Ichabod Ebenezer's Blog, page 7

Eunice

Image by Comfreak from Pixabay



“I don’t understand, Jonathan”

Eunice said, the constant whir and tick of her gears a sign that her agitated computations were rerunning again.

“Stop. It’s not an error in your calculations. There are
just some parts that can’t be replaced.”

“But there are other similar models with working parts, why
can’t they just be exchanged?” Her gears were running noticeably slower by now,
and one toggle was stuttering. Realization dawned in her eyes as she reached
behind her back.

“Where is my key, Jonathan? Please, wind me.”

Jonathan swallowed hard. His glasses fogged, obscuring his
vision. “No, Eunice, I’m not going to do that.”

“But why? I don’t understand.” Confusion and concern rolled
across her face like competing waves in the ocean, but no emotion.

How could he explain to her something that wasn’t based on
facts and measurements? For all the feeling she inspired in him, she was a
glorified calculator. She couldn’t be blamed for failures to understand something
outside her programming.

Perhaps he could try an analogy. “Do you remember years ago
when we lit fireworks; how much you appreciated the visual stimulus?”

“Oh, yes. Do you have more?”

“No, but that’s not the point. When we were done, you wanted
me to light them again, but I explained to you that the fuel was spent?”

Eunice’s gears and toggles clicked and whirred, slower still than before. “You are saying that your fuel is spent.”

Jonathan smiled, taking several deep breaths from his oxygen
mask before continuing. “Like those fireworks, I’ve burned brightly for a short
time, and now I’m dying.”

Eunice blinked slowly. Her artificial eyelashes came away wet. It was perfectly normal condensation from her emptying compressor, but it broke his heart as drops fell down her cheek.

