WEP - Moonlight Sonata - The Special Place

The Special Place

Tagline: Sometimes you need to get away for a bit to find some peace

Carol Anne crept through the reeds, her shoes squelching in the mud and shallow water. A twig snapped behind her, and she froze. Her feet sunk into the marshy ground, water seeping through her shoes. At least sinking was quiet. 

It was dark out here in the marsh, the moon not yet high enough to lend her much light. After a moment where no other sound occurred she continued on her way. She exhaled her held breath as she yanked first one foot out then the other. Mud sucked greedily at her sullied shoes, but relinquished each foot after a hesitation.

From a nearby tree, cicadas set up their raucous chatter. They'd let her know if someone was following her.

Soon, she was far enough to the east to step on solid ground and skirt the marsh. It felt strange to feel a steady surface beneath her. The squishy ground had eased the pain in her ankle a little, but now it throbbed from the workout and the hard impacts.

He hadn't meant to hurt her. It just happened.

She reached across her chest to gently press the bruise on her upper arm. Even though it wasn't visible in the darkness, its precise shape was burned into her mind. All five of his fingers were visible in the deep purple and black circling her upper arm. 

Another accident.

He always told her he was sorry. Not right away, but later. He made it up to her. Cruelty wasn't in his nature, but he was tired, stressed. He wasn't himself sometimes.

A small part of her knew this as the nonsense it was. After all, hadn't she seen cruelty in his eyes, the set of his mouth? She could tell the exact moment where his actions went from unconscious to purposeful. The moment he realized he was hurting her and squeezed a little harder.

This time, he'd kicked at her foot to trip her up, but he'd hit her ankle instead. The pain had blossomed, sharp at first, then subsiding to a dull ache, spreading up her leg and down her foot. He'd caught her before she could fall, grasping the meat of her upper arm.

That was when she'd seen it.

His eyes had narrowed, a hint of a smile twisting lips that could be so soft during the good times, making them look hard and, yes, mean. He'd thought about it before he squeezed. He'd held her eyes with his so he could watch every aspect of her reaction as his fingers tightened. 

She'd fought back, wrenching at his fingers and finally kicking him in the shin. She'd meant to kick him in the knee, but it was hard to aim when you were wrestling someone a good one-hundred pounds bigger than you. And whereas her weight was soft, his was all muscle, solid to the touch.

He was so angry he punched her in the face. That was something he never did. Marking her face was a mistake.

Carol Anne raised tentative fingers to her eye socket, felt the solid puff of the swelling there. It felt like something was broken, shifting around under the skin. It had sounded that way, too. She'd never heard a crunch quite like it.

The ground shifted once more. Lush grass softened her steps, a cushion between her pain and the soil. She was nearly there.

This time was different. She'd had enough. 

After he punched her in the face and knocked her to the ground, he stormed away, kicking a chair away from the kitchen table on his way past it. He went out the door to the backyard. The door had swung around and slammed closed behind him. It spoke of finality. A finality that woke her up.

While she waited for him to return, she cooked dinner. She was limping heavily and could barely see through the damaged eye, but she prepared his favorite grilled cheese sandwich, setting a handful of potato chips on the plate with it. There was a can of tomato soup, so she made that, too, throwing in a couple stale croutons and a pinch of shredded cheese. It all went to his place at the table, along with a glass of milk so cold bubbles frothed on the surface. She set his chair back upright.

With everything in its place, she left through the front door. He'd be in his shed, but she didn't want to chance him seeing her.

A slight hill stood before her. At the top was her special place. It took her longer to climb than usual, the pain in her ankle hindering her some, but she made it. Just as she reached the crown of the hill, the moon rose enough to push glowing fingers between the willow's fronds, illuminating the stump on which she liked to sit. Using her good arm, she pushed the branches aside and disappeared into the safety of her special place.

Settling on the stump, she breathed a sigh of relief at taking the weight off her ankle.

She closed her eyes and listened to the frogs singing their moonlight sonata in the marsh, joining with the chorus of the cicadas and other night insects. 

She wondered if he'd drunk the milk yet, and whether he would be a problem anymore.

887 words, NCCO

May Submission Roundup

I was briefly locked out of my blog for some reason, which freaked me out, but I changed the password and got back in. I would have thought I'd been hacked, but it was Blogger weirdness. Either way, all is well now.

Hey, I don't think I announced I won runner up in the April WEP Challenge!

Since I skipped sharing submission links last week, I'm doing it this week. Bear in mind I'm not endorsing these, merely passing them along. Always do your own due diligence before submitting, and don't submit if you're not comfortable with the publisher.

