tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75181650351269270762024-03-12T17:44:03.629-07:00Short Story SymposiumLess is more when it comes to short stories. In today's busy world they are perfect when on-the-go. Discover and enjoy new authors who specialize in succinct tales.Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.comBlogger240125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-33736768120582224772018-08-21T18:12:00.000-07:002018-08-21T18:12:02.426-07:00"Grandfather’s Dream" by Jan Hurst-Nicholson (Short Story)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Genre: </b>Adventure</div>
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<b>Type of Short Story:</b> Short Story</div>
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<b>Short Story:</b></div>
<br />South Africa<br /><br /><i>Sipho set out to fulfil his Grandfather’s dream, and in doing so learnt the power of imagination.</i><br /><br />Careful of the precious bundle tucked under his arm, Sipho climbed out of the rattling bus and stepped down onto the rutted dirt road. It felt warm and welcoming beneath his bare feet. He stood for a few moments breathing in the familiar smells and watching the bus as it sped further into the mountains in a fast disappearing dust cloud.<br /><br />He smiled to himself. His heart was glad. He was on his way home and he had done it. At last he had his Grandfather’s dream. Now his Grandfather would be well again.<br /><br />He saw that the sun was at its highest, and there were still many hills to climb before he would reach his own kraal. If he was to be home before the sun went down he could not delay. But first he must check the bundle. He settled on a small rock, sending a dozing lizard scuttling into the long dry grass. Carefully, he unwrapped the tattered red shirt and inspected the bottle to make sure that none of the precious contents had escaped. Satisfied that all was well, he re-tied the shirt and set off.<br /><br />At first the path was well worn and there were many people to greet. “Sawubona,” they called. “Hamba kahle. Go well.” He waved to the young herd boys tending the goats, and the girls gathering wood for fires.<br /><br />When he neared the first kraal, he caught the tempting smell of chicken stew bubbling in an iron pot. “Woza, sidle nansi inkukhu,” they invited him. But Sipho could not be tempted to join them. “Ngiyabonga,” he said regretfully. He wanted to be home before the sun disappeared behind the tall fingers of uKhahlamba, the mountain they called the Barrier of Spears.<br /><br />Over the next hill the path grew narrower and he passed tall fleshy aloes with their fiery orange flowers, and the prickly thorn trees. High in the sky, no more than a distant speck, an eagle soared.<br /><br />In places, cattle cropped the patchy grass. “Weh, bafana,” he called to the herd boys who would soon be driving the animals back to the safety of the boma.<br /><br />“Hello,” the boys returned the greeting. “Go well.”<br /><br />Sipho’s own kraal was still far into the distance. But he would not allow his legs to tire, or his feet to grow sore, because he knew that in the bottle he held his Grandfather’s dream.<br /><br />As the sun slowly slid towards uKhahlamba he picked his way over the smooth worn boulders and stones of the trickling river. The icy water sent a chill through his feet and he stopped for a few moments to wash the dust from his legs, and to cup his hands in the clear liquid to quench his thirst. Soon he had the bundle tucked under his arm again, and was heading up the final slope toward home.<br /><br />When he neared the kraal he caught sight of the wispy smoke as it drifted lazily from the sweet-smelling wood fires. Cattle shuffled contentedly in the boma, and the scratching hens scattered at his approach.<br /><br />Sipho hesitated for a moment before ducking into the cool interior of the darkened hut. In the small spear of sunlight from the hole in the roof where the smoke escaped, he saw his Grandfather resting on his sleeping mat.<br /><br />Bowing his head respectfully, Sipho announced quietly, “Grandfather, I have brought it.”<br /><br />The old man slowly awakened. Awkwardly, he propped his shrunken body on his elbow. Sipho began to untie the bundle. But the old man put out his hand to stop the boy.<br /><br />“Let us go into the light where I can see better,” he said, struggling to his feet.<br /><br />“Woza. Come,” said Sipho, placing his strong young arm around the shaky old man. He guided him to a low wooden stool, worn shiny with use outside the hut. He disappeared for a few moments before returning with a clay pot of foaming sorghum beer. He handed it to his grandfather. The shaky hands gripped the pot, and tipping it back, the old man took a long drink before settling down.<br /><br />Sipho carefully untied the tattered shirt. Then he gently placed the bottle in the gnarled hands. As the aged, brown fingers wrapped around the jar, they reminded Sipho of old worn hide. When his grip was secure, the old man lifted the bottle to the sun and allowed its weakening rays to glint on the clear water.<br /><br />“Look well, Grandfather, at the sand at the bottom of the jar,” urged Sipho. “It really is the sea I have brought you.”<br /><br />The old man smiled, squinting in the fading light.<br /><br />Sipho reached forward and unscrewed the cap. “Smell inside, Grandfather. Smell the sea.”<br /><br />The old man brought the bottle to his nose and drew in a deep breath.<br /><br />“Can you not smell it, Grandfather?”<br /><br />The old man nodded. Sipho eagerly took the bottle from him. “See how it tastes, Grandfather,” he said, trickling a little of the water into the old man’s cupped hands. The old man pressed his tongue to the liquid.<br /><br />“Does it not taste of salt, like I said it would?”<br /><br />“It tastes as you said,” agreed the old man, chuckling.<br /><br />Sipho fetched a spoon, and scooping out some of the sand, poured it into his Grandfather’s hand. “Feel it, Grandfather, it is finer even than the finest salt. When you step on it, it moves softly under your feet.”<br /><br />The old man smiled at the earnestness of the young boy. But then he shook his head. “You have travelled far to bring me the sea, my son. But I have not yet seen it.”<br /><br />Sipho fell back, disappointed. He did not understand. Had he not shown the bottle of seawater to his Grandfather? Had he not pointed out the fine grains of sand and the tiny pieces of shell from the creatures that lived in it?<br /><br />He searched his Grandfather’s face for some meaning. Perhaps it was his eyes that seemed filled with smoke prevented him from seeing, or the little red pathways running around the faded brown centres, like the pathways that criss-crossed the valley. Was that why his grandfather could not see? But his Grandfather had seen the bottle and the water. Had he not held it up to the light?<br /><br />Sipho pondered on this as he again looked at the bottle. And then all at once he knew what his Grandfather meant. He had seen the bottle of water, but he had not seen the sea.<br /><br />“I will show you the sea, Grandfather,” he said, settling down on his haunches. He closed his eyes and sighed as he recalled the long journey he had undertaken.<br /><br />He had set off the previous day well before the sun had risen. He had asked many people the way to the sea. Three times he had changed buses and taxis and it was already past midday when he’d had his first glimpse of the sea.<br /><br />“Look. There it is,” the young woman sitting beside him had cried when the bus crested a hill. He’d glanced eagerly out of the window. But in the distance, where the sky touched the earth, he saw only a disappointing grey flatness, like the sky when the storm clouds gather.<br /><br />But a little while later, when the sea was finally before him, Sipho’s eyes had grown round like an owl’s.<br /><br />“The sea is as wide as the mountains, and beyond, Grandfather,” Sipho began, “as if the sky has fallen to the earth. It moves as the long grass when the wind runs through it.”<br /><br />Sipho felt the remembered drumbeat of excitement in his chest. “And the colour is sometimes that of the sky, and sometimes that of the waving grass, and the distant forests when the sun has left them.”<br /><br />The old man too, had closed his eyes. He rocked gently on the stool and let the words flow over him.<br /><br />“The voice of the sea, Grandfather,” said the boy, “is the voice of the wind when it shouts across the mountains. It growls and grows more fierce until the sea bursts and froths like sorghum beer, and then it runs hissing and singing up the sand.”<br /><br />Sipho recalled how he had lain awake almost the whole night listening to the powerful voice of the sea.<br /><br />But now he was aware of his Grandfather. The old man coughed and a spasm shook him.<br /><br />“Grandfather,” said the boy, his face full of concern.<br /><br />“Go on, boy,” said the old man. “Tell me more.”<br /><br />“The sand was hot, like the ashes of the fire before they finally die. The water had the warmth of the sun in it. At first, it pulled at my feet, as the goats tug on their tethers. But as I went deeper, it knocked me over and dragged me under, as if it were a creature with many arms. It had not the stillness of a deep rock pool. The sea tumbled me over and over, like the time I slipped and rolled down the hill. The water was in my eyes and my mouth and my nose. When I thought that my lungs could no longer bear it, the sea spat me out as if it were telling me, “This is my power, I challenge you.”<br /><br />He turned to his Grandfather and saw that the old man was smiling and laughing quietly to himself. Had he too, seen Sipho spat out by the sea?<br /><br />“When the sun has gone,” Sipho continued,” the sea grows as dark as the inside of the hut when the fire has died. But when the moon peeps through the clouds the sea is like the wet nose of the cattle.”<br /><br />As he finished his story, Sipho watched for a sign from his Grandfather. The wrinkled face did not seem as troubled, and he could see a smile on the shrunken mouth.<br /><br />They sat in silent thought while the sun gradually sank behind the spears of uKhahlamba . Finally the old man roused himself. “I am tired. Take me inside,” he told Sipho.<br /><br />Sipho settled his Grandfather on the sleeping mat and then returned with the jar of seawater. He placed it at the old man’s head. In the darkened hut Sipho could barely see his Grandfather’s face, but he sensed a peace about him.<br /><br />“Thank you, my boy,” said the old man quietly. “At last I have seen the sea.” <br />Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-47412241100421436082018-01-12T13:21:00.004-08:002018-01-12T13:21:54.381-08:00"I Dance with the Devil" by S. M. Daniels (Short Story)<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Short Story<br />
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<br />I spun her around again, in time to that enchanting melody, or was it the most horrendous shriek that had ever cursed my ears? I never knew the chorus, nor understood the tune, but I danced. Yes, I danced like it was my last night on earth. Indeed, every night could be my last night alive if I failed to dance each moment of it away with this witch, for the life of my true love, my angel Kate, was in this foul Devil’s hands’. I gazed into the eyes of the woman with which I stepped in time so beautifully, and seeing my staring, she smiles back; ah, what a smile. Doubtless, it was the most enticing offer I had met with that day. And the offer was simple, “I am here, be mine and all will be well.” Oh, how my heart ached, the devilishly glorious angel with which I waltzed tempted me so every night, and every night it was harder than the last to refuse. If I accepted, this spawn of Satan’s offer, my fiancée would close her eyes for the last time, and be found dead in the morning. For this angel of death whom with I swayed so perfectly had power, yes she held the power of death in her perfectly shaped hands. Those hands- nay, those talons of the damned would command my love dead if I refused to dance with her every night for an eternity.<br /><br /> <br /><br />As I reminisced, I missed a step, treading on her perfect foot. She laughed at my mistake, and I realized how exhausted I was. How long had it been? I glanced at the clock behind her. Damn, it was still broken as it was every night. Always showing the same time; midnight. I suppose that was her favorite time, or perhaps she had read the Halloween stories of the day and decided that time fit her bill- so to speak.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Tired?” She said, “Care for a rest? A brief slumber? Fall asleep, my love, and it will be over, and we can dance again in the morning.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />Though her voice was that of the sweetest honey, when I gazed into her eyes; there was no love. No, in those windows to her soul, if this creature even had one, lay lust; realization of the opportunity at hand. Returning her gaze, I stated with all the conviction I could muster,<br /><br /> <br /><br />“No.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />She sighed. “Well, it’s dawn. Last chance to return home with me.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />I averted my gaze, I had made the mistake of meeting it when the offer came before, and it was unbearable to resist. “No,” I said simply. Her eyes flashed with fire-- not figuratively, her eyes suddenly became engulfed in flames as her fury overtook her, but as suddenly as it was there, the fire was gone, and in its stead, was the previously worn smile.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Very well then, my love,” She said, “It is time.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />And with those words she drew me in for the parting kiss. I knew this was coming, but every night the pain still shook me. Her lips met mine, and instantly I felt all the pain there was. Not physical pain, but that which Jesus had felt on the cross. That of total abandonment, a complete neglect from whatever deity supposedly rules this universe. I’m sure I screamed as hard as I did every night; harder perhaps. When she finished, for it only lasted a moment, I sank to the floor shaking; my body glistening with sweat.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“There,” came her sickly-sweet voice, “You are free to go.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />I pulled myself from the floor, took one last look upon my hated captor, and left. As I walked out, I thought back to how my life had become such. It had started that fateful night in the ambulance…<br /><br /> <br /><br />*****************************************************************************************************<br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br />The sound of sirens filled my ears, but at the same time I couldn’t hear it, seeing Kate there, some strange apparatus attached to her face, hooked up to a machine I didn’t recognize, blocked out all sound but the pumping of my agonized heart. We had been on a date, the most important date in any couple’s life; I had proposed just a dozen minutes prior, but in the elation of the moment, she fell as though death had taken her. A nearby man happened to be a doctor and performed some procedure that kept her alive until the paramedics arrived. What he did I can’t say. I was too busy making a fool of myself, calling her name, trying to reach her, I had to be held back by bystanders, so the doctor could work on Kate. My Kate. Laying there; dead.<br /><br /> <br /><br />As it turned out, when the paramedics arrived, she wasn’t dead. They speculated this and that, doubtless telling me what they would do to help her, save her, and I couldn’t recall a word of theirs’ if my life depended on it. All I knew was that I was losing my Kate, the child of God with whom I was meant to be with forever, and no one could tell me what it was that was stealing her away.<br /><br /> <br /><br />The ambulance ride could have been five minutes, or it could have been a year. I was so numb to the passage of time, and my mind fixated upon one name, “Kate.” We arrived at the hospital, and I believe they tried to stop me from following her into her room, but one of the nurses took pity upon my pathetic mentality, and bade my stay whilst they dressed her in a gown, checked her vitals, and hooked her up to a machine that beeped. At some point I found myself in the hallway, slightly out of breath. I must have been pacing. I had no recollection of doing this, but I decided that must be what had happened. Just as this conclusion graced me, a doctor walked over, hesitantly.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“How is she?” I inquired, my voice hopeful, but at the same time not daring to hope.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Not good, John. She has a hemorrhage. I would give her a few hours at the best. At the worst? She could fade at any moment.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />No. Not my Kate, she couldn’t be dying!<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Isn’t there anything you can do?” I asked, my voice cracking with emotion as tears streamed down my face.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“We’ve tried everything, it’s been almost two days since she came in. It’s a miracle she has lasted this long.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />Before I could open my mouth to speak a third time, the doctor interrupted, “Go be with her. You don’t have a lot of time left.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />Numbly I followed the order, walking into her room and sitting down next to her. I stared at the seemingly lifeless body on the bed in front of me, and thought how peaceful she looked laying there. Surely, there was nothing wrong with her! Of course, the doctors had made a mistake! See? Her breathing was steady, and though her heartbeat was weak, it was certainly present! Therefore, she was alive, and if she was alive. She would recover. Right?<br /><br /> <br /><br />“It won’t happen,” said a soft, but indifferent voice. “She isn’t going to get better. In fact, she’ll be gone within a few minutes.