by Hugh Howey
“I think I was a writer before I even knew how to hold a pen.” From the moment she picked up her first book of fairy tales, Dulce has been in love with magical love. She has always had a head full of stories and she has a passion for sharing them with others.
Dulce and her family live in the middle of a Midwestern corn field. She works in the field of communications or, as she is fond of saying, “I talk good word speak.” Her other interests include mycology, philately, deltiology, numismatology, phillumeny and several other words you might have to Google.
Dulce Rolindeaux’s Website
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Horror
Bad Karma
Julie Ann Dawson
Mark opened his eyes to blackness. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t hear. He sighed in his head, since his body wouldn’t go through the motion.
He was having that damn dream again. He tried to will himself out of his sleep. The brain just couldn’t make the legs swing over the side of the bed.
At least he was aware he was dreaming this time. Maybe he wouldn’t come out of the dream with a jolt like the other times and scare the hell out of Cheryl. Not that he cared if he scared her. It was just that she always insisted on pressing him to talk and that something must be wrong and that conversation always led to a “Do you still love me?” out of her crying mouth. One of these days he’d tell her the truth and say no, just as soon as he could figure out a way to keep her from getting half of everything he had worked for when he divorced her.
He started playing back the events of the previous day in his head, and it made him angry. He knew it was going to be a bad day when Carson’s dog ran out in front of his car. Between the kid’s crying and Carson’s screaming he thought he’d never get to work in time. If he tries to make him pay the vet bill, he’ll sue him for the damage to his car.
Then the receptionist ends his day with a tearful request for a ride to the hospital because she just found out her mom was in an accident. Her car is sitting in the parking lot and she wants me to drive her to the hospital? It’s only a friggin’ mile up the road! He had promised the boys he’d be at the bar no later than 6 pm for the pool tournament, and he wasn’t going to be late because that ditz can’t cry and drive at the same time.
Then as he sat behind a trash truck at a stoplight, the stupid bitch slammed into him! Did she forget the difference between the brake and the accelerator?
He heard a faint beeping sound. Then he heard Cheryl crying. What the hell is her problem so early in the morning? Then he heard a man’s voice. Mark tried to jump up.
“I know this is difficult for you,” said the man.
“It’s only been three months,” said Cheryl.
“It is totally your decision.”
Cheryl broke down. “You’re right,” she finally said. “And he always said he didn’t want to be a vegetable.”
Mark’s brain kept giving orders that his body wouldn't respond to. He heard what sounded like a door open and close. A few minutes later, it opened again. He felt a hand on his arm.
Good, I’m waking up. This dream is too whacked out…
He felt a needle pull out of his arm. The beeping noise suddenly stopped. But the darkness remained.
Julie Ann Dawson
is an author, editor, publisher, RPG designer, and advocate for writers who may occasionally require the services of someone with access to Force Lightning (and in case it was not obvious, a bit of a geek).
Her work has appeared in a variety of print and digital media, including such diverse publications as the New Jersey Review of Literature, Lucidity, Black Bough, Poetry Magazine, Gareth Blackmore’s Unusual Tales, Demonground, The Philadelphia Inquirer, and others.
In 2002 she started her own publishing company, Bards and Sages. The company has gone from having two titles to over one hundred titles between their print and digital products.
In 2009, she launched the Bards and Sages Quarterly, a literary journal of speculative fiction. Since 2012, she served as a judge for the IBPA’s Benjamin Franklin Awards.
Julie Ann Dawson’s Website
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Gay Fiction — Romance
The Valentine’s Day Before We Met
J.T. Hall
Elliot:
It’s the worst day of the year. Either the Johns are off banging their boyfriends, girlfriends, or spouses, or they’re sad, lonely, and desperate.
Desperate equals dangerous; I’ve learned that the hard way.
A man in his forties calls my Madame, begs to have me for the evening. I’m standing in the rain, wearing a fucking suit with a thin tie and rolled up ankles because he wants to relive his high school prom the right way.
He parks his car on the street and runs over to me. Before I know what’s happening, he slaps me hard across the cheek.
“That’s for Ellen!” he cries.
I don’t even know who ‘Ellen’ is. His wife, maybe. A past girlfriend?
As I’m rubbing my cheek, I glance across the street to a hunky guy sitting on a park bench, completely oblivious to the rain and the fact he’s soaking wet. His dark eyes meet mine. The pain in his expression hits my gut, and I notice his hands playing with something on his finger—a ring? I want to go to him, be with him. Nobody should look that sad today.
My client grabs my arm. “Come on, Johnny. You’re gonna pay for stealing my prom date. I’m fucking you into next week.” He kisses me hard, then pulls me to the car, shoving two hundred dollar bills into my hand.
Apparently it’s Role Play Night.
Derwin:
It’s fucking Valentine’s Day. But why should I care?
It was May of last year when Grady died. When I failed him and found him dead on the floor of our bedroom. Nine months now, and yet it feels like it was only just last week. At Christmas, I finally boxed up the last of his things and gave them to his sister.
She’s probably sold most of them by now.
