Happy almost-halloween from New Orleans!!!

For all the folks I met at the Rougarou festival this weekend, THANK YOU! It was so much fun to meet you all! I highly suggest this festival if you’re in the area - it was a BLAST! So fun, so quirky, so worth the drive out!

We’ve got free stories for you again… don’t forget to read to the end and look for the links from other writers. And this is part 2 of 3 so if you need to read part 1, it is here.

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Awakening (Part 2)

A certain clarity comes with being imprisoned, rightfully accused of cheating by the man you loved.

Contrary to my expectations, my room is bright and airy, with hot and cold running water, decent, simple meals, and the appropriate supplies to keep it and myself clean. They can afford to be generous now, with my bruises healing and the shackles stealing the little magics I have.

At one point, the king’s son visits me. I ignore him and continue to strip my bed. The blankets and sheets go into a basket for the wash. The new sheet snaps out, settles down.  My accuser stares for a long time, his eyes bright gold, then murmurs, “I hope you learn your lesson,” and leaves.

It’s not until much later, after I’ve calmed myself, that I find the book he’s somehow tucked inside the clean blankets, and not until the days turn into weeks and the weeks turn into months that boredom and worry force me to open it.

I can’t do anything for my people. I don’t even know what the king has done to them. No one will tell me. The mages don’t speak to me. Servants aren’t allowed in my room— as if the simple chores of keeping it and myself clean would break a child of the North.

The book the king’s son left behind is a treatise on the shackles I wear on my wrists. How they work. The mage power that inspired their creation.

The mage power that inspired their creation.

Three hundred years ago, a woman with the power to steal magic from others threatened to take the throne from the king.

Steal magic.

I’ve never heard of such a power, but this book describes the woman’s confession— and torture— in detail. And despite the comfort of my pretty cell, my stomach drops and my skin chills, because this book also describes the process in which the king created the first shackles, bound the woman’s soul inside them, and learned how to use her power to keep himself alive.

And how he waited for his first son, born hundreds of years ago, to come of age and come into his full power, then shackled him, and lived on.

I stand and pace.

Why did this king’s son betray me? Why, after that, did he make such an effort to give me this book? I have yet to turn the last page, but I’m frightened of what I’ll find.

The king has as many secrets as I did, and this is one that has not even been whispered.

Is the king’s son afraid of what his father will do to him?

Sunset streams through my windows. I go to the dresser and light a candle, use that to light the rest until my room, in the coming gloom, is nearly as bright as day. Then I turn the last page.

It is likely, the writer cautions, other siphons will be born. They must not be shackled! Should the two siphons connect— the soul inside and the prisoner bound— it is possible the spell will be broken by their combined power.

The king’s son thinks I’m a siphon.

He thinks I will break free and save him from his father.

All of this— the manipulation and the lies— are to depose a three hundred year old king who committed the worst of the magical sins.

For the first time, I stop believing what others have always told me about my magic and look inside myself.

Empty, with the shackles draining me, and dark. So dark.

In a trance, I cross the room and blow out a candle.

Something inside me cracks.

I blow out another and another.

The crack widens.

The last—

Boom.

In the darkness, I break wide open.

Bits of memory—

My father, blanching, reaching for me, whispering, “Don’t take too much.” My mother, petting my hair, “Just a little bit. We don’t hurt the ones we love.” My best childhood friend, hands wrapping around mine, breath faltering, “Miriah, stop. You’re killing me—”

How many lives did I take before I learned control? Before I learned to sip instead of gulp?

More than one. A murderer, shoved between me and my friend, just in time. A rapist, when I had a fever and needed more—

Connection, soul to soul. A wail of agony on my own lips, a wail from the shackles. Three hundred years a prisoner, siphoning power from the condemned only to have it stolen by the king.

My fate too— if he could do it once to her, he could do it again to me.

The soul wails again, bitter and broken.

I will avenge you, sister.