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />I looked up and saw a woman there, dressed head to toe in black.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Who are you?” I asked, irritated I was being disturbed.<br /><br /> <br /><br />The woman laughed, “Nobody of consequence. Well, that’s not true actually, but you’ll never see me again, so what does it matter?”<br /><br /> <br /><br />Her response irked me more, and I pressed the button for the nurse, intending to have the nurse remove this annoying woman. The nurse jogged in promptly and gave me an inquisitive look. I gestured at the woman,<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Please help this lady find the room she’s looking for,” I said.<br /><br /> <br /><br />The nurse looked confusedly around, “What lady?” She inquired.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“The one right next to you,” I said, my impatience with both of them growing.<br /><br /> <br /><br />The nurse glanced around again, “Sir, there is no one here but you.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />I jabbed an aggravated finger at the woman, “Her!” I said raising my voice, “Tell her to leave!”<br /><br /> <br /><br />The nurse stepped back surprised, “Sir, I believe you need rest, is there anything I can get you to help you relax?”<br /><br /> <br /><br />I opened my mouth again, intending to give this jokester a tongue lashing, but then the lady spoke again.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“She can’t see me John, only you can.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />I was confused, what did she mean?<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Look,” said the lady, and with that she walked over to the nurse, then… walked right through her? I couldn’t believe my eyes! She had just walked through a human being.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“You see John, I’m not just a lady. I am death, and I have come to take the life of your fiancée, Kate.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />I was too stunned for words. When I found my voice, I thanked the nurse and asked if I could just have some privacy, apologizing for my earlier behavior. The still very confused nurse nodded graciously and left.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“What do you mean you’re death? Why are you visible to just me?”<br /><br /> <br /><br />“I am death, the ruler of all afterlife, responsible for making sure people who are old, die. As for being able to see me, I sometimes do that for amusement, it’s a dull job you know.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />I stared at her. What? She takes pleasure in this?<br /><br /> <br /><br />“How can you do this?” I demanded<br /><br /> <br /><br />“It’s my job, it’s not personal.” She replied. She looked from me to Kate, then back to me, and said,<br /><br /> <br /><br />“You really love her, don’t you?”<br /><br /> <br /><br />These words were spoken without a trace of emotion, but merely as a statement of fact.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“More than a demon like you could ever dream of understanding.” I growled, my teeth grinding at her audacity.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“There there,” she said reproachfully, “No need for that. I wasn’t always death you know. I used to be a naive mortal like yourself, and yes, I even found love when I was as you are. I know what it is and how it feels, I just simply no longer care.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />I knew I had to buy more time to think,<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Tell me about him,” I said quickly, “This love of yours. What was he like?”<br /><br /> <br /><br />Death sighed, “Not unlike yourself, actually. He was strong and brave, like you and willing to challenge anyone or anything that threatened to steal me from him. Our favorite thing to do as lovers was to dance, sometimes we would dance the entire night away. I loved him so dearly, so much so that when the time came that it was necessary, I made a fateful decision to save him.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />Now I was not only buying time, but was also curious and asked,<br /><br /> <br /><br />“What decision?”<br /><br /> <br /><br />Death smiled cruelly, “Ah my dear, man, I know you are trying desperately to stall me at my work. A brave effort, but in vain. I have my job, and I do it without exception.” She added, coldly.<br /><br /> <br /><br />With these icy words, she placed her hand over Kate’s heart, and a glowing essence began to rise from my love’s chest. I felt panic rising, “WAIT!!” I yelled.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Death hesitated, raised an eyebrow and cocked her head at me, “Yes?” she said, annoyed at the interruption.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“In all the stories, people meet death and they make bargains!” I said hastily, not thinking how absurd this sounded.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“A bargain…?”; she was confused.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Yes!” I said, speaking rapidly, “Surely there’s something you want! Anything!”<br /><br /> <br /><br />Death threw back her head and released a laugh similar to that of a bat screeching.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“What could you, a mortal human, offer me, Death? An immortal being. I have everything I need provided for me!”<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Me.” I said, hesitantly.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Death’s laugh stopped as quickly as it hard started, and her cruel mirth was replaced with guarded curiosity.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“What?” She said.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Me.” I said again, with more confidence this time seeing that I had her attention. “You said you had someone like me once that you loved, but to know he was like me, you would have to have watched me; to have been around me. You fell in love with me, didn’t you?”<br /><br /> <br /><br />I knew I was grasping at straws, but I had to think fast, I had to make it up as I went and pray to whichever deity might exist that I was right.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Death’s eyes widened slightly, and though now I saw a distant longing, she did not speak.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“I’ll do it,” I said, striking while the iron was hot, “you said you used to dance the night away with this man, I can do that with you—for you. I’ll come to you every night, and we can dance all night together, and in return for my companionship you will let my Kate live, that she and I can also be together.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />Death hesitated, suspicious.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“What makes you think I would take such an offer?”<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Can’t you just threaten to kill me or something?” I responded<br /><br /> <br /><br />“No no no,” said Death, “It doesn’t work like that. I take lives to keep a balance. Bringing her back would cause only a small disruption, but I could cover that up. However, taking a life where it wasn’t meant to be taken, that can’t be hidden. I can’t kill unless your time has come, that will disrupt the balance. No, this won’t work.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />“I haven’t even lost my Kate and I would give anything to bring her back. You lost your love, and it still torments you. Wouldn’t you give anything to dance with him again?”<br /><br /> <br /><br />Death looked at me, and again, she hesitated. After what seemed like an eternity she spoke.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“You would give anything?” she said.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Anything!” I replied without hesitation, or thinking.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Then this is how this will work. Every night, you will meet me at a church- any church. We will dance all night, and then in the morning I will kiss you and take a tiny piece of your soul. I will keep this piece, but also use it and give Kate life; one day at a time. Should you fail to keep your end of the bargain, she dies in your arms.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />I immediantly nodded, not taking time to process the implications of such a bargain.<br /><br /> <br /><br /> “Deal,” I said, “anything for my Kate.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />Death nodded and produced an ancient parchment from thin air,<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Sign here,” she said, handing me the parchment and a black pen. <br /><br /> <br /><br />I took the pen and immediantly scrawled my name without reading the document. As I did so, I felt a stabbing pain over my heart, and looked down to see blood soaking through my shirt. I looked at Death, then opened my shirt, and saw a star had been carved into my flash right over my heart.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“There,” she smiled, “The deed is done.” With that she vanished, and I was alone with Kate again. Suddenly, Kate gasped and sat straight up, it was a miracle!<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Kate!” I cried, joyously, “you’re alive!”<br /><br /> <br /><br />****************************************************************************************************<br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br />And that brings me back to where I am now, forced to dance every night with Death itself for the life of my beloved. Every night I dance, and every night I lose a bit of my soul. I feel it’s affects more and more each time, as if I am wasting away, soon to become a soulless shell. But I keep going, knowing the alternative is to lose my heart.<br /><br /> <br /><br />As the years have gone by, I came to realize what had happened with Death and her first love. He had been injured, or fell fatally ill, and she must have struck a similar bargain with the being that was Death at the time, agreeing to give him pieces of her soul in exchange for her loves life, and in the end, she would take his place where there was no more soul to give; and now such is my fate.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Is it worth it? Is my soul worth the love if my life? To that I can only answer yes, yes, my Kate will be worth every moment that I Dance with the Devil. <b><br /></b>
<b>Read story for free <a href="https://www.booksie.com/534041-i-dance-with-the-devil-prolog">here</a>.</b>Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-72205111117456595232016-11-04T00:00:00.000-07:002016-11-04T00:00:09.731-07:00"Painting Rainbows" by Sue Lilley (Short Story)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Genre: </b>Romance</div>
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Short Story</div>
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<b>Summary: </b>Soulmates since they were children, Mandy and Joel are grown up now and destined to be together. Until life hurls a curved ball in their direction. Can they find each other and live happily ever after? Or will life conspire to keep them apart?</div>
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“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she announced before she’d even sat down.<div>
<br />She’d dressed up. Did she think it would soften the blow? She looked like the bluebell fairy, all floaty skirts and wild purple hair. On anyone else, it could’ve been a thrift store costume. But Mandy was ethereal, sexy as hell yet somehow untouchable. Was she already withdrawing because she was leaving? He picked up a stick and poked around in the bonfire, trying to sound normal when all he wanted to do was beg.</div>
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<br />“How come?”</div>
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<br />“I haven’t been home all summer. I should go back for a duty visit before uni.”</div>
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<br />“We could go together?”</div>
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<br />“God, no!” she laughed, tucking the silky skirt beneath her as she kicked off her shoes and sat cross-legged on the grass. “Can you imagine? My dad would have a fit if I turned up with you in tow.”</div>
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<br />Odd they’d been so close all summer, yet they’d never once discussed the long connection of their families.</div>
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<br />“He never approved of me, did he?” he remembered.</div>
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<br />“I can’t imagine your folks would be any more approving.”</div>
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<br />“They might. They’ve always wanted me to be happy.”</div>
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<br />“You don’t think they’ve been indulging their only son? There’ll come a point when they’ll expect you to grow up and toe the party line. Don’t you want to do something useful with your life?”</div>
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<br />“Plenty of time for that,” he insisted. “My priorities are different.”</div>
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<br />“You mean all this arty nonsense?” she scoffed, which shocked him.</div>
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<br />He’d meant his priority was her. She’d possessed his every waking hour as well as his dreams. He’d believed she felt the same. But something about her closed expression stopped him from saying so.</div>
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<br />“It’s not nonsense,” he said, floundering around in the dark. “I know I’m good. I can do something with it.”</div>
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<br />“Like what? Painting’s not real life, Joel. It’s a game. You’re chasing rainbows, putting off the moment when you have to face the future.”</div>
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<br />“I thought my future would be with you.” He took her hand, desperate to feel the heat of her as his heart was clamped by icy dread, his beautiful dream slipping like sand through his fingers. “Real life seems less of a cage with you there beside me.”</div>
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<br />“Nice line. How long have you been practising that one?”</div>
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<br />He’d been sincere but he laughed along with the joke. He hardly recognised himself. He’d become so much putty in her hands but he couldn’t bear the thought of being without her...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<b>Buy this book on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01IKV2V7U#nav-subnav">Amazon US</a> or <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Painting-Rainbows-sue-lilley-ebook/dp/B01IKV2V7U/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1471086939&sr=8-1&keywords=PAINTING+RAINBOWS">Amazon UK.</a></b></div>
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Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-62944876634269458952016-06-24T00:00:00.000-07:002016-06-24T00:00:06.939-07:00"Go to bed" by Melissa “Brownie” Grant (Flash Fiction)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51QEAygk6KL._SX312_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51QEAygk6KL._SX312_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="201" /></a></div>
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<b>Genre: </b>Erotica</div>
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Flash Fiction</div>
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<b>Summary: </b>What do you get when you have a sleepless night, a bottle of rum and two good friends? These are the ingredients of a captivating night. Join Carla and Justin as these two friends show you the meaning of nightcap.</div>