Accepting Submissions

Utter Speculation Publications is seeking speculative fiction about the dancing plague and what was behind it. (Funnily enough, I just covered this on the podcast!). Up to 10,000 words. Pays $10. Deadline May 24. 

Space Fantasy Magazine is seeking "stories that challenge our relationship with space." The theme is "Is There Anybody Out There?" Up to 1250 words. Pays $.08/word. Deadline May 31.

Off Topic Publishing is seeking poetry and flash fiction with the theme of "Exhaustion: Limited Reserves." Up to 1000 words. Pays $15 CAD. Deadline May 31. 

Worldsmyths is seeking F/SF stories with the theme of "Seasons" for Seasons Unceasing. 2000 to 8000 words. Pays $.005/word. Deadline May 31.

Alienhead Press is seeking ghost stories having to do with Halloween for Literally Dead. 2000 to 4000 words. Pays $.06/word. Deadline May 31.

Night Terror is seeking horror stories for "There Used to Be a House Here." 2500 to 8000 words. Pays 25 pounds, plus 100% of proceeds are donated to the charity Shelter, Shelter. Deadline May 31.

Death Knell Press is seeking astronomical horror for Nightmare Sky. 1000 to 5000 words. Pays $.01/word. Deadline May 31.

Red Cape Publishing is seeking horror stories for O is for Outbreak. 4000 to 8000 words. Pays 10 pounds. Deadline May 31. (Note: I've been published with them and it was a pleasant experience.)

Apparition Literary Magazine is seeking horror short stories and poetry with the theme "Omen." 1000 to 5000 words. Pays $.05/word. Deadline May 31.

Eternal Haunted Summer is seeking short stories for Other Than Human Realms. No word limits. Pays $5. Deadline May 31.

The Massachusetts Review is seeking poetry, nonfiction, or fiction from those who identify as disable, chronically ill, neurodiverse, etc. Up to 7000 words. Pay is not listed on this particular call, but I'm assuming it's the usual $100. Deadline June 1.

Dracula Beyond Stoker Magazine is seeking stories about Dracula for their first issue. 1500 to 5000 words. Pays $.05/word. Deadline June 15.

Eye to the Telescope is seeking SF/F poetry about Veterans of Alien Wars. Preference will go to actual veterans. Pays $.03/word. Deadline June 15.

Mythulu is seeking unique, poetic fairy tales. No retellings. 500 to 2800 words. Pays $.04/word. Deadline June 17.

The Bureau Dispatch is seeking epistolary stories for Dear X. 500 to 1500 words. Pays $50. Deadline June 17.

Dragon Soul Press is seeking horror short stories for Beautiful Darkness. 3000 to 15,000 words. Pays royalties. Deadline June 30.

Periculum Press is seeking queer pagan stories for Rites of Passage. 2500 to 7500 words. Pays $25 to $75. Deadline 30.

The Dragon's Roost is seeking Eldritch humor for LOLcraft. Up to 4500 words. Pays $.04/word. Deadline June 30. 

Quarter Press is seeking myths, fables, and folklore for The Quarter(ly) Journal. Up to 10,000 words. Pays $5. Deadline June 30.

Air and Nothingness Press is seeking stories about a Librarian's adventures through the multi-verse. 1000 to 3000 words. Pays $.08/word. Deadline June 30.

Anything of interest? Anything to share? Are you submitting?

May you find your Muse.

WEP - A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall

My WEP entry is below!

I have a story in Particular Passages 2, and it is now available for pre-order. There's no theme, just good short stories!

This Books2Read link will take you to anywhere it's up for pre-order. Note that Amazon does not yet have it up, and likely won't do pre-order.

Plus, Unsettling Reads put out a TOC for Summer Bludgeon, in which I have a "Grease" themed mystery short story.

My WEP entry's different than you probably expect from me at this point. Check out the other entries at the WEP (Write...Edit...Publish) blog.

As the Time Approaches

Tagline: Courage is what we make it.

Lacy stood, looking out the window at the ominous clouds in the distance. Her breath fogged the glass, belly touching the window sill, where the sharp edge pressed a crease. Cold penetrated the thin veil between inside and outside, causing goosebumps to burst across her skin like an encroaching army.

She crossed the room and sat down at the table once more, the blank page staring back at her. Yet again, she picked up the pen, pressed the tip to the yellow of the legal pad on top of the first line. The words would not come, but the tears did, a hot flood down her cheeks, soaking the paper.

Angrily, she threw the pen across the room, where it landed with a clatter. That single dot stared back at her like a judging eye. 

