Of course, I also managed a (last minute) story for you to enjoy:
I’m not Late. Really, I’m not!
If only, I thought. But then, if only had never helped anyone, as every half-decent time researcher knew. After all, it was the ministry’s motto, carved from stone and displayed above the entrance to our lovely university.
tempus fugit – non auxilium si modo
And if I didn’t use what little tempus I’d left, I’d fugit from the university. I didn’t put in the work last week when I should have and didn’t manage to make the time. The work I’d done for the professor had been so much more enticing than writing an essay about a barely known scribbler from the seventeenth century. Now I was late with only two hours left to the deadline.
I turned on my eBoard, bent my head over the worn wooden table in my dorm room, and started typing. When I’d just about finished compiling my hastily done research, the eBoard rang. Of course!
I was tempted to not answer it. There were still 500 words missing from the end of my essay, and my mind was whirling with facts on the seventeenth century. In the background the math necessary for the professor’s machine also kept computing and it had been hard to keep the two subjects separate. The incessant ringing threatened to destroy the carefully established balance.
But it was the professor’s number, so I didn’t have much choice. Without the money I was earning by working for her, I wouldn’t be able to keep studying, and there was nothing more enticing than the prospect of becoming one of the few selected people in the ministry one day. Who knew, maybe I’d be upon the first to actually travel through time. So I accepted the call with a glance at the clock. Half an hour left.
“Come over, right now.” The professor’s voice sounded angry. “Someone messed with the dials.”
“Five minutes.”
“Immediately.”
I didn’t dare to tell her that I needed to finish my essay. So I wrote a few bullet points as a reminder of what to write upon my return – hopefully before the online portal closed – and ran over the nighttime campus to the badly lit building with the professor’s lab in the basement.
I managed the familiar trip to the vault-like concrete emptiness in less than three minutes, but the professor still paced to and fro like a tiger in a cage. The red and green LEDs on a cupboard sized metal machine with a door-like attachment at the left side glowed in the semi-darkness of the lab, and her voice rang out like a bell even though she spoke quietly. “Did you jot down the dial settings before you left for dinner?” She didn’t even greet me.
“Of course I did.” It would be stupid to attempt fetching a sample from the time stream without exact coordinates. I went to the wobbly metal table beside the filing cabinet, the only other furniture in the big, empty room.
“It’s not there. I looked.” The professor grabbed my shoulder and pushed me toward the machine. “Didn’t you say you had a photographic memory? Go on, reset the dials.”
Well, photographic might have been a little overstatement, but I’d worked here long enough to know the numbers by heart. So I turned dials, pressed knobs, and rotated disks until all the setting were as close to what I remembered as I could get them. “Done.”
“You took your time. Now let’s see if it works.” The professor walked over until she stood to the side of the door-like structure. “What item did you choose?”
“Something unimportant.” I smiled. “I think no one’s going to miss a basket of apples from a cellar in Warwickshire.”
“You confirmed the research?”
“Of course.” And I’d used it as a starting point for my essay.
“Good.” The professor grabbed a lever at the side of the machine and pulled. The door lit up with swirls in bright colors as the machine hummed.
Something tugged at me. First on my sleeve, then my whole body. Like in slow motion, I saw the professor’s mouth fall open. The dials whirled back to their original position. A basket of apples came flying out of the illuminated door. And I was pulled in whether I wanted to or not.
I screamed.
And landed on my hands and knees in the wet grass of an early morning meadow. The air smelled sweeter than anything I’d ever breathed, and the world was radiant with yellow, orange, and white clouds against an increasingly light sky. As I stared at the scenery, a hand came into my field of vision.
“I’m sorry for scaring you.” A young, handsome man stood beside me, holding out his hand. “I didn’t mean to. May I help you up?”
His English sounded different from what I knew but I understood him without trouble. I allowed him to pull me to my feet and stared in surprise at the wide, brown skirt and linen blouse I was wearing. Could this be real? Had the professor’s machine worked as intended? Including the clothes simulator and the translation device?
“Do I know you?” It was hard to find words, but I knew I’d met him before. Or had I read about him? “You feel familiar.”
“I, too, feel like I’ve known you for all my life.” The young man smiled. He was younger than me, maybe by six, seven, or even eight years. “I’m William. May I take you home, Miss Hathaway?” He took my arm and the essay faded from my mind like a bad dream.
My, how time flies. I’ve started revising the third novel in Holly Lisle’s Moon & Sun series and jotted down notes on the fourth one (which should be the last if I don’t go overboard). If you want to follow my progress, sign up for the newsletter.
It’s also time for the quarterly Blog Hop. This time, I’m featuring an up and coming talent: James Clapp. Here’s his story (and remember to read the others tat are linked below):
Priceless Treasure
by James Clapp
Taking cover behind a tree, Nikita surveyed the forest clearing. Two guards ate roasted meat by a campfire. Two more guards defended her target, a caravan with curtains drawn. All four guards wore normal clothes. She’d expected more and better-equipped guards given the note slipped under her inn room door.
“In four days a caravan will travel through Silvervale Forest carrying emeralds amidst plentiful gold.”
Still, only this caravan matched the location and timing.
Nikita threw a rock.
“Huh?” a campfire guard approached.
Nikita sneaked behind him and, in one motion, slit his throat.
‘One down.’
She crept towards the second campfire guard and stabbed him. He screamed before dying.
‘Change of plan.’
Nikita drew another blade.
The remaining guards drew short swords.
Nikita rushed the closest guard, parried his blade with her own and stabbed him in the back, but the final guard slashed her arm.
Gritting her teeth against the pain, Nikita swept the guard’s feet and plunged her blade into his neck. She grabbed bandages from her satchel and tied them around her wounded arm.
‘Master wouldn’t have even been seen,’ she frowned.
Nikita opened the caravan door. Inside she found … four chained women in simple tunics.
‘Slaves? I did all this for slaves?’ She drew the curtains. Sunlight streamed in, revealing … nothing. No emeralds. No gold. No treasure. The note had lied.
