The Four

A Series 

They do exist and they always have. They live, love, and work amongst us and they are part of us. But they are different too, they are stronger and they live longer. They are the topic of many books, movies and myths, but their existence remains a secret, not everyone would accept them. And like us, they have those that are simply evil. Keeping these evil ones under control is the price they must pay to continue the lives they love. They must protect their human brethren from the Dark Ones, those that would rather kill than preserve.

Century after century the good battled the Dark Ones, always prevailing and preserving the lives of their beloved humans. In the 17^th century, two powerful Dark leaders emerged, they organized their forces and a bitter war ensued. It was a fight to the death and the good thought they’d won. Four warriors led the battle, four warriors whose strength was beyond anything they knew, four warriors whose legacy had to be protected…

The good formed a consortium and with the help of a powerful sorcerer, a spell was cast; a spell that would follow the warriors’ lineage in case their power was needed again. The warriors are long dead, but their heirs are not, and now they must fight. The Dark Ones have re-emerged, they are more powerful, more resourceful and they want to control mankind and the world.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Beginning

Book I 

Clare had an ideal life. She lived in the perfect little town, had a great family and four of the best friends in the world.  She also had nightmares, nightmares that plagued her for almost a decade. But these are not ordinary nightmares; they are premonitions, warnings of what is to come and what she will become.

She discovers that she isn’t alone in these vile dreams; her friends are having them too. They are dreaming of their ancestors and their own future…  The discovery of their destiny and the future they must embrace is shocking and terrifying.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Clare 

George S. Patton wrote, “Courage is fear holding on a minute longer.” I was twelve years old when I read that. It had come from a book of quotes my mother gave me. I didn’t know much about Patton back then, and honestly didn’t care too much, either. What I did know was that my parents had decided to move to the little town of Lakeville—just north of San Francisco, where I had lived all my life—uprooting me from all I’d ever known, and I was scared of that. Had I only known that the fear I felt then was only a drop in the bucket compared to the fear I would encounter later in my life.

Lakeville was a picturesque, small town that did a nice tourist trade in the summer months due to the lake that bordered it on one side. When I think back to my late childhood and early adulthood in Lakeville I’m reminded of movie scenes where the kid is riding his bike down a tree lined street with well-manicured homes on either side. Pleasant music is playing in the background and the whole thing gives you a feeling of serenity and happiness. In retrospect, that is how my life was, serene and happy.

My first new friend upon my arrival in Lakeville was Sal Asiro. He was a short kid with dark hair and dark skin. He was then—and still is—outgoing, a smartass, an eternal optimist and almost always in a good mood. Those attributes tended to make his personality hard to resist. But he was mischievous too, something you almost immediately detected in his dark eyes. Without knowing a thing about me, aside from me being his new neighbor, he invited me to play baseball the day after I arrived. I liked baseball, wasn’t a bad player, and couldn’t really see any reason to say no.

My second night there, after dinner, I heard kids laughing and screaming outside. I looked out the window and saw Sal running around like a madman; he and a bunch of kids were playing kickball in the street. Sal was smaller than the rest of the kids, but fast, really fast. My mom caught me peaking around the curtains like a scared animal, and asked if I wanted to go out and meet the neighbor kids. I looked at her in pure terror. Who was this woman? My “city” mom would never have made that offer without making sure she knew the kids and their parents.

She’d said with enthusiasm, “Go ahead, Clare. Some of those kids are probably going to be in your school. It will be good to know them before the school year starts.” I knew she would bug me until I couldn’t stand it anymore, so out the door I went.

Sal greeted me with enthusiasm and proceeded to introduce me to a whole slew of kids, whose names and faces would take me weeks to remember and connect. We played until dark, when we began to hear singsong voices of mothers calling their kids in for the night; one by one they waved and went home.

Sal walked me to my front door and said, “Glad you could join us, Red”…a reference to my red hair, and one I hated. That red hair darkened into a deep brown by my teenage years, but Sal still uses the moniker, much to my chagrin.

“See you tomorrow at one, don’t forget!” Then he ran off to his own home.

I learned later that Sal was an only child, like me, and had grown up in Lakeville. His dad owned the largest hardware store in town, which he’d purchased from Sal’s grandfather on his mother’s side in the 1990s. We became fast friends and he introduced me to just about every kid within a ten-block radius of our house.

The next day I went to Locust Park and played ball; it was a blast. I met almost every kid in town, including a girl named Kate Parks. Kate had also grown up in Lakeville, but she didn’t attend the local school. Instead she was in a private school, one for smart kids. I liked her right away, but I also realized she was a bit of an outsider. She didn’t appear to have any athletic ability, unless you counted reading as a sport. But she still came to all the games and cheered us on from the bleachers.

Kate lived at the end of our block, and she and Sal had known each other since infancy. She was my height but skinnier, and she had the most beautiful chestnut colored hair and blue eyes. Her only brother was several years older than her and had moved out of the house already, making her life seem like that of an only child. Her dad owned a small real estate agency in town and her mother was a stay at home mom like Sal’s and mine.

That’s how my first few weeks in my new home and town began. I’d made two friends that would be like the siblings I never had. They’d also be by my side when the worst of things began, and hopefully all the years that followed; assuming I made it that far.

Chapter 2

Sal and I hung out almost every day, and Kate joined us at least two days a week after school and on the weekends. We did our homework together and when we got stuck, we called on Kate. She was just short of brilliant as a tutor. By December, we were gearing up for winter break, excited to be out of school for two weeks and to have the chance to play outdoors. Daylight savings had robbed us of several hours of playtime every day…so had homework. Kate was off to New Hampshire to visit her grandparents for the holidays, so Sal and I began to plan our outdoor activities without her.

The week before the Christmas break, Sal and I were headed to the cafeteria when he pointed out a light haired kid sitting on a bench. Sal said he was from England and had just started at the school that week. You could tell he was shy and he was small for his age, like Sal.

The kid was digging into his brown paper lunch bag when three kids (our school bullies, no less) approached him and started to harass him. They started making fun of his pale skin and his accent, calling him a leprechaun.

Sal said, “Idiots! He’s English, not Irish.” He stomped over and asked the biggest kid (Billy Smite, aka Billy the Bully), “Hey Billy, you do know this kid’s English, right, and leprechauns are Irish?”

Billy turned around and glared at Sal. “Stay out of this Sal,” Billy said without too much enthusiasm. Sal was the sort of guy that even the bullies liked, and you could see defeat begin to dawn on Billy’s face.

Sal stepped closer and said, “Sorry Billy, Sam here is one of my friends and he’s supposed to have lunch with us in the cafeteria.” Sal turned to Sam and said, “Did you forget?”

Sam looked up at Sal, his mouth hanging open, a befuddled look on his face, and I stifled a laugh. Sam stuttered for a moment and then caught on. “Oh, oh right, sorry. I didn’t see you in there so I thought I had the day wrong,” he said in a strong British accent.

Sal responded smoothly, “Well let’s go. I’m starving.”

Sam had just moved to Lakeville from London, England via a stay in San Francisco. His dad was a surgeon and had just transferred to our local hospital after a two-year stint at its sister hospital in the city. Sam too was an only child, and lived one block over from Sal and me. From that point on, Sam was part of our little group of friends.

That same day, Sal and I went to my house after school looking for a snack. My mother was baking cookies, a quick indication that something was up. She informed Sal and me, in an entirely too enthusiastic manner, that my bratty little cousin Collin would be coming to stay with us for Christmas break. My last encounter with him had been a few years back, and the visit had left a bad taste in my mouth. Mom protested against my protest as only a mother can do, and managed to get a promise out of both Sal and myself that we would make Collin feel at home and welcome while he was there.

