Any Port In a Storm

The most challenging thing about a dire situation is deciding what to do.

The teaser below continues Raj’s story. Enjoy! (Don’t forget to follow link at end of this teaser to read the full chapter on Vocal.) Haven’t read first chapter? Click here.

Excerpt from “Any Port In a Storm”

Raj lay curled on one side, cradling his hand. Disbelief paralyzed him as the impossibility of what had happened gradually sunk in. The wound only appeared now as a bite from something non-poisonous, like a checkered keelback snake. He knew he shouldn’t feel better; a cobra’s bite always kills its victim without medicine. His mind reeled, seemingly poised to explode. He needed answers.

Raj sat up, and the effort made his head spin. Fighting back the bile at the back of his throat, he tucked his head between his knees, gulping for air, and waited for the nausea to end.

When his strength returned, he gazed about, looking for the mongoose. Finding the animal close, prone on the ground with labored breathing, shocked Raj.

“What’s wrong!?” the boy asked.

“I, too… change. You… have… given me… a part… of yourself.“

Feeling helpless but wanting to help, Raj crawled, weeping to the mongoose, and gently stroked its grey, grizzled fur.

He pleaded with the animal not to die. He cried harder, hyperventilating until passing out from sheer exhaustion.

Awakening alone, Raj feared the worst. He almost started crying again, but an excited chattering drew his attention to a moldering log where he saw Bullseye nosing about. Wiping the tears and snot from his face, Raj called to the mongoose.

“Hey! You okay?”

“I’m better than okay, I’m great!” Bullseye said as he bounded over.

Raj’s mouth dropped, noting the sheen of the little animal’s glossy, dark brown hair as it stretched and preened before him. Raj would have thought it was another mongoose but for the distinctive ring of lighter-colored fur about one eye.

“My youth returns! You must have given me some of your longevity when I saved you. I’ve never heard of such a thing happening, but then again, I’m no scholar,” Bullseye said.

Raj pondered this. He knew mongooses lived a fraction of the time a person might.

“Am I going to die now?”

“Hmm, let me get a good look at you.“

The mongoose bounced around, sniffing Raj before clambering up his shirt and peering into the boy’s eyes.

“You smell the same. Don’t worry. Humans live forever; at least, that’s how a creature like me sees it. Your gift will likely have little effect on you. No reason you won’t still grow old and gray someday, far off. Although you may have lost a couple years overall, it’s not a bad trade if you consider you would have died today without my help.“

Raj’s insides churned, listening to Bullesye’s nonchalant talk of death, even with the understanding he had gotten the better end of the trade. And yet, something else felt different to Raj. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Aha! Jackpot! Come to Papa, you delicious little morsel.“

Raj watched the mongoose tear into a giant beetle with its sharp canine teeth.

“Mmmm….yom….yom….tasty.“

“Hey! I can hear you still. How can I hear you?” Raj asked.

“Of course, you can hear me. You’re Virūpa now.“

“But… you’re speaking Hindi.”

The mongoose replied without stopping his struggle to choke down the beetle’s large hind legs.

“Uh-huh, yep. I’m Virūpa now, too. Funny, I never thought I’d do that willingly, but I suppose old age makes one generous.”

Raj’s eyes narrowed, “I don’t think your words are coming from your mouth.”

“Nope, animal Virūpa don’t speak that way. Look at me…no lips to speak of; I’d never be able to make the sounds needed to speak your language that way.”

“Am I the only one who you can talk to?” Raj asked. “What about my mom?”

“Just you.” The mongoose said, struggling to free a beetle leg wedged between its teeth.

“Like an imaginary friend?”

“Yes, except in this case, real.”

Raj wobbled to his feet.

“Careful. The venom makes us sick for some time.” Bullseye said.

“I’m feeling better. Thanks to you. Now come here you’re so cute!”

Raj scooped the mongoose into his arms and buried his face in the little animal’s fur.

“Ah! What are you doing? Boundaries!“

“Oh, Bullseye! You’re so fluffy and shiny and new!”

The mongoose growled, prompting Raj to put it down.

“I thought you were my friend,” Raj said.

“We’re Virūpa.”

“Is that like being friends?” Raj asked.

“I suppose…“

“Well, I hug my friends. They like it. Why’d you growl?”

“Instincts, Boy.“

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.“

“Don’t you like hugs?”

“I’m not sure; it’s the first one I’ve experienced.”

“Oh, don’t you have friends that hug you? Or…gosh…you don’t have any friends?”

“Look, Boy. Mongooses, don’t hug. We spar and wrestle.”

Raj pondered the information.

“If I ask first, can I pick you up?”

The mongoose blinked rapidly, seemingly nonplussed.

“Well…I….hmm….sounds reasonable. Yes, you may.”

Raj squealed, clapping his hands before snatching the little animal off the ground again.

“Ugh! That was your way of asking?”

