Virginia Authors Book Sampler: Winter 2016 (Vol. 1)

Virginia Authors Book Sampler Volume 1  Winter 2016

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A Rook Communications Publication

Copyright Š 2015 Rook Communications. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publishers, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Individual stories are copyrighted by their respective authors and/or publishers and are included within this compilation by permission.

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PRINT EDITION: ISBN-10: 1519189036 ISBN-13: 978-1519189035

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Cover photo by Victor Rook. Snow-covered trees along a nature trail in Brentsville, Virginia.

W

elcome to the first issue of Virginia Authors Book Sampler (VABS). We are pleased to present to you a wide variety of authors from different genres: alternative history, memoir, horror, young adult, science fiction, poetry, and more. Here you can enjoy excerpts from their published books and then choose which ones you'd like to read further.

We've made it easy—if you like a story, simply visit Amazon.com or the author's website to purchase the full book. Or, if you have a smartphone, scan the QR code next to the cover of the book you'd like to purchase with a QR code reader app. Shazam, you'll be whisked away to the Amazon sales page for that book. Choose paperback or Kindle and make your purchase.

You can also help support this publication by advertising your business, products, or service in the back pages. Issues of VABS are available for purchase on Amazon.com in print and Kindle ebook, and on our website as a free pdf download. Visit us at http://victorrook.com/VABS for details and links.

If you have any questions or comments, feel free to email me at vic@victorrook.com.

Victor Rook Editor-in-Chief

For Authors

For Readers

It only costs $25 to be featured in an issue of Enjoy excerpts from these wonderful literary Virginia Authors Book Sampler, which includes works. If one or more interest you, simply visit a print copy mailed to your Virginia address.

Amazon.com or the author's website to purchase the full book in print or Kindle ebook.

Submit 2500 words of the first chapter(s) of your published book along with a large book Fast Buy: cover photo and large author photo to be If you have a smartphone, install a QR code featured in a four-page spread. Include URL reader app and aim your phone at the QR code links to the Amazon page for your book and on the first page of each story. It will instantly your author website, and a 170-character author take you to the Amazon purchase page for that bio that includes where in Virginia you live. book. Choose paperback or Kindle and make your purchase. Help support these writers!

Visit the link below for detailed submission specifications and to pay to reserve your spot in an upcoming issue. We look forward to promoting your hard work!

http://victorrook.com/VABS

IN THIS ISSUE: JADED (NIRVANA BOOK 1) by Kristy F. Gillespie................................................................... 4 Jade has spent her entire life within the confines of the eye-color-obsessed Nirvana commune.

She dreams of experiencing freedom, but travel to the Outside is forbidden. If she resolves to flee and is caught, she'll be blinded. If she makes it, she may never see anything the same way.

PEOPLE WHO NEED TO DIE by Victor Rook .......................................................................... 8 The year is 2021 and people are fed up. The World Order Alliance allows "selective" homicides to reduce the population. A few of the targets: bad drivers, obnoxious cell phone users, spammers, litterbugs, horrible bosses, Black Friday shoppers, and more. Pulitzer prize-winning TV critic Tom Shales describes these short stories as "Clever, funny, shocking, and cheerfully vindictive."

HITLER'S TIME MACHINE by Robert F. Dorr ....................................................................... 12 “This war will never end as long as both sides have time machines,” Barbara warned, “because one side will always be able to travel back and checkmate the other.” To Adolf Hitler, the device called Die Glocke is the wonder weapon that will win World War II for Nazi Germany. Others see the time machine differently, among them Franklin D. Roosevelt and Heinrich Himmler.

OLD ROADS AND NEW EXITS by Tom Basham .................................................................... 16 Eddie took his life on the road 30 years ago, after the death of his father. He came home less and less over the years and now he is coming home to bury his mother. The last thing she told him was she had found the hidden family treasure. With a weak heart, a bad back and a little help from the neighbor’s kid, he just might find something he never dreamed existed.

LOVE LIKE FALL by Antonia Kilday ....................................................................................... 20 A collection 14 years in the making, Antonia Kilday takes you on her journey of love. Her work in Love like Fall reflects her experiences with falling in love, healing a broken heart, marriage, passion, and vulnerability. She shares her writing with the world for the first time with the hope of helping others to find comfort, peace, and kinship.

JUNIOR INQUISITOR (INQUISITOR BOOK 1) by Lincoln S. Farish.................................. 24 Brother Sebastian is halfway up a mountain in Vermont, hell-bent on interrogating an old woman in a shack, when he gets the order to abandon his quest for personal vengeance. He has to find a missing Inquisitor, or, more likely, his remains. If he’d known he would end up ass deep in witches, werewolves, and ogres, and that this mission would jeopardize not only his sanity but also his immortal soul, he never would’ve answered the damn phone.

MEMORY LAKE by Nancy S. Kyme ......................................................................................... 28 A tribute to the summer camp culture, a rebuttal to the mean-girl trend of this generation, and a celebration of mother-daughter relationships and lasting friendships. This memoir reads like a novel, inspires a connection to nature, and rejoices in those carefree days of summer.

BLINDED BY DECEPTION by Maria Yeager .......................................................................... 32 Follow along with Nikki as she struggles to deal with a narcissistic family for twenty-eight years.

This book will have you cheering as you witness a woman who loses everything and ends up incredibly blessed and happier than she had ever imagined!

MESSAGES FROM NATURE by Patricia Daly-Lipe................................................................ 36 A collection of short stories about animals, trials at sea, and the evolutionary journey of man and nature. It is my hope that this little tome will inspire the reader to feel and react to the beauty of nature and animals and experience the invaluable life lessons that only Nature can teach.

WHO GETS TO NAME GRANDMA? by Carol Covin ............................................................ 40 Learn what Grandmas and Moms would like to say to each other when it comes to raising the grandchildren. Grandmother of two, Carol L. Covin, interviewed 40 Moms and Grandmas to find out. Enjoy this best-selling, hilarious, and practical book of advice for mothers and Grandmothers as they navigate welcoming a newborn baby and learning how to be parents and grandparents.

ANABEL UNRAVELED by Amanda Romine Lynch ................................................................. 44 Anabel Martin’s world was destroyed the day her father was murdered. After spending seventeen years of her life trapped on a Top Secret island in the South Pacific, she now finds herself in Washington, DC in the care of her former politician brother and his unwelcoming wife. She is a key witness in the investigation of her father's murder and the very existence of her former home.

HOLIDAY CONNECTIONS by F. Sharon Swope and Genilee Parente.................................... 48 A series of stories that explore how the days of the year we set aside for celebrations can tie together family, friends and strangers. From the child who involves her neighbors in planning her own funeral for Easter to the woman whose bump in the night on Halloween turns out to be a family in need, these stories explore human connections using U.S. holidays as themes.

KINGSLEY by Carolyn O'Neal .................................................................................................... 52 Who can save the last boy on earth? 14-year-old Kingsley is too fat to wear swim trunks and too poor to play golf. But when colony collapse disorder finishes off the bees and moves on to anything with a Y-Chromosome, Kingsley has more to lose than video games and the attention of petroleum heiress Amanda.

THE TOWER by Herrick Lyons .................................................................................................. 56 Unusual activity at a popular yet rustic resort in Duck, North Carolina, catches the eye of Jack Sommerstag, known to his friends as "Sommers." Why would the U.S. Army be involved in the water tower business? He returns from his vacation with his family to Washington, DC only to find he's been terminated from the ad agency where he works. A political thriller ensues!

SPONSORS .............................................................................................................................. 60-61 BONUS: BOOK TITLE WORD SEARCH ............................................................................... 63

my eyes as a rush of crisp air caresses my face.

“Jade, you could have turned down the heat instead,” my mother says, turning the thermostat dial left, toward the peeling blue sticker. “Please close it.”

I roll up the window and press closer to the passenger door, leaning my forehead against the window.

“Are you feeling okay?” she asks. Without even facing her, I’m certain the skin between her eyebrows is wrinkled, her lips pursed.

“I’m fine.” Fine is the response I almost always give— it’s easier that way.

“Here, sniff this.” She shoves a jar of cream under my nose. I can’t tell if its peppermint or eucalyptus since it has such a potent scent of menthol.

“Rub some on your temples if you feel a headache coming on.”

I dip my pinkie fingers in the small jar and massage the cream around my temples. It feels cool and tingly.

“Feel better?” She asks before my skin has a chance to absorb it.

“Is there an herbal remedy for heartache?

If there is, I’ll smear the entire jar on my chest.” I press a hand against my heart for emphasis.

“Oh, sweetheart.” She sighs. “I know how dreadful this is for you.” She laces her fingers through mine. “The bond the two of you have is like... flowers and bees.” She pauses, as if debating what to say next. “You still have your father and me. We’re here for you. And we love you so much.”

I nod. I know how much my mother loves me. She often says I’m the best part of her. As for my father, I honestly don’t think that he does. At times, he seems jealous of the close relationship I have with my mother. And envious of the bond I have with his mother, Grandmother Ruby. When she dies, perhaps the best part of me will too.

Jaded (Nirvana Book 1)

By Kristy Feltenberger Gillespie Genre: Young Adult Pages: 218

Amazon.com and kristyfgillespie.com

Chapter 1 January 10, 2012

M

y heart is frost bitten. The ache in my chest is so pronounced it hurts to breathe. I feel as if I’ve just sprinted 400 meters, in temperatures below freezing, with my mouth wide open like a fish.

The surrounding withered tree limbs resemble my Grandmother Ruby’s fifty-sixyear-old arms and legs. In November, the month which unofficially welcomes winter in Nirvana, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. It only took two months for this disease to ravish her body to the point where boney branches remind me of her.

I exhale slowly, and my breath fogs the window. I have no desire to erase it because the only view is a black canvas with endless oak trees and a gravel road which leads to the commune hospice. My grandmother is expected to pass away any day or perhaps any minute, so my parents and I are saying our final goodbyes tonight.

The air in my father’s work truck is stifling so I wind the window down. I close 4

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

“It’s not fair!” I exclaim. My once vibrant Grandmother Ruby is like a red rose that was plucked from their garden and quickly discarded; well before the end of the season.

“Let’s be thankful for the time we had with her,” my father says softly, which contradicts his usually gruff tone.

I haven’t even had seventeen years with her. I’m closer to my grandmother than with anyone else in my small world, and yet she won’t be there for me during my eye color procedure, when I get married, or have children. She won’t be there for anything.

My heart may never thaw.

Perhaps if we lived on the Outside, we’d have more time. My father is convinced there are cures for certain diseases beyond our commune. In fact, he brought up the subject this morning while I was eavesdropping in the hallway. Usually I remain in bed until my mother sprays a cloying scent in my bedroom as a means to wake me. This morning however, I was craving coffee more than five extra minutes of sleep.

“What if they have the cure for cancer out there, Jonquil?” my father asked.

“Royal, keep your voice down. You’ll wake Jade,” my mother said.

“If our leaders weren’t obsessed with intraocular operations and more concerned with finding the cure for cancer, our life expectancy would surely increase.” With each word, his voice rose like the notes on a musical scale.

“Not now, Royal, please.”

“If we don’t talk about these things now, when will we?”

“Honestly, I’d prefer if we never do. It’s just so unpleasant.”

“Of course you would. Then we won’t.”

He sighed.

“Good. What would you like for breakfast?”

“I don’t know. Pancakes I guess.” His

voice dripped with resignation.

And just like that, the subject was dropped. I’ve often wondered why eye color matters so much in our commune. Like most babies born in Nirvana, my natural eye color is brown. Not hot chocolate brown or buttered biscuit brown, but brown like the Crayola crayon stuck in the original crayon box.

Fortunately in Nirvana, Virginia, artificial trumps natural eye color because artificial eye color determines who you marry and your lifelong occupation. It even determines where you’re buried, but I try not to think about that.

In our commune, children have green, orange or purple eyes and adults have red, blue or yellow eyes. Only Outsiders, people who live in Nirvana but travel back and forth from the Outside, retain their natural eye color.

However, there’s an exception to these rules; commune members and/or Outsiders who commit significant crimes are blinded.

Even though my current name and eye color is Jade, both will change in six months, when I turn seventeen years old. I’ll choose my blue-eyed father’s life path of winemaking, or my yellow-eyed mother’s life path of teaching. There’s a third option, but only the crazy, desperate people consider it.

My father makes a left turn on Samsara Street. The mile long gravel path is aligned with boxwood trees standing guard like green ghosts. But of course, ghosts aren’t real. At least that’s what we’re taught at the Academy.

Supposedly when someone dies their body and spirit are buried together. And yet when my Grandfather Navy passed away five years ago, I sensed his spirit. I thought I was crazy until Grandmother Ruby mentioned she had actually seen his spirit. She said he looked the same as the day he died except for a blue glow which radiated from him. I only felt my grandfather’s spirit once, but the experience left me with a sense of hope. I wish I could sense his presence now because all I feel is 5

Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER “No sir,” my mother replies as I shake my head. He nods.

Before we enter Samsara, we take turns gazing into an iris scanner. I stand approximately five inches from the camera which takes a quick digital photo.

We walk single file up the narrow wooden steps to the forth floor, Wing C, which is the area that no one willingly treads. Wing A is for intraocular operations, Wing B is the hospital, Wing C is the hospice. The ground floor includes the Center, where we have weekly meetings, dining hall, library, parlor, and living area for our commune leaders.

There’s an elevator but it's restricted to guards and patients.

On Wing C, nurses shuffle quietly through the hallway, each with various shades of red eyes. Like a rainbow of reds.

“May I visit alone first?” I ask, a lump in my throat rising.

“Of course, sweetheart,” my mother squeezes my arm.

“Don’t upset her,” my father says. As if I ever would.

I push the door gently and slip inside Room 41. I hang my jacket on the coat rack, tip- toe to the side of the twin bed, and gaze at my grandmother.

Grandmother Ruby’s red-colored eyes are like faded embers, in contrast to mine, which are the shade of bright green gemstones.

“You brought your camera,” she says.

“Take a picture of us.”

I didn’t realize a camera was hanging from my neck because I’m so used to its weight. I feel almost naked without it. I’m sure my mother feels the same way whenever there are no flowers in her hair. My bulky jacket must have hidden the camera from the guard. I’d be punished severely if officials found out I had a camera inside of Samsara. My father would scold me, too. But since I have it, I might as well take a final picture of my grandmother

numb.

At the end of the lane, my father parks the truck in the lot behind Samsara. Before the start of Nirvana, Samsara was the heart of a 5,500 acre tobacco plantation. The plantation home was built in 1759, long before the start of our commune which came to fruition in 1865.

With our shelter from the rest of the world and limited technology, it may as well still be the 18th century. Supposedly on the Outside, people take phones with them everywhere. It’s hard to imagine phones without cords. And there are computers that spit out information within seconds; and cures for diseases. But it isn’t one-sided. The Outside is envious of our advancements in ophthalmology. In fact they trade oil for tidbits of information.

I feel hollow like the chocolate bunnies my mother orders from the Outside. As if one bite could cause me to crumble. As a result, I thread my arm through hers as we approach the back porch. We reach the first step as a cold January rain descends.

“You just dodged the rain,” a guard perched on a chair says. His eyes are a pale blue.

My father nods. “Good evening sir.”

“Where are you headed?” The guard, who is well over six feet tall, with bulging muscles asks. In fact, all of the guards, male and female, are all bulky like sacks of potatoes.

Perhaps they take an herb like bupleurum to feed their muscles.

“Wing C,” my mother says.

“I’m sorry,” the guard says.

“Thank you, sir.” My father stretches his arms like wings. The guard runs his hands along my father’s arms, chest, back, and legs.

When he’s finished, he stands in front of my mother and me.

“Celeste, the female guard, is on break. Do you ladies have any prohibited items?” He asks.

6

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

“Yes, but tell me the story again, please.”

No matter how many times she repeats this particular story, I always enjoy hearing it. It takes me back to a time when life was simple.

Back when my parents were happy, when Grandfather Navy was alive, and when Grandmother Ruby was healthy.

“Oh what a party it was. At least half the commune was in your backyard. We grilled hamburgers and hotdogs, but you’d only eat the bun. We sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and passed out chocolate cake. You scraped off all the icing and threw away the cake. You get those traits from your mother. Your father always ate everything on his plate. Still does, too.” She takes a wheezy breath. “Then you tore into all of your gifts which were mostly homemade clothing and wooden trinkets. You pushed those aside, grabbed a stack of cups, and handed them out to all the kids. You collected feathers, rocks, worms, twigs…whatever you could find in the backyard. When your party was over, all of the other kids dutifully dumped out their cups and went home. You, on the other hand, threw a tantrum when your mother tried to take the cup away from…” she stops to cough.

“Here, take a drink.” I offer her a cup of water. Watching Grandmother sip from...

and me.

Half-heartedly, I hold the camera away from our faces and snap a picture. When the Polaroid pops out, I shake the picture until it slowly comes to life. It’s out of habit that I shake it; it’s not good for the photo.

“How do I look, Jade?” Her voice is so low I lean in close to hear her.

“You look beautiful.”

“Don’t lie. Give it here.” A small smile plays on her lips.

Reluctantly, I hand her the Polaroid picture. She’s aged years in a few weeks.

Before she became sick, she would sit in front of her vanity and brush her raven black hair at least one hundred times. Then she would meticulously paint her face.

“Where’s the red lipstick when I need it?”

She gazes at the picture for a moment, looking so sad. “What will you label this one?”

I carry my camera to the coat hanger and hide it beneath my coat. “Umm, how about Sarcastic Broads?”

She laughs, which quickly turns into a cough. She takes a sip of water. “That’s perfect.” She places the photo on her meal tray between an untouched tapioca pudding cup and a bowl of chicken broth. “You’re so talented. Promise me you’ll never give up on photography.”

“I promise to give up breathing first,” I reply which I immediately regret. It’s an insensitive comment considering my grandmother is struggling to breathe. I redeem myself by bringing up a topic that always brings a smile to her face. “I still have the first camera you and Grandfather gave me. It’s gray and black with a rainbow stripe down the middle.” In fact, I have a significant camera collection with cameras of all shapes and sizes.

“That old thing? Your grandfather gave it to you on your fourth birthday! Do you remember that party?”

Order on Amazon or kristyfgillespie.com to continue reading this book.

Kristy lives in Warrenton, Virginia with her husband and daughter. Gillespie is a school librarian, blogger, short story and Young Adult novel writer.

Kristy F. Gillespie 7

varieties. A few of the hybrids Agnes created herself.

The four women and one man, whose gardens preceded, shuffled daintily along the walkways. Their heads swiveled left to right like health inspectors in a restaurant kitchen.

They smiled and nodded as Agnes pointed out the various specimens. All had the same thing on their minds: this old lady has outdone us again. It was the eighth annual neighborhood garden tour in Lake Jackson, Virginia. And for the fifth year in a row it was obvious who would take home the prize.

"She couldn't have done all this herself," they'd whisper. And they were right. Her husband, the tanned and spry sixty-five-yearold Albert Woodward, had done much of the heavy work. But it was Agnes who spent hours online and inside her test greenhouse to create the incredible display.

Albert exited the back door with a tray of cold beverages. All heads instantly shifted toward him. This was the real reward, they thought. Albert was one of those playboy types, like a movie star who barely aged. His jet-black hair had only minor streaks of gray running through it, and it was all there. His muscled chest pushed against the tight, stretchy fabric of his blue pullover shirt, and his immense thighs bulged under his tancolored shorts as if they'd tear through the seams. His ocean-blue eyes and seductive smile could make even the coldest person swoon.

