"Grandfather’s Dream" by Jan Hurst-Nicholson (Short Story)

Genre:  Adventure

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Short Story:

South Africa

Sipho set out to fulfil his Grandfather’s dream, and in doing so learnt the power of imagination.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“Hello,” the boys returned the greeting. “Go well.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

Bowing his head respectfully, Sipho announced quietly, “Grandfather, I have brought it.”

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.

“Let us go into the light where I can see better,” he said, struggling to his feet.

“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.

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.

“Look well, Grandfather, at the sand at the bottom of the jar,” urged Sipho. “It really is the sea I have brought you.”

The old man smiled, squinting in the fading light.

Sipho reached forward and unscrewed the cap. “Smell inside, Grandfather. Smell the sea.”

The old man brought the bottle to his nose and drew in a deep breath.

“Can you not smell it, Grandfather?”

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.

“Does it not taste of salt, like I said it would?”

“It tastes as you said,” agreed the old man, chuckling.

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.”

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.”

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?

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?

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.

“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.

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.

“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.

But a little while later, when the sea was finally before him, Sipho’s eyes had grown round like an owl’s.

“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.”

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.”

The old man too, had closed his eyes. He rocked gently on the stool and let the words flow over him.

“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.”

Sipho recalled how he had lain awake almost the whole night listening to the powerful voice of the sea.

But now he was aware of his Grandfather. The old man coughed and a spasm shook him.

“Grandfather,” said the boy, his face full of concern.

“Go on, boy,” said the old man. “Tell me more.”

“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.”

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?

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

“Thank you, my boy,” said the old man quietly. “At last I have seen the sea.”

"I Dance with the Devil" by S. M. Daniels (Short Story)

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Story:

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.



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.



“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.”



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,



“No.”



She sighed. “Well, it’s dawn. Last chance to return home with me.”



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.



“Very well then, my love,” She said, “It is time.”



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.



“There,” came her sickly-sweet voice, “You are free to go.”



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…



*****************************************************************************************************







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.



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.



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.



“How is she?” I inquired, my voice hopeful, but at the same time not daring to hope.



“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.”



No. Not my Kate, she couldn’t be dying!



“Isn’t there anything you can do?” I asked, my voice cracking with emotion as tears streamed down my face.



“We’ve tried everything, it’s been almost two days since she came in. It’s a miracle she has lasted this long.”



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.”



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?



“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.”



I looked up and saw a woman there, dressed head to toe in black.



“Who are you?” I asked, irritated I was being disturbed.



The woman laughed, “Nobody of consequence. Well, that’s not true actually, but you’ll never see me again, so what does it matter?”



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,



“Please help this lady find the room she’s looking for,” I said.



The nurse looked confusedly around, “What lady?” She inquired.



“The one right next to you,” I said, my impatience with both of them growing.



The nurse glanced around again, “Sir, there is no one here but you.”



I jabbed an aggravated finger at the woman, “Her!” I said raising my voice, “Tell her to leave!”



The nurse stepped back surprised, “Sir, I believe you need rest, is there anything I can get you to help you relax?”



I opened my mouth again, intending to give this jokester a tongue lashing, but then the lady spoke again.



“She can’t see me John, only you can.”



I was confused, what did she mean?



“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.



“You see John, I’m not just a lady. I am death, and I have come to take the life of your fiancée, Kate.”



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.



“What do you mean you’re death? Why are you visible to just me?”



“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.”



I stared at her. What? She takes pleasure in this?



“How can you do this?” I demanded



“It’s my job, it’s not personal.” She replied. She looked from me to Kate, then back to me, and said,



“You really love her, don’t you?”



These words were spoken without a trace of emotion, but merely as a statement of fact.



“More than a demon like you could ever dream of understanding.” I growled, my teeth grinding at her audacity.



“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.”



I knew I had to buy more time to think,



“Tell me about him,” I said quickly, “This love of yours. What was he like?”



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.”



Now I was not only buying time, but was also curious and asked,



“What decision?”



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.



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.



Death hesitated, raised an eyebrow and cocked her head at me, “Yes?” she said, annoyed at the interruption.



“In all the stories, people meet death and they make bargains!” I said hastily, not thinking how absurd this sounded.



“A bargain…?”; she was confused.



