"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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"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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"Taken (Callisto Series - Book 1)" by Erica Conroy (Novella)

Genre:  Science Fiction Romance

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  Respect the enemy, fear his daughter in this fun Science Fiction Romance
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. 

Excerpt:

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.

"What is that on your face?" she immediately asked.

"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.

"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.

"Sorry to disappoint," he said, and stepped away from her. "What do you want, S'rea?"

"I want many things, U-man, but none of them are why I am here."

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."
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"Corral Nocturne: A Novella" by Elisabeth Grace Foley (Novella)

Genre:  Western Romance

Type of Short Story: Novella

Summary:  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.

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?

Excerpt:

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

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"Shadowcursed" by Gelo R. Fleisher (Novella)

Genre:  Fantasy

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:   Bolen is a thief, plying his trade under the spires of an ancient and sprawling city. Worried that he's growing too old, Bolen has lined up a risky job, just to prove that he can still pull one off.

Tonight, he's going to break into a nobleman's vault and help himself to its contents. What he doesn't know is that inside is the key to a secret as old as the city itself.

Kings have killed for it, demons have coveted it, priests have prayed for it, and in a few moments it will be in his hands. And when it is, the adventure of his life will begin.

Excerpt:

All through the city, the first signs of daylight made themselves known. Streaks of pale orange climbed the thatch and stone of its crooked skyline, and the night mists began their daily retreat back into the sea. As the fog burned away, the smell of salt water remained and soaked the pungent aromas of urban filth with a sour brine.

Over muddy streets matted with straw and excrement, bleary-eyed merchants carted their wares to market, and weary tradesmen shuffled off to fisheries and storehouses. City watchmen in their chainmail shirts, and apprentice mages in high-collared robes, watched the bustling crowd without interest.

Bolen’s eyes stung with sleepiness. The short, unassuming man was one of the hundreds wending their way between complaining oxen, chanting Sothay priests, and the upraised hands of beggars. His short, wiry frame moved unhurriedly, ignored by the lurching mob.

Bolen had lived his whole life amid the rhythms of the city and they comforted him, in a perverse way. It was a city of stolen dreams, his among them. Yet to see it stir, the same as it did every day, was like the taste of cheap wine on the lips of a drunk. No longer exhilarating or satisfying, but at least comforting in its reliability.

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"Hustlers" by Claire Chilton (Novella)

Genre:  New Adult Romance

Type of Short Story:  Novella

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

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

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

Excerpt:

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damnit, Ellie! I’m serious.”

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

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

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

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

“What’s going on?” her father asked.

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

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"A Higher Purpose" (Witches of Cullowhee) by Lucy Varna (Novella)

Genre:  Paranormal Romance

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  The day Adam Cowan walked into the coffeehouse she managed, Ella Southards panicked. Here was the man of her dreams, literally, but he had made his appearance twenty years and a failed marriage too late for her bruised heart.

Adam came to Cullowhee to take a much needed breather from his past. In the reluctant Ella, he sees the possibility for a fresh chance at love, if only he can convince her to gamble on him.

As Adam persuades Ella to make a place for him in her life, she begins to wonder at the timing of his arrival there, and if her life might hold more promise than she'd ever dared to dream.

Excerpt:

He came in early that Monday, shaking off the cold rain with the absent-minded air of a man with things to do.

When Ella Southards saw him, her heart flipped in her chest, then boomed so hard it took her breath.

His features were astonishingly familiar to her: the wavy brown hair that tended to curl at the ends because he'd forgotten to cut it; the long nose and thin lips and heavy brows above chocolate eyes in a face that was thin, intelligent, friendly; the athletic build, earned through work and not trips to the gym; clothes that were more shabby than chic, but still labeled him as Somebody. Not somebody famous, but somebody with a life, somebody with a purpose.

She recognized him, but she'd never met him. Never seen a photo of him, never heard anyone talk about him. But she knew him, nonetheless.

"Ma'am."

The voice of the customer in front of her, waiting for the coffee-like concoction she was supposed to be preparing, brought her back to the present. With a smile of apology, Ella finished making the drink and rang up the sale. As she shut the cash register drawer, a soft glint of gold winked from her ring finger, and the surprised astonishment she'd felt at seeing him faded into a muted despair that had been her companion for far longer than she liked to contemplate. She'd remembered him, but had forgotten that she had nothing to offer any man, especially not this one.

Without giving herself the time to look at him again, to wallow in the reality of his presence, she signaled to her co-worker that she needed a bathroom break. Carrie Long, a petite twenty-year-old chemistry major, was a sweet young woman, but her effervescent optimism was a bit more than Ella could stand at the moment.

She slipped into the back, used the bathroom so she wouldn't be caught in a lie. Dawdled for a moment in front of the mirror. Caught herself smoothing her hair back and wishing for better makeup, a face lift, a tummy tuck, and nicer clothes, all at the same time. Exasperated, she checked her watch, determined that he'd had enough time to order something from her eternally perky co-worker, and that it was safe for her to get back to work.

On the way back in, she grabbed a box of coffee cups, hoping Carrie would forgive her for taking a bit too long in the restroom, and not talk about the dishy gentleman who was currently uppermost in Ella's mind.

Carrie sidled up to her and grabbed some cups to help restock. "Check out Mr. Hottie over there by the door," she said.

Ella suppressed a sigh. Carrie refraining from noticing, and talking about, a good-looking man had probably been too much to hope for. "Who?" she asked, not looking up.

Ella caught the are-you-kidding-me eye roll out of the corner of her eye. "Tall, dark, and handsome at number two," Carrie said, as if it were perfectly obvious. "Coffee, straight up, and a doughnut. No froufrou crap for him."

"Ah, a manly man," Ella said.

"And nice, too." Carrie gave up all pretense of work and settled her elbows against the counter.

"So he asks politely before he drags a woman back to his man-cave?"

Carrie laughed and nudged Ella playfully with her elbow. "Har, funny," she said. "Aren't you even curious?"

"Nope." Ella purposely used her no-nonsense Mommy tone. "I have a firm policy of not ogling manly men. Besides," she added, "I'm married. Takes all the fun out of it."

Carrie snorted. "Yeah, right. You're married, not blind." She grabbed the empty coffee cup box and tugged a bit. "And you're only half-married, anyway. It'll be over soon, right?"

Ella relinquished the box and shook her head. "Not soon enough, but that doesn't really matter. Until it's legally settled, I'm still married."

Carrie's face melted into sad sympathy for a moment before she abruptly stuck her tongue out and made a funny face. "Neener, Ms. Stick in the Mud," she said in a light tone. "One of these days, I'll get you to admit you think he's hot." And she flipped her blonde ponytail and grinned when Ella muttered a mock stern, "Very mature, Miss Priss."

He stayed at the small table for an hour while he drank coffee (black) and ate a doughnut (powdered sugar) and peered intently at the screen of his open laptop. The rain abated, people drifted in and out. Ella discovered a pressing need to clean under the counter any time he looked up. Carrie chattered prettily away until they'd run out of chores and people to wait on, then took a textbook and highlighter out of her backpack to study in the fits and starts around customers.

Another hour passed with him typing madly away, hunched over at the small table. The cup of coffee sat forgotten among crumpled napkins. Ella hadn't the nerve to bus the table around him or offer a refill, as she normally would. Thankfully, Carrie didn't notice the aberrant behavior, being absorbed in a weighty tome on the ethics of responsible journalism, her minor.

Finally, he rose and stuffed his laptop into its bag. He picked up his trash and stood for a moment as if unsure about the etiquette of leaving it on the table or discarding it on his way out. Carrie was putting away her book in anticipation of the lunch rush and noticed his dilemma. With a pretty smile (and, really, Ella admitted with some envy, what about Carrie wasn't pretty?), she bounced over to help, chatting with him in a friendly way that brought a matching smile to his face.

When he left, Carrie turned to Ella with a triumphant grin. "Adam Cowan," she said. "New to town, divorced, one child. Paleogeologist with multiple degrees, one in math, by the way, coming out of a long stint of field work, and writing a book on his finds. Sexy voice." Carrie sighed dreamily. "If only he were a bit younger."

"You got all that from a one minute conversation?"

Carrie laughed mischievously. "I'm good, but not that good. No, I recognized his name. He's doing a lecture series at the college on science and math journalism. Every Monday night at seven 'til the end of term." She paused and slid Ella a sideways look that was not as innocent as it should have been. "Not that you're interested or anything."

Ella pulled a wry face at her co-worker and shooed her back to work.

"Very mature, Madame Grouch," Carrie said, and Ella entered the lunch rush in a lighter mood for the co-ed's antics.

He came back to the coffeehouse several times over the next few weeks, and more than a few times she saw him jogging shirtless past the window along the sidewalk. Ella avoided him whenever possible, and passed that time without ever having to wait on him personally. Carrie was deep in the middle of juggling a heavy course load and managed only a few knowing looks. To her credit, she only teased Ella once about attending Adam's lecture series.

As the days passed, Ella settled into life as a nearly-single woman. She met with her lawyer, learned that a final hearing had been set for the divorce, and ignored her husband's phone calls. After leaving the coffeehouse each day, she worked on some freelance accounting work she'd taken in to make ends meet, and finished knitting a sweater intended to be a Christmas present for her son, with whom she spoke by phone or e-mail nearly every day.

She met Harold Tennenbaum, her old math professor, for lunch one day, but didn’t give in to his urgings to return to school to finish her degree; nor did she agree, at his request, to join a research project in desperate need of her particular skills. "I'm too old," she insisted. He merely shook his head sadly, as if he understood that it wasn't her age holding her back at all.

Most of all, she did not think about him, the man who had haunted her for so long, or the reason fate might have brought him into her life at that moment and not another.

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“Winter Arrives” by Roz Marshall (Novella)

Genre:  Drama, Action, Sports

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  When her ski instructor husband is delayed from returning to Scotland, it falls to Jude Winters - creative graphic artist, mother and home-maker – to get the season started for ailing White Cairns Ski School. It's a challenge that's way out of her comfort zone. How can she turn things around and keep the wolf from their door until he gets back?

"Winter Arrives" is the 1st novella from the 'White Cairns Ski School' novella series about the dramas and romances in a Scottish snowsports school.

This extract shows some of the would-be instructors arriving in the ski resort for their interviews with the ski school.

Excerpt:

Jude twisted her lip. "I just hope today works, and some good people turn up. We've only got a couple of days left to get the list to Forbes."

"She'll be right," Mike said again, but anything else he might have added got lost as the door flew open and a denim-clad bundle of energy bounced into the room. Small, ginger-haired and distinctive, rather than tall, dark and handsome, he looked like the boy next door who'd been shrunk in the wash.

"Morning, campers!" He looked round at the almost-empty room. "I'm never first here?"

Jude went over to greet him. She held out a hand, "Hi, I'm Jude, the, erm, ski school owner."

He shook her hand enthusiastically. "Hi, I'm Callum. Callum Johnstone."

-::-

The main ski resort was a few miles away from White Cairns village. Built in the 1960s, around an existing village, it was a jumble of flat-roofed concrete monstrosities, quaint alpine-pastiche wood-clad lodges, and typical Scottish stone-built houses.

On the high street, a Premier bus pulled away from the bus stop, leaving two passengers on the pavement. The first quickly strode away, ponytail swinging above the rucksack on her back, Doc Martens tapping a rhythm that counterpointed the ski bag as it banged against her leg.

The second passenger looked rather forlorn as she stood amongst her bags, gazing round at the shops and cafes.

Tourists milled aimlessly on the pavements, cameras dangling round their necks like medals on Olympic athletes. Mostly they looked like they had just come off a bus trip to 'see Scotland in a day', although a few were obviously there for sporting activities and were dressed appropriately in sensible walking boots, fleeces and Gore-tex. The only local in evidence was a rather dishevelled, stringy old lady with grey hair and a decades-old ski jacket who was pushing a bicycle across the street, plastic supermarket bags swinging on the handlebars.

Debbie hoped that the rest of the skiers round here were a bit more modern, and perhaps more masculine as well. Sniffing, she unzipped a pocket in her sports bag, and pulled out a rather crumpled bit of paper. She studied it, then looked up and down the street. She frowned, turned the diagram through ninety degrees, looked left, and spotted the upper floors of the Regal Hotel. Stuffing the paper into the pocket of her hoodie, she took a deep breath and picked up her bags.