"Drinks?"

"Thank you!" the visitors said in unison as their hands reached out and bumped into one another.

"Thank you, darling." Albert lowered his body and tilted his head so his wife could plant a soft kiss on his cheek. "Everyone, you know Albert?"

Five heads with beaming smiles simultaneously nodded.

People Who Need To Die

By Victor Rook Genre: Satirical Horror Stories Pages: 200

Amazon.com and victorrook.com

"Terror Garden"

T

his year the theme was color, and seventy-two-year-old Agnes Woodward proved, once again, that she knew just the right plants to cultivate at just the right time to put on a good show. Tall purple irises lined the walkway up to her front door, where large pink peonies adorned both sides of the entrance. Along the brick front, beds of yellow daylilies mixed with blue salvia and snowwhite lily of the valley. Bushes of red hibiscus mingled in the front yard with eye-popping orange dahlias. And above, dish-plate-sized white magnolia blooms unfurled against dark green leaves like giant floating orbs.

Her backyard was equally impressive.

Pathways of perennials and annuals in all colors curved around ornate stone sculptures of mischievous cherubs and mythical gods. In the center, a cascading waterfall supplied frothy fresh water to a pool of giant orange, white, and black-speckled coy. Even the shady spots under the old oak tree in the far corner bursted with color. Within the variegated hostas were the brilliant purple, lime, maroon, yellow, and pink leaves of various coleus 8

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

"I want to thank Albert for the tireless work he put into the garden again this year."

"Oh baby, it's all your doing." Albert draped his sinewy arm around his wife's shoulder and pulled her close. Then he pecked her cheek and quickly disappeared back into the house. The visitors quietly sighed. It was the last they'd see of him.

"You've done a marvelous job, Agnes."

"Yes," the others agreed.

"Where do you buy most of your plants?" one asked. "Merrifield?"

"Oh no," Agnes responded. "They charge way too much. I either create my own hybrids, or purchase them on discount at Home Depot."

"I see, that's very impressive."

"You're all welcome to some. I've potted up a batch for each of you to take home."

It was customary at the end of the garden tour for neighbors to engage in a plant exchange. However, it was Agnes who always went out of her way to pot up the most promising specimens. Others simply tossed their weakest plants into cracked pots with worn-out soil. Plants that were probably meant for the compost bin. But not Agnes. She genuinely cared about the people around her, and it showed in how she treated them. This year she gave out vibrant coleus cuttings along with pots brimming with a wonderful silver grass.

"Put these two together and you'll have a fabulous display."

After the tour, fifty-two-year-old Patricia Livingston, who lived next door, reluctantly handed Agnes the $100 gift certificate to Terragotta, an online garden accessory store.

It was everyone's favorite place to shop for unique items. And their prices were decent.

"Thank you so much. I'm going to put this to good use. I can't wait to plan out for next year."

Agnes mingled with her guests for the next

few minutes, all the while hearing her name repeatedly whispered under envious breaths.

She knew why they really came—to see her husband. They'd always ask how Albert was doing when they caught her working alone in the front yard. She also knew that some of them had done some pretty bad things over the years. Things that they thought she'd never find out. But Agnes was well aware of what went on around her. Secrets traveled throughout the neighborhood like dandelion seeds on a windy day. It was painful to realize that those she did her best to befriend could be so malicious.

But what hurt her most was how they treated her after Albert died.

She had just finished preparing dinner— Albert's favorite, oven-fried chicken—when she heard a loud crash coming from the back porch.

"Albert, is that you?" she said before drying her hands with a kitchen towel and opening the screen door. At the base of the steps were large and small chips from clay pots that led like a trail to where her husband lay on his side. Agnes rushed to Albert just as he rolled over and looked up at her with his frightened blue eyes. His hands were clutching his chest.

"Oh, dear Albert," she said while holding onto his shoulder. "I need to get help." She was about to go back inside for the phone when Albert whispered for her to stay with him.

"I want to thank you for making me the happiest man," he said. "You always took care of me, even when I went astray. You are a very special woman. You're my apple dumpling."

Agnes sat down at her husband's side and caressed his thick black hair while he peacefully passed away. It was as if he had just fallen asleep, like the many times next to 9

Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER her on the couch after watching a long movie together. Or when they were younger and stayed out late after sunset on the Maryland beaches. Just like that. Within two hours the ambulance came and took Albert away from her, and Agnes sat at the dinner table alone. In front of her was a spread of food prepared with the same care she put into her garden— oven-fried chicken breasts marinated in buttermilk and cloves, homegrown roasted potatoes, French-style green beans, freshly baked dinner rolls, and for dessert, the nickname that Albert gave to her after their first date on May 4, 1971: apple dumplings.

The two had met in Baltimore, Maryland.

Agnes was working as a lab technician at a biochemical company, and Albert had just finished a four-year stint in the Navy. The chemistry, Agnes would later joke because of her job position, was there from the start. She was 32, and Albert was 25.

Albert landed a job as a sales consultant for the same company, and so they saw each other often—except when he had to fly to California, or Texas, or the Midwest for a growers convention. His good looks and charming personality quickly escalated him to head of sales. The two bought a nice summer home near the Eastern Shore, and it wasn't unusual for them to spend their rare free time walking the many beaches and boardwalks.

But when Ocean City expanded in the 1980s, and summer tourists crowded the few highways leading up to the waterfront, they sold the home and moved to Annapolis, Maryland. That's where Agnes honed her interest in gardening.

She soon became a supporting member of the Federated Garden Clubs of Maryland, and over the years she achieved Master Gardener status. In her spare time she also taught horticulture classes at a few of the surrounding universities. Albert took an interest in indoor houseplants and outdoor container gardening

as well. It was a beautiful, symbiotic relationship that blossomed more and more each year. The thought of living without Albert was unimaginable to Agnes.

Weeks went by after the funeral, and although a few of the neighbors showed up at the service, none of them reached out to Agnes afterward to help her through her immense grief. They looked at her like a weed that surrounded a once-beautiful flower.

Something that needed to be plucked away as soon as possible.

Her wonderful garden, which had been a high-point of the neighborhood—and probably increased home values—fell into disrepair. Flower heads, once vibrant with color, drooped to the ground and turned a crusty brown. Invasive weeds crept into the flower beds and suffocated the ornate ground covering, making the beds indistinguishable from the rest of the yard. High winds brought down small branches and twigs, which rotted into the soil and attracted hordes of insects and nesting rodents. Dead coy rose to the surface of the back pond and wafted a fishy stench throughout the neighborhood. A few of the sculptures tumbled off their stone mounts and smashed into oddly shaped pieces.

David's penis rested on the edge of the pond, while his head, which now stared ominously at the back of the house, rolled in the opposite direction.

Agnes herself stayed inside most of the time. If it weren't for someone occasionally spotting her out for her mail, they might have thought she had died as well. One neighbor shouted from across the street one morning that her yard was an eyesore to the community. Agnes sent a focused stare over to the woman, Heidi Cockstead, then turned and slowly made her way back inside. After that she waited until the cover of night to retrieve her letters.

Six long years went by. The neighbors 10

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

waited, like cold-hearted hyenas on the watch, to rid themselves of that old woman for good.

Realtors, professional house-flippers, and independent home-renovation businesses stuck pamphlets in her door. At one time the county considered fining Agnes for unkempt and potentially hazardous premises.

But then a young man mysteriously showed up in the late spring of 2021, and the neighbors couldn't take their eyes off him.

own properties. Anything to get closer to that wonderful body. But before they could summon the courage to approach the God of Dairy Goodness, the job had been completed and he disappeared.

Fencing now surrounded the entire perimeter of Agnes' property. All that was visible was a portion of the second floor of her house. Occasionally, a figure could be seen moving past an upstairs window. Perhaps Agnes had slipped away in the night, or some close relative moved her to a nursing home.

And then new owners had moved in and would be renovating the place. Maybe, Emily hoped and occasionally orgasmed over, the new owner was the muscle boy! Whatever the circumstances, the neighbors were grateful not to have to look at that hideous yard anymore.

And then the unusual trucks arrived.

Cyan Botanicals was the name on the magnetic sign attached to the white van that arrived three days later. A curved green leaf accentuated the logo. A box truck with Mystery Aquatics painted on the side came soon after. Two men unloaded heavy, round containers. Next came Gracious Herbaceous, followed by Carnivore Creations. Then there were the mulch trucks, which made perfect sense, arriving at the back gate and...

He wore tight black shorts that cupped his firm ass and continued to mid-thigh, where a white band bordered the taut material and his lightly tanned skin. His shirtless torso revealed a large chest, rolling abs, and arms thick as boas. His short hair was dark and wavy, and his face looked military: firm jaw, inset eyes, and a sly smile. He looked like one of those farm-boy wrestler types where hard work and half a gallon of milk a day did a body good.

The sound of the hammer hitting nails didn't bother the neighbors at all. It was their cue to part the curtains, pull up a chair, and watch God's finest creation at work. And it began every day at nine o'clock sharp, and ended roughly around four. The seven-foothigh wood fence started at the property line by the street and gradually made its way around Agnes' backyard. Every now and then the muscled hunk would rest against the truck tailgate, down a full bottle of water, and wipe the sweat off his pecs with a T-shirt he never wore. Then he'd lift another pallet-size fence section overhead and carry it to where he left off. His calves flexed and bulged as he walked, and Rich Logan from across the way dreamt about sniffing the black sneakers he wore on his bare feet.

The fence erection continued for several weeks, three weeks and two days to be exact, Emily Pearson counted. She and the others wondered who this young man was, and if they could conjure up work for him on their

Order on Amazon or victorrook.com to continue reading this book.

Victor lives in Manassas, Virginia.

This is one of four books he's published since 2007. It has appeared in the Washington Post and received praise from TV critic Tom Shales.

Victor Rook 11

during the procedure he was losing some of it.

He had a name, of course, but they addressed him in shorthand as Berta, drawing from the phonetic term in his language for the letter B. He wore his uniform because they wanted him to but also because he wanted to.

After all, this was not a crime he was embarked upon but a lawful act of war. He carried a small der Beutel sack containing toilet articles and ammunition in one hand. In the other he grasped the rifle fitted with its telescopic sight. They’d lowered the device over his head and then brought it down to enclose his entire body. The noise and the peculiar smell surged around him and he was transported instantaneously — belldropped, was their term for it — into 1908, to this narrow, boot-shaped, rock-strewn island with patches of dense woods in New Brunswick off the northeast coast of Canada. When he landed, a yellow flash lit up the wooded area for just a second or so at the treeline near the rocky coast. The smell of sulfur tore at his nostrils. They’d told him to expect noise, the flash, the odor. They had not known that he would experience a powerful inner fear.

You can do this, he told himself. They chose you because you can do this.

He blinked. He was not physically ill.

They’d briefed him to expect no ill effects from the journey and they’d been right about that part.

He was at the treeline on the edge of a pleasant little clump of woods looking down on a summer cottage and on the marina beyond. He would be able to see the occupant of the cottage from here, he decided.

He’d practiced his next few steps a hundred times. He hunkered down. High above the woodline, the sun was a brilliant orb in a clear sky with a slight breeze, exactly as he’d been told it would be.

This looks like the perfect spot to set up and shoot, he thought, marveling at his good

Hitler's Time Machine

By Robert F. Dorr Genre: Alternative History Pages: 300

Amazon.com and robertfdorr.com

Chapter 1 Campobello, Fundy Islands, New Brunswick, Friday, August 14, 1908: The dread lived inside him.

The summer day on this rocky island was alive with insects, the sound of rustling leaves and an uncharacteristic breeze that tasted cool and wet. Had his focus not been impaired by his irrational fear, he might have been quicker to perceive what nature was doing around him. But the living thing inside him, the dread that almost defied any definition, was what consumed him.

He was doing something that, in all of human history, had been done just once before. They’d selected him because he was fearless, in the way that only the very young and very strong can be fearless. He was young and blond in an appealing way and he was being eaten up on the inside.

The dread lived and festered, a peculiar evil that fed upon itself, caused not by any readily recognized danger but by the unknown. He’d made a wager with himself that he would remain calm but at every second 12

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

fortune. He checked the bolt-action and took mock aim, squinting into the telescopic sight at the broad open window on the side of the summer cottage. Slowly, he eased himself to the ground and wriggled into a prone shooting position. He could not kill but he could permanently disable, they'd told him.

Everything was going perfectly and his movements were calm and deft, yet inside was this evil thing that clawed at him and...

Clouds loomed. A freak afternoon thunderstorm broke. They had thought about the possibility of fog, so common on this island, but they’d told him there was no possibility of rain. You need sixteen minutes of perfect sunlight, they’d told him over and over. This was not supposed to happen. It never rained here in the afternoon in August.

Now, a tremor shook him. The traveler known as Berta, hunched over his rifle and felt the dread overcome him. He was no longer in control of the situation.

The first drops moistened his hair and face.

“No!” They’d said this could not happen.

“Kammler,” he said aloud.

His target would not be the one to be taken down today, he realized. He would be. “This is not fair,” he said to himself. “I did everything exactly right.” He was going to die now, he told himself, because Kammler’s people had gotten the weather wrong.

because of his certainty that the lawman disliked him. He was impatient to be finished.

The renter was an energetic and athletic man. He loved sailing. He loved the outdoors.

But he also spent long hours inside the cottage working on his stamp collection. During this calm era in their lives — the calm before the storm, the man would later call it — they would spend every summer on this island and his wife would give birth six times in six years.

The man reeked of pedigree, of status, of money. He was popular in many places but some on this island resented his wealth and stature. One who especially disliked the man was the detective, who drew a modest salary and could not afford to live on the island he policed. These Ivy League, elitist Americans squat on our land and throw money around and think they own the place, thought the detective. After several minutes discussing the odd incident of the previous day, the detective continued his account, resentful of the man and struggling to remain businesslike.

“We have the remains of a man that have somehow turned into a foul-smelling, wet, thick pile of gray powder. The coroner says a human body can’t deteriorate that way. It’s impossible, the coroner said. But it happened.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” said the man. He was just twenty-six years old and in addition to his unruffled calm he had a presence that went beyond his money or his status. It was said of him that he filled a room.

This was his personality, not his birthright.

“This was an intruder, right? This was someone who meant to do us harm?”

“We know a man was there. He appeared to come out of nowhere. His clothing and gear are undamaged.”

“What could this possibly be about, officer?”

“It’s ‘detective,’ sir, thank you very much.” He accentuated the Canadian lilt on

Twenty-four hours later, a conversation was ending inside the cottage Berta had been preparing to shoot at. The lanky patrician figure who’d rented the cottage for the summer dominated the parlor of the house where he was finishing a conversation with a uniformed police detective. He hadn’t invited the detective farther into the house and hadn’t offered him a chance to sit down. The renter was uncomfortable in the detective’s presence 13

Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER the verb, to remind the tall man that this was his turf and the man was a summer interloper.

“Detective.”

“Well, we don’t know what to think. He had a very modern-looking rifle with a telescopic sight. There have been telescopic sights since before your Civil War but this one has an especially modern look to it. And, he had a kind of costume, or maybe a uniform, and they’re both intact. The rifle has the word ‘Mauser’ engraved on its stock. That’s the name of an arms manufacturer in Germany.

The costume has a pair of stylized lightning bolts on the collar.” Perhaps as if to emphasize that he was an equal to this uppity summer American tourist, the detective added his little joke: “And it’s nowhere near Halloween.”

Servants and babies were in the cottage but the man’s wife was alone when she brought a platter of tea and cakes to the parlor where the detective was standing to leave. “I don’t know if we’ll have time for that, Eleanor,” the man said. “Stylized lighting bolts? What could they represent? It doesn’t mean anything to me, detective.”

“Well, sir, we are going to want to take statements but not immediately. There is something else we don’t get. Who do you know that would like to harm you, sir?”

The detective watched the man rub his face. For the first time, and wondering how he’d missed it earlier, the detective noted the Masonic ring on the man’s finger. For the first time, the detective wondered if the two of them might have something in common.

Perhaps this wealthy aristocratic American is not so different from an everyday Canadian detective after all, he thought.

“Sir?” the detective pressed.

“I don’t think a statement from me will help much,” the man said. “None of this is ringing a bell.”

It would be many years before the irony of that utterance would register on the summer

visitor. The detective nodded as if to recognize that the man expected him to leave soon “And enemies, sir? Do you have enemies?”

“I can’t think of who that might be. Harm me? Who would want to harm me? And what is the ‘something else’?”

“The rifle has a number engraved in the metal on its stock,” the detective told Franklin D. Roosevelt. “The number is 1-9-4-2. We don’t know what it means.”

Chapter 2 Kent’s Doughnut Den, Boston, Massachusetts, Friday, November 11, 1938: A loud, fast rain poured almost horizontally across the drenched, windswept streets of Boston. She sat alone at a table by the window, a cup of java steaming beside the long yellow pad on which she drew something that looked like a bell and inscribed neat, careful mathematical equations beneath it.

“I see you’re busy but may I join you anyway?”

She looked up. Rivulets of rainwater seeped down the surface of the yellow slicker he wore over his suit and tie. He was short, florid and serious. His demeanor was both friendly and ominous.

“I’m just taking my break here, sir. I’m not a customer. I’m the night waitress. Mr. and Mrs. Kent have been kind enough to let me work here in the evening. I rent a room from them, you see, and I’m in school.”

“Oh, I know, Miss Stafford. I have something for you actually. It’s just a little token.”

“You know who I—” Barbara Stafford halted in mid-breath. She recognized him now. This small, round, seemingly kindhearted but intense figure was Harold Hathaway, a tenured senior professor in the 14

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

physics department at the institute just down the avenue. Sorority girls called him Hard-On Hathaway because of his reputation of lusting after female graduate students, almost always to his inevitable success.

He came from Eastern Money, she remembered. A real contrast to her, a smalltown girl working her way through college in the middle of the worst economic depression in history. Before finishing her break, she’d been planning to finish her notes on her radical — some claimed, crazy — doctoral thesis on all-destroying phase transition, specifically her position regarding Rule Number One, and then to allow herself a cigarette to celebrate a special occasion.

“I don’t feel I know you yet, Miss Stafford, but I’m sure we can rectify that.”

“You don’t understand, Dr. Hathaway. I work here. The Kents aren’t here this evening and they’ve left me in charge” — Kitty, the other waitress, had disappeared into the back room and there were no other customers — “and I’m studying for an exam on Monday, right after this three-day holiday.”

His chair screeched on the floor as he slid up side-by-side and leaned against her. He smelled of moisture, mold and Lenthéric Three Musketeers, which was the best-selling men’s after-shave lotion that year. His hand was on her skirt now. “I wanted to give you a book as a gift,” he said. “It’s out in the car. I even had it giftwrapped for you.”

“Professor, the other waitress is going to be out here any minute.”

“I’m going to spoil my surprise.” He was up close, grinning, so certain that he was in control of this situation. “It’s the Viking first edition of a famous work by H. G. Wells. I got it just for you.”

As far as she could remember, they had had a conversation only twice before, once in a seminar and once in the hallway. “I’m flattered,” she said. “I didn’t think anyone at

the school appreciated the direction my research is taking.”

“Oh, I do. I do. I think sooner or later the army will, too.”

“It’s only theoretical,” she said. “If we could make the device work, I would hope it would have many peaceful uses and never become a weapon.”