“Yes!” I said, speaking rapidly, “Surely there’s something you want! Anything!”



Death threw back her head and released a laugh similar to that of a bat screeching.



“What could you, a mortal human, offer me, Death? An immortal being. I have everything I need provided for me!”



“Me.” I said, hesitantly.



Death’s laugh stopped as quickly as it hard started, and her cruel mirth was replaced with guarded curiosity.



“What?” She said.



“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?”



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.



Death’s eyes widened slightly, and though now I saw a distant longing, she did not speak.



“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.”



Death hesitated, suspicious.



“What makes you think I would take such an offer?”



“Can’t you just threaten to kill me or something?” I responded



“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.”



“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?”



Death looked at me, and again, she hesitated. After what seemed like an eternity she spoke.



“You would give anything?” she said.



“Anything!” I replied without hesitation, or thinking.



“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.”



I immediantly nodded, not taking time to process the implications of such a bargain.



“Deal,” I said, “anything for my Kate.”



Death nodded and produced an ancient parchment from thin air,



“Sign here,” she said, handing me the parchment and a black pen.



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.



“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!



“Kate!” I cried, joyously, “you’re alive!”



****************************************************************************************************







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.



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.



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.
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"Painting Rainbows" by Sue Lilley (Short Story)

Genre:  Romance

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Summary:  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?

Excerpt:

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she announced before she’d even sat down.

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.

“How come?”

“I haven’t been home all summer. I should go back for a duty visit before uni.”

“We could go together?”

“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.”

Odd they’d been so close all summer, yet they’d never once discussed the long connection of their families.

“He never approved of me, did he?” he remembered.

“I can’t imagine your folks would be any more approving.”

“They might. They’ve always wanted me to be happy.”

“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?”

“Plenty of time for that,” he insisted. “My priorities are different.”

“You mean all this arty nonsense?” she scoffed, which shocked him.

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.

“It’s not nonsense,” he said, floundering around in the dark. “I know I’m good. I can do something with it.”

“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.”

“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.”

“Nice line. How long have you been practising that one?”

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...

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"Go to bed" by Melissa “Brownie” Grant (Flash Fiction)

Genre:  Erotica

Type of Short Story:  Flash Fiction

Summary:  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.

Excerpt:

Another sleepless night, 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.

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?

Out on the back porch, the sound of crickets began to soothe her. Carla was happy that summer was coming.

“I see that you can’t sleep either,” a familiar voice said from over the fence.

“Huh?”

“Girl, stop playing.It’s me—Justine.” Justine popped her head over the fence. “Oh you brought out the good stuff, Captain Morgan.”

Carla chuckled, “Yeah, you wanna do a few shots with me? Maybe this will help both of us sleep.”

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.

“You don’t want to take the first shot?”

“Nah, you can. I have another bottle just in case we run out.”

“Turnt on a Tuesday night.” Both Justine and Carla laughed.

“So, why are you up so late?” Carla took the bottle from Justine.

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?”

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.”

“Girl, calm yourself. Just think of it this way—you’ll still have a job at the end of the day.”

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.”

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.”

“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.”

“You know what? You need this rum more than me.” Justine set the bottle in Carla’s lap. “You know what else you need?”

“What?” Carla gulped the rum.

“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.

Suddenly Justine pulled away, “Wait, wait, wait, I thought we agreed not to do this again—I’m sorry.”

Breathing heavily, Carla nodded her head in agreement.

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?”

“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.”

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.

“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.

“Please, I can’t take it.” Carla’s words were muffled.

“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.

“Don’t touch me.” Carla’s body began to shake. “My goodness, I needed that.”

Justine licked her fingers. “I know.” She laughed. “Now go to bed.”

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"The Siege of Abigail Beson" by Tyler Smith (Novella)

Genre:  Historical Fiction

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  An isolated family in Virginia finds themselves under attack shortly after the end of the civil war.

Excerpt:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?
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"Leaves of The World Tree" by Adam Misner (Short Stories)

Genre:  Dark Fantasy

Type of Short Story:  Short Story Collection

Summary:  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.

Excerpt:

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.”

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"Lost Lake House: A Novella" by Elisabeth Grace Foley (Novella)

Genre:  Historical Fiction, Fairytale

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  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.

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.

Excerpt:

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.

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.

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.

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!)

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.
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