We recognise it is a terrible tease to offer up a meagre 750 words from each story. For the majority of our writers, this is their first publishing adventure, though certainly not their first venture into the wonderful yet terrible world of fiction writing. Many of the writers here have considerable back-catalogues of stories, seen and unseen.

To support our writers – and to ease your frustration – each Sunday we will post a full length piece of writing from the featured author of the week.

This week Paul Anderson delivers a story with heart…

Transplant

“Scalpel. Suction. Quickly please, I can’t see what I’m doing. Thank you nurse. Clamps. OK, we’re on bypass in three, two, one… good. One final incision and… perfect.”

With a wet slap the damaged heart was deposited into the tray. Mr Franks looked around the operating theatre. “Well?” The surgical team looked uncomfortable, trying to avoid eye contact. “Nurse?” The lead nurse coughed nervously into her mask, and looked away. Franks laid the scalpel down and stood back from the operating table. The patient lay prone on the table, chest open, tubes leading to and from the bypass machine.

“Where the hell is my replacement heart?” No answer. “Please tell me I haven’t just removed this man’s heart and nobody thought to have a replacement on standby?”

“Umm, see, there should be…” The voice trailed off. Coombs was assisting Franks, his first heart replacement. And it had been Coombs who had taken the call. Franks glared at Coombs, his green eyes the only part of his face visible. “Mr Coombs, you seem to have some answers for me.”

Coombs cleared his throat. “There’s uh, been a delay. With the organ. The courier had it, and now, they sort of… got… delayed.”

Franks stared at him, and Coombs wished that the patient would have some kind of crash, anything to distract Franks. Franks tore off his gloves, threw them on the ground, and stormed over to the phone. He picked up the receiver and barked into it “Get me the damn courier.”

A muffled voice responded, then silence. The members of the surgical team held their breaths, unsure if Mr Franks would take things out on them. “This is Franks at Mercy General. Yes, I’ve just been told about your delay. Well, not really, the patient is on bypass. I mean I took his fucking heart out because I had been told you had one ready for me. Well when’s the soonest you can get it to me? I’ve got to have it as soon as possible or my patient is going to die. I don’t care. I’ll make it your problem. Just get me the damn heart.” He slammed the phone down, and yanked off his scrubs. “Well, ladies and gents. Keep Mr Procter there comfortable. Page me when that heart arrives.”

The phone vibrated in Stephen’s pocket. He lightly touched the ear piece, answering the call. “Stephen here.”

“Stephen, where the hell are you? I’ve just had a call from Mercy General, seems we promised them a heart and it hasn’t shown up yet – they’ve got a patient open and waiting.”

Stephen shut his eyes and exhaled. The delivery had taken longer than expected. This was an exceptional event. But he was five minutes from collecting the heart, and 10 minutes from the hospital. He opened his eyes again. “I’m fifteen minutes away. Traffic has been snarled up. I can’t get through any quicker, I’m sorry. Tell them I’m on my way.”

The tinny voice in his ear snarled. “You’d better be, you ass.” The call ended and he took the ear piece out, slipping it into his pocket. Five minutes. In and out. Time to collect the organ.

He grabbed the organ transportation container, and walked up to the door of the house. A quick glance around, before ringing the bell. After a moment, the door swung open, an athletic man in his mid-thirties standing there. “Can I help you?”

Stephen smiled, and pressed the tazer straight into the man’s stomach, doubling him over and causing him to fall backwards. He stepped over the threshold, closed the door behind him, and pulled out a large knife. “Yes, yes I believe you can.” He glanced at his watch. “I need four minutes of your time.”

The doors of the ER burst open, as Stephen sprinted in, accompanied by paramedics. “Where’s Mr Franks, we’ve got an organ for him?” They were pointed in the direction of the operating theatres, and sprinted over to be met half-way by members from the transplant team. They grabbed the organ transportation box, and rushed into theatre. Franks was stood at the swing doors, pointing at Stephen.

“You were lucky today. You almost killed someone with your delay.” He put his mask back on, and stormed into the theatre. Stephen smiled, and patted the knife in the holster inside his jacket. “Yeah, almost…“

To support our writers – and to ease your frustration – each Sunday we will post a full length piece of writing from the featured author of the week. This week Emma Newman introduces her story…

This story was written for a competition some months ago and it won! It will always be special to me, not only because it won me my natty new blog design, but it was also the first short story I had written in seventeen years. The one I wrote seventeen years before got me my place at university and a huge writer’s block to boot, but that’s another story in and of itself. For now, I hope you enjoy this one.

Seeing Him Again

As soon as she saw him sitting outside the cafe, she knew she had to go to him.

In the Saturday afternoon heat, the pavements were busy, crowded with tourists and residents alike. She hated the city in the summer. So did he.

“What are you doing here?” she asked nervously.

“Looking for you.” He gestured to the white metal seat. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“I shouldn’t,” she replied, glancing around.

He sighed. “No-one is taking any notice of you. Sit. Please. We need to talk.”

She moved round to perch on the edge of the chair, clutching her bag to her stomach. The little wrought iron table between them was bare, with a small umbrella that cast a cooling shadow over him but left the glare on her. Her fair skin would burn soon. She knew he was staring at her, even though she couldn’t bear to look at him. Instead, she watched the waitress, hurrying between the tables, taking orders faster than the poor girl could serve.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said and she pressed her lips together. “Don’t be like this. Look, I know you want to talk to me. You came to me.”

She sighed and looked across the table. His tweed jacket looked so odd amongst the cotton and linens of the other patrons. He hadn’t changed, hair still long, tied back in a ponytail, small round glasses. Those eyes. She shivered.

“I didn’t see you actually. And then when I did, I only came to tell you to leave me alone.” She watched him fold his arms.

“You need me.”

A pain behind her temples began to thud with her heartbeat. Not again.

“I don’t, I don’t need you anymore. It’s different now. I’m… life is better now.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh please. You said that that last time. ‘I don’t want you to help me,’ you said. ‘I can do this by myself’ you said. Then look what happened.”

She scowled. “What happened?”

He pointed at her left hand. “That.”

The wedding ring glinted in the sunlight. “You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous!” his head tipped back and he laughed bitterly. “No. No Katie. Not jealous.” He dropped his face back towards her, eyes burning. “Furious.”

“Please don’t cause a scene. I’m happy now, really, I don’t need you any more.” She swallowed hard, noticing the other people looking at her disapprovingly.

The moment was broken by an inappropriately cheerful melody coming from her hand bag. She hurriedly pulled out the mobile phone and looked at the number displayed on the front.

“Checking up on you is he?”

She took the call, turning away from him.

“Darling, are you alright?” her husband’s voice sounded tinny. “You’ve been gone ages.”

“The shop… ran out of milk,” she lied. “I had to come further into town.”

“Katie, are you ok?”

She shut her eyes, drew in a breath. Her chest was tight. “I’m fine,” she finally answered.

“It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

“No Tom.”

“Don’t lie to me, godammit. I saw the signs. Christ. Where are you?”

Her companion lent across the table. “End the call,” he ordered.

“Katie? Where are you?”

“End the call.”

Shaking, she pressed the button and her husband’s voice cut off.

“Good.” He sat back in the chair. “Now, let’s talk about what you are going to do.”

She turned off the phone before the second call could begin the ring tone, and dropped it back into her bag. “That’s nice of you,” she muttered. “You’re making it sound like I have a choice.”

He pushed the glasses back up his nose. “You do. Leave him now, or later.”

“I don’t want to leave him!” she hissed across the table. The couple at the table next to them were stealing sideways glances at her. She reddened.

“But you know you have to. Otherwise, it will be worse for him and you.”

She massaged her temples, the headache tightening a band around her forehead. “But I love him, and he loves me.”

“Love? Don’t be so childish!” he spat. “You think you can love like they do?”

“Yes!” she felt tears coming and hated herself all the more for it.

The neighbouring couple dropped money on the table and left hastily. She sank in the chair, knowing that others were staring. He merely laughed at them.

She watched him, looking at the people around them with such disdain. Anger like a solar flare erupted in her chest.

“How dare you come back!” She fired at him. “I was doing just fine! Why can’t you leave me alone to live my life!”

“Because you’re not one of them,” he replied calmly, patiently, as if she were a child. “And you never will be. Now I ask you again, will you leave him now? Or let this drag out and become… tiresome?”

“I don’t have to leave him,” she replied fiercely. “I don’t have to do what you tell me any more!”

The mocking amusement on his face dissolved into anger, and his eyes fixed her with such intensity she could almost feel them pressing into her like rapier points. “Yes you do,” he replied, voice measured. “Otherwise it will get very difficult for you. Do I have to remind you how difficult I can make things for you Katie?”

She twisted the handle of her bag nervously, summoning the courage to stand up to him for the first time in her life. “I refuse to let you do this to me again.”

He shook his head sadly. “So be it,” he sighed and touched the table lightly with his index finger.

Its metal legs rattled on the pavement as hundreds of spiders burst up through the wrought iron spirals, spilling out like blood rushing from a wound. She screamed and leapt back, knocking her chair over. Then she was running, tears streaming down her face as she hurtled herself into the crowd, his laughter ricocheting off the buildings.

Faces blurred past her, protests, shoves, people swearing as she careered into them. She fell, pulled her shoes off and then got up to run again, the concrete hot beneath her feet. His laughter echoed all the while as the soft surging sound of a thousand spiders swarmed into the street behind her.

She hit a person that didn’t move aside. Hands grabbed her arms and she struggled, began to scream.

“Katie!” Tom’s voice penetrated her terror and his face came into focus in front of her. He was holding her, shaking her gently. “It’s me, Tom!”

Sobbing, she threw herself into his embrace and felt his arms wrap around her.

