Holiday Reads 2018 by BooksGoSocial

HOLIDAY reading magazine

EXECUTIVE EDITOR - LAURENCE O’BRYAN EDITOR-IN-CHIEF - TANJA SLIJEPČEVIĆ GRAPHIC DESIGNER - MIRNA GILMAN RANOGAJEC

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Table of contents 04 EDITORâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S LETTER 28 SHORT EXCERPT 29 Division One book 3, A Very UnCONventional Christmas by Stephanie Osborn 34 Chapter Six, The Nails The Antiquities Dealer (A David Greenberg Mystery) by Ed Protzel 38 Girl Targeted by Val Collins 40 Christmas in Smithville by Kirsten Fullmer 42 A Storm Coming in by Frank Daley 46 Dangerous Vision by William Thomas 50 Rock My Christmas by Laura Kitchell 54 SHORT STORY 55 No Room In The Inn by Nancy Panko 58 Hygge by Jennifer Quail 61 Returning the Nightgown by Dave Riese 64 Touch & Go: A Christmas Story by Fran Brady 68 ARTICLES 69 Building Love 71 Christmas Cheer and Xmas Fear By Richard Easterb by Lilly Rayman 75 5 Considerations When Writing a Holiday-Themed Murder Mystery by D. J. Adamson 77 5 Horror Novels to Read Over the Holidays by Keith Deininger 80 Christmas Casserole by lisa orban 82 Fancy a Mince Pie by Kryssie Fortune

Editors Lettter

You are very welcome to our Holiday magazine ‘18! From sweet romances, magical fantasies, bone-chilling thrillers, engaging short stories and excerpts, we have an eclectic mix of out-of-this-world reads for you! And if you look carefully, you’ll ﬁnd a couple of free books around the magazine. We start with excerpts - Stephanie Osborn shares an Unconventional Christmas story with us. Author Kirsten Fullmer shares an excerpt from her sweet romance Christmas in Smithville. Author Frank Daley senses the storm coming in - just before Christmas. Read about it in his short story. How did Christmas, a time of good cheer, become symbiotically linked with ghost stories? Richard Easter wonders. Read more in his article Christmas Cheer and Xmas Fear.

Crime author D. J. Adamson shares his tips on what should you keep in mind when you write Holiday themed mysteries. Author Keith Deininger shares his ďŹ ve favorite horror novels to read over holidays. And of course, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t forget to check out our book recommendations, from dragons and elves to fascinating histories and mysteries - there is something for everyone. This and much more in our new Holiday magazine! And if you have any ideas for articles or things you would like to see covered in our magazines, let me know. Tanja Slijepcevic Editor in Chief Holiday Magazine 2018

The Deserving by Efren O’brien

A suspense, thriller, romance set in the Southwestern US during the American Civil War. E’mile Deschampes is a Corporal in the US Army who is badly wounded at The Battle of Valverde Ford. He is found and rescued by a local villager, Carmen Reyes. Together they enter into a strange odyssey with a Confederate Officer, Aubrey McGrath who psychologically cannot rid himself of the scars of the war. As a married couple Carmen and E’mile meet up with McGrath again in Santa Fe years after the war ends. The stage is set for one final battle between these two former Civil War foes. Will E’mile be able to finally put the war behind him, or will McGrath win and create a new Confederacy whereby New Mexico is consumed by its past.

Champion Your Career - Winning in the World of Work by Halimah Bellows

Anyone who has faced the challenge of embarking on a new career knows how important it is to have someone cheering you on and guiding you in developing effective strategies. In this book, seasoned career counselor/coach Halimah Bellows offers you the tools for becoming your own career champion. Champion Your Career uniquely addresses the major concerns, methodologies and plans of action that are applicable in the 21st century for a new generation of career seekers, in a new economy, and in a quickly changing marketplace.

“As a dean at a public community college, I have seen many career guidance books, but Halimah Bellows’ Champion Your Career: Winning in the World of Work is one of the best. She takes a very simple and intuitive idea--that happiness and success comes from following your passion--and turns it into an effective strategy for organizing your life. Furthermore, she provides simple tools, resources and strategies for helping the reader discover their skills, talents, and interests, and then translating that information into career choices. This book is a great resource for any recent high school graduates or adult student seeking to find their vocational passion.” 8

Olivia: A Summer of Second Chances by Jasper Trey

Olivia has no intention of starting an affair. She wants a beach, some sun, and to be left alone. It’s been more than a year since her husband died and she’s spent most of that time helping everyone else heal. This vacation is for her, but taking a beer to a stranger at the insistence of the staff, and making a five-minute friend? That won’t cut into her time to much, right? How do you adjust to palace life when you’ve been a soldier for ten years? For Dante it’s flying halfway around the world to a beach where no one knows who you are. He’s been called home to fulfill his duty to family and country, filling the princely roll he left ten years before when he joined the military. His father gives him mere weeks to figure out how to adjust to royal life again. “Definitely wasn’t what I was expecting, but it was so worth reading. What started out as a friendly introduction between two single adults on vacation, turns into a beautiful love story. Both sides come from different ends of society, yet they find a way to make the most of their beautiful meeting and turn it into a very happy ending.”

Winter Tales by A.B. Michaels

Based on characters from “The Golden City” historical fiction series, these short but powerful stories explore intense emotions and life-changing events during America’s Gilded Age. In “Finding the Star,” a resourceful college student risks her reputation for a vulnerable young woman and discovers a joy that fills the void in her own life … In “A Darkness of Spirit,” a lovestruck businessman absorbed by self-pity lashes out at those most vulnerable, demonstrating to his shame the undeniable power of hurtful words… In “Winter Delivery,” an inquisitive teenager learns firsthand that miracles can happen in the most unlikely places. Praise for The Golden City series novels by A.B. Michaels:

The Art of Love: … ”A.B. Michaels is a strong writer who has created compelling, flawed but very likeable characters... It’s also a quick read, mainly because once you start, you will not want to put it down.” Sabrina Ricci, Digital Pubbing

Available on Amazon!

From Pushcart Prize nominee Danny Johnson comes a powerful, lyrical debut novel that explores race relations, first love, and coming-of-age in North Carolina in the 1950s and '60s. Available on Amazon 11

Empty Seats by Wanda Adams Fischer Three young baseball stars set out in 1972 to play minor league baseball, expecting their road to professional ball will be easy. But life throws them many curve balls along the way. “An appealingly honest portrayal of baseball players... Fischer adeptly--and often lyrically--captures the mindset of her characters.”-- Kirkus Reviewer “Your obvious love of your characters and the game... comes from the heart.”-- Joel Zoss, renowned singer/ songwriter and writer of several books about baseball

Ward by Kyle Waller

Up The River? Or Down In The Dirt? Summary Execution has become the preferred fate to exile in a place where even angels fear to tread. Those unwise who elected for prison or are deemed unworthy of a quick death are condemned to The Ward, the former capital-city-converted-city-prison of Sacramento, California. Amid this bedlam landscape, cannibal-afﬂicted Vikings, a Roman-inspired death cult, and a paranoid Maﬁa Syndicate, wage an ever cascading campaign of annihilation against one another. It is in this war-ravaged tomb, where the Angel of Death and Tango Primary Five are destined to meet.

“Far from just another dystopia, Kyle Waller’s Ward creates an immersive universe of inviting darkness. The action packed pages will easily grip your attention. Ward is certainly a strong start to his The Ward Triumvirate. This first book is more than simply an introduction to a dystopian universe, it is an immersion. Even if at times, you resurface to reality for some fresh air, something keeps pulling you back to the remaining pages. There is something reminiscent of such classic stories as Mad Max or Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, but with a strong smell of freshness in the air.”

A fascinating, though shocking, story about love and survivalÂ

during a desperate time in Irish history.Â Available on Amazon!

Jayden realizes that he has a chance to make things right with the woman he never got over. Available on Amazon 14

Thomas' secret teachings and mysterious travels are now brought vividly alive in the apocryphal story: The Book of Thomas the Doubter: Uncovering the Hidden Teachings. Available on Amazon 15

War, economic crisis in America, and terrorists plotting unspeakable revenge against Alexandra all converge in this page-turner of historical fiction. Available on Amazon

Threatened with an appalling scandal, Rosa Fancourt vanishes, leaving all she loves behind. Sir Julian cannot believe the worst of his sisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s governess, but if she is blameless, who is guilty? Now he must discover the truth, find his ladyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; and win her heart. Fans of Georgette Heyer and Downton Abbey will love this tale of two Regency house parties.

Available onAmazon! Amazon! Available on

All it takes is one mistake. And sometimes the mistake is crazy, forbidden love like the one between Jimmy and Milena. Or could it be their salvation?

Close to losing his soul, will Rick's ultimate success in drug and arms dealing finally lead him to face up to reality?

Availabe on Amazon!

AVAILABLE ON AMAZON!

The Shadow Kingdom by C.J. Inkson

Elliot West stands vigil as Watchman, on the lookout for signs the Shadow Curse may be spreading across the Barrier Strait to her small northern isle. But in all the centuries since the curse was cast, no one, including Eli, has seen a thing, and even she is beginning to wonder if it’s all some grand hoax. That is, until she’s ambushed by the Lojkin, a warrior clan from the Shadow Kingdom who believe drinking the blood of someone with color will restore their own, stolen generations ago by the Curse. Against her will, Eli is taken across the sea to the cursed Shadow Kingdom, waiting to be slaughtered as a sacriﬁce to foreign gods. Just when it seems her death is imminent, a young man with oddly shifting tattoos and a questionable motive, helps her escape, setting them on a dangerous path through shadowy lands in a desperate attempt to reach home. “A book with characters that people will always fall in love with. A plot that makes you fall in love and more.” - Emily Vincent, YouTube Book Reviewer “Very interesting read! I loved the concept of the Shadow Cursed and the world without color. I really identified with Eli well and loved her personality! ... I’d definitely recommend this read to others and will read the second book!” - Cats Reading Corner, Book Reviewer

The Obsession of Doctor Pendergrass by John David Buchanan

London, England was beset by criminals, and more hospital beds were ﬁlled with their victims than those suffering from cholera. Doctors at Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital worked overtime, but they couldn’t manage the ﬂood of beating and stabbing victims. Scotland Yard was doing all it could, but it wasn’t enough; the situation was causing widespread fear and anxiety. Doctor Pendergrass didn’t know what others might do, but he knew exactly what he intended to do. Hero or villain? You decide. “I just completed this exceptional work. The author has done a wonderful job of researching the history, sights, sounds and conditions of London where the novel takes place. Real well known British political figures are woven into the story to make it seem real. David B. takes the reader into the criminal parts of London and unfolds his most interesting story. As a mystery I’ll let him tell his story and I trust others will find it just a gripping as I did!”

War, economic crisis in America, and terrorists plotting unspeakable revenge against Alexandra all converge in this page-turner of historical fiction. Available on Amazon 18

America's game... A global spectacle of triumph and anguish. A grand pageant of violence and drama. And now with its first female superstar...a spectacular experiment that may change the world!Â Available on Amazon! 19

Inspired by city council members, school administrators and mayors who came in for a haircut and passionate political debates in the barbershop where he worked, Bob Keaton has written a refreshing guide to principled lobbying.

Available on Amazon!

Discover how to improve your mental game--the next frontier in sports training-- to become the Playmaker on the court, rink or field. Available on Amazon!

Sometimes the tide sweeps us into a fog where dark forces are at work… All of a sudden evil and good become blurred… Powerless and defenseless, we swim toward it, and wonder if we’re going mad.

They were all stars in their hometowns. Then they were drafted to play minor league ball, thinking it would be an easy ride to playing in the big time. Little did they know that they'd be vying for a spot with every other talented kid who aspired to play professional baseball.

Available on Amazon!

Skills of the Warramunga by Greg Kater

The events take place during the first half of 1946 when former army officer, Jamie Munro, and educated half caste aborigine, Jack “Jacko” O’Brien, who head the CIS in Darwin, are called on to assist in the rescue of Colonel John Cook, a senior operative of MI6, who has been kidnapped by unknown bandits into the jungles of Malaya. The pair with Jacko’s half- sister, Sarah, a full blood aborigine, arrive in Kuala Lumpur in the aftermath of war to find that they not only have to contend with the impenetrable jungle of the Malay peninsula, but also with a large subversive organisation of Fascist criminals whose aim is to take over control of the country. “Skills of the Warramunga by Greg Kater is the third book in the Warramunga series although it is more than fine as a stand-alone novel. Kater fully develops the good guys’ characters in a smooth and even way for readers who have not read the other books in the series. The bad guys remain mysterious with just enough information to produce a villainous shadow. The post-war era, Kuala Lumpur, and the jungle are captured brilliantly...” The International Review of Books.

