An administrative glitch and the loss of our Customer Services Rep at our printers has meant the Chinese Whisperings anthologies are not correctly listed (and in some places – not listed at all) in Amazon stores across the globe.  So we’ve had to delay the official launch and the Amazon chart rush which was set to explode today!

To honour our original release date of 11/10/11 we’ve opened pre-launch orders  for both our anthologies. The moment the administrative glitch is sorted and a new launch date is set, we’ll drop your books in the post, so you will receive them before anyone else – even if that means you receive your books BEFORE the official launch.

Finally, in accordance with our parent company, eMergent Publishing’s, philosophy on paper and bytes being complimentary, all our paperbacks are bundled with a complimentary eBook so you will never be too far from your favourite Chinese Whisperings’ stories.

Thanks for riding all the storms with us and supporting us across the past three years. We hope you enjoy the stories, as  much as we enjoyed writing and producing them.

~ Jodi, Paul & the CW authors.

xxx
CHINESE WHISPERINGS: THE RED BOOK

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CHINESE WHISPERINGS: THE YIN & YANG BOOK

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Double Talk

Lily Mulholland

“Where the fuck is that lazy cunt?”

John Hildebrand’s voice could be heard well in advance of his corporeal arrival.  He stormed past the butler, throwing his hat and gloves at the vestibule table.

“I’m sorry, sir, but he’s indisposed.”

“Which one of his little slags is in there with him?”

“Sir, he is sleeping alone this morning.”

“Left already, did she?  Well get up there and tell him to get his arse down here now.  His airline’s going down faster than one of his cheap conquests.”

“Right away, sir.”

The butler hurried up a structural glass staircase with as much grace as he could muster, happy to escape the man’s surgical gaze.  Hildebrand Senior was a tyrant with a fearsome reputation and a temper to match.

JJ stirred on the large bed, its covers in disarray.  His head thumped in time to the knocking on his door.  He tried to speak, but the sandpaper in his throat abraded his voice to a croak.  The door opened and Manfred peered around its edge.

“Your father is here, Mr Hildebrand.  He wishes to see you.”

“Time’s it?”  JJ was slurring.

“It is past 10 o’clock, sir.”

“Fuck!  Why didn’t you wake me?”  JJ struggled up onto his elbows.

“I tried, sir.  But you were… ah…”  The butler rotated his hands back and forth, as though he was trying to shape the right word.

“My head is killing me.”  JJ groaned and flopped back on the pillows.

“Sir, your father.  He is insisting on seeing you.  Something about Pangaean?  What shall I tell him?”

“I’ll be down in ten.  Make him a coffee.  Or something stronger, if he wants it.”  JJ knew his father’s vices well.

“And bring me some goddamned pills.”  He started to drag himself from the king-size bed and stopped dead.  Keely?  Where was she?

“Where’s the girl?”

“Miss Jackson left early this morning.  She said I should let you sleep.  That she had cleared your diary.”  The butler glided professionally out of the room, to descend like Dante into the waiting inferno.  JJ watched him go, confident in Manfred’s ability to placate his father.  He paid the man a substantial salary and provided a large Christmas bonus each year.  A little extra went a long way to buying absolute discretion in his staff.

Stepping into the ensuite shower, he struggled to clear the fog in his brain.  Where the hell was Keely?  And what was this shit about clearing his diary?  He never took time off.  Except to see his counsellor.  But he had good cover for that.  He told his staff he was taking golf lessons down at the pro range in Chiswick.  The psych obliged, ensuring she invoiced him using the Dukes Meadows stationery he provided.

He towelled himself off and jumped into a suit.  With no time to shave, he checked his face in the mirror, rubbed some product through his hair, and headed down to the kitchen.

“Father.”

John Hildebrand turned from the floor-to-ceiling window where he had been surveying London and inventoried his son from head to toe.

“You look like shit, John.”  Never ‘JJ’; not to his father.  Hildebrand Senior viewed the Americanised version of his son’s name with abhorrence.

“What’s this about Pangaean?”

“I have placed the company into receivership.”

JJ reeled as though his father had struck him.

“What right–”

“Shut up.  I had no choice.  She’s taken it.”

“Who?  Taken what?”

“You don’t have a fucking clue, do you?  Your whore.  The painting.  My god, John.  No wonder I still have to do every fucking thing myself.”  John Hildebrand spat words with the efficiency of a machine gun.  “You’re as useless as your mother.”

“I don’t understand.”  JJ’s head was spinning.  He leant against the tiled wall, the cool porcelain soothing his throbbing head, trying to take in what his father was saying.

“Then let me spell it out for you.  Judging from the look of you, that little bitch slipped you something nasty before your little session last night.  While you were impersonating Sleeping Beauty, Keely, or whatever her fucking name is, opened your safe, took the painting and made a run for the airport.”

JJ’s head shot up.

“And how do you know this, father?”

“I have my sources.”

“Sources?”

The two men faced off against each other like duellists.

“I have you watched, JJ.”

 …###…

Coming late into the project, I had to get up to speed really quickly and devoured about 16 stories really quickly. Then I didn’t look at anything for about three days. I went back to the prologue and tried to tease out what I thought were the major themes and threads that had developed. I had Yin stories and Yang stories swirling around my brain, sifting facts, narrative arcs, time spans, character names and possible trajectories – it was pretty crowded in there, I tell you!

I was really struck by Emma Newman, Carrie Clevenger and Tina Hunter’s stories, as I felt they were leading me somewhere. I enjoyed the other stories too–don’t get me wrong–but they felt almost complete in their own ways and didn’t offer me the chance to grow my own story.