I sit on a park bench in the rain outside my favorite coffee shop, debating whether to go inside and order myself a triple chocolate macchiato, or just walk home back to my apartment. I like the rain. It mourns with me.
Across the street is a young man in an outdated suit with a terrible thin metallic blue tie. His black hair has been spiked up in an eighties hairstyle, and he’s speaking with a man twice his age.
The guy can’t even be eighteen. And yet, as I watch, the other man strikes him across the cheek. My eyes widen, and I yearn to run across the street and punch the older guy’s lights out.
The young man glares, rubbing his cheek, and then his eyes flick over to me. I feel a shock, from my toes up to my hairline, something that just makes my nerves stand to attention. There’s some connection, some commonality between us in that instant. I don’t know who he is. But I recognize the pain in that look, the mutual “fuck you” to the romantic holiday and all the hopes and dreams it represents.
Valentine’s Day isn’t for everyone.
For a heartbeat, before he turns away, I feel like some day it could come out okay for both of us.
Good luck, Blue Tie, I think. The man grabs the young guy and pulls him into the car, then gets into the driver’s seat and pulls out. For a second, I contemplate following. Maybe it’s not too late for that one. Maybe…
No. It’s too late. It’s always too late.
I sit back and submit to the rain.
J.T. Hall
was a strong voice in fanfiction and has been an active member in the BDSM scene for over ten years, as well as the LGBT community. J.T.’s work has appeared in Excite’s erotic fiction anthologies. Among the themes you’ll find are BDSM, Domination/submission, gay and lesbian fiction, paranormal erotica, and group orgies. There are few kinks J.T. won’t touch!
J.T.’s erotica lines include the His/Herline (heterosexual), Gay Hardcoreline (gay erotica), and the “Lesbian Lovers” lines.
Look also for an upcoming gay romantic suspense/mystery novel, Murder One: Book 1 of the Oddities Series.
J.T. Hall’s Website
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Paranormal
The Snow Patrol
Roz Marshall
Debbie spluttered for breath and struggled into a sitting position. What on earth just happened? Ripping off her goggles, she shook the snow out of her hair, damp curls whipping against chilled cheeks.
Once she’d dug her skis out of the snow, her dilemma became clear. The rear part of one of the bindings had slipped out of place and was now far too wide for her boot. She sighed. That’s what I get for buying skis off eBay.
Squeezing the clips, she tried to force it back into place, but it wouldn’t budge.
Why, oh why, did I decide on ‘just one more run’? Mist was touching the hilltop now and everything was deathly quiet; the background hum and clink of the ski lift on the main run over the ridge had stopped, and this itinerant off-piste loop was devoid of other skiers.
A tendril of dread wound its way around her heart. Scotland’s vast wildernesses could be beautiful in winter, but she knew that they could also be treacherous for the unwary — or the unlucky.
“Help!” she tried to call out, but her throat constricted and her voice was swallowed by the blanket of snow. Stumbling to her feet, she cupped gloved hands around her mouth and shouted again, “Heeeeeelllp!”
No answer. Shit. No signal on her mobile phone. Shit!
There’s no way I can get down on one ski, it’s too steep. Her stomach roiled. I’ll have to walk out. Hands trembling, she clipped her skis together, fashioning an impromptu walking stick, and set off.
Ski boots, however, were not designed for walking in deep snow and her progress was slow. Stopping for a breather, she realised that the visibility had worsened, and noticed with alarm that the top of the hill was now bathed in cloud, its miasma creeping inexorably down the slope. Why, oh why, did I go off-piste on my own? Nobody knows I’m here.
Yomping off again, fear drove her feet faster and faster, until, inevitably, she nose-dived and ended up in an undignified heap in the snow.
“Need some help?” said a husky voice nearby.
Blinking the snow from her eyes, she saw a lean, dark-haired skier wearing the black uniform of Ski Patrol, and almost wept with relief. “How did you guess?” she replied, rhetorically. “The binding’s broken on one of my skis and I was trying to walk out.”
“Let’s see,” he held out a hand for her ski.
When he saw the state of the binding, he frowned, then dug in his backpack for a screwdriver. “How about a trade? I’ll fix your ski if you’ll show me the way back,” he looked up at her from under his eyebrows, “and not tell the guys that I was lost.”
A ski patroller. Lost? That was ironic! “But,” — she couldn’t resist teasing him — “shouldn’t you be showing me the way off the hill?”
He shrugged. “We were on a rescue and I got separated from the others.” He indicated the eerie fog that had closed in around them, making the landscape featureless and deadening any ambient noise. “And my radio’s dead and I must’ve lost my phone in a snowdrift somewhere.”
He looked sideways at her, flakes of frost speckling high cheekbones and long eyelashes. “I’ll probably get sacked for being a dunderheid.”
I hope not! “I’m sure you won’t. You can say you were helping me?” She smiled at him. “And it’s not far to the main run — we’re on the Tannasg.”
“Oh! Great!” He handed back her ski. “I’m Struan, by the way. Struan Robertson.”