Ridiculous by D. L. Carter

Funny. Sexy. Cross Dressing.When is the best time to rescue a duke? When he’s up to his neck in a mud puddle!

“The book is laugh out loud funny. The characters are witty and like-able without straying into caricature territory. The plot treads several well worn tropes, but takes them on in a new and fresh way. For example, one of the female characters is masquerading as a man. It is that at some point, a reveal must be made. Even before starting the book, I felt confident that I knew how it would go, since all books that use this plot device are the same. But I was wrong! It was handled so differently from other books. I wish I could go into more detail without spoilers, but suffice to say, this book had several such pleasant surprises where the author turned tired plot devices on their ear.” 21

Looking for an engrossing tale of good and evil with a different take on fantasy clichés? There Be Demons delivers a world filled with twists, chills, and treachery. Available on Amazon!

Cindy is looking for answers. Why was her grandmother abandoned by her own mother? Why hadn’t she told Cindy she’d lived in an orphanage? And how come her grandmother never mentioned she was one of the children who rode the Orphan Trains? Available on Amazon!

A decades-old murder. A strange, blood-thirsty cult. And a house full of spirits. After a late night encounter with an entity, Scarlett realizes she is being targeted by violent spirits.

Available on Amazon!

Avilable on Amazon"

Barbados Bound by Linda Collison

Portsmouth, England; 1760. Patricia Kelley, the illegitimate daughter of a wealthy Barbadian sugarcane planter, falls from her imagined place in the world when her absent father unexpectedly dies, leaving her no means of support. Raised in a Wiltshire boarding school far from the plantation where she was born, the sixteen-year-old orphan stows away on a ship bound for Barbados in a brash attempt to claim an unlikely inheritance. Barbados Bound, ﬁrst published as Star-Crossed (Knopf;2006), was a New York Public Library Book for the Teen Age - 2007. “I felt like I was living on a Tall Ship! I could feel the rock of the waves and it felt like I was on this adventure with Patricia. Set in 1760 I found the level of historical detail just amazing. So much happens in this book it’s a whirlwind for 17-year-old Patricia who must adapt over and over as her situations changes. I love the water and felt like I’ve just lived the life of a sailor at sea” -- Sherry Christenson, Goodreads

The ‘War on Terror’ has come home to America as Homeland 'State Security' confronts innocent Americans, especially Patriots and Veterans. Surveillance by the NSA and corporations becomes widespread as armed drones threaten a lethal response from the President authorized to eliminate perceived ‘terrorists’.

Available on Amazon!

Cancer is recognized as a serious threat to just about everyone alive today. Soon it will overtake heart disease as the leading cause of death. As for the 'War on Cancer', it has been an abysmal failure after 40 years and hundreds of billions invested, yet cancer rates are increasing yearly. Yet there is still hope with proven natural cures as shown in the book.

Available on Amazon!

The true miracle of Christmas may not lie in myth and legend, but in the hopes and dreams of one family destined to change the world forever!

The saga of Harley & Mari continues. Everyone thought they were crazy to go chasing after illusions on some quest to beat death. This is their story about their search to find each other against all odds.

Available on Amazon!

A Christmas Novella Series by Samantha Jacobey

CHRISTMAS CANDY – http://myBook.to/ChristmasCandy CHRISTMAS EVE – http://myBook.to/ChristmasEve CHRISTMAS CAROL – http://myBook.to/ChristmasCarol Life isn’t always sweet, even for girls called Candy. Candice Parker’s life has never been easy. Plagued by losses and setbacks, each day is a struggle for the petite brunette and her young son. When ﬁreman Gary enters her world, he is one mistake she refuses to make; but after tragedy strikes, she may not have a choice.

He's a secret agent, but it's a secret even he doesn't know. Duby's memories are gone, but his enemies are not. They'll be along directly. The NSA forces a lady doctor to take this 250-lb. preschooler into her home. The result is hilarious ... and dangerous. Available on Amazon!

The Civil War swoops into the heart of the South, taking husbands, beaus, and hope. No one dreams of being a widow, or of harbouring a fugitive, but Savannah never was one to follow rules. Available on Amazon! 25

"Humorous, inspirational, adventurous, mysterious! If you love fantasy, time-travel, and adventure, delivered through inspirational, melodic, and mystical prose, you'd be hard-pressed to find anything more original, satisfying, or motivational than Portals in Time." --Sheri Hoyte, Reader Views

Have you ever wondered how to keep living in this world with the knowledge that what you touch, see, and hear is a mere shadow of the truth? Have you ever wondered how to walk with your feet on the earth while your heart flies in the heavens?

AVAILABLE ON AMAZON!

Available on Amazon!

The Axe of Fate seeks to return to the hands of its master; the one who pulled it from the forges. The Axe chooses Gavista Goldenfields to wielded it. A world of demons, dragons, and the looming destruction by the thaw of magical ice. 26

Available on Amazon!

IT'S MARCH 9, 2143. IN THE AFTERMATH OF WARS, PLAGUES AND ENVIRONMENTAL BREAKDOWN, THERE'S GROWING HOPE. HUMANS HAVE COLONIZED THE SOLAR SYSTEM AND NOW THEY'RE LOOKING TO THE STARS. Available on Amazon!

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Darkest Before the Dawn is a down-home story told with a compassionate voice and a twist. An entertaining read.â&#x20AC;? - The Bay Observer Available on Amazon!

Division One book 3, A Very UnCONventional Christmas By Stephanie Osborn Complicating matters, the Prime Minister of Lambda Andromedae III has arrived to negotiate a new trade agreement with Earth. Will Omega be able to refute the accusations? Will the internal conspiracy expose the Agency? Who is responsible, and will the Agency survive? ~~~~~ ~~~~~

here’s a mole in the Agency... It’s Christmas in NYC, but it’s anything but a Silent Night—the mole is leaking classiﬁed information, and the agents are in danger of losing their anonymity. Worse, the more paranoid agents suspect they have identiﬁed the mole—Omega!

When Echo walked through the back door a little while later, he was astounded: Omega’s comfortable apartment had been transformed into a sophisticated, celebratory holiday environ. Elegant holly and evergreen centerpieces now decorated the dining table and coffee table, both of which were laden with food. A huge punchbowl stood at one end of the dining table, a bubbling, luminescent green brew inside, and a selection of wine bottles sat nearby on the kitchen bar. More evergreen garland decorated door and archway; poinsettias, pink, white, and red, clustered in odd corners. A sprig of mistletoe hung from the ceiling near the end of the couch. The Christmas tree twinkled cheerfully in its corner. Subdued lighting and soft Christmas music set the mood. Omega herself was in her usual Suit, 29

but instead of her standard lace- up menswear shoes, the stiletto pumps had emerged again. Sparkling stones dropped from her ears and glittered in her upswept silver braid. A diamond tie tack, most likely her father’s, twinkled on her black silk tie. Her makeup kit had come out again, he noticed, and her smoky blue eyes appeared to glow, her cheeks ﬂushed with the barest hint of color; her lips were full and soft. She looked from a battered sheet of paper in her hands to the room, unaware of his scrutiny, periodically murmuring, “Got it...” to herself. “Got what?” “Oh! I didn’t realize you were standing there, hon. Got wha- huh? Oh, wait, I get it.” Omega looked up and grinned, waving the tattered paper. “This is my ‘countdown checklist.’ I was just running down it, making sure I got everything.”

back of the cabinet for you and me to drink later — after the party — if you want to...” *** Shortly thereafter, the party was in full swing. Really more of a holiday open house, Omega’s apartment was soon crammed, not only with Agents, but aliens from all over the galaxy as well — ambassadors, envoys, and staff... ***

While Echo was thus occupied, Omega surveyed the room with the eye of a practiced hostess, and her attention was caught by a translucent, vaguely humanoid alien that had taken up a location beside the Christmas tree. As the tree lights twinkled, multicolored luminescent areas within the alien glowed in response. Fascinated, Omega began to drift over. A hand came “Never guess you’re ex-NASA,” Echo down lightly on her shoulder. deadpanned. “Done this a few times, “Let ‘em alone. They’re talking,” Echo huh?” said quietly. “A few,” she acknowledged, the smile “Talking?! But... that’s a Christmas dimming slightly. tree!” “Anything I can do to help?” “The Photoid doesn’t know that. He *** thinks she’s cute.” “You mean... there’s an alien hitting “Mmm... let’s see.” She returned her on my Christmas tree??” attention to the list, scanning down it. “Yep.” “No. It’s pretty much under control, I think. Oh, but you can dig out the cork- “Oh, for the love o’...” Omega rolled screw in the kitchen and open a couple her eyes upward, then paused for a of those wine bottles for me while I split- second, looking up. “Echo...” ﬁnish this, if you wouldn’t mind. I’ve “I think I’m going to get a cup of cofgot some chocolate stout hidden in the fee. Want some?” Echo said, heading 30

for the kitchen. Omega grinned lopsidedly at his unexpected exit. “No thanks,” she called after him. “I left my wineglass around here somewhere...” “I’ll bring you another.” “Just half a glass.”

ed enthusiastically, as India nodded vigorously. “I can’t wait to see his face!” “Ssh. Here he comes,” India murmured. “And I just love that double dark chocolate torte, Meg. Where’d you get it?” she continued in a normal voice.

“I made it,” Omega replied as Echo Echo responded with a thumbs- up walked over with a cup of coffee and a as he disappeared into the kitchen, glass of wine. “Spent all day yesterday, and Omega considered for a mo- the day before, AND most of today in ment. the kitchen.” I’ve been wondering for a while now, she thought. I mean, one minute he seems like it, the next minute, he doesn’t. All things considered, I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. Still and all, I guess I need to know, one way or the other. And how he reacts to this ought to tell me all I wanna know. I just hope I’m ready for what I get. Then she moved over to Romeo and India.

“Yeah, I was telling Meg — was it yesterday afternoon? last night? whenever — that she is one helluva good cook,” Echo agreed, and Omega smiled.

“Thanks, Ace; but like I said, you are, too. I’m just more into baking than you are. But I don’t have that much time to do it.” “Good thing, too. I’d never ﬁt into my Suit if we both baked all the damn time. Here, take this, before I spill something.” “Guys,” she said with a grin, “listen He handed her the wineglass. up. I need a little help. It’s not a big deal, just a little Christmas prank, but “You want the recipe, India?” Omega so far, the strategy looks like hav- took the glass Echo offered. One hand ing all the subtlety of a 3-D chess freed, he leaned over to the coffee table match...” Her voice dropped to a low and snagged a shortbread cookie from murmur, and Omega jerked her head the plate there, taking a bite. back over her shoulder. Romeo and “Ab-so-lutely!” Romeo answered for InIndia scanned the ceiling, and grins dia. spread slowly across their faces. “Hah!” Romeo exclaimed, and India “All right. Remind me, and I’ll give it to and Omega both shushed him. you tomorrow.” Just then, Omega heard a cry of “Ja“So can I count on you?” Omega cuzzi!!” She spun. asked, smiling mischievously. “Oh, no!” The others turned at her ex“You know it, girl!” Romeo respond- clamation. 31

Three Sluuites, small intelligent salamanders from Sluu in the Kepler969 system, splashed and played in the punchbowl, and Omega groaned. “Nubuv, what do y’all think you’re doing?!” “Ease up, pretty lady. Ain’t no big deal. Sluuites do this at every party,” Romeo explained. “They just havin’ a good time.” “Yeah,” Echo agreed. “Just because they wander around in the odd corners here at Headquarters all the time and eat the dust and random bits for us—” “And we all forget they’re even here, half the time,” India interjected. “—Don’t forget, they’re amphibious,” Echo tag- teamed. “And evidently most varieties of human punch are pretty similar to their oceans back home.” “But...” Omega scanned the room, and saw that indeed, no one was even reacting to the situation. She shrugged and beat a hasty retreat into the kitchen to check on the food. *** Popping some hors d’oeuvres — prepared earlier in the week — into the microwave to heat quickly, Omega turned and ran into a hypognathous Lacertilian in orthodontia, who was staring in total fas32

cination at the microwave while sipping from a coffee cup. “Now what?” Omega mumbled to herself. The Lacertilian began beeping, and the translator around its neck said, “Pardon me, what is this device?” “It’s a microwave oven,” Omega responded. “It cooks food fast.” “Oven... this is a device for preparing consumables?” “Um, yeah, that’s what I just said.” “So this device is functional as well as beautiful...” “Beautiful??” Omega queried, startled. “Oh, yes,” the alien replied through the translator. “The scintillating colors, the ﬂickering lights... so soothing. MUCH nicer than the... what was it Gertrude called it?... lava lamp...” *** “... How about the Prime Minister?” “Right over there. Meg invited him and his entire entourage. And they came. The whole damn lot of ‘em.” Fox looked in the direction Echo indicated and nodded, pleased. “Good. Nice touch. She’s doing pretty well at this whole diplomatic thing, even if she is a rookie at it.” “No, no. She’s no rookie — not any more.” Echo shook his head. “She hasn’t been in a long time. A little inexperienced still, but not a rookie.” “I know, Echo,” Fox molliﬁed his de-

partment chief. “I didn’t mean rookie agent, just rookie diplomat. She’s got the whole Agent thing down, long since. And if recent days are any indication of her diplomatic abilities, she’ll make a damn ﬁne partner for you, when I send you out to do ﬁrst contacts.”

leaned in even closer, looking up past his head at the ceiling, and smiled. “You’re a hard man to outmaneuver, Echo.” A bemused Echo followed her gaze upward, where the mistletoe hung directly overhead...

