Through the Glass by Lisa J. Hobman @LivingScottishD

On seeing Jim today, Charles’s face scrunched as if he had encountered something rather unpleasant. “Bloody hell, Jim, are you alright? You look bloody terrible, old chap.” Charles used the word bloody in almost every sentence. At first it amused Jim, then it irritated him, and now, years on, he was completely immune to it.

“Not great, if I’m honest, Charles, no. Err… Flick left me on Friday.” His lip began to quiver again as it had on so many occasions over the weekend, and so he bit down on it, slumping into the wingback chair and fighting for composure.

Charles gasped. “Oh, bloody hell, my dear chap, are you sure you should be here? I can manage today if you’d rather be at home.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m better off being busy I think. No point wallowing in self-pity all alone, eh?” Jim tried to snap himself out of the drop in mood.

Charles fidgeted as if wanting to make some kind of physical gesture but struggling to know quite what to do. “No…quite…quite. Well if you need anything…” He paused as he seemed to be calculating his next words. “And in my opinion, old chap, it’s her bloody loss.”

“Thanks, Charles, I appreciate it.” Jim forced a smile. “I’d love a coffee if you’re making one, eh? I’ll go splash my face with some cold water and dump my bag in the back.” He stood and headed for the rear of the shop.

“Certainly. Bloody good idea. I’ll get onto it.”

The day passed without real incidence and James was happy to be thumbing through the latest batch of antique finds that Charles had procured during his recent trip to a Parisian book fair. Amongst the finds had been a rare first edition of Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. He had enquired as to how much the book had cost, but Charles had winced and shook his head. Obviously quite a lot then! The book was one of a select few which were locked in a cabinet not to be touched by just anyone. One had to prove the funds were available to purchase such a rare and delicate piece prior to being granted permission to handle it, and even then white cotton gloves were insisted upon.

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Genre – Contemporary Romance

Rating – PG-17

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Website www.lisajhobman.co.uk

Morgan’s Return by Greta van der Rol @GretavdR

In Morgan’s Return Prasad, Morgan and Ravindra have been to a cathedral, looking for clues to the prigins of Admiral Ravindra’s people. Morgan was unimpressed.

***

“Silly bitch. She thinks Supertechs are a danger? Huh.”

“You could be, without some control,” Ravindra said.

“Huh. And what about that stupid war machine? What sort of idiot would make a weapon as inefficient as a human body? Can’t fly, can’t turn, can’t do any damned thing worth doing.”

Chuckling, Ravindra released her. “Yes, my dear, you’re right. So… what now?”

“That was a crashing waste of time, wasn’t it?” They passed through the crumbling archway back into the street. “Now? We get off this dump of a world and…” Morgan sidestepped to avoid a uniformed woman on the footpath, “…sorry. Then we head for Torreno. There’s sure to be some clues in the central library.”

***

Ellen watched them as they entered an autocab, which disappeared into the heavy air.

Bloody Selwood. She’d walked around her, said sorry. Ellen had worried for a moment, that she would be recognized, that Selwood would detect her as another Supertech. She should have known better. Nobody ever recognized her, especially not the famous Morgan Selwood. Ellen had just been another junior Supertech, hovering around the edges of whatever it was Selwood did, easily ignored, easily overlooked.

The man she was with, though. It had been worth the risk, just to get a better look at him. What a man. He was even more impressive in the flesh, with a beautiful, deep voice, smooth as dark chocolate.The other man was no slouch, either, lithe and graceful as a dancer. She hadn’t understood the language they spoke, but Selwood had said ‘Torreno’.

***

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Genre - Science Fiction

Rating – PG-13

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Frank Hawthorn Is Blindsided by James M. Copeland @jamesmcopeland

~

Frank Hawthorn’s schedule was full, but he decided to plan ahead for the seminar anyway. He called the number listed in the Memphis Tribune and listened while the phone system made connections.

“Good morning. Initial Investments, how may I help you?”

Hum, Frank thought, she sounds good. He never had been married and at present didn’t even have a steady girlfriend.

“Good morning yourself, I’m Frank Hawthorn. I read the article concerning the seminar, and I sure need to know how to make more money.”

“We aim to please, sir! The tickets are twenty-five dollars. Do you want to put that on your credit card, or will you pay at the door?”

“Whoa! Now I know who’s making money in this situation. Multiply that twenty-five dollars by the number of seats in the room, and you’ve got a pretty good sum already in the coffers.”

“But, sir, there are expense. We’ll be serving a catered dinner. We’ll even serve your choice of red or white wine with the meal, and of course there’s dessert and coffee.”

“Oh, I see. Maybe that’s not so bad. I guess I can splurge and have dinner with you. Can I have dinner with you?”

“Well, sir, I appreciate your offer, but I’ll be working that night. I’ll see you though. How did you say you wanted to pay for the ticket?”

“Oh, I’ll pay at the door.”

“That’ll be fine, sir. Now let me get your full name again, and your occupation as well.”

Frank gave her the details she needed. He asked for her personal number, but she wasn’t game.

After taking care of business that day, he went home to his apartment, found some left over cheese and macaroni in the fridge for dinner, and watched a little television before bed.

The next day didn’t present any problems he couldn’t handle, so he packed it in early to get ready for the seminar. Luck was on his side for the occasion. He had a clean suit in the closet that hadn’t even had the plastic wrapper taken off.

He figured he was a handsome man when he was dressed right, but a bear if he hadn’t shaved. His hair was dark, quite long normally; in fact, one of his quirks with the barber was to give him a haircut that appeared to have been given the week before. With his love of coffee and donuts, he had a time keeping his weight down to the fighting weight he liked, which was 170 pounds. He could carry the weight without any problem because of his height. He liked to look down on the girls he dated from his nearly six-foot position.

When he felt like he’d done the best with what he had to work with, he walked down the stairs to his parking place. The 1965 Mustang convertible had been his pet ever since he brought it home when he left the police force. He thought he would be traveling a great deal, and a good car was essential. It was one of the best ones built in 1965. It had all the bells and whistles available at that time. He wouldn’t have been able to afford it had it not been a used car. Someone with more money than brains had probably purchased it thinking it would ride real smooth, but had been dissatisfied and traded it for a Lincoln Town Car.

When he got to the hotel where the seminar was being held, he followed the signs on the easels to the designated conference room. The gal with the pretty-sounding voice was taking up the money for the tickets, and he was extremely relieved she hadn’t taken him up on his offer. His first thoughts had been she looks like the county’s local mud-rail fence. After parting with the twenty-five-dollar entrance fee, she gave him his table number and a sticker with his name and occupation on it.

He found the table with his number and a seat facing the speaker’s podium. There were already four people there at the eight-place rounded table, and he introduced himself. There was some guy already sitting at the table named Smith.  Probably an alias.  Two guys were named Fisher, and another was Jones.

Frank sat down next to the younger Fisher, who gave a firm handshake and said hello. To Frank he seemed preoccupied, but with his first observation he recognized the difference in the material of suits the young man and his father had on versus his. Frank surmised the cost was about ten to one. Shortly, he wondered why they were there if they could buy suits like they had on.

The lady taking up the money at the front door was at the head table rapping on a glass to get the attendees attention.

When the dull roar settled down, she said, “Ladies and gentlemen, our speaker will be coming in a little late. We’ll go ahead and serve the meal now. Thank you for your patience.”

With the thoughts about quality differences earlier, Frank directed his question toward the expensive suits, asked, “What kind of business are you fellows in?”

Milford Fisher stated, “My dad built a grain business. He owns the Fisher Granary company. I’m the president of the company.”

“Is that your business up and down the Mississippi?”

“Yeah, that’s it. You may have gone past the local unit. It’s down on the river docks.”

“I remember seeing it once when I went down to the river bar and grill to follow a client. It’s off to the left as you make the turn going to—I believe the name of it is The Landing—just off the highway, isn’t it?”

“You got it right. You can’t miss those twin silos!”

A waiter distributed salads for everyone at the table along with two bowls of dressing. Frank took the one nearest him and dipped what he wanted and sat it down to his left.

After everyone was served and munching on their salad, the young Fisher asked.

“Mr. Hawthorn, I see your name tag states that you are a private investigator. What’s the name of your agency?”

“The Hawthorn Detective Agency.”

“Seems like I’ve seen your place before; is it downtown near the courthouse?”

“I wish! No, I’m off the beaten path in an upstairs office several blocks from downtown. There is an agency down there where you’re talking about, but I think they only deal with cheating husbands or active wives. My work is mostly with crime situations.  Although I’m in between cases at the moment. That’s the reason I was free for the visit here tonight.”

“Maybe we’ll learn something tonight . . . hopefully,” the elder Fisher said.

Frank was beginning to feel the program was a waste of time, however. The speaker was well dressed and proved the point of the advertised statement about the seminars by collecting the twenty-five dollars at the door. He was very plain in his approach. He said, “The first thing you have to do to make money . . . is to have some!”

After a few minutes of the presentation, Frank decided he had made a bad choice unless he could count the dinner, which wasn’t bad. He slipped quietly out the side door. True, he didn’t have a great deal of money at the present moment, but he knew why. When he and Lieutenant Troy Spiegel started out as police officers on their beat, they were dealing with public riff-raff in circumstances that included stealing money. Their superiors felt like they did a good job at the petty stuff and were boosted to detective positions in an unusual amount of time. Frank wouldn’t say that some of the other officers let some things slide—they had just been there and grown up with some of the small-time crooks and didn’t want to start anything that would upset the families who lived there.

