The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

  Sharing the wall with the dust ridden couch was an ancient cast iron bedstead that leaned against a mattress and box springs that were covered in colorful pictures of flowers. The rest of the truck was stacked full with cardboard boxes, a material that the Haynes had never seen before.

  In the front of the truck sat Steven and Barbara. Steven was smartly dressed in a meticulously clean yet simple suit. Barbara found herself wearing a dress for the first time. The slim article was festooned in flowery patterns and hugged her delicate figure.

  Behind the truck sat a rusty bucket of junk. Henry, their head relocater, had called it a car, and further classified it as a 1976 AMC Pacer. Barbara thought it was cute. Steven thought it looked rather like a mix between a glass bowl and a shoe.

  The shuttle took the Haynes and their new possessions to the outskirt of a small town. On the way in they heard the voice of an Earthling crackling through the radio. He tried twice to hail them sounding distinctly nervous as he did so.

  The shuttle set them down on a dark stretch of road and disappeared into the night sky as soon as the U-haul and the little Pacer it pulled had cleared the unloading ramp. And so the Haynes were on Earth, sitting in the musty cab of an old rental truck full of antiquated junk, heading off into the greatest adventure of their lives without a clue as to what they were doing.

  *

  The Haynes set up shop quickly. They drove into town that very night and arrived at the house that was prepared by the ERA. The next day the neighbors awoke to find that they had a beautiful smiling young couple sharing the street with them.

  The cover story the ERA had provided had worked perfectly. The Haynes were supposedly from some distant city named Boston. Barbara was a lawyer, not the exciting kind though; she would simply sit in an office filling out wills and other various objects of boredom while Steven had managed to obtain a more exciting position, town doctor.

  Since Steven had been educated at one of the most prestigious Galactic Universities he quickly cemented his name in medical excellence. Since Barbara had been educated at one of the most prestigious Galactic Universities in Intergalactic Law, she had no idea about Earth laws, and quickly cemented her name in Law ineptitude.

  The couple also garnered attention for how they spoke. They had each taken multiple courses on the English language and had managed to obtain an impeccable accent. Unfortunately for them, the people of Pleasant Valley spoke American not English. The attention was not negative however and all in all they were lovingly embraced by the town and after several years the strange accents faded away to be replaced by the charming drawl of the south.

  Barbara and Steven lived by themselves in their warm little home for three years. The end of their solitude was foretold by the growing stomach of Barbara. As her pregnancy progressed the town grew anxious. After all a birth in a small town is quite a big deal. The gossiping women gathered together and threw her a shower. Steven had laughed when he first heard, thinking they were actually going to wash his nervous wife, but instead of a good bathing they had both received a wide gamete of gifts ranging from cradles to bottles, singing teddy bears to blankets. It was not a tradition on Broglio but the Haynes decided that it should be.

  The arrival of their only child happened one stormy July night. As the rain haphazardly threw itself against the pane of glass that made up the Haynes bedroom window, Barbara lay on the bed covered in sweat. She screamed in pain as Steven held her hand tightly. Her screams of pain inundated the house and within an hour they were replaced by a higher pitched whine of their new son.

  They wrapped him snugly in a warm blanket and held him between them. He looked at them dreamily with incredible eyes of the purest silver that gleamed up at them, sharp and intelligent. Steven smiled proudly at the newborn and was more than a little pleased to find the smile returned.

  “What do you want to name him?” he asked his glistening wife softly so as not to arouse the screams that had temporarily abated.

  “William,” she said gently, “after my grandfather.”

  William cooed quietly as if accepting the name and the smile on Steven’s face managed to grow even wider before a new thought came across his mind. One which they had somehow never thought to discuss.

  “Should we tell him about our past?” He questioned his wife, his own opinion already formed

  “No,” she replied without looking away from the smiling baby, “There is no point in telling him, besides he wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret, you know how kids are.”

