Lyrissa is a woman on a mission with a haunted past. Peggy is a woman in a new world on a quest. The Agency and the Queen both want Peggy. Will Lyrissa help her client for a healthy sum or will she find the courage to let Peggy escape so they can both go home?

Coastal Zone, August 14, 2319

“That stairway leads into the house.” Ron Sherman the middle-aged reluctant caretaker of the place stood there in his khakis every bit a naturalist as he pointed at the front door.
“It's not a house, she called it a structure,” Martha Sherman said.
“Yeah.” Ron tilted his head toward the building. “Looks more like some new kind of architecture they'd have in the city, big but—”
“—juvenile.” Martha ended his sentence as if they’d discussed the house before.
“Yeah, in an odd way.” The reluctant caretaker grew a half smile.
And it kinda' was. My eyes followed a set of distorted orange plastic stairs as they crooked and wound their way to the pale blue front door of this strange looking structure on the worn and ancient sedimentary outcropping. The last rays of the day’s sun splashed iridescent colors off the yellow shutters in an unearthly way complimenting the lavender and mint green trim. There, on the rocky ledge, with my back to the vast ocean vista I looked at the structure. A culmination of oddities, I thought. Shit, it looks familiar, like a child’s dollhouse. It brought back old thoughts that made me shiver. My old man would stand with a whisky bottle in one hand and the other ready to strike Mom or I without notice.
“Asshole,” I mumbled.
“What was that?” Martha asked.
“Nothing.”
The house appeared to glow in the sun’s fading light. It made me stop to ponder. Who would build such a structure? And why?
“She said she wanted to have a nice view of the ocean. Don’t know why she chose a cliff that was pitted with sonic cannon fire from the war? She could’ve moved further down the coast.” He looked up the coast at the Swiss cheese-like coastline then cringed. “Wars.” He shook his head. “Still haven’t figured out how she got up here. Forrester claimed she used some kinda’ tractor beam like they do in those old fashioned science fiction movies.”
“I knew she was odd.” Martha shook her head.
“Is that why she left?” I scanned the horizon and sheltered my eyes from glare of a WWIII aircraft carrier.
“Yup. She just abandoned the house, or should I say structure.” The naturalist turned to look at his wife.
“She left just after the stairs were put on that thing.” Martha pointed to the Victorian jellybean of a house.
“Had those specially made—” Ron gestured toward the orange plastic stairs, “—and hasn't been back since. That was...”
I glanced over my shoulder and looked at Ron over my sunglasses.
“Almost a month ago now,” he said.
I drew in a silent breath. “She was here a month ago?”
“Almost a month.” His eyebrows bent in an inquisitive arch. “Why did you say you were here, again?”
“My client needs to find her.”
Ron put a hand on his hip. “We'll, that's all there is to see.”
“We can't get into the house?” I asked.
“No, Ms. Donaldson, that would be considered trespassing, wouldn't it?” He raised an eyebrow formed a half smile.
I smiled. “Yes, you're right. It's Lyrissa.”
“Pardon?”
“Please, call me by my first name, Lyrissa.”
Martha pulled her sunglasses down her nose and gave me a distant but skeptical look from under the brim of her sun-goddess booney hat. “We should be going.”
The beautiful ocean vista in front of me made me sigh. This was not what I had in mind when I took this job, I realized. As an eagle soared past with familiar wings, I remember looking at the air force wings on the General’s plaque covered wall the first time I met him.
“Why not join us in Air Force Intelligence?” General Ralph Jenkins asked as he leaned back in his chair and reviewed a holographic dossier from behind his desk.
“At Lucasville? Didn’t the Star Gazer Program originate there?” The General looked up. Without saying a word his eyes inspired me to question. “‘Turn my eyes skyward.’ That’s the spec ops slogan, isn’t it, General?”
“Perhaps the Queen feels more of a female presence will protect her safety now that her father is dead,” General Jenkins offered. “That’s why I had you brought here Donaldson.” He put down the screen and leaned forward in his seat. He looked me up and down. Then motioned toward an empty chair.
“As much as I’d love to fly for you General, I can’t.” I sat, but my body was still rigid with expectations.
“Why pass up the chance to be one of a chosen few women?”
I saw flames from my childhood home as they licked at the window’s edge. My body went numb.
“Donaldson, are you with me?”
“Yes, sir I—”
“Damn it, Major, this is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
I tried not to expose my past with any telling behaviour. I crossed my legs and gave a half grin. Now that he’d played the gender card I felt a sense of release. “Well, General, it's complicated.”
“I see, perhaps this isn’t the career for you, Donaldson.” The General picked up his holographic dossier screen and swiped the image clean.
I’d left the room like I was walking through mud. My military life was the only one I’d known since I left the farm. Acids in my stomach churned. Oblivious to my surrounds, I stepped forward. I attended to the pounding surf below. I was some two hundred meters above the rocky coastline. I gulped then followed the two naturalists away from the structure. We walked to the ladder.
“Make sure you get a good grip.” Martha disappeared out of sight.
I peered down at the rope ladder. I saw Martha descend with elegant ease. I shifted my gaze to the rocky ocean coastline. A cool ocean breeze brushed past my face, and I gulped again. Ron came up behind me and patted my shoulder.
“Ms. Donaldson, I mean Lyrissa, remember, don't look down. It's the worst thing a first-timer can do. Look out at the horizon.” Ron flourished a hand toward the ocean vista in front of me, which, just moments ago, had been a beautiful and inviting oasis.
The sun-lit horizon beyond the coast was breathtaking. As I drank in the intoxicating ocean spray I felt my body relax. The tension released from my shoulders.
I heard an unfamiliar click. “What are you doing?” I froze

Kim started writing short stories as a young child but didn’t even consider writing a novel until she became a high school teacher. Her female science students weren’t connecting with the great WHY question of science the science fiction movies she showed in class presented. Kim realized these young women were much like her, unable to find themselves in the text. At that moment Kim realized she needed to write science fiction and fantasy stories to help those young women and all women have a voice. She wanted to introduce them to the far off realms she dreamed of as a child.

The Alien Encounter Series started out as a short story and grew from there. It will be a four volume set. It starts with the first novel Going Home and next book in the series, Gone Home, is slated for publication in late spring 2013.

Kim loves Jane Austen novels so she couldn’t resist trying her hand at a paranormal romance—the Deeps Trilogy. The first book in the trilogy, Stirrings, will be available for purchase on Amazon in the summer of 2013 with the second book to follow before fall 2013.

Not long after Kim was diagnosed with a disability she had to let her 17 year old cat go. She misses Joe very much and will be writing about her in an upcoming series.

Kim lives in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia with her husband and a library filled with books. She loves to take pictures for inspiration and paints in her spare time to relax.

"Come on you two." called Kirsty from the foot of the stairs. "Get a move on or you will be late for school and I will be late for work."

"Sorry mum." replied Susan as she came out of the bedroom. "Emma couldn't find her shoes but we are ready now, just coming."

Kirsty closed and locked the front door as they all left the house, pressed the remote button to unlock the car doors and the girls climbed on to the back seats as Kirsty started the engine. She made sure they were safely strapped in and drove them to school where she gave them both a hug and a kiss before leaving them to join their friends in the playground.

Waving to them as she drove away she made her way to Beltens supermarket on the edge of West Town where she parked her car in her usual spot, made sure it was securely locked and walked across the car park to the staff door at the side of the building.

"Good morning Betty," she said to a colleague who was just clocking in "another day to look forward to. Same old routine, nothing ever changes."

"At least we've got a job," replied Betty "better than some."

Kirsty walked across the room to look at the staff rota and find out what tasks were expected of her today. Her first job was to restock the clothing area on the shop floor. She was pleased at that, it was something she enjoyed doing and would put her in a good mood for the rest of the day. She found her supervisor who gave her the key to the clothing stockroom and a few instructions on what to give priority to.

She opened the door to the stockroom, switched on the lights and looked around to familiarise herself with the layout. She noticed a shopping trolley in the left-hand corner of the room and wondered what it was doing there. It appeared to be full of clothes. Kirsty knew that the shopping trolleys should not leave the shop floor and certainly should not be used to move stock.

She went to the trolley to check it over, she must report it to the supervisor before doing anything else.

As she approached the trolley she could see that it did not contain stock but a heap of clothes that were creased and strangely placed. Then she noticed what looked like a human hand up tight against the wires at the bottom of the trolley. Now she could see, with a sudden shudder of shock, that a body was curled up and had been forced tightly into the trolley.

Involuntarily her hand went up to her mouth to smother a scream. This was the last thing she had expected to see.

Kirsty went out of the stockroom, locked the door and hurried to find her supervisor.

CHAPTER SIX

The choppers flew at a high altitude over the deep green jungle and hills. Occasionally, they passed over clearings on the peaks of hills - prior landing zones created by soldiers with C-4 explosives or possibly the result of dropped bombs and fired rockets from past encounters with the enemy.

It was ironic how beautiful everything appeared from this height; it seemed to be a tropical paradise - like photographs seen in a National Geographic magazine. There’s a war going on here? How can that be? Unfortunately, for those aboard, it was the one and only time they would think of this place as paradise.

During this sightseeing excursion, each Cherry sat nervously on the chopper with his weapon held tightly in his hands. Eyes displayed fear, and they cast frenzied glances throughout the aircraft. Most chewed gum, moving their jaws rapidly in nervous anticipation of landing in the hostile bush for the first time. The speed of the choppers seemed slow from this height, but in reality, they were traveling over one-hundred knots per hour.

After twenty minutes in the air, a chimney of yellow smoke rose from the corner of a small clearing ahead. The door gunners, alerted to the impending landing, moved into action. They raised the machine guns toward the surrounding jungle and peered over the top for any signs of the enemy.

The chopper banked slightly and began to drop toward the smoke-filled clearing.

“Nice knowing you, Bill,” John said, looking into Bill’s sympathetic eyes.

“Likewise, buddy” Bill responded.

Two soldiers, stood sixty feet apart in the waist-deep elephant grass, holding their rifles high overhead – the pilots bore down on the men and landed just to their front. Once down, groups of soldiers dashed into the clearing and ran toward the choppers.

“Get the fuck off the bird and hurry into the tree line,” one of them hollered over the noise to the helicopter full of Cherries. He pointed toward a large bamboo thicket on the edge of the clearing.

