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supportforindieauthors · 3 years

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The Site by Daniel Cubias

Nobody knew who I was just six months ago. But today, I’m famous.

Of course, six months from now, I’ll return to a world where nobody knows who I am. However, this won’t be because of some karmic equilibrium being regained, or because my celebrity will flame out in the interim. It will be because nobody will remember anything. Everybody will be dead.

That’s why I’m writing all this down. It’s just in case anyone lives through the catastrophe and stumbles upon this manifesto, or manuscript, or apology, or whatever you want to call it. This is so you’ll know what happened, assuming that any of you are out there to read this.

Six months ago, I was an unemployed accountant, living at a friend’s place in Joshua Tree. I had been there a week, just drinking and watching TV while waiting for some grand epiphany to guide me out of my midlife ennui. But the tequila and sitcom reruns weren’t leading to any profound revelations, so one night, I hopped into my car and went for a drive through the desert.

Now, I didn’t actually see the thing land. I didn’t even see it arch through the sky. Later, the media portrayed me as some wide-eyed hillbilly on the prowl for UFO sightings. But I want to be clear about this. All I saw was fire. And that was only after I heard the explosion behind me and felt the road shake.

Nobody, and I mean nobody, was on the road other than me. And cell phone reception was nonexistent. So I felt I had no choice but to drive toward the fire to see if anyone needed help. I figured somebody’s trailer or fledgling meth lab had just exploded.

But when I got to the site, I received a subtle hint that something unusual had just occurred. My first clue was the metallic hull of a ship, sticking out of a vast crater. Yes, that was just a little bit odd.

So I pulled out my phone and taped the conflagration.

“Maybe it’s an Air Force jet,” I said over my shaky video. “But even through the flames and smoke, you can see that it’s square shaped. What kind of jet is that?”

Ha, it wasn’t a jet, as we all found out soon enough. Of course, the government didn't confirm the ship as extraterrestrial until a week later, long after my video had gone mega-viral, and well into my fourteenth minute of fame. You see, I was the guy who had captured the moment on tape. I was the first human to encounter a verified spacecraft from another world. I was world famous.

However, nine days later, the next set of humans to see a UFO land weren’t as lucky as me. They were squashed, or maybe vaporized (it was hard to tell) when the second craft smashed into a house just outside Prague.

At that point, all of humanity pretty much lost it. One crash was amazing. But two was a calamity.

Why were these Martian pilots such horrible drivers? How come they couldn’t land their ships safely?

When the third spaceship obliterated part of Kyoto, a group of scientists offered a disturbing hypothesis. They theorized that the UFOs weren’t full of brave explorers from an advanced alien civilization who tragically perished while trying to reach us. The truth was both more pedestrian and more menacing.

The UFOs were garbage trucks. They were crammed with nothing but extraterrestrial waste. Unmanned, they were launched off a distant planet and shot through space according to the principles of inertia (look up the laws yourself, I don’t have time to do all your work for you, but look under “Newton”). Whatever intelligence sent the ships could not have cared less where they went or when they landed or how they fared. They just wanted the junk to be gone. And who could blame them? We would do the same if we could.

So this ship sailed through the galaxy for decades or centuries or eons, the waste preserved because the bacteria inside had died in the coldness of space. And then it crashed here, causing a ruckus and making us believe that we had friends across the universe.

But we were just the lucky site of a landfill, no more fortunate than plankton in our oceans that get swamped by oil spills. Whoever the aliens are, they either don’t know or don’t care if we exist. But they’re definitely smarter than us. They’re keeping their planet alive by sending us their debris.

The hypothesis that the ships were nothing more than garbage trucks was confirmed when scientists analyzed the cargo (for lack of a better word). They found the same gooey messes, the same paperish discard, the same squashed metals. Soft tissue that many had believed was the remains of a liquefied Martian was probably spoiled food from a distant cosmos. Others conjectured that it was the remains of an alien infant’s used diaper. In any case, there was supporting evidence for the garbage-truck theory. For example, the shielding on the UFOs was inadequate, implying that whoever sent them didn’t care if the ships landed in one piece or not.

Ultimately, the best minds in the world made the public declaration that all three ships were nothing more than barges of waste. In response to the irrefutable evidence, there was screaming, name-calling, and bizarre claims that the scientists were covering up something even more sinister than our planet getting pummeled. There were New Age pronouncements that we were too dull to appreciate the higher intelligence coming to save us all. There were websites proposing conspiracy theories far more complex that what had actually gone down.

And the near anarchy became full-fledged anarchy when the fourth UFO landed, taking out a chunk of Nairobi. In the death and destruction that followed, everyone sane quickly agreed that benevolent Martians were not being klutzy navigators and crashing after a journey of millions of miles. They were bombarding us with garbage, and there was no way to make them stop.

The fifth ship landed in the Pacific, causing a tsunami to slam into Hawaii. Ship number six took out central Mexico City, killing thousands of people. Ships seven and eight landed in the Australian outback and an Idaho cornfield, respectively, so not much chaos there. But number nine smacked right into Cairo, and there was more death. Ship number ten caused a tidal wave in the Mediterranean, and number eleven notched Madagascar. The twelfth ship basically ended Chicago. After the first dozen, they started coming too fast to count, and every country soon had its very own alien spaceship raining down upon it.

The actual death and destruction they caused was bad enough, but the dust they kicked up did more for the greenhouse effect than did all the cars in history. The days got hazy after three months of crash-landings, and after numerous ships nailed the Arctic, scientists announced that the ocean level was rising.

Soon we were wash in alien garbage, and people just hoped an incoming crate of Martian goop didn’t annihilate them during the night. As I write this, crops have started to wither, and small animals are dying. People are starving in heavily hit regions, and the toll of people directly killed by the ships is in the millions.

And still, we have no way of contacting the aliens, except to beam a radio wave in the rough general direction of where the ships came from, hoping that someone receives it some millennia hence and happens to be listening and happens to recognize it as a call. Even then, what will they do? Assuming that they can decipher our signal, will they even care? Probably not, I guess, because they’re obviously pretty busy. Just look at all the garbage they’re creating.

Last month, the governments of the world got together and tried blowing the things out of the sky with intercontinental missiles. They missed more often than not, and one ICBM obliterated a town in France. The few direct hits just split the garbage barges into two or three less lethal pieces, huge chucks that were still big enough to take out whole city blocks.

In the midst of this counteroffensive, North Korea attacked South Korea. They thought the world was too preoccupied dealing with the alien wreckage to notice. But no matter what else is happening, the nations of Earth are never too busy for war. America sent troops and fighter planes and missiles (that should have been used deflecting death from above) to the Korean Peninsula. China sent the same to our opponents. The battles weren’t much to admire. They usually ended when a UFO burrowed into somebody’s headquarters and took out the troops.

The war was over in a week. The dead received no honors, and the returning veterans got a quick parade that was rushed to its conclusion so a garbage comet wouldn’t scatter the heroes. North and South Korea remained as they were before the conflict, and the last war in human civilization ended in a pointless draw.

As for me, not working for the last year or so looks pretty smart now. It would have been a complete waste of my time. However, I don’t think we have long left.

So if you read this, maybe you will understand why this planet is nothing but a garbage heap. It’s all rotted buildings and shattered highways and scorched earth. If you see any people alive among the craters and debris, tell them to keep looking up (literally, not figuratively).

Until then, I will just watch as more barges slam into my devastated home. After all this, I have come to one realization:

I’m pretty sure we had this coming.

Connect with the Author

http://www.danielcubias.com

http://hispanicfanatic.com

https://www.facebook.com/daniel.cubias

Twitter: @DanCubias

Email: [email protected]

#Daniel Cubias #The Site #Short Story Contest #Contest Winner #First Place #Apocalypse Short Story Contest #Support for Indie Authors #Whats the Worst that Could Happen

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supportforindieauthors · 3 years

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When the Earth Bled by Sue Rovens

My name is Hallison Fischer and the first time I bent over to cut a swath in the earth, it bled. I’d never seen that before; a crimson line bubbling up from the grey dust that covered the ground. I suppose I never had the need to see such things since I hadn’t been in the position to grow anything before. I was fortunate to have had a father who would tend to such ghoulish work. He protected me from having to dirty my hands and my eyes from such labors.

Over the years, I heard tales, snippets of gossip, and pieces of conversations - what it was like before the earth ran red with blood when it was cut open by sharp implements. There were layers of dirt or mud - sometimes clay.

I tried to imagine what that must have been like -- to feel the dirt, to run barefoot over the soil and not have to worry about accidentally stepping into a gaping wound, a festering boil hidden among sparse grasses which now cover the world. How incredible it must have felt to walk with abandon, or to run, throwing caution to the wind.

But all those scenarios were not a part of my world. I had only seen such incredulous images in rare picture books scattered about. They could be found in abandoned schools or a dinged-up old rusty locker.

Everything culminated around the time when vaccinations stopped working and antibiotics lost their effectiveness. People started dying. Thousands dropped so quickly, the morgues and crematoriums were overrun in a matter of weeks. The cemeteries filled up so fast, the local governments began asking anyone who owned any land, regardless of size, to volunteer it, just to keep the bodies from piling up in the streets.

I remember when my parents signed up to help bury the dead. I had just turned sixteen. I thought about offering to help since the schools were closed by then. What else could I do? Half my friends were either dead or in the final throes of dying, while the others had been whisked away to ‘safer parts of the country’ by well-meaning but naive family members. Emails and texts kept us connected for a few months, until technology proved unreliable and quit altogether.

My mom had put her foot down. She said the job of burying bodies in mass graves was no task for a teenager, especially a girl. This was after I weakly offered. She said that she would rather have me stay home and read the few books they had squirreled away in order to soak up every bit of information that I possibly could. Such knowledge, she told me, might be useful in the future. I didn’t argue. I really didn’t want to handle the corpses of our neighbors and friends.

My dad had been a history buff and owned a few good books which described the specifics of World War III. He also subscribed to an underground magazine that made handwritten printed issues. Defying the Impossible initially came out monthly but trickled down to about every six weeks. I haven’t seen a current issue for over four months now.

It was a fantastical rag, full of stories about people facing insurmountable situations yet enduring and overcoming the odds. As far as I knew, the articles were true; things that actually happened to people who survived long enough to tell their tales. I suppose they could have made stuff up, but I didn’t want to believe that. The stories were inspiring. They spoke of hope and determination and an iron will, traits that we desperately needed. Traits that were few and far between these days.

One issue in particular had the most amazing piece in it. The event took place over a hundred years ago, sometime in the 1940s. A doctor named Walter Freeman used to perform lobotomies by thrusting instruments like ice picks right above patients’ eyes. He would move the tools back and forth in order to scramble the front part of the person’s brain. There were times when he worked on two people simultaneously! While some patients suffered horrific results, others were supposedly made better, going on to live normal lives.

