by J. R. Rain
Crazier than talking to God at McDonald’s?
Jack said, “You think she’s what, Jim?”
Ah, screw it, I thought.
“I think, well...I think she’s hugging me.”
“She is, Jim.”
“And you can see her?”
“I can see her.”
“And you’re not messing with me?”
He smiled. “How do you feel, Jim?”
The hair on my neck stood on end. Same with the hair on my forearms. A sweet tingling coursed through my upper body.
“I feel great,” I said.
Jack nodded, pleased. He paused, then said, “She wants to tell you something.”
I blinked. “Tell me what?”
Jack cocked his head slightly as if listening. “She wants you to know that she loves you more than you can know. She also wants to thank you for keeping her memory alive. She knows that not a day goes by that you don’t think of her.”
Now the tingling around my neck turned into something warm, something loving. The tingling, in fact, now came to me in waves. Warm and loving waves. I think some of the hair on my head was standing on end.
Jack went on, and as he spoke, I closed my eyes. “She says she’s happy. She says she’s in a good place, a peaceful place. She says it’s time for you to be happy, too, Jim. It’s time. No more sadness for her. She says you’re her little angel, who isn’t so little anymore. She says it’s time to move forward, Jim. It’s time to move on. She says it saddens her to see you so sad.”
I covered my eyes with one hand. I fought to control myself, but I couldn’t, and the warmth I was feeling was too real, too pure, too loving. After a moment, I let go, and wept into my hand, and now the warmth and tingling moved from my shoulders and surrounded my entire body, and Jack’s voice seemed to reach me from far, far away.
“She says she loves you, Jim. And you will always be her little angel, no matter how damn big you’ve gotten.”
I laughed a little, and so did Jack.
“She has quite a sense of humor, your mother. She also says she wants a grandchild.”
I laughed again, but still couldn’t speak.
“She says she’s not in pain anymore, and she’s happy. Very, very happy. But mostly she says she’s proud of you, Jim. So very proud of you.”
I wept quietly into my hands, feeling the loving tingle spread along my arms and neck and shoulders. I sat like that for a long, long time. And after a while, as the tingling began to fade, I finally said what I’d never been given a chance to say before.
I said, “Goodbye, Ma.”
The End
Jim Knighthorse will return.
Available now in ebookstores everywhere:
Plague of Coins
The Judas Chronicles #1
by
Aiden James
Created by J.R. Rain
(read on for a sample)
Chapter One
This looks promising....
It was late one evening, and I stood in the bowels of the Smithsonian Center for Materials Research. The staff had gone home for the night, and I was alone. Surrounded by lab equipment, computers, and stacks of dusty old books, this room could only be described as creepy. Damned creepy.
Then again, many would describe me as damned creepy, too. And maybe a little shady—at least if I ever get caught rummaging around in the basement. As a Smithsonian archivist, most of what I spend my days reviewing is upstairs or in other locales managed by the National Museum of History. Really, I rarely venture outside of the Anthropological Archives’ scope of responsibility. Just like a good, dependable archivist should be doing.
Oh, it ain’t so terrible, all cynicism aside. In my current vocation, I’ve been privileged to view some of the most ‘secret’ collections of field notes, photographs, and correspondence from the more significant scientific expeditions covering the past two centuries. Hell, that’s why the job appealed to me in the first place. My son, Dr. Alistair Wolfgang Barrow, the noted historian and professor at Georgetown, is the one who brought it to my attention. Yes, he’s the very same historian noted for his treatments concerning the Middle East and its volatile tensions. Tensions fueled by millennia of history and bad blood that will take decades if not centuries to cure, despite the latest diplomatic progress.
But I digress.
Upon the near-obsolete video screen, a collection of articles and photographs spanning nearly eighty years scrolled before my eyes. All of this information centered around one small village in Iran. Al-haroun is the name of the place.
I paused to sip my coffee while rubbing my eyes. Not so much from being tired as the damned viewer’s fuzziness. I’m spoiled by my MAC.
Yes, very promising...could be home to one small, priceless piece of silver....
I get a feel for things, you see. It’s something I’ve gotten better with over time. Call it honed experience, or perhaps it’s the mastery that comes with practice and carefully aged wisdom and acute perception.
Okay...I can almost hear the indignant silent questions out there. ‘And who in the hell are you, hot shot?’ That’s what I’d be wondering right about now, after re-reading the first two pages of my story.
Fair enough. My name is William. William J. Barrow, though I’m sure you already determined my last name from my son. I like the name ‘William’, actually better than any other moniker I’ve gone by since the Crusades ended. It makes it a lot easier for me to fit in without engendering questions about who I am or where I come from. I like it much better than any of the Apostle names like Peter, Paul, and Matthew. Although, pretending to be Bartholomew nearly two thousand years ago was a lot of fun.
That got you, I’m sure.