“Thank you,” a familiar, feminine ~~~~~ voice suddenly interjected from just behind Echo. “After recent events, Division One book 3, A Very UnCONventional that makes me feel a lot better. I’ve Christmas, is available in print and ebook. been working hard.” Amazon (Kindle & print): ***

Nook:

Echo turned, to see Omega stand- Barnes-Noble print: ing extremely close to him, looking up with a smile. In fact, she was so close that he could feel the slight heat radiating from her body, and catch a whiff of the subtle, privateedition perfume she wore... just as he’d been able to do when they’d danced. Heavenly Bodies, he remembered it was called. And damn, does it ﬁt. He glanced at Fox, only to watch in astonishment as Fox faded back, a twinkle in his hazel eyes. Scanning the room rapidly, Echo saw Romeo and India standing near the Christmas tree, arms folded, grinning in something like triumph as they watched. Sierra and Monkey scowled from across the room, and the Prime Minister watched with curiosity. Echo looked back at Omega, who had moved in front of him, laying both palms ﬂat on his chest. She 33

Chapter Six, The Nails The Antiquities Dealer (A David Greenberg Mystery) by Ed Protzel The least of these, yes. Women and children are more swift than I. And even my brother Jacob says everyone is smarter than I, which I cannot dispute. It is true; ideas do not stick easily in my head. I never learned the trick to reading and writing, so these words I speak to you will have to serve as my Last Bequest. Not that it matters, of course, for all our earthly possessions are held in common anyway. What is indisputable, though, is no one loves our Master more.

I am among the least of these, of

whom our Master often spoke in parable. I am not of sound mind because of the horrors I have witnessed in these last days of my life. And surely a man as sickly as I am, on his best day, navigating through life with three limbs defective by nature, cannot be called of sound body on his deathbed.

He truly gave me my life; a helpless, crippled beggar on the street. Women and children spat upon me with impunity. And with a gentle smile, He told me I was not a beggar, not a cripple, but a carpenter like He was. And taught me His craft. To honor Him, I have dedicated every day since to making the adze and saw and chisel sing with my good hand and my twisted one; to making cabinets that families entrust with their heirlooms and silver treasures, their menorahs and goblets for the wine blessing; to making tables upon which they light their holy candles and break bread to thank the Lord on the Sabbath. As the Master Carpenter poured life and beauty into dead wood, so did

He make a man from this pitiful creature. Death will be a blessing for me, an end to suffering this madness. I averted my eyes because I could not bear to see the pain on His sweet face. But though I covered my ears, I could not shut out the pounding, pounding, pounding of the mallet driving the nails into his flesh, could not silence their foul Roman laughter from beating upon my ears. Suddenly, I was enflamed by the need to scramble to His rescue on my shriveled legs, to combat them with my good arm. If the Lord gave strength to little David to defeat mighty Goliath, surely He would give me strength to slay these soldiers. I could envision us carrying our Master back to the bosom of those who adored Him, who would treat His wounds and dry His tears. And even if I failed, He would know I had given my life to save His. I shouted and started forward, intent on seizing one of their swords, determined to take as many as I could with me into the darkness. But Samuel, seeing my intent, held me firmly with his great arms. Struggle and flail as I might, I could not break free and grew quiet. Then before our eyes, for sport— sport!—one of the Romans, sneering derisively at our Master, jammed a spear into His side,

twisting and cutting. From this ragged wound, His life poured like a ﬂood, down His bare stomach and legs unto His feet, to the rocks and soil below. Our Master tried to teach us that we would gain the whole world by loving our enemies. And I do believe He saw far beyond others, far into the future. But with all the trouble and sorrow I have known and seen—and now this!—let me say, it is easier for a crippled hand to smooth the grain on a splinter than for a wounded heart to love a Roman soldier. Why, I ask myself, through all of time, has the Lord allowed savages like these, with their shining armored shells and fearsome weapons, to hold sway over His own hardworking, modest worshipers? Why allow the brutal hordes to enter a peaceful village and put to the sword and to ﬁre the innocent and loving? All slain and burned, fathers and mothers, babes and children, holy men and scholars! All faithful Jews, Samaritans, people of so many races whose sins cannot possibly warrant such an ignominious demise. Why does He permit cruelty to prosper, while the pious are crushed? To a fool like me, such ratiocination as “turn the other cheek” makes no sense. But He saw so much further than I, perhaps believing the Romans could be taught to turn their cheek. I know He must be right, but to my last breath I will so desire to strike a Roman cheek. ***

After the soldiers finished their grizzly duties, the most terrible tempest I have ever seen drove them into their tents, which being of the best military stock, withstood the gale. Huge limbs torn from trees flew through the blackened skies, and the very stones seemed alive. While the family of the thief beside Him and the curious crowd ran away in panic, calling out in fright, we hid together in a nearby, just as we had planned, watching and waiting. So greatly did the heathen soldiers fear the storm that, through the crash of lightning and thunder, we could hear them crying out to their gods for mercy. Finally, Yahweh’s terrible anger broke, and we were left exposed to the cold, steady rain of His tears. And our Master’s tormentors? We could hear the soldiers rolling dice in their sturdy army tents, swearing and cursing and drinking and fighting among themselves. And all we could do was wait and have faith, shivering and staring with envy at their glowing fires and listening to their blasphemous revels. My threadbare cloak and tunic were soaked through, like a washerwoman’s rag, and I knew then I would be sick unto my death when our labors had ended. From our hiding place, we could see Him hanging there, so pitiful, so damaged. I cursed the moon that revealed him.

It was late by the time their drinking claimed the last pair, and they were all snoring under their blankets. Joseph gave the signal. My crutch sank into the muddy soil as I stumbled up the rockstrewn slope. In my hurry, I tripped over a fallen branch and, reaching to catch myself, slashed my good hand deeply on a sharp rock. It bled like a torrent. Finally, I reached the structure where His mutilated body dangled in the chill. The able-bodied went about their tasks. Joseph climbed the sturdy ladder I had built, while those below supported our Master’s body in place. With his great strength, he plucked the nail from His right hand and tossed it aside. I heard it hit nearby and, feeling my way, crawled through the briars, which cut and scraped my knees and palm, until I found it. A good army nail, forged strong and sharp. The Greek merchant no doubt received a handsome sack of Roman coins bearing the Emperor’s likeness for the lot. Oh, that the soldiers can turn such ﬁne implements to such ignominious purposes. God may know everything, as my Master claimed, but I often wonder if there isn’t much in human governance that is kept from Him. When they lowered Him down, my ﬁngers felt along the nail’s length until they came to the maker’s mark. It was that of our own forge. “It is our own mark! It is our own mark!” I shouted like a man gone mad, my tears pouring like a river from my breaking heart. “We made these nails that killed our Lord!” I began to furi-

ously slash my wrist with the nail until our friends stopped me and carried me away.

beloved friends, and to the Great Soul who saw to it that I would not die a solitary beggar.

So, here, I bequeath to all of you beside my deathbed—which I made with my own hands—to you who believed in He who took me in from the streets and transformed me, these nails that tore His tender ﬂesh. These good Roman army supplies sold at such a proﬁt by the fat Greek. These nails that bear his precious blood—and my own—and how many others that were condemned to die so horribly on such poor workmanship as the cross. I leave them in trust to Deborah, who has washed my fevered face and given me sips of cool water…and who will prepare and anoint my corpse.

Ed Protzel is a former screewriter who worked developing scripts at 20th Century Fox before turning to novels. He has been recognized for excellence by Literary Titan, Readers’ Favorite, Midwest Review of Books, and Missouri Writers Guild. His published novels include the futuristic mystery/thriller, The Antiquities Dealer, and the Civil War-era DarkHorse Trilogy: The Lies That Bind, Honor Among Outcasts, and in 2019, Something in Madness. He has a master’s degree in English Literature/Creative Writing from the University of Missouri-St. Louis. He lives in St. Louis.

And who, I pray, will bestow upon a dying man one last taste of her delicious lentil soup. Unless, of course, there will not be enough for the mourners at my funeral, in which case I will happily forego this last pleasure in gratitude to these

Find Ed here. Connect with Ed on Facebook. Connect with Ed on Twitter.

Girl Targeted by Val Collins ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about it, but I can let you in now.’ ‘Are you having me on? Do you know what time it is? I already wasted half the morning looking for the blooming key. I have grandkids to get to school. You think I’m going to start cleaning the ofﬁce at this hour? It’s not my fault someone nicked the key.’ ‘No, of course not. I’ll explain to Laura why you couldn’t clean the ofﬁce, and I’m sure she’ll get you a new key. Is there anything else I can do to help?’

‘Morning,’ Aoife shouted over the noise of the hoover. ‘Josie, isn’t it?’ Josie switched off the hoover and put both hands on her hips. ‘You’re the new one, right? Did you take my key?’ ‘What key?’ ‘The key to the HR ofﬁce. That Delia one says the ofﬁce has to be locked every night, so Laura gave me a key. I keep it in the cupboard with the J-cloths and the dishwasher tablets. It’s never gone missing before.’ 38

Josie smiled. ‘Sorry, love, it’s not your fault. It’s just that snooty cow gets up my nose. You know she wrote me a note once? Two inches high each letter was. Does she think I can’t read? “THERE IS DUST ON MY TABLE. DO NOT LET ME SEE DUST HERE AGAIN.” I’m telling you, it’s a good thing I’ve never run into her. I’d give her a piece of my mind, you can be sure of that.’ She unplugged the hoover. ‘What are you doing here at this hour, anyway? You should be taking it easy in your condition.’ ‘You sound like my husband. He won’t let me take the train “in my condition”, so we have to be in Dublin before rush hour. Why he thinks that’s

better for me than an extra hour in bed, I’ve no idea.’ ‘You’re lucky to have him. My young one’s fella took off the minute he heard she was pregnant. Never saw him again, any of us.’ She picked up the hoover. ‘I’m off. You take care of yourself now, love.’ Aoife made herself a cup of tea, read her newspaper and phoned Jason. She had been hired to do a compliance check on the HR files, but, as she didn’t have keys to the filing cabinet, she couldn’t start work until Laura arrived. She finished her tea and headed for the office. The interconnecting door to Delia’s office was slightly ajar. As Aoife removed her coat, several loose coins fell out and rolled around the room. Holding on to the desk for balance, Aoife got down on her knees and shuffled around, collecting them. The last one had rolled into Delia’s office. Aoife shoved open the door and picked it up. She was manoeuvring herself into a standing position when she noticed the shoe. Black suede with a gold buckle and a six-inch heel. It was lying on its side in the middle of the floor.

Hi, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love reading but writing is a pretty new adventure for me. I wrote stories when I was very young but I was an impatient kid and had an unfortunate tendency towards perfectionism. When, at around the age of ten, I realised my attempts at writing dialogue were dire, my writing career came to an abrupt end. A few years ago I decided to try my hand at writing again and Girl Targeted was the eventual result. Girl Targeted is set in Ireland where I have lived all my life. It’s set in an ofﬁce, an environment I know well as my entire working life has been spent doing ofﬁce work. I’ve worked for small and medium sized organisations, for multinationals and for many different business sectors. Unfortunately, I never experienced anything as exciting as a murder so I had to resort to my imagination to create Aoife’s world. I really loved writing Girl Targeted and I hope you enjoy reading it. Val Collins

As she straightened up, Aoife saw two stockinged feet dangling in the air. She let her eyes travel up to the woman’s knees, then, covering her mouth with both hands, she clamped her eyes shut and backed out of the room.

