The Unraveling by Holly Barbo Sage Seed Chronicles #3

Erin's parents are murdered and she can sense that same malevolent energy hunting her down. With little time to grieve, Erin is forced into hiding and discovers an unusual ability she's never had before — she can talk to animals!

With the help of her new found animal companions, she eludes the killer. Disguising herself as a boy, she joins the Autumn Gathering and is able to concentrate on the questions she needs to solve: Who killed her parents? Why are they trying to kill her, too?

Quakes, storms, and murders begin plaguing Erin's world and she soon realizes that they're all connected. The fabric of her world is just beginning to unravel...

Read an excerpt over at the press’ website!

Buy the book now at: Amazon | Kobo | Smashwords Paperback soon to come!

Words from the Editor

ello! And welcome to the first issue of Paper Crane Bytes. I’m so excited about this venture. In the future, I would love to

showcase all indie talent from music, art, movies, and literature. But because everything is so fresh and new and I don’t really have any contacts outside of literature, the magazine will focus on indie authors (for now).

Originally, I wanted to sprinkle in articles of culture and entertainment and have the stories sandwiched in, but I opted not to. Entertainment and culture stories might be fun, but that’s essentially what the internet and media is all about. Besides, I don’t think I could come up with a few articles by myself nor do I know of anyone who’s a specialist in those areas to help me out. So that option, though interesting, was thrown out the window. That’s not to say that I’ll never add in some articles in relation to publication or indie entertainment/culture, but that’s definitely something for future issues. I did compromise and add in a little trivia page for fun.

So what can you expect from this quaint magazine? Emerging talent. Some of the authors might be popular in their circle and some might be new talent. Either way, the talent that’s featured within these pages are virtually unknown to the public. Some might be with a small publisher, such as me, or some might be self-publishers. But they all deserve to be read. And all the stories are entertaining.

On top of a trivia page, there’s also a Ask the Authors section. That feature will host a question that every author has to answer as a way to better know the person who might have penned your new favorite story. The From the Inkwell feature will be for authors published by Paper Crane Books. It will be semi-regular and was created as a way to feature authors published by the press without hindering space for other contributors outside of the press. Finally, the Whose Axing? feature will be devoted to grammar questions to help authors get better with their writing.

I would love for this magazine to be bi-monthly. However, if there isn’t enough authors contributing (10-15 authors per issue, on average), I’ll be forced to make this quarterly, or — egad! — semi-annual! Don’t let that happen, authors! You need to contribute!

It’s January. For most of the world, it’s cold and people are bundled up in their winter sweaters.

Snuggle up with some hot cocoa and get reading! For those experiencing summer at this time… Well, then enjoy the beach, sit back, work on your tan, and get reading! I’m sure you’ll find some fantastic new work.

Sincerely, Sheenah Freitas

Text © 2013 to their respective authors

Front cover art © 2013 Sheenah Freitas

All rights reserved. Published by Paper Crane Books. All stories published are the rights of their respective authors and are published with their permission. All stories are a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No parts of this magazine may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopoying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system--except by a reviewer to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web--without permission from the author. For any inquiries, email papercranebooks@gmail.com

Cover art resources credit: Girl photo — Geoectomy-stock (http://geoectomy-stock.deviantart.com/) | Snake photo — Jaded-reflection (http://jaded-reflection.deviantart.com/) | Azaleas — Pleple2000 via Wikimedia Commons | Chinese lanterns — epSos .de via Wikimedia Commons | Splatter brushes — FlorianHesse (http://florianhesse.deviantart.com/) | Texture — SolStock (http://solstock.deviantart.com/)

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Table of Contents

Featured: Trivia ......................................................................................... 5 Ask the Authors ....................................................................... 33 Whose Axing? .......................................................................... 35 From the Inkwell: Remembering Kindness by Michelle Franklin .................... 25 The Stories: Tin Cup by Sam Kates ............................................................ 6 The Memory Thief by John Carter ....................................... 8 The Swap by Rebecca Stroud ................................................ 10 Checkmate by James A. Anderson ....................................... 15 Nobody’s Victim by Dylan Patton ....................................... 17 Dreamweaver by J. A. Cunningham ..................................... 19

TriviaWhile

Santa’s sleigh

seems to make pit stops the

world over, he

might need to cross Saudi Arabia off his to-do list. According to law, the country bans anything and everything having to do with Christmas, including putting up Christmas lights and trees.

Elvis was a big Monty Python fan. His favorite film was The Holy Grail. It was in his video recorder when he died.

The notorious Roman

emperor Nero was also a wannabe musician. He employed 5,000 knights and soldiers to accompany him on his concert tours just to applaud his brilliant lyre-playing skills.

Tin Cup By: Sam Kates

hat morning, the man did not pass the beggar by.

Every other morning on his way to the office, the man strode purposefully past the doorway where the beggar plied his pitiful trade. Every other morning, the man gazed at a fixed point in the distance or at the snarled traffic or at his watch; anywhere other than at the beggar. Every other morning, the man imagined that he felt the beggar’s rebuking stare lance into him with burning barbs of reproach and sighed inwardly with relief when the beggar did not accost him. Every other morning, the man spent the first hours in the office nagged by a vague sense of shame, like an itch that cannot be scratched.

But not that morning. The man had tried taking a different route from

the railway station to his office to circumvent the doorway where the beggar invariably sat, his tin cup proffered in mute appeal. But the man quickly discovered that he could rely upon the beggar’s presence with far more confidence than he could rely upon the trains’ punctuality. The regular delays meant that he was unable to reach the office in time

for the daily round of telephone calls, meetings, sales reviews, new product talks and other drudge without taking the most direct route from the station; not unless he arrived panting and sheened with perspiration. The man preferred the feeling of guilt to fatigue.

So each day he alighted from the train with the rest of the commuter throng and made his way out of the station and past the beggar.

The beggar was a man of indeterminate age and size, swaddled as he was, come rain, shine or snow, in an all-embracing dingy overcoat beneath which he huddled as though it provided a buffer against the harsh realities of life. His head was without fail smothered in a grubby, khaki balaclava from which poked grizzled, stubbly cheeks. The beggar’s eyes were his only bright feature, mournful though the expression they habitually wore. They peered at the world in still supplication but with little hope that the world would sympathise.

At times when the man’s defences were low, when he was distracted or tired, he caught himself staring at the beggar as he approached the doorway. It was always the beggar’s hands that drew his scrutiny. Clad in woollen gloves that only covered the palms, fingers protruding like gnarled roots, they clutched his collecting cup in his lap. This mug was hewn from battered tin, flakes of azure paint clinging stubbornly to its dented sides here and there hinting at its former glory. If there was anything that encapsulated the beggar in the man’s mind, it was the cup: a once proud vessel fallen far from grace.

On those occasions when the man momentarily dropped his guard and allowed himself to gaze at the beggar, and at the tin cup, he mentally shook himself and hurriedly turned his regard elsewhere.

But not that morning. That morning as he approached the beggar, the

man halted. He had not planned to stop; he did not know why he did.

The previous evening, the man had been for a drink with work colleagues. This was not a regular occurrence for the man usually preferred his own company. He surprised himself by accepting the half-hearted invitation and immediately regretted his rashness upon entering the noisy, smoky atmosphere of the pub. He sipped at his glass of cloudy beer and quickly faded from the conversation. His colleagues did not notice when he

Image © Ben Earwicker Garrison Photography, Boise, ID

www.garrisonphoto.org

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T I N C U P B Y S A M K A T E S

slipped from his seat and started to work his way through the evening drinkers. Gaining the door, the man remembered his unfinished drink still clutched in his hand and paused to finish it. As he tilted his head back to reach the dregs, his glance alit upon the flashing lights of a fruit machine. Ever cautious and spendthrift by nature, the man avowed to spend no more than one pound as he approached the gaudy allure of the machine.

It was his lucky night. He won the jackpot with that first pound coin and had accumulated more than twenty pounds by the time he hit the button marked ‘collect’. The machine begrudgingly spewed his winnings from its guts, spitting out the coins as though they were tainted. The man did not mind. Moving quickly, greedily, he scooped out the small mountain of coins from the tray and deposited them with his other change in a pocket of his jacket as he left the pub.

That morning, the coins were still there. Upon arriving home the night before, he had every intention of emptying his pocket into the old whisky bottle in which he kept loose change. But, whether through absentmindedness or design, he omitted to do so. Maybe it was their weight dragging on his jacket and bumping against his hip that made him stop before the beggar. Perhaps it was the jangling noise they made as they clinked together that lulled him into dropping his guard. Whichever, or for some other reason entirely, stop he did.

He took a pace forward to escape the inexorable flow of humanity, then stood and looked down at the beggar.

The beggar’s eyes fluttered up, briefly. The man had time to notice that they were the faded colour of washed-out sky before the beggar cast his gaze back down.

The man reached into his bulging jacket pocket and fished out a pound coin. Tentatively, he stooped and dropped the coin into the tin cup that lay cradled in the beggar’s stinking hands upon his shapeless lap.

The coin hit the bottom of the cup with a dull clang. It flipped over once or twice with a tinny resonance and was still. The beggar did not move.

The man stared at the cup, his expression changing, becoming filled with something approaching awe. He was suddenly oblivious to the

hubbub of the rush-hour city. Slowly, reverentially, he brought his hand back to his pocket and removed more coins. Once more, he stooped and dropped the coins, three of them, into the tin cup.

As the metallic cacophony died, virtually no sooner than it had started, tears sprang to the man’s eyes and his breath came in short gasps.

Moving quickly now, the man thrust his hand into his pocket and removed as many coins as he could grasp. Pound coins, silver coins, copper coins, into the tin cup they went, and he paused only to hear the sound of their reverberation. Then another handful followed and another . . . and the mug was brimming with money.

The man removed his hand from his pocket for the last time, clutching the meagre few coins that were left from his hoard. He patted his empty pocket and his shoulders sagged. He bent and deposited the coins on top of their fellows. The cup was now too full to echo.

The beggar did not move as the man filled the tin cup with more money than he normally collected in a week. But as the man straightened, the beggar

glanced up and their gazes met once more. This time, the beggar did not look away.

The man froze, only half risen to his feet. An onlooker might have thought his back had

seized. The man’s eyes grew wide and tears ran unheeded down his cheeks.

He reached slowly forward, his eyes never leaving the other’s face, and gently laid his hands upon the beggar’s. Softly he squeezed those dirty, bark-textured fingers. Tenderly he caressed the cold rim of the battered tin cup.

At last the beggar spoke. His voice was soft and gentle as a sigh.

“God bless you, sir.” The man nodded. He straightened his back,

turned and walked away from the beggar, wiping his cheeks as he went.

By the time he reached his office, the man was whistling.

Sam Kates lives in the UK. Tin Cup is the first short story he ever wrote. He has since written many more, ten of which have been collected for the Kindle in Pond Life. His first novel, The Village of Lost Souls, will shortly be published on Amazon.

To find more works published by Sam, please visit his Amazon Author Page at: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sam-Kates/e/B0094X0XTW/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

The coin hit the bottom of the cup with a dull clang. It flipped over once or twice with

a tinny resonance and was still.

The Memory Thief

By John Carter

he fragile pane shattered, covering the floor in uneven layers of irregular debris. Despite the violence of the act, the sound was

muffled and drew no attention. A shadowy hand snaked through the treacherous opening, careful to avoid the remaining glass.

A flick of a simple thumb lock disabled the old home’s final defense, the door creaking in protest at the unauthorized access.

Shards from the ruined window crunched and reduced to powder beneath heavy boots. The tired linoleum was split, gouged, and torn in places by the weight pressing down on the larger chunks of glass. The man didn’t notice, nor did he care about the damage. His purpose singular, he passed through the kitchen moving deeper into the residence.

He paused briefly at an open doorway listening to the sounds of the house. Floors creaked. Pipes ticked. He absorbed those noises. They became part of him—something to be ignored. Those sounds belonged to an empty house. Those noises held nothing to fear.

The noises of habitation, however, would drive him from this place without hesitation. He was not a fighter. He was a thief, an opportunist. And he was careful.

He stood motionless a while longer letting his ears confirm what his eyes could not see. He was alone.

The dim light from the clock on the stove weakly illuminated his shadowy form. Black attire blended seamlessly with the shadows obscuring him

from view. The hood on his jacket concealed his face, only a vague outline visible in the void.

