First Chapter: Like Driftwood on the Salish Sea by Richard I. Levine

 

When they met in the fourth grade, it was love at first sight for Mitchell Brody and Jessica Ramirez. He was the freckle-faced kid who stood up for her honor when he silenced the class bully who’d been teasing her because of her accent. She was the new kid whose family moved to San Juan Island, Washington, from San Juan, Puerto Rico, and whom Mitch had thought was the most beautiful girl in the world.

She was his salvation from a strict upbringing. He was her knight in shining armor who had always looked out for her. Through the many years of porch-swinging, cotton-candied summer nights, autumn harvest festivals, and hand-in-hand walks planning for the ideal life together, they were inseparable…until 9/11, when the real world interrupted their Rockwell-esque small town life, and Mitch had joined the Marine Corps.

This is not just the story of a wounded warrior finally coming home to search for the love, and the world he abandoned twenty years before. It is also the story of a man who is seeking forgiveness and a way to ease the pain caused by every bad decision he’d ever made. It’s the story of a woman who, with strength and determination, rose up from the ashes of a shattered dream; but who never gave up hope that her one true love would return to her. As she once told an old friend: “Even before we met all those years ago, we were destined to be together in this life, and we will be together again, because even today we’re connected in a way that’s very special, and he needs to know about it before one of us leaves this earth.”

Like Driftwood on the Salish Sea is available at Amazon.

First Chapter:

 

Seattle, Autumn 2021

Mitch watched the I-5 traffic stream by like duty-bound ants marching in neat columns on their way to another conquest. He had wanted to open the window, covered with many months of dirt and grime, but it would have taken a half-dozen requisitions and just as many months before the maintenance department would have tended to it. He didn’t care about gaining a better view of the endless procession of late afternoon commuters; he was hoping to get a better view of the sun setting over the Olympic Mountains from the vantage point of the eleventh floor doctor’s office downtown. 

     Whether it was from an office building or from the decks of a ferry plying the waters of Puget Sound, it didn’t matter to him. Simply seeing the sun wash over the evergreens once again eased his anxiety faster than the strongest pharmaceutical he’d ever been prescribed. And over the course of the past few years, he’d been prescribed more pills for more reasons than he cared to count. But he wasn’t concerned about any of that now. He was focused on finally getting home.

     At times, he questioned the life-altering choices he had made or the ghosts he had been avoiding for so long. At times, he even wondered why they had that much power over his better judgement, or if, in the end, he had avoided them at all. 

     It had been many years since he had last visited Seattle. The city seemed so foreign to him now. The places he enjoyed on his rare visits: a University District music store he had loved for their extensive inventory of compact discs, a Pioneer Square sports bar within walking distance of the football stadium, and a waterfront seafood restaurant he had listed among his favorite places, were all long gone. Except for the Space Needle, the skyline was not how he had remembered. A decade or more of gentrification that had given birth to a collection of glittering glass-on-steel architectural masterpieces, could only distantly hide the once-vibrant intersection of First Avenue and Pike Street. No longer decorated with flower baskets filled with a colorful bounty, or teaming with hungry buskers distracting eager tourists heading toward the Pike Place Market, this, as with other downtown boulevards once bursting with a vibrance representative of all the city had been known for, now seemed soulless. Empty paper coffee cups danced across the pavement like tumbleweeds, while lifeless eyes peered from wind-tattered tents that shared the sidewalks with empty storefronts and growing mounds of trash. Save for a recollection of a few clandestine excursions, Mitch no longer had any interest in this place. He wanted to conclude his business and be on his way back to a world that was also nothing more than a distant memory: a world filled with blackberry, apple, and pumpkin pies cooling on windowsills in the warmth of a late summer morning, the Memorial Day parades led by a high school band, the volunteer fire department, and a collection of potbellied members from the local VFW, and the potpourri of Fourth of July barbecues, sack races, and firework displays lighting up the skies over a Rockwell-esque Friday Harbor. It was a place he had wrapped around his insecurities as if it were a goose-down comforter used to keep warm during a snow-driven winter storm, and it was the place he had avoided. Maybe going back and facing the ghosts of his past would be more painful and life-threatening than the physical wounds and emotional scars he’d sustained during his multiple tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan. Yet here he was, as if a few more tests and one more opinion might have produced the silver bullet that would have magically reversed every bad decision he made over the past twenty years during a self-inflicted exile.

     For the tenth time in as many minutes, he glanced at his watch, then up at the wall clock for confirmation. He’s late again, he thought before becoming aware of the clock’s relentless ticking and noticing the long shadows cast upon the opposite wall. To him, those shadows resembled a life slipping away—a life he felt no more able to grasp and hold on to no more than he could grab and hold on to any one of those shadows—and it abruptly reminded him of one of the last times he saw Alex.

* * *

Iraq 2004

     “Is that who I think it is?”

Mitch reflexively cringed then turned toward the sound of the familiar voice. “Alex! I mean, Captain,” he quickly corrected himself, in front of the squad of men in his charge. 

     “Holy cow, Mitch, what the hell! What brings you to Baghdad?”

     “Besides an all-expense paid luxury vacation, courtesy of Uncle Sam?” He forced a smile, then dismissed his men before continuing. “My unit was moved over here in oh-three from Afghanistan…for the invasion. We’ve been doing a lot of probing for, you know,” he lowered his voice, “retaking Fallujah. I don’t suppose you have anything to do with planning that, sir?”

     Alex surveyed his immediate surroundings before responding. “No one’s within earshot now. Even if they were, you can drop the captain and the sir nonsense.”

     “I’ll take that as a yes…sir.”

     “C’mon, Mitch, let’s not do this here.”

     “Fair enough, Alex. You were saying.” 

     “I pulled a few strings to get some of the best recon units for a little fun I’ve got planned before we launch the main operation. And yes,” he winked and attempted a little levity, “I even asked for you.”

     “Very funny. Let it be known that even over here, you’re trying to get me to do your heavy lifting. When are you ever gonna admit that if it wasn’t for my size, speed, and blocking ability, you would’ve never scored all those touchdowns in high school?”

     “That was you?” He smirked. “I did pretty well in college without you by the way.”

     “Yes, I’ve heard…constantly. No offers from the pros, huh?”