“Come on, let’s go tell Mom the good news! She’s never going to believe this!”

“She might, and I don’t think she’ll like it.“

“What do you mean?”

“That story she told you by the fire before bed last night. You and I are those now.“

“Don’t be silly, Bullseye, you saved my life! And besides, we’re not bad men. We would never hurt anyone.” Raj said before adding, “How do you know she told me that story?”

“Oh, I hunt about your house every night. You aren’t the quietest, and your incessant questions caught my attention. Now listen, even the worst Virūpa started out young and innocent, but after years of being ostracized, they changed.“

“Mom says everyone’s good; some just forgot how. She’ll be fine. Come on, I can’t wait to see her face when she sees you.”

“Wait, you’re not listening,” Bullseye urged, but it was no good.

Please click the link to continue reading and discover just how difficult things get for Raj as he insists on telling the truth.

Full Version of “Any Port In A Storm”

Assuming Power

It matters how one gains authority.

The teaser below comes from an extensive revision of a story that evolved from a response to a writing prompt from a long time ago. Over the years, I have returned to this character, Raj (initially Nakul), hoping to discover more of his story. Enjoy!

Excerpt From “Assuming Power”

Raj and his teammates waited, catching their breath, for the dust to settle on the dry, barren field where they were playing football. With over a month of no rain, even the slightest disturbance drew thick, golden clouds from the soil, necessitating an exorbitant amount of pauses in gameplay.

As they huddled impatiently, several boys complained of thirst and whined the game had gone too long. They argued for a timeout to get more water, but not Raj. He lived for the May school break with its steady string of hot, sunny days and didn’t feel like letting the game end in a tie. So, with a boisterous speech and an offer to give up the remaining water in his thermos, Raj convinced all but one teammate to continue playing.

With a semblance of visibility returned, everyone scurried off to their positions. But not Raj. He took his time, ignoring pleas to hurry up and throw the ball back into play.

Raj cherished the tense clarity of these moments right before the action resumed. So, he lingered, allowing the heat, sweat, and dirt to boy his focus as he ran the play through his head again.

CLINK.

Raj scowled, losing concentration.

CLINK.

Raj whirled about to yell at the kid they had left on the sidelines to rest and hydrate, but he was nowhere to be seen. Assuming his friend had drunk too much water and ran to the bathroom, Raj refocused and threw the ball back into play.

Raj’s spirits soared as his team worked together flawlessly, moving the ball down the field until it was passed to him in a perfect position to score. With tense concentration, Raj kicked.

CLINK. CLINK.

The sound distracted Raj, skewing the angle of his foot. He watched with horror as the ball clipped the goal frame and bounced back into play. Raj stood frozen with bewilderment as the other team took the ball downfield to score.

Devastated, Raj fell to his knees.

CLINK.

Furious, he searched unsuccessfully for the source of the offending clamor.

CLANK. CLANITY. CLANK.

* * *

Raj woke up.

He moaned and burrowed under the blanket, recognizing the dream for what it was.

“Was wondering when you’d wake up,” Raj’s mother said.

“You made me miss the goal. Why do you put the dishes away so loudly?” He asked.

“I’ve been tiptoeing around all morning. I’ve got things to do. It’s late. Time to get up.”

“I’ve decided to stay in bed until the rains stop.”

“Ha! You’ll be waiting a long time. The monsoons have just started. No use sulking about it. However, if it makes you feel any better, there appears to be a break this morning. It’s only drizzling. Best be up and enjoy the ‘dry’ weather while it lasts.”

Raj sat up, bleary-eyed, and yawned.

“Drizzle isn’t dry.”

“It is during the monsoons.”

“What time is it anyway?”

“Almost ten-thirty. You tossed and turned a lot last night. Was last night’s story too scary for you?”

“I wasn’t scared at all,” Raj said.

“You sure about that? I half expected you to climb in bed with me.”

“I wasn’t scared.”

“Well, anyways, I’ve decided it was a mistake letting you talk me into telling you stories about the Virūpa.”

“Mom, I said it didn’t scare me.”

“So you’ve said. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve changed my mind about it. You’re still too young.”

“Mom, how is it any different from the pirate stories or the story about the knight and the giant?”

“We don’t live on the high seas or in medieval Europe. Besides, giants aren’t real.”

“So you’re saying Virūpa are real?”

“No, I’m not saying that, although many people think they are.”

“So it’s like ghosts? Some people think they’re real, and some don’t.”

“I suppose.”

“But, if you and I know they’re not real…?”

“Look, those stories are old wives’ tales every grandma tells to keep unruly children in line. Mine did, and it scared me silly.”

Raj pondered what his mother said.

“You were unruly?”

“Not more than any normal child is.”

“So, why did she tell you the stories?” Raj asked.

“Because an ounce of prevention is worth more than a pound of cure, I guess.”

“Huh?” Raj’s face scrunched in confusion.

