"A Long Way Home" by Anna Drake (Novelette)

Genre:  Suspense

Type of Short Story:  Novelette

Summary:  Newly minted widow, Angela Clark, learns that while her husband may be dead, her enemy is terrifyingly alive. Angela's challenge is deciding whether she wants to live or die.

Excerpt:

I stared at the gentleman seated opposite me. Dark hair with wisps of gray at the temples. Aquiline nose. Narrow face. Expensive, tasteful suit, done up in a conservative, gray fabric. He wanted to know why I’d come.

“My husband, Jeffery,” I said, “died not quite a month ago. He was stabbed to death. He’d been walking home from our store after closing.”

Dr. Ivan Gregory placed his hands on his desk and nodded. “A violent death is always upsetting. But you say you’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. You need to understand those are normal reactions after what you’ve experienced. It will take you time to recover from this kind of shock. Grief has its stages.”

“But Jeff was murdered. Someone deliberately robbed him of life. Can you explain to me how I’m to get over something like that?”

Gregory offered me a reassuring smile. “I grant you murder complicates things. What you’re feeling at this moment is no doubt nearly overwhelming. But if you’re willing to put in the effort and time required, you can recover. You mention murder. So let’s begin with how you feel about your husband’s killer."

“Jeff was only thirty-four. We were deeply in love. We were thinking of starting a family. How do you think I feel?”

“Anger is normal under these circumstances. I take it the killer hasn’t been caught, then?”

“No.” My voice sounded strained even to my own ears. “Whoever did this is still running around out there. Free to do whatever they please.”

“And that bothers you?”

I leaned forward toward this man seated behind his wide, dark, teak desk. “Of course, it does. I know this doesn’t sound nice. But I want this killer hunted down. I want to be sitting there in court when the jury’s verdict is announced. I want to see the murderer flinch as he or she learns the price they’ll pay for taking my husband’s life.”

“I see.” Gregory scratched a few notes on his pad of paper before returning his gaze to my face. “There are websites online that can help you with this. They’re places where people left behind after a murder can share their stories with each other. Have you heard of such sites?”

“Actually, yes.” I repositioned myself in my chair. “I even have a list of some. My mother tracked them down. But I took that piece of paper she gave me and shoved it into a drawer. And I’ve never so much as looked at it since.”

“You don’t think visiting a few of the websites could be helpful to you?”

“No,” I said. Then I added in what was almost a whisper, “I’m not sure even sure I want to know.”

“You enjoy holding on to your anger?”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “At least this way, I feel something.”
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"Hustlers" by Claire Chilton (Novella)

Genre:  New Adult Romance

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  Her first heist was perfect until romance got in the way... 

Ellie Phillips doesn’t want to go to university. She wants to keep running cons with her father and her brother, Jimmy, just like she always has. When she strikes a deal with her dad to run the perfect heist, she bets her future on the result.

All she has to do is dig up the dirt on a shady millionaire. To do so, she needs to get into his hotel and snoop around. Unfortunately, when she runs into the mark’s son, Matt, and falls for him, she lets her guard down and everything starts to spiral out of control...

Excerpt:

“We need to talk about you being more responsible.” Ellie Phillips widened her eyes when she heard her father’s voice echo through the Bluetooth device in her ear.

“Is now really the best time to discuss my future?” she asked as she scrambled through the tight space of an air vent. The silver shaft felt claustrophobic as she crawled through it, and every movement caused a metallic thunk to echo down it.

“It’s as good a time as any,” her father said.

She shook her head as she reached the grill at the end of the tunnel. “I really do think this could be a conversation for another day,” she muttered as she reached into the pocket of her black jeans and pulled out a small, electric screwdriver. She began unscrewing the vent.

“You’re eighteen now. It’s time you started thinking about taking on some responsibility. You can’t keep doing cons forever.”

“Why not? You did,” she muttered as she dropped the grill into the office below and then lowered herself out of the crawlspace in the roof and into the room beneath her.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she mumbled as she dropped through the hole and landed in the middle of an open-plan office. She ducked down, crouching in the dark as she scanned the office with her pulse racing. The room was empty.

“I’d like you to start thinking about your future. I’d like you to start taking on a bit more responsibility.” Her father continued as she narrowed her eyes, checking for shadows moving on the walls. Nothing moved. She breathed a sigh. The alarms in the office were disabled, but she needed to make sure there weren’t any guards wandering around.

“I think you need to stay out of trouble and go to college.”

“What?” She widened her eyes again before lowering her voice to a whisper. “Are you getting senile dementia or something?”

“It’s a perfectly reasonable expectation that a father should have for his daughter.”

She shook her head as she stood up and hurried over to the nearest computer terminal. “Given the current situation, I don’t think it’s a realistic expectation. Is Jimmy ready?”

“I’m ever-ready, sweetheart.” Jimmy’s voice echoed through the Bluetooth.

