©2012 TreasureLine Publishing/Linda Boulanger

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The following are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, to factual events or to businesses is coincidental and unintentional. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author(s) and do not necessarily represent the views or thoughts of the publisher. The author(s) has/have represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

Writing short fiction based on a weekly challenge is what Clever Fiction is all about. “Mystery Ingredients” are offered and writers mix it up into something creative. The stories are then posted for other writers and readers to enjoy and critique – comments are always welcome. And you are welcome too! The site is open, so if you’re interested in some great reading or even participating, please take a look:

http://www.CleverFiction.com

Our thanks go out to Patrick Sipperly – Creative Fiction was his brainchild and his expertise in website design created the site. Without Pat there would be no Clever Fiction. To Laura J. Miller (aka Author Jaimey Grant) and Linda Boulanger for working together to create an amazing cover and aesthetically pleasing interior, as well as stepping in to man the website. And a HUGE thank you goes to Airicka Phoenix for taking over the always overwhelming task of ordering the stories. That part of an anthology is a mind boggling, hair pulling activity. THANK YOU, Airicka!

And to the many writers who chose to participate.

You ARE Clever Fiction!!!

Pick up your pen

and challenge yourself.

Table of Contents

Strangers…..Luc Watelet

Write Me…..Patrick Sipperly

Whispers in the Wind…..Cathy Collar

Compromise…..Heather Davis

Torrid…..Airicka Phoenix

When Tears Flow Like Rain…..Patricia A. Hawkenson

I’m Afraid…..Linda Boulanger

The Garden of Life…..Laura Walton

Neath Hollywood Boulevard…..Lorenzo Porricelli

Driven…..Wayne Harris-Wyrick

The Nashville Flight…..Rita Durrett

Spring Restoration…..Todd Naevestad

The Familiar Secret…..Joshua Spotts

Eliza’s Epiphany…..Jaimey Grant

Zane & Delanna…..Void Munashii

The Photo Album…..MonaLee Wilson

New Beginnings…..JenniferMcMurrain

Rain Delay…..Jeffrey Caminsky

Will Spring Ever Come? …..Katelyn S. Irons

An Upsetting Package…..Sharon E. Cathcart

A Sweet Surprise…..Jeremy Dunn

A Note From The Editor

Strangers

Luc Watelet

Fields and trees go by rhythmically, infinitely, hypnotically. Richard is staring out the window, mesmerized by the view out from the morning train that left Atlanta, Georgia for New Orleans, Louisiana. The trance he’s in reminds him of the cawing crows swirling incessantly above his head years before.

“Do you take the train much?”

“Huh?” Richard says quickly, coming back to his senses. “No, you?”

He notices he’s been traveling over three hours already.

“No,” the lady says. “I’m Evelyn. I just got in at the Birmingham station.”

Her light brown hair has red reflections and her green eyes are bright. She wears a long dress with a peach-colored flower pattern.

“I’m Richard,” he says.

“Are you going to New Orleans?” she asks putting her luggage down.

“Mardi Gras …”

“Me, too. It’s my first time.”

“Yeah! Me, too! Do you like jazz?” he asks.

“Zydeco. It gets under my skin like nothing else does. And I like the French culture. How about you?”

“I just had a conference in Atlanta, and I thought I’d take a break before going back to work.”

“What kind of conference?”

“Biostatistics for the pharmaceutical industry. I have a reservation for lunch. Do you care to join me?”

Walking together to the dining car, she continues the conversation. “You mean, about getting FDA approval for drugs?”

“Yeah and vaccines. But there’s a whole lot of statistical stuff that comes before FDA negotiations. We work on scientific models and animal studies before we start tests on human beings. Then we set up standards and make sure different labs perform up to those standards. It’s a huge machine and there’s lots of competition.”

“You like it?”

“You’d think … I always thought I’d follow my heart.”

“What happened?”

“It’s strange. I loved psychology. My dad encouraged me to do psychiatry, but I was not interested in medicine and meds.”

“And now you’re working for a pharmaceutical company?”

“Ironic, isn’t it? Well, I also loved abstract math. My advisor suggested I be practical and mentioned biostatistics. I felt the pull of traveling away from home. I had good grades. I got scholarships and I went for it. It’s funny, often in my life I started doing something I loved, but I let it change to something I did not care for that much. Like following a thread for fun, only to find out down the line, something has shifted and it is no longer what I loved. I wonder how to put the fun back into things.”

“So how do you put the fun back into biostatistics?”

“The way I interact with people. A mix of counseling and detective work. Most people don’t know what statistics can and can’t do. They make assumptions. A statistician needs to sort it out: what the researcher assumes, what the actual objectives are, and frame that in the language of statistics. Once the data is collected there is fun in exploring what they say and how to best display the results to non statisticians. I love talking with people and helping them zone in on the core of the issue. Not guess, but really know the truth of the matter.”

“Truth, in statistics? I thought statistics was the art of lying.”

“Well, it can be, like politics or law, unless you have integrity. Some philosophers say truth does not exist, or truth is subjective. Every worldview, every paradigm, creates its own sets of truth. That’s one argument. But there are truths that come as a result of letting go of a paradigm. When you experience that, there is no turning back. You’ve transcended something. You experience freedom. And you know truth is not just a subjective concept.”

“I know what you mean. I have a ranch with horses. It’s an equine healing center. A 30 something woman came, Xavier, who was gang raped at 16. She was scared of men and never had a lover. I took her to three of my gentler mares in the field. The mares surrounded her almost immediately and walked in a circle around her slowly. By accident, a stallion was in the same field. They headed toward him and the mares invited him inside their circle with Xavier. He had dignity and poise, stayed close to the mares, and grazed, peaceful. The mares remained still. Xavier approached him and he let her pet his long, dark mane and his deeply rich brown hair. He started to move forward and Xavier let him go. But he stopped, moved his large head toward her briefly, and remained still until she touched him again. When she did, he started walking again. She let him go, once more. He repeated this until she started walking with him, holding on to his mane. The mares opened the circle. He first walked, but then increased his speed to a trot, with a spring in his step, and went even faster so she needed to run, holding on tight to his mane, and laughing her heart out with a freedom she had never experienced before. Eventually, he whinnied as he came to a stop. She put her head against his neck and they remained connected for some time. Slowly, he walked her back to me.”

There are tears in Evelyn’s eyes. Her smile is radiant. She looks out the window. A hawk is flying high in the same direction as the train. “We’re being escorted,” she comments. “Three weeks later I received a letter from Xavier. She had met a man who had asked her on a date and did not run away when she told him about the rape. He waited for her to initiate their first kiss. She was puzzled because years of therapy had not helped her heal. There are truths, deeper truths, and they are not necessarily expressed in words.”

“How did you get into that?”

“It started as a child. I hear nature whisper. Everything whispers. When I mentioned it to Mom, she told me I was imagining things. She told me nature does not talk. But it does. I heard the wind. I heard the rustle of leaves respond to the wind. Mom asked me to stop telling her these things. She said if I mentioned this to people, they would call me insane and would shut me up in a psych ward. I did not know what a psych ward was, but it did not sound like a place I wanted to go.”

“What does the wind say?”

“The wind urges us all to dance, to celebrate, to lose ourselves in life. I met someone once, years ago. She was at the center of town when it is the busiest, right around noon. She wore a dress, with colorful abstract patterns, and a purple shawl, loosely wrapped around her neck, that flowed with the wind. She blew bubbles into the wind, from a bottle of bubble detergent, and the wind played with them. The joy that came of it was irresistible and I asked if I could blow some too. We blew bubbles together and we lost track of time. Some people watched us, especially children and their parents, and I heard laughs. People smiled at each other.”

“How did you get your ranch?’

“Mom gave me horseback riding lessons. Every girl loves that. I saw that the same horse responds differently to different riders. It intrigued me. I talked to the riders and it was clear to me that horses were responding to their energy, horses are sensitive to people. As soon as I had a chance I volunteered to work at a horse farm. With time I was asked to manage it and I made it mine. I call it Whispering Winds.”

“Did you ever want to leave biostatistics?” she asks.

“Yes. I tried once. I wanted to change the world. Help end the chaos of lies that fuels wars and oppressions, disconnection and suffering. Big dreams, right? How to make a living at it? How did Mother Teresa go to the street in Calcutta and generate interest in her cause? She simply followed her heart. I quit. But nothing came of it, no career ideas. What to do? One day, hundreds of crows suddenly started swirling above my head, cawing loudly, urgently. I was walking alone. I looked up to see them circle endlessly over me. Their cacophony resonated in my chest as if it was directed at me, urging me back to my job. I screamed, tortured inside; it hit my pride and the only sense of meaning I had in my life. I had resigned two month before and was warned that there would be little chance I would be supported back into the field. It took determination and I was. I have been back in the field for 15 years now!”

“But you wanted out, why would the crows urge you back?”

“I wasn’t ready. I was like Don Quixote trying to change things I didn’t like thinking that would clear the way to do what I liked. I didn’t know yet to trust in what I love first.” Richard pauses. “You want to find a Zydeco band tonight and dance?”

“Lovely!”

The train stops at the New Orleans station. They take a cab to the Maison Perrier, a B&B where Evelyn made a reservation, and leave their luggage there. They continue with the same cab to eat dinner at Café Degas and a different cab to dance at the Mid-City Lanes Rock 'N Bowl. Evelyn hopes that C. J. Chenier will be performing. He is not.

Evelyn and Richard soon forget about him as they lose themselves into the dancing. They forget they have just met, that they were just strangers a few hours before. When the band plays the last note, Richard and Evelyn embrace, like long time friends. Richard asks Evelyn if she can hear his heart beat. “You must be kidding, it’s knocking at mine,” she says, her breath soft and warm on his left ear. He sighs. “Is your heart open?” Richard whispers. Evelyn moves her face to look at him. Her eyes are glowing. His are, too. “May I kiss you?” Richard asks her, as if he’d said “May I have this dance?” “Please,” she says, in the same tone.

In the late hours of the evening, they walk the three or four miles back to the B&B, holding hands and stopping at times to kiss, because of something one of them says, or for no reason at all.

Around 11 the next morning, they wake up together.

“How did you get in my bed?” she asks him.

“How did you get in my life?” he responds.

They kiss.

They decide to get beignets and coffee blended with chicory in the French Quarter. They take a cab, sit in the back, and remain silent a long time. The cab driver looks at them now and again through the rear view mirror. “First time in New Orleans?” he asks to break the heaviness he feels. They acknowledge him with a “Hmmm,” and glance at each other, otherwise ignoring him. They talked so freely the day before, and so much more happened than they anticipated. They had to catch up with their behavior and face the lingering question of where to go from there. Weren’t they still strangers? How could they feel as if they’d known each other forever?

She reaches for his hand with a smile that expresses the whole of it.

“I’d love to visit your ranch,” he says, in response to her touch.

“I can always use the help,” Evelyn says, relieved.

The cab stops at Café du Monde. They thank the driver with a tip. There’s a line which moves quickly and they ask for a table for two, comfortable like old lovers, and giddy like teenagers.

Write Me

Patrick Sipperly

Jack set his travel bag down and closed the door to the rented condo. A few days away from the nine-to-five grind sounded good a hundred and fifty-one miles ago. But he was still the same Jack. Geography wouldn't change that.

He hung his dress shirts in the closet then looked out the huge bay window. The iconic rusty-red rocks of Sedona stood tall in the sun. Another beautiful spring day in Arizona. The kind of day that makes a writer pick up a pen.

“Nope,” Jack chuckled at himself. “Those days are long gone.”

He flipped through a tourist magazine and decided on a medium-rare dinner at the Cowboy Club downtown. He found a comfortable spot at the bar and ordered a porter house steak dinner with a baked potato and Caesar salad. He visited the Silver Saddle Saloon afterward, but the music was a bit loud for his taste. He decided on a walk down the streets where other visitors strolled and shopped through windows.

The sun left burnt edges to the sky when he returned to his room. From the balcony he saw stars looking down upon the streetlights that dotted the dark landscape.

He stayed under a steamy shower until the water turned cool. He pondered the meaning of life as soapy water circled the drain then disappeared.

He turned the lights off and slipped under the covers of the comfortable king bed. His eyes adjusted to the welcome darkness while the sounds of night seeped into the room. He rested his head on the pillow and wondered if sleep would come easily or if he'd need to take a pill again.

He began his descent into the sweet abyss. Adrift on an ocean of onyx...

A singular sound brought him back to the world. He listened to the room but kept his eyes closed. He was so close this time. He wasn't sure if he even brought his pills.

Then he realized something was on the bed with him. He sank into terror. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes.

She was a pale shadow leaning over him. The ambient light from outside made her features just visible. Then unmistakable.

Jack remained frozen waiting for her to do something. His heart pounded in his ears.

Her eyes moved back and forth staring into his, waiting for acknowledgment. Her lips parted to say something, then she stopped.

Jack remained fixed upon the impossible figure of the young woman.

“Remember me?” she whispered.

He nodded his head slowly.

“I want to live, Jack.”

She rested her hand upon his chest.

“Bring me to life, please?”

Jack's heart beat more calmly. He looked around the room then back to the girl.

“You're not real.”

“I am real, Jack. I've heard you talk about me. You used to think about me all the time. Did you finally decide on my name? Was it Jessica or Jennifer?”

“This can't be happening,” he said. “I don't write anymore.”

“But you are a writer. I was going to be in your next book, and maybe the one after that. Don't you remember?”

Jack sat up. “That was years ago, Jessica. Back when I was young and foolish and thought anything was possible. It was a crazy flight of fancy. Forget it.”

“So I'm Jessica,” she said smiling. “I love it. Tell me more.”

She sat on the edge of the bed waiting like a child begging to hear how the story ends. He looked at her golden hair and soft features through sad eyes. Too many years had passed. Too many life-draining years.

“I was a writer. Now I'm not, Jess. I work with numbers now, not words. I tried. I just couldn't make it work.”

“What can I do to help?” she asked.

Jack shook his head.

Jessica slid her hand under his and lifted it to her cheek. The silky feel of her skin against him made his heart ache.

“You don't understand, honey.”

“Please?” She leaned closer. “Please, let me live!”

She was every bit as beautiful now as when he first imagined her years ago. Alluring brown eyes and long, wavy blonde hair. Whatever she wore was his favorite.

She kept her eyes on him and tilted her head slightly. She guided his hand under her chin and down her neck.

“What can I do for you?”

She lowered his hand to her firm, round breast. Her eyes bore in to him. “What do you need, Jack?”

Jack pulled his hand away. “This isn't you, Jessica. You're not my girl. You belong to someone else.”

“I do? What's his name? What's he like?”

“You know. You must have heard me talk about him too.”

“Maybe I have. It's been so long.”

Jack studied his visitor in the quietness, then he fell back to his pillow. The shadowy girl held to his hand with pleading eyes.

He pulled the covers back for her.

Jessica stood and lifted her hair back. Her blouse blurred into something shimmering and violet. She moved in close to him and pulled the covers around her. Jack wrapped his arms around her, caught in the scent of her hair and the feel of her slender frame against him.

She laced her fingers between his.

“Write me, Jack.”

Hot tears flowed hard down his cheeks.

The black ocean returned to claim him.

Just after eight, Jack was at the window again pondering the new day over a Styrofoam cup of instant coffee. Puffy clouds filled the blue sky. He took a sip and sat down to his waiting laptop. Her touch still lingered on his fingers.

Chapter 1

Jessica stood near the water's edge waiting for the sun to rise...

Whispers in the Wind

Cathy Collar

She was clothed in the colors of dawn, hues of orange, peach and pink. She smelled of rose petals and was crowned with a head of glorious, fiery red hair. Cat-green eyes met the world giving it a wicked, challenging glare. She turned and looked at the mortal pursuing her. Smiling beguilingly, she sat down by the pond. The mortal, Daniel her new victim, followed like a puppy bewitched by her magical beauty.

“Do you love me, Daniel? She whispered, her lush lips close to his ear.

“You know my heart belongs to you.” Daniel gazed into her emerald eyes. “You must never leave me!”

His hand extended to touch her hair. She slipped just out of reach.

“Not yet, my love.” She said.

Dayinaira waved her hand and the young man sat motionless in front of her. Just one touch and his soul would be hers. The beauty sighed. Being a Lhiannan Shee was not always so easy. One would think that the most powerful Enchantress of Fay would have everything she ever wanted, but they were so wrong.

She sat studying her prey. He was so young, maybe twenty-four or five in human years and quite handsome with his wavy black hair and deep blue eyes. It was such an unusual combination for a human. Did she really want to steal his youth and life away? She wasn’t in need of substance right now and it did seem like such a waste.

She needed to think. Dayinaira wandered into the beautiful, rich forest. She inhaled the scent of the fresh spring flowers. Finding a wild rose she threaded it into her hair. What she wanted was someone to love her. Truly love her, not because of her enchanting charm or beauty but because of who she was. Picking a daisy, she plucked at the petals.

“How will I know if he loves me or he loves me not?” She asked as each petal floated to the ground.

Behind the trees, silently watching, the Glanconer, Conquestia listened. His tanned muscular body blended with the forest. His ebony eyes intensely studied the beauty before him. This was not the first time he had found himself staring at her from a distance. What was the matter with him? He was a Glanconer, a Love Talker. He could woo any woman to his bed with just a few sweet words whispered in her ear. But no, he told himself. Even if he could charm Dayinaira with his sliver tongue, which was doubtful because of her own magical powers, that was not what he wanted. He wanted her to see the man in him, not the Elvin charmer.

So many times he had watched her walk away from her prey. The joy of the game had left her as it had him. After thousands of years, one grows weary of the same old thing. Yes, they both needed mortals every now and then for substance, but the pure pleasure of the taking was gone. The question was how could he approach her without her being suspicious of his intent? Could they maybe fill the void in each others life? He had to know.

As he watched she rose and returned to her prey. He followed closely behind.

One more intense look at the young man and then her sweet song filled the air. She put him to sleep without touching him, leaving him with a whopper of a headache when he woke up, but still alive and unharmed.