“Peaceful uses? Of course. Yes. Peaceful uses. Anyway, I am a fan of your work.”

“That is kind of you, sir.” She hoped the “sir” would make a point about the age difference between them. “But, professor, I really must get back to work.”

“Finish your work and then join me, Miss Stafford. Would you consider spending the weekend with me in my pied-à-terre behind the faculty center? You won’t be disappointed, I can promise you that.”

Won’t be interrupted by your wife there, either, she thought.

His right hand was on her right thigh, his left hand going around her left shoulder. She heard the rain outside and felt his breath. In addition to a reputation as a lecher, he was known, they said in the sororities, for phenomenal staying power. At least that was what Barbara had heard from members although she was not a sorority member...

Order on Amazon or robertfdorr.com to continue reading this book.

Robert lives in Oakton, Virginia. An author, Air Force veteran, and retired diplomat, he writes on military topics.

His books and articles span 60 years. This is his first novel.

Robert F. Dorr 15

explore, but that wasn’t what this trip was about. There was no way to feel good about this.

Eddie decided to go at it like he would any other job. Survey the landscape, develop a plan and grind through it with as little pain as possible.

Tomorrow would be the hardest part, but all he had to do was survive. He was not in charge. He was not managing this project.

Somebody else had to get the backhoe and dig the hole next to Dad, and there would be people to lower the box. He just had to get through it. Nothing had to be said, nothing had to be done. He loved his mom, and she knew that. And he knew she loved him.

More than that, she got him. She understood why he was the way that he was.

They had an understanding. They were family.

All they had left was each other, and they knew that, and cherished that, and they would always be… well. Now it was just Eddie.

For the past couple of decades his life had been tethered to his mother. He’d traveled all over the country for work, and the only connection he kept was to her. This place, her home - his childhood home - was the only constant in his life.

He made it back less and less, and this year he’d missed Christmas. She’d wanted him home for Christmas. He had missed some in the past, but it never felt right. There was always work, and another new building to get out of the ground. He had to be there to get it done. Now, this had to be done.

“Sorry, Dad,” he whispered as he crested a hill and could see the graveyard from the interstate. “I should have been there.” He clicked the turn signal and…

“Aw shit.”

EXIT CLOSED FOR REPAIRS. The sign practically slapped him in the face.

Yeah, he should have taken the new exit, but he did not have all the facts. He hated

Old Roads and New Exits

By Tom Basham Genre: Fiction Pages: 336

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Chapter 1 NEW TRAFFIC PATTERN AHEAD – USE CAUTION

E

ddie Evans smirked at the sign greeting him. He had heard about Manassas getting the new exit for years. How it was needed and what a difference it would make.

They said it would help everybody. That’s what the people with land near the new exit claimed.

He stared down the new off-ramp as he drove past, while the exit sign seemed to glare back. This exit was the new kid in town. Eddie knew they would have to get along, and maybe once they got to know each other, but not tonight.

It was a small victory, but those were the only kind Eddie had left. He was going home for the first time in two years, and he was going to do it the same way he always did.

The way he used to for the past 30 years. Part of him thought he might get lost taking the new exit, with its bright and shiny retail carnival beckoning him off the interstate. He was curious, and there would be time to 16

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

being wrong and watching his plan fall apart.

Driving a rig like his, he found it best to stay on familiar ground. Seven miles to the next exit and he would just take Route 29 and come back into town that way. Route 29 would be fine. They couldn’t get rid of that, and they couldn’t stop him from getting to his destination. There was still a sliver of white alongside the gas gauge needle. He got about 8 miles a gallon, so he would probably make it. He squinted at the gauge. Where was that white slice of safety? He chuckled at the thought of running out of gas.

His rig, a 1974 Winnebago, would stick out in this town like a turd in a punch bowl.

That brought a grin, thinking back to prom night. Billy didn’t do it, but they thought he did. Eddie dragged him in the wrestling room after he passed out where they found him the next morning. What a night…and – hold it right there. See her, Mary. See her dress, the face, the smile. Hold it, keep it, own it. That was all he had left of her.

A flashing yellow light met him at the bottom of the exit ramp, and two left turns got him on Route 29 heading back north. He kept the speed up going around the tight curve, and he heard the familiar sound of something skidding across the floor in the back. The carburetor coughed, but he chose not to look at the fuel gauge. The new exit would have had gas, even at 2 a.m. Exits like those lived to serve travelers of the night.

He could make it. Just needed to get to the top of the next hill, and he could coast into the 7-11 where he used to sneak beer with his buddies. They were all open 24 hours, right?

Still running strong, he popped over the hill and slipped it into neutral to be safe. He coasted toward the lighted canopy. Sure enough, they were open, and the old boxy RV rocked into the entrance and up to the gas island.

“Damn it.”

The gas pumps were gone. He climbed out and limped up to the door. His back let him know that last five-hour stretch had been too much.

“Convenience Mart.” The sign caught his eye as he walked by. He checked his bearings; the old church was across the street, and yep, this was where the 7-11 was supposed to be.

Once inside he made a beeline to the cold case. It was locked.

“Welcome to Virginia. I am home,” he said. Some things had not changed, like buying beer after midnight. Didn’t they fight a war about this? Why couldn’t the Battle of Manassas have included selling beer after midnight? He grabbed a loaf of bread, a dozen eggs and a package of ham.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” The clerk did not bother to look up from his phone.

The staccato rhythm of his voice betrayed his East India origin as much as the name on his shirt.

“I guess not, uhm.” Eddie stared at the name tag.

“Jimi, my name is Jimi.”

“Well, Jimi, I really need some gas, but that does not seem possible.”

“The 7-11 at the new exit has gas.”

“I don’t think I am going to make another mile, and I have about three to go. When did the 7-11 move?”

“That was two years ago, and my brother and I took over this store.”

Eddie pulled out his wallet and laid down a 20 for the groceries. Jimi eyed the wad of cash.

“If you have another 20, I might have some gas in a can that we use for the lawnmower.” Eddie gave up another 20.

“I’d go again for a six pack.”

Jimi shook his head and seemed to hate it when he said, “I can’t do that, I am sorry. We had an ABC violation once and they took our license for three months.”

17

Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER Eddie was pleased when he saw the 5gallon can, until Jimi handed it to him.

“I am sorry, sir. I thought it was full.”

Eddie weighed the can with his forearm and figured it had maybe a gallon and a half.

“This will do me.”

“Just leave the can by the back door,” he said and went back into the store.

Eddie poured in the gas. He was happy to have it, even if it was over $10 a gallon. At his age, a three-mile walk could cost him much more than that. Between his back and his heart, one of them would probably give out.

The gauge on both of them was pretty low too.

Still, he was pleased to get the gas, and he would have been more pleased with a sixer, but one tank at a time.

Eddie pulled back on the highway but kept it nice and slow. There was no telling what other changes may have been made, and he was not going to miss another turn. Arriving in the middle of the night would not attract attention. His camper was something people tended to gawk at. At least when it was moving, he knew someone would not think it had been abandoned and tow it away. The dents, dings and scrapes over the years had gotten infected and were now rusting wounds.

He kept it registered in Kentucky where they did not require safety or emissions inspections.

Underneath, she was mechanically sound for the most part, but on the outside she looked ready for the junkyard.

He pulled up in front of the house and stopped. He thought he would feel something, but he was just tired.

He usually parked on the street when he came home to avoid clogging the driveway.

Had to make sure Mom could still get out, and she always said she did not want that beast in her driveway. This time it was not up to her, so it would be the driveway.

Backing in was his move. Made it easy to leave and people driving by would not stop to

read all the bumper stickers. He swung out in the street, cut the wheel and looked in the cracked mirror on the passenger side. Plenty of room and back he went. As the front nose cleared the street, the rig seemed to bog down.

“Transmission fluid,” he thought. When it was low and in reverse, it slipped. He punched it and the big rusty box glided back into position.

That’s when it hit him. He was home. He looked over at the dark empty house. It was just a building, like a church when the people are gone. Ranch style, one floor, with a small covered porch perfect for a rocking chair.

Eddie’s father never made it that far, and his mother would not sit out there alone. The yard needed work, but the house looked good, like it had been somebody’s home.

She should be right there, coming down the lead walk. House coat flapping, arms waving. He never heard the first few sentences. He just let them sail right over the bow. Didn’t matter what she said, at least not to him, but she had to get it said. Her default rants were always set back a few decades. He would have loved to hear one of her go-to routines again: “Why do you drive so late at night?” or “Your dinner has been ready for hours.” She always saw him as a 10-year-old boy with skinned knees, dirt on his face and a flat tire on his bike.

After he’d been home a few days, she would get around to treating him like a man, though by then she saw him as his father.

Eddie had stopped fighting that. It didn’t matter what it meant to him, because that is what she saw. And all she saw were the good things. The strength, the determination, and way the hair on the back of his neck curled up.

“I’m home, Mom,” he said, closing the camper curtains with a gentle touch. There was nobody left to sew them back together.

He touched the seam she had mended and hoped the bond she had made would hold. He 18

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

brushed his teeth, looking into glassy eyes. He clicked off the bathroom light and shuffled back to the bed. He stepped slowly in the dark and his toe nudged into something. He’d known what it was when it careened across the floor on the exit ramp. He picked it up and put it in the sink.

“Goodnight, Buddy-ro.” The best traveling companion a guy could ever have passed away last fall, and Eddie could not get up the courage to throw out the bowl. The old flopeared Beagle also took care of any food that hit the floor, and he never complained about Eddie’s singing. That bowl was all he had left of him. Buddy used to have the run of the place and rode shotgun all over the country.

Maybe it was the lack of alcohol, or the proximity to home, but it all seeped into Eddie’s dreams that first night. He used to dream of his father all the time. Simple things, like working on a car, fixing a fence or just fishing. There were also elaborate dreams of current times, with his father being there. His Father was not really involved in the action, but he was there, with Eddie like that’s where he was supposed to be.

Eddie had the sense, in his dream, to acknowledge the oddity of his father being there. Dreams like this used to bother him – affected him for days – but he had decided they were a good thing. There was never a confrontation, or issue to be resolved – Dad was just there. Eddie knew it was all in his head and nothing ethereal or fourth plane was happening. His old man was in his head, his dreams – in him. There was no denying that, and once he became comfortable with this fact, his father stopped showing up in his dreams.

On this night, he dreamed of his mother, over and over again. Simple things like her taking him to the doctor and buying him a milkshake at the Woolworth’s counter afterwards. The look on her face when the

French toast hit the plate, though he always called it “eggie bread.” The brown paper school lunch bag when she handed it to him, folded down twice at the top.

A dozen or more different dreams with different things, and in each one, he was left with the look on her face. The love, the trust, the hands that were always there. He saw her face, over and over again until he woke up.

“Okay, dreaming. I know, Mom, I know,” he would say and roll over and go back to sleep. Thirty minutes later it was the same thing. The whole night was restless like that.

Chapter 2

B

y the time the sun came in through the shredded curtains, Eddie had the kind of headache reserved for double-digit beer nights. When his feet hit the cold camper tile, he let her have it.

“Alright, Mom, I am up. I’m gonna make the bus. I’m gonna get to work on time today.

I’m here Mom, I am here.”

He looked at his scruffy beard in the mirror and considered shaving it.

“What do you think, Mom, looks good huh?”

He got the coffee going, two slices of...

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Tom lives with his wife in Nokesville, Virginia. He is an Engineer, Land Surveyor and Filmmaker who writes in virtually all forms of the written word.

Tom Basham 19

I dream you, think you, breathe you Making love as I move through the day And you would cry if I could show you But my words know no other way

Love Like Fall

By Antonia Kilday Genre: Poetry

I smile despite reality I run despite fatigue And your love has bred insanity Dear God, I’m out of my league

Pages: 66

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I saw someone else’s life flash past Felt my shoulders weaken We rushed along- went way too fast A rift that we have deepened

Out of My League

I won’t feel you warm right next to me Who would ask about my day?

Consumed by what I said-so selfishly I would stand by and let you walk away

Let me tell you this story Before time whisks it away And let me tell you that I’m sorry If my emotions get in the way

I felt it loom while I dreamed last night A sinking, fearsome dread Are you okay? Is it alright?

You weren’t there, though we lied in bed

We were adrift out in obscurity We had no rhythm, no pace And with a sudden blast came harmony So clearly I could see your face

I wanted to run and turn every stone In search of what I already knew Useless questions-a conversation on the phone I didn’t know it was killing you

Your mouth is like a brand new flavor Your heat like being born And now my life is a blazing fervor My heart no longer worn I want to feel like this forever An orgasmic, passionate storm And I don’t mind the weather I don’t care for grace or form

We tore down walls and trod new road And losing reality we ripped our souls out Demanding recompense-what I thought you owed You were drowning then in all your doubt

As if the world had slipped from sight Your voice is the only sound And I can’t tell day from night When you’re my all around

And I just want to be here With you beside me-with you inside me In your living and your dying years Our dreams, our screams, our family

20

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

But then who am I fooling?

I wanna be the stars On a night sky I can roam upon So you'll never see me in the same place every time Die off so you don't remember me And I can be tranquil or torn apart knowing you forgot me Losing an essence of my power every time I shed a tear in memory of you I wanna be the universe So that although in distance so great, I can still hold you in my arms One way or another Shield you, love you, hate you, want you Telling myself that I always made the right decision In sending you away so harshly, so inhumanly I wanna be you To instill this burning passion that's consuming me To show you the darkness of the morning The light of the darkness And the something when all you feel is void But I'm nothing Empty in emptiness Love songs gradually dying in my ears Love poems losing meaning in my mind Because you lied but you didn't Because I'll never know But I'll still love you Always

What Can I Say You should have told me it would be like this While I’m the only one bordering insanity You should have told me you would change like this Instead I just sit, waiting patiently You should have said I’d cry so long Before you’d let me in some more You should have said that I was wrong To make you my reason, my force, my core You should have held back that time When you let me taste the possibility You should have paused to say that I’m A glutton for rejection, for cruelty You should have looked the other way Before our eyes could meet You should have asked me not to say Those words that made my dying heart beat You shouldn’t have been so wonderful You should have been a bore You should have kept that kiss – so magical You should have held me, touched me, loved me more

I Wanna Be the Moon I wanna be the moon Why not just a piece of it?

So I'll never feel inferior So I'm just a light Not a feeling heart A lonely, dying heart I wanna be the sun Why not just a ray of it?

So I can turn away when you walk by Or at least darken your complexion So you're less recognizable 21

Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER Spent and wearied, my skin still sweats My body spilling, my back regrets Your plunge, your surge, the wilder it gets The smell of sex, of sweat, and cigarettes

My Sunshine You paralyzed my chest that day When I dreamt and walked in sunshine Scratching my face, my hands, my toes away When I breathed and lived in sunshine

Ice Cream Eyes You took my heart and set it out to die You stopped the world to tell a lie Emboldened thief, you stole my sunshine

There goes my life again Slipping like rain down the gutters in the curb And your love fills me

You brought me death, to taste, to savor When I laughed and hoped in sunshine You spat my kiss for novel flavor When I prayed and loved in sunshine

That smell on my fingertips God, even weeks after having eaten breaded shrimp All I need now is your ice cream eyes Cold before we meet in a smelly doorway Like liquid butter in my palms when we do And this is satisfying The way a minute with you is Even when twelve hours could have been the switch of a light Piano in the background of me trying to sound like someone I'm not In the attempt to be someone better And your love fills me

You took my love in its boundless charity You mocked my gift, my joy, my rarity Beloved thief, you are my sunshine

Sex, Sweat, and Cigarettes I feel it deeper than you I feel it creeping through I run, take cover, too And yet the fire burns anew Take my hand now, take it quick Broken windows, from a single brick That kiss, you know it does the trick To make me wallow, make me slick

Swirling, sliding every which way down through sewage I will be filtered From the ants of tragedy I've never known To rid my experience of things that never happened To prove to myself that I know your ice cream eyes Is it the shrimp or the pepper in the breadcrumbs

You threw it first, you threw it last No care, no matter, it’s in the past Come walking to me, love, full mast And blow my mind, my thighs cast Pour it down and form a river I’ll drink your love in savage rapture And open wide, a cat burglar I scream your name, my lover

I scream of fears I can't put into words I writhe in pleasure I can only imagine Living in a distracted realm of romantic comedies and 22

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

Harlequin historicals And your love fills me

Reveries I held you once a time ago In a quiet summer reverie I kissed your heart to let you know You were everything I dreamed you'd be

If only to justify the cleanness of my existence And that I'm shoveling dirt, tons of dirt To show you that I know your ice cream eyes To relentlessly make you see To keep you blind You really don't need to know Why everything of and around me is a tornado of water Gathering power even from a puddle Only to evaporate when your eyes don't melt

And in the twilight of an autumn day We held each other warm and tight Feeling things we could not say A quiet love 'til morning's light I swore I'd be alone forever Embracing feelings that were untrue And then we spent a day together And all I saw and heard was you

Wanna taste your ice cream eyes God, what flavor?

Chocolate, tomato, breaded shrimp And your love fills me

Amazing how I never imagined the day Our lips would take their first kiss And you could take my breath away I never knew it could be as sweet as this

No Memory Decays And now I sit in idle And no one hears my screams And away that dream of bridal And non-existent now it seems

So good it feels just knowing you're there However faraway So good to imagine that no matter how or where I know, at least, your heart is here to stay

For beneath my nose has passed the dust And through my eyes the sunshine rays For all you did was so unjust And despite; no memory of you decays

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Your body still occupies that space That through time is still my torture You're before me still- your beautiful face Floating in my mind- though I have no picture

Antonia lives in Northern Virginia with her family and 25 pets. She is a cybersecurity professional, artisan, and poet for the last 19 years and counting.

And now I live in folly And I can't forget your skin And our love has gone wholly And I'm dreaming of what could have been Antonia Kilday 23

wagon, fairly ubiquitous in this part of the world. I was headed, mostly in second gear, to an old shack where a crazy woman lived—the end to my current quest.

I’d heard about a particular bit of strangeness going on in the mountains when I was in Burlington. My mission there had turned nasty—two team members were still recovering from burns. We’d been chasing a witch, Cheryl, for weeks and finally caught her while she was too busy sacrificing a fawn to pay attention. Her guards, a pair of magicked cats, were silently dispatched and unable to warn her. The first she knew of our presence was when flashbang grenades sailed into the barn where she was performing her haruspicy. Cheryl had kept the poor creature alive while she gutted it and pulled out its entrails in an attempt to find out what her future held. When she was down and bound, she was interrogated, and ratted out one of her former coven mates. They had parted ways just before we arrived. When it was done, the team disbanded, and I went on the hunt.

It was no one thing Cheryl had said, but the tone, and a few subtle clues, that made me think I’d finally located the bitch who’d destroyed my life. She gave me the general area and a poor physical description, but that was about it. I needed more information, a precise location, and some proof. Years ago, I could’ve gone to the town paper and dug up dirt on the locals and anyone or anything peculiar. These days, serious journalists didn’t report on aberrant behavior unless there were bodies involved, or children. The internet was a great research tool, if you had a specific query or a week to cull all the extraneous information. There were also limits with an internet search—not everything was online.