“Forget it,” His mother snorted, returning to the dishes.

Unwilling to let the matter drop, Raj insinuated himself between his mother and the pile of clean dishes to eye his mother suspiciously.

“So, you believed in them?”

His mother didn’t reply immediately. Raj recognized the face she wore when carefully considering her words.

“You do think they’re real.” He smirked.

“No. No. It’s all just stories. But I believed in them as a child, and after retelling one of them to you last night, I remember more clearly how they terrified me.”

“Mom… you’re being dramatic again.”

“I am not. Trust me, Raj, last night’s story is tame compared to all the others. It was cruel of my grandma to put those ideas into my head. No matter how unruly you may get, I won’t make the same mistake with you.”

“I’m a perfect angel. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Raj’s mother cupped her son’s chin affectionally.

“No one’s perfect, especially people who claim to be. What do I always say?”

“Progress, not perfection,” Raj rolled his eyes, “whatever that means.”

“One day, it will make sense.”

Raj turned the phrase over in his mind before trying another angle.

“Well…you don’t have to be a perfect mother. I’m okay with you telling me super scary stories.”

“Nice try. But I’m not telling you these stories about evil men and women doing horrible things to themselves and others, Raj.”

“But the giant was evil, and so were the pirates!”

His mother laughed.

“Evil? Selfish, immature, and comically stupid, but not evil.”

Raj giggled, recalling a scene where the pirate accidentally lit his beard on fire.

“Ridiculous, right?” His mother asked.

“Yeah, Captain Bluebeard’s pretty stupid.”

“I want to see you laugh, Raj. And yes, I know the pirates and giants are bad guys, but the humor and the fantastical settings make it all quite harmless. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, but I like the idea of having animal powers. It was a cool story. Change it so the bad guys are stupid, or make it happen long ago, or in the future, or somewhere far away from India.”

“I’m not that creative.”

“I’ll help you. I could help tell the story.”

“We’ll see. Now up. You’ve got chores to do, and I want to wash the bedding today. Come on. Up, up, up.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Raj rolled out of bed with a sigh, stretched, and stumbled over to wrap his arms around his mother.

“Aw. I need to remember to treasure these moments. You’re almost as tall as me. It won’t be long before you can’t be bothered to give your old mother a hug.”

“That’s right, Ma. No more hugs when I’m thirteen,” Raj said.

His mother tussled Raj’s hair before turning him about and shoving him toward the bathroom.

“Wash up and change those clothes. You’ve worn the same pair for two days now.”

As he prepared for the day, Raj plotted ways to persuade his mother to continue telling him the Varūpa stories. He knew from experience pushing too hard to get his way would backfire. His best chance lay in exhibiting behavior she deemed mature. So, Raj actually combed his hair and cleaned up after himself. He further calculated doing his chores without being reminded would be the surest way to get his mother to tell him more tales of the strange Virūpa, who increasingly lost their humanity as they robbed animals of their abilities.

Satisfied with his plan, Raj concentrated on a more immediate need: his grumbling stomach. He tucked into the breakfast his mother had set out hours ago.

“Slow down. There’s plenty, and it’s not going anywhere,” Raj’s mother said.

“I’m hungry.”

“Obviously. Feeding you is getting expensive.”

“I could get a job working in the mines. I’m finally old enough.”

“And leave me all alone like your father did? No. The mines may pay well, but they’re dangerous.”

“The forest is dangerous. The mines are dangerous. The city is dangerous. You don’t want me to go anywhere.” Raj said with his mouth full.

Raj’s mother’s face grew serious.

“I know. I can’t protect you forever. Simply living in this world is dangerous. Be patient with me, Raj. Losing Maya and your father changed me. I’ve become quite the coward.”

Silence lingered between mother and son.

“Tell me what Maya was like again.”

“I wish you had known her. It’s unnatural, having to live life without her. Siblings typically grow old together.” Raj’s mother smiled sadly. “But you and I keep her memory alive, don’t we?”

“That’s why I always ask.”

“You could probably tell me everything I know about her already.”

“I guess, but I feel like I learn something new when you talk about her…like there’s some secret Maya’s trying to tell me from Heaven.”

Raj’s mother looked sharply at her son.

“Secret? What do you mean, Raj? Maya was an open book, no secrets.”

“I like to imagine her and me driving you crazy like Hazan and his sister do their mother.”

Raj’s mother’s face softened.

“Ah. That sounds delightful. Yes, the two of you together certainly would have. I’d undoubtedly have more than these few gray hairs you’ve given me.”

The sudden sound of a ruckus outside interrupted their daydreaming. Raj recognized the distinct chirruping of an agitated mongoose. His mother jumped into action, grabbing a stout-looking stick, sharpened at one end, and peered through the mosquito netting-covered doorway.

Please click the link to continue reading and learn how Raj finds himself unexpectedly thrown into a world rife with unlooked-for possibilities and dangers.