  Steven agreed instantly since she had verbalized his own, unspoken, beliefs as if he had uttered them himself.

  A sizzling slice of lightning illuminated the room as they watched the new pride and joy of their life sleep and soon they were all fast asleep on the ludicrously old cast iron bed the ERA had provided.

  Barbara and Steven never spoke about Broglio again after Will was born. He lived an average American childhood; filled with tee-ball, peewee football, pizza parties, and trips to Disney World. He never considered the fact that he was any different from any of the other children; to him he was just the son of Barbara and Steven Haynes, and a normal boy from Earth.

  Gnosis by Tom Wallace

  PROLOGUE

  April 5, 1982

  The only thing Bruce Fowler loved more than having sex with Darleen was smoking weed. Most of his friends would say his priorities were all screwed up, but, of course, none of them were getting laid on a regular basis. Being perpetually horny, it was only natural for those guys to prefer sex over … well, just about everything. Not so with Bruce. True, Darleen was a tiger in the sack—by far the best sex he ever had—but as terrific as she was, she simply couldn’t compare to smoking pot. It wasn’t even a close call.

  Bruce took his first toke seven years ago, when he was twelve. His older brother, Daryl, was smoking a joint in his room when Bruce barged in unannounced. Daryl asked his kid brother if he wanted to take a hit. Bruce refused. That changed when Daryl called Bruce a chicken. No one called Bruce Fowler a chicken, because Bruce wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything, not even his older brother, who had a reputation for being a tough guy. He grabbed the joint from Daryl’s hand, and before Daryl had time to show him the proper way to smoke marijuana, Bruce took a long, deep hit. The impact was immediate. His throat and lungs burned, he felt slightly dizzy, and his eyes watered, but … there was something else happening as well. Something positive, nice, and calming. He had the strangest sensation that he was floating like an angel high above the scene below, looking down at Daryl, who was sitting on the bed laughing at the boldness of his younger brother.

  It was a memorable moment in Bruce’s life; a pivotal moment, a life-altering moment. From that initial taken-on-a-dare toke, he swore to make it his life’s goal to find and smoke the best pot he could lay his hands on. It was a goal he achieved with admirable success.

  Tonight, with the first drops of rain beginning to fall, Bruce and his best buddy, Carl Osteen, were standing in front of the Kentucky Theatre when Bruce noticed the big car pull up to the curb. The window on the driver’s side went down, and the man behind the wheel asked where he might score some good weed. Naturally wary, Bruce looked at Carl, shrugged, and told the man he had no clue where to buy weed, either good or bad. Of course, this was a lie—Bruce knew a dozen pot dealers in the city. He simply wasn’t about to take a chance that the guy was an undercover narc looking to make a bust.

  However, despite his instinct for caution, Bruce couldn’t help but be intrigued. The guy was driving a Lincoln Continental, a pricey car for a narc. And he was dressed in an expensive suit and tie, like a business man or a lawyer. Certainly nothing like the clothes worn by any cop he knew. Most narcs dressed like street bums, hoping to make you think they were ordinary Joes out looking for a score. More often than not, it was the dumb-ass outfit that gave them away. But this guy was different. He didn’t give off a n
arc vibe, didn’t look like a cop. Maybe he was legit, someone who could be trusted. Bruce was torn, unsure what to do. His gut feeling that the guy was okay waged an interior battle against his fear that he might be wrong. And with so much at stake, this was not the time for an error in judgment. You never roll the dice when dealing with law enforcement.

  But when the man reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wad of bills the size of a softball, well … Bruce never saw a narc with that much cash. Hell, he’d never seen anybody with that much cash. Bruce was still unsure what to do until the man peeled off two one-hundred dollar bills and said he would give them to Bruce and Carl if they would direct him to the best pot dealer they knew. Seeing all that cash made Bruce’s decision an easy one to make.

