A Simple Thank You

All it might have taken was a simple 'thank you.'

Mary let out a loud huff. She waddled over to the lounge chair and collapsed.

Kay sat nearby with her book up to her nose and pretended to be reading. If she glanced at her sister for even a second, Mary would order her to do something.

“Are you at a stopping place?” Mary asked in a gravelly voice that sounded as if she’d been sleeping for hours.

Kay turned a page. Yes, she could stop, but why should she? This marked the first time in two weeks that she’d indulged in a little pleasure reading.

Another loud huff sounded in the vicinity of Mary. How was a person supposed to concentrate when Mary made so much noise? Kay kept reading.

“Kay, are you at a stopping place?” This time Mary’s voice echoed clear without the sickly affections.

Kay looked up. “I am now.”

“Good, I need you to get my medicine. It’s on the counter in the kitchen by the sink. I feel a spell coming on any minute.”

A spell coming on? When was a spell not coming on? Kay got up. She placed the book on the little table by the lounge chair. A soft breeze turned the page. “You’ll lose your place,” Mary said. “Put a bookmark in. Don’t lay it flat. It will ruin the binding. When you go in for my medicine, you can get a bookmark in the desk drawer.” She wiped sweat from her face and neck.

Kay walked inside. Every cell in her body wanted to scream. She’d been bossed around by Mary her entire life. Growing up, Kay waited on her sister hand and foot. She’d run down the stairs and tell their mom, “Mary wants a glass of water.” Mom always asked, “Why can’t the princess get it herself?” Kay replied each time, “She says she doesn’t feel well.”

Inside the small condo, Kay found the medicine exactly where Mary said it would be. She lifted two pills, Mary’s usual dose, filled a glass with three cubes of ice and returned to the patio.

“You didn’t bring the pad. You know I have to record the medicine on the pad. Go back and get the pad.” She patted more sweat off her upper lip.

On the way back, Kay wondered what her life would have been like if she hadn’t chosen to live with her sister. She imagined herself in a big house with several children and a husband. Kay had a chance for that kind of life, but she’d turned it down. Or, rather Mary did it for her.

Kay handed Mary the pad and pencil. Mary shoved the water glass at her. “I need more than this to take two pills.”

When Hank had asked Kay to marry him, Kay bubbled with joy. She raced home to tell her sister. “He’ll move in here, of course,” Mary responded. She was watching her daily soap opera and hadn’t even muted the sound.

Kay had not thought about where they’d live. Mary and Kay had resided together ever since their parents were killed in an automobile accident ten years previously. Mary still ordered Kay around like a slave, but Kay always thought she’d eventually move away.

“I think we will find our own place,” Kay had said. But, Mary burst out laughing. “How will you do that? I have all the money. You either live here with him or you’ll be penniless.”

That was when Kay had made the biggest mistake of her life. She told Hank what Mary had said. He refused and later ended the relationship.

Last week, Kay celebrated her 54^th birthday alone in her room. Mary didn’t even remember.

“Kay, what in the world are you doing? Where’s my water?” Mary’s voice travelled far when she wanted it to.

Kay refilled the water glass along with the contents of the syringe and added the requisite number of ice cubes.

All her life Kay did what Mary wanted. Last year Kay decided to make some changes. She had begun syphoning money out of the bank account. Mrs. Warner at the bank knew her and knew how Mary treated her. She helped Kay open her own account. It had grown steadily. Kay was ready.

Back on the patio, Kay handed the glass to Mary and stood there.

“Well, what do you want?”

Kay stared her sister in the face. “I want you to say ‘thank you.’”

“Thank you for what?”

Kay shrugged. “For everything. But, if you want me to be specific, for the glass of water I just handed you.”

Mary burst into a fit of laughter, her heavy breasts bouncing up and down.

“That really has been all I’ve ever wanted from you, Mary. Just a word of gratitude. A simple thank you.”

Kay turned and walked back into the condo. She gathered her few things and put them in the suitcase she’d bought last week at Wal-Mart.

Mary screamed in a choking voice. “Kay, get out here now… something’s… wrong with me.” From everything Kay had read it wouldn’t take long; it would be fast.