Chapter 1 Assuming Power

Prelude to “The Forging of Isaz”

Revisiting a story I wrote years ago always inspires and humbles me!

Despite cringing at the prose I constructed, I’ve fallen in love anew with my characters from the story “The Forging of Isaz.” Gobban, the Norse smith, and Kalda, the ice sprite, left too many leads unfollowed, and my imagination is whirling again.

As I recall, “The Forging of Isaz” was my attempt to experiment with leveraging research to drive a plot. I had recently garnered plenty of facts about the forging of steel swords (Not the most practical knowledge for a regular twenty-first-century guy!) while diving down a rabbit hole online. Ultimately, “The Forging of Isaz” evolved into a tale of love.

Flash forward to 2024, the year I chose to focus on entering contests and submitting works for review in hopes of being published; Vocal put forward a writing challenge calling for pieces of microfiction set in a snowy environment. Kalda, my plucky ice sprite, came immediately to mind.

Here is the link to my contest entry.

“An Emotional Thaw” on Vocal

It takes the reader back before the events of “The Forging of Isaz,” teasing at Kalda’s past, which is only just beginning to take shape in my head.

Additionally, despite seeing lots of changes I’d like to make to the original story (I hope to revise and repost sometime soon.), I encourage you to check out “The Forging of Isaz,” archived on my blog. Here’s the link.

“The Forging of Isaz” Part 1

Another Contest

My 2024 writing resolution is to honor “the deadline” and keep a steady pace of submitting for contests and open submission calls. Below is my third submission for a competition on Vocal. The challenge asked writers to create a short story told from the perspective of a misplaced object. Check out the beginning of my entry below. It’s titled, “Trust Is Key” .

“Trust Is Key”

Part 1: The Morning Commute

Goodness me, this is exciting! It’s my first day on the job! Noah’s nervous, but that’s natural for a newly licensed driver.

Don’t worry, Noah. I promised your mom and dad I’d keep an eye on you.

Now, this other kid is different. What did Noah call him? Aiden? Yes, that’s Noah’s friend’s name. Aiden has been nothing but a distraction since climbing into the car. I had to holler forever until he put his seatbelt on. What a relief he still only has his practice driver’s permit. Heaven help us when he gets a license! His mouth just runs. Is he thinking before he speaks? Even I’m finding it hard to focus!

“You drive like my gramma. Can’t you go any faster?”

This kid’s got some nerve! He’s going to ruin Noah’s first outing!

Noah, this is a perfectly acceptable speed. Pay no attention to this rapscallion.

Ooh, I wish I could talk. That’s an upgrade to consider.

“Aiden, I don’t have much choice about it. My parents will revoke my driving privileges if they catch me speeding.”

They sure will, Buster, and don’t think I will lie on your account!

“How are they going to know?”

Oh, Aiden, think! It’s the twenty-first century. I’m collecting data points to compile a report for Noah’s parents.

“Big Brother’s watching.”

Wait, what? Is Noah referring to me? That’s not my name. I’m…well, I don’t have a name, how unfortunate.

“You’re joking. What? There’s a camera or something?”

Look at poor Aiden, craning his neck, searching for a camera! Ha! That’s rich! The level of surveillance I offer far exceeds anything a simple camera can do.

“No, my key.”

Ta-dah! No one ever suspects the key.

Click the Button Below to Read the Rest of the Story on Vocal

“Trust Is Key” Full Version

Editing Exercise # 1

A piece of writing is never definitively done, and often, the author feels uncomfortable letting a story out for publishing. But, alas, the deadline always wins!

Below is a reworking of my story “The Barbarian and the Dishwasher (Part One: An Artist’s Sketch)” recently posted on Vocal. Enjoy.

“A Dishwasher and a Barbarian”

Plates shattered everywhere as George had a robust, whimsical imagination, which was fortuitous since most of his life revolved around an endless routine of wash, rinse, dry, and repeat.

He was a dishwasher.

George worked at a restaurant called Rodeo Ribs for a quick-tempered, penny-pinching man named Mr. Witherson, who flew into a rage any time the supply of clean dishes ran low.

“George! What the devil are you doing down there? Plates! I need plates!”

Gee, Mr. Witherson, maybe, I don’t know, spend some money to get more plates so we don’t constantly run out, the overworked dishwasher hollered silently to himself.

“On it, Mr. Witherson! Plates coming right up, Sir!”

George knew his current job, the latest in a long line of menial gigs, would only last for a while. He invariably quit or found himself fired within the first month or two.

Why am I still working here? I’m drenched down to my underwear every night, constantly smell like an old sponge, and the waterlogged skin on my hands is practically rotting off, George thought.

Despite being intelligent, college proved disastrous for George. When a class disinterested him, he simply didn’t do the work. He dropped out after one semester. But he wasn’t completely devoid of ambition. George had two passions: art and role-playing.