There were lots of important historical records rotting away in basements and warehouses all over the country. Unable to quickly find what I needed, I’d gone to the oldest source of

Junior Inquisitor (Inquisitor Book 1)

By Lincoln S. Farish Genre: Sci-Fi/Fantasy Pages: 248

Amazon.com and smashwords.com

Chapter 1

R

evenge was simple. Pure. You had purpose and clarity. Phone calls…they complicated life. Had I known what was going to happen, I’d never have answered the damn thing.

I was driving up a ridge in the Green Mountains of Vermont. Now that the morning mist had finally burned away, the mountains towered over me. Leafy green rose up to meet wispy clouds and an eye-scorching blue sky.

The early morning chill was gone, and I’d rolled down the windows. For a moment, just a second, I forgot and got ready to stop and admire the view, maybe take a picture for— The familiar ache gnawed at my stomach.

Sarah. Would I ever get used to not being able to share things with her?

My car chugged up a twisted, poorlymaintained dirt and gravel forestry road the width of a fat donkey. Quickly built back in the 1930s as a make-work program, it had long since been abandoned and mostly led to make-out spots for local teenagers. Still, the twists and turns were no problem for my “undercover” car, a mud-brown Volvo station 24

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

information known to man: the local bar.

Like all natives speaking to a stranger, they were hesitant at first. They didn’t know me, didn’t know what I really wanted. I might’ve been a developer ready to buy up land and invite hordes of New Yorkers to despoil their tranquil village. Worse, I could’ve been a criminal, preparing to steal the town’s prize-winning cheddar wheel— which actually happened in 1964.

Getting the information took guile, cunning, and a hundred dollar bar tab. I told them I was hunting down ghost stories and haunted locations for a college class. My cover wasn’t questioned after the free beer started flowing.

Several pitchers later, I’d learned that the crazy woman had come into town on foot about nine months ago. She’d bought a gallon of iced tea in the local store, drank it in about three gulps, and walked out of town, glaring at anyone who even dared look her way. The natives’ instinct for self-preservation had kicked in, and she was left alone.

The next thing anyone knew, she’d moved into a formerly abandoned cabin up in forestry land. She was trespassing, but no one complained, so the sheriff let her be. About a month later, hunters and hikers started to report weird stuff around her cabin. The deputy who went up to look found nothing, and most everyone ignored it, figuring the hunters had too much beer while waiting for deer. Still, the stories kept coming. The cabin was near an old cemetery where a large family that had died out in the 1850s was buried, which only added to the aura of spookiness.

Of course, with the beer flowing and the tendency of locals to tell tourists tall tales, I gathered up several unnecessary stories— about hunting and fishing, the time the town hall burned down, the great cheese wheel theft, and a few carefully couched stories about hunters and hikers either not returning

or hearing strange noises on the mountain. I wasn’t convinced the woman was to blame, but it was the best lead I’d had in five months.

And if there was the slightest chance it would get me my vengeance, I had to take it.

I was halfway up the mountain, ready to get my answers, when I got the call that ruined my day.

“Sebastian, I need you to go to Providence,” Brother Otto said when I answered my phone.

I probably should’ve turned the damn thing off. Still, I’d made the bargain, said the vows, and had a job to do. As much as I hate it, as much as parts of what I do gnaw at my soul, I do believe it’s right, both in my eyes and God’s. I save lives. Sometimes.

“What’s up?” I asked, trying to sound upbeat while thinking, Crap. I hate Providence, and my mentor knows that. It’s a small town full of small people, bitter because they don’t live in New Jersey.

“Brother James, the field Inquisitor for Providence, has missed his last two checkins.” A field Inquisitor in residence is supposed to check in twice a month unless attached to a monastery or in a priory. When on assignment, they need to check in weekly—supposedly to allow for the possibility of rescue if problems arise. Really, the best they can hope for is a retribution strike and decent burial. When things go wrong for Inquisitors, they tend to die, or wish they had.

“Crap,” I said. “Can anyone else do it? I’m in Vermont, working on my side project. I’ve got an interesting lead.”

“Sebastian, it’s been three years since she died,” he said, his voice tinged with sadness.

“I’ve got to know. I…I need to...” My voice broke. Dammit, I needed this. I had to make her pay for what she did to my wife.

Then I could move on, find a new way.

His voice came back stern. “I know, but 25

Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER one of the Brethren is missing. He could be hurt, or hiding, or dead. Your private vendetta comes in a distant second.”

He was right, of course, but I hated to stop what I was doing. Especially to go to my least favorite town in New England.

“I’m on my way,” I said, trying not to sound like I was whining.

“Good. Give me everything you’ve found so far, and I’ll have Simon check it out. And before you ask, no, he can’t go to Providence instead.”

“Simon? What happened to Ralph? I thought he was the roamer for this area.” I’d worked with Brother Ralph Q. a few times in the past. He’d come to New England from our Missouri monastery. A short guy with light brown eyes and male-pattern baldness, he had a knack for mimicking any accent he heard.

The only issues I had with him were that he didn’t like baseball and he always won at poker.

There was silence on the other end.

“Damn,” I said. “Where?”

“He was in Bangor,” said Brother Otto, “running down a lead. The Pack, an outlaw motorcycle club, killed him. Gunned him down in broad daylight, but they were wearing helmets so everyone knows who did it, but no one can ID the shooters. Maybe they thought he was checking on their club, or maybe they were just high and felt like killing. They run a lot of meth in that area.”

“So what are we going to do about it?” I asked.

“We aren’t going to do anything. You are going to Providence. Focus on the task at hand.”

“Yes, Brother.” His tone made it clear there wasn’t going to be any debate on this.

I was pretty sure The Pack was going to regret its actions in the not-too-distant-future.

We wouldn’t storm the club, guns blazing, and mow down everyone inside, but there were a

lot of other ways to end them. Maybe use a couple of cloned cellphones to threaten a few Federal judges in their name or tip off the DEA to their next drug run. The subtle way really was better, but, personally, I’d have preferred them to know who they’d messed with and why their actions were fatal.

“Those details?” Brother Otto prompted.

“I’ll have Simon check them out. Promise.”

I relayed everything I’d learned.

Otto digested this for a minute. “Kinda thin, don’t you think? Sounds like a scrub, and that’s not the kind that murdered your wife.”

My knuckles on the hand gripping the steering wheel popped and the plastic of my phone creaked. “Well, what else am I going to do? Forget about it?”

He met my anger with a cold, direct tone.

“No. What you’re going to do is your duty.

There’s a reason God’s against vengeance. It eats a man up, makes him do stupid things, forsake his friends and family. Get bitter. Can you afford to make stupid mistakes? Can you turn away from the Brethren?”

A cold wash of reason flooded my body. If the Brethren hadn’t taken me in and trained me, I would’ve still been rotting in prison or dead, never knowing why.

Otto continued, “God willing, we’ll find her, and you’ll be able to put this behind you, but only if He’s willing, and now is not the time or place.” He paused for a moment.

“Sebastian, I’ll have Simon check it out, but you’ve got to get your head right. If you let it distract you, it’ll kill you.”

I was silent for a long time, trying to calm down. I knew he was concerned, and what he’d said was true, but dammit, I couldn’t let go. Not yet. I was close. This time I was sure.

A part of me wanted to chuck the phone and keep going. I shook my head and tamped down my rage.

“Everything will be revealed to you in the fullness of time. You know that.”

26

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

“I know, Brother Otto. It’s just…I miss her so much. It was different when I was training. I didn’t have to face it, but now…”

My eyes burned with frustration.

“Sebastian, you have to take adversity and learn from it, become stronger. If you let your feelings control you, your enemies have won.

They dictate your actions. You give up free will, and you’ll spiral down.”

“I know,” I said, not really wanting to listen. Hanging up was tempting, but not really an option.

“You have her music, you have your memories, and you know she loved you and still does. Keep that. Treasure it. Don’t let them take away your love in a blind desire for vengeance.”

I was half-convinced. What he said was right—I was becoming obsessed. But part of me wanted blood. And this conversation hurt.

“I’m sorry. Give me the details.”

“You’ll be meeting a guy named Nikolay.

Mid-fifties. Big. Russian, and he looks it.

Code word is ‘Sanctus.’” He gave me the address and a few simple directions then offered to pray for me. “Check in with me or the service once you get settled. And be careful, something’s not right.”

With my head bent, I hung up the phone and looked for a spot to turn around. It took me another thirty minutes—moving toward answers, where the darker side beckoned—to find a place to reverse course. Duty and desire warred within me, but in the end, duty won out, and I headed south, bitching every mile of the way.

Clouds replaced the sunshine, and the sky grew leaden. The drive was long and monotonous, so naturally I took the opportunity to torment myself with the past. I pictured my wife playing her cello, her long red hair framing her impish grin. The swell of her belly as our child grew inside her. I remembered enjoying my job as a research

chemist. The fun I had looking for old alchemy books. The thrill of trying to crack codes and understand experiments. Did they have a modern application, or were they just the ramblings of a mercury-poisoned mind? It had been a good life, a happy one, destroyed for a freaking book.

Chapter 2 couldn’t keep myself from grimacing as I hit the city limits. I have no idea why I hate Providence. Maybe it’s the time I got sick from eating too much ice cream at the Newport Creamery. Maybe it’s the whole squalid look of the town, like it’s perpetually stuck in poverty and the people like it that way. Perhaps it’s the residents and that cloud of sloppy inferiority they bring with them everywhere they go. I don’t know, and I really didn’t care. I just wanted to get the hell out of there and back on her trail.

A little after sundown, I drove past the auto repair garage where our safe house was located. I’d never been to the garage before, but I’d heard a few stories about it, none of which described the area as pleasant. Any time you go somewhere new, you want to do an initial recon. Where are the escape routes...

I

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Lincoln currently resides in the Commonwealth of Virginia with his lovely wife, little girl, and Calvin the Helper Dog. A storyteller since he was a child, Lincoln is an Army Reservist.

Lincoln S. Farish 27

truck stop and panoramic views. A strong wind buffeted the car, and cool rain pelted the windshield from low-hanging clouds. I gripped the steering wheel and squinted into the blurry freeway. Suddenly, it didn't seem like summer. Up ahead, a tractor-trailer merged into my lane. I flicked my turn signal and switched to the left. My skin prickled from a flush of adrenaline as this giant hunk of metal gained speed, forcing its entry. I floored the accelerator to clear well ahead.

"There's a wide sandy beach." My daughter sounded indifferent, though her green eyes danced excitedly. "And...you cannot see the other side," she added before plopping the candy into her mouth.

"It's that big?" Katie marveled from behind my headrest. She leaned into the front as if able to see it from three states over. "I've never been west of Pennsylvania."

"Me either." Angela bounced next to her, raising her arms in a yawn. Her lively brown eyes scanned the instrument panel. "It is eight o'clock," she announced. "We've slept three hours."

"I could sleep eight more," my daughter groaned.

Speeding well ahead of the truck's downhill charge, I settled into the right lane, cleared my windshield, and posed the question I'd been waiting to ask for hours, "Did you stay up all night?"

Their gritty laughter confirmed it, and explained why they had promptly fallen asleep after boarding the car in early darkness.

"We watched some movies and talked to our friends on the phone," my daughter said.

I nodded at these benign activities.

"Angela had to spend every last minute with her boyfriend," Katie said.

I stiffened at the prospect of late-night visitors.

"On the phone," my daughter clarified.

Memory Lake

By Nancy S. Kyme Genre: Memoir Pages: 448

Amazon.com and nancyskyme.com

One: A Captive Audience "WILL THERE BE critters in this lake?"

Angela asked. She shifted around in the backseat unfolding her long legs. Her morning voice, scratchy from a late night, nudged my concentration from the outside road.

Katie sat beside her and rummaged through the dividing heap of pillows, fashion magazines, purses, and snacks. "Yeah, I can't stand jellyfish, crabs, or seaweed." Her sleepy voice drifted through the car.

My daughter recognized the rustle of candy wrappers and turned from the front seat.

She stretched a hand toward her two best friends.

"This is not a healthy breakfast," Angela playfully admonished.

"So, here's an orange." Katie smirked, setting a brightly wrapped confection into my daughter's open palm.

"No critters!" I answered from the driver's seat. At seventy miles per hour we sped across the smooth, reddish asphalt cutting a wide swath over Keyser Pass, so named by West Virginia's green information sign. This barren summit, high above the tree line, boasted a 28

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

"And we packed," Angela said, sending sharp accusing looks at both her friends for revealing anything about her love life to an adult.

"Don't you mean repacked?" I hinted.

Again, their chuckles reinforced my assumption.

"How long have you had my light-blue hoodie?" Angela asked her backseat companion. "It was a birthday present sophomore year. We're going to be seniors and I haven't worn it once."

"Well, it's in your bag now," Katie said.

"You should be happy because it got a lot of compliments. People said it matches my eyes."

"You guys." I shook my head, recalling Sunday-night deliveries of neatly folded tops, skirts, or pants. My daughter, KT, as everyone calls her, using first and last initials to set her apart from all other Katies in her class, often coerced her older brother into running out for ice cream so she could make a similar drop. I imagined a nightlong swap-fest had occurred to redistribute the mutually favored clothing among the respective owners.

Then again, maybe they had slipped out during the midnight hours of my innocent slumber to join a party somewhere, drinking and smoking until dawn, so Angela could say goodbye to her boyfriend in person.

I sized them up, especially my daughter, and sniffed the air for a whiff of fermentation or the scent of nicotine. I searched their faces for discomfort from nausea and headaches. I had a notion they might be as wild and troublesome as I had been at their age. The idea gripped me at times, tainting my perspective, and jarring me from the role of trusting parent. However, this time I could not verify my suspicions. Their tired eyes and hoarse voices justified either scenario.

So I decided against a confrontation.

"About this lake..." Katie's voice rose from the backseat, prompting a return to Angela's

original question.

"Lake Michigan is one of the Great Lakes," I broke in. "KT, why don't you show them the atlas?" I cast my daughter a curious look, wondering if she would brush me off. She knew our travel plans but Angela and Katie hadn't cared until now. They had tagged along at the last minute, eager to go anywhere, to escape their summer jobs. I rushed to enlighten them before the moment waned.

KT rolled her eyes and sighed. She would make the effort, I knew from experience, though not enthusiastically. So I envisioned a compromise. "Hold out your right hand," I said.

To my delight she raised her hand like a traffic cop. I brushed my finger against her pinkie. "We are going there!"

Angela's ribald laughter and Katie's embarrassed snicker proved they misunderstood my attempt to use KT's hand as a map. Anyone from Michigan would have known exactly what I meant.

"And we live here?" Angela struggled to be serious as she jabbed KT's palm. My daughter wrapped her hand around Angela's finger and pulled. They giggled heartily at my expense.

"If you could see a map," I said, "you'd understand it looks like a hand."

"Hang on," my daughter kindly rescued me.

She reached under her seat and retrieved the atlas.

After fumbling through each state, pausing momentarily on our home state of Virginia, she turned it vertically and displayed the two-page spread. "Now pay attention, children," she mocked.

"See how Lower Michigan resembles a giant mitten surrounded by blue?" I coaxed. "You have to look past the detail of roads, cities, and inland lakes." I pointed to a coastal area where chocolate brown met royal blue. "We are going here, along the pinkie."

"Mom, I got it," KT said, shifting from me.

She placed a finger where I had pointed. "This is where we are going."

29

Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER My eyes returned to the road, and I scowled at the map's limitations. A bunch of geographic lines and bold colors could never depict the shoreline's simple beauty. Not even a well-crafted painting, a photograph, or an eloquent poem would do. One had to see it in person. And I, who had spent five youthful summers along that chart of blue and brown, wanted my companions to understand how profoundly it had impacted my life. It was there I had learned to soar beyond limitations, dream the future, and gain the strength to carry it out.

Now, thirty years later, it seemed I had come to the end of those dreams. My mom had died, and I faced the future from a precipice of fear and grief. Same as then, ripples of change invaded my complacent life, forcing me to grow without her.

Somehow, I believed this trip would get me around it, through it, or over it, by showing me what I had lost.

I could never say this aloud. So, I held quiet, remaining grateful to have my daughter and her friends along. They emboldened me, giving me the courage to make this journey.

"What's that big piece of land up there?"

Angela pointed. She bent toward KT, thoughtfully cupping her chin. "Is that Canada?"

"No, it's Michigan," KT said, taking a closer look for herself "It's the Upper Peninsula.

Everyone calls it the 'U.P.' Right, Mom?" She flashed the map in my direction.

"Right," I said. "And it looks like a glove." I turned my hand on its side to demonstrate.

"The Great Lakes have freshwater, no salt," my daughter proudly emphasized. "No shells either. That's one thing I miss from the ocean. But there are really cool fossils to find along the beach." A melancholy expression darkened her youthful face, and I wondered at its meaning, for she also had spent a fair amount of time along the shores of Lake Michigan.

She closed the atlas and dropped it to the floor. She whirled to face her friends. Shining brown hair fell across her cheek as she flourished

a palm, expecting another piece of candy.

"The Great Lakes are unique," I said. "They are the longest freshwater shoreline in the world.

I've seen plenty of man-made lakes, but they are not the same. Even the ocean, amazing as it is, can't stack up. The salt gets in your mouth, and the sand sticks to your skin and clothing. Plus, it has jellyfish, barracudas, and sharks!"

"How do they make a man-made lake?" Katie asked.

"The Army Corps of Engineers builds a dam," I replied, peeking through my rearview mirror. Seeing her perplexed expression, I added, "They divert the flow of rivers and streams, creating one huge flood that turns into a permanent lake. Entire towns are lost forever.

Think of it, old farmhouses entombed in the deep like ghostly sunken ships, their treasured memories lost forever. Fish swim through dilapidated doors and windows as layers of silt gather on a kitchen counter, once tenderly cared for, where a family used to gather."

"That's creepy," Angela said as she snatched the bag of candy from Katie.

"Once the lake is formed, its shorelines are abrupt drop-offs. Mature trees crowd the bank.

You rarely find a sandy beach, mostly dirt, and the bottoms are mucky. Besides, who knows what you might step on!" I sneered. "The Great Lakes were formed by glaciers. They have firm clear bottoms. You'll see the difference when we get to Ohio this afternoon. If we beat the rain, Chip will take us out on his boat. He lives on a man-made lake." I clamped my mouth shut, determined to say no more; hoping my answer had not been too long.

"Day after tomorrow we'll see Lake Michigan." My daughter bestowed an alluring smile upon the backseat.

"Class dismissed," Angela concluded, and I caught sight of the other Katie knuckling her arm for more candy. "You pig!" Angela chided, though she offered a yellow square.

We rounded another curve, steeper than the 30

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

last, and I braked in slow, cautious spurts. Already the outside air felt warmer as we descended back into summer.

My daughter impatiently slapped her bare feet along the dashboard. "How much longer?" she asked.

"Five hours left for today." I rotated my shoulders into my backrest, mentally coaching myself to sit up straight. Days of driving lay ahead, and I couldn't afford any strained muscles.

Neither could I allow my passengers a turn at the wheel given such high speeds, large trucks, and abrupt guardrails, though they all had licenses.

One wrong move could be deadly. My mother's accident had proved it.

"Mrs. Taylor," Katie garbled from behind me, her mouth full of goo. "Why are we going? Is this some kind of reunion for you?"

"Yes it is!" I exclaimed. My daughter's horrified expression caused me to regret such an overzealous reply. I was learning this was not cool and could turn a teenager away from the very thing one wanted to promote. I took a deep breath, lowered my voice, and said, "I used to go to camp in northern Michigan for seven weeks at a time."

"Seven weeks!" Both girls chimed from the backseat.

