BestsellerBound Short Story Anthology

by Darcia Helle

  The First Texas Twister

  by Magnolia Belle

  Copyright © 2008

  This tale begins before we knew anything about the space-time continuum and how easily it could be ripped. This tale begins shortly before the Civil War, in the high plains of Texas, before there even was a city named Amarillo. Buffalo and Native Americans had worked out a respectable balance between themselves, allowing each to live and prosper. Buffalo fed the humans, and humans thinned out the weakest from the herds.

  Then, in the midst of this utopia, Europeans pushed their way past the Appalachian Mountains, past the Mississippi River, and headed toward the west coast. Some of them stopped along the way, settling in the midst of the buffalo and Native Americans, building homes and starting farms.

  We all know this is where the trouble began for the Great West. But, what most of us don’t know is that this is also the birth of the killer tornado.

  Let me take you back…

  The Kiowa, White Fox, sat outside his wife’s lodge, his nervous eyes searching the wide-opened blue sky. As shaman of his village, the Kiowa elder had a certain reputation to uphold. He interpreted spirit dreams, knew which plants and herbs made good medicine, and conducted marital counseling on a surprisingly regular basis.

  But that morning, his brow furrowed in worry. Murmuring throughout the camp grew louder each day about the lack of rain. The prairie grass crackled and broke when anyone walked on it. The buffalo moved further north to find water, making hunting difficult. They would have to move the village if this kept up. But, before they resigned themselves to yet another move, they waited on him to DO something.

  The old man had tried everything in his power to affect the weather, but nothing had worked — not the sweat lodge, not the sacred smoke, not the dream quest for a vision. The simmering heat brought sweat to his wrinkled face, and trickled down his leathery cheek. Lost in thought, he didn’t feel it. He considered the sky, spread unadorned without even the wispiest of clouds; no soft breeze stirred the feathers in his graying braids. He grunted once, as if coming to a decision.

  “Little Crow, come here,” he addressed a young brave strolling by.

  “Yes, father?”

  “Tell the village to prepare themselves. This afternoon, I shall perform our sacred rain dance. The people must fast until then. And send the dancers to me.”

  “Very well.” Little Crow nodded and went to his task.

  White Fox bowed his head, hoping this would work. If it didn’t, they would be forced to move tomorrow or the next day.

  * * *

  Ruthie Simpson pulled hard on the reins, bringing their four mules to a stop. The covered wagon shuddered for a moment, sending puffs of dust pluming to the sky. Five other wagons stopped behind her.

  “What now?” Her husband, William, walked up and rested one hand on the wheel.

  “We oughta settle here,” Ruthie explained.

  “Here?” He made a slow turn, studying the horizon. Heat waves shimmered several yards ahead, across dry grass and brown shrubs. A quarter mile away, a small hill rose, the only landmark in the otherwise flat, barren landscape. “Here?” he repeated.

  “Yep. Here.” The flint-jawed woman nodded once, put the reins down and tucked a rebellious wisp of brown hair underneath her bonnet.

  “Why’d we stop?” Red Parker came up behind William. “Mule go lame?”

  “Naw.” William pulled a bandana from his back pocket, lifted his stained hat with one hand and wiped his brow with the other. “Ruthie wants to settle here.”

  “You’re joshing. Right?” By now, the other men had joined the discussion, all looking up at Ruthie, perched on the wagon seat, her lips in a thin line.

  “Just ‘cuz I’m a curious ol’ cuss,” Red smiled to disguise his anger at the most stubborn woman he'd ever met, “why here, Mz. Simpson?”

  “Just a feeling I have in my bones.”

  “A feeling in your bones,” he echoed, trying to keep his opinion of her suspect sanity out of his voice.

  “There’s no water here, wife,” William explained.

  “There was and there will be,” she disagreed.

  “How do you know that?”

  “See that creek bed? That means there’s water.” She pointed a little distance away.