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<i>Another sleepless night</i>, Carla thought to herself as she turned onto her left side. She began to kick the bottom of her blanket, trying to tuck it under her feet, but it wasn't working. Now she was annoyed. Annoyed that her feet were still cold and at the fact she was still awake knowing that she had a big meeting tomorrow. Checking her alarm clock, she saw it was11:34. For many this would be considered an early night, but for Carla it was late. Finally, she gave up her pursuit of sleeping and decided to sit on her back porch. It was a nice night out.<br /><br />Carla got out of her bed to search for some comfortable lounging clothes. After a few minutes, she came across her favorite sweats and tank top. She quickly slipped them on and headed downstairs to her back door. Before going outside, she grabbed her bottle of rum. Why not do a few shots while waiting on sleep?<br /><br />Out on the back porch, the sound of crickets began to soothe her. Carla was happy that summer was coming.<br /><br />“I see that you can’t sleep either,” a familiar voice said from over the fence.<br /><br />“Huh?”<br /><br />“Girl, stop playing.It’s me—Justine.” Justine popped her head over the fence. “Oh you brought out the good stuff, Captain Morgan.”<br /><br />Carla chuckled, “Yeah, you wanna do a few shots with me? Maybe this will help both of us sleep.”<br /><br />Justine’s footsteps joined the noise of the crickets as she made her way to Carla’s porch. Once Justine was seated, Carla handed her the bottle.<br /><br />“You don’t want to take the first shot?”<br /><br />“Nah, you can. I have another bottle just in case we run out.”<br /><br />“Turnt on a Tuesday night.” Both Justine and Carla laughed.<br /><br />“So, why are you up so late?” Carla took the bottle from Justine.<br /><br />Before answering, Justine ran her fingers through her curly tresses. “Well, I was up doing this research paper. Now my mind won’t shut off. You?”<br /><br />Carla took a swig of rum then spoke. “Got this big meeting with higher-ups tomorrow. This could make or break the company.” Carla downed another shot. “I see why some of the bigwigs do drugs. I can’t take this.”<br /><br />“Girl, calm yourself. Just think of it this way—you’ll still have a job at the end of the day.”<br /><br />Holding the bottle up, Carla acted as if she was giving a toast. “You’re right about that. But still,there’ll be others that may lose theirs. That’s the part that is eating away at me.”<br /><br />Justine got up off the steps and sat adjacent to Carla. “Look, try your best not to make that happen. I know that you can.”<br /><br />“I guess.” Carla handed the bottle to Justine. “It’s just when I took this position on, I thought that I could change the company around.But I see it’s just as much bullshit at the top as it is at the bottom.”<br /><br />“You know what? You need this rum more than me.” Justine set the bottle in Carla’s lap. “You know what else you need?”<br /><br />“What?” Carla gulped the rum.<br /><br />“This.” Justine leaned over and kissed her. Carla pulled away, but Justine pulled her closer. After a few seconds, Carla gave in and kissed her back.<br /><br />Suddenly Justine pulled away, “Wait, wait, wait, I thought we agreed not to do this again—I’m sorry.”<br /><br />Breathing heavily, Carla nodded her head in agreement.<br /><br />She sat and thought for a second then she said, “Aw, hell with it.” Carla straddled Justine’s lap then began to kiss her passionately once again.Her hand found its way up Justine’s shirt. She leaned back and gazed at Justine. “You sure you want to do this here?”<br /><br />“Girl, shut up, you’re fucking up the mood.” Justine shoved her hand down Carla’s sweats and searched for Carla’s hot spot. Carla let out a low moan. “Yeah, that’s what I’m looking for. You’re wet as shit, girl.”<br /><br />Another moan left Carla’s lips as Justine continued to toy with her spot. With each flick of her finger, Carla became even wetter. Carla buried her face into Justine’s shoulder.<br /><br />“That’s right, I need for you come for me.” Justine could feel Carla’s whole body tensing up as she began to search for her G-spot.<br /><br />“Please, I can’t take it.” Carla’s words were muffled.<br /><br />“Yes you can.” Justine found her spot. It was soft and moist. Justine couldn’t help but play with it. The more she toyed with it, the louder Carla’s moan became. As Justine kept feeling on Carla’s G-spot, a warm liquid began to trickle down her wrist and through her fingers. “You didn’t tell me you was a squirter.” This gave Justine more incentive to make her come. Justine was getting ready to remove her hand, but Carla grabbed it to keep it in place. Carla began to move her hips in motion with Justine’s strokes. The warm liquid began to run down Justine’s hand as Carla cried out that she was coming. Carla jumped off Justine’s lap and fell into the chair across from her.<br /><br />“Don’t touch me.” Carla’s body began to shake. “My goodness, I needed that.”<br /><br />Justine licked her fingers. “I know.” She laughed. “Now go to bed.”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<b>Buy this story on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Go-Bed-Melissa-Brownie-Grant-ebook/dp/B01FUOWEMW?ie=UTF8&keywords=go%20to%20bed%20by%20melissa&qid=1463709723&ref_=sr_1_2&sr=8-2">Amazon</a>.</b></div>
<br />Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-58509012830540630452016-06-03T00:00:00.000-07:002016-06-03T00:00:30.032-07:00"The Siege of Abigail Beson" by Tyler Smith (Novella)<b>Genre: </b>Historical Fiction<br />
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Novella<br />
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<b>Summary: </b>An isolated family in Virginia finds themselves under attack shortly after the end of the civil war.<br />
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<br />Another booming crash jarred Abby from sleep. Calmer this time, Abby rolled away from the window, hoping to hide her eyes from the intense brightness of the lightning. <br /><br />Another explosive rumble. Something didn’t feel right. Abby turned back toward the window, her mind racing to figure out what new prank her brother had contrived. <br /><br />There was no lightning. Why was there no lightning? Abby got up and walked to her window. The fog of sleep was clearing from her mind, so the next explosion finally registered as the firing of a gun.<br /><br />Confused, she peered out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the source. The rain had stopped, but the cloud cover continued to hinder any illumination from the moon. <br /><br />Why would there be gunfire? Abby asked herself silently. Lee signed the surrender when the Union was just miles from our door. At least, that’s what the last letter from Benjamin had said. That letter was two months ago. They hadn’t received any letters since. The post had been spotty throughout the war, and after the surrender it had stopped entirely. Had the war started again? She’d heard rumors of bandits and raiders exploiting the chaos of the war to wreak havoc in the west, but here? Just a few days ride from Richmond?<b><br /></b>
<b>Read the complete story on <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1qpa9MgBuFdRQopZx6VUQqOCEZh9B8JKruZwh4nyMPa8/edit">Google Docs.</a> Support the story on <a href="https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/smithdtyler/the-siege-of-abigail-beson">Kickstarter</a>.</b>Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-76608744568114996472016-05-13T00:00:00.000-07:002016-05-13T00:00:20.628-07:00"Leaves of The World Tree" by Adam Misner (Short Stories)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/516bf4iBYyL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/516bf4iBYyL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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<b>Genre: </b>Dark Fantasy</div>
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Short Story Collection</div>
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<b>Summary: </b>Leaves of the world tree is a collection of six short stories that take place in a wide variety of worlds, with varying degrees of fantasy and technology. The stories are stand-alone, making each is it's own adventure. Ranging from a bloody Viking battle to a necromancer love story, the collection is sure to give you a diverse dose of fantasy both high and low, urban and medieval.</div>
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<br />Like many Olafs before him, he was named Olaff. It was not a bad name by any means. He shared his name with four others born that year, and he would share it with seven the year after. Olaf was then, as it had been before, and would be for generations to come, a common name. It was as though his parents had expected him to be average. Growing up he never felt as though he were different from the other boys. He was not scrawny and smart, or muscular and dumb, nor better or worse at most things. He threw the axe at the tree and hit five times out of ten, and his spear landed smack in the middle of everyone else's. It was only when they taught him how to write his name that he realized he was unique. His mother, being the literate one, had spelled his name with an extra “f.”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<b>Buy this collection on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Leaves-World-Tree-Adam-Misner/dp/0997027002/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1449309007&sr=1-2&keywords=leaves+of+the+world+tree">Amazon</a>.</b></div>
<br />Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-5008135777711630712016-03-25T00:00:00.000-07:002016-03-25T00:00:22.351-07:00"Lost Lake House: A Novella" by Elisabeth Grace Foley (Novella)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2zDucO7iPU0J5EFDiPds_Ke_YKUBWyDV8YDogl2K6QM9MeDE0CgIyNGwU-cnMyKcSSc7Z0NP3YnaRJML0Mrg1uT8D8sSwQFnL01mudO8hWe0ICbQ7cz68-OQbd9FN8wdTqVjhy3jCzMU/s1600/51o0Mn3g41L._SX331_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2zDucO7iPU0J5EFDiPds_Ke_YKUBWyDV8YDogl2K6QM9MeDE0CgIyNGwU-cnMyKcSSc7Z0NP3YnaRJML0Mrg1uT8D8sSwQFnL01mudO8hWe0ICbQ7cz68-OQbd9FN8wdTqVjhy3jCzMU/s320/51o0Mn3g41L._SX331_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<b>Genre: </b>Historical Fiction, Fairytale<br />
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Novella<br />
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<b>Summary: </b>All Dorothy Perkins wants is to have a good time. She’s wild about dancing, and can’t understand or accept her father’s strictness in forbidding it. Night after night she sneaks out to the Lost Lake House, a glamorous island nightclub rumored to be the front for more than just music and dancing…in spite of an increasingly uneasy feeling that she may be getting into something more than she can handle.<br />
<br />Marshall Kendrick knows the truth behind the Lost Lake House—and bitterly hates his job there. But fear and obligation have him trapped. When a twist of circumstances throws Dorothy and Marshall together one night, it may offer them both a chance at escaping the tangled web of fear and deceit each has woven…if only they are brave enough to take it. <br />
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At eight-thirty Dorothy turned out the light in her bedroom and put on her hat and coat. If her room was dark and her father had not heard an outside door shut he never came to look in on her, but assumed she was asleep. She had learned his routine carefully, lying awake and listening on the nights she was at home. Still she had lately taken to rumpling up her bed and putting pillows under the coverlet, just in case—her conscience, recovering from the sulkiness that had set her on this path, was beginning to be jumpy. Then she climbed out the window onto the sloping back porch roof, slithered down an ivy-covered trellis and ran through the dark backyard to the side street. Their house was a big old-fashioned brick with a mansard roof, with the boughs of stately old oak trees brushing the upper story; situated at the corner of a block, its yard rimmed with hedges. There was an opening at the side for the path where the milkman and the grocer’s boy came to the back door, and Dorothy slipped through this and darted across the street in the dim light from the lamp on the next corner.<br /><br />By quarter to nine she had reached the street corner where a group of girls and young men were waiting, milling about and laughing and teasing each other under the street lamp by a drugstore. Dorothy joined them, and they walked a few blocks to where some of the young men had cars waiting. They piled in and drove out the winding roads through the outskirts of town toward the lake, a little too fast once they were out of the part of the city more regularly patrolled by the police. Dorothy had at first been exhilarated by this ride, later a little alarmed by it, and then shamed into saying nothing by the nonchalant way in which the other girls took the whirling speed amid careless banter with the drivers. She laughed with the others, but kept a tight grip on the inner door-handle.<br /><br />The dock for the Lost Lake ferry was at the bottom of a steep hill—cars were parked up above in an empty lot off the road that was supposed to be secret but which everyone knew about. Standing a little back from the dock, on the trodden gravelly shore, Dorothy stared across the water. On cloudy nights like this the lake and sky and island all melted into a uniform invisible black, so the blazing golden windows of the Lost Lake House seemed suspended in the middle of the lake like a floating fairy palace. The lighted ferryboat, which had left on one of its trips before her party reached the landing, inched across the lake like a little glowing caterpillar swimming toward it.<br /><br />Dorothy shoved her hands deep in her coat pockets and suppressed a little shiver. It seemed they always arrived when the ferry was halfway across the lake to the island, and had to wait for its return. She could never entirely escape the chill of nervousness in her stomach while waiting, almost as bad as it had been the first time she crossed. It had not taken her long to hear the whispers about the Lost Lake House—that there was a hidden speakeasy inside—that there had been police raids before, and that it might happen again. Every time she had to wait in the half-dark by the ferry, near a little group of girls and men still teasing and laughing in half-whispers—by habit rather than fear with them—her jangling nerves expected at any moment the white glare of headlamps on police cars would pour down from the bank above and pin them in their blinding beams, branding them all as criminals and exposing their secret expeditions to the world. (Oh, wouldn’t her father be furious then!)<br /><br />The ferry was coming back now, the strings of little Japanese lanterns that ornamented it bobbing above the black water. Dorothy’s breath came quicker as it always did at this moment, when the lighted ferryboat drew closer and the fear of the police began to recede. This was the moment—as the ferry bumped against the lower dock, and she followed the others down the wooden steps—the moment she tried to hug to herself, to savor the magic of as she stepped under the string of lanterns, fixed her eyes on the shining house across the lake, and felt the little lurch of the ferry carrying them out from the shore. She tried not to hear the chatter of the other passengers and the chug of the motor; she was busy making the Lost Lake House into fairyland.<b><br /></b>
<b>Buy this story on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lost-Lake-House-Historical-Fairytales-ebook/dp/B01CX5G2H4/">Amazon</a> or <a href="https://store.kobobooks.com/en-us/ebook/lost-lake-house-a-novella-1">Kobo</a>.</b>Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-86057951204905519482015-12-18T00:00:00.000-08:002015-12-18T00:00:18.691-08:00"The Bizarre Half Life of John Fortune" by James Gideon (Novelette)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Genre: </b>Alien Invasion, Science Fiction<br />
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Novelette<br />
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<b>Summary: </b>John Fortune is a street kid made good. Thanks to an instinctive understanding of maths and physics, he carves out a successful career in interstellar engineering. But there's something not quite right about John. Something not quite human. His one true friend, Frank Patterson, is sure he knows the secret. Frank can't afford to be wrong. Mankind's survival depends on it.<br />
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"You're not human, John. You are an alien."<div>
<br />There was no good way to say it so I chose simplicity. Do I regret it now? If I had my time over, I might have done it another way. So, yeah, I guess I regret it. Had I known the consequences, I suspect I would have said nothing at all. At the time, I believed I was doing the right thing.</div>
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<br /> John laughed. It was an abrupt barking sound, like someone trying to clear their throat and chuckle at the same time. As with so many of John's responses, it was learned. Or rather: it was taught. I was the one who did the teaching. His laugh was a sound I was used to but I was aware that people still glanced at each other the first time they heard it. It wasn't quite right. There was a quality to it which didn't ring true. Until that moment, John himself hadn't noticed.</div>
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<br /> It was 2098. We were together for the first time in years, on a rooftop in Central London. Once, this had been a restaurant called La Brocade. It was famous for its food, but also because city traders used to go there to commit suicide by throwing themselves over the railings and onto the concrete below. It was a popular thing to do after the 2071 market crash.</div>
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<br /> John and I had loved the place though. When we were still kids, struggling with the realities of life in a residential care home, we used to spend every hour we could in this part of London. The glass fronted buildings, the unusually clean streets; the aura of wealth. All of it spoke of a future we wanted to be part of. We couldn't see the restaurant from the ground, but we had pored over photographs. It was arranged like a terrace garden, with canvas parasols above each table, wooden decking, and decorative shrubs and plants everywhere. We used to think it had its own climate. In every photo we saw, it was always sunny; always summer. For two poor nine year old orphans, it was like paradise. We promised ourselves if we ever had the money, we would eat there once a week. It took us fifteen years but we did it. In the evenings, we used to sit, picking at our food, and staring up at the night sky. It was a game for John. He liked to pretend he could see faces in the stars. He couldn't, of course. Seeing faces was a human trait, so I knew he was lying. I couldn't see them either but I played along, trying to make my friend - my truest friend - feel a little happier, a little less alone.<br /> Now, though, La Brocade was unrecognizable. The single remaining parasol was broken, torn canvas flapping like a dying bird struggling one last time to take flight in the breeze. Poking through the damp, mouldering decking were shoots from some of the same plants that had been used as decoration. The railings, erected to discourage the suicides, had fallen away. </div>
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<br /> Below us, stretched out over miles, was the quarantine zone. It had physical boundaries - armed guards, electrified fencing; high graphene walls - but even from our elevated position, I couldn't see them. I knew John could, though. My eyesight was good, his was supra-normal. Always had been. <br /> John again laughed at my words. "An alien?" he asked; his tone incredulous. "I've been called a lot of things, Frank. A lot of things, most of them really unpleasant, but that's a first."<b><br /></b>
<b>Buy this story on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Bizarre-Half-Life-John-Fortune-ebook/dp/B019BCEOUO/">Amazon</a>.</b></div>
Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-10276812743958263772015-07-17T00:00:00.000-07:002015-07-17T00:00:06.487-07:00"Three Roses" by P.S Henderson (Short Story)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Genre: </b>Erotica</div>
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Short Story</div>
