers of the dying fire.
“You’re late!” snapped Hesh’s master.
Hesh winced at the tone of the wizard’s voice and stared at the floor; at least his feet had stopped burning. “I’m… I’m… s-s-s-sorry, m-m-master,” he stammered awkwardly.
“Sorry? Sorry?? Well I guess that must make everything alright, then, doesn’t it?” his master hissed through clenched teeth.
Rising from the chair by the fire, Hesh’s master towered over him and Hesh flinched at the thought of what his master might be contemplating.
“M-m-master, I b-b-beg of you, p-p-please! It was d-d-difficult to f-f-find!” Hesh groveled on his hands and knees, unable to meet his master’s gaze. The last time his master had been so angry, he had forced Hesh to spend the next seven days in his animal form of a giant panda.
“Of course it was difficult to find, you dolt! Firedrake tears are rare to begin with, not to mention the fact they are highly regulated!” scolded the wizard. “Well? Where are they?”
The wizard thrust his hand out, the sudden movement causing Hesh to flinch yet again. He scrambled to undo his purse strings as gently as possible, careful not to jostle the delicate parcel within. Hesh wasn’t sure which was more terrifying, his master’s wrath or the thought of blowing himself to kingdom come if he dropped the package. He gently placed the parcel in his master’s outstretched palm, his hands shaking as he released it.
“About bloody time, you idiot! These have to be delivered within the hour, else my plan won’t work!” the wizard snapped.
His master turned and stormed angrily over to the desk, dark robes billowing out behind him. Snatching up a quill, he dashed off a short note and then folded the parchment into a small triangular shape. He attached the folded parchment to the parcel and then muttered a brief incantation as he ran his index finger along each edge of the parcel. The package shimmered slightly as the spell took effect and the wizard actually smiled as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Hesh had never seen his master smile before; the expression of near glee on the old man’s face was frightening. The wizard placed the parcel on the small silver tray located on the edge of the desk. The tray was the preferred method for sending messages back and forth to other members of the Council, as the item was transported immediately and under the security of numerous wards designed to prevent theft or spying. After muttering a brief incantation, the wizard clearly spoke the name “Tobias Follett” and the package vanished with a slight popping sound and a puff of silvery smoke.
“Now then,” said the wizard with a smile as he turned to face Hesh. “My plan is finally set in motion. You understand what I am doing, yes?”
Puzzled, Hesh studied the wizard for a moment. He knew the extremely volatile nature of firedrake tears and he had clearly heard his master lacing the package with a spell of detonation. Sudden fear crept into Hesh’s eyes, betraying the cold spike of dread that had just coursed through his body. His master had just sent the package to Tobias Follett, the wizard who had just been elected Chancellor of the High Council. Unless someone warned him, he would be blasted into dust when he opened the package, and the Chancellor’s position would again be vacant. Hesh knew his master lusted after power, but he never dreamed the old man would stoop to murder!
“M-m-m-master,” stammered Hesh as he struggled with what he should do.
The old wizard actually smiled at him; a wicked smile that cut Hesh to the very bone. “Yes? You think I’ve gone too far, perhaps? It would be a pity if anyone tried to interfere, after all of the work I’ve done. You’ve no idea how difficult it was to plan just the right… accident… yes, I believe that term will be used.”
“M-m-m-master, I p-p-promise! I w-w-won’t t-t-tell!” Hesh pleaded.
“Oh, I believe you, my faithful Hesh. You will never tell a soul,” said the wizard, his voice trailing off to a hiss.
***
Jerrick was just putting away the last of the boxes, preparing to lock up the shop for the night, when he noticed a small leather pouch hidden at the base of one of the cauldrons that had been knocked over earlier in the day. Scooping up the pouch he opened it and examined the contents. The purse obviously belonged to an apprentice or assistant to a wizard, as it contained only a few coins and a silver talisman. Jerrick took the silver talisman and turned it over in his hand and noticed it was embellished with a large capital letter “H.” He shook his head and placed the token back in the purse. Hesh must have dropped the purse when he had knocked over the cauldrons earlier in the afternoon.
