Ray Stone's Blog: A blog for everyone, page 3

COVER LOVER

There are books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts. Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist

I read this many years ago and thought nothing of it until I published my first book. No-one bought it, but I loved the cover.

Cover Lover

There are books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts. Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist

I read this many years ago and thought nothing of it until I published my first book. No-one bought it, but I loved the cover.

Readers, Writers and Literature Enthusiasts Unite

I remember the moment I became interested in writing and the wonderful feeling of excitement when my teacher announced I had won a story writing competition. At eleven years old I was going to be as well read like Charles Dickens or Agatha Christie. As I grew older, I changed tack and fell in love with the works of Arthur C. Clarke, Jack London, Neville Shute, Alistair McClaine and John le Carre. My tastes changed but I never lost touch with any of my heroines and heroes. I wanted to write mystery and intrigue mixed with great adventure but it was not until much later that I actually started to write in earnest. Of course, I am still waiting for that best seller but while I am still waiting I am still writing and that’s what this busy site is all about. Many visitors to this site are interested serial and short story readers and there you will find the initial makings of your fan club, something all of you need if you are to succeed. After four novels, a book of poetry and a long period of experience in serial and short story writing, I thought it about time I shared what I have learned and helped other writers, particularly those who are about to start chewing the end of a pen as they search for creativity. There are lots of pitfalls, disappointments and crusty remarks along the way but writing should be fun so join me and learn how to create your story within a like-minded community of fellow story-tellers.

READERS, WRITERS AND LITERATURE ENTHUSIASTS UNITE

I remember the moment I became interested in writing and the wonderful feeling of excitement when my teacher announced I had won a story writing competition. At eleven years old I was going to be as well read like Charles Dickens or Agatha Christie. As I grew older, I changed tack and fell in love with the works of Arthur C. Clarke, Jack London, Neville Shute, Alistair McClaine and John le Carre. My tastes changed but I never lost touch with any of my heroines and heroes. I wanted to write mystery and intrigue mixed with great adventure but it was not until much later that I actually started to write in earnest. Of course, I am still waiting for that best seller but while I am still waiting I am still writing and that’s what this busy site is all about. Many visitors to this site are interested serial and short story readers and there you will find the initial makings of your fan club, something all of you need if you are to succeed. After four novels, a book of poetry and a long period of experience in serial and short story writing, I thought it about time I shared what I have learned and helped other writers, particularly those who are about to start chewing the end of a pen as they search for creativity. There are lots of pitfalls, disappointments and crusty remarks along the way but writing should be fun so join me and learn how to create your story within a like-minded community of fellow story-tellers.

©CRADDOCK by Ray Stone

I am trying to discover my way into writing Science Fiction – something I have wanted to do forever, it seems. I am looking at short stories and then I had an idea while watching LA Confidential, a great film from ’97. It tells the story of bent cops and a good cop – and a gorgeous blonde of course – in the 1950’s era. The language and the lifestyle of the rich and famous caught my imagination and I came up with the idea of using the culture, language and atmospheric feeling of that era and transporting it to the year 3016. The people are the same but the surroundings are different. This may turn into something longer than a short story. See what you think.

 

©It generally took five minutes to park in the aerial carport. Craddock ran a hand through his thinning silver hair and noted the time on the dashboard. The flight from his small shoreline condo had been held up by ongoing repairs to one of the primary flight tubes. The only other airlane into the city was clogged and that was to be expected. Built without thought for future traffic expansion, the tubes were too small within five years of the initial construction. City Hall always picked the most inconvenient time to carry out maintenance on the skyways. Craddock was glad he lived outside the sprawling metropolis of Tranquillity. He craned his neck to see what the hold-up was about and cursed the attendant having a chat with the guy at the front of the queue. Of all mornings, today was one time he didn’t want to be late. He gave the horn a quick dab and raised a hand in annoyance.

“Some of us have work to do, fellah,” said Craddock as he flipped his wallet open to show the attendant his badge. “I take it there are still a few spaces up on the top level.”

The attendant nodded but said nothing. He knew better than to make any sarcastic comments – and Chief Inspector Craddock didn’t expect any.

After parking, Craddock took the moving pavement, something he rarely did as exercise was more beneficial for his legs that were still recovering from the gunshot wounds from a year previous.

He reached one of the four interconnected glass towers and rode the elevator up to level sixty and the Commissioner, Cordell Hayes office. A message on his communicator over the weekend had summoned him to an early morning meeting on Monday. Craddock knew by the way the meeting had been called on a Sunday evening that something big was breaking. The only headline that caught his eye was the recent intergalactic judicial hearing that had ruled three senators guilty on corruption charges and sent them to Metron open prison facility in the far Evrinus solar system for ten years. Two of them, because of age, would not be returning. He dismissed the story as a reason for the meeting.

