"Star Wanderers: Outworlder (Part I)" by Joe Vasicek (Novelette)

Genre:  Science Fiction Space Opera

Type of Short Story:  Novelette

Summary:  HE WANDERS THE STARS IN SEARCH OF A HOME. INSTEAD, HE GOT A GIRL WITHOUT ONE.

When Jeremiah arrived at Megiddo Station, all he wanted was to make some trades and resupply his starship. He never thought he'd come away with a wife.

Before he knows it, he's back on his ship, alone with his accidental bride. Since neither of them speak the same language, he has no way to tell her that there's been a terrible mistake. And because of the deadly famine ravaging her home, there's no going back. She's entirely at his mercy, and that terrifies him more than anything.

Jeremiah isn't ready to take responsibility for anyone. He's a star wanderer, roaming the Outworld frontier in search of his fortune. Someday he'll settle down, but for now, he just wants to drop the girl off at the next port and move on.

As he soon finds out, though, she has other plans.

Excerpt:

Jeremiah knew something was wrong the moment he stepped out of the Ariadne’s airlock and onto Megiddo Station. A variety of people milled about the tiny spaceport concourse, mostly in-system haulers and traders, as well as a few beggars and questionable women in the shadier passageways. The air smelled slightly of smoke, but that wasn’t too unusual; the settlement was certainly old enough, with ventilator fans that chugged and floor tiles that were grainy with wear. The locals, however, had an eerie look about them. Their faces were gaunt, their skin sagging. They stared at him as he passed by, as if sizing him up. When he returned their gaze, they turned suddenly away from him, as if afraid.

I just need to stay long enough to unload my cargo and make the trade, he thought anxiously to himself. Once I’ve gotten clearance, everything else should go smoothly.

The suppliers at the last system had warned him about this place almost a standard month ago. “You be careful,” they had told him in their peculiar Outworld creole. “We many see go, since six cycles not any come back.”

At the time, Jeremiah hadn’t thought much of it. Traders this far out didn’t follow any set routes, and the dozens of uncharted colonies and outposts always had problems of one sort or another. But from the hollow, expressionless faces he passed on his way spinward, an uneasy feeling told him he might have made a mistake.

Like many of the other doorways in the hallway, the entrance to the station master’s office had a miniature gilded image of a half-cyborg saint tacked above the lintel. Jeremiah keyed the chime and the door hissed open almost immediately.

“Come, come!” came a voice from inside, calling to him with urgency. Jeremiah stepped in, door shutting behind him.

“You Captain Jerem-ahra?”

The station master was short and balding, with a rotund face and a minor cybernetic implant in his left eye. He wore a simple blue jumpsuit with a black felt vest and an insignia on his arm that probably denoted his rank. That wasn’t too unusual; most of the settlements in the Outworlds tended to be hierarchical.

“Yes,” said Jeremiah, bowing in a universal gesture of greeting and respect. “Are you Master Korha?”

“Korha? Yes yes,” said the man, gesturing impatiently for him to come inside.

Jeremiah followed Master Korha from the rather sparse front office into a back room that appeared to be the apartment’s main living quarters. Mattresses lined the floor along the aging bulkheads, indicating a sizable family and not much living space. An ornate mosaic table sat on a dull blue rug in the center, with sticks of incense burning in a bowl off to one side. Except for the two of them, the place was empty.

“Sit, sit,” said the station master, motioning to a cushion across the table. It seemed like a strange way to conduct trade negotiations, but these were the Outworlds after all. Jeremiah took his seat and made himself comfortable.

“You young,” Master Korha observed, producing a thermos and two glasses. He poured them both a thick, white drink that had the consistency of syrup.

“Yes,” Jeremiah answered, taking a sip from his glass. The spicy sweetness hit him like a punch to the mouth, and he struggled to force it down.

“Where from?”

“Far,” said Jeremiah, eyes watering. “Many parsecs.”

The station master nodded. “You trader?”

“Of a sort.”

“Man of fortune?”

“You could say that.”

“Searching woman?” he asked, looking Jeremiah in the eye. “Searching home place, find woman and make babies yes yes?”

“Uh…”

“Is tradition, no?”

Jeremiah nodded slowly. “That’s right,” he said, mind racing as he tried to rethink his negotiating strategy. Did the station master expect him to settle down here? Was that why he’d called him to his private quarters? The thought made Jeremiah swallow.

“I, uh—”

“You young, you need woman.”

“Among other things, yes.”