The Cherries pulled themselves across the floor and leapt from the chopper, running as fast as they could toward the protective cover of the jungle tree line. Once there, the eight soldiers bent over at the waist, gasped for air, and awaited instructions. The new arrivals, fascinated by the group of soldiers in the clearing, watched intently as they unloaded the choppers. They pushed and threw everything out of the doors and onto growing piles on the ground, emptying the supplies in thirty seconds. The guide-on soldier, patiently waiting in front of each chopper, gave the pilot a thumbs-up sign when everyone was clear of the aircraft. Acknowledging, the pilots prepared for departure. The whining pitch of the turbines increased and the chopping sound made by the rotors intensified; on cue, the pilots jerked their birds back into the sky.

When they were gone, the unloading party picked up and began carrying boxes and sacks to different locations around the small clearing.

“Hey, guys follow me,” one of them said as he passed, carrying a case of C-Rations on each shoulder.

He led them through the brush to a spot where a group of ten men sat around, some conversing in a small circle.

“This is the Company Command Platoon (CP),” the stranger informed the Cherries. “Stay right here and somebody will help you in a minute.” He continued to move across the area to deliver the supplies he was carrying.

The captain was in a conference with his four lieutenants. They sat on the ground in a small circle, individual maps laid out in front of them. Two of the lieutenants were drawing symbols and sketching reference lines on their maps with grease pencils as the captain discussed his plan for the next three days - reviewing routes of travel, prospective ambush sites, and potential hot spots. The other soldiers outside of the circle, sat and lay casually on the ground in small groups. Their rucks and attached PRC-25 radios sat beside them; two of the radios had long, twenty-foot tall antennas attached. The radio operators continuously chatted on their handsets, coordinating with the firebase and Battalion HQ in Cu Chi.

When the staff meeting ended, the captain was the first to acknowledge the new group of Cherries.

“Gentlemen,” he said to his officers, “it appears our new replacements have arrived.”

The lieutenants turned and candidly glanced at the group. The captain, a short man appearing to be no older than the Cherries themselves, stepped out of the circle and moved toward them.

Waving to them with his shorter, modified M-16 rifle, he quipped, “Welcome to the war. I’m Captain Fowler.” He stopped, turning toward the four second lieutenants, who were rising slowly from the ground, folding their maps. He motioned to the four officers and turned his head to address the Cherries.

“These men are the officers of Alpha Company,” he began, “Lieutenant Ramsey is from the First Platoon.” A tall, blond-haired man with wire-rimmed glasses acknowledged the group with a smile. “Lieutenant Monroe is from the Second.” A light skinned, black man with the right brim of his boony hat folded up Aussie-style raised his arm in greeting.

“What’s happening, blood?” one of the black Cherries asked, raising a clenched fist in the air.

“At ease, troop!” Lt. Monroe replied, his stare hard and glaring.

The captain, glancing between the two men, wondered how far this would go. Satisfied, he continued, “This is Lieutenant Carlisle from the Third.” He motioned to a slightly overweight and shortest of the four men, who smiled broadly.

“Most of you are assigned to my platoon,” he volunteered cheerfully.

Captain Fowler smiled in acknowledgement. “And finally, we have Lieutenant Quincy from the Fourth Platoon.” The partially bald man and oldest of the four, removed a corncob pipe from his mouth and smiled, exposing a mouthful of crooked, yellow, nicotine-stained teeth.

“We work as a team in the bush,” the captain continued. “Every one of us wants to get out of this alive and return to our families in one piece. So listen to your squad leaders and follow their instructions.

“The company will be leaving in two hours. You men already know your platoon assignments, so join up with your respective officer and they will show you where the rest of your platoon is camped. So let’s get this resupply over with and get out of here.” Captain Fowler was all business and did not give any of them a chance to ask questions.

Seeing Lt. Ramsey gathering up his gear, John quickly left the group of Cherries and moved toward him.

“Excuse me, sir, my name is John Kowalski. It appears I’m the only one going to the First Platoon.”

The L-T picked up his rucksack with the left hand and swung it over his shoulder. He then offered John his right hand. “Glad to meet you, John,” he said, shaking the soldier’s hand warmly. “Did you join this man’s Army or were you drafted like many of us?”

“I was drafted, sir.”

“You can dispense with the formalities out here in the bush. There’s no need to call me “sir”; L-T will be fine.”

“Yes sir, I mean L-T,” John replied.

Lt. Ramsey chuckled.

“Come on and follow me. I’ll show you where our position is.”

John followed Lt. Ramsey as he led him around the outskirts of the clearing to the other side of the LZ. En route, they passed various groups of soldiers lying about in the underbrush. They were writing letters, eating, sleeping, playing cards, or packing their rucks with new supplies. A few of them looked up as the two passed, offering a nod of encouragement. Others made comments from the shadows.

“Welcome to Hell, Cherry.”

“Just look at this! Uncle Sam is robbing the cradle and sending them over right out of grade school.”

“Somebody throw this boy a towel, so he can wipe behind his ears.”

“Fuck him, he probably won’t last the night.”

There was laughter as the men congratulated each other for their ingenuity and quick wit.

“Don’t pay any attention to them,” the L-T offered, “it’s kind of an initiation, and we all go through it.”

The two-man parade continued.

When they reached their destination, only a handful of grunts were sitting in the shade around twice as many rucksacks.

“Just park it right here,” Lt. Ramsey instructed. “You’ll be in Sixpack’s Squad.”

“Where are they now, L-T?”

“They’re on Listening Post (LP) about two-hundred meters out, watching for Charlie in case he tries to surprise us during the resupply. I’ll introduce you to them when they get back in.” The L-T walked away.

John sat on the ground away from the others and waited, leaning against a thick trunk. He scanned the dense vegetation and thought about the woods on Belle Isle back home.

Belle Isle was a small island in the middle of the one-half-mile wide Detroit River, located between the shores of downtown Detroit and Windsor, Ontario, Canada. The island was notorious for many reasons, and was used as a loading point for bootleggers, ferrying alcohol from Canada during Prohibition. One obtained access to the island by crossing over a quarter-mile long bridge from the east shore of Detroit, unless, of course, he had a boat - there were several marinas with docks in which to moor any size watercraft. In 1926, it was from this very same bridge that the famed magician, Harry Houdini, attempted a dangerous water-escape trick. It ultimately resulted in his death – he drowned in the murky waters below.

The residents of Detroit came to the island for relaxation and to escape the heat and stresses of big city living. During a summer weekend, the beaches, picnic areas, athletic fields, zoo, aquarium, and flower gardens overflowed.

As an alternative to visiting the crowded public areas, many people simply cruised the loop around the island, driving slowly to enjoy the cool island air. The panorama of freshly manicured lawns, ornamental flower beds lining the road, and lovers paddling canoes through the many internal canals was enough to tranquilize the senses.

It was common to see families either sitting on blankets at the shoreline or parked in cars on the side of the road. Everyone watched in awe as the large lake freighters and pleasure boats passed in both directions.

For families of modest means - such as John’s – Belle Isle offered the closest thing to a vacation they’d experience, and for many, it was their only frame of reference for the great outdoors.

At night, however, the island took on an entirely different aura. The woods on the island were always dark and mysterious. Sometimes, while driving through the shadowy forest, deer and other forms of wild life suddenly made their presence known to the people venturing into their domain. Vines and bushes surrounded the tall trees, growing wild, reaching up from the ground to choke them. The brush was so thick it was near impossible to enter beyond twenty feet of the road. Insects thrived both in the island air and on the ground.

Sometimes at night, teenagers would dare each other to make their way through the woods on foot. Tales of murderers, thieves, bums, and the ghost of The Great Houdini lurking around in the eerie shadows, compelled the jittery youths to bolt through the dark abyss.

The foreign sounds of jungle wildlife interrupted John’s reverie. The sight of a weasel-like monkey swinging through the branches above further catapulting the young soldier back to reality. It was difficult to see the bright sun through the thick foliage; the jungle was filled with creeping shadows, making it appear late in the afternoon. John glanced at his watch and was stunned to find it was not yet noon.

The damp ground and musty smell made him feel uncomfortable. When he looked into the clearing of the LZ, the bright sunlight affected his eyes as it did when exiting a dark movie theater in the middle of the day.

The radio operator nearby could be heard calling out, “L-T, both LP squads are coming in.”

“Thanks Bob. Notify the rest of the perimeter,” the L-T ordered, “No reason at all for an accident.”

As his eyes gradually adjusted to the change in light, John made out the forms of approaching men.

Even from a distance of fifty feet, he could make out the noticeable and jagged scar on Sgt. Holmes’ face; it started just above his top lip - a thick black mustache concealed most of it - and then continued across the left side of his face, ending abruptly below the ear. John would find out later that it was the result of a car accident twelve years earlier, that claimed the life of his older brother. Holmes’ shaggy and curly black hair appeared longer than most, a green bandanna tied securely around his head kept the hair out of his eyes. At six feet, six inches tall, he towered above the rest of the soldiers.

Larry carried an M-60 Machine Gun across his shoulder. An unbroken belt of ammunition wrapped around his body from his waist up to his chest. His build was similar to Sgt. Holmes, but stood almost a foot shorter. Somehow, he had managed to find a black beret, which covered the blond hair on his head. Larry wore a pair of oversized plastic-rimmed glasses, which, at first glance, appeared to be goggles. He was the first to spot John.

He pushed Sgt. Holmes to get his attention. “Hey, Sixpack, look, it’s the Polack,” he hollered out in surprise.

“I’ll be damned!” Sgt. Holmes said, surprised to see John sitting there.

Both raced over to where John now stood, wrapping their sweaty arms around him.

“Polack, what a surprise,” Larry exclaimed.

“Am I ever glad to see you guys!”

“So am I,” Sgt. Holmes added, “it’s always good to see a friendly face.”

“What squad are you in?” Larry asked after releasing John from a bear hug.

“The L-T said I was going to Sixpack’s Squad. I’m waiting for him to show up.”

“Look no more,” Sgt. Holmes said, “you’re looking at him.”

“No shit?”

“No shit, Polack.”

“Why do they call you that?”

“I’ll tell you later when there’s more time.”