Christmas in Smithville by Kirsten Fullmer

Gloria eased her toe lower down the bed, willing the cold sheets to heat up. Slowly the bed grew warmer around her, and she inched her feet a little lower. Something about cold sheets was horrible and wonderful at the same time. It was kind of like life, she reasoned. It started out cold, but the more you reached out, the warmer and larger your circle became. She frowned. That was the way it was supposed to work, anyway.

Once again, the women in town gathered around a frowning Nadine, came to the front of her thoughts. How was she ever going to break through the barrier of her past and make friends? What could she do? Friendship seemed impossible, seeing as how they wouldn’t even talk to her. She reached under her pillow to touch the letter, making her feel a little bit better. There was no need to pull it out. She’d memorized it; she just liked to know it was there. In this day and age of email and texting, she’d forgotten how sweet a letter could be. It was a tangible thing you could hold in your hand. A feeling. A moment trapped in time. Something you could keep. Even though she’d been upset and distracted at the time, she could

still hear the man’s voice on the porch that night. Or more accurately, a voice she’d reconstructed for her own purposes, but it was close, she was sure. She may not have been in the best state of mind to remember details, but the concern in his words had been very real, and the timbre of his voice had been low and even, sweet and true. Like the voice of a lover. She blushed. Where had that come from? The man could be ﬁfteen or ﬁfty, she had no idea, and he was a pen pal at best. But the feelings she got from the letter; the time he’d

taken with the pen. Or she was losing her ever-loving mind, she admonished. That was it. She was so damn needy she’d turned the corner, gone right over the edge, and was falling in love with a ﬁgment of her own imagination. Kirsten Fullmer’s charming romance novels have spent the last three years rising to the top of the Amazon best seller’s list in 12 countries. Find out more about Kirsten here.

A STORM COMING IN by FRANK DALEY

After lunch on Friday, December the 18th, Donald Timson resolved to change his life.

old son Brian, but he expected the changes to be several, various and for the better.

The accidentals would not change. He would still be a partner in Salemart, a Toronto outﬁt that devised marketing plans for companies, but he had determined to alter the elements of his personal life. He wanted to reduce his 65-hour workweek to 40. He did not want to work nights or weekends except in emergencies, which rarely occurred. He also decided to take some holidays.

The elementals, however, would change. Donald wasn’t yet sure what the elementals consisted of, but he knew there was something fundamentally wrong and either he had to make changes himself or his life would be irrevocably changed by circumstance for the worse.

He didn’t know exactly how these changes would affect his life with his wife Elizabeth and his eleven-year42

No one thing had triggered this desire to change his life: ten-hour work days had been unnecessary for years. If asked, he would have said he was not detached from his wife and son at all, but maybe that was a matter of opinion, and his family’s view was

that he was an absent husband and father. He noticed they were reserved and distant but didn’t associate that with his behavior and attitude. He didn’t think about it at all, except dimly. That dimness was beginning to lift; while there was nothing vivid in his awareness change, it was slowly getting to him. And it was cumulative, so that while the gradual awareness of the family rift was not perceptible before (to him, anyway), the perception now had tension and physical and psychological effects. He felt sick. The guilt he felt when ignoring some domestic chore or obligation had not suddenly appeared, but it felt uncomfortable now whereas he rationalized it earlier. He had his job--bring in the money--and his family members each had theirs. His wife’s job was to run the house, and Brian’s job was to study and grow up. He realized now that some of the times he pleaded the pressure of work to excuse his absence at home were lies; the real reason was that he felt out of place there. He had worked to make the business successful, and now that it was, he worked to keep it that way. But he felt out of place at home, and that had been the case for years.

In the early days, it was just he and his partner, Dennis McMillan, who worked hard and kept things going. Now, there was a team of people men and women who thought on their own and handled problems. He thought it was like many men who married their jobs; he just drifted with the old comfortable ways. Except they weren’t comfortable today. Recently he had been watching staffers. While they did not slight their work, they had time for their families. Some even spoke of them at lunch and on breaks instead of rehashing some of the morning’s business. On this particular lunch, Donald Timson left his table at the upscale restaurant he frequented in downtown Toronto to call his wife, Elizabeth. It was a common enough thing for a man to do except that Donald Timson never called his wife during the day, or he did so only rarely when he needed something from home. Donald didn’t know why he called today really, except that he wanted to speak to her. He thought he’d like to give her a hint about his thoughts today, and how he wanted to take them all on holiday. He thought about this while waiting for his wife to get the telephone and this distracted him so that it was not until the tenth or twelfth unanswered ring that he remembered that his wife was in Winnipeg with Brian visiting her parents.

Until today, Donald Timson would have listened impassively, even disinterestedly to Avery’s plans and either passed them over with the briefest of comments. This time, however, when Avery spoke of taking off three days at Christmas and thereby getting a holiday of eleven days including the weekend, Christmas Day, Boxing Day and New Year’s, Donald Timson began to think. He thought, late as it was, he too might consider taking those three days off this Christmas and maybe even try to get a ﬂight south for a holiday and extend the vacation.

His slight irritation at not having her pick up gave way to his realization that he never called home, and that led to the strangeness of the idea that he should think she would be home when he talked with her only last night in Winnipeg. If he thought so little of what was going on with his family that he didn’t remember from one day to the next where they were or even that they were out of town— and they went only twice a year for a few days each time—then something was seriously wrong. He had called home that day in fact, because of what his lunch partner Blake Avery, had said about his own family that morning and their plans for few days of cross-country skiing during the Christmas holidays only a week away.

Donald, while listening to Avery’s vacation plans, had felt a strange mixture of irritation (an old habit, quickly dismissed here as unsuitable), envy, and remorse at his lost opportunities. That was what brought forth a feeling of resolve to change himself. Why, after ﬁfteen years of marriage did this suddenly overcome him? He didn’t know, but for some reason when he excused himself to go to the washroom and call his wife, he suddenly was struck by how attractive the bright green and red Christmas decorations were against the dark wood of the bar and the white cloths and silverware on the tables. He noticed the sun slanting in between the tall ofﬁce buildings and noted how the rays struck their clean, now pop-sparkling, glass targets on the linen. He stopped, turned, enjoyed the sight and leaned against the rosewood bar to make his call. Relaxed, he

unconsciously hummed the carol being played on the music track as the telephone rang at his house. He thought Little Drummer Boy was better than the Christmas crap he had heard everywhere in restaurants and stores for the past six weeks. The sun was shining, but it was also snowing lightly in the distant sky. One of those days when you could ‘see’ weather forming and changing. After the abortive telephone call, he felt a sharp sense of letdown. He had this brilliant idea, and nobody was there to share it. But he also felt a little stupid about making the call at all and secretly was glad no one knew about it. He started to dial his wife’s parents, realized he didn’t know the number, thought he could get it from the operator and then remembered—God, this was bad—that Elizabeth and Brian were ﬂying home today. He clicked off, wondering how his wife felt about years of thoughtlessness when, through such small details, he was only beginning to see the cumulative enormity of it. Frank Daley is seeking beta reviewers for his novella, Murder in Moscow: The Oblast Court Trial. It is free, natch! Email daleyfrank0@gmail.com and put ‘Murder ‘in the subject line. To join his author list, and get Curse of the Ottawa, a paranormal, urban legend short story, first, then shortly after, get Murder! (Not murdered!) click here. https://goo.gl/ SrCUxe You’ll get Murder either way, but the first way says you might review it! (And you know we all need those!) Plus, it’s scary! 45

Dangerous Vision By William Thomas

A formerly closed community in western Siberia. February, 1999. When Sergei Prokov’s bedside alarm went off, winds were shrieking around the apartment windows. It was seven AM. He nestled under the blankets a while, thinking of that special time when he and Tai Leung were still intimate. Less than half his age, she trusted him totally, and their stolen moments were pure bliss. They’d been separated since Tai’s abortion, and today’s shipment might help end the drought. The episode was not their fault; she’d taken the birth control pills religiously. 46

The phone rang in the other room, and Sergei hobbled out. It was the truck driver. He expected to arrive at the Institute shortly after nine that morning. “Excellent!” Sergei said. “I look forward to seeing you there.” Putting on a dressing gown, he found a lively pop song on the radio. His wife used to love this kind of stuff; she’d be dancing for sure. He looked over at Tasha’s portrait, on the wall above the couch. A deeply caring psychologist, sworn to enlightenment, she’d been in the forest looking for herbs. Some hunter must have thought he glimpsed an animal, and shot her dead. The loss still hurt but Sergei always knew she’d expect him to continue on Sergei

The telephone rang again. It was another headhunter; they’d been persistent lately. This one had an English accent, and seemed to know a lot about him. “Dr. Prokov the world has changed so much, especially New York City,” she said in Russian. “It’s so vibrant and cosmopolitan there! The company values your expertise and you’ll be a perfect ﬁt. Doubly so if Tai Leung comes too.”

brewed a pot of tea, and breakfasted on sausage and black bread. His right leg tingled, and he stroked it absently. Childhood polio had frozen the leg in immaturity. While ending his dreams regarding athletics and military service, the afﬂiction taught lifelong discipline, which freed his mind in ways he’d never dreamt of. Here at the Institute for Human Development they broke new ground with psychic research. Their discoveries were kept top secret, but recognition by outsiders was of no account. Those who made the great strides would always know their lives were meaningful.

“Who would want us in New York City?” he replied in English. “The biggest business of all,” she said with a laugh. “And they aren’t shy about paying a decent salary.” “Things are up in the air,” he said distantly. “It’s difﬁcult right now.” “A change is as good as a rest,” she said. “You’re sure to come around, so give me a call soon. I’m here in Moscow.” He scribbled down her phone number, and hung up. # When Sergei left the apartment that morning, he heard voices from down the hall. A teenage girl and two young men were waiting for the elevator; he’d never seen them before, and he followed them into the lift without a word. This building was designed for the managers and top scientists working in defense, and in the old days Sergei and Tasha knew everybody on 47

the floor. They were a close-mouthed bunch for the most part, but mention of death rays, and obscure jokes about fart gases left no doubt they were in the forefront. Once a biologist got sloppy with warfare germs, and three of the researchers died. The tragedy brought them even closer. The collapse of the USSR changed everything for them. Sergei’s Institute was the only government-run operation left here, and it was struggling. When they reached the underground parking the young people went to a new looking white Volga. Sergei headed for his brown ’91 Lada. Modified for his needs, with the accelerator pedal on the left, the car was problem-free and suited him very well. Outside, the narrow street was freshly plowed. He drove slowly until he’d gotten through the little shopping area and passed the school. A discussion about Russia’s participation in the Kyoto global warming agreement came on the radio, and Sergei listened in disbelief. He’d always despised the Yeltsin government, but on this issue they approached lunacy. Winters here were horrendous, how could any Russian object to warming things up? Arriving at the Institute, a massive five story concrete structure, Sergei parked in his space in front of a steep snowbank. As he left the car, a sudden gust of wind almost sent him spinning. Pulling his greatcoat up tight, he strode on. 48

A horn sounded, and a black Mercedes moved out and stopped beside him. A large, pale-faced man on the passenger side opened the window. “Are you Prokov?” he asked, holding his cigarette between them. “Last time we dealt with Dr. Sokolov.” “He’s away in Moscow,” Sergei replied. “The items you requested are here.” “How’s the quality of the drugs?” “It’s the standard government issue,” Sergei said. “Kremlin’s Choice.” The car window closed, and the men drove away. When the Institute was ﬁrst established, they experimented with all the mind-expanding drugs available, including cannabis, mescaline, psilocybin and LSD. Kavnov, a substance derived from herbs found in the Altai, gave consistent results and it soon became the standard for their psychic warfare program. However the other drugs could be useful too, and they never stopped the shipments. The Institute exchanged the surplus on the black market. Going through the main entrance, Sergei signed in and got his pager. Then he went to the receiving area at the back, where a large van was pulled up to the loading dock. The truck driver, a wide-faced, impassive looking man, stood by smoking a cigarette as one of the Institute’s little forklifts left with a load.

Inside, the receiver was checking off boxes with two laborers. One of the workers, a white-haired man in his sixties, showed Sergei a brightly labeled carton. “They sent us condoms.” “Interesting,” Sergei said.

“From Maﬁa?” Sergei glanced at the Mongolian, who was lighting another cigarette. “We have to survive until funding is restored,” he told Nemsky.