Hesh must not have noticed it was missing when he tried to pay me, since all of the gold was in his master’s purse. I’ll return it to him on my way home; their chambers are not far from here anyway.
Jerrick finished tidying up the shop and snapped his fingers, extinguishing the werelights floating around the edge of the ceiling. With one final look to see that all was in order, he closed the shop door and muttered the incantation to seal the lock and place wards around the door that would hex any intruders. His employers had been in the potions business for hundreds of years and knew the value of their inventory. Pocketing Hesh’s small coin purse, he took off at a brisk pace towards home – drawing his robes closer about him in an effort to keep out the chill evening breeze. A few blocks from the shop he came to the chambers of Hesh’s master, not far from the tower that housed the Council and offices of the Chancellor. One look at the building told of the wealth and power at the wizard’s command as a respected member of the High Council. Jerrick had never dealt directly with Hesh’s master before, as the wizard always sent his assistant to purchase ingredients for his spells and experiments. He knew however, of the fear in Hesh’s eyes when a mistake had been made that would anger his master.
Jerrick stepped up to the massive oaken door and pulled the bell-chain, shivering slightly against the cold in the process. The door opened silently and a small red wisp floated before Jerrick, pulsing slightly with light at its center. Somewhat surprised at such an important wizard using a common house-wisp to answer the door, Jerrick stepped forward and addressed the softly glowing orb.
“Jerrick, of Deadwood & Blight’s to see Hesh, please.”
The orb flickered slightly but did not move.
“Um. Is the master of the house at home?” Jerrick asked in a somewhat hesitant voice.
At this, the little wisp flickered more brightly and moved aside. Jerrick stepped through the doorway and paused while his eyes adjusted to the dim light. After closing the door, the little red wisp floated slowly down the hallway, pausing briefly for Jerrick to catch up to it. It led him to a large chamber with an enormous stone fireplace at one end, a low fire flickering in the hearth. Hesh’s master was sitting in a large leather chair near the fire, reading through an ancient tome and making notations in the margins with a black quill. Jerrick’s boots echoed as he crossed the chamber, the hardwood floors polished to a mirrored finish.
“Pardon me, are you Hesh’s master?”
The wizard didn’t bother looking up but kept jotting notes with his quill.
“Perhaps; who are you and what business have you with him?” snapped the old man, busily scratching away in the book.
“My name is Jerrick, sir, of Deadwood & Blights. Hesh was in our shop earlier this afternoon, and I’m afraid he dropped his coin purse. I’ve come to return it.”
The wizard sighed deeply and stopped his scribbling, placing the quill and book on the low table beside him.
“The bumbling fool would lose his head if it weren’t attached! I’m afraid he will no longer be running my errands, but I will see to it his purse is taken care of,” snapped the wizard as he held out a bony hand. Jerrick was shocked at the cold tone of the wizard’s voice, but knew better than to ask questions of a Council member. He dropped the purse into the wizard’s outstretched hand, flinching slightly as it was snatched away.
“Here,” said the old man as he flipped a gold coin to Jerrick. “This should cover the trouble that idiot caused you. Now if you don’t mind, you can show yourself out; I have work to do.” Picking up his book, the old man resumed scribbling with the quill. “And mind you don’t tread on the rug! It’s new and I don’t wish it soiled!” snapped the wizard as he jerked his chin in the general direction of the entrance hall.
Jerrick quickly stepped back and returned towards the front door, careful to avoid stepping on the large bear skin rug spread across the hardwood floor. Although he had not noticed it when he entered, it must have cost at least three bagfuls of gold he thought, since it was made from the largest panda bear he had ever seen. As he closed the heavy front door behind him and headed into the darkness of the street, he whispered a small prayer to the Ancients for Hesh, hoping the best for the gentle giant.
***
About the author:
An avid reader of fantasy and science fiction novels all of my life, I live with my family in the rural hills of Kentucky along with our four cats.When not acquiring ferocious felines for my wife's plan of world domination (cat armies are terribly hard to train), I enjoy spinning stories from the wisps of magic around me.