I couldn’t believe it. If these people could live through such an atrocity, something so destructive and yet turn out okay, even better in some cases, then perhaps my family might just make it. The problem was that while no one was sticking metal rods above our eyes and swishing them around, we were dealing with our own kinds of nightmares. The kind that decomposed from the inside out and fell dead at your feet.

That was the scary thing; not knowing when death would snatch someone from the earth. I was too young to understand the details, but I remember hearing the news about medications being ineffective. They simply stopped working. After decades of being dependent on drugs for one disease or another, people had become immune. Soon after, mutations of germs and viruses began wiping out populations on every continent.

When our town and the surrounding cities’ population dropped, the National Guard was called to help maintain order, but they weren’t very effective. Within a year, most of them had died right along with the rest of us. The schools closed, the malls and shops were shuttered, mail stopped being delivered, and all the stores were looted. That’s when we tried to grow our own food.

I’m not sure what happened to all the animals. After the end of World War III, there weren’t many left – at least that’s what we had been told in school. And who were we to question such things? I suppose it would be like people from the 1500s wondering where all the dinosaurs went. It just wasn’t something most people thought about.

My dad, who had never planted a seed in his life, took to the soil, searching through our garage for tools, using rakes and snow shovels to create a garden of sorts. At first, he tried using seeds that my mom and I had dug out of moldy apples and shriveled oranges. We let a few potatoes grow eyes. My dad said that once tubers had nubs or eyes, he could plant them and they would propagate into more potatoes – something he read in one of his books.

We did okay with the potatoes for a little while, but after that first year, nothing else came up. We found ourselves dropping bouillon cubes in lukewarm water and gathering the last bits of stale cereal the bottoms of boxes. We were trying to save special foods, like hard candies and an old jar of green olives and tomato paste for a real emergency. Those didn’t last long.

My mom went first. It was right after she buried a deformed baby on the hill next to my old school. I wasn’t supposed to hear about it, but I did. I used to sit on the steps against the wall on the other side of the kitchen, listening to my parents talk about the horrific things they had seen during the day. How the gloves and masks had run out and how the skins from the bloated bodies would peel right off in their hands as they hoisted the dead from the back of pickup trucks and into the mass graves.

But it was the little baby that must have done my mom in. I heard her tell my dad how she tried to hold it carefully so as not to let any fluids touch her own scabbed and scaly skin (from lack of nutrition). But she was tired and weak and hungry and in a moment of delirium, the baby’s head rocked forward and slammed into her face. That was all it took. Its head popped like a distended pustule and my mom died within the week.

After that, my dad pretty much gave up. I couldn’t blame him. He stopped volunteering and sat in his rocker day after day, staring out the window. When I would bring some tepid water flavored with an old beef bouillon cube to him, what I called dinner, he would stop rocking and make an attempt to smile at me. The day he stopped accepting my pitiful meals was the same day I became an orphan. I don’t know – can you be an orphan at sixteen?

There was a college kid that lived down the street from us. It’s funny. I say college kid, but the universities had been closed for years at that point. Still, I guess I’ll always think of someone in their early twenties as a college kid.

I knew his name was Ethan and that he was doing okay because he shouted hello and introduced himself to me once when I was sitting on my stoop reading one of my dad’s books.

The day after my dad passed, I walked down the block to see if Ethan would help me. It’s not that I didn’t want to bury my dad by myself, because, if truth be told, I would have preferred it. I didn’t want to share my grief with anyone, especially with someone I didn’t know. But physically, I needed the help and I hadn’t seen any other able-bodied neighbors in quite some time. It wasn’t as if I could get in the car and drive somewhere – there was no gas. I hadn’t seen a working car in over seven months.

When I knocked on his door, it took two full minutes for him to answer. I mention this because I had seen him before as a strong, good-looking young man. But when he came to the door and I saw him up close for the first time, my heart as well as my expectations sank to the pit of my stomach.

He looked like an old man. His hair was now shadowy wisps of its former self and his eyes were sunken and dark. What was once a youthful complexion was now as pallid and translucent as cellophane. He clung to the door jamb, his stooped posture still rather imposing at 6’2” and asked what he could do for me.

“It’s my dad,” I said.

Ethan nodded. We didn’t need to say more.

Silently, we walked back to my house. I let him in the back door and showed him where my dad was, still in the rocker, still with a blank expression. Together, we carried him out to the backyard and placed him gently on the patio. Ethan made a gesture that implied I should go back inside the house, that he would handle it from there. Without question, I obeyed.

From that point on, Ethan stayed with me at my house. We didn’t talk much – what was there to say – but it was good to have a companion. He helped me cut up my parents’ leather shoes into strips and came up with the idea for ketchup soup from a bottle he had at his place. It was about three days after he first came over that we made the decision to get married.

It wasn’t a real marriage, not in the legal sense. But we liked the idea of having an official bond between us. So, one evening as we were scraping together crumbs from the bottom of the toaster, Ethan took my hand and led me to the living room. We stood in front of the picture window, turned to face each other, and made a declaration about sharing and helping the other person. I told him that I considered him to be my husband, and that if he wanted to, he could consider me his wife. He smiled and kissed me on top of my head, which barely had any strands of hair left. Most of my scalp had scabbed over at that point due to all the scratching.

Lice – another thing we shared.

It’s difficult to say exactly how long we were together. I would guess that Ethan lived at my house for another three days or so. Having only scraps to eat and pans of dirty rainwater from which to drink, I was surprised we stayed afloat even that long. On the morning he started to cough up blood, he told me that he was going into town for any supplies that might have been overlooked from past lootings.

I knew he was lying, but I didn’t say anything. I realized that he was thinking of me when he left. He didn’t want to leave me alone to bury a dead body by myself.

We hugged each other and he leaned down to kiss me – not out of passion, but out of empathy. Two human beings shared a hellacious experience and were now parting company. A gesture of goodwill had to be offered.

I held up a hand as he walked out the front door and down the block. I stood there, smiling my toothless grin and waving until he rounded the corner at which point, he disappeared from my life. I can’t say for certain what happened to him, my husband of days, but I thank him in my mind for the acts of kindness he showed me.

***

He left two days ago. I finished the last of the ketchup and worked my way through the remnants of an old, rotted salad dressing bottle which I had fished out from a garbage can on the next block over. I ate a spoonful of parsley flakes for dinner last night with a handful of water I scooped out of the bottom of a potted dead plant.

Which brings me to today when I cut my first bloody swath into the ground.

I don’t want anyone to judge this letter, if there is anyone left to find it. You might think that I was insane for doing what I was did. You have to understand. There was nothing left to plant; no dried up seeds, no withered vines, no potato eye.

But I was harvesting. I cut into the dead world. I sliced open the top layer of dusty skin in order to reap what I could. Just beneath my feet, bodies were ripe for the picking. In most cases, very ripe. As I penetrated the surface with my dull kitchen knife, a sickening primordial-like fluid oozed out from the slit. I kept hacking away until I saw the decomposing bodies that would keep my belly full. The earth was bleeding and I lapped it up like a dog.

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#Sue Rovens #When the Earth Bled #Short Story Contest winner #Second Place Winner #Apocalypse Short Story Contest #Whats the Worst that Could Happen #Support for Indie Authors

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supportforindieauthors · 4 years

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Interview with Scott Prill

1) Can you tell us a little about the inspiration behind your entry for this contest?

I actually have two inspirations for Into Darkness. Several years ago, my grandmother died from Alzheimer’s and I wrote a draft poem about her passing. I put the poem away until I saw this short story contest. The second inspiration is that I have spent every summer since early childhood at Lake Okoboji in northwest Iowa. It is a place of many fun and fond memories.

2) What made you decide to enter this contest?

When I saw the images on which the short story contest was based – I thought of my Alzheimer’s poem and my time at Lake Okoboji. I needed to write this story.

3) Who are some of your favourite authors and why?

As I have gone through life, I have had several authors, I enjoyed reading, from Edgar Allen Poe, Jack London, Fredrik Backman, and the Roman historian, Adrian Goldsworthy.

4) What is your favourite book you read this year and why?

I don’t have a favorite book this year so far – next on my reading list is The Soul of America by Jon Meacham.

5) What is your best piece of advice for all the new independent authors out there.

I offer three pieces of advice: 1) Let your imagination be your guide; 2) Be comfortable with doing lots of editing and receiving valid critiques – it is what makes your writing better; and 3) You are never too old to start writing.

#Into Darkness #Scott Prill #Contest Winner #Short Story Contest #First Place #You Tell Us Volume 2 #supportindieauthors

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supportforindieauthors · 4 years

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Interview with Ed Lehner

1) Can you tell us a little about the inspiration behind your entry for this contest?

I have never rock climbed in my life, but have watched them with awe as they scale, what would appear to be, shear slick granite and/or ice. While on an winter Outward Bound cross country skiing camping expedition, more years ago than I care to say, I met a woman who was a true outdoors person, living with her boyfriend in a teepee near Aspen, CO so they could spend their winter working at the ski area, skiing, and living cheap. She was the toughest woman I had ever met.

Also, here in Durango, Colorado, we have any number of amazing women athletes: cyclists, climbers, skiers, kayakers, and runners. Several years ago we were at the ice climbing festival in Ouray, CO. There was one female climber who had gone way above her last anchor point to the concern of several members of the crowd next to me. It was a timed event and she had apparently elected to forego safety to try to win, which she did, safely. It was scary to watch and we all breathed a collective sigh of relief when she reached the top.

Last year, I read Forget Me Not: A Memoir by Jennifer Lowe-Anker and Jon Krakauer which is Lowe-Anker’s account of her life with world class mountaineer, Alex Lowe. Reading her account of her own rock climbing in her book gave me the inspiration for ‘Billie’. Recently I had seen a short film at our film festival of a couple helicoptering in to a site in Alaska to climb a sheer granite wall which inspired the climb, albeit, set in Montana and transportation to the site by canoe rather than helicopter.

2) What made you decide to enter this contest?

The first contest I ever entered was the previous that used the image of the swing and the moon. I had fun with it, enjoyed the brevity and challenge of telling a story in less that 2500 words. The incongruity of the two images in this recent one were a challenge to put together. But after contemplating them for several weeks, I had the idea. I had fun writing this, thought it was a good story, so I thought I would try again. I’m happy I did.

3) Who are some of your favourite authors and why?

Henry Miller for his writing style.

Ernest Hemingway for his writing style, his stories, and his characters.

Jack Kerouac because of his rapid fire free form use of language.

Marc Levy for his gentle, sometimes surrealistic stories.