“Not good to man is alone, no no.”

The station master looked off as if lost in thought. Jeremiah took advantage of the moment and cleared his throat.

“As much as I would love to find a wife and settle down, I have some coffee from the Chondarr system that I was hoping to trade, and since you insisted I meet you in person, I—”

“Listen,” Master Korha hissed, glancing over his shoulder before leaning forward to look Jeremiah in the eye. “You no stay here. Not safe.”

Jeremiah frowned. “Not safe? What do you mean?”

“Here is not safe—much is dying, yes yes. Accident since many cycles—no can food to eat. Station crowded, very. Stores run out since many days, many angry, dying much.”

A chill ran down the back of his neck. “You mean the starvation is so bad, the entire outpost is starving to death?”

“Yes yes! Smart young man. Have ship, yes. But cannot stay—very dangerous.”

The gleam in Master Korha’s eyes made him shift uncomfortably on his floor mat.

“Why are you telling me this?”

The station master took a long draft, draining almost half his glass. “You young man, you captain, you go places. Is good, yes. Have favor I ask you.”

He clapped his hands twice, making Jeremiah jump. A side door opened, and five girls lined up in the front of the room. They each wore a loose-fitting chemise made from cheap synthetic fabric that left the shoulders bare while barely stretching to the knees. As Jeremiah looked on, they stared at him with wide, nervous eyes.

“My daughters. You choose, yes yes.”

Jeremiah swallowed hard. “Choose one?”

“Choose one, choose two, choose all no matter. You go, take with. Is good, no?”

This can’t be happening, he thought to himself. His heart pounded in his chest as he glanced from Master Korha to his five daughters and back again.

“Look, let’s not be hasty. My ship doesn’t have any room for extra passengers, and—”

“Aiee!” a voice wailed from behind the door. Jeremiah leaped to his feet as a middle-aged woman barreled past him. Soon, both she and the station master were shouting at each other in their incomprehensible language.

What the hell is going on?

He glanced over at the girls, as if to apologize. The youngest stared at him with wide, frightened eyes; she couldn’t have been older than eight standard years. With her blond hair, she reminded Jeremiah of his younger sister.

“Choose!” Master Korha bellowed. Apparently defeated, his wife collapsed to the floor in tears.

Jeremiah tugged at the collar of his jumpsuit, sweat forming at the back of his neck. “What? Choose?”

“Yes yes—choose quickly, you take, you go!”

“But this is crazy; how can I—”

“If not take, will die. Choose!”

Jeremiah turned back nervously to the girls. The three youngest ones stared at him in absolute terror. The two oldest ones weren’t quite so frightened, but avoided meeting his gaze directly. They wore their long hair down with glistening sequined headbands across their foreheads, and the innocent looks on their faces cried out to him.

Should I take them both? If they were going to die otherwise, it seemed like the right thing to do—but he didn’t know if he could afford to take even one extra passenger on his ship. And besides, the whole situation had an eerily awkward feel to it, as if he were trading in people, not goods.

“You like? You like?” Master Korha asked, ambling to his side. He pulled the two girls forward to give Jeremiah a better look. One of them giggled nervously, while the other bit her lip almost apologetically.

“What the—how can I do this?” Jeremiah asked, raising his hands in protest. “They’re your daughters.”

Behind them, the wife let out an awful wail, but Master Korha waved his hand as if to say ‘pay no attention to her.’

“You choose one, must take, save her yes yes.”

Jeremiah looked into the desperate eyes of the daughters and realized, purely on a gut level, that their father was telling the truth.

“Her,” he said, pointing to the oldest of the two. Her eyes widened, and she covered her mouth in shock.

“Good! Good!” said Master Korha. He took Jeremiah by the wrists and had him clasp hands with the girl. Her fingers were cold, her palms clammy. Her arms stiffened and trembled, but she held on tight. Jeremiah almost pulled away from her, but her father held him in place, making the sign of the cross across his chest and muttering some arcane prayer in his native language.

All at once, everyone in the room was crying. The mother’s wails sounded above all the others, and she shoved Jeremiah aside, wrapping her arms around her daughter. The other girls soon surrounded them, tears streaking their faces, while Master Korha clucked impatiently and pushed them all away.

“Come, come,” he said, grabbing Jeremiah and the girl by their arms. A moment later, they were in his office, away from all the madness. “You take, you leave, must go now yes yes?”