Her memories sink inside me, bright as if I lived them, then softened. She’s trying to protect me, even now.

The shackles break open and fall.

The soul inside caresses my face, then shatters into a million pieces.

She is free.

And so am I.

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Awakening will finish at the next blog hop - see you then!

Other stories here:

Spider Racing In The Rain by J Moore

Trick Or Treat by James Roecourt

Diving Into Darkness by James Husum

Midnight Mission by Gina Fabio

Shadow Kissed by Ruth Sard

Dad by Katharina Gerlach

Act 1 by Angelica Medlin

Hello everyone, and happy… how is it already the end of February???

I’ve have to admit - I’ve been traveling for the Day Job (TM) and I quite enjoy leaving behind the snow for sun and beach… work almost doesn’t feel like work at the beach. :)

I’m considering writing a new book - tentatively titled Knotty Spirits - so today’s short story is heavily influenced by that book. I thought I’d play around with the character and the premise a bit to see if it lands.

Enjoy!
And don’t forget to scroll to the bottom for links to other free short stories from around the world!

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Knot Quite

Was there anything so strange as going from a winter snow storm to palm trees and near-summer weather just by sitting in a modified rocket? A few hours and bam— no need for a coat.

I gathered my carryons and meandered my way through the Vegas airport, happy I didn’t have to worry about a rental car because the baggage claim and ground transportation signs seemed to be specifically missing rental cars and ride-shares—

No, there were the ride-share signs. But rentals? Not in sight— but also not my problem.

Feeling vaguely sorry for the traveler searching the signage a bit frantically, I headed upstairs to the private passenger pickup and blessed Jonesie’s need to be early. He’d been waiting in the lot since just after I landed, and now I spotted his white Rav and waved.

Our eyes met through the windshield and he grinned.

My own smirk bloomed and my heart thudded hard, once. He was one of my guys. One of the officers who had made it all the way to retirement. He’d gotten out and moved to Lake Havasu, and when he’d called for help—

I came.

Of course, I came. He was one of mine, and what was I doing anyway?

He slammed the small SUV into park and shouted, “Sarge!” and wrapped me in a bear hug.

I’d forgotten he was a hugger.

I clasped him briefly, then we set my luggage in the back and climbed into the front and headed south.

*

My geography— I’d found— was vague on how I could fly into Nevada, drive to California, and end up in Arizona, but that’s what happened. We chatted the entire way, catching up on each other’s careers and families, and the time and moonlit scenery flew by.

Instead of stopping at his house to drop my luggage, Jones parked the SUV while I gaped out the window to the lit bridge— a bridge that looked suspiciously like it belonged in London.

And indeed, all the signs called it the London Bridge.

Completely out of place here, in the middle of dessert broken only by the Colorado river and a wide spot that had delusions of grandeur.

“C’mon, Sarge.” Jones’s mobile face went flat, guarded.

I hopped out, wondering what exactly that face meant, and what he expected me to do about it.

But I followed anyway, through wrought iron gates, past a shut-off lion-ringed fountain, past a couple closed-up shops under the bridge along the channel.

The store we stopped at was also closed, but Jonesie brought out a ring of keys and opened it up. “I told you I’d opened this shop with my retirement money,” he said, “but what I didn’t tell you was that it was haunted.”

Stepping from the lantern-lit walk into the gloom of the shop, I managed a half-hearted chuckle. “Haunted should be good for business—”

“Not this kind of haunted.” Even in the gloom, I caught his side-eye, and his face looked cold and hard. “It’s broken most of the most expensive clocks already—” his wave took in the empty spots on walls and shelves— “bloodied Mary’s face, last time.”

“Bloodied—?”

“You said you saw ghosts.”

“I was drunk.”