Nina George for her delightful stories set mostly in Paris, my most favorite city.

Ann Hillerman for continuing her father’s legacy of stories about the Navajo peoples and the area where I live.

Kerry Greenwood for her “Miss Fisher” series, on which I am totally hooked.

4) What is your favourite book you read this year and why?

Somewhere in France by Jennifer Robson. It was an entrancing book well written book set in WW I. The main character is a woman who becomes an ambulance driver in France and tells of the hardship, the carnage, and love during this dreadful time.

5) What is your best piece of advice for all the new independent authors out there?

Keep on writing and don’t pay attention to the critics, either inner or outer. Find your own voice whether poetry or prose. Start a blog or whatever, but get your work out there. Tell your stories. Write.

#The Anchor #Ed Lehner #Short Story Contest #Contest Winner #Second Place #supportindieauthors #You Tell Us Volume 2

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supportforindieauthors · 4 years

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The Anchor by Ed Lehner

“Billie, set some damned anchors,” I yelled up at her. She was high up on the near vertical granite wall, much too far above her last rope anchors for the belay rope which I was holding tightly and anxiously with my leather gloved hands.

* * *

Billie and I had taken rented canoes to the far end of a lake in a rugged mountainous area of Montana to do some rock climbing. We could have gotten by with one but, she being the independent woman she was, had to paddle her own. She was always determined to make her own way. I had learned over the eight months we had been together to stay out of her way when she was determined to do something.

She had heard of this place from a customer at REI in Salt Lake where we both worked. After an early start, it had taken us the better part of the first day of our five days off to drive up here, and paddle across the lake to the landing site by the place we wanted to climb. The alternative would be to have a helicopter take us in, but that was way beyond our budget.

We off loaded and carried what we could to where we would set up camp. There were six other climbers already there, probably choppered in since we saw no other water craft. We exchanged pleasantries with them and found a spot to set our tent. We went back to the canoes and got out the cooler with food and beer for the next three days.

* * *

I had grown up outside of Santa Fe where I roamed the desert areas from almost as soon as I could walk. I was turned on to rock climbing by one of my friends in high school and was quickly hooked. I earned a degree in education with a minor in literature at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque. My goal to be a high school teacher so I would have summers off to play in the desert and rock climb. After graduation, I got a job teaching in Los Lunas, resigning after two years, being disillusioned with the educational system and not quite ready to grow up. I took a road trip that summer exploring and climbing in Colorado and Utah, eventually ending up, out of money, in Salt Lake City. My outdoor experience got me a job at REI where I met Billie.

We got to know each other and became climbing buddies on our days off. We became close friends, then lovers. She was beautiful with her close cropped dark hair, high cheekbones, finely featured face and soft hazel eyes. She was long, lithe, and an excellent rock climber with long strong arms and legs. She was like watching a spider when she climbed. Her climbing was as beautiful to watch as she was beautiful.

* * *

It was more and more frightening watching her do this pitch. She was now way above where she should have already set several anchors for the belay rope. Right now she was free climbing. Even though she was wearing a harness, it would do her no good if she fell. She looked in complete control, but, this was not a mapped line where she was. Two of the other climbers joined me.

“Geez Man,” one said, “she needs to set some anchors.” She’s way beyond her last one.”

“Yeah, I’ve been telling her,” I said, trying not to show the panic I was feeling.

* * *

Billie was raised in Boulder, Colorado along with a younger sister and an older brother. Her parents were both rock climbers and mountaineers and had all three of his children out in the mountains at an early age. Billie took to the mountains like a duck to water, she couldn’t get enough. By the time she was in high school she already had a name for herself amongst the climbers in and around the Boulder area.

She earned a certificate in Outdoor Recreation Leadership at Colorado Mountain College in Leadville, Colorado. After that she worked at the National Outdoor Leadership School out of Lander, Wyoming for a year, working with young adults. For whatever reason, she left NOLS, moved to Salt Lake and started working for REI.

She was one of the toughest women I had ever met. Her mornings before work were at a nearby cross fit center. I would join her a few times a week and she always showed me up with her strength and stamina. She thought nothing of a ten run mile at five in the morning. Her goal, by her thirtieth birthday, was to solo Everest. She was now twenty-three. I had no doubts she could and would, somehow, manage to do it. At this moment, I was wondering if she would live that long.

* * *

“Billie, dammit, set some damned anchors. You’re scaring me,” I screamed up to her.

She yelled back down to me, “Shut up Ryan. I’ve got this. You’re making me nervous.” She reached for her next handhold. Then she stretched out her leg at an impossible angle, found purchase with her toes and swung her body another two feet upward, two feet closer to the top or, possible disaster. She had maybe ten or fifteen more feet to the summit. She now had to be over sixty feet high, her last belay anchors set maybe thirty or thirty-five feet lower.

Another climber had joined us. “Wow, she’s amazing. That’s a really difficult route, gotta be in the 5.12 to 5.15 range. She’s gotta be one of the best climbers I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah, she’s good alright but I wish to hell she’d set herself some anchors.”

“Oh crap! Yeah! Oh my god, yeah, she hasn’t. That’s no place to be free climbing. That’s a dangerous wall.”

More panic was building in my chest. My stomach was churning. I took some deep breaths. I wanted to do something, but was helpless. It was up to her. Dammit, Billie set some dammed anchors. I was wishing her to do something. Anything.

Two more of the climbers had gathered around me, watching, not saying anything. Just when it looked like she had it made, she reached her right hand up with those long arms, feeling around for a handhold, finding it . . . I could almost see her staring in disbelief as I watched her fall, like in

slow motion, useless rope coiling in the air above her. She didn’t scream but I saw the look of terror in face, even from so far away, as she clawed to find purchase, but found only air.

* * *

Billie and I were lovers, mostly on her terms. I was enamored with her. I really didn’t know about love or what it was, I only knew I wanted to be with her. I enjoyed her energy, her enthusiasm for life, and the great wild abandoned sex.

I wanted to wanted to move in together, but she said she needed her space. I made the point that she was either at my place or I was at hers every night. Her answer was she didn’t want to commit to anything, she didn’t know much longer she was going to be in Salt Lake, she didn’t want to be tied down, she wanted her freedom; NOLS was asking her to come back; she was considering maybe applying for a position at Outward Bound and several other outdoor schools. All she talked about were all the opportunities she could have here or there or somewhere else.

All our conversations were either in undertones or overtones, neither of us ever getting said what needed to be said. She would ignore my gestures of love. She was a free spirit. It was becoming clear that I was but a momentary blip on her radar. It hurt, but maybe that was my attraction to her, her remoteness to love and commitment, her focused drive to achieve her goals. Maybe I wanted to be like her and hoped what she had in her singularity and focus would rub off on me. In many ways I was jealous of her.

* * *

The group around me gave an auditory gasp as they saw her plunging to the rocks below. Somehow, her rope, coiling wildly above her, snagged an outcropping of rock after she had plummeted about twenty feet. I braced myself and two other guys, seeing the same thing, quickly grabbed ahold of me and braced themselves. The slack was snapped up a moment later, almost pulling all three of us off our feet, as we watched her fall instantly stopped. The rope had held on the outcropping. Her athleticism showed as she immediately righted herself and had her feet towards the wall to stop her as she swung towards it.

“God, I hope she’s okay. That was really a hard stop,” somebody muttered.

“Better than the alternative,” said another. We all were watching, now with our mouths open like gaping fools, at what we had just witnessed. Nobody said anything. Every one of was hardly breathing. We saw her moving and grabbing purchase on the rock. Her next move was to grab an anchor off her belt and wedge it in to a crack and tie off. She set yet another anchor and was now doubly secured, then she set a third. Stabilized, she sat there in her harness. I could see her breathing hard, wiping her eyes.

She called down in a shaky voice, “I need to check the rope and make sure it’s okay.” She found the downside of the rope and did a quick loop hitch in her harness to secure it and then untied it from her harness and pulled it over the out cropping letting the loose end fall. She then pulled it back up and carefully examined it. “It’s pretty frayed. I’m going to cut it and get rid of it,” she called down.

We watched her as she found her knife and cut the frayed part off, letting it drop. She retied the rope to her harness and threaded it through her anchors. “I’m ready to come down now. With the rope safely in her anchors, I could now belay her down.

Minutes later she was on the ground and collapsed. I was first to reach her. She was on her hands and knees, crying, shaking, retching. I took her in my arms and held her for a long time until she slowly regained her composure.

The first thing she said was, “How could I be so stupid? I’m sorry, so sorry. I was in a zone. I didn’t want to stop. Just wanted to keep going. I thought I had it. I know better. It was a stupid, stupid, stupid asinine thing to do. I would’ve died if that rope didn’t catch. Just hold me for a minute. I want to feel alive. I just want to feel alive . . .”

Always in control, I had never seen her so vulnerable, like a child with a badly skinned knee. I held her, gently but firmly, feeling a lump rise in my throat and tears of relief form in my own eyes. She finally stopped shaking. Then she just went limp and let me hold her.

“Okay, I think I need a beer,” she muttered. “I need more than one plus a tequila shot or two,” I said. “You brought tequila?” That was the last thing she said. I put away our gear while she slowly sipped on a beer. I prepped some food and we ate. One of the other campers came over and asked if we wanted to join them. I looked at Billie who was now staring off with vacant eyes at the granite wall that almost took her life, and said thanks, but I think we’ll pass. He nodded his head, said good night, and left.

She said flatly, “I’d like to get out of here tomorrow. I’m finished,” She said no more.

“Understood. We can pack up and head back early then.” She said nothing more, never looking at me. We crawled into the tent and sleeping bags. She turned away from me and feigned sleep.

Her night was fitful. She woke me several times calling out, “No! No! I can’t. No! I don’t want to die. I want to be alive. I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry Daddy. I don’t want to. Mommy, Mommy, I’m scared.”

We were up at dawn. She helped pack up like a robot or a zombie, with mechanical like movements and no words. Gear and supplies loaded in the canoes, we heading back across the lake. There was a blankness about her, she was empty, her eyes were vacant, like all energy, like her very soul had been drained from her, like there was nothing left.

When we landed, she went to the van and sat still staring, maybe in her mind at that granite wall. I returned the canoes to the rental place, loaded our gear in my van, and headed down the deserted highway bordered by foreboding dark hills. She had lost herself. And I was losing myself as I wondered for her survival and my love for her. We drove on into a gathering storm of thunder and lightening where her dreams would never be the same.

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#Short Story Contest #Contest Winner #2nd Place #The Anchor #Ed Lehner #supportindieauthors

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supportforindieauthors · 4 years

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Into Darkness by Scott Prill

“Are you coming, Nate?” The woman looked tired and frustrated. “They would really want to see you.”