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<b>Summary: </b>A woman agrees to relinquish control over her life to a BDSM Master who will train her to be a Submissive. For her pleasure, he allows another Master to enjoy her 3 times. Each time she is blindfolded and has never seen his face. Afterwards, he leaves a tiny rose tattoo on her ip. When her agreement is over, she meets her mystery Master again but this time they are fall in love.<br /></div>
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He bent down and kissed my cheek. Immediately, from the touch of his lips and his smell, I knew that he was the man I could never forget. The man who now lived in my darkest fantasies. He was the man that had taken me to the height of sexual ecstasy and back three different times and he was standing before me, only now he had a name and a face.<br /><br />TWO YEARS EARLIER<br />A mentor Dominant. That’s what Daniel “Danny” Santiago was offering to me. In return for training to be a submissive, I would contract to be owned by him for one year.<div>
<br />“I will give you the world but in return, I will own your body and your mind completely.<br /><br />Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”<br /><br />Within minutes of signing our contract, he ordered me to suck his dick. My training had begun. Why did I agree to such a deal? Why would any woman? Well, I instinctively knew that I had a submissive type of personality especially when it came to men and sex. Pleasing others is what I do best, and pleasing a man satisfies me sexually. So does the idea of being in his complete control.<br />Notice I said ‘idea’. Up until the moment I signed the contract, these ideas were fantasies. Danny had taken on the job of releasing my fantasies from their cage in my head and bringing them to life.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<b>Buy this story on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00OOA0H9Q?*Version*=1&*entries*=0">Amazon</a>.</b></div>
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Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-8738033644147886572015-05-15T00:00:00.000-07:002015-05-15T00:00:12.933-07:00"Unbearable Data of a Thread Curtain" by James Dann (Flash Fiction)<b>Genre: </b>Magic Realism<br />
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Flash Fiction<br />
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<i>Button up, button down, a rustic brown zip on a pocket that doesn’t open. Red and blue patchwork joined with… custard yellow thread? No, ivory white, idiot… focus. Channel it through the centre. Hemmed sleeves, logo stitched onto the breast pocket? No, at the back, under the shirt, long sleeved allowing the option of rolling them up in extreme heat and bouts of unjustified confidence. Unjustified Confidence. A new line? U.J For Men. Will it sell? Is that it?</i><br /><br />Garson was hideous. An animal, barely passable as a functioning member of society. He was angry, flatfooted and slunk grotesquely about the office. Carrying with him, then depositing, a musk that seemed to linger (even in the factory) for an eternity & 10. His hostility was, at best, utterly over whelming. A 27 year old human-pretzel hybrid, swept into the darkest corner of every room. Sitting, muttering incoherently under his tongue with his arms folded so tight he could feel his cells replenishing and legs wrapped restrictedly around one another in a way that seemed to imply some sort of slow motion vasectomy. <br /><br /><div>
His limp, hunched physique and thin cassette tape hair, supported by the ever quivering of his bottom lip seemed to hiss:<br /><br /><i>“Stop. Staring”</i><br /><br />Which in turn, naturally, sent the spotlight forever above his head. The subject of ruthless office gossip, the strange one, bosses pet and friend to No One. Eyes so hollow that you could scream into them and hear the echoes bouncing of the sides. If they were any deeper bats would have a new home.<br /><br />Garson was, as far as the staff could see, a repulsive dead weight. Anchored to the workforce and determined to drag everyone down to his depths. A dirty feather in the duvet, forever sticking out and nipping you in your sleep.<br /><br />“God.”<br /><br />Thought Toby, shaking his head, as he observed his clothes factory, his world, from his glass fish tank office at the top of his stairs. His wife, Mel, next to him, her earrings, his money, her eyes, looking at him, on her lunch break, a break from whatever it is she does. Hanging on his every word like she has none of her own. He sat beside her.<br /><br />“If Garson ever learned to use his ability to predict the future, for something more than just keeping one step ahead of the change in shirt fashion…” Toby said, taking her hand and studying diamond ring around her index finger “-T.S Sherper would be ruined.”<br /><br />At that, they turned silently to peer at Garson, down on the factory floor, hidden away in the corner behind the no.45 sewing machine, ignored and drummed out by the whirring hypnotic predictable hums of machinery. A lullaby for the grown man.<br /><br />Sitting, straining, nervously gripping himself as the future predictions flooded his brains. Unable to control the never-ending cosmic onslaught of information, Garson sat quivering at the lips, too tense and exhausted to meet the eyes of his co-workers. Toby and his wife stared at Garson for a while, contemplating the thought. Then, like well-trained studio audience, they both simultaneously erupted in laughter. Holding each other, mocking their livelihood sitting in the corner. All the while Toby, hysterical with luck, never taking his hand off her index finger.<br /><br />Cruel Godparents to say the least.<br /><br />After Garson’s father took his own life, the next in line were Toby and Mel. They were mostly given the title as a courtesy to Toby, as he always fancied the word ‘God’ to be next to his name somewhere on paper.<br /><br />After a neglectful eternity of consciously droning out the majority of what Garson was saying, Toby reluctantly started to take notice. Psychiatrics, teachers and various social workers could only determine that Garson was unquestionably deranged. It only took Toby three years of walking down the high street to realise he was much more than that.<br /><br />There he sat, day after day. Staring at the others in a desperate plea for help, only for it to be taken as cynicism and hate. A scared and confused boy, with a curtain of shirt fashion prophesies clouding his every thought and movement. All the while his Godparents celebrated him silently, basking in the effect of torment and watching their empire grow.<br /><br />Two sharks, lurking, pounding against the glass and baring their teeth. Knowing full well no one would ever dare put their hand in the tank.<b><br /></b>
<b>Find out more on the author's <a href="http://jamesjd.com/">website</a>.</b></div>
Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-50635256001493555202015-05-01T00:00:00.000-07:002015-05-01T00:00:08.951-07:00"Six Weeks" by Nnamdi Anyadike (Short Story)<b>Genre: </b>World War II Spy Thriller<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">June 4 1941<u></u><u></u></span></span></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Jesus Green - a park in Cambridge, England<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Sitting on a park bench and feeding the occasional bird that landed close by with the crumbs from a half eaten sandwich, Ilyavitch Romanov surveyed his surroundings with a practiced eye. It was early afternoon and it had become pleasantly warm. Few people were in the park and those that were ambled by slowly, singly or in twos. The foppish young man, who Romanov noticed had entered the park a moment ago, now minced towards him. “Do you mind if I join you?” he lisped slightly. Without waiting for an answer, the flaxen haired young man took his seat beside Romanov. Placing his sandwich box beside the Russian he sat in silence for perhaps a minute. He then made a wry face.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“My landlady, she’s ALWAYS making me ham sandwiches. She KNOWS I can’t stand them,” he said in camp anger. Romanov sat and looked ahead in stony silence, barely able to conceal his contempt. ‘If this is the pride of English manhood then Hitler will win the war and this little island is doomed’ he mused. ‘Still, Comrade Stalin had been right all along about <u></u><u></u>Cambridge<u></u> <u></u>University<u></u><u></u> and its upper class gang of useful idiots.’ “You should try my cheese sandwiches. They were made especially for me this morning,” Romanov said at last. The effete young man placed his hand softly on Romanov’s knee and leaned in towards him. He moved his lips close to the Russian who instinctively flinched in distaste.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">With his mouth brushing Romanov’s left cheek and his right hand concealed from view the exchange was made. Picking up Romanov’s identical looking sandwich box - with its £1,000 in used notes hidden inside under a white napkin - Guy Burgess got up and without a word left the park the way he had came. Romanov took out a handkerchief and wiped his cheek. He looked around casually. The man who had been tailing him for the past hour and whose head was now buried in a newspaper casually got up slowly from his bench about 50 yards away and also left. Romanov smiled. The man would have seen exactly what he, Romanov, wanted him to see - nothing more nothing less. Later that evening in <u></u><u></u>London<u></u><u></u> the precious contents of Burgess’ box were assessed at the Soviet embassy. “You are to be congratulated comrade. This document is gold, pure gold,” the defence attaché said shaking Romanov, whose face remained expressionless, warmly by the hand.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Easter Sunday 1942<u></u><u></u></span></span></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span class="aBn" data-term="goog_265010492" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">12.15 am</span></span> – a Luftwaffe airfield somewhere in <u></u>Northern France<u></u><u></u><u></u></span></span></i></b></div>
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<em><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 10pt;">SS officer Wolfgang Schmidt, together </span></span></i></em><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">with an eight man <em><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Fallschirmjaeger team under the command of </span></span></i></em>Captain Rudolf Nedermayer<em><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">, left the Nissen hut and began walking purposefully in single file. Crossing the rain soaked airfield, they marched silently and grim faced towards the converted Dornier bomber that was parked 100 metres distant. Luftwaffe pilot Dieter Frank saluted Schmidt, “we may be lucky with the rain. The weather ship says it is clearing.” Schmidt acknowledged and without a word entered the aircraft followed by Nedermayer and his men. They checked their ‘chutes, weapons canisters - and the map - one last time. Then Schmidt spoke. “Gentlemen, the destiny of the Reich is in your hands – Heil Hitler.” The twin engines roared into life and the Dornier gathered speed. Racing up the grass runway it took off into the overcast night - heading towards the <u></u>English Channel<u></u>…</span></span></i></em><u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">11.30 am<u></u><u></u></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">With a skid that ploughed neat twin furrows into the gravel strewn car <u></u><u></u>park<u></u> of <u></u>Alexander Palace Kevin O’Dwyer<u></u><u></u> brought his digger to a halt. Glancing at the haphazard array of JCB dump trucks, tracked vehicles, mobile power generators and assorted other construction equipment, he stepped down from his cab.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">It was a fine sunny mid-morning and Kevin’s throat was parched. Opening a flask, he took a swig of the lukewarm remnants of his coffee then lit a ready made roll-up cigarette retrieved from a battered plastic pouch.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“Jayzus Kevin, are you’ze having another break already?” It was Paul Duffy the foreman. Emerging from the portacabin he strode angrily across the muddy ditch towards the young plant operator. Stepping on to the pedestrian path that was now closed off to the public and passing the piles of plastic piping, he looked at him with exasperation, “Sure it’s your second since you started this morning.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Duffy and the rest of the crew at Hannity Construction knew that their company was on a tight schedule. Renovation work at <u></u>London<u></u>’s historic palace, located in the scenic heights of <u></u>North London<u></u>’s Muswell Hill, had started in January. It was supposed to be completed by the end of the year. But they were already two weeks behind schedule. Duffy knew that any delay could mean a hefty penalty for the company – in which case he could kiss goodbye to his Christmas bonus.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“OK chief,” said Kevin stubbing out his roll-up, “just let me finish this swig and I’ll be right back with you.” Returning to his dumpster, Kevin drove out of the car park and followed the sloping path until he reached the trench he had been digging. He sighed, he was on piecework after all and he knew that he needed to get a move on.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">A popular song by the hit Irish boy band was playing on the small radio in his cab. Grinning, Kevin sang along with it in staccato bursts. A minute later he stopped. The clanging sound as he brought the digger’s shovel down was unmistakeable. ‘That’s not concrete – don’t tell me I’ve cracked a f***kin’ gas pipe,’ he swore under his breath.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Jumping down from his cab, he peered down into the trench. With another curse he descended hesitantly into the three foot deep excavation to get a better look. “Guv,” he shouted in the direction of the portacabin 50 metres away. “Guvnor,” he shouted louder. Duffy marched over to him, belligerence oozing from every pore. “What the f**kin’ hell is it this time?” he demanded.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“I think you’ze better see this,” Kevin replied quietly.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> <wbr></wbr> ****<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The wail of sirens and flashing blue lights that an hour ago heralded the arrival of the speeding convoy of emergency response vehicles were now switched off. A police van had been turned into a mobile incident unit, while three squad cars blocked the entrance to the park.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">All work on the site had now stopped and Hannity Construction’s employees were being ushered round the blue and white incident tape that had sectioned off the trench into the van to be questioned.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“So, Kevin O’Dwyer – that is your name, is it – tell me again what happened,” asked Sergeant Mike Timms. “It’s just loike I said,” Kevin answered wearily. Timms looked at him again and scrutinised the youth’s baffled young features for a full minute. “OK,” he said at last, “you may go, but we may want to speak to you again – you do understand that, don’t you?” Kevin nodded and left the van.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The sergeant shook his head and returned to his notes. Beside him on the floor the item found by Kevin was now bagged up, ready to be taken back to the crime lab. The door opened silently and two figures entered the mobile incident unit. Seated at his desk Timms started to look up “You need to wait your turn,” he began irritably.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Then, observing the two well dressed men who were standing in front of him, Timms quickly moved to press the alarm button on his police issue tunic. The older man spoke as Timms hesitated with his finger poised on the security device. “I don’t think we need to involve the police lab with that,” he said with quiet authority, nodding in the direction of the bag while simultaneously taking out a card from his wallet and holding it out for inspection.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Timms examined the card, turning it over and over. “Yes sir,” he said slowly. “Do you mind if I show this to my chief first, just to confirm?” “By all means,” came the response. “Oh and let’s try and keep this as quiet as possible – you know, no press that sort of thing.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Five minutes later, the two M15 men together with the item that was still in its official police bag, were driving away from Muswell Hill. In less than an hour they were sitting in the office of Senior Intelligence Analyst Tony Halcroft - the contents of the police bag on open display on his desk.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“Any problems?” he asked. “No, the Sergeant and his superior were quite cooperative. As for the young chap that found it? I don’t think he’ll be any trouble,” said Dave Hicks, the older M15 man.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The three fell silent and looked again at the desk. “What exactly is it?” asked Trevor Stubbs the younger man. “That young Stubbs, still factory wrapped in its protective oilskin, is a Schmeisser machine pistol. And beside it, is its ammunition clip, “said Halcroft.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">He turned to the other item that was retrieved from the trench – an old disintegrating leather pouch, which contained a folded silk map. He opened it. Still clearly visible on the map, though now faded with age, were lines of Russian text in an undecipherable Cyrillic script. To the side were jottings in German.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“My God,” Halcroft said finally. “So it WAS true after all.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> <wbr></wbr> ****<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Easter Sunday 1942<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The fine sheets of rain, which had fallen incessantly across southern <u></u><u></u>England<u></u><u></u> for much of the previous evening, had begun to subside - it was <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_265010493" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">1.40 am</span></span>.<em><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"> SS officer Schmidt and</span></span></i></em> Nedermayer<em><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">’s men worked feverishly.</span></span></i></em></span></span><em><i><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><u></u><u></u></span></span></i></em></i></div>