"I had best friends from all over. We were as close as you three, but there were nine of us."

"Nine!" they repeated. Even my daughter joined their surprise.

"How could you be best friends with that many girls?" Angela demanded. "Didn't you fight?"

"No. There was a counselor I didn't get along with," I laughed. "But my friends and I never fought. Maybe it was the combination of our personalities and the atmosphere."

"I just can't picture it," Angela said, shrugging into her seat, resting an elbow on a stack of magazines and the near-naked body of a teenage model. The catchy headlines referred to pages of advice on how to gain sex appeal and win boys.

They made the idea of guileless female friendship

implausible. But I knew it was possible as the photographic image of nine fresh faces popped into my mind and came alive beneath a bright sky. Outfitted in a mix of pajamas and street clothes, our arms flung haphazardly around each other, we perched on a driftwood log and hammed it up for the camera. Cindy towered in the middle, smiling secretively beneath a floppy hat, while Nancy directed us to "be serious" as she held peace signs behind our heads. Lori's ginger bangs peaked from beneath a baby-doll hat, and Susie whooped wildly, waving a towel. Tori held a coquettish dance pose, spouting witty remarks and cracking us up, while Christie anchored our stance and cheered for us to "hold the pose."

Sandwiched between Sarah, the heart of our group, and Mary, sensibly perched on the end, a younger image of me spouted a nonstop narrative for the campers who eagerly snapped our picture.

All we ever needed to know about each other we had learned in our first welcoming smiles, and years of laughter cemented the bonds. Camp had let us become our true selves, without pretense.

For me, it set the course of my life.

Two: Two Camps "ARE ALL NINE of you coming to the reunion?" KT asked...

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Nancy is a military wife from Lake Ridge, Virginia. This is her debut novel, which won first place in the Inspiration category of the 2012 Next Generation Indie Book Award.

Nancy S. Kyme 31

stretching her arms high above her head, she stood up but quickly realized she couldn’t feel her right leg. Within a split second, she grabbed onto the side of the nightstand to help balance herself while grabbing her thigh with her other hand.

“What the heck?” she thought to herself.

After she rubbed her leg for a few minutes, she realized she could feel it underneath the bottom part of her silky blue pajamas.

“Well, it’s not tingling like it’s asleep or anything,” she thought as her heart raced in her chest.

She decided to try to walk a couple of steps to the dresser, but with the first step, she nearly fell down because of the excruciating pain in her right leg. She almost screamed as what felt like a lightning bolt shot from her hip to her foot. She quickly shifted her weight to her left leg and hopped until she reached the dresser. Accidentally knocking over a picture, she woke Justin. He rolled over, sat up in bed, and looked intently in her direction.

“What’s wrong?” he said quietly with his eyes half open.

“I don’t know. My right leg gave out on me when I got out of bed. I can’t put any pressure on it.”

She stood there for a few minutes and rubbed the side of her hurt leg, surprised as to what just happened. Justin slid out of bed, turned on the light and came over to her.

Although he looked worried, he remained quiet. Nikki decided to slowly test her right leg by putting a little bit of pressure on it while Justin watched.

“It’s not giving out on me like it did when I first got out of bed, but it really hurts. That was scary, Justin.”

“Can you try to walk again?”

Gingerly, Nikki put all her weight on her right leg and quickly shifted to her left leg because of the tenderness. She walked with great difficulty toward the bathroom,

Blinded by Deception

By Maria Yeager Genre: Fiction Pages: 404

Amazon.com and mariayeager.com

“Hear my prayer, O Lord; let my cry for help come to you. Do not hide your face from me when I am in distress. Turn your ear to me; when I call, answer me quickly.”

Psalm 102:1-2 “Uuugghhh….is it 5:00 already?” Nikki thought to herself as she rolled over and pulled the purple down comforter over her cold shoulders. It was just too early, and she was warm and snug in her bed. She began to doze off when that screeching noise jolted her awake again.

“Come on, get up,” Justin said while shaking her arm. Justin knew Nikki was not a morning person. It was common for her alarm to go off three or four times before she would get up.

Nikki grumbled, rolled over, reached up and turned off the alarm as Justin flopped over and went back to sleep. She sighed, threw her legs over the side of the bed and hesitantly pushed herself to a sitting position. She slowly opened her heavy eyes and then closed them again. Sitting there with her eyes closed, she reviewed the day’s scheduled activities.

Rolling her head from side to side and 32

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grumbling and almost doubling over with discomfort each time she put pressure on the leg.

“You should definitely go back to the chiropractor. Are you going to work today?”

And there it was. That worried look on Justin’s face may not have been concern at all.

He always expected Nikki to work even when she was sick. She had a long history of medical issues, from appendicitis to endometriosis to back and knee problems.

“Justin, you know about my back problems. My leg just gave out from underneath me, and you still expect me to go to work? I can barely walk! How am I supposed to drive?”

“But you are walking. You probably just slept wrong, and your leg went to sleep.”

“I’m not going to work. I need to get this checked out by a doctor.”

“Don’t go to the regular doctor. They will give you a pill or try to get you to have surgery. Just go back to the chiropractor.”

Without saying a word, Nikki limped to the bathroom alone. Shaking her head, she tried to figure out why Justin was so unfeeling. Tears rolled down her cheeks, partly because of the pain and partly because of Justin’s attitude toward her. He could see that she was in pain, but sympathy for others was not one of Justin’s strengths. His number one concern was how much money he could make, not helping others in need. Although she wanted Justin’s sympathy, she knew she wouldn’t get it. Her bout with endometriosis proved that point. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she limped her way back into the bedroom. Justin stood in the walk-in closet as he picked out clothes to wear that day.

“Justin, would you please help by calling work for me? I can’t get to the phone.”

As he thumbed through his clothes, he didn’t even turn around to look at her. As he pulled out a blue coat to match his khaki

pants, he continued to talk to her as if she was a business partner instead of his wife.

“I’ve got a meeting early this morning, and I’ve got a bunch of calls to make before it.

I’m not sure if I will have the time, and I might forget by the time I get out of the shower.”

“Whatever, Justin. I’ll take care of it,” Nikki said after letting out a big sigh. She didn’t have it in her to argue with him.

Justin turned around and walked out of the bedroom. Nikki sat on the edge of the bed feeling hurt and helpless. She lay back on her pillow and wiped the tears from her eyes.

This had not been the first time Justin had acted like this. As Nikki lay on her bed waiting to call the doctor, she thought about her marriage.

“What happened?” she thought. “How could I not have seen this early in the marriage? Why do I let him treat me like this?”

She knew the answer. Nikki, a very strong Christian woman, never considered divorce an option. She was in this for the long haul, no matter how much of a jerk Justin could be at times. Her belief in God was so strong that she was willing to put up with Justin’s selfish behavior. At times, she would get frustrated and yell back at him, but Justin was a master manipulator and would always somehow twist the argument around so that Nikki ended up taking the blame. She closed her eyes and began to think about her past with Justin. *** Nikki and Justin met in the small town of Commerce, Georgia. Although Nikki was originally from St. Louis, Missouri, she moved to Commerce after receiving a job offer in Athens. She had graduated from Kansas State University with a degree in Finance, and she was excited to move to a 33

Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER new area and meet new people. She met Justin at the gym in Commerce, and they quickly became friends. They married two years later.

Justin’s family appeared to be a very close knit group. They loved to spend as much time together as possible. Justin’s mom, Martha, was an extremely friendly and charming woman, and she always liked to have a good time. She was known to play practical jokes on her family and friends. She loved to shop, and she was known for always having something for her kids and grandkids each time she saw them.

Justin’s father, Jim, was a very quiet and laid back fellow. He adored his wife, and he would always do whatever she wanted him to do. Nikki admired Jim for the way he treated Martha, and she thought he was an excellent role model for his sons. He was actively involved in the Presbyterian Church, and he loved to teach Bible Study. Many times, Nikki would watch as he read the Bible alone in their living room.

Nikki enjoyed living in Commerce, but she missed her family desperately in St. Louis.

Her mom, Mary, was a very likable and hardworking woman who always tried to make others happy. She was incredibly strong as she did not have an easy life growing up. Her family was very close and loving, but they were also quite poor. She had learned to sacrifice at a very young age, and this continued into adulthood as she continued to sacrifice for the sake of her children. Nikki’s father, Frank, was a very hard-working man who strongly believed that his children needed to learn the value of the dollar from a very young age. Nikki and her siblings, Scott and Jamie, worked from the time they were sixteen years old. They all paid for the majority of their college educations, and they were not given handouts. All three kids developed a realistic sense of the value of money and a deep sense of responsibility for

their actions.

Shortly after they were married, Justin and his family decided to take Nikki out to eat at Applebee’s for her thirtieth birthday. Jim had the usual country fried steak and mashed potatoes, and Nikki always wondered why he didn’t order anything different. But that was just him, and she just giggled to herself each and every time he ordered it.

Mike, Justin’s brother, and his family also showed up for the celebration dinner. Mike and Justin were not very close because they didn’t have anything in common. Justin graduated from the University of Georgia and held a management position while Mike, a high school graduate, was a plumber. The two of them hung out with entirely different crowds, and they didn’t look or act like siblings at all. Mike was married to Sherry, a girl he dated in high school. Sherry became pregnant rather quickly, so she never finished high school. Their first child was Ryan, and he was adorable as a little boy. He had blue eyes and blond hair, and the family was just crazy about him. A few years later, Sean was born.

With deep brown eyes and blond hair, he was a little more hard-headed than Ryan and wasn’t quite as easy to control. As the years went by, Martha seemed to show most of her affection to Ryan, and Nikki noticed that Sean was quite often ignored. Martha tried to keep the family together no matter what, and she did a pretty good job of it early on.

Ryan, who was seven years old, ordered a hamburger and French fries while Sean ordered pizza. Both kids were happy that night. They joked around all during dinner, and not one person complained or frowned.

This was one of the happiest memories Nikki had of Justin and his family. As they left the restaurant, Martha suggested that they go and get an ice cream to celebrate Nikki’s birthday.

“I don’t have time for that,” Justin retorted.

34

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“What? What do you mean?” responded Martha.

“I’ve got too much to do. I need to get home,” replied Justin. He was working toward his doctorate, and he had to finish his homework.

Nikki’s feelings were so hurt. He knew it was her birthday. Why didn’t he work his schedule around this? She smiled sheepishly and acted like it didn’t bother her. Martha pulled Justin aside.

“This is her birthday. What are you doing?

Go and get an ice cream,” she said quietly to Justin.

Justin rolled his eyes.

“Justin, this is your wife. You can sacrifice thirty minutes to go and get an ice cream.”

“All right,” he said hesitantly. Justin sighed as they turned back toward the group.

“We’re all going for ice cream!” Martha announced to the group.

“Yay!!” yelled Ryan and Sean. They jumped up and down with their little hands and arms waving high above their heads, and they ran to the car as fast as they could.

“Slow down! Watch for cars!” shrieked Sherry.

As everyone went to their separate cars, Nikki tried to remain positive even though her feelings were hurt. She was happy that Justin’s family wanted to get ice cream to celebrate, but Justin’s attitude was disappointing. Even though Justin didn’t say anything to her in the car, Nikki felt like she should try to lighten the mood a little bit.

“It was a really nice dinner, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was good.”

“The kids were so much fun tonight, too!

Ryan had me cracking up!”

“Yeah, they were funny.”

“Justin, if you don’t want to get ice cream, let’s just go home. I hate the feeling that I’m dragging you somewhere that you don’t want to go.”

“No, it’s fine. I just have a lot to do for school, but I’ll get it done somehow. We’re almost to the ice cream parlor anyway.”

Nikki didn’t know how to respond.

Nothing else was said until they met up with the rest of the group. The kids jumped up and down with boundless energy, and this brought a smile back to Nikki’s face. *** Nikki opened her eyes. It was finally time to make some phone calls. She mustered up all her strength and stumbled over to the phone on the other side of the room.

“Unconditional love doesn't mean you have to unconditionally accept bad behavior.”

Unknown “Dr. Jacquez's office. How may I help you?”

“Yeah, hi. This is Nikki Redding. I need to make an appointment with Dr. Jacquez today if possible. I've seen her for lower back issues before, and this morning my right leg gave out.”

“Oh no. Are you having any pain?”

“Yes, terrible pain down my back and in my right leg.”

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Maria lives in Haymarket, Virginia.

The idea for this book came from events she witnessed in her own life. She writes mostly on her own personal experiences and is focused on helping others.

Maria Yeager 35

stool and sent it to a laboratory. This was on Friday. By the end of the following week, I had not heard from the vet so I called. They had forgotten to send the sample they said.

Messages from Nature

By Patricia Daly-Lipe Genre: Nature Stories Pages: 171

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How Do We Measure Intelligence?

R

ecently, I overheard someone comparing dogs to people. Their methodology of comparison used intelligence as the factor. My question then is how do you measure or define intelligence? Does compassion or empathy fit into this equation?

The other day, I heard a poignant tale. An older man was in the hospital and dying. His family received permission to have his companion dog allowed in the room for a last visit. The dog was ushered in and the door was closed. Fifteen minutes later, the family came back, opened the door expecting to escort the dog out. The patient was still in his bed. His arm was around his dog who had jumped onto the bed. The man was dead and his faithful dog had died beside him.

Empathy and compassion.

Sweet William was my wonderful, faithful companion. An English black and white cocker, he was my shadow. One day, I noticed his stool was white. I made an appointment with the vet but, at the last minute, was not able to take him. My daughter took William to the doctor instead. They took a sample of the

Besides, the lab was closed for the weekend but no worry. William seemed fine now, didn’t he? At that point he did. However, we had a trip to take. I had rented a U-Haul truck to deliver some furniture to my father’s house in North Carolina. It was a long drive from Charlottesville, Virginia, to Spruce Pine, North Carolina. Of course, Sweet William was coming, but I also took along my daughter’s Doberman. The whole drive down, William cuddled next to me on the seat. The Dobie stayed on the floor. We stopped twice at rest stops. Both times, William drank an entire bowl of water and seemed unwilling to saunter around the dog parks.

We arrived late, leaving the unloading until morning. William normally slept at the foot of my bed. That night, he chose not to and let the Dobie take his spot. In the 36

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morning, I woke up with a start. Something was wrong. I looked across the room and there was Sweet William leaning strangely against the wall. His eyes looked dazed so I approached him very quietly and slowly, afraid of frightening him. He was postured as if being tied against the wall, almost rigid. Not a comfortable position. When I reached out to pat his side, he cringed. Immediately I knew he was in pain. I called the vet and got his emergency number. He would meet us at the clinic.

The Doberman was left at the house while I ran across the street to borrow the neighbor’s car to take William. Taking the U-Haul would have been impossible since it was still unpacked and the cab was far too high for a pup in pain. Coming down the neighbor’s walkway, there was William walking very slowly up the hill just to be with me. It was painful to watch. He would not let me carry him. It was difficult getting him into the car, but somehow I did as the tears welled up in my eyes. Fortunately, the veterinary hospital was close. We arrived in minutes. William was immediately placed on the operating table and a tube was put in his side. He was dehydrated and in severe pain. The doctor said he could not determine the cause of his problem until the pain was under control. He had more to say but I did not hear him. I was focused on my brave little man lying on the cold steel table. He asked that William be left with him for the day and possibly the night so that he could do some tests. I had no choice. I went home to the Dobie and made myself busy unpacking the truck. In the afternoon, I made a visit to the vet. William was in a cage with an IV attached to his side. I spent about an hour on my knees talking to him through the bars. His sweet eyes focused on me and almost shifted back and forth as if to say, “I’m all right. Please don’t worry.” The other dogs in the clinic were respectfully silent. That

evening, my son and a friend came from college to help unload the truck. We had no food in the house so we stopped to have pizza and then went to the hospital. It was locked.

No visits possible with William until morning.

The boys chose sleeping bags to sleep by the fire in the living room. I retired to the bedroom with Jessie, the Dobie. The vet was supposed to call if there was any change when he went that night to check the animals.

Nevertheless, even with Jessie at the foot of my bed, I found it very hard to go to sleep.

The lights were off leaving only flickers from the fire reflecting on the walls leading to the living room. Just as I was dozing off, Jessie leaped off the bed. She dashed into the living room and raced from one end to the other waking up the boys and terrifying me. Then, just as sudden, she came back to my room, jumped on the foot of the bed, curled up, and immediately fell fast asleep! Within seconds, the telephone rang. It was the veterinarian.

William had just passed away.

When I told the doctor about Jesse’s performance, he replied that he had heard of this kind of thing happening before. “You see,” he said, “William just passed over to say goodbye.”

The autopsy revealed that indeed the white stool had been a warning, though probably too late to do anything. The liver and kidney were practically non-existent. It was amazing he had lasted this long. We suspect he had raided a trash can in our Charlottesville neighborhood and a poison had been part of its contents. This poison had slowly eaten away his insides.

With the boys’ help, we dug a grave on the hillside below the house. It was a lovely setting with overhanging trees and flowering bushes all around and a vista of the mountain peaks in the distance.

Although William’s body is buried in North Carolina’s Blue Ridge, we know his 37

Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER soul has moved on. Perhaps he’ll come live with me again, but as another dog.

Fortunately, she had not gone that far. My son found her hiding under some bushes close to the house. She was bleeding and upon closer examination, we found her right hind leg at an unnatural angle. Carefully, we placed her in the car and drove to the vet.

When my children were young, we inherited a little pup named Suzie-Q. Soon after coming into our family, she lost one leg in an automobile accident. We called her our three-legged wonder.

It all began when I was shopping near our home in Rolling Hills, California, on the Palos Verdes Peninsula just west and south of Los Angeles. It was summertime and the shopping area was packed with mothers and their children. With few parking spots near the grocery store, I chose to leave my car a block away in a shaded area. After making my purchases and loading them into the car, I saw a couple of kids walking a darling little puppy along the grassy area under the trees next to my car. Not able to resist a pat—after seeking permission of course—I asked the children to tell me about their dog. She was being sheltered at a veterinary hospital, they said.

They had found the pup but because they lived in an apartment, they couldn’t keep her. While they tried to locate a permanent home, the veterinary clinic agreed to board her for a minimal fee. We had two dogs at the time, but one look at this brave little face and I couldn’t help but put her in the back seat of our car and take her home.

Bigger and more robust, never-the-less, the other dogs immediately respected her; in fact, Suzie-Q became the leader of the pack.

Then one day, she disappeared. Frantic, I ran down our driveway to the street fearing the worst. She was nowhere to be found. I knew she would not run away since she had become an integral part of our family. Once loyal, such a dog remains loyal. As for Suzy-Q, fidelity and devotion were her middle names.

So I called my children and we organized a search all over the grounds which included a steep hillside sloping down to a canyon.

The leg had to be amputated. Apparently, Suzy-Q had been hit by a car, had made her way back up the steep driveway, was able to hobble to the garden behind the house and had curled up to die under the bush. I don’t know why she didn’t come to us for help, but we were all glad we found her in time.

After surgery, she came home and spent a week living in the confined area of my bathroom before she was able to return to the pack.

For years she played with her canine companions and my children. She followed us when we rode the horses on the trails and was always included in any and all family functions. Her infirmity was never a hindrance. She learned to adjust her weight so the three legs could balance and kept up with her four legged and two legged pals. Our little wonder pup outlived both the other dogs.

When it was her time to leave us, I was holding her in my arms.