“I’ll be in. You don’t need to wait for me.” Nate did not look up as he spoke from his seat in the lobby.

“Okay. Please come soon.” The woman disappeared down the hallway.

Nate watched her until she was no longer in view. He had no intention of going into that room. He longed for something better than this present circumstance: something more optimistic, less tragic, with a good ending. That was not possible now.

His gaze turned to a pile of magazines on the round table in front of him. Outdoor Adventure was the first magazine that caught his eye. He picked it up and casually thumbed through several pages. On page seventy-seven he stopped and stared.

The scene before him immediately captivated his thoughts. The page featured an advertisement for a vacation package at an idyllic lake somewhere far away. The advertised image carried him to a place back in time and close to his heart.

He remembered fishing with his grandfather and grandmother on Little Bear Lake, a lake associated with a chain of lakes in northern Minnesota. We would go up to the lake every summer, always the fourth week of July. It was just the three of us. Those were the best vacations. Then there was that one day that I will always remember.

Nate closed his eyes and journeyed back to his past.

“You need to add another layer, Nate,” Grandma Belle said.

“But I will be too hot, Grandma.”

“You can always take that layer off, but you can’t put it on if you don’t have it.”

“Listen to your grandmother, Nate. She has been around a long, long, long time, and with all that experience, she knows what is best for you,” Grandpa Bill added with a wink.

“Don’t listen to him about such nonsense. Your grandpa is older than me. He told me he was friends with Teddy Roosevelt.”

Bill laughed and said, “I do know where the best fishing holes are. Teddy told me.”

I glanced at my grandfather’s clothing. He wore only a loose-fitting long sleeve flannel shirt, no undershirt or jacket. My grandmother wore at least three layers, including a jacket. Both my grandparents looked younger than their sixty-five years.

“You didn’t even bring a coat, Grandpa.”

“I’m old and too tough for the germs to get me. You, however, are right on their menu. Besides, you never know when a storm can blow up. That jacket will be just fine and keep you dry. Any rain will bounce off of me.”

“But there is not a cloud in the sky.”

“For now. The sky is so blue, just like your grandmother’s eyes.”

“Bill, you know my eyes are hazel.” Grandma chuckled.

I loved the way the two of them would banter back and forth. It was almost like two school friends, who had been married for over forty years.

After I accepted the fact that my jacket was coming with us, we stepped into the old wooden rowboat that was tied to a small dock. I untied the rope that held us to the dock and soon we were heading out into the lake. I sat in the front scouting for fish. Grandma sat in the back fiddling with the fishing poles, and Grandpa manned the oars from the middle bench.

We usually aimed for a place on the lake that was to the left of the cabin and in front a wall of evergreen trees that lined the shore. About four hundred yards out from the cabin, we dropped an anchor at one of our favorite fishing spots. I also

suspected Grandpa didn’t want to row any farther. Here, we were in a bay protected from the north wind. The water was about twenty feet deep from the surface to bottom.

When the surface of the bay was quiet, you could see down to a depth of ten feet. If the wind picked up, waves on the lake would diminish the clarity. Today, the surface was still. I thought I saw a fish swim under the boat. That had to be a musky! Looking back, it was more likely a carp or other type of rough fish.

The beginning of any fishing excursion was always exciting. We knew the fish were there and soon our stringer would be full. At least, that was what we hoped. Bass, walleye, northern pike, perch – perhaps a bluegill – it didn’t matter. And if we were really good, or lucky, maybe that musky would find its way into our boat.

“Get your poles ready, Nate. The fish are hungry, and I am hungry to catch them.” Grandpa said with a smile partially hidden by the shade of his broad rimmed safari hat.

We each used two rods: one was for casting out away from the boat, the other for still fishing off of the side. We used live bait: night crawlers, leeches, and minnows placed gently onto plain hooks or on a lure. I didn’t like to bait my hooks – the worms were slimy, the leeches tended to suck on your skin if you waited too long, and I never could place the squirming minnow on the hook correctly. But with the wise coaching from my grandparents, I learned. Otherwise, it would be a long day on the water.

“Nate, what are you using today? Grandma Belle asked.

“Minnow off the side and night crawler to cast with,” I replied.

“What, no leech?” Grandpa raised his eyebrows and smiled his soft smile.

“Maybe later, we will see how it goes,” I knew I was being teased.

My grandparents were masters at managing two fishing poles; I not so much. It seemed I would get a bite on the minnow line at the same time I got a strike with

my night crawler attached to a feathery lure. The result was no fish hooked on either line.

On that one day, I was having no luck. My grandparents were doing well, as usual. They caught five walleye, one northern pike, and several jumbo perch.

“Boy, I’m a terrible fisherman.”

After reeling in another walleye, my grandmother said softly, “Nonsense. Let me see your casting line. Let’s try something new.”

I handed my pole to my grandfather who in turn handed it to her. She did something with the bait, and my pole was handed back to me. It must have been magic. My first cast yielded nothing. Then on my second cast, the water exploded as a fish leaped at least a foot out of the water in front of me. The pole almost jerked out of my hands.

“I got one!” I yelled as I recovered from the initial shock.

The pole bent in the shape of a “U” as the fish fought mightily to escape. The taut line veered under the boat and then in a straight line out away from the boat. I thought I would lose the fish and pole at that instant.

“Easy Nate, you have to play him.” My grandfather scooted up next to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Let him go a bit, and then reel him in a bit. If you play with him, he will tire and you can bring him to the boat.”

I listened to my grandfather, and after a half an hour I brought the fish to the boat. I didn’t know who was more tired – the fish or me. Grandma Belle brought the net under the fish and with my grandfather’s help they heaved the netted fish into the boat.

“My, you have caught a beauty, Nate.” My grandmother’s eyes sparkled like the water.

“Let’s see here.” Grandpa took the hook out of the fish’s mouth. He reached into his worn tackle box and pulled out a small scale. He attached the hook-like part of the scale and held up the fish. “It says six pounds and two ounces. That’s huge!”

“What is it, Grandpa, Grandma?”

Grandpa gazed at the fish and announced, “You caught a largemouth bass. Biggest one I have ever seen.”

“We’re so proud of you, Nate. See what perseverance can do. Stick with what you are doing, and the reward will be so worth it.” Grandma Belle was right, as she usually was.

“But you set the bait, Grandma. This is just as much your fish as it is mine.”

“No, Nate, I did not do anything to the bait, except to tell it to catch you a fish. This fish is all yours.”

We were all beaming with smiles as Grandpa placed the bass on a stringer with the other fish. I’ll bet the bass was not happy, though, having been caught, and by a kid.

An hour later, the wind blew up and the lake’s surface became choppy.

“I feel a storm is coming.” Grandpa checked the sky off to the southwest as black clouds massed against the blue sky. “It’s time to head in.”

We rowed the boat in and tied it to the dock. The fish we caught were placed gently in a large cooler full of ice that Grandpa kept in the car.

“What will happen to my bass?” I asked as we loaded our gear into the car to leave the lake.

“This is a special fish – so something special, just like you. You’ll see.” Grandma Belle said.

The storm hit after we had left the lake. The area was pounded with rain, hail, and high winds. I was glad to be safe with my grandparents.

The rest of summer and fall flew by. Winter arrived along with the anticipation a boy has for Christmas. That particular Christmas, my family went to Grandpa Bill’s

and Grandma Belle’s house, a place of fond memories. When it came time to open presents, Grandpa brought out a wrapped box that was heavy.

“Here’s something for you, Nate.”

A note attached to the box read, Nate, to remember our special time together, Grandpa Bill and Grandma Belle.

When I opened the box I saw the bass. It had been mounted on a dark wood board. The taxidermy was so well done that the bass looked like it had just been pulled from the water. An inscription engraved in a brass plaque underneath the fish read, Largemouth Bass, Six pounds, Two ounces, Little Bear Lake, Caught by Nate Sundlund, July 25, 2000.

Looking back, that was one of the happiest experiences of my life. I had caught a trophy fish and with two of my favorite people. I wish those times could have lasted forever.

Nate opened his eyes and smiled as he closed the magazine. He placed it on the table and noticed another magazine off to the side. He looked at it and winced at the title – Alzheimer’s Digest. Nate put his hand on it and then after a moment, picked it up reluctantly.

He knew about the disease, what it could do to the affected person and those around that person. But that knowledge did not help his current situation. He glanced at several pages not focusing on anything in particular. Nate turned to a page with a poem. The poem was titled, “Ode to Alzheimer’s.” The author was anonymous. It read:

The day began bright and new Clear water in the lake, Open eyes by sunlight dazzled Warmth felt across the land.

In the meadows daisies spreading Like knowledge expanding, Boundaries without limits Extending beyond the grasp.

Spider webs fill dim passageways Dust stains on the crystal, Nightmares for the days approaching See changes of the guard.

Sun’s eclipse blackens the twilight Flowers chocked out by weeds, Reflections with minds of their own Turbid creeks swirl with rage.

Thoughts in the abyss forever drowned Empty eyes wander lost, Caged beings starved for purpose Crippled minds beg to speak.

The Fool Confusion reigns as god Time has lost its way, Shuffling down the endless corridor To where light beckons.

To see this darkness of the mind Is to know it is so unkind. It is to hope we cling Someday a cure will bring.

With strength, we will prevail.

Nate finished the poem and read it again. The words spoke directly and forcefully to him. He gently tore the page with the poem from the magazine, carefully folded it, and placed inside his coat pocket. He gazed through the window at a dark storm aggressively mushrooming in the southwest skies. Just like at the lake that one year, he thought. Rumbles of thunder gave notice of the advancing tempest.

Nate knew what he had to do and stood up. He walked down the corridor and stopped outside Room #C222. To see this darkness of the mind/Is to know it is so unkind/ It is to hope we cling/Someday a cure will bring/With strength, we will prevail. The words gave him courage with a purpose, and he finally stepped into the room.

Grandpa Bill sat in one of those uncomfortable looking chairs opposite Grandma Belle. Nate’s mother stood off to the side of the bed. When she saw Nate, her eyes glistened with sorrow and pride.

Grandmother Belle was curled up into a fetal position in the small hospital bed. She appeared tiny with little resemblance to the kind, witty and exceptional grandmother whom Nate had known for so many years. A dynamic woman who enjoyed life, her eyes were now hollow and her mouth formed the shape of an “O.” She could see, but what she saw – no one knew. What she was thinking – one couldn’t guess. What would she say, if she could speak?

Nate felt a brief tremor of terror. This was a painful brush with mortality and he was not prepared to deal with it. He thought about himself for an instant. God, I don’t want to end like this. He felt selfish for thinking such a thought.

He looked at his grandmother. This is not how it was supposed to end for her, for them. His grandfather was holding her hand. They always held hands when they took a walk. Now they held hands again, maybe for the final time.