A soft voice announced the arrival of an elevator going up as Craddock walked across the reception area. He waved at Irene, a middle-aged Eurasian woman – as wide as she was tall, sitting behind the main desk. Craddock liked her. She always smiled and dressed in colorful clothes, unlike the lovely young things that strutted around the offices and talked in whispers. City Hall politics were not for him, nor the peacocks and sharks who fought for position or a handful of dollars pressed into their hands under the table.

“Hi, Can you let the boss know I’m on the way. I’m a little late due to his fellow civil mandarins playing games with the traffic today.”

Irene laughed. “I’m still waiting for that dinner you promised me the last time I did you a favor, honey.”

Craddock snapped his fingers. “Next week – promise.”

“You said that last week,” she replied as he pushed into the elevator.

He grinned at her as the doors closed. The elevator was full of smart suits trying to climb the ladder in local politics and even smarter secretaries who already knew who would make it and had their eyes on prospective partners. A variety of perfumes filled his nostrils, making him cough. The smell of coffee and stale cigarettes in his own precinct office was much more agreeable. He felt out of place, his gray suit, cheap shirt and scuffed brown shoes a testament to his middle-class interplanetary law job. He detested the thought that the ‘kids,’ as he called the lovely young things around him, earned more than his twenty-something years of policing paid him.

The elevator slowed and stopped without the slightest of jolts. As the doors slid back, Craddock stepped out and took a deep breath. The Commissioner’s office was at the end of the corridor. He could see several figures moving around through the half-open door and hear raised voices – the loudest being Branden Beaman – BB to his closest friends.

Beaman, municipal council secretariat, was all that was wrong in local government. He had friends who without his help, would be in prison. There were those who owed him favors for building contracts and others, like the commissioner, who turned a blind eye to the man’s corrupt lifestyle in return for votes to stay in office. No one said anything and everyone got what they wanted – except Craddock. He yearned for the day he could slap the man in a far away jail cell. Their paths had crossed many times during Senate corruption scandal inquiries. There were also cases in Star City, some thousand miles away to the west, concerning prostitution and illegal gambling and protection rackets. The place was like a mecca to the rich and famous, catering for any need so long as an individual had plenty of credit. Like Las Vegas, the city that inspired men like Beaman to build it, Star City sucked in the nieve and gullible and spat them back out when they had been fleeced.

Craddock pushed the door back and stood in the opening. Beaman had sat in the commissioner’s chair and the commissioner and his assistant, bald headed Jarvis Cronin, stood either side of the desk.

“Where the hell have you been?” Beaman looked at his watch and then glared at Craddock.

“I take it you’re trying for a new job then?” Craddock turned to Commissioner Hayes. “Fired you, has he, boss?”

Beaman jumped up from the chair, his face red. “If I had anything to do with it, Craddock, you wouldn’t be here.”

He stepped around the desk and stood with legs apart. Built like a thick set wrestler with no neck, his broad shoulders indicated a man with plenty of muscle. Beside him, Cronin, the same height, reminded Craddock of a stick insect.

“Why don’t we all calm down and sit,” said Hayes. “We don’t want to insult or fight each other. We need to work together.”

“On what?” asked Craddock. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here and quite honestly, I don’t like the idea of working with people I don’t trust.”

Beaman took a step forward. “Anytime you wanna’ try your luck, you bum, I’ll meet you anywhere and knock the shit outta’ you,” he growled through gritted teeth.

“Please, can we just get on!” shouted Hayes. He slammed the door shut as several people down the hall stood listening to Beaman.

The office went quiet as the men sat and Craddock helped himself to coffee from the small machine on top of the filing cabinet.

Hayes waited for Craddock to sit. “We have a dangerous situation that needs sorting as quickly as possible.” He addressed Craddock. “It’s a delicate matter that concerns Branden’s daughter, Elsinda.”

Craddock had met her once during a raid on a nightclub, Rumors, frequented by Beaman. She was a beautiful blonde, twenty-something with legs that men couldn’t stop looking at and a figure most women would die for. The trouble was, Elsinda had a habit – several in fact, that kept getting her into trouble.

“What about her? If it’s the usual I’m sure Central can take care of things. They normally do.”

“She’s gone missing after visiting a friend,” blurted Beaman. “She left here last Thursday and was supposed to return Saturday night. When she didn’t turn up at the port, I called the commissioner here.” He waved a hand in the air. “It was an hour later we heard the news.”

“Sorry, I’m not quite on board yet,” said Craddock. “Where did she go and who did she see?”

Cronin cut in. “She has a boyfriend, Johnny Despy, doing three years in the Metron facility. He’s a small-time pimp with a couple of girls. She went to tell him goodbye.” He handed Craddock a file with an attached photo on the cover. “Shortly after she failed to return, Metron let us know that Despy had escaped and they think he got the ship back here. There was no mention of Elsinda although they do acknowledge she did make the visit but left two hours later and booked onto the port bus. The port authorities have no record of her getting the flight back.”

Craddock thought for a moment. “How the hell did he get past security?”