Outside, the first light drops hit the window like tiny needles.

Her stomach moved, a ripple that rubbed the table's edge. The baby was awake. 

She placed her hand against the creature moving inside her and rubbed, soothing through layers of tissue. Sometimes she felt like the baby cried, even though there was no way for her to know for sure, out here, so far removed from the life growing within her. She wished she knew what the baby was thinking, what it was actually doing. She felt oddly isolated from it. As if her own body was a shield between them.

Hunger filled her, and she thought perhaps it was a message directly from the baby. Feed me, mama.

Mama.

There were so many reasons this letter shouldn't be written, and only one saying it should. But that one, oh, it was a big one.

She wasn't showing yet, not enough that she couldn't still hide it. If anyone had noticed her clothes getting bigger, looser, less form-fitting, they hadn't said anything about it. There wasn't much more time, though. Soon, she wouldn't look a bit chubby around the middle, but like a full-fledged mom-to-be, rounded belly a dead giveaway that she was soon to be a pariah.

From schoolbooks to baby shoes, innocence to motherhood.

Part of her knew he needed to know, but she knew exactly how he'd react. He'd never give up everything for her and the baby. He had promise. He was going to be something.

That's how it had been for her, too. Before.

The raindrops plumped up, pelting the glass faster now. Distant thunder rumbled.

She got up, went to the pen, picked it up. The cheap casing had cracked, but the tip was intact and no ink leaked from it. She set it down next to the pad and pattered to the pantry, bare feet cold on the rough, aged wood. Inside the pantry were pastry tarts, brown sugar and cinnamon, her favorite. She pulled out one of the crinkly, metallic pouches and brought it with her back to the table.

This time she started writing, the words flowing, spreading across the damp paper. It helped that she told herself she could always rewrite it or tear it up. She needed to get the words on paper, tell the truth, reveal it all.

Besides, her parents would be home soon. If she didn't finish it now, she might never work up the courage to try again.

A vibrant white light exposed the room, blinding her momentarily. In that same moment, thunder burst into the room, vibrated within her.

The baby kicked, rolled, then settled.

Lacy put a hand to her belly once more, this time needing the soothing as much as her baby.

"A hard rain's gonna' fall, sweet one, but I'll make sure you're okay. We're both going to be okay."

615 words. NCCO.

Have you read the other entries? What does the image inspire for you? What about the song?

May you find your Muse.

WEP, RMFW Podcast, & Jemima Pett's 10 Things You Didn't Know About Zanzibar's Rings

I was interviewed on the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers' podcast, and it can be listened to (click on the title) or watched! The interviewer is Mark Stevens, a mystery writer himself.

My WEP post is below. But first, Jemima Pett visits to tell us 10 Things You Didn't Know About Zanzibar's Rings:

10 Things you Didn’t Know about Zanzibar’s Rings

Image for Saturn taken by Cassini-Huyghens and used for the cover of Zanzibar’s Rings: https://photojournal.jpl.nasa.gov/catalog/PIA08388

 

1.     Zanzibar’s Rings is the third book of the Viridian System series. Dolores and Maggie now have their own businesses; Pete is occupied with his family, now settled in the southern part of their world, Sunset Strip, and Lars is, well, Lars is wondering what role he has now.

2.     Pete and Lars got rich by mining asteroids for a rare element called orichalcum. So rich they don’t plan on doing it, ever again.

3.     The Viridian System is the richest source of orichalcum in the galaxy. The asteroid belt is considered to be the property of the two planets in the third orbital ring, Pleasant Valley and Sunset Strip.

4.     Orichalcum is essential for instantaneous communication systems. Other faster-than-light communications systems allowed for inter-stellar navigation before the discovery of orichalcum, but this metal with its strange properties was a game changer.

5.     Asteroid miners still use archaic radio (speed of light) to communicate with other spacers within the same planetary system.

6.     The Viridian System is so named because its sun, Viridium, emits a green-tinged light. It has long been held by Earth scientists that stars cannot emit green light, because of the way we see colour. In my science, it is green because of the presence of orichalcum, which produces the green effect throughout the system. In real science, astronomers have recently found something that is pretty much green, a star called Zubeneschamali.

7.     Zanzibar is a planet in the Viridian System, in the orbit beyond the asteroid belt. It is a gas giant with distinctive rings.

8.     Zanzibar is modelled on the planet Saturn, of course. Much of what we know about Saturn was produced by the Cassini-Huyghens mission. Cassini orbited Saturn for 13 years, and took a total of 453,048 images. You can browse them on the Cassini mission pages.