“My key, Jonathan… Please… wind…”

~~~~~~~~~~
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Son of the Féinne

by Robert Harrell

Bang!

I
jump and spin. An old junker exits the intersection. Just a car backfiring. I
breathe a sigh of relief. Jack Rabbit Trail gives me the willies, especially at
night. I still use it; it’s the shortest route home.

Low
in the sky, the waning gibbous moon creates patches of lambent effulgence that
alternate with grotesque blocks of murky obscurity in an expressionistic
juxtaposition of light and dark, unrelieved by any streetlights. Surrounded by
shades of grey, I’m on the set of Nosferatu.

A faded-blue
two-story house with a porch running the length of the front stands empty.
Everyone says it’s haunted. According to local legend, Tony Mancuso spent a
night in the house on a dare when he was a teenager. The next morning, they
found him on the front porch, wrapped in a sheet, cowering and whimpering. He’s
never been right in the head since and wanders the streets admonishing everyone
to repent before the devil steals their soul.

Tonight,
shutters on creaking hinges bang against the sides of the house. The windows
and door hide in shadow. Two glowing red eyes stare at me through the window at
the end of the house. They dim, slide to the right, and disappear. I turn my
head. The taillights of a sedan recede into the distance on Dry Lake Road. A
reflection in the distorted glass.

On
the other side of the street, a squeak and a thump betray Old Man Grimes on the
porch in his rocking chair, protecting his apple trees from the young
hooligans, as he calls them, who want to steal and eat the fruit. No one wants
his apples. He only thinks they do. So far, he hasn’t killed anyone with his
double-barreled shotgun. I’m amazed.

The
evening breeze carries the bark of a dog from the next street over and skitters
dead leaves down the street. I step on one simply to hear the dry crackle and
crunch of the leaf crumbling to dust beneath my sneaker. Goosebumps rise on my
arms from the cool breeze. At least, I tell myself it’s the breeze.

The
houses along the street are dark. No porch lights offer a welcome. Thin strips
of light outline the drawn shades in the windows but fail to penetrate the
gloom. The street creeps me out.

A loud,
deep-pitched ‘bu-bubu-booh’ announces the presence of an owl. I shiver. Some
Native American tribes considered owls harbingers of doom, incarnations of the
god of death. Death was the owls’ bridge. The owl glides past me on silent
wings, its golden eyes shining. My gaze follows its flight to the end of the
street.

At
the end of the street live the Karhew twins, two of the nastiest guys in town.
Everyone steers clear of the whole family. Their front yard provides a final
resting place for car parts, the rusting hulks of an Edsel, a Dauphine, and a
Gremlin, and enough tires to open a store.

My
path leads into Mockingbird Lane before I reach the Karhew house. With any
luck, I’ll make the turn and be on my way before anyone notices I’m there.

No
such luck.

Urs
and Medve saunter toward me. The grins on their faces promise nothing but
trouble. So do the lengths of steel pipe in their hands.

I
know their routine. Everyone knows, but no one can prove anything.

If
they catch me, they’ll drag me to their house and ‘have some fun’ with me.
They’ll testify I came on their property, trespassed. In this town, they’ll get
away with it.

Before
they come too close, I turn and run. My backpack slips to the ground as I race
for the only house on the street that offers refuge, the MacCormac place.

The
Karhew brothers’ voices grow louder.

“Aw,
don’t you want to play?”

“Come
on, you know you want what we have.”

The
menace in their words spurs me on.

I’m
not going to make it.

Out
of nowhere, something huge lands between me and the twins. I pause in my flight
to stare. Stupid, but I gawk anyway.

The
beast is bigger than I am. Intense, glowing green eyes transfix me for an
instant. Transfix and dismiss. I’m no threat. I reek with fear. Warm breath and
a not unpleasant odor wash across my face as the gigantic wolf turns with a growl
to face Urs and Medve.

This
is my chance, and I’m not about to waste it. I turn and run. I don’t glance
back.

The
twins shout in a language I don’t understand.

A
fearsome snarl shakes the fabric of my world. Its bass rumble vibrates through
my body and brain. The click of teeth snapping together carries over the sound
of my panting.

More
shouts and rapid footsteps recede toward the Karhew house.

I
keep running.

I’m
almost to the MacCormacs’ porch.

I’m
on the porch.

I
pound at the door.

“Help!
Help! Please, somebody, open the door!”

The
porch light goes on. The door opens, and Granny MacCormac squints at me through
the screen door. “Hello? Who’s there? Jeremy! What’s the matter, boy?”

Without
waiting for an invitation, I wrench the door open and spring inside, bumping
into the old woman. I catch her before she falls, latch the screen door, slam
the wooden door shut, and lock the deadbolt. Not that this will prevent the
monster from coming in.

“Karhew
twins … monster … giant wolf.”

My
breath comes in gasps.

“Calm
down, boy. You’re safe. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

“But
that, that beast outside. Call the police.” Why does my cell phone have to be
inside the backpack now lying in the middle of the street?

There’s
scratching at the door. Sniffing and snuffling. The creature followed me.
Boards creak as the thing makes its way the length of the porch, sniffing at
each window.

I’m
trembling. What if the brute decides to crash through a window? Granny
MacCormac seems unperturbed. “Don’t worry, boy. Everything’s all right.”

Moments
later, a scratching sound comes at the kitchen door. Whines. A wolf’s bark.

Granny
MacCormac strides toward the kitchen door. On her way, she picks up a stack of
cloth from the table.

I
race behind her and grab her arm. “What are you doing? That thing will tear you
apart! Call the police!”

She
turns and smiles. She pats my arm. “Everything will be all right. You’ll see.
Trust me.”

Granny
MacCormac pulls loose from my grip. Her strength surprises me.

At
the door, she pauses. “Get away from the door! Back off now!”

To my
shock, the whining becomes softer, as if the creature is backing away.

The
old woman flicks the backyard light on and opens the kitchen door.

I
can’t let her go outside to face the monster alone. I try to squeeze past her,
but she elbows me in the stomach.

“Sorry,
Jeremy. I’m safe enough with my own.”

I
scratch my head. What does she mean?

Granny
MacCormac throws the cloths in her hand — her grandson’s sweatshirt and
sweatpants — at the beast. She puts her hands on her hips. “Thaddeus Tadgh
MacCormac the Third! Pull yourself together this minute and put some clothes on!
You have a guest.”

Glowing
green eyes blink. The slavering creature sits down and curls into itself. The
elongated snout recedes and broadens. Long, pointed ears shorten and round,
sliding to either side of the diamond-shaped face. The eyes cease glowing but
retain their intense green color. Powerful shoulders and the thick chest
broaden. The waist and hips slim. Hind legs straighten and lengthen. Front legs
thicken.

The
sound of cracking bones, rending sinews, and popping joints pierces the night
air.

The
front paws become hands that provide strategic cover for certain body parts.
The rear paws elongate into size 14 human feet. Red-and-gold fur thins to become
reddish-gold hair on the head, arms, legs, and groin of the school’s star water
polo player.

“Trey!”
The word slips out before I can stop myself.

My
friend’s embarrassed smile reveals a set of even, white teeth where curved
fangs and razor-edged incisors stood seconds ago. “Um, Jeremy, do you mind
looking away for a moment? You, too, Gran.”

I
turn and stumble against something. I glance down. My backpack. Where did my
backpack come from? Did the wolf — Trey — fetch it?  I choke back a snort at the image of a monstrous
red-, gold-, and cream-colored wolf carrying my neon green backpack with manga
figures in its teeth.

Trey’s
grandmother turns to me with an expression of concern. “Are you all right, boy?
I’m sure you’re experiencing a bit of a shock.”

That’s
an understatement. “I–I’m fine. Or I will be as soon as my heart stops trying
to escape from my chest.”

Granny
MacCormac emits a breathy cackle at my side. From behind me comes Trey’s
throaty bass, tinged with the wolf’s rumble.

Trey
drops his hand onto my shoulder and squeezes reassurance to me.

I
flinch. I can’t help myself.

He
drapes his arm across my back as he takes his place to my left, opposite his
grandmother. He gives me a brief one-armed hug.

I
return the hug. “That was fast.”

Trey grins.
“I’ve had to become a bit of a quick-change artist. Otherwise, I might find
myself in some rather embarrassing situations.”

“Let
me guess, transforming from a ravening giant wolf into a naked teenager at
Barry’s Burger Barn during the Friday night rush presents some slight potential
for discomposure. For everyone.” I can’t believe I’m so calm about my friend
being a mythological beast.

Trey
snickers. “I wasn’t ravening. I was angry at the Karhew twins.”

Granny MacCormac chuckles again. “I’ll make some hot cocoa. Then you and Trey can talk. You deserve an explanation.”