He and Troy were both outstanding in their work. It didn’t matter to them if the kid was going to grow up to be a crook; he needed to change right then. Better to nip it in the bud. After Troy and Frank were made detective, they had the opportunity to mentally grow in their pursuit of criminals. They got the big guys, even some white-collar criminals. One such bust included many people involved in a crooked scheme to bilk people out of their money. They actually thought the police chief was a good guy, one of the best in blue! They wondered what made a man do that. Nobody liked the district attorney, not even the guys who were dealing with him in the scam of a lifetime. As far as they were concerned, the judges on the bench were a higher caliber of person and would never lie to anyone, let alone a victim of a crime. But then, the criminal was the victim. It took a long time getting all the dope on the guys. Frank and Troy didn’t dare let the scam out until they had all the “i”-s dotted, and the “t”-s crossed; too much of a chance they would be behind bars unless they had the goods on the schemers. When this happened, they were both brought into the limelight. Troy got promoted to precinct commander, and Frank decided to go into private detective investigation. Now he had to wait on someone who wanted the bad guy caught and would pay him for the job. He still liked the work. He just didn’t enjoy the irregular money as much as he did when the city was paying his salary on a regular basis. Thank goodness, he had taken on some cases that paid extremely well and had money stashed in the bank. He had thought of adding a receptionist, and moving to a better location, maybe even buying a house. He’d get to that later he figured!

~

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Genre - Crime Mystery

Rating – PG

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Website http://jamesmcopelandnoveli.wix.com/

The Playmaker by Dakota Madison @ShortonTimeBook

EXCERPTS of THE PLAYMAKER

THREE

It took me a few seconds to gather the courage to knock on the door. That’s right, a guy who could knock another man’s teeth out without blinking an eye, was afraid to knock on the Thompson’s front door.

Come on, Kian, I said to myself. The longer you act like a pussy and don’t knock, the longer you have to wait to see your girl.

I finally grabbed a pair and knocked on the heavy wood door.

No answer.

That’s when I noticed the doorbell. Smart move, Genius. I rang the bell and within seconds, my beautiful princess was standing in front of me.

When she gave me one of her dazzling smiles, she nearly knocked the breath right out of me. Taylor had a smile that lit up the world around her. And I loved the way her eyes always sparkled when she smiled.

I grabbed the belt loops of her skinny jeans and pulled her body close to mine. I took in her scent, her strawberry shampoo and the lotion she always wore. God, I missed her. I missed holding her in my arms. I missed touching her and being with her. I missed being inside her. Oh, did I want to be inside her, as soon as possible.

But what I missed most was just being in her presence. Of all the places I had been in my life, it was the only place where I felt I truly belonged.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” Taylor said as she touched my face. The warmth of that single touch spread through my body like a wildfire.

I didn’t waste any time putting my lips to hers and tasting her sweetness. Our hunger for each other deepened as our mouths did a ravenous dance.

“Kian Kavanagh,” a deep male voice said and Taylor and I both jumped away from each other. “Glad to see you made it back to Arizona safely.”

Taylor’s dad was tall and thin but still an imposing figure. Even though I outweighed him by probably forty pounds, he scared the shit out of me.

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Genre – New Adult Romance

Rating – R

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Fire on Ice by Dakota Madison @ShortonTimeBook

EXCERPTS of FIRE ON ICE

THREE

I stared at Kian’s number in my cell phone contacts. I had been looking at it for the past hour, angry at myself for wasting so much of my precious time thinking about him and yet feeling physically incapable of doing anything else.

I knew there was no way I was ever going to date another hockey player, so what was the point? The point was there was something about Kian that was so captivating, so completely and utterly appealing, that I couldn’t think about anything else.

When I thought about the way his magnificent blue eyes gazed down at me, with so much passion and longing, a wave of desire rushed through me at the memory. He was so tall and muscular and masculine. Every pore of his body seemed to ooze testosterone. And the sheer size of his hand as it held mine made me feel so small and vulnerable yet safe and protected at the same time.

Big, athletic guys like Kian usually had the opposite effect on me. They tended to make my skin crawl and brought out every flight response in my body. After my experience in high school, I generally went out of my way to steer clear of anyone even remotely resembling a jock.

But for some reason, I didn’t want to steer clear of Kian and that concerned me. That I was seriously considering calling him concerned me even more. The idea of dating a professional hockey player was completely out of the question.

I tried to remind myself that I was so close to finally achieving the first step of my long-held dream of becoming a psychologist. This was my last year as an undergraduate and I wanted to concentrate on my research internship and getting a coveted co-publication in a peer-reviewed journal. It would be a monumental feat as an undergraduate because it was something so very few students achieved. But if I did achieve it, I knew my direct entry into a Ph.D. program would be almost assured.

I didn’t need a guy, especially a hockey player, to knock me off my career path. I wanted to complete my Ph.D. by the time I was twenty-six and I was determined to achieve my goal.

I was just about ready to delete Kian’s contact information from my phone when an image of him popped into my mind. The harder I tried to fight the feelings the memory of him evoked, the stronger the images of him played in my brain: his crooked little half smile, his blazing blue eyes, the overwhelming energy of his presence and his uber-masculinity. He completely took my breath away.

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Genre – New Adult Romance

Rating – R

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Excerpt: The Orange Moon Affair by AFN Clarke

Julie squeezed my arm, snapping me back to the present and my duty as host as some of our guests were leaving.

With most of the people gone, I cornered Adrian again and told him that I would be down at Head Office some time during the week to make a start on learning the business.

“I want to know everything about this micro-electronics factory in Belfast before any more decisions are made,” I told him firmly.

“But there are still some negotiations to be completed, and other formalities. I really think they ought to be dealt with now, not later,” he said in a tone that implied I should let those who know about these things get on with it.

“No. Under the circumstances I'm not rushing us into any decisions.” I took vicarious pleasure watching him squirm.

“If you insist,” he said stiffly and walked out to his waiting car.

“You seem to have ruffled his feathers a bit,” said Julie, standing beside me. “Something tells me you are not going to have an easy time with him.”

“I don't trust him.”

“Is that why you're goading him? Or do I detect a spark of interest in the Group?” She was laughing at me again.

“I want to know why my father was murdered, and my gut tells me it has something to do with this new project in Northern Ireland.”

I knew that the Gunn Group was complicated. It controlled many companies in the fields of electronics, engineering and chemicals. The assets were enormous and profits almost equal to the largest of multi-nationals. No mean feat for a privately owned business. Obviously with the amounts of money involved, there must be very tight controls on security, especially as the areas of micro-electronics and chemicals were high risk and the competition cut throat. I could understand Adrian's reluctance to talk business at the wake, but still there was this nagging doubt in my mind.

“I think I'll have a talk with Mary. Perhaps she can shed some light on the matter.”

Julie shook her head. “Don't disturb her just yet. It is the first real rest she's had. How about taking me for a walk around the grounds instead?”

“You're right and they're quite beautiful at this time of year.”

We passed the rest of the afternoon wandering the grounds talking. It was the first time since we arrived that we had been alone for any length of time and now that the funeral was over we could look forward to happier times ahead.

I led Julie around to the nondescript barn set aside from the main Hall. The only thing that could give away the fact that the barn was an aircraft hangar was the small round concrete helipad thirty metres from the hangar building.

Julie looked at me askance. “A helicopter?”

“Wealth does have its perks.”

“A private jet and a helicopter?”

“Well actually the Gunn Group has two helicopters and two more private jets.”

“Of course it does,” she said sarcastically.

The electric hangar doors slid open at the touch of the ‘app’ on my iPhone and revealed the interior of the barn, aside from the helicopter, there was a small yet comprehensively equipped workshop and maintenance area, and outside a five hundred gallon tank of Jet fuel. Julie watched as I wheeled the aircraft out of the hangar onto the pad, disconnected the ground handling wheels, stowed them back in the hangar and checked the fuel. My father always kept the helicopter fully fuelled and ready to go at any time. It made trips to London easy and quick.

It had been a while since I flew the Eurocopter, demanding a different set of skills to the fixed wing Cessna Mustang. This one was equipped with a full EFIS (Electronic Flight Information System) digital 'glass' cockpit, so I could fly 'blind' from Norwich to the London Heliport in Battersea on the river Thames only eight miles from the Gunn Group offices. This particular aircraft had been configured for right seat flying. I liked it better than flying from the left seat, as I could lock off the collective and use my left hand for changing radio frequencies and other instruments.

“When was the last time you flew this?”

“About two years ago. We'll take it tomorrow, I need to make an appearance at the office.”

“You'll take it, I have my own business to run and that means mollifying my agent and getting some work.”

“Where's your sense of adventure?”

“You get some practice in then we'll talk about my sense of adventure.”

Mary reappeared for dinner. The rest had done her good.

Some of the old bounce was back in her walk and conversation. I didn't want to spoil the atmosphere so suppressed my desire to bombard her with questions. There would be plenty of time after the meal.

She had been through a lot in the last eighteen months, having just recovered from a serious car crash the previous year in which two of her closest friends had been killed. After a long period in hospital and private nursing home she had pulled through.

“Mary, there are some things that have been worrying me about Dad,” I said, as tactfully as possible. She sipped the brandy delicately. “I keep wondering about this Northern Ireland deal. This afternoon I tried to talk to Adrian about it, but he brushed me off, virtually saying it was none of my business.” I paused, waiting for a reply. There was none. “Well, don't you think it is more than just a coincidence?”

She placed her brandy glass carefully on the side table and shook her head. “The police came to the conclusion that it was probably a case of mistaken identity. If there is anything they will find it Thomas.” She smiled. “You concentrate on learning the business. Leave the investigating to the experts.”