Chapter 3

Collin arrived with much fanfare from my parents and little enthusiasm from me, but I was in for a surprise. The bratty little kid was anything but a brat, or little for that matter. He was tall—at least for an eleven year old—and his flaming curly red hair had toned down to a rather pleasant strawberry blond. He looked a lot older than eleven, and when he spoke he sounded a lot older too.

By the end of the Christmas break, Collin had won not just my heart but that of my friends. He loved baseball, the lake, hiking and just hanging out. He was a bit of computer geek like Sam, and a bookworm like Kate. We were all sad to see him go, but he didn’t stay gone for long, which was good…and bad.

Collin’s mother was my father’s twin sister. My aunt and her husband were very wealthy and very selfish. After years of dragging Collin around the world with his nanny in tow, they got tired of it and plopped him in a boarding school in Seattle. He didn’t see them much and they didn’t call him much, just made sure he had money and a roof over his head. It turned out it had been my dad’s idea to bring him to us for Christmas, and I thought it was a good one.

The following June, Collin’s parents were killed in an auto accident in Germany. My dad flew to Seattle and brought Collin back with him, this time to stay for good.

Summer began on a sad note, but one we were determined to make the best of it. We all turned thirteen within six weeks of each other (except Collin; he turned twelve, but oddly his birthday was still in that same six week period) and we all were looking forward to 8th grade, our last year before high school. Collin was a brainiac like Kate and would be skipping 7th grade and joining us in the 8th.

That year seemed to fly by. The five of us were thick as thieves, hanging out together as much as possible. Sam and Collin were so into video games that they even tried their hand at designing them. Kate continued to love her books and even managed to get Sal and I interested in a few.

High school was a fast moving blur of studies, sports, and socializing. Kate had talked her parents into letting her go to our public school as long as she was enrolled in AP classes. That worked out well for her, since both Collin and Sam were in those classes with her. Sal and I weren’t stupid…just not academic like them…but we could blow them away when it came to baseball stats.

* * *  

In retrospect, our high school lives would have been perfectly normal except for three things. With the exception of Kate, we all grew much taller than anyone expected. We had nightmares that turned out to be very similar. And, as we learned sometime later, we were all being watched very carefully and our every move documented.

By the end of our senior year Sam and Collin were well over 6’3”, Sal was at least 6’1” (very tall for his family) and I was almost 5’10”. This may not seem unusual, but none of us came from tall genes, and most kids didn’t grow to those heights in less than a year. Kate, on the other hand stopped growing at a nice, normal 5’5”, and as it turned out, she didn’t have nightmares either. But she later confessed that she did notice something wasn’t quite right with the rest of us.

I asked her once how she noticed something was amiss, and why she never mentioned it. It was simple. Somewhere along the line she figured out she wasn’t quite like us. She knew she was, and always would be, part of our group, and one of our closest and dearest friends, but also different somehow.

About the Author

I was born and raised in Southern California and moved to San Francisco in 1991. I currently reside there with my husband.  I am the grandniece of Irish author Benedict Kiely and the second cousin of Irish author Sharon Owens. My first novel, Doppelganger Experiment was published via World Castle Publishing in September 2011 (revised/re-edited February 2012). My second novel, The Beginning – Book I (The Four series) via World Castle Publishing released August 2012 and is part one in a four part series (release dates for books II through IV are expected in October 2012 through January 2013).  

For more on Margaret, visit www.margaretmillmore.com

To order The Beginning, go to http://www.amazon.com/The-Beginning-Four-Volume/dp/1938961099

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In TROLL OR DERBY, fifteen year old Roller Deb is singled out by town bullies for both her skates, and for being different.  When her popular homecoming queen of a sister is kidnapped by a scuzzy drug dealer, Deb must flee the trailer park in which she’s grown up, and rescue her.  Along the way, Deb becomes enmeshed in the magical realm of trolls and fairies, and the blood-thirsty version of roller derby at which these beings excel.  But spending too much time among the fairies comes with a price.  Will Deb choose to save her sister, with the aid of a mysterious troll?  Or will she be lost to the lures of roller derby, and the blonde temptress April, forever?

Excerpt

About the Author

Red Tash is a journalist-turned-novelist of dark fantasy for readers of all ages. Monsters, SciFi, wizards, trolls, fairies, and roller derby lightly sautéed in a Southern/Midwestern sauce hand-canned from her mama’s recipes await you in her pantry of readerly delights. Y’all come, anytime.

To purchase Troll or Derby, visit Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Sony

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Ex-beauty contestant Lauren McDonald is thrust into the spy world when her boyfriend’s job seeps into his personal life, making her the conduit for the transfer of information between enemies. She agrees to marry her boyfriend and become an agent, just to save her life and the U.S. Those dreams of a peaceful married life go right out the window when she finds out the true mission of the enemy.

Excerpt

“There’s a mime convention in town,” Mitch said to me.  “That’ll be fun to watch.  I bet if you tell them you were a beauty queen, they’ll put on fake crowns and wave.”

My ex-husband was turned in the seat in front of me on the Metro while we rode from Northern Virginia to work in Washington, D.C., on a Monday morning in May.  Mitch was gay, announcing it the minute after we said ‘I do,’ seven months earlier.  The marriage was annulled the day after my ‘new best girlfriend’ and I shopped till we dropped in Vegas, so it wasn’t a total loss.  However, he did get better deals on women’s bikini underwear than I did, and I’ll never forgive him for it.

He looked up from the newspaper he was reading, staring behind me.  “Hey, someone’s watching you.”

“Who?”  I started to turn, but Mitch touched my arm, still staring behind me.

“Don’t look,” he whispered.  “You’re such a typical blonde.  It’s an older military guy, with dark hair and dark eyes.  He’s wearing business casual, an upper end dark red polo and stone colored pants.”  He studied the man for a while.  “He’s wearing a wedding ring, or I’d be over there chatting him up.”  Mitch licked his lips and winked, making me scoot down in my seat.

“Any response?” I asked.

“Yeah.  I’m feeling the heat, and it’s in a good place.”

“In him,” I whispered.  Mitch was so ready for a homosexual relationship; it was scary.  He’d date anything.

“Oh, right.”  He studied the man for a moment.  “He knows I’m watching.”  Mitch looked out the window.  “I’m close to my stop.  What will you do if the guy follows you?”

The subway slowed.  “Ask him out, just to make you jealous.”

“He’s married.”

“So?  I’d be the kept mistress.”  I smiled.  “Then I’d date Shawn on the side, keeping me very happy.”

“Did you ever notice how much Shawn and I are alike?  We both have dark brown hair, very blue eyes and are both adorable and very sexy.”

“He’s straight.  That’s a major difference.”

He stood up.  “Yeah, or I’d ask him out.”  He chuckled as he walked off the subway. 

I was afraid to turn around, concerned because the seat beside me was empty.   However, if the man wanted to talk to me, he certainly could’ve moved next to me at any time.

My stop to change trains came, and I figured I’d lose the guy as soon as I got off the first train.  But, as I waited on the platform, I felt his eyes watching me while I tried to ignore him.  After a few minutes, my next train came, and I got on, heading east.  I wanted to lose him, so I found a seat next to a very pleasant woman.  Because she was reading, I acted like I was studying my calendar.  If I didn’t make eye contact with the man, he didn’t exist, in my mind.  Beauty queen training didn’t prepare me for anything like this.  Darned beauty queen training.  World peace my foot.  This was one guy I didn’t want to meet or make world peace with.