~~~~~~~~~~
Language acquisition, travel, theology, history, legends: these disparate interests inform Robert Harrell’s writing. His work has grown from a chapter book for German students to include historical time travel, paranormal, fantasy, and more. He offers them in the belief that stories can change lives.

Robert has two websites: https://robertlharrell.com for general writing and https://compellinginput.net for second language acquisition materials.

~~~~~~~~~~
Here concludes Guest Author Week! I hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to drop me a comment if you found an author that connected with you, or if you’d like to see me do this again in the future.

The post Son of the Féinne appeared first on Ichabod Ebenezer.

A Single Moment

by Deborah Lukovich, PhD

I felt an unusual sense of alert presence

as I walked through the entrance into the courtyard where yoga class was taking place. My body seemed to accept an invitation through this symbolic threshold to another realm. 

“Is
this the 7:30 class?” I asked the woman whose calm and stately presence
suggested she was the yoga instructor. Her nod confirmed my worry that the
class was being held outside. It was still 95 degrees as time progressed
towards sunset. I let it go and found a spot on the beautifully designed patio
made of intricately laid bricks. I carefully unrolled my newly purchased
fuchsia colored mat that included the imprint of a mandala. This ancient symbol
is understood to be an expression of wholeness. I hadn’t given it a second
thought since I purchased the yoga mat at a discount store just three weeks
prior, but the image in gold print caught my attention on a semi-conscious
level.

On
this particular night, a sense of ritual seemed to take my body over. After
taking a moment to make sure my mat lay within the taped markings meant to
ensure proper social distance, I slowly moved down to the mat. My body seemed
particularly attuned to the present moment, and as time seemed to slow down, I relaxed
first into a cross-legged position and then rolled back my spine, vertebrae by
vertebrae, until I settled into the pose referred to as corpse. I hadn’t
really given this much thought either, but in hindsight, on this particular
night, corpse pose seemed an appropriate description of the kind of
symbolic and psychological death that had been following me around as I
continued to transition to a new way of existing in the world.

A
big belly breath in and then an audible sigh out my mouth, as I entered an
alternative realm. These moments before class felt like a respite from the
uncertainty of life that seemed to be a constant companion for me over the past
few years. As I became aware of my breath, I was amused by my recollection of a
little-known fact that people who breathe only into their lungs, and not into
their bellies, are more likely to have a heart attack. As my breathing
deepened, I placed one hand on my belly and the other on my chest. Typically,
this would be an instruction given by the yoga teacher, but on this occasion my
body just guided my hands to these energy centers, which in Chakra-speak have
to do with the love and sexuality.

On
any other day, I would have been anticipating the start of class, as if needing
permission to enter the realm of presence and connection to my true essence.
For some reason, this evening was different. My eyes gently gazed up, and I
became intrigued by the complex pattern above me. The cozy outdoor space was
also used for small events, its low light and energy creating a sense of
intimacy. The covering over the otherwise open courtyard resembled a wooden
pergola rafter worn by years of direct sunlight and the kind of rainstorms that
occur in Florida beach towns.

My
attention moved to the dark-leafed plant that seemed to be in the process of
taking over the rafter. As I projected onto the plant a personal drive towards
some kind of goal, I remembered a watered-down version of an important
spiritual teaching – Flowers do not TRY to bloom. They just do what they do.
This winding vine was just doing what it does, growing and finding its way
into open space.

It
was as if time just stood still, or I was experiencing what spiritual teachers point
to as the eternal. My eyes next traveled to the spaces between the cramped
leaves of the vine, and I noticed that the glimpses of light looked more like
twinkling stars. I wondered if the sparkles of light were trying to communicate
something to me personally in the form of a rhythmic dance. 

And
then . . . The insight was dramatic. In that moment, I realized something that
felt momentous and life defining. I’m certain that the only reason I gained
this insight was because something had come to a close. It was as if that
something had not been able to get over the threshold through which I had
walked a few minutes earlier, and I could only grasp it now because it was no
longer a part of the way I was going to be living my life.

For
as long as I can remember, I have either been running from something or running
towards something,” I thought to myself. During the unraveling of my 24-year
marriage, I had become aware that childhood for me felt like a prison from which
I had to escape. I became driven to be completely independent and write my own
story, which I did. It turns out, the constant goal setting and drive to
achieve were distractions. These distractions helped me develop useful skills
that did contribute to making the world a better place, but they also prevented
me from being still enough to fall in love with myself.

There’s love, and then there’s love. I thought I knew love, but then my therapist asked me a really good question during this tumultuous time in my life. “How do you know you feel love?”

“Hmmm.
Well, I know I feel love for my children.” It wasn’t a needy kind of love
though. I think it was through relationship with my children that I first came
into contact with the Divine – or God – and another part of myself. For some
reason, I felt the truth in that saying that your children do not belong to
you. They are placed in your care for the purpose of preparing them to unfold
as they must, whether it suits you or convention.

What
I had not experienced throughout my objectively successful life was the
stillness required to fall in love with myself as a child of the Divine. The
big sigh was perhaps a final letting go of the running.

“Namaste,”
the instructor nodded as class came to an end.

“Thank
you,” many of us responded.

With the same sense of ritual that preceded class, I gently stood, rolled up my mat, and walked through the same threshold. I knew something had changed as I looked towards sunset, but unlike the manic energy that had been a constant companion on my quest to achieve during the first part of my life, a quiet calm filled my body. No goals. Just this moment.