Nate put his hand in his pocket and grasped the page containing the poem. It gave him comfort. He pulled up a chair beside his grandfather and sat beside him. He put his arm on his grandfather’s shoulder.

“Grandpa – I know where Grandma is. She is fishing on Little Bear Lake for that king walleye, telling me to put my jacket on, and rolling her eyes at your bad jokes.”

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supportforindieauthors · 4 years

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New Release by Samuel Marquis

Soldiers of Freedom

Now Available

“There is only one reason to be a historical fiction writer, and that’s to write great stories that resonate, are historically accurate, and stand the test of time. Unless you’re a mega-bestselling author, there is certainly no reason to do it for the money. Telling compelling stories, then, is the sole justifiable reason to write novels that meets every litmus test. If you’re doing it for any other reason, you’re in the wrong business. It’s about the art of great storytelling and nothing else.” - Samuel Marquis

The following is from Samuel Marquis’ blog which can be found here!

If you like WWII history and want to learn something new about the war, check out my new book “Soldiers of Freedom”—the true story of the 1944-1945 War in Western Europe and the final Allied struggle to conquer Nazi Germany. Fans of Beneath A Scarlet Sky, Spearhead, and the WWII novels of Ken Follett (Winter of the World, Jackdaws, Eye of the Needle) will enjoy the real-life heroism of the 761st Black Panthers and legendary Patton to liberate Europe, and the Edelweiss Pirates to combat Nazism, in this historically accurate tale of the final epic struggle in WWII Western Europe. Available now: https://amzn.to/3arqbso

The story is told through the eyes of William McBurney, a tank gunner in the 761st Tank Battalion, the first African-American tank unit in U.S. history; dynamic General George S. Patton, Jr., commander of the U.S. Third Army; and Angela Lange, a sixteen-year-old German resistance fighter with the anti-Nazi Edelweiss Pirates in Cologne. See full detailed description below.

SOLDIERS OF FREEDOM is the true story of the 1944-1945 War in Western Europe and the final Allied struggle to conquer Nazi Germany. The story is told through the eyes of William McBurney, a tank gunner in the 761st Tank Battalion, the first African-American tank unit in U.S. history; dynamic General George S. Patton, Jr., commander of the U.S. Third Army; and Angela Lange, a sixteen-year-old German resistance fighter with the anti-Nazi Edelweiss Pirates in Cologne. While Patton’s forces liberate France and Belgium, fight in the grueling Battle of the Bulge, and cross the Rhine to conquer Germany, U.S. tanker William McBurney and his Black Panthers must fight two wars at once: one against the German army, the other against the racism of their fellow white soldiers. Meanwhile, as the Allies drive into Germany, Edelweiss Pirate Angela Lange must survive the Allied bombing of Cologne while she engages in fierce resistance against the Hitler Youth and Nazis and is hunted down by the Gestapo. The real-life heroism of the 761st Black Panthers and legendary “Old Blood and Guts” Patton to liberate Europe, and the Edelweiss Pirates to combat Nazism, are brought to life in this historically accurate tale of the final epic struggle in WWII Western Europe.

#Samuel Marquis #Soldiers of Freedom #Sponsor #New Release #Historical Fiction #Military Thriller

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supportforindieauthors · 4 years

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Interview with EA Turley

1) Can you tell us a little about the inspiration behind your entry for this contest?

‘The Last Hurrah’ was about the love a little boy has for his Grandpa, enough to break him out of his care home and help him fulfill his dream.

2) What made you decide to enter this contest?

Because it was fun. I believe you need to have fun with what you write for it to have any inspiration to yourself and others.

3) Who are some of your favourite authors and why?

I write Paranormal fantasies so a lot of my favourites are also fantasy writers. Linsey Hall is a big fav along with CN Crawford but I’m also particular to Lexi Blake and J Kenner’s books.

4) What is your favourite book you read this year and why?

That would have to be ‘Long Lost (Masters and Mercenaries: The Forgotten, #4)’ by Lexi Blake. This set is all about a group of men that have been taken from their everyday lives and had their minds wiped by a developmental drug. Their fight back to reclaim their identities puts their lives in danger as they discover things about themselves some of them would rather have forgotten for good. The entire set has been brilliantly written in my opinion and deserves a standing O for Ms Blake!

5) What is your best piece of advice for all the new independent authors out there?

Don’t give up. It takes ages to finish a book and, even then, you won’t get it right on your first attempt. If you need help then the Authors forums at Goodreads.com are a good place to talk to other writers who can offer the benefit of their advice.

#The Last Hurrah #EA Turley #Short Story Contest #Short Story Contest Winner #Interview #supportindieauthors

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supportforindieauthors · 4 years

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Interview with Jesse Contente

1) Can you tell us a little about the inspiration behind your entry for this contest?

As inspiration goes, I was really drawn by the picture used for the story. I wanted to do something out of the box that one might not think of. I also prefer to write more dark stories.

2) What made you decide to enter this contest?

I entered the contest purely for fun. I love being apart of competitions no matter how big or small where I get the chance to share what I have and hopefully win.

3) Who are some of your favourite authors and why?

I love the work and philosophy of Albert Camus. He takes both a very different and realistic view with his writing that I always felt I resonated with.

4) What is your favourite book you read this year and why?

You know it’s funny, as much as I enjoy writing I actually don’t read many books. The last book I really read through was actually 3 years ago high school. I believe it was Animal Farm by George Orwell. Fantastic book by the way that takes a scary and real look on society.

5) What is your best piece of advice for all the new independent authors out there?

The best advice I can offer to any author out there is this: always be open to learning new forms of writing because you never know where you can get inspiration and growth from. However, always value your own unique way of writing since that it what sets you apart. My short story actually received quite a lot of reviews when I had my family go over it, but I decided to make very few edits and what do you know I got second place. So don’t doubt yourself or your talent.

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supportforindieauthors · 4 years

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The Last Hurrah by EA Turley

Tanner walked in through the Perspex glass doors that never seemed to be unguarded. There was always someone keeping an eye on who came in.

Trying to keep the residents in, more like!

He turned to the rest of his family. “Mum, Dad, why can’t we take Grandpa out for the day somewhere to cheer him up?” It would depress him too if he were exiled to live in a place like this! No friends. No music. Not even any television.

Mum sighed. “You know why we can’t, Tanner. Grandpa isn’t well. He doesn’t have the strength to go anywhere,” she said kindly, tears beginning to shimmer in her eyes. She dissolved into tears at the mere mention of Grandpa’s name these days.

His dad wrapped an arm around her shoulders, giving her a comforting squeeze.

“Come on, Ellie, we’ll get through this, just like we always do.”

She nodded, and the couple set off toward the Visitors Book that they always had to sign.

An elbow jabbed him roughly in the side.

“Stop trying to upset Mum, ass-wipe!” his older brother, Callum, hissed in his ear. “You always do this, and its gotta stop!”

Tanner rounded on him. “Yeah, well, I don’t expect its any fun for Grandpa being in this miserable place either! What about him?” He jabbed a finger towards his brother.

Callum stepped back in surprise. He hadn’t expected the fury in Tanner’s words. Truth be known, he hadn’t expected him to say anything at all, just nod and apologise.

Tanner set off down the sterile white corridor, wrinkling his nose. He didn’t know how his grandpa could stand to live in here. The over-riding stench of disinfectant and death was already crawling up his nose. But then, he supposed he didn’t have much choice.

He reached his grandpa’s door and knocked softly on it.

“Come in, come in,” a deep voice called out.

Tanner pushed the door open in a hurry to get to his favourite grandparent of them all.

“Grandpa!” he cried in excitement, running over to the bed where an elderly man lay fully clothed.

“Tanner, my boy! Welcome, welcome! Come here and let me see how much you’ve grown in the last week then,” Grandpa’s deep voice rang out.

Tanner bounced up onto the bed beside him and flexed his muscles to show how much bigger they’d gotten. Grandpa squeezed each arm’s muscle and gave a satisfied nod.

“Your muscles have grown since the last time you were here. You’ve been exercising hard like I told you, haven’t you?”

“Of course, Grandpa! It ached for a while, but I’ve got used to doing the routines now.”

“What routines?” Callum asked, coming through the door.

“None of your business!”

“Nothing will do you any good, though, ass-wipe. You’ll still be the same weedy squirt you always are.”

“That’s no way to talk to your brother, Callum!”

“Sorry, Grandpa, but you should see the way he’s been upsetting Mum?”

“Your mother? What’s she got to be so upset about?” Grandpa scoffed. “I’m the one who’s stuck in here, after all?”

“But she started crying and everything?”

“Oh, your mother breaks down in tears at the slightest thing! Always has, always will!” Grandpa waved it off with a dismissive hand. “You think I like being sent off to live in this cesspit without any of my friends and family around me? I can’t even go out for days to visit people. The guards won’t let me.”

“Guards?” Callum asked blankly.

“Well, what would you call them, boy? The definition of a guard is a person who stands sentry duty at the door to prevent anyone from coming in or going out without permission. That’s what they do.” Grandpa wheezed and began to cough.

Callum fell silent, shamed into really thinking about his grandpa’s situation for the first time.

Tanner slid off the bed and poured his grandpa a glass of water, handing it to him to take a sip.

“Oh, what’s the matter with you now?” his mother wailed, entering the room with his dad. She ran across to the bed and began thumping on her father’s back to try and help him stop coughing.

“Ellie! Calm yourself down!” Grandpa berated her sharply. “Can’t a man have a cough without you flying into a tizzy about it? Your high emotions were how I ended up in this hellhole in the first place!”

“Now, Jacob, don’t start yelling at Ellie? She’s only worried about you,” Tanner’s father scolded mildly.

“If she were that worried about me, she wouldn’t have left me in here now, would she?” Grandpa retorted pompously. “All I wanted was to be left in my own home with all my friends around me, but no! She decided I wasn’t allowed to be on my own any more and booked me into this crapper! So, don’t tell me she’s worried about me, please, Peter? If she were, she’d be looking after me herself!”

Ellie dissolved into tears again and sank onto one of the armchairs in the room.

Tanner’s father, Peter, moved over to stand by her side, and laid an arm over her shoulder, patting it.

“Come on, Grandpa!” Tanner bounced on the balls of his feet. “Let’s go for a walk! You like fresh air.”

“Oh, goodness, yes! There’s nothing but stale, recycled air, and disinfectant in here. Not to mention the stench of death all over the place!” Grandpa Jacob said, looking disgustedly around him. He swung his long legs down to the ground and reached back for his walking cane. “Come on then, boy. Let’s make like a check and bounce!” He sniggered.