“Hey, Sixpack,” Larry interrupted, “we better get our supplies before they’re all gone.”

“You’re right. Polack, stay right here, we’ll be back in a short.” Grabbing their rucksacks, both headed over to the stash of First Platoon supplies. A red nylon bag with ‘U.S. MAIL’ stenciled in bright white letters lay off to the side. Larry dropped two letters into the bag and picked out a pair of washed fatigues from a pile of delivered clothes. Both he and Sixpack were in dire need of new fatigues, as theirs were torn and heavily soiled with sweat. While changing, John noted neither of them were wearing underwear or a belt.

“Junior wasn’t bullshitting me,” John said to nobody in particular.

After the change, they quickly picked out their supplies and began packing them into the deflated rucksacks. In ten minutes, both returned to the area with bulging rucksacks.

“Polack, come with me,” Larry said upon reaching John, pulling him up by the arm. “I’ll introduce you to the rest of the squad.”

They walked over to the only remaining people who were busy packing their own rucksacks.

“Hey, guys, we have a new member in the squad. I want you all to meet Polack. We go all the way back to Basic Training,” Larry informed them, placing his arm across John’s shoulders.

John smiled to each of them as Larry said their names and pointed them out. “This is Zeke, Wild Bill, Doc, Frenchie, Scout, and the Vietnamese is Nung.”

They all acknowledged John, either nodding or giving him a faint wave when Larry introduced him.

“I can see you’re all busy, so we’ll talk to you guys later.” Larry turned to leave with John in tow.

“Why is there a Vietnamese with the squad?” John asked.

“Nung is our Kit Carson scout. He used to be an enemy soldier, but changed sides after some renegade Communists killed his family. He once fought against us in this very same area, so after retraining in Saigon, he is now our scout. Nung usually knows when something is not right. The other guys have said that his intuition had saved this platoon many times already; they have a lot of respect for him.”

“Can he really be trusted?” John asked.

“Hell yes, man, he’s like one of the family.”

After returning, they found Sixpack sitting on the ground, leaning against his rucksack and smoking a large cigar. Both sat down on the ground close to him.

“Hey Sergeant, how about telling me why they call you Sixpack now,” John asked.

“I guess now is as good of a time as any,” he replied after exhaling a puff of cigar smoke in John’s direction. “I brought a six-pack of beer to Nam with me from Oakland. It’s stored back in the rear with my belongings, and I plan to open the cans and suck them dry in a celebration during the flight home after my tour. The guys in Cu Chi were pretty amused by this and began calling me Sixpack, so the name stuck.”

“Did anybody else we know make it to the 25th with you?” Larry pushed his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose.

“Only one I know for certain is Bill Sayers. He went to the Third Platoon.”

“No shit. Do you remember him, Sixpack?” Larry asked.

“Not really.”

“Bill Sayers is that red-headed hillbilly who looked like Howdy Doody. We met up with him in Oakland?”

“Oh yeah, I remember him now. Everything fascinated him.”

“That’s the guy!”

The three of them collected their gear and then joined up with the rest of their squad.

Before they had a chance to start any conversations, the L-T walked over. “I can see you found the right squad,” he said, looking directly at John. “The three of you act like old buddies. Do you know each other from back in the world?”

Sixpack responded, “Polack and Larry were both in my AIT Platoon back in Fort Polk.”

“Polack - is that his new nickname?” L-T Ramsey asked.

“No, he got it in Basic. We’ve been calling him that since,” Larry volunteered.

“That’s great – Polack it is! I do hate to break up this reunion,” he said, turning to address the squad as a whole. “The bird is on its way to pick up the mail and extra supplies. We will be moving out as soon as it is airborne. Third Platoon will be on point, and we will follow with the Company CP. Get your people ready, Sixpack.” The L-T turned and walked back to join his RTO, Bob.

“Oh, just fucking great!” Zeke protested. “Those motherfuckers make one loud noise while they’re with us, I’ll shove those radios right up their asses.”

“What’s wrong with the CP?” Sixpack asked.

“Those guys don’t know what it’s like to be quiet. They’re forever yakking on their radios, cussing and complaining during the humps, breaking branches, and always slowing things down.”

“That’s not fair, Zeke,” Sixpack interrupted, “we need those guys and their radios in the bush.”

“I know we need the radios, but I just don’t care for the fuckers that carry them. They make me too nervous.”

“Relax, Zeke, let’s see how it plays out. Maybe there’s been a change since you moved with them last.”

“Okay, but if they . . .” Zeke stopped abruptly at the sound of a smoke grenade popping out on the LZ. The familiar whipping and chopping sound of an impending Huey helicopter echoed through the jungle, getting louder as it approached. It soon landed, picked up the unused supplies, and was airborne again within fifteen seconds.

After the sound of the chopper faded, the RTO called out, “Third Platoon is coming through, and we’re starting to move out.”

Within a minute, two soldiers approached and headed toward the hole in the jungle, where the two squads had come through earlier. The lead person (point man) held a machete in his right hand and carried his M-16 by the handle in his left. The person directly behind him carried a shotgun and followed the point man closely. There was a twenty-foot gap, and then a line of soldiers began to pass.

As they went by, those knowing each other exchanged words of encouragement.

Every one of them was bending forward at a thirty-degree angle, trying desperately to manage the heavy loads they carried. They would be lighter the next day, when some of the food and water were gone.

“Okay, saddle up! We’re moving out right behind these guys,” the L-T ordered.

As the First Platoon members struggled to stand and help one another to their feet, the last person in the passing column, Bill Sayers, approached. His eyes were wide and a smile lit his face when he saw John, Larry, and Sixpack standing together.

“Hey there!” He called, “can I get a transfer to your platoon?”

“Not right now, but hang in there, and I’ll see if I can pull some strings.”

“I’ll be counting on it, Sergeant Holmes.”

“It’s ‘Sixpack’ to my friends.”

Bill hesitated, “Okay, Sixpack.”

As he passed, members of the First Platoon fell in, joining the caravan. The heat was unbearable, feeling like an inferno. Shirts were already soaking wet from sweat and they had only been moving for ten minutes. John continuously wiped the sweat from his burning eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. Beads of sweat ran down his back, collecting in an uncomfortable puddle where the rucksack frame rested on the small of his back. He tried to relieve the itching sensation but could not do so without removing the rucksack.

Zeke’s helmet bobbed up and down in front of John as they inched along. He had only thirty days left before his yearlong tour ended. He had been with the same squad the entire eleven months, and at nineteen years old, was one of the “old timers” in the platoon. The L-T occasionally called on him for advice before sending out patrols, and considered him the platoon’s most valuable asset. In his time there, he had witnessed many situations requiring a cool head, and saw enough VC tactics to quickly recognize potential ambush sites. He was aggressive and did not cut any slack, which helped him get through it all without a scratch. John was to find out later that Zeke had already received two Bronze Stars for Valor for saving two grunts who were hit during a firefight and later trapped by the enemy. He had crawled through the gunfire and pulled them both to safety.

John’s steel helmet began to give him a stiff neck and the straps of the rucksack made his shoulders numb. Although he had always been fairly athletic and played football in high school, nothing he had ever experienced physically in his past even came close to this bone-deep exhaustion.

‘I hope we’ll be stopping soon for a breather. I can’t go on any further,’ he uttered to himself.

He continued to follow Zeke absentmindedly for another thousand steps. His only concern at that point was in finding a way to manage the extreme weight on his back coupled with the hellish temperature. Finally, word made its way back to the men to take a five-minute break. John let the weight of his ruck pull him to the ground. Once he slipped out of the ruck straps, the circulation returned to his numb shoulders, but the throbbing pain continued. He unhooked one of his quart canteens, drank three-quarters of the warm water, and then poured some of the contents over his head.

“Hey! Dumbass! Easy with the water,” Zeke scolded in a hushed voice. “It has to last you two more days. You keep drinking like that, and you’ll be out of water in an hour, get all cramped up, and fall flat on your ass.”

John was embarrassed, looking around; he noticed others taking very small sips of water; nobody pouring any over themselves.

“Sorry, Zeke,” John whispered back humbly. “Thanks for the advice.”

Two minutes passed and John looked to Zeke, whispering, “Why does everyone have green towels hanging from their necks? Isn’t it too hot for that?”

“The towel doesn’t make a difference in this heat, but it is a great help when humping. It serves as a cushion under your shoulder straps, and comes in handy for wiping sweat from your eyes instead of using your shirt sleeve.”

“Thanks, teach.”

“Don’t mention it.”

John quickly pulled his towel from his rucksack and draped it over his shoulders.

Up ahead, people began to move about and help each other to their feet. The caravan was on the move once again.

This time, the towel helped to make it a little easier on John. When the next break came, he was not hurting quite as bad.

In the two hours of humping, the company had only managed to travel one click (one thousand meters or one kilometer) through the nearly impenetrable jungle. The column stopped and bunched up when the point man came upon a large, unmarked trail. It measured ten feet across and showed signs of recent activity. The Third Platoon sent out small recon patrols to investigate in both directions, the rest of the company dropped in place for a break. After a twenty-minute delay, the column began moving once again.

When Sixpack’s Squad reached the trail, they crossed it one man at a time. As John moved across, he noticed a few members of the Third Platoon crouched fifty feet away on both sides of the column. They were watching for the enemy and providing security while the company traversed the open ground.

After the last man in the company had crossed the trail, the column halted once again. This time, however, it was to set up a Night Defensive Position (NDP).

Before assigning individual positions, Sixpack spoke to the other three squad leaders, coordinating the night ambush. Each squad had to give up two men. The eight soldiers would ambush the trail from two different locations. Zeke and Frenchie from the First Squad quickly volunteered.

“I want to be as far away from this CP as possible. With only thirty days left in this country, I don’t want to get hit because of some noisy-assed radio operators,” Zeke declared.

“I don’t blame you!” Frenchie added.

As the L-T briefed the ambush teams, Sixpack assigned the remaining First Squad members to sleeping positions around their sector of the perimeter.

They shared a few machetes among themselves to dig out sleeping areas - hacking away at branches, roots, and stones until they were sure nothing protruded from the ground to poke at their sleeping bodies during the night.

When ponchos and liners were in place on the ground and gear was stored properly, only then could they prepare dinner. Everyone had his own recipe and special additives from home to make the C-Rations taste better. Heinz-57 sauce and Tabasco were two favorites; squad members shared them freely.