“But—wait!” said Jeremiah, jerking himself free. “What about my mass allotment? My ship’s not built to carry passengers; I’ll have to recalcu—”

“No problem, no problem, she not bring anything,” said Master Korha. He palmed a console in the wall and a hidden door opened, revealing a long, empty maintenance corridor. “Must go now,” he said, ushering them in. “If not, others soon do bad things, yes yes.”

“Are you serious? What do you—”

As if in response, the sound of fists pounding on the front door echoed through the office. It started out innocently enough, but quickly grew louder, as if an entire mob was trying to break in.

“Come! Come!” said Master Korha, hissing as if to emphasize the point. Jeremiah glanced anxiously around the room and instinctively knew that if he didn’t comply, he would soon be in danger.

“Okay,” he muttered, ducking his head as he climbed into the narrow maintenance shaft. “Whatever you say, old man.”

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"Where for art thou Risotto?" by Keith O'Brian (Short Story)

Genre:  Humor

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Story:

Internet dating, what a load of old bollox, I thought to myself. I’d spent the last 18 months, following a breakup, online trawling round for my ‘soulmate’. Updating photos and writing my own biography to try and entice the opposite sex.

‘I even write like a gobshite, no wonder they never write back to me, like my photos or even throw me a sneaky poke on facebook’, I said to Tim, my mate, who led me onto this ‘opportunity of a lifetime’ as he called it, like he was selling me a timeshare or cheap crap at a market stall. Fucking gimp!

‘I’m tellin ye man, it’s like shootin fish in a barrel’, he said. You would swear he was Brad Pitt or one of them handsome fellas, whereas in real life his face was that pot marked it looked like he had been used as a pub dartboard.

‘G’way ye pleb. The only ride you have had in the last few months is with Rachel the Raleigh and she’s had more rides than a jockey’.

He tried to be annoyed but laughed.

‘Fuck off’, he said through a grinning chuckle. ‘It’s true, but it’s still more than you’ve had’, he said with an air of victory to it. ‘Suppose yer too busy spending yer nights on chat roulette with yer lad in yer hand, he said nodding towards the computer. ‘I’d say its riddled’.

He wasn’t right but not far wrong at the same time everything was right except for the ‘self exploration’. That sort of thing wasn’t for me.

‘Nothing like the intimacy of clicking a mouse with one hand and churning man butter with the other’, Tim said.

Webcams always annoyed me. Such and such has invited you to view webcam it said. If I wasn’t a stressed out horndog then I’d tell them what for. But alas there I am ready to click join, pretending I don’t have a camera so I can just watch. Like a voyeur or something. I might as well be up the tree outside her house perving on her with my binoculars.

I wasn’t like this before the breakup. ‘Live a little man will ye’, Tim said. I didn’t think clicking on endless photos of middle-aged women was much of an adventure to be honest. Her advert read: divorced, happy go lucky, loves walks in the parks and animals, looking for friendship and maybe more. It was the maybe more I was looking for. I’d had enough of that other stuff for the past twenty odd years. I always used to wonder why they had got divorced in the first place. Did she shag around on him? That would be grand to meet her so, least I’d get a bit.

‘Jesus not her anyway’, I said aloud. Rough. I have a fair idea why she got divorced anyways. Would she be better than chat roulette? Probably not. NEXT. Jesus H Christ. The tide wouldn’t take her out. Click. Click, click. Never ending. It’s like browsing on the RSPCA orphaned dogs site.

Aha now were talking. She looks alright. Doesn’t really look 50. Widowed, fun loving, looking for fun. Check, check and check. Do you want to contact? Yes please! She will do quite nicely. Send my details. Done and done. Now it’s time to play the waiting game. I sat back in my chair like some sort of Bond villain or something. Embarrassing really. ‘If I could see myself now I’d slap myself. Deucebag’

....Nothing for a couple of days. Time to update my profile I think. I’ll give Tom a call and see if he can give me a hand. He’s a veteran at this kind of stuff, or so I’m led to believe.

‘I’ll be up in an hour or so man, I’m just stroking a wild one’, he said in a hurry and hung up abruptly. I didn’t want to know that. Some things can be kept to themselves. I’m all for some privacy. He better wash his paws after.

‘Ah for fuck sake, no wonder yer not getting any biters on yer rod, he said throwing out a cheeky wink simultaneously. ‘What’s this shite?’ He questioned. ‘Dont be tellin them any of this man. Delete that anyways. Seriously?’ He questioned. He laughed to himself. ‘Ye goon’, he snorted. He typed away for a few minutes and then stood up, dusted off his hands and told me to read.