~~~~~~~~~~
You can reach Deborah at https://www.deborahlukovich.com/, or on Facebook and Twitter.

~~~~~~~~~~
Be sure to come back tomorrow for the final guest author of the week!

The post A Single Moment appeared first on Ichabod Ebenezer.

A Moment of Serenity

Image by SplitShire from Pixabay



“Soldiers! We’ll make our stand here on the high ground!” I yelled.

Assessing our surroundings, I quickly triaged our next moves. “Company A, clear the brush starting at the top of the hill and work your way down until our scouts sound the horn! Company B, take stock of our ammunition and rations. You, you, and you, collect water from that lake and start a boil. If they decide to lay siege, I want a fresh supply. Archers—”

I was interrupted by the tuning of a guitar. I turned,
livid. How could someone play guitar now, when the enemy was closing on our heels?

It was Sergeant Donny Ruff, a seasoned veteran even before
the power grid went down. Of all people, he knew the importance of discipline!

But before I could admonish him, he started in on a melody, and it hit me straight in the soul. He hummed a little accompaniment to ‘Johnny’s Widow Waits.’

“What the hell are you—” my second in command said, rushing
forward. I grabbed his arm and stopped him with a shake of my head.

The men and women around the camp had stopped what they were
doing, and each one turned toward Donny. Some hummed along, others’ lips moved
silently, and some just got a faraway look.

“He’s right,” I said. We needed a reminder of why we were doing this, of what it all meant. The song spoke of the pride of our homeland and the people we left behind while we ensured they stay safe. The chorus came around and I lent my strong voice to it. So many years had passed, I forgot how I enjoyed it.

All too soon, the song ended. The final note hung on the
air.

“Archers! Take up position,” I ordered.

~~~~~~~~~~
Did you enjoy this story? Join my newsletter to get an exclusive novella that you will also enjoy, and hear about future projects first!

~~~~~~~~~~
Be sure to come back tomorrow. There are still two days of guest authors, despite this interruption.

The post A Moment of Serenity appeared first on Ichabod Ebenezer.

Catching My Breath

by Taylor Kimble

Image by Efes Kitap from Pixabay

With my eyes closed tight,

I see a world weaved in webs

Of creativity.

Giving my mind the freedom to fly,

I fly high above the realm of reality.

Stunned by a view

Unbelievable to the earthly sphere—

From where my body still resides.

My heart skips, my lungs tighten,

And my breath eludes me.

It taunts me.

It waves to me as it sails

Upon the crests of a clouded sky.

Feeling minutes pass as seconds,

I move with delighted haste.

For Time is far too precious to waste

Hoping I may catch my breath,

I follow its glowing trail.

In circles and circles I chase the teasing tail.

Pausing, my breath ascends.

Glowing with a blissful show

It beams its warming gift.

For the sake of Imagination,

I embrace the exhalation!

Inhale, exhale—

The flowing pair reunited.

Innocent ecstasy surges through my soul,

Liberating every undesirable vexation—

Rousing every satisfying sensation!

My heart falls fast,

Leaving my breath on the edge of my lips once again.

And there you were,

Your face illuminating with utopia.

Your lips a whisper away from mine,

I feel my breath now dancing upon your lips.

And your lips… they touch mine,

Returning my absent breath with your taste—

A taste sweet with love.

Oh, Love… I surrender to you!

Your irresistible high

Feeds my heart’s beating frenzy,

Tantalizes my every craving,

And fills my soul with honeyed traces.

But once again, my breath becomes evasive—

Dropping fast below our tangled bodies,

And far beyond the bed of feathery clouds.

The traitor pulls me from your embrace,

For we are forever bound as one

In a tethering state.

The ground approaches

At a frightening speed,

But still my breath plunges forward.

Trusting my world created in Dream,

I hold my eyes open to see

The next adventure my breath

Pursues.

But cold air pierces my lungs,

And darkness envelops my world.

My eyes truly open,

Only to see

The dark void of a solitary reality.