You can learn more about J. Michael Radcliffe and his work on his website: http://www.theguardiansapprentice.com
###
You Can Call Me Ari
by Darcia Helle
Copyright © 2011 Darcia Helle
Lorraine stepped into the waiting room. Surprisingly, she found herself alone. That was certainly a first. Every doctor's office she'd ever been in had an overflow of patients, sitting in uncomfortable chairs with long outdated magazines and irritating music for company. Maybe chiropractors were different and didn't load their patients in like herds of cattle.
She walked over to the reception desk but found it, too, was empty. Had she gotten her appointment wrong? Lorraine checked her watch. Nearly two o'clock. Odd that the place would be deserted in the middle of the afternoon.
She'd never been to a chiropractor before. The idea of having her bones cracked and moved around didn't sound the least bit appealing. But it had been six weeks since the car accident and the pain in her neck and back still kept her up nights. Betty, her best friend, had convinced her to give Dr. Grant a chance. Now, here she was, standing alone in an office that appeared abandoned. This could be a sign for her to turn around and go right back home.
For a moment, Lorraine considered listening to that little voice telling her to flee the scene. Then she turned and a horrible twinge raced up her spine. She let out an involuntary gasp. Damn that hurt! With a resigned sigh, she moved gingerly toward one of the chairs.
Just as she was about to lower herself onto a seat, the door leading to the exam rooms popped open. A man, presumably Dr. Grant, smiled at her. He stood about 5'10", had dark hair and wide-set, dark eyes. He wore tan chinos and a bold-striped, short-sleeved dress shirt. No white lab coat proclaimed him to be doctor or mad scientist.
"Lorraine?" the man asked.
"Yes."
"I'm Dr. Grant. You can come on back."
Nervous butterflies fluttered in Lorraine's stomach. As she followed the doctor into the hall, she said, "It's very quiet in here."
"Yes," Dr. Grant replied. "That awful flu going around seems to have struck many of my patients. Even James, my office manager, is out sick today."
"Oh, that's too bad. I've been lucky to avoid it so far."
Dr. Grant stepped aside and motioned Lorraine into a room. "Right in here," he said.
Lorraine's eyes were immediately drawn to the contraption in the center of the room. Logic told her it was the exam and treatment table, though her overly active imagination saw it as a torture table. She'd been reading far too many thrillers since her retirement.
"You're having neck and back pain?" Dr. Grant asked.
"Yes, since I was rear-ended in an accident six weeks ago," Lorraine said. "We weren't going fast but the jolt must have been harder than I first thought. The pain keeps me up nights and I'm having trouble getting around during the day."
Dr. Grant smiled and nodded. He had an eager smile, almost like a child on Christmas morning. Lorraine looked away, unsettled by the enthusiasm.
"Go ahead and lie face down on the table," Dr. Grant said, "and we'll get started."
Lorraine hesitated. She'd expected to sit in one of the nice leather chairs first. She hadn't given this doctor any of her history. Didn't he need to know the details of her accident and where her pain was? She stood in the awkward silence, with Dr. Grant's happy brown eyes fixed on her, and suddenly felt silly. She couldn't compare this visit to a typical doctor visit. He was the chiropractor. Of course he knew what he was doing.
The table had three sections. The top was narrow with a slit between the padding. Lorraine assumed that was for her nose, so she'd be able to breathe. She climbed on, grimacing at the pain as she maneuvered her body into the correct spots.
"Comfy?" Dr. Grant asked.
"I suppose," Lorraine said. The words came out slightly garbled, as she did her best to speak with her face crushed into the leather padding.
A motor whirred beneath her as the table lifted. Dr. Grant ran his hand over her spine, pressing firmly in various spots. Lorraine flinched when he came to the worst. "Ahh," said Dr. Grant. "I see we've found a sensitive area."
Lorraine opened her mouth to respond but the words were sucked from her as Dr. Grant did something with the center piece of the table and the heel of his palm. The table jerked up and into her belly, while he forced her down and held her there. She gasped, then moaned. "Oh, stop!" she cried. "That's hurts!"
"Does it now?" he said.