George had tried every gaming system and actively participated in several role-playing groups. When not playing, he endlessly sketched the fantasy characters he played.

Recently, a friend had initiated George into the world of live-action-roleplaying. LARPing, as most called it, made George feel authentic and alive. All his current time and attention went into detailing every aspect of his chosen role.

George imagined his LARPing alter-ego, a courageous barbarian named Jockular, taunting his adversaries gleefully with horrific puns. George took pride in inventing Jockular’s name, confident its pronunciation cleverly suggested the character’s ubiquitous laughter and prodigious sense of humor. At the same time, George felt its spelling emphasized the barbarian’s athletic prowess.

“George! Where are those plates?!”

George paused to envision the barbarian issuing a sassy retort, liquefying Mr. Witherson’s bowels with threats to destroy the restauranter’s beloved crockery.

“Blast it all! Now, I’m out of plates! George!”

Sighing, George scrabbled upstairs, shouldering a rack of clean dishes upstairs, asking himself, as ever, why anyone would put a restaurant dish sink in the basement.

“Here, Mr. Witherson,” George said.

“That’s it? This won’t last five minutes! More, George! I need more!”

George sputtered, eyes wide, face red, before fleeing the hectic kitchen. He skidded to a halt at the top of the wet stairs.

I really need some non-slip shoes, or I’m going to kill myself, George thought.

He clutched the banister and rushed back to the pile of dirty dishes waiting for him.

Scrapping food into the slop sink, George returned to daydreaming about the upcoming weekend. His LARPing group had volunteered to host this month’s regional adventure.

George thought happily about having two whole days of LARPing. He couldn’t wait to show off the new armor he’d constructed. If he could deliver the jokes and taunts he’d been rehearsing, he felt sure he’d have a good chance of winning MVP.

Look at all these dishes! Jockulur would never spend hours scrubbing like some kitchen wench, George fumed.

“Hey, George. Do you have those plates yet? Mr. Witherson’s legit going to have a coronary,” a waitress called down.

“For crying out loud, tell him I’m coming!”

Shouldering a fresh load of plates, George sped up the stairs, two at a time, until one foot failed to connect with the last step.

George landed with a sickening pop on the basement floor.

“George?! Are you ok?” the waitress clamored down.

Click the link below to read the full story on Vocal.

A Dishwasher and a Barbarian

2024 Resolutions

An author avoids declaring his New Year’s resolutions for writing until his characters intervene.

Below is the beginning of a story I submitted for Vocal’s #200 Challenge. I had fun daydreaming about what would happen if I entered my writing study to find all my characters waiting to lodge their complaints against me.

“An Author Intervention”

Everyone tells stories. It’s part of being human. But some of us feel called to share our stories with the world, wondering if we might earn a living writing. If you’re one of these types, I warn you, friend, once others learn about your aspirations, they will pepper you with endless questions about how your writing is going until inevitably someone asks the evil, boss-monster of all questions, “Have you published anything yet?”

When this happens, you’d be wise to procure a mighty magic sword. Be sure it bestows daily confidence while being sharp enough to cut a path of clear perspective through any miasma, no matter how thick and rank it is, with fear, doubt, and self-loathing. Be ruthless with this archvillain, the bane of writers everywhere! Don’t hesitate to smite its ruin at first chance, dispatching it back to the hell with which it came, or risk opening the door to a host of inner demons and critics who will thwart every attempt you make to write.

This is precisely what happened to me this past year. Paralyzed by an internalized sense of incompetency, my writing repeatedly stalled until it reached a near-complete stop by year’s end. Thank heaven for the time-honored tradition of making New Year’s resolutions.

There is something beautiful about a fresh start, a new day, a new week, a new month, and the beginning of a new year! Discovering the theme for Vocal’s 200th challenge couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. I dove eagerly into the project, drafting my list of things to accomplish in 2024. I excel at planning but often need help recognizing when to stop prepping and start. My list was long, but I feared it was incomplete, so I didn’t dare begin writing. Frustrated, knowing I was falling into the same old trap, I paused to stand and stretch. When I reached for another sip of that most blessed nectar of the gods of motivation and achievement, coffee, I found my mug empty.

I shuffled out of my study to the kitchen, put another pot of coffee on, went to the bathroom, took the dog for a walk, grabbed a bite, and downed a cup of coffee before filling another. As I inched slowly back to my desk, desperate not to spill the overfull mug, I became aware of hushed voices from my writing study.

I froze and panicked momentarily until I remembered yesterday’s notice on the community bulletin board reminding residents that maintenance was working on this side of the building. Concluding the crew was working outside my window, I relaxed. Turning the corner, I found the door to my study closed. I trembled, knowing I had left the door open.

Bravely or foolishly, I opened the door to find ….

Follow this link below to find out what happened next!