Satisfied that no person or beast lurked around the corner, he glided from the kitchen and into the living room. The odor of family hung heavily in the air. Each house was different, but the odor of family was always the same. It clung to the walls like scented vines, an unidentifiable mix of flavors; a safe and secure smell. He unconsciously smiled as his own sour odor mingled with the fresher aroma and tainted the room as he passed through.

He again stopped and surveyed his surroundings. A well-worn sofa stood against the near wall, its cushions molded to the family it supported. Stains dappled the thread bare fabric, each spot marking an event: a boy’s new puppy leaping into his lap and spilling his drink; a dancing couple knocking into the end table tipping the glass of wine on its surface. It stood in sharp contrast to the furniture he possessed. While worn, this sofa was cared for. The stains had been addressed and tended. No cigarette burns dotted the fabric. He wished he had furniture like this, but he hunted smaller more portable game.

Angry at himself for losing focus, he snatched the pillows and cushions from their places, scattering them across the living room floor. He pulled a small knife from his pocket and violently slashed the thin fabric. If he could not possess this thing, he could, at least, deprive this family from enjoying it. The change he found concealed beneath the cushions was merely a bonus. He collected it greedily and shoved it into his pockets.

He forced himself to calm down. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to get worked up over a stupid sofa. Breathing more evenly, he moved to the bookshelf on the other wall. Experience had taught him that books were a wonderful place to hide valuables. If nothing else, people were predictable. He snatched the books from their shelves and flipped through each, tossing them on the floor as he finished. Bookmarks and children’s drawings fluttered from the pages to the carpet. Several hundred dollar bills fluttered from the pages to his pocket. He continued his search, removing a copy of A Christmas Carol. Finding nothing of value, he dropped the book and moved on. The beloved volume clattered to the top of the newly made pile. Shelves now empty, he moved to another part of the room. He stepped on the Dickens classic. The

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T H E M E M O R Y T H I E F B Y J O H N C A R T E R

spine cracked. His dirty boot print marred the title page and the loving inscription it contained.

And the home weakened. Above the fireplace, a silver frame held a

moment in time captive on the mantel. The couple in the photo laughed, lost in love. He cared nothing for such things. The silver held value so the frame was quickly tossed into his bag. He would dispose of the photo and the memory after he was safely away. He never kept anything from the homes he invaded. Everything was assigned a value and liquidated as quickly as possible. He preferred having nothing in his possession that might tie him to his crimes.

Room by room he scoured the house adding to the devastation he wreaked upon these unknown souls. Room by room, item by item, he drained the happiness and security this home had always known.

And the home weakened. Driven by greed, his thefts did not discriminate.

Medals earned in a hard fought war were ripped from their display and unceremoniously dumped into his bag. The bright-colored ribbons stood in sharp contrast to the dark medals that hung from their ends. He barely noticed. Beauty was not something he recognized. A grandfather’s sacrifices pawned for change. A grandfather’s valor traded for cash. Such noble concepts were lost on him.

The awards slid to the bottom of the satchel. They clinked against a wife’s wedding band. The symbol of love and unity now tarnished by his hands, reduced to the value of the gems and metal it contained. A day of birth, a moment of commitment ruined. His touch shriveled the good thoughts contained in the ring; his very presence a cancer eating away at the memories within.

And the home weakened. And so it went. The memory thief continued

his campaign. No one was spared. Father, mother, children — generations of memories removed and placed in his sack until he could carry no more. Birthday wishes. Christmas presents. Memories of youth and love. Thoughts of loss and lessons learned. With a final look around, he retraced his steps and exited the residence, his shadowy form blending with the night.

Floors creaked. Pipes ticked. And the home weakened.

Headlights washed across the windows of the house illuminating the invaded spaces within. The family hurried to the safety they assumed waited behind the bright red front door. The husband had painted it to match his wife’s flower boxes years ago. It had been a good day. That door had come to symbolize the happiness this family shared and the safety this house provided from what could be a cruel world. The trials and tribulations of the day faded with the knowledge that they would soon enjoy the comfort of their home. The man and woman held hands as they walked up the steps. Their children ran from the car to the door.

And their world shattered. Instead of warmth, they discovered the cold

truth. Instead of comfort, they found despair. The home had been violated. Their memories had been taken, spirited away into the night.

Happy thoughts soured as realization took hold. Their home was now merely a house, the shelter and security it offered gone; their memories twisted and broken. Things could be and would be replaced. Safety and security could not. Their lives would forever be altered by a person they likely

would never meet. Tears fell. Sadness turned

to anger. Anger turned to fear. The wounds too severe, the

home died. The family moved on. They would start again

in a new house. They would attempt to make a new home. It would not be easy. They could not forget.

And he wanted more. Glass shattered. Memories faded. He did not understand nor did he care that he stole more from his victims than merely things. He stole their lives. He took their security. He harvested their dreams. Things are more than mere objects. They collect and hold thoughts and feelings. They are triggers for long forgotten moments, mementos of the past, hopes for the future. He holds more power than he knows. He does more damage than he realizes. He is opportunistic. He is the memory thief.

My name is John Carter. I’m not from Mars and yes a movie did just come out with my name. I’m an attorney who started writing to escape from all the rules and regulations that go along with practicing law. I’m married with one little girl and live in the small town of Macon, Georgia. I have published two children’s books in the Eli Arnold and the Keys to Forever series and am currently working on two other projects.

To find more published work by John Carter, please visit his Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/John-Carter/e/B0083I5WTU/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

The wounds too severe, the home died.

he wap

By: Rebecca Stroud

aren Taylor rounded the curve of the bike path and stopped dead in her tracks.

Bent over, hands on knees, she gulped the freezing air. An onlooker may have thought the pretty young woman was simply winded. Too much exercise on a frigid morning.

But Karen was fine. Born and raised in Minnesota, what passed for winter in Florida only made her homesick. So, on this rare icy January day, she had started her run with zest, grateful for the crisp bite of the breeze.

What prompted her sudden halt was simply that she'd seen a ghost.

Emerging from the park's pine-lined lane to the grassy meadow on the lake's shore, Karen saw her dead dog. Stricken last year by a stroke at the ripe young age of seven, her beloved Shiloh had died in her arms and she grieved his death like that of a child's.

Yet there he was . . . connected by a leash to the hand of one of the most beautiful men she'd ever seen. Karen gulped more air and slowly approached the pair.

The man was staring at the water and did not notice her; the dog stood stock-still and met her eyes.

Karen cleared her throat. “Excuse me, but could I please talk to your dog?”

Tom Matthews flinched, then pivoted at the intrusive voice with its ludicrous question and found himself looking at an incredibly striking woman.

“I'll be damned. That's a new one.” He shrugged and smiled. “But sure, go ahead. His name is Max.”

Karen knelt and, as she ran her hands through the long hair of the Belgian shepherd, she recounted Shiloh's story. Then she started crying.

“Oh, God, I'm sorry. I'm so embarrassed.” She got to her feet. “I'll go now. And thanks a lot for not laughing at me, Mr….?”

They introduced themselves. Tom's gaunt, chiseled features were sober and sad; Karen's face was streaked with tears. Yet, without realizing it, they started to walk slowly. Talking with an animation neither knew had been missing too long from the other's life.

Four hours later, they parted ways.

* * * She couldn't get him out of her mind. Karen was new to Orlando. And she was

lonesome. An only child of only children, her parents had died two years ago in a fiery car crash. Then Shiloh died. With no loved ones left, she'd taken her small inheritance and headed south in an attempt to escape her sorrowful memories.

But now, she thought, maybe she had found a friend along with an eerie replica of her deceased dog.

Karen passed the day in a worried daze, tossing around 'what ifs' like confetti. What if Tom was married? What if he had a girlfriend? What if he was gay? What if he found her weird? Otherwise, why hadn't he asked to see her again?

Wrapped in a blanket, Karen rocked back and forth on the porch swing and wondered.

* * *

He couldn't get her out of his mind. Tom Matthews sat before a crackling fire and

massaged his temples. He had a splitting headache, wishing like hell he hadn't gone out to the lake this morning. He needed no more complications in his life.

K

Photo By Pleple2000

T H E S W A P B Y R E B E C C A S T R O U D

Max watched him intently. Sensing his distress, he licked Tom's shoe.

“Oh, Maxie boy. What're we going to do?” Tom heard a snort from behind him.

“Talking to the dog again? You're really a whack job, Tom. You know that?”

He made no effort to turn around. “Yeah, you're right,” he mumbled to his wife and continued to stare at the fire.

Marianne Matthews gave a harsh laugh as she left the room.

“'Til death do us part. What a damn shame.” Tom sighed and thought of Karen Taylor.

* * * After a few times of trial and error—she too

early, he too late—they met like clockwork every morning by unspoken design. Man, woman, and dog soon became inseparable for two short hours each day.

Walking and talking, greedily digging deep into each other's psyche, they peeled away protective layers of personal information until they were bared to the bone. Pretending they weren't—but knowing they were—falling a little in love. Karen holding out the tiniest hope for a future with this married man; Tom knowing without a doubt that they were doomed.

Three weeks after their first meeting, Max came to the park alone.

* * *

The dog was waiting patiently at the appointed

time and place. Karen shivered and stroked his head. And she

knew her life was about to change in a profound way.

Driving Max to the address found on his tags, Karen tried to tunnel vision in a vain attempt to keep fear from consuming her.

She walked up the broad steps of the colonial estate with a hurting heart that silently collapsed when she was told Tom had died the night before. Tail tucked between his legs, Max padded into the house.

Standing in dumbfounded silence as the minister quietly thanked her for coming, Karen heard a woman shriek from another room.

“Get that filthy creature out of here! Jesus, I can't wait until he's gone, too!”

Choking on stunned tears, Karen stumbled backwards and fled.

* * *

The next morning, Karen headed for the park.

The air was frigid. Like my soul, she thought. She had read Tom's obituary and learned that

he'd been ill for some time. Yet he'd never given her any indication whatsoever. Now her mind was torn to ribbons of grief and anger and guilt. They had become so close, why hadn't he told her? Then again, maybe that was exactly why he hadn't.

Karen walked slowly, unshed tears stinging her eyes, and almost fainted when she saw the dog. He came to her in a desperate run—whining and nuzzling—and she was bereft at what she had to do.

Knocking on the great oak door, Karen looked down at Max and said, “I'm so sorry.”

* * *

Marianne Matthews was a

high-heeled bitch and told Karen in no uncertain terms that Max would be chained in the back yard from now on.

Karen was aghast. “Why would you do that??” “I hate the thing. Always have. Maybe he'll get

tons of ticks and bleed to death.” Tom's widow grinned at her. “Besides, who the hell are you anyway that you're so interested in the mutt?”

Karen told her she'd seen Max and Tom in the park on a few occasions and pleaded with the woman to allow her to take the dog. That she'd give him a good home.

Marianne Matthews looked thoughtfully at Max, frowned, then slammed the door in Karen's face.

* * *

The unpacked boxes that had littered every

room of her rental house were now stacked neatly in the foyer. Karen was going home.

He came to her in a desperate run — whining and nuzzling — and she was bereft

at what she had to do.

T H E S W A P B Y R E B E C C A S T R O U D

Be careful what you wish for, she thought as she realized she wanted no more of being a stranger in a strange land. At least in Minnesota, she'd be grounded on familiar soil, better able to cope alone.

The van was ready for the journey and so was she. Opening the garage door, preparing to load up and head out, she stopped dead in her tracks . . .

Bounding down the street—a foot of chain dragging behind him—Max almost knocked her over. And for the first time since hearing of Tom's death, Karen felt a twinge of rekindled hope.

Wasting no time, she removed the dog's collar with its attached tags and chain, then threw the whole mess into the garbage. Max sat patiently, watching her every move.

After quickly piling the boxes in the back of the van, Karen opened the vehicle's front door and said, “Let's go, boy."”

Needing no further incentive, Max leaped onto the passenger seat. Karen scurried to the driver's side, jumped behind the wheel, hugged the dog, and left Orlando without a backward glance.

As she drove onto I-75, Max was already sound asleep and Karen sighed in what was close to contentment. Knowing that Tom was smiling down at her—his arm wrapped lovingly around Shiloh—she whispered, “They're home, Max. Soon, we will be, too.”

