"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.”

"The Letter" by Jan Hurst-Nicholson (Short Story)

Genre:  Action Adventure

Type of Short Story:  Short Story Collection

Story:

South Africa 1988

The two buddies were living and working together out in the sticks, and they were beginning to set each other’s teeth on edge. Then one of them made a very weird suggestion…


Royce shifted in his chair, uncomfortably aware that Jamie was watching him read the letter.

The shimmering heat of the desert had dissipated and he gave a shiver, as much from the effect of Jamie’s gaze as from the cool night breeze which had suddenly sprung up. He rolled down his shirtsleeves and moved his canvas chair closer to the fire.

Jamie’s dark eyes continued to scrutinise him, a faint expression of mockery on his face. “Want some coffee?” He offered the pot to Royce.

“No, thanks.”

“Too busy reading?”

Royce sensed the sarcastic resentment. It was worse after each mail drop when once again there were no letters for Jamie.

Jamie slammed the coffee pot on the fire and sank into a moody silence.

It had been six months. Six months with only each other for company; nothing but the vast, scrubby and endless desert, under the broiling energy-sapping sun. A series of disappointing finds had also exhausted their enthusiasm. The minerals had not been in sufficient quantities to make extraction viable.

Jamie prodded the fire and then swore as the coffee pot tipped and its contents sank into the thirsty earth.

“Damn coffee. I need a stiff drink.”

“Sorry old chap, we seem to be out. Perhaps I could offer you a cup of lukewarm brackish water.” Royce tried to lighten the mood.

“I don’t know what you’re being so smug about,” Jamie sneered.

After nearly two years together Royce had experienced most of Jamie’s moods, including the sudden rages that threatened to break up their working arrangement as well as their fragile friendship. But this vindictive mood was new.

“What do you mean?” asked Royce.

“Gloating over your precious letters.”

Royce was tired of being the scapegoat for Jamie’s moods. He was tired of the whole damn business. If they didn’t have a worthwhile find soon he knew he could never last another six months. He rose from the chair and stood over Jamie, who was angrily prodding the embers. “I know you resent my letters, but you can hardly blame me for your failure to get any.”

Jamie jumped up and faced Royce, his hands clenched, his knuckles white. “I don’t want your pity.” He spat out the words.

“What do you mean – pity? Why should I pity you?”

“Your family and friends write to you. You feel sorry for me because I never get any letters.” There was an icy disdain in his voice.

It was true. Royce had felt sorry for him at first. It was one of the slender threads that had held together their friendship. They’d met during their final year at college. Royce had thought Jamie quiet and secretive, until their mutual interest in geology had brought them together and Royce had realised that Jamie was merely super-selective in his friendships. Most attempts at closeness were quickly rebuffed. His lack of friends was his own fault. “What do you expect me to do – ask my friends to write to you?” He flung himself heavily into a chair and continued reading.

The tense silence was broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire.

Royce was conscious of Jamie’s veiled eyes watching him.

“Sell me one of yours.”

“What?” Royce stared at him in disbelief.

“I said, sell me one of yours. You always have four or five. You won’t miss one.”

“I can’t. They’re my letters. What interest would they be to you?”

“So you’re not prepared to let me have even one?”

Royce enjoyed his letters, it was the only thing he looked forward to – and he didn’t want to share them with Jamie. But he caught the brooding resentment in the other man’s eyes. “There’s no point in selling you anything. What use is money here?”

“I’ll swap you something.” With one step he was in front of Royce.

“How about my sheath knife?” He drew it from his belt. The blade glinted in the firelight reflecting the tragic urgency in Jamie’s wildly shining eyes. Royce glanced from Jamie to the knife. It was Jamie’s most prized possession. Handmade by a master knife-maker it had a bone handle that balanced perfectly with the shining well-oiled blade. Jamie boasted that it could slit a hair. And he was deadly serious about giving it away.

“All right,” Royce said reluctantly, fanning the letters. “Which one do you want?”

The ghost of a smile hovered on Jamie’s dry, cracked lips as he made his selection. There was a look of triumph on his face as he handed Royce the knife and returned to his place by the fire.

Royce slid the knife into his belt and felt a shiver as the cold steel blade pressed through his thin shirt.