Together, they strolled out of the sterile room and down the corridor, Grandpa resting one hand on Tanner’s shoulder as he moved with his cane. The older man sighed.

“I hate it in here, Tanner,” he said quietly. “If I could leave, I would. It’s like a prison with all the guards keeping the inmates in.”

“So why don’t you then?” Tanner asked curiously. “It’s not like you don’t still have your house and haven’t got anywhere to go, after all? You have your pension and savings to support you, and you know that I’ll help look after you.”

Grandpa eyed Tanner indecisively. “Would you?”

“Of course, in fact, let’s break you out tonight and go and do something?”

Grandpa sighed. “Do you know what I really want to do? Something I’ve been dreaming about for years. Go back to my childhood home.”

“Okay. I’ll be back tonight then after everyone’s gone to sleep. If I drive Mum’s old car, they won’t even notice it’s gone, and we’ll go visit it.”

“If I pack up my things, we can take them out with us and drop them off at my place on the way.” Grandpa bent down to whisper in Tanner’s ear. “Bust me outta here, boy! I’ve made up my mind. I’m going home.”

“I’ll do my very best, Grandpa!” Tanner promised fervently.

Tanner huddled under his blankets, listening to all the sounds of the house. As soon as he thought everyone was asleep, he threw them off and swung his legs out of bed to stand up fully clothed and ready to go.

Quickly, he stuffed a couple of pillows in the bed, making them look like it was him still laying there. He slid his window up and climbed out as quiet as a mouse, dragging his rucksack after him.

He tip-toed down the path to the road and opened his mum’s car with the keys that he’d snagged off the hook in the kitchen earlier. Shoving his rucksack over the seat, he shut the door as quietly as possible.

He tried to start the engine twice, but it didn’t catch, luckily, the third time it did, and he was off.

It took Tanner a while to arrive at the Care Home, but he got there without any problems. He parked up outside the grounds and crept around the hedges onto the gravel driveway. He scooted across the driveway to sneak around the corner of the building. He stopped to stare in astonishment.

Oh, no! All the windows looked the same. Which one was Grandpa’s room?

He began to move stealthily down the side of the building, and almost giggled when he saw it.

Grandpa had secured a sheet under his window sill and written the words ‘It’s this one!’ on it.

Tanner listened at the window, just in case anyone else was in the room, and tapped softly on the glass. He waited and tapped again.

Drab beige curtains flew back. The window slid open, and a rucksack tumbled out, a suitcase quickly following it.

“Oof!” Tanner muttered quietly. “You coulda warned me, Grandpa?”

“No time for warnings, boy,” Grandpa Jacob whispered, climbing out of the window carrying his walking stick. “Come on, let’s blow this popsicle joint before they make another room check!”

Tanner picked up the suitcase to carry, but Grandpa Jacob took it away from him.

“You carry the rucksack, boy. If I can’t carry my own suitcase, then I shouldn’t be going home.” He winked. “And I’m not ready for the knackers yard yet!”

They snuck out of the Care Home grounds as quietly as thieves in the night. Reaching the car, Tanner slid the case and rucksack onto the backseat while Grandpa Jacob slid into the driver’s seat.

“Come on, Tanner, we’re wasting good driving time,” Grandpa called, revving the engine as Tanner slipped into the passenger seat alongside his grandpa.

The car shot forward, jerking them both back in their seats with its reverse momentum.

“Oops! My bad. Let’s try that again, shall we? I haven’t done this for a while now.” Grandpa Jacob sniggered.

“Yes, please. Only this time without the bumps, Grandpa?”

“Hey? Cheeky?”

Tanner sighed. “Did you get all your stuff, Grandpa? Or do we need to go back and get anything?”

“Nope! I got it all right here.” Grandpa Jacob nodded over his shoulder at his case and rucksack on the backseat. He did a double-take. “Hey, why have you brought your rucksack along too?”

“Hmm. Oh. I brought a couple of packed lunches along for us. I made them earlier and hid them away with a couple of bottles of soda and some juice boxes. I know how much you hate the food in that place,” Tanner explained.

“Oh, nice one, boy!” Grandpa Jacob’s laughter rolled out of him, filling the car with its warm sound. “We’ll have some later. It’ll be better than that powdered stodge they fed us in that place.”

Tanner settled back in his seat and watched the world pass by as they drove onwards. He hadn’t seen his grandpa so happy for ages. It didn’t take long to drop off his suitcase and rucksack in his house, and they drove on towards Grandpa Jacob’s childhood home. The rumble of the engine and streetlights flashing by soon lulled Tanner to sleep and, before he knew it, Grandpa Jacob was shaking him awake.

“Wake up, Tanner. We’re here!”

“Hmm? Oh, right!” Tanner looked around him. The house they were parked outside of had a timeless elegance about it. A wrap-around porch that needed painting and antique doors completed the look as it sat in an overgrown garden.

“This is where I grew up, Tanner. I still own it, you know. I could never bring myself to sell this old place, it has too many memories for me.” Grandpa Jacob opened the door to swing his legs out and stand up. He breathed in deeply, taking a lungful of the freshest air he’d had in a long time. “Oh, yes. That’s good. Come on, boy, bring that rucksack of yours with you!” He strode off toward the house.

Tanner grinned, scrambling to fetch his backpack, and follow him.

As they reached the back yard, Tanner could see a massive tree standing to the side. It had a long rope hanging down from one of its boughs.

Grandpa Jacob sighed happily.

“There she is! Come on, boy, this way.” He led Tanner down the path to a medium-sized wooden shed. He unlocked the large, clunky padlock to pull open the wooden door as it squealed on its hinges.

“Give me a hand with the ladder, will you?” Together, they maneuvered a steel ladder awkwardly out of the shed to slowly set off down the path towards the tree. They propped it up against the side of the trunk of the tree and Grandpa Jacob hobbled over to gather the rope up in his hands. Giving a good yank on it to test that it was still strong enough, he hobbled back and began to climb the ladder with it.

Reaching the top, Grandpa Jacob gripped the end of the rope firmly in his hands, leant back as far as he could, and launched himself forward off the ladder.

“Woohooo! he yelled, his cry echoing in the starry moonlit sky. “Hehehe! Wheeee!”

Tanner laughed and clapped his hands in excitement. He watched his grandpa swinging backwards and forward like a monkey, loving every second of it.

Suddenly, all the strength in Grandpa Jacob’s arms gave out, and he tumbled to the ground, arms and legs flailing everywhere. He hit the ground with a thud that drove the breath hissing from him. He lay there unmoving, his arms and legs splayed out.

“Grandpa!” Tanner cried, rushing over to him in a panic. He knelt at his grandpa’s side, hardly able to breathe for fear that something terrible had happened. His breath whooshed out of him as Grandpa Jacob opened his eyes.

“Goddamn! That was fun! Let’s do it again!”

The End

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#EA Turley #The Last Hurrah #Short Story Contest #Contest Winner #supportindieauthors

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supportforindieauthors · 4 years

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Alive by Jesse Contente

It would happen any day now. The moon was so close and the oceans rose so high. Day was no longer just day but a handshake between the sun and the night. The horizon ceased to be the horizon as the rising sea swallowed the sky. As if a dome of water started forming, surrounding us around all sides. It was something you’d imagine from a fantasy tale but not at all from reality. Was it real? Was it just imagination? Perhaps God was punishing us or was it Mother Nature. However you tried to reason it, it didn’t change the circumstance. Inch by inch, foot by foot, mile by mile, the moon grew closer to us and it would not be stopped.

Millions were displaced as the rising salt waters ravaged homes and cliff sides. Like a stampede made of ocean. The valleys were drowned and swept away and if you really listened you could no longer hear the calls of the birds. Life along the borders of all nations vanished with the vast waves continuing inland. Animals scattered and all people were forced towards the center. Eventually and inevitably all the continents became islands and the population disintegrated. What little government was left collapsed as more structures were taken by the day. There was no contingency, no plan. Any possible preparation would be nonexistent and any relief program wouldn’t matter. Nature itself ceased to be a source of life and became only the bringer of death.

The moon would hit my town first. Point of impact. Slowly, as it would make its way deeper towards the Earth’s core it would rupture the layers of mantle, spewing magma in all direction and finally as the crust broke open and cracked against the intense pressure we would be undone, exploded and scattered across the infinite expanse of space. A civilization lost. Man with all his technologies and devices would not have the power to stop it. We would not have the power to flee. It was the end of the world. In no more or less of what it was, it was the end. Hope did not matter. Good will would not save us. With no options and nothing to be done, all one could truly do was watch and wait. But as mankind goes, even the apocalypse wouldn’t change how we were.

The end of the world was exactly what we knew it’d be. More or less. All forms of order and civility halted the more the bitter truth sunk in. Raids and riots. Pillaging and looting. Resources were gone in weeks. Was there any humanity? A shred, yes, but not enough. Order couldn’t exist so then all that was left was havoc. People desperate to survive is a dangerous thing. I understood why yet I couldn’t be apart of it. Did I want to die? No. Did I want to be in pain? Also no. But it wasn’t who I was to be violent. It wasn’t who I was to hurt people just to live. So, outside the chaos of those who were fighting to stay alive for what little time was left, I stayed home. I remained secluded in a place where I felt most safe and I waited. With my home being as far inland as one could go I would not be flooded. However, with the moons trajectory making me the target I would be the first point of contact. Bittersweet, it was a fate I accepted.

On the awaiting nights, I’d sit in my tree swing and lose myself in the cosmos. I felt guilty to think it but despite all the atrocity, it was beautiful. Like a new planet sharing our orbit. When the sun went down and the gigantic full jewel was the sole inhabitant of the sky, somehow the stars were brighter. She had gotten so close she pulled the sea water from the ground and formed a smooth veil around her surface. With the starlight shining around her, a luminescent blue glow blew up the atmosphere and became the new heavens. It was brilliant. It was absolutely impossible to feel anything but awe. Death, if it was even possible, didn’t exist in my mind. I didn’t feel worthy of it. Everything seemed so much smaller than they were before. I didn’t feel fear nor anguish. It just was pure tranquility. Yet, she grew closer and closer to me night by night. Like two old friends reconnecting. I knew the ending. I knew all that wonder wouldn’t save my life. But how could I feel anything negative in the presence of something so beautiful? Being alone, she became the one constant in my life and it wasn’t something I could turn away. I’d speak with her and reminisce about my family. My family that had already for years been long passed.

