This story is a single journal entry in Book One, Ursus Borealis, in The Starlight Chronicles series. I found it rather fun to write a story within a story within a story. It nestles in a chapter featuring Kuliana Hada, a character that appears throughout the series, who is an Anurashin Captain of the Guard. Cynthia is her ancestress.
Cynthia’s story is incorporated into an actual historical account about the White Ship that sailed in 1120 as described. Its sinking changed history.
This sounds impossible, I know. You will just have to take my word for it. That is, if you’re from a realm apart from this hidden place beneath a volcano, and if this message manages to reach you, as I hope.
My life began on a farm in the County of Anjou. It was forever changed when I met a bear from Normandy.
After immersing myself in the astonishing world of my mate and the kingdoms of the shifters, learning there was life beyond this Earth before reaching the heavens took only a few extra pints to swallow down. That, and meeting Zigan. It turns out that Zigan and I are old souls who have danced through this journey before in many previous lifetimes.
How my soul was chosen for this repeated Earth-bound destiny remains a mystery, but my magus spent many hours over wine in our chateau, sharing what he knew of our history, or rather, the history of the prophecy of the marked maidens.
As for Zigan, up until we met—in this time—he had spent his life training with the Order, which included studying the records in the extensive archives and all forms of alchemy. He had also been honed into a fierce warrior. Even more astonishing, he could transform into a stunning feline, which I learned was called a tiger.
For eight years, I experienced what it was to be part of the Pack, to be soulmates with its alpha, to be one part of a wondrous whole. We were successful in our purpose, keeping the princes’ machinations from the human population and mitigating the damage.
This is the part at the end of our story. Writing it down is agony because it chronicles the event that halted our purpose violently, tore me from those I loved, and marked the beginning of my slow and lonely death. Still, it must be told.
It takes place starting mid-morning on the 25th day of November in the year 1120. We arrived at Barfleur near the coast of Normandy after confirming the location of the current plot of Aviel Enair, the oldest and most formidable of the three sibling princes.
We lacked the details, but we knew his scheme would involve the sailing vessel known as the White Ship, renowned for its speed and beauty, now carrying the only legitimate heir to King Henry I across the English Channel.
###
Frustration gripped me as I wrapped my arm around myself, trying to catch my breath after running the length of the docks. I called out to my mate, who was approaching behind me.
“It is just as we feared, Aldric. The ship has almost reached the Quilleboeuf!”
As I spoke, three hundred souls sailed away, including other nobles and the heir, and the loss would be catastrophic to the burgeoning English monarchy.
When we learned that the king’s seventeen-year-old son, William Adelin, desired to sail on this elegant vessel while his father sailed ahead of him, and that Aviel had set his sights on it, we considered the hazards the Anurashin prince might exploit. The ship had a good reputation and so did its captain, Thomas FitzStephen, whose father had taken the prince’s grandfather, William the Conqueror, across the same sea.
The only evident risk was sailing past Gatteville, where hidden rocks such as the Quilleboeuf lay waiting for careless sailors. But FitzStephen was surely used to navigating such hazards.
I breathed in the salty air to sharpen my mind while I considered our options. The raucous calls of seagulls ebbed overhead as they congregated, fought, and flew off with morsels of fish as their prize. Despite the size and piercing eyes of the warrior next to me, we stood unnoticed among the throng of bodies rushing toward their duties on the bustling docks.
“You must call Zigan, my love,” Aldric said, drawing me to his side and offering his warmth as I shivered from the urgency of our task and the breeze cooling the sweat of my exertion.
Although we were French, our purpose as part of this prophetic trio was to maintain the balance of power fated for this world in our time. According to Zigan’s archives, when the princes interfered, it fared badly for the human populations.
That meant we were trained to take risks, and we discovered this scheme by becoming captives of the princes at their temporary encampment while each enjoyed inflicting painful retribution on us for our past successes. But Aviel allowed his brothers’ torment to go only so far, which we’d learned to count on, though we didn’t understand it.
Our plan included an escape.
It went perfectly until we ran into a trap and had to leave our pack behind to fight, which also delayed our arrival. A worry was taking hold in me that the last eight years of joy and strife might culminate on these docks. Still, I pushed on.
After placing the insides of my wrists together, my tiger appeared, first as an image on my skin, then as a man stepping out of a gray mist, calmly taking us in with fathomless dark eyes. His markings glowed bright gold against his bronze arms, and his silky black hair waved in the breeze.
“We need to get aboard that ship, Zigan.” I pointed to the sails disappearing north along the coast to Gatteville. “Can you haze us there?”
“Yes, precious one. But I may not have the ability to get you back.”
“Let me go with him,” Aldric said. “If the ship were to sink, and Zigan cannot return us both…” He let that thought trail off as he looked at me in that fierce way that melted my heart.
The powerful love I had for this man, this larger-than-life Norman-born warrior who shared the spirit of a mighty brown bear, still overwhelmed me after all these years. We had not taken one moment of our time for granted, knowing the dangers inherent in my destiny.
“But I must be the one on that ship, Aldric,” I said as I clutched his hand. “We have no idea what is planned, and we need my instincts as a marked maiden.”
“Vous serez remarquée, ma bien-aimée. I can blend in and discern the situation. We must go now, as they quickly approach the rocks.”
I stood on my toes and brought his face close to mine, gazing into his brown eyes to see his bear gleaming at me, a magnificent creature he could transform into at will. Our lips met for an exquisite moment before I stepped back.
“I will bring him back safely,” Zigan said, taking hold of my mate.
They disappeared. I took shelter and waited. They returned in Zigan’s mist in less than thirty minutes.
Aldric and I moved together without thinking, as we did after every parting. Satisfied with the reunion, he gave his report. “Nearly everyone on board was drunk on wine and betting on a race to beat the king to England. The ship sailed fast, pushing its limits. Not more than ten minutes after we arrived, it hit the rocks and foundered.” I gasped in dismay, but he assured me the king’s son had made it to a lifeboat.
Without warning, warriors in the garb of another time appeared in a heavy mist that seemed to roll in from the sea. We assumed battle stances as they surrounded us, Zigan and Aldric drawing their swords. I shouted the cry of the Pack and raised my own blade. The clash of steel rang out across the harbor as bystanders rushed to get out of the way.
We held our own against a dozen until my sword was knocked from my hand. Vice-like arms grabbed me from behind, and Aldric’s roar shook the planks beneath our feet. But the Anurashin warrior kept me from my mate’s reach, letting the others leap in between us, forcing Aldric to slice his way to me.
“The prince has his sights on you, maiden,” the warrior said in my ear. “Did you not think he would succeed?”
“No matter that he tries, I will never be his!”
Springing my knife from my sleeve, I lunged back, shoved it between the ribs of my tormentor, and twisted. The warrior grunted in pain, but his grip did not loosen. Aldric dodged blades, slammed his fists into faces, and rammed bodies while I struggled to pull free.
Zigan moved so fast that arcs of blood hovered in the air where he last appeared. But when he got close enough to reach for me, the warrior jerked us back, and two others lunged for him.
To my utter horror, dual strikes took Zigan’s head.
My knees buckled from the agony tearing through my heart and then through my whole being, as Zigan’s soul was ripped from mine with brutal force. I never imagined our bond could be so viciously severed or that the warrior magus was anything but invincible.
A sickening realization sank like a stone in my belly. This had been Aviel’s plan all along—why he let us escape. He had engineered the entire scheme to kill my magus, seize me, and destroy the Pack de Normande.
What was left of my heart was shattered when Aldric stepped into the path of a blade to reach for me, ignoring the pain, desperate to save me as he felt the agony of my loss and our loss to come.
The mist I dreaded grew thick, and I felt as if I were breaking into tiny pieces. None of this could be happening!
The devastated face of my mate told me he had come to the same incomprehensible conclusion while he watched me fade into bits, so close to him our fingers nearly touched.
I poured my heart and soul into my words. “I will love you forever!”
The sound that followed was the fierce roar of a wounded bear.
I dare you to ride along with the masked passengers on this journey through a swamp with a destination perfectly designed for serial killers on a retreat.
The Ferryman guided the gondola along a watery path, only he knew the secrets to, as it transported a half-dozen specially chosen masked passengers to an exclusive event. Though each eyed him with suspicion, they appeared confident he would get them to their destination. They had to believe that because he was their only means of travel.
This sort would never admit they were at his mercy. They would talk instead as if the opposite were true, but he saw the questions in their eyes. The Ferryman always saw the questions mirrored in each set of eyes exactly thirty minutes in. That was when the narrow boat passed the last shack squatting in the shadows of the densely wooded shore, casting its grudging light from tiny windows.
The rickety dwelling belonged to Old Maeve, and even if one of his passengers suddenly had a revelation and begged to be let off here, they would find no help, only the same hospitality that waited for them at the end of the line. But no passenger ever had a clue this early, which was why the Ferryman’s job never ceased to be entertaining.
It was the moment when Maeve’s lights winked out, obscured by the dense canopy of moss-laden cypress, the vegetation also serving to shroud the stars like a falling curtain, that the nervous chatter started. He waited now for the dawning realization that a lantern full of lightning bugs hanging from the bow and a sketchy crescent moon were all that remained to show them the way.
He could see the worry lines etched across their foreheads, but none of them ever admitted to being scared any more than they would own up to the fact they needed him. After all, they were in the business of causing terror.
The Ferryman could guess with precision who would be the first to speak, and on cue, it was the chubby face under a fox mask who aimed a question at the skinny Humpty Dumpty.
“I heard we had to have no less than twenty victims dead and buried in well-hidden places to get an invitation to this shindig. I’ve surpassed that. How about you?”
The mask mix-up was a typical prank his employer played on a random passenger during each trip. It added to the fun and, more importantly, broke the monotony for the Ferryman—an employment perk, you might say.
Instead of answering, Humpty Dumpty, whose mask was too big for his pointy face, lifted his bony butt from the seat and swung around to sit on the other side of the gondola. Exactly the response the Ferryman had predicted. He was satisfied with his perks, but it would be nice if his passengers would occasionally surprise him.
“I’ve heard lots of things about these parties,” said the lone female with a cat mask who answered the fat fox. “The final feast is said to be unsurpassed for its sumptuousness. But that’s not why I came. There’s a rumor that one of you is the famous Crescent Moon Vampire. I wonder if you will be able to control your urges this weekend.” She parted her collar and stretched her pale neck like an offering.
No one took her up on it or even flinched a muscle.
After a brief silence, the fox let out a nervous snort, and the narrow mask that exposed more of the doughy face than anyone needed to see fluttered so that he had to grab it and adjust the strings.
“I don’t know about a vampire,” rumbled the passenger in the snake mask who’d been keeping to the shadows. “But you’re a brave one to travel with men who, if they’re like me, love to hate women in creative and painful ways. Still, you must have doled out your own hate to be here. Sticking your neck out is a bit risky, don’t you think?”
“You pretty reptile,” Cat Woman drawled, “there’s no hate involved. I love to love men. It’s not my fault when they fail to survive it.”
“If she is who we think she is, gentlemen, watch your backs, or more to the point, your willies,” said one of the two identical gray-haired demons.
Her eyes shone through the mask, just like a cat’s should.
The Ferryman was also pleased to have twins aboard. Passengers who murdered together were, at the very least, uncommon.
The fox snorted again before he could stop himself, a nervous mannerism the Ferryman always enjoyed and expected from at least one of them. “What’s with the Ferryman?” the fox said, shrugging to play down his worry. “That crow mask looks like he stuck a dead bird on his face. And how about those robes? Doesn’t he know it’s sweltering in this bog? And where is his sickle?”
Timing it perfectly so that the crescent moon peeked through the canopy and glinted off the curved blade, the Ferryman produced the required prop with a swoosh of his robes and the ringing of steel. He settled the staff at his feet and grinned beneath his mask as stifled gasps rippled along the gondola—another perk, eliciting the maximum effect with his masterful reveal.
“We’re all overdressed. It’s a requirement, is it not?” The twin demon said, ignoring the dire implications and returning to the party discussion. He held up a piece of embossed paper to the feeble light.
“It says, ‘To be allowed onto Isla la Sombra, you must be in possession of your invitation. You should be dressed in proper attire, wearing the masks provided to you, and prepared to be filled with fine foods and wine. You will also be wowed by the tricks of the trade and the experts in your field. Should you succeed through every challenge, you will partake in a special feast.’ It is a strange mix of formality and mystery, to be sure,” he concluded.
“The words on their own would not cause concern,” his brother chimed in. “But now that we’re deep into this watery maze, traveling in a gondola that seems out of place and time and operated by a silent, robed figure who should be plying the River Styx, I’m looking at the invitation with new eyes.”
“Like any good party,” Cat Woman said, “it is merely the host tantalizing us with the amenities. After all, types like us go to great lengths to avoid exposure. But I, for one, could not turn down the offer to immerse myself in the ‘tricks of the trade’ or meet the most notorious guest speakers from our ranks. Isn’t the underground chatter why you all ventured out of your nests?”