“You’re not the bandits,” one of the slaves, a woman with short blond hair, said.
‘Bandits? So, that’s why they didn’t show much resistance.’
“Help us?”, a brunette with messy hair pleaded.
‘Wait. The bandits intended to sell these slaves?’
“Please?”, a brunette with a ponytail said.
‘Whoever sent the note must also be a human trafficker, hoping to make a profit.’
“Mama?”, a teenage girl with long, wavy, blond hair rubbed her green eyes.
‘I’ve found the treasure — these four slaves.’ Nikita’s chest tightened even thinking that. ‘I can’t let them be recaptured.’
Nikita freed the slaves.
“Thank you.”
“Come on, I’ll escort you to Silverbrook.”
They reached Silverbrook without incident, and Nikita bought carriage tickets so the slaves could return home. They would leave tomorrow.
The next morning outside Nikita’s inn room, a blonde woman greeted Nikita. She wore a necklace with an emerald set in gold, which looked valuable.
“Yes, please come in.”
The woman entered.
Nikita grabbed her and pressed her blade against her neck. “I’m not going to give you the slaves. Give me your necklace and leave. Understood?”
The woman followed Nikita’s demands.
Upon awakening, the teenager noticed the necklace.
“That’s mine! Only Mama should have it.”
‘Wait. This girl’s mother sent the note?’
Green eyes. Blond hair. Nikita understood.
She ran out and found the blonde woman. “Sorry, I thought you were a human trafficker, not an innocent.” Nikita gave back the necklace.
Seeing mother and daughter reunited warmed Nikita’s heart, but she still needed money to live.
“Thank you for rescuing me. Here, you’ve earned this.” The teenager gave Nikita the necklace.
“Thanks” Nikita said.
Just to update you, my grandson does have ADHD. Now I need to learn yet more skills. Well, that’s something I’m familiar with, so I don’t expect it to take too long.
I’m also working on planning the fourth book in Holly Lisle’s Moon & Sun series. If you want to follow my progress, sign up for the newsletter.
As to the Blog Hop, I finished my story early this time. I’m still not sure whether I like it or not, and suspect it might be the beginning of something longer, but see for yourselves:
Doomed … or Not?
After crash landing on this planet and roaming around a bit, I stumbled and fell into what looked like the shaft of a well to me. Now I was stuck in a damp hole in the middle of nowhere with the sky so high above me, it looked like a small disk of light in a world of darkness.
But it seemed I wasn’t completely alone. There was a grayish plant with several smaller and one big bud growing in the middle of the round bottom end of the shaft. In the evening of my first day there, someone lowered a basket on a string from above. I called, but no one answered. I grabbed the basket, but the string ripped. When the basket landed at my feet, I found out that it was filled with a gray gunk. Disgusted I dumped it onto the plant, wishing for something tasty to eat. How wonderful it’d be to get my hands on a fresh salad with french dressing, cheese, and a double helping of bacon …
One of the smaller buds on the plant popped open and the air filled with the wonderful scent of fried meat. I didn’t dare to trust my eyes, but touch confirmed that the bud definitely contained what I’d wished for. Of course, there was no fork and no plate, but my stomach growled so badly that I ignored that. I ate everything the small plant had offered. It was as delicious as it smelled. So even if I didn’t understand how it had read my needs, I thanked it afterward. Better safe than sorry.
For a month, I counted time by the meals the people above send down for the little plant. It grew slowly but it grew. Especially the biggest of the buds. And without fail, it provided me with three meals a day. I used the remains of the baskets to build myself a dry platform for sleeping, and told stories to the plant of my space travels and of the mix of ingenuity and idiocy so characteristic for the human race.
Sometimes, it felt as if the plant was laughing or at least listening, and that kept me from going insane. Once I tried to wish for components for my ComUnit but realized quickly that the plant had no concept of technology. All I got was a jumble of metal parts that had no rhyme or reason. So I build a wind chime with them and hung it from one of the few roots (not necessarily tree roots but similar) that grew out of the wall. The plant seemed delighted whenever I made them ring.
Then, one morning, a seam on the biggest of the buds cracked a little. Something brown and fuzzy peeked out. It resembled hair. I didn’t dare touch it, it looked so delicate. When the basket with food arrived, the seam had split the full length, showing more of the brown fuzz and something green underneath. And it was moving.
I hurried to dump the gunk at the plant’s base, then withdrew to my bed-platform, watching with interest but also with fear. The green thing sat up and the brown hairs flowed around it. Yes, it was hair. But I had to wait for the green thing to turn to understand what I was seeing. It was a baby, a girl, with skin so green it could have been made of grass and eyelids that were still closed like one saw in dog or cat babies.
Without even thinking, I took off my battered jacket—at least it was dry and warm—, picked up the child, hugged it close to my chest, and cooed to it. I felt like an idiot but the child snuggled closer, warming my heart. Deep breathing told me that she’d fallen asleep, so I hugged her and didn’t dare move, although I was getting cold.
Was the plant still working or had the girl’s birth used up all of its magic? I wished with all my strength that it would make a baby blanket. Pop went a small bud and revealed a multi-colored blanket, a baby-bottle with a yellow liquid, and a bread with lettuce and cheese. As I swapped my jacket for the blanket, the baby woke. It’s tiny arms reached for the bottle, so I fed it and when it made no sign that it wanted the sandwich too, I wolfed it down.
For three days, the baby girl and I bonded. Three days where I did barely anything but feed or clean the baby. I also dumped gunk onto the plant three times a day. Whoever was sending the gunk seemed to know exactly how much more energy the plant needed to feed two people.
On the evening of the third day, the girl opened her eyes and they were as blue as the sky. I’d never seen eyes this blue before. I smiled at her. “Guess it’s time to find you a name, my little beauty.”
The girl blinked. Then it smiled and said. “Guess it’s time to return to Earth. You may call me Gaia.”