An Author Intervention

Revisiting “Cracked Stucco”

New revised 2nd edition!

The craft of writing is a journey replete with unexpected ups and downs, and an author is obliged to walk such creative paths with the often unwelcome company of the inner critic.

This autumn, I’ve turned my focus to improving my editing skills. (No easy task for someone prone to obsessively overthinking everything!)

The first “Cracked Stucco” version appeared on this blog site in April of 2022.

I’ve addressed the use of dialogue tags and point of view and fashioned a more robust sense of setting with this new version.

Here is a link to “Cracked Stucco,” 1st version published earlier on this blog. I invite you to compare the two versions to see what I hope is growth in my writing. Please leave any comments regarding the effectiveness (or lack thereof) of my editing changes.

“Cracked Stucco” 2nd Edition

A hulking young man and a petite young woman stood at the end of a desolate road beneath a flickering streetlight. Before them, a rusty sign declared the surrounding area private and promised unlawful entries would be prosecuted. Empty nip bottles, tire tracks, and a well-worn trailhead into the woods spoke differently.

Shaking his head, the young man retreated a couple steps, turned, and adjusted a thick pair of glasses to gaze back down the road.

“Think we parked the car far enough away?”

The young woman gently turned him around again toward the path, taking his hand in hers.

“Yeah, relax,” she said. “Just focus on the pictures I showed you. You’re going to love the place. What do you call that décor again, the one you’re studying now in your design class? I’m sure this place was loaded with it.”

“Art Deco…. oh, Zoey! Stop trying to distract me from legitimate worry! You know my parents will kill me if we’re arrested for trespassing.”

“I think the cops have better things to worry about, Ben.”

“It’s still illegal,” he said.

Zoey gestured to the duffel bag she shouldered.

“If anyone questions us, we’ll just explain we’re conducting scientific research.”

“You know investigating the paranormal is considered pseudoscience.”

“Says who?”

“Real scientists.”

“That’s because no one’s captured convincing evidence.”

“I don’t want to be around anything convincingly paranormal, Zoey. Besides, isn’t this place surrounded by razor wire now. How do you expect to get in?”

To continue reading the 2nd edition of this story use the link below to visit Vocal, a story-sharing platform designed to discover, support and reward writers.

Click Here to Read the Rest of “Cracked Stucco” 2nd Version on Vocal

Micro Fiction: Mind Your Manners

Some of you know, I enjoy the challenge of writing a story with as few words as possible. Definitely an acquired taste for only some writers and readers! Below is what I entered for Chronicles’ (A Science Fiction and Fantasy Community) 75 Word Challenge for August.

So far, 20 entries submitted for this month!

I encourage everyone, who loves science fiction and fantasy, to check out this website. Great way to connect with other writers and fans! Perhaps, you might have something to entry this month’s challenge?

The prompt this month is “CLOTHING”. Genre should be fantasy or science fiction.

Contest ends at 11:59 pm GMT, 23 August 2023

Voting ends at 11:59 pm GMT, 28 August 2023

Don’t have to submit a story to vote for a winner! Any member of Chronicles can vote and membership is free (although there is a supporter level for a nominal annual fee with added perks).

Hope you enjoy my entry below!

“Mind Your Manners“

Twelve lost, resurfacing dead.

Marinus donned his suit while technicians assured.

“Dangerous, exploring subcrustal oceans. Ganymede killed hundreds. But we’re learning! Survivability’s above sixty percent!”

Aboard the submersible, Marinus meditated, reconnoitering the astral plane.

Colleagues scoffed, but he preferred hailing a world’s denizens before intruding.

After negotiating terms, he removed his suit as the airlock flooded.

Mission Control marveled, monitoring Marinus safely entering warm, salty waters solely garbed in bioluminescent slime to greet new friends.

Prompt: “CLOTHING”

Word Count Limit: 75 words.

Supporting Other Authors

I started following fantasy author Victoria Grefer who not only blogs many posts filled with great advice for novice writers but has also crafted an intriguing book series about the struggles to rescue the fantasy world of Herezoth from an evil magic-wielding despot.

I am fascinated by learning how other authors work through problems with their novels. Grefer recently shared how a long hiatus from her book ultimately led to discovering what changes she needed to make to bring her story to the level of success she hoped for.

Having put my own novel on the back burner, I have found her posts inspiring.

Never give up on an idea!

She is relaunching the story with a second edition starting this June and has asked her followers to share her launch website, so that’s what I’m doing now!

The first installment is titled, The Crimson League: The Fight For Hope.

Check it out!

A Fork In the Road Part 2

Click to Read Part 1

Part Two

“Burdens Are Best Shared.”

Despite Gerard’s encouragement, Sonia waited to hear her husband snoring before creeping into his study to fetch the book. Her furtiveness surprised her until she realized she had lied to her husband.

Sonia did believe.