After dinner, Sixpack instructed his squad on the placement of claymore mines and trip flares. The guard position had to be set up in a central location to be accessible to every sleep position; a clear and unobstructed path was necessary so very little noise was made during the night when changing the guards.

It was evening and there was still a bit of light in the jungle when everyone finished their tasks to secure the NDP for the night. Each soldier took a few minutes to familiarize himself with the immediate surroundings. During the pitch black of night, when it was impossible to see, it was essential to know the routes of travel, as well as the sleeping position of your guard duty replacement.

Sixpack assigned each squad member an individual time for the night watch. John had the shift from five to six in the morning. Since it was the last watch, he also had the responsibility of waking everyone in the morning. He was ecstatic, and felt lucky to be able to get a full night’s sleep on his first night in the bush.

John squeezed out some “bug juice” into the palm of his hand, wiped the repellent across his exposed skin, and lay on his makeshift bed. He was completely spent from the long hump that day.

Sixpack walked up to him. “Hey, Polack, are you all squared away for the night?”

“As good as I’ll ever be.”

“Good. Later when you are on watch, the CP will call you on the radio for a situation report. Our call sign is Romeo-six. If everything is all right, you do not have to say anything, just push the call switch of the handset once – we call it keying the mike. Make sure the volume is set low on the radio and then hold the handset close during the watch. The radio is our lifeline, so if called or something unexpected happens; it has to be available quickly without any stumbling around in the dark to look for it. If you get nervous, wake me, I can keep you company. I know the first night in the bush is a bitch, and I can sympathize with you.”

“Romeo-six, keying the mike, keep the volume of the radio turned down, check, I think I have it,” John recited.

“Hang in there,” Sixpack replied, then turned to leave.

“Sixpack!” John whispered. “How about answering a question before you leave?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“The night before last, when I was on guard duty at Firebase Kien, we saw a Cobra working out. Junior, the guy with me, said that Charlie Company saw something and had requested the artillery and gunships. Did they find anything?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t sound too good. The L-T told us earlier that it was more than they had bargained for.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“They sent out two squads on this routine patrol to check the area this morning and found six VC bodies. They began to celebrate and got careless, making too much noise on the return to their NDP. The VC heard them and immediately laid an ambush. When sprung, half of the men in the patrol went down. The rest took off, shooting wildly toward their ambushers to break contact. The intensity of the ambush made them believe they were greatly outnumbered. In their haste to escape, they left the dead and wounded behind. When they returned within an hour in full force, all the bodies were gone.”

“What will happen now?”

“They asked for Alpha Company’s help. We’ll link up with Charlie Company tomorrow and make a sweep of the area to see what we can find.”

“You think we’ll find the missing bodies?”

“I don’t know. We may run into the VC first. So we should prepare for the worst and be ready for anything.”

John took a few deep breaths. “I sure hope there aren’t going to be any VC around.”

“I’m not too fond of a firefight either, but don’t lose any sleep worrying about it - that will just make you crazy.” Sixpack advised and then started to walk away. "I’ll see you in the morning.”

John lay back down and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible. The exotic sounds of jungle wildlife were especially loud tonight. In the twilight, he tried to spot stars in the sky through the thick overhead growth. He knew it wasn’t possible to see the sun through the dense trees in the daytime, but just maybe it was different at night.

His astronomy search ended abruptly when he spotted something he hadn’t noticed earlier. Just several feet above his head were two huge spiders, both as big as pancakes, and sitting in the exact center of their circular webs. A chill ran down his spine and goose bumps broke out on his arms. He was scared to death of spiders, and it was too late to move to a new area. Furthermore, by no means was he going to knock them from their webs to crawl around on the ground with him.

Now, finding himself in an uncomfortable position, there was no alternative but to keep an eye on them. He stared at them for ten minutes, just to make sure they did not move around. As he did this, he noticed swarms of flying insects above the webs. The larger dragonflies and horseflies dominated the airspace as they darted through swarms of buzzing mosquitoes. He hoped that a few of them would get caught in the webs so the spiders would be occupied for the rest of the night and wouldn’t drop in on him while he slept.

John covered up with the poncho liner and tucked it in over his head. It was enough to keep out the swarms of flying insects, but the buzzing around his ears was unbearable.

“Hey, Polack, get up, it’s your watch,” someone whispered in his ear.

He sat upright and tried focusing his eyes in the now pitch-black darkness. It was no use, and he wondered if it was possible to have gone blind while asleep.

“Who’s that?” John whispered.

“It’s Scout,” the same voice replied. “Take hold of my arm, and I’ll guide you to the watch area.”

He picked up his rifle and ammo then snatched a handful of Scout’s shirt, following him like a blind man. In spite of his best efforts earlier to memorize landmarks, John was very unaware of his location, which caused a feeling of total helplessness.

“Are you going to be alright, Polack?” Scout asked, sensing something was wrong.

“Scout, I think I’m blind. I can’t see shit,” John whispered.

“Give it a couple of minutes. Just sit down and I’ll stick around until your night vision comes to you.”

John sat quietly with Scout. After a few minutes, he could finally make out the shadows of a few bushes and trees to his front. When John turned to face him, he could see the sharply defined profile of the Cherokee soldier nicknamed ‘Scout’ sitting next to him in the darkness.

“Okay, thanks, I can see you, so I’ll be fine now.”

“I’m glad. It is always a bitch when you first wake up in the bush. It happens to everyone. Oh well, at least I still have forty-five minutes to get some sleep. Here’s the radio handset,” he said, holding it out and tapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”

He vanished into the darkness, leaving John alone at watch.

John sat perfectly still, straining to see. He held the handset to one ear and tried to listen in on the eerie jungle sounds with the other.

“Thank God it’ll be light in half an hour,” he said to himself.

Just then, he heard a rush of static in the radio receiver and a voice whispering, “Romeo-six, this is Alpha-one, sit-rep, over.”

John squeezed the handset once, as Sgt. Holmes had instructed him earlier, which caused the noisy static to cease for an instant and then return after releasing the button.

“Sierra-six, this is Alpha-one, sit-rep, over,” the voice through the handset continued. A break in the static was their response. That continued for the next couple of minutes until all the elements of the company had responded - including the ambush teams.

The jungle began to lighten up a little at a time toward the end of John’s shift. He watched as a fog began materializing. The moist dew appeared to move as it saturated everything within four feet of the ground. When he felt his poncho liner and fatigues, he found they were already wet.

At six o’clock, he took his rifle and walked over to where Sixpack was sleeping. After John gave him a couple of shakes, he opened his eyes.

“Morning, Sarge,” John said cheerfully. It’s time to get up.”

Sixpack jumped to his feet and began to stretch.

“Thanks, Polack,” he said. “Start waking everyone else in the squad and tell them to hurry and eat breakfast. We have to be ready to leave on a patrol at seven.”

“OK, will do.” John left to wake the other five men, making sure he passed on the information as Sixpack had instructed. As he was doing this, the two ambush teams had arrived at the NDP, and individual members were moving through and returning to their designated squad locations. Sixpack caught both Zeke and Frenchie when they arrived and personally informed them of the upcoming patrol.

When John returned to his sleep area to pack up his gear, he looked up and found the two spiders still centered in the webs. Had they not been there, he would have scoured the ground looking for them before sitting down.

He pulled out a heat tab and began to heat some water for cocoa. It was ironic for a person in this country to be so very hot during the day, yet so cold at the night.

John added a packet of cocoa powder to his canteen cup of boiling water, stirring the contents with a plastic spoon. Before taking a drink, he raised the cup as in a toast, and said, ‘I made it through my first day in the bush, only 335 more days to go.’

John Podlaski served in Vietnam during 1970 and 1971 as an infantryman with both the Wolfhounds of the 25th Division, and the 501st Infantry Brigade of the 101st Airborne Division. He was awarded the Combat Infantry Badge, Bronze Star, two Air Medals, and a Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry. He has spent the years since Vietnam working in various management positions within the automotive industry and he recently received his Bachelor of Science degree in Business Administration. John is a member of Vietnam Veterans of America Chapter 154 and lives with his wife, Janice, in Sterling Heights, Michigan. They own a 1997 Harley-Davidson Heritage and are both members of the Great Lakes Chapter of South East Michigan’s Harley Owner’s Group.

My road blood ripened the day I got wise to love. No one walks Highway 33 but there I was on that godforsaken two-lane road. There was nothing but quail calls, my wind-whipped hair and my twitchy feet. Wedding jitters, Doctor Hernandez had said. But that walk was different than any other. Every flip-flop step asked a question.

Why tonight? Not our wedding night? What if I’m no good? What if I’m worse than the other girls? Did all that matter anymore?

I didn’t have any answers. And for the first time in my life I thought it might be like Daddy said––some things should be left alone. Wild oats blew in the desert wind, bowing this way and that. The oats and I were alike in a lot of ways. Their whispers brought on a prayer even though I wasn’t churchy anymore. I prayed for courage. Not my kind, the kind that makes me sweat so I know it’s there. No, I prayed for Poppa’s war courage. Momma’s daddy, may he rest in peace.

One foot in front of the other.

An almond orchard’s branches tangled against the tie-dyed sky. Once upon a time, when I was a little girl, I played in the orchard next to our house and turned its creature-like trees into royal knights. Back then, when I dreamed of my Prince Charming, he built owl houses to help control pests, brought me persimmon presents, and knew the best secret hiding places and how to surprise me. I never dreamed of a fairy godmother though. Not one time. Fairy godmothers don’t visit desert princesses, especially ones who fall for uncharming princes. They prefer wiser girls who live in kingdoms with rolling green hillsides, and the opportunity for their ball-gown-wearing-shoe-losing daughters to dance and fall in love.

One foot in front of the other.

How could I escape my happily ever after gone-bad?

“No idea,” I said, fanning the fingers on my engaged hand, flicking them. One. Two. Three weeks until the wedding.

Bobby-approved friends? Bobby-approved food? Bobby-approved clothes?