~~~~~~~~~~
Taylor Kimble is an aspiring fiction novelist, specializing in the thriller genre. Her passion for language drives her craft, often creating a diverse and robust set of work. Currently, her pieces include works of fan fiction, children stories, short stories, and poetry.
You can reach her at https://www.taylorkimble.com and on Instagram or LinkedIn.

~~~~~~~~~~
Tomorrow we’re back to one of my stories, but be sure to come back Friday for another guest post!

The post Catching My Breath appeared first on Ichabod Ebenezer.

The Webs We Weave

by Victory Jo

She hadn’t known what to expect when she’d first arrived in Germany,

but Cathie was determined to make the best of it. She and Jordan dated for three years before deciding to take the plunge, so it only made sense that she would join him at his current duty station. His service to the armed forces involved spending a lot of time apart, but that little piece of paper from the courthouse meant that she could move with him on his overseas tours, at least for most of them. Deployments would still take him away for months at a time, but it thrilled her to have him the rest of the time.

Following
the wedding, Cathie joined her husband in Germany, where he was already a year
into his three-year contract. Within the first month, Jordan left for a mission
that lasted almost 10 months. She would get used to not knowing where he was,
but it never made it any easier. During that first deployment, she kept herself
busy setting up house on post, getting to know the local area, and recruiting
new clientele as an independent hairstylist. She enjoyed the freedom that
working out of her home gave her.

Cathie
looked forward to their email correspondence and little dates via video chat
when his schedule allowed. Occasionally, he would even surprise her with a
letter via snail mail to let her know he was thinking about her. Those little
things kept them close when the miles would not. 

When
he returned home, she ran to him, leaping into his waiting arms, almost
toppling them both over. Jordan felt the warm tears that covered her cheeks as
she clung to his neck. He crushed her to him, desperate to hold on to her, like
the pillar he needed. 

The
next several months were picturesque as they fell into a comfortable routine.
Cathie would schedule her clients during his work hours so that their evenings
were free to spend together. Each morning he would make breakfast, and they would
discuss the day’s plans. She would prepare his lunch and kiss him out the door
before cleaning up breakfast dishes. She would have dinner ready for him in the
evening where they would share interesting happenings from the day. He would
clean up after dinner, leaving them the rest of the evening to watch movies, go
for a walk, play games (often rotating between board and video), and anything
else their hearts (or bodies) desired.

Both
being homebodies by nature, this lifestyle suited them, but like everything
else, this honeymoon phase was doomed to end. Things change. People change. It
occurred so slowly that no one could point to the exact moment it
happened. 

There
was little notice before Jordan’s next deployment. When he told her, a boulder
formed in her gut as tears tried to push their way out. Cathie swallowed the
lump in her throat, forced a smile, and just hugged him. She had signed up for
this, and she needed to remain strong. The last thing her husband should worry
about while heading into dangers unknown was his wife breaking down. 

This
deployment was harder than the last as Cathie didn’t have the same distractions
to keep her busy as the previous one. She stopped and talked with neighbors or
others she’d met if she saw them out, but she’d made no friends to hang out
with. She also found herself with less to say during her conversations with
Jordan, not wanting to burden him with the storms in her mind.

Jordan
noticed his wife’s distance but didn’t press, figuring she was sorting things
out – being a military spouse was a difficult thing. They each attributed the
dimming of passion to stresses the other was facing. Jordan started spending
more time browsing social media during free moments if Cathie was unavailable.
One day, he received a message from an old high school friend, Cindy.
Circumstances had caused them to lose touch. She came across his profile and
figured she’d see what he’d been up to these days. 

It
surprised Cindy to learn Jordan joined the military and took a wife. She, too,
had married and was living in their hometown. Catching up with her brought an
ache to his heart that he didn’t know was there. He missed home, but it would
be several years before he could return, if he chose to set down roots
there. 

As
time passed, conversations increased until they were talking almost daily (as
his movements allowed). It was innocent enough. Both were married and happy
with their chosen partners. They talked about their dreams, their goals, what
was going on in their life, and reminisced about the old days. 

One
night, as he was lying in bed, chatting on messenger with Cindy while her
husband was at work, she asked him if he remembered that night they’d gotten
lost on some old back roads while heading home from a concert. He did. That had
turned out very interesting. She inquired what he would do if they were
together. He didn’t know.

Cathie
and Jordan continued to talk throughout his deployment, but each was holding
back, not wanting to add stress to the other. Cathie began confiding in a
friend back home. She was lonely and needed someone to talk to, someone who
understood her. Kevin provided that. He was a sympathetic shoulder she could
lean on. It came to be, he was the first person she wanted to talk to when she
received exciting news or had a hard day. He was the person she would share her
mind with, and eventually, her heart.

Escalated
messages had now become the normal for Jordan, and to be frank, he looked
forward to them. They broke up the monotony and provided a source for stress
relief. But now he’d be going home in a week. He would never touch another
woman. Cathie was his meant to be, but she’d be pissed if she ever saw the
messages. He should cut things off with Cindy, but could he come clean to his
wife?

Cathie
found solace in Kevin’s texts. They offered a peace where she found none. Was
she cut out to be a military wife? Could she pick up and move every few years
to unknown places where she didn’t know anyone? Would she remain strong enough
to support her husband despite not always knowing where he was? Had she made a
terrible mistake in believing she could do this?

Jordan
loved Cathie. Cathie loved Jordan. At the end of his deployment, she was the
one he came home to, and she tearfully welcomed him. Their entanglement was
electric. A brief adjustment period later, they picked up their routine, each
seeking a sense of normalcy. Each gave barely a thought to a message received
during dinner here or a text during the game there. If asked, it was a friend
checking in.

Salacious
and flirty messages do a tangled web weave when the partners aren’t the
partners bound by a precious metal ring.