Kay walked out the front door, down the street and caught the bus to Nashville, a city she’d always wanted to visit.

Getting Schooled

Learning to work in harmony, as a team without trying to outdo the rest. That's what getting schooled is all about...

Clyde had trouble keeping up with the group. They shot past him no matter how hard he struggled. He changed his breathing to give himself a boost. Huff, puff, hold. Huff, puff, hold.

If he could just match Steven’s speed, he’d be happy. Steven was a foot in front of him, but gaining ground on Clyde. At this rate, he’d lose sight of Steven shortly.

The bigger question was staying in line with the others. Coach Michael made sure they all understood that speed was less important than alignment. Clyde told himself that over and over, but when the others slid in front of him, he forced himself to give more. Faster, faster. He just couldn’t help it.

“Don’t push me aside,” Little Linley said and nudged him back. He’d gotten in her path. But, he overcompensated and veered over in Peter’s way.

“God, Clyde, watch out! You almost kicked me in the gut.”

“Sorry.” Clyde’s heart pounded. Would he ever learn the way to move with the others? Would he ever learn the harmony of it?

“You can do it, Clyde,” Coach Michael said, coming up next to him. “The trick is to keep straight. Try not to swerve but keep your body rotating. You’ll get it.” He moved on with such enviable ease Clyde wanted to scream.

This was just their third day out. The day before the Big Fish loomed just a week away—the day that would determine their future. They could get eaten alive in one second if they weren’t careful. Clyde’s life depended on staying with the group. Huff, puff, hold. His heart sank as Little Linley passed him.

After the practice, Clyde went off by himself. He thought he might try and go it alone for a while. If he could work on going in a straight line without the pressure of the others around him, maybe, just maybe he’d survive the big test.

When he moved out and circled around, a sense of joy and fulfillment engulfed him.  The tension he felt in the group disappeared. He could do this. All he had to do was relax and allow the rhythm to take over. That’s what Coach Michael had told him a million times. When he reached the most distant end of the divide, far from his home, he peered around, lost. Where had he ended up? The area smelled of lime and mint. The sweet odor lured him farther away. His dad had told him not to go beyond the barrier reef, but he wanted to follow that scent.

A giant hand reached for him. He lunged sideways just as the fingers grabbed the back of his body . He marshaled every bit of energy he had from deep inside his soul and escaped the trap, flying away with the speed of a seagull. The odor of mint and lime faded. He reached the home stretch in record time, having gone faster than he ever had in his life.

The next day in practice, he stayed close to Steven without any trouble. He moved when Steven moved. He kept himself perfectly aligned and never veered into Peter’s path. He stayed at least two lengths ahead of little Linley. Clyde felt jubilant when they finished.

Coach Michael pulled him aside after the practice. “What happened to you today? You were totally awesome out there.”

Clyde smiled. “I was too nervous to focus. Then the more I tried to focus, the worse it got. I just needed to prove to myself that I was as good as the rest of them. That I wasn’t holding them back.”

The coach smiled at him and patted his dorsal. “That’s what swimming in a school is all about. Knowing you can swim as fast as everyone else. Letting your body respond to the movement around you without holding back. We swim as one. That will save you from the big fish.”

Clyde finally understood.

When the big day came the following week, he swam with his school, right by the big fish and without the slightest doubt that he would survive.

***

Joan Curtis is the author of The Clock Strikes Midnight which won the Silver Medal in the Global eBook Awards for 2015 for fiction/suspense. The e-Murderer, her newest release, came out this month. It is the first in a series starring Jenna Scali.

Spotlight on Joan C. Curtis

Today we're spending our time getting to know Lightning Quick Reads author, Joan C. Curtis. 

Four times business book author, Joan C. Curtis, released her first mystery/suspense title, The Clock Strikes Midnight.

Her first-place book awards include: Best mystery manuscript in the Malice Domestic Grants competition and best proposal for nonfiction in the Harriette Austin competition

Joan has been an avid reader for as long as she can remember.  She reads all kinds of books, including women’s fiction, mysteries, biography, and memoir.  Her passion as a reader lies closer to literary writing with a commercial bent. She writes books she would love to read.