It happened one late afternoon. I had come home close to dinner time after spending hours tending to one of our horses. At the foot of the stairs, I found our little miss lying on 38

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

the floor. But she wasn’t resting. Something was wrong. Her breathing was erratic as she struggled for each breath. When I called to her and she couldn’t get up, I knew we had a problem. I had my daughter telephone the vet.

We bundled Suzy-Q up and hurried to the hospital. Our doctor had agreed to meet us there since it was after hours and the hospital was closed. Suzie-Q was still gasping for breath but otherwise appeared peaceful as I embraced her on my lap and my daughter drove. After rushing us into the operating room and placing Suzy-Q on the operating table, the doctor left to get an oxygen tent. I held her little body pleading with her, “Don’t leave us yet, sweet Suzie.” The doctor had said Suzie-Q’s lungs were filled with liquid.

Then something happened. It wasn’t the movement. It wasn’t her eyes that told me.

Something ephemeral escaped, like a mist. It floated out of Suzy-Q and up to the right disappearing in the darkness of the ceiling.

Though her limbs still moved, I knew. Suzy-Q had left us.

“Don’t bother with the oxygen,” I called out to the doctor, my voice cracking with grief. She came back into the room, examined my brave little lady and confirmed my diagnosis.

So, how do we measure intelligence?

Empathy, compassion, endurance, and loyalty.

With such standards, do you think people can measure up to dogs?

mince his words even if this is a translation).

"Il s'est enfui de la cage. C'est pas possible ça!

On a d’autre chose à faire!" he yelled through the speaker. And with a sigh, "Ah! ces Americains!" he hung up.

When I left Washington, it was ostensibly to have a little vacation in Europe. Christian was placed in a kennel. But after several weeks in Paris, I decided to totally immerse myself in the French lifestyle for a year. I rented an apartment in Sèvre and sent for my companion, Christian.

There was a large screened-in area, like a huge cage, at Orly airport containing unclaimed boxes and baggage and today, one frightened young German Shepherd. When I called him, Christian ran up to me, tail wagging and tongue licking and so loving and grateful for my presence that it really made the airport stewards look foolish. These big Frenchmen had not dared to enter the ‘cage’ and many irate passengers were impatiently waiting for their bags.

I did not realize it then, but my entire stay in Europe would revolve around this young pup. It was the beginning of a series of adventures I have had throughout the years, always involving a pet.

Christian came home to my apartment...

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Patricia lives in Haymarket, Virginia.

She is an awardwinning writer of seven books. The cover art for Messages from Nature is from her own painting.

CHRISTIAN

T

he telephone rang in that seesaw aggravating and piercing way only French telephones can sound. It was five AM. I rolled over, picked up the receiver, mumbled "Oui," and a frantic male voice screamed at me. Come at once, he said. "Venez vite! Il n'y a pas une minute à perdre!" The "animal" was loose. Everyone was "terrorized" (he did not

Patricia Daly-Lipe 39

that I had found just the right name for my new station, he and his wife were crushed, as I quickly saw by the shocked looks on their faces. Her grandparents had all died before she was old enough to know them and her parents had both died within a year of their marriage. My son stammered, “You will be our child’s only Grandmother. We thought you’d be honored.” Well, of course, I am.

And, that settled it. Grandma it is.

I know of many families that wait until a child mangles the words Grandma and Grandpa and sets the pet name as Gamma, Gammy, Gam Gam, Paw Paw, Gamps or some such version that belongs to the first child who says it and the rest then learn it. It is an affectionate bond between grandparents and grandchildren. One woman told me the first grandchild in her family was dyslexic, so Grandma came out Mugga. The grandmother didn’t really like it, but all the grandchildren that came after adopted it.

Others rely on cultural traditions for names: Nonnee or Nonna (Italian), Abuela (Spanish), Baba (Serbian), Bube (Yiddish), Lola (Phillipino). A young grandmother recently told me she is “Baba,” because she was always singing “Ba-ba-ba…Ba-barbara Ann” when her grandchildren were visiting.

French-speaking Eleanor Roosevelt asked her grandchildren to call her Grandmère, also the title of a book about her, by her grandson, David. A recent survey suggests Nana is the most common choice, followed by Grandma and MeMaw. In my own family, we used Grandma and Grandpa Last Name for two grandparents and Grandma First Name for the third. Grandma First Name, I found out as an adult, was my grandfather’s second wife, some years after the death of his first. She never had any children and didn’t like the idea of being called Grandma. She wanted us to call her by her first name. My mother thought this was

Who Gets to Name Grandma?

By Carol Covin Genre: Grandparenting Pages: 126

Amazon.com and newgrandmas.com

Who Gets to Name Grandma?

“I have a friend who is the second child in her family, but had the first grandchildren. She got very upset when her older sister later insisted on letting her child pick names for the grandparents and then demanded that my friend’s children change.” -New mother So, who picks? The grandparents? The parents? The children? Is there really a right to the original birth order of the siblings, even if the birth order of the grandchildren is different?

I imagined that I was a very younglooking Grandmother when my children both announced they were expecting. Friends flattered me by agreeing. So, the question became if I look and feel too young for the old, wrinkled, stooped, gray-haired, rockingchaired, knitting image we all assume goes with our culture and our own memories of our Grandmothers, then, what should I call myself?

One friend came up with the name “Glamma”, short for Glamorous Grandmother. I loved it! When I announced to one of my sons 40

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

disrespectful, so they compromised on Grandma First Name.

Some shorten this convention to Grandma First Letter of First Name, as in Grandma-O. A friend came up with G-Mom, which I think captures her impish spirit. A young woman recently told me her Grandmothers were “Rick-Rick” and Other Grandma. Rick-Rick being the closest she could come to pronouncing cigarette. The grandmother of 8year-old twins told me she is “Grammy.” A singer, she says, “This is probably the closest I’ll get to a Grammy award.”

Another mother told me that in her family the first grandchild was deaf, so signed Grandmother and the next grandchild continued the use of Grandmother. Later grandchildren followed the common Southern tradition of Memaw. Grandma still signs Christmas tags with the appropriate designation. Another Grandmother told me recently that she has a blended family, so natural and stepchildren’s children have all come up with different names for her.

There are few other relationships where a name is so open to discussion and negotiation as that of what to call the grandparents. It is not a legal designation, but one of love. But, perhaps it is also one of power, as power shifts from one generation to another, or even within generations. Recognizing that power play may help shift the discussion back to love Children learn quickly that people have more than one name. Adults have one name for each other, another for their children to use, and another more formal name.

Relationship names are part of a child’s world from the very beginning. They will call their Grandmother whatever they are encouraged to – and, she will come whenever her precious grandchildren call.

Now You Choose to Move Three Time Zones Away!

“Why did she have to pick this time to move?!” -Grandmother of a three-month-old “OK. It was probably his job. Or, to be near his family. Or, maybe she really does not want me to be close by when she is raising my grandchild. I loved it when they lived near by, but, now, just when I have my first grandbaby, that’s when they move?!”

Sometimes life is not fair. And, we have to adjust. Are you really afraid she doesn’t want you to help raise that grandchild? Are you really too overpowering for her new mother instincts? It hurts not to have grandbabies close by. We must be hard-wired to want to help take care of them. And, there really is no substitute for their physical presence.

Plus, we have all this wisdom to share.

And, we want to be part of their lives growing 41

Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER up. A second home. Another trusted adult. An extended family of love. My husband talks about how he used to eat lunch at his grandmother’s home, walking distance from his own and from his school. Then, later, when she needed not to be left alone anymore, he often spent the night. An object lesson in taking responsibility for your family. Learned so easily and naturally as a child. How can we pass this on to grandchildren three time zones away?

I sympathize with this grandmother. I have one grandchild near and one grandchild far.

We try to get the cousins together a couple of times a year. I treasure the unexpected treats of being asked to baby-sit overnight. But, we also keep each child one week in the summer when day care is closed. And, the far grandchild’s mother, an avid photographer, keeps current photos posted on a web site for us to revel in as we follow our granddaughter’s travels, her parties, her daily discoveries, her moods.

to your grandchild when they arrive, just to put you in their mind. I read of one grandmother who bought two sets of books, sent one to her granddaughter and kept one to read to her over the phone. Skype, a webbased long-distance phone service, can ease the cost of calling. Webcams provide real-time video conferencing on your home computer.

Apple’s web camera is built in.

I started a tradition of creating books around yearly themes like Hats! Feet! Balls!

They include photos of everyone in the family. In the early years, they were ignored.

But, I decided to make a copy for myself so I could read them to grandchildren when they visited. As it happens, distant cousins have reported this helps them feel connected too.

The books also include old family photos, recycled instead of being relegated to a oncein-a-generation viewing when they are passed on. $1 at Wal-Mart for 36 photo slots. You’ll want to keep one in your purse.

Granny-Guru’s Grains of Wisdom: Distant grandparenting requires more work and creative connections. But, you are still their Grandma – an honored and cherished role.

Define what that means in your family.

Help the Mom, Not the Baby “Don’t be a house guest. When you visit, don’t expect her to cook for you. Let her parent your grandchild. You help the Mom.” Mother of five-year-old, three-year-old and 9month-old

You can hardly talk to an infant on the telephone. So, what do distant grandparents do? Ask for pictures, sure. Videos can be emailed from phones right to your computer.

Mothers these days are as likely to have a blog as not. Photo sites like Flickr or Shutterfly, where photos can be shared, are easy to use.

Grandparents can be added to the invited visitors’ list, so the photos won’t be public.

It’s not what we’re used to, but I wouldn’t wait for a letter, hand-written by a Mom who’s busy raising that beautiful grandchild.

But, mail works the other direction, too.

Postcards, notes and cards that Mom can read

This Mom has experience with help from grandmothers after the babies are born. All the grandparents are distant.

Her own grandparents were already gone when she was growing up. She wants her children to have a good relationship with their grandparents.

She has read about other mothers on mothering forums choosing to wait three months before they allow grandparents to visit. But, she knows how much grandparents want to see that new baby and how hard it would be to wait. So, she tries to 42

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accommodate.

My own mother-in-law visited when our second son was a newborn. She vacuumed carpets and cleaned kitchen cabinets. And, I was really grateful. She did it without an attitude. She did not accuse me with sighs, looks, or comments about my not having vacuumed in awhile or not having cleaned out the cabinets. Rather, she took them on as tasks that would be helpful, not intrusive. She taught me that bay leaves set down on shelves keep roaches out. Who knew? I didn’t think I had any, but it was nice to have clean cabinets smelling like bay leaves.

But, mostly, she was there when I started to nurse. Anyone who nurses knows the first couple of weeks there is aching. But, a wet, warm washcloth works wonders. Since this was my first time nursing, such a common sense remedy, offered at just the right moment, was gratefully accepted.

There are so many ways to help.

Showering attention on older children, who might be missing some of Mom’s attention as she tends to the new baby. Laundry. Cooking.

Especially treats for Mom and Dad. Freezing and labeling meals to be eaten when you’re gone, if you know what they like. Cleaning.

Errands.

Picking up announcements.

Addressing them. Mending? Do people still sew on buttons? Answering the door if neighbors visit. Walking the dog. I once thought getting a puppy when I was home with a new baby would be a good idea. Wiser heads prevailed.

Mom is sleeping, eating, nursing. There is not much time to dress, never mind entertain.

A new mother once chastised me, “You didn’t tell me I wouldn’t have time to brush my teeth!” Cleaning waits for helpful hands or a baby that sleeps through the night.

And, what about the Dad? What treat would make his new life less stressful?

Conversations about when he or his wife were

children? Stories changing generational hands? Respectful, curious questions about how things have changed in the child-rearing world? That might inform later discussions about how you used to do it and why they’re not doing it that way.

My mother-in-law understood this woman’s advice without training. She pampered me. I pampered the baby. Happy visit.

I Might Not Know What I’m Doing, But I’m Learning “I am the Mother. They are my children.”

-Mother of three, two years apart Boomer parents were likely to use their own and their friends’ experience to gauge normal boundaries of behavior, and read lots of books. Today’s parents will check the Internet to find out what’s normal. Fast, efficient, reliable for many things, it puts child-rearing questions to rest quickly. And, they will read lots of books.

If they’re still not sure, they’re likely to pose a question to peers in an online forum.

They don’t have to wait for play dates or...

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A former software engineer, Carol lives in Bristow, Virginia, with a sledding hill and a creek. Her two sons and their wives have given her a grandson and granddaughter.

Carol Covin 43

he turned and said, “Meet me downstairs in five minutes, okay?”

He paused at the door. “You know, there are ways around this, Anabel. It’s not too late.”

I rounded on him. “If you suggest that ever again, I’ll tell everyone. Those will be the first words out of my mouth, Sam. I promise you.”

“Take it easy,” he soothed. “I just wanted to remind you . . .”

I gave him a stiff nod, and he exited the room.

My name is Anabel Martin, and I ruined my brother’s life.

The fact that Sam is treating me with such tenderness is wreaking havoc on my sense of right and wrong, and truthfully, if I were in his position, I don’t think I would be behaving as wonderfully to him as he is me.

But then again, my brother is almost a saint, whereas I have a dark spot on my soul.

I sat down on my bed that wasn’t really mine and stared at my shoes. They were some designer, Steve Madden, I guess. I had never bought my own clothes and proved to be a horror to my sister-in-law, who had been forced to spend time with me and fix me up with a wardrobe. Taking me shopping was the only thing that we had done together since I moved in with her and Sam, and I hadn’t impressed her when I informed her that I did not know the difference between Calvin Klein and Ralph Lauren. When we had finally settled on the Gap, she had thrown her hands up in disgust and waited outside until I called her, needing the credit card.

She doesn’t like me. I haven’t been allowed outside much because nobody likes me due to the fact that I am the sole reason that my brother resigned from office. So far, my social interactions have included him, my sister-in-law, and the rotating bodyguards who all look the same and barely acknowledge me.

Sometimes I see my doctor, but he has to

Anabel Unraveled

By Amanda Romine Lynch Genre: Mystery/Suspense Pages: 384

Amazon.com and amandarominelynch.com

Chapter 1: Anabel My name is Anabel Martin, and I am an orphan.

I can’t say that. I shook my head and sighed, pivoting slowly in front of the mirror, taking in my hair, my legs, my dress. My blue eyes looked sullen in the mirror, and I wondered if nineteen was too old to be considered an orphan. Does it count if you’ve never known your mother, and your father was emotionally unavailable for your whole life?

“Stand up straight,” I heard a voice say from behind me. I closed my eyes, ready for the lecture.

I turned and grimaced at my brother, Sam, who is more than twice my age. He studied me, taking in everything about my appearance. Being next to him, all stylish in his suit with his well-groomed hair, made me and my obnoxious curls feel wild and savage.

“Standing up straight isn’t going to hide it, Sam.” “No, but it’s the best we can do for now.”

He came and kissed my forehead, and pulled me into a hug. “It will be okay, sweetie.” Then 44

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

make house calls, so those times are rare.

My name is Anabel Martin, and I am very much alone.

Alexis barged in. She’s beautiful— gorgeous, really—and like my brother, also twice my age. She stared at me, judging, and then said, “You look okay, but you need some makeup.”

“I don’t know how to put it on,” I mumbled.

She let out a frustrated noise which was a cross between a groan and a wail, and immediately attacked me with powder and eye shadow. I tolerated this invasion as best I could, but when she tried to assault me with an eyelash curler I pushed her away. “It’s too much.”

“Everyone does this, Anabel,” she snapped. “You’re ready. Grab your coat and go with Sam.” I glared back at her. “I think it’s ridiculous you are making me wear a trench coat in September.”

“Deal with it,” she sniffed, and turned on her heel and headed toward the door. She paused to look at me and say, “Watch what you say, and whatever you do—” “Do not talk to Jared Sorensen,” I chorused with her. “As if I’d forgotten.”

She nodded. “You don’t want to hurt your brother any more than you already have, do you?”

“No, Alexis.” I pulled the green coat around me.

“Have a good day then,” she said crisply.

“Yes, Alexis.” I wondered if she caught the edge of sarcasm, but she nodded her blonde head and left.

My name is Anabel Martin, and I hate my life.

I made my way down the stairs and Sam shot me a warm smile of approval. “You look lovely.”

“Alexis fixed me,” I announced. Flanked

by Nate and Henry and their earpieces, we walked down the steps and got into the Lincoln Town Car. The ride to the Capitol Building was a blur. It consisted of me staring at my shoes and my brother clearing his throat. Finally he began, “Look, Annie—” “I know what you’re going to say,” I closed my eyes.

“I’m your brother, I have to.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.” Maybe if I keep my eyes closed, this will go away.

“Try not to talk to him,” he cautioned.

“Nobody has gotten wind of what happened with you two yet, and I want to keep that under wraps as long as we can.”

I opened my eyes and nodded, trying to keep my face as impassive as possible, even though my brother was lying. There were all sorts of rumors flying about the two of us. I stared out the window and swore to myself that I was not going to cry, because crying would probably result in Sam causing some sort of physical harm to Jared, and with his temper, that could include anything from punching him to disemboweling him. While that would be slightly entertaining to watch, it probably wouldn’t be good for PR. My name is Anabel Martin, and I am very bad for PR. “So what are you going to say?” he asked, pulling me from my thoughts.

I managed a thin smile. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about this morning. I guess it will just come.”

The car sidled up in front of the Capitol Building. There were a million people there, with their eyes, cameras, and microphones all trained on our car. I looked at Sam, stricken.

“You promised we would have a quiet entrance.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to worry. We’ll do this quick, okay? I just need you to put in an appearance and look normal.

45

Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER Look Annie, the rumors are that you aren’t okay, and I just need you to smile at the cameras and play the game for me a little, please?”

I stared at him. Sam was the consummate politician: he always had a smile and a wave for the crowds, despite any inner turmoil. I was not similarly gifted. Still, I’d do just about anything for him—so I composed my face and nodded.

Sam looked at Nate, who muttered something into his mouthpiece and opened the door. I stepped out into the bright sunlight and immediately was mobbed. Desperately clutching Sam’s arm, we walked through the masses of press people and TV cameras, and I smiled like a doll and ignored the barrage of questions bombarding us from every direction.

I had no idea what anyone said to me, I merely gave the big plastic grin and stared straight ahead. I had to give Nate and Henry credit; somehow they navigated us through the mob in one piece. The hearing was thankfully closed to the press, and when the doors were shut behind us, I stared at my brother in disbelief. “Do you have to deal with this every day?”

He smiled at me, and it was genuine.

“Well, one of the perks of resigning from office is not as many people are interested in me anymore.”

“I disagree,” I rejoined, mirroring his smile.

My name is Anabel Martin, and I am a phony.

“Excuse me for one second, okay?” I nodded at him, and he moved to talk to some guy in the back of the room. It was pretty much like the hearing rooms I had seen on TV: an empty table above all the others for the members of Congress, benches much like in a courtroom, and two tables in the front for testimony. I meandered down the aisle, looking at the chairs, the random people, until

my eyes fell upon a familiar face, one that I hadn’t seen in a long time.

She was sitting at a table in the front of the room, her long purple skirt falling demurely around her ankles. Her red hair was starting to go gray, I noticed. She looked soft, womanly, motherly, and I wanted nothing more than to throw my head onto her lap and cry my eyes out.

She was Marilyn Jessamyn, my nanny, governess, babysitter, and the closest thing to a mother that I had ever had. Her hazel eyes smiled up at me. “Anabel?”