“It’s ok, I’m here,” he said softly and for a moment, she felt safer. But then she sensed a presence behind her and twisted to see the man in his tweed jacket walking effortlessly through the crowd as it parted naturally around him.

“Go away!” she screamed at him, but he ignored her.

“Christ,” Tom said, turning her back to face him. “Katie, can you see him again?”

“He’s there!” she gasped, with the voice she had as a child in the night, waking from the terrors.

“No darling, he’s not.” He held her at arms length. “Look at me.” She forced herself to look at her husband, his warm brown eyes. “He’s not there Katie. He’s not real. Now we’re going to go home, and you’re going to take your meds, and we’re going to call the doctor, ok?”

Meds? Yes… the tablets, they would make him go away, how could she have been so careless? She nodded and allowed him to steer her through the crowded street, burying her head in his shoulder as they walked.

“You can’t keep running from me Katie,” a voice called from far behind. “You’re not one of them. You can’t deny what you are forever!”

She squeezed her eyes shut, focused on the scent of Tom’s aftershave. She only opened them again when his arm moved suddenly. He swept something from the back of his neck and onto the pavement. A blood red spider scurried away.

If you liked this story, then I can guarantee you’ll like my short story club. It’s free to join; every month anyone can suggest ideas, I pick my favourite and write a story that only members receive. You can read more about it, what the members have thought about the stories so far and sign up yourself if you wish (would be grand to have you join us!) over at Post-Apocalyptic Publishing. Em x

We recognise it is a terrible tease to offer up a meagre 750 words from each story. For the majority of our writers, this is their first publishing adventure, though certainly not their first venture into the wonderful yet terrible world of fiction writing. Many of the writers here have considerable back-catalogues of stories, seen and unseen.

To support our writers – and to ease your frustration – each Sunday we will post a full length piece of writing from the featured author of the week.

This week Rob Diaz presents an early festive tale with a rich smooth taste…

A Holiday To Remember

Sally walked down the sidewalk that lined the quiet street, chatting happily with the five fellow carolers she had come out with this year. They were talking about work, the kids and what they were going to do for the rest of the holiday.

“Did you watch the tree lighting on TV the other day?” she asked the man, Bill, walking next to her.

“No, I did not watch,” he replied. “I hate the way they have made this such a commercial spectacle now and that they kill a tree to allegedly celebrate the holiday!”

“Oh, I think it’s lovely,” Sally said. “The tree is decorated so nicely… and you know – they only take the really old ones, the ones that are not going to live much longer. This year’s tree is 70 years old and nearly 13 meters tall!”

“A big one!” shouted someone from the front of the group.

“Yes, it is one of the larger trees that I remember them using in Times Square.”

“I still think it isn’t right,” said Bill.

“So you don’t have one in your house?”

“Well, of course I do. But I keep it in a pot and use the same one every year.”

“That’s remarkable! It must be a lot of work!”

“Yes, but it is worth it,” Bill said as they turned into the driveway of the next house they were going to spread their holiday cheer to. “Every little bit of calcium and fertilizer I add to the soil is an act of love!”

“Wow,” she said as she took a sip of her steaming hot beverage. The hot, sweet liquid burned her throat as she swallowed it. “Ahh,” she said, smacking her lips with satisfaction. “Nothing like a skinny-soy-double-chocolate mocha latte with just a touch of ginger and honey. It always gets me going and in the mood to party!”

“I don’t know how you drink that stuff,” said Bill. “Too sweet for me.”

“It’s festive!” Sally proclaimed, holding up the green and white decorated cup. “See, it has the traditional green, spear-shaped leaves and the pretty white flowers and even a bunch of red berries!”

“Yes, I have the same cup,” said Bill. “But it is what’s inside the cup that matters. Your drink is just barely able to still be called — ”

“Hey,” interrupted Sally, “I don’t make fun of that battery acid or motor oil you are drinking, do I?”

They arrived at the door and rang the bell. The yard, covered in the thin layer of snow that had fallen earlier that morning, was glowing brightly with the cheerful holiday lights and decorations of the season.

Bill took a long sip of his drink to prepare to sing. “Ahh,” he said, mockingly smacking his lips at Sally, “It’s pure, sugar free, organic and all natural. A sweet, sweet nectar from heaven.”

“You know,” said Sally, pensively. “They say that decaf coffee and iced coffee are good options at this time of year.”

“Don’t believe it,” said Bill, urgently. “That’s just some marketing swill that the fancy coffee companies have brewed up to sell more coffee. Full caffeine and hot — that’s the only way to go!”

The door opened before Sally could respond and the group broke into song, using the traditional five part harmony they had practiced for the entire year.

“Oh Coffee Tree, oh Coffee Tree!
Your spear shaped leaves surround me!
Oh Coffee Tree, oh Coffee Tree!
Your ground up beans uplift me!
Robusta or Arabica,
Grown in the shade, you’re wonderful!
Oh Coffee Tree, oh Coffee Tree!
The world truly adores you!”

The family on the other side of the door smiled and clapped, then opened the door and handed out the traditional bags of Holiday Biscotti. Sally, Bill and the others graciously took their bags and thanked the family, wishing them the happiest and healthiest blessings on this International Coffee Extravaganza Day.

Turning to leave, Sally remarked about the finely decorated yard. “I’ve never seen one of those blow up Espresso machines before,” she said. “That’s pretty awesome. And look! It even makes its own steam!” The group laughed as the blow-up decoration made a whirring noise and a white puff of steam floated out of the silver-colored canister.

The driveway was decorated with artificial coffee trees on each side, some decorated in traditional ways with red coffee cherries strung as garland, different fancy coffee mugs dangling from each evergreen branch. Some others were flocked with specks of white that were meant to symbolize the first attempts at steamed milk. Still others were decorated with animated coffee flowers which were meant to show the coffee tree as it grew its beautiful, jasmine-like flowers but also show the delicacy of the flowers which only lasted for several minutes or hours in the best conditions. Sally watched as one flower opened and then seemed to wither away while other flowers opened and withered in their own patterns.

“Remember when they all opened and closed at the same time?” she asked Bill as they continued walking down the driveway back to the street. “The technology has improved so much now that each flower opens and closes on its own. When I was a girl, it was awful; if one flower failed, the whole string failed. I remember the cuts and blisters I got from testing individual flowers over and over until finding the one that was broken.”

“Ugh,” agreed Bill. “That was awful. The flower technology is so much better today.”

They continued up the street, happily munching on Holiday Biscotti and drinking their hot coffee-based drinks as they talked about the traditions of International Coffee Extravaganza Day. Sally commented again on how much effort it must take for Bill to keep his coffee tree healthy all year round.

“Oh, it’s not too bad,” he said. “I just think about the holiday, about how much work it takes for the Great Coffee Barrista to come around on December thirteenth every year, bringing a steaming cup of finely brewed coffee to every good little girl and boy. The Great Barrista has to work hard to brew and deliver the coffee at the peak of flavor and temperature. With that in mind, every little bit of calcium and fertilizer I add to the soil is an act of love and a year-round celebration!”

“Wow,” she said. “I thought the Great Coffee Barrista was just a myth.”

“Oh, no,” said Bill. “The Great Coffee Barrista is real. She wears a coffee-colored suit with red trim and a green hat with a white flower on the end. On December thirteenth she lands on the roof in a giant, flying percolator, led by eight glazed biscotti. She wears tiny, coffee mugs on her belt and shoes, to make a pretty jingle as she travels. ‘For unto us the coffee is ground’, says tradition.”

Sally was going to debate the existence of the Great Coffee Barrista with him, but they came upon the next house, Number 13 Canephora Way. The yard was dark and the house seemed to only have a dim light within it. They decided to go up to it anyway, to try to spread some holiday cheer to the people who lived there. “Maybe they’re lonely, sad and depressed this holiday season,” said Sally. “Maybe we can help them feel the warm love of International Coffee Extravaganza Day.”

“Maybe,” said Bill, hesitantly.

They arrived at the door and rang the bell. They waited for a while, getting anxious and shifting around to stay warm in the cool evening. Finally the door opened and a man peered out. He looked angry and tired. He was wearing a robe and had not shaved.

The group jubilantly broke into song, singing a collection of famous coffee commercial jingles. The man smiled crookedly and walked away from the door. Returning after a few seconds and carrying a brown paper bag, the man opened the door. “Thank you for your… song,” he said in a croaking voice as he held out the bag. “For your troubles. You may take two, if you’d like.”

The group thanked him as they smiled and reached into the bag, grabbing the small, fun-sized bags and stuffing them into their traditionally decorated International Coffee Extravaganza Day Bags with the other goodies they had collected. Turning to leave, Bill looked at the treat they had just been handed.

Suddenly, he let out a loud, blood-curdling scream.

“It’s Postum!” he cried.

“That’s right, sonny!” said the old man, cackling loudly, his voice echoing through the night and sending small nocturnal animals scurrying for cover. “Wheat bran, wheat, molasses and a fine, corn-based maltodextrin. Nothin’ finer!”

Bill was trembling as he held the small bag of Postum granules in his hand. In friendly, bright red lettering it said “Fun Size” but that did not convince Bill in the least. Sally tried to console him but he was simply muttering, tears streaming down his face. “It’s Postum,” he repeated. “Postum. The Drink of the Beast.”

Sally looked at the package. “Original Postum,” she said. Turning to the man who stood smiling at them at the door, she said, “You could have at least gotten the artificial coffee flavor.”

“Oh, no, dearie,” he said, showing his browninsh-yellow stained teeth. “No artificial colors of flavors, I am just looking out for your health!”

