Does Magic Exist?

Continued from THE CUBE...What happens when the numbers fall into place and Bethany holds a multi-million dollar winning ticket.

Unbelievable.

I checked and rechecked the numbers for the millionth time. At least once for every dollar the ticket might, no, would win. Even if there were several lucky winners the numbers meant I could donate millions to my favourite charity. Anonymously of course, and there I stumbled on another problem.

Not that holding the winning ticket to a mammoth lotto win was a problem. No. My problem stemmed from the undermining of my faith in the world where I lived.

Magic didn’t exist here. Fair enough, there were magicians. Clever illusionists. I give them credit for their skills, but that’s not the magic I refer to. Nor were the ‘miracles’ performed by saints what I considered ‘magic’, though they ,too, left me wondering and hoping they were real.

If I credited my choice of winning numbers to the strange cube given to me by a total stranger, then I must by default, admit to believing in something very similar to magic. Fate? Destiny? They didn’t quite cover the apprehension and fear I saw in the stranger’s dying eyes. Had he been cynical, when he stood at the crossroad on which I now stood? Did disbelief lead him to a lethal miscalculation? Did I believe in coincidence?

If magic didn’t exist and I ignored the stranger’s warnings, the outcome of not following his precise instructions would leave me with a magical figure in my bank account. Would it also leave me to share his fate, fading away with a lethal disease?

At this stage I can’t even rely on following the choice my character might make. Being an author gives me multiple personalities to run ideas through. Only this was too important to leave to a flawed heroine, hero type or villain.

If I carried on with my plan, donating the winning ticket to a charity of my choice without touching a penny of the windfall, my actions would prove I do believe in magic. Do I? Is this my world, where science rules and logic defies even the most wonderful mysteries? Does God exist? Are we alone? Why do I need to debate these deep topics? My life has flowed from one day to the next, without much drama. Life, love, work and recreation, holidays and chillaxing with my peeps. Nothing to complain about. Mundane but exactly as I envisage things. Of course, I am still waiting, dreaming of meeting ‘Mr Right’ but in the meantime I enjoy each relationship I enter into.

I run my fingers over the winning ticket. The paper is cheap, the print will probably fade. Hardly a million dollars’ worth of paper and ink. It could change my life. Don’t think I haven’t lain awake all night spending every dollar, again and again… The things I could do, the people I could help. Would setting up my own charity count as ‘giving’ the money to charity? Or would that break the cube’s rules. Would I dare try to trick the magic? If I believed in it?

I unfolded a printed sheet of paper and re read the wording I had penned. Anonymous donation. There were more rules though. My rules. Listed in point form. I placed the ticket on the paper and refolded the letter with care. Once satisfied the ticket was safe I slipped the paper into an envelope and sealed it. Taking care, I applied a strip of tape over each end and across the seal. For added security. On the front of the envelope I had printed the words ‘Only to be Opened in the Presence of a Quorum of Members’.

I didn’t want the ticket to tempt an over-worked volunteer. The unregistered winning ticket although on cheap paper and printed with poor ink was worth millions to anyone who handed it in. I wanted to ensure it found its way into the coffers of the charity and not the pocket of one person.

I had also printed a covering letter to explain the need to only open the sealed envelope  where enough working members of the charity were gathered. Feeling confident I had taken enough precaution against temptation I closed the brown business envelope, already addressed to the charity in question, and headed to the post office.

The early morning rush crowded the mall. I strode passed the Magic Bean Café, resisting the aroma. My purpose drove me to dodge the scurrying workers. I would join them soon. For now though I had time to spare. I needed it. My hands were sweaty, my knees shaking though I walked determinedly toward the Post office. Joining the queue I needed to remind myself to breathe. I clutched the envelope in one hand, the other strangled the straps of my handbag. Finally, gasping for air as though I had run a marathon I approached the counter.

“How can I help you?” The sales girl addressed me. This was the moment of truth. No return from here.

It took me a moment to calm my racing heart and ask for the envelope to be sent registered mail. Yes, signature required. Yes, tracking. Or should that be ‘no’? I didn’t want the charity to trace the donation back to me. Could I leave a multi-million dollar ticket to find its way through the post?

I chewed my bottom lip, wondering how I could have overlooked researching this aspect of the project. The patient sales attendant became less patient. I dithered and decided.

“Just register the envelope to get to its destination. They don’t need to know it is from me.”

“Seven dollars eighty, thanks.”

She didn’t even raise an eyebrow as she stamped the envelope, initialled the corner and tossed the whole thing behind her into a huge burlap bag.

Done.

I believe in magic. I must, why else would I cast aside a multi-million dollar windfall. I was either the world's most gullible idiot or in line to have a change of luck. Good luck.

I turned from the counter and bumped into one of the scurrying workers.

Blake, the ‘oh so hot’ bachelor who worked upstairs and who my colleagues voted “Mr Most Eligible”, caught my arm and steadied me.

“Sorry…” I muttered, still trying to stop shaking. I wanted him to keep holding me. His hand didn’t shake and his strength helped my heart and head focus on something other than the likelihood magic existed.