He continued reading his mother’s letter. She wrote that his sister had moved to a teaching hospital and it was a pity she wasn’t nearer home to help nurse his father whose arthritis was getting the better of him. He sifted through the remaining letters, but was only half concentrating. With increasing irritation he was watching Jamie read the letter, his face devoid of expression. When he’d finished he carefully refolded it and replaced it in the envelope, smirking at Royce as he tucked it into his shirt pocket.

“Who was it from?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Suit yourself.”

Jamie sank back in his chair, arms folded behind his head, staring at the dark sky, his face veiled by thoughts that Royce could not fathom. The letter poked out from his shirt pocket. It irked Royce to think that he did not know its contents and he regretted his folly in making the swap.

Who was it from? Not his sister, as most of the home news came via his mother. And he’d made Carrie promise not to write so they’d have a year to decide on their feelings for each other. His other letters were usually sporadic news from friends, and the occasional geology magazine. He was aware that Jamie was watching him, a glint of amusement in his eye. “Don’t you think you’re being selfish, keeping it to yourself?” Royce snapped.

“No. It’s my letter.” He slipped it from his pocket and re-read it. He gave Royce a searching look. Their eyes held for several moments.

Jamie leaned forward and with his eyes still focused on Royce he held the paper over the fire. The corner began to smoulder, then quickly caught alight and burst into flames.

Royce leapt from his chair and snatched the charred remains from the fire.

“Why the hell did you do that?”

“It was my letter. Surely I can burn my own letter?”

Royce caught the cynical mockery in his words and felt anger well up.

“Who was it from?” He grabbed Jamie’s lapels and hauled him to his feet. “I want to know who it was from.”

Jamie pushed him away roughly, so that he staggered almost falling over the chair.

“It was MY letter,” Jamie said coldly. “You swapped it fair and square. I can dispose of my belongings any way I wish.” He gave a snort of derision. “Anyway, what’s the use of a letter once it’s been read?”

Royce made an effort to keep his temper in control. “All right, if that’s the way you want it, we’ll do another swap. I’ll give you back your knife if you tell me what was in the letter.”

“No. A deal is a deal.”

Royce sensed that Jamie was goading him, itching for a fight. All the bitterness they’d harboured over the past six months was beginning to surface. It was the first time throughout their relationship that Jamie had had the upper hand – and he was making the most of it.

Jamie crouched next to the fire and threw on some more kindling. As it flared the light cut the darkness and illuminated the sinister smile on his face. He glanced up and gave Royce a quizzical look.

“How about a different swap?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you what was in the letter if you give me my knife and your gun.” In two quick strides he was in front of Royce, grinning. “It’s quite a bargain if I tell you who the letter was from.”

Royce listened with tightened lips. The Smith & Wesson had belonged to his father and Jamie knew how much it meant to him, to give it away was unthinkable.

“The knife only,” he said, and pulling it from his belt flung it at Jamie’s feet.

“And the gun?” Jamie smiled. “Don’t you want to know what Carrie had to say?”

Royce paled. Something must be wrong otherwise she would never have written. He swelled with rage at the thought of Jamie reading her letter. “What did she say?” he demanded. Panting with fury he caught Jamie by the arm and swung him round, ready to put a fist into that mocking face.

Jamie wrenched free. “What about the gun?” he repeated.

Royce threw him a look of pure hatred. All his love for Carrie welled up. He was desperate to know what she’d said. He stormed into his tent to fetch the gun. Jamie’s scornful laugh followed him.

“She’s found someone else. Going to marry him.”

Royce’s eyes blazed with an icy fury as his hand tightened round the gun. He burst furiously out of the tent. “You’re a liar.”

“See for yourself.” Jamie sniggered, as he slid the letter from his pocket and waved it in front of Royce. “I only burned the envelope.”

Royce’s eyes were black with hatred. Tormented beyond endurance he levelled the gun at Jamie’s stomach and snatched at the letter. “Give it to me.”

Jamie pulled his arm out of reach and with his other hand grasped the cold steel barrel of the gun. “It’s my gun now,” he smirked. He dropped the letter and it slowly fluttered down. There was a gleam of amusement in his eyes as he watched it settle on the flickering flames. When Royce realised what Jamie had done he let out a cry and leapt to grab it.

A shot rang out.

Jamie’s legs buckled and he slumped to the ground, a look of faint surprise on his face.