The group helped Bill to his feet, with Sally prying the Postum package from his hands. The old man flipped a switch and lights went on throughout the yard. Sally looked around and gasped. “He has decorations!” The group looked out at the yard and spotted tea spoons and tea cups placed decoratively throughout it. An inflatable tea pot sat in the middle of the display, inflating rapidly as it rose to challenge them on this most holy of days to coffee drinkers. Tiny tea lights in various colors twinkled around the yard.

“He’s a Tea Totaller!” the group shouted in near unison as they turned to face the man.

“That’s right – I’m a minister in the Church of the Celestial Teas. I’d suggest you leave before I start flocking the trees with my favorite blend of chamomile flowers, rose hips and hibiscus!” The old man cackled loudly and went back into the house, slamming the door closed behind him.

“I knew they existed,” Sally said, “But I can’t believe we have one here in the neighborhood.”

“The neighborhood is not what it used to be,” said Bill, slowly recovering from his post-traumatic Postum shock.

“I didn’t know they still made Postum.”

“They don’t. It was discontinued in October 2007. These must be old.”

“No expiration date on the package.”

“What’s to expire?” yelled Bill, waving his hands in the air. “It’s not like the flavor will get worse over time. This is worse than decaf! At least decaf was originally a real coffee bean.”

“Too true,” said Sally.

“Well,” said Bill, looking back at number thirteen, “I know that we’ll be coming back here.”

“What? Why would we come back here?”

“Oh,” said Bill. “For I.C.E.D. in June… you know, June thirteenth – half-way to the next International Coffee Extravaganza Day. It’s Make Fun of Tea Drinkers Day. We drape coffee filters in their trees and place bags of used coffee grounds by the doors so that when they open the door the grounds pop out all over them. One year, when I was a kid back home, we spread whole coffee beans in the living room of old man Sutter’s house. He thought rabbits had gotten into his house and spent days trying to find them before they dropped more of their, um, pellets, on the carpet. Make Fun of Tea Drinkers Day is my favorite holiday.”

“Isn’t that kind of borderline illegal?” asked Sally.

“Oh, but it’s Tradition,” said Bill. “With a capital ‘T’. That makes it okay.”

“Oh,” said Sally. “In that case, it sounds fun. I’ll definitely join you for that! But it will never replace International Coffee Extravaganza Day as my favorite holiday.”

The pair continued to debate their favorite holidays as they walked with the group and continued up the road, singing their cheerful holiday tunes to the rest of their neighbors. Sally was thrilled to be a part of the tradition of coffee caroling and despite the run-in with the Tea Totaler, she felt this had been the best International Coffee Extravaganza Day in her life.

We recognise it is a terrible tease to offer up a meagre 750 words from each story. For the majority of our writers, this is their first publishing adventure, though certainly not their first venture into the wonderful yet terrible world of fiction writing. Many of the writers here have considerable back-catalogues of stories, seen and unseen.

To support our writers – and to ease your frustration – each Sunday we will post a full length piece of writing from the featured author of the week.

This week Jasmine Gallant presents a moment of reflection…

A Moment

My eyes slowly flutter open and I hear the cat purring nearby. My first thought is that is a beautiful day outside, the autumn sunlight is peaking through the blinds. Lazy dust dances in the golden light in a breeze from the open window.

I shift in the bed, luxuriating in the heat of the duvet and the softness of the sheets against my skin. If I could purr myself I would; this delicious moment of silence and warmth, part way between sleeping and waking.

Now the cat has realized I’m partly awake and has come to where my face is just peaking out of the blankets, staring down at me in amusement. ‘C’mon,’ he seems to say with his knowing eyes. ‘You’ve got things to do.’

The procrastinator in me just wants to roll over and ignore those smug eyes and doze for awhile longer. But we’ve lived together long enough to know each other’s habits; he’ll just keep harassing me until I get up and fill his bowl.

Sighing, I throw off the duvet and sit up. There’s a slight chill in the air that bites at the skin on my legs and I crave the warmth of the bed again. I look around the room and feel that familiar lump in my throat again.

My friends couldn’t believe I was selling this place. ‘A one bedroom flat in zone 1 for a bargain and you want to give it up now, before the Olympics cash cow?’ They shook their heads in disbelief at my stupidity. Even the ones that understood still thought I was crazy to sell it now and suggested renting it out.

I can’t though, it’s just too much. I don’t care if the housing market is starting to dip and I won’t get as much for it as I may have in another year’s time. I don’t care that the obscenely low mortgage would be more than covered by the rent, probably doubled. I just have to move on.

Most of my things are packed up and ready to move over to the new place. It was hard but I couldn’t let anyone help me, it was something I had to do by myself. A few glasses of wine to fortify myself, a little slow music on in the background, and I did my best not to let the memories overwhelm me as I wrapped things and boxed them.

It’s weird to see the place I called home without all of the little loved things that made it more than just a flat. The carpets are rolled up and ready by the door so when I finally stand and walk to the kitchen, the cold wooden floors numb the soles of my feet.

After feeding the cat and making a cup of coffee, I sit on the couch and look around the room. Almost everything is ready to go and it’s strange that in a few days time, someone else will be living here. Cooking in my kitchen, sleeping in my bedroom. I hope they find out if they sit on the fire escape at just the right angle, they can watch the most amazing sunsets over the city. I wonder if they’ll notice the little bit of cornicing that doesn’t match up in the corner of the living room. I hope they’ll be happy here, as I was.

Back in the bedroom, I throw on a pair of jeans and start moving the boxes into the living room. Some of my friends kindly offered to help me some of the smaller stuff over to the new place before the hired movers come in on Monday. I know the real reason they’ve offered and appreciate it all the more.

Just as I’m lifting the last box of clothes up, I notice a few pairs of shoes and things on the top of the dresser. Grimacing to myself, I take the final box to the living room. I was sure I had packed up everything and now I either had to find a box for these bits or bag them up for charity.

In a grump with myself, I step on a chair to see what’s up there. A few shoes, a broken lamp and some blankets. A small package from the photo store.

My breath catches in my throat and I can feel a thin cold sweat break out on my body. Blood rushes through my ears and the light from the window grows dim.

I grab the photos and get down from the chair quickly, afraid that I’ll faint at any moment. Shakily, I sit on the bed and stare at the package for what feels like ages. The cat comes and meows quietly, rubbing against my legs. I feel a presence in the room, not a heavy one, but one that fills me with a quiet peace.

Finally taking a deep breath, I open the package and take out the photos. Slowly, gazing a long time at each one, I remember. I remember how happy we were. I remember how we always had fun together, doing the silliest things like making pasta and having a dinner party for friends. Lying in bed on a Sunday morning, coffee and papers strewn about. I remember when I took him to meet my parents, and how he called my dad ‘sir’ with so much respect.

I remember how much I loved him.

And for the life of me, I can’t remember why I’ve been so angry with him. I have been so angry for what feels like a long time for him leaving me without him. For not being stronger, not fighting harder. I remember him in the hospital, looking frail and weak with all those tubes attached to him.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry when he was fighting for his life, I just held his hand and whispered to him that he couldn’t go, he couldn’t leave me here. Just try my love. I didn’t cry at his funeral either; while his sisters and mother’s tears streamed down their faces, I stood in a numb shock watching his body being lowered into the cold ground. I returned to work and picked up the broken pieces of my life, trying to tell everyone that I was just fine.

I didn’t cry.

I sit and look those photos for the longest time, thinking about all the moments we had and how we should’ve cherished them more. If we had known then how little time we had left, I know we would’ve made every moment full of love and laughter. But then, how can we ever know? Life can sometimes be unfair and take things away before we’re ready but would I go back and change it because of the pain? Never.

My friends find me there, a few hours later, photos strewn across the bed. I look up at them and the tears are still running down my cheeks. But I’m also smiling.

We recognise it is a terrible tease to offer up a meagre 750 words from each story. For the majority of our writers, this is their first publishing adventure, though certainly not their first venture into the wonderful yet terrible world of fiction writing. Many of the writers here have considerable back-catalogues of stories, seen and unseen.

To support our writers – and to ease your frustration – each Sunday we will post a full length piece of writing from the featured author of the week.

This week Dale Challener Roe shuffles the cards of fate for his characters…

The Hand You Are Dealt

The girl stood, her chair screeching against the cheap wooden floor. She stared at Kendra, hoping she would say something more—to qualify what she had said, to soften the blow. Kendra’s silence was answer enough and the girl turned, opened the curtain and headed for the front of the store in a gait that threatened, more than once, to turn into a run.

With the curtain open, fluorescent light and stale air streamed in, washing away the orange glows and cozy smells from the candles that filled the small room. As her eyes adjusted to the light, Kendra brushed her long auburn hair off her face, let out a long frustrated sigh and raked the cards from the table with her fingers. After removing the crimson cloth from the table she carefully draped it over a small, purposely antique, wooden chest. She arranged the cards into an orderly deck, turning their colorful faces down, and left the deck in the center of the small wooden table, its slick black surface amplifying the grey pentacle at its center.

Kendra stared out through the main store. Drew was working behind the counter, reorganizing the jewelry displays, which always needed it after the weekends. Kendra didn’t envy her, she’d done it too, hundreds of times over the past two years. Initially she had found it captivating; picking through the wands, studying the displays of crystals, playing with the topaz rune stones a customer said were the exact color of her eyes. But eventually the novelty had worn off, and tediousness was not something Kendra dealt well with. Now, whenever she worked the store she hated every minute. But she liked Drew—she had always found her both intelligent and easy to talk to, a rare combination—and was about to offer her help when she saw the front door open.