Retreating to the sanctuary of her kitchen, Sonia sat and gazed at the book. Memories came of long summer days, playing with friends under the watchful eye of Auntie Paulina, who, in the heat of the afternoon, invited the children onto her shady porch for chilled tea, freshly baked sweetbread, and a story. Those were magical times, but nothing compared to the moments spent alone with Auntie Paulina when the old woman would whisper her secrets.

Sonia could still remember when her aunt first spoke about reading tea leaves.

How is it you know so much, Auntie?

The leaves tell me.

Do you talk to trees? I never hear them speaking.

Not the leaves on trees, tea leaves. I’ll show you. Have you learned to count to one hundred?

Yes.

Good. Think of a number between one and one hundred.

Ok. It’s…

Don’t tell me, dear. The tea will show me.

Sonia never forgot the thrill of watching the old woman close her eyes with a dramatic exhale, pausing briefly before loudly slurping her entire cup of tea.

Best if it’s hot enough to scald your mouth.

Then Sonia’s great-aunt put her saucer atop her cup, turned both upsides down, and set them on the table. After rapping the bottom of the cup three times with her hand, she lifted the cup to reveal a mess of tea leaves splattered across the saucer.

You chose twenty-seven.

Yes. But how…?

Just have to keep an open mind when you look.

Can I learn how to do this?

I wish you would.

The woman had clearly practiced some form of hedge witchery, and Sonia wondered what she would have learned if her aunt had lived longer. Yet, the old woman had died before having a chance to teach her anything.

Sonia soon discovered the rest of the family felt uneasy around the old woman, especially her mother, who warned Sonia of what happened to people who dabbled in the occult. Fear kept Sonia from crossing the line her mother had drawn, and her younger self burned with guilt every time she found herself pondering the dregs of her cup. But time had dulled the sting of her mother’s threats, and she now found herself willing to explore.

Sonia got up and put the kettle, vowing to pull it off before it whistled.

“Don’t need Gerard awake and asking questions.”

Returning to her seat, Sonia opened the book and began flipping pages until an illustration caught her eye. Exploring further, Sonia realized she had stumbled upon a glossary of imagery frequently found in the tea leaves left behind.

“Coins indicate money; that’s obvious. A heart suggests romance, of course. Oh, a wasp. What’s that mean? Ooh… a possible affair or rival lover!”

Losing herself momentarily in the book, Sonia failed to notice the quiet rumble of water building before it was too late. Swearing, she leaped, yanked the kettle from the burner, and paused to listen for her husband. But Gerard remained in bed, apparently still asleep.

Relieved, she threw a couple scoops of herbal tea into her cup. Sonia reflected as she poured the hot water, wondering how to pose her question. When satisfied with the wording, she picked her cup up and, mimicking her great-aunt’s actions from long ago, took a cleansing breath before speaking her question.

“What’s going on between Sabina and her boyfriend, Casimir?”

Sonia slurped her tea, immediately grimacing as the heat stung her tongue.

“Hot! Hot! Hot! How in the hell did Auntie gulp this down? It burns horribly!”

Taking a few deep breaths, Sonia prepared to try again but lost the nerve seeing the steam continue to rise.

“Crazy old woman.”

Frustrated, Sonia glowered at her cup until the sound of the refrigerator cycling on gave her an idea.

“Ha! That’s it! I’ll trade one burn for another.”

Sonia opened the freezer door, pulled out the ice bin, set it on the table before her, rolled a sleeve, and shoved a hand in. As the skin on her hand tingled, she raised the cup with her other hand and carefully blew on it.

“I’ll try again once my hand aches. Tea should be cool enough then.”

Feeling like she had solved an impossible riddle, Sonia waited. When all traces of steam had disappeared, she clutched the cup in both hands and drank.

Surprisingly, the tea still burned going down, warming her stomach and causing beads of perspiration to erupt on her forehead. But Sonia found the prickling discomfort in her chilled hand most satisfying.

Despite pursing her lips at the end to avoid swallowing tea leaves, she had to spit a few back into the cup before covering it with the saucer. She struggled to flip them, but once she got them safely on the table, she rapped the bottom of the cup with the heel of her hand, reiterating her question, and then reverently removed the cup to see what the leaves revealed. She gasped at the exquisite clarity of the arrangement before her.

“A circle? No, a necklace. That’s a string of pearls!”

A ring of dots, spaced equidistantly, ran along the saucer’s outer edge, encircling three other unrecognizable clumps of tea. Frustrated, Sonia rotated the saucer, carefully considering each shape.

“Hmm, a feather. Yes. And that’s an umbrella! Didn’t see that when it was upside down. Now this last thing looks like… a fork? But with only two tines. No, maybe a line dividing, or is it a road? Yes, a road. It’s a fork in the road!”

Sonia slumped against the back of the chair, mouth open, stunned by her success.

“What could all that mean?”

She laughed at her own question.

“Duh! Look it up in the book, silly.”