The gray plant started growing toward the circle of sky above at an alarming speed.
I know I’ve been quite absent from my website, and I’m sorry. But so many things happened that hit me like hammers. First, my friend Holly Lisle died at the end of August. Then, another close friend’s husband got the news that he’s dying too and there’s nothing that can be done about it. And as if that wasn’t enough, my daughter moved, my grandson needs to be tested for ADHD and Autism, and a ton of minor distractions. Just RealLife(TM) at its best.
With all that’s going on in my life right now, I struggled a lot to write my Bloghop story. Considering the low number of participants this Bloghop, I wasn’t the only one. But I did it and here is my story:
How I Lost Tom
I first met Tom when I was three years old. We were best friends since then. He seemed so grown up back then, and he helped me with everything. His wide eyed smile that went from one jug ear to the other gave me a focal point to talk to, and people never noticed I didn’t look into their eyes for they could not see Tom.
The biggest blessing was that he didn’t talk. Still he helped me face my fears and encouraged me to go for whatever I wanted to do, despite the overwhelmingly loud world. I remember his proud and happy smile at my graduation from police academy.
Of course by then I’d noticed that I’d grown older and he remained ten or eleven but he was still my best friend in the world. I never noticed how much our friendship had changed until I sat in an untidy beige kitchen with thirty year old Amanda, trying to ferret out details about my most important cold case: Tom’s death.
“Did you never have any suspicion who might have murdered your brother?” I’d asked the same question phrased differently many times, and her answer was always a variant of no, clipped and short as if she didn’t really want to know.
“What about your father’s ex-girlfriend.” I studied the surprisingly symmetrical face with eyes as blue as Tom’s and long, auburn hair tied into a tight bun. Her slender frame shifted on the chair like she wanted to run.
“She would have kidnapped Tom, not killed him. She always went on about how underappreciated he was and that he needed more love.” Amanda’s voice held an edge. “She favored him all the time, and that’s the reason Dad didn’t marry her. He wanted to, you know?”
Of course I’d known. And I’d learned a lot from my interview with her father’s ex. “He did ask her but she declined.”
Amanda sat up very straight and shook her head to underline her words. “That’s not true. Dad said that he couldn’t accept a stepmother who played favorites.”
“Maybe your father remembers a bit more about that fateful day.” I hadn’t been able to find a recent address and he would surely know more. After all, Amanda had only been thirteen when her brother was murdered and their house burnt to the ground. Her mind must have been on other, more important things, like boys, before the catastrophe. “Do you have any idea where he is now?”
“Of course.” She gave me an address in a nearby trailer park, a sad choice for living for a once successful real estate agent. Back then, his finances had been in shambles and even the money from his son’s life-insurance had not covered all of his debts. Clearly, he’d never truly recovered.
I hated trailers. They were suffocating and you could hear all your neighbors every time of the day. At least this one was clean. Mr. Dell had asked me and my partner in and we sat on the worn seats of the lounge—not that it deserved such a grand name—recording equipment at the ready. It was clear he knew that this was about Tom again.
“I’ve already told you everything I know, all those years ago,” he said.
Before I could say something, Tom stepped right into the middle of the table between us. “Hi Dad.”
Mr. Dell paled. His eyes widened and he seemed to have trouble breathing. My partner reached for his mobile to call an ambulance while I watched in fascination how Tom’s friendly, blue eyes turned dark and his expression angry. I’d never seen him like this and it scared me to the marrow.
“Why don’t you tell my friend here,” he pointed at me, “how you strangled me as I was eating my muesli until I vomited all over the kitchen? Why don’t you tell her how you stuffed my dead body into a rubbish bin and dumped it in the woods? Why don’t you tell them about the insurance policy you hid in our neighbor’s shed so it wouldn’t spoil when you set fire to the house?”
Mr. Dell complied. Speaking as fast as he could, he told us everything down to the tiniest detail while Tom stood, watching him with those scary black eyes.
Not even an hour later, Mr. Dell was safely locked up in a holding cell. I was just about to sign out, when my colleagues ran around like busy ants, screaming for help. It was total overkill for my senses. I pressed my hands over my ears but still heard that the detainee had tried to commit suicide. He hung himself but his belt had broken from the weight he’d put on it.
When the noise died down after the paramedics had taken comatose Mr. Dell away, Tom appeared right in front of me. “Thank you.” His eyes were back to normal and his smile reassured me. “Dad will remain in a coma for the rest of his life, and I will keep him company. Thank you.”
This time, I didn’t talk. I just nodded, knowing that more justice would be metered out this way than any available in our judicial system. I waved goodbye as Tom faded. After all, that’s what friends did, right?
Oh, it’s time for the bloghop already. I barely noticed how time flew by since I’ve been very busy writing a new novel. This is the third installment in Holly Lisle’s Moon&Sun series, an Upper Middle Grade or Young Adult fantasy adventure. The series got cancelled on Holly by her then publisher and it took her years to get the rights back. So she wrote several other novels and started a five book Romantic Suspense series she’s still revising.
With that she realized that she won’t have the time to get to the Moon&Sun series any time soon. Cue me. I asked her for the right to write the missing volumes of the series and the right to re-publish the existing books. And she agreed (squeal). So now I’m busy trying to work in someone else’s world without ruining it.
I howled. Three hours! The presentation’s revision had taken three hours!
And then the program crashed and took along all my painstaking work. Plus the original, but I still had a copy of that. My mind whirled and I wanted to rage. However it wouldn’t do with my boss in his office right down the corridor.
Overtime was no option either, with Ellie’s birthday party starting just after my work hours and her mother breathing down my neck about being punctual. If only I had a way to regain my work.
When the boss left his office, pretending to go to the toilet but really checking if we were busy, I opened a random eMail. A red logo flashed: an H written in fire surrounded by a wreath of pitchforks. Weird. The text under it grabbed my attention despite my preoccupied brain.
Frustrated? Angry? On a deadline? We can help. Call … and a phone number.