The diary entries Emma constructed for the JJ character gave me a window into his world and he hadn’t really been explored as a character in any of the preceding Yin stories. He was pretty central to how the whole story kicked off in the prologue, so it became pretty obvious to me early on I would have to find a way to bring JJ back into the picture.

Emma’s glimpses into JJ’s psychological make-up got me thinking about how he could be such a successful businessman yet have such traumatic markers from his childhood. It was clear he had an overbearing father, but we didn’t yet know anything about his mother, which got me thinking. Pretty soon JJ’s mother became the key to the entire mystery! But she is only hinted at in “Double Talk”, so I hope JJ’s tortured relationship with his parents adds up clearly for the reader.

I also hope the reader also has a little more sympathy for JJ and Medae/Kelley/Carrie by the time they come to the end of my story – but only a little!

Lily Mulholland’s “Double Talk” is the final story for The Yin Book.

Kanyasulkam

Annie Evett

“I should have taken my plane.”  Ava applied lip-gloss, tilting the phone screen to catch her reflection.  Finished, she deftly threw the cosmetic in the nearest bin.

“It’s in Canada for the ski trip.”  Louise’s tiny face glared at her from the screen.

“My double gets better holidays than I do.”

“Pouting causes wrinkles, an accessory no bride needs the day before her walk down the aisle,” Louise blurted, wincing immediately at her slip.

Unconcerned, Ava changed the pout to her much practiced Monroe smile and tilted her head.  “Tell me I look like Hilda Bosch in ‘Runaway to Forever’.

Her hand fluttered over an enticing gossip magazine on the newsstand, fingertips prickling at the thought of touching the glossy fake Hollywood smiles on the cover.  Ava clenched her fist.  “She was a real superstar.  Not like the tramps nowadays.”  The smiled dissolved.  “Get my plane back, Louise.  Tell Irving to fly here straight away.  Tonia and her cronies can find their own way back from Canada.”

“Mandy’s plan…”

“Mandy can shove her plan.  Who let’s their therapist plan their wedding?”

Silence.

Ava twisted the plain gold ring on her finger; her eyes narrowed when they settled on an enamoured couple, limbs intertwined and oblivious to the airport crowds  “You should see this place.  People touching things, each other.”  She gently teased the ring back and forth over chaffed fingers.  “Just get me on any damn flight now!”

“I’m booking you onto Ganda Airlines, business class.  I’ll text you the e-ticket reference number.  It leaves in three hours.”

“Three hours?  I’ve already been here two.”

Off came the ring, quickly reinserted on another finger, cruelly cutting into the raw skin.

“Pangaean Airlines has collapsed and everyone on those flights wants out.  I know someone at Ganda who bumped the list for me.”

An oversized tourist, heavily laden with luggage brushed past Ava’s shoulder as the tannoy droned incomprehensibly.  As he unfolded his well-worn map to stare bewildered at it, Ava nimbly stepped aside weaving her way through the milling crowds and began brushing her shoulder vigorously.  “Track down who owns that shitty airline and threaten them with the biggest law suit my lawyers can dump on them.  I can’t leave this airport without my bag.”

“I’m sorry Miss Scott, the official response is they aren’t releasing any baggage.”

Ava put a finger delicately to her ear in an attempt to block out the rising argument from a nearby couple.  She squeezed her way through to the seating beside the windows, the runway clearly visible from the pre-security lounge.  Her heart lurched as she watched a continuous progression of planes taking off, mocking everyone still stranded at the airport.  “This is ridiculous, don’t they realise who I am?  I need that dress.  I don’t care about the rest of the luggage, but I can’t do without the dress.  It’s vintage Chanel.  It’s unique!”

“That’s just it, Miss Scott, they don’t know because of your… desire not to be known.  You can’t have it both–”

“I can have it any damn way I want!  I’m Ava Scott.”  The gold ring flicked back and forth between fingers.  “This is one of the most important journeys of my life.  I’m stuck here, my dress is in some dark hell-hole filled with rats.”  The ring caught on her knuckle.  “I can’t get married in some tacky resort-bought bikini.”

Louise’s hands tapped away on her keyboard and murmured absentmindedly, “It was good enough for Pamela.”

“Are you seriously putting me in the same league as her?  I had three Oscar nominations last year alone.”

Louise stopped typing and looked squarely into the screen.  “Apologies Miss Scott, I just meant a wedding is more than just a dress.  I’ll sort out alternative details while you’re en route.  I’ll get one of our people to come to the airport and stand there till they release the luggage.”

Ava breathed in deeply and glanced around at the seething crowds flapping their defunct airline tickets at one another.

 …###…

My biggest fear was my story would appear substandard amongst the brilliance of the work submitted. Somehow, this had not bothered me in The Red Book; but now, amongst twenty talented writers, my insecurities began to rear their heads.

My approach to writing with Chinese Whisperings has been to approach it with an open mind and no preconceptions on the character I will take on to write. Last year’s characters spoke strongly to me before I’d finished reading the previous entry and as uncomfortable as it was to explore the disturbed mind of a serial rapist, through the text, I was able to find a thread of humanity and compassion.

Many of my current short stories have continued with the theme of misunderstood or disturbed individuals. I have to admit I silently begged all weirdoes, psychopaths and potential bombers to leave me alone while I read the Prologue for the Yin and Yang book and sought a character to become immersed with.

I was initially delighted to be struck by a young bride to be, who discovers she may not be able to make it to her own wedding; given the emerging dramas at the airport.

Ava’s insightful and keen eye for detail picked threads from other writer’s stories, weaving them into a carpet of self-imposed negativity which she then wrapped herself in. However, I soon discovered in her single-minded goal to achieve fame and stardom; she had sold her last threads of self. Her body, through its rejection of its environment was pleading for her to stop, take stock and reclaim her life.