A bumpy outline rippled through the duckweed, and the Ferryman waited. Sure enough, the bleats of fear that followed could have been cues in a movie script as each passenger spotted Douglas.
“Shit! Look at the size of that alligator! Um… Ferryman, may I call you Ferryman? I’ll take your silence as a sign we won’t be attacked. I’m sure our hosts don’t want us to be eaten.”
That misguided assumption came from the pudgy fox. He voiced another concern that often arises during these journeys… Leave it to the nerve-ridden chatterbox.
“I wonder how far our mysterious destination is. For all we know, we could circle these murky waters forever if our pilot is as immortal as he looks.”
That comment had all eyes turning to the Ferryman.
Each passenger flinched when he spoke in his best sepulchral voice, “Arrival is in thirty minutes. And Douglas will leave you intact, so long as you keep your limbs in the boat.”
“Got it,” the fox said after a snort, even as his eyes widened behind the mask. Under his breath, he added, “A lot can happen in thirty minutes.” He lightened things up. “I’m sure it’s no surprise I came for the promise of the excellent food. They say the finale will make you think you’ve died and gone to heaven, not that I have any expectation of going there.”
“Hmmm. That makes me wonder whether you might be the Cafeteria Killer,” the snake said, squinting an eye at the fox. “The one who likes to add special ingredients to the school menu. They say he’s rotund with the guileless face of a child. It’s astonishing how many kids disappear before the killer moves on. I bet the littlest tots were a tender addition to the tuna casserole.” He paused. “So, what foods do you think might be offered at a banquet in honor of the best in the business?”
“We’re not supposed to guess which legends we’re traveling with,” the fox said petulantly, tapping his mask. “It says so in the fine print. Didn’t you read it? And how would I know what an island at the ass end of nowhere has to offer? But it will be spectacular if our host lives up to his promise because, as you said, we’re the best.”
“I wouldn’t think too highly of yourself, fox boy,” said a twin in his cultured voice. “The host might have special plans for you. Didn’t you notice the fun being poked at you with that mask meant for the wiry Humpty Dumpty? Still, I wonder. Perhaps it was assigned to you intentionally. Foxes are treed by dogs every day. Your plump body would make a great main course. Fitting for the Cafeteria Killer.”
“You all are making a lot of assumptions,” the fox retorted. “If my mask means something, so do yours.”
“The details about these masked balls never have a source,” Cat Woman burst out, sounding worried for the first time. “They appear on the message boards, but I’ve never seen anything other than generic usernames linked to them.”
“What do you mean?” Snake Man asked.
“There’s nothing to prove they came from attendees. I wonder why that never occurred to me before?”
A twin offered a reasonable explanation. “It could simply mean the authors of the chats want to be anonymous. That’s not unusual for criminals of the most wanted variety.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “This creepy journey is making me paranoid. But what if it’s all a trick? Where does that leave us?” She sighed and then fixed a suddenly heated gaze on the twins. Her voice turned sultry. “I think I know who you are. There aren’t many twins who murder together. I’ve never had twins.”
The Ferryman appreciated her skill in switching gears so quickly. This cat woman was turning out to be an extra delight.
She ran her tongue over her teeth. “You both have fine mouths below those intriguing, fiery red masks and lovely grey hair.”
“We’re flattered,” the second twin purred in kind, flashing his teeth in a grin, “but you couldn’t handle even one of us, my dear, and we like our willies right where they are.”
The nervous fox must have spent this time mulling over the idea that he might be prey for a hunt, and he piped back in. “What if we were all invited to be nothing more than the main course? Who would ever know we went missing?”
The aloof Humpty Dumpty spoke for the first time, his gravelly voice ominous. “The messenger who sent my invitation went by Jeffrey Hannibal.”
“So did mine. So what?” said the snake.
Cat Woman’s forehead creased, then her eyebrows leaped above her mask. “Mine was Lector Dahmer,” she squeaked.
Each of them sat straighter, and the Ferryman could almost see light bulbs turning on above their heads. This inevitable perk was his favorite before completing another successful charter, and he savored it.
The twin who’d read the invitation held the embossed paper to the light again. “This is signed, ‘Cordially, your host, Lector Dahmer.’”
They all jumped up so quickly that the boat rocked, causing them to lurch back into their seats.
In a voice full of doom, the Ferryman urged, “Settle down, passengers. You don’t want to fall in. Have you forgotten Douglas?”
They each went still, then carefully settled back in their seat just as the gondola glided into a lagoon. Off in the thick vegetation, a steady drumbeat sounded, and savory smells wafted to them through the ghostly trunks of cypress. Tall, shadowy forms emerged dressed in loincloths, and a closer look at the smiling faces revealed teeth filed to razor-sharp points.
The fox leaped up faster than anyone might imagine a pudgy serial killer could move and shoved the Ferryman over the side.
His fellow passengers cried out in shocked dismay. Then, grins widened under each mask when a ripple that could only be Douglas closed in on the dark robes sinking beneath the duckweed. As the drums beat in rhythm with the rocking gondola, now devoid of a pilot, and more of their ghoulish hosts lined up on the water’s edge to greet them, each passenger rose again to face the others, sure one of them would have the next brainy idea.
I hope you enjoyed this story I was delighted to write under a tough challenge. The requirements were a 2000-word maximum (I’ve expanded this version), a new for me genre, Cannibal Comedy, a ferryman as the character, and the subject, Masked Party.
It all happened in the Writing Battle Autumn 2022 Short Story Contest. I recommend participating for the fabulous feedback from peers, and the professionals… if you make it through the duels.
Artwork by me using the Photoleap and Canva.
Thank you for taking the time to read my story and supporting an indie author. Comments welcome.
If you would like to make a contribution, you can purchase this story along with twelve others in my short story collection, Priss Starwillow & the Wolf, a Starlight Chronicles Short Story, and other stories. Also available on Audible.
Enjoy a Three-Part Supernatural Horror Story – Exactly 100 Words Each
One: Brother’s Maker
Thick rivulets of blood moved down the wall like snakes slithering into Hell. Lucius thought going there himself would be better than mucking out this foul slaughter. Hiding his brother’s crimes from Prince Remus. Death by fire, their punishment if caught.
Linus, too far gone to understand the danger, had killed another valuable hunter. Lucius labored to obliterate the evidence while Linus crouched over an arm sucking out the blood and marrow like a human sucking meat from a crab leg.
Lucius had turned his brother. Watching him deteriorate was penance. Figuring out how to stop it, his only purpose.
Two: Brother’s Keeper
After staring in frustration at the naked woman, Lucius grabbed crumpled newspaper from the trash bin to cover the crime. Blood soaked through, turning print back to pulp. He added more. Didn’t help. Blood spouted like a geyser from her coveted jugular.
Lucius yanked his brother, who’d pounced on her again, away from her neck. “You couldn’t have gone another block?” Linus whipped towards him. Lucius stifled a gasp.
The nerdy, giraffe-legged brother was there… until the eyes turned soulless again, reflecting the red pooling beneath their feet… and Linus’s stark hunger.
Pain stabbed Lucius where his heart once beat.
Three: Brother’s Killer
Lucius cradled Linus’s head… Just his head, which he’d been commanded to remove. Pulling his blurry gaze away from his brother’s headless body nestled in an earthen rectangle, he examined their fateful surroundings. The backend of a damp graveyard, dew glistening on grass, dripping from cypress trees, giant yews. None of it felt real. They’d been vampires for five decades, inseparable until Linus’s self-control deserted him.
Too many council laws broken, making one brother a fugitive, one a hunter.
“You never believed you could be ended. Didn’t you once think brother, that it would be me forced to end you?”
Had to add this. I love making book covers, even for tiny fiction.
First drafts rejected. But I Keep Trying.
I was happy with my first attempt to do a 100-word story. The publisher, not so much. But that’s okay because I learned a lot in the process. These bits about vampire brothers were inspired by a minor character in my Starlight Chronicles series. I admit, pure horror is a challenge for me, though I love reading and watching it, the darker the better. I read Bram Stoker in my youth, along with Mary Shelly, which means those sweeping, tantalizing, horrific impressions are there, deep down, and now that I’m writing fantasy, I’m compelled to draw from their brilliance.
Vlad the Impaler has been an endlessly fascinating figure in history and fiction for me, no matter how many ways his story has been told. And today’s supernatural fantasy authors are finding entertaining ways to retell the tales. Many of them inspired me.
Luke Evans portrayed an excellent fictional Vlad. Dracula Untold sparked my imagination and gave a feel for the period and setting. I was disappointed with its box office failure, which ended hopes of a sequel. In case you haven’t seen it, here’s the trailer.
Please take a moment to read the drabbles above and let me know if I’m on the right track for a story told in exactly 100 words. Better yet, share your own 100-word story in the comments.
Do you see it? Can you picture the whole story? There are so many things to say about the title of this 1987 movie starring Billy Crystal, Danny DeVito, and the late Anne Ramsey of Goonies fame. While my main contemplation is about how it conveys a story in five words, there are other elements worth mentioning.
But first, do you agree with me that the title is a complete story unto itself?
Right off, we have an idea about the characters, their motivations, the plot, and the setting. We know that the protagonist both loves and hates their mother. We know the antagonist has done enough awful things to be worthy of being thrown off a train, or at least having a child fantasize about it, and we get the struggle. There will likely be attempted murder action on a train. We might also guess the outcome. Could you throw your mother off a train no matter how you felt about her? Of course, we can’t foresee all the plot twists and surprises and there are many in this comedy action film, but these five words have me imagining all sorts of things.
Other information gleaned from these five words that I particularly enjoy is that they sound like a book title, which it is. So, we might grasp that element right off as well. I love that this is about a creative writing teacher and writer suffering writer’s block after his ex-wife steals his book and makes millions with it. No one could pull off that maddening fate like Billy Crystal. Throw in an emotionally stunted student who gets the brilliant idea to switch murders in a Hitchcockian Crisscross-type alibi story, and wow! So much to work with.
The creators not only conveyed a story in their title, but they could use the group of clever words as a plot device and a marketing boon… along with the hilarious images of Momma.
What other movie titles can you think of that accomplish this?
Here are some I found:
The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
Saving Private Ryan
Tower Heist
Snakes on a Plane
Granted, these might be more about revealing the plots in the titles than giving us a whole story, but I get a lot of information from their brevity, nonetheless. Don’t you?
I’ve also saved a few memes that convey a story in a handful of words. Here’s a favorite.
The challenge of conveying so much with so few words fascinates me, and I’ve returned to it time and again as I pursue novel writing. One of my favorite exercises was contributing two sentence stories last year to fantasy author Richie Billing for his newsletter (which he packs full of helpful resources for writers by the way). One of those is the header on my Short Stories page, Sad Swallow. Oh, alright. I’ll just add it here. It’s only two sentences.
In a voice that plucked at her heart strings, her dear swallow lamented, “All winter we exchanged stories, my beautiful Thumbelina, and it made my heart soar. When you climbed upon my back and begged me to take you to my favorite far away land, how could I have known my happy dream would end with you forsaking me for another?”
Ahem… Okay, so, they’re two long sentences. Still, two sentences. For more of these, click here. They were such a blast to do and based on a genre prompt from Richie. Sad Swallow obviously is a fairytale retelling.
I’ve also tried my hand at 100-word and 250-word stories in what are referred to as drabbles or micro fiction. And I just signed up for another 250-word micro fiction challenge with Writing Battle, taking place in August. So many good things happening on that platform! Thanks Max and Teona!
My latest endeavors in brief tales include poetry, which I’ve written to accompany three stories I will be publishing in one volume later this year. I’m very excited about what I came up with after thinking for years that I could never write poetry. It’s so satisfying and fun!
If you dare, check out my series of three 100-word horror stories here. And my 250-word action adventure drama here (with a bit of ranting on my excellent feedback).
Thanks for tripping with me over the title, Throw Momma From the Train, and have an excellent rest of your June.
Written for Richie Billing’s Two Sentence Story Prompts for The Fantasy Writer’s Toolshed newsletter. Can’t say enough about this fantasy writer who is super generous and helpful to budding writers.
Genre: A Cowboy Story
A Cramp for A Win!
Seth contorted his shoulder to reach that agonizing spot on his calf, which he was determined to keep pressed against the flank of the bucking bronco. The move didn’t do a thing to ease his cramp, but damn, if his inflexible leg didn’t just do the trick to keep him seated on the back of the snorting beast for that extra three seconds!
Genre: First Contact / Alien Encounter.
Did She Just Say That?
A vision materialized in the antechamber, zeroed in on me, probably because I was the only one holding a clipboard, and demanded, “Take me to your leader.” No way did that blue-skinned beauty just utter those B-movie words I thought, even as I turned to walk towards the Oval Office, propelled by some mysterious force.
Genre: Fantasy Romance
Saving Her Distraction
The elf princess’s long legs ate up the distance, bow raised, arrow nocked, hair billowing around her head in aqua ribbons, electric green eyes fixed on her target. She was pleased to see the cagey goblin, who knew well her deadly aim, freeze in his tracks at the mouth of the Cyrian Cave as she bore down on him and called out to the trussed-up human she’d come to adore, despite his inability to stay out of trouble, “You nearly did it to me this time, my love, leaving me to spend another thousand years looking for one like you who drives me so satisfyingly to distraction.”