“Listen, you look a little flustered. Why don’t we grab a coffee, and I will walk you to work.”

“You? What? We, I mean me… would I?” My tongue refused to be associated with further embarrassment and my mutterings faded. I took a deep breath and forced real words into being. “That would be great. I am a little rattled.”

“Great. You aren’t usually in this early. You’re Bethany, right? I have seen you so often yet we haven’t met properly. I’m Blake. I work…”

“Upstairs. I know.” Damn, why couldn’t I say something clever, witty or even keep my mouth shut. Did it sound as if he was a regular topic in our staff room? 

He grinned. “Come on. The Magic Bean Café had a spare table a moment ago. I will shout you a drink this time, but next time it’s your turn, okay?”

Next time… Okay, I needed to sit down and re assess my world. What luck, good luck, to have Blake not only ask me to have coffee with him, but to ensure we met again, for a drink.

Unbelievable. I was beginning to believe in magic. 
***

Rosalie Skinner resides on the east coast of Australia when not totally immersed in the fantasy world of her writing.

Rosalie’s love of the ocean, nature, history and horses has enabled her to give her books an authentic air. Her latest achievement has been to ride through the Australian Snowy mountains and see the wild brumbies run. When not watching the migrating whales pass her doorstep she has more humble pastimes.

Other than being a published author, her greatest thrill is being a grandmother. Born over fourteen weeks early her granddaughter’s perfect development and growth are a miracle and joy.

Follow:  Blog,

 Website

Chronicles of Caleath Facebook 

A Gathering Of Fantasy Readers and Writers Facebook group

Reader Flash – Share Your Own Story

Now it’s your turn. We’d love you to share your own flash fiction inspired by luck, fate or karma. In no more than about 200 words share a story that explores the good, the bad, or the ugly side of things outside your control.  Are you feeling lucky?

Show us your writing chops. Post anonymously if you want, but keep it PG-13 rated. A good test is to ask yourself if you would want to read it to your teenager.

Leave your story in the comments and feel free to leave encouraging comments for other flashers! 

The Cube.

As luck would have it there was an empty seat at the back of the Magic Bean café.

I grabbed my Chai Latte and settled, facing the mall. The aroma of coffee grinds spiked my taste buds. The general bustle, clatter and conversation eased as the early morning addicts downed their double shots and sauntered off to work. 

There would be a lull, for an hour or so before shoppers came clamouring for their eleven o’clock fix.

With my lap top open and imagination racing, I began to write. My attention focused on weaving intrigue and creating conflict. My intrepid hero’s behaviour needed tailoring to push the plot forward. 

Lost in the world of my creation I allowed the words to flow. My friend would be along shortly. We met each week to write, chat and share the latest news on our publishing journey. Despite the activity around me my mind focused on the characters playing out their part in my newest chapter.

A shadow fell across my keyboard. I looked up, expecting to greet my friend.

Instead a stranger loomed over my table. His gaunt frame, sallow skin and hair resembling a chewed dog toy didn’t fill me with confidence. At least the café was a public place. No real danger.

What would my character do in this situation? Show no fear, nor dismay.

“Can I help you?” I asked, feigning genuine concern, trying to catch the attention of the wait staff.

“Yes. I need your help.” The stranger sank onto the vacant chair opposite me with his back to the public. Deep set eyes, sunken rather than natural depth, gazed around the café before fixing me with a piercing stare. “I have been watching, waiting for the right person to arrive. You.”

“Why me?” I asked before I remembered my character would be stoic, calm.

“You ordered Chai, in a specialist coffee shop. I am looking for someone who has the strength to stand against the current. Go against the flow, take the road less followed.”

“Enough.” I shook my head. Would my character explain I don’t like coffee? It does strange things to my heartbeat. No. Let the stranger think I possessed strength of character. I liked the idea. It didn’t fit me. Not shy, introverted, marsh-mellow me. Still, no harm in playing the part. “So, how can I help? If you are unwell, there is a great surgery around the corner. They take walk-ins and bulk bill.”

“I am dying. It is true. The doctors have done all they can.” The stranger’s gaze softened. The grey blue eyes glinted, assuming a faint resemblance of the colour they might once have been. A tic pulled at the stranger’s cheek. He lifted a hand, I thought to ease the anomaly, but he placed a small cube on the table beside my laptop. “The luckiest man alive gave this to me, now I am passing it on to you. He promised the cube would change my luck. Take heed and listen to my instructions.”

“You know the old advice, don’t accept gifts from strangers.” I concentrated on sipping my Chai and dragging my focus away from the odd cube.

“Not even when it is a dying man’s final request?” A smile lifted the corners of the stranger’s mouth. Sadly, bloody gums showed, though again, there seemed a remnant of once cared for perfect alignment to his remaining teeth.  “Do this, for luck. A simple task and you could be blessed with good luck. For the rest of your life.”

“You are not a walking advertisement for luck, mate. Really, you need to try another tack if you want to sell this scam.”