Yeah, that was spam, no doubt about it. On the other hand, what did I have to lose? And the phone call would be on the company’s dime. My hand reached for the headset and a few heartbeats later a warm alto greeted me.
“Hello dear, what can I do for you?” The woman was stunning, busty with curves in all the right places and long, dark tresses. If I hadn’t been so angry, I’d have found it hard not to stare at her generous cleavage. I didn’t need that kind of distraction. I only needed to calm myself.
“I know you can’t do anything about this but maybe I can vent?”
“Absolutely. Venting is completely free of charge.” There was a hint of a smile in the voice.
So venting I did. About the pressure everybody in the company was under, about my ex-wife and her demands on my time, about the little time I got to spend with our daughter, and about the sorry pay. Then I launched into my current woes and the fact that the presentation was due first thing tomorrow morning. When I was done, I felt empty. With a sigh I added, “Guess I’ll have to think of something to recreate that revision.”
“Or you can sign a contract with us and we’ll do the hard work for you.” The woman was smiling so hard, the top button on her blouse popped.
A second window opened right beside the one with the busty woman. This one showed an H with a golden ring and wings. Another weird one. The logo seemed to glow. I heard some grunting.
“Why won’t this … Ah! There.” The logo vanished and an incredibly beautiful person grinned at me. I couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman but it didn’t seem important. “I did it! It’s working!” Their smile turned serious. “You didn’t sign anything yet, did you?”
I shook my head, feeling more confused than ever.
Before the beautiful person could speak again, the busty woman chimed in. Her voice sounded somewhat strained. “We can easily extract your memory and restore the file to the way it was before the crash.”
“You don’t want them messing with your head,” the beautiful person said. “They are known for twisting thoughts and changing memories to suit their agenda.”
“Don’t believe him. We never touch anything not in the contract.” The woman’s smile intensified. She was positively glowing. “But if you prefer we can simply make a copy of you that exists long enough to redo your lost work while you go to make memories with your child.”
“We can promise that exact same thing, and we can deliver too.” The beautiful person glanced at the other window as if they could see it. “And at a much lower cost, too.”
“And,” the busty woman pulled her shoulders back which pushed her generous chest toward me, “I can throw in some fun time with a genuine succubus or three.” Another button popped, revealing more cleavage than I was comfortable with. “And we have no limits on what you can request after signing the contract. It’s for a lifetime of ease.” She bent slightly forward as if confiding something secret. “Fancy your supervisor’s position? It’s as good as yours.”
Gosh, that was tempting. Less work, fewer hours, at least double my current pay.
“Don’t throw your eternal soul away.” The beautiful person looked extremely worried. “Let me make a counter offer before you decide.”
Two clicks and both windows closed like they’d never existed. With a sigh, I sent my computer to sleep. I’d come back tonight, after my girl’s birthday party, and redo the presentation. Not the best solution, but one I could live with.
I shook my head in disgust. How I hated marketeers. They were coming up with better stuff every day. Thank God I was an atheist.
My colleague Chris Makowski is ready for the Bloghop too. He’s still revising his novel (with elves and stuff in our world, by what he posts about it, it’ll be a fascinating if dark read), so I’m hosting his story again.
Here’s his Bloghop story:
Two Feet
Chris Makowski
Get two feet closer!
Discharged yesterday and now I’m hallucinating voices.
Another bullet chews through the island, deflected by the good thick cast iron in there. Last one put a hole in my Magnalite dutch oven. He doesn’t know if I’m armed, but not stupid enough to dash in and find out the hard way.
Not a word, nothing after the flash bangs – someone hired a pro to finish things.
Bliss is big business, and I’m a headache.
Bullet by bullet, it’s hide and seek. Shoot low, shoot high, a few inches to the left and I’d be spurting instead of oozing blood. My open concept house being used against me, leaving me nowhere to go he can’t put a hole in me.
I’m running out of time fast.
Get Two Feet Closer!
Piece in a drawer I can’t reach, he removed the one under the sink – maybe the other one too, happy me, I’ve got a knife in a gunfight, and he’s a good ten paces into the living room, waiting, sixty feet out of my reach.
My foot twitches.
Get! Two! Feet! CLOSER!
I hear my imagination draw in breath.
You have nothing to lose, Charmyan Broussard!
A sharp twist toward the sink as another guess zips through where I had been, I set my feet against the base board and shove hard, a sprint for my life, come off the blocks and run damn it run hard run Run RUN!
Something rips out of me, through me, from me, he’s standing behind the couch, huge, six feet and then some, pistol coming around –
“MINE!”
BLAM!
I crash to the ground, slide under the table, kick the chair across the room – the couch flies out of the way, leaving me a clear view of …
Me.
A me carved of pure obsidian straddles his ribcage. Her – my – head turns, and that smile appears, the one I wore every time I put someone away.
She puts a finger in his chest, swirls it, and a bluish glaze comes out. Then the finger goes into her mouth, slowing coming out clean.
“Delicious.” Her voice – my voice, only colder, a distant echo. “You’ll have to replace that.”
My gaze follows her finger. Missed me by that much.
“New toaster, check.” She’s still there, watching me.
“Call Dispatch.” Then she leans forward and speaks into his ear. “Heart attack. Should really have used less Peruvian powder before breaking in to my house. Beep, beep – bzzzzzt.”
“He’s dead?”
Her eyebrow Spock’s at me.
One yank and the drawer’s open – Glock’s missing.
“It’s over there.” A flip of her wrist points her fingers into the dining room. “You won’t need it. There aren’t any more.”
A tongue flickers over her lips. “Unfortunately.”
“What are you?”
Standing, she’s my nighshade twin, down to the dribbling smear where I banged my noggin ducking. “I lived under your bed, and knocked on your closet door. You carried me all the way from Port Goode to here, nightmare by nightmare.”
In an eyeblink she’s right by me.
“Don’t you remember your wish?” She crouches. “Over and over and over?”