Genre: Crime Story
Lovely Burnt Bone
Detective Armstrong knelt by the destroyed boathouse, sifting through Julia’s scorched remains, then plucked up a fragment of her jawbone while she hovered over the scene of her death and watched with ghostly eyes. Finally, she thought, as he called out, “Would you be so good, Reginald, as to process this lovely piece of dental work I will refer to from here on as our smoking gun.”
Genre: Thriller
Mom’s Sacrifice
She crouched under the bridge while her terror dissipated and listened for the scraping sound his game leg made as it dragged along the asphalt, signaling her mother’s murderer was nearing their trap, and their plan was working. Step… thump… step… thump… step… thump… then a hitched breath, a swish of metal slicing through the air, and a quiet splat as the hated head dropped into a vat of acid.
Genre: Nautical Adventure
Due East
Storm clouds roiled across the horizon, while the setting sun pierced the ominous gloom with its brilliant orange rays. Captain Scott made his navigational calculations and called out orders to adjust the Helene’s course due east, even as he dreamed about the fabled gold ahead, and gloated over the bloody destruction he left behind, which had finally eliminated the competition.
Genre: Fairytale
Sad Swallow
In a voice that plucked at her heart strings, the dear swallow lamented, “All winter we exchanged stories, my beautiful Thumbelina, and it made my heart soar. When you climbed upon my back and begged me to take you to my favorite far away land, how could I have known my happy dream would end with you forsaking me for another?”
I’m not claiming by any stretch that these are great stories, but I did give them my best shot, and Richie guaranteed submission for any and all efforts by his followers. I missed the deadline for Sad Swallow, so Richie added it to his next newsletter. He’s awesome… and a great writer!
I’m a big fan of pulp fiction—noir, westerns, horror, sci-fi, and fantasy. You know, hardboiled stories with gritty characters. I’m working on one that blends these genres. The idea was inspired by a ’90s rock video by The Toadies and my collection of Edgar Rice Burroughs paperbacks, which I received from a thoughtful boyfriend way back when I was 19. I’d like to share the opening scene.
Let me know if it grabs you. I might just serialize the story in installments for you and subscribers of my newsletter. After all, that’s how pulp fiction is meant to be shared.
Visit this awesome Pinterest Board for more fabulous pulp magazine covers.
Meetings at the Edge
Detective Charlie Driver knelt among the charred beams on the blackened stone floor, a cigarette unlit and dangling from his lips as he examined the scene. Ash and smoke were all that remained of the old boathouse at the edge of Stem Pond, which had a dark history of burning down and then rising again from the ashes. Each time, people died in the blaze, just like now.
As with previous incidents, there was no sign that anyone besides the victim had entered or been near the abandoned building when it caught fire, nor was there any evidence of how the fire started or why it only affected the small structure before burning out, despite witnesses a mile away describing flames shooting above the trees like Roman candles. It was as if it had taken place in a vacuum.
His department and the fire investigator officially cleared the scene the day before, and the remains were with the coroner. Every piece of evidence had been collected and sent to Charlie’s understaffed but capable crime lab, and he’d returned to the scene alone.
After the yellow tape came down, there was no one around to crowd his thoughts or question his methods. He would draw a cigarette, brush it beneath his nose before setting it between his lips, and let the ritual stir the instincts he trusted more than evidence. It often helped him get a bead on the victim.
His methods weren’t working today.
While the victim’s presence felt tangible in the lingering scent of smoke and damp earth, their voice remained as silent as the surroundings.
A crow had been lurking nearby for the past hour, occasionally shifting branches as if to remind him it was there. When it finally cawed overhead, Charlie nearly bit off the tip of his cigarette. He palmed it, squinting at the bird, then let the silence settle back in. Was the nosy creature reminding him that he was the only human on this Sunday afternoon, left in this cold, neglected 20-acre park? A gust whipped up unexpectedly, finding its way down the back of his fleece-lined coat, and Charlie stood, pulling his collar tighter.
Feeling as if the pond somehow held answers, Charlie took one last look around. The water wasn’t very deep, and beneath the frost lay a thick layer of moss. Centuries-old ash, oak, and elm trees stretched upward from its shore like twisted skeletons, interspersed with ghostly stands of fir, creating a dense, somewhat gloomy woodland. Frost covered the branches and glittered on the charred ruins beneath his feet—all signs of winter in this rangeland county. Yet, one detail puzzled him: all the green stalks poking through the snow. The park was overrun with wild onions.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very strange about it, not because they grew in winter (onions can tolerate cold temperatures), but because this proliferation was unusually early. And why this place? He rolled his shoulders. Strangeness was increasingly the theme of this investigation, but what that meant for the victim…
Another blast of cold air swept over him, but this one carried something more—something inexplicable—making him want to light up his smoke and take a deep drag. The crow let out another loud caw as it took flight. Clenching his jaw, Charlie slipped the cigarette into his breast pocket and headed for his car. It was time to meet with his partner and go over the facts she’d been gathering.
Want to find out who died in the mysterious fire in a park overgrown with wild onions? Let me know in the comments.
This summer’s Q&As have centered on short story writing, and my friend, Dee, is the perfect guest to round out the theme in a totally fun and unique way. She is a long-time fanfiction short story writer for the classic western television show, BONANZA, plus so much more, as we will discover.
As a Trekkie (Star Trek fan), I’m familiar with fan fiction, having read and passed on to my nephew dozens of fabulous Star Trek novels. I’m also familiar with the show’s bible, a colloquial term for the official, internal production document used by writers and directors to maintain consistency across the series. In the case of BONANZA, the names and likenesses of the characters are copyrighted, and writers must adhere to the brand’s guidelines while publishing their stories within the series community established by the brand. Guidelines vary for classic TV shows with huge fan bases, like Emergency, Adam 12, Stargate, Quantum Leap, Charmed, and more. Check out this forum listing. It boggles the mind.
Some argue that fanfiction does not fall under fair use, as it is derivative work. The issue of whether fanfiction is transformative (profound alteration) or non-transformative (verbatim copying of preexisting works, or plagiarism) has been endlessly debated and fought in courts. Dee will take us behind the scenes in the life of an inspired fanfiction writer and her commitment to the BONANZA brand.
Let’s Meet the Author
Dee Beardsley is a retired legal support professional, current radio show script writer, producer, and director, avid quilter, Certified Zentangle Teacher (CZT), world traveler, and prolific BONANZA TV show fanfiction writer.
After a fulfilling career in the legal profession in San Diego, California, Dee knew where she wanted to head next in life.
She packed up her office and all her quilts and quilting paraphernalia and moved to Cartwright Country, aka Northern Nevada, just a few miles from historic Virginia City and the Ponderosa Ranch. She has written 63 stories since 2010, featuring the beloved Cartwrights in these settings, which you can find here.
Let’s Get Started
It’s about time I had you visit my Guest Spotlight, Dee. Thank you so much for joining me today. I want to chat about all the interests you love to pursue, many of which we share, but let’s start with writing. Can you provide the highlights of your writing journey and how it all began?
DB: Thank you for the invitation, Darci. I am humbled that you asked. In college, I was a tech major in Theater—costumes, lighting, makeup, and directing—but didn’t write my first television script until I was working on my Masters in Radio, Television, and Film. It was a 30-minute children’s show titled “The Thief Who Stole Time.” It was unbelievably hard to turn over my first script to a director whose vision of the production was not mine.
A life-long fan of BONANZA, I began writing fan fiction months after attending the 50th Anniversary Convention in 2009. I took a Writer’s Workshop there, devoured every word, and took copious notes (thank goodness for my legal shorthand!). I wrote my first BONANZA story over a weekend and, with a shaky hand and trepidation in my heart, I published it at midnight on the Bonanza World website. The first review said, “That is unquestionably the most powerful, gut-wrenching, amazing story that I’ve read in a very, very long time. Certainly, it’s the first one in ages that has moved me to tears—I kept thinking, “You can’t! You can’t!”—but an author can, because sometimes, that’s how life is.” I framed that review, and it hangs above my computer as a reminder that I can do it even when the writing/editing is hard.
DLL: Thank you for sharing this amazing story, Dee. What lovely feedback to fuel your new passion. And wow, I would have loved to have been at that convention.
What other types of writing do you engage in besides fanfiction?
DB: I wrote professional development articles for various legal publications during my career, and I continue to write content for Douglas-Carson Legal Professionals’ monthly publication as well as serve as its editor.
DLL: Douglas-Carson Legal Professionals (DCLP) is the local chapter of NALS, supporting members in Nevada. Dee does a fantastic monthly newsletter. I was a member from 2010 until I retired in 2023 and created and maintained its website until then.
I just want to add a plug for professional development organizations like NALS. For career-minded support professionals, there is nothing like getting out and meeting others in your field. Participation dwindled drastically during my membership. Maybe a result of new generations valuing meet-and-greet career development and networking less than past generations. While many organizations have adapted and thrive online these days, there is no better way (or fun way) to get the most out of membership than attending the conferences and events. Sit on a board. Run for office. Network in person. The benefits are phenomenal.
What works or authors have inspired you throughout your life?
DB: I love reading historical fiction, mysteries, fantasy, and an occasional biography. And the authors I admire would be (in no particular order): Diana Gabaldon, Robin Hobb, Scott Pratt, Leo Tolstoy, Naomi Novik, James Patterson, Stephen King, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Susan Howatch, Wilbur Smith, and, of course, D.L. Lewellyn.
Favorite books of childhood: Nancy and Plum by Betty McDonald; Pamela and the Blue Mare by Alice L. O’Connell; Johnny Tremain by Esther Forbes. From 4th grade on, I would begin every school year by checking out these books from the school library. Other books would get added to the list over time, but these were the core. In 7th grade, I read War and Peace and fell in love with Russian novels.
DLL: 7th grade is the perfect angsty time for Russian literature. And wow, thanks for including me on your illustrious list. I will never see my name so close to Gabaldon or Tolstoy ever again, so I will cherish this forever. 😀
You recently participated in a presentation with Diana Gabaldon, right? Can you share some of your favorite insights from the Outlander author?
DB: I did. She was speaking to a local group in Flagstaff, Arizona, and I saw on Facebook that attendance by Zoom was possible. I love the Outlander series, so I signed up hoping to learn more. Diana has a great sense of humor and is unassuming, even a bit self-deprecating. She not only speaks very fast, but she chuckles while speaking. There was no way shorthand would work, so I turned on the voice memo on my phone to capture her stream-of-consciousness explanation of how she works. Please excuse the length of this answer, but I think it’s an important lesson in our craft.
Diana said she’s a hodgepodge thinker, not a linear one. She shows up every day to work and has no idea what’s going to happen, but she needs a kernel, an image or a line of dialogue that she can see and then she writes down a sentence describing whatever that thing is.
I write the sentence as carefully as I can to describe exactly what I’m seeing or hearing and then I look at it and I take words out and put words back in and I move pieces around and then I add another sentence and think no that’s not right but put a space in because I might want to use it later and I fiddle until that sentence is the way I want it and in the meantime the back of my head is kicking through the rubbish back there and turning up mushrooms and ooh I didn’t think that and sometimes that anchors me where I am what I call a cold day where I have no idea what’s going to happen. I have a lot of books on 18th century clothes and furnishings, houses, whatever and I will often pick up one of those like an old Sotheby’s catalog and go through it. Glass and silver and I’ll think somebody’s going to be eating or drinking something and I think I can describe it so I flip through it and there is this nice Waterford glass with panels in which Jacobite roses were engraved. I was thinking splendid. Well, maybe whoever owns this glass is not Jacobite. Maybe they’re our guest, and somebody who is a secret Jacobite put this in front of them to see how they would react. Anyway, I thought that might be good, so I put it sort of in front of my mind’s eye, so to speak, and started writing, and I said ‘The crystal glass’. Okay. Good beginning, but it’s just sitting there, not doing anything. Maybe something else is going to happen to it. Someone’s going to knock it over, and the crystal glass shattered on the floor. No, no, I don’t want to break it, it’s too pretty. Well something has to happen to it, so okay, it’s just sitting there, and there’s light shining through it, and I can see that, so the window must be open. Okay, the light. The light what? Okay, the light hit the glass a certain way, and it’s going to band, isn’t it, because of refraction and so forth? Do I want to go into that? No. Too scientific. The light struck the crystal glass? What about the roses? Do I need to put those in here? No, I can put them somewhere else. The crystal glass glimmered in the light? No. Wait a minute, I can see that light from my left and it’s blue and it seems cold somehow. What if it’s blue? Why is it blue? And I’m thinking the cold light…yeah, the cold, blue light. Okay, now we’re exploring timing. Well it has to be winter because it’s the 18th century. Why else would it be cold and blue? Okay, so I look out the window and there’s snow, and I think that’s why it is cold and blue because there’s snow, okay, it’s winter, okay. The cold, blue light of a winter afternoon—is that enough?—The cold, blue light of a late winter afternoon—that seems like a lot of words but let’s keep them for the time being. I can always take them out later. The blue light. No, the cold blue light of a late winter afternoon…okay, get the glass in… passed through the glass so the light passed through the crystal goblet…okay it’s a goblet instead of just a glass so we can put that in, giving it more of a nuanced sense…well, and did what? So I can see it…this is where refraction comes in and it bent and went splat on the table… okay, so the cold blue light of the late winter afternoon… no, it doesn’t matter if it’s late…the cold blue light of the winter afternoon passed through the crystal goblet and…I can’t say splat on the table… and cast a pool…I can see it…and cast an amber pool on the polished wood of the table. Okay. There we have it. The cold, blue light of the winter afternoon passed through the crystal goblet and cast a pool of amber light on the polished wood of the tabletop. We’re in Jocasta Cameron’s study and she’s sitting in front of the crystal goblet.