Rifling back to the list of examples presented in the book, Sonia found entries for; feathers, necklaces, and umbrellas. Jumping from page to page, Sonia slowly pieced together a story of new lovers struggling to save a relationship plagued by uncertainty and signs of insincerity. Her heart ached to imagine the turmoil her daughter would face if she continued to date Casimir, and Sonia resolved to find a way to break the icy silence between them.

The clock in the living room chimed. Startled, Sonia looked at the time on the stove.

“Midnight, already. Sabina should be home now.”

As if waiting for her mother’s cue, Sonia heard the distinct rumble of her daughter’s car.

“Ok, keep cool. Like Gerard says, don’t badger. Oh, this is going to be so difficult.”

She got up, rinsed the cup and saucer, and tucked them into the top rack of the dishwasher. Turning to gather the book and return it to Gerard’s desk, Sonia paused suddenly in doubt.

“Damn! I was going to look, circle, up. What if it isn’t a necklace? What if it’s just a circle. Crap! I don’t want Sabina to catch me with this.”

Unable to resist, Sonia scrambled to turn the pages to read the definition.

“Finding any circle most assuredly signals a time of successful completion or reaping the fruits from one’s toil. If the circle is dotted, this indicates the arrival of a baby.”

Sonia’s heart skipped a beat, calling to mind the line of tea leaves stretching across the saucer, forking at the end. The book contained no relevant entries about lines, forks, or roads. But, she could guess at its meaning. This last piece of information brought everything into focus. Her daughter had fallen in love with an unreliable man, thrown her lot in with his, and now Sabina found herself pregnant without a clue what to do next.

“A fork in the road. Oh, Sabina!”

Sonia closed the book, kissed it, and solemnly returned it to Gerard’s desk, hiding it in the middle of a pile of papers.

“Thank you, Auntie,” she whispered.

Sonia hurried to the kitchen, filled the kettle with more water, and relit the burner. Setting a couple of mugs on the table, she sat, barely managing to compose herself before hearing Sabina’s key scrape into the lock.

“Why are you still up?” Sabina asked.

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought some chamomile tea might help. Heard the car and pulled out a second mug if you want some.”

Not wanting to scare her daughter off, Sonia fought to keep her emotions in check.

“Why can’t you sleep?”

“I don’t know. Lot on my mind, I guess.”

“Like what?”

“Your brother’s confirmation party, your uncle’s operation, and I’m struggling to finish knitting this blanket for Anastazja’s new baby. She’s due any time now.”

“Baby? How…wait? Who’s having a baby?”

“Anastazja.”

“Who?”

“A new friend. It doesn’t matter. How are classes going? I suppose you were out with Casimir? You’re spending lots of time together. You really like him, huh?”

“Mom, I don’t have the energy to deal with your prying right now. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

“Wait. Don’t go.”

Sabina sighed and turned around.

“What?”

“Your father and I had a discussion tonight.”

“About what?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Well, actually, it was more about me.”

“Isn’t it always about you, Mom?”

“Please, Sabina. Can you just listen to what I have to say?”

“Fine.”

“I know you and I are very different….”

“That’s for sure.”

“I know I can be pushy, loud, and nosy.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Sabina, what I’m trying to say, is I’m sorry. My mother and I were so close….”

“Oh, not this again. Stop. I’m going to bed.”

“Sabina, wait. Let me finish.”

“You’ve said all this before. I know how this goes. You drone on and on, talking in circles, saying the same thing. Unless you have something new to say, I’m going to bed.”

“Ok. I get it. You’re tired. I’ll be quick.”

Sabina huffed but didn’t leave.

“I want you to know I’m going to try harder to respect boundaries, keep my nose out of your affairs and finally start treating you as an adult.”

Sabina stood, listening, appearing surprised.

“I have no idea how to begin changing my behavior, Sabina. But something needs to change because I feel like I’ve lost you, and I know that’s my fault.”

Shocked by her daughter’s silent attentiveness, Sonia continued cautiously.

“Your father thinks things will be better between us if I just let go and let you live your life on your own terms. I’m probably failing miserably at that even now, but I want to try. That’s all. Thank you for listening. I love you. Sleep well. Good night.”

Sonia stood abruptly, scooped the mugs from the table, and turned to put them back in the cupboard. She wanted to say more and ask the questions battering about inside her, but for the first time, Sonia managed to dam it all up.

“What are you doing?” Sabina asked.

Startled by the question, Sonia whirled around to see her daughter standing there.

“I’m not in the mood for tea anymore,” Sonia said.

“Well, I am.”

“You are?”

“Yeah.”

Sabina hugged her mother and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“I know how difficult that was for you, and I really appreciate it, Mom.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Well, good.”

“Mom?”

“What?”

“Would you make us some chamomile tea? I have a lot on my mind, and I’ll sleep better if I talk it out.”

The End