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<em><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 10pt;">Half an hour earlier, the Dornier flying at low level had dropped through the leaden skies to disgorge the team, which drifted silently down into a blacked out <u></u>North London<u></u>. Gathering up the last of their parachutes from the sodden ground they buried them in one of the wooded areas that bordered the otherwise tranquil 196 acres that surrounded <u></u><u></u>Alexander<u></u><u></u>Palace<u></u><u></u>. Then opening their canisters they began to assemble their</span></span></i></em><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> standard issue Schmeisser machine pistols.</span></span></i><u></u><u></u></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“Damn,” swore paratrooper Kurt Manneheim softly as his weapon and ammunition clip slipped from his gloves into a flooded ditch. Bending, he frantically scrambled to find them in the pitch dark only to realise with horror that the water proof leather pouch containing the map – the precious map - had also fallen into the ditch. The sound of a twig breaking made them all hug the ground and freeze instantly.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">For a minute nobody moved. Then half standing Nedermayer gestured for the others to make a run for the assembly area. Attaching their ammunition clips they dashed across the field in a crouch towards the car park. In the foreground, loomed the huge, unlit shape of the palace. The two estate cars were parked side by side, doors unlocked - just as agent Juan Pujol had assured them they would be.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Silently, they opened the doors and separated into the two pre-arranged snatch teams. Nedermayer would drive the lead car, SS officer Schmidt would follow in the second. “Captain,” Manneheim stammered. Trembling, he told Nedermayer about the lost map and weapon.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“Idiot, it was just as well we have two copies of the map. Get into the second car with Muller and follow us. God help you when we get back to Berlin and Schmidt makes his mission report,” he hissed venomously. He started the car engine, ‘perhaps I should have said - if - we get back to <u></u><u></u>Berlin<u></u><u></u>’, he thought as he moved off.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Sweating with panic, Manneheim tried to start the second car. “What’s the matter man, we’ll lose them,” said Schmidt. “The fuel line, it must be flooded, sir.” He responded haplessly. The lead car moved slowly down the narrow road towards the park gate that would exit Nedermayer and his men onto the main road to Crouch End.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Fifty metres from the park gate, and hidden from view by the clump of trees that sheltered a dirt path, stood the parked British army <u></u><u></u>Bedford<u></u><u></u> truck. <u></u><u></u>Captain Kirkby Lane<u></u><u></u> was silent and tense, waiting with his squad of ten men. Across the other side of the road in trench coat and trilby hat, ‘Colonel John’ M15 officer from the ‘XX committee’, gave a signal to Lane – the car was approaching.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Moving towards the gate, a movement caught Nedermayer’s left eye. A split second later, a bright flash from the trees split the darkness and shattered his windscreen. “Out, out it’s an ambush,” he yelled. Moving as one, the four man team rolled out of the car and headed for the trees on the other side of the road. The sharp cracks from the single shot British Lee Enfield rifles were answered by concentrated automatic fire from the four Schmeissers. The fight was intense.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Alerted by the sound of the gunfire, the second team sitting in their motionless car started to exit - only to be stopped by SS officer Schmidt. “Halt,” he said firmly. “The mission comes first.” “But our comrades,” protested Muller. The paratrooper code of honour, deeply embedded in basic training, was ‘all for one and one for all’.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“They will have to look after themselves - Heil Hitler,” he ordered. The five returned to the car. As planned, they would now make for the second gate. “The map,” Muller remembered. “They now have the only map.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“We know roughly where it is. That will have to do,” Schmidt barked tersely. Muller released the hand brake and rolled the car in neutral gear noiselessly over the roadway down towards the second gate at the opposite end of the park. As the car picked up speed, Muller put the gear shift into second and with a judder the engine gunned into life. In minutes they were speeding through the gate.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The gun battle at the first gate continued unabated. But by now, two paratroopers were dead, leaving just Nedermayer, who was bleeding profusely from a rifle round that had shattered his left shoulder, and uninjured paratrooper Ulrich Masterson, to continue the fight. Four British soldiers also lay dead by the truck and a further two lay severely wounded in the woods.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Grim faced <u></u><u></u>Captain Lane<u></u><u></u> motioned two of his soldiers to move through the trees to take up a position to the left of Nedermayer’s car. Crawling, he advanced with the remaining two soldiers through the undergrowth until he was positioned within forty metres of the car on the other side. ‘Try and get some of them alive,’ the M15 officer had said.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“You’re surrounded, you might as well surrender now,” Lane called out loudly. Weakened through loss of blood, Nedermayer turned to Masterson, “the second car - did it get out?” The reply was hoarse, “It must have done sir, through the second gate.” Nedermayer nodded with quiet satisfaction. “It’s been an honour to have served with you, Kamerad. Are you ready?”<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Without saying a further word they both a fired a final burst from their machine pistols, before they were cut down by Lane and his men.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Several minutes passed before Lane and the M15 man walked cautiously up to the car. “These two are dead. There’s another lying among the trees and a fourth in the grass,” said Lane. “Where’s the other car,” quizzed Colonel John. “We disabled it to make sure it wouldn’t start. It should still be up there in the car park. They won’t get far on foot, we’ll radio in now and get a cordon set up to cover the area,” replied Lane confidently.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The M15 man wasn’t listening. He was searching the bullet riddled car frantically. “The map,” he muttered, “it must be here.” Lane reached into the tunic of Nedemayer and pulled out a leather pouch. He opened it and a map unfolded. “I think this is what you are looking for, sir” he said turning to the agent. Switching on his torch, the colonel looked carefully at it for several minutes. “No, this isn’t it. This has to be a copy. The original must be in the other car.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">They marched hurriedly up the incline of the park road until they reached the now deserted car park. “Where the hell is it?” cried the colonel frantically. “I thought you said the other car wouldn’t start? This is your cock-up,” he yelled. The unmistakeable signs of fresh car tracks leading in the opposite direction, down towards the north exit, were evident by the light of the agent’s torch.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“I want that cordon set up immediately. Jesus Christ, Scotland Yard will have to be informed, as will the Prime Minister. There’ll be hell to pay. That team could be anywhere in <u></u><u></u>England<u></u><u></u> by daybreak,” Colonel John said finally.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Peering out of his side window, Muller tried to make sense of north <u></u><u></u>London<u></u><u></u>’s deserted streets. “I think we need to go over that junction we’re now approaching and go straight on,” said Manneheim hesitantly. Muller was silent as they drove on slowly in the direction of Archway. The two figures standing casually, hands in pockets, by the traffic light motioned the car to stop.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“What the hell,” muttered Muller. “Keep going” ordered the SS officer tight lipped. As the car drew level to the traffic light the last thing Muller saw was the men’s coat pockets rip open and spew an avalanche of automatic fire. The bullets sliced through the car killing three of the occupants instantly. Manneheim lay mortally wounded in the back seat and SS officer Schmidt had a flesh wound on his upper right arm.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The two men yanked open the car doors and shot Manneheim again, killing him instantly. SS officer Schmidt tried to shoot but dropped his Luger pistol. The two Russians looked at him. “Where is the map?” they asked savagely. “It’s lost,” smiled Schmidt, “tell that to Comrade Stalin. It’s lost for ever.” A burst of fire riddled his chest and silenced him for eternity.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">A ten minute search of the car and its occupants revealed nothing. “Do you think our British ‘allies’ found it in the other car?” asked NKVD officer Sergei Molotov, mildly contemptuously. “Let’s hope so Sergei, for all our sakes, let’s hope so,” said Colonel Andrei Rostov.<u></u><u></u></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> <wbr></wbr> ****<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">May 4 2010<u></u><u></u></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">2 pm<u></u><u></u></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The three M15 officers had finished the first course of the lunch that Halcroft had ordered be brought up to the office overlooking Central London’s <u></u><u></u>Whitehall<u></u><u></u>. “So what does it all mean? You know, the weapon and ammunition - and what’s all this about a map?” asked Hicks.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Halcroft dabbed his mouth with a napkin and sipped a glass of water. He motioned the waiter to clear the plates and asked for coffee and the dessert be served. He looked at Hicks and Stubbs, who were sitting across the table. “Of all the unsolved mysteries about the Second World War there’s one that’s always puzzled me the most. It is this - why on earth did the Germans NEVER attempt to rescue Rudolf Hess?<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Halcroft looked at the two again and continued, “He was Hitler’s deputy, after all, the number two man in <u></u><u></u>Germany<u></u><u></u>. Yet not a single attempt to rescue him was ever made?”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“It was as if the Germans had managed to capture Eisenhower or Attlee and the allies decided to abandon him to his fate in a prisoner of war camp – or worse. It just never made sense to me.” The dessert arrived as did the coffees. Halcroft paused.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Hicks sipped his coffee and spoke musingly, “Well, I don’t know what they could have done. <u></u><u></u>Britain<u></u><u></u> is an island and even if the Germans had managed to get a squad in, how would they have got him out - assuming they were able to find out where he was being held in the first place?”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Halcroft waved his hand dismissively. “You forget one thing Hicks. <u></u><u></u>Germany<u></u><u></u> was <i>winning</i> the war at that stage. It had all the necessary resources at its disposal. They also had that brilliant SS officer Otto Skorzeny. He was a master of rescuing captives held by the allies. In September 1943, he managed to snatch Mussolini.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“Even as late as December 1944, his team were still capable of causing mayhem behind allied lines in the Battle of the Bulge - at a time when Germany was on the verge of defeat. No, that’s not the answer,” he said standing up. Walking across the room he looked out of the sash windows on to <u></u><u></u>Whitehall<u></u><u></u> below.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">He continued, this time softly, “Various live fire exercises were carried out throughout the war in <u></u><u></u>England<u></u><u></u>, particularly in the early stages. But there was one in <u></u>North London<u></u>, on the night of Easter Sunday 1942, which caused a particular stir.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“After the war, locals spoke of a ferocious exchange of automatic gunfire in the grounds of <u></u><u></u>Alexander<u></u> <u></u>Palace<u></u><u></u>. Intriguingly, some also swore that they heard German being spoken.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“For the rest of the war the palace grounds remained sealed off and most people in the area soon shrugged it off. After all, these were a hardy people that had survived the blitz as well as attacks from doodlebugs and V2 rockets. What was one noisy live fire exercise, no matter how realistic, compared to those?”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“When I joined M15 I did make some inquiries, surreptitiously of course, as to whether there had ever been any documented attempts by the Germans to rescue Hess. All my inquiries pointed me, tantalisingly, in the direction of<u></u><u></u>Alexander<u></u> <u></u>Palace<u></u><u></u> and Easter 1942 – but then the trail ran cold.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“The files are officially closed for 100 years. But a little more digging provided new clues and now together with these items here,” he said pointing to his desk, “I think I can finally piece together what actually happened that night.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">He paused for effect then started to speak again. “On May 10 1941, Rudolf Hess flies to <u></u><u></u>Britain<u></u><u></u> in his ME 110. He parachutes out over <u></u><u></u>Scotland<u></u><u></u>, claiming he is on a peace mission. Hitler is furious. Publicly, he dismisses Hess as insane, but behind the scenes he orders the SS and Abwehr to immediately draw up plans for his rescue.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“However, there is one seemingly insurmountable brick wall. By early 1941, too few Abwehr agents have been inserted into <u></u><u></u>England<u></u><u></u> to provide the vital background intelligence for such a complex operation. Skorzeny then proposes an audacious solution - he suggests asking the Russians for their assistance.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Hicks spluttered, “That’s bloody impossible. Hitler was at war with <u></u><u></u>Russia<u></u><u></u> and Stalin was our ally.” Halcroft smiled, “Not yet he wasn’t. Under the terms of the 1939 Ribbentrop-Molotov pact, <u></u>Russia<u></u> and <u></u><u></u>Germany<u></u><u></u> were still formally at peace.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“Skorzeny had a six week window of opportunity from the time Hess was captured on <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_265010494" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">May 10</span></span> until Hitler’s invasion of<u></u><u></u>Russia<u></u><u></u> on <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_265010495" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">June 21</span></span> to act on his plan. His boldness could have worked. Remember, right until the eve of the German invasion Stalin was doing everything in his power not to antagonise <u></u><u></u>Berlin<u></u><u></u>.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“So, Skorzeny approaches the Russians in <u></u><u></u>Moscow<u></u><u></u> via Ribbentrop. Stalin then orders the NKVD, later to be known as the KGB, in the <u></u><u></u>London<u></u><u></u> embassy to provide Skorzeny with all the help he needs. The embassy provides the Germans with a detailed map of the various places where Hess is believed to be held, including the <u></u><u></u>Tower<u></u> of <u></u>London<u></u><u></u>.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“But how - where could they have got the information?” began Hicks. Halcroft walked slowly towards the window, stopped and turned back a few paces to face Hicks. “From their moles in <u></u><u></u>Cambridge<u></u> <u></u>University<u></u><u></u>, of course” he said quietly. “No one back then suspected Guy Burgess and his gang of being communist sympathisers.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“While M15 was concentrating on Mosley and his fascist Blackshirts in <u></u>London<u></u>, they were missing what was going on under their very noses in <u></u><u></u>Cambridge<u></u><u></u>. And remember this, unlike Mosley’s street fighting thugs, Burgess and the rest of the <u></u><u></u>Cambridge<u></u><u></u> moles were right at the heart of the British establishment.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“By late May, the NKVD, SS and Abwehr were - incongruous as it may seem now - collaborating on a mission to rescue Hitler’s deputy from British custody. But of course, as we now know, at the end of June Hitler launches his invasion of the <u></u>Soviet Union<u></u>. For the time being at least, the rescue plan is put on the backburner.