So that’s how a kernel works. It’s all very messy. It’s basically figuring out how your own brain works and working with it, not against it. It’s not what they teach you in fourth grade, i.e., you must have a topic sentence, etc. You just need an idea to start with something that will get you into the page.
Diana Gabaldon
What is it about Bonanza that makes you a huge fan? What themes or elements do you enjoy incorporating into your Cartwright stories most?
DB: As a canon writer of BONANZA fan fic, I stick to the guidelines established by the creator David Dortort:
In the Old West, it meant a lot to be a Cartwright. Being a family, loving the land, being honest and fair. Giving every man and woman a second chance.
More than most television shows, BONANZA has a heart and soul. To protect that heart and soul and to preserve the integrity of the show, the following are the essential values that must be maintained:
1. The Cartwright family, the good father and the good, loyal sons, are the center of gravity around which the show revolves. They may disagree on any number of issues, but always, in the end, they are a family again, all for one, one for all.
2. They stand for tolerance, compassion, and concern for all endangered species, and that includes the stranger in need of sanctuary, the battered mother, the abandoned child, the wounded animal, as well as the forests, the mountain stream, the lakes and ponds. No woman, no child, no animal can be abused without swift and full-bore punishment for the abuser.
3. The Ponderosa, the home of the Cartwright family, should be treated as a special kind of place, a sort of mythical kingdom on the glistening crown of the Sierra. Good people, role models, are in charge here. People slow to anger, but tread lightly or suffer the consequences. Stern, formidable when faced with injustice, but loose, relaxed, fun-loving, a family that can laugh at itself as easy as it can challenge a swindler, a bounty hunter, a slave master, or a robber baron, no matter how high the odds are against them.
David Dortort
DLL: What a marvelous insight into the mind of the show’s creator. No wonder fans still enjoy the show in syndication and the ongoing stories on the fanfic forum.
In the stories I’ve read of yours, the characters come across so vividly and true to their natures that I can imagine engaging with them at the Ponderosa Ranch or Virginia City in the 19th century. Dare I ask, who is your favorite Cartwright?
DB: Initially, when I was 12, it was Little Joe, but I soon realized that it was the whole family that mattered to me. My parents divorced when I was 10, and I didn’t see my Dad again until I was an adult. I had no siblings. Watching BONANZA allowed me to see what men were like, how they thought, walked, talked, and loved. So my favorite is the family.
Dee was given permission by Bonanza Ventures to share this image of the Cartwrights.
DLL: I totally get that, and it shows in your writing.Can you share a favorite scene from one of your stories?
BONANZA was on for 14 seasons. “The Way Home” is set in what I call Season 15. In this scene, Joe has been missing for two years and doesn’t remember that his brother Hoss is dead. Jamie is the youngest Cartwright son who was adopted in Season 13. Griff is the ranch hand who joined the cast at the beginning of Season 14. Billy is an original character of mine introduced in my first story, “My Father’s Heartbeat.”
The door was ajar, but Ben knocked lightly on it anyway out of habit. When there was no answer he pushed it open with his fingertips, but remained standing in the threshold, uncertain about entering. He didn’t know how his son felt about yesterday’s events. It was obvious when Joe drove into the yard with Griff that he knew he had been followed. He had shaken off offers of assistance when he climbed awkwardly out of the buggy, walked somewhat tipsily into the house, and went straight to his room slamming the door, not speaking to anyone. When Ben had checked on him later, he was sleeping with his deaf ear out, a trick he had begun using to avoid conversation. Griff was close-mouthed about why they were delayed.
It was only this morning when Ben was going through the portfolio and saw the Army contracts that he realized Joe must have seen them also. The title after Griff’s name must have been a shock to Joe, but the word “manager” had many meanings and could be changed with no real harm to either man. Ben was more concerned with the title after Billy’s name because he knew that “trainer” held more significance for Joe. No one trained his horses but him—no one.
Joe didn’t hear Ben’s steps in the hallway or the door creak as it opened, but he could feel his Pa’s presence all the same. Doc Martin was right in that his other senses were beginning to compensate for the hearing loss. Jamie had told him about a nitro explosion that left him blinded although he had been lucky and had regained his sight as predicted. The Doc had offered no such assurances this time. No, this time the hearing loss was likely permanent as was the vertigo.
Pa’s been smoking again. Joe knew his Pa had given up his pipe after a severe case of influenza last winter—last winter?—but all that must have changed in the time he’d been gone. It was more than the smell of pipe tobacco which filtered into the room when his Pa entered and sat down on the edge of the bed. It was The Look Joe felt boring into his back. He’s worried.
“I’m all right,” he sighed, not moving from the window.
“Well,” Ben said, “at least you’re not ‘fine.’”
Joe’s eyes flashed as he snapped his head around towards his father, ready to retort, but seeing the smile on Ben’s face, he held his tongue.
Ben could see what that quick movement cost Joe . . . the way he gripped the window frame to steady himself, the beads of sweat that broke out on his brow and lip. He could sense when the wave of nausea slammed into his son. It even appeared as though Joe had stopped breathing for a moment when he closed his eyes against the dizziness.
“Look at me son,” Ben said quietly.
Joe’s eyes opened and—exhaling slowly—he focused on his father’s face. Ben wanted so badly to put his hand around Joe’s neck and pull him close as he used to do, but Joe was keeping him at arm’s length both figuratively and literally.
“Talk to me, Joe. I know you’re angry with me, but we need to talk it out.”
When there was no response, Ben changed tactics.
“Tell me what it’s like.”
“What?”
“These attacks. What do they feel like? What happens to you?”
“What happens?”
“I want to know what you’re going through. Help me to understand, son.”
Joe sighed and stared out the window again. He remained that way for a long time. So long that Ben had almost decided to leave the room when Joe began to speak hesitantly as he struggled to put into words what he experienced.
“It’s . . . like being drunk only worse. Instead of the room spinning, I’m the one spinning. I have trouble hearing, my eyes go haywire, my head weighs a thousand pounds and I can’t hold it up. I sweat, throw up, and then want to sleep for a long time. When I wake, I feel like I was rode hard and put away wet. And I know it will happen again. And I know I’m powerless to stop it. But the worst part,” Joe paused. “The worst part is being treated like . . . like Little Joe.” He turned to look at his father accusingly, “like a child.”
Ben swallowed hard and met his son’s gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Joe. You’ve no one to blame but me. I’m responsible for the way you’ve been treated. I’m the one that kept Jamie and the others away from you—to keep you from learning too much, too soon.”
The raw emotion that passed between father and son crackled like heat lightning. Joe was the first to discharge the static electricity with a simple question that had no simple answer.
“Why?”
A hundred responses went through Ben’s mind in as many seconds, each one rejected summarily. In the final analysis there was only one response required—the truth.
“Fear.”
The word echoed in Joe’s head becoming louder with each ping. Fear. Joe had felt fear many times, but not his father. Not Pa. No matter how old the son is, a father isn’t allowed to be afraid. Fathers are pillars of strength, but even as he thought, My Pa’s not afraid of anything . . . he’s the bravest man in the whole world! He realized it was a child’s voice he was hearing, not a man’s. And a part of him—suddenly a very large part of him—wanted to be a child again.
Instead, he lowered himself into the chair by the window and said simply, “Explain.”
It was Ben’s turn to rise from the bed and look out the window, but there was no joy in his stance.
Joe’s insides clenched. He had a very bad feeling and it wasn’t the vertigo.
“Pa . . .”
“Hush, Joseph. You asked for an explanation. I’m trying to give you one.” Ben turned and sat on the windowsill, his hands gripping the woodwork. He took his time, weighing his words carefully.
“A child is God’s greatest gift. A parent’s responsibility is to see to it that that child becomes a happy, responsible adult, a productive member of society, socially conscious, a caretaker of the environment, and lives a long and fruitful life. When a child becomes more than a parent ever dreamed possible . . . well, that’s a parent’s gift to God.
“From the moment each of you were born—you, Adam, and Hoss, I’ve sheltered, nurtured, cared for you as best as I could. I realize at times I was perhaps overzealous in that duty of care. I’m not proud of that, but it is instinct . . . a parent’s nature to want to protect their children from disappointment; to absorb as much pain and hurt as possible. That a child will experience those things anyway is a part of growing up, I know. But the desire to protect never goes away, even when that child becomes a man.”
“Pa,” Joe began. Ben raised a hand to silence him.
“One constant fear a parent has is that they won’t be there when their children need them; to help them when they stumble, to see them grow up and flourish. But the greatest fear every parent lives with is that they will outlive their children and not be able to fulfill that promise to God.
“Pa, I’m so sorry you thought I was dead. I don’t know—”
“Joe—”
“—where I was. I would have come home if—”
“Joseph—”
“—I could have.”
Ben leaned forward and placed his hands on Joe’s knees. “Son, I never believed you were dead. Roy, Paul, everyone tried to reason with me, but I never felt it in here,” Ben poked his chest. “What they were telling me made sense in my head, but not in my heart.”
“Then . . . I don’t understand . . . what are you talking about?”
“About the information I kept from you. I’ve been trying to shelter you, protect you from learning things that would hurt. I wanted to save you from the pain—” Ben’s eyes began to fill with tears.
“Pa, I’ll get over this vertigo—”
“Joseph—”
“—or I’ll learn to live with it like the doc says. You don’t hav . . . you don’t have to—”
Tears were now streaming down his Pa’s face and Joe was beginning to panic.
“—what? What is it I don’t know? What is it you have to tell me?”
“Joseph,” Ben said, placing his hands on his son’s shoulders. “Hoss is dead.”
For a long moment Joe thought it was his ear that had deceived him again; thought he had misheard. Dead? No. Hoss is on vacation. He’s just takin’ his sweet time coming home, getting even with me for being late. But his father’s anguish was genuine. He gripped Ben’s forearms to steady himself and held on, searching the face he knew so well for a sign . . . any sign that this was all a mistake.
“I am so sorry, Joe. I would give anything . . . my life . . . if you didn’t have to go through this again.”
Again? What do you mean again? “When?” he croaked. “How?”
“Nearly four years ago. An accident. He was . . .” Ben’s voice droned on, but Joe didn’t hear. All that echoed in his head was four years . . . four years . . . four years. He’d only been gone two years, they told him. I’ve lost four years?
Joe stood suddenly, gulping for air. He had to get out of the house. He ran down the stairs, out the front door, and vaulted onto the nearest horse. There was only one place on earth he wanted to be.
The ride to the lake was a blur. By the time Joe arrived his head was exploding with kaleidoscopic visions. He fell rather than dismounted and promptly rolled to his side to empty his stomach. Spent, he crawled on hands and knees to the moss-covered mound where his mother was buried and then he saw it. No! Next to her was Hoss’s grave, the blooms of a climbing rose entwining both headstones. As his fingers traced each letter of his brother’s name one by one, Joe’s heart fractured bit by bit until there was nothing left. Bereft beyond comprehension, he fell unconscious to the ground.
DLL:Thank you so much, Dee, for giving us an exclusive look at one of your stories! What a gut-wrenching scene ending, and beautifully done.
If a writer wanted to try their hand at fanfiction, where would you advise them to start? What skills are needed, and how would they find where to submit their work?
DB: Start with a show where you know the episodes and characters in and out. It could be any show from any era. My website, womenwritersblock.net, has over 2,400 stories in 52 different fandoms. I welcome new authors/fandoms, so contact me at wwbarchivist@gmail.com if you are interested.
Start simply, perhaps with a scene that you feel was missing from an episode. Or write a sequel to the episode—a what happened next, or instead.
DLL: Perfect! Thank you, Dee.And what a wealth of stories to access for free on your fantastic website.
From the perspective of someone involved in the fanfic genre, can you share your thoughts on the copyright controversy mentioned in the introduction? What are your thoughts on fair use and derivative works?
DB: Bonanza Ventures, Inc., the copyright holder for all things BONANZA, has granted Bonanza Brand a license, and we strictly follow the guidelines for the use of the names and images of BONANZA characters.