  Bruce and Carl climbed into the big Lincoln and informed the man that Eddie Martin sold the best pot in the city. Rarely did Bruce recommend strangers to Eddie. On a couple of occasions he had done so, but only after the stranger was vouched for by someone Bruce knew and trusted. Eddie seldom sold to anyone outside his known clientele.

  To Bruce’s way of thinking, pot was harmless. Unfortunately, the idiots who make laws saw things from a different perspective. They didn’t distinguish pot from deadly heroin. Both sins were equal in their stupid eyes. Getting busted for selling pot meant jail time, and Bruce didn’t want to think about that. He wouldn’t last two hours in prison. Therefore, he had to be safe. Taking unnecessary risks was not an option.

  To protect Eddie’s address, Bruce told the man to park two blocks from Eddie’s house. The man gave Bruce five hundred dollars for the purchase. Bruce was only gone fifteen minutes before returning with the pot. The man took the bag, thanked Bruce, and then asked if they would like to smoke some with him. Bruce and Carl both nodded in the affirmative.

  With rain coming down harder now, the man drove out of the city and into the county. Neither Bruce nor Carl knew where the man was heading, nor did they care. They were going to smoke some seriously great shit, and it was not only free, they had each been given a hundred bucks. Pot and cash for doing nothing—sometimes dreams do come true. This weird dude in the big car could be taking them to Siberia, for all they cared.

  The Lincoln stopped next to a barn seconds before the rain went from steady to serious. The man cut the engine, reached into the glove compartment and extracted a bag filled with pills. He asked the two boys if they wanted to try one of the blue ones before smoking the pot. He promised them it would intensify the experience. They declined. He then told them to go into the barn, and that he would join them in a few minutes.

  Bruce and Carl were standing with their backs to the barn door when the man came inside. When they turned around, they were confused by what they saw. The man had a pistol in one hand and several pieces of rope in the other hand. Bruce felt a shudder run through his body, but he felt no real fear. This had to be some kind of a joke, right? They didn’t know this man, and they had done everything he asked them to do, so why would he have any reason to harm them? He didn’t have a reason, which is what made this so confusing. It had to be a joke, Bruce thought. Some kind of weird game. Nothing else made sense. As the man moved closer to the two boys, Carl muttered something like “what the fuck is this all about?” but his question was met by silence.

  The man ordered the two boys to turn around and lie face down on the barn floor. He knelt behind Carl and tied his ankles together. Then he moved behind Bruce and performed the same procedure on him. After binding Bruce’s ankles, he told Bruce to get onto his knees and put his hands behind his back. He bound Bruce’s hands, and then did the same to Carl. When the man completed his tasks, the two boys were on their knees, hands and feet bound, facing away from the man.

  Bruce was staring straight ahead when he heard the pop and saw Carl’s body tumble forward. Turning his head slightly to the right, he saw blood spurting from the back of Carl’s head. He also noticed that Carl’s eyes were open.

  Only now did fear engulf Bruce. Fear and panic combined with bewilderment. He knew he was about to die, but he didn’t know why. He wanted to ask the man why this was happening. What could possibly be his reason for murdering two innocent young kids? What had they done to deserve this? Instead, Bruce chose to remain silent. He knew it was too late to ask the man anything. Anyway, what would be the point? Some questions are beyond answers.

  I’ll never smoke pot again was Bruce Fowler’s last thought before the bullet entered his brain

  Secret by Morinda Montgomery

  Chapter One

  1812

  “Brian!” Great, father always has to interrupt. I wonder what… shit! Morgan!

  “I’m coming!” Damn this betrothal! Glancing around the room, I snatched up my notes and wrote down the failed experiments before heading down to the dining hall, fixing my hair on the way down the steps. Why did I even bother? Mayhap if I just left my hair a mess and looked uncivilized then Morgan’s father would just call the wedding off. Best not, Father would make my life Hell if I did that; best find another way to arrange that one.