A former newspaper reporter/columnist, Rebecca Stroud currently writes short stories, novellas, and novels. In addition, she has recently taken on the task of editing for those who need a polished product at an affordable price.

An avid animal lover, Rebecca lives in Florida with her beloved husband, their precocious young mutt, and the spirit of their adored border-collie mix.

To find more published works by Rebecca Stroud, please visit her Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Rebecca-Stroud/e/B00460RZMQ/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

Checkmate By: James A. Anderson

harles Gordon busily cleans out his desk when he hears a noise from the corridor outside his office.

It is about 8 p.m. on the last day of June. Gordon , principal of Wiltshire Private School, walks over to his open door and peers into the outer office. Nothing.

“Who’s there?” he asks. “Anyone out there?” Again, nothing but silence. After a few moments, he returns to his desk.

Hmmm. I could have sworn I heard something. He looks up again at the doorway and sees the

figure of a man in a black raincoat. “Who are you? What are you doing here at this

time of night?” snaps Gordon. “Mr. Charles Gordon?” says the voice. “Yes. I am Charles Gordon and I demand you

identify yourself immediately before I call the police.”

“There’s no need for that, Mr. Gordon. I came to see you about my son.”

“If it’s about registration for next term, I’m afraid I cannot help you. Registration is not until September 4. You will have to come back then and see the new principal. I will be retired after tonight.”

“Yes, I know about your retirement. I was present at your testimonial earlier this evening. That was quite a moving speech you delivered.”

“Well, thank you, Mr....” “Lord. Steven Lord,” replies the stranger. Gordon smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Lord. I

appreciate that, but I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave. I have a lot of packing to do before catching a 12:30 a.m. plane.”

Lord moves closer to Gordon. “Mr. Gordon, I came to see about my son, Peter, a former student here at Wiltshire.”

A look of puzzlement comes over Gordon’s face as he tries to connect the name. “A former student you say? Let me think for a moment.”

Gordon takes several seconds in deep thought. “Lord. Peter Lord. Of course, now I remember. Two months ago, Peter Lord, the son of Steven

Lord, the film actor, was expelled from Wiltshire for thievery. I am afraid you have made a wasted journey, Mr. Lord, if you have come in an effort to have Peter reinstated at Wiltshire. Your son was a constant source of trouble from the day he arrived here.

“We managed to overlook his other misdemeanors and discipline him accordingly, but thievery was just too much. Stealing money from his fellow students is simply unpardonable for a school of Wiltshire’s stature. I had no other choice but to have him expelled.”

Lord angrily replies: “Did you also have to release the story to the press?” He pulls out a newspaper from beneath his coat and throws it down on the desk. “That is only a sample of what one newspaper said. The poor kid was ruined! Is that how you get publicity for your damn school?”

Gordon picks up the newspaper, glancing at the headline. “I was as sorry as you were that the newspapers got hold of this unfortunate business, Mr. Lord. I can assure you I certainly did not release it to the press. Publicity of this kind is certainly not what we want for our school. We have had several other expulsions over the past 15 years and every one of them was handled with complete discretion.

“There are any number of ways which the press might have got hold of the story, but I certainly had nothing to do with it. In any case, I’m sure the stories did not ruin your son’s life. There are numerous other schools he could attend.”

“Since he was sent home, he has been in a constant depressed state.”

“Perhaps it is a good thing he was sent home to spend more time with you. He rarely spoke of you and you never came up to visit him at the school. I must confess, Mr. Lord, this is the first time I have seen you. I am afraid I have little time for the theatrical world.”

“My job rarely lets me remain at home for long. There was simply no way for Peter and I to cultivate a normal father-son relationship because of my work. The life at Wiltshire was his life and without it life was simply not worth living for him.”

“You talk as if your son were...” “Dead? Yes, Mr. Gordon.” “My God! When?” “Seven days ago. I came home about 3 p.m.

and found him in his bedroom — hanging. He even left a note apologizing for bringing shame to my name.”

C

C H E C K M A T E B Y J A M E S A . A N D E R S O N

“I am deeply sorry for your loss, Mr. Lord.” “Are you really sorry? Doesn’t it bother your

conscience to know that you killed my son?” “Killed your son? Believe me, Mr. Lord, I am

deeply sorry for what has happened, but your son took his own life. I am only sorry that I didn’t recognize that he had a mental disturbance. Psychiatric treatment might have prevented this tragedy.”

Lord slams his fist down on the desk. “You’re all alike, your kind! Trying to absolve your sins and ease your conscience by using madness as an excuse. It was YOU who forced him to take his own life! You are his murderer, Mr. Gordon! It is YOU who must pay for his death.”

Afraid at Lord’s growing anger, Gordon reaches for his telephone on the desk.

Lord suddenly brandishes a gun. “Touch that telephone and I will shoot you now!”

A sense of fear overwhelms Gordon, making his legs feel wobbly. “Please, Mr. Lord...Put away that gun...You don’t know what you are doing.”

“I know very well what I am doing,” replies Lord.

“You won’t get away with it. The police will quickly find out it was you who killed me.”

“I rather doubt that, Mr. Gordon. Your death will simply be regarded as a suicide. You just could not face the idea of retirement.”

“But that’s crazy! Even though my retirement is compulsory, everyone knows I have been looking forward to it. I’ve devoted my entire life to education and now I am ready for a well-earned vacation.”

A small smile comes to Lord’s lips. “That’s what everyone thinks about you on the surface, but after they find your suicide note, they will realize how disturbed you really were about your retirement — so disturbed that you took your own life.”

“What suicide note are you talking about?” “Why the one you are going to write just

before I kill you.” “You must be out of your mind. Do you really

think I am going to write you a suicide note?” “I think you will. You are a smart man, Mr.

Gordon. Smart enough to realize that I am going to kill you regardless of whether or not you write a suicide note. If you don’t cooperate, I shall kill you instantly and just write the note on your computer

and leave it there. True, it is a poor substitute for the real thing and it might not convince the police, but I am prepared to take that risk. On the other hand, if you cooperate you will be buying precious time for yourself. Who knows what could happen

during that time it takes you to write that note? Well, Mr. Gordon the choice is yours — die now, or cooperate and live a

little longer. Perhaps someone will show up to thwart my plan.”

Lord places the gun against his temple. Gordon feels the cold steel pressing against his head. “All right....I’ll do as you ask.”

“Now you are being sensible.” Lord reaches into the pocket of his raincoat and produces a piece of paper which he lays on the desk in front of Gordon. He hands Gordon a pen. “Everything is typed on that paper. All you have to do is copy onto another sheet of paper and sign your name.”

Gordon nods nervously and begins copying the note, periodically stopping to stare up at the gun pointing towards him. When he finishes, he signs it and pushes it towards Lord.

“Thank you. Now I’m afraid it is time for me to finish what I came here to do.”

Lord again places the barrel of the gun against Gordon’s temple. Gordon feels stark terror. I am going to die. I’ve got to do something. He sees Lord’s finger slowly tightening on the trigger.

“Wait!” “ I’m sorry, Mr. Gordon. There is no time for

further delay. I have a plane to catch back to Los Angeles.”

Gordon gathers up all his inner strength to stay calm. “No! You must wait! That note will not do you any good.”

Perplexed, Lord removes the gun from Gordon’s head. “Why not?”

“Because I am ambidextrous. I use one hand for writing all the time. I wrote your note with my right hand. How do you know that is the hand I always use to write with? If I am killed, the police will have the note analyzed to determine whether I wrote it. Now by comparing it with other writing, they will be able to learn which hand I used to write this note. If it is different than the one I normally use, they will know I was forced to write it. They will know I was murdered.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“You talk as if your son were…” “Dead? Yes, Mr. Gordon.”

C H E C K M A T E B Y J A M E S A . A N D E R S O N

“Am I? Here is the note written by my left hand.” He hurriedly scribbles the note using his left hand.

“When you wrote that note you would automatically use the usual hand.”

“Would I? Can you be sure?” “This is just an afterthought, a last desperate

attempt to save your life.” “Can you afford to take that chance? I believe

we have reached a stalemate, Mr. Lord,” Gordon says confidently.

Lord stares at him for a few seconds then jams the gun against his head again. “You’re bluffing! Do you hear me? You’re bluffing! Trying to weasel your way out of your crimes. Trying to avoid your punishment. You are responsible for my son’s death. Murderer! You killed my Mitch. This is his revenge.”

“Mitch? But your son’s name is Peter. Why did you refer to him as Mitch?”

“Stop it! You’re just trying to confuse me. It’s another trick.”

“No, it’s not another trick. For God’s sake, don’t shoot. You said I killed your Mitch. Why did you say Mitch when his name is Peter?”

Lord had a puzzled look on his face. “Mitch...Peter...I...I don’t know.” He puts his hand to his head and moves away from the desk in a trance-like state. “Everything is so dizzy! My head feels like it is going to explode.”

“What is wrong, Mr. Lord?” asks Gordon. “Lord?...Lord?...My head hurts so much...so

much.” Lord stumbles to a nearby chair and flops into it. Soon he slowly raises his head and stares, perplexed at his surroundings. “Where...Where am I?”

“Mr. Lord! Mr. Lord! Are you all right?” Lord looks straight at Gordon with a puzzled

expression. “My...My...name is not Lord.” “What?” says Gordon suspiciously. “Well who

are you?” “Ray...Ray Johnstone. But where am I? This

isn’t the library.” “The library,” answers Gordon even more

confused. “This is Wiltshire School for Boys.” “Wiltshire… I...I...I don’t understand. How did

I get here?”

“Don’t you remember why you came here or what happened here?”

“Everything is so hazy. I only remember sitting in the library reading some old newspapers. I...I don’t know how I got here.”

“Where is this library you are talking about?” “At the hospital of course. I’m a patient there.

I’ve been a patient there for such a long time. The doctors say I am very sick.”

“What hospital is this?” “Mount Haven.” “Mount Haven Psychiatric Hospital. You’re a

patient there?” Lord nods. “It’s such a nice place. So peaceful

and tranquil.” “Mr. Johnstone, do you know what illness the

doctors are treating you for?” “It’s such a big word. I cannot pronounce it.

They call it schiz...schiz-something.” “Schizophrenia.” “Yes. That’s it.” “I think I understand what has happened, Mr.

Johnstone. Was Mitch your son?” Lord breaks down sobbing. “It was all my fault.

I drove him to it. I murdered him.” “That’s the source of your trouble, Mr.

Johnstone. You have a deep guilty conscience about your son’s death. This driving guilt has caused you to take on two personalities. Whenever you come across a case or incident resembling what happened to

your son, you become a part of that case and transfer your guilt to another personality. You said you were reading old issues of newspapers. Undoubtedly you read about the Lord case and because it resembles your own situation, you became absorbed in the details and eventually became Steven Lord. Do you know that you came here to kill me tonight for expelling your son?”

“Kill you?” Lord looks down at the gun he is holding.

“You can put the gun away now. No one is going to harm you.”

Lord puts the gun away in his raincoat pocket. Gordon moves closer to him and grabs his

arm. “You came here as Steven Lord intent on killing me because you were mistakenly linking the death of your real son with the expulsion of the

“You’re bluffing! Do you hear me? You’re bluffing! Trying to weasel your way out of your crimes. Trying to avoid your punishment. You are responsible for my

son’s death. Murderer!”

C H E C K M A T E B Y J A M E S A . A N D E R S O N

Lord boy two months ago in order to eradicate your guilt complex.”

“I still don’t understand. I tried to kill you?” “Believe me I’m not a psychiatrist, but I do

have a degree in psychology and I know you can definitely be helped if you return to Mount Haven.”

“But I have been there such a long time...” “These things take a long time. You must go

back there if you are to be cured. Do you understand?” Gordon glances at his watch. “I would drive you there myself if I could, but I simply must catch a 12:30 flight and I only have a little more than 90 minutes to finish packing. Do you think you can get back to the hospital on your own? After all, you came here on your own.”

“I will be okay if you would just call me a taxi.” “Certainly.” Gordon starts to pull the

telephone closer but suddenly hesitates to pick it up. Instead he pushes the phone back towards Lord/Johnstone and hands him a phone book. “I would prefer you call them yourself.”