Fanfic has been around for centuries. Consider the oral and written retellings of the Greek Myths. Jane Austen and Charles Dickens had their share of fanfic writers. Yes, there are authors who have specifically forbidden fanfiction of their work, but there are many more who have embraced it. I would be more concerned about plagiarism.
DLL: That sums up well what I’ve been researching on this fascinating topic. Thank you.
In case you’re curious about the actual copyright language, Dee provided it for us:
The names and likenesses of the characters appearing in BONANZA photoplays, and any images and pictures from such photoplays, are collectively copyrighted and trademark-protected property of Bonanza Ventures and NBC Universal, Inc. (as successor in interest to the National Broadcasting Company, Inc.), and are made available only for private, non-commercial use.
Can you describe the BONANZA fanfic community and how dedicated the writers are to the brand’s integrity? I know the readers are dedicated as well. Can you give us an idea of the volume of readers visiting the Bonanza Brand info site and how they engage with the community beyond just reading the stories?
DB: Our community forum for all things BONANZA is bonanzabrand.info. Included are subforums dedicated to each character as well as each actor, episode discussions, games, puzzles, and more. There is also a subforum, The Virginia City Literary Society (VCLS), for writers, which offers writing challenges, workshops, discussions on the writing life, and research, plus an area for works in progress (WIPS) where a writer can get feedback and encouragement.
Our library site isBonanzabrand.info/library, and it requires a separate registration, but you can use the same password.
At Brand, our desire is to maintain a high-quality library where fans can enjoy a wide variety of stories. Readers come to explore stories about the Cartwrights, their family and friends, and the supporting characters who have come and gone in their lives. Readers do enjoy original characters as well as characters from other fandoms and how they interact with the Cartwrights; however, these characters shouldn’t push the Cartwrights to the periphery or out of the story.
We currently have over 4,350 stories in the library. Since BONANZA has a worldwide fan base, we have an app on the site that will translate a story into any language listed.
Stories are often based on episodes (431 of them!) and are identified in the summary, e.g.: WHN (what happened next); WHI (what happened instead); WHB (what happened before); WHIB) what happened in between scenes; AU (alternative universe—e.g., a Cartwright marries); or Crossover (between, say, BONANZA and The Big Valley). Many are completely original and true to canon.
Our guidelines are designed to provide writers with the opportunity to share their passion for the Cartwrights and the other characters created by David Dortort’s vision. Stories that are not consistent with this aim (e.g., slash, smut, sex with minors) are not tolerated and will be removed.
You asked about traffic. We get over a million hits a year, but of course, a lot of those hits are bots. Our stats for most viewed stories for the period January 1 – August 13, 2025, are 57,814 from the following countries: the US, the UK, Germany, Canada, France, Australia, Finland, the Netherlands, Sweden, and Thailand.
DLL: This is amazing! I love that readers around the globe can enjoy the stories in their own language and find stories inspired by their favorite episodes.
What is the longest story you’ve written, and what is the shortest? What’s your best advice on writing short stories?
DB: My shortest story in the library is “Alone” at 505 words.
My longest single story told in three parts is The Choices Trilogy (“Choices,” “Shadows,” and “Hunger”), totalling 47,500 words. “The Way Home” came in at 30,935. “Deception” at 18,437 and “One Candle” at 16,000.
Otherwise, I pretty much write in the 3,000 to 10,000 range. Truthfully, I don’t worry about word count unless it’s for a Drabble where the number of words is exact (a great editing exercise!). I write until the story is done, and then I edit the hell out of it. If it’s been said, don’t belabor the point. Make each word count. Get in; get out; be brief; be gone. And PROOFREAD!!!
My biggest bugaboo as an editor and beta reader is repetitive phrases (especially in the same paragraph). Use a thesaurus!
DLL: Great advice. Thanks!
Through your many organizations, writing, legal profession, radio, cinema, quilting, etc., you’re often called upon as a guest speaker. What are your favorite themes to share with your audiences across all subjects? What are your favorite themes when speaking about writing?
DB: Golly! You do ask tough questions, Darci! What it boils down to is that I am not a passive member of any organization with which I am involved. Active participation, purpose, commitment. Don’t be a seat warmer. Make a difference. At my writing workshops, I stress canon and being true to the characters created by David Dortort.
DLL: Thanks for rising to the challenge of satisfying my voracious curiosity. And, again, great advice.
Prior to your very busy retirement, you were busy raising a son, working as a legal support professional for top law firms, and an active member of NALS, the National Association for Legal Support Professionals, even serving as its national president. NALS is how you and I met. How did you fit your creative life into such an active schedule? What role did writing play in those earlier years?
DB: Creativity is like water to me. I have to have it to live, and I’ll cross deserts to find it. It’s what makes life worth living. When I was a Cub Scout den leader, every meeting was an opportunity to use my theater skills in interpreting the monthly theme, e.g., taking old sheets and stamping them with sponges dipped in paint to create castle walls and have the boys write a play about King Arthur. Or building a dogsled to “run” in the Iditarod, introducing Robert Service (“The Cremation of Sam McGee”) to the boys, and having them write and recite a poem about life on the Klondike and or building a doll house (I told them it was a ranch house. Shh!) and asking them to write a skit about living in the Old West.
I made a lot of quilts for the NALS Foundation for fundraising purposes… not much writing there! Now I donate Zentangle pieces to the Foundation’s auction.
DLL: I’m sure those Cub Scouts still hold those memories. They got to benefit from you crossing deserts. What great experiences! And what lucky auction participants.
One of the reasons we relate to each other so well is that we’re multicrafters who relish learning new things each new decade of life. We’ve shared many of our interests at conventions, classes, and retreats. Zentangle, for instance, with Audrey Markowitz, CZT. You’ve since been certified as a Zentangle teacher.
We’ve been roommates at NALS conventions. We had a NALS night out for National Law Day with the Carson City Cinema Club. As a member, you organized the event, and we enjoyed the best classic film ever, To Kill a Mockingbird. You’re still involved with the local NALS chapter, sharing your professional knowledge.
Most recently, we were roomies at the Virginia City Writing Retreat, where we enjoyed the truly inspirational setting at St. Mary’s Art Center (once a Victorian hospital), which featured in one of your stories.
You primed our participation by sharing one of your excellent writing presentations, featuring Dan Harmon’s Plot Circle.
I’m so happy we’ve been able to enjoy all these activities together over the years, plus so many lunches and meetups where we talk for hours about our love of art and writing. But I’m noticing a pattern as I reflect on our time together. Not only do you enjoy learning new things, but you also love sharing them with others through mentoring and teaching. You were the first person I turned to when I started writing and were instrumental in my progression.
Can you share your journey in exploring your diverse interests and more about what motivates your passion to create and then teach what you know?
DB: I am not ashamed to say that I’ve failed at something because you learn more from your failures than your successes. I also share what works for me and offer others a different way of looking at something, and hope something works for them. Perspective and alternatives.
A favorite book as a child was The Little Engine That Could. “I think I can, I think I can…I knew I could, I knew I could. I remember playing schoolhouse as a child and finding out that the best way to learn something was to teach it to someone else. For example, when I learned multiplication, I taught the younger kids in the neighborhood the principles to help me internalize it. What became clear when I began leading seminars and teaching classes is that everyone learns differently, so you need to present the same material in four different ways: for the auditory learner, the visual learner, the reading/writing learner, and the kinesthetic learner.
I have a curious and inquisitive nature and love learning and trying new things. Some stick, others don’t. I no longer build dollhouses, but I want to learn woodburning, and I recently acquired an engraving pen…so I’m looking forward to pursuing both in a spare moment or two. Ha!
I began quilting in earnest in the 80s and have more fabric than I’ll ever be able to use. What I love about that craft is the variety of tasks involved. I can piece blocks or assemble them into a top, quilt it or bind it, or sit at the computer and design a new one using EQ8—whatever suits my mood. The result is that I have many quilts in various stages of completion. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
After I took a beginner Zentangle class with Audrey Markowitz, CZT, and became certified, I taught for a while at locations in Carson City and Dayton, both of which closed during COVID, so now I share my Zentangle knowledge with my “Dayton Divas,” and continue to take classes myself online or with other CZTs. The Zen in Zentangle is the meditative part. When I’m stuck on a story, I’ll create a tile focusing on one stroke at a time. Solutions to plots often appear out of thin air when I’m chilled out (or when I’m in the shower…but that’s another story.)
I took these photos when I joined Dee and the Dayton Divas for a Zentangle afternoon.
DLL: I should have guessed you were a mentor from an early age. 😄A great insight into how one creativity flows into another, resulting in multiple life-affirming benefits. You nailed the multicrafter’s character. I, for one, can’t have too many unfinished projects. You never know when the mood will strike to work on a particular one. And yes, those mindful activities work on the subconscious level to get ideas flowing. I recommend it!
As a retiree with a stacked calendar, how do you manage your time and commitments? Can you share your best tips and techniques for staying organized?
DB: Although it goes against my grain as a people pleaser, I have learned to say “no” and developed a personal motto/mantra: “Don’t promise what you can’t deliver and deliver more than you promise.”
Calling on my theatrical background, I mark my calendar entering the due date (opening night) first and work backwards, leaving time during the week prior to the due date for last minute changes or adjustments (dress rehearsal, tech rehearsal), the week or two before that for planning and acquiring of materials to complete the project (table read, scene work, blocking, run throughs, etc.).
If facing a same-day deadline, I still work backward: 5 p.m. (court closes); 4:30 p.m. (filing with court); 4 p.m. (copies made); 3 p.m.( messenger arranged, service envelopes prepared); 2:30 p.m. (remind attorney of deadline); 1:30 p.m.( ensure exhibits are in the correct order); 12 p.m.
(remind attorney of deadline); 10 a.m. (obtain filing fee check from accounting); 9 a.m. (remind attorney of filing). Obviously, I’m being facetious here, but the important thing to do is to lay out the push points, allow time for something to go wrong because it will, and have a backup or an alternative plan in mind.
I set aside one day of the week for me. No commitments. I usually mark my calendar as “studio” time. The point is, “ME” time is just as important as all the other demands.
DLL: Ooh, I love this theatrical-inspired method! All you planner fanatics (like me), take note. And wow, so many people I know, including me, struggle with saying no. I can see the necessity with all your commitments and your credo.
You’re an avid traveler. Can you share how travel fits in with your creative life?
DB: I love to travel, and I love road trips. I am also an inveterate cruiser. Experiencing new worlds and meeting people from different walks of life and cultures is an important part of that, but I also go on quilting cruises where I can indulge a passion AND meet new people AND see new places. I taught Zentangle to some shipmates on my 17-day Hawaii quilting cruise in January 2025. One of the ladies was 82!
During my circumnavigation of Australia last fall, BONANZA was a frequent topic. It started during introductions around the dining table (a different table every meal). No one had heard of Dayton, Nevada, so I usually just said “I live in Carson City… the Nevada state capital…” When I continued to be met with blank stares, I would add, “Cartwright Country,” and everyone would exclaim, “Bonanza! We love that show.” It didn’t matter what country they were from; they all knew the show.
The beauty of a ship is that you can do as much or as little as you want. I usually had a full schedule on sea days, attending cultural lectures and special programs about the ports coming up, the piano bar, the arts and crafts room, library, jigsaw puzzles, reading by the pool, writing, scholarly conversations in the art gallery, and silliness in the lounges.
DLL: I adore this!More proof of how one passion connects to others, often in surprising ways, enriching our lives.
In addition to all the crafts previously mentioned, you’re listed on your very own IMDb page as the writer, director, and producer for The Feud (2025), the Radio Story Hour (2023), and Secrets of Harridge House (Audio Drama) (2020). I think of it as an extension of your writing craft, but can you share how you got involved in local radio and what you love about it? The same for your involvement with the local cinema club.
DB: I joined the Carson City Classic Cinema Club when I first moved to Nevada as a way to meet people and create ties with the community. At the first open board meeting, I volunteered for something and was soon appointed to fill a vacancy on the board. From there, I became an officer and then started a monthly newsletter—the C5 NewsReel, which features information about the classic films being presented. Soon after, I joined Rhonda Abend and Jeff Fast, the hosts of a weekly radio show on KNVC 95.1 dedicated to classic cinema. Through those connections, I met Scott Young.
During the pandemic, when live theater went dark, many producers turned to audio as a way to keep actors, writers, and directors working… and to prevent their spouses and significant others from committing murderous acts. Advances in remote recording technology meant productions could be created safely from anywhere in the world, without cast or crew ever having to be in the same room. I was approached by Scott, Supervising Producer of the gothic horror drama Secrets of Harridge House (airing on KNVC 95.1 FM and as a podcast), to try my hand at the Season 2 opener. My first attempt was a disaster. Writing for audio is nothing like writing narrative fiction. Instead of painting scenes with all five senses, you have to rely entirely on dialogue, music, and sound effects. Scott saw potential and gave me another shot. That second script made it to production, and over the next two years, I wrote 10 episodes across Seasons 2 and 3, also serving (uncredited) as the co-writer of both season Bibles. I eventually became Supervising Producer for Season 3 alongside Cody Lindenberger, helping to shape the show’s long-range story and ultimate conclusion.