Ian walked in precariously holding three lidded paper cups. Kendra smiled as he, a little too casually, placed one of the cups on the counter in front of Drew. Ian always brought drinks—an amusing peculiarity. He was the first person she had named after the Tarot. He was the Page of Cups. It wasn’t the best-suited card for him, after all, artistic he was not, but she thought it appropriate for someone who was known by name in at least ten different coffee shops. Most days he’d stop by the store on his way home from work, sometimes he stayed a few minutes, sometimes he helped them close the store.

Kendra quietly watched the two and smiled as they went through their afternoon pleasantries. Drew always carried the conversation, and Ian spent far too much time pretending to look at the jewelry, and not enough time looking her in the eyes. She thanked him for the drink, her hand brushing his, and offered to pay—she always did. He politely refused, and gave an awkward flutter of his hand, that he meant to be a wave and headed toward Kendra in the back of the store. Drew’s stare followed. Kendra wondered how long it would be before he finally asked Drew out—he’d known his last girlfriend for almost a year and Kendra for almost two before he’d mustered up the courage.

He walked into the back room without waiting for an invitation, set Kendra’s drink on the table, and slouched into the chair across from her. They played this game often, and Kendra knew the next move was hers.

“What do we have today?” she asked, her eyes glancing toward the plain paper cup.

He straightened in his chair, mockingly formal, as if presenting to an audience. “Costa Rican, rainforest, shade-grown, roasted.” The delight was apparent in his eyes.

Gently, she took the cup in both hands, letting the warmth soak into her fingers. She brought the cup to her nose, closed her eyes and took in the soft aroma. A relaxed smile spread across her face. She knew Ian was watching closely, hopefully, and when she placed the cup on the table in front of him he sagged.

He pushed the second cup across the table and, with as much scorn as he could manage, said, “Raspberry hot chocolate, skim milk, no whipped cream.” She was able to hold in the laugh, but not the grin. He took the coffee for himself and leaned back in his chair. “Savage. “

Their game complete, the conversation gave way to a comfortable silence, each sipping their drink. She felt a small flash of irritation as Ian spoiled the silence, “I hear you had a little excitement.”

Ian had a sometimes annoying, often entertaining, habit of starting a conversation in the middle, like he couldn’t be troubled with all the prologue. Kendra couldn’t keep the look of confusion off her face. She leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table, “What are you talking about?”

“Drew said you chased a girl out of here so fast she almost took the door off the hinges.”

Kendra grabbed the deck from the middle of the table and, fixing Ian with a forced frown, began to shuffle the deck. “Drew has a penchant for exaggeration.”

Ian watched silently as Kendra shuffled the cards. As far as he was concerned she had only one graceful feature, her hands, and he never tired of watching her use them. That she was a wizard with a deck of cards was an added pleasure. He forced himself to interrupt, but his eyes remained on her hands. “And you have one for understatement. What happened?”

She put a lot of energy into her sigh, hoping to convey precisely how little she wanted to talk about it. “She didn’t like her fortune.”

His expression did not change. For a long time she had wanted to know whether Ian was too naive to pick up on these subtleties of conversation or if he simply chose to ignore them. Naive wasn’t even the right word; straightforward was more like it. With Ian you never wondered where you stood.

As explanation she stopped shuffling and pulled the top card off the deck. With a dramatic, practiced sweep of her arm she placed the card on the table, face up, in front of Ian. In rich detail, the card showed a man and woman in a standing embrace, her leg luridly wrapped around his waist, a castle in the distant background. Underneath the couple, in elaborate letters, read ‘Lovers’. “The Lovers, reversed,” said Kendra. “Her relationship is not going to work out like she hoped.”

Ian smiled. He’d watched her hands since she picked up the deck, and he still couldn’t tell how she’d done it. He knew many of her tricks—she’d shown him in excruciating detail how she could stack a deck, deal from the bottom, force you to pick a particular card—but unless he watched for a particular trick he never could see it. And she had a knack for knowing who was looking, and for what. He’d only caught her once or twice over the years, when she got brazen. He picked up the card and gently placed it back on the deck. “Sometimes I think you enjoy giving bad fortunes.”

Her smile was genuine. “Sometimes I do. When I get someone who comes in here for fun, I’ll really play up the dark cards. I make them sound ten times worse than they really are, give them a good show—I can almost hear the organ music rattling the walls. It’s like a Ouija board or a fortune cookie—harmless fun.”

“And what about the others? What about the people who come for answers? What kind of fortunes do you like to give them?”

“I don’t give fortunes, because there are no fortunes to give. Listen to yourself; they put their faith in colorful pieces of paper. I’m not going to placate their superstitions.” She cut the deck, took the top card and placed it, face down, in front of him. “This is a carnival game. ¬Three Card Monte—you pay your money and you get a show. If you start thinking it’s real…”

He looked at the card for a moment, hoping she would return it to the deck, but knowing that she wouldn’t. When he turned the card over neither of them could keep a straight face. Staring back at him was a picture of a court jester—The Fool. He replaced the card, and set the deck at the edge of the table. “If you’re customers caught you treating your cards like that they’d never come back. You’d only be able to get hordes of giggling teenagers in here.”

She retrieved the deck. “I’d prefer that,” she said as she began shuffling.

He watched her for moment, trying to decide what was real, what was bravado. “You used to like this job you know.”

She deflated. “It used to be different. Now I get the same questions over and over. Is he cheating on me?.. Should I change jobs?.. It’s maddening and it’s depressing. I don’t have answers.” She paused, and when she continued Ian wasn’t completely sure she was talking to him. “Sometimes, I wonder how this is all going to end.”

His face softened, “You know, most of them only come in here for one thing. Hope.”

She paused, considering what he had said. She leaned forward and, quite deliberately, placed the deck in front of Ian. “No. This is what they come in looking for.”

Kendra peered at him over the rim of her glasses and sipped her cocoa. Ian imagined he could see canary feathers at the comer of her mouth as he leaned forward and turned over the top card. The Magician. Ian laughed so hard he almost knocked over the table.

As she turned the card back over Kendra heard the shop door chime. Standing in the doorway was a frail shadow, its edges burned away by the fierce sunlight behind. After a long pause, the door closed revealing a small dark-haired woman, her head low as if ashamed of attracting attention. She walked forward, her head turning this way and that glancing at certain books and displays, her feet never changing course. She walked straight to the counter. Once there she singled out a small basket of fetish stones and played her fingers across the individual stones. But her eyes scanned the counter, eventually resting on a small stack of flyers less than two feet to her left. As her hand began to move toward the flyers, stones fell from the overfull basket, beating a sharp staccato on the glass counter. Kendra heard the woman’s gasp from across the store. Meekly, she placed each stone back in the basket and quickly and moved to the flyers.

The announcements were rather overdone. The paper was inexpensive copy paper that was supposed to look like parchment, but didn’t. Thick, dark borders crowded with arcane symbols, whose styles and meanings clashed, dominated the page. Nestled in the center, in careful handwriting, was a simple, understated description of Tarot, and offered a reading for the “gift of $20.”

Kendra knew, because she had seen this dance far too often, that the woman would work her way through he store, pretending to study every trinket, book, piece of jewelry and incense burner before, awkwardly, stepping through the curtains into the back room.

Kendra leaned across the table and whispered to Ian. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

Ian stood, cup in hand, and walked around the small table to Kendra’s side. He bent over, placing a gentle kiss on her right cheek, and on his retreat managed a parting shot. “Show Time.”

She watched Ian walk out of the room, toward the counter, drawing Drew’s attention away from the anxious woman. Kendra quickly ran her eyes around the small room, moving her cocoa out of sight, placing the deck of cards in the wooden chest, spreading the crimson cloth evenly over the table, its four tasseled corners reaching for the floor. She pulled the curtain-closed, just enough to soften the light intruding from the store, but open enough to seem inviting when the woman happened by. As Drew caught Ian, talking about something Kendra couldn’t hear, the woman quickly made her way toward the back room.

As Kendra finished smoothing the cloth over the table a gentle hand grasped the curtain, moving it slightly aside. A voice, less timid than Kendra expected, asked, “Do you have time for a reading?”

Kendra smiled as warmly as she could manage, “Of course.” She gestured toward the chair across from her. “Make yourself comfortable.” As the woman entered Kendra noticed that her dark brown hair fell unevenly over her shoulders and the cuffs of her blue jeans were frayed. She walked to the chair, but didn’t sit as Kendra closed the curtain behind her.

The girl—though she was at least thirty, Kendra thought of her as more of a girl that a woman—seemed anxious; Kendra wouldn’t have been surprised if she ran from the room. She offered the woman her hand, and a genuine smile, “I’m Kendra.”

The woman nodded, and returned a timid smile.

After a long silence Kendra continued. “And your name is?”

“Rowan.”

Kendra gestured toward the seat again, “Please have a seat, Rowan.”

Rowan reached into her pocket, and pulled out a handful of bills. With a trembling hand she held out the crumpled ball to Kendra. When Kendra didn’t take the bills she laid them in the center in the smooth cloth. As Kendra reached out to take the offering, she put her hand back into her pocket.

Kendra was on edge as she smoothed out the bills, counting one five dollar bill and seven ones. She watched as Rowan pulled her hand out of her pocket, heavy with coins, and began to pick out quarters and stack them on the table in front of her.

With one hand Kendra folded the bills in half, while she reached out to Rowan with the other. She placed her hand over the woman’s, and for the first time since she entered the store, Rowan met Kendra with her dark eyes. Kendra was embarrassed that her voice lacked conviction, “This will be enough. Please make yourself comfortable.”

A brief look of relief passed across Rowan’s face, but she said nothing.

Kendra ached for a way to give back the twelve dollars, but she knew that her refusal of the coins had embarrassed the quiet woman. Giving back the money would only make her feel worse. She decided to leave things as they were. She’d see if she could slip the money in her pocket when she left.