“I need to know what the Northern Ireland deal is all about. Adrian just said it was one of Dad's personal projects. If I’m going to learn about the company then it seems to me to be a good place to start. Did he say anything to you about it?”

“No, of course not. You know what your father was like about business. No work at home. All business was to stay where it belonged, at the office. Perhaps Adrian was just honouring your father’s memory by not discussing it here. I'm sure he will tell you all about it when you go in to work.” She drew a weary hand across her face. “I must go to bed, Thomas. I'm not really as together as I look.”

“Of course.” I helped her up and watched as she walked slowly across the room. “Are there any papers that Dad would have left in the house? Presumably, if he was handling the deal on his own he would have something here.” I felt I needed to press her on the subject. It was so strange that nobody seemed to know much about it at all. I know that the old man liked to keep business away from his private life as much as possible, but I also know that there were times when he brought very important documents home. Particularly those pertaining to projects in which he was personally involved.

“Please, Thomas. Enough. I never pried into his business affairs at all. Perhaps if I had I could have been a better wife to him. Now please, we can talk again tomorrow, but there is nothing much I can tell you.” She stopped at the door, turned and looked at me carefully as if trying to tell me something by telepathy. “I want you to do a good job now that you're in charge,” she said, tipped her head on one side as if asking a silent question, then turned and left the room.

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Genre – Thriller

Rating – PG13

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The Blackout by Stephanie Erickson

Calm

1.

“The nature of the world is to be calm, and enhance and support life, and evil is an absence of the inclination of matter to be at peace.” – Gregory Maguire, Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West

What a difference one hundred years can make.  The 20^th century saw the dawn of automobiles, the Internet, cell phones and the personal computer.  All of which came to rely on one common denominator – electricity.  

The world hummed and clicked away, consuming more electricity than those who lived a century ago would have ever dreamed could exist.   But it was a fragile existence, one easily shattered by the sun’s fiery tendrils.

The light the world created blinded them.  A storm was coming that would sweep across the globe like wildfire, leaving nothing but darkness in its wake. 

2.

Molly was just finishing cleaning out her inbox when Cindy’s slender frame walked by the door.  “Hey!”  Molly called out. 

Cindy stopped and poked her head in.  “Hey yourself.  What’s up?”

“Nothing.  I’m just finishing up here, and was going to get some dinner.  Wanna come?” 

Cindy knew Molly was lonely and didn’t get much social contact when her husband was gone.  Even though she had a lot to do, Molly needed her.  “Sure!  The kids don’t need to be picked up for a while, but I’m not quite ready to go yet. Can ya’ wait like fifteen or twenty minutes?”

Molly smiled.  Cindy was never quite ready to go.  She had three kids and a sociable husband, so grading essays and preparing for the next class weren’t easily accomplished at home. 

“Sure, that sounds great.  Just holler when you’re ready.” 

Molly, on the other hand, had lots of quiet time at home.  Gary had already been gone for two nights and wouldn’t be back for another five.  If nothing else, being a pilot’s wife left her with plenty of time to herself.  It was an adjustment she hadn’t fully mastered, and she was grateful she wouldn’t be eating alone tonight.

When Cindy left, Molly sifted through the night’s work, thinking she’d get a head start.  She opened the file for her Modern Poetry class and took out the essay on top.  “Mutability”, it was titled. 

What can a person rely on?  Friends and lovers come in and out of a person’s life as often as they change their underwear. 

Oh Lord, she thought, and flipped to the end of it.  Seven pages of this crap?  She leaned back in her chair, pulled off her rimless glasses and rubbed her eyes;  her habit when she didn’t want to embark on the task at hand.  She sighed and uncapped her purple pen (she never used red - she found it too harsh, too judgmental, and way too negative) attempting to ready herself for the potential garbage she was about to trudge through.

Four pages in, Cindy came to the rescue.  She had pulled her long blonde hair back into a low ponytail and donned a gray blazer over her white blouse and khaki pants.  She was always very put-together and stylish. 

“Ready!” she announced.  “Where do you want to go?”

“Thank God!  This essay is a nightmare.”  Molly paused, considering the options.  “You know if I was alone I’d just go up to McDonald’s.  So, what are you in the mood for?”

Cindy frowned and wrinkled her nose.  “Not McDonald’s.  I don’t know how you can stay so thin and eat there as much as you do.”

“I don’t eat there every day.”

Cindy laughed.  “I know, but still!  If I’m going to eat that many calories, I want it to be worth it!” 

They walked to the stairwell together.  Molly never took the elevator, so if one of her friends wanted to walk with her, they had to take the stairs.  The building was only two stories high, and the elevator was installed in 1967. Molly didn’t trust it to get her where she needed to go reliably. 

“Whatever.  McDonald’s is delicious,” Molly countered.  “So, since you vetoed my suggestion, where do you want to go?”

“I’m thinking pizza.  How about the Pizza Garden?”

They stepped outside and Molly assessed the situation.  “It’s a nice evening.  Pizza Garden sounds great.” 

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Genre – Adult Fiction / Contemporary

Rating – PG13 (some strong language)

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Excerpt: Straight Dope by LeRon Barton

What was it like taking that ride on the highway with all that
weight on you?

This was my mentality, I didn't even think about the consequences of getting knocked. When I talk to people they tell me, when you in that mode, ignorance maybe, but you don't know whats up. You can...... When you first think something bad is going to happen, it probably will (laughs).That kind of energy was not even around me, so it was like we are just taking a trip to Atlanta and just bringing a package back. It wasn't no, oh lets be careful. We drove the same way, nothing out of the ordinary. I didn't know the game, I was a square and it was the bottom line really. I was welcoming all comers because I had the best ticket in town and I could be down to Atlanta and be back in one day. All I was thinking about was the bottom line. Now me being stupid, Godbless, I was taking all comers and it got off the hook. It was to the point that I was selling 100 'em a week and I really needed 200.

This is what I didn't know, when I cranked up to buying 100 pounds, he would knock the price down from $7000 to $5500 each. It only cost me less than 100,000 to drive down there, so that ain't nothing. I then did the Walmart thing before Walmart: I'm making people commit to buying from me. I had couple of power players who were buying 15, 20, and 30 pounds a week. I also had these stragglers that were only getting three and five a week, so what I did was put all the stragglers in the power-players pockets so that I only dealt with the big buyers, and I dropped the price down from $1000 to $800 for them. I make them buy the same amount from me every time. I don't care if they had five dollars in their pocket, you buy the same amount or the price goes up. I was never as a street level dude. My mentality was, if I am getting into something, there has to be some paper involved. Let me tell you the ticket to the weed game: if you got the best product, you got the key! All they want to do is make money, so if you got some wiggle room, you can have the hottest ticket in town.

Before I quit my job, I worked at Jergens making good money and my Mom would always tell me, real estate, buy real estate! I'm buying Benzes, I'm young, going to the club, so right before I went into the weed game I bought two pieces of property. My real estate agent was a old dope boy who showed me the real estate game and got me living in a duplex for free. The next piece was from this older lady who had broken her hip. She wanted to dump her house so I bought it from her. It was a two bedroom, fully furnished for $35,000. The house was worth $70,000. My real estate agent was always getting me those type of deals.

I couldn't take all the money I was making to the bank, so I kept it with friends, family, stereo speakers... anywhere I can find. The thing about making that kind of money is that you are so paranoid of the robbery boys coming to get you, and they will come, you try to hide the money the best way you can. Thats what I learned, if you are the man, the robbery boys will scope you out like the FBI. They called me nine lives because I was never affiliated with any gangs in the Natti and I knew every key man in that hood. I used to hoop and DJ, so a lot of people knew me and I was one of the very few that could go to every hood and get love. Back in the day, Cincinnati's mentality for black people was, oh man he's from Detroit or he from LA. We didn't have a rep so an out of towner could come in, sit, and after three months leave with million dollars. I seen it, they would come to our city and turn it out. Now that aint happening, it's the jackboy thing.

In time, one of the most important things I learned in the game is that always have more than one connect. If you only have one connect and he see you change cars and clothes, guess what he gonna do? He is gonna raise the ticket up. He gonna say, oh you making too much money, so I am gonna raise the price. That's a part of the hate move because he doesn't want you to make any money. What they say, money is the root of evil? It is! Money will make folks change. You make money with someone and think y'all friends, the real person will come out. It's something about money that will make people do things that seem out of character to them, but it aint. They just haven't been in a situation to show it. I go down to Atlanta to see the connect and he tell me that his man raised the price up 50 per pound, so he has to charge me the 50. Now I am the one taking all the chances so I go home, miss out for a couple of weeks, and end up finding one in Chicago. He heard what I was doing and told me to come down there to get 'em for what he was getting 'em for. I thought, from Cincinnati to Chicago is 240 miles, while Chicago to Atlanta is 470 so I'm like, I'm going to Chicago!

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Genre – NonFiction / Sociology

Rating – PG

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Tripped Up Love by Julie Farley

She directed him to her house. They pulled into the driveway two minutes later.

“Do you mind if I put your dog inside the fence in the backyard?”

“No, that’d be great,” mumbled Heather. While he took care of Coco, Heather had her first chance to get a good look at all of him. She noticed his jeans framed his ass perfectly. Even through the tattoos, Heather could see how defined his arms were. Before she knew it, he was headed back to the car, and she shook her head to force herself to stop checking him out. He walked to her door and opened it.

“Now it’s your turn. Hold onto my hands and I’ll help you out.”

“I’m fine,” Heather claimed, wincing as she tried to put any weight on her foot.

“Just let me help you. It’s not a big deal.”

She did. They went in through the garage door. Fabulous, thought Heather, The first things he will see are the messiest parts of my life - the garage and the laundry room. There were three stairs to get up, and he lifted her up and got her in past the laundry. He bent down and pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. Heather plopped down and let out a huge sigh. The sigh was an effort to stop herself from crying. Her ankle was killing her, and the reality of her life was smacking her in the face.

“Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I didn’t even ask your name.”

“I’m Peter and really this was no big deal. I’m just happy I didn’t run over you. And your name…”

“Oh, sorry. I’m Heather. That’s my dog Coco out there. Welcome to my house, the kingdom of chaos.”

“It doesn’t seem so chaotic right now. I’m guessing from all the stuff in the garage and all the laundry you don’t live here by yourself. And I apologize if you do and just happen to be a hoarder.”

“Hoarding would be easier. No, I live here with my three kids. They’re at my mom’s right now.”

“Well, Heather, I think you need to get to a doctor. Who can I call for you?”

And suddenly the sigh wasn’t enough. Heather didn’t really have an emergency contact anymore. Her emergency contact was dead. She had friends but didn’t want to burden them with yet another saga in the ongoing Heather Story. The tears rolled down her cheeks. Poor Peter looked like he was sorrier than ever he hadn’t run her over. He had a panicked look on his face.

“Umm…I’m sorry it must hurt terribly. Let me get you some ice and we’ll sort this out.”

Instead of ice, he grabbed a box of chocolate chip waffles, pulled out a chair and held the box over the swollen egg on what was now a cankle. Heather sniffed and cleared her throat.

“I’m fine. I can take myself to the doctor.”

“No, you can’t! There is no way you can drive.” Peter was afraid to ask if there was anyone she could call again. Nothing good happened the last time he had said that. “I’m taking you. Let’s grab your purse and go.”

Peter didn’t wait for any hesitation. He scooped Heather up and took her to the car only stopping for a second so she could grab the purse dangling on the laundry room door.

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Genre – Contemporary Romance

Rating – PG13

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After the Ending by Lindsey Pogue

DECEMBER

1

Dani

Cringing, I glared at the stinging, red paper cut on the tip of my index finger and muttered, “Damn hand sanitizer.” I’d always been a fan of good old-fashioned soap and water, and I was irked that my dissertation advisor had forced the slimy, astringent goop into my hands when I’d left his office.

Unfortunately, the compulsory germ-killing reminded me of Callie, my pathetically sick roommate. I’d driven her to the campus clinic first thing that morning. She’d been sitting on our couch in pajama bottoms and a purple pea coat, mumbling, “I’m going to the doctor right now…just give me a second…,” and staring at the floor. I’d immediately hustled her out to the car and zipped her to the doctor.

“It’s just a bad case of the flu, I’m sure,” the doctor had claimed, barely perceptible worry tightening her eyes.

Callie’s ashen coloring had been troubling, but not as much as the doctor’s instruction to take her to the hospital if her condition worsened…like the other sick students…dozens of them. I couldn’t believe a flu outbreak was forcing so many healthy people into the hospital. It wasn’t like we lived in a third world country or something.

The handful of students missing from my morning study group only intensified my concern—a handful is a lot when there are only eleven students to begin with. As I cleared the last crosswalk on the way back home, being careful to avoid the puddles left by the morning rain, I wondered if the outbreak would end up being as deadly as the Spanish flu was nearly a century ago.

I shook my head, dispelling my unusually grim thoughts. It’s just the flu, I told myself for the hundredth time. She’ll be fine. They all will.

As I entered my turn-of-the-century brick apartment building, I distracted myself with thoughts of how incongruous the classy exterior was with the 1980s-remodeled interior. The décor was tragic—pastel and gold foil abstract art hung on the walls, and the carpet was a tacky combination of mauve, coral pink, and faded turquoise…and that was just the beginning. The apartments themselves included worn blue carpet—no doubt covering handsome hardwood—stained linoleum, and appliances with chipped plastic. Such a waste…this place could be exquisite. But, at least the rent’s low…

I walked to my ground floor apartment, unlocked the door, and shifted my computer bag to brace myself for the impending “happy Jack attack.” Except when I opened the door, it didn’t come.

“Jack?” I called out, curious.

Following his whimpered response, I found the 120-pound, adolescent German Shepherd staring forlornly at Callie’s closed bedroom door.

“Hey, Sweet Boy,” I said, crouching down to scratch his shoulders and to let him sniffle my neck. “She probably just wants to sleep. Want a treat?”

Jack wagged his way into the kitchen while I quickly peeked into my roommate’s bedroom. Inside, Callie snored softly as she slept. She’s fine.

After rewarding Jack’s amazing abilities to sit (“sit”), shake hands (“nice to meet you”), and play dead (“bang”), I plopped down on my bed and opened my laptop. Jack hopped up and settled in next to me, causing a bed-quake.

Cam, my adorable boyfriend, wouldn’t get home from work for another half hour. Rubbing Jack’s velvety ear, I decided to write a nice long email to my best friend, Zoe—she hadn’t answered when I’d called during my walk home nor had she responded to my texts. The woman worked like crazy, and we hadn’t chatted in days. Besides, writing to her would kill time and help me avoid doing anything productive on my birthday. Genius.

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Genre – Science Fiction

Rating – R

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Jack Canon’s American Destiny (Excerpt) by Greg Sandora

Politics is a tricky game and, lucky for me, Bud was an expert player. I’m excited to have a guy like him with only one thing left to prove. This was to be Bud’s last time out of the gate. His doctors told him his heart wasn’t up to handling the stress of another major campaign. He was willing to put it all on the line, because he believed in me, but deep down in my heart I knew that more than life itself, Bud Singer wanted to go out with the win.

Bud spent a lot of time on the cocktail circuit and at charity events rubbing elbows with the rich and famous, lining up contributions. He looked in Sandy’s direction, trying to engage her directly, “The Country my father knew was built on cheap energy. Families of the fifties could live well on one income. We took weekend joy rides in the country - in big heavy gas guzzlers, just for the fun of it.” He looked over at me then back to Sandy.

“Remember the station wagons Jack? People moved to the suburbs in droves. Our factories were busy making all kinds of products – Made in America was the sign of Quality. We were a nation of producers, not just consumers. That’s all changed now. This country is going to the dogs.”

Sandy wasn’t even faking interest in Bud today, she told me once he reminded her of a sinister figure, a shorter version of Orson Wells in a suit. Even when Bud worked at it, he never seemed to hold her attention for very long.

“Jack, I was serious before, do you want me to get started on your presents? I was in Macy’s the other day listening to Christmas music; it’s getting to be that time of year again.”

Sandy was making every effort to get my undivided attention; she stood right in front of me, bent over my laptop and looked chin out straight into my eyes, “Jack the store’s been decorated since Halloween.”

“We’ve still got over a month” – then I thought for a second.

“Yeah, maybe you could pick up a couple of gifts for the kids and help me with a few ideas for Kathy’s and I’ll go get those, myself.”

“Great Jack, I’ll put together a tentative list and we’ll go over it when you can focus.”

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Genre – Political Thriller

Rating – PG

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Show & Tell in a Nutshell by Jessica Bell

~Scene 1~

amazing view

awe

(feel) hot

relief

(feel) tired

~Telling~

Sandy stood at the foot of the Egyptian Pyramids. Though she was hot, tired and sore, she was awestruck by the amazing view and felt a sense of relief. Finally, she’d made it.

~Showing~

Sweat ran between Sandy’s breasts and the soles of her feet burned from the two hour trek across the desert. Even though her shoulders ached from carrying her heavy rucksack, and her nose stung from the dry heat, it didn’t matter. She was standing right in front of something she’d been waiting to see her whole life. The Pyramids of Giza glistened through heat waves as if extracting all her pain. Sandy looked up, shielded her eyes from the sun, refused to break her stare. She stood, jaw agape, wondering how she’d kept away for so long.

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Genre – Non-Fiction / Writing Skills Reference

Rating – PG

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Blog http://thealliterativeallomorph.blogspot.com/

January Exposure by Sunny Benson (Excerpt 1)

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Genre – Mystery

Rating – PG13

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SUNDAY

1

With a twinkle of deadly silver and a whoosh of stale air, I stabbed my way from law-abiding to law-abreaking. The injured parties, two tires of the mammoth EZ-Move truck parked in my sister Tandy’s driveway, melted across the concrete into a rubbery puddle. I zippered the pocketknife safely back inside my ski jacket, brushed the snow off my jeans, and rubbed my throbbing temples. I didn’t relish sabotage, but hobbling the truck was unavoidable and now irreversible. Unless Tandy’s husband, Rick, strapped on a pair of snowshoes and backpacked the truck out, I’d completed phase one of my plan. Tandy would be livid.

My stomach churned like a snowplow as my boots crunched over the ice toward the house. I clutched the iron railing, maneuvered up the slippery steps, and jabbed the doorbell. Rick opened the door, his brawny upper body crammed into a puffy pink ladies’ jacket. Sweat dampened his wavy brown hair and darkened the matching pink scarf slung around his neck.

“Ellie, it’s six in the morning. Why are you here?” he asked, wariness nudging recognition from his gaze.

“I came to help you move.”

Rick smiled in disbelief. “Seriously?”

“Yeah right. Are you okay? What’s happening?”

Averting his eyes from mine, he shrugged, ripping the shoulder seams of the pink jacket to expose wisps of white stuffing.

I stepped forward and challenged the comfortable distance between us. “An emergency? A calamity? A lobotomy?”

“My life and my decisions are none of your business. Go home.”

“When your life and your decisions involve my sister, it is my business. Besides, Tandy called and invited me over.”

Rick crossed his arms and widened his stance. I considered trying to shove past him, but he stood over six feet tall, and at five-one I didn’t stand a chance. Lucky for me, growing up a small, hockey-playing tomboy, I enjoyed being outsized, outmatched, and underestimated. I leaned forward and scrutinized the triangular gap between his legs. I was small and quick, but could I wiggle through without being Venus flytrapped?

Realizing maneuvering around him and muscling through him weren’t viable options, I resorted to immaturity and brandished my cell phone like a spray bottle of Roundup. “My mom is number one on speed dial. My grandpa Craven is number two.”

With a sarcastic sweep of his arm, Rick ushered me inside, silent as he retreated into the living room. Unease replaced my frustration as I eyed the barren, echoing front hall. I pocketed the cell phone, peeled off my ice-encrusted gloves, and hollered for Tandy. After hearing Tandy’s faint reply that she’d be downstairs soon, I slouched against the wall to wait.

All that remained of the entryway furnishings Tandy collected over the years were the framed pictures on the walls. To the left, the stairwell stretched up to the second floor, still plastered with familiar photos of the Anderson family in happier times: grinning in front of North Dakota’s famous albino buffalo, four-wheeling past fields of sunflowers at my grandma and grandpa Johansson’s farm, hiking though the striated rock formations of the Badlands, and ice fishing in parkas and snow pants on Big Cormorant Lake. To the right, in stark contrast to the cheery family photos, the lonely living room held only a china cabinet, several cardboard boxes, and Rick, who seized antique gold-and-cream china from the cabinet and stacked it in one of the boxes.

I fingered the pocketknife through my jacket. “Where are you taking that china?”

Rick continued packing.

“That was my great-grandma Craven’s china. It’s a Craven family heirloom.”

Rick secured the last piece of china into the box.

“My parents gave Tandy that china before she married you.”

Rick taped the bulging box shut, strapped it to a dolly, and pretended I didn’t exist as he rolled the dolly past me. Although Rick and I possessed little in common, we usually went out of our way to be cordial to each other for Tandy’s sake. Apparently the seriousness of the situation warranted forgoing our unspoken pact.

“Jackass,” I said and made an unladylike hand gesture at him as he exited the house.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” my sister said from the second floor. My eyes focused on the debacle shambling down the steps, and my fingers zipped up to my temples and rubbed. Transformed from her usual lovely grace into a lovely disaster, Tandy sported Rick’s oversize attire: a navy ski jacket over a man’s dress shirt, a neon-green pair of boxer briefs, argyle socks pulled up over her knees, and a pair of men’s Italian shoes. A blue winter scarf restrained a tangle of frizzy blonde hair, and her drippy nose shone scarlet. When she reached me, she threw her arms around my neck and sobbed into my shoulder.

“What the hell is going on? Did you find out why Rick is moving out?” I asked.

Pulling away, Tandy sniffled and made a tisk-tisk sound. “Watch the foul language.”

“Excuse me, but it’s a foul situation. Why in the h-e-double hockey sticks are you wearing Rick’s boxer shorts?”

“Because they’re his favorite boxer shorts. They’re quite expensive.”

“I’m confused.”

“I thought maybe he wouldn’t leave without his ski jacket and favorite clothes. But he’s leaving. Oh Lord, he’s leaving me, and I don’t even know why.”

Unable to find the right words of solace, I squeezed her hand.

“Thank goodness Carmen slept at a friend’s last night,” she said, using Rick’s jacket sleeve to dab her teary cheeks. “How can Rick abandon us? And how dare he pack up and steal eight years of her happy childhood memories?”

My neurons fired faster with fury as I visualized my small, sturdy niece, Carmen, and her shining cap of mahogany hair, huge brown eyes, and insatiable enthusiasm.

“How did he pack so much in such a short time?” I asked Tandy.

“I asked him the same question when I woke to an empty house this morning. Apparently, his strategy included forgoing sleep and downing energy drinks. Plus last night he paid three high school boys to help him with the bulky things, like couches and tables.”

Rick banged back into the house, pushing the dolly.

I blocked his path. “You two spent nine relatively happy married years together. Please spare Tandy a few measly minutes and explain your behavior.”

“What’s to explain?” Rick asked, fidgeting with a dolly strap and avoiding our questioning stares. “You’re both smart women. My actions are perfectly apparent. I’m moving out and taking my furniture purchased with my money.”

“Apparent actions, yes,” I said. “Apparent motivation, need for speed, and destination, no. Start with destination.”

“Obviously I’m staying in Fargo,” Rick said. “I’d never leave my princess behind.”

Tandy’s face brightened with hope.

“I’m referring to Carmen,” Rick said, wincing a little when Tandy’s expression collapsed back into melancholy. “Look, Tandy, this conversation is unproductive and needlessly painful. I have boxes to fill and a schedule to keep.” He attempted to maneuver the dolly around me.

Exasperated, I waggled my phone at him and mouthed mother. He glowered at me, but halted and released the dolly.

Tandy dashed to Rick’s side and clamped her hand on his bicep. “Don’t be upset. Please talk to me.” Her eyes brightened with panic as her malfunctioning brain whirred out outlandish explanations. “You can’t be leaving. There has to be another reason. You aren’t surprising us with a new house?”

Rick’s mouth turned down and he kicked at the floor with his boot. “Tandy, please. I’m not surprising you with a new house.”

“It’s been terribly cold and cloudy lately,” she said. “You aren’t suffering from cabin fever?”

Rick twisted his eyes shut and massaged the bridge of his nose. “I’m not suffering from cabin fever.”

The corners of Tandy’s mouth seesawed down and back up. Her eyes twinkled with forced merriment. “You aren’t an undercover operative for the CIA? Your cover hasn’t been blown, forcing you to flee to the Yukon to protect Carmen and me, has it?”

Rick scuffled with a weary smile. “I’m not in the CIA. I’m moving to an apartment, for now, and I’m taking some of the furniture with me. You get the house, I get the furniture. Seems fair to me.”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Tandy said. “Yesterday you talked about hiring someone to retile the master bath. Yesterday you brought home a new television for the family room. Today I wake up and there’s a moving truck packed full of our furniture in the driveway. You’re only thirty-one, too young for a midlife crisis. It doesn’t make sense.”

Tendons burst through Rick’s neck, and he wrenched his arm out of Tandy’s grasp. “I’ll tell you what doesn’t make sense. Not doing anything to change my crappy mediocre life. I refuse to be like my father, working my bones to the marrow for chump change. When he died, he had nothing to show for a lifetime of hard labor. He was just an uneducated, blue-collar hick farming leased land with next to nothing in his bank account.”

“You’re nothing like your father,” Tandy said. “You have a great job with the railroad, a white-collar job.”

“But I’m stuck in middle management and trapped in a middle-class life. Middle. I’m better than middle.”

Anger kindled in Tandy’s eyes. “So you’re escaping your middle-class life by escaping from me? You think I trap you, hold you back? I enable your success. I care for our daughter. I cook. I clean. I do laundry. I pay bills. It’s my job to enable you to do yours.” Her shoulders slumped, and her head bowed. “It’s fine if you want to change jobs. But please, don’t leave. I love you.”

Rick’s eyes watered and reddened. “It’s too late.”

Tandy threw her arms around him. “Too late for what? Tell me.”

Rick shook his head, squared his shoulders, and wiped his eyes. “Let go.”

“Too late for what?”

Rick’s eyelid started ticking. “Tandy, I said let go.”

Tandy released him and shrank back to where I stood. Not knowing how to help her, I took her hand and squeezed.

“You don’t have the inner drive required to understand what I want or need,” Rick said. He pressed his lips together and finally met Tandy’s watery, pleading eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you, but obviously you need some closure. Fine, cruel to be kind it is. The reality is you are a morally uptight priss obsessed with PTA meetings, church events, and gardening. You’d never make the necessary sacrifices to help me succeed in life. So if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish packing.”

Tandy’s eyes stalked Rick as he careened into the living room with the dolly. “What sacrifices?” she asked me. “I don’t understand him. When we married nine years ago, he loved me. I know he did. I haven’t changed much. I’ve always loved church and gardening. When did I become so unlovable? Did I grow cellulite or get too many wrinkles? Should I invest in plastic surgery?”

A needle of irritation pricked the compassion I felt for my sister, because she was gorgeous. If she needed plastic surgery, my only hope was having my brain transplanted into a supermodel. “You’re only thirty-one,” I said. “Besides, what would a surgeon change? Your huge violet eyes and high cheekbones? And a lot of women would cheerfully kill their dietitians for a body like yours.”

“Maybe I’m skinny, but my bosom could be bigger. I should get implants.”

I shrugged and glanced down at my chest. Tandy’s bosom could be smaller too.

“I like my life with Rick,” Tandy said. “We have a beautiful home, a wonderful daughter, and great friends. Until today, I thought we were happy.”

Compelled into comforting mode by Tandy’s bewildered expression, I put my arm around her and patted her shoulder. “You did nothing wrong.” I said. “Any man would be lucky to have you as his wife.” I tugged at the hem of the green boxer shorts dangling from Tandy’s hips. “You must be chilly. Why don’t you change back into your own clothes? I’m afraid Rick’s leaving, with or without his favorite pair of boxers.”