Who says art imitates life?

Annie Evett’s “Kanyasulkam” is the penultimate story for The Yin Book.

Lost and Found

Jen Brubacher

The public rarely noticed the ground beneath their feet, and thank God for that, it was awful: a laminated sheet of cream-coloured plastic stained brown along the regular routes.  Each person in the airport was a stranger who was hoping like hell to be anywhere else as soon as possible, but together they were an army of Nikes, Oxfords and Jimmy Choos that never stopped.  The crud they dragged in from the street and out of the planes smeared off their soles onto the floor.  But this wasn’t the part of their debris Ashley Gardner was interested in, even though it was the part she spent the most time with, using mop and bucket, working the skin off her hands.

It was the skin cells that fascinated Ashley, skin cells dropped by the billion.  She had heard that the average person lost 2 million every hour, so even if your layover was only the run from one gate to another you left a part of yourself behind on the food court floor and between the fibres of the grey carpet that soaked it up beneath the waiting room chairs.  Not to mention the hair—about a hundred strands a day, so at least a few while you dragged your carry-on bag with its wonky wheels past News Amuse and into the bar.  You might not remember the weather that flickered through the thick windows or what flavour muffin you choked down while you waited to board, but the airport remembered you.  It kept you, at least a bit of you, turning to dust beneath the feet of new strangers.

Even if Ashley spent the rest of her life sweeping up she’d never catch every cell.  And she’d spent long enough.  Ever since she’d given up on high school, almost three years as an airport janitor meant over 2 trillion skin cells lost, 100 thousand hairs.  There was more of her in this impersonal building than in the apartment she called home.

Ashley would have missed the ring if the woman hadn’t looked at her so desperately.  There was trouble at the check-in desks and the food court had exploded with angry travellers who weren’t hungry so much as empty, unsatisfied, stuck where they had only meant to pause.  Ashley had been ambushed.  One moment she was sweeping cells in a lonely corner, and the next she was pushing through a hostile crowd, bumping shoulders with suit jackets and Hawaiian-print blouses.

The woman was almost in line.  It was difficult to tell where the queue was with all the trudging and shoving going on, but she was near Hello Sushi! and infuriating someone behind her.  The woman looked Ashley in the eye and a current flashed between them, recognition on the woman’s part, panic for Ashley.

Duck your head, dodge right.  Ashley followed through with the thought and slipped past the line to the other side of the chaos where the woman couldn’t follow.  She was sure she didn’t know her.  She should have been content with that, but the flash of desperate recognition was blazing in her mind.

She neared the wall and nudged herself and her broom forward, using the long-handled dustpan to clear the way for her feet.  The strangers let her go by.  She was at the edge of the food court, beside the staff entrance to the back of the restaurants, when she heard the clunk of metal against the inside of the pan.

She leaned and saw a glint among the skin cells and hair she’d collected through the building.  She reached thumb and finger into the mess without any squeamishness, grasped the ring and brought it near her face.

For a moment she focussed only on its interior edge: the long gold curve where the remains of whoever had worn it last must be stuck, holding their evidence.  Then she turned it and examined its scruffy sheen.  It was a plain band and it had been worn for some time.  Ashley was small, sometimes mistaken for a child, and the ring slipped easily onto her thumb.  She couldn’t tell if it was a woman’s or a man’s.  She’d never worn a ring like this herself.

…###…

From the beginning I was excited and impatient to start writing my story. It seemed like a long time between when I knew I’d get to write, and when I actually got to write!

Then, as my time grew nearer and as I got to read some of the other stories, I became nervous. As I said in my last reflections post, taking someone else’s character is a huge responsibility. And I admit I felt a little penned in by the world already been created.

After all, it would be incredibly unfair of me to have something enormous happen—like the destruction of the airport, not that it had crossed my mind, ha ha—but I thought it would be difficult to spider-web my own story into the rest of the tale with all the time-lines and plot points already established. I wanted to do the collaboration justice.

When I read Laura Eno’s “Freedom” I had a sudden inspiration. In a desperate moment her character thinks she recognises her daughter, and then realises she’s wrong. I wanted to see the other side of that exchange, the girl who had almost been recognized… reveal her history.

And I didn’t want to write about another traveller or someone else we’re used to seeing in an airport, like the clerks or security. I wanted to write about someone who’s always there but we don’t usually see. Maybe someone who wants to be invisible… or thinks she does.

Ashley Gardner appeared, the lost girl, sweeping up the dust beneath our feet. And her history developed smoothly, drawn from her personality and her strange disconnection from the chaos around her.

The section of the tale that ties in Richard Jay Parker’s story in The Yang Book was an easy link. After witnessing his character’s terrible experiences I knew exactly how they’d be perceived by my Ashley. It fit so well I was surprised, and very pleased.

I’d like to say more about Ashley but I guess it will have to wait.

In any case, I can’t wait for the world to meet her!

Jen Brubacher’s “Lost and Found” is the eighth story for The Yin Book.

The Strangest Comfort

Icy Sedgwick

The shit only hits the fan when you’ve devoted a sizeable chunk of your life to planning for it to not hit the fan.  Take today, for example.  If everything had gone according to plan, I would now be sitting in the departures lounge, reading a book and probably knocking back a Jack and Coke.  Or two.  Maybe I’d even be enjoying a giant Toblerone from Duty Free.  But no.  My day got off to a crappy start when I ran out of the house in a hurry, leaving my passport behind.  If that weren’t bad enough, I then got stuck in a traffic jam on the way to the airport after going home to get it.  I could have handled that.  Really, I could, but my plan certainly didn’t include Pangaean Airlines collapsing, and stranding their passengers at assorted locations across the globe.