A moment passed, then the table jerked back to its normal position and his hand left her spine. Lorraine bit her lip to keep from crying. This had been the worst idea ever. Why had she listened to Betty? As soon as the pain eased, she was going to leave this office and never come back. She might even sue the man for torturing her this way!
She was about to lift her head, to tell Dr. Grant to lower the table so she could get off without hurting herself even further, when she felt something clamp against the back of her neck. Before her mind could grasp what was happening, the clamp continued around the front of her neck and snapped in place. He had pinned her neck to the table!
"What are you doing?" she shouted into the padding. "Take this off of me. I don't want any further treatments."
Dr. Grant chuckled. The sound sent a chill down Lorraine's aching spine. "Relax," he said. "Anxiety will only intensify the pain."
"I said I want you to stop!"
"I heard you. And I politely decline."
Something slipped around her right wrist and soon her arm was tightly strapped to the armrest beneath the table. She lifted her left arm, flailing it uselessly in the air. Dr. Grant's firm grasp easily caught hold and secured that wrist to the opposite armrest.
Tears burned Lorraine's eyes. This couldn't be happening. What kind of doctor strapped his patients unwillingly to a table?
His hands moved almost lovingly over her spine. "Has the pain subsided?" he asked.
"I want to get up now." Her words were a plea, rather than a command. She cleared her throat, tried again. "You need to let me off this table now."
That chuckle again, as his hands traveled up to the back of her neck. "I might have stretched the truth earlier," he said. "Perhaps even told an outright lie."
Lorraine sucked on her lip in an attempt to staunch the tears. Her nose ran onto the white paper that lined the padded table. She didn't want to hear him say what he'd lied about. By now, she'd figured it out. Hearing the words would make it too real.
The pressure on her neck increased. He kneaded a spot as he spoke. "My name is not Dr. Grant." He chuckled and pressed harder. "In fact, I am not a doctor at all. Shame on me, I know. Sometimes I simply can't help myself."
His hand left her. She gasped, sucking in air that refused to fill her lungs. A moment later, she felt something hard against her spine. "My name," the man said, "is Arian Hatch. You can call me Ari."
The object at her back came to life, slamming her against the table with a series of intense jolts. The sound was like a jackhammer. Or one of those rapid fire guns in the old war movies. The padded leather muffled her screams. A spasm rippled through her body, setting fire to her nerves.
The sound finally stopped and whatever tool he'd been using pulled away. Again, his fingers glided over her spine in much the way a man would touch his lover. "I'm sorry to tell you," Ari said, "that Dr. Grant is dead. I killed him earlier this morning. He deserved it, you see. He'd been giving me adjustments to ease my headaches. I get these blinding migraines from time to time. Horrible. Truly. He'd sworn he could help me. Sadly, the man's career was built on lies and broken promises. I gained no relief. When I confronted him with this, he attempted to excuse his incompetence by claiming that he'd never promised relief. Some patients, he told me, cannot be helped with his methods. He tried and, so he said, was sorry that I'd experienced no benefits."
Ari walked around to the other side of the table. His hand smoothed her hair down and he sighed. "Dr. Grant's blatant attempt to deflect his inadequacies by placing the blame on my own inability to heal could not go unpunished. I easily restrained and held him right here, on his own table, for a little taste of his own snake-oil medicine. Initially, I had not intended to kill him. You see, I'm normally much more discriminative in these situations. I don't kill randomly."
That creepy chuckle filled the room. Ari's hand moved down Lorraine's spine as he continued speaking. "I must admit that I lost control. That seldom happens, mind you. But, goodness, talk about a chamber of horrors! This is an ideal setup. I kept him here for three amazing hours. By that time, the final snap of his neck became a mercy killing. Sadly anticlimactic."
Lorraine sucked in as much air as her lungs could handle, then let out the longest wail she could manage. Much of the sound got trapped by the thick padded leather. She sobbed and rattled her arms against the restraints.
Ari bent forward. His breath became a soft breeze in her hair. "No one will hear you," he murmured. "Trust me on that. Now, I hate to be rude but please excuse me a moment."