9.     Saturn is light enough to float on water, if you could find an ocean big enough.

10.  I asserted somewhere that ringed planets are now thought to be common. I didn’t find the exact reference, but they are more common than water worlds like Earth (and Sunset Strip). Astronomers currently think that exoplanets classed as ‘puffy’ may in fact be ringed planets, much like Saturn—and with similar densities.

 

 

Galactic communications crisis strands several well-loved travelers with deadly enemies and no safe way to get home…

By Jemima Pett

Zanzibar's Rings, Science Fiction, Princelings Publications, 389 pp.

A Galactic crisis: the entire comms system destroyed. No waypoints, no navigation aids, no database access… and how will spaceships in flight get home—or to any destination?

Dolores is stuck in warp with a very dangerous passenger, Pete gets his shuttle back home on manual. But how come anything in close contact with pure orichalcum fixes itself? Just flying through Zanzibar’s Rings solves the problem—as the Federation’s fighters find, as they descend on the Viridian System to take possession of the planets.

Zanzibar’s Rings brings the Viridian System series to a conclusion with a bang—and a lot of whimpering. And possibly a view of things to come.

Book Information

Release Date: February 22, 2022

Publisher: Princelings Publications

Kindle: ISIN: B093QFX6DV; 380 pages; E-Book, $2.99

Apple Books: https://apple.co/3mSjrvZ

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B093QFX6DV

Jemima Pett has been writing stories since she was eight, but went down the science path at school, and into a business career before retraining into environmental policy research. She wrote many manuals, papers and research documents before returning to fiction, publishing the Princelings of the East in 2011. That led to ten books in the series of the same name, written for older children. She started the Viridian System series in 2014.

Jemima reckons she read all of the science fiction in her local library, and most enjoys alternative universes, time travel, consequences of social change and unusual ideas surrounding alien species.  Her favourite authors included Anne McCaffrey, Fritz Lieber, Poul Anderson, John Brunner, Robert Heinlein and Arthur C Clarke. These days she likes Becky Chambers, Matt Haig, Lindsay Buroker, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Clare O’Beara, M T McGuire, Jennifer Ellis…  She also loves series – once involved with characters she loves to read their continuing adventures.

She has degrees or diplomas in maths, earth sciences and environmental technology and studied with the Unthank School of Writing while she lived in Norfolk. She now lives in Hampshire, where she enjoys rewilding her garden, raising organically grown vegetables, and birdwatching.

She would most like everyone to use their natural resources sustainably, since we only have the one planet to support us.

Her latest book is Zanzibar’s Rings: Viridian System Series (Book 3).

Visit Jemima’s website at www.jemimapett.com or connect with her at Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, Instagram and Pinterest.

Sponsored By:

Twice in a row? Gasp! Check out the WEP blog for other entries.

All the Time in the World

Tagline: Sometimes love requires creative measures.

Beseeching, she drops to her knees, hands clasped so that her knuckles whiten. 

He scoffs then steps around her and, without looking back, exits through the front door. A slam would have showed he had some emotion about the situation, but he closes it softly. 

She expects it to feel different, but somehow that quiet click has left her feeling unsatisfied. She waits for the tears to come. Waits for the big emotions to wash over her. Waits for the grief.

Instead, that click flips a switch. A gentle sort of anger seeps through her veins, flushing up through her cheeks. Her eyes even feel hot. Then it becomes a throbbing rush. Blood roars in her ears, and she tastes blood.

No one walks out on Samantha.

She throws herself into changing things around the apartment. All that energy and rage needs to be funneled and directed. Walls come down. Walls get framed and built. Remote controlled metal shades go in. Samantha shops for brand new furnishings, including a comfy bed and two easy chairs. Bamboo sheets that are soft and cool get fitted onto the mattress. A second bathroom goes in. Security cameras go up. After all, she's a woman living alone now. Safety matters.

He doesn't call. Within a week, his mail stops arriving. Bill carriers contact her to confirm the removal of his name. The effect on her emotions is a blade to the gut every time. 

Samantha meditates. She does her breathing exercises and ponders gratitude for what she has. She stretches and does yoga and goes for runs and hits the exercise bike and desperately seeks some new way to work it all out of her system. 

The next step is to move his remaining belongings into the renovated guest room and let him know. She discovers that, despite her best efforts, his smell wafting up from the clothing tightens her belly. She strokes his silk ties and gently folds his sweaters. Images of him in her favorite light blue cable knit flit through her mind. 

With an irritated grunt, she pushes it all back down into the emptiness inside her, sealing it up as best she can.