This particular location is on the verge of meltdown.  I look around the crowded waiting area.  It’s crammed with harassed parents, bored children, and angry travellers.  I’ve never seen the collapse of an airline before, and it’s certainly not pretty.  Every other word I hear is “lawsuit” or “unfair”.  I don’t even think to question the logic of suing an airline that has so little money it is now bankrupt.

Off to my right, a woman stands at the check-in desk, wrangling with the attendant about the location of her bag.  She’s going to a wedding, if the conversation is anything to go by.  It seems her dress has been impounded by the airline.  Judging by the sobbing and shouting around me, hers isn’t the only bag swallowed up in the airline’s collapse.  I’m actually glad that I forgot my passport, and I mentally thank the traffic jam that stopped me getting here on time.  Half an hour earlier, and my bag would also be stuck in the now-defunct airline’s inner sanctum beyond the desk.

As it is, my scruffy Union Jack holdall is at my feet.  That bag has been everywhere with me.  It’s seen the aurora borealis, been soaked in the spray of Niagara Falls, and it even survived a riot in South America.  Friends laugh at me, and tell me I should replace it, but why?  It does the job.  That bag is the most reliable thing in my life right now.

Scanning the departures board, it’s clear that anything flying out today will be packed.  Robert won’t mind if I’m late.  I hardly think he’d notice if I never arrived at all.  I grimace at the thought of Robert.  The blonde woman beside me mistakes the expression for annoyance at the pandemonium around me and nods in agreement.

I fish my phone out of my pocket.  Robert might not care, but I’m pretty sure my publisher will.  I’m supposed to be meeting her this evening.  I dial the number, cursing the time difference.

“PIPPA!”  Melanie squawks down the phone at me.

“You’re awake!  I thought you’d be in bed by now.”

“Ohmigod, I can’t sleep, darling!  Gerry woke me up when he saw the news about Pangaean on TV!  And I thought to myself, just how is my favourite writer going to get here now?  Are you ok, darling?  Have you got enough money?  Are the police there?  Is anyone rioting yet?  Can you see any blood?”  I hold the phone away from my ear slightly; I don’t want her to deafen me.

“I’m fine, Melanie.  I’m just calling to say I might not be able to get a flight until tomorrow, or maybe later.  Everyone’s trying to switch to other airlines so it’s a bit mental.”

“Sweetheart, you just get here when you can, don’t worry about the details.  Pay whatever you have to.  Oh, shoot, I’m getting another call—keep me posted, ok?  Ciao!”

Melanie hangs up.  I feel lighter knowing that I’m in no rush.  I decide to let the queues die down before I try to find another flight.  I wander from the departures board to one of the waiting areas.  I spot a man far into middle-age standing up to follow his implausibly attractive younger wife toward the food court.  I stride down the row and slide into the vacant seat before a woman with three brats can grab it.  She glares at me, marching away with the kids.  I shrug at her retreating back.

 …###…

I read all of the stories written before mine and thought, “Well now, young Icy. Just what on earth are you going to write about?”

Luckily writers, by and large, are a fairly narcissistic bunch, and we do love to cast writers as our main characters. When looking for a reason why someone would need to be in an airport, it seemed obvious – a writer needed to go somewhere.

Thus Pippa walked into my head and started telling me her story. Parts of her are me, parts of her most definitely aren’t. I’ll leave it up to you to decide which is which. J Coker, on the other hand, was inspired by a man I sat next to on the tube – except for a changed consonant in his name, it might as well BE the guy I sat next to.

A lot of the other (very excellent) stories deal with themes of the darker side of human nature, and I suppose I wanted to add bring some light to the table. It’s not like me to be optimistic, but I chose to write about redemption and hope.

Just how calm can a person can be when an airline collapses?

Icy Sedgwick’s “The Strangest Comfort” is the seventh story for The Yin Book.

Cobalt Blue

Jasmine Gallant

“Are you Sam Harris?”

“Yes.”

“Who do you work for?”

“How many times are you going to ask me that?”

“Until we get the right answer.  Now tell me Mr Harris, who do you work for?”

…

“Another cup, Sam?”  Melissa, the tired and frumpy waitress, stands in front of me at the counter holding a pot of coffee by the handle, blocking my view of the wall mounted television.  A pretty but severe-looking woman tells me that the airport faces more delays and overwrought passengers with nowhere to go as flights are grounded indefinitely.

Grounded indefinitely huh?  Join the club.  Ten years.  Ten years I’ve worked this shitty job and what do I have to show for it?  A broken down car and a handful of debts.  A few broken down relationships and handful of regrets.  I was made for greater things than this.

“Yeah, why not?”  Melissa pours the coffee with a deft hand, hardly paying attention.  I have no idea how long she’s worked here, longer than my three years of custom, with her worn red dress and frizzy hair always escaping the bun she ties it up in.  I picture her, standing before a dusty mirror at dawn in heavy-duty support garments, the slow movements of a sleepwalker pulling her hair back for another day of her meaningless and monotonous life.

“You hear anything else about Pangaean?”

“Not a thing.”

“Huh, sure is strange.  What do you think must’ve happened for it to go bust so quickly?”

“I guess that’s how it happens sometimes.  Don’t pay your bills and then…  Still, nice to know it happens to the big sharks as well as us small fry.”

“I think there’s more to it than that,” says the old codger at the end of the counter.  He gestures up to the television with his fork.  “Big airlines like that don’t just go under.  They’ve got—what do you call it—insurance and the like.  Maybe they were being investigated for something…”  He trails off.

“For what, tax evasion?” I snort.  “Big companies don’t have to worry about all that.  They’ve got connections you can’t even imagine.”

“Oh yeah?  You know that for a fact?  Who the hell you work for?”