  Sighing, William walked to it, pulled out his Bowie knife and plunged it into the gully. After digging for a few moments, he stood and called back. “If there was water, it ain’t been here in a long, long time. It’s nothing but dry dirt for several feet down.”

  “Sorry, Mz. Simpson, but this place won’t do.” Red shook his head.

  “It will, too!” Ruthie jumped down from the wagon, landing on her feet with a heavy thud. She stood with her arms akimbo, in her favorite arguing stance. “I know what I know, and this is the place!”

  “She’d out-argue God,” Red muttered under his voice.

  “There was water here, and there’ll be water here again. It’s gonna rain. Just see if it don’t!” Ruthie ignored her husband’s pained expression at being embarrassed yet again in front of their friends.

  “I’d like to knock you into next Tuesday,” he threatened under his breath. But, there were too many witnesses, she had a powerful left hook, and she stood a little taller, a little wider than he did. “We're wasting daylight," he said out loud.

  “I’m telling you! It’s gonna rain!” In her proclamation, she raised her hands skyward and shook both fists. “IT’S GONNA RAIN!”

  She spoke with such fevered conviction that the weakest minded of the wagon train wondered if she might not be right — somehow.

  * * *

  On the other side of the low hill a quarter mile away, unbeknownst to the wagon train, White Fox assembled the musicians and dancers. They smoked the pipe and washed in the sacred smoke. After that, he led them to the center of the ring formed by the people.

  The drums began first, throbbing in slow rhythm. Flutes, piercing and sweet, joined in. Some people had eagle bone whistles and blew them.

  White Fox danced, one moccasin stomping into the dirt, and then the next, raising small red puffs of dust. His braids jostled at each step. The younger dancers spun around in circles to the music, and all the people watched the sky. After half an hour of dancing, White Fox scanned the horizon. Nothing. After an hour, still nothing. Feeling the pain and weariness in his joints, the old man felt he couldn’t continue. Perhaps they would have to move after all. In one last burst of strength, he held his arms up, his fists clenched, and let out a cry, begging for rain to fall.

  As it happened, Ruthie raised her fists at the exact same moment. A man agreeing with a woman, and a Native American agreeing with a settler, all less than a mile apart, proved too much for the universe to handle. That is when the space-time continuum ripped and a new thing came to earth. If people had listened carefully and had understood, they would have heard a slow wind in the distance. The prairie grass dipped slightly. Even without clouds, the sky grew a bit darker blue.

  The Kiowa and the settlers felt a change in the atmosphere. Looking to the west, the sky began to transform; the wind picked up. The dark blue turned an eerie green. The eerie green turned to pitch black. Thunder growled, low and dangerous. The Kiowa had seen storms before, but nothing like this — ever. Lightning clawed the ether with golden talons. Hail as big as a child’s fist fell, sending the people scrambling for their lodges. And the wind — the wind turned from a gentle breeze to a monster. White Fox felt certain the Wind Spirit was paying a personal visit.

  The howling gale deafened ears. The hail pelted down mercilessly. And then nothing — nothing except skin-crawling silence. Even the grass stood still.

  “What in tarnation?” William wondered out loud as he peeked out the back of his wagon.

  “Told you it was gonna rain!” Ruthie crowed in her triumph and climbed out. She ran several yards towards the clouds, eage
r to be the first one to meet the rain.

  “Get back in here!”

  Ignoring William, she saw it — the biggest, blackest, vilest cloud covering the western horizon. It dropped lower and lower, until it formed a belly. The belly twisted and writhed, pointing closer to the ground with each second, sending debris piercing the air. Before Ruthie had time to run to shelter, the twister jumped the small hill, jumped the dry creek bed, and landed on top of her.

  When it disappeared, no sign of Ruthie could be found. William wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that (until he found her on the trail four days later — on a Tuesday). With all the ensuing rain, the Kiowa didn’t have to move; the grass greened up and the buffalo returned. White Fox gained even more status with his people and died several years later as a revered elder.