~~~~~~~~~~
As a navy wife and mom of 3, Victory Jo’s life can get pretty hectic, but when her muse calls, she is always ready to answer. Preferring a spiral notebook and pen to a laptop, she has always believed that if her writing could touch just one person’s life, then it is all worth it.
You can find her at https://victoryjo.com, or follow her on Twitter and Facebook.

~~~~~~~~~~
Be sure to come back tomorrow for another guest author!

The post The Webs We Weave appeared first on Ichabod Ebenezer.

Aegis

Phaedra thought she’d cleared all the
patrols around Three Rivers until a young man in a set of unmarred plate armor
stepped into her path and frowned.  The metal caught in the light of the
rising sun as he crossed his arms over his chest, armor groaning in protest.

“May I help you?” she asked, tugging
her hood closer to block her face.

“You should not be traveling alone,
High Commander.”

Phaedra sighed.  So much for
escaping unnoticed.  She brushed back her hood, revealing her long,
braided red hair and stared the man down.  “How did you know it was me?”

“I’ve studied the way you walk.”

Phaedra fought a smile.  She
appreciated his candor, especially when most tried to charm their way into her
good graces.  Still, she was Queen and had a facade to maintain.  Her
expression hardened.  “Excuse me?” she challenged.

As if suddenly remembering who he was
addressing, the guard’s eyes dropped to the ground and a faint blush rose to
his cheeks, but he answered.  “You walk with a combination of confidence
and agility that I’ve never seen before.  It’s unique.”  His eyes
darted up and away before he added a hasty, “Ma’am.”  

“What’s your name?”

“Trent.”

“Your age?”

“18 years this past summer, ma’am.”

Young, even if she only had five
years on him.  It explained why his armor was so pristine, though. “Rank?”

“Foot archer.”

For now, at least, but Phaedra had a
feeling he’d be moving up the ranks soon enough.  She’s swapped her armor
and crown for a worn peasant dress and a thick but equally shabby cloak. 
It fooled her other guards, but not this one.  “You’re very observant,
Trent.”

“I’d like to think so, ma’am.”

His eyes were back on her, dark brown
shifting to honey in the sunlight.

Phaedra studied those eyes while she
decided what to do.  She’d already lingered in one spot for too long,
risking being discovered by another patrol, or worse yet, her Advisor.  He
likely knew she’d fled again by now, and he couldn’t find out where she was
heading, or she’d never be able to visit again.

He didn’t back down from her
assessing stare.  Having a guard with her would allow her to move more
freely.  She wouldn’t be stopped by a patrol if she was already
accompanied.  There was just one question to ask.  “Can I trust you?”

Trent’s back straightened, and he
grabbed the wooden bow slung over his shoulder.  “Yes, High
Commander.  I’m yours to command.”

She’d always been an excellent judge
of character by trusting the feeling in her gut, and her gut told her Trent was
telling the truth.  “I need your discretion.  No one, and I mean no
one, not even your Captain or my Advisor is to know where we’re going.  If
anyone asks, I needed to stretch my legs and made a trip out to the Gleaming
Pond with you as my guard.  Is that understood?”

Trent didn’t hesitate.  “Yes,
ma’am.”

“One more thing.  Stop calling
me ‘ma’am’.”

“Yes, High Commander,” he said with a
barely concealed grin.

Phaedra shook her head, smiling to
herself as she pulled her hood up.  “Smartass,” she muttered just loud
enough for Trent to hear.  “Let’s be off.”

***

As the sun started to evaporate the
dew on the plants, they approached a lone cottage in a clearing. 
Makeshift fencing kept a few livestock secure and there was a small garden,
enough to feed one or two, but nothing else indicated what was harvested from
this land for income.

“Do you have any siblings?” Phaedra
asked with a smile visible under her hood.

“I… well, I did, but none of them
survived.”

There were too many things in this
world that could kill a child – disease, starvation, war, monsters. 
Phaedra vowed when she kneeled on the dais before the throne of Athren that she
would do everything in her power to make this world as safe for her people as
possible.

Before she could respond to Trent’s
tragic admission, an explosion erupted from the cottage, shaking the
ground.  A black plume wafted from the roof.

Phaedra launched herself forward,
running as fast as she could to the front door, the wind blowing back her
hood.  “Alex!  Alex!” she yelled, pounding on the door.

Trent hurried to her side, dagger in
hand to chop down the door if necessary.

The door opened, swinging
inward.  Smoke drifted out of the new escape as a tall man emerged,
bending over to make it through the doorway.  A small dog followed him,
barking and running around his feet.  He coughed, cleared his throat, and
tried his best not to trip over his dog.  As the smoke dissipated, he
said, “Phae?  Is that you?”  His gray blue eyes shifted behind
thick-lensed glasses, searching through the haze.

“I see you still can’t resist trying
to bring the house down with your experiments,” Phaedra teased, relief clear on
her face.

They exchanged a hug as Alex
grumbled, “I’ll get my automated guard to work one of these days.  Just
need to figure out a non-explosive fuel for them.  They’ll be able to do a
better job of keeping this country safe, and then maybe you won’t have to worry
about protecting everyone so much.”  He glanced at Trent over Phaedra’s
shoulder, taking in the sight of his armor.  “No offense, of course.”

Trent glanced to Phaedra, confused.

“Come in and see for yourself. 
Johanna went to the market, but she should be back soon,” Alex said.  He
disappeared back into the house, dog trailing after him.

Phaedra made to follow him, but Trent
grabbed her arm, stopping her.  She glanced down at the hold, and Trent
quickly released her, but she held back, knowing he had something to say.

“How well do you know this
man?”  Trent glanced around looking for signs of an ambush.

“He’s my brother, so I’d say I know
him quite well.”

“A brother?  But I’ve never
heard-”

“And you will keep it that way,
understood?”  Phaedra waited for Trent to nod before continuing.  “No
one knows about him.  We don’t get to see each other very often, but I
love him.  I’d do anything for him, including making a talkative guard
disappear.”

Trent paled but stood his
ground.  “Why keep him hidden?  If you brought him to the castle, you
could see him a lot more.”

“And he’d be as restricted and
controlled as I am.  He’d have no time to do what he loves and be around
the one he loves.”

Trent nodded his head like he
understood, but there was no way a simple guard could begin to grasp the daily
constraints placed on her.  Every move, every word, even every gesture was
monitored and picked apart by the people of her country.

“You have no control over your day,
your life, or who you love.  It’s all scheduled and arranged,” Trent said
softly.

Phaedra stared long and hard at Trent
until he started to fidget, rubbing his hands together and looking into the
cottage where Alex could be heard shifting large pieces of metal around. 
Looked like she’d misjudged him again.  Maybe he did understand what her
life was like.

“Yes.  I didn’t want that for
him.  Being known as my brother could also bring him to harm.  There
are factions that might try to coerce me by harming him.  I didn’t keep
him from the guard just to have his life endangered another way.”

“You took his place?” Trent asked in
awe.

Every family had to offer up one
child to the guard for a five year term or face 100 lashes to each family
member.  It ensured that the guard was kept furnished with new blood, and
those that were competent usually decided to re-enlist after their five-year
term.  

Phaedra nodded in response.  “It
was how Queen Rosebud found me.”

It was a decision that changed her
life and kept Alex’s preserved.  Sometimes she regretted it, but then
she’d visit Alex and see his happy, quiet life and that regret would evaporate.

Trent pressed his hand over his
armored heart in the usual guard salute and said, “It’s sacrifices like those
that will make you an excellent Queen, High Commander.”

Phaedra sighed but couldn’t keep the
smile from her face.  “Perhaps.  But I’m not that Queen today.  Today
I will be selfish and enjoy a meal with my brother and his wife once she’s back
from the market.  The Kingdom of Athren can survive a short time without
me.”

