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[Vexiyek]

Grasshopper wrote: "Is it published already? If so, send us the link so that we can mark it for reading."
It's not published

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

Vexiyek wrote: "Grasshopper wrote: "Is it published already? If so, send us the link so that we can mark it for reading."
It's not published"

Well written Vexiyek. The writing is reminiscent of the Hollywood Godzilla. One can actually imagine a giant reptile walking around the city.
Do let us know when the book is published. Best of luck. 😊👍

[Cole]

Ruler and the Gods and the Athanatos Stone: Desonolis the first fantasy world!!!

It was now pitch-black outside the ship; they were asleep on their hammock until Athena heard what sounded like human voices outside. She woke up Jesse to come out with her to find out what was making that noise. When they reached the top they look around the ship to find out what made the noises. Finally, out of nowhere, water souls came out from the ocean waters; but instead of attacking them, the soul leader floated over to where they were standing.
“Who are you souls?” frightened Athena.
“We are the Water Spirits; we have traveled around the water from our water city called Desonolis.” answered the Water Spirit leader.
“Desonolis, I never even heard of that city.” Athena abashed.
“Here, we will show you.”
“But we can’t breathe underwater; if we stay down there too long we will die.” clarified Jesse.
“Don’t worry, we can take care of that.” smiled the Water Spirit Leader. He orders the other souls to find a way to make them breathe underwater. So, the souls form together to make a descent size wave and then the wave falls on the ship making them wet.
“What was the point of that?” puzzled Jesse.
“You see, when they formed into a wave, the magic from them was in that wave; now you have the powers to breathe underwater. So, come on with us. Oh yeah, be sure to grab a hold onto us when we enter the water.” explained the Water Spirit leader.
“How is that? You’re a spirit, we can’t even hold on to you.” wondered Athena.
“You can now; with the powers you have in you, you can touch us now.” confirmed the Water Spirit leader.
At that moment, they all jumped in the water leaving the ship abandoned. Right as they get inside the water, Jesse and Athena hold onto each other’s hands and then Jesse holds onto the Water Spirits. They swim really fast through the water heading into a hole in the ground that goes to another world. Unexpectedly, inside the hole, they see a large city made out of water called Desonolis. They let go of the spirits, then headed down into the city watching souls roaming around the town. When they arrive down below, they explore the unknown city of Desonolis, but suddenly the water spirit leader knocked them out from behind their heads.

Check out more books of mine and where to buy the books on 'Ruler's Greek World Crossovers and Others' Facebook Page (I don't go through Amazon KDP anymore).

[Beatrice]

I like the flow of words in the extract Cole. Reminds one of ancient Greek volumes. I have marked Ruler and the Gods: And the Athanatos Stoneas (Want to Read).

[[deleted user]]