Lorraine felt, more than heard, him leave the room. She couldn't move her head at all, could see nothing. Her back ached so badly that even lifting her leg an inch off the table sent her nerves into a spasm. The insanity of the situation left her mind spinning. She was trapped by a madman, all because the doctor she'd sought help from hadn't been able to cure migraines.
Someone would come and save her. This was, after all, a doctor's office. Other patients had appointments. Regular patients. They would know that this man, Arian Hatch, was not Dr. Grant. Someone would alert the authorities. Lorraine clung to that belief as the pain in her spine radiated into her legs.
Minutes passed. Lorraine thought she heard voices coming from the waiting room. A surge of hope gave her a brief burst of energy. She kicked against the table and screamed into the padding. Someone would hear her. Someone would save her from this lunatic.
A moment later, Ari chuckled from the doorway. "You're feistier than I expected," he said. "No one is coming to save you, Lorraine. I've placed a sign on the door and locked it tight. You'd be wise to stop struggling. For your own good, mind you. The struggle only intensifies the pain."
He touched her spine and his next words were a mere whisper. "And it excites me."
In the next instant, the table jerked up and into her ribs and he slammed a hard object against the middle of her spine. He forced an enormous amount of pressure, twisted her back, not easing up until something snapped. White hot pain stole her breath, the intensity worse than anything she could have imagined. She couldn't move, couldn't even scream. Tears streamed from her eyes, caught in the white paper and leather padding. Her nose ran. She tasted tears and snot as she fought to pull air in through her mouth.
Lorraine had no idea how much time passed. She gasped and cried until nothing was left inside her. Ari hadn't touched her, hadn't spoken, for what felt like hours. She prayed that he was gone, had gotten his perverse pleasure and had no intention of killing her.
But he'd told her his name.
She bit her trembling lip, sucked in another ragged breath. Then she waited, listening. She heard nothing at all. Just as she grasped that sliver of hope that he'd really gone and would not return, a rustling from the corner of the room told her otherwise. He'd been there all along. Listening. Watching.
"I killed James," Ari said. "The office manager. I don't suppose you knew him, since you are a new patient. I took no pleasure in that killing. You see, James was what one might call collateral damage. He brought me into this room and he would soon bring other patients to the other rooms. I couldn't allow that. I wanted Dr. Grant to myself and needed our time to be free of interruptions. So, yes, James had to be disposed of. Once I had Dr. Grant properly secured, I took care of James. A quick snap of the neck. Disappointing, really. I then locked the front door, ensuring the privacy I required."
Ari stepped close again, his hand traveling like a feather over Lorraine's spine. "My intention, dear Lorraine, was to leave once I'd finished with Dr. Grant. I'd exceeded my own expectations of the day already. Oh, but killing Dr. Grant had left me both ecstatic and deflated. Ending playtime is always somewhat of a disappointment, no matter how much fun one has during the activities. As I was preparing to leave, I glanced at Dr. Grant's appointments for the day. He died at 1:38, in the midst of his scheduled lunch break. You were his first appointment of the afternoon. A new patient, for which he'd marked off an entire thirty minutes. Given that you were new, I took a chance in assuming that you would not know what Dr. Grant looked like. I do hope that you'll forgive my little deception."
Lorraine gagged as acidic vomit rose into her throat. "Please," she said. "I've done nothing to you. Please. Let me go."
Ari found that funny, chuckling heartily. "Ah, but Lorraine, don't you see? Dr. Grant was my main course. You are my dessert."
Lorraine felt herself deflate. That last shred of hope she'd been clinging to slipped away. His hands touched her spine. Time stopped. The things he did to her brought her close to insanity. She prayed for death, begged for it when able. At one point, she lost consciousness. She could have been out for a minute or a day. She had no way of judging and no longer cared. When awareness trickled its way back to her, she only felt sadness in finding herself alive.
Her legs were numb, as if they didn't exist. The pain in her back was white hot, searing. She suddenly realized that she could not feel the paper and padding against her face. She opened her eyes and the ceiling swam into focus. Bright lights. Someone singing. Was that an angel? Was she dead?