“Fine,” says Lord/Johnstone who flips through the Yellow Pages for a taxi cab number and calls for one. “They say one of their cabs is in the area and they’ll radio him here in a few minutes.”

“Will you need any money?” asks Gordon. Lord/Johnstone checks his pockets. “I only

have $5.” “Here’s some extra for taxi fare.” Gordon

hands him a $20 bill. Lord/Johnstone produces the gun and asks:

“What should I do with this?” “Well, I certainly have no use for it. Put it back

in your pocket and when you get back to the hospital give it to a nurse or doctor. By the way, who is your doctor at Mount Haven?”

“Doctor Barnes.” Gordon glances out the window and sees a cab

pulling to the curb. “Your taxi is here, Mr.

Johnstone.” “I want to thank you for everything you’ve

done. I’m sorry about any trouble I’ve caused. I didn’t mean to harm anybody.”

“That’s quite all right. I understand. Goodbye, Mr. Johnstone. I hope you will be able to leave the hospital a cured man in the near future.”

Lord/Johnstone silently exits from the room leaving Gordon all alone. Gordon quietly goes to the window to watch his assailant get into the cab. He then moves away from the window and lets out a deep sigh of relief. What an ordeal and what a close call he had. He pulls out a handkerchief and mops his brow. Glancing at his watch again, he returns to the job of packing the items on his desk. Suddenly he stops what he is doing.

Poor fellow. He is going to be in that hospital a long time.

Gordon then reaches for the phone book and looks up a number. Then he proceeds to dial with his RIGHT hand.

“Hello....Mount Haven Hospital?” he speaks into the phone. “May I speak with a Doctor Barnes please? Barnes. B-A-R-N-E-S… But you must have a Doctor Barnes on your staff. I was talking to one of his patients tonight. It is imperative that I speak to him about this patient. The patient’s name is Raymond Johnstone. A chronic schizophrenic. Don’t be absurd! You must have a patient there by the name of Johnstone. Hello? Hello!” Gordon bangs the receiver several times. He has been cut off.

Gordon hears a noise in the doorway and turns to look. He sees Lord entering the room carrying the gun. Gordon is petrified. “Oh my God, no! Please!”

Lord walks slowly toward Gordon with a smile of satisfaction. “The right hand! You used your right hand. Checkmate, Mr. Gordon. Checkmate. The game is mine.”

James A. Anderson is a retired journalist and graduate of McMaster University in Hamilton, Ontario. He lives in London, Ontario, Canada with his wife Sherry and two basenjis, Remba and Wakili. They have two married children, Mike and Amanda and four grandchildren, Katie, Trevor, Megan and Leah.

James A. Anderson is also the author of the best-selling thriller DEADLINE (2010).

To find more published works by James A. Anderson, please visit his Lulu page: http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/janderson003

Nobody's Victim By: Dylan Patton

isa sighed deeply as she stepped out of the shower. Nothing ends a day perfectly like a hot, relaxing shower. Lisa could feel the

stress flowing out. Being a nurse is a blessing and a curse. She liked that she was able to help take care of the sick. She hated the long hours and terrible pay. It angered her when she heard celebrities bitch about how little they make.

“Those Hollywood born, cry-babies wouldn't last a day in my world.” she would say.

She dried herself off and brushed her hair. She was heading to bed so she wasn't too worried about making it look beautiful. She hung the towel to dry and headed to her bedroom. She entered her bedroom and sighed.

“What should I wear to bed?” she wondered out loud.

She went to her dresser and pulled out a red, silk nightie. She slid it on and sighed. The silk felt good against her bare skin. She stretched then he walked to her bed and pulled back the covers. She climbed into her bed. Her eyes became heavy as soon as her head hit the pillow. Before she knew it, she was drifting off to sleep.

* * * *

Ryan soared through the night sky. The clouds

hid the full moon. Ryan navigated through the sky easily. He was the perfect hunter. He could navigate any landscape with no trouble. Currently in bat form, he was the perfect hunter of the skies. In human form, he was the perfect hunter of any ground he chose.

Tonight he was on the hunt for his latest victim. He preferred the blood of a woman. But if he was hungry enough, he would claim a man for the night. Or if a man was being an arrogant ass, Ryan would feed off of him to teach him a lesson.

Last night, Ryan chose a woman coming out of a club. He was almost caught by some of her friends. So tonight, he decided to prey upon a woman at her home. He would choose a woman

home alone. She would be easy and defenseless, the perfect prey. He was in no hurry. Tonight he wanted a beautiful woman, someone that would make his hunt worth while. It made no sense to grab the first human he saw. Ryan appreciated the thrill of the hunt.

Ryan paused as he sensed his prey. It was a female, sleeping peacefully. Although he was up in the air, his heightened hearing told him she was content in her slumber. He could also sense that she was slightly aroused. Why she didn't pleasure herself confused him. Ryan smiled as he began his descent. Perhaps he could get her to pleasure herself while he fed.

“She will do nicely.” he growled softly. He followed her scent to a two-story yellow

house. It was late at night, so there was no one out on the streets. Ryan had no worries about being spotted. He descended further down to an open window. He glided in easily. He assumed his human form and landed into the woman's bedroom.

He was short and stocky. Ryan knew he didn't look like those ‘fantasy vamps’ on Twilight and True Blood. But he knew his

worth. He knew how to handle himself, and how to claim his victims.

He could her breathing as she slept soundly. He wondered how easily it would be to hypnotize her. He had no problem taking her brutally if necessary. He was a hunter and humans were his prey. He would not hesitate in taking her life to sustain himself. But the blood of a willing victim is so sweet.

Ryan's feet touched the floor. He closed his eyes as he began to concentrate. Being a vampire gave him powers. He could hypnotize just about anybody. Some people were easier than others. This woman was slowly starting to stir. This woman seemed to be resisting him. Ryan could feel himself smiling.

“A challenge? I wasn't expecting this,” he whispered.

He concentrated harder. The woman moaned softly as she sat up in her bed. She blinked as she looked around the room. She pulled back the covers as she swung the legs over the edge of her bed.

“That's it. Come to me. Don't resist your desire,” Ryan whispered.

L

He knew how to handle himself, and how to claim his victims.

N O B O D Y ’ S V I C T I M B Y D Y L A N P A T T O N

The woman stood up. She took of her nightie as she began walking to him. She stood before him naked. Ryan's eyes wandered her nude form from top to bottom. Her body was sensual yet fit. She obviously took care of herself. The cold air was hardening her nipples. Her breasts were heaving up and down with every breath.

“Now, how should we do this? If you come to me willingly, I will pleasure you all night. If you refuse, I will inflict so much pain on you, you will beg for death. Now what will it be?”

The woman began walking to him. She stopped as she stared into his eyes. “It's time you left.” she stated. Ryan froze. He was confused. No human had refused him once he put them under. How was this possible? She was his! He had claimed her, and now she refuses him?

“Come over here now! I will not be refused!” Ryan snarled.

“Leave. Leave my room and I will spare you.” the woman replied.

Ryan snarled as his fangs lowered. He began stalking toward the woman when she took a step toward him. In the dark, Ryan could see the woman's eyes begin to change. Her soft green eyes turned yellow. Her tan skin darkened. Her skin was now a combination of red and black. The woman snarled as her back arched. She let out a deep growl as she lunged forward. Black wings shot out of her back. She stood straight up as her wings expanded.

Ryan cried out in surprise. The woman took another step forward. Her lips parted as she let out a growl of pure rage.

“You abomination! You dare come into my room? You dare threaten me? I am a demon. I am no one's prey. I am no one's victim!” the demon raged. She lunged to Ryan, claws aiming at his throat.

Ryan didn't have time to scream.

Dylan Patton was born and raised in Fresno, California. I'm currently attending Fresno State University, hoping to obtain my BA in Print Journalism. I'm a huge nerd, movies, video games, photography. I love to write. I hope to become rich by doing so. If I don't, it's okay because I still have fun doing it.

To find more published works by Dylan Patton, please visit his Facebook Page: http://www.facebook.com/DPatton33

D

By: J. A. Cunningham

wo years ago, I came to this mortal realm. Why, you ask. Well, let me tell you. But first, let’s start from the beginning. My name is

Fredrick — no middle or last name — in the Realm of Shadows; that’s all that is needed. If I would have been kept by my parents — whomever they are, or were — I would have been called ‘Fredrick of clan whatever it would have been.’ That being said, let me tell you about my childhood, a brief run-down anyway.

Much like this Mortal Realm, we have a foster system in the Realm of Shadows. I spent more time in foster care then I would have liked to. Everyone who came looking for a child to adopt, or take under their care, always overlooked me. The only reasons that I could come up with, was for one: no one liked me, and two: it had something to do with my eyes. It wasn’t until I ran away from foster care and met the guy who would change my life forever that the eye thing even came up.

At the age of ten, while still in foster care, I started developing my magic skills — one in the Realm of Shadows doesn’t start developing these skills until around twenty years old — I knew at that time there was something special about me. My first skill, having learned it by total accident, was dream intrusion. What is dream intrusion, you ask? That’s when one can slip into another person’s dream taking total control, doing whatever they want, yes, even kill that person — the only thing is, to be able to slip into their dream, you have to have met them before. This skill is very useful here in this Mortal Realm. In the Realm of Shadows, those who are smart either put in place, or have someone put in place, a protection ward preventing dream intrusions. Luckily for me, no one expected a ten-year-old to be capable of such skills. The foster care center I was at had none in place, allowing me to hone my skills at an early age.

Speeding along, I’m sure you really don’t want to hear about me being bullied and mistreated by the foster center’s staff and children, so we’ll move along to after I had escaped — ran away. Having nowhere to go except away from where I had come from, the woods seemed like the perfect place to go. I almost forgot to mention how old I was when running away from foster care. I was twelve years old and no, I don’t know exactly how long I was in there. All they said to me was that my parents left me on the front steps when I was a baby, so I would venture to guess at least twelve years.

Staying in the woods was rough; no food, water, shelter, and of course no change of clothes. Yes, I did know what I was getting into, but it was better than foster care. I spent a lot of time sitting around trying to figure this whole magic thing out. Learning the hard way that the more you try to use magic, the more food you must have to restore the energy used. Oh, I’m starting to bore you again, well let’s move a little faster then.

My attempts at magic were not as successful as I would have liked, but I knew I would learn more, later. After spending weeks in the woods living off whatever I could find, I took a trip into the village. Gathering looks from all those who I had passed, I started thinking this wasn’t such a good idea. It was apparent that nobody liked me. It was shocking when an elderly women — about 700 years old — had approached me, asking if I could use some help. Of course I told her that I could use some food and change of clothes.

What is that? Oh, yeah, the 700 years old part. We live for a long time, some never die. Shocking isn’t it, especially considering how long you mortals don’t live. Yes, before you ask, I did say ‘you mortals’ I am one who will likely live forever. That and you’re from the Mortal Realm, I am not. Now where was I?

The old lady asked me what my name was; I can still hear that shaky, high-pitched elderly voice: “What is your name, little boy?” My answer to her was just “Fredrick.” She didn’t press me for a clan

name, just shook her head and took a hold of my hand leading me to her house. The food was good, the fresh clothes felt nice and I even got to wash up with

soap. For once in my life, I thought someone actually liked me, boy was I wrong.

T

We live for a long time, some never die. Shocking isn’t it, especially considering how

long you mortals don’t live.

D R E A M W E A V E R B Y J . A . C U N N I N G H A M

Thanking her for the food and clothes, I went to the door in an attempt to leave. The hideous laugh that escaped her elderly lips sent a shiver down my spine. “You are not going anywhere,” I remember her saying. “I am the last of my clan, and since you didn’t say that you had a clan…”

I began yanking on the door at that point, trying to get out.

“I am going to use your soul to bring back my husband so that we can continue the clan name.” As she told me this, I noticed her hands beginning to glow with blue flames around them. I learned two lessons that day: one, you don’t trust anyone who is not in your clan — I don’t have a clan so that means I can trust no one — and two, when in a desperate situation it is amazing at what magic you can pull off.