Kendra found Rowan’s silence odd. Most of her customers were talkative; with all their get-to-know-you-chit-chat she usually knew why they were there before they sat down. The quiet ones, usually the ones who would never admit they came to a psychic, would blurt out their question and answer everything else with monosyllables, or even grunts. But just about everyone said something. “Have you ever looked to the Tarot before today?”

She nodded. “Once. A few years ago.”

That told Kendra all she really needed to know. She could tailor the reading to someone mildly familiar with the cards, she probably wouldn’t have to go too deep. She reached toward the wooden box to retrieve the cards, her hands and mind sinking into the mire of routine. “Did it give you the answers you were looking for?”

“No, not what I was looking for. But it told me the truth. I don’t remember the reading very well, but I do remember the last card: The Tower.”

The Tower—unforeseen catastrophe. Kendra knew that those unfamiliar with the Tarot usually dreaded the Death card, but really it only indicated change. The Tower was a card worth dreading. If The Tower had shown her the truth, then those scars on her wrists probably told a morbid history of Rowan’s life.

Kendra placed the deck face up in the center of the table, and with the fingers of her right hand fanned the deck out into a complete circle, leaving a narrow wedge of each card visible. “First we select a card to represent you.” She spoke in a smooth, practiced voice as she pulled the Queen of Swords from the deck with one finger. “This card represents you—not a girl, but a woman, with rather dark hair and eyes.”

Rowan acknowledged with a slight nod.

She picked up the deck with her left hand, and as she placed the Queen of Swords in the center of the table, she noticed Rowan was watching her instead of the cards. Kendra smoothed the edges of the deck with her fingers and held the deck out to Rowan. “Now you shuffle the deck, anyway you see fit, but always face down. While you shuffle concentrate on the question you want an answer to. You don’t need to tell me what it is, just concentrate.”

Rowan looked at Kendra as if she held a snake in her hand. Slowly, she pulled her arm out of her lap and reached out to take the cards. Kendra watched as she shuffled. Her hands, though graceful, moved awkwardly, not only unaccustomed to the cards but uncomfortable with the attention focused on them.

Rowan paid the shuffling more attention than most of Kendra’s clients. Her eyes were fixed on the deck, and instead of shuffling them as she would a deck of playing cards as most did, she cut the deck into different piles and turned them in different directions before restacking them. When she was done she combined the pile into an orderly deck, and held the deck in both hands, glaring at it.

“How is it all going to end?”

Startled, Kendra looked up. Rowan’s whispered question rang in her ears like a church bell.

But Rowan’s eyes were intent on the cards, for the first time, oblivious to Kendra’s presence. Kendra was shaken—that was her question. Never asked aloud, never to the Tarot, but her question nonetheless. But as she watched Rowan, she came to realize that it was her question as well. She stared hard at the cards, challenging them, pleading with them to tell her how it was going to end. Kendra knew what her own question meant, but now she couldn’t help but wonder what that same question might mean Rowan.

She reached out and took the cards from Rowan’s hands. She cut the deck into three piles in the center of the table, and restacked them, reversing their original order. She held the deck in her left hand, her right hand resting by the Queen of Swords. “Are you ready?”

Rowan nodded.

With a measured pace, Kendra took six cards from the deck, one at a time and positioned them carefully, face up, on the red cloth. She placed the first two cards atop then across the Queen of Swords, covering it and forming a small cross. The next four cards were placed around the pile—above, below, left and right—to complete a larger cross.

Kendra leaned back slightly in her chair, reading the cards before her. She still held the deck in her hand as she surveyed the cards before her. She let the silence ferment, forming her conclusions as Rowan guessed at their meanings.

Her finger glided over the table, resting on the first card—Four of Cups. Three figures, robed in blue, holding large overflowing cups, offering a fourth to a hooded stranger. “This card covers you; it represents your current environment.” She waited until she saw comprehension on Rowan’s face. “It tells me that you are dissatisfied, both with yourself and your life. You long for change, but you are hesitant.”

She watched Rowan, looking for signs of doubt. Instead Rowan’s eyes widened slightly, no doubt awed that the card was correct. Kendra smiled, that card describes most people I know, including myself.

“This card crosses you,” she said dragging her finger to the card atop the pile. “It represents what stands in the way of what you want. A woman stood atop the Earth, nude except for a carefully placed white scarf, her arms lifted above her head, in each palm a spiral galaxy. “The World, reversed. Your world is upside down, you fear the necessary changes and are too passive to attain your goal.” She heard a sigh from across the table. Whatever question she had asked, it seemed the cards were giving her an answer.

I wonder how it’s going to end.

Rowan leaned closer to the table, her long chestnut hair lightly brushing the cards and the cloth; Kendra pointed to the third card, her hand grazing through the rough strands. “This card crowns you. In represents what you hope for, but has not yet happened.” The Ace of Pentacles. Kendra imagined the hand on the card as her own, reaching up out of the darkness grasping the single gleaming pentacle. “You hope for complete contentment, personal and professional bliss.”

“The Nine of Swords,” she said pointing to the fourth card, “is beneath you. It is the foundation of what you have already experienced.” The card pictured a woman sitting on a bed, her legs pulled to her chest, crying; nine swords hanging above her. “Failure and disappointment have hounded you. This card indicates a miscarriage or a disastrous business venture.” Like working here, she thought. Rowan straightened and leaned back in her chair, away from the table. Kendra heard her whisper the name Lucas.

I wonder how it’s going to end.

The next card showed an ancient -woman, deep in concentration, her wrinkled hands resting on the open pages of a large, worn tome; behind her floated eight ghostly staves. “This card represents your past. The Eight of Rods, reversed implies guilt, jealousy and domestic chaos.”

“Before you lies The Hermit—the seeker of knowledge. The robed figure represents you, searching for answers. To find your answers you will have to look within yourself. The lantern he is holding before him represents a guide—maybe this very reading.”

Kendra was distracted. The reading was vague, the Tarot always was, but it bore a striking similarity to her own situation. As she continued her monologue, she wondered if this reading might be her own. She might be the Hermit, seeking a new path, and this frail, scared woman across from her might be her lantern.

“These six cards represent your life, they are your reference, what you need to understand about yourself in order to find your answers. The next four cards concern your question; they are your answers.”

Kendra stole a glance at the next card. It wasn’t difficult. Rowan’s attention was fixed on the spectacle of her life spread across the table. The Six of Cups.

Before she turned the card over she glanced at Rowan. Her hands were resting in her lap, hidden by the table. Taut folds marred the smooth surface of the red cloth. “Are you all right?” Kendra hadn’t had a customer this anxious in some time. “These are only answers.. .you do with them what you will. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Slowly, the tension on the cloth vanished.

I wonder how it’s going to end.

She turned the next card over, placing it to the bottom and right of the previous cards. Six golden cups were continuously filled with liquid from six overflowing lotus blossoms. “The Six of Cups shows your attitude toward your question. You think a lot about the past, things that have vanished from your life. You have a strong desire for change.” She looked across the table, we both do.

Kendra looked at the next card; the Queen of Rods.

She turned the next card over placing it above the previous one. A beautiful woman, robed in green walked boldly through a flowering garden, a green ropy staff held before her. “A warm, honorable woman may come forward to show you the way.” Kendra stared across the table waiting for a stare she knew would not come. Are you my Queen of Rods, or am I yours?

The next card was the Ace of Swords, a positive card—but it was reversed.

I wonder how it’s going to end.

She placed the card next in line above the others. A feminine hand held a sword, upright, the arm disappearing into murky waters. “This card indicates your hopes and fears regarding your question. The Ace of Swords, reversed, implies extreme emotion, either love or hate or ambition, which can lead to disastrous results.”

Kendra bit her lip, and realized she didn’t want to deal the last card. Regardless of the fact that the reading was bogus, the random flutterings of decorated paper, the woman across form her didn’t deserve more pain. She believed what she saw on the table, and she would believe the outcome. Kendra didn’t know how the reading would end. The nine cards on the table didn’t spell disaster or triumph, pain or happiness. It was a jumbled reading, and only the last card would clarify it.

I wonder how it’s going to end.

She lifted the corner of the next card.

The Tower.

Unforeseen catastrophe. A forbidding tower rose out of blackness, its top crumbling, a streak of lightning striking deep inside, flames flowing from each window and door, two figures robed in purple fall, helplessly into an abyss.

Kendra’s jaw hurt. She realized she was clenching her teeth. Hard.

The only catastrophe here is that last card. Why do you have to believe in this? Why can’t you laugh it off? It’s just a game. Why did you have to get the damn Tower?

Kendra looked at the deck, a withering stare that would have knocked a person down. It looked back at her with its single grey, unblinking pentacle. Suddenly that pentacle disturbed her, and she turned it away.

Slowly her face relaxed, a fierce frown losing ground to a thin, secret smile, and she basked in the imagined warmth of a painted sun.

“The last card indicates the outcome. This is the answer to your question.”

You want to know how it’s going to end? It will end the same way for you that it ends for me. However I want it to.

Rowan’s eyes shifted nervously, from the deck to the blank space on the table where her answer would appear. Kendra watched Rowan’s eyes, and when they left the deck she dealt the last card…from the bottom of the deck.

The Sun. A beautiful waterfall, two naked children playing in the deluge, an enormous and brilliant sun rising in the background.

“The Sun. The power to achieve all your goals is very close. Look within yourself. Unexpected action will have positive results.”

Kendra placed the deck on the table and leaned back in her chair. Comprehension appeared slowly on Rowan’s face, followed closely by a small, unsure smile. Rowan studied the cards silently, and Kendra noticed that her eyes never left the Sun.

When she stood the smile across her face was larger. She opened the curtain all the way and squinted when the afternoon sun hit her face, but she didn’t turn away. When she said thank you it sounded strong and genuine.