Thank you Grasshopper for your incredible effort to support new authors.
CHASING the WENDIGO is my latest offering just in time for Halloween. Here's a taste:
1 SLEEPY HOLLOW IT AIN’T
Thunderheads looming on the horizon were a portent of the approaching storm. Throwing my umbrella and rain gear in the backseat I double-checked my instructions and set out to roam the county roads on my designated task. My name is Justin… Justin Case, termination agent.
The rough grey water of the bay looked cold and angry as the howling wind whipped the waves into a frenzy of white caps. A sudden gust of wind walloped my car as if an unseen hand had delivered a body blow and I fought to maintain control of my vehicle. My tires made a loud thrumming sound on the metal grid of the swing bridge wobbling uncontrollably like the wheels of my childhood go-kart. Leaving the bridge behind I travelled deeper into the county on my quest.
My first destination was an upstairs apartment in the bustling village of Farshore where I met with a certain amount of angry resistance from the tenant. “I need this phone. You have no right to take it. It came with the apartment.” Complained the surly, unshaven, barefooted occupant with greasy hair, wearing a sleeveless undershirt displaying a day old beer stain and brandishing a butcher knife.
“I’m sorry but your service has been cut off” A poor choice of words in light of the butcher knife. “due to lack of payment. The phone is of no use to you because you have no service. I’m afraid I have to take it.” I explained patiently.
The sorry looking specimen with a cigarette dangling from his drooping mouth stepped back a half step to allow me just enough space to enter. The pong of sweat, beer and stale tobacco assaulted my senses as I cautiously stepped through the narrow space afforded me. I got no help from the hapless and indifferent occupant as I searched the apartment for phones. Lifting a pile of filthy clothing from an end table with my screwdriver, knocking over an empty beer can and scattering cigarette butts on the floor I located a black, rotary dial desk phone. Reluctantly turning my attention to the kitchen I discovered a grease coated wall mounted beige rotary phone which I removed.
My task completed I looked around but saw no sign of the tenant and quickly exited the apartment. The billowing storm clouds had closed in making it so dark the street lights had come on. Placing the phones in the trunk of my car I thoroughly wiped my hands with a disinfectant cloth before checking my list for the next location, a solitary property situated in the farthest reaches of the county on the Great Lake’s shore. A note told me the property was abandoned and I would need to stop in at the municipal office to obtain a key.
What should have been a brief stop became a bureaucratic tangle of red tape. I was greeted by a very officious and stern, Mrs. Eileen Wright, her head and shoulders just visible above the counter. She stood about five foot two, weighed in at about ninety-eight pounds soaking wet, with a head of nicotine stained steel wool hair and an icy stare from cold, black eyes that could cause the blood of the most stalwart of men to run cold with trepidation. Mine was, apparently, an unusual request according to Mrs. Wright, as she assailed me, “Name and state your business.”
“Ju...Justin C...Case, termination agent, subcontracted by the phone company and I need to get into the house at fire number 1758 to recover three phone sets for the phone company.” I stammered.
Her eye brow arched suspiciously. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Why would we allow you access and what right do you have to confiscate the phones?” she snarled.
“The bill for the rental of the phones has not been paid and the customer’s contract has expired. The phone company would simply like to recover their property.” I replied.
“There’s nothing simple about it. This is a very extraordinary request I must say.” With that she gave me a withering look of evident contempt and reached beneath the counter withdrawing a large red covered record book. Opening it to an empty page she shoved the open book across the counter instructing me to, “Place the date here.” indicating with her nicotine stained finger. “Print your full name where it says print name and sign beside it. Write down your address and phone number here, where it says contact details. Insert the description of the property you wish to visit and why, below.
Read this document accepting full responsibility and liability then sign and date it here.” Again she pointed to a line at the bottom of the page.
I felt like I was buying the house not merely gaining access to remove a few phones.
Scowling, Mrs. Wright handed me the key with apparent reluctance glaring at me as I turned to leave.
I checked the fire number and plotted my route to 1758, started the engine, switched on the headlights and was off to the next target.
Leaving the lighted streets of the village behind I plunged into the darkened country roads with strong, angry winds pummeling my car. The darkness beyond the gleam of my headlights was so deep that it gave the sensation of travelling along a blackened corridor. My sense of speed was distorted due to the lack of peripheral cues like fence posts or trees and turns in the road seemed to appear without warning making them more difficult to negotiate. It seemed to take forever to reach my destination. It was hard to make good time when I had to slow down and sometimes come to a complete stop to scan fire numbers, mail boxes and road signs with my flashlight to get my bearings.
At last I came to the end of the road and the last fire number almost utterly obscured beneath a wild and tangled undergrowth of vines, scrub cedar trees and aptly named buckthorn bushes. The wind howled around me as I left the security of my vehicle. Headlamp in place on my forehead I struggled to tug the clinging vegetation from the small plaque displaying the number. The needle sharp points of the thorns of the buckthorn tore at my skin as if to prevent me from reaching my goal. Finally, in the light from my headlamp there it was, 1758, the number I sought. This was the place.
Getting back behind the wheel of the Mustang I turned into the rutted and overgrown drive. Passing through a rust encrusted wrought iron gate and under the huge low hanging branches of an ancient oak tree the headlights swept across the corner of what appeared in the gloom to be a marble portico. Suddenly a brilliant flash of lightning unexpectedly illuminated a massive stone mansion rising up before me. Bringing the Mustang to an abrupt stop at the base of the main entrance I hesitated before stepping from the car, unsure of whether or not to go in or just turn around and head for home.
I heard the subtle bass rumbling and felt the forewarning vibrations in the air around me but before I could raise my hands to cover my ears there was a thunderous explosion erupting into an enormous crack and rumble of thunder that shook the ground. The first fat drop of rain hit the windshield splattering like an overfilled water balloon.
I dove for the car just in time to avoid being soaked to the skin by the torrent of rain that quickly followed. Thinking to myself that retreat was the better part of valour I decided to go home and return in the daylight when the weather was better and I could explore the spooky old house.
Starting my engine I began to back down the drive but just as I drew near to the colossal oak a dazzling bolt of lightning struck the tree severing one of its massive limbs just missing the Mustang’s trunk as it fell. I slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt within inches of impact. I was trapped.

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

Thanks Solomon. I enjoy the exercise. 😇
Back to your excerpt. I could not find it listed on GR. Could you send me the link?
Great exposition!Sleepy Hollow it ain't, bit it has all the makings of a Bram Stoker!
I have at times wished for one such character that would come around and confisticate phones from people, although you have a different premise I assume. It has whetted my appetite. I would really love to know where this story ends. Best of luck with it.

[[deleted user]]

Grasshopper wrote: "Thanks Solomon. I enjoy the exercise. 😇
Back to your excerpt. I could not find it listed on GR. Could you send me the link?
Great exposition!Sleepy Hollow it ain't, bit it has all the makings of a ..."
Solomon Knight is my pen name Chasing the Wendigo is published under my name James D. A. Terry. I know readers are in for a few surprises in this book. https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/4...

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

Thanks for sharing that James. I honestly had no clue. Have marked your book as to be read. Just an afterthought after perusing your bio, were you perchance an accountant?

[[deleted user]]

Grasshopper wrote: "Thanks for sharing that James. I honestly had no clue. Have marked your book as to be read. Just an afterthought after perusing your bio, were you perchance an accountant?"
Like my character, Benjamin Wolf, the illusionist, in The Illusionist Takes a Holiday, I spent 30+ years helping people solve financial problems internationally.
Thank you for marking my book to be read, my friend.