The dusty truth seeped in with every step and made me shiver. My whole life was managed––first by my parents, then by my fiancé Bobby, even by my idiot ex-boss Charlie. I didn’t need my feet chiming in. I stopped walking. Fear’s as blind as love. But an asphalt heat rose through my rubber soles and seared my skin. The ripening made me move. Again. So I dug in my heels, did a one-eighty and headed for home, double-time, to make my date, the date, with Bobby. But my know-it all feet spun me back around. I covered my ears to drown out their trouble-making questions, but all I heard were my own.

What happened to Bobby and me? Why was I listening to my feet? Had I lost my mind?

A dirt devil twisted over a fallow field in the tired sun and spun my thoughts backwards to the second in Tar Canyon when Bobby’s eyes met mine and I knew only death would separate us. My Big, Fat, Lie-of-a-Life churned in my gut like the dirt devil. I doubled over, more alone than ever before, and I tied myself into a knot so tight I could hardly breathe. I’d been wrong about Bobby. Wrong about a lot of things.

When I caught my breath and lifted my head, the sun ricocheted into my eyes. Devil’s Rope twisted around the top of the chain-link fences that secured Avenal State Prison. I had no idea why my feet marched me there. It didn’t look like the kind of place a practically married, straight-A student would find the answers her feet demanded. But the ripening liked to surprise me.

I gripped the steel bars of the roadside prison sign and dangled underneath, swinging my feet, like I used to do once upon a time on the monkey bars. Somewhere between dangles, I stopped being me. Through silver links, in between long buildings with long windows, my eyes settled on what they’d only seen from afar, through the windows of Daddy’s car. Orange jumpsuits walking the yard. Some nights I’d walk like that–convict-style, in circles in my room before bed.

My stretched-out arms ached under the weight of my heart, hanging heavy in my chest. I swayed my feet from side-to-side, imagining our break-up. Saying the words that made me tremble, I can’t marry you. Saying the words that made me tremble more, I do. I’d walk down the aisle toward Bobby at The First Baptist Church of Avenal, where I’d been baptized as a baby by his father, and make the biggest mistake of my life in front of the entire congregation, everyone I’ve ever known. And my gut tensed like it does in the split-second before a person’s about to do the wrong thing.

A convict paused inside the chain-link with his hands on his hips. I let go of the prison sign, dropped to my feet and stood ramrod straight, as different from the wimpy oats as possible. We stared at each other. Him in his prison. Me in mine. We both knew what kept us walking in circles.

Standing there all eyeball-to-eyeball I felt closer to the convict, heck, the whole Errant Brotherhood than I did to anyone. It wasn’t in our nature to be free. Staring down that wimpy fact for the very first time gave me a clarity. The kind that takes hold when a person peels back their lies.

When the convict slipped back into the circular crowd, I grabbed a handful of San Joaquin soil and swirled the fingers of my free hand in the little mound of dirt in my palm. I touched my soil-stained fingers to my heart and became a Child of The Road. My hair let loose in the same sundowner breeze that caressed every inch of my skin and every people-pleasing part of me blew toward The Sierras and up over The Great Divide. Some take to the road to tame a squirrelly nature, or take to it as a tonic, but for me the ripening was more than a simple call to the road.

Which way? Left? Or, right?

I held tight to my dirt. Sweat beaded up under my bangs. I eyed Highway 33 in both directions. To the left was home––Bobby’s enchanting smile should be enough. But I’d never find my answers as Mrs. Bobby Jennings. To the right, God only knew. There was no guarantee I’d find my answers on the road. The wild oats bowed to the left. I turned right. Into the wind. Tiny rocks worked into burst blisters under the plastic between my toes. Quail flushed out of the pistachio orchard beside me.

A police siren wailed, coming up from behind. Uncle Earl slowed his patrol car to a creep and yelled over the siren before he switched it off. “Virginia Mae? Where in the hell are you going?”

“Didn’t know walking’s a crime Earl,” I said, my eyes fixed on the white line under my feet.

“That’s Uncle Earl, Virginia Mae…and look at me when I’m talking to you…”

But I didn’t hear the rest of what Earl said because the white line brought me back home in my mind to when the horrible-wonderful ripening first buzzed through me after school. I had pulled my bangs back and stroked my next-to-invisible lashes with brown-black mascara when my feet twitched, unsteadying my hand. A prickly heat tickled my toes and crawled up my thighs. It made me move when I most wanted to sit still. So I bunched my white sundress up, unhitched my strapless, boob-crushing, employee-discounted leopard bra and scooted out of its matching thong. I wadded up my sex-wear and buried that perfumed ball of lace and silk in my wastebasket between unwrapped Slimfast pills, crushed wedding-present boxes and crinkled Snickers wrappers.

My heart leapfrogged me back to the road when a gust of wind just about blew the whistle on my commando-self, right in front of Earl. I tripped on some weeds at the side of the highway as I patted down every inch of my churned up skirt, my face hotter than the asphalt under my feet.

“Your momma called two hours ago,” Earl said, leaning out of his patrol car, his face as red as the pomegranates Momma grew in the backyard. “Bobby took you for dead.”

I’d done the worst thing possible by standing Bobby up. Because doing that one true thing meant the rest of the truth wasn’t far behind. I’d have to tell Bobby I didn’t love him and that buzzed the heebie-jeebies through me. The kind I’d get when I’d rush to kill a black widow before it killed me. I had no idea what Bobby would do when I told him. I had no idea what he was capable of. But, in the end, nothing would frighten me more than myself.

My nothing-better-to-do uncle took a drag off his long cigar. “Now don’t you go crossing the Kern County line thinking I don’t have jurisdiction there. Cause let me tell you, ain’t no measily little thing like jurisdictions gonna keep me from hauling your butt back home where you belong. I’ve got lots of friends who owe me favors in Kern County. And I’ll call every one of them in. Don’t make them hog-tie you.” The only thing I hated more than Earl laughing at my life was him managing it.

His lead-foot got in the way of trying to keep my pace. One time he pulled his patrol car up so close I thought he might flatten my feet.

“Could haul your butt back right now, runaway,” Earl said, pointing the slobbery end of his cigar to the backseat. “Come on, hop in back with your wedding dress.” It hung, covered in clear plastic, behind Earl’s secured shotgun. A white-sequined, sweetheart neckline sparkled blue and red, keeping time with Earl’s police lights.

Earl eased his patrol car to a stop.

“Earl, it’s the twenty-first century, the one where women take walks by themselves or fly to the moon if they want to,” I said. “That time of the month, huh?” Earl chuckled under his breath. Most family get-togethers found the men patting each other on the back for being Masters of the Universe, while their wives huddled in the kitchen, some wishing away their vows to obey. Women in the family assumed us kids were hard of hearing once the white zin flowed.

Earl spun his tires on his way to catch up to me. “Get in the car, Ginny,” he said.

If I did, it’d be all over town in the morning––Virginia Mae Nolyn, lunatic walker, driven to insanity by her nosy feet. Apprehended by her Uncle Earl.

One foot in front of the other. Will I huddle? And drink white zin? And wish my life away?

“Did you hear me?” Earl said.

“I’m almost eighteen and I don’t take orders from anybody.” I twisted my too-tight engagement ring. Don’t want you ballooning up after our vows, Skinny Ginny, Bobby had said when I wanted it resized. “I’ll turn around. When I’m ready,” I said.

Earl glanced at my wedding dress, the ghost of myself behind bars in Earl’s backseat. “Wasn’t anywhere near Fresno, but I picked it up. Saved your runaway butt one hundred whole dollars––don’t your Auntie Dee just know everybody. No need to thank us,” he said like I was as deaf as Poppa.

On my wedding day Daddy would take his ranch-worn hand in mine and we'd walk down the red-carpeted aisle of The First Baptist Church of Avenal, toward Rev. Jennings. Daddy would lift my veil off my face and kiss me for the last time as his little girl. I’d walk past the very first pew to the altar and take Bobby’s hand. But my wedding dress turned into a convict’s jumpsuit in my mind.

“We have ways of bringing in hardened criminals such as yourself,” Earl said. His smile faded and he mumbled into his handheld radio before rolling his eyes and driving off. Earl’s siren blared when he took a right on Twisselman Road. I’d never been in more danger in my Big, Fat, Lie-of-a-Life.

I love writing about enchanted road trips, shadow worlds, and alien romance while eating lots of popcorn. I live in a tree house on the central California coast. After twenty-plus years as a freelance graphic designer/animator with clients including E! Entertainment Television and The Los Angeles Times, I crossed over into the world of publishing non-fiction and followed my heart to the world of fiction.

Lorilyn Roberts is a Christian author who writes children's picture books, adult nonfiction, memoirs, and a young adult Christian fantasy series, Seventh Dimension. The first in the series, The Door, was just published (October 2012).

Lorilyn graduated Magna Cum Laude from the University of Alabama, which included international study in Israel and England. She received her Masters in Creative Writing from Perelandra College and is a graduate of the Institute of Children's Literature.

Lorilyn is the founder of the John 316 Marketing Network, a network of Christian authors who are passionate about promoting books with a Christian worldview.

To learn more about Lorilyn, please visit her website at http://lorilynroberts.com or blog at http://lorilynroberts.blogspot.com. You can follow her on twitter at http://twitter.com/lorilynroberts. To connect with her personally, you can contact her by email at llwroberts at cox.net.

Who is murdering black men in Dublin, and why? Is it a racist, anti-immigrant group or are there other, hidden reasons for the killings? These are some of the questions that detective Jack O'Neill must answer in order to stop the carnage and save his career. But as the pressure -and the body count- mounts Jack finds that he must solve the case to save not just his job but his life as he becomes the killer's next target.

But Jack has personal demons of his own he must overcome, and a past that could yet destroy his last shot at redemption.

I was born in Dublin, Ireland, on the 27-03-1966, which makes me both old and an Aries; I do not believe in either but I seem to be stuck with the former at least. I have travelled extensively and as well as living in various parts of Ireland I lived for years in London, Holland, Germany, Poland and the USA. I returned to Dublin and married Eimear (a top litigation lawyer but a good person nonetheless, I swear) in 2001, which effectively ended the travelling, though we still like to roam the world on holidays. We have three boys whom I wouldn't swap for eternal life and shares in Apple. I don't remember deciding to be a writer; ever since I can remember I have considered myself one, and after writing various poems and short stories I completed my first full-length novel at the ripe old age of 10. Alas, I no longer have that story, which I would dearly love to read again, if only for a good laugh.