As Conquestia watched, Dayinaira dissolved in a mist of teardrops and floated off on the breeze. This time he didn’t follow. He needed to think this conquest through. One mistake and Dayinaira would not give him another chance. He returned to the place where the daisy petals now lay on the ground and sat on her previous perch pondering his problem.

“Twiddle Dee and Twiddle Dare. Why are you in such despair?”

Great, thought Conquestia, it’s Duprey. Just what I don’t need right now. Normally he would be happy to see the Amoral Fairy, his old friend and accomplice, but not now.

“Go away Duprey. I am not in the mood for company right now.”

“You mean not in the mood for my company, don’t you? I’m sure you wouldn’t send the beautiful Dayinaira away if it were her disturbing your thoughts. Get over it man. She’s an Enchantress, and one of the most powerful fairies in Fay. She kills her lover, not like you and I who simple have our fun then go our merry way.”

“And why do you care, Duprey? You thrive on the pain of others. You should be eating this up. Isn’t that what you live for? Bringing young women up to the height of euphoria, then reveling in the fall when you pull the rug out from underneath their hearts. Go away. I despise you right now.”

“Oh, come on Conquestia! You can’t seriously be thinking of trying to out charm her are you? Man, that would be suicide. You might never recover! Let’s go find a nice pretty little mortal. That will make you forget all about Mistress Death.”

“Don’t call her that! You don’t know her like I do. Just leave me to my thoughts.”

“Fine. Your loss. I saw a real ripe beauty enter the woods near the glen. I’ll just take her for myself. Pine away for what will never be.”

Maybe Duprey was right, thought Conquestia. How do you enchant the most powerful enchantress in Fay without using magic?

Sighing, he picked up the daisy petals one by one. He stared at them as if they held the answer he was seeking.

“Fickle, fickle, fickle Fay. Don’t be dreary this fine day, for I have seen your heart and know, a way for your love to show.”

The promise whispered through the air and dangled before him on its invisible thread.

“Who are you and how do you know what is in my heart?”

“Who I am you need not know, just listen to my voice and go, to the pool of tranquility, and wait for the Lhiannan Shee.”

“Why should I trust you, when you will not show your face?”

“Fickle, fickle, fickle Fay, We could do this all of the day, but it won’t get you what you want, and then it will be all your fault!

The voice floated away on the breeze.

Well she did have a point thought Conquestia, it couldn’t hurt to go see what she had planned. Holding onto the precious petals, he vanished into the air.

Dayinaira watched the white stag and doe tenderly touch noses then bound off into the forest as one. Love was so easy for the animals. Not complicated at all. You see someone you like. You see if he likes you and then whatever happens was meant to be.

No charms, no acting, no false hopes. How lucky they were.

She had seen The Glanconer, Conquestia weave his charms around innocent young nymphs and mortals. He acted like he enjoyed each conquest, but she knew different. Through the years his touch was less enchanting. His words were less enticing. It was as if he was just doing it out of duty, and recently she had witnessed him pulling back before he had totally won the heart of his victim, leaving a place for true love in her heart.

He was such a handsome elfin man, so sure of himself and always gentle with his prey. She wondered what his touch, his kiss would feel like. His sweet lips pressed against hers. Their hearts beating in rhythm, pulsating with true love. Could he really love anyone? She would never know. He, like all of the other men of Fay, feared her. They saw her as a monster that brings nothing but despair and death. She would never find true love.

“Fickle, fickle, fickle Fay. Don’t be dreary this fine day. For I have seen your heart and know, a way for your love to show.”

The wind tousled her hair as the words swayed through the trees.

“Ye of wicked voice show yourself! Face me with your lies! No one knows what lies within my heart but me. No one dares get close enough to see.”

“Fickle, fickle, fickle Fay. This fairy doesn’t work that way. I know your heart, your very soul, The Knowing Fairy always knows. A tranquil place is where he’ll be, that is where he waits for thee. His fear is not of your touch. He fears that you won’t trust him much but, Fickle, fickle, fickle Fay, I’ve seen his heart in the same way. He wants your heart, but does not know, just how, to let it show. He feels you will see just the guise, and not the love that hides inside.”

“And why should I trust you, who will not show your face?”

“Fickle, fickle, fickle Fay, We could do this all of the day, but it won’t get you what you want, and then it will be all your fault! The Pool of Tranquility, this is where he waits for thee.”

The words flitted away with a rustle of leaves. Dayinaira sat astonished by what she has just heard. Conquestia loved her? How could this be true? He had never even talked to her more or less shown any interest in her for the thousands of years they had shared this forest. The Knowing Fairy was wrong this time. He could not love her. He didn’t even really know her. Well the only way to get that insolent fairy straightened out was to prove her wrong and the only way to do that was to have a little chat with The Love Talker himself. With a flip of her hair she disappeared into thin air.

Dayinaira spotted Conquestia sitting beside the pool intently staring at something in his hands. What in the world was so interesting? She approached slowly. He didn’t move. He raised his head and met her intense emerald eyes.

“I think you left these in the forest.” He said. “I have been studying them and I think I have gotten them to answer your question.”

Dayinaira looked down at the crumpled white petals.

“And what question would that be?” she asked arching a brow and holding his ebony gaze.

“How will you know if he loves you or he loves you not?”

Dayinaira gasped burying her face in her hands.

“What magic is this that tears at my heart and messes with my mind?”

“A very old, old magic, Dayinaira, older than both of us, older than time itself.”

Dayinaira raised her proud head. “Well, since you are so clever, what is the answer to my question, Love Talker?”

“Just that my love, he will tell you.”

Her eyes again held his, her vulnerability no longer hidden.

“And what does he say?”

“He says,” Conquestia drew her into his arms. “He loves you with each and every petal.”

Compromise

Heather Davis

“Which one?” JoJo asked, holding up two veils, as Keith pulled apart an Oreo cookie he had smuggled in. He liked eating the hard chocolate outside while carefully peeling the white cream off and saving it for last. He shrugged his shoulders indicating that he just didn’t care about the veils. That and his mouth was full of chocolately crumbs; he knew that talking with his mouthful of food was quite possibly the ultimate dinner-table sin.

“This is your wedding, too!” JoJo shrieked. “You have to help me decide.” Ever obedient, he pointed to the veil in her right hand, still chewing his chocolately goodness.

“This one?” JoJo said shaking the one in her right hand. “Yeah, right, Keith. This one is dumb. Do you even remember that I want my hair braided?” Keith shook his head no and unscrewed another chocolate cookie. “Well,” JoJo continued, “If I wear this one, no one can see my braid. C’mon, Keith. Pay attention!” Keith nodded his head and continued to crunch the cookie.

“Now,” JoJo continued, placing the veil in her left hand on the vanity that was situated under the window, “We need to decide on my new shoes. Stand up, Keith,” she ordered. As Keith worked his body from the sitting to the standing position, JoJo tried on the first pair of shoes then positioned herself directly in front of Keith. Her nose hit the top of his forehead. She kicked the shoes off with an exasperated grunt. Without uttering a word, Keith sat back down.

“What are you doing? Don’t sit down yet,” JoJo said between her gritted teeth, “I’ve still got more shoes to try on until I get the right kind for me to wear when I stand next to you,” then she paused for dramatic purposes before yelling, “WHEN WE GET MARRIED!” With the raised volume of JoJo’s voice, Keith bounded to his feet and even stopped chewing the creamy white center he’d been able to perfectly remove from the chocolate outsides.

After JoJo tried on every pair of shoes in the house, she declared that she would just have to go barefooted. Only at that time did Keith relax his shoulders and slowly – very slowly – lower himself to have a seat again. He was glad he’d smuggled the cookies in with him. It seemed like they might be in this stuffy, pink place forever and he figured it was getting pretty close to lunch. He let a big sigh escape as JoJo began pulling dress upon dress right off the rod.

“Keith?” JoJo said sweetly, although Keith was cautious concerning her tone, “Are you bored?” He froze. He knew it was a trick question. He knew that if he said yes, he’d get yelled at. But he also knew that if he said no, he could easily find himself sitting right in that very spot for the rest of the day. He did the only thing he knew to do: He stared right at JoJo and didn’t move a muscle. Still as a statue. No blinking. No breathing. No biting the cookie that was clutched in his sweaty little hand.

As his eyes locked on her dark chocolate eyes, he remembered why he was there. She was his best friend: laughing at all of his jokes, sharing his favorite foods, watching his favorite shows on TV, reading his favorite books, playing his favorite games. With JoJo’s thick red hair that she hated to brush, she was also the first girl he thought was as beautiful as his mom. That’s why he was standing there locked in a stare down with her instead of out with his friends.

“Because,” JoJo said, finally breaking from his gaze, “This is OUR wedding. And if you think you’re bored now, mister, you’d better think again. So you’d better just get unbored!” In response to his utter confusion, Keith slowly raised the cookie to his mouth as JoJo scratched her head looking as confused by what she had just said as Keith was. She spun on her heels and began holding dresses up to her petite body as she looked at herself in the full-length mirror.

She spun again and faced Keith. “Do you like this one best, Keith?” He nodded his approval. “Or this one?” He nodded his approval again. “Or this one?” He nodded his approval once more. “Keith!” JoJo hollered, “You’re being dumb again!”

JoJo dropped the dresses then dropped her head; Keith dropped his last cookie from his mouth. She slowly walked to Keith and sat herself down beside him. He offered her the cookie. She shook her head no and whispered, “Don’t you want to get married, Keith? Don’t you want to marry me?”

Keith shook his head and then whispered right back at her the first word he had uttered all day, “No”.

JoJo’s brows knit themselves together in the middle of her forehead. She chewed on the inside of her lips and crossed her arms in front of her chest; she turned her tiny frame away from Keith and toward the window. She saw some children outside playing kickball in the grassy lot. She let out a big sigh and turned back to her beloved.

“You really don’t want to get married?”

Keith shook his head no.

Not ready to give up her dream, JoJo pushed, “Really, really don’t want to get married?”

Keith chewed a few more chews and looked over JoJo’s shoulder to the carefree game being played outside and the beautiful late spring day he was missing before he shook his head no yet again.

“Then how about this,” JoJo said with a strange mix of resignation and readiness in her voice, “Today we go outside and play kickball until everyone goes in for lunch. Then after lunch, you come back over, and we get married. Deal?”

For the first time all day, Keith smiled. “Deal!” he shouted. Then they both hopped from JoJo’s bed, giggling as they dashed from her house into the grassy space that separated their families’ homes.

Torrid

Airicka Phoenix

I am dying. The realization is searing like the tip of a red-hot poker burrowing its way deep into my flesh. I bite back a whimper. It’s been so long since sound has left me.

Above me, clouds bleed a hundred shades of grays and blacks. They cry for me, pricking my flesh with thousands of tears, each sharper than the last. It’s nature’s way of cleansing the crimson river flowing freely from the open cavern in my side. I have long since relinquished all desires to live, thus make no effort to stifle the loss of my life as it pools beneath me and escapes away with the rain in tendrils.

“Hang on!” someone shouts over the storm, over my frightened heart, my ragged breathing, my tumultuous thoughts and shattering soul.

Hands, so gentle, so warm grapple with my crumpled body, tearing at my clothes, pulling away the hindrance to find my injuries.

If they see the wrong that I am, if they see the evil harboring inside me, the fear is not there, and I don’t understand it. Evil as potent as mine should light up like a beacon, warning the innocent away, but maybe that’s what calls them, too. I am an infection and I am infecting those who are trying so desperately to save me.

Don’t save me! I plead without words. Don’t put me back together.

“You’re going to be okay!” Someone mistakes the injured animal sound housing in my throat for a cry of help. The need for my existence radiates through every word. “I promise! I won’t let—”

No! Let me die! I want to scream.

Chaos flashes, faster-and-faster. Voices climb over nature’s wails, the ground trembles. Face-after-face presses in all around me. Men and women in bright clothes and brighter eyes, all watching me, touching me, speaking to me, but I close my eyes. Maybe they will think me gone and leave, give up their attempts.

I am lifted, my bones rattle, my side is licked by a thousand fiery tongues of hell, and I swallow my scream for mercy.

Then, silence. There is peace and warmth. There is the smell of clean things, of spring. I don’t open my eyes, although I want to. I want to see if my life is behind me. If it’s over. If I’m finally free.

I surface to the soft kiss of twilight, an ocean of shimmering silk and decadent clouds. Fire leaps in iron grates at the foot of the bed, painting light across an unfamiliar room.

And the ground is torn from beneath me. I am a porcelain doll tumbling head-over-feet from a cliff and bursting against the rocks below, powerless to protect myself against the realization as the waves greedily lap at my broken body.

They have saved me. I am alive. How could they be so cruel?

The door opens and a small, round face appears in the crack.

It’s a girl, big boned with a head full of corkscrew curls the color of sunshine and eyes soft and blue as cornflowers. She smiles. It’s beautiful, warm and sweet, so unlike any gift I have ever received. I don’t know what to do.

She walks into the room, her steps slow, cautious. Had they warned her about me? Was she here to tell me they’d made a mistake bringing me back?

“Hello.” She’s still smiling. “I’m Amica. You’re safe.”

I’m not safe anywhere. Soon, they’ll call him and he’ll come to get me. He will be so displeased that I lost his case of beer, that I hadn’t been back in time to finish supper. The hospital bill would doubtlessly fuel his rage, not to mention having to replace my dress, the only good one I had left.

“Stupid girl, do you think I’m made of money? Thanks to you, we have to move again. That costs money too you know! If it wasn’t for those monthly cheques, I’d put you on the corner where you belong!”

No. Beck wouldn’t spend a penny if it wasn’t going on beer. I will no doubt have to dip into the emergency can I kept hidden in a loose panel in the closet to replace the case I lost or it’ll be my head.

“Does it hurt?” Amica is watching me, face concentrated with concern. I must have taken too long to answer her.

“Yes.”

Everything hurts. I grope beneath the sheets to my side, expecting my hand to sink into the hole left there by a man with wild, glassy eyes and a butcher knife. My fingers work under the new, clean gown I wear to the tight gauze protecting itchy stitches. It stings.

Amica smiles, teeth and all. “Oh, you can talk! We weren’t sure since you were so quiet the whole time.”

Good girls don’t make a sound. Only devil-children protested against the punishment they deserved. How did Amica not know this?

“Where am I?” I ask.

I don’t recognize my surroundings. It can’t be a hospital, because I know them all. I practically grew up being stitched and wrapped by doctors with somber faces, tired hands and rehearsed speeches about clumsy girls hurting themselves. If they saw my injuries for what they were, no one ever cared.

“You’re safe,” Amica says again. “What’s your name?”

Useless. No. That’s what he calls me. My mother, before she ran away, had given me a name; the social worker who came to the trailer sometimes used it. What was it?

“Sofie.” I think.

Her smile is radiant, so dazzling I am warmed by it like no fire could ever warm me.

“Sofie.”

Amica isn’t the one who murmurs my name tenderly. There is someone else walking into the room.

A boy on the cusp of manhood, steps lightly into the room, hands lost in the mouths of his pockets. He’s dressed the way I’ve seen the private school kids dress, in black slacks and a white dress shirt. I rarely go to school, at least none so fancy you’d need a uniform. The firelight kisses the corn silk strands swept back from a prominent brow. The warm glow illuminates the sea-foam pools set against his angular face. He is beautiful and I forget I need air as he advances.

Breathe, I tell my forgetful lungs.

My flushed body absorbs the heat from the fire. I am sweltering from his attention. I drag the sheets higher to my chin, crushing the silk carelessly. I don’t speak to boys often, not if I can help it, and I don’t know where to start. So I say nothing.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

Like I want to burrow under the landscape of silk and vanish.

“It hurts,” I whisper.

He doesn’t need any clarification. He nods. “You’ve been asleep for two weeks. The doctor who examined you said you were badly malnourished and dehydrated aside from the knife wound. You have some bones which haven’t set properly after being broken and—”

“Where am I?” I interrupt, not needing a reminder of my own injuries.

“Somewhere safe.”

There is no such place. I know this.

“I’m Zander,” he says. “I’m the one who found you.”

I try to bring to mind the images of that night. The pain. The faces, all blurred and distorted, but I recognize him. His is the face etched deep in the recess of my dreams. The one I subconsciously distinguish as the angel who held my hand through the pain, fed me warm, rich things from a bowl and soothed the fire from my brow with a damp cloth. He is my hero.

“You were pretty out of it,” he justifies my silence. “But I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Why did you do it?” I ask.

He looks surprised, and I can’t blame him. Who questions being saved?

“Would you like to go for a walk?”

What does that mean? Is he going to take me to a room where a social worker’s waiting? I have no excuse for being out so late. Beck would never admit that he’d sent me out to get beer. He’ll tell them I snuck out to meet some boy. They’ll believe him. They always do.

A wheelchair is brought next the bed. Amica helps me climb gingerly into it. I place my feet on the footrests. Zander takes the handlebars, thanks Amica and leaves the room with me.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“A little,” I confess timidly.

His chuckle sends a warm shiver through me. “I’m surprised. You usually have your head down when we cross paths. I’ve always noticed you, which probably sounds really creepy right now.”

I wait for the bubble of revulsion to brew in the pit of my stomach the way it did when Beck’s friends came over to play poker, but spent the night watching me, touching me when I passed by, their fingers clammy and their breaths rotting of stale beer and cigars. But that’s not the river of warmed honey that flows through me now. The rising heat within me isn’t screaming with anger. It’s soft, pleasant. I think I’m smiling. I touch my lips. Yes. Definitely smiling.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask.

We’re going down endless corridors, each lined with oil paintings, worn rugs, and polished wood. Expensive.

“I live here,” he says, stopping in front of an elevator. He pushes the down button, “with my uncle, but he’s away on business a lot.”

The lift doors open. We slip inside. He pushes down and the doors close.