It was all out of instinct. When she raised her hands to cast whatever it was she had prepared at me, I threw my hand forward. I was thinking ‘get her away from me’ and as I thrust them forward, she went flying back as if struck by something. Her head bounced off the floor as she hit with a solid thud. Standing there amazed at what I had just done, I turned toward the door repeating the hand thrusts, thinking 'open.' My first attempt did not work. Taking a second attempt, I finally pushed the door open, breaking the lock. The elderly lady moaned as she propped herself up. Turning to look back, I saw her raise her hand, mouthing the word ‘stop.’ In a split second, I thought she might be able to prevent me from getting away, so I looked at her, thinking as hard as I could: ‘fire.’ Oh, the look on that women’s face when she went up in flames, I could tell she was shocked that a twelve-year-old just silently casted a fire spell. As I walked out the door, she started to scream. Thinking the word ‘quiet’ worked like a charm — she quietly burned in her house as I made my way down the street.

I would later learn that it was the lack of food that kept me from succeeding with magic while living in the woods. I spent about two years living off the streets, going village to village. So that would put me about fourteen years old when I met Jarvel of Clan Sparlington. He could not make me a member of his clan, but did want me to join his guild. Jarvel, the leader of one of the toughest thieves guild, took me under his wing, giving me guidance, and knowledge in the skills and use of magic and theft.

Throughout my training, he had enlightened me on the color of my eyes. Having emerald-colored eyes was a sign all of its own — but mine, as you can see, have a shade of red fading into the emerald. Emerald eyes is a sign of a Dreamweaver — that explains the mastery of dream intrusion. Jarvel told me that one’s eyes are not this color until they have mastered the craft. The shade of red — actually it's the shade of any color — is the indication of one being a Shade. The red is the color of one who has mastered the craft of dark-magic. I told Jarvel my eyes have been this color ever since I could remember; as far as I knew, I was born this way. I still remember his response today: “That means you are destined for nothing less than greatness. In time, you shall rule this Realm of Shadows, and maybe all the realms.” He placed his hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “If you would have been born to me as my son, I would never have given you away. You are a prodigy, son, you will be known as a legend.” Jarvel is a very wise man, I never have quite figured out what his powers are. He is the only person to have ever shown me any compassion, and he is right, I will be known as a legend and rule the realms.

Yes, before you ask, that is part of the reason I am here in the Mortal Realm, but I will get to that shortly. As the years went by, working alongside Jarvel and his guild, I perfected my crafts. Amongst the citizens of my realm, I was branded with the name of ‘Fredrick the Dreamweaver Shade’, feared by most, hated by all. Yea pretty original, huh! You would have thought they could have come up with something more sinister. I caused a lot of chaos and deaths.

I grew tired of just stealing, as fun as it was, it just became too easy. Moving on to bigger and

Photo By Kpahor

D R E A M W E A V E R B Y J . A . C U N N I N G H A M

better things - after talking to Jarvel — I started my quest to become ruler of the Realm of Shadows. There was an easier route that I chose, but I do love a challenge. Let me explain the easier route first.

Lords of the Realm of Shadows rule for a term of two hundred years. After their term a competition of sorts is held. During this event, anyone who feels they have what it takes to rule will fight in the palace arena. There are two ways to lose: you die or you give up. It is amazing how many fools just give up; I for one would not have. The event ends when one man or women is left standing — I have never seen or even heard of a woman actually entering yet. The winner of this event then faces off against the current ruler. Let me just say, the current ruler has been lord for way too long and needs to be taken down.

Now for the way I went about it. To start with, anyone who has spent time in the palace prison does not get the chance to compete. Let’s just say they had a cell with my name on it; I spent so much time there. With that being said, I really didn't get the option of going about this the correct way, so I just attempted to kill the ruler outright. That did not turn out so well for me. Lord Garemount of Clan Whitemoore, is and has been one of the most powerful people of the Realm of Shadows. The wards he has in place at and around the palace prevent the use of magic to anyone who does not belong to Clan Whitemoore or the guilds that serve the palace. Yes, I knew about these wards before I attempted to kill him. What I didn't know was how strong they were. During my time with Jarvel's guild, I had gotten strong enough to break through most wards.

My actions got me sentenced to life in the palace prison. For me, that meant an eternity, for I am — until proven wrong — immortal. I will not go into details about that topic; that I will tell to someone else, at another time. Now we are getting closer to why I am here in your realm.

What? You ask, how I am here if I was sentenced to life — well, I escaped of course. You see, I am destined to achieve greatness; born with the gift that everyone in my realm dreams to one day get a taste of. No one knows who my parents are, or were. If I knew, they would be dead for sure. Having given me up, being the first to show me hatred, they do not deserve to live.

My fault, back to what I was saying. My gift is having the power of all forms of magic existing within me. Never having to master the craft, it just naturally comes to me — I just needed to learn how to call on it. I will be more powerful than anyone has ever seen. My escape from the palace came at more of an ease than I thought it would have. I murdered the head prison guard; that was fun, he put up quite the fight. He was nice enough to give me a gift; I will show it to you here in a little bit. I'm sure you will agree it’s to die for. Anyway, back to where I was — my escape. After relieving the head guard of his duty along with a couple of other guards, I headed toward the woods to help with my disappearing act. One skill that required no magic, the skill of stealth, is something I had spent years mastering — might I say, I am pretty skilled at it. Well let me move this along. You wanted to know who I was and what I was doing here, so let me skip the whole escaping part we both know I must have succeeded.

After my escape, I headed to see Jarvel. Before I attempted to kill Lord Garemount, Jarvel had told

me if it didn't work he had something to tell me that might help. Making my way to the guild house, Jarvel had been waiting for my arrival. He never has explained to me how he could

do that. It’s hard to surprise someone who knows when you’re coming, even if you didn't. I am closer to telling you why I am here, don't get anxious on me. Oh, I can tell by the look in your eyes that you want to know what any of this has to do with you. I'm getting to that as well.

Jarvel told me about a medallion that held a special emerald in it. This emerald would help me strengthen my powers — they’re already stronger than everyone but the ruler of my realm. By acquiring said medallion, I could potentially be stronger than everyone. Jarvel had heard the last known location was hidden here in the Mortal Realm. So now you have the answer to two of your questions: who am I and why am I here? I know those were not your exact words. They went something like this: “Just who the hell do you think you are, and why do you think you have any business here?”

See, I did remember what you said at the bar, when you were giving that beautiful woman, Rose, such a hard time. You know, I never thought I

So now you have the answer to two of your questions: who am I and why am I

here?

D R E A M W E A V E R B Y J . A . C U N N I N G H A M

would like you mortals, but there is something about Rose that makes me want to get to know her better. She gave me her number. Too bad I don't own a phone. I just might have to get one.

So now you know who I am, the reason I am here in your realm - to find that medallion. Now for the reason I am in your dream - well that has two reasons. One: I wanted to show you my gift the prison guard gave me. Well, I guess you could say I stole it from his dead hand. And two: I simply don't like you or the way you treated Rose. The disrespect and hate you showed that night, I cannot let go without consequence.

Now you ask, what am I going to do about it? Take a look at this dagger. Isn’t it a beauty? I can tell by the look in your eyes you want to run. Too bad I have control of your dream; there is nothing you can do. Watch how easily my dagger penetrates your chest cavity; I can feel the beating of your heart as its blade rests against it. The look in your eyes tells me you don’t like the way that feels. I know what you are thinking: this is only a dream, you will wake up and everything will be fine. I have some bad news for you. Remember how I told you about 'dream intrusion'? Guess what? I have intruded your dream, taking control. The reason you can’t move, can’t wake up, is because I won’t let you. And no, you will never wake up again. I am not trapping you in your dream either, so don’t think that is what is happening. Remember when I said my gift – this dagger – was to die for? Tell me if you agree as I slowly put it through your heart. As you lie there taking your last breaths, let me assure you, I mean no harm to Rose. Something about her really grabs me, you know what I mean?

I see the tears in your eyes. You heard me correctly. I did say last breaths. For I am the Dreamweaver, and I have just taken your life.

J. A. Cunningham, was born and raised in a small Kansas town where he currently lives with his wife and three kids. He began his writing career back in 2011, publishing short stories on the web. In 2012 he published his first midsize novel ‘Revenge So Sweet’ available in all eBook formats. When he is not writing, or working at his warehouse job he enjoys drawing, watching TV, and playing video games with his family. Keep up on the latest news of his upcoming novels, and enjoy some science fiction short stories along with some of his art work at his website www.D1G1TALSCRIBE.wordpress.com.

Remembering Kindness

By Michelle Franklin

he first lights of morning were ebbing over the horizon, the lasting revelry was passing away, and after a night most

agreeably spent, Vyrdin went from the courtyard back to his room. It had been a wondrous evening: from Dorrin’s visit to the feast in the Great Hall, from the dancing in the servants’ quarter to his stargazing, every moment of his holiday had been splendidly commemorated. He had endured his due vexations, and no doubt his general anxiety and cautiousness must return ere long, but for now, Vyrdin was all wistful tranquility and encouraging ambition. His new prospect was granted him by the Gods, their gleaming effigies raining down upon him all the benediction that their appearance could warrant. His wish, the one he had made in the furtive corners of his mind while Reis had been racing overhead, of quelling every qualm and of discovering the serenity which Bryeison so cherished had evinced: he was smiling, was walking with a light step, was considering everything as good and great, and only his own self-consciousness could effect to diminish his happiness. It was all sanguine reverie, and as Balane kissed Fuinnog and the sun began her heavy ascent, Vyrdin said his quiet thanks to the Gods for their visit and asked them to accompany him as he left the courtyard.

Forever had he been used to harbour suspicions as to whether the Gods existed, as to whether they visited their children and took them away from unbearable suffering, and though the answer had always been there, and his admission of it always reluctant: Vyrdin knew that they, in some form or other, must exist. His troubled heart told him so. He had begged them every day to end his sorrows and bring him to a place where he might be loved, and he had wondered at what he could have done to merit being abandoned and given away and beaten and forlorn, and it was when his faith was

least, when all aspiration of self-sovereignty was lost, that his prayers had been answered. His own hand had brought him to Diras, but it was the Grace of the Gods and of those who promoted their virtues that had saved him. They had brought him to Dorrin when they might have brought him elsewhere, and the king, the Agent of the Gods, had extended his hand and raised Vyrdin’s eyes from the ground. His eyes were raised still further by Draeden and Bryeison, and though they were not servants of the Gods themselves, they had given him the gift of self-liberation. They had forced him out of his discretion, had taught him to suspend his sorrows, and allowed him to acquit himself the misery of the past. It was a most untoward exultation, one that permitted him to smile down the hall and into his room in a private regale. He was blessed, he was safe, the door was shut, and he was home.

Only once during his time in Farriage had he ever felt it right to acknowledge his blessings, and as he resigned himself to the pleasant somnolence of sobriety, sacredness, and the sounds early morning, his mind began to drift into the gloaming of sleep, the place between oblivion and wakefulness where

the blithesome and grateful young child who dared to hope for acceptance and family still dwelt. It was a secret part of

Vyrdin, one which he himself tried not to recognize; it was too painful to remember how he had been deserted, and though he could no longer recall his parents’ faces, their actions could never be absolved. To be left at an orphanage at five years old, to be given the false desire of family, to endure the agony of seeing other children accepted and reclaimed and loved bore no sanguine effect on Vyrdin’s heart. It was here, in the space where he kept his secret agonies, where his greatest joys also resided. Here, in the first moments of sleep, it was safe for him to admit that he had discovered kindness: in the Sisters at the shelter, in the children at the orphanage who shared his room, but there was a very particular place in this realm which he kept for one who had granted him the greatest kindness and had given him the greatest happiness in the midst of his most unbearable sorrow. In his grief, he had found his joys and owned himself blessed where many might have considered themselves so heinously wronged, and it was here, in this uncommon gratitude, where he felt he had merited all his current fortune.

T

He was blessed, he was safe, the door was shut, and he was home.