Royce sank to his knees, his head buzzing from the gunshot, the blood pounding in his ears. Dazed, he watched the flames slowly flickering round the edges of the letter, his blankly staring eyes mesmerized by the one line he was able to read before it was reduced to ashes.

“Return your sweepstakes tickets within ten days to qualify for the early bird bonus.”


ENDS

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""The Underrails #1" by Etherer Daz (Novella)

Genre:  Fantasy-adventure, New Adult, Speculative, Fiction

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  When two nomads (interworlders) open the green portal, they don't expect the acceleration of their 'talents' or the portal breach that let's a few unauthorized friends into the world. The adventure that lies ahead calls for some unusual maneuvering. Fortunately, Zya lives for this sort of thing, and the new nomad in her life provides just enough skill and mystery to keep her on her toes.

Excerpt:

Nights without port work were growing more common than Zya cared to think about, but she utilized the Daily Cup, “researching” to keep herself busy. Not terribly exciting but useful; she guessed - even if the monotony of text in front of her made her eyelids heavy. She'd been at it for hours, and even the simplest of off-port retrieval orders would have been preferable to a night of seemingly endless text-tracing. But, no one was calling this week, and she'd have to get over that. Zya rubbed her temples, and let her eyes slip closed a second.

She saw him when she opened them and scanned the space. Another nomad. She hadn't noticed him enter the coffeeshop, but Zya could feel the vibrations of his portkey. He was probably headed for the port at the back of the cafe. Not that he'd get far with the current guard on duty. Taking a slow sip of her latte, Zya eyed him. He was new. Definitely not an easy read, either. She wondered what he was there for. Averting her eyes when he glanced up from the paper he was reading, she lifted the wide-mouthed mug in her hands to her lips and swallowed a substantial amount of gingerbread java.

It was always so cold in the coffee shop despite the heat Eliza paid a third of her profits for. A regular flow of discs was probably the reason the Watch placed a cafe in that quarter. Fuel and water fees keeping their governing devices afloat and all. Steady income keeps the machine running.

The other nomad was watching her now. Zya frowned at her foolishness, feeling his lingering gaze. She'd been too bold. Hopefully, she hadn't raised too much suspicion. But, she was sure she had. Sipping the last of her coffee, she folded closed the book of old reports and returned them to her pack, making to leave. The nomad caught up with her when she reached the door.

“See all you needed to see?” he asked, a searching curiosity glinting the chocolate brown lenses of his eyes.

“I just came for the coffee.”

“I felt you scanning me.”

“It's not like that.”

“What's it like? You're obviously nomadic. Carrying an illegal key, too? Does the owner know there's a dimensional door here?”

Zya's eyes narrowed.

“No.”

The nomad looked her over, relaxing a little.

“We should have a talk. Elsewhere.”

“Sounds great, except for the fact that I don't know you.”

His gaze was insistent. “It might benefit your port access.”

Zya looked him over, her mouth flattening into a grim line, then gestured to him with her free hand to “lead the way.”




The nomad stole a glance at Zya several paces from the coffee shop. She didn't try to run. He'd spotted her fair and square, and if he'd wanted to turn her in for key fraud, he could have directed gate patrols to the coffee shop's video discs.

“How many gates do you know about?” He asked her, maintaining a brisk pace, eyes focused straight ahead of him.

“Where are we going?”

“I asked you a question,” he noted with a more conversational tone, completely ignoring her own inquiry.

“I know of a few. That one's the real hot bed though. It opens to a lot of scenic vacation spots. People pay a pretty penny for dimensional escorts these days.”

“That's not what you do.”

“Oh no?”

“No. I see the oath tattoos on your neck and peeking out from your sleeve. You're probably covered in them. I wouldn't doubt you have a load of protective metal rings as well.”

“You're quite the observer.”

“I have to be.”

The nomad reached an arm out to gesture her left to a building tucked into the heart of the fashion district. Zya raised a brow when he reached into his pocket and pulled out the key that unlocked the door. In seconds, he waved her through. Hesitating a moment, Zya stepped over the threshold and glanced back at the other porter. A chill went through her watching him bolt several locks and secure one with another key, effectively locking them in.




“Follow me,” he said, crossing the room and pulling open a door that led to the basement level of the building.

Zya did as he asked with the hint of a scowl.