When Scott launched Radio Story Hour, I joined as a staff producer, adapting and directing two Edgar Allan Poe stories (airdates pending). I also worked with him as a Consulting Producer on the first season of “Murphy’s, Inc.,” helping select the writing team and guide them through story development. It was a joy to mentor emerging talents Austin Dai and Terra Eon, whose strong work allowed them to run the writing of the series entirely during its first season. They later opted to bring in new writers to collaborate with them for Season 2.
One second chance opened the door to all of it, and I’m grateful I walked through.
DLL: I’ve always admired how things worked out for you so quickly after retiring and moving your life to Northern Nevada. Thank you for sharing such a wonderful example of taking a leap of faith into opportunity at any stage of life.
Now, this might be a tough question, but what is your favorite among all your pursuits? Which one is the most mindful and relaxing?
DB: They all have their place and time, and a season to every purpose.
DLL: Well said.
Thank you so much for visiting today, Dee! Do you have any parting words of advice for those who have many passions they want to pursue but struggle to find the time?
DB: Make time, even if it’s 5 minutes a day. You’d be surprised how those minutes add up and what you can accomplish.
Cartwright Country
Since I share a love of Northern Nevada and its history with Dee, I’m leaving you all with a stroll through our high desert and mountain neighborhoods.
There’s also the colorfully named Bucket of Blood, photo courtesy https://www.nvexpeditions.com/storey/virginiacity.php, and so many more. Check out this great body of photos of the silver mining commerce of yesterday still thriving today, thanks to the tourists, who visit in droves from 1.2 to 2 million a year.
If you’re sensitive to paranormal activity, watch closely while traversing those wooden sidewalks. You might see a figure looking out a window from the boarded up upper floors.
For years, my husband and I brought all our visitors to Virginia City, partaking in the mine tour, the wild west show, and riding the awesome steam locomotive. There are many ways to experience the Old West in this remarkable town.
Soon after my husband and I moved to Nevada, we visited the Ponderosa Ranch at Incline Village, and thank goodness we did. Sadly, the family-owned theme park closed in 2004 due to selling the property to a land developer, but it was a popular destination for world travelers visiting Lake Tahoe for many years. The world still loves BONANZA as Dee attests to with the volume of visitors to the Brand’s info site.
This map is on permanent display at the Autry National Center in Los Angeles. Assuming that north is supposed to be up, the map was drawn incorrectly. When Ayres showed the map to series creator David Dortort he said “I love it, but your directions are wrong.” Ayres fixed this by adding a compass with north pointing to the left and up. If only all cartographic problems could be solved this way.
Isn’t it fantastic? It was used in the opening credits, burning away as the Cartwrights rode in on their horses. Enjoy watching the YouTube video below.
I live smack in the middle of it, New Washoe City, which is adjacent to Washoe Lake State Park, situated above the fictional Ponderosa Ranch territory. It’s been a marvelous place to call home for the last 30 years, with its paradisiac views and close neighbors.
Dee lives just about straight up (according its creative direction) from the middle of Carson City at the right of what I think is supposed to be the Carson river.
This map from Wikipedia provides an accurate orientation.
Old Washoe City, Nevada, was founded in 1860 as a supply town for the nearby Comstock Lode mines, particularly Virginia City. It thrived initially due to its location near Washoe Lake, which provided ample water power for lumber and ore processing mills, and its role as a major freight hub. However, the town’s prosperity was relatively short-lived. The completion of the Virginia & Truckee Railroad in 1869, which bypassed Washoe City, and the shift of milling operations closer to the mines, led to its decline. By 1880, the population had dwindled to about 200, and Washoe City eventually became a ghost town.
Eight years ago, the modest community with thriving Highway 395-accessible businesses was hit again when the final extension of I-580 bypassed it. History repeating itself.
Still, the old 395 highway pulls in visitors to places like the Chocolate Nugget Candy Factory, the historic Bowers Mansion, and other draws such as nature exploration, hiking the Ophir Creek Trail, which connects Davis Creek Regional Park to the Tahoe Rim Trail at Tahoe Meadows.
Check out “Where I Live” for some amazing photos, which I’ve taken over the years, of the valley, lake, and views from my home, and other nearby historic western treasures located throughout the northern Sierra Nevada Mountain range.
Thank you so much for visiting. Comments are welcome!
Enjoy this lively chat packed full of great writing tips and resources on writing short stories with fellow northern Nevada writer, writing coach, and public speaker, Linda K. Hardie.
Linda led an engaging and informative short story workshop at a writing retreat I recently attended in Virginia City, Nevada, that truly inspired me to dive into my next small tale with a new perspective. Check out the highlights and photos of the retreat on my blog. That very day, I invited Linda to my Spotlight for a chat so that you can benefit too.
Let’s Meet the Author
Linda Kay Hardie is a freelance writer in Reno, Nevada. She writes short stories in many genres, including horror, dark fantasy, and crime. She also writes recipes and is the reigning Spam champion for Nevada (yes, the tasty treat canned mystery meat).
Her writing has won awards dating back to fifth grade, with first place for an essay on fire safety. In 2022, she was honored with the Sierra Arts Foundation Literary Arts Award for fiction. Linda makes a living as a writer, writing coach, teddy bear builder, and as staff working for purebred rescue cats.
Let’s Get Started
Thank you so much for joining me on my Spotlight, Linda. How did you become a writer, and what or who was your biggest inspiration?
LKH: Books in general were my initial inspiration. I remember looking at books, seeing the little black squiggles that held the magic of the story, and being determined to figure out that mystery. I had to learn all the mysteries, and I was full of questions. When I was 4, I followed my mom around the house as she cared for my 2yo brother, asking her questions. She finally sent me to kindergarten (not very common in those days), where I bothered the teacher. We had coloring time, recess, nap time, and storytime. I couldn’t nap because I was too excited for storytime. Finally, the teacher taught me how to read and asked me to read quietly on my nap pad on the floor. I wrote my first story soon after that.
DLL: That is definitely the youngest budding writer story ever shared with me on my Spotlight. Fantastic!
How did you find your genre in Crime Fiction? What other genres do you like to write?
LKH: When I was a teenager back in the 1970s, I devoured science fiction. Those were the days of the US Apollo space missions, and science was huge. Science fiction took me to all sorts of amazing places. I’ve always read almost every genre, as long as the writing was good. I still read middle grade novels, and that’s one of my favorite genres. That’s the age when we’re beginning to realize we need to become our own person, to look beyond what we’ve grown up with, and to plan for the future.
I discovered short crime fiction when I stumbled across a submission call for crime stories involving or inspired by collective nouns for animals. You know, like a gaggle of geese, a clowder of cats. Or a Murder of Crows, as the anthology was called, edited by Sandra Murphy.
I had just done research on what a group of jellyfish was called (that’s a long story involving a strange photo a friend posted on social media), and a crime story that used that research unfolded in my mind.
I also write horror, science fiction/fantasy, historical fiction, and literary fiction. I don’t write romance. I tried once, and everyone died. Tragic.
DLL: Haha. Death, for sure, puts the kibosh on the required Happily Ever After in a romance. Writing short stories is a great way to explore multiple genres. I’ve been able to experiment by participating in writing contests, where you don’t know what you’ll be called upon to write until the prompts are revealed. Writing Battle is the place to go for a wide range of genres and a fun competition. My favorites were ‘cannibal comedy’ and ‘inanimate romance.’
LKH: Ooo, that sounds very cool. A great challenge!
[You can meet the delightful creators of Writing Battle on my Sunday Spotlight.]
I thoroughly enjoyed your story in ‘A Killing at the Copa,’ stories inspired by Barry Manilow’s songs. ‘Rain as Cold as Ice’ (inspired by Mandy) drew me directly into the fascinating mind of the main character from the first paragraph, and as a local, I loved the downtown Reno setting. Even if I weren’t familiar with it, your world-building was incredible, and any reader could picture themselves on the streets of the seedy yet fascinating side of the Biggest Little City. Is writing local scenes your go-to?
LKH: Yes, I love to bring location into my stories as a character of sorts. In “Rain,” I was struggling with the story because (as I realized later) it wasn’t grounded anywhere. I mean, I had it set in a bus station, but it took me a while to see that I was writing a pair of “head on a stick” characters. My mentor, writer and former university professor Susan Palwick, calls it that when the writing is flat with just indistinct paper dolls saying words. The reader isn’t engaged because the writer is just lecturing and not showing a well-rounded story.
So, I knew what was wrong, but I couldn’t get a handle on how to flesh it out until I was in a workshop taught by my friend Suzanne Morgan Williams, who writes wonderful middle grade and young adult novels. This class–a part of Mark Twain Days in Carson City–focused on journeys to tie in with that author’s exploration of Nevada and the West.
In an exercise in the class, I was playing around with Suzy’s prompts, doing stream of consciousness writing to tease out my ideas. I take classes from Suzy every chance I get, because she’s a super teacher, and I always learn something new from her. She always pushes for writers to use more senses than just sight.
Here she’d asked us to think of five sensory words. I ended up with a long paragraph that became the beginning of “Rain as Cold as Ice.” The smell of the rain, the sound of bus brakes, the touch of the wind, the cursing of a drunk man. These specifics anchored my characters into a place and gave them room to be themselves.
DLL: I love hearing how stories get their start, and this is fantastic, especially how it speaks to that compelling opening. It looks like Mark Twain Days are coming up in October! [That’s my signed copy in the photo! Available on Amazon.]
You told us in class that writing short stories is a great way to excise those annoying thorns in life, a true catharsis, which gave me a whole new perspective on developing story ideas. I sensed the axe being wielded in ‘Rain as Cold as Ice.’ Are we seeing parts of you come through? Can you share how real-life inspiration enhances your short story writing and how we can experience catharsis more directly in this format compared to our novel projects?
LKH: Writers are always told we should “write what you know.” As a journalist, I found many flaws in that cliche, mainly because my job was writing about stuff I DIDN’T know about and communicating these new ideas and situations to my readers and listeners. (I worked in newspaper and radio news for many years. My undergrad degree is in journalism from the University of Oregon.)
I came to realize that the admonition could better be written as “write what you emotionally know.” The answer to your question about whether you and other readers are seeing parts of me in my writing is “absolutely, yes.” Not necessarily the physical details, but definitely the emotional ones. For example, I haven’t been in a physically abusive relationship, but I’ve been in emotionally and verbally abusive ones, so I know the emotional blueprints.
None of my characters are ever me. First, I’m a born storyteller, and I go where the story needs to go. I get this quality from my dad, who loved telling great anecdotes about events and people. He always embellished the stories with exaggerated details and often stretched the truth because these flourishes made the story better. “Never let the facts get in the way of a good story,” Dad always said. That’s become my motto, too.
Of course, Dad never actually said that, but that just makes the anecdote more emotionally truthful. Besides, “Never let truth get in the way of a good story” is attributed to Mark Twain, who famously and wonderfully wrote that way.
So I mine bits of me and my emotions, digging for the precious gems that will make a character sparkle and come alive for the reader. Of course, the first reader is me, and I’m picky and hard to please when I’m reading.
DLL: I love this advice and your dad’s inspiration, and of course, Mr. Twain’s. “Write what you emotionally know” is getting tacked up on my pegboard. I hope I’m doing that, tapping into my emotions, as I get to know my characters. You can feel the magic when it happens.
I enjoy writing short stories that come out of those contests I mentioned, but I’ve had a hard time finding places to submit them once they’re released back to me. When I do, they often get rejected, which many of us cope with until we find the right fit. I eventually published them in a collection, and I offer many for free on my website. That’s two ways to get them out there. But the anthologies where your stories are accepted are so appealing in their design, clever themes, and content that they must attract a wonderful audience and just seem fun to write for. Tell us about the path you took to find the right publisher(s) and about writing stories that fit those engaging anthologies.
LKH: I think I fell into a couple of good opportunities by luck. I first got into writing for anthologies, as I mentioned above, with a crime story inspired by the name for a group of jellyfish. Since that anthology, I’ve worked closely with editor Sandra Murphy on two others. No, wait. More. There’s another one coming out soon, and I’m sure I’m forgetting another one. While I don’t recall for sure how I found the call for stories for the collective animal group names book, it was probably through Erica Verrillo or Authors Publish.
I also keep an eye out for the small publishers that are popping up like mushrooms after a rain. And I use that analogy in a totally respectful way (being a lover of both fruiting bodies of certain fungi and delightful showers of precipitation). Writers and Publishers Network is a great resource for keeping up with this. I write columns, opinion pieces, and other articles for them occasionally. I was recruited by my favorite editor Sandy Murphy, who coordinates the newsletter and more of the writing on the site. Sandy is the editor of several anthologies that I’m in, and I continue to work closely with her.
One of my award-winning stories was initially rejected for the anthology whose call I’d written it for, but some time later I thought it fit a different anthology call with a similar post-apocalyptic theme. I was correct. The editors accepted it, and later I won an award for it.