My daughter was 7 when she died. It wasn’t painful but it was quick. Too quick for a proper goodbye. Although any amount of time I could have had with her would be too small. After she was gone, after I came to terms, my wife was no longer the same. The pain that she was put in changed her. Anytime she’d look at me, she’d see her in my face. In my eyes. Looking back I imagine it was like reliving the pain over and over. She grew cold and distant. I tried. I really, truly tried to make sense of it and mend what we had left. Rebuild the relationship we previously had as a family. I loved who we were before and I yearned for it back. But when someone is in that much pain, no amount of talking or love will fix what they must fix themselves. I woke up one morning and found her in our bathroom lying in the shower, the water running heavy. There was a razor in her hand and a lot of red. Like our daughter she was just gone and I was left to deal with it. As much as it seemed fair I couldn’t call her selfish, but somehow I managed to hate her. Years went by and eventually the pain became a dull scar with the hate I felt turning to shame. Despite all I endured I couldn’t bring myself to move. It was still my home, or at least I chanted that to myself to cope. Maybe it was indeed best for me to leave but I’d have to be dragged by my hands and feet to do so. The house was all I remained passionate about. Everything else went numb and it stayed numb. An invisible limb severed from my soul. Until now.

A silver orb destined for our destruction continued further towards us and for once in what felt like a lifetime since their deaths, I felt something. I felt joy. My heart started beating like it had been ignited, like it would burst through my chest. I could barely catch my breath. No one could have told me that it would have taken this to make me feel again. That I would have found myself at the very end of my life. Even if someone screamed it at me I wouldn’t have believed it but the truth was blunt in my face. It was like some cruel joke from the universe. It shouldn’t have taken death to get me here. But how long would it have taken me? Would I ever have been myself again? Say the world wasn’t ending. Say I grew to an old age. Would I have been happy? I don’t believe I would have been. I think I would have stayed the same. So maybe in some twisted way the world needed to end. Not for everyone else. But just for me. So I suppose in the end I was the selfish one all along. It was time.

On the very last night of our existence I sat in our tree swing one final time and gazed up. Her craters looked so clear and she was so bright. My eyes could just scarcely adjust but when they did she looked like a shimmering white and silver scale wearing a blanket of blue. I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to feel pain. I didn’t want to keep hurting. I was broken and lost in my anguish and I had held myself accountable for so long. But I needed to leave in peace. I needed to die happy. Thus, in that moment as if the weight of existence flew off my shoulders, I let go. I let go of all the guilt, all the shame and gave in. She, the unyielding lunar divinity was my sole focus. I was ready.

As she finally neared my home only mere feet from the ground, I was lifted by her gravity and ascended towards her. I felt neither conscious nor human. Space and time itself fell flat around me. Everything else melted away to the void. And as the gap between her and the Earth closed with I in the center, I rested my eyes and whispered aloud softly in the way a mother would her child. In the way I did to my daughter.

“I’m coming home.”

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supportforindieauthors · 4 years

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Guest Blog: Seniors Returning to the Workforce Will Love These Job Ideas

Guest Post by Sharon Wagner

According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, seniors comprise the portion of the workforce that has seen the most rapid growth over the past few years. In other words, more individuals aged 65 and older are returning to work than ever before. While participation is higher for those closer to the traditional retirement age, growth is being seen across the board for seniors of all ages. Even those over the age of 75 are seeing an increased inclination to continue working while the participation rates of other age groups remain stagnant. Here are some viable positions which seniors can assume when returning to the workforce.

Insurance Agent

Although Medicare is designed to take care of the health necessities for retired individuals, many still report not having sufficient medical attention. Finding a position as an insurance agent is a great way for seniors to gain access to a wealth of health insurance options while still earning a great income. When searching for an open position in the industry, it’s advisable to conduct some research to determine which company is a good fit for seniors. Look online to find reviews of past employees, as well as a wealth of other insightful information. With one quick search, you’ll be met with plenty of results for any major insurance company in the industry.

Sales Representative

Working as a sales rep is a great option for seniors who enjoy interacting with people, who are highly motivated, and who don’t like working directly under someone. With this position, you’ll be able to set your own hours, call your own shots, and enjoy all the freedoms that come with being an independent worker.

Consultant

Companies throughout varying fields rely on consultants to help fill in any number of gaps that may be present on their staff. This necessity might derive from a lack of practical experience or from a shortage of specific expertise. Regardless, businesses are willing to pay handsomely for sound advice from a professional with decades of experience in a particular field. If you’re a senior who has worked for a majority of your adult life in one industry, you have the knowledge and credentials to land a job as a consultant. You could even ask around at work before you retire to see if anyone within your network knows of an available position, or you can make use of online job platforms like Upwork to find job listings. Many of these job boards have positions open in a variety of fields, including sales and marketing, customer service, accounting, and writing.

Part-Time Teacher

Seniors with a passion for education can share their gifts by working as a part-time or substitute teacher. These positions don’t require the same level of experience or a specific type of license that full-time teachers need to be considered qualified. You’ll have the flexibility to work as many or as few hours as you like each week and could even specify the age range you’d prefer to teach. Part-time teaching is a rewarding position which many seniors find fulfilling.

Many seniors decide to return to work despite their age for a number of reasons. Some seniors need extra financial security, whereas others simply want to give back to the community. Regardless of the motivation, seniors can rest assured that there are plenty of available positions for people with their experience and a well-rounded skill-set.

Sharon Wagner Seniorfriendly.info [email protected]

Photo Credit: Pixabay

#Guest Blog #Sharon Wagner #Seniors Returning to Workforce #Job ideas #supportindieauthors

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supportforindieauthors · 4 years

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Interview with Melanie Typaldos

1) Can you tell us a little about the inspiration behind your entry for this contest?

When I was a kid I loved to watch western movies and TV shows. Not because I liked the story or the action or the settings, but because I loved the horses. I knew the names of the horses each member of the Cartwrights rode on Bonanza. Silver and Trigger were my heroes. I dreamed every year of a pony appearing under the Christmas tree, munching on a bale of hay. So if Santa and Mrs. Claus met in the old west, it must have had something to do with horses (or ponies), What better way to start off the Christmas tradition than giving children their own ponies? Of course Martha would fall in love with a man who could be so generous and kind.

2) What made you decide to enter this contest?

I haven't written anything in a while, but the topic of the contest really inspired me. It's a juxtaposition of unique characters into an inappropriate setting. But then, who knows? I don't think the current Santa Claus mythology covers this topic.

3) Who are some of your favourite authors and why?

I'm a big fan of science fiction. My current favorite author is Jeff VanderMeer. He is not only a Nebula Award winning author, he also loves capybaras! I also love Ursula K. Le Guin for her characters and social commentary. China Mieville for introducing me to the New Weird genre. Alexander McCall Smith gives relaxing, uplifting stories about life in Botswana

4) What is your favourite book you read this year and why?

I am currently reading The Lion's Gaze by Maaza Mengiste, a novel about life in Ethiopia during the 1970s. I love the language and imagery of the novel. I also enjoy a book that teaches me something, in this case the history and culture of Ethiopia.

5) What is your best piece of advice for all the new independent authors out there?

I'm not sure I am qualified to give advice. I suppose what everyone says is the right thing probably is the right thing, namely read what you want to write. I'd add that you should think about what you are reading, the story, the characters, the language. Find what you like but don't just copy it, try to incorporate it into your own unique style.

6) What have you written?

I used to write a bi-weekly general interest column for a local newspaper. That is a great way to get yourself to do things you might not really want to. Also, you have to talk to strangers, a serious weak point for me. I have written and self-published two middle grade novels in the series Celeste the Cat: Celeste and the GIant Hamster and Celeste and the Adorable Kitten. Both are available on Amazon. I also had one short story published in Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine (yeah, that's a real thing) but that was several years ago. I have a blog about capybaras www.gianthamster.com. It's not really active anymore since I have vision loss.

#Martha and Nick: A Love Story #Melanie Typaldos #Short Story Contest #Contest Winner #Interview #First Place #supportindieauthors #Christmas Western

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supportforindieauthors · 4 years

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Interview with E.C. Marshall

1) Can you tell us a little about the inspiration behind your entry for this contest?

It occurred to me that an average person would find living with Santa at the North Pole boring and lonely. I didn’t want such an important character in the Santa myth to be bored or lonely, so I decided to make her self-directed, resilient, unconcerned with convention and slightly anti-social. I figured that a woman like that could find her own purpose and amusements, even at the North Pole.

2) What made you decide to enter this contest?

The honest answer is that it seemed like fun. I enjoy playing with myths and here were two biggies: the myth of the Wild West and the Santa myth. I wanted to see if I could fit them together in a way that was respectful but also had some meaning for people in the twenty-first century.

3) Who are some of your favourite authors and why?

Kathryn Davis – Because she also seems to love myths

Franz Kafka – Because he shows us the unreal without arousing our skepticism

Joseph Heller – Because he wrote Catch-22. I’m not impressed by any of his other books, but it doesn’t matter. Catch-22 is enough.

4) What is your favourite book you read this year and why?

Four Plays by Ibsen. This was the first time I’d read anything by Ibsen. I was amazed at how modern the plays sounded.

5) What is your best piece of advice for all the new independent authors out there?

Since I don’t feel qualified to give advice, I’ll offer encouragement instead. Please keep writing. Eventually you’ll have a chance to share it, there will be people who get it and you’ll have done your part to build our culture.

#E.C. Marshall #A Different Kettle of Fish #Contest Winner #Second Place #Interview

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supportforindieauthors · 4 years

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Martha and Nick: A Love Story by Melanie Typaldos

Martha pushed the doors to the saloon open with one hand while the other tugged at her bonnet, ripping it off her hair. It was two o’clock in the afternoon and the blazing sun had driven the cowboys into the waiting shade. The place was warm and stuffy, but the beer and the whiskey didn’t taste any worse for it.

She nodded to Jake behind the bar as she hung her hat and dust coat on the rack. With a few deft strokes she pushed the brown mass of her hair back into a bun. Jake slid her customary glass of water to her. She gulped it down, turning to count the bar’s dubious crowd. Bill, Leon, Karl, and Cap were at their usual table, beer mugs stationed in front of them, sticky playing cards shoved up against their faces so the others couldn’t see. Tammy was working the crowd, currently smoozing with Dusty whose hand had casually found its way to her waist. And Nick was pounding away on the piano.

Martha grimaced, but a customer was a customer. She grabbed a couple of beers and slid across the floor to the piano. “Whatcha playing, Nicky?” He didn’t look up, concentration focused – as much as he had of it anyway – on the keys.

“’Noon, Marth. Just somethin’ for the season.”

Wishing she had as little musical talent as Nick, Martha concentrated on the dissonance, trying to pick out something familiar. “Three Kings?”

Nick laughed, “Hell no! This here’s Town of Bethlehem. You ain’t got no ear at all.”