     “I had more important business to attend to.” Alex patted his sidearm.

     “Yes, I’m well aware of that too.”

     “What, you think you’re the only patriot?”

     “So, that’s what you call it!”

     “Mitch, please. There’s a lot you need to know. There’s a lot we really need to discuss. Not here, though. This isn’t the time or the place.”

     “I’ll give you that. So, moving right along, when did you get here?”

     “I’ve been in country for about two months now.”

     Mitch smiled. “That’s hardly enough time to get your utilities dirty.”

     Alex ignored the dig. “Truth be told, it seems like I’ve been here forever. Anyway, I’ve been here long enough to have that kid over there waiting to do errands for me every day.” He laughed and pointed to a ten-year-old Iraqi boy waiting nervously at his tent. “Showed up one day outta nowhere and now he’s like my shadow. You’ve been up to your neck in this for how long now?”

     “Since summer of oh-two. Afghanistan and now here. So, who is this kid, like your food taster or your house boy?” He studied the child with suspicion.

     “Food taster?” Alex laughed. “He cleans up the tent, does my laundry…provides a little intel now and then. I pay him in MREs, which I’m sure he sells on the black market.” 

     “Smart little guy. Just don’t eat anything he brings you,” Mitch warned. “I don’t trust the locals.”

     “You don’t trust anyone, especially me.”

     “Well, it’s not as if you didn’t earn it.”

     “I guess in your mind, at least until we have a chance to talk, I deserve that.”

     “You do, but I’m serious about not trusting the locals, Alex. You never know who’s an insurgent or who’s been compromised.”

     “Don’t worry, I checked him out. He’s a good kid.”

     “Famous last words. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Well, anyway, you’re an intelligence officer, so I guess you know what you’re doing. After all, you made it through ROTC and all that other fancy training with your boyish good looks intact. I’ll bet the folks back home are proud of you as you rise through the ranks like a rocket.”

     “Jealous?”

     “Not one bit.” Mitch said defensively.

     “Keep this to yourself…the real damage is on the inside.” Alex pointed to his head.

     “I had heard that about you intel officers.”

     “And look at you! Three stripes! That didn’t take you as long as I thought it would, Marine. At the rate you’re going—”

     “Not me, brother. Except for burn-pit duty and having to get all those booster shots, I was happy just being a grunt. Only now I’ve got responsibilities like leading a squad on patrols. And on top of everything, I’ve got these guys who are just a couple years younger than us calling me ‘Pops,’ of all things.”

     “Burn-pit duty, huh? I didn’t know they gave out Purple Hearts for sucking down toxic smoke. Does that stuff really get you stoned?”

     “I almost wish it did. Sometimes that stuff made me puke up my guts like there was no tomorrow. I should’ve gotten those medals for that instead of playing dodgeball with bullets.”

     “Yeah, I’m told everybody heard about that…front page of the paper back home.”

     “Didn’t mean to steal your thunder.”

     Again, Alex ignored the dig. “Next time you should duck and dodge a little faster.”

     “Honestly, it was nothing. A couple grazed me, is all. Here…” He pointed. “Here, and over here. It’s no big deal. Anyway, how’d you hear about it?”

     “It was in Jess’s last letter. She included the article. I hear you two have been corresponding.” Alex said, then looked for a reaction from Mitch. There was none.

     “She wrote once. It was the first time I had heard from her since…anyway, she didn’t have much to say other than you were on your way over here. She asked if I could keep an eye out for you. It was only right that I respond. I told her I would. Nothing more.”

     “That’s all anyone could expect.”

     “Uh huh…by the way, how’s your little boy? Mateo, isn’t it? He must be getting big.”

     “Like I said, we’ll talk…anyway, Mitch, I had already read up on your exploits.”

     “You’ve been reviewing my personnel file? If I didn’t know any better, Alex, I’d say you really do have something planned and you’re gonna want me to carry it out for you.”

* * *

Doctor Lenkovich’s Office 

The Present

     “Did you hear me, Mitch? Mitch? Master Gunnery Sergeant Brody?”

     Startled, Mitch hadn’t heard the doctor enter the room. “Sorry, doc, it’s been a long day…it’s been a long week.”

     “Not a problem.” The doctor took a seat. “When I came in, you were talking to yourself. Can I ask what you were thinking about?”

     “Nothing really…actually, that’s not true. I was thinking about everything you guys put me through the past couple months. Not just you or this place, but you know, all the tests, the paperwork, going through the process. I was thinking about getting out of here and finally getting back home.”

     “How long has it been?”

     “Far too long. I would’ve been there several weeks ago if I hadn’t been detoured to Bethesda and then Pendleton before ending up here.”

     “You do know it was a suggestion to come here, right? A strong suggestion, perhaps, but it wasn’t an order. After all, your retirement came through and you were discharged. Don’t forget, you’re a civilian now, and I think it’s important for you to get established with a doc. It just makes sense, considering.”

     “I know. Everybody here keeps reminding me. Did I tell you it wasn’t my choice to retire?”

     “No, you didn’t. Was separating hard for you?” the doctor asked.

     “Nah. I’ve had more than my share. It was time…I’m just trying to get used to it…” Mitch trailed off as the wall shadows once again stole his thoughts.

     “Anyway,” Doctor Lenkovich said, “it’s just the corps’ way of taking care of one of its highly decorated heroes.”

     “By forcing me out?” He snapped back as the flip of a light switch washed away the distraction. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…anyway, I don’t think of myself as a hero.”

     “Forcing you out? Come on, it’s a medical discharge. What choice did they have? Anyway, you’ll be happy to know they finally sent the rest of your medical records. You’d think that after all these years I’d be used to the red tape and inefficiency that’s inherent…I’m rambling, sorry. All those tests we ended up duplicating since you arrived here…let’s just say, in case there was any doubt…well, let’s just think of the whole thing as one more confirmation. Which is what you wanted, and what you rightfully deserved. I hope the past week with us hadn’t been an inconvenience.”

     “An inconvenience?” He chuckled. “From being constantly poked and prodded, or having the unwanted attention because I’m some highly decorated…?”

     “Both. Are you saying you didn’t want all that special attention?”