He arched his eyebrows. “I’m hoping that was a hard case of truth in intoxication.” He sighed and leaned against the counter. “Or I’m going to have to sell out. Let someone else deal with this ghost. I can’t see it. No one can. But you might—”

The sigh that wanted to escape me got stuck when a swirl of white formed behind him, and then a cluster of mantle clocks slid off the table at the center of the room and crashed to the floor.

Right.

Jones had a real, dead ghost.

*

“Knitting needles? What the— You didn’t bring any weapons?”

I dodged a flying clock and yelled over my shoulder. “I came on a plane. I had to go through TSA security. I managed to get these sharpened sticks through by putting yarn on them—” dodged again— “but what kind of ninja do you think I am?”

The semi-corporeal apparition opened its mouth and screamed at me, showing it could unhinge its jaws and that it had rows and rows of serrated teeth with spit-slime stretching between them.

Goody.

I screamed back, releasing all the wordless frustration that had built up inside me over the last few months.

The mouth flapped closed and puckered. Then it headed for Jones.

“The kind that knows how to get rid of— Ack!” He saw the pattern of flying bits, realized it was coming for him, and retreated.

I chased after, stabbing it with my knitting needles. Little holes tore in the whitish stuff. “I don’t think a gun could hurt it anyway—”

My foot slid on clock debris.

The knitting needle in my right hand swooped down through the apparition, stabbing into the painted concrete floor. Dammit! That had been one of my favorite—

The ghost jerked to a stop as if the needle was pinning it into place. Debris stopped flying, too.

What the—?

Jones spun and squinted at me. “It… stopped?”

From my sprawl, I stared back.

“What did you…?” he trailed off, unsure.

On my aching knees, I edged forward, holding the other knitting needle in front of me.

The ghost flinched and tugged at its… foot? tail?

I stabbed at it, then swooped around in the same motion I’d been trying to get right for the past few weeks— a knit stitch. Stab it, strangle it, yank it through, push it away.

The white stuff moved between the knitting needles like it was heavy yarn.

Okay.

So I did it again— purl stitch, then another knit stitch.

It wailed, but I hardened my heart. I was freaking knitting a ghost!

A stitch slipped off— I wasn’t very good at knitting yet!— and the wisp yanked and the whole thing disappeared.

Huh.

Maybe— maybe— I had a way to deal with ghosts after all.

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More stories HERE:

The Collector by T. R. Neff
Adventures in Space with Doot the Pig by Gina Fabio

Doomed … or Not? by Katharina Gerlach
The Implant Caregiver by ManonF
The Reaper's Gift by Becky Sasala

Happy summer!

It’s time for the blog hop where you can read flash fiction from around the world for free. I hope you enjoy my story First Encounter… and scroll to the bottom to see links for the other stories.

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It started with a strange haze around my condo that nearly convinced me my eyes were going. Make an appointment for the optometrist, I noted on my to-do list. My dog nudged his nose into my belly and gazed at me with soulful eyes. Haze or no haze, Boo the Boxer had to be walked.

I slipped on his collar and clipped his leash. Boo hadn’t met a human or animal he didn’t love, but the HOA was tyrannical about dogs on leash, and I’d been fined twice the first week I’d moved in: once for a leash violation and once for failure to pick up poop.

I’d tried explaining that I had forgotten a bag and was just running inside to get one, and it was my own lawn dammit, but that had earned me no mercy, and perhaps a spot on their watchlist for swearing.

The dog waited for my command to step outside, then walked beside me across the minuscule lawn before his hackles rose and he growled.

Boo never growled.

I lurched to a halt, my heart thundering in my chest.

Coalescing on my lawn, two creatures stepped out of the haze. They swirled iridescent blues and purples and reminded me of squids but standing on their tentacles instead of floating in water.

Not right. Not right and not possible.

Swallowing, I cleared my throat enough to snap, “Halloween is not for months,” even though I knew they weren’t neighbor kids playing a prank. Boo had growled, after all.

“We observe you many days,” the taller of the two said. “Need help knowing treasure.”