  And now you know how killer tornados were born — combined stubborn agreement from polar opposites — in spite of the obvious (which some people call faith and some stupidity). And, you have proof that someone really can be knocked into next Tuesday.

  ***

  About the Author:

  Published my first novel in 2005 under the pen name Magnolia Belle and write primarily about Texas and Native Americans, in both historical and modern genres. I graduated from Tarleton State U. in 1978 with high honors and as a member of Who's Who in American Colleges and Universities. My business degree specialized in accounting. Go figure. Black Wolf Books was established in 2005 and incorporated in 2006 to handle my publications.

  https://www.blackwolfbooks.com

  ###

  Shadow Lantern

  by Gareth Lewis

  Copyright © April 2011

  "It's enchanted."

  "And therefore valuable?"

  "There's enchanted, and then there's cursed. The difference can be expensive."

  "And which do you think it is?"

  "Which do you believe it to be?"

  "Enchanted, of course. Can't your little device tell you what it does?"

  "If it had, don't you think I'd have said?"

  "Not if you wanted to know if I know what it does."

  "Do you?"

  "I might."

  "No, you don't."

  "No I don't. And your device isn't telling you?"

  "I won't be employing it fully until I know more about the lantern. It bears a strong enchantment, but considering what happened last time you brought something like this to me, I'm sure you'll forgive my caution. And understand my impulse to just have your throat slit and call it my own."

  "Now that's not hospitable. And since you don't usually take this long to make decisions, I doubt you'll be doing that. Probably."

  "We'll see. How did you come by it?"

  "It's an inheritance from a sweet old uncle, lived over near the eastern dwimmerstone mines. He suffered an unfortunate accident involving a Sister of the Eternal Yearning, a triple humped melon-cow, and a..."

  "If you're not going to give a serious answer, my decision on what to do with you may come sooner than you'd like."

  "Considering your profession, and my profession, how do you think I acquired it?"

  "Then I'll rephrase. Where did it come from?"

  "The old warehouse formerly used by the dwimmercraft school. They had a section for old artifacts. They recently had to move out due to the cumulative effects of the gathered energies on the structure. Stuff was transported to new sites. Heavily guarded, of course, and we were vigilant in ensuring nobody else stole any of it."

  "So how likely is it to be missed?"

  "Its container still holds an old lantern as listed in the manifest. So, since it hadn't been touched in a century or two, I doubt you need to worry about someone coming looking anytime soon."

  "Good. Were there any notes with the manifest offering a clue as to what it does?"

  "There were notes. Unfortunately I'm unable read High Sumerrial, and didn't have the opportunity to copy them."

  "So we're back to the problem of not knowing its... abilities."

  "You can't use your device to prod it till you find out?"

  "I employ people to do that. Y'know how dangerous these things can be? Had a... colleague, who acquired a similar item, spent a lot of time trying to work out what it did, convinced it was valuable. One morning they came into his room and found what was left of him in a puddle. He fit in a jar. A small jar."

  "I'm sure you'd be far more cautious..."

  "I'm not finished. His wife kept the jar on her mantelpiece. But one day her drunken brother visited, looking to borrow some money to maintain this state. He spied the bottle, and, well, let's just say I don't want to end up pissed into the gutter by a drunkard."

  "So I guess you're not going to light it and see what happens?"

  "Do I look stupid?"

  "How do you want me to answer that?"

  "Carefully. You know my lads're just outside."

  "So why not ask them to bring us some drinks from out front?"

  "I'm not thirsty. But I am tired. It's been a long day, so let's get down to it. Why're you here?"

  "Trying to sell this, of course."

  "There're other places to sell it. Buyers with less history. It's been a few years since you disappeared following our previous... dealing. Then you suddenly turn up, unannounced."

  "You have access to a number of specialists who can find out what it does."

  "So do my competitors. Some o' them'd even buy it without knowing, and bargain with less vigour than you'd expect from me, so that ain't it. What's the real reason?"

  "I'm back in the city, figured I'd need to make sure there's no hard feelings."

  "And do you think there are?"