“Scam?” His eyes rolled and his shaking hand recoiled. “Not a scam. Please. Don’t refuse. I have no time left to find another soul with your attributes.”

Soul? Attributes? Nothing would make me accept his gift, nor did I want to waste more precious writing time chatting. His odour now overpowered the pervasive coffee grounds. Time to encourage him to leave.

As though reading my mind he began to speak. His voice flowed with hypnotic cadence.  “Take the cube. Roll it. Read the numbers. They change with each roll, somehow they know what you need whether you play lotto, the pools, power-ball, lucky-loot, whatever. Choose one game and take a gamble. There is a draw tonight. What is there to lose? If you don’t trust me, fine. At least give the lucky cube a chance. You will win. I guarantee it. The cube does not lose.” He straightened. “When you collect your winnings…” He paused and again his eyes seemed to regain their colour and energy. Every fibre of his body appeared tense. I sensed desperation and hope. “You must immediately donate the complete amount to charity. Any charity. Your favourite good cause. Don’t keep any of the money for yourself.”

“Why don’t you do this? Why do you need me? I can give you a few dollars for you to buy a ticket if you are so concerned. You don’t need me.”

“If you donate the win to a good cause, luck will follow you. Good luck, for a good deed.”

I blinked. Sudden realisation hit me with sledge hammer force. “Bad luck for a selfish deed? Is that what you did? Kept some of the winnings for yourself?”

He closed his eyes and lifted a hand to his forehead. I tried not to notice the clump of hair clinging to his fingers as he kneaded his furrowed brow. With shoulders slumped he again looked up. “It seemed too weird to believe. Once you have used the cube once, pass it on to another.” He glanced away. “Or destroy it if you can find a way.” He turned back and sighed. The simple act left him gasping for breath. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and leaned closer. Again I could sense lost energy, health and passion. He spoke in a hurried whisper, desperation scored each word. “It only works once. If you do the right thing, perhaps giving the cube to you might alleviate my guilt. I am desperate. Will you help me? Telling you my hopes might influence the outcome, but what do I have to lose? I am dying. Today is your lucky day. The cube is now yours.”

Without pausing to see if I accepted the gift the stranger grabbed a paper serviette and wiped spittle from his mouth. Staggering to his feet he strode away and disappeared into the crowded mall.

I wanted to rush after him and return the cube to his care.

What would my character do? Accept the cube? Find the stranger and return the odd gift? Take the chance and risk the gamble? Donate the win to charity? If the stranger told the truth. What should I do? Who couldn’t use extra luck? Good luck.

Scoffing my Chai, I snapped shut my laptop and sprinted from the café. Amid the bustle of rush hour I raced through the milling throng. I couldn’t see the stranger. His tall gaunt figure should stand out from manicured employees making their way to work.

Disappointed and needing to draw breath I halted my headlong rush. Trying not to pant aloud, my character never ran out of breath, I straightened.  Leaning against the shop front I gathered my wits.

Outside the mall’s newsagent and lottery office a sign caught my eye.

‘Thirty million dollars. Tonight’s draw. Try your luck’.

As the stranger said, what did I have to lose? Which charity would make the most of those millions?

If the cube provided the right numbers, perhaps a good deed would redeem the stranger. Perhaps his luck would change. He might live on.

What would my character do?

I headed inside to gamble on a change of luck.

***

Rosalie Skinner resides on the east coast of Australia when not totally immersed in the fantasy world of her writing.

Rosalie’s love of the ocean, nature, history and horses has enabled her to give her books an authentic air. Her latest achievement has been to ride through the Australian Snowy mountains and see the wild brumbies run. When not watching the migrating whales pass her doorstep she has more humble pastimes.

Other than being a published author, her greatest thrill is being a grandmother. Born over fourteen weeks early her granddaughter’s perfect development and growth are a miracle and joy.

Follow:  Blog,

 Website

Chronicles of Caleath Facebook 

A Gathering Of Fantasy Readers and Writers Facebook group

Time to Talk Luck

Luck. Fate. Karma. Many people believe in at least one, if not all of these things. This month our stories are exploring all the options. The good and the bad side of these tricky little blighters. But what about you? Have you had a run in with bad luck? Have the Fates smiled down on you? Have you ever seen Karma seek her revenge on someone? Do you think your actions dictate what kind of luck you'll recieve? If Karma will visit? We'd love for you to tell us if you believe - and why.

Thank the Lucky Stars by Eric Price

I’ve heard it called the final frontier, the sea of tranquility, the great unknown. I call it solitude. Destitute.

I’ve told you in my previous transmissions that I consider myself lucky. When they caught us, they could have killed us. No one would have known. It was a risk we took, Sandra, Max, and myself. And when Adam found us, maybe that was luck too. I don't mean him catching us, of course. But better him than someone else.

I’ve never given you details about what we did or why we did it. By now you’ve probably figured out most of it.