Seconds later, the elevator stops. The doors open and he rolls me out into a magnificent, marble foyer. He pushes me through a set of double doors; unleashing a flurry of heavenly fragrances, each so powerful I’m sure I can touch them. Night sparkles around us, kept gently at bay by garden lamps hidden in bushes, trees and floating in a rippling pond. That’s where he stops, next to a granite bench. We sit facing each other. Silence caresses the air. Fireflies float over the lily pads bobbing in the water. Crickets chirp. The wind rustles through the trees. Everything is singing with magic, and I am a child again, holding it all to my innocent heart like my first taste of candy.

“You don’t have to go back,” Zander speaks so softly, I almost mistake him for the pleading voice in my head.

“I can’t stay here.” But I want to. Right here. Near this bench and pond. Forever.

“Why?”

“I don’t know you.” It’s such a lie. I know him. My very soul knows him. He is the same person who brought me in from the rain, stayed with me, healed me and is now offering to save my life… again. I back paddle “My father—”

“Will never touch you here!” The vow drips venom from his curled lips.

I look at him, really look at him and I see what he’s offering me burning behind his eyes—freedom, a way away from Beck, from the abuse, the nights without food, heat, comfort. He was offering me life for the second time.

Freedom. Absolute freedom. I want to cry. I want to believe.

“What do you want?” Everyone wants something.

He straightens slightly, his eyes pools of liquid fire searing through me. “I want you not to walk down the street with marks on your face. I want you not to look petrified when someone bumps into you. I want… I need you to smile. I want you to be happy, Sofie.”

No. There has to be something else. Something he’s not saying.

“What’s in it for you?”

He holds my gaze, unwavering. “I get to see you live.”

Bland, uncaring faces of teachers, social workers, doctors, neighbors… my mother, shatter, splintering the darkness imprisoning my soul, and I am radiant. I am a meadow of wildflowers under a canopy of endless blue. I am the wind.

I am Sofie.

When Tears Flow

Like Rain

Patricia A. Hawkenson

Echolalia

I am filling with sound.

The wind is tossing my hair

as I tuck it into my hoodie

storming with emotion.

A brook is gurgling in me

taunting as its bubbles break

spilling over the rocks.

My breath, slow and labored

whistling out this chilly spring day

interrupting painful thoughts.

My teeth, chattering now

with the cold shoulder of anger

each step more unforgiving.

So speak to me

in whispering tones.

I have no place for more.

I’m about to overflow.

Her sadness wasn’t new. She counted the days by the empty tissue boxes accumulating in the trash. Four. But it was late, and she had to find a way to get some healing sleep. She’d run out of allotted sick days, and if she didn’t show up for work the next morning, she might be out of a job.

Her cell rang again. Its annoying ringtone repeated Nate’s attempts to talk to her, but Katelyn already knew what he wanted to say, “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” There was no point in picking up. She reached down forcing it to play its satisfying shut off music. She clicked ‘File’ then ‘Save,’ shut her laptop, and grabbed another tissue to dab the corners of her eyes. It only hurt because she still loved him, and sleep was elusive because she missed his body lying next to her at night.

She woke up stiff and still under her cloud of depression. Toast and peanut butter didn’t mix well with orange juice, so she left most of her breakfast on the counter as she headed for work, stuffing a frozen entrée for lunch into her bag.

The door to Camden’s Travel Agency swung open as she went in. She smiled and nodded without talking to Roberta, the main receptionist, but went directly to her cubicle, dropped her bag, and she settled in to work.

“That bad, huh?”

Katelyn turned to face Rebecca who was leaning over the cubicle’s half wall. “Yeah, that bad.”

“Well, I’m here, if you need me, and if you want my help tossing that scumbag to the street, I’ll start with his collection of baseball caps.”

She smiled weakly. “Thanks. But first, I think I need time to find some normalcy in work. I should dig through this backlog of emails and snail mail. Then I might be clear headed enough to fill you in on all the gory details.”

“Ok. Don’t forget you have clients coming in at 9:00. The Murphys will be in to talk about the new travel package to Chicago. I left the brochure and a printout of the itinerary with the new price changes on the top of your stack.”

“Thanks.” Katelyn took a deep sigh and immersed herself in her work.

Hours later, the Murphys and three other walk-in clients had come and gone. Katelyn took no breaks and ate her nuked chicken and rice at her desk. Her emails were answered or deleted, and the work day found its way to the end. Walking past the reception desk, she still didn’t feel like talking to Rebecca, but Rebecca already knew enough to give her more time. She handed Katelyn a caramel.

“See, you got through one day. The next one will be easier.”

Katelyn smiled. “That’s what I keep telling myself. See you tomorrow.” She popped the caramel in her mouth and allowed the sweet flavor to melt on her tongue.

The sky was as dark as her mood as she drove home. The air was heavy and she could tell a storm was brewing. Fine. Let it rain. Her car could use a wash, and she was in no mood to do it herself.

Nate’s car was already in the driveway when she pulled in. He was sitting on the wicker sofa on the porch, and he stood up as she got out of the car. She took a deep breath and went up the steps.

He reached to hug her, but she shrugged him off.

“I’ll say I’m sorry a thousand times, if it will make a difference.”

“I’ve heard you say that more than enough already. Somehow, I have to believe it.” She pulled her purse from her side to add a layer between them. For a moment neither of them spoke. His head bent and she stole a moment to look at him. His hair was ruffled like he hadn’t showered. He looked like hell. “Good,” she thought.

“Listen,” he said, “I know I screwed up.”

“You got that right.”

“You can be mad at me forever, or we can try to put it behind us.”

“Put it behind us? Do you think this is just a bad ‘B’ movie that I can return to the rental store?”

“No. You’ve got a memory as clear as my mom’s.”

“Wow. Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Annoyed, Katelyn tried three times to push past Nate to get into the front door, but he kept stepping in front of her.

She turned around and went down the steps. If he was going to block the front door, she would just go around to the back. Nate followed her.

“Look, my mother was smart enough to tell me to stop moping on her couch and come over and talk to you in person. And she was right. Playing phone tag was getting us nowhere.”

“All right,” Katelyn said turning around to face him. “Say it. Get it all out. I’m listening.”

Nate wasn’t so sure. “You look too mad to listen.”

They both ignored the light drizzle that started to make tiny polka-dots on their clothes.

She took a deep breath to calm down. She tried to drop the tension from her shoulders. “Better?”

“Thank you.” He took her hands into his and brought them to his lips. “I’m dying inside knowing how I’ve hurt you. And if you would stop being mad at me long enough to look at me, you’d see that.”

“I do see that, but it doesn’t help me hurt any less.”

“No. I’m not trying to pretend it does, but when we got married, I gave my heart and soul to you. When you’re in pain, I’m in pain. Our hearts are echoing each other. Katelyn, don’t let my mistake end us.”

“Then take back the malicious comments you made about my writing,” she said.

“Malicious?”

“See. That’s the problem between you and me. You probably don’t even know what malicious means!”

“Look. I know what malicious means. The problem with you is that you would think for even a moment that I would say anything to hurt you intentionally. That’s what hurts me!”

“No,” she said thoughtfully realizing that he did know what ‘malicious’ meant. “No. I know deep down that isn’t your nature.”

“I’m not malicious, I’ve just been impervious,” he added.

“Impervious? I think you mean impertinent!” Katelyn started laughing just as the rain changed from the drizzle to a sky splitting downpour. They ran to get under the nearest tree.

“Still feeling impervious?” She was still laughing. Soon, they were both drenched in rain, but somehow, it felt all right again. They stood under the tree for a long time waiting for the rain to let up, but it just kept coming down. Finally, Katelyn dug into her purse for the house key. “We’re going to have to make a run for it.”

“I’m right behind you, because whatever I’m trying to say, you have to know I love you,” he whispered.

He didn’t wait for her to reply. He took the key from her hand and they ran into their house. In the tiny bathroom, his cheek slid against the wetness of hers as he placed a towel around her shoulders. Then he took another and rubbed her hair dry. She answered him by taking the towel from around her neck and flipping it over his head to pull him into her ready kiss.

Later after he had fallen asleep, she slipped into the living room, opened her laptop, and typed:

Echoes in the Rain

The rain has started

with a quietness

so warm and calming

that the tree

throws its back

into the gentle wind

and feels the wetness

rushing down its bark.

It allows the drips to slip

through its branches

between bud

and newly formed leaf

soaking down

through the dusty dirt

surrounding its trunk

and flow deep

deep down

to the thirsty straws

of its roots.

Throwing away

all safety advice

we stand with our hands

on the tree’s wet bark

and our heads tip back

allowing the drips to slip

through our fingers

between the rings

of our newly formed union

soaking down

through our clothes

surrounding our skin

and flow deep,

deep down

to the healing places

of our souls.

And if our sighs of contentment

and renewed strength

were not so loud,

you could have heard

the tree’s.

I’m Afraid

Linda Boulanger

“I love you.”

That’s what I want to say as I look up at you, but I don’t.

I am struck by your beauty, your face softened by the yellow glow of the new spring moon. That same light enhances the fullness of your black hair, casts shadows over eyes already as dark as the night sky above us. Yes, I see beauty in a man! My heart thumps. Butterflies soar within me as they would among the flowers in the day; a gentle, fluttering-tingle in the silence. No, not completely silent – lying beneath you, cloaked by the night, I hear our hearts beating.

Wait! I turn my head, straining to hear more; whispering, among the trees, the hum of a peaceful breeze. I love you. How I long to say those words to you. I sigh instead and gaze, unseeing, into the darkness. My arms drop to my sides as concern gives way to fear. I’m afraid of offering you my heart and you refusing to take it.

Your hand, soft against my face, urges me to look back. I am lost again in your dark eyes glowing with the light of new desire. Your hair against your forehead, dampened by earlier exertion, bids my fingers to push it out of the way, to simply touch you. I reach up and you grab my hand, kiss my wrist, a soft press of love-swollen lips to the tender flesh there.

Now, I can’t remember why I raised my hand. Your mouth curls upward at the corners – you know what you have done. A chuckle resonates from your chest so closely pressed to mine. Then you begin to move again and your breathing changes, telling me you enjoy the way I tense beneath you. For a moment, we’ll simply revel in the feel of our bodies entwined -- the two of us, together -- and yet … not. Then, once again, we’ll become one, united, as lovers, as the rest of the world fades away like a whisper, unimportant, erased from my mind for a time. My thoughts focused on you.

But I want more. My heart cries out to you, begging for a greater union than what we have in this paper marriage, arranged, binding us for eternity as man and wife. We are good together, regardless of the fact that we were united through no choice of our own. You have swept me away, your desire taking me to places I only dreamed existed, our bodies soaring together many times.

Still -- I want … I want to give you my heart. I want to say …

“I love you.” Sweet, unexpected words you speak to me – words that I have longed to hear whispered against my lips as you have kissed me in the darkness. I try to swallow, my throat constricting. I try to find the voice to return them to you.

You know though. You feel the quiver of my body beneath yours, see the tears glistening in the corners of my eyes. Your face shines with understanding, and suddenly my fears fade.

I smile up at you and speak.

“I love you.”

The Garden of Life

Laura Walton

Rain was falling in sheets around Julia Reynolds as she made a mad dash from the library to her car.

Clutching an armful of gardening books tightly to her chest, she worked to keep them dry as the relentless spring showers followed her progress. Shivering from the chilly dampness she set the vehicle into drive and headed for the plant nursery on the east side of town.

Despite the gray skies, her mind was filled with colorful schemes of possibility. This would be the year her garden would succeed. The flowers would grow, the yard would be transformed and somehow in the burst of new life, Julia herself would come alive once again with optimistic joy for living. At least that was the hope that drove her to pursue a horticultural adventure far beyond the skill she thus far had exhibited with plants.

Trays of pink and red geraniums, yellow and violet pansies and orange-hued marigolds greeted her upon arrival at the greenhouses where shoppers meandered through the flowers and plants looking for the perfect selections.

Wandering through aisles of soft fragrance and color, Julia felt the renewal of spirit beginning.

Over the last year she had lost so much. Her husband, her mother, her faith – all gone as she faced betrayal, divorce, cancer. But here in this garden of flowering containers she felt the whisper of new life.

“Can I help you? What are you looking for?”

Julia responded automatically. “Commitment, love, a chance to have it all – for real this time.”

Then reality dawned and Julia realized she had been speaking her deepest thoughts to a greenhouse clerk who probably wondered why she had been staring so long at the rose bushes. Looking up in embarrassment, Julia found herself staring into compassionate blue eyes. Eyes set in a friendly face with laugh lines and striking bone structure.

“I’m sorry,” she began. “I was lost in my thoughts.”

“And they were deep thoughts apparently,” responded the clerk whose name tag read ‘Tom’. “I think a lovely lady such as yourself deserves a chance to have it all.”

Julia wasn’t sure how to respond. It had been so long since someone paid her a real compliment. Her spirit felt broken, bruised. But she attempted a smile and found it growing as she looked deeper into Tom’s eyes.

“What is it you are holding there,” Tom asked, gesturing to the wrinkled and damp paper Julia clutched in her hand.

“Oh, it’s my attempt at a garden plan,” she said with a bit of reticence over the thought of showing it to anyone. “I am not very good with plants, but I really want to have a garden. I did some research at the library and sketched this out. I’m going to just go for it.”

Tom reached for her sketch – their fingers brushing against each other as he took the paper in hand.

“Let’s see what we can to do to help you get started,” he said. “I’m glad you have decided to go for it.”

Julia found herself smiling wider at the clerk who appeared to be close to her age. She wished there was a hidden innuendo in his words. If she ever were to go for a new romance, he might be just the type she’d want to have in her life. Somehow even love and dating seemed possible here in this setting with soft green foliage and sweet white daisies waving softly in the wind.

Tom was still talking while Julia’s mind was daydreaming away. She focused on his smiling lips as he said, “You mentioned being ‘not very good with plants’, but I sense you just need a new relationship with them. All creations – both fragile flowers and beautiful women – deserve to be treated with loving care. I can show you how to make that happen.”

Julia’s breath caught as she found herself taking Tom’s arm and heading through the greenhouse on a tour. He loaded her cart with both plants from her chosen list and a few others with which she was not familiar. At several stops along the aisles he spoke of the importance of gentle care and respect for the needs of each flowering plant to be placed in her home.

Julia was mesmerized in his presence, listening to his words and allowing him to fill her cart to brimming with supplies. It was only when they reached the end of the store and a cash register loomed that reality hit.

“Oh my goodness! Look at all we’ve got in here,” Julia gushed. “You’ve been wonderful to help me so much. I only hope I can remember it all when I get home and get started. May I call on you for help if I have questions?”

Holding her breath, awaiting his answer Julia tried to focus all her attention on Tom and ignore the anxiety that was beginning to build in her as she realized she was leaving the beauty of the greenhouse and taking all of these flowers home where she would have to unload them and try to find the perfect patch of dirt in which to transplant them.

“Oh you don’t think I would leave you to face this new beginning alone, do you?” Tom answered. “I was planning to follow you home and help you get started on your perfect garden adventure.”

Julia found his words almost too good to be true. She was both frightened and exhilarated at the prospect of a strange gardener coming to her home.

She answered carefully.

“Well, of course, it would be great if you could give me some tips on transplanting the flowers, but I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble here,” Julia said. “I mean won’t they be upset if you leave the store?”

“It’s okay,” Tom said. “I can leave the store whenever I like. I can leave any of my stores whenever I like. This is my business – Smith’s Greenhouse. I’m Tom Smith, by the way.”

Tom was extending his hand gently. Julia hesitantly placed hers in his and introduced herself. She felt foolish for fearing that she was bringing a strange gardener to her home when in actuality, it was a multi-millionaire businessman who stood before her. Then Julia felt a new rush of anxiety realizing a rich business tycoon was about to enter her humble abode.

Tom seemed to read the conflicting storyline going on in her mind and sought to place her at ease.

“Julia, the staff has loaded all of your plants in my truck and we’re ready to roll. I have your address right here on the billing slip. C’mon this is going to be fun!”

And suddenly as she looked again into those deep blue eyes full of understanding, Julia felt a sense of peace and joy and she knew she was ready for whatever else the day might bring.

“Well, if you’re ready to roll, let’s go,” Julia said with a grin. “I don’t have any more time to waste.”

Tom put the truck into gear and grinned back at her through the window.

“Let’s get to planting then,” he smiled. “I can’t wait to see your new garden grow.”

Together they drove toward Julia’s home as the sun broke through the clouds shining a blessing on their budding friendship.

Neath Hollywood

Boulevard

Lorenzo Porricelli

The pink and black Cadillac Seville cruising west on Hollywood Boulevard attracted every working eye it passed. The car moved down the street with regal authority, and sidewalk crowds and street traffic were certain this spectacle wasn’t simply driving on the Boulevard, but was leading a Hollywood parade. Necks stretched and wide eyes searched for the accompanying procession.

A camera brigade of Japanese tourists stopped traffic in the middle of the world-famous Hollywood and Vine intersection to shoot pictures of the classic Seville on that spring afternoon, and were joined in the street by a boot-clad woman whose spiked crown of matted hair resembled a decaying image of the Statue of Liberty, which along with the wool army blanket she wore as a poncho, gave her the appearance of an income-tax-return street hawker dressed as Lady Liberty, sans spinning sign.

She pushed a shopping cart with two wheels frozen in a locked position, and harsh scraping accompanied the clatter of empty cans and bottles in a street symphony as the woman tramped across the asphalt. The amateur photographers shoved free fingers in ears and turned to discover what had disturbed the pleasant sensation of 1.2 blood alcohol they had labored to earn at a special luncheon at Murphy’s Hollywood Sushi Temple that was part of the tour.

But the woman’s eyes hadn’t seen the Seville, they scoured the ground in search of street treasure - cigarette butts or empty cans. One of the Japanese men lit a cigarette and pointed at the woman, and the laughing tourists’ cameras began recording what seemed to be a moving part of the city’s street.

Her private procession passed through the laughing group, and the woman snatched the cigarette from the man’s lips and stuck it between her own.

“Cheap sake,” she said.

The Japanese gathered, jabbering rapidly and waving arms at the loss of face the weird street traveler had bestowed upon their leader. Several other smokers protectively cupped lit cigarettes between thumb and forefingers, and as they waved frenetically, smoke trails accented their points.

The tobacco thief puffed on the lifted smoke and stomped her boot heels on the pavement, as she turned her cart into a runaway freight train steaming down the tracks and charged through the group.

The Ansell Adams wannabes scattered, running through the stalled street traffic, and two jumped screaming into the back seat of a taxi. By now, the entire intersection was grid locked, and many in the captive audience stood beside their cars, honking horns in approval of the guerrilla street production.

The newly discovered intersection starlet ignored the accolades and reached down to snatch lit cigarettes that had been dropped as the Japanese visitors fled in horror. She capped the heads with a callused thumb, and stashed the slightly used smokes somewhere under her blanket garment.  But she abandoned the cart and ran to a spot in the street where she seized a pack of Marlboros laying on top of a manhole cover.

She held the pack over her head and displayed the war booty to her minions - it was a mother lode – a new pack, virgin-wrapped and filled with twenty, tightly packed cigarettes.

The doyenne of the shopping cart set hustled toward the sidewalk, cackling and laughing at her stroke of luck. Her eyes became momentarily snared by the flash of the pink and black Seville, and mesmerized by colors she hadn’t seen together since she attended a circus as a child, her cart banged the chrome bumper.

“Don’t let your recent success go to that nappy head,” said a voice from the Seville, “although you ought to let something get a hold of that fright wig – maybe you want a glue trap – something horrible is surely dwelling there.” The driver extended his hand out the window and flicked a freshly lit cigarette at the woman. Her hand moved with surprising alacrity and caught the offering between two fingers.

“You lipped it,” she said and spat the cigarette out.

The Seville sped up and the driver’s arm reached and grabbed the shopping cart. He shoved it over, which spilled the contents on the road. Traffic started to move, and the woman righted the cart and gathered the strewn cans into the safety of her mobile home.

“You’re a freak,” said the driver, as the Seville moved away.

Cars honked, but the woman shook her fist at the sky. “I’ll never go with no smokes again,” she said. And having collected as much as she could without becoming a permanent part of the crosswalk in the now fluid intersection, she stepped up to the sidewalk and resumed wheeling down Hollywood Boulevard.

She turned onto Las Palmas Street, and within a half-block was in a friendlier neighborhood. A volunteer from the Hollywood Full Gospel Church Sidewalk Kitchen and Shelter of the Lord was sweeping the sidewalk, and nodded. “Want some lunch, Lizzie?’ he said. She sniffed the air.

“Salmonella on toast points, Nicky? Again?”

“You mean as usual,” Nicky said, “got a square?”

‘Lizzie’ reached under her blanket and tossed him a cigarette.

“You hit the lotto?” Nicky said. He lit it and inhaled, “You gave me a full square, Lizzie.”

“Watch my stuff,” she said.

“I got you covered, Lizzie,” the newly appointed security guard assured her as he dragged on his payment.

Lizzie eased her cart onto the street. She reached into a bag and brought forth some greasy panty hose and tied them to the front end of the cart. She lit another cigarette with the butt she just smoked, and tied her vehicle to a parking meter.

Lizzie crossed the street, and stepped over a wino drooling on the sidewalk just before she entered an open doorway under an aged and faded sign that read, “Mr. Holly’s Bar – We Cheat Everyone.”

Mr. Holly’s Bar resembled a cramped shoe box stuffed with dusty memorabilia. The aged serving bar ran the full length of the small room and occupied half of the narrow space available. It appeared to be made of dark walnut, but the years of now permanent grime that covered the base, the layers of greasy fingerprints that polished the bar top, and the infinite scars received from burning cigarettes, all combined to deeply blacken the abused wood.

A dim wall sconce located behind the bar was the room’s only lamp. A film-coated window was covered with dingy blinds, tuned to allow a small amount of dust-filled sunlight to enter and its sash was adorned with dead flies. A small fan sat on the back bar, and its blades turned halfheartedly, prevented from moving faster by a gritty, syrupy substance that covered the motor.

Eight stools lined the bar, and a white-haired black man with piercing, hawk eyes and a mean glare, stood behind the bar at Mr. Holly’s as Lizzie entered. The left side of his mouth was raised in a snarl, and a filtered cigarette, with an inch long ash, sat burning on the right side of his lower lip. As it burned, the smoke slowly rose under his nostrils, adding another square’s worth of tar and nicotine to the yellowed streak that colored the center portion of his white mustache.

“If it isn’t the royal highness herself.”

“Give me a triple with a chaser, Charlie. Those lips of yours flap more than a bucket of chicken wings.” Lizzie lit another cigarette.  In Mr. Holly’s Bar, there was no smoking statute.

“Miss high and mighty – did you hit the damn lotto or something?” Charlie said as he pulled the tap and filled a chaser glass with beer, “You smoking a full square- I ain’t never seen that.”

Charlie placed the beer on the bar and took a bottle of Mr. Jack’s Whiskey off the back bar. In bars throughout the world, the back bar is traditionally two or three tiers high, with liquor of various distinction and pricing adorning the space. In Mr. Holly’s there was no top shelf, no middle shelf, and no recognizable brands, just a few glistening bottles of Mr. Jack’s.

“We serve cheap booze to rummies who wanna get drunk fast,” Charlie told misguided tourists from the Boulevard that appeared in the doorway.

Lizzie placed a faded bill on the bar. “Quarters.”

Charlie filled three jiggers and placed them in front of Lizzie, “And what the hell you gonna do with quarters? This ain’t no laundromat.”

Lizzie tossed the shots back. “Does that box still work?”

“The juke? Nobody’s played that damn thing in five years.” Charlie’s ash dropped onto his shirt. “Anybody coming in here with a quarter ain’t gonna give it to no damn music box, they’re gonna drink it.”

Lizzie squinted as her fingers flipped through the old juke’s barely readable playlist.  Her eyes still twinkled, but she reminded Charlie and other street denizens of a crone from some childhood fairy tale, but simply because she always carried a few sprigs of honeysuckle everywhere with her, she was known on the streets as Woodbine Lizzie.

Charlie laughed, “Gimme the damn quarter and I’ll sing you the song you want, Lizzie. You know I used to carry a tune.”  Charlie had been a Hollywood crooner in years long past, but because of the skin color ban at clubs on Sunset Boulevard, he had never made it past dive bars on Las Palmas. “Yeah, those old stars would love to hear me sing ‘em a tune, – but not in their clubs,” Charlie said, “then they’d have to pay me. But I got my payment from their women, and it was top dollar. I boffed every one of those Hollywood broads – at least two or three times each.”

“And one night, Sammy Davis came in with Sinatra and heard me. They took me out partying with them for five days straight and we just…” Charlie continued, droning on with a tale of his career high spot that Lizzie had heard too many times. She put a coin in the box, and prayed it would play.

The coin dropped and the invasive mega-sound of tortured distortion blared forth from the feedback explosion of Jimi Hendrix’s Stratocaster wailing as his drug etched vocals sang, “So you think you’re a sweet little heartbreaker….  Foxy Lady. ”

Lizzie hit the chords on an air guitar as aggressively as Pete Townshend, and perspired with similar zeal. As Hendrix hit the final notes, Lizzie pushed a quarter at Charlie.

“Play it again, Charlie, play my song for me again, for old times sake,” Lizzie said, and gulped the cold beer.

Charlie filled one of Lizzie’s jiggers again. “Here, on the house. You look rancid girl, and you know what my momma always said.”

Lizzie smiled wide enough to show her gums, and they both blurted, “Alcohol and tobacco will cure everything.”

“That’s right,” Charlie said softly, “alcohol and tobacco will cure everything.” He lit two cigarettes at the same time, and handed one to Lizzie. They sipped their shots. “Don’t even think about none of them fools, Lizzie,” Charlie said, “we got the stars.”

“He thinks he’s an Evremonde,” Lizzie said. She drank the last shot and tapped the heavy-bottomed glass on the bar. “And I’ll finish him like one.”

“You want me to have someone capped for ya?” Charlie said.

“I want to decap some bozo who thinks he’s royalty,” Lizzie whispered, “Like A Tale of Two Cities.”

“Some bad luck dude lost his head in that book,” said Charlie, “Evremonde got away.”

“Justice sucks,” said Lizzie.

Charlie hummed along with the music and poured two more whiskeys. Setting the bottle on the bar, he kissed Lizzie’s forehead. “We’re a pair to draw to.” He smiled. They lifted the jiggers and interlocked their forearms in the universal drinkers’ solidarity ritual.

“Power to the people,” said Charlie, “whatever the hell that means.”

“It don’t mean a thing,” said Lizzie. “Keep pouring till it does.”

Driven

Wayne Harris-Wyrick

He looked away from the traffic at the woman next to him and smiled. Just the sight of her thrilled his heart with more cheer than all the spring flowers blooming along the roadway. He couldn’t imagine the journey of his life with her not in it.

They met by accident, when she almost ran into him as she was coming out of the grocery store parking lot. He had tried to be comforting, seeing the distress in her face. She got over it pretty quickly, or so it seemed to him. Maybe that was still bothering her. Just a little.

But now they had grown apart. Sometimes, she acted as if she didn’t know him at all, refusing even direct eye contact anymore. He had tried his best to go along with whatever direction her life took, but they seemed to be straying farther and farther from their original path.

What could have caused the relationship to turn sour so quickly? “I can’t image it was something I said,” he whispered, more to himself then out loud. We speak so rarely, he thought. And perhaps that was it. Women need those little affirmations of their man’s feelings. Maybe he had been too stoic at times.

Lost in these thoughts of how their relationship took such a wrong turn, he didn’t immediately notice that the light had changed to green. By the time he realized it, from the car behind him honking at him, there were already several cars between him and her.

"These drive-home relationships always end so abruptly," he sighed. Perhaps he’d find a new girlfriend on his drive home tomorrow.

The Nashville Flight

Rita Durrett

“Passengers on flight 1563 for Nashville will begin boarding at gate 58 in ten minutes,” an anonymous female voice announced.

Sofia Watson settled into one of the two empty seats lining the wall of the waiting area. She pulled her Kindle and a banana out of her backpack before she stashed the pack under the seat. Her eyes greedily devoured the words while she nibbled the fruit, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her denim jacket. It was her favorite, well-worn and just as comfortable as its matching jeans. The holes in the knees of the pants were authentic. Pink and black high-top tennis shoes matched the bright pink of the knit cap that fit snuggly over her ears, to help block out the sounds droning on around her.

“Is this seat taken?”

Startled, she looked up and into the cool blue eyes of a young man. She figured him to be about her age, maybe a little older. It was hard to know. He was dressed casually in tennis shoes, jeans, a Doors t-shirt and jacket.

“Sure, I mean no, it isn’t taken.” He looked sleepy and a little lost.

“Thanks.” He shrugged out of his back pack, dropped it on the floor and slipped his guitar strap from his shoulder. He leaned the worn instrument case against the wall and eased into the chair, careful not to take up any of her space. He rummaged through the pack, found a couple of energy bars and kicked the bag under the seat. “I hope this is the 7:00 Nashville flight.”

She smiled. He reminded her of her little brother, forging ahead, right or wrong and dealing with the consequences later. “You’re in the right place.”

“Good. Boy, this is early for me. I could have used a couple of hours more sleep.” He raked his fingers through his dark, ear-length hair in a futile effort to move it away from his face. “There’s barely any light outside and this cold weather is getting me down. I hate wearing a coat.” He pulled off the offending garment, laying it by the case.

Sofia glanced out the window and back to her companion, a pensive smile on her face. “Spring will be here in a few weeks, and along with it, daylight savings time. You’ll soon be complaining about the heat.”

A low rumble spilled from his chest and brought with it an engaging smile. She liked the change. “Are you a musician?” she asked, peering around him to inspect the guitar case.

“I am, or at least I like to think I am. I’ve been playing that thing since I was about six. My dad played and taught me. He died during my 9th grade year and left the guitar to me. I promised myself I’d play in Nashville one day, and dedicate my performance to my dad.”

“I bet he’d be really proud of you. Have you made a recording?”

He ducked his head, a move that tugged at Sofia’s heart.

“Nah, I guess I’ve got a lot to do before I get to the Ryman stage, but I’ll be up there one of these days.”

“You know, I believe you will. You have determination, and that’s half the battle.”

The same lady’s voice came over the intercom. “The Southwest Denver flight arriving into Tulsa has been delayed. That plane will be taking passengers on to Nashville on flight 1563 so there will be a one hour delay for that flight. Once again, Southwest Flight 1563 for Nashville Tennessee will be delayed approximately one hour. Passengers are advised to watch the information boards for updates.”

“Maybe you can get comfy and catch a few zzzs,” Sofia commented to her companion. “I’ll wake you when the plane arrives.”

“I’m awake now. What I really need is a cup of coffee.” He stood up and looked around, stretched, yawned, stuffed his jacket in his pack before pulling the pack over his shoulders. “By the way, my name’s Gabe, what’s yours?”

“Sofia. My mother loved to watch Sofia Loren movies.”

“Nice. It fits you. You have that classic look about you. Wanna go get some coffee with me? It looks like we have plenty of time to kill.”

“I’m not a coffee drinker, but a diet soda would be great. I might even get something to eat. That banana left me a little hungry.”

“Sounds good. Come on, put your reader in and I’ll carry your pack until you can toss the peel.” He waited for her to zip the Kindle into a compartment, then slung her pack over one shoulder and his guitar case over the other, with an ease that came from practice.

“Do you live in Tulsa?” She asked as they walked along, occasionally dodging golf carts and other travelers with a variety of burdensome luggage.

“I do, lived here all my life. You?”

“Me, too. I bet we’ve seen each other before and didn’t know it. Here’s the coffee shop.” Sofia paid for her soda and a sausage biscuit, and waited as Gabe paid for his. She noted with amusement the nearly reverent way he held the cup.

“Ummm, good stuff.” He savored the moment. “Ready? Do you want to sit here or walk back to our gate?” Gabe adjusted his guitar case, changed his coffee cup to the other hand and placed the free hand around Sofia’s waist.

She pretended not to notice, but her insides were doing cartwheels. “Let’s walk.” She didn’t want him to remove the hand. After a short walk back along the corridor the hand suddenly relinquished its hold. “Hey, where are you going?” Sofia watched incredulously as Gabe slipped behind a fake construction wall.

His head poked out, a mischievous grin lighted up his eyes. “Come on in.”

A quick look around assured her no one was watching, so she followed him inside. “What are you doing?”

“Setting up for a concert. You get front row seating, right here.” Gabe patted the seat of one of the two folding chairs he had moved next to each other. His guitar case lay open to one side, and he was plucking the strings of the instrument as he encouraged her to sit.

She couldn’t help but giggle. Her eyes sparkled and a smile spread across her face. “This better be worth sneaking in here.” She quieted as he began to softly strum the instrument. The music was soulful, a mix of modern and country. She watched him as he played. Intense emotion flickered across his face. She couldn’t hold back the tears.

“Are you crying?” he asked.

“No. Yes, but not really. It’s just so beautiful.” She didn’t say it was his face she spoke of. She held her breath as he leaned forward and tenderly kissed away the tears and then, ever so gently kissed her lips. As she responded, he laid the guitar on the chair, took hold of her shoulders and pulled her up into his arms for a very passionate embrace. Her arms instinctively curled around his neck and squeezed tightly.

Reluctantly she released her hold, dropping her arms a little self-consciously, not sure what to say.

“That was wonderful.” He spoke first. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. Your tears hurt me so much I just had to make them go away. I don’t ever want to see you crying again. Promise?”

She gave a short laugh, trying to stop crying. “Sure, considering ‘ever’ will be at the end of this flight.”

“Who says?” He turned away and walked to the other side of the room.

She ignored the question. “What are you doing now?”

“Changing locations.”

“Changing locations?” She watched as he picked up a radio from the construction supplies, sat it on top of a ladder and began tuning it. “Where is the new location?”

“It’s a dance club. Dim lights, people laughing and talking and,” he paused as he fiddled with the tuning knob, “sultry jazz.” He had successfully found a jazz station and walked back to her.

She put her hand in his as he held it out for her and pulled her toward him. “I’m not very good at dancing. I have two left feet, as they say.”

“Two beautiful left feet and I’m sure they both work, so come on.”

His gently swaying body felt so natural against hers, she was soon lost in the mood, having totally forgotten she didn’t know how to dance.

The couple talked nonstop, discovering an attraction that few find in life.

“Even though I just found you, I feel like I’ve known you forever.” He whispered in her ear as he pulled her closer.

“Today was wonderful.” She hesitated. “I wish it could go on forever.”

“You haven’t told me anything about yourself, you know.” He tipped her chin so that he was looking into her face.

“There isn’t much to tell. I grew up in Tulsa, like to read and spend a lot of time in airports.”

“Why so much time in airports?”

“Hey! What are you doing in here? Didn’t you read the signs warning this is a restricted area?” The airport guard came bustling through the partition opening, a scowl on his face and his voice deep with authority as he spoke to Gabe.

“Signs?” asked Sofia. I didn’t see any signs.” She looked at Gabe with genuine surprise. “Did you see signs?”

“Yep. We walked right by them. You were just so into me you didn’t notice,” he teased as he put his guitar back in the case and snapped it shut.

“There are signs. I’m going to have to take you into the airport security office.” The officer had turned from Gabe and was addressing Sofia.

“You’re going to arrest us?” Sofia’s palms were sweating and her breathing was fast. “We’ll miss our flight.” She stared at the officer, but could see Gabe just beyond the man’s shoulder. He had his backpack on, his guitar over his shoulder and was picking up her pack, too. He gave a quick little nod toward the opening in the wall as he started in that direction. He had picked up a piece of scrap lumber and threw it across the long expanse of the room, while sprinting toward the opening, motioning for her to follow him.

Sofia watched as the officer turned at the noise. She immediately ran through the opening, stumbled into Gabe and nearly knocked him down. She laughed so hard she could barely speak. “We’re going to get caught! What do we do now?”

“The restrooms are right over there. Here’s your pack, run. Hide out in there for fifteen minutes and then meet me at the gate.”

Sofia hid in the stall, changed tops, stuffed her jacket in the backpack and checked her cell every few minutes until fifteen minutes had passed. As she walked out of the restroom, the now familiar voice on the intercom announced, “Passengers for the Southwest Airlines flight 1563 may begin boarding at this time.” She made herself walk, not run to the gate. She spied Gabe in line and joined him.

“You made it. Nice move, changing tops. It might have worked, if you’d taken off that bright pink cap.” He reached for the cap and stopped at the look on her face. “What? I just wanted to see your hair.”

Sofia ducked her head. “Yeah, well, I was going to get around to telling you about that.”

“What? Are you bald or something?” He was laughing.

She wasn’t. “Yes.” She pulled the cap to reveal her shaved head. “I am traveling to St. Jude’s.”

“Children’s Cancer research,” he choked.

“I’ve been going there since I was six, hence airports.” She shrugged her shoulders. “My cancer had been in remission for about eleven years, but came back last year with a vengeance.” She averted her eyes. “This is probably my last flight.”

“No,” he whispered, as she kissed the tears from his eyes.

Spring Restoration

Todd Naevestad

Bits of snow crunched under his shoes as he wandered across the field. Spring was just rising to take her place and Winter was slowly making his way home, leaving only remnants of his chill behind. Around the few remaining snow piles, Wesley could see budding flowers and grass that was taking back its fresh green color. This place was coming back to life.

How many times had he walked through here with her? He’d tried to take her often, share his love for the outdoors. What better place than the beautiful meadow behind his family’s farm? Throughout the seasons, this meadow had its own grace and beauty. The gently rolling landscape was home to cheerful wildflowers in spring, shady oaks during the summer, piles of leaves in the autumn, and a crystallized wonderland in the winter. Each season brought something unique and exciting.

Wesley stopped to lean against his favorite tree. He had climbed it so many times in his youth. He could see the marks he and his friends had left on it, his initials carved into one of the upper branches, nails from his failed attempts at a tree fort sticking out cockeyed a few places. Wesley had brought her here before, tried to explain some of his love for it, but she never saw it. To her, it was a mess of sticks and leaves and caterpillars, things she hated.

Savannah never let herself get absorbed into the life around her. For her, there was no need to stop; she was always absorbed in the hustle and bustle of life. Getting her to leave her cell phone at her apartment was one of the hardest things he’d had to convince her to do. She always needed to be connected, lest she miss out on some text or email. Even in the peaceful lands he brought her to, Savannah was unable to let herself unplug from the world.

Leaning on the bark, wind in his face, he could hear the little whispers of this familiar place. They were like the voices of close friends. The lilies laughed in the new sunlight, grateful to be free of the cold snow. Bees muttered quietly, as engrossed in their work as ever. A few larks whirled overhead, chatting about the trees and leaves. Even his own tree sighed contentedly, happy enough to let the sun warm its bark.

This was his world, and Savannah hadn’t fit into it. It wasn’t her fault; she came from a different world than he did. Neither could meet the needs of the other. Savannah was born into a speeding river and Wesley’s stream ran easy. In the end, she left. An angrily scrawled lipstick note across his mirror was the last he had heard from her.

Wesley let slip a sigh. It had been a while, but it still stung a little.

“Things will get better,” Wesley said to the wind. He patted his tree and set off again. The wind continued to whisper in his ear, telling him of the life around him. Suddenly, a new whisper was carried to his ears. It was soft, but getting louder. It sounded like barking.

It was barking! Out of the woods tore a colossal dog. It sprinted to him, leaping up and knocking Wesley to the ground. The dog stood over him, sniffing and barking excitedly. Its tree branch like tail was swinging wildly.

“Get off, get off!” Wesley yelled, half confused and half concerned.

“Silas, get back here! Silas!” A woman’s voice shouted from the woods. The dog barked a few more times and trotted back toward the trees. Wesley sat up and saw the dog’s owner emerge from the tree line.

She was tall, as far as women go. Blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She was dressed in hiking boots, jeans, and a wind jacket. The dog, Silas apparently, romped up to her happily. She knelt down and rubbed his head.

“This is your behemoth then?” Wesley laughed, hauling himself off the ground and dusting the snow and dirt off of him.

“Yeah, sorry about that. When Silas smells new people he takes off before I can catch him,” the woman said sheepishly. Her voice was musical, like a bird’s song, with an accent from somewhere in Europe.

“It’s fine, he didn’t hurt me.”

“That’s good,” she said smiling. “My name’s Caroline Hill.”

“Wesley Sullivan.” He offered her his hand and the two shook. “What brings you out here?”

Caroline sighed blissfully. “I love being outdoors. I’m actually camping out a few miles back. I wanted to see more of the forest, so I was took Silas for a hike, and we ended up here when he smelled you and took off”

“So you’re staying at Green Valley campsite, I take it?”

“Yeah. Have you been there?”

“Once or twice. My family has friends that would come from out of state and camp there during the summer. They’d walk to our house now and then. This is actually my family’s farm.”

“Wow, you live in all this?”

“Well, I did. My folks still live here and I visit them often, but I live out in Colorado now. I’m a Forest Ranger out in the mountains.”

“Oh that’s fantastic. I’d love to see the mountains someday. I’m an aspiring mountain climber actually.”

Silas started pawing at Caroline’s leg and barked. She scratched the dog’s head affectionately. “It looks like Silas is getting restless again. If I don’t start walking soon, he’ll be dragging me around the whole woods.”

Wesley found he was a little disappointed. “Well, that’s probably good. I wouldn’t want Silas tackling any other strangers in his agitation.”

Caroline nodded. “Thanks for finding him for me. Maybe I’ll see you again.” She turned to leave, but stopped. “Actually, you said you grew up here right? Do you think you could show us some of your favorite spots? I’m just wandering aimlessly, but I bet you know some really pretty places.”

“Absolutely, I’d be glad to,” Wesley said. He was glad she wasn’t leaving yet.

For the rest of the afternoon, Wesley led Caroline and Silas through familiar lands. He showed her a creek hidden away in the woods, with the snow just melting and some ice still glittering in the sunlight. They followed the creek down to a pond with a few frogs shaking off the winter cold. Then Silas took control when he smelled a squirrel and ripped his leash out of Caroline’s hands and chased it farther into the woods. They found him barking up at tree branches with a few squirrels chattering back at him. With some struggle, they managed to pull Silas away, though he kept glaring over his shoulder at the tree as they walked away.

They walked and talked. Wesley learned a lot about Caroline. She had recently moved to the states from Cornwall, Great Britain. She was a graduate from the Oxford Medical School and had started working in the states a few months back. She was a licensed diver and was trying to get her pilot’s license.

Wesley talked about himself as well. He told her about his childhood on the farm, about the animals they raised and the crops they grew. He recounted his time at Purdue University, studying environmental science and the humanitarian trip he led to Ecuador a few years later. With pride, he told her about his sister in the army.

The sun was starting to set as Wesley led them back to Caroline’s campsite. The two of them were tired; even Silas was sluggish on the walk back.

“Thank you so much for showing us around,” Caroline said, flopping into a fold-out chair by her fire circle. “Take a seat, I’ll get the fire going and make some coffee.”

“All right, sure,” Wesley agreed. She passed him a second chair and went into her tent. Silas trotted over and laid his head on Wesley’s knee. Wesley scratched his head. “Busy day, right? You showed those squirrels a thing or two.”

Silas sniffed in a way Wesley took as satisfaction. Caroline came back out with two cups, a pot of water, and a bag of coffee. Wesley grabbed the logs as she set up the stand to boil the water. A few minutes later and they had a cheery fire. All three of them gathered around it happily.

“I found this wonderful coffee maker at a flea market,” Caroline said. She put a filter and some coffee beans into the top section of a beaker-like glass. “It’s apparently an old fashioned coffee machine.” She poured the boiling water over the beans and filter. Dark brown coffee filled up the bottom section. Caroline filled Wesley’s cup, then her own.

“Do you put anything in it?” Caroline asked.

“Nope, black suits me just fine,” Wesley said. He took a sip, enjoying its strong taste. “This is really good.”

“Thanks! My roommate got me into all kinds of different coffees. She and I would roast and grind our own beans in the dorms.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the warm fire and some time to rest. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and Silas’s occasional snuffling. Wesley gazed around at the forest, which was aglow with the light from the setting sun.

“I can’t believe you used to live in all this beauty,” Caroline finally said.

“It really is amazing,” Wesley agreed. “Some days I would sit outside for hours, just watching the world grow.” He chuckled a little. “You know, and this might sound a little crazy, but I sometimes think I can hear all the life around me. There are these little whispers that I hear and they tell me so much about where I am. That’s one of the reasons I became a ranger. I wanted to hear if other places had a voice like this one.”

“Oh, that’s so poetic,” Caroline said dreamily. “I totally agree. These places speak to us in ways we don’t even notice. When we train ourselves to hear what is going on, it becomes so much more vibrant. In England, I would go for long walks in the country side, and I would feel like I was a part of some enormous being, a small part of something grand.”

“Exactly,” Wesley said. “This place is such a part of me, and I feel like I belong to it as well. My voice is just as much a part of those whispers I hear as anything else.”

There was barely any light left, the sky was a dark purple as the sun was nearly gone. Wesley stood and stretched. “I should get going, it’s late.” He hated to leave, but he knew he had to get home eventually.

“I guess that’s good idea,” Caroline said. Silas whined softly.

“Thanks for a great day, Caroline.”

“Yeah, take care, Wesley.”

Wesley walked out of the glow of the fire, back toward the farm he knew so well. Just as the heat of the fire was receding, and the cool night air was about to take hold, he paused and turned back.

“Caroline, would you like to go for dinner tomorrow?”

“I’d love to!” Caroline exclaimed. Silas barked excitedly.

“I’ll see you then.” Wesley said, smiling broadly.

Walking back, Wesley whistled a happy tune. He was feeling on top of the world. Among the trees and leaves, he could hear their whisper. It was excited, cheery, and new. They knew that things were different than this morning, that Wesley was different, and they shared his excitement. This was a new time in his life, and he was going to make the best of it.

The Familiar Secret

Joshua Spotts

Something dwelt there, something new. It was hungry. He was angry. Suppressing the new passion, he woke and rose from the bed. He thought he heard it whisper his name. The cold air brushed against his feet before it was banished by the warmth of his slippers. The brown wood flooring creaked as he stood. The man removed his red nightcap, folded it, and placed it gently inside his nightstand. Rubbing the dust of dreams from his eyes, he left the bedroom.

Laying his hand to the pinewood banister, the man guided himself down the broad staircase. He descended from the heavens of his dreams into the earthly incarnation of reality. He smiled as he entered the kitchen. The tiles, which covered the wall for about three feet up from the floor, shined in the stark sunlight which streamed in with the morning air. The rest of the walls above the tiling were painted a soothing baby blue color.

“Good morning, Jason.” The green eyes looked up at him. White teeth showed off their beauty in a wide grin. Light shimmered against her yellow hair.

“It is a wonderful morning, my lovely.” Jason answered. His slippers slapped against the linoleum flooring as he entered and sat across from his wife. “Newspaper come this morning?”

“It has not, dear.” His wife took a sip of her tea. The steam caressed her face before the morning breeze carried it away. Spring was her favorite time of year.

Jason did not smell the buttered toast until it was set before him. He sighed with the pleasure of the scent. He looked at his wife’s hair and basked in the realization that she had instructed their cook to make the toast specifically how he liked it. The lovely thought shattered when he realized that perhaps there was something special about today. But he could not remember what it could possibly be.

“Good morning, Mr. Lostrun.” The cook, who also served as the maid, smiled down at him.

“Good morning, Miss (Irma) Kilpatrick.” Mr. Lostrun responded. He wondered how she managed to keep those white curls so orderly while working over steaming pots a good portion of the day. Then his mind drifted to the secret of that morning. It was, in his mind, more mysterious than Irma’s curls. Certainly it was more pleasurable.

With the delicious taste of his breakfast still on his tongue, Mr. Lostrun excused himself and went to his study. It was a gorgeous room. The lighting was provided by two tall, bronze lamps. The green lampshades cast strange shadows against the ceiling. The mahogany walls, the thick, cozy, dark red carpet, the oak desk and matching bookshelves all seemed to belong together. But they also seemed to belong somewhere else, perhaps someplace else, or, if it was possible, sometime else.

Mr. Lostrun sat in his black office chair. The light in the room glinted off the small, bronze pins that held the leather to the chair’s frame. He always enjoyed Saturday mornings. He closed his eyes, rested his feet upon the desk, and let his mind wander. However, it did not wander. It dove straight to the secret. The new secret in his bedroom was now the old secret in the study. The mere thought of it seemed to belong there. It was familiar.

Folding his arms across his chest, Mr. Lostrun leaned back in his chair, and brought the secret to the forefront of his mind. He basked in its glory. Then she appeared. He saw her green eyes looking into his own. He was outside his body. It was a strange sensation. He watched his wife, admiring her. She was dancing with him. Love stirred in his heart, but the secret fought it. It alone must be loved. Mr. Lostrun’s wife began to fade away as Jason returned to his body, to his secret. A glimmer of light glanced off the golden hair in the mist.

Mr. Jason Lostrun awoke and looked about him. His study seemed to him a fortress.

What a perfect place to hide the secret, Mr. Lostrun thought. Then that other side took over. The secret lost complete control.

“Mary,” Jason called, “would you please come here?”

No one answered his call. Jason opened the door and called out again. This time his wife answered, “yes, dear.”

She was sweeping the hallway, doing housework despite Miss Kilpatrick’s wishes. It showed on her flowery summer dress. The light from the open doorway illuminated the dust particles in the air of the hallway. Mary smiled at Jason from the doorway. She was framed by the light. He noticed that she held one hand behind her back. At this he sighed. “You know, dear…”

“Mary, dearest, you should not be sweeping! Give me that broom.” Miss Kilpatrick rushed up from behind and grabbed the broom from Mary’s left hand. “You know what the doctor said.”

“Irma,” Jason interrupted Miss Kilpatrick’s scolding. “You’re not her nanny anymore. She is an adult now and knows what’s best for her.”

“She may be an adult, but she’s as stubborn as she ever was.” Miss Kilpatrick turned and marched away, holding onto the broom like a trophy.

“Mary,” Jason looked firmly at her. “You know the doctor told you to not do anything too physical.”

“I know, dear, but it’s not strenuous to sweep a little hallway.”

“What about your lung condition then?” Jason placed his hands on Mary’s shoulders. He turned her toward the hallway. “This dust will affect you tonight.”

“Jason, I am fine. I feel fine.” Mary looked at her husband with her loving eyes. Her voice was sweet and gentle.

“No! You’re not fine!” Mr. Lostrun threw his hands into the air. “We don’t even sleep in the same bed anymore. We haven’t for months. You are frail, Mary, you are not fine!”

“Dear Jason, I am sorry for the pain this has caused you.”

“No, no, it is fine. You just need to go and get some rest and take your medicine.” Mr. Lostrun dismissed her with a light kiss. His secret beckoned to him. It called from the darker corners of his study. It hid in the shadows between the red carpet and the dark backs of the bookshelves. Mr. Lostrun watched his wife head upstairs. He retreated into the study, muttering a lie to himself; “I have to get some work done.”

Part II

Another day tore sleep from Mr. Lostrun. He tucked his secret back into the corners of his mind. It was new, it was fresh. Indeed he feared returning to the study lest the secret feel old again. But it belonged there. It could be hidden there.

Mr. Lostrun looked over at his wife. He used to roll over and wake her up every morning with a kiss. No longer could he do that. The gap between his bed and hers prohibited any such action. He stood in that gap. He was lost between his secret and his wife. A deep feeling of loneliness sunk into the very marrow of Mr. Lostrun’s bones.

He turned, tucked the sheets of his bed back into place, and headed downstairs. Halfway down he stopped, his hand slipped from the white railing, and he removed his red nightcap. He wondered if the secret was taking over and dismissing some of his daily habits, replacing them with obsessions of its own being.

Mr. Lostrun hurried down the stairs and into his study. He knelt on the red carpet in the mahogany room and wept. He mustn’t let the secret take the place of Mary. Jason knew he must run from it. But it gripped him. He had let it in. He had lost himself in it. And now he could not run from it. The permanence of it was a familiar terror.

As he wept, images of Mary flickered in his mind. In the midst of his struggle it seemed as if she was there, holding his hand. He hated the secret. All his hatred for it rushed out unto that study carpet. All the pain it caused him, he would leave it there. That was his plan. A plan that was doomed to fail.

Jason heard his wife’s soft, careful descent. It had only been two days since she was permitted by that weasel faced doctor to descend those stairs.

“But only once a day,” the doctor had said. Jason had to carry her up when they went to the beds for the night, she to hers and he to his. He knew that Irma would be helping Mary descend. He counted their progress as he had done many mornings, savoring the moments he had alone with the secret. This morning he did not savor the moments in the study. It reminded him too much of his atrocious act of betrayal. He had loved the secret more than her. That awful truth clutched at his heart. The secret still fought for dominance through the pain of guilt.

Jason knew what he must do. And, fighting the pain and guilt, he rose from the red floor. Straightening his blue pajama shirt, Jason opened the study door, taking the first step toward leaving the secret behind.

“Good morning, Jason!” Mary said. She curled her toes against the wooden hallway floor. Her shoulders shuddered a bit.

Jason guided her into the living room. No fire danced in the brick fireplace. But the room, with its thick, green carpet, was warmer than the hallway. The thick curtains over the windows and the comely furniture seemed to make it a warmer room as well. He sat his wife down on the couch and sat beside her. She knew he had something to say. But, like she had always done, she waited and let him tell her in his own time.

A tear dripped from Jason’s cheek. Mary caught it and ran a hand through his ragged hair. Her pale white hand worked its way through his dark hair. He turned toward her. Their faces were centimeters apart. The pain, guilt, and sorrow in Jason’s eyes were unmistakable. “Mary, I have betrayed you. I cared more for my secret than I did for you. I will tell you the secret. I do not want it anymore.”

After he had told her the secret, Jason turned away from his wife and wept. His guilt and pain and sorrow began to trickle away with those tears. But they were washed away completely when Mary spoke. “Hold me, Jason, I forgive you.”

Eliza’s Epiphany

Jaimey Grant

The night before her wedding, Miss Eliza Whitney had an epiphany.

Masquerade balls were scandalous, her friend Melody told her in an excited whisper. That was where she could have her little rebellion, where she could experience a taste of life without the stifling glare of her mother, Melody's mother, and the other dragons of Society.

They'd gone to all the trouble of securing costumes—swearing their maids to silence in order to accomplish the task without their mothers discovering their activities—giggling like schoolgirls over the intricacy, the stitches, the beaded bodices, and how they would charm every gentleman there. Eliza's shepherdess costume fell slightly off her shoulders, revealing a generous amount of bosom. The heavenly creation showed far more skin than her mother would ever allow, but that didn't matter. With her little beaded mask she was unrecognizable.

Or so Melody assured her.

Then Melody grew scared, deciding not to attend with Eliza. Bribing her maid to accompany her instead proved no hardship but some of the evening's excitement palled without her friend's vivacious presence at her side.

Despite missing her friend, Eliza soon found herself caught up in the excitement of a ball wherein she could behave with complete abandon. She could dance, gossip, and flirt to her heart's content, never worrying about flirting too much or being thought fast. No one could know who she was, no one could know Miss Eliza Whitney was the shepherdess with the beaded mask.

And then she saw him. A tall, broad-shouldered highwayman with fair hair and a ready smile for the lady with whom he danced. He was the very instrument of her rebellion, the very man she could use to see what life could have offered her had she not been betrothed from childhood. Her smile widened as she made her way across the ballroom, intent on making his acquaintance.

When Melody said guests at a masquerade behaved in a shocking manner, she exaggerated, but only a trifle.

In the moment that Eliza's epiphany happened, the moment her heart constricted and her mind became clear, she realized her mistake. One should never kiss a strange man at a masquerade ball when one was marrying another man the very next day. It simply wasn't done.

And now she knew why.

While her husband initiated her in the mysteries of the marriage bed, Eliza would be recalling another man's embrace, another man's hands, lips, and breath. With every intimate caress from her husband, Eliza would relive this dark stranger's fingers gliding over her bare shoulder and into her hair while his kiss drained all the strength from her limbs.

It was only when he attempted to remove her mask that Eliza remembered herself. She couldn't let him see her face, not entirely. Heavens, he could be a guest at her wedding tomorrow!

Her hands shot up to stop him before he could untie the velvet ribbons of her mask.

“No, don't!” Her low voice penetrated the desire she saw burning in his eyes.

A deep chuckle answered her, the sound rumbling through his body and into hers. “Why not?”

Eliza shivered. His question whispered across her lips. So powerful was his effect on her that she released his fingers, intent on exploring his lips just once more. If allowing him to see her whole face was the price....

Dredging up every spare ounce of willpower, Eliza stepped away, pushing his hands away from her mask. Again. And he chuckled. Again.

“Angel, does it matter so much that I not see your face?” He moved in closer, drawing her body flush with his. His warm breath fanned her ear as he added, “Do you believe I won't know you, always?”

Eliza shivered, the promise and the threat in his voice enough to make her weak in the knees. She didn't even know who this man was yet she seemed to have no control over her reactions to his voice, his touch, his nearness.

This had to stop. In less than one day, she would marry another man, a man she'd been betrothed to forever. A man who'd endured her childhood antics, protected her, would never hurt her, and had never done anything to deserve what she was doing to him now.

A man who'd never affected her the way this man did.

A sigh from the deepest recesses of her soul emerged. All around them Society went about their business, dancing, gossiping, sneaking behind greenery or into the gardens for a stolen kiss, making merry while Eliza felt the world shift under her feet. Life was unfair when love—or attraction—made itself felt only when it was too late. The feeling of rightness that pervaded her being could not be unrequited. If only her betrothed hadn't honored the betrothal.

Life was full of 'if onlys' and Eliza had experienced more than one in her eighteen years.

If only her soon-to-be husband hadn't disappeared for years, she thought as her masked lover stroked his fingers over her neck.

If only she hadn't been so young when he'd left, she thought as her companion's lips left a trail of butterfly kisses on the sensitive skin of her throat.

If only she'd not felt this overwhelming need to rebel against the path chosen for her, she thought as the gentleman in her arms pulled her impossibly close, his lips returning to hers.

If only she hadn't decided to attend this masquerade ball where ladies and gentlemen forgot themselves and behaved with far more license than was their wont, she thought as her lover's fingers blazed a path of fire across the tops of her breasts.

“If only,” she whispered.

The great clock in the ballroom chimed midnight. Time for the unmasking. Eliza panicked, jerking against her companion's arms. Her abrupt movement surprised him enough that he released her. The last thing Eliza saw before escaping through the French doors was the face of her would-be lover. In the light of branch after branch of candles, servants traversing the room to light even more, Eliza saw more clearly the man she had to force herself to leave.

He'd yet to remove his mask but it only covered his eyes. His dark, soulful eyes, eyes that she knew she'd never forget. Hair, guinea gold, cut in one of the shorter styles, high brow, square jaw, firm lips. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed to perfection as a highwayman all in black complete with a hat that he'd removed before kissing her.

Eliza sighed again. He claimed he'd always know her and she began to wonder if it would be the same for her.

He lifted his hand. Whether in farewell or to untie his mask, Eliza didn't know. Nor did she wait to find out. A brief detour to collect her less-than-conscientious maid and she was on her way home.

Miss Eliza Whitney entered the church in Hanover Square on her father's arm. She was everything a radiant bride should be on that beautiful spring day. Her pale yellow gown shimmered like the sun, the high-waisted bodice encrusted with gold thread and seed pearls, larger pearls and topazes around her slender white throat. Her dark hair was piled high on her head, more pearls and tiny diamonds threaded throughout. She smiled all around, eliciting smiles from those who gathered to witness the nuptials.

David Huntley waited at the altar, a smile tipping the corners of his lips. He'd waited for this day forever it seemed, waited for Eliza to grow up into the woman he'd always known she'd become. After today, she'd be his forever, finalizing an agreement made between their fathers more than a decade prior.

He'd admired her as long as he could remember. As a child, she'd been precocious, curious, and unfailingly sweet. Tagging long behind him at every opportunity, he'd found her endearing in an irritating sort of way. As she grew older, he came to admire her in a different manner, coming to fully accept that she'd be his wife one day.

Then he went off to fight Napoleon and returned years later, injured but whole. Upon his return, Eliza's father paid a call, wondering if David intended to honor the betrothal agreement.

Suddenly, everything seemed right. The horror of war, the bloodshed and death, all faded to a distant memory. He could have a new life, a new start, and the family he'd always dreamed of.

David settled all with Mr. Whitney and the arrangements were made. Mrs. Whitney proposed the couple not see each other until the wedding. It was romantic, she'd claimed, though David now wished he'd protested.

Last night, he'd experienced his one and only moment of doubt. It was a momentary doubt, passing with the light—and sanity—of a new day. This marriage was the key to his future happiness.

His smile grew as Eliza approached. Her beauty was unsurpassed, her smile as radiant as the sun. If she felt any qualms about marrying him, she did not show it.

Then she stood by his side, the scent of roses wafting up to tantalize his senses, lingering on her skin and hair. That smell, the way she gazed up at him with complete trust, her dark eyes widening just a fraction as he grasped her tiny, delicate hand—it all caused a thread of recollection, a tiny fragment of his deepest desire called to life in the recognition he saw reflected in her gaze.

Relief surged through him. He pulled her close, tempted to laugh but settling for a wide smile instead.

As the wedding service began, he leaned down.

“I told you I would know you, Angel. Always.”

Masquerade balls were scandalous, her friend Melody told her in an excited whisper. That was where she could have her little rebellion, where she could experience a taste of life without the stifling glare of her mother, Melody's mother, and the other dragons of Society.

They'd gone to all the trouble of securing costumes—swearing their maids to silence in order to accomplish the task without their mothers discovering their activities—giggling like schoolgirls over the intricacy, the stitches, the beaded bodices, and how they would charm every gentleman there. Eliza's shepherdess costume fell slightly off her shoulders, revealing a generous amount of bosom. The heavenly creation showed far more skin than her mother would ever allow, but that didn't matter. With her little beaded mask she was unrecognizable.

Or so Melody assured her.

Then Melody grew scared, deciding not to attend with Eliza. Bribing her maid to accompany her instead proved no hardship but some of the evening's excitement palled without her friend's vivacious presence at her side.

Despite missing her friend, Eliza soon found herself caught up in the excitement of a ball wherein she could behave with complete abandon. She could dance, gossip, and flirt to her heart's content, never worrying about flirting too much or being thought fast. No one could know who she was, no one could know Miss Eliza Whitney was the shepherdess with the beaded mask.

And then she saw him. A tall, broad-shouldered highwayman with fair hair and a ready smile for the lady with whom he danced. He was the very instrument of her rebellion, the very man she could use to see what life could have offered her had she not been betrothed from childhood. Her smile widened as she made her way across the ballroom, intent on making his acquaintance.

When Melody said guests at a masquerade behaved in a shocking manner, she exaggerated, but only a trifle.

In the moment that Eliza's epiphany happened, the moment her heart constricted and her mind became clear, she realized her mistake. One should never kiss a strange man at a masquerade ball when one was marrying another man the very next day. It simply wasn't done.

And now she knew why.

While her husband initiated her in the mysteries of the marriage bed, Eliza would be recalling another man's embrace, another man's hands, lips, and breath. With every intimate caress from her husband, Eliza would relive this dark stranger's fingers gliding over her bare shoulder and into her hair while his kiss drained all the strength from her limbs.

It was only when he attempted to remove her mask that Eliza remembered herself. She couldn't let him see her face, not entirely. Heavens, he could be a guest at her wedding tomorrow!

Her hands shot up to stop him before he could untie the velvet ribbons of her mask.

“No, don't!” Her low voice penetrated the desire she saw burning in his eyes.

A deep chuckle answered her, the sound rumbling through his body and into hers. “Why not?”

Eliza shivered. His question whispered across her lips. So powerful was his effect on her that she released his fingers, intent on exploring his lips just once more. If allowing him to see her whole face was the price....

Dredging up every spare ounce of willpower, Eliza stepped away, pushing his hands away from her mask. Again. And he chuckled. Again.

“Angel, does it matter so much that I not see your face?” He moved in closer, drawing her body flush with his. His warm breath fanned her ear as he added, “Do you believe I won't know you, always?”

Eliza shivered, the promise and the threat in his voice enough to make her weak in the knees. She didn't even know who this man was yet she seemed to have no control over her reactions to his voice, his touch, his nearness.

This had to stop. In less than one day, she would marry another man, a man she'd been betrothed to forever. A man who'd endured her childhood antics, protected her, would never hurt her, and had never done anything to deserve what she was doing to him now.

A man who'd never affected her the way this man did.

A sigh from the deepest recesses of her soul emerged. All around them Society went about their business, dancing, gossiping, sneaking behind greenery or into the gardens for a stolen kiss, making merry while Eliza felt the world shift under her feet. Life was unfair when love—or attraction—made itself felt only when it was too late. The feeling of rightness that pervaded her being could not be unrequited. If only her betrothed hadn't honored the betrothal.

Life was full of 'if onlys' and Eliza had experienced more than one in her eighteen years.

If only her soon-to-be husband hadn't disappeared for years, she thought as her masked lover stroked his fingers over her neck.

If only she hadn't been so young when he'd left, she thought as her companion's lips left a trail of butterfly kisses on the sensitive skin of her throat.

If only she'd not felt this overwhelming need to rebel against the path chosen for her, she thought as the gentleman in her arms pulled her impossibly close, his lips returning to hers.

If only she hadn't decided to attend this masquerade ball where ladies and gentlemen forgot themselves and behaved with far more license than was their wont, she thought as her lover's fingers blazed a path of fire across the tops of her breasts.

“If only,” she whispered.

The great clock in the ballroom chimed midnight. Time for the unmasking. Eliza panicked, jerking against her companion's arms. Her abrupt movement surprised him enough that he released her. The last thing Eliza saw before escaping through the French doors was the face of her would-be lover. In the light of branch after branch of candles, servants traversing the room to light even more, Eliza saw more clearly the man she had to force herself to leave.

He'd yet to remove his mask but it only covered his eyes. His dark, soulful eyes, eyes that she knew she'd never forget. Hair, guinea gold, cut in one of the shorter styles, high brow, square jaw, firm lips. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed to perfection as a highwayman all in black complete with a hat that he'd removed before kissing her.

Eliza sighed again. He claimed he'd always know her and she began to wonder if it would be the same for her.

He lifted his hand. Whether in farewell or to untie his mask, Eliza didn't know. Nor did she wait to find out. A brief detour to collect her less-than-conscientious maid and she was on her way home.

Miss Eliza Whitney entered the church in Hanover Square on her father's arm. She was everything a radiant bride should be on that beautiful spring day. Her pale yellow gown shimmered like the sun, the high-waisted bodice encrusted with gold thread and seed pearls, larger pearls and topazes around her slender white throat. Her dark hair was piled high on her head, more pearls and tiny diamonds threaded throughout. She smiled all around, eliciting smiles from those who gathered to witness the nuptials.

David Huntley waited at the altar, a smile tipping the corners of his lips. He'd waited for this day forever it seemed, waited for Eliza to grow up into the woman he'd always known she'd become. After today, she'd be his forever, finalizing an agreement made between their fathers more than a decade prior.

He'd admired her as long as he could remember. As a child, she'd been precocious, curious, and unfailingly sweet. Tagging long behind him at every opportunity, he'd found her endearing in an irritating sort of way. As she grew older, he came to admire her in a different manner, coming to fully accept that she'd be his wife one day.

Then he went off to fight Napoleon and returned years later, injured but whole. Upon his return, Eliza's father paid a call, wondering if David intended to honor the betrothal agreement.

Suddenly, everything seemed right. The horror of war, the bloodshed and death, all faded to a distant memory. He could have a new life, a new start, and the family he'd always dreamed of.

David settled all with Mr. Whitney and the arrangements were made. Mrs. Whitney proposed the couple not see each other until the wedding. It was romantic, she'd claimed, though David now wished he'd protested.

Last night, he'd experienced his one and only moment of doubt. It was a momentary doubt, passing with the light—and sanity—of a new day. This marriage was the key to his future happiness.

His smile grew as Eliza approached. Her beauty was unsurpassed, her smile as radiant as the sun. If she felt any qualms about marrying him, she did not show it.

Then she stood by his side, the scent of roses wafting up to tantalize his senses, lingering on her skin and hair. That smell, the way she gazed up at him with complete trust, her dark eyes widening just a fraction as he grasped her tiny, delicate hand—it all caused a thread of recollection, a tiny fragment of his deepest desire called to life in the recognition he saw reflected in her gaze.

Relief surged through him. He pulled her close, tempted to laugh but settling for a wide smile instead.

As the wedding service began, he leaned down.

“I told you I would know you, Angel. Always.”

Zane & Delanna

Void Munashii

It was my first year of college when a group of my friends decided that we should go to Earth for spring break. This made sense since “spring” really had no meaning at home, so we all piled into Sartik's shuttle and headed out. It was a bumpy ride since the shuttle was only meant to carry half as many of us as it was, and also because Sartik was drunk.

We went to the San Francisco dome, and while everyone else wanted to stay there and party, I decided to venture outside and see the remains of my ancestral home. I had never been to Earth before, just seen it through the plastiglas domes in the sky at home, so I took a cab out to the peninsula; a city that had once been called San Carlos before the exodus.

My great-great grandparents were Earthborns, and they were part of the last, and largest, exodus out into the big black; leaving our home world to rot. Most of the people who stayed moved into the domed cities: New York, San Francisco, London, Tokyo, etc. Only a few crazies, wilders, kept living out in the pollution; I guess I could sort of see the attraction of the quiet and the wide open space even if the air did stink.

Of course by the time I was wandering those silent streets with towering abandoned buildings on all sides of me, the pollution had dropped to twentieth century levels, which is to say still quite unhealthy, but breathable. I could feel it in my chest though; the pollution combined with pollen from the blooming plants grown up through the ruptures in the pavement were not playing nice with lungs raised on filtered air.

I was walking up a street, wondering what it all looked like when it had been inhabited. Was it as crowded as they made things look in school? Was it like San Francisco? Was it as crowded as home? Had my ancestors perhaps walked this very street at some point?

I was so lost in thought that I didn't hear her at first. Her stage whisper blended into the wind blowing between the buildings. I don't know how many times she tried to get my attention before I finally noticed her.

“Hey!” I finally heard, “Help me!”

I looked up and saw a woman, she looked about my age, but it was hard to tell due to the air filtration mask covering most of her face (I could not afford such things; I could barely justify the expense of the cab ride out from the dome), standing in the frame of what had once been a window on the third floor of one of the vacant buildings; or at least I would have expected it to be vacant. She was wearing what looked like expensive clothes; much nicer than my coveralls anyway.

She waved to me, “Help!” she hissed.

I called up to her, “What are you doing up-?”

“Shhhh!” she hissed, “I need help. They took my pod, and they have blasters! They're going to-” She turned suddenly.

“What are you doing?” A loud and raspy voice echoed down. It was the kind of voice you only heard from people who had lived their whole life breathing polluted air; which is to say pretty much just Earthborns, “Get away from there!”

I ran and took cover inside the doorway of another building, hoping he did not have a decent pair of infospecs that would give away my body heat. I doubted that the wall was thick enough to completely shield me.

There were a few moments of silence before the man spoke again, “There ain't no one out there, you little quot, now sit down and shut up before I throw you out that window.”

“You're not going to get any money if you zip me,” the woman said defiantly.

“You'd probably survive, and there are other ways to earn creds than just ransom, you know? Now come here!”

The voices stopped. I waited a few more minutes before I came out from my hiding place. While I waited, I tried to wrap my skull around the situation. Was she another tourist like me? Well, maybe a tourist, but not like me; not with those clothes and that mask. She probably had her own flyer out here somewhere too, and had been captured by the wilders while she wandered... the same thing could've happened to me.