The other laborer, a muscular man with a thick dark beard and ruddy lips, held up a box of chocolates. “It’s a happy day, Dr. Prokov.”

William Alan Thomas took a BA in English at the U. of Chicago in the 1960’s, and his first novel Daddy’s Darling Daughter was published by Simon & Schuster of Canada in 1974. Life was to sweep him far from the world of books, as he fell in love with the seafood business, ran an old fish boat, and then became a Vancouver longshoreman. His sci-fi novel Return of the Convict was published in 2015; a prequel and two sequels are in the works. He’s just completing the rewrite of his thriller, Dangerous Vision, and expects to republish it in the new year.

Sergei smiled into his brown eyes, murky in the dim light. “You look well, Boris Stephanovich.” “He got rid of that nervous twitch,” the older man said, and slapped his partner on the back. “Thanks to you, Dr. Prokov!” “Come on,” the truck driver said in a high clear voice with a Mongolian accent. “I’ve got another appointment.” “Let’s ﬁnish this, my friends,” Sergei said, picking up a box. The receiver joined in, and they moved the boxes rhythmically. “What’s going on?” a harsh voice demanded as the lift truck left with the last of the supplies. Victor Nemsky, the squat blond man staring in at them, was the Institute’s accountant. With both the director and his assistant away in Moscow, he was nominally Sergei’s superior. “We’re accepting an order,” Sergei said, going out.

Rock My Christmas by Laura Kitchell Burn leaped into a sit on the counter and peeled a slice of cheese off a stack Dan had next to his sandwich under construction. “Fine. I’ll use yours then.” His roommate went still then slowly faced him, his features drooping in disbelief. “No! Marty’s the best aide I’ve ever had and I’m not letting you run her off. If you so much as cross your eyes in her direction, so help me God…” A key turned in the front door, and Marty yelled, “Hey, guys.” “In here,” said Dan. “Speak of the devil.” Burn rolled his eyes as his friend’s assistant came in carrying grocery bags.

“When the devil am I going to go shopping? Our next week is booked.” He joined his friend in the kitchen, waving to decline an offered can of soda. “I need a PA.” His roommate snorted. “As much as I enjoy the entertainment of watching you abuse your aides, maybe you should give it a rest.”

A new stud dotted her nostril, and she used her teeth to toy with her tongue piercing as she cast him a wary glance. When he tapped his nostril, she put a ﬁnger to her new stud. “Early Christmas present. Thanks again, Dan.” “Considering all you do for me, it’s the least I can do.” His roommate smiled smugly then took a bite of his completed sandwich before putting away his mess.

Marty placed her bags on the kitchen island, her black knotty dreds swaying stifﬂy across her back. “So Burn, since you made Jen quit, I took the liberty of hiring you a new assistant.” A ﬂash of anger blinded him a second. “Jen was an incompetent git.” “Whatever.” He hopped off of the counter and went nose-to-nose with her. He had to bend since his height made him taller than most, and he could almost tell where she’d dragged an eyeliner pen around her lids to form a black, muddy shine. “Say that again.” Her goopy eyes narrowed. “You don’t scare me, so stop acting like an asshole. I said I hired you an assistant. I’m not taking on Jen’s work. Especially with two concerts in a few days.” Irritation straightened him, and he crossed his arms over his chest. She rubbed her black lips together then said, “Say thank you.” “Tell me you hired a man. One with sense. I’m still trying to forget the advances the last man made.” “Can’t.” She began moving items from the bags into cabinets. “She’s not a guy.” “Damn it, Marty.” “Suck it up.” She shot him the bird. “I’m not thanking you. I can’t believe you saddled me with another twit.” His stomach churned, and he regretted eating that piece of cheese. “I don’t think she’s a twit, dude. She’s a grad student at one of the good schools.”

“Good schools? Which good school?” “I don’t remember. Ask her yourself. She should be here any minute.” Marty tossed the empty bags in the garbage then backed from the room. “Oh, and she’ll need a place to stay, so I told her she’d be staying in your guestroom.” “What?” he and Dan shouted simultaneously as she raced out the door. *

Thank goodness Kendel had thought to print out Marty’s email with her security code or she wouldn’t have made it past any of the Ganon Square condominium complex’s intensive security checkpoints. While a uniformed guard took her picture from behind an ofﬁce counter then went about creating a permanent ID badge for her, another telephoned Marty. She accepted her card, which the guard had placed in a plastic sleeve and attached to the end of a plain black lanyard. The security ofﬁce door opened, causing a high-pitched electronic squeal that put her nerves even more on edge. A pierced, tattooed woman in shredded black clothes and gothic makeup came to stand next to her at the counter. “Hey, Marty,” greeted the guard at the switchboard. This was Marty? Why had Kendel 51

assumed her contact was a man? “Hey, Bill.” The woman turned to her. “Kendel Price?” “In the flesh.” She offered a weary smile and a hand. “Nice to meet you.” I think. “Yeah.” The Goth girl glanced at her hand but didn’t shake it. “Let’s save the greetings until after you meet your employer.” The two guards shared a look then snickered. Uh-oh. Marty took a suitcase and the carry-on then opened the door. “This way. You work for Burn Shatterly. Are you familiar with the band, FlameSmith?” “I can’t say that I am.” She settled the strap of her laptop case on her shoulder and followed the woman onto an elevator, rolling her second suitcase into a corner. The goth-woman stared hard at her then said, “Maybe that’ll work in your favor. Okay, so there are five. V sings lead, Jay plays drums, Air is keyboard and guitar, Dan plays bass, and Burn is lead guitar. I work for Dan, and you work for Burn. They live together, so you and I’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” Kendel blinked. “Five in the band. Got it. So if someone besides Burn asks me to—” “Forget it. These guys are fiercely protective of their assistants. You fetch and carry for Burn and only Burn. Here.” Marty handed her a card brandished with a flaming guitar and 52

the name of the band in gothic font. “Put this in with your security card so it faces out. When you’re running around town doing errands for Burn, you’ll get ﬁrst dibs as a celebrity’s assistant.” “Cool.” She slid the card into her plastic sleeve. “Yeah, well it’s more about necessity. You’ll see. You’re not going to have time to wait around to get what you need.” So she would be racing. Sounded exciting…and stressful. “Are you sure you can handle this?” “Of course.” “Because these guys can be demanding. They’re spoiled.” “I assure you—” “And Burn’s really had to work for.” Kendel began to lose patience. “I don’t think—” “I mean, you’re just ﬁnishing school, and this is real life—” “Alright already, Marty,” she snapped. “I’m the youngest of four, all boys but me. I don’t take crap and I don’t quit. In case you failed to notice, I’m a redhead, too. It’s as genuine as my temper. So ease up. Damn.” A slow smile stretched the woman’s mouth and made a lip ring stand at attention. “That’s more like it. You’re going to need that backbone.” The elevator doors opened, and she glared at Marty’s back on their walk to a door at one end of a long hall with no other doors. Weird.

“Here’s where I leave you,” said the woman, parking the second suitcase. “Put your badge on. Always wear it. Make it a habit.” Kendel knocked on the door then slipped the black lanyard around her neck. “I’m out of here.” Marty speedwalked toward the elevator. “If you’re still here tomorrow, we’ll exchange phone info.” Laura Kitchell lives in Virginia. She is a member of Romance Writers of America and Chesapeake Romance Writers. Visit her website at www.laurakitchell.vpweb. com, and follow her at laura.kitchell.1@ facebook.com.

No Room In The Inn by Nancy Panko When our children were younger and all three of my siblings lived within a twenty-mile radius, our annual Christmas tradition started on December 24th with the entire clan gathering at our parents’ home in the country. As my husband and I left the bright lights of the city with our two children, the youngsters oohed and ahhhed at the stars now visible in the inky darkness of the evening. Margie, age thirteen and Tim, age eight were excited to get to their grandparents home to begin the anticipated hanging of the stockings. Over and over I had explained that Santa’s presents under the tree were nice but the real reason we revelled in the season is the birth of Jesus. However, it seemed that the presents they hoped Santa would bring consumed most of their thoughts. Besides loads of homemade Christmas goodies, part of the joy of going to Grandma’s was our nuclear family being able to celebrate Mass at St. Joseph the Worker Catholic Church. A tiny, picturesque white steepled wooden building, it is nestled between the rolling hills of two small towns on a backcountry road about four miles from Mom and Dad’s home. The little church seated 80 to 100 people if they all squished together. I always thought

it was the perfect subject for a Thomas Kinkade painting. Arriving at the church, we found the recently plowed parking lot completely full and more vehicles on both sides of the road where we too parked. We could see the lighted manger scene with two live sheep munching on grains while tethered to spikes secured in the snow-covered ground. While the kids ran ahead to view the creche, my husband and I approached the people gathered on the sidewalk. Someone said, “All the seats are taken inside and some people are standing behind the last pews. I think we’ll be listening to Mass over the PA system.” The words were no sooner out of his mouth when a microphone came alive and the presiding priest announced, “Due to ﬁre code regulations people crowded into the vestibule will have to leave the building.” Several families reluctantly joined the rest of us on the sidewalk. It was a clear, cold, crisp winter night. I looked at the crowd around me and thought, “What a wonderful turnout for this little country church, it’s too bad we can’t be inside.”

Bright headlights from an oncoming vehicle illuminated the crowd awaiting the first hymn signaling the beginning of the Christmas Eve service. The vehicle parked in front of the church garage/storage area across the street. A priest stepped out of the driver’s door, looked at us, and with a huge grin on his face said, “Hi, I’m Father Dan. I understand there’s a full house. Come, help me set up for Mass.” We watched as he opened one of the overhead garage doors and flicked on the lights. Beckoning to those adults in the crowd, “Many hands make light work. The chairs are stacked over there, perhaps we could get a chain going. Is anyone here an altar server?” A hand went up and the volunteer was given tasks to help the priest set up a make-shift altar. Searching through a see-through plastic storage box, the priest found linens to use during the service. After producing a chalice, a carafe of wine, and a bowl containing the Eucharist, Father Dan was almost ready to begin. The chair brigade was busy setting up rows of seating and people were filing into each row. A strong baritone voice began singing “Silent Night” and one by one every56

one joined in as the preparation for Mass continued. A lady of the parish found some candles complete with drip protectors and asked the children to distribute them. When the ﬁrst hymn ended, strains of “Away in a Manger” began. Two 100 Watt light bulbs lit the interior of the unheated two car garage as it was converted into a sanctuary. Warmth emanated from the number of bodies packed into a reasonably small space. A feeling of kinship fostered by the communal preparation for a very special Christmas Eve service warmed our hearts. Father Dan turned off the lights as candles were lit giving a softness to the starkness of the garage bay. The sermon was short with the celebrant equating our improvisation that evening to the plight of Mary and Joseph having to ﬁnd shelter in a barn where their baby boy was born. He couldn’t have been more impactful, and he echoed what each person in the garage was feeling, but did my kids understand how incredible an experience this was? Just then, eight-year-old Tim leaned over to me and whispered, “Mom, there was no room for us in the Church tonight just like there was no room in the inn for Joseph and Mary. They found space in a barn where Jesus was born and we had Mass in a garage. This was neat! I’ll always remember it!” Tears of gratitude formed in my eyes as my son expressed the exact feeling I was thinking.

Nancy Panko is the author of award-winning Guiding Missal and a ten-time contributor to Chicken Soup for the Soul. She is the mother of two and grandmother of four and loves being in, on, or near the water with her family. Website: nancypanko.com, twitter: @nancypanko, Facebook Author Page: Nancy Emmick Panko

Hygge by Jennifer Quail

Fredriksberg Runndel is beautiful in the winter when the Gardens staff ﬂood it and turn it into a free skating rink. That’s why it’s packed to the gills with families and couples and tourists who brave Denmark’s short days and unpredictable winter weather, just like every other shop, fair, castle, restaurant and everything else in Copenhagen is. Everyone loves the holidays and the near-limitless supply of fun, cozy, activities so cute it could almost make you choke on it. Everyone except my boss. “We don’t have to do this, you know.” I’ve already laced my skates and put my mittens back on. “I’m sure there are plenty of indoor Danish Christmas traditions I’d like.” That won’t make you look even more like you swallowed a lemon than crowds usually do. My boss, mentor, and . . . whatever we were, Mattias Villadsen, looks less like the captain of industry and scion of one of Denmark’s ﬁfty wealthiest families that he is, and more like a World War I soldier who’s spent so much time in the 58

trenches going over the top would be a relief. He’s actually put on skates, though so far he’s neglected to lace them and he hasn’t taken his gloves off. “You wanted to try skating here. We’re going to go skating. I know how, Aleksandra, if that’s what you’re worried about.” “I’m not worried you’ll fall.” I am worried, actually, because I’ll be the one dealing with the fallout if he cracked his skull and we weren’t back in New York in time for the January board meeting. “I’m worried you’re going to bring the entire mood of Copenhagen down by being so miserable.” If possible, he looks even more pinched around the mouth. “I’m not sure that’s possible.” He gestures to the mob circling the ice, laughter and shouting almost drowning out the sounds of their blades. “It’s against the law to be unhappy at Christmas here.”