Kendra stood up, bumping Rowan rather hard. And as she placed her hands on Rowan’s hips to steady herself, she slipped twelve dollars into the right pocket of her jeans. Awkwardly she straightened herself. “It was a good reading,” she said, hoping her smile seemed as casual as she wanted it to. “I hope it helps.”

Rowan’s smile didn’t seem forced.

Kendra followed her out of the room, leaving the curtain open, the room empty except for the warm sunlight. Kendra stopped when she reached Drew, and watched the quiet woman leave the store.

“Something just occurred to me.”

Drew raised her eyebrows.

“Twenty dollars isn’t a bad price for peace of mind.”

Kendra saw confusion on Drew’s face, but didn’t try to explain.

We recognise it is a terrible tease to offer up a meagre 750 words from each story. For the majority of our writers, this is their first publishing adventure, though certainly not their first venture into the wonderful yet terrible world of fiction writing. Many of the writers here have considerable back-catalogues of stories, seen and unseen.

To support our writers – and to ease your frustration – each Sunday we will post a full length piece of writing from the featured author of the week.

This week Tina Hunter sends out a terrifying broadcast…

“This one will be a little more violent then we’re used to, Katie.” J’lynn was looking at her from behind that clipboard again. Like the thin plastic would protect her from Katie’s abilities.

“How much more?” Katie asked. The lab assistants attached the green remote sensors to the outlets in the back of her head. It was almost show time.

“More than normal,” J’lynn said, “But we’ll have emergency folks ready to fix you up as soon as we’re done and we have already let the clients know the broadcast will end if the blows look fatal.”

Katie looked down at the flimsy t-shirt and jeans she was wearing. She wouldn’t get a lot of protection out of them. She shivered with apprehension and looked at the doors leading out of the room, like she always did before a broadcast. The guards standing there weren’t as tough as they looked, not against someone like Katie despite how young she was, but there were enough of them that Katie wouldn’t try to run again. Not this time anyway.

Katie looked back at J’lynn who still held that clipboard like a shield. Katie did her best to smile for her handler to reassure her that she wasn’t going to run. She used to wonder if J’lynn deliberately picked violent broadcasts, but she’d learnt over the last few years that most of the clients loved pain.

The lab assistants released Katie and she waited in front of the looming stage doors. J’lynn was already behind the controls watching the feed coming from Katie’s mind. J’lynn wouldn’t hook in like she used to. Katie was getting too strong for J’lynn to direct her properly. No, it would be one of the lab assistants who would get a free show.

The doors onto the stage opened, and Katie had to blink repetitively to adjust her eyes to the bright lights of the holo-room. She hesitated for just a moment when she realized she was walking into a re-creation of the roman coliseum. This broadcast would be very violent.

The doors slammed shut behind her when she was only a few steps in and Katie’s heart began hammering against her ribcage. I really don’t want to do this one.

“J’lynn…”

“Sorry kid. You know the rules. Broadcast live in 5… 4… 3…”

Katie took a deep breath and tried to calm her pounding heart. Clients hooked in to feel her pain, not her fear.

She walked to the centre of the sand filled coliseum. The fuzzy distant crowd in the stands weren’t real, but they looked real. Katie felt sick to her stomach.

“Come on kid. Don’t throw up on me. Distract yourself from the present. Just like always,” J’lynn whispered through Katie’s earpiece.

The clients wouldn’t hear J’lynn anymore than they would hear Katie’s thoughts. She wore another ear piece that recorded sound. Try and think happy thoughts.

It wasn’t hard for her to think that if she pulled off just a few more major broadcasts, she would be free to leave the Compound. No more broadcasts. No more fighting. Free to live a normal life. Yes, life outside the Compound would be good.

“Good, Katie. Keep doing what you’re doing. You’re projecting great.”

Katie heard a metal grate grinding open, and all her fear came rushing back. This time J’lynn said nothing. This is what they expected, what they wanted. Whoever was coming into the room with her would be real, and Katie would be feeling real pain every time she let them hurt her. She rotated slowly, trying to see where her opponent might be coming from. Bouncing on the balls of her feet came automatically as she had been trained to do for so many other broadcasts. The bouncing gave her away.

“No fighting, Katie. You’re to be the victim only.”

Katie’s lip started quivering and she didn’t care if she was projecting it. A deep growl behind her made her jump and spin around. A huge lion paced across the sand towards her. She held her ground for a minute, trying to stare down the beast, mentally pleading with him not to attack her even though she had never had any luck using her telepathy on animals. Then instinct took over.

She ran.

“Don’t run too fast Katie, you want the cat to catch you. And please don’t run into one of the walls.”

Katie scanned the floor to find the texture difference between the real sand and the holographic sand. She turned before she came close to it, tears streaming down her face. That thing was going to rip her apart. She wanted to scream, but she knew that it would be better to save that until the clients would get the most out of it.

“Look behind you. We want to see the lion.”

That was the last thing Katie wanted to do, but she turned her head to look behind. The lion chose that moment to pounce.

His claws dug deep into her back, dragging her to the ground. His razor teeth bit into her shoulder, and Katie could hear her shoulder blade cracking under the pressure. She screamed.

“It’s almost over. Turn to face him.”

Katie was crying and screaming in waves, but she still did as she was told. She turned, trying to push off the 400 pound killer. His claws cut into every part of her. Katie was bleeding profusely from her chest which had been ripped open when she turned and her vision was filled with the image of the great cat, muzzle red with blood, trying to get at the organs under the ripped skin of her abdomen.

She brought her knee up as hard and as fast as she could into the jaw of the lion. He growled in protest, and shook his head in an eerily human way. Then his predatory eyes were trained on her face and he lunged, mouth open. A killing blow.

“End broadcast!” J’lynn screamed over the earpiece.

Katie smiled despite the pain, and visualized a wall between her and the lion’s sharp teeth. The lion’s deadly bite stopped inches away from her face and he was unable to bite down no matter how he tried.

She visualized the air around the big cat becoming solid like a giant hand. Focusing her energy into that invisible hand, she lifted the lion off of her body until he was whining four feet above her bloody body. She easily flung him towards the grate he had entered from. Any broken bones would be healed just as quickly as her own, so Katie had little sympathy for her would be murderer.

The two members of the three nurse emergency crew came out onto the sand quickly. J’lynn followed slowly behind them, still clutching that plastic clipboard in front of her. The two telekinetic nurses went to either end of Katie’s body, their hands hovering over her most damaged areas. J’lynn walked up behind the blond man working on her legs, staring over his back at Katie’s face.

“You did great kid. We got massive hits on this broadcast, and Jonah is in a daze from the last few seconds. You must have been projecting like mad,” J’lynn said.

Jonah was one of the lab assistants, obviously the one who J’lynn got to hook in. Katie was in too much pain to come up with a comment about Jonah, so she asked about a more pressing matter.

“How much?”

“The numbers are still coming in, but you’re really close.” Katie closed her eyes and imagined what it would be like to never have to do this again. No more pain.

She felt one of her hips moving back into its socket, and opened her eyes. The blond nurse was near her hips, knitting her bones back together as easily as she had lifted the lion off of her body. It was becoming more common to have both traits, telepathic and telekinetic, but telepaths were still considered rare. She wondered if she would train to be a nurse once she was out in the real world. She was still young enough that she might be able to get into training. At 16, she’d be older than any of her classmates but it was still possible.

Katie could feel J’lynn staring at her. She looked up and saw that J’lynn’s face was pinched in thought. That was never a good sign.

“What is it?” Katie had a sinking feeling. She didn’t trust her handler but she was better than most. She had always been honest with Katie about the dangers of a broadcast.

“Katie,” J’lynn paused to take a deep breath, as if gathering her strength, “You know they won’t let you leave the compound yet, right? You can’t until you’re eighteen. Your parents let the Compound adopt you, so the Compound is your guardian until you’re an adult in the eyes of the Federation.”

“But I’m paying them back for raising me. For training me. Isn’t that why we do the broadcasts?”

“Yes, but most people never make enough before their eighteenth birthday for this to ever be a problem. Come on kid, you knew this… didn’t you?”

The possibility had never even crossed Katie’s mind. The blond nurse had started working on her stomach, but stopped and went back to work on her legs. She wanted to tell him to go back and fix her stomach; the pain was making it hard to think.

“But I won’t have to do broadcasts anymore, right?” She knew from the look in J’lynn’s eyes what the answer was. Why would they let her stop if she was making them money?

“I’m sorry, kid.”

“Stop calling me kid, ok.” Katie had to think. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She felt like crying again and her body was still in so much pain. She felt a tear sliding down her cheek despite her best efforts. She had been trained not to show any weakness; to be strong.

“I won’t do any more violent ones. I won’t.”

“Katie…”

“I mean it. I won’t.”

“You two are going to have to take this up later. We need to get Katie to the hospital. A real one not the Medical Centre you have down here,” the blond nurse said. He stood up and waved over the third nurse and a stretcher before J’lynn could react.

“You can’t take her away from the Compound,” she said, “You know the rules.”

“Her intestines are mangled, and she has massive internal bleeding that I can’t fix. Do you want her to die?” he asked. Katie watched J’lynn’s face contort. Katie reached out with her mind softly, so J’lynn wouldn’t notice her, and listened to J’lynn’s thoughts. She wanted to know how J’lynn really felt.

J’lynn was confused. She didn’t want Katie to die. Katie made the Compound money, and so she made J’lynn money. A lot of money. But she didn’t want Katie away from the Compound either. Katie didn’t have an inhibitor implant. She could talk. People could find out about the Compound. Then J’lynn would be in lots of trouble.

Katie pulled out of J’lynn’s mind.