Of course it could also have been a trap. Maybe she was bait to lure in people like me for ransom? Not that they would get any money for me. My family spent all of their spare creds trying to keep my sister in line.

Maybe they wouldn't want money though; I had seen stories on the stream about how some Earthborn wilders were cannibals, and would hunt domefolk, tourists, and even other wilders for food. Well, they would have to put in some effort if they wanted to eat me.

I grabbed a large chunk of fibercrete from the cracked and filthy floor of my hiding place, and headed for the building that held my damsel in distress. I wasn't exactly the big damned hero type, but I would do it for my sister, and for all I knew she was somebody's sister.

The inside of the building was dark; the light fixtures long dead. I pulled out my infospecs, and used the night-vision app to let me see as I crept my way through the old structure. It smelled like decay, and piss, and feec.

I heard movement, and stopped. Someone, or something, was around the corner from me. If it was an Earthborn, they would be stronger than me, so I would need to keep the element of surprise. Of course if it were just a deer, then I would feel foolish.

I stepped around the corner, fibercrete raised, and found that it wasn't a deer at all, but a dirty, hairy wilder wearing clothes made out of some sort of brown leather. I did not stop to think about what animal had sourced the fabric, I just swung my makeshift weapon, hitting him in the face with it. He staggered back, so I hit him again, and he dropped to the floor.

He was still breathing despite the blood covering his face. I had given him a broken nose, and probably a concussion. I took his blaster, datapod, and three knives in trade. After just touching him I wished I had brought some sanispray with me.

I felt more confident with a gun in my hand; dad had taken me and my sister, Sarna, to the trainer all the time. I had fought through plenty of simulated battles; I only hoped that I would not freeze up in the real thing.

I didn't run into any other wilders as I made my way to the third floor. I got turned around, and ended up at the wrong end of the building though. I got more lost as I tried to find the girl and her captors. Every hallway looked the same as ever other hallway; how did Earthborns deal with this?

I finally found them; I should have just followed the smell of feec to them in the first place. There were five of them, all gathered around the girl. They all looked pretty much like the wilder downstairs; brown leather clothes, long, unkempt hair. The girl looked completely out of place sat on a chair in the middle of them.

I stepped into the room, blaster raised, and yelled, “Let the girl go!” Like a character out of a bad TD show.

Rather than let her go, they turned towards me, pulling their own blasters. One of them grabbed the girl out of the chair, and put his blaster to her head.

“Oh good, more ransom,” he said.

“This doesn't need to get violent. Just let her go, and we can all pretend this never happened,” I said, not sounding as confident as I wanted to.

“Or you could put down that gun before you hurt yourself, kid,” one of the wilders replied; I was surprised to realize it was a woman.

“Or before we hurt you,” said another.

“Put down that blaster, son,” said the man holding a gun to young woman's head said, “I will shoot her.”

I had done this scenario before, it never ended peacefully in simulation. I was sure I could shoot them, and probably survive, but I had to make sure the hostage didn't get hurt.

“Come on, kid,” the man said, “Drop the gun, or make your move. The only difference is whether or not you get zipped.”

“He's not alone, you know,” the girl said, “He's just one of my escorts. The others won't be far behind him. They'll kill you all.”

“And does your daddy always hire bodyguards out of middle school? This kid can't be older than fifteen,” the female wilder scoffed.

I was seventeen actually.

There was a noise on the other side of the room; something moved. The wilders turned to find a feral cat had jumped down from a hole in the ceiling. They relaxed then, turning back to me.

That's when she made her move.

The girl jerked free of her captor, then turned and kicked him in the groin.

As the wilder started to double over in pain, I made my own move. I shot the two wilders closest to me, dead center of mass. Their leather did nothing to stop energy blasts, and they went down.

The girl grabbed the blaster from her captor's hand, and used it to shoot the other two wilders before either of them could decide which one of us they should shoot. She then trained the gun on the last man, who was curled into a ball on the floor.

“Oh feec, please don't” he croaked.

“Should I?” she asked me.

“No” I said without hesitation, “but we should tie him up, and call the SecFor to come and pick them up.”

She liked that idea, so we left him tied up.

By his ankles.

Hanging from the third story window that she had first called to me from.

I wonder how long he was there before SecFor showed up to arrest him.

She introduced herself to me as Delanna Troy of Mars, also on Earth for spring break. She gave me a ride in her rental flyer, where I first saw her face without the breathing mask; she was beautiful. We talked during the flight back to the dome, I told her my name was Zane Del Rathi and that I was from Luna. She laughed about how we were from opposite ends of the socioeconomic spectrum (which was true, my family couldn't afford a trip to Earth, never mind a home on Mars), but she was not trying to be mean or anything.

She took me out to dinner to thank me for helping her, and then to breakfast the next day. We spent the rest of the week together, and we stayed in contact even after we both went home. There was a real connection between us; not just a spring fling.

As first dates go, I suppose it was a unique one, but the woman who would eventually become Delanna Troy Del Rathi changed the entire path of my life just by getting caught by those wilders. I wish I could say that we lived happily ever after, but that only happens in fairy stories, doesn't it?

The Photo Album

MonaLee Wilson

“Hey Grams, we’re here.” Angela ran up the steps to the house. It had been a long, tiring drive and she and her brother Ed were glad it was at an end. It was more than worth the long drive when they got to visit with their favorite grandparents. They did not get back as often as they would like and even less seldom together. Angela was tall for a woman and looked so much like Grams. It made her happy to hear this as she admired her Grandmother above all else. Grams was her role model in all things. Although three years younger than Angela, Ed was the taller of the two. Both were above average attractive. Ed was engaged and Angela was still unattached.

“In here sweetheart,” Grams answered, “just going down memory lane while Gramps is sleeping.” Photo albums surrounded Ida Campbell, her history in black and white and color. At age 85 her life had been long, and eventful. As the years had passed, she had not keep track of them other than through her pictures. Ida treasured each one and looked at the albums often, as she relived all the important events. Most of the pictures gave her a feeling of pleasure, but not all of them. Ida had once thought to remove all those which caused pain but changed her mind. They were a part of her history and had to be included or the story would not be complete. Life was both good and bad. This was also a testament of perseverance, of working through the troublesome times, of love enduring. Her albums were her legacy to all her grandchildren. She had told them the stories that went with each picture enough times so they would be remembered.

Angela and Ed always enjoyed Gram’s stories, especially about things no longer available, things they would never experience. Mostly though they wanted to hear about the love story of Grams and Gramps.

Ida was in the middle of her 17th year when she met Gramps. She was slim and pretty with long, thick auburn hair. In later years she often pondered on how attraction worked. Louis Campbell was visiting his friend Brian and they were both attractive young men but Ida only saw Louis. Why was that? He was average in height, with this most wonderful smile. Brian was taller but had an equally nice smile. They were both fun to be with and she saw them often. Still it was Louis she gave her heart to. Six months later they were married, and firmly believed in the “for better, for worse, till death do we part.” They moved from California to a small farming community in Washington. Money was in short supply and jobs were scarce since it was winter. The only available house on the farm was little more than a shell but Ida and Louis didn’t seem to care. They were young and in love. Come spring there would be plenty of work.

Grams picked up the album with their courting pictures. “This is our special park,” she tenderly touched a photo of the two young lovers. “Money was always a problem and the park was free. We spent many hours there as we spun out dreams and what our lives would be like in the future. We knew it would be glorious. It’s hard to remember we were ever that young,” Grams said, “but then, that was taken 68 years ago.”

“Oh Grams,” sighed Angela, “you were beautiful and Gramps, well Gramps was just so hot.”

Ida’s eyes misted with the threat of tears as her memory wandered back again. Such strong passions they had. It was a good thing they did not know what was in store for them. They wouldn’t have believed it anyway. Nothing would ever lessen their love for each other, it was too strong. “The world was so different then.” Grams stated. “Some call it a simpler, more peaceful time and in many ways it was. Not much attention is paid to time as it passes when there is so much life to be lived. We had no conception of the changes to come.”

“How so Grams?” Ed wanted to hear it again even though he knew the story by heart.

“Well,” Grams explained, “just for starters, there were none of the electronics you so enjoy. In the evenings we gathered around the radio, not the television. Women did not wear jeans, shorts or cropped tops showing their belly buttons, we dressed up for church and special occasions. The only body parts pierced were the ears of women for one set of earrings. Space travel was considered science fiction. It’s true: we did have a special day set aside for washing clothes, ironing, baking and so on. There were no automatic washing machines or dryers. Clothes were hung on a clothesline outside and smelled wonderful when dry. Babies wore cloth diapers. Too much today is disposable but I can not say I enjoyed doing the messy diapers.”

“We know all that Grams,” Ed prodded, “tell us again about you and Gramps.”

Ida knew the routine as she continued. “You remember how Gramps always laughed and smiled? That was his nature. When times were bleak, he had a way of making them better. He would take me in his arms, rub my back, give me his best smile and tell me tomorrow would be a better day. And it usually was. Then our first baby died and it seemed, for a while, his laughter was gone. Our love took us through that rough time and eventually there were five more babies.

“Yes,” Angela interrupted, “one was our daddy.” The three of them were lost in thought as Ida went to the pictures of their youngest son, Jim, who had died in Viet Nam shortly after Ed was born. Six years later Jim’s wife died also, leaving Grams and Gramps to raise Angela and Ed. Although lessened, the pain of loss would always be with them.

Grams continued, “You both know our lives were not always sweet but our love was always there to see us through. That’s the most important thing to remember. When love is fresh and new, we believe life will always be wonderful and when it is not, that’s when we have to hold on the tightest to our love for each other.”

Ida flipped through the pages of pictures, and sometimes laughed as the memories flooded her mind. “There are those silly Halloween costumes. How we loved the fun of those days. Gramps and I always tried to outdo each other with outlandish creations. Kinda wild, huh?” Ida’s hand stopped at the picture of her and Louis dancing to a love song on the radio. With a smile on her lips, she whispered, “Sexy.” This caused Angela and Ed to giggle. They gave each other this knowing look. Oh yeah, their Grams and Gramps were definitely sexy. When asked what first attracted him to Ida, Louis got this leer on his face and said one word. “Lust.” That usually was good for a laugh but Louis was serious.

Ida closed the album and reached for another one. There were not so many pictures now. These were the dark years when they seemed to have lost their way. The laughter and smiles had been missed for a long time as the daily struggle to continue became harder. Their love remained but not much seemed to be good anymore. There was this coldness neither one seemed able to understand. Both were in pain and could not get around it or reach out to each other.

Ida quickly put aside the album. They did not need sad memories at this time. Choosing another, more current book, Ida cherished the recent additions. “How much fun we had with Gramp’s bald head. Remember this one? Which one of you drew that cartoon on top?” Laughter eased the previous sadness as the memories flowed. So many changes through the years. Ida and Louis were still an attractive couple despite the wrinkles. Angela and Ed could not remember a time when they were not there.

Here were the 50th, 60th and 65th anniversary celebrations. “How blessed we are with family and friends,” Grams said softly. “So many of our friends are gone now but we did have some wonderful, and chaotic times.

With a sigh, Ida closed the album. “That’s all for now, we need to fix lunch.” On the way to the kitchen the three of them went to the hospital bed set up in the living room. Ida and Louis had gotten through the “for better, for worse,” now it was time for the “till death do we part.” Gramps was dying and it would be soon. It was his time and his only regret was leaving Ida behind. Lunch was only a ritual, something to do, as it would not be eaten by Gramps. Ida gently kissed her husband’s cheek, and squeezed his hand. Louis responded weakly. His eyes said, “I love you.” They’d had a good, long marriage, and her heart still beat faster when she looked at him. In her eyes Louis was still that handsome young man she had fallen in love with and she was 17 again.

New Beginnings

Jennifer McMurrain

Myra loved the smell of spring off the ocean. It always had a hint of lilac and whispered of new beginnings. But this was not a spring of new beginnings. She did not want a new beginning. She wanted him. She wanted Derek.

She watched the waves crash into the rocks, the rhythm matching the throbs in her chest. Her eyes moved to the vast horizon of water. Was he still out there? Could he still be alive? Maybe marooned on a small island or hurt on a foreign ship? It would take the death of hope to accept he was never coming home.

Myra walked the grassy path, tears streaming down her face. He had to come home, there was no other option. A life without him was not a life at all, but an empty existence; like a flower bud without the chance to blossom.

Looking to the waves she screamed out his name and fell to her knees. “Please,” she whimpered, “please don’t leave me.” She pulled at her hair, releasing another scream to the sky, before grabbing her chest.

Her heart slammed inside of her, the pain so intense it traveled down her left arm. Wilting into the grass she smiled, now the physical pain matched her emotional ache and the darkness surrounding her matched the emptiness that once was her soul.

The waves were louder than Myra remembered before she passed out. From her vantage point on the cliff side, they seemed to be only an echo. Now they were barreling inside her head. She squinted up, expecting to see the sun bright overhead, but was met with the orange of the sunset instead.

Sitting up on her elbow, she looked at her hand as it sank in the sand. Hadn’t there been grass before? She lifted herself into a sitting position and scanned her surroundings. The cliff loomed above her as the ocean tide played with her toes. Had she fallen when she passed out?

“Myra.”

The voice was soft like the rain at the beginning of a thunderstorm. She looked around for the owner and saw nothing.

“Myra,” it came again. She leapt to her feet and gazed at the cliffs. Had somebody been watching her play out her grief and seen her fall? The cliffs were empty.

Spinning around, she stared down the coastline making out a lone shadow on the horizon. The tall, broad shoulders told her it was a man. His lose hair tousled by the wind, his stride one of great familiarity.

Her heart leapt to her throat as she choked back a cry. It was Derek, it had to be. She took off in a run to reach her beloved. His stride matched hers. She screamed his name over and over, tears of joy cascading down her cheeks.

She slammed into his embrace and he wrapped her up in his thick arms before planting a long, passionate kiss deep onto her luscious lips. She met his hunger, desperate to never wake up from this dream. It had to be a dream, Derek was gone.

Once he released her lips she dug her head into his chest. “Don’t leave me like that ever again,” she cried.

“No, my love, I’m going nowhere without you.” His voice melted over her like warm honey. She thought she’d never hear his baritone again.

She let out a loud sob. “I know this is only a dream. I know it will end and my heart will be broken all over again.”

Derek picked up her chin, gazing into her eyes. “You will never be broken hearted again. Your heart broke for the last time up on the cliff side.”

Myra shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s ok, love, you’ll understand in time. For now all you need to know is that our love surpasses all.” Derek embraced her again. “Even death.”

Rain Delay

Jeffrey Caminsky

Glancing nervously at the door of Stacy’s Bar and Grill, Steve Sellars was relieved to see a family of four enter and walk to the hostess to get a table. Sighing deeply, he looked up at the oversized television over the bar. The ball game was supposed to be on by now, but the local sports channel was still airing a special on the history of the American League. He avoided looking at his friend, Frank, seated next to him.

“Well?” asked Frank.

“No, I don’t know what she looks like,” Steve hissed. “And keep your voice down. She may be here already, for all I know.”

Frank shrugged and returned his attention to his beer. If already here, she was hardly making her presence known. But Steve was nervous enough; the poor slob didn’t need a reminder that his first date in months was standing him up.

“What happened to the ball game?” asked Steve.

“You really aren’t paying attention, are you?” Frank laughed.

“Right…the rain.”

The day had gone from raw to blustery. Through the window, Steve watched the April rain pour down in sheets. Tree branches were rattling in the wind, and gray clouds screamed across the sky. But inside, the bar was nearly empty. It would have been a perfect day to curl up on the couch with a book, he thought, if he hadn’t agreed to go on this damn date.

Ordinarily, Steve hated blind dates. He thought them acts of desperation, suitable for priggish women, and men whose idea of dressing up for a date was changing their pocket protectors. But in the two years since his divorce, Steve had come to a sad realization: the world was filled with lonely people, himself included. Curiously, he found the word “lonely” less deflating than “desperate.” It left him just as dubious about dining with a stranger, but made him feel like less of a loser.

Still, this particular blind date seemed more like a trap than a date. A trap set by Cathy, the office matchmaker. He always tried to avoid her, but when on a mission she could be very persistent. Obsessed was probably a better word, thought Steve, but her description of Jennifer, his increasingly tardy date, at least sounded intriguing: smart, funny, full of adventure. Her last vacation was to India, and she had a passion for photography, as well as a zest for life. To Steve, she sounded like a possible end to his long drought; and even if he didn’t get lucky, he could still have some fun. Frank was highly suspicious of the fact that the women couldn’t scrounge up a photo to close the deal.

“Okay, Romeo,” said Frank, draining the last of his beer, “I’m out of here. You would be too, if you weren’t so pathetic.”

“I’ll give her a few more minutes.”

“Desperation doesn’t impress them, you know.”

“A few more minutes.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Frank squeezed his friend’s shoulder and smiled. Steve was too nice for his own good: that probably doomed his marriage in the first place. He was too willing to bend, and rarely stood up for himself. Seeing Steve like this was painful, and Frank had better things to do than hang around for the disaster to unfold. He put on his jacket and punched Steve in the arm, then tossed a ten-dollar bill onto the table to cover his tab.

“Call me if you need me.”

“I will.”

As Frank headed out the door, Steve glanced around the bar. The soft music from the jazz trio in the dining area gave the place an air of romance, but he felt as depressed as when he’d arrived.

Near the fireplace, an old couple was managing to avoid looking at one another, except to pass the salt or ketchup. The man looked depressed, and any spark of romance in his heart seemed to be gone. It reappeared briefly, when he smiled weakly at the pretty young waitress who came to take their order, but was quickly doused by a torrent of scowls from his wife.

At a table near the musicians, Steve saw a young couple chatting over appetizers while waiting for dinner to come, nervous but eager to talk. A first date, most likely, and from the looks of things probably not their last. The girl was pretty, with kind eyes and a delightful smile; the boy, gangly and unsure of himself, seemed to be winning points for not being an ass.