“Piano’s out of tune,” Martha said. True enough, but even on a perfectly tuned Steinway grand, this random series of notes wasn’t going to be Little Town of Bethlehem. “Here’s a beer.” Her whole body relaxed as Nick took his hands off the keys to take the drink. “Can’t really get used to winters here,” she added, weather always being a good conversation starter.

“It’ll be Christmas next Tuesday. Maybe it’ll cool off.”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t get this hot in the summer where I’m from.” She looked through the dust coated glass of the saloon’s only window. Instead of snow she saw a lone tumble weed skittering down the street. Even it looked dejected and lonely. Gold, she thought. Where the hell was it? Not in these parts. She knew now with a sense of resignation that she would never land a rich husband out here. She poured the drink down her throat. Jake was probably giving her a dirty look. Drink was for the customers, not for the help.

Nick finished his beer. “Want to take a little stroll, Marth?

The correct answer to this was no, it is cooler inside, an answer approved and promoted by Jake. But she was already tired and the still darkness was making her claustrophobic. “Sure, just for a minute.” Customers never seemed to realize that she was working. That her job was to keep them drinking and to keep them from fighting. Nick, like the others, thought she spent her time here because she liked it. Men were stupid, especially when it came to women.

They stepped out the door, Nick holding it open for her. In the light she could make out his features better than she ever had before. He had blue eyes that were flecked with brown to match the dusty sky. His cheeks were round and his nose had a big nob at the end that was already the constant rose color of a habitual drunk. But he had a big smile underneath a prematurely white mustache and the start of a matching beard. All in all, it was a friendly face, the kind that could grow on you if you let it. But his clothes just about defined a common cowboy: dirty red checkered shirt with frayed cuffs, faded blue jeans probably from ten years ago, and boots that almost certainly had holes in the bottoms. Martha smiled her work smile. She wondered if it worked as well out in the daylight.

“I want ta show you somethin’,” Nick said, putting his hand gently on her elbow.

Martha shot a glance back to the saloon. “I can’t be gone long.”

“I know. It’s just a little ways and I think it’s worth seeing.” There was a slight tug. She could pull away easily if she wanted to. Instead she let herself be urged down the wooden sidewalk.

It only took her a moment to realize he was headed toward the stable. “I can’t go in there, Nick. My clothes will get all dirty. And these are my best boots.”

“You don’t have to go in. The corral’s on the other side. That’s where I’ve got ‘em.”

“Got what?” she asked just as the topic of their conversation came into view. A herd of about twenty ponies of all different colors. Martha drew in a sharp breath of surprise. She hadn’t seen a single pony since she came out west. She ran to the corral fence and, forgetting about her clothes and good boots, climbed onto the bottom rail. A red and white paint pony came up to sniff her hand for treats. Her nose was so soft Martha almost cried.

“I had a pony just like this when I was a little girl,” she said without turning to Nick. “His name wasCheckerboard.” Nick came up beside her and the pony checked his hand for treats. “Where did you get them?”

“I know a rancher with a slew of kids out past Long Hill. He’s givin’ up and heading back east. Can’t take the ponies with him. So here they are.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

“Don’t know yet, but I’ve got to find them good homes before they eat me broke. Guess I could just let them go out on the prairie if it comes to that.” He smiled. “I could give Checkers here to you.”

Martha felt her heart breaking out of her bosom. Then reality set in. “I can’t even ride a pony. I’m too big.”

“I’ll train her to pull a cart. Could make your life easier not to have to drag your supplies from the mercantile down to your boarding house.”

It could. She imagined herself sitting in a little wooden wagon with the pony dancing ahead of her. Wouldn’t she look fine! She shook her head, “I can’t afford a pony, Nick. I sure would love to have her though.”

“We’ll figure out some way for her to earn her keep. She looks like a hard worker to me.”

Martha gazed over Checkers. The other ponies were milling about, curious as to what was going on. “What about the others? You got someone to take each of them?”

Nick laughed. Martha was surprised at how melodious his laugh was and his smile washed all over his face making the dusty grime disappear. She stepped down from the rail. “I have to get back or Jake will have me killed.” Nick took her hand and slid his arm underneath her fingers. Why did that feel so good? They walked back a little more slowly than her customary pace.

Nick didn’t show up at the saloon the next day. The quite made the place seem empty even though the rest of the crowd was there. He didn’t come the day after that. Or the day after that. Martha was getting worried. She told herself he was probably out working a herd of cattle somewhere. But what if something had happened to him? Or worse, maybe he decided he didn’t mean any of the things he had said. Not that she couldn’t live without a pony, it was just the thought of him giving it to her. And he’d be helping figure out how to put the little pinto to something productive. Wouldn’t that be fine? Of course, they’d end of spending some time together, along with Checkers of course.

But Nick was back pounding at the piano when Martha got to work the next day. She still grimaced at the racket her best to sway to the non-existent rhythm

“Go hit that idiot with a drink,” Jake growled. “I’d say get him too drunk to play, but he don’t need drink for that. He can’t just come in here and empty the place out with that racket without at least buying a couple of drinks.”

Martha went to grab a beer but Jake stayed her hand. “Whiskey. Better profit. And the drunker they get, the more they drink. Barman’s law.” He poured a much too large glass of cheap whiskey and shoved it into her hand. “Make sure he pays.”

The glass weighed down her hand as she walked to the piano. “Something special today.” She smiled falsely while placing the glass on the piano. “Cure for what ails ya.”

Nick picked the glass up and took a swallow. He coughed and sputtered some out. “Whoa! That’ll take some getting used to!” She realized she had only ever seen him drink beer, and then not much of it, as per Jake’s complaint. “I don’t drink much hard stuff,” he said by way of explanation. He tapped his nose. “This here is from the damn sun. My kin and I don’t belong out where the sky’s not properly cloudy.”

“But you’re in here every day, just ‘bout.”

Nick looked down at his fingers still resting on the piano keys. “I’m kind of shy to say it, but I don’t come to drink. I come to see you.”

Martha felt a silly grin spread across her face. “You do?”

Nick took another sip of whiskey followed by a gulp that could have drowned him. “Will you take a little stroll with me again?”

Jake glared at her from across the room. He’d be fighting mad if she left again.

“I’ll buy another whiskey and pay double if you’ll come.”

Glancing at Nick’s glass she was shocked to see it was empty. “You sure? If you’re not used to it, that stuff can put you under the table in a hurry.”

“If you’ll come walk with me, I’ll drink the place dry.”

“One more drink should be enough,” she said. “I’ll walk with you, but only a little while.” She got Nick another too-tall glass of the liquid fire and met him at the door. Nick downed it in one shot, but coughed most of it back up as she patted his back. “If you’re going to drink hard liquor, you’d better learn to do it slow.”

Out in the sun the day was blazing hot. Not a single wisp of a cloud painted the sky. She wished she was one of those fancy ladies back east who traveled in the shade of a delicate parasol. The thought made her laugh. She’d never had such a ridiculous thought! She saw Nick smile at her as if he was in on the joke. He didn’t need to know, she thought, he just needed to see her happy. Another ridiculous thought.

They made their way to the stable again, only this time they went into the dusty darkness. It smelled like horses and hay. Martha breathed deeply. Her father had owned a stable. This felt like home to her.

When her eyes adjusted she saw two of the little ponies, Checkers and a black and white pinto, watching her from within the confines of their harness. “I’m calling the other one Checkmate, Check for short. Make a pretty team, don’t they?” He turned to see her reaction, then rushed down beside the ponies and hopped up on the bench of the wagon. He drove it gently out into the sunlight, following Martha who felt a bit like a herded cow.

In the sun she could see the wagon was a buckboard painted a distinctive grass-green. The ponies’ coats shined as if they’d been brushed nearly to death. Nick held the reins with a smile as wide as his face. He hopped down to stand beside her. “I fixed it up and trained the ponies to pull it. It needed two. Ponies I mean. If you really want to go somewhere and not just around town, you need two ponies.”

“You’re going somewhere?” Martha’s heart skipped a beat.

Nick looked down at his boots. “Well, the wagon’s for you. And the ponies. I was kinda thinking maybe we could go someplace together.”

“Together?”

“You know. North. Maybe we could go north, someplace cold. Someplace you could wear a fur collar and a muff to keep your hands warm. You sure would look pretty like that.”

Martha stood, her mind frozen. Go north? With Nick? She could go north with Nick?

Time must have passed because Nick’s smile faded and his brow creased with worry. “I mean, we don’t have to if you if you don’t want to. I just thought that maybe you would like that.”

She couldn’t stop staring at him.

“I mean, we’d get married first! Oh God! I was so excited I got ahead of myself!” Words were spilling out of his mouth like a waterfall down a cliff. He dropped to one knee. “Martha, it’d be the joy of my life if you would consent to marry me.”

“Marry you?” The idea had never crossed her mind. But why not? He was a cowboy, not rich for certain, but nice. And sweet. And not bad looking either in the right light. And thoughtful. Could she be happy married to him? Would he be happy married to her? “Would you go north because of me?”

Nick stood up and took her two hands in his. They were rough, working hands with callouses where the reins played against his fingers. “I’d go anywhere because of you.”

“But you want to go north?”

“I could stand to get away from here. Right now, I’m thinking the colder the better.”

“Then, yes.” The word felt right to her. “Yes. I’ll do it. I’ll marry you!”

Nick leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, hard but somehow gentle too. It was their first intimate touch. Martha felt the warmth of it flow through her. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Yes! Yes! I will marry you Nicolas Claus!” And she kissed him again.

“Now?” he asked. “I can’t wait to call you my wife.”

“Now,” she whispered. “Let’s do it now.”

The wedding was about as short as the engagement. The pastor of the local church joined them. The ceremony took place at the saloon, which is where the couple found him when they went looking. Nick paid for a round of drinks before the happy couple fled the place.

“Let’s leave now,” Nick said as they boarded the wagon. “Start our honeymoon right away.”

The sun looked about an hour from the horizon. “It’s gonna be dark.”

“Ace, that’s my horse, knows every road and track in the whole damned state,” Nick replied. “And it will be cooler at night. But we have to stop by the stable to pick him and the ponies up. I already got them ready.”

“The ponies are going with us? What are you going to do with them?”

Nick smiled, maybe even wider than he had when she’d said yes. “I talked to the school mistress. She gave me the names of some kids who could sure use a pony to ride to school on.”

“It’s Christmas eve! It’ll be dark. Everyone will be asleep.”

“Then it’ll be a nice surprise for them come morning.

They had reached the stable. Martha watched as Nick tied the string of ponies up to the back of the wagon.

Things had a strange way of working out. She hadn’t married someone others might call rich, but he was rich enough to give to others, that was richer than most. She leaned over and gave him a big kiss. “I love you, Nick.”

He wrapped his arm around her. “I will always love you, Mrs. Claus.”

It was the first time they had said it.

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