They descended a very long set of stairs that wound down to a room with several antique typewriters at the bases of small, ornate screens. Zya suppressed the urge to ask what all of it was, but her curiosity burned. She was horrible at waiting. It would be nice if the traveler would get on with whatever he was working up to.

“Have a seat,” he told her when they'd reached the platform at the bottom of the stairwell. He motioned a hand toward a spindly stick-legged chair with a flat top by one of the typewriters and monitors.

Frown deepening, Zya did as he asked.

“Don't look so angry,” he told her, failing to lighten the mood.

“Who are you exactly?” Zya asked.

“Someone who needs to find something.”

“Thank you for the clarifier,” Zya uttered, shaking her head.

“I'm a kind of guard.”

Zya frowned.

“Not the kind you have in mind.”

“Then why am I here?”

“I happened upon something that I need another expert's perspective on before I leave Loreport. A box with inscriptions on it. It's not run of the mill code. It's more like an imprint. It looks like... It's better I show you. But, I need assurance you won't speak of it to anyone until I'm sure of what it is. And, even then...”

“I won't.” Zya agreed, meeting his eyes and leaning forward.

“I apologize for my lack of manners. My name is Akir.”

“Zya.”

“A pleasure,” he said.

Looking her over, the nomad lowered his eyes to a drawer built into the wall nearest him. Rising from the stick chair, he made his way to it and rolled the lock's knob in the direction of an apparently secret letter combination (too quickly for Zya to memorize). The box he pulled from it was smaller than she expected and looked more like a stone than a manufactured container. He placed the stone box on a stand toward the end of the room and gestured her over. Zya rose and walked toward it at a cat-like, leisurely pace, tucking the thin twists falling from her upsweep behind her ear.

“That's the imprint.”

Zya squinted her eyes and leaned forward to inspect the code. Her eyes quickly narrowed. She turned to him with disbelief.

“Seriously? You could have just asked for my number.”

“You can't think I manufactured that inscription. I didn't engrave this relic and 'age' it to pursue you.”

Zya raised a brow.

“You see the imprint just as clearly as I do. It's ancient.”

“And, if it opens up a portal? Should we skip through it together?”

Zya grinned.

“I asked you here because of your fire. I was watching you just as much as you were watching me at that coffee shop. I know what I saw.”

Rolling her eyes, Zya extended her hand, trying to ignore the charge that shot through it when Akir's hand closed around it. Glancing at the imprint on the box, Akir stepped closer to her until their arms formed a sharp V, making a disjointed version of the letter H with their bodies. His eyes met hers then, but whatever attempted to linger between them was interrupted by the beam of green light that shot abruptly from the box. The pair watched it in amazement as it nearly widened enough to permit one person through it. It was definitely a portal. Zya's eyes glinted. She could make out the outline of buildings in the distance.

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"The Whispering Tombs (Quality Times #1)" by Gayle Ramage (Novella)

Genre:  Adventure, Science Fiction


Type of Short Story:  Novella


Summary:  Meet Quality Times, just your average 21st century woman who happens to own a shrinkable time machine. Along on her intergalactic adventures is Tim, a self-confessed sci-fi geek who takes everything in his stride.

In 'The Whispering Tombs', Quality and Tim are residing at the luxurious Baala Haven Resort, on an unpronounceable planet, when they're invited on a quest to find ancient hidden treasure by a wealthy alien archaeologist. Reaching the caves of Azrokaran, however, loyalties are tested to the very limits as those within the group reveal their true colours.

A light-hearted mix of science fiction, adventure and humour.


Excerpt:


I dropped the pen onto the desk and stared at the words on the page until they blurred before me. God, how pointless. How in the world did I manage to get coaxed into writing a bloody journal by a teenage boy?

Describe your experiences. Tell humanity of the worlds you’ve been to and the different species you’ve encountered, he’d said. Then we can hop back to the 16th century and leave the book somewhere. It’ll really freak out the archaeologists! The poor sap had even paid for a customised t-shirt bearing the legend: AN ARCHAEOLOGIST FREAK-OUT. Yes, he was that sad.

Tim, he of the customised t-shirt, had gone out for the evening, sampling the night life on this planet. It was our first night at the Baala Haven Resort, Baala being the region of this unpronounceable world. I should have really been out, too, living it up and shaking it down but, to be honest, I’d rather have popped into my incredibly comfy-looking bed and have inappropriate dreams about the blue Adonis who’d caught my eye when Tim and I had arrived.