“I write about characters who remind me of myself at times and my sister at times, but never fully so. My stories are told from a woman’s point of view. Characters drive my writing and my reading.”

Having grown up in the South with a mother from Westchester County New York, Joan has a unique take on blending the southern traditions with the eye of a northerner.  She spent most of her childhood in North Carolina and now resides in Georgia.

LQR: Welcome, Joan. Thanks for visiting with us today. Can you tell our readers a little about you?

Joan: I’m married with three step children and four step grandchildren. My career before writing consisted of public speaking. I was a leadership development specialist with an emphasis on communication. I led many workshops and retreats and wrote four business books around these topics. Personally, I love to read. I’m also an exercise junkie, a cat lover and a person who wishes she lived in Italy.

LQR: If you had to pick only one moment that spurred you to write professionally, what moment is the most inciting?

Joan: A number of years ago, I submitted a story to a national contest sponsored by Reader’s Digest and McCall’s Magazine. My story won second place, and the Reader’s Digest editor called me. A year later my story was published as an original piece for that publication. That experience led me to believe I could write professionally. It was the first time I was paid for something I wrote.

LQR: Does the majority of your work focus around or within a single theme? If so, what is it?

Joan: No, my work contains various theme. For the most part I write stories that include some component of mystery or suspense. But the theme of The Clock Strikes Midnight is very different from that of The e-Murderer.

LQR: Tell us about your newest release.

Joan: My newest release is The e-Murderer which will launch September, 1st. This is the first in a series starring Jenna Scali and her friends. The early manuscript of this book won first place in the Malice Domestic Grants Competition. Currently I’m working on the second book in the Jenna Scali series. I’m also working on another stand alone story that is too early in its creation to discuss.

print book available August 31st

LQR: What is one of your favorite authorial moments from your career so far?

Joan: One of the hardest things to do in this world of publishing is to get a fiction piece accepted. My nonfiction books were quickly picked up by Praeger Press. But, fiction is another story. When I received the letter of acceptance from MuseItUp Publishing for The Clock Strikes Midnight, I was stunned and elated. That had to be a favorite moment for me as an author. It meant someone believed in my work.

LQR: Share with us a five year goal for your writing career.

Joan: My five year goal is to see both Jenna Scali mysteries published and a third on the way. I’d also like to see The Clock Strikes Midnight made into a movie (ha, ha) and publish my current standalone book. My dream is to live in Italy for a period of time where I would write book 3 of the Jenna Scali mystery. Imagine her going there to find her ancestors and she stumbles on a murder…

LQR: Do you write what you read? Watch? What are your favorite television shows and movies?

Joan: I write books I’d love to read. Do I write what I read? I’m not sure about that. I am sure I don’t write what I watch although my favorite TV shows are mysteries including all of Masterpiece Mystery. I also love Masterpiece Classic (including Downton Abbey). My favorite movies vary. I loved Kings Speech and ART. I also loved all the Girl with the Dragoon Tattoo movies (Swedish version) and books.

LQR: If you had one week away from any and all responsibility what would you want to spend your time doing?

Joan: Setting is critical. So, I’d be in a small village in Tuscany, Umbria or Puglia. I’d spend the morning sipping coffee at a local café and talking with the locals. I’d spend the early afternoon on a bench watching people, studying their habits, noting their gestures and recording those details The latter part of the day, I’d take off for a tour of the region. That evening, I’d spend time reading and sipping a hearty red wine.

Winner to be announced in October. Congrats & good luck Joan!

LQR: That sounds wonderful! Anything else you’d like to add?

Joan: It’s been great fun writing the short stories for Lighting Quick Reads. Being a mystery writer, I try to give the stories some kind of surprise. I’ve also enjoyed reading the other authors’s stories. Short story writing is very different than novel writing and has enabled me to stretch my writing skill.

LQR: That’s great to hear, Joan. Thank you. Where can readers find you online?