-::-

In the hotel car park, a beat-up Fiesta was sitting with its engine running, its windows starting to steam up. Inside, two sets of lips were welded together in a farewell clinch.

After some long minutes, they broke apart and the passenger reached behind him for the door handle. He slid out of the door, lips last, then flipped the seat forward and pulled a snowboard bag off the back seat and onto the pavement. He leaned back in for another kiss. "Last night was awesome!"

She pouted back up at him, saying, "Anytime, cowboy!" Then something across the car park caught her attention, and he noticed her pupils widen.

He turned his head to see what she was looking at, and his eyes narrowed. Another snowboarder was swaggering across the car park. He looked like a surfer dude – baggy cargo pants, a Fat Face sweatshirt, Converse sneakers and Oakleys perched on sun-bleached hair.

Marty stood up, pulled his sunglasses off his curly hair and onto his nose, then smacked the roof of her car and waved her off, saying, "I'll give you a call." He wouldn't.

The other snowboarder approached, sizing him up. From the look on his face, he obviously thought his labels were more impressive than Marty's jeans and fleece.

"Hi bro, I'm Colin. You here for the job?"

"Yup." Marty hoisted his snowboard bag onto his shoulder.

"What d'you ride?" asked Colin.

"A Deacon XT."

Colin sniffed. "I had one of those last season. Got rid of it." Marty just looked at him. "I got an Oppera Maxride from the rep. Wants me to test it for them. It's totally rad."

Marty shrugged. "I heard they were pretty sluggish. But okay if you don't ride too fast."

He turned his back and headed for the hotel entrance. They might be fellow snowboarders, but it was obvious they weren't going to be friends.

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"Stranger In The House" by Chris Vaughn (Novella)

Genre:  Mystery, Thriller

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  Ashley Steele is coming home. Casie Steele knows because her lawyer told her so. 

It has been seven years since he was recruited to work in a post-9/11 Middle East, six years since the letters quit coming. But the man who walks into their house is not Ashley Steele.

They were newlyweds when Ashley chose duty over love, but Casie knows the difference between her husband and a stranger. It's his face, his body, but not his soul. She's on her own--to everyone else he's same old Ashley.

Casie’s sanity, safety, and Ashley’s inheritance is at risk… everything changes when a stranger is in the house.

Excerpt:

Chapter 1

Casie's hand trembled so much she couldn't hold the tea cup. It slipped out of her hand, like so many things had slipped lately. The tea cup bounced once off the floor before it shattered on the solid oak floor. The few drops of tea that had been in the cup would be easy for her maid Maria to clean up. She looked around with panic to see if any had gotten on the photo album. Rarely today did families have a big old coffee table photo album--the type of an album that held the black and white pictures and professional pictures to store family memories. Casie only had a few of Ashley when he was a child. Some families take pictures to store the memories, some didn't; Ashley's family was the latter.

The few pictures she had of Ashley as a young boy seemed ancient, not having seen his face in so many years. There were the few she had of their marriage and then no more. It seemed it was all she had left of Ashley. She stared at the wedding portrait of him and her. It seemed to be all that was left of him.

Six years was a long time to look at the same pictures. She rearranged the photos and the furniture to give the house a different look. They didn't share many nights together in the house and then he was gone. Casie kept the yellow bow on the porch pillar in new condition, and made public how she had planned his welcome home party for the day he walked through the door. She checked the mail every day looking for a letter or official notification. She checked several times a day. The pressure had started to show in her actions, and face.

She looked down at the broken cup, and joined her hands together to stop them from shaking.

"Mrs. The phone is for you. It's Richard." Maria handed Casie the phone.

"Hello Richard." Richard, a friend of Ashley, and their family attorney, called often to check on Casie.

"Casie, how are you? You didn't look good last night."

"I'm all right. Just nerves."

"Seven years is a long time to wait."

"I know. If they'd just tell me something... Couldn't they just let me know if he's alive or dead? If's he is dead, I'll take it hard, but at least I'll know."

"Casie, there are lots of families like you now. War is hell, especially for the families at home. I want to make sure. I care for you, Casie, and you need to take better care of yourself. You need to make some decisions, and Casie, it's time to consider moving on." His voice was soft.

"Richard, I'll make the decisions I need to, when I have to."

"It's almost seven years now, Casie. Your must moment is almost here."

"Richard please! This is hard for me." Her voice sounded frustrated. Richard had constantly prodded her lately to make decisions and move on with life.

"I'm sorry. I care for you and don't want to see you hurt. Six long years, and the seventh anniversary is almost here." Richard was the family lawyer and understood the legal hurdles that would come in the next few months.

Richard spoke softer to her, "Casie, you can't move on with life until Ashely had been declared dead. I know it's hard but not only am I a friend, I want to be more. But I'm your lawyer, and business comes first for me. It's been almost seven years, and there are some things that have to be talked about, and soon."

"All right, Richard, what?"

"Like I've been reminding you, it's been almost seven years now. In a couple of months it will be seven years, and Ashley will be declared legally dead. There is the family inheritance, the home, etc. When he is declared legally dead, according to the will, you being his wife, the estate and inheritance go to you."

"Why do you have to keep reminding me of the will? The estate. Money! Money! Money! That's all you ever bring up."

"Because it has to be dealt with, and an estate and inheritance worth 170 million dollars has to be handled correctly to take care of you in the future. Those things must be addressed. There are things that haven't been dealt with since he is not here, and the authority isn't given to you, or me, or anyone to execute those particulars, until he returns or is declared legally dead."

"All I care about is getting him home alive and well. Every time we talk lately you bring this up." Her hand held the phone, and it shook. Like a feeble old woman, she grabbed the phone with both hands. "Richard, I'm done with this now. It's not a good time for me."

"Can I come over later to check on you?"

"That will be fine. Let me go."

"Until then, Casie."

She hung the phone up and called out to Maria. "Maria, please come clean this broken cup, and bring me another cup of tea."

Maria had anticipated her wanting more tea, and was already preparing a fresh cup.

"Mrs. Casie, do you want just tea?" This routine had been repeated many times over the years, and more so in the last few months.

"No, Casie, you know how I want it. It's early but I need it. I need something to calm my nerves."

Six years was a long time not to know whether your husband was coming home. Every day had become a day to wonder if she'd find out he was alive or dead. Patriotism was good trait in Ashley, but he'd volunteered so quickly it had cost her a husband, as well as a family--a whirlwind romance of several months, followed by less than a year of marriage before he had left. At least they had enjoyed a great honeymoon, and some good months where they travelled abroad through Europe and the Middle East. Casie held those memories tight, but memories didn't keep her warm at night, or fill her house with a future or children.

Right after 9-11, calls had come in for Ashley. He was recruited due to his family connections in the Middle East. He knew people, and the language, and he knew people who knew people. Those connections were a family life line of resources for his father's business. He knew it would be a perfect cover and offered his services. He had traveled overseas with his parents most of his life, and when the State Department agreed, Ashley was on his way.

Ashley knew the landscape and the people of the Middle East like he had grown up there. He'd been taught the customs and protocols of the culture and, better still, his family had known the people who made things happen.

Their honeymoon had been a magic carpet ride of romance and excitement for them. In late June of that year they had married. July was spent in Europe, followed by August in Jordan. The world made sense then, but all the world made sense in August of 2011 until terror and confusion became the norm.

Who'd have expected Ashley Steele had been anything important? Someone must have. Radical groups? Islamist fundamentalists? They may have discovered who he was, and why he was there. Maybe his disappearance had nothing to do with his work for the Agency, but more than likely it had.

Casie had gone to sleep at night wondering if she'd hear news that he had died a violent death at the hands of a thief or been tortured in the desert. Torments like those had been in her mind every night for years.

The State Department had never given her hope that he was alive. Then again, the State Department never would confirm his death, or the fact he was working for them. Ashley had reminded her before he left that nothing was on the record and nothing would be spoken off the record. Complete silence had been the only sound of Ashley she had grown used to. Silence growled a cruel torment for those who waited at home for the knowledge of what had happened.

Casie had finished her tea, and her hand was shaking again. She used both hands to place the cup back on the saucer on the coffee table.

"Maria, I'm going for a walk. I've got to clear my head, and steady my nerves."

"That would be good for you, Mrs. Casie. You should sit in the garden? Don't give up hope, Mrs. Casie. Every day brings something new."

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"Clay, Book 1.5 of the Punk Series" by P.J. Post (Novella)

Genre:  New Adult Romance

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  Clay is the second book of a New Adult Romance Series - Punk, and is a Novella running approximately 50 print pages long.
 
Why did she get in that truck?

Bethany Warner is graduating from high school and is looking forward to college and the gymnastics team with few regrets, except for maybe Tommy - her possessive ex-boyfriend.

And as the last party of high school is turning into a dangerous and unforgettable nightmare, she meets Connor Clay, a punk and musician with a reputation for violence.

Clay retells the opening chapter of Ache from Bethany’s point of view, showing us not only her perceptions of the events of that fateful evening, but also much more about who she is and most importantly – why.

Note: This Book is intended for 18+ audiences due to pervasive language and adult themes and situations.

Excerpt:

I’m sick to death of all of it.

But now I’m finally getting some independence and no one is going to know me at State. Appearances can go fly a kite. They won’t know who my Mom is or who Daddy is: they won’t constantly remind me about those embarrassing stories from freshman and sophomore year: they won’t care who I was seen with last weekend or even if I wear my pajamas to class — none of it will matter.

I can totally start over, maybe even find a bad boy to date for a change, someone exciting, someone that’s unpredictable and not so preoccupied with what everyone else thinks or especially with what everyone else is doing.

Maybe an art major.

Some dark guy with mysterious eyes who caresses his beatnik beard with experienced fingers while he smokes clove cigarettes and quotes Dostoyevsky and Shelley, alluding to the greater beauty and purity of our impending transgressions. And all the while, he’ll be mesmerized, unable to avoid staring at me, beguiled by my enchanting full, inviting and impatient lips, and I shall offer him up nothing but the most modest hint of interest — but he’ll see the longing and passion in my eyes, emotions that I can’t hide from him and he’ll know we were meant to be together.

Wishful thinking, perhaps.

Hell, I’d take a guitarist from some local cover band as long as he can string two sentences together; just please, God, no more jocks or mindless morons.

I mean, I’ll miss it here, but college is going to be so cool, with or without my fantasy bad boy.
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"War Zone" by Marian D. Schwartz (Novella)

Genre:  Military, Historical Romance

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  Meghan Danahy isn’t afraid to voice her opposition to the war in Vietnam. And when she falls in love with Dennis Kipphut, the political becomes personal. With his low lottery number, Dennis is sure to be drafted as soon as he graduates from college.

Meghan’s father’s connections can help keep Dennis safely at home. But Coyle Danahy wants his daughter to marry the son of a banker or a professional man, not the son of a night watchman. Seeing Dennis drafted seems like the perfect solution to end the relationship. Confident that it will play out as he hopes, Coyle underestimates just how far Meghan will go to protect the man she loves.

Excerpt:

Meghan Danahy met Dennis Kipphut at an anti-war demonstration in the fall of 1969. Over five hundred students had congregated on the Broad Street side of the university, blocking the main entrance, to protest the Vietnam War. The roadway leading out of the school was plugged with cars, and traffic had started to back up on Broad Street. Gray-uniformed university policemen had surrounded the demonstrators, shouting into bullhorns to dispel the crowd. “Hell, no, we won’t go!” the students shouted, unwilling to concede an inch of ground.

Neither Meghan nor Dennis were participating in the demonstration. Meghan had just left the library and, attracted by the noise and the placards bobbing above the sea of students, had started to walk across the sloping lawn toward the crowd. Sirens from city police cars pierced the air. The chanting grew louder, as rhythmic as a heartbeat. “Hell, no, we won’t go! Hell, no, we won’t go!” Spurred by the insistent cries, Meghan started to run, unaware of a tall, strapping youth trotting behind her. Dennis Kipphut was also in a hurry. It was four fifty-five, and he wanted to catch the South Mills bus that would be stopping on Broad Street at five o’clock. He eyed her buttocks straining against her tight jeans and her dark brown hair swinging freely down her back, catching amber light from the late afternoon sun, and ran faster hoping to get a glimpse of her face before he veered left to the bus stop.