     “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated the above-and-beyond from you and the staff. Even got a couple of names and numbers of some very nice nurses. Even so, I’ve never been one for medals, parades, accolades, etcetera. No, not me. That was Alex’s thing. In all honesty, I hate the attention. It’s embarrassing and it makes me uncomfortable. Especially when so many others here don’t get half of what they deserve.”

     Their eyes locked in an uncomfortable moment of silence.

     “Luckily for you,” Doctor Lenkovich continued while jotting Alex’s name in Mitch’s chart, “there may be one more parade and then you can pack the uniforms, the medals, and hopefully the bad memories, and put them all into mothballs.”

     “What?” Mitch looked confused.

     “Mothballs…I guess people don’t use those anymore.”

     “I know what mothballs are. What parade?” Mitch asked. “Whaddya talking about?”

     “Didn’t anyone from your hometown contact you?”

     “I didn’t tell anybody I was coming…well, that’s not totally true. I left a voicemail for one guy to meet me, but he knows not to say anything to anyone. So, I’m in the dark here, Doc.”

     “Hold on a sec.” He skimmed through Mitch’s file. “Where’s that note? Here it is. Someone from the San Juan Island VFW post contacted the Pendleton base commander right after the news ran a story on you.”

     “Recently?”

     “Several weeks back. They mentioned that you were coming home and that you were being considered for the Congressional Medal. Is that true?”

     “It’s news to me.”

     “Anyway, they want to throw you a homecoming parade…wanted to do it the day you got back there. So, I guess that’s why this guy wanted a heads up on an exact day. I’ve got a number right here. Do you want to call them?”

     “No…no, I can’t.” He shook his head. “And they can’t do anything if they don’t know when I’m coming. They don’t know I’m coming, right? You didn’t call them?”

     “Why would I? It’s not my responsibility. Although if you ask me, a welcome home like that might be good for you.”

     “It’s been a long twenty years, Doc, and I’m tired in more ways than one. I don’t want the attention. And before you ask, I don’t wanna talk about why, and I don’t wanna talk to the shrink about it. I’ve talked to enough shrinks. Hell, I don’t even wanna think about it.”

     “Understood.” He continued to flip through the chart, stopping to review one page. “Mitch, if I may…I’m still curious. I suspect you weren’t thinking about home just now when I walked in because I overheard some of what you were saying. The duty nurse told me you had another restless night. You were talking in your sleep again. What were you really thinking about? If not home, then what? Who? Your friend?”

     “My friend?”

     “Alex? You’ve mentioned him a number of times.”

     “Who, Alex? My friend? He wasn’t my…no, I wasn’t thinking about him.” Remembering the shadows, Mitch stared back at the wall. “Why?”

     “Because I’m told you’ve had conversations with him, with this ‘Alex,’ when you’re alone, and you’ve yelled out his name in your sleep more than a few times, and…and I’m told one night it was as if you were trying to warn him about something. Mitch, I heard you mumble his name just now when I walked into the room. It’s okay to admit you were thinking about him.”

     “Just as long as I don’t think he’s sitting right here?” Mitch winked and smiled at the empty chair next to him to see the doctor’s reaction.

     “I did see that in your file too. It says here you’ve been told PTSD manifests in many ways. I do know from experience with other patients, any deep-seated guilt over the death of a friend can make a person believe the deceased continues to hang around. So, tell me,” the doctor looked up from the file, “has that been happening? Are you seeing him? Talking to him? You can tell me.”

     “I was only joking, Doc…no, it hasn’t happened, and it never did happen, and it’s not happening now, so, I don’t know what the duty nurse thought she heard. And for the record, I was joking with the doc at Bethesda too. That was my mistake. She was one of those uptight types. I was only trying to give her a rise, lighten the mood. I can’t believe she put that in my chart.”

     “A couple of times. I wouldn’t worry about it, though. If you say it didn’t happen—” 

     “It didn’t!”

     “I’ll make a note of that. Okay, moving right along…”

     “Yes, let’s. About those last few tests…you said there’s nothing new to report, right?” Mitch asked.

     “Do you have anything new to report to me? Headaches the same?”

     “No better, no worse.”

     “Any more episodes of nausea?”

     “Just the one time this past week. I think it was from the sausages. They smelled a little funny, now that I think of it. I actually thought I saw one move. Other than that, the food here is pretty decent.”

     “You’re joking, of course, yes?” Lenkovich asked

     “About it being pretty decent?”

     “Moving on…any confusion? Memory loss?”

     “No confusion. However, I do have some memories I’d like to get rid of.”

     “Any visual disturbances, slurring of speech, issues with balance or muscle weakness?”

     “No, no, no, and no.” Mitch said.

     “Okay, then. The latest tests show everything’s the same: the blood work, the scans, your sense of humor, no changes…for now, anyway. However, if you start to notice anything different, like if you actually become funny, you let me know.”

     “So…then…we’re all good, right? We’re all done then.”

     “Mitch, we could do more here, you know? The rate that this thing…it’s unpredictable. There’s a procedure we can do, it’s relatively new and—”

     “I know, Doc, you’ve told me already. I’m not interested, sorry.”

     “Look, I can arrange—” 

     “Thanks, but I think we’re all done here. Trust me, I’ll continue to take all my meds as directed, I’ll call when I need refills. I’ll call you if anything changes, I promise.”

     “In that case, please do me a favor? After you get home, after you get unpacked and settled in, had some time to yourself, looked up old friends, I’d like to have you come back here in a couple months and—”

     He shook his head. “Not gonna happen. I’m really not interested.”

     “Listen Mitch—”

     “Please, Doc, I’m finished listening. It’s nothing against you. You’ve actually been the most understanding, the easiest person to work with. I just don’t wanna do any more…I can’t do any more. All my years in the Corps I’ve had people telling me how to live my life, when to get out of bed, when to eat, who and how many to kill, I’m finished with all of it. I’ve got a small farm and a small hardware store waiting for me up on San Juan Island. For far too long now, I’ve been…I’ve been dreaming about waking up to a rooster’s cry, frying up bacon and some fresh-laid eggs in a cast iron skillet for breakfast, and topping off my coffee with warm milk straight from the teat before heading in to town to help some poor do-it-yourselfer find an odd sized doohickey for his hot water heater; all the things I detested growing up, which I’ve been missing for more days than I can count. I wanna get my hair cut at Freddie’s barbershop on Spring Street, where old men in suspenders still read newspapers, smoke cigars, and solve the world’s problems over a game of checkers.”