Tim had asked me if I wanted to join him, but more out of courtesy than anything else. As I had been eyeing up Bluey, Tim had his eyes firmly on a pair of Barbie dolls standing in the queue behind us. I’m not being rude when I refer to them as Barbies. They did genuinely resemble the toys so beloved of young girls, even down to the plastic-looking skin. No, Tim didn’t want me cramping his style, though if I wasn’t so tired, I probably would have made damn sure I did.

I slipped underneath the soft blankets, ready for a good night’s sleep, then remembered the SD pills. SD stands for Sweet Dreams and does what it says on the tin. What you do is spend ten minutes or so focussing on whatever it is you want to dream about before chucking the little orange things down your throat. I’m not sure how they work exactly. Something to do with the stuff in the pills contacting your brain and catching your thoughts pre-sleep. I didn’t know if it would work, but I was more than willing to give it a try.

I had reached the point in the dream where Bluey peeled off his skin-tight underpants when I was rudely awakened by Tim hissing my name. Believe me, if you opened your eyes to find a spotty youth inches from your face, you’d scream, too.

‘Shut up, will you.’ He stepped back to avoid a thump. ‘It’s only me.’

‘Exactly,’ I muttered. ’Now fully awake, I sat up and glanced out the window looking onto the silver-sanded beach. It was still dark. ‘Is that... burning I can smell?’ I asked, sniffing the air.

Tim nodded, his cheeks turning a similar colour to his hair.

‘What happened?’

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he began, after a moment’s pause. ’I mean, she looked plastic. I didn’t realise she actually was plastic.’

‘At the risk of sounding repetitive, what happened?’

‘Well, you know those two females we saw in the lobby earlier?’

‘You mean the ones I saw and you drooled over? Yes, I remember them.’

He gave me an unimpressed look before continuing. ‘Well, after partying for a bit, we went back to their apartment and-’

I raised a hand. ‘Spare me the graphic details, Timothy.’

‘Huh, we didn’t even get to that! We flirted for a bit, then the girls decided to get more drinks from the kitchen. I felt a bit cold, but there wasn’t a fireplace like we’ve got, so I found a bundle of candles hiding away in a drawer. Thought it might be a bit sexy, y’know. Romantic.’

Plastic girls. Burning candles. I could see the punch line coming, but let him continue.

He started to twist the hem of his red chequered shirt. ‘They came back through and, well, started going mental, screeching like mad harridans! Screamed at me to put out the flames. I did, and planned to get the hell out of their as soon as I could. Except one of the girls tripped over their feet and went flying.’

‘And she came into contact with a flame and started to melt,’ I finished.

‘Something like that. She’s all right, though. Still alive. It was strange, though. When the flame touched her, her whole arm was set alight.’

‘Hang on. Wait a minute. Does this little mishap mean we’ve been kicked out of the resort?’

He frowned. ‘No. I got a bit freaked out, that’s all.’

I stared at him. He’d woken me up, taken me away from untold pleasurable dreams about Bluey, because he was “a bit freaked out”?

‘They called the reception desk. Someone came to take her to the medical unit. Her sister went with her so I came here.’ He sighed, and sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘I need a drink.’

‘You need a shower,’ I shot back. ‘Sod off back to your own room and I’ll see you in the morning.’

He gave me a vacant look. ‘It is morning. Or what constitutes morning in this place.’

‘But... it’s dark outside,’ I said redundantly.

‘The people on this planet don’t sleep for long. Only a couple of hours in Earth time. The resort lets the residents sleep for as long as they want ’cos, well, they’re paying guests, but a lot of the natives are already up and about.’

‘Aren’t you the expert all of a sudden,’ I said. ’Well, as long as nobody comes in to change the bedding, I’m travelling back to the land of nod.’ I lay down and threw the covers back over me.

‘Um...’

With a heavy sigh, my head emerged from the blankets. ‘What now?’

‘I bumped into someone on the way here, got talking and, well, we’re invited to breakfast with him.’

I was tired, but also hungry. In the end, I swore and got out of bed. Tim obviously gauged my mood correctly. He departed pretty quickly, informing me he’d go back to his own room for a quick wash before returning for me in half an hour. I waved a “whatever” hand, then disappeared into the bathroom.

Twenty-nine minutes later, refreshed, awake and smelling faintly of jasmine and cotton milk shower gel, I left my room. Tim stood outside, wearing black jeans and another of his slogan t-shirts. This beauty declared: “My other ship is a TARDIS”, which was rather lost on a universe that didn’t enjoy British science fiction shows. In fact, in the first few weeks of our intergalactic travels, Tim had gone around claiming he was a Timelord from Planet Gallifrey, called The Hacker. It didn’t last long. No one had a clue what a Timelord was, nor which system Gallifrey was part of. Soon afterwards, Tim had been forced to admit he was just a regular human being from 21st century Earth. The idiot.

He was regarding a row of paintings depicting some of the resort’s important, rich clients. They looked like rejects from Doctor Who and, when you think about the state of some of the monsters that were used in the show, well, you can only imagine the ones affronting our eyes at that moment.

My room sat on the ground floor, so we took a walk along to the dining area, already populated with various-coloured, limbed, and sized beings eating and chatting with one another. I scanned the surroundings for my blue crush, but instead my eyes rested on a hirsute creaturing putting a porridge-like substance into a place no porridge-like substance has any place being in. I looked away so fast I almost knocked over one of the marble-skinned waiters carrying a tray of brightly-coloured drinks. I gave him a sheepish smile and trailed after Tim.

He’d stopped at a table currently occupied by an incredibly thin, grey-skinned humanoid in what appeared to be an early 20th century safari outfit, khaki-coloured clothing covering his pallid tone. I observed with uneasy fascination as the food he ate slid visibly down his throat, he was so thin. I gulped self-consciously and vowed to order a big breakfast.

‘Tim!’ The breakfaster greeted as we sat down across from him. His bead-like black eyes landed on me. His nostrils emitted wisps of blue smoke, and the slit beneath stretched into a grin. He introduced himself as Bob, a rather rich being from Planet Gastron, somewhere neither Tim nor I had had the pleasure – or misfortune – of visiting yet.

‘Bob? That’s a bit of an Earthy sort of name,’ I said.

‘Oh it is. Many years ago, it became fashionable for visitors to Earth to give their offspring common human names. My parents, particular fans of the British Isles, thus named me Bob. I quite like it. Sounds exotic.’ He shifted in his seat and looked at me. ‘Now, Tim. Are you going to introduce me to your charming friend?’

Tim looked up from the menu booklet in his hands. ‘Oh yeah. This is Quality Times.’

‘I bet they are,’ said Bob, in a suggestive manner.

I groaned inwardly.

‘She’s my... mum.’

‘What?’ I exploded. ‘When exactly did I have you? When I was fifteen?’

Tim shrugged. ‘It happens.’

‘Not to me it bloody well doesn’t.’ I looked at Bob. ‘He’s my adopted brother,’ I lied. ‘His own family didn’t want him. I really can’t understand why.’ I added, giving Tim a smug look.

I received a one-fingered salute in return.

A waiter approached our table, wearing the typical service uniform of a white shirt, black waistcoat and trousers – yes, the uniform was universal. We both ordered a large English fry-up and cups of strong tea. The waiter made a note and scooted away again. The resort, we’d quickly found out, catered to every species in existence, even humans. You could even get pot noodles, here.

‘So, Bob,’ began Tim, leaning back in his chair. ‘What brings you to Baala? A bit of a break from the daily grind?’

‘Something like that. My assistant and I are here for work and pleasure.’

Oh god, I thought, he’s probably having a grubby little affair with some buxom bimbo.

‘And what brings you two here?’ Bob asked in return, finishing off his food.

‘Pleasure,’ Tim explained. ‘We heard about this place, so thought we’d come and check it out. It’s not half bad,’ he said, looking around.

A different waiter from the one before arrived at our table. ‘Are you Tim, the human?’ he asked with a heavy sigh.

‘Yeah. Who wants to know?’ Tim replied, his eyebrows dipped in a frown.

‘One of our guests asked me to give you this.’

‘What?’

The waiter raised a hand and slapped Tim hard across the face. Those sitting nearby paused to behold the aftermath. Tim sat there in stunned silence, cradling his blotchy cheek in his hand. I felt sorry for him. Almost.

‘What was that for?’ he asked, his bottom lip trembling.