The trained slowed, the driver yelling out the stop for Union Station, near my work.  I stood up, walked out the doors and happened to glance around me.  The stalker stood two people back, watching as I stepped closer to the door.  The color red lit up in my head from the terror I was experiencing.  I suddenly wished my beauty queen talent had been self-defense so many years before, instead of singing Jingle Bells while throwing fake snow into the air and wearing a parka in the middle of August.

Just as I got into the station and headed up the stairs, my cell phone rang.  Checking the identification, I realized it was Mitch, so I answered it with a smile.  “Did you miss me already, or are you having a pseudo-male ego crisis?”

“Very funny,” he said.  “Is he still following you?”

I glanced behind me.  “Yes.  Even after changing from the yellow to the red lines on the Metro.”

“Don’t take any back alleys to work to meet with your drug contacts.”

I laughed at his attempt at humor.  He knew beauty queens didn’t do drugs.  It would ruin their complexion.  “Like I’d do that.  Do you think I should worry?”

“Yep.  I didn’t like how he was watching you.  Be careful and call the cops if he tries anything.”

“Got it.”  We said goodbye and ended the call.

I suddenly felt very alone with someone following me to work.  I didn’t have to just feel it, because it was true, terrifying me.

I snapped back to reality.  It was possible the guy worked in the same area where I worked and I just hadn’t seen him before.  I was probably over-reacting and it was all Mitch’s fault, because beauty queens could be naïve, according to Mitch.

Flipping my hair back from my shoulders, I walked upstairs from the subway through Union Station, passing shops and out to the street, a little over a block from my office.  My phone vibrated and rang in my pocket, so I grabbed it and opened the thing.  Glancing at the caller id, I saw the name of my true love, Shawn, and pushed the talk button.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” I said.  “How’s work going?”

“I’ve been here since three this morning and nothing’s working.  Tell me you’re beautiful and wearing a sexy red dress with your diamond tiara from your beauty queen days?  You are meeting me for lunch, right?”

I glanced around behind me, walking toward my office building.  “Yeah, but no red dress.  I left the tiara at home.  Try black slacks and a light blue blouse.”

“Close enough.”  He listened for a moment.  “You’re out of breath.  What’s going on?”

“I seem to have an issue.”

“Issue?”  I heard him take a bite of something, probably a breakfast bar.  He loved breakfast bars, but, to me, they tasted like cardboard and bark.  He really needed someone to cook for him, and I really wanted to be that one.

I lowered my voice.  “Someone’s following me.”

“Where are you?”  His voice sounded serious.

“I have about a block to go.  I just left Union Station.”

“Keep walking.  I’ll take care of it.”  He ended the call and I stared at my phone.  What could he possibly do?  He worked as a computer analyst in a governmental contracting firm closer to Dupont Circle.  Lately, his hours were horrible, working seventy or more hours a week with one day to completely crash, usually at my place so I could take care of him.  I knew how to cook well, so he’d relax and I’d wait on him.  It was kind of fun, because he was really a nice guy.

I headed toward the building where my job as a mathematical statistician for the Bureau of Labor Statistics was located.  I may have been blonde and an airhead, but I wasn’t stupid. 

As I walked, I saw my building within running distance.  However, I also saw the mime group heading toward me—white faced, gloved, and all wearing black and white striped outfits with black hats.  Of all times for the tourists to interfere.  There were at least fifty of the beasts heading my way, making believe they were pulling on ropes, stuck in a room, or walking across a tightrope.  My life could be on the line and these people were acting stupid.  I could run out into the street, but I’d learned that the fastest way from one point to another was in a straight line.  Besides, there were so many mimes; they were also walking in the street, winding between stopped cars at the red light.  I had to get past the mimes.  Not a fun thing to do.

Quickening my pace and dodging mimes, I was certain the scary man was following me, because every time I glanced back, he was getting closer and closer.  As I made my way through imaginary ropes and balancing sticks, I realized these people were just weird.  I hated mimes, now more than ever.  They weren’t on my ‘world peace’ list, either.  But I kept my mind on the prize—getting away from the man stalking me.

Glancing behind me, I saw the stalker getting closer.  I kept walking as fast as I could, stopped suddenly by a stupid mime with some sort of weird fetish.  His face met mine as I ran into him, turning my head.  He acted extremely surprised, overacting, as usual.  He embraced me, and as I tried to get out of his grasp, he planted one right on my lips.

“Watch it, buddy!”  I pulled away and glanced backward.  The man on my tail was mere inches from me, his arm outstretched to touch me, being held back by a tickling mime.  I took off running, glad I was wearing my required governmental sneakers every female employee wore, to save their good shoes from wear and tear on the sidewalks.

When I was about ten feet from my office door, I felt a hand on my shoulder.  “Lauren McDonald.”  He spun me around and reached for my earlobe.  Just as I tried to back away from his scary dark eyes, a black unmarked car screeched to the curb and two men in black suits jumped out.  They grabbed the stalker, threw him into the back seat and sped away.

Every single one of the mimes put their hands to their mouths, overacting their surprise, while the rest of the crowd, mainly governmental workers, began clapping for the mimes.  The crowd cheered them on, not realizing my stalker had just been kidnapped.

I stared, not sure what to think.  The man knew my name, he touched my shoulder and he looked driven—scary driven. 

My cell phone rang the familiar tone of Shawn’s call, the talent song of ‘Jingle Bells’ from my beauty queen days.  I reached down and opened my phone, still looking around to make sure I was safe.  “Hello?”

“How are you doing, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know.  There were these stupid mimes—”  One of them passed me, lifted his nose and crossed his arms as if offended, but I continued talking.  “This man just touched my shoulder, and now—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Shawn said.  “I’ve got your back and saved you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing for you to worry about.  I want you to do me a favor.”

I looked up into the sky and at the streetlights, trying to figure out how he had my back.  “How did you know to save me?  No, how did you save me at all?  Did you know those guys who stopped and grabbed the stalker?”

He ignored me.  “Go to the brewery and restaurant on the next corner.  I’ll be right there to make sure you’re okay.”

I was suddenly surrounded by mimes making fun of me.  I guess if you tick off one mime, they have this psychic link to let you know you’re in trouble. 

I kept talking to Shawn on the phone.  “I’m fine, I think, other than these stupid mimes mimicking me.”  One wagged his finger at me, while another mimicked paddling me.  If I didn’t have this sense of style, thanks to the beauty contest, I’d be kicking their butts.

“I’ll meet you in about thirty seconds.”  Shawn ended the call and I checked my watch.  I had ten minutes to get to my desk.  It was weird, to say the least, but I had to meet him or some other unmarked black car might hunt me down.  For some reason, I had to think he was linked to the black car, but had no real way of knowing.

About the Author

Andie Alexander (a mystery/adventure pen name) makes her home with her husband and three teenagers in Wisconsin. She’s been writing for many years, and writes as other pen names, all listed at www.sweettalebooks.com. See www.andiealexander.com for more of her titles.

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Written with passionate conviction, this story is being told by two of its characters: Ben, a twenty-seven years old student, and Anita, a plain-spoken, spunky, uneducated redhead, freshly married to Lenny, his aging father. Behind his back, Ben and Anita find themselves increasingly drawn to each other. They take turns using an old tape recorder to express their most intimate thoughts, not realizing at first that their voices are being captured by him. 