  Reaching the dining hall I noticed that Morgan and her father were already seated. I allowed a smile to quirk my lips as I noticed the fumingly lovely Morgan sitting across from my seat. Suddenly the interesting blend of honey and pine that only grew stronger when she was angry hit me. I cursed my heightened sense of smell as I strode toward the table.

  ~~~

  I’m not sure which angered me more about Brian’s entrance, the wide grin he had at the sight of my justified irritation or the slight hint of brief agitation that crossed his face as he got closer. Then there is the rest of my irritation, directed at every man in the room. His father for asking mine for this engagement, my father for accepting without so much as asking me for my opinion first, and Brian for being devastatingly handsome, arrogant, overbearing, pompous, and rude. Mostly for being handsome; no man had a right to look that good, even when he was a mess.

  The well-muscled, tall, shaggy black haired Sir Brian DeMacleo was infuriating in all that he did. He treated me as if I were some sort of insolent child. The worst part was the way he smiled gentlemanly as he chided me. And now he strides over and bows!

  “Good evening Lady Morgan, Sir Robert.” I watched as he turned his attention to my father, “Your daughter is as lovely in her anger as ever.” My jaw only tightened in anger as my father merely chuckled!

  “Sir Brian, it is a good thing you enjoy her anger, for she seems to have no other mood as of late.”

  “Why, it is entirely my fault, and I do apologize my lady. Had I been keeping track of the hour, I would have been waiting to seat you.”

  That’s right, apologize, I fumed. Letting the bitterness seep into my voice, “Your tardiness is not a habit, I hope, but from the last few occasions we have met I would say it is.” I paid little attention as my father scowled at me.

  “Forgive me my lady, for I have been distracted as of late.”

  “Truly. May I make a request? Seeing as we are to be, wed, let us cast aside the formalities.” It wasn’t a request, even to my ears it sounded the demand it was. I couldn’t stand anymore of his polite chiding. Not to mention I should be making demands.

  “Morgan, it would be my pleasure to speak to you less formally.” Brian elaborated with exaggerated glee.

  “Just what are you so smug about?” The demand slipped out before I could stop myself.

  “Morgan, mind your manners!” Father hissed. Brian only chuckled.

  “I’m not apologizing for a question.”

  “Then let me answer it.” Brian began, but his father cut him off.

  “We should be having a delicious roast with carrots and potatoes. I have no idea what is taking so long.”

  I sat back in my chair and crossed my arms. Eventually our parents would have to see what
an impossible match we were. Not to mention how difficult it would be for me to slip away and fulfill my duty. What was Father thinking?! The only thing even remotely pleasing about Brian was that he appeared to be just as miserable as I.

  ~~~

  As Sir Robert and my father began a conversation, neither Morgan nor I were interested in, the food was served with its mouthwatering smell and savory gravy; it was nearly impossible to eat like a civilized man instead of the monster I was. I cared little for anything but the overly juicy and perfectly roasted meat, but of course father eyed me disapprovingly until I ate some of the carrots and potatoes. They, also, were tender and juicy, having soaked in the broth of the meat. The simple aroma was pure ecstasy.

  Looking across the table I watched as Morgan delicately nibbled at a piece of bread smothered in butter. A footman pulled me from my obsession of watching her eat when he asked if I would like a refill on my wine. I hadn’t even noticed myself drinking the tart substance. Silently nodding, I turned back to my own food.

  How on earth could anyone take so long to eat? I was nearly done, and yet Morgan was still nibbling her bread! She was still fuming and yet there she sat with a full plate of food! When I get angry I hardly take time to chew before swallowing! Then again, I mused, I don’t have to chew half the time. My, primitive, side swallows everything in a few bites and with little effort in chewing.

  ~~~

  The way Brian continued to stare at me as I ate only increased my anger. I had completely lost my appetite due to my anger, curse the man! All I wanted to do was have this evening over with. I dearly hoped to loose him at the masquerade ball in a few days. Spending the entire evening with him mocking me instead of doing what I wanted on my own was not my idea of a good time.