He’s joking. At least I think he is. “Disgustingly cozy,” is all I say. I’ve found it’s easier to smile, nod, and do what has to be done. Sometimes that means knowing when to bid higher than the limit he’d set because a particular painting or sculpture would make him happier than he realized. Sometimes it means applying a polite but firm boot to his backside before his anti-social nature sets his business or his life back too far. “Come on, I don’t think tying your shoes is in my job description.” “I can change that.” He won’t. I might be past my official title of ‘personal assistant’, but if anything he’s too reluctant to ask me for further duties. I’ll worry about that later. I’ll worry what it meant that he’s decided I ought to spend Christmas with him and his family in Denmark, and that he’s going out of his way to give me the most painfully cozy holiday the country had to offer, later, too. Mattias is lacing his skates, but he’s also still eyeing the crowds with that frosty expression I’d seen the first time we met. He had been not enjoying the fundraising gala at my old workplace then, but the compensation there was the art. Here people came for gingerbread, hot glögg, and merriment.

Some days, I almost understand. But I’m American, and we love a huge blowout as much as the Danes. Moving into the flow of skaters I have distinct memories of class trips and family outings, and while I’m wobblier than I used to be, I find a rhythm that won’t win me any gold medals but keeps me on my feet and I’m gliding through the crowd under the fairy lights. We’re all going counterclockwise and I lose Mattias until I’ve made three or four circuits of the flooded gardens. He’s at the edge of the ice, tall even among the forest of other Danes whom I’m zipping around like a chipmunk negotiating the forest floor. Rather than intimidating his height’s now gangly, knees and elbows. He picks his way, what people see as reserved revealed here as tentativeness. He can’t seem to fight his way into the mass whirling about him. I’m not sure he wants to. He spots me watching, and I smile a little. Any other time I’d have had my phone, and he’d have texted, probably something about keeping my amusement to myself. But any other time we’d be in a gallery or an auction house and instead of whirling through a mass of merry-makers I’d be cutting his path through a school of blacktie competitors, all eyeing the same artistic prey and each other. This isn’t supposed to be work, though. These people are not cutthroat competition unless there’s a run on hot chocolate. He’s not watching for me to close a deal. He’s watching so I’m not carried off in the crowd and he’s left lost at the edges.

The deepening evening makes the lights brighter and the people seem darker in their own shadows. I enjoy the sensation of speed, something I’m not good at on solid ground, Dynamism of a Skater instead of a dog. I catch odd flashes–a child in a bright knit hat with double-runner skates, boys racing and resenting the rules against hockey, parents swinging a girl in a bright coat between them, the silver-haired couple, aged and wrinkled but still straight-backed and confident, gliding hand in hand. Something twinges in me, a funny flutter that isn’t about balance. I slow, easing my way towards the side. There’s a gravity to the crowd, centrifugal force carrying us together, but not Mattias. A stray thought bubbles up that I understand his taste for abstract art, and why he’s never craved portraits the way he covets a Mondrian or a Rothko. Portraits are people and he never seems to quite understand them. That was why this sudden excess of Christmas spirit had seemed odd. As I see Mattias drifting at the edge of the ice again, I realize he’d enter the dance if he dared, and why he thought I would enjoy the fairs and the skating and the festivals when he won’t. We’re social creatures, being humans, and we want to be part of the tribe, but I’m better at pretending than he is.

I catch his hand the next time I pass and carry him with me into the crowd. Jennifer Quail is a writer who generally lives in Michigan and usually writes romance whether she wants to or not. Her work has appeared in the anthology A Kiss and a Promise and Spark Magazine, and her books Strange Roads and The Demon that is Dreaming are available on Amazon. Updates on her website: http://authorjenniferquail.com

Returning the Nightgown by Dave Riese

My extended and far-ﬂung family has problems celebrating Christmas. Some don’t relish driving around to ﬁnd a tree, lugging it into their house, only, once decorated, to have it knocked over by the cat. Others don’t enjoy sending Christmas cards. If they send a card, they usually include a terse “Merry Christmas” without a word about what they’ve done all year. If they enclose a yearly message with the card, it sounds either pompous or boring; and if I send them a letter with a card, it sounds, well, pompous and boring. After reading how wonderful other people’s children are and the exciting places others have gone, the recipient is depressed for the rest of the day: their own family must be a failure.

The best holiday decision we and our relatives ever made was decreeing that here would be no exchange of presents except to elderly parents and to children. (This decision was the result of certain, unnamed, relatives giving presents that would never pass muster at an ofﬁce party’s Yankee swap.) We discouraged our parents from spending their ﬁxed income on presents for us and encouraged them instead to concentrate on their grandchildren. I suggested, in a moment of dark humor, that instead of getting a present from an elderly parent on Christmas morning, their children should take something from their apartment. Call it yuletide culling. If parental property isn’t disposed 61

of piecemeal, it will have to be done all at once at the end. In his nineties, Dad is giving so much away—“You like it. Good. Take it.”—that we expect he’ll end up sitting in his recliner in an empty apartment. Maybe that’s the way he feels. My wife, Rachel, panics over choosing presents for our mothers. Ever practical, she decided that clothes make the best gifts. During the fall, she examines what our mothers wear to see what outﬁts should be replaced. Each mother has a different quirk. Rachel’s mom accepts the gift exclaiming, “How beautiful it is.” Once home, she stores the sweater, blouse, or dress in its original packaging, never to be taken out until years, sometimes decades later. When we moved her into assisted living, we discovered a treasure trove of gifts. “Look,” Rachel said, “they still have all their tags.” My mother is the opposite. She always wears the gift when Rachel visits, exclaiming each time, “How lovely it is.” The problem is Mom believes that any gift you give her is your responsibility forever—to exchange it for another color or size, to replace it if the item is defective, or to repair it years later. It’s an odd variation of re-gifting. Rachel often complains, “All my gifts come back to haunt me.” ***

The Christmas before Mom entered the nursing home, Rachel gave her a warm, full-length, cotton nightgown with a collar that buttoned all the way to her chin. “It’s very good quality.” She held it up for me. “And the best part is I found it at the Outlet.” She rummaged through her collection of department store boxes looking for one that was the correct size. On Christmas, Mom opened her present. “It’s lovely.” After Christmas, Mom decides that it isn’t as lovely as she thought after all but is too embarrassed to tell Rachel she wants the money instead. On a bright winter afternoon with no snow or ice on the ground, Mom and Dad drive to the Burlington Mall. They are muffled, gloved, hatted and booted against the cold. They are excited about the prospect of bragging to us later how independent they were to return the gift themselves. At the mall, Dad parks in a handicap spot. He unloads the wheelchair and loads Mom into it. With the cold weather and his asthma, he probably stops and uses his inhaler. I imagine them making their way down a long corridor to examine the mall map and locate the store. “You are here” the map says. (“Of course, we are!” My father is irritated and exhausted from walking. “Where else would we be?”) They find the store on the map, take the elevator to the second floor, walk halfway in the wrong direction, turn around, and, thankfully, find it.

With its doors wide open, the store welcomes them. Dad wheels Mom up to the customer service desk. The young lady wears a ﬂimsy, lowcut blouse, a skirt so short that, as Dad would say, “If she sat down, you’d see all the way to Paradise,” and a pair of black nylons which stop three inches below her skirt. A streak of blue hair and a nose ring are, according to Dad, “the frosting on the cupcake.” “Can I help ya’?” she drawls. Mom thinks it unladylike to be chewing gum.

box. They face the long journey back to the car, leaving behind the salesgirl at the lingerie store, Victoria’s Secret. Born in Arlington, Massachusetts, I graduated from Bates College in Maine majoring in English Literature. During my junior year, I studied at Oxford, England and travelled throughout Europe. I began writing ﬁction during a four-year enlistment in the US Air Force during the Vietnam War. In 2012 I retired from the IT department of a Boston ﬁnancial services company. I live with my wife north of Boston. I’m the author of Echo from Mount Royal, a novel about a young woman’s strange courtship in 1951 Montreal.

Showing her the box, Mom says “I want to return this nightgown. I don’t have the sales slip.” She uses her ﬁrm ‘don’t-give-me-any-shit’ tone of voice and opens the box to reveal its contents. The salesgirl takes one look at the cotton nightgown and swallows her gum. Her eyes widen in contemptuous disbelief. “Ma’am, we would never sell a nightgown like this.” “That can’t be true.” Mom triumphantly shows her the top of the box. “Here’s the name of your store.” “Look, lady. I don’t know where you got that box, but we’d never put a nightgown like that in it.” Defeated and dejected, Dad turns the wheelchair around while my mother puts the top back on the 63

Touch & Go: A Christmas Story by Fran Brady

1949 Today is the slowest day ever. I feel like there’s a sharp smell in my nose, a smell I want to follow, breathe in and taste. I am asking questions and getting answers that are no answers. Wait and see. That would be telling. I am catching glances between Mummy and Daddy as they bat a secret back and forward with their eyes. I am watching the clock. I think the little hand is stuck, frozen maybe, like the window that Mummy couldn’t open this morning. It must be bedtime, surely. The window has gone black and I can see the moon. It is like a big silver penny. I go to my bedroom. I take off my clothes and put on my pyjamas. I do it as fast 64

as possible because my room is so cold. There is ice coming on the window again, same as last night. Mummy will have to scrape it off in the morning. The morning! Christmas morning! I get into bed. It is like sinking into a snowdrift: soft, white and very cold. The moon lights the room, silver streaks and grey shadows. ‘What are you doing?’ Mummy comes in and switches on the top light. The moon slips out of the window quickly and lets electric yellow have its way. I sit up blinking and blinded. ‘Is it morning? Can I get up? Has Santa come?’

‘It’s only tea-time, silly. Get out of those freezing sheets. You’ll get your death. I’ll put in a hot water bottle before you go to bed. Come on, tea’s ready.’ Tea! Only five o’clock. Another three hours till bedtime and the whole night to go before the morning. Today is the very slowest day ever. I am in the sitting-room on the rug in front of the fire. I have had a bath and my hair has been washed. I have to sit here and let the heat from the fire dry it. Mummy and Daddy are in their bedroom and I can hear them laughing and talking. I am not allowed to open the door or to go through to them. The smell of the secret is seeping out under the door of their bedroom, down the lobby and in under the door of the sitting-room. I see it swirling in the room, like the pretend fog that we saw at the pantomime. I get up and grope my way to the door. I press my ear to the door and I hear Daddy say: ‘Touch-and-go. She’ll love it.’ Mummy is brushing my hair, tugging the knots, ouching my head. ‘Mummy?’ ‘Yes, pet?’ ‘What’s a touch-an-go?’ ‘A what? ‘ ‘A touch-an-go.’ ‘Oh, well … it’s when something nearly doesn’t happen. But then, at the last minute, it does. Why are you asking that?’