Boo sat on my foot. He didn’t seem concerned anymore, so I sucked in a deep breath. “You… need my help?”

“Identify treasure!” The shorter held out a yellow plastic bag… a bag which looked suspiciously like the one I had in my pocket, only full.

*

I stared.

And stared.

When Boo leaned against my leg to demand scritches, I blinked and blurted, “It’s dog poop.”

“What is… dog poop?”

Oh boy.

“This,” I said, gesturing to Boo, “is my dog. He eats, and… well… anything his body doesn’t use, he excretes. He gets rid of. He poops out.” Rubbing the dog’s ears until he groaned with pleasure, I muttered, “Everyone poops.”

The aliens’ mouth tentacles braided and snarled. “Excrement. Unneed. Discard.”

“Yes.”

The smaller one spoke. “But you gather careful in bags. Place bags in bins. Collect bins. Transport and give back to planet.”

“It’s trash.” I was a little fuzzy on the details of city sanitation, but then Boo hopped off my foot, squatted and hunched his back.

Before I thought, I had the matching yellow plastic bag out of my pocket, covering my hand, and I readied myself to swoop in and pick up the offending poop before the HOA could see it.

The aliens made a raspy sound.

Lacking knowledge of their body languages, I wasn’t sure if they were laughing, crying, or pooping themselves.

Nah. Not the last.

With the warm poop in my hand, I tied the bag shut, then thought about it.

They had a point about that treasure business.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “It’s just poop. There are rules. I’m just following the rules.”

Boo pulled at the lead and I allowed him to drag me away for his walk. “You should probably go,” I called back. I mean, they must have been studying us for a while; they spoke English even if they didn’t understand poop. “Have you seen our movies? I don’t want you to end up experimented on by the government, and neither do you. Trust me!”

*

The blue-purple somehow-upright squidly creatures were still on my lawn when we returned from our walk and that weird haze still glowed around my condo.

I sighed a little. I hadn’t seen anything strange until I had crossed my property line, so maybe I was safe from being reported to the police—or worse, the HOA!—by my neighbors.

“Help!” The smaller said through waving mouth-tentacles.

Boo’s tail wiggled, so I shrugged. “Help with what now?”

“Bring excrement. Lots excrement.”

I scowled. “You’re kidding.”

“Is goat offspring excrement also treasure?”

“Goat…?” My headache was coming back. “No. Not those kids.”

“Then why—?”

I held up one hand, and they both flinched back. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I muttered, lowering my hand. “Just… you want me to get dog poop? For you?”

“Yes!” The shorter alien wriggled. It gargled something I didn’t understand, continuing, “are treasure. We examine. We use to fuel ship!”

“What’s wrong with your ship?”

“Ship crash.” Another wriggle. “We fix.”

“Why me?”

“Dog has best concentrations—” gargle, gargle—“in excrement. Must have.”

I’d thrown the dog poop in the dumpster. I was all for positive human-alien relations, but going dumpster-diving was out of my realm of comfort.

Way out.

“What if I show you where I put his poop? You can get it yourselves, right?”

The squidly aliens looked at each other, then at me.

“Yes. Show.”

I pointed. I explained. I even made a cradle with my hands for the smaller one to push itself off of into the dumpster.

And that was how Boo’s poo made First Contact.

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Blog hop stories:

Who Can Blame Him by Bill Bush

New Stork by Katharina Gerlach

The Stuff of Nightmares by Sue Abrie

Regarding Dragons by Vanessa Wells

Midlife Ghostwalker: Katje Storm Episodes 1 thru 10 by Juneta Key

I’ve got another story for you - rogues, heists, betrayals and double-crosses - it’s a good time all crammed into a short story… With a beautiful cover put together by my friend Cat.

Check it out!

https://www.amazon.com/Ship-Chip-Doomsday-Book-ebook/dp/B0B2M1ZRY1

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/ship-chip-barbara-lund/1141580104