“You’re up,” she said as she switched on the computer and plugged in the USB. She brushed back a wisp of dark hair that had escaped her ponytail and was tickling her cheek.

“You need to stop being a little criminal and start thinking about your future,” her father said.

“I have a future.” She frowned at the shadows near the door then quickly crouched behind the desk when one of them moved. There was someone else here.

“You can’t con your way through life.”

“Why not? You did,” she whispered, staring at the door.

“Damnit, Ellie! I’m serious.”

“So am I. If you want me to be more responsible, let me manage this job.” She paused for a moment, unsure of why she’d said that. She didn’t really want to manage anything. It was about time she did, but she was reluctant to take on that kind of responsibility. Since she’d turned eighteen, her father had been nagging her to think about the future, and the only future she could envision was one as a hustler, just like her father.

She frowned at the shadows, and her pulse raced as she watched a large guard heading toward the open doorway.

Crap, maybe I should learn to manage breaking and entering first.

She closed her eyes for a second, mentally kicking herself. If he came into the office, he’d find the grate from the air vent on the floor. It wouldn’t take him long to work out she was in here.

“What’s going on?” her father asked.

“I might be busted,” she muttered out of the side of her mouth as the guard stepped into the room. She hitched her breath when he reached for the light switch.

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"Another Place" by Clare Young (Short Story)

Genre:  Children's Fantasy

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Summary:  A young boy, accompanied by his toys, goes on a quest to find his lost dog.

Excerpt:

The bowl was empty and the basket was empty. When Tim came home from school, he found his father sitting at the kitchen table holding the red collar and leash.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” Tim’s father said, and Tim knew it must be bad because his father was sitting at the kitchen table, not on the living room sofa as he usually did. The kitchen table was for words and news and talks; the things his father was in charge of. Tim placed his backpack near the back door and sat at the table, waiting for his father to begin.

“Something has happened to Luke,” his father said, “which means that he’s gone somewhere. Somewhere nice, but somewhere he can never come back from.”

Tim thought for a while. “Like a holiday?”

“Not quite. On a holiday you come back home again, but Luke can’t come back home again,” Tim’s father cleared his throat and pushed the red collar and leash into the middle of the table.

“Why can’t he come back home again?” Tim asked. Perhaps Luke couldn’t come home because he was lost; he didn’t even have his collar with his name and phone number on it.

“Because,” Tim’s father paused, and Tim thought that maybe his father had taken Luke for a walk and then left him somewhere. “Because he can’t. At some point everyone goes to a place they can’t get back from. It will happen to me, your mother, and you one day. Today it has happened to Luke.”

“But where’s he gone?”

“Another place, far from here, where he has lots of friends and family. He won’t be lonely.”

Tim thought, and got upset, because Luke was his best friend so why would he want to leave? Tim left the kitchen table, ran upstairs and lay on his bed and cried. He cried because he couldn’t understand why Luke would want to leave; they had so much fun every day, apart from when Tim was more interested in playing with his toys.

After a while, Tim sat up and yelled out to the wooden Sailor boy, Steve, who stood on top of Tim’s bookshelf.

“It’s not fair!”

“What’s not fair Tim?” said the wooden Sailor Steve.

“Luke’s gone and he’s not coming back,” Tim said.

“Where Tim? Where has Luke gone?”

“I don’t know, somewhere else.”

“Oh, don’t cry my dear,” Daisy Rag Doll, climbing out from beneath the bed, joined in. “I’m sure we can find him.”

“I don’t know,” Tim said, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Daisy Rag Doll climbed up on Tim’s bed and shuffled over to him.

“Don’t do that dear, use a handkerchief,” she said, handing him one of her own.

Tim wiped his nose properly, and wooden Sailor Steve climbed down from the bookcase to join Tim on his bed.

“I think he may be lost, and that’s why he can’t come back. Dad was holding his red collar and leash, and he...” Tim became upset again and buried his head between his knees.

“Now now Tim, don’t cry,” Daisy Rag Doll softly patted Tim on the back.

“If he is lost, then we can go find him. We shall find him!” Sailor Steve said

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"Take Off Your Mask" by Mary Pappas (Flash Fiction)

Genre: Drama

Type of Short Story:  Flash Fiction Collection

Summary:  People wear masks. They hide who they really are. Why do they do that? What is more painful, trying to take off the mask or keep on wearing it? 

Five women pretend to be something they are not in this fiction anthology.

Short stories about dangerous relationships.

Nothing is at it seems.

Excerpt:

“Thank you, but my idea of having fun includes going home, reading a good book and sleeping early. Maybe some other time.’’

‘’For God’s sakes Brenda, why do you insist on living like a nun? How are you ever going to meet someone if you never go out?”