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“The Russians, as you rightly point out Hicks, become our allies. But now there is a big problem. Moscow realises it could be implicated in any future German attempt to free Hess - with all the ramifications that could have for the allied cause during the war.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“To limit the damage, they embark on a deception. They inform M15 in early 1942 that their agents have just ‘learned’ of a German plot to spring Hess. The Russians hope to lure a German rescue team to <u></u><u></u>London<u></u><u></u>. The team would have the map supplied to them by the <u></u>Moscow<u></u> embassy in <u></u><u></u>London<u></u><u></u> a year earlier, giving the NKVD an opportunity to seize it back right here.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“M15 falls for the Russian ruse and hands the matter over to the ‘XX department’ and its team of double agents. They decide to use their most successful agent, Juan Pujol, alias ‘Garbo’. Garbo is told to make contact with <u></u>Berlin<u></u> in the spring of 1942 and inform his German handlers that Hess has been moved to the <u></u><u></u>Tower<u></u> of <u></u>London<u></u><u></u>. He arranges the delivery of the two cars to <u></u><u></u>Alexander<u></u> <u></u>Palace<u></u><u></u>.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">This time it was Stubbs’ turn, “But what so special about that particular map?” Halcroft continued, “Don’t you see? It was an NKVD map giving what we assume to be secretly coded directions in Russian, against which the Abwehr had jotted down the German translation.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“If the map was ever found, it would be proof positive that the NKVD had helped the Germans to at least formulate a plan to rescue Hess. The Russians simply had to get the map back and make sure that it was destroyed.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“But the map found in the first car that night was merely a copy as it was minus the Russian code. The original must have been lost during the fire fight that night and was never found – that is until today.” Halcroft finished speaking.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“So what are we going to do?” asked Hicks finally looking at the map and the Schmeisser. “Do? Why nothing of course,” replied Halcroft. “The files are officially sealed until 2042. As for these?” he said pointing at the map and weaponry, “We shall destroy them. No one need ever know. It was after all, one heck of a live fire exercise that night,” he winked. Hicks and Stubbs left his office.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Halcroft stared out of the window again. “Six weeks, that’s all it was, six weeks” he shook his head muttering softly to himself, “time enough to change the destiny of the entire world.”</span></span></div>
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<b>Read more by this author on <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Nnamdi-Anyadike/e/B00EDRHYZK">Amazon</a>.</b>Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-57900589420971424802015-04-17T00:00:00.000-07:002015-04-17T00:00:08.934-07:00"version.X" by Daniel Ksenych (Short Story)<b>Genre: </b>Slipstream Science Fiction<br />
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Short Story<br />
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<b>Summary: </b>The life story of Max Cube, avatar of 21st Century consciousness and/or seriously mentally ill person.<br />
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The story of a boy, glossy headshot perfect and clean and lit, precise like a clone, rendered mythical. He's the memories you wish you had, to have known him or to have been him, but it's somehow too late. Max is a Tarot card. He's been told all the stories about boys, the fatherless boys, the prodigies, the first loves. So he can't get out easy. He'll have to pull off something. Young Max, like a home movie or a documentary. It looks like there's nectar beading in the corners of his eyes, on his forehead, when he's older, the way he looks you can see backwards and forwards in his time. It's sweat in candlelight. He looks too perfect, people have to back away. The stories of boys come to save the world. The way children point out and forgive and erase flaws.<b><br /></b>
<b>Read the entire story on the author's <a href="http://metaplex.blogspot.ca/p/version-x.html">website</a>.</b>Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-78723294930014452092015-04-03T00:00:00.000-07:002015-04-03T00:00:12.279-07:00"Surge Protector" by Erica Conroy (Short Story)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/911jyWJqHSL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/911jyWJqHSL._SL1500_.jpg" height="320" width="200" /></a></div>
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<b>Genre: </b>Science Fiction</div>
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Short Story</div>
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<b>Summary: </b>A near future short fiction about two officers of the law who partner up to tackle crime. Will this, however, keep them apart off duty? </div>
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I can remember the first day I met the Kid, as if it were this morning. Consider that an amazing feat for me. I was hungover that day. Sunglasses inside hungover.<div>
<br />"Who're you?" I demanded of the kid waiting by my desk. I had to squint to make out his features. Clean cut and blond. Fresh meat on the Police Force. He gave me his name, his voice more crisp than my dorito breakfast. I immediately forgot it, of course.</div>
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<br />"Okay, Kid. Looks like we're stuck with each other," I told him. My new partner wisely kept his trap shut, though his lips did twitch when I pulled out my flask and took a nip. Burping didn't faze him either. This one might last.</div>
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<br />The Kid turned out to be by the book. The Chief probably thought he'd dilute my bad ways. I suppose he did, in a way. We were opposites. He was water straight from the source and I was a bourbon served neat. Some say those work well together and I suppose we did too. I introduced the Kid to trouble and he kept me from causing too much of it. But he never should have gotten between me and that bullet.<div class="yj6qo ajU" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; cursor: pointer; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px; outline: none; padding: 10px 0px; width: 22px;">
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<b>Buy this story on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B008E3DIUY">Amazon</a>.</b></div>
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Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-58287903277769664462015-03-20T00:00:00.000-07:002015-03-21T15:16:37.718-07:00"Lightning Draw" by Annie Turner (Novelette)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/81eXzu79EeL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/81eXzu79EeL._SL1500_.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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<b>Genre: </b>Western</div>
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Novelette</div>
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<b>Summary: </b>Book 3 of the Zachary Davis Series</div>
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The demands of being a Texas Ranger have taken their toll on Zach Davis. Worried he might be losing his edge, he works on tracking down a dangerous gunman in an effort to prove he still has what it takes. <br />
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Zach lurched awake with a start. He glanced down and saw that he held his pistol in his hand, cocked and ready for action. He had grabbed the weapon from the dead of sleep as naturally as he would take a breath. His instinctual reaction had managed to save his life on numerous occasions.<br />
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The deep purple of dawn was only now starting to reveal itself. Zach glanced to the left and right in tense, alert movements, trying to discern what it was that had startled him.<br />
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His brown stallion was grazing about ten yards away. Zach trusted the horse more than most people. The animal normally had flawless instincts when it came to detecting danger. And yet… the horse seemed unperturbed.<br />
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<i>A bad dream?</i><br />
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It made sense to Zach that he had woken up from nightmares. His mind had been unsettled for weeks now.<br />
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<i>No… it wasn’t a dream. Something’s wrong…</i><br />
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It wasn’t a sound he heard; else the horse would have his ears pricked. It was more a gut feeling, a sense of lurking danger.<br />
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<b>Buy this story on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lightning-Draw-Zachary-Davis-Book-ebook/dp/B00U664YKA/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1426975823&sr=8-3&keywords=annie+turner">Amazon</a>.</b></div>
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Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-67900756883016367792015-03-06T00:00:00.000-08:002015-03-06T00:00:01.902-08:00"Wanderlust Creek and Other Stories" by Elisabeth Grace Foley (Short Stories)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/819xG1%2Bq5dL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/819xG1%2Bq5dL._SL1500_.jpg" height="320" width="200" /></a></div>
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<b>Genre: </b>Western<br />
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Short Story Collection<br />
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<b>Summary: </b>From the author of The Ranch Next Door and Other Stories come six more short stories exploring the joys, heartaches and laughter of life against the backdrop of the Old West. In “Single-Handed,” a gunfighter’s courage comes in doubt when he refuses to explain to his friends the real reason he backed down from a fight. The capable proprietress of the busiest eating-house in town handles a day of disasters large and small in the light-hearted “The Rush at Mattie Arnold’s,” while in “Room Service,” a hotel night clerk finds himself in on odd position after he allows an exhausted traveler to stay in a reserved room. And in the title story, the novella-length “Wanderlust Creek,” a young rancher and his wife struggle to hold onto their land and their dreams in the face of adversity from weather, enemies—and even doubts of each other.<br />
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<br /><i>(from “Wanderlust Creek”)</i><br /> <br />He reached up toward the reins with his other hand and his hard fingers closed round her wrist. Gloria had not expected it and could not use her quirt, which had slipped down and tangled around her other wrist. The bay horse slewed around sideways in displeasure at the pull on its mouth, but she could not twist her hand free. “Don’t touch me!” she said, a little breathless, hoping her anger concealed a sudden touch of panic.<br /> <br />The younger man put in, though doubtfully, “Hey, do you think—”<br /> <br />A rifle shot cracked and a bullet kicked up the sod a foot behind the other man’s riderless horse. All three horses shied violently; the man on the ground lost his hold on Gloria’s wrist and stumbled as the bay pulled away, and swore as he turned round angrily to look for the source of the shot. Relief leaped through Gloria as she steadied her spooked horse. Ray!<br /> <br />Ray Collins emerged on foot from the brush bordering the meadow, a little to the rear of the scene and closer than any of them had realized, a Winchester in the crook of his arm. In a few purposeful strides he crossed the intervening space and joined them, coming up alongside Gloria’s horse. He looked up at her, catching her eye for a second to see if she was all right, and then he spoke sharply to the men. “What do you think you’re doing here?”<br /> <br />“I been getting that question a lot lately,” said the man on foot, his face still dark with anger. “You crazy, shooting at us like that? What business you got doing it?”<br /> <br />“You’ve got no business at all trespassing on my land, or laying your hands on my wife,” said Ray. “Get out of here before I put another shot a lot closer to you.”<br /> <br />Here the younger rider, whose face at sight of Ray had registered first surprised recognition and then slight guilt, cut in. “Hey—Ray—”<br /> <br />Ray glanced at him, his own recognition failing to make any impression on his restrained anger. Chris Borden tried to smile uncomfortably. “Gosh, Ray, I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. “I’m sorry about all this. I—I didn’t know she was your wife—”<br /> <br />“And if she’d been somebody else’s wife, it wouldn’t have mattered?” said Ray cuttingly. “Thanks a lot.”<br /> <br />His glance took in both of them. “You’d better ride out—now.”<br /> <br />With little else they could do, the two men complied. The one on foot gave Ray an ugly look, and glanced once more at Gloria before turning to his horse. “You’ll be sorry if you ever try something like that on me again,” he said to Ray, and then turned away.<br /> <br />As the men rode away across the meadow, Gloria turned her horse back in the direction from which she had come, towards home, and Ray fell in to walk beside her. His own horse waited in the brush from which he had fired. Gloria looked down sideways at him. She had learned to know his moods well enough in a year of marriage to tell that he was still simmering with anger, though outwardly contained. He ejected the spent shell from the Winchester and slung the gun under his other arm. The rifle shot had shaken Gloria a little, though she could not say it was a surprise. Ray’s patience had been short lately, for a number of good reasons.<br /> <br />He looked up at her again after a few minutes, and the expression in his eyes had nearly returned to normal. “Are you all right?” he said.<br /> <br />Gloria nodded. “I—I think they may have cut our fence.”<b><br /></b>
<b>Buy this collection on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wanderlust-Creek-Other-Stories-Elisabeth-ebook/dp/B00SS4VUFO/">Amazon</a> or <a href="https://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/wanderlust-creek-and-other-stories">Kobo</a>.</b>Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-28073994298004857042015-02-20T00:00:00.000-08:002015-02-20T00:00:11.541-08:00“The Family Business” by Marina Finlayson (Short Story)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/81kMye%2BKhQL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/81kMye%2BKhQL._SL1500_.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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<b>Genre:</b> Humorous Fantasy</div>
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<br /><b><br />Summary: </b>Renardo and his brothers are up to their eyeballs in debt, with one last chance to save their merchant business (and their gonads) from the moneylender. The great city of Tebos is holding its Festival of Song in three days’ time, and they have a wagonload of songbirds to sell.<br /><br />There’s just one large, man-eating problem: the bored sphinx who guards the city’s gates, and her deadly riddle game. Renardo doesn’t even want to be a merchant, but somehow it falls to him to outwit the sphinx. No pressure. All he has to do is come up with an unanswerable riddle.<br /> <br /><br /><b>Excerpt:</b><br /><br />“I’m not asking riddles any more,” said the sphinx.<br /><br />“Really?” The merchant raised his face from the dirt hopefully.<br /><br />“Really.” The sphinx shifted her wings, which jiggled her bare breasts in a most interesting fashion. She saw the merchant’s gaze drift and frowned. “You shall ask them instead.”<br /><br />The merchant’s eyes shot back to her face, alarmed. “Me?”<br /><br />“All of you.” The sphinx’s nod took in the waiting caravans and the line of delegates behind her current victim, all toting their heavy riddle books under their arms. “Union regs only say I shall test each traveller and admit the worthy to the city. There’s no rule that says I have to ask the riddles. A person could get tired of creating riddles after a few centuries, you know.” She sniffed. “No one appreciates the work that goes into a good riddle.”<br /><br />The merchant had too much on his mind to sympathise. Like just how big the sphinx was close up—bigger than a horse. Bigger than two horses, maybe. Not to mention the size of her teeth.<br /><br />“Well?” said the sphinx, her snake-like tail twitching impatiently.<br /><br />“Well what, your graciousness?”<br /><br />“Are you going to ask me a riddle or shall I just eat you straight off?”<br /><br />The merchant scrambled back in alarm. “Just a minute, your ladyship.”<br /><br />He reached for his riddle book and she growled. “And that’s another thing. No more riddle books.”<br /><br />“No more—?” The merchant cast an anguished glance at his well-thumbed copy of Riddle Me This. His father had presented it to him before his first journey to Tebos, and it had served him well ever since, though there had been that tense patch when the sphinx had decided that riddles were passé, and knock-knock jokes would introduce a little levity into the proceedings.<br /><br />“Tick tick tick,” said the sphinx. “Time is money, you know.” She yawned, luscious, bee-stung lips pulling back to reveal wicked canines. Sweat sprang out on the merchant’s brow.<br /><br />“Um …”<br /><br />The sphinx flowed to her feet as the merchant hesitated. He scrambled backwards as she paced towards him, his eyes riveted on her face. “No, please. Just a minute, your magnificence. Mercy. Just—just—give me a second.”<br /><br />His foot slipped and for a moment he windmilled on the edge of the precipice that looked down over Tebos. She waited, crouched down so they were nose to nose, till he stopped gasping.<br /><br />“Lovely view,” he said with a sickly smile.<br /><br />“The riddle, merchant.”<br /><br />“What’s … what, um …” His brain had seized with terror. He rummaged desperately through the echoing spaces inside his skull for a riddle. Any riddle.<br /><br /><br /><b>Buy this story on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TIOH6VA">Amazon</a>. Find more of Marina’s work <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Marina-Finlayson/e/B00RTDN3EG/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0">here</a>.</b></div>
Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-13921389912702779952015-02-13T00:00:00.000-08:002015-02-13T00:00:16.580-08:00"Choking Cupid" by Mira Day (Novelette)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/91v3HBzIWRL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/91v3HBzIWRL._SL1500_.jpg" height="320" width="200" /></a></div>
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<b>Genre: </b>Chick Lit, Romance</div>
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Novelette</div>
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<b>Summary: </b>Worst. Day. Ever.<br /><br />At least for Summer Wilson. At 32 and single, she dreads Valentine's Day more than any other, and her hungry-for-grandchildren mother doesn't help matters.<br /><br />When Summer's plans of wine, movies and ice cream with her best friend, Jessica, are ruined, Summer is forced to go on a blind date that would make any girl cringe. Pile on crabby customers and hotter-than-she remembers ex-boyfriends, all crowding into a local Asheville restaurant, and she can't imagine the day getting any worse.<br /><br />In desperation, she turns to her new neighbor to help take her mind off her least favorite day, but even he might not be able to handle her aversion to Cupid.</div>
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<br />“Don’t hate me.”<br /><br /> I read the text again, as I lock the café up for the day. After barricading myself in the office for a majority of the shift, I am more than ready to get out of there. Every time I ventured out into the dining room, someone on staff made a comment about me getting desperate or that I can only find guys at work. I brushed it off to not egg them on, but the bottle of wine at home is calling to me.<br /><br /> I hit the button to call Jessica. “Don’t hate me,” texts are never good.<br /><br /> “Ok, so really, don’t hate me.”<br /><br /> “What did you do, Jess?”<br /><br /> “How set are you on our plans?”<br /><br /> I walk down the icy hill to my car, glaring at the sidewalk. “You’re ruining them aren’t you?”<br /><br /> She giggles, “Actually, I may have just improved them. I met this super cute guy and he wants to take us out tonight. He has a friend for you.”<br /><br /> Jessica never finds the highest quality of guys. She usually falls for the first thing with biceps that pay her any attention, and trust me, they all pay her attention. Her bright blue eyes and red hair gives her the exotic, firecracker look the guys like to try and tame while her take-no-shit attitude keeps them begging for more.<br /><br /> I shake my head quickly, “No. No, no, no Jessica. Remember last time this happened? We met up with him and it turned out, he didn’t have a friend. And for whatever reason, we still ended up at home boy’s apartment. Oh, and let’s not forget the threesome he had planned.”<br /><br /> “It’s different this time. I actually met the friend. I promise.”<br /><br /> I climb in the car, allowing the phone to connect to the Bluetooth. Sitting back in my seat, I scowl at the dashboard. “What about the time the ‘friend’ was the guy’s sister. That was a fun night.”<br /><br /> “Geez, you’ll never let me forget that will you?”<br /><br /> “Nope.”<br /><br /> “Come on, Summer. Do you know how long it’s been since I last had sex? I think I’m a virgin again. I need this.”<br /><br /> I make a face, “You don’t really expect me to believe that do you?”<br /><br /> “Oh yeah, it’s you who hasn’t had sex in forever!” She howls like a hyena at her own joke.<br /><br /> “You are such a bitch. Remind me why I’m friends with you?”<br /><br /> “Because you love me and I’m only looking out for your sexual well being. Now, go wash the café stink off you. I’ll be over in fifteen. Make sure to find something sexy, we’re going to Social Lounge tonight.”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<b>Buy this story on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TBGJW4E?tag=ammbt-20">Amazon</a>.</b></div>
<br />Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-65524696282020833982015-01-09T00:00:00.000-08:002015-01-09T00:00:04.340-08:00"Dead On The Floor" by Rocky Rochford (Short Story)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/61I20A5iHmL._SL1024_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/61I20A5iHmL._SL1024_.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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<b>Genre: </b>Paranormal Thriller</div>
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Short Story</div>
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<b>Summary: </b>The beginning of the End starts now. For some of us, Life can be cruel, dealing us a losing hand and for Matthew Radley, a young Wiccan practitioner that is exactly what he got. After a lifetime of chaos, pain and losing himself, he finally got everything he wanted, the woman he loved, the future he desired and a reason to live, but in a single moment he lost it all. Unable to take the pain and no longer desire to live, Matthew takes the one thing he has left, his own life. For Matthew, his story has to end, in order for it to begin, his story has no happy ending, for his is a life of Love, Magick, Corruption, & Death and only asks for understanding.</div>
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How did it all go so wrong? I saw this coming and I still couldn’t change it! It still came to this! I failed. I had risked everything, and now I have nothing. Forgive me. With skin parted and veins severed, blood is quick to emerge and drip everywhere. Droplets of blood fall into the sink, and as a wide-eyed Matthew takes a step back, his blood now hits the ground. It is now that he sits himself down against the bath and accepts what is to come, bringing him to the here and now. “I should have known that it would be love that kills me.” He winces. “But what’s done is done.”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<b>Buy this <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dead-Floor-Rocky-Rochford-ebook/dp/B00NOBCNIO">story</a> on Amazon.</b></div>
<br />Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-50440081593967047442015-01-02T00:00:00.000-08:002015-01-02T00:00:09.612-08:00"Biker Babe (Lady Godiva 1)" by April Ryder (Novelette)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/91kF8xvsyPL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/91kF8xvsyPL._SL1500_.jpg" height="320" width="200" /></a></div>
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<b>Genre: </b>Contemporary Romance<br />
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Novelette<br />
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<b>Summary: </b>BBW Motorcycle Romance<br />
<br />What does a meek, plump housewife in sensible-heeled shoes do when stranded on a desolate highway after running away from home? She hitches a ride back to civilization with a hot biker, that's what! And so what if she has to stay overnight in a disgusting motel room that has half a mirror on the ceiling above the only bed? I'm an adult. I can handle it. I mean, she can!<br />
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<b>Excerpt:</b><br />
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The room was as bad as I had feared, with a dog-eared, tired look to it and the bed well used. I knew he was watching me from the door as I made my way across the small living slash bedroom and into the bathroom. A bathroom that proudly displayed its mould. I quickly left the cramped—and highly infections—little room to find him studying the ceiling above the lone bed. I shouldn’t have looked. Of course there was a mirror—well, half of one. My brain refused to speculate on what had happened to the missing half.<div>
<br />“It’ll do,” he said.</div>
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<br />I stared at him wide-eyed. How could he think this flea-bag motel was an acceptable place to spend the night? No wonder they charged by the hour.</div>
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<br />The corners of his dammed sexy mouth turned up. He was enjoying my discomfort. He probably a thought a woman like myself would complain, make demands that they upgrade, or refuse to stay in a place so…so disgusting. I kept my mouth shut. Of course I thought of saying all of the above, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of proving him right. I was lucky he had taken pity on me and picked me up in the first place. For that I was grateful. I glanced at the bed but quickly looked away. I wasn’t that grateful.</div>
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<br />He nodded and opened the door. “I’ll be back.”</div>
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<br />“Where are you going?” I asked, not liking how scared my voice sounded at the thought of being left alone.</div>
<div>
<br />He paused but didn’t look back. “I’ve business here.”</div>
<div>
<br />His words reminded me of my husband and I suddenly felt empty inside. “Of course you do,” I whispered. </div>
<div>
<br />“I’ll be back with something to eat,” he said before the door clicked behind him.</div>
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<br />He wasn’t abandoning me in this potentially roach-infested room, I told myself. I couldn’t expect him to put his life on hold to help me get back home. A home I had been running away from. If he hadn’t had business nearby, he wouldn’t have been there to rescue me. But rescue me from what? Being stranded on the highway, from my life or perhaps from myself.</div>
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<br />I snorted. A crass sound I had never before made. This was getting me nowhere. I had to deal with the here and now, not worry about tomorrow. Right now I needed a shower, but before I could do that, I had to clean it.</div>
<div>
<br />The towels were mercifully clean. After standing in the claustrophobic shower and removing as much of the highway as I could, I towel-dried my hair. Of course there were blow dryers. Not for this ritzy place. After inspecting the bed for roaches, bed bugs and other greeblies, I had wrapped myself tightly in another towel and climbed in. My eyes must have been closed for longer than the few minutes I had thought, because when I next opened them the room was dark. The darkness didn’t scare me. The shadow looming over me did.</div>
<div>
<br />I screamed. How had he found me?<b><br /></b>
<b>Buy this story on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OD32YOA">Amazon</a>.</b></div>
Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-61960142116662950172014-12-26T00:00:00.000-08:002014-12-26T00:00:05.480-08:00Compromised (A Gene Bukowski Adventure Book 1)" by Piotr Mierzejewski (Novelette)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/91BxF9m2TJL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/91BxF9m2TJL._SL1500_.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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<b>Genre: </b>Science Fiction Espionage</div>
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Novelette</div>
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<b>Summary: </b> Follow the exploits of Gene Bukowski and his team from the International Security Assistance Force in this near future Science Fiction Espionage series. This is the first in the series and Gene's assignment is to extract a former witness, and his handler, before the Russian authorities can get their hands on them!</div>
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<i>Zaliv Neelova, Russian Arctic</i><br /><br />Sladjan Smukavec rubbed his gloved hands together in a vain attempt of staying warm, grateful that he had paid attention to the not so subtle suggestion that he pack for cold weather. Of course, if he were to be honest with himself the suggestion was more akin to a threat, but the sentiment was there. After all, he was a valuable asset to his employer, so it wasn't as if the thugs could do any harm. At least not until his usefulness ended, something he hoped would never eventuate. He just wished that they had told him how cold it would be when they first bundled him into a car. Resisting the urge to stomp his feet, he continued watching as people went about loading the long container vessel.<div>
<br />Then again, the thugs neglected to tell him where he had been taken in the first place.</div>
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<br />One thing was certain however, this was no paradise.</div>
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<br />Although, for a Russian this far north, it may as well be.</div>
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<br />It was isolated, and the digital age seemed to be stuck in a time-warp, dating back sixty years. Of course, until recently he had no idea how long a reach his employers had, assuming that they were just thugs at best and a well organised syndicate at worst. This facility merely represented one avenue available to his employed, something the cybernetic-prostheses surgeon had no thought possible even in his wildest dreams. He continued staring, taking in the white netting and snow that covered most of the facility. Just never mind that the facility was a fully fledged seaport, with pens for nuclear submarines and an accompanying air strip housing state of the art fighter jets.</div>
<div>
<br />"I understand you've the best in the business," the woman next to Smukavec said, breaking the sombre moment. Smukavec blinked, and reminded himself who it was next to him. Marya Samsonova had once made history by being the first woman to have earned the position of commander-in-chief of the Russian Strategic Artillery Corps, and eventually rising to Minister of Defence. But that was before the current regime, which had singlehandedly reappointed senior military positions by men and women that were willing to work closer with Europe and the United States. Last he heard, Samsonova had been appointed as the Russian Ambassador to the Peoples Republic of China. So yes, it was initially a bit of a shock seeing her waiting for him. Still, Smukavec knew he had to tread carefully.</div>
<div>
<br />"I was the best in the business, General," he said carefully.</div>
<div>
<br />Like with the weather, he had been told to watch how he addresses his employer. Yes, she may be a prominent politician and a reputable diplomat to boot, but she had resources that had impressed him--and scared the hell out of him. "But as with everything, the limelight I once enjoyed has moved on."</div>
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<br />She pondered that statement quietly while watching the activity around them, and Smukavec tried not to dwell on the fact that he had once been the leading expert on cybernetic limbs and bio-neural operations. The techniques he had developed and technology patented had made him retire early, and make him rich beyond any expectation. It also got him into a lot of trouble later, especially when police arrested him for child pornography. That had been his undoing. It had been a humbling experience, a humiliating one at that. Neither the police nor the jury cared he had revolutionised medicine. All they cared about was that he liked watching children having intercourse.</div>
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<br />Suddenly, she harrumphed. Smukavec tensed, reminding himself that the woman beside him controlled a criminal empire that reached beyond the city limits of Saint Petersburg. Finally, she glanced at him, and nodded to the anchored ship.</div>
<div>
<br />"There is a fully functional operating theatre aboard, along with the best med-techs and programmers in the Strategic Artillery Corps," she announced in a tone lacking the thick pronunciation so common of her countryman. "There are fifty of my finest men, Spetsnaz soldiers, aboard."</div>
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<br />"For security?"</div>
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<br />"No."</div>
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<br />One should never question one's employer, and Smukavec did his best to remain calm, but wasn't about to fool himself. Still, he could not understand why he needed to know that Smaonova had attached fifty Special Forces operatives to the container ship. "No?"</div>
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<br />"For augmentation, Doctor."</div>
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<br />Suddenly, he froze. Of all the things she could have said, this one he least expected. Still, it made sense. In the time he had found himself employed by her, albeit indirectly, Smukavec had performed limited attachments of cybernetic-prostheses on the occasional thug who had their arm or leg shot off. Full on augmentation was tricky, challenging--and right up his alley. He sighed with relief. The healthier the person undergoing the procedure the better their chances of success. At least that was the general philosophy.</div>
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<br />She glanced at him.</div>
<div>
<br />"Think of it as a pilot project," she then announced, and patted Smukavec on the shoulder with a woollen glove-wrapped hand. "If you successfully transform more than half of my men, you can assure yourself a long-term consultancy with my newly installed government."</div>
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<br />Smukavec paused, and regarded her anew. The current government in Moscow, led by one Alexander Ivanov, was labelled as the first true democratic entity since Yeltsin. Whilst it wasn't without its problems, the regime under Ivanov had modernised economic infrastructures and secured several trade and defence agreements with Brazil and Venezuela. Equally, Russia went from a second rate country to a formidable power once again. Why she wanted to replace something that was good for the country at large was a mystery to him. Still--</div>