It would make me older than dirt. Right? Well, if we ever cross paths you won’t even notice me if it’s some ancient Methuselah you’re seeking. I don’t look a day over thirty—haven’t looked a day past the ‘prime of life’ since I wrote my own chapter on the most famous stage in modern history.
Back then my Hebrew name was ‘Yehuda’. I guess if history had left me hanging from some tree or tripping into a garden to where my guts squirted out of my condemned body, the world would be no wiser. My role in the ultimate betrayal long forgotten, maybe I’d be just a small footnote, and not the most reviled human being ever to walk this earth.
You can thank the Greeks and Romans for that honor, unfortunately. Or, I guess I can...at least credit goes to them. Born in Kenoth in the region of Judea, and falsely accused of being a member of the ‘Sicari’. Yes, these are all clues.... Give up?
The Greek for ‘Yehuda’ is ‘Yudas, and that name in Roman is ‘Judas’.
So there...that’s me. I’m Judas Iscariot.
But before you simply close this book in disgust, let me explain a few things. Things that could change your mind about the above claim, and take on a little of my perspective. In truth, I could literally give a rat’s ass if you believe I’m Judas or not. It’s not even the reason I’ve decided to write down my story. After all, if I don’t gain the final nine silver pieces needed for my restitution during my current ‘lifetime ruse’ as William Barrow, I’ll still be working on this project while you and everyone you care about has died and passed away. Perhaps all of you will land in the eternal Holy Mecca I so badly long for.... To be forgiven at long last and reunited with the ‘One’ I looked on as a mere prophet and wonderful teacher, instead of the Lord of Lords that He is.
How do I know the truth about Jesus now as compared to then? You’ll have to read on for that answer—and it comes in bits and pieces, really. No, it won’t be some pompous sermon. What I’ve learned these past two thousand years transcends anything and everything you’ve ever read in any book—including what is considered the standards for the Holy Scriptures—like the Bible, Koran, etc. You’d be surprised at the shenanigans I’ve witnessed that later became the accepted “truth from the very mouth of God Almighty.”
So much is rubbish,
and yet hidden within it all is the truth. Or, at least a version of the eternal truth.
But I digress, again. Just know that I am supremely confident of this: everyone’s burning questions will be answered by the end of my story…the first installment of what remains of my earthly quest.
So, back to this place called Al-haroun. While there are many places in the world that suffer from a host of calamities, only a few originate from a small epicenter within a few square miles. And not every one of these places contains what I need. However, since at first glance it is impossible to know for sure, I must research them all.
As a town, Al-haroun is no stranger to the wrath of God, or if you will, the unfortunate reputation as a cursed place. That night, I viewed article after article, along with an endless stream of film images to support the stories—literally, an endless succession of earthquakes, floods, famines, wars, and plague. Even a rare tornado struck the town in 1942 that destroyed nine homes and killed three people. Not exactly catastrophic weather, unless you consider the fact this is Iran we’re talking about and not Topeka, Kansas.
But all in all, if one considers the previous millennium’s host of travesties visited upon this small area, I have to consider the likely source: a single coin. Buried somewhere, and likely hidden from the light of day for centuries. Meanwhile, hundreds, if not thousands of lives have been ruined—either killed, homeless, or both. The last article I looked at talked about a rare blizzard from thirty years ago. That event took place in May, when things begin to heat up near the Alborz Mountains. More than three feet of snow fell upon the town, and the temperatures plummeted deeply enough to destroy livestock and crops.
The people believe they’re cursed, that somehow they’ve offended Allah. If only they knew that something there—likely buried beneath the soil—was indeed offensive to God, they might burn everything to the ground and leave. Forever.
My gut instinct was telling me a single silver shekel was responsible. One that bears Caesar’s notorious beak of a nose on one side and a proud eagle upon the back. Just like twenty-nine others I once accepted as payment for my evil deed. A moment of folly, and to think it could’ve been forty pieces of silver if Caiaphas hadn’t tried to cheat me by offering half-shekels instead.
Anyway, I was certain my assumption was one hundred percent correct. As I studied the latest stories and pictures on the screen, my left hand began to tremble. This familiar sensation always confirms the truth of what my intuitions tell me.
Silver ‘blood-coin’ number twenty-two is within reach.
Satisfied, I turned off the viewer. I then returned the older film to the correct cabinets and the newer CDs and flash drives to their file drawers.
It was time to request some vacation days, and make arrangements for a little trip overseas.
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Chronic Fear
The Fear Series #2
by
Scott Nicholson
(read on for a sample)
Chapter One
“Surely you didn’t think we could let you live, after what happened.”
Dr. Alexis Morgan’s lungs froze in shock at the words. She didn’t recognize the male voice on the phone, and the caller ID had been blocked. She’d answered out of habit, because she’d become a reliable source not just for academic types, but among the pop-culture journalists as well. Answering the phone was the price of becoming the Carl Sagan of the mind’s vast cosmos.
Alexis made herself take a breath, glancing around her office in the University of North Carolina neurosciences department, seeking reassurance in the fat books lining the shelves, the research notes pinned to the bulletin board, and the cold eye of the computer screen.