Finally, she texts him: All your stuff is in the guest room. I'll be gone between 2 and 4 tomorrow so you can come get it.

He replies: Got it.

With a small smile, she eats her lukewarm microwave meal and drinks a glass of wine. It will all be over soon.

#

The next day, she puts on a silk kimono that looks stunning with her eyes and brushes her hair until it shines. She takes painstaking care to apply her makeup. When she hears his key in the lock, she hides in the master bedroom and pulls out her phone to watch him on the security cameras.

He comes in carrying some boxes. These he sets against the entryway table long enough to dump his keys into the bowl and take off his coat. He looks like he's just coming home from work, following his usual routines. It makes her heart ache, but she steels it again, locking it back in its cage.

He's wearing a button-down shirt that hangs from his broad shoulders just right. His jeans hug him in all the right places. Just as he usually does, he slips off his loafers and nudges them under the table to keep the walkway clear. Then he grabs the boxes again and heads into what used to be the "guest room," which was actually an office with a futon previously, in case someone came to visit. No one ever did. They'd been enough for each other.

He pauses in the entryway, taking in the changes she's made. She's known him long enough to read the puzzlement in the stiff set of his frame.

He recovers quickly and steps inside, setting the boxes against the bed. 

Samantha tiptoes from her room and crosses the living room. In the doorway, she arranges herself in that special way that drapes the soft fabric across her breasts and clings to her curves. He always complimented her on how she looked in it.

He turns around at the rustling behind him and his shoulders droop. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Plans change," she says. "You taught me that." With a wicked smile, she steps backward, out of the doorway, and pushes "3*" on her phone screen. The door slams shut, as do the metal shades.

He pounds uselessly on the door.

Samantha sends him a text and watches the camera until he gives up his pounding and checks his phone. 

Anger thunders across his face and he flips off the camera over the door.

She sends another text: All you need is love.

He'll come around. They've got all the time in the world.

The End.

806 words. NCCO.

What do you think of the cover for Zanzibar's Rings? Have you purchased your copy? Are you participating in the WEP challenge? 

May you find your Muse.

WEP - Beautiful Husk & Open Markets

 I haven't participated in WEP in forever, and felt like I needed a writing exercise since I've been working on nonfiction. Check out the WEP blog to read other entries or submit your own.

Beautiful Husk

Tagline: Some must bear witness, an echo only of the horrors they see.

He bends over the water as he has for what seems like forever, staring into his own eyes. From my outsider's view, he is quite beautiful. His hair falls in gentle waves to his shoulders, reflecting the sun with a golden sheen that almost burns the eyes. His jawline is sculpted and strong, standing out severely the more weight he loses. He has not eaten, nor bent to take a sip of the water which so entrances him. 

The closer I get, the more I see that he's not so beautiful after all. His skin is dry and flaking from his face and forearms, the only exposed areas visible to me. It drifts like snow to land upon the water, causing only the slightest ripple before dissolving and disappearing.

His lips, once so soft and full, have withered to a thin line of dull, wrinkled flesh. Once I would have kissed him. Now I wouldn't dare for fear his lips might crumble.

At first, he spoke, if only to his reflection, mumbling "You're beautiful."

I whispered back, "You're beautiful."

But now he stays silent, engrossed, immoveable. Cursed as I am to only repeat the words of others, I'm doomed to an equal silence, a watchful statue who cannot intervene.

This morning, I willed the morning dew to slide just right along his jaw to those wizened lips. It traced his cheekbone to the hungering hollow of his cheek...

     ...ran to the corner of his mouth...

                  ...traced the line between lip and chin...

                              ...slipped through the cleft...

                                        ...and splashed from the point of his chin to the water.

He has grown weak, his forearms shrinking from muscled to gaunt, his back bowing, spine pressing against the dirty white of his shirt. Still he stares, wasting away. His stomach stopped rumbling days ago.

As his head grows heavier, his neck slack, the reflection he loves so dearly gets closer and closer, drawing him in, an inch away from a kiss. Now a centimeter. Now...

In desperation, I step lightly onto the water and skate toward him. The fish and water bugs watch my approach, bubbles rising from gills and mouths. They have gathered beneath the surface, looking up at this strange, but handsome, man. They do not understand.

I do not understand.

I draw nearer and see that his crystal blue eyes are bloodshot, red pulsating through the white. The corners are crusted, as are the edges of his lips. Up close, the sun setting, his golden hair now looks drab and filthy. It hangs limply, frizzy strands punctuating his face. Blood encrusts his nose. 