     “Sounds wonderful.”

     “Wanna know what’s really wonderful? Sitting by the big stone fireplace in Jentzen’s Café on a winter afternoon, drinking Irish coffee with a hunk of hot beer bread slathered in strawberry jam. And all the while, breathing in the heavy scent of fresh cut spruce and fir draped all across the windows as snow flurries dust the sidewalks and people rush by to get their Christmas packages to the post office before closing time. Now, that’s wonderful.”

     “It sounds like a wonderful life in Bedford Falls.” Doctor Lenkovich quipped in his best George Bailey imitation.

     “What?”

     “Bedford Falls? It’s a Wonderful Life? The movie…never mind. It sounds like a wonderful life, Mitch, and I can see I’ll have a hard time convincing you to come back here for any follow-ups.”

     “I was away for a long time, a lifetime, and now time is my enemy. So, once I set foot off that ferry I am not coming back to Seattle.

About the Author:

Richard I Levine is a native New Yorker raised in the shadows of Yankee Stadium. After dabbling in several occupations and a one-year coast-to-coast wanderlust trip, This one-time auxiliary police officer, volunteer fireman, bartender, and store manager returned to school to become a chiropractor.

A twenty-five-year cancer survivor, he’s a strong advocate for the natural healing arts. In 2006 he wrote, produced, and was on-air personality of The Dr. Rich Levine Show on Seattle’s KKNW 1150AM and after a twenty-five-year chiropractic practice in Bellevue, Washington, he closed up shop at the end of 2016 and moved to Oahu to pursue a dream of acting and being on Hawaii 5-O.

While briefly working as a ghostwriter/community liaison for a Honolulu City Councilmember, a Hawaii State Senator, and volunteering as an advisory board member of USVETS Barbers Point, he appeared as a background actor in over twenty-seven 5-Os, Magnum P.I.s, NCIS-Hawaii, and several Hallmark movies. In 2020, he had a co-star role in the third season episode of Magnum PI called “Easy Money.”

While he no longer lives in Hawaii, he says he will always cherish and be grateful for those seven years and all the wonderful people he’s met. His 5th novel, To Catch the Setting Sun, was inspired by his time in Hawaii.

Like Driftwood on the Salish Sea is Levine’s first foray into the romance genre.

Website & Social Media:

Website http://www.docrichlevine.com  

X https://www.twitter.com/Your_In8_Power 

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/RichardLevineAuthor/ 

Instagram https://www.instagram.com/rilevinedc 



First Chapter: Knot of Souls by Christine Amsden

 Two souls, one body...

When Joy wakes up in an alley, she knows three things: she was brutally murdered, she has somehow come back to life … and she is not alone. She’s been possessed by an inhuman presence, a being that has taken over her dying body. That being is powerful, in pain, and on the run from entities more dangerous than he is.

Shade, a Fae prince on the run, didn’t mean to share the body he jumped into. Desperate and afraid, accused of a murder he didn’t commit, he only sought a place to hide—but if he leaves Joy now, he faces discovery and a fate worse than death.

Forced to work together to solve multiple murders, including her own, Joy and Shade discover hidden strengths and an unlikely friendship. Yet as their souls become increasingly intertwined, they realize their true danger might come from each other … and if they don’t find a way to untangle the knot their souls have become, then even the truth won’t set them free.

Knot of Souls is a stand-alone buddy love fantasy that forces two very different beings to work together … and come out stronger on the other side.

Knot of Souls is available at Amazon.

 First Chapter:

Chapter 1

Joy

The first thing I realized, after I died, was that my body could walk and talk and no longer needed my help for any of it. I was in there, able to look through my eyes and hear through my ears, but even the simple task of aiming my gaze had slipped outside my control. I was a passenger inside my own mind, an observer along for the ride.

Kristen had been right, I thought numbly as I struggled to make sense of my new reality. Had it only been lunchtime today when she’d told me I’d never get ahead if I didn’t learn to assert myself? “Take control of your life,” she’d said, “or others will take it for you.”

She couldn’t have been thinking of anything quite so literal. Whatever was happening to me, it wasn’t because I’d failed to advocate for a promotion at work or refused to ask out a coworker.

Right?

My body reached my car and slid behind the wheel. A rattled thought—not my own—cursed as it tried to understand how the contraption worked. How much can cars have changed in only a century? Visions accompanied the thoughts, memories—again not my own—of a classic car, gleaming black and elegant, its top down, my bobbed hair whipping around my face as I laughed with glee, a white-faced young man at my side gripping the door, begging me to slow down. I did not.

Which brings me to the second thing I realized, after I died: I was no longer alone inside my own mind.

Whoever was in there didn’t seem to have noticed me yet. Fine. I slid into the smallest corner of my brain I could find, ignoring the intruder as they struggled to figure out how to work an automatic transmission. Maybe they’d get frustrated and give up and go find someone else’s body to possess.

Holy shit! I’ve been possessed by the ghost of someone who died in like 1930.

But why?

I tried to remember what had happened, but the images danced just out of reach. I recalled that the night had been unseasonably cold for October, the chill biting through my inadequate jacket as I hurried to my car, parked in a garage two blocks away from the shelter where I’d been volunteering. Hugging my arms around my torso for warmth, I took a shortcut through an alley and …

There was a noise. I’d startled, my heart pounding in my throat, already on edge because of the argument.

Wait. Back up. There’d been an argument. That seemed significant, but my scattered thoughts couldn’t piece it together as yet, not when a bodily intruder fumbled at the gearshift of my two-month-old Hyundai Accent with only fifty-eight “low monthly payments” left to go.

Low is such a relative word.

My beautiful new, inexpensive (also relative) car jerked suddenly backwards out of its parking spot as the voice in my head grew angrier and more frustrated and … afraid. I saw flashes, images I didn’t understand of multi-colored ghosts who seemed to be singing. The more they sang, the more desperate I felt as fear, my own and somehow not my own, made it hard to breathe.