Joan: Readers can find me on my website http://www.joancurtis.com I’d love for them to sign up there. They’d get my bi-monthly newsletter as well as all the updates on upcoming releases. I’d also love to see them on my blog http://www.joancurtis.com/blog There I post lots of writing tips, author interviews, book reviews and much more. And of course, I’m on Twitter @joancurtis. I have a Facebook author’s page http://www.facebook.com/joancurtisauthor

Cost of Freedom

Freedom. He blinked at the random thought. Must mean something to somebody. It was nothing, here in the dark, the bricks cold and hard against his back, underneath him. The darkness was all consuming, empty. Loneliness ate his faltering courage.

The lock rattled at the top of the stairs, sending his heart leaping into his throat. "Hello? Will you talk to me?"

He cringed at the pleading note in his voice, clamped his lips closed on the words desperate to tumble out. He swallowed hysterical laughter. He'd spent days, weeks—could be years—down there, without a word from another soul. Would he die down there with no one to know but his captor?

Tears fell hot on his face, startling him. He hadn't cried in a long time. When had that been? Oh, not a good memory. His son, tall enough to look him in the eye, said he hated him, snagged the keys and put the car around a telephone pole at seventy miles an hour. He should have hid the keys, the beer, his despair. Funny, he hadn't shed a tear since then.

But he wanted to feel the sun on his face! The wind kissing his cheeks. Fresh air filling his lungs. He stretched his arms and froze, ice shivering through him at the weight of chains on his wrists. He'd forgotten them, put from his mind the times he'd twisted and tugged until his wrists bled, to no avail. There was no loosening the chain from the iron ring fixed in the stone floor.

"Annie," he mourned in the dark. I'm sorry. She had warned him about hiking alone, but he could never resist a secluded trail, the crest of the next hill. He hadn't been aware of the man following him until the footstep behind him and the rock at the back of his head sending him into blackness and pain.

He leaned his head back on the bricks, sighed, desolate with the thought that darkness would be his last sight when he would give his life to see Annie's face one more time.

*  *  *

Tom gave another tug on the rusted padlock. "Wonder what's down there?"

"Here." Neil handed him a brick from the tumbled fireplace.

Tom looked at it, uncertain. "I don't want to knock the roof down on us."

They'd hiked farther than they should have, stumbling on the dilapidated old shack by accident, hidden in a grove of old oak trees by the river. It leaned heavily to one side and Tom would never have gone in if Neil hadn't teased him into it.

 "Just open the damned door. I want to see what's down there." Neil nudged him with an elbow. "Maybe there's a body down there."

"More likely an old wine cellar," Tom said hopefully. They'd grown up on horror stories of the serial killer in the area who used to chain his victims in basements, torturing them for days before gutting them. It was rumored he'd drowned while trying to avoid a police chase, leaving victims behind unaccounted for. But they were only stories, right?

A sudden, inexplicable panic seized Tom and he swung at the lock, the crash and clank loud in the quiet summer afternoon. Boards creaked overhead, but he didn't care. He needed to get the door open, right now. He swung again, bashing at the lock again and again, ignoring Neil's shout when something crashed to the floor behind them.

"Dammit, Tom, just stop!"

Tom shoved his friend away, swung one more time, the lock springing open with a snap. Dropping the crumbling stone, he wrenched the door outwards. A cold draft wafted up from the darkness, brushed against his face, heavy with despair, loneliness. And then joy! Overwhelming, wild, a spirit winging free from fetters that had weighed its soul forever.

"Dude, what is it? What did you see?" Neil shook his arm.

Tom looked at him, his friend's face made blurry by the tears filling his eyes. He shrugged helplessly. "I didn't see anything, only felt…"

"What? Man, tell me. You're scaring me. What did you feel?"

Neil's brown eyes had gone wide with concern, his grip on Tom's arm painful. Tom swallowed the hard lump in his throat. How to describe…

"It felt like freedom," he whispered, voice trembling with unbearable gladness.

Dianne is the author of paranormal/suspense, fantasy adventure, m/m romance, 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: http://diannehartsock.wordpress.com/

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/diannehartsock

Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/diannehartsock

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/4707011-dianne-hartsock

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Dianne-Hartsock/e/B005106SYQ/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1361897239&sr=8-1

Vegetables Are Bad For You by Stuart R. West

Kyle will never forgive his parents for telling him vegetables are good for you. They lied.