‘The lady made the request,’ explained the waiter, pointing to the far side of the room where the two Barbies stood by the entrance doors. One of them supported a bandaged arm. Directing a smug look towards us, they turned heel and left.

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"The Sobek Affair: Eye of the Crocodile" by Aubrey Bennet (Novelette)

Genre:  Romantic mystery adventure

Type of Short Story:  Novelette

Summary:  In this first part of the Sobek Affair trilogy, anthropologist Sophie St. James just wants to finish her PhD in peace. However, the mysterious arrival of an ancient Egyptian scroll quickly pulls Sophie into a dangerous game of cat and mouse. In an effort to uncover the scroll's secrets, Sophie's friend and advisor, Dr. Preminger disappears. To save her, Sophie must team up with Dr. Preminger's handsome and incorrigible nephew, Peter. With a dangerous cult fast on their heels, Sophie must decide who to trust if she is going to make it to graduation alive. As the mystery of the scroll unfolds, Sophie finds that the Eye of the Crocodile is upon her.

Excerpt:

Sophie studied the unconscious man in her living room. Mr. Goldstein and Mrs. Treebler had been right. He was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. At least six feet tall and athletically built, he had a strong jaw and broad forehead. The masculinity of these features was tempered by his generous mouth and long, pale eyelashes. His hair was thick, sandy blonde and well cut. Sophie found herself resisting the urge to run her fingers through it.

She had, after much struggling, managed to move the unconscious man onto the sofa. She bound his hands and feet with duct tape and checked his pockets for possible weapons. She hadn’t found any, which she thought somewhat comforting. Whatever his intentions, they did not appear violent. Taking a deep breath, Sophie flung the cup of cold water she held into the intruders face.

The man coughed and sputtered, then groaned. He tried to move his right arm, most likely to feel his head- which must have been throbbing- but found his hands bound tightly. He opened his eyes and Sophie felt her breath catch. The eyes that studied her were an intense, dark blue with an almost black ring around the irises.

“Bloody hell! What did you hit me with? A commuter train?” His voice was deep and rumbling and had a smooth British accent that screamed good breeding and pricey prep schools. In short, it was intensely attractive. Sophie gave herself a mental slap. The man was stalking her! He had broken into her office and her home! Handsome or not, he was most definitely a bad guy.

“A walking stick, actually.” Sophie replied in answer to his question. “Now who are you and what are you doing in my apartment? Why are you following me?”

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"End Behavior: Episode 1" by Alain Gomez and Aubrey Bennet (Short Story)

Genre:  Action Adventure, Humor

Short Story Type:  Short Story

Summary:  Manlier than Chuck Norris, suaver than James Bond... Agent Dustin Brass wakes up to find a mysterious package delivered to his expensive bachelor pad. The contents hinting at secrets that could change the face of history.

After having his breakfast spoiled by a volley of bullets and a high-speed car chase, Agent Brass decides that this is one mystery that may very well be worth looking into.

Join him on this first episode of the action packed serial, End Behavior!

Excerpt:

Dustin pulled the body towards him. A quick but thorough inspection of his pockets and clothing revealed no identification of any kind. He glanced around at his surroundings. Schnablel’s unorthodox demise had sent the rest of the bistro’s customers fleeing outside in a state of panic. The cops would probably arrive any minute now and having to deal with the authorities was not something that Dustin had the time for at the moment. Hearing a car screech off, Dustin rushed to his Maserati and took off in hot pursuit.

The assassin’s car was not hard to miss. The beastly roar of the Ferrari F430’s V8 could have been noticed from miles away. Not what Dustin would describe as the best getaway vehicle. However, despite the obvious, the villain was exceptionally fast and was soon establishing a sizable distance between himself and Dustin.

“If I don’t do something quick, I’m going to lose him and my only lead to the Professor’s murder,” he muttered.

Reaching down to his armrest, Dustin activated the heat seeking rocket launchers and fired. Just as the twin missiles were about to incinerate the Ferrari, they abruptly reversed their direction and headed straight back toward Dustin.

“SWEET JESUS!” cried Dustin. “He has an anti-polar heat-sensitive chip destabilizer!” Bailing out of his beloved Maserati, Dustin barely had time to reach cover before the shockwave from the enormous blast knocked him unconscious.

He was going to need a little help.

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