* * * *

Simon flipped off the video recording transmitter (VRT) and rubbed his eyes. He continued to shiver even after his third cup of hot chocolate. He could have drunk plain hot water to warm himself, his taste buds hadn’t reawakened yet, but he needed the calories. The hibernation periods drained him. Now that he had awakened for the final time, he’d need to replenish himself by eating a minimum of 5000 calories a day until he landed on Kapa¹ Ceti VI.

The planet appeared as a small pinprick on the viewing screen. The star itself burned on the left edge. Had all the ship’s sensors not told him he had traveled nearly thirty light years, he’d have believed Kapa¹ Ceti the Earth’s sun.

He walked away from the viewer and the dim yellow light it cast faded from the walls as it powered down. The walls of the ship reilluminated green as the food generator activated with his proximity.

“Hello, Simon.” The epicene voice hadn’t startled him since his first waking period. The fog of sleep still hung in his mind when he had first heard speaking on a space vessel allegedly occupied by a single passenger. When his heart rate slowed, he had felt completely awakened. Now, on his third waking period, he knew to expect the various components of the ship to strike up conversations, even if he didn't feel mentally revived. “What would you like? Another hot chocolate? Perhaps something to eat?”

“Yes. I’ll have lasagna with extra cheese and three pieces of garlic bread.” With a menu limited only by his own imagination, Simon knew he wanted his favorite childhood meal to start his rejuvenation before arriving on the planet. He decided it when the authorities sentenced him. He needed to connect with the life he had before he knew something was different about himself.

“Preparing one meal of lasagna with extra cheese and three pieces of garlic bread.”

The soft, high-pitched whine of the food generators electric motors created a welcome background noise.

While he waited for his meal, he returned to the VRT to record more of his transmission.

* * * *

We infiltrated the compound by walking through the main entrance. I’m serious. It was as easy as that. Sandra had a friend on the inside who printed us employee badges. And they call themselves the Department of Defense? Really?

Everybody knows about the five floors above ground and the two basement levels. They’re great. Seriously. Even the western side, which had to get rebuilt after that hijacked plane flew into it, looks amazing.

I suppose you know about that. The plane I mean. They couldn’t have erased it from the history books. Too many people remember where they were when it happened. I remember. My second grade teacher got called out of the room and returned with tears in her eyes. I didn’t think anything could soften the heart of that old bitch. What did I know?

But back to the building. We didn’t care about the seven floors everyone knew about. Our interests resided somewhere on the third basement floor. I know what you’re thinking. 'There is no third basement.' Yes, it does have a third basement. I’ve seen it. And it’s where you’ll find all the good stuff. Area 51, Roswell, the Kennedy assassination, Bigfoot, Yeti, you name it. If it exists, and the government doesn’t want you to know about it, the information is stored in the third basement.

So the files I wanted to see. The ones I needed to see. The ones about me. Yeah, they’re three floors down. I didn’t know Sandra and Max had connections too. I should have figured it out, but I didn’t.

Most of the stuff I mentioned, the stuff about aliens and hairy monsters, I don’t believe in any of it. Even after seeing the files. What I can tell you is the government keeps files on all of it. I read a few of the files. They didn’t change my opinion. But I didn’t come to read about them. I came to see if what I had heard had any truthful merit to it. Did I exist because of the Cloverleaf Project? And if so, what involvement did I have with it…or it with me.

* * * *

A high pitched series of beeps alerted Simon to his prepared meal. His tastebuds watered as his olfactory receptors started to revive from slumber. He brought the lasagna back to the work station and placed what looked like a wire hat on his head. Two sharp probes tightened against his temples, almost piercing the skin. Simon preferred the VRT, but to ensure he included every detail of his break-in at the Pentagon, he needed to use the memory extractor (ME).

His wife’s face came into focus on the view screen. Even on the day of this image, the final day she would see him as a free man, she had no idea what he had planned. Should he have told her? Probably not. They would have come for her too. Her ignorance kept her free then, and his completion of this mission will ensure she remains free. Or will it? Can he trust the government to uphold their end of the bargain? For all he knew, they had arrested her the second his shuttle launched.

No. They’d have no reason to arrest her. They knew she had nothing to do with any of it. After hooking her to an ME for three days, she didn't have a single private memory left.

He focused his mind. The image of his wife faded. The long wall of the Pentagon replaced it.

* * * *

Two security guards stepped onto the elevator. Simon cast a glance at Max to make sure he kept his composure. Simon thought he looked nervous, but it was hard to tell. Max always looked nervous. Sandra on the other hand, she could handle anything.

The guards only rode down two  floors. When the elevator stopped on the first basement, Simon, Sandra, and Max exited.

Simon pointed to the left. “If we follow this hall, we’ll come to another series of four elevators. We take one back up to the fourth floor where we’ll find a fifth elevator marked ‘Maintenance Only.’ Our badges should open it. It only goes to the second basement. A secret corridor not accessible any other way. A few top secret offices line the hall, and at the end we’ll find a stairway to the third basement. The one that supposedly doesn’t exist. The offices should all be vacant for the weekend.”

They followed the maze and found themselves on a floor clearly not the size of the entire Pentagon. Most of the small offices contained numerous file cabinets and a small desk. The offices had no labeling announcing their contents.