We streaked across the nearly empty parking lot in reverse, almost colliding with the only other vehicle in the place—a red SUV with scratched paint and a dented front bumper suggesting it regularly attracted unwanted attention from other cars. I tried to scream, but didn’t have control of my voice. I tried to hit the brakes, but instead the possessing spirit shifted from reverse to drive without stopping. The grinding of gears made me want to weep, but we came to a stop, breathing heavily, muscles tensed as if in expectation of attack.

They destroyed her. They tore her apart.

I had no time to wonder what any of that meant before the thing possessing my body channeled its anger and grief into a force I’d never experienced or even known existed. One second, the battered red SUV was parked inches from my back bumper, the next, it flew through the air, smashing against a far wall, its frame crumpling like an accordion.

I tried to make myself even smaller, a nearly impossible feat, but I couldn’t let it know I was in here. If it could do that to an SUV, I didn’t want to think about what it might be able to do to me.

Now what?

For one, panic-filled moment, I thought I’d asked the question. Then I realized I wasn’t the only one trying to figure things out.

My car rolled forward again, its speed uneven, first too fast and then—I slammed on the brakes. Well, maybe I didn’t do it, maybe the thing inside me had the same idea as me, but the car skidded to a halt so it just kissed a large concrete pillar. At least it’s just the paint, I tried to tell myself, but rage welled up within me and my fist slammed into the center of the steering wheel, eliciting an angry honk.

An ominous crack formed in the concrete pillar, more evidence, in case I needed it, that the thing invading my body had powers beyond belief. Then came more rattled thoughts that were definitely not my own:

Who thought it was a good idea to build obstacle courses in the sky? Is there not enough room on the ground? Too damn many humans …

Once again, I drew away from the voice in my head. If I hadn’t lost all connection to my body, I’d be trembling, but even so, I felt the sort of cold that seeps through to the soul.

The third thing I realized, after I died, was that the thing possessing me wasn’t a ghost. Or at least, not the ghost of a human.

My car backed away from the concrete column and maneuvered around it to continue the winding path down … down … down to the exit.

Where was my body going and why? More importantly, what would happen if I made myself known and asked?

I reeled at the thought, mentally slinking all the way back to the homeless shelter where I’d been volunteering in the hours before my death. I’d had a crappy day and needed to channel that into a sharp reminder that plenty of people had it much, much worse. Their circumstances, their personalities, their trials and tribulations didn’t fit neatly in the lock box some tried to label and forget, but all of them struggled in some way. They needed help, and sometimes I needed to be needed; it helped me feel less alone.

Tonight, though … tonight there’d been a problem. I remembered having a nice chat with one of the regulars, Roger, big-hearted and with a certain excited energy about him. He’d found a job and was working hard to get back on his feet, but he still couldn’t find a place to rent after being evicted from his old apartment. Now, he lived in his car except when the nights grew too cold, and he was always there to lend a helping hand or just to listen. He had a way of getting people to open up, even me.

He’s the one who jumped in when Thomas started getting belligerent, ranting and raving about false witnesses and evil spirits. The whole thing was so sudden and confusing, I’m not even sure how it happened. One second I’m chatting with Roger about the crappy end to a crappy day—accidentally seeing porn on a coworker’s computer—the next Thomas is in my face, grabbing a fistful of my shirt as he accused me of being a liar, of being in league with the demon spirits, demanding I admit that I could see them too. I was off balance;, I don’t know what I said, I only know what I felt. There was a moment when I looked into his eyes and saw fear and desperation reflected back at me. Then he was being dragged away, thrown out of the shelter …

But he hadn’t been the one to sneak up behind me and kill me. I thought he was, at first. When I heard the noise in the alley, I jumped and looked around, sure it would be Thomas. But it was someone else.

No, not someone else, something else. The thing possessing me wasn’t the first nonhuman I’d encountered tonight. That honor belonged to a blur, a shadow, a … the only way I could think to describe it was as if a small child had found a gray crayon and colored over an otherwise human shape.

I knew I’d died. The bright light I’d only heard about—never believed in—had beckoned and I’d known it was over. Dead in a cold alley; would anyone notice before morning? Who would even mourn me? I had few friends and fewer attachments. No husband or kids, not even a boyfriend. My cat would probably find someone else to feed her. Some might say that was a blessing, not to leave anyone behind, but all I saw was lost potential. If only … the words that would follow me into my lonely grave.

Where had the light gone? I’d seen it, I’d hesitated, I’d wondered if there really was a god after all, and then …

… my body was walking and talking and thinking and acting and I was along for the ride.

My beautiful blue car, none the worse for wear, exited the garage without running into anything else and turned onto the empty city street. Fewer cars might mean lower odds of getting into another accident, although it was clear the thing in my body had little experience driving. It swerved left and right, unable to center itself in the lane, and braked suddenly at a flashing yellow stoplight, which bent backwards in reaction.

That’s when I reached the final—and belated—realization of the most bizarre night of my life. (Afterlife?) If I didn’t take over the driving of this vehicle, I’d die. Again.

About the Author:

Christine Amsden is the author of nine award-winning fantasy and science fiction novels, including the Cassie Scot Series.

Speculative fiction is fun, magical, and imaginative but Christine believes great speculative fiction is about real people defining themselves through extraordinary situations. She writes primarily about people, and it is in this way that she strives to make science fiction and fantasy meaningful for everyone.

In addition to writing, Christine is a freelance editor and political activist. Disability advocacy is of particular interest to her; she has a rare genetic eye condition called Stargardt Macular Degeneration and has been legally blind since the age of eighteen. In her free time, she enjoys role playing, board games, and a good cup of tea. She lives in the Kansas City area with her husband and two kids.

Author Links

Website https://christineamsden.com/wordpress/

X http://www.x.com/christineamsden 

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/Christine-Amsden-Author-Page/127673027288664?ref=hl


First Chapter: Jury Duty is Murder by Kate Damon

The verdict is in; a famed athlete is headed for prison. The jurors have done their job and are free to go back to their lives. But after being sequestered for four months, life as some knew it no longer exists.