‘Is Santa bringing me a touch-an-go? Will he nearly not bring it but then bring it at the last minute? Will it be here when I wake up?’ ‘Silly! A touch-an-go isn’t a thing. It’s just a saying.’ ‘But I don’t want a saying from Santa. I want a present.’ ‘Well, you’ll better come and get your cocoa now. Your hot bottle’s been in your bed for an hour, so it’ll be nice and cosy. The sooner you sleep, the sooner you wake. . .’ ‘The sooner it’s Christmas Day?’ ‘That’s right, pet.’ She is walking away. ‘But I don’t want a touch …’ ‘Your cocoa’s ready. Come through to the kitchen and get it.’ I am in bed. Mummy says I must not get up before the little hand is at seven. ‘How many hours is that?’ ‘Eleven.’ ‘How long will eleven hours take?’ ‘No time at all because you’ll be sleeping.’ If there is no time when I’m sleeping, how does the clock move its hands? How will Santa know when to come? Will he really come down the chimney? Will he burn his feet in the hot cinders? How does he know which house to bring my present to? What does a touch-an-go look like? What if it’s too big to get it down the chimney? How can I go to sleep when I am so worried about this touch-an-go thing? Has Santa got me mixed up with another little girl? I decide to close my 65

eyes and do some imagining. I imagine up the best present in the world as I snuggle down, imagining and imagining and imagining. . . I am running very fast through a white tunnel. Santa Claus is chasing me and shouting ‘Go! Go!’ and I have to touch the white walls of the tunnel as I run. Now he is shouting ‘Touch! Touch!’ I stop running and face him. Then I start screaming very loudly. I wake up and hear squeaks coming from somewhere. It must be a mouse. Then I realise they are coming from me. My sheets and blankets have almost fallen off the bed. I am shivering. It is pitch dark. I don’t want Santa to come any more. He is a horrible, chasing person and he shouts at me. I pull the covers back over the bed and huddle down. I hate Santa Claus. ‘Goodness, pet, what have you been up to last night? Looks like you had a wrestling match in your bed! Mummy opens the curtains. ‘It’s a beautiful morning. Freezing hard but very sunny. We can go for a lovely walk later. But ﬁrst, don’t you want to come down and see what Santa has brought? ‘I don’t like Santa.’ I sit up slowly. ‘He’s horrible. He chases you in a tunnel and shouts.’ Mummy gets my dressing-gown off the back of the door. She holds out my slippers. ‘Come on, sleepy-head. Wake up. You must still be dreaming.’ 66

‘No, I‘m not. I saw him. He was. . .’ Daddy comes in. ‘Ho! Ho! Ho! Where’s the girl that couldn’t wait for Christmas morning?’ They both have big smiley faces, like the ones I draw on the sun when I am doing sunny-day pictures. They look really excited. And I can smell the secret again, very close now. I suppose it will be safe enough if they are with me. Daddy is bigger and stronger than anyone in the whole world. He won’t let nasty, chasing Santa catch me. We go along the lobby three abreast, hand in hand, with them swinging me off my feet. The sitting-room door is closed. He and Mummy hop about like baby bunnies. ‘She’s going to love it!’ says Mummy. They hop some more and then Daddy ﬂings open the door. The room is still dark because the thick velvet curtains have not yet been drawn. All I see is a little house in the corner with its two front windows lit up and a tiny lantern shining down on the red door. I stare at it. Can it be what I think it is? ‘Go on, pet,’ says Mummy. ‘Go and see what Santa brought you.’ I lift up the roof of the house and look down on four little rooms, all full of perfect little furnitures. Curtains on the window, cushions on the chairs, pots and pans in the cupboards, fork and knives on the table, a bathroom with a real toilet. I pick up the tiny clock and see it has a big hand and a small hand. I touch the kitchen cabinet

and the drawers go out and in. The teeny family are all wearing clothes that I recognise, a shirt made out of material from one of my old summer frocks, a jumper knitted from wool left over from my new cardigan. The baby even has a tiny nappy, made out of my old hanky. I pore over ever detail. After a while, I remember to breathe again. Later, Mummy makes me come through to the kitchen for breakfast. ‘Before it’s too late and it’s dinner-time,’ she laughs. I can’t believe how late it is. This is the fastest day ever. I eat fast too and wriggle into my clothes, impatient to get back to my dolls’ house. I decide to forget about nasty Santa. There must be two of them and thank goodness it was the nice one who came to our house. In the afternoon, visitors come and sit around watching me playing. I tune into bits of Mummy and Daddy talking. ‘… went down to the workshop every Saturday morning for weeks.’ ‘… got offcuts of wood from the joiners and scraps from the carpet shop.’

I set the table for my little family and turn the hands of the clock to teatime. A touch-an-go is a great present. I am going to ask for one every year. Fran Brady is a Scottish author, writing novels, short stories and poetry. She was a child just after WW11 when there were no toys in the shops at Christmas. Her father and mother made her a dolls’ house and she was the envy of every little girl. This little story is dedicated to their memory. Fran leads a writing group called Loch Lights, which is now into its fourth year and has produced three anthologies. She is chairman of the Scottish Fellowship of Christian Writers. Her last novel, The Ghost of Erraid, is set on the Hebridean Isle of Mull in the 1920s. She is working on her ﬁfth book, a time-travel novel with three main characters spanning a hundred years, from 2012 back to 1915. Fran lives in a village near Edinburgh. She has three daughters and a step-son who have given her seven and a half grandchildren. www.franbrady.com

‘… and the clock … so ﬁddly … the littlest things took the longest. ’ ‘… nearly ran out of time. It was touch and go.’

Building Love by Lilly Rayman

Building Love brings together nine authors, one editor, a graphic artist, and a formatter from across the world. All with one common goal: To raise funds for Ronald McDonald House, Westmead, in Sydney Australia. What prompted such a diverse, yet dedicated group of people to come together for this great cause? Because they have love in their hearts, and when one of their own put out a call for help, they answered! In 2014, Lilly Rayman and her husband were given the heart-wrenching and life-changing diagnosis that their daughter, who was only 18 months old at the time, had retinoblastoma – a cancer of the eye. Their journey took them from their

farm in regional New South Wales to Sydney, seven hours away by car. Faced with the unexpected of what to do now, Ronald McDonald House, located next door to Westmead Childrens Hospital, opened their doors – and their arms – to the Rayman family. They were given a home away from home, for however long it would be needed. For one family they encountered, that was two and a half years. Four years ago, the house had only eighteen rooms for families to use while they visited the hospital for treatments or checkups, something that has been happening for the Rayman family since their daughter’s diagnosis and will continue for the rest of her childhood. In 2013 alone, nearly 400 families were 69

turned away because the house was full, a heartbreaking act for everyone who worked or volunteered at Ronald McDonald House. So, in 2015 the Building Love campaign was born – a plan to fundraise $30 million to build a new house with more than sixty rooms so that no one is ever turned away again.

would be willing to pledge their time, energy, and words to a family-friendly anthology that would be available for sale for two years and agree to donate all royalties to Ronald McDonald House? Lilly received a heartfelt response, and Building Love: A Charity Anthology was conceived, with publication expected on December 1, 2018.

February 2018 saw the new house opening its doors, and as of the Rayman’s last visit in August, the house was already ﬁlled to capacity.

Building Love: A Charity Anthology Supporting the House That Love Built.

Wanting to give back to the House, which has been a home away from home, for such a signiﬁcant period of time for Lilly, she put out feelers. Who

JF Holland – Lilly Rayman – Rosie Chapel – Bella Emy – Amy Allen – Tania Cooper & Ricky Cooper – Mackenzie Raye. Join eight of your favourite authors in this beautiful collection of seven family-friendly romance stories. From paranormal to contemporary, and a touch of regency, there is something to tempt everyone’s literary taste buds. The publication is further supported by Novel Nurse Editing, EC Hibbs, Format Du Jour, and Zebra Publications. All net proﬁts from sales will be donated to (RMH) Ronald McDonald House, Westmead, where a new house, Built by Lrove, was opened in February 2018. All work by authors, editors, and artists has been donated in appreciation of the wonderful work done by Ronald McDonald House Charities. Disclaimer: This anthology is not being conducted on behalf of RMH nor does RMH endorse this anthology or effort. They have, however, graciously agreed to accept the funds.

Christmas Cheer and Xmas Fear By Richard Easter

Every December, we eagerly await the arrival of a sleigh-riding, time-shifting jolly old man bearing gifts, but perversely, simultaneously, we’re also keen to let less benign characters into our homes. So how did Christmas, a time of good cheer, become symbiotically linked with ghost stories? What is it about the 25th of December that makes us volunteer to be petriﬁed? Well, it’s hardwired. This time of year was associated with fear, death and the spiritual, way, way before Santa made his appearance. Christmas, is, of course, a relatively modern invention. Plenty of religions have been followed over way longer than the last 2,000 years, and it’s well known that Jesus - by coincidence, de-

sign, accident or genuine messiahship (take your pick) - cherry-picked elements of other beliefs to get others on his side. But while the 25th December is the celebratory locus, (if you are from a Judaeo- Christian background) the 21st December is the real focal point, the winter equinox, and therefore the moment where days start to get longer and warmer. The ancients believed the sun, which had become “weak” over winter, was “reborn” or “resurrected” to start the process of spring, then summer and therefore keeping people alive for another year. So death, rebirth, the spirits of the passed on, the fear - no, terror - the sun may not return, all these elements were very much in the ancient 71

minds. No Santa Claus, no Bethlehem, they were yet to come. But the literally mortal fear, the prospect of never-ending darkness, that was in the forefront of people’s thoughts during those dark, cold, short days. As time progressed and Christianity took hold, December 25th was re-purposed as yet another birth miracle. For many, Jesus supplanted the sun to become the bringer of light and hope. He was born in a stable, announced by another star, no less, and the mass of Christ became the new name for an already old festival. But we knew. Yeah, we still knew. Deep in our spiritual DNA, we knew this was also a time for fear, spirits, for the knocking-on of Things That Wished To Bring The Dark. We wanted to be reminded of it, never to forget those old times when our very existence depended on the banishing of the dark. So we told stories. We may not have really known why they had such an… apposite feel at Christmas, but they felt appropriate. And let’s not also forget that the season helped; dark nights and cold skies led to going indoors, huddling up by the ﬁre and keeping the creeping fear at bay.

Winter’s Tale”, has Mamillius say, “a sad tale’s best for winter. I have one… of sprites and goblins”, so the Bard was clearly referencing an extant need for the ghoulish. Ghost stories just feel right set in the cold. How many have you read set on a hot summer’s day? I’d imagine it won’t be many. A ghost lounging by a swimming pool just doesn’t have the same dread. Charles Dickens went so far as to state it explicitly, with perhaps the greatest ghoulish Xmas tale ever written, “A Christmas Carol” which clearly Dickens intended as an ironic title. What makes it a “carol”? Its setting yes, epiphany, yes, but while all other carols celebrate the birth of Christ and the wintery togetherness of family, Dickens’ piece is a dark counterpoint. Then there is “Frankenstein; or The Modern Prometheus”, which may have been written in June, but a Geneva June of darkness and cold, which led to Mary Shelley setting her creation in December, amongst ice sheets and bleak foreboding. Ever since, most authors have dipped their writing toes into the chill of Jack Frost’s time.

We’ve always felt safe when reminded of our vulnerability - horror ﬁlms perform much the same function.

Henry James pretty much placed himself as the go-to guy for the genre. Edgar Allen Poe even looks like winter in human form. Stephen King’s arguably greatest novel, “The Shining” makes snow a central character.

I can’t nail down the ﬁrst Christmas ghost story, but Shakespeare, in “The

So when I came to write the third book in my “Snow Trilogy”, it had

to be a ghost story, really. I had no choice. Snow demanded it. “The General Theory Of Haunting” is set, like so many other ghost stories, in a bleak, snowed in, remote location, where 6 people, ostensibly there for a party, discover there are other guests present. Here’s the moment where one guest first meets another “visitor”: * Anne Barker sat on the edge of the bed and watched as the snow pushed and jittered against the window. Her eyes flicked to a bag on the floor. It contained her pills. No, she managed to think distantly. No, too early. You just had them. You had the pills when you were supposed to have them and you’re not taking them again until eleven. You know that. But the pills were such a welcome exit. The medication kept her blurred rather than focused and acted as an antibiotic against herself. She stood, as she should, and tried to do what was expected of her. But what was that? To join her colleagues downstairs and pretend? Anne walked slowly over to the desk and mirror, where she stared at an emptiness that stared back at her. She tried a smile and it looked real

enough. Anne picked up a brush and pulled it through her hair, as if corralling those stray strands would bring order elsewhere. She took a small bottle of perfume, sprayed it into the air, then watched as the droplets ﬂew and disappeared. They were another non-existent layer to hide behind. But then, as Anne sat back on the bed, a small creak came from behind her and the mattress shifted downward, just a little more. It felt as if someone or something had also sat down. Someone or something that wanted to join her this evening. Anne didn’t move. There was no one else here. She’d seen Dan leave, but the bed had creaked and the mattress had rolled, and she’d felt that movement so many times. It was a simple tilting that said, “you are not the only one sitting here. I am behind you. Look around, see, I am here.” Anne didn’t move. A sharp aroma came from that place. Another fragrance joined Anne in that room, similar to her own perfume, feminine, but not the same. Similar, yes, but ﬁltered of its gentle bouquet, harder, harsher. If it were music, the scent would be discordant. Anne closed her eyes. She’d had moments like this before, ‘events’ she’d never told Dan about, in case he tried 73

to take the pills away. That could not happen. Anne needed the pills, but occasionally they magicked up these little ‘performances’, where reality wobbled for a moment. Moments, seconds, yes, but never like this. The mattress shifted again behind her, as if that somebody or something had changed position. Anne knew she should just look round and see for herself that her room was empty, that nothing and no one stared at her back, at her vulnerable long white neck, who wanted Anne to sit awhile with them and see what happened. * I used the all-present-and-correct haunted house tropes as the launch point for my story, to lull you, dear reader, into a false sense of security. But then, I hope, I pull the carpet from beneath, and lead you into a new kind of haunted house you’ve never hopefully - visited before. I loved writing this book, as it felt so right. Some of it was even written in an “Overlook”-esque hotel room, in the Netherlands, in December. That felt very right. So as Christmas approaches, why not bolt the door, pull the curtains, set a ﬁre and treat yourself to something inhuman that will chill your spine? In doing so, you are being very, very human. 74

Richard Easter has worked as a professional writer since 1987, writing for radio, TV, print and music. Over the last 3 decades, he has written for many of Britain’s bestknown TV programmes and presenters. The General Theory Of Haunting is one third of his ﬁrst trio of books, The Snow Trilogy.