Meghan was near the fringe of the demonstration when the police riot squad alighted from their cars carrying gas masks. “Tear gas, the pigs have tear gas!” someone shouted. The chanting stopped and the crowd splintered, spilling in all directions over the lawn like a broken egg. Before she knew what hit her, Meghan was lying on the grass, dazed.

“Are you all right?” Meghan’s eyelids fluttered. “Are you all right?” a bass voice repeated. She blinked, trying to focus. There was a red plaid shirt directly above her. “You better not move for a few minutes.”

She had gone down almost directly in front of Dennis. He had immediately fallen on his hands and knees, using his body to protect her from students running blindly from the riot squad, although tear gas hadn’t been used.

“What happened?” she asked, pushing herself up on her elbows. Her eyes were wide open; they were green and had yellow flecks in them like miniature suns.

Dennis sat back on his heels. “You were whacked on the head—a two-by-four from a sign someone was carrying.”

“What did the sign say?” Meghan asked, tentatively touching a throbbing spot on the side of her head behind her right ear. It was tender and had started to swell.

“Bomb the Pentagon, I think,” Dennis said.

Meghan laughed, confirming Dennis’ instinctive decision to stay with her. Although she couldn’t be called beautiful—she had a stubborn chin and her cheeks, which were as round as a child’s, were splashed with freckles—her face was strong, and her smile generous and disarming. “I would have liked it better if they had gotten the Pentagon,” she said, struggling to get up.

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"The Sourwood" by Richard Wolanski (Novella)

Genre:  Fairy Tale, Dark Fantasy

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  Fig is an insect and in twenty-seven days he will die. He crosses paths with the nihilistic Fly King who offers Fig a chance--the promise of eternal life. With only the name Alice Abernathy and a crew of bug bunglers, Fig will discover a truth the Fly King has been hiding for over three hundred years.

Excerpt:

In a most sudden and mysterious disappearance of man, there was no chaos, no panic, no outbreak of paranoia, nor cries for ideological upheaval. It sounds like a kind of apocalyptic disaster, yet the empty houses still stood. The buzz of the blender, the hum of the dining room fan, and the blinking red and yellow lights on the child's play things all remained. Not a living sound could be heard, except for the hopeless whimpering of the dogs they left behind. However, it was not deserted. Not every creature resigned to stillness instead of stirring.

They trickled in from behind the walls and from in between the panels on the red oak floors. They flew in pairs through the open attic windows. At first, they meandered around cautiously, aware of the phantom presence of their predecessors. They crawled only in the recessed cement cracks on the countertops and behind opened cereal boxes. For a time, they lived like scavengers, until one crept from underneath the shadows of a dusty faucet and the others followed. It became their kingdom. They ate. They ate the spoils from the warm refrigerators, stripped the wilted leaves from the potted plants, unwove the fabric in the sheets, pecked through the plush of limp teddy bears, and gorged on splintered dinner tables. Their numbers grew.

They flew in empty homes by the tens and then the thousands. They covered every inch until there was nothing but a sea of segmented beings. They devoured everything. Because of their short lives, they had no allegiances. The insects had only a single purpose—to multiply. They indulged in feckless fecundity. Out of the nothing, what remained was their perverse satisfaction with survival. No longer was there the threat of the flat palm of a hand or the broad reach of the kitchen broom. Their stiff bodies piled up backwards in the ceramic bowls. Empty cupboards and sticky plates surrounded them. The food was gone. Finally, with nothing left they mired in marasmus.

Then a sudden flame burst through the houses. A hellfire, known only as the Great White, turned fireflies into tinder, arachnids into ash, and left nothing unburned. With little left, they crawled back into the wilderness. All of the insects that survived searched for a new colony. For three days they traveled. Once again, they were forced to experience the horrors of their mortality. Their chitin cracked from the cold and desiccated under the heat. Natura was most unkind and left many to die by her elements. When all seemed lost, the wasted wanderers found themselves at the roots of a glorious organism.

It sat at the top of a hill, on a cliff far above the water. Its massive roots contorted into the soil underneath the grass. The trunk of the tree was immense and blocky at its lowest point, but narrowed like a neck far into the sky. The fruit hung freely from its limbs while its leaves provided thick cover from the watering mouths of winged predators. The leaves collected rain drops for the thirsty and the wide trunk stored food for the hungry. It stood impenetrable like a wooden fortress. They called it the Sourwood. In their new home they wanted a new beginning. The insects decided to design a pact—the Arthropoda Aeternus. This alliance was the foundation for their social hierarchy.

Their first creation was the Orders.

Hunters were the guardians and the brute strength of the insect kind. They had large limbs like wolf spiders and the horned mandibles of stout stag beetles. Their power and bravery knew no limits and their lust for violence knew no satisfaction. Second, were the Collectors, an order given exclusively to moths. They were the revered pallbearers that performed the last rites of the living. At the slightest hint of terminal illness or death they would collect you and fly you to their lair underneath the wet roots of the Sourwood.

Third, were the Gatherers. They provided food and water for all those who lived in the tree. Carpenter beetles and Harvestmen fumbled to and fro like lumberjacks of the six-legged and eight-legged world. They essentially were the workers. Fourth, were the Nesters, an order only given to aphids. They lived in the Nursery at the neck of the Sourwood. Every insect ever born would first see the face of a Nester. Finally, there were the Seekers. The ladybirds who tended to their gardens or the damsel and dragonflies that worked as prudent academics. The Seekers enjoyed being the diplomats, the architects and the priests that presided over all the others.
And yet, not all of the insects were interested in keeping with the pact. The insects called them the Parasites, the orderless. The dissenters came in many forms as ear wigs and louses, houseflies and wasps. They bore a divide between themselves and the followers of the Great White. After much deliberation, the Seekers banished them to the Wanderland where the fleas frolicked around the dead and scorpions roamed through the dirt. Because of their heresy they lived in the Great White’s shadow as leaderless vagrants existing beyond the safety of the Sourwood.