Meanwhile, Lenny is trying to keep a secret from both of them: his ex-wife, Ben’s mother, a talented pianist, has been stricken with an early-onset alzheimer. Taking care of her gradually weighs him down. What emerges in these characters is a struggle, a desperate, daring struggle to find a path out of conflicts, out of isolation, from guilt to forgiveness. 

The title Apart From Love comes from a phrase used in the story:

After a while I whispered, like, “Just say something to me. Anything.” And I thought, Any other word apart from Love, ’cause that word is diluted, and no one knows what it really means, anyway.
Anita to Lenny, in Apart From Love

Why, why can’t you say nothing? Say any word–but that one, ’cause you don’t really mean it. Nobody does. Say anything, apart from Love.
Anita to Ben, in The Entertainer

For my own sake I should have been much more careful. Now–even in her absence–I find myself in her hands, which feels strange to me. I am surrounded–and at the same time, isolated. I am alone. I am apart from Love.
Ben, in Nothing Surrendered

Excerpt

At night I lay there, wide awake, annoyed by my misfortune, having to listen to the creaking of their bed. I cannot help thinking, Oh no, not again; not like last night! 

Well, what do you expect? The walls are so thin here, in this apartment building, that you can easily hear snores and sighs—not only of the old man, but also of the next door neighbors. The pipes are gurgling inside the walls. And if not for the wind outside my window, which is sucking the blinds in, sucking them out, you could probably hear what some kid—out there, in the next building down the street—mumbles in his dream.

Unable to fall asleep I clap my hands over my ears, trying to ignore these sounds; trying to stop thinking. Stop, I say. Stop thinking about that woman, Anita, separated from you by a wall, a space, a wall. 

She is lying there, next to my father, in that large, creaking four poster bed, which used to belong to my mom. Maybe—like me—Anita is tossing off her blankets right this minute, and shivering there, in the dark. I rise up. I lie down. I imagine stepping in, looking into her eyes. Does she close them, so as not to take in the faint, colorless moonlight, which is thrown back from the walls? I imagine touching her curls. In what shade are they glinting there, on the blue pillow? 

And through the wall, the space, the wall, can Anita hear the pounding, the loud pounding of my heart? Can she feel me, breathing her name? Does she whisper back to me, Stop it, stop it right now?

Does Anita, then, turn away from me, to his side of the bed? Is she staring at the dark outline, the outline of his heavy back, his shoulder, set against the crushed sheets? 

Does she move over, and try to cuddle him? And then—having done so—does she feel lost, even more than before, in that place? If not for the roof overhead, for which only he can provide, would she, perhaps, prefer me to him?

I wonder if at this point, Anita is removing her arms and legs from around the old man, thinking, perhaps, that to cling to him is like clinging to a fish, because really, he is much too slick for her. Now that they are married, he may take his affairs elsewhere; which is exactly what he did when mom was here. 

My father may never give up his secrets; never be fully open with a girl like her. Perhaps he thinks her too vivacious, too young, or too simple. Perhaps there is no woman to whom he can truly connect. Here is one thing I hope she knows: she deserves better. 

There it is, that sound again. It starts by squeaking and ends by creaking. My father must have rolled over, out of her reach. Is she closing her eyes, so as not to see, not to take in the light?  

At last I can no longer take it, and get the hell up. I walk in the middle of the shadows, step out of the corridor, into the hall, the living room, around the white piano, heading in the direction of the balcony. I slide open the glass door, cross the threshold. I lean over the railing, breathing, breathing the night air, and no: not really thinking about her. Not at all. 

His desk, taking nearly the entire space of the balcony, is a massive old piece of furniture, which has been beaten by use, and by the weather. My father refuses to bring it in—not only because of the lack of room, but because here, only here in the open, his mind is at peace. It can roam free, he claims, without interruptions, and without clutter. 

A thick glass has been floated on top of his desk, to protect it from the elements. In the center of the surface is a small desk lamp, turned off. The tape recorder is here, on the left side. It is shrouded with a plastic cover, which is reflected, rather faintly, in the glass below. I remove the shroud, and find a tape already loaded. Then, out of an old habit, I press Rewind. Record. 

One day you will hear my voice. You will know me. What can I say, but this—

Reflected on the right side of the desk is a cloud, moving slowly, veiling and unveiling the moon. Under it—I mean, under the shine of the mirrored cloud—I notice something else, lying flat: a bunch of lined, yellow papers stapled together, written in his hand. For a minute I hesitate, because what my father has written, what he has protected here, under the glass, with such care, must be private—but then, I find myself so curious, and the hell with privacy! I am his son, after all… 

So I lift the edge of the glass—just a bit—and take hold of the stapled corner, and slide the papers out. They swish in my hand.

Which is when I hear a soft voice out of the darkness behind me, asking, “Who’s there?”

To which I whisper, “It’s me: Ben.” 

“You shouldn’t do that,” she says.

So I ask, “Do what?”  

And Anita says, “You know: read his stuff.” 

“Oh, that,” I say. “I was just bored.”  

“Bored?” she says, yawning, “I ain’t surprised. His writing will get you that way in a big hurry.”

Anyhow, she can see for herself that the papers are nearly unreadable, because his letters are small, and drawn in blue ink, which seems blurry in the starlight. Leaning closer, she turns the lamp on for me. And as soon as the first sentence becomes clear, I curse him, curse, curse, curse him, because how dare he. 

“Damn it!” I cry. “These words, they—they are not his—but mine! My words—stolen!”

“You sure? This here, it’s his handwriting.”

“It is,” I say, “but this, this is my story, which I recorded long ago, when I was twelve years old, maybe.” 

“Then,” she says, “from now on, be careful. Like, think twice about what you say.”

Somehow, what she means is clear to me, and there is no need to ask for an explanation. I better be careful about the words uttered—or else, they will be spun. 

She presses Stop on the tape recorder, and whispers in my ear—what, I am not going to tell you. 

And I am not going to tell you the smell of her hair, either. 

But then, a moment later I forget all about being on guard. I find myself angry, so angry at my father—but even more than that, surprised. I have told him a thousand times already: my thoughts are mine, and mine alone! How dare he pretend to agree with what I say—and later, ignore it, and invade my privacy, exposing, in the process, some of my most painful, most intimate moments? This is a line he has never crossed before. 

Anita gives me a look, which I take to be a warning. Then she places the shroud back in place, over the tape recorder. 

“The way I picture it is like, this is his desk. He’s always here,” she says, “even when he isn’t. So just, don’t say nothing you don’t want him to hear. You must be careful, Ben. The words you leave behind you, they ain’t yours no more.”

And with that, she turns away. 

I shut the glass door behind her. I murmur, “Good night,” knowing that no one can hear me inside. If she blows me a kiss, I cannot detect it—and so, neither can you. I do not even wish to look at her, because I aim not to see, and not to tell you even a hint of what I see. As I told you before, go! Go away! Or else, if this is where you must stay, just Stop! Stop listening. My thoughts are mine! 

The rage swells in my chest. I want to burst into his bedroom, even before she gets there, and—slap!—punch the unsuspecting, heavy-eyed old man in the face. Instead, I just crumple the papers, and throw them to the floor and stamp, stamp, stamp my feet on them.

Which is when the glass door reopens, just a crack, and she says, “Ben—”

“What? What now?”

“If I was you, I would burn that tape.”

“I cannot,” I say, utterly frustrated. “It has my voice on it.”

And she comes back with, “Unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless,” she says,”like, you want him to know what you really think. Yes, I bet that’s it! You want to draw blood.” 