* * *

Eleven years old, Kyle considered himself too mature to believe in ghosts or any of that silly supernatural nonsense. Just the stuff of spooky movies, nothing more. But regardless of his age, he couldn’t deny the sounds he heard coming from the cellar. Actually, more like felt the noise as weird as that seemed. High-pitched humming echoed in his mind, circling round and round in his skull’s cavern.     

Drawing him down the steps. 

He couldn’t decipher what the voices were saying, not really. Just sort of a sad song, a desire, a longing for companionship. 

Something Kyle missed as well.

With his parents still at work, Kyle had no reason not to investigate. They weren’t here to tell him to stay out of the cellar. Not that that would stop him. In fact, every adventurous kid worth his salt usually took such orders as a challenge. 

His family hadn’t lived in the old house for too long. One day, out of the blue, Kyle’s dad had come up with a stupid idea about country living. Cleaner air, better values, living off the land, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. Kyle’d been against the move, recognized it for nonsense. But his voice never carried any weight in family decisions, the curse of being eleven. So when they packed up, Kyle had no choice but to man up and say goodbye to his friends. The friends he thought he’d have forever. But when you’re a kid, things change. And you’re powerless to do anything about it. 

The steep and narrow stairs slanted, dirt-covered piano keys groaning out percussive notes with each footstep. Kyle’d been in the cellar before, not his first rodeo. But earlier when he’d gone down with his mother, he shamefully snatched onto her apron the entire time. For good reason. Shadows danced and swooped, threatening to snatch him up and whisk him away to a dark world. Rusty and sharp-looking tools lined up along a stone wall, a Grim Reaper’s one-stop shop.  Bottles flanked another wall, sitting on shelves and lined up perfectly like at attention soldiers. In the bottles, bulky yellow globs swam in even murkier water. Kyle’s mom warned him not to come down here alone. At the time, he’d silently agreed, thankful for his mother’s wisdom. Even though it seemed embarrassing now.

But he had to know about the sounds. The noise drew him down like metal shavings attracted to an unseen, but definitely heard, magnet. Simply, he had no choice. Just like so much of his life.

The light bulb at the bottom of the stairs provided very little coverage, a small oval of light. Once he pulled the string, the bulb swayed. So did everything else. Shadows darted to even blacker places. Eyes and grins seemed to form in the jars’ gelatinous masses. The light continued swinging, a pendulum chop-chop-chopping light across the dirt-covered floor. Like a metronome, it counted out the beats of Kyle’s hammering heart.

And the strange humming intensified. One voice, two voices, a disembodied chorus singing in Kyle’s ears.

At the foot of the stairs, Kyle grasped the flashlight his mother had placed there on their last visit. Flicking it on, he swiveled the beam, familiarizing himself with the creepy cellar, a far cry from their refinished basement in the Kansas City house. Green strips of algae—or something else entirely—painted the stone walls. Spider webs hung like forgotten cotton candy. Leaves crunched beneath Kyle’s feet as he shuffled across the dirt floor. With no windows or doors in the cellar, how in the world had the leaves gained entrance? A chill roller-coastered down his spine. But he couldn’t turn back now, no way. That’s not how a man would act.

A mummy of a bookshelf leaned against a back corner, the bottom warped and aging into dust. And Kyle knew—absolutely so—the sound came from behind it. After tucking the flashlight beneath his arm, he planted his feet solidly and yanked the bookshelf. He watched as it toppled backward. When it landed in the dirt, a cloud of dust rose. So did a rotten scent, so strong Kyle’s eyes watered. Bent over, he coughed until the fumes passed. Then he aimed the light toward the uncovered corner.

Glistening stalks of varying sizes grew out of the dirt, not unlike the asparagus Kyle loathed. Except these were slug-colored, pink, white and grotesque. Black rings circled small nubs, almost limbs. Kyle rubbed his eyes, swung the flashlight away, then looked again. No illusion, the stalks moved, actually moved! They twisted and bent as if uprooting unseen legs from the ground. As Kyle dropped to his knees for a closer examination, warning sirens bellowed in his head. Some of the strange growths attempted to dodge the flashlight’s beam, but the dirt cemented them firmly. Little holes opened at the top of each stalk, mouths silently gasping for air. Whispering. Small hairs (teeth?) waved out with each puff of breath. 