After Tandy changed into her own jeans and a cashmere sweater set, we moved to the kitchen. Only the white cabinets, stove, and fridge remained. With nothing to sit on, we leaned against the wall where the kitchen table used to be.

Tandy wiped her eyes, patted her golden hair, and reverted to her usual good-hostess form. “Would you care for a pop?”

“Sure, thanks.”

I cracked the can open and took a long, bubbly drink. Tandy wrapped a pink SUPER MOM apron around her slim waist, rummaged in the cupboard under the sink, and pulled out a bucket and a rag. She filled the bucket with a mixture of water and lemon Mr. Clean and scrubbed at the linoleum.

“Cleaning?” I asked. “You should be scheming. You need a plan.”

Tandy took a deep breath and blew the air back out. “Cleaning is calming. I should vacuum. Vacuuming is way better than meditation.” She arched an eyebrow at me. “Not that you would know.”

I shrugged and didn’t disagree. My pale, emaciated vacuum hadn’t been fed in over a month.

Tandy dropped the rag. “My turn to ask you something. Why haven’t you ordered me to kung fu Rick’s behind? Not that I would do it.”

“Now there’s the start of a scheme. Incapacitate him and move the furniture back in the house. Mighty Rick doesn’t stand a chance against The Kung Fu Queen.”

After reading an article on spiritual enlightenment in a fashion magazine a few years ago, Tandy signed up for feng shui, meditation, and kung fu lessons. At the time, everyone in my family believed she’d scaled new heights of flakiness, but she surprised us. She stuck with the kung fu and could kick some serious butt. She relished competing, and I often went to cheer and marvel at the personality change she underwent every time she stepped on the mat. Tandy, who classified shut up a swearword, turned calculating and ruthless, landing kicks and jabs with punishing precision. The first time I saw her compete, she reduced her opponent to a quivering lump, and I dubbed her The Kung Fu Queen.

“I don’t have any answers regarding what to do about Rick,” I said. “But on one front you can relax. Furniture-wise, I took care of the problem.”

“Do you realize he packed great-grandma Craven’s china?”

“Trust me, I’ve already done some scheming of my own. The china’s safe. By the way, does he plan to take the heavy china cabinet?”

“I have no idea.”

“Tell Rick it’s his.”

“What did you do?” Tandy nibbled on her lower lip. “You didn’t plant a bomb in it, did you?”

“I’m not that crazy.”

“You are a chemist. The question’s not totally far-fetched.”

I kneaded my temples. “I don’t use TNT or nitroglycerin for testing water quality. Just tell Rick to take the china cabinet. Tell him to take everything.”

“This day can’t possibly get any more bizarre.” Tandy threw up her hands. “What the heck. Why not? I’ll do it.”

Thirty minutes later, Tandy and I stood in the living room and watched Rick close and lock the truck’s rear door, climb in the cab, lean out the window, and wave up the driveway at the house.

“He’s waving like he’s headed downtown for a quick cup of coffee and will be back in ten minutes. What a jerk,” I said.

Tandy opened her mouth to defend him, sighed, and snapped it shut.

Rick started the engine. Growling and groaning, the truck shuddered and swayed and barely budged. After a few minutes of griping, the engine fell silent. I hurried to the entryway and opened the front door. Tandy trailed after me with her brow creased. Rick checked the front tires and ran up the driveway to the rear of the truck. Shouting something, he threw his arms up, punched the side of the truck, and lost his balance on the slippery driveway. He toppled back and flailed his limbs like an overturned beetle.

I couldn’t stifle a snicker. “Isn’t that sweet. He’s making a snow angel.”

“What did you do? Plug the tailpipe with a banana?” Tandy asked. “That’s not so bad. All you have to do is take the banana out, right? Then the truck will work?”

“I did something a bit more permanent.” I showed her the pocketknife and bared the largest blade. “I’ll reimburse EZ-Move for the damages of course. Those truck tires are probably mighty expensive, but it’s worth it.” I closed the knife and zipped it back in my pocket.

Tandy’s lips whitened, and her cheeks reddened. “Darn it, Ellie, you should have asked me first.”

“You would have said no.”

“And you went ahead and did it anyway?”

“Only because I love you.”

“Only because you’re a science nerd know-it-all who thinks I can’t handle my own life.”

“Hey, you called me.”

Rick banged through the front door, tears of frustration brightening his eyes. “The back tires are flat.”

“Gee, that’s too bad, Rick.” I said, feeling the first niggle of doubt creep through me at the sight of his tears. Was Rick about to lose it? What if Rick suspected me? Until then, I hadn’t considered the possibility of backlash. I’d never experienced a truly angry Rick. Over the years he habitually restrained any unpleasant emotions behind a stronghold of slick social grace. My heart rapped an irregular rhythm against my ribs.

“EZ-Move better come out and change the tires,” Rick said. “I sure as hell am not unpacking all that stuff.” He pushed past us and entered the kitchen.

“Oh boy, I’m glad he doesn’t suspect me,” I said. I peered down the hall and into the kitchen. Maybe he wasn’t calling EZ-Move. Had Rick packed the utensils? Maybe he was selecting the sharpest knife from the kitchen to slice my throat like I’d sliced the tires. “Has Rick ever done anything violent?” I asked Tandy.

“Don’t be silly. He never even yells.” Tandy raised her eyebrows. “I do believe you are perspiring, Ellie. Getting a guilty conscience, are we?”

“More like worried about getting caught,” I said.

We edged closer to the kitchen to eavesdrop. I peeked inside, verifying Rick wasn’t sharpening a meat cleaver, and my heart rate returned to normal.

“What do you mean you can’t come until tomorrow?” Rick said into the phone. “You get someone over here pronto. Let me speak with a supervisor.” After a few minutes of arguing with the supervisor, he admitted defeat. “Fine. Tomorrow morning at eight sharp.” He whacked the phone against its cradle several times.

Tandy and I skittered to the living room and sat on the floor.

Seeking an innocuous topic, like most North Dakotans, my mind gravitated toward the weather. “Nice day we’ve been having,” I said. “What is it, ten below today?”

“Only five below,” Tandy said. “But maybe ten below counting windchill. Pretty balmy for January.”

Rick stormed in, his eyes rabid and spittle glistening on his chin. Tandy and I climbed to our feet and backed away.

“I have to unpack the entire truck,” he said. “Those EZ-Move guys refuse to send a tow truck and a replacement truck until tomorrow. Unpacking will take hours, and I have an appointment.” Rick tossed the keys to Tandy. “Aw, forget it. Give these to those idiots when they show up, and tell them to transfer the furniture to the new truck. I’m out of here.” Rick disappeared down the hall, the garage door opener hummed, and his BMW purred away.

Tandy stood and pressed her hand to her forehead. “I can’t believe my husband left me. I’m an unemployed single mother with no job skills and a huge mortgage. I’m doomed.”

I shrugged. “Doesn’t Rick have a death and dismemberment policy with a huge payoff through the railroad? Maybe you should off the bastard.”

Tandy started cackling, her violet eyes radiating crazy. I realized Rick wasn’t the only one who was in danger of losing it.

Time Killer by Todd M. Thiede (Excerpt )

1

Tuesday morning 2 a.m.

Stephen Bjornson wakes up and tries to roll over towards his wife only to find he cannot move at all. His thinking feels slow and hazy as if he has been drugged. He opens his eyes slowly to see that the room is dark with only a small beam of light from the full moon breaking through the drapes. He had opened them earlier to make sure the front gate was shut. His son rarely remembers to shut the gate when he comes home for dinner from the neighbor’s house. He surveys his room and continues to fight the fog in his brain as he can feel something is very wrong.

He tries to stay calm, but his mind and heart are racing. He slowly tries to raise each arm and finds that he is tied down to the bed with duct tape across his chest, torso, and legs. With his arms pinned to his sides, all he can do is turn his head far enough to the left to see that his wife, Gwen, is still there, but she is also taped to the bed. Mr. Bjornson notices Gwen has tape over her mouth. Her brown eyes are wide and look very dark in the moonlit room. Her hair is splayed out and crowns her head like a halo. At first, Stephen thinks he must be dreaming. He can’t imagine why he would be tied to his bed and his angel, Gwen, tied next to him. Then, he shakes his head as nothing is making sense. He closes his eyes and reopens them. He focuses on Gwen and realizes that the halo was created by her messy blonde hair as she struggled to break free from the bonds. She keeps sweeping her gaze away from him to stare towards the foot of the bed and Stephen slowly focuses his gaze on the shape of a person behind the footboard. He is terrified at the thought of some stranger in their house. However, he is having a hard time maintaining focus on any one thought.

Stephen starts to remember the early days of their marriage when they fought over silly things like furniture. He and Gwen had spent three months shopping for bedroom sets, picking at each other’s tastes for traditional or modern furniture. The young couple had taken almost every Saturday to go shopping to fill their home. Giddy and in love, their fights never lasted long and often ended in the bed. In hindsight, maybe that was why they had been so careful in their choices. Stephen wishes their lives could be that easy now – just make love to end an argument. He is not able to remember the last time he and Gwen had made time for intimacy. He keeps thinking that now isn’t the time for memories – like having a daydream at work – but he can’t think about what is more important than remembering the good times with Gwen.

He feels a bouncing sensation next to him on the bed and wakes from his drug-induced reverie. Gwen is bouncing her head and moaning beneath the tape. She keeps staring at him and then throwing her head towards the foot of the bed. He remembers that there is a person standing over him and his wife, just staring across the bed at them, waiting for him to wake up. Stephen vaguely wonders how Gwen can be so awake when he is so tired.