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His mind lilted further into that space, and he was in Farriage again. He was on the feller’s farm and he was in the midst of scoring the felled trees when Mr. Carrighan was calling him. The tiles on the shed had broken in the last storm and he was being asked to fix them. He had little idea at the time of the work involved in making and setting tiles, but he was given no choice: his life was one of work, he was to be availed of, he must earn his keep, and if he wanted a warm meal that evening to stave off the sting of winter frosts and the pangs of insufferable hunger, the tiles must be made and a kiln must be built and burning by nightfall. With some ingenuity and contrivance, the tiles were formed: the shards from the shattered slats might be ground and used in a new mortar, and with a mill and a good horse, he was able to make a fine paste which could be shaped for tiling. His mixture promised well: by midday, he had made enough tiles to fix the gaping holes in the shed roof, but the damp cold began settling in his hands, his fingers grew stiff, his skin cracked and bled, old injuries ached, and even more concerning was the hunger, which he had been relishing since the night before, now hindering his concentration and resilience. He was painfully thin, atrociously underdressed, and vehemently afraid of the man who had made himself his master. His arms and legs tired from the ceaseless work, his mind benumbed, his heart bitter with constant torment, his aspect rapt in a foray of shame and indignation, his conscience angry for having displeased the Gods or his parents so much as to have this as his penance. He wanted very much to sit in the shelter of the barn, insulated with hay from the loft and warmed by the furnace, but he dared not tarry from his duties lest he find his master’s hand on his arm and the lash at his back.

He returned to the house, where he was never allowed to enter unless told, went round the side where all the spare bricks were laid out for use, and began to collect them in a handbarrow to be taken to the far field and used to bake his tiles. He had gathered as many bricks as his bleeding knuckles and chilblains would admit when the amber light of a lit hearth within the moderate home claimed his attention. He stopped, placed the barrow down, and put his hand to the window. The warmth radiating from within met his palm and left an impression on the glass around his fingers. Warmth: the notion had been long foreign to him. Not since the end of summer had he felt truly warm, for the shed where

he was given to sleep had no door, no bed, no furnace, had not even a blanket under which he could curl. He slept in his clothes, wearing in winter what he wore in summer: a scarf round his neck to keep the raw cold at bay, torn woolens which he wore over his thin galligaskins, and a straw mat to sleep upon, which had already been rife with mold when it had been left him. Warmth: the fire within the house flickered, and Vyrdin pressed both hands and his nose to the glass. His breath cooled in the hair and condensed against the window. Would that he be allowed one evening, one hour, one minute before a fire, to sit at its grates and watch the dancing flames and garner what heat he could — he would not care if he should never be allowed to cultivate its comforts again; a moment under the ascendancy of the roaring flames would be more than enough to restore his spirits. He stood with his face and hands against the window for some time, listening to the relentless groans of his stomach, and gleaned every last morsel, every intimation of heat that the glass could provide, and though his hands and face were only momentarily soothed and his misery put aside, it was better than going another winter without ever feeling the comfort of a fire at all.

He took up his handbarrow and moved to go, but the scent of roasted meats and boiled oats called him back again. He wiped the condensation away from the sill, and there beyond the hearth was Mr. Carrighan’s sister, visiting from town for the holiday. The holiday: he had forgotten that come evening it was Ailineighdaeth. He remembered how he had been used to cavil at attending holiday services, but it could be forborne with all the activity of merriment and decoration that he had been wont to practice on the eve of Frewyn’s greatest holiday. Here, however, was a very different holiday than those he had been used to celebrate: bricks and spades replaced his hearth and holly, and where silverleaf and cypress had once been a joyous sight when ornamenting the mantle at the orphanage, it was now become an odious prospect, for felled trees only meant more work for him. He glanced up at the skies and tried to determine the time, but the canopy was clouded over with a mackerel lining, blotting out the sun, and he soon began to worry that it was later in the day than he had hitherto conceived.

“What’re you lookin’ at, boy?” a familiar voice rasped.

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Vyrdin whirled instantly round and there was Old Carrighan, grimacing and glaring at him with his one good and watchful eye. Vrydin’s gaze naturally fell to knees, his hands trembled, his stomach moaned: he was frightfully cold and desperately famished, and he would have begged for a warm meal that he might continue with his work if not for the consternation assailing him. “Nothing, sir,” he replied, in a fevered hush.

The old master glared at Vyrdin’s mess of black curls. “You get to makin’ that kiln, boy,” he said in a slow and threatening tenor, and without another word, Vyrdin wheeled the handbarrow to the far field with his eyes on the bricks and his head down, and Mr. Carrighan went into the house to welcome his sister with cool affection, auguring the same in return, and asked whether she would not warm herself by the fire.

Piling the bricks in the field, Vyrdin was silent, rapt in rumination, remarking his work without being conscious of it, wondering why all his entreaties and faithfulness to the Gods had gone unanswered. Many asked for wealth and distinction, but all he asked for were the simple comforts of a satiating stew, a tepid bath, and the amber warmth of a lighted hearth. Family and acceptance no longer bore a strong hold on his heart; all his aspiration was now for finishing his work and finding a tolerable shelter before the coming snows should appear. He enjoyed being out while the snow made its drifting descent, the delicate white with its pearlescent sheen furnishing the northern countryside. He loved the soundlessness of the neighbouring hills under the authority of the quieting flakes, gloried in their tickling sensations as they tumbled over his face, but the dampness that came before the breaking of the skies was difficult for his broken and frail frame to bear. Everything around him was dull and grey, the ground was frozen through, the tilth was fraught with thick frost, and behind him in the near distance was the house, a beacon of ocher warmth, sharing its vivacity and brilliance with the barren garden beside, amidst the pale wreck of a prospect that was now become a mere imitation of its more vibrant time of life. Strange, he thought, that the warmest place on the farm was where its most unaffectionate resident

resided, but he was unworthy of aspersions and checked them though he felt such hatred earned. His heart was sore, his body was bleeding and

broken, and he was only bitter that those who suffered least seemed to attain life’s more gracious rewards. He had little idea whether the conversation passing over a table garnished with roasted meats and steamed roots promised any semblance of attachment: he

heard no festivity, no merriment, no song, no carousing, no unbridled mirth, but there was food, there was fire, and as he piled the last bricks on the top of the kiln, he would have gladly accepted his master’s remonstrances and vicious conduct if only to be allowed to share in all the succour and revived constitution that a good meal could merit.

The kiln nearly finished, Vyrdin had only to seal the remaining cracks and collect some wood and kindle. There was enough clay to use on the crevices, and he was fortunate that the air was not past freezing that he could spread it over the bricks without having to race against the frost, but once the clay that had stuck to his fingers began to harden, he found it increasingly more difficult to continue and even went so far as to contemplate lighting the kiln before the holes were sealed if only to warm his hands. An hour more saw the end of the kiln’s construction, but his fingers, slathered over with hardened clay, were immovable, and the cold had finally defeated him: the bleeding cracks in his skin began to sting, his timbre frame crumbled under the anguish of undying hunger, and all his misery at being made to suffer under the burden of grueling labour prevailed him. What had he done to warrant such punishment? Was he never allowed one moment’s reprieve from his pain and penance? He searched his gloomy remembrance, endeavouring to recall a mistake, a transgression, an evil done in the impudence of youth that was owing to his present wretchedness, but there was nothing. Why did the Gods allow his master a home and a family, regardless of how small a house and how unfeeling the connection might be, and deny him these simple joys? What could he have done at five years old to warrant being abandoned, and what crime could he have committed whilst at the orphanage to merit such a cruel master? There was no answer. Tears welled in his eyes, and while his

He loved the soundlessness of the neighbouring hills under the authority of the

quieting flakes, gloried in their tickling sensations as they tumbled over his face, but the dampness that came before the breaking of the skies was difficult for his broken and

frail frame to bear.

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hands remained motionless, his heart moved between all the alternations of aggrievement and ruefulness.

He roused from his pitying strain when a voice called to him from the side gate. At first, he thought it might be Mr. Carrighan, coming to inspect his progress with all the vindication of an adjudicator as he often did, but when he went toward the gate and descried Gearrog the brickmaker calling him over, his consternation gave way to suspicion. What was he doing there, and on the eve of a holiday? Had not he a family to visit and a meal to eat?

“Came about the bricks, lad,” said Gearrog as Vyrdin approached. “Ol’ Carrighan’s tellin’ me today aft’ that you’s makin’ a kiln. I says you don’t got enough brick for that, is what I told him. Came to see if you needed ‘nymore.” His affable smile slowly began to fade into a frown of concern. “Where’d you get that there cut, lad?”

He was pointing to Vyrdin’s forearm, and in his ceaseless exertion, Vyrdin had forgot about the large gash he had acquired from cutting the turf a few days ago. He glanced momentarily at his arm and said, “From the slane,” with a level of unconcern which astonished the brickmaker.

“How long since you’s had that, lad?” Vyrdin shrugged. “Since Gods’ Day.” “Oughtta give it here and lemme see it.” Gearrog moved to grab Vyrdin’s arm, but

Vyrdin moved quickly away and stared at the brickmaker in sudden alarm.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you, lad,” said Gearrog, with grave suspicion. The tensing of his shoulders, the terror in the boy’s face, his hiding his arm behind him recommended a mind ill at ease, and Gearrog began to worry. “That cut’s lookin’ a-might bad, lad. Oughtta have that looked after ‘fore you finish your kiln.”

“It’s already done,” Vyrdin murmured, looking at his feet.

Gearrog’s eyes flared, his features half horror and half astonishment. “Done? Never did! Frannach aheon,” he swore, “in this here weather? With an arm like that? Lad, you’s off the cleric.”

He moved to take Vyrdin’s arm, but Vyrdin recoiled and said a solemn, “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Don’t matter if it don’t hurt, lad. I seen that colour ‘fore. That’s infection. You don’t get that right away cared for, you ain’t gonna have no arm to work with soon ‘nough.”

Vyrdin could be under no mistake that the wound was severe; the slane had cut so far into his arm that he feared he might have shaved the bone. He bled enough for it, but he had cleaned the gash and tied it off, thinking that it should heal on its own with time. He was wrong, however, and the lesion now exposed and riddled with infection had no hope of healing without a cleric’s attention. He wished he had been allowed to go to the infirmary the day the injury occurred, but Mr. Carrighan, with all his superior intellect and misguided understanding, had assured him that there was hardly any occasion to go to the cleric and forbad him from leaving the property. The roars of Vyrdin’s stomach overpowered the conversation, and Vyrdin said a quiet apology when the grumbling ceased.

“You’s had ‘nythin’ to eat today, lad? Gettin’ dark outside. Better to do the kiln after you’s ate a supper.”

Vyrdin said nothing; he only furrowed his brow and refused to look at the brickmaker.

“I ain’t leavin’ till you get that arm seen, lad,” Gearrog firmly insisted. “Don’t wanna come back here in two day time and find you without an arm from the elbow down.”

A quick glance at the house behind him, and Vyrdin’s sense of obedience was beginning to wane. Would that the brickmaker go away and take his wretched concern with him. He was gratified to be fussed over in any respect, but not now, not when his master had already caught him once in the midst of tarrying. His master should never allow him to leave until the tiles were baked, and to disturb him in the middle of his holiday meal while his family was visiting must be begging for punishment. He looked back at the house: he might go and return without his master’s notice, he might have his arm healed and be back to light the kiln in mere minutes, and he might spare himself the tirade and brutality by leaving his master to finish his meal without any interruptions. After a few moments spent in agonizing deliberation, Vyrdin yielded to the brickmaker’s demands and followed him down the road to the infirmary, his mind beleaguered by notions of insubordination and penalty, and his heart besieged by the terrific elation of enforced defiance.

Their short walk to the infirmary was made in oppressive silence, the brickmaker sensible of Vyrdin’s pained aspect, and Vyrdin aware of

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Gearrog’s brimming curiosity. He felt his eyes everywhere: on his knotted bramble of curls, his wounded arm, his poor clothes, and the more the brickmaker’s eyes wandered, the more questions Vyrdin felt he was on the point of asking. He did not know why Mr. Callaghan would not allow him to leave, nor did he know why he must work whilst other young boys of similar age were allowed to attend classes at the church, sit at the table and eat with their families, play at various games and hold high revel when he must be tamed and timid. He did not know why his hands trembled or why he was made to endure all the deprivations which he was only now being made aware of, and he wished that the brickmaker’s eyes would stop asking him so many unanswerable questions. It was insufferable to be the subject of so much conjecture and confusion when he was confused himself, but the cleric was in, he was available, he was ready and willing to receive him as a patient, and all other disquieting cogitations may be lain aside.

The brickmaker told the story of how he found Vyrdin working in such unfavourable conditions without the necessary attire. Vyrdin accepted the plaintive looks on this point, for there was nothing else he could do to refute them, and said nothing when the cleric politely scolded him as to the state of his shoes.