“Miss Marilyn!” I shrieked, causing everyone else in the room to turn their heads and stare. But I didn’t care. As she stood up, I sprang into her arms. “I’m so happy to see you!”

“Sweetheart, you don’t need to call me ‘Miss Marilyn’ anymore.” There were tears welling in her eyes. “You look gorgeous.”

I smiled. “You’re just saying that. It’s very kind of you to lie.”

“No, I’m serious. You’re practically glowing, you look so lovely!” Although I stood a bit taller than she, she reached up and smoothed my hair. “I guess DC life is suiting you, huh?”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been in contact with you,” I lamented. “I haven’t been allowed to talk to anyone. Sam and Alexis and all of their legal team are petrified I am going to say something wrong.”

She frowned. “What could you possibly say?”

A lot, actually, but I feigned innocence. “I don’t know, but every word that does come out of my mouth makes Alexis glare at Sam and hurl angry French curse words at me.”

“Oh, my,” she said, with laughter in her eyes.

“I wish I was making that up, I really do.”

I beamed at her. “It’s incredible to see you!

I’m surprised you are here though, they 46

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

weren’t letting in anyone but those of us testifying and immediate family—” And then it dawned on me. “You’re here with Charlie, aren’t you?”

“Oh honey, I wanted to tell you.” She extended her hand, and I saw the thin gold band. “We got married!”

“That’s wonderful,” I managed, hugging her again. “Where is Charlie?”

“Right here,” he said, coming up next to her. “Hello, Anabel.”

“Hi Charlie,” I said, feeling shy. “It’s been a long time?” It came out as a question. I hadn’t meant it to.

He pulled me to him, but I still felt awkward. I stepped back and offered, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I’m really, really happy for the two of you.”

The both grinned lovingly at each other, and I was then spared from further discomfort by one of Sam’s many lawyers touching my elbow. “Miss Martin? They want you to sit over here.”

I smiled at the two of them, hoping it didn’t look as fake as it felt, and followed Mr. Benson over to one of the tables in the front.

He seated me next to Sam, who touched my arm. “Are you okay?”

“Marilyn and Charlie got married,” I told him.

“How do you feel about that?”

“Are you my shrink now? I feel great about it. Fantastic. My father just died, why don’t we talk about that next?”

Sam looked hurt, and I instantly regretted it. “I’m sorry. I’m just on edge.” I slumped back into my chair. “Please tell me that we’re not sitting anywhere near that vile Jared Sorensen.”

“I missed you too, Anabel.”

Open mouth, insert foot.

“Get away from her, Sorensen,” snapped Sam, rising from his chair.

“Back off, Sam,” he said silkily. “I have

no interest in upsetting your little sister.” He backed away and took a seat at the farthest end of the table. I tried to not look at him, but through many furtive glances I couldn’t help but take in his perfectly styled blonde hair, cool manner, and the suit that made him even better-looking than normal. My heart skipped a beat, and I scowled inwardly at myself. Now was not the time to lose my head. I’d lost enough to this man already. From then on, I kept my eyes focused on the floor, trying to calm the unsettling rage that was burning in my stomach.

My name is Anabel Martin, and I want Jared Sorensen to die.

A few more strangers wandered in, and then the members of Congress filed into their seats. Forgetting my resolve, I shot a sidelong glance at Jared, which he seemed to notice as he turned straightaway to focus on me. I averted my eyes and pretended to be concentrating on the table when Congresswoman Fischer brought the hearing to order.

There was a moment of tenuous silence, and then she began, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. So that we are all clear, these hearings are to discuss the murder of...

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Amanda is a writer, blogger, and lover of sushi and books. She lives in Aldie, Virginia, with her husband and three beautiful boys, where she’s always looking for her next adventure.

Amanda R. Lynch 47

John sighed deeply and put his head in his hands, feeling again the despair that doubting God’s motives brought. He knew that He had much more on his mind than one small town, but why were things so bleak?

John knew that part of his job was to feel this concern for his congregation and his town. It was easy to worry about them, but difficult on his heart and his faith. The economic collapse had hit Sanderson harder than most places. The town’s main financial backbone – a garment-making factory – had gone out of business, leaving most families with an unemployed father, mother or both.

Just six years ago, the town’s central business district had been thriving, along with the factory, which produced, with great pride, the world famous Sanderson line of high quality winter coats. The owner of the business, the matriarch of a family who had never lived here, but who had chosen Sanderson for its location near the city, had died after a long battle with cancer. The woman’s children seemed to lose their enthusiasm for the Sanderson quality image and eventually sold out to a large clothing company that immediately began looking for cost cuts.

When the new company announced it was moving production overseas, the town was shocked – the factory had been here for three decades. No one was prepared for the slow death that followed as people ran out of money, stores closed their doors, and the younger generation began to move away.

The hundred-year-old church that John headed had dwindled from a full house on Sundays down to 20 to 30 people each week.

John had received a letter from the main office announcing that his beloved church would no longer receive home office support as of January 30. He’d gotten the letter nearly two weeks ago, but John couldn’t bring himself to tell his parishioners. He would be forced by

Holiday Connections

By F. Sharon Swope and Genilee Parente Genre: Short Stories Pages: 254

Amazon.com and swopeparente.com

"Keep the Doors Open" (Christmas) For a community to be whole and healthy, it must be based on people’s love and concern for each other. — Millard Fuller, founder of Habitat for Humanity

J

ohn Corrigan sat in the alcove along the eastern side of his church. It was usually a place of inspiration for the minister – the place where the sun fell just right in the morning through the colorful glass. This was where his heart opened to God; where the words for Sunday’s sermon always popped into his head.

Most Mondays, he began his work week in this spot planning what he would do for his community and congregation.

But it was Monday night. There was no sunshine, and he’d felt no inspiration today, only emptiness. Tonight, his mind wouldn’t leave its focus on failures – the congregation’s failure to pick itself up from hardship and move on; his own failure as their minister to inspire them to take action; and God’s failure to hear the prayers sent from this struggling town and this church’s poverty-stricken congregation.

48

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Christmas to tell the few attendees that remained that their church would probably be closing its doors the following month.

John bowed his head and closed his eyes.

“Tell me what to do, God. I know there is no challenge that faith can’t conquer, but I can’t seem to find that faith within myself.

The young man I was, that new pastor so full of passion, seems to have gotten old, dusty and ineffective. If I’ve lost my faith, how can I be of any help to my congregation?”

John hugged his body and let a small sob escape. He sat for a long time, letting the occasional tear fall and rocking his weary body back and forth. Finally, he got up, walked to the altar and knelt to give a final goodnight to his God. Instead, he could only whisper, “Please, my Lord… send us a miracle.”

He felt no comfort. John looked up at the cross lit softly behind the altar, staring at it for so long, his eyes began to see things: three crosses – the middle one, the source of the light, would be where Jesus’ body had hung, John thought.

He shook his head to clear the vision and rose, feeling his years in creaky knees and shoulders.

When he turned to leave and lock up for the night, he spotted a small girl in the back row, her body reposed in prayer on the pews’ kneeling pads. He walked towards her, realizing as he got closer she was not really a girl, but a very small, thin woman. Her dress was ragged and too big. When he got to her side, he touched her gently on the shoulder, which caused her to jerk as if she’d been asleep.

He leaned over and said softly, “I’m afraid you will have to leave. I’m about to lock up the church for the night.”

The woman looked confused, then miffed.

“Lock up the church?” she cried. “I thought churches were supposed to be open so that a

person could always find a place to be nearer to God!” John’s face colored as he stammered an explanation, “We can’t really leave it open, ma’am. We have to keep it safe from street people and criminals.”

“You mean keep it safe from those who really need God?” she said, her voice shaky with emotion.

“Well I … I g-g-guess you’re right. But I’ve been locking it up every night for many years,” John stammered.

“It’s my responsibility to keep it safe for God.” The woman now looked at him with scorn.

“Why would God care if someone stole a hymn book or rested his or her weary head on a pew?” the woman asked.

John had no answer. The woman was right. He’d just never thought of it that way.

He’d kept the church locked not for God, but for the people that expected him to safeguard their community property. But the church, as safe as he’d kept it, had not done much lately for the people outside its doors.

John was simply too tired to argue. The church doors would not be locked for the night. In fact, he needed to lend this woman some comfort.

“If you’re tired,” John said to the woman, who had resumed her praying, “There’s a cot in my office you can use tonight. I keep it there for naps in the afternoon.”

With that statement, he left the woman alone to her thoughts. He wasn’t really comfortable leaving the doors unlocked, but John would leave the church in the hands of God this night as he sought sleep and rest in the parsonage next door.

A night of rest was not what he got. John tossed and turned, sleeping fitfully and struggling with his thoughts. By 6 a.m., he was relieved that it was time to get up and get dressed. Setting the coffee pot to brew, he rushed to the church, up the aisles and towards 49

Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER the side where his office was, stopping just outside to check the box where people left money for the needy. The few donations that had been collected in the last week remained in place. When he opened the office door, he heard, “Everything still there?” The woman was sitting on the made-up cot and had obviously heard the drop of the box lid.

He nodded his head, embarrassed that he’d been caught. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said softly.

“I’ve been awake,” she said.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Would you like some coffee?”

“I’m not a beggar, nor a thief,” she replied, rising as if to leave.

He turned away, defeated by her anger.

But he added over his shoulder, “Well, I’m hungry and I’m going next door to my home to get some breakfast. I’d very much enjoy your company if you’d care to join me.”

He opened the other office door, which led to the outside, went down the steps and began to walk at a slow pace back to the parsonage.

When he was halfway across the lawn, he heard her close the office door and follow.

John reached his kitchen, poured two cups of coffee, and set one down on the table next to an empty chair. Without speaking, he began to fix scrambled eggs and toast, eventually setting a full plate and fork in front of the woman. He felt her eyes on his back the entire time. He grabbed his own plate, loaded it with eggs and sat across from her, still not saying a word. She picked up a fork and began to eat.

When John was done, he sat back, contemplating how he should counsel this woman. A glance from her as she finished the last bite silenced him before he could begin.

He had nothing to give. When the last sip of her coffee was gone, she got up from the table and said simply, “Thank you.”

He rose, then, and took her hand.

“I should thank you instead,” he said. “It’s

strange how sometimes we know deep down that something as simple as a locked door to a church is wrong, but it takes someone else to break us of the habits we establish for the sake of feeling safe.”

She nodded her head in agreement. “We all need to listen more carefully to God and not rely on headlines and people’s complaints to make our decisions. God will tell us what is right if we just hear what he’s saying once in a while.”

He smiled then, and she smiled in response.

“Your faith seems to be very strong,” he said, dropping her hand. “I thought mine was, too, but it seems to be faltering right now.

Things are rough for the town, the people and the church.”

She seemed to gather her thoughts before speaking.

“Sometimes,” she said, “those rough times are what we need to wake up. They make us realize how right the simple things in life can feel. Just sitting and thinking about our problems doesn’t help much. God helps those who help themselves.”

She turned, opened the kitchen door and left.

Later that day, John stood with his back to his favorite alcove and let his eyes wander around his beloved church, half expecting to see the thin woman. All he saw was a church with worn pews and furnishings. John retreated to the alcove to pray.

“What can I do to make things more bearable for my congregation?” he asked aloud.

“Well, you could make the church at least look cheerful.”

John’s head popped up. It wasn’t a woman’s voice this time, but an older man – large and broad and slightly overweight. The man stood at the hall entrance to the alcove.

His long gray beard hid most of his face, but 50

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

hand clutching his staff. “Pitiful,” he thought and set the worn manger scene aside.

The very next day, the repairman was back, dragging a tree behind him. The two men struggled with the too big tree and finally decided the place it fit best was the left side of the altar where it could be seen by all but was out of the way of the communion service. “It’s lovely,” John exclaimed, dusting his clothes off and rubbing the dirt from his palms. “How can we thank you enough?”

“I did my part,” the man said. “The trimmings are up to you.” And with that, the man left John alone with his thoughts.

That Sunday, instead of telling his congregation about the closing of the church, John gave his sermon on what a community can do if it sets its mind to achieving a goal.

He kept seeing people glance towards the huge empty tree standing at the preacher’s side. At the end of the sermon, John explained his idea.

“We are starting a tree of hope for own town,” John said. “I want every one of you to bring in a special decoration for this tree.

Nothing elaborate, just a bulb from your own tree or something you’ve made with your own hands – an ornament that has meaning for...

John was fairly certain he had never been a congregation member.

“Cheerful?” John asked the man.

“Well at least a little merry. It’s two weeks before Christmas and you don’t even have a tree with lights. Why aren’t you celebrating Jesus’ birth?” the man asked. He stood there, holding a hat in his hands, shifting from foot to foot. John was puzzled why the man was here until he saw the company logo on the man’s shirt and realized he was the heating repairman he had called.

“We barely have enough money to have you fix our furnace, much less enough for a tree and lights,” John said with a deep sigh.

“Then do it without money. I don’t think God cares how fancy the celebration is.” The man paused to think, then looked around the church and back at John. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll get you started. I have a lovely fir tree in my back yard that should really come down.

I’ll donate it to this church.”

“But we have no decorations!” John said.

“The last of them were broken last year by some teenagers.”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “Then ask people for them.” He turned and left to get his toolkit.

John sat down. “Is it really that simple?” he wondered aloud, remembering back to his early years when the church held a midnight mass each season that inspired the congregation and got the children excited about the wonder of Christmas and what it really was. How long had it been since he’d felt the spirit of the holidays?

While the heating repairman worked, John went down to the church basement and searched through the boxes stored there. All he could find was a carton of wide red ribbon, a rusty tree stand, and a worn-looking manger scene. He brought it all upstairs. The baby Jesus had turned gray. Mary’s gown was almost black and Joseph had only half a left

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F. Sharon Swope (former newspaper columnist) and Genilee Parente (freelance writer) live in the Woodbridge area of Virginia.

Holiday Connections is their first book of short stories.

F. Sharon Swope & Genilee Parente 51

could call themselves anything they wanted.

Amanda wasn’t as beautiful as her mother but that didn’t matter to Kingsley. Amanda was everything. Smart, rich, brave, and she was his best friend. Her long, black hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and she always wore dirty riding boots, even when she was helping her priggish father search for fish and frogs in the muggy woods.

Kingsley was a nobody, just the overweight son of a missing dad and an overbearing mom. He hunkered in the back seat of the car, next to a large box filled with work gloves, water-testing kits and empty bottles. He figured Andrés had brought the Prius to impress any eco-friends he might encounter, leaving his BMW back at the Sutherland mansion.

“How do you know if a frog has turned gay?” Kingsley asked, which made Amanda giggle. Kingsley felt a surge. Nothing was better than hearing Amanda laugh.

“They’re not turning gay,” Andrés said as he maneuvered the car down the gravel roads.

“Isn’t that what we’re looking for? Gay frogs?”

“No,” Andrés said. “We’re testing the water. Frog populations are being devastated by a host of man-made toxins. Petroleum, pesticides, and herbicides. Atrazine, for instance, is an herbicide popular among the large corn producers. I read a study that claimed atrazine emasculated 75 percent of exposed male frogs and turned 10 percent into females.”

Kingsley fidgeted with his extra-large tshirt, pulling it down over his lap.

“It parallels what’s happening to alligator populations,” Andrés said. “In some Florida lakes, alligator genitalia are one-third the size of what they used to be. Their reproduction rate is almost down to zero. Petroleum-based chemicals mimic estrogen and block testosterone, permanently damaging the

Kingsley

By Carolyn O'Neal Genre: Science Fiction Pages: 266

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Chapter 1: Kingsley

G

nats swarmed, and thick poison-ivy vines smothered the street signs. The thermometer on the dashboard registered onehundred-and-one degrees. July in the dense, humid forests of eastern Virginia was like a jungle to thirteen-year-old Kingsley Smith. He dreaded getting out of Andrés Santos’ airconditioned Prius. He’d stink worse than the Sutherland stables. He didn’t know why Andrés had to pick the hottest day of the year to search for dead fish and gay frogs in some backwoods stream near Williamsburg. Yes, Kingsley was worried about the fish dying, and yes, he was curious about the frogs turning gay. But those weren’t the reasons he volunteered to help Andrés. He volunteered because of Amanda.

Amanda Santos Sutherland. She had told Kingsley years ago that her last name, Santos Sutherland, translated roughly into Saint from the Southland in Spanish and Scottish. She told him it reflected her parents’ heritage and it was Spanish tradition to put the mother’s maiden name at the end. Kingsley didn’t know if that was true or not. Rich people 52

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

development of male fetuses. Scientists have found abnormalities of their testis and smaller penis size.”

Kingsley scowled. What sort of pervert measures alligator dicks for a living?

“How close are we, Niña?” Andrés asked.

Andrés usually called Amanda Niña, which Kingsley discovered after a meandering and occasionally pornographic internet search meant girl in Spanish.

Amanda read aloud the directions from her phone. “Ten miles west of Williamsburg, near the Chickahominy Riverfront Park.” She scrolled down. “It’s called Methoataske Creek. That means turtle laying eggs in Shawnee.”

Kingsley wasn’t listening. He was studying the back of her slender, light-brown neck, wondering if she wore anything under her skimpy ocean blue tank top—the crisscross in the back suggested not—when she suddenly turned around to face him.

“Maybe we’ll find some turtles,” she said.

Kingsley blushed and pulled his t-shirt to his knees. “Hope so,” he mumbled.

He and Amanda had met when they were both ten years old, right after Kingsley’s mother started taking care of Amanda’s grandmother, Leslie Sutherland. They’d sit side by side in the back of Mrs. Sutherland’s handicapped-accessible van, and he’d show her tricks his friend Billy Jackson had taught him. He’d turn his eyelids inside out, and Amanda would squeal. He’d roll his eyeballs up until only the whites showed, and Amanda would laugh. Now, almost four years later, Kingsley couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound idiotic. He rubbed the back of his neck. Worrying about malformed alligator dicks and how to impress the girl he loved had given him a headache.

“Here we are,” Andrés said as he pulled into an unpaved parking lot bordering a deep woods. He stopped the car and passed out

gloves, giant black plastic garbage bags and heavy-duty shears. Andrés carried the box of empty bottles and water-test kits. “Follow me,” he said to Kingsley and Amanda as he headed into the forest.

“What are you testing for?” Amanda asked as she and Kingsley followed.

“Bacteria, mercury, pesticides, lead, nitrates, BPA, DEHP.” Andrés pushed aside low-hanging vines and waved away mosquitoes.

The humidity was relentless, and insects swarmed every inch of exposed skin. “We should have brought some OFF,” Kingsley grumbled, swatting away clouds of insects.

Ahead, on the ground and tangled up with weeds, were several broken wooden boxes, each containing horizontal slats. “Looks like abandoned beehives,” Andrés said. “Someone dumped them here.”

Amanda ran ahead and pulled out one of the horizontal slats. It was filled with small, hexagonal-shaped cells. She pried the shriveled cap off one of the cells with her thumbnail uncovering the desiccated pupa inside. “Colony collapse disorder,” she said, looking up at her father. “Right, Daddy? The workers disappear, leaving the queens and babies to starve.”

“Looks like it, Niña,” Andrés said. “That’s why we need to test the water. Too much pollution and pesticide. It destroyed their immune system and left them vulnerable to parasites and disease.”

“Einstein said that if the bees disappeared, man would soon follow,” Amanda said.

“That’s an urban legend,” Andrés countered. “He never said that.”