Memories flow through my head. Days, weeks, months in the hospital, hooked up to bags and machines and monitors. In and out of consciousness, reliving the horrors they’d put me through.
All through, my one thought, my reason for survival.
Find Nathan Hill.
Find Philip Dale.
Put them both in a hole so deep their souls will never crawl out.
“Heart’s desire, released to the night,” she singsongs. All her teeth are sharp, many of them pointed. “You want them. I want to live in more than dreams.”
A hand stretches toward me. “So from now on, you be Good Cop, and I’ll be Bad Cop.” Even with the predatory gaze, her smile is warm. “They’ll never see us coming. Ça va juste?”
Oh dear, how time flies. It’s already time for the #free #stories again. You’ll find mine below and several more if you follow the links at the end.
By the way, I’ve published my short story turned comic in time for Easter. Unfortunately the print version is still somewhat wonky, but the eBook is fine. If you want to check it out, here’s the link to the eBook on Amazon.
We’ve been at this for five hours already. Don’t you think it’s time to come clean?
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
We know you did it.
KATHARINA GERLACH:
But I did not.
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
Then how come that the victim’s blood was found in your bathtub?
PO SCHULZE:
Yes, that was disgusting. What did you have to cut him up for.
KATHARINA GERLACH:
(crying) I didn’t. I’ve no idea how his blood got into my bathroom.
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
You can’t pretend his blood wasn’t there.
(crying)
PK SCHULZE:
And his DNA. You can no longer deny you killed him. Give us a confession and get it over with. Your honesty will be taken into account.
KATHARINA GERLACH:
(crying) I never killed anyone, and I wouldn’t if I could.
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
Stop lying!
(crying, loud slap on tabletop)
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
We know you brutally murdered a man. A booklover! A father! A husband! What do you think his family is feeling, now that you killed a harmless man?
UNNAMED MALE VOICE:
(loud) Harmless? Are you out of your minds?
PO SCHULZE:
What the …
KATHARINA GERLACH:
(voice still wobbly but with rising anger) Gregorian, get out of me, right now! You have no right to possess me.
GREGORIAN:
Yes, I do. But as you command.
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
Oh God …
(vomiting noises)
GREGORIAN:
It’s in your contract on page 746 second to last paragraph where it clearly states that I may possess you if you’re in danger of losing your soul, the one you’ve promised me.
KATHARINA GERLACH:
I wasn’t in danger of losing my soul!
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
Who are you? How were you able to be inside of her? Your exit … (gagging sounds) Why isn’t she dead?
GREGORIAN:
Now, that’s an interesting question, and one I haven’t managed to answer for quite a while. I’ve tried everything to collect her soul, but without success. But that’s nothing you mere mortals can help with. Leave her alone, so I can keep working on the answer to that puzzle. Aside from writing, she’s done nothing. Nothing at all to deserve this anyway.
KATHARINA GERLACH:
Gregorian, what did you do?
GREGORIAN:
I saved you. God forbid!
2ND UNNAMED M. V.:
(bellowing) Leave my name out of this, Gregorian.
GREGORIAN:
Sorry, Sir.
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
What the hell is going on here?
KATHARINA GERLACH:
I summoned a demon a while back—
GREGORIAN:
To fetch dog food, so she didn’t have to leave her precious grandson and her writing. Can you imagine that?
KATHARINA GERLACH:
Gregorian…
GREGORIAN:
(huff)
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
What’s that got to do with everything?
GREGORIAN:
Fell in love with her writing, I did, of course. Devlishly good! And that cretin didn’t want to read even one of her books. Did you know that he beat up his wife and kids regularly?
PO SCHULZE:
(whispering) That did come to light in our investigation, yes.
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
I still don’t see a connection. We’ve ruled the family out as suspects.
GREGORIAN:
I made him!
PO SCHULZE:
Made him what?
GREGORIAN:
Read one of her books. And you know what he said?
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
Well, obviously something you didn’t like. Probably that her books aren’t as good as you think.
KATHARINA GERLACH:
Gregorian! I’ve told you over and over again that you can’t just force someone to read my books. Not everyone likes Fantasy.
GREGORIAN:
I made him read one of the historical novels. And they are truly great. Plus they’re based on True Life.
KATHARINA GERLACH:
That’s not the point, Gregorian. Whatever you did to him happened in MY body!
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
So you do admit to killing him, Mrs Gerlach?
GREGORIAN:
She does no such thing. I killed that guy. His soul was so black, it already belonged to my Master anyway. So I simply extracted it. Then, I extracted the bones and dumped them somewhere in the wild. And finally, I made minced meat out of the rest and fed it to the hellhounds. She? She was lost in the planning of her next novel.
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
In that case, I arrest you for first degree murder.
(metallic chinks, poof sound)
PO SCHULZE:
Heh?
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
Where are you? There’s no place on Earth you can hide. We’ll find you.
KATHARINA GERLACH:
He’s been summoned back to hell. That happens quite often.
2ND UNNAMED M. V.:
(whispering) I’m protecting him, Cat. He’ll not suffer for falling in love with books. After all, love is what’ll redeeem everyone.
KATHARINA GERLACH:
Thank’s, God.
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
Schulze, get the call out and add his description.
PK SCHULZE:
Is that wise, Sir? Considering he doesn’t have a skin or clothes or hair, only horns?
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
Who has?
PO SCHULZE:
The de … (pause) I don’t remember, Sir.
DETECTIVE BLENDINGER:
What are you still doing here, Mrs. Gerlach? Haven’t we dismissed you already? We’ve got a murderer to catch.
Since I missed out on the Bloghop in autumn for the first time ever, you’ll get not one, but two #free #stories on my blog today. You’ll find even more if you follow the links below the stories.
As to my writing, I haven’t done any aside from this short story. However, I have turned one of my short stories into a comic. It’ll still take a little while but I’ll be publishing it soon, hopefully before Easter. After all, it’s about the Easter Hare. I’m contemplating publishing it as a bilingual comic with the original short stories added. If this sounds like a good idea to you, please let me know in the comments.
And here’s my story:
What If
“What if there really were dragons?” Sitting on the ground in front of her French windows, Jane looked into the summer sky that dwarfed the grassy plain beneath where her father’s horses grazed. The sun was sinking rapidly. Another day nearly over. She sighed and tried to focus on something else. “Would they come and eat our horses?”
“Of course.” Her older brother Tom lifted his hands over his head, curling his fingers into claws. “And they’d eat you too!” He raked her back with his claws. They didn’t draw blood but they still hurt.
Jane knew better than to cry, but she couldn’t suppress a moan.
“Oh, little sissy, did that hurt?” Tom kicked her. His shoes were hard and they touched old bruises.
Jane fought her tears valiantly and didn’t make another sound. She watched Tom strode through her big pink and green room. The friendly floral wallpaper, the white feathery light fixture hanging from the ceiling, and the meticulously made bed were such a contrast to his nastiness.
Tom went to her writing desk, grabbed her diary, and grinned. “One day I’m gonna add something that gets you into real trouble with Dad.”
As if she’d ever put anything into that diary that didn’t align with Mom’s and Dad’s rules. And she’d trained herself to write so sloppy that he hadn’t yet figured out how to emulate her writing. So that rendered his threat useless.
For now.
Jane lowered her gaze, blinking away tears. Staring at the fluffy white circular carpet on the parquet floor with a sad expression often convinced him she was sufficiently subdued. Today too.
With her diary in his hands he turned to leave. “Room control is in ten minutes. I’d clean up if I were you.”
The door slammed behind him, and Jane looked around in panic. Was anything wrong? Did he bring in dirt? There wasn’t even a grain on the ground, so that wasn’t it. But there had to be something. She got up and searched the room in greater detail. Her heart raced as she examined every square millimeter of the room. Why couldn’t it be smaller? What had he hidden that didn’t belong?
When she lay on the ground, she saw two red lights in the darkness under the bed and let out a relieved sigh. He’d brought one of his robots. Well, she’d put it into the corridor and leave it there. That way he wouldn’t get her into trouble. Mom and Dad didn’t ever scold him for being untidy.
She shimmied forward and reached for the red eyed thing under her bed.
It hissed. Keep your fingers away from me or I’ll bite them off.
The voice sounded right inside her mind. Jane sat up and bumped her head on the bedframe. “Outch.”
Her gaze shot to the door. Had someone heard? Despite her fear of whatever sat under her bed, she peeked again. “Look,” she whispered, trying to add urgency to her voice. “I don’t care who or what you are. You need to leave right now. My parents will inspect my room in just a few minutes.”
So? They can’t hurt me. The voice sounded sullen and a little defensive.
“But me.” Jane forced the words out. Of course it wouldn’t mean anything to the creature under her bed. After all, they weren’t friends and only friends stood up for their friends, she’d heard. She couldn’t tell. She’d never had friends.
Well, it’s not like I want to be in a human’s dwelling. The scratching of claws on wood seemed to fill the room with a noise so loud that surely her parents would hear. Only inches away from her face, an emerald snout with countless gleaming white teeth grew out of the dark. It was big but not scarily so, and the red eyes seemed to look at her without malice. And Jane was good at detecting malice.
Someone chucked my egg under this, the head jerked toward the bed, so I hatched here. Are you stuck too?
“In a way.” Jane heard voices coming up the stairs and looked around frantically. “You need to hide.”
I need to leave.
“Good idea.” She jumped to her feet and ran to the French doors. They were a little hard to operate in summer, but they’d allow the creature, whatever it was, to flee before her parents reached her room. She pulled with all her strength and the right hand wing slowly eased open.
The creature was roughly the size of a grownup. A scale covered lizard with a tail, a teeth studded snout, four stumpy and clawed legs, and skin dangling from its shoulders. It rushed past her, spread emerald wings, and took off into the last rays of the sunset, just as the door to her room opened.
Had that really been a dragon? A real dragon? Jane’s heart thumped in her chest, as much from the surprise as from the knowledge that there was no way she could explain that to anyone. Least of all to her parents.
“Why is it so dark in here?” Despite her words, Mom didn’t switch on the lights. She seemed to be in a bad mood. A bruise had formed on her forehead. The usual. “And who said you could open the window?”
“I guess, you need some disciplining.” The belt slipped from Dad’s trousers with a swish that made her legs wobble. Not again. She stepped away from the open glass door as he stepped forward, rolling most of the belt around his hand, leaving the buckle to dangle.
“I just needed some fresh air,” she whispered, knowing fully well that there was no way she’d be able to escape his wrath. Already tears were running over her face.
“Don’t you remember the rules?” Mom pointed to Dad. “You have to ask your father for permission!”
Dad took another step forward, and Jane backed away some more, crying silently the whole time. “Please. I didn’t mean to. I just … I’m sorry, Dad. Please don’t hit me.” Sometimes, if she cried badly enough and begged enough, he stopped before she passed out.
Something dark shot through the open door, low to the ground and as black as night. Dad screamed as the shadow flew over his body with barely a hand-width of space between them.
The belt fell to the ground and the air suddenly smelled of urine and rust.
A bright flame shot into the air, catching the ceiling right where the light was. The feathers caught and a few seconds later, the whole ceiling was beginning to burn.
The shadow circled gracefully around Mom and came at Jane from behind. She closed her eyes, waiting for the end.
Spread your legs, the voice in her head said. Hurry. Or do you want to burn?
Although extremely surprised, Jane did as she was told. As she spread her legs, something warm and smooth and scaled slipped between them, lifting her off the ground. She opened her eyes, just as the dragon turned toward the open window. The fire was eating rapidly into the house’s wood. Tom stood in the door, staring at her and the dragon like he’d seen a ghost. Mom was dragging Dad toward safety. He seemed too stunned to realize his arm was badly mangled. Blood dropped from the hand that hung limp at his side and his trousers were wet, but he was walking.
As the dragon carried her into the mild summer night, Jane was sure her family would get out before the whole house burned down. She had no idea what the future would bring, especially with a dragon as a rescuer—or friend—but she was more than ready to face whatever the world had to offer, It couldn’t be worse that what she’d lived through already.
February 2024: Storytime Bloghop Chris Makowski – fellow author
Since I missed out on the Bloghop in autumn for the first time ever, you’ll get not one, but two #free #stories on my blog today. You’ll find even more if you follow the links below the stories.
Chris Makowski is a family man with more on his plate than he should have. It’s a wonder he can still find time to write. He’s currently revising a story in several volumes that he amicably refers to as “The Bricks”. Truth be told, I can barely wait to read them. Here’s his short story (same universe):
Eye of the Beholder
“It’s not like there’s ever a dull moment in the PGPD.” I pour Seamus another shot of the good stuff. “Last week started with a bunch of attic B&Es, the guy claims he’s making sure bats aren’t being abused. It ended with a cat ringing doorbells. Honestly, this sounds like a prank waiting for a punchline.”
“Nae, this is beyond the Port Goode Police, Arthur, more than a cat or someone busting into attics.” One swallow, and my informant’s hand shakily begs another. “I tell ye true. Go there. It nae be a prank, and if ye don’ stop it, then…” His head slowly lowers to the table and snores emerge.
I drop two bills on the table and nod at Jake. The bar’s safe enough.
Stolen: one pallet of fertilizer, a display of charcoal briquettes, every piece of chalk out of every school in Port Goode. The whole shebang landed on my desk because my partner is out on medical leave.
Lucky me.
Then again, how do you tell a straight-laced, hard-nosed detective from the great state of Washington there’s a reason we hang horseshoes over our doors?
I spin my keys and drive.
One stop for coffee, and I’m watching a warehouse only held up by old paint and rust. All the windows are broken and the sign has smeared to illegibility.
New gate lock though.
Maybe Seamus is right.
I check my piece. Wrong phase of the moon for silver.
Switch to the iron hollow points.
Near sundown, a rental truck pulls up. A short guy with a red stocking cap pops out and unlocks the gate. Hard to miss the cleaver on his belt. When he pulls in, two more guys – same cap, more sharp objects – jump out and start unloading. Red posterboard. Red cellophane.
When the warehouse door opens, my fingers tingle from all the magic leaking out, none of it good.
I’ve got the right place.
I cross the street, slip in the front door – lock’s broken anyway – call the cavalry …
Radio’s dead. Have to do this alone.
“Hey!”
Sure enough, a pallet of poop, a pile of coal, a pile of chalk, and startled redcaps looking at me – six of them, seventeen rounds means almost three each. I sight on the nearest. “As Paladin of the Pact between the Fae and the Folk, I hereby—“
Out of the shadows she flows, tall as me, with gray skin from toe to end of the leathery wings extending from her back and down her arms. A fire of red hair wraps around her, silver mail protecting her everywhere it isn’t. Her animalistic fur-covered face is a snub nose, long ears coming to a point, and a grin filled with sharp and hungry. The air crackles as her hand finds the barbed whip at her waist.
Redcaps I can handle. A Daughter of the Furies?
“—call for parley.” I quickly hold up my piece and place it on a dusty table. “Arthur Lane, Paladin of the Pact, Detective, Port Goode Police Department.” I swallow, remembering Seamus’ words. “Son of Emma Adelaide Harper and Asher James Lane.”
She hisses but waves the redcaps back. “Melantha, Daughter of Megaera. My father is unimportant.” Her whip sweeps the ground. “Amuse me, Paladin of the Pact.”
I gesture at the piles. “I don’t understand, your Magnificence—“
“Magnificence?” Her head tilts back with a cackle. “I am done with hiding behind glamour. I tire of you humans celebrating sticky romance and love conquers all – I watch your movies, read your books, all of it lies and nothing but!” She gestures to her redcaps. Three are forming heart-shaped boxes of cardboard and cellophane, and three are making candy out of chalk, charcoal, and – bile hits my mouth. “This time, your people will eat ordure, chew tastelessness, and know your shallow truth. Love is a lie. You are hereby judged and found wanting.”
“The Pact states—“
“He was human!” She spits acid. “He spurned me at a look, for all his words! I gave him the truth and he fled screaming!”
Hellfire and Roses – think Arthur, think – you can’t fight her, you can’t …
No, you can’t. But you know who can. “By the Pact, I call for Trial.”
The whip snaps. “You think to best me in combat?”
“Trial Veritas.” I keep my hands still. “You claim judgment on your evidence. I claim it to be in error.” When she comes close, I’m nodding. “Tomorrow. Jake’s. In a private room.”
“Not. You.” Her talon hovers near my nose. “A human. Unprepared, unspelled, nothing but what he is. Breakfast. When you fail, Paladin, you and yours will destroy Cupid’s Day alongside me.”
“Agreed.” I hold out a hand. Her grip nearly splinters my bones.
Outside, I find a pay phone. “Brian? Lane here. You know that guy we have in lockup?”
***
“It’ll be fine, Remy.”
He’s shaking. “I – I don’t people. People don’t – they don’t…” We gussied him up, but he still exudes nerd, dork, and geek.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s this or a year for breaking and entering.”
Then she is there, covered in a long, brown cloak with two bodyguards wearing red berets.
I rise. “Melantha, your date. Remy Hebert. Remy, Melantha.”
She sniffs the air, but there’s no magic here that wasn’t here in the first place. “Let us finish this, Arthur Lane.”
The cloak falls away. She wears nothing but herself. Bat woman.
Remy’s jaw hits the floor. “You…”
Her lips curl back.
“You – you’re – you’re beautiful … much like Diphylla ecaudata? You must be, I mean…” Stumbling, he pulls her chair out, his eyes glued to her face. “Can I? I mean, you must, but…” Blushing furiously and babbling like a schoolboy, Remy makes an absolute potato of himself, offering her this then that while filling her glass with the fine red wine I chose.