DLL: Again, so much great stuff, Linda! I have been way too sheltered in my recluse writing world. My eyes have been opened! Thank you for all the resources. I found a fun interview with Sandy Murphy, our visitors might enjoy at cam-writes.com
Can you also talk about building those publisher relationships and the awards you’ve won?
LKH: Yes! I have stories in four of the five volumes of From the Yonder: A Collection of Horror From Around the World, published by War Monkey Publications, a small publisher based in Utah. (I missed the deadline for Volume 5 because I was too busy writing other stories.) I enjoyed working with publisher/editor Joshua Sorensen. I got to meet with him when he came through Reno on vacation with family members. At that meeting, he helped me zone in on the story I was creating for Volume 3.
I met Sandy Murphy when she edited the collective animal names anthology for one small publisher, and I followed her over to another small publisher with another project, an anthology of stories inspired by songs of the 1960s, then to Misti Media, a new small publishing company, home of White City Press, which published my most recent stories. I work a lot with publisher and editor Jay Hartman, and he has invited me to contribute to some of his anthologies. It’s an honor to be invited to submit because it means the editor likes your writing style and feels they can count on you to submit something publication-ready. And they know you’re someone they can work with. That’s always important, because word gets around about writers who criticize every single comma that’s edited in their “perfect” work and refuse to do any promotion of the finished book. Many anthologies are invitation-only.
Last year (2024), I won a certificate of excellence from the Cat Writers Association for my SF/mystery story “Grenade Blows Up,” which is in Tales of the Apocalypse from Three Ravens Publishing. (Cats feature significantly in the story.)
My writing awards date back to fifth grade, when I won first place for fifth graders for an essay about fire safety that I wrote on my first day in a new school. My military dad had been transferred, and I walked into the classroom late, just as the teacher was explaining the writing assignment. I received a trophy, and the fire chief treated me and the other first-place winners to lunch and all the penny candy we wanted. In 2022, I was honored with the Sierra Arts Foundation’s Literary Arts Award for fiction here in Reno. That came only with a check. No candy.
DLL: Darn, candy always makes a great prize. Way to go, Linda. Truly inspiring.
You have stories published in 19 anthologies. Who is your favorite character you’ve written so far, the one you still think about the most?
LKH: Ooo. That’s a hard one. I’m not sure it’s even fair. Do you ask parents which is their favorite child? I like the narrator of “Smack” because I love her determination and kind heart. Then there’s Grenade (nee Renee) in “Grenade Blows Up,” who’s doing her best to get by after the apocalypse. Also, the narrator in “Rain as Cold as Ice” touches me deeply because she’s trying to survive in a harsh world, the best way she can.
I think Sarah and Sally, my married main characters in the story in the upcoming anthology edited by Sandy Murphy, might be the answer to your question. I had trouble getting into that story, so I did a lot of stream-of-consciousness freewriting about who these two older women are, why they were in Reno, how they reacted and thought, and why they were the best ones to solve this particular crime. Then, when I was having trouble with a novella I’d been invited to write, I realized that Sarah and Sally were exactly the people to fix my problems there. (Sorry that I can’t yet reveal any details about these projects.)
DLL: You did great with my zinger question. I love hearing the glow when authors talk about their children, um, I mean their characters.
I noticed that some of the anthologies edited by J. Alan Hartman benefit charities. Can you talk about that?
LKH: Definitely! At a previous small publishing company, Jay created and edited a series of Thanksgiving-related humorous crime anthologies, and when he formed Misti Media, he couldn’t use those ideas, so he created The Perp Wore Pumpkin, which carries on the spirit.
Proceeds from the editor and authors go to Second Harvest Food Bank locations. I turned in my story for volume 2 of this series a couple of weeks ago, and it will be released well before Thanksgiving this year to raise more money and awareness of food insecurity in America.
Plus there’s my poem in Under Her Eye: a Women in Poetry Showcase, vol. II, from Black Spot Books. Edited by Lindy Ryan and Lee Murray, this anthology partnered with The Pixel Project, a global non-profit organization focused on ending violence against women worldwide.
DLL: Fantastic organizations to support, and a fun way to support them!
Can you share your tips and techniques on staying productive and keeping that creativity flowing? Where is your favorite place to write? What’s your writing schedule like? Do you journal ideas as they come to mind, or do you otherwise note them down?
LKH: I journal every day, and I write about anything and everything. I write ideas or the seeds of ideas, often freewriting until my subconscious informs me there’s some great potential there, and then I copy and paste that into its own story file. I write diary-type stuff where I take a deep dive into my emotions and figure out why something made me feel and/or react how it did. I’ll write anywhere and everywhere. I even journal while riding the bus, typing emails to myself with a stylus into my phone.
I strongly believe that you need to write as much and as often as is possible for yourself in order to keep your skills healthy and ready. For me, that’s daily and usually many times each day. It’s often 1,000 words in a day. This does NOT have to be polished writing – it doesn’t even have to make sense! I play around with words. I mean that literally. But also figuratively. I’m a kid squishing the clay to see what it can look like, or coloring outside the lines because why should the coloring book artist get to have ALL the fun? Dancing and singing with the words.
DLL: My smile is huge right now. I love this! Great advice.
What are your writing goals? Do you have any novels in the works?
LKH: Yes. I’m trying to write a mystery novel. I’ve got so much of the idea work done on it, but I need to make time for the writing work. Plus the novella I alluded to earlier. I do have two finished middle grade novels, one of which is making the rounds on submission.
DLL: Your volume of work is truly inspiring, Linda.
Any other best practices for writing in the crime fiction genre, and/or writing short stories?
LKH: Don’t try to follow a trend. I would rather write what I love and let others follow me.
DLL: Ooh, yes! Learning about market trends proved to be a hitch in my stride. I started writing without any prior experience (other than legal writing in my career), learning as I went, including the publishing process and all the business behind it. In the beginning, my writing was raw, but my voice came through, my characters engaging (according to my readers). I was uninhibited, you might say. But in all that learning, I got caught up in all the endless rules (some I liked, some I discarded) and the admonitions about writing to market trends, even if it’s not the story you want to tell. Yuck! I love my readers, and I don’t think they need catering to.
LKH: Exactly!
DLL: It stymied me for a time, but I’m back to focusing on reading and hearing my favorite and newly discovered authors’ voices, honing my writing skills, and listening to my own writer’s voice. That, in turn, helps me find my audience, a small but growing one of which I am very grateful to have now. Thank you, Linda, for the great advice!
What is your parting advice for aspiring writers?
LKH: Write all the time. Whatever that means to you. Don’t follow anyone else’s advice unless your heart says, “Hey, that’s a good idea.” And read in your genre. That’s absolutely essential. When I was part of an annual writers conference in Fresno, I used to have wannabe writers show me their children’s book manuscripts for advice. I would read it. Most of the time, it was awful, with no sense of who their audience was. “What’s your genre?” I would ask. “I don’t know. I think everyone will love it,” they invariably answered. “What genre do you read?” I would follow up with. “Oh, I’m too busy writing. I don’t read,” they would answer. That’s when I would paste a fake smile on my face (anyone who has ever worked in retail knows this one) and make vague but helpful-sounding noises about their project. Because I knew they were never going to get published. Of course, that was decades ago, and now those people run off and self-publish.
That’s not to say self-publishing is not a valid way to go these days. I know many people who publish their own books, market them, and along the way, they work with professional editors and artists to make the books the best they can be. These writers get their work out to readers. But if the only thing you want is to be published and you don’t want to learn or to pay for professional editors and artists to make your work great, that’s fine for you! I want to be read. I want to touch people’s lives. That means I want to work with talented people who can help me improve.
DLL:Beautiful! Thanks again, Linda, for dropping by and sharing your inspiration, as well as all the fabulous tips and resources!
Let’s conclude by sharing where we can find you and your works. What events can we attend to hear you speak in person, book signings, or other ways to get out and meet you and our fabulous local authors?
LKH: I attend most of the monthly meetings of the Sierra Arts Literary Community, also called SALC. [Find Linda here] It’s generally the first Sunday of each month at the Sierra Arts Foundation’s Riverside Gallery on Virginia Street in downtown Reno. Feel free to approach me and say hi if you come! I’m always glad to meet new writers, prepublished authors, and other writers. No membership needed (although there are resources available to people who are artist members of Sierra Arts).
When I speak in person or have book signings, I publicize them on the Northern Nevada Writers group on Facebook, as well as on my own social media feeds [Facebook], plus on White City Press’s website.
I’m working on possibly having some writing classes through Sierra Arts Foundation, which is a great supporter of all arts, including literary ones.
DLL:The Sierra Arts Literary Community sounds wonderful. I would love to see you there, catch one of your classes. Thank you!
Here are links where you can buy the anthologies featuring Linda’s stories directly from the publisher.
If you were a giant god sentenced to eternal torture, how would you entertain yourself during a reprieve?
You may know the story of Prometheus, the lover of mankind who gave us fire and endured a similar punishment exacted on him by Zeus, but here is the lesser known story of Tityus. Tortured for being a cad.
In the lull between new moons and the vulture’s next meal, only one thing eases this giant god’s torment—inflicting torment of his own.
###
Tityus gave only half a thought to punching the giant birds in their wrinkled bald faces because doing so was futile. He knew this because he’d done it a million times over thousands of years, and it hadn’t yet stopped the beastly vultures from chewing out his liver every twenty-eighth day, starting precisely at six p.m., Eastern European Time.
It was now seven.
The voracious creatures will finish digging into his side in exactly one hour, after which Tityus will endure more agonizing pain with the regrowth of his immortal organ, only to have the endless punishment repeated at the next new moon.
In the lulls between, the giant often wondered who suffered worse torment: the birds who were sent to Hell to eat the same meal every month for eternity or Tityus, who had to provide it.
He decided that punching the bobbing heads would make him feel better. Caving in half their ugly faces was immensely satisfying, as was their distressed flapping of wings and distorted screeching through shattered beaks.
Yes. It was well worth the pain of extra flesh tearing away from his body by the force of his blow. It got better when the vile birds flew off to find a ledge and repair themselves.
A sound between a moan and a sigh seeped from Tityus, echoing through his stone and moss-covered grotto deep below the base of Mount Parnassus. Zeus might be liberal in handing out sentences to his dozens of offspring when they went astray, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t keeping track of every single one, always watching, always ready to condemn.
The giant dared to hope his father had witnessed his act of bored defiance.
Since he’d been given a bonus reprieve, he took the opportunity to recline more comfortably on his loamy pallet, which stretched beneath him across his nine-acre earthen home.
Tityus picked up the remote and flipped through the programs his sister had selected for him to view on an eighty-foot screen hanging on his southern limestone wall. Only recently had Persephone produced the ingenious device to give him a diversion between bouts of torture.
Thinking of his sister made the giant god smile. Sephie was the only one who believed he’d been goaded into his crime of passion by Hera and pleaded his case every chance she got. Even the goddess who bore him and the one who raised him hadn’t taken his side, though both had reasons to blame Hera for their problems. It seemed everyone stuck together when it came to condemning him, but not Persephone. His sister’s loyalty and affection never wavered.
She also understood how critical viewing a pair of humans suffering misguided love was in sustaining him between bouts of torture. The entertainment distracted him from the looming specter of gnashing vulture beaks and the indescribable agony when his tormenters slurped up strips of his flesh like so many earthworms wriggling beneath his home.
###
It took the better part of the first week growing back his liver to make his choice. Tityus was lost in the pleasure of planning his victim’s torment when a leafy vine began winding its way up his leg.
Since his limb was the length of a stadium, it took time for the greenery to get close to his face, but Tityus was patient as always while he waited for Persephone to make her appearance.
The vine stopped its horizontal travels at his hip, then shot straight up as it thickened into shapely limbs that stretched into a torso. A lovely neck and face appeared next, and soon the dulcet tones of the Queen of the Underworld chimed through his grotto.
“Hello, Brother. That gleam in your eye must mean you’ve made your selection.”
He dialed back his voice to keep from blasting his sister off his hip. “I have, though each couple was as tempting as the other. Thank you for that. Choosing was half the fun.”
She clasped her hands together and grinned. “That is what I hoped for. It has been too long since you’ve enjoyed a good vacation. I’ve been pleading your case again, brother. Father thanked me for the reminder that retribution against his children harms humans, too. But then, he got that look.”
“Ever my champion, dear sister. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“Well, your horrid eternal torment does not fit the crime you were tricked into and didn’t even complete.” Tityus shined his affection on his sister with his moon-sized green eyes and nudged her into his palm with a forefinger.
She made herself comfortable before finishing her outburst. “It is agony each time your groans shake the Underworld.”
“You are too good to me, Sephie, a balm to my soul. Won’t you stay a while?”
“That is why I’m here.” She reached out and patted his thumb. “I will convince Father soon. Meanwhile, you deserve a reprieve from toying with your humans.” She sank into his palm, propping on her elbow and resting her head in her hand, her vines twining into a canopy and anchoring themselves around Tityus’s fingers. “Now, who did you pick?”
“If I only have time for one show, this pair has the potential to give us a top-rated performance.” Tityus clicked the remote, and the giant screen came to life.