Why has a beautiful young woman been committed to an insane asylum? What is the truth behind a shadowy past containing drug use, promiscuity and murder? What secrets does she hold that others will kill to keep HIDDEN? These are questions that psychologist Kate Bennett must answer if she is to save her patient's sanity...and both their lives. But Kate has secrets of her own, and a dark past that will come back to haunt her.

Hidden is a thriller, set in Dublin, but it is also a voyage of self-discovery for Kate as she learns not just the truth about her patient, but some truths about herself.

Just a few of the many independent reviews for HIDDEN

'...a deeply gifted writer with a brilliant -a very brilliant- future indeed.'

'Suspenseful with a surprise ending...couldn't quit until I finished the book.'

'The best read ever. You will love it, as I did.'

'Loved the book...hated having to put it down.'

'Excellent read...well written.'

'Very suspenseful...great job!''

'Great book...thoroughly enjoyed it!'

'Mr. Parsons is a gifted writer who has an admirable command of language and sentence structure, making this a fascinating read.'

'I finished the book in three days...because I couldn't put it down!'

I was born in Dublin, Ireland, on the 27-03-1966, which makes me both old and an Aries; I do not believe in either but I seem to be stuck with the former at least.

I have travelled extensively and as well as living in various parts of Ireland I lived for years in London, Holland, Germany, Poland and the USA.

I returned to Dublin and married Eimear (a top litigation lawyer but a good person nonetheless, I swear) in 2001, which effectively ended the travelling, though we still like to roam the world on holidays.

We have three magnificent (if mental) boys whom I wouldn't swap for eternal life and shares in Apple.

I don't remember deciding to be a writer; ever since I can remember I have considered myself one, and after writing various poems and short stories I completed my first full-length novel at the ripe old age of 10. Alas, I no longer have that story, which I would dearly love to read again, if only for a good laugh.

HIDDEN is the first novel I have written for the public, with all my previous writing being intensely personal and for me alone. A second, REDEMPTION SONG, is now also for sale on Kindle.

Sunspots follows the healing journey of a young woman thrown into the horror of losing a spouse. It is a love story of loss and redemption and the ghosts that haunt our lives and our houses. Skirting the genres of magical realism and romance, Sunspots, explores the existence of the afterlife and the paranormal. The story takes the reader on a path of high emotion as the narrator, Aurora, uncovers her husband Jake's secret life and her own internal conflicts as she matures to self-awareness. The novel's tone vacillates from irreverent humor to solemnity as Aurora relates her previous life with Jake and her present challenges. The title refers to the solar maximum which became the backdrop for Aurora's conception when her hippy parents went to Canada to observe the Aurora Borealis. In name and in spirit, Aurora is connected to the observable and unobservable energy around us. With the help of friends, family, and the ghost of Viola Parker (her home's original owner), Aurora accepts her fate and the secrets revealed about Jake's true character. She realizes that in this life she will finally break the cycle of pain caused by her love for this man, Jake Stein, through the centuries.

Karen S. Bell continues to be in awe of the magical and wondrous phenomenon called life. As an observer and obvious participant in feminine values and approach to our human challenges, she brings this perspective to her work. Fascinated by the mysteries of the unseen forces that perhaps play a role in guiding our choices, she continues to search for answers in the mundane as well as in the cosmic forces that surround us. She is working on her third novel and lives in Ponte Vedra, Fl. with her husband and their two furry kids.

The cold in the panel truck had become almost unbearable for Amy. Amazingly, it did not seem to bother Thin Ralph as much. He was proud of having used his FBI credentials to obtain this vehicle from the Police impound lot when they had flown into Houston earlier that day. This small victory empowered him in his eyes and he was determined to enjoy it to the full. He had tilted the driver's seat back several degrees, to observe the house better he had said, and was now semi-reclining with his head tilted away, resting on the doorframe. It would have been a sell, if it were not for the gentle snoring coming from his obstructed sinuses.

Over at the house, nothing had changed; or had it?

Amy wasn't sure; it could have been a trick of the light. For a fleeting second, her own eyes not entirely focused on their target, something, someone had moved past one of the front windows. This in itself would not be unusual. On many occasions she had risen from a warm bed to visit the bathroom, or the kitchen for a glass of water, even some ice cream, in the middle of the night. Yet, in all those instances, she had switched on the room lights.

The house was still in darkness. If they had tried to have their vigilance sanctioned, maybe, perhaps, they could have brought some night-vision scopes. Instead she had her own binoculars, which she now raised to straining eyes.

The slight humidity in the air made the grey bricks of the dwelling shine in the moonlight. Could it have been the shadow of a branch from the trees in their target's yard, caught in the moonbeams as some nocturnal bird made it move? Everything was possible; more so from the safety of Ralph's sequestered panel truck. She dug Ralph in the ribs, eliciting a cacophony of grunts and gripes.

"I think I saw something. I'm going to take a look." Her right hand went to the holster on her hip. Simultaneously, she tapped her left inside ankle with her right foot. Amy pulled back on the door handle. The roof-mounted courtesy light flickered on. She pulled the door closed; the light went off. Reaching up, she sought the plastic switch that killed the light, prepared to break the fixture if it became necessary. Her fingers felt the rough edges of the switch and pushed it to a position as far from opposite to where it had been. The door pull did not illuminate the panel truck's cabin this time. She slid from her seat and stood outside. Ralph was now awake, watching her.

"I'm going to take a walk round the house; check if all the doors are locked. If I'm not back in a couple of minutes..." She left the phrase hanging. She had no idea what she expected Ralph to do, alone, if she did not return. Amy shook her head and took a tentative step toward the house.

As she crossed the street, she drew the standard issue Glock 22 from her hip. Despite the Firearms Instructor's insistence that the gun's three separate safety mechanisms meant she could, and should, have a round in the chamber at all times, Amy did not trust the weapon not to go off and injure someone. She remembered now to work the slide, forcing a round from the magazine into the chamber. She had never had to shoot in anger. Even on the four raids in which she had participated, she had been in the last contingent of agents, armed with repeating shotguns. By the time she had reached the fray, it had always been well and truly over. Now she was leading; her backup, pray he hasn't snoozed off again, at an ever-increasing distance.

She could almost feel the adrenalin course through her veins. Her fingers and toes tingled. Her hands were shaking.

She reached the low wall and black-painted railings at the front of the property. Reaching out, she unlatched the metal gate that gave onto the path to the front door. The hinges squealed as she pushed it inward, just enough to slip through. Four steps. Five. Behind her the gate crashed shut. She spun round, her gun levelled as they had taught her in Quantico. Should have closed it herself.

All pretence of stealth was now a thing of the past.

She ran to the front door and pushed with her left palm.

It was firmly locked. Moving along the grey brick wall to her left, she reached the large window, showing the lounge beyond. The moon's rays illuminated enough for her to make out the fireplace, with its dull red embers, and a large screen TV. To their right, a couch and a single cloth-covered lounge chair. All empty.

Amy kept moving reaching the end of the wall, peering around. Nothing. No one. She moved down the side of the house, passing a tall hedge. A few feet from the rear, a door with a single, broad, stone step. She peeked through a vertical glass slit set at head height. The kitchen. She could not see anyone inside. A big kitchen knife was lying on the central island. Its blade and handle shining in the light filtering through lace curtains.

Amy placed her hand on the doorknob and turned. She expected resistance; a locked door. The knob turned smoothly; the door swung toward her. She was tempted to go back to the panel truck; fetch Ralph. A sense of urgency filled her. If they were right; if it was here, now, the house occupant could be in deadly danger. Amy realised just how much Ralph and her had screwed things up. No one knew they were here. They had not even left a note for their bosses, or anyone in the BAU. That meant she was on her own... with Ralph.

Amy pulled the door wide and entered. She sniffed. Something in the air. A faint tinge. A slightly metallic odour. She stepped forward; her pistol held straight-armed before her; the smell stronger.

She traversed the kitchen, emerging on a short hallway that led to the lounge. Amy poked her gun around the corner and swept her arms from left to right. No targets presented themselves. Apart from the stench, now much more pervasive, all seemed in order. She crossed the lounge, stopping briefly to peer behind the couch, before leaving it behind.

At the far side, another hallway ran toward the back. She could make out four doors on the right, and one on the left at the end. Bathroom and bedrooms, she supposed. The occupier lived alone, so several of the bedrooms would be empty, she thought. Amy stepped across the hallway to the first door.

A doorknob; a quick turn; an explosive push: a bathroom.

Amy suppressed a cough. She had been holding her breath; since when, she did not know. She inhaled deeply, almost gagging on the aroma impregnating the air. What was that smell?

She forced herself to step down the hallway, nearing the second door. If this were my house, where would I sleep? Which would be my bedroom? Probably the closest to the bathroom.

Amy reached the door. She could hear her own blood booming in her ears, creating a hypnotic drumbeat inside her head. Her hands felt sweaty; her feet were ice cold. She held her breath again. The door was partially open; a few inches. She placed her left hand against the wood and pushed gently.

The door imploded. Something grabbed her extended arm and pulled. The force propelled her across the room, up against the far wall, a couple of feet off the ground. It was too dark to see who had attacked her. It might be the house owner. She raised her gun-hand. Shocked, she realised the impact with the bedroom wall had shaken her grip on the Glock. She tried to crouch, her right hand reaching for her BUG, the backup gun strapped to her left ankle.

Someone grabbed her throat. Pressure from immensely powerful fingers pressed on her trachea. Tears jumped into her eyes. She felt numb; could sense life sliding away.

Summoning her will to survive; she lashed out, scoring a solid kick against a well-muscled body. She felt herself lifted; her feet leaving the ground. More kicking. The attacker absorbed the blows without as much as a grunt. Amy tried punching ribs, just as Quantico's Instructors had insisted. There, your opponent would release their hold and go down; here...

Amy felt herself thrown against the floor of the bedroom. Her hands scrabbled about, looking for something to use as a weapon. The attacker was on top of her. She could not reach her backup gun.

The attacker now used both hands on her throat. The pressure increased exponentially. Amy felt her neck would snap at any moment.

A yell. Far, far away. Receding.

"FBI."

Repeated.

Suddenly the hands were gone. She sensed movement. Fast, flowing; like a big cat.