In the fading light, they skied down to the Ski Patrol office in the almost-deserted car park. Across the road, Debbie spotted the silhouette of a bus. She checked her watch. It was the last bus to town.
“Thanks so much for fixing my ski, Struan. I’d never have managed without you — I thought I was going to be stuck up there all night!”
“All part of the service,” he said, then winked at her, “and thanks for helping me find my way.” He nodded at her skis. “Get those looked at, though.”
“Yeah,” she said, noting, not for the first time, how hypnotic his dark eyes were. “Can I buy you a drink later, to say thanks?” I hope he won’t think I’m being too forward. “We’ll be in The Rowan.”
“In White Cairns?”
“Yeah.” The driver started the engine and the bus lights flashed on. “I need to go,” she said. “See you later?”
He nodded, and raised an arm in farewell.
Debbie dropped into a chair at the instructors’ table in the pub.
“What happened to you?” asked Callum.
“Well, I went for a last run in Coire Tannasg, but my binding broke and I thought I’d have to spend the night on the hill.” Pulling off her jacket, she draped it on the back of the chair. “Luckily a ski patroller found me and fixed it.”
“But Tannasg’s outside the ski area, they don’t patrol there,” said Fiona.
Debbie nodded. “Yeah. He got split up from the others in the mist.”
“Who was it?” Fiona’s husband Geoff was a ski patroller, and she knew all of the team.
“I hadn’t seen him before. Struan something. Robinson I think.”
Fiona gasped. “Are you sure? What did he look like?”
Debbie shrugged. “A bit taller than me. Good skier. Dark hair. Nice smile. You’ll see him soon — he’s meeting me here…” She tailed off when she saw Fiona’s face. “What is it?”
“Struan Robertson died in an avalanche on Coire Tannasg four years ago.”
Debbie felt the blood drain from her face. “But — I just saw him. I showed him…” She paused as she recalled what he’d said. “I showed him the way back,” she concluded, in a small voice.
Fiona nodded slowly. “Maybe you did, Debbie,” she said absently, twirling the Saint Christopher hanging around her neck. “Maybe you did just that.”
Roz Marshall
I suppose I should thank the writers of the BBC TV drama "Rockface" (does anyone remember that?). If it hadn’t come out, I might’ve continued with my idea of writing a TV drama series about a Scottish ski school, and it would probably have gone nowhere.
Fast forward about 10 years, to when I read my first eBook (Andy Weir’s The Martian, before he got his publishing contract, in case you’re curious), and inspiration struck — my drama series idea would work as a set of novellas…
To find out more about the lives and loves of Debbie and the other White Cairns ski school instructors, start with Winter Arrives, Episode 1 of Secrets in the Snow.
Roz Marshall’s Website
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Fantasy — Space Opera
Rage
Vincent Trigili
Shortly after learning of Farlith’s prison transfer, Master Shadow and I met up with Flame and Spectra in the gym. Spectra was already training against the elite lizard warriors known as the Dark Knights.
“We should just let her do that for a while,” sent Master Shadow telepathically.
The speed and power with which Spectra wielded the staff kept the Dark Knights on the defensive, something few members of any race could do. She moved far faster than I could follow and often landed solid hits.
“It’s a ritual called Kar Fa Lan,” sent Flame. “The Dark Knights use it to purge themselves of extreme emotion so that they can maintain their cool in combat. It’s rare for a non-Knight to take part, as most would crumble under the rigor of the ceremony.”
It seemed to be working. As I watched the melee, Spectra was starting to slow down, and her blows slowly became less ferocious.
“This is amazing! All around the arena I can see the power flowing. Anger, hate, rage… it is all bleeding off,” sent Master Shadow.
I could not see what he was talking about, but I didn’t care. I was still having trouble containing my own emotions regardin
g Farlith. I could picture in my mind a million different ways to make him pay dearly for what he did to his own daughter.
“Let it go, Dusty. It will eat you up and spit you out, destroying you in the process,” sent Master Shadow.
“Bah!” I said and turned to leave. But before I could take a single step a Dark Knight moved to intercept me.
“Master, I am sorry, but none may leave until the ritual is complete,” he said.
“Out of my way!” I ordered and tried to push him, but he was at least half again my size.
“Dusty, we can spar while we wait,” said Master Shadow as he drew his staff down out of thin air.
“I don’t feel much like sparring,” I said.
“You are not leaving until you do,” he said.
Behind me the Dark Knight also drew his staff and dropped into a defensive crouch.
I yelled, “Enough!” and cast spirit bolts at the Knight, meaning to blast him down, but Master Shadow moved too fast and unwove the energy of my bolts before they could hit.
Something came over me. The only thing I could think of was destroying anything in my path, even my close friend Flame who had moved to block my exit. All rationality had left me and I was reacting purely on instinct and anger. I drew down my staff and with the added strength of telekinesis swung hard, crashing through her block and into her chest. The blow sent her flying back, only to be replaced by several Knights.
Again I attempted my spells, but Master Shadow constantly unwove them while the Dark Knights formed an impassable wall, preventing me from escaping. I swung hard and fast, but they masterfully turned every blow away.