About the Author

Uvi Poznansky earned her B. A. in Architecture and Town Planning from the Technion in Haifa, Israel, and practiced with an innovative Architectural firm. She received a Fellowship grant and a Teaching Assistantship from the Architecture department at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. There, she earned her M.A. in Architecture. Then, taking a sharp turn in her education, she earned her M.S. degree in Computer Science from the University of Michigan. 

During the years she spent in advancing her career—first as an architect, and later as a software engineer, software team leader, software manager and a software consultant (with an emphasis on user interface for medical instruments devices)—she wrote and painted constantly. Her versatile body of work can be seen online at uviart.com. It includes poetry in English and Hebrew, short stories, bronze and ceramic sculptures, oil and watercolor paintings, charcoal, pen and pencil drawings, and mixed media. 

Uvi has published a poetry book and two children books, Jess and Wiggle and Now I Am Paper. Apart From Love is her debut novel.

For more on Uvi, visit http://uviart.blogspot.com

To order Apart From Love, go to http://www.amazon.com/Apart-Love-Uvi-Poznansky/dp/0984993207/

Check out the latest from Front Row Monthly at www.frontrowmonthly.com, and please make sure to like our Facebook page

When disasters begin occurring around the world, a widely-dispersed group of people begin to make their way to what they hope is a safe place. At the center of the safe zone lies a family trying to deal with the knowledge that their young daughter is having prophetic dreams of the disasters along with a new found psychic ability. What the family doesn’t realize is these dreams are also being experienced by others. They are the driving force leading them. The dreams may mean the end of the world, or the beginning of something altogether different. As more disasters strike a new form of communication with the world begins to emerge around the dreamers, but will it be too late to listen?

Excerpt

Kalahari Desert, Africa

The woman, Tiknay, lay flat on the dusty ground, sun baking her dark brown skin in 90 degree heat. Her face was still, hands clenching sandy dirt by her sides. The wailing voice she had heard for months was changing. A new tonality was surging through the vibrations of the music of the earth. The woman trembled as she sensed rage in the defiant tones. What did it mean?

She had heard the music all her life. It was there as she gathered the mongongo nuts and it was there in her dreams. The pulsing constant voice of the earth changed in its tones like the rhythm of seasons, but she had never been afraid. Even when the voice had changed dramatically in the past few months to the eerie keening wail, she had not been afraid. The voice of the earth had told her through the years about animals who were dying, and warned her of poisoned water her people could not drink. So she could understand the music of grief that wound itself around her body and mind day and night. The wail mirrored her feelings as she watched her tribe dwindle in numbers. It accompanied her delivering misshapen babies who lived only for minutes, watching the young men leave the tribe for the new ways of the white man and his paper money. Still, there had been no fear in the old woman of the tribe until today. She had performed the dances and sung the songs meant to heal the earth, but she had no remedy for the rage she heard now.

The old woman rose slowly and began the walk back to her hut. She knew this anger was not directed at her people, but she also knew they were in danger. She must persuade the tribe to travel far away from the ones who caused this. Something terrible was about to happen.

Salmon Creek, Idaho

“I guess you could say I was there at the very beginning. Well, maybe not at the beginning, more like the beginning of the end. But I sure was there on duty at my station the night Miss Maria got the call that sent her flying outta here like all the bats of hell were nipping at her heels. That’s how I knew she was onto the biggest story of her career. Guess it turned out to be the biggest story of all time didn’t it? But how I knew this was she practically threw her keys at me and tore out of that revolving door so fast it just flew around a couple of times after she was gone. And that’s how I knew, cause she never left on a story without a smile at me and saying, “Wish me luck Fred–and water the plants please!”  Even when there was that scare in the Mideast about a nuclear bomb, even then she still smiled and asked for luck. But not this time, no sir, she just ran. And another thing was she looked scared and she never looked scared before that night. She’s got that kind of skin that always looks tan, but that night it was like it had turned white underneath. Yep, it was a scared look and that scared me cause I know she knows things before almost anyone else–she’d have to, being the best damn reporter SNN ever had!  And her so young and pretty. Have you ever seen hair so dark brown and shiny like satin and her eyes, why they’re that kind of brown that is almost black–but it doesn’t matter if she is the prettiest reporter they’ve got, she is still the best and they always call her first when anything big is happening. So when she left, I reached under the counter and turned on my little TV set. I always said, even if a doorman is on duty he still needs to know what’s going on cause people are always asking “Hey Fred, what’s going on?” and I liked to be able to tell them the very latest. So I kept an eye on SNN but sure enough, that night there wasn’t any news right away–it was probably an hour before there was anything about California, which is probably how long it took for Miss Maria to get to the station and get it all figured out for them down there. Of course, it turned out to be an even bigger story than Maria Santiago could handle by herself.”

Sonoran Desert, Arizona

Sometimes Margaret thought that her sole purpose in life was to provide amusement for the cosmos. What she had discovered in the stark, sandy beauty of the Arizona desert was hard for her to believe. It also scared her to death. She had known for a week that a major earthquake was going to hit California–who would want that kind of knowledge? Earlier in the week she had tried to convince various people in positions of authority that the quake was coming. But no one had believed her. She was left with her dreams of the dead, knowing she was powerless to stop the carnage that was coming. The involvement of crop circles added just the right note of insanity. It was so ludicrous and so awful, tears and laughter had caught her unexpectedly all week. Tonight would be the beginning.

Kalahari Desert, Africa

“Did they say why they were leaving?” Alex asked, tossing her waist-length braid over her shoulder.

“No, they won’t talk–it’s maddening,” said Nathan. “A year of research down the drain because they decide to stop talking to us and move away.” 

Alexandra Hobson and Nathan Ames had spent a year, which was the beginning of a five year study,  taking detailed histories of this tribe of Kung. They were following in the footsteps of other anthropology research groups who had come to the Kalahari Desert to study an indigenous people who still lived a true hunter-gatherer lifestyle. Their interactions with this tribe had gone well, in part due to their intense study of the language before arriving in the desert. Alex was thrilled when the oldest woman of the tribe, Tiknay, who appeared to function as a healer, seemed eager to share her knowledge. Nathan’s work with the men of the tribe had not gone as easily, but he felt he was making progress every day. Then today the old woman came to their tents announcing, “We are leaving,” and had walked away. When Alex ran after her, she refused to talk. Nathan had just come back from questioning the men, who told him nothing.

“I don’t know what’s going on, Alex,” said Nathan. “They looked at me like I was the enemy. Definite animosity in their posture toward me.”

    “Well I’m not just going to give up,” said Alex. “Come on. Pack up your gear. We’re going to follow them until they agree to at least talk to us.”

SNN Headquarters, Atlanta Georgia

Under the icy calm that Maria exuded was sheer terror. Please let them live, please let them be alive, she prayed over and over. They’re my parents, always there for me, so strong nothing could hurt them–could it? No way. Impossible. They’re fine, they have to be fine. Please, please, please let them be ok, let them be safe.

“Maria!” yelled Phoebe, “I’ve got you on military transport leaving in 45 minutes with Zack.”

“Phoebes, you’re an angel–I’m voting you secretary of the year,” said Maria. “How did you ever finagle this for me? Never mind, I don’t need to know.”

“Did you eat anything on your way in?” Phoebe asked. “You know how you get airsick if you fly on an empty stomach.” 

Maria smiled ruefully, “Are you kidding Phoebe? What would I have grabbed to eat from my refrigerator? All I have in there are onions and cucumbers–and I don’t even like cucumbers!”