“Those must give you chilblains,” said the cleric. “You must take care not to get frostbite.”

Vyrdin listened to the invective without much attending it; he had no manner in which to alter his situation, much less contrive for more suitable clothes. He thanked the cleric for his concern and hoped they might move on to healing now that he had gone through the motions of embarrassment.

The wound was displayed, the cleric was duly shocked, the brickmaker suffered the same horrified astonishment, and Vyrdin alone remained grave and unaffected.

“How could you have let that go for so long, looking like that,” was the cleric’s lamenting reproof. “Come,” sighing and shaking his head, “that must be healed immediately.”

Vyrdin was thus led toward the inner room of the infirmary. He entered the small sanitarium and was instructed to remove his wool shirt, but he was hesitant to do so while the brickmaker was by.

“I’ll be off for a minute,” said Gearrog, sensing that Vyrdin wished to be alone. “I’ll be back to see you off home.”

Home: there was a word that fell empty against Vyrdin’s heart. There was no flourish of affection, no anxious solicitation awaiting him at the feller’s farm. He made the requisite nods and turned away, and when the brickmaker had gone, the door was closed, and Vyrdin removed his woolen shirt.

A moment of anxiety rushed on him as he began to undress: he thought he had forgot to wear his linen tunic for insulation, but when he reached into his torn sweater, he sighed in relief and could be easy. His staid expression might hide many miseries, but the lash would expose what he would otherwise secret away. He kept his tunic on while the cleric did his work, and only a few minutes under the healer’s care was enough to undo all the damage that a few days’ neglect had done.

“We are fortunate that the infection was not as severe as it appeared,” said the cleric, passing a glowing hand along Vyrdin’s forearm. “There, that should keep you for a while. You will have to apply a liniment to it to keep the infection from returning, but I think we’ve—” He paused, looked rather confused, and then moving to closer to Vyrdin’s side he said, “What made these marks on your back?”

Vyrdin flew into a silent panic: he was sitting, and the cleric was standing over him, giving the healer all the advantage of height to see everything that Vyrdin could have hid. He must have leaned forward too far, exposing his upper back, and though it cost him some dignity, Vyrdin pulled on the front of his tunic to hinder the cleric from seeing further down his back. “Harrowing accident,” was his somewhat restrained and mortified excuse.

“Accident?” the cleric repeated. A look of misgiving succeeded here. “I understand that accidents on farms are common, but a harrow cannot have made marks like that by merely falling on you. It must have been dragged across your back to make scars so long. If you will let me look at them, perhaps—”

“I’m fine,” Vyrdin asserted, standing and swiping his woolens from the adjacent chair.

The cleric’s suspicions increased, and Vyrdin’s hastening to dress and eagerness to leave only expatiated his concerns. “You may feel very well,” said he, in a kinder hue, “but there may be some lasting damage which might be causing you indiscernible harm.”

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Vyrdin did not stay to hear the cleric’s entreaties; he had taken the liniment, had said his hurried thanks, and was gone before any further conjectures could be made. Disobedience by his own design might be rectified, but having his case reported to the authorities and having Mr. Carrighan disturbed with inquiries as to why his charge was marred was certain to bring unconscionable torment. Better to be silent and submissive and safe than difficult, and as Vyrdin hastened back to the farm, he told himself that reporting his sorrows to the king’s men should only bring more despondency than his case was worth. His master should never let him go, and he should never want to leave, for who else would look after a young boy whom nobody else would suffer to welcome into their homes? Forever had he been overlooked until Mr. Carrighan had accepted him, and though he was a man of vicious conduct and character, he had taught him to be useful, had fed him once or twice every other day, and had given him a place to sleep, which was more than anyone else had done. It was selfishness to have expected a family when he had never done anything to deserve it, and to have his case reported and examined was to lose everything he had gained — though he had gained little — by his removal to Farriage.

Twenty minutes had gone since Vyrdin had left the farm, and he had not returned and closed the low gate when Mr. Carrighan came thundering toward him from the house. “Where you been, boy?” he growled, his good eye flaring, the veins in his forehead throbbing, his dry and crag-like mouth caught in a cracking flout. He grabbed Vyrdin by the collar and jerked him forward. “That kiln ain’t lit,” he hissed, giving his prey a fierce shake. “You’re gonna tell me where you been or I’m gonna take the hazel to you.”

“The cleric, sir,” Vyrdin murmured, trying to maintain his balance as he was jerked about. “The cut on my arm wasn’t healing.”

“You ask me if you could leave?”

There was no answer. “You hear me, boy?” He jostled his captive, but

Vyrdin remained silent, his eyes downcast and his head down in solemn contrition. “You’re askin’ for a birtchin’, boy,” he seethed, gripping the back of

Vyrdin’s collar with the opposing hand and hurling him round.

Vyrdin almost toppled over his own feet and regained his footing only to be met with the sight of his master’s free hand reaching into his overcoat pocket. He knew what was hiding there, was well aware of the pain he should be in a few hours hence from the sting of the delimbed shrags, and tensed his shoulders, tightened his fists, and winced in preparation of the anguish of what must follow.

“Diathanes, Carrighan,” said a familiar voice. Vyrdin turned, and without looking up noted

the brickmaker hastening toward them from the corner of his eye. Shame and indignation crimsoned his gaunt cheeks, and though he was not released, his master’s hold on him relented.

“Gearrog,” Carrighan exclaimed. He took his hand from his pocket and offered it to his visitor, eyeing him charily. “What brings you? You ain’t goin’ to Westren for the holiday?”

“Can’t. Too much to do here.” Gearrog glanced at Vyrdin, whose face was turned to the side, and then at Old Carrighan, who seemed particularly discomfited by his sudden appearance. He seemed half a second away from doing something which he knew others might find intolerable, and though he appeared somewhat ashamed, he was hardly repentant: his hand was still grasping Vyrdin’s collar, the boy looked as though he were petrified, and altogether the brickmaker received the notion that he had interrupted something which he was certain of disapproving. “I just come by to see if you’re needin’ ‘nymore brick for your kiln. Saw the lad’s arm,” nodding to Vyrdin, “I says that need healin’, so I brought him to the cleric meself.”

“That true, boy?” Mr. Carrighan said, in a heated tone.

Vyrdin looked away, his heart swelling with indignation, his eyes brimming with tears.

“Practically had to drag the lad there,” said the brickmaker, with pointed circumspection. “Lad didn’t wanna leave.” He paused and gave Vyrdin a

solicitous look. “Hope I didn’t cause no trouble.” “No trouble at all,” replied the feller, with

marked coolness. A perfunctory grin on one side, a fleeting smirk

on the other, and the brickmaker felt obliged to

A perfunctory grin on one side, a fleeting smirk on the other, and the

brickmaker felt obliged to linger around the land, that he might assured of the boy’s

safety.

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linger around the land, that he might assured of the boy’s safety. The manner in which the boy was being held, his refusal to turn around, the shifting looks of the feller, his vehement stares all suggested there being something amiss here, and Gearrog would see it if he could. He wanted there to be a something wrong that he might report it, but when Mr. Carrighan said his “Good night, Gearrog,” with stern finality, he was certain of observing nothing whilst he was around to witness. He must take his leave and pretend to go if he should catch him at doing something unwholesome. He nodded his goodbyes, hoped that Vyrdin was well, and turned toward town, looking over his shoulder as he went with marked concern.

“It ain’t right when a lad’s ‘fraid to get his arm mended,” he murmured to himself, but he observed that the boy was being released, and his mind could not be easy.

“Get back to work, boy,” said Mr. Carrighan, pointing Vyrdin toward the kiln.

Grateful that he had escaped what had promised to be a most brutal punishment, despite his humiliation, Vyrdin felt his fortune and began moving toward the far field. Pangs of intense hunger suddenly assailed him, and as the sensations of stiff fingers and cracking skin were once again upon him, he felt his spirits grow somnolent. “Sir?” he asked, mortified and desperate, “I’m very hungry. May I have something to eat, sir?”

“Somethin’ to eat?” Mr. Carrighan chuffed. “You think you deserve it, boy?”

Vyrdin knew the answer to this question: if he should say yes, he would be punished for insolence, and should he say no, he would be admitting his own folly at having asked at all. He remained silent therefore and left the fate of suppers and subordination to be determined. He felt the scowling countenance of disapproval and disgust bore through his curls. How disobedient and repugnant an object he was to have gone to the cleric that he might find some small measure of peace and care for an arm which he desperately needed for work. Should he have lost it, he dreaded to think of how vilely he would have been treated thence. A poor and famished orphan with only one arm was far worse than one with two, for as long as he proved his usefulness and asperity, he was given meals — when he deserved it — and shelter where he might otherwise have been forced to find both in a poor house. The Church could not want him any

longer; he was too old to be taken in unless he meant to join the laity. Penance and privation must be his due, but he escaped both punishment and remonstrance here: Mr. Carrighan was in want of the plum pudding his sister had shoddily made and was therefore obliged to show his kindness on the holiday and forgive the boy for his lapse. Such a charitable act obliged Vyrdin to say his thanks, and as the master returned to the house, Vyrdin exhaled in relief, marveled at his fortune at having been spared two punishments in one day, and went to the far field, hoping to find the last remnants of a few dandelions about for grazing.

Some of the kale, cabbage, and sunroot was still in the ground, and after eating a few of the tough leaves and exhuming some of the tubers, Vyrdin found himself able to continue with his work. He drew his scarf about him, tore through the sunroots, rallied his spirits, and with a few stalks of kale in his mouth, went to collect the wood for the fire.

“Lad’s gonna freeze hisself to death,” said Gearrog, watching Vyrdin mechanically sift through fallen boughs of dried oak. A vicious glare toward the house, and the brickmaker was gone, hastening down the road with all the alacrity that his violent indignation could excite. He would not leave a boy to freeze in the cold, he would not leave him to go hungry when every other house was sitting down to table and delighting in all the revelry of the holiday’s first feast, and he would not leave him to feel wrong for doing what was right.

Ten minutes saw the return of Gearrog to the farm, and he did not arrive empty-handed. He came to the gate and descried Vyrdin struggling to light the kiln. It was far too damp for the tinder to kindle with any tolerable success, but fortunately for Vyrdin, the brickmaker had come well prepared. He peered into the window of the house in the near distance, discerned the old master sipping his mulled ale in peace while his sister wet the tea, and as they were otherwise engaged, he hopped over the low gate and marched across the fields, willing to accept any punishment that his intrusion unannounced might evince.

Vyrdin had not noticed Gearrog’s return; he was far too concerned with lighting the fire to look up until the brickmaker’s shadow assailed him. At first, he thought it might be Mr. Carrighan, regretting his leniency and coming in all his bibulous rage to acquit himself his weakness at

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being merciful. He flinched, expecting to be thrashed across the face with withies, but when there was nothing, he looked up and was astonished to find the brickmaker standing over him with a slab of smoked bacon, a sack of blue potatoes, and a brace of yams in his arms.

“Here, lad. You’s here just take this.” “What—?” but before Vyrdin could make any

opposition, Gearrog forced the goods into his hands. His arms almost gave out under the weight of the potatoes, and he almost dropped the bacon when he struggled to hold the large yams.

“When you start that kiln,” said Gearrog, “you’ll have a right bit o’ heat. In between your feedin’ the fires, put ‘em potatoes and bacon on your shovel. Got here some dead branch and some charcoal what’ll start that fire.” He took the charcoal brick from his pocket and placed it with the wood beneath the kiln, and the branches from his coat provided all the tinder the kiln required to begin smoldering. “Tendin’ a kiln’s hard work,” he declared, wiping the soot from his hands. “Gotta eat somethin’ and stay warm. You got the best heat in the world right here,” patting the kiln. “Even so, you just take this now.”

Vyrdin had not placed the potatoes and bacon aside when Gearrog accosted him with a pair of woolen gloves. He made his remonstrances with all the trepidation and humility that could be expected, but the brickmaker would have him take the gloves, made from Karnwyl black wool and insulated with a linen lining.

“None o’ that now, lad,” the brickmaker insisted, forcing the gloves into Vyrdin’s cracked hands. “You just put those on. Gotta take care of those hands, lad.”