The sibling gods peered down at the two people crouched in a square pit at the center of an archeological site near the west bank of the Nile.
###
Sarah had no clue what she did to Nathan’s insides when that earnest concentration scrunched up her pretty brow. Parts of him clenched enough to be uncomfortable when she pushed her glasses higher on her pert nose, smudged with red dust. Not only did his heart thump erratically, but he almost groaned out loud.
That embarrassing prospect broke the spell. He cursed under his breath. If she could read his foolish thoughts, she would for sure request his replacement. He took heart that his dig partner had given him a few hopeful signs.
Nathan returned his attention to the pottery shard they were carefully easing out of the three-and-a-half-thousand-year-old soil. This newest section had turned up an amazing cache of tools, human bones, two delicate cat skulls, and three nearly intact clay jars.
He peered closer at the shard, brushed away a few more flecks, and hiked a brow. He nudged Sarah.
“What does this say to you?”
“I saw it too, Nathan,” she said in her sweet, yet husky voice, which got him going again, “and I’m thinking what you’re thinking.”
Her excitement washed over him.
“We could be confirming our theory,” she said. “Do you agree?” He was struck by her glittering aqua eyes and gave himself a mental shake before answering.
“It’s harder to deny when we add this to the rest. But Sarah, we’ve been breathing the dirt in this six-foot square hole for eight hours. Let’s secure our finds and get out of here. It’s time to celebrate with a night out in Luxor.”
“You want to finish the day’s work without cataloging these beauties—without even deciphering these symbols first?” She cocked her head. “Have I worked you that hard?” He laughed.
“I just need to get clean, then go sweat at a club with dancing and liquor. Morning will be soon enough to inspect our treasure.”
“I suppose getting sweaty for a different reason would be a nice change of pace. You’re on.”
But those words passing through full pink lips and the vision of Sarah writhing on a dance floor forced him to stay crouched for a minute longer as he battled waves of yearning.
Maybe torturing himself with a carefree evening in her company wasn’t such a grand idea… On the other hand, it could be his long-awaited opportunity.
###
Tityus paused the video. Small boulders slid down the embankment behind them when he spoke. “You can see he’s got it bad and has no idea she’s been exploring her sexuality. I’ve got a few maneuvers planned to help her decide things.”
“Can I assume her choices won’t include Nathan?” Persephone’s amber eyes gleamed.
“That’s the plan… after we squeeze more entertainment from them first. You did well, Sister. I can smell his pathos.” Tityus closed his eyes and inhaled the moist, earthy air. It caused a cyclone to whirl a path around them and rattle Persephony’s flowering vines.
“Abundant suffering is in store for poor Nathan,” Tityus continued. “That, and the chaos of their confusion, will go a long way in helping me endure my next round of torment. I’ve already conjured hours of lush images for my dreams.” He cracked an eye open. “We might even enjoy collateral damage. We’ve got a third party involved.”
The silence that followed the giant’s cessation of speaking left a vacuum in the subterranean chamber. Crickets sounded in the recesses. Frogs croaked near the waterfall, and a shiny beetle whirred by on heavy wings.
The walls shook again when a thought made Tityus chuckle. “Is our uncle aware of your new penchant for misguiding love-struck humans?” The Queen of the Underworld let out an undignified snort.
“Hades does not care how I occupy my time, only that he can call me to him whenever he wants. Speaking of the demanding one, I feel his pull. I promise to be back for another installment. But don’t wait. You can catch me up.”
Tityus was used to Persephone’s spontaneous appearances and abrupt departures and didn’t mind when the forest of greenery disappeared with his sister in a wispy puff. He clicked his remote to open the next scene.
###
Nathan was sweaty just as planned, but he’d never had so much fun getting into this state of bodily dampness.
Sarah arranged for several friends from the university to meet them at the discotheque. For the past two hours, the girls made it their mission to keep him jerking and grinding on the strobe-lit dance floor. He’d finally pleaded for a break to cool down and freshen up.
Revived and happy with the results—he looked damned fine if he said so himself—Nathan pushed his way through the crush of dancers and back to the bar where he’d left his charming companions with another round of drinks. When he was close enough to spot them through the crowd, he came to a dead stop, his heart plummeting like a stone.
Sarah sat on a stool close to her friend, whose lips were pressed against Sarah’s ear. At first, it looked like Eman was just trying to be heard in the din. Then, he noticed their clasped hands. Eman’s tongue darted into Sarah’s ear, and Sarah laughed, pulling back, her eyes glittering with excitement—and something else.
How could I have had things so wrong?
The shock wore off in the next instant, but that only let a whole slew of other confusing emotions overwhelm him as he stood there gaping until the thought of what he must look like penetrated the fog.
Before Nathan could move, Sarah caught him acting like a statue, and her smile turned into a frown. Eman followed her gaze, held up the drink she had waiting for him, and grinned, clearly having no idea his world had just collapsed.
Nathan’s arm went up in a halfhearted answer, and he somehow got his legs moving again.
An hour later, hunched over his third whiskey, crushed between the chattering girls at the table Eman snagged for them, Nathan wondered how he was surviving his bitter disappointment and the suffocating nightclub. On the upside, he no longer doubted how deep his feelings went for Sarah.
The alcohol had at least numbed the sharpest jabs to his heart, but despair continued buzzing nauseatingly in his ears. Nathan would have no clue how to answer if anyone asked him what the girls had talked about for the last hour, and he didn’t think he was even nodding at the right places anymore.
He had to get out of here.
“Will you be good getting Sarah back to the site, Eman?” he said, breaking out of his stupor. They each turned to him in surprise. He cleared his throat. “I’m going to call it a night and head back.”
“Are you okay?” Sarah said as she laid a hand on his arm. “Maybe you should have a coffee first.”
That was sound advice, but the thought of watching Sarah and Eman whispering together another minute made him want to throw up.
“I’ll be fine. I’ll see you at eight tomorrow. Don’t be late.” Nathan attempted to smile at his lame humor, but judging by Sarah’s furrowed brow, his face must have looked as wan as he felt.
He slapped a few bills on the table, mostly to ensure Sarah had enough to get back if Eman couldn’t drive her.
“Enjoy the rest of the night. It was a pleasure meeting all of you.”
Sarah looked like she might say something, but nodded and turned to her friends without another glance his way.
Nathan barely managed to keep his shoulders from slumping in defeat as he headed to the exit.
###
This time, the flowering vines trailed down the side of the cavern before finding purchase on the giant arm sticking out of the earth. The writhing greenery tickled, waking Tityus from a satisfying dream about Nathan’s puny human heart being crushed to a pulp.
He cracked open a giant green orb and waited for Persephone to materialize on a dirt mound covering his shoulder.
The more Tityus buried himself in the earth, the better he dreamed. He didn’t dwell too much on the reasons for that, though Zeus would be the first to say he had a mother complex. Tityus wouldn’t deny it. He was born of Gaia, after all, his giant newborn self nearly breaking his mother in two on the way out.
Persephone, wearing her favorite skull crown, leaned on her beautifully turned mahogany staff to peer into his eyes. “Well? Was it as entertaining as you hoped?”
“Better.” The rumbling word rippled the damp soil covering him and tossed up handfuls of pebbles.
“What do you think Nathan will do now?” Persephone said as she steadied herself. “Can he endure working with Sarah? Keep his job? Wait! Do you think he’ll give up his precious career?”
“You made it in time for the next installment,” Tityus said. “When Nathan left the club around two in the morning, he was in a state of mind perfect for the rare Luxor mugger to take advantage of. The thief robbed him and beat him senseless. That event alone will get me through the next liver donation. Sarah is about to discover he never made it back.”
Persephone raised her cupped hand, and a bloodred mist swirled in her fingers. When it dissipated, she was holding several bunches of purple grapes, the size of which no human had ever seen. She plucked half the fruit off one and tossed it into Tityus’s mouth before asking him a question.
“Is he alive?” Tityus nodded as he chewed. “You realize having him harmed could make your plans go the wrong direction,” she pointed out. Another enthusiastic nod jolted her off her feet.
“Gambling on humans finding their way despite our interference is what makes this hobby so satisfying,” he said after swallowing his second bunch of grapes.
His sister picked herself up and smiled. “Then, let’s get comfortable and watch.”
Tityus clicked his remote, and the shadowy, moss-covered grotto walls brightened from the desert scene as if a portal had opened over ancient Thebes.
###
The morning sun lit up the endless waves of sand and gleamed off an enormous pyramid. The archaeological encampment was tiny in its shadow.
A lone figure crouched in the pit under an umbrella, working meticulously at an eye-level spot in the strata. Part of her attention was clearly reserved for listening because the anxious archaeologist kept bobbing up her ladder at the slightest sound to scan the dirt track meandering toward Luxor.
“Hey, Charles,” Sarah called out, her voice overly loud. “Have you heard from Nathan?”
A man crouching in the adjacent pit answered her. “Not since you asked me fifteen minutes ago. But I’m concerned, too. I sent Jack to hunt for him. I’m sure he must have holed up in a hotel room to sleep off the whiskey. You know what a lightweight he is. We should quit worrying.”
As soon as that last word drifted over the sand between them, the crunch of tires had them both springing up their ladders and peering over the edges of their pits.
Back in the grotto, Persephone, nestled in the dip of Tityus’s shoulder, voiced an observation. “That must be Jack with Nathan. If I’m wrong, I’ll find you eight victims for next month’s programming.”
Tityus stopped chuckling when he spotted a golden eagle much too large to be natural, swooping over the dig site. It wheeled between the tents and landed delicately on a clothesline strung with camp blankets.
“Uh… Sephie, dear. Do you think…”
“Yes,” she drawled. “It’s Father. Hell’s Gate! How does he always know?” She barked out a laugh. “Never mind. Stupid question. We’re better off working on plausible deniability.”
They looked over the scene again to find the car had arrived at the encampment and parked under a cover. A burly, bearded man stepped out of the driver’s side, opened the door to the backseat, and helped out a slighter man clearly in pain and struggling to move.
“Nathan!” Sarah shouted. Swift and surefooted, she scrambled up her ladder and ran to the car.
The eagle made another pass over the scene. Tityus and Persephone eyed each other when a screech that could only belong to the powerful Olympian who was their sire sounded all the way to the grotto. The humans carried on, oblivious to the mythical winged creature in their midst.
Sweat beading his brow, Nathan straightened and faced Sarah as she came to an abrupt halt and gasped. She slapped a hand over her mouth but dropped it in the next instant.
“Oh my god,” she bit out. “What happened?”
Embarrassment emphasized the damage on Nathan’s face, but his voice was dignified. “I had a run-in on the way to the taxi stand and woke up in an alley with my pockets inside out. Thankfully, Jack thought to check the police station.”
This time, the humans looked up when a screech rent the air. They each watched, eyes wide, as the majestic bird of prey disappeared over the horizon.
“You scared me to death, Nathan,” Sarah said with a hitch as she turned back to her colleague.
A pale Nathan was growing wobblier by the second.
She stepped closer and softened her words. “I know what I did to you last night. I’ve been confused about… things. I’m really sorry. Today… Somehow… Well, everything is clearer. Will you forgive me?”
Hope bloomed on Nathan’s face, though his distorted lips and a puffy black eye turned the expression ghastly. He cocked his head. “What are you saying, Sarah?”
“Eman is off to Cambridge. We said goodbye last night, for good. You’re the one I want to be with. Can I hope for the same?”
The burly Jack cleared his throat, effectively returning the couple to their surroundings. “While it’s clear this exchange is doing Nathan good, he’s about to drop where he stands. Are you ready to have a lie-down, kid?”
Sarah raised her shining face to Nathan, wrapped her arm around his waist, and guided him to the med tent.
The warmth in her eyes was the final death knell for the giant’s precious hiatus. Tityus punched the button on the remote violently enough to crush the entire thing, and the desert view went dark, throwing his grotto into shadow.
Persephone was already turning wispy with her disappearing vines. “I am sorry, Brother. But you understand that I must return to Hades. I promise to do what I can to cool our father’s wrath.”
Tityus wanted to cringe at the bitter irony and miserable resignation creeping into his rumbling laughter as it trailed after her.
“You will do better for me by staying clear of Zeus for now, and away from here, dear sister. But don’t wait long for another visit.”
In the lull left by the departing Queen of the Dead and her greenery, Tityus settled his ginormous body beneath the earth where he clung to his last comfort—his dreams of unrequited love suffered by miserable humans—as he waited for the next new moon and the vultures to circle… The End… Until the next new moon…
The End… Until the next new moon…
I wrote this for a contest. I absolutely adore this premise. My friend, Lucky Noma, was inspired to write his version of the tortured giant and how he might wreak havoc on mankind for the sole purpose of providing a diversion. Stay tuned, because Lucky and I are planning a Tityus anthology.
What story would you come up with for this bored giant’s entertainment? Let me know in the comments.
If you would like to support an independent author who loves to share her stories, this story along with an eclectic anthology of more fun tales is available for $1.99 at your favorite bookstore. Thank you!
By D. L. Lewellyn 