“Well, let’s split up and see what we can find.”

Simon headed into an office and started browsing through the file cabinets. The first had photos of world leaders meeting with aliens and transcripts of their conversations. He randomly selected one and started reading before tossing it aside to focus on his objective. The next cabinet had photos, transcripts of eyewitness accounts, and hair samples of tall, apelike men. He didn’t even bother reading these before moving on to the next file cabinet.

“Third time’s a charm.”

The first folder had a tab reading Cloverleaf Project. The cover had an image of a four leaf clover. Each leaf had a different word written on it: Strength, Agility, Intelligence, Luck. The first sheet in the folder read:

CLOVERLEAF PROJECT

Overview

In an attempt to create the perfect human, top geneticists from around the world will collaborate to create a genetically superior human. They will combine DNA from human subjects with extraordinary qualities in at least one of the following characteristics: strength, agility, and intelligence. The experiment will also take DNA from individuals with seemingly unnatural luck to answer the questions: Does luck exist? And if so, can it pass through genes?

The first batch will consist of six artificially created zygotes (three male and three female) implanted into female volunteers all deemed unable to conceive naturally. As an added precaution, the test subjects, once mature, will be sterile. This will serve two purposes. First, it will prevent the artificial genes from contaminating the normal human gene pool. Second, many of the geneticists fear if two of our test subjects were to reproduce, it may create an F₁ hybrid superhuman.

Tuesday, March 17, 1992

Simon riffled through the pages to find extensive notes on the process, the specific genes isolated, and prenatal care given to the expectant mothers. Finally he found the page he wanted. A list of birth records. Just as he expected, he found his own name, date of birth, and his mother’s name. He read the remainder of the names.

“No.”

He staggered backward and sat in an office chair. It almost rolled out from under him, but he grabbed the arm and secured it. He read the names again.

“No!”

His head spun. Flashes of his life danced before his eyes. Images of his childhood. College. He knew them all. He always had. He couldn’t remember a time without them. He read the names again, first to himself, then aloud.

“Sandra. Max. Julie. Adam. No. No. Not her too.” He read the last name ten times. Fifteen. Twenty. “Not Susan. Not my wife.”

He flipped back to the overview and reread the last paragraph. How they had wanted children. How they had tried. For how many years? Seven? Nine?

Sandra burst into the office.

“I thought I heard you scream.”

He looked at her through eyes glassed over with tears.

Max came to Sandra’s side and she pushed on. “What is it Simon? Did you find what we came for? Are you part of Cloverleaf Project?

Simon couldn’t speak. He reached across the desk and handed the list of births to Sandra.

Sandra took the list, read it, and handed it to Max.

Max read the list and threw it to the ground.

“We’ve got to go. Now.”

The alarm in his voice instantly sobered Simon. “What? Why?” But as he asked, he sprang to his feet.

“I may have blown everything. I told Adam you suspected you had involvement with the Cloverleaf Project.”

“So? You didn’t tell him our plan, did you? You didn’t tell him we planned on breaking in here?”

“No. But I didn’t have to. He just knows things. He always has had a way of just knowing.”

They bolted for the door. Simon jerked it open. A flash of silver and Simon felt the barrel of a gun press against his head. His instincts wanted to snatch the gun in a swift movement. He knew he could, but his eyes focused down the hall at the fifteen other guns pointed at them. A tall, muscular man with dark hair stepped forward.

“I hope you found what you came for, Simon.”

“Adam, listen, this concerns you too.”

A single laugh escaped Adam’s throat. “I know. I’ve seen all the files. They showed them to me when I took the job. Sure, my badge says ‘Pentagon Security,’ but I’ve only had one objective: protect these files from anyone else involved with Cloverleaf Project. We weren’t the only batch of super babies, you know. The project ran for ten years. Eventually someone would learn they may have been a part of it and want in here.”

Adam gestured toward the stairway. “Come along, now, we have a special new punishment lined up to try on you three.”

* * * *

Simon removed the ME and rubbed his temples. He placed his plate, utensils, and napkin back into the food generator.

“Recycling initiated,” said the not-quite-human voice.

The low hum of the engines started again, and he returned to the VRT.

* * * *

So we received our sentence. Sandra, Max, and myself each got sent different directions in space. Three pioneers to the three closest planets potentially habitable by humans. I have no idea how much of this you already know. I didn’t say anything in my previous transmissions. I knew the government would screen them. You’d have never seen them… Or at the least you wouldn’t get them in their entirety. My only hope for you to hear this one is if Julie still works for the department. This is the last message I can send you. I only have one transmission beacon left, and it has to contain information about the planet I land on. If I fail to send it, the government will come for you.

If I calculated correctly, and if the ship’s sensors are accurate, which I’m sure they are—I designed them myself—you should be about 30 years old now. It’s challenging to conceive, even for me, since I’m not much older than that myself. But by traveling nearly the speed of light, my ageing doesn’t progress like yours.