I see myself out.
***
“No idea, Chief. All the stuff is in the warehouse. No. Cash rental. Chalk it up to a prank.” I hang up the phone and make a final note in the case file.
“Send a thief to catch a thief.”
Then I change the first “thief” to “chiropterologist”.
July 2023: Storytime Bloghop Chris Makowski – fellow author
Surprise, surprise. Today, you’ll get not one, but two #free #stories on my blog. You’ll find even more if you follow the links below. Please do visit the other participants, and please leave comments. There’s nothing more rewarding that hearing from you. It means the world to us.
The Covenant
As the gate closed, shutting the maelstrom on the other side, Rupe counted quickly. Of the hundred that had set out, only three – Pista, Caram, Edda – remained, near death but determined.
In his hand, the kiehr glowed with the lives of those who had been lost. Everything else – tools, weapons, everything but the clothes on their backs was gone.
But they lived.
And wherever they were, it was raining. The forest around them remained dark and forbidding. But nothing was trying to kill them.
Yet.
“Quickly!” The others roused, their movements stiff and pained. “We must find shelter!”
He wanted to use the orb to find it. But the cost, the energy of those who had passed, would be irreplaceable. At least until they found a home here.
Randomly, he pointed. “This way!”
***
The manor was large and well-lit, even with the torrential rains falling. The three others had used tiny magics, barely enough to keep themselves dry. Even so, he felt the loss.
A flag waved forlornly on a post before the door. Thirty-seven stars on a blue field, then red and white alternating stripes.
A last hope. “We will bargain fairly, but dearly. And we will not suffer again, no matter the cost.”
Grimly, the little party marched to the front door. His fingers touched the kiehr.
I am sorry, he whispered as he took just enough magic to glamour them into finery.
Even so, he felt memories die.
***
When the door opened, a large man in stiff clothes with a face to match looked down on them. “The governor is…”
“We were called.” Rupe let his hood fall back enough to reveal his face, eyes glaring into the servant’s head. Believe me!
The man staggered. “Yes. Right this way.”
They stepped in, their spell keeping the rain and wet outdoors.
He gasped. “You – you’re not…”
“We were called,” Rupe repeated, the others pulling back their hoods, the glamour covering their shabby appearances.
His face gone white, the servant opened a double sliding door, surprising the other two men in there – one in a fine suit, the other in military garb with a sword on his hip.
Ambush? Terrified, Rupe strode in, looking from man to man. Neither had the sharp features of the Alfar. The sword remained undrawn.
“We were called. We came.” His eyes set on the soldier. “Name your bargain.”
“You?” A glass filled with amber liquid swished off the table and emptied into the man’s mouth. “I called you?”
Pista stepped forwards and put her fingers over the glass: it filled with a pale-yellow liquid. Rupe prayed none noticed the liquid came from her sleeve.
“Magic?” The soldier snatched up the glass. “Williams, close the doors.”
The servant, wide-eyed, had to be told twice before the doors shut.
And latched.
The – General? Colonel? – took a sip. “I’ve never tasted the like.”
“Bogyberry brandy,” Rupe announced. “Is your bargain for this?”
“No!” The other man circled slowly, taking in all four. In turn, each removed their cloak, allowing the full impact of the glamour to fill the room: two women of incredible beauty, two men of incalculable power.
Not four desperate people with next to nothing to their name.
“A moment.” Without an answer, the two stepped back towards the fireplace, anxiety and greed on their faces.
The papers! Edda’s voice sounded in his skull. A moment of looking at the table – papers, legal papers, and a map!
A chance.
“Power.” The two returned, avarice dripping from every pore. “We want power, power over our enemies, and power above all men!”
Might as well ask for the stars above.
Rupe turned his gaze on the soldier. “Four of us, four terms each.” Then he planted his finger onto the map, at the crux of an L-shaped land. “There. You will make there ours. You will set it aside as its own place, ruled by itself. And you will make this gift a secret from all others.”
The soldier sucked on his cheeks, but the other one nodded. “Easily done.”
Rupe waited, saying nothing.
The soldier spoke first. “I want power – political power.”
Rupe nodded.
“And power over the souls of a nation!”
Another nod.
“And I want–“
“You had your turn,” frowning, the suited man rapped the table. “I wish for my enemies to suffer. And I wish for Reconstruction to go on as planned.”
Rupe mumbled under his breath, then nodded. “Four and Four, as agreed. As best as we can provide, you will have what you ask when your part of the bargain is done.”
From nothing, a parchment with faint writing appeared. “Sign your names there. We shall make our marks.”
Too quickly, both scribbled names at the bottom. Solemnly, the four added theirs.
The parchment vanished. “The Covenant is sealed.”
As one, all four recloaked and turned toward the doors.
They passed out into the night, and it was as though they had never been.
***
“On this day, the fifteenth of March of 1870, Legislative Act 102 is hereby passed.” There was no applause. It was just another act of the Louisiana legislature, creating a new parish clawed from the parishes of Calcasieu and Vermilion. Few if any gave it more than a cursory read, forged as it was by the Governor himself, ostensibly as a favor to his friend, a paroled Colonel of the Confederacy.
Even fewer noted the asterisk in the act itself. And none paused to consider the few extra pages inserted due to that single symbol.
***
In the swamp on their land, their house built itself. Strange trees spread deep roots, their branches growing foreign fruit. Fresh water springs appeared.
His people would live.
Reverently, Rupe put the kiehr at the highest point, the better for it to pull from this land so nothing inside would be lost.
And on a wall, he hung the agreement, a thin pane of clear sap protecting it yet allowing any to read. And it was with an unsavory smile he read through the whole.
“Four and four,” he muttered to himself. “These people cannot count. And they never read the fine print.”
As the gate closed, shutting the maelstrom on the other side, Rupe counted quickly. Of the hundred that had set out, only three – Pista, Caram, Edda – remained, near death but determined.