HAROLD ASHMAN’s house is almost destroyed by a careless driver. Exotic dancer, CEECEE LAINE, discovers that her boyfriend is two-timing her, and she no longer has a job. Actor ALEX MANNING learns his career is down the tubes, and 72-year-old, HELEN RYDER, discovers her family is plotting to put her in an old folks home.

Then things take a turn for the worse. When former jurors start dropping like flies, CeeCee, Helen, Harold and Alex are convinced there’s a killer on the loose. Now the feuding foursome must find him before he kills them—or before they save him the trouble by killing each other.

Jury Duty is Murder is available at Amazon.

 First Chapter:

They surged en masse through the double glass doors and down the steps of the courthouse.  Expressions grim, the jurors stopped to face the dozens of TV cameras and reporters camped in front.  To the casual spectator, they presented a united front.  The battles that raged behind closed doors and threatened a mistrial appeared to be forgotten.  Only the most discerning eye would suspect otherwise.

The prosecutor made an obligatory statement, followed by one of the lawyers for the defense.  Cameras whirred dutifully, but the half-hearted questions the reporters asked didn’t fool anyone.  They were simply biding time until the real star of the media circus—juror #5—took her place behind the podium.  No one else—not the high-priced lawyers, not the other jurors, not even the tearful family members—existed as far as the media were concerned.   

Wearing her trade-mark pink “barely there” leather outfit and high-heeled pink boots, juror #5 stood out like a bright beacon in the sea of black suits and dull dresses favored by the other jurors.  Dubbed Cotton Candy by the press—CeeCee for short—she strutted red-carpet style to the podium.  Her hair circled her head in a pink cloud, falling to her shoulders in springy curls.  Eye-popping boobs rose and fell like gentle waves threatening to spill over her low neckline.  

Taking her place behind the microphone, she posed for cameras and demurely answered—and in some cases, refused to answer—questions in a throaty voice.  Only a handful of jurors agreed to talk to the media following the verdict.   

The reporters hammered away at her—rat-a-tat-tat.  What was going through her mind during deliberations? What took so long for the jury to settle on a verdict?  Which juror was the hold-out?  

The jurors had been advised not to give out too many details.  The verdict was a result of the evidence—nothing more.  CeeCee stuck to the script, albeit in a throaty purr that was better suited to a bedroom than outside a courtroom.

The oldest juror—the bitchy one the other jurors called Schoolmarm—glared at CeeCee with obvious disapproval.  Next to her, juror #7—an egocentric actor—tried in vain to push his way in front of the TV cameras and claim his fifteen minutes of fame.  The juror known as Shoe tried to pull a Houdini, but no escape route could be found.   

 But they weren’t the only ones who objected to CeeCee running the show.  A few feet away, the man known as Dipstick shuffled his feet, and shot visual arrows at the clamoring crowd.

The way they carried on—the media—you’d think that little Miss “Barely There” came up with the verdict all by her lonesome.  

But he knew better.  

Growing visibly weary of the questions, CeeCee flicked a strand of hair away from her face and looked straight into a Channel 9 camera.  “I’m so glad it’s over,” she purred.

Over.  The word was like a bullet exploding in Dipstick’s head.  He clenched his fists tight, driving his nails deep into his sweaty flesh.

He watched as she moved away, the crowd following in her wake.  

He lifted his hands and stared at the blood slowly pooling in his palms.  

I’ve got news for you, little Miss Barely There.  It’s not over.  Not by a long shot.  


About the Author:

When Kate Damon is not writing, she and her husband enjoy RVing, spending time with family and friends, raising Monarch butterflies, and playing a wicked game of bridge.

Writing as Margaret Brownley, she has published more than 40 novels and is a New York Times bestselling author. Known for her memorable characters and humor, she is a two-time Romance Writers of America Rita finalist.

Not counting the book she wrote in sixth grade, and the puzzle of the missing socks, this is her first mystery.

Website http://margaret-brownley.com/

Twitter https://www.x.com/katejuryduty

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/MargaretBrownleyAuthor/ and https://www.facebook.com/p/Kate-Damon-61565155275435/

Instagram https://www.instagram.com/katedamonbooks

BookBubhttps://www.bookbub.com/authors/kate-damon

Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4072660.Kate_Damon and https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/163681.Margaret_Brownley


First Chapter: Tales of the Ocean City: Battle in the Sky Book 1 by Christopher Kaufman

 

Title: Tales of the Ocean City: Battle in the Sky (Book 1)

Author: Christopher Kaufman

Publisher: Three Dashes Publications

Genre: Classic Epic Fantasy

A young civilization is turning the corner into the future, but first they must face a terrible enemy from their deepest past – THE VORM.

The main characters are a young man named Harl’ut and his lifelong companion Vispushin – who is a perIanth, a kind of telepathic pegasus. Join them on this epic adventure as they lead a group of young warriors into the heart of the Vorm Hive.

Book One: Battle In The Sky is the first of five books which comprise the opening series of this epic tale. Here, Harl’ut and Vispushin and The Princess Bryn’lynn, engage in desperate battle over the southern plain with savage Vorm warriors. You will be uplifted by the passionate and thrilling conclusion of the first installment of this fantasy adventure. 

In Book Two: Descent Into The Abyss, Harl’ut recovers from his harrowing adventure from Book One: Battle In The Sky. He walks through the streets of The Ocean City, visits the Sculpture Garden and his friend, Elá, the bard, and engages in exciting training games with warrior/mentor, Calanctus. Then the story takes you down the throat of the vast volcano, Pla’than’taa, once worshipped as a god, where Harl’ut enacts a deadly initiation ritual, confronts the barbaric past of his people and battles a terrifying monster. 

Pick up your copies at https://kaufmantales.com/

FIRST CHAPTER:

All went Dark.
Zhii’gla’s back convulsed. Vispushin’s alarm rang through his mind and into Bryn’lynn’s. Light blinded
her as her eyes flashed open. She lithely spun about, standing now upon the stallion’s haunches, facing her enemies. Zhii’gla, with a violent swipe of his wings, spiraled backwards through the air, heading away
from the warned of danger.
They were dazed by some kind of psionic blast!
“What’s going on!?” she thought screamed.
Zhii’gla’s mental voice sounded dim, as if passing through a dense pall of white static.
“Not sure…Danger…We must…Escape.”