... Successful business man, own house, holiday home in the sun, no kids. Looking for that special someone to grow old with. Genuine guy with lots of love to give.

‘What the hell is this muck, Tim? I asked.

‘Don’t worry it’s what they all want to hear mate. Trust me.

‘Ah I don’t know, Tim. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Businessman? I work nights in a petrol station alongside a semi gay Polish fella, two lads the colour of varnished pine and man from Zaire who’s as black as the desert sky at night. I rent a room in the back of a doss house, have two kids and haven’t a shillin’ to my name. Someone to grow old with? Now why did ye say that shit? Lots of love to give? Ye made me sound like a right poof.

‘Ye’l be grand. Watch the Notebook and just pretend it’s what you want too. It’s what I do.

‘That’s working well for ye anyways is it? I questioned mockingly.

‘My dry streak has been moistened my man’, he said cheekily and began to boast of his conquests from the past month. Pure filth came out of that mans mouth. As a man who has dabbled in some strange shenanigans even I was shocked by his tales.

Ye’v more fables than Aesop’, I said.

‘It’s all true. No lies. Honestly man. Scouts honour’, he brashly replied.

‘I’ve heard you be called some things in my day Tim but honest definitely isn’t one of them.

‘What can I say? I’m a catch. ‘A stud’, he half shouted as he stood up with the cheeky grin of a teenage lothario.

... The profile worked. I had a date, with Cindy. A widow no less. Get in there! Well that was the plan anyways. I had checked her out on Facebook a couple of times. Not stalkingly but rather just inquisitively. I promise. She looked pretty tasty in her photos. The three kids were a bit of a worry. She’s seen plenty of traffic down there I’d say. Be like throwing a sausage down Grafton St. Ah sure we’ll give it a go. What’s the worst that could happen?

In summary, the date was a disaster. She looked pretty different in real life. She cut a more rounded figure to be honest. Like a pear in a dress, more like a poached pear actually with the strange shade of red on her face from the nervous sweat beading across her brow. She was actually pretty nice and interesting. Loads of stories about her kids, well that was to be expected. I kept up the lie about not having any of my own. The lying actually came pretty natural to me, slightly frightening at the beginning but I found myself rambling on and on with them as the date progressed. Maybe Tim hadn’t been lying. Well if he managed to get dates then it must work. There was no notable faux pas during the date other than the fact I managed to drop my tie into a bowl of soup.

‘Will we go Dutch?’ She asked.

I hadn’t a clue what this meant. I thought it was a sex thing. ‘On a first date?’ I stammered. She looked puzzled and reached for her purse. What the hell was she going to pull out now? My heart pumped as I watched intently. A purse? Maybe something’s inside I wondered.

‘So 50/50 then yeah?’ she asked.

‘No I’ll get this, my treat.’ I said. What was this Dutch thingy? I pondered for few moments. Maybe she said it as a mistake. Yeah, she probably didn’t mean to say it out loud in case I thought she was easy. That was probably it. Ah well I’ll Google it after and see what it was.

We kissed goodbye outside the restaurant. She had the fish risotto so as you can imagine that kiss was a meal in itself. Never again I thought to myself. ‘So will we do this again? She asked.

‘Of course, sure give me yer number there and we’ll set something up in the next few weeks alri? I said, knowing full there were two chances of that happening. Slim and fuck all!

‘How’d the date go?’ Tim asked when I seen him the following day.

‘Ah was alri, I suppose’, I told him.

‘Dya get yer end away?’ He asked, looking as excited as a kid at Christmas. Why he was this excited I have no idea.

‘No I didn’t. Not even the faintest chance of it. Kinda ragin I was. After I got home and was as horny as a sailor on shore leave that was’, I said laughing. ‘I even bought the dinner and pretended I didn’t hear her offering me some Dutch thingy.’

‘Tight bitch’, he joked. Dutch thing? He questioned.

‘Yeah. Dya wanna go Dutch? She asked me’.

‘Ye clown. That means did ye wanna split the bill. Von Dutch.’ He answered like a big fat headed know it all.

I broke out in laughter. ‘I thought it was a dirty sex thing. Yeno what the Dutch are like. We both stood there laughing. He was shaking his head at me as the tears rolled down his face.

As he collected himself after a few moments he asked ‘Ye meetin her again or anten?