Vyrdin could barely speak; he was silenced by the force of his gratitude and too much oppressed by his unbidden tears. He did what he was bid, however; he slipped the large gloves over his fingers and relished their immediate alleviation: his hands began to thaw, his fingers were able to bend, his wrists no longer ached. He pressed his fingertips together and savoured the splendid sensation of wool on wool, of frigid flesh regaining feeling, of all the agonies occasioned by the unbearable cold being vanquished. He raised his hand to his mouth and breathed, the rime crimsoning his nose and cheeks losing its ascendancy. It was a blissful sensation, a warmness that soothed his aches and agitations and secured his gratitude. He closed his eyes, made a

few fists, and cried with features beset and a heart oppressed. “He’ll ask me where I got them,” was all he could say, the tributaries rolling under his chin.

“You just say it was me, and that’s that,” Gearrog asserted. “Don’t know what’s goin’ on here, lad, but I sure ain’t turnin’ an eye from it, is what I’m sayin’. Whatever there is here to see, I’m gonna see it. ”

Mortification and thankfulness fought with one another in Vyrdin’s mind: he would be liberated from his post if he could, and though he was elated to have someone take interest with his case, he feared being liberated without having a place to which he could go. He said nothing to the brickmaker therefore, hoping his silence would convince him to discuss this point no further.

“Some folk feels like they gotta own people. He don’t own you, lad. Frewyn don’t got tolerance for what I think’s happenin’ here, I’m tellin’ you that. You’s have a friend in the king, lad. You don’t gotta be ashamed if somethin’ not right’s bein’ done to you. But you gotta speak up, lad. You’s have to go to the court and appeal, but the king’ll help you. Follow me, lad?”

Vyrdin could not but understand him, but to venture to Diras, to stand before the king, to explain his plight before a jury of nobles would be a terrible distress. To speak to anyone about his present difficulty was a trial to his nerves, and to be made to show his marks, explain his torment, accuse his master was an unbearable tribulation. If there should not be enough evidence to convict, no witness to attest, no substantial case for claim, he should be ridiculed and reprimanded, left to the custody of his indicted master, to be blamed and beaten without the threat of court to impede his lash. He made his abashed nods and promised to report his case to the king, though he had little idea of fulfilling such a halfhearted oath.

“Don’t placate me, lad,” Gearrog said impressively. “He might be tryin’ to break you so he can rule over you, but hearts o’ those who work hard for no reward can’t never break.”

There was a pause, and they exchanged a penetrating look.

“Don’t you let him win, lad. Follow me?” Vyrdin nodded and lowered his eyes. “Maith Ailineighdaeth, lad,” said Gearrog, in a

soft voice. “And don’t you thank me. You’s have it hard. You just wear ‘em gloves and eat that and that’s all.”

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Appreciation by way of a few words of thanks was hardly enough to convey all the indebtedness that Vyrdin was cherishing. Humbled and humiliated by Gearrog’s unbidden kindness and consideration, Vyrdin felt equal to confessing the whole: telling of his mistreatment, of the conditions under which he was made to live, the nights of starvation, the days of penance, of his terrors, his hopes, his ambitions. A beseeching expression and a solemn “thank you, sir” was all that Vyrdin could manage. Inundated by more feelings than he could admit, he bowed his head and would say no more. His mind was attacked by a thousand notions: should he escape, should he approach the king, should he plead his case, should he beg for mercy and assistance? were all questions which prevailed him now that the idea of insurrection had been embedded in his mind. He need not oppose his master; he need only leave without his notice, but the notion of having to contest his treatment and confront him in court produced more anguish than it did conciliation. He resolved against openly opposing his master at present, for all his consolation was in a full stomach, warm hands, and a smoldering fire.

“I’ll be lookin’ after you, lad,” said the brickmaker, moving to go, “makin’ sure you got a bit o’ food. Kiln’s warmin’ up. Better start feedin’ that fire.”

And without waiting for another word of thanks, another profusion of tears, Gearrog was gone. The kiln was lit, there was bacon to roast and potatoes to bake, and there must be Vyrdin’s comfort. He was left to stand in the grey and cold fog, gaping down at the raging flames lighting his place in the field, and think: he tried to make sense of the encounter, wondering why help should be given now when it had never hitherto been granted. A light overhead caught his eye: under the power of the gloaming impending, the light from the sun gave way to the sovereignty of the stars: Reis skipped across Reine and all her changing hues, Balane subdued and surrendered her strength to Aghus, and as Reis resigned herself to the influence of evening, Vyrdin marveled at the shimmering canopy of the Gods, all-gleaming, all-seeing, all-powerful. They heard me, his mind whispered in awe, they brought him here. He remembered the last thought he had before the brickmaker had arrived: he had been

faithless, he had felt forsaken, and here was attestation enough of the Gods’ existence. They must have heard him, and they must have sent the brickmaker as an Agent to carry out a missive they could not fulfill themselves. He had heard of the Gods breaking their covenant and visiting their children in disguise, and though he had never been wont to believe such histories before, he must consider them now. He stood for some time with his eyes raised to the skies, his aspect rapt in a glow of reverie, his heart beholden, his tears profuse and unchecked. He praised them, the Gods and all their effigies and depictions, and felt himself under the auspices of their good graces once more.

His master gone to bed after a heavy meal, Vyrdin had nothing to do but triumph in the indelible warmth of the kiln and enjoy a sumptuous and solitary feast. He ate with abandon, savouring every subtle flavour and giving thanks to Gearrog and the Gods with every deglutition. His music was the sound of the winterfowl chirruping in the nearby spruce, his holiday diversion the stars and the crimson underpinning of the lingering clouds.

Wishes of family and friendship could wait with such a prospect before him: the rippling hills of the countryside, the soft tittup of horses drawing drays in the distance, the roaring flames near

his feet, the quiet firmament above: here was a celebration, and Vyrdin had only to acknowledge that he was never so appeased and never so obliged as he was when perusing the skies, in quest of Reis’ tail, and wondering whether Borras and Sibhne were honouring Libhan with their scintillating conversancy.

He ate his holiday feast, roasting the meat, baking the yams, and saving the potatoes in a clamp for a later hour, and when he could eat no more, he lay down upon the emptied potato sack and watched the evening surrender to night, glorying in the joys of intense heat and winter’s perspiration. Each flickering gleam of the stars brought forth its thanks from Vyrdin’s conscience. He recognized their presence, his faith was revived, there were those who had goodness and generosity within them, and as Reis dashed once more across the wisplike clouds, he wished that one day he might see the king, that one day he might be able to tell someone of his misfortune, that one day he might be worthy of a life greater than the one he had

He recognized their presence, his faith was revived, there were those who had goodness and generosity within them,

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hitherto led. He no longer cared for window sills and warm houses; his faith had been justified. They are beautiful, was Vyrdin’s resolution, his eye connecting the various constellations. Thank you, his awareness whispered: Thank you, his stomach quiet and appeased: Thank you, and somewhere between the professions of gratitude, Vyrdin resigned himself to his satiation, and with belief restored, succumbed to a most peaceable sleep.

Vyrdin awoke from his bittersweet reverie, half rousing from the state between sleep and awake, and in the first confusion of wakefulness, he sat up and looked about him: the white rays of the morning sun pervaded his small window, the warm down blankets were mantled about him, the silver earring which Dorrin had given him the evening previous lay on the dresser, the two armchairs and small table neatly were aligned and moderately furnished with cups and kettle, the small hearth simmering with the last embers of warmth. He was in the keep, he was in his room, his was under Dorrin’s care, his wish had been granted, he was safe, he was home.

Michelle Franklin is a small woman of moderate consequence who writes many, many books about giants, romance, and chocolate.

To find more about Michelle’s work, please visit her website: http://thehaanta.blogspot.ca/

Ask the Authors Every issue we ask the authors a question as a way for the readers to better

get to know them. This issue we asked: “What’s your favorite holiday memory?”

Sam Kates, author of Tin Cup “Stepping off the airplane onto the runway at

Larnaca in Cyprus when I was 16 for my first proper holiday abroad. It was early evening and the sun was beginning to set. A breeze blew strongly into my face. It was so warm and balmy, like standing in front of a gigantic hairdryer. And the smells: olives and lemons and salt and exotic flavours I couldn't identify. I've been in love with Cyprus ever since.”

James Anderson, author of Checkmate “My favorite holiday memory goes back to my

childhood. My parents were recent immigrants to Canada and didn't have much money to spend at Christmas. I desperately wanted a toy fort to play with soldiers. My parents couldn't affod to buy one, but my Dad spent days after work in the garage building one out of wood for me and my brother. The best present I have ever received and a gift of true love.”

John Carter, author of The Memory Thief “My favorite holiday memory is decorating the

Christmas tree for the first time with my daughter. We adopted my little girl when she was 3 and seeing the love and wonder on her face as we picked out and set up the tree that first year was the best memory ever. Her happiness and Holiday Spirit made that Christmas special.”

Dylan Patton, author of Nobody’s Victim

“Opening presents with my family on Christmas Eve.”

Rebecca Stroud, author of The Swap “My sister & I were very young and, on

Christmas Eve, we were staring out our bedroom window watching it snow...and, then, we both saw Santa's sleigh streak across the sky. To this day, not a soul believes us...but no matter. We know what we saw..:))”

J. A. Cunningham, author of Dreamweaver “My favorite holiday memory that is a tough

one. I have had so many good memories to pick one as a favorite I don’t know if I can do that, so I will just pick one and tell you about it. Back in 2007, my son asked for Optimus Prime. This took me back to when I was growing up and asked for the same toy. I never did get my Optimus Prime, so I wanted to make sure my son got his.

My wife and I set out on a mission that turned out to be harder than I had thought. We went from store to store trying to find it, I think we had went to about five different stores until we finally found one. The last store we went to had one left on the shelf, I was glad only one of my two boys had asked for it or else we would have had to continue searching. After all the trouble we had went through to find Optimus Prime, I wondered if my parents had the same problem when I had asked for it, which would have explained why I never got it.

On Christmas morning I think, I was just as excited for him to open it as he was to see if he got it. Being the bigger gift, he waited until last to open it. The look on his eyes was priceless, seeing my kids happy always make my day. I don’t know who was happier my son for getting Optimus Prime, or

me for actually being able to get it for him. If you’re wondering, yes, I played with it just as much as he did.”

Have a question you want the authors to answer for the next issue? Email us at papercranebooks@gmail.com with the subject: “PCB Author Question”

Whose Axing?

In which we discuss grammar and English language tidbits.

Awhile vs. a while Both are correct and mean the same thing. But do you know when to use awhile or a while? Awhile (one word) is an adverb. A while (two words) is a noun phrase that follows the prepositions “for” and “in.”

Blond vs. blonde Words have genders. Trust me on this. When you speak of a ship or a car, you don’t call them an “it” but

rather a “she.” It’s the same principle in this case. Most languages actually have designations for gender and for some unknown reason English just doesn’t with the exception of a few words. For instance, in the Spanish language “amigo” is a male word, whereas “amiga” is female. When you go to an opera or a musical and you want to express your approval of a male, you would say, “Bravo!”; however, if you were speaking about a female you would say, “Brava!”

Blond/blonde is one of those words that originated from Anglo-French (according to Merriam-Webster). “Blond” refers to males, whereas “blonde” refers to females. Another popular word that we use that has gender that originated from France is fiancé/fiancée.

Lead vs. led One of the more common mistakes you see in books and writing. Let’s break it down, shall we? Lead (lēd) verb — 1a) to guide on a way especially by going in advance 1b) to direct on a course or in a

direction 1c) to serve as a channel for (among other definitions, but for simplicity’s sake, we’re going with this.) Lead (led) noun — a bluish-white soft malleable ductile plastic but inelastic heavy metallic element found

mostly in combination and used especially in pipes, cable sheaths, batteries, solder, and shields against radioactivity

Led (led) — past and past participle of lead When someone means: “He led them down the street” one sometimes comes upon the error: “He lead

them down the street.” How can you stop this from happening to you? Simple. When you see the word “lead,” train yourself to

read it as /lēd/. Chances are you’ll be wanting to use the past or past participle of lead anyway so when you begin reading it back and reading /lēd/ instead of /led/, then you know something’s wrong. Delete the unnecessary “a” and you’re back on track.

Have a grammar question you’d like answered? Be sure to email us at papercranebooks@gmail.com with the subject: “Whose Axing?” and your question just might be featured on the next issue!

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