Diving, I drift beneath his reflection. Looking up at him through the water, I see what he must see. The liquid hides the crust and flaking skin, the damaged hair, the bloodshot eyes. From here, he's as beautiful as when I first saw him...when he first saw himself. It smooths him, blurs the hard edges.

I fear shattering his reflection. If there's a spell, I may be drawn in. Still, I must do something. 

Kicking my feet, I rise.

He gets closer. The water grows warmer.

I break the surface in time to hear his final,

                                                             rattling 

                                                                  breath.

I can only echo the sound, tears running down my face to mingle with the water.

Lost within himself, Narcissus is no more.

554 words, NCCO (I'm treating this like a spontaneous prompt, so it's unedited)

Now for markets accepting submissions in the next month. Bear in mind I'm not endorsing these, merely passing them along. Always do your own due diligence when submitting.

Starry Eyed Press is seeking science fiction for their anthology One-Way Ticket to Epsilon Eridani. 2000 to 10,000 words. Pays in royalties. Deadline Spring 2022 (including this here since it will close once full).

Knight Writing Press is seeking your trunk stories that you think didn't get a fair shake for the anthology Particular Passages 2. Up to 7000 words. Pays in a royalty split. Deadline is January 1. (Side note: I know the owner of this press and he's an honest guy.)

Off Topic Publishing is seeking stories and poems for the anthology Wayward & Upward. Stories must be inspired by a track from the electrosymphonic album by the same name as the anthology, by Spinoza Gambit. 1500 to 3000 words. Payment is $100 CAD for stories, $50 CAD for poems. Deadline January 30.

Dragon Soul Press is seeking romances involving time travel for their anthology Everlast. 5000 to 20,000 words. Pays in royalties. Deadline January 31, 2022. (Note that they're still open for sexy fairy tales for Rogue Tales until December 31). 

Cloaked Press is seeking science fiction stories for Spring Into SciFi. 3500 to 9000 words. Pays $15. Deadline February 5.

Word Balloon Books is seeking short stories in the following themes/genres: Rockets & Robots/Science Fiction Adventure, Beware the Bugs/Fantasy or Science Fiction, Paradoxical Pets/Fantasy or Science Fiction. Under 3000 words preferred. Pays $.01/word advanced against royalties. Deadline February 11.

Qwerty is seeking fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, and more. Current theme is Folklore & Fairy Tales. Up to 5000 words. Pays $10 CAD. Deadline February 15.

Have you visited the other WEPers? Have you tried participating? Any of these publications of interest? Anything to add?

May you find your Muse.

WEP Challenge - Urban Nightmare

The Widow

998 words

Stamped concrete and steel grew from the ground as man-made mountains. Far above the sidewalks, the urban fortresses stared down blankly, anonymous witnesses to the drunken fumblings and crimes below. Four in the morning was a quiet time downtown. Businesses were closed, lights off.

Kasey drew her coat tighter to combat the icy wind. She approached an unmarked metal door and knocked. A scrawny man in jeans, t-shirt, and a vest looked out at her with bloodshot eyes and sweat-greased hair. "What do you want?"

"I'm here to see Milo."

"Milo's not taking visitors."

"Tell him the widow's here."

The door shut in her face. Kasey waited patiently until the door opened again. The same man as before gestured her inside.

"Arms out," he said. Once finished with a quick pat down, he led her down a dark, narrow hallway to a large office full of framed comics. It smelled of old alcohol and cigarettes. An over-sized desk stood in the center of the room, a squat, bald man seated behind it.

"Kasey," he said.

"Hello, Milo."

"Leave, Carter." The other man left quickly, and Milo leaned back in his chair. "So you've finally come to confront me. What's your plan?"

"No plan. Can I sit down?"

Milo waved toward a chair in front of his desk. "Sit."

She settled into the chair and leaned forward. "Why do you think I'm here?"

"Revenge, of course."

"For what?"

Milo raised an eyebrow.

"I know what I'm angry about, but do you? Do you even feel you did anything wrong?"

Milo chuckled and pulled out a bottle of cognac. He held up two glasses and looked a question at Kasey, who shook her head in the negative. He poured himself three fingers-worth and put the bottle away.

"Well?" she asked.

He watched her as he took a drink. "I know what you think I did."

Rage boiled through her entire body, and it took everything in her not to shoot out of her chair. Instead, she kept her face blank. "You don't seem afraid of any reprisals."

"I may be old, but I can still defend myself against the likes of you."

Kasey nodded. "It's easier to believe that, I'm sure." She reached under her shirt and pulled the gun from her bra holster.

His face blanched at the sight of the weapon. He slid a hand beneath his desk.

With a laugh, Kasey put the gun on the desk. "It's not loaded. Why would I go against someone like you with a gun? You really need to train your people better, though." She looked pointedly at his arm. "You can let go of your weapon now."

He did so.

"You know, I'd go away and never bother you again if you'd just admit what you did. I'm not recording it. There's no way it could come back to bite you in the ass. I'll even prove I'm not wearing a recording device."

He looked at her appraisingly. "While I wouldn't mind making you prove it, I don't believe you would record this. You're here for something different."

"It seems you've got me down pat. What do you say? Are you ready to tell me what you did?"

He took another drink, this one longer.

Kasey felt the burn of it in her own throat, thinking how much she'd love to be having a drink at home right now. While she was doing a good job of acting cool on the outside, her insides writhed with fear and anger. The permanent, seething rage that had lived within her these past months was the only thing holding the fear at bay, but it wasn't doing a great job of it. Sweat ran down her back and pooled under her breasts and underarms. Her heart beat like a drum solo, and she couldn't swallow through the dryness in her throat.

"Sweetheart, I didn't do anything wrong. It was your husband who screwed up, and he knew exactly what he was doing. Knew what the cost would be if got caught. It's him you should be mad at." Another drink, and this time he licked his lips as he set the glass down. "I know it's hard to be mad at a dead man, though."

"You're trying to get a rise out of me," she said. "It's not going to happen."

Milo coughed and pulled at his neckline. Spots of red crept up his face. His hands started to shake. He tried to laugh, but it quickly turned into a choking cough. He wheezed and took a drink.

Kasey smiled. "Do you want to hear my intentions now?"

His breathing came in labored pants. He slammed his hands on the desktop and struggled to stand. "What did you do?"

"Don't you know anything about how women kill, Milo? We don't shoot or stab." She reached a gloved hand across the desk and held the glass up. Only a trace remained in the bottom. "We plan. And we poison."

Milo gagged and fell to the floor. The sounds of his retching followed her through the door and down the hallway, where she nodded to Carter, took her coat, and left the building. The door slammed behind her. She didn't have long before Milo's goons figured it out and came after her.

She slipped down one of the alleys, heart in her throat. Movement occurred all around her. Kasey ran full out, winding through the labyrinth of alleys and behind buildings. It took a couple minutes to reach the right alley. When she did, she dissolved into the shadows just like her fellow street people. Her sleeping bag was where she'd left it, a warm pair of socks tucked in the bottom. She climbed in and snuggled up, seeking an escape from the cold wind.

Milo's people could look for her all they wanted, they'd never find her. They had no idea that she'd been living her own urban nightmare since they'd murdered her husband.

No critique, please! It just felt good to get something written.

August W.E.P. - Change of Heart

It's time for Write...Edit...Publish! It's been a long time since I participated, and I'm excited to be jumping back in.

Speaking of first times, it's also the first time I've done W.E.P. in conjunction with IWSG, now that the two have paired up!

The theme this time around is Change of Heart.

An Uninvited Guest

Jenny sat in her understated sedan, her cell phone held up to her ear. The house she watched existed in a flurry of activity: cars, bikes, kids, their friends. It exhausted her just observing them. Imagine living such a busy life, constantly running errands, driving kids places, picking them up. The single life worked out perfectly fine for her.

As usual, things calmed down at the Harris residence as dusk fell, everyone settled in for dinner and homework. It would only be a few more hours before the beds filled and the other rooms emptied, the youngest kids slipping off first, followed by the older ones in a stairstep of bedtime routines. Finally, the adults would drift off to bed, their bedroom light blinking out around 10:30.

At midnight, Jenny would strike. The serpent in the fold.

Her instructions were to make it look like a burglary gone wrong. She'd scoped out the house when it was empty (not an easy feat with a family of six living there). She'd gathered various possible weapons from inside the home: an old cord from a no longer used landline phone, a kitchen knife, duct tape and a wrench from the garage, and a few other items that probably wouldn't get used. Better safe than sorry.

The light went out right on time.

The night sounds of suburbia drifted through the windows while she waited for midnight. Crickets, distant car rumblings, leaves blowing in the breeze. The pleasant scent of grass drifted on the air currents.

She studied the house. At night its flaws weren't so visible. She could no longer make out the faded paint or the bald spots in the lawn. It looked almost flawless in the low light. Other than the gentle drift of the shrubs and the tree's branches,  nothing moved. Every door had been locked multiple ways, the windows properly closed and locked.