‘She is mad for another date with the kid’ I said fixing my collar like I was a young James Dean. ‘Suppose if I get no more offers I’ll give her a shout or something.

‘I’d say she is alri. Suppose she must be pretty hard up for a jont if she’s into you man’, he said in jest.

‘Well I’m hardly beating them away with a shitty stick at the moment so she might be getting a phone call’, I said slightly down heartened at the thought of having to meet her again.

... I hadn’t heard a peep from anyone over the next few days. Surely she couldn’t have been the only woman who found me even the slightest bit attractive. Guess I’m not the catch I thought I was. I was starting to get second thoughts about this internet dating malarkey. How does Tom do it? I questioned to myself. Probably because he spins more yarns than Rumpelstiltskin on speed. Yeah I’d say that was it. Hopefully that was it anyways.

I’ll have a little bit of a window shop on the site again tonight and see if there is anyone who takes my fancy. That was my plan. Click, click, and click. Maybe she wasn’t that bad after all. I could get used to fish risotto. To hell with this for now. I’m having a game of free cell and a Satzenbrau. ‘Who needs this shite?’ I gasped out loud.

"Stum: A Short Alien Abduction Story" by Edward Lange (Short Story)

Genre:  Science Fiction

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Summary:  Tony is being abducted by aliens. As he scrambles to find a way to stop it, the little gray men from the stars have other plans for him.

Excerpt:

Then I wasn‘t alone.

My eyelids flew open to see a gray hand hanging just above my head, a black pen-like object grasped in its skinny fingers. They’d found me! They were watching me! Nowhere was safe!

My body was paralyzed. Again, the creatures had rendered me defenseless. Just as before, this alien stood on the right side of the bed. Another one stood on the left side of the bed, pulling a pair of silver-black gloves over his skinny hands. My eyes quickly scanned the room, and couldn’t find a third.

By the light of the lamp on the nightstand, I could see a bright red circle on both their collars. The two figures stared down at me, their eyes assessing my rigid, helpless form.

An intense, bright light appeared on the ceiling, dwarfing the light bulb of the lamp and the glow of the television. My body began to move toward the light, away from the ground below. Frantic eyes searched the motel room for anything that could get me out of this situation. I tried to scream for help. My lips refused to part.

In the corners of my eyes, I could still see the creatures standing by the bed, looking up as I was pulled by the alien light. The one on the right was putting the small black rod into his pocket. The one on the left had raised his gloved hands up, guiding me to the light.

Empty threats and curses struggled to escape my paralyzed lips. My hands tried to ball themselves into fists, my legs tried to kick, but still I was pulled into the light, back to that strange realm of cold steel, and uncaring eyes.

Eventually, the blinding light had consumed my entire field of vision. I lost consciousness at that point.

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"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 Tryst" by Jan Hurst-Nicholson (Short Story)

Genre:  Humor

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Story:

Liverpool, England 1960s

He tried nibbling her ear. He wasn’t sure whether he should be licking, nibbling, or kissing it. Even after re-watching a movie he still hadn’t been able to make out the exact technique.


“Are you sure we can’t be seen from the path?” Pam whispered, snagging her gymslip on a bush as she peered into the gloomy clearing.

“’Course not. I’ve staked it out. It’s quite private.” Colin assured her, settling on a grassy patch.

Pam, unsure of the next move, inspected the damage to her clothing,

“Sit down,” invited Colin. “We can use our satchels as pillows.”

Pam sat mutely beside him, knees tucked under her chin and encircled with her arms. In the expectant silence the late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees. It was eerily quiet until Pam sighed and turned resignedly to Colin. “Well, what happens now? It’s up to you to start.” She flicked her long dark hair in an effort to look sexy.

He gripped her shoulders and pulled her lustily towards him.

“Hang on,” she said, pushing him away.

“What’s wrong?”

“Aren’t you going to get rid of that chewing-gum first?”

“Sorry.” He spat out the offending gum and tried again. “Come on, lie down. It’s more comfy.”

Pam lay back and clasped her hands behind her head, a move she’d practised to better reveal the outline of her budding breasts. Colin gently brushed her lips with his. She sprang upright as if stung.

“What’s wrong now?”

“This grass is damp. I can feel it right through my knickers.”

“Here, lie on my blazer.” He hastily placed it under her bottom.

He tried nibbling her ear. He wasn’t sure whether he should be licking, nibbling, or kissing it. Even after re-watching a movie he still hadn’t been able to make out the exact technique.