Yes, everything was normal, or at least typically abnormal.
“Who is this?” she finally managed to whisper.
The voice chuckled on the other end of the line. “You could call me a ‘watchdog,’ but that wouldn’t narrow it down much, would it?.”
“If you’re threatening me, I’ll report you to the university police.”
“That would be wonderful, Dr. Morgan. Then they’d open up that whole barrel of monkeys and my work would be done.”
“I’m a neurobiologist, not a kindergarten teacher. I’m afraid you have the wrong—”
“You didn’t like playing second banana, did you? You want it all to yourself.”
She should have thumbed the phone dead. But people tended to let things slip that revealed secrets they’d hidden even from themselves. No matter how carefully the psychological vault was built, it always had a crack. Maybe she could bait him out.
“Is Burchfield behind this?”
“We gave you a chance to forget,” the voice said. “But, no, you just had to keep digging.”
Because the neurosciences department dealt with sensitive information as well as private health records, the technical security was high. But the best hacks were employed by the people with the most power, and right now, Sen. Daniel Burchfield was in the running for the most powerful position on the planet.
“Halcyon is dead,” Alexis said.
“See, you didn’t forget,” the voice answered. “But you never wanted to forget, did you?”
She couldn’t really place the age of the caller. She flipped through a mental file as she might go through a series of brain scans, trying to summon a face, but she was pretty sure she’d never heard the voice before.
Of course, she could have heard it and had her mind wiped clean. One of the lasting effects of the Monkey House trials was that stretches of the past were garbled or blank, like a cassette tape with Coke spilled on it.
“If you were just going to kill me, I’d be dead,” she said. “So I must have something you want.”
“Maybe lots of somethings.”
“And maybe you can save us both some time by telling me what it is.”
“What fun would that be?”
“You can tell your boss that Halcyon is buried, and so is the past.”
And a lot of people along with it.
After a pause, the caller continued. “We know you’ve been playing around in your lab. Here’s what you need to—”
Alexis killed the signal. That was the only thing she needed to do, make him shut up.
Her main research lab was three floors below. For some reason, even in its modern science buildings, UNC still confined much of its research to the basement. It was a tradition dating back to Memorial Hospital’s founding, when the dead were wheeled away in the middle of the night and kept out of view of the living patients. Mortality was bad for business.
Unless you were in the business of murder.
Alexis thought about calling Mark, but he always turned off his cell when he was at the shooting range, and he’d be wearing ear protection, anyway. Besides, she didn’t want to scare him until she knew what the caller wanted. Mark was scared enough already, considering what was happening inside his skull.
She hurried from the office to the elevator. She hit the button twice but the light was stuck on Floor Seven. That was the outpatient floor, the one on which Anita Molkesky had undergone intensive therapy for her bipolar disorder and suicidal ideations.
We were so close to getting away with it, Anita. But you know that there’s really only one escape.
Alexis gave up on the elevator and made for the stairs, jogging down the three flights with her heels clacking on the concrete. She passed an intern she recognized, mumbling an impersonal greeting. Only three people had keys to her lab, except for the master key held by housekeeping. But the cleaning staff was under orders not to enter any labs without direction, since most of the research was proprietary, classified, or potentially hazardous to human health.
She reached the basement, wondering whether the mysterious caller had been from a legitimate federal agency, a drug comp
any, or that special class of mercenary operating slightly beyond the influence of either. Burchfield trolled in all three of those murky pools.
Alexis had projects going in three labs, but two of the labs were shared. The private one was a perk, containing functional MRI, PET and CT scanners for her neural research. The department head had granted it as an unspoken reward for her work on the president’s bioethics council. She’d resigned from the council three months before, citing personal reasons, although the council’s shift in focus from mind-changing drugs to synthetic biology had made her a bit of a dinosaur anyway.
But this was one dinosaur that didn’t plan on going extinct. Not until she’d saved her husband, the world, and possibly herself, in that order.
Her imaging lab was in the farthest corner of the basement floor, which was underground on three sides with a main entrance to the rear, a rectangular hallway connecting the labs. Although the hallway was brightly lit, she could feel the weight of the earth and the darkness that waited beyond the waterproof concrete walls. It was early evening and much of research section was empty, but a few doors were open. She didn’t glance in, lest someone call out to her in greeting.
She had a feeling she didn’t have much time.
She rounded the corner and saw two men outside the imaging lab. They were dressed like hospital interns in green scrubs, with cotton masks fitted over their mouths. The lab door was open.
“Hey,” she called.
The two men glanced at her, then each other. The taller one bolted to the left, where the hallway led back to the main entrance. He carried a white canvas bag in one gloved hand, and its bulk and sagging weight made her think it held machinery or books.
Alexis started after him but the second man stepped forward, blocking her path. She was so enraged by the invasion she didn’t consider that he might be armed.
“You’re not allowed access,” she shouted at the fleeing man, but he was already around the corner.