“Make me unconscious,” Katie said. The nurses were lifting her off the ground and unto the stretcher, but she never took her eyes off her handler. Katie had secretly hoped that deep down J’lynn actually cared about her and that one day she would show it. But this proved that J’lynn was just as bad as the others. Katie was just a tool to make her money.

Katie saw J’lynn swallow hard. The question was hanging there in the air as if J’lynn had spoken it. Katie nodded. Yes. I read your mind. J’lynn nodded in return and turned towards the blond nurse.

“You understand the rules. The only way to bend them is if she is unconscious the entire time. Otherwise, this will not happen. Am I clear?”

“Yes. Now let’s go,” he said loudly. The emergency crew began to push the stretcher across the sand. J’lynn jogged behind them, watching to make sure the nurse filled a syringe with whatever it was that would make Katie unconscious.

Katie felt a “tickle” on her mind. It was what some of the telepaths in her residence did to get someone’s attention. She looked up to see the blond nurse staring at her and she opened up her mind.

Katie, my name is Jason. You don’t have to worry, you’re safe. You’re wounds aren’t as bad as I said they were.

Then why take me to the hospital? Katie was confused and it had nothing to do with his ability to mind-speak. They had entered the broadcast room and Jason smiled a little as he flicked the end of the syringe. J’lynn was hovering over him, watching closely.

Katie, you might be a young telepath but I’m sure even you can figure out that we are here to rescue you. The syringe slipped into her arm and he had just begun pressing down on the end when J’lynn pushed him away from Katie. The syringe fell forgotten to the floor.

“Imposters!” J`lynn shouted. “Guards, they have guns.”

Katie watched as the other two nurses pulled out guns and ducked behind one of the control panels. The guards fired the first shots, using the main doors to the control room as shields.

“Don’t hit the girl!” J’lynn screamed. Katie trying looking for her handler but she was obviously hiding somewhere already. Not willing to risk bodily harm to save her pay check.

It was Jason who grabbed the stretcher and pulled it over dropping her painfully onto the floor. He used the stretcher as a shield, pulling it and her closer towards the broadcast desks in the room.

This is some kind of rescue, she said mentally to him. She was beginning to feel light headed and wondered if the stuff in the syringe was taking effect.

Well this isn’t exactly how I planned it, Jason replied. He pushed her underneath the nearest desk and pulled out his gun. You stay here and don’t move. Jason left her under the desk dragging the stretcher with him towards the far wall. She didn’t have much of a choice in obeying him, not with the extent of her wounds.

What about… Katie started to ask him if she would loose consciousness but she already knew the answer. The guns shots sounded fuzzy, as if someone had turned the volume down low on a poor quality receiver, and it was hard to keep her eyes open.

But why me? Of all the people in the compound why would they risk saving her? And who where they?

Her eye lids seemed sealed shut with lead weights when she got part of her answer.

You alone could take down the Compound, Katie. We need you.

Katie never got to respond before she succumbed to the darkness.

We recognise it is a terrible tease to offer up a meagre 750 words from each story. For the majority of our writers, this is their first publishing adventure, though certainly not their first venture into the wonderful yet terrible world of fiction writing. Many of the writers here have considerable back-catalogues of stories, seen and unseen.

To support our writers – and to ease your frustration – each Sunday we will post a full length piece of writing from the featured author of the week.

This week Paul Servini takes the wheel and drives us through a young man’s regret…

Homecoming

At the third attempt Richard brought the taxi to a halt in front of the old house. It had been six years since he’d last set eyes on it, but nothing had changed. The paint looked a little drab maybe. The garden was exactly as he’d remembered it. Prim and proper.

“Got to keep up appearances, love.”

Appearances. That was all his mother had ever cared about. It had been her life’s mission to impose this mantra on the rest of her family. Her husband had put up little resistance; her daughter had even embraced this doctrine with all the zeal of a new convert. But Richard hated the very thought.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the taxi. It was now or never, he knew that. Yesterday he’d turned back before even entering the village. This morning he’d parked several blocks away intending to walk the rest. He’d kept on walking down Chestnut Road, without turning into Pine Avenue. He leant back in the driver’s seat and closed his eyes. He could picture it all as if it was yesterday. Helen, in her long, sparkling dress. Mum applying her lipstick and trying to get him to put on something else: “… for Helen’s sake.” But what she’d really meant was for appearances sake.

“Now listen Mum, my sister couldn’t care less what I…” Those words; the warning lights flashed. He should have backed off at once. He hadn’t. The argument had escalated and he’d walked out. He hadn’t seen his family since. Not even when his father died. He saw the announcement in the newspaper, yet he didn’t do a thing. He was ashamed of that. Every Saturday the two of them had cycled to the football club together. Without fail his Dad had always accompanied him to training. Afterwards they’d go for their ritual pie and chips, then back to the ground for the afternoon match – first or second team, it didn’t really matter. One of them was always playing at home. Sometimes Dad even brought along a can of lager for him too. That would have cost dearly, had Mum found out. In return, Richard couldn’t even muster up the courage to attend Dad’s funeral.

“Now listen…” The words drummed their way around his head as Richard once more tried to find that courage he’d so sorely missed. That hadn’t been the last time they passed across his lips. That was just three days earlier. Again he knew, it was time to stop. But he’d carried on regardless and Grace had stormed out. Gone, the one person he’d ever cared for. He went to the bar and ordered a bottle of whisky. Smiley gave him a wry look.

“Not driving tomorrow, Richie?”

He’d left the bottle and ran home. He’d messed up his relationship with Grace; he couldn’t put his job at risk too. Especially now, when he was hoping to buy his own fleet. All those hours he’d spent working on his management course, the letters of encouragement which always accompanied his assignments. How could he throw all that away? Yet without Grace…

He found the letter the next morning. Grace must have brought it round herself during the night. He stared at it until the words started dancing around on the page. It just wasn’t possible. He called in sick. He was sick. Three bucketfuls of tears he cried that morning alone. How could anyone be so loving? It was then he knew what he had to do. And he wouldn’t see Grace until he’d done it.

Richard saw the front room curtain move back just a few inches. His mother had always wanted to know what was going on and the presence of a strange taxi in front of her house would inevitably cause her to come out. In a flash he was out of the taxi. It took just a few long strides to reach the front door. It opened before Richard had the chance to ring the bell. The weary, gray-haired woman his Mum had turned into stood before him. The surprise didn’t even have time to register on her face before she heard the words:

“Mum, I’m sorry!”

We recognise it is a terrible tease to offer up a meagre 750 words from each story. For the majority of our writers, this is their first publishing adventure, though certainly not their first venture into the wonderful yet terrible world of fiction writing. Many of the writers here have considerable back-catalogues of stories, seen and unseen.

To support our writers – and to ease your frustration – each Sunday we will post a full length piece of writing from the featured author of the week.

This week Annie takes us to a smoking hot gig…

Hot Keys

Charlie scratched his overgrown chin vigorously, tiny flakes of dead skin fluttering helplessly into the air around him. His watery, red rimmed eyes scanned the dimly lit room. Couples sat listlessly at tiny cheap tables. Ill-dressed, solitary figures slumped in corners or shuffled about the room aimlessly.

His view was suddenly shrouded by an imposing figure, hair slicked perfectly down into a tight bun, red straight lips and steely grey eyes devoid of humour or emotion.

“Well, what are you waiting for, your audience is waiting for you.”

“The same set as last night?” Charlie wheezed and coughed into a filthy handkerchief.

“Play a few polkas. It would be nice for people to dance.”

Charlie frowned, imagining the reception he’d gain from this audience if he played even a few bars of a polka. He wiped the blood within the spittle from his mouth and inspected his handkerchief briefly.

“Will I get paid extra?”

“You’ll get the same pay as you always do and you’ll be glad you are allowed to play here at all. Now get to it, everyone is getting anxious.”

Charlie grunted, wrapped a grimy red headband round his thinning locks and heaved the ornate piano accordion to his knee. He wriggled free a dirty stub of a cigar which had been wedged in between a strap and smiled. Sticking it in between his teeth, he then lit it with the fluid flick of his Zippo. His teeth crushed onto the slimy end and he grinned further as he sucked the fragrant burning stub. These moments made him feel closer to Hendrix.

“No Smoking. You know the rules.”

“Maggie…..”

She stiffened and drew into her full, imposing height. “You know you don’t call me that.”

The tiny twinkle that had ignited in Charlie’s eyes extinguished as he cast his eyes downward. “Yes Ma’am.”

She held her hand out as he stubbed the cigar gently out. In a fluid movement she threw the butt into the wastepaper basket beside the windows and then held her hand out again.

“And the lighter.”

Charlie’s shoulders sagged.

“It’s my limited edition Jimi Hendrix one. I need it for luck when I go on stage.”

Maggie snorted. “I’ll put it with the rest of your things and you can collect it when you leave.” Her stony face cracked for the slight moment of pleasure she held with that thought.

“Would you mind getting someone to close the windows, I feel a little chilly.” Charlie meekly mentioned. He knew better than to ask for the heating to be put on. Management was far too frugal to switch it on until late autumn.

Maggie ignored his request and with an efficient swish of her knee length skirt, her low heels clicked across the floor and out into her office.

Charlies eye remained down as walked out and through the open door. His head jerked up as soon as he was sure she’d left and he nodded to one of the darkened figures leaning against the wall nearest the door.

The two exit doors closed with a bang and were barred with the assistance of a few of the steel legged chairs. Leon shrilly blew into one of the whistles hanging around his neck and ran out onto the dance floor. “Come on everyone, let’s get this place jumping. Hit it Charlie!” He then ran around the room in a lap of honour and wrapped himself up in the thick dusty curtains, his exuberance pulling them from their fixings. Leon shrieked with laughter as he threw the shrouds off and unsettled the wastepaper bin.