Pam lay unresponsive, her eyes closed. He was about to attempt a love bite when she unexpectedly turned her head and gave him a rather painful bang on the nose.

“What homework have you got?” she demanded.

Colin rubbed his nose in a violent effort to stop his eyes watering. “Just maths. Why?”

She giggled. “Funny they never give us homework when it’s sex education.”

“Perhaps they’ll give us a ‘do-it-yourself’ manual when we leave school,” Colin said, grinning. Furtively unbuttoning her blouse he gradually slid his hand inside, hardly daring to breathe lest Pam should object. His mouth was drying up, partly from excitement, but mostly because he was afraid to breathe through his nose in case it made him sniff.

“Colin, do you love me?”

“Course I do.”

“How much?”

“Lots.”

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“Do my geography homework.”

“Geography? You know I hate geography!”


“There. I knew you didn’t love me,” she said, removing his hand and sitting up.

“Okay, okay, I’ll do it,” panted Colin, whose hand had almost reached her bra. Satisfied, she lay back and allowed Colin to slip his hand inside her blouse again. She began to wriggle and heave her buttocks. Colin couldn’t believe his luck. “Are you enjoying it?” he whispered, pressing eagerly against her.

“Enjoying what?” she asked scornfully. “Something’s biting me bum.”

Colin, somewhat deflated, hunted fruitlessly for the offending insect. “Must have been a piece of grass. Lie down again,” he pleaded.


She glanced at him quizzically. “You’re not going to tell anyone about this, are you? If our David finds out, he’ll kill you. He might even tell me Dad.”

“Don’t you trust me? I love you. This is something beautiful between just the two of us.” He’d read that in a book. He kissed her, wondering whether he dare try a French kiss, thinking it might distract her while his hands sought their target.

Her bra was unfastened and he eased it up to expose ripe, young breasts. Breathlessly, he stared down at them half-expecting Pam to object. Encouraged by her silence, he tentatively touched one. Pam shrieked in alarm.


“What’s wrong?” He hurriedly withdrew his hand.

“Your hands aren’t half cold.”

“Sorry.” He rubbed them together before cautiously trying again. “Warm enough now?”

“It’s all right.”

He moved his hand experimentally. “Hey, look, your nipples are standing up.”

“So what.”

“So that means you’re aroused.”

“What do you mean – aroused?” There was a hint of disdain in her voice.

“Y’know, when a man’s thing becomes erect it means he’s aroused. Same with a girl. When her nipples are erect it means she’s worked up.”

“Doesn’t make me feel any different,” said Pam. “They go like that when I wash them anyway.”

He was about to argue when she pressed her fingers against his lips. “Sshh,” she cautioned.

“What’s up?”

“I heard a rustle in the bushes. I think someone’s coming.”

“Well it’s not me,” said Colin, giggling.

“Shut up, stupid. It could be our David.”

“There’s no one there,” Colin reassured her.

But Pam found something else to worry about. “Colin, how do you know I won’t get pregnant?”

“You can’t get pregnant the first time.”

“Rubbish! Miss Marsh says that’s a story all boys tell. It’s a lie. You can get pregnant the first time.”

“What does she know? What I meant was – girls can get pregnant if it’s their first time, but if it’s the boy’s first time he won’t make her pregnant.”

“How do you know?”

“Peter Wilder made love to a girl last month and she didn’t get pregnant.”

Pam digested this new piece of wisdom. “D’you think Miss Marsh has ever, y’know, done it?”

“Doubt it,” said Colin. “She’s old. Must be at least thirty.”

“Don’t you think people over thirty bother anymore?”

Colin considered his reply as he undid his belt. “My Mum was thirty-four when she had me, so they must have done it at least once after thirty.”

Colin had unzipped his trousers. Taking Pam’s hand, he was about to place it inside when she pulled away. “Come on, what’s wrong now?” he implored.

“Aren’t you going to take your shoes and socks off first?”

“Why should I?”

“My Mum says she can’t stand men who make love with their socks on.”

“But I’ve still got my shirt and trousers on. Why should I take my socks off?”

“Don’t you want to take them off? Do your feet smell or something?”

“No, of course they don’t,” he said, resigned to exposing his bare feet. She watched while he wrestled with his shoelaces.

She made him feel stupid and he could feel the anger welling up. He grabbed her shoulders and forced her back on to the blazer, pinning her underneath him like he’d seen Clint Eastwood do.

“Ooh,” she said, wriggling with delight.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes. You’ve got a huge spot on your neck with a big white head. Please let me squeeze it.”