Steve sighed wistfully. Perhaps real joy came from the thrill of discovery, not the routines of everyday life. Maybe romance was best left to the young, too naive to be terrified and unable to see the demons hidden in the shadows of the people they loved. Better for them to revel a moment in ignorant bliss, before being stripped of their illusions.

He remembered that first date with his ex-wife. He’d taken her to the Zoo, but a thunderstorm trapped them in the monkey house for nearly an hour. Making up stories about the chimps and other primates in the exhibit did more to light a spark between them than anything he could have planned. Their romance was, in many ways, a fairy tale spun with each new shared adventure. But all those early sparks just hid what became a fatal mismatch. His ex-wife was sweet and adorable in so many ways—to everyone in the world, it seemed, but him. Her barbed tongue and emotional baggage probably doomed their relationship from the start, and he was no angel, himself. But he didn’t realize any of it until it was too late. Ten years too late.

Of course, Stacy’s Bar and Grill wasn’t the Zoo, and he probably wouldn’t have a date to worry about. But it was a shame: the chef had even studied in France. Steve hoped it didn’t mean the place was crawling with snails.

The door opened with a blast of cold air, and two new arrivals walked through the door. One woman was folding her umbrella, while her cuter friend stepped toward the hostess to ask for a table. Cathy had described his date as a blonde, and the pretty one had blonde highlights in her hair—so the friend could be her escape plan in case things turned out badly. As he tried to recall what Jennifer was supposed to be wearing, the pretty one unbuttoned her coat, revealing a bulging and very pregnant belly. As the women checked their coats, he noticed each was wearing a wedding ring, and Steve returned to his beer.

Before long another woman entered, carrying an oversized purse and loudly chatting on a cell phone. Her blonde, frizzy hair was partly covered by a knit cap that didn’t quite fit, and she moved with an aggressive self-assurance that made him cringe. Snapping her fingers at the hostess, she interrupted her call only long enough to bark a few commands in a sharp voice, before being led to a far corner of the dining area where another woman was already waving from a table. Steve breathed a sigh of relief.

A crack of thunder echoed outside, and rain fell heavy against the roof. Through the window Steve saw the wind whipping through the trees, and the downpour turned the parking lot into a shallow lake. As the deluge intensified, a plaid umbrella went skipping over the pavement, chased by a lady’s hat; a minute later, the door opened and a woman rushed inside. Dripping wet, she plopped onto the bench in the lobby, looking as miserable as a kitten taking a bath, and stared at the ceiling, taking long, deep breaths. The hostess was too busy chatting with the bartender to notice the newcomer. On a hunch, Steve rose from his seat and sat down beside her.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

“As right as I ever am,” she replied tearfully. “I had to change a flat in the rain. My clothes are ruined. I look like hell, I lost my cell phone, and I think I ran over a cat. I should lock myself in my room—forever—and never inflict myself on the world again.”

“It’s a God-awful day. Why not just stay home?”

“Other people shouldn’t suffer for my screw-ups. And I’m supposed to be meeting someone. On the off-chance he’s too big a loser not to have left after being stood up, I thought I’d ride this disaster train until it reached the station. So much for trying to start dating again.”

“Are you Jennifer, by any chance?”

Painfully, she looked Steve in the eye. “I’m going home,” she sniffed.

“No…I insist on buying you dinner.” Steve stood up and offered her his hand. “Come on—at least have something warm before venturing back out into that monsoon.”

As she started crying in earnest, a confused Steve helped her to her feet and led her to his table. He could feel the waitresses and other customers looking at him with suspicion. He was thinking of a few choice things to tell Cathy at the office on Monday morning when Jennifer took a deep, trembling breath and started calming herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “India was a trip my husband wanted to take.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I actually spent part of last summer over there,” she continued. “After Bob died, I thought I’d spread some of his ashes…well, I wanted to take him on the trip he’d always dreamed of, and leave his ashes near the Himalayas.”

“That’s very sweet.”

“But I didn’t even get to the foothills. There are reasons why plane fares are cheaper at certain times of the year. If you ever go to India, check to see when monsoon season rolls around.”

“What about the ashes?”

“They’re back in the urn with the rest of him. The trip was really what he wanted.”

“I didn’t know Customs allowed human remains back into the country.”

“I’m not sure India does, either.”

“Then how…?”

“I put some in an empty baby powder container. The kind you get from the drug store. Then I packed it away in my luggage.”

“You smuggled it across two borders?”

“Unless you count the layovers in Tokyo. But I forgot about him until I used the Jacuzzi my last night at the hotel and wanted to dry off with the baby powder.”

“What would have happened if you’d gotten caught?”

“Sometimes it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

Even over sad eyes, her smile seemed the most radiant he’d seen in years.

“I feel terrible, not leaving part of him in India.”

“Well,” chuckled Steve, “there are those bushes next to Newman’s Deli. He’d probably never know the difference.”

He winced at saying something so thoughtless to a woman grieving over the loss of a husband. To his relief, she broke into a full-bodied laugh. Her eyes lost their gloom, and he wondered whether it wasn’t the first time she’d had a good laugh all year.

“Ready to order?” asked the waitress, pausing at their table.

“To start, I’d suggest some hot soup,” said Steve, reaching for the menu. “On a day like today, I think the chicken noodle would do quite nicely.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jennifer smiled.

“Make it two,” Steve said with a sweep of his hand. “Oh—and from the looks of things, we’ll probably need a lot more napkins.”

The two women laughed, and the waitress left to tend to the next table. Settling into his seat, Steve looked over the menu and began to relax. It was a start; maybe just the kind of start both of them needed.

And he had to admit that Cathy was right: Jennifer was smart, and funny. And pretty, besides. She’d be even prettier, once she dried her hair.

The wet clothes, he thought, were just an added bonus.

Will Spring Ever Come?

Katelyn S. Irons

It was the first day of spring. Cue mental images of snow melting, dewy pink petals opening, and nothing in the blue sky but brilliant sunshine. Now let me stop you. It wasn't like that at all. At least... Let me explain.

Spring began for me in a room. A grey room. A grey room with yellow lights that stung my eyes and made trickles of tears seep from the corner of each.

The table I lay on was cold. I could feel it through the thin material I was wearing. Metal or stone? I tried to wiggle so I could feel the surface. I couldn't move. Well... Maybe I could. But I couldn't feel any movement. I couldn't even tell where my hands were. My body was numb.

I gasped for breath. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. My mind raced. Suddenly the smell of rubber filled my nostrils- it reminded me of the smell of new shoes. A cold blast of air filled my lungs. The cool air cooled my throat which was sore from gasping.

I opened my eyes a slit, for they had squeezed shut again right after I saw the light. I saw a glimpse of a latex gloved hand and something around my mouth. My eyes shut again and refused to open.

What was happening to me? I felt a tugging. Something wheedling at the skin. It wasn't exactly painful, but not comfortable. At least it was feeling, I thought. I concentrated on my arm. I had vague feeling. I couldn't identify it but there was something clamped on the finger of my right hand. There was a slight prick of pain near the inside of my elbow.

I tried to open my mouth to ask the gloved hand who it belonged to. All that happened was a suction sound seemed to explode in the quiet room from my movement.

"She's awake!" I heard a voice to my left shout. A warmth started spreading, seeming to slowly seep in.

"She can't be. Look at her pulse. Slow. Steady." A voice said. I try to move again but failed. "It was just a twitch."

"I can tell. She looks different." A gloved hand brushed the back of my own sending an explosion of electrifying tingles up my arm and my neck.

"You're just observing. I know what I'm doing!"

"I have just as much schooling as you, Dr. Garnet." The owner of the hand had a firm tone. Whatever drugs I had in my system were doing funny things to my sensations. Every time I heard that voice I felt a tingle on my neck.

"You will listen to me, Dreannan. I'm in charge of this surgery-" The surgery! The memories came flooding back into my clouded mind. "-And I will do whatever it takes to continue. This tumor must be removed."

Something drew at my attention away from their conversation. I heard a distinct and steady beeping. Then it clicked. My pulse- slow, steady. The warm spreading grew colder and tingles more and more. I wish I could raise pulse. I wish I could somehow tell them I was awake, awakening more every minute. I didn't want to feel anymore. My mind raced.

I could now distinguish other things: the sound of tinking metal, the roughness of the fabric covering all but my neck and head, the pricks and tugs and odd pressures that told me the doctor was still working. I focused back into their conversation.

"The tumor needs to be removed immediately," Dr. Garnet was saying. "Every second is delay that could cost the patient her life."

"If the patient is awake we need to do something about it!"

"Well the patient isn't showing any signs so I'm not going to do anything."

"Dr. Garnet, please," the young doctor's tone had gotten more serious.

"Why are you so sure there's something wrong?" I could feel the movements, the tugs, the pricks more distinctly now.

"I don't know what it is. I just can tell with her." His hand rested on the table next to mine. I could feel the heat from him. Metal goes clink, tink. Then, I blinked.

"What was that then!" Dreannan removed his hand.

"My, my." Dr. Garnet said. "What an odd symptom. It must be something I am triggering in here."

"Something you're doing?" I heard the young doctor knock something over. A woman's muffled scream. A cold burst of fluid filled the veins of my left arm.

And that's all I remember.

I awoke the next day slow, dreamy, fighting the urge to fall back asleep. The day wasn't doing much to help me wake up however. The cacophony of new sensations overwhelmed me. I opened my eyes slowly. Yellow sunshine streamed in through the small window splashing color onto the white of the hospital room walls.

A glass of water lay next to me on a rollaway table. A man in a white lab coat holding a clipboard drew aside the curtain.

"Dr. Garnet?" I whispered. My throat was raw.

"No, I'm Dr. Jones. Dr. Garnet is temporarily on leave. He left right after your surgery."

I gave a puzzled, tired look.

"Do you want to talk to someone about the procedure?"

I nodded, sat up, and drank some water. Dr. Jones left and a few seconds later another man entered. This man was dressed in a dark green long sleeved shirt and nice trousers.

"If you're visiting my roommate," I motioned towards the curtained partition on the other side of the room. "I don't know when she will be back."

"Actually, I'm here for you." The voice. His voice. It unnerved me, sending shivers down my neck.

"I'm sorry you must mean someone else." I put the glass down and pulled my sheets up farther. I wasn't used to greeting strangers in a thin sheet of cotton.

"No. I'm sure its you." Dr. Jones came in again.

"Dr. Dreannan?"

"Yes, Dr. Jones?"

"Well that young lady you saved wanted to see you."

"Dr. Jones?"

"Yes, Dr. Dreannan."

"Did you work the late shift last night?"

"Yes." Dr. Dreannan put his hands on Dr. Jones' shoulders and adjusted him so I was in view. "Oh."

"In Dr. Garnet's absence, I authorize you to go get some sleep." Dr. Jones exited the room quietly. He could've done backflips and I wouldn't have paid him any more attention. I was preoccupied with the man in front of me, the man who gave me shivers when he spoke, the man who's touch was electricity, the man who saved my life.

"You should get up and get some fresh air." He handed me a robe. As soon as I tied it, he picked me up, making me feel like a schoolgirl. Once I was in the wheelchair he swaddled blankets around me and rolled me out to the patio.

We sat. Me in the wheelchair and him on the concrete bench under the pink Okame cherry tree. He was so strong, all business, but there was something whimsical and kind about his eyes.

"You removed the tumor?" My voice went hoarse again.

"Dr. Garnet did the work. All I did was observe."

"Don't forget. I was there." A slight breeze ruffled my robe. I felt it slip, exposing my throat and part of my chest.

"You were," he mumbled. His eyes didn't leave mine. "Ah yes of course."

"You said there was something different about me," I whispered. "Did you mean as a patient?"

He touched my hand. "No. Not just a patient."

He leaned down then and picked a bluebell. Reaching over, he tucked it behind my ear. I felt as if ice was running up my head and neck, leaving shivers and goosebumps behind. It gives me pleasure even today to think about that day.

The calendar must have been wrong. Spring didn't begin in that room. That grey room. That grey room with the yellow lights. Spring began under the azure skies, surrounded by white lazy clouds mirrored in his green eyes.

An Upsetting Package

Sharon E. Cathcart

April 1910

San Francisco, California

It was a beautiful spring day, but Claire’s eyes were filled with tears.  She closed the bedroom door behind herself, hoping that no one had seen her sobbing after she opened the parcel Antoinette Giry had sent her from Paris .

The book her friend sent was filled with lies.  Certainly, the author had called it fiction – but it wasn’t.  Not really.  There were real people to be found in those pages, and the author was telling lies about all of them.

Gilbert picked up the new book his wife had cast aside and called his stepdaughter over.  He showed Veronique the title and suggested that she go see Mrs. Kaye next door for some of that good chamomile tea that helped Maman so during the bad times.

Gilbert let himself into the bedroom and made his way to the bed.  Even after all of these years, seeing Claire in a melancholic state worried him.   He set his walking stick aside and sat down beside Claire, whose entire body was racked with silent sobs.

“How can I help?”

“Oh, Gilbert.  That man, that Gaston Leroux.  How could he?”  Claire spoke in racking gasps as she tried to calm herself.  “He said awful things about my friends.  About … about …”

Gilbert put his arms around her and held her as the tears subsided.   He whispered words of love to her, all the while wishing he possessed her first husband’s gift for calming her with his voice.  A song, a story read aloud, a poem recited; the hypnotic power of the man’s voice was undeniable.  Yet, that man was long dead and here they were. Perhaps, one day, she would be free from his memory.

Veronique let herself into the room, followed closely by Maeve Kaye and her son, Michael.  Maeve took charge of the scene, just as Gilbert had hoped she would.

“Michael, you and Veronique go downstairs and make the tea.  Mister Rochambeau, you let me take care of this little French hen of yours.  No, no … you stay here.  The young folk can bring up the tea things.”

Veronique raised an eyebrow toward her stepfather.  She had her own father’s stubborn nature and was unaccustomed to being dismissed.  After all, even as a small child she had cared for her mother during times such as this

“Beau-Pere,” she said, “shall I?”

“Indeed.  Do as Mrs. Kaye says.  Both of you.”

Michael and Veronique went down to the kitchen.  The two had been schoolmates since Veronique and her family had moved to San Francisco; they were good friends.  Michael even taught Claire how to drive the Stanley Steamer automobile that was her pride and joy.  He was quite fond of the entire family, but particularly so where Veronique was concerned.

“What’s the matter with your mother?” He’d wanted to ask the question for many years, but could never bring himself to do it.

“She has fits that she calls madness, and Beau-Pere calls sadness,” Veronique replied.  She flipped her long, black braid over her shoulder and out of the way.  Her manner, as always, was serious.   “It just happens sometimes, but today something set her off.”

“What?”

“A book.”

“Oh, come on, Ronnie.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Fine.  But really?  A book?  What kind of a book?”

Veronique cut her eyes at him over the top of the tea service.  “A book about my father.”

Michael poured hot water into the teapot and added the chamomile tea.

“Was your father famous or something, that someone should write a book about him?”  He was dying of curiosity.  All he knew was that Veronique’s father had died when she was small, and that the man she called Beau-Pere, the artist Gilbert Rochambeau, had married her mother later on.

“Infamous is perhaps a better word, Michael.”  Veronique seldom spoke of her father, and it was clear that today would be no different.

Michael picked up the tray and followed Veronique out of the kitchen and back up the stairs.  He intended to go all the way into Claire’s bedroom, but the formidable figure of his mother stopped him.

“Oh, no you don’t, Michaeleen.  You’ll not go into a lady’s bedchamber; you got past me once today, but it’ll not happen again.  Give me the tray.”

With that, Maeve closed the door behind herself, Veronique and Gilbert; Michael was left alone in the hallway.  Near the door, on a demi-lune table, was the book that had caused so much upset.  He picked it up and sounded out the French title.

“Le fantome de l’opera.”

A Sweet Surprise

Jeremy Dunn

The harsh sounding of the alarm clock jarred her from a pleasant dream and she sank lower in the bed. Thinking about the lists, those endless lists of daily tasks, seemed to sap every ounce of available energy she could muster. She thought, “Does anyone even notice what I do?” She made her way to the shower, knowing that it was only a matter of time before the chorus of hungry voices would assail her.

As she stepped out the shower, she couldn’t help but notice a whiff of maple, a hint of vanilla. Her curiosity peaked; she quickly dressed and made her way downstairs. A trail of powdered sugar led to where a chair was pushed against the cabinet. Bright smiles and sticky fingers thrust a plate toward her. “LOOK WHAT WE DID, MOMMY!” Her husband slipped a cup of coffee in her hand as he whispered, “We love you.”

A feeling of warmth closed around her and a new sense of purpose added a spring to her step. Giggles filled the kitchen as her exaggerated expressions offered a glowing review of their efforts. “Moments like this make it all worthwhile,” she thought as she kissed each syrupy head. “What makes this even better is knowing you are going to clean it up,” she said as she winked at her husband.

A Note From The Editor

Linda Boulanger

Where do I begin? Perhaps by complimenting those who rose to the challenge and submitted their stories to the New/Whisper/Spring prompt offered on the Clever Fiction website. The writers of the stories include seasoned authors, bestsellers even, as well as those who will see their work in print for the first time. The stories within this Whispered Beginnings anthology are, for the most part, unedited. Besides changing a few noticed typos and an occasional grammar or punctuation need, the stories are exactly as each author submitted them. What you read is truly that author’s voice, working within the provided criteria of 200-2000 words, using the prompt words (New ~ Whisper ~ Spring), with the knowledge that the stories were to be centered around an overall theme of Relationships/Romance. The challenge was met splendidly by each participant and I am honored to be a part of this TreasureLine Publishing/Clever Fiction project. May it be only the whisper of great beginnings!

Linda Boulanger

Author and Owner of TreasureLine Books & Publishing

http://www.treasurelinepublishing.com

If you’d like to find out more about any of the Clever Fiction Writers, please visit

http://www.cleverfiction.com/writers

Clicking on the authors’ names on that page will take you to their individual site blog where you will find additional stories as well as potential links to their writers blogs or websites.