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"Sins of Heaven and Hell" by Edward Lange (Novella)

Genre:  Dark Fantasy

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  The Grim Reaper wants to kill God. His quest will take him across the dark landscape of Hell, and to the gold-paved streets of Heaven. He will come face to face with the perpetual cruelty of the underworld, and the endless hedonism of paradise. Sadistic demons, unsatisfied souls, and an army of angels stand in his way. Can he succeed?

Excerpt:

The landscape before me was totally dark, save for a few towers of fire, and pits of magma that stood off in the distance. Shapes and figures moved in that darkness, scurrying, slithering, slipping, and stomping their way around their dirty dark hellscape. Sometimes they would brush against me, and I’d find my cloak ruffled by a reptilian tail, or covered in unnamable goo. Dark shapes stood silhouetted against those pillars of flame, and pits of magma, and I could see the outlines of hundreds of snouts, tentacles, claws, and other assorted body parts. They snarled, growled, gurgled, and squealed, but their grunts and guttural noises could not compete with the screams.

From all sides, I could hear the screams echoing in the gigantic dark cavern. They came in all languages, accents, pitches, keys; an inhuman symphony of the damned. Occasionally through their anguished screams, intelligible words would pour forth, making their demands, and asking their questions.

“Please!” one of them said, somewhere to my left.

“I’m not supposed to be here!” an older voice, high above. A shrill bird-like squawk followed.

“I couldn’t help it! I’m sick! The doctor said so!” From somewhere up ahead.

“My leg!” from right behind me. It was followed by an amused roar.

“I can’t help it if braces turn me on.” A nasally voice from the horizon said, and was silenced when a silhouetted tentacle threw something into one of the magma pools.

“God please!” A little figure said from the top of a pillar of flame. The screams continued as I walked on.

“I wasn’t myself! I made a mistake!”

“No, please no!”

“I’m so sorry!”

“I’ve learned my lesson! Please let me go!”

“I wasn’t ready!”

“Stop it”

“Mommy!”

“The fucker had it coming!”

“I didn’t know!”

From the darkness something wet grabbed my arm and said, “Please help me.”

The voice was weak and familiar. I turned and by the dim yellow glow of a nearby magma pit, saw a man whose soul I’d taken to Hell only months before.

Dark circles hung under his eyes. His face was the color of chalk. Small streams of dried blood flowed from his nose, ears, and mouth, and mingled with the dried tears and dried sweat. The letter A had been carved on the top of his bald scalp. I looked down at his quivering naked form, and saw that all his skin from the neck down had been ripped from his body. What he now gripped me with was a collection of nerves, muscles, and tendons, stretched over bone.

“Please help me.” he whispered, and it was hard to hear him over the screams. His lips were trembling, and he kept looking over his shoulder. I wanted to tell him the truth; that I wanted to help him; that I’d come down here for that precise reason. But I couldn’t risk one of the demons over-hearing.

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"Killgrace and the Singular Situation" by C.Price (Novella)

Genre:  Science Fiction

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  Solar winds and steel chains are a difficult way to rescue a creature the size of a planet from the grip of a black hole. When the creatures in difficulty are something neither Susan or Cet have seen before, staying uninvolved is not an option. Gravity and relativity are not the only problems they face: there's also getting the would-be rescuers to work together.

Excerpt:

"I see your species is unfamiliar with stellar fauna, and interstellar mega-fauna," the woman said, pulling her glance from the viewing window with some reluctance and turning to her companion. Even though they were along in the huge lounge, her voice was hushed. The dark blue, metal form next to her was stationary, staring fixedly out of the floor-to-ceiling window at the light of the nebula beyond.

Her companion did not have eyes in the strictest sense, nor hands or legs. Instead it had opened its 'eyes', sensor lights glowing with increased intensity through the armour as they focused on the dark shapes outside. Then, to her delight, beneath the armour a second set of membranes retracted and the lights brightened.

"Is that the equivalent of a double-take or rubbing your eyes?" she asked, pushing a stray strand of hair back into the severe style that held her greying curls.

"You have encountered these?" The flat tones of the mechanical translator could not express emotion, but the sleek, almost featureless, metallic shell had all seven blue sensor lights shining fixedly forward through the metal of its dome in fascination.

"No," she admitted, "I read about them. Interstellar mega-fauna are more common in universes where space is not a vacuum, but they aren't unknown elsewhere." She looked out of the window again, at the two creatures floating a quarter of a million miles away within the nebula.

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"Space Case" by Dan Fiorella (Novella)

Genre:  Fantasy, Humor, Detective

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  Nick Flebber, a PI with a knack for landing unusual cases, gets hired to follow a husband suspected of cheating. Instead of finding a mistress, he winds up dealing with corporate espionage, street crazies and very illegal aliens.

Excerpt:

4:37 PM, Offices of Flebber Investigations

Frankly, business had suffered an uptick as of late; I had just finished up the DesRoches affair. Man claimed someone had stolen his wife’s identity. Wanted me to find that person and stop her. Found her and brought her in. Mr. Desroches decides she makes a better Mrs. DesRoches than his wife, so they ran off together. He actually skipped out on me but I still had his Social Security number and bank information, so I just wired myself my fee.

Then there was the Cariello business. A movie studio called me in to track down some internet troll called “The Spoiler.” Kept posting reports on their latest movies to the web and giving away the endings. Was really cutting into their receipts. Had to do a lot of leg work and check a lot of mothers’ basements before I found him and presented him with a “Cease & Desist” knuckle sandwich. Heard he’s now pushing language courses online, offering studies in Nigerian to better communicate with spammers. This is the kind of work I do. My name’s Nick Flebber and I’m a private eye.

Things were getting busy and I lost a lot of my “me time.” Since your more upscale (read “successful” and/or “reputable”) private investigator firms have a “staff” of “employees” who keep an eye on “things” while the detectives went out and detected stuff, it was decided I had to go and hire myself a secretary what doubled as a receptionist and visa-versa.

Yeah, yeah, it’s not what you think. Now that I was in a mainly monogamous match-up, I wasn’t about to hire some professional party girl. Not with my dear Sandra Claus and her uncanny ability to know when I’m sleeping and know when I’m awake. Not to mention that whole naughty/nice paradigm. She gets that from her dad, a Christmas icon whom I met on a case not so long ago. Yeah, I managed to rescue him from a crazed retailer. Got me in good with the lassie. Sandra’s a wonderful gal but she still lives with her folks up north. But she’s a wonderful gal. So there would be no femme fatales lurking about on her watch. Anyway, that’s what Sandra told me on her last visit down.