5 Considerations When Writing a Holiday-Themed Murder Mystery By D. J. Adamson

I didn’t set out to write a Christmas themed mystery. It just so happened that in my mystery series, the season was moving to that time of the year. And, my protagonist isn’t exactly cozy, so I couldn’t place her in scenes baking Gingerbread Cookies, shopping for just the right gift, or serving dinner to the homeless. Plus, my readers like a good murder with a well-twisted motive-generated plot. So, writing a book set just days before the Christmas holiday requires details of the season allowing the readers to feel the atmosphere without the “Department Store overload” effect.

1. The Weather: The ﬁrst signs the season is approaching if you live in the North, East or Midwest is the weather. Not the temps are falling from 90 degrees to 65. We are talking about having to use Snow Melt on walkways, slipping and sliding, snow plowed like wall-dividers along the sides of the streets, cars frozen in banks of snow, and the newscasters screaming this is the worst storm in history. Just with these setting situations, the suspense is raised, funny things occur, and miscellaneous dialog is created because everyone is going to be talking about the weather both past and present. 75

2. Now, Murder: A bloody scene is not what cozy readers might desire but die- heart mystery readers like a little blood. Horribly graphic isn’t necessary. The effect on the protagonist with a little description is sometimes enough. 3. Warmth of Emotion: What everyone likes about the holidays is the warmth of emotion. Achieving warmth can be done without “feel good adjectives” laced every which way through the dialog. In fact, warmth is produced in real life, whether holiday or not, by people giving to each other in a great many ways: act of love; going out of the way to do something unexpected, maybe the act itself expected, but in an unexpected moment; compassion, self-sacriﬁce; a letting go of those things past and embracing the moment. 4. Okay, Holiday Scenes: These scenes don’t necessarily need to be brought into the present setting. Flashbacks of holidays past can easily move a protagonist to do something unexpected at this holiday. When family gathers, a great many conversations include Christmas’s past. 5. The Plot? The plot continues as any plot would. There needs to be a protagonist wanting something, an antagonist refusing to allow it, and psychological motives complex enough to produce conﬂicts with the main plot point, as well as the minor plot points, which will shepherd all to the point of climax. However, this does not need to be holiday-oriented. 76

Doing so may overload the “holiday” atmosphere. Think of it like going shopping at the mall, wrapping presents, getting the cards finally out and done all in the same 24 hours. Overload! Instead, let the other four points carry the burden. If done well, the plot will remain visual, poignant, and page-turning. D. J. Adamson is the author of the Lillian Dove Mystery series and Outré, a science fiction-suspense YA. She is the editor of Le Coeur de l’Artiste, a newsletter which reviews authors and their work. She also teaches writing and literature at Los Angeles colleges. And to keep busy when she is not writing or teaching, she is the Membership Director of the Los Angeles Sisters in Crime, Vice President of Central Coast Sisters in Crime and an active member of the Southern California Mystery Writers. Her books can be found and purchased in bookstores and on Amazon. To find her, her blog L’Artiste, or newsletter go to http:// www.djadamson.com. Make friends with her on Facebook or Goodreads.

5 HORROR NOVELS TO READ OVER THE HOLIDAYS by Keith Deininger There’s a chill in the air and a profound silence in the dark. Glowing lights and blinking trees. Maddeningly jovial music is everywhere. And something else, that strange and magical feeling that anything can happen… The holiday season is here and what better way to celebrate it than with tales of terror and ghosts. Hm? What’s that? October is over? Bah humbug! True horror never takes a holiday. Here are 5 horror novels perfect to pass the winter nights.

NOS4A2 NOS4A2 may very well be the most frightening novel about Christmas ever conceived. It centers around Victoria “Vic” McQueen as she grows up learning how she can somehow slip out of time and space to ﬁnd lost things on her old bike. But while Vic is busy growing up, Charlie Manx, a sort of supernatural serial killer, is abducting children in his vintage Rolls-Royce Wraith and whisking them away to “Christmasland,” an amusement park-like place with a deadly secret. Here Joe Hill (Heart-shaped Box and Horns) manages to take a seemingly cheesy concept and make it scary. It’s very well done. And festive too! 77

Ghost Story Often called one of the scariest books of all time, Ghost Story by Peter Straub takes place during one of those harsh New England winters. So, while not directly tied to Christmas, it certainly takes place amongst the snow and chill of the season. The narrative follows a society of men who enjoy telling each other ghost stories, until they all begin having nightmares of their own deaths and come to understand these nightmares are tied to a sinister secret from their past. A truly chilling read that embraces the tradition of telling ghost stories.

The Shining In Stephen King’s book, Jack Torrance genuinely tries to ﬁght his alcoholism and abusive tendencies out of love for his wife and boy, which makes it far more harrowing than Stanley Kubrick’s ﬁlm version. Set in the isolated, snowed-in Overlook Hotel, we can all relate to the tension and arguments that can happen from spending a little too much time with family during the holidays (especially when alcohol is involved). Just be sure to stay away from roque mallets this season.

Let the Right One In During a cold and dark winter in Sweden, 12-year-old Oskar befriends an odd girl next door, and thus begins a twisted, emotional, drag-you-through-that-icy-slush journey perfect to distract you from the stress and family inﬁghting that the holidays are sure to bring. Lindqvist’s novel is unﬂinching and horrific, but with a powerful love story at its core. One of my favorites.

A Christmas Carol Reproduced a million times and in a million different ways (from Mickey Mouse to Bill Murray), Dickens’s classic is without doubt a Christmas horror story. Ghosts, death and hell—this is horror! I won’t bother summarizing the plot as most know the tale, but Dickens’s success with this story is proof of a long and rich relationship between horror and Christmas. Keith Deininger has been writing about horror, fantasy and science fiction since 2013, but he’s been obsessed with it for far longer. He is the author of WITHIN, THE FEVER TRILOGY and THE GODGAME series. His latest novel, VIOLENT HEARTS, is about a sinister ritual and the terrors of nightmares made manifest. He lives in Albuquerque, NM with his wife and two kids. Although he loves a good nightmare, in person he’s a really nice guy. Promise. 79

Christmas Casserole by lisa orban

Christmas morning shouldn’t be about slaving over a hot stove. It should be about relaxing, opening presents and spending time with family and friends. Which is why this is the perfect meal for doing all of that, since you make it up the day before and only have to shove it into the oven when you wake up.

In a mixing bowl, combine eggs, sour cream & spices. Mix well. Pour into baking dish.

Christmas Casserole - a dozen eggs - sour cream - a bunch of green onions - 1 lb sausage (browned & drained) - a jar of mushrooms - ½ a loaf of bread - 1 package of shredded cheese - 1 stick of real butter - salt, pepper, garlic & dill - 1 bag of the cheapest, greasiest plain potato chips you can ﬁnd that are tasty

Put casserole in oven at 350 for about 2 (sometimes 3) hours.

In a sprayed baking dish, layer to bottom completely with bread. Add cooked sausage, mushrooms, onions & cheese.

Cover and put in refrigerator overnight. The next morning:

When egg casserole is setting up but not yet done, with about 30 minutes left to cook, take out of oven, add one bag of completely crushed potato chips and pour 1 stick of melted butter over the top. Put back in oven and continue to cook until a knife comes out clean when stuck in the middle. *Serve with cookies, eggnog, wine, or whatever makes you happy on Christmas morning.

While the casserole is cooking, open presents and enjoy time with your family & friends who have come to share Christmas morning with you! Do NOTHING else the rest of the day (except watch A Christmas Story, that’s a must do!) that doesn’t make you happy. You can ﬁnd more easy recipes in I’d rather Starve than Cook! A cookbook for people who hate to cook on our website at Indies United.

wants, and is quite happy about it. She published her ﬁrst book in 2015. Since then she has published eight books, in four genres, two memoirs, a cookbook for people who hate to cook, a political satire, and four adult coloring books. She is best known for her sharp wit and infectious humor that shines through in all of her books. If you’d like to learn more about Lisa’s misadventures in living, visit her website, The Talking Book with Lisa Orban. May your holiday be shared with loving family, good friends, tasty food, wonderful books, and the occasional shenanigans.

After a long and varied history, author Lisa Orban, eventually settled down to live the life she always wanted, as the ringleader in a madhouse of anarchy. She now writes books, takes in human strays in need of help, travels, opened a publishing house, and pretty much does whatever she 81

Fancy a Mince Pie by Kryssie Fortune

I’m not the mince pie’s biggest fan. If I eat one at Christmas, I’m doing well. They’re far too sweet for me. Perhaps I’d have liked the original twelfth-century version better. Crusaders brought the recipe back to England with them. Cooks filled the pastry case of coffyne with roast lamb, fruit, and middle eastern spices. According to tradition they could contain cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg. This is to honor the three gifts the magi gave baby Jesus. Other recipes have thirteen ingredients. That’s said to echo Christ and the twelve apostles. In 1390, a scroll recorded a recipe for a pie of spices and meat. Cooks filled their pies or Tartes of the Flesh, with a form of curried meat. By Elizabethan times, mince pies had become oblong shaped to reflect the crib that baby Jesus lay in. 82

Some records claim English Puritans rejected mince pies as “a Catholic conceit”. Other writers insist this never happened. I love the idea of Cromwell’s government sitting around debating mince pies. In the north of England, people used goose as the pie’s ﬁlling. Further south, piemakers preferred neat’s tongue. (That’s beef or ox tongue to you or me.) A 1854 North American recipe includes chopped neat’s tongue, beef suet, blood raisins, currants, mace, cloves, nutmeg, brown sugar, apples, lemons, brandy, and orange peel. So how did they get their name? There are two theories about this. The ﬁrst is that they were originally mutton or minched pies. Gradually the minched became corrupted to mince.

The second is that the name derives from the Latin word Mince–which means small. This 1615 recipe recommends taking “a leg of mutton”, and cutting “the best of the flesh from the bone”, before adding mutton suet, pepper, salt, cloves, mace, currants, raisins, prunes, dates and orange peel. Gervase Markham’s Minc’t Pie Take a Legge of Mutton, and cut the best of the flesh from the bone, and parboyl it well then put to it three pound of the best Mutton suet & shred it very small; then spread it abroad, and fashion it with Salt Cloves and Mace: then put in good store of Currants, great Raisins and Prunes clean washed and picked a few Dates sliced, and some Orenge-pils sliced ; then being all well mixt together, put it into a coffin, or into divers coffins, and so bake them

From Gervase Markham The English Housewife, (London: 1615) Kryssie Fortune writes the sort of hot sexy books she loves to read. Her paranormal heroes are muscular werewolves, arrogant Fae, seductive vampires or BDSM loving dragons. Kryssie’s contemporary heroes are ex-military and dominant. Her Byronic and brooding Regency heroes, are troubled survivors of Waterloo. Her heroines are kick ass females who can hold their own against whatever life - or Kryssie - throws at them. Plot comes before sex, but when her heroines and heroes get together, the sex is explosive and explicit. Check out her Amazon author page here

and when they are served up, open the lids and strow store of Sugar on the top of the meat and upon the lid. And in this sort you may also bake Beef or Veal, onely the Beef would not be parboyld, and the Veal will ask a double quantity of Suet.

She does not know them. They know all about her. "Rikard Sommer may well be the next Jo Nesbo." Laurence Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Bryan, author of the international bestseller, The Istanbul Puzzle.

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