She could hear the sounds of struggle from the hallway. A gunshot, loud in the narrow space. Something small thrown, clattering down the corridor.

Amy struggled upright, snatching the backup Glock 27 from its nest on her ankle. She commanded her trembling fingers to pull back on the slide. Stumbling. The bedroom door. More light. A crumpled figure, limbs strewn against the wall.

Outlined against the lounge doorway, a large shape paused, looking back, eyes seeming to glow. She raised her pistol and emptied the magazine; panic, fear, pulling the trigger until no rounds remained.

She peered through the smoky haze. The figure had gone.

She looked down. Ralph lay still. She saw his gun on the floor near the lounge doorway. Amy powered herself forward, scooping up the weapon, feeling Ralph's warmth still on the butt, rushing into the lounge.

On the far side, the moonlight showed a huge figure. Her mind, assailed by unfamiliar sensations, multiplied its height and girth. It filled the passageway leading toward the kitchen.

She started pulling the trigger again; her training forgotten, her eyes closed; primeval hate for hurting Ralph drowning all rational thought.

Amy opened her eyes when the detonations stopped. There was no corpse on the floor, brought down by her reckless gunfire. The figure had left.

She reached to her left hip, extracting one of the two spare magazines in their belt support. Reloading was a series of clicks, familiar from the range, yet alien in this suburban home. She rushed across the space and emerged into the hallway. Running now. The kitchen empty. Its door hanging lopsided, hit with tremendous impetus.

Care to the wind, Amy charged outside.

Left. Right. Gun barrel seeking a target. God help anyone who came to see what the shooting was about. Amy was primed. She wanted blood.

A distant siren moaned. Then another.

Amy retreated inside, still gripping Ralph's weapon. She hit the lights in the kitchen.

Spotless. Except for the blood-stained kitchen knife on the central island.

She entered the lounge. Lights on. Crimson footprints, two sets, traversed the cream-coloured rug before the fireplace.

She stepped into the hallway. Lights. Ralph's body lay unmoving. Amy knelt alongside, feeling for a pulse. He was gone.

She stood, wearily. A couple of steps brought her to the bedroom.

The hallway light illuminated blood-soaked walls, smeared where her body had collided.

She stepped gingerly inside.

The smell hit her.

Amy spun, directing the vomit into the hallway, careful, as her stomach heaved uncontrollably, not to defile Ralph's body.

Sandy Loyd is a Western girl through and through. Born and raised in Salt Lake City, she has worked and lived in some fabulous places in the US, including South Florida. She now resides in Kentucky and writes full time. As much as she loves her current hometown, she misses the mountains and has to go back to her roots to get her mountain and skiing fix at least once a year.

She spent her single years in San Francisco and considers that city one of America's treasures, comparable to no other city in the world. Her California Series, starting out with Winter Interlude, are all set in the Bay Area. Her series consists of fun, heartwarming stories about crazy friends who, like single people everywhere, are seeking that someone special to share their lives with among thousands of eligible candidates.

Sandy is now an empty nester. To date, she has published seven books – four romances, three romantic mystery/suspense /thrillers and another romantic suspense in the works. She always tries to weave a warm love story into her work, while providing enough twists and turns to entertain any reader.

Back in 8th grade we used to go to the Y dance every Friday night. Lynn Bonner was my best friend. She would bring the clothes she planned to wear in a duffel bag to my house. She could never borrow any of my pants or shirts because she was so tall. She loved to do my hair and make up and talk about the cool kids who went to Webster. Webster was the public middle school down on Hazel Street about one block from Menomonee Park. St. Mary’s, where we went to school, was only about four blocks away on Baldwin Street, but it seemed like miles. And once we started high school, those middle school Y dances seemed like they happened years ago even though it had only been a couple of months. Lynn still did my hair but we weren’t getting ready for Y dances anymore, we were getting ready for parties.

Anthea Carson is an award winning tournament chess player, chess author and chess coach. She obtained her bachelor's degree in Philosophy from the University of Colorado at Colorado Springs, with an emphasis in literature and mathematics. She is the co-author of How to Play Chess Like an Animal, a children's chess book based on chess openings with animal names. She is the co-author of the best selling chess book Tactics Time, and Tactics Time for Kids. She is also a fiction writer, and had penned a trilogy, several novellas and short stories, some of which (not surprisingly) are about a chess playing female in the male dominated world of tournament chess. She currently resides in Colorado Springs with her husband and two children.

The ghastly moon hung over the lake, reflecting through the trees in fractured smoky ripples, like it had that night, with the air warm and thick. No of course that couldn't be. The lake was frozen that night and it was the dead of winter. Of course it was, of course it was. How could I think it was midsummer, when the air is warm in the evening, and you can walk about the lake sleeveless? Summer is what I remember. Not the bleak winter--when I dream about it. I've been trying to call her for the past couple of weeks now, ever since I saw the hand rolling up the window--trying to keep the water from coming in. I've called and left messages but Krishna has not returned them. Maybe she's out of town. Paris or Rome, or wherever it is she goes--India? But I've tried, I've definitely tried and I'll keep trying because that's the right thing to do and I always do the right thing. She would want to know. I walked along the edge of the lake. I might have walked all the way around it by now, I wasn't sure. I should get back home; they would be worried--although I was certainly old enough by now. The thought made me laugh out loud. How many times had they told me I was old enough--old enough to be on my own--to wander by the lake all night if I want to? I felt bad about it. Who wouldn't? Who wants to still be living at home, as if time were frozen? Who wants that? But as I'd explained to them time and again, there were reasons I couldn't quite get on my feet. There were the drugs for a long time but even more than that there were reasons. I guess you'd have to go back a long ways to figure out what they were. Not just back to the night of the party. Back a lot further than that is what I kept telling them and my therapist too--back to that first night, when I first met those Resistor boys. It must have been at that first party, that fraternity party in some unknown basement.

Anthea Jane Carson grew up in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, obtained her degree in Philosophy from the University of Colorado at Colorado Springs and currently resides in Colorado Springs with her husband and two children. She is a tournament chess player, chess coach and chess author. She is frequently listed in the top 100 chess-playing females in the U.S. She has been playing chess and writing since she was a child. In addition to her children’s chess book (How to Play Chess Like an Animal) she has written four novels and is working on a fifth.

Her latest novel is part of a trilogy. The trilogy is called The Oshkosh Trilogy and the first volume is called The Dark Lake.

Chapter 1

Life is the greatest of all mysteries, and though I seek to solve its many riddles, my deepest fear is that I will succeed.

--CiCi Bajur, philosopher

* * *

Immersed in its primordial glow, a comet soared through space with incredible speed. Three thousand years had passed since it last shed its light upon the tiny blue planet known to its inhabitants as Godsland, and the effects had been cataclysmic. A mighty host of comets followed the same elliptical orbit as the first as they returned from the farthest reaches of the solar system. Their light had already charged the atmosphere of Godsland, and the comets themselves would soon be visible to the naked eye.

The cycle of power would begin anew. Radiant energy, though still faint, raced toward Godsland, bearing the power of change.

As the force angled over the natural harbor where the fishing vessels were moored for the night, it soared beyond them over the Pinook Valley, and nothing barred its path. Beyond a small town, amid foothills dotted with farmsteads, it raced toward a barn where a young woman dutifully swept the floor. A slight tingle and a brief twitch of her eyebrows caused Catrin to stop a moment, just as a chance wind cast the pile of dirt and straw back across the floor. It was not the first thing to go wrong that morning, and she doubted it would be the last.

She was late for school. Again.

Larry Butler spent his professional life in the rock 'n' roll touring business. Larry is now a professional writer and lecture tour speaker. His books and articles touch on professional and family advice to musicians and entertainers, and college students looking for their dream jobs. They're all taken from his 40 years of entertainment business experiences, shot full of humor and sarcasm. All the current titles can be found at Amazon Author Central: http://www.amazon.com/Larry-Butler/e/B008G8TLM6

Larry Butler spent his professional life in the rock 'n' roll touring business. Larry is now a professional writer and lecture tour speaker. His books and articles touch on professional and family advice to musicians and entertainers, and college students looking for their dream jobs. They're all taken from his 40 years of entertainment business experiences, shot full of humor and sarcasm. All the current titles can be found at Amazon Author Central: http://www.amazon.com/Larry-Butler/e/B008G8TLM6

Larry Butler spent his professional life in the rock 'n' roll touring business. Larry is now a professional writer and lecture tour speaker. His books and articles touch on professional and family advice to musicians and entertainers, and college students looking for their dream jobs. They're all taken from his 40 years of entertainment business experiences, shot full of humor and sarcasm. All the current titles can be found at Amazon Author Central: http://www.amazon.com/Larry-Butler/e/B008G8TLM6

Larry Butler spent his professional life in the rock 'n' roll touring business, being careful to be home fro Christmas each year for the family traditions with his wife and daughter. Larry is now a professional writer and lecture tour speaker, touching on advice to fathers and daughters, musicians and entertainers, and college students looking for their dream jobs. They're all taken from his 40 years of entertainment business experiences, shot full of humor and sarcasm. All the current titles can be found at Amazon Author Central: http://www.amazon.com/Larry-Butler/e/B008G8TLM6

Chapter One

Spooky

I know this sounds weird, but I can read lips. Of course, you're probably thinking, why would a cat want to read lips? A fair question and the answer is I don't. The fact is, I can't hear so great. I can read minds though, how's that for a wing-dinger? Yep, I'm telepathic, so really the hearing impediment thing isn't much of a problem, and well, actually I tend to only read lips if I'm preoccupied. Guess who was preoccupied?

I was all curled up on the Lazyboy under the big palm watching my favorite show on the boob tube. Lily was on the phone, imagine that, and things were getting a little nutty for Batman and the Boy Wonder. It seems, Batman and the Boy Wonder were just about to be sawed in half when I happened to glance up to see Lily say that she needed a CAT Scan. At first, I thought she said cat scam, I mean who would she need me to scam? I'm not that kind of cat anyway, how dare she even insinuate such a thing. But then she said it again.

"Yes, I'm sure Holly, a CAT Scan!"