[[deleted user]]

The Secret at Sinister Lake, a short but powerful story.
He watched as the undercurrent buffeted the milfoil and hydrillia. He could see an old rusted bicycle moving gently to and fro with the ebb and flow. Old soft drink bottles and beer cans littered the lake bed and silt, like dust in the wind, rose in tiny clouds. The visibility was poor, only a few feet but he could see eerie shadows lurking beyond what seemed a wall of murky greyness.
He didn't know how long he had been sitting in his car watching but the brutal, debilitating cold was beginning to seep into his depths, indeed into his very soul. He knew the loathsome carnivorous scavengers would soon be emerging.
Thunder clouds rolled over head darkening the sky until it was dark as midnight. Lightening arched and flashed brilliantly across the panorama lighting up the inky blackness. The day had begun the same as any other day. He had stopped for his usual, large double, double coffee and donuts at the local Tom Normans then arriving at his office he had opened the door to a scene of utter chaos. It looked as if a tornado had touched down. Books flung from shelves, paper scattered everywhere, chairs and tables overturned their contents strewn about the floor and gashes that looked like gaping grins had been torn into the sofa cushions.
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/4...

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

James wrote: "Grasshopper wrote: "Thanks for sharing that James. I honestly had no clue. Have marked your book as to be read. Just an afterthought after perusing your bio, were you perchance an accountant?"
Like..."

Aha! I guessed right. Not a problem at all. I love reading tales 😊

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

James wrote: "The Secret at Sinister Lake, a short but powerful story.
He watched as the undercurrent buffeted the milfoil and hydrillia. He could see an old rusted bicycle moving gently to and fro with the ebb ..."

The writing seems so effortless, and yet one can observe the thoughtful planning that went towards creating the sinister setting. One can almost visualise the scene.
Have marked this book as to be read too.

[Marcus]

This is the story of Kevin Sanderson, a sixth-grader at Crandall Middle School who saved the earth from annihilation.
Like all good stories, this one starts with an explosion.
On a distant clump of rock, circling an unknown star, fireballs rose into the poisonous air. At least to humans, it would be poisonous. To the creature who sat and watched another planet fall to the destructive might of the Qortellian horde, the air was actually quite pleasant.
He looked out over the horizon, seeing the sky darken as wave after wave of horde plague ships entered the lower atmosphere. He knew from the beginning of his mission that it was doomed to fail. That was not why he had been sent here, he wasn’t supposed to stop the coming invasion, no, he was supposed to find out the Qortellian’s next target and hopefully, hopefully, stop that one. He wasn’t sure it was even possible anymore. The Qortellians were relentless and horribly ruthless. They seemed to be unstoppable, although there were some promising reports about a unified effort between multiple planets to pool their resources and technology to fight them. He just hoped they would do something before it was too late.
Light green fingers raced across a holographic screen, searching, scanning the Qortellian database for anything that would tell him where they planned to destroy next. The room he had infiltrated shook as the earth was rocked by devastating concussive blasts. He had to reach out and steady himself before continuing his search. He knew his time was short. Once the horde troops reached the surface, he would have very little time to get what he needed and most importantly, escape.
Qortellian’s technology was hard to decipher for most races. Not because it was so complicated, but because it wasn’t. Civilizations usually follow a sequential path to gain enough technology and understanding for interstellar travel. Their language and culture deepens and becomes more complex, but also more structured in order to handle the vast amount of knowledge needed to fuel the technology required for space travel and exploration. Qortellians, somehow, have gone backward. Their technology is based on simplistic ideas and programs. How they are able to travel throughout space is still a mystery. Some believe they just steal what they need from other races, adapting technology to fit their needs. Others believe they have an innate ability to travel space, as if they have evolved to handle the harsh extremes of the deep vacuum of space, like how a shark has gills, allowing it to breathe underwater, or how a bird has wings to allow it to soar through the sky. Still others, those that lean more towards the mystical side, who put more faith in magic and sorcery than they do science believe that the Qortellians have made a deal with a powerful entity, that allows them to roam throughout the galaxy, decimating planets and entire civilizations.
How they are able to do what they do doesn’t matter. All that matters is stopping them.
Another blast shook the earth and this time a large chunk of the ceiling fell to the floor, causing the holographic image the creature had been manipulating to waver for a second before regaining its form.
Eyes a deep shade of red scanned the vast information before them. It was like looking at a conglomeration of work completed by younglings, just learning to make shapes for language. The creatures mouth opened, revealing large teeth and a tongue that was made up of four different parts, like squid arms, slithered out and traced a shape in the air as the alien smiled, or its equivalent of a smile.
It found it, deep in a bunch of nonsense information. There was the Qortellian's next target. The creature filed the information away and turned from the screen and not a moment too soon. The doorway, through which the creature had entered darkened as two soldiers of the Qortellian horde stood in his way.
Without thinking the creature ducked, rolling to the side as sizzling blasts of power screamed above him. The horde’s weapons were crude, compared to the higher-ranking members of the elite, but they still were damn destructive. The blasts slammed into the wall behind the creature and the holographic image evaporated, darkening the room. The creature uttered a sound and its own suit’s defenses flared to life, creating a psionic shield around it. The creature finished rolling, ignoring the bits of the devastated wall the rained down on it and came to a crouch facing the horde soldiers. Their forms were indistinct as the shadows, dust, and confusion made it hard to decipher. What the creature did see was hard to put into words. There was no real symmetry to them, no bipedal form that was recognizable. They appeared to be made up of irregular shapes and things. The creature didn’t stop to try and figure out what he was looking at, all he knew was that he had to get past them and into his ship, if he hoped to get out of here alive and continue his mission.
While had rolled he had pulled a round, silver object from a latch on his suit. With a quick flick of his wrist, he sent the object directly towards the horde soldiers. The object soared through the air and stopped in between the two monsters blocking the door. It hovered there for a second as the soldiers each gave it an inquisitive stare. Then, it flashed a bright blue, sending a pulse wave out from its center, encompassing the horde soldiers. A second later the pulse wave retracted back into the sphere, taking with it the outermost layer of the horde soldier’s flesh. The sphere did this again and again, in the span of a few seconds, the sphere stripped the soldiers of a layer of tissue each time, finally leaving two indistinct piles of mismatched bones and muscle in the doorway.
The creature ran forward, grabbing the sphere as it went and deftly avoided the dead soldiers. Outside, the purple sky was filled with the sounds of destruction as the horde fleet continued to pummel the innocent inhabitants of the planet. The creature wanted to stay and fight, but it knew it couldn’t, it would be a futile gesture. So it turned and hurried towards a space that appeared to be empty, only to have a door appear in what seemed to be open air. The creature boarded its small, but nimble ship hurried to the navigation console and quickly set its destination. The ship’s engines hummed to life as it rose from the doomed planet, lifting it higher and higher, as the ship angled itself to be in the proper trajectory to take it to where it needed to go.
A small symbol floated in the air, at eye level. It ticked down, letting the creature know when the ship would jump into hyperspace. As the strange symbol flashed for the next to last time before the ship departed this part of the galaxy a blast rocked the ship, causing the creature to be jerked against his seat and restraints. The creature’s heart, or one of them, beat frantically, knowing that the horde had spotted him. He feared that the damage to the ship was going to make his escape impossible and dreaded what might happen to him in the hands, or appendages of the Qortellian horde.
He didn’t have much time to think about it when the symbol stopped flashing and he felt the familiar tug on his body and consciousness as he was pushed throughout space, faster than the speed of light. A split second before he dropped into the slumber of the traveler, he felt a horrible pull on his body, as if it was being ripped apart and he had no idea what it meant.

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

Thanks for the extract Marcus. It has the makings of a fabulous tale. However, I believe it has crossed our 1K word limit. Also, could you send the Goodreads link to the book?
We do have a couple of authors in our group that pen alien fantasies too. You should read our earlier extracts. It's great to note your different writing styles.
P.S. Is this a continuation of the earlier extract?

[Marcus]

This is an excerpt from a short story I am currently writing, it is not a continuation of the earlier one.

[Marcus]

Marcus wrote: "This is an excerpt from a short story I am currently writing, it is not a continuation of the earlier one."

Sorry, I didnt mean to cross the 1000 word limit.

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

No worries. Do let us know when it's published.

[Elizabeth]

Hi all! I published my novel, 'Killing The Girl', in April and have some brilliant reviews - especially from the lovely Goodreads readers here: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/4...

Here is the opening to my novel - hope that you like it!

Perry Cutler and I buried Frankie Dewberry in the orchard. He lies not far from the garden wall, under the shade of the apple trees. Over the last forty-odd years I’ve spent many hours sitting on the wooden bench we placed next to his grave. It’s a peaceful spot near the boundary wall running to the south-west of my estate. Sitting near him gives me great comfort. I tell Frankie how restricted my life has been since his death. I tell him how sorry I am that our daughter, Francine, died so young. Although I loved him, I never tell him I’m sorry he’s dead.

Outside my study window, the trees and bushes sway stiffly in the winter breeze; their shifting branches stripped bare in the cold air. January is my least favourite month, with its grey, joyless days and cruelty towards my garden.

On my desk, my notebook lies waiting for my reluctant attention. The sick feeling I’ve had this last month stirs as I touch it. It lists the many tasks I have to complete; inventories to write and documents to sign. Chilly air surrounds me as Frankie’s spirit enters the room. Shivering in his ghostly presence, I reread the newspaper article. My house is to be demolished to make way for a ring road. They will find Frankie’s resting place when they cut into the soil protecting my lover, my darling man. Police will ask questions. Strangers, who know nothing about me or my pain, will look at me in disgust.

After they have finished with his skeleton, we can arrange his funeral so that he can be laid to rest in consecrated ground. We will say prayers and sanction his long-awaited trip to heaven, although when I killed him, I was sure that he went straight to hell.

Please let me know if you are interested in reading my novel and thanks so much for this!

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07QCL8LFF

[Beatrice]

Wow Elizabeth! That took an unexpected turn.
Just as I was sympathising with 'January is my least favourite month, with its grey, joyless days and cruelty towards my garden. ' , there you go and murder someone! 😊
Loved it. Have marked it as 'Want to read'.

[Elizabeth]

Beatrice wrote: "Wow Elizabeth! That took an unexpected turn.
Just as I was sympathising with 'January is my least favourite month, with its grey, joyless days and cruelty towards my garden. ' , there you go and mu..."

Thank you Beatrice! I will be running a promo end of November / beginning of December so will let everyone know. Can't run one sooner due to Amazon rules :((( However I can email Mobi's to Kindles if anyone wants to review it. Happy reading one and all!

[Swarnendu]

Mir Qasim's Tunnel unravels the deepest secrets of Ramayana. It has received few great unpaid reviews and I would love to hear more from the readers...here goes the excerpt:

As I mentioned before, the circumference of the temple that they had come across in the left passage had several stones of different shapes and sizes. These did not appear to be a part of the tunnel in the sense that all other things appeared to be carved out of the rocks of the tunnel. But these stones were not carved out but simply placed there.
So far, apart from the bigger question of who created the tunnel and for whom, there remained five questions broadly to be answered so far.
First, why was Nandi missing at the two Shivalinga? Second, why was Ramayana depicted in a supposedly Shiva temple? Third, where did this left passage open up at the end? Fourth, why was the eye on the Shivalinga in the left passage not carved out of stone but planted separately? Fifth, when the whole thing was carved out of the stones including the Shivalinga, the wheel at the top, then why were there so many flat stones kept loosely at the circumference?
“But the questions are getting less in number. That’s a relief!” said Shakti.Mir Qasim's Tunnel

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

Hi Mir, is the excerpt a continuation of the last one? Good to hear from you again.

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

Hi Mir, is the excerpt a continuation of the last one? Good to hear form you again.

[Leon]

I’m a writer, songwriter, composer, and an artist. I initially wrote for myself and I finally decided to share my creations. In anticipation of my first book, Lines by Leon: Poems, Prose and Pictures, I am offering a free eBook with selected poems. Visit www.linesbyleon.com to get your copy (Epub or PDF).

Cheers,

Leon

[Beatrice]

This is beautiful work Leon. Are these pieces for classical 🎸? They sound lovely. However, we usually only review text forms.
I saw your poem on You Tube-
https://youtu.be/m6JjXLAjBDw
But we could be able to review it if you would post a few lines in either our poetry folder or here.

[Leon]

I do have a book of Classical guitar compositions, but my book Lines by Leon is there as well. Here is a poem that just got published on TheWriter'sMagazine.com:

If (The Refugee)

If I stay home
I will starve
If I remain where I grew up
I will be poor
If I linger where my roots are
violence will take me
If I refuse to leave
I will be forced to do
dreadful things
If I knock on your door
It's not because I want to
It's because
I want to live

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

Excellent poem Leon. We would love to feature you on our group sometime. Could you send us an Amazon/Goodreads book link when it's published in December?

[Leon]

Most certainly. December is my hope, but as I have found out, not everything goes as planned.

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

I'm sure it will work out. All the best. 👍

[Beatrice]

David that is such a beautiful extract. I would surely love to read the book. I am marking it as to be read.

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

I agree with Beatrice. This piece has really made me think. I've marked it for reading too David. Good work!👌

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

It's our pleasure to have you here David.

[Cendrine]

Hello everyone!

Here is a haiku from Walks: A Collection of Haiku (two more volumes have been published since then.)

"Sullen echoes
challenge majestic mountains
from the red earth."

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

A adore haiku and all forms of poetry in our group.
Would you like to post some more for us in the Poetry folder?

[Cendrine]

Grasshopper wrote: "A adore haiku and all forms of poetry in our group.
Would you like to post some more for us in the Poetry folder?"

Only if people are willing to review my books! aha ah ah ah ah

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

You can put that offer up in the promotion folder or offer your book as prize for our 'Try your Luck' game. You are sure to find someone then.😊

[Cendrine]

Grasshopper wrote: "You can put that offer up in the promotion folder or offer your book as prize for our 'Try your Luck' game. You are sure to find someone then.😊"

I could try that indeed! :-)

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

👍

[Cendrine]

Thank you!

[G.R.]

This excerpt is from my short sci-fi story, "Laster." It's a quick 30-minute read and is available for free at many ebook sites. It was inspired by Ray Bradbury's "All Summer in a Day." So if you are familiar with that short story, this story is also about the intended, and unintended, cruelties that children often inflict on one another at school. If anyone decides to read it, please let me know what you think.

Leroy fought to keep his knees from knocking as two dozen sets of eyes gawked up at once. The teacher, Ms. Margot, halted in mid-sentence. Her face underwent a series of rapid transformations from serious intensity to annoyance to understanding before her arm dropped heavily. She marched forward in precisely measured steps to fetch him by the elbow, directing his shuffling feet toward a rack of evenly spaced hooks that spanned the length of the classroom. It was filled with lifesuits like the one slung across his arm. Above the hooks in little cubbies were helmets like the one clutched in his tightly curled fingers.

"Here. Hang your suit there," Ms. Margot said. "No. Not that one. There," indicating the very last hook in the row. She gripped him by the shoulders and turned him around. "Class, this is Leroy Muntz. Leroy is new here. He just moved here from Earth. I know everyone remembers when we studied Earth last quarter, right?" Two dozen heads bobbed up and down. "Good. Well, I want you all to make Leroy feel welcome, so say hello."

"Hello, Leroy," the children intoned in unison.

"Very good. Now, Leroy, why don't you take your seat?"

When Leroy didn't move she made an irritated clucking sound deep in her throat. She grabbed him, her nails clawing into his neck, and guided him to the furthest seat in the back of the classroom. She pressed and prodded him down into it and stalked to her place up front. She pointed again to the board.