Beaman sat with head in hands. “There’s something else. Elsinda is supposed to be getting married next weekend to Captain Pete Klien. He’s a hotshot pilot straight out of the Galactic Starship Training Acadamy. His parents are both senators in the Governing World Council and if this gets out there won’t be any wedding and no five billion credits for the city I negotiated as a separate deal last year.”

Hayes sighed. “The finance is important but Elsinda’s safety is even more important. I need someone I can trust, Craddock – someone with your experience and knowledge. There’s nothing on the news and the flight jock isn’t due back in town until the day before the wedding. You can have whatever you want but get that kid back safe.”

Ghost Ship by Ray Stone

There are few disappointments that equal those experienced by writers who post a serial starter and then read following chapters with mounting frustration as their baby takes several twists and turns away from the story line they envisaged. Some will go to great diplomatic lengths in the comments section and try to influence the next writer in line to do this or that. No matter what, half the fun of writing a serial is not knowing what each writer will produce. I hope my starter will not turn into a ghost story even though the title suggests that. Whatever happens, it will be fun to take part and an entertaining read. Our serials have come a long way now and the standard of writing is generally superb.  

 

PREFACE – Ghost Ship

“Captain, we have an unidentified ship fourteen miles south-west and closing. She looks big – probably a tanker or container ship. I’d say she’s in ballast, from the speed she’s moving at. I reckon twenty knots. She’s failed to identify herself.”

“Okay, I’ll be right up.”

Toby Mitchel, the young and enthusiastic Chief Officer of the African Star, looked at the radar display. He rubbed his tired eyes and, picking up his watch binoculars, raised his lean six foot to scan the horizon. The approaching ship did not appear to be in trouble which could only mean one of two things. Their radio was dead or the ship was being crewed by pirates off the African west coast of Somalia.

Despite increased security on all vessels, the Bellingham Shipping Company, based in Amsterdam, had issued a warning that on no account were any company ships to go to the aid of another unless that ship was in danger of sinking and lives were at risk.

“Okay, let’s have a look.”

Mitchel stood aside as Captain George ‘Tug’ Wilkins came onto the bridge. A full head of white hair and a bushy beard to match, the captain stood just over five feet tall. His ruddy face gave no hint of the tough, no-nonsense taskmaster that he was. The bright piercing blue eyes that stared unblinkingly from beneath white eyebrows most certainly did.

Tug Wilkins frowned. “Can we see her yet?”

“Not yet, Sir, but we should in a few minutes. According to the chart, our course will cross hers in forty-five minutes – here.” Mitchel stepped back and tapped a finger on the map laid out at the back of the bridge on the chart table.

“Due West, Sir. On the horizon.” The Coxwain raised his glasses. “Container vessel – large one, Sir.”

“Keep to the course and increase speed or change course to avoid?” Mitchel eyed his captain expectantly.

“Neither, we stay as we are until we see a zodiac or fishing boat appear. Then we change course and increase speed.”

***

 The captain later changed direction and reduced speed to run a parallel course with the Aegean Sunset, a Greek ship.

“We can’t leave her to carry on. She could become a danger to other shipping,” said Captain Wilkins. “Launch the small zodiac, Toby, and take three men.” He scanned the Aegean Sunset. “There’s a boarding ladder just for’ard of the bridge. Take an engineer and stop her engines while you search.” He picked up the bridge telephone and flicked a switch for the communications room. “Jarvis, contact the authorities and tell them our position. Tell them we may have a ship with dead crew and pirate involvement.”

A short while later, the captain watched his Chief Officer board the container ship. He waited impatiently for a radio report. When it did come, it was not what he was expecting.

“Sir, there are two drunk men on the bridge and the deck is strewn with pieces of eight.”

“What!”

www.thestorymint.com/serials

 

Deadly Voices – by Ray Stone

In deciding what to write for my infant journey into Sci Fi, I wanted a subject that I was pretty conversant with – that did not require too much research but fascinated me. This is the third of the first set of Sci Fi starters that I want readers to comment on. The theme running through all of these stories is our senses – hearing, sight and touch. My first set concerns hearing.

We know that our senses are more acute if we are sightless or deaf but what about people involved voluntarily or those born with powers that enable them to explore the deep recesses of paranormal activity. The subject scares some and excites others, depending on what you believe. My own thoughts are that paranormal activities do exist and that Extra Sensory Powers (ESP) have always been with us. Unfortunately there are those who make false claims for the sole purpose of making money and it is this ignorance that clouds the real proven statistics and encourages skeptics in their bid to debunk the whole idea of PA. My stories are not based on real life experiences but do relate to certain news items from around the world.

©

If we could predict what dangers lay ahead for our family and friends or anyone for that matter, wouldn’t we want to warn them – especially if we could prevent a death? It is a natural reaction to protect our fellow species. Little Mary Driscoll is one such person who has suddenly been given the gift of hearing about accidents from strange voices who warn her of tragedies that are going to happen within the next 24 hours. The trouble is, those who heed her warning end up dead.

***

“Mrs. Grant’s house is going to burn down tomorrow.”

Mary Driscoll sat with spoon raised in the air above her bowl of cereal. Her blonde hair had been tied back in a pony-tail and a large cotton bib had been tucked into the top of her pink party dress. Her seventh birthday promised to be exciting. All the children from her neighborhood were invited and her father, an architect, and owner of a large company had spared no expense. There would be a bouncy castle, a clown and pony rides.

“Where on earth did you get that idea, pet. That’s an awful thing to say.” Her father patted her head. “You mustn’t go around saying stuff like that.”

Mary dropped the spoon in her bowl. Her blue eyes widened and her lips tightened with childish impatience.

“I knew that as soon as I got up this morning, daddy. I smelled it too. The flames were coming out of the roof.” She stopped and closed her eyes for a few seconds. “And she’s going to die. You must tell her, daddy.” She began to cry.

Peter Driscoll put an arm around his daughter and bent over her. “You just had a nightmare, darling. Tell you what – I’ll go over the road and see Mrs. Grant and ask her to come over and go shopping with mummy tomorrow. They’ll be gone all day. You can go with them.”

Mary’s face creased into a smile. “Okay.”

***

Blanche Grant hurried across the road. A phone call from her son in New York had delayed her. She could see the Driscolls’ car in the driveway opposite and waved to Mary in the back seat. Mary was waving back but as she reached the bottom of the drive, she realized Mary was screaming at her and waving her away as the car started to reverse down the drive.

Blanche stopped and waited for the car to pull up next to her. Too late, she realized there was no-one in the driving seat. The last thing she saw was Mary’s contorted face and the child’s hands banging on the rear window. The car veered off the driveway and ran over Blanche at increasing speed before ramming itself between two Firs.

It took several weeks after the funeral for the Driscolls to find out that the car’s automatic gearbox lever control had jumped from the neutral position. No-one could say why and after a thorough examination the tragedy was put down to an unfortunate accident and the death pronounced as Death by Misadventure.

The effect on Mary was short lived. After spending a week indoors, not talking to anyone, she eventually appeared one morning and over breakfast, agreed that Mrs. Grant’s death was an accident and was not her fault. Peter Driscoll decided the best thing for his daughter was a short weekend holiday on the lakes, a one hundred mile trip that they had enjoyed a few times before. Mary sat quietly in the back of the car and said nothing until they reached the outskirts of  Minton.

Minton was a small town of less than ten thousand that existed and relied on the tourist trade. Fishing and boating during the spring and summer kept the Lakeside Hotel and other guest houses alongside the lake full. A small park served as a picnic area year round and a site for traveling fairs. It was as they passed the fair that Mary became agitated. Shifting around in her seat to get a better view of the park and the rides, she punched the back of her father’s seat.

“Daddy, he said Mr. Liddle will fall off the carousel tomorrow when it goes wrong. Please, please, you must go and tell him.”

Astonished, Peter Driscoll stopped the car. “Whose he and when did you talk to him?”

Frustrated, Mary jumped up and down in her seat. “He just told me when I saw the fair. Please, daddy, we must go and tell Mr.Liddle.”

“If you do, all you are going to achieve is encouraging her. She’ll have you on a piece of string, Peter,” said his wife, Clare.

“Clare, it can’t hurt,” replied Peter. “Anyway, supposing she does have a gift.”

“Nonsense,” retorted Clare, “she’s leading you on.” She screwed her eyes up at Mary and pulled an exaggerated mean look. “You can fool your father, young lady but not me.”

Mary pouted and folded her arms across her chest. “He told me about Mrs. Grant too.” She turned her head defiantly and stared out of the window.

Peter Driscoll shrugged and winked at his wife. “Where did you get the name Liddle from?”

“I don’t know, daddy. He told me but  I knew it before he told me.”

“How?”

“Don’t know. I knew it though.”

“Okay, so who is ‘He’ and have you met him?”

“No, silly. How do you see a ghost? He just talks to me here.” She pointed to her head.

Peter Driscoll started the engine. “Okay, but we are just going to see if there is a Mr. Liddle.”

A few minutes later, they parked and walked to the fair entrance. A bright red caravan stood nearby, daubed with posters. A clown sat on the steps in usual garb with painted face and large shoes. He gave Peter Driscoll and Mary a  cursory glance before lighting a cigarette.

“Hi there,” said Peter. “I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for a Mr. Liddle. Could you tell me if he still works here?”

A deep baritone laugh came from within the caravan. “Well, you must have known him from way back when, Mister.”

The door swung back on its hinges and banged loudly against the caravan body as a fat woman with a tattooed face appeared. “Say, when did you meet my husband? Must have been more than fifteen years ago.” She paused and puffed on a curved pipe, blowing smoke into the air.

“Well, I don’t really know him but my daughter does and she wants to meet him again.” He winked at the woman. “I take it he goes by another name now?”