…

“Are you Sam Harris?”

“Yes, for fuck’s sake I’ve told you that already!”  My interrogator smiles and closes his eyes.  A silence fills the room and nobody moves.  “What do you want from me?”

“I want to know who your employers are.”  His eyes are on me again, cool and steady.

“My employers?  What is this–” I look back behind me and realise her gun is now trained on me.  “What is this?”

…

I ignore the old man and look back up to the television, hoping the conversation is over.  It appears to be; I can see him out of the corner of my eye also looking up and concentrating on the weather report, chewing his steak methodically.

I wonder if he’s right.  I remember the scene as my own shift ended, suits streaming into the baggage area and speaking to all the Pangaean staff.  I made myself scarce, it looked like it might kick off—I saw two of the Pangaean baggage handlers leave quickly, trying not to attract attention to the pack they were carrying.  But it was hardly any of my concern and I snuck away, not looking anyone in the eye.

I pick up my paper and take another mouthful of coffee as I hear the door chime, but don’t bother to look up; chances are it’s just another trucker or airport worker – I don’t come here for the company.  I like this time of day, in the evening as the lights start to come on and the starkness of the day evaporates.  I’ve been working early morning shifts for six months and it suits me, leaving behind the bustle of the rush hour and the industrious self-important people.  It’s quiet, with the television murmuring to itself and you can watch the planes rise and fall in the distance while you wait for exhaustion to come knocking.

She sidles up next to me at the counter, slightly out of breath.  The scent of her perfume draws my eyes from my paper to her long dark hair, a little wet and tangled.  She must feel my gaze because she turns and her blue eyes laser straight through me, sizing me up.

I’ve always been a sucker for blue eyes.

 …###…

I really wanted to reach with this story and to write something completely outside my comfort zone.

The thing about my main character Sam is… he got away from me. I wanted him to be this hardnosed cynical son-of-a-bitch and that’s how he began. But then he turned into this love sick puppy sniffing after Sara as soon as she walked into his life. I completely rewrote their relationship to remove this but… it lingered.

With some constructive editing and some time spent playing with time and structure, I think I’ve managed to write something that I can hear my own voice in, whilst being a piece that is worthy of the other writers involved in the project.

Or perhaps I’ve bitten off more than I can write!

Jasmine Gallant’s “Cobalt Blue” is the sixth story for The Yin Book.

Freedom

Laura Eno

“You couldn’t even arrange for a straight flight home?”

Her husband continued the same lament he’d been repeating since they boarded the plane.  Even though they were on final descent, Mary was sure he’d badger her about it through the final leg of their trip.

“It’s only a one hour layover.  We don’t even have to collect the luggage.”  She glanced sideways to see if he even heard her.  No response, just his normal sulk.  She sighed and stared out the window, anywhere but in his direction.

“Quit chewing your fingernails.  It’s bad enough being married to a nutcase, at least try to keep up outward appearances.”

Mary dropped the hand that had made its way to her mouth.  Silent tears formed under closed eyelids.  Thirty-five years of marriage—a lifetime wasted.  Why had she thought this trip would be any different?  Dear god, but she was tired.  To be free of the constant criticism…

He leaned in closer, his hot breath smelled of alcohol and bad memories.  “It’s your fault that Kevin didn’t spend more time with us, you know.  If you’d just shut up and quit harassing him he might even move back home.”

The flight attendant came around to collect drinks, standing next to Sam while he chugged the last of his bourbon.  His leer as he watched the young woman walk away said it all.  Mary wondered, not for the first time, if he was sleeping with other women.  He never touched her anymore.  She wasn’t going to ask.  He’d probably tell her the truth and she didn’t think she could bear it.

They landed with only a slight bump on the tarmac and began the taxi toward the gate.  Disappointment washed over Mary.  A crash would have been an end to her troubles.  Her face burned with the thought of wishing harm to the rest of the people on the plane.

The flight attendant thanked them for flying with a plastic smile on her face as they shuffled out; Mary noticed another attendant off to the side speaking urgently into a phone.  She looked upset about something.

Bedlam greeted the passengers as they disembarked from the plane.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

Sam shoved his way through the restless crowd milling about.  The noise level hurt Mary’s ears as she tried to take it all in.  The buzz sounded angry as people overwhelmed the gates of various airlines.

She slid between people, whispering apologies as she went.  Making her way over to the airport map where Sam stood to locate their next gate, Mary glanced up at the departures board overhead.  Bold red letters saying cancelled flashed beside several flights.  With a sinking feeling, she realized they all belonged to the airline she booked their flights on.  Sam saw it at the same time.

“That’s just great.  A lousy finish to a lousy vacation.  If you’d just booked a direct flight in the first place we wouldn’t be having this problem.”

“Maybe we can go collect our luggage and take another flight.”  She despised the timid sound of her voice but didn’t have the energy to speak louder.

“Someone’s going to pay for this,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard her.  Mary wondered if that someone would be her.

She watched him storm off towards the luggage belts, not bothering to see if she would follow or not.  Struggling to keep up, Mary trotted after her husband as if he held a leash around her neck.  In many ways he did, she realized.  It’d been a long time since she’d had the ability to stand on her own.

The luggage carousels didn’t have their flight number listed.  Mary watched Sam try to browbeat a security guard for information, finally storming back to her with a disgusted look on his face.

“He says I have to go to the airline desk and talk to them.  Something about the company folding and the luggage still being on the plane.  If that doesn’t beat all.  I’m going to sue the shit out of them when we get home.”

Mary tagged along behind him as they made their way back to the desk.  A mob stood in front of it without a single employee in sight.  Two policewomen entered the area behind the desk, ignoring the shouted questions as they disappeared into the back area.  She wondered why the police would be interested in an airline going under.

 …###…

From the very start, I felt drawn to the notion of having my characters landing at the airport instead of trying to take off, although I couldn’t tell you why. All I know is when an idea shouts at me like that, I don’t ignore it. I might burst into flames or something if I tried.

As to the main character, I wanted to explore the life of a broken woman who is stranded far away from home. That catalyst causes her…well, you’ll need to buy the book to discover how she reacts.

Laura Eno’s “Freedom” is the fifth story for The Yin Book.

The Other Side of Limbo

Claudia Osmond

“You will come back to chat some more, won’t you?” Mildred called, her feeble voice swallowed up in the commotion of the airport crowd.

The woman walking away didn’t seem to hear her.  She just kept her nose buried in the book she was reading as she joined the back of the line to the woman’s restroom.

“Now she was a nice young lady, wasn’t she, dear?”

“Yes indeed she was.  Reminds me a lot of our Annie.”

“A shame she didn’t stay longer.  Shall we follow her?”

Mildred looked to where the woman was standing.  Several others had taken their place behind her so that now only her red hair was visible.

“Oh, no.  I don’t suppose that we should, dear.  Seems as though she doesn’t need us anymore.”

Mildred sighed.  Just like our Annie.

She scanned the concourse.  There were a few people arguing, a few sleeping on the hard plastic seats, a couple kissing in a corner, and a woman changing her baby’s diaper right on the floor.

“Look at that,” she whispered.  “How dreadful.”  She couldn’t decide which was worse: the couple kissing or the mother changing her baby in public.

“Mind your business, dear.”

Mildred didn’t feel like minding her business.  What she felt like doing was telling the couple in the corner that if they weren’t careful they’d end up precisely in the shoes of the woman who was changing her baby’s diaper.  And they were far too young for that; they probably had even less sense between the two of them than that young mother had on her own.

Well, thought Mildred.  Seems I should go talk some sense into those young people.

But as she thought about the time and effort it would take to stand up and walk across the concourse, she became distracted by a woman’s shrill voice, just a few feet from where she was sitting.

“Is everything alright, Calvinsweetheart?” the woman called after a man who, it seemed to Mildred, was in an awful hurry to visit the restroom.

Hm, she thought.  Calvinsweetheart.  What an odd name.  Ah, but to each his own; that’s what Frank would say.

Mildred’s heart gave a little flip.  Frank?  Where is Frank?

Her heart flipped again and then started racing as she looked this way and then that, searching for Frank.  This is what happens when I take my eyes off him…

“Calvinsweetheart?!” the woman called again, her voice so grating Mildred couldn’t help but look her way.  She called once more, but her husband had already disappeared into the men’s room.

Ahhh, the men’s room, thought Mildred, relief flooding her as she patted her chest.  Frank must have just gone to the men’s room.

The woman gave an exasperated sigh and plopped herself down, two seats away from Mildred.  Mildred thought she looked like a nice lady: neatly styled hair, bright eyes, and a gorgeous tweed travel jacket that Mildred would have loved to own herself.

Must ask Frank to get me one of those for my birthday, she thought.  Of course it will have to be quite a few sizes smaller.

Mildred cleared her throat.  “Perhaps you would be so kind as to have your Calvinsweetheart check on my Frank,” she said, reaching out a hand across the two seats that separated them.  “Once he’s finished in there, of course.”

“Pardon me?” said the woman turning her head, but not pulling her eyes away from the men’s room door.

“You see,” said Mildred, “Frank has a heart condition and, well, I worry, although he always tells me to stop worrying, that nobody ever lived a day longer through worrying, in fact worrying, says Frank, can actually shorten one’s life by literal years and, well at our age we can’t afford even one second so Frank always makes sure that I stay on the positive side of things and mind my own business and–”

The woman turned and looked at Mildred in a way that made Mildred snap her mouth shut.  She couldn’t remember ever being looked at like that before.  She shivered and retracted her hand as quickly as her ninety-year-old muscles would let her.

 …###…

My main character, Mildred, came from Emma Newman’s story, “The Guilty One”. In Emma’s story, an elderly woman tries to strike up a conversation with Medae who all but completely ignores her. Medae has neither the time nor the patience for this woman and wonders why a woman of her age is flying anyway.

It was that line that got me thinking: Yeah, why is she flying?

I mean, she told Medae why, but for some reason I didn’t believe her. Well, maybe it wasn’t so much I didn’t believe her as I thought there must be more to it. This woman was frail, “saggy”, kindheartedly intrusive, and alone. Again I asked myself: Why was a woman her age flying alone?

When I see elderly people walking on the sidewalk, at the mall, in the library – anywhere – I often wonder what their stories are. What joys have they experienced in their lifetime? What hardships? Where have they been? What have they learned? Who have they loved? Lost? Forgotten? Some faces look hardened and bitter. Some soft and sad. Others content and at peace. Each one of those faces conceals a story. So did Mildred’s. And I wanted to find out the part of her story that had led her to the airport, alone.

Claudia Osmond’s “The Other Side of Limbo” is the fourth story for The Yin Book.

Where The Heart Is

Tina Hunter

The airport parking lot was overflowing but flashing my badge secured me a spot near Neets’ green Toyota.  I parked and sat there.

I shouldn’t have come back to work yet.

“Tori?”

I looked out my window and saw Neets staring at me.  I waved half-heartedly before stepping out of the car.

“You took your merry time,” Neets called out.  ”Did he tell you anything else about the luggage?”

“Leon?”

She nodded.  We had one dead baggage handler, another who looked good for it, but swore an anonymous caller shot his friend for a painting.  This whole thing was a mess.

“Just that it looked old-fashioned and had women’s clothes inside.  His dead friend swiped a pink thong from inside.”

Neets led me inside the terminal.  It was a zoo.  Five hours since the airline shut down and you were lucky if you had a spot to stand without brushing up against someone else.

“Rex, this is Detective Tori Young,” Neets said to a young man standing in front of us, sweating bullets.  “Detective Young, this is Pangaean’s Operations Manager.”

“Detective Patel said we’d be expecting you,” he said, holding out his hand.  I ignored it and stared at him.  Rex swallowed hard.  Normally that would have given me a boost, but not today.  I couldn’t get Eddy out of my head.

Rex led Neets and I away from the crowds and ‘behind the counter’.  The baggage area was a mess, luggage all over the place.  Some of it appeared to be opened and rifled through already.

“You already started to search the luggage, Anita?”  Neets shook her head.

“Found them that way.  Funny thing though, they’re all ‘old-fashioned’.”

I looked around the room.  It was obvious someone else was interested in our suitcase?  But was it because of the painting, or something else?

“Is this just the luggage for the Pangaean flight to Paris?”  I asked Rex.

“Sort of,” he said with a shiver.  “It wasn’t the only flight cancelled but most of the other luggage has been removed.”

“Most?  Then you should get someone in here remove ALL of the other luggage.”

“Y-yes, of course,” he stammered and then stood there, as if unsure what to do next.

“Rex?  Did someone tell you to keep an eye on me?”

“No.  Of course not Detective, it’s just… we’re all very busy.”

I walked up to him, getting inside his comfort zone.

“Then get busy.”

He tripped over himself trying to leave.  Again, I felt nothing.  Why couldn’t I get any joy out of intimidating people?

“You’re moody today,” Neets said, following me over to the opened suitcases. “He’s not that horrid.”

“I’m always moody.”  I tried to sound nonchalant.  I didn’t want Neets to worry about me.  She was my partner and I actually liked her.

“You know what I mean.  You’ve been acting funny.  Like you’d rather be somewhere else.”  Neets stepped in front of me and looked me in the eye.  “Where have you been this last week?”

I stepped around her and grabbed the first opened case.

“What?  I’m not allowed a vacation?”

Just because I liked Neets didn’t mean I wanted to tell her about Eddy.  I didn’t want to become her next charity case. Neets would find a way to help, there was no stopping the woman.  She bent down and started going through another case.

“I was just asking if you’d rather be wherever you were last week.”

“Who wouldn’t rather be on vacation?”  I tossed aside the suitcase when I found a man’s suit.

“You’re the only person I know who would rather be working than be anywhere else.”  She sighed and put the suitcase aside.  “But I can tell you don’t want to talk about it, so I won’t push.”

I was blessed with silence for four more suitcases.

“By Jove,” Neets said, “found it.”

“You’re sure?”  I asked.

She pushed the suitcase in front of me.  The camisole from a matching pink lingerie set was smushed up against a running shoe.  The underwear half was missing.

My Blackberry went off, a special marching band tune I had programmed in this morning.  The hospital.

“I need to take this,” I said quickly glancing at the tag.  “Put out a call that we want to talk to… Medae Newman about her luggage.”

 …###…

Sometimes I worry my brain has been wired wrong.

No really. I mean, isn’t it strange for a girl to not like shopping? Or be obsessed with science fiction and comic books at a young age? Or for a self proclaimed author to have never written anything in the first person? Whether it is or isn’t doesn’t really matter I suppose.

I thought I was strange, so set about rectifying the writerly dilema with my story in The Yin Book. But what could I write about that wouldn’t make “I” statements seem odd?

My original idea for a character was taken by Carrie Clevenger writing before me; a baggage handler who worked at the airport. I read through her story, cursing, until I noticed a “criminal activity” had occurred. It was then I thought about writing a police officer being sent to investigate.

But I wanted it to be more than just that – I don’t write crime stories, and I wouldn’t even know where to begin. So I went back to my baggage handler idea. It had originally been about a man who had a secret life, a life no one at the airport knew about, one he desperately wanted no one to ever find out about. Now because I had chosen a police officer, that particular secret life just wouldn’t work (based on the principal I don’t write about dirty cops), but some other secret life could work.

Detective Tori Young came to me in a dream a few nights later, fully formed with all of her god-complex issues and her secret desire to replace her workaholic lifestyle with something else. As much as she wanted to be a saviour in people’s lives, she also wanted to have a life, but if it was a choice between the two she would choose the former without ever really thinking about it…

That is until I created an event that causes her to truly question that decision. An event that would affect her most recent case, career and  entire life.

It turned out, that was the easy part. Even writing from first person point of view was easier than writing a real person into my fictional story. As I mentioned before, I auctioned off a character in my story for a fundraiser event put on by the Rare Diseases Foundation (RDF) in British Columbia (BC), Canada, benefiting the children, parents and researchers at the BC Children’s Hospital. The winner of the auction wanted the character to be his mother.

I interviewed the winner for about an hour, and I got to learn all about this gentlemen’s mother: er favourite saying, mannerisms, quirks, and history. I then had to take all that information and mould Tori’s police partner into a woman resembling her. I wanted to do it in a manner that respected the woman she is in real life, while making sure the character did what she was supposed to do to move the plot of the story forward.

During edits with Paul, I also had to deal with the fact I was over my word count limit and the most logical section to cut was the one where his mother made the biggest appearance. I had to weigh the needs of the story over the want to have this man get something worth the money he spent on it. It was a difficult tight rope to walk, one I’m still not sure I got right, but in the end all you can do is let go and hope.

See what I mean about being wired wrong. Who in their right mind would be a part of a collaborative anthology AND auction off a character in the same 3500 word story? Although I do have to blame Jodi and Paul a bit here; you two are way too supportive of strange and off the wall ideas

Tina Hunter’s “Where The Heart Is” is the third story for The Yin Book. A 750 word taster of “Where The Heart Is” will be available 29th September.

Baggage

Carrie Clevenger

The baggage proceeded down the belt like a line of squared coffins in outlandish colours and fake crocodile hide, interspersed with a few lumps of ecru and charcoal.  Leon and Bullwick, graveyard shift workers, yawned in unison over the beige hulk.  They had to shout to hear one another over the gigantic belt feeding the baggage into the x-ray machine.

“What you up to tonight?”  Bullwick fixed beady eyes on Leon.  He mopped a sheen of sweat from his brow and shifted his portly frame on the comparatively tiny stool.

“It’s my bird’s birthday.  I’m going to take her out with what’s left after rent.”

Leon had been with Mindy for six months, while Bullwick couldn’t keep a girl beyond the drunken haze of the occasional Saturday night.

“Where do you plan on taking her out?  The pub?  We could meet for a pint or two?”

“No, not the pub, no.  Marco’s maybe, or that new place—Kiri-something or other…  I don’t know.”  Leon shrugged his thin shoulders.  “I still need to get her a present.  I spent too much on video games last week.  I’m hoping this overtime is enough to get her something nice.”

“I know girls,” Bullwick said with a wink and leaned in closer.  “You buy her flowers, right, and then she’s all yours for the evening.”

“She’s allergic to flowers Bull,” Leon said, rolling his eyes.  “Besides.  I was thinking of getting her something a bit nicer.”

“Nicer than flowers?”  Bullwick slid off his stool with a grunt and shuffled to the belt to straighten a piece of luggage that had turned sideways.  “Whisky?

“This is why you’re still single Bull,” Leon snorted, glancing up at the conveyor belt.  “You’re bloody hopeless.”  The procession of baggage was fairly abbreviated this morning.  Perhaps he’d go on an early break, smoke and grab a cuppa.  He needed the lift; his sleep was sporadic at best.  “Maybe a necklace.  Scottsky’s has a sale on emeralds.”

“Does this look like a full flight’s worth of luggage to you Leon?”

Leon opened his mouth to say something but his jaw clamped shut when he saw Bullwick’s eyes widen at something behind them.

“Gentlemen.”

It was the super, flanked by two men he’d never seen before.  Bullwick stopped the belt and jumped to attention.  With the din from the machinery halted, they could hear a murmuring commotion rising from the terminal side.

“What’s going on?”  Leon asked, and eyed the silent men.  They wore suits.  Suits were never good news.

“I’m afraid you’ll need to get your belongings and take the rest of the day off,” the super said, his face even redder than usual.  Mr. Pinkerton, Leon remembered.  He didn’t come down to the x-ray area often.  His job was the paper-pushing sort, angry fliers with lost luggage, and complaints about invasive body checks.

“Why?”  Bullwick asked, before Leon’s could open his mouth.

“The airline has… ceased operations.  Temporarily,” he said, cutting his eyes at the men at either side of him.  “You’ll be paid for the rest of today, but tomorrow we’ll need to see if you can be reassigned to another airline.  You have fifteen minutes.  Please leave your stations and leave by the employee entrance.  I mean it—it’s a madhouse in the terminal.”

Without staying for questions, he turned on his heel and led the men back up the metal stairs and disappeared through the door.

“Well, that’s a load of shite,” Bullwick growled, scowling and sweating again.  “Who does he bloody think he is, shutting us down like that?”

“Relax Bull, he said he’ll have us reassigned—“

“No, he said he might have us reassigned.  Do you know what that really means?”

Leon started to pull down the black vinyl cover over the control panel of the machine and then dropped it.

“What does it mean Bull?”  He asked flatly, mostly to humour the brute.  He wasn’t in the mood for another of Bullwick’s Union speeches.

“We’ve lost our bloody jobs over this shite!”

Leon raised an eyebrow.  “Right, well in that case I’m off to get my bag.  You coming?”

“In a minute,” Bullwick said, pulling a case off the belt.

“What are you doing?  That’s a passenger’s case!”

“Right, and a nice sturdy one.  Might have some valuables in it.”

 …###…

With ten authors each in two books, the writing schedule was fairly well-packed, giving an allowance of approximately two weeks to write something from scratch using a prompt. This took quite a bit of discipline, since I have never written under direction. I scraped my brains for four days, rereading the premise over and over. As second author to write, (after Emma Newman, no pressure here!) I’d say I had it easy.

I first thought of my setting as I read the prologue.

Airports have baggage handlers and I knew enough about the job because I spent a brief stint as one before 9/11. The only thing I didn’t have was how to make baggage handling exciting. That’s when Leon and Bullwick came along.  With a great deal of UK-esque assistance from my editor, Paul Anderson, they emerged as two blokes from somewhere in Eurasia.

Part of my inspiration for Leon and Bullwick came from the relationship between Shaun and Ed in Shaun of the Dead, a movie with tongue firmly in cheek about zombies taking over. Leon was named after my great uncle, whom I never met. Seemed back in the thirties he owed money. He was murdered at his own front door by men never caught. Or so my grandmother says. Truth is often stranger than fiction.

Bullwick and Leon in the heat of the airline collapse decide to steal from a passengers luggage. Bullwick steals a woman’s knickers, which end up in several other stories later in the book. As Jodi put it—who’d think a pair of panties could travel so far? Leon takes an obscure canvas to gift his girlfriend Mindy, starting a whirlwind motion and well… you’ll see.

Carrie Clevenger’s “Baggage” is the second story for The Yin Book.