Holy scantonese noodles Batman, what the hell do you think I need to be scanned for? I've got all my shots. I've been de-wormed twice this year, and this is the fourth time I have made my claws grow back. I can make my claws grow back. I have serious mental powers, plus I read a book by Ernest Holmes called, The Science of the Mind which gave me some great ideas like growing my claws back. I'd recommend it to Oprah.

I hopped off the Lazyboy and went into the kitchen and circled around Lily's legs, but Lily just kept blabbing away about scanning me. I glanced at the TV where a giant maniacal saw was whirling steadily toward the dynamic duo. It was too much, I couldn't concentrate, CAT Scan overload, so I beat it out of there.

I sprinted out into the cool night air glad to be away from even the idea of a scanning. I was hungry as usual, which meant I needed a San Francisco treat, and let me tell you, I wasn't thinking about Rice a Roni. I licked my soon to be grubby little paws and made my way down the north-face fire escape.

I live in an area that many years ago housed dockworkers and fisherman. The area is called Telegraph Hill, and there are a lot of cats in the neighborhood. The building I live in is called The Old Brown. Lily and Holly inherited it. They're lucky as hell too boy, because this is prime San Francisco real estate. We more or less remodeled The Old Brown ourselves. It took us about twelve years. Holly lives up top and Lily lives bottom side.

I was thinking. It's always nice to get out of the house, when I came to The Greenwich Stairs. I looked around really good; the coast seemed clear, but just in case I shot down em like a rocket. The stairs are The Greenwich Street Stairs and they're famous. About three months ago some ass-lip kicked me down them, and my ribs still hurt from the tumble. Humans are often cruel. Anyway, I don't want to think about that. I want to think about Batman.

I luv Batman; he's hot, although he looks like a cat to me, in fact, he looks like this cat I know who lives down in Chinatown. This cat's got the longest ears ever, real pointy too. But dig this, his owner makes him wear a black cape during the winter, hence Batman. It's waterproof so that's good since it's always frickin raining, but the poor dude looks ridiculous. People are weird.

Thank god it wasn't raining tonight. I stopped on stair one hundred and thirty-two or whichever, lifted my nose to the moon and smelled the city, boy what a city. I don't ever count the stairs. Holly counts them every time she walks up or down them, how OCD is that?

I thought about going into Chinatown, but I was feeling a little too wacky still. Chinatown at night is nowhere to be for a cat. Anything can happen in Chinatown, like cat chow fun for one. I joke, but I really dig the way the Chinese, do medicine. Think about this, the Chinese have had some three thousand odd years of holistic healing. That's some serious shi ... atsu!

Okay, so I decided to head up to North Beach and kill two birds with one stone, Italian called. For the nine lives of me, I can't figure out why most cats like to eat birds and all that other foul crap. No pun intended. Truly though, why eat a bird when you can eat a slice of pizza? Yep, North Beach it is. I figured I'd do research for Lily's newest entrepreneurial exercise, which could actually make us rich. And let's be clear, that's a goal in our household.

Lily and Holly are super cool. They look exactly alike, but they act completely different. Still, no matter how differently they behave, they sure got that twin thing going. I can't really call them my owners, and I doubt they would call me their pet; we're more like best friends. I'm welcome to stay at their house anytime and eat whatever I want. So I have ... for about the last nineteen years.

We all met the year after the girls graduated from high school. Lily had been dating this guy who was a Scientologist. He was really super cute, Rob Lowe cute, except he had long wavy hair. Lily likes rockers. It didn't last though, because it was pure lust on Lil's part. One day, he asked her to marry him. She said yes, but on their wedding day Lily lost her nerve and told him in good conscience, he was beautiful, but she did not love him. He took it hard but was really quite cool about it.

Now, this is where I come in. The cutie Scientologist had gotten her a cat because Scientology wedding tradition suggests a cat as a wedding present. They also suggest a pan and a comb ... I was in good company. Lily was quite touched that he still wanted her to have me as a non-official wedding present, and they remained friends for many years until he moved to Hollywood to be a movie star.

I don't think that panned out, although we did see him on a soap opera for a season. He wasn't a bad actor, but he had cut his beautiful hair, and it made Lily cry every time we watched him. Okay, I'm getting side tracked. Let me tell you a bit about myself, and then I'll tell you about how I am going to make Holly and Lily rich. I am a small and unusual looking cat. I have honestly never seen a cat that looks like me. I'm hard to explain, but I'll try.

First, I am not much bigger than when she got me, so I look like a kitten, though I am by no means a kitten. I look under fed, which is a laugh, and I incite feelings of pity in most people, except the jerk off that kicked me down the stairs. My eyes are rather piercing in my very small head, and they are the precise color that you see on the advertising poster for the play Cats.

True story, I once met a transvestite wearing a shiny gold lame' jacket the same color of my eyes. His name was Geoffrey, and he draped me over his shoulder and wore me to a block party in The Castro I was a huge hit!

About The Author:
Maya likes to count chickens before and after they're hatched, attempt car repossession alone at night, debate television personalities while in her living room, and of course speed-walk! She is the creator of Spooky Sinclair, the lead character in the delightfully ridiculous, six-part serial novel, The Cat Food Chronicles. Maya is a writer, actress, and make-up artist with national and international credits. She has been professionally entertaining people for over 25 years, and was the recipient of the 2008 Santa Barbara Writers Conference Endowed Scholarship Award, launched by the late great Ray Bradbury. Maya writes in many genres, including fiction, non-fiction, children's, and young adult. If you would like to learn more about Maya, please visit her website or follow her on Twitter, Facebook or her blog.
http://www.mayapruett.com]]> http://bestindiebooks.com/great-indie-books/show-books/1175/The-Stone-Thread/Mystery--Thrillers/ Thu, 13 Dec 2012 14:25:19 +0000 Best Indie Books Mystery & Thrillers http://bestindiebooks.com/great-indie-books/show-books/1175/The-Stone-Thread/Mystery--Thrillers/

By: J.R.Evangelisti
Genre: Mystery & Thrillers

In 1980...The all powerful Council had control of all the information. They could predict the time and place a natural disaster would occur, they knew how humankind would evolve over time. Elizabeth Wellstrom is fascinated by old words and the role they have played in the development of mankind. In her studies, she unearths information that challenges the very foundation on which her world stands. "A different and thought provoking novel; one that is sure to generate questions and comments for reader’s groups." Smith Review FC Review: " ..consistent with the appeal of Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code and Angels and Demons." "...detailed descriptions...engaging the reader’s senses at all levels...lends itself, in fact, to a film adaptation..."

Sample:

About The Author:
J.R.Evangelisti has written sceenplays in a variety of genres, to include comedy, mystery and science fiction.
http://thestonethread.com]]> http://bestindiebooks.com/great-indie-books/show-books/1170/Quexistence-The-Quest-for-the-Meaning-of-Existence-Time-Dreams/Fantasy/ Wed, 12 Dec 2012 15:50:00 +0000 Best Indie Books Fantasy http://bestindiebooks.com/great-indie-books/show-books/1170/Quexistence-The-Quest-for-the-Meaning-of-Existence-Time-Dreams/Fantasy/

By: Tom Stafford
Genre: Fantasy

Quexistence: The Quest for the Meaning of Existence: Time Dreams is the story of one man’s search to find the meaning of his existence. It is a story of adventure, fantasy, dreams and love. While Angie assembles and decorates the family Christmas tree, Gork shares his story of how he met Angie’s grandmother, Amani.
Gork has been studying prehistoric history at college and goes to California to volunteer at an archaeological site near the Calico Hills. No one knows where Man came from or how long he’s been on this planet. Gork hopes to find some insights on the origin of Man.
He is met at the airport by Charlie, who has lived in the area for many years, and is helping at the site. During the drive across the desert, Gork has his first dream, a dream that takes him to another time, another world. In his dream he sees a girl, the girl of his dreams, Amani.
Gork travels through space and time, compelled to follow his dream. His dreams take him back to a time and place long forgotten. While in reality he discovers an underground cavern that holds the secret to Man’s past. A secret buried in Time.

Sample:

About The Author:

http://www.amazon.com/Quexistence-Meaning-Existence-Dreams-ebook/dp/B00AMTDRU4/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1355345530&sr=1-2]]> http://bestindiebooks.com/great-indie-books/show-books/1165/Divert-To-The-Periphery/Short-Stories/ Wed, 12 Dec 2012 08:46:23 +0000 Best Indie Books Short Stories http://bestindiebooks.com/great-indie-books/show-books/1165/Divert-To-The-Periphery/Short-Stories/

By: Paul A. Barron
Genre: Short Stories

A Compelling Collection of Short Stories Render Unto Caesar - 2nd Prize Winner, Writer's Village Award Gerry a journalist sent on assignment to the deep south is forced to question his own beliefs and values. Pastor Josef Hoff puts on his tie, the same tie he has worn on fifty six other occasions. Twenty to thirty five seconds to strap a man down, they'd got it down to a fine art. Nocturne Number Eight, Opus Twenty Seven James Fletcher is re-building his shattered life after the trauma of the Western Front. He meets the enigmatic Celia Hammond and begins to think that life might take on some form of normality. But how did Celia's brother die? What really happened the night he first heard the strains of Chopin, Nocturne Number Eight, Opus Twenty Seven? The Bodhisattva of Carraigmore Three people are converging on the Irish village of Carraigmore. Eddie Doyle has reached a crossroads in his life and time is running out.Why is Henry J. O' Farrell a successful but ruthless American businessman coming back to Carraigmore ? And who is Tara? Nothing Left to Chance - Short listed for The Multi Story Award 2012 The war has ended and the process of rebuilding begins. George Jenkins attends an interview at the renowned accountants and actuaries Mackenzie, Smyth and Dennis. Unfortunately the interview comes to a catastrophic end. You see for some considerable time George has been leading a very secret life. And now it seems his skeletons are about to come bursting out of the closet. Impeccable Credentials Johnny Rockett has lived too close to the edge for far too long. They're out to get him but Johnny has a plan. Things fall nicely in to place with his new job at Ministery House. Once again Johnny has fallen on his feet but is his past about to catch up with him?

Sample:

About The Author:

Paul A. Barron lives in the sunny, south - east corner of Ireland.

His short story Render Unto Caesar won second prize in The Writers Village competition and was short listed for the Fine Line Short Story Competition.

Nothing Left To Chance was short listed for The Multi Story Award 2012.