He tries to swallow, but his tongue feels like lead. His mouth feels like it is full of cotton. After a few tries, he squeaks out, “Who are you? What do you want?” He is disappointed in the quiver of his voice so he tries again, hoping to sound more intimidating. “Who do you think you are, coming into my house? What do you want from us? We don’t keep large sums of cash in the house.”

The man just stands there, staring down at Stephen and Gwen, not saying a word. Stephen thinks that it must be a man based on the wide shoulders and body shape. Besides, there is no way a woman would do this, he thinks. This man is wearing a dark ski mask. He is also wearing black leather gloves, which particularly frightens Stephen. He has watched enough forensic shows to know that gloves can make identification of criminals much harder. As he begins to become more aware and able to focus, he sees that the man seems to be very well dressed, wearing an expensive suit, button-down shirt, and tie. The ski mask and leather gloves clash against the business attire and Stephen starts to wonder who would dress so nicely to commit a crime. He feels like he is going to drift off again so he shakes his head and tries to maintain focus on the intruder.

Just when it seems like an eternity has passed since he first tried to roll over in his own bed, he jumps as the man yells, “You wasted my time!”

The voice is so loud and deep, that Stephen believes he feels the rumble through the floor into the bed. He jumps and his eyes open wide. He instantly tries to put on a brave face again and stares the man down. After all, this man is threatening his family. Then, he starts to worry if his kids will be woken up by this man. He doesn’t want them to wake and see any of this. Writhing wildly against his bindings, they don’t give. Fear raises his neck hair. This isn’t a normal burglary.

He decides that he is getting nowhere and tries conversation, which is what he is best at anyways. “What are you talking about? Why are you doing this?” Mr. Bjornson says, his voice quivering. All he can do is lie there, thinking about his children just across the hall from him. He has no idea what this madman knows about his family and if he knows the kids are sleeping right across the hall. While he is very concerned for his and Gwen’s safety, he closes his eyes and quickly asks God to protect his children from harm.

It seems like hours that the suited man continues to stand over them, but only minutes pass. Stephen is scared to speak more, worried that any noise will arouse the kids. Just when the angst is going to force Stephen to say something again the stranger finally speaks again, “You wasted my time…Time is money!” Gwen had been fighting her restraints up until that second yell. She lays completely still except ratcheting her head towards Stephen. He looks back at her and can see the tears spilling from her eyes. The moonlight catches the tears just right that they remind him of his playtime with his daughter the other day when they blew bubbles in the backyard and the sunlight glistened off the bubbles in the air.

The man grabs a pen from the top of Stephen’s dresser. He starts pacing back and forth in front of the bed, clicking the pen over and over again. CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! The clicks echo through Stephen’s head and return him to the moment. The man continues to mumble, “You wasted my time…you wasted my time…you wasted my time.” Gwen, still staring at Stephen nods towards the man. He understands that she expects him to do something, but he is at a loss. He cannot free himself so he focuses on what he can do – continue to try to talk his way out of this.

As he is trying to come up with a plan, the man finally kneels down next to the bed, pen still in hand. He leans over and says, “Stephen, is it okay if I call you Stephen?” Stephen nods his head in reluctant approval. Stephen starts thinking, how does this man know my name? Have I met him before? What does he want from me?

“Stephen, I know you and your type. You don’t have a care in the world outside of you and your family’s own little bubble. You don’t think that your actions have any effect on other people’s lives. You see, Stephen,” he intones, “I once had a nice wife and a daughter just like you. We were happy, just like you; we had the perfect life, just like you. But you see, things are not always as they appear. Are they, Stephen?”

Stephen decides not to answer as he fears that the answer to the question is nothing that he wants to hear, particularly from some aggressive stranger. “Answer me!” the suited man shouts directly into Stephen’s ear. Stephen shakes his head no. “You see, Stephen, my wife packed up all her things one day and decided she was taking my daughter away from me. It seemed that she was leaving me for another man. She said I was wasting her time. I couldn’t provide her with what she needed. She needed financial stability and, even though I had a good job that kept us afloat, it wasn’t enough. Stephen, it wasn’t enough because, every so often, people like you waste my time and I don’t make any money. People like you cost me money and you cost me my family.” That comment was chilling. The man walks over to Gwen.

“Please don’t hurt us!” says Stephen whimpering now, his bravado completely gone. “I love you, Gwen,” he murmurs as he starts to sob. He turns his face away so that Gwen does not see him. He feels compelled to turn back as the man approaches his wife who, despite their distance, he loves dearly.

“Oh poor Stephen, poor, poor Stephen. You didn’t tell him, did you, Gwen? I can call you Gwen, can’t I?” Gwen nods her head reluctantly. She is between sobs because the bed is only shaking on Stephen’s side. She starts fighting at her restraints again, trying to push away from the approaching masked man with her feet, trying to dig her heels in. The tape keeps her from being able to arch her body high enough to move towards the head of the bed. Stephen is sick, watching her suffer this way and he starts to fight his restraints, too.

“You see, Stephen, ever since you and I met a month ago. I have been following you and your family, watching you and Gwen, little Billy and Sandy in your daily lives. Now, I haven’t been able to watch you every day because I have a job and time is money, you know. Nonetheless, I have been watching all of you. And what I have learned from watching you is that you enjoy wasting people’s time. Gwen here is not only wasting other people’s time, she is also wasting your time, Stephen. You see, Stephen, your precious little Gwen is having an affair,” he states matter of factly.

At those words, everyone in the room freezes. Stephen lays completely still, weighing whether there could be truth to the words of this madman. Gwen stops moving either because of his words or because the mask is now only inches from her face. She is staring into his eyes and cannot drop her gaze.

Stephen decides that whether it is true or not, this man is not their marriage counselor and has no right to intrude or reveal their issues like this. He musters up more courage and exclaims, “No, that’s not true. I know my Gwennie loves me and would never do that!” The suited man now leans over and whispers into Gwen’s ear, “Tell him, tell Stephen the truth! He deserves that at the very least. Tell him the truth now.” What had started as a whisper has turned into a menacing hiss in her ear. She flinches as he says truth so loud that her eardrum hurt. Stephen watches, helpless, as his wife pulls her head as far away from the man’s face as possible.

The masked man suddenly rips the duct tape from her mouth in one quick jerk. Gwen screams in pain and then throws her head towards Stephen. “It’s not true, Stephen! I love you with all my heart and would never do that to you or our family!” She is crying again and Stephen is not sure who to believe. Why would a man break into his house and lie about this to him?

“Lies, lies, lies…you are wasting my time again, Gwen. Now tell him the truth. Stop wasting my time. Stop it; stop it, stop it…time is money!” he shouts and hits the bed next to her. “Tell him now!” Stephen is feeling impatient about what this man wants and worries about why his children haven’t come in to see what is going on. He starts to fear the worst about their fate, but asking will only remind the man that they are close by.

Between sobs, Gwen begins to choke out her confession in a small pitiful wail. “Okay, it’s true, Stephen. I met someone else. But I love you and I love our kids! You have to believe me, Stephen, I do love you.” The silence hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Stephen feels a gulf widening between them – the woman he so desperately wanted to protect a minute ago has indeed betrayed him.

Stephen’s eyes widen and he struggles against the tape. A slow look of realization comes across his face. His tears stop and his eyes start to narrow to slits. “So that’s why you missed my work luncheon? Is that why you weren’t there that day to pick up Billy from soccer practice? Have you been busy sleeping around?” Stephen’s voice begins to roar, forgetting about anyone, but the two of them. “Who is it, Gwen? Who is he?” he yells, trying viciously to face her. He succeeds in partially turning his body towards her. The suited man steps back, folds his arms, and watches the argument as it progresses. A smile of accomplishment is visible in the mask’s mouth opening. He seems proud that he caused the two of them to fight.

Gwen continues to cry and shake the bed. “I have been seeing David, one of the dad’s from Sandy’s daycare. I never loved him, Stephen. I just needed more than you have been giving me.” With the last statement, her words sound hollow, as if she is wrung out and tired. Guilt creates an ugly mask of her face as she looks into Stephen’s eyes.

The masked man takes advantage of her pause. “See, Stephen, do you see how she is wasting your time? It’s just like you did to me last month when you wasted my time. Now, here’s the difference between you and me. I am here to help you, Stephen; I am going to rid you of your problem so you are no longer wasting time with Gwen.”

As soon as he finishes this statement, he begins clicking the pen again as if he is nervous. Stephen starts to fight his bonds again to stand between the masked man and his wife, who he knows he still loves. The masked man places his hand between Stephen and Gwen. Then he crawls on top of her, positioning himself so he is straddling Gwen and her body is between his legs. After the humiliation he has faced – being told by a total stranger that his wife is cheating – seeing him on top of her is too much for Stephen. He manages to get a leg free from the tape and starts kicking towards the man. However, the bed is wide and he just grazes his arm. He is waiting for the man to pull up her night gown and rape her, but that doesn’t happen.

The man looks back and forth between the two, savoring her fear and his anger. He then thrusts the pen directly into Gwen’s right eye. He jams it in so hard and so fast that she dies almost instantly from the pen penetrating the brain pan. Blood spatters everywhere and the suited man takes a few seconds to survey the results. Stephen can see the man’s teeth in the mouth hole of the mask. His smile is demonic and growing. Vice grips of trauma lock his body. He feels numb. It is a blessing.