“How many people applied for the job, Nick?” Sandra asked.

“A lot more than I thought would.” I knew times were tough, but I didn’t think they were so tough that people were looking to hook up with a one-horse detective agency.

Sandra worked her way through a pile of resumes and cover letters. “Why do some of these include head shots?”

“I think I posted the job on the wrong Craig’s List. Some of them might think it’s an audition for an acting job.”

“That might explain why this resume says she’s willing to work au naturale.”

“It might be.”

Sandra began gathering her stuff together. “I have to get going, Nick, or I’m going to miss the 5:20 sleigh.”

“You brought the sleigh??”

She gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek. “For a hard-boiled P.I. you are so gullible. No, I didn’t take the sleigh. But I have to get back. Now then, you have that list of names?”

I nodded. Again.

“Good. Vader needs them checked.”

“Vader?”

“Vader Kersfees.”

“Who calls him that? Luke Skywalker?”

“South Africans. As I was saying regarding the list; apparently there are a couple of border line cases and he’s trying to cut back on the coal. You know, improve his carbon footprint.”

“I’ll check ‘em. Twice.”

“As per usual,” she smiled back.

We both had our jobs to do: Her back home, me down in the states. Talk about your long distance relationships. I did miss her (and frankly, I still couldn’t fully comprehend our relationship: she’s a Scandinavian sweetie, and I’m a rough-hewn mug who resembles an extra in an old Warner Bros. gangster movie), but there were a lot of people that needed my help here. Not to mention that the Big Guy liked having a pair of boots on the ground points south. We shared one last kiss and she headed out.

A nanosecond later I heard voices in the small reception area I was preparing. Peeking out, I saw that a woman had entered. The term that leapt to mind was “hausfrau” as I was in a rather continental mood. Not exactly the type you normally found in this part of town. She had timidly approached Sandra, clutching her cloth coat to her neck and keeping her pocketbook tight in her armpit. She looked out of place and out of sorts.

“May I help you?” Sandra asked her.

“I need to hire a private investigator. Are you a private investigator?”

Even I could make out the lines of worry etch-a-sketched across her brow. “Not I, but we have one. A very good one. He’s in his office,” Sandra responded. “Is everything all right?”

That’s when the woman started weeping. “I don’t know. That’s why I need to talk to a private investigator.”

Sandra turned and called, “Nick!”

I was out before she could finish the syllable.

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"The Shattered World Within" by Patty Jansen (Novella)

Genre:  Science Fiction

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  Like three space stations before it, Zhiminda Station has fallen silent.

Zhyara and his crew travel to the very edge of settled space to investigate. Will they find the station dead, its corridors exposed to the vacuum of space? Will they find bodies? Will they run into the unknown killers? Or is the reason much more sinister than that?

Excerpt:

The ship glided into the dock, into the care of grappling arms and snaking robotic leads.

Clang, click, contact.

The navigation hub flashed with the station control override. The screen showed a logo, but no inbound or outbound communication.

Seated next to the pilot, in the bluish glow of the controls, Zhyara didn’t realise how tightly he’d been gripping the edge of the seat, all the way while they’d drifted past the scratched surface of the station, all the way while he listened to the pinging of their unanswered broadbeam probes. His instinct, after being cut off from his associates on Zhiminda station for so long, ached for confirmation that personal networks were still intact.

“I think they could have provided some better damn light in here.” The pilot’s voice pierced the tense silence. The remark, no doubt intended to be light-hearted, fell flat. Everyone aboard the ship was tense.

“But I guess things could have been worse,” the pilot added into the heavy silence.

“Much worse,” Zhyara confirmed.

He breathed out tension. At least someone was still alive aboard the mining station. At too many other stations, they’d found nothing except dead husks of metal, where the emptiness of space had erased evidence of the living.

The floor shook and juddered in time with harsh metallic clangs.

“They’ve used hard-dock,” the pilot observed, unnecessarily; the team knew all the sounds.

“Certainly, we’re not going to get out in a hurry,” Zhyara said.

The pilot glanced aside, a reflection of blue light in gold-flecked black eyes. “Do you think we need to?”

Zhyara didn’t reply to that. Right now, he feared anything was possible.

“Damn,” someone behind him said. “We’re the only ship in this place.”

* * *

The dockside image feed, when it flickered into life, showed that three people waited outside.

Zhayra glanced over his shoulder at his seconds, and behind them, their seconds and the third layer of associates behind that. A neat pyramid of order. Eight technicians, four supervisors, two leaders, and him at the top. They were his people, his small branch of the loyalty network. They knew their places and functions down to the smallest flick of an eyebrow.

Aboard this station, his equal, his zhayma, was a woman called Emiru. She would fill him in on the station’s running. Both of them as a team answered to Asha Domiri, the stationmaster; that was how his part of the network slotted together.

But the people out there were all male.

“Who are those guys?” The unease in Zhyara’s mind grew.

“They’re not our associates,” said a technician at the back, reading data from the ID tags on the screen. “Names are unknown. No rank or affiliation known.”

“What happened to Asha Domiri or Emiru Azimi?”

“Truly, anyone’s guess is as good as mine.”

That held no good promise. An unknown man meant Zhyara would have to trace matters of superiority. A normal stationmaster would have been Third Circle, like Zhyara, and there would have been some prior contact, some precedent through which to trace rank. By rights, a stationmaster would have superiority over Zhyara. That was the way things were supposed to be.

The air lock flashed ready. Zhyara got up from his seat. “Is there anything good to report besides that the station is not completely dead?” What if we’ve disturbed the killers of the station halfway through their grisly job?
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"Warden" by Kevin Hardman (Novella)

Genre:  Fantasy, Paranormal, Horror

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  Part lawman, part tracker and part magician, the Wardens are monster-hunters - tasked with protecting the people from the various, nightmarish creatures that have invaded the world of men. However, despite being descended from a long line of Wardens, 16-year-old Errol Magnus believes it to be the absolute worst job on the planet: How could a single occupation simultaneously be the most boring, abominably stupid and extraordinarily dangerous profession imaginable? 