“I’ll say,” she said. He’s been Ben Baron since we got married. This fair has been in my family for over a hundred years so Ben changed his name to mine.” She extended a hand. ‘I’m Janet Baron, the owner.” She looked down at Mary. “Now what did you want to see him about, pet? He’s just inside having a look at the carousel.”

Mary started to cry.

“Oh pet, you mustn’t cry. Tell you what, I’ll go and find him and bring him over, shall I.”

Peter Driscoll stopped her from leaving. “My name is Peter Driscoll. Let me explain,” he whispered.

Mary’s tears soon dried as she watched the clown make a dog out of some thin balloons.

“She thinks your husband is in danger of falling off the carousel when it goes wrong tomorrow. She thinks he might die.”

The smile evaporated. Janet Brown crouched down beside Mary. A man spoke to you, did he pet?”

Mary nodded. “You mustn’t let Mr. Liddle go on the carousel tomorrow.”

“Now don’t you worry, pet. Mr. Liddle is going nowhere near the carousel tomorrow because I’ll shut it down for the day – alright?”

“That’s a little drastic, isn’t it?” said Peter. “She’s only a little girl with a great imagination. I hardly think the situation warrants closing a kids ride down – not that it’s any of my business, but-”

Janet waggled a finger to silence him. “In our little community, we are very superstitious and messages from the other side are taken seriously. Your daughter is being used as a conduit for one particular spirit.”

“I’m sorry but I don’t believe that for a moment,” said Peter.

“Then how did she get a hold of my husbands old name? The voice she heard could be any one of some past family members.”

“No, replied Peter. We had already had one incident back home when a neighbor died after Mary got a message. It was the same voice – a man’s. The trouble was, the woman wasn’t killed the way Mary saw it. She was run over by our with just Mary in it.”

Janet shivered and crossed herself.

 

 

 

Voices – by Ray Sone – The man who heard too much

In deciding what I wanted to do for my first Sci Fi short story compilation, I came up with the idea of using a common theme for three tales and then picking the best one. I wanted something that grabbed attention. I decided to write three stories about voices. I am writing 1500 word starters for each one and then collaborating with another wonderful author to help write the one we like the best. I hope some of you will give me feedback and help choose the right one. 

Can all the reports and stories about UFO abductions be discounted. Supposing 1% were real. Strange metal implants and microscopical wires have been found in some of the ‘abductees.’ If we cannot discount their stories, then we cannot say they are fiction. Tim Blake is an abductee but he doesn’t know it. That is, not until he starts hearing strange voices.

***

Doctor Howett looked through the small general observation panel at the patient. He was hunched up on his bed with face turned to the wall, his voice a soft whisper barely audible.

“Has there been any change?”

The nurse beside Howett shook her head. “No, he just keeps talking and talking – even in his sleep.”

Howett’s lips tightened. “It’s been four months. I think we can assume now that short of a miracle, this man is not going to recover. Have admin make a request to the next of kin for authorisation for committal proceedings to commence. Send a copy to our lawyers.”

***

Tim Blake was just over six feet tall and his muscular frame and short cropped black hair gave the impression he was a marine or college football player. In fact, he was a farmer on land that his family worked for several generations. After dropping out of college, something his parents were in two minds about – cost against a bright future – he settled down to work the potato and root crops on the 250 acres small-holding in Minnesota. With his parents in failing health and being an only son, Tim hired several men to help work on the farm, particularly at harvest and spring time.

It had been one night during his second year of working the farm that a field hand helping Tim put equipment away at the end of a long day saved his life. Rain started to fall accompanied by thunder and lightning. As he walked into the large garage that housed the tractor, a bolt of lightning hit the metal roof, dismantling an iron weather vane and sending it crashing to the ground. The field hand had pulled Tim out of the way just in time as the heavy metalwork crashed onto the ground. Tim remembered a brilliant flash before blacking out and then regaining consciousness in his bed.

Later, during November, while plowing an old fallow field, another odd occurrence bothered Tim. After coming to the end of a furrow and while turning the tractor to make the return, he heard someone call above the noise of the diesel engine. He let the engine idle and listened again. Two voices, in a strange language he did not recognize, could be heard in conversation. He shrugged the matter off, believing it was imagination through tiredness.

When the voices came a second time, they were clearly audible above the noise of machinery and while he wore protective earphones. Tim said nothing, fearing there was something wrong with his hearing or indeed, his sanity. He lay sleeping lightly that night when he was woken by loud voices. A woman was screaming.

“No, no, leave me alone! Don’t touch me, leave me alone!”

The woman’s screams were so terrifying that Tim began to shake. He put his hands over his ears and screwed his eyes up, trying to block the woman from his mind but the screaming continued. A conversation started between two people again in the foreign tongue but he couldn’t tell if they were men or women. Tim jumped out of bed.

‘I wonder if they can hear me,’ he reasoned. ‘After all, I can hear them.’

The woman was still screaming as he left his room and walked along the passage and past his parents bedroom door. They were fast asleep. The conversation between the two strangers still continued above the screaming.

Outside the house, Tim crossed the yard and entered the barn. He stood in the center and in a quiet voice, started to talk.

“Hi there, I don’t know who you are but I can hear your conversation and the screams of a lady who is terrified of you. If you can hear me, please leave her alone.”

By the time he had finished talking the voices had gone but he could hear what sounded like the woman sobbing. He waited a minute and tried talking again.

“If you can hear me, say something.”

There was an immediate loud cracking and sizzling sound followed by complete silence. He tried talking several more times but nothing happened. Annoyed but relieved, he went back to bed.

In the morning, he woke and was pleased to see a clear sky as the dawn broke. Downstairs his father was laughing at a news item on the television.

“Hey, Dotty, listen to this stupid woman here. She reckons she went for a ride on a spaceship.” He burst into laughter. “Says she was operated on.”

Tim stopped at the top of the stairs, confused and apprehensive. He decided not to talk about the voices but at breakfast, he quizzed his father.

“What was that about the woman? What did they do to her?”

“She reckons she went for a ride up there,” he said, smiling, emphasizing the point by pointing his fork at the ceiling. “Says she had these strange aliens operate on her. Opened her up, they did, and put something inside of her.”

“Did she say how she got on the spaceship?” asked Tim.

His father stopped eating and sat back in his chair. “What in hell’s name why do you want to know all that, boy?”

“Just interested,” said Tim.

“Well,” continued his father, “she says her car broke down and then there were a bright light and the next thing she knew she was inside a spaceship. Darndest thing, that.”

“So how did she get back?”

“Woke up in bed this morning.” Tim’s father began to laugh. “Load of bull, if you ask me.”

“Don’t listen to him. I was abducted.”

Tim eyed his father and without replying, stopped eating and rose out of the chair. “I just remembered I have to turn one of the generators on in the barn,” he said, excusing himself. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Excited, he hurried to the barn. The voice was female and hopefully the woman on the newscast. After reaching the barn, he stopped at the door and felt a hot and cold flush ripple through his body. ‘They operated on her. So if that’s how she can hear me – how can I hear her?’ He shuddered and stepped inside the barn. No one had operated on him, he reasoned, so there wasn’t any reason to get worked up about things. Besides, perhaps it was nothing more than a special gift – ‘like those people with ESP abilities.’

“Hi there, can you hear me?”

“No need to shout.”

Tims’ heart raced. “You’re the woman on TV this morning.”

“Yes.”

“I heard you last night. Must have been when they operated on you. By the way, my name is Tim and I live in Minnesota.”

“Tim, listen – you don’t have to talk out loud. If you think of what you want to say in your head, I can hear you. Think what you do when you read a book. That’s what I’m doing at the moment. By the way, I’m Laura and I live in Houston.”

Tim closed his eyes. “Laura, I guess I heard you because I have the gift of ESP so I can verify your story to the press.”

There was a pause. “Tim, I hate to be the one to tell you but the reason we are talking is because you have been operated on as well. This is nothing to do with ESP.”

Tim flushed again and leaned against the tractor. “But when? I don’t remember anything like that happening to me.”

“Well if you get pain or an itch in your left ear you know you have an implant.”

Tim rubbed his forehead. “You seem very knowledgeable about all this.”

“I’m head of a research laboratory for a pharmaceutical company. How about we meet and see about writing a joint report and having x-rays done to find the implants?”

Tim stared at the ground, trying to make sense of the situation. If these people had already abducted him without him knowing, they could easily do it again. And if they did, what would they do?

“Tim, are you there. I know you can hear me.”

Tim felt an overwhelming desire to vomit. What if he started hearing other people? Should he speak to them? He coughed and breathed deeply.

“Tim?”

“Yes, I’m here, Laura. I can’t leave the farm to travel that distance but if you could come here, we could arrange something. I’ve gotta’ say I’m pretty scared right now.”

“Don’t be, Tim. That’s the worst thing to be. Besides, if you look at this logically, these people have technology that is streets ahead of ours. They could be nice people although last night was pretty scary for me.”

Tim remembered her screaming. “Okay.”

“I’ll be in touch, Tim. See you soon and in the meantime here’s a good piece of advice. Don’t think about me and you won’t hear me. You could eavesdrop on conversation you are not supposed to hear otherwise.”

 

The thirty-minute round-about

 

I wrote this as a starter for a serial and then decided to write it myself as a short story, a chapter at a time. Writing serial chapters is a great exercise for anyone, beginners or the experienced as it helps sharpen up all the different areas of creative writing. This will be the first Sci Fi short story I have started and finished and hope it will be the first of many short stories I can publish as a collection. I love Sci Fi, in particular the kind of stories depicted in the X Files. With a little apprehension I am therefore stepping into the unknown but looking forward with excitement at participating in a new genre. There will be one chapter each week and all comments are welcome. *Please note that preliminary editing only is exercised until the work is finished. 

If you would like to join in by writing chapters for another serial please write to me and help create a new writing circle for Sci Fi and Thrillers. I look forward to hearing from you.

Chapter One

©Do parallel worlds exist? What if we could alter life threatening situations by listening in on conversations that were still to take place. Supposing two worlds were out of sync by thirty minutes. Would it be possible that one world’s tragedies could be avoided in the other? Wendell is an intelligent sixteen-year-old. Does he understand who the voices he hears are and where they are coming from and can he recognize when danger is near?

Wendell sat next to the misted window nursing the mug of coffee in his cupped hands and watching passers-by fending off the pouring rain. With hunched shoulders and bowed heads against the wind, this silent army was heading home from boring nine to five office, shop and factory drudgery. A sea of umbrellas, some colored but most black or dark brown, jogged for a position as pedestrians stepped around each other. Line upon line of thick, low-lying black cloud had prematurely darkened the late afternoon and in the half light, the scurrying figures passing gray buildings added to the dismal scene. He half grinned at his own reflection of unkempt long black hair and unshaven chin looking back at him and remembered Quigley, his math master, scolding him that morning about shaving. He skipped the afternoon, history was boring but he didn’t go home. Mom and dad would be mad, especially mom.  Past the reflection, he studied something more interesting and smiled.

Across the street above one door a bright neon of green and red flickered a welcome to Hotel Majestic. Just inside the narrow open doorway stood a woman, blonde, with ample bosom and un-ample skirt that revealed thick thighs and suspenders. Feet shuffling and arms folded against the cold, she moved forward now and again, looking along the street for a customer. When she saw a likely client, she spoke to him. Wendell noticed a tiny red glow followed by a stream of smoke each time she put a hand to her mouth. Behind her, a dimly lit passage with bare dark red walls awaited the clientele with little enthusiasm.

A loud hiss of steam from the espresso machine jerked Wendell back into reality. He turned as the squeaking metal fan on the counter swung slowly to face him. A rush of cold air laced with freshly ground arabica beans renewed his interest in the mug he was holding. He gulped the warm contents and cuffed the window in a large circling motion. The blonde was still on duty although she had shifted position and now stood on the pavement in front of the entrance with a short denim jacket over her shoulders and was holding a large white striped umbrella over her head.

“You gonna sit there on ya tush all day, boy. Times ya should shift ya ass and let me close.”

A fat black woman stood by the side of Wendell’s booth, her hands resting on wide hips. Half-closed dark brown eyes stared menacingly at him, threatening him, daring him to disagree. Her face suddenly creased into a smile and then, unable to contain herself, she threw her head back and burst into deep baritone laughter that boomed above the espresso machine and the ABC newscaster talking on the small TV hanging above the counter.

“You should see your face, boy. I aint never did see such a scardy face. Now c’mon and get ya home afore the weather it gets a lot worse.”

She stared past Wendell, out of the window at the moving human montage and sighed. “Don’t know what ya find so amusin, boy. Aint nothin out there to smile about.”

Not waiting for his answer, she walked away, her slippered feet flip-flopping across the linoleum floor.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Dina,” called Wendell as he opened the door.

A waving hand from Dina acknowledged him as she began cleaning up.

Outside the door, Wendell stood in the small entrance recess and pulled the green and gold woolen watch cap down over his ears and his jacket collar up. It was bitterly cold. Slow moving traffic hissed along as tires ran through water. He pushed his cold hands into the jacket pockets and stepped out onto the pavement. The rain covered him immediately and within seconds, he was drenched.

At the end of the street, he turned into the small bus station from where the local district buses and cross-country Greyhound services ran. The 35 to Ledbridge Heights was standing in its bay, a few people aboard and the driver already seated. Wendell boarded, paid his fare, and sat at the back as the engine rattled into life. It was an hours trip to the Heights, his stop being the last but one on the route before the return journey. He settled down and closed his eyes.

‘You know, I think I’ll stop at the store and see if they have any stewing steak,’ said a voice.

It had been three years earlier at the age of thirteen that what he called ‘the voices’ had first made their presence felt. At first, the phenomenon had scared him and then shortly after he felt nothing but anger. His concentration suffered at school, affecting his work and grades. That’s when he started to learn how to control the voices. If he concentrated entirely on something, especially anything visual, he could stop the voices. Some voices came faintly as though far away while others were very close. This was demonstrated one evening at home and caused Wendell a lot of problems.

His elder sister and her boyfriend had joined Wendell and his parents for dinner. As the meal finished and while he helped his mother remove the dishes, he heard his sister’s boyfriend announce their engagement. Wendell congratulated the happy couple but to his surprise, his remark was met with a stony silence and a look of thunder from his father who accused his son of eavesdropping or at the very least playing a terrible joke on his sister. As the dust settled, the boyfriend made his official announcement – word for word as Wendell had heard it earlier.

One refinement followed another until he could tell which people around him could be distinguished from the cacophony of voices as a whole and which people were no longer within earshot – those who had spoken but had disappeared since and so their voices were only heard once. It took Wendell several months to perfect the ‘gift’ as he called it. One constant that he found useful was that the time between voice and the actual speaker was exactly thirty minutes.

“You know, I think I’ll stop at the store and see if they have any stewing steak.”

Wendell tried to suppress his laughter as the woman in front spoke to her traveling companion. She gave Wendell a frosty stare over her shoulder before lowering her voice.

‘That won’t do you any good,’ thought Wendell. ‘I already heard what you’re saying now as we got on the bus thirty minutes ago.’ He smiled to himself.

As the bus reached Ledbridge Heights, Wendell heard a new voice, quite close. It was a middle-aged male.

‘Keep driving or I’ll blow your head off.’

Wendell got up and made his way to the front of the bus. As the bus slowed, he fell backward. “Driver, don’t stop. You’re in danger. Don’t stop!”

Too late, the bus came to a halt and with a loud rattle, the folding doors opened. A middle-aged man boarded. Wendell hid behind the nearest seat, his heart pounding. The voice spoke again.

‘When you get to Church Street take a right.’

Wendell looked at his wristwatch. It was 5 p.m. He peered around the end of the seat. The man was sitting just behind the driver doing nothing. There was still 25 minutes to go before the driver would be threatened and that meant the bus would be on the return route. Wendell pulled his cell phone from his pocket and found a no signal bar on the screen. He lay helpless, trying to think of a way to alert the driver.

As he lay, buffeted back and forth by the bus’s motion, Wendell felt a strange sensation course through his body. His eyes grew heavy and with a sickening feeling, he fell, tumbling over and over into blackness. A voice he recognized whispered into his ear.

“Wendell, it’s me. Can you hear me? Are you hurt? Wendell, I’m over here.”

Wendell’s head cleared and his eyes opened. All he could see at first was the back of the seat in front of him. He was still lying on the floor and the bus was still moving.

“Over here,” said the voice again.

Confused and thinking he was listening to a voice thirty minutes before its owner spoke, he took no notice and looked at his watch. Hardly any time had elapsed at all – just a few minutes since he first looked at the time.

 

Chapter 8 – Havoc – Written by: Ray Stone

 

Comments: Ray Stone

I wrote this chapter a couple of times and still had it sent back because there was an awful amount of confusion over the car crash situation in the preface. Personally I think they should have used bicycles instead. Seriously, when writing an action scene it is always best to draw a little map before putting pen to paper. Remember the writer following has to ‘see’the accident in order to understand and follow. In the end I drew my own scene map and then got it right. That said, this is turning into a good serial. This has a good story line and is the kind of work that would make a good short story.

Chapter 8

“We have dead bodies and suspects – you and your daughter. Go figure that, Vince. What do you want? A ‘get out of jail free’ card?”

Rex paced heavily across the office floor and slumped back into his chair. He crushed the plastic cup in his hand with a loud pop and threw it at the waste basket.

“Not only did the CCTV show you – sorry, I mean your daughter, Fiona, running over your ex-wife’s husband and son, but clear evidence of you changing seats and fleeing the scene.”

He threw his hands in the air and leaned back, breathing heavy.

Vince sighed and massaged the pain that throbbed in his forehead.

“Rex, I don’t have all the answers and I know it sounds stupid but I was an innocent man in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’ve got that notebook. Someone was keeping score on a hit list. There are a lot of people in that book and half of them are dead. Somehow my secretary has something to do with this and, incidentally, since yesterday afternoon she’s gone missing too, along with her sedan.”

Rex chuckled and snapped his fingers. “Got it all figured out, wise guy, haven’t you? Whatever happens, you are still gonna’ get yours over leaving the scene of an accident and maybe I might throw in perverting the course of justice, too – and that’s even if I give your daughter a break. So if there’s anything you are still keeping stum about now’s the time to talk.”

There was something about Rex’s manner that was annoying Vince. The man mentioned nothing about charging them with the manslaughter of Valeri’s family. Maybe Rex was playing him or Rex was trying to coax more information from him. There were too many unanswered questions and he was sure Rex already knew some of the answers.

“Okay,” said Vince, “I’ll tell you what I think because that’s all I’ve got, honest.” He held his hands up in surrender. “I know Amy Johns has been up to no good looking through my clients files. I know Valeri has had suspicions about her husband for some time and found the diary. I also believe someone staged the crash to cover the murders. Someone must have followed John and his son and mowed them down on purpose. Me getting in the way probably played right into their hands.”

Rex leaned forward and rubbed his hands. “You’re nearly right. Fiona ran over them but they were already dead. Someone drove the SUV into John and son after being rammed by the sedan, just seconds before Fiona swerved to avoid the SUV pulling out afterward. The sedan was meant to ram the SUV so it looked like an accident.” Rex shook his head. “John was on his way to me to turn stool-pigeon on a very smart contract killer we’ve been after – Amy Johnson. John was working for her and I did a deal with him. Amy’s thugs did the hit.

Read the serial from the start  –  http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/havoc