“Just like I said, Stephen, I am here to help you. I’m here to stop you from wasting everyone’s time.” The man stands up from the bed and walks around to Mr. Bjornson’s side to sit next to him. He stops talking directly to Bjornson, but the husband can hear him mumbling, “You wasted my time, you wasted my time, time is money,” over and over again.

Stephen, still lying there in shock, wakes up as if from a dream and starts to scream, “No, No. No. Why are you doing this to me? What did I do to deserve this?”

“Okay, Stephen, here is the situation: I’m going to need you to pay me for the time you took from me. After all, time is money. So for the time you took away from me last month, I figure you owe me $633. That would make us even for the three hours of my time you wasted. Heck, I won’t even charge you for the time I just saved you by taking Gwen out of your life, consider that a gift from me to you,” he says in a very calm business-like voice.

Stephen thinks he must have fallen back into a dream because this cannot be real. Money for the time he took from the suited man? Three hours? This was all about three measly hours of time? Where did he meet this guy? How did he waste three hours of his time? he keeps thinking.

“Where is my money, Stephen? I am going to have to start adding to the bill if you don’t tell me where my $633 are. Time is money! You wouldn’t want to waste any more of my time would you, Stephen?” the suited man asks angrily. Stephen shakes his head slowly, still not understanding.

As the man starts rifling through their things, Stephen finally comprehends he is looking for his money. He proceeds to tell him that his wallet is on his dresser in the corner of the room and that there should be enough to cover it. The suited man walks over to the dresser and grabs his wallet, takes out the money and counts it. “You only have $450 here, Stephen. Where is the rest of it? Quit wasting my time!” he screams.

“My…my…wife may…have some money in her purse. It’s in the closet…probably on the floor,” Stephen says, his voice choked.

“You know what, Stephen, I kind of like you,” the man says calmly as he goes to the closet. “I liked you last month, too. Well, that is before you decided to waste my time. I like the fact that you want me to take the money from your wife’s purse. I mean, it isn’t like she needs it anymore anyhow and, after all; it is your money anyway. Am I right?” The man’s laugh is high pitched and evil. He reaches into the closet, pulls out the purse and takes out some money. “All she has in here, Stephen, is two 100 dollar bills.” With that, the masked man takes out his own personal wallet and puts $17 exactly on Stephen’s dresser. He puts the $650 into his wallet and proceeds to sit back down by Stephen. Stephen tries to take note of the wallet to tell the police later, but then he realizes that he may not be alive much longer either.

“Stephen,” he says, “like I told you earlier, I’ve been following you and your family for about a month and noticed that you like wasting people’s time. I mean, you went to the appliance store and talked to a salesman about a new television for almost an hour two weeks ago and didn’t buy it. Then you went into an open house just last week and walked around talking to the realtor about how you were considering buying a new home. You took about two hours of his time with no intention of buying the house or even calling him back. You were just there wasting his time! Like his trying to make a living is a joke to you and Gwen.”

“I was going to call him back, that isn’t true. I was very interested in that house!” Stephen spits out.

“Sorry, Stephen, I know better. You see, like I said, I was watching you closely and, the moment you walked out of the house, you threw the realtor’s card away, while you and your wife laughed. You both thought the house was disgusting and way overpriced. You discussed how you love your house right now and would never leave it. Now quit wasting my time with lies and accept the fact that I know you better than you think I do,” he says with some finality.

“I am going to do the rest of the world a favor here, Stephen. You are right handed, is that correct?” he asks. No sooner than Stephen nods his head, the man grabs the duct tape from the floor and duct tapes Stephen’s mouth shut. He then walks out of the bedroom only to return a few moments later with bolt cutters. He leans over Stephen and whispers into his ear, “I am going to cut off your thumb and index finger on your right hand.” Stephen blanches. The man continues, “So you can no longer fill out any paperwork or sign anything and waste anyone else’s time like you wasted mine, the realtor, and the appliance salesman.”

He then stands up and cuts off Mr. Bjornson’s thumb and finger. As Stephen lays there in unbearable pain, unable to scream with his mouth taped shut, his face blood red , his temple veins popping thick, the suited man leans back in and whispers, “Don’t worry. You won’t die from this. I want you to live and learn not to waste other people’s time anymore. I also want you tell anyone and everyone to stop wasting people’s time. Tell them all how time is important to you now that you have a second chance. Tell them that they need to be considerate of other people’s time and not just their own. You can do that for me, right, Stephen?” Stephen nods frantically as tears flow from his tortured eyes. He feels himself slipping in and out of consciousness as he feels his blood pumping out of his hand. The masked man tears more duct tape from the roll and wraps it around Stephen’s hand almost like a bandage. “We wouldn’t want you bleeding to death before you can get that message out, would we, Stephen?” Stephen shakes his head no.

The man now rips back the tape from Stephen’s mouth, taking part of his moustache off with it. He tastes blood. The tape has ripped off some skin. The man then picks up the phone next to the bed, lays the mouthpiece on the pillow next to Stephen’s mouth and proceeds to dial 911. He picks up Stephen’s bloody finger off the floor and uses it to write, “DON’T WASTE PEOPLE’S TIME” on the wall as the phone rings. He then calmly walks out of the room, whistling as if he has no care in the world. The song he is whistling is very familiar, but Stephen cannot place it. Stephen recognizes the sound of his back door opening and closing. The man is finally gone. As he starts to feel light-headed, he wonders if he is in a nightmare he cannot escape.

The tickle of the blood dripping down the side of his jaw brings him back to awareness. He hears the operator repeatedly asking if anyone is there. Stephen yells hoarsely into the phone as best as he can, “Please help me, there was a man here in my house! He killed my wife. He…..he hurt me. I’m bleeding and I’m tied up. Please hurry – I’ve lost a lot of…” As he drifts in and out of terrible dreams and thoughts, his mind keeps returning to his children. Did the man hurt them? Are they even alive? He prays that they will not find him like this. With tears now flowing along with the blood, he finally closes his eyes to the darkness of what has happened, his body numbing with the shock. Stephen passes out.

It takes almost ten minutes for the ambulance to arrive, followed shortly by the police. The police knock on the door at first, but hear nothing so they break down the door and rush into the house. They yell as they rush around the house, looking for the family, but no one responds.

The smell of copper from the bloody mess the murderer has left behind consumes them as they move up the stairs. With the medics behind them the police clear rooms one by one potentially destroying evidence. The master bedroom is the first room the paramedics enter upstairs as the door stands slightly ajar. There they find Stephen unconscious with blood dripping from the duct tape bandage on his right hand. His right cheek lies in a small pool of blood from his torn moustache. He is still duct taped to the bed and, next to him, lays his dead wife. The first officer in the room takes one look around and runs to the master bath and vomits up his lunch. Today is his first day, and the pen in her eye and the blood surrounding Stephen is just too much for him to handle.

The police officers go back into the hall to allow the medics to work on Stephen. James is fairly new to the force and has never seen such a violent crime. While he is upset that this happened to the family, he is also excited to be involved in what will likely be a big case for his station. His partner, Bob, is tired and waiting to retire soon. He is trying to pass on his knowledge to James, but feels that sometimes James lacks compassion for others.

James enters six year old Billy’s room. Above the red race car bed, Billy’s name is carved into a piece of driftwood. There are little green army men scattered around the floor as if it was the beaches of Normandy. James sees numerous trophies on his dresser top for various sports. James wonders how Billy could have slept through all the mayhem in his parents’ room. He doesn’t want to startle the boy as this is going to be a terrible night for him. The officer wants to take him out of the house before he can see anything that has happened to his parents just down the hall. He tries to lift the small boy up very carefully as not to wake him.

However, Billy isn’t ever going to wake up. Billy lays in James’ arms like a limp doll. The murderer had smothered him with his pillow and, after he was sure he was dead, he cut off his finger and thumb from his right hand. The lack of bruising around the cuts indicates Billy’s heart was not beating at the time. James says a silent prayer that his future children will never go through this and gently places the boy back down.

Written on the wall in blood, only visible after James turns on the car-shaped lamp, is, “LIKE FATHER LIKE SON”. James can only imagine what this monster has done to the little girl. Right then, he gets a huge lump in his throat as he sees Bob walk out shaking his head.

For some reason, James has to see this other room. Maybe by seeing the chaos, he can understand and control it. Sandy’s room is very upbeat. There are pink walls, a princess bedspread, and dozens of stuffed animals on her bed and dresser. He can feel her presence and happiness just by walking into her world. She is only three yet there she is having been smothered with her own pillow. Her finger and thumb are missing, and just like her brother, they were removed after she was murdered. Written in blood on the wall is, “WHORE JUST LIKE MOM”.

Bob drops to his knees and starts sobbing right there. He thinks of his grandchildren, who are about Sandy and Billy’s ages. What would he do if this ever happened to them? How could a human being do this to children? he thinks. James doesn’t know what to do except pat Bob on the shoulder. He is having the same thoughts, but isn’t as affected since his kids do not exist yet.

As James and Bob re-enter the master bedroom, they see Stephen being transferred to a gurney. He has an IV in his arm. He looks up at them and says in a hoarse voice, “Please check on my kids. They’re down the hall.” The officers exchange a quick knowing look. They assure Mr. Bjornson that they will take care of everything while he gets treated.

Stephen starts to feel woozy from the drugs that were given to him by the paramedics and finally closes his eyes into a deep sleep. As they push Stephen out into the hallway the paramedics ask the police officers if they need to help the children. Bob shakes his head no, putting one finger to his lips to indicate silence; He then puts his head down again to pray.

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Genre – Mystery / Thriller

Rating – PG

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