”I met enough men in my short life, Gina. I know how that story ends, so I don’t want to see a repeat.’’
“I know you have been hurt by those jerks who disappeared from your life with no explanation. But not all men are like that, Brenda! Somewhere out there, there is the right guy for you, but you have to go out to meet him!’’

“The right guy for me exists only in the romantic novels I read. So, I have actually met him. He will just never meet me.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?’’

“I really do. Reality is scary, Gina. Sometimes, you have to make your own reality in order to survive.”

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"The Magnum Opus" by Deina Furth (Novelette)

Genre: Steampunk Science Fiction

Type of Short Story:  Novelette

Summary:  Creating the perfect companion is Rastigan's dream--maybe even his obsession. For years, he has tinkered and planned, pouring his heart into his work as intensely as he pours scotch into his glass. But every machine that he builds falls short of his expectations. His work completely consumes his thoughts and time, leaving him a homebound hermit with nary a connection to the outside world. As the years press on, Rastigan seems doomed to live out remainder of his life as a solitary eccentric who finds companionship only with his favorite brand of booze.

Then he creates Evangeline. She far surpasses anything he's ever built in terms of complexity, intelligence, and of course, beauty. She's his most lifelike invention to date, and to him, she is perfect in every way--that is, until she begins to develop her own desires. As she begins to question the world around her, Rastigan fears he's once more out of the picture, doomed to be alone forever.

Has Rastigan finally found the companion he's yearned for in Evangeline? Or has his obsession with building his magnum opus gone too far?

Excerpt:

Piano music drifted from a record player as Evangeline entered the den. She wore the dress Rastigan had requested. Sheer white fabric draped loosely across her shoulders and waist in layers that shifted and fluttered with her slightest movement, and it was so long that she had to gather her skirts to avoid tripping. When he saw her, Rastigan clapped his hands together and smiled warmly, apparently pleased, then he reached out to her, beckoning. Evangeline clutched her skirts tightly and carefully shuffled forward, stopping about two feet short of his trembling, open arms. That sensation. That vexing repulsion at discovering something she wished she hadn’t, and the desire to push it as far from herself as possible. What was it?

“You look lovelier than ever, my doll,” Rastigan said a little too loudly. He closed the gap between them and wrapped his arms around her waist, his movements looser and less controlled than before. He fumbled around, trying to place his hands properly for a dance, while his legs wobbled with the pull of the liquor. “Go on, now, put your arms around me,” he commanded.

Evangeline let her skirts loose and did as she was told, folding her hands together around the back of his neck. It was slick with sweat, and his greasy hair fell against the back of her hands, leaving trails of residue as it swished with his movements. Rastigan swayed from left to right, and back again, burying his head in her neck with a sigh as the notes swelled louder, enveloping the pair in the piano’s melancholy song. The fire burned brightly behind him, crackling softly with the music and casting oversized projections of their dancing silhouettes onto the walls.

It was still there. This feeling, this desire to get him away. To hurt him.

Where did it come from? Was it his drunkenness, his sloppy attempts to turn her into his entertainment? Or was it something deeper?

“You dance well,” he said, groggily. His words leaked from his mouth, the Ss and Ls oozing into a single slushy syllable. Evangeline kept her head facing forward, her eyes fixed on the way the shadows stretched and shrank in the flickering light above the fireplace, rather than look at her dance partner’s wilting, alcohol-touched face. Rastigan pressed his lips to her cheek, trying to draw her attention. When she didn’t respond, he slid his fingers up her waist and across her shoulders. He pulled his body away from her, wobbling as he went, and looked directly into her eyes. Evangeline stopped moving altogether, clenching her hands into fists, making her body stiff and distant.

That unremitting feeling.

“Oh, Evangeline, you remind me so much of my—”

Thunder interrupted his words, a crash so loud that the windows vibrated, and the entire room ignited with a white-hot luminescence that snuffed out the fire’s soft glow. In this light, his features looked harsh, angular. His eyes were wide, bloodshot and red rimmed, and his mouth curled into a grimace at the intensity of the storm, revealing his uneven and stained teeth.

For the first time, Evangeline could clearly see the fear inside him, the same fear his trembling voice had harbored the night before. As the flash faded, he broke away from her, holding his hand to his heart, clutching at his threadbare shirt. The force with which he pushed himself away nearly sent her tripping over her dress. Now he cowered like a child, his eyes darting about the room as if searching for monsters in the shadows.

Fat raindrops pounded against the windowpane, and another rumble of thunder tumbled through the room, softer this time.

“You-you may go, Eva,” he said.

Eva?

She raised her hand and pointed at her chest, trying to gain his attention, seeking clarification.

But Rastigan had already collapsed into an armchair next to the hearth. He wrapped a trembling hand around the bottle of scotch he had placed on the table and pulled it to his lips.

Evangeline backed away slowly.

Eva.

Evangeline.

Who was it that she reminded him of?

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