“Don’t worry boss, I’ll have the commissary send up your favorite.”

“Thanks–I’ll be in Bob’s office,” Maria said as she left Phoebe dialing for food. Please, please let them be alive. They have to be ok, they sacrificed so much for me, oh God please let them live.

“It’s coming over the fax now,” Bob Rutherford, her producer, was saying to Zack as she walked into her producer’s office.

“What is?” Maria asked.

“Info on the quake from the USGS about the magnitude–initial estimate only,” replied Bob.

Maria ripped the page from the fax machine, hands shaking. The paper felt like a bomb as she stared at it, unable to comprehend the symbols on its slick surface. “Well?” Bob asked. “What are we looking at? Is it the big one?”

She thrust the paper at Zack Tyler, her cameraman, who looked at her quizzically then began to read, “USGS unofficial estimate, blah, blah, oh here it is, oh my god–9.8? I didn’t think that high a number was even possible!” Maria sank into the black leather chair in front of Bob’s desk. No, no, no, please no, she thought.

About the Author

Pamela Davis received a bachelor’s degree in Anthropology from Smith College. Along with writing, she enjoys cooking, crocheting, and reading. She has worked as a web designer, a life insurance claims analyst, a medical case manager and a funeral home make-up artist. She prefers writing, with music in the headphones and a cup of coffee at her side. She lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, and is currently at work on her next novel.

To order Gaia Dreams, go to http://www.amazon.com/Gaia-Dreams-ebook/dp/B005AXVKFG                           

For more on Pamela, visit http://themindofpam.com/

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Resilient and practical, Kara Barton has continually strived to live a respectable life. She went to college, embarked on a promising career as an attorney, married a great guy, and always appeared to be the perfect wife and mother. But all is not what it seems, and the troubling past Kara has been running from her entire life is about to catch up with her. Urged on by her insecurities about growing older, and desperately wanting to feel one more night of passion, Kara agrees to share a tryst in a hotel room with a sexy business associate, Scott Ellsworth. But Scott wants more than one night together, and Kara quickly discovers it is impossible to resist him. Soon Kara finds herself transformed into the kind of woman she vowed never to become, and the secure world she has struggled all her life to build begins to fall apart. Her marriage is irrevocably destroyed after a violent argument with her husband, and she turns to Scott for help. He takes her in and Kara discovers the life of luxury and happiness she had always dreamed of. But questions about Scott’s fidelity begin to make Kara doubt their relationship. In a shocking twist of fate, Kara learns the truth about Scott Ellsworth. When everything in her life turns to hell, it is her former husband standing beside her and holding her hand. In the end, Kara Barton realizes how a one-night stand can change everything.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

   Kara Barton carefully traced her red lipstick over her round, full lips as she thought of warriors from bygone civilizations applying their war paint with the same attention to detail. She stood back from her bathroom mirror and admired her work. Despite her forty-one years, she looked good. Damn good, she thought. Her oval face glowed beneath the bathroom lights, and her make up highlighted her creamy skin, deep blue eyes, and delicate features. The endless hours at the gym had paid off, and she noted the way the black cocktail dress hugged her slender hips and flat stomach. She brushed her long, silky blond hair back behind her shoulders and turned away from the mirror. Time to get a move on.

     After shutting the front door of her New Orleans home, Kara quickly made her way to her old, dark green Lexus LS, hoping to avoid any inquisitive neighbors. She did not want to field questions on where she was off to on a Tuesday night. She loved her neighbors in this quiet section of the Garden District. The large stately homes along Seventh Street were characteristic of the architecture found in this part of the city, and the residents shared a close-knit familiarity often experienced in many New Orleans neighborhoods. But Kara did not want to share her plans with anyone, especially tonight.

     Kara maneuvered her car down the wet streets of St. Charles Avenue as a light sprinkle began to fall. When she approached the end of St. Charles Avenue near Lee Circle, her stomach fluttered nervously. While she waited at a stoplight, Kara peered up at the skyscrapers looming ahead in the business district of the city. He was waiting for her in one of those tall buildings. The mere thought of him wanting her as she wanted him made Kara shudder to her deepest core.

     Her mind filled with memories of their first encounter at a political fundraiser hosted by her law firm a little over a week ago. She had not wanted to attend the affair that evening, but her boss had insisted. Not looking forward to socializing with a bunch of corrupt New Orleans politicians, Kara had entered the grand ballroom at the Hotel Monteleone with no expectations of meeting anyone of interest. But then she had spotted him in the crowd.

     Tall, tanned, and slender, with dark brown hair and deep-set gray eyes, his warm, welcoming smile had captivated her from across the grand ballroom. His square jaw, chiseled features, and dark eyebrows had only added to the intensity of his alluring eyes. At the time the man’s good looks made Kara go weak in the knees, and she wondered what was wrong with her. Never before had a man gotten to her quite like that.

      “What if I said ‘I need to see you again’? What would you say?” he had asked her in his seductive voice.

     Kara remembered how his keen eyes had taken in every inch of her body.

     “That might be dangerous for the both of us,” she had whispered to him, hoping no one from her office overheard their conversation.

     “Dangerous, but necessary I would think,” he had teased, leaning closer to her.

     She recalled the aroma of his exotic cologne and the way his gold Rolex watch had gleamed against his wrist.

      Kara had tried to pretend to be shocked by his invitation at the time, but instead of slapping him, she gave him her business card. She remembered how the electricity had jolted her when their hands touched.

     The stoplight in front of her car turned green, and the impatient honking from the car behind her made Kara jump in her seat. She chastised herself for being so distracted and quickly pounded her foot on the accelerator.

    A few minutes later she pulled up in front of the St. Charles Hotel. A valet attendant rushed to her car door.

     “Are you checking in, ma’am?” the young man asked.

     Kara cringed at the word “ma’am.” In her twenties and thirties the word would have never bothered her, but as she approached that dreaded time of life called middle age, she had found her previously thick skin thinning dramatically at anything sounding remotely ageist.

     She shook her head as she handed the valet her keys. “No, I am just here to visit a client.”

     Noticeably indifferent, the young round-faced attendant gave her a generic smile and took her keys, then handed her a valet ticket. Without another word, the young man hopped into her old car and slammed the door shut.

     Kara stood by as the youth, who she suspected could not have been over twenty-one, proceeded to race her car toward the darkened garage entrance off to her left. The car disappeared into the garage, and then she heard car tires screeching as they climbed the garage floors one by one. Kara shook her head and turned toward the hotel’s glass front door. She just hoped the little son of a bitch didn’t scratch her car.

     “Checking in?” a coffee-skinned doorman asked as he waved Kara into the hotel lobby.

     “I have a meeting with Mr. Ellsworth in suite 5659,” Kara stated as she sighted a set of gold elevator doors just beyond the entrance.

     “Take the elevators on your right,” the doorman directed as he pointed his stubby fingers at the elevator doors off to the side. “Those go directly to the suites above the regular rooms. Just press five when you get inside and it will take you to the fifth floor on the suite side.”

     Kara gave the man a warm smile. “Thank you.”

     He dipped his head to her. “No problem.”

     Kara walked across the gold and white lobby, clutching her black purse in her hands. She felt the nervous butterflies in her stomach begin to break into a frenzied swarm. Was this the right thing to do? But then she thought of the way he had looked when they first met, the way his gray eyes had hovered over her figure, and the touch of his skin as he had gently traced his fingers along her arm. She remembered the shape of his face and the hint of his muscular body beneath his fitted black silk suit.