Then Ari's face swam into her vision. He grinned at her. "Welcome back," he said. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd vacated permanently."
Lorraine pushed her eyes closed, refusing to look at the devil who wanted to steal her soul. She wouldn't let him have it. That was all she had left and she intended to keep it with her until the end.
"I must go now," Ari said. "It's getting late and I'm expected elsewhere." His hands caressed her throat. "But I couldn't leave without saying goodbye. That would be rude, don't you think?"
A feathery touch floated over her cheek. "You've been a wonderful playmate, Lorraine," Ari said. "Don't you want to say goodbye?"
Lorraine kept her eyes tightly shut. She didn't attempt to speak, wasn't even sure she was able. Regardless, she wouldn't give this madman the satisfaction. She hung on to her soul, keeping it close, not allowing him so much as a glimpse inside.
Ari waited. She knew what he wanted. Her soul. He wanted to own her, every piece of her.
"Lorraine," Ari whispered. "Sweet Lorraine. Do you not wish to look at me?"
She didn't answer, didn't open her eyes.
His breath was against her ear. "Remember I told you that I don't kill randomly? I meant that, my dear. I will not kill you today, though you might wish that I had. I want you to remember me always. My name is Arian Hatch. But you can call me Ari."
***
About the Author:
Darcia Helle writes because the characters trespassing through her mind leave her no alternative. When she gives life to their stories, they live happily within the pages and stop chattering in her head. To date, she has published six novels and three short stories.
You can learn more about Darcia and her writing on her website: http://www.QuietFuryBooks.com or http://www.DarciaHelle.com
###
Flames
by Maria Savva
Copyright © 2011
She’s pretty, thought Robert, looking at the girl who had just sat next to him on the park bench. Looks a bit like a young Cindy Crawford. She had originally sat quite close to him, but was now shuffling along to the other end of the bench. Blushing, Robert realised that he’d been staring. Averting his eyes, he pretended to read the novel he held in his hand, whilst thinking what a beautiful shade of green her eyes were and how her emerald earrings complemented them.
When he felt brave enough to look at her again, he saw that she was sitting at the far edge of the bench, almost sideways, as if to avoid his gaze. He couldn’t blame her, after all it was a big city; for all she knew, he could be a mass murderer. Then, he became concerned that perhaps she’d moved away from him because he was suffering from a body odour problem that no one had told him about. I’m sure I used my antiperspirant this morning. As much as he wanted to have a sniff of his armpits, just to check, he felt too self conscious. Shrugging, he carried on eating his sandwich.
Robert had just started working for a new company and hadn’t been out in this part of town before, so he was now secretly hoping that this girl would be someone he’d see every day. Perhaps she works close by. Maybe we’ll bump into each other every lunchtime and become friends, and then... He was getting carried away with his dreams as he stared blankly at his novel whilst finishing off his sandwich. He stole a glance at her again, from the corner of his eye, and noticed that she was fiddling with one of her earrings. What should I say? he thought, desperate to talk to her; but he couldn’t think of anything to initiate a conversation. And anyway, he reasoned, she probably wouldn’t want to talk to me, judging by the way she’s moved to the other end of the bench.
Feeling the need to look at her again, but not wanting to make it obvious, Robert twisted around to face her and held up his book in front of him. Now, he was able to watch her from behind the pages. I wonder what her name is? She must have a beautiful name, something to suit her face... Elizabeth, perhaps, or Angela... No, something unusual like... Eloise, or... Amelia. Her perfume fragranced the air around him, a floral, feminine scent, that captivated his senses.
When she’d finished her sandwich, she reached into her handbag. As she did so, their eyes met, snapping Robert out of his daydream. He saw that his book was now on his lap, and realised that he’d been staring at her again. Looking at his watch—a universal embarrassment cover-up—he felt the colour rise in his cheeks. She’d smiled at him, and he was finding it hard to meet her eyes.