  "Hey, accidents happen. But you're a businessman, and the stuff you seized should've paid for your inconvenience."

  "And yer friend? Are there hard feelings over what happened to him?"

  "Occupational hazard. Besides, what am I going to do? Since you met me in private, not knowing if I'm holding a grudge, I have to assume you're wearing enough charms to protect yourself from anything I could try. Am I right?"

  "..."

  "So what are you protected against? Just physical attacks? What if I pulled a dwimmerstick on you?"

  "..."

  "Okay, okay. You know, you're a very suspicious person."

  "No, I'm cautious. You're suspicious."

  "That wasn't called for, now was it. Anyway, my point is you obviously feel confident enough that I'm not going to harm you."

  "Doesn't mean you're not tryin' to cheat me. In fact, given our history I could just call the Watch in and claim the lantern's mine. You want those inhuman bastards getting hold of ye?"

  "Now come on, we're just talking here. There's no call for threats. Especially since you don't want the Watch in your business any more than I do. If only 'cause of the smell."

  "Well then, I suppose I'll just have to call me lads in. They lack the creativity to make it an interestin' threat, though."

  "Creative underlings are the last thing you'd want."

  "But fer brutal violence, they do the job."

  "Brutal violence is the last thing I want."

  "An' what I want's to finish here. I'm tired, an' me eyes are goin'. Everythin's turnin' green, so give me one good reason I shouldn't..."

  "Oh, it's not your eyes. In fact, if you'd glance at the wall behind you..."

  "An' turn my back on ye?"

  "I thought you were protected from anything I could do? I give my word, for what that's worth, to make no move against you. Go on, you know you want to look."

  "So th' wall's lit up a garish green. So wha'?"

  "And what's missing?"

  "Missing? Yer bloody face if ye don't stop... My shadow? It's barely there. What...?"

  "I knew you'd spot it eventually. Of course I thought you'd realise your candle had gone out first."

  "How...? Whe'...?"

  "Where's the light coming from? The lantern, of course. I lit it before comi
ng here."

  "But it's..."

  "An invisible flame? Yes. Against which your charms apparently offer little protection. And it's the flame which is stealing your shadow, your vitality, your ability to form a coherent sentence."

  "Ah'm..."

  "Weak? Lifeless? Yes. But on the bright side, I feel energized."

  "Why?"

  "As you said, he was my friend. So, let's discuss reparations for the goods you seized..."

  ***

  About the Author:

  Gareth Lewis has written a number of novels and shorter pieces in a few genres, fantasy, science fiction, and thrillers, a number of which are available as eBooks. A programmer, he has a degree in computer studies, and lives in South Wales.

  You can learn more about Gareth and his work on his website: https://www.garethlewis.eu

  ###

  STAINED

  by Amy Saunders

  Copyright © 2010

  When Betty Silva entered Room 153, the only light in the room peeked through the curtain sides. No one answered when she knocked so she propped open the door with her cart stocked with towels and tiny soaps and shampoos, pocketing the master key. Her stubby legs lined with rust-colored nylons scurried across the beige carpet to the windows. The room seemed bare from the outlines she saw. Nothing on the faux-wood dresser or desk to her right. The floor appeared clean. It looked like an easy job. Of course, she hadn't seen the bathroom yet.

  Betty yanked on the white curtain cord, the sea foam green polyester curtains swishing back and forth. She looked out the window to the street below where a line of cars and trucks waited at a light. The view stunk but she supposed the occupant just slept there anyway. Most of their visitors came for the technology companies that branched out around the hotel like spokes on a wheel. With light filling the room, she turned to get a good view of the work ahead of her. Her round chin dropped slightly, her dark chocolate eyes shooting open.

  It would be a lot of work for someone.

  A man in dark blue jeans and a white T-shirt lay spread eagle on the bed. Blood matted his brown hair and dyed the white sheets underneath him. They'd never get that out, Betty thought. She bolted for the door, pushing the cart away enough to slide through, and ran all the way to the hotel lobby.