I’ve spent my time between hibernation periods pondering my decisions. Did I do the right thing? Was it worth it? I think I did. And it was. I only learned of your existence the day they sent me into space. By all accounts, you shouldn’t exist. I guess we really were lucky. My only regret is that I’ll never get to meet you.

Love,

Dad

To be continued… April 17

Dedicated to Leonard Nimoy (1931-2015), without whom, modern science fiction would likely not exist.

****

Eric Price lives with his wife and two sons in northwest Iowa. He began publishing in 2008 when he started writing a quarterly column for a local newspaper. Later that same year he published his first work of fiction, a spooky children’s story called Ghost Bed and Ghoul Breakfast. Since then, he has written stories for children, young adults, and adults. Three of his science fiction stories have won honorable mention from the CrossTime Annual Science Fiction Contest. His first YA fantasy novel, Unveiling the Wizards’ Shroud, received the Children’s Literary Classics Seal of Approval and the Literary Classics Award for Best First Novel. His second novel, The Squire and the Slave Master, continues the Saga of the Wizards. It is scheduled for an August 4, 2015 release. Find him online at authorericprice.com, Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.

One Fateful Night by Mary Waibel

Fate can be fickle...

***

Faint strains of music drifted out from the palace as Prince Brody moved deeper into the garden. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, creating a strange mix of light and shadows on the path. The night air chilled his skin, but he ignored it, preferring the coolness to the heat and noise of the overcrowded ballroom.

For a moment, the stillness of the night allowed him to forget his purpose for being here instead of sailing the seas, searching for his lost bride-to-be and his cousin. He knew too much time had passed to find them alive, but discovering something would at least help to bring closure. And maybe it would explain what had happened during that fateful storm at sea.

With the new title of Crown Prince weighing on him―a title he had never wanted―Brody had reluctantly agreed to represent Delphine at the Faldaeran ball. An offer that had delighted his father, Prince Aldric It had taken one look at the ballroom filled with eligible brides for Brody to understand his father’s reaction and flee to the gardens

Brody sighed and loosened his cravat, wishing he could remove the strangling tie completely. Looking up, he made a wish on the first star he saw, one he knew would never come true. If only he could turn back the hands of time to that fateful, life-changing day. For not only had he lost Lisabet, but he’d lost his cousin as well.

Some would consider him lucky, as Princess Elsbeth’s disappearance moved him from third in line to the throne to the Crown Prince by a simple decree of the king. But Brody didn’t believe it luck, not when it cost him both his cousin and the girl he loved. At least he thought it had been love, or as in love as a sixteen year old could be. Of course, love wasn’t a requirement for his marriage. No, the contract was all that mattered.

But Lisabet had been more than a contract to him, more than just the woman who would give him heirs and sit by his side the rest of his life. She’d been joy, and laughter. She was the light at the end of a dreary day. If that wasn’t love, then Brody didn’t know what was.

A dull pain filled his heart as he thought about Lisabet. All these months later, he still missed the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand, the sweet rose scent she always wore. If only he had sailed with her, perhaps she wouldn’t have vanished.

A twig snapped and a quiet oath, muttered by a feminine voice, drifted through the air. Brody arched a brow, curious as to what lady would know such a foul phrase. He turned to retrace his steps, halting as a lovely young lady stumbled out of the darkness and into the spotlight of the moon.

Wisps of golden hair curled around her face, giving her the look of an angel. Her eyes, the color of Delphine’s finest whiskey, sparkled with mischief. Her gown, a pale gold, showed more of her sun-kissed skin than it hid, yet it was far from being indecent.

She stumbled, and Brody reached out, setting a hand at her waist to steady her. When she tensed and lifted a fist, he released her and stepped back, his own hand raised in a sign of peace.

“Forgive me, I meant no harm. I only wanted to be sure you didn’t fall and injure yourself or ruin your lovely gown.”

Her lips twisted in a wry grin, pulling his gaze to them. Pink and plump, like a ripe berry, he wondered if they would taste as sweet.

“Why is it that men always worry about the gown? Were a man to stumble would you hasten to catch him so he didn’t damage his trousers?”

Brody chuckled. “No, I suppose not. I shall keep that in mind for the next time I rescue a damsel in distress.”

“And now you relegate me to damsel in distress. Can I not merely be a young lady who stumbled over a root while walking?”

“Forgive me, my lady,” he lowered into a courtly bow, “‘twas not my intention to offend you with my words or deeds.”

The young woman stood silent, assessing him with her whiskey colored eyes. After a moment she sighed and said, “You are not from around here, are you?”

“No, my lady.” He grinned. “What gave me away? My clothing or my accent?”

She smiled, the simple act transforming her face from lovely to beautiful. “Neither. It was more the fact that you haven’t called me by my correct title.”

Brody frowned as he quickly ran through a mental list of who she could be. He swept his gaze over her, his eyes widening as a name locked into place.

“Forgive me, Princess Gabrielle.” He bowed formally, his head dipping below his knee as he recognized her royal status. “It has been many years since I have seen you, and I did not connect the girl I met with the lovely young woman you have become.”