Every window but the basement one she'd broken yesterday to ensure it couldn't be closed. Chances are, they hadn't noticed it yet. If by some miracle they'd fixed it, she had other means of egress.

Her phone indicated it was 11:58. Close enough.

Jenny looked around to be certain no one hovered outside. Her car hid within a long line of cars, all parked along the curb, gaps left at driveways just in case the norms decided to go for a late night spin. The lights were out in every house. Even the exterior lights had been shut off by most of the residents. Didn't they know people like her took advantage of the darkness?

With no sign of humanity observed, she quietly exited her car, grabbing the messenger bag she used as a kit for these jobs. She'd turned off the dome light in advance, so she didn't draw attention to herself. Instead of trying to be sneaky, she strolled up to the house as if she lived there. Digging through her pockets, she expressed frustration through the climbing of her shoulders and her rigid movements. Hopefully, anyone watching would figure she'd forgotten her key.

The phantom key left unfound, she stepped off the porch and moved around to the back of the house, remaining tense, hands waving in the air as if she were ranting. In the darkness at the back of the house, she slowed, no longer putting the act on. Time again for caution.

She found the window still broken. No attempt had been made to fix it or block it closed, which told her they likely hadn't noticed it yet.

The cops certainly would when examining the crime scene.

Her pulse only now accelerated. Now came the time where everything could go wrong.

From her bag she pulled out a pair of leather driving gloves and put them on. She eased the window open, going slow to ensure it didn't creak.

No creaks.

Feet first, she eased herself through the window then reached out for her bag, from which she extracted her flashlight. She moved through the basement with quick, silent feet. Walking up the left edge of the wooden steps kept them from making any noise save a gentle squeak here and there. The door at the top of the stairs stood partially open, and they kept it well oiled, so it slid open without a sound.

The kitchen stood empty. As did the living room. It took no time at all for her to climb the stairs to the second floor, where all the bedrooms stood. Two of the doors were closed--the teens's rooms. Two others let out faint, amber lights, indicating night lights. The fifth was at the end of a hallway, the door open, no light spilling from it.

With any luck, none of the children would awaken, and she could be in and out in ten minutes. There were to be no casualties other than Mr. Harris.

She slipped into the master bedroom, easing the door shut behind her. Padding across the room, Jenny reached the foot of the bed. She crouched, waiting for her eyes to adjust the rest of the way. The bed shook gently as one of them adjusted their position.

Her pulse pounded raucously, and she breathed gently to calm it.

A small voice whispered, "Mommy?"

Jerking her gaze to the door, she saw it remained closed. Panic-adrenaline assaulted her veins. Where the hell was the kid?

Then the bed stirred again.

A woman's voice whispered, "Hush, go to sleep, baby boy."

Goosebumps rose on Jenny's arms.

This wasn't the deal. Traumatizing a grown woman by killing her husband beside her was a price she was willing to extract, but not this. This little boy didn't deserve to watch his dad die, to witness something most adults went a lifetime without seeing.

She slumped down to a seat at the foot of the bed, waiting for them to fall asleep so she could make her way back out the way she had come.

993 words.
MPA

Now for some links. Bear in mind I'm not endorsing these, merely passing them along. Always do your own due diligence before submitting.

Accepting Submissions:

Gypsum Sound Tales is seeking horror/sci-fi short stories for Thuggish Itch, an anthology. The theme is Scientific. 1000 to 5000 words. Pays $5-$10 AUS. Deadline September 14. (You also have one more week to submit to their all-genre anthology, Colp, with the theme Sky's the Limit.)

18th Wall is seeking adventure, pulp, thriller, mystery, horror, and other speculative fiction tales for Overdue: Tales of Mystery and Adventure Returning History's Lost Books to Circulation. This is a shared universe collection. 4000 to 20,000 words. Pays quarterly royalties. Deadline September 15.

Corpus Press is seeking non-themed horror short stories. 2500 to 4500 words. Pays $.03/word. Deadline September 15.

Gehenna & Hinnom is seeking weird fiction and cosmic horror. 250 to 3000 words. Pays $30-$50. Deadline September 15.

Eye to the Telescope is seeking poetry in the theme of Witches. This will be edited by Ashley Dioses, who did a guest post on horror poetry for me in February! Submit 1-3 poems. Pays $.03/word. Deadline September 15.

Arsenika is seeking flash fiction and poetry. Up to 1000 words. Pays $30-$60. Deadline September 15.

Did you participate in WEP? What's your interpretation of a change of heart? Are any of these links of interest? Anything to share?

May you find your Muse.

*artwork clker.com, ocal