He took a deep breath, and once he’d recovered his composure, he saw that the girl was facing away from him. How am I supposed to talk to her now? he thought. The small window of opportunity that had been offered to him was now closed. It seemed so unfair. Back at square one, he could do nothing but stare at her long brown hair falling in soft curls over the back of her cream-coloured blouse. The sun caught a few golden highlights in her hair and he imagined running his fingers through it. Aware he was almost gawping, he withdrew his gaze and watched people rushing through the park, noticing it was very noisy. In wonder, he recollected that while he’d been staring at the mysterious girl who sat beside him, he’d hardly known that there was anything else going on around them.
Just then, her mobile phone began to ring, rousing him from his awestruck thoughts. She didn’t have a silly ring tone on her phone, Robert noticed, just a traditional ringing sound. Then he remembered his own Star Trek ring-tone and, feeling embarrassed, prayed his phone wouldn’t ring. He thought about switching it off.
‘Hi,’ she said, and for a moment he dared to dream that she was talking to him, but when he turned towards her, he saw her holding the phone to her ear. She appeared more relaxed as she spoke on the phone, and sat back on the bench, so now he was able to see one side of her face. Oh, what a perfect profile, he thought. Like an angel.
She laughed, and an unwelcome thought struck Robert: perhaps she was talking to her boyfriend, or husband. An irrational jealousy took over his mind. He had never believed in love at first sight, and had laughed at his sister just the other night when she’d told him how much she’d enjoyed the movie, While You Were Sleeping. He remembered telling her, in no uncertain terms, that if she believed all those romantic comedies she watched she would end up very lonely and disappointed. His feelings were now completely alien to him.
The girl on the bench laughed and flicked her hair back from her face, then continued speaking on the phone. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, and longed to be able to hear her voice without the sounds of traffic, voices, and general city noise that was drowning it out. Tempted to move closer to her on the bench, he thought better of it; she already seemed a bit nervous of him.
In a few minutes, she stood up, brushing off a bread crumb from her pink skirt, and picking up her handbag. Her eyes met his briefly and he wondered whether she also felt something; an unexplained connection. But then she walked away, disappearing into the crowd, gone as quickly as she had arrived.
Robert watched her leave, unable to stop her, wanting to follow her. He looked at the bench where she’d been sitting—an empty space. Why didn’t I say something to her? Her perfume still lingered in the air around him. He breathed in deeply and recalled how she’d smiled at him. Regret tugged at his heart.
Looking back at the far edge of the bench, his soul screaming for her to reappear for just an instant so he could talk to her, he noticed something small and shiny where she’d been sitting. It glimmered in the sunlight as he moved closer. His mouth fell open in wonder when he saw it was one of her emerald earrings that so matched her eyes. He reached to pick it up, excitement coursing through his being; now, he would have an excuse to talk to her. Gathering his belongings from the bench, he began to walk briskly in the direction she had been headed. She’ll be easy to spot, he thought, long brown hair, pink skirt—she can’t have got very far.
He moved quickly through the lunchtime crowd, bumping into a couple of people along the way. After a few minutes he came to a crossroads and stopped walking. It became clear that he would not catch up with her. She’d probably turned a corner somewhere. Sighing, he realised the futility of his search among the hoards of city dwellers going about their busy lives like swarms of bees.
Robert returned to the bench at lunchtime the next day, and the next day, and the day after that, always taking the earring with him; hopeful. She will return, he told himself. She never did.
The earring became a symbol of this woman, a kind of charm that he carried around with him everywhere. When he looked at it, he remembered her face, the golden highlights in her hair, her perfume, the green of her eyes, the way her skirt hugged her hips, the sound of her laugh, and the way she had smiled at him.
Two years later, Robert lost the earring. He used to carry it around in his wallet. One day, as he was taking out a ten pound note, the earring slipped out onto the ground, unseen by Robert. He was at a music festival with a girl he had been dating for a couple of months. They were queuing at a food stall. The ground was soggy from rain, a mush of grass and soil. The earring made no sound as it fell. Robert and his girlfriend, Sally, walked away from the food stall carrying their fish and chips. Sally stepped on the earring with her wellington boot, lodging it firmly into the ground; following her were a few other festival goers, so the earring became completely buried in the soil.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-29 show above.)