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<br />"New government, General?"</div>
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<br />She nodded, and smiled. Not that there was any hint of humour in that smile, and Sladjan Smukavec suddenly felt a shiver go down his spine...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<b>Buy this story on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00EFH3QJ6">Amazon</a>.</b></div>
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Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-17163276125011110312014-12-19T00:00:00.000-08:002014-12-19T00:00:03.327-08:00"Reunions: An Anthology of Heartfelt Short Stories" by The Short Story and Flash Fiction Society (Short Stories)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/71kMAeaZRnL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/71kMAeaZRnL._SL1500_.jpg" height="320" width="217" /></a></div>
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<b>Genre: </b>Psychological</div>
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Short Story Anthology</div>
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<b>Summary: </b>An anthology of heartfelt short stories about various reunions. Romantic reunions, friendly reunions, family reunions, all promise to trigger deep and intense emotions and keep you good company!</div>
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<b>Excerpt:</b><div>
<b><br /></b>It was four years before I returned home. I travelled the whole of the country but still I thought of Lucy. I became a man in that time, or so I thought from the dirt under my nails. My parents had started on a new family, with twin boys and another baby on the way. They were happy to welcome me in and offer me some food, but that was about it. I’d already taken enough out of them, and we all knew there was nothing they could do for me now.<br />The main street of town still looked the same, people still said hello as you went past.<br /><br />Many faces I remembered either from school or from hanging around the street at night.<br /><br />Those I didn’t know, they’d get to soon enough.This time I wanted to stay, I missed that feeling of belonging.That place where you got a nickname and didn’t know who gave it to you.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<b>Buy this anthology <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Reunions-Anthology-Heartfelt-Short-Stories-ebook/dp/B00QJHCIYO/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1417903248&sr=8-1&keywords=amazon+reunions+mary+papas">here</a>.</b></div>
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Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-74478624925745315282014-12-12T00:00:00.000-08:002014-12-12T00:00:15.077-08:00"The Hammer Falls - A Detective Lara Hammer Story - Book 1" by A.L. Steen (Short Story)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/61nIWzhKw2L._SL1056_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/61nIWzhKw2L._SL1056_.jpg" height="320" width="247" /></a></div>
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<b>Genre: </b>Women's Mystery, Supernatural</div>
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Short Story</div>
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<b>Summary: </b>The rough and rogue Detective Lara Hammer takes on the Ghoul King in Book One of this action packed short story adventure. Lara is a joke to her comrades and a secret asset to her Captain. Her methods are anything but subtle and Lara can, at times, be harsh, but she follows her own path. Most of the time, that path leads to great results when it comes to bringing down the scum of the city. This time, however, Detective Hammer may have overstepped in her enthusiasm to bring down the most powerful man around.</div>
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Lara stared with wide eyes at the spot where her partner had stood only a few seconds before. A surprisingly small pile of grayish white ash on the hard cement floor marked his passing.<br /><br />The demonic lawyer's eyes were still glowing with the murderous flames. He belched loudly, expelling smoke in a wispy black cloud. Then Kelvin Ashar, the blood thirsty piece of shit, smiled at her. Lara allowed the traumatized chill that ran across her warm porcelain skin to run its course.<br /><br />"Now, Detective," the monster oozed, "shall we try this again? I'm not at all certain that your partner understood the terms of our agreement."<br /><br />Lara took a staggering step forward.<br /><br />"You slithering slimeball. You hellacious eel," she blurted.<br /><br />Ashar's eyes flickered. He brought his fist to his mouth and coughed into it. When he opened his hand a writhing ball of fire sat in the palm. He casually rolled it around.<br /><br />"Tsk, tsk, Lara. Is that any way to speak to your only friend in the world right now," he asked with a greasy smile creeping across his grizzled face.<br /><br />"You just incinerated my lover," she screamed.<br /><br />Kelvin snuffed out the fireball and covered his mouth in mock surprise.<br /><br />"Oh dear," he exclaimed, not sounding in the least sincere. "When you said, partner, I assumed you meant in law enforcement. My bad. Here, let me make it all better," he slimed.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<b>Buy this book on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00QKVY3HO">Amazon</a>.</b></div>
<br />Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-32846516350067684132014-12-05T00:00:00.000-08:002014-12-05T00:00:03.212-08:00"Taken (Callisto Series - Book 1)" by Erica Conroy (Novella)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/91ij3dVhyoL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/91ij3dVhyoL._SL1500_.jpg" height="320" width="200" /></a></div>
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<b>Genre: </b>Science Fiction Romance</div>
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Novella</div>
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<b>Summary: </b>Respect the enemy, fear his daughter in this fun Science Fiction Romance<br />Peace negotiations are easy right? Not when you're learning a language composed of hisses, growls and other guttural sounds. And that's not even the tough part for recently divorced diplomat Viktor Jacobs. No, that would be matching wits with the fiercely intelligent daughter of the opposing side. Between dodging her claws, avoiding a myriad of cultural taboos, and not accidentally getting married or killed, he has to somehow make the Lyrissians see that joining the Alliance of Worlds is the best choice for all of their futures.<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span></div>
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Viktor's door chimed and he scowled. He exited the bathroom, glanced at the clock on the wall and stubbed his toe on the sofa as he made his way to the door. It opened to reveal not his friend Roger—the ship's commanding officer, whom he was expecting—but S'rea. <br /><br />"What is that on your face?" she immediately asked. <br /><br />"Haffin hehl," Viktor tried to reply around the toothbrush still in his mouth. He removed the toothbrush while his other hand checked that his towel was still firmly wrapped around his waist. "Shaving gel," he said again. He noticed her silent guard loitering in the corridor. <br /><br />"You have no ridges," S'rea said, and reached out. Her touch along his shoulder was feather light, and he had to fight off the urge to shiver. <br /><br />"Sorry to disappoint," he said, and stepped away from her. "What do you want, S'rea?" <br /><br />"I want many things, U-man, but none of them are why I am here." <br /><br />Viktor raised an eyebrow at her cryptic answer. "Sounds like something a man should hear with pants on. Take a seat. I'll be back in a second. Tell your babysitter to come on in." <b><br /></b>
<b>Buy this story on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005L35E3O">Amazon</a>.</b>Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-34648218199045199772014-11-28T00:00:00.000-08:002014-11-28T00:00:01.600-08:00"One Skid Mark" by April Ryder (Novelette)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/8185gF6y9uL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/8185gF6y9uL._SL1500_.jpg" height="320" width="200" /></a></div>
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<b>Genre: </b>Contemporary Romance</div>
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Novelette</div>
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<b>Summary: </b>After being dumped by her live-in boyfriend, who she had supported through college, Hayley is tricked into trying out for the local roller derby team--the Selby Slammers.<br /><br />At the try outs hilarity ensues when she leaves her mark on some of the hunky men in the inline hockey team practicing on the next rink over.<br /><br />At least this time I didn't end up hungover with a tattoo on my butt--I mean--Hayley is a good girl, sweet, hard working girl that would never hurt a fly, let along her best friend, who often gets her drunk and permanently inked. Adam is such a stupid poopy-head!<br /><br />Ahem, frog in my throat. I think I'm getting a migraine, so I better leave before I barf all over your expensive-looking shoes…bye! </div>
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After the roller derby ended, some of the crowd changed out for the next event. My friend Adam hadn’t lied. Here were the boys and they were the local men’s inline hockey team. Instead of roller skates they wore inline ones. Adam explained it was very similar to field hockey he had played as a boy but more like ice hockey. As it turned out New Zealand even had ice hockey. Huh, learn something new every day.<div>
<br />Not long into the game I noticed some of the roller derby girls slip out of their changing room and join the front row of the audience to watch the men play. I didn’t blame them, especially not at half time when they retired to their respective corners and removed their helmets.</div>
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<br />“Who knew men wearing so many clothes could be so hot,” Adam said in my ear and I blushed. Who, indeed.</div>
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<br />I stuck a finger in my cowl neck and tried to shake some air in there. It wasn’t the temperature that had me overheating, but the right wing. He was like a god and I caught myself thinking thoughts I’d never thought about Paul.</div>
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<br />“Love at first sight?” Adam asked.</div>
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<br />I shook my head. “Maybe a crush.”</div>
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<br />He laughed, put an arm around me and pulled me close. “Nice choice,” he said.</div>
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<br />I sighed in appreciation of such a gorgeous man. I could look, but I knew I’d never be able to touch. Not a man like that. He was in a league of his own. He probably dated the roller derby girls. They were strong, confident and so sexy looking in their outfits. My eyes flicked to them and sure enough they were leaning over the barrier, hollering lewd suggestions. My crush--player number 7--laughed, waved and thrust his groin in their direction. Totally out of my league.</div>
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<br />“He’s gay,” Adam said, interrupting my depressing thoughts.</div>
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<br />“What?”</div>
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<br />“He’s gotta be gay. He’s putting too much effort into it.”</div>
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<br />“He can’t be gay,” I argued and when Adam looked at me I blushed furiously. “I mean, he’s totally checking those roller derby girls out.”</div>
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<br />Adam stared at me, number 7, then the girls in question. “Here finish this, while I get us more beer,” he said.</div>
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<br />I accepted Adam’s half-empty cup and watched him head toward the counter. The game was almost over by the time he returned.</div>
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<br />“Where were you?” I asked when Adam appeared with more beer.</div>
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<br />His smile worried me, especially when he didn’t answer. I was too close to drunk though to notice the warning signs. Stupid me.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518165035126927076.post-48709595276771114902014-11-21T00:00:00.000-08:002014-11-21T00:00:19.232-08:00"Corral Nocturne: A Novella" by Elisabeth Grace Foley (Novella)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Genre: </b>Western Romance</div>
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<b>Type of Short Story: </b>Novella</div>
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<b>Summary: </b>Life on her brother’s ranch is lonely for Ellie Strickland. Ed’s ungracious manners and tight-fisted habits keep visitors away and his mother and sister close to home. But when Cole Newcomb, son of the wealthiest rancher in the county, meets Ellie by chance, he is struck by an unexpected impulse to rescue her from her solitude—and Ellie’s lonely summer is transformed.<br /><br /> When Cole asks her to go with him to the Fourth of July dance, Ellie is determined that nothing, from an old dress to Ed’s sour temper, will stand in her way. By the time the Fourth of July fireworks go off at midnight, will they herald only more heartache, or maybe—just maybe—a dream come true?</div>
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Ellie finished feeding the chickens, and stood for a moment holding the empty basket, watching them cluck and scratch and search in the dust for the kernels of grain. Then she turned and walked across the yard toward the little weathered frame house. The house, the low-roofed barn, the corrals and sheds made a half-circle around the hard-packed dirt ranch yard, and the garden patch lay east of the house. Sheltered by low hills, the ranch lay down out of sight of the main road. Few people came down the rutted track to the Strickland place. Those who did came on business with Ed—buying a cow, as today, or perhaps to borrow a piece of farming equipment; and they seemed to come rather of necessity than choice. Their infrequent comings and goings did little to affect the daily round of life. Though only five miles from town, the ranch was for Ellie a lonely place.<br /> <br />It was not a particularly hard life they lived here, though for Ellie and her mother there were often irksome extra tasks arising from rather unnecessary scrimping and making do. Ed was ‘tight’; he grudged every bit of new wire for mending a broken fence; he kept his cows as short on grain as possible and then complained when they did not gain flesh like the other ranchers’ cattle; he would never buy a new shirt when an old one could be patched. He was apt to grumble over small extra items in his mother’s modest grocery lists, and Ellie had long since given up asking for anything for herself, knowing she would only hear the familiar response, “But what for? We don’t need it.”<br /> <br />Ellie sat down on the front steps and put the basket down beside her. Ed was out of sight, and it was not yet time to start the midday meal, so she sat still for a moment and let the fresh breeze from off the prairie brush her face and flutter the edge of her calico apron. It was quiet—peaceful and beautiful, with the near-noon sun shining on wildflowers bobbing in the long grasses stirred by the wind. But today the quiet only served to remind Ellie that hardly anybody came down the road to the Strickland place, and those who did come disliked Ed Strickland so much that they never paid attention to Ed’s sister.<br /> <br />Ellie sighed a little, and scuffed the toe of her boot in the dust. She was eighteen now. A lot of the girls she had gone to school with in the little one-room schoolhouse over on Catlin Creek had beaus by now, who escorted them to picnics and dances and took them out for buggy rides on Sundays. Ellie and her mother seldom went anywhere except occasionally to church, for Ed disliked social gatherings and didn’t like to spare the team from work for them to drive anywhere. So they were cut off, to a large degree, from the other women in the area, who had plenty of acquaintances among their neighbors to keep them busy, and knew very little about the Stricklands except what they heard their husbands and sons say of Ed. And as for young men…well, the men that came out here usually left with a sardonic expression like John Bentley’s, and hardly even noticed that Ed had a mother and sister.<br /> <br />Ellie put her chin in her hand and stared away up the double-rutted track to the main road, with the green grass waving softly in its center strip. She was a quiet, practical girl, who simply accepted the little trials of her life that she could do nothing about. She did not spend her time pining for a beau—it was not a real cause of heartache, or something that constantly occupied her thoughts. But there were days, like today, when the accumulated loneliness of months made her heart weigh heavy; when she wondered wistfully how the right kind of young man was ever going to find his way down the road to her isolated home—and once there, what there possibly was that could make him want to stay long enough for a second look.<br /> <br />“No man in his right mind would want Ed for a brother,” she said aloud to herself, and then added as an afterthought, “and I wouldn’t want to marry the other kind.”<br /> <br />And with this reflection she stood up, looked round again at the sunny and empty horizon—empty of either kind—and then picked up the basket and went up the steps into the house.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<b>Buy this story on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Corral-Nocturne-Elisabeth-Grace-Foley-ebook/dp/B00N6TA0Z2/">Amazon</a>.</b></div>
<br />Alain Gomezhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17531540414270057688noreply@blogger.com0