Charlie pulled a fresh cigar from a hiding spot in his instrument’s carry case and retrieved a different Zippo to light the end. With a grin, he pushed the wheezing accordion gills together and began playing an Irish folk tune, the keys clattering and dancing under his fingers.

A faint thumping from one of the doors intermixed with the taping of the crowd’s feet. Maggie’s shrill demands to open the door and her threats of being banned were duly ignored.

Leon grasped one of the couples and dragged them to the dance floor, tweeting and tootling his whistles. His slim hips gyrated to a different tune as he flung his arms up and down.

One by one, the crowd stood and began shuffling to hesitant and jerky movements to the music Charlie was pumping out. His brow glistened with sweat as he squinted with both the effort and the acrid smoke curling from the cigar firmly attached to his mouth.

A thin wisp of smoke snaked around the feet of the dancers.

Leon brandished a fist full of glow-in-the-dark sticks and handed them around the dance floor before dashing off to the bank of light switches to plunge the room into darkness.

The few shrieks of fear turned into hoots of delight as a flurry of fluorescence darted around the space.

Leon’s continuous whistling and Charlie’s impassioned playing continued as the discordant music melded with the laughter and shrieks from the dance floor.

Coloured lights began flashing and reflecting on the tiny speckles hidden on the original 1970s coffee coloured wallpaper.

Thick smoke billowed about the dancers as they swam and leapt about in the strobe effect of the flashing lights through the windows.

Thumping from the door became more urgent, the demands and threats, shriller.

The piano accordion player slumped forward and fell to the floor, coughing and choking on the impervious smoke surrounding the stage.

**********

“This is Trisha O’Neil reporting from the grounds of St Ignatius Mental Institution.

“We have fire engines and ambulances on the stand by, but because of the tight security systems in place they have been unable to enter the buildings.”

A tall, slickly groomed brunette twisted her head toward the scene where black smoke billowed out the barred windows and then stared back into the camera. “What you can hear is the screams of the inmates trying to get out.” She held her finger to her ear and concentrated on the tiny voice. “And Barry can you hear that from where you are? What seems to be some sort of music. I am thrilled to think that I am reporting on and event similar to the Titanic where the band kept playing.”

Trisha’s eyes momentarily caught the blanched look her producer gave off-camera and cleared her throat. “A truly terrible event unfolding before our eyes. Pure tragedy.”

Clutching her ear piece and looking toward the ground as she concentrated on the tiny voice. “Yes Barry – well folks, I can confirm that there are 127 people trapped inside, almost certainly to be burnt to death. We’ll keep rolling here and keep you up to date with every detail. I’m not sure if you just heard that from where you are, but the music has stopped. Over to you Barry, in the studio. We’ll return when we have some more information.”

To support our writers and to ease your frustration – each Sunday we will be giving you a chance to read a full length piece of writing from the featured author of the week.

This week Jason shares the opening of his magnificent Moult World.

A Moult World Fable

On our first night on the strange and fantastic planet we came to call Moult World we dug a fire-pit. It would have taken just a snuggle from a loved one to keep warm that night; but we dug a fire-pit nonetheless. Old travel chests and suitcases were our benches. The flames licked our knees like a kindly old cat’s tongue. The blaze mirrored our excitement; rosy and bright. We were aglow with a New Optimism. We were The First Eight. We sang and danced and when the fire shrank into embers we huddled and planned Utopia.

We leaned close and whispered conspiratorially. The fire’s orange blush on our features adding historical significance to our every word. We would learn from the mistakes of human history. We would forge a Benevolent Society. One in which personal happiness would equate to group happiness. Rationality would replace Dogma. Acceptance instead of Prejudice. Co-operation instead of Competitiveness.

But on that principle filled night not one of us mentioned “It”.

Our first dawn in Moult World was heralded by the singing of the Water Weirds. Their songs – coalesced inside bubbles – floated free of the lake until surface tension popped and the notes tinkled free. The Weirds translucent beneath the water seem to observe us. Their turquoise shimmering features unreadable.

We gathered floating fronds from the lake’s edge. The fronds resembled kelp and eaten raw tasted good … almost like custard. It was easy to reach into the depths and scoop at the small fish that glittered there.

And as we sat on the banks of the lake and ate this watery harvest. We vowed we would return to a lifestyle in Synch with the Natural World. We would strive for True Sustainability and return as much to the planet as we took from it.

But as the Water Weirds looked on and we stuffed our bellies not one soul mentioned “It”.

The leading of our friends and family from The Old World was a subtle affair which took some months. Each return was meticulously planned and inevitably those left behind had much time on their hands. Plenty could have been achieved in that time, but instead we played.

The air had never been breathed before. The water was as delightfully pure as the formula “H2O”. The harvest from the lake was equalled by the harvest of the land. Berries bejewelled the hedgerows and no shortage of fruit hung from what seemed like perpetually pregnant trees. What else was there to do but to eat, make love and fall over drunk from the wines and spirits that each mission insisted on bringing back from the Old World.

We were the New Hedonists. Luxuriating in True Liberty. No one would tell us what to do ever again. Never had humanity witnessed such Individualists.

So why spoil the party by mentioning “It”?

Eventually my brother could no longer sustain the journeys back and forth from the Old World. Those last few missions were less about leading the Chosen Ones back to Moult World, and more about procuring supplies. Supplies we thought we could not do without. Upon the banks of the lake a makeshift pyramid of cases, bags, tools and supplies sprang up.

Then the journeys stopped. We were on our own. The time had come to get serious.

Our spirits sank as the enormity of our isolation dawned upon us. We picked through the pyramid of supplies despairing at the futility of eighty per-cent of the things we had brought. Roof, warmth, and food were of essence now. Not sleek gadgets with desirable contours and the promise of upgrades.

The “iPod cemetery” held its first internment that day.

Fortunately, Moult World provided for us, and soon construction was under way. The first Earth-Ship Habitat was built in just under a month. The tools we used took on mythical identities. Every spade and hammer grew famous and became one of us. But at the same time we busily trumpeted that we had no need for possessions. We were Non-Materialists. We would reinvent Communism. We drank to our success in that very first Habitat and held a feast to rival that of any Feudal Lord.

And as we stuffed our digestive tracts we never once mentioned “It”.

That first Habitat became our Great Hall. A place of meetings and debate. Under its arching roof we set boldly forth to define our ideology. The eves filled with the sound of healthy discourse as our community tried to give a name to itself.

Were we a Commune or an Integrated Community? Could we truly live an Ethical Existence? Individualists and Anarchists rallied for no leaders, but were left stupefied by certain folk (of an anachronistic bent) who pushed for a return to pre Romano-Christian values and even a Chieftainship. Capitalists cried for something / anything to base a currency upon. The Pagans advised we harmonise with the Spirit of Nature; whilst the Edenists were desperate to open our eyes to “the fact” that we were living “in His Garden” and needed to start paying Him some dues!

So the nights grew long, and the debates grew rich, as we tried on whatever label or badge we felt like wearing.

The Great Hall filled with so many words … but not one spent on mentioning “It”. Until, that is, the Water Weirds returned to us what we had been depositing in their lake for so long.

To this day we do not know if we had offended them or if they thought they were being helpful. The wave rose ceremoniously from the lake’s depths. As it rolled solemnly closer we could perceive the Weirds glistening shifting forms within … but also something else. The wave grew heavy as it heaved more and more flotsam and jetsam from its bowels. The water no longer crystal clear was suddenly menacingly muddied. Dark shapes and smears dotted the wave as it crawled closer and closer to the shore. Where, gently and with what appeared to be delicate, good manners, it deposited a year’s worth of our defecation.

In this land of virgin air and uncontaminated H2O, where hedges offered us their bejewelled riches and food was always good – and never scarce – no-one had wanted to talk about one simple, honest fact … That being even in paradise one defecates.

Our heads in the clouds we ignored our duty to dirt … the time had come to cut the crap and at last, to talk Shit.

To support our writers and to ease your frustration – each Sunday we will be giving you a chance to read a full length piece of writing from the featured author of the week. This week Jodi shares with everyone, one of her favourite pieces Demon Lover.

Demon Lover is one of those wonderful stories gifted from the Universe, which just flows through you and onto the page.  It arrived fully formed in a dream and was “downloaded” in less than two hours at the computer.  Spawned from an extract of the fairy tale “The Red Shoes” it is about  how far a person will go once they’ve breached their own boundaries.  Once you start dancing with the red shoes on your feet it is impossible to stop.

It was the first story I ever sold which keeps it dear to me heart. I hope you enjoy ~ Jodi.

This piece is currently under an electronic publishing contract and will divert to an outside site when you hit Read On.

Demon Lover

I stand on the threshold looking in.  My senses warn me to turn back now and go back to what I know. The embittered voice of experience weighs in, prompting me to remember my decision to give up love.  It reminds me that love is fool’s gold and I can rise above it – I will be happier living without it.  As I stand in the doorway, the smoke tendrils willing me into their wispy grasp, the maiden indulgent voice within says, ‘live in the moment without expectation’. I hesitate, the drum beat of my heart shifting tempo, then step inside. The door shuts behind me.

My friend told me it was a party but this seems more like a bohemian talk-fest of ideas and jazz.  Everyone has a wine glass or cigarette in their hand; some manage both in the same hand or leave the cigarette to hang from between their rapidly moving lips.  I cough, unused to the smoke and lack of fresh air.  The room feels claustrophobic but I don’t panic.  My friend has said that if I’m giving up love I need to take up hedonism – I need to become self-indulgent and pleasure-seeking without regret.  My friend reminded me I will only have to worry about myself when I turn my back on love. So he brought me here. Read On