“Maybe it was Mr. Spock,” Kingsley offered grimly. “I get those two confused.”

They continued through the woods until Andrés came to a small, shoulder-high tree with feathery leaves. He broke off a leaf and 53

Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER handed it to Kingsley. “Take a sniff.” It smelled like burnt peanut butter. “Ailanthus altissima,” Andrés said. “Also known as the Tree-of-Heaven.” He turned to Amanda, “Niña, go back to the car and bring me a couple of shovels. I want you two to dig it up.”

“In this heat?” Kingsley shooed away sweat bees obsessively circling his head.

“Why do we have to dig it up?”

“Ailanthus altissima is an invasive species, very nasty,” Andrés said. “It doesn’t provide anything edible for wildlife, no nuts or seeds, and it emits a poison that kills the roots of native trees.”

Without saying a word, Amanda ran back to the car while Andrés headed deeper into the forest. Birds sang and squirrels chirped.

Dragonflies zigzagged and butterflies floated.

Something was constantly buzzing. Kingsley nervously looked around. He’d never gone camping. Never hiked in the woods before.

Never climbed a tree. None of his guy friends had either. He hoped bears couldn’t smell the sausage and eggs he’d eaten for breakfast. He didn’t know what to do if he saw a bear.

“Amanda,” he called, trying to hide his fear.

No one answered. “Amanda, where are you?

Need any help?”

He heard a rustle and tensed. Amanda reappeared, carrying two shovels. “Here,” she said, handing one of the shovels to Kingsley.

She began digging around the small ailanthus tree but the roots were connected to a long series of other ailanthus trees, small and large, winding through the woods like prisoners on a chain gang. Amanda threw down her shovel and wiped the perspiration off her forehead.

“There’s a million of them. This is impossible.”

Kingsley didn’t give up. He cut the tangled roots with the shears, and then dug into the dirt, using his sizable bulk to bring up the stubborn roots. Amanda smiled. “You’re

good at this,” she said. Kingsley grinned and kept pounding at the roots, sure he’d sweated away at least ten pounds by the time he’d dug up the tap root. He hoped so at least. Amanda pulled a water bottle from her backpack.

“You’ve earned this,” she said.

“Thanks,” Kingsley said, breathing hard.

He felt like a man, not just a pale, fat boy the bullies at his middle school had nicknamed beluga whale. He cocked his head, throwing back his wet bangs, and leaned on the shovel.

“Maybe we could do this more often, you know, help your dad dig up killer trees.”

Amanda laughed. “Killer trees, that’s funny.”

Kingsley held his shovel like a sword, ready to attack. Amanda pretended hers was a rifle. It felt like old times, the two of them, side-by-side.

Andrés reappeared from the woods, breathless. “Niña! Kingsley! Come and look at this!” He hurriedly led them through the woods, and the landscape changed.

Disposable diapers, plastic shampoo bottles, empty makeup compacts and everyday trash littered the ground. Cracked gallon jugs of bleach, open bottles of weed killer and rusted cans of pesticide leaked into the stream.

Plastic grocery bags and partially deflated Mylar balloons, with still-bright Get Well Soon messages on them, billowed in the trees like misshapen heads. Methoataske Creek didn’t smell like fresh water running over clean rocks, it smelled like rotten eggs and petroleum.

Amanda waved her arms in disgust.

“People buy all this junk and then just throw it out. No one cares anymore.”

“What’s that awful stink?” Kingsley asked.

“Sewage,” Andrés said. “Probably from a leaking septic tank or drain field. I don’t think there’re any sewage treatment plants nearby.”

He pushed aside a pile of leaves with his boot, 54

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

uncovering old cans of motor oil. “Someone’s been dumping here for a while, and it’s a damn shame. One gallon of motor oil can contaminate a million gallons of fresh water.”

He knelt and took a handful of mud. Black oil ran between his fingers. “Neglect and abuse, the real horsemen of the apocalypse.” He dropped the mud and wiped off his hands. He stood and jumped over the stream, using a large rock as a stepping stone, beckoning Amanda and Kingsley to follow. “Take a look at this.” They hopped over the stream and squatted beside Andrés. On a pile of wet leaves was a small brown-and-yellow box turtle, about the size of Kingsley’s closed fist.

The turtle didn’t move when Andrés picked him up. His head flopped to the side.

“He’s so cute,” Amanda cooed.

“He’s sick,” Andrés said. “He should be fighting to get away, or at least hiding in his shell.” Andrés brushed a dead leaf off the turtle’s small head. “Look at this.” A pink bulge the size of an English pea poked up from the back of the turtle’s head. “I read about this in the Journal of Ecology. It’s another sex-linked disease.”

“Like what’s happening to the frogs and alligators?” Kingsley asked, wondering if the turtle had shrunken privates.

Andrés nodded. “And what’s happening to the honeybees. But this is a new disease, Kingsley. It causes brain tumors and no one knows why.”

“That’s horrible,” Amanda said. She petted the turtle’s round shell. “Poor little guy.

Daddy, is that why mom’s stallion is sick? Do you think the stallion and the turtle have the same disease?”

Andrés winced and rubbed the back of his head. “I hope not, Niña. That would mean it’s moved up to mammals.” He returned to the other side of the stream and placed the turtle in the box with the water testing kits. “I’ll take him to the wildlife center.”

Chapter 2: Turning Fourteen

T

he Sutherland Estate overlooked the York River in eastern Virginia, on a cliff composed of a hard clay called marlstone.

Because of this, someone in Sutherland family history decided to name the estate Marlbank.

Kingsley and his mother had arrived in Virginia almost four years earlier from New Orleans when Kingsley was ten years old. His mother was desperate for work and a place to live, and Marlbank provided both. The northwest border of the estate abutted the Colonial National Park, location of the historic Yorktown battlefield. When Kingsley was younger, he and Amanda would slip under the guardrails and explore the battlefield.

Kingsley loved playing in the grass-covered trenches and on the antique cannons. Amanda read the historical marker aloud, “In the fall of 1781, General George Washington, with allied American and French forces, besieged General Charles Lord Cornwallis’s British army.” Kingsley and Amanda hid in the trenches, sticks standing in for colonial muskets, and battled the battery of cannons chained beside the trenches like rows of performing tigers. Kingsley climbed the...

Order on Amazon or authorcarolynoneal.com to continue reading this book.

Carolyn is an author and environmentalist from Charlottesville, Virginia. Her short story Silent Grace won The Hook’s short story contest.

Kingsley is her first novel.

Carolyn O'Neal 55

looking black six inch silencer screwed into its barrel. The man had the gun aimed directly at Morrison’s chest.

Morrison threw up his hands. “Don’t shoot. Take anything you want, but please don’t shoot. Pleeeeeeze!”

He watched in horror as the man slowly squeezed the trigger.

His instincts told him to run—he turned and began to sprint down the sidewalk. He felt like he was moving in slow motion or worst yet, like he was under water.

PFLOPP! PFLOPP! Two bullets ripped into his back. His last sensation was the feeling that a huge fist had knocked all of the air out of his lungs.

Tim Morrison was dead before he hit the pavement.

The Tower

By Herrick Lyons Genre: Thriller/Suspense Pages: 374

Amazon.com and herricklyons.net

One

•••

THE NEW RED Honda Accord was stopped for a red light at the intersection of Connecticut Avenue and L Street. It was seven-thirty in the evening and the Washington DC summer rush hour traffic was nearly over.

Tim Morrison tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the soft beat of Phil Collins’s In the Air Tonight. The music filled the car from the Honda’s Bose speakers. He didn’t notice the black Camaro as it pulled up behind him. Suddenly the Camaro rudely slapped his rear bumper and Morrison was thrown back in his seat and then forward against the steering wheel.

Without thinking, he leapt out of the car to survey the damage to his newly-prized possession. Normally he would’ve thought twice about getting out of his car in any other part of DC, but this was the business district of the city.

He realized his mistake almost immediately. A man from the passenger side of the Camaro was running toward his open door.

The driver was also out of the car and in his hand he held 9mm Beretta with a mean-

IT WAS THE SECOND dreary morning that Sommers had spent at the beach with his family. He had never objected to his nickname for his surname Jack Sommerstag since he received it from a girlfriend in high school.

And it fit him like a comfortable shirt.

He awoke in a strange bed—in a strange bedroom—in a beach house that smelled of mildew and ocean. He could hear the light misting rain that would be just enough to keep Jenny and their two kids off the beach for the day.

Still half-asleep, with his eyes closed he ran through the alternatives. She could take them shopping to the outlet mall in Nags Head or find an indoor spot like a movie theater that would keep their minds off the lack of sand and surf. After all, this was Duck, and to do anything halfway exciting you had to drive to Nags Head or some place further down the coast. Up the coast was Corolla, but that was just more beach and hardly any stores.

Sommers stretched, swung his stiff legs 56

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

over the side of the bed and padded into the kitchen—following the aroma of fresh coffee.

Jenny was standing near the linoleum-top dinette table, which the owner had probably considered it quite practical, when it was purchased. She had poured him a cup when she heard the wooden floors creaking in their bedroom.

Jenny’s thirty-six years had been good to her. She had kept her figure after having the two children. Her hair was short and perky, as Sommers liked to say. Light brown with a touch of honey in it. Colored naturally by hours spent in the sun, while reading books and watching the kids play on the beach. She had graduated from Loyola University in New Orleans with a degree in Home Economics.

Jenny and Sommers would celebrate their eleventh anniversary this September. Now it was July and this was their yearly hallowed vacation.

“Want some breakfast?” Jenny asked, in a far too chipper way for Sommers.

“No, it’s too close to lunch time. Where are the kids?” He asked, not really caring or worried.

“They’re next door playing with their cousins.”

This, after all, was also a family reunion of sorts. Jenny and her sister, Beth, had started these annual beach trips for both families after her mother died of cancer three years before.

Sommers knew she was making sure the family stayed together. Her dad, in his eightysecond year, was not up to these yearly gatherings. He had stopped coming with them last year. A single rainy day with four screaming and bored kids would probably put him over the edge anyway. Dinner twice a month at his house was enough of a strain on him.

Sommers on the other hand was an orphan. Both of his parents had been killed when he was only four, in a head-on collision

with a car driven by a small-time thief running from a robbery. The thief was charged with manslaughter because he was only sixteen years old and had no priors.

Sommers had put himself through college and made the Dean’s List three out of his four years at the University of Maryland. He had majored in Journalism and minored in Communications. After graduation, he went to work for a small ad agency, McGraw Advertising Design. The company had grown, and he liked the future he saw there. Now forty and at the prime of his career, he felt like he was a key-player in the agency and the sky was the limit.

His hair was getting a little thin on top.

Being in advertising, he knew that growing a beard would give him character and draw attention away from his head. So he had last year. After all, he thought, Jenny looked too young for a bald-headed husband.

“What’s on the agenda today?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t included. He had looked forward to vegetating on the porch with his latest book.

“Well, I thought I’d see if Beth and our two broods would like to go to the Food Lion.

That should give the kids something to do.

Besides, I need some things for tonight’s dinner.”

The evening’s dinner for both families would be at their beach house tonight, and Jenny would make her famous vegetarian Lasagna. The families each alternated fixing dinner for the whole group.

“Honey, that won’t make up for an entire day of rain. Why don’t you take them to that new water-park in Nags Head?” He was determined to get some peace and quiet.

“Because it’s raining, silly!” she laughingly replied.

“As long as there’s no lightening, a little drizzle won’t get them any wetter. Besides, they need to blow off some steam or we’ll pay 57

Virginia Authors BOOK SAMPLER later.” Sommers was serious, but he knew Jenny was scared to death of thunderstorms.

Even if there was no lightening, she was still edgy.

After calling Beth, Jenny found that her sister didn’t really want to trudge around in the rain. Beth’s husband Larry had left the day before, because of some computer disaster at work. And Sommers didn’t mind. He got along with Beth better than he did with her husband. Something about computers and advertising that didn’t mix.

Jenny asked Beth to send Joey and Cindy home for lunch. Beth didn’t argue, because out of their boredom, all four children were beginning to snap at each other.

Beth was the youngest of the two sisters, but only by one year. The standing joke between them was, how could mom and dad have been in such a hurry to have them, and then stop having children altogether? Each with two children of their own, they now knew the answer.

Cabin fever at the beach is like cabin fever anywhere. Except, maybe worse. There’s supposed to be warm sun and cool surf, and beach houses are not meant for long indoor stays.

Jenny smiled to herself. She knew that Sommers just wanted to sit on the little porch outside their bedroom and read his book. He hated sitting on the beach and sunbathing, finding that it was unproductive and boring.

“We’ll do something that won’t interfere with your reading” Jenny said smiling.

Acting hurt, but not too badly offended, Sommers replied, “This is the only time I enjoy just reading and sitting around. If we were at home there’d be something that needed fixing or cleaning.”

“I know dear. And that’s why we’re here.

So relax and enjoy your book.” She knew Sommers would be cranky if he came along.

And she didn’t need three cranky kids.

AFTER THE THIRD car door slammed, Sommers knew that Jenny, Joey and Cindy were all in the car. He heard the gravel crunch under the wheels as their blue Saab left the beach house driveway.

Settling down into one of the two white wicker chairs on the porch, he opened his book to the author’s notes. This was a mystery dealing with attorneys. Since Sommers had a love-hate relationship with lawyers in general, this was a perfect book for him.

After an hour of reading, Sommers decided to get up and stretch. His throat was dry and he had the beginnings of a headache.

Probably from reading with forty-year-old eyes. Something cold to drink would be good.

There was a clean plastic cup on the counter with some restaurant’s name in funny letters stenciled on it. He picked up the cup and walked to the refrigerator. He opened the freezer door for ice and threw several cubes into the cup. Next he opened the fridge, not really knowing what he wanted. He spotted a half gallon of Jenny’s spring water and some day-old iced tea. He let the door swing shut and turned to the tap on the sink and ran water into the cup. The first sip turned into a spitting stream of water. “God,” he thought, “this water tastes like crap.”

It’s true that tap water at the beach is not very good, even at its best. Most of the rental houses on Duck had water purifiers that were added by their owners in the late eighties, and this house was in definite need of one.

Sommers poured the rest of the water down the drain and filled the cup with the dayold tea. There was a bottle of aspirin on the counter. He emptied three tablets into his hand and threw them into his mouth. The tea was strong but it got the pills down.

He returned to the porch and picked up his book. As he looked out over the Sound, he noticed a green water tower blocking part of 58

VOLUME 1  WINTER 2016

his view. The tower had always been there, but it hadn’t really meant anything to him until his bout with the tap water. Now it gave new meaning to the words bad taste.

He sat back down and opened the book. It wasn’t very good, and he had made a point to buy the expensive hard-cover version because the print was larger. Larger print, even though he didn’t need glasses, was much easier to read. Even if his headache contradicted the thought.

He remembered seeing a sign for a public library on the Route 158 Bypass in Currituck.

A library would let him browse at his own pace and find a good novel. Not one that had a lot of hype on the back of a fancy raised-color cover. Definitely not like the one in his hand.

He went into the bedroom and slipped out of his lime green swim trunks. He grabbed a pair of shorts from a dresser drawer. Then he threw on yesterday’s madras shirt, a pair of crumpled khaki slacks, and his five-year-old docksiders—thinking to himself—getting dressed-up at the beach meant adding socks to his wardrobe.

with the kids and met her sister for the first week. He came down on the Tuesday of the second week. Actually, Sommers didn’t mind the drive by himself. It gave him time to clear the cobwebs out of his head, and it also gave them two cars at the beach. Which also gave him a little extra freedom. Sommers really enjoyed his solo drives, exploring Nags Head and the nearby towns. Duck was small, and it became less of a challenge every time he went for a drive.

Once in the library, Sommers realized that he hadn’t been inside one in years. There was a gray-haired man sitting behind one of those caramel-colored oak desks that reminded him of the furniture you see in schools. Except for the man, the place was empty. Probably because of the rain, he thought to himself.

Sommers walked over to the desk. “Do you have any books by Peter Miles?”

“Nope,” replied the librarian. “He’s too new, and his first three books are still on the best-seller list.”

Sommers noticed a water fountain next to a door marked OFFICE. “Is that beach water in the drinking fountain?”

The librarian looked up and then over at the fountain. “No, it’s city water. You’re in Currituck County.”

THE LIBRARY was built only for utilitarian purposes. With its cinder-block walls painted municipal green and its flat roof, it looked dreary in the now pouring rain. Sommers jumped out of the car banging his knee on the door of the little red Ford Fiesta. This was his car, since Jenny wouldn’t drive stick shift.

Although it was small, the car reminded Sommers of a little red Austin-Healey Sprite he’d had in college. If he could have taken off for the full two weeks that he and Jenny had rented the cottage for, they would all have come in the Saab. But Sommers’ ad agency was pitching VISTA Technologies, the largest defense contractor in the free world—hell the world.

He had been informed that two weeks off were out of the question. So Jenny came down

Order on Amazon or herricklyons.net to continue reading this book.

Herrick Lyons, aka Don Sparkman, lives in Bristow, Virginia.

He has also written a best-selling book for designers called Selling Graphic & Web Design. This is his third political thriller.

Herrick Lyons 59

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BOOK TITLE WORD SEARCH (Vol. 1) E W A B J W B N D Y B M I A T M U E U D Q S I Z G

N T N Y F N H A O E Y A V B B X O E Y J P K N P Z

I I A P W P J O K I V V L M Y M I X U C U L Z I Q

H F B G H Y Y S G V T O S E M D A N K Y B I E D L

C H E E X L Y W N E D P L C O E I T Z V C R L V Z

A L L S U Y F B U F T S E T T O S Z E P E E V N B

M O U O P F C E U O G S D C R U A B C W L W F J V

E V N G V W J Q M N E E T I E K Z X J O F O A W S

M S R O Q E Y A I A E Q N O G D Q X X P R T P D W

I R A N M X L K J N A Q E I N Y Y Z E W R E V J P

T U V X N G P I O K U N V M B A N B D W O H J V V

S P E I H H E H K I W O S Q F D M S D P I T H O E

R H L W B X W V S E O Q Z N X N V E J E B N U C H

JADED PEOPLE WHO NEED TO DIE HITLERS TIME MACHINE OLD ROADS AND NEW EXITS LOVE LIKE FALL JUNIOR INQUISITOR MEMORY LAKE

E K E O U E Z I J G F P E R C X Y C G S D L Q M C

L M D M L G T F D G J A L V S V U A A R M N D R I

T B K P A O A P N V E I L N V Q A Z W X A F I U U

I I O W R B W M E M O R Y L A K E Z X J F N T L G

H E D O L D R O A D S A N D N E W E X I T S D J B

P G T R P O Z D M M H J M N J O V X M G J U F M Y

F B W B B E K C N R W U H B V L W E D M F C Z B A

Y F D K K G F E H P A P T S L K M Z N E N Z G B N

H O E D N W R S N O I T C E N N O C Y A D I L O H

L V J C J D S W G C U Y O G Z O Z V F U Y A A R D

F A W J F U S F T T C S Y K A J C A T S T G J V W

F N M X T R P H P V U J T H C O X X Q N P G Q P Q

BLINDED BY DECEPTION MESSAGES FROM NATURE ANABEL UNRAVELED WHO GETS TO NAME GRANDMA HOLIDAY CONNECTIONS KINGSLEY THE TOWER

One of the titles is missing. Which one is it? _____________________

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