     Kara reached out for the elevator call button with a shaky hand. “Jesus, get a grip,” she whispered.

     As she stood waiting for the elevator to return to the first floor, a family of four came up beside her. She smiled over to the parents, who were dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts. In their arms were shopping bags filled with tokens of their visit to the Big Easy. Running about their feet were two small girls, no older than eight, Kara surmised. The children were dressed in matching dark blue overalls and white T-shirts. She watched them playfully chasing each other as they waited for the elevator to arrive.

     “Hey, you two behave,” the woman scolded, and then she turned her lovely brown eyes to Kara. “Sorry. They’re all hyped up on beignets.” She gave Kara a weary smile. “Between that and all the pralines they have eaten today, I’ll never get them to bed.”

     “Be thankful you just missed Mardi Gras. My daughter gets so wired on king cakes, I can’t ever get her down from the sugar high.”

     “Oh, are you from here?” the woman asked.

     Kara nodded her head. “Born and raised.”

    “We hear it is one hell of a time in this town during Mardi Gras,” the man beside her said as he patted his protruding paunch. “My wife and I would love to get back here without the kids to take in some of the fun.”

     “It’s something everyone should experience at least once in their lives,” Kara told him.

     The elevator doors opened and the children immediately ran inside the elevator car. Their mother followed behind them, reprimanding their exuberance. The woman’s husband, who was struggling to hold on to the family’s shopping bags, waved Kara in next and then followed behind her.

     Once the woman had grabbed ahold of her two girls, she turned once again to Kara. “How old is your daughter?”

     Kara reached over and hit a button on the console. “Ten,” she replied. “And getting to that age where she is trying to grow up faster than she should.”

     “I can’t wait for that,” the man said, rolling his eyes as he came alongside of his wife.

     “Oh, yes you can,” his wife refuted as she reached over and hit the number two on the console next to her. “When they’re sixteen and wanting to go on dates with boys, you will be sitting at the kitchen table having a heart attack.”

     Her husband chuckled as he looked over at Kara. “That’s what shotguns and shovels are for, darling.”

     All three adults chuckled with laughter as the two girls continued to try and pull at each other’s long dark braids.

     A few moments of awkward silence passed, and Kara observed the girls as she tried to occupy her thoughts. Both girls had their mother’s smooth white skin and heart-shaped face. She smiled as she thought of her daughter back at home, struggling with her math homework.

     The elevator doors opened and the girls immediately bolted down the hotel corridor. Their mother gave Kara one last fleeting glance and took off after her children.

     “Good luck,” Kara commented as she watched their weary father slowly make his way from the elevator car, his arms loaded down with shopping bags.

      “Yeah,” the man said as he nodded to Kara. “I’m gonna need it.”

      Relieved to finally be alone in the elevator, Kara’s thoughts began to stray from the exuberant family she had met to the man waiting for her on the fifth floor. She reflected back to their first meeting.

      “I’m not talking about a quiet dinner and some hand holding,” he had said to her as he put her business card in his jacket pocket the night of the fundraiser.

     “I’m not looking for any hand holding, Scott.”

     “How refreshing,” he had whispered, right before he leaned forward and let his lips graze her cheek.

     The feel of his lips against her skin still burned.

     The opening of the elevator doors snapped Kara back to the present. She gazed down the corridor decorated with pale yellow carpeting and portraits of old New Orleans on the walls. She then placed her hand against her stomach and swallowed hard.

     “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she mumbled.

     She stepped from the elevator car and slowly made her way down the hall, anxiously eyeing the room numbers on the doors as she went. As the numbers climbed closer to the one she was searching for, Kara felt her heart begin to race. His voice popped into her head as she remembered when they had made arrangements to meet.

     “I have made reservations at the St. Charles Hotel for Tuesday night,” he had said to her over the phone a few days before. “Don’t disappoint me, Kara.”

     “And what makes you think I will join you at the hotel, Scott?”

     “Because I know what I saw in your eyes at the party. I know what I felt from you. We’re both adults, so let’s not pretend this is something other than lust. I don’t want to wine you and dine you into bed, and I don’t think you want that from me either. There’s nothing wrong with wanting me, Kara. I believe sex between two people can be a lot more fulfilling when they don’t try to make it out to be something other than what it is.”

     “How predictable to hear such words from a man,” she had said into her cell phone.

     Scott had laughed on the other end of the line. “Being male has got nothing to do with this. Admit it. You’re thinking the same way, Kara. I’ll see you Tuesday night.”              

     Kara shook her head, dismissing her memories as she made her way down the hotel corridor. This was a mistake, she reasoned. But just when Kara was about to turn around and head back home, she found herself standing in front of suite 5659.  

     Her heart was pounding in her throat as she stared at the black numbers on the door.     Kara raised her hand and held it just in front of the door for several seconds before finally knocking. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, fighting back the panic swirling around inside of her gut.

     “You’re here,” a deep voice said in front of her.

     Kara opened her eyes and beheld Scott Ellsworth’s handsome face. He was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt and a pair of gray slacks. His dark, wavy hair looked a bit disheveled, as if he too had been anxiously weighing the pros and cons of their meeting. His deep-set gray eyes gazed up and down her slim figure.

     “I wasn’t sure you would come,” he admitted as he stood back from the door.

     “I told you on the phone I would be here.”

     Kara walked into the suite and took in the finely decorated living area. To her right she spied a gold sofa, coffee table, and two matching gold and mahogany chairs. Beyond the living room, there was a small bar with a sink and mini refrigerator. Placed atop the bar were two crystal flutes, with a silver ice bucket sitting between them. In the bucket was an open bottle of Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame.

     She turned back to Scott. “Champagne?” She raised one blond eyebrow. “That’s rather cheesy, don’t you think?”

     Scott closed the door. “I figured it would help get you in the mood.”

     Kara tossed her black purse onto the couch. “In the mood?” Kara arched one eyebrow as she walked up to him. “That’s what foreplay is for, isn’t it?”

     Scott put his arm about her slim waist. “So, am I to skip all of my well-planned seduction material and just get right to it then? That’s rather a lot of pressure to put on a man, Kara.”

     Kara gracefully ran her hands up his white shirt. “I thought you were the kind of man who worked better under pressure.”

     Scott grinned. “Yes, I am.”

About the Author

     Alexandrea Weis is an advanced practice registered nurse who was born and raised in New Orleans. Her popular second novel, Recovery, won the Gold Medal for best romantic suspense from The Reader’s Favorite Book Awards 2011, was named best Romantic Suspense novel by the Spring 2011 NABE Pinnacle Book Awards, and was a Finalist in the ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year Wards in 2012. Her fourth novel, Broken Wings, won best Contemporary Romance by the NABE Pinnacle Book Awards in 2011, and is a finalist in the Reader’s Favorite Book Awards for Contemporary Romance in 2012. Her fifth novel, The Secret Brokers, was released in May 2012. A permitted wildlife rehabber with the Louisiana Wildlife and Fisheries, Weis rescues orphaned and injured wildlife. She lives with her husband and pets in New Orleans.

For more on Alexandrea, visit http://www.alexandreaweis.com/index.html

Follow Alexandrea on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/pages/To-My-Senses/113609858681394 and on Twitter at http://Twitter.com/alexandreaweis

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Check out the latest from Front Row Monthly at www.frontrowmonthly.com

Roxie has the best night of her life until the popular kids decide they want to celebrate her birthday in a way Roxie never expects––in her attic, with a gift that’s out of this world, and a pact to never tell a living soul what happens next.