But when his older brother Tom - the current Warden for their region - goes missing, Errol has no choice but to enter the Badlands, where monsters abide in mind-boggling numbers, to find him. During his search, Errol crosses paths with - and finds himself stalked by - the legendary Wendigo, a monster with preternatural strength and speed, as well as enhanced senses of sight, smell and hearing…and an insatiable hunger for human flesh.

Now Errol must do the impossible and not only escape from the monster (something no one has ever done before), but also avoid the unearthly legacy it leaves on all its victims - a terrifying curse known as Wendigo Fever.

Excerpt:

“Good Lord!!!” Gale shouted, going pale and bug-eyed, as well as placing a hand over her heart. Errol followed her gaze to the window, where he caught a quick glimpse of something…horrid. Ruinous, desiccated flesh clung lazily to a nightmarish, skeletal face. Small wisps of gray-white hair hung in random clumps from a dome-shaped skull that housed two lidless eyes.

It was only in the window for a second, and then the thing - some sort of ghoul - was gone, its footsteps clumping audibly as it apparently walked down the porch towards the edge of the house.

Errol grabbed his crossbow, already cocked and loaded, and raced out onto the porch. The skeletal thing was almost at the corner of the house when he fired. The bolt took it in the upper right shoulder, sinking in deep. Knocked off-balance and sent spinning by the shot, the creature fell off the porch and into the dirt.

Errol stood still, breathing heavily, with Gale behind him as the ghoul started to get up. He could now see that the bolt hadn’t just gone in deep; the head had travelled all the way through and was actually sticking out of the monster’s chest.

The thing reached up and gripped the arrowhead. With a grunt, it yanked the bolt out, spewing an arc of green ichor from the wound. Still holding the arrow, it began walking towards them. Belatedly, Errol recalled that he hadn’t brought any more bolts outside with him (not that he would have had time to cock and load the crossbow anyway). Reaching down, he pulled his throwing knife free of its scabbard and threw it in one smooth, seamless motion.

The knife flew true, straight at the monster’s throat. Almost absentmindedly, the creature batted the blade aside with the arrow it still held. The knife went into one of the porch’s supporting posts with a metallic twang, vibrating.

The thing closed the distance between them in surprisingly quick fashion, so fast in fact that Errol only had time to place himself protectively between Gale and the monster before it was standing right in front of him. It thrust the arrow at Errol…

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"Cerulean" by Anna Kyss (Novella)

Genre:  Young Adult Dystopian 

Type of Short Story:  Novella

Summary:  One hundred years ago, people were forced to retreat to the seas...

Chey's ocean home seems lovely on the outside, with its rainbow-hued reefs and soul-tingling Whale-song, but the beauty hides secrets and despair.

One thousand blues can be too many...
Some people cannot live amid them all.

After losing her parents and best friend, Chey would do anything to fight off the apathy that threatens her: swim in a brood of jellies, break her sector's rules, and even breach the Surface. A forbidden encounter sets Chey on a desperate search for a way to save her people... and herself. One question plagues her. Can she survive long enough to find a cure?

Excerpt:

I propel myself through the turquoise waters with undulations of my tail. No one has seen me. Luckily. Leaving Maluhia alone is forbidden.

My heart races from the danger, the exertion, the excitement. I revel in the blood flowing through my veins, the adrenaline pumping through my body—I feel alive. Daring. Elated.

If only I could suck up these feelings, bottle and save them for later, when the apathy rushes back in; for now, I absorb them. I have to make myself feel. The price for indifference could be my life.

A reef sits in front of me, one of the few remaining in our sector of the seas. The yellows, reds, and oranges of the ever-growing coral contrast with the ocean blue that bathes them. The pink and white tentacles of the anemones await their orange-and-white-striped friends—clown fish.

My classes have taught about this funny word, clown; once upon a time, people dressed in costumes and painted their faces to create laughter. I try to imagine it: a world where clothes and words are enough to make people grin. In my world, all the Skin and languages together are not enough to make us smile. My people do not laugh anymore.

A purple-and-white-striped eel pokes its head from the rocks, peers around, then darts away. He startles the groups of fish, and they swim straight toward me. A rainbow of fins and glittery scales swarms around me.

Rainbow—another of those curious words from my lessons. I try to picture those colors, imagine a sky, but it is too hard. In this world of a thousand blues, the reef is the only place to spot a rainbow.

Memories always draw me back to this spot, despite the threat of discovery. My best friend’s name was Rainbow, but a thousand blues can be too many. In our underwater world, happiness dissolves into the waters, while detachment and lethargy seep in.

With ’Bow, her smile left before she lost the last of her baby teeth. By the time she received her flipper-fins, she no longer wanted to play, and she stopped coming to the daily swims. Soon, she never left her family pod. Hopelessness crushed her, and she did the Unmentionable.

Sorrow fills the hollow left by our abandoned friendship, bringing up memories of others who are missing. My mother. My father. Gloom weighs me down.

Blinking back the tears that threaten to escape, I will myself to shake the negative thoughts from my head, then open my eyes to the wonders of the reef.

This is why I face the dangers of leaving the pod complex: to remember, to see the rainbow, to stimulate my senses and invigorate myself. I cannot follow the path ’Bow took.

I will not succumb.



A sea turtle approaches and circles me, growing closer with each rotation. The mottled greens of its shell blend with the kelp and algae. I kick my tail, edging myself nearer, but the turtle dips down and disappears into the shadows of the seaweed.

Left to float alone, I wonder how the turtle swims above the Surface—climbs onto Land—to lay its eggs. How can the turtle, with its thin skin and fragile eggshells, survive above the waters when people cannot?

I cannot resist looking up. Light breaks through the Surface, painting the sea in bands of cerulean. I yearn to swim up, to view the Land that we have lost. I burn to know what lies above the waters. Could there be a cure, too late to help ’Bow and my parents, but one that may save others from the same terrible fate?

I hide these forbidden dreams deep inside, choking down the possibilities and swallowing my desires. Once again, I have abandoned my caution. I could be taken away just for thinking about breaching the Surface.

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