“We have met before?”

He straightened and grinned as she studied him again, her brow furrowed as she tried to place his name.

“Once. Most likely you do not recall as you would have been about three at the time.”

“And that would have made you, what? Five?”

He nodded. “Exactly.”

She stepped closer and fluttered her lashes. By the gods she was beautiful. If he wasn’t still holding out hope that Lisabet would be found, he’d offer for her hand. But without knowing Lisabet’s true fate, and with less than a year of mourning completed, he wasn’t free to make the offer.

“So, what brings you to Faldaera now…Prince Broderick?”

He tipped his head in acknowledgment of his name, pleased at how quickly she’d identified him. “We are here visiting and enjoying your father’s hospitality.”

“We?” She arched a brow as she spoke.

“Yes, my father and I came as representatives for my uncle.” He swallowed back the lump that grew in his throat every time he thought of the cousin who disappeared with Lisabet. “He and my aunt are still in mourning after the loss Elsbeth.”

“And are you not in mourning as well?” Gabrielle set a hand on his arm.

Brody sighed. “My father seems to think I have wasted enough time mourning for my cousin and my betrothed.”

“And do you agree?”

“No. Until I know for certain what has happened to Lisabet and Elsbeth, I fear I will never be able to accept their fate, let alone end my mourning of them.”

Her fingers tightened on his arm, offering him comfort. “I am so sorry for your loss, Prince Broderick.”

“Thank you, Princess.” He stepped back, letting her hand fall away from him. “Where is your chaperone?”

“I imagine he’s searching the castle for me as we speak.” Her eyes danced with mischief.

Anger surged through him. Had she no idea how much danger she could be in? “You are foolish to wander around without a guard. There are men here who would take what they want from you, regardless that you are a princess. Others who would seek to abduct you. You are not invincible.”

“Mayhap not, but I am quite able to protect myself.” Gabrielle glared at him. “Lend me your sword and I shall prove it.”

Brody slid the dulled blade of his ceremonial sword from its scabbard and handed it to the princess. He watched as she held the sword at arms length, looking down the edge. Then she spun the hilt in her hand, testing its weight, before spinning into a complicated dance. She swung the weapon at imaginary foes with a grace and ease that spoke of her extensive training. After several minutes, she returned the weapon to him, her breath as even as it had been when she began.

“Impressive.” He sheathed the blade. “But that is to be expected from the First Knight of the King’s Guard, is it not?”

“You knew?”

He shrugged. “I have a great understanding of how hereditary titles work.”

Gabrielle grinned. “I suppose you do, seeing as your cousin’s death has made you Crown Prince.”

“Yes.” He bit out the word. “A title I never wanted.”

“And you think I wanted to be First Knight?” Her eyes flashed.

He admired the way her flare of temper brought color to her cheeks, enhancing her beauty. “I think you were fated to be First Knight, and pity the man who tries to prevent you from following your destiny.”

“Is that truly how you see me?”

“Yes."

She shook her head. “So, I am a victim of my birth order?”

“No, not a victim.” He shook his head. “Were you born first or third, you still would have been destined for this role. Can you not feel it inside your bones?”

“I can. I do.” She frowned. “Do you feel destined to be king?”

Brody shrugged, uncomfortable with the question. “No. I do not. Fate is toying with me, testing me. I wasn’t born to rule Delphine, but you were born to lead the armies of Faldaera.” He brushed a hand over her cheek, marveling at the softness of her skin. How could one so fierce be so fragile? The music crescendoed, and Brody held out a hand. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

Gabrielle set her hand in his and curtsied. “Of course, my prince.”

He swirled her around the garden, surprised at how right she felt in his arms, how perfectly she balanced him. If only things were different. If only luck were on his side.

The music faded and he spun Gabrielle into a shadowy corner. She tipped her head up and smiled.

“Thank you for such a lovely dance.”

“You are quite welcome, Gabrielle,” he whispered, his lips a breath away from hers. Her eyes widened at the liberties he took with her name. Before she could chastise him, he closed the distance between them.

Her soft lips trembled beneath his, reminding him of her innocence. An innocence he had no right to claim. Regret filled him, even as he longed to deepen the kiss, to see if she tasted as sweet as he imagined.

He pulled away, his gaze dropping from hers to the ground. “Forgive me, princess, I―”

Gabrielle set her fingers against his lips, halting his apology. “There is nothing to forgive. I shall treasure this night forever.”

A branch cracked and a voice called out, “Princess Gabrielle!!”

“I must go, before my guard finds us.” Gabrielle brushed her fingers over his cheek. “Until tomorrow.” With those words, she slipped into the darkness, calling out, “I’m here, Tavares.”

Brody cursed. He knew Gabrielle would be expecting him to speak with her father, to offer for her hand. But he couldn’t do that. Not yet. And now, she was gone before he could say anything.

Fate was truly playing games with him, giving him a taste of what could be―letting him hope for the future―only to have his hopes dashed. But, at least he had these few stolen moments to help him through the dark days he was certain lay ahead.