~~~~~~~~~~
Financial industry worker by day, writer by night (or whenever I can squeeze in 30+ minutes).  I started my first original novel in the fall of 2019, and it’s now blossomed into a plan for a 4-6 book series, all featuring a LGBTQ+ romance.  This short story takes place in the same fantasy world as my novels and features two characters that are in the first book of the series.
You can find Alia at https://aravenwriting.com/ or on Twitter.

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Be sure to come back tomorrow for another guest author!

The post Aegis appeared first on Ichabod Ebenezer.

She Wore Red Lipstick…

By Kathleen Osborne

Standing off stage, Judith fingered the tube of red lipstick

that had come to her with a copy of the script. Definitely not her color. As a cast member of the show ‘Red Lipstick’ she was being told to wear it. Putting it on ‘screamed’ she was being fired, since she was to play the part of the next ‘victim’ in the show.

“Someone else can wear it. But I’m
not going to,” she thought as she set it beside another script that was lying
on the table next to where hers had been. “They can wear it,” she muttered.

~~~

Why had she stayed tonight to study
her lines? Seeing the time, she gathered her things to leave, and was turning
off her room lights, when she heard voices. She quickly hid under the desk. She
shouldn’t to be there. Everyone had gone home; she had watched them all leave.

At first the voices she heard were indistinct,
but the closer they got the clearer their words came through, as if she was
standing there with them. That is when she heard them planning a murder of the richest
person in the city and oh my God, they were using the plot from the show ‘Red
Lipstick.’

One of the female voices said, “We
need to stop. The cops aren’t stupid, ya know. Someone will realize we are
using the scripts as our plans.”

A man’s voice replied, “You are
right, this will be the last one. This guy is the worst on our list. The police
and FBI could not touch him, either. Remember, we’re helping them do a tough
job. What we do is righteous, and someone has to do it. Vigilante justice has
been around for centuries and it no different from a citizens’ arrest.”

Trembling so hard she had to wrap
her arms around herself to keep from hitting the sides of the desk she has been
hiding under. Judith could hear footsteps walking away and the voices were fading.
The sound of the side door opening and closing. She waited a few minutes to
make sure they had left.

Muttering to herself about being in
the wrong place at the wrong time, she knew she has to do something, but what? She
can’t report it. Who would believe her, a fairly new actress against the word
of a group of headliners? They hold these people in high esteem from all their
charitable activities, and they had tons of money to pay for a defense.
Something she didn’t.

Hoping there had been no evidence of
her presence, she got up and moved swiftly out the door to the bus stop around
the corner.

~~~

Oh crap. They knew she had been there. How?

Her acting must be better than she thought
because no one else noticed how terrified she was at the looks she was getting
from the ‘Script Murderers,’ she had dubbed them that on her way home. Going to
the police now, it would be her word against theirs. She had no proof. They
could say they were rehearsing for a future show. And these were very
influential people, while as she was not really a blip on the screen yet. But
it wasn’t just her life at stake. More would die if she didn’t do something.

During their lunch break, she went
to her dressing room to think of what she could do that wouldn’t be so
confrontational and protect her. And a way to make sure the police knew what
they were doing. Instinctively, she grabbed a tablet and started writing
everything she heard. Dates and times. Names of those involved. Next door was
the admin office. She slipped over and made two copies. She put one copy aside to
put in her safe deposit box after the show, and another in a sealed envelope
addressed to David Cragg, her friend, Chief of Police, in Chester, Arizona. He’d
know what to do with it. Looking at the clock she saw she still had 15 minutes,
she dashed to the main lobby where visitors began their tours of the TV set and
picked up a phone in a corner where she could watch as she talked. She called
the Homicide Division and blurted everything out, then slammed the phone down.
Running to the dressing room, she touched up her lipstick, smoothed her hair
and walked out joining the other actors.

The Stage Manager shouted across the
stage, “Places everyone.” Judith, wearing pink lipstick, went to her stage
spot.

The lights dimmed.

Thump.

Something large fell to the ground.

A scream filled the room.

The Stage Manager yelled, “Lights!”

Judith was still screaming as she tripped
over a woman’s body. Oh my God, it was one of those she’d overheard. Glancing
at the victim, as she struggled to get away, Judith saw she was wearing the red
lipstick and a hatpin through her heart.

Judith felt a man’s arm helping her
untangle herself, but her eyes were so fixed on the victim she didn’t notice
who it was. When she went to look up, men and women were milling around. She
smoothed her dress down out of nervousness and started when she felt something
in her pocket. Pulling it out, she found a crumpled note. Opening it, she read,
“Join us or die.”

~~~~~~~~~~
Kathleen Osborne is a new author. She writes Short Stories and is editing her first full length novel, Modrog Warriors – Bride for an Alien Prince. Her website is https://www.kaosborne1.com and she also has a private fan page on Facebook: www.facebook.com/groups/kathleen.osborne.author. You are welcome to check out both.

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Be sure to come back tomorrow for another guest author!

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Truth or Dare

Image by Thanks for your Like • donations welcome from Pixabay



“Since Sydney is new to our group, I think she should go
first,” Eric said with a grin.

“Give her a break, Eric,” Ginny said. “As if coming to an
abandoned house with a bunch of near-strangers wasn’t triggering enough.”

“No, it’s fine,” Sydney said without making eye contact.

“Since we know nothing about her, Sydney should do Truth,”
Marc said.

“Truth is boring,” Missy said, setting down the candelabra
she’d been inspecting.

“Truth or Dare,” Eric said, grin still in place.

Sydney looked around at the flickering candlelight and
swaying cobwebs of the room. Chill air blew loudly through the crumbling
fireplace. All eyes were on her, waiting to judge her response. “Dare.”

Eric’s grin widened and he pulled out a baggie full of
shriveled mushrooms. “Eat one of these.”

“Magic mushrooms?” Missy said, rolling her eyes. “Please.”

“Nope, these are Chinese. Totally different. According to
legend, these let you see ghosts.”

“You’re insane,” Ginny said. “You want to test those in the
house where a family of witches snatched up children to eat until the townsfolk
broke in and hanged them all?”

“That’s just a stupid urban legend,” Marc said.

“What if I had family who died,” Sydney asked. “Would it let
me see them?”

“Sure. Maybe,” Eric said, pulling out a mushroom and holding
it out toward her. Ginny gave him a scathing look, and he added, “I think you
just see whatever is around.”

“If it works,” Marc said.

The group didn’t know that Sydney’s mother was from this
town and that thirty years ago she’d been forced to flee. Nor did they know
this was her family house. They had been witches, but the baby thing was a lie.

Sydney snatched up the mushroom and began chewing. Time for
her friends to meet grandma.

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Announcement:
I’m doing something special next week. Six fantastic authors will be guest posting their own stories here, making for a full week of daily posts! I can’t wait to see what they come up with, but be sure to check back here starting Monday!

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Neuschwanstein

Image by Adam Derewecki from Pixabay



When, I was eighteen years old,

I joined a college trip to study in Salzburg Austria. We took frequent trips to nearby locations for European History, Art Appreciation, and Music Appreciation classes.

One day, we crossed the border into Bavaria to visit
Neuschwanstein Castle. I knew of it only because Walt Disney used it as the
model for his castle in Disneyland. Looking at the attached photo, you can see it’s
no replica by any stretch, but there’s clear inspiration in the many spires
with buttressed balconies.

We gathered in a courtyard, blocked by trees in the picture. It was bounded by a crenellated parapet, angled downward to give bowmen a clear shot at advancing enemies. I stood, looking over the edge, while my classmates milled around, waiting for the tour. Now, you wouldn’t be blamed for thinking this hyperbole, or memory stretched out by the intervening years, but I’d swear the drop was three hundred feet.

I have never had a fear of heights, and I’ve been climbing
vertical surfaces since I was two, so when the idea struck, it never occurred
to me how people would react.

“Take my picture,” I said to my classmates, holding out my
camera. As soon as someone took it, I climbed over the edge.

“Get back up here!” several classmates said. Others grabbed my
sleeves.

“Take my picture, and I’ll climb back up.”

The girl holding my camera just stood, staring.

“Hey, grab my camera, would you?” But no one did. Unnecessary
panic was clear in their eyes as they tried to return me to solid ground.

Thirty years later, I wouldn’t climb over that parapet again.
But thinking back to the incident, I’m still disappointed I never got my
picture.

I would have climbed back much faster if someone had just
pointed and clicked.

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