"Leroy, we were just beginning our math lesson for the day. Can you tell me what you get when you multiply seven by twelve?"

Leroy's foot tapped nervously on the leg of his desk. The seconds stretched out uncomfortably.

The children started chanting, "Laster, Laster, Laster," over and over again like a song.

[Saralyn]

Interesting, and it does remind me of Bradbury's story.

[Leon]

Leon wrote: "Most certainly. December is my hope, but as I have found out, not everything goes as planned."


I just came across this older post. Finally published and I'm running a funding campaign for my first printing (you can find info on my website)>

Lines by Leon: Poems, Prose, and Pictures

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

An amazing perspective. A new student from planet Earth. Sounds exactly like the not so very distant future.

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

Leon wrote: "Leon wrote: "Most certainly. December is my hope, but as I have found out, not everything goes as planned."


I just came across this older post. Finally published and I'm running a funding campaig..."
Dear Leon,
The right place to discuss this would be the book promotion folder.

[Ian]

For those who like science fiction, with some science, here is a short excerpt from "Athene's Prophecy", which might give a slightly different view on prophecy. The first of a series, in which reviews kindly accepted :-) Athene's Prophecy http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00GYL4HGW

Pallas Athene was in disgrace, but she felt that it was worth every gram of it for she had immortalized herself, starting over three thousand years before she was born. Yes, she knew that her career as a serious classical historian was over, and being consigned to this miserable cell was not exactly a career highlight, but on the bright side the cell did not have a means of evacuation. If it had, and if there were even a remote possibility that such an evacuation could have been reported as accidental, she was quite certain she would have been consigned to the depths of space. Instead, all they could do was to put her in a shuttle and return her to Earth tomorrow. They would also make certain that she would never be given permission to use the temporal viewer again.
The temporal viewer was one of the great triumphs of twenty-fourth century science, although it depended on theory established by Lansfeld in the late twenty-third century. Prior to Lansfeld, time had a rather peculiar status in physics: it was considered a coordinate, just like distance, which meant you could travel either way on it. The trouble was, you couldn't. One explanation for this problem was that going forwards was simply growing old or being in suspended animation, but going backwards defied conservation laws and the second law of thermodynamics.
The conservation laws arose because one piece of otherwise empty space was as good as another, and one piece of time was as good as another. If you were a footballer trying to kick a goal, if you gave exactly the same kick under exactly the same conditions, the ball would go on exactly the same trajectory whether you were playing at home or away, whether you were kicking towards north or south, or whether you did it today or tomorrow. If energy were not conserved, it could come and go as it pleased and the ball could dribble away for a few meters or go completely out of the field on the same kick. Sport would be impossible, as, for that matter, would be life for there would be no planets and no molecules. Travelling back in time implied that energy and matter were suddenly destroyed in the present and created in the past, in direct violation of conservation laws.
The second law of thermodynamics was an even worse problem. That law said that entropy must always increase with time, which, loosely speaking, meant that things always became more disordered as time increased. Since heat was random motion, ordered energy eventually turned to heat. Molecules never aligned their motion; your dinner never became slightly colder and left your plate to smear itself over the ceiling; a bag of footballs spilled over the field never rolled back together and piled themselves in a nice heap. It was impossible to send an object into the past because it contained heat, and by so sending it, entropy would be transferred from the present to the past, in direct violation of the law.
What Lansfeld's work had shown was that passive observation of the future was relatively easy, although there was a catch. Following the multiverse interpretation of quantum mechanics, every time a decision was made, a time-line followed for each choice. For most choices, this made little difference to the future, and instead of a narrow line, a band was seen that broadened into the future, however some decisions were critical, and the future forked. The net result was the future was so difficult to interpret.
The past, however, was different. While quantum mechanics allowed an enormous range of possibilities for any given action, once it influenced something those possibilities collapsed into one singular event, at least on that timeline. On our timeline, Napoleon always invaded Russia, and this always led to his demise. It may be different in other Universes, but we have no mans of knowing. Where Lansfeld's work was so important was that he showed that provided past energy transmission vectors remained unchanged and all energy consumption was realized in the present, passive observation of the past was possible.
Needless to say, the ability to see and record what actually happened had totally changed the study of history. There was still the problem of interpreting why it happened but at least the facts were right, which pleased those crusty old farts that saw themselves as the gatekeepers of the true knowledge.
What was known only to a handful of classical scholars was that there was an obscure tale of the Trojan War and somebody called Achilles, apparently told by, of all things, a blind poet of no significance. This was followed by what could be called a sequel, and this was a miserable tale of a drunkard who spent ten years fornicating around Greece before he returned home. When he did return, he thought his wife was taking lovers, so, after getting suitably drunk and unsuitably angry, in a quite messy and deplorable scene he bludgeoned the unfortunate wooers to death. This was followed by a sequence of squalid revenge bludgeonings. The original splatter tale!
She, Pallas Athene, had realized that information had neither inertial mass nor entropy, and accordingly, under certain conditions it was possible to be more active. The key was, a human's brain was always active, even when it was not doing anything significant, hence information could be transmitted there, redirecting electrical activity that was happening anyway without violating the laws of physics. If an historical person happened to be inside a certain configuration of stones or partially surrounded by another material of sufficiently high impedance, she could generate a direct communication with the subject's brain, particularly if the person was asleep or deeply relaxed. She could give seers prophecies, which were harmless because nobody believed them until they came true. She had ruined Kassandra's life, but later efforts were more fruitful. The Delphic Oracle was in an ideal site, and one particularly fruitful effort had been to give the oracle Galba's age, which greatly enhanced the mystique of the prophecy relating to Nero. She had drafted a short paper outlining how to do it, and she had intended to send this out for peer review shortly. She would be famous!
However, the highlight occurred in the temple in which the blind poet spent a lot of time. She, Pallas Athene, gave him visions that would improve the stories, and at the same time she inserted her name, as a Goddess.

Soon after this, it becomes apparent that someone has sent a message to the past that led to the extermination of humanity on Earth and this can only be prevented with another message - to an ancient Roman who must be abducted by aliens to go and get help.

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

Thank you for sharing this with us Ian. A wonderful blend of science & ancient history. Marking as to be read.

[Ian]

Hope you enjoy it, Grasshopper.

[Grasshopper, Administrator]

I'm sure I will. 😊

[Anna]

Here is an extract from my book Syrian Brides by Anna Halabi

https://www.amazon.com/Syrian-Brides-...

NOBODY’S BRIDE

Abu Issam was smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk under the awning of his bakery.
“This damn rain. It’s keeping the customers away,” he murmured under his breath, taking a long drag on his cigarette. He pleasurably exhaled the white smoke when a young woman walked past him and into his store.
He coughed awkwardly, flicked his unfinished cigarette into a puddle on the street and fondled his thick black moustache as he followed her inside.
“Ahlan wa sahlan , Madam! It’s an honor to welcome you in our bakery. Welcome! Welcome!” he babbled.
The slender woman loosened the knot under her chin and peeled the wet, white scarf off her head to reveal a long mane of black curls. The aide in the back froze next to the burning-hot oven, the metal baking tray in his hand — lined with rows of pistachio fingers — hovered in midair. He stared at the beautiful customer, his lower jaw dangling loosely from its joint.
She rummaged through her handbag and pulled out a small mirror and a tissue. She dabbed the runny kohl from under her black-rimmed eyes.
Then she peered over her own reflection and looked around the shop. Abu Issam, finally feeling noticed, repeated his warm welcome.
“What a pleasure to see a fresh face in our bakery! Welcome to my store. I am Abu Issam, owner of this humble establishment. Please, let me know what I can do for you. Your wish is my command,” he declared.
“Thank you, Muallim . That’s very kind of you,” she replied. “I’d like to order a hundred-and-fifty ma’amoul with date filling, please.”
“Madam, please. There is no need for the formalities. Call me Abu Issam,” he insisted with a sheepish grin on his lips and a flirty sparkle in his beady, brown eyes.
“Alright then, Abu Issam,” she answered politely.
“As for the hundred-and-fifty ma’amoul. They’ll be ready by this afternoon. Do you want to pick them up or would you like them delivered some place?” he asked. His smile was replaced with an earnest expression.
“No, no, no,” she said, clicking her tongue in disapproval. “I need them right away. I have guests coming over in an hour.”
“I’m sorry, Madam, but we’re swamped with orders. After all, we are the best bakery in all of Aleppo,” he said proudly, his chest puffed like a rooster. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you take fifty with you now and we’ll deliver the rest later?”
He turned to his aide in the back, who was still in a trance. “Jassem! Stop staring and get me Abu Haitham’s order! Yallah!” he yelled. “We can make a fresh batch for him later.”
The boy rushed to fetch a cardboard box and handed it to his boss, who in turn set it on the counter in front of the young woman.
“There you go, Madam,” he said. “Where would you like the rest delivered?”
“You can drop them off at my husband’s store across the street. The goldsmith over there,” she replied, pointing out the window.
“The goldsmith? Uh — Abu Ghassan is your husband?” stammered Abu Issam. He scratched his black toupee, shifting his hairline back by an inch. His now extended forehead emphasized the surprised look on his face.
“Yes, exactly. Abu Ghassan,” she assured him.
“Then I’ll deliver the remaining hundred ma’amoul to him personally! He’s a dear neighbor, your husband. A very decent man,” he praised.
“Thank you. Sweet of you to say. But now tell me, Abu Issam. How much do I owe you for the ma’amoul?” she asked.
“No, nothing at all. The first order is on the house for new customers. It is a tradition in my shop; so that we can have the pleasure of welcoming you here again. Ahlan wa sahlan,” he said and smiled at her like a teenager with a crush.
The boy at the oven snorted loudly and smirked. His boss shot him a warning glare that sent him back to the counter in the back, where he slouched over the balls of dough and started kneading briskly.
“No, I can’t possibly accept your generous offer, Abu Issam,” the young woman protested. “Please, let me pay for the ma’amoul. After all, we’re neighbors, not strangers.”
“By Allah, neighbor! You’re embarrassing me,” he said, blushing. “But if you insist.”
“I insist,” she asserted, pursing her lips impatiently.
“Fine then. A hundred and fifty ma’amoul. That makes one thousand two hundred Liras. Let’s say one thousand, ma’alesh .”
“Here you go,” she said, handing him a wad of cash from her purse. “One thousand Liras.”
“And here are the first fifty ma’amoul,” he replied, pushing the cardboard box on the counter towards her. “Enjoy them, inshalla.”
“Thank you. I’m looking forward to tasting them,” she said, covering her black curls with her white scarf. She bid him farewell and waved good-bye, as she walked out of the bakery.
“Ma’asalameh, Madam,” he called. “Come back soon and enlighten our shop with your visit!”
He stared after her with a dopey grin on his face, as she rushed across the street in the pouring rain and entered Abu Ghassan’s jewelry store.

*****

“Would you please show me that necklace in the window and the bracelet over there? The one with the red rubies,” she asked the goldsmith behind the counter.
“Of course, Madam,” replied Abu Ghassan. He reached into the display and undressed the plastic bust.
“Here you go,” he said, presenting the two pieces to his new customer with the curly black hair.
“How much are they?” she asked, weighing the jewelry in her hand.
Abu Ghassan placed them on the scales and started punching his calculator with his index finger. He mumbled some numbers under his breath and scratched his shaven chin. A few moments later, he looked up at the young woman.
“I can give you the necklace for twenty thousand. The bracelet on the other hand is heavy and the ornate design is very elaborate. It’s a bit more expensive. Thirty-three thousand Liras,” he said.
“Do you have something heavier than this necklace? Show me that one over there,” she said and pointed at the show case behind him.
“This one, Madam?” he asked, as he retrieved a thick necklace from behind the glass. “Are you sure? It is more for older women or Bedouins. You have a slender neck and fine features. Maybe something more delicate would be more to your taste.”
She wrapped her fingers around the necklace and slowly poured it from one hand into the other.
“How much is it?” she asked.
Again, the goldsmith weighed the necklace, theatrically calculated the price and determined it was worth fifty-eight thousand Liras.
“You see, Madam,” he explained. “This design here was inspired by the Afghan motifs, mixed with our Arabesque patterns. I’ve never left the country, believe it or not,” he chuckled, “but I love to experiment with exotic …”
“Then add the two bangles from over there and that cobra ring with the diamond eyes,” she interrupted, pointing to the jewelry in the glass counter. “That should bring us to a total of about a hundred-and-fifty thousand. Am I right?”
Abu Ghassan, appalled by his customer’s lack of appreciation for his art work, hastily weighed every piece separately and calculated their prices.
“You have a good eye, Madam,” he said, giving her a suspicious look. “All six pieces would cost a hundred and fifty-four thousand Liras. But one hundred-and- fifty thousand is fine, ma’alesh. As you wish.”
“I’ll take them then,” she said and rummaged through her handbag.
“Very well. Would you like me to put them in a fancy gift box for you?” he asked.
“No, that’s fine. I’ll just put them in my bag,” she answered.
She pulled out a stack of banknotes from her purse and handed it to Abu Ghassan.
“Here are fifty thousand. My husband will bring by the rest later this afternoon. He owns the bakery across the street,” she said and reached out for the necklaces.
“Abu Issam is your husband?” he asked, blinking nervously.
He yanked the jewelry back out of her hand before she could answer.
“Forgive me, Madam,” he said. “Not to sound rude, but it’s a lot of money. I can’t just take your word for it. Why don’t I put the necklaces aside for you, and your husband can pick them up when he drops off the money.”
“I understand your worries but I need the necklaces now. They’re a present for my mother in Damascus. The Pullman bus leaves in an hour,” she urged. “Come with me to the bakery and talk to Abu Issam yourself. It’ll only take a minute.”
“I’d have to lock up the store then,” said Abu Ghassan. He patted down his suit and fondled with his keys, jingling in his jacket pocket. He looked out at the pouring rain and winced. His nostrils flared in disgust.
The young woman peered out the window. “He’s standing in the doorsill, smoking,” she said. “I’ll just call out to him. You won’t have to leave your shop.”
She wrapped her hair in her white scarf and stepped out into the rain. The goldsmith accompanied her up to the doorsill and carefully stuck his hairless head out.
“Abu Issam! Abu Issam!” she shouted across the street.
The bakery owner with a cigarette in one hand, waved at them with the other.
“You’ll bring by the hundred later this afternoon, like we discussed? You’ll give them to Abu Ghassan, right?” she shouted.
He shamefully turned his head and exhaled a cloud of white smoke, coughed and deliberately cleared his throat.
“Yes, neighbor, yes,” yelled back. “I gave the Madam fifty already. I’ll bring you the remaining hundred later. Don’t worry, Habibi. Just give me an hour or so.”
“Alright, Akhi . Thank you for the reassurance. I’ll see you later then,” called goldsmith and slipped back behind his counter.
The young woman followed him into the store, leaving Abu Issam lingering on the doorstep of his bakery, puckering his lips and slowly sucking on his cigarette.
“Then everything is in order. Here you go, Madam,” said Abu Ghassan.
He handed his customer the jewelry, who hurriedly flung it in her purse.
“Have a safe trip and I hope your mother likes the handicraft. Like I was saying, these are very special pieces … ”
“Thank you. Ma’al salameh ,” she mumbled, snapped her purse shut and rushed out the door.

****

Want to know what happens next? Find out and read many more stories like this one in Syrian Brides by Anna Halabi

[Sandra]

Doesn't this appear in our book?