“No,” he said, exasperated.

“Why not?”

“If it was Roger Moore you wouldn’t be asking to squeeze his spots.”

“Course not. Roger Moore doesn’t have spots.”

He glared at her. She glowered back defiantly. “Get on with it then.”

He kissed her angrily, thrusting his tongue into her mouth while he fumbled under her skirt. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead.

“Colin, do you think I’m sexy?”

“Yes,” he croaked.

She nuzzled his neck, avoiding the spot. “Are you sure you haven’t done this with anyone else?”

“Course I’m sure.”

“Perhaps that’s what’s wrong,” she declared. “The man is supposed to be experienced so he can show the woman what to do.”

“I know what to do,” said Colin, unaware that anything had been wrong. “It’s your fault. You’re not reacting like you’re supposed to.” He circled her breast with his hand, stroking and squeezing. She stared at him with a bored expression. “See what I mean,” he complained. “You’re supposed to moan and groan and look as if you’re enjoying it.”

Pam contorted her face into feigned expressions of ecstasy. “Is that what you want? Heavy breathing and lecherous looks?”

“You’re not supposed to sound like a steam train and look as though you’re having an epileptic fit,” Colin protested.

“How am I supposed to look then?”

“Like this,” he said, producing a crumpled and well-thumbed photograph from his pocket.

Pam gasped in shocked fascination. “Where d’you get this? It’s a porno picture.”

“Gary Hewitt. When he showed it to Sylvia Wainwright it really turned her on.” He waited for Pam’s reaction. “She charges y’know,” he added.

“Who does?”

“Sylvia Wainwright.”

“How do you know?”

“Gary told me.”

“You mean he paid her money?”

“No, she makes the guys do her homework.”

“That’s disgusting! It’s cheap, like being a prostitute,” said Pam.

She looked at him quizzically. “Are you sure you haven’t been with her?”

“I told you I haven’t.”

“I don’t know whether to believe you. My mother told me all men are liars, and never to trust them.”

“But I love you. “ He took her hand and cautiously moved it inside his trousers. Pam looked round nervously. “I don’t like it here. It’s spooky. I’m sure someone is watching us.”

“Stop chattering,” he demanded. “It’s putting me off.”

“Aren’t we meant to talk?”

“It’s supposed to be romantic – or just moans and sighs.”

They were silent until Colin said, “Move your hand up and down.”

“I can’t. You’re lying on my arm and it’s gone dead.”

Colin shifted his weight.

“What’s the time?” she said, twisting his wrist to see his watch. “It’s twenty to six,” she gasped. “I’ll have to be going or me Dad’ll come looking for me.”

“Just a few more minutes,” implored Colin, whose body was throbbing painfully.

“No, me Dad’ll kill me.”

“But I thought we were going to be lovers,” he wailed. “You promised.”

“Perhaps next week, but not here, it makes me nervous.”

“What about under the gym, next Thursday?”

“I’ll think about it. You promise you won’t tell anyone about this?”

“Of course I won’t,” he said, reluctantly dressing. “You’d better leave first in case there is someone around.”

Pam sneaked away through the shrubbery. Colin watched her go and then waited as six schoolboys emerged from the bushes. He took a book from his satchel and checked the names against those of the boys. “Right, pay up,” he said.

“Hey, look here, Colin,” said a pimply-faced red-head, “I’m not paying the full amount. I hardly saw anything.”

“That’s your fault,” replied Colin. “You chose where you wanted to watch from. Pay up or else.”

“I agree,” said another. “I’m not paying five shillings for a look at your bum!”

“Yes,” said another, “I only saw one tit and not even a nipple.”

“If you don’t pay up you won’t be invited to the gym next Thursday,” threatened Colin. “And by the way, it’s an extra two and sixpence for Clive because of the binoculars.”

“What!” demanded Clive. “But they’re my binoculars.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s extra for close-ups.”

The boys reluctantly handed over their money, muttering their disappointment, "Didn’t even get her knickers off.”



Pam ran home and was out of breath when she greeted the girls who were sitting waiting on her garden wall. “Well?” they chorused.

“Get the paper and pencil,” she panted. These were produced and Pam spanned her hand across the paper indicating where the line should be drawn. “Who's got the chart?”

“I have,” replied an untidy-looking girl, extracting it from the rat’s nest of her bag. Giggling, they compared paper and chart. With a theatrical flourish Pam announced: “That’s Roger Worth still last, followed by James Smith and Colin. Steven Farrow and Gary Hughes tie for the biggest.” She turned to the girls. “Who shall we do next?”