The glare cleared from her eyes. Bryn’lynn stared at what looked like dark fistfuls of bloody ink tossed
against the sky, as if her half-imagined cloud shapes had mixed with nightmare and come to life.
Three massive pegusi gashed the air where she and Zhii’gla had just been, savage metallic scythes curved
from churning hooves. Monstrous warriors loomedon their backs as fiery light frothed about massive
spikes and horns which sprouted from the warrior’s heads and bodies at riotous angles. They swerved
and pursued Bryn’lynn and Zhii’gla like a violently cresting wave.
“Get us out of here!” Bryn’lynn cried aloud.
“I’m…trying…” Zhii’gla mentally gasped.

Zhii’gla leveled off close above the trees, flying swiftly. Bryn’lynn felt the mighty haunches rolling be-
neath her. She took a breath. Warrior pride suddenly bloomed in the young Princess’s heart. Cold rage
displaced fear.

She reached down and whisked from its scabbard the sword which hung at Zhii’gla’s shoulder. A hilt shaped like the curved wings of a flying perianth protected her slender hand.

Red veins in the blue-grey blade made brave arcs of colored light as she brandished the weapon aloft! She uttered her piercing battle cry…
“Kay’yaaaaaa…….”

Even as the powerful sound echoed in the hills just below, the enemy arose as one in their saddles and
three arms jerked suddenly forward.
Bryn’lynn held the flat of her sword outward and braced it with her other hand as two heavy war clubs
exploded against her guard. One glanced painfully against her shoulder. A third more massive and
heavy weapon hit her sword and drove it flat against her forehead.
She fell to one knee, panting for breath.

Christopher Kaufman is an author, composer, presenter, illustrative artist and performer. He started imaginative fantasy books with illustrative art at the age of nine. During high school years he found music and attended The New Orleans Center for The Creative Arts and went on to major in music composition in college. He finished his schooling – earning his DMA in music composition at Cornell University where he studied with Pulitzer Prize Winning composers who prize his abilities as a composer.

Christopher is the type of person who needs imaginative fantasy scenarios to get to sleep. Therefore, he emerged from Cornell, not only with his degrees in music, but with the full event structure for his classic epic fantasy series Tales Of The Ocean City in his mind.

He began writing the story down in the early 2000’s, but it did not really come to life until he developed his home music ‘laboratory’ and started creating the music and text at the same time. Thus books one and two of TOC came about simultaneously as both graphically illustrated pages and effulgent audio albums filled with cinematic epic symphonic music.

They exist now as physical books and audio albums (that go together) and the new Video Book version.  He performs live tours with the music pouring through speakers, live narration and the colorful pages streaming on screen – a true immersive multi-media experience.

He also maintains his career as a composer for the concert stage with a full body of work, from solo works thru orchestral. He specializes as well in ‘environmental works’ which feature soundscapes crafted from hundreds of natural sounds, live musicians (from soloists, chamber groups and to full orchestra), videos filled with both natural and artistic images and readings from the works of John Muir and others.

His home page is – soundartus.com

His author page is talesoftheoceancity.com.

His you-tube channel is SOUNDARTUS.

Visit him at Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/talesoftheoceancity.

Christopher believes in the transformative power of imagination.

“Live with imagination!”


First Chapter: Friends Are Forever by Mike Martin

 

Title: Friends Are Forever (A Sgt. Windflower Mystery Book 16)

Author: Mike Martin

Publisher: Ottawa Press and Publishing

Publication Date: May 1, 2025

Pages: 318

Genre: Mystery

Format: Paperback, eBook & FREE on Kindle Unlimited

BOOK BLURB:

As Winston Windflower, his police colleagues and their families gather in Marystown, Newfoundland, to celebrate those being promoted up the RCMP ranks, a sophisticated heist by international mobsters and local biker gangs unfolds in multiple cities and towns throughout the province, robbing banks and businesses of hundreds of thousands of dollars. The Mounties soon realize more than money is being lost.

In this, the sixteenth novel in the Sgt. Windflower Mystery series, author Mike Martin continues to craft intrigue in the cultural and geographical setting unique to Newfoundland and Labrador. Readers new to the Windflower mysteries and those returning will experience the joys of a close-knit community that thrives on the simpler things in life: por’ cakes, a lighthouse in serious need of a facelift, TV movie nights and the warmth of get-togethers with family and friends. 

Friends are Forever is available at Amazon.

 First Chapter:

Sergeant Winston Windflower couldn’t be happier for his friend and colleague Eddie Tizzard. On Windflower’s recommendation and with the approval of the big boss, Superintendent Ron Quigley, Tizzard was being promoted to sergeant in the Mounties, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. But in terms of being proud, Windflower might have to stand in line because in the crowd that was gathered at RCMP Headquarters in Marystown, Newfoundland, were Tizzard’s partner, Carrie Evanchuk, and his dad, Richard Tizzard. Both were beaming from ear to ear as they juggled Eddie and Carrie’s two children in their arms.

Carrie had the easier task as little Sophie had been fed and was now snoozing in milk heaven. Hughie, on the other hand, would try and make a break for it every now and then, so Richard had to hang on tightly. He finally gave in and handed the little boy over to his Aunt Brenda, who was sitting farther back in the audience with the rest of Tizzard’s extended family.

Eddie looked down over the assembled RCMP officers and his family and smiled when he saw Hughie trying to get up closer towards him. He could also hear Hughie yelling “Daddy, Daddy” whenever the little boy got pulled back into the crowd. He smiled again as his superintendent called him to the podium and asked him to take off his corporal’s uniform jacket. Ron Quigley then handed him his new jacket with three chevrons pointing down and a crown on top on the right sleeve of his dress uniform, the RCMP’s famous red serge.

There were no speeches. That wasn’t the RCMP’s style. So, the two men shook hands, and Tizzard walked back to his place to thunderous applause from his fellow officers and family. Next on the agenda was the promotion of Windflower’s assistant in Grand Bank, Constable Samira Gupta, to corporal. This time Windflower did the honours, and Gupta exchanged her old uniform for one with two chevrons pointing down that indicated her new rank. She didn’t have any family in the crowd but was very popular with the troops, given the nice round of applause that she also received.

Some of those were special cheers from Windflower’s wife, Sheila Hillier, and his daughters, Stella and Amelia Louise, who had come over from Grand Bank for the occasion. All three loved Sam Gupta. They loved Eddie Tizzard, too. But they all had also made a strong connection with Windflower’s new sidekick and now brand new corporal.

There was a small reception afterwards with coffee and a large cake with the RCMP insignia on it. Both girls had a large piece of cake while Windflower and Sheila visited with Richard Tizzard and Carrie. It was a great celebration day for the Force, as the members called it, and there was plenty of good cheer all around.

But while the Mounties and their families were celebrating, something far more sinister was happening a short distance from the hotel where they were eating their cake.

A group of men had ambushed an armoured truck, and two of them had managed to somehow get inside and now had both armed guards hostage. They ordered the guards to undress, took them to another vehicle, a large panel van, and shoved them inside. As someone else drove them off, the first two men stripped and put on the security guards’ uniforms.

As the reception continued at the hotel, the fake security guards resumed the route that the real guards had been on and made stops at a number of local businesses before making one last visit to the bank in the shopping mall. They looked like the real deal as they walked into the branch. But instead of making their usual stop at one of the tellers, they asked to speak to the manager. A few minutes later the manager was left tied and muffled in the safe, and the false security officers walked out through the bank’s main doors with bags of loot from their efforts.

By the time the alarms were sounded and the bank manager released from the safe, the robbers were long gone. Gone from the bank and gone from Marystown. The real security guards were found out on the highway where they had walked to after being dumped in a deserted area. The day after, when the police started looking for suspects, they were not only off the Burin Peninsula, but they were waiting for a flight at the airport in Gander to take them completely out of the province. Of course, none of that would be known for days as the investigation into the boldest crime in Marystown history began.

After the ceremony and reception, the parties went their separate ways. Eddie Tizzard and his family went back to their house for a quick visit with everybody before his father and sisters and their crew headed back to Grand Bank. Windflower made the rounds, saying goodbye to everyone before loading the girls into Sheila’s car and driving back home to Grand Bank himself. It was springtime, or some facsimile of spring in that part of the world.

April meant not just showers but any combination of rain, snow and sleet. Often you got all three on the same day. Today it was cool and clear. Not quite sunny, but close enough, thought Windflower as he watched the urban setting of Marystown melt into the barren wilderness of the highway back home. He also thought about how lucky he was, lucky not just because he’d seen two of his favourite people in the world get recognized but because of his life in general.

He had recently moved back into the RCMP after a period away for reflection about what to do next in the world. He had been a Mountie all of his adult life and was tired of the time away from his family and the increasing dangers of the work. Plus, it was an organization that seemed resistant to change, and that meant it was hard to grow. Windflower tried a few other things but gradually and steadily came back to the RCMP and police work. At the urging of another old friend and now superintendent, Ron Quigley, he agreed to take over as inspector of the whole southeast coast section of the RCMP.

There were some conditions. First of all, he could continue to live in Grand Bank and not have to transfer over to Marystown. That was a deal breaker for Sheila and so for him, too. He could work out of the old Grand Bank detachment that had been shuttered during the last round of funding cutbacks. He would travel back and forth and be available to meet with staff in Marystown on a regular basis. Eddie Tizzard, now a sergeant, would be his second-in-command and oversee the operations over there on a day-to-day basis.

Secondly, he would need his main admin person, Betsy Molloy, back again. She had been his right-hand person and eyes and ears in the community as long as he had been in Grand Bank. And he would need an assistant to help him in the police work. At one time that had been Carrie Evanchuk, but she was quite busy with two small children at the moment. So, Corporal Samira Gupta had been brought in to fill the breach. She had proven quite capable as well as personable, and Windflower had added her to his gratitude list.

But his true gratitude was for the joys of his life, Sheila and their two girls, Stella and Amelia Louise. Sheila was his foundation and his rock in life. He knew that no matter what happened during the day, he would come home to her love at night. And the girls kept him young and youthful. His late Uncle Frank had told him that we think we are here to teach the little ones, but if we listen carefully, we will learn far more about life from them. He was right, thought Windflower, peeking into the back seat to see them playing together as he took the first exit into Grand Bank that would take them to their house.

They had all just gotten inside when his cell phone rang. It was Gupta.

“You better come back over,” said Gupta. “There’s been a robbery. More than one, in fact.”

“What’s going on?” asked Windflower.

“Hard to say right away,” said Gupta. “I’m at the bank where the bank manager was trapped in their safe by two armed security officers. But we’re now getting more reports from local businesses that they are involved as well.”

“Okay, I’m on my way.”

“Problems?” asked Sheila.

“A robbery in Marystown,” said Windflower. “Sorry, I have to go back.”

He kissed Sheila and gave both the girls a hug. He patted his collie, Lady, on the head. She looked surprised and disappointed that he was leaving. Without her. “Sorry, girl,” he said as he left to get into his cruiser and drive back out of Grand Bank.

About the Author:

Mike Martin was born in St. John’s, NL on the east coast of Canada and now lives and works in Ottawa, Ontario. He is a long-time freelance writer and his articles and essays have appeared in newspapers, magazines and online across Canada as well as in the United States and New Zealand.

He is the award-winning author of the best-selling Sgt. Windflower Mystery series, set in beautiful Grand Bank. There are now 16 books in this light mystery series with the publication of Friends are Forever

A Tangled Web was shortlisted in 2017 for the best light mystery of the year, and Darkest Before the Dawn won the 2019 Bony Blithe Light Mystery Award. All That Glitters was shortlisted for the LOLA 2024 Must Read Book of the year award.

Some Sgt. Windflower Mysteries are now available as audiobooks and the latest Darkest Before the Dawn was released as an audiobook in 2024. All audiobooks are available from Audible in Canada and around the world.

Mike is Past Chair of the Board of Crime Writers of Canada, a national organization promoting Canadian crime and mystery writers and a member of the Newfoundland Writers’ Guild and Capital Crime Writers.

Website & Social Media:

Website  https://sgtwindflowermysteries.com/ 

Twitter https://www.x.com/mike54martin 

Facebook  https://www.facebook.com/TheWalkerOnTheCapeReviewsAndMore