Twelve-year-old Roxie wants to be like Adrianne, the popular girl who gets everything she wants––a flock to prowl around the mall with; invitations to parties; and for Hayden, the cutest guy in the eighth grade to, you know, notice her. When Roxie invites all the eighth grade peacocks (code word : popular kids) to her first ever thirteenth birthday party on Halloween, they all come and give her a gift that’s literally out of this world. Roxie astral projects to Planet Popular where she becomes seventeen instantly and gets everything she’s always wanted, but nothing is as it seems. Being a high school peacock is complicated and Roxie will risk everything to be who she thinks she wants to be. Oh yeah, there’s Prom, doppelgangers, a mysterious map, and lots of bad peacocks too. 

Excerpt

[Roxie Speak : Peacock- a popular boy or girl; Star-nosed mole- freaky]

Hayden says, “So, where can we go that’s dark. Very dark.”

“The attic,” I say unable to stop myself. I mean why would I say the attic? It’s creepy up there and I hate dark places. I really hate dark places. I still sleep with a night light on. I’ll be the only girl on the planet to lose her virginity with her night light on. For real. Not like that will happen anytime soon. But still.

“Perfect,” Hayden says. It might be the spider or the black light. It might be the fact that the black light shines this creepy whiteness on Hayden’s smile and makes him look a lot less like a peacock and more and more evil, like The Peacock from Hell. It’s the first time his hair doesn’t have that sunny-glow to it. The glow I first noticed in fifth grade. And all of a sudden I start coming down with a bad case of Pavophobia, fear of peacocks. Or, at least fear of their presents. What else could they have gotten me but something that might mess with me.

“Which way?” Adrianne says picking up the purple-and-black present. She walks one way and then another, searching the room, glancing over her shoulder. Jittery, as if she expects to find something or someone in the shadows, in the corners. Very star-nosed mole.

“If I were you I wouldn’t go up there,” I say sounding spooky and a lot less peacocky than ever, thinking about how cold it is up there this time of a rainy night, knowing there’s all kinds of things up there that aren’t things peacocks should see. I’ve never been in the attic at night.

“If I were you I would,” Adrianne says. She clutches my present tight and parades out of the foyer through the dining room. I follow. She puts her hand on the doorknob of the kitchen door. The door that leads to the garage. The garage that leads to the stairs that lead to the attic. She opens the kitchen door like she’s Ally and knows exactly how to get to the attic. The other peacocks follow right behind Adrianne. Ally and I are the last ones in the peacock parade.

Ally tugs on my arm, she doesn’t want to be last one up. I don’t either. We tell each other that with our eyes. Neither of us likes the creepy all-eyes-are-on-you feeling we get in the garage on our way up the green-carpeted staircase. The garage is creepy enough. There’s all this space and just a small window for light and everything echoes. Super creepy. I mean in the summer when we come home from the swimming pool and we hang our swimsuits to dry on hooks that Dad hammered in even with our height, the garage is warm and fuzzy, well as warm and fuzzy as it can be in a stainless-steel-soft-boiled-egg kind of way. But at night, before the rise of the moon, it’s creepy. I feel along the wall and turn on the one light we have above the staircase to the attic.

I have to make sure they don’t go into the garage-side of the attic. Because that’s where all of Mom’s old wild clothes are, hanging above all Mom and Dad’s wild things. But Adrianne beat me, and she’s already inside.

“Wait, you have to be careful,” I say choking on my words, sounding like my mom. Very un-peacocky.

“This isn’t about being careful,” Adrianne says and then I think I know why they came. They want to kill me and use me as a peacock sacrifice. Wait until the full moon rises and then kill me and sacrifice me. Kill me and sacrifice me. That’s all I can think about. And I don’t know where Ally is. I can’t see or hear her. And I shiver from the cold.

“Come on. It’s your birthday. And since your birthday’s on Halloween, we thought we’d do something special. Something creepy.”

Hayden closes the door to the attic behind us and reaches into one of the side rafters beside me. “What have we here?” He holds up a bottle of something.

“No idea,” I say knowing and not-knowing who would have put a bottle like that up here. Maybe Hayden brought it with him. He twists the cap off and takes a swig from the bottle. He spits it out. One itty-bitty part of his spit hits my cheek. I want to hurl.

“It’s time to sit in the circle,” he says. I shuffle-walk over to Ally and it’s the fourteen of us. Twelve official peacocks, Ally, and me.

Adrianne lights a big, round white candle and puts it in the center of the circle. She sits right across from me. The glow from the candle haunts all of our faces. She spreads out her fingers on her right hand and holds it in front of her like we’re about to learn about the number five, so that I can see her palm, then she places her hand, her fingers still all spread out, over her heart on the left side of her body and says, “You all must swear the Oath Of Secrecy. What we do here never leaves this attic. Never.” She puts her hand in the middle of the circle and every one of us puts our fanned-out right hands on top of hers.

“Never,” we all say together.

Hayden hands the present to me. “Open it,” he says, super-serious.

Now that it’s time I rock the present in my hands, not sure how I feel about secrets. Like I’m scared of them or of the present or my own attic. I’m not scared, that’s what I tell myself. I’m not scared. It becomes my new freaking mantra and fights to replace the kill-me-and-sacrifice-me one that just went through my head before we all sat down. I keep telling myself I’m not scared, even though it’s a lie.

I rip the purple-and-black bow off the box and toss it into the circle. Ferdinand picks it up and places it over my head like my grandma used to do at Christmastime. I miss my grandma and I kind of wish my brothers were home for the first time in my life.

I tear open the black box and pry off its lid. And there, cushioned in white fluff, is a blue glass bottle, shaped kind of like a genie bottle. The glass glows in the box, in the candlelight and the more I stare at it, the more it looks like there’s some sort of light dancing inside the glass, making it brighter and bluer. The harder I focus on the tiny light inside, I can see there is something stuck there, inside the bottle. Long and white.

About the Author

I love writing about enchanted road trips, shadow worlds, and alien romance while eating lots of popcorn. I live with my hubby and Oso, our aussie shepherd, in our 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.

I’m the author of the Shadow Series & the Starjump Series. 13 on Halloween (Shadow Series #1) is about a girl who gets a birthday gift that’s literally out of this world. I love this book because it takes a look at one girl’s quest for popularity, no matter what the cost.  Shadow Slayer (Shadow Series #2), will release September 18.  I’m really excited about this book because Roxie is one year older and finds the agony of fitting in at high school nothing compared to saving the world from the shadow onslaught. Transfer Student (Starjump Series #1) is an intergalactic tale of beauty and the geek. This book is near and dear to me because it explores the greatest mystery in the galaxy––what do boys think about girls? And, vice-versa. Ashley & Rhoe solve this mystery by swapping lives. I’m the author of  a couple stand alone novels too. Winnemucca, a small-town fairy tale is inspired by my life-long love of a little-known town and my equal love of enchanted teenage road trips. I love this book because it’s about Ginny awakening to her own intuition. The Seven Caves & Other Spine-Tingling Short Stories, is a compilation of my most popular ghost stories.

Buy at Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Halloween-The-Shadow-Series-ebook/dp/B005NFPDL8

Laura A. H. Elliott, YA & MG Author

13 on Halloween, Roxie’s birthday gift is out of this world Get the Audiobook!

For more on Laura, go to Laurasmagicday.wordpress.com

Follow Laura on Twitter @Laurawriting

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