ENDS

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"The Blue Hole Boys/The Fugu Feast (Double Feature)" by T.N.Collie (Short Stories)

Genre:  Literary Fiction

Type of Short Story:  Short Stories

Summary:  "The Blue Hole Boys"- a short story inspired by the true event of two brothers who went missing in an Andros forest. This fictionalized account of the adventure is from the perspective of the two young boys as they find themselves lost deep in an unfamiliar forest, waiting to be rescued.

"The Fugu Feast"- prize-winning tale originally published in On the Premises magazine, this story is an inside look at a suicide camp. 

Excerpt:

Damien didn’t care if the mango juice covered half his face and made his hands and cheeks sticky—he was starving.

He didn’t think about the various piles of feces he and his brother had left in the Androsian pit, having nowhere else to leave them and nothing much to wipe with, surrounded by small glossy leaves, mounds of damp dirt, and swollen ripe fruit.

Mango used to be Damien’s favorite fruit—both the smaller, ovoid, yellow ones and the large, multicolor, more rounded ones—but he wasn’t so sure he could eat them again if he and his brother ever escaped; his stomach now got sick from them, but they were the only food and drink besides the small, yellow pigeon plums that fell in from trees above.

Damien was grateful for the visible chunk of clear aqua sky and the armies of trees all around above them, but he couldn’t see how it was possible to climb out of the hole he and his little brother had fallen in.

From day one he was sorry he’d brought Mikey along—only six, Mikey couldn’t stop crying although he pretended bravery sometimes, frequently offering up stupid, hopeful suggestions. At first Damien got mad at him, but then he remembered the three years he had on his brother—of course he was smarter. If Damien had fallen into a pit at six like Mikey, he too might have suggested they practice jumping so they could jump high enough to bound out of the bushy pit one day. Perhaps he too would have thought one of them could stand on the other’s shoulders and they could get out that way—although that suggestion wasn’t so stupid; Damien had actually tried it, managing to hoist Mikey onto his shoulders, but the pit was deeper than their combined eight-foot height. If Damien had been six, maybe he also would’ve kept saying their parents would find them soon, then cry quietly in a corner when he thought his big brother wasn’t looking.

Damien had lost count of how long they’d been in the hole. He remembered night falling without their parents finding them, then another day, then another night and day. Then days and nights began running together in his head. Perhaps they were on day eight by now.

“Mikey, how long we been down here?”

His brother looked up from nibbling on plums.

“Six days,” he said with finality after a few seconds.

Damien felt surprised. But then again, what did a six-year-old know? Mikey couldn’t even remember not to put his hands in his hair after eating a mango so that when he slept through the cool night, leaves wouldn’t stick to it.

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"At The Office" by Katy Baker (Short Story)

Genre:  Erotica

Type of Short Story:  Short Story

Summary:  College student Lucy Williams has been having a steamy affair with her best friend's father. She knows it's wrong. She knows she ought to forget him. But she can't. Richard Smyth has become a fire in her blood. A fire she can't quench. Needing to see him again, she decides to confront him at his workplace. Will Richard be pleased to see her? Will he give her what she most desires? Or will her dreams come crashing down?

Excerpt:

“What are you doing here, Lucy?” Richard said at last. 

The sound of Richard’s voice as it washed over Lucy’s skin made her body tingle. Desire flared within her, breath quickening, heat building between her legs. 

“Why do you think?” she replied. “To see you. I was worried. Melissa says you and Claire are having problems.” 

This answer didn’t seem to please him. Something flashed in his eyes. Anger? 

He shook his head, shoved back his chair and climbed to his feet. He took two steps toward Lucy before suddenly spinning on his heel, throwing open the balcony door and striding outside.

She followed him out. A light wind whipped her auburn hair across her face and lifted the edges of her skirt. Richard leaned on the railing, gazing out over the city. His shoulders were hunched, his muscles taut. 

“Richard,” she breathed, laying a hand on his back. 

He tensed at her touch, like a startled animal ready to bolt. 

“Richard. Don’t ignore me.”

He spun suddenly, blue eyes alight with rage. “You had no right to come here! What did you think you were doing?”

Involuntarily, Lucy took a step back. Then, despite herself, wet heat burned between her legs as arousal flashed through her body. Richard was so masterful, so god-damned sexy when he was angry.

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