***

These characters are from my Princess of Valendria series. Follow Brody's story from his appearance in CHARMED MEMORIES to his reunion with Gabrielle in DIFFERENT KIND OF KNIGHT. 

Twisting tales one story at a time. 

YA author Mary Waibel’s love for fairytales and happy-ever fill the pages of her works. Whether penning stories in a medieval setting or a modern day school, magic and romance weave their way inside every tale. Strong female characters use both brain and brawn to save the day and win the heart of their men. Mary enjoys connecting with her readers through her website: marywaibel.blogspot.com

***

Me Lucky Day by Dianne Hartsock

"That will cost ye."

Teri's gaze shot up from the gurgling spring and he gaped at the figure sitting not two paces from him. A man, but something more, a beautiful, terrible presence.

"Who are you?" he managed to whisper, fear clutching his throat. His heart slammed against his ribs. The guy was breathtaking, but he hadn't been sitting there seconds ago.

"Answer me question first. Ye are…"

Teri wanted to answer, but the wicked mischief dancing in the brilliant green eyes distracted him. He forgot how to form words. Heat flushed through him, equal parts embarrassment and attraction as the full lips lifted in a sensual smile.

"Ye been following me rainbow all day. Now ye drink from me spring. Will ye be after me pot o' gold next?"

"Gold?" Teri ran a hand over his face. Had he been bewitched? Was the water enchanted? Yes, he had been following the rainbow, but it didn't—

Dazzling color flashed in the sky behind the creature, the rainbow's end. Teri scrambled to his feet and the man rose also, standing much too close for his comfort. Heat from its body wrapped around Teri and he felt suddenly, deliciously trapped.

"It's me lucky day," the man drawled, and bent to whisper in Teri's ear, his voice a caress. "I've caught ye and now ye must grant me wish."

Teri's mind raced. He tried to recall everything he'd read about leprechauns. "That's not quite right. You owe me three wishes."

A warm breath feathered against his cheek. "Wrong, me darlin'. Ye didn't catch me. Yield to me. Grant me wish."

Teri swallowed, mouth gone dry.  "What is it?"

The creature dropped his bright gaze. "See, it's me shoes…"

"What?" Teri looked down. The man wore a pair of sturdy leather boots, slightly scuffed. "They look fine to me."

The leprechaun shook his head, his expression woeful. His shoulders slumped. "No. They're terrible dangerous. Soles come loose and I've lost me wee hammer to fix them. "He slid a glance at Teri, a gleam in the green eyes.  "If ye could be seeing your way to loaning me your boots… I can go find me tool. Won't be going further than yonder hill."

Teri glanced over the glen to the hillock he'd crossed earlier. It wasn't very far, and yet… He looked back quickly at the leprechaun. The man met his gaze with wide, guileless eyes, framed by the thickest lashes, scraps of lace against the lightly freckled skin. The green gems blinked, captivating Teri. Warning bells sounded in his head, muffled by the pounding of his heart. Surely one so beautiful couldn't mean him harm?

"No Faery tricks?" he asked, giving in with a sigh when the leprechaun looked offended. Heat flooded his face when the creature knelt and undid the laces, pulling off Teri's boots. 

Quick as a wink, his own were off and he stomped into Teri's, a delighted smile touching his full lips. "Perfect fit! Thank ye, darlin'."

 Teri watched, nonplussed, as the leprechaun sauntered off with his boots.

"You'll come back?" he called after the retreating figure. The leprechaun lifted a hand. Teri watched the lowering sun with trepidation. Shadows crawled across the glen, and when dusk settled its blanket across the sky without the creature's return, he sighed and pulled on the leprechaun's boots. Just his luck, they fit like a second skin.

 But then the world gave a funny lurch under him. Colors burst around him, everything becoming sharper, brighter. He smelled moss and damp earth and the heather on the far side of the glen. Crickets chirped, a bee buzzed lazily, the air tasted crisp and pure.  The world tilted. Dizzy, Teri swayed, stomach rolling, senses overwhelmed. What did it mean?

His ears popped and the world righted itself around him. A rainbow painted the sky, touched by the last rays of the setting sun.

"Oh yes, me pot o' gold!" he said with a smile, and trotted towards the hillock, the end of the rainbow. He crested the hill, grinning when the rainbow touched ground. An owl hooted in the distance and a vague unease touched his thoughts. Wasn't there something else he should be doing? Somewhere else he should be…

A stray sunbeam glinted on a bit of silver in the grass. "Ah, me wee hammer!" he cried out. Sitting, he set to work on his boots, pleased with his good fortune.

-Artwork by Marcel Stevahn -One Good Eye Photography

Dianne lives in the beautiful Willamette Valley of Oregon with her incredibly patient husband, who puts up with the endless hours she spends hunched over the keyboard letting her characters play.

Dianne is the author of m/m erotic romances, both contemporary and fantasy, the psychological thriller, and anything else that comes to mind. Oh, and a floral designer. Which is the perfect job for her. When not writing, she can express herself through the rich colors and textures of flowers and foliage.  Blog   FB   Twitter