Kyle yelped when the flashlight landed on the tallest stalk. A smaller stalk branched out of it, an eyeball dangling at the end. Milky and wide-eyed and horrible. The branch extended, rigid as if held up by a hidden string, a gross one-eyed mannequin. It darted toward Kyle, snapping at him.

Kyle fell back in the dirt. He scrabbled back, leaving a trail of dust behind as if his sneakers had caught fire.

Suddenly the sounds in his head clarified. Voices from somewhere else. Comforting and warm, almost hypnotic.

Yet, even though the voices made Kyle feel as if he were lounging in front of a cozy fireplace, the messages were anything but soothing.

Something needs to be done.

The older people are not your friends.

They’re holding you back.

They must die.

“No!” Kyle locked his eyes shut. He slapped his temples, hoping to stop the voices, the awful messages, praying to awake from this nightmare. Daring a peek, though, confirmed his worst fear. He wasn’t dreaming. The stalks continued to stir, shifting in unison like a mass wave at a sporting event.

Kyle…

Listen…

Cut them, make them bleed.

A blade across their throats.

The old people have to die.

How easy it would have been to give in. Kyle relaxed, propping up on his elbows. Warmth filled him, sunshine on an August day. He floated in an invisible raft, bouncing and bobbing on tranquil waters, nature taking him where it may. When he breathed, the cellar’s rank odor had vanished. Now the smell of flowers and cinnamon and freshly cut grass in the summer and everything fine and wonderful he’d associated with growing up filled his nose, his thoughts.

That’s good, Kyle.

Don’t fight us.

Let us take over.

Destroy the older ones.

But as Kyle basked in golden memories—everything good about his childhood zipping by in a hurried slide-show—one image burned stronger than the others. His parents. 

Clearly, these creatures—aliens, monsters, mutants?—wanted him to kill his parents. His parents who sometimes sucked and made him move and leave his friends behind and punish him and…

The parents he loves.

With a small battle-cry, Kyle climbed to his feet. “Not gonna’ listen!” Holding one hand over an ear (even though the sounds came from within), he shot the flashlight around the cellar. Shadows played hide-and-seek, zipping up the walls like bats skittering away in a cave. Then he found something. A fairly ancient looking gas can, rusted and crumbling at the top.

What are you doing, Kyle?

Stop.

Listen to us.

We wouldn’t lie.

“Shut up. Just…shut up.” The can weighed heavy in Kyle’s hand. Giving it a good shake, liquid sloshed up, spilling out a hole at the top. Orange and brown rust flakes coated his hand. The pungent aroma of gasoline swept all other smells away. Using a heave-ho motion, he spilled the gas onto the stalks. “Eat it.”

No.

Don’t do this.

You’re killing us.

Killing us….killing….

The hellish stalks wilted, then sprang up like air dancers at a car dealer, their lives contingent upon the wind’s whim. Kyle tossed another round, giving the eyeball stalk an extra dose. The voices died down to a hiss, air deflating from balloons. The stalks shriveled and collapsed on themselves, their dried husks curling up into nothing but small kernels. And the voices stopped.

Kyle dropped the can, wiped the sweat from his forehead. And listened. Nothing. Just the plinks and tinks of rafters wheezing under the weight of the house. One last touch, Kyle buried the hideous garden beneath the bookshelf, a gravestone of sorts.

He clapped dirt from his hands, a job well done. Then raced up the stairs like the devil himself had pitched a fork in his bottom.

At the top of the stairway, he slammed the door shut. Leaning against it—keeping monsters at bay—he thought about the new role forced upon him, a very responsible, adult role. Caretaker, gardener, year round de-weeding.

* * *

Here I am, talking about myself, pretending not to. Ah, I'm probably not fooling anyone, but play along anyway, 'kay? Just imagine James Earl Jones narrating and we'll all get through this just fine.

For more of Stuart R. West's adult and young adult suspense tales filled with light heart and dark humor, check out his Amazon page.

And please do check out Stuart's blog featuring weekly rants, failed stand-up comedy routines and incisive author interviews: Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley